#I can't believe it's a rare pair | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

There are dozens of funny blogs to kill time on Tumblr.

#I can't believe it's a rare pair

willywarfy · 6 months

Text

Manifesting someone who'd want to rp abestache with me so I can get back into the rp spirit and answer the rps I haven't replied to in like 1-2 months 🙏🙏🙏

#wilford warfstache #wilfordmotherlovingwarfstache #abestache #markiplier rp #markiplier #fandomrp #wkm abe #wkm #wmw #who killed markiplier #detective abe #PLEASE ABESTACHE IS MY LIFE #I can't believe it's a rare pair #bc have you SEEN them

24 notes · View notes

yeowangies · 6 months

Text

the dbz fandom is full of babies because they can't stand the idea of someone creating art of rare pairs, like why do you all care if someone likes goku x bulma or vegeta x chichi, like who do yall think you are istg

#every time I see someone either writing a fic or drawing smth with gobul #some people go absolutely nuts and actually harrassed the artist like. what in the hell #same thing with vegchi like Who gives a fuck #i love both rare pairs and I want to see more of them but I can't believe how dumbass some people are to harrass artists and writers

26 notes · View notes

fangisms · 7 months

Note

hiii i loved „spring breaks loose”!!🤍 could i request another something for theodore, where the reader is quite bubbly and loves talking and he, the quiet guy he is, just likes to listen? and maybe the reader is worried that she talks too much and it could be annoying to him but he’s just so in love that he’s obsessed with all her rabling😭😭 sorry if thats too specific

darling socialite

A/N: um i love this because if someone let me chat their ear off, i would fall in love. i love a chatter and i love a listener 🩷 gif creds: @perfectlyfuckingcivils

Pairings: Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You are talkative as all hell, and Theo has dubbed himself your devoted listener. 1.3k words

Warnings: i be cursing, fluff, mild self-consciousness, two dummies in LOVE, mattheo being a perv (boy moment), kissing…, pansy being a slight bitch (lovingly)

Everyday, you look forward to telling Theo anything and everything. Sometimes, you'll get so excited to tell him something that you'll jot it down on the nearest surface. Most of the time, that surface is your hand. Who can blame you; you can't resist the gory details.

Everyday, Theo looks forward to hearing anything and everything from you. You're his favorite news source, his sweetest messenger, his darling socialite, and he is your devoted subscriber. He's worried one day you'll run out of things to tell him, but according to the ink splotches across your skin, there's a slim chance that'll happen.

"Hi, teddy!" you chirp, and he turns to welcome you into the seat beside him. "You will not believe what I saw in the courtyard on my way here: a willow tit!"

Mattheo chokes on a gulp of juice, sputtering in his seat and looking over at you. "Pardon?"

"Don't be crude, Matty. I'm talking about birds."

"Yeah, I got that, I just never realized you’re playing for the other team—"

"Mattheo!" you holler, glaring at him in utter disbelief, "you complete idiot! Birds, as in real birds. As in those things that fly around and chirp and eat berries!"

"Let me get this straight, we're not talking about some bird's tits? Suddenly, I'm uninterested," he says, earning a pointed glare from Theo.

"Anyway," you say, rolling your eyes and facing Theo, "You hardly see them anymore, they're very rare, but I saw one, and it was the cutest creature I've ever seen on campus! It was so round, I could have died. He must've liked all the rain we got over the weekend. I hope he survives the winter and has lots of little tit babies in the spring!"

Theo could not be more head over heels for you while you babble about round tits and babies. He thinks if he ever opens his mouth to respond, he’ll screw it up in an instant. Thank Merlin, he's naturally quiet and content to listen to you all day. And thank Merlin, you never ask for anything more from him.

If only you knew how much he truly adores you and your ramblings. He holds your company in his highest regard and considers every time you choose him a blessing.

You never think too much of Theo's tight-lippedness. You figure if he was completely sick of it, he'd just get up and walk away. Or maybe that's not like him, and maybe you are a bother.

It doesn't help when Pansy skips up to you in the hall and says, "I'm really impressed you're able to hold Theo's attention as long as you do."

"What are you talking about, P?" you say.

"Well... don't you ever worry he's, like... bored with you? I mean, when was the last time he actually contributed to your 'conversations'. I just don't want you to get your hopes up, you know?" —she shrugs it off like it's not an unforgivable curse to the gut—"If I were you, I'd find a more attentive playmate. You can always talk to me!"

"Thanks, Pansy," you say.

"Just looking out for a friend! See ya!"

You nod and wait by the bottom of the stairs as she hops her way up. You didn't think you were getting your hopes up, necessarily. You thought Theo was just a good listener. And sure, he's not super responsive, but he's just shy. That's not his fault.

…

There's a rapping of knuckles at the door, and Mattheo hurdles his bed and reaches for the knob.

"Why, good evening, dearest birdwatcher"—Theo perks up from where he's rifling through his trunk.

"I could say the same to you, perv," you tease, "Is Theo around? I need—"

"To talk to him? Figures. He's just hiding his softcore stash—"

"Shut up!" Theo hollers, popping up and hurrying to the door, a little flushed to find you looking at him, "he's just joking."

Mattheo chuckles, "No, he's right, Theo would never have so much fun"—he dodges the jab to his side—"Alright, I'll leave you two lovebirds to your tits and whatnot. Try not to make too much noise, we have downstairs neighbors." He winks and makes his way down the boys dormitories stairwell.

And suddenly, Theo can't remember the last time he was truly alone with you. No onlookers or eavesdroppers, no Pansy and no Mattheo. Just the two of you. His sweaty palms and your rapid heartbeat.

"I need to ask you something," you finally blurt. He looked so nervous you thought he might throw up over the railing, so you put him out of his misery before he has the chance.

"Yes, yeah, anything," he huffs.

"Well," you say, "I was thinking—just... ruminating, really, because it was suggested that I bore you with my chattiness"—you cross your arms over your chest and look to the floor—"and not that I'm begging for pity or even a response, I just wanted to know how you feel because I realized maybe I don't ask about you enough. You know, like I'm always worried about me, or something, but I do worry about you, too! I just wasn't sure if that's something—if you maybe wanted to talk about it more. Because I can be a good listener! I'd be happy to hear whatever you have to say!"

Theo leans his shoulder against the doorframe, adjusting the bottom of his sweater as it clings to his hips. How could he let you believe you're too much for him. How could he let you believe yourself to be some kind of social burden to him. All because he'd much rather listen to you than contribute his own two cents.

"See! Merlin, even now, I've just talked your ear off while trying to apologize for constantly talking your ear off! And I haven't even apologized, yet! I'm so sorry, Theo, I know it's a problem, and I didn't mean to take advantage of your politeness."

You scuff your sole on the landing with a whine, and he leans to the side to watch you look over the edge. It's so quiet for a moment, he can hear your soft breathing if he focuses on it.

"It's not a problem," Theo says. You look over, lips parted at the smug look on his face. "And if I was the one who suggested otherwise, I couldn't be more apologetic."

It makes you smile. He's just said two very thoughtful things to you. Out loud. To your face. You could crumble.

"No! No, teddy, it wasn't you, it was... doesn't matter. You really don't mind?"

He shakes his head, a little amused, honestly. How could he mind? You’re the greatest thing since dark chocolate, and he’d still give that up. You’d go just as well with his afternoon tea.

“Well, then,” you huff, warmer under his gaze, determined to get this damned apology across.

“Alright,” Theo says. Apology accepted. Apology not even necessary. But still accepted.

“Okay. But next time you catch me rambling, you better just shut me up! Tell me to ‘shush’ or something! It’s a problem, and I give you full permission to—”

He kisses you. He leans down, smug with his fingers under your chin, and he kisses you! Shuts you right up like you’re still some gullible first year completely wooed by his boyish charms! Oh, but he’s kissing you very sweetly. And when your knees go a tad wobbly, he rushes to cradle your elbow.

“Like that?” he says.

“That’s no way to treat a lady, Theodore. You should be completely ashamed of yourself for ever thinkin—”

He kisses you again. More sure and much quicker. Like a reflex. A knee jerk reaction without the kneeing or the jerking. Just his stupidly soft lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “that works… but you can’t just kiss me every time you want to shut me up.”

“No”—he pecks your lips, fingers gentle at your cheek—“I plan on kissing you much more often than that.”

masterlist

#theo nott #theodore nott #theo nott fluff #theodore nott fluff #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #fluff #fanfic #hp universe #x reader #fanfiction #x female reader #x fem!reader #theo nott x fem!reader #friends to lovers

6K notes · View notes

heavymetalchemist · 1 year

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Liǔ Míngyān/Tiānláng-Jūn Characters: Liǔ Míngyān, Tiānláng-jūn Additional Tags: Background LBH/SQQ - Freeform, writing a sequel to Regret of Chunshan, Brainstorming, Human/Monster Romance, Penis Bone, wow I'm surprised penis bone isn't a tag already, character interactions are LMY/TLJ but the mature rating is for what they write LBH and SQQ doing, Monster Anatomy, rimming (for LBH/SQQ) Series: Part 6 of Love for Tianlang-Jun Summary:

Liu Mingyan and Tianlang-Jun work on a new Luo Binghe/Shen Qingqiu RPF story.

Written for SVSSS Rarepair Week day 6, prompts: Fantasy AU and human/monster

#hmc writes #tianlang jun #liu mingyan #I forgot to share this earlier oops #this pair is super rare!#this actually might be the first fic with them!#it wouldn't be the first if I'd kept it platonic but well #I was seized with the idea that LMY doesn't like guys bc she's so pretty they come instantly #since after all that's her character's like #whole veil deal #anyway honestly can't believe the omegaverse writers haven't tagged penis bones before #really guys? really?#I thought y'all were into that weird animal anatomy #barbed penis has a tag but not penis bone?#for shame

0 notes

angelltheninth · 8 months

Note

Hey idk if you take requests for monster lovers, but I liked the werewolf one so I would like to request one if possible! Can you write something where reader stumbles upon an abandoned castle and she meets the owner of the castle who is a vampire? Normally he wouldn’t tolerate trespassers, but he’s been very lonely these past decades and the new person is rather cute…

Omg this reminds me of Dracula and Lisa! I loved them in Castlevania.

Pairing: Male!Vampire x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, meet scary, first meeting, crushes, falling in love, domestic fluff, touch starved, kissing, neck kissing, drinking blood

A/N: Here's the thing about vampire bites in my headcanon, they actually feel really good when they're from a vampire you're in love with.

Touch-starved!Vampire who closes his doors to everyone, turning them away, scaring them or if they're really stubborn he will drain them of their blood entirely for bothering him too much. He doesn't want anything to do with... well anyone really. He's happy being on his own, for the most part. Or so he thought.

Touch-starved!Vampire who sees you lost near his castle and at first he wants to shoo you away like everyone else. He sends his bats to do the job. But... you're not scared of them. You think they're cute. Oh. Now that he looks at you again, you're pretty cute too.

Touch-starved!Vampire who doesn't know how you'll react to seeing his fangs so he keeps his hand over his mouth until you move it away for him. Are you actually curious about them? Most people scream bloody murder when they see them. Then again they more then likely to end up dead moments after so it's justified.

Touch-starved!Vampire who can't believe how warm your hands are on his cheeks. He's felt humans before but he never let them get close quite like this. Is he cold for you? If you follow him to the castle he can stand next to the fireplace if that would make you more comfortable.

Touch-starved!Vampire who doesn't understand what the hell is happening to him right now. He's rarely felt like this even around his own species, let alone a human woman. Very curious. He'll have to keep you around more, or at least have you visit more often until he figures it out.

Touch-starved!Vampire who can smell when you're approaching his castle and waits for you at the door, offering you his hand to welcome you in. This becomes something of a routine for you two, so much so that your friends ask about the handsome new man who walks you home every night. Very late at night, or just before the sun rises.

Touch-starved!Vampire who loves it when you eat in front if him. He doesn't eat human food, or rather he doesn't need to, but if he knows that you're the one who made it then he will try it. He will even let you use his very underutilized kitchen and cook with you just to be close to you.

Touch-starved!Vampire who panics when you cut your finger. He will leave if you want him too, he will get you first aid supplies too. He can't control the fact that his fangs elongate when he smells how good you are but its in his nature, so hopefully you don't hold it against him.

Touch-starved!Vampire who stumbles over his feet when you offer him your neck. Understand that for him this will be a big step in your relationship, a new dynamic. Are you sure you want to take this step with him? Because if not he would still love to have you around, your company is always welcome in his castle.

Touch-starved!Vampire who moans when he gets to taste your blood for the first time. He feed a few days ago but it wasn't like this. Is this... yes, he knows now, he's in love with you and from the noise you made when his fangs pierced your skin and how you're pressing against him and sighing contently he would say you feel the same.

#vampire x reader #vampire x human #monster x reader #monster x human #monster x girl #monster x you #terato #vampire imagine #vampire headcanons #vampire fluff #monster imagine #monster headcanons #monster fluff #vampire boyfriend #monster boyfriend #x female reader

4K notes · View notes

chaussetteblanche · 4 months

Note

UGH UR LUKE ONES ARE TO GOOD😣😣imma new reader of yours but there to good do u think you can do a a child of hades with luke and maybe its a grumpy x sunshine type of thing😓☺️

thank you so much baby !! and thanks for requesting, i hope you like it !!

sweatshirt

pairing : luke castellan x child of hades!reader summary : a few moments of your relationship with luke word count : 1.4k warnings : none, fluff

"Baby, have you seen my sweatshirt?" Luke's voice brought you out of your thoughts. You closed the book you were reading and placed it in your lap, looking up at him as he approached. "Which one?" "The grey one, you know, my favourite. I've been looking for it all morning." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tousling it slightly. "Nope, haven't seen it, sorry," you shrugged apathetically and returned to your book. Luke pursed his lips and placed his hands on his hips. "I could've sworn I left it in your cabin the other night, d'you think your brother maybe took it?" he asked hesitantly. "Nah, that's not like him." You brushed him off easily, trying to concentrate on your book.

Luke trudged forward and leaned down on the armrests of your seat, bringing his face close to yours. The pleasant smell of his body wash reached you as he moved closer. "Good morning, sunshine." He tilted his head to the side, smiling softly at you.

"Morning." You looked up at him, unimpressed but holding back a smile. He'd come up with the nickname when you'd first started dating. It was entirely ironic and you hated it. Well, you didn't actually hate it but you acted like you did, which made Luke love it even more. He pouted and pressed a chaste kiss to your mouth. "Will you tell me if you see my hoodie?" "Sure thing. I'll see you later." "Later, baby." He pressed another short kiss to your mouth and walked off. When he was a good fifteen meters away from you, he turned around. "YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL TODAY, SUNSHINE!" he hollered. Everyone in the vicinity turned around to look at you and Luke, chuckling. Your cheeks burned and you hid your face behind your book, grumbling to yourself. "Good luck finding your sweatshirt after that, Castellan."

You crossed him on your way to training. He beamed when he saw you and jogged over, running a hand through his hair. "Hey, sunshine. Gimme a hug, yeah?" "Clingy, much?" you asked as you opened your arms for him. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. "You okay?" you questioned into his hair, one hand coming up to run through his soft curls. He nodded and lifted his head to look at you. "Just tired, is all. You?" "Yeah, I'm okay. I'll see you at capture the flag?" "You sure will, babe." He pressed a kiss to your cheek and jogged off.

Later in the afternoon came capture the flag. You always ended up on the same team because people knew it was useless to put you in opposite sides. You simply wouldn't even try to fight or stop each other.

"Y/N, what are you doing? Go after him! He's got the flag!" Your team captain growled at you, gesticulating wildly. "No." Your arms were crossed as you leaned against a tree, watching him run off after you'd basically handed him the flag you were supposed to guard. You bit back a smirk, feeling proud of him. "I can't believe this," your team captain mourned, throwing his helmet onto the ground with a clatter.

"Luke, she's getting away!" Clarisse cried out as she reached the tall child of Hermes, out of breath after having chased you through the forest. You'd slipped right under all their noses and grabbed the flag from her. Luke watched as you turned around, a rare smile playing at your lips as you raised the flag in victory, laughing loudly. "Goddammit," Luke groaned, running a hand over his face, "that smile." He shook his head, a lovesick look in his eyes. Clarisse cursed loudly. "YOU GET 'EM, BABY!" Luke yelled before you were out of earshot. You flashed him a brilliant smile and he swore that he could have died right there and then and been happy. Clarisse stomped her foot, positively fuming as she cursed Luke out.

You had both been stationed strategically by Annabeth. You were near the river, supposed to stop anyone on the other team from crossing. Luke rested his head on your shoulder, stifling a yawn. "I'm tired," he all but whined, rubbing his eyes. "I'm tired," you repeated in a mocking voice. He pulled away from your shoulder, faking an offended look. "Are you making of fun of me? How dare you? Your chivalrous boyfriend, exhausted from the trials and tribulations of his hard life as a half-blood and you-" "Oh, shut up." You pulled him closer by the leather straps of his armour, pressing your lips against his. He effectively stopped talking, pulling you closer to him by the hips as he kissed you deeply. You tilted your head to the side and parted your lips, tangling a hand in his hair. He let out a small groan and went to deepen the kiss when you were interrupted.

"YO! LOVEBIRDS!" a voice called loudly, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps. You pulled away from Luke with a groan, turning around to find a member of the opposite team holding your flag bolting towards you at full speed, followed closely by a boy on your team. You stuck your leg out, effectively tripping the boy on the other team. He fell harshly onto the ground with a groan and you pulled out sword, pointing it at his neck. He cursed and dropped the flag onto the ground. You looked at the boy from your team, who was doubled-over, catching his breath. "Yes?" you deadpanned. You heard Luke laughing behind you and cracked a small smile.

That night, after dinner, you accompanied Luke to his cabin. He swung your intertwined hands back and forth as you walked. "How come you were so tired today?" you asked softly, turning away from the sunset to look up at Luke. He shrugged, not giving you an explanation. "How're you sleeping?" "Not much," he confessed quietly. "I go to bed and I just lie awake. And when I do finally fall asleep, I get them, y'know, nightmares." Your heart ached for him and you squeezed his hand. Every half-blood dealt with nightmares and sleeping problems, but some more than others. Luke had it the worst. He didn't like talking about it either and you were often forced to overlook and keep your mouth shut about the dark circles under his eyes for the sake of preventing an argument. When you reached his cabin, you stood on your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips. "Sleep well." "Thank you, baby. You too. And thanks for walking me back." He kissed you once more before letting go of your hand. You watched him enter his cabin, your stomach churning at the thought of him spending another sleepless night.

That night, you who couldn't sleep. Thoughts of Luke, his insomnia, his nightmares and more clouded your mind. You twisted and turned for hours before finally getting fed up. You got up, rubbing your eyes and steadying yourself on the wall as you put your shoes on. You quietly exited your cabin and made your way to the Hermes one. The door was open halfway, as it often was. So many people sleeping in the same room left quite a disgusting smell if the air didn't circulate. You slipped inside without a sound and headed for Luke's bed. It was a trip you'd made many times before and you knew exactly that he was the on the left bottom bunk four beds away from the front door. It was dark and you couldn't see if he was sleeping or not. You started taking off your shoes, not making a sound.

"Sunshine?" he asked, his voice gravelly, as he sat up in bed, the covers pooling around his hips. "I couldn't sleep. Kept thinking 'bout you not being able to sleep, so I thought I'd come over and we'd help each other out." Your voice was quiet as you spoke and you pulled the sleeves of the sweatshirt you wore over your hands. You shuffled on your feet next to his bed. "That's actually really sweet, sunshine," he cooed before lifting the covers and scooting to the side. He knew he always slept better with you by his side but had never asked you before. He didn't want to be a burden. "C'mon, pretty girl, get in."

You didn't have to be told twice before you slipped under the covers and slotted yourself comfortably against him. He wrapped his arms around you, kissing your cheek. His warmth and the weight of his arms comforted you immediately and you could feel sleep already weighing on your eyelids. "Good night, sunshine." "Good night, Luke."

You were just drifting off to sleep when a few minutes later he spoke again. "Is that my sweatshirt?" You froze, suddenly wide awake. You didn't say anything for a few seconds before answering. "No...?"

#luke castellan #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan x you #percy jackon and the olympians #charlie bushnell

2K notes · View notes

sweets4dolls · 3 months

Text

ʚɞ 𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓎 𝒷𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎 ⁺˖ ⸝⸝

pairing: valentino + bunny!fem!reader

content warnings: smut, valentino (he's his own warning), virgin!reader, dubious-ish consent (its val), unprotected sex, first time, bleeding during first time, slight pain, not proofread

summary: after your mother traded your soul so you could take her place in hell, you find yourself living on the streets until meeting one of the v's.

falling from earth into hell really wasn't what you expected.

you didn't understand what you did, you thought you had been good your entire life. you did everything as well as you could, did what the Bible said, followed what your mother and elders told you to do to a t, so why'd you end up in hell?

of course the only thing you could do when you found yourself in your new surroundings was cry yourself silly, a mess on the dirty streets of the pride ring as you looked into a muddled pool of water, piss and trash to see your appearance had changed. it hadn't been altered by much, you were still wearing your bright cotton shirt with the puffed-out short sleeves and generously full skirt, despite the cloth being sleazily torn and dirtied from the fall. nonetheless, everything seemed to be the same except for a pretty pair of floppy bunny ears that sat atop your warm head of hair, making your doe eyes go wide and a hand wander to your backside, to your surprise feeling a coltish cotton tail attached to your form.

tearing up at your form, you just didn't know how to feel, your new surroundings paired with your new appearance made you overwhelmed. it wasn't before long a sinner tried touching you, making you scamper away into an alley where you took shelter in a cardboard box.

and it wasn't before long valentino found you. he had taken some poor soul out who had slighted him into the alley where you had been residing for a few days and shot them, making you cover your pretty bunny ears and your pretty body flinch, making val notice you.

"amorcito, come out" he drawled, originally planning on shooting whoever was there, but once seeing such a cute little bunny, how could he? you were just too precious, he couldn't.

"aww, such a precious bunny, are you lost?" he cooed, coming over to you and leaning over your much smaller form, invading your space.

"so sorry sir, I just, I-i don't really have anywhere else to go" you squeak, backing yourself up further into the wall of the alley, chewing on your lip anxiously, clearly nervous about being close to this man.

"how about you come black to my place, conejito bonito" he says, more of a demand than an ask as he's already walking back to his limo, knowing that you'll follow him, as you don't anywhere else to go, this is your best option.

so you trot after him, hopping into the limo, sitting opposite of him all stiff and rigid and on edge as he watches you, giggling at your nervousness.

"relax, conejito, I won't hurt you" a lie, but you can't do anything else less than believe him. seeing your still tense, he blows a plume of that vivid smoke in your face, letting it cloud your pretty little head as you instantly become more languorous, ears drooping.

"se siente bien, hm?" he says, chuckling as your smaller body droops over the seat, listening to him ask questions about who you are, what you did to get down here.

that question makes your big eyes tear up, your lip trembling slightly "I really don't know" as you babble your life story too him - how sheltered you were, how you went to a strict religious school, if you even entered into conversation with a heathen your mother would discipline you harshly.

of course, val nodded along, faking sympathy as you went on. "oh, poor baby" he fretted over you, but excited to have something as pretty and rare as you in hell with him.

even when he brought you back to the tower, you received stares from others who worked you, most hadn't seen anything as pure looking as you in hell before.

so late in the day, tired from the time and crying your eyes out, you clung to val hazily as he led you through the building and up to his room, laying you on the couch as he ordered kitty to bring you a drink.

feeding you alcohol and his smoke, it wasn't long before he had you on his lap, a saporously delightful mess, and you were snuggling into his chest like a good little bunny. "baby bunny, I'll let you stay here, but you have to do one thing for me" he tells you, making your doe eyes go wide as you nod your head with vigor. "anything" you say desperately with lips softly parted in a slightly foolish and endearing smile. he was a nice guy, and anything would be better than being out on the streets, right?

with that response, he's already on your lips, impatiently pressing his mouth into yours so hard you nearly choke on his tongue, making you push away form him.

"w-wait, we can't-"

"why not, bunny?" he says with faux concern. "its.. your only supposed to do that when you've married someone."

your words make him bark out a laugh as he eagerly leans closer into you, making your pretty face turn red at his actions. "what, its true!" you whisper, embarrassed.

"conejito, we're in hell. its okay baby, just let val take care of you, hm?" he says, not waiting for a response before he finds your lips again, tasting your sweet saliva and nipping softly at your lips, not wanting to damage his new baby bunny too soon.

"you sure?" you say apprehensively as you pull away once more, cheeks red and lips prettily puffy. "of course I'm sure, now let me make you feel good" he says, pushing you down roughly, drawing a small squeak from your throat as he holds you down, lightly kissing and sucking down you face and throat as a large hand travels up your shirt, harshly kneading at your soft breasts.

you gasp, chewing your lip as he does, looking away as he says "hm, how about I play with these pretty tits until they're sore, would you like that bunny?" he says, laughing at his own words as you toss your head to the side with a glowing blush, tail twitching at his talk.

nonetheless, you can't help it but writhe underneath him, your inexperienced body squirming as he groped you.

"v-val, I feel weird" you say, a not looking at him, eyes trained somewhere else across the room "oh, and you know what that means, pretty?" he says in between his sucking on your body, making you let out a noise of annoyance as you pout "course I do, m' not dumb" you say.

"good" he says, hand snapping your panties off cleanly, making you breathe in harshly and body jolt. "shh, don't worry bunny, you're gonna feel so good" he mumbles in your ear as his hand palms your pulsing pussy as your hips buck into his palm as you make pretty noises from underneath him.

"that's it, just relax, be a good girl for me" he says as he slowly pushes a finger inside you as his other hand grips your glossy hair, holding you down on the bed as he gently fucks you on his fingers, your hips rutting against them, making him tut you.

"now you want me to make you feel good right? so be a good baby bunny" he says as he grips your hair tighter making you whimper and squirm under him "I know, m' sorry, m' sorry" you babble as he continues to finger your virgin cunt.

just as your about to cum, he pulls away cruelly, kissing you on the cheek making you tear up as pretty tears cling tot he corners of your long lashes and mewl softly, hips now moving in the air, jutting up into nothing.

"I know, baby bunny, don't worry," val says as he pushes you down into the couch and unbuckles his heart-shaped belt. "just the tip, m'kay pretty?" he says, whispering in your ear as he slides his dick over your pretty folds, drawing whines from you, making it all the much harder to keep himself from fucking your virgin pussy right there and then.

"good girl" he draws out as you claw at the fabric of the couch as he slowly slides in, making you whimper out "hurts" as thick tears stream down your face. "I know pretty girl, just try to relax for me, mkay?" he says as he shoves himself into your still-accomadating pussy as his hand circles your puffy clit, making you sob prettily.

"good bun" he says in your ear as he bottoms out. you try to focus on his words as he stretches you out, crying. "aw, poor baby" he coos with an underlying tone of condescension, now starting to push his way in and out of your virgin hole, holding you down with a firm hand as he kisses your warm tears.

"take it like a good fucking girl" he says, starting to become more sporadic with his thrusts, making you let out a sharp choked sob as he fucks you hard, burying his face into your neck, the pleasure and pain becoming blinding as you throw your head back and cum without a warning, making him chuckle and speed up his own thrusts.

a few moments later, he cums too, pulling out and watching the cum leak from your pretty abused cunt. with a finger, he pushes some of the cum mixed with your blood back in, making your overly-sensitive body shudder.

looking up at him with wide adoring eyes, you ask him shyly "so can I stay here tonight?"

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel smut #valentino x reader #valentino smut #hazbin hotel valentino #hazbin hotel

2K notes · View notes

luveline · 7 months

Note

hey luv (haha) bombshell!reader lives rent free in my head and I have a lil request for you 🫶🏽 can you write spencer calling reader a nickname for the first time and how flustered she gets? especially in front of the team I would ashdfkflsjah i feel like she always teases him with baby, handsome, etc. and he just turns red but when it’s his turn for (non malicious) payback she melts into a puddle of 🥹🫦 and forgets how to act 🥲 thank you queen ily 🫰🏼

thank you! this isn't in front of the team but i can def do that if that was the most important part, ly ♡ fem

"What's that?" you ask, peering over Spencer's shoulder.

He turns his face to yours, sneaking a kiss against the curve of your neck. Your breath catches at his affection. "It's online shopping," he answers. "Have you seen it? They deliver your parcel the next day, apparently."

You like the sound of that, wheeling your chair next to Spencer's to sit at his desk side by side. You're in the midst of a very rare occasion in which there's no case and no paperwork. It won't last long, and you and your teammates are using these spare hours like a paid vacation. You deserve it (even if it isn't technically moral).

"What are you buying?" you ask, squinting at his glaring screen.

His gaze flashes between you and the monitor. He turns the brightness down for you. "You need new socks, right?"

"Don't buy me socks."

"Why not?"

"Because I can buy my own socks?"

"But I can also buy you socks. I felt bad this morning when I didn't have any matching pairs to lend to you. I'll buy you a big pack and this way you'll always have socks when you need them."

"Spence, that's so sweet," you say, your hand on his bicep, thumb stroking a line he likely can't feel over his layers. "You really don't have to, though. I kind of like the odd sock look."

Spencer looks down at your shoes. Your socks are mostly hidden. Despite what you've said, you don't like wearing odd ones, it doesn't fit your perfectly kept image, but you like Spencer a whole lot.

"No, you don't, and that's fine." He clicks on the Buy Now button, a twenty four pack of black and white crew socks jumping into his cart. "What else should we get?"

"We?" you ask, leaning back.

You've barely lifted your left leg when Spencer grabs you by the knee and drapes it over his right. "You never have the stuff you need when you come over. We may as well get it all done now while we have time."

"Are you serious?" you murmur, a slight pout to your lips.

Spencer's eyes dart down, catch, and lift back to yours. He sounds soft as you do as he says, "Of course I am. Am I being too forward?"

"You're never too forward. I'm too forward enough for both of us, Spence. But you don't have to buy me things, I can get all of this stuff myself and bring it with me."

"What kind of boyfriend does that make me?"

You can't believe he's your boyfriend. You could scream. "The most adorable one ever?" And that's just the half of it. Spencer Reid has a penchant for ignoring his own good looks. He could've been a super model if the whole genius thing didn't work out. "I need a pillow, then. If we're doing this Reid, let's do it. But I'm paying for my stuff."

"Okay, angel. Whatever you say."

You almost miss it, his pet name. Your brain assumes sarcasm, but when you play it back, there's only a soft giving in, like he'd do anything you asked him to just because it's you. Because you're an angel.

You've called him so many pet names and though you knew they flustered him, you're thinking maybe the team was right, and that you were torturing him the whole time. You melt like a little square of butter in the middle of a frying pan, limp in your seat and uncomfortably warm. Angel. It inspires the want to be saccharinely sweet to him, and you would if you could regain your strength.

You huff a breath up your hot face in hopes of cooling down.

"What kind of pillow? Do you want a really soft one? They have hypoallergenic, or down feather." He looks at you sideways. "You can't pay for this, it's too expensive."

"It's sixteen dollars," you say, feeling submerged.

"Exactly. Are you okay? You look uncomfortable."

"I'm feeling a bit hot, suddenly. Hot flush."

Spencer abandons the computer and his online activities to unbutton the top button of your shirt, and then the second, his hands achingly gentle against your collar. "I'll buy a fan," he says, one hand trailing down your arm soothingly as the other searches for paper. "But for now."

He fashions you an origami fan and fans you diligently. It works for a time, but you remember the dulcet cadence of his voice and the delicate way he strung the syllables together as though 'angel' were the name you were given at birth, and you feel warm all over again.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

2K notes · View notes

cryptidghostgirl · 3 months

Note

-Alastor x spouse!gn!reader:

Alastor and his Spouse had been together ever since they were alive and his spouse had always been his right hand in life and death. Just giving a helping hand if Alastor needed it, watching proudly as he became a powerful overlord. But then Alastor disappeared and no one knew where he had gone to, not even his beloved spouse. After a year or so of searching and waiting for their husband to come back, they accepted that he was gone and went on to become an overlord themselves, getting some tips from Rosie here and there. After a while they became isolated, only ever going out to gossip with Rosie or attend meetings with the other overlords. And they were never really a fan of the media or technology either. Only ever listening to their husbands radio, sometimes even joining in. So they weren’t aware of their husbands return, only seeing him for the first time in 7 years at one of the meetings with the other overlords. And they were pissed.

Sorry, that was really long.. my bad :[

Also, no pressure if you don’t want to go write this <3

A/N okay one, don’t apologize. Two, this ask is awesome. Three, I hope what I’ve done with it makes you happy :)

Wrath (Alastor x Overlord!Spouse!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Gn!Reader

Warnings: Tame as heck for the most part, ngl.

Word Count: 1,820

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Y/n had never known life without Alastor. They had grown up together, shared a wild childhood in the back streets of New Orleans. Nothing can ever beat that type of love and so, when they were fifteen and terrified and he asked them on their first date, how could they say no?

One date turned into two and before either really had time to sit back and take stock of their lives, they were twenty and married. Alastor had a budding career as a radio host and Y/n found a simple joy in the life of a house-partner. Things had been happy, they had been good.

The pair had always been inseparable, attached at the hip. That first night Alastor had come home, eyes wide and suit soaked in blood? Y/n had handed him a damp towel. Even their entrance into death had been together, shot by a hunter while burying a body.

It had been a joy to watch him grow and change, to witness the way their husband built a life for them in the world of the living and nothing changed that when they entered Hell. They were his right hand, his everything. That was why it hurt so much when he disappeared one day without a trace.

Alastor had never done that before, not tell them what was going on. He'd been gone for days, weeks at a time on rare occasions, tracking some demon he was intent on killing or the like. This was different. They always talked before hand, he always made sure Y/n was safe and set up with their mutual friend Rosie for their protection. This time, there hadn't even been a note.

In tears, Y/n had wandered their way into Cannibal Town. Rosie's smile had slipped from her face upon welcoming them into the little shop she ran, quickly ushering the demon into the back room. Y/n, while they had been a right hand in their first life and this one, had never been an active part in Alastor's work. Sure, they leant a hand if he needed one, but the occasion he did was rare and most of them helping him was through making sure he had a hot meal to come home to and a loving environment to exist in. They had never had a life without him in it and refused to believe they were entering into one now.

The first weeks were rough. Y/n stayed with Rosie, in the same guest room they always did but, they barley left it. When Rosie suggested they start looking for her lost partner, Y/n had jumped up. It was a shred of hope, something to hold onto.

A year of searching went by. Rosie tried, did everything in her power to keep Y/n happy and hopeful, to keep her safe. Time is the cruelest master of all and not even Rosie could stop the doubt it brought to her friend.

"I can't do this anymore, Rose." Y/n admitted one day as they drank their coffee, "I... He's not coming back."

"You don't know that!" Rosie had insisted, grasping Y/n's hands across the table.

"We've been looking for a year. There hasn't been the slightest bit of evidence. I... I can't do it anymore. I have to move on."

And move on they did. With their husband gone, there were empty shoes to be filled among the overlords of Hell and who better to fill them than Y/n? They worked hard, training. They grew strong and it payed off at last when two and a half years after their husband's disappearance, Y/n managed to take down an overlord, officially indoctrinating them into their ranks.

The more time went on, the more feared of a figure they became. Y/n had hoped it would have been a distraction, carrying on Alastor's legacy. The loneliness ate away at them. He had always been there, and now he was suddenly gone. The more powerful they became, the more they retreated into themselves. They became a rumor, a name whispered behind closed doors.

Y/n still held out a spark of hope that one day, Alastor would return. As they hit the seven year line since his disappearance, that too fizzled out. Things were getting bad in Hell, the last extermination had been the most brutal in history. Just the other day, word had come in that Heaven wasn't even going to wait their normal year before the next one, only a meager six months. Even with Y/n's aversion to all things media, they were only a painful reminder of what they had lost, after all, they managed to hear about it. It was a big deal, and a terrifying one too.

Of course, in response to this, Carmilla had called a meeting. When Carmilla Carmine called a meeting, there wasn't an overlord in all of Hell who wasn't going to show up. It was serious, she meant buisness.

Y/n had dragged themselves out of the place that had become their home over the past seven years. One of the first things they had taught themselves how to do was to travel through shadows, the way their husband had. With a snap of their fingers, the shadows took them, spitting them back out in the waiting room of Carmilla's offices.

Looking around, Y/n caught sight of Rosie and approached their oldest friend.

"Hey, Rose." they hummed placidly.

"Oh! Y/n! What a pleasure to see you here." she smiled back, turning to face them, "I half expected you wouldn't show."

"You know me." Y/n shrugged, "I come when it's important."

"I'm worried about you." Rosie admitted after a moment, her smile faltering slightly, "You've been spotted out and about less and less."

"I'm fine, I promise." Y/n weakly reassured, "I'm drinking water and touching grass or whatever. I just... socializing isn't super my thing anymore."

"Yes but, you're putting a target on your back doing that." Rosie insisted, "People are going to start wondering, start questioning your power and authority. You should at least go rough someone up, or start a business! Establish your presence."

"Don't worry, Rose." Y/n smiled, their mouth full of razor sharp fangs, "Let 'em come. I can take care of myself now."

"That you can." she relented.

Y/n turned, surveying the room which held a handful of Hell's other top overlords. They recognized a couple, but there were a few they didn't know. They let out a sigh, eyes turning to the elevator doors as they slid open to reveal Zestial.

Y/n raised their hand, intending to wave a greeting to the oldest and most respected of their group as he entered the room, but froze. Their hand at chest level, their eyes went wide as they caught sight of a familiar shock of red hair.

"Fucking... Al?" they whispered, their arm falling to their side as they took half a step forward.

"What did you say?" Rosie asked.

It sounded like her voice was coming from somewhere underwater, the world was spinning.

"What's the matter?" Rosie asked, following the path of Y/n's gaze.

As her eyes landed on Alastor, standing clear as day at the other end of the room and casually conversing with Zestial, she gasped lightly.

"Oh my."

"I'll be back in a second, Rose." Y/n hissed through clenched teeth, their hands balled into tight fists.

With fluid, silent footfalls, they stormed across the room and came to a stop beside Alastor. The room fell silent at the sight. They all knew of the pair's story, had heard from Rosie about how long and how hard Y/n had searched for their husband. Hearing the silence, Alastor turned, his eyes locking with Y/n's.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, placing a hand gently on the top of their head, "How have you been, darling? Zestial was just telling me about what great strides you-"

Y/n harshly took his hand from their head, the strength with which they held his wrist cutting Alastor off. They took a step forward, now just an inch away from Alastor as they glared up at him. Fury coursed through their veins as he watched them in mild confusion.

"Seven years." Y/n scoffed.

Alastor made no reply, simply continuing to watch his spouse as they practically frothed at the mouth.

"Seven fucking years." they repeated, releasing the grip on his wrist.

"I'm here now."

The slap echoed through the silence like the crack of a whip. Alastor stumbled back to slightest bit, his hand raised to his cheek.

"You..." Y/n took a deep breath, trying to calm themselves, "Al, where the fuck were you? How... how long have you been back?"

"A few days." he admitted.

Y/n's eyes widened as they processed the information.

"A... a few days?" they scoffed, "A few days? You know what? You didn't tell me when you left, why should I have expected you'd tell me you were back."

Y/n turned away from him, rubbing their forehead in irritation. Alastor hesitated before taking a step forward, placing a hand gently on their shoulder.

"Lov-"

"What?" Y/n spat, spinning back around to face him.

Their teeth were sharp, elongated and dripping. Tears welled in their eyes. Alastor's breath caught in his chest.

"Fucking what?!"

"Please, let me make it up to you." his voice was soft and gentle, the same one he used when they were alone together.

"I..." Y/n took another deep breath, "I don't know if you can."

Tears were streaming down their cheeks now, falling thick and fast. Their body glitched, half transformed into their full demon state and half staying as their more human public face. It pained him to see. If he had had any other choice, he would have done something different. He had never wanted to hurt them. Alastor reached out, grabbing their hands in his.

"Please, let me try."

"Why should I!" Y/n screamed back at him, pulling their hands out of his reach, "Seven years! Seven fucking years! You promised me. You promised me we'd stick together."

The grief seemed to be winning in its battle over the anger as the glitches slowed. Their teeth shrunk back to normal and their voice faded, becoming softer, weaker.

"I'll explain everything just please, please give me a chance."

Y/n sighed. Lifting their hands to their face, they pressed their palms into their eyes. They stood like that for a moment, unmoving and silent. Alastor waited, tense with anticipation. At last, they looked up at him once again, their arms falling loosely to their sides.

"Fine." they sharply stated and Alastor's smile grew, "After the meeting. You get as much time as it takes me to drink a cup of coffee. Deal?"

"Deal."

----

A/N ngl I wasn't super sure how to end this fic but I really like it and this was such a fun request to write. I love and angry reader.

1K notes · View notes

nicksolemnlyswears · 5 months

Text

WAYS TO DESTRESS

summary: after a long day, all coriolanus wants to do is blow some steam off. nothing will stop him from getting what he wants…not even your sleepy state

pairing: young! coriolanus snow x capitol! reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: 18+, smut, cursing, somnophilia, dub non-con, p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, squirting, pussy spanking, belly bulge (?), LISTEN I KNOW ITS UNLIKELY BUT LET ME BE UNHINGED, a bit rough nothing too crazy, get your holy water though, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it please)

a/n: this came to me the moment i opened my eyes this morning. pure filth. i shouldn't be proud but i am. goes to show how much coriolanus is plaguing my thoughts day and night. my new little hyperfixation. a new villain to add to my collection <3

PT. 2

requests open ✨

All Coriolanus feels is anger. It's been pumping through his veins throughout most of the day, almost causing him to lose his composure at all the wrong places. He can never afford to fuck up. He already did it once, and second chances are nonexistent in the Capitol.

He owes a lot to Dr. Gaul. After all, she saw the value in Coriolanus. She saw right through him and his faux kindness and unearthed his true wickedness. He simply needed a nudge in the right direction.

While working for with her is an honor, it is hardly easy. Like all aspects of his life, he's had to adapt to how she runs her lab. Coriolanus is hardly a follower; he's a leader, but as long as he remains under the tutelage of Dr. Gaul, he will have to follow her orders. Which means he has to talk when spoken to and perform how she expects him to.

There are days when it all becomes too much. His pride rises to the surface, forcing him to stifle it as best as he can before he does something he regrets.

He has to think of the scrutinizing gaze of his peers waiting for him to fail. As much as they pretend to be his friend, they want him to make a mistake so they can rise to the occasion. He won't allow that.

His apartment is silent when he steps in. The lavish decor is obscured by the lack of illumination. It's to be expected, seeing it's well past midnight.

Leaving his coat by the door, Coriolanus walks towards the bedroom. He needs to destress now, or he'll carry all his anger and frustration on his shoulders for the rest of the week. He can't have that. He can't lose control and look bad in front of Dr. Gaul and the others.

In the master bedroom, he finds you lying on the soft mattress, tangled in the silky bedsheets. He watches your chest rise and fall with gentle breaths, your pouty lips slightly ajar. It's a shame he's going to disturb your sleep, but he needs to let off some steam. That's one of the numerous reasons he has his pretty little girlfriend.

Coriolanus unbuttons the red waistcoat and removes his shoes, leaving them in the armchair. As he approaches your side of the bed, he notices the bright orange bottle on the nightstand and your book thrown haphazardly on the floor.

It's rare for you to take sleep aid medication because you hate how they knock you out. You only take them when you've had a particularly rough day. It seems Coriolanus is not alone in this. Today has been bad for both you and him.

Still, his plan remains the same. Coriolanus leans over you, kissing your forehead gingerly before his lips continue to trail down to kiss your cheek and lips. You don't stir with the soft touches.

Coriolanus darkly chuckles. It's not often he gets to do this. He'll take it as a treat for his patience throughout the day. He'd say the universe is working in his favor if he believed in such silly things.

Having you so pliable and willing in his hands excites him to no end. Lying on the bed, he digs his head on your shoulder, leaving marks for you to find in the morning. It spurs him on to hear little gasps falling from your lips.

"Beautiful and all mine," he mutters into the silent room as he lowers down the thin straps of your night dress to reveal your chest.

Coriolanus takes his time with your body. Even while asleep, it responds to his touch. He sucks and squeezes on your breasts harshly, biting down on the stiff peaks of your nipples.

He's not as gentle this time around compared to other times in the past. Then, you were simply asleep; now, you're completely doped out. He will miss your whines and the way you berate him.

Coriolanus continues down your body until he settles between your legs. "Fuck, darling," he audible groans when he lifts up your nighty to find a patch on your panties. Who would've thought you'd be as responsive to him while asleep.

He gives into his urges as he presses his nose against your center, smelling your arousal and licking up the wet fabric with his tongue. He only parts for a moment as he roughly slides the thin fabric off.

With you like this, there is no reason to tease. He doesn't have to kiss your thighs or hold himself back. Coriolanus can truly delve into what he wants without a spectacle.

It's why he buries his tongue into your wet cunt as soon as he has the chance. He holds your limp thighs on his shoulders as he presses himself against you, his blue eyes closing in ecstasy at the taste.

Soft noises- moans- come from above him as you slightly stir in your drug-induced sleep. While Coriolanus suck on your pearl of nerves, he wonders what you're dreaming about and if he's the protagonist as well.

His hips roll onto the mattress underneath, soothing the ache on his cock. He could go straight to fucking you but wants this to last. He needs to keep his mind busy, and eating you out is the answer.

Unconsciously, you grind your cunt on his tongue, chasing your release. Coriolanus smiles at this and rewards you with fucking you with his tongue. He's determined to make you cum all over it.

"Oh," he hears you whine when his nose rubs on your sensitive clit. He knows you're close. He feels it in the way your thighs are suddenly clenching around him.

There is no doubt in his mind you're still asleep. If you were awake, you'd be gripping his hair like a vice and calling his name for everyone to hear. You'd be begging him to fuck you silly.

Coriolanus laps up your juices like a starving man when you cum. Despite living in poverty, he never felt the need to act in such a way until he tasted you for the first time. He treats his sweet little girlfriend's cunt like a delicacy.

He stops himself before he almost makes you cum again as he slurps and sucks on your cunt. From up close, he can see the way your clit twitches under the pleasure. He leaves a bruise that will turn purple by morning on the inside of your thigh. It'll be a telltale sign he was there, devouring you while you soundly slept. A reminder you're his to use whenever he pleases.

Taking the rest of his clothes off, Coriolanus returns to your sleeping body. He pumps his cock in his fist as he looks at all the bruises and marks he left behind, and you'll have to hide because you can't have him seem like a pervert in front of his classmates.

Kneeling on the bed, he wraps your legs around his hips. He teases your wet cunt with the fat head of his cock, nudging over your clit repeatedly. He continues this until his cock is slick with your juices. As an extra, he spits down on your cunt, spreading his saliva over you. Not because you need lubrication but because he likes the sight of him on you in every which way.

No matter how many times Coriolanus has fucked you throughout your two years of being together, he's always had trouble pushing his cock in. He has to take a deep breath when he bottoms out as your cunt tries to choke him out. It's one of his favorite things about you, a constant reminder of the day he took your innocence.

It's only when he begins rocking his hips into you that you give any indication of waking up.

"What?" You whine as panic settles into you. Your brain isn't working properly. You're hazy and confused. Not knowing where you are, you get scared, and your heart races.

Coriolanus holds your hands as you begin struggling. As he leans down to talk to you, he pins you down, leaving you impaled with his cock. He immensely enjoys the struggle but can't have you screaming out in panic.

"It's just me, darling," he coo's in your ear, nuzzling his nose against your face. It works as your heart begins settling down.

"Coryo?" You sniff with tears in your eyes as your panic is quickly swept away. You try to speak, but the pills leave your tongue heavy and your brain foggy.

"Yes, your Coryo," he responds, kissing your cheek sweetly.

You've stopped struggling and spread your legs once again, just how he likes it. He even feels you clenching down purposefully around Coriolanus' cock. You're no saint; you enjoy making it hard for him even in your drugged-out state.

"Relax, darling. Go back to sleep," he hushes you, softly rocking into you.

Your eyes are already closed as he utters the words. You have no choice in the matter. Granted, now you sleep calmer, knowing it's Coryo touching you and making you feel food.

Coriolanus calls your name once, twice, and there is no response. You're back with the sandman, peacefully asleep. He takes it as a sign to keep fucking you.

Kneeling back on the bed, Coriolanus brings up your thighs to touch your chest. Your pretty cunt is on full display, showcasing the hues of pink and glistening fluids that shine under the lowlights of the bedroom.

Coriolanus licks the pads on his fingers before they smack down on your center. The only way it'll look even better is if it had that familiar twinge of red. He aims for the center, straight at your pearl, and smacks his hand down several times.

It manages to wake you again, eyes hooded with sleep, staring at him and complaints falling from your lips. Each time the 'smack' reverberates and you flinch, he soothes the sting, spreading the clear strings of arousal that drip from your hole.

Only when your cunt is flushed red and your clit is puffed out of its fleshy covering, does he pull you down on his cock. He fucks in and out of you mercilessly, addicted to the way your tight walls hug his cock even as he pulls out.

He glances towards your face and notes you're back to sleep. If it were up to him, you'd take the pills more often just so he could find you waiting for him asleep, naked on the bed. A real-life doll of his own.

The sound of skin slapping and his desperate moans and grunts fill the room, along with some of your smaller ones. He doesn't tend to be so vocal; he prefers listening to you beg for him, but with no one to hear him, he lets it all out.

Coriolanus places a hand on your lower tummy, pressing down to feel himself through your walls. It's an erotic thing to feel his cock slipping in and out, reaching the deepest parts of you.

He slows the pace of his thrusting, opting to go harder and deeper, just where he can make out the bump on your pelvis of his cock head.

The pressure Coryo is causing doesn't go unnoticed by you. Groggily, you open your eyes to find him with his head dipped down, whispering profanities to himself, a pretty sheen of sweat covering his fair skin.

"Mmm, Co-coryo," you moan, catching his attention.

With a glint in his eyes, he grabs your hand, placing it where you can feel it too, his fingers lacing through yours as he holds it down, "Feel this? No one will ever get you to feel like I do, darling. I'm going to ruin you for all others. Not like I'll let you leave anyways."

It's never crossed your mind to leave Coriolanus. Not for a second. The moment you set eyes on him, you knew he was it, and the ring on your finger is a promise of that. It's why you let him use you as he pleases.

You babble out a response as the darkness consumes you once more. By morning, you'll barely remember a thing as a side effect of the pills, but Coryo won't let you forget.

The mixture of your relaxed state, Coriolanus' hand pressing down on you, and the angle of his thrusts allow for something that hasn't happened before. Something he'll enjoy for the years to come.

As he viciously snaps his hips to chase his release, you wiggle under him. There are words on your heavy tongue neither can make out, a warning.

"Shh," Coriolanus quiets you down, focusing on the way you're milking his cock for all that his worth.

He's in for a surprise when a particularly angled thrust causes you to squirt around him. A stream of your juices covering his cock and abdomen. Although he falters for a moment, he quickly pulls out and rubs at your clit, causing a smaller stream to leak out of you.

His night has become a hundred times better. His eyes widen in wonder as his brain creates new ways to have you and make you do it again. "This is going to be fun."

When you wake up in the morning, you don't remember what happened, but you know something did. It's in the way your cunt aches and how thick cum runs down your leg when you get up.

Brief, blurry memories surface as you shower. Truly, you didn't care. If anything, you're upset you missed out on the fun and can't remember the pleasure. Ultimately, you trust Coriolanus and that he won't hurt you.

You feel well-rested as you dress and make breakfast for the two of you. There is an undeniable ache in your cunt, but that's always welcomed. Your problems from yesterday are only a quiet hum in a dark corner of your brain.

"My love," you softly call out to Coriolanus, touching his naked shoulder.

"Good morning," he says with his eyes closed, although there is an undeniable grin on his lips. All the stress he felt yesterday has dissipated, leaving a pleasant feeling in his chest.

"Good morning to you, too," you giggle as you lean down to catch his lips in a kiss. There is a tangy taste attached to them that you recognize well. "Had a good night, did you?"

"I certainly did. Do you remember anything?" He asks, sitting up on the bed. The falling bedsheets reveal his toned chest and stomach. Gently, you grab the tray with food and place it on his lap.

"Barely," you scoff, "It's a shame." You technically haven't had sex with Coriolanus in two long weeks. His stunt from last night did nothing to satiate you or your mind that keeps picturing him in all sorts of compromising positions.

Coriolanus hums as he takes a bite of toast. You know him well enough to know he's amused that you don't remember and that he's hiding something.

"What is it?" You prod, brushing a strand of pale blonde hair away from his eyes.

"Nothing," he says with a shrug. He's making you work for it. Coryo loves his games, after all.

"Coryo," you speak his name with a warning.

He takes his time, sipping on the glass placed on the tray. "I just…I didn't know you could squirt," he reveals cheekily, stabbing his fork on a piece of fruit.

"What? That's because I don't," you say, taken aback.

A crease forms between your eyebrows. You and Coryo are not ashamed to talk about sex. It took you by surprise at first because he always presents himself so elegantly and no-nonsense. Behind the scenes, though, when he's with you, he's open to discussing everything he wishes to try and his likes and dislikes.

You, in return, have been the same. Admitting that you've never been able to squirt and might never be able to. It's been a topic of conversation numerous times, seeing as it's something Coryo has always been curious about.

"Yes, you do. Last night, you squirted all over my cock and my fingers and my tongue," he boasts with a smirk as he remembers all the times he made you cum after that.

"I did?"

"You were such a good girl for me, darling," Coriolanus responds, putting the tray of food to the side and cupping your face, "All you had to do was relax."

"Hard to do when you're edging me for hours," you roll your eyes at him. Edging you is just one of the fun ways he tortures you.

"Don't be a spoilsport," he frowns, gripping your face harder before planting another kiss on your lips.

"It's not fair. I can't remember anything," you softly murmur. It's a real damn shame you won't remember the first time you squirt or the face Coryo made at the realization.

"Poor thing. I can show you how to do it again. I practiced last night a couple of times," he whispers in your ear, kissing down to your pulse point, "But I can't right now, or I'll be late."

"Huh?" You dumbly respond, enthralled by his words, imagining all the pleasure he'll give you.

"Thanks for breakfast," Coriolanus says, standing from the bed and heading into the bathroom butt-naked.

You watch after him lustfully and angrily, forced to continue your morning as if nothing happened.

In less than an hour, Coriolanus is ready to return to Dr. Gaul's laboratory. He has to check for any progress in his experiment before heading to the university for his classes.

He sits you on the bed before he leaves, though, to show you something 'important.' "I'll see you tonight," he says, kissing the crown of your head and turning on the TV.

The screen shows you lying on your back, whining helplessly as Coryo slips two fingers into your cunt rapidly. The rings on his fingers and the palm of his hand glisten with your sticky juices.

He did not lie about your new ability as you watch your hole leak clear liquid. The Coryo on the screen, who had been encouraging you with lewd words, eagerly attaches his mouth to catch it all. When he pulls back, his chin is dripping with your release.

Watching yourself in that fucked out state and Coryo behaving so obscenely gets your silk panties wet. Glancing at the clock, you note you have 30 minutes till you have to be at the door.

In no time, you're spread out on the bed with your hand under your university skirt, panties pushed to the side fucking two fingers into your cunt. Your eyes are focused entirely on the screen, rewatching the clip.

thanks for reading! i hope you liked it!

part two for coryo making her squirt while she's actually conscious?

#fanfiction #smut #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games fanfiction #coriolanus snow fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

gglitch1dd · 28 days

Note

I’ve been wondering… when Toshinori goes to UA and his parents help him unpack in his dorm, does any of this friends or classmates think his mom’s a MILF and comment on how fine she is?

Oh definitely!!! It would drive him mad! Can't invite his friends over or anything because he knows they'll be thirsty for his mom.

"Okay sweetie do you have your toothbrush?"

"Yes mom, it's in the bathroom box."

"Did you also pack all your shoes? I thought you said you were missing a pair of slippers?"

"I found them and I put them in the shoe box."

"What about deodorant? Your bed sheets? I think I only folded like three sets and-"

"Mom!" Toshinori laughed as he took your hands as you and him stood in his dorm room in UA.

You, Izuku and him had been carrying boxes up to his room on the second floor into the room he'd be living in the entire year, outside of holidays. It was no surpise to anyone that the son of the number one hero managed to get into Class A. No surprise at all. You and Izuku were so exceptionally proud of Toshinori.

You eased as you looked at your oldest sprout. You felt tears come to your eyes as you cupped his face looking at him. For a second you saw the little baby you first held in your arms. The little guy who would cling to you and rely on you constantly.

Where did that little sprout go?

You sniffed as you covered your eyes.

"Mom..." Toshinori's shoulder's dropped as he looked at you with a sad smile. "Mom don't cry." He urged.

Izuku walked in with the last two boxes, the heaviest ones so far. "Alright. That's everything out of the car-" He paused as he saw you in tears. He slowly put down the boxes and looked at his son. He motioned to you with one finger. Toshinori nodded. Izuku put on a gentle smile as he chuckled and walked over to you, pulling you into his arms. "He's going to be fine, my love. I had to go to the dorms by myself and so will he. He'll be fine. Shinso said he'd keep an eye on him since he's homeroom teacher for class A."

"I know but Izu..." You dropped your hands and motioned to Toshinori. "My baby... He's gone out of the nest."

Izuku pat your back. "My love, he's just at UA. He isn't that far. We'll see him on holidays." He reminded you. Izuku let go of you as he moved to Toshinori.

He put his hands on the teenagers shoulders. Toshinori was dressed in his UA uniform already, a small red tie around his neck, tied Midoriya style, he stood in gleaming red Jordans, matching to his dad. Izuku looked at his son in front of him and he saw himself, only this time his son had a father to wish him off well.

Izuku opened his mouth to speak but he lost the words. He lifted up a finger and turned away as he tried to fight off the Midoriya sized tears. You weren't the least bit surprised that Izuku was crying.

Toshinori threw his hands up. "Great, now dad is crying too." He moved over to the both of you, pulling the two of you into a hug. Izuku wrapped his arms around the three of you, keeping you all close. "I'm going to be fine." He told you both softly, ignoring the burning in his own eyes.

"We know..." You said softly. "Just... remember to call, okay?"

"I will."

"And don't forget to wash your socks."

"I won't."

"And if you want to sneak alcohol into the dorms, make sure to bribe Hounddog with a Medium Rare steak."

"IZUKU!" You glared at your husband and his so called advice which Toshinori laughed at. Your husband put his hands up in surrender, but personally he believed he was saying the important things to remember.

With all the tears mopped off the floor, Toshinori accompanied you both down the elevators where some of the others were, a lot of them being kids you already knew since they were in your friend group.

"Hey Toshi!" Another first year boy jogged over to Toshinori as you and Izuku headed off towards the doors. He kept his hands in his pockets but nodded towards you. "Who's that lady?"

Toshinori paused for a second. "Oh that's my mom."

"Dude! How could you not know that's his mom?" Kaminari Haiden, Denki's and Jirou's son, commented as he motioned to you. "She's literally always on the news with ProHero Deku."

The guy scratched the back of his head. "I just didn't expect her to be such a MILF."

"EXCUSE ME?!" Toshinori let out loudly with an appalled look on his face.

Haiden sighed as he nodded his head, folding his arms over his chest. His purple hair was styled in the same way as his dad but with a white lightning bolt. "I know right?"

"Are we talking about Aunty Y/N?" Kane asked as he walked over with his hands in his pockets. The other boys hummed in agreement. "I've been telling Toshinori that his mom is hot and he's never believed me."

"That's my MOM!" He reminded his friends motioning to your form. "She isn't hot! She's my mom!"

"Are we talking about Toshi's mom?" Todoroki Keiji asked. He was one of the Todoroki twins, his hair being ice white as he turned to look to where you were. "Yah she's fine."

"HELLO!? CAN WE STOP TALKING ABOUT MY MOM PLEASE?!"

"Toshinori!" You called at the door. You waved a hand. "Bye, baby. Stay safe!"

Toshinori fought off an embarrassed blush but nodded. "Bye mom."

You smiled. Recognising the boys he was standing with, you waved your hand at them in goodbye. "Goodbye boys."

"Bye Mrs Midoriya." They sang with dopey smiles.

Haiden sighed. "Man, you're dad is one lucky man."

"DUDE!?"

-Glitch1d

#dilf midoriya #dilf deku #dilf izuku midoriya #dilf izuku x reader #izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #mha x y/n #Midoriya Family Shenanigans

722 notes · View notes

idyllicidols · 8 months

Text

Cheat Day.

Another request. I forgot if the person wanted to stay anonymous so I'll leave them out to be safe. Something different with it being third person, but it felt needed with the content.

TW: gangbang

***

Wonyoung was always expected to be perfect. Her days were filled with endless rehearsals, rigorous diets, and sleepless nights. She yearned for a life of freedom, where she could make mistakes and be herself. Her long awaited day off was under commencement–and mistakes were definitely going to be made.

Three of her most dedicated fans, handpicked by the dollesque idol herself, received a private DM from an unknown account with a time and address. They were apprehensive about the message, but the never before seen photos piqued their curiosity.

The room was dimly lit, the only sound being the soft hum of the city outside. Wonyoung, clad in a silk robe, stood before them, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. She took mental notes on each one as they introduced themselves.

"Donghyun." She recognized him as a man who had been to nearly every concert and fan meet–his loud screams often heard over all the other fan chants. The messy haired boyish man looked like he just got off work. A disheveled suit with his tie loosely knit. Now that he was in such a private setting, he looked at her with an innocent admiration.

"Minsoo." The hottest of the bunch. His right arm covered in tattoos, his hair perfectly sculpted, but not greasy. He gazed upon her as if he already knew what she had planned. If the other two failed, she could depend on him for a good time.

"Junho." A recognized community member. Almost her whole fandom and group members knew of him. Her most dedicated fan. At every event, making sure to capture her in the perfect light. His fancams were the most popular, some even doing better than official recordings. A casual friendship had grown, and this was her way of showing her appreciation.

Her voice was steady and confident as she spoke, "Tonight, I'm not an idol. I'm not a performer. I'm yours, to do with as you please."

Junho and Donghyun exchanged astonished glances, their minds racing with the implications of her statement. They couldn't believe the woman they had idolized for so long would offer herself so freely. But Minsoo smirked expectedly.

Junho spoke up, "Wonyoung, we can't take advantage of you like this. You're an idol, and we're just fans."

Wonyoung's expression turned determined. "You can't deny me this. I've been living this life..always holding back, always being the perfect idol. Tonight, I want to be something else."

Donghyun joined in, "But you could ruin your reputation."

Wonyoung's voice hardened, "I don't care about my reputation. I want this. I want to be used, to be fucked."

She looked to Minsoo, her eyes pleading. She was right, she knew she could depend on him to get things rolling.

"If you're sure, Wonyoung, we can't deny you anything."

With a sultry smile, Wonyoung nodded, "I'm sure."

Minsoo undressed her slowly, untying the knot to her robe. She let it fall off her shoulders, the light from the window acted as a spotlight to her perfectly slender naked body. She was a tiny, delicate thing, but one with fire burning within her. The other two watched in awe as his hands roamed her body while his tongue explored her mouth.

He easily lifted her up and tossed her on the bed, his kisses trailed down from one pair of lips to her other. His hands were rough, their movements urgent and demanding.

"You cucks going to just watch or join in?" Minsoo aggressively berated the other two men into action.

Donghyun was the next to act, seizing this rare opportunity, kissing and touching wherever he pleased. Wonyoung moaned in pleasure as the two men grasped at her body. But she couldn't help but feel bad for Junho.

"Join us sweetie…" She called out to him. "... You can record this too if you like, just make sure you keep it to yourself…" flashing a sly smile.

That was all it took. Junho set up his camera, then joined in on the fun. He knew he would never get a chance like this again, and wasn't going to miss out.

Without another word, the three men moved in unison, Minsoo between her legs, Donghyun and Junho each taking one of her breasts in their hands and began to fondle them gently. Their thumbs brushed over her already sensitive nipples, sending shivers down her spine.

"Oh, god," she gasped, her head falling back as she felt a sudden rush of pleasure wash over her.

"Is that good, baby?" Junho asked, his voice filled with concern and desire.

She nodded, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Yes, it's so good."

As the men continued to pleasure her breasts, their hands moved in a rhythmic pattern that had her on the edge of ecstasy. Minsoo was gifted at his craft, his tongue danced against her wet folds.

"Oh, God," she cried out, her body trembling with pleasure.

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure building with each pass. Wonyoung's breath caught in her throat as she felt the pleasure growing, spreading throughout her body until she was sure she couldn't take any more.

And then, suddenly, the pressure was gone, and she was left feeling empty and wanting.

"Please," she begged, her voice pleading. "I need more."

Minsoo smirked, knowing he had Wonyoung right where he wanted. He spread her legs wider, revealing her sensitive, throbbing clit to his waiting mouth.

"Oh, fuck," she gasped, her hands clawed at the sheets as pleasure washed over her once more.

Minsoo began to suck on her clit, his tongue moving in rhythmic, deliberate motions that had her body convulsing in pleasure. Then the final nail in the coffin, his middle and ring fingers dug into her wet quivering pussy. Squelching sounds echoed out with his fingertips constantly brushing her g-spot.

"You're gonna make me cum!" she screamed out, her voice strained and desperate.

Her body tensed; involuntarily trying to fight off the pressure that was overwhelming her system. But the other two held her down as they continued to explore her body. The pressure built in her stomach had nowhere else to go, a stream of sticky clear fluid shot out of her, her strongest orgasm in months taking over.

"Oh, god," she gasped, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own pleasure. "It feels so good."

An orgasm that intense should've left her helpless, but this was her only night of escape. Her animalistic desires insatiable, she rose from the sheets, her thin body covered in sweat.

"I'm gonna ride your fucking cock."

Wonyoung demanded as she pushed Junho on his back. He watched as the idol he's fantasized about so many times slowly lowered her mess of pussy onto his cock. It was better than he could ever dream, so tight and so warm, he never could have imagined how good she felt.

"You're so tight." Junho cried out.

He had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. But it got even better, she planted her feet and started bouncing up and down. Her sopping wet pussy glided easily-massaging his shaft with her moist caverns. She screamed in ecstasy, the first real cock inside of her in months felt better than any toy–it was a living thing, with its heat radiating inside of her.

It was hard to know who was having a better time - Wonyoung finally letting loose or Junho feeling the tight walls of his dream girl squeezing his cock. She was lost in ecstasy, the feelings of hands on her body almost forgettable.

Minsoo was there to give her a stark reminder. Wonyoung gasped when a strong force pushed her forward, making her turn around in surprise. Then she felt something hard pressed against her asshole, the tight ring on her virgin hole clenched in resistance.

"What are you – AH!" Wonyoung cried out before she could finish her question. A predictable result. There were three men and she had an accompanying hole for each. But what she didn't expect was for it to happen right off the bat. No preparation; no fingers or toys - just Minsoo's hard, massive cock breaking past her defenses in one fell swoop. Drool started leaking from her mouth, the intense feeling of getting fucked from both ends beyond her wildest dreams. Cries of pain filled the room, Wonyoung stretched out further than she ever thought possible. You would think she begged for them to stop, that the pain was too much to bear...

"Fuck me harder!" She screamed out, the pain of being fully engulfed by cock reminding her that she was alive–washing away months of the stressful idol life.

It was a sight to behold, Minsoo aggressively fucked the blabbering idol. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as he drove into her with relentless force. It was a stark contrast to Junho, feebly thrusting upwards trying to keep pace. Wonyoung moaned, her head flailing as she felt her insides being stretched and filled. But soon they got in sync, fucking and stretching out Wonyoung's body at perfect intervals.

"Is this what you want, you filthy whore?" Minsoo growled in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine.

"Yes," she gasped, "Fuck me."

"Hey Donghyun, why don't you keep her quiet before the neighbors complain."

Donghyun was like a perfect little pet, listening to everything anyone told him. As he stood up and pressed his cock against her lips there was no hesitation. Wonyoung opened up her lips and sucked like it was a popsicle. Now she was truly filled, a cock in each orifice, her body being used for greedy desires. It was only right, she worked so hard to stay fit, it would be a shame to keep it hidden away and locked up.

Donghyun was perfectly content standing there while she sucked and licked. Wonyoung however was not, grabbing the back of his thighs and taking him deep in her throat–a jolt of pleasure blasting through him every time she let a muffled moan vibrate against his cock. Actions spoke louder than words, her desires clearly obvious. His hands tangled in her long hair, thrusting his hips, fucking her face with the intensity she craved.

As the men continued their relentless onslaught, Wonyoung felt her body being torn apart, her mind filled with pleasure and pain. She could feel the cocks pounding into her, stretching her, filling her completely. Her moans and cries filled the room, echoing off the walls as the men continued to use her.

"Fuck I'm gonna cum!"

Wonyoung was in no place to protest, a cock in her throat keeping her from replying. Nor did she want to, wanting nothing more than the feeling of hot cum filling her up.

"That's it," Minsoo grunted, "Take it all."

Minsoo was the first to concede–a thick stream of hot cum painting her insides. He slid out from behind her, her gaping ass leaking down to the sheets. He grabbed Donghyun, pulling him away. Wounyoung heaved in relief, finally able to breathe without a cock pounding her throat.

"Clean up my mess." Minsoo demanded. Wounyoung's relief was short-lived–opening up her mouth, happily sucking the cock that just took her anal virginity. Donghyun stared at her asshole with intrigue, kneeling down behind her. She smiled in response, feeling him pressed against her puckered hole. While her mouth was amazing, Donghyun longed to fuck something much tighter, and there was nothing tighter than Wounyoung's ass.

Junho had surprising stamina, his fingers biting into her sensitive flesh as he pinched and twisted her nipples. Wonyoung writhed above him, her body on fire with pain and pleasure. She could feel her own orgasm building, the pressure in her pussy and ass growing unbearable.

"I'm going to cum," she gasped, "Oh, God, I'm going to...ahhh!"

Her body trembled as the orgasm ripped through her, her muscles contracting as she was filled to the brim. That set off a chain sequence–her contracting body milking every shaft inside of her. Luckily for her, all the fans were just as insatiable as she was–knowing this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

She was tossed around like a ragdoll, her tiny body fucked in every position possible, her tight holes nothing but a dumping ground for cum. They were like a well oiled machine, switching positions and holes, making sure that she always experienced something new. The only time one of her holes wasn't being fucked was when they needed to recover. Donghyun and Junho grew bolder as the night went on, fucking her with a ferocity that almost matched Minsoo.

The men continued their assault, their grunts and groans filling the air as they emptied themselves into her. Wonyoung's cries echoed in the room, a plethora of hands and tongues covering every inch of skin–three cocks stuffed in her holes, giving her everything she could ever ask for. She was reduced to nothing more than a living, breathing, screaming orgasm.

The sun was starting to rise, and the men pulled out, their spent cocks dripping with cum. They stepped back, leaving Wonyoung sprawled on the bed, her body covered in sweat, her mouth, pussy, and asshole leaking with cum.

Donghyun was the first to leave, he had to return to work within the hour. Junho turned sheepishly shy, embarrassed at how he lost control fucking his bias, collecting his camera. She smiled at him knowing he would forever cherish that footage. Donghyun and Junho bowed when they left. Forever grateful for this experience their faces flushed with pleasure, their hearts filled with gratitude. They had experienced something that most could only dream of.

Minsoo stuck behind, his fingers buried inside Wonyoung until she forced him to leave. She thanked him for starting things right, pulling him in for one final kiss before he left.

Wonyoung laid there, panting and trembling, her body sore and aching. Forget dance practice, she would be lucky if she was even able to walk. But as she stared up at the ceiling, she couldn't help but smile - she had found a release she had been longing for, a release that would fuel her performances, her passion, and her life. She couldn't wait for her next day off.

#wonyoung smut #ive smut #kpop smut

1K notes · View notes

softlyspector · 9 months

Text

Decaf

Summary: After your first tattoo session with Joel, you can't stop thinking about him or, his touch. And it terrifies you.

Read Honeyed first where: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~10.1k

Warnings: a smidgen of angst for fun 😌 then comfort, slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, the 'believes they're hard to love, loving them is like breathing' trope, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse (joel's workin' on that though), tattoos and getting tattooed (the process isn't really described), description of a past abusive relationship and a bad experience getting tattooed, undefined unresolved previous trauma, insecurity, anxiety, loneliness, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: This is dedicated to all of you who are also touch adverse. I hope you like this part as much as the first, and feel seen and heard. I love you and thank you for being so kind and open with your love and your own experiences. May you find the patience and love you deserve in your own Joel.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Editing this was a labor, so if there are any mistakes blame my tired eyes. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

Joel doesn’t want to walk you home, though he figures he should.

It’s the polite thing to do. The kind of thing his mother and grandmother raised him to do.

And it's got nothing at all to do with prolonging this very long day with you. No, nothing so self serving and selfish as that.

His little doe he’d lured so close, still so out of reach with hidden tattoos not on her hip. It’s scary, the want that wells up in him, the desire to see you step that much closer to him, until you feel safe enough to nestle in his shadow.

If you were the deer, he should be the tree, the shade, the haven.

Rage, incandescent and warm and comforting in its familiarity, wells up in his chest again when your earlier admission plays through his mind.

Nothing brings his anger, quick and deadly, like those he cares for being harmed. Rarely did he see cause for it to break the surface—not since Sarah was born and he had a better example to set, not since Tommy calmed down and stopped getting in so many fights.

This, though, with you—the thought of you being harmed, brings it all rushing back. He hopes to never lay eyes on your ex, for everyone’s sake.

I had bruises for a couple weeks after, you’d said. It hurt. He wanted it to hurt.

Those words had stung on their own, but then you’d continued.

I think he wanted to brand me. He wanted to leave a piece of himself on me, whether I wanted it or not.

It grates on him, that anyone could hurt you that way, that anyone would even think of it, and get away with it.

You’re happily finishing the last bite of the quartet of tacos he’d gotten you, unaware of the turmoil that drags taunting claws into the fleshy parts of his chest.

You nod along to the Cash song still playing over the outdoor speakers, though now at a much lower volume as the night wanes later, a content expression on your face.

He likes watching you eat, likes it even better knowing you’re eating something he got you. It satisfies something weirdly primal in him.

The side of your leg is still pressed to his, warm and pliant even through two layers of denim. The buzzing flaxen glow of the sting lights halo over your head; it casts your face in shadow, the long feathers of your lashes spiking down your cheeks.

You seem more relaxed now. The tension in your shoulders has loosened, the crease between your furrowed brows gone as you ball up the used napkins and toss them into the little paper boat the tacos had been on.

He refuses the last few sips of lemonade, and so you drink the rest instead.

“Well,” you say, your voice a little sheepish and shy, that soft round look coming back into your eyes. He imagines you with the twitching, sensitive ears of a doe, poking through your hair, alert and suddenly wary of the extended hand you’d been so trusting of minutes before. “I should probably let you go. It’s late.”

You say it like you think you’ve been keeping him there, taking up his time that he’s eager to get back.

But you haven’t, and he isn’t ready to let you go.

“I’ll walk ya home.”

“It’s alright,” you say dismissively, gathering the trash and standing before he can do it for you. “I’m only a couple of blocks over,” you say over your shoulder as you walk away.

“I’d feel better if you let me,” he admits, following close behind you.

You toss the trash and then turn back to him, nervously running your palms along your thighs, eyes flicking over him. “This is a safe little town, you know,” you reassure him. “Like, I’m pretty sure my neighbors don’t even lock their door.”

Joel blinks. “But you lock your door, don’t ya?”

An inexplicable smile pulls your mouth up at the corners. “Yeah, Joel, I lock my door.”

“Good,” he says gruffly, shoving down the protective feeling that had been rising in his chest. It’s an insane feeling, one that sets something he thought long dead on fire within him.

You just watch him for a moment, knowing eyes sliding over him. “Well,” you relent and jerk your head toward one of the side streets. “I’m this way, if you’re sure you have time.”

Like time had anything to do with it.

He gestures you ahead of him, his eyes falling down the curve of your spine, the shape of your hips and thighs. He’s still trying hard not to think about the bumblebee and the antlers tattooed somewhere on your body, all the parts of you he hasn’t seen.

He’s trying hard not to think about a lot of things.

Like how your skin felt under his hand, dewy and warm. How he’d spent most of the day with his hand covering yours, the hummingbird beat of your pulse against his fingertips.

He’s trying not to think about how good you smelled that close, raw and unfiltered, how irritated he had been when the sharp smell of disinfectant had chased it away.

You carried the smell of summer with you wherever you went, like sunshine and coffee, iced sugar and coconut.

He walks with you through the navy darkness in silence, the flash of amber street light the only thing illuminating your way. It feels nice. He feels like the rest of the world has turned its face away, that it's only you and him and the ghostly eyes of the white glow of the moon peeking through the quickly dissipating clouds.

The Texas dry heat would be back with a vengeance in the morning, but for now the street is pleasantly humid. The air still smells like petrichor, like damp concrete. He should savor it. Tomorrow, the blindingly hot smell of asphalt and dust will return and chase this moment in the dark with you away.

You seem almost better suited to the dark, to the quiet smooth pleasantness of it, like your fear can’t reach you there if it can’t see you, if you can’t see it. Like a prey animal that only ventured into the safety of night.

So he lets the silence last, because it's comfortable, and he’s never been one to fill silence with unnecessary chatter anyhow.

He can’t remember the last time he did something like this, felt the brush of someone else’s fingers through the dark and the accompanying zing it sent up his arm. He forgot how amplified everything could feel, especially in the low light.

The walk to your apartment is short.

You only live a few blocks from the center of town, and only a few streets over from the studio. He imagines you walking this path each day with the intention of coming to see him, with the intention to walk by the studio, even before you knew him—in the sun, all summer.

You live above the town’s sole bookshop. It’s cute, like the rest of the town is. It’s unbelievable how idyllic the town is, like it’s cut straight from the pages of a romance novel, or one of those shitty Hallmark movies.

He stands just outside the circle of the security light that blinks on over the door. You fiddle with the lock for a solid minute, jiggling the knob just so and then twisting the key in a pattern that you seem to know well, until it finally yields and opens.

Joel clears his throat. “Y’need someone to look at that?”

You don’t seem to hear the question mark tagged onto the end of the question, or to realize that he’s offering to fix it. “Yeah, I know,” you roll your eyes. “I’ve asked my landlord to look at it a couple of times already but they haven’t gotten around to it—”

“I can take a look for you sometime,” he clarifies. “It won’t take but a minute—”

“That’s alright, Joel,” you interrupt quickly and dip your head, embarrassed suddenly. “I’ve let you do way too much for me today. Everyday.” Before he can contradict you—because he isn’t sure what the hell you feel he’s done for you, you step back through the door and hover there in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

The security light casts your face in harsh shadows, the dark stairwell behind you reaching black claws out to hook around your frame.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You just linger there, fidgeting with your keys, looking for all the world like you have something you want to say to him, like you don’t want him to go either.

Joel watches you, waiting for you to say something, to be the one to sever the connection between you and say goodnight. His chest feels tight as he waits for you to decide, waits for you to decide his shade was a place you could be safe.

Besides, he’s still trying to figure how to say goodbye to you, still trying to figure how he’s supposed to pry apart the sticky want that thrums against his skin. Still trying to figure out what exactly had gotten into him, what had gotten into him in the weeks and months you’d started coming by.

He supposes it's just been a long time. He supposes he’s just out of practice at having feelings for someone.

It’s been just him and his girls and his brother for so long.

He must take too long trying to figure things out because you smile at him and glance away, your expression apprehensive and unsure. “You will let me get you back for the tacos someday,” you warn softly. “‘Night.”

Then you shut the door. He hears you bang up the steps, your footfalls fading until he can’t hear them anymore. The security light flickers out and he’s plunged into semi-darkness, but he doesn’t move until a light finally comes on in one of the upstairs windows a few minutes later, the silhouette of your body outlined behind a sheer curtain.

It’s only then that he turns away and walks back the way he’d come. He smiles to himself and then feels stupid about it.

He’s too old, he thinks again, for his chest to be twinging the way it is, to be smiling in the dark, and missing someone he just left.

He’d see you tomorrow, anyway.

Just as he always did.

Just like you always do.

Joel is distracted the day after your appointment.

Your scent lingers in the air of the studio. He mistakes every shadow that passes the front window for you. The image of you under the soft light in the center of town is imprinted behind his eyes. The way you’d smiled, the feel of your skin under his fingers—soft and damp in the humid air that had ballooned after the day’s rain, consumes his every thought, has his eyes shifting to the front window every few seconds. His back gives an unpleasant spasm from how quickly he turns at even the slightest noise, always thinking it's you finally pushing the door open.

But he sees more than your shadow and the ghost of your silhouette in the window.

Joel sees all the imagined, soft skin under your clothes where an antler tattoo is hidden. Untouched, unexplored skin that he would very much like the chance to explore and touch, if ever you gave him the chance, if you ever wandered that close.

It’s a fine idea.

That you’d come into the studio and lean against the counter and watch him work on a design for someone that isn’t nearly as important as you are.

But, the day wears on, and you never show up.

The day after Joel tattooed you and bought you sugary lemonade and tacos under golden light that you etched divine, you don’t stop in.

You don’t even walk by.

It isn’t unusual for you to go a few days between visits to the studio. He tells himself that it’s normal, fine, that you have a job and a life and that sometimes you don’t get the chance to come by. He tries not to worry about it.

On the second day, with your image still fluttering behind his eyes, the weight of your gaze still heavy on his skin, he starts sketching another design for you. It distracts him, at least, because you don’t come in on the second day, either.

You don’t come in the day after that either, or the day after that. His girls stop by for dinner on Friday evening, and Ellie crashes on his couch for the night to help out in the shop the next day. All that Saturday, all he can think about is you, pushing the door open slowly, pausing in the entryway like you always do with watchful eyes, skin shimmering with sweat from the sun and heat, cups of coffee in hand, one for you and one for him, just like always.

He imagines you smiling at him, your shoulders loosening when your doe eyes land on him, the uncertainty and trepidation melting away because it’s him. Because it’s just him. It’s just the two of you.

But the image, the fantasy, never comes to fruition.

Ellie snaps at him around noon to stop being so fucking weird, dude.

Sundays—the shop is closed, so he doesn’t see you then.

By Monday, five days after he tattooed you and walked you home in the dark, as the sun sets on a ragingly warm evening, Joel is convinced that you aren’t going to come by the studio anymore.

He keeps working on your new design.

Then, a whole week goes by, and then another, and you still don’t drop by, you don’t even walk by, though he catches a few glimpses of you down the road—in front of the boutique, the coffee shop, the record store a few doors down. He sees you at the farmer’s market that pops up every Saturday in the town’s center.

He dreams of you, dreams of the willowy, softly plush curves of your body. Joel dreams of you at home with him, in his bed. He dreams of pushing your shirt up, palming every delicate part of you, tracing his fingers over your hidden tattoos.

He always jolts awake when the dream version of you pushes him back and kisses him hard, his hands cupped around you, your thighs, your breasts, the dip of your waist and belly.

It’s distracting, the ghost of you everywhere he looks. He can’t even bring himself to take your painting down from the front window. The doe you don’t see yourself in.

Adjusting to your absence is hard. He hadn’t realized you’d wormed your way into his daily life so firmly, like an invasive species the environment grows around, and turns when it's taken away.

In one particularly low moment two weeks on, he takes a stroll a few blocks over, worried that something might have happened to you, that something might be keeping you away. He sees you inside the bookstore you live above, newly purchased novel in hand, feet curled beneath you on a sofa in the window.

You seem fine, though an inexplicable twinge of jealousy plucks at his heart. He never thought that you might hang around the other shops like you did with his.

And you never come by.

You don’t owe him anything, certainly not your company.

He resigns himself to not seeing you until your second session, when he’ll finish your tattoo and probably never see you again.

Joel scares you.

His hand lying over yours all day; his offer to fix your door; the way he looked at you intense and heavy and waiting, wanting—it all terrifies you.

The words to invite him up for something to drink had sat heavy in your mouth before you changed your mind and left him where he stood. You’d bothered him enough, taken up enough of his time.

You aren’t sure what southern manners had led him to take you to get tacos and lemonade but surely he’s had enough of you.

I’ve let you do way too much for me, you’d said. And he hadn’t disagreed.

Instead, you lurch up the stairs, let yourself into your apartment and stand breathing hard in the dark entryway, back against the door. Your forearm aches just a little, but in the pleasant way it always does after getting tattooed, instead of in the painful, raw way the one from your ex had.

The familiar itch below your skin that had started with Joel’s art is now overwhelming, because you know what the shape of his hand feels like. You know the precise weight of his palm over the back of your hand, and against the column of your spine. You can’t forget how his jean clad thigh felt against yours, how nice the brush of his fingers had been through the dark.

His voice was so low and graveled when it brushed against your skin, it tingled through your whole body, down to your toes, to the pit of your belly. It was low and intimate and felt like everything he said was just for you, like it had brushed against every tiny hair on your body.

I’m not markin’ you, because it's not mine. It’s yours. It’s for you.

They were words for you, special for you, reassuring to you, spoken so kindly and in defense of you against someone he would never meet, over something that was not his fault and that he hadn’t been around yet to prevent.

There’s a kinetic energy under your skin that burns, like pages of your story with him are already set aflame. Don’t burn this bridge, you think and lean hard back into the door. You close your eyes and tangle your fingers together, squeezing so tight it hurts, until you pinch your skin. Please don’t let me burn this bridge.

You like Joel, more than you have any right to. He feels safe and sure and solid; he’s kind. He scares you, but in a way that makes you want to claw your way through the dark back to him, to see if he’ll touch you again, speak low and kind just for you, work on art made just for you.

When you finally catch your breath, you flip on the lights and toss your keys down as you cross your small apartment. You scrub a hand over your face and take a deep breath from between your fingers.

A moment later, you pluck up the courage to glance out the window, just in time to catch Joel’s broad shoulders turn the corner in the distance back onto Main Street.

Something in your chest pangs, the strings of your heart pull tight and hard up against your lungs until your throat closes.

The feelings he planted in your chest, nestled among your ribs and wove between your veins, seem unfair. It seems horribly unfair, harsh even, that you should be left with the tips of your fingers smoldering, hesitantly reaching out for more.

He’s left a sea inside you, a lonely dark hole. You knew it was there, that black, open emptiness. You’d felt it all your life, but now you know what it feels like when someone sees it, shrugs, and asks to be a part of it. You know what it's like, now, to have someone stand, patient and still on the shore.

He’s left you wanting, craving something that you’ve feared for so long, that always felt wrong. And when your skin started to go tight and your muscles contracted and pulled, he’d somehow known, heard the pain buried away, and released you.

You can still feel the ghost of his knuckles brushing against your wrist on the dark walk to your apartment. You can feel his thigh against yours while you ate tacos together and listened to the folks of your small town laugh and dance to old country music. You can feel his palm cupped around your wrist, dwarfing your hand beneath his.

You can still feel his calloused fingertips, catching at your palm and the inside of your wrist.

He makes you feel safe and seen, like it’s okay that you lingered in his studio for weeks, bothered him endlessly, without any guarantee that you might one day schedule an appointment and actually get tattooed.

You thought the wantneedpull would subside after finally starting the tattoo but its only gown. The pain you waited for, the urge to flee from your own body never came with him. You want him closer, want the warm rough press of his palm against yours. You just want—you’ve never really wanted anyone closer but you want him closer.

You want Joel so close that nothing else bleeds through. You want to melt into the palms that cupped you so gently, so carefully.

You want to become carefully molded wax in his capable hands.

Inexplicably, for the first time in so long, you want someone to touch you. You want to feel Joel’s hands everywhere, anywhere he could reach and even all the places he couldn’t.

And it terrifies you.

You mean to go back to your normal routine, but the first morning you try to stop by the studio, you can’t make your feet carry you there. You pause halfway between the coffeeshop and the studio, Joel’s usual order clutched in your hand.

The gnawing, empty, raw hole inside you has only grown. You look at your pretty tattoo and think of the gently rough hands that had created it, the furrow between his brows while he worked, the scar over his nose, the strong, broad slope of his shoulders, and you feel anxious.

You want it so badly, and yet—

He’s just your tattoo artist. He probably only put up with you hanging around his shop everyday, bringing him coffee, talking his ear off, because there was the promise of money, the promise of work.

You’d just done the stupid thing and gotten attached to him, to the studio, to your fucking tattoo artist. You are just a client and you long to melt into him. You long to press yourself against him, feel the crush of his body against yours.

That want makes you wary, phantom pain, phantom aversion crawling beneath your skin right after.

It makes your head spin, it makes you feel crazy, that you can’t even decide what you feel, what you want.

It’s better if you stay away, give yourself time to forget the itch, forget the feel of his hands, so you turn away and circle the block, back to your apartment where you set the cups on your kitchen counter and take a deep breath.

Your chest is tight, your mind a snarl of half formed thoughts.

Tomorrow, you think, will be better.

But it’s not.

Each day you think about going over, and you don’t. You feel wound tight, like clockwork left to rust. You dream of Joel, his hands everywhere and nowhere, the warmth of him like a ghost you can’t shake off.

The feelings you try to avoid, the desert dryness of need and emptiness that the loss of his touch inspired, doesn’t go away. It gets worse; it outweighs the fear, the aversion.

You only dare to go as close as the record store, checking he was still there, like the whole place would suddenly disappear if you stopped going by, like a witch’s cottage after a botched, half-worked spell.

You feel cursed, like soot, like a monster waiting to steal the soul of the light.

You’re burning your bridge and you don’t know how to stop.

Joel is still there, where he’s always been. His art is still there, though you’re so far away now, you can’t see it clearly anymore.

But you notice among the still ever rotating collection of art and pictures in the window, one always remains.

You know without seeing it that it's the painting of the doe looking over her shoulder, bees flocking like long forgotten gods around her ears.

Ellie and Sarah ask about you on the third Friday that goes by without you stopping in.

The temperature has cooled off a little, the warmth of summer receding just the tiniest bit. The kitchen table is laden with chinese takeout boxes, rice already spilled across one of the placemats.

“You haven’t been talkin’ about her so much,” Sarah notes curiously.

“Yeah, and you’ve been way more cranky than usual,” Ellie adds.

“Ain’t had cause to see her,” he deflects, reaching for the yet un-spilled carton of rice. “Hasn’t been in the studio since her first session.”

The kitchen suddenly falls silent, the clatter of cutlery deadened as it’s set on the table. “What do you mean?” Sarah, he thinks, sounds mildly offended on his behalf.

“Just what I said,” he grumbles.

He doesn’t need to look up from his plate to know Sarah and Ellie are exchanging a look. “Why not?” Sarah ventures to ask, her tone calmer.

Joel shrugs and finally looks up at his kids. Sarah’s head is tilted to the side ever so slightly and Ellie’s brow is furrowed. “Busy, maybe,” he explains. “Got better things to do.”

“Bullshit!” Ellie explodes suddenly. “What happened? Did you do something stupid?”

He sighs hard through his nose and shovels orange chicken onto his plate with more force than necessary. “No.” Then he reconsiders, goes over every moment of that day again in his mind. How much he touched you, selfishly, when he knew you were adverse to it. “I don’t know. Could be she was only around this summer to see if we’d make a good fit.”

There’s another beat of silence before both girls are arguing with him. He lets them go on protesting it for a few minutes before he waves them down. “She’s got a lot goin’ on that you two don’t know. Somethin’ might’ve spooked her that I didn’t realize.”

“Like what?”

Your ex-boyfriend and your badly healed tattoo flashes through his mind. The bruises you said you’d had for weeks afterward, how badly it had hurt. The way he’d held onto you all that day.

Guilt pools in his chest, floods his lungs.

He doesn’t know what might have spooked you.

Just hopes it wasn’t him.

“Well, have you tried to talk to her?”

Sarah peers at him with wide eyes, fingers delicately folded around a pair of chopsticks. “No,” he admits.

Ellie makes a discontent noise. “Just fucking talk to her, man,” she says.

“You always do this, dad,” Sarah says suddenly, shaking her head.

“I do not—I don’t—” he stammers. When was the last time he’d had the opportunity to fuck something up? “What are you talkin’ about?”

They both shrug. “It’s like you don’t ever wanna be happy sometimes. She makes you happy and you always think of everybody else, it's okay to think of yourself sometimes. Maybe whatever’s going on with her doesn’t have anything to do with you. Not everything is your fault.”

He can’t figure a way it's not about him, though, that it might not be his fault.

Joel clears his throat and looks down at his plate. “All right, tell me what you two’ve been up to this week.”

“Hey Joel.”

Joel glances up, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. You’re distorted in his vision for a moment before he reaches up to take them off.

Your shape comes into sharp relief, a balm after not seeing you for so many days. You look cheerful, happy to see him.

Excited, even.

He hasn’t seen you in a month.

You’d messaged back and forth with his kid about your appointment, about today.

He hasn’t heard your voice in a month.

Seeing you now, despite thinking about you, dreaming about you everyday, makes some part of him close off, go cold and hard. “Howdy,” he says, his voice toeing the edge of polite and flat. The smile on your face fades a little.

Though the sunshine is bright as always, the air outside is chilly for Texas. You’re wrapped in a sweatshirt. For the first time since he’s known you, all of your tattoos are hidden, most of your skin is covered.

You blink owlishly, your fingers flexing nervously around the cups in your hands. “I brought you coffee,” you offer.

He makes a noncommittal noise and jerks his chin towards the door behind the counter. “C’mon, I’m already set up.” Joel turns.

“Oh,” you say, your voice following him to the back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was late.”

“You aren’t,” he grumbles softly. “Had another client this mornin’,” he says, needlessly adjusting and straightening the supplies he had set out, keeping his back to you.

He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to get through this with you—ain’t sure how he’s supposed to make sense of how much it hurt that you’d stopped hanging around. There’s a feeble little thread of hope in his heart that you’ll explain it away, that you even noticed you’d changed your routine. A tiny, weak little thing that makes him hope you thought about him too.

Stupid.

That painful tug of hope makes him feel like a teenager, like an idiot kid who read into every little thing like it was a sign until reality started to distort.

He’s always been that way, hopeful and goddamn stupid. It’s why he hasn’t really been with anyone since Sarah’s mother left. It’s how he got tangled up with Sarah’s mom in the first place. He gets stupid when he thinks he feels something, and he’s never been good at figuring how to hold onto something like that, something so delicate.

He always ends up loving too hard, too much. He always crushes the thing before it has a chance to bloom. His girls, they were his only exception, the one thing he was mostly good at taking care of.

“Guess the coffee was a stupid move, huh?”

Joel turns at the sound of your voice, pulled away from the half self-deprecating thoughts floating through his mind, and finds you hovering awkwardly in the doorway, fingers fidgeting anxiously around the cups. You look like you did the first time you came into the shop, stiff and unsure, wide eyes peering at him like you’re waiting for him to give you a reason to run.

The doe waiting for the snap of the twig beneath a hunter’s boot once again.

Something twinges in his chest, the sharp pain slicing through bone and tendon.

He doesn’t want to be the hunter to your doe.

“No,” he straightens, making an effort to soften his voice. “‘Course not.”

You step cautiously closer, extending one of the cups toward him. “Well, it kinda is.” You smile a little. “You won’t be able to drink it while you work, contamination and all. I just—I was on autopilot again, I guess.”

He takes it from you, the paper cup warm in his hand, and tries not to think about how autopilot for you meant unthinkingly buying a cup of coffee for him.

Again, you’d said. Have you done it before? Accidentally bought coffee he never received?

“Well, thank you, sweetheart.”

You swallow and glance away, nodding at the ground instead.

A long silence stretches between you, and unlike all the times you came into the studio before—it's awkward and heavy. He takes a sip of the coffee and finds it sours instantly in his stomach, mixing unpleasantly with the nerves.

Yeah, he’s exactly like a damn kid.

And he’s not good at this. He’s never been good about bridging silent gaps.

Not with words, anyway.

It doesn’t help that you seem to take up the whole room, the smell of sun and coffee and leaves curling on the air.

He sets the cup aside and goes about washing his hands instead. “Go on and get comfortable,” he directs over his shoulder. “Just like before.”

When he’s done scrubbing his hands in the sink and putting on gloves and fighting the urge to inhale the scent of you penetrating every cubic inch of air in the room, he turns to find you sitting and stripping out of your sweatshirt.

He inhales sharply when the shirt beneath lifts with the material, exposing him to a strip of your skin. You tug it back down, hiding skin that he’s dreamed of in the last three weeks, that he’d like to tease his fingertips along, if you let him, if he could lure you that close, convince you to trust him that much.

It seems like a fucking pipe dream now.

You look soft and rumpled as you fold the sweatshirt, fisting your hands anxiously around the edges of it in your lap.

The tendons in the back of your hands flex, bone straining against the flesh. You’re tense, nervous.

“You’re alright,” he drawls, despite himself. The words come out soft, and your shoulders loosen and slump as you release a breath. Whether you stopped coming around or not, he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. “C’mere and lemme see it.”

You offer your arm to him and Joel takes your wrist in his hand, just like he had the last time he’d seen you. He’d touched you a lot that day, and you had let him. You’d let him touch you even after you left the studio and he hadn’t had a good excuse to keep doing it anymore.

Now, he relishes the feel of your delicate skin against his again.

“Looks good,” he says, stepping unconsciously closer to you. “Healin’ good anyway.”

You glance up, the side of your knee brushing against his thigh. Warmth radiates from your body, and settles into him in the invariably cold studio. A smile tugs at your lips and the tension disappears from your forehead. “You’re allowed to compliment your own work, you know. It’s beautiful. Probably my favorite.”

He doesn’t answer, fighting the clawing ache in his chest. “I do okay, I guess,” he concedes, turning your arm. “Just glad I didn’t hurt ya.”

You frown but don’t say anything as he goes through the motions of cleaning your skin and settling in on the stool next to you. You settle back in the chair, a cloud of your scent caccooning both of you, undercut by the annoyingly sharp smell of the disinfectant.

He covers your hand and squeezes the tight fist your hand curled into until you release the tension and relax. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good job.”

You chest hitches and you glance over at him, the movement sharp, but he doesn’t look back at you and you don’t say anything.

It’s quiet for a long time, just the buzz of the tattoo gun to keep him company.

He wonders what it is you’re thinking about. Though your body remains loose, the furrow between your brows is pinched tight in thought.

Joel doesn’t bother you, focused instead on his work, on monitoring the flex of your hand beneath his. He doesn’t strictly need to touch you like this, but he wants to, and it seems like you don’t mind.

At least, you hadn’t minded a couple weeks ago.

Maybe that’s what has your forehead so scrunched up. Maybe—

“I didn’t think you would.”

He glances up, those big eyes he sees in his dreams staring down at him. “What’s that?”

“I didn’t think you would hurt me. I mean—really, I’ve only had one bad tattoo experience,” you say with a roll of your eyes, dismissive of your own pain, like that’s not one too many times. “The rest of my—the rest of my issues are mine. Even from before that happened.” You don’t look away from him. “Besides, Ellie assured me beforehand that you have a light touch.”

Yeah, he thought he’d heard her saying that. He’d been both embarrassed about it and warmed.

“Well, I guess she’s right. Never had any complaints.” He leans back and takes his hand off of yours, flexing his fingers and stretching out the pinch in his spine.

One thing he did not relish about tattooing was the way he had to be hunched over. It makes him feel achy and old even if he knows it’d be much worse if he was still working with Tommy.

You nod and fidget with the hem of your shirt with your free hand. He watches you for a long moment, still not saying anything.

Even though things are a little awkward, he feels better, having you there again; knowing for sure that you’re okay because he’s seeing you with his own eyes. His kids might be right, that it’s all right to think of himself for once. Or, as Ellie put it, to just fucking talk to you instead of making assumptions.

“You ain’t been around much lately,” he offers, extending that metaphorically slow hand to you as he always has, asking for the nugget of whatever truth you held onto so tightly.

Maybe it was never about him, just as Sarah had said.

He looks away from your eyes, goes back to tattooing your arm, filling in your piece, the design he’d worked on for a whole summer. Just for you.

The tattoo suits you. He feels an odd kind of pride that you liked his art enough to trust him with designing something, with putting it onto your skin, and your trust is something he never could have hoped for.

“No,” you start, your voice a bit hoarse. “I guess not. I—I just figured that I didn’t have an excuse to stop by anymore.” You pause and swallow. Your voice is clearer when you speak again. “And you’d already been so nice about me taking up your time.”

Joel has to pause again and glance up, just to judge your expression. To see if you’re serious.

You aren’t looking at him, but staring at the far wall as though the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen is etched there. Your features are tense, like you’re trying not to show what you’re feeling. “Taking up my time?”

You shrug, the easily startled anxiety threading back into your eyes. “And,” your voice is shaky as you continue. “I was a little—I don’t know. Afraid. I guess.” Something must show on his face, the swoop of his gut visible on his features because you hurry to explain. “I just…I’ve never trusted someone the way I think I trust you. So. That’s scary.”

There’s a lot of things he could say, a lot of things he should say, but Joel isn’t exactly good at that kind of thing. He just knows he hates when you look at him with trepidation and weariness.

So instead, he covers your hand again and squeezes tight. He refocuses on your tattoo, on the transformation of your skin. He isn’t sure what to make of what you’d said about trust, or your honesty about it, so he pushes down the feeling that wells up into his gut at that admission. “Well, it ain’t no trouble. Havin’ you here. It was mighty quiet without you around.”

It’s hard to say, somehow, the words sticky and catching in his mouth. A quiet descends in the wake of his words, the low buzz of the tattoo gun driving him crazy. He wishes you’d say something, anything, but he doesn’t have the heart to look up and see if you’re looking at him with big, startled eyes.

“Oh,” you say eventually, softly.

And then—“It was quiet for me too. I missed coming by. Why didn’t you ask after me? Ellie could have gotten to me.”

Joel had considered it. He’d figured you’d had good reason to stay away. And he guesses you had, just not the ones he thought.

It hadn’t been about him, really.

“You’re real skittish,” he settles on telling you the truth. “Didn’t want to push you further than you’d already gone.”

He nods, wipes your skin gently with a damp paper towel. “I looked out for ya. Kept thinkin’ y’da come by.”

“Oh,” you say again and this time the word is laced with surprise. “I…didn’t know that. I looked for you too.”

Joel shrugs in what he hopes is an offhand manner. He cares more than he wants to admit, more than he can admit.

“It’s just because you missed having someone bring you coffee,” you tease gently when he doesn’t respond.

He snorts and the lingering tension dissolves. “Don’t do that again,” he says, still not looking up at you. “Coffee or not.”

Joel shrugs on a dark red flannel before he shuffles you out the shop’s front door.

The air is chilly but dry, and it burns the inside of your nose. In truth, the temperature is mild, not worthy of shivers or flannels, but compared to the unending heat of summer it's practically cold outside.

The skin of your forearm feels warm beneath your opposite hand clutched over the fresh ink, safely and carefully wrapped. You can’t stop looking at your now completed tattoo, still smiling to yourself about the way Joel seemed irritated that you not only paid him for his work but tipped him too. You told him to think of it as repayment for the tacos and lemonade but that had only made him frown harder.

“You don’t have to walk me home,” you say, even though the last thing in the world you want is for him to let you go on alone.

“Sure I do,” he says, turning away from the door.

Arguing wouldn’t change his mind, and you don’t really want to anyway.

Joel urges you down the sidewalk, his gait jilted and slow.

There’s an inch of space between you as you walk down the lamplit street. The horizon is a haze of orange, casting the wide open sky in shades of lavender and periwinkle as it darkens and evening sets in. You can feel the heat of Joel’s body, so close by.

It’s nothing compared to his hand over yours, the warmth and all consuming size of it. You don’t know if you’ll ever have cause to feel his hand again, now that he was done tattooing you.

Joel shifts so his hand hovers at your lower back, guiding you lightly. The gesture makes your skin prickle pleasantly, itchy with heat and that strange want that never went away. You wish he’d put his hand against your spine like he had when he’d gotten you tacos, so you could lean back into it, so you could feel the pressure of his hand.

He doesn't. Joel walks you along the street quietly, his hand painfully close to you and yet not close enough.

That alone makes you ache.

You don’t expect him to say anything as you walk along, mainly because you’re the one that’s always nervously chattering at him, half waiting to be snapped at. He tells you about Sarah’s course load for the upcoming fall semester and how Ellie’s nearly done at her apprenticeship. He talks quickly, like he’s trying to catch you up on a month worth of things you’d missed, like it mattered to him that you had.

He tells you about the clients he’d tattooed, and the designs he’s still working on. He wavers when he mentions the designs and you hope maybe he’ll ask you to look at some of them but he quickly moves on.

When you get close to your apartment he abruptly goes quiet and pulls his hand away from your back. Just like the last time he hovers just outside the halo of the security light over the door.

You struggle with the door like you always do until it finally pops open with a groan. This time when you hover in the doorway, you pluck up the courage to ask what you hadn’t been able to the last time.

“Would you like to come up for some coffee?”

“Late for that, ain’t it?”

Your heart sinks, breaks somewhere along your ribs. “Guess so,” you admit, gripping the edge of the door. “Thanks for walking with me, I’ll, uh—”

“But I would like that,” he cuts you off. It's so unlike him that you just stare for a moment. “If you’re offerin’, that is.”

You smile. “I am.”

He gestures you forward, reaching out to catch the door in his hand.

You slide into the dark entryway and Joel bolts the door shut behind you before following you up the stairs to the landing where you unlock your apartment door without so much struggle. “I can look at that other door,” he offers again, sounding sheepish this time, like he’s sorry for bothering you about it again.

“I’d like that,” you say, and let him in ahead of you.

You flip on the lights as you move past him to the kitchen, tiny and cluttered and too warm. You sweep your mail off the breakfast table and point Joel into one of the chairs when he starts to shrug out of the flannel.

Both chairs have jackets hanging from the back but he just drapes his over what’s already there. His shoulders strain at the material of his shirt, bunching around his biceps and under his arms, across the incredibly broad plains of his chest.

You yank your eyes away from him when you start to follow the vein in his arm, thinking you’d like to know what his skin tasted like there.

Heat floods your chest at the thought. It’s unlike you, makes you feel shaky in a good way. It’s been years since you’ve thought that about someone, and try as you might you can’t remember if you’d ever looked at your ex and thought something like that.

You wonder what that bit of skin feels like, how soft and firm the inside of his bicep must be.

He looks comfortable and domestic in the warm glow of your overhead kitchen light when he sits down.

You can’t look at him for too long without something in your pulse jumping, a raw little needy nerve that demanded attention. You want him to touch you again, to reach out and hold your hand so delicately in his.

Instead of dwelling on that thought, you turn to your coffee pot, deftly fixing it to brew before you turn to rummage through your fridge. “I have something stronger, if you want it. I don’t like drinking after getting a tattoo.”

“You shouldn’t,” he advises. “Ain’t good for healin’. You should eat somethin’, though.”

“I figured you’d have something to say about that,” you roll your eyes and turn to put the blackberry pie in your hands onto the table. “I won’t complain this time as long as you have some with me.”

He stares up at you, an odd look in his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it was affectionate. “All right, dear.”

Dear. That’s new. It makes you feel light, like bubbles are popping in your veins.

You nod at him, warmth spreading beneath your skin, before pointing to the pie. “From Flu’s. You been to Flu’s? She has the best pie. It’s blackberry.”

“Sure, me and the girls have been a few times. Coffee’s good there. Blackberry’s one of my favorites,” he rumbles, and you can’t tell if he’s lying or not. You have a feeling that even if Joel hated pie and was allergic to blackberries, you’d never hear a word about it.

Joel doesn’t look away from you. His gaze slowly shifts from your eyes, to your hand planted on your hip. He slowly reaches out and curls his hand around your wrist. The slow way he does it stills your heart and all the worries shelved inside it. All the room he gives you, to be skittish, as he called it, and afraid, makes your throat go tight and hot. He handles it like it’s not something to fix, just something to accommodate, figure out with you. “Thank you, sweetheart. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get the coffee?”

“It’s my house,” you gripe softly, no bite behind your words. His skin is fever hot against yours, like an ember pressed against your jumping pulse.

But just like the last time he tattooed you and insisted on something to eat, he scoffs at you. His thumb slides across the inside of your wrist. “And you were the one that lost blood today. Sit, and tell me where your mugs are.”

You slowly sit across from him, your wrist still in his hand. “Good,” he releases you and stands. The little bit of praise goes straight to your belly, just like it had at the shop. It settles warm inside you, a good kind of tense. “Cups?”

You point him to the correct cabinet, exhaustion overcoming you all at once now that you’ve sat down. You watch him pour the coffee, offer to get you cream or sugar even though he doesn’t know where those are either. You have to point him to where the plates, and then the cutlery, are kept.

It's an odd little hope that flits through your mind, one that wishes for a day when he would be familiar enough with your things that he wouldn’t need to ask.

He returns to the table and cuts two even slices of pie and plates them before returning to his chair.

You’re just about to dig your fork into the pie when his hand curls around yours again. He isn’t looking at you when you glance up, glad that he still wants anything to do with you, that he so carefully touches you, gives you the thing you crave and fear and are too afraid to ask for.

“Don’t do that again.” He squeezes your wrist gently, voice that quiet, low drawl, an echo of what he’d said earlier.

It’s the same thing he’d said at the shop and you don’t have to ask what he means. You wouldn’t anyway, not when the vulnerability in his voice seems to cost him.

He’s not sure how it happens, how he spends all night at your kitchen table with your trembling pulse beneath his hand.

He’s too old to be doing this type of shit.

He’s got an ache in his neck now that’s going to get him teased by just about everyone. His girls and Tommy already get on him about being a crotchety old man—between the glasses he refuses to wear besides anytime he needs to read something small and the landline phone and his attitude generally.

Yeah, his neck and back issues are going to be next on the docket.

But he can’t really bring himself to care, not when he’s gotten to sit with you through the night and listen to your voice, not when your hand is still securely within his and you haven’t given a single indication you’d like him to let go, not when your calves are crossed with his beneath the table.

He lets himself imagine it better, imagine it more.

You curled in his lap, head on his shoulder, fingers tangled up in the fabric of his shirt or knotted into his hair. In this stupid little dream of his, you’ve just woken up instead of staying awake through the night. You say good morning and he pours you coffee.

He thinks, too, of pressing you back into the table, finding what lay hidden on your skin. He’d go to his knees for you, he’d worship at your feet, if you asked him to.

He wants it so bad he can taste it, but he settles for what he has here with you, the limit you’ve guided him to, hands tangled and legs crossed.

The sun dawns a white gold through the sheer curtains over your kitchen windows. You’d never pulled the heavier drapes closed and the street light had cast your face in shadow when you flipped out the harsh overhead light.

You watch the sunrise, and Joel watches honeyed light shift over your face.

He likes your little apartment. It’s cluttered and homey and reminds him of his parent’s kitchen when he’d been growing up. You have art and photos stuck to every inch of bare wall. The blanket over the back of your couch and the shaw over one of the chairs is crocheted. There’s evidence of all kinds of little projects scattered around your apartment.

Even the little breakfast table he sits at is hand painted.

“You never said you were an artist,” he’d said early on in the night.

“I’m not,” you’d ducked your head and deflected. “Not like you at least. It’s not like I’m any good.”

You’re plenty good. “Right,” he agreed. “Not like me. It's better than mine. You could do your own sketchin’ for a tattoo.”

Even though you’d been embarrassed he could tell you were delighted he thought so.

Now you turn your face toward him in the comfortable silence that’s descended, half your features in shadow. You smile and your teeth shine. “Good thing today’s a Sunday, right? You don’t have to worry after rushing to open the studio.”

You tug your hand back from his and stand, gathering both mugs before you cross your tiny kitchen to set about starting a new pot of coffee.

He watches you, absently stacking the plates crusted with blackberry filling.

Your shirt rides up a little when you reach for the coffee canister, a thin strip of skin showing between your rumpled shirt and your jeans. He’s reminded again of all the places he wants to touch you, to touch the soft curves of your body, trace that line of skin and seek out each of your hidden tattoos.

Not on your hip, you’d said.

So where? Where hasn’t he seen?

The velvet of your thighs, the silken skin of your ribs and back, between your breasts, your sternum.

The kitchen fills slowly with light, orange and red on the far wall, undulating lines of light slicing apart the worn wooden floor. He picks apart the place with his eyes while your back is turned—the paintings and photos you don’t think anything of, the postcards stuck to the fridge, the hand painted, hand knitted-ness of everything, the mismatched mugs and glasses, chipped at the corners, the tiny dish of kibble on the floor—

“You got a cat?” He figures he would have seen a dog by now.

You turn and follow his eyes before you smile. “Sometimes. He comes and goes whenever he likes. He’s not really mine.”

“How’s that?”

“How’s what?”

“That he comes and goes?” Joel stands, meanders a couple steps toward you, trying to discreetly stretch out the throbbing nerve in his back.

“I leave the window cracked in my bedroom.”

And he hates that, just like he hates the thought of you leaving your door unlocked and he just like he hates the thought of you struggling with the door in the middle of the night when he hasn’t walked you home. “Shouldn’t be doin’ things like that.”

“Knew you wouldn’t like it,” you smile, repeating your earlier sentiment and he has a feeling it’s going to become a common refrain. “He’s probably sleeping just now.”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ll drive me crazy.”

“This town is the safest place I’ve ever been.”

“Hate to see where you’ve been before.”

You laugh and ask him if he wants to get breakfast when—

“Shit,” he slides a hand over his face. “I told my girls we’d have breakfast. Start of the school year tradition, Sarah's first day back is Monday. I gotta drive down to Austin.”

“It’s still early,” you reassure him without turning, but he can see the way your cheek curves with a smile he can’t see. “I’ll put your coffee in a thermos to go.”

Joel takes the last few steps toward you and leans against the counter. Your breath hitches and your eyes flick up to his, big and shining bright as they always are. A slash of sun falls over them, lighting up your irises. The coffee pot bubbles and hisses, percolating slowly and you don’t look away.

Your lips part softly and your breath fans across his chin. “Don’t gotta leave this minute. I got some time,” he says, watching those doe eyes of yours flick across his face, to the corner of his mouth.

You move a bit closer, your foot slotting between his, and he feels like you’ve finally drifted close enough. Finally come close enough to feel safe, to rest.

You lean into him first, eyes fluttering closed, shoulders relaxing against the line of his body. Joel presses one arm around you, slides his fingers along the column of your spine, and for a moment you stiffen in the cage of his arms.

“You’re all right,” he murmurs and loosens his hold a fraction, but your body suddenly goes lax against him. Your nose slots against his throat, fingers curling gently into his t-shirt. You release a long, slow breath against his throat. “You’re okay.”

He isn’t sure what he’s trying to reassure you of, but it doesn’t much matter because you seem to know, to get his meaning.

“I know I am,” you sigh.

He can feel you breathing, the rise and fall of your lungs, the press of your breasts against his chest. You’re soft in his arms. “Good,” he says, nose against your temple as he slides his hand to the back of your neck, keeping you pressed there. “Good girl.” He feels you shiver and holds you closer, tighter than should be possible.

Your hand is hot when it slips beneath his shirt, pressed against his lower back for the briefest moment before it disappears and roots down into his shirt again, your breath shaky.

When he rubs the tense muscle of your neck you make a noise that forces him to stifle a groan and pull back just slightly.

“You okay?” He asks, ignoring the fire burning low in his belly, trying to temper himself.

Your eyes are damp, the corners wet. “Sorry, sorry. Yeah, I’m—”

He cups your cheek, tilts your face up, sweeps his thumb over your cheek.

“I’m just a fucking mess, Joel. I always have been. For a long time, I have been. And I don’t know why.”

“Why what?” His eyes are on your mouth, then your eyes, the image of the divot in the bottom of your lip lingering in his mind. “Sweetheart?”

The big, scared, doe-eyed look you send him breaks his heart. “Why it’s so hard. To touch people and be touched.”

“You’re doin’ okay,” he strokes your cheek again, slides his other hand to your hip. “Seems to me anyway.”

“For now. I’m work. I always have been. And I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

He thinks of your pretty little apartment decorated with your own arts and crafts that you dismiss with a wave of your hand, the way you think you bother him, your insistence of paying him back for his time. You make yourself small, and he thinks you have more scars and worries from the past than you realize.

“Trouble? You’re the least troublesome person I know,” he says. “My idiot brother, Tommy, now he’s trouble. Still gotta bail him outta trouble sometimes. You? Nothin’ about you is trouble.” You lean into his hand, watching him closely.

He can’t believe his silent extended hand, his patient hand, has been rewarded with this. “And I don’t mind hard work.”

You search his eyes for a long time, not blinking, not looking away, as you reach up and hook one hand around his wrist. He can see you trying to convince yourself to believe him. You swallow and place your trust in him again, if not necessarily your belief. “Okay.”

“All right. You wanna get breakfast with me and my girls? I’ve been wantin’ you to meet Sarah.”

“She won’t mind?” you ask, gently pulling yourself out of his hands, tugging his hand away from your face.

He lets you go, recognizes the trapped, pained, fearful wanting on your face. You need space. “They think I don’t know it’s more for me than them. They stopping carin’ about it sometime in middle school. Hell, Ellie ain’t even in school anymore. I’m holdin’ on to them bein’ kids, I guess.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He stands aside and lets you fix the coffees. He pulls his flannel off the back of your chair when he passes it on the way out and drapes it around your shoulders.

When you’re in his truck, fiddling with his radio, he catches you clutching it closer, your nose dipped into the collar.

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #honeyed fic

2K notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs