#cece writes

[freelancearsonist]

make a move on me

➔ pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x reader - 5.5k

➔ You've been teasing Joel every day since he started remodeling construction on your house. He finally works up the courage to do something about it - but not in the way you expect him to.

➔ Rated MA for baby’s first anal fic protected p in a and anal fingering (r receiving), age gap (reader is early 20’s, joel is 36), m masturbation/pillowhumping, daddy kink, size kink, praise kink, gentle-turned-rough sex, pet names (baby, darling, honey, good girl, baby girl, little lady), slight degradation and condescension but only in a sexy way, one use of “slut”, pussy pronouns, one (1) pussy slap, gratuitous dickscription, heavy dom/sub dynamics i mean seriously these power dynamics are out of control, tommy is a little bit of a shit (affectionate) [pls let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

➔ This reader insert character: has female anatomy and uses feminine pronouns, no name/no use of y/n, is generally able-bodied, fits in joel’s shirt and is implied to be shorter/smaller than him, is on summer break from college but no major/year is mentioned.

Joel had one rule for himself going into this job: be respectful. Keep his hands to himself and his mind on the job. Don’t fret over the pretty little thing who’s been draping herself all over the house ever since he started demo, practically begging to be fucked.

If he had any sense, he would pack his shit and drop the job–or, at the very least, tell your parents to put you on a leash. But there’s a little part of him that might be a glutton for punishment–that savors the teasing.

The most infuriating part of the whole thing is that he can’t blame you for this whole mess. He shouldn’t be so quick to temptation. You should be able to walk around your own home in whatever you want and not have to worry about the creepy contractor getting flustered every time he looks in your general direction.

But god, you make it hard–double entendre intended. You walk around like you haven’t a care in the world because you don’t; you’re home for summer break after a grueling year at college, and you intend to savor every languid second of it. Your preferred method of savoring just happens to be wearing tight little bikinis that barely hold anything in place as you lounge out by the pool in the Texas heat, or tight leggings that hug your ass so perfectly it almost makes him jealous of the material as you curl up with a book on your couch.

Joel’s a grown man. He can keep it in his pants, no matter how badly he wants you. But you’re not exactly making it easy on him.

Really, it’s Tommy’s fault when the levee breaks. If he could keep his big mouth shut, Joel might’ve been able to maintain the thin control he had over himself. But Tommy goes and makes an off-handed comment about you one night, and that’s the beginning of the downward spiral.

The brothers are both lounging on Joel’s couch after a particularly taxing day of demolition work, beers cradled in hands and the TV droning uselessly with some movie that they’re more staring at than actually watching. It’s late, yet weary muscles are melted so comfortably into the couch that neither of them try to move even after Sarah’s gone off to bed.

Tommy’s eyes flicker over to Joel, then back to the TV. “That girl’s gon’ be trouble for us, brother.”

There’s a question mark in the grunt Joel emits, leaning forward with interest because he knows Tommy’s talking about you without any specification.

Tommy hums in confirmation and takes a sip of his Corona. “She’s always wearin’ those skimpy little outfits a’hers, and she ain’t coy. Must catch that pretty little thing starin’ at your ass even more than I catch you starin’ at hers.”

Joel plays it off as best as he can until Tommy goes home for the night with a half-assed promise to actually be on time in the morning for once. Then he goes up to his room, locks the door, and wraps himself around the spare pillow that lays against his headboard.

He tries so desperately hard not to think about the plump round curve of your ass, or the enticing way you lick your lips, or those damned little bikinis you favor. He grinds his aching cock into the soft pillowcase and tries to think about anything that isn’t you.

But he comes with a muffled growl of your name anyway, face pushed deep into the pillow and hips jerking arrhythmically.

There’s not much he can do now besides clean himself up and try not to think about how thoroughly fucked he is.

The next day is torture because he can feel your gaze lingering. He catches you checking him out on more than one occasion, and you’re brazen about it now. You can tell something has shifted, so you shift with it. Where you once would’ve flushed with heat and hurried away to your room, you now meet his heated eye contact and hold it.

Joel’s jaw hurts that night from the way it’s been hard-set and clenched all day long. He rubs over his sore temporomandibular joints with his long, thick fingers and wills himself to siphon you out from beneath his skin.

It doesn’t work.

The work helps. Laying tile is something he normally considers tedious, but it’s a welcome reprieve in your home because he can get down on his hands and knees and focus on something that isn’t you.

You see the labor he’s going through, and you appreciate it. And really, what kind of host would you be if you didn’t reward his efforts?

It starts with a pitcher of iced tea. It’s made just the way Joel likes it, with light ice and a few slices of lemon. He doesn’t know how you could possibly guess that, but it makes him want you that much more.

And then it’s cookies. Pain-stakingly handmade oatmeal raisin cookies, to be exact. You’re like something out of his most shameful domestic dreams in your cute floral-patterned apron and oven mitts as you pull the tray of cookies out of the oven, and an image of you in nothing but those mitts and that apron flickers through his mind before he can stop it.

All the while you traipse around the house like a mirage–humming along to the yacht rock that drifts from Joel’s stereo, swaying your hips in the kitchen as you put together the most delicious bologna sandwich Joel’s ever eaten, toweling off your soaking wet body after an afternoon in the pool. You’re the worst temptation Joel’s ever had to face.

It becomes his mantra. Be respectful, be respectful, be respectful.

But there’s no respect in your eyes. There’s nothing honorable about the way you bite your lip and smirk when he catches your gaze lingering on him.

Joel had one rule for himself going into this job: be respectful. But why should he have to play nice if you don’t?

And really, the whole thing is Tommy’s fault. He started it with that first comment about you, and then he goes and calls out sick (read: horribly hungover) this morning. He leaves Joel all alone with you–gives you the perfect opening to pounce.

Or, more accurately, entice Joel into pouncing on you.

He’s just setting his tool bag down, about to decide where he wants to start today, when your beautiful face pops in through the door.

“Good morning, Joel,” you say with that gorgeous smile of yours that makes his knees go a little weak. “No Tommy today?”

He nearly chokes on his own tongue when you step further into the room wearing a plaid button-up he left here earlier in the week and booty shorts so small he has to do a doubletake to make sure you’re actually wearing anything on your lower half. You look fucking good in his shirt, and suddenly all he can think about is pulling you in and bending you over the half-finished vanity–

“N-no. He’s sick,” Joel manages to choke out. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, then, “that’s my shirt, isn’t it?”

You look down and rub the time-worn fabric between your fingers like you have to think about it, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.

“Oh, it must’ve gotten mixed in with our laundry!” The little giggle you let out is so innocent that he almost believes you. Almost. “Here–”

You start to lift the fabric up your torso in the most tantalizingly slow fashion, and he just sits there and watches it happen. He sees the first peek of skin above the waistband of your shorts, and then your beautiful stomach, then the delicious curve of a breast–

He quickly jolts out a hand to stop you in the midst of mentally willing every single molecule in his dick to control itself. “S’alright, darlin’. You keep it. Looks better on you, anyway.”

“Okay,” you acquiesce and let the fabric drop back down into its rightful place. “Can I get you anything? Water maybe?”

He certainly could use it. His neck and face are flushed red, and there’s sweat starting to form at his temples despite the relatively cool temperature within the house.

He realizes, with startling clarity, that he’s at a precipice right now. This might be the only chance he gets to really do something about this burgeoning tension that’s spread thicker than butter between you and him. He’s got a choice to make, and it’s not going to be an easy choice.

“Sure.” It comes out a bit too high-pitched, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Sure, sweetheart. That’d be great.”

“Alright,” you say with that damned giggle again. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as you leave the room, Joel feels like he can breathe again. It’s so much easier to think straight when you’re not standing there, smiling up at him and looking so damn gorgeous.

He’s got two options, when it boils down to it: fuck you or leave you alone. And he really, really wants to take you. Make you scream his name while he pounds himself into you, fill you so full that you never completely wash him out. And you want it too, he knows you do, you’re practically begging for it.

But he promised himself he would be respectful. That he would keep his hands away from the girl that’s definitely too young and too pure for someone like him–because he knows that if has you, he’ll never be able to get enough.

There’s a very clear and obvious loophole that comes to mind now; a way he could have you without ruining you, a way you could both come out of this satisfied yet mostly intact. Joel’s never been opposed to doing the hard jobs, after all.

He’s got a condom in his wallet and KY jelly in his bag–mostly used for plumbing fittings, but it’ll do the job for this kind of pipework, too.

You come back with a glass of ice water, and his resolve slips. How the hell is he supposed to initiate this? What if you say no and think he’s disgusting? What if you tell your parents? He can’t do this, this was such a horrible idea, he–

Your touch on his back is like a gentle breeze, just a flutter of your fingers to alert him to your return. He flinches a bit at the sudden contact, but when he turns you’re still so achingly close. He can smell the agonizingly sweet aroma of your conditioner and the lotion you slather on your body after showering, and all he wants is more. He wants to wrap you around him, to inhale that scent straight from the source. His resolve is back, just like that.

He doesn’t give himself another opportunity to hesitate. He places one big, meaty palm on your cheek and wraps the other around your hand that holds the glass of ice water to steady you; and then he kisses you with such bruising force it almost knocks the wind out of you.

You moan. You actually moan the second his lips meet yours, and he knows just like that–with a startling moment of clarity–that this isn’t going to be enough. He’s going to take, and take, and take–gorge himself on you until you have nothing left to give. And the strangest thing of the whole matter is that he thinks you’ll actually enjoy his greed.

“Joel–”

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs as his lips break away from yours–so low and soft in your ear it can’t be anything but a growl. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop right now.”

“I want it,” you affirm.

He searches your eyes, but he finds only earnest honesty and lust. That darkness, that pure and unadulterated want is enough to make his pants tighten. “Fuck.” 

He’s so big underneath your roaming hands as he crowds you back against the long bathroom vanity. He lifts you like you’re nothing and sets you on the counter top; he slots himself between your legs and there’s an actual stretch in your muscles to accommodate the width of his hips. One of his wide palms slips behind your head and his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging a little bit to angle your head just the way he wants it. It’s messy and frenzied and desperate–your hands gliding over tee shirt-covered muscle, his tugging your (his) shirt up over your stomach.

“Was starting to think you weren’t interested.” Your voice is heavy and breathy as he breaks away to tug the shirt over your head, casting it aside to lie forgotten on the floor.

“I’ve been tryna convince myself m’not,” he kisses into your neck. “Didn’t work.”

With a sudden roll of his hips, he has you gasping into his neck. He can’t be more than half-hard, but that bulge is formidable. Thick and straining and… suddenly you can’t focus on anything except getting him out of those tight jeans to see what you’re working with.

Your hand just barely fits around him. He’s thick and flushed, getting harder with each passing second as he scatters feather-light kisses over your neck and shoulders. He muffles a groan into your neck as you slowly pump his length–you think he’s seven, maybe eight inches at best guess. The tip of him is flushed red once you get his uncut skin out of the way, and it makes your mouth water. There’s a slight upward curve to him and a long, prominent vein that runs down the left side. It’s porn star material–you didn’t know real people had dicks like this.

“Joel… Jesus, that’s gonna be a tight fit.”

“Oh, don’t worry darlin’,” he hums, thumb ghosting over your clit in a way that makes your entire body jolt. “It ain’t goin’ in there.”

There’s nothing but pure excitement in your voice, despite the anxious gulp that tracks down your throat. “Where…”

“Flip over f’me.”

You follow his instruction with a sort of morbid curiosity, hopping down from the counter before folding yourself over it.

You can feel his eyes on you, as he takes in your willingness. It’s like you’re on display for him, for his appraisal. You’ve still got shorts and a bra on, yet you’ve never felt more exposed.

It’s almost like he can sense your mind swirling–maybe it’s because his is prone to do the same. He sets a gentle hand on your back and smooths it down your spine as he crowds up against you–you can feel the press of his exposed cock against the curve of your ass, and it makes you shiver.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs as he folds over you, caging you in with the delicious weight of his body. His lips trace along the curve of your jaw and down your neck as he speaks. “But I made myself this little promise that I wouldn’t fuck you. You got me actin’ so unprofessional, honey.”

You whine at the sincerity in his voice–all you’ve wanted since the day he started was for him to have you folded over and at his mercy like this. 

“You can fuck me,” you whine earnestly. “It’s okay, I promise. Won’t tell.”

“Mmm, I know. You’re too good a girl to go gettin’ me in trouble over somethin’ like this,” he hums–you can hear the condescension in his voice even as he praises you, and it makes your cunt clench around nothing. “But with all the teasin’ you been doin’... don’t rightly know that you deserve to be fucked.”

“Please–”

“However,” he continues, landing a light smack to your ass in retaliation for your interruption, “might be willin’ to take you anyway, with some conditions. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

He pauses to let you ask, “What conditions?”

And then he pauses again, asking his own question this time. Is he really going to go through with this? But he’s spent the better part of two weeks staring at your ass, and you’ve spent the better part of two weeks putting it on display for him. It’s like you’ve been silently asking him all this time to take it.

His hand slides down from where it rests on your spine, over your tailbone to where he’s been thinking about all this time. He feels the way your muscles tense up even through your shorts, and it sends a thrill he can’t describe coursing through his veins.

“You ever taken someone here before?”

“N-no.” He feels it again as his other hand comes to soothingly rub your hip–that excited-yet-nervous flutter of muscle. You haven’t run away screaming yet, and that’s the biggest motivator he could have to keep going.

“I think you ought to let me. As a thank you, for puttin’ up with all your play,” he growls into your ear.

It’s fucking dirty, the idea of letting a man you hardly know take you in such a taboo way. It’s even dirtier how fucking excited the idea has you.

“You say no right now and I’ll drop it,” he murmurs so sweetly. “Don’t ever have to talk about this again.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even finished talking–a sly smirk spreading over your lips as you grind back against him hard enough to make him choke on a moan.

“It’s only right,” you affirm. “Gotta make it up to you for how naughty I’ve been.’

His eyes flash dangerously as he grinds his cock against you again, smearing precome against the flimsy fabric of your shorts. “Atta fuckin’ girl.”

He has your bottoms and panties down around your ankles in a flash, and he actually groans at the sight of your sticky cunt all puffy and wet and on display for him.

He can’t resist the urge to swipe a finger through your folds, delighting in the string of shiny arousal that connects his finger to your core when he pulls away. “She wants it so bad, hmm? Such a shame she ain’t gettin’ any.”

It tugs a moan from your throat, especially when he drags as much slick as he can up to circle your tightest hole. He feels the way you flutter with apprehension, and he leans back down to kiss the corner of your jaw.

“Gonna get you nice and ready, I promise. M’not gonna hurt you, baby girl.”

“Thank you, da–” You almost lost yourself there for a second–almost laid your whole hand of cards out on the table for him to see. You try not to get flustered over the slip–you simply clear your throat and try again. “Thank you, Joel.” But you aren’t nearly as smooth as you hope to be.

In a flash Joel’s free hand is lifting your head, forcing you to look into his deep brown eyes. They’re so much darker than normal, and it only serves to make you wetter.

“What’d you call me?”

“J-Joel.”

His hand slips down to your throat and gives it a warning squeeze–his jaw is set, you know he isn’t playing. “Try again, and tell the truth this time.”

“D… daddy.”

You try to hide your face, to cower in shame, but he won’t let you. He smashes his lips to yours at the exact second his first finger probes that tight, waiting entrance.

“Good girl,” he murmurs as he slowly breaches you, using your own slick to guide the way. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You can’t do anything but gasp, hands clutching for dear life to the edge of the counter. This feels different, and not in the way you were expecting it to. It’s tight, sure, and it feels foreign, but it also feels so much better than you ever could’ve expected it to. The subtle stretch around his thick finger is addicting.

Joel’s jaw drops at the expression on your face; you already look so thoroughly fucked-out, and he’s barely even started. “Fuck.You like this, hmm? Like feelin’ daddy’s fingers gettin’ you ready for his big cock?”

The only response he gets is a wrecked little whimper, and he props your chin up again to meet his heated gaze. “Talk to me. Gotta talk to me, tell me how you’re feelin’, or I’m gonna stop.”

“Fuck!” It’s shriller than you want it to be and you would feel pathetic if you weren’t so thoroughly overwhelmed with this new sensation. “Don’t stop daddy!”

“Feels good, yeah? How long has daddy’s little slut wanted to try this?”

But there’s no way you can be expected to answer, not when he’s adding another finger to the onslaught. Not when your legs are already shaking and you’re thinking about just how many fingers he’s going to have to use to get you ready for the massive cock you can feel throbbing against your thigh.

He retracts just as suddenly as he started, and a needy little whine escapes from your throat involuntarily.

He can’t help chuckling as he reaches for the bottle of KY jelly he’d dug out of his bag while you were getting him water. It feels like it’s been years since you left the room on that little errand for him–definitely not the barely ten minutes it’s actually been.

“Relax, baby girl. I’m comin’ right back.”

You feel the cool drizzle of the water-based substance over your hole and it forces another whine from your throat. It’s met with his thick fingers again, spreading the jelly over your hole before plunging two in knuckle-deep.

“Atta girl.” His voice is thick and sweet as honey as he slowly works his fingers, thrusting and scissoring at an achingly slow pace. “Doin’ so good f’me.”

“Daddy–”

“I know,” he coos. “I know, it’s so much, isn’it?”

All you can manage to do is nod your head, arms shaking under the strain of holding yourself upright. He sees the way your limbs tremble and he adds a third finger just to be extra cruel–although he steadies you by grabbing your hip firmly with his free hand, keeping you in place as he fucks you open with his fingers.

Everything is so hot. There’s a sticky sheen of sweat covering your forehead and your chest; you can feel your own slick dripping down your thighs.

And then his free hand drops down to thumb at your clit, and everything twists in your gut so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

Within seconds you’re coming–no pretense, no warning. It explodes white-hot from your belly and sweeps through you to the tips of your fingers and toes with flash flood speed. One second there’s nothing more than pleasant anticipation–the next, you’re shaking and convulsing and sobbing Joel’s name as you fight with every cell in your body to remain upright.

He does his part to work you through it, thumb swiping even circles on your sensitive clit, pulling his fingers from you to pin you in place on the counter so he can continue working you through it.

“I know, I know,” he coos so sweetly in your ear over the sound of your moans and cries. “You’re doin’ so good baby, let yourself have it.”

It’s minutes before you’re breathing normally again–your legs are cramping from trying so desperately to support your shaky weight. Joel’s hands are soothing you the whole time once he lets up the onslaught on your clit; it’s like he’s mapping you, tracing over every dip and curve so tenderly you could almost forget what this encounter really is.

“Doin’ okay?” He husks into your ear–and then he’s folding himself over you again, and you can feel the insistent press of his hard cock against the curve of your ass.

For some reason, that’s what really makes it sink in. That’s the moment you realize that this is actually going to happen–that you want it to happen. Joel’s about to take something from you that no one has ever taken before, and you want him to. You’re offering it willingly, even.

You hum in response and buck your hips back, giving him a delicious taste of friction that pulls a ground from his throat. “Mhm. I’m ready, daddy.”

“Fuck, that’s my girl.” He gives your hip a light pat before pulling away for a moment, and you somehow have the presence of mind to jump up on the deep countertop because you know your legs won’t be able to support you through what’s about to happen.

There’s a smile on his handsome face when he turns back towards you, lube and condom in hand. “That how you want it, baby?”

Despite everything that’s already happened, you feel so much more exposed like this. You’re completely naked, and he’s fully clothed with his pants shoved down just enough to free his dick. Even as you spread your legs to admit him between your thighs, you feel shy. And he senses it, the slight apprehension in your gaze, because his smile softens even further; he sets the lube and condom down on the counter next to you so he can grasp the collar of his worn t-shirt and tug it up over his head.

He’s beautiful for a nearly forty-year-old man, you think. He’s firm and toned, but there’s a softness about him that you can’t help admiring, especially around his belly. Your eyes eagerly lap up the soft curve of his tummy, following the tantalizing promise of his treasure trail to his cock, hard and aching for you. The ruddy, flushed tip is weeping for you; you don’t know that you’ve ever seen someone so turned on before, and it’s a heady rush of power.

He chuckles as he sees your hungry eyes taking him in–he raises one big hand to cup your chin and pull your gaze up to meet his. “You’re so pretty, baby, look so good spread out f’me like this. You sure you’re ready f’this?”

“Fuck yes,” you say with an alluring little wiggle of your hips, and that’s more than enough for him.

He pulls his bottom lip between even rows of shiny white teeth as he rolls the condom down over his length, and it’s actually intimidating like this. He’s so big and imposing and it makes your legs want to close, but–

“M’gonna go slow, okay?” He vows, voice gentle as his big, brown eyes look into yours. His fingers wrap tightly around the half-used tube of KY jelly, and he leans down to kiss you when he sees the nervous gulp that bobs your throat. “Gonna be real gentle, I promise. You tap out at any time and we’re done, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” you affirm, and you feel a lot better. As out of the blue as this is, as little as you really know Joel, you can tell he’s being sincere. You trust him; you know he won’t hurt you.

The first press of his aching tip against your hole is enough to make you choke on a gasp. He’s big, and even with all of his attentive prep work to get you ready for him it’s a tight fit. You can tell it’s affecting him, too. His eyes flutter shut and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, and you can tell that he’s fighting with all his strength not to just shove himself deep inside you. You appreciate his restraint more than words can convey, so you don’t even try; you hook your arms around his neck and pull him in for a deep, messy, desperate kiss instead. His tongue licks eagerly into your mouth as he eases his hips further and further towards yours, and it’s a nice distraction from the nearly overwhelming stretch of your muscle trying to accommodate his girth.

He shudders when his hips finally meet yours, cock stuffed to the hilt into your ass. “God damn baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight. You doin’ okay?”

You whine at the first roll of his hips, nodding your head rapidly because words won’t come. It’s such a foreign sensation, being stretched and breached like this. Not unpleasant necessarily, but so brain-scramblingly different that all you can do is dig your nails into his strong, broad shoulders and hold on for dear life as he actually starts to fuck into you.

It’s nasty, and you’ve never been so wet in your life. You hear the sticky squelch of lube as he thrusts his hips, shoving his cock deeper than you imagined possible. Your own wetness seeps from your neglected cunt and drenches him, dripping down around his cock and wetting the dense curls at the apex of his sex.

“Shit baby, you’re takin’ daddy’s cock so well,” he whines breathlessly; one arm hooks under your knee so he can spread you open a bit wider for him, and then the other hand returns to your puffy, arousal swollen clit.

You make what has to be the most high-pitched sound you’ve ever made as his index and middle fingers start a torturously slow pace on the little bud. “Fuck daddy!”

“I know,” he coos–you think that soft, breathy, Southern twang is going to actually put you in your grave. “I know, you wanna come, dontcha? It’s okay baby, daddy’s gonna make you come all over his cock just the way you need.”

His hips pick up the pace in time with his fingers, and all you can do is lay there limply like a ragdoll. The pleasure is so much different than what you’re used to, but it’s good. It’s amazing, the feeling of him balls deep in your guts in tandem with his ministrations on your clit, in a way you never imagined it could be.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl f’me,” he growls, hitching your leg a bit higher over his hip so he can thrust even deeper. “Fuck, m’not gonna last long like this. You’re gonna make daddy come so hard in this tight little ass.”

His words are accentuated with a little smack to the side of your ass, and it makes you moan louder still. Your head rolls back as he picks up the pace of his fingers, swirling hard and messy circles with reckless abandon. He’s not trying to prolong it anymore–he’s going for the kill.

“Fuck daddy!” Your hands scrabble for purchase on his smooth, freckled skin as he pounds harder into you. “W-want it, please, want you to come in my ass–”

“Gonna give it to you, impatient girl,” he growls deep in his chest. “You gimme one first.”

Your entire body jolts when he brings his hand down on your sensitive cunt before groaning at the way your arousal sticks to his hand and makes his fingers shine.

“She wants t’be stuffed so full, doesn’t she?” He purrs, fingers dancing so fucking teasingly around your fluttering cunt that it makes your eyes water. “Bet she’d love to be chock full’a cock right now.”

“Joel–”

“Now, now, baby, no whinin’. It’s unbecomin’ for such a sweet little lady,” he grunts, and the condescension dripping from his tone is almost enough to make you come on its own. “You’re gonna take what I give you and be grateful for it, aintcha?”

“Yesyesyesplease–”

His fingers have barely returned to your clit before you’re coming again. This one is even more powerful than before–a hurricane instead of a flash flood. Your entire body trembles with the ebbing flow of pleasurable waves–the words you’re panting aren’t even discernible English anymore.

The way you clench and flutter around him in your own pleasure pulls him over the edge faster than anything ever has before. He comes hard, chest clenching hard around his breath, cock twitching more violently than anything you’ve ever felt before as he spills his load into the condom.

It’s a long, breathless moment before he pulls himself from the vice-like grip you have around his dick. He pulls out with a deep, long groan–it makes you giggle, because it’s the most over-dramatic sound you’ve ever heard in your life.

There’s a beat, and then he starts laughing, too. At the sweet sound of your laugh, at the way he feels like he just ran a marathon, at the absolute absurdity of this whole thing. His laughter is so sweet and gut-deep and infectious, and it only serves to make you laugh harder. For a good few moments it’s just you and Joel, half naked, panting and sweaty, doubled over in laughter.

And then the bathroom door swings open and Tommy barges in. 

“I’m feelin’ a helluva lot better after sleepin’ in, what’s so funny–” He stops dead in his tracks; he sees you naked and spread out on the counter and Joel disheveled and sweating. Neither of you are laughing very much anymore as you both scramble to cover yourselves up.

Tommy quirks a brow, a smirk spreading across his lips as his eyes dart back and forth between you and Joel. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

You don’t know how to answer when you’re so mortified, so you do the only thing you can think of–you dart out of the room and down the hall to the safety of your bedroom as fast as your shaky legs can carry you.

➔ beta: @fhatbhabie dividers: @saradika-graphics

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #cece writes

[liathgray]

Decided to draw a lil bit from Young Root Old Rock cause they are my special lil fellas the brothers of all time… explodes

Fic can be found here!

#id in alt #the bros… the dudes… #this turned out better than expected yipee!! #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt leo #disaster twins #rottmnt fanfic #rottmnt fanart #rottmnt comic #young root old rock fic #young root old rock #fanfic #cece writes #tmnt fanart #tmnt #rottmnt fic

[macabre-mangled]

I’m probably going to make the next chapter of Bet On It this weekend hopefully

#cece talks #cece writes #x reader #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader

[bruisedboys]

🍓 — how about “good girl” with eddie GIGGLES

this is really short I’m sorry

fem!reader 0.3k words

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says. “Finish your food.”

You push further into his side instead of doing what he says. You’re tired and he’s comfortable and yes, you’re hungry, but you don’t feel like picking up the fork and putting the food in your mouth. It’s too much work.

Eddie laughs at your disobedience. “Y/N,” he says, faux serious but it’s so convincing anyone else would think he’s actually scolding you.

Steve sure does, throwing you a somewhat alarmed look from across the table where he and Robin are sitting. You wave him off.

“I’m too tired,” you complain to Eddie. You take his wrist in your hands because it’s pretty, and he’s wearing his silver bracelets with the cool charms and he’s very distracting even when he’s not trying. You toy with his fingers and pretend he’s not sighing at you.

“Too tired to eat?” Robin gawps. “Even if I hadn’t slept for three days I’d have energy to eat.”

She proves it by continuing to happily dip handfuls of fries into her milkshake. Steve wrinkles his nose at her.

Eddie tries again. “Y/N, honey,” he says, exasperated now. “Eat your pancakes. Then we can go home and you can sleep.”

You pull your face from his shoulder to look at him. He’s staring down at you, stern but there’s a kindness behind his eyes that you don’t miss.

“Ugh, fine,” you groan, only because you want to go home and go to bed, not because he’s extremely convincing and too pretty to say no to. You push yourself off of his shoulder to scoop your fork up. You shovel a forkful of pancake into your mouth and don’t hate it as much as you should.

Eddie gets an arm around your waist and ducks his head to kiss your hairline. “Good girl,” he says quietly, so Robin and Steve can’t hear.

The warmth in your chest has nothing to do with the pancake you just ate.

#★ mal writes! #𖤐 2k celebration! #ღ eds #𖦹 cece! #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader fluff #✉️

[bcyhoods]

🎤 VOCALIST ── send in a character + any prompts in this cool tag or a lyric prompt of your choice for a blurb (remember to tell me which list the prompt is from!)

dreamy (from different types of kisses) + angel baby steve <3

— ivy / @inkluvs

i am realizing now how difficult kisses are to write smoothly lolz. hopefully this is okay <333 | 1.3k gn!reader

“You know, I don’t think you’re actually supposed to aim for my toes when we do this.”

Your head falls to his chest in resignation, a groan of equal sentiment dying out in the cotton of his shirt. Even though his subsequent laughter is genial and bright, your face still burns against him. You’re sure if you stayed there any longer that the searing heat of your cheek would leave a discolored patch on the garment.

“You are such a jerk, I’m trying my best!” You argue, pulling back with your eyes squeezed shut and nose facing the wall to avoid his gaze.

He watches with a wide grin as your expression twists in embarrassment. And though he can clearly see that your eyes are closed, he still ducks and tilts his head to make sure they’re level with his own. His stare is stuck on your eyelids, frantically darting between the two to see if you’ll give him the pleasure of opening them any time soon. He laughs again when he sees your timid smile before you pull your chin to your chest.

“How am I the jerk? I’m the one with a broken foot, here.”

As dramatic as he is, the words carry no real annoyance. He’s fine; his foot is intact and he’ll most certainly live. Still, your palm grows sweaty where it’s clasped with his.

It was a silly idea that he’d proposed. Well, enforced to be more accurate. An off-handed comment — a little muddled by a handful of popcorn in your mouth — about having two left feet made him spring up from the couch and offer his hand. He was absolutely determined to help you practice slow dancing, hyping up his adequate sense of rhythm and decent coordination.

And he’d looked so eager, with fluffy hair and old clothes for pajamas, smiling down at you with a fondness that made it impossible to refuse. You take up his offer with little hesitation, figuring it would be easy enough. Plus, it might be worth it to be this close to him for a while, and he’s thanking you for it in his head.

But a couple of scratchy, romantic records later, and all you have to show for it is an imprint of Steve’s big toe on the sole of your sock-clad foot.

While he’s red in the face from laughter and joy, frustration is pulling the corners of your lips into a frown. Because what should be a romantic scene is a little more difficult for you than you want it to be and you might be getting in your own head about it. Admittedly, you’re taking it a bit more seriously than he is.

“I promise I’m trying,” you mutter under your breath, barely audible as you stare down at your feet to make sure you don’t step on him again.

His brows crease in concern at the change in your demeanor. “I know,” he answers softly. When you don’t look up at him, his arm tightens around your waist to pull you against his frame. A reassuring squeeze is sent to your hand before he’s toying with the promise ring on your fourth finger, smiling as he recalls the matching one on his own. He finishes with a deeper cadence, still just as gently, “I know. I was just messing with you.”

There’s a beat of silence between you before he sighs and halts your swaying completely. He smooths his hand up your back, leaving a line of fire across your spine with his blunt nails until they end up at the nape of your neck. Meanwhile, the hand that’s wrapped in yours is guided to his torso, prompting you to hold onto him there instead. All for the greater purpose of cradling your face in his hands.

He knows you too well. A promise of love shines in his eyes as they catch the subtle annoyance hidden in the creases of your face. The softness of his smile, his touch, is a manifestation of that promise and it has you taking a particularly hefty breath to calm the chaos in your chest.

“Hey, you’re doing fine. Promise. Stop worrying that pretty little head of yours.” He looks you in the eye the entire time, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks to emphasize his final point. And maybe being this close to him was a bad idea because you’re afraid your knees are going to buckle at his attentiveness.

And the fear becomes even more prominent when you spot his eyes dip down to your lips just for a split second before returning. You can feel your heart jump into your throat and the gooey smile being pushed onto your face before you can restrain it. He mimics the same expression, as if it’d be any help to your current state. You’re so out of it, you barely hear him ask, “Wanna keep trying?”

“You make me nervous.”

He blinks. “Me? Why do I make you nervous?”

“Dunno!…’Cause you’re, like…you’re looking at me like that,” you try to explain. It comes out in between nervous laughter, pushed out through teeth glued together in a smile only he can seem to cause. And he decides to take full advantage of it.

“Hmm. Like what?”

His brow raises suggestively before inching closer to you. His mouth just hovers over yours, tauntingly tickling your skin with a smug grin. You swallow down your nerves, nudging his nose with the tip of your own.

“Like…”

You push closer, puckering your lips against his in a kiss that’s barely there. Tenderness seeps through his fingers as they cup your jaw, and scratch the nape of your neck to elicit a sigh from you. His breath hitches at the sound and he’s pushing into the kiss out of poorly constrained excitement. His lips drag slowly, like he’s savoring the taste of you and committing it to memory. He all but whines when you’re finally pulling away for air, resting your forehead on his.

His lips are slick and kiss-bitten, face flushed and ears bright red. His chest is heaving and his eyes are closed in bliss. He looks wrecked and you’re not doubting that you look the same, but looking at him like this makes your stomach flutter.

You giggle, this time a more deliberate sound. “You’re distracting me.”

He huffs in disbelief and pulls back to look at you. You can feel his hands grow warmer in your skin with each passing second, the blush on his face deepening. “You’re distracting me! I’m supposed to be teaching you.”

“Well, you’re not doing a very good job,” you wince playfully, nudging his wounded foot.

As if it were possible, his smile widens and an airy laugh reverberates in his chest. “Yeah, cuz you’re looking at me like that.”

He dives in to capture your lips once more and hums at the contact. It’s notably more difficult this time around, your smiles getting in the way as your teeth clumsily scratch against each other. But it doesn’t stop either of you from pressing on, lips locking and clicking with every ebb and it makes your fingers twist into his tee. He pulls back with his lips comically puckered and placing them on your forehead for one final kiss.

“You're fine. You’re gonna get it, hmm?” He looks at you expectantly and you just about melt in his arms. It’s a silly thing, sure, but he sounds so sure, so confident in you. And his brown eyes are wide and teeming with ardor. You nod, a huge grin on your face.

“Let’s just hope you’re not in a cast by then.”

#incapable of writing short thing sorry <3 #i got. invested in the slow dancing part. #ᝰ cece’s scribbles #ღ 300 celebration ! #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington hc #stranger things fluff #stranger things blurb #stranger things fic #steve stranger things

[theemporium]

wdym people write oscar as a dom🤠the boy looks like his brain would short-circuit if he saw a pair of tits😭

#cece chats #like I know obviously people were gonna write some top oscar #BUT THIS DOMINANT? #what are yous seeing #what is he hiding that the rest of us can’t see

[cecedownbad]

Warmth

Summary: A mystery man stumbled on to you, his gestures alone changing the dim scenery into a bright fantasy. [Spencer Ried x GN! Reader] CM meet cute (or not) Challenge by @imagining-in-the-margins

Prompt: Characters both duck for cover under the same tiny storefront when it starts pouring.

Warnings: No Y/N, fluff, I actually do not know how many research papers this man has read but I guessed. This is just so fluffy it had me smiling as I wrote it, I got a little carried away though, not proof read but I will do that later.

Word Count: 2.2k

Enjoy

The dim sky, like that of a faulty light bulb in a room that held photographs, locked away with a key lost to time. All that was bright now despondent to many, the sudden crystal like shine of streets drove away the few that knew staying any longer would cause a soaking mess and a cold to care for after.

Did that ever stop you from pacing by the side walk? With shoes scraping the fallen fire like leaves, a sign of a need for comfort and warmth. The ground wafting off a smell that should be telling enough for you to take cover but time was never one to wait.

Scraps of paper, terribly crumpled simply from agitation, held up to the very corners of your hands held largely a final draft of an assignment, meant to land on the Dean's desk this morning. This was the reason for due ignorance of the foretold scene yet to pass. Be it the wailing hums of the wind, or the dreary clouds, heavy with their low rumbles, much less a warning, more so a threat to parade a flood down the barren streets.

Then one fell.

Then another.

Every touch to the skin made you shiver, every drop ran down the outline of your face, tracing a path of yet another endless stream of worries. Shifting over, your hands shoved the sheets into the backpack you wore, a bag that now held evidence of lost sleep.

Squinted eyes now looking for cover, a refuge before the entirety of the flood gates open. Then, your eyes landed over a small, plainly described, old candy store. It had just the worn down, crooked, awning meant to cover you for the remainder of the downpour.

The store had worn down colours painted over the sides of the entrance, now locked with a chain rusted, abandoned to the elements. Though it did have an air of remembrance, a sudden haunt of the past had crossed you. It no longer had a sweet fragrance of chocolate, the twists of gummies or the sour rock candies. You'd stepped closer to the door, eyeing the cash register that must have seen better days, shelfs and boxes now empty, dust settling to fill in the air. It was displeasing to see the forgotten but whatever comes next should clear in a new sight to witness.

All that nostalgia popped, to the sound of sudden splashing, much like feet scurrying, heavy with each sound. Your head on a pivot, caught sight of the source, a person, one who looked like they too needed shelter from the rain. It was the direction said person had walked in that caused your initial frown, they wanted to take cover right where you stood. Of course, the tiny awning was perfect for a company of two, but it was you that preferred the solitude. By then, they made it, right infront of the store, one foot away from the much needed protection, but with a wobble, their lanky but lean feet, was on its way to meet the drenched street.

Quick as you were, you'd long discarded the frown, now your arms outstretched to catch the stranger, once latched on you pulled them towards you.

A sudden flash of hazel met you, you found the mystery man of the cause of your frown. Honeyed on the insides of the pupil, much like sun rays on a summer's day but rather dark, like that of a cool sunset. In that, he'd now looked at you with widened eyes, a tell enough for you to steady the stranger, parting your arms from his side.

"Thank you." He let out, clearing out the scene from seconds ago. Just like his eyes, his voice, was like a drizzle of honey over buttered toast. Soft, yet so endearingly warm. "Don't mention it." You consented.

Words no longer exchange between the two of you but your brain could not replace the Hazel eyes of the man stood next to you with a new memory. So, you glanced at him, observing, denoting, deducing his nature. His hands rubbed together, wiping it against the grey sweater, discarding the touch you'd shared in the time you grabbed him. That was when you reached in your pocket, grabbing a hold of a bottle of sanitizer and in an attempt to offer good will, you displayed the object to the man. He looked at your hand, then back at you, rather shaped brows now knitted at your gesture.

"You can use this, if you want to, you know, clean your hands." Hands still outstretched, a slight tremble befell them. "Thank you...again. You know, sanitizers usually contain 60-70% of alcohol, which is very high as compared to alchohic beverages. Since they are easily portable, fast and effective, it's often used when there isn't a handwashing station available but studies show that washing your hands with soap and water is still more effective than using an alcohol based sanitizer."

"...uhuh."

"Sorry..." The man hung his head low, a guilt riddled face bent over, possibly from rambling in what many made him believe were uneeded facts. "Oh, don't be sorry, I just had to take a moment to process that, you're right, I myself prefer using plain old soap and water after a long day." You squeezed the bottle over his hands, gazing as his finger rubbed in the solution.

You then watched as delight slightly brightened his face, his long hair now pushed back. A few disobeying strands fall on to the sides of his face. His hair reflected a burnt wood colour, paired with the colour of his clothes, he gave off a cool undertone but you couldn't help but feel the comfort of a blanket from his eyes alone.

"Were you going somewhere?" the question slipped out of you, a means to solidify a connection to the pretty stranger that slipped into your arms, but the question landed as odd as you met eyes with him. "It's totally okay if you don't want to answer that, I just, um, yeah." Your feet now relentlessly tapped on the ground, each sound echoing scores of annoyance. The cold touch of the wind hadn't helped much, hands now strongly gripped onto the straps of your bag, "I was actually on my way to work...What about you? I can tell that you are a student solely based on your attire, you must have something important to submit if you were willing to walk out here despite the signs of rainfall." He deducted, eyes peering at you. They were clear and sure of their focus, almost causing you to wander through all the reaches of the honeyed rays.

"You have excellent observational skills, I have an assignment draft to submit for approval, the Dean had said and I quote, 'If I don't see the papers on my desk at precisely 9:15 in the morning, none of you will be rewarded credits or be given a chance to redeem scores lost.' So, well you can imagine." You explained, he smiled at your impression of the aforementioned Dean. Another denotation had been made, the colour of his lips, a soft pink hue, the sharp but perfect lines that formed around them. In that short observation, your mind had run miles imagining a scene where you were the only cause for his otherworldly smiles.

"Would you mind if I take a look?"

"What?"

"At your draft? I may be able to spot mistakes, I can offer suggestions, I have read a lot research papers, 6,846 to be exact, so this might be more efficient than having to wait for your dean to look over them." As he offered, your mind took a leap at the sheer amount of material he had gone through, "You read 6,846 research papers? How did you keep count? How do you read that much anyway?" Disbelief laced your voice, the man it was directed to, however, was used to the lack of trust his words produce. "I have an eidetic memory, simply meaning I can remember something that I read or heard for good and I can read 20,000 words per minute." His mouth formed a flat line as his lips were pulled in.

"So, you are what society calls a 'genius', to think I'd meet one in the flesh." A grin spread across your face, "Okay, let me guess, you have a high IQ too? Say over 180?"

"You are a really good guesser. Yes, my IQ is over 180, it's 187." The both of you smiled at one another at this exchange. The worry within you washed away, much like the rain before you that seemed to clear away the history of the many that walked the pavements. "But before I hand over a very important assignment, could I get your name, sir genius?"

He lightly laughed at your intentions but responded no later, "Spencer Reid." You engraved his name to all crevices of your mind, manually sorting through today and labeling each new memory made under a new category. With formalities out of the way, you handed over the sheets of paper, having remarked that you have written worse so this should be okay to the eyes of a person you just met.

Less than two minutes later, just when you got lost to the drops of water breaking every reflection it made. Spencer declared that he'd read the draft, "There are 5 grammatical errors, 17 sentences with unnecessary words. If you take a look at this passage, you can add a line that compares the topic given to the opposite end of the spectrum it represents." As his fingers grazed the words present on the paper, his voice lowered in volume. An effect of this leading you to lean over to him, convinced all movements made for just the reason to hear him clearly.

All the bells rang through your ears, realisation now screaming through you. When the last word had been uttered, a sudden loss had built up inside you, the pleasant dips of his voice had struck a need for more. You could listen to him speak for time unnumbered, if the world let you.

"Thank you, for helping me and for making standing in the rain less tedious." You graciously smiled at him. His eyes turned up, letting you witness that beautiful smile once again, a graceful 'you're welcome' that require no words. This time you will remember to keep your imagination from expanding on futures one would have no have no sure way of proving.

"There is actually a way to get less wet in the rain, it's been scientifically proven." Spencer stated, "There is?"

How quickly seconds became hours in the two words that left your mouth. Your eyes watched as Spencer's hand grabbed on to yours, his smile now turning to excitement of that of a teenage boy. Each action was slow to your sight but before all else, you were running with a man you just met under the rain. And his response to your question?

"Run!"

The cool but harsh force of the downpour fell to the once dry face of yours. Unlike the traces they carved before, they painted your face with a new shine.

Could that ever stop you?

He led you on and with a white flag raised, you let him. Wherever he may take you, let him, that was your conclusion.

Cold and dreary as the scene may reveal, all you saw was the bright rays exuding from your mystery man. You had his name, you engraved it, no requirement for force needed to remember his name, but Spencer will be your mystery man. A touch of curiosity to learn from him and about him only added to the remark.

Before you knew it, you'd been brought in to another store, though this was alive in all its glory. Nothing worn down enough to make any assumption of abandonment, no remnants of a past forgotten, but the present that shone a colour you began to love, hazel. The smell no longer lost to time, burnt and welcoming, ground coffee beans, fresh and ready to be served. A café.

"It's been proven the faster you run in the rain, the drier you’ll be, regardless of the additional raindrops you run into." Spencer breathed out, your head snapped at him, looking away from the new scene you ran into. A few seconds, that's all it took, a hearty laugh left you at the revelation.

"A-are you okay?" He asked, mostly out of concern for the sudden change in behaviour you displayed. "I- Yes, I'm fine, geez, phew!" You sighed, catching your breath, "You are one hell of a genius, Spencer."

"Uh, thank you?"

After clearing your throat, you walked further in the café, finding just the right spot to dry off. You gestured for Spencer to come over, he followed, taking extra breaths as he dragged his feet to the empty chair.

Unbothered by the looks you both received, you sat, heaving out a heavy breath. Your eyes meeting hazel, only this time surprise didn't engulf them, they looked, no, they gazed at you with endearment. With each passing second, you couldn't rid yourself of the imprint he left in your hand. The warmth that laced over it, all the while shielding you from the icy brush of the rain.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #mgg #Early seasons Spencer #Season 5 spencer #I seriously wished someone looked at me the way spencer looks in the image #I read here that people don't write enough of early seasons spencer so here is my contribution #cece is down bad #baby girl #mentioningmargins #This was a lot of fun to write #I need to do more of these

[inkluvs]

・❥・ tea — send me a blurb request / headcannon (inspo here and here)

omg maybe “i made some cookies. would you like some” from the neighbors to lovers prompt list with eddie munson pleeaseee🤞😭

come on in, sweetheart

a/n: wooo i hope u like this i love neighbor eddie <3 <3

ivy's cafe // masterlist // taglist

The longer you stared at the timer the slower time seemed to become, the ticks of the small hand becoming fewer and farther between as you turned on the oven light to check on the state of your cookies. If things continued the way they are now it seemed like they would need an extra ten minutes, just to make sure they were fully baked and you wouldn’t be feeding your new neighbor raw dough. So you sat there, turning the oven lights back on whenever they switched off automatically, your eyelashes fluttering as you stared at the tray inside.

Had you done something wrong? You’d followed the recipe down to the last letter.

The oven alarm went off seconds later, startling you from your thoughts. Opening the oven door, you picked up the tray without a second thought.

shit

The pain shooting through your arm was blinding. You dropped the cookie tray onto the counter just as quickly as you’d picked it up. Running your hand under the tap, you touched the now-tender skin of your palm gingerly, wincing at the slight sting. 

It’s fine, you decided, taking out a bowl from your cabinet. It really wasn’t that serious of a burn. The way your skin prickled when it made contact with the glass directly contradicted that statement, but you chose to ignore it, instead placing the cookies into the bowl one by one. 

The chill of your door knob was a welcome one, soothing the sting for a split second as you stepped outside your house and into the summer heat. Your stomach churned as you started the 15-second journey to your neighbor's house, your shoes slightly dragging on the pavement.

You stopped in front of the door and for a second you hesitated, wondering whether it was really worth it to try and get to know your neighbor. But before you could turn around the door opened, revealing Eddie behind it. His hair was tied up, leaving the stark veins of his neck on display. You didn’t mean to stare, really, but you couldn’t help it, the clear contrast of the green veins against his skin catching your eye.

He interrupted the beginning of your thought process, “D’you want something?”

“I made these,” you breathed, flicking your eyes back to his own.

“Figured,” Your confidence was slowly slipping with each monotone response he offered you.

“And I was wondering if you wanted any?” 

“They chocolate chip?”

You shook your head, “Plain chocolate, that an issue?”

The door swung open and he smiled, “Come on in, sweetheart.”

#wooo #okay i added the beginning part of this last minute #and idk how to feel about it #ivy is writing ! #ivy’s cafe #event.tea #ivy’s inbox 💌 #cece <3 #eddie munson (ivy’s version) #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #userroma #stluvs

[peace-for-levi]

his duties {ginoza.}

content warning: depictions of mental health struggles (PTSD, nightmares, hinted dissociation, anxiety) and the use of mental health medication. Psycho-pass special spoilers and end of S1 spoilers. Implied smut, but not graphically described.  kindly beta-read by @mac-n-cheese-n-cabbages !! thank you bby!

+18 discord server

On his to-do list, he must:

1. Get ready for work and set you up for a good day. 

He knows what he’s doing is wrong. As an Enforcer – a hunting dog – he already walks a very tight rope in Japanese society. Once he is no longer needed, he’d be quickly discarded. 

And where would that leave you?

You didn’t exactly – or would – have the capacity to become an Enforcer. 

He’s selfish, he thinks, yet he can’t stop himself from doing this. He’s lost everyone else before. His father, gone; his mother at a therapeutic facility with Eustress Deficiency. He can’t lose you, too. It all comes from a good place – you and him both acknowledge that – but the perhaps irrational, baseless thought of this coming from a place of greed gnaws at him. 

Every morning is the same. The morning sunshine highlighted the room in pinks and yellows. The day was starting again, and you’d be up soon. Even for a city as bustling as Tokyo, it had its quiet, golden moments like this. He’s quick to slam his hand over the near shrieking alarm clock. Not only out of annoyance – and it was annoying – but also because you could have been sleeping. 

He notes he hasn’t woken up beside you this morning. This normally meant you went to sleep on the couch in the living area. 

And that normally meant nightmares had plagued your sleep. 

He peels away the bedsheets, and quickly patters out to you in his bare feet (and stopping for a moment to give Dime an affectionate rub.) The frantic footsteps stop though; he doesn't intend to alarm you in case you are trying to catch up on sleep. 

He spies you sitting up on the couch with a leg propped up, chin resting on your knee as you fidget. He sighs, taking in your distant and disconnected expression. 

He knows you probably need more professional help than what he can offer, but he also knows that that means you being taken away from him and being detained for god knows how long until your mental state improves. 

That’s where the worry of him being selfish comes from. He loves you, he needs you – you are his lifeline. But is he depriving you of better help, or would he be sentencing you to an even crueller fate? 

He just wants you better, any husband would. But he doesn't know if he is making the right choice… 

Sibyl could be wrong, just this once. 

You also couldn’t bear the idea of being separated from Ginoza.

He walks up to you and your pupils dilate, taking in the site of your husband. 

He leans down and kisses your forehead, your temple, and finally, on the lips. “Good morning, sweetheart. You okay?” 

He already knows the answer though. The memories of that fateful night and the nightmares from thereafter flood your mind once again, and you cling to him, breaking down in tears. 

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He held you tighter, rubbing your back and coaxing you to take deep breaths. “I’m here. You’ll get through this, you always do.”

Next, he must:

2. Eat breakfast. Make sure you’re stable enough for him to leave the house for an extended period of time. 

Breakfast was always your job between the two of you. Ginoza was a very competent cook, but he always said your breakfasts were better than his. You considered eggs, bacon and coffee, but Ginoza works long days as an Enforcer. In your days as an Inspector, you used to prefer a healthy, nourishing breakfast over a quick, convenient one.

You owe Ginoza that much, considering how much he does for you. 

By the time you’re making breakfast, you’ve been injected with your necessary medication. Sometimes this involves taking anti-anxiolytics and some other form of hue medication. Sometimes you just needed to be held. Just months ago, you didn’t need this medication to make it through the morning. 

With your ever-fluctuating Psycho Pass – and often into high enough levels that a Dominator would shoot at – you’re more or less house-bound. Now, you live with Ginoza in one of the dorms. 

All thanks to that one mission.

On that one fateful mission, you died that night. 

Or at least in the eyes of Sibyl, you did. 

301. That was what your crime coefficient skyrocketed to in that building, before the bomb detonated and came crashing down. 301 was grounds for elimination. 

Officially registered as dead by the reports. You weren’t anyone anymore. You weren’t even alive. 

Or, at least in the eyes of Sibyl, you weren’t. 

Ginoza was extremely wary of doing hue checks, if doing any at all. That would let Sibyl know you were alive and avoiding rehabilitation. But it was quite obvious your hue wouldn’t be sky-blue, and it wasn’t going to be for the foreseeable future. There was no point in scanning you. 

He was your lifeline, and you’d hate to think of a life without him in it. He was your guiding light, and he was determined to get you the help you needed one way or another, to restore you to full health. 

Attached to each other like shadows, you would never give up so you choose to find solace in his strength, and he would go to the ends of the Earth if it meant giving you back your peace of mind. 

3. Say goodbye before work. 

He never leaves work without giving you another kiss on the lips. He assures you he’ll be back by six in the evening and that you just had to hold tight until then. The day drags on, whether there is a case or not. 

He hates being away from you, not knowing how your condition is. But he does keep his phone at his side in case you text, and if he needs to head back. As an Enforcer and living within the building he also works at, he is never too far away from you. 

By midday, he texts to ask if you have exercised . He knows not to force it, but he has encouraged you to keep moving your body. He asks if you’ve eaten. 

Yes, sweetheart :) I made an omelette and side salad, you text him. 

He smiles contently. 

Proud of you, my love. Six hours, I’ll be home soon. 

He sends another text, itching to know. 

Are you feeling better than this morning? 

He chews at his bottom lip in wait. Currently he’s at a local café, thinking of swinging home to drop  something off for you. 

His smile falls when he reads your reply. 

I’ll be fine. 

So, you’re not fine now… is that what you’re saying? He blinks rapidly and swallows thickly. Six hours, he can’t clock out now. 

I’ll be home before you know it. Sit tight and  rest. Take a nap if you need to, or your medication if you feel you need it. 

4. Begin casework assigned by the leading Inspector and finish assigned tasks.

During this time, he dons his serious expression. The ex-Inspector side comes out to play, and he is seen as reliable, pragmatic and is able to take on anything. 

But he keeps his phone in his pocket, his hand clutched around it. Almost as if he is waiting for it to vibrate in his grasp. 

But as the case gets more intense, he is unable to check his phone as much. Time ticks by, hours rolling ahead and it’s nearly the evening. 

Four missed phone calls from you, several messages from you saying you needed him home as soon as possible. 

Ginoza has fallen into the habit of holding his breath before walking into the shared space again. What way would he find you? Would you have made dinner? Could you be resting? 

Or worse, could you be thrashing about in mental anguish, pleading for it all to end and for you to be put out of your misery? 

These are all plausible outcomes. 

Regardless of how he may find you, he’ll take you in his arms and pour his adoration for you into his kisses. He is in awe of your strength of making it through each day, regardless of what it throws at you. 

There was no greater act of cowardice than detonating a bomb; the criminal was long gone by the time the MWPSB swarmed the remains of the building (mostly debris, if you were to be honest.) Being caught underneath the dusty, suffocating rubble, and when you saw nothing but red – red with the blood of your late colleagues – with the fall of the building, it was no wonder your hue got so cloudy. 

You were caught up in the explosion. With arms outstretched, you tried pulling your Enforcers to safety. You saw your friends try to shield their heads. Your lungs were straining from the excess inhalation of all the dust. One of your enforcers had been right ahead of you and had managed to locate a safe – in relation to the situation – way out, but when you tried to move, you noticed your leg was caught underneath a steel beam. Friend or foe, he was still your Enforcer. You ordered him out of the building while anxiously trying to remove the steel that prevented you from moving amidst the crumbling.

The safe passage caved in, leaving you trapped in an vortex of raging heat and smouldering bricks. Fear was a beast that robbed you of your rationale, but it also left you pumped with adrenaline. You had pushed the beam off and began to move. 

You heard the sound of your name tearing through the confines of the building. 

Ginoza. 

You had to get out, push your way out. Time slowed and when it stopped, you knew you were out of time. The ceiling caved in on top of you and your scream to your husband was snuffed out like a candle’s flame. 

He found you on the sofa in your living space. 

You stirred and twitched violently in your sleep, crying out and nearly shrieking. 

He runs towards you and pulls you up. 

“[F/n], [F/n], come now. Shh… you’re safe, you’re at home.”

He holds you in his arms and sinks to the floor with you in a heap. He holds you tight and tells you that the nightmare is over. You’re not in the building anymore. You’re not suffocating beneath the rubble. He dispels all the cruel tricks your mind is playing on you and holds you in his arms as you mourn for your sanity and weep for what has been. 

“It’s me, your husband. Ginoza. Hey, hey… come on now… you got this.”

You claw at his shirt as you sniffle and groan.  

Your body has left the crumbled building but your mind is still trapped there, caught in a vortex-like limbo of reality and unreality; of nightmares and normality.

On nights like these, you need more hue-stabilising medication.

When you come to, you grovel and beg for his forgiveness. You sob, wishing you could be a better – a “more normal” – wife. You want to be able to greet him with a home-cooked meal in the evening, with laundry done and perhaps a movie ready to go in the background. That’s what normal couples do, right? You sometimes speak to Shion and Yayoi (through encrypted channels) and you hear of what they do for each other.

You can’t promise that to Gino anymore. 

He is quick to shush you with a kiss. “There’s nothing to forgive. This was never your fault to begin with.”

On nights like these, though he keeps it well hidden, Ginoza sinks into the depths of anger – albeit momentarily – and wants revenge on that suicide bomber who stole a part of you with him. 

In times like these, he’s able to forget about the guilt he feels about depriving you of rehabilitation. 

////

Nearly every night, you ask Ginoza to come shower with you. Being attached to him at the hip is grounding. He holds you in his arms like you are made of fine china and the most precious thing in the world.

Simply because you are. 

Your mind and mental state was fractured over that incident and you were left to pick up the pieces, with your husband by your side. 

All you have is intense anxiety and traumatic memories that could leave you rooted in fear. Logically speaking, this was to be expected and is a natural reaction to what happened. But in Sibyl’s eyes, as long as you weren’t conforming to society’s standards of being sound of mind, you were too different and too much of a threat to be ‘let loose’ in public. Your anxiety could – and probably already – has sprouted negative feelings in other people. 

Ginoza doesn’t let you know that his hue has darkened in recent months since the incident. It’s through no fault of your own – he undertook all this upon becoming your husband – but it’s something he’ll take with him to the grave. 

But he’d let his hue get coloured black if it meant you getting better. 

On the nights you’re able and willing, he takes you to bed with him. Passionate kisses, titillating sighs and pleasured moans. Limbs becoming entangled with each other. His name slips from your tongue like a prayer. 

He pulls you close to him after all is said and done and whispers sweet nothings. He tells you he loves you and he’ll love you in any state you present yourself to him. He tells you everything you need to hear and means it all. It’s always genuine. 

When you fall asleep in his arms, he can breathe easy knowing you made it through the day. 

He falls asleep dreaming of you, the bomber he’s been researching and lastly, of a life where you can return to society. 

Once again:

Get ready for work and set you up for a good day. 

He’s quick to slam his hand over the near shrieking alarm clock. Not only out of annoyance – and it was annoying – but also because you could have been sleeping. 

And the day starts again…

the way i condensed an old ginoza x oc fic idea into 2.4k is not smthn i was proud of but the ginoza brainrot is REAL. likes are appreciated but reblogs put a biiiig fat smile on my face ! :D

#cece; writing #psycho pass #psycho pass ginoza #ginoza nobuchika #ginoza #ginoza x reader #ginoza nobuchika x reader #psycho pass x reader #kogami shinya #sibyl #psycho pass fanfic

[andreafmn]

12 Days of Ficmas - Day 6

Prompt (by @12-days-of-ficmas): i know it’s supposed to be romantic to be snowed in but literally all i have in my apartment is pop tarts

Word Count: 1.9K

Story Description: Nick Miller has it all planned out. A rental just for him and (Y/N), a dinner reservation, and a week by themselves during Christmas in Chicago. The only thing he can't predict is how the weather will be.

Fandom: New Girl

Pairing: Nick Miller x Female!Reader

A/N: no, I am not posting on day seven day six, that is not what I'm doing 🫣

Follow 😊 -> TikTok • Instagram • Business

If you’d like to be tagged in 12 days of ficmas, let me know in the comments. 

For any other story: click here

Here’s the 12 days of Ficmas schedule: click me

<- Previous | Next ->

Nothing Ever Goes According to Plan

He meant well.

Nick Miller always meant well.

He had planned a whole trip to Chicago for the winter with his girlfriend (Y/N). They had been very busy as of lately. He with his writing and she with her graphic design clients. Especially as the holidays snuck up on them, they had less and less time to see each other.

But Nick wanted to change that. They had already decided to spend Christmas in Chicago with his family. And as much as he loved them, he could barely spend a few hours in a confined space with them, let alone a week. He also couldn’t bring himself to do that to (Y/N). Having to spend the holidays in the piercing Chicago winter was torture enough.

He had rented an apartment just for the two of them. Close enough that they could see his family on Christmas day but far enough that they wouldn’t drop by for a visit. A nice AirBnB to spend the week in together. It was even adorned with beautiful Christmas decorations.

Nick arrived a day before his girlfriend. He had said it was so he could spend some one-on-one time with his family. But in reality, he had something else planned for her arrival.

“Look, Jess, I have told you the plan twenty times already,” Nick sighed into his phone. “I’m sure it’s gonna be fine.”

“Just tell me one more time, Nick! I wanna make sure everyone is on schedule.”

“UGH! Fine. She gets here at three, we have some couple-y alone time, then at 6 we get to Piccolo where we will be escorted to the outdoor patio where I’ll finally pop the question,” he listed off. “Then, if she says yes…”

“When she says yes,” Jess interrupted.

“Sure. We’ll go inside where you will all celebrate the fact that she is crazy enough to want to spend her life with me.”

“Stop it, Nick. I’ve never seen either of you this happy,” she reprimanded. “Now, you’ve got the ring?”

“Yes.”

“You confirmed the reservation?”

“Ya-huh.”

“Did you check the weather for today?”

Nick kept quiet for a couple of seconds. He thought he had done everything possible to ensure the night would go without a hitch. Except check the unpredictable weather of the winter. He had gotten used to the warm and sunny days of California so it didn’t cross his mind to verify that snow would ever ruin everything he had planned.

“You know they’re saying it might snow a lot tonight,” Jess regained his attention. “Maybe we can think of plan B, just in case something happens.”

“It’s gonna be fine Jessica,” Nick laughed nervously. “I’m pretty sure it won’t snow that much. I would know. I’m from Chicago.”

He didn’t have a backup plan. He didn’t want one. Nick wanted everything to go as he had been playing out in his head. Nothing less than perfection.

Somehow, he found himself nervously cleaning the place as he waited for the clock to hit three in the afternoon, and (Y/N) knocked on the door. The apartment was already clean but he needed to hyper-fixate on something that didn’t make him lose his mind.

Before he knew it, a knock rapped on the door and the nerves built up once again inside him. If she was here that could only mean that they were hours closer to a life-changing decision. And (Y/N) had all the power to turn all his Christmases into a time to remember or a time he would always dwell on.

“Uh, Nick?” (Y/N) called from the other side of the door. “Can you let me in, babe? It’s freezing out here.”

“Yeah, yeah! Just a sec,” he responded as he took one final look around the place to make sure it looked perfect. “Hey.”

“Hey, you,” (Y/N) smiled as soon as her boyfriend opened the door. She gave him a quick peck on his lips as she passed the threshold, patting away the snow that had accumulated on her clothes. “It’s really coming down out there. Looks like I got here just in time before things get ugly.”

“What’d you mean?”

“Well, snow’s already coming down hard and they say that six more inches of snow are gonna fall.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, a tempting smile on her face. “But enough about that, huh?  It’s the first time in a long time that we’ve been together with no other things to worry about. Let’s make up for some lost time.”

“I like where your mind is, girl,” Nick answered, pushing his worries to the back of his mind.

***

The pair lay in bed, enjoying the warmth of the apartment. After engaging in the physical activity they had missed out on in a while, they were pretty worn out. (Y/N)’s head was on Nick’s chest, listening to his heartbeat as he drew circles on her back.

“It’s a bit romantic, don’t you think?” she said softly. “You and me, trapped in this very nice apartment, a white Christmas happening outside. It’s charming.”

Panic set into him once again. Whilst his mind was elsewhere, he had completely forgotten about the weather predicament. “Well, babe, being snowed in might sound romantic,” he said. “But all I’ve got in the apartment is beer and pop tarts.” 

“Very college-esque of you,” she chuckled. “I think we can manage for a night. You know, we can start now, be drunk by seven and back in bed by nine. We’ll sleep through the whole night.”

“But we’ve got that reservation at that restaurant I told you about. It took me a long time to get it.” 

“We can call and reschedule, baby. I mean, given the weather conditions I’m sure they’d understand,” she reasoned. “Now, I’m gonna go get a beer and sit by the fire. You can join me if you want. But I’m drinking with or without you.” 

As soon as she was out of the room, Nick scurried for his phone. Calling the only person he knew could help.

“Jess! I’m freaking out,” he scream whispered.

“You’re snowed in?”

“Uh-huh.”   

“And the only plan you had is falling apart?”

 “You know it,” he replied. “I know I screwed up by not having a backup, but I don’t want to hear an ‘I told you so’ right now.” 

“Okay, calm down, Nick. I’ll call the restaurant and have them set up the same thing for tomorrow. I’ll send out a message to everyone telling them about the change of plans. And you, my friend, are going to enjoy this night with your girlfriend soon-to-be fiancé.” 

“Thanks, Jess.”

“Sure thing. It’s all gonna work out, Nick,” she said in an attempt to calm him down. “Now, I’ve gotta go 'cause I am also snowed in with Sam and I’m gonna take advantage of the situation.”

“You dirty dog,” he chuckled. “Have fun!”

He hung up the phone, feeling relief wash over him before he walked out to the living room. There, (Y/N) had taken out a six-pack of beer from the fridge and had started on her first one. In front of her was a plate with two pop tarts, and one of them had a bite taken off.

“Ready to get drunk?” she asked Nick when she saw him come out of the bedroom. “As you can see, I’ve already started.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he smiled.

Two hours and twelve beers later, they were sat next to the apartment’s Christmas tree staring at the twinkling lights. They were bundled in each other’s arms, a warm blanket wrapped around them. They had drunk, watched movies, drunk some more, and ate half a box of Pop-Tarts. But they’d gotten to the point where their minds were hazy from the alcohol and everything around them was a very intriguing sight.

“This is fun,” she said. “I could do this forever.”

Forever triggered something in drunk Nick. Suddenly, the box in his pocket was burning a hole in his pants.

“Funny you should mention that,” he chuckled dryly.

“Mention what?” 

“That!”

“What are you talking about?” she laughed.

“Forever.” 

(Y/N) didn’t understand where he was going with his line of thinking. But it intrigued her. So, she asked, “What about forever?” 

“You know, I had a whole thing planned,” he started. “But I forgot to check the weather. I grew up here and I forgot to check the damn weather.” 

“Babe, why are you rambling on about the weather?”

“Might as well get this over with,” he smiled. “I, uh, had been planning something for a while now. But like most of my plans, things didn’t really turn out the way they should. You know, you start with one thing and make sure it’s perfect. Once it’s perfect you don’t want to mess with it. And you always do it with the best intentions, but the world doesn’t care about good intentions. And…”

“Nick,” she interrupted him. “Don’t mean to cut you here, but you’re rambling.” 

“I had this whole speech planned,” he went on. “But for the life of me, I can’t remember it right now. So, I’ll speak from the heart – 'cause I’m very good at that, especially when I’m drunk.” 

Nick moved his body until he was sitting face-to-face with her. He took her hands in his and continued.

“(Y/N), I love you. I love you so damn much,” Nick smiled. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Making plans that always get screwed up. I want to get drunk right before Christmas. I wanna go to crazy expensive restaurants with you and leave because we hate the food there. I want a house, and kids, and everything that comes with life. I want it all and I want it with you!”

“Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

He pulled the black box out of his pocket, revealing the ring he’d guarded for six months and somehow had managed to hide it all that time. “Will you make the craziest decision of your life and agree to marry me?”

“Nick! Yes! A thousand times yes!” (Y/N) exclaimed as she threw her arms around him, knocking him back onto the floor. She landed on top of him and they both laughed. “And if getting married to you is crazy, then let me be crazy. Because nothing would make me happier.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Anything.”

“Make sure you act surprised tomorrow at the restaurant,” he chuckled. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but everyone’s gonna be at Piccolo’s tomorrow expecting a proposal. They don’t have to know it’s gonna be a replay.”

“Nick, you suck at lying.” 

“But I’m great at make-believe,” he grinned. “And tomorrow I’m gonna be Nick from this morning. The nervous wreck that wanted today to be perfect.”

“Well, regardless if tomorrow doesn’t go well, today you gave me the best present in the world,” she smiled as she set a soft kiss on his lips.

“Merry Christmas, (Y/N).”

“Merry Christmas, fiancé.”

“Kind of like the sound of that,” he chuckled. “Nick Miller, fiancé.”

“I’d like husband a lot more,” (Y/N) smiled back. “And it’d be a Christmas miracle if you can pull off tomorrow. Again, you are terrible at lying.” 

“But terrific at make-believe,” they chorused before laughing.

Taglist: @honeylovemoon @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @laylaskywalker

#nick miller imagine #nick miller #new girl #new girl imagine #jessica day #winston bishop #cece parekh #schmidt new girl #winston schmidt #jess day #fluff #proposal #nick miller smut #nick miller x reader #reader insert #12 days of christmas #12 days of ficmas #andreafmn #writing #ao3 writer #christmas fluff #domestic fluff #drunk #declarations of love #foul language #fan fic #fan fiction #fanfic #fanfiction #new girl fandom

[freelancearsonist]

Won't You Suffer for the Angels to Fly?

➔ Joel Miller x fem!Reader - 2k

➔ Joel finds religion in the last place he expected to--a preacher's daughter.

➔ Rated MA for pure blasphemy. a lot of religious imagery and defiling of holy places--please read at your own risk. unprotected p in v sex, creampie, squirting, fingering (f receiving), corruption kink, HEFTY age gap (r is early 20s [unspecified], joel is 56), reader uses feminine pronouns and has female anatomy [please let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

➔ this is for my mid to plus!sized readers :) you're beautiful and valid and i love you. this was written in basically one sitting after i binged mike flanagan's midnight mass in one night. thank you to my lovelies @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @shakespeareanwannabe for talking me through this <3 title is from "heaven only knows" by bob moses

The Bible teaches–at least according to what Joel was able to gleam from the Easter service–that everything happens for a reason. That every pelting raindrop in its descent from the sky, even before it lands heavy and dark in his hair or soaks the lush green landscape of Jackson, has a purpose.

He’s struggled a lot with purpose ever since hearing that existential crisis-inspiring sermon that Tommy had dragged him to. 

In the preacher’s defense, it went over well with everyone else. So many people are lost nowadays, adrift in a world that doesn’t seem to have space for them. They need that hope, that reassurance that they’re here for a reason. That they’ve survived hell on earth not out of luck, but out of purpose. He pulled out the big gun that everyone needed to hear on one of the two days a year that everyone in Jackson has their ears open to him. It was tactful, and Joel has to acknowledge that. Your father is clever, if not cunning.

It’s a trait that you’ve learned directly from him, whether purposeful or not. But you sat right in the front row and nodded along to every word, accepting without thought or conflict that purpose is in every action, every reaction, every change of tide and every gust of wind.

And if everything has a purpose, your purpose must be to torture him.

You never have anything but a smile on your face for Joel. Joel, a man older than your own father, a man whose hands have broken every commandment that you hold so dear. A man that should know better than to let you get under his skin and infect his dreams.

He wonders what it would be like to hold someone so perfectly untainted in hands that have killed and destroyed and sinned. Hands that are strong, hands that are experienced, hands that are greedy. He’s certain he could teach you all about greed. He could make you beg, plead, sob for more and more and more until the only thought remaining in your pretty little head is how much you want to take from him. Until you become a glutton at the altar of his generosity.

And oh, how generous he could be once he had you begging. Minding your manners and asking nicely for what you need, of course, but he would never deny you anything you asked of him.

“Can I help you with that, Mr. Miller?” He hadn’t even noticed he was struggling–and he wouldn’t be, really, if he wasn’t so distracted. Putting new legs on a pew isn’t the issue after all; it’s the fact that you’re sitting there on the stairs that lead up to the altar and absentmindedly swinging your legs as if you’re taunting him. As if you understand that his resolve is slipping with every passing second he’s alone in this room with you. 

“Joel.”

“Hmm?” You shift your posture to lean closer, and that skirt that’s already way too short to be worn by the pastor’s daughter, in a house of God of all places, rides just a little further up your deliciously full thighs. 

How is he expected to work, to keep his mind on the job, when all he wants is to know what those thighs might feel like wrapped around his head?

He clears his throat and adjusts “You can call me Joel, sweetheart.”

He sees it, then. It’s so subtle, but it’s not imagined. You squirm at the pet name, at the raspy drawl of his voice, and it changes everything for him.

He sees in his mind the sweet girl, barely out of her teens, who sits in the front pew with a Bible in her lap. He sees the girl who sings so sweetly to the tune of every hymn. He sees the girl who’s so shy that she blushes every time she catches his gaze.

And then he sees everything underneath the act. He sees the girl who’s bold enough to wear a bright red dress to the Easter service. He sees the girl who makes eye contact with him across the dining hall every night to watch the way he reacts to her lips wrapped so tantalizingly smoothly around her spoon. He sees the girl who knew he would be alone in the chapel today–the girl who wore an easily accessible skirt just for the occasion.

You bookmark the page you’re on and set down the book you were reading, eyes fixated on him all the while. “Is there something I can help with, Joel?”

There certainly is, and it’s not the pew he’s supposed to be repairing.

He remembers, vaguely, hearing something about how God spares guilt from sinners when sin is necessary. It must be necessary to teach you a lesson, then–as you stride over and kneel beside him, your eyes heavy with anticipation and lashes fluttering, he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

“Hasn’t your daddy taught you not to dress like this?” He takes the hem of your skirt idly in his hand, rubs the silky fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He’s not touching you, not really, but his hand is so achingly close. An inch or two, and he’d feel your warmth–those plush thighs that God created to rule over Joel Miller’s mind, body, and soul; ‘til death does he finally know peace, amen.

You shake your head and even manage to seem smug as you say, “No. He just teaches everyone else to resist temptation.”

“I’ve never been much good at that,” he murmurs.

He thinks that you know that. He thinks that you’re his crucible, his most important moral trial–that maybe, if he can turn you away now, he’s a good man.

Joel Miller is not a good man. His kiss is crushing. It’s hellfire, it’s brimstone, it’s everything you’ve been taught to fear your entire life. You melt into it so prettily, accepting your damnation with parted lips and eager eyes. A wanton moan gets caught in your throat when his hand slips further up your skirt. 

No panties–in a place of worship, no less. He should bend you over his knee for this transgression, make sure you understand how filthy you are. But there’s hardly time for that now, not when he’s even more desperate than you are. And you are desperate–dripping down his fingers into the palm of his hand as your teeth leave perfect little indents in the plush skin of your bottom lip.

His free hand grips your chin firmly, guiding your eyes to his. He wants to see your depravity, the flickering embers of lust in your eyes as you come on his fingers and cry out for salvation from the all-consuming pleasure.

“Oh my God–”

His hand tightens around your jaw just the slightest bit in warning. “No, baby. You moan my name when I’m touchin’ you.”

And you do–thighs trembling, eyes watering, you cry out his name like a prayer as your cunt pulses and squeezes around his willing fingers.

There’s an unpracticed tremble to your hand as you reach to work open his belt, and it makes his cock throb under the confining material of his jeans.

You want every inch of his skin pressed against yours, so desperate for it that you’re nearly in tears when he pulls your fingers away from the buttons on his shirt. He’s not foolish–no one steps foot into this place during the week, but he knows better than to tempt God’s sense of humor. This has to be quick and contained, and you know it too; you picked your little skirt for exactly that reason.

He catches a glimpse of your glistening need as you settle over his thighs, and once again he battles to resist temptation. He whispers in your ear as you settle your chest against his and grind that fluttering, sensitive cunt along his length–promises himself more than you, really, that he’ll bury his face in your folds and drink from you next time. Next time–the promise makes you clench impossibly hard around nothing.

His eyes have never been quite as heavy as they are when you start to sink that dripping heat down his cock. Head tipped back, throat exposed, completely at your mercy. He has to force himself to look up at you–to worship the goddess enshrined on his altar, all his for the taking.

You bite into your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood as your hips settle against his, completely overwhelmed by the burning stretch of his size. He’s a challenge, certainly, but one that you are determined to overcome. 

“Easy, baby girl,” he grumbles as you start to rock against him before you’re truly accommodated. His hands rest heavy on your hips–not anchoring, but encouraging. As wrong–as depraved–as this may be, he wants you to enjoy it without pain. “That’s right, nice and slow.”

It doesn’t stay that way, though; the desperation mounts to a boiling point until you’re bouncing fervently in his lap. It’s delicious, the way the thick head of him drags against something deep and sensitive within you. He guides you when your thighs start to burn, grip tightening enough to leave forbidden bruises in the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth presses to yours, breathing the oxygen straight from your lungs as he presses his hips up. There’s nothing you can do but take it, pliant in his hold, head rolling back to accommodate the wet drag of his mouth and the tickling scratch of his beard against your throat.

He feels it before you do–a subtle flutter as your cunt tries sucking him in even deeper. And maybe, if he was a good man, he’d lean away from it and have mercy on you. But he’s not a good man–he’s a greedy, wanton, desperate man. He angles his hips and thrusts as hard as he can, shoving you into your release with force.

You overflow with it; gushing over him like a flood, staining his hastily pushed down jeans and the floorboards beneath.

He pushes you onto your back like you’re weightless, adrenaline coursing as he starts to slam into you. It’s not polite or sweet or loving–he fucks into you and empties himself like an animal. He growls deep in his throat as his cock pulses within you, instructing you to “take it, baby girl” as if you’d consider anything less. 

You don’t know where your release ends and his begins. All you know is his weight on top of you, his mouth on your jaw, the collective breathless pants that fill the room as you both come down together.

You’re not sure how long it is before he pulls out of your warmth with an actual whine, breath heavy against your neck where his face is so comfortably nestled.

And you start to laugh, because you wish you’d worn panties after all–you don’t know how you’re going to get home with the mess of cum that’s dripping down the curve of your ass.

He even chuckles with you, until he tears his eyes away from your blissed face and sees the cross hanging heavy on the far wall.

“Th-that…” he gulps. “That can’t happen again.”

“It can,” you assure him, and he supposes you’re right.

You keep your head down and your eyes to yourself on Sunday, even as you spot the barely-noticeable stain on the hardwood floor next to the newly-repaired pew on the right side of the aisle. It’s so faint that no one would notice it unless they were looking for it, but it’s glaringly obvious to you. You should be ashamed; you should be begging for forgiveness. But then you meet Joel’s watchful eyes, and the shame washes away. How can you feel guilty over an act of worship?

THE END

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :)

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller one shot #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us one shot #joel tlou #cece writes

[liathgray]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45064147/chapters/116887276

Casey has the worst time ever; Donnie also has the worst time ever.

#I DIDNT FORGET TO LINK IT #I DIDNT FORGET #I WANTED TO POST IT WITH THE ART #rottmnt #young root old rock fic #rottmnt fanfic #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt casey #casey jones jr #casey jones #rottmnt casey jr #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #cece writes

[macabre-mangled]

Hi hi hi just saw you take astarion requests, might I request something in which Astarion and reader (gn or male if possible?) kinda go more in depth about ensuring Astarions consent and comfortability in alllll things they do? Both Love Making and day to day life?

Sorry if this isn’t specific enough!

Yes of course! I just want him to be happy 😭🥺

I’m doing head canons if that’s okay

Sorry it’s short too, my brain won’t work

Astarion and consent

Warnings: heavy talk of Astarion’s past and abuse, talk of not having free will, talk of sex and forced seduction

He’s overwhelmed when you first bring it up

But with patience and explanation he understands

And he’s absolutely floored

You show him that he doesn’t have to use sex or intimacy as a means to an end

And he adores it

He loves being domestic and doing things bc he wants to

He’s super happy bc he’s doing things of his own free will

He still has nightmares of his past and how he lived in fear of being tortured or worse

He’s working on realizing that if he doesn’t do something you want that he won’t be punished

He does learn that you’re genuine obviously

But he still has doubts that all of this is just a ploy

But with gentle reminders and reassurance he does get out of that mind set

It takes awhile but he’s got you : )

He learns to make love and that sex isn’t a tool

He learns that if he’s not in the mood to be touched that he doesn’t have to be

And that it’s okay to not be ready for some things in relationships

That he can do things if he wants to and not bc he has to

If he ever seems uncomfortable with something or someone you tend to step in

He appreciates how much you care about his wellbeing

#x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #writers on tumblr #astarion x reader #astarion smut #bg3 spoilers #bg3 x reader #bg3 astarion #ceces asks

[bcyhoods]

BLUSHING🫀 ─── send in a character au and a scenario for a drabble or headcanons !

omg okay I need ur thoughts on fake dating with rockstar!eddie. this is a threat (I’m kidding. mostly)

BYE I NEED. musician!reader annnnnd mean eddie. (well as mean as i was able to convey, it’s barely there im sorry LOLZ)

super cool 100 celebration

fake dating with rockstar!eddie

it is absolutely, entirely a pr stunt at first.

mr. munson’s reputation is a little worse for wear at the moment. his devilish good looks can only get him out of so much trouble

and you’re an up-and-coming artist with a new single that you want to release so badly buuuuuuuuuuut

marketing! you need more outreach, more publicity, so that it can actually sell and so your label doesn’t lose money

and hey, what do ya know? you and eddie are signed to the same label! hey, they have an awesome idea

eddie is dismissive at first. he can’t make eye contact with you for more than two seconds at a time and when you’re alone he looks so grumpy

the first outing is at a diner and you’re trying to ask him questions because you’re gonna be stuck spending time together for who knows how long (and he’s also very attractive. sue you for wanting to get to know him)

“so how’d you get into music :)))”

and he kinda frowns. it’s more like a wince than anything else, like he has a splinter. and he’s like “does it matter? the faster we eat, the faster we can leave.”

and boy, does that set the mood for the rest of the evening. you’re sitting there eating a meal with someone who gives off the impression that they hate you

but as you’re walking out, he’s quick to grab onto your hand and lead the way out. and you’re like ??? until you notice the mob that stands outside

it’s so overwhelming. there’s a sea of paparazzi that you have to fight through, everyone is yelling, the camera flashes are blinding, and eddie is walking way too fast for comfort that your fingers are starting to slip from his grip

he’s glancing back at you and he notices all the lenses being shoved in your face and the really creepy whistles

so he starts shoving, elbowing, shouting expletives — which is really counterintuitive considering the terms of your relationship — in order to wrap an arm around your shoulders and guide you to the car

“are you okay? did any of em touch you? >:(”

and it gives you whiplash because this man was ignoring your existence like 10 minutes ago

i mean you don’t know that it’s because he’s disappointed. first date with somebody that is way out of his league and it’s a damn pr stunt. and you’re kind, and you make good music, but there’s no way you’re actually interested

so he keeps you at arms length because he doesn’t want to get his feelings hurt. after that day, he eases up a little though

he knows more about the industry than you do, so he’s giving you pointers, spilling little secrets

he suggests that they include a sound bite of your voice on the band’s next single and the label is eating it up

whenever you go to parties or events together and you’re wearing something that hugs your figure or shows skin, he is drooling. he cannot focus on anything anybody is saying

it’s really not hard to pretend to be in love with you cough because he’s not pretending cough

he is always touching you. even when you’re alone, his hands are holding yours, his arm is around your shoulders, his thigh is pressing against yours

obviously, he makes a show of it in front of the cameras, pulling you in so close that you’d think someone super glued your sides together. a big smack of his lips against your forehead (forehead kisses are so hard to dismiss because they’re so affectionate)

but when you’re alone, he becomes really gentle? and you didn’t think eddie munson was capable of soft touches but it’s sooooooooo

his hand rests on your lower back whenever you enter a room, it’s very light and timid though, like he doesn’t want to push any boundary. he holds your elbow too

you both think of a really sick “photo bait” that the paps can take pictures of like feeding each other grapes or pouting at each other and you guys laugh and cringe at it

on the inside though you’re both like “wait a minute why do i like this rn”

then the label catches on and they suggest that you guys need to kiss on camera when your single releases

and you’re so nervous because you guys have shared cheek and forehead kisses before, but the lips are a whole new territory

so at the release party, right at midnight, he’s beaming down at you with a smile that looks so real and genuine and his eyes are glowing

but when you lean up to kiss him, he stops you. his hands are holding your jaw and he leans over to whisper in your ear

“i want our first kiss to be in private, because we both want it. not because someone’s taking a picture.”

and your brain goes to mush like ?!?!????!!

and you discover pretty quickly that he really is a damn good kisser

#idk how to write mean eddie because he’s like a big teddy bear in my head #i also don’t know that i like this im sorray #ᝰ cece’s scribbles #✿ convos with cece #✭ gf mal #✸ 100 celebration! #eddie munson thots! #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson hc #stranger things fluff #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things headcanons

[theemporium]

bitches just wanna sit and write silly little blurbs about dead wizards from the 70s. instead bitches have to work and socialise.

it’s me. i’m bitches.

#cece chats #I just wanna write about the lomls!!! #marauders baby im coming back for you

[cecedownbad]

Been on my mind for sometime (call it stupid but let me have a moment). I wrote this with Vendetta Leon in mind.

How pissed would Leon be in an isekai trope? The reader (you) opens up to him about what this world is in your original place, sure it's still Earth but not the same thing. He obviously would be stunned, beyond words would laugh at you for even saying, "we're in a...videogame....you are a videogame character....", Cause you're joking, right? A videogame? His life is a....videogame? You're fucking serious?

And that's when you try and explain to him that it isn't a lie, and he can't accept it, understandably. I would imagine he then processes it all little by little, letting it all simmer in his mind before the anger and disbelief takes a hold, "So, you, whoever the fuck you are," Uh Oh, "You don't belong to this 'world', you're from a different Earth that is normal, doesn't have any B.O.Ws, the dead stay dead, no evil corporation trying to make monsters to support the military and you somehow, with some shit luck, managed to make it to our Earth, a bit more fucked up and this Earth ends up being from a known Videogame you've played before?" He said it, phrasing the end like a question, oh but he knew he didn't need an answer to what he listed out.

"This whole place, this mess we're in, the people we lost are what? Entertainment to you? As if learning that there will always be assholes who make B.O.Ws wasn't enough, our world is nothing but a videogame to you fuckers to play around with huh?" This doesn't sit right with you, now all you feel is utter regret for even opening your mouth. You knew Leon, thought of him like a person even before this whole thing went down. He was a person in your mind like most of the characters save for a few. You couldn't say anything to him, what could you have said that made him feel better? Feel less...this?

"Why did you bother telling me all this, should have just shut up, should have told me to stop asking questions! This is.... ridiculous, you waltz in here, acting like you had amnesia, but you had an uncanny knowledge for all the B.O.Ws we've fought with in the past. Not to mention how you knew, exactly what shit I went through, how I grew up and it all boils down to us being a part of some, what? Over millions of people's entertainment?...I need you to leave."

"Wait, Leon—"

"I said leave, goddamit!"

Quietly you get up from the chair, placed by a rounded table. Walking away from all this but it never does sit right with you. Having no idea of what Leon could be thinking sends you into a panic, but that felt selfish to you. To be thinking about the toll it would take on you compared to the blow it would be on him, his whole life is a lie at that point. But you slowly felt it sit in that puddle of rotting emotions, how long would he be pissed at you for his life?

This is unfair, an agreement falls on that but what does it take for him to take your words seriously ever? Scoffing at every remark you make, every suggestion, every idea you place on the table, with all his responses being along the lines of, "Let me guess? A videogame taught you that?" Believing that all of this, was your fault?

"Leon—you know what? You were right, I really should not have told you anything—"

"Guess we're on the same page then,"

"—I'm not finished, I shouldn't have told you anything because it seems like you want to understand the situation in your own fucking terms of ignorance. I didn't make this fucking game!"

The two of you sat in silence, Leon's expression leaving a trail of bitter annoyance. "I didn't make you, I didn't do any of this, fuck, you think I wanted to be here? You think for a fucking second that hey, maybe I shouldn't put the blame on you for finally being trusting enough to open up to me about this. It's a shitty situation, you don't want to be here, well, neither do I!" It was so insanely stupid, why were you even yelling at him? What was this conversation supposed to lead to? A happy ending of accepting your differences? Holding your hands together in understanding?

This was it, maybe this is where the two part ways. Not having to see your face would make his days a little better, although the idea of all this still sits on him, at least your presence won't further the thought. This was what you needed, it was a horrible few months, being here, trapped, opening up about any of this only lead to your string of regrets making an entrance.

Without a word, you walked away. There was no call to make you stop, no rushing footsteps to hold you back, nothing.

I'm sorry, I got carried away here, got invested in my thoughts so quickly. Just an idea that I dragged on to be honest, but honestly, I would imagine this would piss all of the characters off, not only Leon. Imagine Chris? Damn.

#could this be something to work on? #maybe i should consider writing one hmmmm #with lots of angst #:D #leon s kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy #resident evil vendetta #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy imagine #idk what this is #cece is down bad