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churipu · 4 months

Note

I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE GOJO !!! could i request him having a girlfriend that's really good in the kitchen? like both cooking AND baking !! i can imagine him getting a sugar rush (from her !!) because she tried recreating (and succeeded) his favorite kikufuku from scratch 🩷 and she's probably worrying all the time if the stuff that she makes is good because she just cooks and bakes "for fun" and not as a full time thing 🥹

SUGAR RUSH ! — GOJO SATORU + A GOOD COOK GIRLFRIEND

featuring. gojo satoru

warning. none :)

note. hii anon! <33 i absolutely love this, i can just imagine him being so happy about having a really good cook girlfriend. i hope this is to your liking, have a great day anon! and to you readers, have a big fat sloppy kiss mwah!

"baby, did you make this yourself?" gojo asks you, taking a bite out of the kikufuku mochi you made him this afternoon.

he had opened the freezer a few minutes prior to look for anything he can nibble on — and oolala he came across a tray of kikufuku he doesn't remember being there. but having a good cook of a girlfriend, he wasn't even surprised anymore, he's just very delighted to have his very own homemade kikufuku made by yours truly.

you nodded your head, "do you...like it? tell me how it tastes, i've been working on it for a while now so i'm not sure how it would taste."

"like it? i don't like it." gojo mutters out, eyeing you.

you didn't take things to the heart quickly, you've always believed that failing is a process of learning. so you chuckled, "don't worry about it, i'll try making another one for you. was it too sweet? or was the mochi skin weird on texture?"

gojo grins, "baby, i love it! you really should think about opening your own restaurant — i'll even fund it, no kidding." he tells you, taking another bite out of the kikufuku mochi.

opening a restaurant has been a long time dream. and gojo knew, but there are a few reasons to why it hasn't opened up till' now, you weren't confident with your own cooking. no matter how many times gojo told you about how good they are — you still think they aren't restaurant worthy yet.

"maybe next time? i don't think i have the time for it now," you were technically speaking half the truth.

you had a stable job that pays well (not as much as gojo who's a jujutsu sorcerer, but still enough) — you landed a job as a baker, so you all you needed to do was follow your boss' recipe and everything was settled.

"you can just resign and...focus on this one, hm?" gojo slithered his arms around your waist, pressing kisses on the side of your face— in a way on encouraging you, "i'll even help you, 'm sure it's going to be a great hit!"

you chuckled at his statement, "maybe in a few years, satoru?"

the male whines, burying his face into your neck. he'd never understood why you always tell him that, no matter how hard he tried to convince you about opening a restaurant, you'd decline saying that it wasn't time yet.

but gojo, he could see right through you like an open book. the problem wasn't it being "the wrong time", it was how you weren't confident with what you've made; despite him telling you thousands of time that what you made never fail to amaze him with your cooking.

you sometimes think he was saying that just to make you happy.

cooking for gojo has been a daily routine, he never asks for you to do it — you just liked cooking so much that you made it your job to always make sure he's full. knowing he has a sweet tooth, especially for kikufuku, you try your best to make them for him.

it was quite hard to nail the dessert on the first few times. but like everyone said: "practice makes perfect" and sure enough your hard work pays off, he does enjoy the kikufuku you took long to perfect. and your heart feels full.

"a few years? that's too long," he whines, "how about now?"

you laughed lightly, "you're cute. if you wanted to taste my cooking, i can just make it for you, y'know?" gojo laid his chin on top of your head and grumbled.

"i want the whole world to taste your cooking," he mutters out.

how sweet of him.

"aren't I your world?" you found yourself spouting out non-sense just to try to avoid the same topic yet again — gojo sensed so, and he didn't push on with it. if he finds you avoiding it, it just meant one thing; you didn't want to talk about it, it wasn't that hard to understand, really.

gojo nodded his head, "good point. you are my world," he laughs lightly, kissing the top of your head, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

if you could see his face right now, you'd be worried. gojo satoru, the strongest, had his brows furrowed and a frown on his face, he was worried about you. a lot. sometimes he just wants to cup your face, give you kisses and tell you that you're the best cook he has ever met, he was pretty damn sure he's heard you saying how you weren't a good cook because you do it as a hobby and not professionally — or along the lines of that.

"satoru, i'm trying to put these kikufuku in the freezer or they'll fall apart," you softly lets his arms go, "you can snack on these later if you're hungry. or maybe you could bring them to the kids too, i made quite a lot."

by kids you meant yuuji, nobara, and megumi. gojo being their teacher also meant you having a lot of meetings with the trio — and they have been nothing but sweet to you, sometimes you find yourself packing food for gojo to bring for them.

"good idea, i'll give it to them so they know how much of a good cook you are. yeah? maybe they'll help me convince you to open your very own restaurant," you laughed lightly, shaking your head at his idea.

gojo puckered his lips out, "if you don't want to open a restaurant then at least let me have one more kikufuku. last one, promise."

you shook your head, putting the tray of kikufuku inside the freezer, "you've had four! you'll get sick," gojo puts his hands on either side of your waist, carrying you to the side so he could make his way to the freezer, "hey!"

"the only thing i'll be getting is a sugar rush, angel."

"oh god, that's even worse than you getting sick," gojo turns his head to look at you, his cerulean eyes narrowed, "i am not taking care of you if you get sick, you hear me?"

gojo arched a brow, "you said that last time, and the only person who stayed by my side the whole entire time was you," he pinched your cheek gently with a large grin, "you'll take care of me, will ya'?"

knowing he was right you let out an exasperated sigh, "you're silly. don't eat more or i'll stop making them for you— i'm just afraid you'll get a sugar rush tonight. don't you remember the last time it happened?"

gojo scratches his nape with a nervous smile. a few weeks ago, you made a big strawberry swiss roll — and the male managed to chow down on it in a matter of hours. late at night, he was wide awake, babbling about how much he loves you and then proceeded to list everything that he loves about you from a to z.

it was quite sweet of him, but still: you needed sleep. as a result, you barely gotten any sleep at all and had to go to work exhausted; although gojo did apologize for his nightly sugar rush, and tried to make it up to you by "cooking" for you, which ended up disastrous as he had gotten distracted by a tv show in the middle of his cooking. no foods were served that night so you both had to get take out.

and you had to throw out your favorite non-stick pan because of that.

you appreciated his effort though (and this time he made it up to you by purchasing a pan set — which he told you was a token of his apology for ruining your favorite pan and for his sugar rush).

"hey, i was showing my love to you. and plus, you got a set of brand new pan because of my sugar rush," gojo defends himself with a smile, leaning onto the kitchen island.

"in an exchange for my exhaustion, i almost passed out at work," he gasps out dramatically.

"why wasn't i informed of that? oh my god, 'm a monster." he talked to himself, which you weren't even surprised of anymore, so you let out a soft chuckle.

"kidding. but no— i'd never like to see or hear your sugar rush anymore, i have work tomorrow. i'll be fine if it's the weekend," i poked his side, walking away.

gojo grabbed your arm, pulling you close, "what if you don't have work tomorrow?"

you arched a brow in confusion, "but i do."

he smiles ever so sweetly that it was starting to get suspicious, "oh, i know! i was just asking, y'know?"

"o...kay then?"

gojo, that slick motherfucker, called your boss and told her you were sick and wouldn't be able to come tomorrow. and so— began the restless night of his episode of sugar rush and just the tenth thousands of "i love you"s from him.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #female reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #fluff #jjk x reader

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stvharrngton · 7 months

Text

kinktober: day two

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

kink: hands/fingers

warnings: smut, 19+ minors dni, fingering, finger sucking

word count: 0.7k

taglist: @inkluvs @dukesmebby @sweetbabygirlsworld @kennedy-brooke @gvf23 @nix-rose

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

You loved Steve’s hands.

The way they felt so big compared to yours, when his fingers were threaded through your own. How they curled around your thigh when he was driving, fingers digging into your flesh.

You also craved to have his hands on you in other ways, caressing your hips and waist, groping at your tits. Either wrapped around your throat or having them plunged deep inside you.

You loved how they felt against you, sometimes soft, other times rough. So when you woke one morning, still naked in Steve’s bed from the night before, the boy’s fingers headed south as his soft lips kissed on your shoulder, who were you to complain?

Steve teased you softly as he moved his kisses to your neck, fingers slipping through your pussy before they began to circle your clit. You hummed at the ministration, sleep still evident in your croaky voice.

Steve pecked featherlight kisses along your jaw before reaching that sweet little spot just below your ear. You keened below him, your fingers threading through his soft brown locks, tugging lightly at the strands.

He groaned in response, a low throaty hum at the sweet pinch. “Good morning,” he finally spoke as he nipped at your neck.

“Morning,” you replied, cheeks heating up as the pleasure began to roll through your body. Eyes fluttering closed again, thighs parting involuntarily for Steve.

The boy smirked at your response, fingers now circling your hole. Teasing and taunting as they gathered your slick, a moan rumbling in his chest as he felt how wet you were.

“Were you dreamin’ of me, honey?” He asked, innocently enough until he plunged his fingers inside you, “pussy’s so wet, looks like she can’t get enough of me, hm?”

You moaned loudly, Steve was always one for dirty talk and this morning was no different. You stuttered put a y-yes, not sure which part of the question you were actually responding to.

He sped his fingers up now, pumping them in and out of your cunt with vigour, digits curling inside you, hitting that sweet little spot of yours. You wailed in response, hands grabbing and clawing at anything they could find.

Steve’s thumb came to rub at your clit in tandem with how his fingers were fucking in and out of you, making your back arch and your pussy flutter. Thumb rubbing softly but with just the right amount of pressure, causing you to exhale out a breathy moan.

The room filled with the sounds of your gasps and groans, with the sound of Steve’s fingers plunging in and out of you quickly, your slick leaking and coating Steve’s fingers.

“Does that feel good, honey? You like when I fuck you with my fingers?” He asks, voice gravelly and low, sexy and sinful. You keened at the question, mustering everything you had in you so you could provide Steve with the answer that he wanted.

“Yeah, fuck,” you whined, hips bucking off the mattress to try and match the pace of Steve’s fingers, clenching around his thick digits.

“Oh,” he groaned, the feeling making all his blood rush south, “can feel you squeezing em’, shit,” Steve was overcome with lust, a lewd haze taking over him just at the sight of you below him. Your hair still a-mess with sleep, your eyes fluttering closed, your lips parted oh so prettily, “how ‘bout I let you cum all over them and then I’ll stick them in your mouth like the dirty little girl you are, hm?”

You mewled at the proposition, your pussy becoming wetter, the wet sound circling through your eardrums. You mustered a nod, followed by a strangled “Pleasepleaseplease.”

It wasn’t long until you were coming undone, your orgasm washing over you as the pleasure sparked throughout your body. Your back arched as your thighs shook, your nails raking over Steve’s bicep as the other clutched the sheets you lay on. You whined as Steve eventually pulled his fingers from you, the digits soaked in your own juices.

The boy licked his lips as he brought them to his sightline, his fingers glistening in the warm glow that peaked through the crack in the curtains. Your eyes blinked open, eyelashes fluttering up at your boyfriend as you parted your lips almost on command.

He smirked down at you as he placed his fingers flat on your tongue, watching with desire as you sucked them into your mouth, tongue swirling around his fingers, licking and sucking your own orgasm from them.

Steve groaned at the feeling as you released his fingers with a pop, “Good girl.” he cooed.

#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington oneshot #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things smut #k.fic #kinktober2023

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yeyinde · 1 year

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I need to be railed by price as the team either walks past or is right next door. So upset he's fictional lmao

honestly, same.

this got away from me a bit, so sorry about that!

warnings: smut, implied near-death experiences, voyeurism, and (??) exhibitionism

For being stationed out in the middle of Siberia, snowed into some long-forgotten gulag on the fringes of the great, inescapable arctic nothingness, the air you breathe has never been hotter.

Balmy heat pulses, throbbing in tandem with each harsh thud of your heart as it snaps like a rubber band against your chest.

It leaks in from the old pellet stove that Gaz managed to get working—somewhat—but the stifling heat that simmers around you, clinging your sweat-slicked skin has less to do with fire, and everything to do with the way your captain fills your cunt until you ache.

"Fuck," he rasps, low and grating, words muffled into the flesh of your neck, when he presses the flat of his teeth. "So wet for me, love. So fucking tight—"

All you can do is dig your nails into his flexing biceps, legs locked around his waist, heels clinging together at the base of his spine, as he fucks you senseless in the middle of a storm.

(And with your teammates beyond the thin wisp of a wall.)

You're supposed to be quiet.

Those are the rules you accepted when he first parted the folds of your pretty cunt with his middle and index finger, and pressed his nose against your throbbing clit, eyes sparking with firebrands when he gazed up at you.

Quiet—because everyone is gathered in the room beside yours, and no one knows that your captain presses the head of his cock against this soft, fleshy place behind your belly button until you see Nirvana painted behind your eyelids like he's trying to fuck you stupid. To batter all logic out of your soft, sensitive head until only he, and the way he fits inside of you, remain.

(And sometimes, you think he is.)

Quiet. Quiet. And yet—

They can all hear you, surely. You're not subtle, and you're not silent, despite the growls in your ears to keep it down, now, love, don't want them all to hear you getting fucked by your captain, do you? Filling your tight pussy with my cock—

How can you be when he pulled you into the empty, rotting cell with a fire in his gaze, and his hands rough on your skin, and said I need to feel you, love. I need to be inside of you. Need to keep you warm.

You try to stay quiet. Try to stifle the moans that spill from your lips with each blunt, brutal thrust of his cock slamming against the plug of your womb. It feels as if he was trying to wrench it open, trying to fit inside the only space left that you haven't felt him, that you hadn't taken him in. And maybe he is. Maybe, this is him trying to split you apart at the seams until you unravel for him; unspooled and raw, and all his, and—

It edges into pain, into hurt and anguish, but the pleasure numbs you into a babbling mess of fuck, captain, it feels so good, please please please—

His fat cock splits you apart until you're a babbling mess drooling into the matted, grimy mattress below, chanting nothing but his name amid the hymnals of pleasure that slip out, unmuffled, and loud.

Stupid. Stupid.

These sparse walls are barely thick enough to stifle a sniffle let alone the way you stutter over his name—P–Pr–i–ahhh—P–Pri–ce—with each sharp thrust of his cock battering your bruised, gummy walls.

He doesn't even try to keep you quiet. Seems, in fact, to fuck you harder, aiming for whichever spot he hit inside of you that made you howl the loudest. Like it's a game. Like he wants them to hear.

And you get it. You get why he's so broken, so stripped, and bare, and fucking you when he knows everyone can hear you, can hear the slick way your cunt opens for his cock; the fleshy slaps of his heavy sack hitting your ass with each deep, hard thrust. The ragged pants broken by your barely stifled moans, or his sharp, smoking grunts.

You get it. You do—

A near miss. A wayward shot.

Soap says you should be resting, that you should be recuperating until you all have to move out, have to abandon this safe haven in the middle of the frigid, white wasteland where nothing but withering black trees grow in sparse thickets and the temperature outside drops low enough to freeze the grey matter in your brain within seconds.

It's scary. Daunting.

But nothing at all compared to the anguish in his voice when he saw you in shades of blue, in red. Lifeless, and cold. So, so cold.

It had taken them pushing you as close to the firepit as possible to bring some life back into your cheeks, and this—

This is all he knows how to do to keep you warm, to keep you from turning the same garish shade of deathly white, grey, as the world outside of these mouldering walls while you're stuck in a place that leaches it from your marrow; rapacious for heat in your body.

He fucks you like he's already lost you. Like you're already blue and grey and—

"Never again," he spits, words an angry snarl in your ear. "Never again—"

So, you let him take. Let him take, and take, and take because he never does. Never for himself.

You offer yourself up to him—however he needs it—and try to stay within the margins of the rules despite the fact that you can feel him bludgeoning into you, further and further until you can feel him in your sternum. Until you can taste him in your throat. Until your lungs are full of sweat and blood and hickory and smoke, and—

"Fuck—"

You choke on the thick press of fingers when he slips them into your mouth, barking out a sharp bite when he pushes his other hand under the swell of your ass to glue your hips together. Closer, closer, but not enough for him despite the stars that erupt behind your eyelids, the too full too much feeling of him grinding against your bruised, battered walls, carving out a place inside of you just for him.

"Gotta keep you warm," he hisses, pressing his damp chest to yours until the scant air is squeezed from your collapsing lungs, and all you can taste, and see, and feel is the graze of his coarse hair over your sensitive flesh when he smothers you under his bulk. "Gotta warm you up—"

They can all hear you. All of them.

And maybe, maybe it's the delirium. The fever. The injury. The ever-present threat of that creeping white death that ghosts along the gaps in the doors, searching for a way in to claim the one that got away, snatched from the brink of icy death.

It must be. It has to be.

But you think you can hear them, too. Under the heaving, desperate gasps in your ear, the broken commands uttered for you to stay quiet, and be good, and stay with him, stay with him, always, always, always, and the slap of his skin branding yours, you can hear it. Low murmurs. Movement.

Gaz sucks in a breath when Price mutters look'it y'takin' me so fuckin' good; needy little cunt won't let g'of me.

Soap groans low when you whimper around the thick, nicotine-stained fingers, nearly gagging, choking when he presses them to the back of your throat.

You hear Ghost shift, the scratch of his denim sliding against the cracked cement when he moves from his spot when you moan low, and broken, and beg for it in a series of please please please pleasepleaseplea—that stick together each time he slides in deep.

The noises from the other room all react to each whimper, moan, mewl, gasp that Price pulls from the depths of your chest as his cock splits you apart until your cunt is full of nothing but him. Until your head is heavy with pleasure, with the explosive chemical slurry of sex and tobacco and almost dying, and him, him—

It's maddening. Impossible.

It has to be in your head. It has to be because the idea, the absurd idea of it all is enough to make you tremble, to make the molten knot in your belly coil, and coil, and—

Price drops his sweat-slicked forehead to your temple, lips brushing against your ear.

"Puttin' on a nice li'show for them, love. Almost makes me think you want them to hear," he murmurs, words rasped out in a whisper. Just for you. Just for you. "I must not be enough to keep y'warm, then. Must need some extra body heat, mm?"

(You hear Soap grunt, the noise a tucked plea of Captain, and of something that sounds like a broken amalgamation of your name, and fuck, and please, and—

And all at once, the rules break. Shatter.)

#mehhh #wrote this while drinking rye on the deck #suffice to say am a little tipsy #dunnoooo if this makes any sense #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x fem reader

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chaseadrian · 11 months

Text

fragile concessions

you don't mind leaving Eddie to his devices in your bedroom as you shower, you don't mind even more when you catch him taking advantage of the opportunity. [masterlist]

pairing: eddie munson x f!reader tags: 18+ ONLY, explicit, voyeurism, pillow humping, invasion of privacy, friends to lovers, handjobs, blowjobs, facesitting, mutual masturbation, light backstory aka porn w some plot, fluffy ending word count: 4.2k+ a/n: yeah yeah i know i've been gone a long time. hope y'all like this <3

Rifling through your dresser, you’re startled by a knock at the window. You bring the sweater in your hands to your chest instinctively, and step backward as you look through the glass.

Black leather and ring clad hands wiggling a ‘hello’ from outside are more than enough to calm your nerves.

“Morning, Eddie. You’re way early.” You push the curtain out of the way, muscling the old pane open, “Why didn’t you use the front door?”

“I knocked!” He grunts as he climbs over the ledge, clamoring for your forearm when he loses balance.

Your nails sink into the leather sleeve of his jacket, and you cock your head, “You did?”

He looks up at you with a smile, brushing his wrinkled shirt, “No. Just wanted to see your bedroom. You never let me in here I—wow.” He reaches out for the chiffon fabric of your canopy bed, pointing at the cushion of pillows at the head, “Feel like I’m in a palace. Silk pillowcases? Classy.”

The sweater knots into your arms as you cross them, “Weirdo.”

Leaving him to wander, you pull a fresh towel from the hall closet, yelling back, “Well, get comfortable. I still have to shower.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me.”

You linger by the adjacent bathroom door, looking halfway over your shoulder to watch him explore.

Eddie runs his knuckles over your belongings like they’re the most delicate objects in the world. Grazing over the rim of dust on your dresser’s edge, he scrapes it off on his jacket with a touch closer to his typical gentility.

He threads the loose corner of your pillow through his fingers, and hops backward onto the comforter, settling into the mattress with a familiarity you aren’t sure he’d earned.

You yell again from the bathroom, door half cracked, “I just washed those.”

He adjusts his legs to hang off the bed, kicking his old sneakers onto the shag rug, “My apologies.” Grabbing a spare pillow to hold over his stomach, he’s half sat up against your headboard, tapping his fingers on the silk.

You can hear him humming from your room as you shower. The softness in his voice when he thinks you can’t hear him always makes you smile. His kindness had a bite to it; if you asked for the shirt off his back, he’d throw it at you.

Sometimes you like to watch him when he thinks he’s safe to shuck off his harsh, protective cloak and just be Eddie. The Eddie that leaves out a can of tuna by the trash for the trailer park cats, or carries the neighbor’s wandering toddler home on his shoulders. These little concessions towards fragility—like the soft hums with your silk pillow in his lap—remind you why he’s in your life.

The bathroom clouds with steam while you settle into the hot water, humming along to his voice, reaching blindly for the shampoo. You shake the bottle over your head and squeeze, only to be hit with a puff of air and a few pathetic pearls of lather. It isn’t even worth it to scrub the remnants in, and you pop out of the shower with a groan, tossing the empty bottle into the sink.

If Eddie were to try and sneak a peek right now, the thick, fluorescent steam would ruin his show. Still, you pull on the robe hanging behind the door. You’re sure you bought new shampoo, sure it must be under the sink, but you freeze before you can even take a look in the cabinet, half kneeling with your fingertips wedged against the wood.

It’s silent in your bedroom.

Eddie’s no longer humming, and when you turn on your toes to peek beyond the door you can just see his silhouette behind the thin canopy.

He’s on your bed as before, pillow over his lap, but now his hips rock up, knuckles white in the silk case.

The cabinet door slips from your fingers, clapping shut, stopping Eddie in his tracks.

He looks to the bathroom, and you dart behind the door.

“You okay?” He yells, obvious strain cut with even more obvious panic.

“Fine! Almost dropped the shampoo!” You shout back, sitting down on the edge of the tub, wringing the string of your robe between your fingers.

You don’t know if you want to look again.

Eddie was always over familiar. Always controlling the situation, the ringleader who branded his group with every rough touch. Fingers hard on your neck, a peanut flicked your way at the bar, judgment in his smile.

All this to keep you—and everyone else—at arm’s length. The clothes, the hair, the rings, they did enough to keep most people away. But the ones who looked past that, they got the neurosis and informality. You know him more than he thinks, more than he allows, and you aren’t against taking that initiative.

Of course you want to look.

This is far deeper than you ever thought you’d get.

Slipping off the edge of the tub, you crawl over to the door, inhaling a big breath of steam, robe damp and sticking to your body.

You feel safe enough sitting on your knees to watch him, enough layers of steam and fabric and poor vision between you and him to keep this mutual intrusion a secret. If you were to argue it, Eddie using your pillow to get off is probably a bigger invasion than you watching him do it, but the shame was the same.

One hand presses the pillow into his pelvis, the other pets along the grain of the smooth fabric, fingers touching down one after the other.

Sometimes Eddie taps you on the head with a ringed knuckle when you’re being smart. This feels like the gentle variant of that.

Though his lips are parted, you can’t hear anything outside the hammer of the shower. A playback of all his dramatic grunts and scoffs loops in your head instead, and you see the way his Adam's apple thrums in his throat with every note of pleasure.

It’s easy to piece together the way he could look behind that hazy chiffon, his chest rising and falling, slow to combat the noise he wants to make. The knee hanging off the bed just peeks out of the canopy, and he pushes up against your pillow using a firmly planted foot. You know the way his tendons move in his hand as he grabs tighter, presses harder.

You make up the sound of his zipper sleeves against the pillow, a soft kind of scratching that could catch at any moment. If you hadn’t seen him now, you would’ve blamed him for being so careless with your stuff later. His name would’ve been the first in your head when you noticed the imperfection.

But everything about right now is perfect.

You can’t say there’s an established attraction, exactly. A curiosity, sure, little question marks in your head every time he calls you pretty with that surface grin. Maybe a dream or two in the years you’ve known him, dreams where he pulled you in from arm’s length. Not romantic, never that, but close and real and earnest.

If this is the closest you get—a voyeur to your own invasion—then you’ll take it for all it’s worth. At least you know he really thinks you’re pretty.

You sit in stunned silence for a minute more before new movement startles you back behind the door, and when you peek again, Eddie has both feet on the bed, his knees pulled toward him, thrusting up harder against the pillow. It’s still slow, but he’s sunken into the deep plush of your comforter, hair blanketing his head. His features are distinct enough, the curve of his open mouth, the valley of his throat, you can carve expressions from familiar topography.

It’s from this position that a weak moan cuts through the pattering water, and—for what you think is the first time—you feel something more than curiosity.

Eddie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and he presses two harsh fingers between his eyebrows, smudging his fingertips across his forehead in what you’re sure is frustration.

You’ve gone past filling the gaps of what you know, the pulpit of your stomach swirling with thoughts of more moans, how it must feel under the rough hew of his jeans, what he’d do if it were you on his lap, and whether he’d accept you there at all.

For all his drama and fire, Eddie couldn’t sit in discomfort. He loved being the discomfort, but if it turned on him he was like a cornered dog.

As you continue to watch him, the swirling in your stomach slips down, and for now a hand between your legs is enough to calm this bud of interest.

The floor is slick under you, steam quick to fill the space of your parted thighs, heat on heat crushed under the just pruning skin of your fingerprint. You sigh, chest stuttering against relief. Slow, concentrated breaths quell any noise you’d want to make as you swirl your middle finger over your clit, Eddie’s moan looping in your brain.

You focus on the line of his figure, the indent he’ll leave in your bed when he gets up and tries to pretend he’d been peacefully laying there the whole time.

Without trying, your brain fills in gaps of space in your time with Eddie. Every time he left a party before you, a quick ‘I’ll wait for you in the van. No rush.’ and a tap on the shoulder. Trips to the 7/11, insistent that he must surprise you with snacks for the session, or each time you lost him in the bar, distracted by drifters who thought a beer or two would get you back home with them.

The memories are tinged now with the sight of his arching back, his parted lips, and that singular moan.

The thoughts carry you as far as they can, and the sight of him behind the curtain even more, but the rhythm of your fingers isn't what you want. It grows as stale as you hope that pillow must be for him, and with a sharp swallow you stand up to turn the shower off.

It takes a minute to gather yourself, roughing your hair with the towel to shake off what nerves you can. You face yourself in the mirror, dewy glass blurring your body into something amorphous. You can contend with this fuzzy figure, gazing over your shoulder to watch it slip past the bathroom door. In your mind’s eye, it’s not you taking this risk, but the reflection. It’s enough to get you into the bedroom.

Eddie has his ankles crossed and an arm behind his head, and he taps his fingers over his stomach as you approach, still roughing your hair as you enter.

“All cleaned up?” He asks, his eyes following you until he’s looking up through his lashes, a quick flick to the space next to him before he meets your eyes again.

You sit where he’d looked, tossing the towel into a laundry basket opposite the bed, “Mhm.”

There’s a long moment of your eyes on his, and he snaps out with a shake of his head, and that stupid grin, “Shit, sorry, you probably want to get dressed, huh?”

As he pushes to sit up, you close the space between you, your mouth just pressing against his. He pulls back with wide eyes that dart around your face, and he keeps a hand on your shoulder to hold you away.

His lips form and abandon several words, but before he can get a noise out, you cut the space, “I saw you.”

He jerks his head back, swallowing hard and looking past you now. More sentences starting and stopping without a thought fully formed.

You feel the hand on you loosen, see him shift in front of you, but there’s no easy way for Eddie to escape the situation.

“It’s okay.” You start reaching over for the hand on your shoulder, and he flinches.

“It’s okay.” You repeat, voice quieter and firmer, and he lets you take his hand, lets you guide it from your shoulder to the pit of your throat, over the drying beads of water between your breasts, and under the plush cotton collar of your robe.

His hand cups around you, rings warm and sticking to your skin, your fingers loosely wrap around his wrist for a moment before he accepts where you’ve left him.

You both let out a slow breath. Eddie’s starts with a hitch, but settles into something calm and certain. He doesn’t meet your eyes yet, they’re trained on the concealed hand, resting dead over your breast.

Placing two fingers under his chin, you coax him to look at you, your thumb brushing under his bottom lip, a few out of place dots of stubble pricking at your skin. You don’t think he could grow a beard if he tried, but random hair sprouts around his jaw from week to week, pimples following if he plucks them too late.

You bring your nose close to his, and he tilts up almost imperceptibly, tongue darting between his lips.

That first kiss was so brief you already can’t remember what he felt like, but the calm heat of his breath on you is steady, warm and inviting, and his eyes glisten as he looks at you.

His palm is heavy under your robe, thumb running back and forth ever so slightly, catching on the natural pull of your skin.

You let your eyelids slip closed, and finally he kisses you.

It isn’t harsh or fast and it doesn’t light your insides up the way your imagination did, but you’re sure you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. His bottom lip trembles for the first second, slick and soft, and you feel the scratch of those loose facial hairs against your chin. The hand beneath your robe squeezes shut, the warm metal of his rings sticking and unsticking with a little sting as he builds confidence in the moment.

The hand he’d kept on the bed comes up to curl over the slope of your neck, and as you lean into him he slides the collar of the robe down past your shoulder. It sits against your bicep, not revealing anything he’s not sure you’d want, but enough to let him kiss down your jaw, spattering over the bare landscape you’ve allowed him.

You slip a hand under the hem of his old t-shirt, pinching at the rolled skin of his abdomen, body curved uncomfortably as he’s half sat up on the bed.

He backs away from kissing when you push him down onto the comforter, both hands grabbing your arms to bring you with. You stay sat on the edge of the bed, torso twisted to follow him as he wants.

“Take off the jacket.” You whisper against his mouth, dragging your lips under his jaw and down his throat. You pull his shirt up and fix your hands on his hips, marking the skin down his chest with nips and long kisses. He struggles to tug the jacket off and can only manage the sleeves, leather crinkling under him as he wriggles under you.

You drag the tip of your tongue over his happy trail, and he watches with quiet interest, fingers gliding over your bare shoulder.

Eddie isn’t wearing anything under his jeans, you can feel the length of his erection stuffed uncomfortably beneath the denim.

“Ohh, please.” He whispers, more breath than anything else.

You hum with a smile, watching him as you unbutton and unzip and tug the bottoms down his thighs.

His hand hovers over the back of your head, nails just touching down along your hair, and he settles for resting it on your back.

He isn’t over or under-endowed, you can comfortably wrap a hand around his base and hold the rest of him in your mouth without strain, but you start with the hand. Dribbling a mouthful of spit over his tip, you slip your fisted hand down the shaft, thumb pressing into the rim of his head. He holds back expletives, syllables drawn out and dying behind his teeth. You’re slow, gliding your hand over his length and watching the wrinkles as he screws his eyes shut and pushes his hand over his forehead, bangs fraying out of place.

His cock thrums under your hand, and you squeeze his thigh as it jerks, quick spasms of enjoyment relieving tension.

You wait until there’s obvious pressure in his chest, until his Adam’s apple is taut against his throat, and he can barely eke out breaths.

Without knowing, he gives you what you want as you swirl your tongue around his tip for the first time. He can’t hold back the languid, whimpering moan that escapes his open mouth, all the air in his lungs expelled with it.

Watery, salty precum slides over your tongue, and you close your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks as you work down his shaft. Spit pools into your mouth and over your bottom lip, and as your chin brushes the hair at Eddie’s base, you feel sweat and spit drying on the skin.

Eddie’s hesitance falls away as he starts to lose himself, the hand on your back coming up to gently push down your head, not forceful, exactly, but wanting. He whimpers with increased impatience the harder you work him, the hum of your mouth around him an added jolt of pleasure.

You break for a moment to suck marks into the sharp angle of his hip bone, your hand a warm substitute that still pulls beautiful noises from him. He hisses against the kiss, the curve of his belly heaving with full breaths. He has faint marks of muscle definition when he flexes against your touch, but his abdomen rounds with every intake of air, and you press your lips along his pelvic line to feel the way he’s working through your touch.

Kissing the bush of hair around his shaft, you run your thumb over his head, your tongue flat against his base, dragging up to lick away the new dribbles of precum.

He lets your name fall from his lips, and a mewling, strained, “Please…keep going…” with his nails combing over the back of your head.

You take him entirely in your mouth once again, and he ruts up, hitting the back of your throat. You swallow the near-gag, and Eddie’s laughter—tied into an apology— hits your ear, the first instance of that rough-hewn boy you’re used to.

In response you curl your free hand around his balls and give them a light squeeze, clutching them against the base of his shaft to compress the tension he must be feeling. You imagine it’s a tight, coiled pain in his stomach, and it’s your greed more than anything that keeps him from relief.

Eddie wriggles underneath you, his body twitching outside his control, incomplete requests for release dying on his tongue.

What he finally chokes out is an ill timed warning, his orgasm already spilling into your mouth by the time he tells you he’s going to come. It’s warm and salty down your throat, and if it came from anyone else it would be an off-putting sensation that you’d be quick to spit out, but with Eddie paralyzed under you as he finishes, no taste could be sweeter or more satisfying.

You don’t even have time to swipe the sleeve of your robe over your lips before he’s tugging you up to his mouth.

This kiss is harsh and deep and the hand on your head presses you hard into him. His tongue twists over yours, warm and slimy, loud smacks between you with every kiss.

You’ve no choice now but to climb on him, straddling his stomach, his hand coming down to slide the robe entirely off. Your knees nick on the sharp parts of his jacket, but it’s a pale feeling compared to the heat of your bodies and his hands burning into your skin, branding your hip as you grind on him.

“Hey, hey.” He pulls you back with a hand on your cheek, thumb tugging at the bulb of your cheekbone. You’re both flustered and disheveled when your eyes meet, and you feel you could fall forever into the pit of that dark brown. “Sit on my face.” He breathes, kneading at the skin of your ass, gaze trained on your reaction.

“Yeah?” You ask, the throbbing between your thighs ever present as you’ve stilled on him.

He nods, his hand slipping from your cheek to coast down your body and rest on your other hip. They coil underneath your thighs to hold you as you re-situate yourself over him, hovering just above his mouth, a little hesitant to drop your weight on him. This felt somehow more intimate than a blowjob, smothering him with your body, the full potential of your spasms direct and right there on his tongue.

Eddie didn’t care, he forced you down with his arms, and you lurched forward against the headboard, one hand wrapping over the edge, the other a buffer between your forehead and the hardwood.

The pleasure was instant and overwhelming, Eddie’s tongue indistinct in its movement, lips and spit and the tickle of his nose worming their way through your body.

His grip was tight on you, arms wrapped around your thighs, and the soft curl of his hair rustled under your skin. He doesn’t move you over his tongue, but rather keeps you still, tries to stop you wriggling and doing the work yourself. You oblige best you can, holding the headboard tighter, biting down into the skin of your forearm, wanting even now to give him what he wants, to let him help you in whatever way he sees fit. He’s giving you more of himself than you ever imagined he could, and more than anything you just want to languish in this moment for as long as you can.

He hums underneath you, satisfied little hums that rise and fall with his focus.

It’s when you go silent—your breath caught in your chest, moans stuck in your throat—that Eddie starts rocking you over his mouth. The heat in your stomach is unbearable, and you gasp as he guides you back and forth over his tongue, everything below his nose a wet, slobbering mess, just as much from you as it is him. You slip against him with ease, grinding harder and faster, any worry you had about smothering him long gone with the ever-winding spiral of ecstasy that sits in your belly.

Tighter and tighter it curls, the rocking of your hips uneven and desperate now.

Eddie slides his hands as far as he can up your back, combing lines down your skin with his nails, and you wriggle closer to the headboard, so close to the end that every touch is torturous.

You haven’t spent half as long with his head between your thighs as he did with your lips around his cock, but any shame you could possibly feel will come later. You just want the relief, to unfurl and collapse and let him feel you shaking over the knack of his tongue.

You drop entirely onto him, his tongue swirling over the pulsing nub of your clit, and he grabs you as hard as he can, just as needy and wanting.

He groans underneath you, and your vision explodes behind your eyes.

Spasming and shaking, he holds you as you come undone, tilting his head up as the orgasm sends you backward to lay on his chest. He doesn’t stop running his tongue over your clit even as it becomes overwhelming, wanting to capture every last dredge of your climax. He laps up the arousal that wells from you, sucking kisses between your lips.

The euphoria layers in your body like waves of radar, one after the other until you’re begging him to let you go. You can’t quite catch your breath, wheezing as you try to pull air into your lungs, evening out as the radiation of pleasure cools to satisfaction.

You roll off him onto your stomach, resting your head in your arms to look back at with a smile.

He pushes his bangs up and shakes his head with a laugh, “Nuts.” He squeezes your calf.

You both sit in the moment, a comfortable silence between you with his hand resting on your leg.

Silence wasn’t golden in your experience with Eddie thus far. If there wasn’t conversation, there was music; if there wasn’t music, there was his humming. Any quiet with Eddie around was borne out of tension, but now you feel a deep tranquility even as the cool air of the still-open window hits your bare skin.

He runs his fingers gently back and forth, and the both of you let out a content sigh at the same time.

“J—”

“—inx! Ha!” Eddie is a hair faster, and he jiggles your calf in accomplishment before shifting to mirror you on your stomach. He hovers in front of your lips, muscling you over a bit with his shoulder, “Owe me a…kiss?”

You let your head fall into your arms, a kick of giddiness in your stomach, but you come back to meet his lips.

There’s a smile in this kiss, you think maybe there could be more. Kisses, smiles, whatever you can get.

Whatever Eddie can give.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x f!reader #my writing #mine

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notroosterbradshaw · 1 year

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fluff and smut! maybe where Rooster and reader are friends who are choosing to spend the holidays together (him because no family and reader because family sucks) and they realize they like each other. something about getting caught underneath the mistletoe (that Rooster put up btw this was a plan) and it evolves from there.

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble. it’s 3.2k of Rooster Christmas smut. I couldn’t get this out of my head so it got its own one-shot. the inspo hit different, so this is for you, darling nonny, whoever you are in the tumblr wilderness! xo

It had been the perfect Christmas Eve: drinks at The Hard Deck, Rooster on the keys drawing in a raucous crowd, late-night pizza collected on the way home and you found yourself cackling on the couch with Rooster and Phoenix around 2am. "I am so happy I decided not to go home."

"You are welcome to join our little orphan Christmas any time you like," Rooster handed you a wine glass with a wink. You sat on the couch in the living room, Natasha perching herself on the floor, the colourful flicker of the Christmas tree the only real thing illuminating the room.

"Thank you," you told him, your fingers grazing his and it was beyond the point you could avoid the flirt in your voice. You knew you'd made the right choice to stay. You'd been flirting with him all night, there had been enough wisecracks from everyone that you were cute together.

"You can cut the sexual tension with a knife," Hangman broadcasted at one point.

"Mistletoe, Rooster?" Natasha teased, finally taking her leave and heading for the guest bedroom you were supposed to share with her. "Merry Christmas, friends," she said, disappearing. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Or do," she teased and you both heard the door close.

And finally, it was just two of you. You loved Natasha, but if you didn’t find a way to get Rooster to yourself, you felt like you’d spontaneously combust. You had just enough liquid courage to hide the shyness in your smile and he had to admit, he was feeling a little bold too.

“Just us,” you said, stretching your legs, your sneakers lost on the way in and he reached for your calves, massaging them from the other end of the couch. “I have heard you for years at a piano, but I gotta say, the guitar is a surprise,” you noted the instrument in the corner.

“Love to play,” he admitted, with a shrug. “Sometimes the only way I can unwind from a long day.”

“The only way?” you dared ask.

His lip quirked. “I said sometimes.”

You hummed. “Can you play me something?”

He seemed surprised by this. “Okay,” he said a bit uncertainly. “Dealer’s choice though,” he said, popping up and crossing the room for his acoustic.

“Surprise me,” you allowed it with a smile, as he sat back down, pulling the guitar to him. His long fingers gently strummed and he shook his head, adjusting the tuning. When he seemed happy a moment later, he looked a little bashful. “I don’t generally play for intimate audiences like this.”

You grinned. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”

He took a deep breath. “Well...” he started and laughed coyly. “Okay, okay. Be kind, I’m just learning this one,” he composed himself, strumming the first few chords and you couldn’t pick it, but the song was so familiar...

I would climb any mountain Sail across a stormy sea If that's what it takes me, baby To show you how much you mean to me

“Foreigner,” you covered your face with your hands. “I love this song,” you told him, scooting closer. His voice that you’d heard sing so many times had you enraptured. You could not be more attracted to him if he tried, and right now, he wasn’t having to do anything except be himself. He was so much more than just Rooster Bradshaw, the naval aviator. You kind of wished he was Bradley Bradshaw, under you as you came.

You couldn’t help yourself, and you may have sounded like nails on a blackboard, but you went for it anyway. He chuckled quietly as you joined in.

And I guess it's just the woman in you That brings out the man in me I know I can't help myself You're all in the world to me

Spying the mistletoe again later as he strummed some random chords, the words of the song long gone ."So, does it work?" You pulled yourself off the couch and wandered away as Rooster stopped playing and put his guitar out of reach. It was now or never, you realised.

"Does what work?" Rooster asked, a little confused.

"Does the mistletoe work?" you asked again, standing underneath it and pointing up casually.

Recognition crossed his face and he eased a slow smile. It was starting to become your favourite thing about him. The way the side of his mouth quirked was incredibly sexy. You wondered if he even knew he was doing it. Rooster stood to his full height, took a deep slug of his whiskey and approached you as you eased back against the doorframe.

"I fuckin' hope so," he said, taking the last step and he could touch you now, the mistletoe he put up for this purpose alone dangling precariously above you. "Wanna find out?"

"I really think we should," you told him, reaching for the white V-neck tee he wore, pulling him to you. You had dreamed of this moment for so long, you hoped and prayed it didn't fizzle and he could feel the sparks you were sure you were feeling between you all night.

His lips were remarkably soft, plump, and extremely kissable and you could swear, he was smiling against your lips as he closed the gap between your bodies and wrapped his arms around your waist, his strong hands pressing into your lower back. Your body felt perfect against his. You recalled afternoons on the beach gawking at the well-worked peaks and ridges now under your touch, something you never dreamed. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he said between breaths, tongues and touches.

“Me too,” you admitted.

“How drunk are you?” He asked softly.

“Pizza helped sober me up enough to know I really want this. Probably made me a bit more ballsy than usual.”

It appeared to be the answer he wanted. “Tired?”

“Could stay up all night if you want me to,” you told him as he revealed a dark chuckle, caressing your jaw and leading your mouth back to his. He hitched you into his arms and you could feel how hard he was. If only he knew how turned on you were with him… how turned you always were in his presence. He disregarded his successful ploy of planting the mistletoe and carried you to the couch, letting your body fall onto him as he collapsed back and you straddled his lap, taking control of the kiss you both refused to break. You adjusted your posture, rolling your hips forward over his straining cock. He groaned, head rolling back. “I want you, Rooster,” you whispered to him.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m aching here. Let me just savour your kiss a while longer, okay?” He licked his lips and claimed your mouth again. “We don’t need to rush.”

But you were desperate. You had planned this whole seduction act when he asked you to stay for Christmas. Tomorrow Hangman was putting on a spread and you knew if you didn’t tell Rooster how you felt right now, you weren’t sure if you’d have the courage again.

You’d been deeply in lust with Bradley Bradshaw for so long, your body ached for him, and you ground on him to let him now. He held your hips and helped you work against him. He was so confined to his jeans and asked if you could take them off.

Rooster sat back and gave a casual shrug, leaving the next moments to you. You reached for the belt, loosened his fly and he cursed, your delicate fingers anything but around his dick. “Raise your hips?” You asked quietly and he did as requested as you laced your fingers in the waistband of his jeans, dragging them to his knee as he raised his feet from the floor and you disregarded them altogether. “Better?” You asked.

He scoffed a laugh, noting his lack of modesty in his boxer briefs. “I suppose. You look so sexy. Do you want where this is going? I need to know where to stop because I’ve wanted this so long, I dunno if I can give you what you deserve as slow and sweet or just to fuck you hard and fast.”

Both seemed delicious to you and he patted his powerful thighs, a seat you greatly appreciated. You picked up the skirt of your dress and drifted onto his lap, so close now you could feel the outline of his cock against your clothed core. “I wanna ride you,” you told him. “I’ve wanted to for so long.”

“Can’t wait to feel you,” he was doing everything in his power to remain calm. He’d pleaded to hear your words for so long and it was better than he ever expected.

“Thought about it so many times,” you confided.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he sighed, brushing his hands through his mussed curls.

“Have you seen you?” you asked him, tracing a gnarly scar on his shoulder.

“Have you seen you?” he retorted. “You are so fuckin’ far outta my league. If I had half a hint you were into me, I would have made a move months... years ago.”

You gave him an easy smile. “So I guess that’s out.”

He laughed quietly. “Can’t take it back now,” he agreed, trying to remain calm. He really had no idea you felt like this, had such an urgency for him because if he knew, the politeness would have been over months ago. But, he figured, it was a nice full circle fucking near the Christmas tree on Christmas morning. It would be pretty hard to forget this day and moment.

First kiss, first fuck. December 25.

He was a simple man after all.

“Hey,” you smiled fondly at him. “You with me?”

He grinned, hitching you closer to him. “Yeah, I’m so fuckin’ with you.”

“Then show me.”

“Well, I’m enjoying you in charge, but I will give you anything you want,” he reasoned.

You were encouraged by his words and may have suddenly grown bashful as he giggled quietly. You reached for the hem on his tee and lifted it over his head. “Your body is in so much better than I give you credit for.”

He rolled his eyes. To be honest, he knew. He worked hard on it so at times like this, whoever was with him knew it too. “Come here,” he laughed quietly. “Lemme show you what I can do with it, kid,” and he kissed you again.

You appreciated his hands, they wear incredible. Strong, and everywhere. Tugging your hair, gripping your chin, pressing into the sides of your ribs, curling under your breasts, looking for the zip on the back of your dress -

You gave him a negative hum. “No zip,” you giggled.

“Well, ya need to give me a hand here, because I got no fucking clue,” he teased.

You gently pushed him back into the couch and stepped back, bunching the material in your palms and raising the soft garment over your head, letting it drop beside you.

“Oh,” he managed, mouth dry at the sight of you, naked except for a measly scrap of underwear. He reached for the whiskey before him and took a sip. As you moved back to him in only your undies, his eyes never left you. He offered you the glass that you finished and placed back on the table. “Holy shit, you’re beautiful. Lemme have you,” he urged, reaching his hands but you playfully hesitated. “If you’ll have me?” he looked at you with big puppy dog eyes.

That was new, you realised. You had to laugh as you dropped your undies to the floor and he eagerly removed his boxer briefs. His body hard, heavy and wanting. You held his face as his eyes fluttered closed to kiss you and you seated yourself again. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling your body against his. He could feel how wet you were - his inner thigh covered in your slick.

“Can I touch you?” he begged.

“Anywhere,” you granted, kissing across his chest and again, his hands took the lead. Strong and they massaged your hips, desperate to touch every searing part of your body. His hands groped your ass and he gasped as you beat him to the punch, your soft palm lopping around his long cock and massaging in a rhythm that was, well frankly, perfect.

“You beat me,” he joked, kissing you while you continued pumping him. “Shit,” he muttered.

“What?” you didn’t cease your actions as you kissed away his dismay.

“My condoms are in my room,” he muttered.

“You clean?” you asked as he nodded once. “It’s your lucky day, champ, I’m on birth control. It’s okay,” you reassured him.

“You sure?” he raised a concerned eyebrow.

“I’m a big girl, I make my own choices. And if you say you’re clean, I trust you.”

He nodded slowly, impressed with your moxie. “You keep getting hotter in my estimation. Each time I think I’ve got you figured out... I realise I don’t know a goddamn thing.”

“Well, I’ll let you know something for now.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Stop talking, start fucking,” you demanded. “Have you always been this chatty?” you teasingly accused.

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, guiding your eyes to his cock and you started again. “That’s perfect baby, but I don’t wanna cum in your pretty little hands.”

You nodded, adjusting your body closer to his and sunk down on his dick. It was a sweet stretch, Rooster’s clearly had something to strut about. You’d heard the rumours in passing about Rooster’s BDE and you could now comment on the affirmatory.

“That is...” your eyes rolled a little, bottoming out and adjusting to him inside you. “Amazing.”

“I know, baby,” he held your hips, watching intently where your bodies met and he waited keenly for you to move, but surprised him by kissing him and if it wasn’t the hottest thing, his tongue melding with yours. He appreciated the cockwarming, it was so personal and kind of sexy and when he least expected it, you started to slowly roll your hips, raising and falling along his cock. He struggled to keep his eyes open, wanting to see every single move you made, how your body flowed, how much you were enjoying yourself.

He desperately chewed his lower lip as you flicked your hair from your eyes, a little more intensity to your movements now and he was excited to move his hips to your rhythm, pushing his hips up and enjoying those oh-so-sexy moans that escaped those pretty lips you chewed to keep from calling out.

The next time you fuck, he vowed, Phoenix would not be in the next room.

“Yes, baby, that is amazing,” he murmured, gripping your hips and forcing you down on him.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” you told him and kissed him madly. “Touch me, Rooster, please,” you begged.

He released your hips and protectively wrapped an arm behind you. He’d never understand why men couldn’t find the clit. They didn’t deserve the gifts that came with it if they didn’t dedicate the devotion it required and deserved. You hissed as he slipped his middle finger on the sensitive and you chewed your fist.

“Fuckin’ wake her,” he encouraged as your moans got louder, his wet tongue tracing around your nipple, and you wrapped your arms around his head, begging him to continue what he was doing. “Christ, you’re so tight. You’re so close.”

“Wanna cum,” you managed, driving your hips further down and he hissed.

“Come on, baby. Lemme feel you,” he dared. “You are so so so,” he grunted, his hip speeding up and needing the friction. “Sooo fucking close.”

“Fuck,” you cried as Rooster’s hips pistoned roughly into you, and you saw stars. It was one of the most intense orgasms you’d had as you bit into his brawny shoulder to avoid yelling out. Rooster held both your hips, forcing you down on his, desperate for his release. “Do you want to finish another way?” you asked him sweetly, panting, spent. He raised an eyebrow and smiled, darkly. He gave a slow nod as you stood, legs a little shaky, and he bent you over, your hands gripping the end of the couch for life.

You knew this would be a rough ride.

He breathed, collecting himself, his strong hands caressing your back and the curve of your ass that you slowly wriggled back at him enticingly. He let out a raw laugh. “Yes baby, I see you,” he licked his lip, almost unbelieving this was how his night ended up. “I see you.”

He pumped himself a few times before gently pushing into you but there would be nothing sweet about it. He wanted to cum, and bonus if you did again after before, but he wouldn’t last long in this position. He teased you with his first few thrusts, savouring how wet and silky you felt but it only encouraged him. He clutched your hips and started to give his all, the sound of skin slapping harshly as you tried to keep your balance, his quads ripping into your ass and hamstrings, your unsteady legs faltering.

He was all around and surrounded you. Had he always been this big? Had he always been this strong?

The whimper you made when he slapped your ass was one of the sweetest, hottest sounds he’d ever heard. His hips snapped into you harshly as he started to come.

“God dammit,” he breathed, quickly pulling out and catching himself in his palm as he came white hot. “Holy shit,” he shuddered, lowering his chest to cover your back as you smiled and looked back, reaching and kissing him crudely. He held you tightly, kissing you with as much vigour, standing you and pulling you to face him. “You okay?” he stroked your cheek with his knuckle, a smile tugging at his lips. You were so blissfully fucked out and he’d never seen you more beautiful. You reached for his boxer briefs, realising he might want to tidy up. “Thanks.”

“Why did we wait so long for that?”

“I dunno,” he breathed with a laugh, tossing the underwear away. “C’mere,” he flopped onto the couch, and you snuggled into him. You tried to hide a small yawn, resting your forehead on his shoulder, bashfully. “All night?” he teased. You giggled into this golden skin.

“Might need a kip,” you admitted. He tenderly wrapped his arms around you and you trembled anyway.

“Sure you’re okay? Not sore?”

You shook your head. “Cold. Adrenaline waning.”

He kissed your temple and found his tee near his feet, latching on close enough to reach. “Ease back, baby,” he said quietly and lowered the shirt over your shoulders and moved back to lie down. “Get that kip, sweetheart.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, peppering hisses around his chest and he groaned. “Merry Christmas, Rooster.”

“Merry Christmas. Thank you for staying.”

“Thank you for planting the mistletoe,” you giggled as he grinned at him, sleep finding both of you quickly.

“Well, this was bound to happen. About time, losers,” Natasha whispered to herself with a small smile, looking at Rooster on his back and you snuggled into his chest in his tee from last night on the couch. A throw blanket covered any lack of modesty from her gaze as the lights from the tree zoned in and out. “And ew,” she tiptoed out, closing the door behind her.

masterlist.

A/N: the tag list no longer exists. To keep up to date, give @notroosterbradshaw-library a follow x

#rooster #rooster x reader #asks answered #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster smut #bradley bradshaw smut #top gun smut #top gun fanfiction #rooster x you #rooster x female reader #rooster x oc #hello december playlist challenge #notroosterbradshaw

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darklydeliciousdesires · 1 year

Text

Fury Road - An Angel Reyes/Reader Smut Short.

I dreamed of having car sex with Angel last night, so now you get to enjoy it as well, besties!

Words - 837

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

“This makes me feel like I’m in high school still, hiding from parents or some shit,” he pants, tongue swirling with yours as his hands tug at your clothes.

“Yeah,” you gasp, your mouth laying hot, open-mouthed kisses along his neck, yanking his shirt undone and sending the buttons you’re too shaky with arousal to finish undoing flying. “It’s been a while since my ass has seen the backseat of a car.”

Sometimes, you just can’t wait until home. When Angel has been in charge of the transport, you've pulled over at the side of the highway and had him fuck you against his bike, but tonight, it’s your car that features as the location for two people who never have and never will be able to get enough of one another.

He’s rough with you in his haste to have you naked beneath him, all fiery longing and impulses driven by need, by the blinding desire to slip into the heaven of your cunt and fuck you senseless, your underwear snapping in his grasp, his fingers stroking over your clit before plunging to take root inside of you, the metal of his thick rings cool at your hot, soaking entrance.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, fingertips exploring you, circling, nudging until you buck against him, eliciting a whine he kisses away as his mouth meets yours. “Damn, I ain’t even started and you’re this wet?”

“What can I say?” you purr. “You know I’m a cock hungry whore for you.” Those words mist his senses, his fingers beginning to glide back and forth as he rakes at your tender walls, having you gasping and crying out, unfastening his jeans, needing something much more considerable in size than his fingers. “Need you. Right now.”

He pushes his jeans and boxers down his hips a little, his cock like a steel post as he grasps it, pushing into you, his teeth sharp at your neck as the velvet hug of your pussy contracts around him. It’s fever-hot and urgent, your bodies undulating together, your thighs tightening on him as your legs draw up and clench around his waist, nails grazing his back as you pant against one another.

What he gives you is all-out sexual brutality, the car beginning to rock, your body sliding back only for the clutch of his powerful hands to keep hauling you back, anchoring you to him, forcing you to take the brunt of his fuck entirely. And that brunt, nothing could feel better. Nothing ever feels better than Angel, fucking you with all the power of a turbo charged jackhammer. Nothing.

His body is an absolute masterpiece to your lust blown eyes, all thick, smooth and tattooed, covered in a sheen of sweat as he rails you mercilessly into the back seat, rising up as much as he’s able and reaching to the soaking mess of your folds, his thumb beginning to stroke at your hardened clit, pleasure shimmering over your spine, the swell skittering over your veins and down to your bones as you wail helplessly, at the mercy of him, not that he shows you even a fraction of that.

“Look at you, fuck. You’re so fuckin’ hot, split around my dick.” He growls, grasping your legs and hauling them up to rest against your shoulders, bearing his entire weight down into you through his pelvis, making you scream when his cock hits you deep, deep, deep. His groans fill the air between you, his teeth sharp at your neck, marking you with the brandings of a man near out of his sanity with carnal fury. He then slows, each plunge into your soaking centre given in all-in, all-out thrusts, teasing your aching core, chuckling at your frustrated mewl as he pants hard.

“Angel, please! Fucking give it to me!” you demand, nails raking his arms.

“But I am, dulce. Just not the way you want it.” He winks, laughing further at your frustration, the circles at your clit rubbed so slowly, lightly and tightly that you almost forget to breathe, his cock popping out again, pausing, arrowing back to your summit as he groans when you flutter strongly around him. He leans forward, kissing your throat before gently clutching your jaw, turning your head to look at him. “Alright, mi amor. I’ll give it to you.”

And he does. And its utter heaven, the way he arrows into you without even a hint of control, long, hard, barbarous thrusts delighting your entire body, your screams filling the car as lava begins to bubble and pool at the base of your spine, your release set to erupt, his thumb circling at your bud faster.

His teeth crush at your neck, whispering a string of cusses as his undoing possesses him, like a demon vying for release, your entire body tensing as with fury, longing and fire, you come undone spectacularly beneath him, seeing stars, breathless and sweaty, and oh so very satisfied. You’re unsure you’ll be able to drive without crashing, though.

#angel reyes #angel reyes fanfiction #angel reyes smut #angel reyes imagine #angel reyes x you #angel reyes x female reader #mayans mc #mayans mc fanfiction #mayans mc smut #mayans mc imagine #mayans mc fanfic #mayans mc fic

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onyourowndaisymae · 1 year

Note

Yoo I have two request which I’ll send the other one separately but I am in an ANGSTY mood rn sooo yah also been binging ur headcanons and stuffs and I just love the way you write ?? It’s so entertaining lol

AnywY the actual request: can you write like a one shot or headcanons if you prefer of mc who is struggling after the belphie incident ?? Like they feel like they’ve mostly forgiven him and can act normally around him and they’re friends and take naps together but sometimes the flash back just HITS THEM and they have nightmares and panic attacks that can be so bad sometimes someone needs to get Simeon to calm them down. Maybe something of how the brothers react/treat mc and belphie? Idk I’m just thirsting for like MEGA ANGST rn bc my dad made me cry little bit lmao 😭

it comes at night

hello anon! i'm terribly sorry you're in such an angsty mood, though i thank you for all the love-- and for sending this request right as these ideas were on the front of my mind. it genuinely makes me so happy to see people enjoying my work, and it makes all the writer's block and such worth it. i cannot express enough how much i love seeing all the comments, reblogs, etc. as people engage with my work.

anyways. i'm not sure how i feel about this piece, especially with how LONG it ended up being, but maybe that's just my mushy brain talking after looking at it too long. regardless-- i hope you enjoy (well, y'know, in like a sad and angsty way).

synopsis: you thought you would be able to move on like all the others. your body was healed, your anxiety tucked neatly behind a mental wall built to keep you safe. yet something in you was stuck. you couldn't just move on. you were trapped in a battle between your friendship with belphegor and the fear gnawing at your brain as you remembered what exactly he did to you. when the dam finally breaks, your whole brain floods with terror, until you're swept away with it. nobody can save you now.

genre: angst, no happy end, just a big ol spoonful of sadness

word count: ~3.1k

content warnings: chapter 16 spoilers, graphic(?) discussions of death, depictions of panic attacks, nightmares, mc progressively getting worse from fear + lack of sleep

it's funny how time works.

you'd been around your fair share of years. you’d grown, you’d changed, you’d spent your entire life looking toward the future you had planned. then you, a mere human, were yanked into an unfamiliar world. you spent an entire year in the devildom– a year that simultaneously dragged on and flew by– and came out the other side a new person. a single year in the devildom has changed you more than the human realm has your entire life. time was a mischievous thing, always leaving you chasing behind in a fruitless pursuit of something you’ll never quite understand.

but, she also brings blessings with her. they say that time heals all wounds. you've always agreed with that sentiment. scraped knees and adolescent broken hearts are swept away with the passing days, trailing further and further behind you until one day you forget to look back and remember them. the pain scribbled down on diary pages or cried into pillow cases no longer stings like a fresh burn. these things are nothing but scars now. time has a special way of patching you up, of rubbing your back until the tears clear up and you can finally see again. that is how it's always been.

where is time when you need it?

she hasn't quite abandoned you, this much is true. cuts and bruises heal over the passing days. your hair and nails still grow. your body still changes, slowly but surely, marching onwards week after week. yet your mind is trapped in stasis. you struggle to break free, but at times the rot consumes you whole, until you’re crying under the covers and begging from respite from the memories.

on the worst nights, you find yourself in the attic again, watching the door between you and belphegor swing open. you watch yourself march towards death.

you can still feel his hands around your neck, digging his claws into your fragile human skin like you're made of sand. the scent of blood-- your own blood, on the floors, on the walls, leaking from your torso and staining your clothes a permanent maroon-- still clings to the inside of your nose. even your wildest dreams could not erase the sight of his smug grin, the way his eyes lit up looking at your battered body.

no one person should have to carry the weight of realizing they're going to die. that's what you thought about when your body hit the bottom of the stairs, when belphegor tossed you down from the attic with a harsh laugh and punted your limp body into the entrance hall. you thought about how unfair this all was. you were just trying to help. you thought you were doing the right thing.

one of the worst parts of your untimely demise was watching the others react. the voices pool together in your head, like the colors of the rainbow twisting together on the surface of an oil spill. asmo's panicked shriek blends into satan's angry shouts, desperate to understand what's going on. lucifer's yelling almost drowns out the fearful cries coming from levi, held back by a very silent beel.

but above all of that, you remember mammon. your first man, the first demon who took a chance on the defenseless little human, rushing to your side and gathering you in his arms like you were about to break. his hand on the side of your face, the tears streaming down his face, the shaky, desperate voice assuring you that you'll be okay and begging you to hang on, okay? please don't leave me. you can't remember if he was shaking or if it was your body's last ditch effort to stay conscious-- maybe both. your trembling fingers intertwined with his. words came out of your mouth, and you're not sure what exactly you said, but he only cried harder in response.

and then, as your eyes shut for the final time, you woke at the bottom of the attic stairs. you had cheated death.

your price? you had to carry the memories.

the world kept spinning. days passed in the devildom. you returned to school, kept on top of your homework, spent your days in the house of lamentation alongside the seven demon brothers. you even got to know belphegor as he navigated his return home. he quickly grew fond of you. that, in and of itself, was jarring. but you returned each and every smile with one of your own. his actions were rooted in his own grief for his sister, you knew, and for that you could not fault him. you helped him repair the severed relationships between him and his elder siblings, stitching the family back together like a prized quilt until the seams of betrayal were sufficiently hidden.

time is a traitorous bitch. why did she choose now to leave your wounds bare and bleeding?

everyone moved on but you. everyone got to wake up in the mornings without a nagging anxiety holding them back. the others could hang out with belphegor day in and day out without a growing feeling of dread popping up when you think you're safe.

he killed you. he was grieving. your blood drenched the entryway floors as he laughed. he has grown. you watched the light leave mammon's eyes as you slipped away. belphie has been nothing but kind to you since that day. you fucking died.

you wish your mind could pick a side. did you forgive him, or did you resent him? was he your friend, or your killer? these answers evaded you in the dead of night as you struggled to sleep again. it was becoming more common for you to lose hours of rest to these nagging fears. who are you? are you even you anymore? did the switch in timelines scatter your atoms across countless universes, leaving the you that looks back at you in the mirror nothing more than a hollow shell?

you thought that you could keep your mind on a tight leash, keep your cards close to your chest as you continued to live with the brothers. you were wrong.

the first meltdown came during a nap with belphie. you had grown to trust him-- you thought you trusted him-- enough to sleep around him. he'd coax you every so often into an afternoon nap. always in the light of day, always your choice. and for many afternoons, you were perfectly content with this arrangement. belphie was warm and cuddly, a perfect companion for a lazy afternoon. he had this way of making you feel safe as you slept-- the nightmares couldn't come when he was snuggled up next to you, when you were sure his actions were ones of affection and not another trick to gain your trust.

one afternoon, while the sun was beginning to set, you stirred under the warmth of the blankets. the body next to yours lingered close, steady breaths lulling you back to dreamland. you could stay like this forever, you thought.

and then you felt it. the gentle graze of a familiar cow tail against your skin.

something inside of you, a dam you didn't even know was there, snapped. a hot flash of panic rose up your throat as your whole body jerked away from the feeling. your eyes shot open and you found yourself in the last place you needed to be right now: the attic. you pulled yourself out of bed before your brain could catch up. colors flashed across your vision as a consequence. you whipped around, disoriented and upset, and spotted a sleeping belphie in the bed where you once were.

a sleeping, demon belphie.

the familiar curve of his horns made your throat spasm as you tried to breathe. the colors flashed in your vision again-- oh god, what a terrible time to be left defenseless-- as your brain tried to drag you back to that day. you could practically see his face shift from relief to malicious, insidious joy as he began to attack you.

"hehe... does it hurt? finding it hard to breathe? i'm sure it must be very unpleasant."

please. please no.

" i have to say, seeing a human face twisted in pain like this... why, it's so much fun that i can barely stand it! i... i can't contain the laughter!"

you weren't quite sure when you hit the ground, but it was loud enough to wake belphegor from his slumber. he peeled his body off the mattress, slow and dazed, as he looked for you.

"mc? what're you... what's going on?"

please don't. this can't be happening.

your lungs collapsed from the weight of your own panic. you gasped-- once, twice, as your vision went in and out. were you bleeding? your hand loosely brushed at the front of your clothes, but couldn't process whether that was blood or your vivid imagination. were you even breathing? your head felt light and heavy at the same time. the wires in your brain were all crossed, sending both resuscitation and shutdown signals to each part of your body. this feeling... this was too familiar.

were you dying?

"mc, what's going on?"

you came face to face with belphegor. your friend, your killer. the demon who had lured you up to this very attic to kill you, now gripping your shoulders as interrogated you inches from your face.

you screamed. you screamed until your brain shut off completely, leaving you in an inky pit of darkness as your consciousness slipped away.

the house was in disarray for several days. apparently, lucifer came in shortly after you passed out, mammon at his heels, to save the day. you woke up later in his bed, the room cold and empty, with a throbbing head and a tear stained pillow. you stumbled out into his office to find him at his desk, lost in some paperwork like always. the solemn look he gave you as your eyes met told you everything you needed to know.

from this day forth, your fear was now your constant companion.

nobody in the house of lamentation knew how to move forward. not you, not the brothers, not the widening gap growing between you all with each passing day spent in emotional limbo. finally, lucifer called everyone to a family meeting where, over the course of an hour or two, everyone came to an agreement to acknowledge what had happened and why, promised to be mindful of this trauma that you're carrying, and move forward like you requested.

silent days slowly but surely filled back up with laughter again. the brothers came back to your side at their own pace-- asmo first, within a matter of hours, then mammon shortly after, then the others in the following days.

belphegor was the last to come around. his silence spoke volumes about his guilt. he had no clue how to comfort you. he'd do anything to repent for his actions. yet that was the way that life worked, didn't it? some actions simply cannot be undone.

but you didn't let that stop you. despite the panic that closed your throat every time you saw him for the next month, you slowly earned his friendship again. you assured him that the attic incident was a one time thing, the remnants of a lost nightmare blending into your consciousness as you awoke.

until it wasn't a one time thing.

the nightmares crept up on you. the first one happened, of course, that same night, as you thrashed and wept into lucifer's pillows. then a week later, another. a week and a half after that, another. the frequency eventually became higher and higher, until you started planning your sleep schedule (or lack thereof) around your new insomniac tendencies. but even you couldn't manage to stay awake forever.

on a bad night, you'd wake up in tears, crying weakly to yourself as you tried to coax yourself back to bed. on worse nights, you'd shoot up out of bed, limbs tingling in fear, opting to spend the rest of the night in the common room until the others woke for the day. on the worst night, you finally broke. you shattered worse than you could have imagined.

you finally collapsed into bed, body shutting down after a three days of minimal sleep. you were starting to get shaky from the lack of rest, and your lack of appetite was upsetting the others. you crawled under the covers and let your brain slip out of your hands and off to dreamland.

what a fool you were to think you'd get by without nightmares.

visions of demonic teeth tearing at your flesh filled your head. you tried to run away, tried desperately to wake yourself up, but their claws sunk into your flesh. the pain was vivid, was real. memories of your death lived underneath your skin, ready to resurface in the dark of night when there was no escape. you fought back as best you could, kicking and screaming and trying to run, but you were no match for the supernatural strength of your demons. you eventually gave in, an act of learned helplessness, and surrendered yourself to your worst nightmares.

you woke up choking on your own tears. heaving, gasping breaths tried to save you, mixing with coughs as your body struggled to hang on. the tears finally gave way to the memories-- hot blood dripping from your torso, screaming faces begging you to stay, your head going fuzzy as your vision followed--and your screams escaped without a fight.

a mixed cacophony of voices came flooding in the room. you'd be touched by the gesture, seeking comfort in the arms of your dearest friends, if your brain hadn't reminded you that they were demons as well. nightmarish beasts with fangs and claws, predators built to rip your soft flesh from your bones and leave you to die like roadkill.

you felt a hand on your shoulder. who's was it? you could not tell. your first and only instinct was to scream for mercy, hot tears streaming down your face as mammon's hurt expression moved back out of your line of sight. your chest heaved with effort. it felt like your whole body was caving in on itself. you didn't even realize you were shaking as you curled your body into a ball. your side hit the mattress with a pathetic thud and you wept, bitter and fearful, as a panic attack kept you trapped in its grip.

you don't know how long you stayed curled up like that, wordless cries echoing from your room and into the hallway, but eventually the sound of approaching footsteps caught enough of your attention to forget the panic, even if just for a moment.

"hey, it's okay," a familiar, comforting voice approached, cutting through the fear like a moonlight on a stormy night. "mc, it's me, it's simeon. it's going to be okay."

you felt the bed shift under the weight of someone sitting down, and you blindly threw your body at the person before checking to see if it was really him. it took you a few moments to raise your head, and when you did, you saw him: simeon, your angel, blue eyes full of worry as he met your gaze.

you cried in his arms until you fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

the next morning was miserable, to say the least. breakfast was tense. they all watched you like a hawk, like you were a powder keg about to explode with one wrong move. you couldn't blame them. you were afraid of your own emotions, and on some level, you were afraid of them. your trauma was making you afraid of the very people you cared about the most. these brothers had welcomed you into their home, took care of you as you adjusted to life in the devildom, and yet you couldn't hold eye contact without breaking in to a cold sweat.

the only person who did not watch you was belphegor. he was nowhere to be found during breakfast, nor dinner, nor breakfast the following day. you tried to seek him out, but somehow the avatar of sloth had become a skilled sneak in his silence.

you finally caught him alone on day four of radio silence. you both had stayed home without realizing the other had also skipped school that day-- you, from the lack of sleep eating at your brain, and belphegor, with his usual routine of missing class to nap at the house of lamentation. he was curled up on the couch in the common room, basking in the warmth of the fireplace in his slumber. you decided to wait for him to wake up. you sat down on the couch opposite of the one where he rested and watched him, quietly, like he'd disappear if you dared to blink.

creepy? yes. but your brain was long ruined by sleep deprivation and gnawing anxiety to worry about such trivial things.

when he finally stirred, you gently called belphegor's name. he took a moment to finally look at the source of the voice, but when he did, his body froze as the two of you made eye contact. a few moments passed in silence. finally, he sat up and began to make a move to leave.

"wait."

he stopped, but his gaze did not meet yours. you rose from your seat and joined him on the couch. the youngest pulled his legs in, twisting his body into a defensive little ball, and countered your next sentence before you could even open your mouth.

"you shouldn't be here with me."

"i think i'm old enough to make decisions for myself."

he shifted uncomfortably in the silence. you spoke again.

"i miss you. and i'm sorry."

he scoffed to himself and stared at the fireplace. "don't know why you think you should be apologizing to me. i'm the one that's the problem."

"you're not a problem, belphie. i never meant to make you feel like one."

every hair on your body stood on end. your hands trembled against your wishes, so you sat on them to stay focused. you had to do this. you had to keep moving forward.

"i hurt you, mc. you're afraid i'm going to do it again."

you sighed-- it came out more shaky than you would have liked-- and looked down. how had it come to this? how had someone you'd grown to hold so dear become a stranger again?

"i don't want to stop being friends. i don't like when you avoid me."

"you still get nightmares, don't you?"

you pause. his icy gaze on the side of your head sent you into a cold sweat.

you smiled-- it felt more like a grimace, personally-- and prayed it didn't come across insincere. your fingers carefully intertwined with his. he met your gaze. you were thankful he couldn't see the way your chest tightened when you made eye contact.

"i'm okay, belphie," you lied.

this fear was going to be the death of you.

#i cannot tell if this is good or not i've looked at it for hours #ask answer #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me writing #obey me fanfic #obey me angst #obey me brothers #obey me belphie #obey me belphegor #obey me chapter 16 spoilers #otome

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strawberryjmilk · 9 months

Text

repeat ♡ min yoongi [repeat, repeat, repeat]

a small compilation of moments between autistic!reader + yoongi happy disability pride month <3

please do not use this as a way to self-diagnose. having one thing in common does not necessarily mean you are autistic. im not a therapist or doctor, if you think you’re on the spectrum, talk to them. <3

if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.

picky eating ♡

yoongi made a habit for himself. every time he heard of something new — a restaurant, cafe, bakery, whatever — he sent you the menu immediately. one too many times you’d arrived to a new place only to not eat ; or you would verbally shut down, too overwhelmed with the new area and different options.

he’d seen as a comfort food no longer tasted or felt the same ; saw the discomfort and confusion on your face as something so nice turned bitter.

“baby,” his voice calls through your phone's speaker. you smile at the sound, applying a sensory friendly lip balm as he speaks. “check out the link i jus’ sent you. or we could do your favorite for dinner. you choose.”

you hum, scrolling through the new menu you were sent. your eyes light up at the description of one of the choices. it sounded good ; sounded like something you’d actually eat. “the new place sounds good. are we eating there or…?”

“wanna take it home?” a crinkle hits his line as he adjusts the phone. “can pick it up on the way there.”

you bite your lip, “are you sure? i can— i’ll get ready if you want to go out.”

“nah,” he breathes out a laugh, “we’ll eat at home. see you soon, baby.”

parallel play ♡

yoongi did not like people being in his studio. it was his safe space ; his work area where he didn’t like to be interrupted.

you broke this rule sometimes.

he allowed it — liking how quiet and to yourself you’d be. other times, though, you’d let him be and wait until he got home to hang out.

a puzzle was on the floor as you sort through the pieces, mind blank and searching for the last pink colored piece. yoongi glanced at you from where he sat, headphones wrapped around his neck. he smiles softly, nudging your knee with the tip of his shoe. “alright?”

“m’good,” you respond. you don’t even blink ; don’t look up at him to smile as you move onto a different color. your fingers twitch, hesitating to pick up a puzzle piece. “want me to leave?”

“nah,” yoongi sags back into his chair comfortably. “you’re jus’ fine right here, angel.”

stimming ♡

you need to move. your emotions have built up — and built up and built up and built up — and now you were on the verge of wiggling until everything came loose. taking a deep breath, you pick at your nails once more.

it does nothing.

none of your usual, hidden stims are good enough anymore. you’ve bottled it up so much for so long that you need something harsh ; something destructive and big to help you release.

yoongi frowns as you scrunch your fingers together tightly, so hard it looks painful. “baby? everything okay?”

you let out another breath, eyes pinned to the wall in front of you. “need to… scream.”

it was a code word — i need to stim. yoongi frowns, adjusting his body so that his head and torso are facing you fully. “okay. go ahead. you know i don’t mind.”

“it’s—“ you let out a whine. your eyes scrunch closed — so hard you see stars and dots — before you snap them back open. your mouth curves into a frown, voice softening into a whisper. “it’s embarrassing.”

“embarrassing?” yoongi’s frown deepens as he laces his fingers with your own. you hesitate, but give his hand a small squeeze. “angel, this is something you need to do. something that helps you self-regulate and feel better.” he pauses, eyes dancing across your face as your agitated expression holds. “want me to look away?”

you squeeze his fingers once more before shaking your head. another breath — you close your eyes again. and then you’re slowly rocking back and forth in your seat, quickening the pace as you need to.

yoongi stays silent, only rubbing his thumb across your knuckles when you slow down. eventually, your eyes peel open and your shoulders are less tense ; a smile easier to hold. he kisses the back of your hand, “better?”

“much. thank you.

“nothin’ to thank,” another kiss to your hand. “jus’ glad you feel safe with me.”

disordered sleeping ♡

another yawn leaves your lips. you blink, shaking your head to wake yourself up a little more. yoongi glances at you, frowning in concern. he tilts his head, "sleepy, angel?"

"bad night," you answer instead. he leans up, getting in your view as his frown deepens. "bad dreams and woke up... a lot."

"m'sorry," he rubs your back, "anything i can do to help?"

you hum, moving your body with the motion of his hand. rubbing your eyes — yoongi pulls your hand away gently — you shrug. "feels like i've tried everything and nothing helps."

yoongi nods, a pout on his mouth. the room goes still, silent as he continues to rub your back. "we can try something new, if you want? look up remedies 'nd stuff and see what you think."

"okay," you sag against his body, "won't hurt to try, i guess."

"okay." yoongi grins and scrolls on his phone, looking for things to help you sleep. he says them outloud, pausing when you hum in interest. you've got a small list of things to try, home remedies and medical ones. yoongi kisses the side of your head, "nap if you want, angel. i'll wake you in a bit."

auditory processing disorder ♡

sometimes, words didn't sound right to you. the sentences didn't make sense ; the way things were phrased or pronounced were hard to understand. yoongi was patient with this — didn't get annoyed when you asked him to repeat things.

you're reading when yoongi calls out, "get your phone, please."

how would that make sense when you're on your phone? your eyebrows furrow as you pause running through his sentence and trying to make it make sense.

yoongi pops his head out from his room, "thanks for folding these."

your mouth falls into an oh expression. "you're welcome."

the side of his mouth tilts up, as he stills, watching you curiously. "what did you think i said?"

"something about my phone." you move the device, wiggling it in the air. "didn't get how that made sense."

yoongi lets out a laugh, nodding to himself. "no wonder you didn't answer me at first."

——♡—— slowly trying to write for kpop again <3 doing my best!! i wrote a detroit become human one here if you'd like to read it! <3 strawberryjmilk © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know.

#min yoongi x reader #min yoongi imagine #autistic reader #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi scenarios #autistic!reader #agust d x reader #suga x reader #agust d imagine #suga imagine #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts bulletpoint #bts oneshots

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thebluestbluewords · 9 months

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Anything You Like - the soulmate theology part

“They’re a gift from God,” Claudine says confidently. “He sends them to us so we know where to find the good people in the world. The ones who are meant for us, for us to love and learn from. That’s why so many parents will mark their children.”

“That’s stupid,” says Mal, who is eight years old, and has exactly two soulmarks, one from her mother and one from her future-henchman in training, Jafar’s son. “My mom’s the worst of the worst. She’d never let some silly god tell her who to mark.”

Claudine glares at Mal from behind her thick glasses. The effect is a bit like being glared at by an especially nervous monkey, one of the creepy ones with huge eyes who sometimes come on TV in the hours-long marathons they get of the stupidest children’s shows imaginable.

With all of the fury in her six-year-old body, Claudine sticks her tongue out at Mal. “Then you’re stupid, and so’s your mom!”

“My mom could crush you dad like a bug.” Mal says carelessly. “And probably his god too, if he’s wasting his time giving people soulmarks. My dad’s the most powerful god on the island, and he doesn’t have any soulmarks.”

“That’s because nobody loves him!” Claudine says, full of confidence in her own correctness in a way that only children can be. Mal would punch her teeth in, if she thought she could get away with it. “If God made somebody to care about your dad, he’d have found them by now and you wouldn’t even be here.”

“Take it back!”

“No!”

“Take it back right now or I’m gonna hit you!” Mal shouts, clenching her hands into fists so tight that she can feel the tiny points of her nails start to cut into her palms. “My dad’s the most powerful god on the isle and he’s gonna hurt you if you don’t take it back!”

Claudine frowns, screwing up her whole face. “My God can protect me,” she says, but they’re a shadow of doubt to her words now, and Mal knows that she can win this. “He’s the most powerful of all time, not just here.”

Mal, with the honing instincts of a child who has never been told to shut up, goes for blood.

“Then why don’t you have a soulmark? If your god is so powerful and cool and loves you so much, why didn’t he make anyone who loves you back?”

“I—“ Claudine sputters, face crumpling behind her glasses. “I— I, um, I’m waiting. For the right person.”

Mal frowns. She’s more evil when she pretends to care about people first, that’s what her mom says. “I thought your god was supposed to show you the right person. If he didn’t give you anyone, I think it means you’re just an unlovable freak.”

“You’re mean,” Claudine whispers, her face damp behind the shield of her glasses. “I’m gonna find my person someday, and you’re never gonna get any more soulmarks because you’re mean and God hates you.”

Mal laughs. “There’s no god on the island, stupid. Your dad just lies to you because he doesn’t want anyone to know that you’re a freak.”

Claudine sniffles. “You’re mean and that’s worse.”

Mal takes a step back. Crying is disgusting and only for babies, and at eight years old, she’s very much not a baby, and being seen with someone who’s crying could hurt her burgeoning schoolyard reputation. Making someone cry because you hit them is one thing, but standing next to someone who’s crying is a sign of weakness, and there’s no space in Mal’s world for acting weak.

“Says who?” she demands, from a safe distance away. Bullying distance is further than comforting distance, and it should be clear enough to any onlookers which one she’s standing at.

“My— my dad,” Claudine manages, sucking in an enormous snotty breath. “And all his followers. Being mean is the worst thing ever, that’s what they said.”

Mal laughs wickedly. Or at least, close to wickedly. She’s still practicing her Evil Laughs. “Well, my mom says that being mean is how you get ahead in the world. And my mom’s the ruler of the isle, and yours is dead, so I’m pretty sure I know better than you.”

#my fic #descendants #descendants fic #mal bertha #claudine frollo #the side characters from the isle of the lost books are so funny to me so I’m just borrowing them a little bit here #will I borrow more later???#maybe #anyway soulmarks in this world are unspecified magic and I will not elaborate on their actual cause #only that characters with religious trauma may or may not believe they’re meant to be guidance from god #kidfic

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travelingthief · 1 year

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My Favorite Moment With: Lord Apollo

It was my first long haul drive by myself, but I had a good CD collection, so I didn’t mind. My ‘06 Ford shook when I took her above 70 but that didn’t stop me from from hitting 80 while screaming the lyrics to “Open Road Song” by Eve 6. The sun shone down on the newly bloomed trees and I knew at the end of this drive was a pretty person waiting to take me to a punk show. I switched CDs at a gas station stop, putting in Aerosmith and having visions of Apollo and Hermes rocking out with big hair. Both were sat next to me in the passenger seat.

I arrived at the person’s house, meeting their dog and roommate before we headed out to the show. We were laughing as I spun them on street corners and asked about their favorite bands. Somewhere along the way I asked them about their favorite flowers and they told me “hyacinths.”

I grinned wide, “have you heard the myth?”

It was the first time I told a story to somebody, but I kinda nailed it. I left out the part where I practiced in the mirror twenty times over. I delivered my last line - “and from the blood of His beloved, Apollo crafted the first hyacinth.” We looked down to see we had stopped in front of a spray of hyacinths and I thanked Apollo silently.

The outside of the venue looked like a redemption center. We went down a ramp to the admissions desk veiled behind a cloud of smoke and I teemed with excitement. We were there to see one of my favorite local bands, and it was one of our first dates. The lady at the table asked for proof of COVID vaccinations and I start to kick myself. Now, I am vaxxed and I am boosted but what I am not, is smart enough to keep my vaccine card on me. We got turned away and my brain starts running through its usual script-

“You fucked it all up. The night is ruined. How could you be so stupid?”

But it’s not my first round with depression, so I counter back. “It’s not a big deal, we can find something else to do. The night has been going great.”

But my brain persisted. “You always mess things up. Why would they want to be here with you?”

I countered again. “That’s not the truth. We’re still having a good night.”

So my brain tried a new tactic. “Isn’t it pathetic how you manage to be sad, even when things are going well?” I hadn’t figured out how to think myself out of that one. So I shut down.

My depression gets physical and I tend to go nonverbal and seem disinterested in conversation when I’m depressed. So instead of talking, I offered my date an earbud and we just walked along the river.

The rest of the weeked, I swung back and forth between depression and feeling okay. I reassured my date that it wasn’t them - my brain just gets mean sometimes. They told me they understood. I was relieved yet disappointed when it came time to leave, but I hopped in my car and started my second long haul drive.

I realized there was a downside to long drives alone. My brain continued on about how terrible I made the weekend and fretted about if I’d get a text back. I tried and tried, but the music couldn’t get loud enough to distract me from the thoughts. I ended up pulling off at an exit halfway through the drive: I didn’t know where I was going, I just knew I had to find something.

The first right was a local music store and I immediately pulled in. I closed my eyes and asked “Lord Apollo, if you’re there give me a sign.” I cut the engine and went inside. They were playing the same Aerosmith CD I had listened to on my drive down and I hummed along while sifting throught the stacks. Somehow I ended up in the Local Section, holding a CD with a parental advisory sticker and artwork of a kid staring down multiple doors. I had never heard of the artist before and had no idea what kind of music was on the disc, but I bought it anyway.

With a bit of effort, I popped the CD into my semi-broken disc drive and pulled out of the parking lot. The first song started up; horns and drums and a beat I could get into. Then the lyrics started:

Welcome to your 20s baby, I know you’re gonna do amazing/All you gotta do is get it, all you gotta do is get it

And the artist broke down into a rap. Suddenly the rest of the drive didn’t seem so long. I thank Apollo for His sign and when I got home, I texted my date.

And they texted back.

And that’s (one of) my favorite moment(s) with Lord Apollo.

#apollo worship #witchblr #apollo #writing #greek gods #paganism #writeblr #creative writing #apollon #deity devotion #deity work #apollo deity #universe #signs from the universe

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synthetickitsune · 1 year

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Hi lovely, the news of Jaeyoon’s enlistment is hitting me hard 🥲 can I request fluff #21 that maybe turns a little smutty and giggly? I love how you capture SF9 so well, thank you always for sharing your amazing writing! ☺️❤️

I know what you mean 🥲

Jaeyoon (SF9) | Trying a new thing together fluff | 0.8k

It’s good to let go sometimes and get your mind off things. It's a need at this point, too. You don't want to think about anything, just focus on one single task and get lost in it. Which might've been easier without the distraction by your side, currently nudging your elbow with his after his attempts to get your attention by bumping your knees together were unsuccessful.

"Jaeyoon, I swear, if I mess up again because of you, you're getting the silent treatment for a week," you huff, gently moving your fingers along the pliant clay spinning in your hands. It’s a thing you’ve wanted to try with your boyfriend for a while now. It was a cute idea - to create something together, something like a matching pair of cups. Something that would make you melt whenever you saw them and you could only imagine the soft smile Jaeyoon would wear anytime he saw them sitting on the table. Only the man in question must’ve been blessed by some sort of deity because he was a natural and had plenty of attention to spare to tease you.

“You wouldn’t,” he calls your bluff but lets you work in peace, “And you’re almost done anyway.”

He’s right of course, besides he was careful enough, but you’ll be damned if the thing isn’t as perfect as you can make it. Even though you’re well-aware of all the imperfections, you know you can’t expect it to be better as it’s only your first time trying it. You find comfort in the fact that despite him not struggling quite as much, his creation isn’t perfect either. Again, it’s only to be expected but it’s a chore to remind yourself of it.

With a sigh, you carefully remove your hands from your piece and let them hover awkwardly in the air so as to avoid dirtying anything - yourself or your clothes.

“Happy?” he asks, studying your expression rather than the sculpted clay in front of you. Jaeyoon knows full well that no matter how much reassurance he’d give you, unless you were satisfied there was nothing he could do to help.

“Happy enough,” you shrug in the end. He nods and calls over the lady who oversees the little workshop. You listen to her instructions on how the process is gonna continue but honestly you can’t wait to go wash your hands. The drying residue of water and clay leaves a strange feeling on your skin, one you don’t enjoy.

You follow Jaeyoon to the bathroom, talking about the experience as you wash your hands with soap.

“I think decorating them will be more fun,” he grins at you, a dreamy look in his eyes. You meet them in the mirror.

“Any idea what you're gonna do?” you ask, and look down to check your hands are clean. Not the best idea. Your attention immediately drifts to Jaeyoon, who’s desperately trying to get some of the clay from under his nails. How did that get there you have no idea, but that’s not what’s important.

“No, but maybe… be cute…”

You barely pay attention to his voice. As much as you accused him of distracting you, you were plenty distracted without him even trying. Jaeyoon has nice hands, even nicer fingers. Long, capable of making you a mess. And watching them work over the clay, squeezing, plunging his fingers inside… You feel your mouth watering just the slightest bit as you look away. Not quick enough.

“I don’t think this is the time - or space - for that,” you hear him say next to you, biting his lip in vain attempt to stop the smile that’s tugging at his lips.

“Stop,” you whine, turning away to dry your hands, “I didn’t even say anything.”

“Your eyes did all the talking, baby,” he chuckles. You meet his gaze in the mirror again and huff a laugh too. He’s terrible.

“Not my fault the whole thing was so suggestive,” you grumble, trying and failing not to let his giggles influence you. Finally he also turns to dry his hands, trapping you between his body and wall before you can move.

“You just have a dirty mind,” he bends his head down to nip at your ear playfully before pulling away, “But I don’t mind.”

You absolutely don’t squeeze your thighs together and pointedly ignore your boyfriend as he laughs at you. There’s definitely no hint of blush anywhere on your face. Yet before you can leave, Jaeyoon wraps his arms around your middle.

“Let’s get some coffee so we have energy later?” he whispers, nosing your hair. It sounds too much like a promise - one you can’t deny shivering thinking about as much as you want to get back at him for teasing you. Maybe that’s also something to come back to later.

#sf9 #jaeyoon #sf9 reactions #sf9 scenarios #sf9 imagines #sf9 x reader #jaeyoon x reader #sf9 fluff #jaeyoon fluff #drabble #fluff #requested

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eisforeidolon · 11 months

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So, so many things I want to address in your excellent response to my first Ask - and they don’t give you enough room in the Comments, at least not for a single on - so here I am again. I think you and I are mostly on the same page regarding Sam’s reasons for staying in hunting. You could see Sam’s conflict over sometimes wanting a normal life as being an example of his codependency - while he sometimes wants that, what he wants MOST of all is to be joined at the hip to Dean all the time. His occasional desire for ‘normal’ is overridden by his much greater desire to be with his big brother. As you point out when mentioning Sam’s issues with John - we can even question if Sam even did really and truly *ever* want a normal life in any way, and whether it’s just something he *thought* he wanted, but deep down didn’t? Similar to how Dean thought he wanted (or partially wanted) a safe family life with a partner and offspring, but realises he doesn’t want or enjoy the reality of it that much. There are a number of things about the way Sam was written in Season 8 that are weird and inconsistent, and just plain out of character to me. Up to that point, I can’t remember Sam ever expressing a hope to have a normal life again since late Season 1 (and possibly Season 2.) Any wishes he had for a normal life had - as far as the canon/textual evidence goes - long disappeared by that point. The only reason he tried to get a regular job in early Season Five was because he didn’t trust himself to be able to hunt - not because he actively *wanted* to stop hunting. He was doing it for pragmatic reasons only. So in early Season 8, Sam suddenly talking to Dean about wanting to give up hunting after they find Kevin felt really forced and out of nowhere and just didn’t seem genuine. It could be argued that after Sam got a taste of normal life again with Amelia, that it reignited this long-dead hope/wish, which would make some sense, but if so, I don’t think the writers did a very good job of showing that, overall. I think Dean was hitting the nail on the head when, in Season 8, Episode 3, he replies to Sam saying he’d like to get out of hunting, and Dean says - “I think that’s only how you feel now.” You could say that’s only what Dean *hopes* to be true, but I do think he’s mostly right - that after a year free of the stresses and responsibilities of hunting, there’s this shaky period of readjustment for Sam where he’s getting used to the life and it seems to him like he wants out - but as time goes on and he’s settled back into it, that wish to have a normal life goes away. Partly because, despite all the danger and horror and stress, he does genuinely enjoy it. And also because his main and biggest desire is to be with Dean (because of Sam’s codependency) and so he gets his greatest desire/need fulfilled, anyway. I also wonder if a large part (perhaps by far the main part) of Sam expressing his supposed wish to get away from hunting in Season 8 is due to him psychologically and emotionally not being able to handle Dean’s anger and disappointment in him for giving up. Although things don’t come to a head between them over this until a few episodes in, Sam is aware from, like, five minutes into the first episode that he let Dean down (albeit unintentionally.) Although Dean mostly keep his hurt and bitterness under wraps until Episode 6, I’m sure Sam is aware from the beginning that Dean *is* hurt and angry and disappointed in him. And I really think that Sam just can’t cope with that. I think a strong case could be made that, once Dean returns in Season 8, Sam doesn’t really want to reconstruct a normal life - what he’s trying to do is run and hide from Dean’s disappointment (and his own feelings of guilt.)

Yeah, I see a very large part of the times Sam and Dean have wished for normal to be a kind of 'grass is greener' escapist fantasy? Like, when Dean was picturing a family life with Lisa & Ben? It was when they were eyeballs deep in trying to avert the literal apocalypse. So I don't see it as being about genuinely wanting out of his life hunting with Sam, but more being crushed under the weight of the entire world's fate on his shoulders. With Sam, I think it's not just issues with John and control that sent him away to Stanford, but also his admission about feeling like a freak even before he knew about the demon blood. He put that off on their life, but he admits he still felt like a freak even at Stanford, when he was doing his absolute best to live up to that "normal life" fantasy. It's very easy to imagine that something will be satisfying than what you have now, but that doesn't mean the reality is going to live up to what you picture.

I think that kind of fantasy also plays a part in why he keeps talking up going back to Amelia, even after he was the one who walked away from her. I could definitely see the reason he falls back on needing that idealized fantasy of what their relationship actually was as being trouble coping with Dean's anger and disappointment and his own guilt and fears of making further regrettable choices. I think you could even incorporate the whole idea of Sam having gotten a taste of normal into that? What he comes back to in season 8 is not just typical MotW hunts - but things that are both more personal and more overwhelming. Facing Kevin who he gave up on trying to save from Crowley, and Crowley still being hot after prophets and the God tablets which could potentially cause all kinds of mayhem. Even worse? Having to deal with that without the underlying foundation of a stable relationship with Dean. Who is not just angry at him, but also twitchy, restlessly wanting to jump immediately back in with both feet, and has clearly changed in some unexpected ways giving he's suddenly buddies with a vampire (and Sam starts freaking out about Dean having a hunting buddy he doesn't know before he even hears the vampire part). It's a lot. It's not the first or last time they aren't on the same page, but after a year of being out thinking Dean was safe in heaven rather than the perpetual monster combat afterlife? I can see why fantasizing about something easier than fixing the rift between them could appeal - but when it comes to making a real choice? Yeah, again Sam chooses Dean.

#askboxery #spn discussion

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sid3buns · 2 days

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Cool little writing game I've been taggued in by @joeys-piano (thank you so much ! ) I've been writing SO MUCH lately to cope with the stress of several life events all happening at once and because I can't afford therapy, so this is the next best thing. I will post 3 snippets from published fics and 2 from current WIPs :3 I'm only tagging @fukurodani bc i think everyone else from my minuscule pool of moots who write have already been taggued, afaik ; but if not pls feel free to do it! Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too. Anchors | Windbreaker

All it takes to fall a man is to figure out where the hits are the most likely to land. This one was full of holes ; it’s a punch to the kidney, a swift hook under his weaker knee (the right one), and he’s on the ground, head bashing against concrete in a crack that might as well be the wind rattling a tree. Suo craves for more ; the song is not finished. If there’s to be an intro, a bridge, and a chorus, it needs a worthy finale. How easy it would be to smash your skull open, right now. He wonders if one hit is enough to see brain matter stain his kung fu shoes. He almost finds out ; his leg lifts on its own, it’s a hammer on a nail. One step away from being a coffin.

Bouquet | Blue Lock

” And what do you expect me to do about it, “ Barou hisses, busying himself with leaving wet circles of condensed water all over the table with his glass of beer. “ I don’t know him, I just prepare flowers for his wicked needs. “ That’s a half-truth ; Barou is starting to know Isagi. They chat for a bit whenever the man drops in, and it’s almost daily. He works nearby the flower shop, and it looks like it’s very demanding work. He has a dog named Müller, and he likes to watch soccer matches to unwind. They support opposite teams ; Barou gets to nag him about goals a couple times. “ Maybe just slip him a pamphlet, or something, “ Niko says wisely, staring at Barou from under his bangs. “ Or drag him to the back store of your shop and fuck his brains ou- “ The waitress has to intervene when Barou almost chokes Aiku to death at their table, and Barou gives her a nice tip.

Barou Shouei's Seemless Guide To Successful Dating | Blue Lock

“ What are you afraid of, Shouei ? “ Trust. His mom reads between his silences ; mothers are made of magic and stardust. “ Have you tried trusting this person ? “ and she knows the answer, because how could Barou even begin to understand how trust worked - he’s always been a lonely child, on top of his lonely mountain. “ Can you trust that they know you enough to understand all of the wonderful things you offer to this world ? “

Trying To Feel Alive (WIP) | Blue Lock

He’s surprised to see a flash of long, red hair, and he smiles softly as Chigiri continues to hit the dummy in diligence. Sweat falls in heavy drops from his drenched, beautiful skin, hair carefully braided to the side as always ; some strands have fallen in front of his eyes, sticking to his skin, but Chigiri is elsewhere - there is anger in his eyes, and sadness, and rage. It permeates his kicks with something foul. Chigiri is not training - he’s fighting for his life, right now, and it makes Kunigami so, so sad. (It reminds him of himself.)

Déjà Vu (WIP) | Blue Lock

” Because sometimes, Rin drives how he ought to really drive. “ They reach the very end of the cliff, and car lights illuminate the night in the faraway distance. “ Like he’s the freest man on this goddamn earth. “ They’re finally in front of them ; it lasts for a split second, and yet it feels like eternity in Isagi’s eyes. It’s here in slow motion, time standing still, he sees it all on Rin’s face - this punch drunk madness called freedom, seeping through each and every one of his pores, reverberated in the halo of his smile. In that moment, watching Rin feels like staring into the sun - blinding and warm, all engulfing. Isagi’s heart shatters into a million pieces, because he wants to chase after the light.

#taggued #tag game #wip #fanfiction #windbreaker #blue lock #bllk #thanks for tagging me this was fun !#and kind of hard ngl dhdkjs

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potatothots · 2 years

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Ruminating

Genre: Drama: dark!bucky barnes, winter soldier!Bucky barnes, enhanced!reader

Rating: Explicit - sex, talk of death

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader

Warnings: dark bucky, the winter soldier, sex, blow job (m recieving), bad thoughts, mentions of drug use, reader has powers (vague in what they are), talk of death (winter solider’s handiwork)

Summary: Bucky can’t help but let obsessive thoughts run through his mind at night. His girl helps him out.

Note - I'm not your guardian. You read what you want. I can't stop you. If you don't heed the warnings, too bad for you, not me.

I wrote it quick and tried to beta myself. Potatos aren’t the best at editing their own work.

Ruminating

Sometimes sex with his girl isn't about pleasure. It's about letting their minds shut off for a few moments. It's more akin to a drug high - not that it doesn't feel good, but that the pleasure is a side effect.

Bucky remembers being drugged in Hydra. It wasn't always bad. When they experimented with some shit he wished he could get now, the euphoric feeling was enough to mellow him out. The thick, transparent liquid made him easier to handle, but left him lazy. To his dismay they stopped giving it to him.

"Babe?" He hears his precious doll yawn out her worry. "We're safe here. You need sleep."

She always knew him better than any other. That's why he had to keep her safe. She knew who he really was and accepted it without hesitation. She also lied to the faces of anyone who would question it.

James Barnes was a killer. And he enjoyed it.

Going overseas in the war he thought he'd die. He would never see Steve again. Never feel the touch of some broad.

Turns out the weight of a weapon in his hands was better than anything he knew. Even when Steve came to save them, he didn't care so long as he could watch someone's life be terminated via his hands.

He felt his doll stir. She moved closer to him. Her head rested near his thigh. She let out a soft breath that tickled the hair there.

"Your thinking is invading my ability to sleep." Her voice was muffled as she kissed his skin.

He grunted in response. His attention fully on her now, he watched as she kissed across his skin. He was already hard thinking about the moments the life would drain from someone's eyes because of him.

The world came to a halt when he felt her mouth on his cock. His hands flew to her hair. "Their eyes don't compare to yours." His fingers tightened around her silky locks. "They were always too weak to accept the truth. Fuck, doll-!" His mind goes fuzzy for a moment as she grabs his balls.

He wonders if she knows he's speaking about the dead he's left in his wake. She knows he can't stop his thoughts at times like this. He tries to feel bad, knowing he only allows her in his head. Someone has to keep him calm.

He pushes her further down on him. He can feel his dick hit the back of her throat, then slide beyond. She coughs. Gags when his hips snap up. He doesn't stop. She doesn't ask him to.

He can feel her saliva mixed with his precum wet his thighs and the bed under him. He chases the mind numbing feeling by using her throat to stop the thoughts in his head. It hurts her, but he doesn't care. They give and take their sadistic natures equally.

Her tiny hands squeeze his balls again. The blunt tips of her nails stings his sensitive skin. Her puffy, abused lips tighten around his cock as she gives him one last suck. It's all he needs to cum.

Some of it goes down her throat. Most falls out of her mouth and onto him. It's a mess of spit, cum, and tears all over the inside of his thighs, and his cock. It leaks down his balls and to the sweaty mess of the sheets under him. He lets her head go with a loud sigh of relief.

The running of the moisture that cools and sticks to his skin is all he can feel for a blissful moment. He's hazy. Nothing matters right now.

He vaguely notices - because he notices everything she does - that she's taken her night shirt off and cleaned her face. She kisses him on the corner of his mouth, helping him lay down. He can feel the sticky mess under him, but he can't care.

She rolls onto her side facing him. Her hand makes small circles on his skin until she passes back out. He can barely feel it. As if it's a ghost touching him. He feels foggy, dumb, and satisfied. He wonders if she did something beyond letting him fuck her mouth.

He wonders if she'd do it again.

#dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barned x enhanced!reader #winter soldier x reader

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lycanlovingvampyre · 1 year

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MAG 188 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: mowing the lawn.

MARTIN: "How much longer? Feels like we’ve been walking through suburbs forever." Martin reminds me of me so much sometimes. He also asked in that Vast domain of Simon Fairchild (MAG 174) how much further it is. I admit, I do the same. Not because I'm impatient, but because I don't know what's coming and that somehow freaks me out and I need to have an estimate time or distance (if it's not too long) how far a route's gonna be and how much time it takes. I always have a lot easier time on the way back because I already got a bit familiar with the route, so I know what I can expect.

JON: "Yes. Endless, cookie-cutter housing. Impersonal, alienating. A common expression of The Lonely even before the world went to hell." I think that's so funny, cause I would never associate suburbs with the Lonely. That is pure Eye for me.

JON: "Trapped behind identical doors and down silent streets of unknown neighbours. The suffering here is deep. And it’s private." Is it really that much different in the UK?? I mean, yeah, I live on the countryside, I think people are a bit more cozy and open to each other here. Your typical everyone-knows-everyone village. I feel like my house is the only thing Lonely in this neighborhood because I want it that way. I don't want to chat with neighbors, I don't even want to hear them chatting with each other everyday. And I hate that one house I don't have trees or hedges high enough for so they wouldn't be able to see into my garden from their balcony. I hate that they can watch me... So, Eye...

MARTIN: "You’re still full?" JON: "I suppose that’s one way to put it." Interesting, cause in MAG 163 it sounded like he needs to vent when he's full. That he fills up with all the fear around him and then he needs to make a statement to let it out again. So that would mean... he's still empty now?

MARTIN: "So all that talk of wanting to be friends, she was just, what, lying?" JON: "No… That was real. She did want to be friends. But she also wanted us suspicious, off-balance, uncomfortable. She wanted to be able to hurt us." MARTIN: "Bit of a contradiction, surely?" JON: "Is it? She wanted to be our friend, she just didn’t want to be a good friend." Jon hitting the nail on the head. Nothing more to add.

MARTIN: "Huh. She couldn’t help what she was, I guess." JON: "She didn’t even try." This so casually said, but there is so much meaning for Jon behind this. Because he is also a creature of the fears now, but he tries to resist it very hard. So Helen was wrong. She said "You are no different from me!". Oh yes, he is. He is so much different. And he did already save people, so her "you can't save anyone" is also not true.

MARTIN: "Yeah, I… I dunno, really. She always seemed to know just the right thing to say, or the wrong thing, kind of. Like, sh-she had a way of getting into your head and making you feel like you didn’t know what the deal was. Like, like you were being stupid or something." JON: "Sounds about right." Again, bang on. Helen is so amazingly written, everything around her, also how people react to her or see her.

MARTIN: "Plus, I… I was a little bit jealous as well." JON: "Of what?" MARTIN: "Of Helen. Well, the real Helen. I found the tape when you were on the run and… I don’t know. Something about the way you two seemed to connect when she came in." I kind of can understand Martin's motivation behind this. Martin liked Jon, he had a crush on him. But Jon hated him for about a year straight. And then, this Helen walks in, spends only 20 minutes with Jon and they seemed to get along really well immediately.

JON: "We’re about to enter London proper. We should take a moment." MARTIN: "What’s it like?" JON: "It’s the seat of The Eye." You may say it's the... London Eye!! (*coughcough* *babycries*)

[MORE WHIRRING, AS SPOTLIGHTS FLARE INTO LIFE WITH A HEAVY KA-CHONK SOUND] Oh, without the transcript I would not have gotten that there KA-CHONKs are spotlights being turned on! Sounded to me like a robot walked over to them xD

"Most surveilled city in the world, so much so that you didn’t even notice most of the time." At least that bit about London got used.

"Did someone see? Of course they did, of course they were always watching, judging, knowing all her business. and there was nothing she could do to stop it. To keep them from being disappointed, to not hurt them. She just screwed up, and they all just watched her fall." That is something I'm also quite afraid of and I don't know why this statement doesn't do anything to me...?

Really like the soundscaping when Carmen gets pulled into the huge eye.

JON: "Well, let’s see if I’m worthy of your attention." Theater kid xD Fitting, in a way, since he's in the spotlight now.

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 188 #tma #tma spoilers

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