queer_poncho

20s | latinx | queer | she/Her in love with so many fictional characters !just starting out as a writer

[queerponcho]

My library | and some things about me aswell hehe:

It's still quite small but I'm working on some things and figuring out Tumblr (and how it works for a creator) as I go. If you've got any tips, wanna send a request ooor maybe just want to talk obsessively about your favourite character please dm me:D

I am 23 and a latina woman living in Switzerland

I am queer. My perferences in gender and so on change constantly so I don't see a need for a more specific lable.

I've got adhd and have been diagnosed since I was nine years old

Been obsessed with all of the Oscar Isaac characters since I saw him in Moonknight.

Love Starwars and have a huge crush on Cassian Andor and wanna write some works for him aswell, I've just decided lol. If you've got any requests for him I'd love to hear em.

Was a huge Harry Potter fan...I still love the universe and it's characters BUT I do not stand with JK or any of her Transphobia.

I stand with Translives, Blacklives, and Peace

I have been dabbling in writing for about a year but I posted my first work in January 2024.

My Library

fluff*| smut+ |

Moonknight!System

Please * + | one-shot

Newly engaged with your hot boyfriend but you can't get close to him due to travelling back to your childhood home for an extended weekend...let's see how fun things can get.

Transfixed | Series | ongoing : * (and eventually +)

Part One | Part Two | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Summary: You're a woman who as been visiting the same library for all your life. One day a handsome new face comes walking in. That's the moment when the ball starts rolling and your entire life changes. Will you accept the new challanges coming your way...?

Steven Grant

Vanilla and lemon | drabble: +

Summary: You’re a vampire and are, once again, visiting the museum. But this time you forgot your blood-packs and cant seem to be able to leave. What’ll you do? Starve?…or help yourself to a bite of your favourite tour-guide…

more coming soon and I hope you stick around to see it<3

[espikola]

[queerponcho]

SO COOL

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

IV ║ Notch

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part III: Edgestitch | Behind the Seams: Part IV | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E, but not that explicit

Summary: While Ellie works her first shift at the Outfitters, Joel drops by yours to return the blouse you left behind at the baby shower. Turns out, there's plenty around the house to keep him occupied until the teenager clocks off.

Warnings: Sexual tension, body insecurity, some language, inaccurate descriptions of gardening, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, undervest supremacy, flirting, dry humping, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!domestic!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.9k

Notes: Once I started writing this chapter in earnest, it came together a bit more quickly than I expected! It's extremely self-indulgent, with plenty of white undervest and belly action because you guys deserve all of that goodness for being the most patient, loving readers a writer could hope for 🥹 Thank you, I love you all! ❤️

Notch – diamond shaped marks that stick out beyond the edge of the pattern to line up all the pieces when sewing the garment. They come in pairs to be matched up.

Joel is sleeping - which is not something that could be said until a couple of months ago.

After the outbreak, sleep as a concept ceased to exist. What took its place is literal ‘shuteye’, either engineered by pills knocked back with moonshine, or a preventative shutdown by his body to avoid total failure, having pushed his physical form to the living limit.

It’s the kind of sleep that is destitute and provides no relief. It keeps the cogs turning just enough that he doesn’t expire, standing in his boots - which, on most days, are not the only things held together by duct tape.

But after the hospital, even that turned out to be too much to ask for. Some nights, the itch for chemical-induced relief got so bad that Joel entertained the thought of asking Tommy for illicit pills, ready to crawl on all fours to his brother’s house two streets down because he was shaking so hard he couldn’t lock his knees. But he didn’t trust him not to tell Maria, and with Ellie in the picture, he wasn’t about to tempt fate.

So instead, he asked Maria to assign him to night patrols. She hmmm’d at his request like she knew something he didn’t, but she humoured him, letting him take the graveyard shift for a couple of weeks straight. She didn’t have to tell him that she could see the way he tripped over his own feet and hear the slur in his voice. She’s too sharp not to notice.

But she didn’t say anything.

What she did do though, was not so subtly wean him off the late-night patrols. It started with a couple of random, last-minute changes, and then the next thing he knew, he was working morning shifts exclusively. When he tried covertly swapping stints with another guy, he showed up at the guard tower at midnight to find his sister-in-law standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her pregnant belly. 

As he trudged home begrudgingly with his head down and her stern reprimand in his ears, he couldn’t help a chuckle. Gotta hand it to her. 

Banished back to his bed, Joel went back to staring owlishly at the ceiling, watching the moonlight slide across the plaster until he knew all the cracks in it with his eyes closed (metaphorically). He’d listen to Ellie snoring away two doors down and marvel at the fact that she somehow still slept like the dead, even after… all that.

And then, one night, it happened for him too.

Admittedly, he ate a bit too much at Tommy and Maria’s - on top of running the town like a well-oiled machine, she makes a mean chicken fried steak - and Ellie had not so subtly plonked a second helping on his plate without asking. He was lying in bed, steeling himself for another long night, when his eyes drooped. The motion was so alien that it jolted him wide awake, but he couldn’t shake the weight that clung to the seams of his lashes. The next time he opened his eyes, it was morning.

Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks. 

It’s nowhere near consistent, and more often than not he wakes up in a cold sweat in the small hours, but in between, he’s sleeping. For once, he’s feeling rested. And it’s a nice fucking break from the relentless exhaustion that he’s convinced is fused into his bones.

He always wakes up earlier than Ellie though. She never stomps down the stairs until he’s already had breakfast, and hers has gone cold.

So on the Saturday morning following the baby shower, with his face plastered into the mattress, body curled around a pillow - old habits die hard - Joel nearly falls out of bed at the banging on his door.

‘Joel! Get the fuck up!’

For one disconcerting moment between sleep and wake, he’s in his bedroom back in Texas. He half expects to look up to see the posters on the wall and the perpetually overflowing laundry basket at the foot of his bed.

Blinking through the urge to close his eyes, the colours fade and he stares blearily at the digital clock on his bedside table. 

7:30.

What the fuck? More often than not he has to drag the teenager out of bed by the ankles, kicking and swearing, at 7:50 to get to school at 8:00.

His knees groan as he staggers onto his feet, grabbing yesterday’s jeans from the floor and pulling them on. He finds a passably clean shirt about five deep on a chair, which he shrugs on over his white undervest. With a grunt, he yanks open the door and heads downstairs on bare feet, frowning at unfamiliar sounds coming from the kitchen.

Joel pauses in the doorway, hands on hips. ‘What do you think you’re doin’?’

Deeming his question unworthy of a response, Ellie tosses him a roll of her eyes over her shoulder and resolutely ignores him.

Shuffling closer, he asks, ‘Are you - cookin’?’

Brandishing the spatula at him, she snarls, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

He goads her with a smirk. ‘To be honest, it looks like you threw up in the pan.’

Ellie elbows him hard in the stomach. ‘Fuck you, man!’

He grins. There’s nothing like winding her up first thing in the morning. Grabbing the pan, he bins the ruined eggs, scraping off the burnt bits stuck to the bottom. ‘Crack some more eggs, I’ll make ‘em.’

Ten minutes later, in their usual seats at the kitchen table, they tuck into scrambled eggs and buttered toast.

‘Slow down,’ warns Joel as Ellie wolfs down hers. ‘You’re gonna choke.’

‘You hurry up! Can’t be late for my first day,’ she garbles through a mouthful of food.

‘Why can’t you be like this about school?’ he grumbles, then he winces as his teeth catch something crunchy. Picking it out, he gives her a pointed look. ‘Eggshell.’

‘Calcium,’ she shoots back without even looking up, too busy shoving the rest of her breakfast into her mouth, stuffing her cheeks like a chipmunk.

That one word stops Joel in his tracks and hurls him twenty years back in time.

But then Ellie is jumping up and practically throwing her empty plate into the sink, sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor as she dashes out of the kitchen. ‘C’mon, old man!’

Joel smiles, the memory warm like sun on his face. 

He shakes his head, slowly finishing his breakfast - like he wishes he did that day.

They turn out to be fifteen minutes early. 

To his chagrin, Ellie admits freely that she lied about the time so they wouldn’t be late. He’s a punctual guy, thank you very much. He certainly doesn’t need to be schooled by the little brat. 

Joel sits on the stairs, while Ellie has her face squished up against the door, unabashedly leaving smudges on the glass panels as she keeps up an uninterrupted running commentary on every last piece of clothing she can see.

He tunes her out easily, shifting in his seat so that his right ear is to the door. In his hands is the blouse that you left behind at Tommy and Maria’s at the baby shower. He’s been meaning to return it to you, but the week got away from him, and there’s no time like the present.

Considering the state of his knees, he impresses himself with the speed at which he stands at the sound of footsteps on the otherwise quiet main street. Squaring his shoulders, he discreetly pulls on his shirt, suddenly seeing wrinkles everywhere in the fabric, and runs his fingers through his hair, wishing he’d taken another look in the mirror before he left the house -

But it’s Lucy who appears at the bottom of the stairs with her unfailingly sunny smile.

‘Hi, you must be Ellie,’ she chirps.

She eyes Lucy cautiously, lips pinched to one side. ‘Where’s Pin?’

Joel growls. ‘Manners.’

Ellie puts her hands up in surrender. ‘Sorry. I meant - nice to meet you, where’s Pin?’

Lucy beams good-naturedly and fiddles with the lock. ‘She’s off today, and it’s all my fault because I made her work three weekends in a row. You’ll be helping me in the front anyway, so I’ll show you the ropes.’ Stepping aside and swinging the door open, she prompts, ‘In you go now, hon.’

Ellie doesn’t even look back at him, rushing into the shop like a thoroughbred fresh out of the starting gates.

Pocketing the keys, Lucy smiles. ‘Hi Joel.’

‘Hey,’ he nods back. ‘Sorry about Ellie.’

‘Don’t be, I was exactly like her when I was younger. Still am sometimes,’ she jokes. Then with a sly side eye, she remarks, ‘And honestly, you look more disappointed that I showed up than she does.’

He splutters, ‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’ 

She smirks knowingly, gesturing at the blouse clutched tightly in his left fist. ‘I can pass that to Pin for ya.’

Joel hesitates for just a second, and Lucy bursts into laughter, elbowing him teasingly. ‘The way your face fell! I’m joking, Miller. Relax.’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s fine, guess I’ll give it to her next time she’s ‘round.’

Just then, from the depths of the shop, Ellie gasps dramatically and yells at the top of her lungs, ‘I want thissssssss one!’ 

Meeting Lucy’s eyes, Joel asks, ‘Sure you gonna be ok left alone with her?’

She shrugs. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

He flashes her a thumbs up. ‘I’ll pick her up at three then.’

He’s about to walk away from the Outfitters when Lucy’s voice stops him. ‘Hey, Joel!’

Looking up at the wraparound porch, he raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

‘She lives in the yellow cottage on the same street as the shoe shop. Keep going north, you can’t miss it,’ she says with a two-finger salute and a parting line that he’s heard before. ‘Say hi to Pin for me!’

You’ve always had a soft spot for the turn of the season, when late spring blooms graciously give way to summer buds. The grass smells greener, and the air is pregnant with pollen and nectar. It’s not overly warm yet, but you can feel the intensity in the sunlight, muted only by the early hour. Good thing you’re starting early.

It’s unseasonably warm for June, and the vegetable patch on the far end of your garden has suddenly burst into life. The cauliflower has finally come through after two failed crops in a row, and both the tomato vines and pepper plants are thriving. Closer to the ground, the onion and garlic shoots are patiently waiting to be pulled, and asparagus shoots spear through the earth in tidy lines one after another.

Pulling on a hat and gloves, you get to work.

You’re halfway through the second row of onions when there’s a faint knock on the front door. Even though you’ve only been in the sun for a little while, the coolness inside the house feels like a balm to your skin as you pad inside, peeling off your gloves before reaching for the door. 

Swinging it open, you’re stumped by the sight of Joel Miller on your doorstep.

You haven’t seen him since the party, where you’d agreed on a start date and time for Ellie’s first shift, and -

Since the kiss. 

You’ve felt his absence keenly. You’ve caught yourself loitering on street corners, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, knowing you’ll be able to spot him just by the way his shoulders swing with his long strides. You’ve kept an ear out for the southern lilt that has chased goosebumps across your skin, or any mention of his name, but all in vain.

Jackson has a habit of growing in size, usually in direct proportion to one’s desperation.

Now that he’s somehow here, you’re aware you’re gaping at him, so broad that his shoulders are blocking out the daylight. Too many years out of practice to count, you have no idea what the protocol is when you next see the man who literally made your knees buckle with just his lips and nothing else.

‘Mornin’, he finally says with a small smile. 

You stammer. ‘H-hello. What, um, I mean, how -’

‘I dropped off Ellie at the shop and Lucy told me where you live,’ he explains, shaking out the blouse in his hands. ‘Thought I’d come ‘round and return this.’

Your palm twitches with the urge to smack yourself on the forehead. Of course that’s why he’s here. 

Taking the top from him, you smile back gratefully. ‘Thank you. And of course, it’s Ellie’s first day. I’m sorry I can’t be there, but I’ve been subbing for Lucy on the weekends for a month straight and I needed a break.’

He waves away your apology. ‘Count yourself lucky. She was just ‘bout bouncin’ off the walls.’

‘Bless her heart,’ you chuckle, breaking off when his eyes flicker over you, as if he’s just registered your very minimalist ensemble of a white cotton tank top and denim cut-offs. Your skin prickles under his scrutiny, flattery winning out against self-consciousness at the deliberate drag of his gaze over you, a thoughtful weight behind it. 

That is until something catches his attention, and you flinch when he peers under the brim of your hat. ‘What -’

Before you can even articulate your question, he’s taken one step towards you, his work boots heavy on your creaky wooden porch. His voice is low but rough around the edges, just the way you like it. 

‘You got some dirt -’ he swipes his index finger firmly on the end of your nose. ‘Right here.’

Your jaw hangs open, then clamps shut, in quick succession, the shell of your ears burning hot at his fleeting touch. Throat suddenly dry, you barely manage to squeak, ‘Thanks.’ 

One day, you will at least try and keep your cool around this man. But alas, it is not this day.

Rearranging himself, Joel leans on the doorframe with his arms crossed and remarks conversationally, ‘You look outdoorsy this mornin’.’

Flashing the soil-stained gloves at him, you try to keep your voice steady. ‘I’m just doing some gardening out back. The vegetable patch needs harvesting.’

He purses his lips at that. ‘Didn’t peg you as the gardenin’ type.’

You don’t know where the bravado comes from, but you swat him on the arm with the gloves and quip, ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

‘You got me there,’ he huffs a laugh and gestures towards the back of the house. ‘Anythin’ I can do to help?’

The refusal is on the tip of your tongue. You don’t say yes to a whole lot nowadays, other than when Lucy makes you. But then you hear yourself ask, a challenge in your voice that you didn’t know you had. ‘I don’t know. Are you any good with your hands, Joel Miller?’

At the boldness in your words, which you don’t take back, Joel’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. Biting your lip but standing your ground, you watch him grind his jaw as he considers his response. 

‘Why don’t you try me, sweetheart?’

‘Like this?’

‘Wait - slow down.’

A shuffle of hands. ‘How about now?’

‘That’s it. Yes, that’s good. Keep going.’

A raspy grunt. ‘I think I’m almost there.’

‘Yeah, that’s right, don’t stop -’

‘Alright, you ready?’

‘Come on, Joel -’

With one last flick, the knife slices clean through the base of the stalk, and Joel plucks the cauliflower head out of its leafy cradle with a triumphant grin.

‘How’s that for good hands, huh?’ he crows. 

‘I’ll get back to you in the fall when we see if the cauliflower grows back,’ you tease. 

He huffs, squinting up at you through the sun. ‘You’re hard to please, sweetheart.’

You preen at the playful turn of the conversation. If you were a little braver, you’d give him a mischievous wink - but for now, you gesture at the patch. ‘Can you handle the rest? I’ll get started on the peppers.’

He nods. ‘Leave ‘em with me.’

The pepper plants are having a great season, standing at four feet tall and heaving with fruits. You’ve left them alone on the vine for the last three weeks to sweeten, and they have dutifully ripened into a beautiful red. Settling onto your knees, you methodologically comb through the peppers from top to bottom, cutting off each one by the stalks.

It’s a big harvest, half of which you plan on giving away to your neighbours in exchange for their berries and lemons. Some you will cook. Lucy is due to come over for dinner, and she loves your stuffed pepper recipe. The rest you’ll have to find time to roast, skin, deseed and preserve in oil, which will last the rest of the year -

A shadow falls over you, stilling your hands and drawing your eyes upwards.

The sight is familiar - feet planted shoulder-wide by your knees, chin tucked in as he stares down at you, your nose level with the front of the jeans that you picked out for him - you’ve seen it all before, except for one small detail.

Joel is sweating. A lot.

His thin plaid shirt - you’re not sure if you’ve seen him in anything else yet - is sticking to him like a second skin, clinging to the solid outline of his biceps as he holds onto the basket full of cauliflower heads. The sunlight glances off the perspiration dotting his hairline, and the wispy grays that normally curl away from his face have wilted in the humidity. 

There’s a flush under his skin as he swipes at his forehead with his shirt sleeve, and your gaze follows a bead of sweat dripping down the prominent vein on the side of his neck, and into the deep V of his shirt - wait, is that the outline of an undervest that you can just make out underneath -

‘Should I take the cauliflower in?’

‘Um -’ you stammer to a halt, eyes still plastered to the front of his chest, just like his shirt.

He clearly mistakes your gawking for something else, flashing you an apologetic smile at his state. ‘Sorry, I work up a sweat real easy.’

Oh, come on. Now all you’re thinking about is how else he works up a sweat -

Seized by the sudden need to get out of the heat in more than one sense of the word, you rip the basket from his grasp and turn on your heels to sprint into the house with a choked, ‘I’ll be right back!’

You nearly trip over your own feet running into the kitchen, your heart thumping so loudly in its ribcage it feels like the whole house is shaking to the beat. 

And all that man has done is sweat in front of you.

‘Pull yourself together, Pin,’ you mutter to yourself as you tip the cauliflower heads onto the kitchen table. Grabbing a jug from the cupboard, you put it in the sink and turn on the faucet. Watching the trickle of water, you make yourself take three deep breaths. 

Joel’s kind enough to do you a favour, you could at least have the courtesy to not perv on him while he helps you out.

Nodding determinedly to yourself, you pluck two glasses from the drying rack, putting them inside the empty basket that you hook on your elbow, and march back outside -

Only to almost swallow your tongue and drop the full jug of water right at your feet.

Joel’s sweat-soaked shirt is now hanging on your washing line like a white flag, having surrendered to the heat. And just like that, the very image that has been inconveniently seared into the back of your eyes since the party is suddenly before you in all its glory, in the morning sun, out in the open air.

The white undervest stretches over the breadth of him, and if he didn’t look so good in it, you would’ve laughed at the comical way the flimsy straps are clinging onto his shoulders for dear life. Then he bends over to inspect the tomato vines, the bottom of his vest riding up with the movement, teasing a flash of skin above the waistline of the jeans pulled tight over his behind. One big hand reaches out, the outline of his arm flexing as he does, and he palms the bottom of one tomato, testing if it’s ripe for the picking. 

Except in your head, it’s something else he’s cupping with such rapturous attention. 

He doesn’t notice you until he stands up with a low grunt of effort. Pointing an apologetic finger at his shirt, he says, ‘I hope you don’t mind, I’m sweatin’ right through it like nobody’s business.’

You make a noise in your throat that you pass off as an answer, and with shaky hands, pour him a full glass of water which you shove in his direction.

‘Appreciate it, sweetheart.’ He salutes you and takes a long drag, tipping his head back. You watch, transfixed, as the sunlight bounces off the lines of sweat criss-crossing down the strong column of his neck, and the hard bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

Suddenly, you’re parched. But you don’t trust yourself to stay upright, let alone pour yourself a drink.

‘It’s hot today,’ Joel breaks the loaded silence, though it’s possible that it’s unilaterally so on your side.

‘Uh-huh,’ you croak, still holding onto the water jug like a shield.

He peers at you with a touch of mischief. ‘You ain’t gonna swoon or anythin’ are you?’

Probably. And definitely not for the reason he has in mind. 

You attempt a weak smile that may have come off as a grimace. ‘I’ll try not to.’

Reassured, he nods towards the garlic patch. ‘C’mon. Let’s get our hands dirty, sweetheart.’

By the time the vegetable patch has been thoroughly picked and the baskets crammed full, the sun is high in the sky, the morning clouds burned off with the heat.

Joel isn’t the only one who’s sweating through his clothes - your light cotton top is now clinging uncomfortably to your skin, sweat dripping down your sternum and dampening the cups of your bra. You heave a sigh of relief when he helps you move the haul to a shaded corner near the porch where you have an outdoor sink and wheel hose installed.

Emptying the root vegetables into the sink, Joel steps back and casts a critical eye over the rain gutters that line the eaves of your house. Fingers spread over one jutting hip, he leans his weight on his right leg, the stance creating all kinds of angles that are completely unnecessary in this kind of heat.

He points at the leaves and branches that are clearly sticking out from the channels, but you’re only really interested in studying his large hands. The bumps and veins on the back of them, the watch with the broken face on his left wrist, the dirt coating his thick fingers, pushed under tidily trimmed nails. The logical thought that follows is how he would leave dark streaks on your white top when he pulls you in by the waist - 

‘Looks like the gutters need cleanin’,’ Joel declares. 

Well, the gutter your head is currently dunked in can certainly do with a good scrub.

‘Rainy season doesn’t start for another few months, they can wait.’

He uh-uh's sternly. ‘I’ve heard that before. Do you have a ladder?’

‘You really don’t have to -’ you protest, but he won’t hear it.

‘It’s no big deal, I’m sweaty anyway,’ he replies. ‘Besides, you’ll be doing me a favour keepin’ me occupied. I don’t pick Ellie up till three.’

You bite your lip. ‘But I feel bad working you so hard.’

Without skipping a beat, he winks. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head, sweetheart - I like workin’ for it.’

Jesus Christ. This man needs to be locked up and the key thrown to a colony of clickers.

The inner contractor in Joel comes out to play as he climbs deftly up the extension ladder propped up against the eaves, gloves on and a tarp bag tied to the top rung for collecting the debris. Discreetly, you shuffle around the freestanding sink so that you have a clear view of him as you turn on the water and start washing the dirt off the onions.

He’s starting close by, just a couple of feet away from you, patiently scooping out the dead leaves and twigs by the handful. Up on the ladder with his side to you, you’re eye level with the swell of his belly, which stretches the seams of the vest, and the underside of it peeks out every time he reaches up for the gutters. Your cheeks warm with the memory of how the soft folds felt against you, so warm and solid that you ache to reach out, push the flimsy vest up and nuzzle the tender skin with your nose -

It takes you a couple of minutes to realise that you’re not even pretending to be washing the onions anymore, the hose running in your idle grasp as you stare, head cocked to one side.

You don’t hear him when he turns to you. ‘Can pass me the hose?’

You stare dumbly back at him. ‘Huh?’

‘The hose, Pin,’ he repeats, a playful condescension in his smirk, like he knows exactly what you’ve been looking at. ‘That onion looks sparkly clean.’

You’re not sure what happened. One second you’re holding onto the hose with the intention of turning off the water before passing it to Joel, but your brain skips that crucial first step, and the next thing you know, you’re pointing it straight at him, spraying him in water from face to chest.

As he splutters, you shove the hose into the sink and screech, mortified. ‘Oh my god! I’m so sorry!’

You watch in horror as the water trickles from his hair, down his stubbled chin and onto his chest - okay, that’s a lie. It’s definitely not horror that’s twisting in your tummy and then much, much lower between your thighs.

And if you thought this man looked good sweaty, well - you’ve seen nothing yet.

He might as well put you out of your misery and take off his undervest right about now. It’s completely see-through, pebbled nipples and the firm ridges of his pecs showing through the wet fabric, rounded out by the endearing soft pouch of his belly. 

He wears the early summer tan so well, and for the first time since the outbreak, you think about the swim club in your old neighbourhood. Watching the water drip off his skin, it’s not a stretch to imagine this man pulling himself out of the pool after a quick dip to cool down, before stretching out on a sunlounger to dry in the sun - all in slow motion, set to the track of a corny sax riff.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say on reflex, but the apology rings hollow with the way your gaze lingers over his chest, and he notices.

He chuckles, carding one hand through his wet hair to slick it back, standing taller under your eyes. ‘As I said - never a dull moment with you, sweetheart.’ 

Joel takes his time, clearing out all the blockages and hosing the gutters clean so that you don’t have to worry about them for another six months. He dumps the leaves and sticks in the compost post, rinses the soiled gloves and his hands clean, before taking his shirt off the washing line and heading into the blessed shade.

He finds you in the kitchen, back to the door, putting away clean plates and cutlery from the drying rack, porcelain knocking together and metal clanging.

This is the most he’s seen of you, in a tank top and shorts, bathed in light spilling in from the large windows that open out into the backyard. He sees touches of your workshop right here in the kitchen - dried herbs and seasoning in mismatched but tidy boxes on the shelves, knives organised by size on a magnetic knife block, plates and bowls arranged in neat stacks behind glass cabinets.

Not wanting to alarm you, he deliberately scrapes his shoe on the tiled floor to make his presence known.

Whipping around - and just a touch startled - you smile with a quiet hey, and Joel’s not sure if he’ll ever get over how the sweet shyness still clings to the curve of your lips despite the fact that he’s kissed you right there.

He stays by the door for now and says, ‘I put the ladder back, and the gutters are all done, but I spotted some shingles missing on the roof while I was up there. I’ll come back to fix ‘em some other time.’

‘Thank you so much Joel, but really, don’t worry about the roof. You’ve done enough.’

‘You basically got Ellie outta my hair every Saturday for the next few months, so I’ll have plenty of time to kill,’ he half-jokes.

A comfortable lull sets in, and he looks up at the ticking clock, surprised that it’s almost noon. Shifting his feet, he opens his mouth and is about to excuse himself when you blurt out, ‘I’m sorry I soaked you.’

The jury's out on who's more taken aback by your phrasing. Exasperated, you groan, ‘I did not mean to say that.’

Joel’s kept a respectful distance since he arrived at the house, the pliant weight of you in his arms and your taste on his tongue kept firmly at bay in the back of his mind, not wanting to bring up anything that would make you uncomfortable in the light of day. But now, he pushes himself off the threshold of the door and crosses the cosy kitchen, pleased that you stay put when he plants himself in front of you, toe to toe.

Brushing a finger under your chin so that you’re staring up at him, he deliberately pitches his voice low and gruff, the double entendre almost crude in its delivery. ‘Just so we’re clear, you can soak me any time, sweetheart, in any way you want.’

Your lips part and your gaze darkens, and he feels his body instinctively react, invisible threads reeling him bodily into you. When you speak, your voice quivers, his name at once a single-worded reprimand and a needy whine that takes him right back to his brother’s spare bedroom. ‘Joel -’

‘Yes, Pin?’ he baits you playfully, just like he did that night, taking one last step so that you’re crowded against the countertop, bookending you with his palms planted on the wooden surface.

Finally shedding that last bit of shyness holding you back, you retort with no real bite, ‘You’re such a tease, Miller.’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,’ he quips easily, his attention on your mouth. He hears your shaky intake of air, the whole moment suspended on tenterhooks as you skirt each other on the brink -

Just then, a breeze drifts in from the open window above the sink, providing instant relief from the humidity that hangs heavy in the air. All of a sudden, he’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s sweaty all over, so much so that he might actually smell. 

Self-conscious, he clears his throat and murmurs ‘I should probably go, I need a shower and a change of clothes -’

‘You can shower here,’ you interrupt, stumbling over your words in your haste. ‘I have a spare shirt somewhere.’

You don’t need to ask him twice. 

He smiles. ‘Sounds good, sweetheart.’

Your ensuite bathroom, like what he has seen of your house, is clean and organised. There’s a neat stockpile of soap bars in the cupboard, and he spots the familiar bottles of regulation shampoo and toothpaste that the town mass produces.

The water is plenty hot as he efficiently lathers himself top to bottom and front to back, but the pressure is a bit weak for his liking and can be easily fixed. Something else to add to the list.

The towel you left on the rack is soft and smells like the sun. Patting himself dry and rubbing it through his hair, he wipes away the condensation off the mirror above the sink. He peers at his reflection, ruminating that it’s time for a shave, and pushes back his wet hair so the strands don’t get in his eyes.

Out of his clothes, only his jeans are passably dry, so he forgoes his boxers and pulls them on, carefully doing up the zipper. Using his shirt as a sling, he bundles up all the dirty clothes and opens the bathroom door.

He catches you coming into the bedroom as he steps out, and your jaw drops at the sight of him in just his jeans before you slap your palms dramatically over your eyes, the tshirt you’re holding onto covering your whole face and muffling your voice. ‘I’m so sorry! I should’ve knocked!’

Joel chuckles at your reaction. ‘Sweetheart, it's your house. And I’m not exactly naked.’

Lowering your hands sheepishly, you still clutch the tshirt to your chest like a security blanket, admitting, ‘Sorry, I just - I just realised I’ve never had a man in here before.’

Something wraps itself around his stomach and pulls, and it takes him a beat to put a name to it because it’s been so long. It’s possessiveness that rushes through his veins and goes straight to his head, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep his voice from wavering. He demands, ‘Never?’

‘Never.’

He lets the word wash over him, appeasing the beast in him for now. With a slow nod, he takes three measured steps towards you, stopping just an arm’s length away. Gently coaxing you to let go of the purple tshirt, he snorts at the huge Lakers logo blazoned across the front. 

He quips, ‘I’m more of a Longhorns fan myself, actually.’

The tension cracks, and you grin back, ‘Well, not anymore.’

After your confession, it’s probably redundant, but he wants to hear you say it. Flashing the tshirt at you, he asks, ‘Old boyfriend’s?’

It’s the most personal question that’s been exchanged between you so far by a mile, and it’s probably none of his business, but you can’t explain why your pulse spikes at the way his normally warm gaze hardens with something unfamiliar.

‘No,’ you answer. ‘I keep some of the stock here when there’s not enough room at the shop, that’s all.’

Joel rasps, ‘Good.’

With that one syllable, his shoulders visibly relax, suddenly drawing your attention to his topless form, which you’ve been too mortified to actually look at. It’s a lot to take in, and even though you’ve seen most of him already, there is one conspicuous part that you haven’t yet -

But before your eyes can trail that low, Joel turns. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll just -’

You’re slow to catch onto why he trails off in the middle of the sentence, still far too distracted by his general state of undress to notice until he’s already made his way to the top of your neatly made bed. And then you see it…

The flannel peeking out from underneath the duvet.

Oh. Fuck.

With an almost flippant flick of his wrist, Joel peels back the corner of the bedspread. Wordlessly, he stares down at the red plaid shirt he lent you at the baby shower, tucked snugly in your bed, buried half under your pillow. 

He stares at it for so long that you interrupt the silence for once.

‘I’ve been meaning to return it,’ you squeak, hands flailing awkwardly, desperately wanting something to hold onto. ‘I just - forgot.’

Joel half-turns to you, arching an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been keepin’ it in your bed?’

Backed into a corner - and you’re not proud of it - you lie. Outrageously. ‘I don’t know how it got in there.'

He picks up the shirt by the collar. It’s wrinkled all over and obviously worn in. He smirks, ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

You’re this close to swivelling around and making a break for it, but as soon as your axis of balance tilts backwards, Joel grabs you by the wrist and pulls you in, hauling you firmly into his bare chest.

‘You’ve been wearin’ it to sleep, haven’t you?’ he asks in a tone that brooks no argument. 

Your fingers curl into his chest, his skin blazing warm under your palms. There’s no point fibbing anymore, and you admit, ‘Yes.’

His voice is hoarse when he asks, ‘You wear anythin’ underneath it, sweetheart?’

You hold your breath for one long moment, the tension in the room swelling so quickly that your ears pop. Eventually, under his patient yet heated stare, you shake your head, lips sealed.

His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, and you feel his grip on your hips tighten.

‘No bra?’ he prompts.

‘No bra,’ you parrot back.

His jaw clenches so tightly that you’re surprised he manages to articulate his next question. ‘No panties?’

‘No panties -’

You barely get the word out before Joel is kissing you, pushing the syllables right back into your mouth until you swallow them with a whimper.

And then he’s pulling back, growling against yours, ‘And what do you do naked in my shirt, hmm?’

You stutter, ‘I - I think about you -’

An undignified squeal escapes you when he suddenly spins you around, your back hitting the bed, denying you the chance to catch your breath. The ceiling fan turns directly above you, but it does nothing to quell the heat between your bodies as Joel clambers over you on his hands and knees, sliding his mouth over yours again in a hard kiss.

You always thought your bed was a decent size, but now, with the bulk of this man hovering over you, you’re not so sure anymore. His ridiculously wide shoulders fill your entire field of vision, and even though he’s holding himself up with his forearms by your ears, you can almost feel the full weight of him through sheer anticipation of his touch. 

His heated words brush by your ear, making you shudder. ‘Tell me what you think about, sweetheart.’

‘Your arms, your shoulders -’ you hesitate, dropping your voice shyly. ‘Your belly.’

Joel looks taken aback. ‘My belly?’

You duck your head almost guiltily. ‘Yes.’

His brows draw together in an endearingly confused frown. ‘Why?’

‘That time in the workshop, when we met, you were sucking it in so hard you could hardly breathe - but you don’t anymore.’

The dots connect, and his lips part in an oh. ‘I didn’t even realise.’

‘I know. That’s why it’s sexy,’ you point out.

He looks at you incredulously, as if you’ve lost your mind. ‘My belly is sexy?’

You grin. ‘Yes, and your confidence. You walk differently now, you know.’

He makes a noise at the back of his throat, a self-satisfied smirk tilting his lips upwards. ‘You been watchin’ me?’

‘Maybe,’ you tease.

You exhale long and heavy through your nose when he sucks delicately on your bottom lip, opening you up so that he can dip inside, stealing a taste of your tongue with his. 

‘Been thinkin’ about you all week, sweetheart,’ he whispers, trailing fire across your cheek and the hollow behind your ear. 

‘I haven’t seen you around at all,’ you whine, tipping your head back as he nudges the tip of his proud nose down your throat.

‘I know, it took three fuckin’ days to clean up after the party,’ he complains, his disgruntled tone prompting a giggle from you. ‘Never again.’

‘I’m not so sure about that. There will be plenty of birthday parties to look forward to, Uncle Joel -’

An open-mouthed kiss on the side of your neck catches you off guard, the unfamiliar texture of the wet suction and scrape of his teeth jolts you clean off the mattress, sending you body slamming into his ribcage.

Joel hums, pleased at your reaction. ‘So sensitive. I’ve barely touched you yet, sweetheart.’

It’s immediate, the shame that burns under your skin at his remark despite knowing he doesn’t mean anything by it, and Joel frowns at the way you stiffen under him. Regret colours his words as he cups your cheek. ‘Pin, I’m sorry, that came out wrong -’

‘No, that’s the thing. You’re not wrong,’ you interrupt with a shake of your head. There’s no point denying it - you’re a grown woman, and there’s something fundamentally embarrassing about losing touch with that part of yourself over the years. ‘I - it’s been so long, I don’t even know my own body anymore.’

His eyes dip downwards and slowly, over the curve of your breasts and the arch of your back. With an encouraging smile, he argues, ‘I’m not sure about that. Looks like your body’s reactin’ perfectly to me.’

Your lips twitch despite yourself. ‘You’re just saying that to get into my pants.’

He takes the unexpected turn in the conversation in stride and runs with it. ‘Trust me, sweetheart, if I were tryin’, I’d already be in them.’

‘You’re such an ass, Joel Miller.’

His roguish grin has you squirming and fisting the sheets underneath you. ‘I dunno. Somethin’ tells me you like it.’

Wrapping one palm on the back of his neck, you drag him into you again, relishing in the weight of him as he pins you to the bed with the broad frame of his shoulders. He moans into your mouth, claiming it with deep strokes of his tongue, while his calloused palms sneak under the hem of your shirt and pull you into him by the small of your back.

Even as your hips buck, begging for friction, Joel holds back, propping himself up on his knees to keep a tenuous grip on his self-control. Pulling back from your lips with a wet pop, he assures you through heavy breaths, ‘We can stop any time, sweetheart. Just say the word.’

Your response comes fast and sure, but he can read the hesitance between the lines, ‘I - I don’t want to stop.’

He presses a patient kiss to your lips, but backs away before you can deepen it. ‘How about this - we’ll flip you over so that you’re on top, and you decide what you want to do. Is that ok?’

You pause to consider his proposal, sliding your tongue over your bottom lip - he’s this close to kissing you right there and then. You ask shyly, ‘And it’s ok if we - you know, just make out?’

He smiles. ‘I can do with some good old-fashioned neckin’.’

‘Ok then -’

You yelp when Joel turns you over without warning, the sudden movement making your head spin. Sitting up against the headboard, he drags you in his lap and asks, ‘Alright?’

You nod with a nervous smile. It’s intimidating, being so close to him that there’s nowhere else to look but into his thoughtful eyes that are watching you for any signs of discomfort. Catching your breath, you settle into the moment and realise that you’re straddling him, hands clinging onto his shoulders, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His belly is warm and soft where he’s pressed up against you, but lower, nudging insistently between your legs -

Joel is hard.

The revelation robs you of air, want and need rushing like blood to your head, and you stiffen, not knowing what to do.

Joel catches on - you’re beginning to think that nothing ever escapes him - and he reminds you, ‘Just kissin’, ok, sweetheart?’

Snapping out of your freeze frame, you nod, ‘Yes. Ok.’

Giving you somewhere to start, he prompts, ‘Where do you want my hands?’

Tugging on his wrists, you watch his jaw go slack when you place his palms squarely on your ass, where your denim shorts hardly cover the top of your thighs. He lets out a lewd moan at the way your soft curves fill his hands, fingers squeezing and kneading greedily, and you push your hips back into his contact. 

‘Not so shy after all, hmm?’ he rasps.

You preen at his praise, and riding the wave of boldness, you tip forward and press your lips to Joel’s before you could overthink it. Over the roar of blood in your ears, you hear him suck in a shaky breath, and you feel the deep groan in his throat taper into a whimper when you swipe your tongue into his mouth.

You’re completely unprepared for the power the sound unleashes in you.

Somewhere in your consciousness, a door is cracked open, and memory crackles at the edges of your mind. Each shuddered breath shared, every slide of skin on skin, brings to the surface what you thought you’d forgotten. 

Your fingers burrow into the still wet locks at his nape, earning a loud moan from Joel when you pull on the grays that have distracted you on more than one occasion. He nips his way sloppily down your neck, trailing spit and beard burn as he goes, while your palms skate over his chest and down, down, down until your fingernails drag over the pliant folds of his tummy, hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

‘Sweetheart,’ he groans brokenly at the contact, forehead knocking into yours.

Spreading your fingers over soft flesh, you choke on an inhale when he bodily rocks into your palms. Your thumb catches the hollow of his belly button, fingers tenderly squeezing the creases and dimples of his belly. His eyes crack open under tightly knitted eyebrows, vulnerability etched in every line on his face.

Something shifts - something that neither of you can take back. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore.

Caught somewhere between writhing instinctively under his touch and a deliberate pursuit of friction, your hips find a rhythm that has the seat of your panties quickly twisting and dampening as you grind on the erection straining against the zipper of his jeans.

Blunt nails bite into your thighs as Joel growls, ‘Shit, sweetheart. That’s it.’

You want to bury your face in his neck, feeling too wanton in the way you’re panting in needy whimpers, but he preempts that on no uncertain terms. ‘I want to see everythin’. Look at me.’

You do just that - you can’t deny this man even if you tried - watching him watch you with his pupils blown wide and wild, wetting his bottom lip the same time his eyes drop to your tits, as if he can see right through the thin fabric. He doesn’t touch you anywhere else though, his hands staying where you put them. You can feel his grip dig harder and harder into the swell of your ass, but he doesn’t try to change your rhythm, giving you free rein to ride him any way you need.

When your peripheral vision starts to go, you know it’s not a coincidence that your thoroughly soaked panties shift and strain against your clit, pinching it just so that you cry out, hips faltering.

Joel bares his teeth, and you feel his hips rut upwards into you, his restraint slipping. ‘There you go. You’re close, aren’t you?’

You can only nod, frantically grinding into him now, your whole mind narrowing until the only thought that remains is chasing that high that you can almost taste. Everything swells, electricity fills the air, his name a sacred chant on your tongue as you claw at his back, teetering precariously on the brink of something that promises to devastate you.

‘Joel, Joel, Joel -’

He catches you when you break - you fling yourself at him, knocking into him so hard that the back of his head hits the wall, but he doesn’t even flinch. Tucked safely into the crook of his neck, you whine and wail as you thrash in his hold, and his nostrils flare at your scent. He can smell you, he can smell the slick leaking from your pussy, humid and heady in the air between you, making his mouth water as he aches to taste you - all of you. 

One day.

Right now, the hinge of his jaw almost cracks as you milk the last remnants of your orgasm with a needy swivel of your hips, rubbing against his cock at an angle that makes his vision swim, and he knows he’s too far gone. His control slips like shifting sands, and a primal instinct takes over as he bucks roughly into you, fingertips leaving imprints in your skin that you will feel for days after.

‘Oh fuck, sweetheart, wait, I’m - shit, I’m gonna -’

When it hits him, it’s fucking relentless - he cums and cums until his voice goes hoarse with your name, until it feels like his abdomen would cave in and collapse, spurting and spilling until it feels like he’s turned inside out. It goes everywhere, thick, milky strands filling the gaps in his jeans and sliding down his legs in a sticky mess, and he slumps bonelessly into the headboard, panting against your lips as he catches his breath.

Sweetly, gently, he tilts his chin up just enough to kiss you, his nose nudging your cheek intimately when he pulls away, his lungs too deprived of air to keep going. He winces when you shift above him, knowing that you can feel the wet spot pooling under your bare thighs.

Joel breaks the sluggish silence first, cracking a grin. ‘So much for just makin’ out.’

You clumsily climb off his lap and crash land sideways onto the mattress. ‘Is that a complaint, Joel Miller?’

He drapes a heavy arm over you and pulls back you flush into him. ‘Well, these jeans are fuckin’ ruined. I want a refund.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t accept cum-stained returns. Store policy.’

He pffts. ‘Damnit. Should’ve read the fine print.’

You grin. ‘Well, at least there's something deeply poetic about cumming in the jeans that I picked out for you.’

‘Touché, sweetheart,’ he grunts and presses a kiss to your forehead. Glancing down at the unmistakable wet patch on the denim, he asks hopefully, ‘Any chance you got some pants I can borrow?’

Ellie bounces her leg irritably, hunched over on the stairs exactly where Joel was sitting this morning. Where the fuck is he? He’s twenty minutes late, and he had the nerve to get all huffy when she lied about the start time today. Unbelievable.

Moodily looking left and right, there’s still no sign of him. She’s about to give up and wait for him at home when something conspicuously purple comes to a stop in front of her. 

Her jaw hits the floor.

‘Oh. My. God.’

She’s never been high before, but she’s pretty sure this is the stuff hallucinations are made of.

This being Joel Miller in a purple tshirt with a tacky logo she doesn’t recognise printed on the front and khaki cargo shorts that cut off at the knees, holding a basket of vegetables that she’s pretty sure he doesn’t eat.

With a roll of his eyes, he snaps, ‘Shut your mouth, you’re trappin’ flies.’

Pasting on the most obnoxious grin she can muster, Ellie croons, ‘Man, don’t you look pretty.’

Turning on his heel, Joel starts walking without looking back. ‘Shut up.’

Jogging to keep up, she cackles, ‘Hey, did you fall into a wormhole and went shopping at a farmer’s market in 1999?’

‘Shut up.’

‘You really should wear shorts more often, y’know, show off those knees. And purple really is your colour, Barney!’

Joel frowns, shooting her a sidelong glare. ‘How the hell do you know who Barney is?’

Ellie shrugs. ‘What do you think they teach us at school?’

He’s the one who starts it. The quake in his shoulders would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but nowadays, there’s not much that he can hide from her. As usual, she giggles first, which trails into a squeal when Joel gives her a shove on the back, sending her stumbling over her shoes.

‘Fuck you, man!’ she snickers and basically rugby tackles him, but he barely budges, lips pulling back into a toothy grin. 

Across the street, unbeknownst to the pair, Tommy smiles to himself as he watches his big brother laugh, really laugh - the kind that has him doubling over and gasping for air through watery eyes. For the first time since the world ended, he looks up at the sky with a reassuring nod, and he knows deep down - Joel will be just fine.

Notes: You guys continue to blow me away with your support - I cannot be more grateful for all the reblogs, asks and interaction with my silly Behind the Seams posts and random updates. Thank you so so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I can't wait to hear what you think ❤️

I will be having a think over the next few weeks about where Seams will go from here. This chapter wraps up the first mini story arc, and I'll be dedicating August to wrapping up my Palomino series, so it will give me some time and distance to mull over what's next for Joel and Pin. I'm also a few followers away from a big milestone, so I might have something fun planned! 🥰

[queerponcho]

its been three years since this series was posted and i probably re-read it every few months😩 i love it sm and it was a HUGE inspiration for me to start writing my own fanfictions🥹

[wdarlingyap]

Happy Weekend!! @queerponcho you know what that means!

Write like the wind!! 🖋

(As usual, this prompt is satisfied by five minutes or five words. More is only bonus. You've got this!!)

if you want writing accountability too, join the harassment here

[queerponcho]

doing the lords work thanku very much🫶🏽

[aquasprings]

⊹ꮺ˚ edging nerd!choso

though he’d never admit it, you know that deep, deep down he loves the slow roll of your hips over his cock, the way your velvet walls squeeze him perfectly, the slowwww torture when you lift yourself off him.

“oh, p—please,” his voice cracks with a broken whimper of your name, hands digging into your waist and eyes watery. his bottom lip trembles slightly, glasses askew, cock twitching in desperation as he watches, waits to feel you again.

“i said not to cum yet,” you murmur, and he nods frantically, trying to distract himself from how much he’s aching—his tip’s flushed an angry red, the shaft slick with precum and your own arousal.

“i won’t, i swear,” he babbles, eyes rolling back when you sink back down onto him, his hands secured on the plush of your thighs as you start lifting your hips in a languid rhythm.

the sound is so lewd, too—wet, insistent slapping that makes choso bite down on his lip harder, nearly drawing blood. his eyes draw to where you meet his base, frothed and drenched already. and when he’s close for the nth time—he squeezes his eyes shut and whines, and you feel his cock tense inside you—you just pull off. again and again.

the sweetest joy, perhaps, is watching choso force himself to hold his release in when you climax over his cock, pussy clenching him so hard it hurts him to have restraint. he has to watch you moan, watch your face contort in pleasure as you use his cock to push you over the edge.

you’re panting, coming off your high, and every part of choso’s tensed up, holding, waiting for his precious girl to give him permission. the split second you whisper a soft, “okay, you can cum now,” he’s falling back against his pillows with a shattered cry, tears streaming down his face.“thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he sobs, melting even more when you coo his name gently, kissing his cheeks with a little smile.

choso’s mind is gone, still catching his breath, his cock still snug between your walls, and his heart skips a beat at the thought that maybe tomorrow, you’ll edge him with your mouth.

maybe tonight, if he begs enough.

[queerponcho]

ITS TOO EARLY TO HE READING THIS OML

[suburban-panic-smut]

How Can I Help You? - Part 2

Part One

Pairing: joel miller x fem sex store reader

Summary: Joel comes back in looking for rope, plus a little something extra.

Chapter Warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive, a dash of smut, fem reader, reader has a vagina, no use of y/n, modern AU, no outbreak, strangers to retail regulars to lovers, Joel calls reader "darling" and "bunny", jerking off, oral (fem receiving), pinv, rope bondage (reader receiving), literally set in a sex store so do with that what you will, reader is so down bad

WC: 1.7k

AN: Thank you all so much for the love on part one!! As usual, I'm not looking for feedback at the moment (I'm working on a major writing project for my degree and receiving enough feedback there TvT) but please let me know if there's any copy edits I missed! Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future parts! I hope you enjoy! Thank you to @cursed-carmine for the dividers!

It had been a week since you first encountered Joel. Despite those seven days and your attempts to focus on your job, the thought of him had been front and center in your mind any time you weren’t busy, which was basically all the time.

I prefer the old fashioned way.

It seemed an innocuous enough thing to say. Still, you couldn’t help the way his words looped in your mind. Couldn't help but try to parse precisely what he’d meant— to imagine what he’d meant.

Him desperately fisting his cock in the comfort of his bed, sweat beading across his face and chest.

Him making out with a pussy, tongue lapping eagerly, prepping her for the girth he had to have tucked in those jeans.

Him fucking you. In every position you’d ever heard of. Slow and deep, fast and punishing. Whispering in your ear with that gravelly voice as you came undone under him, panting into the mattress. The face he’d make as he-

The door chime jolted you back to reality.

Fuck me, I’ve gotta get this under control, you thought.

“Welcome in!” You called, pulse skipping as you caught sight of Joel. Your mouth hung open for a moment, brain scrambling for what to say next, still desperately trying to catch up from its previous engagement.

Still reeling, you scrambled to fill the silence.

“It’s you."

Heat crawled into your face. It’s you?! What the fuck was that?

Joel spared you, chuckling. “It’s me,” he confirmed.

It's just another customer, you reminded yourself. You took a deep breath and finally regained control of your usual script.

“Good to have you back. Let me know if I can answer any questions for you.”

“Thank you.”

He’d barely taken a few steps before turning back to you.

“Do you have, uh, rope here?”

“We sure do,” you said with a nod.

You brought him back to where all your kink products were— your favorite section and your area of expertise.

“These are our only rope options.” You gestured at the few packs of rope you had in stock— a gross shortage of options in your opinion. “Unfortunately we only have cotton.”

“That’s alright. Thank you.”

“No problem.” You smiled and left him to browse.

A few moments later, Joel reappeared, two bundles of red rope in his hands. You rang him out, making small talk, and handed him his receipt.

“You’re all set!”

“Thanks."

He lingered at the counter.

"Was there something else?" You asked.

"No. Yes. I uh, I don’t figure… would you be willing to teach me some of the basics? I don’t do super well… with uh… well, I’m more of a hands on kind of guy.”

You hummed, as though considering his offer. As though walking this handsome man through how to tie someone up wasn't a dream come true.

“I’ll show you a few things,” you said with a decisive nod. “But only because you didn’t ask me to ‘show you the ropes.’”

He chuckled dryly. “Never been a pun guy. Never been more glad."

An hour or so later, you’d given him a thorough intro to shibari: the risks of rope bondage, signs of nerve or vein compression, types of rope, key terms, and a few basic ties you demonstrated on your legs, sitting cross-legged on the counter. You’d left him to get familiar with the rope now and again to deal with the few customers that had come in, and he’d deftly practiced what he could, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

It was during one of these moments that you finished ringing out the last customer in the store. Joel was staring out in space, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as his hands worked through the motions of a single column tie. Nothing could have prevented the stirring in your belly at that sight.

You’d been so focused on teaching Joel— on making sure he knew everything he needed to—that you’d forgotten the way he’d taken up residence in your brain. After the mind-numbing break to do your job, you were struck with the full force of his presence.

Though you still noticed his eyes and his jawline, you were struck now by the more intimate details that had become apparent during your lessons: the way he nodded along with your explanations, how his hands unconsciously followed your explanations, and the honeyed way he said "slow down now darlin'" that made heat pool low in your stomach.

Suddenly you found yourself saying something.

“You ready to try doing it for real?”

His attention snapped back to you, eyebrows raised. He chuckled.

“Don’t gotta ask me twice.”

You hopped back up on the counter, extending your arm.

“You sure about this darlin’?” He asked, voice huskier than it was mere moments ago.

“I’m sure.”

He nodded, grabbing the rope you’d been practicing with.

“Single column?” He asked. You hummed a yes.

“The bight goes over twice.” He looped the rope around your wrist once, twice, fingers skimming feather light over your skin. “Then under and through. Twist, and pull through.” He pulled down on the bight, tightening the knot.

You both stared at the knot dumbly for a moment, his fingers still lingering on your wrist. You distantly wondered if he could feel your heartbeat.

He let go, and you pulled on the loose end of the rope, testing the knot.

“Feels sturdy.” You pulled under the cuff. “It’s a little loose, but it’s great for a first try. For something like this, you can have your bunny put two of their fingers underneath to make sure it’s tight but still safe.”

“My what?”

“Your…” you’d said the word without thinking. You swore you’d mentioned rope tops and bunnies when you started your instruction, but now you weren’t sure. “Your bunny? That’s the word for someone you’re tying up. Sorry, I thought I’d mentioned it.”

You were never embarrassed about kink, but you could feel your face heating up. Maybe it was that being called “bunny” turned you on, maybe it was saying all this to Joel, or maybe it was implying you were his bunny while tied up. It was a delicious blend of hot and humiliating. You were sure there was a wet spot forming in your panties.

“You did. I just wanted to hear you say bunny again.”

If your panties weren’t wet already, they were now.

The moment pulled taught. You hardly breathed. Then Joel worked the knot undone, freeing your wrist. You were exceptionally aware of the skin he’d touched, but forced yourself to focus.

“Do you wanna try a double column?” You asked.

“I do.” His voice was earnest, but low in a way that gave you goosebumps.

“It’s probably be easiest on my legs,” you said, quiet.

“Alright.” Without a thought, he kneeled in front of you.

Holy fuck.

“Your ankles okay?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless.

He nodded, looping the rope around your ankles just as he had with your wrist. His fingers were calloused and firm, but his touch was gentle.

“Can I borrow your fingers?” He asked, hand outstretched.

You hummed a ‘yes’, biting your lip. His hand was warm around yours as he tucked two of your fingers under the rope he just laid. “Keep ‘em right there.”

You wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. His hand skimmed the back of your calf as he passed the rope between your legs. He finished the knot and you removed your fingers.

“Tightness better?” He asked, looking up through his lashes at you.

You felt the cuff and nodded.

“Much better.” The two of you looked at one another for a long moment, his thumb absently caressing your ankle. After who knows how long, Joel tore his gaze away and began untying you.

You looked at the time, unhappy to find it was just a few minutes to close. “I think that’s enough lessons for today,” you said.

Joel nodded.

“Thanks for teaching me. It wouldn’t have been the same without your help.”

“Anytime.” You looked away, sure if you looked into those brown eyes for another moment you’d offer him longer, more personal lessons after closing up.

“For your trouble.” Joel’s voice snapped your attention back to him, three hundred-dollars bills in his hand. You gaped.

“No, I can’t take this,” you said, shaking your head.

“Sure ya can. If you’re bein’ honest, teaching me was extra work. I want to thank you for taking the time to show me a thing or two.”

You hesitated for a moment before accepting the cash. Though part of you felt guilty taking his money for something you enjoyed so thoroughly, three-hundred dollars wasn’t an insignificant amount of money for you. Plus, he didn’t seem at all hesitant to give it to you.

“I was glad to do it. And I’m always happy to answer any more questions if you need.”

“I appreciate it.” Joel tucked the rope back into the bag you’d given him at checkout and turned to leave. “Thanks again darlin’. Take care.”

“You too.”

You watched him leave, fingers tracing your wrist where the rope had been just a few minutes before. Over the rest of your night you found yourself grazing that sensitive skin, following the memory of Joel's touch. You swore you could still feel his fingertips as you closed up and went home.

The way his fingers moved, the feeling of his work-worn hands on your soft skin, and his intense, thoughtful gaze as he learned echoed off every darkened silhouette as you stripped off your work clothes and crawled into bed.

You felt calm—content—as you settled in. You lived a good life, but you had to admit it had been a long time since you’d felt as at peace as you did while teaching him. Being tied up always did that for you, but it had been a long time since you’d gotten the chance. Still, it wasn’t just that. Joel’s genuine interest in what you had to teach him, getting to share your knowledge on a subject you were passionate about, was something you would treasure.

As your eyes shut, the thoughts began to layer and blur, blending into a singular feeling of ease. The feeling lulled you into the dark arms of sleep, leaving you with the word “bunny” in your mind and “Joel” on your lips.

Tag list: @twisteduniverse5, @nothinglefttogive, @bearbo28

[queerponcho]

this is amazing-

can i please be added to the taglist?🥹

[wdarlingyap]

a message for @queerponcho and only @queerponcho:

Happy Friday!!!! The weekend is in our sights!

Time to grab a snack, a drink, and your story notes! It's a good day to make some words happen! 🖋

if you want writing accountability too, join the harassment here

[queerponcho]

THANKU SM- writing as we speak🤫👀

[cameronthecryptid]

One thing that I find the most sad about us possibly not getting a Moon Knight season two is that Oscar REALLY nails his performance as the boys in my opinion. Because to me, he truly becomes three different people in his performances to the point that I genuinely think of you wiped my memory of the show and it’s plot, you showed me separate clips of each other boys, and told me that they’re from different projects that he’s done, I would have believed you. They practically look different!

In theatre lango the face of an actor is referred to as “the mask” because facial expressions are so important to performances and characters. It’s one of the big things that you’re taught as a beginning actor and can generally make or break the character you’re playing. And I swear Oscar does it SO FUCKING WELL because all three of the moon boys have such different ways their faces sit. Steven’s expressions are more soft, with his eyes being more wide and fluttering, and his brows not being furrowed so hard even though Steven has a resting worried face. Meanwhile Marc’s eyebrows are always scrunched, his eyes are kept more narrowed and he keeps his vision on things like he’s assessing everything around him 24/7, and I’m pretty sure he’s always tightening his jaw do his jaw line looks sharper. Which then contrasts Steven where he sort of keeps his loose and so he tends to have his mouth open a little so his jaw looks more softer. And then there’s Jake. He looks so calm even though he’s canonically ready to fight at the drop of a hat, with his eyes being hooded over, maybe tightening his jaw and keeps his vision focused on something like Marc but keeps a cool sleazy smile like he’s ready for a fight but knows that he’s got it handled when it breaks out. Anticipating yet ready.

LIKE??? I could walk past all three of them on the street and maybe even have a full conversation with them and I would NEVER suspect that they were the same man. Triplets? Maybe. But I would have to see them switch first hand for me to be like “Oh that’s the same man!”

And that’s what I mourn the most! We will probably never see this amazing performance ever again. Because Oscar poured so much into the boys that they genuinely were three different people and felt like it. And even if Disney+ tried to hook us back in with a season two where they place a new actor, even if I’m willing to give them a chance and ignore the recasting and they got acting notes verbatim from Oscar himself and they listened, I could never find Marc, Steven, and Jake again because their faces and the mannerisms with their faces are so special that I could never see them on another face other than Oscar’s. And I hate that SO MUCH! Because even if I wanted to suspend my disbelief and try to believe that it’s them, I could never. You’d just have to start the damn thing over from the start so the actor can truly be free to make the mask for Marc, Steven, and Jake.

[guruan]

I colored again the lineart of this to see if I liked it for pfp but chose Victor at the end anyway

[queerponcho]

Me whenever you post🥹👏🏽

[notmclovinn]

4 eyed

contains: x fem!reader, r wears glasses, cowgirl, missionary, gojo’s a tease, kinda based off the fact my glasses r always loose

a laugh comes from under you and you stop your movements— “what’s funny?” you question, looking down at the man. “your glasses. they bounce with you.” satoru gojo says with the biggest shit eating grin. “really?” you scoff, shuffling to get off of him. “noo! don’t go so soon!” he whines, following your movements— now hovering over your frame and slotting himself between your thighs.

“literally, get off me.” you deadpan though you make no effort to actually get him off. “mmm… make me.” he hums, lips leaving soft kisses on your neck as he lines himself up with your hole, slowly pushing in.

your mouth opens though no sound escapes, “f-fuck..” you curse as you feel him fill you up. “thought you wanted me to get off?” satoru teases, straighten his back— hands gripping your hips as he begins his thrusts. “you’re so fucking annoying” you roll your eyes, soft moans leaving your mouth with each thrust.

and there he goes again, with that fucking grin. “look-“ he thrusts once more. “they’re still moving with you.” he laughs, no- he cackles at the way your glasses bounce with each thrust.

you let out a huff and take off your frames, tossing them somewhere beside you. satoru lets out a row of tuts, shaking his head at your actions. “you know you need those to see, right?” you let out a choked moan as he harshly thrusts into you— long arm reaching for the glasses, picking them up and placing them right back on the bridge of your nose.

“you’re actually so fucking annoying.” you mutter, legs wrapping around satoru’s waist, pulling him close to you. satoru hums, “yeahh, but you can’t resist me.” he murmurs, lips brushing yours as he leans in close.

note: rip saturo gojo you would’ve LOVED kevin gates

note 2: IHAM SARRAY I DIDNT ORDER DISRESPECT WITH A SIDE OF MY POTATO SALAD. IHAM SARRAY. I DDINT ORDER THE NERRVEEEEEE WITH A SIDE OF BAKED POTATO!

[queerponcho]

RRAAAHHH BLIND READERS UNITE✊🏽

[tays-writing]

!nerdjo x reader | part 4

Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar

part 1 here! . part 2 here! . part 3 here!

cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X

Play this.

-

By the time you arrived at Choso’s party, his house was already overflowing.

Bodies crowded every room, conversations blurred into laughter, red cups littered every available surface; and the air smelled like cheap perfume, vodka, and the unmistakable sweetness of someone smoking weed by the open door to the garden.

You'd already lost count after your second shot.

Maybe your third.

Shoko was talking to Choso beside you, animated as always, but the alcohol had turned her voice into little more than background noise.

Then the music shifted. The opening beat sent a ripple of cheers through the room. You barely noticed, until the lyrics started.

“I wanna watch you like a movie…”

Your fingers tightened around your cup. Not now.

“I wanna put you on the stage…”

You took another sip. Maybe the burn of the alcohol would be enough to keep that damn video from resurfacing every time the lyrics seemed determined to drag it back.

“I wanna know what you’d do to me…”

Apparently not. The universe had to be fucking with you.

“I wanna put you on the tape…”

The corner of your mouth twitched. Whoever had made the playlist had an awful sense of timing.

“Flashing red light, baby you’re a star…”

You lifted your cup for another drink, your eyes drifting absentmindedly across the room.

“Fuck me all night, show me who you are…”

Your eyes landed on a familiar face, and suddenly the music died.

“No fucking way” you whispered.

Satoru was leaning awkwardly against the far wall, towering over almost everyone around him, looking as though he’d somehow got lost on his way to the library.

A plain white T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, dark jeans hugging long legs that seemed unfairly endless. His white hair was still messy in that unintentionally perfect way, but something was different—

He wasn’t wearing his glasses. 

You’d never seen him without them before.

Under the pulsing red and blue lights, his eyes looked impossibly bright, scanning the room with the same restless uncertainty he always seemed to carry outside the safety of a classroom.

God.

The alcohol was making this so much worse.

He looked dangerously handsome.

And completely miserable.

Only then did you notice the blonde girl standing beside him, chatting easily with a small group of friends.

Satoru wasn’t saying much. His shoulders were stiff, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his smile polite but painfully strained. He looked like he was about to jump out of his own skin. Every few seconds his eyes drifted somewhere else, as though he were searching for an escape route.

The sight twisted something ugly inside your chest.

He definitely came here for her.

So why did he look like he wanted to be anywhere else?

“Oh… damn,” Shoko murmured, following your gaze “He cleans up nice.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, your eyes found Choso behind the kitchen counter, busy pouring another round of drinks.

“Choso” You called over the music, nodding toward the living room. “Do you know that guy? The really tall one with white hair?”

Choso glanced over, squinting through the crowd. “Oh, him? Not really” He shrugged “The blonde girl invited him—I think? They’re in the same class or something.”

Your chest tightened painfully. Of course. You’d known it before you’d even asked. He’d come because she invited him. That was why he was here, looking unfairly hot in a party setting he clearly didn’t belong in.

Jealousy burned hot and ugly in your stomach.

“Right” you muttered.

You reached for the nearest cup and downed it in one go. It tasted like fruit punch and regret, but it didn't matter. 

Shoko raised an eyebrow “You good?”

“Perfectly” you lied.

An hour later, you were properly drunk. You’d lost Shoko what felt like an eternity ago, and the air downstairs had become too thick—heavy with perfume, sweat, and a bass that hammered relentlessly against your temples.

You needed to get out.

Your feet ached inside heels that had long since become instruments of torture, carrying you away from the madness. You drifted through the crowded house, weaving between strangers with half-empty cups in their hands. Laughter blurred into conversations you couldn't quite make out. 

Your head felt pleasantly light.

Or maybe dangerously so.

As you climbed the stairs, the flashing lights faded behind you. The music that had swallowed the house only moments ago softened into a dull pulse, vibrating through the floorboards and echoing faintly against the walls.

The upstairs hallway was almost empty. A single lamp cast a warm glow over the wooden floor, leaving the far end swallowed in shadow.

You blinked once.

Twice.

Letting your eyes adjust.

And then you saw him.

Satoru was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, half-swallowed by the darkness, his phone resting loosely in one hand. The pale glow of the screen washed over his face, tracing the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck.

Somehow, he looked even more beautiful than usual.

For a fleeting second, reality snapped back into focus. The precarious balance on your heels. The dull ache in the arches of your feet. The desperate need to stay upright.

Almost instinctively, your fingers found the hem of your skirt, tugging it down where it had ridden up against the back of your thighs—a clumsy, subconscious attempt to make yourself look at least a little more put together.

He came here for her.

And yet… He was alone. The girl who’d barely left his side downstairs was nowhere to be seen.

Your eyes lingered on the broad shoulders hidden beneath the plain white T-shirt, then drifted to the long fingers loosely curled around his phone before settling on the nervous way he shifted his weight against the wall.

He looked exactly the same as he always did.

Quiet. Awkward. Completely unaware of how beautiful he was.

Your curiosity curled hot in your stomach.

The version of Satoru you knew in daylight and the one you’d watched through a screen felt like two different people.

You were dying to know which one would look back at you if you got close enough.

Before your brain had the chance to catch up, your feet were already moving across the hallway, the sharp click of your heels breaking the silence.

“Hey.” 

Satoru startled so badly he nearly dropped his phone.

“Shit—”

He looked up, quickly locking the screen before slipping the phone into his pocket with practiced ease. The movement was almost too quick, too casual—the kind of I’m just standing here composure that would’ve been convincing if his ears hadn’t already started turning pink.

“Oh…” His eyebrows lifted. “Hi.”

A beat.

“…You’re here.”

You took another step toward him. The hallway suddenly felt much narrower.

“Didn’t expect to see you at a party.”

“Yeah, I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t usually come to these.”

“But you came because she invited you.” you countered, the alcohol sharpening your edges

He blinked, visibly caught off guard by the accusation.

“I—”

You didn’t let him answer. 

Instead, you tilted your head, your gaze drifting over his face.

“You’re not wearing your glasses.”

You were close enough now to catch his scent—clean soap, something fresh and woody, and something underneath it that was unmistakably him.

His hand flew to his face almost on instinct.

“Oh. Yeah. I... I thought the contacts might be better for a party. Less likely to get knocked off or fogged up or… whatever.” He laughed nervously “I feel weird without them.”

You took another step. The height difference was staggering; he had to look down at you, and the way he did it—soft, shy—made your knees feel weak. You reached out, your fingers ghosting over his jaw, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. 

Satoru went completely still. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating until the icy blue was nearly swallowed by black.

“I like you better with the glasses,” you murmured, your eyes fixed on the place where your fingertips brushed his skin. “They make you look… smart. Cute.”

“You…” His voice cracked, a high, strained sound. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into your touch as if he were trying to memorize the feeling. “You're…” He hesitated, struggling to find his voice. “...really close.”

“Does it bother you?” you challenged, your hand moving to the back of his neck, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. “Or is it that you’d rather be with someone else?”

He shivered, a visible tremor running through his broad shoulders. He looked down at your lips, his own parting slightly.

“N-no” he whispered.

You smiled, the expression a little tipsy and a whole lot dangerous. Your other hand came up, resting flat against his chest. The fabric of his shirt was soft, but the muscle beneath it was hard, and you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your palm. You tilted your head back to meet his gaze, savoring the warmth radiating from him.

“You’re too tall,” you murmured, the words slipping out with a hunger you didn't bother to hide. “Always towering over everyone.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I know. Sorry—I’m always in the way.” He tried for a light laugh, but it came out as a ragged exhale. His hands remained at his sides, fists clenched until the knuckles turned white, as if he were physically anchoring himself to the wall to keep from touching you. “You’re… you’re drunk, aren’t you?”

The question sounded like a desperate attempt to break whatever had settled between you, to remind himself of the boundaries that were rapidly dissolving. 

You didn't answer. Instead, you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against his collarbone as you inhaled deeply, letting his scent fill your lungs.

“You smell so good,” you whispered against his skin, almost drunk on it “God, why do you smell so good?”

You didn’t care anymore that you weren’t the girl he thought about when he recorded those videos. The alcohol had burned away every last bit of restraint.

“You’re so soft..” you breathed, dragging your lips slowly along the warm skin of his neck, savoring the feeling.

Without a second thought, you pressed a slow, lingering kiss right where his pulse was jumping wildly beneath your lips. 

He let out a soft, broken sound—half whimper, half sigh. It was the exact sound you’d heard a dozen times through your headphones, but hearing it now, feeling it vibrate against your mouth, was a visceral, jolting experience. The hallway felt like it was closing in, and the muffled music from the party below felt miles away. 

“You shouldn’t… I mean, you’re drunk, and I—” He whispered the words. But even as he spoke, he betrayed himself by tilting his head slightly, giving you more access to his neck.

You welcomed the invitation.

Your lips trailed lower, moving to the ridge of his collarbone. You dragged your tongue slowly across the bone in one long, teasing lick. Satoru shuddered violently, a pretty, needy moan escaping his throat.

“Fuck—why are you...” His breath hitched “Ahh—why are you doing this to me?”

You could feel him hard against your hip when you pressed closer, the thick outline unmistakable. Yet his hands remained glued to his sides, fists clenched, shaking with restraint.

One of your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his soft white hair. You pulled him down slightly, making the height difference even more obvious, and latched your mouth onto the side of his neck again.

This time you kissed him open-mouthed, sucking gently on his skin. Satoru whimpered, the sound breaking beautifully as you sucked harder, determined to leave a mark.

“Please—” he breathed. “I can’t—”

He still wouldn’t touch you back. His arms stayed rigid at his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was fighting a war with his own instincts.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him.

Satoru’s eyes were half-lidded, lashes fluttering, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink. It finally clicked in your hazy mind: he wasn’t touching you because he knew you were drunk. He was letting you use him however you wanted, but he refused to take advantage.

That realization might have been the hottest thing you had ever experienced in your life.

You leaned in slowly again, the height difference forcing you to stretch. Satoru’s eyes widened the moment your breath brushed his lips, impossibly surprised, almost disbelieving. He stared at you, pupils blown wide with shock and something much darker.

“What are y—”

You kissed him.

It started soft — just a gentle press of lips — but the second you felt the tiny, broken whimper vibrate against your mouth, something inside you snapped. You tilted your head and deepened the kiss, sliding your tongue along his bottom lip before pushing inside.

Satoru moaned into your mouth, the sound needy and desperate. His body trembled against yours, but his hands still stayed glued to his sides, shaking.

You kissed him harder, hungrier. Your tongue explored his mouth with lazy confidence, tasting him, teasing him, sucking on his tongue whenever he shyly tried to respond. Every little sound he made — those pretty, broken whimpers you had become addicted to — only made you more relentless.

One of your hands stayed at the back of his neck, fingers tangled in his soft white hair, while the other slowly slid down his chest. You felt every hard line of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, your palm gliding lower and lower until it stopped just above his belt.

You could feel how hard he was.

The thick, heavy length of his cock pressed insistently against your stomach, hot and unmistakable even through his pants. The same pretty cock you touched yourself to while watching him fall apart on camera. The realization made heat flood between your thighs.

The kiss turned wet and messy. Obscene sounds filled the quiet hallway as you devoured his mouth, biting his bottom lip gently before soothing it with your tongue. Satoru was shaking, breathing heavily through his nose, completely lost in the kiss but still refusing to touch you back.

God, he’s really not going to touch me.

He was letting you use his mouth, his body, his neck — whatever you wanted — while he held himself back because you were drunk.

It was infuriatingly respectful. And an absolute torture.

Just then, a voice echoed from downstairs.

“Hun? Are you up here?!”

Shoko.

Your heart jolted. You pulled back sharply, breathing hard, lips still tingling. For a second you just stared at him — at the mess you had made of him — and reality came crashing down like cold water.

Fuck. What did I just do?

Your hands were shaking. Your knees felt weak. The hallway suddenly felt too bright, too quiet. You took a shaky step back, almost losing your balance on your heels.

“I—” you whispered, voice cracking.

You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

You gave him one last frantic look — his messy white hair, swollen glossy lips, and the faint red marks you had left on his neck — before turning around. You walked away quickly, almost stumbling down the hallway, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.

You didn’t look back.

Just as you disappeared down the stairs, Satoru’s head fell back against the wall with a quiet thud, eyes squeezed shut. A second later, his legs gave out and he slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, completely ruined.

He didn’t know what was more pathetic: his trembling hands, the frantic drum of his heart, or the warm, humiliating mess in his pants.

yep. i'm basically torturing everyone: reader, Satoru, you and me.

Reblogs are sooo appreciated ✨

part 5 here ! masterlist

taglist: @butterbeanandsparkleface @seungkwansflower @ninjaturtletoes @krispy7akay @wiserion @aaudreys @chosslut @erideight @quanxistoelicker @stuckinadream0 @nanahach1 @carcelswaifu @c4ndyyy @cridtiins @cupidslie @suguphile @msblyshie @ashtraaay @lovvsp @itsjustmesofiedk @cutiepie208 @gojodotexe @shinobui @emeraldlegacyobserver @ifartmatcha @sparklefarts214 @kissmekissmecure @di1f-lover @mafezinhasworld @skylaryippee @toru-saki @kun4ril @marsieonist @s3werslvtt @affinityblues @bat-brainzzz @ariilovesmoney @trizymiia @looha @megsbows @srslyoceans @whatsernamekei @gojoful @zlinguss @gabbiepickle @tootyallfarty @boomboom-tanjiro2019 @hauntedbyink @dasiybynight @winniethepoohjusttookapooh

taglists are full. Thank you!! :)

[queerponcho]

GURL- U WENT CRAZY WITH THIS ONE OMG I AM GOING FERAL OVER THIS TENSION WTF

[fightingbymoonlight]

Seeing people I know and like using AI is making me understand the protagonists of those old time sci fi dystopia's.

"Oh I don't normally use AI, I just wanted it to plan my trip"

You lived on this planet for decades, you know what you like, there are hundreds of websites where you can type into any search engine " things to do in [area]" and have at least a hundred different options.

"Oh I only use it so I can figure out what to make during the week with what I have"

The most popular website as you type in "recipes" into google have sections where you click dinner- quick and easy and those usually rely on staples + 1 or 2 items. I found 30 recipes on chicken alone.

"I had a writing idea, so I typed a few sentences into Chat GPT and I was able to write 20 pages with it."

Youdidn'twriteit.Youdidn'twriteit.youdidn'twriteit.youdidn'twriteit.YOUDIDN'TWRITEIT.YOUDIDN'TWRITEIT.YOUDIDN'TWRITEIT.

[verdantdrawzstories]

Reminder that fanfic authors write the stories you like

FOR FREE

[queerponcho]

and i thank the universe everyday for it

[writingdose]

THE ONLY SHIP THAT IS BAD IS CENSORSHIP

[cookiethebirddoll]

bus is my friend. shes no train but shes trying her hardest in a world that hates her

[eclecticopposition]

what is THE worst thing you've ever drank. all liquids acceptable. please tell me what it was, bonus points for why

[carby]

Hey whoa hi. Hello. I am looking directly into your ear canal. What do you mean you drank a tube of virus concentrate.

[whyamiherewhosummonedme]

So, I was working in a lab, right? My job in the lab was preparing a pure, concentrated enough sample of virus. This is tricky since, y'know, viruses require hosts to replicate, but you then need to get the host cells (and the pieces of the host cells that died!) out of the sample while still keeping the viruses. Once I'd finished and the samples had been sent to the database for analysis as well as a second one sent to be frozen for future reference, there was still some left over that needed to be disposed of.

I, knowing that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, waited carefully for the lab director to be deep in conversation with someone else on the other side of the laboratory. And then I took my chance.

Test tubes, as it turns out, are really bad as shot glasses. Their shape turns any liquid inside into a stream, so you really can't knock it back quickly - it takes a couple seconds. Additionally, the best way I can describe the taste of virus concentrate was "sterile rot". A very unique kind of bad! Made worse by the test tube's inefficiency as a shot glass.

(by the way we were studying bacteriophages, not animal viruses. these viruses are too specialized on attacking prokaryotes to even recognize our cells as targets at all, according to studies.)

(but also like. if the viruses managed to successfully switch hosts and killed me with a violent infection, itd still be worth it.)

(for science.)

[violetthunderstorm]

You have a fitting blog title

[nico-the-overlord]

this post is getting 50k easy

[marlinspirkhall]

[teaboot]

This WOULD be how humanity would go out though tbh

[queerponcho]

this is sooooo maomao coded its so funny

[pipshinwhatever]

logging onto tumblr like heyyy i'm thinking about the same character i've spent the past few weeks thinking about. no change here. just wanted to let yall know