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thebimbopalace · 9 days

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ᡣ 𐭩 blurb: with your ‘lover’ going out of town on business, he leaves you under the watchful eye of his most trusted hitman toji fushiguro — who grinds your gears.

wc: 1.1k

ᡣ 𐭩 tags: mafia au, hitman!toji fushiguro x fem!reader, foul language, feminine pet names, allusions to sëxual encounters, reader's ‘lover’ referred to as ‘wallet’

authors note: inspired by a scene from the film scarface.

“fushiguro, make sure this girl is taken care of while i'm gone,” your ‘lovers’ scratchy voice instructs the man cloaked in black before you both. the man gives a curt nod to his boss as he stands straight with his hands clasped behind his back.

as you sit there, bored, your wallet comes over and gives a chaste kiss on your jawline as he warns you to behave while he’s gone for the next few days. you give him your signature sweet fake smile as he walks out the double oak doors leaving you and the dark-haired hitman alone.

silence. silence envelopes you both along with that tension. it seems nonexistent to the naked eye but, you and toji know all too well that this sexual tension is anything but new. that doesn’t stop you from ignoring his obvious hungry stares while scanning your body.

you stand from your seat bending down and fixing the strap of your saint-laurent heel before straightening your posture. “if you’ll excuse me, i’m going to retire for the night,” you speak politely to the man before you, wanting to get out of this stuffy tension-infested office.

“that’s so? alone?” toji teases with that stupid smirk gracing his oddly plump lips. you lock eyes with him, not breaking away from his irises. “well yes, who else would i bring to my bed?” you inquired knowing where this was going. the question you just asked opened the door for toji.

and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t walk through it.

“you’re lookin’ at ‘em,” and there it is. right on cue. you can’t even sneeze without this man making some kind of pass at you. not to say that you aren’t flattered. you recognize that toji is an attractive man. scratch that, a very attractive man. but, with you fucking his boss that means you’re basically off-limits to anyone. even to the infamous toji fushiguro.

“don’t get the wrong idea fushiguro,” the snark evident in your tone. a stark contrast to your modest demeanor towards your wallet's subordinates. toji doesn't flinch at the, dare he say, bitchy tone in your voice. this is expected from you. so predictable, so easy to tease. “call me toji, pretty girl,” toji drawls, that teasing lilt ever so present.

that fucking nickname. you hate it.

you hate the way it makes you feel. the slow spread of flush, making your skin sizzle with arousal, the beating of your heart knocking against your chest when he looks at you with his fiery indigo eyes blown with desire and longing. he's getting under your skin. and he relishes it. you swallow down the lust rearing its ugly head clearing your throat.

“fine . . toji, don’t get the wrong idea, i don’t fuck with the help,” you warn. you trying to remind toji of his place is cute to him. he knows who you are to his boss, you know who you are to his boss, and frankly . . . he doesn't give a fuck. “you look like you don’t fuck, period,” he mocks as he crosses his burly arms over his chest, cotton sleeves straining against his beefy biceps.

“excuse me?”

“ahh seems like those pretty ears don’t work either,” he chuckles as he takes one step closer to you. his expensive cologne rises to your nostrils making your mind all fuzzy. his hulking frame dwarfs yours as he invades your personal space creating a thick, viscous atmosphere simmering with heat around you both.

“what i said was you look like you don’t fuck. i mean c’mon, that hot body of yours hasn’t been fucked properly in a looong time, right?” as his eyes scan the tantalizing divots of your body so obviously.

you’re pissed. not only at his blatant lack of a filter but also that . . . he’s right. it has been a long time. but you’re not going to admit that to him of all people. “who or when i fuck is none of your business,” you spit with venom standing your ground, maintaining eye contact. he wants you to crack, to be shy in the presence of him and his nonsense.

too bad for him.

he chuckles. that damned sound that makes your blood pressure skyrocket from the vibrations. “guess i was right.” his mitt of a hand extends as his calloused fingers tuck some of your hair behind your ear. “a shame really, a stunning beauty like you not getting the treatment she deserves,” clicking his tongue.

you scoff as you slap his hand away, “what do you know about treating anyone right?” the words leave your mouth like a river of molten lava, hoping to burn him with each word you utter. you scan his features to gauge his reaction and you find nothing. not a wince at the low blow you just dished out to him.

toji isn't going to let you see him sweat. you both are alike in that fashion. “touché, but i do know about pussy. and yours is probably in need of a good fuckin’. hmmm?” toji muses as his dark brow lifts, waiting for your answer. “wrong,” you lie. you and him both know you're lying. that's why, like clockwork, a chuckle escapes the back of his throat. he leans dangerously close to your face, lips a millimeter apart from yours.

“oh? bet if i slip my tongue in that begging cunt, she’ll start cryin’ for me," his seductive whisper brushes over your lips and kneads itself into your core, chipping away at the wall you thought you created between you two. “doubt that toji,” you firmly state, making sure to hide your ever-growing thirst from his closeness.

“yeah? come to my bed tonight, and we'll put that to the test," he challenges. a smug bastard is what he is. he truly expects you to say yes to his offer. to drop your guard, letting him finally have a taste of your saccharine slick that he'll happily lap up like a dog to a water bowl. unfortunately for him and maybe you, your pride is still fully intact.

you glare at him, voice raising an octave, “look, even if i were stranded, needy, begging for cock on a deserted island, you'd be the last thing i'd ever fuck.” and with that, you storm out the office heading down the hall towards your lavish bedroom without sparing him a glance. toji is left alone mulling over what just happened. your words said one thing but the appetite in your eyes said another. that passion, that fire, it's what keeps toji coming back.

you're normally so docile, polite even, to his boss and the other men who worked alongside him. but with toji, the real you came out. and for that, is why his interest is piqued.

“atta girl”

@shokosprincess @shaguro @sttoru @chromimis — *mwah*

#��ᝰ. ( signed your majesty ) !#toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji fushiguro x you #fushiguro toji x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x fem!reader #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujustu kaisen x you

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lizardaggro · 6 months

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on the flip side (twst bully!au) part 2

the first part is doing way better than i thought it would, so here's part 2! please note that i won't normally put stuff out this fast, but i got woken up by tumblr notifs and only got 2.5 hrs of sleep. if this is trash, that's my excuse. also working on something for bnha, but that sucker's looong.

part 1 part 3

genre: gn reader, angst trigger warnings: bullying, lil bit of yandere word count: 1082

The look on their faces was hilarious, to say the least. Adeuce were in shock, and Floyd looked like a kicked puppy. Not that you made a habit of that. It was a shame that you couldn’t hole up in here a little while longer, and you knew the door would take ages to get repaired, but it would be fine. The sudden shift in your attitude would still be jarring.

“Wha- prefect, what’re you talking about?” Ace asked incredulously. Deuce nodded vigorously in agreement. The two had been your first friends in Twisted Wonderland, after Grim of course, and then the first to turn on you once they got bored. You supposed it was just too much for their pea brains to bear.

“Did I stutter?” Your gaze was cold as you looked both in the eye in turn. “Every day, the poor defenseless prefect is beaten, abused, and scorned. And all for what? Your entertainment? You lot are sick in the head and it shows,” you berated them mercilessly. It’s not like you expected them to have a sudden change of heart. You wouldn’t forgive them even if they did.

Floyd had been silent since demolishing your poor door, which could be good or bad. You’d always found him hard to read. His mood could change at the drop of a hat, and you knew you weren’t his only victim. For all you knew, he’d start whaling on Adeuce instead.

And then he just had to go and open his mouth. “Aww, that’s cute, Shrimpy. You think you can get rid of me?” He taunted. Now that was a threat, and you knew it. Still, you never thought any of your former friends would describe anything you did as cute now. It was meant to be mocking, but still. Something about his demeanor was off. He seemed almost… hurt.

Nah, there was no way. You must be imagining things. There was no way Floyd Leech, of all people, enjoyed your company. You were alone here; Grim and the ghosts were your only allies. You shook your head to clear away the unwanted thoughts.

You turned to face Floyd, a sinister grin working its way onto your face. “Oh, whyever would I want to do that? I can do so much better, after all. I mean, who’s the one who told me all their dirty little secrets they’d never want to see the light of day, back when we were friends? Because of course the innocent little prefect would never dream of snitching!”

You weren’t bluffing. You didn’t have to. It was true, after all. Each and every one of them had confided in you to some extent, the Overblot victims most of all. You knew e~verything that ailed them, and it would be oh-so unfortunate if their less-than-kind peers were to find out. It wasn’t like you wanted to play the villain card, but you felt you had the right. They’d already betrayed you, so why shouldn’t you return the favor?

The three boys’ faces visibly paled after hearing your words. Everyone had something to hide after all, and they were no exception. Deuce had been one of the first to trust you with his secrets, as well as one of the most forthcoming. Back then you’d thought he was such a sweetheart; you never would’ve dreamed it’d come to this.

“Come on, surely you don’t mean that?” He begged. It was pitiful, really.

“Oh, I absolutely mean it if you don’t leave me the fuck alone.” No one at Night Raven College had ever heard you curse before, so it must’ve been a shock. Your voice was cold as you crushed their hope. No one had ever listened to you when you pleaded for them to please stop hurting you.

Once convinced that you really meant business, they promptly turned tail and fled. You didn’t blame them. You’d be embarrassed too if you still slept with a teddy bear. But this was good- great, even. Now you had the chance to put the next phase of your plan in action.

You’d start off simple, with a warning, in case someone didn’t think you were serious enough. You logged onto the school’s messaging forum, and anonymously exposed some poor random guy whose name you’d forgotten’s crush. Who also attended NRC, of course. It wouldn’t be much of a threat if no one knew who they were.

Not long after, there was a rapt knock on your door, or rather the adjacent wall. Thanks, Floyd. When you headed downstairs to greet your unwanted guest, you were mildly surprised to see Riddle Rosehearts, there in all his glory.

“Riddle? What brings you here? Are you going to blame me for not knowing the history of countries I’d never heard of until this year again?” You jabbed. Riddle was never one for physical violence; his Unique Magic didn’t work on you since you had none to begin with. Instead, he chose to belittle you for your lack of knowledge.

“I heard from Ace and Deuce that you’ve been airing students’ dirty laundry on the internet,” he said with a stern look. “I’m sure you’re well aware that this behavior is unacceptable.” Two could play at that game.

“Yes, Dorm Leader Rosehearts, and I’m sure you know full well that several of your students are guilty of assault,” you rebutted, using his position within the school for emphasis. “So tell me, do you really want to go there? After all, it’d be a real shame if your mother were to hear about this.”

You really hoped his mother never heard about this. Him being abused would only make you feel worse, and it certainly wouldn’t correct his behavior. The most you’d do was “accidentally” let the whole school find out he’s secretly a crybaby.

Riddle’s face grew as red as Unbirthday party roses. “You dare to threaten me?! I’d have your head if you had any magic worth sealing! But you don’t, so you’re lucky I even bother to tolerate your presence. I don’t even want to think about what your grades would look like if it wasn’t for my help.”

You really didn’t think shouting at you qualified as helping. But once again, there was that odd tone to his words, like he was implying that he wanted you around. There was no way Riddle of all people would agree to play some elaborate prank on you, so just what was going on?

#twisted wonderland #twst #yandere twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst bully au #ace trappola #deuce spade #floyd leech #riddle rosehearts

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loganlermanstanaccount · 10 months

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Rigor Mortis (part 3)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 2, Part 4

summary: A bad day turns even worse. Miguel surprises you.

warnings: angst angst angst, mentions of grief, very vague mention of domestic violence and abuse.

recommended reading: the painting Ophelia by John Everett Millais, and the song Ophelia by the lumineers.

a/n: i lowkey suck at communicating my "big" ideas so i really really hope this makes sense!

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 3.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

they were here, she says,

You’ve had your share of bad days.

Oh God , enough to fill an A4 binder with. For example, knocking out that tooth when you were twelve. A butterfly effect of fuck ups that led to a scuffle at school: blood in your mouth, a tooth on the ground, and a looong suspension. You received quite the earful at home, that day.

And then there was telling your parents you had dropped out of college. Telling them you were moving halfway across the country with your boyfriend. Breaking up with said boyfriend in your favourite diner; thus sullying Pam’s waffles and pancakes with the bitter taste of… oh-fuck-I-don’t-know-how-I’ll-afford-an-apartment-now. Oh, and heartbreak – although that wasn’t as immediate.

Scratch that, the day of the breakup had been fairly mundane. Pleasant, even. Jamie had an off day, and you only had a few lectures. He didn’t tell you, of course, so meeting him in the apartment was a surprise. You’re home earlier than usual, and you can’t quite bear to wake him up; slumped on the sofa like an old cat. He’s tired, lectures and clerkships running him ragged for the past few years. Only a year out until residency, with bags under his eyes as proof, and you see him less and less. All things considered, you’re glad to spend the rest of the day with him.

You’d spent too long after the break up analysing the days leading up to it: for a sign, something in his behaviour that would’ve warned you. And so, you remember it quite vividly: kicking your shoes off, putting your bag down, and sinking into the sofa next to him. You curl into him, looking up at his face: steady, tempered breathing. Something at your chest, solid and heavy. He looks peaceful, happy; and you haven't seen that side of him in quite a while.

When you shift against him, you knock against his shoulder. Jamie stirs, groggy, and eyes adjusting to the light. The first thing he sees as he wakes is you; romantic, in theory. His expression is etched into your subconscious; stark and stiff like a marble statue, or a tombstone. A flash of disappointment, lip drawn in what seemed like disgust – but only for a moment.

" Morning , baby." You squeeze his side, and take his hand into yours. That look ; it's gone almost as quickly as it came.

"Thought…" He frowns, fighting dregs of sleep. "I thought you would be back later."

"Nope." You give him a smile and he returns with one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He puts a hand on your cheek.

"Morning," Probably tired, he sighs deeply. You move on with the day. And he breaks up with you, not even 6 hours later.

You had had 4 years of that: good days, bad days, but most of them had been… mundane. Boring. Not quite the heat and intensity of true love, as the movies had gaslighted you into believing in.

You like the old black and white ones the best. Old fashioned, old-timey folk; declarations of love in tinny transatlantic accents. Suddenly, you’re on the floor of your childhood bedroom; eyes wide at the Sound of Music. Maria and Von Trapp hand in hand: her dress billowing, the flash of white glove on the small of her back. Love, love, love; and your lack of it.

You feel its loss all the same.

Despite all your efforts – including a dash to the station that could rival an Olympic sprinter – you were late to your first lecture. Sweaty, out of breath, and ambushed with a pen and paper; thrust into your hands on arrival. You look around to see dozens of heads down, scribbling furiously. A surprise test – and you’re late.

Hand aching, you barely finish within the two hours, after bullshitting your way through at least half of the questions. By the looks of the people streaming out of the hall; faces rumpled and grimacing; you’re not the only one. However, it does little to comfort you. You’re sure you're the only one failing so spectacularly, with the semester already half over.

You'd smacked your leg on the coffee table on the way out and a book had slammed to the floor. An art book, the kind in a model home - and you know damn well Miguel's not an enthusiast. The image sticks for some reason, leg aching as you trudge to your next class. When he gives you that blank look; the memory of men gone past is haunting – dead-eyed, and blank, like eyes cut out of a painting. You wonder if a Van Gogh would feel the same with the brilliant blue of eyes slashed out.

Nevertheless, you feel like lead. Off

to your next class, and it's going over material passed out the day before; which you didn’t have the time to look over. The professor drones on; voice monotonous and gravelly. Struggling to keep up, you sink into your seat – tapping away at your laptop, whatever you can get down. You pick at your lip, unravelling; unfurling like the tip of a slashed rope.

That's what you’re waiting for, you think: sandbags clattering down from stage left, to bring the rest of this whole farce down.

A sinking feeling, that starts at your chest and makes its way to the tops of your fingers and toes, leaves you numb for the rest of the day. Dread, like a shadow, at your heels in the corridors, across the courtyard, all around campus. Another lecture, and you make it in time for labs, barely, but there’s no time to go over notes; what you managed to scrape together in preparation. And of course , your lab partner’s sick, because that’s just the kind of day you’re having. It’s hectic, doing the work of two people with only the scraps you’ve cobbled together.

The pressure mounts. Like liquid in that flask you weren’t meant to stopper; and you just might end up like its remnants on the counter. Glass everywhere but where it should be. For a good grade, it helps to be organised: everything in its place, always. Except it isn’t, and you’ve fucked it up, again . It means the results don’t match up in your lab book, and another hour staring at liquid decanting, monitoring temperatures. Staring at stark white walls, with achy legs.

You step out whilst machines run in your stead, and shed your lab coat. It’s hot and stuffy in there but out in the corridor, you can finally breathe. Forehead on the cool wall, it all stops for a moment. The persistent buzz of your phone, sat in the pocket of your trousers, creeps into the quiet.

Absent-mindedly, you turn it on with a click. The buzzing stops. You’ve just missed a call from Miguel. It’s odd, he doesn’t usually call, but it’s the little box underneath the notification that makes you pause. A message, from a number you thought you’d blocked – that you should’ve blocked.

From:Jamie <3

Hey

From:Jamie <3

We should meet. I’ve still got some of your things in the apartment.

Your blood runs cold. Dread, like a shadow; its hand wrapped your neck. You can’t breathe, stuck under the weight of something at your chest. You can’t breathe, the walls close in. We should meet , he says. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world; just friends catching up over a coffee. Like you didn’t watch him carve out a chunk of your heart with a rusty spoon.

A panic attack, and you’re awkwardly hunched over by the wall, phone in hand. Someone will find you here, lying on the vinyl floor in Block B, spread eagle between lab 6 and 7. Dramatic timing, but if it kills you; you’ll find a way to haunt your ex's ass for the foreseeable future. And Miguel’s too, because if you’re having a bad day; then somewhere out there, he’s having a good one.

~~~

The apartment is still when Miguel gets back – unusually so. You’re not on the sofa, watching a mindless soap opera, or howling some song in the shower. And he’s had to deal with that most days for the past few weeks, a break in the peace and quiet he’s so carefully cultivated. Rigorous routine, they keep him together. He needed it; the way myth needs a martyr, the way flowers on a small grave needs a body. A tick-tick-tick in his head, that drives him a little less crazy after a morning run, or a good meal when he comes home. A countdown, he thinks, a mechanical clock whirring and puttering with a shake of its gears. He feels them stutter and start, slowing down, but not quite stopping. An ache so deep, he feels its creak with every step.

Absent-mindedly, he looks around the empty apartment, pulling at his ears.

When he was younger, Gabi would pull at his ears, to get him out of a book. Reading, always reading, whenever he could. At the dinner table, when his mamá would rap his knuckles with a wooden spoon and chuckle lightly at his little grimace. No en la mesa, Miguelito. Not at the table, Miggy. Léeme más tarde – read it to me later.

It was when he got his braces, and picked up a slight lisp. He stopped talking for a while, not completely; but a lot less, not as interactive in lessons. And it was always little Miguel, at the front of the class with his hand up to answer. It didn’t help that Gabi poked fun at him, often sneaking up to him to hiss in his ear: palms pressed together with a slithering motion, and then a strike to his ribs like una víbora - a viper , struggling to say his S’s. They’d fight because of it after, tousling on the floor of their bedroom in a mass of limbs, like pythons squeezing prey. Or at least, until their mamá rushed to separate them.

She didn’t like it when her boys fought; so they’d been forced to make up every time. He still has the scars to prove it.

Car magazines at first, and then the newspaper, whatever book he had picked up at the library that week. Even with his lisp, his mother made sure he read to her, and sometimes to Gabi as well, at least once a week. Looking back, she was never perfect; the things he knows now about his dear mamá, and her visage tumbles like Ozymandias in the sand. Her mother, married to a piece-of-shit mechanic; and his mother, elbow deep in the oil spill. That’s the funny thing about love, he thinks. Love, and the lack of it; dripping through the cracks, passed on through generations. Maybe mamá felt the gears shuddering in her chest. He hopes Gabi was saved from that burden.

A small voice at the back of his mind tells him: it’s not enough. Doesn’t explain the little boy pulling at his ears, in Miguel’s jacket and dress shoes.

A glimpse in the reflection of a shiny pan on the side table, and he looks like shit. Eyebags, a permanent scowl, shadowy lines that prick at the corners of his eyes. It’s ironic, crows feet without the penchant for laughing. He thinks you’d find it funny. The pink and purple of a setting sun spills in through windows and makes him sigh. It’s late, and you’re still not home.

God, you're strange; sticking your nose where you shouldn't. Disrupting the calm of his apartment. A sanctuary, and you've got your grubby paws all over it. Your shit is all over the place; pun-based mugs in the cabinet, chewed pen lids with no pens in sight, a blanket on the couch. The same blanket, a ratty old thing, that he usually meets you wrapped in when he gets back. A creature of habit, he folds it up; trying to ignore the whispers of your perfume, sweet and heady on the fabric.

He gets dressed, starting with dinner; knife on a chopping board cutting onions and peppers into cubes. It's therapeutic, the steady thud ringing out into the kitchen. Quiet, for a fleeting moment. But the worry, it sticks ; despite his better judgement. Before he changes his mind, he clicks open his phone to call you. It rings out – you don’t pick up.

The urge to call again is surprisingly troublesome, so he shoves it down with a piece of tortilla. It sits in his chest, regardless.

~~~

You trudge into the apartment. Squelch seems more accurate, sopping wet as you step out of waterlogged trainers. It was an inopportune time to wear jeans and forget a jacket – and you fight the urge to wring out onto the wooden planks. Miguel would kill you; the place was already falling apart, and water-warped floorboards might just be the last straw.

It’s thundering outside; a torrential downpour you’d just been dragged through. Dragged, half-running through streets-turned-streams, with nothing but a tank top and hoodie on your back. And you must look a sight , eyes bleary and slick with rainwater. The bag heavy on your back goes first, slipped off your shoulder and on the floor next to the coffee table with a thunk . You’re unzipping the flimsy canvas, inspecting its contents. A soaked through textbook, clumps of loose paper. You’re ready to cry when you see what's happened to the pages of your lab book; bleeding ink that’s only half-legible. But it’s the state of your laptop that makes your chest really heave and knees weak.

It’s slick with rainwater, and the sandwich you’d forgotten to eat, smeared across its fans. Caked on, more accurately; an odd sludge that you try your best to wipe away. You put it on the coffee table and your hand shakes as you press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead.

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands between the coffee table and the couch. Everything was on there: photos from senior prom, end of semester projects – your whole life. You have to dig your teeth into your bottom lip to bite back a scream.

Miguel peers from the kitchen, watching your silent breakdown. Quiet, and so still, with only the slight shake of shoulders to tell him that something is wrong. He glances at your half-opened laptop. He’d eaten already, clearing up what remains of his dinner and this is the sight he’s greeted with: the lady of the lake, lain between the reeds.

He shakes the image out of his head, and walks over. You feel a tentative prod, and look up.

“...I called you,” He says lightly, scratching at his neck.

You blink up at him. He thinks you look like a painting, watery and forlorn, framed in the yellow light of the soft bulbs.

“I was busy,” It’s not said with malice, nor as lilting as your usual sarcasm. Plain, simple. Busy. Your head slumps back into the little hollow you’ve made with your arms.

And so he sits, shoulders brushing against yours. He’s frustratingly patient, presence warm and comfortable despite… well, despite everything.

You can’t help it. Popping back up, you state, “You never call, though.”

“You’re never this late home.” Home. The word is heavy, knocks you onto your heels.

“So?” You shrug. “Could’ve been out with friends, or at a club–”

Laughter slips out like apples loose in a bag, spills onto the floor. Crisp, sweet; but you glare at him all the same.

“You don’t have friends.” He says it with the remnants of a smile, teasing. A challenge, and you’re more than happy to accept.

“ Not true , fuckface.” It is. You'd lost track of most of your friends after moving – and all the ones you made here? Your friends were Jamie's friends, and they chose him in the divorce. " You don't have any friends."

"I do ."

"You don't." It's your turn to scoff. "It's a Friday night and you're in here, washing up and planning to go to bed at a reasonable time."

"I'm an adult, doesn't mean I don't have–"

"The ones you fuck don't count." And then you pinch the bridge of your nose. "God forbid, if that's how you treat your friends…"

He laughs, properly, and you feel it in your chest too: the kind of laughter that bubbles like little breaths rising to the top of a lake.

“M’serious.” He says it in between gasping breaths and you try to steady your own giggles. "And, I have a friend who could take a look at your laptop, if you wanted."

His eyes flick over to the crime scene besides you. It's sweet, but.. "It's gone, Miguel, I know. You don't need to… try and make me feel better."

" Chula ," He flicks the deep lines forming at your brow. You look up and he says, softly, "I'm not trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to get you off of the floor so I can mop up that puddle."

With the way he says it, with that little smile, you don't believe him.

Now he's got your attention, he says, "You could've skipped that 9:00am. Or just been late. Don't think it would've mattered."

"Maybe." You shake your head. "M'not the best student. I'm blindingly… average. Just wanted it to be different, this year."

Your voice crackles, leaves something in the air he can't quite name. Quiet, again, except this time it's thicker. Smoke, ash, rolling clouds of melancholy in the little front room. For once, he doesn't know what to say.

You've got your head back on the sofa now, with a deep sigh. You look at the ceiling, and he's looking at you. It's the first time he's able to really study your features, trace the outline of your lips and sloping cheekbone. Your lashes, damp with little droplets of water, look crystalline in the light. Sparkling. Like the paintings depicted in the hefty book sat on his coffee table. He's read that one, twice , cover-to-cover in a fit of… insanity, maybe. He's not a man of frills and fancy, didn't really get it; nor why Gabi had given him the book in the first place. It felt like a filler piece, something to put on the little table and forget about, or to prop up a wooden leg. But that's not how his brother works, frustratingly convoluted. It's stupid, Miguel thought. Everything had to mean something , or what was it good for?

But looking at you, here, like this ; it clicks. Reaching over for the book, he leans it against the flat of his thigh. And you see it in the corner of your eye, watching as he flicks through the pages. Filled with art, it's the kind of thing on a table in a model apartment: a space-filler in a false home. When you first came here, the starkness and severity of the space had stuck. To you, the book had only reinforced it. Who was Miguel? A serial killer for all you know, stocking fluff pieces and coffee table books; only pretending to be human.

Finally, he stops, finger over a specific place. A double page spread, of surprisingly good quality.

He clicks his tongue. " This one. "

You follow his finger. A woman in a lake doesn't do it justice. It's beautiful, but it doesn't mean anything to you.

" Ophelia, John Everett Mills, 1852 ." He reads out the little label at the bottom of the image. "Like from Hamlet."

You shrug. "I don't…?"

"Well, she's in love with Hamlet, and then her father's murdered, Hamlet fucks off; and she's left heartbroken, goes mad because of it , arguably–"

"I've taken tenth grade English, Miguel. I don't get what that has to do with anything."

"She drowns herself. Also arguably, to be fair," He chews his lip, thinking. "Slipped off the bark of a willow tree, into a brook. Incapable of her own distress, or something. Drowns. Do you know how horrible drowning feels? How violent? And yet–"

He taps the page, and you come a little closer. Beautiful. She's beautiful.

"I'll admit it, I'm not a big fan of Shakespeare. Gabi – my brother – is way better at this stuff than me. Drama and intrigue and–" He gestures vaguely. "– love . That's why he likes it, apparently. And I… I know someone who really liked this page; I think it was the colours, or the flowers…? She said it looked like a photo, and that the woman looked so pretty in the water."

He pauses, dead-eyed. He's rambling, only taking a breath to compose himself." I… didn't have the heart to tell her that Ophelia, in this painting, is dead. Dead as a fucking doornail. Dragged through still water, sentenced to death by her passivity and grief – but you wouldn't know it."

Unconsciously, you trace the outline of her hair with your finger; swirling locs that blend into muddy reflections. She's on her back and fully dressed; a beaded skirt billowing out into the water. On her back and looking up, like you were on the sofa just a moment ago. Oh. Oh . You blink at the image. Flowers, peppered around to frame Ophelia in her watery grave. It doesn't look like a grave from where you're sitting, but there's a body in the water all the same.

There's a lump in your throat. Grief; the loss of 4 years of your life in a middling relationship, the aftermath of dead eyes and brilliant blue slashed from a canvas frame. Grief, rising to the surface like a bloated carcass. You thought you'd bound its ankles to cinder blocks and tossed it in a river long ago.

"I'm probably overstepping. For that, I'm sorry, and I mean it. But I think there's something else. I..I hear you rattling around at night; and sometimes, when I look at you..."

Your eyes are glassy, tears threatening to spill over. You’re hearing him but you don’t quite understand. Does he know? God, does he know?

"...it reminds me of this painting. You remind me of Ophelia .”

He sighs, turning to you.

“I know how it feels. And I think this shit is going to kill you, if you're not careful."

~~~

He doesn't talk about it. He runs off to start the shower, bundles you into towels and leaves you reeling. God, it's like you've been shot – barely a 10 minute conversation and he's cracked open your ribs to root around in what's left of you. He sees you; wades through the undergrowth and cuts through the bulllshit - he sees you.

You couldn't even answer. That's what stings the most.

You’ve settled on the sofa, cross-legged and still fresh from the shower. There’s a documentary on the TV; mindless background to Miguel clattering in the kitchen. He’s putting together some leftovers, even though you insisted that you weren’t hungry, that you’ve already eaten. Well , he had pointed to the gunk caked onto your laptop, wasn’t that the problem in the first place?

He’s good at it; wraps you up in the blanket you always keep draped on the cushions, and hands you a full plate. Wordlessly, because you suppose he’s said everything he needed to. Dutifully, he takes care of you, without a word; the strain of cutting you open on the coffee table clearly too much to bear.

You thank him, and he settles on the armchair opposite, mug of coffee in hand. The gloom of the TV bathes him in light, cuts his cheekbones and jaw just so. One of your mugs in his lap, and he's in a thick knitted sweater. His hair kisses the tops of his lashes, but he brushes it away. You swallow thickly, and when he turns, you look away.

“...You okay?” He asks, confused.

You nod, unable to speak. He gives you a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled up like crepe paper. You return it with one of your own.

He sees you. Finally, you see him too.

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#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #angst #lots of angst #atsv x reader #miguel o'hara angst

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thewriterg · 2 years

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♡︎𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭♡︎

Pairing(s): Peter Parker x Fem!reader, Peter Parker x Siren!reader, Sub!Peter x Dom!reader

Summary: At first he would’ve just been colateral damage but you couldn’t let him go and Peter knew you wouldn’t let him go and if you followed the plan you would be together truly soon —kinktober day; 21—

Word count: 1.0k+

Warning(s): Pure filth, Peter is 21, Mommy kink, oral m receiving, p in v, breath play, aftercare, a peak of manipulation, dirty talk, pet names, one mention of a drug —if you blink you’ll miss it—, and language

A/n:—GIFs aren’t mine— I got inspo from an Eddie fic I remember I read a looong time ago I tried to search my like but that was a lost cause so here we are

Peter felt that familiar chill rushing up his body, you were here and he didn’t even need to look at the time to see what the clock read it was 3:00am the time you came every night for the past six months

He felt your nails run up his abs him having to be shirtless and he still couldn’t help the fact but shiver and it never failed to put a dark grin on your face before Peter finally opened his eyes

“That was some stunt you pulled today with that Michelle girl hmm?” You questioned pushing at his lips softly with the pad of your thumb before he knowingly took your finger Into his mouth as you could here the soft suckling noises echoing through the darkness of his room before your other unoccupied hand slipped to his neck

“You’re lucky all I did was break that coffee pot because I don’t share, you’re mine and only mine and I’ve think that’s something you’ve seemed to forget” Your grip got tighter on his pulse point and Peter could feel himself get dizzy but refused to tap out it was euphoria in one swift motion

Peter had always thought you could read his thoughts because after one more squeeze you were off his neck while the lost oxygen returned to its rightful place in his lungs before you began leaving cold kisses back down his abdomen stopping just above his waist and smirk etching its way on your face

“So hard for me, as always” Peters senses were going haywire your touch was everywhere and nowhere at the same time before you began to palm him through his pajama pants

“Only for you no one else, only for Mommy” The brunette began babbling and it made your heart swell at the thought reality no one could please him like you did you were his and he was yours only

“No one can ever please you how I do, you would be lost without me” Peter pants were gone in a blink as he nodded rapidly in agreement his hips bucking into nothing as the cold air hit his angry red tip

You hand inched it’s way to the base of his cock your thumb wiping a bead of precum from its tip using it as lube before spitting in your hand as you began to jerk him off not giving the boy a chance to adjust as your hand moved at a rapid pace

“Look at you baby, going so dumb and we’ve barely begun” You taunted as Peter whined loudly before you brought his cock into your mouth your tongue doing spins and spirals on the tip that had his hips bucking and twitching roughly while you hollowed out your cheeks taking his length whole gagging slightly before moving your head up and down never faltering your quick movements while you brought a hand to play with his heavy balls

Peter struggled not to take you right there and fuck you both into oblivion but he didn’t have permission to touch you and he knew that but he also knew he was on the brink of the biggest load in human history

“I’m gonna- fuck I’m gonna come please” Peter was about to fucking cry when he felt your mouth leave his cock with pop as you started kissing his tip then trailing down his thighs back up to his face

“Two more weeks pup, two more weeks and we can be together the moon will reach its apex and I can return to my true form” Peter could feel the vibrations from your words in his jugular as you nipped and lapped over his neck sure to leave marks

“Gonna be with Mommy?” His big brown doe eyes stared into yours his head tilted like a curious puppy that had your stomach flipping in knots you hadn’t felt like this in years, century’s even

“Yes pup, you’re gonna be with Mommy” You whispered sinking down on Peters cock as he moaned such pornographic sound that it could be used for a movie scene his broken words going into your ears and traveling down to your cunt every time you skin slapped together as you bottomed out before thrusting him back in there was a new “mghf” or “fuhh”

“You can touch me baby” You reassured and that was all peter needed to hear before he flipped you both over him now being on top of you slamming his hips into you relentlessly at a brutal pace while tears began to drip from his cheeks down his chin at the grip your pussy had on him

“You fuck me so well baby, gonna fill me up go ahead pup” You moaned his pace bruising his groin smashing into your mound as you could feel the pleasure bubbling in the bottom of your stomach

“Close. gonna come. coming” Peter came with the loudest cry he screamed in the last six months as hot ropes coated your walls as you followed behind him tugging the roots of his hair before he collapsed into you using his shaking arms to break his fall

At least five minutes had passed before you slowly lifted your hands to Peters cock moving it back and out of your clit as he whined nudging his nose into your neck

“Gotta get a towel baby” You muttered lifting from the bed and into the bathroom that connected to Peters room grabbing a clean towel turning on the faucet dampening a corner before returning to the room

You took the damp corner wiping Peter base following with his tip which he jerked his hips at the motion whining

“Too much, no more please” He whimpered holding your hands in place while you shushed him softly

“I know baby I’m all done” You slipped back in the bed next to Peters side as you hand made contact with his hair scratching gently as lied on top of you nudging his nose Into your neck breathing in your scent

He knew you wouldn’t be there when he woke up you had no choice but he only had to deal with it for two more weeks and you could be together, you would turn him so you could love each other forever.

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tigertales9 · 4 months

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Hard Reset X

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Warnings: 18+ / Smut / Fluff

Description: This chapter takes us back to the city for the week 8 lead-up and win against the 49ers. There's also some Halloween night action.

Time/Place: Sunday, Oct. 22, 2023 - Wednesday, Nov. 1, 2023 / Cincinnati, Ohio (with a quick flashback to Levi's Stadium in Santa Clara, California)

A/N: This is the tenth fic in the Hard Reset series.

This chapter is a little longer and a little smuttier than I planned.

~ ~ I posted a sneak peek of this chapter, so if the first bit looks familiar, that's why. ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Sunday, 10/22/23 (Cincinnati, Ohio)

You shimmy into a slinky white t-shirt that's barely long enough to hide your pink lace panties; you check your reflection in the mirror before clicking the bathroom light off and walking into the bedroom, your gaze taking in the delicious sight of your husband sprawled on the bed wearing nothing but black boxer briefs.

You turn your bedside lamp down to its dimmest setting and slide into bed beside him, smiling when he rolls over onto his stomach, a sure sign that he wants his back scratched. "You tired?" you ask, rolling onto your side to face him before trailing your fingernails up and down the muscular expanse of his bare back.

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice muffled by his pillow. "It was a looong day."

"It was," you agree. "Sooo much football," you grumble playfully, laughing when he raises his head and gives you a look. "Sorry," you grin. "I know you love it, but several hours of nonstop football is kind of a lot."

"Good thing you and my mom spent a couple of those hours talking about how to decorate the lakehouse."

"That was fun," you giggle. "How many times did you almost refer to our bye week getaway as a honeymoon?"

"Several times," he admits.

"Me too. We gotta be careful or your parents will figure out we're married sooner than we want."

"For real."

"They were super surprised you bought the lakehouse. I think they were a little upset you didn't let them in on the secret, but they got over it pretty quick."

"They can't keep a secret for shit, and I wanted it to be a surprise for you."

"It was an amazing surprise," you sigh. "I still can't quite believe it." You push up into a sitting position and dig your fingers into his throwing shoulder, smiling when he hisses in pleasure. "You wanna massage?" you ask, straddling his waist when he gives you a muffled "yes, please."

You rub his neck and shoulders for several minutes before he breaks the silence.

"Watching all that football today got me hype. I can't wait to get back on the field."

"Your calf feeling good?"

"Yeah, as good as it's felt all season. I pushed it hard in my last few work-outs, and it responded well."

"Time to unleash hell," you tease, smiling at his gruff "damn right" followed by a groan as you slide a hand into his hair and lightly scratch your fingernails over his scalp.

You continue to scratch and rub him for a few more minutes before he speaks up.

"Do you feel different now that we're married?"

"Yes," you answer, after considering the question for a bit. "I was already fully committed to spending the rest of my life with you, but it feels different now that it's official, even if it's just our secret for now."

He starts to roll over onto his back, and you rise up on your knees to make it easier for him; he waits until you settle your weight back down on him before speaking.

"All the negative thoughts in my head are muted when I'm with you. That's always been true, but even more so now that we're married."

"I'm glad." You give him a smile before furrowing your brow. "Wait … what negative thoughts are you having?"

He takes a deep breath before answering. "Just worried about getting healthy in time to save the season. We've gotta come out swinging against the 49ers and the Bills. If we drop those two games, shit's gonna be bleak." He slides his eyes closed as he continues. "Also, I'm not loving the background noise."

"Background noise?"

"Overrated. Overpaid." He makes a stank face as he plows ahead. "I know what some folks are saying about me."

"You've been playing hurt all season!" you protest, your blood pressure rising as you lean forward and lock eyes with him. "And let me tell you something about those loudmouths spewing all that 'background noise' …"

"Babe?" he interrupts.

"Yeah?"

"I'm worried about saving the season, but the background noise doesn't really bother me. That kind of shit just fuels me to be better. I shouldn't have lumped the two together."

"Oh … okay." You roll your shoulders to relieve some tension, raising an eyebrow at his bemused look. "What?"

"You were about to unleash hell," he teases, laughing when you stick your tongue out at him.

"I get a little worked up when people shit-talk you, okay?" you chirp. "Most of those loudmouths hate you because you play for a rival team and/or because their woman wants to bang you. Simple as that." You give an emphatic nod as you finish your statement.

"Feel better now?" he asks, wrapping both hands around your thighs and giving a gentle squeeze.

"Yes. I needed to get that off my chest."

Y'all laugh together for a bit before you quiet down. You eventually drop your gaze from his face down to his broad shoulders and muscular chest, lingering there for a bit before moving farther south; you reach a hand out and ghost a fingertip over his blonde treasure trail, your eyes going wide when his flat stomach caves in under your touch.

"Did you just suck in your stomach?" you ask.

"Maybe," he mumbles, giving you a sheepish smile. "Dinner was so delicious that I ate more than I meant to."

"You worked out really hard yesterday and today. You deserved a little treat."

"I'm hoping to get another little treat tonight," he purrs, his hot gaze on your breasts causing your nipples to tighten under the flimsy fabric of your t-shirt.

"Is the door locked?" you ask, thinking about his parents sleeping downstairs.

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, his big hands immediately settling on your waist after you pull your t-shirt off and toss it on the floor.

"You want me to take charge since you're tired?" you offer, a small squeal escaping your lips when he easily flips you onto your back.

"Maybe for round two," he teases, holding eye contact with you as he kisses his way down your torso.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Monday, 10/23/23

You wake up abruptly the next morning, a shiver running through you as your nude body is exposed to the cool air; you turn your head and look at Joe, rolling your eyes when you see him wrapped up in the covers like a human burrito.

"Hey, wake up," you nudge him. "I'm freezing over here."

"Huh?" he mumbles, barely opening one eye to look at you.

"You stole all my covers," you grumble.

"Oh shit, sorry babe." He quickly unwraps himself and pulls you against him -- your back to his chest -- before tucking the covers around you. "Damn, you feel like an icicle," he hisses, throwing a leg over yours and rubbing a hand over you to help warm you up.

"No shit," you snark, trying and failing to sound stern. "My husband is a shameless cover hog."

"Sorry, wifey," he chuckles, dropping a kiss on your shoulder before pulling you tighter against him.

You give a content sigh as the heat radiating off of his big, nude body envelops you, your eyelids sliding closed as you drift off to sleep wrapped in his embrace.

~ ~ ~

The smell of coffee wakes you up just over an hour later. His parents are up, you think to yourself before slowly scooting forward a bit, trying to ease out of his grasp without waking him up.

"Where you going?" he mumbles, using one big hand on your waist to pull you back against him.

"Your parents are up."

"So?" he yawns. "They can entertain themselves for a while." His hand moves from your waist to your chest, his fingers teasing your nipples into stiff peaks as he presses kisses against your neck. You let out a low moan and bite your lip as he eventually slides his hand down to your crotch, his erection twitching against your butt as his fingers encounter your slick heat.

"We have to be really quiet," you whisper, whimpering when he slides a long finger inside you.

"Get on your knees for me," he orders, a little louder than you're comfortable with.

"Shhh," you scold as you do his bidding, burying your face in a pillow as he crawls between your thighs and tilts your hips up, your high-pitched whine muffled by the pillow as he slowly sinks his hard length inside you. He gives you a few seconds to adjust before pulling almost all the way out, pausing with just his tip inside before thrusting back in. You arch your back as he repeats the action, both of you moaning when the new angle causes him to bottom out. "Fuck," he grits out as your core clenches him, his thrusts coming faster and harder as you continue to whimper and moan into the pillow.

He eventually leans down and nestles his lips against your ear, giving your earlobe a suck while dropping a hand down to tease your clit. "The next time I fuck you hard like this, I wanna hear you scream," he growls, his deep voice causing a sizzle of heat to race down your spine. "Got it?"

"Yes, sir," you whine into your pillow.

"Louder!" he orders, pounding into you at the perfect angle to hit your sweet spot.

You lift your head up from the pillow. "Yes, sir!" you holler, much louder than intended; before you have time to be mortified that his parents probably heard you, he pinches your clit and bites your earlobe just hard enough to make you gasp, the sensory overload tipping you over the edge. You grind your face back into the pillow and moan his name as you come apart, your trembling thighs starting to collapse just as he wraps an arm around your waist to hold you up; he continues to fuck you through your climax, telling you how good you feel as your walls rhythmically squeeze his thrusting cock, your name on his lips when he finally releases inside you.

Y'all spend several minutes catching your breath, both of you groaning when he finally pulls out of you and rolls over onto his back. You eventually roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. "Do you think your parents heard me holler?" you ask.

"Probably," he chuckles, laughing even harder when you swat his arm.

"It's your damn fault," you hiss. "Louder!" you mimic his deep voice.

"Relax, babe. I'm pretty sure they know we have sex."

"Well, duh, but they don't need to hear us having sex."

"Come here," he coaxes, pulling you toward him, giving you a pouty face when you push him away.

"Nope, you've caused enough trouble this morning," you grump, rolling your eyes when he sticks his bottom lip out. "Tuck that lip back in, pretty boy," you mutter, trying hard not to smile at him. "I won't be swayed by your elite pouting skills."

He pushes up onto an arm and looks down at you in the dim lighting, his messy curls tumbling against his forehead. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

You ponder the question for a bit before answering. "Go downstairs and get me a cup of coffee, then turn the shower on to heat up so it's nice and steamy when I get in."

"You got it," he grins, planting a quick kiss on your lips before hopping out of bed and pulling on a pair of black sweatpants. He's halfway to the bedroom door when your voice stops him

"Wait," you urge, sitting up and giving him a once-over when he turns to face you. "Aren't you gonna put on a shirt? Maybe brush your hair?"

He shrugs. "My parents have seen me with bedhead and no shirt. What's the big deal?"

"You look totally fucked out."

"And?"

You heave an exasperated sigh. "And I think you should brush your hair, put on a shirt, and wash your hands since you just had them all up in my goodies."

"Good idea on the hand washing," he agrees, striding into the bathroom before quickly reappearing; he gives you a cheeky wink as he wipes his damp hands on his sweatpants. "Be right back," he states, grinning as he disappears out the bedroom door, still shirtless and sporting his messy bedhead.

"Stubborn ass," you grumble, smiling as you collapse back against the bed.

~ ~ ~

You're downstairs in the kitchen about forty minutes later, flipping pancakes and chatting with Joe's parents; you take a swig of your second cup of coffee, your eyes going wide as Joe bounds down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"You shaved!" Robin chirps, quickly walking up to Joe and pinching his now-hairless cheeks. He meets your eyes over her shoulder, giving you a look when you raise an eyebrow at him.

~ He received a call from Coach Taylor earlier, right before y'all were about to get in the shower together. He was just ending the call when you stepped out to dry off. He made small talk with you while you quickly got dressed, opting for yoga pants and one of his hoodies that hits you at mid-thigh. He clearly shaved after you left to head downstairs. ~

Sneaky, you think to yourself, checking to see if the pancakes are done before dishing them up. "You want some pancakes?" you ask him, giving him a brief smile before turning to grab the butter out of the fridge.

"Nah, I'm just gonna grab a smoothie on the way to the facility."

"Okay, see you later." You head to the table and set down the butter, maple syrup, and the platter of pancakes and turkey sausage patties, your pulse reacting when you feel his big hand on the small of your back.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asks. "Alone," he continues, giving you a smile when you throw him a look over your shoulder.

"Yeah … sure," you mumble. "I'll walk you out." You head for the side door with Joe close behind you. "Y'all go ahead and start without me," you call to his parents. "I'll be back in a sec." You open the door and step out into the garage, the cold air causing you to shiver a bit. "What's up?" you ask, not meeting his eyes as he steps out behind you, backing you up against the door once he closes it.

"You're mad that I shaved," he states.

"I'm not mad," you argue, "just a little disappointed. You know I love to watch."

"I know," he grimaces, running a hand through his hair. "I wasn't really thinking. Coach got me running plays in my head, and I was halfway done shaving before I thought about it. I'm sorry. I promise I'll let you watch next time."

"It's okay," you whisper, poking your bottom lip out and still not meeting his gaze.

He places a finger under your chin and gently tilts your head up, smiling when you finally make eye contact. "Your 'elite pouting skills' are way better than mine."

"No way," you mutter, matching his smile with one of your own. "Sorry I'm being a brat."

"You're not being a brat." He drops a kiss on your lips, lingering for a bit before pulling back.

"I knew it was coming," you sigh, reaching both hands up to touch his smooth cheeks, ghosting your fingertips over his immaculate jawline. "It's the perfect time for another 'hard reset' just after bye week."

He shrugs. "It's not even about football."

"Really?"

"Yep, it's about this," he murmurs, reaching a hand under your voluminous hoodie to cup your crotch, the heat from his hand radiating through your flimsy yoga pants making your toes curl. "I've had you in a chronic state of rug burn for the past few weeks," he continues. "You needed a break even if you won't admit it. The only solution was to shave since there's no way in hell I'm gonna keep my face away from your goodies."

You giggle at his emphatic statement. "Are you taking aphrodisiac pills or something? You're hornier than usual since the secret marriage ceremony, and I didn't think that was possible 'cause you've always been super high libido."

"You know what the best aphrodisiac in the world is?" he asks, grinding his palm against you, giving you a dirty grin when you bite your lip.

"What?"

"Having a gorgeous wife I can't get enough of."

"I can't get enough of you either," you whisper.

"Really?"

"Really," you assure him. "I can't be around you for ten seconds without my panties getting damp."

"If my parents weren't here, I'd take you right back to bed," he groans, removing his hand from your crotch to rearrange his budding erection. "They better be gone when I get back."

"They're leaving right after breakfast. You and I gushed about the fall fest so much that they found one about halfway between here and Athens. They're gonna hit it on the way home."

"Good." He drops another kiss on your lips before heading for his car. "Love you. I'll see you later."

"Love you, too. Have a good day," you smile, taking a few deep breaths of the cold air to clear your head before walking back in the house.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Thursday, 10/26/23

You're lying on the sofa with a heating pad on your belly, waiting for Joe to get home from practice.

~ The last few days had passed by fast, with Joe being in a perpetual good mood, his optimism infectious as he chattered over dinner each night about the upcoming clash with the 49ers. ~

"And I had to ruin a good thing by getting my period this morning," you grump, grabbing the temperature control on your heating pad and clicking it up a notch. You chew on your lip and let the bad mood wash over you, more than a little annoyed at yourself. "It's not like it was unexpected," you snark, heaving an aggravated sigh just as you hear the side door open. "I'm in here," you call, poking your bottom lip out as Joe breezes into the living room, his expression immediately sympathetic when he spots the heating pad.

"Poor baby," he murmurs, dropping to his knees beside the sofa. "Are the cramps really bad?" he asks, spreading a big hand out on top of the heating pad.

"They were a few hours ago, but the ibuprofen I took is starting to kick in."

"That's good," he says, nodding his head. He's been with you long enough to know the first day of your period is always the worst, both physically with the cramps and mentally with the moodiness. "Can I get you anything?"

"Maybe in a bit," you mutter, giving him a smile. "How was practice?"

"Great," he chirps, matching your smile. "Offensive scheme is coming together, and my calf feels good. Can't ask for more than that."

"I'm glad." You reach out and run a hand through his hair, still damp from his post-practice shower; he leans into your touch like a cat being petted, and you repeat the action several times before speaking. "I don't feel like cooking dinner so let's just order something, okay?"

"Whatever you want," he agrees, leaning down to drop a kiss on your forehead. "Just name it, and I'll get it."

"Chinese sounds good. Something spicy," you muse, giving it some thought. "I think I'll have Kung Pao chicken plus a bunch of carbs."

"Rice or noodles?" he asks.

"Yes," you answer smiling when he graces you with that deep, throaty laugh.

"Okay so both," he confirms. "And obviously we need egg rolls."

"Obvs."

"Cool. I think I'll get beef and broccoli." He drops a kiss on your lips before standing up. "I'm gonna go pick it up since that'll be quicker than delivery. Anything else you need me to grab while I'm out? Wine? Chocolates? Tampons? Weed?"

"I think I'm good on all that," you chuckle, already feeling 100% better. "I can't wait to eat way too much and then bitch about how full I am."

"It'll be a nice change of pace to have you doing that instead of me," he grins, turning to head for the door. "I'll be right back."

"Be careful," you call after him, marveling at how fast he turned your bad mood around.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Tuesday, 10/31/23

You study your reflection in the full-length mirror, a dirty grin gracing your lips at the thought of Joe finally seeing you in the naughty lingerie you packed for your secret honeymoon but never got around to wearing -- thigh-high stockings, crotchless panties, and a lace-front underbust corset all in jet black. You both get a little thrill from your height difference so you decide to forgo high heels. "He's gonna love this," you giggle, shimmying into a black silk shorty robe and belting it around your waist.

It seems fitting to wear this outfit on Halloween night, since it's a fancier version of the outfit you wore on the first Halloween y'all were together back at LSU.

"And I know the sex is gonna be even hotter," you purr, winking at your reflection before heading downstairs to set the mood.

~ ~ ~

Thirty minutes later, you take a sip of blood red pinot noir and hold it in your mouth for a few seconds, dancing it around your tongue before swallowing, your eyes surveying the scene as you wait for Joe to get home.

The house was already decorated for Halloween, but you added a few extra touches -- candles on every available surface plus several strings of purple lights. You draped a gauzy purple scarf over the lamp in the living room, careful to make sure no candles were close enough to ignite it once they were lit.

You giggle to yourself as a memory hits you.

~ You and Joe making love in his LSU apartment, a scarf on the bedside lamp creating mood lighting along with a couple of flickering candles. Y'all were going at it when Joe suddenly pulled out and jumped off the bed, grabbing the flaming scarf -- that you hadn't even noticed -- before jogging to the bathroom and quickly extinguising the flames in the sink. Your heart was pounding in your chest at the close call when he calmly walked back into the bedroom, still fully erect like y'all didn't almost burn the place down. He crawled back in bed and soothed your nerves until you begged him to finish what he started. ~

"Cool, calm, and collected," you muse out loud, smiling as you think about all the folks who say he'd be a great soldier or first responder due to his stone cold demeanor under pressure.

You're still smiling as you take another sip of wine and think back to his most recent display of cool under pressure.

~ The 49ers game two days ago had been his best performance of the season; he'd been dialed in from jump, and his stats -- 28 of 32 passes for 283 yards and 3 TDs with 0 INTs -- were even more impressive since he did it against one of the best teams in the league. The decisive 31-17 victory -- on the 49ers home turf -- was the cherry on top. ~

The sound of the garage door opening pulls you back to the present. You walk toward the kitchen, your pulse rate picking up as Joe rounds the corner and hits you with a loaded look.

"Hey babe," he greets, setting a bag of take-out from your fav Italian place on the kitchen island before closing the distance between you. His gaze slowly rakes up and down your body, a dirty grin gracing his sensual lips when he finally meets your eyes. "What's under the robe?" he asks.

"It's a surprise," you purr, batting your eyelashes at him as he lowers his head to capture your lips; you lean into him and open your mouth for his tongue, smiling against his lips when he slides his hands under your robe.

"Thigh-highs," he groans, running his fingers along your bare skin just above the stockings. "What else is under here?"

You slip out of his embrace and give him a coy look. "Why don't you take a guess?"

"Okay." He gives you another slow once-over, his gaze coming to rest on your nipples visible through the silky robe. "Nothing?" he guesses, reaching a hand out toward the belt holding your robe closed.

"You'll have to wait and see," you tease, spinning away from him and heading into the kitchen. "Can you light the fire real quick then change into the outfit laid out on our bed?"

"Yes, ma'am," he grins, giving you a wink before heading off to do your bidding.

~ ~ ~

He walks back into the kitchen just as you're finishing plating up dinner; you turn your head to look at him, doing a double take at how hot he looks in the black silk pajamas you got him to match your robe. "Damn," you sigh, giving him a thorough up-and-down look. The pajama top is unbuttoned to show his sculpted torso, the slinky pants riding deliciously low on his hips. "We better hurry up and eat before I jump you," you tease, handing him a plate full of food and a glass of wine.

"You're seriously testing my self-control," he mutters, waiting for you to grab your plate and wine glass before following you into the living room.

Y'all sit opposite each other on plush floor cushions, using the coffee table as a dining table. Joe takes a sip of wine and surveys the scene; the only light in the room comes from the fire, the scarf-draped lamp, purple string lights, and about 20 flickering candles.

"Very romantic," he smiles, digging into his dinner as you do the same. After several bites, he points at the lamp, a big grin on his face. "Remember the time we almost burned down the apartment complex at LSU?"

"Yes," you laugh along with him. That's why no candles are anywhere near that scarf."

"You freaked out when that happened," he teases.

"And your pulse rate didn't even react."

"Someone had to keep a level head."

Y'all continue making small talk as you finish eating. Once you push your plate back, he hops up and carries both of your plates to the kitchen before quickly returning with the wine bottle, pouring the remainder in your glass.

"You trying to get me tipsy?" you giggle, biting your lip when he shrugs his pajama top off and tosses it on the sofa.

"Maybe," he grins, grabbing a couple of plush throw blankets off the sofa before laying them in front of the fireplace. He grabs a log and throws it on the fire before turning to face you.

You take a gulp of wine, allowing your eyes to travel over his tall, muscular frame that's backlit by the flickering fire. "Remember the naughty lingerie that you never got to see on our secret honeymoon?" you ask.

"Yeah."

"That's what I'm wearing under the robe."

"Why don't you show me?"

You stand up and walk toward him, slowly untying the belt on your robe. "Remember the first Halloween we spent together? The naughty librarian outfit I wore?"

His eyes go wide at the memory. "Thigh-highs and crotchless panties?"

"Yep, plus a little something extra." You shrug the robe off and toss it on the sofa, your core contracting at the hot look in his eyes as he gives you a slow once-over.

"Damn," he breathes, his eyes lingering on your bare breasts exposed by your underbust corset. "Turn around," he eventually orders, quickly closing the distance between you as you do his bidding; he drops a line of kisses from your shoulder all the way up the curve of your neck, ghosting his fingertips over your nipples as you grind your ass back against him. "So fucking sexy, baby," he whispers in your ear, gently pinching and tugging your sensitive peaks. "I want you to ride my face," he continues, sliding a hand down to your crotch, slipping his fingers inside the slit in your panties to play with your slick folds.

"I'm gonna cum if you keep doing that," you whine. "Cum on my tongue instead," he purrs, removing his hand from your panties before lying down on the plush nest of blankets; he crooks two fingers at you, beckoning you toward him while slowly licking his lips. You grab your wine glass and take one more hearty gulp before straddling his face, his hot tongue immediately delving into your aching core drawing a series of whimpers and moans from you.

Your first climax hits hard and fast, but the second one comes much slower, with him strategically avoiding your super sensitive clit to keep you on the edge as long as possible before triggering your orgasm. You fall over onto your back when he finally finishes you off, your head spinning and heart pounding as you struggle to catch your breath.

You eventually flutter your eyes open, giving him a satisfied smile as he pushes up onto one arm and looks down at you. "If there was an Olympic gold medal in pussy eating, you'd def win it," you pant, cupping a hand behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss; you lick your juices off of his chin before sucking his tongue into your mouth, dropping a hand down to tease his erection through his slinky silk pants. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to sting before gently sucking it, and you feel drunk with desire as he repeats the action.

"I want you to fuck me hard," you whisper against his slick lips, slipping your hand inside his pants to grip his cock. "Tell me how you want it," he urges, making a noise between a groan and a growl as you pump him several times, gathering some precum on your fingers before sucking them clean; you roll over onto your stomach and get on all fours, throwing him a look over your shoulder as he slides his pants off before lining his tip up with your entrance.

He slowly sinks inside you, giving you a few heartbeats to adjust to his thickness before starting to move. "Harder," you whisper, dropping your head down against the plush blanket while arching your back into his thrusts. He does as ordered, picking up his pace as you fuck back against him. "Harder!" you whine, needing him to give you a taste of the pleasure/pain combo to set off your third climax.

He slows his thrusts for a bit, and you immediately open your mouth to complain. "Shhhh," he soothes, leaning forward until his chest is pressed against your back. "I got you." He shifts his weight onto his left arm and wraps his right hand around your throat, squeezing just hard enough for the edges of your vision to go hazy while relentlessly pounding into you. "Yeah," you gasp when he eases his grip. "Just like that. Don't stop!"

It takes a few more minutes to trigger your orgasm, his big hand releasing your throat just in time for you to let out a primal scream as your climax rips through you; you come close to blacking out for a second, and when you come back to your senses he's still fucking you hard, holding you up with an arm around your waist so your shaky legs don't collapse. You reach a hand back between your legs and cup his balls, your core clenching when you feel how slick he is with your arousal; you give them a gentle tug just as he buries his length deep inside you and comes apart.

Your legs eventually collapse and he lets you down easy, careful not to crush you with his big body. After several minutes of mutual heavy breathing, you roll over onto your back and turn your head to look at him, both of you laughing at how fucked out y'all look.

"That … was … amazing," he says between gulps of air, gesturing at your outfit before continuing. "Pretty sure this needs to be a Halloween tradition."

"I agree," you pant. "I've always heard sex gets boring once you get married."

He scoots closer and drops a kiss on your shoulder. "I guess we're doing it wrong."

"If we're wrong I don't wanna be right," you giggle.

"For real," he laughs with you, sitting up to help when you start unlacing your corset.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Wednesday, 11/1/23

You finish packing your Halloween decorations into a few storage boxes, your eyes scanning the living room to see if you missed anything.

Your day had been decently productive -- two virtual work meetings, a few chores, and a homemade pumpkin pie, all accomplished with a delicious ache between your thighs that had you smiling every time you thought about last night.

"I'm home," Joe calls as he breezes in the side door. "Oh my God, do I smell pumpkin pie?" he groans, making a beeline for the kitchen island where the pie is cooling.

You grin at him as he leans down and takes a hearty sniff of the pie. "You want a slice now or after dinner?" you ask.

"Now!" he chirps, grabbing a plate and fork as you cut him a generous slice.

You slide the pie onto his plate and give him a wink. "I guess the AFC Offensive Player of the Week deserves to have dessert before dinner."

He takes a big bite, giving you a grin as he chews and swallows. "You'd let me have it before dinner even if I wasn't player of the week."

"Thanks for admitting you're a spoiled little shit."

"But you love me anyway, right?"

"More than anything."

"Love you, too," he mumbles around a hearty mouthful. "What's this?" he continues, pointing his fork at a stack of three countertop samples.

"The countertop samples I ordered for the lakehouse. Two quartz and one granite." You spread the rectangular slabs out on the kitchen island, pointing at the one on the far left. "I think we can eliminate this one," you state. "It's just kind of flat and blah. No pizzazz."

"I agree." He pops the last bite of pie in his mouth and sets his plate in the sink before continuing. "The other two look pretty cool."

"This is the quartz I picked out for my parents' lakehouse when they did the kitchen reno last year." You point at one sample before turning your attention to the other. "But I'm kind of feeling this granite. It's got the same black background with blue and green accents, but the accents are a little larger and blingier than the more subdued quartz."

He nods his head and steps closer, leaning down to study the granite. "It's got the teal we're using as our accent color."

"Exactly. Plus a lot of the dots remind me of your eyes -- blue, green or gray depending on what you're wearing and the way the light hits you."

"What color are they right now?" he asks, leaning close to give you a better look at his eyes.

"Blue with a hint of green," you answer, scanning the sample until you find a shimmery dot that matches. "Just like this," you continue, pointing at the colorful orb.

"Cool," he mutters, studying the dot for several seconds before grabbing your hand and stepping back a bit. "When you look at it a little farther back, all of the colorful dots look like distant galaxies floating in the vastness of space," he states. You turn your head and study his profile as he stares at the sample, a huge grin on his face as he continues. "It looks like an image from the Hubble telescope. Like a deep field shot."

"Raging space boner sequence initiated," you chirp in a robotic voice, laughing when he cuts a side-eye at you. "I'm kidding, babe. I'm glad you like it."

"I love it," he grins. "Can't wait to see it in the lakehouse."

You pull him close, tilting your head to look up at his face. "I'm really proud of you. You fought through a very painful calf injury, never complaining about the pain or how it hampered your mobility. Everybody got a nice reminder last Sunday of just how fucking amazing you are when you're mostly healthy."

"Thanks," he mumbles, his 'aw shucks' body language making you smile as he leans down to give you a quick kiss before continuing. "I'm optimistic that my calf will continue to improve. We might just save the season after all."

"After the clinic you put on against the 49ers, I bet the Bills are shaking in their cleats," you chuckle.

"Time to unleash hell," he grins.

"Damn right." You wrap a hand behind the nape of his neck and pull him down for a kiss, your outlook on the season feeling really positive for the first time since before his calf injury.

#joe burrow #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine

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