#there’s not that much physical difference w/in your 20s | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

katiexpunk · 1 month

Text

Fuck Me, Fill Me

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!Reader | W/C: ~4K | Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: Accidents happen all the time — people fall, knives slip, condoms break. You spent years successfully avoiding one. Except things are different now, you're ready for more. Your husband Joel is more than happy to oblige.

Warnings: Joel has one mission in this one -- knock you the fuck up (if that's not your thing, kindly move on). Heavy on the breeding kink. No age gap is mentioned (make it your own). So much dirty talk. Fingering. Dry humping/grinding. Praise kink. Size kink. Unprotected P in V. Rough sex. Semi-public sex. Sex in front of a mirror. Multiple creampies. No use of Y/N, no use of daddy. TLOU au. Reader has no physical descriptions except hair (no type or color) long enough to hold on to. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: I have no excuses for this one except that I have Joel brain rot and baby fever. Shoutout to the Capital One Lounge at IAD for the idea. Written on a plane.

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications

Accidents happen all the time — people fall, knives slip, condoms break.

It’s inevitable, really. A known fact of life. Call it Murphy’s law, bad luck, or just plain stupidity…

You’ve spent the majority of your teens and 20s successfully avoiding an accident.

If it can happen, it will happen your superstitious aunt used to say, and you were a believer.

Lord knows you've had more than enough evidence in your life to back up her words. From the tummy ache after eating way too many cherries, to the conspicuous brown stain that ruined your pristine white blouse. A blister on your heel from shoes that were supposed to be 'broken in' but never quite were, and the painful crack in your skin that followed. Proof was everywhere, and you learned to expect the unexpected.

You hold tight to that belief, while Joel does the same to your hips, fucking you within an inch of your life in the airport lounge bathroom.

But how you both ended up in this position was no accident.

++++

It never seemed like the right time—you had so much more to explore, achieve, and experience. Becoming a mother would complicate everything; at least, that's what you convinced yourself. You were content to rely on that little orange pill each day, despite its own set of side effects, because it kept your options open.

You weren't sure you'd make a good mom anyway. Your own mother certainly wasn't a shining example, and you had no reason to think you'd be any different. You couldn't even keep a cactus alive—how could you possibly care for a child?

But something changed not long after you and Joel got married. Maybe it was maturity slowly finding its way in, like warm honey filling the spaces you once closed off. It softened you to the idea of chubby cheeks and tiny fingers, gentle coos, and quiet lullabies sung in the deep southern drawl that had become so familiar.

Initially, you weren't sure how Joel would take the news, but when you told him you'd reconsidered, his reaction was beyond anything you'd expected. He was over the moon, filled with an urgency you'd never seen in him before. It was like you'd handed him the key to his deepest desires, and he was eager, almost desperate, to turn it and bring new life into your world, yours and his.

He made it clear just how eager he was when he took you in his arms and twirled you around the kitchen in joy. Then, without missing a beat, he bent you over the counter, yanked down your jeans, and made his intentions unmistakably clear. He fucked his cum so deep inside of you that night that you felt the warm dribble of him the next morning.

++++

Good things come to those who wait.

The words seem almost lifeless as they peer back at you, the paper they're printed on showing signs of age and Scotch tape keeping it glued to the break room wall above the microwave. The optimism they once held has faded, leaving behind nothing but cynicism and wear.

Yeah. Right.

The shrill beep of the microwave snaps you back to the present, your shoulders tensing. You shake off your irritation, clutching the warm coffee that’s been reheated three times, its heat barely reaching the chill of your underlying pessimism. It’s a small comfort, but enough to soften the ache of disappointment that nags at you every month when hope fizzles out.

Back at your desk, you bury yourself in work, flipping through emails and juggling various applications. Headphones in, you’re almost lost in your own world when a notification on your phone pulls you back. It's your cycle tracking app, reminding you that you're due to ovulate in a couple of days. But wait—

No, no, no. You quickly count the days in your head, then scramble to open your work calendar. The schedule's a blur until your eyes land on the words "Work Trip: Jackson, Wyoming." They jump off the screen, almost mocking you. Looks like timing won't be on your side this month. Unless —

Would it be too ridiculous to change an entire work trip just so you could make love to your ridiculously hot husband, and let him fill you again and again? You think not, but you know your boss might say otherwise.

You spend the rest of your workday figuring out Plan B. The irony is not lost on you that you’re seeking out an entirely different kind than you used to.

++++

As you settle into the couch, your legs draped across his lap, he begins to massage the soles of your feet in that soothing way that sends a ripple of warmth up your spine. You can't help but glance at his side profile—the elegant slope of his nose, the chiseled cut of his jaw, and the effortless curls of his salt-and-pepper hair that rest at the nape of his neck. He's undeniably handsome, a sight that never gets old.

His touch spreads a slow heat across your skin, your stomach fluttering in response. It's always been this way—the world could be crumbling outside, but with Joel, in your shared cocoon, you feel entirely at ease, wrapped in safety and affection.

“You're really gorgeous, you know,” you murmur, almost too quietly to be heard. You swirl the wine in your glass and meet his gaze as you take a sip.

“Nah, that's you, sweetheart,” he replies with a wink, his touch transitioning to featherlight kitten caresses as his fingers trace a path up your shin. He's not trying to seduce you, not really, but his touch and the intent gaze he holds on you are enough to ignite a slow burn under your skin.

You relax into the cushions, your head sinking back into the pillow, reveling in this moment. When he pauses, even for a second, you squirm, and he chuckles softly. “Such a needy little thing, aren't cha?” he teases, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he resumes his gentle strokes. “Mhm, sure am,” you hum, your eyes closing as you melt into the sensation of his skin on yours.

He slowly journeys upward, callused palms gliding along the smooth skin of your thigh, alternating between soft strokes and firm squeezes. Each touch seems to awaken a deeper need within you, and you're all too aware of the growing bulge beneath your calves, a silent but potent reminder of the desire simmering between you. It's enough to make you ache for him, crave his closeness, the kind of closeness only he can provide.

You lift your head, and he's already adjusting, his broad frame looming over you. He locks eyes with you as he takes the wineglass from your hand, placing it on the coffee table with care, then shifts his full attention back to you. You push your hips upward, meeting his, and he presses down just enough to make it clear that he’s in control, his body holding you firmly but without discomfort. You know he’s got you right where he wants you.

Your eyes meet his, and the intensity in his gaze leaves no doubt—this is happening. He props himself up on one forearm, his other hand tangling through your hair, his knuckles brushing against your cheek with a tender touch. He thrusts his hips into you with more urgency, his lips descending to capture yours, drawing out a soft moan from deep within you.

“Fuck sweetheart, feel what you do to me?” he groans, pressing his lips harder against yours. He tastes the wine on you, and your tongues intertwine, each movement slow but deliberate. You work your arms free from your sides and slide your hands into his hair, tugging gently, your nails grazing his scalp. The deep groan that escapes him tells you he's feeling everything—the pull, the scrape, the heat. It rumbles from his chest, reverberating through you, and it's intoxicating.

With your lips pressed firmly to his, he captures your bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a teasing bite as he thrusts against you. The rough denim scrapes against your inner thighs, and he slots himself perfectly between your legs. His mouth leaves yours, tracing a path of soft kisses down your jawline, lingering at that sensitive spot just behind your ear before he pulls the lobe into his mouth. You moan, fingers tangled in his hair, while your other hand explores the broad expanse of his back, craving the feel of him, unable to get enough.

“Joel,” you whimper, his name almost a question on your lips.

He doesn't pause, thrusting with just the right pressure, almost ignoring your plea. You move your lips to his shoulder and whisper, “I’m ovulating.”

That makes him stop. He props himself up on one forearm, his free hand on your ribs, his intense gaze locking onto yours. His eyes darken, pupils eclipsing the rich brown you know so well, and he groans deeply. Fuck.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Mmm, big mistake telling me that, now I’m just going to pump you full of my cum all night, gonna fuck you again and again, keep you so full of me that it’ll have no choice but to stick this time.”

You whimper at the thought, and his words go straight to your already wet core, your pussy fluttering around nothing, practically begging to be filled.

You want him so bad, but right now, he wants you more — wants every part of you, wants to change you forever. His head dips back to your neck, and he's practically grinding into you, the pressure so intense it feels like he's already fucking you through your clothes. His beard rasps against your cheek, leaving a trail of red marks as he works his way down to your chest, hastily undoing buttons, uncovering your breasts, and teasing your nipples to hard, eager peaks.

It would almost be embarrassing how turned on you are right now if it were anyone but him, how easily he can fluster you, turn you into a babbling mess.

“Well, not right now, but I am next —” you start to say, but quickly lose your train of thought as his whole hand comes down to cup your sex and the feel of his palm pressing against your dripping center.

“Sorry darlin’, what was that?” He asks, doing little to hide the smug tone behind his voice, obviously pleased with the effect he has on you.

“I am next week, while I’m supposed to be in Jackson for work,” you manage to get out, the words coming out soft, a barely there thought, your attention mostly on the sensation of his thick finger that has now curled its way deep inside of you, your panties pushed to the side as they should never have been there in the first place, not with him in the room.

“Come with me,” you ask, your words a tad breathless as he adds another finger to your dripping center, your slick coating them completely, and when he doesn’t answer, you’re not sure he heard you behind the haze of his arousal, the blood thrumming through his veins. Not that you can blame him, it’s so hard to fucking think, to breathe, to string together a rational thought that isn’t dirty when you’re together like this.

“Gotta feel this pussy first,” he rasps, the words slightly muffled against the tenderness of your breast. His words sober you for a brief second, as you playfully push against him in protest.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," you laugh, and he can't suppress the goofy grin spreading across his face. He loves this—the playful banter, the way you bring out his lighter side, the perfect blend of passion and humor that flows between you. It's always been like this, effortlessly flirty, endlessly fun. You’re the perfect combination of sexy and cute, and better yet, you’re all his.

“Alright baby, I’ll come with you, on one condition,” he says, adding a third finger, and the stench of him is intoxicatingly delicious, perfect, and intense in the best way. You already feel so fucked out, you’re not sure how he’s managing to find the will to set fucking conditions right now, but still, you humor him —

“Conditions, huh?” You moan as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, the pads of his fingers grazing at the soft spongey spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

“Yeah, sweetheart, conditions,” he says, nipping at your chin. “You’re gonna be the good girl I know you are and come all over my fingers, and then I’ll make sure that you’re full of me all week, whenever you want it baby, I’m all yours,” he rasps, his breath coming a bit more ragged now at the thought of your proposition and his.

His fingers are still deep inside of you, he positions his wrist just right and brings the pad of his thumb to your clit. Your slick, combined with his filthy fucking mouth, and his thick cock pressed against you, creates the perfect conditions for the inevitable. He’s never not made you come, and you sure as hell know he’s not about to change that narrative now.

If it can happen, it will happen.

“Come on pretty girl, show me how pretty you come on your husband’s fingers,” he says, not really asking, but rather ordering in the tone that lights every nerve in your body on fire with arousal.

The warmth in your lower belly spreads outward, wrapping you in a blanket of pleasure. Your limbs tingle, your vision blurs, and your toes curl as the intensity builds. For a split second, everything goes hazy, and you let go, surrendering to him completely. He takes control, guiding you through the waves of ecstasy, pulling you into a bliss that only he knows how to reach.

“So good for me, sweetheart. You are so perfect.”

He makes you come once more soon after and then fucks you deep and slow. It’s all whispered praises in your ear, a firm grip on your hips, and his cock barely leaving your cunt before he’s slamming back into you, desperate to keep the tip of him as close to your cervix as possible.

Come with me, you moan, and he knows exactly what you mean this time.

“Shit, baby, I can feel you squeezing me, taking me so good —” his words break with a moan as you come for the third time, falling apart on his cock, before he adds “gripping me so goddamn tight.”

His thrusts slow and he buries himself to the hilt inside of you, and paints your insides in thick ropes of cum, holding your gaze as he throbs inside, not daring to move and risk any of his spend coming out before he wants it to.

He plants a soft kiss on your lips and tells you that you’re going to look even more gorgeous with his baby inside of you.

++++

The delayed flight to Jackson was just another reminder of life's unpredictability.

What started as a simple 30-minute delay quickly turned into an hour, then two, and now you're both three hours past your original departure time.

You find yourselves in one of the newer airport lounges, sitting in overly posh chairs. It's surprisingly uncrowded given the chaos that usually comes with airport delays. Your luggage is safely tucked away in the lockers, your bellies are full from the free snacks, and the irritation from earlier is fading thanks to the complimentary drinks. The ambiance is unexpectedly chic. Even the bathrooms feel upscale—private, enormous mirrors, fancy soap, and paper towels so luxurious they might as well be hand towels.

Joel is deep into a well-worn Western novel, its cover frayed and spine cracked from countless readings. You're scrolling through an article about the best positions for conceiving, smirking when you realize you and Joel have tried most of them, and then some. Just as you're in the middle of your read, your cycle tracking app sends a notification—you're at peak fertility, starting now. Have fun! ;)

Shit.

Who knows when you'll actually make it to your hotel room in Jackson tonight? You glance up from your phone, stealing a look at Joel. He's always handsome, but there's something about him in his glasses—the way the frames sit on the bridge of his nose, the slight furrow in his brow as he focuses on the words in his book. It's endearing how he still reads with such intensity, even though you know he's revisited these same pages countless times.

Your pussy flutters and aches at the sight, giving you a cheeky idea. He did say you could have him whenever you wanted.

You clear your throat, hoping to pull Joel's focus from his book, but he doesn't seem to notice. You try again, this time a bit louder, and all you get is a distracted, "You okay, sweetheart?" without him even glancing up.

You know you’ll need to be more direct to capture his attention.

"I'm going to use the restroom," you say, and he nods, eyes still on the page. Once inside, you leave the door unlocked and hike up your dress, exposing your bare breasts. You pinch your nipples between your thumb and forefinger until they harden, then push out your chest, angling your smartphone for the perfect shot. The result is a provocative selfie that you know will make him put that book down.

You attach it to a message for Joel and quickly type out your request — come knock me up in the bathroom, Cowboy.

He’s joining you in the bathroom faster than you thought he would, careful to avoid any curious eyes or draw attention to the fact that he’s about to absolutely wreck his wife.

Once inside, he locks the door behind him and grabs your waist, guiding you back until your hips hit the counter's edge. His hands roam over your body, lifting the hem of your dress until it's bunched around your waist. He kisses you with a desperate hunger, as if he hasn't had you in years.

"You sure you want to do this here, sweetheart?" he groans against your lips, shifting between playful nips, gentle kisses on your cheeks, and heated sucks at your jawline. The anticipation in his touch is palpable, but he's still checking to make sure this is what you want.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life except for the day I married you. Please fuck me, Joel, need to feel you stretch me out” you say, your words crossed between a whimper and a plea.

God, just when he thought you couldn’t get any more perfect.

“Yeah? My girl wants me to fill up her tight little hole,” he teases, already knowing the answer. He moves his hand to your dripping core and lets out a deep groan when he discovers you’ve already removed the barrier of your underwear for him.

“Fuck baby, I’d do anything to taste you right now, wanna hear all those pretty noises you make and the way my name sounds when you moan it for me,” and you soften more under the heat of his words, letting your mind drift to thoughts of how good it feels when his head is between your legs, gently wringing orgasm after orgasm out of you like it’s his fucking job.

“Gotta make this one quick, though. Can you be quiet for me, sweetheart?” He asks, and all you can do is nod.

"Good girl—c'mere, turn around," he instructs, guiding you with his hands until you've spun around, your hips pressing into the sink. His hand travels down your spine, making you arch toward him slightly, and he bends you over even more. In the mirror, you see him behind you, his eyes locked on yours as he quickly unbuckles his belt and lowers his jeans to mid-thigh. The anticipation is electric as you watch him in the reflection, knowing exactly what's coming next.

He spits into his hand and jerks himself, all the while holding your gaze, admiring the way your breasts are pressed up against the counter, perky and perfect. His cock twitches at the thought of what they’ll look like all swollen and full of milk.

He lines himself up against your wet and waiting hole, holds your hips steady with one hand, and gathers your hair in his fist with the other. He gently tugs it so your chin is angled up, eyes even straighter looking into the mirror. He loves watching you take it.

“You’re gonna watch as I fuck you, sweetheart,” He rasps as he presses himself into you in one stroke. You’re so fucking wet, your greedy cunt accepts him easily, despite his size. Like it knows what it wants, and what it needs. There’s a dull delicious sting at the intrusion.

“Oh my god, Joel, you’re so bi—” You break off in a moan as he pulls out and then slams himself into you deep and hard.��

“God damn, look at you, my perfect fucking girl. Taking me so well, like this cock was made for you, huh baby?” His voice is firm, but quiet, just above a whisper. He’s not wasting time, he sets a punishing pace, and all you can do is let him use you.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fill me, fill me” you cry out, and he brings his hand to cover your mouth.

“What’d I say about being quiet, baby?” He holds you like that. You slip your hand between your thighs and rub your clit, a dangerous combination when he’s fucking you in this position. You come so fast that you think it might be a record. The tightening of your cunt has him on the precipice of his release.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growls, fucking his cum into you over and over, using every drop of him to give you what you want.

It might not stick this time, hell, it might not stick next time, but one thing is for certain — Joel will keep you full and fucked either way.

Part 2

A/N Continued: Thank you so much for reading! On a side note, my engagement here has been really low lately. :( As much as I'd love to say I don't care about the notes, I won't lie and tell you I don't need them for validation. If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging. I'll love you forever.

Tagging some moots for visibility (lmk if you want to be removed if the subject matter isn't your thing. No hard feelings!) @endlessthxxghts @syd-djarin @auteurdelabre @morning-star-joy@theoasisofthings @chulopascal @morallyinept @sweetercalypso @xdaddysprincessxx @burntheedges @punkshort @pedrostories @bastardmandennis @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @survivingandenduring @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @amyispxnk @paleidiot @ghostwritesthings @kulekehe @darkheartgatita @goldenhxurs @javiscigarette @ro-nahime-things @gwendibleywrites @missladym1981 @morgaussy

#joel miller smut #joel miler x fem!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #breeding k1nk #joel miller the last of us #joel miller one shot #pedro pascal character #pedrohub #pedrostories #joel miller #joel miller fanfic

2K notes · View notes

astrophileblogs07 · 3 months

Text

ASTRO OBSERVATIONS PT.20

⚫ Opposite to the stereotype of Leo being a narcissist, its the Aquarians who are more narcissist than ANY other zodiac. Esp its the Dhanishta naks out of the Aqua naks who are so.

⚫ I have seen 3 Aquarian moons (of Dhanishta nak) who had a poverty stricken first half of life (childhood, teenage years) but then they become well off like rlly very well off in their second half (esp after marriage). They marry rich 🤑 too. What i am saying here is the dramatic transformation of their financial life.

⚫ Pisces men are physically abusive. That's it. Esp the March Pisces. They literally are a bully. (Dont be fooled by the beautiful doe eyes lol)

⚫ "WOW What voluminous and luscious hair he's got!" -my ♌ rising and moon mom commenting on a side character with insignificant role in a movie 🤣. I wasn't noticing that at all...but she seemed to be stuck on that feature 😂.

⚫ Martian influence on a chart can actually have a liking to dangerous weapons and ammunitions. (Like idk I weirdly love them 😂😂)

⚫ Females with Ketu ruled naks are the first group of people whom male perceive as "threat". (Second is mars btw). Like if the other person is a typical male (egoistic, chauvinist) they will literally hate you to the core coz they know you equal them in all ways (except you know what LMAO 🤣). So they'll try to pin you down or belittle you etc. (sad, but since I have experienced I wanted it to share w you guys)

⚫ Also I love the way Ketu Nak women get along becoz mostly they have so much in common. And by that I mean how the society (male dom) treats them. I am not saying they're an "outcast" but the reaction they face just coz the male species get intimidated by us which has an cascading effect on our mental peace is beyond tolerance.

⚫Ketu naks are sexyyyyyy 🖤👁️🫦👁️❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

(I always imagine a smokin hot biker girl 👩🏻‍🎤with leather jacket and smoky eyeshadow whenever I hear "Ashwini, Magha and Mula")

⚫ I have seen a Chart which was totally "Mars" chart and I'll tell you, that person has Aries asc, Moon, Mars and (Mercury ig is in Scorpio?idr) along with Scorpio sun. And that person is like personified version of the planet itself. So cunning and so shrewd, potentially be a mastermind. Statergic. Secretive af. (Might be their middle name to exaggerate). Close to their mom. Loves friends (friends over anything). Also they have a "reddish" tint to their skin (no health probs, but yeah that planet does that). Knows how to tackle any embarrassing moment in public and deal with it. (I am jealous of him coz i wanted to be like him in every way 😂)

⚫Lilith and Pluto aspects in natal chart can actually survive 8H synastry. Almost same energy and themes. 💀

⚫Why are Maghas the "scapegoat" of the family? Like they be framed in a situation with which they have no relation with. Its annoying to see. Its like you're locked in your room chilling and as soon as you step out, everyone in the family is blaming you for something or the other. Now you're the "bad guy". (Yo wtf 🤡). Added to the generosity of Leos, people target you often. 😕

⚫Libra men CANNOT stand loneliness and being ostracized at all in any way. I have seen this in every Libra I came across. For eg: if you're the "black sheep" they won't talk to you and will go with what the crowd says. And if people have outcasted them just becoz they're with you/involved with you, they'll drop you like hot potato. People say and stereotype Capricorns for being the one who cares about reputation and all, but her 'Venus-ruled-Saturn-exalted' sister also is same. 💀

(no wonder they're besties lol)

P.S: I read a post here which said "Eye contact with 8H synastry hits different" ( i am not copying, i don't remember the username) and boy is that true 💀💀💀. Like I was -->😯😳🫣. Coz I have experienced that 🤣🤣. It does, than any other eye contact I have seen. Lmao 🤣🤣.{Edit: its @zeldasnotes 🖤😁}

Hope you liked it 😁😊. Until next time! 👋🏻

Love you y'all ❤️❤️❤️

#astro observations #astro notes #astrology #astroblr #astrology community #astrology observations #astrology notes #natal chart #astrology tumblr #astro community

560 notes · View notes

hoshigray · 9 months

Text

Sit down for this one, alright? How bout a gigolo! Toji, who stumbles upon you? The reader's friends pay for his services to help ease your stress from work, and you begrudgingly have to accept the offer. And when you finally meet him, it's a night that you were not prepared for you, mentally and physically.

A/n: camgirl! reader this, prostitute! reader that; motherfuckers, if you don't slap your favs onto the field right tf now!!?? Gege himself said that Toji is a manwhore for money and women, so you know I'm running with this idea :/ Lol but fr tho, this was a prompt that has been itching me, plus I love making these scenario thingies!! I outta write them for the other JJK men when I have the time (or maybe y'all can send asks *shrugs*). All ik is that this hot dilf bastard would make a fine gigolo, I'd happily be broke ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Cw: gigolo! Toji x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - age difference (reader is at least in their mid/late-20s) - implied that reader isn't a virgin, but does try new things w/ Toji - Daddy kink - fingering (f! receiving) - breast fondling - prone bone + cowgirl/riding positions - scratching (m! receiving) - cervix fucking - pet names (baby, cutie, good girl, mama, princess, sweetheart, sweet thing) - praise - overstimulation - impact play; spanking (1x) - Toji lowkey simping for the cute, shy reader.

Wc: 2.2k

Gioglo! Toji...

...whose been in the field not as long as his hitman occupation, yet it's a side hustle he's good at. Like, extremely good at. His age and rough appearance wouldn't have you guess that he does this sort of thing; however, men and women sigh in heavenly familiarity just from the sheer mention of his name. When you venture deep into the streets, it's no surprise to the average goer that he is [if not one of] the best gigolo in the game. The younger male escorts find it hard to compete with him, but it's pointless going up against a man of his caliber.

...who enjoys the gigs even when going with it for all these years. Money was the only reason he turned to this hustle in the first place, so, surprisingly, he's continued with this for as long as he can. Especially now that he has two kids and is well past his younger prime, he still uses his body on clients who can't get enough of him. And the number of his customers has stayed steadily high (if not increasing by the day) throughout the years.

But who is he to call this lifestyle off? Easy cash all from some good sex? Toji has no complaints about this side hustle.

...who states he has no favorites among his clients. There are the faces he'll remember — his returning loyal customers — and then the faces only there for a quick fuck and never to be seen again. Not that Toji cares about such things at all. As far as he's concerned, he's only in it for the money. So, as long as the cash looks appealing, he doesn't care what he has to do or has to do it with. Besides, you should never mix your personal life with your profession, especially with a heavily explicit and raunchy one such as this. He lived by that motto all those years and will resume doing so. No matter how hard they plea with doe eyes for him to stay longer, he'll just give them what they want; his deep verdant eyes contrasting his raven hair, his titillating smirk on his scarred lips whispering dirty words to their ears, and his muscular body that put them under his spell in the sheets.

Toji swears he has no favorites. So he thought...

...who is a name you weren't familiar with until your friends came to you, and you expressed nothing but sheer horror after they explained. Apparently, as the most stressed and workaholic person in the group, they thought it'd be a good idea to pitch in and schedule you a night with the infamous Toji Fushiguro. You've practically begged them to reconsider, pull back from the deal, bargained, anything! Even so much as calling one of them ("Please, please, please just call this thing off!" "Sorry, Y/n. He already accepted the offer, so we can't get the money back. Plus, you're gonna be in good hands, I promise! I was with him once, and my body was never the same. I saw him the second time and, literally, my puss—" "OKAY, I GET IT, I'M HANGING UP, BYE!!").

Your objections were directed to deaf ears, so to say you were nervous the night of Toji's arrival was far from comprehension. Coming home from work was hard enough throughout the entire week, becoming difficult to stomach day by day when the fateful day came. Because you never had experience with an escort or playboy before — let alone one who's supposedly well-known to your friends and the streets! Blood running cold as you constantly look at the time, your foot thumping on the ground, and your fingers fidgeting as you wait for the stranger listed to take your virginity away. And with the sudden knock on your door, your heart almost lept out from your mouth. Oh, fucking Christ...

...who surveys your entire appearance after you open the door for him. And he takes his time drinking in your pretty figure, your smooth skin, the alluring scent of your floral lotion, and the cami romper that exhibits your shoulders and thighs to his liking. He notes you avert your gaze when his eyes find their way to yours, and he snickers. Already, he knows he'll have fun with this. "Hey, cutie," Toji says, his gruff tone rare to your ears. "Y'r name's Y/n, right? Heard about you from y'r friends, said they wanted me to treat you."

You gulp before replying. "Yes, that's me...Oh! Please come in, Mr. Fushigu—"

"Toji's enough, sweetheart." He corrects you before entering inside, taking his shoes off at the front and entering the living room. "Nice place ya got. Did'ja wanna do this here? Because I was told to take you out somewhere."

You open your mouth to answer, but you meekly retract yourself. Toji notices your quiet display, chewing on your bottom lip while playing with the tied straps of your romper on your shoulder. Damn, so fuckin' cute. He walks up to you and brings a hand to lightly seize your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and you almost want to scream at the older man examining you like some treasure. "Ya nervous?" You give a shy nod. "Aww, y're a cute lil' thing, huh?"

With hot cheeks, you avert your gaze away from him again. Your modesty amused the older man, "Relax, baby. I'm gonna take good care of you, ya hear? If y're feelin' any pain or somethin', be sure to tell me." He has you turn to him again, caressing your cheek with his warm forefinger. Your lips quiver with anxiousness when you give another nod to him. And with that silent confirmation, you've accepted what happens next.

...who enjoys breaking you down as the night goes on. He has you on your bed with your back against his chest, and he does what he can to warm your body up to him. His big hands grope your breasts and tweeze your erect nipples until one slithers down to your drenched panties and forces a finger between your slick-coated folds. Your whimpers seep past your pretty lips, gasps of air exiting your system when the man kisses your neck and sucks on your skin.

"Mmmm, so tight 'round my fingers, mama," his hoarse voice vibrates his chest. You melt while he nibbles on your ear. "Spread them legs wide fr' me." With quivering limbs, you try to do what you're told, and more wails exit your mouth as he pushes his digits to and fro from your leaky chasm.

And the moment he finally has his dick inside you? Oh, Toji relishes the sensation of you around him. Fucking so deep in the prone bone position, he hammers his pelvis to your ass, and his balls smack onto your vulva coated in slick and come. Your moans fuel him to go harder and faster; the sight of you griping the sheets beneath and your ass jolting with every thrust turns him on too much.

"Haaah—Ahhhh!! Toji, oh God," it was your first time ever in this position, and it's so intense and electrifying with how harsh the older man propels himself to you. His cock scraping your most sensitive walls, you had given up concealing your screams long ago. "It's too much for—Mmmph!! 'S too muuuch..."

"Feelin' good there, princess?"

"Nmmph!! Y-Yess," drool starts to pool on the pillow you're resting on, but you're too occupied to feel ashamed of this lewd image you're exhibiting. "Feels so good, so goo—Ohhoooo!!" Your brows trench with eyes sewn shut, and your climax begins to climb quickly. With a choked cry, you come on Toji's dick for the second time that night, tears wetting the pillowcase while your cunt flutters on him as you release.

Regardless, Toji still ruts into you even when you're under a blissful haze, not until he's done with you. "Good girl, cummin' on my dick like that — Nmmph!!" He pulls out of you, spilling his load onto you, covering your asscheeks and lower back.

...who was surprised to see you again after a week, scheduling him with you on another weekend. Not like he had any objections to it, absolutely not. Because when he sees you give him a bashful smile and wave, he can't help but smirk and walk in your direction. "Well, hey, sweet thing." He'd greet and kiss your cheek before wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Liked how I took care of you last time?"

You'd pull your stare to the ground yet give him a curt nod, the older man only finding your interaction adorable. "Uh-huh..." And Toji wastes no time wrapping an arm around your waist and walking with you to the nearest hotel.

And he's even more perplexed to see you two weekends after that...and the other two after that...Gradually, you've become a frequent client of his. That fact alone is enough to have him drop what he's about to do to have availability for you.

...who'd start to find himself slowly attracted to you the more you see him. It wasn't about the money when it came to you. In fact, no one knows you pay him significantly lower than the others. Can you blame him, though? When a doll like you always offers him to stay the night at your play after sex or treat him to meals sometimes, it's hard for the man to not feel some type of way about you. The two of you are aware that this relationship is founded on sex for the sake of your stress relief. Yet as the days go on, it's difficult for Toji to not fall in love and be enamored with your charming and sweet self.

Nevertheless, he'd be lying if he said the sex wasn't good between you two. Because it's quite the opposite, especially as Toji observes how sexually free you become with his visits. Whether it be you scratching on his back while he drills his dick into you, marking his tanned skin of your nails ("Oh, my God! I'm so sorry about that!" You'd apologize profusely, but he'd counter with a chuckle. "It's fine, cutie. It's not the first time I got scratched up by a kitten."). Or whether you'd allow him to convince you to try other positions — like his favorite, the full nelson.

Or, in times like this, when you'd have more confidence than before and ask if you'd ride him. And with a grin, Toji lies back and watches you bounce on his cock. An erotic image that he'd love to keep in his memory for as long as he can.

"Ohhh...Hmmm—Ahhnnn!!" Your cries as you straddle him in a desperate tempo, taking in his girth inch by inch, are music to his ears. The view of your beautiful, sweaty, hot body hopping on his dick is recorded with lustful forest-green eyes. "Ahhhh!! Feels so good, Toji, so—Ahhhh!!!"

"Not so fast there, sweetheart." Toji smacks your bare ass, prompting you to come down and lay your head on his shoulder. You look to see his eyes peer down to your teary ones."What's my name again?"

"Hmmm, sorry, Daddy," you correct yourself, your cunt twitching on his length when the title slips out. "Pleaseeee, forgive me—Eeeiiii!! Oh, Jesus..."

Toji grabs your butt with his hands, propelling them downward to match the jerk of his hips, and the tip of his length makes contact with your cervix. Choked sobs strain out from your throat as he kisses your temple. "Good girl, that's my fuckin' girl..."

Oh, fucking shit! It's coming. It's coming! "Daddy, please, I'm about to cum...Ohhhh, gonna cum—Mmmph!!" The older man silences you with his lips on yours, and you follow suit by wrapping your arms around his neck to deepen the passionate kiss. The motion of your hips goes erratic with his, your orgasm coming up for the both of you with the increased speed. It's there you two succumb to climaxing, the walls of your slit clasping around his cock while he pumps the last of his essence into you. Groans and whimpers are exchanged between clingy mouths.

A wave of calm soon calms the air and your sweaty frames stick together. He resumes kissing you until your sensitive body has had enough, removing your lips from his teasing teeth. "Thank you, Toji. Thank you..."

Even out of breath, his scarred lip uproots to a smirk. "Y're so fuckin' cute, ya know that, mama?"

...who understands he's breaking his own rule when it's just you. It's never good mixing business with personal life. He was in it for the money from the start, and that mentality has done him well throughout the years. Do whatever the clients ask, take the money, and move on. Can't attach yourself to them. Now, he's found himself going against his motto; enjoying his time with you more than any of the others he's been with, looking forward to seeing you again to enjoy having you to himself. Whenever you aren't around him, it's evident that you will cloud his mind until you text or call.

But as he's stated before: as long as their cash in front of him and both parties get what they want, there's no need to have favorites...However, as long it's just you, he'll always be willing to make an exception.

1K notes · View notes

macfrog · 6 months

Text

little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #sex on fire

684 notes · View notes

mockerycrow · 1 year

Note

Hello!!!!!! So i was wonderinfg if you could do a piece for cod mw2? A platonic 141 (other characters can be added if youd like) x (preferably 18-20 yr old) gn or fem reader. It can be a oneshot or headcannons, i dont mind either format!!! If you do a oneshot, any scenario (a mission, off duty, etc) is fine w me!!! You basically have free reign, just keep it strictly platonic, not even a smidge of the hints w the reader and romantic relationships 👍❤️

Ain’t That A Kick In The Head? (Platonic!141 x Fem!Reader)

cod masterlist

A/N: YESS!! I LOVE PLATONIC FICS!! 99% of my writing so far has been romantic, kind of funny considering I’m aromantic and queer. thank you anon <3 i’m also sorry for taking so long. your speciality isn’t specified, but it can’t be demolitions, im sorry!! plot purposes.

[WARNINGS: mentioned misogyny, fluff.]

Considering how young you are, you deal with quite a lot of people who have low expectations for you. To be fair, you don’t have much experience, but you are a quick learner and that’s very much needed on this base. You’re a Specialist, one rank above Private in the U.S. army ranks. When people first meet you, they expect you to be a coward, a twenty year old girl—is what they like to call you—who doesn’t know the difference between a 5.56 mm cartridge and a 7.62 mm cartridge, a clueless little girl. Of course you did not know everything, but it was clear you know enough and have enough skill as you’re apart of the 141.

When you were first picked for the team, Ghost was a bit skeptical. Your age played a big factor because he was concerned about your level of experience, but he overall trusts Price’s judgement. A huge part of it was him worried about how you would take in all of the traumatizing sights they see on every mission. How you would be able to take someone down without a second thought, even if they pleaded for their life. He didn’t voice this worry, nor did he do anything to “shield” you because he knows you know what you signed up for.

You physically train/spar with Ghost and Gaz separately frequently. They are different in size and in style of defense/attack, so they both give you great pointers on how to defend yourself and how to initiate an attack. You have a schedule with them; when you’re on base, you train with Gaz Mondays and Tuesdays and Ghosts on Thursdays, preferably early in the morning with Gaz and in the evening with Ghost. Even when you perfect your own style for attack and defense, you keep training with them; “So you don’t get rusty.”

Price knows what you signed up for, and he knows that he picked you, so like everyone else on the task force, he begins to train you. Being an expert in violence and timing—unconventional warfare too, he occasionally sits in on your training sessions with Gaz and/or Ghost. Sometimes, he talks with Gaz or Ghost beforehand to set up a specific scenario for you to find a way to get out of alive.

Being said, Price takes you out as well as the team to a training field, doing the exact same thing but in a more.. realistic scenario. Being so young, he figures you still have an unacceptable type of response with “fight, flight, or freeze”. His plan is to strip away the freeze response because that’s the one that will get you killed. He also very specifically has himself and your teammates as the enemies in this field because while you’re supposed to trust your team with your life, there’s also often betrayal in the field.

Soap is a demolitions expert, as well as a sniper. He absolutely refuses to let you handle real bombs at first because he knows you didn’t specialize in demolitions like he did. After spending a few months with you, he brings out non-dangerous replicas of bombs and replicated parts to begin to show you how to take a bomb apart/defuse it, when it’s best to let it explode, or how to put one together for emergencies. He absolutely 110% makes sure you know it’s for emergencies when he isn’t there. It’s not that he thinks you’re incapable, but he can’t help but worry. Him learning about how Gaz and Price met, how Price only had seconds to shove the hostage with a bomb vest strapped to him over that railing? Fucking terrifying to him.

Gaz also helps you complete your interrogation training—not being the interrogator, but then interrogatee. Undergoing several mentally challenging tests himself of this variety, he tasks himself with giving you pointers. Your task is to keep your mouth shut about intel and escape the facility and remain hidden, uncaptured during the entire test. He’s so incredibly used to uncomfortable situations, so his pointers during this—seeing that he passed this test himself, the only one who past it in his class—his advice is helpful.

Besides training with Ghost, he coaches you ambushes and stealth. Every time you’re caught in a test, he coaches you on how to evade, on how to remain hidden even when the enemy is right in front of you. He teaches you how to set up traps and ruses, what traps are most commonly used and spotted and what ones aren’t.

Overall, they know you’re inexperienced and young, but you quickly take their advice and training into account, and you get to teach them a thing or two when you arrive on base. You learn quick and Price finally feels as if you’re ready for an intense stealth mission, accompanied by the team. They don’t have any doubt held in their hearts for you, 100% trusting your abilities.

#call of duty #call of duty mwii #mw2 2022 #cod mw2 #modern warfare ii #mw2022 #cod #cod mw ghost #ghost x reader #price x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john price x reader #john mactavish x reader #kyle garrick x reader #platonic #young!reader #cod headcanons

1K notes · View notes

strayed-quokka · 1 year

Text

lacking in subtlety || kim sunwoo

» summary: it was a bad idea to like your brother’s best friend. it was an even worse idea to let him into your room when your brother was one door down.

» pairing: sunwoo x female reader

» rating: NC-17 minors do not interact

» genre: brother’s best friend, smut, porn without much plot but there’s backstory i guess

» warnings: dominant sunwoo (kinda?), he’s also a bit possessive, i guess submissive reader, oral (m and f receiving), creampie, his hand finds your throat but there’s no actual pressure, vague exhibitionism (?), sunwoo gets caught but he kinda asked for it, the beginning takes ages whoops, open ending cause i’m annoying, one use of good girl and some pet names

» words: 4,738

» a/n: i know i’ve done brother’s best friend before but i’m a hoe for that concept aight deal w it… also i have like… 20+ smuts for the boyz in my drafts i don’t know what’s going on anymore but i’m thinking either juyeon next because hands or a threesome with moonbae because it’s been sitting in my drafts and lord is it wild

also i know i disappeared but life happens and also people were stealing my work so i wasn’t really in the mood to write anything for anyone but here we are i’m back cause i wanna indulge ✌️

You’d never been much of a risk taker. In fact, on paper, you probably looked quite boring, good grades, a nice set of friends, never misbehaving, all of it lined up to make you rather uninteresting. That’s why when the shift from seeing Juyeon’s best friend Sunwoo, as someone more than a simple acquaintance happened, you simply ignored it.

He’d never find you interesting enough.

Though you were friends in a way too. Your brother was comfortable enough with Sunwoo never getting too close to you in that regard, and so the two of you would often interact even if he wasn’t there.

But the conversations were usually rather generic. Exchanges of how your days were, maybe the occasional comment about an outfit the other wore, but never anything beyond that. You still remembered coming downstairs in an oversized hoodie one day and Sunwoo jumping on the question to ask where you got it. He wore the same one in a different colour a few days later, and you swore he knew how flustered it made you.

You knew him, but you didn’t know him in a way that you knew friends. Nevertheless, you were always comfortable with him, even comfortable enough that during movie nights, if you happened to be around, lying next to him or even against him was deemed completely normal.

You’d done it since you were little, and so even once it shifted from being simply platonic to something that made your heart race as you got older, Juyeon never once questioned it. He never felt the need to and neither did Sunwoo. You weren’t sure if he was simply oblivious or intentionally ignoring the way you felt, but you were relieved either way.

Juyeon never noticed that your first semester back from university, Sunwoo started to get more physical towards you. His arm being wrapped around you wasn’t new, but where he let his hand rest was. You still remembered the first time it fell on your hips, but it stayed unmoving and almost felt like an unintentional accident.

Though with Sunwoo, nothing was unintentional. He thought you were beautiful and incredibly hard to resist, but he tried. He tried by simply leaving little hints, hints that could mean nothing or everything at the same time, and hints that Juyeon wouldn’t notice or brush off because Sunwoo wouldn’t cross that line. He’d never be so stupid.

Sunwoo didn’t want to cross the line, but there was only so much self control he had. Especially when you never, not once, rejected anything that he did.

You’d just finished your first year at university, enjoying the start of your summer break, when things shifted again. Trying to get used to Sunwoo drawing patterns on your hip or nuzzling up to you could never have prepared you.

The weather was terrible, a summer storm looming outside with the sound of rain crashing against the window as a random horror movie played that you lost interest in within the first twenty minutes, and you could tell Sunwoo didn’t care for it much either. Horror movies were Changmin’s thing, and maybe you should’ve been nice and invited your best friend along for the evening.

You were leaning against Sunwoo, his arm around you and fingers resting on your hip with a blanket draped over your bare legs and a part of your waist.

Juyeon was on the opposite side, a bowl of near empty popcorn on his lap with a blanket around his own figure.

Sunwoo shifted, the blanket slipping off your body though he caught it and covered you again, and you would’ve likely barely reacted if it weren’t for his fingers moving over your bare thigh. Your breath caught in your throat, and you tried to hide it with a cough though Sunwoo knew better.

Though just because he knew better, didn’t mean he was about to risk it entirely.

He’s slow, as if trying to calculate all the risks in the scenario he’s in, including both your potential rejection and Juyeon seeing what he’s up to, so it’s incredibly delicate as his fingers move under the thin blanket and to the hem of your oversized shirt, pushing it up above your hips.

Your eyes widen, looking down though the skin he’s exposed lies very much hidden over the thin fabric that’s keeping you warm. You feel like you’re burning and can’t breathe, trying to regulate it without raising any suspicion.

Sunwoo doesn’t feel your rejection, though he takes the time to whisper as quietly as he possibly can, “say stop and I will.”

You look over to Juyeon, but he hasn’t heard. It’s both a relief and a thrill, and you only nod to Sunwoo, tilting your head slightly upwards and to the side, eyes rested on his plump lips that had just hovered by your ear.

His fingers twist around the thin lace laying over your hip bone before he runs his hand down your thigh. He’s meticulous and painfully slow, but the result is that if you didn’t know any better, even you wouldn’t suspect much of anything. And the thrill of it all leaves you embarrassingly wet.

You’re impatient too, and maybe it’s a mistake, but you push his hand just enough to rest in between your thighs. Sunwoo isn’t stupid either, he knows exactly what you want and exactly what you’re craving, and he’s more than willing to give it to you now that you’ve cleared up any potential misunderstanding of your motives.

That’s the problem. Sunwoo has always been more than willing to do anything you ask, even when he shouldn’t. Whilst Juyeon had never explicitly stated that you were off limits, he knew that you were. He could have anyone he wanted. Anyone but you.

And you’re exactly what he wanted.

He’s teasing you, mostly because he doesn’t have a choice if he wants to remain discreet, but also because he likes it. He likes seeing you react, how you bite your lip and try to push your legs apart just enough for him to have his fingers between without the movement being too obvious. Sunwoo pushes into you as a response, and you can feel his cock against your ass.

This was bad. You were both stuck here, and you were feeling incredibly hot and desperately trying to be quiet.

“Are you okay?” he says it loudly, and you can’t believe the nerve he has to ask you right in front of Juyeon. Your brother looks over at you, concern on his face as Sunwoo’s fingers stop right back on your hip.

“What’s wrong?” there’s genuine concern there, and now you wonder what you look like.

“She feels warm. Fever?”

You want to hit him, but the only way you retaliate is to shift around with the way you’re lying, purposely pushing against him. You hear the angry hiss leave his throat, but it’s so quiet, similar to a low growl, so you don’t think Juyeon hears it, or if he does, he assumes it’s because your shuffling around must’ve kicked his friend.

“Do you wanna sleep? We can watch this another time,” you nod at your brother, for as much as you very much enjoy the lines you’re crossing, the gamble doesn’t seem worth it with him right here. That, and in some way, you respect your brother just a little too much.

“I’m gonna have a cold shower,” you twist your body up, ensuring the blanket is still on Sunwoo as he lets you go and repositions on his side, “night Juyeon. Sunwoo.”

You hug your brother goodnight, retaliating by hitting Sunwoo’s ass over the blanket, making him yelp and glare your way as you disappear into the bathroom.

Fucking hell, did that just happen?

You can’t believe it. The immediate guilt sinks in for what you’ve done. It’s obvious to you, just how deep your crush and sexual attraction for Sunwoo has gotten, but a part of you wishes you could still suppress it.

The water is ice cold when it hits your skin and you let out a squeal, eventually rinsing yourself off and washing your hair, attempting to snap out of the constant daze and addiction that is Kim Sunwoo. But the more you let him be in your mind, the more he refused to leave, and the worse your thoughts got.

Maybe you just needed to get laid. It had been a while since your ex (who you conveniently enough, don’t think Sunwoo liked), and now you were in a state of such frustration that you were taking it out onto the only man available in the house.

Though desire was a funny thing.

It just wouldn’t go away.

You lay awake for hours, staring up at your ceiling with only one person on your mind. There’s no doubt you’re losing it, unable to sleep for every time you close your eyes, it’s the same thought and wish for a dream over and over again.

You resort to the only form of advice you can run to. Changmin.

“It’s two in the fucking morning, please,” he groans, his voice rough and tired, and it really doesn’t help your sexual overdriven hormones. It’s not like you were attracted to your best friend, but his rough voice combined with everything else sent you into a near meltdown. Maybe you should just ask him to sleep with you.

“I want to fuck Sunwoo,” it’s quiet. You’re not sure if Changmin has to think about what you said first before he reacts, or if he just has no idea how to react, but eventually you hear him shuffle around and speak.

“I ehrm… I’m not sure what you want me to say to that,” he pauses again, clearing his throat, “does Juyeon know?”

“What the hell do you think?”

“Yikes, you really do need to get laid,” you nearly scream before remembering that any loud noise is going to garner unwanted attention from the two men that are either just downstairs or down the hall from you, so you suppress your agony instead, “why Sunwoo, though?”

“Have you not seen him?”

“I mean… not recently,” you sigh, rolling onto your side to look out the window. The rain seems endless, so you can’t exactly expect Changmin to get up and walk here to keep you company.

“You’re staying up with me.”

“I’m tired,” he groans, enough for you to briefly feel bad. Though one of your biggest flaws is your stubbornness and your best friend knows that.

“If I have someone else give you company, will you let me sleep?”

“Who’s crazy enough to come out at-”

There’s an abrupt cut on the other line, and you realise Changmin’s hung up. He either had a death wish or a plan, maybe both, and honestly, neither were comforting to think about.

A knock on the door breaks you out of it, half expecting your brother or maybe both of the boys to walk in, but it’s only Sunwoo. Immediately, you feel the need to wrap your blanket over your bare legs, “come in?”

He finally steps inside, leaving the door slightly ajar as he approaches you. He’s still in the same sweatpants and shirt from earlier, his hair more ruffled and messy from the constant laying down. He looks so inviting, his lips so full and his eyes so entrancing. It’s pure torture.

“Changmin messaged me,” you pale, and now you’ve decided that he really does have a death wish, “want to explain?”

He holds his phone out to you, a message from a number you can recite by heart sent just a minute ago.

Y/N wants to sleep with you. Double meaning implied. Leave me out of it.

“What the fuck Chan-,”

“Is it true? Double meaning implied?” he smirks, and you realise quickly that to him it’s become a bit of a game to see how far he can push and taunt you until you either decide it’s enough or give in. You’re not sure why Sunwoo suddenly got so confident, though you suppose he always has been, the only difference now is that he knows how you’re thinking.

“You don’t have to cover up. It’s quite warm,” his voice is low, but you doubt it’s out of worry for Juyeon hearing him. He’s right as well. It may be raining outside, but it’s incredibly hot in here, and you let him when he asks to remove the fabric over your bare legs, taking a seat at the edge of your bed.

“Are you… still watching that movie?”

“Finished it. And two others. Juyeon went to bed, it’s literally been hours,” you nod, wondering if he really is two doors down from you, fast asleep. Maybe he’s scrolling through his phone or doing god knows what else.

“And you?”

“Well…” he starts, his fingers moving up along your left leg and causing shivers to run along your skin, “see, I have a bit of a problem.”

You may regret asking, but curiosity gets the better of you and you feel like you’re damned to hell. That, and the fact that maybe you really don’t care at all anymore, about any of the risks, “which is what?”

He grins, and it’s a smile that tells you he has something on his mind that thrills him and intoxicates you. Sunwoo comes closer, resting the palm of one hand on your inner thigh to push your legs apart, his lips right by your ear, “I really need to know how sweet you taste.”

Your resolve breaks. Maybe it was broken before, but it’s definitely shattered now. A whimper falls past your lips and now he’s right above you, watching with eyes like you’re his prey.

“Am I allowed, sweetheart?”

It happens fast, the way you grip his shirt and pull him down until your lips meet. His lips are slightly salted, likely from the popcorn, and he’s quickly pushing his tongue between your lips and gripping you harder by your thigh. He’s rough, a little forceful with it, but you like the dominance he holds over you.

“Fuck, you have no idea how hard it’s been to resist you,” he leaves open mouthed kisses down your neck, one of his hands slipping under your shirt to grope your breasts, playing with the sensitive flesh and hardened nipples, twisting slightly as you mewl underneath him.

He’s overwhelming you. Sunwoo always has a way for your senses to go into overdrive, but with what he’s doing now, you can’t think.

“P-please,” you sound pathetic, but he’s nice enough to listen. At least you thought he was.

“Let’s play a game,” oh no. He’s pulling you up, until you sit with your legs over the bed, planted firmly on the floor as your eyes find the still open door.

You’d forgotten it was open. Sunwoo, however, clearly hadn’t, “what game?”

He’s down on his knees before you, his shirt discarded before you can even blink, and it takes a while to adjust to the naked chest and muscular build he’s always hidden from you. You tremble just at the thought, watching him closely as he repositions your legs onto his shoulder, pulling himself closer to you, “see how quiet you can be with that door open, sweetheart.”

You should be scared. The risk of getting caught has exponentially grown with the factor of an open door, but you feel his teeth lightly dig into the flesh by your upper thigh and you seem to forget everything else. It’s like he’s telling you to pay attention to only him, with each sharp sting of his teeth that leaves your skin red.

Something about it you love. The dominance maybe, or maybe the possessive nature in which he litters your skin in angry red marks that you want to have, “look at me.”

It’s demanding, but you barely hear it first until his fingers dig into your thighs, pushing your legs just slightly more apart, and you sit up just a little to meet his eyes. He almost looks dangerous, near possessed in his hunger for you, and suddenly you’ve never felt more attractive in your life.

He makes you feel wanted, and maybe that’s enough to explain why you’ve always been pushed towards him like a magnet. Even if you knew him at a surface level, he’s always been attentive to you in the little things.

You nearly curse the world the minute Sunwoo delicately lays a kiss over your clothed clit, and it’s frustrating how that alone damn near makes you see stars. Such a simple touch of his lips should not feel like the end for you, and yet it does. You grip his hair before you can help yourself, pushing him between your legs as he chuckles, “are you that desperate?”

“Shut up,” his nails dig into you harder, a scowl on his face as he nearly drags you down further, and you nearly yelp when your underwear is pushed to the side and his full lips meet your bare folds.

“F-fuck,” he doesn’t respond to you. Either he’s off in his own world or he’s intentionally ignoring you as punishment for the way you run your mouth, but you’re in heaven, though it feels like the greatest sin that’ll have you sent straight to hell.

You’d never have said you were a very vocal person in the bedroom. Even if someone made you feel good, your moans were usually quiet, more breathy and whispered than they were loud, but Sunwoo made you want to scream, and knowing you couldn’t made it so much worse.

Sunwoo seemed to know what he wanted, because without much warning, he’s letting his index finger graze your folds and it’s near embarrassing just how much of your juices coat his finger when he does, bringing it up to your lips, “are you gonna be good?”

You nod, desperate as you take his finger in your mouth, sucking on it like you would his cock, the taste slightly sweet while he’s back between your legs. You feel like your senses are going into overdrive, moaning as you take one of your hands and grip his hair, pushing his tongue deeper between your folds, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“S-Sunwoo, p-please,” you want to cum, and it feels like you’re so close, but it’s like he wants to remind you just how insufferable he is as he pushes back the second you feel like you may tip over the edge.

The whine that releases in your throat is loud and pathetic, and you both share a wide look of shock and worry because what if Juyeon heard it.

A minute passes, the only noise in the room being both of your heavy breathing, and when Sunwoo decides that Juyeon likely hasn’t woken up, his attention is back on you, “take off your shirt.”

You nearly don’t hear him, too busy staring at his swollen lips that glisten just slightly under the moonlight bleeding into the room, and he looks so beautiful that you feel like you’re falling for him right in that very moment, completely.

“You need to stop staring like that. It’s not good for my heart,” his words make your head spin just as they put you into action, stripping off the very little you have on until you’re entirely naked.

Sunwoo just stares first, and you wonder if maybe you should cover yourself but the minute you reach for the blanket, he’s stopping you, “don’t you dare.”

It’s rough, a demand that you listen to, especially when his fingers grip your chin to look up at him, “you look far beyond what I ever dreamed of.”

“You dreamed about me?”

He grins, leaning down to kiss you as you let yourself go, back hitting the mattress as he hovers over you, “all the time.”

“Tell me,” you wanna hear it. Want to hear what you do to him, when this entire time you just thought that Sunwoo was the one making you crazy.

“How good you must look with my cock inside you. You’d probably take it so well,” you’re nodding, whimpering slightly as he’s bruising your neck, and your hands are playing with the waistband of his sweatpants, asking without a word for him to take them off.

It’s a relief to you that he listens, until you’re both entirely naked though you’re the one left salivating at his hardened cock. A little above average but thick, making you feel like you’re going dumb staring at him, “you wanna open that pretty mouth for me?”

You feel him grip your thigh and push you to the edge of the bed again, your face eye level with his waist, and it’s almost instinctual for you to part your lips, the tip of his cock laid flat on your tongue until you take him deeper.

It becomes clear to you that you underestimated his girth, your jaw quickly sore but you don’t want to accept it either, relaxing your muscles as you swirl your tongue underneath the base of his shaft, moaning around his cock, eyes finding his to see that he’s already staring at you with such darkened lust that you feel like he desires only you, and it makes your head spin.

“Just a little more, good girl,” his praise goes right to your core, making you shake and he notices, fingers tugging at your hair as you take him just a little more, your mouth so full that you have to release him and gasp for air, but Sunwoo doesn’t mind for a second that you need to pull away.

Especially not when his patience is running thin with what he really wants.

You watch him step away from you, making you nearly cry out and complain but he moves to sit up with his back against the headboard, tapping his thigh as if inviting you onto his lap, and you don’t need to be told twice to obey his wishes. He grabs your waist when you’re close enough, and in a way it’s gentle as he guides you, straddling him and making his cock ache against your bare cunt, your juices coating him as he tries to steady his breathing.

“F-fuck, you sure you want this?”

He looks pained, like he would shatter if he had to stop now, but you also see in his eyes that he’s genuine. That he’s giving you one last out if you want to take it. Fortunately for you both, you don’t want to.

“Yes, p-please Sunwoo?”

It’s the desperation in your voice that releases something primal in him, the last bit of reserve leaving him as he lifts your thighs with a harsh grip that makes you see stars, aligning his cock against your entrance. He’s careful and slow, which at first you want to cry about, but you quickly realise that he has to be slow or he may hurt you, your body having to adjust to how tight it’s gripping him.

“G-god, have you never been fucked before?”

“Not like t-this,” your mouth hangs open, eyes shut as he feels his possession of you grow, and it does things to him knowing that it’s only him that’s got you squeezing around his cock like it’s your first time.

“There you go,” the praise makes you whimper again, clenching around him and Sunwoo nearly sees stars when he realises how much you like to be praised and told you’re good for him.

He feels like you’re cursing him straight to hell with the thoughts you’re giving him, something primal in him awakening, leaving him barely able to wait for you to let him move.

“P-please, m-more,” the open door has been forgotten the second Sunwoo lifts you off his cock before slamming into you, making you nearly scream in pleasure though he muffles it with his hand, alarmed though not near enough to have him stop. He doesn’t think he can, not with the way you feel around him, meeting the thrusts of his hips halfway as you bounce on his cock.

“S-Sunwoo, m-more,” he groans, eyes falling between the way he disappears inside you and your lips, and he knows he can never return to seeing you the way he did before, not now that he knows he’s gotten his hands on you.

“I want you to belong to me,” it should maybe be alarming, to hear him lay claim on you like this, but to you it’s the sexiest thing anyone’s said to you, and honestly, you know you already do.

“F-fuck, yes,” your movements quicken, his hand finding the base of your neck, just to grip onto you but not adding any pressure, but the action is enough to urge you on, like you want to do more for him and he hisses at the way your wrapped around him so tight and willing.

“Good, y-you do so good,” Sunwoo feels like he’s burning, gripping both your hips when he feels you lose control at his praise, keeping you in place with a vice hold that might even bruise, and you know you’re going not going to last. Not when you see the way his eyes are glazed over and never leaving you, his hair clinging to his forehead and his muscular chest moving rapidly as he breathes.

“Sunwoo, I-”

“I k-know baby,” his voice is smooth, but his pace is feverish and rough, and his neck presents itself to you just as the scale tips and you’re releasing your orgasm, biting into the skin of his shoulder to hide your pleasured screams of his name, the cries and the pathetic way he makes you whimper and see stars.

The pressure and pain from your teeth and knowing why you bit him just as you grip his cock harder inside your walls has him spilling his cum into you before he can properly warn you, but you don’t seem to mind at all as his lips fall to your shoulder, muffling his own breathing as you both come down from your high.

His hands find your back, nails grazing the skin gently before he’s just holding you in his arms, wincing slightly from the way you’re stimulating his cock even now, but when he tries to pull away from you, you grip onto him tighter.

“P-please,” he nearly wants to cry, head falling back against the headboard as he looks up, trying to collect himself and maybe even think about what he’s just done. But all that runs through his mind is how you’re keeping him in place, gripping him, whimpering and willing and his, and he’s forgetting every possible consequence to his insane actions.

“I’m a dead man,” you laugh, properly for the first time in a while and it makes him smile, and as much as he wants to keep you over him, to fill you up, he’s also a little more than relieved when you fall next to him because he’s not sure he could’ve handled the overstimulation any longer without being the one to beg.

“So is Changmin,” even if your best friend will likely ask you questions, and likely throw it in your face that he did you a favor, you still very much want to kill him. Sunwoo chuckles, brushing his fingers against your shoulder gently, and the way his eyes are watching you so softly now makes your head spin.

“Kim Sunwoo, put your fucking clothes on or I will drag your naked ass out anyway, you’re dead,” both of you tense, simultaneously looking to the ajar door, though you can’t actually see Juyeon, you just very much know he’s there. You guess it could be considered kind of him to not just barge in, but it almost makes you more embarassed because if he’s not walking in, he knows exactly why he shouldn’t and there’s no way out for either of you.

You expect Sunwoo to be more ashamed or worried, but he sends you a cheeky grin and kisses your forehead before stumbling over to his discarded grey sweats.

“Well, guess I have to go princess,” and while you’re left blushing, incredibly embarrassed, his bashfulness makes you smile, even when you know that Sunwoo is very much screwed.

“Y/N, you too. Now.”

And so are you.

waiting to be chased for the open ending but it just wasn’t important to the story to add what happens there so...

anyway thank you to everyone for reading, commenting and liking my work even while i was gone :) there will be more cause like i said... moonbae threesome and juyeon hands whoops

on a rather serious note though, please do not plagiarise my damn work. i spend hours on it and while i was grateful to be tagged and made aware of what was happening to me and other writers, it really makes it hard to even have motivation to write and dedicate that time if someone just takes it. i understand similarities in ideas because that happens (like please, as if i’m the first to do brothers best friend), but to copy paste is just beyond disrespectful and i’m tired of it.

tbz masterlist

#the boyz smut #sunwoo smut #kim sunwoo #the boyz sunwoo #sunwoo x reader #smut #the boyz #the boyz sunwoo smut #tbz x reader #tbz #changmin is your best friend #juyeon is your brother #the new comeback is making me feral for these men again #so you will probably see this a lot lately

1K notes · View notes

transmascaraa · 3 months

Note

HAAIII ME AGAIN had a new idea all of a sudden

OK SO HEAR ME OUT RIGHT. hcs with gaming, scara and uhhhmm. Blade hsr with autistic gn reader!?!2?1!2??! basically like reader tells them theyre autistic, how would the charas react? would they treat the reader any different? would their view of their s/o change???

IT LOOKS RLLY CUTE IN MY HEAD OK TRUDT

+ if it isnt too much im asking here, how theyd interact w reader when they go nonverbal bc theyre upset :3

THANK U MOOTIE ALSO HOPE UR SOING WELL!!!!

multiple characters headcannons!

you tell him that you're autistic.

characters: gaming, wanderer, blade x autistic!gn!reader

author's note: alright this one and might do one more tonight it's fucking 20 minutes till 1am lmao might do a few tmrw i hope i do lol ANYWAYSSS I'M DOING GOOD THANKS I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL TOO<33 LOVE THE REQQ

✧ Gaming

-so accepting fr. sweetheart. perfect bf. everything good.

-when you tell him he'd be so sweet and understanding frfr

-will literally sacrifice his whole being for you

-"you're autistic? that doesn't change anything, my dear!" he will love you eternally no joke.

-and when you get upset, you go nonverbal.

-so he spends hours trying to learn exactly what you mean by the gestures you use so thag he can help. he'll take it slow.

-he'll be patient with you.

-i promise.

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

✷ Wanderer

-nobody knows if it's sass or sarcasm at this point.

-HE WOULD LOOK AT YOU AS IF YOU TOLD HIM THAT YOU LIKE SLEEPING WITH YOUR PILLOW ON THE WARM SIDE.

-but he'd definitely be understanding. don't trust his physical expressions.

-you'd tell him and he would say some shit like:

-"you're acoustic?" before you playfully hit him and scold him.

-throughout the whole thing, his smirk never leaves his face. fuck that idiot, sometimes, honestly.

-when you're upset tho, he's really fucking nice. it's a rare case that he ever acts nice but at times like these he knows the limit.

-nahida will teach him more about autism after you told him

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

๑ Blade

-eughhh he's a complicated guy

-not like he would show any type of much reaction if you told him he'd be like "okay and?"

-sitting down beside him and telling him.

-he'll listen, sure. he'll be understanding, i guess. but his face remains neutral

-"and how am i supposed to help?" maybe he hurts your feelings js like that sometimes he will apologize with night cuddles

-but overall, he would help you. even tho he'll say he wasn't being all that nice at all but you know that deep down you keep that little bit of happiness in him

-if you're upset and go nonverbal, he will try his best to understand you and help you calm down, taking it seriously. he's really good at it

-he just wants to make sure that you're okay, nothing else matters to him.

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

i like this one

it's really good imo

i laughed my ass off while writing wanderer's one lmfaoo i hope you like it @chezsxapcake <3

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin headcanons #genshin impact headcanons #genshin fluff #hsr fluff #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr headcanons #honkai star rail headcanons #gaming x reader #gaming x you #wanderer x reader #wanderer x you #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #blade x reader #blade x you #first time writing bladie i like it

136 notes · View notes

mickstart · 5 months

Note

Hi! I don’t know if you still take Formula 1 asks but I was wondering after watching the Senna documentary, WHY ON EARTH everyone deems Senna better than Schumacher?!

Everyone always talks about Senna as the greatest, but he can’t be better than Michael Schumacher right? Or better than Fangio or Vettel, and definitely Hamilton.

Which I know Verstappen always says you can’t compare different eras but I can’t understand the hype around Senna,

I mean, personally, I prefer Prost because of how Jenson Button describes his driving style.

But I would like to understand though. I always like your input, so that’s why I’m asking. Thank you!

Have a lovely week!

Hey! yeah F1 will always be a part of my life so I'm always down for F1 asks. Fdfsjfdsghjds as for this it's a... complicated question. There's a lot of stuff going on.

So fair warning, this is going to be a long fucking answer.

For me personally, I totally agree with the argument that you really cannot compare different eras. Like, Max for example having more wins per season means Nothing when there are statistically more races per season. But then does this mean Fangio's statistic of winning the highest percentage of races per season is the real meaningful record, and it means he's better? Well, not in a way you can meaningfully prove, because fewer races per season means fewer chances to lose, or to have a mechanical problem, or a freak accident.

So you see really quickly how comparing different eras is like. Almost meaningless, because the skills needed in each era varied so much. It's not like a lot of other sports where the rules and structure were already consistent more than a hundred years ago and so it's easier to compare across a few decades. The physical demand an F1 race places on the body today would have been absolutely unthinkable to those drivers in the mid 20th century, even in the late 80s. They'd think it was a different sport entirely.

Like to me, The Greatest in F1 is about how they impact you personally. Michael is The Greatest and I don't feel any need to justify that by comparing his stats to others. It's about what he makes me feel in my chest, not his numbers.

And I think that's the crux of the issue w/ Senna. LOTS has been written about his driving style, his accomplishments, his determination. When Michael was peaking people were doing NASA level calculations to explain why Senna would actually always be better than Michael in numbers still. But I think some of that is people's personal attachment to both of them. Michael is a godlike figure to the tifosi and in German motorsport, and Senna is arguably an even more religious figure to Brazilians. Like I don't even feel right explaining here how much Senna means to some Brazilians because I know it is that deep of an emotion he brings out. He was a big donator to charities, he was a public figure representing Brazil on a global stage at a time the country was recovering from various crises. His funeral was enormous because he was arguably the biggest celebrity in the country.

And that mythical status spreads into motorsport as a whole. First of all because of his success, then because of how he himself weaved his religion into his racing - allegedly talking to god during the race and claiming God chose him to be a racer - then because of his rivalry with Prost, and then, finally, because of the impact a champion dying in an F1 race had on safety in F1 and across motorsport as a whole. Today we don't really appreciate how insane it was that F1 went from the death toll it had before Senna's death, to immediately going 20 years without a grand prix race killing a driver.

(Sidenote but I wish Ratzenberger's death didn't go ignored so often in this legacy and I can't talk about it without mentioning him for the sake of not letting his name go unsaid. Imola as a whole sparked change, not just Senna. It was too much tragedy in too short a timeframe for them to ignore it.)

Senna being "the last death" for such a long time only made his mythical status bigger. The religious wording he'd used about his own career, the way F1 (Brundle) tends to 'valorize' risk and danger, his popularity in Brazil, the mourning his death produced, it all pulled together to create something that's more legend than man. It became less a historical record of a real racer with numbers to his name and more a story about a doomed hero who died too young. When I was watching F1 as a kid - before Jules' death - Senna to me had this image of a martyr now guarding the racers in death and protecting them. That was sort of the 'vibe', I guess, that F1 liked to push.

(There's really something to be said about how Ferrari and Brazil and Italy and Catholicism shaped F1 into a religion with saints of its own I guess.)

Like, I wasn't alive when Senna was racing. I don't consider myself a spiritual person. I don't really even care about Senna, and frankly I know his personal life includes essentially an arranged marriage to an underage girl. But still, I hate it when we go racing at Imola. The whole track feels eerie to me, like it should be left alone, like we're disturbing something. I know that IS superstitious and I never let that feeling out, but it's in the back of my head. That's how strongly F1 has pushed Senna on the fans as a legend beyond questioning, and how it effects even someone who doesn't consider him the greatest and never has.

This ties back into people comparing him to Michael, I promise. I think a lot of the reason people do that, is actually that they're mourning that they never got a definitive answer to the question "Which one is better?" because Senna was killed before the championship could be settled. They try to find other ways to give an answer, to prove it, so they can feel satisfied, so they feel there WAS some sort of resolution to the question and it was just hidden.

But death isn't neat and tidy like hypothetical answers. It just happens. That's natural, and so is resisting the truth of it and the questions it leaves unanswered, or the gaps it leaves in our lives. Senna is framed like a story - F1 is framed like a story - and human nature is to give a story a conclusion with meaning that answers all of our questions - Senna was the best, Michael was the best, Lewis is the best, Fangio is the best, etc - not... nothingness. Not a sudden and abrupt ending to a young life that had nothing to do with the story he was carving out. So Senna's death becomes the turning point for safety in F1, the answer to the question of 'the greatest' becomes something that has already been given, and we create whatever proof we needed to simplify these things down.

In reality, F1 went 20 years without a death from a grand prix because of luck, swift action, and the tireless work of many, many individuals. Stewart, Watkins, Lauda, the drivers who reformed the GPDA after Senna's death and had it up and running by the next race, the people who redesigned Imola to be safer, the FIA circuit grading system, the track marshalls, the medical staff, and hundreds more.

In reality, there is no definitive greatest, and if there is, if we can somehow prove it via mathematics, very few statistics are on Senna's side.

But like. For all that we live in reality, that doesn't inform how we perceive it. When Michael equalled one of Senna's records he broke down crying, and for the rest of his career he always said Senna was the greatest without pause. I'm pretty sure Lewis himself still holds Senna up as the greatest. Because at the end of the day that title isn't something that can be 'proven' to some people, me included. It's not actually about records or statistics or proof. It's about who makes you feel like an awed little kid watching a very brave man in a very fast car.

People don't like to admit that though. People like to be right, and they like it even more when the thing they're right about makes them part of a group. (Senna Fans, Schumi Fans, Hamilton Fans.)

For me personally though, I never like to argue or debate about who is the 'best'. I know nobody will ever change my mind about Schumi, and frankly I don't want to change anyone else's mind about who the 'best' is, and as soon as the conversation starts it always ends up becoming about doing one of those things. I don't see the appeal of it. If someone out there is convinced Maldonado would be a 10 time WDC if he had been in a good car then fine, fuck, sure. You keep believing that.

Sorry. I've rambled a lot and this became more a general treatise on What It Means To Be The Greatest and How Sport Becomes Folklore than an answer to your question. I just didn't feel I could answer without Getting Into It. I hope I've kept this respectful to the drivers of the sport, and it hasn't felt like me lecturing you when I just got super carried away with my theories sfdghfsdhg

TL;DR - I don't think Senna is the greatest, but I think it's purely because of his legacy and myth.

#long post #I'm literally praying read mores still work on mobile

78 notes · View notes