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sanjisboyfie · 6 months

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basketball player ! gojo satoru headcanons

gojo satoru x male reader

warning: short dialogue of homophobia (satoru deals with it swiftly though)

-> HE'S SO BABYGIRL IN THIS PHOTO.

basketball player ! satoru . . . who is even taller than canon because why would he be a professional basketball player and only 6'3 guys c'mon, bro has to be at least 6'6-6'8. but of course, he's not only gotten bigger, his ego did as well. add the fact that he's a good player...yeah, no one is safe from the cocky, lowkey-asshole basketball player gojo satoru. (except for you !!! because he acts like a complete and total sweetheart to you).

basketball player ! satoru . . . being so shamelessly and publically infatuated with you, his lovely, lovely, lovely boyfriend. he is always on top of you anywhere in public, makes sure you're always courtside, he needs to make sure his baby can see him.

during satoru's matches, he's always focused in. he doesn't really look at you that much and you do understand. he's trying to win, he hates losing. so he gives everything for his team to be the ones on top.

his tall figure moves cleanly across the court, making his team win more than 50% of the time. and when he scores that winning shot, he's running over to you first.

he's bulldozing through the people that are running to him because he can give less of a shit about them. his piercing blue eyes are focused in on you and only you. how your eyes are teary from how proud you are of him for making the winning shot, how high your cheeks are from that charming smile, and how your arms are already open and expectingly waiting for him.

he powers through the crowd and takes you into his arms, grinning into the skin of your neck before pulling away and proudly kissing you in front of everything and all the cameras.

the crowd loves it, the deafening screams from the stands are enough to show for that. they love how openly in love satoru is with you, how completely smitten he is.

his arms are bound around your waist and he's easily hold you up in his arms as he spins the two of you around. you're in your own world as you laugh at his antics and hold on tight to his sweaty torso to not lose balance.

"i love you, sweet boy," he whispers into your ear, looking at the cameras that are all around him with nothing but pure euphoria in his eyes. "i love you so much, couldn't have done it without you. it's all for you, all of it,"

the world can't hear him, but they can read his lips. and twitter falls in love with that moment and use it to set their expectations and standards even higher than they already were.

shoutout gojo satoru for being so obviously in love with you.

basketball player ! satoru . . . who is always photographed beside you. if this man ever comes out of his home, it's only because you're also leaving your shared home and he cannot be alone for the life of him (plus, he just wants to be near his boyfriend all the time). the fans love you guys so much because of how lovey-dovey satoru gets with you, and only you. they've never seen him be so soft for anyone else.

satoru was draped over your back, craning his head down so that his face near yours. with your drastic height difference, it definitely made some passerbys look at you two with wide eyes.

an abnormally tall man trying to shrink himself down to the height of his boyfriend. satoru's arms were hanging in front of your torso, holding your shopping bags in his slender fingers with ease.

he was giggling in your ear, watching the tiktok that was playing from your phone. it was a silly comedy video, pressing his finger to the screen to open up the comments.

and then when it was finally your turn to order your drink at the cafe, he took the phone from you and continued on watching as you ordered. you rolled your eyes at his antics, muttering under your breath about how he was just a big, ipad man-baby.

the woman at the counter took your order as calmly as she could, recognizing you and the towering figure behind you. after ordering, you wordlessly took satoru's wallet out from the bag he was holding and dropped a hefty tip into the tip jar.

after pocketing his wallet back into your pocket, you had to physically drag him from where he was standing because he was so immersed in the tiktoks on your fyp that he didn't realize that you were done ordering.

as you waited by the counter, you took note of how there was now a swarm of papparazzi crowding around the exit of the humble cafe you two were in.

taking note of the mass amounts of people, satoru looked at you with a softness he only uses with you, "do you want me to call the guys? they can clear them up for us before we leave,"

you hummed, thinking about it before nodding, "yeah, these people didn't ask for those annoying cameras to be flashing through the window like that. it's so fucking rude," satoru nodded in agreement, taking out his own phone (which looked like a toy in his huge hands) and exchanged some words with his own team of security.

by the time your coffee was finished brewing and served to you, the papparazzi were being held off by a chain of bodyguards and being held at bay so that you two could peacefully leave the cafe.

the next day, pictures of you two leaving were trending on all social media. satoru's hand was around your shoulders in all of the photos, his hand around your shoulder was protectively blocking the side of your face that was being bombarded by the blinding flashes. a scowl was on his face as he walked through the crowd to your car. he opened the door for you first, walking around the front of the expensive vehicle and flipping the cameras off one last time before getting into the driver's side and speeding off.

"i was in the cafe, trying not to freakk out beacuse oh my god gojo satoru and [name] [last name] were right in front of me. and i swear the moment gojo noticed that he was uncomfortable with the people, he called his team or whatever to get all the paps out!!"

"they're so cute, do you see how gojo is holding him so close??? ughh literally goals!"

"seeing what gojo is like on and off court is crazy, thanks [name] for showing us his soft side <3"

basketball player ! satoru . . . uses every chance he gets to talk about you when he does press conferences or interviews. lovingly calls you his "baby," "hubby," or, "handsome boy."

basketball player ! satoru . . . god forbid someone say some sneaky shit to him about his relationship with you aka his sexuality. if someone tries anything with a backhanded comment about satoru's relationship with you, they will be dealt with swiftly and colorfully (as in, he will be cursing them out with zero remorse and no hesitation). because foh with that homophobic shit, satoru has no patience for that.

"so how have you and the mister been doing, gojo? you're nearly hitting the three year mark!" a very enthusiastic reporter asked, a wide grin on their face.

and satoru felt his lips tug up in a grin at the mention of you, holding the mic carefully as he spoke, "we're doing great, yeah, uhm, we got another cat - even though i told him i wanted a dog. it's a cute addition to our little family."

his response made the reporter only more giddy, going on to ask another question regarding your homey life together, before they were cut off by a rude person in the crowd shouting, "how does it feel to be acting like a fucking bitch dating another dude?! top paid player gojo satoru takes it up the ass!? you're fucking disgusting!"

satoru's eyebrows lifted in surprise at the audacity of the person, his blue eyes scanning the crowd for who was responsible for screaming that.

"sorry, whoever that was, could you just stand up?" he asked into the mic, his once cheerful and laid back tone turning into an intimidating rumble, "c'mon, don't be a pussy, where the fuck are you?"

the security grabbed ahold of the guy and satoru visibly blanched at the sight of him.

"say that shit again to my face, let's hear it," satoru goaded the man, who was now sweating bullets. "oh, don't give me that look! do you really think i'd let you say that shit without any consequences?" a sarcastic laugh left satoru's lips, "look into all these cameras, man, you're fucking ruined. no one wants a homophobic, ugly dude representing them and their company. no, because did you really think i'd let you disrespect my man like that?"

there was a hanging silence in the room as satoru glared at the man.

"don't even think about speaking about my relationship with [name] ever again. or else, you're really fucking dead. it's not a threat, it's a promise. i'll bash your head in," satoru said, slamming the mic onto the table and walking out of the grand conference room. he didn't even flinch at the flashes of the cameras, calmly putting his signature sunglasses down to block out the blinding lights.

that day, the only thing that calmed him down was holding you in his arms. his manager had called you to the greenroom since he was giving everyone a bad attitude, unintentionally, and borderline throwing a tantrum.

when he finally got you in his hold again, he apologized for his behavior earlier.

"don't apologize to me, apologize to your team who had to deal with your bullshit before i came," you lightly scolded him, running your hand through his soft locks. "are you feeling better, though?"

"better now that you're here," he squeezed around your waist, burying his head into your neck, "much better, thank you, baby,"

basketball player ! satoru . . . has his entire social media feed just be pictures of you and what you two do together. whether it's your latest, impromptu trip to hawaii or just a picture of you two cuddling in bed, you're all over his feed. his social media just screams how in love with you he is. his fucking profile picture is of you two cuddling in bed with his jersey very subtly seen as the only thing you're wearing. before that, it was just a picture of him and you kissing that he took when you went on your anniversary trip last year. his bio is the team he plays for, his jersey number, and then a white heart next to your username as he blatantly tags you in his bio. underneath that there might be a, "happily married" with the ring emoji next to it even though you two aren't even married yet.

basketball player ! satoru . . . who would spoil you rotten with everything you ever want. why would he have all this money if not to spoil you??? he just wants to make you happy with anything he can provide, and if part of that is him dropping bands on top of bands on whatever it is you want, then so be it. he doesn't care. he's willing to spend however much he needs to keep you happy and content.

satoru's win had encouraged him to treat YOU out to a mall trip .... even though he was the one who should have been celebrated and treated out since he was the winner.

he cheesily denies that offer by saying, "i'm only a winner because i have you, baby boy, c'mon let me treat you," and then he playfully bites the lobe of your ear to distract you from teh mass amounts of money he is going to spend on you.

that day, you walk out of the mall with a whole bunch of bags (gucci, burberry, dior, prada, etc.etc.) that he's easily holding in his large hands. people notice that there is a new chain around your neck with a cute "g" and "s" charm hanging from it, refracting every bit of light that gets caught in its surface with how blinding the diamonds are. he has a matching one as well, with your initials, which he proudly shows the cameras of the papparazzi as they soon swarm you guys. then he's flipping them off again.

you and basketball player ! satoru are a power couple that the media and fans love. any homophobic comment that reaches satoru's ears are called out and dealt with by his sharp tongue and scary, blue eyes glaring at whoever was dishing out those comments. he's a complete softy for you too and he is NOT one to shy away from that, loves showing off how happy he is with you and ONLY you.

also last bit before i go: he definitely has two photos of you in his wallet. one of them is a cute polaroid you guys took at his family's house for xmas the other is..............promiscuious.

-> next, drabble <3

#jjk male reader #jujutsu kaisen male reader #jjk x male reader #jujutsu kaisen x male reader #gojo satoru male reader #satoru male reader #gojo satoru x male reader #satoru x male reader #satoru reader #gojo x male reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru imagines #satoru imagines #satoru headcanons #gojo satoru headcanons #male reader

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rainyinautumn · 1 year

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Did someone say COMPLETE DATA ANALYSIS OF ALL THE DEATHS IN THE LIFE SERIES? No? Well. I did it. Here are some neat graphs for you guys to look at so that you don’t have to deal with the gigantic spreadsheet I did!

Let’s start off with the big bad question: what gets people killed in this game, anyway?

Note that a CAUSE OF DEATH is not the same as a KILL. Cause of death is what pops up in the chat when someone dies (ex. PearlescentMoon was slain by Smallishbeans, BdoubleO100 fell from a high place). The cause of death does not always account for player responsibility (ex. TNT traps). Generally, a player is only considered to be someone’s cause of death if the death occurs through direct PvP combat. HOWEVER, responsibility for an indirect kill such as a trap still goes toward a player’s total kill count—for example, Joel has 14 kills overall, 10 of which are direct enough for him to be considered the actual cause of death. After all, axes don’t kill people without being swung by someone.

A few other whacky things about kill counts:

Self-inflicted deaths do not count toward a player’s kill count (ex. Grian doesn’t get a kill for jumping off Monopoly Mountain at the end of 3rd Life, Scott doesn’t get a kill for blowing himself up at the end of Double Life).

When it comes to Double Life, soulmates are considered to share their three lives. No distinction is made between Soulmate A's life and Soulmate B's life, and each death only counts as one kill (ex. Joel gets one kill for killing Scott with fireworks, even though that also killed Pearl (however, Pearl’s cause of death is still Joel, as her life is considered the same as Scott’s)).

Using the /kill command does not count toward your kill count. Grian.

With that cleared up, let’s look at kill counts.

By the skin of his teeth, Grian leads the pack in total kills. The top three you see on that graph are the only players who have a KDR (kill-to-death ratio) of more than 1—for you folks who are unfamiliar with those, a KDR of more than 1 means you kill other people more often than you die. Less than 1 means you die more often than you kill other people. Here are the highest and lowest KDRs in the series:

“What’s this?” I hear you say. “Jimmy Wet-Paper-Bag-of-a-Man Solidarity DOESN’T have the lowest KDR in the series?”

No. No, he does not, and it’s actually really funny you should ask.

Because of Last Life’s mechanic of life transferring, even players that have been in all three installments of the Life Series don’t have the same death count. Eight players died more than three times in Last Life. Another eight died exactly three times. And one player only died twice.

By virtue of starting on yellow and never receiving any extra lives in Last Life, Jimmy holds the record for fewest deaths in an installment of the Life Series with just two deaths in Last Life. He is the only player to ever die less than three times in a game. This means that although he has just one kill, he has fewer total deaths than BigB (who has died a very standard nine times), the only other player with one kill, so his KDR is higher. Congrats, Jimmy, you’re not last in everything. But you are still the only player without a PvP kill.

Speaking of PvP, it’s time to look at how people do that! Here’s a graph of the top five weapons that tend to land PvP kills the most in the series:

And now here’s weapon preferences by game:

[Double Life not depicted due to lack of PvP deaths—only 4 occurred, using a diamond axe, a diamond sword, fireworks, and an iron axe respectively.]

Despite 19 more deaths occurring in Last Life than 3rd Life, the two actually have the exact same amount of PvP kills (28). It’s interesting to note the strong preference for bows in 3rd Life, which was a much more warlike game and had several fairly formal battles where people fought from a distance. Last Life required an overall sneakier strategy, resulting in a higher use of traps. In combat, non-ranged weapons like swords and axes were generally preferred due to fights often starting in close proximity and without warning, courtesy of the Boogeyman curse. Comparatively, Double Life saw remarkably few PvP kills, likely due to each person being twice as accident-prone by virtue of being linked to another player—in fact, with a total of 12, accidents accounted for three times as many deaths as PvP in Double Life and overall for more than half (57%) of the deaths in the game.

As for individual player stats sheets, here’s an example of one of those:

If you want to see one of those for ALL 17 PLAYERS, you can go to this slideshow! More details about the stats can be found in the presentation notes of each slide. And, if you have a really specific question and want to get into the nitty gritty, feel free to send me an ask! Hope you guys enjoyed the data!

#moral of the story: stay away from high places #and Joel and Ren #and always assume Grian is up to something #life series #3rd life #last life #double life #overrainylyzed #I don't think I've ever analyzed something harder before in my life honestly #relevant rainy things

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aemondsbabe · 2 months

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Come What May

summary: aemond gets his first true taste of battle, you comfort him in the aftermath.

pairing: aemond targaryen x baratheon!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, reader is described as having long black hair to suit baratheon standards but no other physical descriptors are used, spoilers, mentions of canon character injury but no gore, angst, breast/nipple play, fingering, oral (f receiving), piv sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, slight breeding kink, slight possessive aemond, soft aemond, vulnerable aemond, we love men who cry

word count: 5.8k

a/n: i've had this idea in my head for the longest time and i think it turned out much more delicious than i was expecting! hope you all enjoy!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

divider creds to @targaryen-dynasty

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“My love, surely Ser Criston can hold his own,” you plead, wringing your hands nervously as your husband reads from the small scroll that was delivered to your chambers only moments ago, “It’s already been days, surely if they were going to retaliate, they would’ve done so by now.”

“We made the mistake of underestimating my sweet sister and her traitorous lot once before,” Aemond sighs, lilac eye scanning over the rolled parchment once more before before holding a corner of it to one of the many dripping wax candles housed on the small desk in your rooms, “It’s an error we can never afford to make again, not after what happened to little –” The muscles in his jaw clench as he cuts himself off with another harsh sigh, tossing the burning paper into a small metal bowl before turning to you.

“It’s an official summons,” he continues, voice softer now as he swiftly crosses the room until he stands before you. “I can’t simply ignore the Hand, nor my brother,” he murmurs, pulling a sigh from your lips as his hands wrap around your waist. You let your eyes slip closed for a moment when he leans down and presses a sweet kiss to the top of your head before resting his forehead against yours, your own hands gripping tightly to the front of his black tunic.

“I understand,” you say softly, swallowing thickly as you try to ignore the tightness at the back of your throat, a million unsettling what if’s playing in your mind's eye, “I just want you to come b-back to me.”

Upon hearing the break in your voice, Aemond pulls away with a tight smile. “Shh, little wife,” he whispers, gently wiping at the corner of your eyes as tears begin to gather, “I will return to you, I swear it.”

A slight flush covers the apples of your cheeks as you peer up at him, still so cautious of being weepy and emotional so soon into your marriage despite the prince’s many assurances that he was more than happy to have you exactly how you are. After a moment, you manage to blink the tears from your eyes and steady your breath, giving your husband a reassuring nod just as the doors open and a flood of servants and squires rush in to assist Aemond with his armor.

Leaving them be, you step out onto the balcony of your chambers, grateful for the cooling breeze rolling in from Blackwater Bay. Resting your hands atop the rough stone wall, you gaze out over the calm waters, watching as the sun rises and paints them in shades of orange and pink. Each time you spot a stray seagull, your heart clenches tightly in your chest – worried for a moment that it’s Meleys and her rider, come to finish what they started at Aegon’s coronation.

You startle as rough hands wrap around your middle from behind, a small gasp leaving you as your eyes pop open, seeing the sun a bit higher in the sky now before you look over your shoulder.

“Dare I ask where your pretty head was?”

“Praying,” you answer your husband with a smile, turning in his grasp, “Asking the Seven to protect you, to bring you back to me in one piece.”

Chuckling, Aemond tenderly cups your jaw with one hand, the smooth leather of his glove soft against your skin. “I assure you they will,” he says, dipping his head and kissing you with a small sigh, the metal plate armor on his torso cool against your skin, even through the fabric of your nightgown. “I do not fear this battle, sweetling, not with Vhagar at my side – she has more years of experience fighting in wars than either of us could dare imagine, many more than that old cunt or her beast. I trust her to know what’s right.”

Nodding, you follow him inside, a small smile on your lips while you listen to him talk about his dragon, finding endless amusement in the way he always speaks of her with such reverence. The two of you stand together in the low, flickering light of the many candles in your chambers, the early morning light from the drawn curtains casts faint shadows across the room as you look over your husband, unused to seeing him in true armor.

“I suppose you’re ready, then?” You ask, glancing over the fine black plates, each custom made to hug his lithe form perfectly.

“Almost,” he says, the corners of his lips quirk into a small smile in the same instance that familiar, mirthful glimmer takes residence in his eye.

“Oh?” You question, already familiar with where this is going; the smile on your lips only grows as he takes your hand and leads you over to your vanity table by the wardrobes.

“Braid my hair,” he says, always one to keep his requests of you simple, “As you do before I go riding… please.”

It’s the small please that always gets you, a courtesy Aemond so rarely bestows upon others. With a small nod, you watch as he sits on the small silk-covered chair, his lilac eye watching you from the mirror as you lean forward to grab the ornate metal hairbrush Alicent had gifted you after your wedding to her son.

Meeting his eye in the mirror once more, you give him a small smile before focusing on his hair. You run the brush through the pale, silky strands with a practiced ease; before you, the prince hadn’t dared to let anyone do his hair, and was quick to snap at any of the servants if they tried. But with you, he was quite different – much more vulnerable behind closed doors than many would expect.

Glancing up in the mirror as you brush through his long hair, the smile returns to your lips when you see his eye closed, a small sigh leaving his lips as he allows himself to relax for a moment more. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm in the quiet of the early morning, your hands steady as you run the fine brush through section after section of hair, humming a song to yourself as you go.

Finally, you set the brush back down and carefully section off a lock of hair at one of his temples, already knowing how he usually preferred it be styled. Just as you have it separated into three sections, however, one of his hands closes around yours and you lift your eyes up to his in the mirror.

“Is something the matter?”

“No, no,” he replies softly, his one eye glancing away from you, almost nervously, “I simply have a favor to ask of you, my lady. Something I’ve been unable to get off my mind, not since the threat of war became real.”

“Ask it, then.”

With a small sigh, Aemond turns in the chair, moving to face you as he takes your hands once more, calloused thumbs rubbing gently over the backs of them. “I know it is a strange request but… I would like a lock of your hair, sweet one, to braid into my own.”

Your brows knit together at his words, having not expected a request such as that, and your head tilts to the side questioningly, “I see no problem with doing it, but may I ask why?”

“I am not a superstitious man, as you well know,” he starts, smiling when you nod along with his words, “However, I have come to think of you as a good luck charm, of sorts.”

“A good luck charm?” You echo, a little blush coloring your cheeks as a shy smile tugs at your lips, your heart racing at the thought of being something so precious.

Aemond squeezes your hands and nods, “These past few moons have been difficult, between my brother adjusting to the crown and everyone else shuffling about, and the horrors that my sweet sister endures, little Jaehaerys, the numerous threats from Dragonstone, everything, I…” He pauses, brows furrowing as he stares at the stone floor, jaw clenched.

Your heart clenches in your chest as you raise a hand to his cheek, thumb stroking over the scarred skin just below his sapphire eye, the sight of it mystical to you even after so many months spent with him. Studying his face, you can’t help but notice the darkness under his eyes, a product of the many restless nights he’s faced, though a small sad smile claws at your lips as he leans into your touch – eye closing briefly as he savors it, practically purring like a housecat.

“Your presence has been the only thing that brings me comfort,” he murmurs finally, lilac eye peering up at you as he makes no move to lean away from your touch, “I find my spirits lift when I’m around you – your touch, your sweet scent, they… they calm my mind, steady my heart.”

“Oh, Aemond,” you breathe, heart racing in your chest at his words.

“I would like a piece of you with me always,” he continues, lilac eye brimming with sincerity, “To calm me when you’re away.”

You’re nodding before he can even finish his sentence, “Of course, my love, of course we can do that.” You sniffle, trying your hardest to keep your emotions at bay as the backs of your eyes sting with love-filled tears.

Again, Aemond watches as you quickly walk over to the small side table where you keep your needlework supplies. Shuffling through the small woven basket they’re stored in, you locate the small scissors used to cut thread and make your way back over to the vanity.

Bending at the waist a little, you look into the mirror, briefly meeting your husband’s eye again as you select a small lock of hair toward the back of your head, one that will be easily hidden among the rest as it grows back. With practiced motions, you quickly knot the fine strand into a thin braid before getting the scissors as close to your scalp as you dare. You carefully cut away at it until it comes away, the bundle of strands clutched tightly between two of your fingers.

Returning the scissors to the basket, you grab a small bundle of thread, close to the same dark color of your hair, and return to the prince, quickly tying off both ends of the braid before holding it up with a small smile.

“Good?”

“Good.”

Quickly taking your place by Aemond, you once again separate a lock of his hair into thirds, adding your own strand to the mix before easily winding them together in a long, silvery braid, the black of your own hair standing out strikingly against your husband’s. Finally, you gather the rest of his hair into its usual half up and half down style, thick braid skirting down one side of his head before joining the rest as you secure it with a thin leather cord.

“There,” you breathe, stepping back just enough for Aemond to stand, “All done.”

“Perfect as usual, sweetling,” the prince smiles, tight lipped, “Thank you.” He murmurs, again, a courtesy reserved for you.

“Of course,” you all but whisper, both you and Aemond pausing as you stare at one another, neither of you wanting to say goodbye first.

You nearly jump out of your skin as a knock interrupts the moment, both of your heads swiveling to the doors of your chambers as they creak open.

Ser Willis Fell, a member of Aegon’s Kingsguard steps into the room, bowing politely as he addresses you both. “Prince, Princess,” he says curtly, one hand balanced on the pommel of the sword that hangs from his waist, “I apologize for the intrusion, I’ve been instructed to inform the prince that he is to depart for Rook’s Rest immediately – King Aegon is already waiting at the Dragonpit.”

Aemond nods with a heavy sigh, turning back to you. Before he can get a word in, you practically throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck as the doors click closed once more. “Please come back to me,” you breathe against the crook of his neck, tightness once again taking residence at the back of your throat as his arms wind around you, one hand rubbing soothingly up and down your back.

“I will, my sweet girl, I swear it,” he promises lowly, long arms squeezing him to you as tight as he dares, not wanting to bruise your skin against his armor, “I swear upon the Seven I’ll come back, I will not leave you, I refuse.”

Nodding, your breath catches in your throat as you slip away from him, just enough to angle your face up to his. His eye glances over your face quickly before he presses his lips against yours, both of you desperate to pour as much emotion into the kiss as you can as your lips move together for a moment.

Finally, he pulls away with a pained sigh, holding your face in his hands. “Avy jorrāelan,” he whispers, the very first Valyrian phrase he taught you. (I love you.)

“Avy jorrāelan tolī, ñuha valzȳrys,” you reply, the practiced phrase coming easily to you after all these months. (I love you too, my husband.)

With one final kiss, Aemond departs, the walk toward your chamber doors seeming like the longest of his life.

The rest of the day passes by painfully slowly, though you do all you can to entertain yourself. Everything from taking a much longer time than usual to eat meals, forcing yourself to stomach what little you can with your belly in nervous knots, to spending hours walking through the Red Keep’s gardens.

Which is how you find yourself now, in front of the fire in one of the many ornate sitting rooms, wiling away the time by half-heartedly working on a needlepoint. Alicent sits next to you on the small sofa, restlessly reading over a small stack of letters as Helaena paces, wringing her hands and mumbling to herself under her breath, a common sight following the death of her son.

With a tired sigh, you put down your embroidery hoop, fingers too sore and overworked to continue. “I just want him to come back,” you mutter, staring vacantly into the fire, “Or to get some word, some update. Just to know.”

“He’ll come back, sweetling,” Alicent murmurs softly, setting the letters aside as she places a comforting hand on your knee, “They both will.” She finishes, glancing over at her daughter with a longing stare, wishing there was anything she could do to ease her pain.

The both of you sit for a while longer, the navy sky outside growing steadily darker, before Alicent sighs and looks at you with a sad half-smile. “You may as well go to bed, dear,” she says softly, “Staying up worrying won’t do any good.”

Knowing she’s right, you quickly bid her goodnight before taking your leave.

You lay in bed, tossing and turning for a long while, thoughts filled with nothing but your husband, before sleep finally takes you. Even then, it’s not restful, dreams filled with visions of blood and fire, of the sounds of screaming and swords clanging together.

It isn’t until the wee hours of the night, almost sunrise, that a sound wakes you – clanging again, only soft this time, like metal on stone.

You blink your eyes open, a little groan leaving your lips as you rub at them with your fists before –

“Aemond!” You breathe, scrambling under the blankets to get to him, nearly toppling off the bed in your haste.

He makes a small “oof” noise as you throw yourself against his chest, catching you in his arms and holding you tightly. “Careful, love,” he laughs softly, letting his eye slip closed as he kisses the top of your head, breathing in the familiar lavender scent of your hair.

“You came back,” you breathe, winding your arms around his waist as you kneel at the edge of the bed, knees digging into the plush mattress. Upon hugging the prince, you come to realize that the small clanging noise that woke you had to have been him quickly untying his plate armor and stripping off his chainmail, leaving him in a soft tunic and pants – the aforementioned garments lying haphazardly on the floor, their sheen reflected somewhat in the dim glow of the fire.

“Of course I did,” he murmurs, stroking a hand over your back, “I swore I would, didn’t I?”

The two of you fall easily into a comfortable silence, arms wrapped securely around one another as the only noise in the room is the sound of soft breathing and the crackling from the hearth. You can’t help but notice that Aemond smells smokey, much like he does after riding on Vhagar but stronger now, no doubt having been around dragon fire for hours.

After a moment, you peer up at him, eyes finally adjusted to the low light. When you do, you can’t help the small, pitying little gasp that leaves your lips and one hand rises to gently cup his cheek. You’re no stranger to seeing him after a long day training in the yard with Ser Criston, but this is wholly different.

In the pale light, you could make out small dark splotches on his face and neck and upon skirting your thumb over one on his cheek, you come to realize it’s remnants of ash, staining not only his skin but the bits and pieces of his tunic and pants that weren’t covered by armor as well. His hair was still fixed how you’d left it, though messier now – windswept and slightly dusty as well, many of the white strands stained a faint grey, the flash of black from your own braid still cutting through the paleness of his like a knife.

But what really stopped you was his eye, his lilac one; you frown when you notice the uneasy look in it, full of a bitter sadness. “My sweet husband,” you say softly, brows furrowing when you notice a few scant tear stains on his cheek, their paths carved through the spots of ash, “What happened? What did they do to you?” You question, heart racing at the thought of the horrors he must’ve seen – his first real taste of battle.

The prince gazes at you for a long second, his lips parting as one of his hands comes to rest at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. All at once though, the sadness in his eye changes to a familiar fire, one that makes your heart race for an altogether different reason and desire curls in your belly, coming to rest like a cat in a sunbeam.

“Aemond?” You question, blinking up at him. Suddenly, his lips are on yours, hot and insistent and you’re all too eager to comply, easily melting against him. A whimper leaves your lips, instantly swallowed by his mouth as it moves against yours.

The kiss is more teeth and tongues than anything else, your husband’s slipping against yours with a practiced ease. His hand threads more harshly through your hair, making you moan against his lips as your hands cling tightly to the dark fabric of his tunic, a growl reverberating under them as it emanates from his chest.

“Need you,” he breathes raggedly as his lips part from yours, leaving a trail of wet kisses down your jaw and to your neck. You shudder against him as his teeth nip gently at your skin before his lips suckle at it gently, painting bruises on your throat that match the many he surely has.

“But –” you start, a myriad of questions swirling in your mind despite the pleasure threatening to blot them out.

You’re stopped mid sentence as Aemond suddenly cups one of your breasts, palming eagerly at the tender flesh in a way he knows makes your head spin and don’t miss the ghost of a victorious smirk on his lips at the way you cut yourself off with a small, shuddered moan, squirming in his hold as his thumb skirts over your nipple through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

“Please, sweet one, I need this,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. His hand at the nape of your neck slips down to wrap around the small of your back, arching you against him, “I need you, I need to feel… t-to feel something good again.”

Once more, you’re nodding before he can even finish his request, chest heaving as you fight to keep your eyes open, wanting to keep him in your sights as if he may disappear again if you don’t. “Then take me,” you sigh, a broken moan leaving your lips as he kisses down your neck and across your chest. The hair at the back of your neck raises on end as he mouths over the fat of your breast, dampening the front of your nightgown.

Both of your hands claw desperately at the back of his head, tangling into his long hair messily just as his lips close around your nipple. “Gods!” You cry as he suckles at it needily, still pawing at the other one, savoring the feel of it in his hand.

Just as your thighs begin squeezing together, your center aching, Aemond pulls away, smirking when you whine. Impatient as ever, he quickly pulls at your nightgown, tugging it up and over your head, and tosses it onto the floor with his armor – delicate silk pooling over hard metal – before quickly undoing his tunic, eye glimmering proudly at how you always stare at him with such reverence.

“Fuck,” he growls, hands descending passionately against you once more, one again kneading at your breast as the other slides against your hip, long fingers digging into the fat of your ass, “You get more beautiful every time I see you.” He whispers against your lips, strands of silver hair falling loose from his braid and fanning around his face.

His lips press against yours once more, teeth teasingly nipping at your lower lip as your nails dig into his shoulders and chest, anxious for more even as you blush at his words. Always one to please, the prince wastes no time in trailing kisses back over your neck, pausing to nip and suck once again at his marks from earlier, needing to see remnants of himself on your delicate skin.

Again, he traces a bath down across your chest before licking over your nipple, needing to give attention to the breast he’d missed earlier. His tongue laves over it greedily and you moan at the feel of his length, hard and hot against your lower belly even through the cotton of his trousers.

Just as his teeth nip softly at your taut bud, the hand on your hip shifts toward your center, making your breath catch in your throat. Suckling at your nipple once more, Aemond gently runs his fingers through your already dripping folds, pulling a loud, whiny whimper from you as his lips curl into a smirk, a pleased hum radiating against your breast.

“Husband, please,” you whine, finding your voice once more as he rests his forehead against yours, chuckling at your cries.

“Seems I’m not the only one that needs this, hm?” He teases, eye glancing over your face as his fingers lightly rub against your aching bud, your breaths mingling together.

“A-Always need you,” you say breathily, your hips moving of their own accord as he plays with you, your own hands clutching at him like an anchor, “I’ll always, fuck! I’ll always need you, Aemond.”

He feels his heart skip in his chest at that and once again grows restless, the need to have you, to feel nothing but you burns through him like fire. Distantly, in the back of his mind, he thinks how the sincerity in your tone reminds him of your wedding vows, whispered to him in the Sept as if the two of you were the only people in the universe – how he wishes that were true.

With a grunt, he presses his lips harshly against yours once more before leaning forward, pressing himself over you until you have no choice but to buckle and fall to your back against the bed. Unable to think of anything else, he wastes no time in kneeling at the side of the bed, knees against one of the many fur rugs dotted over the floors of your chamber.

A squeal leaves your lips as the prince clutches at your ankles and pulls you toward him, until your ass is nearly hanging off the edge of the bed. A breathy whimper leaves you as you peer down at him, resting back on your elbows as your teeth bite into your lower lip.

Your hips buck as Aemond kisses up your thighs, long hair tickling your soft skin, and you whine as he licks at the curve where your thigh and center meet. A breath leaves him as he uses his thumbs to part your folds, licking his lips at how your arousal already coats them, wetness catching in the dim light of the fire.

“The Stranger himself wouldn’t be able to tear me from this,” your husband murmurs lowly, nearly growling as he glances between your face and your dripping heat like a starving man looking over a feast.

With a groan, he finally dives in, moaning nearly as loud as you do as he greedily mouths at your cunt, tongue licking harshly over you from bottom to top. Every muscle in your body seems to seize as lightning bolts of pleasure crackle up and down your spine.

Your head flops back against the bed as Aemond licks and suckles at your folds, burying his face against your center as he licks into you, nose pressed tightly against your pearl. Your fingers tangle into his hair once more, back arching as he groans into your heat, all but fucking you on his tongue as obscene wet sounds echo about the room.

“Oh Gods, f-fuck,” you whine, hips rutting against his face as the heat in your belly threatens to boil over already. Your eyes roll back as he chuckles against you and licks up to your bud, suckling at it eagerly, making you clench around nothing.

“Gods, you taste good, so sweet,” the prince mumbles against you, lapping at your pearl as he runs two thick fingers through your folds, coating them in your arousal. “I would kill Death himself for this, my love,” he rasps, leaning up to watch the expressions on your face as he presses his fingers into you, impatiently crooking them up in just the way you like, fucking and rubbing them against the sensitive spot within you with practicied ferocity.

“Please, please, please,” you pant, belly knotting tighter and tighter at his words, the gruffness of his voice, head so clouded you aren’t even entirely sure what you’re begging for.

Aemond smirks and licks and sucks at your bud for a moment more, savoring every whine and whimper he pulls from you. “Let go, my love,” he murmurs, grinning at the way your heat clenches tightly around his fingers, “Peak, let me feel it.”

You wail as the cord within you breaks, shuddering and babbling the prince’s name again and again as pleasure washes over you, your muscles tensing and relaxing in a dizzying rhythm as he works you through it. You nearly peak again as he groans against you, lips wrapped around your pearl as he suckles, gradually slowing his fingers within you.

Finally, you come down, though the fire within you still burns brightly, still aches for him. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he rises from the floor, lilac eye looking over your disheveled form proudly as white strands of hair cling to his face, still sticky with your arousal.

His chest heaves as he quickly undoes the ties of his trousers and tugs them off his long, lean legs. He wipes at his lips with the back of his hand as he leans back over you and you whine when you feel the heat of his length pressing against you, trapped between your two bodies, the tip already red and leaking against your belly.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs softly, leaning forward to kiss you as he savors the little gasp that leaves your lips as he reaches down with one hand, positioning his cock at your sensitive entrance, “My perfect, sweet girl.”

You nod your head, hands cupping his face as he pushes into you. Your mouth falls open in a loud gasp and you tremble in his hold as he presses forward, sheathing himself inside of you completely with a pleased groan.

“Oh, my love,” you finally pant, savoring the way his length feels within you, pressing against every part of you as he fills you completely, “You feel so good, husband, always so good.”

He growls at that, the breathiness of your tone making his eye flutter shut as he begins rutting against you, grinding his hips against your own. “You were made for me,” he muses, groaning when you begin kissing over the pale column of his throat, “Made to be mine.”

“For you,” you agree between kisses and licks, heart fluttering at the way his thrusts stutter each time your teeth graze over his skin, “Only for you, my sweet prince.”

Aemond groans above you and settles into a practiced rhythm, thick cock spearing into you again and again as your legs wrap around his hips, holding you to him as if he would ever dream of pulling away. One of his hands rests at the nape of your neck again, holding you against his throat as the other grabs at your waist, marveling at the way your breasts move against his chest, bouncing lightly with each thrust.

The thought of them full of milk, your belly swollen with his seed, flashes across his mind and he growls low in his chest, cock twitching within you.

As you squirm beneath him, your husband can tell you’re close, as if the steady pulse of your core around his length wasn’t warning enough. “I would go to war for this cunt,” he groans, locking eyes with you as your foreheads press together once more, “I would burn whole villages to the ground just to have you like this, sweetling.”

His words cascade over you like lava, making your brows furrow together as you gaze up at him, mouth agape. You all but forget to breathe for a moment before a loud, whining moan tears itself from your lips, chest heaving as you fight for air.

“A-Aemond, Aemond, Gods,” you babble, legs tightening around his waist as your nails scratch down his back, making him grunt above you. After only a few more thrusts, you break once more, writhing beneath him.

Distantly, you hear the prince groan and grunt above you as your cunt squeezes around him, determined to hold off his own pleasure long enough to watch you peak once more.

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, Aemond surrenders to the fire within him and moans, voice breaking, as he lets it consume him. Your eyes flutter open as you feel his cock kick inside you and you watch him, mesmerized, as warmth fills you, his seed adding to the sticky mess between your thighs.

He collapses against you, hips still rutting against your own in broken, twitching movements as his own high fades. The two of you lay like that for a moment, panting as you catch your breath, until you realize your husband’s shoulders are shaking beneath your hold, his breath coming in unsteady bursts against your neck from where his head rests against your shoulder.

“My love?” You question, cupping his cheek and bringing his face up just enough to see him. Your heart nearly breaks at the sight of tears pooled in his eye, a few already running down his cheek, “What is it? What’s wrong?” You question, quickly glancing over him, searching for some injury, some source of pain.

Aemond merely shakes his head and sniffles, blinking to dispel his tears as his cheeks flush – he hates the thought of you seeing him so weak. “I’m… I-I’m sorry,” he chokes out finally, holding you against his body tightly despite his embarrassment.

Immediately, you shake your head, pressing a hand against his shoulder until he rolls over, pulling you with him. A soft gasp leaves your lips at the feel of his softening length slipping from your drenched folds as he comes to rest on his back, you at his side, one hand across his chest.

“Shhh, husband,” you murmur, cupping his cheek once more as you lean up on an elbow, “You needn’t apologize to me.” He nods, somewhat half-heartedly, at your words and sighs deeply, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows thickly, trying to chase away the tightness at the back of his throat.

You stay silent for a moment, giving him time to calm down, and let your eyes sweep over his form. Aside from the blotches of ash on his pale skin, and some bruises here and there, he looks nearly untouched. A small smile tugs at your lips despite the situation when you see your lock of hair still wound into his, pale braid practically falling apart by now, most of it pulled free of the leather tie holding it together.

“What’s happened?” You finally ask once his breathing evens out some, your thumb rubbing soothingly over his cheekbone.

“Aegon,” he chokes out, jaw clenching once more as tears run down his cheek yet again.

Your heart clenches as a shot of adrenaline all but knocks the wind from your lungs, “He’s not… h-he didn’t –” You start to question, stopping yourself once Aemond shakes his head.

“No, no,” he confirms, voice ragged and soft as his chest heaves with a sniffle, “Almost, but no.”

“Almost?”

“He… He’s hurt,” Aemond starts, barely a whisper as his eye finally meets yours, “Badly. I don’t… I don’t know what comes next, o-or what to do, what’ll be expected of me, of you –” He mutters, breath picking up as panic rises within him, regretting each time he’d looked at his brother with envy – saw the black crown atop his head, glimmering with red rubies, and thought bitterly that it would suit him better.

“Shhh,” you breathe once more, draping yourself over him like a blanket and pulling a tired sigh from his lips as your touch immediately slows his racing heart. You run your fingers through his hair, black intertwined with white, and press a soothing kiss to his cheek, “I don’t care what comes next, my love.”

Your soft words draw his attention and he looks at you, brows furrowed in surprise, “You don’t?”

“Not at all,” you murmur, steeling yourself to be strong for him regardless of the future, “Whatever happens, I shall face it with you. That’s enough for me.”

gen tags: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @imawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @fan-goddess @cl-0-vr @kittendoll05 @beautbuck @eponaartemisa @trshngyn @brettlovessuckingcocks @alerisc @moonriseoverkyoto @wolfdressedinlace @do-double-g @kennafild @cruelworldlana @mheraxes @eternallyvenus @chaotic-fangirl-blog @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino

aemond tags: @demirunner @iloveslasher @neithriddle @moneypriestess @anak1nsx @angelinap09

hotd tags: @cuddlejeongin

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

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frannyzooey · 25 days

Text

Down the Hall

Frankie Morales x f!reader

Tags: Explicit, age gap because you know what I'm about (Frankie is your mom’s boyfriend, he is in his 40s, you are in your mid-20s)

A/N: Yea….so this is dedicated to @intheorangebedroom who inspired this entire idea and to @whatsnewalycat whose beautiful brain and writing inspired me as well. Thank you to @astroboots for cheering me on, to @bageldaddy for the super in depth beta and to @the-ginger-hedge-witch who soothed by "does this hit" worries — your minds are golden and I am so happy you support this utter filth. Ily ❤️

He thought that dating someone his own age would ground him, steady him. Not that he ever paid much attention to the age of the women he dated, but he thought with someone who had their own shit figured out, he might be inspired to do the same.

Unmoored and unattached since he joined the army in his twenties, he was pushing forty now and craved some kind of routine. Living alone gave him too much time for thinking, too many hours spent inside his own head. He knew that living like that for too long could lead to bad decisions and thought he might hold himself to a higher standard when he saw how they held themselves to one.

He met her at a bar – the most cliche of meeting places, but for good reason. She was out with friends after work and from the start, he was attracted to the way she smiled with her whole mouth. Everything about her seemed sensuous and fun, so inviting that he found himself drawn in and when he asked if he could take the seat next to her, he matched her smile with one of his own.

When she invited him home that night, he buried himself deep while feasting on that generous mouth.

He stayed that night, and then one night became twice a week, became three – and before he knew it, his lease was up on his apartment and he moved in. It was nice to come home to someone after work. To know that someone was there, wondering how his day went. To have a warm body curled up next to him in bed.

She was so independent, so driven. A corporate job that required her to dress in slippery blouses and pretty skirts with heels; the same he loved to strip from her when she came home all stressed out the way she did sometimes. And she had a kid – a daughter – already in college somewhere on the east coast, but that didn’t bother him. Dating in his forties meant people already had their own histories, and he was no exception.

Sometimes after she fell asleep and he had time alone to think, he still felt something that itched beneath his skin. Something that pulled at him from within, something that remained unsettled. He told himself that it was just an adjustment period after so many years of being unattached, and shoved those feelings deep down inside of him, determined to ignore them until he taught himself a new way to live.

Her breathing deep and steady beside him, he told himself that she was good for him.

That was what counted.

He was all for it when she told him her daughter was coming home to stay the summer between semesters. He liked the idea of having another person in the house – another distraction, another responsibility to take him out of his own head.

He worked odd hours, and during his off days, Frankie took up the task of preparing her daughter’s old room. Light pink walls, a creamy bedspread dotted with delicate flowers: his mind supplied an automatic image of the little girl that lined the hallway in frames. He knew she was older than that now, but the way her mom talked about her, he couldn’t help imagining a little kid.

Tasked with picking her up from the airport the day she arrived, he had just stepped out of the shower when he heard the doorbell. Frowning, he tugged a shirt over his damp curls, and opened the door.

Jesus Christ. Speechless, he stared at the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” you apologized, tugging a heavy bag higher up on your shoulder. “I got in early and thought an Uber would be faster.”

He stood there for a moment, just staring, his mouth slightly parted in confusion. And then he saw it: the shape of your eyes, the curve of your lush mouth. The resemblance stamped across your delicate features.

“I couldn’t find my key.” You stood there, looking uneasy on your own doorstep. “You must be Frankie. Or is it Francisco? My mom said you’d be here. It’s nice to meet you.”

At the rounded sound of his full name coming from your mouth, his gaze snapped back to meet your eyes while you hung there, clearly waiting for him to say something. His body was slow to catch up with his brain, the little girl his mind supplied was gone, replaced by the vision that stood in front of him. Still young and fresh-faced, but grown nonetheless and so, so fucking beautiful.

When you gestured towards the house behind him, he finally shook himself from the initial shock.

“Shit,” he apologized, stepping back out of your way. “Yea, it’s Frankie. Nice to meet you.” You gave him a half smile, and when you stepped inside, he reached for your bag. “Here, let me grab that.”

His hand dragging through his curls, he stood in the entryway and watched you make yourself at home: your shoes immediately kicked off on the doormat, your jacket hung neatly next to his own like it had always belonged there.

“Do you know when my mom gets home?”

He cleared his throat, trying not to stare at the length of your legs underneath the hem of your shorts. “Uh, she said probably around six? That’s when she usually gets home.”

You nodded, holding your hand out for your bag and for a split second, he wondered if he should bring it upstairs for you. It would be the polite thing to do, but the idea of entering your room now felt like overstepping. You weren’t a kid, you didn’t need him like that. The boundaries had suddenly blurred and shifted, and he whisked away the image of you settling into your bedroom just as fast as it popped into his head.

When you grabbed the bag from him, he felt relief.

It was easy to avoid you for the afternoon while you got settled. Instead, he mowed the lawn, prepared dinner, all the while with his ears attuned to the sound of you walking around above him. He felt on edge, anxious. The excitement he thought he would feel with someone else in the house had turned into unease.

He made himself an outsider, even more so when your mom came home. Not wanting to intrude on your time together, he stayed in the kitchen to cook dinner for the two of you and delivered it to the living room, placing your plates on the coffee table.

“Thank you, baby, that’s so nice.” Your mother scooted forward, tilting her chin up towards him in a silent request for a kiss.

Granting it to her, he felt her familiar hold slip around the back of his neck to keep him in place for a moment, keenly aware of the way you were right there. For a split second while his lips were still on hers, he glanced up at you and it was clear that he caught you watching by the way you hastily looked away the second he met your eyes.

He fucked her hard that night, his hand over her mouth so you wouldn’t hear.

She was gone in the morning when he made his way downstairs, and he was pleasantly surprised to find coffee already in the pot.

“I made extra,” you said, from your perch on the chair at the table. Sleep shorts high on your thighs, an oversized tee shirt covering your top half. The way it engulfed you made you look younger than you were.

He looked away, busying himself with pouring a cup.

“I drink a lot, so I made a lot,” you explained with shy self-deprecation.

“Sounds good to me,” he replied, sitting down at the table. “Got any plans for today? Or for the summer, I guess?”

Wading the tentative waters of getting to know someone, he watched your fingers play with the edge of the paper.

“Just relax for a bit, I think? Catch up with some old friends? No plan really. I just didn’t want to hang out on a deserted campus.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.”

And so began the morning routine you would both share for the next few weeks. Hesitant and quiet around each other in the beginning, sliding into something normal fairly fast. Your mother was early to rise and early to bed, but he had never been and neither were you.

He joined you in the late morning at the kitchen table, the curve of your soft cheek highlighted in the slant of light through the window. On the couch at night, a different kind of illumination from the light of the TV, yet hitting your cheek just the same. Your things scattered around the living room, your toothbrush next to his in the bathroom, your clothes mixed with his in the wash.

Your proximity was what he blamed for the constant thoughts he had about you.

Every morning he admired how rumpled you looked, how sleepy and soft and inviting. It was endearing, but soon other thoughts edged out the more innocent ones: thoughts about your legs wrapped around his waist, your slender fingers wrapped around something other than a coffee cup.

The want he felt for you pooled in various places inside him: his brain, his chest, between his thighs. It spilled down the shower drain and spilled hot across his stomach.

It flooded your mother’s mouth, and she was none the wiser.

Afterwards, she tucked her face into the meat of his shoulder, pressing a kiss against the skin there. Sated and content, she curled herself around him. “Let’s do something this weekend together. Actually make use of that pool we have for once.”

A barbecue. She’d been talking about having one for a while.

“We’ve been working so hard. I feel like I barely even see you, honey.”

Something akin to guilt tugged at him, thinking of the shifts he had been picking up in an effort to avoid you. Your eyes, your smile, your stupid sleep shorts.

He hummed his agreement and she kissed him in thanks, her breaths eventually evening out as she fell asleep.

Frankie lay awake, the image of your closed bedroom door stuck in his mind.

–

“Jesus Christ,” you murmured as you watched Frankie climb out of the pool.

Broad, bare shoulders, tanned swathes of skin, cute little dimples just above his ass. Water ran down over his tanned skin, the thin material of his swim shorts stuck to his ass and when he turned around to grab a towel off a nearby chair, you were glad for your sunglasses.

Fuck me.

The material of his shorts molded to every inch of his thick cock, the shape clearly outlined. Oblivious, he ran the towel over his curls, over his shoulders and arms, down his torso – and when his hand gingerly pulled the material away from his crotch, you memorized the swirl of dark hair that surrounded his navel and led down.

“Can you help me with the grill, honey?”

Your mom’s voice pulled your attention away from him.

Her boyfriend, you reminded yourself. Frankie was her boyfriend.

“Yea,” he called back, chucking his towel on the chair. “Be right there. Let me put a shirt on.”

The shirt he shrugged over his head was the same one you folded that morning. The material was threadbare and super soft, the muscles of his back shifting underneath the thin fabric as he sauntered over to the grill. You knew the way it felt in your hands, and at the thought of his body heat through the material, you pressed your thighs together.

The afternoon sun bathed you in warmth, but it was nothing compared to the heat that pooled inside your bottoms as you continued to watch him from your recline by the pool. His brown curls glinted in the sun, his throat bobbing with a swallow when your mother brought him a beer.

When his eyes flashed over to you, you finally looked away.

You saw those deep, doleful brown eyes in your sleep.

You felt them on you all the time: in the dark living room during family movie time, your mother curled up against his side. In the kitchen after dinner, when you loaded the dishwasher while he put away the food. In the mornings, when you pretended to read the paper while he snuck hooded peeks at you and drank you in.

Startled by his handsomeness from the very first time you laid eyes on him, your crush only grew with every passing day spent in his company. He was so thoughtful, so attentive and kind, but it was something else buried within his gaze that drew you in.

A barely restrained want that shone clear on his face every time he looked at you. A need simmering under the surface, you saw the way he fought it.

You thought about him constantly: imagined him crowding you against the counter in the kitchen, saw him pulling back the shower curtain to join you, pretended your fingers were his in your bed at night.

Born out of your own need, you pushed him. Played with the limits of his self control, desperate for him to make a move. No action overt enough to be blatant, the way he stared at you made you feel confident, bold. The want pouring off his skin when you hung around him was obvious and thick, filling the space between the two of you until he inevitably excused himself.

When it’s time to eat, you take a seat next to him on the bench, your thigh pressed hot against his. You waited for him to pull away, but he never did and the intimate sensation of the hair on his leg brushing against your own smoother skin made it hard to eat, though you missed it when he got up.

Your mother, one margarita too many and giggly and loose, pulled him into a dance under the stars that had just begun to come out. He humored her, wrapping his arms around her waist to hold her close, smiling at every murmured secret she slipped into his ear.

You watched the scene unfold right in front of you with a fond, humoring expression, and his eyes kept finding yours, flashing in the darkness.

You pretended nonchalance, but the entire time, you wanted.

He took her to bed while you cleaned up the kitchen.

You knew he fucked her – you heard it sometimes. They tried to be quiet for your sake but sometimes a whimper would slip down the hall, the deep reverberation of a groan in the dark.

Climbing into bed that night, your mind lingered on the image of his wet swim trunks. The dark swirl of hair, the heft in the outline.

You wondered what he fucked like with a cock like that.

–

“Something’s going on in the Arizona market,” your mom explained, tossing items into her suitcase. A silk blouse spilled over the side, and you tucked it back in with the rest. “I’ll be gone through Thursday, maybe Friday? Hopefully not the weekend, but I’ll let you know.”

“Do you need a ride to the airport?”

Smiling at you, she stepped forward and cupped your cheek with her hand for a moment. “That’s sweet, honey, but I’m good. Frankie’s got it.”

Apprehension swirled with anticipation, the joint feelings settled low in your gut. You’d been alone with him before, but never for this long. Never truly alone, for days on end.

The man himself poked his head around the corner of the doorway, the width of his shoulders filling out the frame. He glanced at you, and then his watch. “You about ready, baby?”

She bustled around the room, tossing things here and there onto the bed and he looked at you again, a slight frown pulling between his brows.

His expression gave something akin to frustration, and for a split second, you thought it was because of the time your mom was taking. When you felt his dark eyes drop down the length of your body involuntarily and then back up again, you turned away with a small smile, knowing it to be something else.

–

For the first couple days, he stayed away from the house as much as he could. Kept his distance until he ran out of errands, until he drove down the same stretch of road too many times. He didn’t trust himself to be alone with you, and he hated himself for it.

Self loathing creeped in every time he thought about the way his jeans tightened even thinking of you alone in the house. His girlfriend’s fucking daughter, half his age. The whole thing was fucked up.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

He felt bad, thinking of you suddenly being all alone after spending so much time with people around, but he told himself that you probably loved having the space to yourself.

He came in the shower that morning to the thought of your mouth wrapped around the base of his cock, and he was unable to look you in the eye when he saw you in the kitchen afterward. Your hopeful expression lingered in his mind all day as he stretched out the hours.

The sky turned from light blue to dark, and he finally caved. He couldn’t stay away forever.

The house was quiet when he walked in, tossing his keys on the entryway table. He crept around, looking for any sign of your presence, until he heard the shower running upstairs. Light spilled down the staircase, and heading into the kitchen, he tried to push down the thoughts running rampant in his head.

He drank a glass of water, listening.

The shower turning off (your naked body, damp and warm), your footsteps padding down the hall (that smooth skin, hidden under your towel), your bedroom door shutting (the towel dropping onto your floor).

He stayed downstairs, turning the TV on to distract himself, the air in the house charged with a magnetic pull from your room. He waited until there had been nothing but silence for the better part of a half hour, then dared to venture upstairs.

He’d just say goodnight, that’s all. Just so you knew you weren’t alone.

His knuckles rapped against your door, and he pushed it open when he heard you say come in.

“Hey,” you greeted him, slight surprise on your face. Stretched out in bed, the inviting cloud of your comforter was plush underneath your body. You paused the movie you were watching, and sat up on your elbows. “Haven’t seen you in a couple days.”

“Yea,” he replied, leaning against the frame of your door. His eyes followed a slow path up your bare legs.

“Work been crazy or something?” you asked.

“Something like that, yea,” he answered. His hand stayed on the knob of your door, an anchor that kept him from crossing a line. “I actually just stopped by to say goodnight. I’m gonna turn in.”

“Already?” you teased. “It’s pretty early, isn’t it? Aren’t you gonna live it up while my mom is gone?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve lived it up enough. I’m an old man, remember? We don’t do that kind of stuff.”

“Forty-five is hardly an old man,” you scolded with a smile. “You wanna watch a movie instead?”

You patted the bed next to you, and his face sobered. You didn’t see it, instead reaching for the lotion on your bedside table to work some into your hands and the image of you jerking his cock with that same lotion flashed across his mind. He frowned.

“In here?”

You shrugged, laying back down. “I mean, I’m already all set up in here…”

You left the offer hanging, and even though he knew - he fucking knew he shouldn’t - he found himself nodding.

You looked surprised at his answer for a split second, and then pleased.

“Let me go get changed.”

He walked down the hall towards his room, scolding himself the entire time. Don’t do this, don’t do this, don’t go back into that fucking room. Don’t think about how smooth her skin is and how much you want to kiss her. Don’t think about how her sheets smell like her, don’t think about how much you want to lick her cunt.

The thoughts ran on a loop as he peeled off his work clothes.

They echoed in his head as he pulled on his sweats.

They followed him out of his bedroom and all the way down the hall, stopping at your doorway.

You turned your head, looking at him expectantly, looking so fucking lush and innocent, so eager to have him join you.

He swallowed hard, mouth watering and left his guilt in the hallway, joining you in bed.

–

Pretending to ignore the heavy blanket of tension pulsing between your bodies, you kept your eyes fixed on the screen.

Stretched out next to you, he kept a respectable distance, but you felt the heat that poured off of his skin. He looked so large in your bed, so much like a man. His long limbs splayed out over your girlish comforter, his masculine scent filled the space and when he crossed his arms, you admired the way the hem of his sleeve stretched around his bicep.

Lightheaded and trembling with a heady want that ached between your thighs, you made it through the whole movie – until the room descended into darkness, until the credits rolled and the screen went black

Until it was just the two of you sitting side by side in the dark.

The sheets rustled when you rolled onto your side to face him.

“What did you think?” you asked quietly.

He looked down at you from his slouch on the bed, and your fingers twitched with the need to smooth away the crease that rested permanently between his brows. You would think he was mad if not for his eyes: those always look conflicted more than anything. Constant turmoil, roiling deep within the dark depths.

Not answering, he stared down at you for a long moment before shrugging.

“Okay, I guess. Well, have a good night.”

He then started to slide off the bed.

Disappointment flooded your chest, the tension that you’d been feeling for the last two hours releasing restlessly through your limbs. Already making plans to get your vibrator from your side table to use while burying your face into the sheets he was just sitting on, he stilled.

Your eyes fixed on his broad back, you could almost see the decision being made and he quickly turned before he could convince himself to stop.

Bending down, he kissed you.

It was consuming. The brush of his mustache, the taste of his mouth, the weight of his solid body as he pushed you into the bedding, draping it over yours. His tongue slipped into your mouth to slide against your own, and he swallowed the soft sound that caught in the back of your throat. Pushing himself into the cradle between your thighs, he forced them open wider as he deepened the kiss, and his dry, calloused hand slid underneath the hem of your shirt, wrapping around your hip.

You knew you should push him away, but your hands only dragged him closer, grabbing everything you could touch: the slip of his curls, the curve of his whiskered jaw, the rounds of his broad shoulders. You dug your fingertips into his sides as he ground his hips against yours and your knees hitched higher around his torso.

His hand wrapped around the top of your shin, pushing down to hold you in place.

“Jesus,” he breathed into your mouth between kisses, his fingers tightening in their hold before sliding down to touch everything he can: the meat of your hips, his big hand cupping your ass with a greedy squeeze. Need rolled off of him in waves, his touch betraying just how long he had thought about this and his mouth shifted down to devour the long line of your neck, tasting the sweet hollow of your throat.

Your pulse beat fast under his tongue, speeding up when he let out a groan against the sensitive skin.

“Take – take this off–” he sat back on his ankles, his hands fumbling with your shirt.

As soon as you pulled it over your head, his mouth latched onto your nipple. His tongue swirled around it, sliding over the peaked bud with a suck. His beard scraped across your sensitive skin, leaving a wet path that glistened over the plane of your chest as he dragged his mouth to your other breast and his heavy hand reached down to cup you wholly over your sleep shorts.

His fingers dug into the dip of your entrance and the heel of his hand ground hard against your clit.

“I can’t stop thinking about this pussy,” he confessed. His fingers rubbed harder, and he groaned hot against your skin. “I can already feel how soaked she is for me. How much she wants it.”

You nodded with a whimper, rolling your hips into his touch. “God yes. Please.”

He pulled back just enough to stare down at your face, his pitch black eyes sliding over your features to settle on your open mouth. “Tell me you want this. Tell me how much you want my cock.”

“Yes. Please, please,” you begged.

“It’s gonna be a lot, baby.” He wetted his bottom lip with his tongue, his hand working, working, working. “She’s gonna need to be wet to take what I need her to take.”

A fresh wave of arousal washed through you, and your sleep shorts clung to your center with every grind of his palm. His thick fingers nudged the fabric to the side, exploring.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, releasing a heavy breath. “Fuck.”

His eyes fluttered shut with a frown as his touch slid through your soaked seam and kissing you again, he timed the slide of his tongue with the slick stretch of two fingers.

Your thighs opened wider around his waist, a whine crawling out of your throat when he pushed them deeper and when he started a smooth, audible stroke, you started to ride his hand.

You’d been watching his fingers for months: wrapped around the steering wheel in the car, loosely cradling the neck of a beer bottle, drumming against his thigh when he watched TV sometimes. You’d imagined them tucked inside you so many times, buried in your mouth or your cunt, and as he worked a third one in, you let out a filthy moan.

“I gotta work it open, baby,” he soothed, pulling your earlobe between his lips. “It’ll be okay. I know you can take it.”

His hips started to follow the rhythmic roll of his hand and when he seemed satisfied with how much you could take, he slid his fingers out, reaching to tear his shirt off over his head. When he pushed his fingers into his mouth for a moment, his lips wrapping around his knuckles as he sucked your taste off the thick digits, his hooded eyes took in the way you scrambled to take your sleep shorts off.

Following your lead, he dumped everything onto the floor beside your bed, and it felt like heaven when you felt his bare skin against the inside of your thighs. So broad, so firm and strong, his body pressed you into the mattress and you felt the hot, pulsing heft of his cock pushing against your cunt. You clenched at the teasing sensation of what was to come, and reached down to grasp him, but his hand caught yours and pushed it into the bedding above your head.

“Let me do it. I wanna watch your face when I put it in,” he confessed, resting his weight on top of you as he reached down with his other hand to guide himself in.

Sticky slick smeared between the both of you, and when the tip of his cock forced you to bloom around him, his eyes fixed on your face. Greedily, he devoured the sight of your mouth dropping open, a tiny tiny frown appearing between your brows and he thickened inside you, pushing forward.

“Fuck,” you moaned. “It’s so much.” So much more than you ever thought it would be, even with all the months spent imagining it.

He bottomed out and the air froze in your lungs, your cunt stuffed fuller than it’s ever been.

“Shhh,” he soothed, staying in place to let you adjust. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re so fucking tight, baby. So tight.”

Squirming underneath him, you hitched your knees higher around his torso and he rocked his hips to slide halfway out before grinding back in with a weighted push. He gave you a minute: a tense minute, a minute thick and full of wanting, a minute where all you could focus on was the stretch of his cock and the heated bulk of his body and the firmness of his chest pressed against yours.

He brushed his lips against yours, and gently rolled his hips.

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about this? About fucking you, in this bed?” His voice deep and breathless, it sounded overwhelmingly intimate breathed against your cheek.

You shook your head.

“I thought I was the only one,” you admitted. “I used to think – oh fuck – I used to think about you coming down the hallway in the night. Crawling into my bed and fucking me just like this. Just like I can hear you fuck her.”

“You listen to me fuck her?” His hips rocked forward a little faster, picking up pace.

“I can’t help it,” you whined. “The sounds – the sounds you make. I wanted to make you make them. I wanted to be the reason.”

His fingers pushed through the hold of your own, locking your hands together above your head and he dug his knees into the bed for leverage. Your breasts shifted underneath him, bouncing lightly as he fucked into you harder and his eyes dropped down to watch. “You are, baby. You are. I think about you all the time.”

Building steadily underneath him, your head pushed back into the bedding and his mouth found your throat, his teeth scraping against the tender skin. His hips never stopping their filling grind, you pushed your fingers through his curls and when he bit down with a suck, a slurred yes slipped out of your outstretched throat.

You imagined your mom seeing it, asking you if you went on a date with someone.

His strokes got harder, harsher, his hips snapping against yours and digging your fingers into the soft globes of his ass, you forced him deeper. When you clenched around his thick length, he looked down at you, wrecked and desperate.

“I wish I tasted you,” he groaned. “Next time, okay?”

You frantically nodded, unable to focus on anything but the bright, shining edge of your release.

He could see it, feel it in the squeeze of your soaked cunt and his vision blurred around the edges, his own want building at the base of his spine.

“You gonna come?”

You are. The sounds he’s making above you and the way he feels inside you and the scent and need rolling off his skin and those fucking pitch black eyes that have been in your dreams for months –

Slick dripped down the curve of your ass, your hips locking up underneath him and when you came with a silent cry, he groaned deep and loud, fucking you right through it.

“Tell me I can fucking come inside you. Say it,” he pleaded, fingers gripped on your chin to hold your gaze on his. His words punctuated by the snap of his hips, you nod your head.

“Do it,” you whined.

Your fingers threaded through his curls, it’s the tug that you give that does it. Coming harder than he had in his fucking life, he filled your tight cunt with thick ropes of his spend. Endless, smeared over the shaft of his thick cock as he continued to pump into you because he couldn’t stop, slipping out to drip onto the delicate sheets below.

“Christ,” he groaned, his jaw clenched as the veins in his neck strained above you, his hips stuttering. Slowing them into a languid roll against your own, his softening cock was still a thick, filling weight inside and when he looked down at you, you recognized the guilt that already flooded the brown depths.

You stared right back, holding him tight.

“Stay,” you murmured, holding him in place when he started to roll off of you.

You wanted to remember this. The hot press of his skin against yours, tacky and slick with sweat. The warm gust of his breath over your lips, the rapid beat of his pulse under his flushed neck. The wild curls that stuck damply along his hairline, the brush of his fingers as he tenderly thumbed at the curve of your jaw.

He swallowed and you could see the war in his eyes, something you recognized as being there from the start. His hand curled over the crown of your head, and you pressed a kiss to his throat.

“You can’t –” he started, eyes fluttering shut at the press of your mouth. “You can’t tell your mom about this, okay. We can’t say anything.”

We. You reveled in the sound of the word, your head nodding underneath him. A secret to share. Something for the two of you alone.

“I won’t,” you promised. “Just don’t leave, okay?”

You felt small and vulnerable asking, and when he looked down at you, a glimpse of the girl he imagined on that very first day tugged at his memory. Not the age he pictured of course, but the way you needed him.

The way he wanted you to need him all along.

His face nuzzled yours, his nose sliding across your cheek. A kiss pressed against the soft, youthful curve of your cheek that he had admired for months, he nodded with your sweet taste still lingering on his tongue.

“I won’t, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales/you #frankie morales/reader

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yan-maid-cafe · 1 month

Text

Yandere Scientist

Imagine being taken care of by a yandere scientist...

Lev was a down on his luck scientist. He had been obsessed with marine biology since he was a young boy. Researching various forms of aquatic life, it was his passion. So when he got out of college and got a job as an assistent at one of the biggest marine biology facilities in the country. Slowly climbing the ranks until he became a researcher of his own.

But he felt the passion slowly begin to die. It wasn't the deep sea expiditions and discovering long forgotten species like he had expected. Instead it was mostly busy work. Look at these scales, watch this video, go to this lecture. It was a drag. Nothing like the life he wanted for himself. And he couldn't escape it. Life felt like a drag...

He just wanted to end it all...

Than something unexpected happened. He was doing his standard report on his recent findings when he got a sudden call from one of the higher ups, the ones who rarely spoke to anybody. They told him that he was selected for a top secret project and wanted to know if he was in. His curiosity got the better him and agreed, filling out all the NDAs and paper work immediantly. What could be so important that he needed to sign all of this?

He was escorted to a new lab, being told it was where he would be staying for the forseeable future. He was confused by what assignment he had been given. But than he saw it. He saw you...

In a small holding tank was a creature he had only ever seen in myth. A large fish like tail that appeared to have been torn up with large gashes in the tail and a ripped caudal fin, all wrapped in water proof bandages. Or at least the best they could wrap it. But from the waist up was a person. They looked human, except for the scaled texture on various parts of their skin, the webbed hands, and fins in place of ears. They were scratched up there as well, with wrapped up arms and even a damaged facial fin. They were a merfolk.

One of the higher ups told him the story. How a group of fisherman went to a new area by their home to fish, but when they went to leave something had gotten caught in the propeller and when they looked again there was just a large thing of blood. They believed that you had gone to investigate the new boat only to get caught in the propeller when they went to leave. Which left your body scared and damaged. Though they had no confirmation, mainly due to the fact there seemed to be some kind of language barrier. With the merfolk only speaking in chirps and chatters, leaving them unable to get anykind of information out of you.

So that just left Lev's new job. He was meant to take care of you until your body healed while also observing you. It was a nice change of pace from the boring life he was used to, and there was something so thrilling about being on an assignment that so few people knew about. But he didn't expect thing to change so much...

There was something about you that just made him feel alive. Maybe it was your cute face or childish curiosity. There was just something there that he adored. He could spend all day watching you. Just witnessing you play with the various bath and water toys he had bought you in his off time. And he couldn't stop the ache in his heart whenever you struggled. Having to stop swimming when the pain in your tail became too much to bare, or when you're unable to control your swimming due to your damaged caudal fin leaving you to bump into the glass of the tank constantly. He just wanted to stay by you, he just wanted to care for you. You were all he had anymore...

So when he was called into a meeting with the higher ups, he was in shock. They believed you were healed as much as you could on your own, and it was time for them to step in. That some of the scientists had been making a prosthetic tail fin, something meant to replace your caudal fin. And that once you got the hang of the prosthetic they'd let you return home. He couldn't believe it.

When he got back to his lab, he threw everything on his desk to the floor. They couldn't do this to him. Not after everything you two had gone through. What did they think would happen? Did they just plan to chip you like some kind of animal and let you back out? You were almost killed once already, they were just throwing you back into the jaws of death. You hadn't even been around danger in months, almost a year. You couldn't function on your own in the cold dangerous ocean. You couldn't function without him. And he couldn't function without you either. You needed eachother, what would you do seperated?

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he looked over at the tank. How long had his hand been pressed against it? But that wasn't what he cared about, all he cared about was your webbed hand on the other side of the glass. Pressed to the same spot as his. A broken laugh spilled from his lips as he pressed he cheek against the glass, tears in his eyes as he spoke to you. Uncaring of whether you could understand him or not.

"I-I knew it. I knew you felt the same. You don't want to go back to that cold dark place. You want to stay with me too. I just know it. They won't take you away. They can't take you away. I'll take both of us out of the picture before I let them rip you out of my arms. My world. My life~..."

#yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere oc #male yandere #yandere scientist #mermaid reader

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bambithewriter · 15 days

Text

Pandora's glow day 2

Lo’ak x female human reader

Content: MDNI, 18+, all characters are aged up, dom Lo’ak, sub reader, p in v, insecure reader, use of a mirror

Summary: Lo’ak proves reader how much he loves her little human body

A/N: I didn’t have plans on participating with this event but since I had some free time I decided to try it out anyway. It’s short but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

This amazing event is hosted by the lovely @luvv4j4ybe11 and @aperiraa💗

It had been days since Lo'ak had last seen you.

It was a mistake, you thought. It shouldn't have happened. You couldn't ruin your friendship like this. You could never be like them.

Every day he was surrounded by beautiful Na'vi women.

Then there was you. A tiny human. Much softer and fragile, fat percentage higher than your muscle tone. If only you could be stronger and taller like the Na'vi women he was surrounded with daily.

Sleeping with Lo'ak te Sully Tsyeyk'itan was a mistake .

You never should have invited him over to the lab, in your bedroom.

It had started innocently with him looking around your room in curiosity, messing with your stuff.

You didn't know how it ended up with you sitting in his lap, clothes off, his cock stuffed deep inside your little pussy.

Never again, you told yourself.

Lo'ak didn't give a shit. He wanted you and he would have you again.

He held your head up, pulling at your hair. He made you look at yourself in the mirror facing your bed. You were forced to see how good he was fucking you in his favorite position, doggy style.

The sight in front of you was lewd and hot.

Despite your insecurities, you couldn't help but get turned on by the sight. It was erotic and sensual.

Lo'ak was behind you, his tall frame making you look so small. His free large hand was placed on your hip in a possessive grip.

He snapped his hips forward, cock grazing your sweet spots. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his ears pinned back and his tail wrapped around your thigh.

"Watch yourself baby. Watch how good I'm fucking you." He growled softly.

You could only whine pathetically, completely drunk off of his cock. Taking a Na'vi cock wasn't easy for your little human pussy. Lo'ak was huge after all, even for Na'vi standards.

"Fuck mamas, you're made to take my cock. Only you can take it like this, my good girl." He praised you, unable to look in the mirror himself. It was too much. If he would watch, he would cum.

"Come on mama, cum for me. I-I won't last much longer." He whimpered softly, head thrown back. His hand that previously pulled at your hair now made its way towards your hips, holding them with both of his hands. His grip was tight, showing his desperation to hold back his upcoming orgasm. He always tried to get you off first.

"Lo'ak need to...w-want..." You pathetically stammered, unable to form a proper sentence but for Lo'ak it was enough. He knew what you wanted. One of his hands sneaked in between your legs, massaging the hidden little nub.

Your back arched, walls clenching around him as you came all over his cock with a pleasured cry.

"Fuckkk." He hissed, unable to hold back any longer. His warm seed spurted deep inside, painting your walls white.

Lo'ak grinned as he watched his cum leak from your pussy. A clear indication of his ownership over you, knowing he had turned you into his little mess.

"Mmm, look at you, mamas. My messy baby." He purred, his voice filled with a mix of satisfaction and amusement. "You're stuffed with my cum, my mark on you. Such a good girl, taking everything I gave you."

You whimpered softly, looking in the mirror just to see his sharp gaze on you as he too looked in the mirror. He looked so big and dominant behind you smaller body.

He leaned down, fangs lightly grazing over your ear as he whispered, "You know what that means don't you, mama? My seed inside you is a reminder of who you belong to. A reminder that you're mine. My pussy. My girl"

#pandora’sglow2024 #pandora’sglow #lo’ak smut #lo’ak x fem!reader #lo’ak x reader #lo’ak sully #lo’ak x you #lo’ak x reader smut #atwow lo’ak #atwow smut #atwow #avatar the way of water #lo’ak te suli tsyeyk’itan #lo’ak x y/n

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cinnamonest · 1 month

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Yan childe x teacher reader BUT the reader has a lover OMG I CAN'T-

//cucking + filming noncon, age gap, Ajax is an awful little bastard as usual

(also here's the original Delinquent!Childe x Teacher!Reader post, and the second sequel post)

Oh anon. Anon. I love this, but consider: take it a step further.

The poor boy finding out that his precious teacher he’s been fantasizing about fucking silly is MARRIED.

Typing away on her keyboard when his eyes drift and he stiffens up when he sees the ring he never noticed before. The pain. The horror. Devastated.

He’s never even met the guy, and yet he hates him so much. It’s not fair that he got to you first, just because he was born earlier than he was!

He’s probably not good enough for you. Some old guy who can’t rail you with the vigor and intensity that a young guy like himself can, probably can’t keep up with your drive either. You must be so frustrated and unsatisfied.

Now it feels so awful on his tongue to call you what he normally does. Miss _____, he says, and it feels like he’s spewing poison from his mouth, knowing it’s some other man’s name practically forced on you by dumb traditions and social standards (not that he wouldn’t do the same, but that’s different). It makes his chest hurt to hear it, the name feels like a constant reminder that some other man basically has laid claim to you, that the name marks you as belonging to someone who isn’t him.

He does some digging, finds everything he can on the guy, any online profiles or social accounts. Ugh. You deserve better. If it were him, he would just support you himself, you wouldn’t have to slave away doing paperwork all the time.

Even worse is the fact that the guy has a nice job — you know, the kind you need some higher degrees for, which he definitely won’t get seeing as his behavioral record is pretty much guaranteed to keep him out of any credible institution… still, you don’t need that much money to get by. Sure, he’ll never make that much (without getting into crime, at least, which isn’t an impossibility…), but still, he’s better for you.

It’s so much worse, though, when he stalks your accounts, sees pictures of the two of you together. Makes him feel sick to his stomach, you look happy and he doesn’t like that. He ends up having to close the window, unable to handle any further emotional damage.

He starts to pry, little by little. Can’t be too blatant, but he slips in a question every now and then — how you met, what you two do for fun, so on and so on. It makes him stomach churn to hear you talk about him, but he can’t refrain from continuing to ask, practically a compulsive urge.

God forbid you express any sort of discontentment. Even the slightest frustrated sigh, passive-aggressive comment in regards to the man, and so on, he perks up and zeros in. Oh, so you are unhappy. Typical unsatisfied wife that’s getting pent up from unmet needs and all that.

He’s very attentive to those complaints, the things you mutter under your breath and the implications of it all. He works too long and is never home (terrible, he would never leave you so lonely), he’s never helpful around the home (which wouldn’t be so much of an issue if you were home all the time and didn’t have work responsibilities), he suspiciously disappears sometimes for “work trips” or unexplained entirely (unforgiveable, your suspicions are well-founded, he’s definitely cheating and you shouldn’t forgive it).

Sometimes you sigh and shake your head — ah, sorry, I shouldn’t trouble someone your age with all this… but he assures you it’s fine… also he’s searched a list of local divorce attorneys, you know, if you consider that, which you should.

He’s not the best at being subtle or exercising restraint, so he can’t help but actually mention it out loud — life is short, better to divorce than stay in a miserable relationship! But you sigh and say it’s not that serious. He holds out on the hope that there’s an unspoken “yet” at the end of that, that eventually you’ll get fed up.

But you don’t. You keep tolerating it. It’s somewhat understandable, since divorces are difficult and messy, and you would need somewhere to stay and all that.

But getting one’s own place isn’t that hard. He would know, now — he’s actually been picking up odd jobs recently, all to get his own place. Hard to balance that with schoolwork, but he manages (and he’s in the absolute bottom-tier difficulty for courses anyway, with very little actual homework, and it’s not like he’s prepping for college like a lot of his peers). You’re very pleased with it, say you’re proud of him for being so dedicated and responsible, completely unaware that he only really has one intention for doing it all anyway.

He was planning to take that part slowly, ease his way there, but you push the limits of how much he can tolerate when he’s forced to meet the guy face-to-face. He’s just sitting there as per usual in your after-school sessions, talking a mile a minute as per usual, having a good day, completely unprepared for the psychological gut-punch he’s forced to experience when that same face he saw online comes walking right into your classroom. The sacred space that’s supposed to be just for you and him.

His soul is crushed when you get up to greet the guy all happily, practically ignoring him for several extended seconds before you gesture over to where he’s sitting and introduce each other — with himself as the student I’ve been tutoring, you know the one. The man nods, casts a single uncaring glance his direction.

Right. She mentioned you before.

The hell does that mean. He keeps the smile plastered to his face, but it’s twitchy. What did you say? Was it bad? No, you wouldn’t say anything bad about him… except maybe certain factual statements like the whole behavioral record thing, but he can accept that that’s his own fault.

Still, he doesn’t like the way the guy looks at him. A vague condescending, disdainful glance. Makes him curl his hands into fists and clench his jaw. If it weren’t for the whole “impulse management” thing you’ve been hammering into his head for months now, he might have outright attacked the guy.

It’s practically torture to sit there. You say something about how you’re going out for your anniversary, so he came to pick you up. Awful. Like you might as well have stabbed him. Not to mention it’s cutting into what’s supposed to be his time with you, and now he has to leave early.

So he’s forced to walk to the front doors with you both, listening to you talk all happily about where you’re going, while he’s forced to continue to pretend to be perfectly fine with it. Ugh.

You bid him goodbye, and he smiles and waves and walks the opposite way… and the moment you’re out of sight, he’s scowling and grinding his teeth and kicking rocks on the road all the way home, sulking like a petulant kid, imagining all the horrible ways he hopes your date goes terribly wrong.

It makes him seethe all night long, laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, nausea ruining any chance he had of sleeping. He can’t even go sulk around his parents with the hope of getting attention like he used to do when he was mad, now that he lives in this little apartment by himself.

How is he supposed to live under these conditions, no attention available on demand. You don’t even text him to see if he got home safe like you do sometimes. Probably too busy doing whatever with your husband who’s more important than he is. Hmph. His mind briefly flickers to wondering what you’re doing now that it’s later in the night, but the obvious realization only makes him feel ten times more sick. He doesn’t get any rest.

And the longer the night goes on, the more irritated he starts to feel, the misery and hurt begins to turn to bitterness and anger. He starts to feel like you probably know — no, you definitely do. And yet, you willingly tortured him like that. You've been so nice to him, giving him all that attention and affection, knowing you won't ever give him what he really wants and being totally fine with causing him so much pain. He's hurt, and more importantly, mad.

But he can't hate you… your husband, however, is a different story.

That guy kept his arm around your waist walking outside, rubbing it in his face like that. He’s certain that your husband must realize that he loves you (way more than said husband does, for the record), but that look of disdain — he doesn’t even see him as a threat, does he. Thinks that he’s not even proper competition. That much is painful. Bothersome. Annoying. Rage-inducing.

Well, he’s wrong.

That’s the thought that pushes him over the edge. He’s already had the idea in his head for a long time, he just kept bailing out every time he gathered the gall to go through with it, much to his own shame.

But clearly, continuing to be passive is not going to get him anywhere. Come to think of it, a few months ago, he would never have hesitated to go through with whatever impulse struck him, no matter how violent. It’s not like he hasn’t been expelled or arrested before.

He appreciates the time he’s spent with you, but he’s starting to think that all those little speeches about “self-control” and “thinking before you act” and all that have only really just made him docile and tame. How embarrassing.

A man should just take what he wants, right? Anything less is practically a blow to his pride.

He’s still not the brightest when it comes to formulating plans, but his rather straightforward plan ends up working. You actually agree to swing by when he says he has something to give you, something too big to carry to school himself, so he needs you to come pick it up with your car and all that. You must really trust him. Or you’re just naive, maybe, but he likes to think you trust him, however unwise that may be.

He worries that you might back out, but you show right up to his door. The motions from there are mechanical, putting his brain on a sort of autopilot mode in which he just goes through with it, without thinking too much, lest he hesitate, until you’re secured.

Grabbing you by the shoulder and jerking you inside, hand over your mouth, other arm around your waist and picking you up. It's a short distance to the bed (well, mattress on the floor), since it's just a studio apartment and all.

You being so weak makes it so much easier. He can technically tell you're struggling, but it barely feels like resistance, just weak squirming and thrashing that doesn't even loosen his grip in the slightest. You make cute little noises of surprise and confusion and fear, muffled by his hand over your mouth.

Sadly, he can't afford to have you attracting attention from the neighbors, so he's forced to keep you gagged, pulling your shirt over your head (to which your whimpers turn to full-fledged sounds of panic), and — after the brief moment where he has to detach his hand from your mouth, hearing you stammer out a wait, wait— balls it up and stuffs it into your mouth, quickly grabbing the duct tape (he, feeling very proud of himself for such clever forethought, thought to go ahead and tear some long strips off and stick the ends to the wall ahead of time), and placing it over your mouth, flipping you over onto your stomach.

You're so cute. You make the cutest little noises, your eyes get all teary, you squirm and whimper and try to pull yourself away, but he's got your wrists pinned behind your back with one hand, the other pulling your hips back. The cutest part by far has to be when you feel him jerk your skirt up, his cock pressing against your flesh and pushing inside of you, your squeals get louder and higher pitched and you struggle so hard, to no avail.

So mean, though, to pretend like you didn't see it coming. You know what you did. You led him on on purpose. Knowing full well the sort of things he's done to other people — beating his peers black and blue on impulsive whims, getting into fights because he felt like it, stealing stuff and vandalizing stuff and all those other things he knows you know he did, since it's all on his records… you willingly came all by yourself, in private, with someone like that, who you know full well is so much stronger than you are—

What did you fucking expect?

Up until then, the stream of words from his mouth are all amused and teasing and sadistic, but in those words, and the sharp jerking thrust accompanying them, you hear that underlying anger breaking through. You really hurt him, you know, by being married. He loves you so much, and you had to go and do that to me, he says, as if it was a retroactive choice, as if you should have predicted his presence in your life years in advance, as if you willfully did it to spite him years before you knew he existed.

Is it irrational? Sure… but it isn't going to change that he feels that way, and he’s mad and you can't do anything about it anyway, so he's going to keep blaming you for what you did wrong.

He keeps muttering about how stupid you are — for coming here so naively, for choosing your dumb fucking husband over him when he's so much better and loves you so much more, for all the little things you did to lure him in and make him want you so badly, for being so nice to him and having a body you should have known would make him want this so badly.

It's all your fault.

The words get more and more muffled and slurred as the movements get faster, harsher, you squeal with each thrust that makes the springs creak and the whole mattress itself move back and forth against the floor. He points out that you're leaking all over him, fluid drooling out of your hole and spilling onto his hips and thighs, satisfied by the shameful little whimper you make and the way you hang your head. You must not get fucked good enough at home, huh.

And then, he starts to slow down. There's a pause. You see him reach over, to where he tossed a few things that were on you when you came in onto the floor. Fishes something out of your purse.

You made a confused, panicked little sound when you notice he's holding your phone. Easily unlocked, whatever method you use — he holds it up to your face or forces your thumb to press against it, or, most alarmingly, even if it's protected by password or pattern, he enters it with a single try. Shouldn't have opened your phone around him so much, of course he would pay attention to that.

You're flipped onto your back, reeling from the sudden harsh movement, grunting and squirming when your bra is pulled up to your collarbones and your skirt pulled up even further, exposing your body completely before shoving back inside of you, and oh, what a euphoric sound you make — and this time, you visibly clench down on him when he does. Perfectly timed, too.

Your stomach clenches in dread and panic as you see your phone’s front side facing you.

Smile.

You cry out louder than ever before, struggle so hard, so good. His hand latches onto your throat and squeezes hard, and your hands, now no longer in his grasp, reach up to claw at them, all entirely futile. The sound of skin slapping skin reverberates around the room, and you see him tilt the camera downward, ensuring he captures the sight of his cock pounding into you, stretching you apart, all the slick fluid now coating everything from your thighs to his hips, and the sweet, precious sounds you make for him.

He wonders if anyone has ever made you react like this before. If your husband is going to be torn apart by the realization that he's made you feel better than he ever has, that he's better and bigger than him. The sheer fear on your face would suggest that. The thought feels euphoric.

He re-angles himself, leaning forward a bit, ensuring his body presses against your clit — you start to tense up, push back, your heels dig into the mattress and your body writhes with greater force than ever before. Your eyes squeeze shut and you shake your head but he doesn't stop, and you hate yourself so much in the moment for the sensations your body feels, the guilt and despair overwhelm you, you feel a cold chill in your gut — but you finally spasm and shudder on his cock all the same, clearly trying so hard to minimize it and hold back the sounds and movements, but the involuntary shudders and soft little cries are unmistakable all the same.

Normally, he would want to stay inside you longer — but there will be plenty of chance for that later. This time, the prospect of pulling out and capturing it is too tempting, and God, is it satisfying when he does. The squelching sound, the way his cum starts to drool out of you onto the mattress, the way your hole twitches from the sudden absence, slightly agape from the intrusion. It's so, so perfect, better than he could have even imagined.

You rip the tape off your mouth, gagging and coughing from the strain on your throat, and the overwhelming sensation leaves you in a dazed stupor for a few moments… your head slowly drags over to him, and an ice-cold spike of fear strikes through your heart when you see that he's still on your phone.

Slight movement from you as you try to push yourself upright takes his attention away from it, eyes flickering over to you.

Ah, right.

You make a scared little sound and pull your hands close to your chest (very cute!) as he looms over you again, but you're helpless to do anything as he puts the phone down to flip you over again, this time taping your wrists behind your back, adding a new layer over your mouth, and finally one on your ankles. Your struggles barely faze him.

You see him zip his pants back up and pull his shirt back on, standing and making his way over to the door, shuffling his shoes back on before grabbing your car keys.

I'll bring these back. Your place is only five minutes away if I drive, you know. I won’t get into any wrecks this time.

It occurs to you that you've never told him where you live, but it's the least of your concerns then and there. Your heart sinks to your stomach as he takes your phone again, grinning as he types and, after a pause, makes one distinct, final tap that you know can only be hitting 'send.'

His head turns over to you, that same dopey, carefree smile on his face as always, that now seems so much more sinister than before.

Don't worry. He won't have enough time to call the cops.

Your muffled words don't stop him. You writhe pathetically on the ground as the door opens and closes before you, listening in dread and despair as his footsteps slowly fade away.

#lord forgive me but this is the GOOD stuff #like taking reader from her lover/husband/bf by force... hnnnnng

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mysterycitrus · 5 months

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Stephanie Brown headcanons please?

Headcanon A: realistic

on the way home, mr freeze floods and then freezes the subway, and they're stuck for almost three hours until huntress saws the doors open. there's a woman there, rebecca, whose water breaks during hour one and goes into labour lying on an unfolded picnic blanket and another passenger's flannel shirt. it's a little girl. steph cuts the cord with sewing scissors lent by the old lady doing crotchet by the window. steph doesn't have her kit, so there's not much she can do aside from being kind until the paramedics get through the ice. she coos, and the baby wriggles delightedly in this cold new world she's emerged into. it only hurts a little to hand her back.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

she's taller than tim. he doesn't get mad about it, but he complains when she wears wedges, or when the ledge she's crouched on is slightly higher than his. it makes my neck hurt, he tells her, it's bad enough that damian probably has bruce's height.

to make him feel better, she buys him an bekvam stepstool and ships it to his apartment in california. he ignores her calls for a week.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

when she thinks of death, she doesn't picture sionis, or her father. instead, she sees the cowl. she sees its blank eyes staring down at her in that hospital bed, her eye swollen closed and her throat thick and tight. she feels the glove holding her hand, and feeling so, so cold. she remembers wanting to be warm more than anything. she remembers that even in her final moments, he still didn't trust her enough to show himself. she remembers being alone. she remembers trying her best.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

it's nonchalant, on a school night where damian complains about gotham academy for forty-five straight minutes before being distracted by national geographic, when she and dick are sitting on the floor of the penthouse, their backs against the couch when dick says: it's funny.

what is? she asks. she still doesn't quite know how to act around him, even with tim gone. he seems untouchable, almost otherworldly. some impossible standard to fail at, rather than a living person.

dick smiles. the cave has a one hundred percent robin saturation rate.

her heart does that little ba-bump, ba-bump. she thinks of her deathbed, and how even bruce couldn't take that away from her. somehow, now, it feels like so much more. she says: i was only robin for a little while.

so's damian, dick replies. what, you think it's something that ever really leaves you?

#stephersssss #stephanie brown #batgirl #batfam #dick grayson #dc comics #the ask and the answer #ask game #damian wayne

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inbarfink · 7 months

Text

Okay, so here’s the thing about Zim and GIR…

When talking about the idea that Zim might have some affection towards GIR - a lot of people bring up the fact that, like, GIR is even still functioning in the first place. After all, why would the Famously Sadistic and Callous Invader Zim keep around an evil minion who messes up as often as GIR does? Rather than scrap him for parts or just throw him in the trash? ….Unless he had some sort of emotional attachment to that minion in the first place?

But that’s… I’m actually not sure that argument 100% works. Because there’s one important variable that argument discards. GIR isn’t just a regular ol’ robotic minion - he is a special top-secret model SIR Unit personally gifted to Zim by the Almighty Tallests.

Zim cannot fully discard GIR as a worthless garbage robot that’s nothing but a hindrance to his mission the same way that he can’t discard Earth as a worthless garbage planet with no value to the Irken Empire - because that would be confronting and admitting that he is not actually a great and respected Invader in the eyes of his Tallests.

But I still think there are some other evidence to the idea that Zim likes GIR. Because, I mean, Zim is incredibly lenient towards him.

Zim… feels bad for yelling at GIR and making him cry.

Zim. Feels. Bad. For. Yelling.

This alone is incredible evidence for Zim’s affection towards GIR.

And that is absolutely not something Zim will do for just any minion. Just look at how he treats his Computer, and not to mention all those poor saps from Hobo 13.

The fact that in his deluded world, GIR is supposed to be a top-of-the-line personal gift from the Tallests certainly plays a part. But I also think that while these delusions might explain why he doesn’t throw GIR in the trash… Zim is very good at twisting reality and logic and his own ideology for the sake of justifying his own selfish desires.

If he actually wanted to hurt GIR, he could’ve very easily rationalized it as ‘you are supposed to be the bestest most prided minion in my army of doom and a personal gift from the Almighty Tallest themselves therefore I will hold you to a higher standard and punish you accordingly’. But instead he is incredibly lenient with GIR and his constant screw-ups and obnoxious whims.

So my read of why Zim is actually fond of GIR in his own weird way is very much tied to, like, a Big Thing about how I read Zim’s character in general. Which is, Zim’s delusion, like Ogres, has layers. Like, there are some aspects of reality that just genuinely never penetrated his thick Irken skull - and there are some things he does realize on some level even as he tries as hard as he can to convince himself otherwise.

So I think on some level, as much as he outwardly denies it, Zim is aware of how much he messed up things for the Irken Empire in ‘Impending Doom 1’ and how the Almighty Tallests really view him. This is basically how his thought process is described in the Pilot -

And it’s also supported with how Vasquez describes Zim’s similarities to Dib in some of the ‘Florpus’ interviews.

Dib is obviously painfully aware of the ways his father does not respect him - but for Zim to similarly want to prove his own amazingness to the Tallest, he has to be aware on some level that the Tallest don’t acknowledge that he’s amazing. And I think it also matches with his interactions with the various Tallests in the ‘The Trial’ Flashbacks. Because he wasn’t originally that feverishly devoted, eager to prove himself and deluded about being beloved by the Tallests as he is right now.

That’s a trait he has developed either in response to his spectacular failure in ‘Operation Impending Doom 1’ or just to Red and Purple - who already knew him beforehand and decided they can’t stand him - rising to power. He is aware on some level of how the Tallests perceive him, and while he cannot consciously acknowledge it, his behavior is him overcompensating for it.

And I think… Zim projects this aspect of himself on GIR. He sees himself in GIR. Not the self he wants to see, the hypercompetent and beloved Invader. But the self he keeps denying - a devoted and loyal minion who despite messing up sometimes (or rather, all the goddamn time), is always eager to please and driven to prove himself.

Which… is also not a fully accurate view of himself, but like I said, it’s Layers of self-delusion. But that’s subconsciously how he perceives his own relationship with the Tallests and how he perceives GIR’s relationship to himself.

So Zim being so tolerant of GIR’s constant screw ups, never really seriously punishing him, always putting him in important positions in his schemes, always acquiesce to his stupid and annoying whims… that’s because he sees himself in GIR, and that’s how he would like the Tallests to treat him, that’s how he pretends the Tallests already treat him, and so that’s the treatment he gives GIR. He believes he deserves these infinite second chances and high-ranking roles in all of the Empire’s universe-conquering plans despite his constant failures and that’s what he keeps doing with GIR despite being just as frustrated with him as the Tallests are with Zim.

And the thing is, because of Zim’s Extreme Projection to the Max - he kinda got the entirely wrong idea about GIR. Zim is not exactly that eager-to-please loyal drone of the empire - but GIR is not that at all, not even remotely. While GIR might have some affection towards Zim, he doesn’t care at all about the mission - much less being ‘allowed’ to do Important Things Vital for the fate of the Zim’s latest scheme. He would much rather goof off and watch TV then be given any sort of responsibility.

Again, the cupcake scene is very illustrative. Zim thinks GIR is upset because he feels very bad about screwing up their mission and thus is immediately forgiving - but GIR was only sad because he ran out of Cupcake to eat.

With how distractible and chaotic and generally detached from reality GIR is, it’s… kinda hard to determine when he’s trying to obey Zim’s orders but failing and when he just never really gave much of a shit about them in the first place.

But he’s usually not even a little bit bothered or upset about the idea that his inaction has put his ‘master’ in mortal danger.

I guess the funny thing is, like, there are times where Zim needs an extra pair of arms or eyes on board - times where he needs the skills of… maybe not GIR but at least a hypothetical fully-functional SIR Unit. But there are many other occasions where GIR is nothing but a burden and annoyance to him and the thing is that they both would’ve been happier if GIR was just allowed to stay home to watch TV and eat babies but Zim keeps putting him in important positions because Zim likes GIR but he’s unable to understand what GIR is actually like beyond an image of all the projected insecurities he can't admit about himself.

And of course, as we all know, if GIR was actually driven to fulfill their mission - that turns out very bad for Zim very very quickly.

#invader zim #iz #zim #zim iz #iz zim #gir #gir iz #iz gir #zim invader zim #gir invader zim #invader zim gir #invader zim zim #tallest red #almighty tallest #tallest purple #invader zim tallest #the almighty tallest #the tallest

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omgreally · 2 years

Text

Comfortably Close

Joel Miller/You, E for Smut™, 2.1k You and Joel share a couch. The classic Huddling for Warmth with Joel Miller smut trope, yet another take.

It’s cold in the dilapidated old house you and Joel hunker down in, and the blizzard screams outside as if it has a personal vendetta against the two of you.

You haven’t known Joel long. The quiet, grizzled man might have struck you as scary if years of surviving hadn’t blunted you so much to the savagery of others. He’s polite enough, and he keeps his hands to himself.

Decades ago your standards might’ve been higher for the company you keep. But that was then, and this is now.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been caught out on a patrol together, and it probably won’t be the last. Joel’s had your back long enough that you trust him more than most, but that isn’t saying much; you’re one of the ones that’s had a harder time settling into this new life of safety and warmth. Maybe that’s why you get along so well. You don’t take things too seriously, and he discounts your flirting as good-natured harmlessness.

He’s wrong, of course. Your standards aren’t so high these days, after all, but he doesn’t have to know that.

Life’s too short, you tell him once - it can turn on a dime, and everything can change in a heartbeat. Or the lack of one. And Joel, with a low murmur, agrees.

You’ve both lost people. That much is evident, in the fierceness of the way he protects his girl, the wary little redhead you’re pretty sure could kill you despite appearances. You’ve seen Joel talking to her once or twice, quietly intense before leaving on a patrol, and she always looks like she wants to tell him not to go - but she holds herself back.

It’s sad how quick kids have to grow up these days.

You sigh at the dark thoughts creeping in through the cold, shifting beneath the mouldy carpet draped uselessly over your shoulders to try and keep you warm. The creaking walls don’t hold heat well, so there’s no point in starting a fire. You watch your breath gather in frosty white clouds, obscuring your face, as Joel does the same from the couch.

“Least if I freeze to death before morning that’ll save me the ride back,” you mutter. The horses are huddled together in the garage, but you can’t say you’re fond of your uppity mare. She may be just a horse, but you can tell she doesn’t like you.

“You really hate ridin’ that much?” Joel drawls, and you glance up at his hunched form.

“Horses? Yes. They’ve got minds of their own. Machines and men, on the other hand..”

Joel’s chuckle, warm and unexpected, forms a quickly-dissipating fog. You resist the urge to glance over at him. He always brushes you off, like he does most in Jackson; you’re lucky to get conversation out of him most of the time. He doesn’t talk about himself much, and he asks about other people even less. Keeps you at arms length - safer that way, you know, but it makes you curious. Only natural, you tell yourself; you tell yourself it doesn’t make him any more intriguing, any more interesting than anyone else. But there’s something about that look in his eye, sometimes, and you wonder about him, more than you should.

“You cold?” Joel asks, as a particularly nasty shiver wracks you. You look up, raising your eyebrows.

“Sweltering,” you reply, resisting the urge to roll your eyes; you’re pretty sure they’re close to frozen in their sockets. “Sure we can’t start a fire? I hear horse fat burns pretty well.”

“You sure do have a sick sense of humour when you’re cranky,” Joel obbserves, perhaps the most personal thing he’s said to you. You try not to let it sting, but maybe he means it as a compliment - you can’t tell.”C’mere.”

“You try being in a good mood when you’re freezing your tits off - what?” you add, as your freezing, sluggish brain catches up with what he said. “Where?”

Joel looks at you and lifts the edge of his threadbare blanket. “Come. Here. I ain’t gonna let you freeze to death, girl.”

“Girl? I’ve got more grays than you,” you gripe, but you don’t leave yourself to hesitate too much while your fingers and toes are busy going numb. You discard the useless carpet and climb up onto the couch. It’s a big, old, moth-bitten thing that creaks under your weight as you add it to Joel’s, but there’s enough room to curl up next to him, back to his chest. He drops the blanket unceremoniously over you and tucks an arm over your waist, far too familiar.

“I never noticed,” he murmurs in your ear, and you feel the hairs lift on the back of your neck. You shiver, but it’s not from cold this time.

It’s been a while since you’ve slept with anyone - even this near, with clothes on. Despite your propensity for flirting, the follow-through was the problem; Jackson was a small community, after all. But Joel is very warm and solid at your back. Then he starts rubbing the outside of your arms with broad palms and you suddenly realize how much you’ve missed human touch.

Joel must feel some kind of tension in you, for he stops pretty quick. “You okay?” he wonders, his chest a rumble against your spine, hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you confirm with a tight nod, pillowing your head on your folded arm. It’s too cold to be thinking like this - you have to think about conservation of body heat, about survival, like Joel is. So you breathe out and let the tension go and say, “You still wanna take first watch? I’m beat.”

“Uh-huh.”

“‘Kay.” You close your eyes, force yourself to breathe, to think of something other than the fit of Joel’s body against yours. “And Joel…Thanks.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand squeezes your shoulder. And eventually, your breathing evens out into sleep.

—

You wake with an arm wrapped around your torso, the sensation of breath hot against your neck. The tip of your nose is cold but the rest of you is warm with the body pressed against yours.

Sometime during the night Joel must have nodded off, wrapped himself around you like a serpent. Your ass resting firmly in the notch of his hips you can tell the very natural reaction his body’s had in sleep - the firmness pressed against your cheek definitely not that of a weapon holster.

You wonder if you should wake him, but you don’t need to pee yet and the blizzard has quieted outside and quite frankly, this is nice. You haven’t had anyone hold you quite like this for a very long time, so you close your eyes and arch back against him a little, pressing your thighs together for a little friction, a little stretch through your muscles that feels good.

His hand migrated from your shoulder to your ribcage, long fingers tucked under your arm, fanned out underneath the swell of your breast. You don’t mind it. Even as compromising as this position is he hasn’t gone for a full grope, which you appreciate. A gentleman, despite his baser natures.

Rare, these days.

Joel shifts with your stretch, his breath hitching into a wakeful rhythm, but you try not to let on that you’re already awake - to try and preserve the moment for a little longer. You resist the urge to sigh in disappointment when his hand draws back, only to flinch in surprise when you feel those long fingers move the hair away from your neck.

“Mornin’.” He doesn’t move his hips either toward or away from you, belying the fact he’s probably quite aware of his current state of arousal. The intention of the lack of movement makes something in your stomach drop in hopeful anticipation. “I know you’re awake. You ain’t snoring.”

Not very romantic, but you can work with that. “I know you’re awake, too,” you point out, shifting back against him - again, he doesn’t move, but his hand settles on your hip and your stomach swoops this time. “So much for taking watch.”

“I dozed off for a second,” he says, and you feel him shrug, “You make a nice pillow.”

“You sure know how to compliment a girl.” But your voice has no real venom in it. Not when he’s thumbing the edge of your waistband like that.

“Girl? Thought you had more grays than me?” Joel teases, and you feel the strong bridge of his nose nudge beneath your ear, beard a rasp and lips against your neck.

Then, infuriatingly, he stops. “Let me know if I’m oversteppin’ here, or readin’ things wrong…”

Such a fucking gentleman.

“Shit, Joel,” you breathe, resisting the urge to turn over to smack him, “I was beginning to wonder if you could read at all.”

“See? Cranky,” he rumbles, the chuckle you feel to your bones. He’s efficient from there - stripping your jeans and panties to your knees with one big hand. He gets his other arm beneath you, fingers under your shirt, callouses ghosting the puckering flesh of a nipple. “Glad you didn’t freeze these off,” he murmurs in your ear.

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” you observe as you arch back against him. His groan rumbles satisfyingly against your back. Then you feel him move back, and hear the quick rasp of his zipper. Your gut - and lower - flutters with powerful arousal.

“Been a while since I woke up to somethin’ nice.” A strange, warm feeling in your chest, one you’re afraid to examine, is quickly replaced by thigh-tensing anticipation as you feel the blunt head of his cock drag down squeeze in between the V of your thighs to notch against the already weeping clench of your cunt.

“Joel Miller, I definitely ain’t nice.”

“You feel nice,” he corrects, as he pushes in. He loops his arm back around your waist and pulls you close- so suddenly you struggle to adjust to the sudden intrusion of his full length inside you. “Fuck.”

You echo the sentiment as his long, clever fingers work between your legs. Two fingertips find the hood of your clit and you know you shouldn’t be surprised at how precise he is - it isn’t quite the roughness you may have expected.

No, it’s better.

You’re almost embarrassed by how good it feels.

The thick, pulsing weight of Joel’s cock as he pulls back and slides in again, much more slowly this time. Slow enough that you can feel every vein and ridge of his shaft as he drags it through you.

“Your turn to take watch,” his mouth, hot at your ear, his voice a deep buzz. You shiver even as you shove your hips back against him with the next thrust.

“Your turn to sleep, then,” you tease back. His fingers on your clitoris roll slow, lazy circles into the swollen nerve.

“Not til I’m done with you, darlin’.” Darlin’ - that’s a new one, you think, even as your eyes threaten to roll back next time he fills you.

There’s no words after that. Just his groans, like faint, occasional thunder - when you clench up, and your pussy starts to ripple around his cock. You gasp his name as you come, clamping down, squeezing your thighs together to cling to the feeling as it floods you, floor to scalp. You’re wrung out, sweaty and gasping as you feel Joel pull out, feel his come splash across your ass.

“Sorry,” he pants, and hearing his voice like that nearly breaks you all over again - husky and breathless, not from running from a Clicker. “Lemme get you cleaned up.”

“A gentleman to the end,” you say when you eventually turn onto your back. Joel looks good like this - cheeks flushed, jaw tight, hair and eye wild as he gets himself back under control. He raises his eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I’m not,” he assures you, after a quick check of the room. “We still got time.“ And a crease appears on his bearded cheek as he leans down and descends on you with, “I ain’t done with you yet.”

#tlou smut #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/you #the last of us #pedro pascal fanfic #omgreally; joel miller/reader

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lunamond · 1 month

Text

The argument that the switch-up between Tamlin and Rhysand as love interests was SJM making a clever commentary on the inherently problematic nature of the Beauty and the Beast tale is actually really annoying to me.

I'm absolutely not above being critical of this story.

However, just because there are problematic aspects in the foundational version of this story doesn’t mean that modern iterations automatically possess these as well.

So let's look at how modern retellings deal with the most commonly criticised element of the story: the kidnapping.

For me personally, the most important thing to look at when judging how "problematic" the kidnapping in any given Beauty and the Beast story is, is to look at what the actual power dynamics at play are.

Most of these stories tend to feature some inherent power imbalance between the Beauty and the Beast characters. However, most retellings also feature a curse/curser who puts pressure on the Beast to kidnap Beauty in the first place. This means there is always some kind of higher power/authority who holds significant power over the Beast as well.

In the og Fairytale version, we have a scorned Fae/Witch who curses the Beast. The stakes for the Beast are to find a woman, make her fall in love with him, or stay a Beast forever.

How much this gives the Beast a pass for the crime of kidnapping is, of course, sth each person has to decide for themself.

However, most modern retellings tend to significantly increase the severity of the conditions and consequences of said curse, often times putting many lives outside of the Beast's own at stake.

This increase in stakes, at least for me, significantly impacts how much I condemn the actions of the Beast character.

We see this in the Disney version were all the people living and working in the castle were turned into animate objects and risk turning inanimate once the time-limit for the curse runs out, which is essentially a child friendly way of saying that they will all die.

In the YA novel Cruel Beauty (which I already compared to Acotar in an older post), the Beast character is forced to take a new bride every century. Due to the specifics of the curse, the safety of an entire country is dependent on his compliance with the conditions put on him. So, despite the fact that he initially appears much more powerful than the Beauty character, they are essentially both stuck under the same curse.

The first Acotar book works the same way. Tamlin kidnaps Feyre, not because he wants to but because the conditions of the curse put not just the fate of the SC but of the entirety of Prythian at stake.

That's, of course, not to say that this isn't a violent experience for Feyre and her family. But it does mean that Tamlin isn't the instigator of this violent act, but the person responsible for the curse, aka Amarantha.

The attempt to turn this into a subversion of the BnB story by revealing Tamlin as a violent and abusive partner becomes incredibly frustrating, because most of the violent undertone present in the 1st book, that fans like to point towards as an early sign of his future abusive behaviors are not caused by Tamlin himself but by Amarantha (and her batwinged lackey).

But SJM's attempt is especially nonsensical because Feyre's new romance with Rhysand is just a worse version of BnB.

I am aware that the second book, Acomaf, is most commonly marketed as a Hades/Persephone retelling.

But here is the thing; the modern interpretation of Hades/Persephone as a romance is much more akin to the story of Beauty and the Beast than the hymn to Demeter (the og source text featuring the myth of Hades/Persephone), which as the title suggests is much more concerned with the feelings of grief and rage a mother feels in response to her daughter's abduction than anything else.

So, let's judge Feysand's story with the same standards we just used for other modern BnB retellings.

Immediately, we run into the issue that Rhysand doesn't have a higher power above him forcing him to kidnap Feyre (unless you want to count the mating bond, but that is clearly meant to be seen as a positive so that doesn't really work, Amarantha doesn't count either).

However, it gets worse.

He is the one who forces the bargain on Feyre, ensuring she has to spend 1 week in the NC for the rest of her life. When he later kidnaps her, he is fulfilling the curse he himself put on her.

In this version, the Beast character, Rhysand, is not the cursed but the curser. So he is at once the kidnapper AND the higher power enforcing the curse/the cause for the kidnapping.

In a direct comparison between the way Tamlin and Rhysand each fullfill the Beast role, it becomes pretty apparent how utterly SJM's supposed criticism of the BnB story has failed; Tamlin kidnaps Feyre because he is forced to, Rhysand does because he WANTS to.

#anti feysand #anti acomaf #anti rhysand #anti sjm #acotar #feyre archeron #pro tamlin

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autistichalsin · 8 months

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Yes, Halsin's arc had romance and leadership and trauma and redemption for past mistakes and war and society vs nature and "pain of altruism" themes...

But his arc was just as much about a man's search for family as anything else.

Every bit of Halsin's arc was about him protecting someone he saw as family.

Act one was his family at the Grove- "the Grove became my family," he says after telling the player he lost his parents and any other family he once had long ago. If they are saved, he makes what he feels is the best choice for them and appoints a new leader of the Grove like a parent letting another parent have custody when they know they aren't the most capable caregiver. If they are sealed off by the Rite of Thorns, Halsin grieves the loss of his home and the people inside. If they are killed, he mourns too, and in either case he can't bring himself to go back and he joins the player's camp. And if they are killed by the player and he doesn't die first, he comes to kill them in retribution.

The Grove helped him through the trauma of the Shadow Curse, it helped him learn about himself as an Archdruid, it helped him realize where his heart lay- and where it didn't. Halsin loves their companionship, but hates his leadership role when it extends beyond paternalism; "it is a terrible burden," he says. He feels too comfortable in the Grove, too separate from nature, and considering how much the leadership role is tied in to his trauma over the Shadow Curse, it's no wonder he resents it. He just wants them as his family, not as his underlings.

Act two was about Thaniel. "He made me who I am today," he says. Several devnotes make it quite clear that Halsin's feelings are paternal ones, towards Thaniel and Oliver both. When he says he thinks it will be good for them to have a friend in each other when he's gone, a devnote says, "a little bittersweet: the kids are growing up." When he notes later that the two play together often in his meditations, the devnote says "proud 'father'."

It makes sense in more ways than one; not only is Halsin paternal to these two particular beings, but then, as a Druid, Halsin is a caretaker to nature itself. As the spirits of the land, of course his feelings would be doubly so, especially given their history.

But before he gets to this point, act two is about searching for family he fears losing- he is terrified for Thaniel and doesn't know if or how to save him. This is the core of his entire arc, really- his arc continues after this, but Thaniel was the most important part of his arc. He is restless and anxious before, and once they do find him, he relaxes again.

Act three is half for the player, whether a friend or a romantic partner. "The Grove became my family... and now I have you," he says as the player gets to know him. The player, who protected him, showed him kindness, saved him from the goblins and now saved his not-quite-sons from the Shadow Curse. The player who, if in a romantic relationship, lets him admit he felt lost before and helped him find himself, ease his burdens. The player who either expresses condolences for the loss of his family or (in a presumably well intentioned if slightly obsessive way) tells him he's better with them anyway, still indicating that he is wanted. The player who lets him show his playful side again, who tends to his needs just as much as the other way around (clearly an uncommon dynamic for him to be in)... He gets to find parts of himself he hasn't in a long time. And as he finds a romantic family again, he gets to start turning his thoughts to the future again. As he can tell Wyll if one plays as him, "we'll need new life when this is over." The player gives him his future back, whether a friend or romantic, along with the family bond he misses after leaving the Grove. It's an even more free, open family than at the Grove, since here he's not forced to take a leadership role and hold himself to a higher standard.

The other part of act three is Halsin seeking family in community. He sees the vulnerable in the city of Baldur's Gate and feels a connection with them- especially the children, but also the refugees. He sees how they're hurting, and he develops a dream "of a better future for those who need it," as the devnotes refer to this arc. Halsin is a person who fundamentally can't stand to see suffering, especially in the young, and the worse he hurts from seeing Baldur's Gate, the more determined he is to help them. This isn't just an act he takes out of duty as an Archdruid, though that is part of it, but it's also the act of someone who loves people and wants to help them. And he is rewarded for it- "Daddy Halsin, [the orphaned children] call me." Halsin, with his endless, deep love and empathy, finds a place where his efforts to help the defenseless allow him to find more love and connections. He gets to take on a fatherly role to nine wagon-fulls (depending on what size of wagon we're talking about, that could be dozens of children, maybe even HUNDREDS!) of children, teaching them about the traditions that are important to him, while also filling the hole left by his parents' absence- by keeping them and their beliefs alive in his interactions with what are now effectively his children.

At his core, Halsin is a lonely person throughout canon, who craves more connection; at this point in his life, it's primarily romantic love and paternal love he wants to give. Act one shows him in a situation where he has neither, and while he's not UNhappy, he's not happy either, and is all too happy to abandon his duties because it's not where he's meant to be. Act two gives him Thaniel, who he is overjoyed to finally free from the Curse, but he isn't meant to linger thanks to the battle against the Absolute. And then act three gives him the player (even if not romanced, he still feels a deep connection with them and vice versa) and, in the end, children he can finally be a father to, even if it's in a slightly different way than he imagined. And that is where he finally finds happiness and purpose.

It's a really wonderful progression for him, I think.

#halsin #bg3 #baldurs gate 3

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shadowspromise · 1 year

Text

Dabi, the criminal who has killed dozens of people, is Touya.

Your Touya. The boy that looks up at you with pleading eyes when you’re too busy to cuddle with him. The boy that insists on holding your hand no matter where you are. The boy that says “I love you” nearly twenty times a day.

Nobody else knows just how loving he is. He says that you are the only one who can ever see him like this, although he wishes so desperately that it was different.

Every night he dreams that he grew up in a happy family, and to meet you in that lifetime, making another happy family with you. Another universe where he didn’t have to worry about hiding his face on the streets, or being broadcast as a dangerous criminal on the news.

He wants to devote his life to you, but this world is too cruel to let him do that.

So until the world becomes a little nicer, he’ll save his devotion for the evenings. The only time of day where he can be alone with you, his lover, his everything, and he can finally tear off that tough, cold-hearted villain mask and be himself.

He wants so desperately to give you little kisses all over you. He wants to hold your hand like a lovesick teenager. His heart still flutters when he sees you, as if you’re his crush he hasn’t confessed to.

He’s so utterly in love with you.

Even if he tried, he can’t hold back the smiles and blush on his cheeks he’s overcome with every time you say “I love you” to him. And when you poke fun at him for being so cute, he smiles even more.

He scowls at his reflection, judging himself and his scars just like the civilians outside. But you, you kiss his scars and compliment them as if they’re the beauty standard. Sometimes, just sometimes, he thinks you’re a little crazy in the head. Him? His scars? Him? How could you ever love someone like him? It gets his mind going a hundred miles an hour, and you have to calm him down before he quite literally overheats.

He’ll say things like “I’m not beautiful, you are,” whenever you compliment him. He just can’t fathom the idea of him being pretty. He’s riddled with scars, bruises, and scratches, yet you call him pretty? You? You, the most heavenly, blindingly beautiful person he’s every laid his eyes on, is calling him beautiful?

He’s genuinely concerned that he may be dreaming. And even if he was dreaming, he’s making the most of it.

If you insist on him being beautiful, surely you wouldn’t mind if he kissed you, right? He expects to see a look of disgust on your face as he kisses you, and his heart skips a beat when he sees you blush instead. He really wants to say “What is wrong with you?” but he doesn’t want to risk upsetting you. After all, you’re somehow miraculously attracted to him, he can’t risk messing it up now.

He just has to come to terms with the fact that you, the embodiment of beauty in his eyes, loves him just as much as he loves you. Although he might insist that he loves you more. He really is like a lovesick teenager.

And he’ll be a lovesick teenager if you want him to be. He’ll do nearly anything you ask him to. Kisses? Cuddles? Jump off a bridge? You don’t even have to give him a reason. If you’re asking, there’s no hesitation, he’ll do it.

As much as you get his mind racing, he just loves to relax with you. His life is filled with fast paced moments, fighting, and arguing. He adores how you can so easily switch off all his worries and convince him to lay down and stop thinking. If you asked him where his happy place was, he’d say laying down on your chest. Hearing your heartbeat is like a lullaby, and the feeling of you playing with his hair is stronger than any melatonin.

He doesn’t waste a single second with you. He knows that the chances of him simply dying tomorrow are higher than he’d like, so whether his death is near or far, he wants to be spending his days with his lover.

Mornings are the hardest for him. He knows that the second he gets out of bed, he has to start preparing his villain persona and hope he doesn’t die in an alleyway fight that day. So while he’s still in bed, he’s clinging to you like you might fly away if he lets go. He would put his entire body weight onto you if you let him. He acts like a guard dog preventing anyone from touching its owner, because that’s mostly what he is.

Nobody can even look in your direction if Touya is near. Are they trying to hurt you? Flirt with you? He isn’t letting anyone take you away from him, and he sure isn’t afraid of spilling some blood if he needs to.

Though he does feel bad when you have to clean up his messes. He’ll come home with the face of a guilty puppy because he’s got blood all over his clothes and body. Is it his blood? Some of it. Who else’s blood? Who knows.

You’ll put his clothes in the wash while you run him a bath and complain about how reckless he is. Most people hate being yelled at, but Touya is just so in love with you that your yelling sounds like wind chimes. He could definitely fall asleep to it, although that would result in you yelling more.

Your complains are barely audible to him as you suture his open wounds and shove gauze into his bloody mouth. You’re rambling about how careless and stupid he is, but Touya couldn’t care less. As long as you’re still in love with him, you can call him whatever you want. He won’t tell you this, but sometimes he tries to get injured just so you can spend some time taking care of him.

He adores the way you touch him so gently on his scars. He knows very well that he could fall apart without your hands putting him back together. Your hands are so soft compared to the firm, warm, shedding skin on his face. Your fingertips feel like ice packs when you cradle his chin in your hands. Ironically, your hands will have him melt into your touch.

It took Touya months to stop flinching when you touched him. In those instances, the image of his father calling him useless flashed through his head. He knows that you would never hurt him, never call him useless, but he can’t help but be afraid of his trauma. After all, it’s the driving force that keeps him alive. Without revenge to give him a reason to keep going, he’s not sure he’d be this far in life.

But now that he’s used to you, he wants your touch. He wants it as much as he wants revenge. Sometimes your touch makes him forget how bad he wants revenge. He’d sell his soul if it meant he could stay in your arms forever. But he wonders, would you do the same?

Touya is a rose. He’s absolutely beautiful, but that doesn’t take away the fact that he’s covered with thorns, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

If he cuts off his thorns, he isn’t himself anymore, which is why he’s so grateful that you love him as he is, thorns and all.

He never thought anyone would love him. Of course he had his parents and siblings, but he questioned if they really loved him. But you, you love him. And he loves you. He feels like he’s living in a fairytale. It’s unreal how he’s so happy with you. He had been denied happiness his entire life until you came. You’re like the sun finally rising in his entire life of nighttime.

He loves you.

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sanjisblackasswife · 1 year

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i can’t remember if you did an nsfw alphabet for geto yet so if not can we get himm??🫶🏾

Suguru Geto NSFW Alphabet

Black Fem Reader in mind

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Such a clingy baby, but also a very clean baby. He has a personal drawer filled with clean towels, snacks, and just like his best friend a mini fridge as well filled with refreshments. Suguru loves having you cock warm him for a moment. He swears his intentions are innocent.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He isn’t biased about any part of his body. He takes care of his self very well physically .

He’s a butt/thigh guy when it comes to the sexual part, but your eyes are what always captivated him. Eye contact is always a must for when he makes love to you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Another clean guy, but when it comes to sex he can be a bit messy depending if he wants to take his time with you or completely ruin your cute little body. If he isn’t cumming inside a condom or you he enjoys pouring his seed on your gummy slit, toying the tip of his cock on your clit.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Geto had sex with you while Gojo watched. Back when all three of you roomed together shortly after high school, You and your boyfriend were in your room being horny rabbits, & u were too busy cumming under him you didn’t notice your loud white haired friend run into the room to see what you both were doing because he was bored, Geto always had a small competition with his best friend on how well the other had sex so instead of telling him to get out he picked up the pace of fucking you.

That would explain why you came 4 times that night and why Gojo was much nicer towards you after that.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Yes. Geto has had a decent amount of experience with past girlfriends before you. He doesn’t believe in one night stands he holds himself in a higher standard but back in high school he had a good amount of girlfriends to know what to do.

He is unironically better at sex than Gojo.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He loves and I mean loves

Missionary.

Now it may seem vanilla or simple for some but it’s how he executes it. He has actually made you more flexible when putting you on your back and throwing your legs either on his shoulders or move them far apart

Your legs are spread so widely it looks like you’re hitting the splits. He also loves just looking at your entire body, the way you try to contain your breast from shaking, the way you avoid his gaze, your panting face, Geto loves looking at you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He is pretty serious in making sure you both cum. A few sly remarks here or there but once the clothes come completely off he is focused on his one goal.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Hes such a trimmed Boy, he does grow hair fast down there so some days he will forget to shave it down but if you don’t mind it he’ll keep his happy trail until it bothers him

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Him and Nanami are the top 2 men that can be absolutely heart aching with hot romantic they can be. There was one in which you haven’t seen him in a few months due to you needing to go on some life threatening missions. When you came back safe and sound Geto completely spoiled you all night. Slow kissing, putting your pleasure before his, his long silky hair dragging over your naked panting body drove you insane but it was a night to remember

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

When he was younger he did it plenty, but now that he is with you and doesn’t have any time to do so besides in the shower he doesn’t do it much.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

….he’s very open with his many kinks so imma narrow it down to like 3

Somnophilia: He loves Waking up to your needy little body milking his cock for all he is worth because you just couldn’t wait for him to wake up. He doesn’t play with you too much as you sleep but best believe some of the best mornings with Suguru are the ones where he wakes you up with an orgasm

Role Play: He gets SO into his role. He really enjoys the “Meeting a Stranger at a Bar” roleplay, and at first you wasn’t into it, but now you’ve became so good at playing the fake married woman you guys do it at least once a month and end up having such ravish sex either in an alley or a hotel

Denial Play: This man is a bit of a Sadist …if you can handle it he will edge you to no end. There was only once you pissed him off so to the point he tied you up just to edge you and didn’t let you get off

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He isn’t a very public sex kinda guy. He doesn’t want anybody (except Gojo that one or more times). He wants to keep you to himself so really anywhere in the house

He specifically loves shower sex, both of your hot bodies hitting the cold tile wall as his fingers slide inside your cunt will never not get this man off

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Hes a sucker for a “bummy” look. Lingerie is of course going to turn him on, but when he sees you walk around the house in a big shirt w nothing under, some shorts and the shirt is falling off the shoulder. Anything like that is a tease for him because he knows you’re not being intentional to look sexy but you have been in a few situations where you bent over to grab something and next thing you know Suguru’s hard on was right on your ass

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He would never do stuff like pissing on you, or humiliating you. He actually is a kink shaker btw

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

His tongue will ruin your entire well being. His favorite pastime is you sitting on his face or 69 while a movie is playing. Though Sometimes you forget to suck his cock because he’s licking you way too good. Suguru is a VERY intimate pussy Water and when your see him tie his hair in a bun he is about to be down there for a while

You sucking his cock is the best stress reliever. He does love eating you more than getting head but some days when he is just annoyed or drained you always have a 6th sense to know any begin working on his Dick. You have to be careful because sometimes he’d end up face fucking you

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

His default is a normal set pace, not too rough, occasional smacks and gentle hair tugs but he only goes by the pace YOUR BODY wants.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Does not like them he prefers to take his time. The only quickies y’all have done would be in the shower or oral sex. Either than that if you’re needy and time is crunched you’ll have to wait it out

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He doesn’t mind trying new things that you are comfortable with, but always only once before he decides whether or not to do it again.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Oh homeboy can go all night if y’all take enough breaks. He loves your body and though he isn’t a needy person like you, when he starts having sex HE DOESNT want to stop. It can go from rough, to slow to lazy to rough again all in one evening so if you’re up for it he is.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He owns some handcuffs but only uses them when he is annoyed with you. You never can use it on him though. You did once and overstimmed him so badly he cried.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Speaking of crying, you have done it a lot w his teasing

As Long as he can be when fucking he can be cold blooded.

Touching your most private areas in public, whispering in your ear how badly he wants to bend you over while at the mall, the list goes on

He can get you so close to an orgasm and stop just to prove a point he has that much self control

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Groaner and grunter but the best moans you’ve ever heard was from when your legs were on his shoulders. He felt all of you and kept making such pretty noises in your ear. You swear you could have came from that alone while he was kissing your neck saying “So good y/n you’re so good…”

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He is so disrespectful when playing board games. He always ends up with the most money, best cards, whatever it’s almost as if he cheats (Gojo’s words).

Also, he can write very beautiful Haikus. You’ve read a few and his way with words are so enchanting and descriptive

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Hes bigger than Gojo

About 5.8-6.9 he is a big boy, he’s very thick so best believe you feel a stretch when he bottoms out

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He can go weeks without sex or not he doesn’t really care, but if he is horny he is HORNY he cannot control himself. You usually initiate sex but if he wants it badly he is going to be on you like white on rice.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After a nice bath and clean sheets he holds you and just listens to you speak. He will hum a few times to let you know he is awake but once you start to yawn he will adjust himself to face you and caress your tired face to get you to sleep.

And that’s when he can sleep soundly

#jujutsu geto #geto imagines #geto headcanons #getou suguru x reader #geto x female reader #geto x black reader #geto suguru #geto suguru headcanon #geto Suguru x female reader #geto suguru x black reader #Geto smut #geto Suguru smut #geto scenarios

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reds-skull · 6 months

Text

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PART 1]

Don't ask me why I wrote chapter two literally a day after the first, it's a mix of the nice comments I got and the fact I'm enjoying myself more than I expected, haha.

Ghost crashes into his desk chair, throwing two folders on the table. One was the Sergeant’s report, which he had to go through and approve before forwarding to Price, and the other…

The other was Soap’s personal file. He technically didn’t have clearance for it anymore, but Price left it on his desk next to the report, and Ghost figured he won’t notice if it disappeared for a couple hours.

Besides… he was supposed to read it before the mission. He just didn’t care in the past.

Ghost opens the file, and immediately gets greeted by a picture of Soap. He’s younger and seemed to be holding back a smile for the photo.

John “Soap” MacTavish. Somehow, Ghost can’t see how this fiery Sergeant shares a name with the captain.

The rest of the file is pretty standard. Born in Scotland (In a town Ghost never heard of), age 27, enlisted at 16. It gets more interesting when he reaches the Revenant section.

Or, whatever he can see from it. His Reaping, his first death, is completely blacked out. His powers list the explosion immunity and creation, but another line is censored. Ghost feels cheated of information - the amount of red tape around Soap would be concerning, if it didn’t make him that more intrigued.

He flips through his previous missions fairly quickly, not expecting much of it to be uncensored. Lad was SAS before dying, the reports are practically a solid block of black ink.

Ghost continues to the medical reports, fully intending to skip those as well, and he keeps flipping, and flipping, and flipping…

An icy hand grabs at his throat. Frowning, he slowly flips back.

The frozen feeling persists when he starts reading. 4 years ago, mission in Austria. Exposure to thermite explosion, 3 fingers missing and loss of motor function to his left leg. 11 months ago, C4 accident, right ear, eye, and majority of throat missing. 2 years ago, grenade explosion, massive damage to liver and stomach.

Combing through all records, Ghost took a moment to realize no medical procedure was noted. Which means Soap didn’t receive any.

He shut the folder.

Something different from the freezing horror he initially felt started rising within him. It was rage.

The personal folder gets thrown aside, and Ghost focuses on the mission report. Right. Perhaps this will shed more light on what Soap is capable of, because honestly right now he can’t bare thinking about how much damage the Sergeant suffered through any longer.

The report is well-written, as any soldier of Soap’s rank would be. Ghost enjoys seeing just how competent Soap was, clearing rooms at neck breaking speed. What catches his eyes is the reason the explosion at the warehouse happened.

He never did get an answer to that…

As it turns out, Soap did get spotted. But according to the report, it wasn’t a hostile that activated the explosive. No, Soap himself did that. The reason given is “estimated risk to Bravo 0-7”.

…Soap thought he was in danger?

Ghost racks his brain trying to understand why. Did he think Ghost didn’t clear the third floor yet? Did he think… they were going to alert backup?

And he decides to… blow himself up.

He hastily signs the document and grabs both folders. So much information, missing, blacked out, red tape stopping him from understanding. Ghost has long learned that he won’t, can’t understand everything, orders from higher up not to be questioned. But it has never bothered him more.

Never left this feeling of missing out.

When Ghost reaches Price’s office, the light is on and a lingering smell of cigars wafts even through the closed door. Shit. He’ll have to explain how the amount of folders he took suddenly multiplied.

“Weird how that happens, doesn't it Ghost?” Price shouts from beyond the door.

Bloody hell his stupid mind reading powers can be a real pain in the-

“You better not finish that thought Lieutenant!”

Sighing, Ghost finally opens the door. “I thought you’re on break, Captain”, he places the folders on his desk.

Price glares at the two folders before he looks back at him, eyebrow raised, “clearly”.

Ghost glares back. Not like he has anything to say to his defence.

Price breaks the tension with a little huff, “You know you could’ve just asked for the file, right? I could tell the Sergeant left an impression on you.” he laughs.

Not needing the Captain to mock him further, he bites back “report’s signed, permission to be dismissed?”

Price smirks and dismisses him. Ghost doesn’t miss the thought that leaked from him, “told you, you two would get along.”

He walks away before Price could read his own.

Smoking becomes less intimidating after you die once. Honestly, if it comes to the point he dies from lung cancer, he’ll be happy.

He’ll take that little comfort either way. Watching the smoke dissipate to the night sky, a handful of stars shining through. Little droplets of rain drizzle on the tin roof above him. It’s almost peaceful.

Almost. If only he couldn’t hear Gaz complaining from the floor above him.

“Look, he’s doing it again.” the recruit next to him makes a questioning sound, “Ghost, he’s bloody brooding. I swear, he’s been like this even since that mission with the revenant, what’s his name…”

The recruit mumbles something, “right! MacTavish. I’ll pay a good amount to know what happened with him… you think-”

Ghost slams a fist at the tin roof, “I can fuckin’ hear ya Garrick!”.

“Good! Tell me what happened there!”

He throws the cigarette and stomps it. Can’t get a moment of silence around here…

Gaz still tries to interrogate him while Ghost walks back to his room. He would talk to him when he feels like it, kindly suggest to never bring up that mission again.

Ghost doesn’t need more things to remind him of the Sergeant.

Sometimes he wonders if he ever was as bad as these rookies. Watching one trip on thin air, taking down 3 others poor sods trying to complete a run, he rather believe he wasn’t.

He approaches the 4 idiots, who are now literally shaking while craning their neck to look at their lieutenant. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get up!”.

The rookies finally pull their heads out of their arse and scramble up. While they try to get back on track, he shouts, “five more laps for you four! Get a move on!”.

The ones that finished the training murmur behind him something that sounds like a long list of expletives, maybe about wishing his mother got an abortion or the likes.

Ghost couldn’t care less. But, for the sake of discipline, he throws a scowl at the group, shutting them instantly.

It’s on days like these, where Gaz is away on mission, and Price buried under mountains of paperwork, that Ghost’s thoughts wander back to that mission six months ago. To a certain Scottish Sergeant, to daft jokes and a weird shared understanding. Fingers flickering with flames, blue eyes shining with them.

Useless thoughts. All they do is leave a bitter trail behind them.

On days like these, he can’t help but crave bitterness.

The recruits finally finish their run, and Ghost dismisses them before they can cause more trouble, effectively declaring it “not his problem”. He should be more grateful of Garrick, he’s much better at handling the FNGs.

As he makes his way to the showers, one Private stops him. He looks familiar, but Ghost doesn’t bother learning any of their names.

“Captain Price orders you to his office.” the Private almost sneers at him. Ghost nods and walks away.

Once, a long time ago, he might’ve put the Private in his place, perhaps when he cared more. Now he knows better. His powers speak loud and clear. If he wished, he could wipe the entire base off the face of this godforsaken earth. It might be because of this fact, most soldiers abhor him.

They can’t help hating what they don’t understand.

Three well practiced knocks and a “come in!”, Ghost stands in front of the Captain. Price looks surprisingly chipper for the amount of files on his desk. That makes one of them.

“To what do I owe the occasion, Captain?”

Price flashes a warm smile (one he would call fatherly if the connotation didn’t want to make him want to puke) “I’m considering adding a new member to the 141”.

His first reaction is ‘fuck no’, and Price’s face sours at that. But Ghost is willing to entertain the Captain, so he asks, “you got any candidates?”.

Price motions to the dozen or so files on his desk, “take a look”.

Ghost raises an eyebrow before sitting down and taking one at random. Sergeant Thomas Anderson, 28. Revenant powers… “Breathing underwater? Really.” Ghost shuts the folder and glances at Price, “I’ll take him when we go on a bust against ultranationalists from Atlantis”.

“Not everyone is as deadly as you, Simon” Price sighs, “go on, check the others.”

Several files later Ghost is left wondering how many practically useless revenants are out there. He’s sure just thinking this is considered some sort of blasphemy among Reapers, but as he wasn’t struck down by an eldritch being yet, it’s safe to say he’s free to continue looking down at them.

He knows deep down it’s not their powers that bother him. Hell, Garrick’s Gravity manipulation isn’t that lethal, but the Sergeant knows how to effectively use it to his advantage.

Ghost simply can’t see himself working with any of them. He understands they’re in desperate need for more taskforce members, no matter how strong its three revenants are, but if they’re about to add a forth, he better be useful.

Scouring the table, Ghost realizes he went through all folders already. Price picks up on that.

“None of them up to your standard?”

Ghost crosses his arms, “not in the slightest”.

He spots a personal file on a cabinet on Price’s left, “what’s with that one?” he nods towards it.

Price turns his head, “ah, he’s currently on a long term assignment. Higher ups aren’t gonna let that one transfer so easily.”

Ghost’s interest was piqued, and he leaned to grab it. Price didn’t stop him, but he had a weird glint in his eyes. Ghost gets the feeling this outcome wasn’t unplanned.

He opens the folder and a pair of familiar blue eyes stare back. He looks up at Price.

The captain tilts his head, “well? In terms of strength, no one gets close to MacTavish. I’d dare say you and him could be evenly matched-”

“I’ll take him.”

Price falters, “what?”

“I’ll accept a new member if it was Soap.” Ghost states, leaving no room for argument. A bubbling feeling of excitement washes through him, in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. The mountains of questions Soap left behind him come back to the forefront of his mind.

And he feels… hopeful.

Price shakes the surprise off his features, and he looks tiredly at the file, “...I can’t promise any miracles, but I’ll do my best to get him.” He takes out a well deserved cigar, “I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you Captain”, the words don’t encapsulate just how grateful Ghost is.

“Now scram, I have about 50 calls to make.” Price waves his hand and picks up the phone. Ghost makes his exit before the Captain changes his mind.

Garrick returns from his assignment the following morning. The reason Ghost knows that is he watches the door to mess being slammed open while he tries to drink his morning tea.

“GHOST!” Gaz shouts, swiveling his head side to side, searching for him. Sometimes Ghost wishes he could actually go invisible like some rumors suggest.

But alas, he finds him quickly enough, and rushes to his table, uncaring of the several heads following his actions.

“Garrick” Ghost greets him, “how was the missio-”.

“We’re getting a new 141 member?!” Gaz cut him off, the excitement in his voice palpable, and he visibly starts floating a few inches off ground. Ghost tries to be annoyed with him, but he always found Gaz’s more energetic approach to life endearing.

“Nothing’s final yet, settle down.”

“But you know who it is, right?” Gaz sits in the chair in front of him, “c’mon, you gotta tell me!”

Ghost considers lying and saying he has no clue either, but he figures he might as well rip the band-aid now.

“It’s Sergeant MacTavish.” he tries to sound bored.

By the mischievous look on Garrick, he knows he failed miserably, “ohoho Ghost… Did you suggest your mysterious Sergeant to Price?” he grins like the menace he is, “seems like you won’t be able to hide what happened on ‘The Mission’ for much longer-”

Ghost slams his mug on the table, “nothing to hide, Sergeant.”

But Gaz is already 3 steps ahead in his brain, “I’ve heard he can create explosions, you think he could shoot up like a rocket? Could work well with my powers…”

Ghost stands up and groans, “he’s not a bloody spaceship Gaz, fuckin’ hell…”

He has a feeling Garrick and MacTavish will get along just fine.

The following days are… weird. Ghost never waited in anticipation for something as impatiently as he does right now. The clock seems to tick at a snail’s pace, and he finds his focus impaired. Thank his Reaper he’s not on a mission right about now…

Price is practically living in his office, constantly making calls and going through document after document. From what he understands, Soap is highly sought after for his explosion immunity, the best defuser there is.

Ghost is bitterly reminded of the huge pile of medical records in his personal file. That taste he rather not chase.

As for Gaz… His excitement grows by the day. It reminds Ghost that while the Sergeant is very friendly and always finds someone to talk to, he’s also one of the very few revenants on base.

He wonders if it feels as alienating as it does for him from time to time.

It’s not for 2 weeks later that he and Gaz are summoned to Price’s office. The place reeks of cigar smoke, and Price himself looks like he’s in need of at least 24 hours of sleep. But a triumphant attitude emanates from him in waves, and Ghost knows before he even opens his mouth what he’s about to say.

“It wasn’t easy, and I had to use every connection I had up there, but I got great news for you lads.”

Gaz smiles brightly, and turns his head to look at Ghost.

“I can finally say Sergeant Soap MacTavish is officially a member of the 141”.

Garrick cheers and floats high enough that Ghost has to drag him down before he slams his head against the ceiling, and sees the Captain’s expression shift.

“But…” Ghost starts for him. Of course this wouldn’t be this simple, nothing ever is.

Price exhales loudly, “Soap still has a couple of unfinished missions he will need to attend before he can join us fully.”

Gaz finally picks up on the mood shift, ‘...he will still be with us on base though, right?”

“Yes”, the Captain scratches under his iconic hat, and not for the first time Ghost wonders if it’s glued on with the way it refuses to fall off, “he will train with us, so take those few weeks as an opportunity to learn to work together. He’s quite powerful, and I think you will find… creative ways to work together.” with that last sentence, he glances at Ghost. Curious.

“When will the Sergeant arrive?” Ghost asks.

Price takes a quick look at the calendar, “3 days, early morning.”

That sends Garrick on a marathon of questions to Price, and Ghost retreats to into his mind.

3 days… 3 days and he will see those flames dance again. That Scottish lilt and crooked smile.

Ghost feels his mouth stretch in a hesitant smile, as if the muscles almost forgot the movement, and notices Price mirroring it.

Perhaps he could give a chance to hope.

Thank you all for reading and commenting! I appreciate it a lot <3

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