#a smidge more salt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

softlyspector · 11 months

Text

Catching

Summary: None of your partners had ever been able to make you come before. Joel changed that.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~1.9k

Warnings: smut from start to finish, but make it so poetic (piv, fingering, f receiving oral, dirty talk), Joel is a little bit of a menace and also a lot pussy drunk, negative self thought and doubt, a smidge of anxiety, talk of sex with previous partners being painful/uncomfortable

A/N: This was the result of another brain worm that would not leave me aloneeeeeee. Anyway, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy and I would love to know what you think!

Joel made you come the first time you slept with him.

It’s not that you thought he wasn’t capable of it. No, you were sure he was more than capable. Joel was nothing like your previous partners.

But something about it still surprised you.

His care surprised you. His careful attention surprised you. It itched beneath your skin and wormed into your heart. There was space among your bones, hollow places left empty that he managed to nest down into.

He touched you, touched you, touched you—

Joel wound you up expertly. Like he knew everything about you already.

Or, maybe he listened.

You soaked the sheets long before his fingers or tongue touched your cunt.

And then, he made you come.

You guessed maybe it was a little bit of a surprise then, but not because you thought he couldn't. Just because no one had ever tried to before, just because no one had ever managed to before.

You’d never come with a partner. And when Joel made you come, with his mouth and then his fingers and then his cock, again and again and again, it was more than a little overwhelming.

It made you cry in the intervals between hitched breaths and raw lips.

The spaces between your ribs seemed to close, the carefully built hollow parts of you that Joel had burrowed into crushed and compacted into something much more solid. The feeling seared through your chest.

It was different with someone else. Coming was different with someone else. It felt so much better with someone else.

You couldn’t say if it was always like that, because Joel was the only one that had ever really even attempted it.

Maybe it was just Joel that did you in, that untied your knots and broke apart your insides to find out what made you tick. Like a tinkerer deep inside beloved clockwork.

You expected what you’d come to know, the unimpressive and very brief—and sometimes painful because you were fucking dry—intrusion of fingers, before he stuck his dick in you for less than five minutes. Groaned about how good you felt, how tight, before rolling away.

Embarrassing, but true to almost every experience you’d had.

But Joel.

Joel felt how wet you were and groaned, a deep and pained sound.

Joel asked you, begged you, to let him touch you.

Joel wanted to put his head between your legs. He was hungry for you, wanted to live there, nestled between your thighs, nose buried in the curls of your sex. His tongue went inside you and he groaned, deep and guttural when he did and you clenched around him, back arched off the bed.

His hands held your legs apart. He thumbed gentle circles into your skin, divoted fingerprints into the malleable, soft flesh of your thighs.

His hands were warm but all you could think about was a picture you’d seen once, of a statue—a man’s veined hand on the marble thigh of a woman, so lifelike it felt intimate to gaze at. The stone man gazed up at the stone woman, benevolence and reverence in his gaze.

Joel’s hand looked like that on your skin, like artful, dimpled flesh beneath a solid hand.

Pussy drunk. He was drunk on you, lapping at you like you were the last goddess left on a scorched earth, brow furrowed, lips plump and swollen, coated with you.

Maybe it wasn’t different with a partner, maybe it was just different with Joel.

He was loud in the pleasure it gave him to be graced with the ocean of your body. He moaned into you, like the salt of you was not like every other person’s taste. He mumbled praises. He said you tasted good, he said you were doing so good my sweet girl, so good, honey, this all for me?

Your body gave endlessly to him, and Joel took it all. Greedy. Hoarding you.

The sound of how wet you were made the tightened, collapsed slats of your ribs catch flame. The feeling burned through your chest, sparked his name like tinder from your mouth.

Something new sprouted up in the razed ashes of it though, a forest that demanded attention and care, a need that seared you from the inside out. And Joel was more than happy to help it grow. He was more than happy to care for you. He groaned when you came, unaware that someone else giving you an orgasm was an entirely new experience.

That just that alone was almost too much.

You shook.

Joel only spread you wider, hooked your leg over his shoulder, pressed your other leg back flat with firm fingers, and kept going until another orgasm shattered through you, until you gushed over his mouth.

He seemed to like the flood of you, and so the shame that threatens to sink clawed talons into you didn’t last.

When he looked up, his eyes were dark, the color of a starless night, fathomless, bottomless wells, beckoning you to him like a siren spell. You would take the willing first step into those waters, into that abyss. Happily. You would happily do it.

He looked sated, like that was enough. Like he would never hunger again. Like your essence dripping from the soft grays of his facial hair was enough. Like you alone were enough.

So, after all of it—

When he took you apart on his fingers, one at a time until you were stretched wide around three, and he muttered under his breath about makin’ sure you’re ready for me darlin’ —he made you come again.

After that, he made you come when he—

Pushed into you so nice and slow, drawling low and thick about how you can take it, honey, doin’ so good sweet girl, you look so good gettin’ split open on my cock. And then he made you come again and again and again—

When the pleasure finally turned you boneless and weak and you begged—you begged and begged and begged for him to come too. He promised he would, he would give you what you want, sweetheart. I know. You did so good. Been so good for me.

Joel pulled out of you and came on your belly.

You swept your fingers through it while he groaned above you, spreading it over your skin until his hand snatched at your wrist and pulled your hand away so he could lick your fingers clean and settle you into his arms, stickiness be damned. The state of the sheets be damned.

He held you. He didn’t roll away, he didn’t fall asleep.

It was only then, that the tears came sudden and fast. They welled up and spilled over. They trailed down your cheeks before you could stop them, rolling onto the beating heart of the man next to you, siphoning down onto the little watered forest of his own soul, bruised and bright.

“What’s wrong?” He was cradling your face, swiping at your cheeks. Worry etched into lined skin. Worried, he was so worried. “Was I too much? Did I hurt you?”

No, not hurt.

You shook your head, and your voice was pathetic when it tripped over your tongue on its way out of your mouth.

“I’m overwhelmed,” you managed, and his eyes darkened, clearly reading the tone of your voice wrong, reading the word you chose to describe the full, choking feeling in your chest wrong. “In a good way,” you hurried to explain. “No one has ever made me come before,” you admitted against your better judgment.

It was possible for him, then, to realize that maybe there was something wrong with you, afterall.

Joel paused.

His brow furrowed. “You mean that many times—”

No one said he was a man above a little bragging. “No,” you laughed wetly, with shame. With heat tearing a hole in your lungs. The fire his name started still burning. “At all.”

“Serious?” You couldn’t decide on his tone.

“So very,” you breathed. “They all just kinda stuck it in.”

He frowned. “Really?”

“Well,” you admitted, “Sometimes their fingers first. A little.”

“That’s what’s got you cryin’?” He attempted teasing you. “I made you come too many times?” His voice was a chuckle in your ear, like the hum of a beehive, like the brush of a breeze through crisp, decaying leaves.

You wrinkled your nose and buried your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and still crying, still overwhelmed, like you couldn’t quite catch your breath. You couldn’t fault him for laughing though. It was ridiculous.

Joel cupped the side of your face, lifted your head. “Hey,” he said. He wasn’t laughing anymore, his expression sombered. “Did they hurt you?”

You squirmed and shrugged. “Not really. I couldn’t…maybe I should have been better at saying what I wanted. But they always seemed to just want it to be…over with.” The admission felt heavy in your chest, shameful somehow. It wasn’t like you’d told Joel what you wanted either.

“If they were any good to ya,” he tipped his head closer to yours. “They woulda known and done somethin’ about it.” His eyes flicked over you. “They never ate this pretty pussy?”

Your eyelids fluttered as Joel dragged his knuckles down your side. “No.”

“Their fuckin’ loss,” he growled. “I can’t wait to put my mouth back on you. All of it, sweetheart, is their loss.”

You shivered, tiny tears still slipping down your cheek. “You made me feel so good, Joel,” you hummed, the small compliment all you could manage.

He turned, pressed you back into the sheets, his nose dipping along your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. “And your pussy is so easy to make come, baby. I mean that in an admirin’ way. If they didn’t make you come, they weren’t tryin’ to at all.”

“J-Joel,” you stammered as his hands traversed your body again. “I’m too—I can’t again.”

He rolled his hips slowly against yours. His cock was still soft.

But he looked so pretty above you. The bulge of muscle in his biceps rippled, his mouth teased along your throat. “Why not?” He asked. “I got a lot of makin’ up to do.”

The familiar thrill and roll of anticipation shivered up your spine. His chest brushes yours. “You’re s’damn sensitive, honey. I gotta know all the ways I can make you come.”

“Too sensitive,” you remarked. “Please, baby,” you cupped his face in your hands, pulled him away from where he was nosing slowly lower, to your chest, your pebbled nipples. “I promise to let you find out. But later.”

Truth be told, you were sore. You ached, in all the ways a person could. You needed to recover from him, just a little.

He stared at you, relenting, somehow sensing that. “Alright, honey,” he agreed softly, kissing you instead. “Did y’keep count?”

Heat flooded your chest, chased the lingering dregs of whatever sharp things other people had left lodged in your chest away. There was only Joel now. There was only room for Joel. “No.”

He tsked, his voice low. “Hm. We’ll have to start over then.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller

2K notes · View notes

mokulule · 7 months

Text

A Pinch of Salt - snippet 2

Okay, so I have been reminded by @clockwayswrites that I could post some things instead of just hoarding them like the dragon in my icon. So here ya go. Maybe I'll even get around to updating Catnip in the coming days who knows. Previous

Fuck, Danny cursed internally as he struggled to keep up with the long-legged stride of Trenchcoat. Whatever had happened to that ghost to make it into something like that was not good, he needed to do something! But as long as Trenchcoat was here he couldn’t exactly do as he usually would: transform and punch it. The man had seemed very ready to do something to Danny and the unspeakable soul situation going on had Danny extremely leery of finding out what that something was.

At least getting eaten seemed unlikely from the man’s earlier horrified response.

So running.

They went down a hallway, up a staircase, down another hallway and into a would have been shop. They stopped for a moment in the square space catching their breath. Trenchcoat let go of him to go peek back around the corner. Finally Trenchcoat’s shoulders relaxed.

“We lost it for now.” Actually it was more like the ghost lost interest in them; as they’d gotten further and further away from the central plaza of the mall the ghost had stopped following them. Not that Danny was going to tell Trenchcoat that. He had no idea how he’d explain it in a way that didn’t make him extremely suspicious. His hair was dripping salty water making it hard to forget he’d already been assaulted twice - he did not wanna know what else the man stored up his sleeves.

Preferably, somehow he’d get Trenchcoat to leave.

The moment of inattention cost him as he was grabbed once again by Trenchcoat and towed through the would-maybe-someday be a store to a door in the back. This led to a store room and a door to the outside. It was unlocked it turned out and Danny realized this was probably how the man had gotten in.

“Alright, kiddo, time to leave.”

Trenchcoat opened the door and pushed at Danny’s back.

“No way!” Danny exclaimed digging his heels in.

“Yes way,” Trenchcoat mocked, “go home kid, I’m a professional.”

   There was no way Danny was leaving, not at this point. Ghosts were his area of expertise - or well, Danny couldn’t really claim to be an expert, but they were his responsibility at least! He had a unique skillset and no matter what Trenchcoat claimed, he did not look any sort of professional. He made his opinion of his claim known by giving the man his most dubious look.  -  John hated teenagers and this teenager in particular.

He didn’t know what it was about teenagers, but they were just merciless in their judgment in a way adults were probably usually too polite to be. In any case that little up and down there, with the slightly raised eyebrow made him feel like he’d worn a clown costume to an accounting job.

“Bloody Hell, will you just leave before I decide to feed you to the specter!”

The boy crossed his arms, standing his ground. “You can try.”

John dragged a hand down his face, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

“What are you even doing here?” “I’m here for the ghost.” Plain, even, said with not a smidge of hesitation. “You’re here for the-“ John cut himself off, hands opening and closing, inwardly cursing children and their stupid dares. “And what pray tell where ya gonna do when you found the ghost?”“I figured I’d try talking to them.”“You what?!” John spluttered. He’d expected him to say he hadn’t expected to find a ghost, there went his theory of this being a dare.

“There is no talking to that!” He pointed vaguely in the direction they’d lost the spectral storm. “Of all the sodden-“

“Them.”

John’s thoughts screeched to a halt. “What?” “Them. They are a them, not an it or a that.”

John opened and closed his mouth. Was he really getting a lecture on pronouns?

“It is a spectral storm. Whatever poor spirit it used to be, is not there anymore. There’s no mind there, it’s pure emotion out of control. There’s no way back from that.”

The boy scowled at him, clearly disagreeing. It didn’t matter.  John pointed at the door.

“Leave.” “No.” They stared at each other neither giving an inch.

Urgh, this had to be why Batman was so grumpy all the time. John could not do this. He threw up his hands and turned around. He worked around things, not through them and here he was engaging in the folly of arguing with a bloody teenager.

“Suit yourself.”

Gods, he needed a smoke. He’d hardly finished the thought before he was pulling the package of smokes out of its pocket with practiced ease. He was lighting the smoke by the time he noticed the unimpressed look he was getting. Satisfied, he took a deep drag and slowly breathed out the smoke. The kid grimaced and John smirked.

“Those are gonna kill you.” “As opposed to the rest of my lifestyle?” He returned with a nod in the direction of the Storm that probably couldn’t kill him, but the kid didn’t know that. Satisfied at the way the kid’s nose scrunched, he walked back the way they came from.

“And what are you supposed to be?” Kid asked falling in step with him, and John just knew he was being annoying on purpose with that tone of voice. He was not gonna bite. He was an adult. He kept his gaze straight ahead as the kid started guessing.

“Excorcist? Ghostbusters wannabe?”  There was a pause, then a flash of a sly smirk John only caught because he’d stopped to look down the hallway.

“Ectologist?” The suggestion hit John like a metaphysical sledgehammer and he recoiled in disgust.

“Fuck. No.” He shuddered an extra time as if that would remove the oily feeling. “I’m an occult detective. You happy now? Shit kid, you don’t pull your punches do you?”

“So what’s the plan, Trenchcoat?”

“Trenchcoat,” John mouthed to himself before shaking his head. “The plan is you keep out of the way and I deal with the raging ghostie.”

“Yeah, no, you’re gonna do better than that. This is not my first time dealing with a ghost. But I don’t know what occult detectives do.”

John pondered the statement about this not being the first time he’d dealt with a ghost, and maybe there was something to the death magics he gave off after all. He groaned internally, why was he doing this?

“Standard practice, kid. Contain and banish.” He held up first one finger then two.

Danny rolled his eyes. It didn’t sound too different from his approach to ghosts, he caught them and sent them back to the ghost zone, but Mr Occult Detective didn’t exactly carry around a Fenton thermos.

“And how do you contain? No,” he offset the clearly sarcastic response. “I mean what are your requirements?”

Trenchcoat rolled his eyes, but humored him.

“I need a large enough open space and a small moment of preparation, then just gotta lure it in and do a binding spell.”

Danny narrowed his eyes and looked towards where he felt the raging storm of ghost energy. “Like the plaza.”

“Ideally yes.”

“So you need a distraction.” Danny started walking. A hand fell on his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going? If you’re so insistent to stay, you’re not leaving my sight.”

Danny shrugged off the hand and turned around.

“The plaza is the center of the their power. You need someone to lure them away.” Danny watched the emotions flash across the man’s face with a small bit of amusement. He really didn’t want Danny involved if he could help it. Finally the man’s face settled on exasperation.

“I will figure something out.”

Danny smiled, taking a step backwards.

“No, you will give me a ten minutes headstart to lure our ghost friend far enough away they won’t immediately notice your stench so close to the heart of their haunt.”

As if sensing his intentions Trenchcoat made another grab for him which he dodged. And then he ran. He was sure it was only the threat of the ghost that prevented the man from yelling after him.

He just hoped he’d listened, because Danny was about to go piss off an already raging spirit. Trenchcoat better be ready.

Fun times.

#A pinch of salt #Salt in the bones #Danny and Constantine #dysfunctional found family ftw

655 notes · View notes

slutforln4 · 9 months

Text

libertine — joel miller.

synopsis. you've been having sexual fantasies about the substitute professor at your college. when the opportunity to get a better mark on a shitty essay you wrote arises, you take it. quite literally take it.

pairing. professor!joel x student!reader/fem!reader

warnings. smut, a smidge of fluff at the end, masturbation in a public bathroom, joel's got a southern accent that i tried to make obvious in the fic (if it's crappy, 'm sorry), oral (m receiving), unprotected piv, inexperienced and virgin reader, age gap (reader is in their early 20s and joel's in his late 40s), dom/sub dynamics praise kink, dirty talk. idk what else there is...

goes without saying but this is 18+, MDNI. i'm not responsible for what typa media you consume, but beware for your own good.

word count. 2.6k

author's note. i haven't written smut before so here's my shot at the self-indulgent professor!joel hc that i have... hope you enjoy ❤️ part two in the makings if this does well!!

Classic literature didn't come easy to you, but fucking your professor did.

It started off as every normal day at college did— you flow through your entire schedule, some free time here and there, during which you manage to take a nap or catch up on missing assignments, and at the end of almost every day, you were met with the class you hated, but also loved, the most… Classic literature.

The class itself is fairly easy. All you had to do was read some novels, write essays based on topics from said novels and also write a thorough analysis of it. Easy stuff. But you struggled with the essay writing, it just wasn't your thing.

However, you can't say that you didn't enjoy the class. The most interesting part of it being that substitute professor, Mr. Miller, that just transferred in. Him and that Texan accent of his, those deep, brown eyes, that salt-and-pepper hair trailing down his jaw, those luscious thighs and whatever's hiding behind the zipper of his jeans… You can't stop thinking about it.

It’s been occupying your mind for however long he's been working at your college, and you can't help but have those thoughts when it comes to him. From the way he looks, down to the way he talks about love, he’s attractive inside and out. The way he talks about women, though, was the thing that caught your attention the most. He speaks so highly of them that it almost seems like he worships them, which makes you want to fuck him all the more.

The day you decided to put your mind to rest and have your body do the work, Mr. Miller had put up another assignment.

You dreadfully open up your email at the beginning of class, and groan when the body of it reads “Essay about the importance of expressing love in current youth based on your analysis of Romeo and Juliet due next week Thursday, midnight.”

Turning off your phone, you assert your attention back to your professor. He stood there, in his suit and all, looking more delicious than ever as he reminded your class to check their emails. The stern tone in his voice made your insides flutter, and the way he held onto his waist… God, you can't help but rub your thighs together to hide the throbbing between your legs, already feeling the wetness in your panties.

“Alright, pull out ya laptops and open up that website I told y’all about,” Mr. Miller says, and you’re the first one to obey his order. He gives you a look and when your eyes lock with his, he smiles at you. “As I already mentioned in the emails, we’ll be readin’ and analysin’ Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.”

The more he spoke, the less you could pay attention. Your eyes travelled all over his face, his chest, down to his crotch. Even without a hard-on, there was an imprint in his dress pants. Mr. Miller was the type to speak with his hands, resulting in you ogling at the way his fingers move in the air.

Mr. Miller begins talking about how love is portrayed in the tragedy, his tone changing with each point he makes. You stare at his lips, silently wishing they were on your body, somewhere. Anywhere would be fine as long as all his attention was on you. On all the parts that long for his touch.

You try your best to focus on what he’s saying, writing down what you need to remember. Your thighs are clenching together again when Mr.Miller scratches the back of his head, his bicep visible through the sleeve of his jacket. That’s about as much as you can take.

You hesitantly get up from your seat, mumbling a quiet “excuse me” as you walk out through the doors. It must've looked weird, since you ran out the door in such a rush, but you didn't care. Your main concern was finding a bathroom before all the thoughts about your professor fucking you into oblivion could make you cum on the spot.

You hurry past all the staff that are scattered across the halls and barge into the women’s bathroom. It's quiet and you’re sure you're alone, but you still check. “Hello?” No response. You hurry yourself into a stall and lock the door.

You don't even lift the toilet seat when you sit down on it, your skirt and panties on the floor. You spread your legs and put your fingers into a V shape, spreading your lips open. Using your other hand, you gather some of the arousal that’s been leaking out of you for the past twenty minutes and use it to coat your clit as your finger slowly rubs circles on it.

"That’s it,” you can almost hear Mr. Miller talking in your ear. “That’s my girl.”

“Fuck,” you mumble to yourself, feeling yourself getting more horny with the flood of thoughts that won't stop. Your finger rubs circles on your clit, increasing the pressure from time to time. Subconsciously, your hand unbuttons the shirt you’re wearing to reveal your bare chest and begins twirling your hard nipple. You imagine it's his hands, that he’s the one pleasuring you. Your finger’s now working at a pace you can't keep up with, quietly moaning out your professors last name when you use the hand that was rubbing your clit to finger yourself.

One finger in and you’re already gasping at the image on the back of your eyelids. You’re imagining it's his fingers in you, his cock in his other hand as he jerks himself off. You put a second finger in and start thrusting it in and out, when the image changes to his hips clashing into yours as his dick hits spots your fingers could only dream of. Your hips jolt against your fingers at the image of his veiny cock so vividly throbbing in your imagination.

You bring your other hand down to your clit, rubbing the throbbing nub once again. “Fuck,” you whimper as you feel your climax nearing. Your fingers curl inside you, and you’re about to let go.

“Attagirl,” the voice in the back of your head says and that’s the last push for you to cum all over your own fingers, your juices leaking out onto the toilet seat. You continue rubbing your clit until your climax wears off.

When you’re back in the classroom, everyone's already left, only Mr. Miller’s sat at his desk, typing away. His eyes look up at you when you enter through the door. “Oh, hey. I kept your stuff safe, since ya left in such a rush.” A comforting smile decorates his face. He’s so considerate it makes your clit throb again.

“Uh, thank you, sir.” You mumble shyly, packing your stuff into your bag and getting ready to leave. Mr. Miller’s eyes are on you when you turn back towards him.

He clears his throat. “I also wanted to speak to ya ‘bout somethin’.”

“Oh,” you nod. “Alright, what is it?”

“Listen, sweetheart. Y’know the last essay I assigned you to write?” He asks, eyebrows raised in question. You bite your bottom lip as you think back on what the last assignment was. When you remember, you nod. “Alright, well… You didn't do too good on it.”

“I know,” you laugh awkwardly, trying to hide the shame you feel. “It wasn't my finest work.”

“Yeah.” He laughs with you in an attempt to ease the situation. “But, uh. You can rewrite it and I’ll raise your mark. Whaddya say?”

You think it over for a moment, before shaking your head. “I think I could…” You’re not sure where this confidence is coming from, but you’re suddenly approaching him. “Get my mark up another way…” Your eyes glance down at his crotch and you bite your lip. When Mr. Miller realises what you’re insinuating, he shakes his head, but his eyes say different.

“Honey, it goes against teacher-student policy, you know that.” He reminds you, but you’re already on your knees in front of him and under his desk, batting your long eyelashes at him to get your way. His bulge grows right in front of your face and you don't think anymore, you just do. Your fingers are unclasping his belt, unzipping his pants and pulling them down. “Sweetheart-” he gets cut off by his dick springing up after you pull his boxers down, precum already leaking out of it. “Fuck.”

You look at him, not sure of what to do. You’ve never sucked a dick before, and the one in front of you would surely end up somehow fucking up your throat. You contemplate just sitting down on it, riding it like you did to your pillow when you woke up from a wet dream about him. That is, until he speaks. “You gonna stare at it or suck it like you wanted to?”

The tone in his voice changed from formal and sweet to deep and dominant, and you’re wet again from just the sound of it. “I’ve never, uh… done this before.”

Mr. Miller nods his head towards you. “Put your lips on the tip,” you do as told, your lips wrapping around the tip of his cock. “Just like that,” he says, his voice wavering. “Now put it in your mouth,” you hesitate to do so, instead wrapping your fingers around the base of his large cock. “Don't be shy, you want your mark up, don't ya?”

You nod, slowly opening your mouth to put more of his cock in. When it hits the back of your throat, you gag a bit. “Breathe through your nose, babygirl.” You do as told and the gagging goes away. “Now, slowly bob your head up and down. Yeah, just- just like that, fuck.” You're bobbing your head up and down on his dick, your fingers working at the base of it. His hips buckle and his dick thrusts deeper in your throat. A moan rumbles in your throat and vibrates on Mr. Miller’s dick, and he has to refrain himself from shoving his whole dick down your throat.

“Fuck, just like that,” he moans. “Good girl.” The praise makes you that much more wet, and you moan against his dick again.

Suddenly, the door swings open and Mr. Miller sits up, looking at whoever entered his classroom. Your mouth doesn't leave his cock, you simply thrust it in your mouth harder, using your tongue to caress his shaft. “Good evening,” he greets the janitor who came in to clean the classroom. “I, uh, I still got some,” Mr. Miller balls his fingers into a fist as he holds back a moan, trying his best to focus on the conversation with your mouth still sucking him off. “I’m still workin’, gimme thirty more minutes.”

The door closes behind the janitor and Mr. Miller leans back against his chair, his eyes half-lidded and looking down at you. He feels his orgasm nearing when you begin pumping the base of his cock again, along with thrusting his dick into your mouth. “I’ll be cummin’ in your mouth if you don't pull away right now, sweetheart.”

Your mouth leaves his cock, but your fingers still jerk him off. A deep moan leaves his lips as a string of hot cum shoots out in loads onto your clothed chest and neck. You’re still pumping his dick when he motions for you to get up. You stand up from under his desk and he’s immediately pulling you closer to himself. You're sat on his lap, dick still hard and rubbing on your belly as his lips connect with yours. He can still taste himself in your mouth and he smirks at that.

His hands are on your knees, but with each kiss, they inch closer and closer to where you need him the most. When he reaches the wet spot on your panties, he grins against your mouth. “So ready for me, hm?”

You nod, whimpering at the soft contact of his finger to your clothed clit. “Yes, Mr. Miller, please-”

“Call me Joel,” he mumbles as his fingers wrap around the waistband of your panties and tug them off of you. He slowly grabs you by the waist and aligns his cock with your dripping cunt.

“Wait-” you pause kissing him when you feel the tip brushing up against your folds. “I haven't- Y’know…”

Joel smirks. “You a virgin, baby?” You nod, slowly. “I’ll take care of ya, I promise.” You feel his finger rub over your hole, gathering some of your slick to rub it on his dick.

His hands slowly lower your waist down, his cock slipping past your folds with ease and you gasp at the feeling of him filling you up. It’s everything you’ve been dreaming of. He’s so big that it feels like you’re being split open. “You okay?” He asks you with a kiss to your collarbone. You nod, your bottom lip between your teeth and hands tightly gripping onto his shoulders. “Good, ‘cause this ain't all of it yet,” he says, voice low and taunting, before lowering you all the way down. You whimper as you feel his cock brush against your cervix.

“Fuck,” you whisper, leaning up to kiss his lips as you adjust to the size of him. Joel just holds you there, not moving you until you’re ready. His fingers find your throbbing clit and start rubbing it, your lips still connected. “Mmh,” you moan, your hips jolting towards his fingers and moving his dick deeper inside of you.

You begin pushing yourself up and slipping back down, a string of moans leaving your lips. “Attagirl.”

You’re riding his cock, feeling each and every inch of him filling up your insides. You can feel every throb of his veins pulsing inside of you and you catch all his moans with your lips. His hands are gripping your hips, pulling you down with more force. The classroom is filled with sounds of skin clashing on skin. You’re moaning and whimpering, his cock threatening to tip you over the edge. “I’m… I-” you can't even speak.

“You what, baby?” He asks, his thumbs digging into your hips with the intensity of your thrusts. “You gonna cum for me? You gon’ be a good girl and cum all on my dick?” You can't manage to speak so you nod, tears spilling from your eyes as you feel your climax approaching.

He’s thrusting up at you, now, his climax approaching him again. You're a moaning and whimpering mess, begging him to make you cum with the broken words you’re mumbling. “Ple- Please… Fu-uck, Joel…”

“Let go for me,” he coaxes, his lips right by your ear. “I got you, pretty girl.”

With a loud moan, you’re cumming all over his dick and you feel his hot liquid fill up your insides with a couple more thrusts of his hips. Joel kisses you again. Like a starving man that hasn't eaten for days on end. He kisses you with passion, with more than just lust behind those eyes.

When you both pull away, he makes sure to clean you up. “You were so good for me, sweetheart.” He praises. “So good.”

You’re not sure what to say, so you just kiss him again. And again. And one more time. Until he’s kissing on your neck again, but he inevitably stops and leans into your ear. “I gotta get to work, baby.”

“Okay,” you say with a sigh. “Thanks for helping me with the essay,” your lips pull into a small smirk as you open the door to his classroom.

“All thanks to you.” He returns the same smile. “Couldn’t have finished it without you.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “You’re so unfunny,” and close the door behind yourself.

#joel miller #the last of us #pedro is daddy #joel x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #professor!joel #student!reader #pedro pascal fic #joel miller x you #praise

594 notes · View notes

cherrychilli · 3 months

Text

18+

Steve Harrington x AFAB reader, lots of shameless teasing by reader, slight exhibitionism, allusions to sex, teeniest tiniest smidge of perv! Steve

A/N: Inspired by the only scene of Cool Hand Luke I've seen. And that one short scene from Elvira: Mistress of the Dark. Just wanted to write something fun and a lil bit silly.

"C'mon sugar, chop chop - 's not gonna clean itself", he sing songs from the driver's seat of the BMW where he's been toying with the radio, scratchy static fading into a chorus of Scorpions' No one like you when he tunes into a station that suits his liking.

On a regular day a quip like that would have had you pinching one of his triceps, twisting the skin until he crumbled to his knees with a litany of pleas and apologies tumbling past his lips. But today was different because you both knew he was exempted from any retaliation. And boy, was he enjoying it.

Steve had been like this all morning, painfully smug, grin stretched Cheshire cat wide ever since you'd come over to make good on the card game you'd lost the night before.

It began as a casual game of poker over a few beers to make the lazy evening more interesting. You never played for much. The white chips were always worth 25 cents, the reds 50 cents and the greens were a dollar but he had you perking up when he suggested sweetening the pot that night.

"Oh yeah? what do you have in mind?", you'd asked this with subdued interest, munching down another mouthful of sea salt and vinegar chips, half expecting him to float the idea of strip poker as influenced by your viewing of The Wanderers earlier that night.

It wasn't unlike Steve to suggest something like that after he's had a few drinks and it wasn't unlike you to happily go along with whatever he's proposed after you've had a few drinks of your own. The two of you made quite a pair that way.

The last time it was skinny dipping down at Lovers Lake. A shared bottle of Gin bore the blame for the idea but by some miracle of intervention (or was it interruption?) Jim Hopper happened to be cruising by to put a stop to it before things could go any further. Nothing like the fuzz rolling up on you in your underwear to dampen the mood.

But last evening didn't take that kind of a turn and you didn't have to sit there cursing yourself for not having the foresight to wear sexier underwear for very long.

This time you laid blame on the beers and that one swig of sickeningly saccharine Pineapple Schnapps left over from a party the week before for impacting your judgement, agreeing to raise the stakes to include the winner getting to delegate their weekend chores to the loser.

Steve went all in, chips tossed into the middle of his mother's new and perfectly lacquered walnut table, too buzzed and wound up in the competitive tension in the room to worry about accidentally scuffing it.

You considered your cards for a few short seconds, poker face perfectly unreadable. A full house, Queens over Jacks sat burning hot in your hands, making you call, pushing your chips over into the pile with more care than Steve had shown his own.

For a moment, you thought you had it and he let you think as much, his pink lips drooping into a frown with his head bowed, hand carding through his hair to mimic defeat when you slid your cards over.

But the thrill of not having to spend half the day mowing your lawn and weeding the garden was extinguished after three glorious seconds. He placed his cards down quietly though when you read them, the impact felt more like a gavel coming down, sentencing you to a day of doing his bidding.

Four of a kind. Kings.

Shit.

The Schnapps and the beer picked that moment to start sparring in your belly, adding to the bitter flavor of defeat washing over your tongue like an oil spill.

And then came that smirk which hasn't left his lips since. "I'll see you in my driveway tomorrow bright and early, sunshine", he winked at you in that way that had you torn between wanting to flip his mother's stupid table and climbing over it to kiss her stupid smarmy son.

And now here you were, greeted by the same insufferable smirk as you trudged up to his driveway on a Saturday morning to wash his car, hangover thankfully averted and with a fresh outlook on the situation since sobering up. He doesn't know it yet but you're not as sore about the loss as you seem.

Strangely, you had Steve's porno collection to thank for that.

You figured him to be kind of guy who preferred a dirty VHS over the classic skin mag especially now that he had an employee discount to abuse but a few months ago you'd found out that you'd guessed wrong.

You hadn't let on about the time you went looking to borrow a pair of spare socks one nippy evening from one of his drawers and found a busty, definitely not a licensed nurse despite the uniform, smoldering back at you instead.

Unearthing the magazine from beneath the pile of tube socks it'd been partially shoved under, you quietly acquainted yourself with the ladies of Genesis Magazine's Girls/Girls Fall 1987 issue. Recalling one page that had been dog eared, you learned the nurse had friends who liked to get naked and soaked when it came time to hose down their cherry red Chevy Camaro.

Suddenly, having you out in the sweltering heat, working up a sweat and scrubbing down his beamer while he watched didn't seem like innocent happenstance anymore. In fact the whole thing made you feel a little inspired.

So you thought to yourself, why not have a little fun?

Granted, you weren't planning on losing your top and straddling the hood like the redhead on page seven. Not in Steve's white picket fence neighborhood of all places, but you did still have something less than savory in mind.

He didn't even suspect anything when you asked to go change into something more comfortable to hose down his precious car, your jeans already feeling more than a little uncomfortable since you'd left your house in this heat.

Another perfectly cloudless azure sky hung over the neighborhood. Too sunny and muggy and at that hour of the morning where everyone else was still inside. Some slept in because it was Saturday while others slept off their Friday night. Those who were awake were already in their pools or in the kitchen, cracking ice cubes out of trays into big, dewy glasses of lemonade, intermittently sipping and holding the chilly glass up to soothe their sweaty temples.

If the heat bothered Steve he didn't show it, one hand resting on the steering wheel, fingers tapping along to the radio awaiting your return. He'd been looking forward to this all night since his winning hand and nothing could sour his anticipation now.

But he couldn't have anticipated what he saw when he catches sight of you through the rear view mirror, his fingers fumbling, losing his composure quicker than if he'd slipped on ice.

You strolled out like something ripped out of one of his wet dreams, shoes swapped for flip flops, snug denim cut offs replacing your jeans, white tee instead of the teal blue you'd shown up in and hips swaying.

His mouth was agape as you walked up to him. "What are you up to?", he spoke in a voice thick with suspicion, stare heavy and darting all over you like there was too much or you on display and not nearly enough at the same time.

"I'm washing your car like you we agreed. Changed your mind?", you challenged him with a hand on your hip, eyes narrowed into a look as sharp as a knife's edge, daring him to question you again.

"No..."

"Alright then", you eased into a smile, more roguish than your usual chaste, bumping your hip against the driver's side door which up until now had been ajar, closing Steve inside. He lets you do this, something about the new clothes coupled with your 'don't fuck with me' vibe making him feel strangely obedient.

Everything you needed was already left out for you. A bucket, a half full bottle of car wash soap, a sponge and the hose nearby.

You start with the hose first, making sure to bend over to pick it up rather than crouch beside it as you turned it on, legs straight, back arched nice and pretty, ass popped out. You didn't spend that extra fifteen minutes stretching at home for nothing!

It's vastly different from all the other times he's stared at your ass. Used to doing it in sneaky glances in the past, Steve can hardly believe the obvious way you flaunt yourself for him now, afraid if you keep it up he might fog up the windshield all on his own.

Running water spouts out the hose and you're not the least bit careful with how you aim the stream into the bucket to fill it up, splashing your thighs and forearms, the sun making your wet skin glow glossy under its rays.

Number 8 on Billboard's top ten singles of the month starts to play on the radio but it goes unheard by Steve over the sound of his own heartbeat thumping in his ears, watching you wrap your fingers around the thick, cylindrical bottle and squeezing it to squirt soap into the bucket.

It's all so calculated and deliberately dirty, even though you try to play it off all innocent. You even plaster on a faux look of surprise when you stand too close to the BMW to rinse it, water splashing back onto your clothes, denim turning dark, white tee turning transparent...

Steve nearly chokes on the saliva pooling in his mouth when he notices that you're not wearing a bra. No swimsuit or even a bikini on underneath. He tears his eyes away long enough to quickly survey the neighborhood and when he doesn't find any of his neighbors in sight he fixes them back on you.

He should stop you, right?

He shouldn't just sit there and watch, right?

It wouldn't be correct to let you parade yourself in front of him like this...

Right?

Turning off the hose, you grasp the sponge and dunk it into the soapy water, pulling it out all sopping and heavy to wring it out over the bucket, purposely holding it close to your chest so the excess water can cascade down your front.

Nothing could have stolen his attention away from the way your tits jiggle in your soaking, skin tight tee as you lean over and put some elbow grease into running the sponge over the hood of his car in soapy circles. Peeking up through your lashes you catch the way his cheeks blend from a subtle mauve to a pretty fuchsia from behind the windshield, deciding you'd like to get a closer look.

He thinks he might flatline when you saunter closer and lean over the side of the hood. Reaching as far as you can to sponge the windshield, you're certain the poor boy's probably straining against his zipper by now as your wet tits press up against the glass.

It's so obvious and indecent. And fun. Getting to dangle yourself in front of Steve like this so unabashedly out here in the open, sticking a pin in that irritating, albeit harmless, cocksure attitude he'd shown you at the start, watching it deflate with a wicked smile.

It was the sweetest torture, watching your body clad in soaked clothes, skin glistening, the contours of your breasts and nipples so evident now that you might as well be topless.

"Can't fucking take this anymore", you hear him mutter when he reaches his limit and exits the car, hand finding your waist to spin you around. He uses the other to snatch the soapy sponge out of your fingers and toss it out of sight, letting it land with a wet plop on the driveway.

"I'm taking you inside", he groans when you lean into him, wet tits pressing against his chest, turning the front of his blue polo a dark navy, thigh grazing his bulge.

"Why?" you ask all coy, not ready to retire the innocent act without batting your lashes at him first, your lips only a breath apart from his.

"Because I don't think they'd let me live here anymore if they came outside and found me bending you over the hood, darling", he replies, a second before his lips come down on yours.

#steve harrington smut #stranger things smut #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x reader

212 notes · View notes

oksurethisismyname · 5 months

Text

when Zoro tells Sanji he hates chocolate / desserts, Sanji takes that as a challenge to find recipes that would appeal to him

Once a week, Sanji makes an experimental, new dessert for everyone to try but it’s really part of mission “make Marimo want dessert”

Sanji has a little green notebook he keeps in the drawer with extra matches, bottle openers, etc, tucked in the back of the drawer and filled with ideas and notes after he tries it

———————————————

Frozen Tangerine Yogurt pie

serves eight

Ingredients

4 ripe tangerines, peeled and chopped try for the ones that are sour, flavor preferred by the sour swordsman

3 tablespoons sugar, divided

1 cup heavy cream

3/4 cup plain yogurt maybe try Greek yogurt to cut the sweetness even more?

graham cracker or shortbread pie crust graham cracker too sweet for that idiot

Note: partial success. Caught feeding crust to Luffy

———————————————

Chocolate Mousse with Olive Oil and Sea Salt

Makes about 10 small portions or 4 larger portions

Ingredients

2 eggs, thoroughly beaten

3/4 cup whole milk

6 ounces high quality semi-sweet dark chocolate

3 tablespoons freshly brewed strong coffee (optional) not optional! Without this, the chocolate flavor will be one dimensional

1/4 cup finishing-quality olive oil

1 tablespoon maple syrup possibly replace with honey. Try different honeys. maybe I could find one that marimo likes? Possibly buckwheat honey, something dark and strong like him. Maybe fireweed honey for the buttery flavor

Brandy (amount depending on if I plan to let chopper have any)

1 teaspoon vanilla

pinch fine salt

Sea salt or grey lavender salt, to serve sea salt preferred

Lightly sweetened whipped cream, to serve

Note: best attempt so far. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he licked the bowl. Had a smidge of chocolate on the tip of his nose for the rest of the day. So fucking CUTE!!! gross

———————————————

And Nami knows about this hidden recipe book and tells Zoro that Sanji keeps tiny liquor bottles from the various inns they’ve stayed at hidden in that drawer (not even a great lie, but Zoro buys it)

And Zoro finds that little green book one day, and suddenly Zoro is paying more attention to the ways Sanji cares for him and takes care of him

if he starts sticking around after the weekly dessert experiment and helping Sanji clean up, that’s between him and his cook

#one piece #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #zosan #just a little idea #i love them

278 notes · View notes

fatallyfalling · 4 months

Text

Darling ~ ♆

“ C’mere Darling, “

warnings: pure fluff, little bit of ptsd if ya squint, reader is gender neutral but has rlly short hair

{{ prompt }} the night is too hard to bear alone, so you seek out the one person who can make everything feel safe again

{{ a/n }} because i’m a liar and can’t post consistent updates for Bitter Water here is a drabble because i’m sad and dysphoria is kicking my ass <3 this is 100% self indulgent i’m so sorry, i also didn’t run this through my normal editing software so please be nice aaaaaaaaaaa

You didn’t like sleeping alone, in fact you despised it.

The bed felt too big and too cold. The dark shadows in the corners near your wardrobe were too ominous to look at for long periods of time as well. You barely wanted to close your eyes, fearing the vivid night terrors that lurked in the trenches of your memories after the sun had set. You tried to comfort and self soothe by keeping a small string of warm lights curled around your headboard but it wasn’t enough to keep the poltergeists in your head away tonight.

With a shaky sigh you pulled yourself from the soft bedding and tugged on a familiar too-big ivory, cable knit sweater that smelled of sea salt with a faded almonds and honey aroma. Pausing to deeply inhale the comforting scent for a moment, the tightness in your chest uncoiled itself a smidge. Blinking away the exhaustion in your eyes, you picked up the comfort item you couldn’t bear to sleep without, threadbare seams from years of love and all, and hugged the plush close before padding out of your bedroom and downstairs towards your front door.

The dusty blue walls and white baseboards had always been too ornate for your liking, and the house you’d been gifted in the Victors Village was too creaky and empty to be alone in all the time. Without caring to slip on a pair of shoes, you left the large empty house and crept across the quiet street towards a house that felt more familiar and safe. It didn’t matter that all of the houses more or less looked the same, what mattered was what lay inside this one, that made it different. The lights weren’t on but you administered a hesitant knock, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth while an anxious crease formed between your brows.

No answer.

You waited a beat before trying again, knocking a bit firmer. The crisp air was chilly, sending a shiver up your spine despite the thick sweater and having wrapped the too-long sleeves over your knuckles to mimic mittens. Your overactive mind started to wonder if you should bother him at this hour, it was indeed very late and he very well could be asleep. Holding the plush in your hands a bit closer, you felt the small flicker of hope in your chest go out after no inference of an answer appeared in the dark windows of the home. Maybe you should go back to your house, even if the idea of doing so churned your insides. Releasing a defeated sigh through your nose, you had turned and started back down the steps of the wooden porch when a small click sounded behind and an all too familiar voice rasped your name.

“What’s wrong…?”

Your head whirls, meeting groggy sea-green irises with eyelids dragged down by sleep. The male’s hair was tousled more than usual, clear evidence he’d been dozing off before your interruption. “I-I’m sorry, I just- my house was too uhm… a-and-“ your stumbling sentences trail off as your cheeks flush, ears burning red as your gaze falls to your socks.

“C’mere Darling,”

The sleepy drawl in the victor’s voice was enough to shut your mouth and set your legs moving to melt into his warm embrace. “mm sorry Finn,” you murmur into his chest as strong arms wrap around your shoulders and waist. A comforting weight rests on your head from Finnick’s chin and the vibrations of his voice are felt against your cheek on his shoulder. “Don’t apologize, it’s okay. Let’s get inside,”

You simply nod, allowing him to lead you in, with your fingers gently interlaced. The calluses on his hands from seafaring and training with his trident were rough, but you didn’t mind. Finnick was always gentle in his touches, careful not to startle or press too harshly. There were few people you allowed to touch you after the traumatic events of your past, and combined with Finnick’s own touch aversions the two of you found peace in the gentleness of each other’s company.

You’re led upstairs into Finnick’s bedroom, his hand never leaving yours while guiding you over to the bed. The two of you comfortably settled beneath the covers as he pulled you close, your head resting on his chest listening to the steady cadence of his heartbeat, while soft featherlight touches drew lazy circles on the bare plush of your thigh hooked over his hip with calloused fingertips. Finnick’s other arm lay under your head, fingers traveling over the buzzed scruff at the nape of your neck and threading through the longer, soft and fluffy mess atop your head. He didn’t mind your shorter hair, rather enjoying playfully ruffling it every chance got and the way you melted into the touch when he threaded his fingers through it.

A content hum emits from your chest as the two of you tangle together in a pleasant embrace. “Home too scary again?” Finnick whispers into your hair. The dim lighting in the room from his bedside lamp gave everything a soft, golden glow that invited comfort and stability to your aching chest. “Yea…” you meekly respond, meeting those sea-green eyes and only finding compassion mixing with hints of worry. A small smile crosses the victor’s lips, dimples pressing into tanned cheeks, as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. “s’okay Darling, I’ve got you, you’re safe here.”

You can’t help melting further into the male’s touch. Another content hum leaving your lips as you press ever closer to his chest. The warmth all but lulls you into a gentle sleep, Finnick’s ministrations through your hair adding to the welcome comfort. “m’ love you,” You murmur, words smothered by sleep and your cheek pressing to the male’s tanned chest. You felt safe again, perfectly content and relaxed in the victor’s arms, his almonds and honey aroma soaking into your senses in a pleasant warmth that had you nuzzling closer to his chest.

“I love you more Darling ~”

Finnick’s voice rumbles against your cheek through his chest, and he gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze to your thigh before the two of you settle into a comforting slumber.

It felt good to be home with him, to be safe, and cared for, and loved.

“m’ love you most,”

318 notes · View notes

ronearoundblindly · 15 days

Text

Dirty Water

Steve Rogers x deep sea mermaid!Reader

Prompt from this dirty ask game with our pairing from the Sun, Salt, and Shield series.

Summary: After a very long (but unofficial) courtship, where Steve is too shy to bring up your anatomy and his compatibility, a cultural misinterpretation quite literally sinks his resolve.

Warnings for smut (I'm gonna have to call this what it is and just say it's monster-f**king, or the one where Steeb gets maybe-CNC-boinked by a 'monster.' Sorry, babes. Ro's dipped a toe into the darkside for a smidge.) MINORS DNI. Poorly--or rather, not--edited and I have no idea the word count...

Steve swallows harshly and tries not to nervously splash his feet in the pool.

"What?" he chokes out.

He can't think of anything more articulate to say, not that it would matter when so much is lost in translation.

All you did was ask about the singing outside the doors of your 'room'--the retrofitted gym pool at the Avengers compound, the one is the basement without windows for your highly sensitive eyes--but he...could never have predicted why you were so curious.

"They're just enjoying themselves," he'd chuckled, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Do you sing?"

The look on your face, jaw slack and head tilting in contemplation, it should have warned him. You unfurled from your relaxed posture, the stance where your arms cross behind your back and fit atop the swell of your--he'd say tail, but it's more like your ass--rump, the rest of your body bent in a curve until your fin nearly touches the surface, and inched closer to his feet in the deep end.

"Yessssss," you hissed slowly through three rows of sharp teeth, crawling up his legs, out of the water, dripping over his lap as you braced large, webbed hands on either side of his hips.

Even in the very low light of damp room, he could see the lavender of your stare drop to his crotch.

"You sing too?"

Steve's an idiot. He didn't understand yet, so that dumbass actually began humming 'You Are My Sunshine' because nothing else occurred to him.

Then he noticed your tail glowing beneath the scales.

Then he realized you were pressing yourself to his legs.

Aaaand then Steve Rogers looked down your body to witness his knee disappearing in a spongy spot where the armoring swelled apart.

Oh god.

"What?" he now asks like an frightened teen seeing boobs for the first time.

"I make you sing?" Your broad green lips turn up in a smile. "Show me."

Suddenly, Steve's forgotten more english than you've learned. "Huh?"

Your flowing, textured hair, shapely even out of the water, sways when you cock your head to the side, looking through your lashes at him.

"How Stevie sing?"

He shivers for the first time in the cool water and lets an involuntary grunt leave his lips.

He's tried to stop himself from imagining your body and how it works to...ya know, and how he might...oh god, he's going to hell, but apparently, you've already been imagining that humans are either masturbating or fucking outside your door at all hours all the time--

--and oh shit, that means you sing as a part of sex.

He turns his head to the almost black ceiling and fails to think of anything else as the light from your body reflects in waves on every wall. He whimpers when he feels a ripple of muscle through the wet cotton of his jeans.

"Doll make Stevie sing?" Your voice is hoarse, and just as quickly as you say that by his throat, you flip back into the water. You can only breathe air for so long without hurting your throat and lungs.

He thinks he's off the hook, praying the tightness in his pants dissipates faster than they'll take to dry, but he lowers his head to find you peeking from the water, intent as ever on learning his ways.

He should be ashamed, so very fucking ashamed, of how badly he wants to take himself out of his pants and watch the wonder of those pretty eyes as he comes at the thought of you, but Steve's drowning in the hope that he can have you. It's been so long that he's wanted this, even in the most innocent ways.

Your final plea bubbles to the surface.

"Show?"

Steve inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips.

This is wrong, he thinks. You should not be doing this.

Yet he does it anyway because he wants to; he wants to so badly.

He sits up straight at the edge of the concrete, popping the button of his jeans and aches as he lowers the zipper. He can't meet your eye while he pulls out his semi-hard cock and fists it harshly.

You're so long that even looking away leaves your shimmering tail in sight, and he thinks he sees you rattle in excitement. It makes him shiver again, and the vibration shakes the moan escaping his tight chest.

Yikes, it does sound a bit like he's singing...

What the hell are you even doing?

Of course, he knows he's touching himself and he knows well enough how to do that, but he shouldn't be doing this in front of you, much less enjoying it. His blood is running so hot beneath his skin, though, the chilly pool feels soothing over his shins where he rolled up his pants (to no avail).

The heat floods his veins and mind to the point rational thought quiets, and Steve's eyes slither up your demure form.

Your eyes get wider and wider the more noise he makes, and his rampant imagination feeds off the sight of that gap in your scales visible as it undulates in the refraction beneath his feet.

He leans his head back and closes his own eyes at just the wrong moment.

Mid-whine, he misses the splashing sound that would have warned him you were coming, and instead Steve is pummeled by the end of your tail and topples into the pool, shocked and sputtering salty water until his body is pinned to the flat of the concrete wall he used to be perch on.

As he scrambles to toss his arms over the ledge, he feels claws dragging his jeans farther down his legs, and the fabric hangs like an anchor while the silky-slick webbing of your fingers glides up and down his thighs.

Then your tongue runs the length of his cock, making Steve moan embarrassingly loud and thrust his hips forward. If he weren't in the water, he'd be a puddle.

Pleasure races up and down his spine, fighting for dominance over the feeling of cold when he slips from the ledge and submerges briefly.

He barely registers the loss of your tongue and your quick lap of swimming before you're backing into him again.

It's on your ass, too, the soft entrance like you rubbed against his knee, but he could not have imagined what it could do--what you could do--how you could manipulate your muscles inside your tail.

He has no brainpower left to describe it. Steve just lets go, trusting your body to hold his weight as one hand grips the mossy softness of your waist and the other hand spreads over your lower back. Out of instinct, he tries to get leverage to push himself in and out of you, but that's useless.

There's a strong ripple of muscle that pulls him in, and in, and in, delicately tight on his sensitive cock and wide enough to slowly suck his balls into the massaging cavern.

Steve's eyes roll far into his head. He's going to pass out if this keeps up.

"Doll," he gasps, but it's too quiet in the slosh of the water. "Please, I'm--"

A clear, high note crescendos from the deep below, something disturbingly pure and paralyzing, and Steve can't move. He can only feel and experience a siren's song in action.

His body twitches violently before his cum is milked sensually, desperately, methodically from his cradled and ravaged pelvis, and never in Steve's long life has he ever been so fucking spent.

He whimpers when your cunt releases him, only faintly aware that he's propped on your back by his elbows as you swim to the shallow end and let him 'stand' on his shaky legs.

The screeching hinge of the door startles him.

"Cap," the junior agent yells over your hiss from the bright light spraying in, "everything okay? I heard..."

Yeah, I couldn't describe it either, Steve thinks.

He spits water from his mouth. "Fine," he huffs back, "we were...singing, and I fell in."

"Oh. Alright. Sorry to disturb you, Miss G." The man nods his apology at your hand-covered eyes and leaves.

Steve can't help but laugh like an insane person, laying to properly float in the water, uncaring what you're up to until he gently hits the stairs leading out of the pool.

Your head rises out of the water hopefully, and he cups your cheeks, still chuckling. He has zero words to describe...anything at the moment, but he can show you a human tradition of affection in return.

Shifting as easily as a feather in the water, he pulls you two together and sweetly presses his salmon lips to your seaweed pout, letting your long locs fall over his own shoulders.

Soon, he's gasping for air again, yet just before you dunk below the surface, you grin and coo at him.

"Stevie sings lovely."

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

what...the hell have i done. *hits post before final two braincells protest*

@fandom-has-taken-me-hostage @leah2901 @blogbog710 @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @jamneuromain

#dirty asks #ask game #sun salt and shield series #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfic #tw monsterfucking #deep sea mermaid #mermaid!reader #mermaid au #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #fantasy au #i do not have any idea how to properly tag this HALP

100 notes · View notes

kedreeva · 9 months

Text

My mom ditched several pounds of tomatoes from her garden on me, so I did the only sensible thing and made fresh pasta sauce from scratch. I feel like I should actually plant a garden and grow some goddamn tomatoes because this shit is about a thousand times more flavorful than what I've been eating all my life.

I blanched the tomatoes (bring water to boil, remove stem core from tomato, put in boiling water for like 30 seconds, transfer to cold water, skin basically falls off), and put them into a food processor with olive oil, fresh basil, salt, and a few garlic cloves, then moved that to a sauce pan to reduce with mushrooms and red wine, and I ended up adding some dried thyme, sugar, garlic and onion powders, smoked paprika powder, some grated parmesan, and a tiny smidge of baking soda. If I had had any oregano I would have added that, but I didn't.

Anyway I'm going to use this tonight with leftover rotisserie chicken shredded up with some elbow macaroni and mozzarella cheese and stuff.

#cooking #recipes #food

602 notes · View notes

bradshawsbaby · 2 years

Text

Government Issued

Pairing: Rooster x Wife!Reader, with a tiny smidge of Hannix if you squint.

Author’s Note: Based on this request from @fandom-addict-aesthetics! I have no idea how accurate any of this actually is (take everything you see on TikTok with a grain of salt, kids), but I thought it was a really cute idea and I had fun writing it!

Warnings: Mentions of sexy times (nothing explicit), Cyclone Simpson being a hardass, one F-bomb, and lots of fluffy goodness.

“Baby?” Bradley called out as he walked through the door of your apartment that evening, dropping his bag by the door.

“In the kitchen!” you called back, standing at the sink scrubbing one of the pots you’d used when preparing dinner. Washing the pots and pans after you’d just finished cooking was one of your least favorite things to do, but you knew from experience that it was better to get it done now so you wouldn’t have to deal with it later. At least the plates and utensils you could just stick in the dishwasher.

“There’s my favorite girl,” Bradley greeted you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your cheek before walking over to the fridge and grabbing a cold bottle of water. “Did you have a good day?” he asked, taking a sip.

“I did,” you nodded, smiling at him as you finished rinsing the pot you’d been cleaning and set it on the drying rack. “I went out to lunch with Penny and then got some shopping done. All in all, a pretty good day. How about you?” You reached for the pan still sitting in the sink, the last thing you needed to clean.

Bradley grimaced slightly, taking another sip of water and avoiding your gaze.

“What?” you asked, glancing up at him as the awkward silence stretched. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing serious,” Bradley was quick to reassure you, stepping closer to you as he set his water bottle down on the kitchen island.

“What then?” you pressed, letting the pan clang back into the sink and turning to face your husband head on, wiping your hands on a dish towel and waiting pointedly.

“It’s—it’s dumb,” Bradley began, rubbing the back of his neck. The tips of his ears were turning pink and you could tell he was a little bit embarrassed.

“Babe, what happened?” you repeated, eyebrows rising curiously. “Did you make some kind of stupid bet with Coyote or Hangman?” you wondered, crossing your arms over your chest.

“No, nothing like that,” Bradley hemmed and hawed, clearly trying to avoid telling you what had really gone on. He kept rubbing the back of his neck and his cheeks were now turning the same shade of pink as his ears.

“You’re being silly,” you told him, walking up to him and resting your hands on his shoulders. “Just tell me. You said it’s not that big a deal. So don’t make it one,” you added gently, looking directly into his eyes.

“You’re going to laugh,” Bradley said in a voice that didn’t seem all that convinced that that was true. “You remember how we went out to dinner last night?”

“Yes,” you responded slowly, not quite sure what that had to do with whatever had happened to him at work today. You and Bradley had gone to try a new Italian restaurant a few miles from base after hearing a ton of good reviews.

“And you remember what happened when we got home?” Bradley continued, dragging his feet as much as possible.

“Yes,” you nodded, laughing this time, though your own cheeks turned a light shade of pink to match your husband’s.

You’d indulged in a little bit more wine than was strictly necessary last night, which had made you feel particularly affectionate towards your handsome husband. Bradley had barely been able to keep his eyes on the road driving home, a bit distracted by the feel of your lips on his neck the entire time. By the time you finally did make it back to your apartment, you got as far as the living room before you were tearing each other’s clothes off and making love on the floor.

“Well…” Bradley murmured, seeming unsure how to go on.

“Oh my gosh, babe, what happened? This is turning into the slowest story known to man,” you laughed in exasperation, shaking your head.

“What can I say, honey? You were pretty damn frisky last night,” Bradley chuckled, shaking his head in return. “Not that I’m complaining at all. But I didn’t even realize I had this until I got to work this morning,” he explained, pulling his collar away from his neck to reveal a dark purple hickey right near his throat.

“Oh,” you murmured, blushing even more deeply. Between the two of you, Bradley was usually more likely to leave the love bites behind, but you’d been known to leave your fair share of them from time to time. Evidently you hadn’t realized just how passionately you’d been kissing your husband’s neck on the car ride home last night. “But I still don’t understand,” you said, looking up at him in confusion. “What does that have to do with what happened at work today?”

“Well…” Bradley began again, avoiding eye contact once more.

“Oh my gosh, Bradley, tell me!” you exclaimed, eyes getting wider in concern as your blush turned a darker shade of pink.

Sighing, Bradley reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded letter. “Like I said, baby, it’s dumb. Don’t get upset,” he warned, slowly starting to unfold the paper.

“‘Don’t get upset’ is the worst thing you can tell your wife when you don’t want her to get upset,” you told him with a scoff, taking the paper out of his hand and opening it quickly, your eyes scanning the contents of the letter. As your mind processed what you were reading, your eyes widened considerably and your jaw slackened in shock.

“Honey,” Bradley began cautiously, holding up his hands, surrender-fashion.

“Oh my gosh!” you cried out, cheeks absolutely burning with mortification at this point. “Oh my gosh!”

“Honey, it’s not such a big deal,” Bradley murmured soothingly, rubbing his hands up and down your arms in an attempt to calm you down.

“Not such a big deal? Bradley, we’re getting fined with…” You glanced back down at the letter for a moment. “...destruction of government property!”

“Cyclone was just in a fucking mood today,” Bradley sighed, running a hand through his hair with one hand, still holding onto you with his other.

“A notice and a fine all because of a hickey?!” you exclaimed, mouth still agape in horrified shock. “Oh my gosh, does everyone know? This is so embarrassing,” you moaned, dropping the letter onto the kitchen island and covering your face with your hands.

“Aw, c’mon, baby, it’s not so bad,” Bradley said softly, trying to pry your hands away from your face. “I’m the one they were all teasing today,” he added in an attempt to console you.

You just made an embarrassed noise in response, attempting to wiggle away from him as you continued to hide your humiliated self behind your hands.

“Honey,” Bradley whispered, finally succeeding in pulling your hands away from your hot cheeks. “Don’t be embarrassed, baby,” he said comfortingly, peppering your face with kisses.

“How did this even happen? Why did it become such a big deal?” you questioned, allowing Bradley to pull you into his arms and hold you against his chest.

“I don’t know,” Bradley sighed, tucking your head under his chin and rubbing your back slowly. “Like I said, Cyclone was in rare form today. I think he got some call from the Pentagon, but like hell if I know what it was about. He came by for last minute inspections while we were getting ready to go up for some test exercises and he spotted your handiwork,” he teased lightly, pecking your lips when you groaned in embarrassment.

“Vice Admiral Simpson knows I gave you a hickey? How am I ever supposed to look that man in the face again?” you muttered, burying your face in your husband’s chest.

Bradley chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath your cheek. “Don’t stress out about it, baby. He’ll forget it ever happened, trust me. No one ever seriously gives this fine out unless they’ve got a stick up their ass about something,” he informed you. “It’ll blow over. It’s nothing serious.”

“I’m surprised to hear you talking about your superior officers in such a way, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” you said, looking up at him with a small glint of humor in your eyes.

“Only because I trust you not to rat me out,” Bradley grinned, kissing you again.

“So you really swear it’s not as horrible as I’m imagining?” you asked, sighing deeply.

“Not at all. I pinky promise,” he laughed, holding up his pinky finger to you with a look of mock seriousness.

“Ugh,” you groaned, wrapping your pinky finger around his and squeezing.

“That’s the spirit, honey,” Bradley chuckled. “Though I might have to give you a couple hickeys to make up for mine,” he teased, making you laugh as he began kissing your neck affectionately.

“Maybe just ones where no one will see,” you teased back, winking playfully at him.

“Mrs. Bradshaw, I like the way you think,” Bradley grinned.

A couple nights later, when you and your friends were all out for a few drinks at The Hard Deck, Hangman came up to you with a smirk, shaking his head.

“Well if it isn’t the little terrorist who’s been going around destroying government property,” he joked, nudging you with a laugh.

“Oh my gosh,” you moaned, covering your face with your hands. “Hangman, I’ll kill you!”

“No need,” Phoenix cut in, smirking up at him. “I know just what he needs.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hangman asked, grinning down at her.

“Yeah,” Phoenix laughed, snatching his cell phone out of his hand and dropping it down onto the surface of the bar. “Oh, Penny! Look where Hangman left his phone!” she called out.

“Phoenix! I did not—”

“Rules are rules, Hangman,” Penny smirked, ringing the bell loudly, which prompted a loud chorus of cheers to rise up in the crowded bar.

“I’m surrounded by terrorists,” Hangman groaned, shaking his head as he pulled his credit card out of his wallet.

“Time to order the most expensive drink on the menu, baby,” Bradley grinned, his hand resting on your waist. “Hangman’s buying!”

#rooster x wife!reader #rooster x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #x reader #x female reader #top gun: maverick #top gun #miles teller

2K notes · View notes

penny-anna · 4 months

Text

Hi everyone welcome back to Lazy Cookery!!

We got various spices, I am using paprika, cumin, coriander, black pepper, onion salt, garlic powder and a tiny smidge of cayenne. You can also use fresh garlic in this & add more spice

We got some pancetta. It is still slightly frozen. Do not do this!! You can also use bacon probably or a different meat or no meat if that's what you're about

One pancetta cooked fully & crispy we're adding the spices + a couple of teaspoons of tomato pesto. If using fresh garlic you'd add it about now ig.

+ black beans annd a little water!!

This is a leftover rice kind of recipe but I don't have any and didn't feel like cooking rice so I'm just using the pre cooked kind

All mixed up!!

Put it into the baking dish & make the Holes

& in go 2 eggs!! I don't remember how long I usually cook this for so it's going in the oven for 8 minutes to start. Stay tuned!!

#food cw

118 notes · View notes

sushiwriterhere · 11 months

Text

two: required texts

flight path

summary: "It takes your remaining sober thoughts to refocus on beer pong instead of how hard it hits you that you want Jake." rating: mature (eventually explicit, 18+ mdni) pairing: jake 'hangman' seresin x f!reader word count: ~6.9k lol warnings: angst, masturbation ment, enemies to lovers!, college au!, eventual smut, hangman being hangman, no use of y/n. notes: dedicated to @waklman bc u entertain my insane dms <3 pls pls pls let me know what you think everyone!! masterlist here this fic is being posted from my queue while I have little access to the internet. any tag list requests/fic replies will be slow; thanks!

"Jake said you were coming to our party this Friday?" Bradley's smile is so genuine, so unlike everything about Jake, "Never thought you'd agree but it'll be good to see you."

Sometimes you regret making things so sour with Jake, because Bradley’s actually really sweet. He’s been letting you and Jake duke it out about your project at their breakfast bar counter while he cooks in the background. He’s kind of always on FaceTime with someone, usually a girl, and he even makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. Something about the flakey sea salt just does it.

Bradley is the kind of guy you think you might settle down with one day. Bradley doesn’t throw his hands up in the air at you in frustration when you argue about what exactly qualifies as sustainability, and he certainly does not make deals with you to try and get you to come to frat parties.

That being said, he looks so happy to hear that you might be joining them that you really don’t have the heart to knock him down.

“Oh, yeah, Jake–” You consider your words carefully.

Jake hadn’t explicitly said that the deal was to be kept hush-hush, but you didn’t really know how much you wanted people knowing that you were willing to trade your introvert lifestyle just to ensure a good grade. Plus, it felt just a smidge pathetic that that was what you’d caved to.

“Jake told me he talked you into it in exchange for going with your lead on your project, but it doesn’t seem to really be working.” Bradley’s laugh fills the hallways of the lab and you feel yourself tense up.

God, you really did get the short end of the stick if it was that obvious that Jake wasn’t holding up his end of the bargain at all.

“Yeah... well...” You trail off, twisting your hands in front of you until someone calls you name at the end of the hallway.

Bradley looks at you, his gaze a little too knowing, before you both wave goodbye and you take off toward the sound of your supervisor’s voice.

Running into Bradley is one thing, he’s nice and doesn’t make you want to poke your eyeballs out, getting to the end of the hallway to see Jake standing in front of your professor with an easy-going smile on his face is another. Fantastic.

“Mr. Seresin here was just telling me that the two of you have been hard at work,” Jake bounces his shoulders just a little behind your professor’s back, as if rubbing it in how much he’d obviously been talking himself up in the few seconds before, “I have high expectations for the two of you.”

You resist the urge to call him a dumbass in front of the man who’s probably going to single handedly get you into MIT, and school your features into something a little more school-appropriate. You are not going to let him screw this, especially this, up for you.

“Of course, Professor Simmons, we’re certainly putting our all into it.” Jake mock gags behind the professor’s back for a split second before he turns around, and then he’s the picture of academic excellence.

Simmons wanders off in the way he usually does, leaving just you and Jake standing in the hallway. Distantly, you know that you’re technically on the clock, but you’re well-liked enough that you can get away with a little time theft. No one’s had any complaints on time sheet day so far.

Jake rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, smile ever present. For a moment, he looks a bit unsure of himself, but the expression is gone even quicker than it came.

“What are you doing in the labs, Jake. Don’t you have some other poor girl to harass?” You cross your arms and stare expectantly at him– you’d rather spend your stolen time reading the New Yorker on your phone and not dealing with Jake Seresin.

“Was just dropping by to chat with Simmons, you know how it is. Office hours, etcetera, etcetera.” He’s at ease once again, his gaze trained fully on you.

“Why did you say etc like that?”

“Did you just say ‘e-t-c’?”

For a moment there’s complete and entire silence, the type that happens right before exams are handed out. Then, Jake starts howling with laughter, completely doubled over. You watch in horror, listening to his voice echo around the sterile hallways and probably right into every professor’s office.

Once he’s done completely humiliating you, he stands up and wipes at his eyes, “Sorry, you just—you were lecturing me the other day about ‘histrionics’ and you’ve never heard etcetera said aloud have you?”

You bristle, teeth gritted, “I’ll have you know, you can say it either way.” He doesn’t need to know, but you haven’t heard it aloud.

“Oh, I was also looking for you.” His abrupt change of subject makes you nervous.

You and Jake have admittedly been spending a lot of time together. After your first few hours at the library, Jake’s been making a habit of being around you. Like, a lot.

First, he’s always sitting next to you in your shared classes. You’re only taking four, and sharing three of those is just a lot of Jake-time. He mostly leaves you alone, thankfully, but he’s taken to poking you to get your attention for his random thoughts, turning his computer your direction to show you a funny meme someone sent him, and occasionally reaching over to doodle on your notes. He also always uses your shared seat rest.

You don’t know why you let him do it. But, if you were brutally honest, it’s kind of nice having him around. Despite all your petty disagreements, Jake’s a bright personality, and it makes your stomach flip in a funny way when he spots you across the quad and waves wildly to get your attention, or when he buys you lunch before your library sessions. You do keep bickering about nearly everything though.

That’s the second thing. Now, after your two classes together on Mondays and Wednesdays, the two of you will go to the library and study til the wee hours of the morning. On more than one occasion, he’s bought you coffee to sustain your hours of staring at complex equations and trying to apply to grad schools.

(“What grad school are you applying to now?”

“Nunya.”

“Okay, unless the top fifteen rankings have been updated since the last time I checked there is no grad school that—“

“Nunya business.”

“Very funny. Real mature. You’re really childish y’know that.”

“I’m childish? Remind me which one of us spent eighty five dollars at a candy store last week after taking forty five minutes to decide.”

“There’s a lot of options!”)

You two don’t make a lot of conversation but it’s getting easier to talk to him like he’s a normal person, like he’s anyone else. You still keep your cards close to your chest, though, unready to let him in fully and still not entirely trusting him.

Once, you’d shared a bit about how much pressure you felt to get into a top graduate program, to ensure that your parents were taken care of as an only child. Jake had been surprisingly empathetic, and had shared some about his home life, which you suspected wasn’t as idyllic as he made it seem, but it had made you smile.

“Youngest, with four sisters, I was a little doll,” He’d laughed. He never talked about his parents, really.

It had been an odd moment of peace between the two of you until he had teased you for the way you read out an equation as you were checking your work, and then it was back to trading barbs.

The third thing is that he hadn’t invited you to a party til this week, about four into the semester. Before he had, it hung over your head like an anvil–ominous, always present, and not exactly forthcoming on when it was planning on crushing you like a bug.

He’d been too nice about it, assuring you that whatever you wore would be fine (“Just think... slutty?” “Don’t be sexist, Jake.” “What! That’s what the sorority girls say.” “Well, are you a sorority girl?” “I can be if you want me to be, sweets.” “You have issues.”). He’d also said he’d keep an eye out on you but that his frat brothers were all great people, and besides, Bradley would be around. You don’t really want to share how it makes you feel that Bradley had asked you if you really were attending.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re coming on Friday.” His smile softens into something more genuine than his usual wild grin. “Was worried I might’ve scared you off.”

You huff, “I’m not scared.”

The way he looks at you in that moment makes you want to shove him so he’ll stop staring at you, a combination of pity and something else you’re afraid to identify, “No, not at all.”

Then, his demeanor changes back into something that’s a bit more familiar to you as he tucks his hands into his pockets and turns to leave, “Besides, if you don’t come, we’re doing our entiiiire project on Naval mechanics. Bye!”

He’s gone before you can yell at him.

This isn’t who you are–outfits strewn all over the floor of your room, music blaring from your phone where it’s charging in the corner, a layer of nervous sweat starting to coat your forehead and palms. Nothing fits right or in a way that doesn’t make you want to lose your mind.

For a moment, you wish that you were a sorority girl, surrounded by women who know all the cultural rules of what you’re about to walk into. It’s not in a “I’m not like other girls” way, but more in a “my parties consist of wine and boardgames”. You are excited, but you also just feel stupid.

You jump about half a foot in the air when your music cuts off all of a sudden and is replaced by the someone singing “save a horse, ride a cowboy” at far too many decibels. Scrambling, you grab your phone from the far side of your bed and see that it’s Jake trying to FaceTime.

“When did you change your ringtone?” Is the first thing you say when you pick up, endlessly irritated. “Your voice is terrible, by the way.”

Jake just laughs, “Oh, it absolutely is not. And you left your phone unlocked when you went to the bathroom two weeks ago, it was the only logical course of action. How have you not noticed til now?”

“I keep my phone on silent like a normal person.” You try to angle the camera so he can’t see the fact that you’re only in a sports bra and that you are absolutely not dressed despite the fact that you need to leave relatively soon.

“Again with this normal person thing, sweets,” He looks like he’s walking through the frat house as you hear people in the background, and you have half a mind to ask if Bradley’s around but decide against it. Something tells you Jake would be, well, weird about it. “You have got to be the least normal person I know, and that’s saying something.”

The absolutely unimpressed look on your face makes him laugh, and you almost hang up until you remember that he could potentially be helpful with your predicament. He wasn’t helpful last time but maybe this time he will be. He at least knows more about what girls are supposed to wear to this stuff.

“Jake...” You start, unsure of how to even ask.

‘Oh hey Jake, how am I supposed to dress slutty for the frat party you cajoled me into going to because this is really out of my comfort zone and I’m this close to just telling you we can do your stupid Naval aircraft idea so that I don’t have to deal with this’ is a decidedly bad start.

“Sweets...” He croons back at you over the phone as he sets you down on a bathroom counter.

It’s then that you realize that he’s been shirtless this entire time, and is still very much shirtless. Look, you may have a deep dislike for Jake Seresin as a person, but you’re not blind. You have eyes. And your eyes are telling you that Jake is absolutely so fucking fine that you have sort of forgotten your question.

He’s absentmindedly applying shaving cream to his face and bustling around the bathroom while opening drawers and humming to himself. You remain silent.

You just sort of stare at him for a few seconds before he raises an eyebrow at you. It’s then that you realize you’re holding your phone at an atrocious angle and you’re supposed to be asking him how to dress for this and showing him the insides of your nostrils is definitely not going to be doing you any favors.

“Sweets, did you have something you were going to say or are you just going to spend the next thirty minutes checking me out?” Jake says it so nonchalantly it almost makes you hang up, but you’re caught off guard by how something as simple as watching him shave on FaceTime can feel so endearing and domestic.

“Very funny. I was going to tell you you have something sticking out of your nose but I guess I won’t now.” You huff, hoping it’ll distract him from the last two minutes of silence.

At the very least, it works. Jake frantically tries to figure out what’s danging from his nose while you try and regroup.

“I need your help picking an outfit.” It’s dramatic, but it feels like a weight off your chest to say it, “I just– Well, it’s just that nothing looks good and I hate this.”

Jake sets his razor down and leans close to his phone so you can see only his face and nothing else, “Lemme see what’cha got, sweets.”

The next twenty minutes are, somehow, not entirely excruciatingly painful. Jake immediately vetoes every single one of your business casual outfits (“You are not wearing slacks to a frat party, sweets, be serious.”) but he’s nice about it. When you dive deep into your closet to pull out a box of items you haven’t thought about since you bought them freshman year, you really start to reconsider how much you don’t want to work on Naval mechanics.

“Okay, you can’t be mean, I bought these freshman year in a moment of weakness.” You can feel how hot your face is and you barely manage to get through the sentence without stammering or hanging up on him.

You lay out the tops on your bedding–Jake had already approved of a pair of jeans you hardly ever wore. These pieces are much more party-oriented than anything else you regularly wear, and you remember how for a weekend freshman year you’d felt so alienated, so weird, that you’d spent almost three-hundred dollars on going out tops. You’d returned most of them but the ones in front of you you’d kept in secret hope maybe you’d get to wear them.

“You are a liar.” Jake’s voice comes softly from your phone and you frown.

“I literally just asked you to not be mean. You can’t even not be mean when—”

“Sweets, any guy here would pass away at the sight of you in any of these,” He says and you make sure the camera isn’t on you so you can contort your face into a silent scream, “Talkin’ about, ‘I have nothing to wear’.”

“Drama queen.” It’s all you can say, but the thought of him passing away at the sight of you? That might be more appealing than you’d like to admit.

God, it’s so fucking loud in here. You managed to arrive fashionably late, as Jake advised. Now, you’re just sort of standing by the doorway, unsure of where to go or who to talk to.

Then, all of a sudden, Jake appears next to you, all bright eyes and white teeth as he bobs along to the music. He grabs your arm and pulls you into an excessively tight hug, one that smooshes your face into his chest and traps your arms at your sides. You try not to breathe in too hard, but you can’t really avoid smelling him (like a fucking weirdo). You’re only slightly disappointed to note that Jake smells really good.

“Sweets! I thought you’d bailed!” He exclaims, letting you go only slightly so he can take a look at your face. “When did you get here?”

“Um, like ten minutes ago?” You try and push out of his arms but he’s got a strong grip on you–glancing to the side you see that he’s grasped his elbows so you’re completely stuck.

“Only one hour and fifty minutes left to go!”

And with that, you’re being hauled off by one arm through the frat house. You stumble on your feet but manage to catch yourself on Jake when you trip over a beer can someone just threw on the ground. He turns around with a glint in his eye.

“Sweets, if you wanted to cuddle, you should’ve just said so!” His tone is gleeful, but he steadies you gently anyway.

“Just get me a drink, Jake.”

He doesn’t let you go but this time his grip is gentler and he walks at a human pace instead of trying to make record time. After turning a few corners, you finally arrive in the kitchen.

You have to admit, you’re sort of jealous. Your apartment isn’t tiny by any means, but you’d love to have a kitchen this sprawling, with its huge windows, what looks like a state of the art fridge, and granite countertops the sheer square footage of which could make you drool. You feel a rush of disappointment at how dirty it is in here, but you squash it remembering that this is a frat house. Clean is nowhere near part of these men’s vocabulary.

Jake makes you a drink that seems to be some odd combination of liquors and juices (he avoids the jungle juice thankfully, almost turning green when you ask him if you should try some–“Not unless you want to spend all of tomorrow throwing up.”). When he hands it to you, he looks at you expectantly, like a child who just gave their parent a crayon drawing.

“Well? What do you think?” You grimace on instinct when the liquid hits your tongue, but you realize it’s actually not that bad.

You tell him as much. Maybe you’re already starting to get drunk because it’s the only explanation for the way you think the look on his face could persuade you to drink three hundred cups of this if it means having him smile at you like that again. You keep drinking to avoid spilling your guts, figuratively.

Jake makes himself a cup while yammering on about planning the party, how he took shots with his frat brothers before you got here, and how he has a brunch planned Sunday with a few of his frat brothers. It’s all a bit too close, too intimate to be honest. Even with everyone around you, even with the way he almost has to yell so you can hear, it feels like it’s just the two of you. It makes you want to flee, but you force yourself to stay put in an effort to at least try.

And it’s not actually terrible. You keep sipping on the drink Jake made you, and try to engage with him.

He’s in the middle of telling you a story about him and Bradley from freshman year when one of his frat brothers walks up to the two of you with a wicked grin on his face.

“Now who is this, Jake?” He’s terribly handsome, but something about the way he’s looking at you sets you on edge.

“Javy, meet sweets.” Jake gestures at you with his perfectly iconic red solo cup.

You roll your eyes at the introduction, “That’s not my name.”

But Javy doesn’t let you correct the record, instead his entire face lights up. He looks like a kid on Christmas as he wraps an arm around Jake’s shoulders and looks between the two of you, a gleeful expression spreading over his face.

“You are famous in this frat, I hope you know that.”

You prepare yourself for a snide remark about your attitude in class, about your reputation, but instead Javy leans in close, so close that you can see how perfect his skin is (what the hell?), and he whispers conspiratorially, “Jake here never shuts up about you.”

The whisper clearly isn’t meant to keep much secret and Jake obvious hears him because he shoves Javy off him and starts waving his hands at him to shoo him off. When he turns back around, he’s blushing and you don’t think it’s from the alcohol or the heat.

“Talking shit?” You cross your arms and raise an eyebrow expectantly, not knowing what you’d do with any other explanations.

“Something like that. Want more to drink?”

He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and he clearly doesn’t want you to remember this conversation either, because his next pour is overly generous. After that, he drags you out of the kitchen to ‘socialize’. He keeps you next to him, occasionally slinging an arm around your shoulders or even just leaning on you.

Much to your dismay, Jake doesn’t let you wallflower, to disappear as you stand next to him–suddenly you’re being introduced to everyone in the frat. You grouse about being forced to remember a thousand different white men’s names and Jake’s laugh rises even above the din of the music and the chatter. You’re loath to admit it aloud, but it’s sort of nice, being included, being in on jokes and spoken to like you might have something funny or interesting to say.

Part of you wants to bring up what Javy said, because almost every guy that Jake introduces as being part of his frat smiles in the exact same way that Javy had. Like a cat who got the cream. But the alcohol is making your tongue heavy and you worry what might be said if you start down that path.

Then, you hear your name distantly, and you whip around to see Bradley making his way through the crowd waving wildly. Nearly missing elbowing some poor sorority girl in the head, he pushes past people. His face is flushed from drinking and the heat, and he’s got his phone pressed to his ear. Why he’s attempting to take a phone call in this type of environment, you’re really not sure.

When he gets to the both of you, he at least has the sense to hang up before he separates you from Jake when he sweeps you up into a bear hug that lifts your feet off the ground and crushes you to him. He seems so happy to see you, and you smile bashfully as you hug him back.

Once your feet are back on the ground and Bradley’s released you, you notice how Jake has stiffened slightly beside you. He and Bradley engage in some long, complicated handshake that ends with jazz hands and eventually Bradley sweeps away in just the same way he came over. No words are exchanged, and Jake relaxes when Bradley’s out of sight.

“You’re being weird,” You accuse, leaning into Jake so you can get closer to his ear to be heard over the noise, “Well, you’re always weird, but you were being weird towards Bradley.”

“Was not.” Jake says haughtily, pouting lightly like a child.

“You’re literally pouting right now.” You’re too tipsy to deal with him acting like you just took away his toy truck, and you poke his arm to emphasize your point.

Jake immediately schools his expression before taking you by the arm and pulling you outside. His broad form clears the way for you and you do your best not to trip on any more beer cans. You two aren’t alone by any means, but here the sound has space to dissipate. There’s beer pong tables, a bonfire going (which, frankly, seems very unsafe), and people milling about.

“Do you like Bradley?” The two of you are now standing off to the side of the sprawling deck behind the frat house, illuminated by a series of string lights that only seem slightly out of place for a frat house and Jake’s staring at you intently.

You shrug, “I mean, what’s not to like? It’s Bradley, I think we’re friends.”

This is so awkward and you hate it with every fiber of your being.

He wrings his hands just a bit, and it strikes you that there’s a chance that he’s actually upset. It’s not the kind of annoyed that he always seems to take on when you two are going at it, it’s more genuine, like whatever he’s imagining might be enough to get him really worked up. He opens his mouth but then shuts it.

“Jake. What is wrong with me liking Bradley.” This is so ridiculous–standing in the backyard and trying to get Jake to talk about whatever issues he has or doesn’t with Bradley is probably almost as close to the opposite of socializing as just staying home would have been.

“You don’t like like him, though, right?”

You roll your eyes and snap at him, “Jake, what is this, middle school?” He’s not calling you sweets, and when you notice, it bothers you just a tad more than you’d like to admit, “No, I like Bradley because he doesn’t yell at me when I correct his projections and he makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. He’s a friend.”

Everything about his demeanor changes in the oddest way when you say that, he peps up and it’s like the Jake that was pouty (jealous?) was never there, and he takes you by the hand, “Great! That’s solved then, let’s go play beer pong.”

You try to ignore the way you get emotional whiplash as he drags you over to the people standing around a folding table.

But you can’t help it. As Jake tries to teach you how to play beer pong you end up ruminating on whatever the hell that just was. Why would it bother Jake if you did “like like” Bradley? The two of you, you and Jake, could barely be classified as friends. Besides, as frat brothers, there’s no way both Jake and Bradley haven’t gotten around or even been with the same girl. No shame for anyone involved, but what’s his fucking deal? (And, Bradley’s a cutie, so what?)

Eventually, you give up trying to figure out what Jake’s issue is as the two of you start losing at beer pong, and badly, given just how inebriated you are. Jake keeps trying to shout instructions every time you go to throw the ping pong ball and it keeps messing you up, so eventually you shove at him. He barely moves as he starts laughing at your anger.

“Jake! Stop messing me up!” You can feel how bad your coordination is from the alcohol as you stumble a bit as you lean your weight into him. “You’re making us lose!”

He can barely breathe through how hard he’s laughing at how far off your last shot had been, but he still steadies the both of you and wraps his arms around you, “Sweets you’re just too easy to mess up, oh my god. Are you even looking at the cups?”

You just hit his chest once as you start taking in the way that you’re pressed up against each other. He doesn’t let go of you. Instead, he just sort of lets you step back enough to have full control of your arms and continues standing at your side with his arms around your waist. Then, he starts leaning down to breathe instructions in your ear.

Normally you would find it in yourself complain about how gross having his breath in your ear is, but in that moment, already past tipsy and just enjoying the warmth of his body and skin against yours, all you can do is shiver. You fuck up your next shot worse than the last one. You hope it’s dark enough to cover how flustered you are as the patio lights glimmer weakly in the distance.

It takes your remaining sober thoughts to refocus on beer pong instead of how hard it hits you that you want Jake.

It’s honestly the most fun you’ve had in a long, long, time and you lose yourself in it. Jake at your side, his arms wrapped around you, laughing loudly as you lose to team after team. He barely removes himself to make his shots. When he laughs it shakes your whole body. Every time he takes a step, he knocks your legs together so you move with him.

You’ve continued drinking so you’re only getting progressively drunker and it only makes you focus on him more. You lose track of time completely and wholly.

Every time you turn to look at him or talk to him, Jake’s already looking at you. He keeps looking at your lips. In that moment, your rivalry, the project, and really, the entire world falls away. You have nothing to think about but how warm he is, how good he smells, and how you want to keep this moment in a jar so you can come back to it later.

You think he might kiss you.

The moment breaks when you feel Jake’s phone start buzzing against your leg and he finally lets you go. In an instant, he takes a step back from you and his arms are gone. You didn’t realize just how much his body heat was keeping you warm in the cool evening air til he removes himself from you completely. You miss it immediately.

He steps off to the side, face completely impassive but frozen in a smile as he reads a text, and he starts typing furiously. The smile slides off your face as you think of all the girls in his phone who are probably waiting for his drunk “you up?” texts and you take a step back, putting more space between the two of you. Someone more important than you must want his attention.

“I, uh, I’ve got to go, sorry, sweets.” Jake says, but you don’t feel the apology as much as you do the rejection. It stings in the way a harsh winter wind burns at your cheeks, pricking your skin and raising the blood to your face.

Somewhere in your mind, you remember considering hooking up with someone tonight. That’s what people do, right? Get drunk, sleep with a stranger, then stumble home in last night’s outfit in the morning. And maybe somewhere along the way, maybe between drinks three and four, you’d thought about what it might be like to kiss Jake. At some point when you’d watched his eyes linger on your lips, you thought that was it.

You take a few steps back, trying to feel sober again, but swaying slightly without Jake to hold you, “Right.”

His face falls as he takes a step toward you, but the magic of the night is gone. There isn’t anyone standing on the opposite of the folding table anymore. The backyard is somehow too quiet despite the loudness coming from the house. Jake doesn’t reach for you when he sees the expression on your face.

“I’ll uh, venmo you for the Uber.” His face betrays nothing but the cool indifference you remember from freshman year–are you really back to where you started after everything tonight?

Him offering to pay for you only makes you remember that you hate him–flirting with you all night then ditching you to go hook up with someone he actually likes. Classic Jake Seresin, everybody.

You don’t care that he slept with someone else after how close the two of you were. You are deciding not to care. It does not bother you because you and Jake aren’t even friends, you are sworn enemies and the only reason you’re even going to these parties is so that you can ensure the project isn’t a flaming mess.

You’re repeating these mantras to yourself from the moment you wake up, while you go to classes, while you avoid making eye contact with or speaking to Jake for fear he’ll know. You say it to yourself as you sit silently across from him in the library, headphones firmly over your ears so you don’t have to hear him ask if you want coffee.

He brings you one anyway.

It’s clear that you are utterly failing to convince yourself, because all you can think about is how close he was, how the heat radiated off his body, how he smelled, and how his eyes flitted down to your lips ever so often. You feel like you want to crawl out of your own skin with the realization that you want Jake to want you. You’ve sort of always wanted his attention, it’s just that up until now it’s almost entirely been in the form of your little rivalry.

You find yourself scoffing as a thought comes to the forefront of your mind, It’s like in those romance novels. That shit does not happen to people like you.

The shame and desire washing through you reaches its peak when you find yourself biting into your fist with your hand between your legs a week after the party. All you can think about is how he’d smelled, how close he’d been to you, and the way his hands felt around your waist. You finish with a whine tearing itself from your chest and a deep sort of mortification coursing through your veins.

You can’t avoid him forever though, the work must go on.

The thought of attraction goes as quickly as it comes when you find yourself sitting across from him at his and Bradley’s kitchen table again, the two of you bickering about a piece of analysis.

“Why do you refuse to listen to me, even the slightest bit, sweets? I’m literally second in our class, I can’t be an absolute idiot.” Jake looks at the ceiling as if some supernatural being will give him the strength to deal with you, and sighs heavily.

You clench your fists, “I’m not refusing to listen to you, Jake, I’m just telling you that you’re wrong.” You don’t remind him you’re first in the class.

Bradley walks in the kitchen, phone held casually in front of his face, a bag of chips grasped in his other hand. He stops to observe the two of you still arguing, now going on about a quiz question you two had disagreed on first semester sophomore year. He could be surprised that you and Jake have found something else to argue about, but then again Jake told him the two of you spent almost three straight hours arguing your first time together at the library. He’s also been witness to countless pointless fights about god knows what since the beginning of the semester.

“Can you two just fuck already, good god.”

The room goes so quiet the only thing you can hear in your ears is your own heartbeat. Jake looks similarly mortified, cheeks turning red as he tucks his head to the side in clear embarrassment. The tips of his ears are bright red.

Bradley, unaware of the absolute nuclear bomb that he just dropped, tucks his chips into the pantry, and leaves as the FaceTime call sound starts trilling from his phone.

Neither you or Jake move. All you can think about is how you felt in that moment last Friday, Jake pressed up against you, his breath heavy in your ear, and his body solid and warm against you. You think about the way want had coursed through your veins when you’d been alone. But he doesn’t want you. His current reaction is evidence enough.

Jake’s the one to break the silence by muttering something under his breath.

“What?”

“I said, he’s one to talk.” He clears his throat and avoids eye contact.

You can’t take this, so you try to laugh a bit, but it sounds fake and tinny in your ears, “And I don’t know what he’s talking about. In case everyone’s lost their minds and forgotten, I do not like you, Jake Seresin.”

He laughs lightly in response and says, “People don’t use contractions when they’re lying.”

And you don’t really know what to say to that. Because you don’t really know if there is anything to say. So you decide not to say anything to that, at all.

“You still owe me twenty five dollars for the Uber.”

“Twenty five—“ Jake sputters, “Twenty five American dollars? Where the hell did you have him take you? Downtown and back!? You live twelve minutes from the house!”

“I tipped well.”

Jake mutters something about tipping culture being out of control but you still feel the way your phone buzzes so hard it rattles some pens strewn across the table.

When the second invite comes, you decide preemptively that you’re not going to drink. Your deal with Jake was about attending and staying for two hours, it said absolutely nothing about drinking or generally partaking in party activities. You don’t want a repeat of last time–you want the arousal that spikes your bloodstream every time you see his face to disappear as quickly as it came.

You’re avoiding Jake in the frat house by ducking into doorways and keeping an eye out for a blonde head of hair the best you can. At one point, Bradley spots you and sends a confused look your way, clearly scanning for Jake. He doesn’t do anything about it, you guess, because Jake doesn’t come running within the next ten minutes.

Keeping yourself pressed to the wall where the music isn’t so loud but you also can’t hear the way people are very obviously doing drugs in the bathroom, you count down the minutes til you can leave.

About five minutes before, you decide to sneak a peek in the kitchen one last time. Maybe you can rob these assholes of some Oreos or something as divine punishment–revenge of the nerds, or whatever.

When you get to the kitchen, you realize you’ve found Jake. His back is to you, and he seems to be holding court. Surrounding him is a group of frat brothers most of whom you don’t remember, with the exception of Javy, who’s leaning his elbows on the countertop and listening about as intently as a drunk person can.

“She’s fucking stuck up man, I don’t know how you do it. I don’t think being that obnoxious is a requirement to be top of the class.” One of the frat brothers that usually surrounds Jake scoffs.

You feel all the blood drain from your face and you suddenly feel like being sick. Backing away from the doorway to the kitchen you almost trip over your feet at the speed you’re trying to get away from the conversation, from Jake, from the frat house.

There it is–there’s your out. Your ick, if you will. Jake, standing in his perfect kitchen, surrounded by a bunch of barely matured fraternity bros, talking shit about you. It’s not that the feelings of hatred weren’t technically mutual, but the extent to which you complain about Jake is usually limited to surface level shit.

If you had stuck around for just a moment longer, you would’ve heard the way that he defended you over a chorus of agreement from around him, “C’mon man, it’s not like that. Don’t say shit like that about her. She’s under a lot of pressure and you’re kind of a dick in class anyway.”

But you don’t stick around. Instead, you push your way through the mass of bodies, accidentally stumble through a smoke circle, and you still seem so far away from the exit. You pass by Bradley again, and this time he’s with the girl that he insists is just a friend, but they seem too cozy for that in the moment. You don’t stop to say hi.

When you finally get outside, your chest is heaving and you think you might be sick, alcohol aside.

This is exactly why you focus on academics. They gave back as good as they got, never betrayed you, never let their friends talk shit about you. Academics never called you “stuck up”, stopping short of biting out the insult “bitch”. God you’re so stupid.

You should’ve never let him get close, you should’ve stuck to the project and just finished it without ever learning more about Jake beyond the bare minimum. No evenings spent crowded around a countertop covered in textbooks and notes, Bradley humming in the background as he cooked something delicious. No letting Jake buy you coffee or cafeteria food.

This is exactly what you deserve for letting him in.

----------

tagging: @roosterbruiser @joaquinwhorres @sometimesanalice @seresinsweetie @bobfloyds @theharddeck @jupitercomet @dempy @gigisimsonmars @sunsetsimpsblog @shanimallina87 @djs8891 @kajjaka @clancycucumber230 @desert-fern @bibitches-r-us @cruelmissdior @chaoticassidy @blue-aconite

#top gun: maverick #jake seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fic #jake seresin #jake seresin fanfiction #jake 'hangman' seresin #top gun: maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun: maverick fic #hangman x you #hangman x reader #no use of y/n #flight path universe

303 notes · View notes

lil-tachyon · 1 year

Note

Got any good resources for clothing drawing tips?

Okay so quick little introduction before I try to answer this question. First of all, sorry for letting this languish in the inbox for so long. I have a lot I want to say about this and I'd really like to make a proper "tutorial" but this week took a lot out of me so what you're going to get are some visual notes on graph paper and some rambling thoughts. Maybe down the line I'll try to flesh this out more into a proper guide, but for now it is what it is.

Second- for many different art concepts I can give you some really great recommended reading for self-teaching. There's a whole section of my website with links to things that helped me learn. Clothing is one of those things where I never found a book or tutorial that really "clicked" with me. It's one of the few areas of art where I feel like it's fair to say I'm genuinely self-taught. So what you're going to get here is very much my opinion, not undisputed common wisdom or whatever. Take it with a grain of salt. This is how I draw, not the "right way" to draw.

Third- drawing clothes is not something fundamental like perspective or rendering where there are actual hard-and-fast "rules" you can learn to guide you. It's not even like anatomy where there are approaches that have been worked out and passed down by artists over generations. I think about drawing clothing as a synthesis of several different skills- a little bit of anatomy, a little bit of perspective, a little bit of rendering. Honestly a smidge of graphic design. You're employing a "cloud" of your artistic skills towards a specific end. What this means is that the TLDR of this post is going to be "do what you would normally do to improve at drawing but apply it to clothing." So don't expect something life-changing, instead just open your mind to maybe trying some new things you hadn't thought of before. Also this is going to be more about drawing than painting, that is more about "lines" than "shapes" but the two skills overlap and the same concepts should be broadly applicable. But my examples are going to be drawings.

Okay intro out of the way. Clothes are mostly just tubes of fabric, fabric wants to fall down. The human body and sometimes wind and water and other fluids will stop this fabric from falling down all at once and instead give it a shape. Keep this in mind. It's helpful to know how clothes are actually constructed if you want to know how they will deform when falling across the figure. Where a garment is simply a length of fabric, it's very flexible. It can bunch together or be stretched taught. This is most noticeable at the parts of the body that open and shut like hinges- knees, elbows, and armpits. The behavior of garments at these areas of the body is highly dynamic.

At seams where different sections of fabric are stitched together, movement can be come more limited. Seams are usually imperfect- pieces of fabric of slightly different lengths might be stitched together or fabric may shrink over time around a thread causing it to pucker and wrinkle. For these reasons, seams often act as the originating areas for folds and wrinkles, even when a garment is not in a particularly flexed/active state.

In a two-dimensional image, it can be helpful to describe a garment in terms of silhouette and wrinkles/folds. The silhouette is the actual boundary of the garment, where the fabric comes to an end. The wrinkles/folds are where different parts of the garment pass in front of each other or where the fabric becomes bunched up to the point that light can't reach inside and occlusion shadows form. You should always keep the overall silhouette of the garment in mind to inform the bigger shapes you draw, but you will use wrinkles and folds to demonstrate how the garment twists and deforms. These are the basic tools in your arsenal. Keep it simple.

There are lots of different ways to approach wrinkles. My advice and my personal preference is to draw wrinkles as shapes and not just lines. Specifically, tapered shapes (like triangles) and be really good both for implying motion and the varying depth of a fold/wrinkle. Experiment with different shapes of varying angularity, fill texture, etc. Your hands and eyes will guide you towards what looks and feels good. There's no right way but I would advise you to exaggerate! Ask yourself- what's the biggest shape I can draw here? How can I twist it to make it bigger, crazier but still describe the form in a way that makes sense? It can be exhausting to just try to perfectly copy a reference and also using your imagination like this when doing studies will help build up your visual library for when you're drawing/designing clothing from imagination. In general I would advise you to focus more on drawing something that looks good (ie is composed of shapes that you find aesthetically pleasant) than is "correct."

Quick recap: Garments fall down, you can simplify an article of clothing into a silhouette described by folds and wrinkles. What next? Observe! Take notes! It is worth your time to think about how common articles of clothing are constructed. Jeans, t-shirts, dresses, etc. I used to do some hobbyist sewing and clothing alteration and I think that hands-on work with clothes has really affected the way I think about drawing them. You don't have to go that far but like- look at the world around you. Stuck on the bus, in school, in a meeting, etc? Even if you can't draw, look at how your pants bunch up around your legs, look at the sleeves of someone sitting next to you. I mean, don't be weird about it, but these are valuable observations. Think about how you would draw those things! Really getting good at drawing clothes involves studying them in the wild, understanding how they work, building up your visual library. Look at a faded denim jacket- at the puckered places where the indigo has rubbed away or the permanent creases that hardly see the light of day and remain a deeper blue. Look at petrochemical techwear outfits that break into jagged, high-sheen triangular wrinkles. Soak it all in!

Save pictures of and take notes on outfits you like, designers you like, garments you like. Keep track of these things. Come back and study them over time. Have fun with it! I have folders and folders and folders of images of clothes that I come back to constantly. Over time and with lots of study you'll learn what you want to draw when you draw clothes and that's half the battle. You'll have images of buttons, pockets, belts, laces, fabrics, seams, dancing around in your head that you can deploy at will. It's delightful.

Hope this helps! If anyone has more advice to add, please do! If this tutorial helped anyone, please show me your drawings! If you'd like more stuff like this from me, just send me an ask or an email and I'll answer it when I can.

Peace,

Logan

#illustration #art tutorial #art thoughts #clothing design #drawing tutorial

390 notes · View notes

bruh-changbin · 1 year

Text

paper boy

pairing: school paper editor! seungmin x afab reader

genre: fluff + smut (minors dni)

warnings: piv, unprotected sex (be safe), semi-public sex, brief mention of masturbation (m and f), brief mention of oral (f receiving), lots of kissy kissy, uhhhh i think that's it?

word count: 2k

a/n: this is... kind of a random scenario but i think i fw it haha. pls appreciate this little baby seungmin fic because a) i haven't written for him or skz in forever, and b) i'm working on some larger fics that i will share in the near future. as always i would love love love to hear your thoughts 😸 also I promise I don’t think all english students are pretentious I was just playing it up for the fic ok bye

photos not mine, credit to original owners (retrieved from pinterest)

.・゜-: ✧ :-　

when you first lay eyes on seungmin he looks as if he’s the human embodiment of scholarly.

black wire-rimmed glasses hanging off of his nose, a light grey hoodie donning the name of your university across the chest, brows slightly furrowed as he scans the desktop screen in front of him. he looks cute.

you’ve never been one to read the school paper (who does?). but felix wanted to check out the ads posted in the job section so he asked you to pick up a copy for him while he was in his afternoon lecture.

you’re a good friend, so you fulfil his request.

you’ve always found people involved with english-based extracurriculars to be, well, pretentious. more often than not they’re snooty rich kids who only use messenger bags and think they’re better than everyone because they know what words like malapropism and valetudinarian mean. see, pretentious.

ergo, you’re less than excited for your venture to the school paper office. but a promise is a promise (and felix vowed to buy you starbucks if you did this for him), so you follow the directions felix gave you to get to your destination.

when you first step into the office space, you’re somewhat taken aback. it’s much more… homey than you imagined. the walls, painted a welcoming shade of fern green, are accompanied by thick armchairs lining the interior and a bamboo welcome mat you wipe your shoes on. a salt lamp casts a warm, pinky-orange glow from where it’s plugged in in the corner. but the real treasure is the cute, puppy-looking boy sitting behind the front desk.

he looks nice.

virtuous.

innocent.

the kind of boy who’s coffee-toned bambi eyes are the epitome of sinless, who’s nice white teeth only reflect purity, who’s skin is so devoid of imperfections it looks like glass.

“excuse me, can i get a copy of the school paper?” you stutter out embarrassingly, feeling as if this is your first time operating your mouth, tongue and lips to form coherent sounds and syllables.

the boy behind the desk gives you a look that’s a mix of confusion and annoyance before glancing to his left. only then do you notice the painfully obvious display shelf donning stacks upon stacks of this week's issue, an obnoxiously colourful sign reading ‘school paper: grab a copy!’ plastered to the wall above really rubbing in your lack of situational awareness.

“they’re fresh off the press,” seungmin mumbles before going back to whatever it is he’s doing on the computer in front of him.

you nod even though his focus isn’t on you anymore before grabbing a copy of the paper for felix and heading back the way you came. when your sweaty palm comes into contact with the cold, metal handle of the door it shocks the sense back into you. you decide that no, you are not about to give up on this angelical boy just yet before spinning on your heel and spewing whatever thought pops into your head first.

“you smell like bergamot… what perfume do you use?”

he seems taken aback by your sudden questioning, his soft eyes widening just a smidge before he responds, “it’s uh, classic by clean reserve.”

“it smells nice.”

“yea, i like it.”

“i’m y/n.”

“seungmin.”

he sticks out a hand for you to shake. weird, not many people in your age demographic shake hands when they introduce themselves. but the way he stuck his arm out with restrained enthusiasm is endearing and you grasp his hand in yours. his fingers are long and dainty while his palm radiates warmth; he shakes your hand twice before letting go.

“what’s your major, seungmin?”

“business.”

“business?”

“yep, you?”

“environmental science.”

“nice.” he sounds genuine, “so are you gonna save the world?”

“i’ll start with saving my grades, then we’ll see about the world.”

he laughs at this. the apples of his cheeks puff up ever so slightly to resemble mochi, his baby pink lips curling upwards to reveal a set of straight teeth, perfected by the wires and brackets that are glued to them. braces suit him well.

you vow to yourself that this won’t be the last time you see him.

.・゜-: ✧ :-　

the first time you’re in seungmin’s bedroom your innocent perception of him is skewed.

he invited you over because he wanted to start watching breaking bad, a show that you, on many occasions, have raved about to no end.

his room is spotless, a level of clean that you’ve never seen a 20-something year old guy execute. which is why your eyes are immediately drawn to the small corner of paper sticking out from under seungmin’s bed. with the rest of his room being so perfect, this small discrepancy sticks out like a sore thumb.

when seungmin head’s downstairs to do god knows what, you grab the paper from underneath his bed and gasp when you find yourself face to face with a playboy magazine. pages upon pages, some with small tears or doggy-ear bookmarks, filled with women showing off their tits in promiscuous poses stare back at you as you flip through the magazine.

heat creeps its way up your neck and when you hear seungmin begin to make his way up the stairs you toss the magazine back under his bed. he gives you a skeptical look when he sees you standing in the middle of his room, fists balled up at your sides with an uneasy expression present on your face, before shrugging, hopping onto his bed and patting the spot beside him to get you to sit down.

despite the show playing in the background, your gaze continues to fall on seungmin’s side profile.

how can someone so innocent and good be into something so… raunchy? not that liking porn or hentai or whatever it is that gets you going makes you a bad person, it’s just that with seungmin it’s so out of pocket, for lack of a better term.

you try not to imagine seungmin getting himself off on the very bed you're sitting on, one hand holding his tattered playboy and the other gripping his cock. you try not to imagine the hushed whines and groans that would leave his lips in an exhale, ruffling his blonde-streaked bangs in the process. you try not to imagine how he’d bite his puffy bottom lip and throw his head back in ecstasy as he finishes all over his stomach.

you fail.

.・゜-: ✧ :-　

over time the innocence you once saw in seungmin wanes with a slew of firsts: the first time you caught him looking at your breasts through your near see-through top; the first time you found your mind drifting to thoughts of him and his fingers and his lips when you were touching yourself; the first time you made out with him in the back of felix’s corolla when he and changbin ran into the convenience store to get dorito’s.

if seungmin’s lips were a drug you’d be an addict.

you’ve lost track of how many hours you’ve spent with his tongue down your throat, your face going numb with the feeling of his mouth pressed against yours. he tastes like the spearmint gum he chews around the clock and you feel as if you could drown in his blown out pupils when he stares at you with lust and hunger and desire.

his calloused palms and paper-cut ridden fingertips know your skin as if it’s his own. he’s stronger than he lets on, which you found out the first time he fucked you from behind against his kitchen counter. you still don’t know if the purple and blue splotches that remained on your hips for days after were from his countertop or the grip he had on you.

in some ways he still has some of the virtue you thought he had when you first laid eyes on him.

he’s a people pleaser through and through, and will happily spend hours with his face shoved between your legs tongue-fucking you to orgasm so many times you swear you see god. or, he’ll watch with amusement as you struggle to get yourself off on his cock (which is perfect, by the way). the way he looks at you with something akin to pity when you’re perched on top of him - fat tears rolling down your cheeks because your legs are aching and you can’t be on top anymore but you wanna cum so badly - stirs something inside of you that nothing ever has before.

seungmin’s ability to fuck you so hard you see stars is the perfect juxtaposition to the version of himself he portrays to the outside world. kind, quiet, lenient. a picture perfect boyfriend.

you’d made a pact with yourself to get to know more about what it is he does for the school paper, seeing as that was how the two of you met in the first place.

“what exactly do you do there?” you question him over a slice of cheesecake you’re sharing in a booth at a secluded restaurant.

“i edit, do some admin stuff. you know, the works.” he uses his thumb to swipe a dollop of caramel off of your top lip before sucking on it. you swoon.

“do you want me to show you around the office?” he asks you while pulling on his corduroy jacket that makes him look like a teddy bear.

“what, right now?”

“why not? i’ve got the keys.” he pulls a jumpring holding a multitude of silver and gold keys out of his pocket as if to emphasise his point.

so you say yes.

.・゜-: ✧ :-

you’ve never been on campus after hours.

something about strolling through the dark hallways that are normally teeming with students and faculty really gets you on edge. but in a good way, like you’re feeding into the rebellious phase you had as a teen that you thought died out but still exists in some small part of your brain. your thoughts are cut short when seungmin stops to unlock to door to the student paper office and drags you into the place your first met him all that time ago.

seungmin explains how much of newspaper production has gone digital now and shows you the web offset press that’s responsible for printing the many copies of your school’s paper every week. he lets you sit at his desk and shows you how he edits upcoming articles while overseeing practically every aspect of the process. it’s then you realize how much seungmin downplays his contribution to the paper, for if he wasn’t involved as much as much as he is everything would be askew.

when you feel his hands creep their way up your back before stopping at your shoulders you relax into his touch. you’ve known seungmin was in a mood since earlier this evening; it was only a matter of time before he made a move.

he leaves feathery kisses on your neck and jaw while his hands slip under your top to palm your breasts. even the smallest of touches from him can reduce you to a needy, flustered mess.

the two of you fooling around in seungmin’s workspace was bound to happen, which is why you follow his lead when he moves you so you’re sitting on his desk, when he slips his hand into your panties, when he kisses you so hard you can’t breathe.

garments are discarded at a leisurely pace and soon enough seungmin has his cock stuffed in your tight pussy and is fucking you on top of his desk. the steady electrical hum from the backup generator isn’t enough to drown out his groans and your sighs of pleasure and the wet sound of your cunt sucking him in with every thrust.

seungmin’s tongue drags across your collar bones as you tangle your fingers in his chocolate brown hair with the toffee streaks in his bangs that you love oh so much. the hair at the nape of his neck becomes slick with sweat as his hips bump and grind against yours in a way that has the ceiling above you transforming into a blanket of stars.

you cry when you cum and pray for this moment to never end, revelling in the warmth of your sweet sweet paper boy’s body pressed against yours.

.・゜-: ✧ :-　

#stray kids smut #kim seungmin smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids blurbs #stray kids x reader #kim seungmin x reader #seungmin x reader

937 notes · View notes