#just to have circumstance or SOMEONE I KNOW fuck me over. fuck ME over!!!! I’M ALREADY FUCKED OVER!!!! 24 fucking 7!!!! fuck someone else!
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finally got a second heater and it doesn’t work 🙃
#it’s fine it’s just below 50 degrees inside#not like that wasn’t most of last winter anyway but#man I was hoping to not have to deal with this#and this is like the fourth time in two weeks I thought it was done. FULLY taken care of#just to have circumstance or SOMEONE I KNOW fuck me over. fuck ME over!!!! I’M ALREADY FUCKED OVER!!!! 24 fucking 7!!!! fuck someone else!#I’m ace anyway 😡#I’m just so exhausted it’s like Murphys’ law has seeped into every single aspect of my life from personal private or social to familial#like it’s just all been so bad lately#but despite all the many ways my life has been pretty literally crumbling away or apart#right now the worst thing was expecting#again#to be able to get out of bed not shivering or walk in from outside and be comfortable#and having it wrenched away at the last second. again. rough stuff bro#‘Sam get a job’ my companion in christ I live in a rotting box and every time I try to make it better something else get so much worse#I cannot get a job if I’m just barely surviving but thanks#and MAYBE if I didn’t have to move out so I wouldn’t kms I may have a job 🤷 so maaaybe don’t tell me to get once since I’m here cause of YOU#it’s fine I’m fine with it#I’m not vagueing it’s not personal I’m fine#😒😞#all I’m saying is if 13 year old Sam could see what 23 year old Sam looks like and lives like he def woulda just killer himself#like it was bad then and I thought I’d be good now but MAN#MAN COULD THAT NOT HAVE BEEN MORE WRONG BUD. pretty much been a straight downward slope since#holdin out wasn’t worth it so far man. maybe we’ll get lucky with a few more years of agony and suffering tho 🤷#killer himself ffs good thing this is a shitty cringe vent post
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Cabin Fever
Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader
Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.
Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?
Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵💫
You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.
He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.
Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.
He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.
He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.
Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.
Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.
Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.
A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.
Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.
You sort of looked charming in the firelight.
He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.
You didn’t die.
You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.
When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.
You sat up where you were and looked around.
“Da-a-d?”
You knew it was useless, calling for your father.
He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.
When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.
“Momma?”
Still no answer.
Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.
You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.
A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.
Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.
You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.
You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.
Thank fuck, you thought.
Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?
The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?
And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?
You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.
By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.
Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.
Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.
You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.
Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.
Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.
The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.
You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.
You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.
Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.
A voice, clear as day:
“CUJO!”
The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.
It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.
He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.
Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.
“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.
He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.
You winced when your ass hit the cushion.
You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.
“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.
If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.
It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.
Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.
“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.
“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.
The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.
“Hold still,” he commanded.
“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.
At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.
Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.
You didn’t like it.
You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.
Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.
He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.
Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.
Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.
“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.
He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.
“I can leave a bucket.”
“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.
And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.
Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.
He figured they would be.
Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.
“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.
Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.
“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.
By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.
“Figured,” you mumbled.
7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.
‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.
On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.
As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.
Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.
But this was all in good fun.
Great fun, even.
For him.
“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.
7:15.
He nudged your shoulder.
7:16.
Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.
7:17.
“Hey…honey?”
A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.
Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.
Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.
You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.
Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.
Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.
He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.
Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.
You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.
Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.
“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”
He never did catch your name.
That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.
Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.
Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.
“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”
Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.
“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”
You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.
Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.
“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.
Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.
He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.
“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.
He was one to talk.
Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.
You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.
“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”
“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.
Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?
Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.
“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”
“Uh-huh.” Softly.
You little slut. He knew it all along.
Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.
With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.
You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?
“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”
Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.
“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”
That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.
By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.
Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.
He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.
He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.
He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.
He slept.
It was 7:57 when he woke.
The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.
You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.
“WH—” he started.
“Shut up.”
“ST—”
“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”
The man obeyed.
‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.
“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”
The man’s eyes widened.
How dumb did he think you were?
Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.
You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.
You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.
Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.
You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.
“Why’d you stop?”
Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”
You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.
“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”
The man sputtered again.
“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”
He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.
“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”
If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.
You glanced down at it too.
“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”
“I ain’t—”
You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.
“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”
“Came?”
The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.
“Came?!”
That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.
“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”
You paused.
Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.
You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.
Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?
“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.
For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.
“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”
You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.
“Crazy bitch!”
“Creepy fuck.”
Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.
“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”
“Did I?”
Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.
“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.
“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”
Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.
“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”
“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.
You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.
One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.
You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.
The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.
“I feel…” Joel murmured.
“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”
A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.
“You fuckin’—”
Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.
“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”
Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.
“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.
Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.
Click.
The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.
As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.
“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.
“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”
“I’ll make it fit.”
“How?”
Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.
“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”
Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.
“I don’t,” you answered.
Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.
As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.
Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.
“What is that?!”
Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.
“What do you mean?”
“Why’s it all…sticky?”
You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.
“It’s normal.”
“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.
“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.
In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.
You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.
He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.
“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”
Joel grinned. Big.
You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.
Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.
“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.
But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.
“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.
You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.
“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.
“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.
Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.
“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.
“Give me some what?”
“Head.”
Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—
“JOEL!”
“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.
You tried to shy away, but he held you down.
“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”
As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.
Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.
“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.
You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.
“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”
At that, Joel stopped.
His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.
“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”
You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.
“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.
“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.
Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.
“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”
At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.
“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.
Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.
“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”
As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.
“Not here…”
He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.
“Not here.”
He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.
“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”
You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.
You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.
“Joel…”
When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.
“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.
Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.
For the first time, you let out a moan.
You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.
“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”
His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.
“No.”
You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.
No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.
“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.
“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.
Fuck it.
You squeezed the trigger again.
Empty chamber.
If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.
“You done?” he asked, almost bored.
Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.
“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.
Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.
“You want this,” he countered gently.
“I DON’T!”
Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.
Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.
“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”
His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.
You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.
He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.
You were raised better than that.
You could do better than anything this man had to offer.
You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.
Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.
Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.
At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.
“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”
“Fuck you.”
“Will do.”
Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.
In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.
“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.
“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.
In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.
“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”
Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.
Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”
You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.
Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.
“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.
He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.
Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.
You’d bitten him.
You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.
Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.
Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.
“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.
“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.
You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.
“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”
“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.
Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.
You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.
Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.
“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”
Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.
“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.
You nodded again.
That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.
It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’
Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.
“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.
You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.
“Joel—”
“Jus’ lemme use you.”
Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.
“But—”
“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”
You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.
That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.
Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.
“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.
Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.
“I know.”
He knew?
“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.
Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.
“Joel, s-stop!”
It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.
“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”
And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.
Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.
Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.
“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.
The hand at the back of your head held you firm.
“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”
What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.
Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.
“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”
For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.
You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.
Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.
Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.
You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.
“FUCK!”
You squeezed the trigger.
#NEED DARK!JOEL TO TAKE ME TO HIS PENTHOUSE AND FREAK ME IN WAYS UNIVERSALLY CONDEMNED BY POSTMODERN FEMINISM#IT'S SOOOOO BAD Y'ALL#this might be too niche but i hope at least one person enjoys LOL#joel miller#joel miller tlou#joel miller smut#joel miller imagine#joel miller one shot#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfiction#the last of us#tlou#the last of us fic#joel miller x you#dark!joel
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Rule Number One (You Gotta Have Fun)
Alastor x Reader Smut. U break his only rule and bother him while hes tryna work. Enjoy. :} Requests open btw.
Alastor had locked himself up in his radio tower for what felt like days. He was truly a workaholic, and loved to be busy. This was fine, except you found yourself actually sort of... missing him?
No sight of him creeping down the hallway or the impending feeling that he was about to catch you doing something prohibited at the hotel. It all felt too empty all of a sudden, and you wished he’d be back down soon, even if just to make you uneasy with that eerie smile.
So, you decided to break the number one rule set by him.
“Under no circumstances is anyone to ever enter the radio tower without my express permission.”
Well, what are rules if not to be broken, right? And that’s where you found yourself, climbing up into the prohibited area.
Ears pressed back, he turned to face you. There was no other way to put it, Alastor was fucking pissed.
You shouldn’t of come up here. You should of listened to his stupid rule, and busied yourself with something else. Maybe you had time to turn around, and pretend you made a wrong turn.
“I trust you have something important for me? Something that would be worth you coming all the way up here without my say so, hm?”
His voice was even more staticky than usual, his tone dripping with sarcasm. You were thinking up a response when he stood up and strode over to you. He jabbed his microphone stand under your jaw, albeit gently, and forced you to look at him.
“Well, deary?”
You only shook your head, hair bouncing on your shoulders.
“Then why, pray tell, are you up here? And use your words this time, yes?”
Within those few words, you suddenly understood why he was so feared. Just from the way he spoke, he could make you feel tiny and stupid.
“I, um, was just wondering where you were, is all...”
“Oh?” He released the microphone stand and you faced the floor again, feeling like a child about to get scolded. “You did know where I was though, didn’t you? So, I’ll ask once more. What brought you up here?”
He had retired back to his chair, and was watching you intently as you squirmed at his questioning. His smile never once left his face.
“You know what, I should go-“
Slam. His shadow had closed the door.
“Has no one ever told you it’s rude to ignore someone, darling? I’m just asking you a simple question, what’s the need for all this attitude? Why are you here?”
Blush rising to your face, you picked at skin around your nails still not wanting to look at his shit eating grin.
“I was bored. Missed you.”
“Ah, there we go! You see how easy that was?”
You nodded, “Can I go now? Sorry for interrupting...”
“Nonsense! You missed me, did you not? You came all the way up here for me, desperate for my attention. Well, dear, my attention you have got. Come, sit, sit.” He patted his thigh.
Oh, how you wished the world would swallow you up right now. But the worst part of this was how turned on you were at his lecturing. You think your reaction was doing the same to him, given the way his ears were perked up and pupils blown.
You walked over to him, gently perching on his knee, before he pulled you down by your waist so you were properly sitting in his lap. He continued working, tapping buttons and twisting dials, as you could only sit there and pray your heart rate would soon go back to normal.
"If I did not know any better, I'd say this encounter has you quite excited, darling! The way your pulse is rising, and not to mention the fact I can smell the arousal on you!" He laughed. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you? If I had brought out such emotions in you."
Your blood drew hot in shame, he knew.
You nodded and tried to save face, "Yes, Alastor. I'm fine, just- my pulse is high from the walk up here, that's all."
"And if you were to stand up, your answer would be the same, I presume?"
Confused, you cocked your head. He didn't say anything, just wrapped his hands around your waist and stood you up.
There it was, the evidence he was looking for. A wet patch on his thigh. Right from where you were sitting. Your wetness had leaked through your panties, leaving a spot on his dress pants.
“Well, look at this mess. And my best pants, no less! Do you have anything to say for yourself, dear?”
You shook your head, never so embarrassed in your life.
He tutted, "First, you lie about why you came up here. Then you lie about this? Darling, have you no manners? Or am I to teach you them myself, hm?"
His eyes were half lidded now, ears twitching.
"I- uh. I think you need to teach me, Alastor..." You admitted, not able to take your eyes off him.
“Finally! The right answer! You’re getting the hang of this now, eh?” He laughed, and patted his thigh - the one you’d dirtied, “Back up here. May as well see how much more you can ruin them.”
Legs shaking, you stood up and straddled his thigh. He leaned in close, “Now get yourself off. You can do that, yes? If your mewls at night are anything to go by, I’d say you’re to be a natural at this!”
The thought of Alastor hearing you play with yourself through your bedroom door sent shivers down your spine, in a good way. He grabbed your chin, angling your head to face him.
“I said you can do that, yes, dear?”
You nodded, hands reaching up to his shoulders to steady yourself as you started grinding down on his thigh like your life depended on it, maybe it did. You could feel his cock hardening. His hands trailed down your body to your hips where they stayed, helping you slowly ride his thigh.
“Theres a good girl, hm? See what happens when you behave?”
You nodded, breathing heavy, “Uh-huh.”
Alastor nodded, his hips gently bucking up for friction. Your hand went to zipper to help, but he brushed it away.
“This is your lesson. Not mine.” He winked.
So you kept riding his thigh, until your own thighs were weak, and you were close. And he knew it.
“If this were a proper lesson, I wouldn’t allow you to cum. But you’ve been so good, so good for me... You may cum.”
You nodded into the nook of his neck, letting out a pathetic whiny mewl as you came, soddening his pants. From the sound of it, he came too, letting out a staticky grunt that would of hurt your ears if you were paying attention, but you were too busy grinding your way through your climax, as he shushed you gently.
He helped you stand up, your thighs shaking and almost giving out under you. A sharp finger pressed into the stain on his pants, before he collected some of the wetness and licked it off.
“Head off to my bedroom, now, love. Get yourself cleaned up. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”
The walk to his bedroom was strange to say the least. Your knees shaking and panties wet, of course Angel was going to say something.
“Christ, you look like you been fucked good, sweets.”
“I have, I think...?”
“Oh yeah? And whose the lucky son of a bitch, huh? He knows not to fuck with you, right?” He winked, ever protective of you.
As if on cue, Alastor appeared, strolling carelessly toward you both. A hand on your shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt, Angel, my dear, but I’m afraid we have something to take care of. If you’ll excuse us...” He guided you away, towards his room.
#alastor x reader#alastor smut#hazbin hotel smut#hazbin alastor#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin smut#alastor
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✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter two)
pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader
chapter: 2/?
MASTERLIST
warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, some power play, oral sex, thigh riding, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)
i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.
a/n: first off, THANK YOU for the love on chapter 1. wasn’t sure how I’d fare since I’ve done a lot of writing in my life but little to no smut. with that said! longer chapter incoming. also I just know he’d give insane head okay i just do,the guy looks like he fucks and he definitely does
You weren't sure exactly how you slipped away from Snow’s room that night, but you could somewhat piece it together in flashes. First a head rush, then the fire in the pit of your stomach practically having gasoline thrown on it.
You remembered a quiet gasp escaping your lips, then panic, a flash of white, and suddenly you were stumbling away, head spinning as you tried to catch your breath, pacing unevenly down the hallway, any chance of a stealthy escape long thrown out the window.
Back in your room, once the door was bolted and your back was against it, making sure nobody could get in if they tried, you had your first shot at clear-headedness since you’d heard heels scuffing the hardwood.
You’d soaked your panties through and were dripping down your thighs, but you’d be damned if you could get into the headspace to take care of it. Panic flooded your veins, ice-hot as you tried to catch your breath. you slid down the door and sat there, legs numb against the cold wooden planks.
Who was she? A million questions filled your head all at once. Was she from the Capitol? Could she be one of Snow’s friends, one of your friends? The thought made you sick. What if you’d dined with her before? Talked to her? How long had this been happening? Who knew about it? Were you being played?
Had he seen you watching him?
Unable to help yourself, your one-track mind took you back to the way he’d groaned your name, though you were half sure that had been a fever dream of some kind. Still, you kept replaying it. Over and over, like a broken record.
It didn’t make any sense, you were so fucking confused. All this time you’d been hoping he would make a move, you’d practically begged him to. Why hadn’t he? When you were clearly on his mind, and yet he made you believe he didn’t think of you that way at all. Was he just respecting your agreement?
You fiddled with the lace on the hem of your slip as you mulled it over. You stayed sat like this for almost an hour, trying unsuccessfully to wrap your head around it. When you ended up right back where you started, and you were sure enough time had passed that if someone was coming to get you, they would’ve already, you finally stood up. Your caution led you to drag a chair from across the room, propping it up by the door to jam the handle. That left you with the sliver of peace of mind you required to shower off this cold sweat you’d formed.
The next morning, you dreaded breakfast. But you knew you had to face him, as well as the fact that this could very well be your last meal. You should at least try to eat well.
You made your way downstairs, a few minutes later than usual, enough for Coriolanus to already be sipping coffee, a few pages through his newspaper. You’d not got fully dressed yet, not wanting the contrast to be too obvious, but you’d wrapped a silk dressing gown around you so you were a little more covered up. You knew one thing for certain, you wouldn’t be trying any more of your tricks until you knew just what you were dealing with.
He didn’t look over at you, which you took as a good sign. The urge to hide from him, from what you’d seen and what you now knew, overwhelmed you. You didn’t say a word, and picked silently at your breakfast, but despite your best efforts, not managing to keep more than a few bites down.
“You’re quiet today.” He muttered, and you started.
“Um.”
He lowered his paper.
“Something wrong?”
How about everything?
“Oh, no, I’m okay. Just uh…” you glanced up at him, and met his sharp gaze. Fuck. You’d hoped you’d go unnoticed. You felt like a deer in headlights, like he could read your mind.
“Well?” He prompted, gaze unwavering. You blinked.
“Headache.” You managed to breathe, faking a small, pitiful smile.
He brought his paper back up in front of him, crisply turning the page. You both thanked the new barrier between you for cutting off his stare, and resented it as you looked at the tiny printed words you couldn’t make out from where you were sitting.
“I’ll have Lucille bring you up something.”
“Thank you.” you said quickly, almost too quickly, and you feared he might lower his paper again to watch you as you stumbled over another excuse. But you fell lucky this time.
The week seemed to pass in a blur, Monday’s gala being one of the only times you really left your room when Snow was around, other than meal times, which you spent in a similar state as that first breakfast. You cursed yourself for throwing out your longer dresses, and settled for the least suggestive of them, the white one you’d been thinking of pitching to Snow as a backup plan in your panicked state outside his bedroom. That all felt worlds away now. What you’d seen had shifted the tides, marking a solid, definitive line in your head between the before and after.
The gala went as well as it could given the circumstances. You danced, Snow was charming to you in front of the guests, but held your gaze no longer than usual. It was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling to feel his hands on your waist, knowing what you knew. It felt like you’d been tapped with a cattle prod and had to hide it every time his hand brushed yours on top of the dinner table, as unsuspecting guests smiled at you, the happy couple.
If only they knew that in the same breath, you were scanning the crowd, wondering who the blonde could’ve been, how close she was to Snow, if at all, and hating the way every touch he placed on your hands and waist served as a reminder that he’d been touching her instead of you.
Your stupid brain had formed a highlight reel of what you’d witnessed behind Snow’s door, and it tortured you with every passing moment. To know he was thinking of you. To think that maybe, he wanted you there instead. It put a strange sense of possessive pride into you, that weaved between your jealousy. Because yes, you’d seen another girl on her knees with her mouth around him, but you hadn’t heard any name other than your own while it happened.
You carried this strange hope, dwindling to start off, and then building each day that you were left un-hanged and very much alive, slowly chipping away at your fear of the worst. And yet, you knew the game, unbeknownst to Snow, had been fundamentally changed. You’d stopped your antics altogether, now barely meeting his eye as you passed each other in the hallway, covering up more at breakfast, and only talking just enough to avoid another interrogation. Avoiding touch, and conversation, and all-around keeping yourself away from him.
You were quieter still at night in your room. After a few days, you’d finally felt safe enough to move the chair away and sleep with the door locked as you normally would. But while your games had stopped, your want for him had only been amplified. Fuelled by jealousy and frustration, you had to bite down on your hand so that not even the slightest noise made its way out as you pictured him, not as you used to in your fantasies, but as you’d seen him that night, undone with your name on his lips. It was much easier, in your head, to picture yourself as the one on your knees. Any other fantasy just failed to make the cut now you’d seen the real thing.
Thursday rolled around and you’d made a new habit of pacing the downstairs library when Coriolanus was out of the house. That way, if he got home and stepped inside, you could pretend to be lost in a book. But the hours seemed to stretch out and you became bored, and with no Snow in sight, you decided to head down to the servants’ quarters.
This wasn’t a common occurrence, but it wasn’t unheard of. You were known for your gentleness among the house staff, less harsh than Snow, but firm nonetheless. It had led you to a respectful friendliness with the maids and servants, and once every so often you’d check in on them.
Today’s objectives, however, were purely self-motivated. You found Lucille, who dressed you, at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables.
She stood upon seeing you, and curtseyed (Snow was rather old fashioned that way). You nodded, then took a seat at the foot of the table.
“Do you need any help with that?” You glanced at the cutting board.
Lucille’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ma’am.”
You laughed. Lucille chopped and diced, and you asked questions. At first, they were after her family, her brother was sick and despite your offers, she wouldn’t accept help. So instead you listened, and slowly but surely, your questions got a little more directed toward the object of your interest.
You were good at playing the long game, so you started by asking about the company he kept. What she thought of them, with the promise that it would stay between the two of you, cross your heart.
She wouldn’t say much but she knew a little more than you; Snow kept very similar company as you did, and rarely went out for social visits. Any trips were strictly work-related, and when you eased into the topic of his past, Lucille mentioned, in very polite terms, that he had left a small trail of women heartbroken after a short period of time. That not all of them had been pleasant, and that she was pleased you seemed to have a positive effect on him.
She knew about your arrangement, practically the whole staff did, but they were kept on a very tight leash and were thoroughly reminded to not say a word acknowledging it, not even to you. It was with a knowing glance that Lucille told you she was happy you’d stayed around.
You smiled. Knowing that was likely all you were going to get for now, you let her be. By then, it was late enough to have gone dark, and you headed up to bed.
You awoke to creaking outside your door, and the shadow of footsteps from underneath it. You’d been tossing and turning for the last - you checked your watch - two hours. Excellent. You rolled onto your back wondering who it was, and then you heard it again. At first you wondered if it was just a sleep-deprived hallucination, or a sense of deja-vu, but then you focused, and there it was. The sound of heels. Again.
You sat up in bed, pushing your hair out of your face. You were enraged the first time, but if this was becoming a Thursday night tradition, it would be a serious problem. You were tired, you reasoned, you could just try to go back to sleep. Ignore it. Not let him have this power over you, a power that he didn’t even know he had. All the more reason to ignore it, and make it tomorrow’s problem.
But you just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, no matter how hard you tried. Your mother used to say it was a problem, always sticking your nose in places it didn’t belong. But it had got you this far, hadn't it?
You knew you were going to follow her to Snow’s room again, it was just a matter of time. You had to at least pretend you had an ounce of self-control, whereas really your head was thrumming and you knew it would take getting hit by a high-speed train to send you back to sleep now.
So you held off. Five minutes passed. Then ten. You had to know, at least, what they were doing. Maybe you could get a look at her face, see who it was, and answer some of the questions you had.
So you went. With a purpose this time, knowing full well what and who you’d end up seeing, trying to take steady breaths and focus on your plan. Check who it was, then leave.
You’d never been that great at execution. Call it hedonism, call it a morbid fascination, or living vicariously, but when you walked up to the door - which was ajar again, strangely even more than last time, by at least an inch or two - you looked inside, and your feet planted. The last shred of your self-control allowed you to take in the room first, the desk and chair that was right within your sight, and as you tucked yourself into the room, half hidden behind the door, you finally looked back at the bed where you’d seen Snow with his blonde girl last time.
Neither of them were sitting now.
Thirty seconds ago, you would’ve believed the hottest thing you’d ever seen was what played out in this room last week. But that was before you saw Snow turned away from you, still fully dressed with his sleeves rolled up, stomach on the bed and face between the blonde’s thighs, eating her out like he was on death row and she was his last meal.
You’d gotten head before. You knew it felt good, but the boys you’d slept with before your arrangement with Snow were selfish and inattentive. They would try, but they were far more interested in getting their dicks wet than showing you a good time. But Snow - you’d never seen anything like it. You didn’t know it could feel that good, or at least, not as good as the blonde girl - who you noted in the back of your mind, wasn’t anyone you recognised - was making it look. Her hips were bucking so hard he was having to pin her down with both hands around her waist.
She was just moving so much, wriggling and crying out and gasping and - you didn’t think you’d ever truly known jealousy until that moment. You couldn’t look away, knees weak and hands shaking, letting yourself get sucked into this headspace again, losing all trace of rationality. You’d think she was playing it up for him, but you knew what that sounded like. You’d faked enough orgasms to know if she was, but this? This was real. As she got close, grinding into him, writhing, running a shaky hand through his hair then getting louder, you managed to snap out of your trance.
In a flash, you ran back down the hallway.
If you thought you were avoiding Snow before, this week was about to give you a run for your money. You took breakfast in your room, and kept only to the parts of the house you knew he never entered. You only touched yourself in the shower, silent cries washed away by the water and steam, paranoia backing you into a corner.
You feigned illness the one time Snow sent a maid to inquire after you. Nothing too major, but enough to put him off. When he left the house, you snuck into the library to smuggle books back to your room, a pile forming as you tried ceaselessly to distract yourself.
You wrote home, you studied art and history. You attempted a few terrible sketches. You tore apart your room, then put it back together.
Before you knew it, Thursday rolled around again. On longer days like this, when Snow had been away working for hours at a time, you’d doubled down on your efforts to get information, and after chipping away for just long enough, you finally managed to squeeze some tidbits out of Lucille. Namely that there was a certain gentleman’s club in the city that he used to frequent before his election as President. Snow’s old driver might know its name, she said.
“But that was long before he met you, ma’am, rest assured.” She added hurriedly.
“Of course. Thank you, Lucille. I think I’ve kept you for long enough. Goodnight.”
Snow had been gone for the whole day, and you weren’t sure if he’d come home yet, so as you headed up to your room, you quietly wandered a little further down the hallway, to check if there was any light beneath his door. There wasn’t. Good. You were glad he wouldn’t be continuing this routine of his. Maybe this Thursday night, you could sleep peacefully.
With a sigh, and mulling over what you’d learned today, you returned to your room, poured a drink, then collapsed into bed.
This night was as sleepless as the rest, and you’d been drifting - not uncomfortably - in and out. A storm was brewing outside, and the sounds of howling wind began to keep you alert. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, then glanced towards your door. Snow must’ve come home at some point, and very late at that, because dim lights had been turned on in the hallway. Paranoia crept into your mind, slowly poisoning your thoughts and turning you inside out.
It didn’t take long before the feeling pushed you to roll out of bed, slide on a dressing gown, and crack open your door. This time, you couldn’t hear footsteps, or anything that might arise suspicion. You closed the door again. Waited. Then looked around your room, at the messy sheets and the half finished glass of liquor on the nightstand. You rarely drank alone, but these past few weeks had been getting to you, fucking with your head. Coriolanus Snow had driven you to this.
The wind got louder, and you knew you were too wired to sleep, so you stood by your window and finished the glass.
You’d never been good with mysteries. You wanted to know everything, all the time. Know who had power over you, know precisely how to take it away. Know exactly what was happening around you at any given moment. But most of all, you didn’t like being played for a fool.
And sure, the ethics of it had never been discussed between the two of you. Your business was strictly professional, but when you weren’t allowed to sleep around, why could he?
In fact, how dare he?
You poured another glass, straight whiskey. Downed it, pacing your room, back and forth between the door and the window, running your fingers along the ridges of the crystal glass. You thought about him, comfortably in his room, not a care in the world.
How dare he.
You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the buildup of your situation that had your blood boiling, but it didn’t matter. You were incensed. His behaviour was an insult to your name, to your family’s name. Sure, this relationship was a sham, but all the more reason for him to act with basic fucking respect. Sleeping with - and very obviously, at that - a whore, who had a bad habit of leaving the door cracked open, was unacceptable.
You were running hot, and if you knew one thing for certain, it was that when Snow met with fire, he was going to melt. You’d make sure of it.
Your feet took you into the hallway, with the decidedness that this would be the last time.
You rushed down the corridor with a tightly bottled rage that was about to burst, words hot on your tongue and demanding to be spoken, until you turned the corner and saw Snow’s door half open. You stopped in your tracks. Reassessed, then stepped closer, slowly, steadily. Remembering what you were there for.
Then, as you got close enough to see inside - right there, without you even having to step past the threshold, were the two of them, lit by a table lamp, Snow sat on the desk chair as the girl rode him to high heaven, obscene noises getting louder. As you approached you saw Snow’s face again, eyes shut, breath laboured, and you couldn’t believe that anyone just walking by would be able to see this. They were fucking like animals, out in the open. You didn’t know how or why you drew closer still, closing in on them. The girl’s head was dropped down to his shoulder, back facing you, and couldn’t see you unless she turned, but Snow? He was practically facing the door, almost as if he’d been…
No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
But you didn’t have time to think it through, because Snow’s eyes blinked open, and you knew. He was looking right at you, blue eyes piercing into yours, sharp and dangerous like he was going in for the kill. You stood there, jaw dropped, unable to look away. In what world could you walk in on someone like this, and feel like they held all the cards, and you none? That was how he looked at you; like you’d been there watching the whole time, and this was all a show, playing out exactly as he’d planned it. Like somehow, despite all your best efforts, he’d landed on top.
It was like he read your mind, because he wet his lips, unblinking as the blonde writhed on his lap, and fucking smirked.
a/n: can’t wait for them to hate fuck after this (oh sorry forgot i’m the author for a sec) thanks for reading <3
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#coriolanus snow#coriolanus x reader#coriolanus x you#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow x you#snow x reader#snow x you#the hunger games#tbosas#the ballad of songbirds and snakes#coriolanus snow smut#tom blyth
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Know some people have already done this, but I just had to jump in on the train cuz I’m a sucker for yanderes, especially fem ones, like yeah, please tie me up in your fucking basement and call me your boy. I will instantly melt on the spot.
LI’s as YANDERES
asher style, of course.
you already know the drill, there’s gon be loads of cw! for this one since it’s fucking YANDERES!
content warning! dub-con at best, non-con at worst, manipulation, typical gaslighting, abusive and possessive behaviour, mentions of violence, it gets bloody too, knife play, stalking, somniphilia, y’know, all that yandere shit.
pc and LI’s are gender neutral as always unless explicitly stated otherwise. still included kylar, some of these are soft and cute, some of these are just straight up gross.
this is long. i hope you like long things.. that sounded wrong.
Robin
“I-I’m your first? You saved yourself for me?? Hah, I don’t deserve something so special. Thank you..”
yandere type : two-faced, manipulative, overprotective
Doesn’t show it, trained smile on their face whenever Kylar slots in between the two of you at the cafeteria even if Robin is internally holding themselves back from reaching behind the freak and pulling you in closer instead. Just know that if you kiss Kylar in front of them in that one scene, they’re not running away in tears, they’re internally seething and rushing to the bathroom to calm themselves down unless they wanna accidentally break the loner’s face like Whitney did. (Yeah, Robin is violent under extreme circumstances. Saw that damn brothel scene? Yandere! Robin is even worse)
Gives you the impression of someone cheerful and kind, always well-intentioned since they want the best for you after all! You don’t even get to see the way their eyes flicker and narrow behind your back, holding themselves back each and every time they see you with either Whitney, Kylar or Sydney. Would absolutely lose their shit if they knew the things you do with Bailey in their office in return for an extra day before payment is due.
Breath shaky as they stare at your lips touching the cup, sipping at their homemade lemonade, not even noticing their eyes drilling a hole right into your pretty face. Quickly claims they need to go to high street to get some more ice, all the while bringing the cup you just used with them. Locking themselves in one of the stall in the changing rooms, licking and sucking at the humid lip stains you left on the glass, free hand busy between their legs.
Robin really can’t help themselves around you, sneaking into your room at night, quiet footsteps tiptoeing to your bed, watching your peaceful face, fast asleep. Trailing a finger over your lips, utterly entranced. Started with quick kiss to your neck, collarbone, lips. Now they’re touching themselves to you, hands in their pajama bottoms, soft, wet noises of the orphan‘s genitals being stroked. High confidence!Robin doesn’t hesitate to cum/messily squirt all over you, smearing the fluids across your lips before sealing it with a kiss. Makes sure to clean it up after though, can’t ruin their perfect, innocent image!
Voluntarily puts themselves in dangerous situations, wether it be through Bailey’s punishments, off to the docks or something as simple as getting picked on at the cafeteria. They know you’ll come for them, save and protect them from the danger, won’t you? You always do, you’re their savior, Robin’s protector.. And for that, they’ll never let you go.
Whitney
“..Let me remind you who fucking owns you. Cmon, I want to hear you squeal, bitch!”
yandere type : sadistic, possessive, impulsive
Didn’t even mean to get that attached to you in the first place, but when they saw the way your lips would curl up into that fucking smile, chatting away with Robin at lunch or the stupid freak— Dammit, it’s like Whitney snapped, forcing you to sit at their table, comfortably seated on their lap with their cronies surrounding you. Looks like you’re eating lunch with the bully forever from now on. You don’t got a choice in the matter, slut.
Don’t even try to fight back against them too, you’ll just rile the delinquent up further, visible outline of their hard cock/wet pussy in their pants/beneath their long school skirt as you kick at their stomach, only for them to grasp at your wrists and pin you down. If you do win the fight by pure chance or strength, just know they’re running off to the bathroom to jerk/finger themselves silly, using your own blood as lube (haha, hot.) Licks away at the bloodied mess you left on their knuckles too, smearing it across their lips to savor. they do that little finger sucking thing at the end to really get all that blood inside their system.
Oh? Whitney catches one of their friend hitting you/trying to get a taste of you? They’re not the only one getting punished, you’re getting punished too, bitch. Your fault for being so tempting around others and they’ll make it your own fucking problem. Don’t even try to worm yourself out of it cuz they’ll be waiting at the school gates, dark look on their face, bloodied sneakers from dealing with that one friend that didn’t listen. Expect the roughest anal fucking of your life along with having their cock/strap-on deep down your throat. Even better if you have a dick, you’re getting both, cock/strap-on up your ass and yours in their own, milking you dry for all you’re worth.
Will force a collar around your neck along with a leash that they pull at during sex. Better than your shitty hair since it leaves bruises right on that tender skin they like to sink their fangs into, dragging you around for the whole town to see. Publicly fucks you at the park with nothing but the collar on, telling you to take it well, show everyone what a whore you are for them. Enjoys inflicting pain on you through biting, marking or spanking, relishes in the pained sounds that come out of your mouth. Loudly refers to you as their pet, wants everyone to know you personally as “Whitney’s pet” first and foremost before even knowing your damn name.
Purposely marks you in every way possible that they can think of, leaving hickeys and bite marks over your neck and thighs, making sure your collar is just a tad bit open to expose the bruised skin underneath. Shit, they’ll tattoo their goddamn name right on your chest, rough hand beneath your shirt, tracing the lettering of their own name with a satisfied smirk on their face. Now everyone will know that you belong to them, Whitney’s property, their slut.
Kylar
“M-My love! We were meant for each other all along! IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou!”
yandere type : obsessive, clingy, delusional
Already has a shrine ready for you, dedicated to their one and only beloved, hell, they even went to the tailor to get the perfect size for your suit/dress. How does Kylar know your exact measurements?? Um, don’t ask them! It was by pure chance, just a lucky guess, of course! Maybe they did sneak in at night through the window, somehow not encountering Robin in the middle of their weird session, gliding their small hands over your sleeping form with measuring tape ready.
Goes through your closet when you’re not at the orphanage, stealing and taking in all the underwear that they can find, even goes through the dirty laundry. Yeah, your fucking dirty laundry, making sure they got everything. Now they have your own personal scent with them 24/7, rubbing the fabric of your undergarments against their sex, melding your fluids together, spits right in the middle where it connects with your crotch. Slips it inside your closet once more, hard erection/moistened cunt in their pants/skirt once they force you to wear it, their saliva touching your genitals.
Just as Whitney likes to mark their property, so does Kylar, tracing the silver over your tender flesh, ready to sink in and draw blood, carve their name right where it should be. Maybe they do it while you’re sleeping even! Awakening to a nice, old surprise of your beloved darling’s name etched into your skin, dry blood cleanly licked away, lapped up by the loner’s tongue. Now, no pervert or whore shall try a thing unless you want a dead corpse at your feet, Kylar’s proud smile and expectant gaze on you. Like a cat that killed its prey for its master.
Why did you wake up all sweaty and warm..? Um, don’t ask Kylar, they wouldn’t know! Not like they slip in beneath the covers with you at night, lowering themselves down to your hips before pulling down the waistband of your pajamas unless you’re sleeping naked? In this town? Either way, they’re burying their face in your crotch, messily slurping and sucking away at your genitals, relishing in the taste of your flesh in their mouth. Does a show of swallowing it all, moving their pink tongue across your parted lips and slipping in.
Remember how you sent them to prison? Yeah? Thought it was over and everything, huh? Kylar now forever gone from your life, not having to deal with that persistent freak anymore, that was the plan.. Obviously fucking not, a disheveled looking Kylar breaking into your room in the middle of the night, still in their prison uniform, dark fringe over their eyes, unable to hide the maddened lust in them. Idiot, you really thought you could get rid of them?? No, of course not! Kylar is here to stay, stay forever and they’ll make sure you know you’re theirs, fucking your face into the mattress with their fat cock/strap-on, imprinting themselves into your skin. You’re theirs now. Forever.
Pure Sydney
“We.. we did it.. I’m so happy.. This means we’re bound together forever from now on.. right?”
yandere type : harmless?, worshipping, overprotective
Harmless? Well, not exactly, Sydney doesn’t even know themselves about their own behaviour, eyes framed behind glasses, always glancing back at the library entrance and waiting for your arrival. After all, they love to see your face in the morning, it brightens up their day, puts a smile on their face, humming a tune to themselves. Maybe they do clutch at the pages of the book they’re holding a little too hard if they see you sit at Kylar’s table instead.. Sinking feeling in their pit of the stomach, clenching teeth. Snaps out of it, confused as to why.
Solely believes that you’re an angel, someone gifted by God, fallen from heaven. You’re perfect after all! Devoid of flaws and if there are some, they’re unable to see it, lovingly gazing at your praying face at the temple in a tender manner. If someone proves otherwise, like those filthy edited pictures they find of you sometimes, they brush it off, it can’t be true. You’re perfect. Utterly perfect, only deserving of the purest of people and Sydney is ready to fill that role, they’re the only ones worthy of it after all!
Absolutely snaps if they ever see a temple initiate or nun’s wandering hand reaching for your behind, smacks it away, red in the face. Now they’re creating a scene right in front of you, shouting and reprimanding the other for that, but no, it isn’t enough for Sydney, honestly. Willing to lie if it’s for you, obviously you didn’t ask for it, you never did, though they’re still going to Jordan, demanding punishment on the filthy sinner for having laid their hands on you. No sick bastard or bitch should ever look your way, only Sydney.
Asks a few too many questions to Sirris about you, the science teacher already picking up on their little crush, teasing poor little Syd about it and they’re blushing furiously now, completely denying it. God, they really should’ve never brought it up, yet they can’t help themselves, constantly asking about you to their parent, wondering how you’re doing in class.. Are there any students harassing you..? In the library? In the hallways? Has Whitney set their sights on you? Don’t worry, Sydney will take care of them. just involves them tattle-telling to Leighton pft
Maybe they do let you quietly drag them to the prayer room, knowing they shouldn’t, but it’s you, you that they can’t deny, never could. Maybe they do reciprocate the kiss, amber eyes fluttering shut, arms keeping you in their grasp. This must be a dream, must be and it isn’t. Pasts the point of no return, breaking their chasity vow for you and you only. Is exhilarated once they find out that you were also a virgin, meaning you both shared this special moment together with them. Now you’re bound to each other! As one.
Corrupted Sydney
“You did it. You defiled me at last. We belong to each other, now and forever!”
yandere type : worshipping, manipulative, overprotective
Much more self-aware in their behaviour now that you’ve opened up their eyes to sin and lust, and y’know what? Do they feel shameful? Absolutely not, they’re not praying to damn anything, not begging for salvation because it’s only right for a lover to be protective over their darling, hm? At least, they use that as an excuse to mark your skin as theirs, purposely leaving their name or cheesy pet names on your forearms or neck, rolled up sleeve or unbuttoned collar to show off their masterpiece to other students.
A lot more assertive and teasing with Kylar. Their childhood friend wants to play that game? Sure, they can do the same, casually swinging an arm over your shoulder, pulling you in closer. Watching on with a smirk on their face as the loner silently seethes into their seat, shooting them a cold glare. Sydney’s obviously undeterred, even going so far as to pull you into a kiss right in front of the other. Yeah, they’re fucking petty like that, eyeing up the freak’s expression as it slowly morphs from one of disbelief to horror. Doesn’t even feel bad if Kylar scurries away in tears, you’re theirs after all, aren’t you? It’s only their right to prove it so.
Amber eyes darkening as they see you with a customer at the sex shop, shamelessly flirting with you at the counter. Quickly pulls you aside, calling out to their parent that you and them are taking a short break. The short break? Involves punishment and marking, if that pesky shit doesn’t understand that you belong to Sydney then they’ll make sure to be more direct about it, tying you up, ball gag in your mouth, uselessly drooling away. Now you’re bent over on their lap, spanking your reddened bum, each slap for every pervert that eyed you up at work. Makes sure you’re left to limp back at the counter, ass stinging and burning, hoping you learnt your lesson.
By god, do not ever break your vow and let the temple find out, Sydney will know, will know that it’s not them. The temple’s punishment on its own won’t be enough, no, they’re also personally making sure you’re never touched by anyone else, but them ever again. Face pressed up against the wooden wall, forced in this uncomfortable position in the tight confines of the confessionary, hissed breath telling you to shut up while they fuck you with their cock/strap-on or riding your cock. Genuinely wants to hear a few slip ups on your part, clueless initiate coming in to confess their sins, a grin across Sydney’s pretty features as they listen to your hitched breaths, struggling to speak.
That one scene where they’re slowly trailing their red marker up your arm, pausing upon seeing Whitney’s tattoo on your shoulder, simply frowning and turning away. Yeah? Yandere! Sydney isn’t just frowning, no, they’re fucking pissed, a scowl creeping up to their face, asking you what the fuck that’s doing there. Stuttering back a reply, unsure how to respond to that. How exactly are you supposed to explain your bully’s name permanently etched into your flesh? Palm placed on your head, pushing you down, making sure the librarian isn’t nearby to see. Now you better be begging for forgiveness on your knees, mouth busy pleasuring their sex with tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill over your flushed cheeks. Filthy sinner, this will be the only time Sydney’s ever visiting Harper for a tattoo removal.
Masterlist
Now I wanna see Yandere! Whitney vs Yan! C!Syd.
Who wins? My bets are on Syd because I fucking said so. The bully would be way too hot-headed, gets provoked too easily whereas the other is able to keep their cool, a bit more than Whitney. Plus Syd has the advantage of being a shameless masochist, would probably be moaning if they get punched, catching the delinquent off guard.
Coming up next, Yandere! Whitney specifically.
yandere! whitney
yandere! harper
yandere! bailey
yandere! shady bastards
yandere! remy
also thanks to @saint700 for the whitney line, it goes hard, hard like my c—
[END OF POST]
#sydney rocks whitneys shit#easily solos them in a 1v1#dol#degrees of lewdity#robin the orphan#whitney the bully#kylar the loner#sydney the faithful#sydney the fallen#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#asher writes
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Our Place*
Summary: An extra for 404*
The one where Harry invites you back to his apartment for the first time and it doesn't go as planned.
Word Count: 1.7k
Content Warning: 18+, smut, breeding kink, angst (happy ending), use of a safe word
Harry’s apartment is nicer than you expected.
The furniture is cozy, the décor is unique, and his bedroom is well kept. He even has fresh flowers on his kitchen table.
It surprised you, even though it shouldn’t. Harry doesn’t seem like a dirty guy, but truthfully, you were still shocked to find he had both sheets on his bed and no clothes on the ground.
You take in the tiny details of his life as he kisses down your neck and slips his fingers into your jeans. He’d wrangled you onto the bed only seconds after you walked through the door. He didn’t want to give you a tour of the whole apartment. Just the bedroom. Which you were more than all right with.
He’s oddly desperate, given the circumstances. Maybe he always is, but tonight feels different. Tonight feels…hopeful.
“Shit, Tink,” he groans into your ear when he feels how wet you’ve become. “S’this just because you rode my bike?”
You gently swat the back of his head. “Stop it.”
“What?” He noses under your jaw. “Felt you squirming back there, Princess. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice how you were trying to get yourself off to the vibrations?”
You wince. You didn’t even realize you’d been doing it. “I was not, I was just…the adrenaline was a lot—”
“Uh-huh.” He laughs and something about it sounds like honey. “S’fine, baby. You know I don’t mind.”
“Well…I wasn’t—”
“Sure. Can I fuck you now?”
You huff. “That’s why I’m here.”
He rips your jeans down your legs, tossing them over his shoulder and somewhere onto the floor. The warm air feels good and it’s then that you realize he’s right. You’re soaked, all the way through your panties.
But instead of taunting you further, he only tugs them aside and pulls his cock out.
“I think…” he murmurs as he lines himself up, “…it’s high time I got you pregnant.”
Your mouth falls open in a moan as he drops a glob of spit onto your clit and pushes in.
You’ve noticed that his breeding kink makes an appearance more often than not these days. Which you aren’t exactly complaining about. After all, you have one, too. Mostly thanks to him.
But it surprises you all the same as he starts to work himself in and out of your tight cunt, whispering the filthiest promises.
“Think I won’t do it, hm? I will. Swell this pretty belly with my cum. S’what it was made for, wasn’t it? To take me. Have my babies. Gonna stretch you so pretty…get your tits leaking. You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you, Princess?”
You try to respond but how can you? You feel as though you’ve been fucked dumb. Unable to hear anything past the pounding of blood in your ears.
His glasses start to slip down his nose. He almost always takes them off—they’re mostly for reading anyway. But you like the look of them. Like how studious it makes him seem...how scandalous.
So, you nudge them back up. Desperate to see him exactly the way he always is.
He smirks. “You all right there, Tink?”
You nod weakly. “Yes…yeah. M’fine.”
“Thinking about what I said?” He kisses down your chest. “Thinking about calling me Daddy for real? Having our babies?"
Our. A word you didn’t think belonged to you. Because Harry doesn’t belong to you. And you don’t belong to him. You’re two separate people. Even when you fuck, he’s in his world and you’re in yours. You weren’t meant to be an “our.”
You chalk this up to a slip of the tongue. Something you say when you're threatening to breed someone. And you choose not to give it any power. Because you know what happens if you do.
The fucking gets harder. Faster. He’s chasing a high. In fact, he's been chasing it since earlier in the bar when he saw you with another man. And you know he’s trying to hold off for you, but he wants to cum. He wants to paint your belly with his seed and fuck it back in. Wants to make good on his word even if he shouldn’t.
Your nails scratch down his back, damp and covered in sweat. But his muscles feel good in your hands and you whimper as you hike a leg over his hip and bury him in your pussy.
In your lust-filled haze, your attention drifts. Head rolling to the side as you focus on the soft grunts in your ear.
But then, your eyes find something on his dresser.
Your heart stops.
In fact, everything stops. Your breathing, your noises, your gentle rolls to meet his thrusts.
It all stops. And you whisper, “Red.”
He quickly falls still. A rather impressive feat given how anxious he is to find release. From 100 to 0 in only seconds, and you almost feel guilty as you sense him glance at you.
“What’s wrong?” he asks through labored inhales. “What…what happened, what do you want me to do?”
But you don’t look back. You keep your focus on the piece of furniture in the corner of his room and you will yourself not to cry.
Eventually, he looks, too. And when he realizes, the air in the room shifts.
He lets out a soft sigh and drops his hand to your hip. Squeezing it once. “Tink…”
You say nothing. Tears are pooling behind your lashes and your chest feels tight.
“Tink,” he tries again, firm. His grip tightens on your waist. “Tinkerbell—"
“She’s beautiful,” you breathe. You take in a soft gasp. “Oh, my god, Harry, she’s…she’s so beautiful.”
He’s quiet for only a moment. “Yeah. She was,” he agrees gently.
You can’t take your eyes away from the picture frame. The guilt is so much worse now than it was before. Your heart is in your throat, in your ears, lying on the floor next to your jeans.
You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. In his bed—their bed—fucking the man she died loving. While he promises to get you pregnant and give you his babies.
And how is he so calm? How the fuck is he looking at her picture while still inside of you instead of screaming at you to leave his apartment? How can he be okay with cheating on her with you?
“Princess,” he says again, and grabs onto your jaw to force your focus back to him. “Talk to me, what do you want me to do?”
Your lashes flutter. “What?”
“You said red,” he reminds you. “Which means we stop. But I need to know if you’re in pain or if I can pull out?”
It takes a moment for you to blink the fog from your mind and understand. But when you do, your stomach wrenches. “I…wait, shit, I…I want you to finish, I just…I saw her photo, and—”
“I know,” he interrupts softly. He gives you a gentle smile. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been there. But red means stop. And we’re gonna honor that. No matter why you said it.”
You whimper. “Harry, wait—”
“I’m gonna pull out,” he says, ignoring your plea. “And then we’re gonna talk—”
“Harry…Harry come on, you can’t—”
But he does. Even though he winces as slips himself out, teeth gritting together to keep from coming.
But once he’s out, he delicately closes your legs, and sits beside you. “Okay,” he begins. He keeps your eyes on him. “What’s going on up there?”
He nods at your forehead and you want to cry. “Nothing, I just…I…”
“You’ve never seen her before.”
You shake your head. “I don’t think so.”
“And you weren’t expecting to see her now,” he says for you. “Especially when we were fucking.”
You sniffle. “It felt like we were cheating. Like I was helping you hurt her. And then…and then I got worried that maybe you only brought me back here so you could pretend I was her. You know? With all the stuff about…about babies…and us, and…and—”
“Okay, breathe,” he instructs. He cups your cheek and presses his thumb to your trembling lips. “Breathe, Tink. Slow.”
Forced to obey, you suck in shallow gasps for air until your heart rate slows and your head doesn’t feel so dizzy.
Pleased, he says, “I know you’re not her, Tink. I don’t want you to be.”
Your expression softens.
“I brought you here because you’re the only person I want to see in the place she once lived,” he continues. His voice is strong. Steady. Like he’s given this far more thought than you anticipated. “After she died, I left it the same. I didn’t touch anything. Not the furniture she picked out. Not the dumb, cute little bowls she insisted we buy. Not the coffee pot that doesn’t work but she loved because she swore it made her coffee taste better. None of it.”
The tears fall down your cheeks, fast and without mercy.
“I didn’t invite people over because I wanted to pretend she still lived here,” he tells you. “I wanted it to still be our place. Not just mine. And the thought of bringing someone else back here felt…wrong.”
You grab onto his wrist to keep his hand close and he smiles.
“And then you,” he murmurs, dipping down to nuzzle his nose against yours. A display of affection you’d never expect from him. “And yeah, you’re annoying, and I hate you. But she would have fucking loved you.”
You nearly sob.
“I want you here,” he says. “I want to talk about getting you pregnant and having our babies. I want to fuck you on this bed and I want to make you cry for a very different reason.”
You laugh through the tears.
“Look, I don’t believe in guardian angels and an afterlife and all that shit,” he admits. “But sometimes, I swear she sent you to me. And yeah, I probably should have moved the picture first. That was my fault, I haven’t had anyone in here in a while. But…you’re not her, Tink. You’re you. And that’s exactly who I want you to be.”
You can’t stop the next wave of emotion as you sling your arms around his neck and pull him close. He chuckles in your embrace but doesn’t fight you. He holds you, too. For as long as you both need.
“I hate you, too,” you finally whisper.
He smiles.
“Harry?”
“Mm?”
“…can we please finish now?”
He leans back to see you. “Are you sure?”
“Very.” You kiss him. “After all, you promised to get me pregnant. And I can’t leave until you do, Daddy."
The groan against your lips is delicious and devious.
And it’s everything you’ve ever wanted.
“As you wish.”
WHY DID THIS MAKE ME WANT TO CRY!!! ALSO HI I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH!!
Previous Part:
~ The one where Harry gets jealous (again)
~ Full 404 Masterlist
Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin
@justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda
@vamprry @fdl305 @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach
@lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana
@dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs @itjustkindahappenedreally @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @laelamarley
@myalovesharry @daphnesutton @love-letters-to-uranus @kirstiea05 @lovrave
@nuggetdean @triski73 @finelinesss
#harry#harry styles#harry edward styles#harry styles blurb#harry styles imagine#harry styles fan#harry styles smut#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles x you#harry styles x reader#harry styles concept#harry styles one shot#nerd!harry#smut#imagine#concept#harry styles writing#harry styles oneshot#harry and tink#engineer!harry#dom!harry#softdom!harry#enemies to lovers#angst
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JUST THINKING ABOUT VIRGIN!GOJO. . .
getting close to gojo satoru was hard. like limitless was not only a technique but a way of living — of getting by. and you understand; having someone means having something to lose. being the strongest sorcerer alive means you have to be self sufficient, for the entire world’s sake.
but even though most would insist he is more god than human, there was nothing he could do to keep himself from falling into you. it’s the first time he feels okay relinquishing control, accepting unpredictability. he wonders, morosely, if this is what it feels like to be a regular teenager, even if he’s well into his 20s. to make dumb decisions like stay up late on the phone, to make out in the movies, to get nervous about meeting your parents, to buy matching phone cases.
gojo is obsessed with the feeling. he didn’t know he could want someone as much as he wants you, body and soul but god — your body. the way you get on top of him and make his abs seize, his hips grinding up of their own accord. you always laugh so sweetly at his desperation, licking into his mouth and letting your hands wander.
he gets hard embarrassingly fast, every time. whines anguished little moans, not knowing what he wants next. gripping your hips over his like it’s a lifeline, fucking up into you and rubbing your clothed crotches together like he doesn’t know how much better it can get — and he doesn’t. and that excites you beyond belief.
the first time it happens, it doesn’t last long. you told him you could ride him, that it wasn’t a problem, he could just focus on being as comfortable as possible. but the utter heat with which he said “no. no, you’re not fucking me. i’m fucking you,” left you weak in the knees.
he’s hurried, but he takes time to kiss every inch of your body once your clothes are off, murmuring sweet nothings about how you’re so perfect and all his. he’s been hard as a rock ever since you started kissing, not letting you get your mouth on him or even roll the condom on, too afraid of ruining it that soon.
when he slips inside, it’s so much better than he could’ve imagined. there’s no comparison, no feeling in the world, not even healing his deadly wounds and coming back to life can compare. you’re soft, warm and wet, gripping him just right, massaging his length like you were made to take him.
he can’t keep his mouth shut, can’t keep the surprise out of his voice. he fucks into you violently, unable to comprehend that it can feel this good. you feel perfect, like he never wants to leave, wants to be inside of you forever and just fuck you again and again and again.
“f-fuck, fuck, hang on,” gojo has to pause halfway, abs contracting rhythmically as he stills inside you. he looks up, huffing out an overwhelmed breath, and you can’t help but let out a giggle. “yeah? this funny to you? i’ll give you something to laugh about, just you wait.”
he starts moving again slowly, and you caress his face, singing him praise about how good he’s doing. he mewls at the compliment, wanting to please, needing to be the best you ever had no matter the circumstances. and he is, he was made for you and you for him.
“aahh, fuck baby i can’t stop — can’t, sorry, i can’t, i’m gonna cum, god i’m gonna cum,” he chokes out, pistoning in and out of you at an unforgiving pace. you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist. “oh fuck, fuck don’t do that, if you do that i’m gonna—“
“it’s okay, satoru,” you whisper, finding the timing to catch his lips in a kiss. “i want you to.”
his groan is guttural, like it’s been punched out of him, and he buries himself so deep inside you you can hardly swallow as he gives a few final, short thrusts into your pussy. he cums so hard that he loses all sense, his grip bruising you, he’s pretty sure he’s crying, whining your name like you could save him right now.
it’s a heavenly sight, so hot that it has you clenching around him chasing your own high. when he comes to, he presses two long fingers to your clit, kissing your face all over until you’re tumbling over the edge as well.
you lay there, side by side, catching your breaths in sync. which is why it comes as a surprise when he wastes no time getting on top of you again, fingers chasing your entrance.
“satoru,” you laugh, in part amusement and part desbelief. “just gimme a few minutes, okay? i just c—“
“nuh uh,” he kisses you to shut you up, then takes his mouth down your body. you notice, a little horrified, that he’s already hard again. “you already came on my cock. now i’m gonna make you cum on my fingers, and then my mouth. and then we’ll see who’s gets the last laugh.”
#✩.gojo#tw virginity#tw virginity loss#gojo x reader#gojo x you#gojo smut#gojo fluff#gojo saturo#gojo satoru smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#✩.virgin!gojo#✩.petra.doc#gojo satoru x female reader#gojo x female reader
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Hello!
🌟 here again! I'm here with another request for our lovely bodyguard yandere.
Have you ever seen videos of fans jumping up onto stages with kpop idols? Then get carried away by security behind stage?
I'd love to see how our lovely violent baby girl would react to not being able to react with immediate violence as a reaction given all the eyes and cameras on him. Would he be stone faced just carrying the stage crasher by the collar like a cat? Or would he be dragging him by the legs into hell?
The reactions of fans to the bodyguard would be interesting too, I could see Reader being jealous over people thirsting over bodyguard on Twitter or something lol. Or bodyguard confused on why people would say stuff like "he could snap my back like a twig and I'd say thank you" about him.
Hope you are taking care, and I have my fingers crossed to hear from you eventually
Sincerely
-🌟
Long overdue and I'm terribly sorry about that! I had the ideas for a while now, but I could never find the proper words to assemble everything. ;-;
Yandere! Bodyguard x Idol! Reader (III)
Your bodyguard has gained sudden Internet fame after dealing with a crazed fan on stage. Naturally, he couldn't care less about anyone else, but that doesn't stop you from trying to make him jealous in return. Someone will have to be the sacrificial lamb to his murderous possessiveness.
Content: female reader, obsessive behavior, violence, death, reader and yandere are both psycho
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]
The screen of your phone lights up again and you only need a quick glance to know what it is. Another post about last night’s event. About your bodyguard. You sink your nails into the leather chair and look ahead towards the mirror, exchanging a smile with the hairstylist.
“Oh, it looks lovely! You always do such a great job.” You compliment the woman as you tilt your head both ways, admiring the gentle curls. Now get the fuck out already.
“I’m so glad! Is there anything else you’d like me to-”
“No, that’s all. You can go”, you respond curtly.
The stylist collects her products and waves at you, exiting the room. The phone vibrates once more with a new notification, and you promptly throw it against the door. It scatters in large chunks of scrap across the plush carpet.
The whole ordeal happened within seconds. You were performing the final song of the evening when a fan hurled himself over the security barrier and onto the stage. The people standing at the very front began screaming and some took their phones out, scrambling for a good angle to record everything.
“Please, (Y/N), I’m your biggest fan!” the man pleaded, approaching you with shaking hands.
You froze in place, observing his actions with the same indifference of watching a TV ad that goes on for too long. Before the stranger could even reach your proximity, your bodyguard effortlessly and speedily threw him over the shoulder, giving you a reassuring nod and retreating backstage. He had that smile on his face that signaled he was pissed, and your mouth hung open in realization: You wouldn’t be able to witness the massacre.
You knew that expression all too well. That man would never see the light of day again, and under normal circumstances you would be right behind your bodyguard, cheering him on and suggesting ways to further torment of whoever dared to get too close to you.
And yet, your little ritual had been interrupted. You stood there on the stage, baffled, as the other idols gathered around you with worried looks. You poor thing. That must’ve been terrifying. The audience was shouting words of support, encouraging you to continue as if nothing happened. With pursed lips, you tightened your grip around the microphone and reassured everyone of your well-being. The show had to go on, regardless of your bloodlust.
This morning, you woke up to hundreds of posts online about the incident. Or rather, the way your bodyguard dealt with it. You scrolled through photos, videos, and confessions regarding the mysterious stranger who protected you from harm.
“I need a man like that in my life!”, “I know, right? So cool!”, “Imagine how easily he’d pick you up”, “The broad shoulders! I’m in love <3”
You don’t even have time to be properly upset about it. Your schedule for the day is packed with interviews and photoshoots. You glance in the mirror one final time and exit the room. The bodyguard has been waiting for you, resting against the wall with crossed arms.
“I need a new phone”, you tell him in a casual tone.
“What happened to the previous one?” He inquires, somewhat confused by your sudden request.
“Just do it!” You snap at the large man, rushing past him without providing any window for a reaction.
Ideally, you would very much like to tell him that the sudden influx of attention irritates you beyond comprehension. Then he’d reassure you that his indifference towards everyone else has not changed whatsoever, and thus your worries are entirely unfounded; but, if you need an outlet to release all that stress, he can easily find an empty changing room and service you like he always does.
Unfortunately, there is no time for that.
The bodyguard follows your movements with raised eyebrows, perplexed. What could’ve gotten you into such a sour mood? Has someone caused you to be upset? Are you still pouting after the missed playtime? He ponders the possibilities as he searches for an assistant.
The employee is visibly startled upon hearing his deep voice calling her. She turns obediently and nods, flashing her best customer-facing smile.
“Can you get (Y/N) a new phone?” he asks plainly.
“Huh? Sure…Did she specify any preferences? What was her previous model?”
He stares in confusion.
“…Can’t you guess?” she insists.
“I’m not good with these things.” The bodyguard rummages through his pocket and pulls out an old, cracked device to prove his point. “I don’t use phones much.”
Why would he? The only time he needs a phone is when he’s apart from you, which hasn’t happened since the Christmas incident. He previously considered a more modern option, so he could stalk your social media and make sure you don’t have any perverts sliding into your messages. That proved to be unnecessary, as you frequently leave your phone unattended or involve him in the process: most of your photos posted online nowadays are actually curated by his truly.
“Oh, so you don’t know about the recent craze?” The woman chuckles and takes out her own phone, speedily tapping on the screen before presenting it to the man. “See? You’re trending!”
He scans the multitude of messages. Ah, so that’s what it was. His lips curl into a grin. To think he’d witness his spoiled idol struggle with jealousy.
“That will be it for today!” the photographer announces, gesturing with his hands and guiding his helpers with the expensive equipment.
This was it, the last photoshoot. You unscrew the cap from your water bottle and take a healthy sip from it, wiping the sweat off your forehead with your other hand. The only good part about the continuous work was that you couldn’t check more of those annoying posts drooling over your bodyguard. Remembering it is enough to increase your heartbeat. The male model you were paired with for this campaign walks in your direction.
“Say, do you have anything planned after this?” He questions smugly. “You could come back to my place.”
What a ridiculous idea, you think with a grimace. Does this asshat think he’s worthy of your company? After a second of contemplation, you’re flooded with the same disappointment you felt back on the stage, watching your fan being carried away like a mere piece of cardboard over the much larger frame of your bodyguard. You might just consider the stupid offer. Why not? It’s not fair to be the only one plagued by jealousy.
“Sure. I know a better place, though.”
Your eyes narrow in a bright smile and you lead the young man towards your backstage room. As you pass by your bodyguard, you remember to mention in a low voice: “Make sure no one disturbs us.” He doesn’t answer, merely gazes at you with an empty expression.
“Man, that guy is scary as hell”, the model remarks as he throws himself in your vanity seat. “Are you not afraid to be alone with him?”
“Not really, no”, you respond idly. “You, on the other hand…”
“Excuse me?”
Now then. To set the scene, you gingerly climb into the man’s lap and adjust your arms around his neck. What a frail little human in comparison to your bodyguard. You blush in anticipation and begin counting in your head.
“H-hey, what did you mean-”
The young man is interrupted by someone’s abrupt intrusion. Your bodyguard throws you a quick glance before turning to close the door behind him. Alright, he can’t be too excited. He must pretend he’s furious, baffled, out for the hunt. You went all the way out for him. He even checked his watch to make sure you had enough time. He can’t let his enthusiasm betray him.
You jump out of the model’s hold with a gasp.
“It’s not what you think~!” you exclaim with feigned surprise. “He started flirting with me and I…” Your words trail off and you rub your arm nervously.
The bodyguard approaches the other man with monotonous movements and grabs him by the collar.
“Wait, you can’t possibly…he’s a well-known model!”, you protest with a fake cry.
Sweet little darling. Worry not, he won’t disappoint you. He’ll put on the best show for your sake. Anything to soothe your innocent heart.
“Could be the President himself”, your bodyguard confesses with a dash of theatrics, “and I’d still break his fucking neck for touching you.” He pulls out his pocketknife and looks at you. “I’ll deal with you in a moment, Miss.”
Your knees weaken and you have to rest against the vanity table. Among the screams and pleads for mercy coming from the poor butchered model, you can only focus on one thing: the violent fucking you’re about to receive.
Your bodyguard truly knows you best.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x darling#yandere x you#yandere male x reader#yandere bodyguard#yandere imagine#yandere imagines#yandere scenarios#yandere oc#yandere oc x reader#yandere fic#yandere male#obsessive love#female reader
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lesson one: sensitive
ko-fi | series masterlist
pairing: porn star!joel miller x f!reader
summary: under several notable circumstances, mr. miller finally decided that he'd be the best teacher for your first debut into sexual activities. even when all of it is to prepare you for your successful date.
word count: 5.4k (i know.. i went a little crazy on this lol)
warnings: explicit (18+), set in 2013, pre-outbreak, age gap (joel in mid 30's and reader in early 20's), inexperienced but not dumb reader, fingering, he's kinda mean, check umbrella warning on series masterlist
notes: i had so much fun writing this! tbh this one is super filthy compared to the other one so.. forgive me 🤲 COMMENT n REBLOG if u liked it
“I could take you home if you’d like. Pretty girls like you shouldn’t roam the street alone.”
Simon, more commonly referred to as Robotic Class Guy or French Fries, was surprisingly not half as bad as you thought he would be. He had all the height of a man but none of the bulk. From behind he could be easily spotted as someone in their late teens to early thirties, mostly blaming his horrid graphic tee and skinny jeans combo, but when he turned that face was all boy. His caramel hair flopped over his eyes in the way no office worker could get away with and on his wrist were bracelets in woven leather.
At first, you accepted his awkward invite out of spite.
Just to rid yourself of a certain plague festering upon your head, feasting on your brain cells so that you’d think of nothing but Mr. Miller in all his glory. Him with his tight worn-out jeans, spread open enough that you could see a naughty peak of his bulge, while he watched the soccer game. Him with his shirt off, bathing in the summer-induced moisture, while he mowed the front lawn and edged the curb. Him with his thumb parting your lips, looking at you like he’s about to consume you alive, but of course he didn’t.
At least now that Simon came around, you’d have a new port to anchor your boat on.
“No, thanks, I’m alright. My..”
Who was Mr. Miller to you again?
Your.. father? Absolutely not. Even if he’s taken you in as a part of the Miller family, just like how he used to say, you would feel like it’d be morbidly repulsive to deduce him to that particular role. For fuckssake, you stick a finger up your cunt every single week to the thought of him fucking you like one of his girls.
Then would a family friend be better of a word? Or should you just say that he’s a guardian of yours? But that’d be confusing, wouldn’t it? You glanced at your watch, counting the hour and minute hand as if it’d give you a revelation on how to answer Simon’s pop quiz.
“Someone promised to pick me up.”
That sure did sound ominous.
With a promise to leave a message to his cell once you’ve returned home safely, you stepped out of the quaint local restaurant. It was warm outside and you weren’t particularly fond of that. Heat has always been your mortal enemy; something about the musty scent of middle school boys’ armpits after PE class mixed in with the pungent perfumes they use to try and hide it has left you permanently traumatized. Your once-cheery mood had long evaporated along with any semblance of coolness. You tugged at the hem of your sundress, fanning yourself with your hand in a futile attempt to find relief from the stifling heat. This is hell!
Where was Mr. Miller?
Mr. Miller must've read your mind, because a honk quickly resonated. He was on the very corner of the parking lot; his large pickup truck looked hilariously out of place when compared to the array of city cars parked by his side. You swore you could see him grin from behind the shaded tint of his window, perhaps entertained at your almost too obvious annoyance. The thought made your heart jump and maybe even did a front-flip. God, you’re helpless!
As you beelined down the sidewalk and on to him, the heat seemed to intensify with every step. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead, causing your hair to stick in weird shapes. You just hope that his truck’s AC works.
“Hi.. Hi, Mr. Miller.”
“Hey, sweetheart. How was it?”
The nickname never ceased to exude so much power. ‘Sweetheart’ made you feel as if a tail had grown out right from the hilt of your ass and you had no other choice than to swish it around excitedly. You propped up one leg on the washed-off gray carpet, before swinging yourself into the vehicle in one go. The door closed behind with a loud thud. As you leaned back, you cringed at the feeling of your sweat-soaked dress clinging onto your skin. You felt like some marinated beef, sticky and in need of a quick shower.
“It was alright,” you hummed.
“Alright? Now that made me all the more curious,” he grinned, nudging your side with the edge of his elbow. “Com’on now. Tell me all about it, will ya?”
“Mr. Miller, are you trying to embarrass me?”
Mr. Miller’s soothing brown eyes that were stuck on the glittering street lights came flickering over to you, as if he’s actually afraid that perhaps he’s made you uncomfortable. His shoulders squared and his jaw slackened for just a split second as he tried to grasp for any nuance you’ve just given. You then smiled at him, relieving him of his worries.
It’s a little jarring to say that you think he’s quite cute. In the same way people find puppies cute, or those strawberry-shaped trinkets. He’s a little socially-awkward in his own way. Embarrassed to ask the waitress to bring his plate back, but would be confident bullying his cock into a tight cunt. Would definitely get kooky when asked to join a parents-teacher conference, but would whisper filthy things on the internet.
“I ain’t tryna make you embarrassed,” he huffed out. “I just wanna know you’re safe.”
How nice. If only he knew why you went on dates in the first place.
“He’s alright, Mr. Miller. Kind, decently groomed, respectful,” you replied, flicking through your Twitter feed mindlessly. “Better than most college guys.”
“Did he pick you up?”
Your forehead scrunched up. “I ordered a cab.”
“Did he at least get the door for you?”
“It’s not exactly the 1900’s, is it?” you quipped back at him.
He raised his eyebrows, waiting for your answer.
“If you’re that curious, then no.”
“Well then, did he pay for dinner?”
“No, well.. I did offer for us to split it,” you reasoned.
“Well, sweetie, he’s not too respectful. Is he?”
“Yeah.. but he’s cute.”
He’s cute and you’re desperate to get over Mr. Miller. Terribly so. At first, the entire situation with having your pornstar crush be the head of your host family was hilarious, it’s a joke written by itself. But then the desires went through the roof in a matter of weeks and you’re sure that you’d actually jump him one of these days. He’s attached to the back of your mind like some ghostly presence. Everything he said and done carved at your brittle wall of determination and one day it’s all going to fall apart like broken glass. You needed to stop it from happening.
There was a minute or so where he didn’t have anything to say. He hadn’t let go of the handbrakes either, though he appeared to be squeezing the leather cover of the steering wheel tighter.
“Cute ain’t enough for a man, sweetheart.”
Mr. Miller finally pushed down the handbrakes and released the pickup truck from the small parking lot. His large hands skillfully turned the wheels to fit through the tiny gaps, guiding the vehicle towards the open road. You shut your eyes for a good minute, then you let out a weighted sigh. Almost as if you’re a deflated balloon.
The drive was going to be a long one, considering the restaurant you’re on was in the heart of the town and Mr. Miller’s humble abode was more towards the outskirts. Would he continue preaching about the importance of Southern manners and being a gentleman? Because if he did, perhaps you’d just shut him up with a kiss.
“I’m just a little nervous,” you broke the silence.
“Because of the boy?”
“Sorta, yeah. It’s my first time..”
You clicked your phone shut, stuffing it on the cup holder next to the car stick. The entire conversation was making you nauseous. You had to press on the button on your left to slide down the windows in order to take in fresh air. Through the open window, a gentle breeze tousled the top of your hair, carrying with it the familiar scent of Summer in Austin. As he drove closer into the outskirts of town, the lights gradually faded behind into a sea of twinkling stars.
“First time in what?”
“In all this,” your hand motioned the idea abstractly.
“You’ve never dated?”
An enthusiastic grin snaked its way to his lips.
“I have! But it’s not- it’s not real. It’s middle school romance. We meet each other in the hallways, hold hands and giggle about it, then go on pizza dates,” you tried to explain. “I’ve never dated properly.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” you tousled your hair in frustration. “Just because, Mr. Miller. I’m not sure either. Maybe I’m just comfortable in my own little bubble?”
“Then this boy.. What’s his name again?”
“Simon.”
“Right, Simon. Are you thinking of dating Simon properly?”
“Maybe,” you muttered.
“Maybe I could teach you,” he paused. “Well, that is if you’d like this old man to teach you old tricks.”
Your hands tightly clutched the edge of your seat. A rise of bile disturbed your throat's peace as a knot of anxiety started to form in your stomach. This is what you’re working towards.
You didn’t want to admit it, because admitting means legitimizing what you had in mind, but you were hoping for him to offer you help in any way that he felt was right. Despite your.. odd relationship with him, he was your guardian and you’ve seen the way he dealt with all Sarah’s problems with soft-spoken words and fair actions. You trusted him to help you delve into this new world of adult romance, but it’s not like you’re expecting for him to agree on it. Shit, shit, shit! You couldn’t think straight.
“Com’on then. Tell me what you’re so nervous of.”
“You’re gonna laugh at me,” you groaned.
“I’m not!”
“You are,” you persisted.
“Fine. I promise not to laugh.”
You took a deep breath. The single word sticky on the end of your tongue.
“Sex.”
The pickup truck swerved.
To your surprise, instead of howling and laughing at your lack of experience, he was quiet. Awfully so to the point where you think you’d rather have him laugh at your patheticness instead of giving you the cold shoulder. You rolled the window back up, giving him your full attention as you waited for him to do something. He looked tense; the grip he had on the steering wheel was so tight you could see the leather developing crescent-shaped marks. What was he thinking of?
“Do I.. do I have to give you the talk?”
“God, no! Mr. Miller, I’m not clueless,” you looked horrified that he even considered giving you the birds and the bees talk. “I am, but I know what happens.”
The hours you’ve spent analyzing each and every one of his videos surely made an impact on how you view sex. Perhaps not the most accurate one, since you were merely looking through a 720p video and not being present in the scene, but you knew how sex goes. How it starts, what arousal looks like, what appears to feel good and what doesn’t, and how good an orgasm looks like when induced by another person. Mr. Miller might not be aware of how much he’s taught you. Not directly, but in a cause-and-action kind of way.
“Then what are you afraid of?” he hummed.
“Making a mistake,” you muttered dejectedly. “Of it not feeling good.”
A beat passed.
“Do you..” he struggled to speak properly. “Do you want me to teach you?”
What were you thinking! It was one thing to harbor intense, disgustingly filthy feelings towards a man who perceived you as an addition to his family, but it was another thing to act on it desperately. Your mind reeled back towards the exact moment when you agreed on his proposition. How you agreed on it instantly as if it wasn’t even a question, how you nodded your head miserably as if you were afraid that you’d miss this one chance, how you buckled your knees at the thought.
God, how pathetic can you be! You didn’t remember much after such a cathartic turn of events. All you managed to compile in that pretty little head of yours was that he took a different interchange, then slipped onto a highway towards.. whatever this place was.
It was on the outskirts of town. Opposite to where he lived. Big trees grew tall and heavy as they provided a mystique veil for the trailer house. You remembered the shade of peeling paint covering the outside, sky blue. The lanterns provided ample lighting for it to be spotted from a distance, but not enough to attract rowdy attention. Mr. Miller told you to come inside first while he secured his pickup truck properly. He mentioned a thing or two about racoons or squirrels, but you were too high off adrenaline to even notice. Being in the property, you instantly knew where you were.
This was his lair.
Where he shoots his videos, where he invites all his pretty co-stars to make them moan and whimper about how good his cock felt and how deep it went, where he edits those striking millennial-core thumbnails. Your throat grew dry and you began to think if it’s time to bail. He’d understand, wouldn’t he? Mr. Miller would just take you home and forget about it. Then, by next summer, you’d be out of his hair and he’d never even think about it.
A creak sounded from the front door. You jumped.
“Hi, sweetheart. You okay?”
You nodded. Your entire body went cold, especially the tips of your fingers and toes as you saw him come close. One step at a time. Almost as if he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t scare you too much. Mr. Miller looked awfully big up close. You never seemed to notice this entirely when you see him around the house, but when he’s confined in this miniscule trailer house, he looked massive. His presence towered over every last bit of your confidence. It’s surely crumpling - your confidence - slowly dissipating into thin when he was flushed against your chest.
“I’m okay, Mr. Miller.”
He pulled a foldable chair from one of the open compartments, before taking a seat on it. He spread his legs, as always, and had this look in his eyes.
“You sure you wanna do this?” he paused, before resuming. “You could tell me you don’t feel like doin’ this anymore and I could take you home. Won’t talk about it anymore if you don’t wanna.”
“I.. I want to do this, Mr. Miller.”
“Are you sure? There ain’t no pressure in this. I’m simply here to help you, sweetheart, so if you feel like-”
“I get it, okay, I get it. I trust you. A lot. And I know you’d be the best person to teach me.”
What were you even saying? This was straight out of your wildest wet dreams and perhaps that’s why you’re so adamant about it. You watched silently as he contemplated his choices. Mr. Miller scratched his beard for a short while, his gaze focused beyond you and you could almost watch in real-time how his morals and values crumbled onto the creaky floorboards. He stood up from his small chair and headed right towards where you were standing idly. Is this what May felt like in those videos?
“Alright, sweetheart. I ain’t a vocal man so this is gonna be challenging even for me,” he chuckled gruffly. “Every man has their way of settlin’ with their ladies, but I like ‘em stripped off their clothing first. So will you be a pretty thing and do that for me?”
For a second, you were as still as a rock. Entirely not used to having the person who initiated many if not all of your orgasms giving you these orders in real life. He’s right there in front of you, flesh and bones, telling you to strip off your clothing. It felt like a fever dream. You must’ve had a weird look on your face, because a grin started to form on those chapped lips of his.
Conscious of the mistake, you quickly reacted. Almost skittishly in a way as you pulled on the zipper that’s located on your right ribs. Your fingers fumbled with one another, as if it’s been braided into one, but you managed to loosen it after a few attempts. You slipped your right arm under the spaghetti straps, before you slipped the other one. The only thing holding your modesty together was your one arm that’s holding onto the support-less front flap of your sundress.
“Com’on now. It’s just me. You can act shy and adorable around Simon, but not this old man,” he teased.
You nodded, hesitantly letting your arms fall to the side. The terribly warm weather encouraged you not to wear a bra. Although you wondered if 3 PM you knew that you’re going to be engaging in some promiscuous agenda this evening. You looked up into his eyes for some kind of guidance, in which he responded with a curt nod, before you tugged on the dress so that it’d slide onto the floor.
Now the only piece of modesty you’re wearing is your plain white panties. Your breasts were entirely exposed, cold nipples firming up as it reacted to the change of temperature. This is embarrassing! Mr. Miller was being incredibly methodical in the ways in which he approached the situation, lacking sloppy mouthy kisses and feverish touches.
“Smart girl,” he complimented, almost on instinct. “Let’s get on the bed, yeah?”
You moved adjacent to him. Mr. Miller was gentle when he patted the spot next to him, allowing you to settle down properly while he fixed a pillow behind your back. To think that you’re positioned on the same bed where you’ve witnessed him please an array of girls made you feel some sort of way. A hitch in your heart, a twitch in your hole. You’ve never witnessed him this gentle. He’s always fond of establishing the power he held on the dynamic he’s presented, always telling girls what to do in quick succession and calling them humiliating names if they fail to do as told. With you, he was sweet and rather funny.
“In my experience, one of the things girls like the most is to be withdrawn from control,” he spoke up into the thick air. You didn’t miss the way his eyes cruised along your beaded nipples, or the way it watched you with feral precision. “Of course, it depends on the person. But you. I think you’re a sensitive one, are you?”
You nodded obediently.
“Cross your arms behind your back,” he ordered and watched closely as you followed suit. “Lean back onto the pillow.”
You copied his order. Only then did your finicky brain finally compute that you’re limited off your movements now. With your body weight acting like paper weight for your arms, it’d be impossible for you to react in quick time.
“Good girl.”
His mindless comment made you tighten your thighs together.
“I’m gonna touch you, okay?” he whispered gently. You could watch how he’s slowly approaching you with much caution. His arms caged you in as it dug into the tangled sheets next to you. He’s testing the currents, making sure you’re fully consenting to the experience before he makes any mistake that might ruin your perception of sex. “Ask your little friend to touch you slowly. None of that frisky aimless touching. If he pulled on your nipples and called it a day, I’d leave his ass.”
This little routine he had, the one Wicked Fantasies had, was memorized into your head and to watch it take place right in front of you made you ecstatic. He caressed the side of your face. Gently even with those big, large fingers of his, he managed to take up a good portion of your cheek. Mr. Miller then made his way to your lips. He swiped it once over your upper lip, then another time over your thicker bottom lip. You’d anticipate for him to stick his thumb in deep enough so that he could see your uvula properly, but he didn’t. Instead, he settled on pressing down your tongue as if to pin it against the lower floor of your mouth. A good amount of saliva was collected that when he pulled away, a lewd string remained intact.
“Do you know why I like pinning a girl’s tongue down?” he queried to increase comfort in a way.
“No,” you whispered breathlessly. “Why?”
“It makes ‘em docile,” he muttered. “Encourages submission and I like a pretty girl who listens.”
Mr. Miller’s fingers dragged through the curves and texture of your warm skin, leaving goosebumps on his wake, before he finally reached your two perky nubs. Each one hardened before he could give them the treatment they both deserved, which in a way broke his routine, but instead of being irritated, he appeared to be pleased.
Girls in his videos weren’t as sensitive as you. They didn’t get riled up just by a little touching and teasing. Seeing you like this was a refreshing touch. One that made the wrinkles on his forehead ripple as his eyebrows quirked. He circled his calloused finger around where the pigmentation started. Once, twice. Right until he was merciful enough to press against the apex of your nipples.
You squirmed.
“So sensitive, are you?” he cooed. “Tell Simon to play with your sensitive little nipples, hm? You look like you could cum just by this.”
“O-oh please!”
“Please?”
You couldn’t respond. Not when he’s rolling the most sensitive part of your nipples between the pads of his thumb and the side of his pointer finger. Touching your breasts with your own nimble hands felt nothing like what he’s doing right now. You instinctually grinded your leaking pussy down onto the bed, almost like an animal in heat.
“Poor thing couldn’t even tell me what she wants. What would Simon think, hm? A girl with no self control like you,” he hummed. Mr. Miller quickly held onto your thighs so that you’d stop rocking onto the bed and getting off from pleasure he’s not offering. Your eyes met his, searching for help, but the sweet and respectful Mr. Miller wasn’t there anymore. “Alright now, sweetheart. You have ta make sure that you’re thoroughly aroused before thinkin’ of even touchin’ this place.”
“You’re new at this,” he hummed. His fingers slipped off the hold he had on your nipples before it slid down your stomach and settled precisely above your clothed clitoris. “It’s gonna hurt bad if you’re not properly lubricated. Sex is supposed to be fun, not painful so if some guy tells you that it’s supposed to hurt, don’t listen to his dumb shit.”
Mr. Miller was incredibly informative if you put aside the fact that he’s touching you in all the right places that it’s making you go dumb. He spent the time explaining why an action must be provided and how to perform it, when you know for a fact that this is not what he’s used to doing. Wicked Fantasies was known to be straight with words, using minimal sentences to provide his co-stars with just the right amount of information. You could tell he’s holding back the urge to be meaner, to act the way he likes, just for you to be more comfortable.
“Let’s take a look, shall we? You think I did a good job, darlin’?”
It’s dark out. There’s only one source of light that’s present in the room. A small bedside lamp in the shape of an elephant, Sarah’s favorite animal that’s grown to be yours as well. This session with him felt intimate; you’d expect for him to bring out the bright light panels and reflectors just like in those videos you watched of him, but instead, he mostly depended on the moonlight rays.
You were acutely aware of how those dark eyes of his mirrored your own. The way he studied you was unlike any other, not with an invasive intent, but rather with heed. You watched as he hooked his fingers on each side of your panties. Slowly dragging it down, only to stop to wait for you to ease your thighs upwards.
“Look at you,” he chuckled. “I’m right about you bein’ sensitive. Don’t think we need any lube when your pussy looks like this.”
By instinct, you brought your thighs together, shy that he’s observing you with such vulgar intensity. He hummed out a tone of disapproval and quickly placed his arms on both of your knees, prying the two apart as if he’s opening a stubborn can of bolognese. You bit your bottom lip, stifling the noise of embarrassment.
Anxiety bubbled up inside of you. You wondered if you looked okay down there - no other men had seen it besides him! - or if there was something strange that caused him to halt. There was a lewd string of sticky arousal pooling on the center of your panties. You silently watched as it stretched and broke as Mr. Miller pulled the thin fabric away.
“You’re soaked, sweetie,” he teased.
“Mr. Miller, that’s- that’s embarrassing..”
“You like to touch yourself, don’t you?”
Your eyes flickered towards his direction in fear. Has he discovered your incurable obsession for him and his erotic videos? That couldn’t be, could it? There’s no scientific correlation between being extremely aroused with masturbation as far as you’re aware, but the confidence he exude made you doubt yourself. Mr. Miller moved in a painfully slow tempo, taking his time to caress your inner thighs and stomach before even considering touching you where it ached. His calloused fingers felt different against your skin. It left a fiery trail in its wake.
“No, I don’t,” you lied with a breathless squeak.
“It’s okay if you like to touch yourself, y’know,” he whispered as if taunting you. “Girls who like to touch themselves understand themselves better.”
Mr. Miller finally touched you properly. His pointer finger probed against your clitoris, touching in the lightest feathery manner possible that you couldn’t have felt it if you weren’t concentrating. Your hips followed the brief source of pleasure, only to be disappointed when you notice that he wasn’t there. He pulled his finger close to his mouth and made a big show out of it. The way your arousal glistened under the pale moon rays, Mr. Miller teased you with his expressions and mannerism. He dipped the stained finger in his lips to have a good taste while keeping eye contact.
“Please touch me.”
“What was that, sweetheart?” he hummed.
“Please touch me again. It feels go-”
You were cut off immediately when he lazily drew a perfect circle on top of your hooded clit.
“Fuck, please, please, sir.”
Ah, he liked that. He liked the new name you’ve granted him. Mr. Miller was kind enough to resume what he was doing. His finger descended down onto your throbbing hole to gather a good amount of slick before he brought it up to aid his ventures.
“The best way to feel good is controlled pleasure. It feels better to be denied than to receive boring continual pleasure, so..” he paused his movement all together. “I’m gonna teach you a little game.”
“A little game..” you sounded like you’re about to cry from his sudden withdrawal.
“Count to ten, properly. Then I’ll reward you with more. If you fail, then we gotta start from the very beginning,” he explained. His warm breath fanning over your sensitive clit. “You think you can do that, pretty girl?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll start now.”
“One, two..”
You felt how he made his laps around your nub. It was much more intense than the pleasures you’ve initiated before. Compared to rutting against a pillow, grinding against a bedpost, or laying under the tub’s running water, this felt like an entire new experience. You fought to keep still, but it’s gradually getting harder when his finger starts prodding against your tight little hole.
“Three, four. Please, Mr. Miller. Oh god,” you whimpered by accident. He didn’t like that one bit by the look he gave you. There weren’t rules and promises to this, no dynamic the two of you have agreed on, but you couldn’t help but be terrified of his disapproval. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir.”
“From the start,” he ordered.
“One, two, three..”
You could barely remember the numbers in your head despite encountering them almost every day of the week. You’re a smart girl, knows your ways around things, but being touched by Mr. Miller makes you go all dumb.
“Four, five, six..”
Your thighs began to twitch and spasm. You catched the way he pulled back the hood to your clit to get a more direct touch. It was working wonders as the sensation now is a lot more electrifying. Arousal dribbled down your twitching hole and onto the crack of your rear, wetting the sheets beneath you with the sticky clear substance.
“Seven, eight, n- nine!”
You jutted your hips out when his fingers brushed over your clit once more, the sensitive bundle of nerves extra aware of his presence, and he managed to hold you back once more. He’s forgiving. You knew he’d punish his co-stars if they couldn’t stay still like you, but he let this one slide. He continued rubbing slow, tight circles only to alter into an eight shape.
“Ten.”
The ultimatum. It has arrived, your key to heaven.
“Smart girl,” he cooed, never actually stopping. “This little hole of yours looks neglected, hm?”
“Yes, pleasepleaseplease.”
“Touch your clit slowly like I taught you,” he ordered. “You can do that can you, sweetheart?”
You nodded, distraught and ruined. With his sweet permission, you pulled one arm out from your back and rested it right above your clit. Slow and steady. Just like how he ordered. Mr. Miller on the other hand was slicking up his pointer finger with his tongue. Fuck, that looks so god damn hot.
He had pressed his sole finger deep into your warmth with no hesitation whatsoever. The combination of his calloused finger against your walls and the golden freckles inside his narrowed irises had you reaching out for his forearm. Your nails came in contact with his skin as you dug upon it, crescent shapes formed in pinkish shades atop his skin. You had to sit up as the only way you’re getting through this is by leaning on his sturdy arm.
“Oh, you like that, huh? Filthy girls like you love to get their holes filled?”
What you didn’t expect was having him press a second finger in. His one finger was thicker than what you’re used to, but two fingers? That makes you an overachiever for sure. You looked up to meet his eyes frantically. You knew he wouldn’t be kind enough to withdraw the action when his mind is already set on it, but it was worth the try. He cocked his head arrogantly as he pursued his plans. Mr. Miller’s middle finger was a tight fit. Barely able to slip past the ring of muscles. Though when he did manage to get himself in, a loud moan escaped your lips.
“Mr. Miller. I can’t- I’ve never- never taken two fingers!”
“I know you can do it, sweetheart,” his free hand went over to run over your sweaty hair, admiring every inch of you. “You wanna please that boy, don’t you? Little Simon?”
He was skillful with his fingers, perhaps from his job requirements. Although it’s still incredible how he managed to have you squirming, yelling how you’re about to cum in a matter of seconds. All he did was switch between pumping the two in you, creating the filthiest sounds, and reaching upwards to hit that certain spot of yours. You rubbed your clit with much concentration as you followed after his thrusts.
“Mr- oh.. Mr. Miller! I’m gonna cum, sir.”
“You’re gonna do that for me?” he grinned, pushing his fingers into you as deep as they could go. He maintained a steady pace, emphasizing pressure on that spongy spot up top that you’ve never managed to reach with your stubby fingers. “Pretty girl gonna cum from my fingers?”
“Yes, yes.. sir. Please.”
“Cum for me, darlin’” he whispered. “Show me how good you can be.”
Oh god, you're in a lot of trouble.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x female reader#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel miller smut#joel miller fic#tlou#tlou x reader#the last of us x reader#the last of us#tw age gap
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Unnoticed
Summary: Aemond fucks you a little too hard… and it doesn’t go unnoticed.
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader
Warnings: Comic relief. Aemond being Aemond. Aegon being Aegon and having a deathwish.
Word count: 1k
“We ought to be on our way.”
You glanced lovingly at your husband who had been fixing his hair and attire, expertly getting rid of every and any proof of his earlier endeavour with you.
“Must we go?”
He arched an eyebrow at you. “We must.”
Ever dutiful.
Sighing heavily, you threw your legs over the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling a faint sting in your inner thigh as cramps spread throughout your legs.
You took a mental note to never let Aemond fuck you ever again before a royal feast.
He came to stand before you, extending his hand with a devious smile tugging at his lips. “Shall we, lady wife?”
The discomfort only increased as you reading yourself to stand on your feet.
“Aemond…”
He eyed you intensely, taking a hold of your arm as you slumped against the mattress. “Are you well?”
“I think I’ve strained something…”
You rubbed at your inner thigh before realising the pain extended to your groin as well.
Aemond crouched at your feet, his eye widening slightly. “Was it my doing?”
Ah. The male ego.
“I suppose,” you nearly chuckled. “You might have overdone it this time, lord husband.”
He placed both hands on your thighs. “I would usually apologise, but considering the circumstances, I’ll take it as a compliment.”
You huffed in forced annoyance as he planted a kiss atop your knee through your dress.
“Should I kiss it better?”
Tempting, but time was of the essence.
“Help me up,” you said, brushing a stray strand of silver hair behind his ear.
Aemond rose to his feet and grabbed both your arms. With little to no effort, he brought you up to stand in front of him.
A jab of soreness dug into your muscles and you couldn’t hold back a hiss.
Your husband planted a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Should I carry you?”
You glanced back at him only to find a playful smile on his face. “Aemond Targaryen, you will do no such thing. Just help me get to the dining hall.”
Aemond wrapped one arm around your waist. “Are you certain?”
You offered him a weak smile. “I’m sure it will pass.”
It did not pass.
In fact, you could feel the throb intensifying with each step along the loomy halls of the Red Keep. Aemond made sure you were close enough so he could check on you periodically. Your sudden ailment turned the heads of many Kingsguard that would occasionally offer help.
Aemond would have none of it, of course. He’d sooner have you use him as clutch.
Which was precisely what you were doing.
“We will never try that position ever again,” you hissed through gritted teeth, clasping his arm with increased strength.
He patted your hand softly. “If memory serves me right, you were the one who suggested it.”
Infuriating.
“Be it as it may…”
Your voice died in your throat as the two of you approached the large dining hall, the sound of cheerful music and indistinguishable voices filling your ears.
Even though you struggled down the stairs, you put on a wide smile in the hopes it would be enough to hide the discomfort.
“You are going to scare someone off,” Aemond whispered in your ear teasingly.
Your smile promptly dropped and you cleared your throat. “This is all your fault.”
He didn’t contest your accusation.
“If I stand here without moving, no one will notice.”
“Yes, I am sure that will not raise suspicions when the time comes to sit at the table, lady wife,” he said, sarcasm laced with amusement dripping from his voice.
A servant came before you, holding a platter with several cups of wine. “May I tempt you, my prince? My lady?”
You immediately snatched one in your hand, knowing that alcohol might ease the throbbing in your inner thigh.
Desperate for some relief, you downed most of the liquid, earning a surprised look from Aemond. “You’d do well to go easy on that. We do not need a second Aegon amongst us.”
You blinked at him. “This is all your fault.”
“I heard you the first time,” he nodded, lips curling upwards.
People from all over the Seven Kingdoms swarmed the large hall, making it nearly impossible to walk through without bumping into a few guests.
Your limping might have gone unnoticed by those around you, but the sudden wave of relief was cut short when you spotted Aegon heading your way.
“Brother!”
He had definitely emptied a fair share of cups of wine already. You gathered it from all over-the-top excitement and overjoy from spotting his younger brother.
“Why are you walking like that?” he then nudged you in the side playfully.
“Sword practice yesterday,” Aemond said immediately.
“I tripped on my way here,” you blurted out simultaneously, earning a stare from Aegon.
His eyes hopped from you to Aemond in silence and you then saw a knowing smile appear on his lips.
“I see,” Aegon lifted his cup, drinking the liquid inside all at once. “Didn’t know you had it in you, little brother.”
Aemond shot him a death glare. “Whatever that means.”
Aegon rolled his eyes and chuckled, his breath reeking of wine. “Please… sword practice…” he said as he wiggled his eyebrows at you.
You felt Aemond tense under your touch. “Must you be so vulgar?”
“I am sure my sister-in-law agrees with me,” he said with a shrug, before stealing another cup from a passing servant. “How’s my brother’s sword?”
You choked on your own saliva and Aegon quickly passed you his own cup of wine.
“Aegon,” Aemond said as a warning, taking a few steps towards him.
After a few hasty gulps, you were able to breathe once more. “Let’s go, Aemond…”
Your husband took the cup from your hand and shoved it into his brother’s chest until he grabbed it.
Their relationship was rocky to say the least. Aemond extended the bare minimum amount of respect as he possibly could to Aegon.
Aegon frowned. “You’re so frigid, little brother.”
His voice faded away as Aemond walked you through a few guests, greeting the ones you knew and smiling at the ones you didn’t.
Soon after, you walked right into Queen Alicent “Oh, dear… why are you limping?” her voice was filled with worry as her features twisted in concern as she took you in her arms, her warmth filling your entire body.
“Sword practice yesterday,” you said with a forced smile.
“She tripped on her way here,” Aemond said.
She looked taken aback for a moment. “What?”
Great.
You were about to change the topic when you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder.
Aegon.
“Seems like Aemond went too hard on her with his sword, mother.”
You watched as Aemond’s lips pursed into a thin line. If looks could kill, you were dead sure Aegon Targaryen would get buried several feet beneath the Red Keep in an instant.
“Aemond!” Alicent gasped, cluthing her pearl necklace. “I warned you not to do so.”
A pang of cold sweat ran through you as your heart dropped to your stomach. Had she caught on to Aegon’s innuendo?
Alicent wrapped one arm around you protectively. “You are a seasoned swordsman, but she isn’t. You must not be so demanding.”
“Of course, mother.”
Your heart soared once again with relief and you sank into Alicent’s embrace.
“I reckon she is getting the hang of it,” Aegon grinned, taking another sip from his cup. “Wouldn’t you agree, brother?”
“I reckon you should keep your mouth shut, brother,” Aemond said abruptly.
“Honestly, Aegon, do tear yourself from that cup of wine,” she scolded in a low voice before turning to you. “Should I fetch a maester?”
“Oh! No, no,” you quickly said, forcing yet another smile. “I’m already feeling much better, thank you, your grace.”
You were wholeheartedly grateful for Alicent’s caring and nurturing nature and, truth be told, you did feel some of the throbbing pain ease.
Aemond came to join your side once again, pushing Aegon’s hand off your shoulder.
Otto Hightower appeared out of nowhere, jolting you as he towered over you. He offered a curt smile and nod before bending to whisper something in his daughter’s ear.
Alicent’s face deepened with worry once again. “Should I go and be by his side?”
Otto shook his head. “No need. He just needs some rest.”
The effect those words had on the two siblings was immediate: Aegon’s face dropped into a faint frown as he exchanged glances with Aemond.
Her body was suddenly tense against yours, but she merely nodded. The king’s health had been declining rapidly, causing him to miss out of most of the events he’d once took joy in organising.
“Are you well, my dear?” Otto was back to his usual pleasing demeanour as he looked at you.
You nodded sweetly, but Aegon was apparently bent on antagonising you. “Aemond hurt her with his sword.”
The older man arched an eyebrow at your husband. How come?”
You could tell Aemond was close to lunging at his brother and mustered all of his will-power to prevent that from happening.
“It’s nothing. It happens,” you chuckled through the tension that had settled.
“We should get her a maester,” Alicent said, her eyes roaming across the vast hall.
“Lighten up, brother,” Aegon cheered with another sip as Aemond’s face twisted into a menacing scowl. “We are merely concerned for your wife.”
Otto brought his hands up into a series of small claps of approval. “Good, good. Family stands together.”
You wished you could vanish into a hole in the ground and disappear, but before you could entertain that idea, Grand Maester Maester was spotted in the crowd and Aegon rushed to summon him.
By the time the old man managed to join your side, you immediately regretted ever joining your husband in this feast.
“Please… there is no need for this,” you said as you began to panic.
“Aemond hurt her with his sword…” Aegon feigned concern before wiggling his eyebrows.
Maester Mellos was perceptive enough to gather the implication in his words, promptly clearing his throat.
Alicent came to that same realisation next as she sighed heavily, glaring disapprovingly at Aegon. “Oh… you imbecile…”
You felt heat take over your body from the embarrassed.
And in no time, Aemond was on Aegon, gripping the back of his neck with bone-cracking force and hissing at him. “I’ve had enough of you.”
“Let go of me!” he tried to jerk away, but Aemond’s grip didn’t ease.
“Stop it. Both of you,” came Otto’s authoritarian voice, effectively tearing both siblings away from each other.
Maester Mellos seemed suddenly out of place as he approached you. “If there is anything I can do to help, let me know, my lady. I have some oils that… are quite effective… in…” he fell silent, avoiding Queen Alicent and Otto’s inquisitive stare.
Aemond took you in his arm once more as you growled at him absolutely mortified. “This is all your fault.”
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making an important announcement about some things i’ve noticed in the gwendoline christie fandom that really bug me.
disclaimer: read this at your own convenience and discretion. i am not responsible for any sort of hurt feelings and frankly… i don’t care. if you’re mad about this, you are probably the problem. /lh
to start with id like to begin on a positive note so that i’m not diving into negativity, i don’t want to be completely negative about my experiences because i’ve actually met some of the kindest people in the world through this fan base.
the gwen fandom, the gwandom, the gwendoline christie fandom , the lesbian cesspool, has been an incredible experience that i’m grateful i’ve had the pleasure of being apart of.
i went through a rough patch during november, and if i hadn’t found out about gwen, or met such wonderful people during my time here , i honestly wouldn’t be here right now. i owe my life to these people, gwen included. i will forever adore miss christie and what she stands for alongside the friends i’ve made along the way.
and while i know someday this hyperfix will end, it’s really disheartening to me when a fandom is what makes me grow distant from things i enjoy. it happened before, i feel as though it is happening all over again.
and no, i’m not taking issue with anything like the catrissa stuff or the brienne and larissa ship going around or anything like that. i like that we can all be weird together and enjoy aus like catrissa and crackships like bririssa (not sure the official name that was decided lol). my issue is the amount of content i’ve seen that either focuses on gwen herself, or the strange relationship with minors, or the odd artwork of gwen, and the absolute disgusting behaviour towards giles.
gwen would be absolutely appalled seeing fanfictions of herself that involve nsfw or just her in general, anyone would, it’s disgusting to make works of real people in that setting. it’s like you’re treating them as an original character you can mould and manipulate as you see fit and using someone who is real with thought and feeling and consciousness for smut fics is not okay, or any fic in general. i totally get the hype around her characters, i literally have “brienne’s princess” in my bio and i’ve had “jane murdstone’s bloodbag” (in reference to my vamp au) as a name in a discord server.
but i think the fandom has begun to blur the lines between fictional characters and reality settings when it comes to gwen and the personalities she portrays on the television screen. it’s not fair to her. it’s disgusting. i’ve seen a minor do it, i’ve seen a grown adult do it. it’s something i don’t see shamed and frowned upon often enough and it’s really not okay.
on that note i’d like to quickly mention the photos, we alllll know what photos i’m talking about. the bunny one, the nudes, the ones gwen has expressed regret towards and wishes to not have them spread. was there not a “fan” who brought her a book of her nudes and wanted her to sign it? that person who was blocked on instagram by gwen because they reposted her nudes on their story and tagged her???? how can you refer to yourself as a fan after behaving so abhorrently? absolutely disgusting behaviour. as a collective fandom we need to stop touching those photos (metaphorically speaking) and leave them in the past.
i’ve been told of numerous circumstances in which adults have shown their nsfw works to minors in this fandom and it has to fucking stop. it’s disgusting!! how can you do that knowingly? i constantly ponder terminating my account after a minor got ahold of my nsfw work, and upon realising they WERE a minor it was as simple as blocking and moving on. it’s truly not that hard, folks. and the minors on tiktok who fight with others saying silly things like “that’s my wife” or worse. i’ve seen it all, i feel like, and the more i see it the more sick i become. i cannot stand it.
i have seen and heard of fans who have fat shamed gwen for that one pink dress she wore to the met gala. she looked so happy in that dress, and the audacity one must have to fatshame that poor woman on twitter then turn around and continue to proclaim your ‘love for her’ as if you’d done no wrong? are you fucking serious? are you mental?
and the sexualisation over the porcelain doll look, gods some of you are sick. those were not real breasts, people. considering the fact she wholeheartedly regrets her nude photoshoots , what possesses you to believe she would actually flaunt her chest in that outfit?
the blatant mistreatment of poor giles is not fucking okay either. just because you’re jealous of someone who makes her immensely happy does not give you the right to post something so vile and cruel about him. shame on you. why do you believe this is okay to post:
????????
are you serious? have any of you stopped to consider how HAPPY giles makes her? or is her happiness the last thing you ponder when you look at her? have you even noticed how unhappy she looks lately? have you truly paused to consider how she would feel about seeing this on your page, random twitter user, or the rest of you who think this is okay? bless your hearts.
and some of the absolutely horrific things i’ve seen about her online and the hurtful behaviour towards giles makes me question the difference between a fan and just the general paparazzi. because if you truly loved her and you truly loved giles then i would not be ranting into the fucking void about it for no reason.
i avoid interacting with pages i find problematic on here to keep from stirring the pot but tonight i chose violence and got reeeeeal pissy about how i felt about this place. it’s not okay what i see on here and it’s getting exhausting seeing the same cycle of content on a daily.
that’s everything i have to say, i think. i probably missed a lot that should be discussed in the comments but i’m done for now because i know if i go on i’ll probably cry.
before you post things about real people with real feelings , stop to consider how they will feel those real feelings towards the content you put out. chances are you’ll become less problematic and obnoxious that way. 💘
#gwendoline christie#gwendolineuniverse#sigh#announcement#i’m upset#this fandom is insane#some of you need help#seriously#like its not even funny#you guys are weird#please repost this everywhere#this is not okay#i’m really tired of seeing these things#and i understand i can block and move on but i feel as though it was important enough to be said#fandom#tumblr fandom#and specifically#the tumblr and tiktok fandom#instagram is becoming just as bad#and twitter has always been atrocious
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Thoughtless sex | w.a
Y/n is Tyler’s sister, a blood bond that was supposed to bring harmony, but the tumultuous past continues to cast a shadow over them. Wednesday doesn’t seem to care about this detail and ignoring her conscience decides to turn off her sexual desires with the girl Galpin
Will they manage this intricate web of feelings without disrupting their lives forever?
Warning: 18+
"Yes... continue" she said biting her lips hard. I clung more to her thighs and stuck my tongue in her privacy.
We were in the woods away from prying eyes.
"Shit!" Wednesday moans biting her lower lip, closing her eyes. I smiled and kissed her inner lips gently, releasing a stream of saliva that connects her to my mouth. With one hand, I made rotating movements around her clitoris, causing Addams' sighs to become heavier. My hand was completely covered with her fluids, I leaned over and left another kiss on the bundle of nerves.
I licked with my tongue the excitement I had on my lips. I put my lips back around her clitoris and stuck two fingers inside her.
With the corner of my eye I saw Wednesday’s knuckles turn completely white, squeezing the car seat in need
The moans echoed in the car.
The walls of Addams narrowed around my fingers and I realized it was coming. Wednesday put her hands in my hair and put more pressure on her intimacy. I kept licking and penetrating.
Her back arches more.
" IF..." moans and arching fingers I found her G-spot. Mostly twin. -"Fuck!" exclaims.
Her hips moved more and I increased the rhythm of the lick. As I stopped penetrating her, I put my fingers in her mouth, sucking her nectar.
" Look at me" I exclaim with a small smile, ceasing to lick her delicious intimacy. With difficulty she put the weight on her arms and looked at me excitedly.
She was covered in sweat and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. I took her legs and invited her to rest on my shoulders, giving me more access to her privacy. Without looking away, I licked again and saw that Wednesday moved the weight on one arm, the other stretched it and put her hand between my hair.
Wednesday moves her hips again.
Moaning.
"Fuck!. Yes.." whispers.
Her eyes turned white with excitement. She turned her attention back to me.
"Y/N" exclaims with difficulty.
" I’m.. to... " murmurs with difficulty and does not even finish pronouncing the phrase I feel her excitement pouring into my mouth.
I ate the excess.
Wednesday moves swiftly to fix her skirt, glancing at herself in the rearview mirror of the car.
I wipe my mouth, slightly incredulous at Wednesday's gesture, and sigh audibly.
"What's going on?" Addams mumbles weakly, looking at me with boredom.
"Do we always have to see each other in these circumstances?" I ask curiously, leaning against the seat.
"Between us, it's just sex," Wednesday frowns.
"I know... but do we always have to do it in this car? Maybe we could meet somewhere else, maybe in my room or yours," I murmur absentmindedly, biting my lower lip.
"Some things are off-limits, too many risks," Wednesday confesses venomously. "Plus, I don't want Enid to suspect," she adds coldly. "She hates the fact that you're Tyler's sister," she admits.
Tension in the car increases as Wednesday's words hang in the air.
Wednesday Addams' eyes are truly a wonder. They have a mysterious and seductive color, a deep and vibrant black hue that seems to capture the light fascinatingly. They are piercing eyes capable of expressing a wide range of emotions, from a seductive and provocative gaze to a cold and distant one. They are the eyes of a woman who knows how to use her charm to her advantage and who hides intriguing secrets.
I visibly get angry.
"I know Tyler was horrible to you, but I'm not like him... I'm genuinely interested in you, Wed," I murmur with a hurt tone, reaching out to her.
Wednesday moves away quickly.
"I don't want to be seen in public with someone like you," she confesses, looking at me defiantly.
I nervously smile and simply shake my head.
"Fine, I don't want to be seen with a shallow and unpleasant girl," I admit, and Wednesday looks at me seriously.
"Between us, it's over," I confess seriously.
"Well, then we're done, useless," she looks at me defiantly. Wednesday swallows and gets out of my car.
"To leave and to end are the same thing," I shout as I watch Wednesday walk towards her rooms.
Anger and disappointment overwhelm me as I drive away from the scene, making it clear that this story has come to an end.
"No more casual sex," I whisper to the air as I start my car.
(...)
The morning sun painted the sky with golden hues as Yoko and I walked through Nevermore's ancient gate, heading to our next class at the academy. The leaves of the trees, now dressed in autumn colors, danced lightly in the air.
"So, Y/n... what class do we have now?" Yoko yawned and adjusted her sunglasses.
"We have art history," I replied, smiling, flipping through the schedule. "It will be interesting."
Yoko stretched and nodded, ready to face the next part of the academic day. As we headed towards the classroom, the campus buzzed with student energy.
"And tell me..." Yoko murmured with a hint of curiosity. "Why didn't you tell me you're with someone?" she asked, playfully revealing her fangs.
"W-What?" I stammered, panicking and shaking my head. "Y/n, if you want to keep it a secret that you're with someone, at least cover the hickies," she said mischievously, and my cheeks turned red.
I spotted Wednesday in the distance, walking carefree with Enid. I felt sad and neglected, as if my role in her life had become invisible. It was as if a piece of my heart shattered seeing that my presence didn't seem to matter to her anymore. I wanted to call out to her, to make her notice me, but something held me back, leaving me with an emptiness and a sadness that tightened my chest.
"Hey," Yoko called, snapping her fingers and catching my attention.
She gave me a shy smile and hugged me, wrapping an arm around my neck as we walked together.
"I was distracted... sorry," I said with sadness, trying to hide my unease behind a forced smile. "Let's go," I continued, forcing a happier expression.
Addams gave me a quick glance, a flash of interest or perhaps something more complex, before walking decisively towards the building entrance.
I felt increasingly involved in this intricate situation, as if I were trapped in a web of complicated relationships. The sadness continued to burn inside me, but I tried to focus on the present moment, trying to overcome this discomfort that undermined my confidence.
Walking beside Yoko, I took a deep breath and prepared to face the day.
"Hey, sorry..." Yoko bit her lower lip slightly, visibly concerned. "I just remembered I have to meet Bianca," she confessed quickly.
I sighed, realizing that the situation forced me to separate from her, even if only for a while. Yoko gave me a apologetic smile and a kiss on the cheek before heading towards Bianca, the queen of this school.
I watched her go, feeling a mix of loneliness and determination.
I put on my headphones, trying to isolate myself from the surrounding world as I climbed the stairs. I had to cross the deserted and abandoned corridor. My heart was racing, the tension in the air palpable.
Suddenly, two hands grabbed my collar with firmness, pulling me abruptly into the rarely frequented bathrooms. A shiver ran down my spine, and my eyes met Wednesday's black irises. Her gaze seemed penetrating, dark, and enigmatic.
I stood still, caught between fear and curiosity.
Wednesday's hands firmly grabbed my pants' belt, making me tense, as she approached my neck with determination. I looked confused, unable to understand what was happening.
"What are you doing?" I asked uncertainly, trying to ignore the confusion that overwhelmed me.
Wednesday looked at me seriously, without answering, before leaning further and pressing her cold lips against mine. A shiver ran down my spine, and for a moment, instinct made me respond to the kiss.
But reason prevailed.
I finally found the strength to break that kiss, my heart beating fast, and my breath short.
"We're done, Wednesday," I managed to say decisively, trying to convey my feelings.
But she held my neck firmly, pushing me again towards her for a needy kiss.
"I don't like to fight, okay? Can we keep fucking" she whispered calmly, her hands still around my neck.
I was astonished, my mouth opened to say something but remained speechless. Wednesday swiftly moved to my neck, starting to leave sloppy kisses on it.
I felt trapped in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, desire conflicting with confusion and the need to express what I really wanted.
I timidly returned the kiss, still confused but drawn to that intense energy. Wednesday genuinely smiled against my lips, a smile that seemed to carry a strange mix of pleasure and torment.
My heart was beating fast.
The bathroom door swung open with a dull noise, and in a panic, I turned my eyes towards the person responsible.
Wednesday still had her hands around my neck, her obvious state revealing what we were doing. Addams stood there, breathing heavily, her braids unkempt.
"But what the fuck..." Enid exclaimed, her mouth wide open in disbelief.
A sense of embarrassment and dismay overwhelmed me. I felt as if I had been caught in something forbidden and shameful. The words seemed to get stuck in my throat as I tried to find explanations that eluded me.
Everything plummeted in an instant. The consequences of this situation will be unavoidable.
Damn.
#jenna ortega x reader#wednesday addams x reader#jenna ortega#jenna ortega x you#jenna ortega x y/n#jenna ortega x fem!reader#miércoles addams#wednesday x you#wednesday addams x you#wednesday adams x reader#wednesday x reader#wednesday x y/n#wednsday addams
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can we have another sex pollen fic 🫣🫣🫣
picks up after Lazaretto where you were precautionarily quarantined together and subjected to a treatment that had a sex pollen effect on Joel 🥵. Check content settings if you can't see that one.
Lazaretto: Horny reader
1k / Joel x horny!f!reader
Warnings: Horny reader pressures Joel for sex as he struggles with guilt / fear. Jacking off. unsafe P in V sex. Prev story (referenced) was noncon. Unedited.
☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️
After Joel is seized by the fog and ferally pounds you, y’all still have another 24 hours in the tent together nearly nude before they’ll let you go. It's a long time to spend with someone in these circumstances. Long enough for you to recover and need more.
He’s traumatized by the experience, overwhelmed by guilt. You reassure him it felt good, as if he didn’t already know you came on his cock, but that doesn’t make him feel any better. He's torturing himself. He’s still feeling the fog, too, even though it’s faded.
He has a hard dick, but by now he’s regained enough control to restrain himself. He’s too ashamed to even relieve himself in front of you. Too ashamed or too afraid of what he might do. You spend most of the day pretending to nap so he can periodically jack off unembarrassed. He grunts and sighs as quietly as he can. You don't want him to know you notice, but it's the hottest thing you've ever heard, and the fact that he’s trying to be quiet only makes it hotter. The squish of his skin and his stifled sounds of pleasure have you starving for his cock.
You wish he’d just fuck you again. You’ve offered. You’ve asked. You’ve borderline begged. You want it that bad. You’re stuck in a tent, horny as hell, with Joel and his hard cock. What’s more, you’re aware of what he can do with it, and every few hours you have to hear him fucking his fist instead of your needy cunt. Your ass is sore, but your pussy wants more. The hornier you get, the more you lose patience. Finally, you’ve had enough and pretend to “wake up.” When you sit up on the cot and face him, he’s cowering on the floor pressing the heel of his palm into his aching member, with his eyes swollen from tears.
“I need something,” you say. “Anything.” You slip your hand under your gown and start touching yourself.
“Can’t give it to ya, sweetheart. It ain’t right,” he says for at least the third time today.
“No, Joel. God, I’m sick of hearing that.” You don’t stop touching yourself. "What ain’t right is you not giving me a choice right now. Gimme the choice you couldn’t give me earlier.”
He doesn’t know how to respond to that.
“Get over here and lie down on the cot,” you tell him, your voice more gentle than the words. “Let me take what I need," you add.
He rubs his temples with the thumb and ring finger of one expansive hand. He shakes his head, then looks at the ceiling of the tent. A few seconds later, he hesitantly stands up with a groan like his whole body hurts. You avert your gaze from the considerable tent in his gown as he makes his way to the cot trying to hide it.
Joel lays down on the cot and says, "You don't have to do this. You really shouldn't." You feel a little bad for him, but you do have to do this. Your body needs it. In your mind, it will benefit you both. "I don't wanna hurt you, sweetheart. Get me started, I dunno if I can stop."
"Relax, Joel." You get on top of him and pull up his gown, your breath hitching at the sight of his commanding cock. You take your own gown off entirely, hoping the sight of your tits helps him get on board with this. You watch his face darken as you position yourself on top of him and both his hands come gently to your breasts.
"Fuck," he breathes as he palms your nipples with his tired eyes nearly closed. You notch the angry tip of his cock at your weeping cunt and he shudders "Ohh, God," pinching his eyes shut. His hands slide down to your hips then he opens his eyes again. As you begin to sink onto him, he pulls you down hard and lifts his hips, sheathing his stiff member in your warmth. He grunts and you sigh as you're impaled on his rock-hard length.
"Fuck, you feel good," he winces.
You lean forward and tilt yourself to press your most sensitive place against his pubic bone, softly cushioned by hair. You begin to move your hips, grinding against him and giving him space to rail in and out of you. His thick cock is hurried along by your ample slick each time he impales you. His eyes water, swollen and sensitive from his earlier tears, and his rough hands grip your ass harder. He kneads your cheeks and you wince in pain each time they spread.
Joel grunts and sighs as he buries his length in you. Your knees squeeze his broad torso as your clit begins to twitch. His face is overtaken by the inner animal again and he begins to rail you mercilessly, pulling you down harder each time he thrusts up into you. You lift up his gown and slide it up his torso, then rest your hands on his pecs for leverage. The sight of his scars and light chest hair make you weak and his firm pecs under your palms make you twitch more. You push your ass down and back as he fucks up into you.
You lower your torso against his, slipping your hands under his arms and resting them on the cot. With the added contact, you’re close to the brink. He plunges his thick cock into you for another minute, your walls gripping him each time he fills you up. You teeter on the edge of your climax, then he grunts loudly and pleasure seizes you, from your clit spreading inward, strangling his cock as you sigh. His nipples harden against your breasts and he shudders then explodes inside you with a long, low sigh.
You stay on his cock and he reaches down to the ground to pick up the blanket. He covers your bodies and you fall asleep with him inside you. Finally you both get some much-needed rest.
-
All Joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda @blackvelveteen1339 @manazo @wolvesandvampires @taeslarityy @str84pedro @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname @weddingfairy
#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fic#dark!joel miller#joel miller#joel miller x female reader#pedro pascal smut#toxicanonymity ☠️#sex pollen#tw noncon#joel jacks off#PPCU jacks off#PPCU jacks off ☠️#someone jacks off
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“Oh, Christ—” the hero cursed. They tried to laugh but this time, they couldn’t conjure the energy for it. Usually they laughed off most things but this was a little too serious.
“Stop moving,” the villain hissed. They pressed their palm into the hero’s side and although the hero wanted to pretend it didn’t actually hurt them, it burnt. It burnt a lot.
The hero had never experienced this kind of pain nor had they ever had the slightest idea how mortal they actually were. To be fair, they had never ripped open most of their torso either.
With the villain putting more pressure onto the wound each second, the hero could only pray that they wouldn’t pass out.
“And stop smiling, this isn’t funny,” the villain added.
“I’m nervous,” the hero explained. “And this fucking hurts.”
The villain slammed them back against the tiles when their hips moved up. It made the hero whine and beg like a dog but the villain didn’t seem to care about that. Eventually, they sat down on the hero’s hips and kept their hands on their flesh.
In other circumstances, this would’ve promised a good night. The hero was already without a shirt and the villain was, indeed, certainly attractive.
However, the hero was quite sure they had never seen this much blood in their entire life. If they had had the energy, they would have apologised for the bloody bathroom. The sink and floor especially.
“You won’t die on me. I know how to fix this.”
“Wouldn’t the bleeding stop if you pushed your fingers into the wound?” the hero asked. They felt light-headed. They had heard something like this in training. A sort of last-resort-thing.
But their thoughts already blurred together. They took in deep breaths as their body pumped blood through their torso. They were delirious, tasting blood. Oh God, the villain would kill them for ruining the bathroom.
“Do you actually want that?” the villain asked. The hero looked at the villain’s fingers move towards the cylindrical wound. Two fingers were on the raw and bleeding flesh, dipped in thick blood and nearly digging into the messy wound.
“Ah, maybe not—” It had been a screwdriver. The hero had been attacked with a screwdriver and their nemesis tried to save them from bleeding out.
It was so pathetic, so embarrassing, the hero could only laugh weakly. On their patrol the hero had been a little too confident, a little too cocky and now they turned the villain’s white bathroom into a red nightmare. This damn bathroom.
“Smart choice.” Instead of pushing their fingers into the wound, they used their palm again. Without much thought, the hero grabbed the villain’s arm but they couldn’t swallow the scream this time.
By now, tears ran down their cheeks and they could feel the wound pulsate. They wanted the villain’s soft touch and their sweet smile.
They wanted to fall asleep on their chest and forget about this stupid thing.
Longing for someone was something the hero loathed.
“Just let me die, please, this is torture.” They whimpered the last words. With one last rush of energy, they pushed themselves up to talk some sense into the villain but the villain only pushed them down again.
“I’m afraid this isn’t your decision anymore. I will save you and I’m sorry you’re hurt.” They grabbed the bottle of pure rubbing alcohol and the hero nearly managed to crawl back a little. “You need to survive.”
“Please, there is so much blood…”
“I am not going to let you die.”
“Then please be gentle.” The tears made it difficult to see them but the villain stared at them and the hero could feel something shift. Something was changing behind the villain’s eyes. They hesitated. “What?”
“Here.” The villain took their hand. “Squeeze as hard as you can when it starts to hurt.”
“You’re too kind,” the hero joked. Exhaustion took over them quickly. They were sweating. They felt disgusting. They were trembling. They waited for the alcohol to burn their skin.
“Oh, darling. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” The hero frowned but the villain slapped them immediately without an explanation. The hero was so confused, so offended that they didn’t expect the following pain of the alcohol on their raw skin.
They supposed it was better this way but they still cursed the villain with every single insult they could come up with.
#Leo just one chance please 😣#writing snippet#heroxvillain prompt#heroxvillain snippet#heroes and villains#villain#hero#hero x villain#heroxvillain#an answer for an ask#request#suggestive#h/c
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