#AND HE LOVES A STONE COLD BITCH | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ggirlthatgotaway · 1 month ago

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You Now Smelled of Flowers, and He Loathed how Perfectly it Suited You

summary: You had always known that, despite being wed, you and Aemond would have never gotten along, especially because none of you tried anything but staying as far as you could from one another. Weirdly enough, Aemond made your relationship changed by asking for help.

trigger warning: wrote this while on ovulation, explicit language, mention of self harm, mention of lost of virginity, sexual content, name calling(wife), pretty chill sex tbh

word count: 9.4k

supposed reading time: 38 minutes

note: BITCH THIS HAS A FUCKING VIBE. anyway, i love the dialogues in this. also, thnkx for more than 200 notes on the last one ARE YOU KIDDING. love ya

-💎

He couldn’t sleep, which was far from anything new, really. He took a deep sigh and stared at the ceiling. He could hear the soft rain falling on the stone walls outside his room, but he made no movement to check how much was entering his chambers like he normally would.

His head was killing him, and he could hear his heartbeat banging against his skull. He’d been loathing the night since the day he’d lost his eye.

That had been the fateful day that ruined his entire existence, and also the reason why he was awake in the hour of the wolf, when the entirety of King’s Landing should have been deep asleep.

He had often dreamed about cutting off his scarred skin. Surely, the action would provoke not only the risk of infection and an immense amount of bleeding, but also a wider- and so more irritating- scar on his face.

That was not what he had desired during the open-eyed dreams he’d had about slicing open his face once more, no. What currently appealed him was the tranquility that would come with the first stages of the healing process: no itch, nor irritation.

Just simple, pure pain.

He sighed and swung his legs off the bed. His eye did linger on the butter knife left on his table- it had caught the light coming from the hearth and reflecting onto the blade- but he got up and walked out of his rooms.

He wandered for a brief moment what you were doing. After all, a husband ought to worry for his wife’s whereabouts, whether he was loving or as Aemond was, which included a rather long list of disparaging adjectives- such as: abrupt, sharp-tongued, curt and cold when it came to those brief and definitely insignificant moments in which you two exchanged some words; unapproachable, uncaring and unresponsive when you needed his assistance (which happened only in one occasion, for the lesson was learnt fast); tense, silent and falsely indifferent when it came to your nearness.

Anyway, the thought of you being asleep brought an only slight sense of calmness in Aemond, for he reasoned that half of the couple- if one could call you two such- could find comfort in the confines of a bed in the darkest hours the night had to offer.

What he did not know was that you were far from asleep. Your life at the castle did not include much- quite the opposite, in fact. And you put your foot down so that you would never get used to such a disgraceful thing. You were, after all, the Rogue Prince’s daughter, and nothing in your body was ‘still’.

So, most of your nights were spent awake, walking around the interminable castle until the muscles in your legs hurt from tiredness or reading until your eyelids fell shut on their own.

Usually, the nights’ hours were not passed in the shared chambers you had with Aemond, but you found they had the perfect view of the full moon in that day’s clear night sky- despite the soft rain.

That was the reason you were there, your hands on the wet stone of the window ledge as you looked at the city below you. The rain was wetting part of your nightgown, but that was not your concern.

Rainy days in King’s Landing were not something usual this season, and it reminded you of Dragonstone in a slight way that you redeemed to be enough for comfort.

The chambers were beautiful, despite the obvious memory that surfaced in your mind: the wedding night. It hadn’t made you as excited as you and your sisters had dreamed them to be when you were younger.

You were aware that those hopes were a mere product of the fantasy of young and unaware children that loved to spend their days in the confines of the island, braiding their hair and taking about the dreams of the nights’ passed.

Still, hope hadn’t been a crime for your mind yet. You hated the mixed feelings you had felt that day. You recalled the unusual feeling of anxiety that had set into your gut in the morn and that carried through the hours of the day.

The memories of the ceremony were not many, aside from the grimace on your face that persisted through the wedding, celebrated under the Faith of the Seven and not in the tradition of Old Valyria, which you thought to be the rightful one.

What you remembered vividly, was the night. Hating Aemond Targaryen for what he’d called your cousins through the years of your childhood and early adolescence seemed nothing but rightful. And still…

You remembered his hand on your lower back as he’d walked you to your new shared chambers, and the way his warmth had seeped into the fabric of your dress.

You remembered the way he had not looked at you as you’d taken off the intricate wedding dress and left it on the floor after you’d stepped out of it.

He had put out the candles and told you to lie down on the bedding with a nod of his head before extinguishing the last source of light with a blow.

He had stripped completely before he’d also climbed on the sheets, making the mattress sink under his weight.

You had expected roughness and pain throughout the whole action, for many ladies of the court who had a friendly relationship with the Princess Regent, had told you what to expect would happen to you in the weeks preceding the wedding.

It did not come, that stinging sensation, the sharp feeling of the hardness entering you. He had worked you with his fingers the exact way you did when you were alone, almost making you think he had known your body despite having never seen it.

You had to repress your moans by biting the inside of your cheeks, and you remembered feeling glad that he could not see your face in the darkness that enveloped the chambers under his wish.

He had not kissed your lips once, but he had continued moving his fingers inside you until he had redeemed your cunt wet enough to be fucked.

That was when he had turned you around so you lied on your stomach and had pulled up your hips- the biggest contact he had offered you that night.

He had put a hand on your hip- it had been warm and comforting, despite it being distant at the same time, and it had stayed there for the whole time.

You had not come, for you forced yourself not to. His thrusts were determined: slow and steady at first, and grew faster as he continued taking your purity. But you had not finished, for the pleasure you had felt seemed so unexpected and abnormal you simply could not let your body do so.

But he had, and both of his hands were on your hips when he’d emptied himself inside of you. And then he had stilled, and you had heard his rough breathing and the sweat on his palms as he had slid them down and off your body.

He had walked out after his climax, leaving you on the marital bed, empty, still biting the inside of your cheek to withhold the moan you had let out once the heavy doors had closed behind him.

You remembered getting off the bed and feeling your legs weak. But you had still gone in front of the full length looking glass in the chambers, turned, and looked at your reflection from behind your shoulder. You had seen his seed trailing down the inside of your thighs.

You had touched yourself at the sight, thankful for being alone. You had done so many times after that night, and the mere thought sent a flush to your cheeks.

As you looked outside the window at the city below- still a number of candles burnt, but you could hold the number with your hands- and sighed, the sound of steps coming from outside made your head turn sharply to the dark wooden door.

Out of your deepest surprise, Aemond came in. He froze when he saw you, but made no move to step back, “Wife.” He greeted you, his eye falling from your face and finding an armchair.

“Husband.” you replied, tearing your eyes from what was his obviously tired form. But they found him again when you heard the sound of him sitting down. The way his hand was on his scar, the way his fingers traced it angrily, made your brows furrow. “Are you faring well?” you asked, for the silence was already starting to be uncomfortable.

Still, all he replied to your seemingly harmless question was: “Mh…” You could not resist to tut and turn once again to the sky.

Why did you even think you had the chance to have a normal opportunity for a conversation with him? Gods, you sometimes wished he were a mute, so he would have an excuse to substitute his words with those daft sounds.

You dug your nail into the skin of your finger and tried to contain the urge to walk away. After all, you were there first, and you would be the one who’d stay. What was he doing there, anyway? As far as you were aware, your shared chambers had been empty since that night of two moons ago.

Despite these thoughts, you started musing how lucky you had been to end up with someone like Aemond. He was far from the best husband, and so was clear to everyone, but he was also far from the worst.

He did not talk- even if it sometimes infuriated you; if he had lovers, his relationships were discreet; and, as he was rather far in the line of succession, especially now that Rhaenyra had birthed five children, he did not crave for an heir- testimony was the fact he had considered his duty fulfilled after taking your virginity.

“If I am correct…” His voice made you snap out of your thoughts and you turned around, looking at how his tapered fingers were still pressing onto the scarred tissue. The strain in his voice was obvious as he continued his request, “You have quite the experience with poultices?”

Your eyebrows raised at his words. How in his Seven Hells did he have that information? You may have flaunted yourself about your prowess now and then, but that had happened a long time ago, many years before your wedding.

“Y-yes.” you said, clearing your throat and turning to face him, leaning against the window ledge, “What is the matter?”

You saw how his eye avoided any form of contact, deciding to set on the stone floor instead. “I might need something to… Ease the pain from my scar.” You were extremely sure that Aemond Targaryen’s scar, in that exact moment, hurt him way less than his pride after having asked for help.

You bit the inside of your cheek to contain a grin at the thought. “Alright.” you pushed yourself off the ledge you leaned against and walked towards the door, “Come to the maester’s laboratory.”

He followed without a word, walking behind you and silently letting you know he had no intention of speaking another word for the foreseeable future. You had no intention of saying anything else whatsoever, so the walk to the laboratory was punctuated by the sound of your and Aemond’s boots on the stone floor.

His eye was stuck on your form as you walked in front of him, on your hands joined behind your back. He had not seen you so clearly since that night of two moons ago, for he had since then forced himself to stay as far from you and from the places you visited as was possible for him.

He tried not to let himself be bothered by the fact that you had decided to play his game and not try to initiate a conversation as you would have normally done. But mostly, he tried not to let his eye linger on the hypnotising sway of your hips and of your blood red skirt.

The colour annoyed him. You were supposed to be his wife, but the fabric and embroidery held nothing resembling the ones the women in his family wore, and everything to do with women he was not supposed to care about.

Once you reached the airy chamber, the rain rhythm had picked up, but the sky had begun to shift its colours to those that belonged to Dawn.

The smell of pot marigold began to fill the room once you put the plant into boiling water, and you had to gather the courage to take a small jar from a shelf and walk towards him. You did not know why he’d asked for your help when the highest maesters with the best training in all of Westeros were in King’s Landing to tend to any problem the royal family thought they had.

Also, why would he do it if, when you approached, he eyed the jar and the transparent gel it contained with wariness, his jaw tightening? And why had he said he needed assistance if he squirmed away when you raised your hand to apply the poultice on his cheek.

“Aemond-“ you sighed, but he interrupted you.

“What is that?”

His sharp tone made you bite the inside of your cheek so you did not roll your eyes at him. “Aloe. It could alleviate the irritation if you let me put it on the scar.”

Aemond had the audacity to tut at the words that came out of your mouth, but he complied and turned his head to the side. The small victory that filled your chest was shortly replaced by the need to be wary, for you had to take off his eye-patch.

There had yet to occur an occasion when he’d taken off the leather that covered his eye, and you did not know if your curiosity was strong enough to invade his privacy in such a manner.

But you reasoned it was him that asked your help, despite the truism that he did not crave for the touch that came with it. So, you took an internal deep breath and brought your hand behind his head to grab the strand of the patch and take it off.

He did not move, he seemed to be frozen with the cold of beyond the Wall. You thought his breathing had ceased, but when you saw the twitch of his jaw- which he was shutting so tightly his teeth might have snapped- you released a breath.

He was beautiful, and you had known so for a very long time, but nothing would have prepared you for the sight in front of you: the blue sapphire was bigger than you expected, and it caught the light of the few remaining candles right away, casting an eerie and soft light to his features. If anything, it made him more delightful to the eye, in a frightening way.

You told yourself to stop looking, or he would have definitely left. So you unscrewed the lid of the jar and took some of the gel onto two of your fingers before bringing it to his cheek.

His skin was scorching hot, so much so that you felt it even through the cold substance you were applying to the scar. His violet eye was fixed on the stone wall, not moving and inch, but you saw and felt the tension in his entire body, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was your presence that caused such a reaction or the fact that you were touching his scarred cheek in a manner you had never seen anyone do, not even his mother.

You straightened up and screwed the lid back on the jar, turning swiftly around and walking back towards the marigolds. You closed your eyes shut and took a deep breath- that may have been the hardest thing you’ve ever done, on the same level of claiming your dragon.

He watched you, more insistently than he’d wished to as you strained the marigolds from the boiling water. The fresh sensation the aloe left on his cheek reminded him of your fingers, and that made him need to sink his nails into his palm. Suddenly, he felt the room was not airy enough, and he got up swiftly to walk to one of the tall and narrow windows. Taking a deep breath with his eye closed, he asked with words that came out more curt and strained than he’d intended: “What is it you are making now?”

“The poultice I was talking about.” you said quickly, your voice slightly higher than usual. It made Aemond wonder if he was what had your voice raise in such a way, if that was the effect he had on you, because the effects you had on him was making him bleed from his left palm.

Aemond nodded stiffly, letting out a deep breath and feeling the fresh air of the morning hitting the still not absorbed aloe on his scar. “And how often should I apply it?” he asked, hoping you would not notice the fact he was trying not to breathe the flowery scent anymore, because your skin definitely smelt the same way now, and he seemed unable to drift his mind to any other thought.

“As many times you feel you are in need of it.” you answered, putting the marigolds into a mortar, the action leaving a slight yellow tint on the tip of your fingers.

Why was he looking at you? When had he turned around and let his eye wander to your face? He cursed himself internally, for the only candle that was still burning- the one set on the counter where you were working- was casting a warm light across your features, making them even softer, prettier than they needed to be.

He wanted to put that fucking candle off- that was the reason why he approached, of course. “How will I know when it’s working?” he asked, uttering the most superficial and mindless question he could muster. But he forgot about it when he noticed your fingers stilling momentarily at his nearness, and when they started smashing the marigolds again, your movements were not as precise any longer, but more erratic.

You answered the obvious, “If your scar does not pain you as much…” but the softness of your voice almost made Aemond grin. He restrained himself, however, as he halted his steps and stood right behind you.

You felt the heat of his body seeping into you, and you felt foolish for the feeling your mind mastered up, because he was not touching you. “So,” he said, the leather covering his arms cracking when he crossed them in front of his broad chest, “can I come to you each time I feel pain, wife?” His tone was challenging, mocking even, but you heard the slightest bit of hope for you to accept that involuntarily slipped out of his mouth. "What if it's in the middle of the night?" he continued, stepping closer still, making his forearm brush against the middle of your back. "Will you rise from your bed and tend to your husband?"

You sighed and turned around so you were facing him. He was closer than expected, but you tried not to let the things his nearness provoked from showing on your face, despite the breath that caught in your throat. “If you so need it, husband, I will.”

You clearly saw his pupil dilate as you turned and looked up at him, making the purple of his iris almost disappear completely as it got swallowed by the purest black. The sapphire did not have any available source of light to catch, but Aemond was handsome nonetheless. You were completely aware of the blush on your fair skin, showing bluntly to his hungry gaze, but you told yourself that he was most obviously also affected by the closeness of your bodies.

“Good,” he said, almost spat. But then his hand raised and tucked a strand of hair that was left out of your tresses behind your ear. His hand lingered purposely, letting you feel the scorching heat of his fingertips as he trailed them down to your jaw. “I would hate to suffer needlessly.” You saw his eye drop to your lips.

The only occasion in which your lips had met had been the wedding ceremony, and the contact had been brief, chaste. The sudden memory made you wonder what he would taste like. You were aware that he drank green tea most morns and every evening, so that was certainly an option.

Aemond's thumb brushed your cheekbone gently, ghostly, tracing a path down to your neck, stopping just short of your mouth. He could feel the rapid beat of your heart pounding against his fingertips. "Perhaps you can apply it yourself tonight...wife." He whispered, his breath burning pleasantly against the soft skin of your cheek.

The words you spoke next made you doubt all the hatred you had felt all these years towards the man that was now in front of you, asking you to service him and making the undergarments covering your most intimate part wet. “If you wish me to.”

He stepped back, releasing you from his hold, but the heat between you remained palpable. “Yes,” he replied, his voice husky with barely contained desire. "I think I'll enjoy that."

Despite the need you now felt for his touch, you were extremely grateful when his hand fell from your face and he walked out of the maester’s laboratory, leaving you with the poultice you were making for him.

You had never felt like this, what was getting to you? Pleasing a man in such a way? Yield to his desires without hesitation? And he was not any man: he was the one who had married you against your will and fucked you from behind before leaving you alone for interminable days. And he was now deciding you worth of his attention?

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, and opened them again as you released it. You took the mortar back into your hands and continued on with the poultice, forcing yourself to forget who it was for.

Aemond arrived at your shared chambers with fast steps and faster breath. He needed to get a grip of whatever it was he was feeling and stop acting as if he actually desired you. It was an ignoble thought, the one he’d had back in the maester’s laboratory with you. Fucking without the sole intent of procreation was a sin, and he would not inflict such a stain upon himself for someone he had not cared to know for the two decades of his life.

Still, he poured two goblets of Dornish Red and did not touch his until you came back with the poultice in hand.

His eye fixed on you until you stood in front of him, and then he gave you one of the goblets. “Thank you.” you replied as you took it, brushing your fingers against his in the motion. His skin was still hot, but not as much as before. Your eyes stayed in his as you both drank the fresh liquid quickly.

Then, letting out a breath, you unscrewed the lid containing the marigold poultice and took some on your index and middle finger, bending over towards him. He tilted his head to the side, leaving you the space you needed right before your fingers came in contact with his cheek.

His nails dug once again into his palm at your nearness, and also because he had been right: you now smelled of flowers, and he loathed how perfectly it suited you.

Even as his nails stabbing his skin did something to distract him from your perfume, his thoughts were far from calm. He couldn't ignore the way his pulse quickened whenever you touched him, or the way his cock stirred in his breeches at the mere sound of your breath, which was also not the one of a tranquil individual.

“I am done.” you said with haste, straightening up and screwing the lid back on the jar and leaving it on the table, near his goblet. His eye moved to you, taking in your flustered expression and the pink colouring of your cheeks.

Silence stretched between you two as he sat on the chair and looked up to you as you stood in front of him. You did not know whether you wished to run away from him or sit on his lap and grind yourself on him until you shivered with pleasure.

He answered the question for you when he said, “You may leave now.”

You did stand there for a moment after those words exited his mouth, looking at him as his hand fished the eyepatch from his pocket and put it back to cover his sapphire eye. You pressed your lips together with strength to remind yourself what was happening, and you turned and left.

❀❀

What had been tormenting Aemond Targaryen the most, was that he was reminded of you each time he applied the poultice to his scar. He had tried to stop, but it had become almost a drug, both because it made him stop wanting to cut his face and because he smelled you each time. It made it way easier to fuck his hand thinking of you.

A month had passed since the time he’d last spoken to you, and the contents of the jar you had given him were completely gone. It was a perfect lubricant, and it also did something for his scar, which could have been a double win for you, if he’d told you.

It was the perfect occasion to seek you out again without seeming to have interest. He had used every remaining bit so as to show you he had waited as much as possible before coming to ask for help.

He squeezed the glass in his hand as he knocked at the doors of your private chambers, and when your sweet and calm voice told him to come in, he pushed them open. You were sitting in front of your vanity looking glass, braiding your hair simply as you prepared for going to sleep.

“Wife,” he greeted you, relishing in your surprised gaze that met his in the reflection of the glass. He showed you the empty jar, “I find myself in need of your services once again.”

Your brows furrowed, and he was aware that the amount of time in which the poultice had finished must have seemed incredibly short in relation to the quantity of the product. Fortunately, you stood from your chair and relaxed your eyebrows again, approaching him and taking the jar from his hand. His hands were scorching hot once again.

“Do you wish to wait for me here while I make it?” you asked, purposefully ignoring the way his eye was burning holes into your scalp, seeking for visual contact.

“I will come with you.”

As you walked, Aemond’s eye remained fixed on the tantalising way the skirt of your gown moved, and Gods forbid the thoughts that surged into his mind while you climbed the stairs before him.

It could be easy for him to bring you into his bed and satisfy his desire, but he had a completely developed need to strain himself until he could not take it any longer. It made whatever it took far sweeter, and you would have been the most palatable thing he will sink his teeth into. Because he will sink them.

Once you reached the maester’s laboratory again, Aemond sat down on a wooden chair, crossing his ankle over his leg and looking at you while you worked. You did not glance once at him, and you were proud of that as you boiled the marigolds into the water again. That was until he spoke.

“Do you have a lover, Princess?”

That made you turn sharply around, almost touching the pot. You blocked your hand against your stomach, “I beg your pardon?”

"I merely asked if there was another man who had the privilege of warming your bed on these cold nights." His tone remained even, but there was a tightness to it that he couldn't quite mask.” he cleared himself, before standing from the chair and walking towards you with his usual slow and measured steps. “There is nothing wrong with the notion.”

Your mouth fell open at his words, and you weren’t able to answer his question but with a small shake of your head. The notion made you feel slightly out of place. You had always thought Aemond had other women, but the question he asked almost assured you he did, and it made you feel betrayed in some way, because you did not have anyone else. Or, well, anyone at all, because you did not have Aemond.

“Hmm.” was his answer, before his eye moved from you to the pot behind you, “I believe the marigolds are ready.”

You cleared your throat and turned back around to continue with your poultice, draining the flowers and moving them to the mortar to smash them. The scent filled the room again, and you closed your eyes, repeating the motion mechanically and hoping he’d turn away and go sit back on that fucking chair.

❀❀

Three weeks later, Aemond Targaryen was once again at your door, demanding more of that poultice. You wanted to ask him how in the Seven Hells had he been able to finish such an amount of product in twenty one days, but you contained yourself and sighed, walking out of your room and towards the maester’s laboratory without a word, knowing he would follow.

Your strides were faster, and you held your skirt up so as not to trip on the fabric. You wanted to get this done as quickly as possible, so you ripped the stem off the marigold petals as the water boiled, throwing them into the pot before leaning against the countertop.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, knowing Aemond was watching you intently. Fortunately, your hair was down that day, and it covered your face completely.

It was when a soft breath hit your bare arm that you opened them again, and, tilting your head, silver strands came into view before a black leather eyepatch.

“You smell just like them.”

You tucked your hair behind your ear, so as to be able to look at his face without obstacles. “Is it a bad thing?” you asked in a small voice, and despite wanting not to care about his thoughts for he most certainly did not know you, you cared about his answer.

"No," Aemond replied softly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting moment. His hand twitched ever so slightly, as if he wanted to reach out and brush a loose strand of hair away from your face. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, maintaining his usual poised demeanour. He had learned long ago to hide his true desires beneath layers of stoic indifference. "Quite the contrary," he added, his voice low and husky. "It's... comforting."

You pressed your lips together and turned your head back towards the marigolds- it was time to drain them, not time to blush for the childish words that came out of the mouth of Aemond Targaryen.

Still, how did he do that? How could he always make you feel so small and incompetent with a mere stare. As you transferred the flowers into the mortar and began to smash them, you started thinking of any way, any question that could make him as uncomfortable as he’d made you.

“Do you have a lover?”

You saw him straightening up after the words left your mouth, and you realised you had hit the spot. His hands joined in front of his lap, and he stared down at you as you continued to smash the marigolds- your position made him seem even taller than he already was. “That is hardly any of your concern, wife.” he answered coolly, turning his gaze back to the crushed flowers.

Your movements halted, and you looked up at him, an unbelieving smile on your lips, “Why are you free to ask such questions, yet when I do so you are not willing to answer?”

His eye betrayed nothing of what he felt, except for the distaste he seemed to reserve to you when you talked to him. “You chose to answer, however pathetically.”

The smile, false as it was, faded from your lips. You preferred the version of him that asked you uncomfortable questions and stared at your every move, no doubt. This version made you want to slap him across the face.

And that’s exactly why you did it. He did not move much at the impact- he almost did not move at all- but you hoped it stung as much as it did in your hand. “Then ask a fucking maester for this daft poultice and leave me be.” you spat, grabbing your skirts and walking out of the chambers.

❀❀

You had never loathed and yearned someone in such a way.

The mere sight of his walk, so rhythmic and precise, made the hairs on your arm stick up, and the sound of his steps had your ears inevitably tense up, and they made you hope that he was walking to come to you, to make you go mental again. But he never did.

Even if you heard his steps outside your chambers at night, stilling in front of the door, even if he stared at you across the table during dinner, even if you found him occupying spaces he never used to be in, he did not speak a word to you. It made you incredibly frustrated, and the desire to slap his face again made itself palpable.

It was another full moon, however, and, having lost the last one for Aemond Targaryen, you decided you were not going to cower again. You made your way to your shared chambers despite you wished not to stand in the same room as him and pushed the doors open after taking a deep breath.

You found him there, but you were not going to give him the satisfaction of having a reaction to his presence. “Husband.” you greeted him with a curt nod, your eyes not truly meeting his as you walked to the window. You lent your hands against the window ledge and looked at the source of pale light coming from the night sky.

When he did not greet you, you felt a sense of pride, for that made him a childish man, a pathetic one. Although the urge to speak to him, to ask him if the poultice the maester made was working, to ask him if he could not sleep, was strong, stronger was the need to hate him. So you bit your tongue and stared out the window.

He crossed the room slowly, his boots echoing against the stone floor, making the hair on your neck stand up. However, you did not turn around. "I see you've finally decided to grace me with your presence." He spoke, his voice dripping with disdain. "Mind telling me what's so bloody important about that window?" his sharp voice cut through what could have been a pleasant ten minutes.

“Tonight is a full moon.” you answered, not taking your eyes away from the sky, although you swallowed heavily. “And I was not trying to avoid you, merely going about my day.”

He let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "So, you're here because of the moon, not for me?" His tone was laced with bitterness. Aemond stepped closer, standing just behind you, his warm breath brushing against your neck.

He placed his hand on the window ledge next to yours, his fingers so near yours you could feel the heat emanating from them. You took your hand away, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Bold of you to imply that I am here for you.” you said, feeling both repulsion and a strong arousal at his nearness.

“I imply nothing.” Aemond replied curtly, but his next words dripped with challenge: “These are the chambers in which we are supposed to share a bed. If you are not here for me, I do not see why you should be here at all.”

You turned to face him slowly after his words, your eyes going from his chest covered in dark green fabric to his face. “I will leave, then.” you announced.

Before you could do any move- which you were not going to, for those words were only spoken to make him react- his hand came up and grabbed your wrist. His hold was strong, but it did not aim to hurt. "No," he growled. "We are wed. You will stay." A flash of anger ignited in his good eye as he held your gaze. "If you're so determined to ignore me during the day, fine. But nights are mine." The words were spoken with a low, menacing undertone that left little room for argument. He didn't release his hold on your arm, waiting for your reaction.

But you did not give him the satisfaction, for you turned back around and faced the window, not uttering a word back to him. His grip tightened momentarily, making you feel how boiling his skin was, before he released you.

You heard the sound of his boots, and you turned around despite yourself, thinking for a moment that he was going to walk away. But he filled two goblets with red wine and brought one back to you.

“Am I to consider this a symbol of truce? Or the apology you cannot utter?” you asked him, taking the cold metal in your hand and bringing it up to have a sip.

“Consider it what you will.” he said, his tone still harsh as he did the same thing, but his eye moved to your lips, watching as the liquid slightly tinted the inner skin of your lips of a dark red.

You sighed and turned back around, keeping the goblet near your chest as you looked at the night sky with way less interest than you had when you had come in. You heard him putting the goblet on the windowsill, before he exhaled an intentionally deep breath, hitting your skin and making goosebumps rise.

He looked at the moon too, for some moments, and you wondered what he was thinking about. Then, out of the blue, he took a step forward, making his chest touch your back, and he wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing his palm flat on your stomach. “I did not realise the moon was so much more captivating than I, Princess.” he murmured in your ear, standing so close your perfume filled his nostrils.

“I will continue to pretend it is.” you answered after hoping your voice would not come out broken.

You heard the brief chuckle he let out against your neck as he leaned in closer. “Is all this because I did not answer your question the past moon? Or for the words I spoke?” he asked, his hand moving left until it rested on your hip, “I will admit it might have been a slight overreaction.”

You let out a scoff at his words, taking a big swig of wine to try and forget about his hand on you. “At least you acknowledge it.”

When his hand moved to your arse, squeezing it softly with his warm hand, you thought yourself about to drop the goblet. You were glad when he took it from you with his free hand, that touched yours extremely more than necessary, and finished the few remaining drops before settling it down the windowsill beside his. “I also said you smelled of marigolds, did I not? I said I found it comforting.”

“You did.” you said with what was your remaining voice, before stating more confidence, “You brought me the wine as an apology.”

“I did.” he blurted out, his hand stilling for a moment before it went back to your hip, as did the other one. “I am sorry.” he confessed then, making you feel far from pathetic after having Aemond Targaryen apologise with no hint of sarcasm in his voice.

But when he squeezed your hips, brought you back to reality and pressed his erection to your back, he made you suddenly realise what was happening. His breath ghosted on your neck before the tip of his nose brushed your jawline. “Does my apology satisfy you, wife?” he asked in a husky whisper as his hands roamed your waist.

The warmth of his body seeped into yours and into the fabrics you were wearing. You imagined he felt the same fires stocking his insides when he breathed out as if oxygen was just given back to him. He brought you closer still, massaging his cock with the curve of your arse, as if the mere contact was enough to fulfill his burning desire.

You leaned over the windowsill and rested on your elbows, arching your back nonchalantly and looking at him from behind your shoulder. “I believe it appropriate.”

At your actions, his mouth fell agape, and he looked down at your arse, pressed against his lap in such a tantalising manner he seemed about to rip the fabric off in one tug, letting this game you played cease. His hand moved to caress your back, and it returned to your hip when his eye found yours once again.

He pressed himself harder into you, as if to be sure you felt the extent of his hardness, the full lenght of his desire. “Do you wish for me to show you just how sincere my apology can be?”

You bit your lip, looking at his strong hand covering your hip and wrinkling the soft fabric of your nightgown, and nodded.

Aemond let out a deep breath at your consent, and he bent over you slowly, eyes closed, as he massaged your hips roughly. “Shall we move to our bed, then?” he asked, using the possessive adjective purposefully.

It made you grin, and you straightened up as he did the same, before facing him. With a hand on the side of his neck, your nails grazing the contour of his jaw, you led him to the bed, before pushing him to sit on the softness.

You reached behind your back, and undid the bow that kept your nightgown tight. He spoke when your hands moved to the button at the back of the collar, “Can I be of any-“

“No.” you interrupted him, looking at how his violet eye darkened at your firm answer. You let the light fabric glide down your shoulders before you bared your chest to his view, and then your stomach, and your legs.

You took a step forward, completely naked before him. He breathed out again, raising a hand and placing it on your hip, almost testing if you were really not just a product of his fantasies. “Devine.” he said in a whisper, genuine and unfiltered, as he ate you with his eye as much as he could, taking in everything possible in the dim light of the full moon.

Your hand found his shoulder once again as you climbed on top of him, the softness of your thighs against his sides. Your hair concealed both your faces from whatever else was in the room, and you took off his eyepatch right before it fell discarded on the stone floor.

It was obvious the slight discomfort he felt, but he did not let it linger, for his tapered fingers trailed down your waist to your thigh and felt every dip and curve in its way. “May I touch you?” he asked, the purple in his iris completely replaced by the black of his pupil as he stared up at you, his thumb tracing the edge of your pussy.

One of your hands left his shoulder to find his between your thighs, and you guided two of his fingers to your entrance, letting out a breath as he began exploring your wet folds.

Aemond’s mouth parted at the feeling of your slick cunt, testament of your desire for him, and slowly pushed inside, relishing in the tightness around his fingers. He started moving slowly, curling his fingers before sliding out of you completely and filling you up once again.

You started to grind your hips against his hand, coating his milky skin with your arousal as you threw your head back and moaned. The sound made the grip of his hand on your hip tightened so much you were sure it would have left a bruise, but you did not stop him.

Your nails scratched at the base of his neck, giving him the signal to pick up speed. His fingers moved faster, making you cry out as he leaned forward and started tasting the skin of your neck like a man starved, nipping and kissing, licking and biting.

Another moan escaped your mouth, and his fingers went even faster, fucking your tight cunt until, added to the sound of your moans and his rugged breathing, there also was that of the wetness inside of you.

Heat flushed through Aemond as you moaned on top of him, the sound alone enough to make his cock swell with anticipation. He was mesmerized by the way you responded to his touch, each gasp, each little movement driving him madder with desire. He thought he might just release himself simply from watching you ride his hand, but he fought it back. He wanted more, so much more, and he wouldn't let his own pleasure interrupt this moment. The feel of your cunt clenching around his digits, your body writhing with ecstasy, was worth far more than the temporary relief of orgasm.

In a swift move, he picked you up and stood upright, keeping his fingers inside your cunt even as he laid you on the bed. He moved on top, one of his legs between yours, and he slipped his fingers out of you.

At the missing contact you whined, bringing him closer with a hand on the side of his neck. He let out a satisfied smile and leaned into your ear, “Patience.”

His lips found yours hungrily, then, making you taste the wine you had just consumed and the fire that burned on his tongue, while his hand still cupped your sex possessively. You moaned against his hot mouth, rolling your hips to tell him you wanted more.

He grinned and broke the kiss, and before you knew, his hands were gripping your thighs, sinking into the soft skin, and his mouth hovered over your dripping pussy.

You wanted to ask him what he intended to do, but it became quite clear when he replaced his fingers with his tongue, savouring every last drop of your juices, ready to bring you to the brink of pleasure.

You moaned loudly, finding his hair right away and pulling the silver and silky locks to urge him closer to your dripping heart. Your feet lied on his back as you closed your eyes, a sensation immensely stronger than the one you felt alone started to be felt in your lower stomach.

Aemond's breath was ragged, his lust evident in every touch, every kiss, every stroke of his tongue against your sensitive flesh. As he teased your clit, his one good eye focused intently on your face, drinking in the sight of your pleasure.

Your taste was intoxicating, your cries music to his ears. He craved this, this raw display of passion and trust, and he intended to make the most of it. He slid his tongue inside of you, thrusting in and out before returning to your clit and replacing it with his fingers, relishing the way your muscles contracted around them.

He felt your body tense, your breathing quicken, and he knew you were close. He increased his efforts, determined to make you scream his name- or whatever title you chose to give him in that moment- to the heavens.

You came undone, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Aemond continued to lick and suckle at your clit until the last tremor subsided, only then crawling up your body to claim your mouth in a possessive kiss, sharing your taste with you.

Your vision returned when his lips collided with yours, finding entrance to your mouth right away and caressing your tongue with his. You moaned into his mouth, willing your legs to stop shaking after your orgasm.

He broke the kiss, and brought his hand to his lips, tasting you on the fingers he’d used to bring you the best pleasure you had ever felt. He looked down at you as he did so, shifting position so as to remind you of his hard cock pressing against your thigh.

“Strip.” you breathed out in what sounded much like a plea to your ears, but the frantic motions in which he did what you said made you understand how desperate he was to stretch you out.

He quickly revealed his toned and flawless chest to your eyes, before taking off his trousers with equal haste. Stepping out of them, he locked his eye with yours as he slid off his breacheas. He took his hard cock in his hand, pumping it slowly as he positioned himself on the bed once again, the pressure of him on his knees making the mattress sink.

Precum leaked from his head, and you remembered how it felt to have his seed inside of you after your wedding night. He gripped your knee, spreading your legs apart guiding his cock over your still trembling pussy.

His breathing was extremely laboured as he looked down, “I do not have a lover.”

The confession made your eyes shoot up to his, wide and attentive for what he was about to say, but no other words of the matter came out of his mouth. “You… You do not?” you breathed out, needy for another reassurance.

His eye went to you, and he shook his head. Then he licked his lips and leaned down to your ear. He left a ghost of a kiss on your cheekbone, making the skin tingle, before moving to your ear. “No, sweet wife… But, if you must know, I have fucked my hand countless of times thinking of this perfect cunt of yours… And of your smell, most of all.” he whispered huskily, his hand coming to rest on your hip, squeezing the flesh.

He left you wordless and with ragged breathing as he straightened up. His hand found his hard shaft again, and he slapped it against your pussy, coating your clit with his precum and making you squirm for the touch on the still sensitive part.

He watched your reaction with dark intensity, a hint of satisfaction flashing across his features at your responsiveness. His thumb stroked the bundle of nerves lazily, even if completely aware, while his cock teased your entrance. He knew you were ready, yet he took his time, prolonging the torture for both of you. "Do you want me?" He asked, his voice low and gravelly.

“Yes!” you almost yelled, making his lips curve into a predatory smirk. With a triumphant grin, Aemond positioned himself at your entrance, feeling the wetness and warmth that awaited him. His hand left your hip, gripping your breast instead, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, teasing you even further.

When his hand moved back to your hip, but he made no sign of moving, you rolled your eyes, “Aem-” but you could not finish saying his name that he thrust into you with a ferocity that was just short of violent, and a groan escaped him at the sensation.

Despite the loss of gentleness that he offered to you as he took you for the second time, you could not deny that was exactly how you wanted him to fuck you. Your moan reverberated loudly through the walls of your shared chambers as he pounded into you with a ferocity that made your walls clamp down on his length.

His hips snapped forward with unrelenting force, burying his length deep within you, eliciting another loud moan. The sight of you writhing beneath him was enough to make him lose control, but he fought to keep himself in check.

He savoured the feel of your body tightening around him, the way your breasts bounced with each thrust, and the soft whimpers that fell from your lips. Aemond couldn't help the thought crossing his mind: she was his now. His to claim whenever he wanted, his to protect, and his to pleasure. It filled him with an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction that bordered on possessiveness. "Fuck," he growled, the sight of his cock disappearing into your depths driving him closer to the edge.

He pulled out abruptly, causing you to gasp in surprise and protest. He hooked both hands under your knees and spread you out to him. “Was I blind to wait this long to take you again?” he asked almost to himself as he drank the sight of you, glistening and trembling for his attention.

With one swift movement, he entered you again, making you feel another orgasm approach. You sunk your head on the pillows, your mouth opened as he started thrusting again, moans of pure bliss and satisfaction coming out of his mouth.

One of his hands moved to find your soft thigh, “I want you to look, wife.” he said almost pleadingly. “I want you to look as I claim you again, as my seed fills your beautiful cunt.”

You bit your lip hard but looked down at his cock as he moved fast, making you take it inside, which you did greedily. It all made your walls tighten around his length even more than before, making him grunt out a moan.

“Gods,” he whispered gravelly, furrowing his brows in pleasure but still maintaining his gaze on where your bodies joined, “It’s so fucking perfect.”

He slammed into you even harder then, but his erratic thrusts made you understand he was about to finish. “Fuck…” he grunted again, and he leaned over your leg, bending it and letting his cock deeper inside you.

Your hand found his neck, bringing him closer while applying pressure to it as your cunt spasmed around him. You closed your eyes shut in pleasure, but the iron grip on your thigh reminded you to look as he had ordered.

So you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip, feeling your throat going raw at the contained screams of pleasure while you came around him. Your grip on his throat loosened drastically, for your strength was now completely drained out of you, but then he buried himself inside your cunt to the hilt, sliding out to do it again, all accompanied by his moans into your ear as he emptied himself inside of you.

You saw the arm that he was holding upon to give up, and, spent, he lay on top of your chest, his skin glistening in the candlelight due to the sheer layer of sweat on it.

Your hand found his hair, pushing the silver strand away from his face. He sighed heavily in a weak attempt to regain his breath, and rested a hand on your ribcage, letting his thumb trace circles on the skin. “We will continue once we have rested a moment.” he announced, making you breathe out a laugh and raise your eyebrows.

“Aemond,” you said with a lingering smile, your free hand finding his back and tracing the same circles he was on you. “It has yet to pass a minute.”

“I am fully aware,” he replied, moving to rest his chin on your sternum so he could look up at you. “We have been married for five moons now, and this is the second time I have you… I need more.” he said, his eye serious as he bent to leave a kiss on your skin.

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natsaffection · 1 month ago

Note

You're last post got me thinking....what would happen if somehow someway another vampire got to Reader and turned her. I know Nat watches her obsessively but like shit happens. Like what would Nats reaction to something like that happening be?

You’re still mine. | N.R

Vampire!older!Natasha x Human!younger!Reader

Warnings: kidnapping and forced turning

Word count: 2,5k

The sound of your ragged breathing filled the dark room, broken only by the rattling of chains and the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps echoing against the cold stone.

Natasha was fighting against the restraints that bound her, the scent of burnt flesh thick in the air as the silver seared her wrists. But she didn’t care. She didn’t feel it.

Because you were in his hands. And she was helpless. He took his time. He savored moments like these..the ones where he got to watch Natasha suffer. And tonight? Tonight, he was going to destroy her.

His lips curled into a smirk as he lowered his head, his breath ghosting along your throat, making you shudder violently in his grasp. “Poor little thing.” he murmured, his fingers tightening around your waist, keeping you pinned against him. “You’re shaking. Tell me, is it fear? Or is it knowing what’s about to happen?”

A sharp sob escaped your lips, your entire body trembling against his hold. Your nails dug into his arms, desperate, panicked, pleading. Natasha snapped against the chains. “Stop!!” she snarled, her voice breaking. “Victor, let her go, she has nothing to do with this!”

Victor hummed, pretending to consider her words, before he let his fangs graze your skin, just enough for you to feel the sharpness. You whimpered, your hands gripping him tighter, your body trying to curl away, trying to disappear.

Natasha lost it. “VICTOR!” she screamed, her body thrashing against the restraints, her face twisting in desperation. “Fuck, please!” The plea left her lips before she could stop it, her voice hoarse with something that was almost a sob.

Victor grinned. “Did you hear that, little one?” he mused, his voice dripping with amusement. “She’s begging. The great Natasha Romanoff is begging for you.” Your breathing hitched, your chest rising and falling too fast, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You could feel his fangs hovering just above your pulse. You could feel death breathing down your neck. You sobbed, gripping onto Victor even tighter, nails raking against his skin in raw, primal terror.

Natasha’s stomach twisted violently. “Malyshka (Baby), look at me..” she whispered, her voice cracking. You were shaking too much. Your body was too rigid, your fear suffocating you.

Natasha’s heart shattered. “Y/n..” Your wide, terrified eyes met hers. And Natasha, despite everything, forced a soft, broken smile. “Breathe. I’ve got you. Just keep looking at me.”

Your hands trembled violently, your grip on Victor never loosening, not because you wanted to hold him, but because your body was begging for something, anything to cling to.

Natasha felt like she was dying. Victor chuckled, his fangs trailing lightly along your skin, feeling your pulse beneath them.

“She’s holding onto me like I’m the one protecting her.” he mused mockingly, his lips brushing over your throat. Natasha saw red. “You sick son of a bitch-”

“Careful..” Victor murmured, his fingers tilting your head just slightly. “You don’t want me to lose control, do you?” Natasha clenched her teeth, forcing her expression to soften for you, despite the rage burning inside her.

“Moya lyubov (My love)..” she whispered, voice so soft it cracked. “I need you to focus on me. Just me. Not him, not what he’s doing. Just keep your eyes on mine, okay?”

Your gaze locked onto hers like it was the only thing keeping you alive. And maybe it was. “I’m scared..” you whimpered, voice barely audible. Natasha exhaled sharply, her throat burning. “I know. But you’re not alone. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”

Victor let out an exaggerated sigh. “How sweet.” Then, his fangs pressed in. You let out a strangled gasp, your body stiffening as the sharp points broke the skin but didn’t bite. Just enough to make you feel it. Just enough to send your body into a state of pure terror. Your nails sank into his arms, hard enough to break the skin. Natasha sobbed.

“You don’t have to do this..” she whispered, begged. Victor grinned. “Oh, but I do. You’ve kept her human for too long, Natasha. You’ve been selfish. And now? Now, you’ll watch as she becomes one of us.”

“NO-” Then, he bit. Your scream ripped through the room. Natasha howled, her body shaking, her wrists bleeding from how hard she was pulling against the chains.

“Y/N!” Your entire body arched in agony, your pulse slamming against Victor’s lips, your hands clutching onto him like he was your last anchor in a storm.

Natasha’s entire world shattered. Your breathing turned ragged, your limbs trembling violently, your blood pouring into Victor’s mouth. And Natasha felt it.

She felt the moment your heartbeat changed. The moment your body stopped being yours. Her vision blurred, the sound of her own screams echoing around her, her rage, her grief, her entire soul breaking into something unrecognizable.

“No, no, no-” she choked out, shaking her head, her body collapsing under the weight of everything. Victor exhaled sharply, dropping you to the ground, your limp body hitting the cold floor with a soft thud.

Natasha’s arms dropped, the silver finally giving way under her relentless struggle, but she didn’t care. She was already too late.

She crawled toward you, her hands shaking as she reached for your face, cradling you against her. “Open your eyes..” You twitched in her arms. A faint, broken breath left your lips. Your veins darkened.

Natasha choked on a sob, pressing desperate kisses to your forehead, her fingers trembling as they brushed through your hair. “I should have turned you myself..” she whispered, voice barely there.

Victor smiled, satisfied. “And that, Natasha, is exactly why I did it first.” Natasha didn’t even register the moment she killed him. She didn’t feel her hands tear into him, didn’t process the screams, the blood, the vengeance that overtook her.

Because none of it mattered. None of it would ever bring you back. And when your eyes finally opened, something in Natasha died. Because they weren’t yours anymore. They weren’t hers. And that? That was something she would never forgive.

“I’m here, lyubov’. I’m not leaving.”

“I should’ve protected you. I should’ve done more.”

The only sound in the room was the faint, ragged breaths slipping past your lips. You weren’t asleep. You weren’t awake. You were something else—something caught between death and rebirth, trapped in the hunger of your new existence.

And Natasha hated it. She had never wanted this for you. Never wanted you to be like her. She had spent years protecting you from this curse, from this hunger, from the eternal darkness that had consumed her soul.

But Victor had taken that choice from you. And now, she was left with the aftermath. Her hands clenched into fists, her rage simmering beneath the surface like an inferno ready to consume. Victor was dead, but that wasn’t enough.

Because his actions still lived on. Inside you. A sharp inhale pulled Natasha from her thoughts. She froze, her grip tightening around you as your body stirred for the first time since your turning.

You twitched, your breathing shallow, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. Natasha’s heart clenched. “I’m here-” Then, your eyes snapped open.And Natasha stilled. It wasn’t you. Not really.

Your irises were still the color she had memorized, but now? Now, they were darker. Your pupils were too wide, your gaze too sharp, your body too tense as your senses flooded with the overwhelming hunger.

Natasha knew the signs. You were starving. And you had never felt anything like it before. Your hands shot out, clutching at your chest, at your throat, at anything to make the burning stop. “N-Natasha-” your voice cracked, raw, breathless, desperate. “I’m here, just breathe-”

“It hurts!” You gasped, curling in on yourself, your hands trembling violently. The hunger clawed at your insides, tearing through you like fire, like nothing you had ever known.

“Make it stop!” you sobbed, your fingers digging into your own skin. Natasha grabbed your wrists before you could scratch yourself raw. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you, I know, I know it hurts-”

Your breath came in sharp gasps, your entire body shaking as you clung to her like a lifeline. “What’s happening to me?” Natasha swallowed thickly. She didn’t want to tell you. She didn’t want you to know.

But the truth was already there, settling in your bones, seeping into your mind like a toxin. You weren’t human anymore. And Natasha could see it in your eyes..the growing fear, the way your body recognized its own monstrosity.

“I don’t-” Your voice broke. “I don’t feel like myself.” Natasha’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your head up, forcing your gaze onto hers. “You are still you.” she whispered, her voice thick with something desperate, something aching.

Your lips trembled. “Then why do I feel like I’m dying?” Natasha inhaled sharply, her grip tightening. Because in a way, you had.

And the thing left behind was no longer the same. A quiet, broken sob slipped past your lips as you buried your face against her shoulder. “I don’t want to be this!” you whispered, pleaded. “I don’t want to be a..monster..”

Natasha’s arms wrapped around you so tight she thought she might break you all over again. “You’re not a monster.” she said, but even she wasn’t sure if it was true.

“You’re still mine.” You sniffled, your fingers clutching at her clothes like she was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. I’m scared..” Natasha shut her eyes, pressing her forehead to yours. “I know..” she whispered. “But I won’t let this break you.”

She exhaled sharply, her thumb grazing over your lips, her gaze flickering to the sharp tips of your fangs now fully bared. “I won’t let you go hungry either.”

Your body stiffened. Fuck, the hunger roared inside you. Natasha felt the shift before you did—the way your pupils dilated, the way your lips parted slightly, the way your entire posture changed as the need for blood overtook everything else.

You needed to feed. And Natasha was the only one you trusted to give it to you. She inhaled deeply, her hands sliding to the back of your neck, holding you steady.

“Drink from me.”

You froze. Your body trembled against hers, the sharp inhale of breath making Natasha’s stomach twist. Because she could feel your hunger. It was clawing at you, screaming at you to take what you needed. And Natasha Natasha wanted you to.

She needed to be the first blood you ever tasted. She needed to be the one to give you this..to guide you, to make sure you never craved anyone else the way you craved her. “I don’t-I don’t want to hurt you-”

“You won’t.” Her fingers tilted your chin, her lips ghosting over yours before she turned her head, exposing her throat to you in a silent offering.

“Take it.” she whispered. “Make yourself mine all over again.” Your body shuddered. Your lips brushed against her pulse. And then..Then you bit and Natasha sighed in relief. Because even if Victor had stolen your humanity-

Natasha’s entire body lurched forward as she gasped for air that she didn’t need. Her hands clenched the sheets beneath her, gripping them so tightly her nails nearly tore through the fabric. Her entire being felt like it had been ripped apart, like she had died a thousand times over in a single breath.

Her lungs burned, even though she knew they didn’t need to. Her mind spun violently, disoriented, lost. The scent of blood still clung to her senses, the echoes of your scream still piercing through her skull.

Her heart pounded in a way it never did anymore. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She didn’t recognize the dim glow of the bedroom, the soft sheets beneath her body, the familiar warmth beside her. Everything still felt wrong, like she was still trapped in that dark, suffocating nightmare.

Victor’s laugh still rang in her ears. She could still see your body, the way you clung to him in fear, the way your eyes begged her to stop what was happening. She could still feel the moment your heartbeat faded into nothing, the way your body stilled in her arms, the moment you were no longer you.

And then she saw you. Her stomach twisted violently. You were beside her, curled up in the sheets, your breathing slow and steady, your body warm and untouched. Your face was soft in the dim light, your lips slightly parted in deep sleep, your hair falling messily over the pillow.

She turned, her movements frantic, her mind still too lost in the nightmare to believe she was free of it. You were here. You were alive. You were still hers. A choked breath left Natasha’s lips. Her fingers twitched, hesitating before she reached out, afraid, so afraid that if she touched you, you would disappear. That this was just another illusion, another cruel trick of the mind.

But then her fingers brushed against your skin. Warm. Soft. Real. Her breath shuddered, her chest tightening with something so raw, so unbearable that she thought she might collapse under it. Her other hand came up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing over your skin, just to make sure.

She had never felt relief like this before. Her hands trembled as she traced the line of your jaw, her touch featherlight, careful,desperate. Her mind was still spinning, still caught somewhere between the nightmare and reality.

Her instincts screamed at her to hold you tighter, to never let go again, to make sure no one could ever take you from her. “I almost lost you..” she whispered, though you couldn’t hear her. Her voice was raw, barely there, but even in the silence, it was painful.

Her fingers moved to your wrist, pressing against your pulse point, needing, needing to feel it. The steady, rhythmic beat under her fingertips made something deep inside her crack wide open. She needed you. Her body moved before she could think, shifting closer, curling herself around you. She buried her face in your hair, inhaling deeply, letting your scent calm the raging storm in her mind.

But it wasn’t enough. She pressed herself closer, wrapping an arm around your waist, her fingers slipping beneath your shirt just to feel the warmth of your skin. The contact sent a shiver through her, grounding her, reminding her that this was real. That you were real. Natasha swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut as she held on.

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, wrapped around you, her grip almost too tight, like she was afraid you would slip away if she loosened it even a fraction. She didn’t know how to stop feeling like she was still losing you.

“I won’t let anyone take you from me.” she murmured into your skin, her voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of something unbreakable. She pressed a kiss to your shoulder, her lips lingering, her breathing unsteady.

A/N: Under no circumstances will I let anyone else turn Y/n. 🙂‍↔️

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov

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darkmarkmarauder · 13 days ago

Text

666 ways I love you - M.R.

!warning!minorsdni, sexual content

word count: 2.8k

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x you

“I do very bad things and I do them very well.”

There were 666 ways Mattheo Riddle loved you.

And every single one of them was fucking wrong.

It was in the way he spat your name, the syllables curled in venom, fingers digging bruises into your arms when he pressed you against the cold stone of the castle walls. The way he laughed—low, dark, mocking—when you told him you hated him.

Liar, his smirk said. You wouldn’t know what to do without me.

He wasn’t wrong.

Like father, like son. It was fucking obvious. He was his father’s creation, molded from the same arrogance, the same cruel intelligence, the same insatiable hunger to win. But Mattheo? He was worse.

Tom Riddle destroyed people with words, with calculated charm, with power.

Mattheo destroyed people with his hands. With his teeth. With his fucking cock.

And you were his favorite thing to ruin.

It had been like this all year—an endless cycle of fucking, fighting, breaking, destroying. The whole school knew it. They saw the way you tore into each other, how your fights dragged in everyone around you, how he’d storm off after every brutal argument and find some innocent little bitch to fuck.

And you retaliated.

Not just against him, but against her.

Did she deserve it? Maybe not. But who the fuck did she think she was, touching your Mattheo? Kissing your Mattheo? Letting his filthy hands wander over her skin when they were meant to be buried in you?

So, of course, you hexed her.

And when the tables turned, when you were the one tired of Mattheo’s bullshit, when you finally snapped—well, nothing fucked with his head more than you spreading your legs for his best friend.

Lorenzo Berkshire.

The first time had been an act of war.

You hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought past the blinding, seething rage crawling under your skin, past the bruises Mattheo had left on your throat from your last fight, past the way he had looked at you like he didn’t fucking care.

So you made him care.

Lorenzo was easy. Handsome, cocky, eager to please—eager to get under Mattheo’s skin just as much as you were.

And Merlin, did you make sure Mattheo knew.

You let him see the marks Lorenzo left on your neck, the lipstick smudged on his collar. Let him hear the way Lorenzo talked about you—loud enough for Mattheo to catch in the echoing halls of the castle. How fucking filthy you were. How you moaned for him. How he had you on your knees in the Astronomy Tower, hands braced against the stone, crying out as he—

That had been a mistake.

Because Mattheo Riddle did not take humiliation lightly.

And he sure as fuck didn’t like losing.

So when he dragged you out of the Great Hall that night, fingers curled like iron around your wrist, shoving you into the first empty classroom he could find, you knew you were in trouble.

The door slammed behind you, shaking the walls.

Mattheo stood there, chest heaving, a storm unraveling in his dark eyes.

You smirked. Gotcha, baby.

"What's wrong, Mattheo?" you purred, voice dripping in mock sweetness. "Jealous?"

He laughed. Sharp, humorless. "Jealous?" he echoed, stepping forward, closing the distance until your back hit the desk behind you. "No, princesa. That would imply he had something I wanted."

You rolled your eyes, pushing past him. "Right. Because you don’t want me. You’ve made that very clear." His fingers caught your wrist, spinning you back around so fast you barely had time to gasp before he had you pinned—one hand wrapped around your throat, the other curling around his wand, pressing it into the fabric of your skirt.

His voice dropped, quiet, venomous."You think that pretty little whore mouth can run away from me?"

Your breath hitched. "Mattheo—"

"You don't get to fuck me over and walk away."

Your breath came out in short, uneven gasps. But you didn’t back down. "You do it all the time," you hissed. "Why does it bother you now?"

"Because, mi amor." He drawled as his wand dragged upward, tracing the curve of your thigh, pushing your skirt higher until cool air kissed the damp heat between your legs. "You’re mine," he murmured, tone filled with the same cruel amusement.

You refused to give in.

You exhaled sharply, nails curling into the edge of the desk, legs trembling under the weight of his touch. "Funny," you spat, forcing your voice to stay steady, forcing your body not to react to him, not like this. "You didn’t seem to care when you had your hands all over that fucking Ravenclaw." The words dripped with venom, with something unspoken and ugly. You shouldn’t have said them. You knew that the second the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes vanished, replaced by something far worse.

Before you could react, his fingers wrapped around your throat, pushing you back against the desk—his wand digging into your skin, pressing just below your jaw.

"You think I give a fuck about her?" His voice was low, furious. "You think any of them fucking matter?"

His grip tightened, just enough to make your head spin, to make your pulse pound against his palm.

"You’re the only one who fucking matters, and you know it," he growled, breath fanning across your lips. "That’s why you let him touch you, isn’t it? Why you let him fuck you—my best fucking friend."

You gritted your teeth, glaring up at him. "Why should it matter?" you hissed. "Since you clearly don’t love me."

Mattheo’s lips curled, and for a second, you thought he might actually snap.

"Don't love you?" he repeated, voice mocking, venom-laced. His laugh was sharp, humorless. "Baby, I hate you."

Your stomach twisted.

"And yet—" His grip tightened, forcing your head back, making you look at him, meet the fury, the obsession, the pure fucking insanity unraveling behind those dark eyes. "Yet, no matter how much I fucking hate you, I can't stop."

Your breath stuttered, nails digging into his wrist.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he murmured, voice low, rough, a dangerous whisper against your lips. "Can't stop wanting you. Can’t fucking breathe without you."

You hated the way your body responded. The way your pulse pounded under his touch, the way your thighs clenched at his words. The way you wanted to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

"And it fucking kills me—" He pressed closer, crowding into your space, feeling his sinful fingers running over your sensitive cunt . "Fucking ruins me—knowing you let him touch you. That you let him hear the sounds that belong to me."

You moaned softly when he inserted his fingers, right against the thin lace of your panties, playing with how wet you were.

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something wicked. "You’re soaking ," he uttered, almost mocking. "That for me? Or for Lorenzo?"

You rolled your eyes, but your hips betrayed you as your back arched up close to him.

"Say his name," he demanded, dragging his fingers in and out of you with agonizing slowness.

You clenched your jaw, refusing. Then—his fingers disappeared.

You gasped, thighs clenching around nothing, frustration coiling in your stomach as you tried to buck your hips against him.

But Mattheo just stood there, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes, like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew you would break first.

You glared at him, chest heaving, legs still spread for him, exposed and desperate and angry.

"Fucking bastard—"

"Say. his. name," he repeated, calm, composed, deadly.

You clenched your fists, swallowing hard.

"Lorenzo." It was barely a whisper

He wrenched your skirt up, pushing his hips against yours, letting you feel just how hard he was, just how much this had gotten to him.

"You want to fuck my best friend?" he growled against your lips, sliding his belt free, unbuttoning his trousers. "You wanna be a little whore?" he hummed, head tilting, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your thighs trembled. "You wanna spread your legs for anyone with a cock just to get back at me?"

Your nails dug into the desk behind you. "Fuck you."

His lips curled. "That’s the plan, princesa."

You barely had time to gasp before he slammed inside you.

You gasped, arching against the wall, the stretch forcing a strangled moan from your lips.

"You want to be fucked like a whore?" His voice was low, thick with something dangerous. "I’ll fuck you like a whore."

Your nails scraped against the wood, fingers curling desperately over the edge of the desk as Mattheo slammed into you, the force knocking the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck—"

"Yeah?" he mocked, voice laced with cruel amusement. His grip on your hips was bruising, nails digging into your flesh as he pulled you back against him, forcing you to take every inch, stretching you to the point of pain. "That what you wanted, baby?"

You refused to answer. So he didn’t slow.

Didn’t ease up, didn’t give you a second to adjust—just fucked into you, brutal, punishing, sharp thrusts that left you clawing at the desk, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to keep yourself from making the noises he wanted.

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck arched, until his mouth was right at your ear. His breath was hot, ragged, fucking furious.

"You think he could ever fuck you like I do?" he sneered. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

His grip tightened. "Answer me, princesa."

"No," you gasped, choking on a whimper as he thrust deeper, slamming your hips against the desk.

"That’s right." Another slap—this time over your already-sensitive clit, making you jolt, making your walls clench around him. "That’s fucking right."

He wanted to ruin you. To make sure no part of you belonged to anyone but him.

And he was doing a bloody good job of it. You hated that he could turn your own body against you.

Before you could catch your breath, he was moving. Lifting you off the desk, his hands firm under your thighs as he carried you across the room. Your hands flew to his shoulders as he adjusted, seating himself on the chair and pulling you onto his lap. His back pressed against the desk now as he gripped your hips, positioning you exactly how he wanted. You moaned loudly, nails sinking into his skin as you sank down, filling you completely, pushing up onto your toes, rolling your hips against him, taking him deeper.

"Atta girl," he growled, slamming into you, meeting you halfway,

Your legs completely spent, thighs burning, but you kept going, desperate, fucking needy—because fuck, he was right. No one else ever could touch you like he did.

His head tipped back, a low groan slipping from his lips, voice rough, his fingers bruising into your thighs as you rode him, as you fucked yourself onto him. "Fuck. Just like that." his other hand trailing down your spine, gripping your ass roughly before delivering a sharp slap that had you arching against him, crying out. His hand wrapped around your throat again, pulling you close. You gasped, body jerking, legs shaking—so fucking close. "Baby—"

"Cum for me," he growled, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and commanding. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are."

And fuck, you did.

“God, Matty—”

His hand wrapped tighter around your throat, cutting off your words. “What was that, sweetheart?” His lips brushed your ear, voice dark, teasing. “You praying?”

You choked out a moan, your head spinning, your body helpless beneath his as you rode out your orgasm. Body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over you, a broken moan slipping from your lips as you came around his cock, pulsing, clenching, milking him. His fingers dug into your thighs, pulling you down hard, making sure you felt every inch of him as you shattered. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with satisfaction, with power. “Make a mess on my cock.” His pace turned erratic, thrusts growing uneven, his fingers pressing against your throat just enough to make your vision blur. His curls stuck to his forehead with sweat, his brows furrowed, his jaw clenched as he chased his high. His groan muffled against your skin as he came, his hips still driving into you as he spilled inside. You felt it—hot and thick, filling you up as he buried himself deep, his fingers bruising your hips.

His hand remained wrapped around your throat, loose now but still firm, a reminder of his control. He didn’t move, didn’t pull out, didn��t let you breathe just yet. Instead, he pressed his lips to your jaw, dragging them down the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of sweat and sin. “Such a good girl when you’re taking my cock,” he mused, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “Shame you’re such a fucking problem when you’re not.”

“Let me make something very fucking clear,” he rasped, leaning in, his nose brushing yours, his lips just barely touching yours as he spoke, “You don’t look at him. You don’t talk to him. And you sure as fuck don’t go near him again.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking away. Instead, you smirked, the smallest, defiant tilt of your lips, knowing it would send him over the edge. You fucking lived for this.

"Or what?" you taunted, voice hoarse from screaming his name minutes before.

"Or I’ll bend you over this desk again and make sure you can’t walk back to your dorm," his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Wouldn’t want that now, would we, sweetheart?"

Your stomach clenched at his words, and you hated the way your body still responded to him, even now, when your legs felt like they were made of jelly. But Mattheo saw everything—felt every tiny shiver that ran through you.

"Yeah," he laughed, pulling back to look at you, cocky as ever. "That’s what I thought."

With infuriating slowness, he reached for your discarded clothes, shaking his head as he picked up your underwear. "Torn lace, tsk, tsk," he mused, stretching the ruined fabric between his fingers. "At this rate, love, I’m gonna have to start buying you replacements."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, how tragic for you."

Grinning, he crouched slightly, sliding your underwear up your legs with a teasing brush of his knuckles. He didn’t move away immediately, fingers lingering at your thighs as he let out a pleased hum. "Still shaking for me, angel?"

You huffed, but your sharp retort died when he grabbed your skirt and smoothed it back into place, making a show of adjusting it on your hips like he hadn’t just been the one hiking it up around your waist minutes ago.

Once your blouse was slipped over your arms, Mattheo took his time buttoning it up for you, fingers brushing over your collarbone, your throat, your stomach—places he had just worshipped with his mouth. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and unreadable.

"You really are a mess," he mused, running a hand through your tangled hair, fixing it with an almost ridiculous amount of patience.

"You’re the reason I’m a mess," you muttered, still catching your breath.

His lips curled into a smug smirk. "Exactly."

Once you were dressed, Mattheo took a step back, looking you over with a satisfied expression before fixing his own tie, adjusting his sleeves like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just destroyed you against a classroom desk.

His fingers brushed over your skin, soothing, grounding. "Come on, love," he murmured, pressing a final kiss against your forehead. "Let's go."

He stood, taking his jacket and draping it over your shoulders before wrapping an arm around your waist. You were still shaky, still warm and dazed, but you leaned into him as he led you out of the room, down the dark corridors, back to his dorm—the place you always ended up after your fights, after your desperation boiled over into something carnal and consuming.

The door shut behind you, sealing you into the dim warmth of his space. He pulled you to the bed, guiding you down before settling in beside you, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you close. His lips found your forehead, a rare, quiet moment of peace settling over you both.

Because for all the ways Mattheo Riddle could destroy you, there were 666 ways he loved you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: maybe..therapy…isn’t such a bad idea

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

#mattheo riddle #mattheo smut #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle x you #slytherin boys #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheoxreader #slytherin boys x you #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin #lorenzo berkshire

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brucewaynehater101 · 7 months ago

Note

My personal favorite way ppl write janet is when she’s a stone cold bitch. She’s sharp and cruel and manipulative and people fear her. Her marriage to jack is an empty one. But if theres anything in this world that she would reach up to tear the heavens down for, its her baby. Her Timothy, her little prince. Her child who learned how to soften his face and feed other pretty lies and draw them into his web. Her little miracle who she carried and bled for who she taught to manipulate and trick because she saw this tiny, tiny boy and knew he would never pack on muscle but she would be damned if she didnt give him every weapon and card he could ever need. A janet drake who bears a large resemblance to her son, whether its physically or not.(its also hilarious when in these types of fics, bruce is just absolutely terrified of janet/ was terrified of janet when they were kids lmao. 10/10 trope)

Fuck yes. Give me cruel, cutting Janet who dotes on her son.

Show me Janet and her obsessive all-consuming love. The way she teaches Tim to pull strings and manipulate. Her lessons on protecting what is theirs even if it causes the world to crumble at their fingertips.

Perhaps there was a time when she loved Jack, or maybe she was always using them for her goals.

Give me morally grey Janet. She loves Tim even if she's not home enough or her teachings are not healthy. She doesn't need to be a morally sound character, but one that instills Tim with his burning, consuming love.

Janet was always fiercely protective of her son, but her type of protection morphed when she saw her child (maybe six) being preyed on (either by other kids or something darker). She saw how weak and helpless he was and vowed to change him into a Drake.

She showed her son the various masks she wore, the intricate double (or triple or quadruple) meanings behind words, and how to read people. If Tim couldn't physically protect himself, she'd teach him how to get others to do it for him.

That is her child. Even if her love was distant, it was a feverent, vigilant love.

Tim would have whatever tools he needed to be safe.

(Also, agree about Bruce. It is hilarious when fics show Bruce flinching when Tim acts a little too much like his mom)

#thank you for the ask!!!!#dc au #tim drake

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t-horn-n · 3 months ago

Text

— the nights the wind grows teeth

pairing: silco x hard of hearing!reader (female)

genre: a little of everything

summary: a simple introduction, briefly.

word count: 1 311

note: I have an unserious headcanon that Silco doesn’t drink anything from the Last Drop since Vander’s not the one pouring them.

anyway, prolly gonna be a series ???

You possess a capacity for calmness that so often escapes fissure folk. It’s a quality that Silco appreciates even if that sort of level-headedness is off-putting to most, to the extent that many believe you’re either a stone cold bitch or just stupid enough to live in a constant state of ignorant bliss.

Silco supposes that, temperamentally, you remind him of himself. Sevika has his passion, but she also has a tendency to think with her fists. Jinx has his intellect and intuition but she’s inclined to act out on her own. You actually can exhibit an amount of forethought. And, well, past the three of you, he can’t claim to be interested in anyone else.

“Go home, kid,” Sevika says into your good ear. “You’ve done enough for the day.”

It’s barely eleven at night and you know that she’s going to be running around for the next three hours, at least. That, and you’re actually Sevika’s senior by a year, give or take. She just likes to play big sister once in a while. You like to let her.

And you can’t say that you mind getting off a little early to sit in one of the Last Drop’s booths until you’re tired enough that you’ll be asleep on your feet by the time you trudge back to your bed. Well actually, if you’re more inclined to be honest, which you aren’t, you would admit that you’re hoping it’ll be one of those occasions where your generous benefactor will slide into the seat across from you and lean forward so that you can light his cigar. You’ve never quite understood why he likes the things considering that the fissures already have their fair share of smoke.

Sometimes he’ll talk about the week’s plans, monologuing into your good ear, or he’ll talk about Jinx. On other nights, when he knows that the ringing in your bad ear is particularly bad, he’ll let you sit in silence, watching his smoke writhe beneath the Last Drop’s grimy green light.

Everyone knows that Silco is clever, but he is also observant, and he knows that it’s the biting, frosty nights that your hearing is the worst. The uncomfortable whine is the loudest and even the sounds that you can hear become smothered and unfocused.

It’s also when that unrequited ache, bone-deep, is the most needy.

You’ve only had shimmer once. It’s been too long for you to remember how it actually tasted, whether it was bitter or sweet; whether it burned your throat or whether they injected it straight into your veins. But you can remember the way that it made you feel. You’ve never been in love, but you figure that shimmer makes one as manic as love does.

When it’s cold fog stalking the Lanes, rather than just the typical Gray, your severed ear calls out for the weightless sensation shimmer provided, but you’re sure that if you indulge, even when you feel like you won’t survive the phantom pains, you won’t be able to resist the drug the next time. Or the next. You can’t say that your life is bliss, but you know that you're much better off fighting the cold with the Last Drop’s liquor than you are addicted to shimmer.

“It’s bothering you tonight,” Silco states plainly.

Before you is a glass of some mystery, clouded liquid. All you’d asked for was something strong, hoping that it’d dull the persistent thrumming in your skull. Silco, lounging across from you, has an unlit cigar dancing between his fingers. You swear you’ve never seen him drink from his own bar.

“Yes,” you admit because you know anything else will lead to a pointless argument. “But it’s not bad tonight.”

“Hm,” he hums.

You’d only been to the Last Drop once before meeting Silco, officially that is. And, you hadn’t really been there, all things considered. You had been fifteen and had your ear pressed against one of its windows in order to hear the murmurs of whomever was inside. Before you ran with Silco, you were an information runner. It was simple and clean and tidy. You’d play the part of the fly on the wall and whisper plans for hit-and-runs and smuggling jobs into the ears of your handlers and you’d get a cut. It was simple, well, until you got caught.

Now, it’s certainly true that your old job would be more difficult considering the circumstances. The reason why Silco keeps you around, you suspect, is because you can be quiet and charming, when you want to be. Your feet are coated in enough silver for you to make your way silently around the Lanes into places where people don’t want you to be. And your center is soft and gooey enough to charm Piltees into trying shimmer. Just this once, they’ll tell you. That’s how you get them.

“A shipment is going out tomorrow and I expect that it will go better than the last one,” Silco says.

He sounds submerged. He repeats himself, slowly so that you can make out the movements of his lips in the low light, then continues, “We don’t need the Fireflies disrupting our schedule any more than they already have.”

You nod and notice how odd he looks down among the general trouble of the Lanes.

“You’ll be there tomorrow,” he says and it’s a fact.

He slides out of the booth, his cigar still unlit. “It’s cold tonight.”

“I’m warm enough,” you tell him as you down the rest of your drink.

The cobblestones beneath seep cold into the soles of your feet and the alleyways shuck their frosty breath onto your back on your way to your hole-in-the-wall apartment. It’s cold there too. And dark.

There’s not really a kitchen, just a gas cooktop beside a muddy window. A single stool sits at a counter and beyond that is a bed boxed in by three walls and an old dresser.

“Hi, Jinx.”

“Aw, how’d you know I was here?” she croons.

“I heard the sound of your breathing.”

“No you didn’t,” she laughs.

“No,” you agree. “But you left my door unlocked.”

“Oops.”

You toss your jacket at her as you flip the light on, and Jinx is there, perched on your windowsill. She swats away your oncoming jacket.

“Close the window.”

“You’re bossy. Has anyone ever told you that?” she asks, twirling her hair around her fingers.

She follows you into your bedroom and falls backward onto your bed. She’s appeared in your apartment enough times that this is all routine, practically. At least you’ve trained her to keep her boots off your bed.

“Mhm,” you reply.

Your fingers are cold and slow moving as you unlace your shoes, tug them off, and throw them on top of your dresser. You press your palm against the spot where you ear should be trying to warm it up.

“He sent you to make sure I didn’t trip up the stairs?” you ask, a little sarcastically but really, you’re somewhat flattered.

She groans and doesn’t answer you. “He’s bossy too,” she whines.

“He is.”

You fall onto the bed next to her head.

“Did you know that you’re the only one he comes down to that shitty bar for?”

“Mm?” You only caught half of her sentence.

“He just sits in that chair and frowns.”

Jinx always makes enough conversation for both of you. You wonder how often she fills in your parts herself.

It’s likely stupid of the thought to even cross your mind, but on these particularly cold nights when you are feeling particularly unlike yourself—when you are in pain and you crave what you shouldn’t have and your regrets feel the most potent—Silco feels particularly like a friend. You almost scoff. That’s a dangerous thought.

“If you’re sleeping here, you’re getting the light,” you tell Jinx.

— m. list

#x reader #silco x reader #silco #silco arcane #silco fanfiction #arcane x reader #arcane fanfiction #arcane season 2

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juletheghoul · 8 months ago

Text

unclean

a/n: Honestly, you can blame my period for this one. I took a huge liberty because usually women on their periods in this time weren't treated the way they should have been, also took an educated guess at forms of relief. This is un beta-ed, any mistakes are my own. Shout out to @foli-vora for losing her mind with me, thanks my love! 🩷Hopefully you enjoy!

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Marcus not being a little bitch about periods, creampie, blood & mess lets be real, boob worship, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance), Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 2.4k

reblogs are appreciated

Prev chapter Masterlist series masterlist

The wince came without your permission, your face twisting in discomfort as you poured his wine, pausing for a moment to steady yourself; thankfully without spilling a drop.

“Are you hurt, girl?” You unclench your eyes and find him staring at you with a frown, no doubt confused by your expression.

“Apologies Dominus, it is nothing.” You bow your head but hiss nonetheless and he puts down the bread.

“Answer me truthfully girl, what pains you?” His eyes are intent and for a moment you cannot tell if it is annoyance or worry that twists his features. Heat rushes to your face, men usually don’t take the news well when they are reminded of the troubles of the opposite sex. You fidget, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth while you gather your wits.

“It is just, my blood will flow soon Dominus. Sometimes the pain precedes it.” You bow your head and stare at the floor by his feet, gearing up for the usual responses you’d get from the men you’ve served, anger, or disgust. He says nothing, but when you look up he nods once. “I will retreat to my chambers soon. I will send someone else to tend to you if it pleases you, Dominus.”

“I require nothing further, you may tend to your needs.” He dismisses you gracefully, much more so than any other you’ve served and it’s as though a heavy weight has been lifted from your shoulders.

The blood does not dull the pain.

Hours after confessing to your Dominus, you can do nothing more than curl up in your bed, and suffer in silence. One of the older women had boiled some water for you to dip a flat stone, place it on your belly for relief and it had worked wonders for a time but both the water and the stone had gone cold ages ago. All that was left to do was grit your teeth and bear it.

You cannot help but crave him even more, with the blood flowing, your lower back and breasts aching, and your insides twisting, the pleasure of his cock seemed like the miracle that could cure you. Men didn’t do that though, women all knew it was nothing more than what the female body did, but men–society deemed it unclean. And so you had to endure, without the relief of his body or his gift. Still, you couldn’t help but be grateful for him, he did not protest to the women in his service sequestering themselves until it passed. He did not ask questions, he did not balk at the talk of pain.

The first day passed, and the second found you in more agony. The second was the worst for you, when the blood was the heaviest, and the discomfort grew nearly unbearable.

The women brought you hot soups and wine warmed with spices, boiled water for the stone and clean rags for the mess. You thanked them, with tears in your eyes and they nodded and left you to your misery. You slept when you could, but when the night came, sleep had become a stranger, and all you could do was pray to all of the Gods to either take the pain, or take your life.

Your door opened late into the night and you thought one of the women had brought more hot water but it was him, your Dominus, standing at the threshold to your modest chamber bathed in soft candlelight and shadow.

“Dominus-” You struggled, moving to stand too quickly and falling back to sit on your bed. “Apologies Dominus, what-” He held up his hands to forestall your speech.

“Peace, girl, I am not here to ask anything of you.” He came in and closed the door, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “I heard one of the women speaking about you, she said you were suffering a great deal.”

“I am well, Dominus.” You could barely keep the grimace off your face.

“Do not lie to me, girl, I can see the agony.” He approached slowly, he’d already prepared for bed and wore a simple tunic. “I have heard it said that pleasure often eases the pain, but I will not force the issue if you do not desire it.” You stared up at him, confusion creeping into your pain-addled mind. He stood, staring at you, for all intents and purposes a gift from the Gods in himself. “Would you like me to help you?”

“I– but you are not… the blood does not bother you, Dominus? I am unclean–” He raised his arms once more, a frown arranged on his features.

“Blood has never bothered me, girl.” You droop with relief, tears springing to your eyes and an altogether different ache building between your legs. “You need it don’t you, you need me to take the pain away, hm?” He speaks softly again and all you can do is nod, pitifully. He stands before you, taking in the unruly state of you and for a moment you think you can almost see a soft affection on his face. His thumb swipes against the plump of your lower lip softly, “How do you desire it? Soft? With kisses and gentle touches?” he holds your chin between his pinched fingers, tilting your face up to gaze into his dark eyes, “Or do you desire it more forceful? How do you need me to fuck you?”

Tears well, and you’re not sure if it’s the softness in his voice or the relief so clearly visible on the horizon, but you swallow around the lump of gratitude in your throat. “I want it all, Dominus,” you hold onto his forearm, afraid that if you don’t make contact with him, he might evaporate like dew in the morning. “I want kisses, and gentle touches but I want force as well, I need your gift to ease the pain.”

“And you shall have it, my brave girl.” He reaches down, carefully pulling your tunic up and off and your nipples harden almost painfully. He slips his hand down, palming your breast softly, “Do they hurt too much for my attention?” soft as a breeze, his thumb strums at the sensitive tip of your breast and you bite your lip.

“They ache, but I do not wish for you to stop.” You bring his other hand to your other breast, sighing at the tenderness in his touch.

“I will be mindful.” He pulls away for a moment to undress and the sight of his cock standing at full mast is enough to make you whimper. “Patience, girl. You will have it soon enough, as deep as I can get.” You nod, but all at once you realize where you are.

“You wish to have me here? My bed is not as lush as yours-” He sees slight embarrassment on your face and he waves it away.

“This is my house, girl, I will have you where I please.”

You move back with a wince and he follows, discarding the soiled rag tucked between your legs without so much as a flinch and whatever feelings of devotion, of loyalty or possibly obsession you have for him grow to greater and greater strength. He settles between your spread thighs and just the warm heft of him is soothing, the heat of his skin on your belly, the heavy press of his cock on your sex like a balm.

Wordlessly he presses his lips to yours, soft, and then not so soft and his tongue explores your mouth, he tastes of wine and dark ripe fruit and you cannot help but wrap your arms around his neck, thread your fingers through his thick waves and whimper. His lips travel, mapping out their course across your skin, down the column of your neck, the base of your throat until he takes your breast in gentle hand and licks at the peak and the moan escapes your lips without your leave. He moves to the other and showers it with the same affection, both breasts shiny with his spit and your cunt melts for him like frost in the face of the sun. You can feel the way he coats himself in your want, his cock slipping between the lips of your sex. He continues to worship your breasts, licking soft like a kitten, and then sucking the tip into his mouth until you cannot take it anymore.

“Please Dominus,” Your voice breaks when he lets go of your nipple with a pop, enjoying the way you writhe underneath him. “I need it, I need your cock.” He kisses at your breast again before slipping his hand down, and finally slipping into the wet clutch of your cunt. “Gods above, yes, yes yes, please Dominus-” You’re breathless, the feel of him is good enough to make your eyes roll back into your skull.

“Yes, I know girl, I’m right here.” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust and the moan you let out is obscene. “This little cunt is going to behave for me, isn’t it?” His lips barely touch yours, speaking the words into your mouth; his words, his rhythm making you drip onto the fabric below. The sounds between your legs are vulgar, wet and far more appealing than any music in the world, but it is not enough. You let out a whine, pitiful and painful and he frowns. “Is it not enough?” There is no anger, only the quest for truth in his tone and you shake your head, heartbroken and shaking with need. He pulls away, and you let out a cry of anguish and clutch to him, if he left you like this you don’t think you’d survive. “Peace, girl. We will change our positioning so I can give it to you how you need it.”

When he pulls away, your eyes widen in shock and horror. Your blood has smeared all over him, his cock, his groin, spreading up almost to his belly, it collects at the mouth of your cunt and when you look down it is all over your inner thighs, the scene looking more like a battle than a bedding. He shakes his head, raising a hand to stop the apology before it is given.

“This does not frighten me, girl. This is not the first time I have been covered in the blood of another, and it will not be the last. Turn around, I would have you on your hands and knees.” You nod, and with a wince you rush to comply, presenting your backside to him and within a moment he has pulled your hips back to meet his, his cock entering you with no resistance and from this angle he knocks the wind out of you. “There it is, this is the answer, yes?” He thrusts again forcefully and a sound you’ve never heard comes out of your mouth, a dark, wanton noise and it only proves him right.

“Yes Dominus, please, like this–” you don’t finish your sentence because he pulls back and punches forward again with enough force to rock your bed. Your head drops, your back arching and he sets a brutal pace. Tears slip out from the corners of your eyes, trapped between where your face presses against the back of your forearms and you think for a moment that nothing has ever felt better.

He grunts, and for a handful of minutes the only sounds are your combined heavy breathing, the wet squelch between your legs, and the rhythmic rocking of your bed. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips hard enough to bruise but it matters not, the pleasure is too great, the relief of his cock is a sign that the Gods are real and that they have sent him to you.

You reach underneath, gasping at the feel of your cunt spread wide to take him and at just how wet you are. The engorged little pearl of your pleasure begs for attention, and you cannot deny it. With a handful of swirls you seize up, screaming through your climax and he groans as the fist of your cunt squeezes him tight, making him slow slightly but he doesn’t stop. Your knees give out for a moment but he doesn’t let you falter.

“I am not finished with you yet, this little cunt will take what I give her.” His grip tightens and he lifts you back up into position. Fucking you through your flutters, “You will give me another, girl, you will squeeze my cock again, only then will I give you my gift.” He’s breathless, maneuvering his hand around to reach between your legs while he drapes himself against your back. His fingers manipulate you rougher than you did, forcing another climax out of you while his hips drive his cock deep enough to kiss your womb.

The second climax is more intense and lasts longer and the force of it milks him dry. You feel him empty himself with a punched-out groan, collapsing onto you once his cock twitches for the last time.

Everything is silent, and for a moment, you think you might have gone onto the afterlife but then he shifts and you take a deep, steadying breath. The relaxation is so great you are afraid to move, afraid that any engagement of your muscles might result in the pain returning and so you stay still as he pulls out. You will clean once he is gone but he shocks you again when you feel a cool cloth on the skin of your backside.

“Dominus, I can–” You turn your head to him slowly but he shakes his head. The tenderness in his hands not reaching his face.

“Silence, girl.” He says nothing else, but dips the cloth into the basin of water again and rings it out, cleansing the mess between your legs silently. “I expect you to let me know the next time you are in pain.” Once he is satisfied with his task, he dips the cloth again, and uses it on himself and there is something about seeing him do this that is unnatural, you cannot help but stare. He is quick; utilitarian.

He drops the used cloth back into the basin, grabs his tunic and slips out of your room without so much as a glance but it matters not, you are asleep before he shuts the door.

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msbigredmachine · 2 months ago

Text

All Over You (Jimmy Uso College AU)

Aria’s boyfriend is a distraction, not just to her…but to her roommate as well. College AU, OC/Jimmy/OC

Pairing: Black fem OC/Jimmy Uso/Black fem OC

Warnings: Smut, love triangle

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: My first ever full length one shot for Jimmy! Sorry it took so long. This could probably classify as a pwp 😬

Enjoy!

It was deep into the night, and the sounds of Aria's moans drifted down the hallway, coinciding with the repeated thumps of the headboard against the wall. For probably the hundredth time since she moved in, Estelle was forced to listen to her roommate and her boyfriend, Jimmy, fuck each other’s brains out while she struggled to fall asleep.

She pictured Aria’s vixen body and sweaty dark skin laid up under Jimmy’s gorgeous, buff muscles and caramel skin, as the smack of his hand on her ass and her whimpers right after, filled Estelle’s ears. He was probably taking advantage of that new long ponytail she had done yesterday just for him.

"Yes, yes, fuck me, Daddy!" Aria’s voice cracked when Jimmy slapped her ass again.

“Uh huh, take this dick, you wanted it so bad earlier huh,” Jimmy’s gruff voice moaned back, making Estelle squirm in her bed, “You better keep that back arched, come on…”

Estelle bit down on her lip. He sounded so fucking sexy. He could make a grown woman cry with the way he talked shit. She tried to imagine how it would feel; him beating up on her pussy, pulling her hair back while he taunted her, and it led to her hand skimming between her legs as she stared up at the moonlight pouring through the windows over her bed. She shut her eyes tight and honed in on every sound. The frantic clapping of skin. The bed springs creaking.

Aria’s ever increasing moans. “Oh god, Daddy I’m cominnnn’…”

Jimmy’s animalistic grunts. “That’s right, baby, come on my dick. And spread that pussy open when you done, I’ma nut all up in it…”

Fuck. She wanted him. Badly.

------------------

Estelle was still horny when she woke at seven a.m. Luckily, she had no classes today, so when she was ready to shower, she grabbed her dildo and took it with her, intending to kill two birds with one stone. She got a thorough workout with the toy; in fact, it was so good that she had to shower all over again because she came so damn hard. At least she felt much better and better prepared to start her day.

Making her way downstairs and into the kitchen for her morning coffee, she came to a halt when she spotted Jimmy seated at the kitchen island, drinking out of her favorite coffee mug. She knew he and Aria didn’t have classes until later this evening, meaning he dicked her down the way he did on purpose. Poor bitch was probably out cold right now. He obviously thought Estelle was out of the house, because he was clad in just his boxers, showing off his buff body and all those tribal tattoos that made her mouth water.

"Mornin'," she greeted after clearing her throat, inwardly thrilled that he was seeing her in her favorite lilac silk robe open and displaying all her curves. The cotton tank top that matched her boy shorts outlined her large nipples.

“Sup, E,” he replied, sipping from her pink mug with his eyes still on her. “Damn. You look sexy as fuck, girl,” he remarked.

It was an absurdly inappropriate comment, given Aria was just upstairs, still oblivious to the unspoken tension between her roommate and her boyfriend. But Estelle wasn’t fazed. If anything, the comment made her stomach tighten with an unfamiliar sense of power.

“So do you,” she replied, her voice low and playful, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. She noticed his gaze linger on her body. It was deliberate on her part—she knew exactly what she was doing.

“That’s my cup,” she added, pointing to the pink mug in his hand. “My name’s literally on it.”

“Oops. My bad,” Jimmy said, not even attempting to apologize as he lazily spun the cup in his fingers. “You can drink outta that side if you want. In fact, come over here and have a taste.”

Estelle had to fight the urge to roll her eyes, her mind racing. Part of her wanted to lean into this, to make him see how far she could push him, but something else held her back. It wasn’t just the fact that Aria was upstairs; it was the knowledge that she wasn’t the only woman vying for his attention. The rumors surrounding Jimmy’s… ‘extracurricular activities’ on campus had been impossible to ignore, and Estelle knew she wasn’t the first one he’d flirted with. He was the kind of guy who used his charm to manipulate people, and she was no stranger to it. Yet, despite her better judgment, a part of her found it irresistible.

Instead of giving in to his invitation, she moved to prepare her coffee. She could feel his eyes lingered on her, their unspoken game playing out in silence. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to just give in, to let him take control, even if only for a moment.

But the sound of Aria’s footsteps on the stairs broke those thoughts. Estelle took another sip of her coffee, trying to mask her frustration that simmered beneath the surface.

Aria made her way down, her hair disheveled, wearing one of Jimmy’s oversized t-shirts like a dress. It was almost laughable, the way she smiled at him, the way she had no idea what was really happening in their relationship.

“There she is. C'mere, girl,” Jimmy said, a grin pulling at his lips as he looked Aria up and down. Estelle couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. She hated how easily Jimmy could make Aria melt. The whole thing was pathetic.

Aria smirked, leaning in for a sloppy kiss that made Estelle’s stomach turn. She took another sip of coffee, her fingers tightening around the mug as she watched Aria pull away and smile dreamily at him. Estelle wanted to shout at Aria, to tell her to open her damn eyes, but she kept quiet. There was no use. Aria would never listen.

Clueless bitch.

“Y’all had a busy night,” Estelle commented out loud, almost too casually.

“We did,” Aria said, yawning as she stretched. “I hope we didn’t keep you awake.”

Estelle chose to keep silent, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

“You gon’ be at my game tomorrow, girl?” Jimmy asked, his stare shifting to Estelle with an intensity that felt almost predatory.

She rolled her eyes internally. Of course, he’d want her at the game. It was all part of the act—she was supposed to be his girlfriend’s friend, the loyal one. The truth was, she was tired of being part of their charade.

“I’ll think about it,” she replied, her tone flat.

Jimmy’s expression hardened slightly, a trace of command slipping into his words. “Nah, you’ll be there.”

Estelle’s eyes narrowed at him, the nerve of this man. “Don’t speak for me,” she snapped, her voice sharp.

But he didn’t seem bothered in the least. He repeated himself slowly, his eyes locking with hers, sending a chill down her spine. “You’ll. Be. There.”

With that, he kissed Aria once more, lifting her off his lap and walking back upstairs. Aria watched him go, her eyes full of adoration. Estelle, on the other hand, watched the whole thing with disgust. She couldn’t believe Aria was still so blind to the emotional manipulation she was under.

“I see you two have stopped fighting,” Estelle remarked dryly as she cleaned up the counter.

“Eh. Couples fight all the time,” Aria shrugged, clearly still lost in her bubble.

Estelle couldn’t help but scoff internally. Jimmy and Aria’s relationship wasn’t a fight. It was a war—a war that Aria was too naïve to recognize. She thought she could fix him, change him, but Estelle knew the truth: a guy like Jimmy didn’t change. He just used people, breaking them down little by little and then discarding them when he was finished milking their life energy.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the thought of his lingering look before he left. The way he looked at her…like a predator sizing up its prey. She hated herself for wanting it, for wanting to see just how far this twisted game would go.

But she would play along. For now.

-----------------

The victory party was like any other—loud, crowded, and filled with endless cheers for the star quarterback, Jimmy Uso. As usual, he was the center of attention, basking in the afterglow of his game-winning performance. But tonight, there was something different in the air. Aria and Jimmy, typically inseparable, walked into the party with tension hanging between them. Estelle noticed it immediately—the sharpness in Aria’s tone as she berated Jimmy in front of everyone. The argument was escalating, and the noise of the party almost seemed to fade into the background.

“I’m fuckin' done, Jimmy! I can’t keep doing this!” Aria’s voice rang out, and it seemed like a declaration that everyone in the room could hear. “You never change. I’m done for good!”

"Well, fuck you, then! Get your ass gone! I don't give a fuck no more!" Jimmy fired back, his voice laced with frustration. He looked every bit the part of the star he was—athletic, confident, with the cocky grin that Estelle had seen a hundred times before. But tonight, it seemed like that mask was slipping.

She couldn’t, even as Aria stormed off, help but notice how good he looked in his letterman jacket, his French braids sleek and tight. She tried to ignore the pull she felt in her chest, the way her heart raced whenever he was around. It was a feeling she had been denying for far too long.

She had been thinking about him more than she should, and now, seeing him embroiled in this fight with Aria, it only made her feel more confused. She didn’t like Aria, but she couldn’t help feeling guilty about the growing attraction she had for Jimmy.

As she sipped her punch, trying to stay out of the chaos, she was startled by a familiar, unwanted voice. Grayson, the campus creep with his smooth Australian accent and cocky attitude, sauntered up to her with a smirk plastered on his face.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, his hand already reaching out for hers. “Wanna dance?”

Estelle rolled her eyes, already fed up with his advances. She wasn’t in the mood for his usual harassment. “No thanks, Grayson,” she said coolly, stepping back.

But Grayson wasn’t so easily deterred. He reached out and grabbed her wrist with a firm grip, yanking her toward him. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m just asking for one dance,” he insisted, his words slurring slightly from too much alcohol.

“Let go of me,” Estelle snapped, trying to pull her arm free. But he was stronger, his grip tightening as he pulled her closer.

“Aw, what’s the matter? You think you’re too good for me now? I’ve seen you eyein' me, babeee,” Grayson slurred, his breath hot against her face. His words were laced with an arrogant sneer, and Estelle could see the intoxicated aggression building in his eyes.

Before she could react, there was a commotion from across the room. In a flash, Jimmy appeared, his presence a thunderous force. He shoved Grayson hard, sending him stumbling back. “Get your fucking hands off her!” he growled, his voice rough and filled with anger. His usual confident demeanor was replaced with something far more intimidating.

Grayson attempted to stand his ground but was no match for Jimmy. With a swift shove, Jimmy forced Grayson back again, hard, this time sending him crashing into a nearby table, punch spilling everywhere. “You’re lucky I’m not putting you on your ass right now,” he spat, his fists clenched in fury.

The whole party had gone quiet, everyone watching the scene unfold in stunned silence. Estelle stood frozen, her heart racing from the adrenaline, and a strange mixture of gratitude and guilt filled her chest.

Without sparing another glance, he turned on his heel and stormed off, his face twisted in frustration. She didn’t know what came over her, but she found herself following him. She needed to say something. She needed to thank him, at least.

She found him in the pool house, sitting on the bed, his arms crossed tightly, as if he was holding in all the anger and frustration that had been building throughout the night.

“Jimmy?” Estelle said quietly, walking toward him, her heart lurching when he stared up at her with soft eyes. “Hey, thank you…for saving me back there.” She paused, searching for the right words. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at her, his jaw clenched. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand over his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so fucking tired of this shit,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Tired of the constant fighting, of pretending everything’s fine. Aria and me…we just keep going in fucking circles. I can’t keep doin' this.”

Estelle sat beside him, her heart unexpectedly softening. She wasn’t sure how to console him—this wasn’t the cocky, untouchable quarterback she usually saw. This was a guy who seemed genuinely torn, frustrated with the mess he’d found himself in. She didn’t know what to say, but she couldn’t stand to see him like this.

“I get it,” she said quietly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Relationships are complicated. But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Jimmy turned to her then, his eyes filled with an emotion she couldn’t quite place. He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time, like everything else had faded away. She found herself fidgeting under his intense stare.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Estelle,” he said suddenly, his voice raw, almost desperate. “I’ve always wanted you. I think about you a whole lot more than I should.”

Estelle’s breath hitched in her throat. She had expected a flirtation, maybe a casual comment, but not this. Not this bold, looking at her with such intensity, such hunger. She had always known there was chemistry between them, but she hadn’t expected it to feel this electric.

Before she could even process what was happening, his lips were on hers, his hands pulling her closer, crushing her body against his. The kiss was hungry, urgent, filled with a rawness that left Estelle dizzy. She kissed him back, feeling that familiar rush of desire that she couldn’t deny.

He pulled her down onto the bed, his body pressing against hers. The air between them was thick with tension, his hands moving under her dress as he ground against her. Everything in her screamed to give in to this moment, to stop thinking and just feel.

But then, as the intensity of the moment surged, something in Estelle’s mind snapped. She broke the kiss, breathless, her chest rising and falling with quick, uneven breaths. Jimmy stared at her, confused for a second, then pressed his lips back to hers. But she pulled away, her hands shaking as she gently pushed him off her.

“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t…I can’t do this.”

Jimmy’s expression faltered, his eyes narrowing in an uncomfortable myriad of confusion and frustration. “What the hell, E? I thought…I thought you wanted—”

“I do, I mean, I did. But I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said, quickly sitting up and pulling her clothes back into place. “I can’t be the other woman. This isn’t right.”

Jimmy didn’t say anything. He just stood up, his anger quickly returning as he stalked out of the pool house, leaving Estelle sitting there, her head spinning.

She left the pool house shortly after, her mind a chaotic mess. She didn’t even know how to process what had just happened. The game she had been playing with Jimmy was no longer fun. Now, she realized, there was something real there, something deeper than just attraction, at least from her end.

But the guilt that gnawed at her felt overwhelming. She didn’t like Aria—not at all—but she knew this would hurt her. And as much as Estelle tried to justify it, the truth was that she was in too deep. Just like Aria, she had feelings for Jimmy now, and it was more complicated than she ever expected.

------------------------

The next few days felt like a blur for Estelle. She had been avoiding both Aria and Jimmy since that night in the pool house, finding solace in the quiet solitude of the campus library. She spent her time studying, burying herself in textbooks, trying to ignore the turmoil swirling in her mind. But the avoidance was taking its toll. Every moment she spent apart from Jimmy made her heart ache, and every time she saw Aria, guilt gnawed at her, despite their complicated dynamic.

It was the night before the weekend, and Estelle had been in the library until it was nearly closing. Her head was aching from hours of studying, but she was trying to keep away from the inevitable confrontation she knew was coming. She could feel the tension thick in the air, a pressure building in her chest as she packed up her things.

As she walked toward the door, she froze when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was Jimmy. His cologne was like a storm to her, strong and overwhelming. She tried to ignore him, quickening her pace, but he was faster, reaching her with a few strides.

“E,” he called out, his voice low and commanding, “Estelle!”

She stopped in her tracks, her body stiffening. She didn’t want to face him. She couldn’t face him.

“Stop avoiding me,” Jimmy’s voice was firm, almost a growl, and she could hear the frustration in his tone. “I know what you’re doing. I’m not gon’ let you keep running from this.”

Estelle turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. She wanted to argue, to tell him she needed space, but her body betrayed her. She was drawn to him, the way he stood there, all confidence and power. His eyes were dark with desire, and was impossible to hide the fact that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

“Jimmy, I—” she began, but her words died in her throat as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

Before she could react, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward the back of the library, away from the prying eyes of students still lingering in the hall. They reached a quiet, secluded area, dimly lit by the faint glow of a single desk lamp.

Without warning, he pushed her against one of the shelves, his body pinning hers in place. She gasped as her back hit the cool wood, and his lips were suddenly on hers, fierce and demanding. The kiss was hungry, desperate, as if he couldn’t wait any longer. She moaned softly, her body responding to him without thinking, feeling an ache deep inside her that only he could satisfy.

His hands roamed over her body, sliding down her sides, pulling her closer, and she couldn’t help but melt into him. The intensity of the kiss, the heat of his touch, sent shockwaves through her. She wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, she had stopped trying to fight it. Her hands found their way to his chest, gripping his jacket, and she kissed him back just as fiercely.

He pulled away for a breath, his forehead resting against hers, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I know you want this,” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “I know you’ve been thinking about me just like I’ve been thinking about you.”

Estelle’s lips parted as she tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft, breathless moan. She could feel the warmth of his body, making hers ignite in a way she had never experienced before.

Jimmy,” she whispered breathlessly when he pulled back, but his hands were already sliding down her sides, gripping her hips, holding her in place.

“You been driving me crazy, Estelle,” he muttered, his mouth on her ear. “Walking around like you don’t know how bad I want you.”

She gasped as his hand slipped beneath the hem of her skirt, his fingers brushing the edge of her panties. “We shouldn’t—”

“Yes, we should,” he interrupted, his tone commanding. His fingers slid under the fabric, finding her already slick and warm. “You’re so wet for me. You can’t lie about what you want.”

Her head fell back against the shelf, a soft moan escaping her lips as his fingers pressed deeper, curling just right. His other hand cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Say it,” he murmured, his voice dark and heavy. “Say you want me.”

“I…” Her words caught in her throat, swallowed by another moan as his fingers pumped inside her with purpose, his thumb grazing her sensitive spot.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice dripping with authority. “I know you holdin' back. Let me hear you.”

Her resolve crumbled as his touch drove her higher, her body responding to him in ways she couldn’t control. “I want you,” she finally breathed, her voice trembling. “Fuck, I want you, Jimmy.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his lips grazing her neck as he continued to work her with skilled precision. “I don't care if we in a library. Let it all out. Give it to me.”

Her body arched against him as she gave in completely, the tension snapping with a hot wave of pleasure that left her trembling in his arms. He watched her closely, a wicked grin tugging at his lips as she came undone for him.

“You’re so damn beautiful like this,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire. He pulled his hand away and licked his fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. “Sweet as I thought you’d be.”

Estelle’s cheeks burned, but her body buzzed with satisfaction. She couldn’t find the words to respond. Jimmy pulled her close, his lips still inches from hers.

“Aria’s going home for the weekend,” he said, his voice laced with quiet intensity. “She’ll be with her parents. I’m coming to see you.”

Estelle’s heart skipped a beat at his words. A part of her wanted to say no, wanted to back away from the situation that was spiraling out of control. But another part of her—one that she couldn’t deny anymore—wanted him. Wanted him to come to her.

She swallowed, her breath hitching as she tried to steady her thoughts. “Jimmy, we—this is—”

“I ain’t askin’, E,” he cut in, his voice firm. “I’ll be there. I want you, and you want me. So let's get it. Nuff said.”

The words hung in the air, charged with a promise that sent a wave of heat rushing through her. She couldn’t say no—not when he was looking at her like that. Not when her body was already responding to his every touch.

Without another word, Jimmy kissed her lips, and then stepped back, giving her space but not letting her go completely. He gave her one last look, a look that told her everything he wanted, before turning to walk away, leaving Estelle leaning against the shelves, her heart pounding in her chest.

As she gathered her things, her mind raced. She didn’t know if she was making the right choice, but she knew she couldn’t stop what was happening.

------------------

Saturday arrived, and Estelle was a storm of conflicting emotions. Her heart raced with a mixture of excitement and guilt, the weight of her decision pressing down on her. She’d never imagined this would happen—never thought she’d go this far, but here she was. The pull of Jimmy was undeniable, and as much as she tried to suppress it, her thoughts always circled back to him.

Indeed, Aria had gone to see her parents, leaving Estelle with the house to herself. The silence of the empty space only made her nerves more acute. She couldn’t help but think about what she was about to do. Guilt gnawed at her, the thought of betraying her roommate, her friend, tugging at her heart. But then there was Jimmy, and the excitement of what was about to unfold. Estelle couldn’t ignore it anymore.

She took her time preparing, going about her waxing routine. Each stroke of the razor, each swipe of the lotion, was a moment of preparation, not just of her body, but of her mind. The anticipation was almost unbearable. As she smoothed the last layer of lotion into her skin, her body tingled with the thought of Jimmy seeing her, touching her. The thrill of it was intoxicating.

The hours dragged by slowly, every passing minute heightening her nervous energy. And then, the knock at the door. Her pulse surged as she approached it, her stomach fluttering with nervous anticipation. She opened the door, her breath catching in her throat when she saw him standing there.

Jimmy. His presence was magnetic, his heated gaze scanning her with a heat that sent shivers down her spine. The dim light from the hallway cast shadows across his face, making him appear even more striking. His eyes locked onto hers, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with unspoken desire.

He didn’t need to say anything. His silent approach toward her was enough. Estelle’s breath hitched as he stepped into the house, his body brushing hers ever so slightly, sending sparks through her skin. The air between them seemed charged, and for a moment, it felt as if the world outside had disappeared.

“Ready?” His voice was low, teasing, with a hint of something darker behind it. His lips barely moved as he spoke, but the words felt like a command, a promise of what was to come.

Estelle swallowed hard, her throat dry, her heart thudding in her chest. Her hands were trembling, but she forced herself to steady them. She looked up at him, seeing the same raw desire reflected in his eyes that had been brewing between them for so long.

She nodded, her mouth dry, not trusting herself to speak.

Without another word, Jimmy closed the space between them, his hand sliding behind her neck to pull her closer. "Come here."

The kiss was slow at first—purposeful, teasing, testing. His lips took hers with just enough pressure to leave her wanting more. When she responded, it was as if a dam had broken. The heat between them flared, wild and desperate, as if neither of them could wait another second.

Estelle’s mind screamed for her to stop, to think about what this would mean for her friendship, however tentative it was, with Aria. But the sound of Jimmy’s low moan as he deepened the kiss drowned out her thoughts. Her body reacted instinctively, hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of his chest against hers.

As they broke apart for air, their eyes met again. This time, there was no turning back. The line between guilt and desire blurred, and Estelle knew, deep down, she didn’t want to stop.

Jimmy pulled her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly off the ground, his strong hands gripping her thighs. She gasped at the sudden movement, but it felt right, the way his strength enveloped her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers gripping the soft strands of his braids. He didn’t stop until they reached her bedroom. He laid her down gently on her bed, both sets of eyes dark with desire as they undressed. Estelle’s breath hitched at the sight of his dick as he rolled the condom he brought along over it; thick, long and dangerous, prodding against her folds as they kissed again, deep and slow. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so completely consumed by someone. Every kiss, every touch seemed to melt away the tension inside her, leaving only the need for more. His hands moved with purpose, sliding up the curves of her rounded hips as he hovered over her. His lips trailed down her neck, biting softly before whispering in her ear,

“You been wantin’ this, huh? Don’t lie to me now.” His voice was low, teasing, and laced with desire, leaning into her as he guided his dick into her soaking wet, waiting pussy, both of them letting out throaty gasps at the sweet, sweet intrusion. Estelle’s gasps devolving into broken moans as he slowly rolled his hips, fitting all of himself into her…

“Shit…”

Jimmy’s hand found the small of her back, pulling her closer, their bodies pressing together in perfect rhythm. Her fingers gripped his braids, tugging gently as he kissed her deeply, their mouths and bodies moving in sync. “Jimmy,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, her body arching into his.

He smirked against her lips. “Yeah, baby, say my name,” he murmured, his tone confident but full of hunger. His touch was firm but deliberate, exploring every inch of her like he had all the time in the world. “You so damn fine, I can’t believe I waited this long.”

Estelle’s breath hitched as he moved inside her, his weight pressing her deeper into the mattress. She couldn’t think—didn’t want to think. All she could do was feel. Her hands roamed over his broad shoulders, tracing the outlines of his tattoos as he leaned down, his lips finding hers again.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Jimmy muttered, his voice rough with desire as he guided her hips to meet his. The tension between them built with each movement, every touch sending shivers down her spine. Estelle couldn’t help but moan softly, her nails digging into his back as he kissed her neck, his hands gripping her thighs like he couldn’t get enough. He chuckled low, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Knew you would, baby,” he said, his words sending a shiver through her. “Goddamn…I can stay inside you like this all night.”

“Fuck me,” Estelle begged, her eyes rolling back as Jimmy obliged her, his gaze intense and unwavering, determined to make her feel every ounce of what he was giving her. Before she could blink, he had pulled out of her, barely giving her enough time to register his absence before he flipped her onto her stomach. She was on her knees on the bed, her hands quickly gripping the wooden headboard for support. Estelle glanced over her shoulder, her mouth falling open as he slid back inside her. His fingers tightened on her hips as he pulled her closer, the heat between them palpable. “Throw that shit back. Let me see what you workin’ with,” he ordered with a smack on her ass, admiring the jiggle of her soft skin.

Estelle didn’t hesitate, arching her back and meeting him with a roll of her hips that made his breath hitch. “Like this?” she teased, looking back at him with a raised brow.

Jimmy groaned, his grip on her tightening. “Yeah, just like that. Keep goin’, baby. I got you.”

The room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, the rhythm they created echoing faintly off the walls. His low grunts and her soft moans intertwined, a symphony just for the two of them.

“You feel so good, baby,” Estelle whispered, her voice breathless.

Jimmy leaned forward, one hand sliding up her back until it wrapped gently around the nape of her neck. “You takin’ it like a champ. That recoil fire, baby. Proud of you.” He kissed the back of her neck, his lips lingering against her skin before he pulled back slightly. Any response she had was cut short by a sharp gasp as he drove into her deeper.

“Oh, shit, Jimmy!”

“Love the way you moan my name,” he said, a sexy smirk on his face as he spanked her again. “Move, baby, throw that ass back. You been waitin’ on this.”

Estelle pushed back against him, her movements fluid and confident. Jimmy's deep, gravelly voice filled the room with praises for her, his words a mix of filthy and sweet. Her nails dug into the headboard, her body trembling under his touch, but she kept moving, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Fuck, I’m close…” she moaned.

“Yeah? Come for me…unhhh, shit, there you go, come all over this dick.” He groaned as her pussy gushed all around the length of him, clenching and suckling with each spasm of the orgasm that ripped through her. Only seconds later, he followed suit, pulling her flush against him and holding himself still as he came, spilling all he had into the condom buried inside her. He circled his hips slowly against her ass, making her moan as he gently tugged her up to make their mouths meet in a breathless kiss.

They lay tangled together, the glow of their shared moment wrapping around them like a cocoon. Jimmy’s hand traced lazy circles on her hip as she rested her head against his chest, their breaths slowly evening out. The satisfaction of what they’d just shared still lingered, the warmth of his body next to hers comforting and familiar.

Estelle finally understood why Aria was so smitten with him. Jimmy wasn’t just a college football star; he was powerful, magnetic, and he knew exactly how to make someone feel wanted. She had let herself get swept up in the chaos of their tangled emotions, and now, she was lost in him.

After a moment of silence, Jimmy spoke, his voice low and serious. “Estelle…this has to stay between us. No one can know. Especially Aria.”

Estelle looked up at him, her eyes wide, her chest tightening. It was a lot to ask, but she already knew the answer. She didn’t like Aria. She never had, not really. The guilt that had once weighed on her shoulders had now evaporated, replaced by something else—something that felt more like freedom.

“I understand,” Estelle said, her voice steady, despite the swirling emotions inside her. “It’ll be our secret.”

Jimmy’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, and he kissed her forehead, his muscled arms pulling her closer. “Good. That’s all I need from you. Now let me get back in this pussy and make you come again…”

What had started as a game between them was now something far deeper. And now, as he lifted her hips and sank back back inside her, she realized that she didn’t feel regret anymore. She didn’t need to worry about the future, about Aria, or about the consequences. She was here now, and Jimmy made her feel alive in a way no one else ever had.

Sorry, but not sorry.

THE END

-------------------

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katsu28 · 18 days ago

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hi kait! idk if you’re writing for him but would you do something for max? maybe just waiting for him to finish a race and he doesn’t really have a good one? and maybe being with him and being calm as he comes down from the adrenaline? thank you!!

happy testing week folks!! sorry this took so long, enjoy <3

max verstappen x reader, 1.2k.

Max Verstappen is a winner.

Forged through blood, sweat, tears, and some very questionable parenting tactics, he’s ruthless in a car, something burned into him ever since he set foot into a kart at four years old. Years and years of honing his craft, more hours spent on a track than anywhere else, has made him into one of the best drivers in the world.

He’s got a reputation to uphold, and he can't do that by finishing a race any lower than a podium.

Sure, any points are good points, but P1 points are winner’s points. Anything less means he’s lost. And Max doesn’t like losing.

So when he does lose, he doesn’t always handle it the best. Everyone knows to steer clear of him after a bad race—don’t get in Max’s way or he’ll bite your head clean off, don’t even look Max in the eye unless you want yourself faced with the nastiest bitch stare you’ve ever been subjected to.

There’s a reason he’s called Mad Max.

But if they knew the real him—the real Max, your Max—they wouldn't be quite nearly as judgmental of him. The Max you know is gentle and kind, immensely protective over his loved ones.

He's not some stone cold killer like people and the media make him out to be. He's a person. Your person.

So it's torture for you, hearing him become increasingly frustrated on the radio this whole race, and then watching him climb out of the car and storm past Red Bull personnel in the garage afterwards.

He’s pissed, that much you can tell. Livid, even. If it were physically possible, he’d probably have steam blowing out of his ears. But honestly, you can’t blame him for his anger. This race was a fucking awful one for the books, full of shit strategies, car troubles, track incidents—you name it.

GP catches your eye from the pitwall, silently pleading for you to work magical Max powers, but you were already planning on following your angry boyfriend anyways. He’s definitely going to need to cool down before his post race interviews or he might explode from the overload of adrenaline on national television.

You can already hear Max rambling through the door by the time you approach his driver’s room, and although your Dutch isn’t great, you can make out a few choice words that would make the FIA give him a hefty fine and more community service. A clattering of unknown objects being knocked to the floor comes next, just as you’re expecting.

This isn’t the first time you’ve had to come calm him down after a race, and it certainly won’t be the last, but you seem to be the only person Max is willing to listen to when he gets like this.

Blowing out a sharp exhale through your lips, you push open the door and close it behind you quickly before Max can tell you to go away like he normally does. He might say he wants to be alone, but you know from experience that’s not the case.

He needs someone who won’t judge him, who won’t tell him what he did wrong and what he could’ve done better. He just needs someone to listen.

Max whirls around, ready to cuss someone out, but then his eyes land on you. You don’t say a word as you scoot around him in the tiny room to sit up on his massage table, only here to be a calming presence for him. Now that you’re here, he quiets down quite a bit, only the occasional grumble escaping his mouth as he continues his pacing.

It remains just a matter of time before he’s cooled down enough for you to be able to have a conversation with him. He picks up the water bottles he’d knocked off the table before you came in, and once he’s stopped pacing a hole in the floor, you know he’s ready to talk.

“Shit race, wasn’t it?” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. You open your mouth to respond, but he points at you before you can say anything, not accusatory in any way. “Don’t even answer that, I already know what you’re going to say.”

“How would you know what I was about to say?”

“You’re going to tell me I did good, but I didn’t, I did bad. I fucked it up, there’s no excusing that.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that.” You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest.

Max pauses, uncertainty flickering across his features. It’s the first emotion you’ve seen from him that isn’t anger. “...You weren’t?”

“No, I wasn’t,” You reply. He tilts his head, brows furrowed, and you beckon him forwards, into your open arms. He shifts on his heels a beat, as if he’s fighting the urge to let you hold him, but it doesn’t last long before he gives in, dragging his feet towards you until you’ve got your arms secured around his neck. “I was gonna say you did what you could with what you had. Maybe you’d say it was bad, but I’d say it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.”

“It was bad,” He sighs, letting his chin drop towards his chest dejectedly. “The strategy was shit, the car was shit, the pit stops were—”

“Shit?” You offer, ducking down to catch his eye. A ghost of a smile pulls at Max’s mouth and you take it as a positive sign, tapping along his back almost absentmindedly.

You stay like this for a while with him, sitting together in silence until the tension in Max’s shoulders begin to relax under your touch. The clench in his jaw slowly goes away, as does the crease between his brows and the hardness in his eyes.

It seems like just being here with him is doing the trick much better than trying to convince him he’s done a good job when he’s got it firm in his head that he didn’t. You’re still learning things about Max as you go along, but you like to think you’re doing a pretty good job so far.

Max squeezes his eyes shut, lets out a deep breath, scrubs both hands over his face before focusing in on you again.

You smile at him assuringly, tilting your head. “Ready for your interviews now?”

“I’d be better if you could come with me.”

“Unfortunately I’m not Red Bull personnel, so no, I can’t. But I can wait for you outside the media pen until you’re done.”

“You could be.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be right outside then,” You hum, patting his chest lightly.

“Not that part. I meant you could work at Red Bull. Be part of my team—help keep me in check, keep me calm. Since you know me so well and you’re kind of…already doing it?”

“So you want me to be your therapy dog?” You ask, raising an amused brow.

“Not a therapy dog, that’s not what I meant.” Max shakes his head quickly. Then he smiles a little too mischievously for your liking. “More like a therapy cat.”

“Max Emilian Verstappen, are you calling me a cat?”

“Yes?” He says unsurely, cocking his head. You make an offended noise from the back of your throat. “I mean, no. No, I’m not. I’m just saying, there are certain cat-like qualities that you have, like…a calming presence? And you’re very smart too, and protective, and—am I making things better or worse, because if it’s the latter I will just shut the fuck up right now.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

"Oh, one hundred percent."

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eepwtf · 3 months ago

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PUNISHABLE—soldier boy x catholic boy part 2

find part one here ⤷ part numero uno

warnings; religious guilt and themes, power dynamics, somnophilia, degradation and humiliation kink, jerking off to underwear (i think my boy has a fetish for that, ben lock your underwear drawer), handjobs, jerking each other off, blowjobs, (not lasting even a minute because first time blowjob, ben being a little shit about it) wc: 5.5k

“you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

“liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.”

after that night, you couldn’t look at benjamin the same way. the memory of his hands on you, his voice low and coaxing, lingered like a brand burned into your skin. it churned in your gut, twisting and gnawing until it felt like your insides were corroding, eaten away by the acid of shame. each time you saw him—his easy smirk, the casual way he draped himself over the furniture, the faint smell of him that hung in the air—you felt your stomach turn, the shame rising thick and bitter in your throat.

you couldn’t stay in the room. the air felt too close, too full of him, his presence pressing against you like a weight you couldn’t bear. so you fled. the small catholic temple on campus became your refuge, though it offered no comfort. it was little more than a cramped chapel tucked into an old building, the stained glass faded and chipped, the pews scarred with years of scratches and carvings. the faint smell of candle wax and incense clung to the air, mingling with the scent of mildew from the damp stone walls. the temple became a tomb, and you were the corpse, rotting from the inside out.

you spent hours there, more time than you did in class or the dorm. you’d sit in the shadow of the crucifix, its weathered wood warped and splintering, staring up at the lifeless eyes of Christ as if begging him to look back. the silence was oppressive, heavy and suffocating, but it felt right—like the weight of your sin, tangible and inescapable. you sat for hours in the shadow of his body, staring at the weathered wood, splintering and warped, as if waiting for him to come alive and condemn you. his hands were outstretched, pierced and bleeding, his face frozen in agony. you imagined he looked at you with that same pain, that same accusation, and it broke something inside you.

you tried to pray, the rosary beads dug into your palms, leaving angry red marks that faded too quickly to feel like real penance. you clutched them tighter, grinding the crucifix into your skin until it almost bled, muttering the Act of Contrition until the words blurred together, but the guilt remained, festering like an open wound.

o my God, i am heartily sorry for having offended Thee... the words came out cracked and hollow, meaningless, swallowed up by the suffocating silence of the chapel. …because i dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell... but it was too late for heaven. ...but most of all because they offend Thee, my God...

the guilt felt like chains around your chest, tightening with every syllable, dragging you down into an abyss you could never climb out of. …who art all good and deserving of all my love. You didn’t deserve his love. you didn’t deserve anything.

you took to kneeling on the cold stone floor, refusing the comfort of the pews. the sharp bite of the stone against your knees felt like punishment, the only tangible way to feel the weight of your sins. sometimes you stayed there until your legs went numb, until the pain turned into a dull ache and then into nothingness. other times, you pressed your forehead to the ground, curling into yourself like a body at a wake, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

your whispered prayers became desperate, broken things, half-choked with sobs you tried to silence. “i’m sorry,” you’d mutter, over and over, your voice cracking. “God, i’m so sorry. please, forgive me.” but no forgiveness came. only silence.

at night, you dreamt of fire. the memory of benjamin played on an endless loop in your mind: his hands gripping you, his voice low and coaxing, the heat of his breath against your skin. it burned you from the inside out, an inferno you couldn’t escape. when you closed your eyes, you could still see the smirk on his face, the way his gaze had locked onto yours in the mirror. “such a pretty mess.” the words echoed in your skull, a taunt, a curse, a brand seared into your very soul. you felt it sinking into your flesh, carving itself into your bones. you’d wake up gasping, clawing at your skin, trying to scrape it away. but it was always there, a stain you couldn’t wash off.

you thought about confession, about spilling your sins to the priest behind the screen. but the idea of speaking the truth aloud, of hearing it in your own voice, made your stomach churn. The words “i touched myself, i wanted him, i wanted it” felt too filthy to utter, even in the privacy of the confessional. so you stayed silent.

the darkness festered inside you, growing like a sickness. you began to wonder if this was your punishment—not the fires of hell, but this slow, quiet decay. a part of you hoped it was, because it meant God was still watching, still listening, even if only to damn you.

and yet, no matter how much you prayed, no matter how deeply you knelt, the memory of benjamin lingered. his touch, his voice, his scent—they wrapped around you like chains, dragging you down. you were no longer yourself. you were a sinner, a vessel for guilt and shame, rotting in the shadow of the cross.

each day bled into the next, the hours merging into a haze of suffocating monotony. time slipped through your fingers like sand, gritty and coarse, leaving only the weight of your sins behind. the chapel became your entire world, a dim, crumbling sanctuary where you sought absolution and found only torment. you avoided your dorm, your classes, even the dining hall—anywhere benjamin might be. the thought of facing him, of seeing his smirk twist into something cruel or indifferent, made your chest seize.

still, he haunted you.

he was in every shadow, every flicker of light that danced on the stone walls. his voice lingered in the back of your mind, a low, mocking drawl that you couldn’t silence no matter how many Hail Marys you whispered. and the worst part? it wasn’t just shame you felt.

in the deepest recesses of your mind, where the guilt couldn’t reach, a darker truth festered. you wanted him. you still wanted him. the memory of his hands on you, the sound of his breath in your ear, the warmth of his body pressed close—it didn’t just torment you; it consumed you. late at night, you found yourself replaying it all in your mind, over and over. your body betrayed you in the quiet, a burning need rising up that you couldn’t suppress no matter how tightly you clutched the rosary, no matter how fervently you prayed for absolution.

the shame was unbearable, searing hot and cloyingly thick, but it wasn’t enough to stop the betrayal of your own body. your cock ached, straining against the fabric of your sweatpants, a constant reminder of your weakness. you rolled onto your side in your bed, clenching your fists, digging your nails into your palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. you whispered prayers under your breath, begging for the ache to subside, for your body to stop betraying you. but it didn’t.

it never did.

and then there was benjamin, sleeping across the room. the rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady, filled the small space with a rhythmic calm that only made your torment worse. the soft sighs he gave in his sleep, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed—it was maddening. you hated him for being so effortlessly beautiful, for existing in a way that made it impossible for you to look away.

your hand found its way to your cock before you could stop it, the need too overwhelming to resist. you pressed your face into the pillow, biting down hard to stifle the shameful sounds threatening to spill from your throat. your other hand clutched the rosary still tangled around your wrist, the beads biting into your skin as you stroked yourself, slow and deliberate, trying to stay quiet.

your eyes stayed fixed on him, on the faint glow of moonlight that traced the curve of his jaw, the soft shadows that played across his face. each breath he took seemed louder than the last, each shift of his body under the covers like a whisper meant only for you.

it was wrong. it was so fucking wrong. but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t stop. the crucifix above your bed seemed to watch, its lifeless eyes boring into you as if condemning every shudder, every gasp, every sinful thought. you imagined Christ’s agony, his blood dripping from the crown of thorns, his body nailed to the cross for your sins—and here you were, defiling his sacrifice with every stroke, every filthy thought. it should have stopped you. it should have made you fall to your knees in repentance. but instead, it only made the guilt more unbearable, the shame more suffocating, until the pressure inside you broke. your lips moved in silent prayer even as your strokes quickened, the contradiction tearing you apart. "forgive me, Father," you whispered, your voice choked and broken. but even as you begged for absolution, your body craved release.

your gaze flicked to benjamin. he had shifted in his sleep, one arm flung above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin. the sight made your mouth go dry, your hips bucking into your fist as a low, shuddering moan escaped you. you imagined his hand replacing yours, his voice a low, mocking drawl coaxing you to give in. the thought alone sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your breaths coming faster, more desperate. “ben,” you whispered, the name slipping past your lips before you could stop it. the sound felt sacrilegious, an invocation of something dark and forbidden.

the beads of the rosary dug deeper into your wrist, the pain grounding you even as your strokes grew frantic. pre-cum slicked your fingers, the wet sound obscene in the silence. the shame was suffocating, a thick, rancid weight that settled in your chest, but you couldn’t stop. your gaze stayed fixed on him, on the soft curve of his jaw, the soft fluttering of his lashes. the ache inside you swelled, sharp and consuming, until it was too much to bear. your body convulsed, thick spurts of cum spilling over your hand, your hips jerking against the mattress as you bit down hard on your pillow to muffle your cries.

the shame was instant and suffocating, crashing down on you like a wave. you froze, your body trembling as the reality of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. benjamin stirred, a soft murmur escaping his lips as he shifted again, his face relaxing back into the peaceful stillness of sleep. you watched him, your heart pounding in your chest, and the weight of your sin crushed you.

you wiped your hand on the sheets, bile rising in your throat as the reality of what you’d done sank in. you whispered a broken prayer, the words cracking in your throat, and vowed never to give in again. but deep down, you knew the truth. you would.

the shame should have stopped you. it should have dragged you to your knees, should have compelled you to throw open the chapel doors and confess everything—every sinful thought, every wretched desire, every stroke of your hand that mocked the sanctity of your faith. and yet it didn’t.

the guilt had only festered, growing into something dark and rotten that you couldn’t contain. and now, hidden beneath your blankets in the suffocating quiet of your dorm, it had led you to this. benjamin’s underwear was clutched in your trembling hand. you’d stolen it—there was no other word for it—plucked it from his laundry basket earlier that day when the dorm was empty, your chest pounding with adrenaline and revulsion. you had told yourself you wouldn’t do anything, that you just wanted to hold it, to feel the weight of him, the scent of him.

but now, here you were, your cock throbbing in your palm, slick with pre-cum as you wrapped the soft fabric around yourself. it was warm from your grip, but not nearly as warm as you imagined it would be if benjamin were still wearing it. the thought sent a shiver through you, your hand tightening as you began to stroke yourself again, this time slower, more deliberate. the waistband of the underwear brushed against the sensitive head of your cock, and you bit down on your lip to stifle a groan.

in your mind, benjamin wasn’t asleep in his bed across the room. he was here, standing over you, wearing nothing but the underwear now wrapped around your cock. you imagined the way it would cling to him, the fabric stretched taut over his hips, his cock outlined against it. you imagined the heat of him, the weight of him pressing against your palm as you slid your hand beneath the waistband, your fingers brushing against his skin.

you imagined him smirking down at you, his voice low and mocking. "you couldn’t help yourself, could you?" he’d say, his tone dripping with condescension. "you’re so fucking desperate for me." your hips bucked at the thought, the motion jerking the fabric tighter around your cock. the shame clawed at you, hot and suffocating, but it only made the pleasure more acute, more overwhelming.

you closed your eyes, the image of benjamin vivid behind your eyelids. you imagined his cock hard against the fabric, slick with his own pre-cum, mixing with yours. you imagined the way he’d groan, low and guttural, as your cum spilled over the fabric, soaking it, staining it. your hand moved faster, the friction of the fabric almost too much, almost unbearable. the scent of him clung to your skin, faint but intoxicating, filling your lungs with every breath. it was wrong—God, it was so wrong—but you couldn’t stop.

"ah—fuck, ben," you whispered again, the word slipping out unbidden, dripping with need and desperation. the sound of his name on your lips sent you over the edge, your body convulsing as your cum spilled over the stolen underwear, thick and hot and endless. for a moment, you couldn’t move. the shame was immediate, cold and biting, sinking into your chest like a blade. the crucifix on the wall seemed to loom closer, its lifeless eyes staring down at you in silent condemnation.

you looked at the mess in your hand, at the fabric now stained with your sin, and bile rose in your throat. you felt filthy, wretched, unworthy of the air you breathed. but even as the shame suffocated you, even as the bile threatened to spill, a darker thought twisted its way into your mind. you imagined slipping the underwear back into benjamin’s laundry basket, unwashed, unclean. you imagined him putting it on, feeling the dampness against his skin, not knowing—never knowing—that it wasn’t his sweat, but yours.

the morning light filtered through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the room. you pretended to sleep, curled beneath your blanket as benjamin stirred in the bed across from you. your body felt heavy with the lingering weight of guilt, your stomach churning as the events of the night before replayed in vivid, shameful detail.

you could hear him moving around—footsteps padding softly across the room, the faint rustle of his laundry basket as he dug through it. your pulse quickened, a sick sort of dread rising in your chest as you realized what he was doing. you squeezed your eyes shut, your breathing shallow and uneven, your entire body tensed as you waited for the inevitable moment when he would find it. the underwear, his underwear. covered in your mess.

the sound of fabric being shifted stopped abruptly, and for a moment, there was silence. your heart pounded in your ears, so loud you were sure he could hear it, but you didn’t dare move. “fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, and your stomach twisted into knots.

you risked the smallest glance, peeking through your lashes just in time to see him holding the underwear up, his brow furrowed as he inspected the faint, crusted stains on the fabric. your breath hitched, panic clawing at your throat. he knows, you thought, the words ringing like a death knell in your mind. but then he shrugged, tossing the underwear onto his bed. “guess it’s just detergent or something,” he said to himself, his voice casual, unconcerned.

relief flooded through you, hot and dizzying, but it was short-lived. because then, to your absolute horror, he began to undress. you turned your face back into the pillow, your entire body trembling as you tried to feign sleep. but no amount of self-control could stop the way your breath quickened, the way your cock stirred traitorously beneath the blanket as you listened to the soft rustle of his shirt being pulled over his head, the faint thud of his sweats hitting the floor.

and then, the sound of him slipping on the underwear.

you couldn’t see him, but you didn’t need to. the image was burned into your mind: benjamin, his toned body half-dressed, the stolen underwear hugging his hips, clinging to him. you imagined the fabric pressing against his cock, damp and sticky with your dried release. “shit,” he muttered suddenly, a note of irritation in his voice.

and then, benjamin turned. you quickly shut your eyes, feigning sleep as your heart hammered in your chest. the sound of his footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped right beside your bed. “you awake, perv?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.

you didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch, praying he’d lose interest and go away. but instead, benjamin chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the quiet room like a taunt. “yeah, that’s what i thought.” you felt the blanket shift, a slight tug as he pulled it down just enough to reveal your growing bulge. the cool air hit you, making your cock twitch beneath the thin fabric of your sweats, and you cursed yourself silently. “look at this,” benjamin murmured, his tone dripping with amusement. his palm pressed harder, rubbing against you through the fabric. you bit down on the inside of your cheek, struggling to suppress the gasp threatening to escape.

“can’t even keep it down in your sleep,” he said, palming you through the fabric. “what were you dreaming about, huh? was it me?” you wanted to die. you wanted to disappear, to sink into the mattress and never resurface. your hips shifted involuntarily, just slightly, into his touch. it was instinct, pure and pathetic, and you hated yourself for it. and oh, benjamin didn’t miss it. “oh, you like that, don’t you?” his fingers curled around the outline of your cock, stroking slowly, teasingly, as if to prove his point. the friction of your sweats and the heat of his hand made your entire body tense, a shudder running down your spine.

“bet you’d like it even more if i used my mouth,” he mused, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “or maybe my hand. would that make you feel better, freak?” your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, as his hand moved with deliberate, maddening slowness. you could feel the heat of his palm, the friction of your sweats against your sensitive skin, and it was driving you insane. “you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

benjamin froze, his smirk audible even before you opened your eyes. “oh,” he said, dragging the word out, his voice dripping with mockery. “so you are awake.” you couldn’t help it; your eyes cracked open, just barely, and you met his gaze. his green eyes were bright with amusement, his smirk sharp and predatory. “figures,” he said, his voice soft and cutting. “couldn’t even keep up the act, could you?” before you could think of a response—or even move—benjamin’s hand moved again, his strokes deliberate, slow enough to make you squirm. you hated him, hated yourself, hated the unbearable heat pooling low in your stomach, but most of all, you hated that you didn’t want him to stop.

and then, to your shock and mounting arousal, he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your sweats, his touch hot and unforgiving against your skin. benjamin’s smirk only widened as his fingers curled around your bare cock, stroking with a firm, teasing grip that made your breath hitch. he watched your face, his green eyes sharp with predatory amusement as he took in every twitch of your features, every shudder of your chest. “look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “so fucking hard for me. bet you’ve been dreaming about this for weeks, haven’t you? jerking off into my underwear, imagining my mouth on your cock.”

the words sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over you, burning hot and stifling in your chest. the guilt churned, twisting your stomach into knots even as your hips bucked into his hand, completely betraying you. you felt trapped between the two warring parts of yourself—the part that wanted to resist, to run, and the part that wanted nothing more than to give in, to let him ruin you completely. “you know what your problem is?” ben said, his grip tightening just enough to make your vision blur. “you’ve been holding back, keeping all that tension bottled up. you’re so fucking repressed it’s almost sad.”

your throat tightened at the accusation, the words hitting a nerve you didn’t even realize was raw. he wasn’t wrong. every day spent in the chapel, every whispered prayer for forgiveness, every shame-fueled confession—it had all built into this. the weight of your own guilt loomed heavy over you, wrapping around your chest like a vice even as benjamin’s touch ignited a fire deep in your core. “you probably think this is a sin, don’t you?” he whispered, leaning in close enough that his breath was hot against your ear. “some terrible, shameful thing. but you don’t look very sorry to me.”

his voice was like a devil on your shoulder, coaxing you further into the abyss. your lips parted, a faint, broken sound escaping as his hand moved faster, slick with precum now, the obscene sounds of his strokes filling the air. “you’re not gonna pray your way out of this one, baby,” benjamin murmured, his tone mockingly sweet. “but don’t worry—i’ll take care of you. all you have to do is let me.” before you could process what was happening, he dropped to his knees, his smirk softening into something almost reverent as he looked up at you. the sight was enough to steal your breath—benjamin, kneeling between your legs, his hands on your thighs as he tugged your sweats down just enough to free your cock completely.

“fuck,” he muttered, his eyes darkening as he took you in. “look at you. so hard, so desperate. you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart.” you wanted to deny it, to shrink away from his words, but the evidence was undeniable. precum beaded at the tip, glistening in the soft morning light. benjamin’s thumb swiped over it, smearing it down the length of your cock, and you couldn’t hold back the broken sound that escaped your throat. he gripped your cock at the base, his hand firm and unyielding as he guided it toward his lips.

the first touch of his mouth was almost too much. his tongue flicked out, teasing the tip, before he took you in slowly, inch by maddening inch. the heat of his mouth was overwhelming, soft and wet and perfect, and your hands clenched the sheets in a futile attempt to ground yourself. “ben—” you choked out, your voice cracking as your head fell back against the pillow.

he hummed around you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. his eyes flicked up to meet yours, sharp and teasing, as he took you deeper, his throat constricting around you in a way that made your vision blur. “relax,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak. his lips were slick and red, glistening with saliva and precum. “let me take care of you, sweetheart. just let go.”

you wanted to. God, you wanted to. guilt clawed at your chest, sharp and suffocating, as your mind flickered with memories of whispered sermons and fire-and-brimstone warnings. this was wrong. every touch, every flick of his tongue, every obscene sound he made was a nail in the coffin of your soul. but benjamin’s mouth was so hot, so wet, and his hands gripped your hips with a strength that kept you grounded, kept you present. “you’re thinking too much,” benjamin said, his voice low and commanding. “stop fighting it. just let me make you feel good.”

he didn’t give you a chance to argue, his mouth enveloping you again with a renewed determination. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he worked you over, his pace slow and deliberate, savoring every moment. you barely lasted a minute. the pressure built too quickly, the heat coiling tight in your stomach and shooting down your spine. your breaths came faster, shallow and desperate, and you tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you.

“don’t you dare,” he murmured, his voice muffled around you. “i want it. cum for me.” the command was your undoing. with a choked cry, you shattered, your hips jerking as you spilled into his mouth. stars burst behind your eyes, your entire body trembling as the release hit you like a tidal wave. benjamin didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch. he took everything you gave him, his throat working to swallow it down, his hands steady on your thighs as he held you through the aftershocks.

when he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, his smirk impossibly smug as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “damn,” he said, his tone full of mockery and amusement. “came so fast i barely got started. guess all that religious repression really does a number on you, huh?” you buried your face in your hands, your cheeks burning as fresh waves of shame crashed over you. But benjamin wasn’t done.

benjamin didn’t hesitate, tugging his sweats down in one smooth motion. the sight hit you like a punch to the gut. he was hard—thick, flushed, and straining against the fabric of the underwear you’d stolen just last night. your stomach churned when you noticed the faint, crusted stain near the waistband, the humiliating evidence of your lack of control.

“unbelievable,” benjamin said, his lips curling in disgusted amusement as he ran a hand over the bulge. “you actually came in my underwear.” he let out a short, derisive laugh, holding the elastic band out so you could see the stain more clearly. “for this?” He shook his head, the smirk tugging at his lips making your stomach flip. heat rose to your face, shame and arousal twisting together into a nauseating cocktail. you tried to look away, but your body betrayed you again, your cock twitching faintly despite the raw, overstimulated ache still pulsing through you.

“oh, no,” ben said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low timbre. “don’t you dare act embarrassed now. not after everything.” His green eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding. “you’re into this, aren’t you?” you shook your head weakly, your voice caught in your throat, but benjamin wasn’t buying it. “liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.” before you could muster a response, Benjamin grabbed your sweats and yanked them the rest of the way down, leaving you completely bare beneath him. his gaze swept over you, predatory and hungry, and your stomach flipped at the way his lips curled into a smirk. “you’re hard again,” he pointed out, his voice thick with amusement. “didn’t even give yourself a minute to recover, huh? you really are desperate.”

benjamin stepped back just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of the said stolen (and stained) underwear, dragging them down his legs with an exaggerated slowness that had your pulse hammering in your ears. when his cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, your breath caught. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered without thinking, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“close,” benjamin quipped, his grin widening into something wicked. “but i don’t think He’s gonna save you now.” he wrapped a hand around himself, his thumb swiping over the head to gather the bead of precum there. his gaze flicked to you, his smirk deepening when he saw the way your eyes lingered.

“guess i can’t blame you for wanting me so bad,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “look at what you’ve done to me.” he gestured vaguely to his cock, his hand stroking slowly, deliberately, as if to taunt you further. the heat of his body was overwhelming as he climbed onto the bed, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your thighs. the heat of his body was overwhelming, his cock hovering just above yours, so close you could feel the faint pulse of it. the sight of him straddling you, his lips twisted into that infuriating smirk, was enough to make your breath hitch.

“i should make you clean up your mess,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. “wouldn’t that be fair?” you swallowed hard, unable to respond. your mouth was dry, your mind spinning, every nerve in your body alight with tension. “but,” he continued, leaning down until his face was only inches from yours, “i think i’ve got a better idea.”

before you could process what was happening, benjamin reached down, his hand wrapping around your cock again. his grip was firm and confident, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head in a way that made your hips jerk involuntarily. then, to your absolute shock, he shifted, pressing his cock against yours. the heat of him, the weight of him—thick and pulsing beside you—sent a bolt of arousal shooting through you so intense it made your vision blur. benjamin hummed, clearly enjoying your reaction, as he wrapped his hand around both of you, his fingers curling tightly to hold you together.

“fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and strained as he began to move. his hand stroked the length of both of you in a slow, maddening rhythm, the friction electric. the slick mix of precum made the slide effortless, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

your head fell back against the pillow, a choked sound escaping your throat as the pleasure built quickly, overwhelming you. benjamin’s gaze stayed locked on your face, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he took in every twitch of your features, every broken gasp that slipped past your lips. “look at you,” he murmured, his tone thick with mockery. “so fucking desperate. you’re not even trying to hold back, are you? just letting me ruin you completely.

you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but the words caught in your throat, tangled up in a mess of shame and arousal. your hips bucked helplessly into his hand, chasing the friction despite the raw ache of overstimulation. “s’not true,” you choked out, your voice weak and trembling.

ben laughed, low and derisive. “no? then why are you fucking into my hand like a goddamn slut?” his words cut deep, but the pleasure was overwhelming, drowning out everything else. the tension coiled tight in your stomach, building faster than you could control. benjamin’s grip tightened, his strokes growing firmer, rougher, as if he could sense how close you were. “pathetic,” benjamin said, his voice a low, teasing growl. “you’re gonna cum already, aren’t you? can feel it—feel how close you are.” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “do it. make a fucking mess. show me how much you need this.”

his words pushed you over the edge. with a low groan, your body tensed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. hot, sticky ropes spilled across your stomach and benjamin’s hand, the sensation so intense it left you trembling beneath him.

but he didn’t stop, his hand stroking both of you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last ounce of your pleasure. his own breathing grew heavier, his pace quickening as he chased his own release. “fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as his hips jerked forward. a moment later, he came, his cum mixing with yours in a sticky mess across your stomach and his hand.

for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the sound of your ragged breathing. benjamin sat back slightly, his chest heaving as he looked down at the mess between you. “well,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “guess you weren’t the only one who couldn’t hold back.” you groaned, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away, but benjamin only laughed, leaning down to press a kiss to your jaw. “don’t worry,” he murmured. “i think it’s cute.”

#eepwtf’s works ! ( •)▄︻テحكـ━一💥#x male smut #x male reader #top x bottom #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x male reader #catholic guilt #religious trauma #catholic boy #soldier boy x reader

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