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Aphrodesiacs Pt.6
Miguel O’Hara x fem! spidey! reader
You and Miguel O’Hara were bitten by the same spider…what could possibly happen?
i’m back i’m back i’m back!
NSFW 18+ as always
It was the same old story, same old Miguel falling in the continuous spiral of something that he has long past an issue. The further this continued, it felt like another mistake living deep in chest. But he knew that this was objectively the right thing to do. Miguel blocked your number and broke his phone.
His stance remained firm and exhausted in same old boyishly endearing Miguel fashion, Peter B was standing next to him or something, saying whatever remark or sly jab at Miguel’s signature silent brooding. He wasn’t paying attention, words fell on deaf ears and he seemed even more disinterested in everything that was being uttered to him. It was like phasing out was a pitiful second instinct. All he seemed concentrated on was you, your tender sighs and sweet lips he could practically feel wet as you breathed over the phone. You were very brazen that night, it was surprising and refreshing in equal tandem. He would shut your vulgar mouth with his cock instead, he’d slap your cheeks raw with it and then slap his tip against your tongue until you’re begging him to just shove it in.
“Miguel? Buddy, you listening? Are you high or something?” Peter snapped his fingers in front of Miguel’s unappeased and unkind face to drag him away from something he never thought he would be: unfocused.
“Stop bothering me. I’m busy.” He huffed in response, his body language radiating stress. He was trying to occupy himself with working on some new tech but he couldn’t get that right either. If anything, Miguel needed to be bothered. Peter looked unimpressed and continued to be a pest warmly, in true Peter quips.
“Well it’s not my fault you’re acting all floozy and whistful into the horizon. When was the last time you even left here man?” Peter groans and grabs his cheeks like a mother would do to a small child, inspecting him gratuituously.
“Peter. Come on stop it.” Miguel grumbled lowly, not wantingto snap at him at the fullest terrifying extent he knew himself to be capable of. Peter squeezed his cheeks harder.
“You’re so damn pale…you’re like a vampire.” Peter chuckled at the inside joke that everyone actually believed that Miguel was a vampire ninja, he felt himself lighten up a little at that but he chose not to show it. Peter gasps in faux horror. “That beautiful warm golden honey glow is fading away with every second you’re here in your batcave.”
Miguel didn’t know what to say, the only time he’s ever left HQ is to go home and when he couldn’t sleep, which was always, he came back. Failing himself and everyone around him miserably. His mood strayed at the thought, but it was true. He wasn’t doing any good here, he wasn’t doing any good for you but he couldn’t tell Peter that. No one knew what was happening to him, only you, Jess and Lyla.
“Listen man, you need to get out of here. And it just so happens you know a guy who is throwing a cookout at their place back on their dimension. I.E: me.” Peter crossed his arms and looked terribly impressed with himself and Miguel just raised an eyebrow already tired of his neverending theatrics.
“No.” He said simply but firmly.
“Yes.”
“No.” He said more firmly this time.
“Yes.”
“Why?” Miguel snapped his gaze back at him, looking slightly agited but Peter wasn’t the only one with balls, he groaned out frustratedly at his candor.
“The Mysterio anomaly last week took 20 years off my already fantastic life and I need a break from it, so do you man. Plus my wife is way more unkind and insistent than me so she’ll be back to pull you by the ear so consider me a friendly warning.” Peter looked irked as he tapped his foot, waiting for a response that deserved a punch in the gut.
Miguel was in a state of bewildered shock, all he could let out was an eye twitch. He was so frustrated with you, with all of this that his nerve endings were on the outskirts of thoroughly cooked and fried with boundless anger. Every day his patience was stretching and every day was starting to feel like a losing battle but he had to keep reminding himself: it’s for the best, it’s for your own good. He absolutely deplored thinking it let alone repeating it but at this point he was too far gone to not give up now. All he needed was for you to stay away from him. God knows what you’d do to each other. Peter was right though, Miguel had the same routine: HQ, fail to sleep, HQ, avoid. Was it so wrong puncturing the rhythm of this soulless cycle? If he can’t be around you he might as well distract himself im more carefree ways, and he might not even get the opportunity ever again.
Miguel let out a short agitated huff and let out a pitiful yet stern “Fine.”
“I’m so convincing, it’s actually the only thing I have in my repertoire nowadays.” Peter beamed lightly, full of himself as always.
“Wait. I have one condition.” Miguel cut him off, his face mixing between frustration and anxiety.
“Okay?” Peter said hesitantly.
“Y/N can’t be there.” Miguel gaze was peneterating right through Peter, staring daggers into his face at the mere mention of your name. When he said your name he felt his mouth drawl back some drool, even saying your name had him salivating.
“What why?” Peter looked visibly confused at something so seemingly random. “I mean that’s gonna be quite difficult because her and my wife are actually the ones that are cooking for us sooo….No can do.”
Miguel looked like he got hit in the face with a brick, he was vacant and blank yet his eyes were slowly creasing, wincing at Peter for a split second and then groaning out in frustration, he almost sounded like a pained animal. God, this sweet torture.
“Lie to her. Make something up and get her to not go.” Miguel snarled poisonously, his true ferocity only showing just a fraction as it gleamed over twice in his eyes, Peter noticed it and decided not to press him further
“Okay.” Peter said hesitantly, attempting to sound cordial but he couldn't help but still be confused. This was all supposed to be for fun, he didn't want to randomly exclude people for no apparent reason. He couldn't argue with Miguel on it anyway, once his mind was set on something, Peter knew it was nearly impossible to knock it down.
-
Miguel's mouth went dry, his lips curled down into a crooked frown when he realized what he was about to walk into. Swimming was so pointless. Why the hell was he being coaxed into entertaining such petty things? He couldn't remember the last time he had relaxed or done something remotely fun, he used to think that working on new tech was 'fun', but now it was just a distraction to suck him out of the void of desperation. Avoiding it would be even more suspicious this time though, no one had properly seen much of him recently, and part of him wanted to see how everyone was doing. How everyone was doing without him. The thought shook him up. At least you won't be there to make him feel worse or lose any form of self-control. He was hoping it would be a breather from all this torment. It would go either one of two ways: fine or the absolute fucking worst. As always he would prepare for the worst.
Miguel arrived with a grimace he was trying to conceal, his weak smile when greeting Peter at the door was absolutely endearing and he hated it. He just had to remain calm for a few hours, show his face briefly, light conversation preferably about work and not leisure, he didn't need to grin he just had to bear it. Peter's house was in a quaint little suburb, Miguel threw his jacket in the bathroom and followed Peter when he led him to the back garden he was surprised to see that the pool was big and deep. Multiple Spideys were wilding out in it, having fun for once, not burdened by the consistent pressure to be a hero...like Miguel would put on them.
He frowned. And then his heart pulsated erratically.
Shit.
Of course.
Lord above save him.
Miguel's eyes scanned wildly around and then his gaze landed on you. His living breathing torment. You. Sprawled out on a sunbed, stomach down, kicking your feet as you drank in the golden sun, liquid rays pouring on every inch of your bikini-clad skin. God, it barely covered anything. Your back dipped and the curve of your ass was on full display. Miguel's face dropped into a mindless gawk, eyes wide and mouth agape, he swallowed when he saw what MJ was doing. She was rubbing your back down with sunscreen or tanning oil or whatever, he stood there looking like a complete idiot as he stared at you. You looked so blissed out, letting your eyes flutter as a lazy smile painted your face.
This was awful.
He was lying.
This was perfect. So damn perfect. A wet dream was written out in front of his eyes
His eyes then snapped to Peter, and an anxious yet irritated glare pierced right through him. “Why is she here?” Miguel gritted through clenched teeth. Peter just elbowed him playfully.
“Get your talons out of your ass and have fun man. Does it really matter? Wait did you...You and her-? Oh, you did that's why.” Peter chided, elbowing him in the bicep as if he uncovered the truth of ali of his schemes. “Hey man, I'm not judging you.”
Peter walked away chuckling and Miguel's gawk became even more apparent when you opened your eyes and they directly met his. When you saw him, you were sure you could've finished right then and there, eyes gleaming and wide and lips instinctively wetting. Why did he have to be so insanely hot? It's cruel and inhumane. He was wearing a grey compression shirt that fit him so damn tight and some black swimming shorts that made his thighs look beefy as fuck. You didn't even think he'd come, but obviously, Peter had to lure the snake away. You hadn't talked to him since you spoke on the phone and even then you promised you would go back to avoiding each other. He was just keeping that promise no matter how much it pained him. Especially in that tiny little bikini. The gaze you shared felt like it had been going on for hours, Miguel shook his head and grunted before turning his back to leave. This was a huge mistake. You looked so incredible it was making him lose it.
“Oh, it looks like Miguel got here.” MJ teased but you didn't even care enough to listen, you panted heavily and loosened out of her hold and rolled onto the floor and scrambled yourself up and practically rushed inside.
Pathetic and desperate didn't even begin to cover it at this point.
Miguel went into the bathroom to get his jacket, mumbling with a stern look on his face, that little v forming in between his eyebrows whenever he furrowed his brows. He quickly glanced in the mirror and took a minute to contemplate his purpose, he was sweating and the hair on his body stood to attention, it was the moment before being struck by lightning but a thousand times worse. He raked his hands through his hair, rubbed his eyes, and went to leave. When he opened them you were at the doorway. Getting closer to him. And then you closed the door behind you and leaned on it. Miguel just took and deep breath and sighed once your scorching gazes connected again. You could feel your bones going limp as he practically stared a hole into your face
He could see every dip and curve of your body, the thin fabric of your bikini covered so little but he already knew what was under it. He wanted to feel it. He needed to feel it. You had this confused aloof look on your face, a pretty pink stain on your lips and cheeks, eyes sparking with a sincere desperation that you couldn't hide when you were this close.
“Thanks for getting rid of the restriction on my watch, that was very philanthropic of you.” Your lips curved into a jagged scowl as you quipped sarcastically, and you crossed your arms like you were in a huff but Miguel wasn't thinking clearly.
“Thought we said we go back to avoiding each other.” Miguel raised an eyebrow at you. You were shining under the dim bathroom lights, the tanning oil that MJ put on you causing your skin to gleam and shimmer, your scent and skin were driving him crazy but he had to hold it together. It was all he had left.
You paused, taking yourself off the door and taking a few small steps closer to him.
“You know as much as I do that I wouldn't have been able to do that.” You whisper, blinking up at him.
“Don't give me that look.” Miguel averted his gaze elsewhere to the pale walls of the bathroom but like a magnet, his eyes always drew back to you. He was staring at your lips. Sweet yet cunning. Mesmerisingly calculating.
“Does it make me a bad person that I want to see you break?” You smiled slyly at him, half joking half not.
“Today's not that day.” He smirked, almost teasing you. It was like a second instinct, to butter you up and then leave you on edge. Miguel brushed passed you and you scoffed at his reply.
“Ouch.” You giggled dryly. “Fine. Let's manage then.” You rolled your eyes and he just let out a neutral 'hmm."
Miguel's hand went to the door handle and he tried to pry it open, not thinking anything of it initially but the handle wouldn't budge. He cocked an eyebrow, confused at his lack of strength. Then he tried again. It still wouldn't move.
“Ugh, what's taking so long? Open the door.” You groaned before turning around to see that he physically couldn't open the door. It was stuck.
"No. No. This can't be happening.” He mumbled with a strain under his breath, his eyes shot open and a confused look washed over his face, then it turned to anger. White hot anger.
“Move.” You grunted and then elbowed him to the side, the small brush of skin was enough to send sparks alighting under both of you. Ignoring it as per usual, you pulled on the handle, your grip tightened and even with all vour might it still wouldn't fucking open.
"Oh my fucking God.” Miguel buried his head in his hands and paced around as you continued to try and pry the door open, groaning and failing miserably.
“We're stuck in here.”
-
IM BACK FROM VACAY MORE CHAPTERS V SOON!
-
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I wanted very much not to be where I was. In fact part of the trouble seemed to be that where I was wasn’t anywhere at all. My life felt empty and unreal and I was embarrassed about its thinness, the way one might be embarrassed about wearing a stained or threadbare piece of clothing. I felt like I was in danger of vanishing, though at the same time the feelings I had were so raw and overwhelming that I often wished I could find a way of losing myself altogether, perhaps for a few months, until the intensity diminished. If I could have put what I was feeling into words, the words would have been an infant’s wail: I don’t want to be alone. I want someone to want me. I’m lonely. I’m scared. I need to be loved, to be touched, to be held. It was the sensation of need that frightened me the most, as if I’d lifted the lid on an unappeasable abyss.
Olivia Laing, from The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone
#olivia laing#alienation#detachment#loneliness#aloneness#emptiness#excerpts#writings#literature#prose#fragments#selections#words#quotes#prose collection
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omg sex worker miguel o’hara? 🤧🫡
grande | sex worker!miguel o'hara x assistant!reader
❛ pairing | sex worker!miguel o'hara x assistant!reader.
❛ type | extended drabble; 2kish words; explicit
❛ summary | you probably shouldn't tell a man that he's small. even if you've known him a very long time-- and especially if you see him fuck every day.
❛ tags | sex worker au, improper use of belts, male receiving oral, slight disagreements, workplace argument, Spanish is not translated
❛ sy’s notes | ...i now have an escort!miggy x rich girl!reader in my drafts to be finished at some other time because it became a bit depressing and plotty. needed something light to get back into writing for a bit.
He doesn’t play fair. Most women understand that about him. They know Miguel to be the man who bends the delicate boundaries of rules for a good fuck— be it a place, be it a position. Miguel would do what he had to for a better clip.
“Miggy?” You said, hands behind your hips. He should have known then that you were up to some shit. You hover somewhere in his vision with a sugar-sweet smile. You’ve worked with him alongside him since he chose this profession. Most days, he watched you sit by your favorite window that cast a warm midday sun, tacking away with fingers that flew across the keys. Some days, you’re watching him-- mounted on another woman. He cocked his thick brow at you.
“What?”
“I… it’s just… fuck. Elena had something come up.”
“Like I said she would."
Miguel set his fist to his cheek, swirling his protein shake in the other hand. This woman was your idea, not his. There’s a reason your voice choked on the words. You were anxious about your news the way your hands rounded to the front of your body, clammy hands plastered onto your tablet.
“I just thought—“
“I know what you thought. You thought my followers would like her.” He took a swig of his drink. “Not if she’d like me.”
That was exactly the issue. You do too much worrying about what the viewer likes, not enough about what he would like. He was well aware from every ping from Elena and the contorted little face you made that she was scared of him. As to why, he was not certain. He's grumpy, not dangerous.
“She does like you— it’s just your dick,“ you fumbled with your tablet, nearly spilling it over on his lap. “I told her you weren’t that big. She’s just— dramatic.”
“Not that big?”
You’re not winning this fight. He threw a look at the tablet, finding your suggestion more egregious than your description of it. Too thick! She complained. He’d stretch her out. Or, so she feared. He sincerely doubted that. She took enough dick that if that were the case, she’d have an issue long before now.
He’s not that big in real life. All that big dick crap is just marketing. I see his dick all the time.
Then you fuck him!
His mouth flattened into an unmoveable line, clearly unappeased with your response. For a moment, he did not move. He did not fidget. Nor respond. He simply stared down at you with those sharp, unhumored eyes. What little security you had in convincing him flitted away. He abandoned his drink on the table and leaned in close. Close enough that his thick strands of dark hair tickle your skin. Enough that you can smell the perfumed oil that lingered on his tanned skin. He always smelled so good.
“Until you’ve fucked me onscreen,” he brushed past. “Don’t tell women who will what I’m like.”
Oh. You made a mistake.
You don’t like it when Miguel is angry.
Most days coming to work, Miguel has a hot coffee on the table for you as you edit his finest ball-busting work. When the days stretch a little too long, he tells you when enough is enough. And, if you were lucky, he hovered at the stove and made you something to eat. It gave you a perfect sight of his toned shoulders and the long column of his spine-- which he so graciously allowed you to drool over day by day. Today, there was no half-dressed hunk making your delicious meals in sight.
He’s still angry. You pulled up his socials, scrolling through the responses to the latest video. A teasing blooper of a clip with a woman with Miguel’s length halfway down her throat, coughing up his seed all over her chest as you mistakingly giggle behind the screen.
“Keep laughing and see what happens,” Miguel drifted to yours, eyes hazy and soft, chest rising violently with the sundering sensation of his orgasm. He watched for the span of only a few heartbeats, a decadent warning exchanged between the two of you immeasurable before the camera. He reached for a tissue.
“Perdóname, papi.”
Does anyone know if they’re fucking? A user asked. It’s as if Miguel’s co-star was but a fading character. Any chance of seeing him fuck her?? Whats her @?
She’s just his employee.
Need this.
Just an employee. The words pulled on a string of connection that could at any time be cut. Miguel had no interest in wielding the scissors to do so, rather, over the past few years the string only became stronger. He’ll get over it. You stared at the reflection of your poorly made cup of cafecito, undrunken because no one made it like Miguel made it. He’s there, hovering around the sink, but you feel all the more alone in the room. Producer, editor, friend-- your eyes fell back to the cup.
“Are you done?” Miguel hovered by your coffee cup. It was cool to the touch.
“Ah. Sí.”
You gazed up at him, regret seeping from your features. If you apologized yet again, he’d simply leave the room. There are no good words. No ones that would make sense, no words that would… be good enough to make him come back when he’s in this mood, unmoveable and distant. You’re so close to him-- but all alone.
He takes the cup away.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
Miguel dropped his phone on your office desk. It thumped over the tablespace, his expression morphing into something wrong. You turn his phone upright, knowing the contents before the information actually registers in your mind.
“It’s a picture of me,” you closed the top of your laptop and whirled around in the chair, knocking your knees against his. He’s closer than he’s been in days.
“Yes. But what else?” he rumbled.
You’re not stupid, remembering the launch of merch that Miguel sincerely doubted anyone would be seriously interested in. How many people wore a male sex worker’s merch? This was all your idea, of course. Your lip is bitten fat, stripped of skin. Your eyes wandered across the table to the cabinet with an array of different cameras. Miguel rapped his scarred knuckles over the table, blocking your desperation for an escape. He wanted a substantial answer.
“You told me to make sure it sold.”
“And that meant model with your ass out on my page.”
“You don’t like it?”
"Dios," that’s not the point. He breathed a forceful breath, navigating your rolling chair up against the bed in the room. Typically the bed was used for a late night at the office or one of Miguel’s performances with any number of women you cast him with. Or, as you preferred, when he masturbates by himself-- squeezing his hand along his length as your phantom hand poured more wet lubricant over his cock. The sheets are always stained and consequentially changed.
“I don’t like that they know what you look like,” Miguel supplied, his chest cresting into a fall. His gaze fell to your hands, settled in a clasp over your short skirt. Now he knew what you looked like. “Do you know how many requests I have to…”
“Fuck me.”
“Sí,” Miguel said, your name dying on his tongue. “To fuck you.”
“Then do it. You have a camera.”
What-- his gaze read. It’s in the way his brow pushed together, how his lips fell just so lightly apart. He would say something more, but your hands are on his dark slacks, tracking up toward his sturdy leather belt. In only an hour or so, Miguel was meant to record with Elena, who, you convinced. He should be saving his stamina for that, not this. Even so, his hands hovered atop your own, grunting slightly in response, unable to stop what you were doing.
“Don’t ask me to ruin you.”
“I think you already have,” you murmured, finding his soft cock. You stroked him through his pants, drawing along his length, getting him where you want him. With every scene you recorded, you knew what Miguel liked. You knew he liked scenes where he could take his time, as short and far between as they were. You want that too. You drew the belt loose and unbuttoned the little spry button. So close, you could almost taste him.
“Are you going to record it?” You gestured toward the desk, pulling his cock into the free air. He’s an impressive length, just as you recall, you think he has to be to be an adult actor. The real treat is Miguel’s thick girth, swirled with delicious veins. You had seen his dick at least a hundred times, delighted in watching him meet his orgasm time and time again, and touched yourself to the thought of being just like his many girls.
“No,” Miguel pulled his belt from the loops and tugged it around his wrist. He let the other hand find the back of your head, weaving through smooth locks of hair, guiding your lush lips to his cock. “This is all for me.”
When he spoke like that, all you wanted was to make him happy. Your moist mouth separated, warm breath tickling the length that he shoved into your wet mouth. Maybe Elena had a point, you think, suckling around his length once, drawing to his fat tip. He hums in response, bucking back deep into your mouth. Miguel didn't want to wait, causing you to gag over his length, a terrible coughing resonating about his dick. Now that he had you here, he would show you how wrong you were.
“I thought I wasn’t that big,” Miguel’s hand left your head, stretching his belt across the back of your neck. Bucking forward, you gagged around his length, scratching his clothed hip for some mercy. If he wasn’t so big-- you could take it, couldn’t you? “Just like that. Hm? Cómo?”
He was gracious enough to allow you off his cock, gasping for air as you were, the depth of his plunging cock having pricked a few oversensitized tears on the sides of your eyes. You’re beautiful like that, overwrought and needy. Your heart rattled in the confines of your ribcage, wheezing as you jerked him pathetically. How certain you look now, tugging on him for a moment of relief.
“I’m sorry--”
“Ya sé.”
Your eyes fluttered shut, guiding him back into your mouth. Your cheeks hollowed out, drawing him in fast and hard. If not for the belt around the back of your neck, he might have stumbled, stuck between the warmth of your mouth and the pleasured groans tickling his length. You’re well-accustomed to what the girls do, stretching your palm around his dick.
“Harder,” he remarked, throwing a half-chewed-up curse aside. Unlike with the other girls, he’s weak before the pleasure, usually focused and refined, his jaw clenches. He’s gotten weak-- has it been that long since he’s had sex outside of the roll of the camera?
“Miggy,” you pulled back, your sloppy tongue swirling about his fat tip. He catches the moan in his chest, refusing to let it crest over, not yet. His eyes catch yours, muscular stomach flexing, he’s listening. “I want to taste you. Can I taste you?”
You’re such a good niña. Miguel forces you back to your rightful place on his cock, the band stretched so tight around his fists that he might break it. Your name becomes an unbearable, pleasurable slur on his tongue. He’s a trained man, knowing to cum when you say to come on each shoot. In many ways, he's your trained dog: cuming when he's told to.
His length pulsed in your mouth for one final thrust before he gave you what you wanted, strands of release spraying the back of your warm little mouth. You suckled him up, even as he tried to pull free. You cleaned his cock, sucking him nice and clean. Miguel brushed off your attempt to zip him away.
“Don’t bother,” Miguel breathed, pulling at the black-tie strapped to his throat. His white dress shirt was soaked, causing him to roll the sleeves up to his elbows. His voice dropped, well-fucked out but nearly ready for another round. “Your cunt is next.”
“But Elena is on her w--”
“Fuck her,” Miguel waved his hand, slouching into your chair. “Fix the camera. We have a video to shoot.”
If nothing else-- now you can tell her how big he really is.
#miguel x reader#miguel o'hara x you#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o'hara/reader#atsv imagines#atsv imagine#atsv fic#atsv x reader#atsv x you#atsv x y/n#miggy x reader#miguel o'hara imagine#miguel o'hara smut#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara x y/n#miguel ohara imagine#miguel ohara x you#miguel ohara smut
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GOD the thought of one of them being forced to watch the other rail you, and they're restrained with a huge hard on whimpering wishing that it was him touching you instead, you all take care of eachother afterwards ofc <3
Y'all got me foaming at the mouth writing like I'm rabid and I love it
Warnings/tags: afab reader w/ they/them pronouns, loosely edited late-night filth, piv sex, oral sex m!receiving, briefly brainrotting fluff at the end and then someone (guess who) just has to get in the last word. it's all in the ask folks
This has a part 2 now!
Words: 2104
Drink up my thirsty friends
-
It wasn’t even König’s fault. He wasn’t the one who gave you such soft hands, such a sweet voice, such a pretty mouth. How could anyone blame him for falling apart at the touch of those hands, the sound of that voice, the feel of your mouth?
“You have such a pretty cock, König,” you croon as you kneel naked in front of him, stroking the length of it. You kiss the tip. “Anyone ever tell you that? How gorgeous your cock is?”
He opens his mouth, only to whimper as you lick along his slit, smiling at him so sweetly. “No one? You poor thing.” You run your tongue along a vein, smiling at his breathy sigh. “I love this cock. Love how good it feels inside me. How much it stretches me.”
“Then let me fuck you,” he pants rocking his hips forward, only for you to pull back, lips curled deviously.
“Not yet,” you soothe, kissing his thigh. “Want to taste you.” You take his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around slowly with a hum that has him shaking already.
“Please,” he begs. “Let me…I’ll make you feel so good…” he pants as you take him in deeper. “I’ll…I’ll fuck you so good…you’ll…you’ll forget everything else.” You moan around him, letting him rock his hips even further into your mouth.
“Will you?”
König freezes as you pull back to whip around, eyes fixing on Simon standing in the doorway like a wraith, shoulders nearly knocking against the side of it. Even in civvie clothes with the balaclava off he looks for all the world like a vengeful spectre. Unstoppable. Unappeasable. Your only hope to pray for his mercy.
“You would forget me, love?” He growls, prowling forward like a bear. “Forget how good my cock makes you feel?”
“Never, Simon, I-”
“You’re right.” He stops, looming over you. “Never.”
You lean forward to palm him through his pants but he catches both of your wrists. “No,” he snarls, turning to place your hands just above König’s knees. “You don’t get to touch. And you,” his gaze shifts to König. “Stay still. Hold their hands there. And watch.”
You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows before nodding, spreading his hands across his thighs to clamp your own into his skin. His hips wiggle a bit, his hard member bobbing in front of your face, but at Simon’s glare he stills.
You feel the pressure of the thunderstorm that is Simon Riley building behind your back as he sinks to his knees. His breath brushes over the top of your head and you shiver, feeling the air around you move as he leans around you. “You alright?” he whispers. You nod, feeling him press a gentle kiss to your temples before looking up at König.
König’s eyes are glassy already, but he too nods, and out of the corner of your eye you see Simon lean around you, pressing against your back as he places a kiss on König’s knee.
And then the softness of Simon Riley retreats, replaced with the hard persona of a commanding officer divvying out punishment to his misbehaving soldiers. One hand grabs your shoulder, holding you just far enough back that your mouth can’t reach König’s cock lest you get any ideas. The other is on your hip, shifting your body back onto his lap, groaning as your legs spread open around his own.
Above you König is already whining and trying not to squirm. Part of him wants to beg Simon to let him fuck your mouth, or even just to let him use one of his own hands. But another part of him, one that settles deep and dark into his gut, is writhing in excitement, clamping his teeth down onto his tongue so he can see just how far this goes.
It wasn’t König’s fault. He didn’t mean it like that. You knew he didn’t mean it like that. Hell, even Simon knew. But Simon would be damned if he didn’t have some fun teasing him about it anyway. You weren’t the only one who loved hearing König beg. Just as König wasn’t the only one who loved watching you fall apart around him. And if Simon could have both at the same time? Well, he would count himself the luckiest man alive.
Simon’s already sending silent praises to whatever crazy streak of luck landed him here, with you on his lap as he fumbles at his belt and trousers until he finally frees himself, hearing your beautiful gasp as he rubs his tip down your soaking slit. “Fuck, pet, look at yourself. Think you could take me just like this?”
You mewl, rocking your hips down onto him and eliciting another gravelly swear before his hands tighten around you and pull you down, slow but relentless, forcing you open around him. You throw your head back, gasping for air as you feel König’s hands tighten around yours, gripping his own thighs as strangled sounds come from his throat.
“You like that, big guy?” Simon taunts, and König’s teeth dig deeper into his tongue as he takes in the man’s smirk while he bottoms out. “You like watching them take everything I can give?”
Simon rolls his hips up into you, pulling another sound from your tightening lungs. König screws his eyes shut and throws his head back, digging marks into his flesh and driving the blood from your own hands, desperate to bring himself under control.
“Eyes on me, soldier,” Simon commands, and immediately König obeys, cock jumping traitorously as he whips his eyes down. Simon stares at his achingly red member before his eyes drift upwards, coals burning right through König’s own watery vision. He snorts, a sound of laughter. “Good boy.”
König whimpers, but the sound is drowned out as Simon digs his hand in, pulling you up only to slam you back down with a depraved squelch. Immediately he moves into a brutal pace that has your arms shaking and your lips quivering.
You barely notice König’s own thighs shaking as he squirms on the couch above you, whimpering and sobbing as he is forced to watch you fall apart, everything in him jerking with every grunt and huff coming from Simon as he takes his pleasure. König tries to imagine it, to feel your tight wet walls around him, but it only makes more blood rush down, pushing the pain-pleasure nearly to his limit. Tracks of tears run down his cheeks now and all he wants is to leap forward, to pull your mouth onto him, to pull Simon’s hands onto him, anything. But he is a soldier. He has his orders. And he’ll follow them, even as he falls apart.
Everything in you is tight, impossibly tight, and you feel like no air is coming through even as you desperately try to pull anything into your aching and shriveled lungs. The room is dancing around you, swirling in sparks of stars where the only tangible is Simon, the hands maneuvering your trembling body, the harsh sounds echoing through your ear, the relentless pressure of his cock sending burning vibrations up your spine.
You feel your release crushing you inwards and try to warn Simon but there’s no air left and you’re already snapping, jerking against him as you choke on your words, mewling pitifully as his grip only tightens more and he continues to chase his own release. Luckily for your poor pussy it does not take long for him to twitch and spasm inside of you, painting your walls as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder with a growl before finally, finally slowing down and letting you ragdoll into him, face pressing into your neck. He stays there for a moment, hand moving to massage your chest as your breathing returns to normal. Then he’s shifting to pull out and get his feet back under him.
He scoops you up with ease, kissing your forehead as you squirm a bit, placing you down on the couch next to König, who sits rubbing his hands up and down his bruised thighs, still shaking. Simon’s hands cup your cheeks, pulling you back into him as he places a delicate kiss on your lips. “Just a moment, love. Just a moment and I’ll take care of you.”
You nod, offering a small smile as you let yourself sink into the cushions, watching Simon pull back and walk to stand in front of König, running a hand along one of his thighs before kneeling in front of him. “You alright?”
König nods, but his jaw trembles a bit.
“They were right, you know,” Simon murmurs. “You do have the most gorgeous cock.”
A confused sound leaves König’s throat, cut off by a surprised gasp as Simon takes him in hand, smoothing the precum down his shaft with firm strokes. “That’s it,” Simon groans at König’s pained whimpers, leaning forward to suck on the tip, drawing a sob from him. “Go on, big guy. Take what you need.”
Simon lets his jaw slacken, and König’s hands are instantly leaving his battered thighs to tangle as best they can into his hair, wrapping around his head to pull Simon down onto his painful cock. Simon’s mouth is much bigger than yours, but even so you hear him grunting and puffing with the effort, struggling to take as much of König as he can, the tall man thrusting forward down his throat and letting his own head fall back.
Poor König only lasts a few strokes before he’s breaking, shooting down Simon’s throat. Simon chokes a bit but still manages to swallow most of it, pulling back to clean up the rest in lazy licks until König’s hips jerk away with a whine.
Simon stands, lazily cracking his neck as he leans forward to cradle König’s jaw. “Better?”
König grins, letting his head flop into Simon’s palm. You smile at the soft chuckle that leaves Simon’s throat before he’s leaning forward, gently working his hands around König before lifting him off the couch with a huff. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Simon brings König to the bathroom before coming back for you, carrying you in to place you in the tub between König’s spread legs. You smile as the warm water curls around you, reclining into König’s chest and thanking your past self for investing in such a giant bathtub. König curls around you lazily, placing a kiss on your shoulder before letting his chin rest there. You giggle at his droopy eyes, running your hands over his forearms.
Then Simon is kneeling next to you, gently scrubbing you both, massaging the soreness out of your hips and thighs before rubbing gently over the marks König made on his legs. He takes each of König’s reddened hands and gently works his fingers into the joints all the way up the wrists, smiling as he watches König’s pretty eyes close completely before leaning down to place a kiss between his eyebrows. You whine dramatically, but Simon humors you, kissing your nose and trying not to let his gulp be heard at the satisfied smile you give him.
“Stop stealing my attention,” König mumbles, mouth pressed into your neck as his arms wrap around your body, causing you and Simon to both laugh.
“Here,” you murmur, lifting his chin up to kiss his cheek as Simon kisses the other. “Better?”
His cheeks flush a pretty pink and he nods before burying his face in you once again.
Simon finishes washing you both and pushes himself back to his feet, knees cracking. “I’ll go get you some tea.”
König’s head shoots up from your neck. “Wait!” You both cry in unison.
Simon pauses, regarding you with a bemused look. “You could just stay here a bit,” you murmur, blinking up at him through your eyelashes before scooting forward. König nods, scooting forward along with you.
Simon shakes his head, but you’ve both already seen the smile rounding his cheeks. With a sigh he strips his clothing off and slips in behind König, thick arms wrapping around you both and pulling you in.
The three of you all sigh in unison as you settle against each other.
“I love you both,” you murmur, eyes closing.
They smile, echoing your statement back at you, but you’ve already drifted off. They lean forward to kiss your head before twisting and sharing a long, lingering kiss with each other.
As they pull away König’s eyes flash mischievously. “Next time we will see who is doing the teasing.”
#iconic anons#könig#simon riley#simon ghost riley#könig x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost fanfiction#könig x ghost x reader
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Poor König in the poly au having TWO ladies now (his warrior harem fantasy finally came true!) But once the synced periods come in then poor boy has not a single crumb of pussy in sight😭
He will be standing there over the huge comfy bed full of furs and blankets woth Engel and Kitty in there, all like 🥺👉👈 'pussy please?' but his two girls look at him with squinted eyes, all sore and cranky from the cramps being like 'tf you wanna do here boy??'
And poor König is so confused :(( women ARE stramge creatures after all! Just a week ago he could barely get you two off of his cock, being all whiny and begging him to breed and König was like :D
You called it ovulation and now this! Ovulation time is his new favorite time of month now :c
Poor König, there’s no end to his confusion with these ladies!
Last time when he got home they were all over him, climbing him like two tiny koalas, pussies hot and eady and wet. He barely got his clothes off!
It was a literal heaven for him: both his girls kissing him so eagerly that he couldn’t even catch his breath let alone ask Was ist das denn hier, what’s going on...? (He knows he should keep his mouth shut if these women throw themselves at him because who knows if they snap out of whatever dream he has walked into if he speaks??) and they simply smile and whisper that they’re both ovulating ❤️
König doesn’t have a clue what that means, but he’s not complaining. These women are completely unappeasable, they even smell different, so incredibly alluring and sweet, and this state of theirs goes on for a good few days – the best days of his entire life, to be honest. He’s almost sore when he gets back (even König has his limits) and crawls out of his home, lately turned into a sex cave, with his cock and his wits barely working and intact. Phew, it’s like working two jobs…
So when he returns home next time, proud and ready because he hasn’t fapped at all when he was deployed – hah, he’s now ready and armed to meet his two little sex kittens! – he's left standing in the hallway, confused when no one comes to climb him. Both girls are on the sofa, pouting and sulking and looking like they've swallowed a cactus. They are the complete opposite of how they were the last time: they do demand cuddles and attention and back rubs and ice cream and climb his form when they’re in bed, but no one wants to have sex :(((
His erection is killing him, it’s painful, and he’s almost in tears. They won’t even let him have a quick wank because they’re both attached to him like two whining hot water bottles, and fall asleep while clinging to him. His arms are numb and his cock is hard as he blinks on the bed, confused. The last thing he wonders but doesn’t dare to ask because these ladies are very snippy and snappy and cranky is… Will they be ovulating soon…? Is this ‘ovulating’ a recurring thing? Or was it just a one time only occasion...? :( *confused and concerned poly König noises*
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shroom
pairings: joel miller x f!reader
summary: in which you tried to help your grumpy mentor get over the mushroom's aphrodisiac side effect.
word count: 3.9k (gosh yea i went over the top with this)
warnings: explicit (18+), no actual penetration, thigh fucking, slight age-gap and reader's implied to be an orphan.
notes: honestly this is just a reason to write desperate joel but oh well :)
What lies beneath the gray-ish rocks were dove gray with a subtle hint of purple. Fresh air broke through your nasal cavities, gusts of wind combing your loose strands gently like a doting mother. Even in a photograph you could quickly take into account that it was peak summer, for the steep valleys are finally visible and pretty asters bloom abundantly on every inch of green.
You would’ve guessed mid June was the cause of these heavenly blessings. The rest of the year the ranges were as white-peaked as any storybook mountains and they were especially cruel to visitors. Summer was just more so your cup of tea.
Despite the relentless sun rays burning your skin and the itchiness from sweat and mosquitos, it’s a lot more inviting. Felt a lot like a long awaited vacation, one where you’d get tanned with friends on seashores and gossip about boys like it was the most important thing on earth. Things like that are simply left for your imagination. The United States of America hasn't been as liberating, ever since Cordyceps happened.
It’s not the first time you scaled along the wilderness in order to get to your destination unharmed. Without getting bitten by chomping, pestering infected, or worse, people. Nature is just naturally serene. A hug of browns, a shelter of long dwindling limbs, and a variety of edible materials that’s free to use. You were a quick learner and a considerably great adaptor.
From dusty books piled up in your home, a FEDRA orphanage, you picked up knowledge on a collection of plants and animals native to the country. Being a resourceful forager might’ve been your one and only redeemable feature, and perhaps the only reason why Joel Miller agreed to bring you along on his trips.
Tess was the one who scouted you in the most bizarre fashion possible. You remembered vividly how she interrogated the fungi you picked on the city’s outskirts, asking why you’d pick up the one thing people refrain from eating these days. You remembered the amused look she had on her face, but it was all too long ago. Too long you’re starting to forget what she looked like smiling and full of hope. Time has passed and you’re not the same snotty, bratty teenager anymore.
Though, you’re not exactly grown.
Still budding with youthful stupidity and brashness.
Which is where Joel came in handy. He was your tamer. The one who’d put a rough hand down when you’re being too rash in making decisions. The one who’d tug on your leash when you’re an exploding mess of fury. Tess was kinder and sweeter and.. more of a makeshift mother figure to you, while Joel was whatever he was. He wasn’t introduced into the picture until last winter where you managed to get two different people hunting for your head. Which you still insist wasn’t entirely your fault.
Tess was worried, you understood, but he’s a real mood killer at times.
You watched along the trees, how they swayed in a warming breeze. Hands tied behind your back as you hummed a nursery rhyme fondly. This time it was ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ on repeat for a billion times, which you’re sure is going to get some unappeased comments from the ball of grouch behind you. He always hated anything fun. Always chalking it up to being far too dangerous or distracting. You were even banned from keeping a firearm around him. What a joke.
“Quit singin’. You’re going to attract trouble.”
“Fucking hell.”
“What was that?”
“You’re such a bore, Joel.”
You could feel his gaze on the back of your head, probably looking at you as if you’re a foul harm to society. Tess always said that it’s just the way he looks but you don’t buy it. You’ve seen the way he smiled at a thing she said, even when it’s closer to a shy grin than a full ear-to-ear smile. An exasperated sigh was all you heard from him next, then a few grumbles about how you two are going to set camp next to a large pine tree as it’s getting late.
“It’s getting late or are your old knees aching?”
“What’re you doin’?”
Joel’s voice almost shook your skin off your bones. There was a delicious moment when you turned on your heels to face him, face washed blank with confusion, like your brain cogs couldn’t turn fast enough to process the information. It’s like you’re caught popping his favorite pills, when it really was just another one of your fascinating finds. You weren’t planning on sharing with him out of all people, so you were visibly annoyed. The distasteful twist of your lips had him scowling.
“It’s just food. Reishi mushroom.”
You showcased the fungus, waving it in front of his scrunched nose. The mushroom was reddish brown varnished with kidney-shaped caps that fanned out the closer it got to the ends. It’s supposedly bitter tasting, but it wasn’t poisonous. You looked convinced enough it wouldn’t straight-up kill the both of you upon tasting, even when it’s your first time encountering such a species.
“You sure it’s not poisonous?”
“You could have the first bite if you’d like.”
He looked at you with that expression– the same one he put on when he’s interested in taking on your challenge instead of diffusing the bickering. It’s harder to see what he’s conspiring when the darkness is borderline blinding. You couldn’t cater to every wrinkle and divot on his face, even with great concentration. Joel reached for the mushroom and held it lightly against the rough pads of his fingers. Examining it much closer under moonlight’s glint.
“We’ll have it tonight as soup.”
His words were absolute, even when Tess is around. You knew that and he knew that. It was unspoken. You surrendered your merry bounty willingly without throwing a childish tantrum this time. He can be cruel and unapologetic; you weren’t exactly eager to go through that route with him. Especially when your first filling dinner is on the line. You simply nodded at his decision, twisting your tactical knife back into its shell and stuffing it deep into your cargo jeans. Slightly sour about the entire ordeal.
There was always something cathartic about having a filled stomach after a long day of trekking, borderline orgasmic if you had to describe it in another way. It was an extremely appreciated coincidence as well that Joel managed to have in hand an actual unopened can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup. Although horrifically passed its best-by date, it wasn’t rancid or anything. Just slightly sour, but you’re sure the preservatives on that can would do you a favor this once.
You could barely breathe upon settling down on your sleeping bag. The buttons on your cargos digging into your inflated stomach, in which you hastily undid once you’re entirely submerged in the parachute-like material. You huffed. Burped and earned an irritated grunt by none other than Joel Miller. Then let the chirping of crickets and rustling of leaves create a peaceful symphony to lull you to sleep. Gentle summer breeze carried the scent of pine and wildflowers, invigorating your senses. And you’re gone in just a split second.
It felt like being coddled by nature itself, as corny as it sounded. What you didn’t expect was to be startled awake when the moonlight’s still as bright as ever. A light fuck escaped your lips. Irritated was what you are. You’re as aware as can be, ears tuned in to whatever it is that posed a threat to your goodnight sleep. But nothing came up. Just the occasional hoot of an owl, distant calls from coyotes, and what seemed to be woodland creatures rustling around the thick bushes.
Maybe it’s just your terrible paranoia cruising. Maybe you’re starting to hallucinate from fatigue, or maybe it’s just some stupid squirrel in the branches. You shuffled in your cocoon of a sleeping bag before turning ever so slightly to face Joel’s side. To face where Joel Miller, your irritating companion, is supposed to rest. Though for the first time in history, his absence crushed your heart.
You were terrified. Eyes wide and round as you stared in disbelief.
He was gone.
You scrambled to your feet. Taking unlevelled steps towards his side of the camp, you could feel your chest tighten at the confirmation of his disappearance. He wasn’t there no matter how many times you flipped his sleeping bag front to back.
Has he deserted you? Did he finally get tired of you? Were you being way too bratty today? You didn’t think you’d be this distressed at the absence of someone you hated with a passion, but here you were, waterline overrun by stray tears threatening to spill out at any given time. So weak and helpless, it’s pathetic.
Was that a moan?
You froze, as still as you could be, trying to listen intently if the sound decided to repeat itself. It did. This time you could make out what it sounded like: guttural, low, and indistinct. The way your face contorted was comical to say the least. At this point, your mind started to race with all the creative questions. Was it an animal? A person in distress? Oh, or is it something more sinister and dangerous? You didn’t have your gun on you so it’d be obvious suicide if you went on to pursue, wouldn’t it?
This is how people died in horror movies
You knew that and a part of your youthful curiosity (the chunk Tess hated so much) made you take another step forward towards the general direction. The puddle you stepped on rippled and splashed. Your wary eyes dart around, scanning the surrounding area for any signs of movement.
There was nothing of course. Just the waving branches that’s starting to make you feel a little disoriented and claustrophobic. All you could hear was your own ragged breathing above the low groan that once again was being emitted from behind the tree line. You swore it sounded more human-like the more you tuned in.
Dry branches crackled and broke underneath the heavy soles of your boots, making you cringe inwardly at the thought that someone must’ve noticed your moves by now. This is far beyond stupid you decide. You should've prepared an eulogy by now. Maybe even a few stems of the lovely aster you enjoyed so much. If this was a serial killer lurking underneath your shadows, your funeral was right around the corner. But it wasn’t. What made the noise wasn’t a stray squirrel, nor was it a stray clicker. It was Joel fucking Miller.
"Joel?"
His name slipped out of your tongue like melted butter; unstoppable and out of instinct. He's looked at you multiple times during your stays in Tess' flat. Sometimes with gentle aloofness and other times with what you chalked up to be disgust or even disdain, and you'd always cater to his glares with your incredulous grin. This time it was.. different.
His pupils were large— larger than what you think was humanly possible with it almost swallowing the entirety of his irises. A humorous part of your brain wondered if he was turning into some sort of werewolf because of the full moon, if he'd pounce on you with his furry claws.
Your running thoughts made you steer away from what's actually presented in front of you. The more that you look at it, he looked somewhat.. pained. He's never looked pained before, not when a bullet lodged in precisely behind his arteries or even when an upset customer drove a rusty knife down his side. Joel's been annoyingly tough. But now he's visibly drenched in sweat, face adorned with a shade of crimson, while he shivered and groaned against the base of a tree. This was odd. You slowly crouched over to his side, but your attempts were futile when he's waving his arms in your direction as if shooing a dog away.
You frowned. He rolled to his side, trying to avoid your incoming slaught of confrontation.
"Were you shot?"
"No."
"Were you clawed by a bear?"
"No."
"Are we going to play 20 questions or are you going to let me help you?"
He turned slightly, just enough so that he could finally see the irritation weaved through your expression. Joel then grumbled something about how you shouldn't be out here and that it's better to get back in your sleeping bag. You ignored him, as always, inching even closer to see what he's up to.
Stubbornness runs deep in your blood and you weren't going to let him die out here in the woods when you could barely read a map by itself. You didn't even know how to determine where North is. To simply put it, you'd die without him standing up straight, whether in this unruly jungle or under the gun of Tess' customer.
"Your mushrooms are poisonous," he accused sternly, boring his deep brown eyes into yours.
"No. It's not. I'm fine and well, so it must be a you problem mister," you probed your fingers into his tough chest, not accepting any sort of insult to your own specialty. "Fuck, are you having some sort of heart attack?"
"I'm not. I'm just.. oh god," he stifled his groans with his palm. Now that you're finally seeing him in a better light, it looked like he was.. palming himself through the thick fabric of his tight jeans. Was he rocking into his own palm? Or was it just your perverted imaginations playing tricks on your silly little mind?
Your stomach lurched at the possibility, then a curl of disgust had you pressing your lips together into a thin line. This is your time to back away. He gave you that chance a while ago and you should've let your curiosity lay low. He was your goddamn mentor and worse, Tess' partner, it'd be wrong to see him in this state. But isn't it your responsibility for inflicting this kind of torment? It's your idea to harvest the mushrooms. You're dealing with some twisted version of Schrödinger's cat where no good options are presented in front of you. It's a moral dilemma.
"Are you?" you squeaked. "Are you masturbating?"
"No. Just get back to.. oh."
"Do ya need help?"
He looked at you like you're his inferno. The one that's going to drag him straight to hell from your sweet sweet words. God, he shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be looking down your loose tank top like some old geezer, you're probably twenty years his junior and he's here rubbing his inconvenience away at your expense. You didn't even know what you're offering. Did you even know what he's like?
"Please, just. You're going to regret it, sweetheart."
"How would you know?"
"I'm like old enough.. fuck.. to be your dad or something. You should just go. Tess is gonna kill me if she knew."
"Joel, this is my fault," you persisted, eyes bright with a sense of genuine worry.
Joel's jaw clenched hard at your enticing offer, a bead of sweat dribbled down the side of his temple nervously. He looked like he was struggling to pull out a coherent reason as to why this shouldn't happen. Why he shouldn't be the one to defile your innocence and corrupt you with his bloody hands. Nothing came out though, just a brief desperate grunt.
You swallowed thickly, before taking his lack of an answer as a sign of encouragement. Your hands moved painfully slow. As if waiting to see whether he'd push your hands away or try to stop you in any way, but he never did. Not even when you touched the damp denim clinging onto his bare skin, gently as if he's made of porcelain.
You've never.. done this which frankly explained the awkward touches you're prone to do, or the look in your eyes that further emphasized the fact that you had no idea what you're doing. Aside from the scarce pornographic magazine stashed in your orphanage's library, there wasn't any sort of guidance as to how you'd navigate your sexual life. But you’re almost sure that this was a good start from the way his scrunched up eyebrows start to untangle at your touch.
With that in mind, you traced over the shape of his confined cock, before settling on the damp tip leaking over his jeans. It felt warm and somewhat foreign. You circled over the spot several times, encouraged by his low groans. Did he feel good?
"Fuck. Okay. You wanna help me out and be a good girl?" he rasped, finally grasping your hand with his calloused fingers to get you even closer to where he wanted you. He guided you eagerly. All voices of reason vanished in his head.
You weren’t able to say anything. It felt like you're drowning in his existence; the oak-like smell of his flannel, the rough syllables he uttered, and god that terribly persuasive grin he had on. He's secretly smug about this and you knew it.
"Come here," he beckoned you to come closer and so you did, without a single complaint like what your chatty mouth is used to. You're so quiet and pliant– something he's been wishing for from the start of your journey. Joel feverishly pulled you back onto his lap, pressing his hardened front onto the thick fabric of your cargo pants.
You yelped. He let out a soft mumble of your name. His hips stuttered at the new sensation. He's more than ready to feel you from the inside, get wrapped up in your velvety walls, but the thought of Tess had him pulling on his reins. "Listen. I'm not– oh.. I'm not going to ruin you, okay? Just gonna.. Just gonna use your thighs."
Thighs? What’s that supposed to mean? Your clueless expression had him shudder in anticipation. You’re so cute and perfect to corrupt. It’s definitely not the first time he thought of you in that manner. He secretly loved each and every one of your bickering games, it riled him up beneath all the cold shoulder facade.
Without further warning, Joel manhandled you with his strong arms. You let out a strained gasp as he towered over you, the ground hard against your back. Heat and adrenaline ran through your veins at the sight of his concentrated eyes. He looked determined to go through with this, no matter the consequences.
He took in all of you, not with his touches, just with the soft brown pupils he’s blessed with. You knew that he wasn’t going to be all sweet and lovely, although you silently wished he’d be a little gentler when he pulled your cargos off. You’d wish for him to tell you how pretty you are and how much you meant to him, because as fucked up as it was, you’ve always wanted him to like you. The infatuation was cliché and stupid, but you could never have enough.
Joel was quick to fold you in half, holding your legs up by the underside of your thighs as he observed. A warm palm hovering over your throbbing cunt extinguished any last traces of your desire to rebel; the heat between your thighs only became worse at his nimble fingers dragging along your panties. Out of a need for more, you rubbed your thighs together and tried your best to buck into his touch with a shaky breath.
“I’m not a good guy,” Joel trailed off while he busied himself unbuckling his belt, the sound of the leather sliding out his jean loops ignited a fire within you. “Fuckin’ killed so many people. Stole their things and ran.”
“Do you.. oh.. do you still want to go through with this, sweetheart?”
The nickname was quick to send goosebumps down your back. He’s driving you insane and he had the audacity to ask these questions. He should’ve just seen how drenched you are beneath the scant excuse of panties. You nodded breathlessly and god was it a sight to watch his moral beliefs crumble apart at your confirmation.
“Keep your thighs together, girl,” he ordered briefly, nails digging into your plush thighs as he finally freed his cock. It’s feverishly hot against your skin and drooling with a copious amount of precum, you could even feel the head teasingly poke onto your clothed slit. You shuddered and clenched around nothing at the sensation. “Please.”
“God. Such a good girl are you?” he managed to find the time to tease you as he slid between your thighs, looking down you could see the flushed bulbous head twitching with need. Joel let out a groan he's been holding on to for a long time, even just having your plush thighs squeezing him was enough to send jolts of pleasure through every part of his aching body.
He started to thrust his hips at a slow pace; drawing them back slowly and pushing them forward with enough force to knock you back onto the tree trunk each time. Your heartbeat grew wild in your ribcage, hard and fast as he relished in the feeling of you. You weren’t sure of what the feeling was, but you could feel your clit pulse at the friction his cock made everytime it slipped through.
You admired the color of his tip which reminded you of a wild salmon, slightly pink with tinges of nudes, spilling so much of that thick milky substance which quickly coats the insides of your thighs. What a sight it was to be beneath Joel Miller. Your past self would’ve probably envied you for getting so lucky, whimpering and gasping for air as he held you with an iron grip. It felt so good, you’re at a loss for words. All those nights spent pining over him and spreading your pretty pussy to the mere thought of him is finally paid for.
“Feel good, girl?
He granted you a form of reprieve when his fingers finally pulled your panties aside to quickly find your clit and tease it in tight circles. His calloused fingers provided such good ridges to grind yourself onto. The sound that’s spilling out of your lips was embarrassing, almost pitiful, but it seemed that with each and every whimper Joel looked even more pleased. The expression on his face was sinful by itself. You could only imagine how foul this scenery was from a third person point of view.
“So good to me, shit, where did that pretty mouth of yours disappear?”
He bucked even faster, and so did you, eager to chase after the euphoric friction one another provided. The coil finally broke at his last press against your needy clit. You whimpered, an airy sound as your cunt clenched frantically around nothing, globs of white leaking right through your panties and onto the dried up leaves underneath.
Joel let out a smooth chuckle at the sight, dutifully rubbing circles onto your clit as he reached his high. Ribbons of white spurt out unconditionally. There was so much you wondered when his last release was. Your tank top was drenched and so were your thighs. The sheer obscenity had you buckling onto him. You felt hot, over-sensitive, and wrong.
Realization sunk into you as he pulled away and settled to your side.
“No speaking of this,” you murmured, still in a trance of blissful pleasure.
“Yes, ma’am.”
His chuckle resonated, only to mingle with your own.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller#joel miller tlou#joel miller x you#joel miller fic#the last of us#the last of us fic#tlou#the last of us imagine#joel miller smut
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Every desire is born of a need, of a privation or of a suffering. When satisfied, it is lulled; but for one that is satisfied, how many are unappeased! Desire, moreover, is of long duration; its exigencies are infinite; while pleasure is brief and narrowly measured. Pleasure, too, is but an apparition that is destined to be succeeded by another. The first is a vanished illusion; the second an illusion that lingers still. Nothing is capable of appeasing Will, nor of permanently arresting it...While, then, we are dominated by desires and ruled by Will, so long as we give ourselves up to hopes that delude and fears that alarm, we have neither peace nor happiness.
Edgar Saltus, The Anatomy of Negation
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>year 1986
>be 28 yo male cop
>join bizarre polycule with esotericist woman who is already dating another man
>for months on end they both meticulously groom you, make you do weird ritual shit with them, hypnotise you, convince you to believe in all sorts of mysticism and occultism, have seizures in front of you as they receive visions and missions from god, speak in tongues, baptise you
>tell you that you're a perpetually reincarnating hero who must pass trials and tests of strength and willpower
>eventually, they reveal to you the existence of the "king of cats," an ancient personification of evil who lives in a nearby lake and will annihilate mankind if you don't sacrifice a human life to him
>god already chose who has to die and now it falls to you to be his sword
>they make you swear on jesus christ to perform human sacrifice for the cat king in the name of the lord
>fail and your soul will be subjected to eternal torture
>actually go through with it
>get arrested, the others ratted you out
>they were just fucking with you for fun and eventually decided to make you kill someone cause your girlfriend was mad the victim was dating her ex and her other boyfriend wanted you gone
>at least humanity is safe from the cat king
>find out victim survived
>mfw cat king is unappeased and soul is facing eternal torture
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“The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. To express that fundamental notion most Europeans can utilize a word derived from the Greek (nostalgia, nostalgie) as well as other words with roots in their national languages: añoranza, say the Spaniards; saudade, say the Portuguese. In each language these words have a different semantic nuance. Often they mean only the sadness caused by the impossibility of returning to one's country: a longing for country, for home. What in English is called "homesickness." Or in German: Heimweh. In Dutch: heimwee. But this reduces that great notion to just its spatial element. One of the oldest European languages, Icelandic (like English) makes a distinction between two terms: söknuour: nostalgia in its general sense; and heimprá: longing for the homeland. Czechs have the Greek-derived nostalgie as well as their own noun, stesk, and their own verb; the most moving, Czech expression of love: styska se mi po tobe ("I yearn for you," "I'm nostalgic for you"; "I cannot bear the pain of your absence"). In Spanish añoranza comes from the verb añorar (to feel nostalgia), which comes from the Catalan enyorar, itself derived from the Latin word ignorare (to be unaware of, not know, not experience; to lack or miss), In that etymological light nostalgia seems something like the pain of ignorance, of not knowing. You are far away, and I don't know what has become of you. My country is far away, and I don't know what is happening there. Certain languages have problems with nostalgia: the French can only express it by the noun from the Greek root, and have no verb for it; they can say Je m'ennuie de toi (I miss you), but the word s'ennuyer is weak, cold -- anyhow too light for so grave a feeling. The Germans rarely use the Greek-derived term Nostalgie, and tend to say Sehnsucht in speaking of the desire for an absent thing. But Sehnsucht can refer both to something that has existed and to something that has never existed (a new adventure), and therefore it does not necessarily imply the nostos idea; to include in Sehnsucht the obsession with returning would require adding a complementary phrase: Sehnsucht nach der Vergangenheit, nach der verlorenen Kindheit, nach der ersten Liebe (longing for the past, for lost childhood, for a first love).”
― Milan Kundera, Ignorance
#milan kundera#milan kundera quote#quote#quotes#nostalgia#nostalgic#ignorance#milan kundera ignorance#quotations#book quotes#book quote#book quotations#literature#etymology#word origins#longing#word play#yearning#word#words#word meaning#meaning#nostalgia meaning
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Beatrice: I don't think I feel okay.
Camila: *worried* aww, what's wrong?
Beatrice: I don't know. I feel this unappeasable void in my body.
Camila: Hunger. That's hunger. Have you eaten something today?
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The Palm Branch Of Palestine
Palm branch of Palestine, oh tell me,
In that far distant home-land fair,
Wast rooted in the mountain gravel
Or sprung from some vale garden rare?
Once d'er the Jordan's silver billows
Fond kissed with thee the Eastern sun?
Have the grim gales 'neath starry heavens
Swept over thee from Lebanon?
And was a trembling prayer soft whispered,
A father's song sung over thee-
When from the parent stem dis-severed
Bu some poor aborigine?
And is the palm tree ever standing,
Amid the fierce glare beating down,
The pilgrim in the desert luring
To shelter 'neath her shadow crown?
Perhaps the leaves ancestral shiver
In unappeased parting pain,
The branch conceals a homesick longing
For desert wilderness again?
Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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Log Anon here
Now, usually when I talk about other anons I act like some sort of god. Case and point that unending search threat. But now, I’ve been inspired to use my shitty writing skills to make lyrics about how much that anon’s song sucked.
———————————
ANON! Let’s start with the fact that this Rapper thought he was a genius.
Sitting there on a chair hoping that Viv would touch their penis.
Man, the whole thing is unreadable, agreeably irredeemable.
I’m filled with laughter that they didn’t think that grammar matter, making it damn unappeasable.
Here’s a lesson, never randomise where capitalise letters, it doesn’t make it better, make sure you fix this error.
Anon coming in here thinking their Chai’s terror, but you’re a joke so just give up the endeavour.
The damn block you wrote makes you a damn dope
As well next time you write keep the swears out or do you need some bloody soap?
Here’s things you should’ve realised before you started to theorise.
Chai speaks about Viv because Anon’s bring it up most of the time.
“to Survive or to live”, yo, Mr Potatohead, that line should’ve been cut in half since they don’t rhyme so I’m charging ya for this lyrical crime.
The irony of bringing up witch when you fail to spell.
The hell Chai getting caught for? Revealing pedophiles and workplace abuse?
I hope you know what you’re doing because hating that has no excuse.
You’re the damn fool, you drooling tool, for getting all blue because someone can live both on and off the wifi.
Honestly your likability is so low that when you visit, all of South Africa cry.
I’m seeing lines so unrefined, so horribly designed, that would make Shakespeare want to die.
I think the real freak is the one posted a mediocre rap to defend a bad show.
Every argument you bring up blows and annoyingly disrupts the flow.
Poor attitude? At least be brave and show your true account if you gonna diss.
You tried your shot at internet fame but too bad that by next month no one will know this exists.
The reason no one leaves the hate is because there’s still people who still need to learn.
Now where’s your next burns, oh wait, you playing favourites this turn?
Aw man, this is weak, you think you’re making them meek, you’re one weird freak.
Rhyming must be tough for a kindengartener, butthey know how to rhyme different words.
The logic you bring for Scienceservant name is worse than the smell of a pile of turds.
I ask the same question, is it worth it to do this when you’re nothing but absurd?
Damn, only a cuck can bother someone while trying to suck off another.
ANON! Why the fuck can’t you write?
You say Chai’s hiding but you are too, coward.
You act like you’re the best when your personality, scent and everything else are soured.
Boy, you’re the ending of Danny Phantom, bad, confusing, and an insult to creation itself.
Now go put on your diaper before you go pee yourself.
———————————
At least this won’t the worst rap on this blog
From the ballpit we come and to the ballpit we will all return.
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Algos;
means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.
#sam gladiator#samgladiator#samgladiator yandere high school#samgladiator yhs#yandere high school#yhs sam#yhs#yhs reboot#sircutieyuki#yhs yuki
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Beleria New Year's Eve Special!
For the modern AU holiday prompts. Seven prompts combined into one big New Year's bash.
Relationships: Daeron/Maglor, Fingon/Maedhros, Aegnor/Andreth, Edhellos/Angrod, Celeborn/Galadriel, Feanor & Fingolfin
Characters: All of the above and Nerdanel, Finarfin, Earwen, Anaire, Rumil, Orodreth.
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearing, sexual content, recreational drinking and drunkenness
Words: ~5.6k
On AO3. Beleria Cast of Characters
Maglor propped his elbows on his knees and leaned over the board. If he moved the bishop to take Daeron’s pawn, he’d expose his rook in three moves; but no, that would expose his other bishop first.
“Oh my god just make a move already,” Daeron complained. He threw himself dramatically over the arm of his chair.
“Shh,” said Maglor. “I’m thinking.”
“You think too long. Just make a move.”
“Fine.” Maglor took the pawn. Two seconds later, Daeron took his bishop with a knight.
“Goddammit!” said Maglor. “I’m so bad at this.”
“You’re not going to win,” Daeron said without mockery.
“Maybe not, but I’m still seeing it through to the bitter end.”
Daeron sighed loudly. “I think one of your New Year’s resolutions should be knowing when to quit.”
“Yeah? Are we writing each other’s resolutions now? Fine.” Maglor withdrew his attention from the game and considered. “I think you should resolve to have more fun.”
“What? I have plenty of fun. We’re playing a game right now. Games are fun, aren’t they?”
“We’re playing chess, on New Year’s Eve when everyone is out getting drunk and kissing people they shouldn’t.”
“Is that what you want to be doing? Kissing people you shouldn’t?” Daeron pouted.
“No.” Maglor grinned. “Just you, Dae-bae.”
Daeron rolled his eyes at this, and just as Maglor was considering leaning over the coffee table to grab him and demonstrate the veracity of his statement, his phone buzzed against the tabletop.
Maedhros
SOS. Dad’s at the party.
Sunday, Dec 31 • 8:05 p.m.
“Oh shit,” Maglor said aloud. He began typing a reply.
“What is it?” Daeron asked.
“It’s my brother.” Maglor glanced up from his phone. “Maedhros,” he clarified. “Remember I told you he and Fingon were going to that big New Year’s party hosted by Hithlum Properties at the Lómin Hotel?”
“Yes…”
“Well apparently my dad went.”
“Oh,” said Daeron.
Though Maglor tried his best to guard his boyfriend from the family feud disguised as a property development war between his father — the adopted, but elder, child — and grandpa Finwë’s biological firstborn, Daeron was, after a year of living together and six months in a relationship, well-aware of the significance and danger of Fëanor and Fingolfin being in the same room.
“Why??” Daeron asked.
“I have no idea, just asking my brother now.”
Maedhros
Rúmil talked him it. Something about networking and a promising investor for the app. I dont know. But he’s here with mom
talked him into it*
Maglor chuckled, recognising in the missing punctuation and typos the signs that Maedhros was approaching a state of inebriation.
Maglor
Shit. how’s it going?
Maedhros
they haven’t spoke to each other yet.
spoken*
we’re gonna get out here before it gets bad
out of*
Maglor
Gonna bail on the big party hey? Where?
Maedhros
Finarfin and Eärwen;s place
Angrod and co are having a party there
Maglor
You’re gonna go to a house party with a bunch of 20 year olds?
Maedhros
Shut up. Maybe I’ll forget about my rapid aceleration towards death
Acceleration*
Maglor
More likely you’ll be made acutely aware of it
Maedhros
Come pick us up.
Maglor huffed and shook his head.
“What’s going on?” Daeron asked.
“One sec,” said Maglor.
Unappeased, Daeron stood and came round to plop himself at Maglor’s right and read over his shoulder.
“No, we are absolutely not picking them up,” he said.
Maglor
No way. Take a cab. Daeron and I are having a quiet New Year’s in.
Maedhros
Come on its like a 50km drive
“I’m not going,” Daeron said decisively.
Maglor pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before typing his reply.
Maglor
And how do you intend for us to get home? If I’m gonna go to a house party with a bunch of estranged cousins ten plus years younger than me then no way am I not drinking.
Maedhros
Angrod says everyone’s staying over. Finarfin and Eärwen are here at the hotel, they won’t be there til tomorrow. House is ours.
Maglor lowered the phone and folded one leg onto the couch, pivoting his body to face Daeron, who was frowning deeply.
“Okay,” said Maglor, setting both hands on Daeron’s thighs and affecting his most alluring puppy-dog eyes. “Before you say no — again — hear me out.”
*
When he spotted Rúmil at the coat check, Fëanor waved off a passing caterer and strode confidently towards his friend.
“There you are,” he said, forcing his way into the pleasantries Rúmil was presently exchanging with some young man in an obviously-rented suit.
“Ah, Fëanáro!” Rúmil exclaimed, his eyes alight beneath the droop of his wrinkled lids. He had always looked old, even back when they had met in university, but he wore his age well, appearing more wizened than weary. “You came! I suppose I owe thanks to your lovely wife?”
“You two always did enjoy uniting against me,” Fëanor said jovially, then drew his mouth back into a line. “So where is this investor?”
“Oh, he’s here.” Rúmil winked as he handed his coat to the clerk. Then he took Fëanor’s arm just above the elbow and guided him towards the centre of the hall.
Rúmil paused along the way, shaking hands with every other cluster of people they passed. He was a good business partner, Fëanor admitted. Frankly he was the only person alive Fëanor could still tolerate collaborating with, besides Nerdanel. But Rúmil, whom Fëanor had met as an undergraduate during his brief flirtation with the humanities, was an Ideas Man. Not particularly driven towards results and the perfection of those ideas (which was why he’d retired last year without ever making full professor). Results, then, were Fëanor’s role in the development of the app — a highly intelligent business communications translation tool — that they had been working on for the past year. For his efforts, it was agreed that seventy percent of all profits would go to Fëanor. Income he greatly needed if Ambar Metta was to claw out of its legal debts.
Catching sight of his son across the room, Fëanor frowned. Maedhros had been one of those people he’d tolerated collaborating with, when he’d been the company’s chief legal officer. Then the young man presently clasping Maedhros’ shoulder and doubling over with uninhibited laughter had stuffed his head full of values. The only value a corporation needed to uphold, in Fëanor’s opinion, was the cash value of its bottom line.
Well. He supposed he was glad Maedhros had not altogether turned against him: he was doing good work building community relationships for the company now. Fëanor just hoped it wouldn’t come at too high a cost.
And, as baffling as it was to Fëanor that a spawn of Fingolfin Noldoran could make a pleasant conversation partner, never mind a satisfactory domestic partner (or whatever new-fangled thing they called one another) Fingon still seemed to make Maedhros happy after all these years. And Maedhros’ happiness was, Fëanor admitted, also a valuable thing. He’d come to accept the change.
Turning his gaze from his son and smiling to himself, Fëanor sipped from his champagne flute. As he lowered it, his eyes landed on someone his heart would never, so long as he lived, be moved to accept.
The evening’s gracious host smugly grinning down at him.
“Fingolfin,” Fëanor said coldly.
Before Fëanor could react, Fingolfin had seized his hand and was giving it a firm shake. Fëanor drew back as if he had been burned.
Fingolfin’s expression betrayed no acknowledgement of the slight. “Brother,” he said. (The audacity!) “I am so glad you came!”
“Please do not call me that,” Fëanor whispered through clenched teeth. “I’ve never had a brother.”
He felt Rúmil’s long fingers curl around his shoulder and was aware at the same time of Nerdanel’s auburn head making its way through the crowd towards them. She flanked his other side.
“So, I suppose Rúmil told you?” Fingolfin said.
Told him what? Fëanor wondered, beetling his brows. But Fingolfin did not wait for answer.
“As a lifelong admirer of your business acumen, I am needless to say thrilled that we will finally be working together. Mr. Finvesen.” Fingolfin winked and an image of his champagne breaking over those chiselled cheekbones flashed across Fëanor’s mind.
“What do you mean?” asked Fëanor. “Is this some kind of joke? I have no intention of working with Hithlum Properties.”
Fingolfin laughed but looked nervous. “No! On the app! Rúmil,” he finally released Fëanor’s eyes to look at the other man, “don’t tell me you failed to mention my name.”
Fëanor had lurched to the obvious and odious conclusion before Fingolfin had finished speaking. “You are the investor?” He jerked out of Rúmil’s grasp and cut a glance at Nerdanel. “And you both knew this?” Nerdanel opened her mouth to speak but Fëanor cut her short (that would cost him dearly but his blood boiled too hot to care). “No,” he said, raising a hand to silence them all. “I will not abide this indignity. I do not need your charity, Noldoran.”
“Charity!” Fingolfin chuckled, a little too shrilly. “Is it charity to invest in a brilliant concept?”
“I don’t need your flattery, either,” Fëanor snarled. “What is your game here, Fingolfin? You think Finwë’s restless ghost is waiting for our reconciliation? Hm? Leave it be already. He’s a corpse in the ground on the other side of the world.” Fingolfin’s lips and the skin around his eyes twitched, betraying his distress. Good: That had been Fëanor’s intent.
“Unhand me!” he said to Rúmil and Nerdanel, though neither of them had a hand on him. “I will not do business with this man.” He jabbed a finger in Fingolfin’s direction. “I don’t care how much money he lays out in front of us like a greasy block of cheese, as though we were some mangy rats he wants to entrap in his network of ‘friends’. I am not his friend and I never will be.”
With that, Fëanor spun on his heels and stormed out of the hall and did not stop until he was standing outside the hotel in the dark drizzly night without a coat.
*
In the passenger seat of Maglor’s hatchback, Daeron impatiently bonked the headrest with the back of his skull and slumped lower in the chair.
“Where are they?” he complained.
He needed to get to a place with wine as soon as possible, and that place was still an hour’s drive away. An hour that he would spend tying himself in knots speculating on every possible social misstep he could make that evening among dozens of people he’d never met before. He could not believe he was doing this. But ultimately it had been impossible to refuse a whole week without having to prepare a single meal — plus certain… other favours he had negotiated.
Maglor frowned and pressed his palms into the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Maybe I should go in and find them…”
“Yes,” Daeron agreed. “Do that.”
“But if anyone sees me—”
“Put your hood up,” Daeron said, and did for Maglor as he’d suggested. Then he pulled sunglasses from the ceiling compartment. “And wear these.”
“Ow—” said Maglor, as an arm of the sunglasses nearly struck his eye. “I’m not wearing these,” he said, pushing Daeron’s hand away. “Fine, I’ll go in. But I’m warning you — it could be a while if anyone spots me.”
“Fine. I’ll be taking a nap,” said Daeron. He reclined his seat and put the sunglasses on his own face. Maglor sighed, then the door thumped shut behind him.
No more than two minutes could have passed when his heart nearly launched itself from his chest at the sound of fingers tapping at the window.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and sat bolt upright. The shadow of a face obscured most of the driver’s side window. Daeron yanked the sunglasses off.
“Yes?” he said, affecting as much calm as he could. “Can I help you?”
The stranger mouthed some unintelligible words and pointed at the seat. Then the door swung open.
Daeron recoiled. “Get out!” he screamed.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the stranger said in a polished, level voice. “I’m Fëanor.” A long hand plunged out of the dark and into Daeron’s personal space. “And you must be Daeron. Pleased to finally meet you.”
“Uh, hi,” said Daeron, and not knowing what else to do accepted Fëanor’s handshake.
Fëanor gave an approving grunt. “A solid handshake, that’s a good sign.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind,” Fëanor laughed. “I apologise for barging in on you like this. I assumed it was my son when I saw his car and had to find out what he was doing out here— he came with you I assume? Where is he?” Daeron opened his mouth to answer but Fëanor forged ahead. “But when I saw you there, well easy enough to put together who you were, and I have been dying to meet you. I was beginning to wonder if Cáno had made you up to get us all to stop trying to set him up with someone. We just wanted him to stop moping around! Which is why I knew he hadn’t made you up, because he stopped moping. As much.”
Fëanor chuckled. Daeron did not. He decided not to remind Fëanor that they had, in fact, met already — the day Daeron signed the lease to rent the room in Maglor’s place. But then he was just a tenant, not his son’s boyfriend.
“Yep,” Daeron said, “believe it not, I’m really dating your mopey son.”
Fëanor let loose a peal of laughter.
“A solid handshake and a dry wit! I like you already, Daeron. Isn’t it funny, though, that my two eldest sons are dating the sons of the two men in Beleria who cause me the most grief? By the way,” Fëanor pivoted towards him, “why didn’t your father come to this soirée of Fingolfin’s?” Fëanor smiled smugly as if this pleased him. “I suppose the Mayor of Beleria is in high demand on a night like this, though. Did Elu have somewhere better to be?”
“Uh, no, actually,” said Daeron. “He’s at home.”
“I see,” Fëanor said, and smoothed his tie. “Not giving any special speeches for the people or anything?”
“Nope,” said Daeron.
“Interesting. Elu is usually into that sort of thing, isn’t he? Pandering to the masses?”
Daeron scowled.
Fëanor laughed again. “Good, good. I like people who wear their feelings plainly. You’re a very transparent person, I can see why Cáno likes you.”
“Thanks?” Daeron said, half-sincere. No one had ever remarked on this trait of his positively before.
“He’s rather transparent, too, you know. That could be a problem between you.” He puckered his lips thoughtfully and looked Daeron up and down. “Just make sure you remain your own people. Separate entities, don’t bleed into each other. That’s what happened with his ex-husband. He was a musician, too, as I am sure Cáno has told you.” Maglor had told Daeron, at more length than Daeron thought necessary. He was not keen on hearing about it again from his father. “They were in the same band — don’t start a band with him!”
“Oh, there’s no risk of that,” said Daeron. “I only do solo work.”
“Good! I am an individual competitor myself. Everyone tells you you have to be a ‘team player’ to do well in life.” Fëanor wagged a finger. “Wrong. You have to be a strong leader. You have to know your ideals and stick to them. Actually, before I came out here for a breath of fresh air, I was put in a very unpleasant situation by a fellow I am ‘collaborating’ on something with—”
“Dad??” The driver’s door swung open to reveal Maglor, mouth gaping in an expression of horror and concern. “What are you doing in my car?”
“Oh, hello, Cáno,” Fëanor said cheerfully. “I was just getting to know your boyfriend you’ve refused to introduce me to.”
Maglor’s protest was cut off by Fingon, then Maedhros, piling into the backseat, laughing.
“Hello!” said Fëanor, craning his neck to look at them. “Are you two leaving already?”
Daeron could not see, but he could feel the despair settle into the sudden silence behind him.
“Don’t look so horrified, Nelyo,” Fëanor said. “I wish I could leave this damn party! All right, all right, I know when I’m not wanted!” He swung one leg out of the car and turned his body back to shake Daeron’s hand. “Very nice to meet you, Daeron. We’ll have to continue this conversation again soon. Good night! Good night, Cáno,” he said as he stood and gave Maglor, still stunned, a quick embrace. “Good night Nelyo, Fingon, happy New Year!”
He trotted back into the hotel, arms swinging at his sides but visibly shivering.
“I’m so sorry,” Maglor said. He was pale with panic. “Are you okay? What did he say to you?”
“It’s fine,” said Daeron, and chuckled. “He seems like an interesting guy. I think we’ll get along well, actually.”
Maglor’s eyes widened while his mouth contracted into a tight ball. He looked deeply perturbed by this idea.
“Come on!” Fingon shouted from the backseat. “Let’s go!”
*
“They really need to build a bridge here,” said Orodreth. He huffed impatiently. The tunnel was backed up for kilometres, bumper-to-bumper traffic crawling down the Sirion Expressway. He just wanted to be home. Well, his parents’ home, which was the only permanent home he had.
The drive from the base at Minas Tirith had been a nightmare. Having already missed Yule after his deployment was extended by a week, he and Lorneth had then been stuck at the base for two days due to a blizzard. When they finally got out, there’d been a road closure on the Sirion that had them zig-zagging through the countryside for three hours longer than it should have taken them. And, of course, entering Beleria and nine p.m. on New Year’s eve meant going through three DUI checkpoints. (“No, officer, we don’t drink. Just going home, sir. Asleep before midnight if we can manage it, sir.”)
No, Orodreth was not ‘fun’, and that was how he liked it.
Thirty minutes later, they rounded the bend toward the cul-de-sac where Finarfin and Eärwen had the sprawling beach home he and his siblings had grown up in.
“Someone must be having a party,” Lorneth said. “Look at all these cars parked.”
Orodreth grunted. “Hopefully not one of the neighbours.”
But as they drew nearer to the house, a feeling of dread took root in his stomach.
Lorneth voiced his fear. “No, not a neighbour. Looks like it’s at… your place.”
Indeed, rolling slowly past the packed driveway, the house pumped so loudly with music he could feel it through the car’s metal casing.
“Fucking hell,” he said.
*
Aegnor slumped further into the Adirondack chair on the deck and tugged his wool coat across his chest. It was a beautifully clear night. Thanks to the shot of whisky Fingon had insisted they take to inaugurate the auspicious arrival of a “former party king, out of retirement for one night only!”, the stars glittering over the dark ocean swam in and out of focus. It reminded Aegnor of a painting. Straining to hear the slow rise and retreat of waves against the shore, he was almost able to tune out Angrod and Fingon’s karaoke rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody as it deteriorated into chaotic screaming.
“Mind if I join you?”
Aegnor startled and looked towards the voice. It was the cute brunette he’d been stealing glances at all evening. Words congealed on his tongue.
“Yeah, sure,” he managed.
Stay cool, he thought to himself. Unlike his siblings, Aegnor was terrible with girls. He knew he was, objectively, attractive enough, but he was entirely lacking the charisma that came so naturally to everyone in his family. Well, except Orodreth: but Orodreth had found himself a marine as boring as he was to marry and that was that.
“I’m Andreth,” the woman said, slanting him a smile.
“Aegnor,” said Aegnor.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You do?” Aegnor sat upright.
Andreth shrugged and took a moderate sip from her red plastic cup. “Edhellos gave me everyone’s names.”
“Oh. Are you friends with my sister?”
“I have a class with Galadriel, yeah. But I mostly know Edhellos. She wanted me at the party as her wingman. But seems she’s doing fine without me.”
That was when Aegnor noticed a woman’s voice had replaced Fingon’s on the mic. There was more giggling than singing on her part.
“Yeah,” said Aegnor, and smiled. “If it’s my brother she’s after she won’t have any trouble with that.”
Andreth’s laughter wasn’t like most girls’ Aegnor’s age — all high and airy. It was genuine, a little wry, a soft low roll of amusement. He felt like a helplessly flopping fish being reeled into her orbit. Realising that half his torso was, in fact, reaching towards her, he pulled back sheepishly.
“So what class are you taking with my sister?” he asked, for the sake of saying something, but also because he was bursting with the desire to know everything he could about this person.
“Existentialism,” she said.
“Wow,” said Aegnor, then idiotically added, “you’re really smart.”
Andreth laughed again but didn’t deny it. “What do you do?”
“I, uh…” I’m a dumb jock, Aegnor thought. Definitely not good enough for you. “I play volleyball.” He didn’t mention it was for the varsity team. People tended to judge when they found out their athletic fees went towards your tuition.
“Cool,” she said, and the clenching beneath Aegnor’s ribs loosened when she didn’t scowl in distaste. “Your family is pretty athletic, huh?”
“Yeah, they are. Except Finrod. My oldest brother. He’s not here. I think you’d like him. He’s into deep shit, too.”
Then Andreth did scowl. A charming sort of scowl. “I don’t know, I find most philosopher types pretty annoying. Besides, what’s the point of filling your life with people who are just the same as you?”
Aegnor stared at her, seeing his own reflection in her big round glasses. His hair hung in his face, and he had a stupid grin plastered across it, but the openness, the warmth of Andreth’s expression put him entirely at ease.
She sipped her drink again without breaking eye contact, then licked a dribble of red wine from her lips. “Wanna go for a walk?” she asked.
Aegnor leapt up from his seat, and his head spun with the suddenness of the motion. “Yes, definitely!”
*
Fingolfin found his brother on the balcony, his forearms resting casually on the railing as he contemplated the street below.
“I don’t know why you bother with him,” Finarfin said, straightening. His bright green eyes caught the glow of the city light.
“You saw, eh?” Fingolfin sipped his champagne.
“Heard more than saw,” said Finarfin. “What was it about this time?”
“I extend my hand for him to take!” Fingolfin replied, exasperated. “I offer my help, and he hates me even more.”
“What did you do?”
Fingolfin sighed. “I offered to invest in his project. His translation app.”
“Oof.” Finarfin shook his head. “What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean? I thought to show my admiration of his ideas, I thought to build a relationship with him around something that wasn’t real estate-related.”
“You insulted him,” Finarfin said.
“How?!”
“Come, don’t be so naive. You think he wants your charity?”
“Charity. That’s what he said.”
“You know,” said Finarfin, “if you’re looking to dispose of money you have a brother whose always in need of producers.”
“I’ve told you before I’m glad to support your ideas, any of them.”
“Good! Because I was thinking of making a short documentary about the housing crisis in Beleria…”
Fingolfin glared down at him, and Finarfin grinned.
“I’m kidding, of course. I have no interest in getting involved in any issues, least of all yours. Nope. I’ll stick to the important stuff: staying behind the camera making romantic comedies to keep the masses distracted while my brothers pull at the edges of a fraying society.”
“Arvo…”
“I know, I know. You’re different.”
“I am,” Fingolfin asserted, as much for himself as for his brother. “In fact, I have been thinking of resolutions.”
“Have you?”
“Yes — and I think in the New Year I am going to conduct a company review. See if we can afford to do what I’ve always wanted, since the beginning. Affordable housing.”
“Really? That’s what you’ve always wanted?”
“Yes. And — I was thinking of mentoring one of my senior staff as a replacement and making a transition to politics. Elu has hinted that he intends to retire after his current term. I’d like to run for Mayor.”
“Huh,” said Finarfin. “That sounds like a great way to butt heads with Fëanor ten times more often than you already do.”
“Maybe I could inspire him to change, push him towards a more benevolent—”
Finarfin laughed, loudly.
“What’s so funny?” said a new voice.
Behind them, Fëanor loomed, arms crossed over his chest.
“Oh hello, Fëanáro!” said Finarfin. “We were just talking about you.”
Fingolfin shot him a look. “We were not. Finarfin is drunk.”
“I wish,” Finarfin muttered, and frowned into his empty glass.
“Never mind, I don’t care,” said Fëanor, and flicked a dismissive hand in Finarfin’s direction. “I’d like to talk to you about your investment offer,” he said to Fingolfin, jutting his jaw forward proudly.
Fingolfin nearly dropped his drink. “Oh?”
“Yes. I’ve had a moment to consider.” (He’d spoken to Nerdanel, Fingolfin guessed, and had to bite his cheeks to keep from smiling.) “And I think it might be a sensible…” he squinted, as if the next word pained him— “partnership.”
*
Even though Celeborn had come to this party expressly to talk to Galadriel, it had taken him two hours to work up the courage to do so.
“Hey,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “I saw your drink was empty, and I uh, got you another one.”
He held out the cup for her to take. Vodka soda, right?” he confirmed, even though he’d conducted thorough research beforehand.
“Do I know you?” she asked, looking him up and down.
A lump of dismay lodged in Celeborn’s throat. But of course, why would she remember him? He might have been thinking of her for weeks, he might have contrived to find himself at this party for the sole purpose of crossing paths with her again, but she was… well, way out of his league, like Galathil had said. He wished he could sink through the floor.
“Yeah,” he managed to squeak. “We met at the Nordic spa, a few weeks ago. It was your birthday, I think.”
“Oh!” Recognition lit up her face and she accepted the drink. “Right, I remember. Tel-something, right?”
“Celeborn,” he said, and heaved a sigh of relief. “Yeah.”
“Nice to see you again, Celeborn. How’ve you been?”
*
“I don’t do karaoke,” Daeron had said, when Maglor had tried, shortly after their arrival, to drag him to the stage set up in the corner of one large room.
Some time later (who knew how long, time had blurred about half-way through the third beer), Daeron bounced beside him, belting, “Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy! But here’s my number, so call me maybe?” while Maglor’s attempts at harmonising were increasingly marred by fits of laughter. The alcohol helped, certainly, but Daeron was no less immune to the thrilling effects of an approving audience than Maglor.
After Angrod had disappeared with that vapid redhead and Fingon had escorted his sloshed redhead away from the festivities (Maglor had not seen Maedhros let loose like that for years and was happy both that his brother was having fun and that he would be Fingon’s problem in the morning), no one had contested Maglor and Daeron’s monopoly of the karaoke equipment. Which was good, because Maglor had no intention of ceding the spotlight to anyone else — besides, of course, Daeron.
*
“I’m worried,” Anairë said, then scraped an olive from her martini stick with her teeth. She chewed it thoughtfully.
“Oh, forget about them, girl!” Eärwen gave her a light smack. “Arvo will keep them under control.”
“I don’t know, they seem to be completely unaware of your husband’s existence,” Nerdanel said to Eärwen.
“Poor Arvo,” said Eärwen. “Maybe I should rescue him…”
“No.” Nerdanel extended one long braceleted arm to stop the other woman from stepping forward. “You’re right. He’s a tempering influence, even if they are ignoring him.”
“I can’t tell if they’re arguing or aggressively agreeing,” said Anairë, squinting. “The latter seems extremely unlikely, but…”
“One can hope,” said Nerdanel.
*
“Eeee!” Edhellos squealed, and stamped her feet excitedly.
“What was that about?” Angrod smirked at the delightfully rosy-cheeked girl he’d just pinned against the back of his bedroom door.
“I can’t believe it’s happening!” she gushed.
“What?” Angrod asked, though he had some idea. He nuzzled at her neck to bury his smug expression.
“You’re gonna be my midnight kiss!”
“I plan to be doing more than kissing you by then,” said Angrod, and dropped to his knees. His hands lingered over the curve of her ass. “God, you’re so hot.”
*
Across the bay, a single firework boomed and burst into a hundred golden rays.
“Must be almost midnight,” said Andreth. It was the first thing they’d said to each other in a while — ever since their hands had somehow found each other on the log between them.
“Mmhmm,” said Aegnor. He thought about checking the time on his phone but was too scared to move and break the spell of the moment.
“You wanna go back to the party for the countdown?” Andreth asked.
“I don’t think we’d have time,” Aegnor said.
“No, probably not,” said Andreth, and shuffled closer to him so their shoulders brushed.
Aegnor held his breath.
*
“Ger ready, folks! One minute to midnight!” a musician announced from the small stage at the front of the hall.
Anairë tutted. “This is his party, Fingolfin should be leading the countdown.”
“Shh. Leave them,” said Nerdanel, attention rapt on their husbands still locked in conversation.
*
“Well,” said Finarfin, pocketing his phone. “It’s almost midnight, I’m gonna go kiss my wife.”
Fëanor and Fingolfin were far too intent on each other to notice him leave.
*
“Hey guys! Twenty seconds to midnight!” someone screamed over the music.
“Shit!” said Maglor, abruptly interrupting a very entertaining rendition of Single Ladies.
“Someone dim the lights!” Daeron shouted.
“Ten, nine, eight…” Maglor yelled into the mic, a few seconds off.
*
“Do you hear that?” Angrod asked between gasps. “I think it’s midnight.”
Edhellos bent over him and shoved her tongue down his throat.
*
“… seven, six…”
Celeborn stared ahead, his cheeks bright pink.
“You okay?” said Galadriel.
“Hm?” he said as she tugged on his hand.
“…five, four…”
Not bothering to wait out the last three seconds, Galadriel grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him, drawing a surprised squeak from his throat that quickly slid into an adoring sigh as his hand found her waist.
*
“… three, two…”
“Why is everyone shouting?” Maedhros groaned, blearily blinking awake to see Fingon sprawled beside him on a strange bed. “Shit, did I fall asleep?”
“You did.” Fingon handed him a glass of water. Rivulets dribbled down Maedhros’ neck as he poured it back.
“Ugh. I really can’t do this anymore.”
“No. But I love you any way.” Fingon kissed his mouth, which must have tasted awful. “Happy new year, babe.”
“…one.”
*
A bouquet of fireworks exploded over the lights of Beleria in the distance, and nothing had ever seemed more natural to Aegnor than leaning in to push his fingers into Andreth’s dark hair and capturing her lips in a kiss.
*
“Happy New Year!!” chorused a hundred voices.
“My god, is it midnight already?” said Fëanor, pressing a hand to Fingolfin’s chest in his surprise. He had not realised they were standing so close.
“Guess so.” Fingolfin laughed.
“Well, brother,” said Fëanor, holding out a hand, “shall we seal our deal with a midnight handshake?”
A reckless, wicked smile, one he had never before seen, now leapt to life on Fingolfin’s face. “Am I not good enough for a kiss?” he said, and before Fëanor could protest Fingolfin had him in both arms, swooping him low and planting a firm kiss to his lips.
*
“Oh my god,” said Anairë. “Are you seeing—”
But she didn’t finish because Nerdanel’s lips had sealed off her throat.
*
It had been sloppy and broken up by giggles, but Maglor could not remember a more exhilarating kiss in his life.
He stared at Daeron. Daeron stared back. It was strange: they’d lived together a year, been sleeping together half that time, and yet, perhaps because of the haste and ease with which they’d fallen into a domestic rhythm, they’d neglected many of the customary milestones of a new romance.
Maglor said it first. “I love you.”
“Really?”
Maglor laughed. “Yes, really. Obviously.”
When Daeron continued to stare, Maglor nudged him. “Well? Are you gonna say you love me?”
“Yeah. Just… kiss me again first.”
“Gladly,” said Maglor, and did so, longer and less messily this time. Someone in the crowd whooped.
“Happy New Year,” Daeron said when they pulled apart. “I love you.”
The prompts for this were: Daeron/Maglor + Board games from @searchingforserendipity25 and same + Enduring the in-laws from @melestasflight (who also requested Russingon hooking up), Orodreth/His Partner + Winter driving from @acretosorien, Feanor & Fingolfin + Kissing at midnight (it's platonic) and Fingolfin & Siblings + Reflections and resolutions from @ettelene, and Aegnor/Andreth + Kissing at midnight from @emyn-arnens. I also included some bonus follow-up on this fill for Celeborn/Galadriel and Angrod/Edhellos. Whew!
#modern au#beleria au#my fic#daemags#aegnor x andreth#russingon#new year's eve#new year's fic#feanor#fingolfin#arafinweans
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