#sometimes you just gotta run with the inspiration | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

softlyspector · 6 months

Text

Grays

Summary: Joel likes to be read to and held and have his hair stroked. He would never dare admit it, though. Based on this lovely ask.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Word count: ~4k

Warnings: Joel being insecure about his looks, age, gray hair (idiot 🙄 affectionate), Joel being a nuisance by sweating and chopping wood, Joel's bad attitude, reader is implied to be from the south/Appalachia (and has an accent), food as a love language, food mentions and eating, minor internal angst, Joel character study?because I'm insane, very domestic, fall vibes

A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you like this and thank you to the anon who sent that ask. I wrote this in just a few hours because you inspired me so and a price can't be put on that. Thank you all for always being so lovely and letting me write whatever comes to mind/inspires at the time💕

“Are you almost done with that?”

The ax arcs through the air again, splits solidly through the log and then thumps down onto the stump beneath. Two halves of split wood go flying in opposite directions, and you set about gathering them up for Joel, who pauses, one hand on his hip as breathes heavily through his nose.

There’s a tendril of sweat snaking down his temple; the ax hangs loosely from one hand like it weighs nothing.

“What?” He snaps.

You smile and repress the urge to laugh, turning your back so he doesn’t see. “I said, are you almost done?”

He makes a disbelieving noise, an indignant half-squak. “This has gotta be done before winter sets in, in case it slipped your mind.”

“I didn’t say it doesn’t,” you agree, rounding the stump to prop up one of the halves back onto the ax scarred stump. “It’s just that you’ve been at it for a good long while. Ain’t you tired?”

You step back and Joel straightens his shoulders, fingers tightening around the handle of the ax again. He lifts and swings, muscle straining in his arms, shirt lifting just enough that you see a thin line of his skin. The log splits, and you step forward with the other piece, ignoring the flutter in your belly at the sight of him. “Would go faster with help,” he grouses pointedly.

“Mhm, or you could come get some dinner. It’s gettin’ dark.”

Grunt, lift, swing, slice.

No answer.

You roll your eyes and instead sweep the fallen pieces of scattered wood into your arms and start toward the growing pile of firewood along the back side of the house. You don’t get very far with your burden. “Hey,” he says, tugging you back by your shoulder. “Quit that. C’mere.” The firewood is out of your arms before you can protest.

He shoulders past you, heat radiating off him in dizzying waves. The autumn air is chilly and growing colder, the day dunked in a gray, dusky fading light. The sky is that late autumn purple it sometimes gets to be, rosy like blush and lavender, the fingers of the trees sharp and black against the horizon. “If you want help,” you comment, following closely behind him. “You do actually have to let me help.”

His shoulders pull taut, the wide cut of them straining at the red flannel he’s outfitted in. “Uh-huh.” He drops the wood on the top of the pile and turns back to you. His eyes flicker over you, chin tucking down, head tilting as he assesses you. “You eat?”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at him.

Typical Joel.

“Might be what I’d come to fetch you for. Supper’s on.”

“That so?”

“Chicken and dumplings,” you say by way of explanation. “And gravy.”

“Sounds good.” He says it with a note of surprise in his voice. “Real good.”

“‘Cause it is. Come eat. The work will be here tomorrow. You’ll even have my help that time around. If ya happen to let me help that is.” You beckon him with a jerk of your chin toward the open back door.

He swipes the back of his hand over his forehead, then runs it down his face, palm cupping his chin. The thick tendons outlined in his throat tighten when he clenches his jaw and considers the mess of the backyard. Warm yellow light is starting to unspool across the lawn, over long dead grass and the whisper of browned leaves. “Ellie eat?”

“She’s with those friends of hers tonight. Suppose she’ll eat with them.”

He makes another vague noise in the back of his throat, still looking at the stack of logs he’d yet to split.

Joel does this sometimes. Works himself like a dog, gets grouchy and sharp, forgets to eat.

Sometimes it takes a firm hand and hard pressed coaxing to get him to give it up.

If you weren’t there, you wonder how long it’d last, that rise and fall of the ax, the strain of his body, already well past its limits.

He must be exhausted and hungry, not that he’d ever rightly admit to that.

That’s another thing you wonder after — did Joel even feel those things anymore?

Yes, you think. Since Jackson, yes. He just had a way of ignoring his own needs. He’d run on empty for days if he had to.

But he hesitates, makes a show of surveying the work he has left for him, the last dregs of the dying sun spilling weak across the yard. Or, maybe it's not a show. With Joel, things rarely are. He’s earnest, feet rooted firmly to the ground.

You watch him while he deliberates. One huge hand is still fisted around the handle of the ax, the bulk of his forearm straining, muscle and vein twisting prettily beneath flushed, damp skin. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, the top few buttons of his shirt left undone. His chest and neck are tinted the same color, dappled in the same sheen of sweat.

His hair is starting to go properly silver, a dark attractive gray that extends to his beard, the chest hair that just pokes out against the top of the flannel.

It’s unfortunate, really, how he seems to get more beautiful each year. Age shouldn’t look as good as it does on him.

When your eyes flicker back to his, he’s already watching you. An unreadable expression is tangled over his features, complicated and unknowable. Just as quick as it’s there, it’s gone, his expression cleared. You aren’t sure what he’s seen on your face that makes him fold inward, shut the door closed on you.

“All right,” he agrees, leaning the ax against the stack of wood, seeming reluctant about it.

Still, he follows you up the back porch stairs and through the door, wipes his shoes on the mat and then toes them off as you close the door to the encroaching night.

There’s something about socked feet, bare feet, that is painfully domestic, painfully homey and full of a feeling you don’t know how to articulate anymore. Something that reminds you so starkly of life before. You’d both gone months, once, without ever taking your shoes off, aside to tape them and switch socks, too afraid you might not have a moment to put them back on.

Joel glances at you as you shuffle past him, a hand placed gently between his shoulders for just a second, before you trek further into the house. “Smells good,” he compliments, following close on your heels. “I ain’t had chicken n’ dumplings in years.”

“That so?”

“Mm.” He moves toward the stove in what you’re sure will be an attempt to serve both of you.

“Nuh uh, sit,” you intercept him bodily and direct him into the chair at the breakfast table.

He huffs at you and sits, only mildly annoyed.

“Crabby,” you comment, spooning out a sizable portion. You always feel that he doesn’t eat enough, that he tries to leave too much behind for you and Ellie, especially after hard work. Joel still ate like he expected rations to run out. It’s unconscious, but it still worries you.

“I ain’t crabby,” he gripes.

You roll your eyes, sit the plate in front of him, and press the back of your hand to his cheek. The sweat is drying tacky on his skin, the strained rose color fading from his cheeks in the warmth of the house. He should have been wearing a jacket; his skin is a clammy kind of chilled, even sweaty and warm as he is. “You’ve actually never not been crabby, and it’s worse when you haven’t eaten,” you inform and hand him a fork with your other hand. “Ellie would agree with me.”

His hair curls at the base of his skull with the evaporating humidity of his skin. Like his socked feet, it feels painfully domestic to witness. Incredibly human, which Joel seemed more than, sometimes. “Guess she would,” he agrees. You lean your hip into his side and wait for him to take a bite, moving your hand away from his cheek to rest on his shoulder.

Joel might show his love through killing himself chopping wood for the winter, but this is the way you do it. He can’t cook, anyhow, and it makes you feel good to give him something good. It reminds you of better times.

When he swallows, eyes fluttering closed at the taste, you pat his shoulder and start to pull away to get your own plate.

“Hey,” he catches at your hand. His fingers tangle briefly with yours. His thumb sweeps over your skin, soft about it, though he doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. “It’s real good.”

“You’re welcome, Joel.” You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.

When you’re both done eating, he does the dishes, builds a fire in the grate in the living room so the room is warm when you find your way there, book in hand with the intention to complete a nightly ritual that he’s never raised complaint at since it was quietly started.

You alternate between words and music, and last night Joel had played the guitar for you in the chilled air of the back porch, a blanket tucked around your legs.

Joel would never dare admit it, not in ten thousand years, not in the pits of hell with a knife at his throat, but he likes to be taken care of, too.

It’s just so often that he bristles at it, feels guilty and faulty over it.

After dinner, with a full belly, and a stiff drink in him, he’s better about it.

Better about letting you shove him down onto the couch to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging at those delightfully gray locks. It’s longer now, too, and you like that too. You hope he forgets about getting it cut.

It’s such a nice look on him. Handsome. You should probably tell him that, but the words never come out.

He lets you do as you like, easy about it, eyes closed, breathing even and slow as you settle beside him, pressed tight to his chest, ass hanging off the edge of the sofa. You mean to open the book lodged somewhere between your bodies, but you don’t. You just look at him, sleepy, between the fire and the heavy food.

Maybe he’d never admit it but this is one of the many little ways he can accept it. He lets you feed him food that reminds you of your childhood, lets you read to him on alternating evenings, lets you bring him in from the cold when it starts to get dark.

“Should I add chicken and dumplings into our rotation?” You wonder aloud, tracing the lines by his eyes carefully, the vein in his throat, the hollow at his clavicle, the slope of his broad shoulders.

He only grunts and doesn’t open his eyes. “It was good.” And that’s the closest you’ll get to an admission that he would like to have it again.

“Glad for it, Miller,” you say and tuck yourself under his chin. You hear the book fall to the floor and make no move to get it. “You need a shower,” you complain instead, nose pressed to his throat.

He does, but he doesn’t smell bad. He smells like himself, sweat and sawdust and cedar, the faintest whiskey. It’s a human scent, almost comforting. And Joel has, frankly, smelled much worse.

He just locks one thick arm around your waist, the wide flat of his palm against your spine. “In a minute.” But he’s breathing deeply already, halfway to a place you can’t reach. His arm tightens, his head tips down heavily against yours, solid and comforting, mostly asleep.

“In a minute,” you echo.

Joel wakes to a dark living room, a chill creeping in around the edges of the room. You’re still pressed tight against him, though he can’t see how with the way you’re practically halfway onto the floor. If he loosens his arm even a fraction, you’ll go tumbling down.

He considers doing it for just a second, suppressing a chuckle at the unimpressed reaction it would garner, the wet cat look of anger and indignation that would pull over your face.

Instead, he nudges you awake, rubbing your back until you start to stir. The bedroom would be warmer for you, now that the fire had burned down. He hates the thought of you cold, always has. “Let’s go to bed,” he says in your ear.

He doesn’t know exactly where you came from before. It doesn’t really matter anymore, doesn’t hold any weight or meaning, since most places are just empty graveyards that can’t really be returned to. But wherever you came from gave you a pretty little accent, a twang in your voice that’s different from his.

It’s something he loves about you, sounds like home.

“Joel,” you complain, brow scrunching. “You just go on and leave me be.” It’s almost funny, how much twangier it is when you’re close to sleep.

“Can’t do that, honey. C’mon now,” He pats your hip and keeps a steady pressure on your back until you grumble and start to sit up. “Go up to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

You’re rubbing your eyes, leaning back against his legs. “Why?”

“Fire,” he nods to the still glowing embers as he sits up. “Don’t want the house burnin’ down. Wanna make sure Ellie got home all right, too.”

“Okay.” He keeps a hand on your waist until you’ve got your tired feet under you, still mostly asleep, he thinks, as you balance with one warm hand on his bent knee until you stumble away towards the stairs.

He sighs and tends to the fireplace, then checks out the kitchen’s back window to see the glow of Ellie’s lights on, before following you up the stairs. He expects a dark bedroom but you’re propped up against the headboard with the bedside lamp on, changed into sleep clothes but definitely still awake. “It ain’t that late,” you say when he arches a brow at you and leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “And it’s my turn,” you hold up the battered copy of the book you’ve been slowly reading to him.

“It’s all right—”

“Uh-uh,” you interrupt. “Go shower. Then come here.”

He holds up his hands. “Yes ma’am.”

“Mhm,” you hum and flip idly through the book, no longer looking at him.

There’s a hope lodged in his heart that you’ll fall back asleep while you wait. It ain’t that he doesn’t want to hear you read. He’s invested in that story now, and he loves your voice even if he didn’t. The cadence and shape of the words, the rumble of your voice against his ear is a nice balm to drift off to.

What's more is that you deserve the sleep, that he shouldn’t have fallen asleep on you downstairs.

There’s a lot of things about you that scare him. How much he cares for you, for one. But the thing bothering him most now is the one that stares back at him when he looks in the mirror.

Jesus, it’s like everyday there’s more gray in his hair, his beard, even his chest hair is starting to go white and gray. It’s like everyday, he looks and gets a little bit older.

It’s goddamn embarrassing the way he worries about it, the way it bothers him. He doesn’t remember aging, isn’t really sure when it happened. Maybe he spent so many years avoiding the mirror he missed it.

And, well, it wasn’t important before. But now that he has time to think beyond the next day, the next meal, he thinks about it. About how fucking old he looks, especially next to you.

You aren’t younger than him, not but maybe a couple years, if you are at all—another thing that doesn't matter anymore, birthdays and age and counting the years—but you don’t look your age. Your hair has retained its color, aside from the very artful looking gray starting to creep in at your temples, just barely there. Your face isn’t lined, not like his anyway, delicate, graceful little lines by your eyes, instead of the deep creases that crack up his. You don’t seem to ache in the same way he does, either. You don’t seem to feel old.

Maybe that’s why he’s so set on working himself down to the bone over chopping that wood, to prove he was still worth something to you, worth keeping around. Proof that he could keep up with what needed keeping up with.

He watches himself in the mirror, the lines under his eyes and across his forehead, age creeping in around the edge of him like a slow poison. The way you look at him sometimes. . .he knows you think about it too, know it too. You had been in the yard before dinner, eyes locked on him, a look on your face he couldn’t quite get a read on.

It worries him. Makes him sharp with you when he should be the opposite.

It’s embarrassing, really, the way he thinks about it, hates the way your eyes linger on him and feels too fucking self-concious about it to just ask you what you’re thinking. Maybe he just doesn’t want to know.

He glances away from his reflection, a sigh heavy in his chest. He needs a damn haircut, if nothing else.

He makes quick work of the shower, dressing in something warm because he’s always cold, even if that's just another thing he won’t admit to and that is an aversion that gets worse as the years go by.

You gave him a scarf recently, blue and soft, and he wears it because he likes the way you look at him when he leaves in the morning with it on.

When he pushes the door open, you’re still awake, curled up on his side of the bed, book held open with one hand. “Thought we were supposed to do that together,” he says mildly.

“I’m just re-reading where we left off.”

“Mm,” he sits down at your hip. “Scooch.”

You move over just enough for him to lie down, which he does with a huff and a groan. “You got that whole other side there, you know.”

“I like being close to you.”

“Well it ain’t like I’m far. Now c’mon, move it.”

“Cranky.”

“Thought it was crabby?”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “Real funny. Y’know sometimes I don’t even know if y’like me at all.”

The way you say it makes something sting in his chest, a sharp little barb wedged between two of his ribs.

You start to move further away, like he asked, when he hooks an arm around your waist, props himself up over you, tangled up in the middle of the bed like you’d end up anyway. “Like ain’t exactly the word I would use.”

A wicked smile pulls the corners of your mouth up. “What word would you use then?”

“Hm,” he looks you over, feels the curve of your thigh, the hook of your knee, press against his hip. “I think you already know what word I’d use.”

You reach up to cup his face between hands that have seen too much violence. The skin of your palms is softer than he remembers it being just a few years before, calloused thumbs sweeping in a tender arch over the apples of his cheeks. “Mm, I think I do.”

“Yeah, y’do,” he agrees, and then lets you pull him down against your chest. The comb of your hand slides through his hair, against the back of his neck and the tops of his shoulders. It’s nice. It’s the kind of affection, attention he’s not sure he’s ever had before.

Not since he was a kid, at the very least. He’s never been the one that got held, just the one doing the holding, and he hates that he likes it.

And he does like it, craves it.

Things like this, they were so easy to get used to, and the hardest thing in the world to adjust to. The mix of it, the easiness and the hard knot of disbelief and potential rejection, make for a disarming cocktail.

You’re so warm and soft under him, the scent of you wild and homey, like cooking and chilled air and soap.

“You smell better,” you tease and pinch his bicep. “You awake?” He feels you shift, book cracked open over his shoulder. “Or am I reading to the ghosts?”

“You got me,” he mutters, curling his arms around your waist, behind your back, and you arch just a little to accommodate him. The material of your shirt rucks up under his hands, soft, scarred skin warm where he touches you. “I’m listenin’.”

You rub the back of his neck again but don’t start reading. He waits a few minutes, listening instead to the sound of your breath, even and slow in your chest, the tap of your heartbeat against his ear.

“You forget how or somethin’?” He asks eventually.

You shake your head, and the paperback comes to rest against his spine. “Have I ever said—” You stop and he waits, but nothing more is forthcoming, just your silence and the kind way you touch him.

“What?”

When he picks his head up, your brows are tilted down over your eyes; you’re frowning at him. “Nothin’,” you dismiss, massaging two fingers against his temple, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Said what?” He tries not to have a bite in his voice about it but he does anyway. Just a little bit of a snap, because he worries whatever you might have not said are all the things he thinks about himself.

You shrug. “I just think the gray looks real nice on you.” You twist a strand of his hair around your finger and tug gently.

He huffs, expecting you to grin at him so he knows you’re just teasing him. But you don’t, your gaze is reverent, adoring where it’s focused on him. “It just makes me look fuckin’ old,” he disagrees and sounds bitter about it.

“No, it means you got to get older, Joel. Not everyone gets the privilege.”

That takes the wind out of his sails. He doesn’t say anything else, words collecting in the back of his mouth like a little ocean he can’t seem to make drain away.

“It makes you look. . .rugged,” you decide, tracing the curve of his jaw. “Handsome.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah.” Another tug. “I love it.”

“Mm.” He clears his throat, tips his head down against your body again, the trapped wing of your heart fluttering faster than it had been before. “All right. Get to readin’ now.”

It makes it just a little bit harder to hate, if that look in your eyes was appreciation, affection. Maybe that’s what he’d seen in your face earlier, and couldn’t quite recognize it.

You tap the book against the back of his head. “Idiot,” you sigh, and then start to read.

It’s some kind of thriller, something you’d started at the beginning of October and still haven’t entirely worked through. The plot is a little ridiculous, all things considered. After all the horrors he’s seen, this book doesn’t do much to thrill him, though it is entertaining in its own way, maybe a little funny.

He’d have to find something new when you’re done with it. Something seasonally appropriate, if he can help it. Some kind of Hallmark holiday romance ordeal. He’d like to hear you giggle through reading something like that out loud.

Yeah, even if it keeps him up, he’d find you something like that.

When your voice fades, each word cottony and long in your mouth with fatigue, he reaches back to pluck the book from your hands, and then flick out the light.

“Baby,” you coo, and it’s nice to hear, nice to have you reaching for him in the dark, kissing him goodnight, because he’s yours, and you like him fine.

What’s the other word? The one that’s decidedly not like?

“Love you,” you say against his mouth, the edge of your lip sticking wetly to his. “Even though you’re always crabby.”

He loves you, too, even though he’s cranky about the whole goddamn world.

💕 Thank you for reading! I would love to hear any thoughts you might have! 💕

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

2K notes · View notes

washeduphazbin · 1 month

Note

I binged through your amazing writing and would love to request something, if you don't mind? Adam x girlfriend how he would react to getting his wings caressed for the first time? Maybe getting inspired to do some more spicy caressing of his own?👀

First of all thank you so much! I’m so happy you like my stuff and YES I CAN ABSOLUTELY DO THIS. I hope you like this it might be a little different than what you had in mind! ;)

CONTENT WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. ADAM BEING ADAM, NSFW CONCEPTS, MASTURBATION ON ADAMS.

---

Soulmates were a weird concept, especially for Angels. Theoretically Adam knew he had one, thought it was Lilith, WRONG, thought maybe God made Eve for him next, ALSO WRONG! So Adam just stuck to sucking face and fucking the tightest pussy of the hottest winners in heaven and that was fine…until you came into the picture. You weren’t a normal Winner, in fact you weren’t a winner at all but one of the Seraphim training under Sera. At first he was going to dump as soon as he got what he wanted; even if that meant facing the wrath of Sera…but for some reason you were different.

You weren’t as charmed as many of the others when he pulled out his first man and first dick status, in fact you seemed almost indifferent to it.

Unfortunately for the both of you Adam loved to hate a challenge.

Before the Angel knew what had hit him you had claimed the title of his girlfriend before he even fully understood what he was asking.

But fuck he understood the Soulmate Concept now. For someone one who was created with pure goodness in your soul, to judge right from wrong, you were one cold, calculated bitch when it came to the idea of exterminating Sinners. He thought you’d fight with him on the concept but instead you were in agreement, heaven was for Winners only, and that was that. Plus who cared if a few Sinners died, they were overpopulated anyway.

It also helped that you had the tightest pussy he’s ever stuck his massive dick into and the best mouth to suck him off. He’d reciprocate…sometimes…only if you begged.

“Sugartits?”

“Hm?” You stretched your arms above your head, you were wearing one of his shirts, it was way too big on you hanging off your shoulders. He grinned lazily his hand sliding up your thigh, “Adam.” You warned,

“What?” He laughed, “you can’t just sit there looking all sexy and expect me not to try to fuck ya.”

“I can expect that because I just sucked you off like three times.” You raised a brow, “and you came in my mouth. Three times. Which shouldn’t be possible anatomically and not to mention I swallowed.”

“Dickmaster baby.” He pointed to his crotch with a sly grin, “gotta live up to my namesake.”

“Well, live up to it another time. My pussy is off limits for now.” Adam groaned, “not my fault you went too hard yesterday dickmaster and I’m not in the mood today. Now Roll over.”

“Hey we’ve talked about this you’re not putting anything in my butt.” He bristled, his wings puffing out behind him, you huffed.

“I’m not asking to peg you dumbass I’m asking you to turn around so I can groom your wings.”

“…groom my wings?” Adam blinked a few times giving you an odd look. “The fuck you on about?”

“Have you never groomed yourself?”

“No…” he watched your nose scrunch up,

“Yeah. I can tell. You’re lucky I love you,” he watched you lean forward and peck his lips Adam chuckled brushing his stubble against your cheek. “Adam!”

“Love ya’ too.” He grinned reaching out and squeezing your ass before turning around, spreading his wings wide, “be gentle with me.”

“Whatever you say, you delicate flower.” You grumbled as he snickered, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Before you began grooming him, he felt you reach around the pudge of his stomach, kissing the side of his neck adoringly. Adam swallowed and felt a chill of pleasure run down his spine. " I love you.” You said more earnestly than before, eyes softening “Just try to relax and enjoy this.”

“I love you too…” he grumbled softly, his eyes fluttering as your fingers ran through the feathers at the base of his back. Adam instantly felt his body drop as your hands pulled at the mussed feathers. "Fuck doll, whatever you're fucking doing, keep doing it." Adam panted,

"I'm preening you." You mused, "First time?"

"Apparently. Shit, this is totally turning me on; you should do this tits out. While we face a mirror-" He tried to turn to look at you but you forced his head back to its original position. Adam let out an annoyed sound,

"Gross. Only you'd find basic hygiene a turn-on." You teased, pulling out a few loose feathers as he groaned at the feeling, you hummed placing one of his golden feathers behind your ear. You leaned forward to pepper his face in feather light kisses, he grunted but pressed his back against your body, his own way of asking for more attention. With nimble fingers you continued to preen and clean his feathers, his nails dug into the tops of his thighs.

A part of him wanted to flip you over and pound your body into the mattress until you’re crying, but another part of him didn’t want you to stop touching him. He wanted you to continue preen him, making him look pretty, but as you continued Adam felt his body burn with need as his dick strained against his boxers.

He couldn’t even fuckin’ ask you to suck him off without you scolding him.

“Anddddd done!” You hummed brushing your fingers through his wings one last time before hopping off the bed. Adam let out a sharp breath through his nose spreading out his wings, they already felt a million times lighter than they had in eons. You stood in front of him, looking all cute and sexy in his oversized shirt hiding your thighs and panties from view. With a crooked grin he grabbed you by the waist with his giant hands and pulled you into his lap, you giggled slotting your arms around his neck. “Hi baby,” you cooed tilting your head innocently to the side like you couldn’t feel his raging boner against your thigh. He clicked his tongue in annoyance flicking the golden feather tucked behind your ear,

“You gonna fuckin’ keep that thing behind your ear all day?”

You pouted, adorably, and brushed your finger against the feather in his hair. Adam shivered and swore he could still feel your phantom hands against his sensitive wings. “I was planning on keeping it there forever I’ll have you know.” You crossed your arms over your chest, “that way everyone knows who. I. Belong. Too.” You poked his stomach for emphasize and he let out a low, possessive growl. His nails digging into your hips underneath the shirt you wore,

“Fuck doll face. That’s so fuckin’ sexy. You’re turning me on SO much right now.” He grinned all teeth and blown pupils. Another giggle from your lips as your white wings brushed against his cheeks in a soothing manner.

“I can tell dickmaster extraordinaire.” You drew your finger down across his lips, his smile turned into a frown he knew that look in your eyes all too well.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

“Unfortunately I have a very important, cannot reschedule meeting with Sera.” You mused squishing his cheeks between the palms of your hands as he growled. “Love you don’t wait up!” You slipped out of his arms before Adam could snatch you back up and tell Sera to go fuck herself.

Not really he was too intimidated by the Seraphim to try disobeying her to her face.

The absolute struggle of dating an actual angel and who wasn’t just a Winner. He grumbled as you snapped your fingers changing back into your normal attire. His shirt was folded nicely on the bed next to him, he snatched it up, blatantly sniffing it. It smelled like you, him and sex the man could get off on just that smell alone.

“Be good and I might let you fuck me later.”

“If I even want to fuck your sorry ass later.” Adam grunted indignantly leaning back on the bed.

“The day you don’t you wanna fuck something with a pulse I’ll personally call God down here because that’s a goddamn miracle.” You argue blowing him a kiss, to which he rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Maybe I just won’t wanna fuck you specifically what about that. Your pussy’s not that good.” Adam flipped you off as you raised an eyebrow, an arm resting on your hips.

“Oh yeah? That a challenge?”

An internal war raged in Adam’s head. On one hand go all in, don’t let the sexy broad in front of him win. Don’t admit her pussy squeezes him like a vice and is better than all of his previous wives pussy’s before her. Don’t admit that he’d probably let himself fall just for a chance to be with her again if it came to that. The thought alone made him want to gag; on the other hand admit she’s right and no one will ever compare to her and she’s ruined all other woman for him forever.

“Fuck you.” He settled on.

“Later if you behave.” You promised spreading your wings with a coy grin before sliding out of the room. Adam fell back against the bed with a loud groan, life’s a fuckin’ bitch.

—

Baby cakes: It’s running later than I thought. I’ll make it up to you I promise, there’s some things I need to work out.

Original Dick: You’ve gotta be kidding me Ive been waiting all day for you

Baby Cakes: I know :( I’m sorry. Can you entertain yourself until I get back?

Original Dick: I don’t wanna jerk off. I wanna be in your pusy

Original Dick:*pussy

Baby Cakes: I know and I’m SORRY. When I get back promise you can do whatever you want.

Original Dick: anything?

Baby Cakes: …yes. Don’t make me regret it Adam.

Original Dick: at least gimmie some good jack off material. A nude? Titty pic? Anything?

Baby Cakes: You’re such a pain in my ass. Give me twenty.

—

With the deal struck Adam figured it wouldn’t be such a pain to relieve himself before you came back from your meeting. After all who knew how long you’d be held up, and he didn’t need much for what planned to do with you.

That however was for another time and place. He settled on the bed with a loud sigh stretching his arms up into the sky, and spreading his large wings across the bed. Adam waved his hand summoning the shirt you wore earlier and brought it up to his nose, it still smelled and he groaned into the fabric. He was tempted to never wash it again, his wings fluttered almost like they were demanding your fingers caress them like you did earlier. Adam grunted staring down at his large digits knowing almost immediately he wouldn’t derive the same pleasure as before, but touched his own wings nonetheless. He shivered at the sensation and it wasn’t quite as unpleasant as he suspected but nothing like earlier.

Still there were hints of arousal as he preened himself; massaging the base of his wings moving upwards towards the tips. His other hand lowering down into his boxers, he wasn’t quite hard yet but he was certainly getting there.

His phone buzzed, Adam had half a mind to turn it off but seeing it was from you had his dick pulsing. He snatched his phone unlocking it quickly only to be met with a picture of you, face flushed in an empty conference room. Your shirt was pulled all the way up exposing your white lace bra and the swell of your perfect fuckable tits. Adam grinned feeling his dick grow in his hand, now that’s what he liked to see, he pumped himself a few times hissing at the sensation. His finger swirled around the head smearing pre all over himself, “come on baby. Show daddy some more, can’t get off to just your bra pic, that’s weak sauce.”

Like you read his mind another buzz, followed by another picture, this time your bra was completely off showing off your boobs, his feather clutched between your two fingers as your tongue licked up the plumes. Your other two fingers seemed to be buried in your pants, clearly teasing your clit.

Baby Cakes: Don’t wanna wait till later big daddy. Want you now :( stupid meeting. Just wanna be your cock slut.

Fuckkkkkkkkk. Adam groaned releasing his phone momentarily so he could moan into the palm for his hand. His cock throbbed as he reread the words over and over again, he could almost hear you saying them as you rode his thick dick whimpering so nicely with your wings spread behind you. Adam began pumping his dick faster, thrusting into the palm of his hand, squeezing it trying to mimic the feel of your tight, hot cunt.

It wasn’t working.

He cursed again, bucking his hips desperately trying to chase the release he’s wanted all fucking day.

Another buzz. This time a voice memo, shit how were you finding time to send him all this and not enough time to call off the meeting and come home.

Adam chose to ignore the fact lunch and dinner beaks existed.

He hit play already thrusting into his hand and choked back a sound as your high pitched whine played loudly through the speaker of his phone. You WERE playing with yourself, you fuckin’ brat, you were soooo getting punished.

You were moaning softly trying to be as quiet as possible, he could hear the squelch of your fingers dipping in and out of your wet pussy, he new you were dripping, clenching around fingers much too small to satisfy yourself at this point. Almost like he was willing you to hear him Adam began to speed up to match your pace, heavy breathing mixed with your own as he heard your breathing hitch before letting out a shuddering moan. He wasn’t long after, spilling all over his hand and boxers, “she’s so fuckin’ dead.” He said with a grin spreading across his face whipping his cum soaked hand on the bedspread next to him.

It was your bedspread after all.

—

I hope this lived up to some of your expectations my dear. I throughly enjoyed writing it, next out will be Lucifer x reader x Lilith poly relationship and I am very excited! If you wanna be tagged in that just let me know! <3

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x y/n #hazbin hotel x you #x reader #adam x reader #adam x you #answering asks #hazbin hotel adam x reader #hazbin adam x reader #Hazbin Adam x you #spicy content #nsft #not safe for tumblr #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel

437 notes · View notes

f4riedimples · 7 months

Text

one of the girls

Pairings:Sam carpenter x f!reader

summary:truthfully ,after months of hooking up you never knew if Sam would ever officially be yours.

Inspired song:one of the girls-Jennie,The Weeknd,lily-rose depp.

a/n:(reader is 19, Sam is 25)

warnings:friends with benefits?,small smut/suggestiveness, secrets, jealousy

‘We don't gotta be in love, no I don't gotta be the one, no I just wanna be one of your girls tonight’

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Yes, you had feelings for Sam but you’d never thought it’d turn out like this.

I mean- why would she decide to do this herself anyways? It all felt so unreal. you’d known each other since before she left her home 5-6 years ago.

and ever since she was back you couldn’t help but have feelings for her. She was everything that you wanted.

“Right there- right there, fuck.” She had whispered to you as you continued to please her, switching to whatever you knew she truly wanted deep down.

she loved to be dominant but you knew she’d also love to be taken care of so you decided to do whatever you can to please her.

‘Give me tough love Leave me with nothin' when I come down My kinda love Force me and choke me 'til I pass out’

after you made her feel good you both just would simply put on your clothes. No aftercare, sometimes no words.

nothing.

after you both came out of her room you helped yourself to a bottle of water in her fridge. You really needed it after all.

If you were gonna be honest as much as you loved doing whatever Sam asked of you, you wanted so bad sometimes for more. A real relationship. You hated how attached you were getting.

You at least would’ve loved some sex that felt soft, loving, and of course comforting. Not just sex that’s more…freaky. Not just the degrading words that would turn you on, the way she would spank you, the way she made you feel the way no one else could.

it felt good in the moment but you wanted more.

but you might never speak on that.

“hey y/n.” You turned around as she said your name, waiting for what she was gonna say next.

“can you hand me a bottle of water?” She panted as she wiped a bit of sweat off her brow. You handed her some water and she eagerly almost chugged it before chuckling.

“hey is it okay if I take a shower real quick before Tara and the others come back?” You asked almost shyly before she sent you a smile.

“of course.” You smiled and made your way to the shower trying not to think about everything running in your head.

after getting out of the shower you quickly threw on some clothes and excited the apartment, giving Sam a rushed good bye as you power walked out of the apartment.

Sam on the other hand…well. She didn’t know how to feel. Or what she felt.

the next day you had come over with the rest of the group to hang out before going out to the club that night. As soon as you arrived and Sam answered the door you saw Danny in the room.

you stared, almost glared at the muscular boy before Sam interrupted all the thoughts that were coming to your petty little head.

“y/n, come in!” She smiles seemingly not knowing what you were staring at. Once you had got in and set your bag down you hugged Mindy before sitting on the couch next to her.

You guys had quite a fun time for a while. All until when you weren’t paying attention Sam was taking Danny to her room.

your eyes widen as it felt like your worst fears were coming true right in front of your eyes.

no one noticed at first until you had this almost upset look on your face. Chad turned to you concerned thinking that you were about to cry or maybe even scream.

“Y/n? You okay? You seem pretty tense.” He asked concerned as you just shook your head and sighed with a chuckle.

“I’m fine. Thanks Chad.” You sent him a smile at his caring nature and also because to night was supposed to be fun.

and besides, Sam wasn’t yours anyways. Why would you be mad over someone who doesn’t belong to you?

once Sam and Danny had came out of the room after what felt like an eternity you had all went to the club.

while there you had some shots but decided to separate from the group.

In the corner of your eye you had saw Sam dancing pretty suggestively with someone else. There was so many people around you that you could only focus on Sam in the face she was making as she was touching the person.

“she’s not yours, she’s not yours, she’s not yours…she’s not…” you said in your mind as your eyes filled with tears. You didn’t know wether you wanted to tell that to the person or how much you were telling it literally to yourself.

she wasn’t yours. She wasn’t anybody’s.

you were just lucky your friends weren’t currently seeing you. You made your back to the bar and ordered another shot.

“thank you!-“ you almost squealed trying to be happy and cheer up. As you took the shot and felt the alcohol burn your throat you tried to get out of the sad mood and shake it off.

you felt a tap on your shoulder. You didn’t wether or not you hoped it was Sam before turning around to reveal…

some random guy.

he had a smirk like smile on his face and you already knew he wanted to dance.

you really wanted to roll your eyes.

“sorry. I’m not good at dancing.” You lied as you tried not to have an attitude. But of course he wouldn’t let up that easily.

“oh come on sexy. I saw you dancing a few minutes ago. I know you got moves.”

you sighed. “Sorry I just really don’t wanna dance right now.

the guy rolled his eyes with an attitude.” Cmon! I could really make it worth your while. Besides…maybe if you want we could go back to my place and you could experience some real fun.” His breath reeked of alcohol. You could tell by his clothes, scent, messed up tattoos and teeth that it wouldn’t be happening.

he was clearly fucked up in more ways than one. He yelled at the bartender to get you both shots of one of your least favorite alcohols.

You tried to be patient and talk out of this. “Listen man I’m just not interested. You’re not my type. Keep your shots for yourself. I can buy my own.” You argued with a slight attitude.

he couldn’t help but groan. “Damn. Why don’t chicks like a real man who’ll take care of you?” He then mumbled under his breath as he started to walk away. “Ugly bitch.”

you gripped the bar table in anger as you tried to keep a your emotions from the past weeks at bay.

you quickly turned around and ordered another shot from the bartender Toni who had a really sorry look on their face feeling bad for you.

as you took your next shot you heard Tara shout your name happily.

“y/n cmon! Why are you just sitting there by yourself?” It wasn’t anything to be rude or sarcastic but you still felt angry at it. But you knew that it wasn’t her fault for the predicament you were in.

you turned around and sighed before taking another shot and smiling. “Let’s party!”

now you were currently dancing with Mindy in not a too suggestive way. Everyone around you could tell it was just playful and friendly.

she was behind you as you two danced to the current song that was playing. It felt so good to let loose that you started to forget about the whole Sam situation.

that is until she took your hand and led you to another part of the club.

you were shocked and confused in your drunk mind. “Sam? What are you doing?”

“dancing. With you.” You could tell that she was probably not too happy but you ignored it and made sure not to make her mood worse. you guys were dancing like a couple who were ready to get it on. You felt her hands on your body and saw how she sent a slight glare at Mindy.

was she jealous? Couldn’t be. Her and Mindy probably just had an argument recently or for all you could know it probably wasn’t even aimed directly at Mindy.

you were almost getting turned on with the way Sam was dancing against you and grabbing you. It made you wanna kiss her so bad. And you almost did until you realized how angry could be.

‘Lock me up and throw away the key *She* knows how to get the best out of me I'm no fools for the world to see Trade my whole life just to be’

you were so ready and hoping Sam would take you back to her apartment right then and there when everyone got back and wouldn’t notice. But after a few minutes you saw her staring on another direction with a much different gaze.

you knew that this would probably be the end of your dancing now and you were right as Sam pulled away and walked off.

you were sad again. You weren’t gonna do anything crazy to get her jealous again. No. You were just gonna go back over to your friends and dance in a much more friendly and less provocative way.

you were once again trying to feel better but everyone around you could tell that was a mask to hide how you truly felt.

‘Top of the world but I'm still not free It's such a secret that I keep Until it's gone, I can never find peace Brace my whole life just to be’

when you all got back to Sam’s your drunkenness had already died down from all of your emotions on everything.

you so desperately wanted to talk to Sam before you all got back into the car.

but you’d just embarrass yourself or at least that’s what you felt.

you wanted so badly to move on. Get away. Stop it. But you knew that it would be such a bitch to leave. Not when you and Sam had already done so much.

you were just thankful that she didn’t try to bring back whoever she was dancing with at the club.

you hopped into the shower first and got rid of all the little bit of sweat from your time parting at that club. even as the drunken state your mind had was fading you couldn’t help but think about if Sam came in her right now.

seeing you like this. But not just for some hook up to end the night. No. Maybe to…finally be official?

You knew it was beyond stupid so you tried to get that hopeful thought out of your head.

as you came out of the shower you realized that as everyone was mostly asleep Sam had her door wide open.

she pulled you inside. “There you are princesca.” She whispered lustfully before kissing you passionately.

at least you were her girl for the night.

#scream vi #sam carpenter #sam carpenter smut #scream smut #sam carpenter x reader #samantha carpenter #chad meeks martin #mindy meeks martin #tara carpenter #sam carpenter x female reader

663 notes · View notes

zarla-s · 19 days

Text

Please don't take this as me being angry or trying to be rude or anything, but this ask is... baffling to me?? For a variety of reasons, haha.

Like, I don't set out to create a "fandom" around my stuff when I do things, I just do them cause I feel like it and sometimes I get lucky enough that people enjoy it and feel inspired to create or talk about it! I'm not really trying to fill a void left by one of these "fandoms" by making a new "fandom" around things I make, I'm just doing stuff.

The idea of a stockpile of interests getting too big is also bizarre to me? Like... for an example of both things, you can watch Stamp on the Ground, it's chock full of all kinds of weird obscure interests of mine I just put in there because I liked them, and I since have many many more. There isn't really a limit to how many interests you can have!

Mentioning abandoning TF2 is also very funny to me because I kind of already did that once?? When I started drawing it again in 2023 I was coming back to it, the last time I drew anything for it was 2009. Twelve years where I didn't even touch it! Starting up again was the last thing I expected and yet here I am!

Which relates to the greater point I guess which is that my interests and inspiration don't just die and disappear, they just go dormant. They're always waiting there for the right cue to wake them up, and I can never predict when it happens. TF2 is the most recent example! But Vargas is a long-running one, I take huge hiatuses from it where I don't write or draw or think about it for a long time, but it's always there in the back of my mind. I went absolutely nuts for it around 2020 and then it went back to sleep for the most part, but I still get ideas every now and then. It's not gone. It's just taking a break.

All the things I like and make stuff for are like that. There are a few I don't see myself coming back to any time soon, but then again I thought that about TF2 and now I've made the most elaborate site I've ever made for it. I can't predict these things. What'll be next? I have no idea. MGS again? StarCon2? Ace Attorney? Or maybe it'll be something new? Who knows!

And I think describing one of those "fandoms" as crumbling and dying is a bit unfair... I don't think of it like that. I mean, I started Vargas in 2003 and I last updated it in 2021 and I'm still hearing from new people that just got into it! All the stuff I've made is still "alive" in that way. I do feel guilty in that transition period between one interest and another because I feel like I'm disappointing people who followed me for that one thing though, haha. But what can you do? Gotta do my thing! Follow where my heart leads me! Not everyone's going to be along for the ride, and that's fine.

(Those of you have stuck around through all my different interests, I appreciate you deeply <3)

#asks and answers #i've been thinking about an old dead lj rp i was in ages ago recently for example #where does the heart take us...

386 notes · View notes

mellowsaturns · 8 months

Text

at the end of the day

summary: after another failed date, you run into bucky barnes on the way home and the two of you get caught in the rain

warnings: fluff, dancing in the rain, talks about love, romcom vibes i hope, pining bucky

wc: 1.7k

a/n: inspired by the talk @jadedvibes and i had a while ago heheh. men suck sometimes but we gotta put our trust in rom-communism and that everything will work out at the end :)

How many horrible dates will you go on to realize that you're never going to have your happy ending?

The thought plagued you as you walked down the street. You were going to give up on love completely this time, you promised yourself.

You were deep in thought when a soft voice interrupted your pitiful reverie.

“Oh?” you said, eyes widening in surprise. “Bucky, what are you doing here?”

A light chuckle filled the air between the two of you before he spoke. “I live in this neighbourhood, doll.”

You mentally smacked yourself on the forehead. “Oh, right. I forgot.”

His mouth curved into an amused grin before he took a good look at you. “What are you doing here?” he asked, but he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

You looked down at your outfit, one so different from the usual attire you have on at the Tower. “Isn’t it kinda obvious?” you teased, though your voice’s laced with defeat. “I was on a date.”

He hummed, “And how’d it go?”

“Let’s just say there isn’t going to be a second one,” you answered, finishing off with a sigh.

Bucky winced. “M’sorry it didn’t go well.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you said, “It… it happens a lot, I’m used to it.”

His brow creased in confusion. “Used to what?”

Did you really have to lay out your shitty love life in front of Bucky Barnes?

You twiddled your thumb nervously. “Going on bad dates,” you stated, “Never finding anything meaningful from them. Always going home with the feeling of disappointment. You know, the usual.”

Bucky frowned. He never realized you had problems with the whole… dating thing. At least you didn’t look like it whenever he saw you around the Tower. You were a joy to be around—always surrounded by people. How could you possibly have problems with dating? Half the department was already in love with you. (Not that Bucky was keeping records on names or anything. Maybe a little.) If you had problems with love, then what about someone like him?

Now that you voiced your problem out loud, you felt a bit better. It’s not that you couldn’t find someone—there’s plenty of someones out there—but none of them made you feel special or seen. That spark you were always looking for seemed to be nonexistent.

Maybe the problem was that you were too picky, your standard was too high—too unrealistic.

Or maybe you were the thing you feared the most.

“Sometimes, I feel like there’s something wrong with me,” you confessed. “No, there must be something wrong with me. Maybe the stuff you see in movies does happen, just not to me because no one wants to put in that effort with me. Maybe, I’m unlovable.”

You never thought you would be confessing all this to him.

Bucky took a minute to digest your words before speaking again. “Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Looking into his eyes, you wondered if he truly meant it, or if he’s just being kind like he always was. And as if he could read your mind, “I mean it,” he added, reassuring you.

“Then why…”

“These people you go on dates with,” he jumped in, “They don’t even realize how lucky they are. You’re amazing,” he said, a gentle smile spreading across his face, “And if they don’t see that or don’t make you feel like you’re on top of the world, then I guess they weren’t that great to begin with. They don’t deserve someone as wonderful as you.”

You were speechless. Bucky and you weren’t strangers but calling him a friend seemed a bit too… intimate. You don’t even have his number for Christ’s sake. The two of you were just two people who worked in the same building and saw each other frequently and talked here and there. But why did his words mean more to you than any pep-talk your friends gave you?

“I-l—” you stuttered, “I don’t know what to say. I’m honoured that you think so highly of me.”

If you only knew what Bucky thought of you. He doesn’t really know when it happened, this growing feeling inside of him, but seeing you had become his favourite part of the job. He always tried to spark up small talk (much to everyone’s surprise) but the both of you were busy, always getting whisked away mid-conversation.

Today was the first time he saw you outside of work, in his neighbourhood nonetheless. Perhaps this was his chance—finally some alone time with you. He felt like there were a million things to say, but of course, it came out wrong, as it always does. “I always think about you.” When you raised an eyebrow at him, he corrected himself, “I-I mean I always think highly of you,” he corrected, a tinge of pink evident on his cheek.

A small chuckle escaped from you, and you had to look down bashfully, trying your best to hide your flusteredness. I always think about you.

You wondered why you never paid more attention to the Avenger who always had business in your department.

“That’s really sweet of you to say. If I’m being honest, I was genuinely ready to give up on love tonight,” you said with a small laugh.

Bucky swallowed. “Loo—” Before he could finish his sentence, something wet landed on top of his forehead. Then another one. And another one. It had started to rain. He could have sworn that wasn’t the predicted forecast tonight.

The two of you looked up, letting the steady gentle rain hit the surfaces of your skin. It was probably a good idea to find shelter, maybe stand underneath a roof for the time being until the unexpected summer rain went away.

But the two of you just stood there, completely still, looking ridiculous to onlookers. And then you bursted into a fit of laughter. “Sorry, it’s just… I always imagined what it would be like to be stuck in a storm.”

He grinned. “And how is it?” he yelled through the pitter-patter.

“Hmm. Not as romantic as I thought it’ll be,” you noted amusingly.

Bucky met your eyes for a moment, then swallowed a breath. “Dance with me?” he asked, extending a hand towards you.

You raised a brow, heart skipping a beat at his words. You would be lying if you said the hopeless romantic in you never imagined yourself in this position multiple times. You just never thought it would be with Bucky Barnes.

Taking his hand, he led you with small slow steps.

“You must’ve done this a lot back in your days,” you teased playfully.

Connecting his eyes with yours, he confessed, “This is the first time I’ve danced with someone in the rain.”

Bringing you in and out, and then lifting your arm to twirl you around while the water rippled beneath your feet, it felt like you were suddenly transported elsewhere. Like a movie you had seen on screen that had you swooning. Or a novel you had read late into the night with a gigantic smile on your face. You almost expected some low jazz to start playing soon. But even if it didn’t, it would’ve been fine, because you had the soft glow of moonlight peeking out from behind the clouds, the summer rain, and Bucky with you. It was already enough to set the scene.

He looked particularly boyish tonight with his hair sticking to his forehead. You had the urge to sweep the strands away.

You let out a small yelp when Bucky dipped you down before pulling you back up so you were pressed into his chest. You were glad the sound of raindrops masked your beating heart.

He was a bit rusty, he knew that. It has been over seventy-years since he danced with someone. He couldn’t believe how you would think no one wanted to put in the effort with you. He would dance with you in the rain all the time if that’s what you wanted. Would probably do anything you asked of him, if he was being honest.

You’re not a very good dancer, you had to admit. But Bucky was leading you through the whole thing, even smiling down at you when you accidentally stepped on his foot.

You wondered how many people this beautiful and charming being of a man had swept off their feet before. Hopefully, he still had space in his heart for you. Because you were completely wooed.

As the rain slowed down and sky started to clear ever so slightly, you realized that the spark you were always complaining about not feeling—it was here, in this very moment, ignited from the touches between the two of you. It was there the moment you took his hand. Giving him another sneaky glance, your eyes lit up like a thousand stars.

Maybe the right person was in front of you all along.

Bucky doesn’t know how long the two of you stood there in the aftermath, looking into each other's eyes. It’s the brightest thing in the city, he thought.

Moments later, you removed yourself from him. “Well, the rain stopped.”

“It certainly did,” he said, sounding faintly amused.

“I guess I should get going,” you said, though you were still lingering around.

Bucky, who was soaked to the bones, asked, “Should I take you home?”

You shook your head. “I’m okay. My place is only a few stations from here. Thank you for offering though.” Maybe next time.

Before you completely escaped from his vision, he shouted your name, causing you to pause in your steps and look over your shoulder. “I hope you’re not giving up on love.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to fight back a smile.

How could you?

Bucky Barnes gave you a million reasons to believe in love again.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes oneshot

814 notes · View notes

weemssapphic · 3 months

Text

Rough Day (A Catrissa Drabble)

Larissa Weems x wife!reader

Just a little drabble about Larissa shifting into a cat <3

Words: ~1k

Inspired by a conversation with @im-a-carnivorous-plant and her STUNNING catrissa art !! 😻 also definitely thought about Little Cat by @sapphos-ode whilst writing this!

You’re exhausted as you come home from work, locking the door to your apartment behind you and shrugging off your coat. As you kick off your shoes, you call out to your wife, who should be home by now - though you’re met with silence.

Frowning, you take a step towards the kitchen, nearly tripping over something at your feet. Your frown turns into a playful smile as you begin to laugh. Sitting at your feet and staring up at you is a large, fluffy cat, white as snow with wide, crystalline eyes. It meows as it begins to weave between your legs, rubbing against your calves.

“Riss, you’ve gotta stop almost tripping me,” you say with a laugh - your words are met with a soft meow as Larissa blinks in apology.

You’d known about Larissa’s shapeshifting abilities since the beginning of your relationship. Usually, she used them for more mundane things - becoming taller to reach the top shelves in your living room, or shifting her makeup on when she was running late.

One day, however, you’d come home to find your wife nowhere in sight - instead, a fluffy white cat was curled up at the center of your bed and dozing away. At the sound of your footsteps, the cat had startled and jumped off the bed, quickly shifting back into a very embarrassed looking Larissa. Once you’d managed to calm her nerves enough to stop blushing and stuttering out apologies, she’d explained that sometimes, when she’s alone, she likes to take the form of a cat - she can escape her worries about her stressful job and simply exist for a few hours.

Since then, and with a little encouragement from your side, she’s been shifting more frequently around you - she usually shifts back into human form soon after you come home, but occasionally she’ll stay as a cat for a little while longer, enjoying the way you can’t help but dote on her and snuggle her.

Today is no different.

You kneel down, reaching out your hand for her to sniff. You know it’s still your wife, but you can’t help but treat her as you would a normal cat, and she seems to like it. She sniffs your hand then throws herself against you, rubbing her head against your knuckles and narrowing her eyes. In turn you begin to scratch behind her ears, drawing a soft purr from her throat.

Picking her up, you hold her close to your chest - she rubs the top of her head against your jaw, a deep, satisfied purr rumbling from her chest. You have to admit, as you carry her to the bedroom, that she isn’t the only one getting some stress relief from the situation - her purrs instantly manage to calm and ground you, washing away any lingering thoughts about work or responsibilities.

Sitting on the bed, you set Larissa down beside you - she instantly curls into your side, looking up at you with wide, expectant eyes as you tell her all about your day. Every so often, she’ll let out an indignant mewl at something you’ve said, blinking slowly to show understanding - Larissa’s always been a good listener, and her cat form is no different.

You run your fingers through her silken fur, gently scratching behind her ears and watching as she tilts her head to the side to allow you better access, her eyes narrowing to slits. With a loud purr, she rolls onto her back, allowing you to stroke her fur and gently scratch her belly.

“You’re so cute, you know that?” you tease, your urges getting the better of you as you poke at the soft, pink pads of her paws. Larissa’s eyes widen and she swats at your hand, causing you to giggle and tease her more - she kicks her back legs at your hands and bites gently at your wrist.

“Ow! Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” you say with a laugh, withdrawing your hand as Larissa rolls back onto her stomach and glares up at you, looking very human in that moment. As you lean down to press a kiss to the top of her head, she instantly melts, pressing her forehead against you. When you pull away, she chirps gently and gets to her feet, stretching out and arching her back into the air before hopping from the bed with grace.

Within seconds, the cat is replaced by Larissa’s human form. You grin up at your wife, sitting at the edge of the bed and parting your legs to allow her to step between them.

“Hi, darling,” she coos warmly, resting her fingers underneath your chin and pushing it up as she leans down to steal a kiss.

“Hi, baby.” You giggle into the kiss, drawing a chuckle from Larissa’s lips.

Your hands come to rest on her waist and you push her back a step so that you can stand up, drawing her close once again and kissing her deeply, flicking your tongue against hers. “Rough day?” you guess - it usually is when she greets you in her cat form.

“Much better now,” she counters, smiling against your lips as she wraps her arms around your neck.

“I gotta say, I love you in every shape and every form… but I really do miss how soft your ears were, I just wanna pet them.”

Larissa laughs and rolls her eyes, a loving and playful smile plastered on her face as she looks down at you.

“Maybe we just need to get a cat or something…” The immediate furrowing of Larissa’s brow has you in stitches - you figured she’d react like this, and it’s adorable.

“Absolutely not,” she says with a faux-frown. “You’d have me competing for belly rubs in my own home?”

“You know I’d never do that to you, Riss.” You’re grinning as you place a tender, lingering kiss to her cheek, your eyes closing in bliss. When you pull away and open your eyes again, you find she’s shifted snowy white cat ears onto head, and you blush as you reach up to touch the silky fur with the tips of your fingers - they twitch beneath your caresses and Larissa hums in pleasure.

“Happy?” she asks with an amused smile, her eyebrow raised.

“Happy.”

Taglist: @alexusonfire @brienneswife @pro-weems-places @bigolgay @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @katie-bennet @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @michi2504 @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @sequoirius @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69 @Ssappling2004 @fictionalized-lesbian @i-like-reading @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @The_Demon_of_your_Dream @agathaandgwenslesbian @http-sam @Cute-catx @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @zillahofviolets-bayolet @scarlettssub @catechristiestuff @niceminipotato @barbarasstar @women-are-so-ethereal @thevillagegay @willowshadenox @lilfartbox1 @larissaoftarthweems @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @sweetderacine @daydream-cement @catechristiesstuff @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @sapphos-ode @mrs.prentiss @ilovetlcc @toutoubum @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @ladylarissaweems @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #catrissa #larissa weems drabble #drabble

289 notes · View notes

reminiscingtonight · 3 months

Text

Sex (With My Ex)

Rose Lavelle x Reader

Word Count: 1k

A/N: As promised, a Fletcher inspired Rose fic

[WOSO Masterlist]

[Come over to mine?]

You’re wide awake when your phone chimes.

You’ve been expecting the text.

While your teammates were busy throwing cleats around in the locker room, angry at yet another loss against the home team, you’ve been counting the minutes until you could see her again.

As quietly as you can, you get dressed. Just a simple sweatshirt and sweatpants, no need to dress to impress. It’s not like your clothes will stay on long anyways.

Sneaking out of your room is easy. Lu’s a heavy sleeper, and the gentle click of the door does nothing to wake her up.

The walk is short.

You’ve had the path memorized for months now. Every time you promise yourself it’ll be the last, but you still find yourself walking towards the familiar New York apartment.

Rose opens the door before you can even knock.

You raise an eyebrow at her. “A bit eager there, are you?”

Her hand fists in your sweatshirt, dragging you into a bruising kiss.

---

It’s silent in the car.

You keep your eyes glued firmly against your hands, knuckles turning white with how tight you’re gripping the steering wheel.

Rose doesn’t say a thing either.

It’s not like there’s much left to say. Conversations that were needed have already been done, everything wrapped up nice and sweet.

Everything but you and your relationship.

You’ve never known life without Rose. Even before you started dating she held a huge part in your life. She was your best friend before you fell in love and became something more. You’ll always love Seattle for being the place where you learned to love each other, but it’ll always be where everything fell apart as well.

You’re not sure when it happened.

Somewhere along the line the two of you lost track of what made you guys work. Between the sting of the championship loss and stress of figuring out your future contracts, you let something beautiful turn into a heart wrenching mess.

“You’ll always be someone I love.”

When Rose finally breaks the air you know she means it.

Rose has always loved wildly and unabashedly. She gave it all to your relationship. And you gave it your all too.

But sometimes your everything just isn’t enough.

When she finally looks at you, you can see the tears running down her cheeks. Even crying, Rose is still the prettiest person you’ve ever known.

You can’t stop yourself from reaching out, wiping away her tears as if removing their existence would absolve you of the guilt of letting this get so far out of hand.

You should tell her you want more time. You should tell her what you had in Seattle has never and will never be enough for you.

But the guilt of holding her back is stronger than the guilt of letting her go.

So you let her go.

“Don’t be a stranger when you come to New York, alright?”

“Call me and I’ll be there.”

A kiss is all Rose leaves you to remember her by. Your relationship fades with her departure, and you keep your eyes trained on her gray top as she gets tinier and tinier in the crowd until eventually you can’t see her anymore.

And it’s when you realize she’s finally truly gone that you let yourself break down.

---

“Leaving already?”

The low rasp has you turning around, one arm through your sleeve.

The beginnings of sunlight is starting to creep into the room, casting a golden hue over the sheets. Rose lays propped up onto her side, sleep-laden eyes peering your way with no judgment, just simple curiosity. You let yourself be swept back into her orbit, perching on the edge of the bed.

“I’ve gotta go catch my flight.”

She hums tiredly, letting out a soft groan as she sits all the way up. You keep your eyes trained firmly on her face, knowing better than to let it meet bare skin.

The two of you get dressed in silence. You know Rose has no real reason to put on her clothes again but you don’t comment on it. Her gaze feels heavy on your back as she follows you towards the front door.

Words build as you slip your shoes back on but you try to shove them down as deep as they’ll go.

Rose doesn’t need to know that you still think about her every day. She doesn’t need to know that you’re barely able to function, mind always bringing you back to the years she was still yours. She doesn’t need to know that you’re still so in love you’re willing to take whatever she wants to give you, even if it’s just late night physical relief with no possibilities of ever becoming something real again.

Right as your hand touches metal, you feel a weight on your waist.

When you turn, you come face to face with Rose. At first it looks like she’s going to say something. But then she pauses. Her eyes dart around your face as if she’s looking for something or trying to commit your face to memory.

Your eyes fall shut when her hand rises to your cheek. She’s hesitant at first, but you relax right into her gentle caress.

It feels familiar when Rose’s lips slot against yours, one hand curling posessively on your cheek while the other’s fingers habitually play with the wisps of hair on the back of your neck. Your hands drop to her waist, bringing Rose just a bit closer before your short kiss comes to an end.

For a second no words are said. You can feel the lump in your throat come back tenfold, heart already aching in your chest.

“Goodnight.” The words are whispered into the air you’re still sharing, every breath still feeling like a sacred moment between you two.

And just for a second, you’re still the person Rose fell in love with in Seattle.

You’re still planning your future, a little house somewhere on the countryside, matching rings sparkling in the sunlight.

Everything’s still right and you’re still everything Rose has ever wanted.

When the door shuts behind you, it feels like you’ve lost her all over again.

#rose lavelle x reader #rose lavelle imagine #woso x reader #woso imagine #uswnt x reader #uswnt imagine #Ace writes

188 notes · View notes

iloveapplejacks · 4 months

Text

WET DREAMZ

Inspired by Wet Dreamz by J.Cole

“it wasn't nothin' like that first time

She was in my math class

Long hair, brown skin with the fat ass

Sat beside me, used to laugh at mad jokes”

P1 P2 P3 P4

WARNINGS: None smut(coming soon)

"Chris bro, what class you got?"

Nate asks, as both boys did their signature handshake

"Math" he replies whilst rolling his eyes, Chris absolutely hated math

Nate lets out a chuckle before patting

Chris on the back,

"Listen, i'll see you at lunch?"

"Bet, bye bro" he says before turning around and making his way to maths

Chris enters Mr Martinez’s class and takes his usual seat at the back

He lets out a huff before pulling out his book and writing in today's date

After 5 minutes of allowing

everyone to trail in and take their seats

Mr Martinez speaks up.

"Ok class a quick announcement, a new student will be joining us, Sometime within this lesson"

The class began murmuring, most being comments about the mystery

student that was to be joining us soon

"I know, it's exiting that a new girl will be joining us but let’s not get distracted by that" Mr Martinez chuckles before handing out work sheets

"Thanks" Chris mumbles, putting his earphones in and beginning his maths sheet

After 20 minutes or so,

Mr Martinez collects in all the sheets

"Great work on that folks, at this rate these exa-" He's cut off by the door opening

Chris' as well as everyone else's eyes fall onto the door

A fairly short girl walks in, instantly catching Chris’ attention.

Her brownskin glistening in the sun and dark curly hair falling just below her upper back

"Is this Mr Martinez's class?" she asks, taking earphones out with her perfectly manicured finger

"Ah yes! You must be Y/N" Mr Martinez smiles, beckoning her to come in.

She laughs softly before coming in, a few boys in the class

muttering a "damn" as they walked past her

And damn indeed, Chris thought

She looked no taller than 5'2 but what she lacked in height, She sure made up with her full figure

Chris watched in the awe as she made her way to the empty seat by him.

Her curly hair bouncing and hips swaying as she walked.

"Chris, I trust that you'll be more than friendly and welcoming to Y/N" Mr Martinez chuckles before turning back to the board

"Hey, i'm Y/N" she smiles, extending a hand out to Chris who shook it before smiling

"Chris" he replies, his voice being surprisingly strong considering the thoughts running through his mind

The two continue to chat and snicker, much to the dismay of Mr Martinez who gave the pair one too many scoldings

Shortly after, the bell signalling the end of the lesson began to ring

"Well, I gotta go, I'll see you around?" Chris says putting his backpack on

"Sure, see ya" she says waving before the two go their separate ways

"Huh maybe maths lessons won't be that bad anymore" Chris thinks to himself smiling.

this my first time writing anything ahhhhhhhh. give me feedback lol.

#chris sturniolo #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets smut #chris sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo smut #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #Spotify

159 notes · View notes

cosmerelists · 8 months

Text

Favorite Musicals of Each Order of the Knights Radiant

We’ve already considered their favorite boardgames. But what about when it’s time to go to a musical? Which musical is preferred by each order?

1. Skybreakers: Les Misérables

They think Javert is the protagonist.

Szeth: Is it not strange that the musical continues for so long after the death of the protagonist?

Nale: Ah, but it is only thus that we see the real tragedy.

Nale: As all of the lawbreakers go on living, without punishment, due the the lawman not being willing to fulfill his duty.

Joret: It’s so horrifying.

Cali: Yes, hence the title.

2. Bondsmiths: West Side Story

It’s about two warring gangs being brought together.

Dalinar: Although it is sad, it is nice that it ends with all of the previously estranged people bonding over their loss.

Navani: And it really is through music that two warring sides can be brought together--perhaps even feel love for each other.

Dalinar: Yes.

Dalinar: Wait, what?

3. Edgedancers: Little Shop of Horrors

Or at least, it’s Lift’s favorite.

Lift: I dunno why Wyndle doesn’t like it--it’s about a plant!

Lift: A hungry plant too, so it has something in common with both of us!

Wyndle: I--

Wyndle: Never--

Wyndle: That--

Wynde: IT WAS SO HORRIFYING, MISTRESS!!!

Lift: It’s kinda in the title, dude.

4. Stonewards: The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee

They were surprised at how invested they got.

Badali: It may not be warfare, yet the efforts of these children are so inspiring.

Zu: They truly do fight until there is only one standing.

5. Elsecallers: A Little Night Music

Jasnah just thinks it’s neat.

Jasnah: I have to respect the effort of composing each song in 3/4 time.

6. Lightweavers: Phantom of the Opera

It’s about art, tortured souls, disguises...

Gaz: I gotta feel bad for the Phantom.

Shallan: What, because his love for Christine is doomed?

Vathah: Because it would suck to live in a sewer?

Gaz: Well sure.

Gaz: But also that one-sided mask.

Gaz: He must always feel like there’s something there in the darkness, something just out of his sight.

Shallan: ...

Vathah: ...

Gaz: N-Not that I would know anything about that, ha ha!

7. Truthwatchers: Lion King

They went for the costumes and ended up being blown away by the story.

Rlain: If Simba had just told the truth about his father’s death, all of that could have been avoided.

Stump: Yeah, well, kids are pretty stupid sometimes.

Renarin: Although by running away, Simba did get to be raised by two awesome gay dads, so that’s nice!

Stump: ...

Renarin: What?

8. Willshapers: Scarlet Pimpernel

It’s about rescuing innocent (?) aristocrats from being imprisoned and guillotined!

Eshonai: It is truly inspiring to see a group of humans working so hard to free other humans before their unjustified deaths.

Venli: That Madame Guillotine song is really catchy though.

Eshonai: Yeah, you almost can almost understand the killing there.

9. Dustbringers: Wicked

They appreciate the overall message.

Malata: Yeah, there really are two sides to every story!

Ral-na: And just because a power is popularly deemed destructive, that does not mean it is so.

10. Windrunners: Also Wicked

Although their reasoning is...different.

Bridge Four, in their barracks: SO IF YOU CARE TO FIND ME / LOOK TO THE WESTERN SKY

Bridge Four: AS SOMEONE TOLD ME LATELY / EVERYONE DESERVES THE CHANCE TO FLY!

Bridge Four: AND IF I’M FLYING SOLO / AT LEAST I’M FLYING FREEEE

Bridge Four: TO THOSE WHO’D GROUND ME / TAKE A MESSAGE BACK FROM MEEEEE

Bridge Four: TELL THEM HOW I AM DEFYING GRAVITY / I’M FLYING HIGH, DEFYING GRAVITY!

Kaladin (wiping away a tear): It’s just such a good song.

264 notes · View notes

art · 2 years

Photo

Creator Spotlight: @min-play

I’m Min! I’m an animator and storyboard rti t who also posts comics and fan art online. So far, I have worked on the Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and LEGO Monkie Kid. I run on AAA batteries.

Check out our interview with Min below!

How did you get your start in animation and storyboarding?

Fanart! My hyperfixations kept me drawing and posting online since I was around 16. Later I dropped my Computer Science degree to study animation. After graduating, I worked as an In-between Animator, Key Animator, and Storyboard Artist. My fanart of a couple funny skeletons played a big role in getting hired.

What do you wish you knew when you first started out creating content that you know now?

It’s ok to make mistakes. All the flaws in a drawing make it look much more interesting. Also, it’s a lot more fun than spending ages perfecting one line.

Have you ever had an art block? If so, how did you overcome it?

I always get 3 different flavors of art block (that I remember):

Art block from perfectionism

Sometimes there’s this self-enforced pressure that what you make has to be of a certain standard. Gotta loosen up and forgive yourself for not meeting an imaginary quality. Do it for the fun of it. Instead of thinking’ needs to be better,’ think ‘eh good enough lol.’ It’s cool to strive for improvement! Just don’t do it to the point it becomes self-deprecating.

Art block from burnout

Art hibernation! It’s ok to take breaks. Not every waking moment needs to be productive. Treat yourself to something yummy, hang out with people you’re comfortable with, or pick up a new anime series. Take the time to get some well-deserved rest.

Art block while drawing as a full-time job

WELL DANG.

Switch your ‘drive.’ If you’re running off on passion or interest as a motivator for work, that’s great! I do too! But also, it’s finicky. Set up routines for when that high runs out. I have a ‘Do task’ mode where I play a song or a movie I already watched on loop in the background (sometimes for weeks on end). I don’t know why but it helps me concentrate. Last week, it was the movie Cars.

These are personal methods and may not work for everyone, but I hope it helps!

What are 3 things you can’t live without as a creator?

Music + Noise-canceling headphones + Big blanket = Comfort force field

What is a medium that you have always been intrigued by but would never use yourself?

Does blacksmithing count as a medium? I’d like to try it out at least once, though.

How do you want to evolve as a creator?

To connect with other creators more. Especially writers. They are so powerful.

Warm tones or cool tones?

Cool tones! Especially this one particular blend of blue and green.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

So maaaanyy. At the top of my head, though: @northpen. I am obsessed with their vivid-imagery writing style, and immaculate characterizations. Their character banters always have me in a gigglefit. They have this fic I binged in one sitting and left me crying and empty in a good way.

Thank you for such amazing answers, Min! You can check out more of Min’s creations over at @min-play!

#creator spotlight #animators on tumblr #storyboard artist #artists on tumblr #min-play

2K notes · View notes

rae-gar-targaryen · 1 year

Note

Why yes, your Honour, I would like to lick Jake Seresin’s abs. Each and every one of them. Trace them with my tongue. If that’s a crime throw me in jail.

Well, congratulations, lovely anon. You've inspired something that no one ever thought possible -- Rae writing for a BLONDE MAN, of all people. Pls enjoy this little blurb. Even though it's probably not the greatest thing I've ever written --

your name (on that coffee cup)

warnings: none, just bad flirting.

pairing: jake jortles "hangman" seresin x fem!civilian reader

word count: 2.3k (you've gotta be fucking kidding me) of sweet, if not stilted, flirtation and whatever the fuck this is...

Reblogs make the world go 'round! 🌿💜

The coffee shop was more crowded than usual today. You supposed it might have something to do with the fact that today, the weather gods had decided that it would be the one, annual rainy day, forcing commuters to seek shelter indoors from the "deluge" (but what you considered to be, at most, a decent sprinkle). Southern Californians were decidedly not built for the rain.

You casually observed the casuals and regulars alike filtering in and out from your chosen table adjacent to the pickup counter. Your usual table, from where you'd set up shop, plinking away at your novel with your playlist and the welcome, muffled bustle of customers as backdrop busy-noise that filtered through your headphones for company.

People-watching was uniquely inspirational whenever you were facing a bit of writer's block, so you had opted for leaving the relative coziness of your nearby apartment – content to perch on at this table and allow the quirks of strangers to serve as fodder for your novel.

Except that today, it was more overstuffed than your favorite blue-velvet chair in your apartment. The queue of bodies waiting for their cups of caffeine and their matcha lattes causing the already-warm interior of the shop to fog the windows.

You'd just finished a particularly troublesome paragraph – How your two stubborn protagonists were ever going to set aside their differences as they made their way through the enchanted wood, you weren't one hundred percent clear on. But sometimes it was best to skip the mental obfuscation and jump straight into a part you were excited to write … their eventual love scene was beckoning you.

You worried your drink's straw between your teeth, eyes unfocused, pondering how to get Ser Marcus out of his shirt and beneath Lady Lucy, when he walked in.

Him.

The tall drink of water with broad shoulders and dirty-blonde hair. With a million-watt smile he graced to whichever barista happened to be handing him his coffee that day.

He looked like a Ken-doll, if you were honest. But not in a bad (junkless) way. More of an All-American, conventionally attractive way, if he'd asked you. Not that he had. You had certainly seen him here before. But you weren't sure the same could be said of him.

You watched idly as he breezed past you to place his order in a damp shirt that was veritably plastered to his torso, and running shoes that squeaked with rainwater, the noise making its way over the dull din of the shop.

Perhaps he'd been out for a run when the rain had started.

He spoke to Monica the barista at the counter, out of earshot, though the easy way he leaned against the counter and smiled at her made it clear he didn't mind his own state of dress. The sort of easy handsome of an Eastwood.

You had turned back to the blinking cursor of your doc, thoughts buzzing with handsomely tanned skin and wet clothes, when the unmistakable shadow of a person loomed over you.

You glanced up, only to be simultaneously thankful for your screen protector and greeted with –

"Hi there," he breezed.

It was Ken. In the perfect plastic flesh.

And, really, it was the fact that his torso was directly in your seated eyeline (and no other reason, you swear) that allowed you to notice (appreciate) that his already-rainwet and plastered shirt hugged his torso in such a way that allowed you to observe (appreciate) that you could see the outline of every. single. one. of his abdominal muscles, as though his shirt was made of flimsy tissue paper that might tear away beneath your touch.

No, this was fine.

"Uhhh." You were articulate, you swear. "Hi."

"Would it be alright if I sat with you while I wait?" He gestured over his shoulder with a pointed thumb vaguely in the direction of the pickup counter. "It's a little crowded in here today, and this is the only open seat."

Ah. An arrangement of convenience, and not that he wanted to sit with you.

You bit down your disappointment long enough to ease your lips into what you hoped resembled a smile, gesturing openly to the seat.

"By all means."

He shot a grateful–if not cheeky– wink your way as he pulled the seat out, angling himself to maintain eye contact with you, while still keeping one ear open for his name.

"Thank you, ma'am," he conceded politely, voice still warm and easy, as though no one had ever refused him a paltry request in his life. (And maybe they hadn't.) "I didn't exactly want to stand there in my wet clothes."

"No," you agreed. "Sitting in wet clothes is much more pleasant. Especially in those tight, Baby Gap-sized t-shirts. Everyone knows that."

"Everyone," he agreed, eyes twinkling and allowing you to appreciate just how green they were, glimmering, verdant and mossy, like the forest bedecked with fresh rainfall. How fortuitous, then, that he'd choose to sit with you on San Diego's one rainy day per year. "Teacher? Grading?" He nodded at your laptop, gem eyes flitting over the fading, curled stickers slapped onto the back.

You couldn't help yourself. You giggled.

"No," you shook your head. "Novelist."

"Ah," he conceded. "So whatcha writing?"

And as you made to open your mouth to tell him that he shouldn't really ask a writer those types of question, he perked, and held up a finger as if to say "hold that thought," as he shot up to retrieve his beverage from the counter.

He must've heard his name. Ah well, it was nice while it lasted. You tried not to feel disappointed that your one encounter with hot coffee shop guy had come and gone in the blink of an eye. And tried not to beat yourself up that you hadn't caught the name when it had been called…

To your surprise, he turned back and plopped himself back into the seat opposite you, expectant eyes awaiting your answer as he blew into the small hole at the lid of his coffee cup.

"Ehm," you continued. "It's… a … novel," you finished, lamely. Flushed with the prospect of having to admit to this guy that you wrote high-fantasy erotica for a living, your self-preservation instincts kicking in before you admitted something you wouldn't necessarily have the chance to come back from if he decided to make fun of you for.

And he was ridiculously handsome. The sort of guy who looked like he belonged on the cover of the type of book you were writing, billowing unbuttoned shirt, and all... Maybe he'd pose if you asked?

If he was annoyed or put off by your evasiveness, Ken-doll didn't show it, that million-watt grin easing its way back onto his very pleasing face, prominent jaw and white teeth on full display as he played along.

"I might've guessed," he said. "I'm Jake, by the way."

He held out his hand for you to shake. You responded in kind, allowing his hand to envelop yours with both size and warmth as you pumped your arm in a firm, decided handshake.

"I might've guessed," you parroted.

He shot you a quizzical look; brows furrowed.

"It's on your cup," you nodded in the direction of the cup clutched in his other hand, the corner of your mouth titling into a smile.

"A dead giveaway," he agreed, pleased that you had thought to make the observation. Maybe you were this way with everyone, he thought. All sweet smiles and starry, foxlike eyes, discerning but decidedly available. Selfishly, perhaps — he hoped that wasn't the case.

"Unless of course they had gotten the wrong name, and it's really, like, Jack, or James, or something," the fizzling pleasure of his hand on yours and the swelter of this coffee shop was really doing a number on your head, because now you were rambling. "Then if I had called you Jake based on the cup, I would've been both presumptuous and stupid. Like a 'Mark-with-a-C situation… Cark," you finished, unhelpfully.

"Now that's just unlikely, sweetheart," he disagreed. "You're clearly too sharp for that… Bridget." He squinted at your cup, greeting you with a name that was not your own.

"Oh, no…" you laughed, the pleased sound meeting his ears despite the relative staticky-din of the late-morning rush around him, "My name isn't Bridget," you explained, sheepish about the relative silliness of the game of being friends with one of the workers. "Uh, Monica likes to give me a new name every day I come in. Sort of to mock me for how often I come, I guess? We've known each other awhile. So, she's allowed."

If Jake thought it was childish or silly, he didn't let on, instead nodding and smiling at your explanation, still incomprehensibly interested in what you had to say…

"So that's why I see you in here so often," he conceded. "A novelist who writes in a coffee shop, where she knows everyone. Cute."

Out of any other mouth, it might have sounded condescending. But there was no hint of condescension in his honey-smooth voice. Only the facile twang of Southern charm and genuine earnestness.

But all you heard was that he'd seen you before. He had seen you.

And you must've asked this out loud, because the next thing you knew, he was all smooth laughter and glimmering teeth,

"Yeah, I've seen you," he agreed. "You always look so concentrated, I never want to interrupt. My mama raised me better than that. But today I actually had the chance to say hello. So, uh, thank the rain, I guess…" he eased.

And you'd really hoped that the pleased warmth of flirtatious embarrassment wasn't inclined to show itself in any way, across your face or the exposed skin of your shoulders. Because you were certain those sparkling eyes of his were shrewd enough to tell. And how could a guy like this not be aware of his effect on women? So, you pressed on, closing your laptop lid, the better to focus on him with.

"And what do you do, Jake? If you're out for a run in the rain, you're clearly committed. Let me guess," you tapped your chin in mock-consternation, voice trailing in thought. "Model? Please say no because that would be a lot for me."

Jake barked a laugh at this. And perhaps you'd incidentally, dangerously boosted what was already a high ego. But he continued in good humor –

"No, sweetheart. Not a model. Naval aviator," and he'd actually shrugged at that, like it was no big deal. "I'm at the base down the way. So, yeah, I guess you can say I'm dedicated."

You groaned, teasingly, fucking your head into your arms, "Oh fuck, no. So just a civil servant who looks like a model. You can get the fuck outta here with that." You leaned across the table to teasingly shove one of his (ridiculously sculpted) shoulders, pleased at the feel of him beneath your fingertips.

"It's my honor to serve you, ma'am," he straightened in his seat, taking on his best "official" voice. (Oh, god, this was doing a number on you.) He continued,

"In fact, I think you should let me take you to dinner…?" He trailed off, perhaps in realization that he still didn't know your name.

You twisted in your seat to pluck a pen from the messenger bag hanging from the back of your chair, turning back to pluck his cup from his very hands in a move so cheeky you would swear you were having some kind of out-of-body experience. You were never this bold.

But the attentions of this, okay, let's be real… this veritable Adonis before you was likely doing something dangerous to your own ego, never mind his. Your head was somewhere in the clouds (a place he was clearly comfortable, being a "naval aviator, ma'am," and all)..

You tugged the pen cap off with your teeth, your attention fixed on the label.

Huh. Vanilla soy latte.

You didn't comment on his drink of choice, choosing instead to strike through his name with the pen, and ink your own, your phone number printed clearly and neatly beneath it. Handing the cup back to him when you'd finished, recapping the pen as he twirled the cup in his hands to read what you'd put on the label.

He parroted your name back to you, the way his mouth worked out the letters an image you'd likely think about for a little too long, ya know, later... and the sound of it from his throat ringing in your ears.

"I'll text you," he assured, winking at you as he made to stand, rapping his knuckles on the corner of your table before mock-saluting you with two fingers to his forehead and an easy, charming grin on his lips. "I look forward to hearing about that novel over dinner, ma'am."

With that, he walked out of the shop, taking with him the air in your lungs and your certainty that that had actually just happened, and leaving you with the faintly buzzing feeling of lofty flirtation and the blooming promise of a fucking date!

Eager to capitalize on the fizzy feelings, you opened your laptop lid and turned back to your unfinished section now, wan smile borne of fresh flirtation affixed to your lips, your thoughts swimming in a seafoam green ocean of emerald eyes, breezy flirtation, and, yeah, tight t-shirts...

"It was then that Lady Lucy swung her leg astride Ser Marcus, devilish fingers peeling his tunic from his toned stomach. With a smirk painted across her features, she dipped her head, allowing herself to trace her tongue along the ridges and planes of her lover's stomach, reveling in the feel of each prominent abdominal muscle beneath her tongue. Greeted with the delightful sound of her beloved's surprised gasps, manifestations of pleasure at her attentions…"

And no, you reasoned with yourself as you typed. You totally weren't thinking of green-eyed, handsome Jake as you wrote. These desires were your character's, not yours – you swear.

And no, your thoughts also were definitely not on his promised text message, either, that lit up your phone as you glanced at it. Greeted with the proposition of "Dinner Thursday?" No, you totally weren't thinking of him…

It's life that imitates art, after all... (Or was it the other way around?) And you hadn't had the chance to taste those abs for yourself. (But hope springs eternal...)

Tagging: @withahappyrefrain @thegirlwhowritesfics @xbamboowishesx @friendly-neighborhood-blondie @abibliophobiaa @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @thematthewmurdock @mrshipsmcgee @p3mybeloved @decadentpaperduck @letmeplaytheliontoo @vestrangel @moonlight-prose @aphrogeneias @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @2clones-1kamino @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @shakira-sasha @siriusfahey @joaquinwhorres @jakexfmc @the-navistar-carol @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid @maxmayfield @drew-garfi @eagerforthesky

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake 'hangman' seresin x reader #hangman x reader #hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake 'hangman' seresin x you #my writing #tgm fic #top gun maverick fic #jake seresin imagine #glen powell #glen powell x reader #lovely anons #hangman fluff #jake seresin fluff #isn't it just like me to write for the white boy of the month several months too late #flopcity usa here we come #pls reblog

1K notes · View notes