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sytoran · 18 days

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home is where the heart is ★ n.r

— 𝐓𝐖𝐎 ;; 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 & 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇

in which your married life with natasha romanoff is depicted through this comedy-drama series. with your dream job, three kids, and a plethora of friends, each day is blissful but all the more chaotic and unpredictable. (and ultimately, very horny.)

pairing ★ sub!wife!natasha x beefy!butch!reader

chapter summary ★ twitter's sole purpose is for you to thirst over your wife, the beach is a good place to spend time with your kids, and ogle at your wife in a bathing suit, but not a great a place to have sex. (lesson learnt).

warnings ★ (MINORS DNI) - explicit content, hard stuff: beach sex, doggy style, cunnilingus, daddy kink, SO MUCH thirsting

word count ★ 4.0k (get fed gremlins)

SERIES MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST

*****

In tandem with Tony Stark’s spontaneity, Steve Rogers’ unending enthusiasm, and the fact that you privately owned close to twenty beach resorts in New York alone, the lot of you and your other friends had a beach outing planned for that Sunday.

After the astronomically long time it took to get your kids dressed, beach toys packed, picnic dinner prepared, and everything loaded into the car, five happy L/N-Romanoffs finally kickstart their journey to the Westview Surfers’ Beach.

“SAND!” Emilia roars maniacally, once the five of you step foot onto the sandy shore. She’s gone like the ocean breeze, sprinting into the distance, grains of sand flying everywhere.

“Sea! Sea! Sea!” Emilio is equally as excited, already by the tide of the brilliantly blue ocean, following its ebb and flow with scampering feet and delighted cries.

“Careful, Emilio!” Marina says, holding his hand, preventing her over excited brother from falling over. You can see the way she laughs along, kicking up water with her slippers.

Behind your eager children, you swing you and Natasha’s interlocked hands as you casually stroll along the beach, giving her a sweet smile.

The sand that crunched beneath your feet was earthen and dry, such a gentle hue of gold, almost as grounding as the bright smile your wife returned.

“You look heavenly,” you murmur, bringing up the underside of your wife’s palm to press a gentle kiss to it. She flushes prettily, the sundress she’s adorning doing wonders to her skin tone and curves.

Natasha returns the softness, pressing into your side as you wrap a firm arm around her waist, hand cupping the curve of her motherly hips.

“Oy, lovebirds!”

At the sound of a distinctly familiar voice, you and Natasha spin around with bemused looks. From a distance, you can see Tony with a flamingo floatie around his hips, waving comically.

Next to him, the regular gang is sprawled across three separate picnic mats, conveniently hidden from the sun under several large beach umbrellas.

Pepper is fixing up Tony’s floatie, to which Carol and Valkyrie snicker at from afar. Thor is asleep on the mats, taking up more than half the area. Laura is busy reading, with Clint probably gone to find seashells for the sandcastle Bucky and Steve are constructing. The kids make a long human chain from the shore to the sandcastle, scooping up buckets of water to make a trench.

“Aunty Y/N! Aunty Nat!” Nathaniel squeals, dropping his bucket, running over and leaping into your arms.

“What’s up, you little rascal?” you ask, laughing as the youngest Barton giggles. Natasha ruffles his head, waving at Lila.

Morgan, being the same age as Emilia and Emilio, is already chatting excitedly with them and kicking up a loud racket. Marina joins Cooper in attaining bucketfuls of seawater.

“What’s up, my favourite lesbians?” Tony calls out to you and Natasha with outstretched arms, comically ignorant to the death-glare Valkyrie shoots him.

Natasha rolls her eyes in faux annoyance, strolling past him and brightening up animatedly to chat with the ladies. You pat Tony’s back sympathetically.

Your attention flits to an impressively large sandcastle with a sculpture of a mermaid on top, hand-crafted by Steve and Bucky. Leaning closer to Tony, you whisper, “Why does the mermaid kinda look like you?”

Leaving him to splutter at his intentionally uncanny resemblance to the mermaid, with a seashell bra and an elegant tail, you look up to see Clint coming back with his arms full of seashells.

“Hi, Y/N!” He greets distractedly. In the midst of his frantic haste, Clint’s foot gets caught on a stray rock —

And the rest is a scene out of a comedy movie.

The seashells go flying out of his arms, scattering onto the picnic mat and spraying sand everywhere, Clint loses his balance and flies forward, outstretched arms knock into the sandcastle, and everyone watches in horror as Steve and Bucky’s great unfinished symphony comes crumbling down, leaving only the head of Tony’s mermaid untouched.

A quiet hush falls.

Bucky and Steve’s faces are morphed into disbelief and heartbreak, and Clint trembles in fear with sand in his mouth. Tony shudders at his beheaded mermaid, the ladies have their hands over their mouths, and Natasha fights battles in order not to burst out laughing. Thor sleeps unperturbed, and even the kids' racket has died down.

“Well,” you announce, breaking the stunned silence. “Who wants to go surfing?”

*****

As Natasha lazes in a beach chair, away from the gory scene of Steve and Bucky dunking Clint in the seawater, she watches you with a budding fire in her belly.

Standing on the sand so casually, you have your hefty surfboard tucked under one arm, and Emilio in your other. You’re speaking to him with a roguish grin, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt flapping in the wind, tinted sunglasses pushed up to muss up your perfectly tousled hair.

“You ready to ride the waves, bub?”

“Yeah! I’m ready!”

Your wife swallows, thinking she was ready to ride something else.

Natasha crosses her legs unsubtly. It was honestly unfair, how indifferently attractive you were, like it was a state of being instead of a practised art.

Perhaps it was her love for you and the longevity of your marriage that warped her perception of sexiness, but when you were casually strolling on the beach with that chiselled abdomen on display, who was she to be blamed?

“Y/N!” Natasha calls, sitting up slightly. There’s a devious little idea blooming in the back of her mind, and she feels like taking the bait, just for today.

You look up at your wife’s beckoning, and smile widely at her. Setting Emilio down gingerly and calling him a “little rascal”, you jog over to Natasha easily.

When you flick your hair back, it glints in the sunlight, and so does the sheen of sweat under your sports bra, defining the cutting edges of your abdomen. Natasha has the criminal urge to rip off your swimming trunks there and then.

Despite your obliviousness, Natasha is more than well-aware of the stares you’re getting from young women and married women alike, momentarily disregarding their boyfriends and husbands to gawk at you.

“Damn, look at that fine specimen!”

“Ryan, why don’t you work out more?”

“There goes my heterosexuality.”

You get feasted upon hungry eyes like a slab of beef, likened to your beefiness, but it only makes Natasha’s possessiveness skyrocket.

“Hey, honey,” you say, settling on a low and inviting tone that has your wife blushing. You crouch down next to her beach chair, holding her hand in a sweet gesture. “What’s up?”

You’re close to her, so close, and she can feel the heat radiating off you, and your distinct scent, and the overwhelming senses of want and need are washing over Natasha like those tidal waves in the ocean.

But well, Natasha knew more than a few ways to rile you up too.

“I think I want to go surfing too,” she lies through her teeth, having no inclination to partake in the sport. Natasha fakes a pout all too well, knowing it’s one of your many weaknesses. “But the sun’s really hot out there, so I need some help with the sunscreen.”

It wasn’t like she’d have needed it, anyway. Just like that and you’re sold, ever the gentleman and the golden retriever, digging for the sunscreen in the duffel bag.

“Of course, honey,” you reply readily. “Is it the Banana Boat sunscreen, or is that the kids’ one? Oh wait, we have the SPF 50 one, I think that’s—”

Words trail off comically when you look back up at Natasha, gradually dying down completely.

Your wife has conveniently slid off her outer layer of a sheer white blouse, leaving her in just a matching two-piece set of an azure bathing suit. The top piece is held together with thin pieces of string, accentuating her chest in a tight cradle. The lack of coverage shows off the dip of her hips and her soft curves.

Coherent thoughts in your mindwires get severed as Natasha plays with the string on her bottom piece, nearly flashing you as the material slides down ever so slightly. Your throat dries up as her fingers trail a path over her tummy and cleavage. She plays with another bundle of string that keeps her chest barely covered, and the irresistible urge rises within you to undo it.

“My eyes are up here, y’know,” Natasha murmurs, laying on her side and looking at you through lowered lashes.

“I know where they are,” you answer hoarsely, gaze still fixated on your wife’s enticing cleavage.

The sheer amount of bare skin that Natasha is showing off has your remaining fragments of sanity falling to pieces. There’s no point even trying to hide the tent in your pants, poking uncomfortably against the fabric.

“Gonna help me lather sunscreen?” Natasha asks with a silky lilt to her voice, turning over on the beach chair.

You groan out loud when you see the curve of your wife’s ass on display, her rounded bottom barely covered by a few measly pieces of material, all held together by flimsy strings and nothing else.

“Mhm,” you respond brainlessly, uncapping the bottle and rubbing your hands with a bountiful amount of the moisture, clearly in excess.

You begin applying your wife’s sunscreen with overzealous eagerness and desire. Large hands spread unnecessarily widely as you gain coverage over the soft skin of her back, trailing up and down and smearing the white moisture over her soft skin.

“Oh, that feels nice,” Natasha says airily, a dainty little sound that causes your cock to twitch in your shorts.

The line down the middle of Natasha’s back is emphasised as she tenses and relaxes it. Like clockwork, you begin massaging your wife’s back to release the tension in her muscles.

“Y/N…” The breathy moan she lets out is pure heaven, dragged out from the depths of her throat, then lifting to a higher tone that washes over you in a sea of goosebumps.

Of course, your faux masseuse skillset is just a simple ploy to grope and knead at Natasha. Fat spills through your fingers as you spread your hands across her torso, as Natasha whines softly.

It wouldn’t take a genius to realise that the heat building between the two of you was not just due to the heatwaves under the beating, unforgiving sun.

Your frighteningly quickly-growing arousal only heightens when Natasha feels that her back is done and flips over. Face-to-face with her hefty mounds, a round belly, and the blown pupils of viridescent eyes — you lose the plot completely.

Deft hands fly to your wife’s ample assets, squeezing her hips in sinful amounts and staking your claim. “You’re so pretty, baby,” you mumble, face buried into the crook of her neck, subtly mouthing at her neck.

“Mhm,” Natasha whines in agreement, but it turns into a gasp as your fingers slip underneath the material of her bra, plucking at hardened nipples in merciless haste.

You press down onto her, flat tongue and sharp teeth, licking a broad stripe up your wife’s exposed collarbone to the tender column of her neck.

Before you can taint clear skin with raging-purple bruises, you’re pulled away with a firm grip on the back of your neck. You look back up to see Natasha gazing at you sternly.

“Let’s try not to perpetuate public sex while you are the owner of this place, with all our friends present, and the kids building sandcastles no less than ten feet away.”

Much to your disgruntlement, these factors weigh in heavily and overpower your body’s built-in “pretty-wife-need-to-worship” mechanic. Now, your shorts fill up a lot more space than need be, your shaft pressing hot and tight against your left leg, clearly visible.

You grumble, hands still clammy with sunblock, the ghost of Natasha’s warmth still interlaced between each of your fingers. “You’re a meanie,” you sulk, lust-driven adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Natasha looks at you with a wicked smile. “And you’re too susceptible, darling. Now, where’s my flask? I plan on staying plenty hydrated before watching you rough it out against the waves.”

Clearly put-off by not being able to fuck your wife in your public beach resort, you flip off a little kid who openly ogles at Natasha’s ass, much to your wife’s horror.

*****

“I’M NOT BUILT FOR THIS!” Tony screams, arms flailing, as he rides a shallow wave. His firmly implanted foot adds too much weight on the front of his neon yellow surfboard, and the over-eager man overturns comically as the current rushes.

You laugh out loud, Hawaiian shirt flapping in the wind, surfing past Tony in a smooth motion. “Stick to the flamingo floatie, little guy!”

Valkyrie barely dodges the splash Tony creates, nearly falling off her own board. “Fuck off, you cunt!” she yells, full-chested and deadly focused on the tide. From a distance in the shallower part of the ocean, a reprimanding “Language!” can be heard.

Natasha’s wading in the shallower waters with Laura, while Thor had opted to sun tan on the beach while watching the kids.

As a large wave approaches, Natasha watches with intent. Upon your wife’s new found attention, you mentally prepare yourself, determined to impress her, and perhaps get revenge for her prior ploy.

You manoeuvre deftly, putting weight on your back foot to stabilise as you approach the wave head-on. Three… two… one. You add even more weight on your back foot as you go around the back turn while gaining speed, garnering energy like a coiled spring.

As the wave reaches its full height, broad and steep, your calves release with impact, propelling up the barrel of the wave like a spring. The surfboard moves in effortless motion, anchored by your back foot, navigated by your right.

The second you reach the lip of the wave, you find the sweet spot to execute the backside tail slide. You rotate your wide-set shoulders, swiftly switching the pressure to your front foot.

Your surfboard glides off the surface for a split-second, turning mid-air — there’s a camera-worthy frame of damp hair, stray droplets, and focused eyes.

You slide back down at an oblique angle with purpose and precision, like a scene out of a movie, locking eyes with Natasha as the wave crashes behind you.

“Damn, Y/N!” Carol hoots, looking amazed as you surf back to the rest of the gang.

“That was crazy,” Steve adds, resting belly-down onto the surfboard, strikingly adorable for a hulking man.

“Gotta admit, that was pretty cool,” Tony comments, his head bobbing above the surface of the water and his surfboard nowhere to be found.

You laugh along with them, attempting to explain the technical jargon of how you did it. But as much as you appreciated your friends’ enthusiasm, there was ultimately only one person you sought validation from.

“Hi,” you say to Natasha with a stupid smile, sitting on your surfboard, having escaped the rest.

“That was very sexy of you,” your wife wastes no time in stating, as if she wasn’t five millimetres away from flashing you and killing you with her sexiness.

Natasha is stuck on the image of your damp hair flying into place like a scene out of a superhero movie, unbuttoned shirt flailing up to expose your defined back and abdomen, concentration flashing in your eyes.

“Mhm,” you hum lowly. Fire burns low in your belly as you ogle your wife in her bathing suit, pulling her closer by the underside of her thighs.

In a moment of indiscretion, your left hand slips upwards and undoes the knot on Natasha’s bathing suit, letting the material slip from your fingers.

“Y/N!” Though blocked from view of the others as it was underwater, Natasha lets out a breathy gasp and presses into you. Her cunt, already soaked before, gets even wetter at the intrusion of seawater.

“Can I claim my prize?” you ask heavily, hot pants against your wife’s ear, driving her wild with the way your fingers slip through her folds to encroach on her entrance.

In no time at all, two of your fingers are at Natasha’s cunt, feeling slick even underwater, and you push in—

“Group picture!” Steve yells from a distance, as you and your wife effectively leap apart in the water, the heated moment dissipated into thin air.

But it lingers, the arousal, swimming in the back of your consciousness as you smile for a group selfie. Bucky’s arm is around you but you thank the heavens for hiding your erection under the water.

You can tell Natasha feels the same, eyes locking on you even after Steve successfully takes the group picture. (After many attempts.)

“I’m gonna go check on the kids,” Natasha finally says, gesturing back as if she was going to walk back to shore. She’s expectant, waiting.

“And I think I’m gonna go check with her!” you add, chuckling awkwardly, beckoning backwards with your thumbs.

“Okay,” Steve says disbelievingly, eyes glimmering with knowing and just a little amusement. Tony is much less subtle in his sniggering, and Clint looks horrified at the prospect of doing it at the beach.

Tony claps you on the back as you walk past. “Use protection,” he whispers, and you fumble out a haphazard response.

*****

Turns out, you and Natasha don’t even make it to a completely secluded area before you’re half-undressed and panting.

And maybe that’s half the thrill, hidden in a secluded beach cave, with regular people roaming around just outside. You’re pressed skin-to-skin with each other and tuning out everything else.

You groan as you snap the strings of Natasha’s bathing suit off, finally, finally. Teardrop tits bounce in place, shaking with the impact of how hard you jerk against your wife, unbearably uncomfortable in the constraints of your boxers.

Natasha takes mercy on you, helping you to tug down your Calvin Clein briefs, watching with heady arousal as your shaft slaps against your six-pack, red and raw and leaking.

“Hurry up,” Natasha whines, bending over and clutching at a stray rock, ass in the air as she exposes her leaking cunt to you.

“Fuck, baby,” you groan, grabbing onto her ass and slapping it just because you can. You sink deep into your wife, warmth and relief enveloping you as you bury yourself inside her.

The first thrust is like heaven, feeling the pulse and push of Natasha’s walls as she accommodates to take your size, stretching to a familiar extent because you’d made a nest in there for yourself.

The second thrust takes you there, an insurgent amount of slick coating your cock, flooding the path you proceed to pummel into. “Natty,” you whine, groping at her ass and pulling it closer to you, hilt-deep with no signs of stopping.

“Mhm, daddy,” Natasha moans, walls fluttering around you as you pull out, trying to stop your escape. But then you thrust forward, again, warm and full and deep, and your wife wails beneath you.

Natasha lets this velvet sound from her throat, silky and coated in honey as she breathes reinvigorated life into your arousal.

“Fuck,” you growl, rutting your hips with more rigour. Natasha whines, wrists suspended behind her back with one of your hands as you have your way with her.

“Baby I’m gonna come,” you gasp, virility cloaking the way your abdomen presses up against Natasha, left hand encircling her neck to bring your hot mouth up to hers.

You’re hardly embarrassed for how fast you’re barrelling towards climax, as Natasha is in much more of the same position. She’s panting your name, clutching at the rocks with hard sand digging into her feet. Your cock nudges and prods into her sweet spots effortlessly, the result of countless sex experiences.

“M-me too,” she responds breathily, breaking off into a whine as you press heated, open-mouthed kisses along the line of her back, tasting the salt and sweat on your tongue.

Pleasure blossoms in your lower torso, creeping up the base of your shaft and working its way upwards. Hot arousal overflows from its constraints, and your teeth sinks into your bottom lip as you come, quick and hot and messy.

“Oh!” Natasha moans, high-pitched and sensitive, as you pluck at her ruby-hard nipples. It only takes a few more thrusts for her to reach release, dripping down your cock and her thighs.

“Mhm, nhn—” As your wife raises in pitch and volume, you stuff three fingers into her open mouth, giving her something to suck on and remain quiet. You continue with gentle thrusts, feeling thick white liquid flow out the side of Natasha’s ruined cunt.

“Needa taste you,” you suddenly grunt, hips bumping into Natasha’s ass. She babbles her agreement, despite being half-conscious in a state of post-orgasmic pleasure.

Easily, you lift Natasha and set her down onto the sandy shore of the beach cave, where the tide is low and washes over your feet gently.

It’s a change of pace, a gradual end to your savage ravaging, slow and sensual, where the water meets the sand. You lower yourself between Natasha’s spread thighs, lips slightly parted and dripping with need.

Natasha swallows audibly, right hand twisting into your tousled hair, looking at you through hooded eyes and lowered lashes.

Words are left unspoken between the two of you, the tension speaking for itself, as you retain eye contact while lowering your mouth onto Natasha’s pulsing cunt.

You take your last breath of the fresh sea salt air and summer breeze before drowning in unbridled desire. As if making out passionately, you eat your wife out, switching between licking and sucking.

Poetry is written between the lines — the lilt of Natasha’s hitched breath, the crease of her thighs where your fingertips drag across, the shallow water that wades over your feet in a cool decrescendo.

Your head dips down once more, warm and wet, and the sun melts into the horizon, glazing golden and liquid orange.

With your tongue lodged fully inside your wife’s pussy, marking your inability to breathe, and wide hands spread firmly over Natasha’s thighs, the two of you converge in saintly devotion, hushed worship falling from her lips.

“Please, just like that, please, daddy, please.”

Just like that, and the ocean swallows you whole, taking you under Natasha’s hold inescapably. Your name is said in a breathless cry, lilting and pronounced, and you shudder between her clenched thighs.

“Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“I think there’s ocean water up my asshole.”

“Yeah, I got some sand up my vagina too.”

*****

and that's chapter two of 'hiwthi'! how did yall feel about the introduction of the rest of the cast? i personally enjoyed writing the build-up scenes the most. (sunscreen and surfing!) and for those keen on expanding the family dynamic, i'll be building on that in the next chapter!

reblog or i will take 292857192 years to post the next part

SERIES MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST

#⋆⭒˚｡★ home is where the heart is #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader smut #wlw smut #gxg smut #marvel smut #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha x reader smut #top reader #sub natasha romanoff #dom reader #bottom natasha romanoff #butch4femme #butch reader #femme4butch

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katsu28 · 9 days

Text

lucky charm

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: lando finds comfort in your presence as doubt starts to creep in before a race (2k)

warnings: minimal swearing

a/n: hi i know i'm still super new here and i'm not even sure if i'm actually going to start writing rpf but i think about this motherfucker 24/7 now and this came to me in a dream <3 let's ignore the actual way he got his ring necklace okay? okay!

“No one saw you come in, right?”

Lando let the door close behind him gently, a total opposite to the quickest few steps you’d ever seen him take across the small driver’s room, and he leaned over to kiss you, hard.

You let out a squeak of surprise at the force of it, but had no hesitation in kissing him back as soon as your body caught up with your brain, arms looping around his neck to bring him down and closer to you.

Lando’s knees hit the cushions on either side of you, hands doing the same on the leather backrest, clumsy as all hell but twice as determined not to let his mouth leave yours.

Your fingers knocked the McLaren cap right off his head as they moved into his hair, clutching at his chocolate curls on instinct like you’d done so many times before. But never here, never before one of Lando’s races, and certainly never at the risk of being caught by anyone in the facility at any given moment.

It didn’t seem to matter to Lando, though, with the way he was kissing you like he was parched and you were the only thing that could quench his thirst.

But given the rather frantic series of texts you’d received from him that got you here in the first place, you weren’t at all too surprised. You knew how nervous Lando got before races, and if there was something you could do, you’d never hesitate to be there for him. Especially since you were able to make it to this one.

“Yeah,” He mumbled between kisses, panting against your lips. Somehow he’d managed to switch positions so he was the one on the sofa now and you were sitting on his lap, straddling his hips as you continued your rather sloppy makeout session. “Yeah, yeah, we’re good. ‘M sneaky like that.”

“Had a lot of practice at this, have you?”

“No!” It was almost comical how fast he pulled away from you to blurt out his answer. “No, not at all. I don’t know why I said that, I—”

“I was just kidding, bub.” You chuckled, smoothing the pad of your thumb across his kiss-swollen bottom lip fondly. Lando grinned sheepishly, giving your waist a playful little pinch. You’d never get over the way he looked at you, like you were the only other person to exist in the world—especially when he was under you like this, and especially with those eyes. His baby cow eyes, you always called them.

Even so, Lando was extremely tense, you could tell. He tended to get very in his head before races, probably why he asked you to come meet him so close to the green flag, to help him quell his nerves a little. He always said you helped him more than anything else ever could.

“I have something for you.” You said softly.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” He leaned back against the cushion, happily accepting the chaste kiss you pressed to his lips before you bounced off his lap and over to where your bag was sitting.

You rummaged around in it for a few moments until you found what you were looking for, a triumphant grin on your face as you made your way back over to an intrigued Lando. This time you settled next to him, throwing your legs across his lap. His hand came to rest on your knee immediately.

“Open it.” You urged, pressing the small black bag into his waiting palm. He undid the drawstring carefully, beaming even before he got a look at what was inside. That smile only grew bigger as he poured the contents of the bag into his hand.

A thin silver chain, joined together at the ends with two interlocking rings, sleek and silver just like the rest of the necklace. Upon closer inspection, he saw numbers etched into the inside of each one. One of them, Lando recognized instantly as the date of your anniversary. The other looked like a set of coordinates, but he wasn’t too great at geography, so he looked to you for an explanation.

“The place we first met.”

“You looked up the coordinates of that tiny little restaurant? Nerd.” He chuckled, artfully dodging the swat you aimed his way at his teasing remark.

“It could be, like, your new lucky charm or something.” You shrugged, watching him turn the rings around carefully between his fingers.

Lando glanced up, bumping your shoulder with his gently. “I’ve already got one.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. It’s you.”

“Me?”

“I like knowing you’re watching me. Even though I can’t see you, or even if you’re not here, knowing I’ve got you cheering me on from wherever you are helps. I think it makes me a better driver.”

“Lan, you’re already a great driver.. You don’t need me for you to know that.”

“I know. I just—it keeps me focused. To know you’re there.” He said softly, giving your hand a tight squeeze. “And now with this, I can have a piece of you with me whenever. Here, help me put it on.”

“You can’t wear it under your suit, Lando, even I know that.”

“Alright, well, I’ll figure it out later. C’mon, put it on me.” Lando leaned forward, giving you space to bring the chain up over his head and around his neck. He even managed to sneak in another kiss whilst you followed the silver down to where the rings rested just below his collarbones. Your fingers stroked at the warm skin there, the cold of the metal contrasting.

“It looks good on you.”

Lando melted like a popsicle on a hot summer day under your touch, smiling so big at you that you could hardly believe this was the same boy who had other drivers trembling in their fireproofs. He hoisted you back into his lap effortlessly, nosing at your pulse point a bit before smacking a kiss to your cheek when you wrapped your arm around his shoulders. “You look good on me.”

“That was so bad. Like, really bad. I get why they call you Lando Norizz now.”

“What?! Bad? That was so fucking smooth!” He huffed, going from looking completely smitten to entirely offended. “And I happen to have lots of rizz, thank you very much. I practically ooze rizz, love.”

“I take it back.” You replied solemnly, patting Lando’s cheek. “That was worse.”

“You’re so mean to me. I don’t know why I even put up with this harassment!”

“Always so dramatic, you.”

“I’ve got to be! How else would I be able to withstand this abuse?”

You scoffed playfully and moved to climb off him, opting to keep a safe enough distance away so you wouldn’t be tempted to kiss him stupid. Then he’d really be late. “Don’t you have a race to prepare for, driver boy?”

“I am,” He said earnestly, tucking his hands behind his head. You arched a skeptical brow, hands propped on your hips.

“By hiding out in here with me?”

“You know what they say—calm the mind, and the body will follow.”

“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that.”

“Well maybe people should start!”

You huffed out an amused chuckle, crossing your arms. “Are you ready?”

A sudden silence blanketed the tiny room, Lando’s non response giving you all you needed to know.

He reached out for you with a pout that you’d never been quite able to resist, fingers beckoning you back over longingly, like you were too far away for his liking. You gave in almost immediately despite previously wanting to give him space, trudging over with an overexaggerated roll of your eyes and letting yourself be pulled back onto his lap yet again.

“I’ll be alright.” He answered finally, taking your hand in his. He fiddled with your fingers, tracing along each digit languidly and then circling his thumb over your palm—once, twice, a third time.

This, something you’d learned quite early on in your relationship with Lando, was one of his many versions of self-soothing. The repetition of his actions proved rather calming to him, and it certainly helped that he got to feel your skin against his.

His brows drew together in thought, furrowed and tense until you pushed your thumb into the wrinkle between them, smoothing out the scrunch. He wrapped his fingers around your wrist loosely.

“You’re gonna do great, you know.” You insisted.

He offered you as good of a smile as he could muster. “Yeah. I know.”

“You’re gonna do your best, and whatever happens, you’ve got so many people who’ll be proud of you no matter what.”

“I don’t know if it’s enough.” Lando blurted, scratching at a patch on his suit. “I’ve been racing for years, and I still have no wins to show for it. It’s not fair to my team, it’s not fair to the fans. It’s not fair to you. You shouldn’t have to have a boyfriend who can’t fucking drive for shit.”

“Lando, I’m not with you because of your job.” You said shortly, pressing your lips into a thin, unamused line. “And quite frankly, I feel hurt that you could even think I was.”

Lando was quick to soothe, shaking his head frantically. He took both your hands in his, squeezing. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry, it’s just—I get in my head a lot. And I start to overthink, and shit comes out of my mouth that I don’t mean. I know you’re not like that, I do. I’m sorry.”

You softened, sighing. “You could never win a race, ever, and I'd still love you all the same.”

He snorted. “Well, I’d like to win one at some point.”

“What I meant was, I can’t speak for everyone else, but my pride for you has nothing to do with how well you do on the track, my love.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m proud of you because you’re you. You’re kind and you work hard, and you try your best at everything you do. Even if the outcome isn’t what you expected, you keep at it. You keep going. That’s one of the reasons why I love you, that’s why I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m stupid.” He groaned, tipping his head back against the couch cushions. You simply made a noise of agreement. “You’re too good to me. I love you.”

“I love you too. Now, you really need to go back to the garage. I’m sure Oscar’s sent out a search party for you at this point.” You said firmly, giving his chest a sharp poke. Lando groaned again but made to get up, shifting your legs off him so he could climb to his feet.

“Fine. Just kick me out of my own room, why don’t you?” He huffed dramatically, swiping his hat off the floor and jamming it back over his hair. You aimed a fake kick towards him, stifling a giggle when he caught your foot and pretended to undo your laces. “Kiss?”

“You need to leave, Lando,” You whined, batting him away gently. “I refuse to be the reason you’re late.”

“One more. Just one more for good luck and I promise I’ll leave.” He insisted, expression pleading. You grumbled something unintelligible, reaching up begrudgingly to bring him down for one last kiss.

Lando smiled against your lips, snaking a hand around the back of your neck to keep you in place a few beats longer than you intended. You practically had to unstick yourself from him, giving him a little shove towards the door so he’d actually leave.

Immediately, he whirled around. “Wait, wait—”

“Lando! Go!”

“No, no, hold on, it’s important.” He slipped his newfound chain over his head, rubbing his thumb over both rings before holding it out towards you. “Keep this safe for me?” He asked earnestly, pressing the necklace into your hands. “Can’t have my lucky charm getting lost already, can I?”

“Give ‘em hell, number four.” You smiled, donning the necklace yourself. He beamed, blowing you a kiss as he backpedaled down the hall. "Number four on the track, number one in my heart!"

You could hear his infectious laughter echoing even as he retreated around the corner.

Lando would be fine. And if he wasn’t, he’d bounce back, like he always did. And you’d be there to support him every step of the way, like you always were.

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post new fics :)

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #ln4 x reader #ln4 #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris imagine #lando norris one shot

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rendevok · 1 year

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The sensation of waking up next to you ❤️💙

+bonus doodle:

…and they mimir’d happily ever after the end. ❤️

(ID under cut!)

Miles is roused from sleep by sunlight shining on his face. Slowly, his eyes adjust to the light, until finally, his scope of awareness broadens to a body he had been sleeping on.

Page 2

Miles looks up to the figure that holds him, and upon seeing, his eyes widen in recognition.

The bottom panel of the page shows minimal details of a window shedding light onto the bed and blankets as seen from a higher view in the room.

Page 3

On the other side of the bed, Phoenix rests, his head propped by the headboard. His hair is messy from sleep, and his expression is thoughtful. The light of the morning highlights his features.

The sun shines through the blinds of the window.

Phoenix finally notices his observer, and turns to look at him.

Page 4

Phoenix takes Miles’ hand in his, and lifts it to gently kiss the ring on Miles’ finger. They both move to share a kiss, and their hands shift to hold one another. Miles’ ring sparkles in the sunlight.

Page 5

They link their fingers as they kiss, and the morning creates a quiet atmosphere around them.

They part, but remain close, their fingers fully interlocked. Phoenix greets “Good morning,” with a tender, loving expression as he looks at Miles. Miles’ own expression is soft, unguarded, and fixed on Phoenix.

Page 6

Phoenix and Miles settle back into their shared bed; the morning sun illuminates them. They both smile softly, seeming happy and at peace. Miles rests his head under Phoenix’s neck, and his hand on Phoenix’s chest. One of Phoenix’s hands rests over Miles’ own on his chest, while his other hand holds Miles closer, revealing a matching ring of his own. Both rings shine softly in the sunlight.

Bonus image

A small simple drawing of Phoenix and Miles having fallen asleep again while holding each other as in the final page of the comic.

End ID.]

#narumitsu #wrightworth #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #ace attorney #this is so sappy i nearly choked the entire time i was drawing it #aa #fan art #smooches #ah yes my favorite tag <3 #rendevok #this is vaguely set post AA5 but i truly have no timeline in mind i just want them married #like ding DONG bitches get ur shit together aren’t u tired of pining??? it’s time to go apeshitt and furiously makeout #i’m going to start mashing them together like dolls i dont care anymore!!!#NRMTS KISS RIGHT NOW OR IM BITING BOTH OF YOU #(a win win situation for me)#anyway if you can’t tell i am deeply in love with phoenix and projecting onto miles so hard #who doesn’t love making him down horrendous for a little flavor?#image description and alt text are the same because i suck at those still #writing that out was deeply embarrassing for me bc for whatever reason writing it out is something WAY more visceral than drawing it #i wish to evaporate nobody look at me unless you want to talk about them kissiing more then my dms are open

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reidsweetener · 1 year

Text

spencer and his bau!secret wife eloped😊✨

the case had affected spencer on a profound level; it made him question alot of things about his life— and as he lies awake in that hotel room, reflecting about his life and his achievements, he couldn't help but think there was something missing... a very important something.

his job had provided him with little to no room to entertain relationships, but it was his luck, or his misfortune, that he found that connection with his teammate; you.

your relationship wasn't yet established, both agreeing to keep things casual and slow. test the waters, learn the more intimate habits of eachother... basically, to safeguard the dynamics of the team, and to maintain your friendship, neither of you wanted to jump the gun and instead, foster a deeper connection that runs just beyond a skin deep attraction.

he knew all about the terms you've established, but it didn't deter him from knocking at your door, in the middle of the night.

“spence? what..” your words were muffled by the eager kiss he places on you, hands finding purchase on your waist.

“marry me.” he voices, eyes ablaze with resoluteness, while you blink slowly, breathing heavily as if you'd just got the wind knocked out of you.

it could very well be, because the intensity he conveyed with the tentative brush of his lips were tanamount to the wind being knocked out of you. you still think you were in a sort of dream, because there was no plausible explanation as to why he would ask for marriage when... when you've only been seeing eachother for two months!

“spence, i.. i don't understand.” you furrow your eyebrows, confused. you brush the stray curl on his eyes, resting your hand on his neck and petting him absentmindedly.

“let's get married. now. tonight.” he follows up, eyes pleading and his hands gripping you to him with urgency. “we can find a church, get somebody to officiate, we'll sign the paperwork afterwards and submit it. let's have our honeymoon in italy, in spain; wherever you want.” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “i will take care of you forever. i will give you everything you want, i—” he exhales. “there is nothing i wouldn't do for you, darling.” the last words were getting smaller, as if he were losing his confidence.

your heart stutters in your chest, biting your lower lip. this is fucking crazy. “okay.. but i don't have a white dress..” you whisper, watching his expression bright up comically.

you laugh, when he picks you up and spins you around, kissing eachother with a smile. “i promise, you won't regret it.” he murmurs, reverently, looking at you as if you were the sun.

“i know i won't, spence.” you preen, interlocking your fingers, and then.. and then you were in a small church, in the middle of nowhere, vowing to love and cherish eachother.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x bau!secret wife #spencer reid x bau!reader #spencer reid

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lunaviee · 1 year

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i have so much rin brain rot someone help..

rin is so astronomically down bad for you it’s actually comical

like, you’d expect the stoic and straight faced striker to act like a brick wall throughout your relationship, but boy oh boy are you sorely mistaken…

you see, outside of the walls of your comfortable apartment, rin is calm and collected. sure he’d have an arm wrapped around your waist or his hand interlocked with yours, but he claims he’s not much of a “pda person”

but oh my goodness gracious the actual second he is out of the public eye…..you best be prepared bc he is NOT letting you go

as you walk into your shared apartment, rin’s already draping himself all over you. one arm around your waist and the other is holding your hand while he presses small kisses wherever he can reach

and don’t even THINK about telling him to stop because he’ll only get worse..

“rin- please i love you but let me breathe just for a second, yeah?”

“….no??” (paired with a betrayed glare)

now, rin is strong. like, have you seen his workouts? he’s carrying you to bed without any hesitation or struggle and flopping on top of you i’m being 100% serious by the way, it genuinely does not matter your weight or size, because rin can AND WILL carry you where ever he wants

mornings are even worse. on the days he’s home, his arms are tight around you and his chin is tucked into the crook of your next. if you try to move away from him, he just grumbles and holds you tighter. he’s absolutely adorable when he wakes up too, his hair is a mess and his half lidded gaze is focused on you and only you

though, on the days he has to wake up pretty early for practice, he sets his alarm 10 minutes earlier so he has enough time to cuddle with you before he leaves. hes so reluctant to leave though :( your face when you’re asleep is adorable and the way you latch on to him when he tries to leave makes him melt (he’s always worried he’s gonna accidentally wake you or alter your sleep schedule <3)

rin loves expressing his love to you in any way he can. kisses, hugs, cuddles, spoiling you, acts of service, compliments, you name it, he does it

he’ll just randomly bring home some stuff for you that either he thinks you’ll like or they just reminded him of you so he bought it

absolutely loves holding you, have i expressed this enough?

naps are pretty frequent with him. he loves how warm and cuddly you are and how your hands immediately reach for his scalp

if you’re cooking then you best believe he’s coming up behind you and hugging you while you cook. he really loves it whenever you just kinda latch onto him

okay i’ll shut up now bc i cant think anymore uhh don’t be upset with me for not posting i’ll try to work on requests😇

p.s. have i expressed my love for rin enough yet?? i love him sm especially soft rin bro i live for this

#✩ vie writes #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk #blue lock #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi #blue lock fluff #rin itoshi x reader #rin itoshi x y/n #itoshi rin x you #rin itoshi fluff

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steveyockey · 7 months

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I paid $5 to access séamus malekafzali’s latest substack on palestine, here’s the full text,

It is easy to be lulled into a state of complacency, even with military occupation.

Israel’s occupation of Palestine has gone on longer than many of us on Earth have been alive, now going on 75 years. The levels of that deplacement, blockading, and violence have ebbed and flowed over years and decades, but that hand around the neck has always remained, even if how much it constricts has a tendency to loosen and tighten. Over 200 Palestinians have been killed by Israel this year in its occupation. News bulletins of them dying, oftentimes teenagers, come up through the headlines of Palestinian newspapers and channels as often as the weather. These deaths at the hands of Israeli security personnel are not isolated incidents, with soldiers materializing on roadsides and at checkpoints as unfortunate coincidence. They are constant spikes in the waveform of an incessant low-grade hum of humiliation, imprisonment, and destruction that has made daily life a forced agreement to constantly exist on the precipice of death.

This framing is not meant to be a tired retread of the conflict between Israel and Palestine or the nature of the Israeli occupation. This is meant to be a bulwark against the inevitable framing of this latest battle unfolding around Gaza, as it will appear in the Western media in the days to come.

There is a tendency, a deep-set one, to report Israel and Palestine as two countries that are on roughly the same playing field internationally, as you might report on a war that might involve Israel battling against a place like Jordan or Egypt. This kind of coverage obscures how deeply interlocked Israel’s military operations are with the fabric of the Palestinian society.

In the West Bank, settlements and checkpoints have made Palestinian land into a kind of comical archipelago, where in addition to being separated from Gaza by a huge land border, they are also separated from traveling to communities only a stone’s throw away from them without going through significant anguish. In Gaza, while no Israeli soldiers walk the streets, all their land borders are essentially sealed, their ports almost completely blockaded. Israel’s continued occupation has been so pinpoint and precise that its planes have gone as far as bombing bookstores, and its restrictions did not let up even when the COVID-19 pandemic reduced one health organization to carrying only as many tests of the deadly disease as could fit in a car.

This is not a matter of moral justification; one does not need to constantly busy themselves with having to make a full ideological conversion before understanding this. This is a matter of cause and effect.

What is the logical expectation, regardless of politics, ideology, culture, and creed, when a population of people is thrust into conditions that can only be described as an open-air prison, where every individual is a criminal in the eyes of the military occupying power regardless if they pick up a rifle or not, because there is supposedly always the threat that they will one day?

These are the basic conditions that have preceded the initiation of Operation al-Aqsa Storm this morning. As dawn broke on the morning of October 7, only one day after the 50th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, Hamas’ military wing, the al-Qassam Brigades, launched a military operation of unprecedented scope in its history. Hamas fighters would not only attempt to enter Israeli territory proper with ground troops, already in of itself an intensely bold action (though not without precedent in the past decade). This operation would be a combined incursion into Israel by both land, sea, and even air. Ground forces would cut the border fence into settlements surrounding Gaza, speedboats would make landings in southern Israel, and fighters from a newly-inaugurated paraglider division would fly over the border fortifications and then further inland.

Threats of an invasion of Israeli territory proper have been a staple of speeches from Hamas and Hezbollah and groups like it for years. There was a long-standing perception by outside observers that it was fanciful. An intentionally lofty piece of propaganda that fires up supporters while the real military wheeling and dealing is done under far more subtle and controlled terms, as with most militant organizations. After all, no Israeli-administered town, the ones occupied in Palestine during the initial 1948 war, had ever been taken in any war against the Jewish state since its creation, even by a combined force of multiple Arab national militaries.

That notion now can no longer exist.

At sunrise, Hamas fired a gigantic barrage of rockets into Israeli territory, a staggering 5,000 in the first wave alone. As Israeli military and police forces were distracted by fires and rocket destruction in residential areas of the country, Palestinian forces in Gaza proceeded to make their primary move.

After the sun rose, Hamas cut through the border fence surrounding Israel and sent both fighters on foot and on motorcycles into Israel. Images released by the group seem to tell a story in frozen figures. Israeli soldiers, strewn dead, caught by surprise, one having even rushed out so quickly that he put on his military gear but no other clothes except his underwear. An even grimmer story could be found in one of the IDF military dormitories, where an entire room full of soldiers had been massacred, only having perhaps seconds earlier gotten the alarm that Hamas had breached the perimeter, many of them seemingly mid-way through getting out of bed.

From there, Hamas made unprecedented move after unprecedented move. Hamas fighters moved as far north into Zikim, built on the former Palestinian village of Hiribya, and moved as far east as Ofakim, built on the former hamlet of Khirbat Futais. The Erez Crossing, for years the only legal border crossing that Israel operated with the Gaza Strip, came under full Palestinian control. Sderot, a city where Israelis had once gathered on couches dragged to high peaks to watch the bombardment of Palestinians, now found themselves facing down Palestinian fighters in their own streets.

An additional shock would come in Israel’s initial response. Amidst cataclysmic scenes like hundreds of ravers in the desert near Gaza fleeing on foot, neither the Israeli president nor the prime minister spoke in those early hours in the morning.

The Israeli high command, despite the continuous insistence of Palestinian factions that they would one day attempt to take the fight into Israel itself, had become complacent. They, like many observers of Israel-Palestine, believed the occupation they had constructed could go on forever, unburdened by the need to adapt. Israeli soldiers after all were now more used to sniping reporters and unarmed protesters than engaging in military conflict. Entropy was what was propelling the military occupation complex of the Jewish state, not a wholly active effort.

Despite an ungodly amount of Western military equipment, highly advanced anti-aircraft systems programmed to shoot down thousands of rockets, an international reputation for tenacity and strategic knowhow, and multiple victories against Arab nations again and again and again, all of it ended up being useless against a Hamas fighter flying in on a box fan and a parachute.

This failure is two-fold, and both are closely related. One is the expectation that things could go on as before without addressing the root of the issue (that being a military occupation of an entire state), and the other in expectation that those being occupied had no capacity to learn from experience how Israel’s military strategy operates, people who could then going on to capitalize on that knowledge.

There is a fundamental flaw in the perception of Western powers toward the Middle East in general and Arabs in particular that because the groups fighting with Israel or the United States are irregular, bereft of highly professional uniforms and dedicated gigantic military headquarters, that they do not have the same ability to strategize and to confront the forces that are occupying their countries. Flashes of how faulty this thinking is rear their head again and again, from Iraq to Afghanistan and everywhere in-between and around, but still the idea, unspoken as it may be, remains that they are fundamentally unequipped compared to the might they are fighting against. But Hamas has military strategists of its own, ones that understand the asymmetric situation they are dealing with, and ones that understand what the actual capabilities of Israel are, versus what their perception is.

The perception of Israel’s invulnerability versus what has actually been displayed today could not have been more different. Instead of being forced to immediately pull back, in essence making today a raid, Hamas has instead actually contested several Israeli settlements, which are still being fought over at time of this writing many hours after the initial incursion from Gaza began. A single Israeli soldier captured and held in Gaza used to capture the Israeli imagination for years; now there are believed to be not only tens of soldiers captured by Hamas, but tens of Israeli civilians as well, all now being held within the Strip. Hamas has also brought Israeli military vehicles back into the Strip, the novelty of working IDF equipment now under Palestinian control a source of celebration within the territory. Over 100 Israelis are believed to have been killed in the first day of Hamas’ attack, and nearly 1000 injured, a shocking early casualty count in an ongoing conflict where casualties on the Palestinians’ side are usually far more lopsided.

Israel’s response so far to Hamas’ operation has been to escalate rhetorically, with Netanyahu now calling this a war, and escalating its usual military strategy with Gaza, with carpet bombing now on an intense, concentrated scale. At the time of this writing, almost 200 Palestinians have been killed in Gaza in only a few hours, with that number expected to rise significantly in the days to come. Already, news has come in of Israeli planes having leveled Gaza’s second-largest building, the Palestine Tower, which housed a plethora of media offices, in scenes reminiscent of Israel’s bombing of another tower block of media offices in 2021 that infamously took out the local bureau of the Associated Press.

As fighting continues into the night in ways never seen before since 1948, the question remains: after all these decades, why now?

The ostensible justifications of what the clincher was that sparked this operation are innumerable, but two appear to be most clearly illuminated: the recent increased activity of far-right Zionists at the al-Aqsa Mosque in occupied East Jerusalem (hence the name of the operation itself), but just as well the indications that the Saudi Arabia and Israel may be close to a normalization deal, which would be the largest such development in the Abraham Accords yet. Hezbollah mentioned this operation as being a “message” and a “decisive response” to Arab nations pursuing the idea of normalization with Israel. Still, it is important to recognize that pinning the undertaking of a completely gigantic operation of this scale as just a simple message to Saudi Arabia would be reductive. As the Los Angeles Times’ international correspondent Nabih Bulos says of the matter:

“To pretend that Hamas did this to be a spoiler of KSA-Israel normalization is just downright epic in its navel-gazing nonsense.”

What is important to always return to is that eternally governing line above everything: the low hum of constant occupation, and who has been causing its spikes. Israel’s government, its most far-right in its history, has been on the warpath almost immediately from its inauguration, with figures like Itamar Ben-Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich, now thrust to the forefront, doing everything large and small to provoke a Palestinian response. The hope is that the inevitable Palestinian response can mobilize the Israeli society, that it can be swiftly defeated by the Israeli military, and that the Israeli state can use such an opportunity to impose its sovereignty over what little of Palestine governed by Palestinians remains, and perhaps even what lies beyond it.

But that formula relies on the Palestinian side only accepting being provoked, themselves having no strategy of their own outside of firing rockets and yelling on television. Military occupation breeds a feeling of annihilation, but that annihilation is enclosed with it inevitable feelings of rabid and desperate hope, inspiring within irregular groups desires to try things never tried before. These are not always guaranteed to be successful: one may look at Aleppo when rebel groups managed to come together and break the siege on the city in the final stages of the battle, only for it to fall in the months to come anyway. Nevertheless, there is a real perception within Israel, communicated out to the world by its media and by its intelligentsia, that it is a nation on the verge of internal collapse, brought to the precipice by far-right forces it has let fester for decades without envisioning its eventual conclusion.

What does looking at how Israel is faring now communicate to Palestinian factions in Gaza? What do young people in Gaza, who make up 47% of the Strip’s population, imagine might lie ahead for them as they see these events unfold? What does a Hamas fighter imagine might be possible when, as the writer Josef Burton says, he exits a 25 by 7-mile space he’s never left in his entire life?

#reading #palestine #from the river to the sea 💗#I’ve debated caving and giving séamus my money many times before and today was like well. okay 👍🏻

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pricelessemotion · 2 months

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love is kinda crazy (with a spooky little boy like you) | E.M.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: [2.4k] eddie takes you on that halloween date. it doesn’t go quite like you expected.

warnings: pure fluff, a little awkward date shenanigans, r is described as having frizzy hair and wearing prescription glasses, r also has an (unnamed) sister

a/n: ah! i’ve been dying to write and post a part two for this fic since halloween and i thought there was no better time to post it than now! happy valentine’s day 🖤

masterlist | part one

“There, perfect!” Your sister punctuates the end of her makeover with the snap of her powder compact and the flourish of a makeup brush.

You turn slowly, the pink cushioned stool a little wobbly under your unsteady frame. Your reflection looks comical, all blurred edges and wavy lines. Without your glasses, the bedroom vanity has turned into a funhouse mirror.

“What does it matter if I’m going on a date with him if I can barely see him?”

You don’t need glasses to know that she’s rolling her eyes. Even though you can’t quite see her, you can hear her exasperation in the way she’s loudly chewing her gum. “You’re going to the movies, you’re barely gonna be able to see him anyway. Besides, you’ll be able to see him when he’s close enough to kiss and that’s the whole point.”

You blink each eye one at a time, trying to gauge which one is better. Your left eye is slightly clearer, though the difference is negligible. “I think you’re severely overestimating my eyesight.”

“I think you’re severely underestimating my dating advice.” She blows a bubble, the view of her face becoming a bright pink smudge before it pops and she continues smacking. “Just trust me, it’ll all be fine.”

You do trust her. Even though she has spent the last two hours plucking and primping and preening, you want to take her advice. She’s not doing this to be condescending or controlling. She’s genuinely excited that you have a date, even more so that it’s with a living breathing human boy and not another library book.

You don’t have much experience. With dating, with seeing someone, with kissing someone. What it means to be dating someone versus what it means to be seeing someone. What you’re supposed to do when you kiss someone. I mean, are your lips supposed to be on top of each other or are they supposed to interlock like the teeth of a zipper? Yeesh, you didn’t even wanna think about how teeth and tongues factor into the equation.

These types of questions would usually be the kind that you would ask an older sister. You’ve just never had the bravery to say them out loud. Sure, you’ve watched romance movies and rewound and observed so much that you were afraid the tape in the VHS was going to break. And you’ve read enough romance that Ms. Marissa gives you side-eye when you pass the library’s reception desk. But there’s a difference between fiction and real life. A bridge you’ve yet to cross. You’re sure that you’re going to need all the help you can get.

So, you heed her advice. You let her spray you with enough Aquanet to try to keep the flyaways at bay. You let her paint your lips with a shimmery pink lip gloss that isn’t too sticky and tastes like vanilla. You don’t, however, let her see you sneak the thick frames into your bag for emergencies. If it were up to her, the frames would be set out with Thursday’s garbage and you’d be wearing contacts like everyone else in your age group.

She drops you off at The Hawk with another smack of her bubblegum and a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She barely waits for you to close the door of the station wagon before she’s speeding away, her Halloween plans including a keg, a pushup bra, and a slightly inebriated Steve Harrington.

Eddie’s easy to spot. His silhouette sticks out against the brick building, white shirt, black leather, and blue denim against a red background. He lights up when he sees you and it’s the first time you’ve understood the meaning of the phrase. Since you can’t quite see his face clearly, you’re paying extra attention to his body. The way he pushes off the wall to stand tall. The way his shoulders visibly relax. You bet that they could see his smile all way in Indianapolis.

“I know you’re usually supposed to give flowers on dates, but this is the best I could do.”

He presents an origami paper flower in the shape of a rose. It’s made from binder paper, evident by the familiar feel of it in your hands. The folds are a bit unsure. There’s evidence of it being undone and folded again with a cleaner precision, you can feel the wear and tear on the paper with your fingertips. You’re dumbfounded.

“Thank you,” You whisper, twirling the stem between your thumb and forefinger, watching the rosebud spin. “No one’s ever gotten me flowers before.”

“Never?” He gapes at you in apparent disbelief before he schools his expression. “Well then, I’m glad to be the first.” He offers his arm to you like a real gentleman and you take it.

The leather in the crook of his elbow is cold to the touch, but being in such close proximity you can feel the body heat radiating off of him.

“It’s a continuous marathon, so they’re showing movies all night. We can start with any one that you want.” He gestures up to the marquee above the concession stand. When you look up to the sign, the words might as well be written in Cyrillic the way the letters all blur together.

After a trip to the concessions stand, the two of you eventually settle on The Exorcist, which you had decided to cling to after Eddie’s nervous yet adorable rambling about which movie would be better to start with.

Horror movies are even scarier when you can’t tell what’s going on. It didn’t occur to you how much you relied on sight to be able to mentally prepare for jump scares. Eddie must think you’re a total wimp the way you practically leap out of your seat at every flash on the silver screen that accompanies a discordant string of violins.

You jump when you feel a hand brush your bicep, your arms flinging out. It’s much too late when you realize that intimate touch was Eddie trying to figure out if you were alright. The large Coke that Eddie had gotten–two straws because he said he didn’t wanna be presumptuous–the casualty of your fright. The flimsy lid pops off like it has nothing better to do and the dark brown liquid splashes over the arm of the seat right into Eddie’s lap.

Eddie recoils, half-jumping and half-hovering in his seat because he just got a handful of ice-cold soda in his crotch. The people behind you are jeering, grumbling about the disturbance and Eddie half-whispers fucking shit under his breath, in what you’re sure must be a mixture of disdain and disgust.

You pull napkins out of your purse and thrust them in Eddie’s direction before rushing out of the theater, chest heaving and eyes stinging.

It’s a wonder you don’t trip and fall on your way out. You’ve walked these dimly lit halls hundreds of times, so luckily instinct and muscle memory win out and you make it out of the theater mostly unscathed, just with a few bruises on each shoulder. Nothing compared to the mortification of what had happened inside.

Because it’s October in Indiana and you can’t seem to catch a break, it’s raining. Only every so slightly, but enough that you’d be soaked to the bone if you walked home thanks to your sister’s insistence that you dress for fashion and not function. You huddle close to the payphone, pondering if you have enough change to call around and get your sister to pick you back up because no way are you waking up your parents for this.

The doors to the theater creak open behind you and suddenly you’re not alone anymore. The biting cold chills you to the bone but it’s Eddie’s presence behind you that sets you on fire.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last hour and a half in the dark with your nerves on edge, but the tenderness in Eddie’s voice makes your throat constrict.

“I’m sorry,” You blubber. “I’m so embarrassed. I just wanted everything to be perfect and I ruined it.”

“Hey. Hey.” Eddie repeats himself more forcefully when you don’t meet his gaze the first time, “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s just a little soda. I’ll live.”

His fingers rub the back of your hands in a soothing motion. Back and forth, thumbs caressing the valleys between your knuckles. He’s close enough that his features are almost in focus. You still have to squint.

“You keep doing that.” He points his fingers toward your furrowed brow before mimicking the action on his own face. The finger is not accusatory, it just seems like Eddie likes to talk with his hands.

You sigh, a resigned and weary sound. “My sister convinced me that I shouldn’t wear my glasses.”

Eddie makes a face that you can’t quite discern in the dark before letting out a soft hmph! “Your sister kinda sounds a little mean.”

“She means well.” You defend, weakly. You love your sister to death but there are times that your differences become much too apparent and that leaves you with nothing to do but suffer the consequences. This is one of those times.

“Did you bring them with you?”

“Yeah,” You reach into your bag, finding the frames folded into one of the inner pockets.

Eddie takes them and puts them on you. “You keep doing that.” You murmur, a repeat of his earlier accusation. Now, though, you both know it’s in reference to him adjusting your glasses not just once but twice.

“It gives me an excuse to be close to you.”

You can see him with unrelenting clarity now. The little crinkles next to his eyes as he smiles warmly down at you. The way the slight breeze has carried the miserable drizzle under the theater awning. The way that drizzle clings to his curly hair like dewdrops on morning grass. You almost robbed yourself of all of this, and for what? Eddie knows what you look like.

“Y’know what I thought when I saw you yesterday?” Yesterday, when you had been wearing a witch hat on top of your frizzy hair and the same Coke bottle glasses that sit on the slope of your nose now. “I thought that you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I thought I made a fool outta myself and that you wouldn’t give me the time of day, not in a million years.”

“The whole scaredy cat schtick was quite endearing I must say.”

He nods seriously, just a slight hint of a smirk on his face. “I try my best.”

You look down at the seat of his pants. Sure enough, there’s a dark stain splashed right across his crotch.“Oh god. I'm so sorry. Again”

“What did I tell you about apologizing?”

“You didn’t say anything about apologizing.”

“Well then, this is me saying something. Stop apologizing. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“It looks like you pissed yourself,” You wail mournfully.

“Well, that definitely makes me feel better.” Eddie jests before he tugs you into his chest and plants his chin on top of your head.

You nuzzle your face into his sternum, appreciating the soft hiss he lets out when your cold nose touches his warm skin. You inwardly groan because, quite frankly, there’s nothing more embarrassing than running out of a nearly full movie theater the way that you did. The only thing more embarrassing than that, you think, is going back inside after having embarrassed yourself. You tell Eddie as much, with the reassurance that you don’t want the date to end and if he really wants to, you can go back inside and finish the movie. He’s already tugging you toward his van that’s parked on the other side of the street, saying the six words that make your night:

“I own The Exorcist on VHS.”

You spend the entire time back in the trailer park cuddled up having quiet conversation about gory practical effects over a bowl of microwaved popcorn. The closest he gets to kissing you is when you duck into his chest to hide and his lips brush your temple. He could’ve lived off of that single brush for the rest of his life if he had to.

When Eddie pulls up to your house later that night, he really does mean to give you an innocent kiss goodnight. The neighborhood is quiet, seeing as it’s probably been an hour since the children of Hawkins had fallen into their sugar-induced comas. He turns the engine off and shifts towards you, his smile both giddy and shy while he tells you that he had a really good time tonight. You mirror his expression and tell him the same. You both lean forward, chests rising and falling in tandem, noses brushing.

When you finally make it past the front door, your lips are swollen and your glasses are fogged up. You kick off your shoes and pad up the carpeted steps two at a time, racing to your bedroom window. When you turn on your lamp and look out to the tree-lined street, Eddie waves at you, his rings glinting in the streetlight. You wave back, watching the van disappear into the distance.

“Hey,” Your sister is leaning against the doorframe, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

“How’d it go?” You’re already slightly aware of the answer since she’s standing in front of you with a freshly washed face and hand-me-down pajamas instead of in an empty house in Loch Nora.

She shrugs noncommittally, “It was a bust.”

You hum in solemn solidarity, trying to tug the grin on your face into a much more situationally appropriate neutral expression. You feel for her and you don’t want to rub it in her face that you had such a good time, despite her advice. Unfortunately, you do not seem to have as much control over your facial muscles as you think you do. Your sister sees right through you, grabbing the purple throw pillow at the foot of the bed and launching it at your face telling you to shut up. You catch it before it has the chance to hit you, huffing with righteous indignation at her before the two of you collapse onto the bed in muffled laughter.

“So, how’d it go?” She whispers in your direction, mindful of your sleeping parents down the hall.

You trace your cupid’s bow, feeling the chapped and swollen skin for the hundredth time that night. You turn your head toward hers, readjusting your glasses when they slide down your nose.

“It was perfect.”

likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished 🖤

#eddie munson #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #stranger things #mimi wrote ✍️#poltergeists for sidekicks #love is kinda crazy (with a spooky little boy like you)

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browsethestacks · 1 year

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Interlocking Covers - Batman #112-117 (2021-2022)

Art by Jorge Molina

#Comics #DC Comics #Batman #Jorge Molina #Interlocking Covers #Art #DC #Original Art #Before And After

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sempersirens · 9 months

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a bird in your teeth, III

masterlist

summary: joel deals with the aftermath of a traumatic experience

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: 18+, mdni, neighbour!joel, age gap: reader is early-mid 20s, joel early 30s. no break-out. reference to past SA, trauma, nightmares, general symptoms of PTSD. eventual smut

a/n: hello lovelies! slightly longer part ahead. i've decided to make the next part the final installment of this mini-series, i wanted to explore some more intimate aspects between joel and reader that didn't quite fit here. i hope you enjoy! <3

word count: 3.5k

The sweet chirping of birdsong felt like Mother Nature was playing a cruel joke on you as you stood on the side of the street, arms hugged tightly around yourself. You felt as though the birds were laughing down at you, cackling at your wretched state, sharing an inside joke at your expense. As dawn drew in, her rosy fingers pulled at the remnants of the night's sky. The beauty of the orange and pink hues was wasted on you. To you, it served as a reminder that even as a new day rolled in, the memories swarming your mind wouldn't fade quite as swiftly.

When Joel's truck came hurtling towards you, all notion of time had faded away. You couldn't tell if seconds, hours, or even days had passed since you had lowered your phone from your face. Fifty dawns and dusks could've gone by for all you cared.

The heat from your pumping heart manifested into a blush that crept up your cheeks, and the consequence of your damsel-in-distress phone call settled in your gut.

Joel was here. You had called him, and he had come.

"What happened?" His expression was stern, hair disheveled, and flannel shirt almost comically misbuttoned. You would've laughed if you could remember how.

He grazed your bloody lip with this thumb.

"Sweetheart, what happened?"

"This was a mistake..." You became aware of his hands now on your arms. "Please, don't touch me."

The words tumbling out of your mouth must've sounded as limp and pathetic as you felt. Joel's eyes softened into confusion, and then concern. You didn't have the energy to pull away, but you couldn't bring yourself to look him in the eye anymore. You feared his gaze would open every locked door inside of you and allow the mess to collapse onto him.

He said your name, softly, removing you from his grip and opening the passenger door.

"Let me take you home."

As you had done all night, you silently obliged. Joel guided you into the truck, his hand hovering over the crown of your head. He closed the door gently and made his way into the driver's seat, starting the ignition in silence. Was he angry? You couldn't work it out. His knuckles were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel they had turned white.

"Joel, please don't be angry with me."

"I'm not angry. I'm taking you back to my place, gonna get you cleaned up, and then when you're ready..."

"Is Sarah okay?" You interrupted.

"Sound asleep. I gotta take her to school in a coupl'a hours, but I'll come straight back to you."

This wasn't right. You shook your head in soft defiance, staring at your lap where your hands sat, fingers interlocked. As you thought of all the trouble you had caused him, you noticed your thumbnails digging into your hands so sharply that you had drawn blood. You turned your palms shakily onto your bare thighs to hide the fresh droplets.

"Honey, where are your shoes?"

Joel's soft inquiry snapped you out of your trance; you hadn't even realized you'd left those fucking cowboy boots on the bedroom floor in your rush out of the front door.

"I left them... I-I didn't think to..." Your breathing became erratic again, chest heaving with each rise and fall feeling like a weight was crushing into your ribcage.

"Hey, hey hey. Breathe. You're with me. You're safe with me, you know that." He reached across your lap and squeezed your still interlocked hands, filling his lungs with air and then exhaling slowly through his mouth like he was a midwife guiding you through childbirth.

You copied his rhythmic breaths, focusing on the emerging purple colors now littering the sky. It was cruel for the sky above you to be so warm and inviting.

You wished for an English February; for thick layers of ice coating the ground with black ice hidden underneath. You wanted it to be the cold that had caused your muscles to freeze, or the harshness of a dry wind to be clawing down your throat. You wished you could blame the weather for the way your body was reacting.

Of all people, you didn't want Joel to see you as weak. You internally reprimanded yourself for pulling him out of his home, away from his daughter to come and save you. Your body and soul had never taken to relying on others easily. Who had you become? You were supposed to be strong. You moved across the world all by yourself, for god's sake.

"What's goin' on in that head of yours?"

"Everything."

The remainder of the journey was silent.

Joel pulled into his driveway, soon exiting the truck and jogging to your side to help you out.

"Easy, darlin'."

He carried your handbag on one arm and looped the other to support your waist. With his free hand, he unlocked the door and closed it quietly behind him.

"Sarah's not gonna be up for another couple hours, you go make yourself comfortable in my bedroom, I'll bring everything y'need."

You gave him a pathetic nod before traipsing up the stairs you had watched Sarah scurrying up only six hours ago. Despite your years of friendship with the Millers, you had never actually gone into Joel's bedroom. You had snuck a peek or two inside whenever the door was left ajar if you passed on your way to the bathroom, but had never set foot inside.

His bedsheets were haphazardly thrown back, half dangling onto the carpeted floor. The fan on his dresser was still humming, sending ripples through his pillowcases. You were reluctant to make yourself at home as he had instructed, so perched on the edge of his bed eyeing the posters dotted on his walls. His bedroom looked like it hadn't changed since his 20s, reminding you of how young he must've been when he started a new life to bring up Sarah in a home he could call his own.

Joel appeared at the door, shutting it softly behind him. He was balancing a steaming mug and a first aid kit in one hand, and some pillows from the sofa under his other arm. He set the mug down on the nightstand beside his bed. Tears swelled in the corner of your eyes at what you recognized as the Yorkshire Tea he kept stocked in the cupboard, especially for you.

"Want you to sit back and get real comfy, alright?"

"Okay."

You hesitantly lifted your legs to rest on the bed, shuffling backward towards the headboard. Joel set the first aid kit at the foot of the bed and leaned over to place the pillows behind your back.

"That okay?"

You nodded your head without looking directly at him.

Wordlessly, Joel walked around to the other side of the bed, setting himself down with a barely audible groan. He brought the first aid kit into his lap and started sifting through the contents.

"You mind if I take a look at your lip?"

"No. I mean - that's fine."

You parted your lips slightly, Joel's fingers lifting your chin up towards him.

"Washed m'hands, promise."

He pulled your bottom lip down to inspect the wound, cleaning the now-dried blood from your chin. The silence in his bedroom made his touch even more intense. You'd felt his hand on your waist, or accidentally brush past your bare skin now and then, but this... You had never been touched by anybody like this before. His eyebrows were furrowed tightly as he put all of his focus into handling you with care.

You had been with your fair share of guys before; boyfriends, one-night-stands, whatever. But the way you felt under Joel's gaze in this moment, holding your chin between his thumb and index finger, made you feel like nobody had ever truly touched you before. Like you were brand new. It made you want to sob. You had to start regulating your breathing again to prevent your lip from wobbling, shattering your impenetrable exterior.

"M'I hurtin' you?"

Finding courage hidden somewhere deep inside of you, you leveled your gaze with his. This close to his face, you could've sworn you saw his pupils dilate.

"No. It's fine, thank you."

"You're doin' so well, honey. Keep breathin' for me." He moved his thumb to stroke your jaw as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Joel."

"Don't say that. This ain't your fault."

"How can you say that? You don't even know what happened."

"Don't need to. But, I'd be grateful if you'd be so kind as t'fill me in."

You sucked a breath in and brought your knees up to your chest. The birds outside the window began mocking you with their song again.

"You get in a fight? W'that friend of yours who picked you up earlier?"

Oh god. He really had no clue.

"No, nothing like that."

"Somethin' while you were out? Sweetheart, someone had t'have busted your lip like that?"

"I said no."

"So what, you don't remember? You taken somethin'? You're scarin' me, darlin'."

He was pleading. It was dripping all over his face, this deep despair searching your features for the answers your voice couldn't quite give him.

"No, I do. I mean- I said it, I said no. To a guy. O-one second I was falling asleep and then... he was just there, Joel. He appeared out of nowhere. I thought he had gone home. And I was saying no but he was all over me. He was everywhere."

Hot tears were streaming down your cheeks, a dichotomy of relief and anguish flooding through your veins so intensely that any hope of maintaining a stoic facade had long washed away.

You didn't make a sound as you sobbed. Your entire body jerked with each breath, snot ungraciously dripping onto your upper lip. It didn't matter. Joel wrapped you into him without hesitation, your face nestled against his shoulder. He rocked you in his arms, back and forth, back and forth. Your sobs intensified into his t-shirt, eyes squeezed shut. You could feel the tears clinging onto the material, but all he did was hold you tighter.

"Oh, baby girl. It's okay, I got you. I got you now."

"I'm so sorry, Joel." You choked the words out.

"Don't you dare apologize. You let everythin' go. Give all that hurt t'me. I'll take it for you."

Joel pulled you into his lap, your legs collapsed underneath you. He placed a hand on either side of your face, holding you inches away from his own. He had never seen you like this. It shattered his damn heart. He had to keep blinking to fend off his own tears.

“You did the right thing, callin’ me.”

Every inch of him wanted to go back in time to you lingering in the doorway and ask you to stay the night. Hell, he would've gone back to that first time he saw you and taken you in his arms like a sailor returning home from years at sea. The only reason he'd even had the courage to turn up at your front door, mumbling something about burgers, was because Sarah had caught him peeking at you through the curtains for the first few days of you moving in. If you like her so much, why don't you ask her on a date? She had asked so innocently. But she was right; it was that simple. He fired up the grill before straightening himself up and jogging across the street. A Glenn Campbell record had been echoing through your house, something he found even more endearing when he was struck by that accent of yours.

He wanted to tell you that the reason none of his first dates made it to a second was because none of them were you. He was setting these poor women up to fail; how could they ever compete with you?

But right now, you were here. Safe in his arms. He was going to do everything in his power to bring that light back into your eyes.

An hour or so passed like that. You pressed against his chest, falling in and out of a dreamless sleep, Joel's fingers grazing soothing patterns on your arm.

The sound of Sarah's bedroom door closing jolted you awake.

"Ssh, it's okay. S'just Sarah getting ready t'head out. Gimme a minute to go say good mornin'."

You nodded in response, mustering a small smile.

You felt tiny alone in his bed, the absence of his body leaving you feeling hollow. You pulled the covers up to your chin and drew you knees up to your chest, dreading to think what Joel would tell Sarah. She called me in the middle of the damn night, what was I s'posed to do? Maybe she'll get the hint and leave. Imagined narratives swarmed your mind.

Why was it so hard for you to accept his help?

"Oh my god," you gasped, sitting up. "Daisy."

In your state, you had left her there all alone. Mark seemed like a nice enough guy, but didn't they all?

You reached for your handbag hanging off of Joel's door handle and searched for your phone.

14 missed calls. You tapped your foot against the floor anxiously as the dialing tone sounded.

"Moooornin' Ms. Cocktease. How's ya head?" She chirped, the relief that engulfed you allowed your body to slack back onto the bed.

"I am so glad to hear your voice." You breathed.

"That's romantic. You gonna tell me what had you scurrying off in such a hurry at 3am? Y'left your damn boots behind."

"I was... really worried about missing my 9am. It's with my thesis supervisor."

"Sweetheart, a love you but you gotta learn to relax once in a while. Let off some steam! Unclench your jaw, woman."

"I know, I know. I'll work on it."

"How'd you get home, anyway?"

"Oh, um. I called a cab."

"I feel like you're lyin', and I intend to find out what's goin' on. I swear to god if you're fuckin' that old man I'm not gonna know whether to be proud or-"

"Listen, babe, I'm glad you had a good night. Give me all the gritty details over coffee tomorrow?"

"Oh fine. Enjoy your meeting."

The line disconnected as Joel re-entered the room.

"Hey, sweetheart. I'm gonna drop Sarah to school, but I'll be right back. Need me to pick you anythin' up from your place?"

"No, that's okay. I should get out of your hair-"

"I'll be right back."

He walked over and placed a kiss on the top of your head.

---

Joel couldn't concentrate for the entire drive back to his place. He had to pass the street he had picked you up from hours prior to get to and from Sarah's school. The image of you standing there so broken, now knowing exactly why, filled him with grief for the version of you he knew and adored. He wished he had known there and then what you had endured. He knew how strong and capable you were of looking after yourself, so he had to fight every urge to raid each block of flats along the street to find the guy who had done this to you.

He flexed his knuckles back and forth over the steering wheel, forcing himself to go straight home. Back to you. However you decided to deal with this, whether it be today or in five years' time, he would be behind you.

What he would do to find that pathetic excuse for a man, that boy, and slowly take each finger off that he had dared to touch you with. He would make him hurt in ways he didn't even know he could feel pain.

Joel's mind flicked back to the image of you breaking down in his arms and he sucked a breath in to steady himself. He wished he could take all of your pain away and alter the course of the last six hours to have you waking up in his arms unscathed.

He returned home to find you curled up asleep in his bed sheets. He crept under the cover next to you, about to pull you back into his arms when you started thrashing your arms and legs.

"No, stop!" You murmured, still fast asleep.

"Sweetheart, it's me. Hey, hey, hey. It's me. It's Joel." He spoke, holding your face between his hands to try to coax you out of your nightmare.

"Wake up, darlin'. You gotta wake up. It's me, you're safe."

Your eyes finally widened, consumed with fear and confusion. You searched your surroundings and backed away from Joel's grip, still calculating where you were and what the threat was.

"You're okay. Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby."

"Joel... I'm sorry, I-"

"Stop apologizing, I'm sorry. I didn't mean t'scare you, honey."

You sat in silence for a few minutes, slowing your breathing back down and ridding the sound of blood pumping in your ears.

"Do you mind if I have a bath, please?"

"Anything. I'll run you one now. Sarah has some o'that fancy girl soap if you want?"

You smiled softly.

"Sure, that sounds nice. Thank you, Joel."

Before heading to the bathroom, he placed a small kiss on your forehead, lingering with his lips on your skin for longer than he had before. Your eyes fluttered closed as you listened to his footsteps out of the bedroom.

Part of you was desperate to scrub away Elijah's touch until your skin was raw. But, another part of you didn't want Joel's smell to fade from you. In his arms his scent had consumed you, replacing the smell of your laundry detergent with his.

You squeezed your eyes tightly and shook your head.

Stop this. You're projecting onto him. He's looking out for you out of the kindness of his heart and you're taking advantage of it.

You tried to distract yourself from the fixating on the feeling of Joel's lips against your skin by shedding last night's clothes and replacing them with his dressing gown. Which of course also stunk of him. Great.

"S'ready." He called.

Catching sight of you in his dressing gown, Joel had to remind himself to close his mouth.

"Suits you." He smiled.

The bathwater was obscenely pink, bubbles almost escaping over the side of the tub.

Joel stood uneasily as you smiled at the domesticity of the scene.

"I'll give ya some privacy. Make myself busy downstairs. You just holler if y'need me, alright?"

"Joel, wait. Would you... it's stupid."

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Would you sit with me? I really don't want to be alone."

Joel’s response came so quickly you didn’t even have time to feel bad for being so forward.

"Of course I will. You get yourself comfortable, I'll wait outside the door."

You discarded his dressing gown onto the floor, sinking into the warm tub. You ran some more hot water, feeling unsatisfied until the water was hot enough to leave your skin red wherever it touched.

"Come in." You called, your torso submerged underneath the bubbles with just your collarbones and toes poking out of the pink waters.

Under any other circumstance, he would've dropped to his knees by the side of the tub and told you that he had never seen someone look so perfect before. Your flushed cheeks and hair bundled behind your head against the tiles made Joel feel like he was staring at an oil painting in a gallery.

He adored you. Fuck it, he was in love with you. From the very beginning.

Joel lowered himself onto the closed toilet seat, arms resting on his knees.

"Temperature okay?" Was all he could muster.

"I added a bit more hot, I hope that's okay."

"You women and your damn hot water." He teased. "S'absolutely fine, honey."

Neither of you spoke for a little while, you rested your head back and soaked in Joel's protective presence.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

"Of course, Joel."

"Did he..."

"No. It's funny actually, he couldn't get it up." You said dryly.

"But he tried?"

"Yeah, he tried."

"I'll kill him."

Joel's protectiveness overwhelmed you, feeling for the first time in your life that you had someone unconditionally in your corner. You lifted your arms from the water to cover your face in embarrassment, revealing finger-shaped bruises that had formed on both of your upper arms.

"Fuck," he breathed when he caught sight of the way you had been mistreated.

He knelt down beside the bathtub, gently pulling your hands away from your face.

"What can I do, honey?" He searched your face for an answer. "Tell me how to take all this away for you."

"Joel, you've done so much already. More than I could ever ask from you."

"I just wanna fix it."

By nature, Joel was a fixer. He patched up Sarah's knees and elbows after soccer games. He bailed Tommy out of jail more times than he would admit. Hell, he even fixed things for work. It was what he did.

"I want you to take me back there." You exhaled a breath you didn't realize you had been holding. "To the apartment. I need to go back."

"Y'sure that's a good idea?"

"I am. But I need to go in alone. I just want to know you'll be waiting outside for me if I need you."

"Sweetheart, I'll always come when you call."

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #my fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic #pedrostories #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #a bird in your teeth #a bird in your teeth fic #breakfastatjoels

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molinaskies · 8 months

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This cover is so important.

This is one of the retail incentive covers of IDW Sonic issue 1, 5th Anniversary Edition, illustrated by Adam Bryce Thomas and coloured by Reggie Graham. When I look at it, something about it tells a story to me, and that story is beautiful.

Sonic and Amy are at the Riverside Romp with Cream and Vanilla, but the rabbits are clearly giving them some space while doing their own thing.

Riverside is the town where Sonic and Amy meet for the first time in the comic series. The archway that holds the sign is also one of the decaying legs from Eggman’s crab mech, the first mech they fight together. Riverside is incredibly symbolic to them both, like how Never Lake would be in the games.

Their journey started rocky at Riverside. They couldn’t see eye-to-eye and had different approaches to how they both could help restore the world after the war. And yet, they still fully respected each other, dishing out compliments and praise and a desire to work together (in different ways). Amy even professes her love for Sonic and vows to him that she never wants to change him, and he bashfully asks her to stay with him in return. They cared for each other, loved each other, immensely then, and now, they’ve chosen to return to Riverside stronger as a pair and as individuals.

Sonic and Amy spend their day together, but they’re both their own people. Amy fawns over the sweets and the loving decorations while Sonic ogles a chilidog. They both indulge in their interests, but close together. One doesn’t need to be exactly like the other, and neither of them want that for the other. As long as they know the other’s there and always will be, that’s all they need. Being their own people despite their connection is what strengthens their bond, because the admiration they have for each other and their differences is so high.

But then, they still want to be together. They dance and cheer with interlocked fingers while sparks fly between their hearts. Cherry blossom petals sway around them, delighting in new beginnings and young love. Sonic and Amy compliment each other, bringing out the brighter sides of theirs souls. Amy’s having the time of her life, living in the moment knowing that Sonic is there with her now and always. But, beautifully, Sonic’s living the moment with with her, taking in her excitement and beauty. He usually doesn’t allow himself the pleasure, but he can’t help it, now.

Sonic and Amy have such a deep understanding of each other that it transcends language. They are in love, and I am in love with them.

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brother-emperors · 3 months

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for enjoyers of rome and comics:

Les Aigles de Rome (The Eagles of Rome) by Enrico Marini is set in first century CE Rome and it’s a fucking visual and narrative delight. It’s like taking a bite of a delicious meal, the story arc and interpersonal character drama combined with the density of life in the backgrounds makes each page a fantastic time.

Dead Romans by Fred Kennedy & Nick Marinkovich. Also set in the early Roman Empire! My feelings for this one are a little more complicated, but it there’s a sort of Hollywood movie appeal to the plot, and the illustrative work of the comic is stunning, a visual feast for the eyes and worth checking out for that alone.

Cléopâtre, la reine fatale by Thierry Gloris & Joël Mouclier. Dramatic spectacle, drama, delicious visuals, and I'm kind of obsessed with the visual tone of it. The character interactions and snapshot glimpses into the interlocking relationships everyone has are honestly a high point for me with this one.

#i meant to do this like. oof. last year. anyway! comics. behold. there you go #mark antony in the cleopatra comic is fun. brutus is having an existential crisis and antony's like cool. i could blow you if you'd like #rec tag #book club tag #i may or may not lock this post from reblogs so if i do. the tag is book club tag for recs. as a future reference

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sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year

Text

Ghost of Christmas Past

[Ghost x Reader]

Warnings: Implications of Ghost’s past (spoilers, in a way), fluff, FLUFF, angst for maybe 3 seconds (very brief), Reader being the best™ gift giver ever, Ghost being a little jealous, implications of romance, no pronouns used for reader except ‘You’.

Wordcount: 1,892

Summary: You try to get everyone into the Christmas spirit and show your love and appreciation, but not everyone seems willing to enjoy the festivities...

You stood watching everyone watching you, a comically large smile making your cheeks ache. Beside you sat a bag, woven with a stiff material and bulging in certain areas, some sharp, some round. The common room was vaguely decorated to resemble a sliver of Christmas, some streamers hung by nails and a wall hanging of reindeer.

"So?" Alejandro said, arms crossed over his chest and a smile threatening to break out across his face. "What did you call us all here for?"

"Good question, my shiny-haired friend!" Alejandro smoothed back his hair, a smug look crossing his features. You wanted to build suspense. You eyed everyone, gaze shifting from soldier to soldier, friend to friend. At the very edge of your vision loomed a figure who hadn't spoken all day. Your eyes passed over him, his stare, holding it there before flitting away.

"Come on, (Y/N)!" wailed Soap, throwing his hands up in the air. "Tell us what's going on! It's obviously something to do with that sack you bloody well made me carry here since you couldn't do it yourself."

His tone was joking, but what he said wasn’t a joke; he and everyone else already had a delighted suspicion that what lay in your bag was a rare delicacy in the force.

Presents.

You couldn't hold it for much longer. You cracked.

"Alright, alright! You win," You bent down and opened the sack, keeping the mouth wide open. Taking a step back you looked expectantly at everyone.

The boys just looked at each other, seeming to exchange their uncertainty. You sighed loudly, reached into the sack and withdrew a brightly-coloured something coated in wrapping paper. "They're gifts!" You said, making an excited motion with your free hand. "For you!"

Some went slack-jawed, followed by cheers and ‘thank you’s, a swarm of large men encircling you. Others showed stoic appreciation with a brief hum and a barely-contained smile (Price).

Despite their shadows encapsulating you, the room felt brighter, light. Cheery. Someone ruffled your hair, another picked you up and twirled you in their arms. When you regained your footing and the room stopped spinning, you smiled. Then faltered as you noticed a shadow of a man still sticking to the wall, not having moved since everyone first arrived.

"They're all marked with nametags so don't go opening anyone else's presents!" you called back to the group, trying not to let Ghost’s dark stare freeze you or your Christmas spirit.

"Presents - plural?" John's soft accent piqued, showcasing a childlike excitement usually stamped out by the very foundations the likes that the 141 worked for.

You nodded, and the room seemed to brighten more.

"And this is why you're my favourite soldier," said Price, patting your shoulder.

"Aw, that's not fair," said Gaz, smirking. "I thought I was your favourite."

"That was before (Y/N) showed some initiative."

Between the conversations, the rustling of wrapping paper, the passing of gifts, Ghost's silence drew you to him. The complete vacancy of his presence was...eerie compared to the joviality filling the room. You looked at each other, gaze interlocked, unable to look away. You offered him a smile, your heart pounding as it always did when Ghost was near.

The sound of tearing paper drew your attention away from him. Tailing it was a gasp.

There stood Alejandro, mouth agape and eyes wide with wonder. In his hands lay a jumper. But not just any jumper.

"This is-"

"A genuine, signed, 1986 limited edition The Who concert jumper ," you finished. You'd hand-picked each and every present, tracked them down and emptied your bank account to ensure that they came to the right people, their true forever homes.

Alejandro didn't say anything - couldn't say anything. He took broad steps towards you and threw his arms around you, pulling you tight against him. Warmth spread through you, filling you. You felt like a lava lamp long after Alejandro pulled away and pressed a soft kiss to your hair.

It might have been your imagination, but you swore you could see Ghost's grip on his forearms tighten, the fabric of the sleeve bunching.

After seeing how made up Alejandro was with his gift, everyone else tore into theirs. A wave of gasps and proclamations of "Just what I've always wanted!" and “Where did you get this?!”, followed by more ‘thank you’s and hugs filled the room. Soap got a vintage hardback collector's edition of Dracula, Gaz received a candyfloss maker (which he seemed marginally embarrassed about yet entirely grateful for), and Price, shocking no-one, received combat boots. Steel-toed, banned in 93 countries, super grip, compartmentalised combat boots. You showed him the secret sections in the heel and wherever else, perfect for hiding whatever suited him at the time.

The room buzzed with ecstaticity.

"Ghost!" Soap called, "Come and 'ave a look!"

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Oh no.

Ghost shifted, pushing off the wall and taking slow steps towards the sack. The room quietened as he drew closer, watching expectantly with bated breath. The reveal of the present would be an indicator of Ghost's nature, his wants and desires.

Or, that was what everyone thought would happen. Everyone but you.

Ghost's eyes remained half-lidded, as if he were trying to hide something behind the guise of disinterest. He peered over the lip of the sack. His demeanour didn't change.

There was nothing left inside.

When it became clear that Ghost wasn't reaching inside not out of stage fright but out of a sheer lack of need to, everyone turned to look at you. Rather than displeasement or anger, there was...confusion?

You looked at Ghost, not wanting to face the crowd behind you. But that made it no easier to face the behemoth before you. His eyes almost didn't meet yours. He was unreadable and unequivocally terrifying.

The room tensed, air thickening like lard. You had to cut the silence. Act now.

"Ghost," you squeaked, voice thin and weak. "Step outside with me for a minute, please?"

After what may have been deliberation, he gave a slight nod, and with you power-walking ahead and throwing open the door, followed behind.

He wouldn't admit it, but he felt embarrassed. He hadn't expected to receive any gifts this year, as he'd never received one any other year, but something about being excluded made something in him stir. Uncomfortably.

His childhood had been a piss-poor one, each Christmas a punishment rather than a time for celebration, a reminder that he had nothing while every other child had something whether it be gifts, love, or just a family.

The door closed behind him, drawing him from his contemplation. His hulking form cast a long shadow over you. You swallowed thickly, then turned to look at him.

"I-"

"Did I upset you."

Ghost's question (or statement), oddly genuine, took you off-guard.

"N-no!" you said.

"Then what inspired you to display your disliking of me so publicly." This wasn't a question. It was an interrogation.

"Ghost, you've done nothing to upset me." You wafted your hands in front of you as if trying to clear the tension thickening around you, suffocating you.

"Then explain that little stunt of yours-"

"I'm trying!" Your voice came out much louder than you'd wanted it to and you knew that the boys had heard it, too. You cleared your throat and looked down.

"Sorry," you mumbled. You reached behind you and, from beneath your shirt, you withdrew a package. It was neatly wrapped as all the others were, but this one was different. It had ribbon tied around it, creating a neat little bow at the peak. An envelope was held against the present by the ribbon.

"This is for you," you said, quietly. Your eyes flitted from Ghost's eyes, trying to gauge his reaction, to the present, scanning it for imperfections.

Too late to turn back now.

"I didn't want it getting squished or hurt by the other presents, so I kept it safe with me."

Ghost said nothing for a moment. Then: "You've had that up your shirt all day?"

He wouldn't admit it, but the urge to hold the package, to feel your phantom warmth radiating from it, flashed in his mind.

You nodded, swallowing.

"I didn't want to embarrass you by having everyone else asking you questions about..." you motioned with the package.

You held it out to Ghost, the weight of all it implicated too much for you to bear anymore. Your face burned under Ghost's gaze and silent judgement.

He seemed to hesitate, or rather made no attempt to retrieve the gift he was not yet certain was truly for him. Was this some cruel joke? The second chapter of a novel of cruelties you had bestowed upon him as his true gift?

You gulped, then decided to take some initiative, as Price had said. You reached for Ghost's hand and slipped the package into it.

“I didn’t get you anything.” Ghost said. It came out before he could stop it, as if dissuading you from giving him the gift. You just smiled.

“Doesn’t matter.” You folded your hands behind your back. “Merry Christmas, my favourite ghoul.” You cast Ghost one last soulful, smiling look before retreating into the common room, shutting the door behind you.

Your scent followed, vaguely tingling in Ghost's nose, just permeating the fibres of his mask.

He looked down at the package in his hands. It felt soft, malleable. Curiosity nipped at him, a branch of hope, something Ghost had long since assumed to be dead alongside the rest of him.

With mechanical hands, he pulled on one of the ends of the bow, watching the ribbon unfurl. He kept ahold of the card in one hand and undressed the package.

Soft material lay amongst the second skin. Upon closer inspection, Ghost saw that they were gloves. He moved onto the card. His breath caught in his throat as he read it.

To Ghost,

I remember you saying that your hands always got "bastarding cold" during missions, so I wanted to try and stop you complaining all the time, hahaha (I'm joking)!

Anyway, I took up three months' worth of crocheting classes to make these, so I hope you'll find some use for them!

Thank you for always looking out for me us,

Merry Christmas!

Love From (Y/N) x

Ghost looked over his shoulder, expecting you to be there. When he saw he was truly alone, he allowed the warmth exploding in his chest to hold his cheeks as he imagined you would, your hands soft and warm.

The icy loneliness of the Christmases he'd endured every year before now felt a little less daunting, the phantoms of his past unable to penetrate the shield you'd cast around him.

The human touches, the love and consideration you'd poured into these gloves, was palpable, as if you would be holding his hand every time he wore them. And every time he would wear them, he'd hear you, see you, feel you with him, soothing him in a way nothing and no-one else ever had.

Ghost re-entered the room soon after that. And beneath his heavy-duty, military-issue gloves, were yours, warm and snug against his skin, flesh beneath his shell.

Your eyes caught his, a shock of electricity fired between you. Something unspoken, but budding.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

I made the collage for the post, but I don't own the pictures (screaming and crying)

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #cod ghost x reader #mw2 ghost x reader #mw2 fanfic #cod mw2 fanfic #mw2 x reader #cod mw2 ghost #cod mw2

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detachedminxsfics · 1 year

Text

Punishment

Masterlist

Characters: Negan x Saviour F!Reader, Simon, The Saviours

Summary: Negan doesn't like sharing his stuff, so much so that you just earned yourself a place on your knees and a job to do, and he doesn't stop for anything, or anyone.

Word count: 3.2K

Warnings: NSFW - Oral (m recieving), exhibitionism elements, authority kink, comic accurate foul mouthed negan, negan referring to himself as daddy bc why not, praise, degradation, dirty talk, dom negan

A/N: Haven't managed to get any writing done for a while because my brain just wasn't working with me, but this slutty little idea popped into my brain the other night and I was asked to make this as dirty as possible, so here goes nothing. Also, I have never wrote m recieving oral before, so I apologise in advance.

One of his black leather boots tapped idly against the concrete flooring, his hands interlocked and his chin perched on top as he watched you, elbows propped on the table and his eyes burning holes into you. Lucille was carefully laid in front of him, his gloves however strewn on the table off to the side. It was like he was waiting for something, but he hadn't said a word since he had one of the saviours come to fetch you and muttered for you to take a seat. Better yet, considering Negan wasn't one for long uncomfortable silences, his mouth always running even at the wrongest times, you were in some deep, deep shit.

"Do you know why you're here, sweetheart?" The pet name did little to lessen the cold, warning hint to his tone, a word usually meant with such affection practically dripping with poison.

You opened your mouth to speak but he swiftly unlocked his hands and raised one to interrupt you.

"That shit was rhetorical. You know damn well why your pretty little ass is here, and you are well aware of the little stunt you pulled."

You had to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes at the realisation of what had frustrated him so much that he went out of his way to call you into the meeting room. You'd grown quite fond of one of the saviours you were often grouped up with, and having done a few supply runs together by now, you were pretty comfortable. Comfortable enough to place your hand on their arm whilst the two of you cracked jokes and took a smoke break in the courtyard, the walkers entrapped in the metal fence behind you making a racket all the while. And though faint, you immediately sensed it. Eyes on you, watching you, eyes fixed on your every movement. You glanced to identify the observer, and there he was. The man himself. He was at the top of the steps, the door behind him one of the entrances to the second level of the sanctuary, or more famously, his catwalk. He was leaning on the railings, his eyes filling with something dark as he shot you a glare before he practically tore them from you and headed back inside, his usual saunter replaced by a riled pace of heavy footing.

"God Negan, we were just talking."

You wanted to calm him down, truly, but you couldn't help yourself. The sense of ownership and possessiveness over you he exuded was intoxicating, and tempting. You wanted to see what would happen if you teased him, what buttons you could push to make him tick, and how far he would go. After all, you and Negan were amidst a rather dysfunctional state of affairs. You weren't married to him, weren't one of his kind of prized possessions that pranced around in a little black dress and gave him massages if he asked. No, you were a fling. The first time had happened in this very room when he asked you to hang back after one of the usual meetings to ensure operations were running smoothly. What started as mild, innocent flirting turned to your back pressed against the long wooden table taking up the centre of the room, your legs propped on his shoulders as he thrust into you so hard you forgot how to breathe. You weren't ashamed to admit that he had fucked you in a way you'd never even thought possible, thus, you kept coming back for more. And so did he. In the front of one of the loading vans, on his bed, his leather sofa, the coffee table across from it, hell even one of the cells in the hallway. You couldn't get enough of each other, but you weren't exclusive. Although, Negan seemed to think otherwise.

"Is that so? Cause I caught the way you had your hands all over that worthless sack of shit, and it kinda felt a lot like you were doin' it just to piss me off."

"So what if I was?"

Silence fell, your words thickening the air whilst you made the mistake of narrowing your eyes enough to the point where you were shooting him daggers. His jaw clenched for a moment or two before he kissed his teeth, slightly leaning in so that he could close some of the space between you.

"You know that bratty little mouth of yours was always bound to get you in the deepest of shit someday."

And then he smiled. It unnerved you, the sudden grin as he enthused about whatever it was he had in store for you, and then leaned back in his chair, his legs spreading a little further apart as he did.

"Lucky for me, and not so fortunately for you, today is that fine day. So, I'm gonna need you on your knees."

It was humiliating the way you complied so eagerly, sliding off of your chair and sinking to your knees the very second he had finished making his demand, eyes trained on him as you awaited his next order. Your ardour drew a small pleased chuckle from his throat, only encouraging him to continue.

"Crawl to me, baby. Right here." He beckoned in a strange mixture that amounted to a soft demand, but a command nonetheless.

He paired his words with a brief point to the space on the floor below him, under the table. You flattened your palms against the cool concrete floor and began to crawl, not slow enough to make him impatient, but taking enough time to leave him with heavy, bated breath. Your own breath got that much more unsteady when you reached the space between his legs, and his fingers started to fiddle with the buckle of his belt.

"Now you are gonna stuff that pretty little mouth of yours full of cock because you don't seem to understand who exactly it is that you belong to, and who the hell it is that you're damn well talking to. Got it, darlin'?"

God, you loved him like this. His hazel eyes swirling with all the dark, twisted shit he wanted to do to you, tongue momentarily darting out to wet his bottom lip as he looked you over like you were good enough to eat.

"Yes, sir." You replied knowing the total subservience would only turn him on that much more.

The way you addressed him made him screw his eyes shut for a moment, a small grunt erupting from his throat at the mere use of the word. His belt rested loosely on either side of his fly, and he was tugging down the zipper of his jeans and pulling himself free in an instant. You smoothed your hands up his knees and over his thighs ready to lean forward when the feel of his open palm cupping your jaw stopped you.

"Easy now," he cooed as the hand turned to fingers cupping your chin, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip and slightly dragging it downward, "c'mon, give daddy some sugar first."

The interjection for the sake of wanting to press his lips against yours made you giggle, your hands still resting against his thighs allowing you to lean up and do as he said, your lips crashing against one another's hungrily. The feel of his tongue slipping into your mouth made you moan, as did the hand that wrapped around your throat as he stole your air in more ways than one. With Negan so occupied with your mouth, the opportunity presented itself, your hand sneaking down to his crotch before closing around his shaft, the feel of your hand pressed over his cock making him groan into your open mouth and faintly tighten the grip on your throat. You started to move your hand up and down his shaft whilst you carefully took his bottom lip between your teeth, nipping it a little before you let it go, and then kissed over where you had bit. When you drew back he was gazing at you with half-lidded eyes, lips parted as he breathed almost as heavily as you were, and a devilish smile soon appearing on his frequented lips.

"Go on then, wrap those pretty lips 'round daddy's cock."

You bit down on your bottom lip and settled back down to the space between his legs, the hard surface below stinging your knees whilst you leaned in and ran your tongue over the swollen tip, beads of precum gathering along your tongue as you did. Then, you slipped him into your mouth, taking him further and further until you were swallowing every damned inch.

"Fuuuck." Negan drawled as he threw his head back slightly, the feel of your throat alone enough to have him reach under the table and slip his fingers into your hair, fingers combing through the strands while you moved your head up and down, your tongue flattened against the underside of his shaft as you practically choked on him.

Then like some cursed nightmare, the door to the meeting room swung open. You immediately rushed to move off of him, but the hand he'd been running through your hair gathered some of your hair in his hand and pushed your head back down. You gave his thigh a few pats to signal that you were no longer alone in case he hadn't noticed, but he simply tightened his grip on your hair and ignored you. His chair was tucked into the table rather tightly thank god, so you couldn't be seen, but you may still be heard. Much to your horror the room filled with the many footsteps of saviours and the sound of chairs scraping across the floor as they took their seats, the many shoes and legs appearing off to the side of you and behind you making you keep your arms tight to you and your legs close together with the fear of being spotted. Negan, however, was over the moon. Negan started speaking to the other saviours whilst you remained frozen underneath the table, trying to find some relief in the fact that you might just be able to remain still until this is all over, until he tugged your hair to make you move on him. Your scalp burned from his grasp, the pain motivating you to bob your head, repeatedly taking him until he was hitting the back of your throat, your eyes watering with the urge to choke. You could hear some of the noises Negan was making above you, small curses muttered under his breath and tiny grunts that sounded like a subtle clearing of the throat when someone was talking. There was a pause between the discussion, however, a pause that you awkwardly filled with an accidental gagging sound as you swallowed him. Negan was quick to disguise this, his leg kicking out underneath the table to serve as a warning, and the sound of him coughing followed.

"Shit, think I'm comin' down with something."

The facade Negan sprung into action with seemed believable enough, not that any of them were stupid enough to question Negan anyways. He didn't have to give you a sign to continue, didn't need to lift a damn finger, you just did. You ran your tongue over the veins lining his shaft and occasionally swirled your tongue over the tip until it got to the point where Negan was practically squirming. He'd adjust in his seat like that would do him any good, and run his hand over his face all the way down to his stubble as he tried to suppress the filthiest and lowest of groans, throaty sounds that he tried to pair with anything to make it appear more natural. To make matters worse a comment someone had made irritated Simon, enough to cause him to lean back in his seat and stretch his legs out, his boots hitting your side before he noticed the obstruction and brought his legs a little further inward. There was no hiding it now. The way one of Negan's arms moved as he ran his fingers through your hair, the way he occasionally screwed his eyes shut and bit his knuckles to stifle his moans, hardly able to form one word as you slid him into your mouth over and over, effortlessly taking him to the hilt. The knowing and amused stare that Simon shot Negan to let him know that he was well aware of the fact that his boss was getting his dick sucked underneath the table, and the slight tilt of Negan's head in response as he dared him to say a word. Simon knew better. From what you could gather when you managed to tune into the conversation over the slight pain running through your jaw, and the feel of your spit having coated him, your drool dribbling down his balls and undoubtedly dampening some of the denim surrounding the base of his cock, was that whatever the basis of the meeting it went without a hitch. With him growing more restless, his breath getting heavier by the minute, he raised his hand and waved it dismissively.

"That's all, you're dismissed."

The sound of a sea of footsteps as they sat up from their chairs and made way for the exit came as a great relief, though you weren't so opposed to the thrill it had provided. Negan carefully tilted your head back to remove himself from your mouth, something you took as what shred of mercy he had for you ever since you'd first walked in, until you realised it was for something else.

"How's it going down there?" Simon quipped, the outright acknowledgement of what you had been doing throughout the entire meeting leaving you flustered.

You knew Simon though, knew that if you clammed up and let him feel that rush of pride from humiliating you that you'd never live it down, so you owned it.

"I'm doing just great." You remarked as you stretched your arm out from one side of the table and gave him a thumbs up.

Negan chuckled and nodded off to the side to signal Simon to leave, and then you were alone again, finally. He scooted his chair back considering it had been tucked into the table so tightly, which now allowed you to crawl out from the table and take him in in all his glory. The beads of sweat that had gathered on his forehead, the singular curl of hair defiantly protruding from his hairline having escaped his signature slick style, and the smell of leather carrying through the air from the way he was always roasting in that jacket, though the sweat you made him break into largely contributed. He was ruined, and he wasn't even done yet.

"Goddamn, you are a little slut aren't you," Negan commented as he looked down at the damp spots of spit on his jeans, "look at the mess you made."

You laughed and moved closer towards him until you were resting your head on one of his thighs and looking up at him through your lashes.

"I thought you liked it messy." You teased, the playful retort making Negan bite down on his bottom lip and slightly turn his head to the side as a pleased sound rumbled from his throat.

"Course I do, sweetheart. But in this case," he gently lifted your head from his thigh and cupped the underside of your jaw to bring your head back to his cock until your lips were barely brushing against the tip, "I expect you to swallow."

"Yes, sir."

And you were filling your mouth with him again. It didn't take long to work him back up to the point of squirming, though this time he could be freely vocal.

"God, fuckity fuck. That's it, baby, just like that." He fell into a string of gravelly curses, the occasional compliment and words of approval mixed in.

Negan's groans got deeper, harsher, and his hand found its way to your hair in the midst of the impending release, his head tilting back and exposing his rather prominent adam's apple as he swore like a sailor. He moved his hips as he made a few small thrusts into your mouth before you felt him tense, and everything coming out of that man's mouth whether it be words or sounds, was through gritted teeth. Then, you felt it. Hot wet spurts splashed over your tongue and the back of your mouth, some escaping down your throat. Patiently, you waited for him to be done pouring every last droplet into your mouth and then carefully removed him; your slightly puffed cheeks and the small splotch of white liquid decorating the corner of your lips making him laugh, a low, hoarse laugh as he reached out and ran his hand down one side of your face, his thumb smoothing over your cheek.

"As sexy as you look with a mouthful of my cum, swallow it."

So you did. After clearing your mouth of his release you stuck your tongue out to show him your clean tongue, the sight bringing one of the dirtiest smiles you've ever seen to his lips as he tucked himself back into his pants.

"Good girl."

The praise did little to ease the heat pooling between your legs, but this was a punishment after all. Negan would leave you positively high and dry until you begged him in a few days to screw your brains out of course.

"C'mere." Negan beckoned as he patted his thigh, eyes a little softer than they had been when you first came in.

You moved off of your knees for the first time in at least twenty minutes, the sudden change of scenery for your kneecaps making you hiss from the pain as you unbent your knees and stood to your feet, knees bruised from the large amount of time you spent kneeling against the concrete floor; especially when you shifted weight onto them. Despite the dull ache you placed one hand on Negan's shoulder to support you whilst you swung your leg over him and lowered yourself down onto his lap, a grunt passing from his lips when you fully settled down onto his groin, your legs on either side of him.

"You know," Negan started as he brushed some of your hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear, "you're the only woman in this whole place that could pull a stunt like what you pulled and get off that easy," he grinned as he spoke, his eyes dragging over you as he placed his hand on the small of your back and drew circles on your skin. Now it was your turn to smile paired with a small giggle and a slight tilt of your head.

"That was getting off easy?" You remarked.

"Course it was."

A beat passed, and then he let out a long, quiet chuckle and gestured towards his chest with a playful sigh.

"C'mon."

You tucked yourself against his chest, the leather of his jacket clinging and creaking against your skin as he held you tight to him. Then you buried your head into the crook of his neck, getting lost in his scent as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear, one standing out amongst all others.

"Shit. I love you, baby."

#negan #negan smut #negan smith #negan the walking dead #negan twd #negan x reader #negan x you #the walking dead negan #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #twd fanfiction #twd fic #twd negan #negan fanfiction

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