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soullumii · 9 months

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if my heart’s gonna break | joel miller x f!reader

part 1 (read part 1 before reading this!)

summary: a couple nights later, you head back to joel’s

warnings: 18+!!!! smut again. unprotected piv. fem!afab!reader. angst again don’t worry i’ll make a happy ending okay

word count: 4k

joel mod in gif is by speclizer (so fucking hot oh my GODDDD)

a/n: finally finished part 2 omg i’m sorry for the wait yall… i’m a perfectionist it’s lowkey debilitating. anyways… i hope u guys enjoy <3 tysm for the support on part 1 and tbh on all my other fics too… i can’t believe ppl like my writing that much. i am very grateful! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

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im scared but if my heart's gonna break before the night will end

i said we're in danger

sleeping with a friend

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You cant stop thinking about the kiss.

The kiss that honestly shouldn’t mean so much to you. You’ve kissed him, like, so many times. So many times his tongue has been in your mouth, been in your damn vagina. So why the fuck… why the fuck are you so worked up over this right now?

It’s just…it was so heavy. It felt like…like more than just a kiss. Like he was laying his life down for you, much like he does in patrols.

He… Joel… he usually never kisses right after sex. He recognizes in the post-coitus energy that things are different. They mean more. He has to know that. So… why now? Does he…?

No. You’re just in your head again. Maybe you’re thinking about it too hard. You’ve never had a friends with benefits situation before now. Maybe this… maybe this is regular.

But for your own psyche, you think you might have to set some ground rules.

There was always that main rule, that wretched, critical rule. The one you said to him on the first day of your strange exchange.

“Don’t go falling in love with me, cowboy.”

Well, to hell with that one, right? Pretty sure you’ve beaten that shit to death. Shattered all possible remains of it.

So more rules. More rules will have to do. Starting with:

No kissing.

Should be easy enough.

You’ll figure out the rest later. You have got to stop thinking about it, though, because you’re on the way to his house right now.

You knock swiftly on the door, and you swear you feel your heart drop into your pussy the moment he opens the door to reveal himself. A plain, black t-shirt is stretched across his broad chest, haphazardly tucked into a pair of plaid pajama pants that hang loosely around his hips. His graying hair is ruffled beyond belief, curling around his ears and falling over his forehead. In your fits of passion and desire a couple nights ago, you hardly realized it had grown longer. It looks nice.

This sleepy and soft Joel is not one you’ve seen in a while. Well, it’s not like you’ve seen him much lately anyway, with him having been gone and all. Still, it’s disorienting.

“Howdy,” he says.

“Um. Hi.” You try not to gawk. “Did…did I come at a bad time, or something?”

“No, not at all. I just got back from patrols… took a shower,” he says, leaning a shoulder against the door jamb, strong arms crossing over his chest. There’s a tiny, barely perceptible smirk on his lips. “Need somethin’?”

You see it now, the water clinging to his hair, darkening it, beading at his temples like sweat. You follow a line of water trickling down his throat until it disappears behind his collar.

Rule 2: Don’t come over after he’s showered.

“I…uh, I can come back later if you want—“

You’re nervous to ask him what you want to ask him, which is honestly ridiculous considering you guys have been doing this for months now. You used to be able to just knock on his door and he’d pull you in, and it was that easy. Or you’d give him a look when in public, and he knew exactly what you needed.

Now, you’re painfully awkward. Curse him and curse your feelings.

He straightens a bit, his brows furrowing in slight concern. “What’s goin’ on?”

Heat spreads down your neck, embarrassment. Shame. It’s strange, how just a couple nights ago you let him finger you in public, and now you’re afraid to ask him for sex again in his house and for your panties back.

You should honestly just say something like:

I’m here for my underwear.

And you’re positive he’d say:

Want it back? You gotta earn it, sweetheart.

And your knees would buckle and you’d sink down to the carpeted floor in front of his couch and suck him off until he was coming down your throat, stroking back your hair and thumbing his cum on your plush bottom lip.

But instead you’re scowling at him and blurting: “I need a drink.”

How dare he leave you high and dry for three weeks, come back and fuck the shit out of you, make you realize you’re in love with him, and look this good?

God damnit, you need to get your shit together.

Joel’s eyes widen, surprised only slightly by your outburst, before he backs up to allow you inside his home. When he shuts the door behind you, his hand settles warmly on your lower back as he steers you toward the kitchen.

He immediately beelines for the liquor cabinet and grabs a bottle of red for you. A warm, tingly feeling stirs in your stomach at the fact that he knew you’d want wine. The frustration you’ve been feeling fizzles out.

“You know me so well.”

He gives you a light smirk, uncorking the bottle. The liquor gurgles as he pours it into a glass. “Think you’d kill me if I didn’t know after all this time.”

You laugh, “Sure, but the real test of friendship is if you knew how I’d kill you.”

“A swift kick to the nuts and then one of my guitars to my head.”

Your eyes widen on a guffaw. “You think I’d damage one of your guitars?”

“You care more about my guitars than my genitals?”

“Yes. Why would I ever smash one of your guitars?”

He rolls his eyes. “Kill two birds with one stone—my soul and my body. It’s effective. If you needed to kill me, I’d hope it was like that. Now how would I kill you?”

You hum in consideration. “Trick question. You wouldn’t—no, you couldn’t.”

“You know me so well.”

His words mirrored back at you so gently, with his brown eyes trained on you intently has the warmth in your belly spreading, making you drop your gaze.

His smirk grows and he hands you the wine glass and reaches for some homemade brandy. You watch the muscles in his arm flex as he pours, sipping daintily while your mind replays thoughts of filth. Of you dragging that arm between your legs, grinding down on it until—

“So, you really only here for a drink?” He asks with a playful lilt, taking a sip of his own beverage and effectively jolting you out of your daydreaming.

You lean against the island, wondering if you should tell him the truth. From the way he’s looking at you, hungrily and heated, like a lion ready to pounce, you’re tempted to.

But…you’re afraid. You can’t stop thinking about The Rule. The one you broke and the ones you just made. You wonder if whatever might happen between you two tonight will unravel them before you can even put them into place.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips pursed around the rim of the glass. “Maybe, maybe not.”

His eyes darken, tongue darting out to lick his lips of sweet fermented wine. His gaze travels up and down your figure, comfortable and breathable in a t-shirt and shorts. Nothing fancy and cute like your sundress from the other night, because today you had to work. But Joel has never minded what you’ve worn, swearing you always look sexy in anything.

Which is something that also makes you question this friends with benefits situation you have here.

He sets his glass down and eases in closer, curling an arm around your waist to pull you into him. “How high’s the chance then?”

“…What do you mean?”

“I mean what’s the probability that you really did only come here for a drink?” he drawls, eyes following your lips as your tongue dips out to wet them. “Or was there another reason?”

The cold tip of his nose brushes along your throat, lips ghosting over your skin. You tremble in his hold. “Odds are in favor of the first option,” you breathe, “ran out of alcohol at my place.”

“And you couldn’t just stop by the Bison? Had to steal from my stores?”

“You know you have the good stuff.”

“You’re lyin’ but I’ll pretend like you ain’t.”

That makes you laugh, and more tumble out of you when one of his hands traces lazily over your stomach, fingers light and delicate and teasing.

“So why d’ya need a drink?”

Because you’re driving me crazy. Because I’m driving myself crazy. Because the universe wants to fuck me over.

You smile and your free hand skates up his muscled back, your fingers brushing along the stretchy fabric of his tee, your voice soft. “Just needed to destress a little. Work has been intense.”

He grins back, presses it into the spanse between your throat and your shoulder, before he lightly scrapes his teeth over it and lays a gentle bite that has you keening into him, pressing your body against his.

“Well, I could help you destress another way too,” he murmurs, palm squeezing the pudgy flesh of your waist, fingers digging lightly into your muscle.

“Mm… yeah?” you hum, your voice a low purr, back arching. Your breasts press into his chest, and Joel makes a sound deep in his throat in agreement.

He presses you into the island, caging you in with his hands on either side of you. He towers over you, a sweatpant clad leg sliding between yours.

He leans down to kiss you, and a flashing light blares in your mind — NO KISSING — loud and bright and distracting. You turn your head at the last second, his lips landing on your cheek. But Joel doesn’t pull back, doesn’t question you. He just kisses down your cheek, along your jaw, mouthing at you. Sucking your skin to leave little marks that will either fade or be covered by concealer.

It used to upset you when he left marks because they’re a pain to cover up. Then, you started to like it. You didn’t mind covering up the marks because when you took the makeup off and saw them at the end of the day, all you could think about was him. About the how he made you come. About the words he muttered in your ear. About the feeling of his hands on you—in you.

Now, you’re starting to grow upset again, but this time it’s because you want to wear them proudly. Want people to know he gets to claim you like this. But… you can’t. But you also don’t want him to stop.

You allow him to continue marking you up, his hand coming up to rest behind your skull, holding you in place. You press your body into his eagerly and with desperate, soft noises that he returns with placating moans.

And then he shifts, and his thigh ruts against your clothed core, and you moan lightly, airily, grinding your hips down against him, searching for any friction.

His hands curl around the hem of your white tee, and he peels it off your body. One skates behind your back to easily undo the clasp of your bra, and then your breasts are heavy and on display for him.

Joel stares down at you with heavy eyes. “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

Longing claws at your chest, and you look up at him coyly, your lip caught between your teeth. Joel groans like he’s in pain, and squeezes along the underside of one of your breasts before leaning down to close his mouth over the nipple while his other hand gives attention to the other, squeezing and pinching. Your hands find purchase in his damp hair as low moans tumble from your lips.

When he’s deemed one nipple adequately appreciated, he moves onto the next. Licking, revering, his dark eyes peering up at you while his peppered hair is fisted in your hands. The sight has slick arousal pooling in your underwear.

Eventually he pulls back and his hands clamp down on your hips. He guides you along the muscle of his thigh, your clit pulsing at the contact.

“Want you to come on my thigh, baby.” His voice is a ragged slur of words against your ear, warm and paired with a kiss to your cartilage.

“Fuck…yes, Joel,” you whimper, sparks flying through your nerves with each roll of your hips.

His fingers grip your chin, tilting your head so you have no choice but to keep eye contact with him as you rut against his thigh. He’s grinning, eyes heavy lidded and deep, dark like wet tar. They suck you in as if they were quicksand.

You’d let him drag you under a million times over.

Your best friend.

“Joel,” you moan, feeling yourself grow close. Standing at the cliff's edge. His eyes bore into yours, his grin slipping as he focuses on you. Focuses on making you shatter atop him.

“Come on, baby. You can do it. You can come,” he says encouragingly, fingers stroking the skin of your hip. You feel tears prick your eyes as the waves crash, spreading from your throbbing clit along your muscles. Filling you with warmth, stronger and deeper than the buzz from the wine.

“Good job,” he praises gently. “Did so good.”

“Shut up,” you huff.

He laughs, and despite yourself, heat floods your body, throbs between your thighs. His words caress a deep, carnal animal inside of you, and the hunger takes over.

You frantically pull at his shirt until he has to tell you to slow down, and takes it off himself. Your hands run along his chest and stomach the moment they’re able to and down to the waistband of his sweats. You palm his hardening cock through the soft, gray fabric. Joel groans deep and heavy, his lashes fluttering as he stares you down. His hips thrust into your palm automatically. Involuntarily.

God, that makes you light up like a firefly. Makes your nerves sing and your cunt flutter and your mind go numb.

He tugs down your shorts and underwear and sets you on top of the granite, but before he can strip the underwear from your ankle to no doubt pocket this pair like he did the other, you flick it off your foot across the kitchen. It lands somewhere near the door to the dining room.

He can’t steal all your underwear, or you’ll have none left.

“I wanted those,” he drawls, expression on the edge of a pout.

“Yeah, well I need them. It’s not common to come across a good pair of panties in this world.”

“But I’d give ‘em back.” He’s full on pouting now. It is, unfortunately, very cute, but you’re used to it.

“Sure… like the pair you took from me the other night that I have yet to receive.”

“How else am I supposed to get you to come over?”

“I dunno? Maybe ask?”

“Should I leave a note on your door? Is that good enough for you?”

“At least be classy. A letter delivered in my mailbox with a wax stamp, please.”

He laughs. “As you wish, Princess.”

He finally peels off his sweatpants, free of underwear beneath them, and you watch with barely concealed hunger as his cock springs free.

And while you like the idea of him fucking you on the counter, you’d much rather him fuck you against the counter, so you hop down and turn so your back faces him. Your hands curl around the granite lip of the counter top, and you push your ass out and back, peering at him over your shoulder.

This way, it’s easier for him not to kiss you. Easier for you to turn your head and deny your lips to him.

“Look at you…” Joel hums appreciatively at your show, at the wiggle of your hips as his palm smooths down your back and over your ass, squeezing at the plump flesh.

You moan quietly, and Joel’s eyes darken, watching you intently like you’re the only thing in the room.

His fingers drift down to your cunt and your slickness coats his fingers fully. You’re so wet for him. So ready for him to bury himself inside you and call you his.

It’s funny, you’ve lost all your heat from a few nights ago. All your sharp edged words. Now, you’re soft and pliant.

He swirls his soaked index and middle fingers along your clit, punctuating your sensitivity, before sliding them back inside you to the knuckle. You keen and push back, desperate for more. His fingers are so much longer than yours, thicker, and yet you crave more.

“That’s it, Joel,” you huff. “Fuck, feels so good. Need more.”

“Yeah? Tell me what you need, baby girl.”

Shame lights your cheeks, but you push down the embarrassment. “Need…need your cock inside me.”

He lays a kiss on your neck. “Still a bit desperate aren’t we?”

“You’re the desperate one, Mr. Panty Stealer. You’re a fucking creep.”

He chuckles against your neck, but he squeezes your ass in retaliation. “Be nice, would you?”

“You like it when I’m mean.”

“Wanna see how much I like it?”

“If you’re willing to show me and get on with this, sure.”

He huffs in amused frustration. “God, you’re annoyin’.”

You just smile innocently at him.

Your legs tremble, slick running down your thighs when Joel pulls his fingers out. He replaces them with the hardness of his cock, of which he runs along your wetness, readying himself.

“I think ‘bout you way too much,” he says into your back, pressing a gentle kiss there. “D’ya think ‘bout me too?”

It’s an odd question. One you’re not expecting. One that has your heart stuttering in quiet confusion from this sudden switch in tone.

“Of course I do.” Obviously. You told him as much. Three weeks. Three weeks you thought about him.

“Good… wanna be the only thing on your mind.”

A high pitched keen hisses through your teeth as Joel eases himself inside you with a long, slow stroke and a low moan. Your fingers white knuckle the countertop, gripping it tightly.

He presses in close, burying himself all the way in before he withdraws slowly, his cock sliding inside you torturously.

“Joel,” you moan.

“I know, baby.” He presses kisses to your shoulders.

Joel’s hand gravitates to the back of your knee, and he slowly pushes up to lift your leg until your knee is resting on the counter.

And then… with this new angle…he starts fucking you in earnest.

His hips snap against your ass, the sound deafening in the kitchen, and you crumple against the granite with a moan.

“Shit,” Joel grunts. “Yeah.”

Each of his heavy thrusts punches the air from your lungs, and your fingers slip on the countertop, scrabbling for purchase every chance you can get. He’s hot, thick inside you, warm as he folds over you, his hand on your tummy holding you upright, the other keeping your leg up to continue hitting you at that pleasant, delicious angle.

“H-holy shit—oh—“

He breathes heavily at your neck, low grunts and moans escaping his lips from his efforts. “Could spend eternity inside you, darlin’. Fuck, you’re mine.”

Your heart stutters, the words uttered in a lust filled craze, likely meaning nothing. But to your traitorous brain, to the hope lingering in your chest like a persistent cough, they mean everything.

“All…” you’re losing your train of thought, fucked into blissful nothingness. “All yours, Joel.”

It’s too difficult for him to kiss you from this angle, which you’re relieved about. But a part of you longs for it, longs for the feel of his mouth moving against yours.

Joel’s strong arm wraps around your chest, and pulls you up so you’re flush against his back as he pounds up and into you. Keens and whimpers and breathless pants escape you with every thrust.

“Please, Joel,” you cry, tears pricking at the edges of your swirling vision.

“What, baby?” He huffs. “Need’a come?”

You nod crazily. “Yes—need to—“

“Shhh okay… I’ve got you,” he murmurs gently, the hand wrapped around your tummy inching down to circle at your clit steadily.

Your legs buckle beneath you but Joel keeps you upright as the pleasure soars through you, sudden and strong. He strokes you through it, groaning praises into your ear before he comes inside you a moment later.

The two of you hiss in tandem when he pulls out, but he smothers it when he lays his mouth over yours. You’re hardly coherent enough to remember your rule, and for a moment you let him kiss you. You kiss him back, chasing the heat of his mouth with your own, moaning against his lips when his tongue dips into your mouth.

Then, you remember.

You pull back panting, cheeks a flame, “Joel.”

“Hm?” He murmurs, dragging his lips down your jaw before moving back up to pull you into another kiss. You move away before he can. His brows furrow in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t… I don’t think we should kiss anymore.”

He blinks. “What? Why?”

Your eyes flit across the kitchen, catching on labeled jars and wooden spoons and spices, anything but his own. “It’s too intimate.”

It’s a lame excuse. Joel sees through it immediately.

“And my cock inside you ain’t?”

You sigh heavily, avoiding eye contact. “It’s different.”

“How? Enlighten me.” His tone has gone rougher. Hurt swirls in his eyes, and you feel worse than you did the other night.

Because you and I are friends. Because I don’t think I can pretend like that’s the truth when all I want is to call you mine. Because when I kiss you it’s like my world finally starts to make sense.

“Please, Joel. Just…I don’t want to do it anymore. Can you respect that, please?”

He runs a hand down his beard, his hurt expression hardening into a stoic one you haven’t been on the receiving end of in years. Fuck. “Alright, I’m sorry. I won’t kiss you anymore.”

You expect relief but all that comes is a deep longing and sadness that you try to push to the depths of your conscience. Though, like a buoy, it keeps popping above the surface.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

The cleanup is awkward. He watches you silently as you pick up your underwear and slide them and your shorts back on. He seems far away, here and gone all at once. It makes you worry, makes you wonder if what you just said was the biggest mistake of your life.

But you have to do this. You have to hold him at arm's length because if you admit to him…if you tell him how you really feel… maybe he really will leave you. He’ll realize you’ve gone and fucked everything up, and the friendship you’ve kindled, the trust you’ve built, will all be for nothing.

You can’t lose him, even if it means you can’t keep him close.

“Thanks for tonight,” you say eventually, when he’s walking you out the front door.

He smiles at you, faint and untrue. It’s like the one from the other night. Like that laugh he forced out for you. You feel like a Joel from the past has teleported to the present, with his thin smile and his hard eyes. “Yeah, of course.”

“You okay?”

Joel frowns, shifts on his feet. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno. You just seem… I don’t know. Never mind.”

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

He nods. “You need me to walk you home?”

“No, I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hum. A moth circles the porch light. The two of you stare at each other for a long moment. He looks as if he wants to say something, but thinks better of it.

“Okay,” is all that he says.

“Okay,” you repeat, feeling empty. A waif, a lonely white flag waving in the wind. “Um, I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Night, darlin’,” he says, squeezing your arm, like he’s trying to be normal. It doesn’t work. His hand is cold. “Sweet dreams.”

“Night, Joel.”

It’s raining by the time you reach your house, and you curl under your blankets after a shower, your hair cold and wet against your scalp, listening to the droplets splattering against your window.

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

part 3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #tlou #game joel miller #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller #this is trouble

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gold-rhine · 1 year

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Afab! Scaramouche x GN! Dom reader first time

A\N: I guess technically it’s hurt\comfort. sigh. I don’t like to center my writing of trans characters on negative emotions, if you’ve read my previous stuff, you know when I write afab! male characters it’s like. Just guys, who happen to have pussies, having sex. And that’s how I initially started to write Scara’s afab first time prompt, but his canon storyline is so overtly about struggle of dysphoria, anxiety and self-hatred that it felt wrong to not incorporate it into my explicitly trans fic. So I had to rewrite it completely and I’m taking his part out of the compilation so ppl who want to avoid heavy topics and just have a good time reading smut can skip it. Otherwise, give it a try if you like complicated brats, I think it’s one of my good pieces and it has a happy ending.

Warnings: not sfw. graphic descriptions of dysphoria, anxiety attack, dissociation, angst, self-hatred, allusion to self-harm. Fingering, edging, overstim, spanking, oral (character receiving), vaginal sex. Cock stands for strap too, as usual.

Wordcount: 2k

You try to start slow and gentle with him, but he huffs mockingly.

“How long are you going to be wasting my time?”

“This is literally your first time, you little git.”

“Maybe you mortals need to be coddled, but I’m not a weakling.”

But despite his bravado, he’s tense when you kiss him, he doesn’t know how to properly kiss you back and what to do with his hands, so they just limply hang down. When you start opening his clothes to reveal his chest, he’s becoming more and more wooden. You try kissing him, his cheek, his neck, but it doesn’t relax him and he refuses to meet your eyes, still painfully clenched up, jaw locked tightly, like he’s preparing for something bad that he needs to just get through. He is not out publicly yet, still clinging to the belief that if he conforms to her expectations well enough, his mother will accept him. He’s so critical of himself all the time, especially of his body, which is just horrible and wrong, he hates seeing it himself and hates even more the thought of someone else seeing him naked.

“Hey, are you okay?” you ask quietly. “We can stop.”

“No!” he snaps. “I’m great. I don’t need to stop, are you stupid?!”

He wants you, is the thing. He wanted you for some time, got butterflies in his stomach, fantasized about you at nights. He wanted you more than anyone else in his life. So if he can’t bear even for you to see him, to have sex with him, then obviously something is deeply, fundamentally broken in him, no hope for him at all.

So desperately, he tries to find a roundabout solution. He’s still wearing a skirt, which he normally hates, but now it’s convenient, you could fuck him without taking it off.

“We don’t have to take off my clothes. There’s nothing good to see anyway. ”

He sounds frantic and frustrated, eyes alight with anger, and this does not look like a good situation to continue to you.

“It’s not a big deal, we can do it some other time when…”

“It’s just a cunt, you don’t need to see it!” He finally meets your eyes and you realize the brightness in them is not from anger, it’s from held back tears, because he believes you are rejecting him no matter what you say, “Why wouldn’t you just fuck it?!”

He hates his body and he doesn’t even want to have a pussy, but somehow subconsciously he feels like the one he has is also wrong, not even good enough for fucking, that whoever sees it will also recoil in disgust, as he does when he sees himself in the mirror. It’s ridiculous and he knows it, but he can’t help feeling like this, and he hates himself even more for this idiotic, nonsensical weakness, so this spirals into this vicious, unending cycle of self-disgust that he can’t see a way out of. What the fuck is so wrong with him that he can have a person he wants so much touching him and still be petrified, when it’s so easy for everyone else, and when…

You scoop him into your arms, turn him around so he doesn’t have to face you and hug him close to your chest. When he gasps and tries to protest, you clasp your hand over his mouth, kiss his ear.

“Don’t worry baby, I won’t look. But you need to calm the fuck down.”

He wants to struggle, but he’s so touch starved that when you embrace him, your warm breath on his skin makes him melt, especially combined with the wave of relief from your promise. He stops fighting you, curls up into a little ball in your arms, hiding his blushing face in a pillow, humiliated by how good it feels to be held, how little it takes.

“You don’t want me,” he says, miserable, but stubbornly proud, when you let go of his mouth. “You just pity me. I don’t want you to be here just because you feel bad for me.”

“I want you. I just wouldn’t want to fuck someone while they’re having a nervous breakdown. You or anyone else, for that matter.”

“It’s fine,” he says firmly. “I’m fine. I will be fine. Just do what you want to me, ignore my reactions, and soon I won’t even feel anything. It’s okay. I’m a puppet.”

It’s the conviction in his voice, the absolute certainty that there’s no better option that breaks your heart a little.

“Fucking hell, do you even hear yourself?”

“Why?” he says, face pressed against pillow, but calm, limp in your arms, a puppet with cut strings, and you hate it. ”It’s true, I am not like normal humans. You don’t have to treat me as one. It’ll be easier for the both of us, in the end.”

Maybe I just want you to feel good, baby.”

“Pffft,” he snorts like it’s ridiculous, like you’re naive and this option is not even on the agenda, and also so stupid he doesn’t even want to argue about it. “Even for humans, first time is supposed to be painful.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, everyone knows it, and…”

You clasp your hand over his mouth again and he starts squirming, noises muffled by your palm, but his protests die down as soon as your other hand starts siding down his body.

“You’re so bossy for a little brat, aren’t you?”

You flip up his skirt and slap his ass, and he jolts up in your arms, gasps against your skin. You stroke the affected skin first gently, then with more and more pressure, until groping it, fingers digging into his tender flesh. “Maybe be a good doll and let me handle this for you.”

He didn’t know it could feel like this, not even when he came thinking of you before, so good, like he’s safe, being taken care of, but also so sweetly helpless, unable to resist. His head is light and dizzy with desire when you caress his thighs, nervously and instinctively clenched up, and he can’t remember his millions of concerns when you whisper “Open up for me, baby.”

He lets your hand between his legs, you slide into his panties and find him already wet, but when you stroke his clit and quietly tell him “Good boy,” it runs through him like lightning, eyes opening wide, moan escaping from his lips, his entire body arching up against you.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby,” you keep caressing his clit, and he writhes more and more against you. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

His hand grips abruptly at your wrist, his slender fingers digging deep, and for a moment you think he’ll try to tear you off him, but then you realize that instead, he presses you closer to himself. You smile against his neck, the hand that kept at his mouth slides down, stroking his throat and down to his chest. At the same time, you slide your other hand deeper in between his legs, find his wet, pulsing entrance. You push two fingers into him, and he shudders against you, his fingers clenching at your wrist, but his cunt is wet and ready for you, stretching sweetly and leaking, his hips bucking against you. His breath is quick and frantic, heart beating rapidly, and then his fingers find your hand that isn’t buried inside of his pussy, leads it down his chest and then under the clothes, under the bra, to find and caress his small tits, and he whines sweetly, arches up, hard nipples poking at your palm. But when you take your fingers out of his pussy and press the head of your cock against his entrance, he tenses up again, his muscles spasming.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Just do it! It’s supposed to feel good for you when it's tight, isn’t it? So just fuck it, I can take it!”

He shuts up with a tiny gasp when you press your teeth into the side of his neck, which lets you keep groping his tits.

“I’ve never met someone, for whom a ballgag is so obviously needed for survival before. It’s going to be okay, baby, relax.”

You stroke his clit and massage his breasts, cutting his protests short, his hands clutching helplessly at yours, not trying to stop you, but just trying to be grounded.

“What if it’s not going to be okay?” he asks quietly, his face buried in a pillow. “What if I’m just built wrong, if it’s just always going to hurt when you try to fuck me?”

“Then we’ll figure out something to do that doesn’t involve penetrating your pussy. It’s not that hard, baby.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Of course, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to leave you just because I can’t fuck your cunt.”

“Really?” he asks, choked, trying for sarcasm, but failing badly, a raw edge in his voice.

you would just switch to eating him out, but he seems pretty hung up on the inability to take you in, but from how easy it was to fit your fingers into him, how he seemed to enjoy it, you’re pretty sure the issue is psychological. So you stroke his clit, squeeze his breasts and kiss at the side of his jaw. You can feel his entrance involuntarily pulsing open and you push the head of your cock into him, feeling him stretching wider. He turns his head to you in alarm, but you catch his mouth in a kiss, keep caressing his body and slowly moving deeper into him. His fingers move from your wrists to intertwine with your hands, and when you squeeze back, he comes so quickly in your arms, before your cock is even fully sheathed inside of him.

You hold him through the orgasm, then slide out of him, but then he turns in your arms, until he’s under you, he’s looking up at you, instead of being held.

“I want more,” he breathes out, hot and heavy, and before you can think of the answer, he pulls his clothes open, opening his bra and revealing his chest, and then tugs his skirt and soaked panties down. He lies under you, both trembling and determined, his breath fast and nervous for exposing himself to you after trusting you won’t be disgusted with him, that you’’ll *want him*.

“You’re so beautiful,” you run your eyes over him and kiss him, hard, and he presses himself against you, kisses you back with desperate abandon, but still when you break away from each other, he asks, his voice small. “Really?”

In response, you pepper him with hungry kisses, from the neck down the chest, ribs, stomach until you cover his swollen pink pussy with your mouth, while he’s leaking sweetly under your lips. When he comes, and he comes quickly, moaning loudly, you pull him close and kiss his lips with the taste of his own arousal.

“Really,” you tell him softly, while he’s blushing, soft and squirming against you. He shoots you a wry little look that you already came to associate with trouble coming, and says, trying to sound superior, but failing because of mischievous little smiles breaking his act

“So you like this body? That’s so degenerate of you, who would even like something so ugly and…”

He yelps and shuts up when you forcefully turn him over to lay on his stomach and slap his ass, but he looks pleased afterwards.

“There are much better ways to get spanked, you little brat.”

He arches his back, popping up his ass and spreading his thighs to show off his wet flushed pussy, entrance pulsing up open for you. Then he looks at you over the shoulder, eyes glinting in excitement, and sticks out his pink little tongue at you.

“Oh really?”

#rhine writes #rhine writes filth #sub genshin #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #sub scaramouche #sub wanderer #scaramouche

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hyunsvngs · 1 month

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Glad people liked some good old catholic guilt 😭 Since some asked for more, here’s a few additions:

Priest Hyunjin who almost gets a love boner from seeing you in long flowy sundress at your nephew’s baptism, being all motherly and warm. Who feels actual tears well up in his eyes and rage in his chest when he sees a man hug your waist and kiss your cheek. Who swallows the feeling of injustice and jealousy of not being able to hold you in public.

Priest Hyunjin who sees the wonder in your eyes everytime when you see him naked and vulnerable, just for you. Whose heart swells with pride with knowing only you gets to see him like this. Same when he sees the scowl on your face when you overhear young girls fawning over him at church. Who loves the thought of being yours.

Priest Hyunjin who can’t help but giggle when you playfully nibble his neck and leave a small lipstick mark before fixing his clerical collar and sending him off. Who always leans into your touch; eyes closed and lips into a pout, subconsciously chasing for more of you when you break the kiss.

Priest Hyunjin who sees God in you everyday. His sweet angel, his safe haven. Who drinks every word you say, who’s so grateful for your compassion, for the friendly ear you lend him. His funny, kind, witty, pretty girl.

Priest Hyunjin who often gets emotional when you’re being intimate. When you’re both connected, sitting and facing each other bc you both crave the closeness. Who cries and mumbles verses and asks for forgiveness while he’s thrusting up into you, his pleas muffled, mouth against your sweaty chest.

Priest Hyunjin who finds salvation in your arms, who finds comfort in your caresses, your fingers softly raking through his hair. "Shh shh, it’s ok, angel. Take what you need."

Priest Hyunjin who’s only ever known devotion and worshipping but starts to learn about being worshipped. Who melts into a puddle when you slowly kiss his forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips, his fingers. Who can’t believe /you/ kneel before him and begs for /him/.

Priest Hyunjin who’s convinced you are an angel. That there is not an iota of evil in you, that you’re a miracle. But who still fasts for 24 hours or takes ice baths after every encounter with you, for every violent pleasure deserves punishment.

Priest Hyunjin who always wants you on his mouth. Who crawls to you when you’re sitting, just reading a book, and tenderly rests his head on your lap, like a puppy snuggling up to its owner. Who sometimes fall asleep suckling your fingers, as if you were made of the sweetest sugar. Who lets you hump his face everyday bc that always makes him feel closer to God somehow.

Priest Hyunjin who develops a sick fascination with catching glimpses of you guys making love in the reflection of the mirror across his bed. Who loves seeing himself loving you so reverently and so tenderly, again and again and again. Simultaneously disgusted and obsessed with the way the cross around his neck dangles rhythmically between your two beautiful tangled naked bodies.

Priest Hyunjin whose thoughts get more and more impure. Who wants to claim and mark you, leave a pretty bruise on your neck. Who wants to bend you over, lick up your spine and fuck you properly. Who wants to feel the weight of your legs on his shoulders while he’s ravaging you. Who wants to kiss your feet, and maybe even feel them on his cock, if you allow it.

Priest Hyunjin who will end up fasting again tomorrow, if it means he can make you cum again and hear you moan his name in his ear the day after.

I FUCKING NEEEEEEDD MORE OF THIS HOLY SHIT. i'm gonna start tagging this as blasphemy kink so ppl can block it if needbe!!

#juno’s asks ♡#sweet baby anon #blasphemy kink!#🦷 anon 💌

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swaggypsyduck · 1 year

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i hope you don’t mind me asking but how does ramadan actually work? i know you can’t eat or drink anything while the sun is up and there’s something about music (?) but what other things are part of the celebrations?

hi anon!!

so ramadan is the holy month of fasting! its the 9th month of the Islamic lunar calendar and lasts 29-30 days depending on the new moon sighting. Islamic fasting is basically no food, water, and sex (not no food/water/sex at all just not during the day) from dawn to sunset. now then if u have medical issues (ex. diabetes) u dont have to fast. and if ur on ur period u dont have to fast those days that ur on ur period but unlike the ppl w medical issues u have to make those days up throughout the year.

ramadan is also the month of the quran and also when we believe the quran was first revealed to the prophet mohammed (pbuh) so we try to read as much of it as we can the entire month. it's also when all the evil djinns/shayateen are locked up so it's easier for us to make good decisions. if ur still sinnin then that's 100% a habit and u problem lmaoooo. so basically it doubles as showing us what we need to work on as ppl for the next year.

as for the music part its recommended u cut it out and replace it w quran. which is general advice but ive yet to meet someone who does that to a T lol. but if u must (for studying purposes) have music then islamic nasheeds or music w no words is ideal.

after the last mandatory prayer (isha) of the night there is a optional prayer that only happens in ramadan called taraweeh. it's where u go to the local mosque and pray as a community. and hopefully finish reciting the quran by the end of the month. its super fun bc after prayer ur friends and family bring desserts and tea and socialize a bit before going home and sleep/preparing for suhur.

once ramadan is done we have 3 days of EID UL FITR!!! which is the big celebration for after Ramadan. (ill make a post on that closer to eid)

NOW FOR THE CULTURE!! so different cultures do food differently. and some have foods specific to ramadan. we also invite friends and and family to iftar and its generally a super fun time!! and in some mosques taraweeh turns into a fashion show/pintrest board of inspiration. not that u have to be dripped out just be presentable in the house of god uk!!

p.s. i left out more specific information bc itd get too confusing but if u have anymore questions then feel free to ask!!

#thx for the question luv!!#ramadan #asks #anon

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comradekatara · 2 months

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with another atla revival on its way (I hate Netflix) I’m starting to see “shipping wars” again and I’m hating/fighting for my life with all these z*tara shippers. I guess, for me, people who ship them together fundamentally don’t understand or even like Katara and yet they will hail themselves as the only people who get her (in what universe…) and claim that Zuko would have treated her infinitely better than Aang (I can’t with people). I’ve had a look on your page and FAQ and I think we share the same thoughts on the ship with the whole coloniser x colonised aspect (this is not to say I don’t like Zuko, but still). I guess what I’m asking is do you think these people get her as a character? ALSO finding out that the comic book writer shipped them and broke up Mai and Zuko made me feel some type of way.

i like how you said “on its way” only 22 hours ago (as of 2/29) despite the fact that natla fully came out a week ago. that said, i still haven’t seen it, so in my mind it also doesn’t exist (at least until i do actually watch it tomorrow). also, for what it’s worth, i do think that breaking up zuko and mai is the right call, it’s just that the execution was fucking awful, because gene yang cannot write for shit and doesn’t understand these characters. but it’s also really funny that he apparently ships zvtara (like, that tracks) but also their only prominent one-on-one interaction in the comics is when he physically restrains her…. lol. lmfao even.

as for the way zvtara shippers talk about katara and aang it truly is bonkers insane the lengths they’ll go and the reaches they’ll make to justify why their personal preference is, in fact, morally correct. i mean, intellectually correct is one thing, because i believe in making a persuasive argument and citing your sources, but morally correct??? they’ll act like aang is some awful toxic misogynist (yes, i know) and that zuko is in fact a paragon of support and respect for women. when we’ve all seen firsthand how he behaves as mai’s boyfriend (sidenote: the fact that they’ll claim that MAI is the one who is “abusive” to ZUKO is crazy. people hate women so fucking much it’s unreal).

in terms of how they discuss katara, it’s not so much the fact that the ship is literally colonizer/colonized (although it is), but the way that shippers deliberately play into these colonial biases and dynamics when portraying them. i actually think had zvtara shippers not been egregiously racist about it for so long, i wouldn’t really mind the ship itself. like, they are very obvious narrative foils who parallel each other in many ways and their arcs are inextricably bound up in each other and incredibly meaningful to both of them. i can understand why people read katara touching his scar in the catacombs or zuko jumping in front of lightning to save her as romantic. not my personal cup of tea, but like. it’s not NOT there. i don’t even object to people calling them soulmates tbh, because like. yeah. they are???

however. the complete lack of understanding as to what colonialism is or how it functions (ive literally seen ppl say that zuko isn’t a colonizer bc he never personally occupies territory, as if he didn’t BURN DOWN SUKI’S VILLAGE, and that the swt was colonized by the fn because they don’t explicitly occupy land like they do in the ek) really pervades the (romantic) interpretation of this dynamic as i’ve observed it over the years. a lot of katara in fire nation reds, as “fire lady,” abandoning her culture for zuko’s sake (despite this apparently being egregiously problematic when katara does this for aang’s sake). one time i came across a literal pocahontas au?!?!?? like. it’s SO dire.

and beyond the very obvious racism, the way they paint shipping zvtara as feminist and progressive is insane because, as you say, they do hate katara. i don’t know how to explain to these people that sanding down all her flaws and turning her into this angelic maternal endless well of compassion and emotional labor means you don’t actually like her character as it is presented in canon. acting as if katara lacks flaws (she is, in fact, deeply flawed) or so much more mature than the rest of her friends and must suffer that burden every day (hint: she’s not and she doesn’t) until the noble zuko comes along and is so gracious towards her and her alone (he’s literally the most immature of the lot, screams and whines at her, and at everyone) is just. a really impressive amount of editorializing. and they turn aang and sokka into these whiny, idiotic babies to justify that decision, as if aang and sokka are not highly intelligent, wise, capable, and responsible in their own right.

katara and zuko are in fact flawed in similar ways. they’re both impulsive, self-righteous, stubborn, myopic, callous, and filled with an unquenchable, blinding rage. it’s clear that when they are aligned in that rage, their dysfunction feeds into each other and they block the rest of the world out to satisfy their impulses. katara is able to pull back at the last moment in “the southern raiders” in a beautiful culmination of her internal character arc, but the entire build-up to this moment sort of showcases the ways in which they might not be great for each other as a couple. but people will do some incredible mental gymnastics to explain why they are nonetheless always right about everything, and why aang and sokka are always wrong and don’t understand katara at all. also, fwiw, reducing “the southern raiders” to who is right vs who is wrong when it’s actually about how various characters approach and process their grief in a deliberately subjective way is just. god. exhausting. i’m exhausted.

the thing about atla is that it is a well-written show, especially as far as its main characters are concerned. katara is so dear and special to me specifically because she is allowed to be so flawed and three dimensional and realistically human. and ignoring zuko’s myriad flaws means ignoring the depth that apparently makes him the most interesting character to 90% of atla fans. there really isn’t a need to editorialize and reduce canon to fit a neat little narrative, when the narrative that already exists is just. already really solid. and the thing is, i don’t even think you should have to change canon all that much to justify this ship, because it’s one of the central dynamics of the entire show. and yet, people still do. they really do. so i think that’s telling, don’t you?

#sl1mshadii #asks #hot takes #putting this under a cut bc i don’t want to be put on a list -_-#(even tho i know i already am)#also sidenote before anyone is like ‘but what about’ I AM ALSO NOT A FAN OF COLONIAL DYNAMICS WHEN IT’S ZVKKA. OBVIOUSLY #as ive stated before countless times . lol

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