#some test results have come back | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joeloverture · 4 months

Text

hook 'em horny | j.m. x f!reader

masterlist : coach!joel masterlist pairing: college football coach!joel miller x reader summary: [no outbreak] seeking petty revenge on your cheating quarterback ex-boyfriend leads you somewhere you shouldn't be — and then it lands you over the knee of his coach. warnings: (18+ mdni, don't make me say it again.) cheating done by a referenced oc, briefest mention of drugs, porn barely garnished with plot, age gap (22/52), smut, unprotected piv sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, potentially dubcon by way of power imbalance but consent is enthusiastic, daddy kink, sir kink, 'punishment' spanking, degradation, praise, brat tamer!joel, dom!joel, joel spits on her ass but otherwise no butt stuff, mild choking, body writing, so many pet names of so many varieties, aftercare, surprisingly fluffy [no use of y/n] word count: 6.4k a/n: this is a crazy idea to have considering joel can hardly handle ellie. i don't think he'd be able to handle ~118 college-aged boys. however, the idea of football coach! joel is hot to me (i mean, seriously, look at those sluts on the sidelines) so i made it happen. on a serious note, i am so sorry to the unnamed university this is based on. i toured you. i'm legacy. but... joel miller. let's make it clear this is for entertainment purposes only. this is a fictional work about fictional people that does not reflect the school itself, which is a fine institution whose head coaches historically do not fuck students in the locker rooms. shoutout to my dad who, unknowing what this information would be used for, explained to me how he snuck into this stadium 3x. don't do that, either.

You can’t even remember the last time you made a good decision.

Your track record definitely isn’t the cleanest: you chose to go to school in Texas, and then chose to stay there for four years. Choosing to go to that frat party in late junior year wasn’t your brightest moment, either, evidenced by the resulting hangover from hell and, predictably, frat flu. All things considered, those choices pale in comparison to hooking up with their all-star quarterback, Lucas Scott.

Dirty-blonde, blue-eyed, muscled Lucas Scott. He’s the sort of guy who looks like an eight when you’re looking at him after a few shots of tequila and a four when you’re sober. The sort of guy who, after over a year of dating, makes you split the bill halfway after ordering the more expensive entree. Crowned as the most efficient, precise, and instinctive quarterback the Longhorns have ever had. Apparently that instinct hadn’t been enough to drive him away from dipping his wick in every sorority girl’s candle wax.

No matter how much post-orgasm Lucas panted into his ear that he loved you, you weren’t stupid enough to trick yourself into believing it. Staying with him was the easier choice, not yet wanting to reduce yourself to locker room talk. Walking in on him sloppily fucking some redhead nursing major was the breaking point. When it became less about you and more about your dignity.

So, yeah, you’ve never been one for making good decisions, and you certainly aren’t about to start now.

You thought breaking into the stadium would be some sort of monumental task. Trespassing here was normally reserved for campus rooftops and after-hours exploration, but once you’d gotten this batshit crazy idea in your head, you knew it wasn’t going to shake until you at least proved it couldn’t be done.

The open garage at the back of the building doesn’t help to deter you. It’s like there’s a welcome-mat outside saying, ‘Come on in and get what you deserve!’.

Who would you be to decline such a sincere invitation?

The garage is empty apart from some cushy golf carts, and the steel door behind them couldn’t be more tempting. If it’s locked, you tell yourself, you’ll go back to the dorm and forget about your incident of near-trespassing.

You take small steps to the door, testing the handle. It springs right open, and all thoughts of leaving dissipate from your mind.

Who leaves the garage open and forgets to lock the door? Probably people with just as little between their ears (and legs) as Lucas. You scoff in half-disbelief, half-luck as you close the door behind you.

The energy feels stagnant this late at night, no announcer on the loudspeaker or swarms of burnt orange hats and T-shirts standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Industrial lights flicker above, their hums loud enough to make you wonder if you have tinnitus. Concrete lines the hallways, interrupted by a few silver-painted pipes arranged in a labyrinth up against the walls. A few security cameras are pointed at you. Before going any further, you pause to raise the hood of your Longhorns sweatshirt.

Even if you should be, you aren’t in much of a rush; you amble about, really taking in the sterile ambiance of the empty stadium. You turn a few corners, going in what feels like the right direction. You figure you’re getting closer when you spot what looks like it could be a security tower. Crouching behind a trash can, you wait it out, trying to peer through the untinted windows to figure out if there’s anyone in there at all. When you’ve determined it’s unmanned and let out a shallow exhale, you go back up to full posture and keep wandering around unsupervised.

You know you’re in the right place when you find your toes hovering over a red line painted on the oil-stained concrete: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

Bingo.

Crossing that line without really thinking about it, you stick to your (so far) tried and true method of going wherever feels the most promising until you’re standing in front of the two black doors you were looking for. The door’s handle is an obnoxiously large longhorn, and you quite literally have to hook ‘em to get inside.

You’re starting to understand where the rest of the university’s funding is going when you walk into the locker room. After dating Lucas for a year, you know the football team is full of itself, but the Longhorniness of it all is… excessive. There’s the silhouette of the logo glowing on the goddamn ceiling, and if the jerseys the players are wearing on their digital nameplates isn’t enough of an indicator of who they play for, every backlit locker has a drawer with, you guessed it: a longhorn painted at the center. A brown vinyl couch wraps around the front of the room in direct view of a powered down videoboard that you can only assume replays highlight reels.

You roll your eyes. Again, your track record with decision-making isn’t the best, because you chose a school who puts every penny towards sweaty frat boys with brain damage from the amount of concussions they get.

And then you see it: a sign tacked onto the middle aisle of lockers that reads CORE VALUES. From top to bottom, HONESTY, TREAT WOMEN WITH RESPECT, NO DRUGS, NO STEALING, and NO WEAPONS. You have to physically clamp your jaw shut to restrict your laughter at the second one.

It doesn’t take you long to find what you’re looking for. Lucas Scott, #10.

His sweat-stained jersey hangs limply from the rack, and you eagerly tear it off, tossing it down onto the floor. Eager like a child ready to color outside the lines of a coloring book, you kneel down in front of it, pulling out the one thing you had prepared for tonight. A bold black Sharpie.

You pop the cap with your teeth, spitting it out somewhere on the floor as you start scribbling. Disguising your handwriting isn’t intentional, but you’re writing so carelessly and on such a foreign material that it comes naturally. Your tongue sticks out of the corner of your mouth as you work. In a year and a half, you’d never felt such satisfaction about — and certainly not from — Lucas.

TWO PUMP CHUMP along the side. FIVE INCHES FULL MAST on the other. CHEATER at the bottom. WHORE across the front.

A throat clears behind you. You drop the Sharpie, a blot of ink forming on the mesh. You startle backwards, scooting until your back hits that stupid longhorn drawer. You’re expecting a janitor, maybe a security guard if you’re extra unlucky.

That isn’t the worst of your options, apparently, because when you look up, it’s at Joel fucking Miller, head coach of the longhorn’s football team.

Your lower lip starts trembling, and that moment is when you decide maybe you need to start making good decisions. You’ve heard enough about Joel from Lucas to know he’s a total hardass. He could drag you by the ear to the dean and have you kicked out at the tail end of your second to last semester in this hellhole.

He glares down at you with his head cocked, hazel eyes far darker than they ever seem on TV. His scruff stipples his hardened jawline, lips thinned out like the worry lines pressed onto his forehead. If you were interested in digging yourself any deeper, you might stall to think about how good he looks: the faint trail of chest hair vanishing down into the neckline of his longhorns polo shirt, his fitted khakis, broad leather belt slung around his waist, and the slight bulge of tummy above it. You swallow hard and kick yourself for it.

“What exactly,” Coach Miller drawls, voice syrupy and sticky. “do ya think you’re doin’?”

Your mouth moves, but no words come out. He doesn’t seem very amused, his muscled arms crossing over his wide torso.

Joel shakes his head. “Ain’t a good look for you, hun, scrawlin’ that chicken scratch all over my QB’s jersey. Could get a real ugly charge for that.”

Heart crashing into your ribcage, you bite down on your lip. “I can pay the damages,” you blurt out.

He sizes you up all over again, eyes dragging up and down your body. They linger on your chest for a few extra seconds that you’re convinced that you just made up. “Can you, sugar? ‘Cause to me, looks like you’re the type to be chasin’ tips at whatever joint hires you.”

You don’t have the bandwidth to be as offended as you should be, especially because he’s right. You settle for glowering at him instead. A huff of laughter pinches out of him. “You give everyone you vandalize that blue look? Or is that lil’ number jus’ because you found out Lucas really ain’t that loyal?” With ease, Joel bulldozes over whatever thinning resolve you have remaining.

“What’s that sign over there say? ‘Treat women with respect’?” You say. Joel’s backlit like all of those over budgeted lockers behind him. You squint your eyes. “You know that’s fucking bullshit. So what if I give him a taste of his own medicine when he’s been a minute man for every girl with a pulse on this campus?” You cap your Sharpie and clip it back onto your collar and get to your feet. So much for good decisions. “Fuck right off with that.”

“Hey, hey. Down, hun.” Joel holds his hands out to you, and you notice just how heavily you’ve been breathing, just how close you are to him. “Never said you were wrong. Kid’s a fuck up in all sorts ‘a ways. But I don’t like how you’re mouthin’ off at me, Miss Priss. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in dire need of a spankin’ to set you right.”

Your breath cuts short and your cunt bottoms out without your permission. You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes just went glassy, your lips parted as your mouth goes desert dry. As discreetly as you can manage, you squeeze your thighs together.

Joel doesn’t miss it. You can tell from the moment his brows raise and his eyes sparkle, the corner of his mouth picking up a smidge. “Oh, yeah? That do somethin’ for ya, hun? Nasty little girl.” There’s a dangerous, uneven grit to his voice that has arousal burning like a candle in your stomach, the wax of your arousal syrupy against your thighs already.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Fuck.

“No,” you breathe out stubbornly, but you’ve already given yourself away, even to yourself. The insides of your thighs are molten, twitching with every throb of your clit between your legs. That flush of warmth from your pelvis is spreading, overheating.

Joel tuts. “You really think that? You can whine all you want ‘bout wantin’ respect, but at the end ‘a the day, you just wanna be treated like some whore, huh?” And, yeah, he has you figured out, has you in the palm of his hand. Even though you have no idea what someone like him could do to someone like you, you want him to do it. You want to find out. “I’ll tell ya what, sugar, you walk outta here right now and nobody but me’s gonna know you came pitchin’ a hissy fit in my locker room.”

You frown at that, a small arc of your pouty lips that has Joel’s eyes gleaming.

“Or,” he says. “You can pull those wet fuckin’ panties down – don’t gimme that look, I know they are – and I can give ya a real lesson in respect.” He shrugs, hands going to his waist as he looks you up and down.

He knows he has you the same way you know, but you aren’t just going to give in that easily. You flare your nose and counter, “If there’s nothing keeping me here other than a firm hand, why should I stay?”

He’s looking at you like he wants to take you apart. His fingers jump against his hips for the opportunity to break you down.

“Sweetness,” Joel shakes his head as if it’s obvious. “if you let me, I could make you feel good. I’m guessin’ you got some vibrator sittin’ in the back of your desk drawer to use when your roommate’s out ‘n about, but you don’t wanna use that tonight, do ya? You want the real thing, hun, and I’d give it to ya real nice once I teach ya to behave.”

There it is again: Coach Joel Miller has you all figured out. Every syllable he says is doomed to send another shiver up your spine, and damn it, fuck playing coy.

You’re too busy tearing off your hoodie to think about how unsexily dressed you are, but the rushed nature of your actions punches a chuckle out of Joel. “Eager thing.” You’re halfway through kicking your shoes and leggings off when he saunters over to the couch, plopping down on the edge and patting his broad, khaki-covered thigh. Your mouth waters when you look back and see just how much the fabric strains against his leg. “Whenever you’re ready, hun.”

You waddle over to him, stripped down to the basics of your sports bra and everyday panties. It’s the furthest thing from erotic, but the way he’s looking at you isn’t. It’s primal and ravenous, enough to have you forgetting all about how you’d even gotten there in the first place. He licks his lips as he trails his eyes all over you, darkening a couple of shades when he looks at your cleavage. “Lucas is a fuckin’ idiot, baby.”

“Knew that already,” you mumble.

He pats his thigh again, bounces his leg. “C’mon, over my knee like the good girl I know you can be. Hurry up and I’ll only give ya five.”

You shuffle forward, relishing in the rubbing of your thighs that comes from it. He’s sitting on the corner of the couch at the perfect angle for you to rest your head on the arm. It doesn’t take any more convincing for you to put yourself over his lap, not that he needed to do much in the first place. You feel so much smaller than him. Your ass is up for him to do whatever he’d like to; it’s a tantalizing feeling you hadn’t gotten out of any intimacy – if you could call it that — with Lucas.

“Mmmmmm,” Joel groans as he runs a hand between your legs. He rubs at your slit through the soaked gusset of your panties. You can’t stop the way your hips buck, or the pitiful shout that jumps off your lips when he pins you down by the small of your back, robbing you of any friction. Between one arousal-riddled breath and the next, Joel tugs your panties off and flings them to the side. You know how it feels, tacky and cold on your core and thighs, so you can only imagine how it must look. Joel gives you a pretty good idea when he reveres, “Goddamn, pretty cunt is throbbin’ for it.”

He pulls apart your folds and you think you hear him lick his lips above you before he lets them go. The schlick noise your dripping pussy makes is nothing less than pornographic. Joel gropes you carefully, kneads the skin of your ass like you have all the time in the world. Under his ministrations, it’s easy to melt into the couch, forgetting why you’re there in the first place until his palm cracks down on your ass cheek.

The stinging impact has a slurred hnnnngh leaving your lips, and a fresh gush of wetness between your legs to accompany it. You keep your head tucked into the sanctuary of your folded arms, eyes squeezed shut so tight you swear you’re seeing stars. Joel’s quick to rub the spanked patch of skin, his palm soothing his ache. “That’s one, baby.” You nod into your arms. “Think you can take four more?” Another nod.

“I need to hear ya, hun. C’mon, head up f’me.” He taps the side of your cheek, and you prop your cheek up on your forearm. “Think you can take four more?” he repeats.

Your voice hitches, courtesy of the beating that echoes in your chest and between your legs. “Y-yes…”

When the second hit lands, you don’t expect it. You flinch away from his hand when it comes down with a clap that leaves you squirming in his lap. “Yes, what?”

“Yes sir,” you whine out, back arching. Although a punishment, that spank has the same effect as the last: a live wire of arousal strung from your spine to your cunt.

“Takin’ it well,” he praises, squeezing your ass cheeks together. “Sure didn’t expect anyone to come crawlin’ in when I left that garage open, ‘specially not some slut like you with an ass that needs a spankin’ six ways to Sunday.” Just as quick as he can build you up, he can take you down a notch, but you can’t mind when it has you moaning all the same. “Oh, she likes that,” Joel clicks.

He rubs your ass again, and you’re bracing yourself for that next strike, pulled stiff with an arousing, anticipatory sort of fear. Only when you convince yourself it isn’t coming do you let all of that tension flood out of your body — and that’s when Joel smacks his hand across your far-too-trustworthy ass.

You cry out, pouting over your shoulder at Joel, who has a proud smirk drawn all over his face. You don’t even feel your hips rocking down, seeking whatever pleasure you can get until he reprimands, “Ruttin’ against my fuckin’ leg, now, huh? Don’t pretend you don’t like this.”

With a particularly good grind of your hips, you feel his bulge pressing into your thigh. From a mere graze alone, you can tell it’s huge. A whimper tears out of you at the same time he groans above you. “You got nothin’ to prove, ain’t gonna change the fact you’re a slut who needs to get spanked ‘n stuffed to talk ‘er into behavin’ a bit.”

“Can’t even follow your own rules,” you huff, apparently still interested in shooting yourself in the foot even when Coach Miller has you ass-up over his knee.

“Don’t see how you care…” Joel slides a hand down between your legs. He rubs at your clit, an intense pressure that has you wanting more and less all at the same time, before dragging a thick finger across your opening. Arousal squelches between your legs and your hips jump – a dead giveaway to just how turned on you are, whether you like it or not. “when it gets you this turned on,” he finishes. Then that same finger is prodding at your mouth, glistening with your wetness. You whimper before tasting yourself, sucking obediently on his finger until he pulls away with a pop.

You sulk, “Don’t act like I can’t feel you ripping a hole in your jeans, Miller–”

The fourth spank is the hardest by far. The skin of your ass feels bitten by Joel’s ‘firm hand’. It’s the kind of hit that makes your legs kick in his lap and your fingers clutch in the couch’s arm for purchase. You wail, “Daddy!” Pain disappears from your mind when you realize what exactly you just said, quickly replaced by the churning coolant of embarrassment. If you were paying attention to anything else other than the shame suddenly inhabiting your chest, you might’ve been able to feel the twitch of his cock in his pants.

“Daddy, huh?” Joel hums, rubbing your hurt ass with one hand while the other strokes your shoulder. You bury your face back in your arms as an apology takes shape in the back of your throat. “Lucas your daddy, too?”

“No!” You squeak, adjusting in his lap. The hood of your clit catches on the rough material of Joel’s pants. Unable to stop yourself, you hump his knee again, shallow rolls of your hips. You can still feel his hardness against you. Needily, you tip your head up, panting as foggy pleasure hangs over your head.

“Stop makin’ a mess of daddy’s dress pants, baby, unless you wanna be on your knees, lickin’ it up.” You keen, and he chuckles knowingly. “Shoulda known, little whore like you gets off on that.”

Joel gives you a longer reprieve between the fourth and fifth spank. Instead, he strokes your ass and asks, “One more gonna be enough to set you straight, sweetheart?”

“Y..yes daddy,” you whimper. He hums in approval.

You shift back and forth, waiting for it to come — and when it does, it’s softer. It’s by no means a love pat, but it pales in comparison to his previous work. You still sniffle, squeezing your thighs together as he coos, “I know, I know. Poor baby, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Can’t be on her high horse when she’s over Daddy’s knee.” Gentle, he pats your ass and guides you on all fours at the edge of the couch. He hums in approval. “See? Not throwin’ a hissy fit anymore. She’s all nice ‘n obedient when you get ‘er to act right.”

Joel spreads your pussy with his thumbs, and you hear the vulgar noise of him collecting his saliva before you feel his spit landing on your clenching hole. You’ve never felt so empty, not when your bottom drawer vibrator is buzzing against your core, definitely not when Lucas fucks you in the same old missionary. Whimpering for him, you arch your back to try to rub against his crotch.

“Quit your whinin’,” he snips, his thumb finding your clit in one swipe. Joel’s touch is firm, but not too firm, just enough to make your hips push down with a need only he’s ever made you feel.

Without warning, his middle finger slides inside of you, thick and calloused and so, so right. “Fuckin’... tight.” Another slides in as he starts scissoring you open, apparently satisfied enough when he crooks his fingers deep in your cunt. Instantly, he catches that spongy spot that you can never reach on your own. You nearly crumple with the sensation, limbs going weak and buckling. “That the spot?” he asks, but he already knows.

“Mhm,” you moan, chin instinctively tucking against your chest as if you can get away from the pleasure he’s giving you, as if you’d ever want to.

Then — he stops.

His fingers sit heavy inside of you, so close to where you need them to go. “What the fuck, Joel?”

"Baby, s’that how you get what you want?” He rubs your thigh with his free hand and gives it a quick swat. “Help daddy out, tight girl. I'm not just gonna let you get away with bein’ a spoiled brat. Work yourself on my fingers."

You’re putty in the palm of his hand – malleable, docile for him to treat or mistreat you however gets him hard. You whine, punching your hips back nonetheless. Grinding down, down, down, your cunt unresisting when he gives you another finger. It’s crude, the way you moan for him.

Even though he’s hardly doing anything, just the hand you’re getting yourself off on, that all-consuming strain in your body only gets stronger. “Daddy – close, please…”

“Attagirl, atta-fuckin’-girl, give it to me.” He rewards you with a press of his fingers against that golden spot inside of you. Your orgasm splinters through you, an ecstasy-charged mist fanning over your body. Your release runs down Joel’s hand and your thighs with every clench of your cunt, like you’ve been skinned and set ablaze by your own desire. You fall forward on the couch, no longer able to hold yourself up, arms a tangled mess as you gasp into the cushion. “You come so pretty, baby. Messy pussy, too. Soaked me up to my goddamn elbow.”

You’re still reeling from the best orgasm you’ve had in months, maybe ever, when you hear obscene slurping noises from behind you. You cast a look at him, your arousal returning with a vigor at the sight of Joel sucking his fingers clean. He groans at the taste, and you swear you see his cock jump in his khakis. Stomach warped with desire, you’re about to plummet off of the very dangerous edge of doing just about anything for him right now.

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you plead, and in any other position, with any other person, it might be mortifying, something worth clutching your pearls over. But this is Coach Joel Miller, the last person you ever expected to be fucking, giving you the best fuck you never expected.

“There’s those manners,” Joel praises, leaning over you to press a brief kiss to your shoulder blade. You can smell your release on his lips, a sweet smell that’s so distinctly you. He eases off of you, presumably to take off his pants. There’s the shuffling of fabric, and when he returns to your side, you’re disappointed to find he hasn’t even unbuckled his belt.

You pout at him again, still desperate to get your way. Eye-level with his bulge, you’re salivating over it. You had made a mess of his dress pants, a wet spot formed just above his knee, taunting you. You lick your lips.

“Think it’s only fair,” he says, looming over you. He’s holding the Sharpie you’d brought along with you. Your brows furrow as you look up at him through your lashes. “If I give ya the same treatment you gave his jersey.” His gaze is cocky as he pops the cap with his thumb, giving the marker a twirl.

Oh.

It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. Nothing about this should turn you on as much as it does, yet here you are, in a puddle of your own sweat and cum, itching for the next thing he gives you. And if it’s marking up your body before he fucks your brains out, so be it.

He nudges his head, gesturing for you to get down on your stomach. You lift your knees up and flatten yourself out on the cushions. The vinyl sticks and pulls from your skin as you get where he wants you. A soft, surprised noise leaves you when he straddles your thighs, his clothed cock nudging at your seam.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe out, because it’s the only phrase you can think of that even holds a candle to what all of this has become.

A laugh fans out from under his breath as he starts at your freshly spanked, raw ass. The Sharpie is cold and foreign, tugging at your skin as he inks you up. “Gotta make sure you match before I dick you down, don’t I? What is it you wrote on his jersey? ‘Whore’? Between the two ‘a ya, I woulda put my money on you for that one.”

If that wasn’t enough indication, you figure out what he’s doing by the time he gets to the right cheek, what feels like an ‘R’ taking shape across your ass. He finishes the ‘E’ and sets down the Sharpie for a moment, his meaty palms spreading your ass. It still thrums with the afterglow of his spanking. You don’t think you can throb any more than you already are, but then he spits on you for the second time that night, this time landing it on your puckered asshole. A gasp flutters from your lips as you grind down into the couch, his spit dripping down your folds.

“See? Real whorish, fuckin’ my couch.” He taps your ass for good measure. “Asshole makes a perfect fuckin’ ‘O’, baby. Looks a whole lot better than that chicken scratch shit you put on his jersey.” You think maybe, just maybe, he’ll dismount you and pull his cock out, but instead he keeps writing, scribbling on your back and upper thighs. Every pull of your skin under the bleeding ink has you aching for him.

When he’s content with his work, he lifts off of you, hands fumbling to undo his belt. It snaps apart, dangling open around his waist as his hands open up his khakis. “You let Lucas fuck that sweet lil’ cunt raw?” he asks.

“No, I don’t,” you admit, unable to tear your eyes away from his cock as he pulls it out, and fuck you. Your eyes don’t even feel big enough to take all of him in, and you have no idea how you’re going to fit him between your legs. You almost go cross-eyed at the sight of it, his head leaking precum.

“Thought so. You gonna let me fuck it raw?”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out, drool pooling in your mouth at the thought of having him inside of you, having him inside of you bare. Yet another thing you never gave to Lucas in a year of disappointing sex, but are eagerly giving up to Joel.

“Gotta be a real nasty slut,” Joel says, returning to his place atop your thighs, his thick ones framing yours. Your breath hitches when you feel the weight of his cock gliding through your ass cheeks and down to your cunt. “to let your ex-boyfriend’s coach bareback ya in the locker room.” A heady gasp tears from you when the head of his cock bumps your clit. He teases you — his cock, slippery with a combination of your arousal, skating from your clit to your spasming opening, not quite nudging in.

“Daddy, please – I need it… need you to fuck me, fuck me–”

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

When he pushes in, it knocks the air out of your lungs. The only proof that you’re still breathing is when you let out a pitchy, desperate moan. Joel grunts, teeth gritted as he flattens himself down against your spine so he can roll his hips into yours. The pain of his size becomes an afterthought just as quickly as the pain of your spanking, dwarfed by the pleasure he gives you just as easily.

“Fuuuuck,” Joel groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and shoulder. Inch at a time, he works you open, grinding his hips into your opening. “Could you be any goddamn tighter?” He bites at your neck from behind with every rock of his hips into yours until he bottoms out.

“Big,” is all you manage to squeak out as he hauls you back on his cock, already prodding your g-spot with his head. Your eyes roll back as you clench around him.

His fingers go up to run circles around your shoulder, soothing you, grounding you when his cock has you anything but. “Mmm, I know, I know. You can take it. All whores can.” With that, Joel starts fucking you, really fucking you, a punishing, relentless pace where he pulls out entirely before filling you to the brim. Each snap of his hips into yours fills the locker room with shameless sounds, the mere background to your depraved moans.

“Never had your pussy stretched by a man double your age before, huh?”

“N–no! Never… never had my pussy stretched mu…much at all–”

Joel slams into you, laughs at the strained noise that you make. “Yeah? Those dumbfucks on my team not doin’ it for ya, baby?” You don’t answer, don’t think he’s expecting one until his hand wraps around your front, forearm pressed firm against your tits. His thick hand wraps lightly around your neck, jostling you. It’s not hard enough to blur your vision, but just hard enough to remind you of the power he has over you. The power you allow him to have. It’s invigorating. Everything about him is.

Moans spurt out of you as you fumble to answer, “No da– daddy! You — ah! — do it for m–me!”

“And what do you say for that? For goin’ outta my way to show you what a real fuck is?”

“Thank you, Daddy!” you cry out. You’re spilling down his thighs, the wet suction of your pussy around his cock making noises more vulgar than you’ve ever heard in porn.

His hand squeezes again at your neck, and you feel floaty, a bubble just waiting to pop. Pleasure dances in every one of your veins, every nerve ending burning like a match that he keeps striking ablaze.

“There you go, desperate slut just needs a freshly spanked ass, a good dickin’ down, and a hand ‘round her throat to behave.” Joel’s pace stays just as harsh, crushing your g-spot with his cock. “Should keep you back here for when we lose, tie you to the goddamn desk. Let my staff take turns with you, see how much crybaby you have left in ya when a dozen men’s loads are drippin’ outta your reamed fuckin’ cunt. Bet you like it when men use you.” The whine that almost gags you on its way out is enough to confirm it.

If he keeps talking to you and the wind blows the right way on your clit, you know you’ll be coming. You’re wringing out his cock with every flutter of your pulsing pussy. The beginning embers of your orgasm turn into a wildfire when he wedges his free hand down between your legs, rubbing messy circles into your sloppy clit. “Fuck, please, please, please,” you sob out, too riddled with pleasure to care about how pathetic you sound or look as you hump his hand while he pounds you.

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby.” Joel rasps, nipping at your ear. The hand around your throat falls fully to your chest, pressing you solid against him so he can fuck deeper, deeper, deeper. It’s enough to make you scream, hands clawing and scratching down his muscular grip on you. “C’mon, hun, give it to me, come on my cock, fuck.”

With another thrust, he has you pushed right down onto his fingers, rubbing and flicking you every which way. It’s all you need to come undone, your second orgasm of the night unlatching through you like something forked and angry, battering your sore limbs until there’s nothing left of it or you. You’re a mess, spit oozing down your chin as you slur “thank you daddy” like a broken record, thighs clamping around nothing.

Joel groans as you clench around his cock and continues his relentless pace, hips slapping against yours. The hand he’d been using to rub your clit migrates to your tits, grazing and then thumbing and then tugging lightly your nipples. “There it is, told ya you could be a good girl. Lettin’ your daddy use this cunt to get off, lettin’ me use you. I’m fuckin’ close, baby, where do you want me?”

And you want it even if you shouldn’t, want his cum deep inside of you, want it to leak out into your panties as you walk back to your dorm. You’re still no good at making decisions, too fucked out to tell right from left when you beg, “I–inside, fuck, come inside me, daddy, please.”

Joel practically growls at that, thrusts losing their steadiness as his hips jump and he hurtles towards his release. “Yeah, you’re a goddamn whore, beggin’ for this cum. And you’re gonna fuckin’ take it, yeah… fuckin’ take it.” He slams all the way into you for the last time before shooting his cum into your cunt, swearing and moaning. Breathing like he’s run a mile, he goes slack on top of you, pets the back of your head while he comes down from the exhilaration of his high.

With a gentle kiss to your shoulder, he rises, and the fantasy is over. His cock slips from your pussy, and you feel hollow with the loss. This is where he tucks himself back into his pants, runs a hand back through his hair, tells you to never show your face in his stadium again, and shoves you out the door.

And he does: tucks his softening cock into his boxers, zips up his khakis, does his belt, tames his post-sex head of hair. You wince even if you expected it, leaning down over the edge of the couch to grab your hoodie, already moving to tug it over your head.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” Joel asks, and his tone sounds much more different than the first time he’d asked you. He sounds offended. You blink confusedly, dazedly at him with your arms halfway through the armholes. “Let me clean you up, hun.” Joel side-steps the pile of your leggings and shoes, adjusting the hoodie on your arms and pulling it down your torso. “I know Lucas ain’t done you right, but you deserve to be taken care of, pretty girl.” Your heart pinches in a way that it shouldn’t, not for a hookup with your ex-boyfriend’s coach.

You shift, and he can’t help but look back between your legs where his cum escapes your hole. He manages to pry his eyes away, but not without licking his lips first. “I’ll be right back, baby. Promise.”

When he’s back, it’s with a damp rag. He crouches down in front of you, taking it to the apex of your thighs and wiping away the combination of your releases, careful not to nudge your sensitive clit. He kisses your thigh gently before pulling back, folding the towel on the arm of the couch you’d been crying into just a few minutes ago.

Joel shimmies your ruined panties up your thighs, followed by your leggings. You let him, breath cut like a snipped wire from the sheer intimacy of it all, intimacy you’d lacked with Lucas even after a year of trying. You’d stayed with him for comfortability at your own expense. How stupid could you have been?

Joel pats your knee, eyes soft and weirdly sincere as he looks at you. “I’m sorry about Lucas, honey, but I meant it when I said you deserve to be taken care of.” He rubs the back of his neck before holding something out to you. A business card, his work number plastered in bold sans-serif font across the bottom. “I know this is in reverse ‘n all, but I’d really like to take you out and treat you right, if you’ll let me.”

Saying yes is your first good decision in a while.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/f! reader #joel miller x you #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic

4K notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 8 days

Text

Welcome to Miami

Lando Norris x Messi!Reader

Summary: a crazy weekend in Miami leaves Lando with his first Formula 1 win, one very pissed off football legend, and a baby-shaped surprise set to arrive in just about nine months

Warnings: 18+ content and unplanned pregnancy

Note: based on a request by @glitterquadricorn that I may have ended up going a little overboard with

You wake up with a pounding headache, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the hotel room window. As you blink your eyes into focus, you realize you’re not in your own bed. The sheets are unfamiliar, the decor is generic and impersonal.

Panic starts to set in as you try to reconstruct the previous night’s events.

The space next to you is still warm, indented from where someone else was recently lying. You glance down at your lack of clothes and tousled hair. Yep, definitely had a one-night stand.

Wracking your brain, you vaguely recall meeting a charming stranger at the club, letting him buy you drinks until everything became a blur of flirtatious banter and wandering hands.

Your phone is on the nightstand and you grab it, hoping for some clues. A new contact catches your eye: “Lando 🍆”. You snort at the stupid name and obvious (if cringey) innuendo. At least he has a sense of humor.

You wonder what kind of guy calls himself Lando these days.

As you get dressed and leave the hotel, already trying to put the awkward walk of shame behind you, fragments of the night come back in flashes. Lando’s warm blue-green eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. His skilled hands roaming over your body. The way he whispered filthy praises in your ear between searing kisses.

You shiver, feeling an unexpected pang of disappointment that you’ll never see him again. But a one-night stand is just that — one night. No need to dwell on the best sex you’ve had in … well, maybe ever.

When you arrive home in the early afternoon, your dad greets you at the door with a knowing smirk.

“Have a good night, mija?” Leo teases, taking in your mussed appearance.

You roll your eyes, not wanting to give him any details. “It was fine.”

He chuckles. “If you say so. I’m just glad you’re home safe.”

Over the next few weeks, you put Lando out of your mind completely. Your life goes on as normal — training with the University of Miami’s football team, doing promotional appearances, and spending time with family and friends.

But then one morning about a month later, you wake up feeling nauseous. You brush it off as a stomach bug at first.

When the queasiness persists for several days along with strange cravings and bouts of fatigue, a nagging suspicion forms in your mind. You dig through your bathroom cabinets until you find an old pregnancy test leftover from a scare last year.

Your hands are shaking as you wait for the result. This can’t be happening. You were so careful with Lando, you’re almost certain … but maybe not careful enough.

The little plastic wand displays two solid pink lines. Positive.

“Oh shit,” you whisper, feeling like the ground has dropped out from underneath you.

How could you have been so stupid? Getting knocked up from a drunken one-night stand with a guy you can’t even remember properly. What are you going to do? How will you tell your parents? What about your athletic career?

A million thoughts race through your panic-stricken mind as you try to process this massive, life-altering situation. You want to call your best friend and cry, but you’re almost too overwhelmed to formulate words.

Part of you wants to be furious at Lando, that reckless idiot who came inside you so carelessly. But you know you’re just as much to blame. You obviously consented, you just can’t recollect the exact circumstances.

God, why did you let yourself get so sloppy drunk and make such terrible decisions?

You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm yourself. Okay, first things first — you need to confirm this with a visit to the doctor. And if it’s still positive, you’ll have to figure out your next steps. Tell your family, decide whether to keep the baby or not. That’s still your choice, at least.

Your mind keeps drifting back to Lando, wishing you knew more about him than just a stupid contact name. Was that even his real name? What did he do for a living? Where was he from? Was he ready for the responsibility of being a father? Not that it mattered — you barely knew him. For all you knew, he could be married or secretly twisted.

No, you reason with yourself, trying to shut down that line of thinking, he seemed like a good guy. At least in the moment. Even through your tequila-soaked haze, you got a feeling of genuine warmth and kindness from him. Maybe you’re both just a couple of random people who made a reckless mistake after having too much fun together.

You take another breath and stand up, your mind made up. First, you’ll go to the doctor and get an official test. Then you’ll deal with everything else from there. There’s no use panicking until you confirm this is actually happening.

But deep down, you know this cheap little test is accurate. You’re pregnant with a virtual stranger’s baby. And in that moment, feeling so lost and overwhelmed and terrified, you can’t help but wonder — who the hell is Lando?

***

You sit on the couch, hands trembling as you clutch the results of your blood test. Tears stream down your face as the weight of the situation crushes down on you.

How could you have been so reckless? So stupid? You’re supposed to be a role model, setting an example for young girls. And now you’re pregnant from a one-night stand with some random guy.

The shame and fear swirl inside you until you can barely breathe. You need to tell your dad. He’ll be so disappointed in you. But you can’t keep this a secret, it will only get harder as your belly grows.

You hear the front door open and your dad’s familiar footsteps. Bracing yourself, you call out in a shaky voice, “Papa? Can you come here please?”

Leo wanders into the living room, his expression turning to immediate concern when he sees your tear-stained face. “Mija, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, bottom lip trembling as you try to find the words. “I … I’m pregnant,” you finally choke out.

His eyes go wide with shock. “Pregnant? How …” Realization dawns on his face. “Was this from that night you came home ...” He doesn’t need to finish the question.

You nod miserably, a fresh wave of tears falling. “I’m so sorry, Papa. I was drunk and stupid and … and I don’t even know who the father is, not really.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Just some guy I met at a club, his name was Lando or something. I barely remember anything!”

To your surprise, your dad’s expression softens into something like sympathy instead of the anger or disappointment you expected. He moves to sit beside you, wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulders.

“Shh, it’s alright mija. I’m not happy about this situation, but I’m not angry at you either. We all make mistakes.” He pauses, seeming to think something over. “This Lando guy … was it around the time of the Miami Grand Prix in early May?”

You nod again, not understanding the connection. “I think so, why?”

A look of recognition crosses your dad’s face. “There’s a young driver in Formula 1. I’m a bit of a fan actually, been following his career when I have the chance. It’s not the most common name.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the pieces fall into place. The drunk recollections of warm color-changing eyes and a charming smile. The weird name followed by that stupid eggplant emoji in your contacts.

It all fits.

“Oh my god … you think the father is Lando Norris? Like, the Formula 1 driver?” Part of you wants to dismiss the idea as ridiculous, but another part feels an undeniable certainty that your dad has hit the nail on the head.

Leo nods firmly. “I think it’s highly likely. He was in Miami for the race that weekend. Reckless kid probably went out partying after finally managing to win.”

There’s a hard edge to your dad’s voice at that last part. You can’t really blame his protectiveness — finding out your daughter is pregnant from a one-night stand, especially with a relative celebrity, can’t be easy for any father.

“What am I going to do?” You whisper, scared all over again at the massive upheaval your life is facing.

But your dad just pulls you into a tighter hug, his touch reassuring and strong. “We’ll figure it out together, mija. Don’t worry. If this Lando character is the father, he’ll damn well take responsibility. I’ll make sure of it.”

You let out a shaky breath, letting your dad’s words soothe you. He’s right — you’re not in this alone. And if Lando Norris really is the father, well, he signed up for this whether he knew it or not.

“Thank you, Papa. I was so scared to tell you, but I shouldn’t have been. I’m lucky to have you.” You hug him fiercely, fresh tears spilling but this time born of reassurance instead of fear.

Leo just holds you close, his embrace full of fatherly love and protection. “Always, mija. I’ve got your back, no matter what. We’ll get through this together.”

After a few moments, he pulls back, his expression turning more stern. “And as for this Lando kid, he better step up and be a man about this situation. Because if he tries to abandon you or this baby ...” He lets the implied threat hang in the air.

You can’t help but give a watery laugh. “I have a feeling he won’t want to mess with you. Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

Your dad allows a small smile at that. “Smart boy. Now, do you have a way to contact him? I’m sure someone can get us his information if not.”

You think for a moment, then remember — your phone contacts. You grab your cell and pull up the fateful entry.

“Here, just this number with the stupid eggplant emoji.” Your cheeks flush a little as you say it.

Leo arches an eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes out his own phone and dials the number, his expression hardening with determination.

“Right, listen up, Lando Norris ...” he begins, leaving no room for argument.

You take a steadying breath as your dad starts laying down the law to the man who knocked up his precious daughter. For the first time since staring at those two pink lines, you feel a tiny kernel of hope taking root.

No matter what happens, you’re not alone in this. Your dad has your back, and Lando — well, Lando better prepare himself. Because when Leo Messi demands you take responsibility for your actions, you don’t dare say no.

***

Lando jolts awake to the harsh buzz of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. He blinks blearily at the harsh red numbers of the alarm clock — 2:51 am. Who the hell is calling at this ungodly hour?

He fumbles for the phone, squinting at the unknown number with a +1 country code. Probably a spam call from across the pond. He’s tempted to just silence it, but something makes him swipe to answer with a groggy “Hello?”

“Lando Norris?” The deep voice on the other end is vaguely familiar, but Lando can’t quite place it in his sleep-addled state.

“Yeah, this is him. Who’s this?” He tries and fails to smoother a huge yawn.

“This is Lionel Messi.”

Lando’s eyes shoot wide open, any lingering drowsiness evaporating like he’s been doused with ice water. Leo freaking Messi is on the phone with him? His brain scrambles to comprehend what’s happening.

“I … uh … Mr. Messi, sir. This is … I mean … wow. What an honor!” He cringes at his own stammering, feeling very much like a star-struck fanboy rather than a fellow professional athlete.

Messi’s voice remains calm but firm. “I’ll get right to the point. Do you remember a young woman you slept with recently? The night of the Miami Grand Prix a few months ago?”

Lando feels his stomach drop out. Suddenly this phone call is taking on a very different context than just a casual chat with a sports legend. He racks his brain, trying to recall the handful of women he’d casually hooked up with around that time.

There was that petite blonde from the club after sprint qualifying … no, she was just a make-out in the back alley behind the valet. The pair of Brazilian bombshell twins he’d brought back to his hotel room on Saturday … no, they made him get tested after that escapade just to be safe.

Then it clicks into place — the gorgeous young woman with a killer smile that he’d met at the LIV Nightclub afterparty. They had danced and drank together all night until everything descended into a sweaty, semi-public grope fest in one of the VIP booths before he convinced her to come back to his suite.

He remembers her gasping and whimpering his name as he pounded into her from behind. Remembers the way her nails raked down his back when he made her come apart with his tongue. Remembers being too drunk and worked up to put on a condom before sinking back into her tight, wet heat and ...

Oh shit.

“I … yes, sir. I think I know who you’re referring to,” Lando forces out, his mouth incredibly dry.

“Good. Then you’ll remember getting my daughter pregnant that night as well.”

Lando actually feels the blood drain from his face, a rushing sound filling his ears. He must have misheard, right? There’s no way Leo freaking Messi just said Lando got his daughter pregnant!

“I … I’m sorry … your what?” He sputters out dumbly.

Messi’s tone takes on a steely edge. “My daughter. The young woman you slept with, she’s my daughter. And now she’s pregnant with your child.”

The room starts to spin. Lando tries to force air into his lungs, feeling like he might actually pass out. “Oh my god, I … I had no idea! We were both so drunk, I never would have … oh fuck, I’m so sorry, sir!”

“Sorry doesn’t really fix this, does it?” Messi’s voice is like sharpened steel. “You got my little girl pregnant from some drunken fling and now she has to deal with all of this.”

“I … yes, you’re right. Completely right.” Lando presses trembling fingers to his throbbing temples. This can’t actually be happening, right? “What … what do you want me to do? I’ll do anything, whatever you need!”

There’s a weighted pause on the line before Messi speaks again, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“First, you’re going to meet with me and my daughter in person so we can discuss this situation. Then you’re going to take responsibility and be a part of this child’s life, understood? Step up and be a man about it.”

“Yes! Yes, absolutely, of course!” Lando is nearly shouting into the phone, desperation and panic clawing at his throat. “Whatever you want, sir. I’ll be there. Just tell me when and where.”

“Good. I’ll have my people set it up and send the details to your team.” There’s a hint of grudging approval in Messi’s voice now, like he’s satisfied Lando appears to be taking this seriously. “I suggest you get some sleep, you’re going to need it.”

The line goes dead before Lando can respond. He stares dumbly at the silent phone in his hand for several long moments, trying to process everything.

Leo Messi’s daughter.

Pregnant.

With his baby.

Holy shit, what has he done? What is he going to do? How did one reckless, drunken night blow up into such a massive catastrophe?

His head is spinning and he can feel his overtaxed body starting to shut down from the shock and stress of the harrowing phone call. He tries to take a deep breath, pushing away the panic and leaning back against the pillows.

Sleep. Right. He needs sleep if he has any hope of dealing with … with all of this. But how can he possibly rest now?

Lando’s eyes start to drift closed despite his whirling thoughts. His body has other plans, sucking him under into blessed unconsciousness as he slumps fully back onto the mattress.

The last thing he’s dimly aware of is his phone slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor, followed by his own body going entirely limp.

When Lando finally does manage to sleep, it’s to the terrifying vision of Leo Messi’s furious face snarling “you got my daughter pregnant” over and over again behind his closed eyelids.

***

The flight from Nice to Miami feels like it takes an eternity, but also happens in a terrifying blur. Lando can barely remember booking the first available ticket, throwing some clothes into an overnight bag, or making his way to the airport in a daze. He runs on autopilot, his mind spinning in frantic circles.

He got Leo Messi’s daughter pregnant. How is this his life?

A private chauffeur is waiting at the baggage claim when Lando deplanes in Miami, holding up a printed sign with his name. Of course Messi would have people to handle something like this.

Lando swallows hard and approaches the stern-faced driver. “I’m Lando Norris. Uh, Mr. Messi is expecting me?”

The chauffeur gives him an appraising look but doesn’t respond beyond a curt nod. He turns on his heel, expecting Lando to follow.

The drive to the Messis’ palatial Miami mansion is silent and tense. Lando fights the urge to fidget anxiously, his knee bouncing until he forces himself still.

Get it together, man. This is it.

All too soon, they’re pulling through an immaculate gate onto perfectly manicured grounds surrounding the huge home. Lando takes a steadying breath as the driver gets his bag from the trunk.

Then the front door is swinging open and there’s Leo Messi himself, looking as intimidating as Lando has ever seen the football icon. His expression is stony, jaw clenched tight as he measures Lando up.

Before Lando can even open his mouth, Messi beats him to it, tone leaving no room for argument.

“I don’t like you.”

The words are like a kick to the gut. Lando forces himself to hold the steely gaze, giving a small nod.

“I understand, sir. I’ve made a terrible mistake and you have every right to be angry with me. I’ll accept whatever consequences I have to.” His voice is strong, despite the way his heart is jack-hammering in his chest.

Messi holds the intense eye contact a moment more before giving a short nod of what might be begrudging respect. He turns and heads inside, clearly expecting Lando to follow.

The foyer opens into an elegant living room where a familiar woman is sitting on one of the plush couches.

You.

Lando’s breath catches in his throat as memories from that hazy night come rushing back. Your skin glowing with a thin sheen of sweat as you moved rhythmically to the music. Your throaty laugh and sparkling eyes as you flirted shamelessly over your fourth … no fifth … mojito. The velvet silk of your hair brushing his face as you ground down against his lap.

He swallows hard, trying not to stare. The situation is awkward enough without dwelling on the admittedly incredible sex that caused this whole mess. Though he can’t deny the sharp spike of pure physical want that hits his gut at the sight of you.

Your eyes are wide and nervous as you take him in. “Um … hi.”

“Hi,” he replies simply, feeling incredibly self-conscious under the weighty stare of your legendary father.

An agonizing beat of silence stretches between the three of you.

“Well?” Leo prompts impatiently, making you both jump. “You got my daughter pregnant. What do you plan to do about it?”

The blunt words make Lando’s face flush hot, but he forces himself to meet your father’s stern gaze head-on.

“Whatever I need to do, sir. I’ll take full responsibility. Financially, emotionally, being there for the child … anything you need from me.” He pauses, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. “That is … if the mother wants me to be involved as well?”

He looks at you then, trying to convey his sincerity. Despite the casual nature of your hook-up, he meant what he said — he will step up and do the right thing for this kid.

His kid.

You seem to consider his words for a long moment before giving a small nod. “Yes … yes, I’d like you to be involved if you’re willing. This is as much my responsibility as yours. We … we can figure this out. Together?”

The uncertain note in your voice tugs at something in Lando’s chest. For all your father’s bluster, you just sound like a young woman in a scary, overwhelming situation. Just like him.

“Together,” he agrees firmly, returning your nod. “We’ll, ah, we’ll be good co-parents. For the baby.”

The words feel strange leaving his lips, but also fill him with a sense of resolve and determination.

Leo watches the exchange between you both like a hawk, his expression unreadable. When he speaks again, his words are measured but dismissive.

“Get it sorted out then. Find a way to make this work. I don’t care about the details as long as you two take care of my grandchild properly.”

With that, he gives a curt nod and turns to exit the room, leaving you and Lando to your own devices. The sudden lack of his intimidating presence seems to deflate the tension somewhat.

You let out a long, shaky breath, shooting Lando a wry look. “He’s … taking this about as well as could be expected, all things considered.”

Lando can’t help but huff out a surprised laugh at that, some of the nervous knot in his stomach loosening slightly. “Yeah, I’ll say. Your dad is legitimately terrifying, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” you say with a small smile.

An odd sense of camaraderie falls over you both then — two young people bonding over how Lando quite literally knocked you up. It’s almost enough for him to relax a bit.

Then you glance down at your still-flat stomach and all humor drains away. “So … co-parents, huh? You really want to do this?”

Lando doesn’t even have to think about it. “Of course. It’s my kid too, yeah? My responsibility, like I said.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s not exactly how I pictured becoming a father, but … I’m in this all the way. For the little one’s sake.”

Something in your expression softens at his words and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Thank you, Lando. That … that really means a lot to hear.”

Before he can think better of it, Lando closes the distance between you and pulls you into an impulsive hug. You stiffen for just a moment before relaxing against him.

“Hey, we’re gonna be okay, you and me,” he murmurs as he holds you close. “We’ve got this, baby mama.”

You stiffen again and pull back sharply at the words, a look of mortification on your face. Lando frowns in confusion until a familiar gravelly voice cuts through the room.

“Lando Norris, I swear if you ever call my daughter that again, they’ll never find your body.”

Leo Messi is back, leveling Lando with a look that would liquefy steel. The driver nearly swallows his tongue, flushing scarlet.

“Y-yes, sir! Of course, sir! It, ah, it won’t happen again!” He stammers out, mentally making a note to permanently delete those words from his vocabulary.

Messi just grunts in response, apparently satisfied, before retreating from the room once more.

You’re staring at Lando with wide eyes and badly-suppressed laughter. He groans, dropping his face into his hands.

“Why did I say that? God, I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, that smile breaking free. “This is just … all a bit surreal, isn’t it?”

Lando peeks through his fingers to meet your gaze, unable to stop the rueful grin that spreads across his own face.

“Just a bit, yeah.” He drops his hands with a defeated chuckle. “But your dad’s right — we’ve got to take this seriously for the little one.”

You nod, smile fading into a look of grim determination. “We do. Which means you can’t call me baby mama if you actually want to stay alive to see your child.”

“Deal,” Lando agrees readily, feeling lighter than he has since your father first called to drop that bomb on him.

Maybe co-parenting won’t be easy, but somehow he gets the sense you two just might be able to figure it out. And with the entire weight of Leo freaking Messi’s protective rage motivating him, Lando is damn sure going to try his best.

***

Ten Months Later

The vibrant Miami sun beams down on you as you carefully lift Maia out of her stroller, cradling the bundle of joy in your arms. Your daughter’s wide, curious eyes dart around, taking in all the sights and sounds of the paddock for the first time.

“There they are! My two favorite girls,” Lando’s voice rings out as he jogs over, already wearing his team gear in preparation for the drivers parade. He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek before turning his attention to Maia. “And how’s my little princess doing today?”

Maia lets out a delighted squeal and you can’t help but smile at the pure adoration on Lando’s face as he gently brushes a finger over her chubby cheek. “She’s been an angel all morning. I think she knows this is a big day for her first race.”

“That’s my girl,” Lando grins. “Going to be a little racer before we know it.”

“Lando! There you are, mate.” The Aussie accent cuts through the paddock as Lando’s teammate bounds over. “I’ve been looking everywhere for … oh wow, is that her?”

Oscar’s eyes go wide as they land on Maia, taking in her tiny features with an almost comical look of awe. “She’s … she’s so small,” he says dumbly.

“What did you expect, she’s a baby,” Lando scoffs with a roll of his eyes, though his tone is good-natured. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Can I?” Oscar asks eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an overexcited puppy.

You laugh and carefully transfer Maia into Oscar’s waiting arms, guiding his hands to properly support her head. “Just watch the grabby hands. She’s got a pretty strong grip these days.”

Oscar nods rapidly, looking a bit intimidated as he gingerly cradles Maia against his chest. But the instant she lets out a little gurgling coo, his face splits into the biggest, most boyish grin you’ve ever seen.

“Hey there, little Norris,” he murmurs softly, instantly transfixed. “I’m your favorite Uncle Oscar.”

“Oi, who said you get to be the favorite uncle?” Another voice cuts in as Carlos saunters over, immediately zeroing in on the form in Oscar’s arms. “Is that her? Dios mio, she’s gorgeous!”

Without hesitation, Carlos plucks Maia right out of Oscar’s hold, completely ignoring the other driver’s sputtering. “Well hello there, princesa. Don’t worry, your Tío Carlos has got you.”

Maia blinks up at the new face peering down at her, tiny fists waving as if to grab at the Spaniard’s perfectly coiffed hair. Carlos simply grins and nuzzles his nose against her cheek, seemingly not caring one bit about any damage the squirming infant in his arms can do.

“Are you seeing this?” Lando mock-whispers to you, looping an arm around your waist and leaning in conspiratorially. “How are we supposed to get her back now?”

You stifle a giggle behind your hand, watching in amusement as Carlos and Oscar descend into bickering over who Maia’s favorite uncle will be — only to be interrupted as another figure appears beside them.

“What do we have here?” Daniel Ricciardo pipes up with a wide grin, hands shoved casually in his pockets. “Don’t tell me you two are fighting over babysitting duties already?”

“Something like that, mate,” Lando chuckles, reaching out to clap Daniel on the shoulder in greeting. “Up for putting your name in the hat too?”

“You know it!” Daniel agrees easily, quickly sidestepping Carlos to peer down at Maia with a wide smile. “Hey there, little monkey. Look at you all bright-eyed and curious.”

Amazingly, Maia seems entirely unperturbed by all the fussing going on around her. She simply blinks placidly up at each new face, soaking it all in like a tiny sponge. At one point, she even lets out a delighted squeal and flails her arms — prompting a fresh round of cooing from the three drivers clustered around her.

“Aw, I think she likes me best already,” Daniel declares with a wink, gently booping Maia’s button nose and making her giggle.

You shake your head in fond exasperation even as Lando tugs you tighter against his side, completely content to bask in the scene. That is, until Daniel’s next words nearly make you choke.

“So just how old is this little angel?” He asks idly, eyes still trained on Maia’s sweet face. “Four months now?”

“Three months and one week,” Lando answers automatically — only to tense a split second later, mouth falling open in realization. “Oh. Oh.”

The smug grin that slowly spreads across Daniel’s face is borderline devlish as it clicks into place for everyone exactly when Maia would have been … well, conceived. A heavy silence falls over the group, disturbed only by Maia’s happy gurgling as she remains oblivious to the sudden shift.

“Well, well, well,” Daniel drawls, dark eyes dancing with mirth as he bounces Maia playfully in his arms. “I think someone got a little overexcited celebrating his win last year, didn’t he?”

The only response is a strangled squawk from Lando as his face flushes bright red — no doubt remembering exactly how the two of you celebrated his first time on top of the Formula 1 podium. Meanwhile, Carlos and Oscar openly gape at the revelation, eyes nearly bugging out of their skulls.

“Don’t you dare,” Lando manages to choke out, stabbing an accusatory finger in Daniel’s direction. “We are not having this conversation here.”

“Why not?” Daniel shrugs blithely, gently jostling Maia to the crook of his elbow in a way that has her giggling. “It’s a perfectly natural thing, nothing to be ashamed about. That must’ve been one hell of a victory lap!”

The innuendo hangs heavily in the air, made all the more mortifying by the lecherous waggle of Daniel’s eyebrows. Lando, meanwhile, looks like he’s two seconds away from spontaneously combusting on the spot.

“I’m going to kill you,” he mutters through gritted teeth, dragging a hand over his rapidly reddening face.

Before Daniel can respond with another quip, however, you quickly step in — scooping Maia out of his arms with a stern glare. “That’s enough of that, I think.”

Daniel wisely snaps his mouth shut at the warning in your tone, offering a cheeky salute instead. “I’ll lay off … for now.”

With a wink and a last jaunty grin towards a still-sputtering Lando, he bids the group farewell and heads off to prepare for the race. Oscar, seemingly remembering you’re all congregating in a very public place, manages to pick his jaw up off the ground long enough to clear his throat awkwardly.

“Right, well … I need to go, you know, do driver things,” he mumbles before beating a hasty retreat, stumbling over his own feet in his haste.

Carlos, for his part, has the audacity to start outright cackling the second Oscar is out of earshot.

“You never fail to entertain,” he manages between wheezing gasps, wiping away mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes.

Lando flushes even deeper, if possible, and shoots you a helpless look. You simply raise an eyebrow, letting him squirm for a moment before taking pity.

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” you chide Carlos lightly, shifting Maia higher on your hip. “Unless you want to be the one explaining the birds and the bees to her when the time comes?”

That seems to sober Carlos up somewhat, his laughter trailing off into a few more chuckles as he waves a hand dismissively. “You wound me, amiga. As if I would corrupt the ears of such an innocent little one.”

You give him a pointed look and he holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m done.”

With a roguish wink, Carlos reaches out to gently pinch Maia’s cheek — earning a bright smile from the bubbly infant.

“You’ll learn soon enough that your papá can be un poco loco sometimes, princesa.”

“She really doesn’t need to learn that at all, thanks,” Lando grumbles, shooting his friend an exasperated glare.

You can’t help but shake your head fondly at the pair of them, even as Lando tucks you snugly against his side. For all their bickering, it’s abundantly clear just how enamored all the drivers are with Maia already.

The tender moment is interrupted, however, by a voice calling out for your boyfriend from across the paddock.

“Lando, we need you over in the garage. The parade will be starting any minute now,” a press officer arrives to herd him away.

Lando exhales a put-upon sigh, dropping a kiss to the top of Maia’s head before meeting your gaze apologetically. “Duty calls, I suppose. You’ll be okay here with my littlest fan club?”

You wave him off with a warm smile. “We’ll be fine. Just focus on having a good race, yeah? Maia and I will be cheering you on.”

The brilliant grin Lando flashes you is enough to make your heart flutter. “How could I do anything else with my two favorite cheerleaders?”

With one last lingering kiss, he tears himself away — offering a half-hearted wave to Carlos before disappearing through the paddock. An oddly serene quiet falls in his absence, the crowd breaking up to get settled before the race.

Carlos seems to sense your pensive mood, stepping up beside you to gently bump his shoulder against yours.

“You know, he really has changed since becoming a papá,” the older driver muses, casting a fond look down at Maia. “Far as I can tell, it’s done wonders for him.”

You smile softly, bouncing Maia gently as you watch Lando’s retreating back weave through the controlled chaos of the paddock. “He’s been … amazing. And he loves Maia more than life itself. My father complains that he has run out of things to threaten Lando over, which is the biggest compliment coming from him.”

Your daughter simply blinks at the two of you for a long moment before that sunny smile you’ve grown to adore stretches across her face, little fists waving happily in the air. You can’t help but chuckle at her antics, brushing a knuckle over her soft cheek.

As the bright Miami sun shines down and anticipation slowly builds in the background, you feel a surge of nearly overwhelming contentment. No matter what twists and turns life throws your way from here, you decide, you’ll always be able to find your way back to moments like this.

So much has changed in the course of a year, but you truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even if Lando still can’t quite look your father in the eye.

2K notes · View notes

starkwlkr · 3 months

Note

hi loved your Rubi and Charles oneshotes 🥹🥹🥹 it’s the cutest thing ever ,I was wondering if u can make the same with max and Noah or maybe a daughter 😭😭 please 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

little boss | max verstappen

I’ve been wanting to write more for max lately, especially dad fics 😭 so thank you for this request!!

Whenever Noah was in the paddock, Max always made sure he was close by. It didn’t matter if he was doing interviews or in a meeting, he had to be close and the team didn’t mind. Everyone loved Noah, including the fans. During interviews, the little boy would be in his father’s arms playing with the cap on Max’s head or giving him kisses on the cheek resulting in many YouTube compilations of dad Max.

“Did you like the race, Noah?” An interviewer asked the boy, holding a microphone towards him.

Noah looked at his dad as if asking if it was okay to talk. Max gave him a nod. “I liked how the car sounds. It’s loud but I’m not scared.”

“Tell them how the car sounds.” Max said as Noah mimicked the sound of his dad’s car which resulted in various laughs.

“He’s actually my boss. He’s the one that tells me when I’m not going fast enough, when to pit, right?” Max looked at his son.

“You were slow this time . . Like when the race almost ended and you came in and I counted the seconds and it was . . “ he counted on his fingers. “It was five seconds!”

“I took five seconds? I’ll try to be faster next time, okay?” Max played along. “See? He’s my boss.”

“Do I sense a team principal in the making?”

“Watch out, Christian.” Max teased.

Other times when Max had to attend press conferences, drivers noticed how much of a dad max acted. He would often mumble throngs to Noah, who stayed with someone from the Red Bull team.

“You’re such a dad, mate.” Charles chuckled as Max got up from his seat and walked to his son to make sure he was drinking enough water.

“It’s adorable.” Lewis commented.

“I don’t want water, papa.” Noah gave Max the water bottle with a frown.

“Okay, I’ll be over here. Let me know when you want water, okay? Be good.” Max placed a gentle kiss on the boy’s head then walked back to his seat. “What was the question?”

Eventually, Noah did want water so he whispered his dad’s name until Max heard. “Water!” Noah whisper yelled.

“I can get it for you.” Max’s manager told him, but Max had gestured for Noah to come get it so the boy did so. Immediately Noah was greeted by the drivers.

“Hey, little boss man.” Lewis fist bumped the boy. “How’s school? You doing your homework?”

Noah nodded. “I got all the answers right on my test and then papa took me to see a movie and it was so funny.”

“That’s awesome!”

After having a drink of water, Max let Noah sit on his lap as the press conference continued. Towards the end, the boy was half asleep. Max kepts his arms around his little boy as he finally went to sleep. Thankfully the press conference had ended so he walked back to his driver’s room so he and Noah could have a nap together.

The next morning, the hashtag daddy max was trending. The hashtag was filled with screenshots and videos of the press conference. Some people even made memes out of the interaction between Noah and Lewis. It was clear that Max enjoyed being a dad and the whole world loved to see it.

#formula 1 #inbox <3 #f1 x reader #anon #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #mv33 #mv1

2K notes · View notes

jinjeriffic · 4 months

Text

DCxDP Prophecy Universe Part 2

Part 1

Damian glared at the envelope. He and Father were in the process of analysing the letter for any signs of toxins, explosives or other traps. Obviously he wasn’t fool enough to open a missive from a questionable source without taking precautions. So far, all their scans had come up empty. Literally. The letter was defying all their attempts at chemical or spectroscopic testing, x-ray and magnetic resonance scans were inconclusive, it defied all properties of ordinary matter. It was frustrating. It was vexing. He was blaming magic.

For all intents and purposes, the letter looked like ordinary paper, with an ordinary wax seal, bearing the initials CW. The looping handwriting addressing it to Damian was precise and neat. Swiping the surface of the letter for chemical traces yielded no results. When Damian had tried to cut off a corner of the paper for analysis it had resisted all attempts, including a laser and a diamond headed cutting tool. Damian’s only satisfaction was that when Father had grunted and taken over the task from Damian, he had no more success than his son. As if Damian didn’t know how to perform the standard array of tests!

It certainly didn’t help that his siblings wouldn’t stop their incessant chattering!

“I’m just saying, ghosts wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve encountered, Red. I’m not sure it would even make my personal Top 5.”

It seemed gossip among heroes travelled faster than the speed of light.

“Really, Nightwing? Ghosts? It’s far more likely to be a meta with something to hide. Or a few screws loose.” Damian could practically hear the eyeroll in Drake’s voice “And since when do ghosts act as glorified mailmen?”

“I don’t know Red, since when do aliens pretend to be Kansas farmboys? C’mon, we deal with magic users all the time!”

“And lets not forget people coming back from the dead” Red Hood interjected over the open comm line.

“Magic is just science we don’t understand yet. Any sufficiently analysed magic becomes indistinguishable from science!”

“B, a little help here?”

“Hn” Father straightened up from his position at the lab table “Oracle, any progress on clearing up the footage from Robin’s mask?”

Grayson threw up his hands with a frustrated huff while Drake smirked.

“The program is almost finished rendering. Whatever scrambler they used did a real number on the video quality. I’m surprised the audio is as clear as it is.” Oracle replied.

“Hn. And the isotope tracer on the money?”

“Sorry B, no hits on the local sensors. Wherever the guy went it’s either outside Gotham or shielded somehow.” she said, mildly frustrated.

“Maybe it’s ghost magiiiiic” Drake sing-songed. Grayson lightly cuffed the back of his head, to which the former Robin responded with a firm shove. Their interaction quickly devolved into a childish tussle.

Damian gave an annoyed huff. “Don’t you two imbeciles have anything better to do?”

“Aww, we’re just here to look out for our baby brother!” Nightwing teased.

“Yeah, we gotta make sure your ghost encounter didn’t leave any lasting psychological damage!” Red Robin added.

Before Damian could retaliate for their needling, Oracle chimed in. “Uh, guys? You’re going to want to see this. Most of the footage was corrupted beyond repair, but I was able to pull some partial stills and, well…” she threw a handful of pictures up on the screen. There was artifacting marring them, but parts of the stranger were visible in each of them. Oracle magnified one that had a pretty good view of his face.

“Holy shit” Drake whispered.

Damian frowned. “What?”

“Dami, he looks like you. Just… older.” Grayson said softly.

“What are you talking about?” Damian snapped.

“Disregard the pale colouring for a second. The nose, the chin… he looks like you if you had a growth spurt,” Drake wrinkled his nose “and went through puberty.”

The commlines erupted into chaos.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Spoiler exclaimed “are you telling me there’s an older version of Robin running around Gotham?!”

“Copy?” Batgirl inquired.

“Don’t tell me Talia cooked up Demon Brat 2.0!”

“Given that he looks older it’s more likely version 0.1 if anything,” Drake snarked, “though there’s the possibility of artificially accelerated growth rates…”

Damian had had enough. “Tt. You are ignoring the obvious - if this is some kind of supernatural entity it likely copied aspects of my appearance in an attempt to engender feelings of familiarity.” he said haughtily, pushing down the uncomfortable churning in his stomach. There was no way Mother would replace him with a cheap copy. She couldn’t! “Besides, the creature has obvious powers and neither of my bloodlines has any trace of the meta gene.”

“That’s ignoring the ghostly elephant in the room.” Grayson chimed in, “Maybe it’s a dead ancestor?”

Drake gave their older brother an annoyed look “Even a time travelling descendant from the future is more likely than that. And delivering a ‘prophecy’ to boot?”

Oracle pulled up an aged up picture of Damian next to the stranger’s, highlighting several reference points. “On closer inspection, there’s a couple of discrepancies. The cheekbones for one - Robin definitely takes after his mother, while our mystery meta looks more like… well… Robin’s grandmother on the paternal side.” she finished hesitantly. “B?”

They turned to look at Batman, who had remained silent during the whole exchange. If they hadn’t known him so well they would have thought him unaffected, but the tightening around his mouth betrayed his agitation.

“There’s no use in pointless speculation until we have more data to work from,” he growled, “Oracle, look for any reports of a meta matching the target. Since our regular methods have failed to yield results, I will contact the JLD about running tests on the letter.” He turned to Drake, “Red Robin, see what you can find on recent League activities. If this is another scheme by Ra’s or Talia we need to know about it.”

“The last thing we need is more demon spawn running around!” Red Hood groaned over the comms.

Damian was furious. This was absurd! To even indulge the possibility that that creature was in any way related to him was making him feel like he had swallowed battery acid. He was the Demon’s Heir! He was not replaceable! There was only one thing to do.

“Robin? Stop!”

He ignored his Father’s shout. He stomped over to the lab table, snatched up the envelope and broke the seal.

Nothing happened.

He unfolded the paper and saw the same handwriting that had been on the outside.

Brother of blood, brother of soul

Never buried but already mourned

In lightning and ice the scorned child returned

To strike down the Demon’s Head

With all that Death earned

Damian’s hand shook. He reread the lines over and over again, refusing to comprehend. He could feel his Father standing behind him, scrutinising the letter as well.

“Son…”

Suddenly, the paper burst into green flames, going up into smoke that dissipated unnaturally quickly.

Silence reigned for a few moments. Then…

“Well that was needlessly melodramatic” Nightwing remarked.

Part 3

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #batman #dc domics #batfamily #no beta we die like danny phantom #prophecy universe #the one where clockwork uses prophecies to mess things up (and set things right)#fanfic #congrats bruce it's a boy #clockwork loves melodrama

2K notes · View notes

honestsycrets · 11 months

Text

Stung | [Miguel O'Hara x Reader]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | after a discus malfunction, you're bitten by an anomaly and refuse medical attention. you're in a state that you refuse to show to miguel-- at all costs.

❛ tags | NSFW, sex pollen, mention of a wound, slight chase, miguel o'hara doesn't like to be ignored, cum eating, creampies, abnormal amount of fluid, venom bite, slapping, some insecurity, spanish is not translated, sexual memories.

❛ sy’s notes | my obligatory ABO-sex pollen fic for ATSV. i usually make a ABO/Sex Pollen piece per fandom I write in, so here's one for Miggy 🐝

“All done!”

You slipped out of HQ’s packed infirmary with a jaunty bounce in your step. Crispy, coppery blood was matted onto your forearm concealed behind a hastily tied bandage. You weren't concerned about it. It would resolve within the hour. Likely less. As would your elevated body temperature. Despite the doctor's prattle about the benefit of further testing, you found their concern to be a non-issue. These things were virtual non-issues, even if the doctor and your man thought otherwise.

The hallways at HQ were like any other day in your city. Congested with the coming and going of spiders in their daily lives. A glimpse at any group might reveal decadent flirting and haughty laughter. Some were in a rush to their own worlds, but most were completing work assigned by the Spider Society. The one you were looking for reclined against a wall with his arms interlocked one over the other. His displeased rumble prompted you to his presence above all other voices in the crowd.

“You should have let them run the tests.” His voice was teased with concern but became mild, little more than a drab sigh at your refusal. You blew off his concern with a shake of your hand, gone yellow and bubbly behind a bit of ineffectual gauze. His eye glazed over the wound. You couldn't tell what he was thinking behind his mask, but you didn't need to. You only needed to convince him you were right.

“It’s stopped bleeding, Miggy. It’s just a scratch,” You held up your arm, flicking it with emphasis. His eyebrows raised for a moment, then flattened, staring at you with a dull rictus. “It was just a brief malfunction of the discus.”

Technically it was more of an impalement, but if Miguel wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to invite him to delve deeper. Otherwise, you might spend the next few hours of your life fixing a wound that surely would have closed up by the time results were back. The injury site mildly itched. That was all. Never mind, the slight, honey-colored rash migrating from the puncture site to your elbow. Or the referred pain. Minor things.

“You’re being stubborn.”

“You’re the one to talk.” You snapped the discus free from your sash and chucked it toward Miguel. He caught it with an unsurprising amount of ease, claws clicking in unison against the ineffectual metal.

“¡Qué problema!” he mocked, his voice dry and absent of discernible emotion.

You closed the distance between your bodies to slide your arms around his broad neck. His other hand came to your lower back. It was warm, the way he touched you, from the bundles of affection that fluttered in your belly to the heat dappling across your chest. You missed this every day. It made fleeing the infirmary all the more worth it.

“I put the anomaly in another discus. One that actually works, no thanks to your programming.”

“That’s what happens when you take things without asking.” He flicked the discus between his thumb and index finger, waggling it for emphasis. It was true that there had been nights that went with banging, clacks, clatters, and the occasional outburst when things weren’t quite going his way. There were a few discuses on his desk. You just so happened to take the one that malfunctioned. “I was working on it. ¿Qué era?”

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Just some stingy bees. What harm could they do?”

His eyes roamed your wound. You couldn't help but look down too, both horrified and fascinated by the way the rash had moved in just a brief few minutes. The colour had begun to fade. You glanced up, flattening your mouth into a slight, forced smile.

“Fine. If you're sure.”

To be fair, you secured many anomalies with and without the help of others. They all went into their cozy, temporary forcefield homes until they could be fairly redirected to their appropriate dimensions. In the downtime, you could help or hinder Miguel's progress. Then, your watch would alert you to another disturbance and the cycle would continue.

Until that morning.

Your watch blared, and blared, and blared some more. The early morning sun began to rise and cast offensive beams of light into your room. Usually, it didn’t bother you. But this morning, everything offended you from the scratch of silky sheets on your naked body to Lyla illuminating what darkness was left, all golden and cute. You wondered if that was how Miguel felt when you forgot to pull the curtains, strung out on the bed after he finished with you.

“Woah! Oops!” she turned, covering her eyes with her spindly fingers. A growing ache throbbed between your legs. It wasn’t quite the same dull soreness from Miguel’s late-night visit last night, either. “Sorry, sorry. Miguel--”

“He can handle it,” you bit out, snappier than you intended. It wasn't like you. “Or-- Jess. No, Gwen. Gwen can do it, she loves--”

“He asked for you.”

Of course, he did. You scrunched a pillow over your head. Your Miguel couldn’t see you this. Absolutely not. You debated getting up, ignoring what you called a negligible ache that was quickly morphing into a terrible pounding. You can't believe how quickly the thought fell apart, pushing yourself to sit up in bed. The ghost of his scent floods your nose, flashing memories of the night before.

Something at work set him off. Something that commanded no intimacy, but the mechanical release of his rage that wouldn't destroy precious resources. He sat on the edge of the bed, driving your mouth onto his cock with the aid of your hair bundled around his fist. You recalled the shakiness of his thighs under your fingers, his firm legs spread wide fucking your mouth with cold abandon. He chased his own orgasm selfishly, needing the release, needing to see your body painted by whips of his cum sprayed across your exposed breasts. He pulled you off in silence, inspecting the drool and cum that spilled down your chin and throat in rivulets. "What--"

Your face tightened, glancing down at the growing tension in your belly. Everything began to annoy you, especially the scratch of the sheets against your skin, your bed empty of his presence. How could you tolerate that uniform plastered to your ass? You buried into the offensive bed. This was fine. This was normal, recalling what you'd done last night. Surely, the burn had to do with the whole being launched through not one, but two crumbling buildings the day before. The dust and rubble. Were you close to your cycle?

“Tell him I’m dead,” and without another word, you resolved the call. Within seconds she popped up again, bent at the waist because this was your life now. Never could you just… take a day off. There was always something. You muffled your screams of protest into the mattress and dug your feet in, kicking off the sheets, the blankets, the pillows, all of it.

“Is this a fit? You’ve never had a fit before,” Lyla noticed. A fit? She thought the burning of your body was a fit? Damn AI. Resolve.

Resolve. Resolve. Resolve.

It became cathartic after a good while. Or it would have been if not for your senses hyper-fixating on every minor change in your body. Despite your apprehension, you knew. What was once a dull pain radiating from your forearm morphed into something much worse. Something you couldn’t blame on the rather average experience of being pelted through the average event of windows and concrete. It was more than a tingle. It burned as it coursed through your body.

You stumbled over the bundle of bedding into the bathroom. It was there that you realized that to your horror, you weren’t just lubricated, now you were soaked. Your fluids coursed down your thighs as you dabbed the region clean with a bundle of tissues. It did little good. Touching the area exasperated the issue. Maybe you needed an orgasm, maybe ten. An hour or so later, you slammed the heel of your palm into the mirror, fracturing it into shards of terrible glass that crumbled onto the countertop. Beads of blood dabbled onto your reflection.

“If you d--” resolve.

So not a reaction to your average bee sting. Correction. A great, big, fat colony of hissing, buzzing bees. The act of recalling information was like jamming your hand into fluid water to snatch a tiny hair tie. No matter how many times you tried to recall the information, you couldn’t quite grasp it. It was there, floating around your head, but inaccessible. Your mind traveled back to Miguel. How gentle his lips could be, trailing soft kisses along your neck and shoulder when you rode him in reverse. How deep he'd go.

"Fuck off!" Your watch blared again. Its beeping filled your bathroom, echoing over and over. You reached behind the door to pluck a silky white slip from its hook and dragged it over your head. You were about to resolve the call again when the hot timbre in his warm voice saying your name gave you pause. Your Miguel, popping up in a golden haze. You found yourself gazing at his full lips, full and plump. If only he was here. He could have his lips on your--

“What are you doing?”

Lost in thought, you failed to realize that Miguel had been calling you by name again. You shook your hazy mind free of the thoughts that formed a swirling cloud over your head. You slumped down the wall and onto the floor.

Help was what you failed to say. As your mouth opened, nothing came out. The words were not wording. The vulnerability of asking for help was palpable. You soothed yourself by shifting your hands underneath your skirt. What would he think if he saw you here-- ripped asunder by your own biology? Whore. Miguel lowered his gaze, his eyes squinting at the sweat dabbling down your neckline as he looked you over. He wouldn't want you anymore.

“Are you listening? ¡Coño! What is wrong with you!?”

Resolve.

You resolved him. Your Miggy-- resolved. Oh, you swallowed dryly. He wasn’t going to be happy about that. It wasn’t a matter of if Miguel would come for you. It was a matter of when. When he had time to separate himself from trashing-- whatever was the closest object to him in the lab-- to take out his rage on you. You reached for your medicine cabinet. You had more important things to worry about. First on the list? The searing heat.

Your watch was better off tucked away in a chest in the closet.

Night came with no solutions. You crouched on your window sill, chest rising and falling. You sought to stare at anything but the mindless buzz of the tv screen inside. Even with light pollution, some stars winked in the distance. Your body was a bundle of warm heat, buzzing with irritation after a fruitless day of soothing your body. You grew accustomed to your pert nipples against your silky slip, the lubricant coursing down your leg. At first, denial. Now, acceptance. You thought tomorrow might be better.

You felt his presence before you heard, smelled, or saw him. Through the sea of scorched sensations battering your senses, there was one that stood apart. A tickle that niggled at the back of your head. It could have been anyone, but you didn’t have to guess to know who it was. “Lyla."

“You haven’t called him all day,” Lyla squeaked.

“Called all-- I answered his call!” Your dress was matted to your body, cloaked in an abhorrent amount of sweat. It was only minutes ago that you retrieved your watch confident that you could bullshit something, anything, for a few days of reprieve. You jammed your shaking finger to resolve the call.

“Not all of them. Miguel was worried.”

“Worried! Lyla, that is not worried,” you spat. That was your Miguel, scaling the side of your apartment. His talons cracking the siding of your apartment. The reverberations spiraled up your legs, sending waves of anticipation lapping at your core. After your long day, you weren't sure how you were still somehow upright. With every crack of his talon into the brick siding, you were running out of time to come up with an excuse.

In a bid to escape, you fell into your room. The hard floor knocked the breath out of your dry lips. You stumbled onto your feet and supported yourself with a bookcase of less than half-read books. “Lyla, he can’t see me like this!”

“Then tell me what’s going on,” she popped back up. “C’mon, you can tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

If her tone was playful in some half-baked attempt to neutralize your fight, the threat was imminent. Your hand connected with the top of the window, applying pressure to close the window. A hair too late. At the same time, Miguel’s clawed hand curled around the bottom of the window sash. You were too slow for the man who excelled with power, speed, and efficiency. You weren't going to win this fight. Not with your body threatening to crack at the very sight of your man's strength.

Though you saw him nearly daily, he always took your breath away. His sinewy body was always a sight, his suit accentuated his thick and fine cut. You moistened your lips, longing to run your fingers through his thick dark brown hair as you did every night. You caught his sharp gaze a second longer than you should have.

“Open up,” he whispered coolly.

He was a distraction. The wind was not on your side either, blowing wisps of his scent into your overwrought senses. His natural musk mixed with the sweat of a hard day's work. Somewhere in there, bitter blood. You could smell the caramelized scent of the flaky, buttery empanadas and hot coffee you shared the day before. It gave you pause, his intoxicating smell and the sultry trill of his voice. But you couldn’t let him see you, not like this.

“Oop, there he is. Just checking on you,” Lyla chittered. Resolve.

“Miggy, please go away,” you sobbed in frustration, shifting to shoulder the window. “Why are you so stubborn!?”

“It’s who I am.”

The window cracked all at once. With mere milliseconds to respond to the sash careening into the upper rail, you whirled past the bedroom door. Miguel broke into a run behind you with long strokes of his legs. He made contact, sending you barreling into your lazy sapphire couch from the impact. You saw stars for a fraction of a second before you lurched on your palms and elbows, scrambling off of the couch and across the floor. His hand caught your ankle and dragged you underneath his body.

“¡Ay!” you bit out. “No, no no no. Miggy!”

“¡Callate!”

His hand wrapped tightly around your throat to force complacency, pinning you back to the hardwood floor. Your palms slammed onto his chest, drawing lines down his chest. Bits of pathetic electricity fizzled on his broad, muscular chest, a consequence of your fading focus. That focus was eviscerated when Miguel threw his hips flat against your core. Your frantic fidgeting against Miguel soothed some of the terrible, buzzing pressure rattling between your legs like warm honey on a sore wound. The ache for his relief became more important than the impulse for substantial breaths.

“Don’t move. Why are you--”

“I can’t help it,” you cut him off, straining against his large palm to stare at his crotch. His gaze fell on yours, following the path to his soft cock. His eyes widened with the sudden attention. Tears threatened to spill over from your eyes, pricked with spikes of pain. "It's too much!"

You ate your shame with his body crouched between your legs and his large palm choking the air out of your throat. The influx of air not only brought your scent, but your day-long desperation to fix what you believed was wrong. He could smell it now. He could see it now. He could hear it in your voice. He knew why you failed to answer his calls. The violent jabbing of the resolve button. Throwing your watch into your cramped closet to ignore the calls. The pheromones that soaked your apartment. It was unavoidable.

“You can’t help it,” he repeated. Miguel considered you with razor-sharp eyes, nearly as sharp as the talons that rescinded into his arms.

"I'll see about that." His hand left your neck to reveal bundles of bumpy shivers that soared across your skin. He raised his finger to wipe away the wet tears that fell from your flushed cheeks. Then dropping lower, Miguel chased the thin straps of your gown with his claw and slid the offending fabric off of your breast. The nub was as hard as it had been hours ago when you twerked the nipple between your fingertips and dreamed of Miguel.

“You’re...” he cupped your breast in your palm and massaged your nipple with one sharp twist of his thumb. The gasp that left your lips wasn’t one you were proud of. Your undulating hips that ground down on his cock weren’t entirely unwarranted. You needed it. "Hot. As if you're in heat."

This couldn’t be happening. From a ball of rage to one of arousal, he released a tiny amused chuckle. You spent much of the day in different parts of the apartment with your hand, toy, ice, and water into your body to soothe this terrible ache. So Miguel wouldn't see you like this. It was this moment you sought to avoid after your long day: The moment of Miguel's disapproval. Now he laughed at you.

“Happy?” you sobbed into the forearm that kept Miguel stable. “Go away, someone else could use your stupid help.”

“Don’t you need me?” Miguel dipped his head down. Strands of his dark hair tickled your hypersensitive skin. With the lightweight fabric of his suit, pressing your cunt back against his clothed bulge felt wonderful. You bit your lower lip and watched his cock jut against its fabric. You lifted your puffy eyes to his gaze and found a wicked gleam there. He knew it wasn’t enough contact for the pressure and painful spasms to abate. Deep down, you knew that Miguel was your only hope for relief. Who else could, or would, you call in this condition? Mostly because Miguel always fixed everything.

"Miggy," you murmured. After this pitiful display, he wasn't rejecting you? Your mind flowed weightless and light. The terror of your day faded under his careful caress. In its place, comfort that he would take care of you.

“Don’t you?” His hand snaked between your folds and found it soaked wet, the low throbbing of your pussy palpable. He retracted his fingers and spread the sticky fluid between his thumb and middle finger. At some point, silence became better than an answer. Miguel brought his hand down on your cunt for a sharp slap. Bundles of nerves cried out under the abuse. It shook free a squeal from your lips, bitten raw by the pressure of the day. Your head bobbed into a mechanical nod as to save yourself from another slap.

“You know how to ask. It’s si Miguel, por favor Miguel.”

You needed the warm sensation of his cum. But making those words proved too difficult. Your canines pierced bloody holes in your lower lip. You clawed up his forearms, trying to leverage and force him closer. Miguel grabbed your shoulders and thrashed them back down onto the floor. You felt bad for the downstairs neighbors.

“Say it.”

“Miggy,” you looked into his eyes. They were blown wide, nearly fully black with a thin outline of scarlet, chasing the outline of your exposed breast. For all his talk, you realized he wasn't immune. Even with his face tight, his eyes focused on the same thing you needed. Maybe, all this time, you were baiting Miguel with half-assed answers. They were invitations. Invitations to come to fill this need you had. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t what you wanted this whole time. Finally, you had him where you wanted him.

Miguel broke eye contact first. He cupped his plush lips around your nipple, suckling the breast taut and wet. You cried out in surprise and arched into Miguel’s mouth, enticed by the fangs that grazed your nipple. As quickly as he came, he was gone.

You lurched up, palming Miguel's dick through his pants. His hips bucked into your palm. He refused to make any sound as he considered your next movements, releasing Miguel’s cock from his suit. Impatience and need coalesced into your brave movements, sliding your palm against him. He was impossibly thick and hard, dribbling at the tip. Miguel huffed a small noise as your palm ran over him. You dared to call it a moan.

Miguel sneered and shoved you back onto the floorboards. “I’ll only tell you one more time. Ask me properly.”

"You do too, don't you?" You giggled. A noise that grated his ear. With the belief you wouldn’t bolt, Miguel shifted back onto his knees. You wouldn’t. There was nowhere left to run. Not that you even wanted to, fat and hungry off Miguel's growing desperation.

"Come here." He snaked his hands underneath your knees, dragged you close, and pushed them to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut. Moments later, the sensation of his thick dick sliding against your engorged folds forced them back open. It gave you just enough relief through the pulsing pain to look at him with your hazy eyes. From this angle, you appreciated how large Miguel had gotten. His round cock-head bobbed and crested over your mound as it rubbed against your aching clit. His face was trained, focused. He wasn't going to relent first.

The nagging pressure never abated. You sought something more, something better, the sensation of being filled. With every glide, you squeezed your walls in protest to his absence. Your hips protested the restriction of your movement, shimmying against the firm hold he had that kept you in place. You wanted more than that. You wanted true relief from his teasing. Miguel drew back to inspect the fluid over his fat shaft as held you down. You gave in, whining at him like a brat.

“Por,” you scratched his forearms. “Por favor, Miggy. You don’t know what it's like.”

“All fours-- face down.”

The cacophony of desire battered and overcame any other human emotion you could have. You complied, crawling onto your fuzzy indigo rug for what came next. Miguel’s gloved hand skimmed across your ass, middle finger skimming toward the center. He followed up his gentle touch by reeling back his hand and cracking it across your ass, searing the nerves alive. Once, twice, and then a third. Tears pricked your cheeks again, a consequence of your nerves being overwrought and now assailed.

“Miggy!”

He shushed you with fervor, another thwack beating the jiggling flesh hot and red. Your legs trembled under the weight of his slaps. “Ignore my calls again and you’ll get much worse.”

“I didn’t-- you wouldn't want me,” your lips parted in defense of what you’d done. Miguel dipped down to spread your folds, rolling his index finger along your pulsing walls. Your body drew him in, squeezing and urging him forward. Your swollen walls were impossibly tight, straining to bring him in more and more.

"You know I do."

The need for more devoured any other thought, any threats of what he’d do next time. You rolled your hips to ride his hand. In place of a slap, Miguel slid another finger slid in beside the first to stretch your walls open. He faltered at your next words and slid his fingers free.

“Not like… not like I need you.”

“Who decides that?” he pressed on your upper back to force it down. You complied. Miguel stumbled forward, finally pressing his thick head to your pulsing entrance. His round head pressed, just barely, into your wet hole. You clenched down, inviting him into your warmth. You weren’t sure he’d actually give it to you. It was so damn close.

“You do, Miggy,” you murmured, pushing back. He watched as his shaft slowly disappeared into your body, your apprehension of retaliation rendered you too slow to finish.

Miguel snatched your waist and forced you to take the rest, a soppy squelch lubricating his shaft. The sound that slipped from your lips was entirely uncouth, punctuated by his unforgiving thrusts. Your walls strained around his cock. No matter how many times you took him, the drag of his cock and slap of balls against your body always felt somehow like the first. It filled that ache-- the consistent burning need to have him here, inside of your greedy body, scratching something that you could not itch all day. It’s what you wanted.

“That’s right, I do.” Miguel rumbled, short, punctuated thrusts beating your clenching cunt into complacency. The pleasure ruptured through your cunt-- battering his dick in response. He let loose a sharp grunt followed by a string of curses. Your sweet release spilled over his dick and balls, dripping down your thighs. Your legs threatened to shook, but Miguel was unwilling to allow your trembling legs to give out.

"Ah! Miggy!" His fangs punctured your shoulder to force you to stay in position, his pelvis stuttering against yours. His growl punctuated the warm, soothing cum that soothed your walls like warm honey over a wound. Your walls milked him free of his cum, spasming in response to his orgasm. He pieced himself together against your back, pulling his fangs free and settling a soft kiss over the burning wound on your shoulder. As if he hadn't been the one to tear his fangs into the crook of your neck.

“You’re not letting go,” he hummed in annoyance. He turned his attention down to your ass, ghosting his fingers over the healing bruises over your backside. You squealed, jerking forward. He followed you forward, punching a hole in the floor by your side. “Fuck, don’t move!”

You cast your attention back toward Miguel. He huffed forcefully out of his nostrils. He motioned toward your ass as if it were obvious-- your walls were clamped over his cock, unwilling or otherwise unable to let him go, as if he had any more cum to give in that current moment. You took it all.

“I. I didn't-- I can’t--”

“Yeah, I know. That Bee venom does that. Mine should neutralize it.”

At some point, you murmured. It sure as hell wasn’t doing it now, keeping him seated into your cunt that bubbled with the mixture of his and your release. “You knew about it? I could have died!”

Miguel chuckled.

“You wouldn’t. You’re too stubborn to die,” he sighed, fiddling with his watch. The tests-- that you never had ran. Ones that he suggested. Ones that you refused quite openly. “Why would I deny myself the fun?”

His cock slipped free. Your hips dropped and fell slack against the floor. You weren’t proud of the cum that oozed out of your ass over your decimated room, nor the fact that your useless neighbors hadn’t called for help once. Not that you needed it-- but still. You palpated your stomach, slightly distended. Miguel bent down and gathered the mixture of your bodily fluids on his fingers, suckling his own fingers dry. You watched his wet tongue swirl around his fingertips. It wasn't fair.

“Fun? What fun!? Do you know how long I-- You’re a mean man, Miguel O’Hara.”

He lurched over, his breath tickling your lips. He kissed you, salty and sweet. Your nose scrunched up, pouting against his lips. He left the room for the kitchen, fetching a wet cloth to clean his body with. He zipped himself back into his suit shortly after and dropped the sodden cloth by the cum puddling under your ass.

“Never said I wasn’t.”

#miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #Miguel ohara/reader #atsv imagine #atsv x you #atsv x reader #atsv imagines #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x y/n #across the spiderverse imagine #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut

7K notes · View notes

sutorus · 6 months

Text

HEART SHAKER

PAIRING: gojo satoru x reader

WC: ~1k

WARNINGS: established relationship, suggestive language, flirting, attempts at humor. fluff, somehow.

A/N: super freaking unedited i just had to get this out bc i can’t believe it’s not smut LOL

“god, you’re squeezing me so hard, sweetheart.”

you look up through your eyelashes at your boyfriend, brows set low in a warning. he only smirks.

you pump harder.

“oh fuck, it’s so tight right now.”

you huff in annoyance, slapping both hands down on your legs.

“can you stop? i lost count!”

satoru laughs at you, throwing his head back.

you cringe at how loud his movements sound in your ears, the stethoscope you were using still pressed to his skin.

you release the pressure on the cuff around his arm, sighing deeply.

“once again, i’m going to ask you,” you enunciate the words slowly, your eyes aiming at his, right behind that blindfold. “why don’t you have shoko do this?”

you’re sure if it were her measuring his blood pressure she could get actual accurate results.

satoru tilts his head, smiling sweetly.

“and why would i do that?” he singsongs. “you’re the prettiest little doctor around.”

“resident,” you correct him.

you wish so badly that he was due for a vaccine or something, just so you would have an excuse to stab him.

of course, you weren't complaining. you’re incredibly lucky that shoko took you under her wing once you got a job at the school. you weren’t able to master reverse cursed technique at her level quite yet, but you were just as good of a regular doctor as she was.

it didn’t matter how good you were though, because you weren’t a pediatrician or a saint, and it takes one of either to deal with gojo satoru as a patient.

“why do we even bother with check ups?” he asks, leaning back on the exam table. “i am literally healing my body twenty-four-seven.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing the light test hammer.

“what kind of question is that? sit up straight,” you shuffle on your chair, getting in between his too-spread legs. whore.

satoru shrugs, kicking his dangling feet. “a valid one.”

you bring the hammer down hard on his knee to check his reflexes. naturally, it stops just shy of his leg.

you don’t even have to look. you know he’s smirking again.

“turn infinity off.”

“‘turn infinity off’? you’re so cute,” he replies. you try to hit him with the hammer again to no avail. “i need to teach you some combat skills, girl.”

“and i need to examine you,” you get up off your seat, facing him. satoru leans in with a grin. “behave.”

he won’t.

“wanna play doctor?”

you ignore his voice and the obvious glee in it, a retort dying on your tongue because you do actually have to carry out a check up, to the best of your abilities.

grabbing your clipboard, you skim through his most recent health assessment records.

he complained about a migraine to shoko.

it makes your heart seize for just a moment, to think of all the stress satoru puts himself through to have his technique active at all times.

“how’s your head?” you ask him.

“you tell me,” his foot grazes the back of your knee, coaxing you closer. “any complaints?”

a dissatisfied sound comes out of your mouth as you press your hands to his chest instinctively, forcing distance between you two.

“satoru, please.”

“do you worry, baby?” he reaches out to tentatively hold the side of your face. “don’t worry about me.”

“it’s literally my job,” you trail off, head dropping.

satoru lifts your chin up and presses his lips to yours for a second or two.

“sorry, sorry,” he says before you can chastise him. “couldn’t help it. you look so cute all worked up.”

at this point you just twist your lips disapprovingly, putting the stethoscope earpieces back on.

you press it to his chest and listen as he breathes in and out.

“satoru,” you frown. “are you okay?”

“hmm?”

you look at him knowingly, a smirk of your own blooming on your face.

“why is your heart beating so fast?”

at that, your awful, awful boyfriend finally has the decency to blush.

“and you’re breathing so hard, too—“

“it’s hard, alright—“

“—we might have to schedule some follow up exams,” you click your pen to fill out the form, neglecting the way he leans into you.

“anytime,” he huffs out, breath skirting on your face where you stand between his knees. “do i get a lollipop for being such a good boy?”

“no,” you reply, taking a step forward. “but you can have this.”

you plant a kiss on his lips, letting it linger for longer than it should as he holds your hips tightly.

he hums contentedly when you pull away.

“mm, smart and generous,” satoru noses your jawline. “how did i get so lucky?”

you fight the sudden shyness rising up at his words.

“the same way i got so unlucky,” you smile at his pout. “life’s just not fair.”

he coos.

“you sweettalk all your patients or am i special?”

despite your best efforts not to, you grin at that.

“the most special,” you say, interlocking your fingers. “now get back to work.”

satoru grumbles a complaint but hops off the table nonetheless.

“thanks a bunch for seeing me, doc,” he leans down to hover his face right above yours. you push him away with a fingertip to his forehead.

“no problem. now shoo.”

you walk up to your desk to hopefully do some actual work now that your most special patient is leaving.

“ah, but i was wondering—“

“yes?” you don’t bother looking up from your paperwork.

“if you could give me some anatomy lessons sometime—“

“out!”

he slips out the door before you can turn around to see it.

you take a deep breath.

you love satoru to death, but you’re beginning to understand why shoko picked up smoking as a stress reliever.

#✩.petra.doc #✩.gojo #gojo satoru hcs #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru fic #gojo satoru au #why is tagging so embarrassing like bye #gojo fluff #gojo satoru x female reader #gojo satoru x gender neutral reader

2K notes · View notes

bet-on-me-13 · 4 months

Text

Talia took a 20+ Year Undercover mission a while ago

So! Talia is the Daughter of Ra's Al Ghul, and has been alive and at his side for many years now. Decades even. She is well into her 100's, even though her physical Body looks like that of a 20 yr old.

And in all the years that she has lived, what's to say she didn't take a few years off as a vacation? Even Ra's must take a few years off every once in a while, leaving to spend time on some remote island he can relax on for once. So, one day in the Early 80's she decided to do the same.

But she wouldn't be completely relaxing, she would take the break to further the League's goals still. She decided to Dye her Hair, change her Name, get into an acceptable College, and study Lazarus Waters to their scientific limit. She decided to name if Ectoplasm, to avoid any unwanted attention.

And while there, she met a pair of men doing the exact same.

Jack and Vladimir were nice enough. Although their Research was more focused on Ghosts, or as she would call them, Pit Demons. They were convinced that Ectoplasm and Ghosts came from another Dimension, and if they could find a way to open a Dimension Gateway to this theoretical Ghost Zone, they could aquire Limitless Clean Energy (and maybe find a way to contain the Ghostly threat).

Over the years, Talia Maddie would fall for Jack. Eventually, even after she had completed her College Studies and Vlad had left contact with them, she decided to extend her Vacation to further study Ectoplasm with Jack. One thing led to another, and eventually she found herself pregnant. And then it happened again.

Jazzmine and Daniel were the cutest little babies. But she knew the danger they would be in if it was ever discovered that she was their Mother, so she trained them in everything she could so they could survive. She knew her time as Maddie Fenton was coming short, but she resolved to stay, at the very least until Jazz was an Adult.

She didn't account for Daniel becoming a Small Town Hero, but those were just the Trials of motherhood.

Then, the day came. She left a note on her bedside table explaining that she regretted what had to happen, and left in the middle of the night. It was better this way.

...

The year right after she returned, her Father forced her to have a Child with his most prospective Heir. The Bat, he called himself. Oh he was Charming, there was no denying that, but unfortunately she was still working through her feelings about Jack.

She treated her resulting child poorly because of that, and that she regreted it deeply. She loved him, honestly she did, but it was hard to look at him and not remember Daniel. Still, she persevered.

The day she once again had to give up her son for his protection was the hardest of her life.

But it was unavoidable. The Coup that had taken her Father's life had also fractured the Organization, anyone could have taken their shot at her Son as the rightful Heir. She needed to protect him as she took care of the Traitors.

...

Damian always knew he was the One True Heir. It was his defining character trait for his early years of life. Even though he had grown to be more than just that over recent years, he always felt like it was a key part of his identity.

Until now.

Because the BatComputer had just finished running a DNA Test on the Blood of a man who he had spotted on his Patrol the previous night.

A DNA Test that had come back, with results claiming that the man, who looked almost exactly like a younger male version of his Mother, was his Half Brother.

#Dpxdc #Dp x dc #Dcxdp #Dc x dp #Danny Phantom #Dc #Dcu #Talia Al Ghul #Jack Fenton #Maddie Fenton #Talia Al Ghul is Maddie Fenton #She went on an Undercover Mission/Vacation to scientifically study Lazarus Water #She met Jack and Vlad in the College she was undercover at #She fell for Jack and his Himbo attitude #She knew that Danny was a Ghost/Pit Demon but decided to test if he had actually remembered any of her self defense lessons #She got Jack to agree to it #She will admit she may have gone a step too far (the threats over dinner were a bit much)(so was keeping the act up for so long)#Danny was 16 when she left an 17 when she had Damian #Jazz was 18 when she left and 19 when she had Damian #Currently Danny is 29 and Jazz is 31 #They never did figure out where their mother went #But they will never forgive her for what she did to her Dad #Jack was heartbroken #He still is #He got better over time but it took a while to begin to heal

2K notes · View notes

seakicker · 1 year

Note

mother's day hc that you tell the genshin boys you're pregnant on mother's day so they decide to celebrate by getting you double pregnant?

YES MA’AM i had a randomizer pick four names for me out of all the guys i write for… kinda laughing at 3/4 of them being all the Serious, Stoic ones lol

fem reader, pregnancy, breeding, overstimulation (alhaitham) and knotting (gorou) below!

alhaitham

You can never be too sure, he says— a good, valid experiment hinges upon proper reliability. Do you know how many undergraduate experimental reports he’s dismissed on account of their supposed “results” being the chance of mere coincidence or random chance? It never hurts to eliminate the possibility of a false positive and to ensure that your positive pregnancy test result is a true positive by breeding you all over again and having you take another pregnancy test in five weeks or so.

When you tell him you’re pregnant, he responds with a quiet nod before almost analyzing all of the behavior you’ve displayed over the last few weeks. Yes, the news makes perfect sense— last week, Alhaitham overheard you wondering aloud if your period was late or if you had just tracked it wrong, and he’d have to be a fool to not know what a missed period is the universal signifier of. The news comes at a perfect time, so he couldn’t be happier— though your husband certainly has a… uniquely stoic way of expressing happiness.

That night, he replicates every last aspect of the night he imagines he got you pregnant some five weeks ago (it’s a simple calculation, really) down to your spot on the bed and the clothes he was wearing just to make sure that a false positive is out of the question. Perhaps he’ll have to come inside if you twice tonight just to really seal the deal that you’re pregnant— once is chance, twice is a coincidence, and thrice is a true pattern. You’d like to try and convince him that surely there’s no need for all of this, that pregnancy tests rarely, rarely fail or show an incorrect result, but there’s no pushing back against your husband’s logical calculations or sense of reason— not that you’re much in the condition to even try to speak with him anyways.

When your husband has you spread open wide with your knees pressed up against either side of your chest, a light conversation is absolutely out of the picture. You’d consider it a feat to muster up anything other than splintered whines of your husband’s name and delicate pleas for him to slow down— though, truthfully, it’d be an even bigger feat if you managed to successfully convince Alhaitham of doing the latter. He hasn’t stalled or slowed his pace for even a fraction of a second because he, of course, is trying to replicate the night he very likely knocked you up exactly, and he just so happened to be absolutely railing you that night.

“You can certainly take more than this.” That’s all he offers when you beg him to slow down again. “I’ve discovered, met, and exceeded every last one of your limits myself, and this pace, this position, and this fervor hardly come close to any of those. I’m simply validating your claim before I take to preparing the spare room for our child.”

You gasp and let your head fall back against the pillow, defeated and overwhelmed in equal tandem by your husband’s delightful Mother’s Day plans.

Alhaitham only chuckles once, a satisfied smirk so faint on his lips that you almost don’t catch it at all. “You’ll be alright. We’ll have nine entire months to be gentle.”

zhongli

Zhongli has lived a normal human lifetime nearly ninety times over— yet, fascinatingly, he always insists he’s come nowhere close in experiencing everything life, nature, humanity, and civilization have to offer, an assertion you’ve always found downright impossible to fathom. How does somebody not get bored after six thousand years of life? You know people who are bored after just four years of working in the same career before they jump ship and try to find something, anything completely different.

He offers the exact same explanation every single time you once again ask how he still finds things to do, places to go, and activities to enjoy after being alive for so long— he always, always smiles softly and explains that he never gets bored with life because you’re in it, and you show him new things, new foods, and new ways to love and enjoy the world that he never even imagined prior to meeting you.

You’ll admit that you’ve found his reasoning somewhat hard to believe on a few separate occasions— like he’s seriously been alive for over six thousand years, yet he’s never tried red bean ice cream from Inazuma before? It’s not exactly a rare or expensive good. However, there are other times when you think you understand what he means, and his logic has never been more evident than today because you told your darling husband that you’re pregnant this morning.

“I’ve never been a father before,” Zhongli hums as he presses a wide circle of kisses all around the cusp of your tummy. “I’ve tutored and taught many, but I’ve never raised a child as my own from their very birth.”

“Does it make you nervous?” You grip his left hand a little tighter as his right comes to rub a soothing circle over the apex of your soft belly.

He pauses for a moment. “I see no reason to be afraid of new experiences, let alone ones I have you to guide me through. I’ve found that sampling life’s uncertainties and navigating its surprises provide far more enrichment than routine.”

You laugh. “I don’t think I can do much ‘guiding’ here, my love— I’ve never been a mother before either. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Zhongli melts. How do you always know just how to tickle his heart with the most innocuous of statements?

“And that is exactly why I’m not nervous— because we’ll have each other to both learn from and learn alongside. I’ve spent the vast majority of my life being the teacher and not the student, so opportunities to learn with you excite me.”

All you can do is hide your face with your free hand, your cheeks warm and your grin obvious. Your husband chuckles and kisses a line down the bottom half of your tummy, down your hips, and all the way down, down, down until he runs into the fabric of your panties.

“I’ve read that intimacy during pregnancy has an array of positive effects for a mother,” Zhongli notes, gently sliding a hand down to tug your panties to the side. “We’ll have to try every last tip and wives’ tale, won’t we, my love?”

diluc

Completely opposite to that of Zhongli, Diluc’s perspective on celebratory sex on Mother’s Day is that it’s about as tired, cliche, and lazy as celebratory sex on a birthday, New Year’s Eve, or Valentine’s Day. Really, any other holiday where people feel the need to either supplement their actual present with sex because they fear what they really bought their spouse just isn’t good enough on its own or because they forgot to get them a present entirely.

Or so he says.

He’s always been of the opinion that love and intimacy expressed on a random day of the year without any special meaning bears more weight than celebratory holiday sex— why should sex be included as part of the celebratory experience when a married couple is expected to regularly display intimacy towards one another? You’ve teased him about this cynical, grumpy take plenty of times, but you’ve almost come to agree with him regardless— it’s hard to even have the energy for sex at the end of your birthday or on the evening of Valentine’s Day when you’re just so exhausted by everything Diluc planned for you during the day. Perhaps it’s entirely because he doesn’t take special occasions lightly that he sees no need to end the day on a cliche.

Well, there’s a first for everything.

“I thought you don’t do celebratory sex,” you whimper with a sharp inhale. You had meant for the statement to sound more teasing and alluring, but it’s damn near impossible to keep your composure when your husband’s spent the past hour and a half between your legs.

Diluc, for the first time in ninety minutes, actually pulls away from your slick, saliva-coated pubic mound to stare up at you over your tummy. How amusing— this is the smallest he’ll see your tummy for the next nine months, and something tells him he’s not going to miss it whatsoever.

“We’ve never celebrated Mother’s Day before simply because you were never a mother for any of them. Today is different— and of course this news deserves celebration.” That’s right— you did mention to Diluc that you’re pregnant this morning over breakfast, didn’t you?

You take advantage of this impromptu break to make eye contact with your husband, who hasn’t looked this… disheveled in quite some time. Bangs plastered to his forehead, nose and chin dripping with a mix of saliva and your fluids, and pupils blown wide with desire, this is a Diluc you don’t get to see very often— and you know how to revel in the treat.

“Making exceptions to your own rules doesn’t suit you.” There, that one actually sounded teasing.

He offers a sort of shrug in response. “I’d have to be devoid of all emotion entirely to not want to celebrate my wife’s body when she tells me it’s pregnant with our very first child.” He glides his soaked lips down the inside of your thighs elegantly and with purpose, taking care to stop just before where thigh meets labia to really relish in your scent.

“Besides,” Diluc murmurs. “I’d like to map out how your body looks now so I can properly appreciate how much lovelier you’ll look once you begin to actually show how well I’ve bred you.”

gorou

Gorou tentatively asks you to repeat yourself just to make sure that he heard you properly, which carries a good amount of irony given his exceptionally superhuman hearing. He just wants to make sure he heard you properly— telling him you’re pregnant on Mother’s Day? He can’t think of anything more perfect than that, so it’d be a shame if he just imagined you saying it— he’s dreamed of being a father for so long now that if you were to hit him with a “gotcha” now, he might faint from disappointment.

Realistically, he should’ve put two and two together three weeks ago, but leave it to your husband to miss something glaringly obvious without your explicit guidance or direction. It’s almost funny to think that, despite his keen sense of smell, taste, and hearing, his overprotective nature, and his well-developed common sense, it’s so easy for him to miss the elephant in the room and get distracted by something incredibly unrelated to whatever he’s supposed to be looking out for.

He should have known from the second he found himself growing more and more overprotective of you without any visible or tangible piece of evidence as to why— you weren’t sick, you weren’t injured, and you weren’t otherwise vulnerable… or so he thought. It wasn’t obvious to him at the time, but now that you’ve confirmed it for him… it makes perfect sense. His nose already knew you were pregnant then— he picked up in the slightest change in your hormone levels without even realizing it, and now that he knows you’re pregnant?

He won’t leave your side for a single moment these next nine months.

Apparently, his vow to stay by your side 24/7 started the very moment you first broke the news to him— with your husband pressed so close up against you, you wouldn’t be surprised if you two just simply combined. Gorou’s hips slap against your ass so roughly and so quickly the sound of skin making contact with skin bounces off the walls and fills your ears, almost threatening to drown out your husband’s elated rambling.

Almost, but not quite. Nothing will get him to stop talking once he’s already started running his mouth.

“I just— I’ve just wanted this for so long,” he pants, looping his hands around your thighs to press them against the front your belly. “It’s just instinct, I guess? I just— Archons— there’s no better way to spend my life than with a sweet wife and a big, big family of our cute little pups.” He’ll be sure to keep you pregnant now that the precedent has already been established— Gorou knows he’ll miss taking you doggy style when your belly gets too big to safely attempt such a position, but he’s sure he can figure out a nice, comfortable compromise.

“I’ll get lots of time off from work! It’ll be easy. I’ll spend every day taking good, good care of you and our family because that’s— that’s what good husbands do, right? I’ll get Thoma to teach me tons of nutritious meals for you because I only know how to prepare quick rations for troops,” Gorou notes with a sheepish chuckle before he hunches over your back and whimpers brokenly. Will you still be able to take his knot while you’re pregnant, or will it be too much for you? He can’t push you too far now that you’re the most delicate you’ve ever been, heavy with the promise of a big family, right?

“I love you so much,” he gasps, nails digging into your belly softly as he loses control of himself. “And I’ll be the best father possible!”

#happy belated mother’s day to all you gorjust people #reblog to get triple pregnant #cw breeding #cw pregnancy #spicy #alhaitham smut #zhongli smut #diluc smut #gorou smut #gorou x reader #diluc x reader #zhongli x reader #alhaitham x reader #fem reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader

4K notes · View notes