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joelscurls · 5 months

Text

best kept secret

pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 6.7k

summary: In an attempt to keep your relationship secret, Joel agrees to a blind date set up by his best friend / your father. You don't take it well.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, pre-outbreak, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel is 36), secret relationship, angst, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, semi-public sex, car sex, creampie, some fluff; lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: so sorry it took me almost a month to post something new ffs - life got busy and my inspiration simultaneously disappeared. but we're back, baby! anyway, dbf!joel owns my ass, so here's my rendition of him. as always, ty to my baby @javisashtray for reading this over for me and helping me through the creative process <3

Joel’s bedroom window offers a perfect view of the sunrise; of shy, pink light creeping over treetops and the roof of your dad’s house across the street.

It’s gorgeous — breathtaking, even — maybe because you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve actually seen the crest of morning. You’re far more privy to late nights and sleeping in as long as you can push it, never been one to be up with the lark, so to speak.

You don’t mind the early wakeup call, though, not when it’s this: Joel’s head tucked between your thighs, his tongue rolling lazily over your clit, your eyes still adjusting to the light as he spreads you open for him.

He’s humming against you, his coarse beard tickling soft skin, thumbs dug into muscle to hold you in place as your back bows reflexively off the mattress. He looks so sweet like this, so eager to please, staring up at you with blown pupils.

“C’mon baby,” he purrs. “Just gimme one before you go.”

They’re the first words he’s said all morning, the first thought that’s necessitated utterance. His voice is hoarse and deep and drips honey-sweet at your core.

Even so, despite how badly you want to — because you always want Joel’s mouth on you — you’re not sure you can.

Because you need to get home before Denise next door leaves for her early shift. Before Susan a few houses down takes her dog out for a walk.

Before the neighborhood wakes and somebody sees you leaving Joel Miller’s house. Or worse, before your dad catches you slipping into the house in yesterday’s clothes, your car in the driveway still cold.

But with another experimental flick of Joel’s tongue, you forget all that, a content little sigh slipping past your parted lips, betraying you.

Just one, you tell yourself, and then you’ll head out.

“Fuck, okay — yeah,” you breathe, twisting your fingers into the roots of his curls.

With your permission, he buries his nose in your mound. Licks at you again — with more purpose, this time. One long, drawn out lap followed by another.

He’s so gentle with you, so careful, caressing your folds with his tongue like they’re made of paper. It’s a dizzying juxtaposition to the way he laid you down last night and fucked you, teeth scraping your neck and cock bruising your cervix.

You’re still sore, your walls tender where he stretched them, but your pussy is drooling nonetheless, surely making a mess of the bedsheets underneath you.

Because you’re insatiable when it comes to Joel.

For the past few weeks, since the first time you’d found yourself in his bed, you’ve craved him. Regardless of how sated he’s left you each and every time, you’ve needed more.

It’s dangerous and stupid and undeniably wrong, having a fling with your dad’s best-friend. But you’re finding it difficult to consider the morality of it all when just his tongue makes you come harder than any other man’s cock ever has.

That tongue, now dipping into your apex, drawing more slick out of you as his thumb finds your swollen clit — It’s overwhelming how good it feels, how good he is at this.

He’s bringing you to the edge languidly, savoring the taste of you, the feel of your silky flesh. It’s like he doesn’t want this to be over, needs to stretch the moment as far as it’ll go, milk every last second before you slip from his grasp.

But it’s going to end soon; it’s inevitable with the way he’s laving your pussy, the crushed velvet of his tongue gliding through your folds so wet and warm. Your orgasm is building, and you’re powerless to stave it off any longer.

“Joel,” you warn, his name a high-pitched whine.

“Shh, I know babygirl; it’s okay.”

Two of his fingers hook at your entrance and push in, pacifying you as his thumb continues working your clit. “I got you. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The soothe of his voice floods your senses like nitrous; renders your body loose and your head foggy. You come apart with a string of shattered breaths, eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the duvet.

Joel talks you through it: that’s it, pretty girl; so good for me; always so good for me, and though he sounds so far away, his words are the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

The world comes back into view slowly. Air settles in your lungs. And you can’t help but laugh at how fucked-out you feel when you peer down at Joel, his gaze already locked on you, expectantly.

“Okay?” he asks, rubbing at your inner thigh.

“Yeah,” you exhale, corners of your lips pulling taut. “More than okay.”

He smiles back at you. Props himself up with hands planted either side of you on the mattress and hovers over your feeble form.

“Good,” he whispers, dipping his head down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your mouth. He licks into you, letting you taste yourself on him — a little sweet, a little bitter — and his lips are so soft that you nearly melt. “Did so good, angel.”

You want nothing more than to spend all day in this bed with him. Return the favor a few times over. Learn what he looks like in the afternoon sun against the backdrop of navy blue sheets. What he tastes like after his coffee rather than before.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admit against his mouth and he frowns, taking one of your hands in his. He presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, one by one, his eyes never straying from yours.

“I don’t want you to either, darlin’. But you can come back tonight, yeah?”

Tonight. Hours away. A whole day between now and then. But it’ll have to do.

“Tonight,” you repeat. Solidify it.

You slink home just as the street lights dim.

The house is quiet when you enter, apart from the incessant ticking of the grandmother clock in the living room. It sets off a throbbing in your head, a dull pang right at the front of your skull that you massage with two fingers as you ascend the stairs.

You move cautiously up each step, wincing at every creak of old wood. It must take minutes to reach the second-floor landing, and then you’re tiptoeing past your father’s room, listening for signs of sleep behind the seal of his door. Sure enough, you catch it, a single, drawn-out snore, loud enough that you let your feet fall, shuffling the rest of the way to the bathroom across the hall.

You immediately crank the shower on, climbing in as soon as you see steam. Lathering your skin with citrus-scented body wash, the smell of sex washes off your body and down the drain.

The warm water soothes your sore muscles; bittersweet relief. You stand there until the stream grows icy, stepping out and toweling yourself off just as you hear the familiar blare of your dad’s alarm on the other side of the wall.

By the time you’ve dressed and made your way downstairs, he’s already in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with his back to you.

Sink empty, counters borderline sparkling, a coaster tucked under his warm mug — your father is a neat man. He does not take kindly to mess.

God forbid, anybody disrupt the sacred balance of his home; move something and forget to put it back, break something of his that should be kept intact.

“Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he yawns. Turns to face you. “You were up early. Heard the shower going.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“Something on your mind?”

Heat blooms across your chest and up your neck. There’s no way he knows — you’ve been far too careful. Still, you’re on edge, and the question lodges itself between your ribs uncomfortably as you frantically search for an answer.

“Uh, n-no,” you stutter. “Just work stuff, I guess.”

He seems to buy it, reaching for the percolator and re-filling his mug with a sigh, “Just gotta give it time. You only just started. Plus, it’s your first job out of school. They don’t expect you to know it all right away.”

It’s good advice, if not misguided. You nod as if you’re absorbing it, taking it straight to heart. As if your mind isn’t preoccupied.

You grab a mug from the cabinet. Fill it with coffee and creamer. Perch yourself at the breakfast table and take a slow, steadying sip.

The caffeine has just about seeped into your bloodstream when-

-there’s a knock at the door.

Your dad shoots you a puzzled look, one which you immediately return. Who could that be, so early on a Wednesday morning?

And when he pushes open the door to reveal none other than Joel, you just about fall out of your chair. Your nails absentmindedly dig into the wood of the table in an attempt to brace yourself.

“Oh, buddy — hey! Come on in,” your dad says, patting him on the back as he steps over the threshold. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

You grasp the handle of your mug like a lifeline. For a fleeting moment, you worry the ceramic will shatter in your hands.

Joel is dressed — blue cotton t-shirt covering his broad back and the deep, red scratches you left there when you dug your nails into skin, your legs hiked over his hips and your face tucked into his chest.

The pair of boxers peeking over the waistband of his jeans are different from the ones you pulled off of him last night, the ones he shimmied back into before you slept cradled in his arms.

He’s a different Joel here, now — your father’s friend, your neighbor — not the man who breaks you down with his tongue or the one who calls you his good girl while you take his entire, throbbing length.

No, this Joel, standing in your kitchen in the presence of your father, has never betrayed him. Hasn’t tasted his friend’s daughter or felt the tight embrace of her wet, warm cunt around his cock. This Joel is reliable, honest, not one to do harm.

You do not desire this Joel, cannot. You must look at him with apathetic eyes. Must keep the boat of your longing at bay.

Easier said than done. It’s as if your desire for him is a feral beast, fed by his touch and left starving in its wake. You feel like you’ve just run a marathon, sweat beading at your collar as you not-so-subtly follow the subconscious flex of his hands, the bunching of fabric over his biceps.

His voice bounces off the backsplash, and your fingers tighten around the handle of your mug.

“Yeah, I uh — I went to make myself coffee and realized I was out. Was hopin’ you might have some to spare?”

He can’t be serious. He came over for coffee? He couldn’t get some on the road?

“I’m afraid she took the last of it,” your dad’s eyes point to you, and you ignore the burn of Joel’s gaze when his follow.

“Ahh,” he says. “‘ts okay. I’ll grab some on my way in.”

His fingers taptaptap on the edge of the countertop, bottom lip tucked between his teeth like there’s something else. Another reason he came here.

And then you spot it — your wallet, dark red leather, poking out the top of Joel’s back pocket.

You must’ve left it in his room before you hurried home. Somewhere amongst the mess of trinkets and trash on his dresser. You half-remember dropping it there last night as he’d kneeled in front of you and peppered kisses up the length of your leg.

Thankfully, your dad is oblivious as ever, giving Joel the perfect opportunity to inconspicuously slip you your wallet when he turns around and crosses the kitchen, placing his empty mug in the sink.

Joel sidesteps once, twice, extending his arm and snapping it back as soon as you have the wallet in your grasp.

Your father clears his throat. Spins to find Joel exactly where he was. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts, wrestling a slice of bread out of the bag and dropping it into the toaster, “I gotta set you up with this co-worker of mine, Deb.”

Joel freezes. You watch as the color drains from his face and his large hand anxiously cards through dark curls. You’re pretty sure you freeze too, breath caught somewhere in your throat until your dad turns to you and you remember to exhale.

“You know Deb, right, honey?” he asks. You mentally flick through the rolodex of your dad’s coworkers.

There’s Leanne, tall redhead, hosted a potluck a few months back at which you tasted the worst mac & cheese you’ve ever had. And Barbara from accounting, who he got into a heated argument with over who makes the best BBQ in the city. You only remember her name because he hadn’t shut up about how wrong her opinion was for a full week.

This woman actually thinks the Smoke Shop has got better ribs than Lou’s. I said to her, Barbara, your taste buds must be absolutely torched.

But Deb? You don’t recall a Deb. Still, you’re pretty sure you hate her, just in hearing her name in this context.

You shake your head, no.

“Well, I guess you haven’t seen her in a while. She was there that day I brought you into the office.”

“When I was ten?” you retort.

“Yeah, I guess it was that long ago, huh?”

You shrug. He returns his attention to Joel. “Anyway, Deb – she’s around your age, just got divorced about a year back, and she’s a real nice woman. I think you two would really hit it off.”

“Is that so?” Joel replies. You swear his voice wavers. If your dad notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll like her Joel, I promise. I mean, when’s the last time you went out with a nice lady? Not since – what was her name — Jean? And if things were going well with her, I’d hope you’d tell your old friend.” The toaster pops, and he retrieves his slice of toast. Grabs a butter knife from the utensil drawer.

“No, I ain’t seeing Jean,” Joel sighs. Flashes you an apologetic glance as your dad slathers his toast in artificial purple jam, blissfully unaware.

“Well, you gotta get back out there!”

Joel’s gaze rolls to the ceiling. “I don’t know – I’m just not real interested in datin’ right now.”

You exhale, then — a quiet declaration of relief that seems to go unnoticed — unperturbed even when your dad continues his pitch.

I’ve known this woman for years Joel, I’m telling you, the two of you’d be the perfect match; she’s a looker too, real pretty.

Ew. Tuning him out, you check the clock, find that you only have a few minutes before you need to get going. You stand from the table and make your way toward the sink with your now-empty coffee mug in hand.

Would I ever lead you astray? your dad is asking just as you brush past Joel. His hand, idle by his side, catches the fabric of your blouse and you have to fight to ignore the pinprick of electricity it ignites under your skin.

“No, I know,” Joel grumbles. “I trust your judgment ‘n all, ‘ts just-”

“Will you just give her a chance?”

“Jesus; fine.”

The mug slips from your grip, falls into the sink with a clang.

Your dad glares at you, expression softening only when you gesture to the still-intact ceramic lying on its side in the basin.

He’s quickly distracted, then, jotting a series of numbers down onto a scrap of notebook paper, the blue ink pressed in so hard that it’s beginning to bleed through.

“Atta boy,” he drawls, sliding it across the counter. Joel pinches it between two fingers, folds the paper without looking at it and stuffs it into his front pocket.

“Promise you’ll give her a call tonight? I may or may not have already talked you up, and I need to know you’re not gonna make me look bad here.”

Joel has to see you staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He must. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under already. But he’s refusing to meet your gaze, eyes glued to the cabinet directly in front of him as he nods. “Yeah, I’ll call her tonight,” he says, a small, unconvincing smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

He’s actually agreeing to this?

You need to get out of here before you say something rash.

The anger bubbles in you slowly, then all at once, threatening to boil over as you slip on your shoes and sling your bag over your shoulder.

Marching toward the door, you offer a half-hearted bye, not bothering to look back before you leave.

The office is already milling with people by the time you stroll in, ten minutes late.

The conversation between Joel and your dad is still running laps in your head as you sneak past your boss’s door.

It sticks there through the morning and well into the afternoon, your dad’s words an incessant earworm: I think you two would really hit it off.

The thing is — you can’t blame Joel for saying yes to the setup. Not really. Your situation is complicated, messy, bound to end badly.

Maybe he’d be happier with Deb.

They could take walks together, stroll through the grocery store or down the street hand-in-hand. Throw dinner parties and shamelessly gush about their relationship to their friends. All without fear of being caught doing something wrong.

Because that’s what this is, you and Joel — it’s wrong. Not like you weren’t already well aware of that. Leave it to some woman you’ve never met to rub it in.

The day passes infuriatingly slow.

The pile of emails in your inbox only grows larger by the time you’re due to clock out, stack of reports on your desk barely touched. You wince when your boss stops by your cubicle on her way out, eager for an update.

“Sorry, Linda; a couple of these were more time-consuming than I’d hoped,” you lie. But you can tell she doesn’t buy it, not one bit, her expression souring as you shuffle through papers.

“I need these done by the end of the week, no matter what.”

“Of course,” you mutter, face heating with embarrassment. “I’ll get them done and on your desk by Friday.”

“Thanks.” Her heels are already clacking on tile when you open your mouth to apologize again, your sorry lost to the ether.

You gather your things and scramble to your feet as soon as she’s out of view, not sticking around to watch your computer power down. By the time you get to your car, Joel’s number is already dialed on your phone.

He picks up after two rings.

“Darlin’ — are you okay?”

It’s admittedly uncharacteristic for you to call him so early. You usually wait until after dark, when you’ve both retreated to your respective bedrooms, away from listening ears.

But this can’t wait. It’s been eating at you all day, digging into your work. If you don’t talk to him about it, you’re going to end up unemployed. You don’t bother to ask if he’s still on the job site, around other people. “You’re going on this date.” It’s not a question. More of an accusation.

“Baby,” he sighs. You try your best to ignore his molasses drawl and the way it seeps into your chest.

“Why didn’t you say no?”

“How could I?” he groans. “There’s your dad, askin’ me if I’m seein’ someone, sayin’ he’s already told this lady about me – what am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice comes out a whine. “Make something up. Tell him you’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”

He laughs, low and breathy on the other end. “Yeah, baby. Think he’d believe that one, f’sure.”

“Fuck,” you huff. “I just— I don’t-“

You want to tell him not to go. To cancel. Fake his own death. Do whatever it takes to get out of this. But you have no right, not really. The two of you aren’t dating. You don’t have any control over what he does or who he sees. And you don’t want that, no. You just want him to choose you.

“I don’t wanna go, darlin’. I really don’t. But if I do this, I think it’ll get him off my back for a while. He won’t have a reason to suspect that I’m foolin’ around with his daughter.”

Fooling around. His phrasing is a metaphorical punch in the gut.

It’s not exactly a lie. You haven’t put a label on this thing, whatever it is. It’s been purely physical: lips slotted to lips, tongues pressed together, swapped sweat and saliva. But hearing it reduced to two words, words with such a casual connotation — as if you haven’t been driven by overwhelming desire — makes your stomach churn.

Joel doesn’t seem to clock it when you go quiet, a cocktail of rage and sorrow sloshing around your insides. “It’s for the best,” he adds, a shot of hard, burning liquor.

“Yeah,” you say defeatedly. Choke back the pathetic tears that creep up your throat. “For the best.”

He ends the call with the excuse of bad cell reception. Promises to talk to you later. You’re not sure that you believe him.

The phrase fooling around curls up in your head, a wet dog, its fur dripping into the crevices of your rattled brain the entire drive home.

You dodge Joel’s calls for the remainder of the week.

There’s no use in talking to him when you have nothing to say, when you know any words you attempt will be overtaken by tears.

Even so, it doesn’t stop him from trying. His number lights up the screen of your phone at least twice a day.

He leaves voicemails that you do not listen to. You can’t. The last thing you need is his syruppy drawl in your ear. You’ll break; you know you will.

So instead, you delete them. Rid yourself of temptation.

But you still ache for him — a devastating truth. You lumber through the days, bones heavy with hurt. Find yourself kept up at night by thoughts of Joel and the infuriatingly soothing timbre of his voice, the intoxicating callous of his fingertips against your soft skin.

It’s a lonely thing, yearning for Joel Miller.

On Friday, your father beams at the dinner table. He’s grinning like a child as he stuffs a forkful of rice into his mouth.

“Joel and Deb’s date is tomorrow,” he says. “Think they’ll really hit it off, don’t you?”

You’re dumbfounded for a long moment — can’t believe that this is your life now: being asked about your thoughts on Joel and the ever-elusive Deb as a couple. When it takes too long for you to answer, your father’s fork stills pointedly on his plate, and you sputter.

“Oh! I mean, I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember Deb.” You can’t help your condescending tone. Your dad doesn’t seem to catch it anyway.

“Well,” he says, “I think they’ll be a match. Hoping so, anyway. The man has been such a hermit lately — maybe if he has a lady, he’ll get out more!”

“You sound real excited,” you grumble. Stab four peas on the prongs of your fork.

“It is exciting. I’ve never set anyone up before. And the best part is, the place they’re going to — the Tavern — it’s got rooms you can rent out for wedding receptions. Just imagine if down the line, they got mar-“

“Dad,” you stop him. You think you’ll be physically sick if you let him finish that sentence. “Sorry, I just — I’m really tired, all of a sudden. I think I’m going to head to bed early.”

It’s not a complete lie. You’re emotionally exhausted as a result of the past couple days. Sleep sounds like a much-needed, blissful escape right now.

Your dad doesn’t question you. He just nods. Swipes your plate from in front of you and brings it to the sink along with his.

Of course, you find it impossible to actually drift off that night. Tossing and turning, you battle the glaring urge to get up, slink into the home-office and look up directions to the Tavern.

Not that you’re planning to go there anytime soon — you’re just curious. That’s all.

Around midnight, you give up, pad down the hallway and into the room parallel yours. The computer dials up slowly, and you chew your bottom lip as you wait.

You snatch a piece of paper from the printer and a pen from the #1 Dad mug that sits next to the monitor. Click on the internet icon and type the words into the search bar.

This is definitely a bad idea. Maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

You jot the address down anyway.

Downtown Austin is buzzing with life.

Patrons spilling out of bars, tourists striding down the street in their brand new Stetsons – it almost distracts you from the task at hand.

At just past seven, you’d told your dad you were going out, meeting a friend for drinks. He’d been a bit taken aback, seeing as you’re not very social these days, but he’d seemed happy. Relieved.

That’s not what you’re doing, of course.

No – in reality, you’re turning into the parking lot attached to the Tavern. It’s packed to the brim with cars, but you still manage to find Joel’s truck, its license plate number burned into the back of your mind after countless mornings of absently reading it as you snuck past.

It’s idle and empty when you inch by, and even though you knew he’d be here, on this date, your heart still sinks. Because maybe a tiny part of you had hoped he’d stand Deb up.

You should leave. It was stupid to come here in the first place. What are you going to do — storm inside and demand that he leave with you?

You consider it for half a second, groaning when you realize how pitiful you are. Defeated, you swing your car into a spot at the back, facing the building, and shift it into park. You hug the steering wheel dejectedly.

From here, you have a straight-shot view of the restaurant’s entrance, a set of double doors at the side of the building. Groups spill out every so often, every pair that emerges causing your back to arch reflexively.

Joel and Deb are probably discussing their interests right now, bonding over a shared connection with your dad. You can vividly picture the smile likely plastered across his face — the same one you’ve elicited with sweet filth whispered in his ear.

And you’re here, sitting in your running car, watching the door. Your pulse thumps obnoxiously loud in your ears.

Minutes pass like molasses, slow and thick. You watch the clock on the car radio obsessively, betting with yourself on what time they’ll leave. After thirty minutes of nothing, you’re convinced that they’re going to close the place out.

But then the door opens again, and you straighten up, immediately met with the sight of Joel and Deb.

She’s talking animatedly, eyes widening every few words, blonde hair wafting around her narrow face. It’s undeniable that she’s stunning, even from far away; possesses the kind of beauty you see on magazine covers in line at the grocery store. The jealousy that pools in your gut burns like acetone in an open wound.

She takes his arm as they walk toward the parking lot, and he lets her, despite the rest of his body appearing strangely rigid.

You wonder if he’ll take her home. Lead her to his truck, help her up the step to the passenger seat and sneak a look at her ass under her dress before shutting the door. If they’ll leave her car in the lot for the night, come back to retrieve it in the morning once he’s helped her forget about her loser ex-husband; let the scent of her perfume seep into the bed sheets to cover up yours.

But he doesn’t lead her to his truck. You watch as they unexpectedly turn down a row of cars, disappearing from your view completely, his arm still locked with hers.

He could still kiss her. Press her against the car. Promise her that he’ll call — and he will, first thing tomorrow. He’s probably just being a real gentleman. Treating her like a woman he might want to marry someday.

Maybe he knows, after just one date, that she’s his soulmate. He’ll buy the ring in a couple weeks. They’ll be engaged in a month’s time, and he’ll say he just couldn’t wait any longer.

She’s the one thing I’ve been missing.

You stew in the agonizing unknown for what feels like hours before Joel materializes once again, backside illuminated by headlights as he strides toward his truck.

And then — he stops. You see the exact moment he notices your car in the parking lot, his eyebrows threading together and his hands splaying over his hips.

He’s staring directly through the windshield. At you.

Fuck.

He takes a few slow steps. Stops in front of the hood. Narrows his eyes and flexes his jaw.

With a deep breath, you unlock the doors. Gesture for him to get in the passenger side.

He immediately rounds the car, prying the door open and climbing inside just as a SUV pulls out the row he and Deb had walked down.

The door slams when he yanks it closed. The sound echoes through the cab of the car.

“You wanna fuckin’ explain what you’re doin’ here?” he snaps. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, embarrassment and now, anger, spooling hot behind your ears.

You know you’re in the wrong. You shouldn’t have followed him. But does he have to be so hostile?

When your gaze finally meets his, he looks — distraught — jaw clenched and lips set in a straight line. His fingers absently dig into denim-covered thighs.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, “I just wanted to see how you were with her.” And it’s the truth; not one you want to be admitting right now, to him, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

“Doesn’t give you the right to spy on me.”

“So what was I supposed to do? Sit at home and mope while the guy I was seeing is on a date with someone else? Oh no, I’m sorry,” you throw your hands up, form air quotes with your fingers, “the guy I was fooling around with.”

This seems to strike a nerve. His jaw twitches, and his fingers still on his lap.

“It wasn’t like that,” he grits

“No? Isn’t that all this was to you: fooling around?”

There’s a beat. Joel sighs.

“No — fuck, no. Of course not.”

His expression softens. A crack in solid stone. “I tried callin’ you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” you admit.

He nods. Another beat.

“Did you kiss her?” you ask.

“No.” He says it with intent, with promise, eyes firmly locked on yours now.

Your mouth goes dry.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t want her?”

“No,” he says flatly, his pupils bulging in the lamplight, black bleeding into the brown of his irises. “I don’t want her.”

“Why not?”

He leans forward. His weight presses into the center console and his breath fans your face — warm, tinged with the scent of cheap beer.

“I don’t want her,” he says, voice an octave lower, “because I want you. I thought you knew that?”

The radio drones between the two of you, some classic rock song you think you recognize flitting through the speaker. Your pulse beats staccato in your throat, off tempo.

“You want me?” you ask, a little breathless, and the next words you say are beyond dumb, beyond reckless, but you say them anyway. “Prove it.”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He closes the slight distance between you and kisses you, hard, his tongue frantically sliding against yours through parted lips.

It’s sloppy, and desperate, and you feel drunk on the taste of him, on longing laced with carnal need. He’s groaning into your mouth, grabbing your head with both hands, burying his fingers in your hair — as if he can’t get close enough, as if he’ll only be satisfied once he’s swallowed you whole. You’re pretty sure you want him to.

Your hands move frantically to his t-shirt, then, bunch into the fabric and pull. You need to feel the skin underneath, need to rove your hands along his bare chest. He accommodates, tugging the shirt by the back of the collar, lips separating from yours ever-so-briefly to bring it over his head and toss it onto the backseat.

And then he’s back on you, licking into your mouth again, eliciting a whimper from you when his hand wraps around the side of your throat, just under your jaw.

Your palms splay across his torso, wander over warm, golden skin. You’ve missed this, god, you’ve missed this — but it’s still not enough. You need to feel more of him. In your mouth, in your hand, in your cunt — you’re not picky. Just need him in whatever way he’ll provide.

“Joel,” you whimper into his mouth, fingers winding around his bicep.

He pulls back. Peers at you through hooded eyes. “What is it, baby?” he asks through labored breaths.

“Need you — please.”

He immediately unbuckles your seatbelt. Lowers his seat back and manhandles you onto his lap. You go easily; slot yourself to him with legs folded on either side of his thighs.

Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you grind down into his lap. His cock strains against denim underneath you. He groans when you swivel your hips and brush the heft of it again with your clothed heat.

“You gonna let me fuck you?” he asks into your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours.

Your breath catches.

You know what he’s really asking: are you going to let him fuck you here, in the parking lot of a public establishment, where anybody could see?

But you don’t care. In fact, you’re way past caring, the emptiness of your cunt too painful to ignore any longer. Let them watch him take what’s his.

You nod frantically. “Yes,” you pant. “Please.”

Joel nods too, as if he’s accepting his fate. He’s going to fuck his friend’s daughter in the passenger seat of her car. There’s no way around it — not when you’re begging for it. He’s going to give you what you need.

“Okay,” he soothes, “I got you baby.”

He helps you out of your pants, then; clumsily maneuvers them down and off your legs along with your panties and tosses them aimlessly into the back.

He doesn’t bother to take his jeans off. Lets you unzip them and pop the button open, your nimble fingers making quick work of it. And then you’re pulling his cock out of his boxers, stiff and leaking in your grasp.

You steady yourself with hands on his shoulders just as he begins to pepper placating kisses along your neck. “Go ahead baby,” he whispers into your ear. “Take it; it’s yours.”

His head falls back against the seat as you stroke him a few times and line his cock up with your dripping entrance, his hands clasped around your waist.

You sink down slowly, savoring every inch of him as he burrows in deeper. He’s so thick, stretching you like it’s the first time again, your walls fluttering as they relax around his cock.

“Fuck,” Joel slurs, fingers digging into your skin impatiently when you still, fully seated on him.

“Gotta move baby — please move.”

He’s so fucking deep, though, his cockhead bumping your cervix, and your entire body feels gelatinous atop him. A cloying sort of heat hangs around your head. You swivel your hips weakly, your forehead falling to rest on his with a heavy sigh.

Joel is happy to take control, bucking up into you so hard you see stars. You can’t suppress the string of moans that spill from your mouth, and Joel doesn’t seem to mind. He’s just as loud, anyway, his broken sounds bleeding into yours, bouncing off glass and leather.

Neither of you can muster an actual word, though, not with him rutting up into you, sheathing himself in your pussy over and over again. He’s relentlessly hitting that spot — the one that has you practically clinging to him for dear life.

It’s approaching too quickly; he’s going to make you come.

One of your hands flies to the roof of the car in an attempt to brace yourself, flat palm pressing into it so hard you worry it’ll pop.

Joel takes the opportunity to drag you down in his lap, spearing you on his cock, and the sudden change in angle makes you cry out.

“Oh f— ahh, oh my—“

“That’s it,” he coos, “you got it, babygirl.”

His words tip you over the edge, your entire body locking up as you gush around him. You’re wetting his lap, slick splattering his thighs, and he loves it, his fervid moan telling you so.

His movements begin to falter then, hips stuttering underneath you as he chases his own high.

“Cmon, baby,” you goad, “please fill me up.”

He grunts when he spills inside, his face nestling in your chest, heaving as he works through it and begins to come down. You don’t move, not that Joel would let you, still holding you on his lap like he’s afraid to let you go.

You nuzzle into his embrace as his cock softens inside you.

You stay like that for a while, probably too long given that anybody could easily look into the car and see you straddling him. You don’t have the energy to care.

Eventually, you lift your head from its spot on Joel’s chest. Look up at him with bleary eyes.

“Joel,” you say.

He meets your gaze, face shiny with sweat and his hair a mess. He looks gorgeous like this, you think. The way only you get to see him.

“Yeah?” He grazes along your arm with featherlight fingers. His touch raises goosebumps on your skin.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“About wanting me.” In truth, you’re not sure you want the answer. But you need to know, definitively, if Joel is yours. You’re done sharing him.

“Oh, baby,” he drawls. “Of course I do. You’re all I want. Do you want me?”

And it’s a stupid question. He has to know that. You’re nodding before he can even finish it. “Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Joel”

“Then it’s settled. It’s me and you. No more…interlopers.”

You giggle. Reluctantly separate yourself from his body and re-dress. You settle back into the driver’s seat with achy legs.

You’ve never felt more content than you do in this moment.

Still, you’ll have to hide — won’t be able to share the news of your new relationship with friends or coworkers, your dad — and neither will Joel.

You don’t care much, not as long as he’s yours, but you need to be sure he feels the same.

“Joel,” you stop him as he opens the passenger-side door to get out. He stills with one leg swung out the door.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind…being a secret? Don’t mind keeping me a secret?”

He looks at you like you have two heads.

He pulls his leg back into the car. Shuts the door and leans over the console again.

Taking your chin between his fingers, he forces your gaze. Makes sure you’re listening.

“I want you — doesn’t matter who knows or doesn’t know. Long as you’re mine.”

Your chest tightens, and your heart squeezes inside your ribcage.

“I’m yours?”

He smiles. Presses a chaste kiss between your eyes, on the tip of your nose, on your lips. The same way he did the other morning.

It all feels somehow sweeter, now.

“Yeah, angel. You’re mine. My girl.”

end notes: tysm for reading! please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed! I've been toying with the idea of turning this into a series so lmk if that's something you'd be interested in hehe.

Also, I hopped on the bandwagon and made a sideblog for notifs! I'll be doing away with a taglist from here on out, so follow @joelscurlsupdates & turn on notifications if you wanna be notified when I post a new fic :-)

tag list: @janaispunk @amanitacowboy @fhatbhabie @frannyzooey @lola8888673

#joel x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #dbf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction

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genderqueerdykes · 18 days

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as someone who has been scarred for life by experiences at gay bars, i need people to understand it's beyond tacky to mock people who want queer spaces beyond queer bars- it's dangerous.

let me explain. i went to 2 of my local queer bars a lot last year, as much as i was able to despite being poor. i witnessed a fist fight that was so bloody that ended up with a transmisogynistic drag queen getting hit in the head with a metal baton. the sight caused me to uncontrollably throw up in the bathroom of the club because of how gruesome it was. they had to close down the club and forard people out the back door because of how out of hand this person got- he was screaming transmisogynstic slurs and phrases at the bouncers were were transfem.

i was also sexually assaulted at these places, i was repeatedly groped by several people who i was not interacting with in the first place who found me attractive and decided physically grabbing me on numerous occasions was the way to get my attention. being femme in a queer bar is dangerous even if the people groping you are gay men.

i am also a recovering addict who dealt with alcohol issues in the past and could be considered a recovering alcoholic. i don't want to be around alcohol. i don't want to smell it. it triggers awful memories and also sometimes makes me consider getting a drink, but i can't have one, because the medications i take will cause a fatal reaction- i don't want to be tempted to drink, because it will kill me.

it's not right to mock someone or call them childish or whatever for not wanting to go to a club. whenever alcohol is involved, people's inhibitions are gone and they will do whatever. this includes fighting. i witnessed several other fights. just because it's a queer bar doesn't mean there won't be fights. and it especialyl doesn't m ean that you won't get groped or assaulted because, like i said, since alcohol is involved and it's a bar, there's a high chance this can and will happen.

queer people are not inherently safe angels to be around by virtue of being queer. there are still transphobes in queer bars. tranny chasers come to these bars. homophobic lesbians show up and lesbophobic gay men show up. drag queens and performers bring their cishet friends and family to support their shows. these are not perfect havens. they are not safe. we should not force other queers to interact with inherently dangerous spaces if these are supposed to be our safe spaces.

also these spaces are not friendly to people with disabilities; wheelchair users have nowhere to go especially when it's very crowded. other mobility aids get kicked and knocked over. neurodivergent people can get overstimulated by the deafening music very quickly. photosensitive people can have seizures due to the strobing lights. people with emetophobia like me run the risk of running into those types of triggers. people who are overstimulated by intoxicated people have no choice but to deal with it. dancing is one of the only activities to do other than drink and not many disabled (or even abled) people can dance for extended periods of time comfortably.

not to mention these spaces are not geared toward aromantic or asexual people at all, either. there is a long list of reasons why bars should not be our primary venues of interaction with one another. they serve a specific purpose- for people who want to cruise- but for the rest of us, it's really crucial that we have spaces that provide meaningful interactions with other queers on other levels of our identities.

some people just want to hang out with other queers in a quiet environment and craft, or shop, or drink coffee, or read books together, or just about any other activity on planet earth, and that's not "lame" or "cringy" or bad in any way- these are extremely normal and necessary parts of human interaction that we all require and crave and it's normal to want to do healthy, domestic things with other queers. we need this in our lives.

please take it seriously when people attempt to create queer spaces that don't involve alcohol and bars. it's necessary for our survival and well being as a community.

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starlost97 · 3 months

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— prettiest.

summary: With Charles questionable dating history, you didn't want to risk getting into a relationship with someone with that reputation. He was, however, determined to change your mind. And when you did, he couldn't be happier.

keywords: fluff, Charles Leclerc is a simp, f!reader.

characters: Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr. (mentioned).

warnings: swearing.

a/n: pathetic men begging for a chance? yes please. also love u charles but u would never see a glimpse of any of my female friends <3 anyways don't take it too seriously! enjoy :)

word count: 461.

requested?: yes! by a friend.

The world is a cruel place.

Charles, however, was the only one to blame in this situation.

He was also the only one that could fix it.

When you told him that despite your feelings for him, you wouldn’t date someone with such a questionable dating history, the driver was extremely sad. Everyone heard the jokes about how you can’t introduce your female friends to Charles, so why would you risk getting in a relationship with someone with that kind of reputation?

Well, the monegasque made sure to show you everything he had to offer.

Liking all your instagram photos, commenting on them — and making all their fans go wild in the process —, shamelessly staring at you — although that wasn’t really on purpose — when you appeared on screen. The world knew how obsessed he was with you.

He stopped going to parties. He only went to them when he knew you were there, and that was clear.

Charles didn't ask you out again for a long time, though. As if he had a plan to complete before allowing himself to bother you again.

But God, he was terrible at hiding how badly he wanted to take you out. To treat you just like you deserved. To turn all his adoration into worship.

He did last surprisingly long, however. It wasn't hard to exceed the expectations when they were that low. Even Carlos thought that he would last two days without telling you how much he loved you.

Well, he lasted four. And he was very proud of it.

“You're so beautiful.” He mumbled, staring adoringly at you. “Such a shame I didn't win you yet.”

“Yet?” You asked, smiling. “So full of confidence, aren't you?”

“How could I not be? I just made the prettiest girl in the world smile.” Charles said, stroking your cheek. “Come on, give me a chance. I'm starting to get desperate.”

“Sorry, starting?” You breathed out, starting to laugh.

“Alright, you got me. I'm desperate already. Hopelessly desperate.” Charles said, feeling butterflies only with your laugh.

You two stared at each other's eyes for some time, sharing adoration.

“You better not make me regret this, Leclerc.” You mumbled, getting up from the couch and walking away.

Charles was quick to grab your hand and pull you to himself. Your faces were now close to each other, and you could feel his quick heartbeat against your chest.

“I swear that you won't.” He said, closing the gap between you and kissing your lips, feeling as relief filled him. “Fuck, how can your kiss be so sweet?”

He stared at you in disbelief. He indeed just kissed perfection, didn't he?

“I might have to kiss you again and again to find out, pretty girl.”

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one #fluff #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagine #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months

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Run Away To Me (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, being hunted/chased, medieval period-esc standards, arranged marriage insinuations, toxic family insinuations, angst, protective Johnny?, etc.

A/N: This series is so Lord Huron coded

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You rush through the low-hanging branches of the reaching pines, their green arms tearing at the once perfect and virginal white dress clothing your body; waves of delicate fabric like bird’s wings. Shredded and torn, you sob in large gasps while the shouting gets louder behind you—the pound of vile hooves along cobblestone.

“After her!” Blood was rushing down a long slice in your palm, dripping to the verdant grass as you traversed the off-trial paths, the roads of animals and bandits—monsters in the night.

Flashes of torchlight had gone out long ago, the rain slamming the ground with ancient purpose as the storm got angrier. Tree trunks slam into your shoulders, the wedding dress ripping away in strips as pine needles pierce the bare skin of your feet. Your shoes had slipped off as soon as you had started this mad dash.

“She went this way! Quickly!” You run faster, shuffling down a long hill as mud gets packed into your flesh; infecting wounds with its slimy make-up.

“Please,” your voice begs lowly, hiccuping out vowels as you drop to your knees at the bottom of a ravine before you sob and grit your teeth. Wading through the stream of chilled water, you dig into the ground and shove yourself up on shaking legs as rain pelts your head. “Please, I can’t go back.”

Even your thin clothes are heavy on you—body weighed down by terror and a desperate plea. Because what you said was true. You can’t go back. Can’t go back to the search party, can’t go back to the ceremony…and you can’t go back to the man you were supposed to marry. No, you’d rather face the woods.

Scaling up the other edge of the ravine, you slam a bloody hand down to the rocks atop, pebbles flying past your face as a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates your field of view. Noises reminiscent of an animal carve their way out of your esophagus, teeth gritted as feet slip and strain.

You heave yourself over and fight the weakness in your arms. Coughing, you pray the storm will wash away any trace of your charge to freedom—the blood and the tracks. With any luck, the hounds won’t be able to pick up your scent even with the strips of your dress left behind in the branches.

Pushing away the water from your forehead, you stumble onwards on unsteady feet that pound with pain. Grasping at your gushing palm, you cry out as the burning pain echoes up your forearm.

“Whatever God is out there,” You speak in gasps, slurring the words as your dry throat grates. It’s all but lost to the wind in its great bouts of staggering attacks through the trucks of the trees. “Please, offer me sanctuary.”

Lightning is the world’s answer, more streaks of light that make your soaked body flinch and shake even more. Yet, in that tiny second of light, there had been something in the far distance—a shadow.

Your eyes peer harder, the calls from the riders suck in the back of your mind as they taper off as the search is re-routed.

What was…?

Wooden sides, three separate rectangular shapes that stand firm in the rampaging elements. Your feet slide over the ground as you limp in the direction you’d seen them, the flesh of your body so cold that you had gone numb in the sheets of rainfall.

A heart fills with senseless hope.

A homestead! With no other option, you take a deep, ragged, breath and continue on as quickly as you’re able; dress hanging off one shoulder. When you reach the front door some ear-ringing minutes later you’re barely standing upright—legs teetering and thighs shaking with dying vigor.

Panting, your first banging to the wood is weak at best, barely a sound above the thunder and the slap of rain. You strangle a sob and wrench your shoulder back, landing three hard hits that act more like punches. Pain blossoms in your hand, but you continue striking the wood.

There’s a loud ruckus from behind the blackened barrier, a yell, and before your knuckles can make themselves bleed from fear-filled adrenaline, the door is whipped open. A dim firelight spills out from a low hearth and you find yourself staring into the narrowed eyes of a man and his exasperated expression.

There’s the beginning of a growl, heavy with an accented voice, “Now who in the hell is—!”

A strong jaw goes slack, brunette stubble stilling. Blue eyes like cobalt instantly peel back to show the whites, words strangled away in a sharp inhale.

The man is in his late twenties, stocky, and clothed in a loose sleep shirt made of thin linen with black pants. His shoulders were near large enough to knock on the frame of the door as he stood in it, built with the strength of a boar and then some. His large, lightly-tanned hand on the door slackens as his eyes speedily dart down your disoriented form. Biceps the size of your skull.

Heart hammering, you stare for a moment longer, rain pelting your back and looking like a wet dog. It’s as if you’ve forgotten to speak beyond gasps for air, but your eyes implore enough for you. The stranger recovers from his surprise at seeing such a beautiful lone woman at his door with a clearing of his throat.

“...Christ, Dearie, you’re soakin’ wet out here.” He shoulders the door open wider without another question. “Inside, now, quickly.”

You wrap your arms around your waist and speed into the shelter of the home, water dripping down to the wood as you shiver and your teeth clatter. Not for a second did you think if this might be safe or not, too scared of the riders and their hounds than anything. You wouldn’t allow them to drag you back to your husband-to-be. Not in a million years.

Your voice is hiccuping as you speak.

“I…I don’t mean to i-intrude, I’m very sorry, Sir.” The man looks around his home before he spots a large bear fur by the messy bed in the corner—he rushes over and grabs it. “I ask forgiveness for w-waking you at such an hour.”

“Jesus, is that what you’re worried about?” Blue eyes crease at you as the heavy fur over your shoulders; your hands snap to catch it, the entire thing swallowing you as gaze up in confusion. The man frowns, staring back as water drips from your nose. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you dry, yeah? You’ll catch your death like this, Little Lady.”

A wide hand presses to the expanse of your spine, prodding you forward as you squeak at the sudden contact. You’re guided to a small chair in front of the hearth, plopped down and the sides of the fur are hiked up to your neck quickly.

The stranger kneels down in front of you, focused, and his tired eyes alight with worry. He makes sure the fur isn’t going to fall as he blinks over the state of your hands. He pauses, his large grip stalling at the sight of spreading blood.

Your wound—you’d almost forgotten.

“Now what’s this, then?” The brunette's words are quiet, very in-tune with your state as you try to catch your breath and shiver. It was like coaxing a wild animal.

Blinking, you shift your hand farther under the bear's fur, bringing it to your chest.

“I won’t be here long, Sir. I promise,” you try to change the topic, but quickly jerk your nose into the crook of your arm as you sneeze, bending over slightly as mud and blood stain your skin.

Lips tighten along a square face.

“It’s Johnny, Miss.” The world outside rages on, blocked out by the four walls of this nicely sized home of wooden logs and boards. It was well-made with pine and cider, the large hearth in the back wall with inlets near the shuddered windows and various crudely carved pieces of art.

Weapon displays lined the walls, various makes and models hung on pegs. Axes and swords, spears with red-leather shafts set next to halberds of black steel. You blink at them in slight concern, not used to being around weapons.

Johnny, as he calls himself, sees this and quickly explains as he rubs at the back of his head, eyes crinkling.

“Ah, Johnny MacTavish, the blacksmith, that is,” a small, rough chuckle echos out.

You ease at that.

“Mr. MacTavish,” you give your name and offer a kind, yet still anxious, smile. “I give my thanks for allowing me shelter. A-and the fur.”

His gaze slips down to your hidden hand once more, face swirling with an unidentified emotion before studying your torn wedding gown.

“Well, I’m not one to leave a person out on my doorstep in weather like this. Certainly not a Lady.” His brow raises, head tilting. “You going to let me clean that wound a’yours or am I going to have to fish it out myself?”

Your body tenses slowly, bare feet shuffling over the floor. Staring at Johnny, you gaze at the strangely cut hair atop his head and the messy strands that speak to a night of shifting on his bed. His face is honest and open to you, blinking in soft question as his head angles to the side with an easy twitch of his lips.

“It’s really not necessary,” you try to chuckle but it falls flat, eyes red and heart still speeding.

Johnny sighs and glances at the fire, blinking before he shifts to grab another log and toss it in with no concern for the heat of the flame that lap at his fingers. You watch his muscles bunch under his shirt and quickly look at your lap.

“I’m not the greatest doctor out there, Dearie, but I can do good with washin’ out a cut an’ wrapping it.” You study him and nervously tighten your lips. Johnny’s face seems to soften, hands going up and wrists tilting as his knee stays connected to the floor; firelight on his face. A small smile blooms. “C’mon, I’m not that scary of a bastard, am I?”

You spare a tiny chuckle, shoulders jumping as rainwater slips down your chin. Your shivering was still going on, and would until you got a change of clothes, but the warmth from the fire was helping tremendously. Already feeling was returning to your limbs.

“Ah,” the blacksmith huffs a laugh, “there’s a smile. Now, let's have a little look-see shall we?”

Under the fur, your hand lightly shifts, coming back into view, slit palm and all. Johnny’s eyes darken, face going serious behind his stubble. Brown brows turn in.

“Now where in the hell did you get a—” Just as his gigantic hands were about to circle around yours, there was a violent knock at the door.

You shoot up in an instant, jerking away from the blacksmith as he snaps his head to the front, eyes lighting. He stands up slowly as you back up a few paces, eyes frantically darting back and forth. The knocking starts up again and thunder peels from outside.

Your form flinches.

“You can’t let them take me back,” you say quickly, breathing catching up in speed again. Fear burns your lungs and suddenly you’re ten times colder than before. “Mr. MacTavish, please, I can’t go back.”

Another round of knocking shakes the barrier. Blues eyes stare at you blankly, half-turned face pulled in visible confusion as Johnny’s jaw clenches.

A voice echoes from under the door as the blacksmith once more lets his eyes linger down your battered frame; taking in cuts and the limp you carry. Muddy feet and water stained red. His hands twitch at his sides.

“These are the guards of Lord Wilkin, would anyone in this home come to make him or herself known? It is of the utmost urgency!” You grow more fearful, head darting to find any other exit in this home but you land on nothing besides the windows. Your fingers shake with panic.

No, no, no.

Confusion gives way to deep concern.

A hand grasps your upper arm and you’re being hurried to the corner wall by the front door with fast feet and a firm, iron, grip. An accented voice mumbles quietly by your ear, “Keep quiet for me, Dearie. It’s alright, you let me take care of it.”

He stands you there and takes one last look at you, blinking, before grabbing the bear fur and pulling it above your head in a swift motion. There’s a quiet chuckle as you tense and slam a hand up to the brown material instinctually before Johnny darts around the corner and opens the door. You hold your breath and listen.

“Well, steamin’ Jesus, you bastards have any idea what time it is?! And in this damning weather, you show up at my door reamin’ on the wood like you’re the one who has to keep it anchored to the frame.” There’s a fast conversation of apologies and explanations that you can't catch above the yell of the rain.

“Does it look like I give a shite about a lost bride? Not my fuckin’ place to keep ‘er…I’ve seen nothing besides you…anyone out in this storm is as good as lost…” You listen and stay completely still, holding your breath as if it’s a prisoner in your lungs.

You can hardly believe it. Why was this man…lying for you? A wounded stranger that had shown up at his doorstep in nothing but a tattered gown and babbling through tears. Anyone else would have turned you over—especially to your betrothed, Lord Wilkin. He owned these lands and held fiefs by all who lived here. Not a man to mess with, if your slit palm was anything to go by.

“Go on!” Johnny calls loudly, and the door closes a second later, the latch locking. There’s a moment of nothing, before the clearing of a throat and a soft call. “Well, they won’t be back, least.”

He pops around the corner and smiles comfortingly.

“Sorry about the yellin'.” You part your lips in innocent awe and you take a deep breath before speaking slowly.

“Why would you do that?” His expression tightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Under him, his large hips shift.

“Ya asked, didn’t you?” Your blank expression only serves to make him chuckle heartily, head shaking. Johnny hums, “I won’t press you about it all tonight, though I well should. You’re in no shape for it.” Cobalt eyes glance at the food before looking back up. “But I’m guessin’ you have a good enough reason to sneak off as I hear you did.”

The very blood in your body heats with warmth.

You’re waved back over to the chair by the hearth. “Let’s get that injury looked at and I‘ll get you a change of clothes. You can take my place for the night,” eyes twinkle, “there’s no bed bugs in it, Dearie, knight’s honor.”

“What about iron shavings?” You call back softly, lips jerking up momentarily. The man’s actions had given you a large amount of trust in him. Johnny blinks in surprise at your joke, but a large grin grows moments later as you walk over delicately.

“Can’t say for certain, but I promise there’ll be no weapons under the covers. If anyone breaks in they’ll find my fists to be the first iron they get a touch of.”

Your laugh bounces off the walls, hand coming up to cover your mouth in the picture of a cultured upbringing. Johnny chuckles in turn, looking smug. He liked your laugh, it seems.

“That was detestable, Mr. MacTavish.” You sit down, and Johnny kneels where he had been before—his hand outstretched where you carefully place your wounded limb.

Immediately you feel the scrape of old burns and calluses, hands hardened by long hours of labor and intensive demands. You’re certain these are the hardest hands that have ever touched your skin, but it astounds you by how gently you’re being caressed and turned. People with far fairer flesh have never handled you like this. As if you would break apart with the barest of pressures.

Your breath stills as the blacksmith, with all the care of a butterfly, tilts your cut into the light and studies it, thumb absentmindedly brushing up and down your wrist. You hold back a shiver.

“Ah,” he grumbles, still smiling yet more focused on your injury now. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You hum under your breath and try not to flinch when he wipes away a stain of mud near your wound. The blacksmith grunts to himself, gentle pressure at your flesh like the scuff of tree bark. But it wasn’t unpleasant. No, you thought, not at all.

The two of you fall into a hole of soft silence, Johnny leaving for a moment to grab a bucket of water and bandages, saying in a mutter that he had plenty of the former to go around.

“Have a habit of burnin’ myself on my bad days, y’see,” he shimmies past, pausing before pulling back up the bear fur from where it had slightly slipped down your neck. “Comes with the job.”

Your face burns as he grabs what he needs, eyes stuck on your lap. You were astounded by the man’s ability to put away his obvious confusion for your care, how he was content to wait for answers until you were rested. It was honorable of him.

Thinking back to Lord Wilkin’s guards at the door, your thighs shift over the chair. They’d be looking for you until they found you—be that days or months, it didn’t matter. The Lord wasn’t someone to let what he wanted get away from him. Like senseless beasts, your family would undoubtedly help. Your chest is stiff with worry. How would you get away with this?

The scene you’d made at the wedding wasn’t exactly subtle.

Johnny comes back carrying a small bucket of fresh water, ladled from the wash basin, and a bundle of clean white cloth.

“Alright,” he huffs, “let’s get this sorted, eh, Dearie?” The wound was very obviously a slice from a knife, anyone could see it.

Johnny takes your hand once more and holds it in his palm, glancing up at you before dipping one of the cloths into the water and beginning to clean the cut.

“Is it…bad, Mr. MacTavish?” You ask, worried about the likelihood of scarring. That would be the last thing you would want. The blacksmith looks up from where he pats the edges, the fabric already going red.

“Just Johnny, if it pleases you,” he smiles, hulking form seemingly all a facade to hide a cheeky and loyal Scot. “And…no, not bad. If you’re worried about a mark, don’t be—it’s deep but only at the beginning. A slight discoloration, no more.” His brows pull back, teasing, “You’ll not end up like me, at any rate.” Your shoulders ease back, and you let him work with a thankful comment and a giggle.

You watch and take in the way his jaw clenches and loosens as he works, completely focused as if he was fashioning an axe and not helping a complete stranger.

“There’s no harm in scars,” you settle on saying, thinking over his last comment. Blues lock with your eyes, head tilting like a hound. Your face gains a slight heat to it and you stutter, “It’s just this one I’d rather not carry, Johnny.” Smiling warmly, you see the man’s lips part, his motions stalling for a moment as he looks up at you and blinks. “But yours suit you if…I’m allowed to say.”

It’s then that you realize that a slight flush has come to his cheeks, starting from under his stubble and leaking out to his cheeks like a red blaze—his gaze burrows deep with hidden fire that rivals the dancing shadows from the hearth.

Noticing, your own face burns all the hotter as the blacksmith quickly clears his throat, snapping his eyes away. Fingers once more cleaning your cut, he grunts out, neck now shifting to a blush of crimson, “...Thank you, Miss.”

You stay in silence for the rest of the delicate process; the air heated and rolling with something. Electricity sparks when Johnny’s hands rub across yours, large enough to break you in an instant but acting like moss over a stone. You find yourself falling into a sort of comforted state you hadn’t felt in a long time—the fur over your shoulders and the tingle of skin-on-skin contact that expects nothing but offers all.

“There,” Johnny says at last, and a part of you wants to cry when he pulls back, standing slowly. A firm but malleable wrapping is over your palm, a tiny knot tied in the middle to keep it from falling off.

You bring it to your abdomen and blink, the other hand going to run over the material.

“Thank you, Johnny. Truly. If I hadn’t found your homestead, I would have been lost.” The man rubs at the back of his neck, tunic bunched up by his elbows.

“Gah,” after a second of bruising off the comment, he waves a hand while his wide chest puffs with pride. “It’s no trouble, really. Keeps me on my toes.”

Outside the storm continues to beat the walls, and the blacksmith can’t help but feel his eyes drawn to your dwarfed form under the large fur, the dripping water, and the weight of your gown. Based on the information from the guard, he had a decent story already forming in his head.

A runaway bride and an angry Lord. By his own role as the fiefdom’s accomplished blacksmith, he should be turning you over. But your eyes had been flooded with tears when you’d pounded on his door; soaked in rain and mud—blood. No shoes. Freezing.

You had looked so afraid, his heart had hurt for you, a strong need to shelter you stuck like a knife into his ribs. Johnny had seen much in his life, war, and death, but your desperation had stuck a cord in him.

He’d keep you here with no charge, offer food and shelter, and do what he can to understand your situation. If not for simply hospitality sake, then because he had heard your laugh and had found it to be like a bird’s call in the wake of a dew-coated morning. Your soft skin like the wisps of fire from his forges. Your voice like a rippling spring. There was no way to describe the way he wanted to help besides to admit to himself that he was a good man.

And, while cocky, the blacksmith had never once been self-absorbed.

He watches you rub at your damp cheek and starts out of whatever trance he had been sucked into.

“I’ll…” Johnny rubs at his neck again, “I’ll get you that change of clothes, Bonnie. You just wait right here.”

You stare at his back as he strides over, the fatigue washing back over you now that the adrenaline leaves in its stupendous sweep of heavy heartbeats. Anyone else would have given you up. Your face softens, seeing the quick dig of hands into the stack of clothes in the dresser.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the man huffs, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dearie, all I’ve got are my tunics and pants.” Black and pale cream linen is held up on display.

“Oh,” you mutter, “I don’t mind,” your chuckle makes his lips twitch with care. “I would just prefer to be out of this…thing.” Your eyes glare down at the tattered gown, breathing softly. “Anything is perfect.”

“Well, then I hope you don’t mind the smell of fire,” Johnny hums. “Here you are.” As much as his insides twist to understand the story, making sure you don’t run a cold was more important.

Your legs push you up and you walk over softly, gliding over the wooden floor to take up the articles and dig your fingers into the warm and easy texture, thin stitching, and cuffed wrists. There was a cut down the neck with a tied cord looped through, making up an ‘x’ pattern.

“I would say thank you again,” you begin, “but I think you’ll be getting annoyed with how many times I’ve already said it.”

Johnny laughs, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his feet.

“Ah, perhaps only a little.” Silence laps into a minute, and you study him with slow puzzlement, tilting your head. For a moment, the man wonders what he’s done. The blacksmith’s dark brows furrow, lips moving back. He looks down at the clothes again and starts with a wild blinking of his lids.

“Oh! Hell’s bells, right,” Johnny walks to the other side of the room and swiftly turns his back to you with respect and a burning neck. He cringes. “Christ.”

You laugh brightly, letting the fur fall to the floor as you undress and shimmy into the borrowed clothes. Your nose takes in the scents of metal and fire—fatty linseed oil used to protect a blade against corrosion. With the crackling fire, you slip the large tunic above your head and find that it falls heavily over you; far thicker than it seemed and very comfortable, ending at your lower thigh.

But those scents make your head spin, rolling up the cuffs as you bring your nose to the collar and once more take it in with a slow breath. You hum and move, throwing the bear fur back atop your shoulders and grabbing your ruined garments from the floor before calling out to the rod-straight figure.

“Johnny?” His arms lightly jerk, as if he’d been unfocused, but he doesn’t turn around. “Where would you like me to throw these?”

The blacksmith delicately tilts his head to the side and utters with his eyes stuck to the side wall. “Bin by the door is just fine.” You look to the container holding scraps and other garbage to be taken out and drop the gown in before rubbing your cheek.

Wide cobalt eyes stare at the clothes you wear heavily, jaw loose before he re-set it and averts his gaze. Johnny chuckles to ease himself and loops his thumbs into his waistband, embarrassed.

“Do you need anything else, then?” Your eyes blink with fatigue.

“No, I…I don’t think so.” Gazing at the home, your lips thin. Your family would have a heart attack if you even mentioned that you were staying the night at a complete stranger’s homestead. No protection, no way to beat off a blacksmith beyond a well-placed punch, and running from your betrothed. To say that you’d cause anything less than a heart attack would be generous. But Johnny felt different. Firmer in his emotions and intentions. Far more than the Lord.

That was really all that matted.

“Are you really sure this is okay,” you still ask hesitantly, gargantuan clothes atop your frame. Johnny is already nodding firmly.

“It’s my pleasure. I won’t be turnin’ you back out to the woods in a storm like this.” For whatever reason, the next words fall from his lips like an oath. “There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.”

Your hand burns with the memory of his gentle grip and your heart skips beats. You feel as if a great weight is lifted, even if only for a night.

“Alright,” your words barely make it to air, and you grip the bear fur harder to stop yourself from kissing this man’s cheek, wanting to take him into a tight hug.

Johnny takes a blanket from the bottom of his bed and shuffles over to the inlet below the shuddered window, sitting down while you slowly walk forward.

“But, Little Lady,” you rest on the edge of the bed and look up to find him watching you intently, leaning back with a hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The fire still crackles, the storm still dances outside, and the room is still tight with something you can’t put a name to. Like you’re caught in a trap of soft pillows and the scent of metal, you listen to the blacksmith with bated breath. “I’ll be needin’ answers…you hear?”

Licking your lips, you nod tersely. “Tomorrow,” you agree.

Johnny gazes off into your eyes, the runaway bride that had shown up on his doorstep and captured his attention like a bird made of a white wedding gown and panicked breath. He sneaks a peek down at your wrapped hand as you settle on his bed, burrowing into his furs and his covers—wearing his clothes.

For some unknown reason, the smallest of blood stains makes his chest roll with bright anger.

“Tomorrow,” he grunts through a tight jaw before he fights to turn his head away from you. It’s a long while before he sees any type of sleep, listening to the sound of your soft breath and the crackle of the fire.

TAGS:

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sleyu · 9 months

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thinking of perv!bf james who begs you to let him take dirty polaroids of you for when you’re apart. cause how else is he meant to get off without an image of his cum on your pretty tits or you choking on his cock? definitely keeps them in his wallet for easy access too

perfect timing, i just came back from work and all i could think about as i was making people’s drinks was perv ! james…

i am positively going insane at the thought of this. i referenced james asking for photos of you in my james bf headcanons, but i totally forgot to mention all the nudes he would beg for during summer vacation.（；＿；）♡

dating you has gotten him sex addicted and he can only spend so long merely imagining your face and body :( he has such a tough time cumming without you and he hates not having you there or being forced to resort to masturbating because it only further reminds him of his loneliness.

but, the photo-system you guys developed assures him that he’s the only one that gets to have personalized photos of you in his hands that are attached along with every love letter you send him. it also eases his loneliness and makes spending time apart easier for the both of you.

right before school ends, you suggest taking photos of the two of you for when the summer holiday begins and you both are separated by the barrier that is vacations and dependent families.

james practically loses his mind at the thought of this and he makes it his mission to take photos of you from his favourite angles and sights: taking you from behind (he begs you to turn your face to look at him so that it appears in the photo), your cum-covered face and tits, your legs spread with cum dripping out of your abused cunt, you choking on his cock, and your naked, spent body sprawled across his bed, fucked out after a particularly rough session.

some photos are downright filthy (every photo with the cum) which are the ones that he jerks off to the most, whereas others are taken with an artistic eye, aesthetically pleasing enough for him to put in his wallet or on the corner of his bedroom mirror.

the photo of you in his wallet would be something pretty and taken with purpose. it would either be your cum covered, smiling face (so that anyone who takes a glance at his wallet would assume it’s simply an innocent photo of his girlfriend), or, as we know, james loves the risk, a photo of your bruised and bitten tits, littered with hickeys and love bites.

god, when james finally reaches home from hogwarts, he immediately locks himself in his room to pull out the envelope of polaroids he’s taken over the year, eagerly searching through the photos he had taken of you. james is such a little pervert that his cock was already beginning to throb at the mere thought of jerking off to those photos of you.

even though you knew that he had these photos intended for his own personal, depraved purposes, something about pulling out his cock out from his slacks and slowly stroking himself to your pretty, candid, unknowing face—occasionally slapping his cock gently on the laminated paper—was so filthy and lewd to him.

of course, the picture deal has to be mutual and he’s more than happy to send you nude photos of him. one of the photos would be his hard, leaking cock tributing to the cum-covered photo of you smiling. looking at the photo and realizing how creepy and perverted it comes across only made the ache in his cock worse. he’d graze his length against his pillow, groaning to himself, making a silent prayer that all of this is enough to relieve the constant need in him and his craving for your cunt.

‘’m so fuckin’ sick,’ he’d sigh, grinning wolfishly.

i also have a sick feeling that not only james, but the rest of the marauders favourite photos to jerk themselves off to are the innocent ones in which you’re smiling happily into the camera, showing off your pretty sundress. of course, nothing beats the lewd photos of you, but they find themselves cumming harder at the unsuspecting photos, imagining your cute, smiling face in front of them, eagerly waiting to be covered and marked by their cum. something about tainting and subsequently corrupting the innocence and purity that the casual photos reveal drives them mad.

‘gonna fuckin’ ruin you the next time i see you—fuck,’

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ceilidho · 5 months

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prompt: IKEA soap/reader fic. PART 1. tags: dubcon

You duck behind a stack of boxes when you hear Johnny come whistling into the warehouse.

He shouts your name out somewhere off on the other side of the warehouse, voice echoing through the building. You keep absolutely still, fingers clamped around the clipboard that’s pressed close to your chest. Even your breathing slows, open-mouthed so as to keep it almost soundless. It’s strategic. You’ve gotten good at making yourself invisible back here, practically melting into the stack of boxes.

A minute or two goes by with repeated calls of your name, echoing from different parts of the warehouse like Johnny’s making the rounds. Searching for you. He’s probably been looking around the store for ages, with his track record. Someone must have let it slip that you were assigned to inventory today instead of being out on the floor.

You only let out a sigh when it’s been long enough that any reasonable person might have given up on trying to find you in the loading dock.

“Hiding from someone?” a deep voice asks from behind you.

Your gut all but self-ejects. When you turn around, he’s standing there in the same bright blue shirt that you also wear. His is stretched tight across his chest though, like it’s a size too small. You wonder sometimes if it’s on purpose. It’s hard not to let your eyes wander, but by now you’ve trained yourself to keep your eyes level when speaking to Johnny.

“Nope,” you squeak. “Just…you know…counting. Counting boxes and…stacks.”

He laughs, loud enough to make you startle. It’s far too enthusiastic, like you told a particularly funny joke instead of stumbling over your words and you still don’t actually know if he finds you funny or not.

“Cool,” Johnny says, taking a step closer to you. The clipboard doesn’t feel sufficient enough to put any real distance between the two of you. “Thought I could maybe come hang out with ye back here. Dinnae want ye to feel lonely.”

“Nope, not lonely at all. Totally peachy. Actually glad I could catch a break from…everyone.” You take a step back.

He follows you, another step forward. “Aye, dinnae worry, I get what ye mean. Some of the others—” he whistles, “—right buggers. Glad to catch a break myself as well.”

A bead of sweat rolls down the back of your neck. “Aren’t you supposed to be…out in the front? I, uh, don’t want you to get in trouble with Jeff—”

“Ah, Jeff’s fine, kitty, dinnae worry about me,” Johnny coos, sounding pleased as punch. He takes you at face value instead of reading into the set of your jaw and the way you keep inching away from him as he gets closer to you, convinced that you genuinely in your heart care about whether he gets written up or not. “They fuckin’ love me, ye ken? Think he wants ta take me out for lunch tomorrow, but told him I’d only go if he invited ye as well.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” you whisper instead of screaming. You’re doing that a lot these days. Talking through the scream bubbling behind your front teeth.

“Would ye want ta then?” he asks, suddenly in your face, three quick steps bridging the gap between you in barely a second, hardly enough time for you to blink. You blink and it’s just Johnny, in startling definition. Thick eyebrows and scar across his chin, the bridge of his nose perfect like he’s never broken it before. “Grab some lunch with me?”

“I, uh…I brought my lunch from home.”

“It’s a’right, I’ll buy it for ye, hen. Dinnae need ta waste your money.” Sometimes when he talks to you, he gets like this, fervent and almost desperate. He seems only half aware of it. “Ye like that mediterranean place nearby, right? Seen ye go there once or twice; wanted ta tag along, but dinnae want ta alarm ye.”

“You saw me go there?” you repeat.

“Aye, happened ta glance out the window when ye were on your lunch break. Back before management changed my break time. Cheers for that as well because it was really startin’ ta bother me, ye ken? Not being able ta eat with my favourite coworker.”

You never know how to respond when Johnny lets on a bit too much about how he feels about you. Sometimes he slips up and it comes rushing out, a big spool of thread unwinding in front of you.

“Yeah, well…I don’t know about today but maybe…” you say, trailing off. There’s a danger in just brushing him off, you feel.

“Tomorrow then,” he decides, grin still splitting his face. “I’m no’ on the schedule, but I can drop by at your lunch break and go with ye. How’s that sound?”

“Well, you know…it sounds…” He’s close enough now that if you lean forward, you’ll faceplant in between his pecs. Despite everything, you have to slightly fight the urge. Sometimes you think it’d be easier if he weren’t so absurdly gorgeous. It doesn’t make any of his actions okay, it doesn’t excuse his behaviour just because he’s pretty, yet still he pulls you in somehow, magnetic. “It sounds—you know, actually, I think Jeff wanted to talk to me about something, so if you don’t mind—”

Johnny tries to say something, but you manage to duck around him and scurry off, disappearing into the stacks of boxes before pressing forward until you burst out the main doors out of the warehouse. It leads to a hall that goes towards the store, but you haul it to the women’s washroom instead. The one place he can’t follow you inside.

In the washroom, you can finally breathe. Resting your hands on either side of the sink, you look into the mirror where haggard eyes with deep circles underneath stare back at you.

You flinch when one of the toilets flush and the stall door opens, another coworker stepping out.

“Did I hear Johnny outside?” she asks, taking the sink beside you to wash her hands. You nod, still tongue tied. “He really follows you everywhere, huh?”

For a second, your shoulders relax. “God, I know, he’s always just hovering—”

She cuts you off, sighing dreamily. “You’re so lucky. He’s so hot, it’s unreal. I can’t believe he works here, like that’s insane. I’d kill to have him as obsessed with me as he is with you.”

“He’s—he’s not into me, he’s just…you know, he just hovers.”

The water shuts off. Your coworker shoots you a dubious look, almost mocking. “Yeah, alright. Sure. Not into you. Not like he hangs off your every word. You don’t have to be humble—we’re already jealous. It’s like rubbing it in when you pretend like it’s totally normal.”

You slump, defeated, when she leaves without drying her hands. It’s moot to try and commiserate with anyone. They don’t see him the way you do, not for who he is. Your coworkers love Johnny; you’ve seen someone genuinely fistpump after being scheduled with him.

They don’t see any of the weird shit though. They don’t see the way he insists on walking you to your car well into the evening after a closing shift together. They don’t notice the way Johnny laughs a little too hard and with too much vigour when someone calls him your shadow, his eyes just a little too bright and fervent.

They’re never around to see him ask if you want to sit on his lap while he shows you how to use the forklift in the backroom. They’ve never seen him beg management to let him take his breaks with you and doesn't let you have a moment of peace, just sits with you in the breakroom or follows you to your car when you say that you're going out for lunch.

Sometimes you look at him and think, this guy should not be in the Appliance section of a big box store. Johnny should be on the front cover of magazines, in commercials for toothpaste, acting in Hallmark movies, or maybe hand modelling for obscenely ornate watch companies that cost the equivalent of a mortgage—not handing out free samples of sliced cheese.

That was then.

It starts like this: an overeager sales associate who butts his way to the front of the line on your first day.

You think at first that you’re golden. It seems like a sweet deal—an easy enough job, maybe not what you went to school for, but still something to pass the time and not too backbreaking. Plus, the guy shaking your hand and chatting up a storm in front of you is making you melt inside. He’s easy on the eyes—all bright smiles, effortless charm, either just brushing or exactly six feet, and built. Broad shouldered and lean.

Johnny’s a model employee as well—knows the handbook inside and out, and shows you the ropes on your first day along with the assistant manager giving you a tour of the store, which is helpful because there’s at least three floors that you could easily get lost on. He walks elderly customers to their cars with their bags, shows up to work early for every shift, always with a smile and a positive attitude, and you find out early on that management loves him because of his frankly incredible sales record.

(And you get it too; you can’t imagine anyone looking into those gorgeous blue eyes and turning him down.)

He's also a spokesperson for the company in all of their internal training videos because he was hired through some “Jobs for Vets” program that they just rolled out. The guy can also stack things on a shelf like no one's business, products lined up with military precision (hence the ex-military status).

All in all, you can’t help feeling like for once in your life, you didn’t draw the short stick.

Then one day, you’re alone with Johnny in the breakroom early in the morning before the store has opened yet and he turns to you with a wide, boyish grin and says apropos of nothing, “Named my fleshlight after you.”

You think your brain skips a couple tracks like a record player. You rewind and replay what was just said to you. There’s no two ways about it—you must have misheard him. Of course you did because surely your coworker of two months didn’t just look you in the eyes and say with a sweet sunshine smile that he named his sex toy after you.

He doesn’t laugh, just stands there and smiles while stirring sugar into his coffee. He takes it black. You take note of that because the brain still has to work when the mind shuts down momentarily, so you use it instead to catalogue things around the breakroom. One of the motivational posters hanging near the door is hung a bit off-centre. The fluorescent lightbulb on the far side of the room is dimmer than the others. Johnny’s eyes have a little light spot in them like the tip of an ocean wave.

“Excuse me?” you ask, dumbfounded. Your voice sounds hollow even to you.

“I named her after ye,” he repeats, not a trace of shame in his voice. “Used ta not have a name at all, but figured since I say it so much when I’m enjoyin’ her, she might as well share it with ya.”

He stares at you after saying that, letting it hang in the air. Your brain chooses that moment to come back online and all it can do is load that image of Johnny home alone with his fleshlight, toes curled in his sheets and the muscles of his legs straining as he moans your name. All you can do is give a little awkward laugh, growing more uncomfortable by the second the longer he stares at you without blinking.

Then, something passes over his eyes and suddenly he's back to normal, laughing and clapping you on the arm before wandering off to the men's apparel section.

It leaves you reeling for the rest of the day, sure you imagined it. It recontextualizes a few things for you though. He’s always been on the handsy side, verging on inappropriate, but skirting just enough around the edges of it that you usually brush off Johnny’s weird behaviour. Chalk it up to annoying little brotherly tendencies. You know he has a few older sisters anyway; you figured it was just how he related to women in his environment.

Not so.

It escalates after that initial escalation. Not that things started off on an appropriate note, but at least before you could rationalize most of his quirks.

Now it’s this: his hand on your lower back during work hours when you’re busy helping a customer and he sidles up next to you, pinkie brushing so low on your back that you worry for a second that he might slip it down the back of your pants. Lifting you up by the hips whenever you have a hard time reaching something on a shelf instead of just reaching up and grabbing it for you. A complete misuse of his height. He digs his fingers into your sides and never lets you go right away when he puts you down.

“Aw shit, bonnie,” he coos when you complain about it hurting you. “Dinnae mean ta hurt ye. Want me to give ye a little massage in the breakroom?”

You learn quickly that there’s no point in complaining about his behaviour to anyone. You can't complain to any of your coworkers because the second you so much as criticize his work, they bark at you to be nice to him. He's just re-acclimating to civilian life, of course he's not perfect at his job yet, they say. They defend him almost viciously; the real jealous ones even tell on you in front of him, leaving you to stand there embarrassed and on the spot until Johnny just smiles and says that it's alright. That you'll just have to teach him better.

There’s not much you can do besides grin and bear it. You can hope one day that you'll get transferred; you don't have much hope for him being transferred. Not with how endeared he is to management.

When you finally open the door, ready to leave the bathroom and get back to work, you nearly scream when Johnny lurches off the wall across from the bathroom door where he’s been leaning. Waiting for you.

“C’mon, hen,” he says, all teeth. “Lemme walk ye back ta work.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish #soap x you #soap/reader #ikea soap #john mactavish #soap mw2 #soap mactavish #soap cod

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lanabuckybarnes · 1 month

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18+ Minors DNI

How about an under cover mission with Bucky that gets comprised because he sees the high slit in your dress, the way it hugs your body so perfectly and those tits— he couldn’t let you leave the safe house in that.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: unholy amount of dirty talk, like oh lord it just don’t stop, a lil smidge of possessive buck.

He’s got a deep dark look in this GIF that drives me WILD.

“This isn’t happening” he groaned into the earpiece once he ripped his eyes from you, only for you to walk in front of him and give him a view of your perfect ass wrapped in black. He can feel his slacks becoming uncomfortable the more he continues to blare his steel blues into your figure.

“Bucky?” You turned to look at him after sensing his eyes on you and, shit, the fucking whine in your tone, you were doing it on purpose, weren’t you? You wanted him to fuck this whole mission up just for a piece of that ass and yes, yes you did.

“You’re not wearing that” his voice strained as he struggled to maintain his regular grumpy old man façade. A darkness falling over his eyes that only you knew— that possessive darkness that melted into his eyes whenever he thought they’d be other eyes on you but his.

“What do you mean Buck? The dress? It’s just the get-up, it’ll be fine for a few hours”, nothing got past your eyes. You saw his blue hues run themselves down your body, the way he shifted uncomfortably in those trousers.

He sighed, hands moved quickly, pulling the earpiece from his ear before everything about him invaded your senses. The way he ran his nose up your neck to the top of your head, savouring that oh-so-familiar scent mixed with the artificial perfume you’d been tasked to wear.

“Buck!-“

“Shhh, I told you sweetheart…. You’re not leaving in that. At least not until I can make sure everyone knows you’re mine” His voice was husky, his cologne rich and his overall presence domineering— your legs wobbled almost dropping you to the floor before his thigh slot itself between them. His throat growled at the feeling of your clothed heat against him.

“I feel that pretty pussy, she doesn’t wanna leave either”. His words sent a cold shiver down your spine, his right hand trailed down from its position on your hip to your thigh, the other following suit not long after. The different temperatures in both hands caused a desperate whine to fall from your lips and a buck of your hips against the scratchy fabric before you could stop it.

“You’re a good girl ain’t you? My good little girl— jump for me baby” His hot breath fogged up your senses, till everything was him. It was all Bucky.

With your legs now wrapped around his waist your heat pressed perfectly against him, his control over himself was slipping dramatically. He didn’t care about the damn mission anymore, just you.

“Fuck baby I’m losing my mind, you’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you? Corrupting this poor old man’s brain, making him think of nothing more than that fucking cunt huh?” He enunciated the last few words with heavy snaps of hips into you, his hardness rubbing you just right drawing weak little moans from that pretty mouth.

“Good girl, all desperate for me… you want that cock hmm? Tell me you want it” he groaned against your mouth when you rubbed that heat against him.

“I want it, I want it please” fuck you were so pitiful, you’d promised yourself you’d never beg for a man yet here you were— rubbing your little body all over the front of Bucky’s slacks and begging him to do god knows what to your body.

“You’re so sweet, even threw in a little please for me” his brows quirked as his left hand ventured down between your bodies. The cool metal wrapped around the now sodden lace sent a pleasured shock throughout your body, the cold knuckles brushing against your swollen nub, a soft little ‘fuck’ falling from his smug lips at the feeling of your dripping pussy as he pushed the panties to the side.

“You’re so ready, my little lady all soaked for me— fuck you’re driving me insane I can’t think of anything but that pussy” he mumbled pulling himself from his fly and jerking his length with the essence your hole had left on the metal of his fingers.

“You ready baby?” His words were uncharacteristically sweet as he rubbed his spongy tip over your little bundle of nerves before tapping himself on it softly, biting back a smile when your body jerked at the action.

“Mhmm” you could only nod and moan, that was enough for him. He was thick and long as he pushed in, even after countless nights together you’d never get over the way he filled you.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” He held onto your hips tightly as his sweaty head fell onto your breasts. “fucking— almost came right there” he moaned before bucking up into you at a glorious pace. The movement of his hips was overwhelming, the cold metal of his fly brushing over your clit at every jerk of his hips, you’d be on cloud 9 before you knew it.

“That’s it, clench around me baby, milk me nice and good” fuck his words were filthy, far different than the Bucky he’d show everyone else— nah this was just for you.

“Shit sweetie! I’m close” he choked on a moan and plunged deep into you, your heat fluttering with its release at the feeling of his cum pressing against your cervix.

The room silenced of all sounds except your heavy breathing and Bucky’s lips nibbling and sucking on your neck, leaving the marks he promised he would.

“You know we can hear you right?” Sam mumbled from the earpiece but your lips were too busy on Bucky’s to care, you’d deal with it all later right now you had Bucky and that’s all that mattered.

It’s feral, it’s devious, it’s Bucky I can’t help myself.

#bucky barnes #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky fanfic #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #marvel #bucky smut #mcu bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #james barnes #james buchanan barnes #beefy bucky

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c0eu4 · 5 months

Text

LN4 | Tits

Request: inspi ration (he said tits in the blurry part)

Summary: Lando meets Y/n at a club and she asks him to sign her tits. A few days later, Lando is looking for her and they become friends. So she surprises him by coming to see him in Las Vegas.

Warning: Lando signing tits? Lando jerking off himself, needy Lando but no smut

A/N: I'm so so so so so sorry but I accidentally published the story when it wasn't finished and I had to delete and redo everything and I don't have the request!!

part one - part two - part three

MASTERLIST requests are opens

His glass in his hand, he moves to the rhythm of the music. The lights of all colors blind him slightly and the music is so loud that he can't hear people talking around him. He takes the last sip of his drink, disappointed at having to move from the dancefloor to get a drink.

He warns Max (Fewtrell) and heads towards the bar in the center of the club. He doesn't take the time to sit down and walk next to a young woman, leaning against the counter.

He signals to the bartender and asks him for another drink. As he waited for his drink, the young lady next to him patted his shoulder, ''Uhm excuse me?''

He turns around, giving her a charming smile. He can't help but let his eyes slide down to her plunging neckline, waking up her chest. ''I can help you?''

The young lady blushed slightly, ''Uhm are you Lando Norris?'' He chuckled, ''Himself'' Her eyes widen softly, ''May I ask you an autograph?''

Lando can't help but smile even more. He doesn't know why, but he's not annoyed when she asks him that. Normally, he accepts like anyone else, even if it annoys him to be disturbed.

''Of course, do you want me to sign something in particular?'' She thinks, asks the bartender for a piece of paper, who tells her he doesn't have any. Then suddenly, an idea crossed her mind.

''Can you sign my tits?'' Lando's eyes widened, his cheeks getting slightly red. He chuckled as he took the pen the bartender offered him.

She pulls down her dress a little, revealing her breasts even more. ''Should I sign both?'' He can't take his eyes off of her breasts. He feels like he's a growing teenager again, filled with uncontrollable hormones.

''Yeah please.'' He uncaps the pen, puts a hand on her shoulder for support and tries to write but can't. He sighed, dreading his questions. ''Can I touch it? It would be easier.''

She chuckled, her now hugely revealed breasts moving slightly along with her little laugh. She still wonders if he isn't trying to touch them on purpose. But hey, after all, it's not every day you catch Lando Norris's eyes.

''If you want that much.'' He can't help but laugh, his warm breath tickling her bare collarbone. ''What's your name?'' He placed his hands on her right breast, ''Y/n.'' he tried to stretch the skin to allow the pen to work better. He signs it and adds 'for y/n, with love' He reproduces the gesture on her other breast, not hesitating to let his fingers slide a little lower.

His signature is perfect. As in the photos. ''Thank you'' He winks at her and she chuckled softly, probably nervously. He takes his drink and goes back to see Max who's now a bit away from the dancefloor and talking with some people.

Lando approached them and immediately, Max whispered something in his ear, ''Mate you're hard.'' Lando's head turns red as one of his hands slowly goes in front of his bulge, hiding it.

_ _ _

A few days later, Y/n is still in Lando's mind. He can't stop thinking of her. He even tried to search her on Instagram but it wasn't conclusive. He still sees her reddened cheeks, her nervous smile, her pink lips and her breasts.. oh my god. Just thinking about it makes his pants feel tight.

He readjust himself in the bed, his hand slipping under his boxers. He couldn't help it, she was so beautiful...and good. He imagines his cock between her breasts accelerating the movements of his hand. And it doesn't take long before he's cumming in his pants, imagining Y/n touching and licking him.

What a dirty boy he can be. Seriously, jerking off while thinking about a fan's tits.

He gets up after catching his breath and clean the mess he makes. His phone buzzed and he looked at Max's message.

''Mate you're not gonna believe me''

His text was accompanied with a picture.. of y/n, drinking a coffee, alone.

''Isn't that the girl you're looking for?''

''Where is she?''

''The cafe we usually went to'' ''You want me to do something?''

Lando doesn't answer, already putting on his shoes and jacket. He went outside, walking pretty fast to his car. His mother would kill him if she knew how speedy he drives.

He enters that café, his eyes wandering all the people in. His gaze freezes on her. She was as beautiful as he remembered. Her long brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and her black turtleneck hid her collarbone, at the risk of disappointing Lando. Her laptop is open in front of her, next to two empty cafes.

He doesn't know what to do. Should he go see her? Or just observe her? He can also offer her a coffee and write his number on it, like in the movies.

He gathers his courage and orders two coffees. One for her and one for him. He decides to play it cool and sits across from her, putting the coffees on the table. She looks up from her computer and smiles nervously. ''Mister Norris. How can I help you?''

Her cheeks turn slightly red probably just like his. ''Maybe by giving me your number?'' He surprised himself with his overconfidence. She giggles, writes something in her notebook and gives the piece of paper to him.

Deep down, she knew that during that evening, something had happened between them. But she never thought he would look for her.

_ _ _

Since that day, they haven't stopped talking to each other.

Lando is an extrovert. Y/n is an introvert.

Lando likes to talk. Y/n likes to listen.

Lando doesn't know how to hide his feelings. Y/n doesn’t know how to show them.

They complete each other. They are made for each other. Their discussions are natural, Lando loves talking to her, even until late at night. And he knows she will always be there to listen to him. Meeting her was the best thing that could have happened to him.

Y/n feels bad to have to lie to him. She walks back into the airport, readjusting her sunglasses. She passes through the secure gate without any hassle and barely has time to land to wait for her plane that Oscar called her and she picked up the phone.

''What did you tell him?''

''That I can't come.''

''I heard him crying in his driver's room.''

Oscar had agreed to help her to make a surprise for Lando and come see him in Las Vegas. But knowing that Lando's cried for her makes her heart breaks.

''Aw I feel so bad.''

He chuckles.

''Don't worry, he'll be so happy. I'm sure he'll kiss you.'' Oscar always thought that one day or another, they would end up together. Not that it bothers Y/n, but Lando is her best friend and she's afraid of ruining their relationship.

''Stop saying silly things.'' Oscar laughed again, but more loudly this time.

''Yeah yeah.. ahhh.. we do like we say, huh?''

''Yep, I'm going to enter the plan in a few minutes, be sure to be there when I land.''

''No I should let you at the airport.''

''Funny but you'll have to support the upset of Lando during the whole week.''

''You win on this point.''

''I let you Ozzy, see you in LA.''

''Have a nice plane.''

She thanks him and hangs up. She gets on the plane and sits in her seat. During the twelve hours of flights, Y/n finds something to occupy herself by watching a trilogy, sleeping and reading.

Once arrived, all that remains is the most complicated part. She has to collect her suitcase, leave the airport and join Oscar without being recognized. She readjusts her sunglasses and the black mask that hides the lower part of her face. With her hood on her head, she walks with her head down and hurries to collect her suitcase.

She leaves the airport in less than thirty minutes and quickly finds Oscar's car. She puts her suitcase in the trunk and gets in the passenger seat.

''Hey, nobody saw you?'' He asked her as she took off her sunglasses, mask and hood. ''Hi, I don't think so.'' He doesn't wait any longer to start the car and drive straight to the hotel.

She preferred to surprise him by waiting for him in his hotel room rather than at the track.

''I got a copy of his room card.'' He gives her the card as she quickly puts on her makeup.

It doesn't take long for them to arrive at the hotel. He helps her with her things and they hurry to the hotel room. Due to traffic jams on the road, they lost time and Lando should arrive more soon than expected.

She places her things in a corner of the room and sits down on the bed that he didn't even take the time to make.

''Tell me if he kissed you.'' Said Oscar before leaving her alone. He didn't let her have the time to respond and she just scrolled on her phone to pass the time.

She looks in the mirror, checking that her outfit is okay. She made the effort to take a twelve-hour plane with a rather uncomfortable dress, even if she was wearing one of Lando's sweaters over it.

She readjusts her hair and receives a message from Oscar telling her that he ran into Lando in the hallway.

She sits on the edge of bed and stares at the front door. She hears a noise, then a 'beep' meaning the door is open.

Lando walks into the room, not even noticing her, too busy looking at his phone. He places his bag on the ground and finally looks up from his phone.

His eyes open wide and his mouth is parted, not knowing what to say.

''Happy birthday, Lando.'' She smiles at him getting up from the bed.

Lando doesn't know what's going through his head, but he walks towards her, places his hands on her cheeks and presses his lips to hers.

Shit. Oscar was right. But it doesn't stop her from kissing him back, moving her lips along with his. She wraps her arms around his waist to pull him even closer to her.

''What the hell are you doing here!?'' He finally breaks the kiss, still in shock.

''Don't you still know that I'm a very good liar?'' He kissed her cheeks, his hand slowing on her hips.

''Fuck I missed you so much.'' He kisses her neck, already nibbing on it.

''Wow wow wow Lan', slowly.'' He stops it and his lips go back to hers.

''I hate you.'' She arranges the strands of hair that fall in front of his eyes.

''No you don't.'' He kissed her again.

''Be my girlfriend.''

''Did I have the choice?''

''No.'' He doesn't give her time to respond as he kisses her again, addicted to her lips.

Lando will no longer need to imagine his cock between her breasts. He's already planning to experience it tonight.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 drivers #f1 x reader #help he's so hot

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tojancy · 11 days

Text

‘say my name, boy’ - ft. jjk men

saying ‘ i love you ’ after sex w satoru, kento, n suguru!

ɞ⁺ contains : suguru , satoru, kento x fem!reader (seperate), fluff, slightly suggestive, nuditiy, making out, mentions of sex (obv), not proof-read.

ɞ⁺ w.c : total of 1.4k

SATORU GOJO .ᐟ

Long arms coat you, his skin practically glowing under the soft moonlight. Satoru’s eyes remain shut as he breathes contentedly. Every time you think your boyfriend can’t look any better, he proves you wrong.

You lean to kiss his cheek, bringing a soft smile to his face. Thick, snowy eyelashes remain obstinate, keeping his eyes shut and not looking at you.

“Are you okay, babe?” Satoru asks after a few moments, breaking the unnerving silence.

“Hm..? Yeah?” His question confused you.

“You never silent after sex,” His eyes open, leaving you staring into cerulean spherules. “What’s come over my talkative girl? Something on your mind?” His arms tighten over you, pressing you skin-to-skin.

You giggle once brought close as if it’s the first time he does that. As if you weren’t just having sex with the man. His smile grows at your giggle.

“Not really, I’m okay,” You reassure, but Satoru is less than convinced. You’re always talking about something after going at it. It’s an endearing habit of yours that he’s gotten used to, now finding comfort in.

“Baby,” he begins in mock sternness, “don’t play with me.”

“I’m not playing, ‘toru,” the syllables come out dragged, “don’t have anything to say, that’s all.”

His expression grows smug, “awh? Was I so good you can’t even speak? How cute.” You roll your eyes at his teasing.

“You’re so obnoxious, ‘toru,” it’s his turn to roll his eyes.

A few seconds go by—it’s so easy to lose track of the world around him when you look this angelic. An involuntary smirk fights its way onto his face. “God, you’re so in love with me. Can’t blame you, I’m so perfect.”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” you chuckle, forehead pressing against his own. “You’re delusional.”

“Please,” he scoffs, responding with sass. “Allow me to prove my point.”

His lips come towards you at an agonizingly slow pace. It’s as if he’s torturing you on purpose, which he probably is. His lips close upon yours softly.

His kiss is electricity, it’s fireworks, it’s a bomb. You’ve been with Satoru for so long, yet his kisses never cease to leave you in a state of bliss.

“‘Love ya, baby,” He says with a soft smile.

“Huh?” You quirk a brow, fighting back a giggle.

“What?” He’s confused. What did he do wrong this time?

“Say it right, Satoru,” you demand, landing playful taps on his face. “Who loves me?”

“Oh— I love you,” he nods, “Satoru Gojo loves you, my charming, beautiful, gorgeous woman.”

“That’s more like it,” you grow giddy. “ I love you too,” your words come out whispered, moving to press another kiss to his lips.

KENTO NANAMI .ᐟ

“Are you okay, my love?” kento whispers to you, fingers holding your face by the chin and forcing your face to look over at him.

You hum, fixing your body to fit into his arms. Resting your head over his chest. kento chuckles; you’re not this clingy. But there’s some sense of serenity that washes over you every time he ‘makes love’ to you. It makes you quite lovely, in his eyes at least, more than your regular self. kento would never admit how he wishes you cling to him on a regular basis.

His lips land on the top of your head softly, pressing a soft kiss there. He keeps his head in your hair, smelling your aroma. Sure, you’re sticky with sweat and other… bodily fluids. But that doesn’t make him like you any less.

“Wanna take a bath?” He whispers into your hair, warm breath fanning over your scalp.

“No…” You manage, voice barely audible. Your words vibrate through his very being. One finger mindlessly traces soft circles on his chest, making him feel slightly ticklish. He doesn’t move, though. “Can we keep it to the morning?”

“You sure?” He mutters with a chuckle. You’ve done this before. kento knows you hate morning showers, but you also hate the feeling of water on your body after sex. And every time you have a morning shower, you end up wishing you had it the night before. “Not gonna change your mind in the morning?”

“Promise,” you lie, knowing full well you are going to regret making this choice. “‘M too tired to move.”

“Okay,” the blonde man nods. He allows you to make this choice. After all, he’d hate to leave your arms, too.

“Kento..” you call after a few moments of peaceful silence. He hums attentively, sensing a question coming his way. “Can you say it?”

“Say what?” He looks down at you. Your head moves, craning your neck so your eyes can meet his own. He stares at you with love, love you thought he was incapable of feeling a few years back.

The way you look at him is enough answer. He knows what you mean, and it’s almost amusing. It’s adorable how you seek his affection so… bluntly.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he whispers, his tone low and sensual. “You already know that.”

Using your elbows for support, you help yourself to lean up to him, pecking his lips softly. “I love you too, Kento. So, very much.”

“I know,” He smiles, eyes fluttering between your eyes and your lips.

SUGURU GETO .ᐟ

“Suguuuuu’” you whine when your black-haired lover moves out of your grasp, about to stand up. “Come backkkk”

Suguru chuckles—it’s a hoarse sound, yet the amusement in it is unmistakable. He’s still somewhat out of breath. He doesn’t comply, though. “What’s wrong? Can’t let go of me for a whole minute?”

“You’re mean,” you huff, sitting up straight. The blanket that covered you slips down and lands over your hip. Suguru’s eyes trail down against his well. He can’t help it, you look so divine, the dim light illuminating your body in all the right ways.

“I’m mean for wanting to get dressed?” He raises a brow, scanning the room for the discarded pants. Your teeth tug at your lower lip at his physique. You’re not sure how you landed a shot with this gorgeous man, but you’re more than grateful. You avert your gaze, though, not hoping to jinx your luck. “Crybaby.”

A string of complaints leaves your lips, none audible enough for him to make out. You turn your back to him, pulling the covers up your body. Suguru rolls his eyes as he pulls his pants back on.

“You’re so sensitive,” The mattress dips under his weight, the blanket moving over your bare skin when he gets under it.

Warm digits trace your waist, careful as if you would break under any form of pressure. Goosebumps ripple across your skin, spreading like wildfire at the sensation of his warm breath near your ear.

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, bringing you closer to him by the waist. His fingers rub your belly lovingly. “So soft… so warm.”

Your heart throbs at his whispered words, feeling your thighs tighten slightly. He has such a way with words. You’re well past spent, but he still finds a way to turn you on again. You hum under him, leaning into his warmth.

“Stop teasing, Sugu’, you–” You begin, turning your face to meet him. The look in his eyes makes you stop. His face is living proof there’s a god—there’s not a hint of doubt in you that his face was sculpted by the hands of an angel.

“Hmm? What were you saying?” He smirks, not moving an inch.

You shake your head. “Nothing,” You snap out of it, looking away.

“Uh-huh?” A lopsided smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. “Is that really?”

“Yeah,” You insist, turning around in his arms. “Just kiss me already.”

“With pleasure, pretty,” his voice is a tune you never bore of. He leans down towards your face, eyes set on your slightly parted lips. Warmth closes upon your mouth.

His every move is passionate, prudence long gone. His fingers roam your skin freely, tracing a map he’s long since memorized. His tongue leaps at your mouth, dancing with your muscle. The room is empty but for the lewd sounds of mouths clasping against each other and your low hums.

“S’soft f’me,” he pulls away, remaining close. A string of saliva connects your mouths. You’re a sight to see, all flushed up and breathless while he seems unfazed. “I love you, doll. Y’know that?”

You take a moment to gather yourself before responding with a soft, “’love you too, Sugu’.”

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kenjakusbraincum · 6 months

Note

Heey, I LOVE your writings on soft sukuna, you write so beautifully🩷 please can you do one where he is jealous (fluff)😭🩷

Thank you sm for the kind words!!! Here's my best attempt at doing your idea justice <3

Sukuna has no real reason to be jealous. He practically owns you, controls every aspect of your life, who or what could he possibly be jealous of? Every servant who dared approach you in an inappropriate way would be dealt with swiftly. And you're a good pet, who has eyes for no one other than your master. You really don't give him a reason.

But there's this one thing... Since you've been so good and obedient, Sukuna has allowed you many liberties. You're permitted to skip around the mansion, watch Uraume cook, even enjoy little hobbies. You've tried many before you found that crocheting particularly piqued your interest. Ever since you've learned the basics, you've been spending hours working on perfecting your skills. At first it was cute, watching you squint in concentration as you move the hook. But then the math became really simple - having this hobby to keep you busy meant you approached Sukuna out of boredom a lot less. And he noticed it. It irked him, but you're not technically doing anything wrong. You were still as happy to serve him as ever, he just had to ask. But why would he have to ask? You should be all over him on your own. He should have to push you away, not beg you to give him attention. He didn't like this disturbance in your master and pet balance that this little hobby of yours caused.

He stands at the door now. You're crocheting again. You and your favorite servant laugh at your failed creation so sweetly, you don't even notice he's waiting. He clicks his tongue to establish his presence, and your servant falls to her knees immediately. You however, are not held to that high of a standard anymore.

"Master!", you call him, and hop up to greet him with a deep bow. Before he can say anything, you've picked up the piece of fabric you've been working on and ran into his arms to show him.

He looks at the ugly form and scoffs. "This is what I'm sponsoring?", he says and pulls a loose piece of yarn, making your little creation fall apart. He always was a bully, but you note his bad mood.

"I'm only a beginner...", you sulk.

"That much is obvious.", he flicks the yarn away and it falls onto the floor. Before you can bend to pick it up, he seizes your wrist and pulls you back. "Aren't you a little young to waste time with hobbies for the elderly?", he asks. You look at him with your cutest, practiced doe eyes, but it doesn't work.

"Come, pet. I know an activity more suitable for your age.", he says when you don't respond, and steps out of the room. You hop after him, unaffected by his condescending comments. You know that they're just for show. If he really thought you were a hag, you would've been gone a long time ago.

"Sitting at your throne all day?", you tease innocently and join him at his side, sliding your arm underneath one of his. You hope your playfulness will distract him from whatever is bothering him. "Or in a bath?" His lower set of eyes peeks at you and smirks, noticing that you're feeling particularly daring today. He's not sure how he feels about that. "Or in your bed." He rolls his eyes gently and opens the door to his chambers.

"At least then you'd be serving your purpose and actually spending time with your master.", he comments and shuts the door. His comment catches you a bit off guard and you stop in front of his bed. He makes his way towards you, and you look up at him with an insulted expression.

"Master, are you jealous of a ball of yarn?", you ask playfully, and squeal when he suddenly pushes you down to sit on the bed. Now you're at eye level... with his crotch.

"You've got quite a big mouth today. Put it to good use for a change, will you?", he runs his hand from the crown of your head to the back of your neck. You seem to have struck a nerve, so it really is the ball of yarn. Is it possible that Sukuna is this clingy?

"Will you?", he repeats and tugs on your hair and narrows his eyes. You smile obediently and reach behind him to untie his obi.

"Yes Master."

You try your best to manage the time you spend crocheting from then on, working on productivity in the hours that you dedicate to developing this skill. And it helps that you have a specific goal in mind now: helping Sukuna realize that this hobby is a friend, not an enemy. He still catches you engaging in it sometimes, and gives you a dirty look, but you're as quick as ever to drop what you're doing and join him. That seems to satisfy him.

When you're finally happy with the result of your creation, you look for Sukuna around the mansion. It's not really that hard to find him, as he frequents three places most of all: the dining room, his bedroom and his throne room. This time, he's sitting on his throne, and a small line of people wait for their turn to be gifted his attention. You on the other hand, don't have to wait in line to get it. His lower set of eyes spots you the moment you enter the chamber. You're allowed to roam the mansion, but barging in unannounced is not standard even for you.

Still, Sukuna has learned that you usually only feel daring enough to cross boundaries when you're sure he'll like what you have in mind. So for now, he will let this slide. He's bored as hell anyways. The people are dismissed and you pass by them on your way to his throne, nestled on a pile of bones. You stop in front of it and greet him with a bow.

"Master, I come to you with a humble offering.", you say with your hands on your thighs and your eyes fixated on the ground.

"Show me.", he says simply, but you recognize entertainment in his voice. You climb up the bones and feel his stare scan you from head to toe, before you sit on his knee.

"May I ask you to close your eyes?", you ask and flutter your lashes. Oh the way you seduce him. Who else could ask Sukuna to do something as dangerous as close his eyes? Give his opponent valuable time to land an attack. Who else could dare? And who else would he ever listen to and really close his eyes? Really do as he's told? Oh how safe he feels with you.

You take one of his large hands into yours, and gently pry his long fingers away to open his palm. He has beautiful hands. The only ones you've ever known, but you're sure they're the most beautiful hands in the world. So dangerous, so elegant. You want to press a kiss to his palm, but you hope your gift will have the same, maybe even more profound effect.

Something soft touches his skin, and then you speak, as politely as before. "You may look.", in your softest voice. And when he opens his eyes, he finds himself looking at you first. You're an offering on your own.

Then he looks at his hand. Two crocheted plush figures resembling him and yourself lay flat on his palm, connected through their holding hands. At first glance, it looks like they're two separate creations. In a sense, they are, but... He tries to part them.

"We're sewn together.", you explain. He hums in amusement and inspects your gift more closely. His plush is bigger, recognizable by the pink hair and four buttons for eyes. It's even wearing his favorite kimono. Yours is smaller and less detailed. You look like any other human when placed next to him, insignificant. But in a sea of pets, entertainers and lovers he's had in the past, he would never fail to recognize it as you.

He's spent so long looking at it with that face of his that you just can't read. You're starting to grow restless in his lap, and he feels your eyes dwell into his soul. When he looks back at you with one pair of eyes, your brows are furrowed in worry and you're fiddling your hands in your lap. He pats you on the head and pulls you closer, so you have no choice but to lean on his frame.

"It's beautiful, darling.", his fingers run through your hair, scraping your scalp softly. "No loose threads either.", he looks at you with all four eyes now, and you feel so small in his arms. You're not used to receiving this many compliments from Sukuna at once. Not ones that weren't directed at your body or performance. Especially not when he's looking at you so tenderly, when every word sounds so loving and genuine. "You've improved so much.", his hand is on your face now, and you catch him glancing at your lips. You part them to start thanking him, but you already know how much he hates listening to that.

You stay quiet instead, and lean closer, letting him take you. And he kisses you so softly, fingertips light against your heated skin. You feel like you're floating, like a lily pad in a warm pond. The littlest gesture of his affection has you melting in his embrace. The power he has over you... and how wonderful it is to surrender yourself to it.

None of the liberties and privileges you've been awarded with compare to this. You know that many pets have walked these halls before you. Many warmed his bed and claimed the title of his favorite. But how many loved him like this? Enough to dedicate time of their day to making intricate gifts. How many could say Sukuna kissed them lovingly, for no other reason than to show gratitude and affection?

You're flushed completely red by the time his lips leave yours. You can't hold the intensity of his gaze, as he stares at you in adoration. "I'm happ.. I'm glad you l-like it...", you stumble through the words and win a giggle out of him. You are just so cute. Like a pet should be. He rubs your head again and pushes you away lightly.

"Go now, the people await me.", he says with a benevolent smile gracing his face. "I'll see you tonight."

You bow to him and leave.

And when you visit him that night, he is as gentle as he was when he kissed you earlier, still in a good mood after your gift. Caressing your hair, shoulders and back, as you lay comfortably with your head on his chest. Keeping you warm in his embrace. You're trying your best to follow the conversation, but sleep is slowly taking over you. Sukuna notices and plants a kiss to your forehead, wishing you goodnight. The last thing you see before your eyes close, is your handcrafted plushies sitting on his nightstand.

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #soft sukuna #ok hear me out #im not sure how well i did the “jealous” prompt justice #bc i just struggled to conceptualize how sukuna would even be jealous #when hes in control the way he is in this little universe #(which i write in by default bc i know it best as it lives rent free in my head)#sooo maybe the jealous part got lost along the way #and maybe this ended up exploring gift giving as sukunas love language further #but i hope you like it anyways!!!#also> i have no ideas how to use tumblr in other words line break and stuff like that is maths to me #im also not sure and welcome any input is it better to post writing directly in the answer to the ask #or should i post it separately and just add that it was requested by anon/other person

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midnightorchids · 7 days

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I am kinda curious

What would Jason be like if the coffee Cafe owner!reader built in a small library in her Cafe just for him,like she saw he liked reading and went like 'yup. I am building a small library for him'

This is such a fun idea, but omg please forgive me, I went a little overboard. Once I figured out what to write, I couldn’t stop. I apologize for how long it is. Also, this is completely gender neutral, so anyone can read!

But omg also, I was literally kicking my feet and giggling writing the end lol, Anyways enjoy!

Owning a cafe was a difficult job, there was always much to do— customers to attend to, drinks to make, and maintenance to do. You were always busy, but you loved your job.

You had spent a lot of time curating the perfect atmosphere for your beloved customers. The lighting was warm, with fairy lights and lanterns dangling from the ceiling. There was wooden furniture and two old couches that sat by the glass windows. The tiny space smelled of freshly brewed coffee and sweet bread. The cafe was always inviting.

You had many regulars at the coffee shop, each one with their own story, a different purpose.

For the past six months, twice a week, every Thursday and Saturday morning, a tall man walked in. Jason, you recalled his name from the many times you prepared his drinks. He’d order the same thing every time, a small London fog and a walnut banana bread.

He’d sit at the table nearest to the entrance, his back never towards the door.

Every morning, he’d come in with a new book. You had seen him read Franz Kafka, Oscar Wilde and Jane Austen; he’d read a lot of Austen.

He was a mystery and you wanted to know more.

You found Jason quite handsome. His skin was scattered with scars and you often found yourself staring at the permanent wound near his lips. You wanted to run your fingers along it, to trace it, to kiss it.

His eyes were always kind, a deep shade of green, forest-like you’d think to yourself.

He spoke with kindness. His voice velvety and rich, much like the espresso you’d brew everyday, except his voice was never bitter, almost always doused with honey.

Sometimes you’d catch him looking over at the counter, at you, you’d hoped.

Your coworkers were afraid of him, telling you to stay away, but you couldn’t help yourself. He was like an enticing book, waiting to be read. They’d warn you, “do not engage in too much conversation with the strange man.” But it was as if they were talking to a small child, their words would go in one ear and out the other.

“Strange,” you would never use that word to describe him.

From the small talk you had with him, to his choice in books, to even his taste in tea, you’d never describe him as strange.

Gentle was the word you’d choose.

He was huge, all height and muscle, terrifying to most, however to you, he was everything but that. You saw an angel and you didn’t even know him… yet, you’d tell yourself.

There were days, where you almost gained the courage to ask for his number, maybe ask for small detail, perhaps get a glimpse of his life. But each attempt was futile. Why was it so hard to speak to him for more than five minutes, you’d curse your inability to speak to attractive men.

You were beginning to give up on your dreams of getting to know the beautiful stranger, when he walked in through door.

The conversation began as per usual.

“Morning Jason, what can I grab you today,” you asked politely. He smiled softly in return and you stare at the scar by his lip as he begins to speak.

“Uhh surprise me,” you look at him confused, he’s never done that before and he finds himself smiling harder. “Just kidding, I’ll just the take the usual please,” he says as he places his copy of Jane Eyre on the counter to take out his wallet.

“Brontë, why am I not surprised,” you reply, gazing at the book. You take the cash from his hands and your heart drops. Shades of purple and crimson coat his skin. They’re bruised, again.

“What can I say, I’m a man of taste,” he smirks. You roll your eyes and giggle.

“Now who told you that,” and he shrugs. Then there’s a lull, you don’t know what to say now. It isn’t awkward, but you find yourself starting feeling a little uneasy. God, if you only you could come up with something else to say. You shake your head slightly and begin to warm up his banana bread.

You turn around and wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t walk away to his usual table this time, instead he takes a seat next to the counter. Odd, you thought.

Jason’s gaze doesn’t leave you for a second, he watches you in admiration, you don’t quite catch on.

If you thought Jason was handsome, then he thought you belonged in a museum. You were a work of art in his eyes. The kind of beauty they wrote poetry about. Absolutely stunning.

He wanted to get to know you, speak to you, but he was afraid. If you didn’t reciprocate his feelings, then he may never be able to see you again. The trips to the cafe would no longer be necessary and he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

However today, Jason pushes his fears aside, he feels bold. He finds his confidence and he speaks.

“Do you read much,” he asks suddenly. You place his cup of tea and bread in front of him, and nod your head.

“I do, but not what you read,” you reply and he stares into your eyes, curious. “I mostly read magazines, you know Vogue and stuff,” his smile drops a little, he’s trying really hard to not look judgemental. Cute, you think. “Kidding, I read fantasy mostly,” and his face lights up again.

“So like J.K. Rowling,” he questions.

“No, Harry Potter’s good, but I’m not really a fan of her, you know as a person. I’ve been reading a lot Neil Gaiman recently though,” you say.

“Oh fuck, yeah, she’s said some pretty crazy stuff huh,” and you nod again. “Gaiman though, I don’t think I’ve ever read his stuff before, he any good,” he asks and your eyes go wide, you’re excited.

You spend the next hour of his visit speaking to him about books, about the things that you both like.

You only part from the conversation when there was a customer.

You’ve never felt this way before, all the assumptions you made about him were true. He was an angel, a kind and gentle one.

A month goes by and you notice your relationship with Jason change. Now, instead of sitting by the entrance of the cafe, he sits near you, back against the door. A sign of trust, you assumed. He smiled more, he showed his teeth and he laughed, hard. You loved the sound of his laugh. His eyes looked brighter, greener, emerald-like. He still walked in with a new book, but when the conversation began, it was long forgotten.

You watched his bruises heal and you watched new ones appear, you were always curious, but never had the courage to ask. He’d tell you when he was ready.

As time went by, you found yourself wanting to do something for him, you wanted him to know that you cared. You thought that if your words were going to fail you, then maybe your actions would prove otherwise.

Working a closing shift at the cafe on a gloomy Tuesday evening, you find yourself thinking of different gestures you could do.

Ideas came and left, nothing felt good enough. He deserved the best. Trying to busy your mind elsewhere, you begin to sweep the floors and that’s when inspiration hits you.

There, in the coffee shop, lies an empty corner. An odd spot, not necessarily small, but also not large enough either.

A perfect fit for a decently sized bookshelf. A library, for the community, but most importantly for Jason. You smile to yourself, proud at the thought. He’d love this, you knew he would.

The next morning you find yourself drilling holes into the pale walls of the cafe, trying attach the large shelf you lugged down to the shop.

Once everything was fixed into its rightful place, you begin adding the books, by genre and then by the authors’ last names. You add many of Jason’s favourites, multiple copies of Austen. You add children’s books, comics and something for yourself.

The shelf fits right into the ambiance of the cafe, elevating it honestly. The corner looked cosy and you found yourself wanting to sit by one of the couches with a book and a cup of hot chocolate.

You stare at the shelf once more, proud. Now, you just had to wait.

Jason walks into the cafe the next day, he’s late. He arrives near closing time. It’s just you and him in the cafe, most of your staff left for the day and not many people stayed this late. It’s quiet, the only sound coming from the machines on your side of the counter. He’s holding another book in his hand, but he has no intention of reading tonight.

His hair is slicked back, and there’s a small cut on his forehead. He’s dressed in a white dress shirt and black pants. He looks like he’s coming back from a big event or maybe he’s going to one later. Either way, he looks pretty like this, his arms look more defined and you can make out the muscles on his back when he walks around the room, waiting for his drink.

His eyes wander around the cafe before settling on the bookshelf nestled in the odd corner. His eyes soften, he’s never noticed that before, it must be new, he thinks.

“When’d you get this,” he asks, his fingers running along the spines of the books. He’s smiling, there’s so many books.

“Yesterday, it’s for you,” you say, holding your breath. This is it, the moment you’ve been preparing for.

“For me,” he looks over at you as you settle his tea on the counter. You begin walking over to his side, slowly, riddled with nerves.

“Yes, since you’re always here, I thought you’d like having a book shelf here. It’s like a library, you take a book and then you-“ he cuts you off suddenly.

“You made a library for me in your cafe, are you serious,” he’s trying to hold back a smile, you can tell. His scar gets more prominent when he does that. “Why,” he as asks, his voice is soft, it feels like warm milk with honey, comforting.

“You’re gonna make me say it,” you can’t see your face, but it feels hot, you can tell you’re blushing.

“Yeah, say it. Why is there a library in your cafe for me,” he says, enunciating the words “your” and “for me.” He’s smirking now. He knows the answer, he just wants to hear it from you.

The point of the library was to not have to say anything, for your actions to speak for you, but here you are. Ears burning and palms clammy.

“I…,” you trail off, you look around the room, anywhere but his face. He notices and walks closer, his hands gently make their way around your waist.

“Say it,” he exclaims, it’s not forceful, he’s smiling and shades of pink dust his cheeks.

You close your eyes shut, fuck, you’re going to have to say it.

“I really like you jas-,” and with that, his lips find their way to your own. You move in harmony, much like matcha and oat milk. His lips are sweet, he tastes like the banana bread, he decided to eat while pacing around the cafe. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, you pull back and smile. You peck his lips. Once where the scar is and once more on the centre. He grins.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear that from you,” he mumbles against your lips, waiting for you to kiss him again.

And you do, you kiss him again and again.

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd headcanon #red hood headcanon #batfam

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