"IF IT'S FUCK ME, THEN WE HAVIN' SEX" - MDNI [hate sex, hair pulling, licking]
You yank the back of his head up from the crook of your neck, red-hot anger radiating off of you in waves as you scowl at the man above you. If Dick wasn't such a good lay, you'd have cut him out of your life a long time ago when you'd broken up with him after he screwed you over the first time. Unfortunately, you had a nasty habit of thinking with the thing between your legs instead of your brain, hence why you were the poster girl for fury and rage despite being close to your third orgasm of the night.
"Poster girl for fury and rage," but the sweet, high-pitched sounds coming from between your lips say otherwise. The way your muscles twitch every time his hands roam and squeeze your body in any capacity...You were a liar, weak in the knees for a man you hated, handing out pussy to someone you'd wished death upon frequently. You made yourself sick but not sick enough to stop.
His hips move back and forth, cock sliding in and out of you with ease and coated from tip to ball in your slick. He holds your legs up, keeping them wide open, and his head tilts down, fighting against the grip you have on his scalp to watch the way you take him with no resistance.
You tug again, this time in response to him hitting the soft, sensitive spot deep in your cunt. Brows furrowed and mouth falling open with every moan that slips past your lips, your feigned hard demeanor softens with every stroke of his cock. You lose yourself in the sensations, very quickly becoming the picture of pleasure as the friction of his hips grinding against your own sends shivers up your spine.
Dick's blue eyes take you in, trapped beneath him once again despite the string of insults and curses you had yelled in his face just a little over two hours ago. He had let it slide, though. Brushing off your words because you're pretty when you're angry, and he knew you'd let him in. You're predictable like that, always quick to drop your pants for him in between fights, even when you say you hate him.
He leans down into your neck again, breathing in your scent, nose brushing against your face as he trails up and down your jaw, leaving soft kisses along your neck and cheek in sync with his strokes. A thin shin of sweat sits on top of your body, making you stick to him like glue, and he licks a strip up from your neck to your ear, tasting the saltiness of your skin. Your jaw goes slack, and you whimper, feeling like that one action has pushed you right into the deep end.
"Oh, but it's fuck me, huh?" He mumbles into your ear, nipping at the lobe and rolling his hips into yours in a way that makes your back arch. Even with closed eyes, you know he's smiling; the lilt in his voice is evident even with his words so jumbled. You'd tell him to go fuck himself, but it was too late now; you were committed to coming.
"Shut the fuck up," you pant, on the brink of your orgasm, chest tightening as you feel your brain start to go foggy once again; the promise of ecstasy on the horizon.
"Uh-huh," he grunts, bucking his hips harshly, eliciting another tug at his hair. "That's what I thought."
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Hi there, hello😊💜 I have a rather self-indulgent J question. If that's okay. But do you think he'd be protective of his s/o if he found out that they live and work in a super sketchy neighborhood? Stuff like not a single quiet night. Theft and other safety and health issues are always on the agenda, next to being worked to the bone. I'm just wondering because yeah🙃 Sending you all of my love and hugs, you're incredible🫂💖💕
Hey hi hello Sue🥺💖
Self-indulgent J questions are more than welcome, it's been a while since I got sent one!👀
I think J would be very protective of his s/o, even if they lived in a wealthy area with a low crime rate. He takes care of his possessions, his plans, so he takes extra care with you (perhaps it makes up for the lack of care he pays to his men and to himself).
With sirens blaring on almost every street, with the distant sound of smashing glass and running feet, the odd scream and frantic yell, it's not unusual for a stray car to go blazing down your road, waking you up from your threshold consciousness as distantly you wonder where your clown is. You're exhausted, worked to the bone at your job, overworked and underpaid (as are we all), and then you go home to worry about having your home broken into (by someone other than J; he likes to keep you on edge with that sometimes), to be kept awake by all of the aforementioned noises... but J protects you, even and especially when you think he's far away or disinterested or anything else you tell yourself to cause yourself displaced pain late at night. You internalise your frustration with your life, and J is often the focus of such destructive thoughts.
But he does protect you. He knows most of the plans that go on in your area; all of his men are trained to spy on the lower-class criminals, while J spies on the upper-class criminals (they're the most boring ones, extremely predictable, which only makes it too easy for J to blow up one of their cars just for fun). Between he and his men, there is always a car stationed a block or so away from your workplace. A different car every shift, and every morning you wake up with a number plate drawn on the condensation of your mirror or scrawled in lipstick across the shower tiles or on your fridge. Always erasable, and never the same number plate twice.
Twice is a choice, predictable, an almost established pattern - dangerous. Only too easy for harm to come to you. Unthinkable.
The car will take you home before it's sent to be destroyed, the man will be killed later on. You never travel home in the same car, and you never have the same driver. J does not trust his men. They are dispensable. He always sees to their death himself; he's the only one he trusts, because someone else could say they killed the man who drove you home, but actions and words are different. J only trusts the former. The latter is mere decoration; it's nice, but it isn't necessary.
You walk yourself to work, or you take the bus or catch a taxi, but you are always delivered home. Anyone who gives you grief at work is mysteriously a winner of the lottery a week later and then they're inspired to travel the world or whatever it is people who suddenly come into an obscene amount of money do (J doesn't care, he just wants them to go. away), or they're gotten rid of in a messier, but much more fun way. Your rent is always somehow paid - J doesn't want you worrying about that. You can get your own groceries and whatnot, but the rent is always paid for you. When a night of crime is on the horizon for where you live, J 'advises' you stay home and men are posted around your entire neighbourhood to make sure that harm doesn't come close.
A good dose of fear is healthy in moderation, but it's everywhere for you because of where you live, and J tries to minimise it if you want him to. You wouldn't even need to ask for him to do it, he knows what you want and need. Reading you is easy for the man who spends the majority of his time with you, and he has a detailed knowledge of your many intricacies. You're always so tired from being kept awake by the noises outside your home, and J does what he can to make sure that word gets around about your neighbourhood being a, uh, ba-ad place to cause chaos in. It ain't much fun since there's not much to do there.
In truth, J is protecting you. Quieter nights, nicer co-workers; he does what he can. He never takes credit for it, he never tells you what he's done for you. But you know. You know how quiet J's love is, and yet you can hear him yelling it at you. It's loud and clear so there's no misunderstandings between the two of you and your place in his life is concrete, just as his place in your life is.
He is the chaos, and you are the every day. Mundane, but not boring. J is the fireworks in the sky, green and purple so you know it's him thinking of you and letting you know in one of his favourite ways. Red if he's telling you to stay home tonight, blue if he's telling you it's safe. Secret, careful ways, but you've learned them well across the time you've both been together.
You are the safe and warm home that J can get cleaned up in, rest in, you provide him with a reason to do what he does - not that he needs one, of course, J does what he does because he can and it's fun and he's good at it. You are the stillness of the night, the solace, the peace and the one thing J is extremely protective of.
Nothing and no one harms you. Nothing and no one can even get close, they die before they so much as think about it because J knows. He always knows.
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so imagine you've been talking mad shit about a guy to your new best friend, right. but it doesn't really stick, because the first time she ever meets him, he literally saves her life. so she's like "i don't really see what you see, he seems pretty chill" and you're like "whatever. you don't get it, i grew up with him, trust me, i know him better than you do and he sucks. you can't trust him, he's only out for himself." and she's like "okay" but she still hangs out with him, even though she tries to hide it from you at first.
and then that guy starts dying. you know he's gonna die, you can see it happening, he's just the most recent in a string of deaths. he is going to die, right in front of you, if your new best friend can't figure out how to help him. so what do you do? you sit with him. you hold him. you help him get comfortable. you listen to what may be his last words. and then, when he stops breathing, you realize you can't let him die. you start cpr right there, right on the stairs, and you hope and pray that your friend can undo whatever's been done to him before you break too many ribs.
and she does! holy shit, she does! he starts breathing again, and so do you.
and then he doesn't remember any of that happening.
so you continue insisting that you hate him. that you don't trust him. but you start asking for his help—or, more accurately, you get your friend to ask for his help, because she's way more likely to get a yes than you are, because of your insistence that you hate him. he doesn't let you down, not like the last person you asked for help (she helped, but left you, because the kinds of things that happen to you and your friend were too much for her.)
your friend's birthday rolls around, and everybody gets together for a surprise party. you get her a nice sweater; he gets her a necklace that belonged to her long lost mother. you do hate him for that, just a little bit. she starts spending more time with him, trying to hunt down any information about her mother, which leads to finding out exactly how he's going to die. a man with a tattoo (a stylized maze, with four figures around it like compass points) kills him. you all know it's true. it was seen by a woman who predicted dozens of deaths. you've seen the tattoo before, too—on the arm of the first in the string of deaths you investigated all those weeks ago, when you held him as he died.
your friend spends a few nights in a row on his boat, drinking and playing poker with a mutual friend and two out of towners. you think nothing of it—at least, that's what you tell yourself. more honestly, you refuse to think about it. but then, it turns out, she was actually just spying on the out of towners, who turn out to be bad guys, thieves, after something on his boat. which is great news! she had a real, unrelated reason to be there! whew, that's a relief. out loud, all you say is that she has the right to spend time with whoever she wants, even him.
he asks you for help—his life is in danger. he was double crossed, and some very bad people want him dead. he asks you to help him. but him asking you for help sends a slice of spite through you, and you get the urge to remind him of a time he hurt you. you don't often get urges you can follow through with without facing criminal charges, so you give in to this one. he asks you if he deserves to die for being mean to you in the third grade. you shrug, you let him think you won't help, and then you set up an entire sting operation and arrest the people that double crossed him. he's safe. the two of you spend some time together and, for the first time in years, it's amicable.
a couple days later, he gets a threatening visit from a man, just released from prison, with the tattoo. THE tattoo—the one that belongs on the arm of the man who kills him. he freaks out, which is understandable. but then that man turns up dead, and your first thought is of him. you say it's because you suspect him of killing the tattooed man. you find him, panicked and paranoid, with a shotgun he looks more than ready to use, but his hands are shaking and his breath is uneven and when you tell him the man is dead, he's so visibly relieved it even makes you let out a breath. he's safe, and you know he didn't kill anyone, and he's safe.
your father dies that afternoon.
that evening, you are going to die.
maybe.
there's a very real chance that, if you go with your friend to try and help someone, you will die. you ask him to come with you. maybe you remember, think about the fact that when he was dying, you were with him. maybe you don't. maybe you don't think about why you're asking at all. but when he asks you that question without speaking—why would you want him there with you?—you say you want him there for her. maybe he believes it. maybe he's forgotten everything you've ever said about him. maybe he's forgotten that you tried to keep her away from him, claiming it was for her own good. maybe he's forgotten that, not six months ago, the only communication the two of you engaged in was when you would go to his boat just to slap him with whatever citations you could get away with. maybe he cares more about her than he does about you.
he comes with you, and he stays with you. he doesn't go with her, so now you both know you were lying. he stays with you when you collapse, hanging back and leaning forward, like he wants to hold you but he's afraid. (after all, there are people around.) but your friend is the best at what she does, and she saves you. he helps you back to your feet, holds your arms, looks into your eyes to see if you're okay. the bigoted old preacher who's hated you for decades sneers at the two of you, and insists "the lamb can never lie down with the lion." you wave the comment away.
later, he helps you dig your father's grave without even being asked. (that's a poem, all by itself.) he tells you, smiling: "i'm the lion." you smile too.
and that's just the first season, plus a premiere.
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Okay but. It's true! Murderbot might be angry right now but. That took insane levels of trust + knowing each other enough to predict what their next step would be/what they would be thinking
Arada and Overse being a couple themselves have probably had similar arguments let's be honest
Like!! Even now! Murderbot is like of course it did. It's not surprised by the lengths ART will go to! The only thing it cannot see is how much of this plan relied on ART faith in Murderbot itself alone!
Well ART really isn't doing itself any favours
Too bad they're both allergic to saying nice things to each other's faces (does ART have a face?)
Yeaaah. Um. With Murderbot's history that's gotta sting. Even as ART'S lawyer I don't know how to spin that one
I'm reading this as ART sticking up for Murderbot against Thiago who was frankly being very rude considering Murderbot was the one who kept his niece alive by killing the hostiles so. You know. You're welcome for the murder?
Hahahahaha
Please no fighting in front of the children
Ok ignore me keep on fighting
The child in question put a stop to it anyway (for now)
Yeesh
Yeah
Maybe don't say that?
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