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mssalo · 23 days ago

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dirty old man - the doctor’s office

When the doctor steps out, Joel wastes no time pulling you onto his face, turning the check-up into a filthy game of control and desire.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, age gap, caretaker f!reader, Joel is a perverted old man (imagined age 60-70), reader in her 20s, DDLG dynamic, daddy kink, exhibitionism, oral (female receiving), public setting (doctor’s office), risk of being caught, degradation, size difference, explicit sexual content, perverted/dirty talk.

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The sterile smell of the doctor's office felt like the most routine part of your day—a place you and Joel had visited plenty of times for his regular check-ups.

But underneath the fluorescent lights and the ordinary medical examination, there was a palpable tension, one that had nothing to do with Joel's health and everything to do with the dynamic you’d built together.

Joel lay back on the examination table, his shirt off as the doctor began his usual routine, prodding and listening to his chest, but Joel's attention was far from the doctor’s hands.

“Gotta say, Joel,” the doctor began, flipping through his notes. “Your physical condition has improved since your last few visits. I can tell you're in much better shape—more flexibility, blood pressure’s stabilizing. Whatever routine you've been following, it’s working wonders.”

Joel’s eyes darted over to you, and that familiar, mischievous smirk curled at the edges of his mouth.

“Well, doc,” he drawled slowly, “that’s all thanks to my new caretaker here.” His eyes locked onto yours, the look in them full of filthy innuendo. “She’s been keepin' me on my toes.”

Your face flushed instantly, heat rushing to your cheeks as the doctor glanced over at you, completely unaware of the real reason behind Joel’s improved health.

You gave a nervous, awkward laugh, trying to hide the growing embarrassment bubbling up inside you.

"Yeah, well... I try to help as much as I can," you stammered, your voice shaky under the weight of Joel’s smoldering gaze.

The doctor smiled, oblivious, and nodded. "Well, it shows. You’ve done a great job," he said. “It’s rare for someone Joel’s age to make such improvements so quickly. Whatever you're doing, keep it up.”

You forced a smile, trying to maintain professionalism, but Joel’s smirk was growing, his eyes gleaming with that dark satisfaction, fully enjoying the way you squirmed.

"Yeah," Joel muttered, his voice low and teasing. "She’s been real good to me, doc. Keeps me movin’, keeps me... motivated." His eyes lingered on you as he said it, making your heart pound even harder.

You bit your lip, trying to avoid eye contact, but the flush on your cheeks deepened. You knew exactly what Joel was hinting at, and so did he.

The doctor was completely unaware of the layers behind Joel’s words, but you could feel the tension building between you, the silent promises in Joel's gaze making it impossible for you to focus.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s clearly working,” the doctor continued, glancing down at his clipboard. “Your heart rate’s better, blood pressure is steady, and your muscle tone has improved. Honestly Joel, for your age, you’re in remarkable shape.”

Joel chuckled low in his throat, the sound sending a ripple of heat through your body.

The doctor glanced at his clipboard, then gave Joel a brief smile. “I’ll need to step out for a moment to check something with the nurse,” he said casually, already turning toward the door.

As soon as the doctor stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him, Joel wasted no time. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with that familiar possessive grip.

His smirk was wicked, curling at the corners of his lips as he yanked you closer, pulling you between his legs.

“Come here,” he growled, his voice low and rough, already thick with need. His eyes raked over your body, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your skirt up with rough urgency.

“No fuckin' panties, just like I told ya. Good girl. Now get up here and sit that sweet pussy on my face.”

Your breath hitched, and you glanced nervously at the door, your heart racing.

“Joel… we’re in a doctor’s office,” you whispered, trying to sound logical, but the heat between your legs was already giving you away.

“Don’t give a damn,” he muttered, his hands tightening on your hips, pulling you closer until you were standing right in front of him. “I’ve been thinkin’ about your cunt all fuckin' day. Now, I’m gonna have it.”

The way he talked to you—filthy, raw, unapologetically possessive—set your body alight with anticipation.

You hesitated for just a moment longer before finally giving in, climbing up onto the examination table. Your hands shook slightly as you straddled his chest, your bare folds hovering over his face, already slick with arousal.

“Fuckin' look at you,” Joel growled as he pulled you down, his breath hot against your dripping core.

“You’re so wet, baby. This pussy’s fuckin' soaked for me.” He slid his hands around your hips, gripping them tight as he positioned you just where he wanted you.

“I wanna see every part of you, darlin’. Spread those legs nice and wide for me.”

Your legs trembled as you obeyed, spreading yourself open for him, your wet, swollen clit exposed to his hungry eyes. He groaned, his breath ragged with lust as he looked at you, his lips parting slightly.

“Goddamn, baby,” he muttered, his voice thick and rough. “Look at how swollen that little clit is. You’ve been waitin' for this, haven’t ya?”

Without waiting for a response, Joel’s tongue flicked out, the first slow, deliberate stroke dragging over your clit.

You gasped, your fingers gripping the edge of the exam table as your body jolted with pleasure. He wasn’t gentle—his mouth latched onto you, sucking hard, his tongue swirling over your clit with rough, practiced strokes.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your voice shaky as you tried to stay quiet.

The obscene sounds of his mouth on you filled the small room, wet and slick, and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning too loudly.

Joel groaned against you, the vibrations sending a shiver through your entire body. “This fuckin' pussy,” he growled between licks, his words muffled as he sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue lapping greedily over you.

“Tastes so goddamn good. I could fuckin' drown in it.”

You moaned softly, your thighs trembling as his tongue flicked over your swollen clit again, faster this time, more insistent. He sucked hard, drawing your sensitive bud into his mouth, then flicked his tongue over it in rapid, merciless strokes.

You could feel your pulse pounding between your legs, your body already trembling with the need to come.

“Fuck, Joel… we have to—” you gasped, but he cut you off with a growl, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulled you down harder onto his face.

“Shut the fuck up and ride my face,” he growled, his voice thick with need. “I don’t care if we’re in a fuckin’ doctor’s office. I’m gonna make you come all over my mouth.”

You could barely think straight. The filthy heat of his words, the way his mouth moved on you, the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body—it was too much.

Your hips started to rock against him, grinding down on his face as his tongue slid in and out of you, his rough hands guiding your movements.

“That’s it, baby,” Joel muttered between licks, his voice thick with hunger as his tongue dragged slowly up and down your folds, swirling around your swollen clit before dipping back down to tease your entrance.

“Fuck my face. Show me how much you need it. How much you love when daddy eats this sweet little cunt.”

His hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you down even harder against his mouth. His tongue was everywhere—messy, desperate, like he couldn’t get enough.

He flicked your clit with his tongue again, but then he shifted lower, dragging his tongue along your slit, tasting every inch of you. The heat between your legs was unbearable, and Joel could feel how badly you wanted it, how soaked you already were.

He groaned, the sound vibrating through you as his face pressed further into your slick heat, his nose brushing your clit as his tongue explored every part of you.

He wasn't satisfied with just licking—he wanted to bury himself in you, use his whole face to make you come. And that’s exactly what he did.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he growled, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

His tongue moved lower, teasing the edges of your entrance before plunging inside, fucking you with slow, deep strokes.

You moaned loudly, your hands gripping the sides of the exam table as your hips rocked against his face. Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, keeping you in place as he lapped at your pussy like a man starved.

But it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted more. He pulled his tongue out of your hole, dragging it back up to your clit, where he sucked hard before letting go, only to press his entire face against your folds, rubbing it all over your pussy.

His nose nudged your clit, his lips sucking at your wetness, and his tongue slipping everywhere—flicking your clit, sliding between your folds, teasing your hole again and again.

He was relentless, his whole face working against you, his stubble rubbing against your sensitive skin, adding a rough, delicious friction.

You gasped, your body trembling from the intensity of it, and Joel only groaned louder, his tongue darting in and out of your hole before sliding back up to your clit, flicking it in rapid strokes.

“You love this, don’t ya?” he rasped, his voice muffled as he pressed his mouth back to your pussy, his tongue swirling over your clit, his nose bumping against it as he ground his face into you.

“Love when daddy uses his whole fuckin’ face on this pretty little cunt. You’re fuckin’ dripping for me, baby. I’m gonna make you come all over my face.”

Your breath hitched, your hips bucking against him, the pressure building inside you as his face moved everywhere—tongue fucking you deep one second, then sucking on your clit the next. He loved every part of you, and he made sure you knew it.

His mouth, his nose, his whole face was slick with your arousal as he devoured you, using everything he had to make you come.

Joel pulled his tongue out of your hole, dragging it up your slit again, swirling it around your clit before pressing his mouth down hard.

He sucked, his lips closing tightly around your clit as he flicked his tongue over it in quick, teasing strokes. You whimpered, your body trembling as you tried to stay quiet, but it was impossible with how good he was making you feel.

“Fuck, Joel…” you gasped, your voice shaking as the pleasure grew, every nerve in your body on fire from the way his mouth moved over you, claiming you. “I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, his tongue never stopping. “Come on my fuckin’ face, baby. I want it all. I wanna taste every drop.”

His words sent a shiver through you, and with one final flick of his tongue over your clit, you came hard.

Your thighs clenched around his head as your orgasm crashed through you, and Joel groaned in satisfaction, his hands holding you firmly in place as he continued licking, drinking in every bit of your release.

“That’s it, good girl,” he muttered, his lips still pressed to your pussy, his tongue slowly dragging through your folds, savoring the taste of you. “You come so fuckin’ sweet for me.”

Your body trembled, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps, but Joel wasn’t done.

His hands slid up your thighs, squeezing them gently as his mouth moved over you again, slower this time, but just as hungry.

He rubbed his whole face into your slick folds, his nose brushing your clit while his tongue teased your entrance. He wanted to make you come again, and he was determined to get it.

“Fuck, I could eat you all day,” he groaned, pulling back just long enough to look up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes before diving back in, his tongue sliding deep inside you again.

He fucked you with his tongue, his nose pressing against your clit, his mouth wet and messy as he devoured you, completely lost in the taste of you.

“You’re mine,” he growled between licks, his voice low and possessive as he slid his tongue out of you, flicking it over your clit again.

“This pussy is fuckin’ mine.”

You were barely holding on, your body trembling as another orgasm built inside you, the sensation of his face rubbing against your wet heat sending you over the edge.

Joel could feel it—could feel the way your body tightened, the way your breath hitched, and he sucked your clit into his mouth again, his tongue swirling over it in quick, dirty strokes.

"Come again," Joel growled, his voice dark and full of filthy satisfaction. "Come all over my fuckin' face again, baby. Don’t hold back."

You couldn’t. The pleasure hit you like a tidal wave, and you came again, harder this time, your hips grinding down onto his face as your body shook with the intensity of it.

Joel groaned beneath you, his tongue still lapping at your pussy, his whole face drenched in your slick as he continued fucking you with his mouth until you couldn’t take it anymore.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice hoarse but smug, pulling back just enough to smirk up at you. His face was soaked, his lips shiny with your release, and the sight of him like that—dark eyes, glistening mouth—made your stomach tighten all over again.

"Can’t fuckin’ get enough, can ya? Rubbing that sweet little pussy all over an old man’s face."

His words dripped with possessiveness, but there was a teasing warmth behind them. Joel wasn’t disgusted by how much you needed him—no, he was fucking proud.

Proud of how you responded to him, how desperate and soaked you became under his tongue.

You whimpered softly, still trembling, the shame and arousal mixing together in a heady cocktail of need.

"Joel, we’re gonna get caught," you murmured, your breath still shaky.

He chuckled, low and dirty, his hands never leaving your hips as he kept you pinned down.

"Let ‘em catch us," he growled, his voice rough with lust. "Let ‘em see how fuckin’ perfect you look sittin’ on daddy’s face. Maybe they’ll wanna take a fuckin' picture—show everyone how much this sweet young thing needs me.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the risk, the dirtiness of it all making your heart race.

You were already drenched, but hearing him talk like that—pushing the boundary between pleasure and danger—made you even wetter, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

“They’d love to see you like this, wouldn’t they?” Joel muttered, his tongue darting out to swipe at your swollen folds, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through your already sensitive body.

"Bet they’d be jealous. Bet they’d wanna taste you too, but you’re mine, hm, baby?"

You nodded, your voice catching in your throat as his hands squeezed your hips, forcing you to grind harder against his mouth.

His nose brushed your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body as his tongue teased your entrance again, slipping in and out with slow, deliberate strokes.

"You’re all mine," Joel groaned, his words muffled as he pressed his face deeper into your wetness.

“Fuckin’ made for daddy, pretty one. Look how fuckin' soaked you are, baby. Ridin' this old man’s face like you need it to breathe."

Your whole body shuddered as his tongue pushed deeper inside you, fucking you with slow, sensual strokes.

He wasn’t just eating you out—he was worshiping you, using every part of his face to drive you crazy.

His nose bumped against your clit as he flicked his tongue in and out of your tight entrance, his lips wrapping around your folds, sucking and licking like he couldn’t get enough of you.

"God, Joel..." you gasped, your hips moving of their own accord, grinding against him, desperate for more.

The idea of someone walking in, seeing you like this—spread wide, riding Joel’s face while he devoured you—it sent a thrill through you that made your heart race even faster.

"That's it," he muttered, his voice rough and dirty as his hands guided your movements.

"You like this, sweet girl? You love letting daddy take care of you, love how I make you feel. Doesn’t matter where we are—you’ll always be fuckin' mine."

But Joel wasn’t finished. His hands stayed firmly on your hips, his mouth still teasing your swollen, oversensitive clit with slow, lazy licks, as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

"Joel, I..." you whimpered, your voice weak and breathless. "I can’t—"

"You can and you fuckin' will," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "One more, baby. Come one more time for daddy. Show me how much you love ridin' this old man’s face.”

His filthy words sent another shock of heat straight to your core, and before you could stop yourself, you were grinding harder, your slick pussy rubbing all over his face.

Joel groaned, the sound vibrating through you as he sucked your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it in quick, tight circles that had you seeing stars.

“Good girl,” he murmured between licks, his voice full of pride and lust.

“You’re so fuckin' perfect, baby. So tight, so full of energy for me. Daddy loves it when you let me eat this pussy like it’s the last thing I’ll ever taste.”

His tongue flicked over your clit faster, his hands keeping you steady as your thighs trembled around his head.

You were so close again, the pressure building inside you, threatening to overwhelm you. Joel’s mouth moved with expert precision, teasing, sucking, licking—his entire face covered in your slick, his stubble rubbing against your sensitive skin in the most delicious way.

"Come for me again," Joel growled, his tone shifting to something more commanding. "I wanna feel it. I wanna taste it all. Don’t fuckin' hold back, baby."

You moaned, your hips rocking harder against his mouth as the pleasure built higher, higher, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

The tension snapped, and your third orgasm crashed through you, even harder than the last. Your thighs squeezed around Joel’s head, your hands gripping the edges of the exam table for support as your body shook with the intensity of your release.

Joel groaned beneath you, his tongue still working over your clit, licking up every last drop as you came all over his face.

His grip on your hips was unrelenting, making sure you couldn’t move, couldn’t escape the pleasure he was giving you.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Joel muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You come so fuckin’ pretty for me, baby. Just like that. Give daddy everything.”

You collapsed forward, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps, your body trembling as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you.

Joel groaned beneath you, drinking in every last drop of your release, his hands gripping you tightly as he licked you through your climax, his tongue unrelenting.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, finally pulling back, his face a mess of your slick, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “You’re fuckin’ perfect, baby. We ain’t done, though. When we get home, I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll be beggin' for more."

Your body trembled, still coming down from the intensity of your orgasms, but the look in Joel’s eyes told you he wasn’t lying.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smirk playing on his wet, glistening lips as he watched you try to gather yourself.

But before either of you could speak, there was a sudden knock on the door.

Your heart leaped into your throat, and you scrambled off Joel’s chest, yanking your skirt down as quickly as possible.

Panic coursed through you as you hurried to adjust yourself, smoothing your hair, trying to catch your breath.

Joel, of course, was far too amused. He wiped his face lazily, still leaning back on the exam table, that smug smirk never leaving his face as you frantically tried to make it look like nothing had happened.

His eyes twinkled with mischief as he glanced at the door, clearly not concerned in the slightest.

"Come in," Joel called out casually, his voice hoarse but steady, as if he hadn’t just been buried between your legs moments ago.

The doctor walked back in, clipboard in hand, giving Joel a quick glance. "Sorry about the wait, Mr. Miller," he said, then paused as he noticed Joel’s flushed face, the sheen of wetness still visible despite his attempt to wipe it away.

The doctor blinked, clearly taken aback but too polite to say anything directly.

"Must be gettin' hot in here, huh?" the doctor remarked with a chuckle, trying to laugh off the awkwardness.

"This age, it’s making us all feel a bit warmer, huh? Happens to the best of us."

Joel, the devilish smirk never leaving his face, tilted his head slightly, catching your eye for just a second before replying, "Oh, you could say that, doc. It definitely gets me feelin’... hotter than usual."

His tone was thick with double meaning, so much so that you had to suppress a smile.

The doctor, oblivious to the real reason behind Joel’s flustered state, simply nodded and made some notes on his clipboard.

"Well, let’s make sure everything’s looking good. Just a quick check-up, and you’ll be out of here."

Joel shot you a look as the doctor moved to his side, leaning in to examine him.

His eyes twinkled with filthy satisfaction, his lips twitching as though he was barely holding back another comment.

"Yeah," Joel said quietly, just loud enough for you to hear. "Feelin’ better already."

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…..I dont know what to tell y’all 😭

I’m glad some of you like older!Joel 🫶🏼 I love reading your comments and reblog notes - thank you so much!!

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luveline · 1 year ago

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maybe a bombshell!reader where she is OBSESSED with touching and making out with glasses!reid and he is so confused why she is always all over him. i think bc he never went thru that horny teenage phase, or even the "honeymoon" phase of a relationship, he doesnt quite understand why she is acting that way (not that he's complaining)

tysm for requesting ♡ fem, 1k

There's something soft under Spencer's cheek. His lashes brush against it like the wing of a trapped butterfly as he wakes, his fatigue a weight on his tongue. He wonders where he is for a worrying moment, hand stretched out to feel the couch cushions beneath him.

The sounds of you reach him from down the hall. The crinkling of your coat set up on a hook near the door, the squeak of your shoes on hardwood, and the familiar lilt of your voice as you sigh, speaking to yourself in quiet tones, "Unlucky."

He rubs his eyes and sits up. "What's unlucky?" he asks, his throat burning. He must've been sleeping open-mouthed, which is perfect. Attractive, he thinks scathingly. He's less annoyed and more disgusted when he feels the dried drool in the corner of his mouth.

You don't answer him. Spencer forces his tired eyes to work, sitting up on knees on the couch to try and get a look at you. He can't see into the kitchen from here, to his dismay, but he can hear the contents of your fridge door clinking together.

You turn the corner with a bottle of water in your hands. When you see him waiting for you your smile bumps up a notch, pretty to cataclysmic, world-ending and life-ruining, all manner of awful as you hurry down the hall in your socks to kiss him.

Why you'd want to is anyone's guess. He can imagine how he looks, curls matted at the back and frizzy at the sides. Spencer can't help cringing as your fingers weave into the hair at the nape of his neck, your lips a soft pressure against his for a few more blissful seconds.

You pull back concisely. "You fell asleep?" Your hand comes up, your thumb rubbing gently at his nose bridge. With your other hand, you press the bottle of water to his shoulder. "With your glasses on?"

He nods in defeat. If he didn't look like a mess, if he hadn't face planted into your fancy couch in his rumpled jeans, even if he were at his best, he's still hopeless, because they messed up his contacts again. You're vocally fond of them even if he hates them.

"I remember the first time I saw you without them," you say, your kind thumb moving to rub a fond quarter circle into his cheek. "You were," —you steal a kiss, your nose pressed to his, pulling back and pushing in between words— "chasing the tail of that movie star." Kiss, kiss. He loses his grip on the water in favour of your arm. "You looked," —your kisses turn melty warm and impossibly softer— "so, so shy."

You pull away to card his hair back. Not particularly gentle but never cruel, you rake his curls out of his face swiftly. "How come you never get shy with me?"

"Don't pretend I never did," he says. It's embarrassing but it happened.

"Fine, you did." You tuck his hair behind his ears. "Not as often as everyone thought you would."

"You were kidding. Or, I confidently thought you were kidding. I could write it off as a joke, pity–"

His timidity with you rose and fell and rose again. These days it simmers, waiting for you to surprise him or tease him or do as you're doing now, rounding the couch to push at him until he sits. You ease into his lap, mostly off of him, a knee to his right and a knee between his legs as your arms circle his back. He's quick to hug you rather than have you slip backward out of his arms.

"I never pitied you," you say, kissing him again, no signs of stopping. "Don't say that. It's not true. I saw you were a catch before anyone else did, that's all."

Spencer can't argue with you. He's honestly not interested, distracted by your weight and the heat of your lips as they part against his. To go back and tell the Spencer from a year ago that his bombshell of a coworker, the one who flirts with a sticky charmed smile, who sits on the lip of his desk making eyes at him, and who never takes the easy blows, wasn't joking? It would stunt his brain. It might send him into a cardiac episode.

To tell him that she's in his lap more often than not?

Spencer's lucky to be alive. He laughs as he thinks it, his stomach stirring while you scratch carefully at his scalp.

"What?" you ask, voice a stretched murmur, close enough to husky to wind him. "Tickles?"

"No," he says, "nothing, it's nice."

He's greedy and a total amateur, pulling your face back down to his in hopes of sparking another heavy kiss. You're enticed for a bit, but Spencer knows his laugh is bothering you, so he steals a last rough kiss before dropping his forehead into your cheek.

You pet his neck softly. "What, Spence?"

"It's just unreal, sometimes. It's weird." He can't hide, his glasses jabbing into his eye.

When he lifts his head, you breathe out a laugh and take the glasses from his nose. You fold them, set them carefully on the couch beside you, and meet his gaze fondly. Your lashes kiss in the corners with your smile, pretty lips a balmed pout. He can feel the waxy transfer your kisses have left on his own lips and the skin around them. You're enthusiastic.

"What's weird?" you ask.

"How much you like me."

"Have you ever heard of the honeymoon phase?"

"The romance feeling very intense at the start of a relationship until we're used to one another," he answers.

"Right. Well, I'm used to you. I intend on honeymooning with you until you die. And you're in your prime, sweetheart, so…" You lean in with your head tilted heavily to the side, pausing with your lips only just touching his. "You'll have to get used to it," you whisper, waiting.

Spencer kisses upward slowly. You sigh into his mouth, double when he paws at the small of your back and squeezes you close to his chest, thankful you took off his glasses.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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gloomwitchwrites · 9 months ago

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What Are We (3 of 4)

John Price x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): light angst, soft!Price, heavy suggestive themes, canon-typical swearing

Word Count: 978

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

Not interested in playing games, Price makes it clear what he wants.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // what are we masterlist

“Are we doing this or no, love?”

You glance up from your morning tea, surprised. “What?”

John crosses his arm and leans against the edge of the counter. He’s only wearing sweatpants, and his bare chest is distracting. He might be older, but John is just as strong as the younger men that work under him. Those large arms of his are all corded muscle and protruding vein. His chest and stomach have a thickness to them that speaks to more than simply going to the gym.

“Us,” he replies. “What are we? What are we doing?” He sounds slightly huffy. Not angry, just impatient. In need of an answer.

You swallow down the burning liquid and nearly grimace from the heat. “I—what do you mean?”

One eyebrow rises, almost in chastisement. Which is fair since you know what John is pushing back about even as you feign innocence. Right now, you don’t want to face the reality. What you and John have is so peaceful that pushing it forward—or back—might disrupt the quiet, shattering it all like smashed glass.

John sighs, and reaches out, placing his large palm over the mouth of your tea mug. His fingers grip it, and you know to let it go, to release your hold. John sets the mug down on the counter next to him.

Spreading his legs, John uncrosses his arms, holding them out in front of him. “Come here,” he murmurs, and the tone is so soft and inviting that you immediately comply, entering his arms like melted butter over toast.

Fuck, he’s warm. A furnace.

You wrap your arms around his middle, and John does the same, tucking you against his body. “We live together,” he says.

“Yes.”

“We sleep in the same bed.”

You nod. “That we do.”

The corner of his mouth twitches with amusement. “I’ve met your bloody parents.”

“What’s your point?” you ask, haughty and stubborn.

Price’s hand drops lower. Squeezes. The power behind it forces you further against him, and you feel everything, especially the hardness that hasn’t appeared to abate since the morning’s quickie.

“My point, is that we need to call this what is it.”

Shit. This is it. You’re going to have to face the reality of this and look it in the face. You and Price are not simply friends. You are not even friends with benefits or a uncomplicated fling. This is real. Truly and utterly real and yet you keep denying what sits in front of you.

You and John are a couple. That is what this is.

He has met your parents. He has met your friends. You know his coworkers—at least the ones he trusts enough to share your existence with. The two of you talk about the future together, never pivoting away from the possibility of separation.

Everything happens together. Everything.

So why keep denying it?

“I’m not looking to play games, love.” John reaches up and slides his hand to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your throat. “With my career, I need stability when I come home.” He hugs you closer. “I want you as my wife. Little versions of us running around.”

He closes the distance, lightly pressing his lips to yours. With the hold on your throat, John is a bit possessive with it, a little rough in the way he holds you. It’s such a contrast to how his lips caress your skin, tasting softly.

John releases your lips, pulling back just enough to stare into your eyes. “If you don’t want these things, you tell me now.” The husky drop in his voice sends a shiver straight to your core, makes you slick between the thighs.

Returning to your lips, John’s pressure increases, becomes slightly desperate. Slightly choking with his need to get his point across. You need to make a decision. You need to tell John what you want.

Because, you do want him. You crave him every second of every day. But this is a massive step, and John’s life is an unpredictable assortment of missing time and extended absences. The stability John desires is something you are more than willing to give, but you also don’t want to carry that burden all on your own.

“What happens when you’re not here, John?” you ask, once he’s ceased kissing you. “And even when you are, am I to take up the mental load?”

There are times when you will need to give more, or John might have to, but you don’t want to be left to do it all yourself. John’s job is difficult. It can be traumatizing and stressful, but you need to know if he’ll be present when he returns.

You don’t need to elaborate. You don’t need to explain. John already knows. He understands.

“Coming home to you in between is the happiest I’ve ever been. I just want you here. Everything else is negotiable.”

You smile against his mouth. “I thought you said you wanted little versions of us running around?”

John shrugs. “I do. If you don’t, that’s fine.” Both hands fall away from your body to firmly squeeze your ass. “But I will fuck you like we’re trying.”

“John!” you rear back and playfully smack his chest.

He nuzzles your neck and inhales, drawing you right back into him. “We can go try right now.” John lightly presses his pelvis against you and you smile as his desire creates a pressure between your bodies.

“We don’t have anything planned today,” you murmur.

John squeezes harder. “Exactly, love. We have the whole day.”

taglist:

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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 1 year ago

Text

Perfect Family

Pairing: Dark Peter Parker x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Peter knows you’re about to break up with him. So what’s the next logical step? Get you pregnant, obviously.

WARNINGS: Babytrapping; Toxic relationship; Birth control Tampering.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

Peter knows exactly what you’re planning, after all he knows everything about you. You’re his other half, his soulmate.

That’s how he knows you’re planning to break up with him. When he found out through the messages you had been sending your best friend he couldn’t believe his eyes.

How could you ever want that? You love him, he’s sure of that.

You’re always telling him you love him, before you leave for your college or when you’re about to go to bed. Even if it’s with a blank face, rushing the words out of your mouth before you walk away, without a sincere smile.

He makes sure to keep an update on the messages, his heart practically skipping a beat when you reveal your plan to break-up after your first-year anniversary, just a few weeks away.

Peter forces himself to remain calm and to act as if he knows nothing, keeping up with the caring boyfriend’s character. He can’t raise suspicion now.

If his plan works out, you won’t be going anywhere.

“I’m pregnant.” you declare with a shaky voice. Peter stops, the plate falling off his hold and crashing into the ground.

“Peter, I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know how this happened, I swear I took the birth control pills every day, I never missed them!” you exclaim, twisting your hands in anxiety.

Peter looks at you, his face completely expressionless and you fear the worst. You drop your head, panic starting to grow stronger. Peter is going to hate you for ruining everything.

You’re about to ruin both of your futures, but his especially. He wants to go to MIT, not become a dad so soon.

“I’m truly so sorry and I-” Peter runs to you, elevating you into the air and swirling around as he lets out loud chuckles.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna be a dad. Fuck, that’s the best news ever.” he exclaims, carefully dropping you back onto your feet. You clean the tears with the back of your hand, a small hopeful feeling growing inside you as you look at him. He looks radiant, much happier than what you had predicted.

“R-Really? You’re not mad at me?” you hesitantly ask. Peter fondly smiles at you, cupping your cheek.

“I could never be mad at you for this. It takes two to make a baby. Besides, it was always part of our future plans, right?” he says, dropping the last sentence with a lightly sketchy tone as if he’s waiting for you to agree but you ignore it, it’s probably your imagination acting up.

You can’t be a single-mother, you already know you won’t be able to deal with it and your child deserves to have both its father and mother together in their life, it’s the least you can do.

You can’t abandon Peter anymore.

You nod as Peter drops on the ground, pressing his head against your belly. Your hand instinctively goes to his head, caressing his brown hair and his hand comes to cover your own.

“This is perfect.” Peter whispers, pressing kisses towards your belly, where your baby is developing. “You, me and our baby. A perfect family.”

#@mrsdarkandyandere7 #yandere avengers #yandere marvel #yandere peter parker #dark marvel #dark peter parker #dark peter parker x reader #yandere peter parker x reader #dark!peter parker #dark!peter parker x reader #yandere!peter parker #yandere!peter parker x reader #tw: yandere #tw: birth control tampering #tw: baby trapping #yandere x reader #yandere x you #tw.baby trapping

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tasteleeknow · 2 years ago

Text

ZIPPER

PAIRING: minho x fem!reader GENRE: smut. fluff. established relationship. CONTENT: 18+ only. shy reader. marking. desperation. mutual obsession. unprotected intercourse. biting. body worship. overstimulation. mention of violence. oral (m. rec). WORD COUNT: 4.3k

NOTE: yeah it’s my birthday tomorrow and i wrote this as a gift to myself. @lino-nyangi and @tasteracha encouraged this. no other comment at this time.

SUMMARY: when your boyfriend asks you what you want for your birthday, only one thing comes to mind. you want to dress him in an outfit of your choosing.

PART ONE | DRABBLE: SWEAT | PART TWO

You’re backed up against the wall when the door opens, mentally preparing yourself for seeing him in the outfit you’d picked out. He’d laughed as you’d explained what you wanted for your birthday, eyes on the floor at the embarrassment of it all. You wanted to go out and pick an outfit and have him wear it for you. He only ever wore baggy pants, t-shirts and hoodies. You love him in whatever he wore but he never showed off all the work he’d put in at the gym. Despite his relentless teasing at your request, he’d agreed. Of course he agreed. He always did. He might act like everything was the biggest inconvenience he’d ever faced in his life, but he hadn’t turned you down once since you’d been together. You’d learned that’s just how he was. He never wanted anyone to know how much he cared.

He looks up at you the moment the bedroom door shuts behind him, tugging his pants up his waist a little. You press your lips together as he looks at you expectantly.

“Well?” he prompts.

You say nothing, taking in the sight of him in the tight, black, short sleeve shirt. It clings to him just like you’d imagined. He’d whined and thrown his head back as you’d measured him a few weeks earlier, slipping the measuring tape around his bare chest and then around his biceps. You wanted to get this right. He’d made you give him a back massage in return for all his saintly patience. It was worth it now you’re taking in the results. Your eyes trail down his matching black pants to his big black boots, you can't make yourself regret the money you’d spent on them: despite it being the most you’d spent on shoes in a long time. Your cheeks warm as you fail to meet his eyes again, keeping your gaze on his boots as he makes his way over to you.

“No comment?” he questions. You can hear the smirk in his voice. He was in his comfort zone, despite the clothes unlike anything he’d tried before. You had always been a little timid, overwhelmed easily. He approached the world very differently, self assured and confident. Only the people closest to him ever got to know his weak points, his soft centre and secret insecurities.

He tilts your chin up when he reaches you, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Disappointed?” he asks, well aware you weren’t. You knew he enjoyed it when you got shy, it boosted his ego.

“It’s pretty.”

He grins, tracing his finger down your neck to your clavicle. “That’s it?”

Your eyes drop to the zipper running down his chest. “You look nice. You look… better than I imagined. Thank you,” you say, offering him a small smile.

“This is all you wanted? For me to put some clothes on? I was hoping to spend the day without any at all.”

That’s how he’d asked to spend his birthday; locked in your bedroom until you’d been so exhausted you’d both passed out. “You think your dick is a gift?” you question.

His hand moves to your throat, fingers resting gently against your skin. “Only because you whine my name so sweetly when it’s inside you,” he answers, one corner of his mouth pulling up slightly as his eyes drop to your lips. He was lucky his ego only made him hotter. Still, it was fun to tease him.

“You think it’s special? A dick is a dick.”

His finger presses a little into your skin as he moves a little closer. “Oh, really?” he asks sweetly, a little condescension in his tone. “Is that why you get all shy on me? Even after living together for a year? Hm?”

“That’s just how I am.”

He shakes his head slightly, lips ghosting over yours. “I don’t think so, baby. I think it’s worse with me. I think you get all shy because you’re obsessed with me…” his lips brush yours as he speaks, breath tickling your skin. “Isn’t that right?”

You’re struggling to focus on his words, head tilting forward a little in an attempt to capture his lips. He only pulls away, keeping you pressed to the wall easily. “Answer me,” he whispers.

You blink as you attempt to regain your senses, reaching up to take his hand from your throat and intertwining your fingers instead. You find yourself staring at his lips again, watching as he huffs out a short breathy laugh. “Why’d you want me to wear this, hm? Can you answer that?” he asks.

Your eyes drop to the zip running down his chest. It feels involuntary and your eyes flick back up to his face so quick you’re hardly aware of the action yourself. He notices anyway, his lips pulling into a self-satisfied smirk. He reaches up to tug the zipper a little, moving it up and down slightly as he watches your expression. He lifts the hand intertwined with yours, pressing the back of your hand into the wall above your head. You’ve completely lost control of your breathing, uneven and much heavier than normal. You were easy to read. A stranger would be able to read your thoughts, but Minho? He knew you better than anyone else alive. You may as well have been screaming your internal commentary in his face.

“You wanna do it for me, baby? Tug it down a little?” he asks sweetly, lips hovering over yours again. When you lean forward, he doesn’t pull away this time, letting you press a little of your desperation into him. He hardly reacts, keeping your hand above your head as you moan against his lips. Your other hand moves to the back of his head, an attempt to ensure he doesn’t move away from you again until you're satisfied. It’s silly, the idea that you’d ever be satisfied, that you’ll at some point have had enough of him. You imagine pulling back, tapping him on the shoulder and announcing you’re all done. You giggle against his mouth.

“What?” he asks.

“I think you’re right,” you answer, a little breathless already.

“Mm?”

You don’t answer, attempting to pull him back towards you again instead. He takes your other hand in response, pinning you against the wall completely. “Right about what?” he asks, unsatisfied with your lack of response. He knows what you meant. You know he knows. He just wanted you to say it.

“What you said before,” you mutter, keeping your eyes off his own.

“I think you should say it,” he grins. “Say it and I’ll let you take over. I’ll let you unzip me.”

You can’t help looking into his eyes, big and brown as he waits for you to confess. If only he knew why you were so hesitant to say it. Sure, it was embarrassing. But it was more than that. You’d always felt a little like you loved him more. You were okay with it, or… you’d thought you were anyway. He loved you enough to stay, and that should have been enough. But confessing it to his face? Confessing that you felt like you were practically obsessed with him in a way he couldn’t possibly return? Your heart thumps hard against your chest at the thought of it.

His lips press to your forehead as your mind races, hands still held above your head. “I know it,” he whispers. “Whether you say it or not. That’s one of the things… one of the things I love. I fucking know it all, baby. You can’t hide from me.”

The way he’s leaning over you now causes the silver zipper to dangle directly in front of your face. You're sick of all this talk, especially when he’s dressed like this. With your hands occupied there’s only one plan of action that fills your mind. You duck a little, avoiding his head as you lean forward and catch the cold, silver zipper between your teeth. His chest moves with his laughter, then you’re tugging, pulling it down until a large portion of his chest is free. When you lean back again you don’t even look up at his face, eyes taking in the newly visible section of his smooth chest. You hadn’t been fighting him at all so far. You never did, letting him pin you to walls, to mattresses, move you around whichever way he pleased. It was your dynamic.

That’s why he isn’t expecting it, when you tug your hands free and practically lunge at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He laughs as he stumbles back a step. Then he’s turning you around so he can use the wall as support while you climb him. Your lips are on his neck before his back has hit the wall, attempting to suck marks into his skin. He was usually the one doing it to you: marking you. He liked pulling your scarf down a little as you waited for the bus, inspecting some of the hickies he’d left on you the night before. “Okay, you like the clothes,” he laughs. “I get it.” His hands support your thighs as you cling to him.

He’s quiet as you work, even when you begin nipping at his skin. It’s satisfying, sucking and biting at him. You should do this more often, you tell yourself. When you tug the shirt aside a little to bite gently into his shoulder he drops his head back against the wall with a small thud. It spurs you on, completing the same treatment to the other side before dropping your legs back to the floor.

His chest has flushed a little since you climbed him, a pretty red colour starting at his neck and disappearing into his shirt. You press your hand to the centre of his chest as he lifts his head from the wall and looks down at you with a small slightly dazed smile. A single strand of hair falls across his forehead. You’d helped him style his hair before leaving him to get dressed. He rarely wore it up like this, off his forehead.

“I meant I’m obsessed with you,” you confess before you can overthink it, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. “When I said you were right. I meant about me being obsessed.”

His grin widens as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against him. “Yeah?”

You nod, tracing your finger down his nose and then over his lips, ending at his chin. “Don’t hurt me, please,” you whisper, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable. He knew the power he had now.

“Why would I do that?” he asks, looking genuinely puzzled.

You shrug. “You might stop liking me.”

“No,” he answers simply.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “You wanna go grab a knife and stab me in the leg and then ask me if I still like you?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Good, that’d hurt.”

You wrap your hands around the back of his neck, interlocking your fingers. “You’re stupid.”

“Is it embarrassing? To be obsessed with someone so stupid?”

“Yes.”

He grins. “You better stop then.”

Your eyes flick across his face. “I can’t.”

His smile softens a little before falling off his face completely. He suddenly looks serious, almost solemn. It catches you off guard. Before you can question him he’s tugging your mouth to his, distracting you with his soft lips. It works like a mind wiping spell, lulling you into a blissed out state that only breaks when he finally releases you.

Your finger brushes his zipper, reminding you of the clothes he was wearing. You take a small step back so you can take in the sight of him again. His chest is still a little red and you can just make out the marks you’ve left all over his neck. You want to make more.

He’s still as you move in again and tug the zipper down a little more. You move slowly, wanting to savour it. Your mind drifts to when you can ask him to wear it again. Anytime, you remind yourself. You could count the time’s he’d refused something you’d asked of him on one hand. You press your palms to his chest, sliding them into his shirt until you brush over his nipples. He’s warm, despite the low temperature of the apartment. You drop your head to his shoulder, hands slipping around his sides to rest on his back.

“I’m being very patient,” he says after a moment. “Are you going to keep feeling me up for another hour?”

“It’s my birthday.”

He sighs dramatically. You lift your head so you can see his face. “Is it really that bad?” you ask.

His lips press together into a straight line and two little lumps appear at the corners of his mouth. “Yes,” he answers, unconvincingly. You pull your hands from his shirt and take a small step back.

“Alright, I’ll stop then.”

He reaches for the zipper and tugs it all the way down, letting each side of the shirt fall open. “It’s your birthday,” he says. “So I'll let you continue.”

“No, no. I don’t wanna do anything you’re not enjoying.” You nod towards the kitchen. “You hungry?”

He steps towards you. “Continue,” he demands, no room in his tone for argument.

You wait a moment, letting him fret. Then you move. You nudge him back into the wall with a palm to his chest then trail your fingers from his collar bones down to the waistband of his pants, then back up again. You could lose yourself in this, touching him. Now that you’ve said it, confessed to him how you feel, it feels less heavy. It feels natural even. How could you not feel that way? When he made you laugh like he did… when he looked like this…

You find yourself pressing your lips to his pec, hand gripping his bicep to balance you as you trail messy kisses down his torso. You stop occasionally to leave marks, from sucking, biting, any mark you can leave against his skin feels like an accomplishment. This is mine, they say. Minho doesn’t seem to mind, one of his arms tanging in your hair at some point.

You eventually end up on your knees, looking up at him for permission as you play with another zipper, the one on his pants. “You haven’t marked me up enough?” he asks, his tone a little condescending again. You fucking loved when he spoke like that. His tone so sickly sweet and still so full of ego.

You shake your head and he reaches down, tugging his zipper down and dropping his pants before you can react. You can see him through his underwear, begging to be freed. He twitches a little as you brush over him when reaching for the waistband. Then you pause. His hips push off the wall when you take your hands away. You don’t look up, dropping your eyes to his thighs instead. Just a few marks, you tell yourself before attaching your lips to his skin. You start with his inner thighs, kissing and sucking your way up to the hem of his underwear where they wrap around the tops of his thighs. This wasn’t new to you. Just the other week you’d given him this treatment at the side of the salt water pool as he’d dangled his legs in the water. You’d taken in the sight of his swim shorts stuck to his skin, wet from his swim, and found yourself practically worshipping him—standing in the water between his legs as you kissed over his thighs.

By the time you finally tug his underwear down his legs, you can tell he’s close to snapping, to taking control. He wasn’t used to letting you have your way for this long. But then you’re kissing his tip, tasting the precum that leaks from his slit, and he forgets his impatience—a small gasp escaping his lips. His thighs are where you rest your hands. You can feel every tense of his muscles like this. You’re just preparing to sink down the length of him when he’s suddenly tugging you back and falling over you, pressing you into the floorboards. His mouth is on yours before you even process where you find yourself: on your back on your living room floor. He’s clearly had enough. The zipper on his shirt tickles your skin where your tank top rides up your stomach.

“Want me inside now? Tell me,” he says, barely pulling his lips from yours long enough to get the words out.

You hum in response, pushing at his chest until he detaches from you. “On your back,” you gasp. His brows pull a little together in confusion. He was rarely under you. Still, he obeys, settling himself on the floor beside you.

His pants are bunched around his calves, too difficult to remove with his boots still on. You kinda of like the idea of it, of him being inhibited a little. He’s a little vulnerable like this. Usually you loved the dynamic you had, his dominant role in bed making you feel protected and wanted. But something had burst free along with the confession of the depth of your feelings. You hadn’t realised you’d been holding anything else back. Not until now. You tug your cotton shorts down your legs and climb over him, pressing your palms to his chest as you settle yourself on his thighs. The open shirt frames his chest and biceps perfectly. You’re only running your hands over him for 30 seconds or so before he’s whining.

“Enough. Take me inside now.”

“It’s my birthday. Not yours.”

“You haven’t fondled me enough?”

You scrunch your nose, huffing out a small laugh. “Fondled?”

He gestures to where your palms rest over his pecs. “What else would you call this?”

“Admiring.”

He rolls his eyes. “You haven’t admired me enough?”

You shake your head, smiling. “No.”

“Get on with it then,” he says, a little strain in his voice.

You flick your eyes down to his cock. It’s twitching a little against his stomach. You brush your fingers up the length of him, fascinated. He grabs your wrist before you reach the head. “Don’t touch unless you want this to end.”

You stick out your bottom lip a little. “But it’s my birthday.”

He releases you. “Fine, you want me to cum on my stomach? Go ahead.” It did sound nice, seeing him lose it all over himself before you’d even fucked him. But he was right. You wanted him to fill you. You take him in your grasp and lift your hips off him so you can shuffle forward a little until your entrance rests over the tip. You take in the sight of him one last time, his flushed chest, his hair–a little messier than when you’d started—, the way the black shirt frames his biceps. Then you lower yourself, holding your breath as he stretches you out. His hips rise off the floor a little, like he can’t wait the few seconds it takes you to sink to his base.

You both still when you’re full, taking in the feeling of being as close to each other as it was possible to be. It’s the first time he’s been inside you since your confession. It feels freeing. Like you can let loose completely, let your mind slip and your body take over; hold nothing back. His lips part as you begin lifting yourself off him and sinking down again, slow at first.

You can’t help resuming where you’d left off, pressing your palms to his chest and admiring the way his pinkish skin looks between your fingers.

It isn’t long before his instincts take over, grasping your hips so he can move you to meet his hips as he thrusts up into you. You take in his expression as he uses you, rutting up into you. He was desperate much quicker than usual. He really hadn’t been lying. He must’ve been close to losing it before you’d even begun.

You watch his ears redden to match his chest and his lips. You fall forward to kiss him as he continues moving inside you. You keep your lips on his even as he loses focus, unable to match your kisses. You swallow down the noises he makes, the groans, the tiny sounds that almost sound like whimpers. It’s in moments like this that you feel maybe it’s possible he feels almost as intensely as you do. But then you remind yourself he’s just feeling good physically. That he could feel this way with anyone.

His eyes flutter closed as he stills. He hasn’t cum yet. He takes a few deep breaths before opening his eyes again. You can’t resist sitting back and lifting off him before sinking back down slowly, watching his expression as he tries to prevent himself from filling you. “Stop,” he gasps. “Fuck, stop.” You do.

You wait for him to catch his breath, chest rising and falling deeply. His ears are still pink and you resist the urge to lean forward and bite one of them.

“Why…” he starts, before pausing and taking one more deep breath. “Why are you doing this to me?”

You frown. “Doing what?”

He sits up, cock still buried inside you as he grasps the hair at the back of your head. His eyes flick over your face as his mouth opens and closes, like he’s struggling to find the words he wants to say. You’re unused to him being lost for words. It’s a little unsettling. Something must be wrong.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he snaps.

You attempt to wipe any expression from your face, waiting for whatever this was to pass. One minute you’re riding him on your living room floor, ready to feel him fill you with his cum. The next you’re attempting to dissect whatever the fuck he was attempting to say right now.

“We started living together a year ago today,” he says.

“...yes.”

“A year…” he repeats, almost like he’s talking to himself this time.

“Is something wrong?”

“I thought it’d pass,” he mutters.

“What would?” you ask, tucking a little hair behind his ear.

“Feeling like this. All fucking itchy and… desperate. Like if I let go of you or leave the apartment, you’ll just… disappear.”

You frown, attempting to process what he was saying. He almost sounded angry. Like you’d done something wrong. Or he had? His eyes flick across your face and then he sighs, releasing his grasp on your hair and falling down onto his back again.

You lay yourself down onto his chest, his cock slipping out of you in the process. “You don’t wanna live together anymore?” you ask.

His hands move to grab at your hips, attempting to lift you up again. You let him align his cock with your entrance before sinking back down. You resume your position over his chest, cradling his face in your palms. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before looking at you again. “I wanna live here,” he breathes. “Right fucking here. Buried inside you like this.”

“You’re confusing me.”

He grunts as he pins you to his chest with his arms and fucks up into you hard. “Need it,” he mutters between thrusts. “Fucking need you.”

“You have me,” you soothe. “I told you I was fucking obsessed with you. You have me.”

He sighs, expression relaxing as he rolls his cock into you. It catches you by surprise when he suddenly lets out a drawn out moan and fills you, hips stuttering into you. Something about the way he finishes, the words it had taken to finally push him over the edge. It clicks into place, what he was trying to say. He feels the same. You sit back, watching him attempt to catch his breath as you start bouncing on him. His eyes flutter open as a high whine escapes his throat. You’d never done this before, kept using him after he’d finished. He’s clearly unprepared, throwing his arm over his eyes as his hips rise weakly off the floor. You practically shake as you cum, clenching around his sensitive cock and falling forward onto his chest.

“Fuck,” he gasps out.

His blushed ear catches your eye and you muster just enough energy to take it between your teeth briefly.

“Say it,” you murmur once you release him. “Say what you mean.”

His arms wrap around you, holding you against his chest, now sticky with sweat. “Do I need to say it?” he says, completely breathless.

“It’s my birthday,” you whisper.

His hands move to your head, lifting your face from his neck. “I love you,” he says, “It scares me how much.”

You’re pretty sure you understand him. That he meant something different to the previous time’s he’d said he loved you. There was something about his voice, a tiny wobble in the final syllable that convinced you maybe you weren’t alone in this.

“We’re keeping the shirt,” you say, offering him a small smile.

He laughs, letting you fall back into his shoulder. “I dunno if I can survive what it does to you.”

“You can pick an outfit for me?” you offer.

He’s quiet and it isn’t until you’ve both fully caught your breaths that he speaks again. “Anything?”

You lift your head and peck him on the lips. “Anything.”

He smiles.

please reblog and share your thoughts. caption, tags, replies, or ask box, i read it all. feedback is what motivates me to write more!

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g1rld1ary · 3 months ago

Note

I feel like you’d eat up this idea so much but Camp Counselor James Potter!!

Where its semi frenemies to lovers after James unexpectedly becomes head camp counselor alongside reader, thus forcing them closer as they have to work together. I’d imagine James as a sports/swim instructor who the campers adore and reader as an arts and crafts teacher who James has liked for years since they met at camp (even before they became counselors.)

summer friends - camp counselor!james potter x camp counselor!reader

wc: 2816

cw: swearing, implied fem!r but i don't think any pronouns, alcohol, throwing up (once)

part TWO

first of all thank u so much for the compliment anon i hope i am doing it justice!! i actually love this idea and so there's gonna be more parts because i have so many fun lil camp ideas already HOWEVER we don't rlly have summer camps where I'm from so if u wanna see anything specific (activity/trope etc) please request!!! love u xoxo

It was stinking hot already. The clock in your car was broken so you weren't sure exactly what time it was, but you were sure it was too early to have sweat dripping from your brow. Nine, maybe. Still, nothing could bring down your present mood, not the sweat, not the early morning on a weekend, not even that your Fleetwood Mac CD kept skipping during The Chain. No, you were in the best mood you'd been in in a while and nothing could ruin it.

You were headed back to camp. Your camp. It was your first year as head counselor at the camp you'd grown up in and you were filled to the brim with excitement and drive to make this summer as magical as the ones you had growing up. Pulling into the dirt parking space you sighed contently, glad to be back where you belonged.

It was weird to see the camp almost empty. You'd been a general counselor before so you'd seen the camp without kids, but being one of the first there in the morning was peaceful. You waved cheerfully at one of the cooks who'd been working since you were a kid, laughing as he tried to return the gesture over the boxes he was hustling into the kitchen.

You broke into a jog to catch up with the camp director who you needed to meet with, smiling widely when he greeted you. You made small talk as he led you around the camp, giving directions to some of the staff setting up in between his extended spiel explaining your duties. You really were trying to listen but you couldn't help your eyes darting to each movement in the corner of your vision. The other head counselor should have been here already, and it wasn't like him to be late. Michael was one of the many kids you'd grown up with through summers, and he was just as devoted to camp as you were, so it wasn't surprising he also made head counselor, but it was surprising that he was now late.

"Where's Michael?" You asked when the director took a breath. He turned to look at you, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"Didn't we tell you? Michael had a health scare, he can't work this summer." You could feel your mouth hanging open. The two of you had been talking about this for years, dreaming of becoming the head counselors.

"So who's—"

"Nothing like the fresh air, is there?" Your shoulders tensed just by the timbre of it, you could recognise that voice anywhere.

"Potter," You turned to greet him, ponytail swinging behind you.

"No need for last names, love, I saw your braces phase," James retorts and you huff, rolling your eyes dramatically.

"Yeah, yeah, and I've got pictures of your acne. So you're really my partner this summer?" James didn't bother replying, his cocky grin saying it all. You felt the director's eyes on both of you and refrained from another snip in fear of it undermining your leadership, but still shot James a dead-eyed smile to let him know you weren't done.

You were dismissed to settle in until the other counselors arrived for briefing after a few other business matters (for which both you and James stayed civil and responsible) and all but ran to your car, eager to get the moving in part over with as quick as possible.

After so many years of making camp your home away from home, you'd pretty much nailed the routine of packing and unpacking, and your part of the four-girl cabin was taking shape very nicely if you did say so yourself. You even had time to stick up the photos you'd printed out, which usually took at least a week to happen. You were just wiping the sweat off your face with the hem of your t-shirt when someone cleared their throat. You didn't need to guess who it was.

James was leaning against the doorframe, looking unfairly unperturbed by the heat.

"Sorry your dream boy couldn't be here," He said and you couldn't quite tell if he was joking.

"Michael and I—"

"Relax, I was talking about your real boyfriend, remember?" You paused at his statement, studying your painted fingers intently.

"We broke up," You said quietly, not daring to look at James in fear of him teasing you about it. You consequently missed the flash of curiosity (and maybe relief) that passed across his features.

"Sorry," He said awkwardly, still under the doorframe.

"It's fine. He's a dickhead."

"I could have told you that last summer!" He laughed, then slapped a hand over his mouth as he realised it might have been too far. You managed a small laugh yourself, if only to make him feel better about his misstep.

"Yeah, yeah. Last summer you also thought swallowing gum would fuse your insides together."

"And I stand by that! You should just learn to listen to me," He crowed, eyes sparkling with mischief. You rolled your eyes again, pushing yourself off the bed to reapply your deodorant.

"If I ever start listening to you, take it as a sign I'm losing my marbles," You said, ducking under the arm James had stretched across the doorframe, "Now come on, everyone'll be arriving." You don't stop to see if he's following, marching out of your cabin and toward the dining hall where the counselors would convene. James watched you go for a moment with a soft grin before jogging to catch up and bother you some more.

The dining hall was already buzzing with energy and noise and the campers hadn’t even arrived yet. You smiled as you watched the counselors meet and mingle, some of them being kids you’d grown up with almost your whole life.

“Everything the light touches is our kingdom,” James’ whisper appeared from behind you.

“You are so lame.” You don’t bother looking at him, convinced you knew exactly what face he’d be pulling. “Now make yourself useful and greet everyone.” You might have been a little rude, but it was clear to you that this job wasn’t nearly as important to James as it was to you. Head counselor was something you’d been working towards since you’d started at camp, and you would like to keep the gig through college if James didn’t ruin it for you.

A booming noise silenced the room, and you were surprised to know it came from James. He started off the address for you outlining all the boring housekeeping notices you could recite in your sleep. They were almost exactly the same every year, except for James’ insistence on being the funniest in the room and making jokes after every other statement.

“As you know if you find any contraband in the camper’s belongings report it to the camp director, especially if it’s an illicit substance, as there may be serious discipline. However, if it’s alcohol, slip into into my cabin ‘coz god knows I’ll need a drink after dealing with the kids and this one.” He gestured over to you, receiving a ripple of laughter throughout the room. You grit your teeth, trying not to react and be the bad cop of camp.

“Just so we’re all clear,” You faked a laugh, “None of the campers or counselors will be ingesting or posessing alcohol while at camp. Right guys?” You locked eyes with the camp director, trying to bring him down from the conniption he was on the verge of. It worked, mostly, and you took over from James, shooting him a warning glare as you rushed to finish listing off the timetable for the coming evening and next day as campers arrived.

In his defence though, James wasn’t exactly wrong. Although the camp director could never ever find out for the sake of all your jobs, there was definitely a stash of alcohol that all the counselors contributed to and had access to, though strictly when there was no risk of campers or higher ups finding out. Like tonight. Every year before the campers arrived the counselors held a campfire right out in the forest; far enough away that there was almost no risk of the adult-adults finding them, but close enough that drunk walks back to the cabin weren’t quite impossible.

That brought you to the campfire. You’d been stuck in meetings and doing last minute admin all night and you really needed the break. You could only look at schedules and spreadsheets for so long anyway, add James to the mix and you were going absolutely crazy.

You’d snagged a spot next to Lily, hugging her tight as you reunited.

“I can’t believe you’re stuck with Potter,” She said, taking a sip from some ungodly drink one of the counselors had mixed. You laughed as you pulled away and greeted Remus quickly, taking the can of cider he offered.

“I’m just thanking my lucky stars it wasn’t him three years ago.” You shook your head resolutely, “At least now I’m sure he’s human. I just hate that he’s gonna make me bad cop all summer.” Remus cocked his head in confusion and Lily asked for clarification so you continued.

“You know, James is always the funny one, James is always the chill one. I’m the one who’s gonna have to spoil the fun and enforce the rules.”

“That’s not true though, you might be the one sticking to the rules but you’ve been here just as long. Everyone knows and loves you, and you’ll have just as much fun even if you aren’t quite as go-with-the-flow,” Lily said, a comforting hand resting on your arm.

“Prongs might surprise you,” Remus said, clearly taking a different approach, “I think when it matters he’ll step up to the plate.” You looked at him for a moment, considering his philosophy. You chanced a glance over at James to see him halfway through a game of beer pong — losing badly in fact, and sighed. If he, the head sport and swim counselor, was losing at a game consisting of throwing then he must’ve already been smashed.

He caught your eye at just the wrong (or right) moment and waved you over with such excitement that you excused yourself from the conversation to see what he wanted.

“Sirius needs a teammate,” He said simply, gesturing for you to go over and play. You shook you head furiously.

“So you’re asking the arts and crafts leader? I have zero coordination.”

“Yeah, and? You’re competitive and that’s all that matters. Consider it our head counselor bonding time.” You looked at James for a moment, weighing out the pros and cons in your head. You figured it couldn’t be that bad even if you embarrassed yourself, and you really didn’t want the other counselors to think you had a stick up your arse after getting the position. So, you reciprocated the high five Sirius had offered and got in position.

The game went shit, as could have been assumed. You really didn’t have an ounce of coordination, your throws missing most of the cups. Sirius was better, making your team at least not totally hopeless, but the two of you were no match for the machines that were James and Marlene — though both significantly worsened by their inebriated states. You were providing the trash talk though, which seemed to keep everyone entertained

“Ok new game!” James clapped after you’d downed the last drink, “Sirius, switch with me.”

“What! But I like my partner!” You high-fived Sirius again at his declaration, now sufficiently buzzed from the shitty beer you’d been using.

“Yeah, we’re doing just fine, Potter. Worry about yourself.” It came out a bit louder and more aggressive than you intended, but James didn’t seem to mind — none of you were sober enough to be picking up on the intricacies of human communication. James mimed a stab to his heart dramatically.

“You kill me,” He groaned, leaning on the folding table in despair. You laughed loudly, holding up your hand in the shape of an L to rub it in. After rubbing it in for a moment you conceded, stomping your way to his side of the table, patting Marlene on the shoulder as you swapped places.

“Alright, Potter, let’s get this round over with so I can kick your arse again.” James’ grin was practically blinding as he brightened up, getting ready to play another match. You might’ve been getting a little too competitive, but it was camp and you were drunk, so everyone around the table was matching your energy tenfold.

“Are you actually capable of getting a ball in a cup? You’re genuinely so terrible at this,” James laughed as he said it but you took it personally, shoving him aside.

“Piss off, dickhead. Just because you’re a big shot athlete or whatever.” You must have finally struck a nerve in James as he was quiet for the rest of the game, still much more skilled than you but his energy significantly dampened. Even when you won, he only offered you a weak smile and a pathetic high five. You felt bad for a moment and opened your mouth to apologise, but your inebriated brain was distracted by music playing, running over to Lily to ask her to dance.

You were at the stage of being drunk where everything was perfect. The day’s heat had mellowed out into a dreamy summer night, a soft breeze rustling the leaves above you all as you danced and drank, reuniting after a long year apart.

You might’ve overdone it slightly though, which found you a little ways away from the rest of the party, emptying your stomach into a bush where hopefully none of the campers would stumble across it. Looking past your unfortunate accident you caught a glimpse of a dark shape on the bank of the river. Narrowing your eyes you tried to make out who it was, but settled on getting closer instead. You hesitated when you made it out to be James.

“Hey, Potter. You alright?” You called awkwardly, a little unwilling to get too close.

“Hm?” He looked back at you, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Yeah, fine.” You sighed. He was clearly upset about something and you couldn’t just end the conversation there, no matter how much you didn’t want to have a DnM with James Potter on night one of camp.

Reluctantly you got closer, taking a seat next to him. You watched the lake for a few minutes, black except for the silver from the moon. It was peaceful when there weren’t so many people around, it was one of your favourite things about camp, just being outside and disconnected from the rest of your life.

James broke the silence first.

“Do you… Are you mad that I’m co-head counselor?” You chanced a glance at him, surprised at the vulnerability in his voice. James wasn’t usually one to get sappy or personal like that, especially not with you.

“No?” You replied, “It wasn’t what I imagined, obviously, but it’s not like I hate you. You’re just mildly infuriating like 80% of the time.” James snorted, and you got the feeling he’d intended to wallow a bit longer. But James was James and he couldn’t stay moody for too long, it wasn’t in his nature.

“I can work with that.” He smiled his blinding grin, and you could have sworn you could see it reflecting off the water.

“We have to be a team though,” You affirmed; now was as good a time as any for you to address it. “I know that your whole bright and lively class clown thing is effortless for you, but I don’t wanna be the bad cop all the time, okay?” James was deep in thought for a second, then a cheeky grin crept onto his features.

“You think I’m bright and lively?”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes, but you weren’t sure you weren’t returning his smile. “Come on, let’s get to bed. Neither of us can afford to be hungover when the kids get here.”

You and James wandered back towards the cabins, both hazy and giggly from the lasting drunkenness and the (at least temporary) smoothing over of your tenuous relationship.

PART TWO

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bloodiedrogue · 1 year ago

Text

WHERE'S YOUR PATIENCE? (7)

SUMMARY: You and Astarion finally have the conversation. Among other things.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,912

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, teasing, little bit of hand stuff, vaginal sex, CONSENT IS SEXY, mentions of past sexual/physical trauma, potential spoilers for acts 1/2.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Say thank you to the 2 bottles of Corona and the tequila shot I took to loosen up my brain enough to write this smut. I couldn't have done it without them. (And also my bardic inspiration @imgoingtofreakoutnow)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

The weeks following feel like an uphill battle —a never-ending course of constant information and action all tied into one long work month. Without warning, you find yourself overwhelmingly annoyed with the pace of it all. Not to mention the unwavering guilt, knowing that if you’re not fighting hordes of Absolute cultists or doing research on how to rip the Illithid out of your head, your time is essentially wasted.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like.

Considering the severity of everything, even when you’re resting from a long day's work, you always find your mind wandering. Picking apart texts from old books you’ve found during infiltration missions. Oftentimes late at night when Astarion’s come back from feeding, you spend a lot of your time together relaying said thoughts. Using the late-night silence to fuel the drive that’s been missing throughout the day.

By the time you get to the Inn within the Shadowlands, you’re surprised he’s not sick of you for it. Nowadays, just the mere thought of your own voice makes you want to rip off your ears, and although you know it’s crucial that you discuss things like this, you know there are other things that are important too.

Like your shared confession. And your promise to talk of the past when you were both ready.

Since that night you haven’t asked him about it. With everything happening so quick, it’s been pushed to the back of your mind —lost amongst the clutter of thoughts that you’re often forced to leave behind. Deep down, you imagine he’s somewhat in the same boat but still, there’s even more guilt that surfaces. Filling both sides of the spectrum like an overflowing glass of water —so much so that by the time you’re gifted a proper night’s rest in an actual bed you’re already too tired to care.

As soon as you enter the Inn after your journey through the cursed shadows of the forest you head straight to the bar, barely batting an eye at the barkeep who looks you up and down, horrified by the state of your dress.

“Whiskey, please.”

“And… whatever else you got back there that doesn’t taste of fermentation.”

You turn to see Astarion already standing beside you, moving his hand to the small of your back to usher you into one of the stools. Immediately, you oblige with a sigh, blinking back sleep as you rest your bloodied elbows on the countertop, earning yourself a look of annoyance that Astarion squashes with an unfriendly scowl, showcasing his canine teeth.

If you weren’t so exhausted you probably would’ve laughed at such a sight, but considering you are, you instead let out a soft hum and down your whiskey when it’s placed in front of you, signalling for another.

“I see you’ve already decided how you’re going to spend your night off.”

Nodding your head, you barely register his words, slumping your damp forehead down against the counter with a groan. “How the fuck are we even alive?”

It’s a fair question when you take into account all that you’ve been through. All the puzzles and battles and endless expectations to now save all of Baldur’s Gate just to get these damned Illithids out of your head.

At this rate, you and everyone else should’ve been dead ages ago. Either murdered and looted for your tadpoles and their powers or already turned into tentacle-faced beasts. Not sitting next to Astarion, covered in blood, sweat and tears, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to keep going. How you’re meant to keep this unrealistic momentum of burnout over and over and—

He runs his palm along the base of your spine, drawing his fingers up and down as he takes a sip of his drink. “Hells if I know, darling.”

Feeling a bit delirious, you laugh and raise your head to look between him and the new drink in front of you. “We should’ve been dead by now.”

“You? Perhaps. Me?” He pauses to dig his digits into your aching neck, making your head fall forward again in delight. “Well, I have far too much to do after all of this is over.”

“Yeah, like what?”

When he doesn’t answer right away you remember the conversation. That moment by the fire where you kissed and confessed and told each other you’d talk about it. Immediately it fills you with anxiety, clouding your features with a worried brow and frowning lips as you crane your neck to the side.

When you look at him you notice he’s not really there. His eyes sit in their normal position, staring back but there’s nothing. Not a thought or feeling; just two empty voids surrounded by bloodied dissociation.

It pulls at your heartstrings far too much —makes you let out a breath and raise your frame to slip off the stool and move to hug him. Despite the lack of attention, he manages to follow suit as it happens, wrapping his arms around your neck as you burrow into his chest, once again sighing, wondering if you should apologize and offer your ear or merely forget the exchange entirely.

Before you can even think to do either he’s standing up, keeping his hold as he grabs your other whiskey and proceeds to drink it down, barely batting an eye.

Raising your brow at him, you feel his fingers dig into your neck again, rubbing rough circles that have you resting your forehead against his chest, trying to form any semblance of a thought.

It makes him laugh and raise his hand to your hair, running his fingers through the roots. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You’re already off and climbing the stairs before you’re able to answer. Pushing through the pain that radiates through your calves with every step. Leaning against him with tired eyes that eventually open up when the door creaks open in front you of.

Somehow you managed to earn yourself a private room. One that’s actually clean with a real bed and a tub —all of which almost have you in tears.

“Nice of them to give us some privacy, hm?” Astarion smirks down at you as he speaks, watching as you roll your eyes and finally pull yourself away, reaching for the clasps of your leather vest. Like the rest of you, it’s coated in a thick layer of dirt and blood. All of it dried and coming off in disgusting clumps that have you scrunching up your face. Brushing off the top few clasps, you try not to focus on the way it feels against your fingers. How it collects under your nails as you narrow your eyes, struggling to get the damned thing off.

It makes him scoff and pull you back in, pushing your hands aside to undo the first clasp. “I feel as though I recall a time where you claimed to be patient?”

As he moves down to the next one you shake your head and look away. “Emotionally, yes. Physically I—“

“I’d say you’re far more patient in that regard, actually.”

For a second you’re not sure what he means but then it hits you. He means sex. Physical intimacy. A line of which you hadn’t yet crossed due to several things. The main being your lack of conversation —your lack of focus to a promise you both said you wouldn't break.

Obviously, the lack of time hasn’t helped either, but as you stand there, watching his fingers pull apart your top layer, you find yourself visibly frustrated. Angry at yourself for not taking the time to offer the piece of yourself you desperately want.

After that night it was always your intention to go first. To tell him all about your past in order to open the floodgates. You figured if you were brave enough to do it —to be the one to bite the bullet— maybe he’d inevitably follow.

But then life got in the way and now nearly five weeks later it suddenly feels like you’re stuck in this limbo. One where you’re dancing on the edge, teetering with bated breath. Wondering if maybe the time is right.

As his hands move further and further you find yourself fighting your imagination. Brushing off the feelings that start to surface as you stare down at his hands, watching their delicate ministrations.

It’s apparent then that he's no stranger to the art of undress. As his fingers twist and turn to work the clasps apart, you have to stop yourself from giving in to temptation, knowing that it’s wrong. Remembering the promise you made.

Moving your hand to stop him, you clear your throat and watch his eyes. Noticing the way they filter through the air to eventually focus on you, blinking as if he wasn’t there to begin with.

“Can we talk now? Maybe?”

His hands sit against your leathers, gripping the metal with tightened fingers that still somehow manage to pale from their hold despite his complexion. “Course.”

Running your fingers along his knuckles, you slowly wrap your fists around them, bringing them up toward your mouth to place soft kisses despite the mess of battle that lingers. Then you drag him further into the room, placing him on the edge of the bed.

“Do you know who Beshaba is?” you ask, plain and simple, unsure how else to start the conversation of your past as you sit beside him.

“The deity?”

You nod, slowly, letting your gaze anxiously fall to your lap. “I grew up in one of her churches after my parents died. Learned everything I know about the world from a priestess named Hessa.”

As you try your best to further collect your thoughts, Astarion leans in, narrowing his eyes at the way your hands start to shake against your thigh.

“Is she the one in your dream?” he asks.

Without hesitation, you nod. “They thrive on infliction,” you explain after, watching him frown. Taking in the way his demeanour changes without warning to become something you’re not quite sure you've seen before. “Their doctrine revolves around fear. If you don’t participate you’re expected to endure only pain and misfortune.”

You remember growing up underneath all these women, listening to their cautionary tales of Beshaba’s terror. It instilled fear in you from the get-go —taught you that the only way to endure the horrors of this life was to devote yourself to her. To offer everything you could in exchange for peace, so you did. Unwaveringly so.

“As a child, I grew up listening to these women scare everyone for the sake of their goddess.” You pause to swallow, feeling the memories of Hessa’s knife each time you later disobeyed, slice across your skin. “Then, as an adult, I followed the cycle.”

“Willingly?”

You shrug your shoulders. “At first.”

You remember as soon as you were old enough you were sent out to recruit. To trick the minds of all the simple folk, weaving fabricated tales of disasters that were carried out by Beshaba’s hand. It was difficult to do. Seeing all those ruined minds come crawling to you for salvation —begging for forgiveness in the form of eternal loyalty.

Thankfully though, it grew old pretty quickly. The formula of travelling Faerûn, following the endless calamity and blaming it on the lack of faith was enough to pull you out of the fog. As each day passed, it became increasingly hard to pretend your faith was still intact, so you formulated a plan.

“When we arrived in Baldur’s Gate I tried to leave. In the middle of the night I abandoned my sisters —tried to run and never look back but…”

There’s a moment where your mouth just closes, trailing from the memories of your story; straying solely to the image of Hessa. To her hands and face each time she broke you apart and put you back together.

Without even trying you can feel her next to you, whispering her teachings in your ear —touching your scars with calloused hands. Her voice still has that icy hold on you even when you’re far away, keeping you still as she forces you down to kneel on the stone floor and await your punishment.

A punishment you’ll always feel you deserve. Even now that you’ve well and truly denounced the faith. Deep down you still feel the guilt of your exit. The pain of having to carry the trauma of an existence you never had the choice of living. To this day, it still eats away through the scars that line your stomach. Boring lines of betrayal across your skin.

The last thing you want to do is cry, but as the reminder of such abuse continues to penetrate your mind you find the tears falling anyway. Collecting at the edges of your eyes so quickly that you’re forced to close them in order to reset your vision.

As you do you feel Astarion wrapping himself completely around you. Pulling you into his chest with heavy hands that feel nothing like hers. Reminding you that you’re safe. That you’re here with him and nobody else.

“Is this wretched woman still stationed in Baldur’s?”

You feel his fingers on your chin, pulling your face up so that he can see you when you nod, holding back tears.

“Good. Then our destinations align.”

His voice sounds different. Instead of the usual softness or flirtation, it’s spoken through clenched teeth that strain against his throat, somehow feeling almost like a threat. An unspoken but well-articulated phrase of warning that has you sniffing and wiping your eyes. “What do you mean?”

At first, you figure he’s talking about the Illithid. The urgent need to get to Baldur’s Gate before time runs out. But then you’re ripped back to reality —to the moments where he’s briefly mentioned his desire to return home. To finish whatever business he has after this timely journey is over.

“The person who sent the hunter—“

He practically spits out his name. Cazador Szarr. A man you’re unfortunately well aware of given his reputation.

After arriving in Baldur’s Gate it was common knowledge to avoid him and his property. As awful as your church was about promoting the misfortunes of others, they made it very clear not to get involved. According to them, he was an unholy man —one that could never fully be understood due to the obvious seclusion of his person.

To this day, you've always wondered what lies behind those doors of his. What sinister things he was up to throughout the years.

However, when you look at Astarion —when you see the way his rage suddenly seems to know no bounds, you know it’s bad. Worse than bad considering Astarion hardly ever gets angry. Sure, annoyance and frustration often come out but anger —real anger— never does.

“When you told me that you wished I didn’t know what it felt like, I didn’t realize how similar our experiences were.” His fingers rub rough circles into your flesh, distracting his mind as he lets out a breath and continues. “I didn’t know the level of your pain.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I know.”

His voice cracks. Your heart breaks. Then, both of you sit in another wave of silence, letting the words previously spoken sit at your feet as you stare at one another, trying to gauge what happens next.

You don’t anticipate his hands moving to his armour. Nor do you retain any sense of restraint when you reach to follow them, both of you working to pry it off before he pulls his tunic over his head.

Despite being on the road together for so long you’ve never seen him bare like this. So open and willing to prove to you that he's here. With you, here’s here and ready to share whatever you think you need.

Embarrassingly, it makes you want to cry all over again, reaching for his face. Feeling that familiar coolness beneath your touch as he turns to rest both hands on your hips again.

“It’s been so long since I’ve willingly wanted this.”

“This?” You look at him confused.

“To be intimate.” His fingers tighten around your flesh, digging into the plush ever so slightly. “To share the act of sex with another rather than exploit it.”

There’s a small smile that creeps through then. An inkling of hope for the vampire’s happiness as you inch in closer, placing the softest kiss you can muster to his cheek. “But you’re nervous?”

“Terribly,” he admits with a heavy breath. “In the span of 200 years I’ve bed countless men and women —all of them willing. All of them happy to have enjoyed my body only to end up at death’s door.”

It’s a lot to take in —the admittance of his faults. As soon as the first detail is uttered it’s as if the floodgates open and he’s telling you everything. From the moment he was turned and forced to crawl from his grave to the years that followed luring person after person into the Szarr home for a master so cruel you immediately wish to kill him.

“I spent so long under that bastard’s thumb that… I don’t even know who I am anymore. How I’m meant to be now that I’ve attained even the slightest bit of freedom.”

You understand how he feels. Perhaps the levels are different but deep within there’s always been this nagging feeling of how you’re supposed to live your life. How you feel as though you should be travelling the world in search of a new purpose rather than once again fulfilling someone else’s.

But then you remember what’s at stake. And how even someone else’s fate can affect your livelihood. Then it’s as if the cycle repeats itself, constantly reminding you that if you don’t participate then that’s the end. Your freedom is null just as Astarion’s, leaving you to wonder what’s the point of it all.

“I think people like you and I are just meant to live.” Your hands move up to touch his hair. Carefully, you grip his curls between your fingers, pressing the pads into his skull as you run them down, hearing him sigh. “To enjoy what little time we have.”

“Little?” He raises his brow with a smirk. “Darling, I’m immortal.”

“True but you could still become a Mind-flayer like the rest of us.”

“Fair point.”

He seems calmer now. The usual persona of his overbearing personality coming through, making you grin.

Instead of tightly wound he’s relaxed under your hold, practically melting against your touch as he lowers himself to rest on your shoulder. As he does, you end up catching a glimpse of his back, fully seeing Cazador’s work in the form of rough, red etchings that coat his entire spine.

You have to force yourself not to ask about them until he’s ready, tightening the hold you have around his head as you riddle his face in kisses, letting your lips linger against his temple as you close your eyes.

“They’re not as bad as they look,” he says then, somehow reading your mind.

As painful as it is to admit, you know he’s right. Compared to other scars you’ve seen his look undeniably perfect. The way they paint the image of what looks to be some sort of sigil against his pale flesh. Despite the violence endured to create such a piece, it’s obvious that there was care put in too. A meticulous hand working away with the precision of someone borderline obsessed.

If it wasn’t the result of abuse you could even call it beautiful. But since it’s not, you only continue to hold him, gripping his face for dear life, wondering what kind of pain he had to suffer to earn such a massive reminder of his ownership.

“Do you know what it is?”

He lifts his head, looking at you like he’s seeking the answer himself. “A brand I’m guessing. Not that I can tell. Unlike you I can’t use a mirror. Nor can I very well reach to trace the damned thing myself.”

Your fingers twitch at his words, feeling the temptation to touch them grow as you remember your own scars. In terms of appearance, they’re much more rigid. Three jagged lines that cover the middle of your stomach, making sure you remember. Ensuring your mind that every day you live on this earth —every new moment spent thinking that you’re worthy of whatever this is between you— that you’ll never be normal.

The moment they dug that first knife into your gut you were marked for life. Branded just like him.

Swallowing hard you force yourself to slip away from his grasp, watching the confusion that erupts before the understanding starts as you shakily discard your leather layer and throw your tunic over your head.

It takes everything in you not to put it back on when you see the look on Astarion’s face. How it studies you with knitted brows and a clenched jaw that makes you want to hold him again.

“Mine are just… lines. They don’t mean anything.” As you motion to the thick slashes that have been carved over countless times you catch his gaze twitching upward, taking in the exhaustion.

“She did this?”

After you nod you feel his hand move forward, ever so gently grazing the top of the centre line with curiosity. “How many times?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But you remember how it felt?”

You press your lips together, breathing through your nose. Sucking in the Inn’s dusty air before blowing it out as you nod, forcing back the memory. Pushing through the pain as your tadpole squirms, asking to let him in.

Like all the other feelings you’ve shared as of late, it’s been so long since you’ve felt his presence like this. Even with the Illithid’s constant use outside of each other, when he calls out to you it’s completely different. The movement behind your eye doesn’t feel like an annoyance. It feels like a call. A tingle of hope that has you answering before you can even question what it is he might want.

When you answer there’s a warmth that hits your skin. Enveloping you completely, you feel the aching of the heat carry through your extremities, cascading down in anxious pools that have you breathing rather hard. Closing your eyes, you see the image of Astarion’s hands in front of you. Slowly he wiggles his fingers and turns his palms, taking in the fact that he’s safely under the sun, despite what he is.

You realize then that this is the first memory he has of freedom. Of a life where he truly believes the tether’s been severed. All the thoughts inside his mind are full of nerves. Building anxieties of the past and the future being interrupted by a present he never thought was possible.

It’s a memory that stirs you to move. To guide his hands to your waist as you crawl into his lap and grab his chin.

Touching his skin you feel that same warmth flow through to your core. Letting it take over all the thoughts of scarring and owners and the lives you’ve both lived to get to this point, it takes away your breath. Pulls from you the needs of anything but him.

In this moment, none of it matters anymore. Every experience is nothing more than a dimming shadow compared to the sensation of his breath wafting over your face as you angle your head down to look at him.

“Do you want this?”

His tongue darts out to line his lips. His hunger growing at the sight of you —at the feeling of you moulded to him like melting wax just cool enough to touch. “Yes.”

“So it’s okay if I—“

There’s a hand in your hair before you can finish, forcing you down to his mouth. It’s rough at first but quickly softens once he’s got you where he wants you. Firmly set atop his thighs and in his grasp. Allowing him enough access to reach up and touch the edge of your neck, his thumb lingering towards the centre to press a soft touch —reminding you that you have to breathe. That the usage of your lungs is no longer second nature but something you actively have to think about through the open-mouthed kisses that work to take it all away.

Your head dizzies at the feeling. All at once your vision blurs while your hands begin to roam, stretching over skin and bone, eventually hitting raised scars that make you kiss him even harder, knowing it’s what he needs. What he deserves after countless years of loveless encounters. After touches, empty of anything resembling the adoration you wish to offer him.

While laying waste to his bruising lips, you clumsily slide down his lap so that you’re standing on the ground, tucked between his open legs and bending forward.

Confused, you feel his face twist against your own, prompting you to pull away and lower yourself further, letting your knees gently come in contact with the floor.

“I was enjoying you where you were,” he muses then, cocking his head to focus on the way your hands begin to slide up over his knees, resting on each outer thigh.

“And now you’ll enjoy me over here.” You smirk.

“Cheeky pup.”

“The cheekiest.”

After that, you shuffle closer and reach for his belt, keeping eye contact every step of the way to make sure you aren’t stepping over any boundaries.

The last thing you’d want is to make him feel uncomfortable —to feel used in all the ways he used to experience. So you combat all that by checking in; offering him subtle glances every time you take the next step.

You can tell immediately that he’s appreciative. Whenever he nods there’s a faint smile that sits across his lips, offering you approval as your fingers knock against the metal clasp of his belt, shakily moving to open it up.

At some point he ends up doing it himself, leaning forward to kiss your forehead and laugh at the nerves that render your fingers useless. Nerves that only spread when you stare up at his face while his hands busily move the strap aside.

After tossing his belt aside he doesn’t let you go further. Instead, he drags you further between his legs, leaning down to cup your cheeks and kiss you all over again.

It’s distracting, to say the least. The feeling of his lips moving in tandem with your own as he reaches around to rid you of your bra with two quick swipes, leaving you just as bare as him.

It sends a shiver down your spine that makes him smirk, his upper lip quirking against yours before he gently bites down making you groan.

“Can’t let you be the only one with a view,” he mutters against you, making you awkwardly laugh as you watch his gaze lower to your naked chest. “Can I, pet?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Your voice sounds anything but confident as his hands continue their descent, matching your previous desires when they linger at your belt, waiting for you to give him the okay.

When you do he makes quick work, unclasping the belt with skillful hands before lightly smacking your ass, signalling you to stand before he carefully slides the rest of it down, thumbing the edges of your legs.

You have to force yourself not to cry out right then and there, feeling overwhelmed by the soft touch of his fingers. How they barely graze the outer parts of your already parting thighs, stopping at your knees when he looks up at you with a smirk.

“You seem nervous, darling.”

Rolling your eyes, you shove an open palm to his chest, pushing him back against the bed with a scoff. One that makes him laugh and watch as you kick off the remainder of the fabric, trying to appear brave. Something that proves to be harder than you anticipate when he swiftly follows suit, giving you a show of your own in the form of freshly exposed skin you’ve only ever imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

In almost an instant, the fabric slips away, revealing more of him than you possibly could’ve expected, making your mind wander as the building arousal between your thighs twitches with desire. Telling you that you need this.

You open your mouth to ask for more only to be yanked upon his lap causing a yelp to fall from your lips that makes you both laugh.

“You really are a marvel, aren’t you?”

With a smile, his eyes scan your naked frame. Up and down and back, they linger at every part as if he’s studying you for future use. Taking mental notes with each passing freckle or scar that lines the length of bare skin. “I mean truly, look at you.”

As he speaks, one hand runs along your neck —over your shoulder and down your arm until it’s resting at your thigh, gripping you tight. “I’m not sure what God out there decided to make you but remind me to give them my utmost thanks after this is over.”

When he leans in you have to force yourself not to nervously laugh at his praise, once again feeling his lips find refuge on your own, driving you to take things further. Encouraging you to make him feel as good as he deserves.

This time though, instead of asking for approval with a glance you do so with a touch, reaching down to grip the end of his length with gentle hands that make him moan. Ever so quietly, the second you hear it you immediately strengthen your hold, using your free hand to grip his shoulder as you work him slowly, noticing him push. Feeling the subtle arc of his hips buck against your hand, wanting more.

For a moment you think about doing it. Letting your hand tighten further while you pick up the pace. It’d be easy. Nothing more than a simple readjustment but something mischievous stops you from doing it.

Remembering that night at the grove —the one where he relentlessly teased just to get a rise out of you— you find yourself smirking and pulling away, gripping his shoulder even tighter to keep him in place.

Almost immediately, he knows exactly what you’re doing. He can feel it in the way you languidly pull at his cock, barely holding on with each stroke.

“You think you’re clever, do you?”

You quirk your brow and bite your lip, massaging the apex of his shoulder. “I have to be if I’m going to be hanging around you.”

Furthering his torment, you then tighten your grip for a couple more pumps before returning to your previous pace, eliciting a hiss of disapproval that has him gripping both your hips and maneuvering you to sit against his right thigh.

“Oh really?”

Pushing up into your core, Astarion shifts you back and forth with his hands, making your breath catch inside your throat once you realize what you’ve done. How you’ve instantly set yourself up for a failure you know he’ll only revel in winning.

Considering he’s more than capable of making you fluster solely with words, you should’ve expected this —saw it coming from a mile away.

Continuing your ministrations as lazily as possible, he barely registers them as he glides your folds against his leg. Holding you down, he manages to apply the perfect amount of pressure to build the tension, making you press your lips tightly together, forcing back any sound that might be deemed a loss.

Even though it’s anything but a competition. A detail that’s reminded once he maneuvers one of his hands to cup your sex, rubbing rough circles into your clit.

It makes you lose all semblance of thought, forgetting the hold you have on his cock as you shakily reach for his other shoulder, steadying yourself against him.

“Doesn’t it feel nice when you give in?”

Despite the context, there’s surprisingly no snark to his words. No sarcasm or bite —just genuine thought. A question so true to its word that all you can do is pant through the building pleasure and nod; letting him raise you off his leg and station himself at your entrance.

It fills your mind to the brim with needs and wants you never thought you’d feel again. Having been subjected to abuse and then forced upon a journey you’re still not sure you’re ready for, the thought of attachments like this never once crossed your mind.

Even after everything you’d been through, you never thought Astarion was capable of such tenderness —of loving care and safekeeping. Of gentle touches that run across your aching skin as he looks at you and you at him, both of you deciding it��s okay.

As soon as it’s given, he’s sliding into you. Painfully slow, he uses the approval to grant you access to your shared pleasure, pushing through the tightness just as you open your mouth.

“Feel alright?”

Your fingers press against his neck as they slide up to cup his chin so you can pull your foreheads together. “More than alright.”

Through an unsteady breath, he laughs and guides you further down, allowing you both to savour the sensation for a moment before pulling back out again.

As soon as he’s missing you’re already longing for more. Desperate for the fill of his cock, prompting a whine to escape; earning yourself a tut.

“Remember patience?”

You do. More than anything in this moment you remember your claim and how foolish it was to think he wouldn’t forget it.

“I recall you saying—"

“Astarion, please.”

You’re not sure if it’s the anguish in your voice or the squirming of your hips that does it, but almost instantly he’s giving in. Once again offering you exactly what you need in the form of a push and pull so viscerally satisfying you’re left slumped against his chest, keeping hold of his neck. Forcing his hand to grip the back of your head to see the way he ruts inside of you.

It’s a sight that’s almost too much. One that makes you moan and close your eyes, allowing him to move your face to his. At which point you’re on the precipice of ruin. Both body and mind becoming a mess of everything and nothing, forcing your breath to falter.

You can tell Astarion’s in the same boat, struggling to maintain his starting pace the longer you mindlessly grind against him, unable to contribute much of anything else.

Together, the two of you try to move in unison, pushing and pushing —inhaling and exhaling. Anything you can do to share the burden of the building pleasure that grows and grows until—

When it hits, it feels better than you imagined. Deep within there’s a blooming that unfolds, petal by petal, opening to reveal unholy tremors that make you release a heavy plume of air through your closed lips.

Gripping you close, you can feel Astarion follow quickly behind, twitching inside before he inevitably spills out, making both of you groan and fall back onto the bed in a fit of nervous laughter before he cheekily suggests you make use of the tub.

TAGLIST: @poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi

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#where's your patience?#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fan fic #astarion series #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #astarion x you #summer writes

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maliciouslove · 2 years ago

Text

𝕀𝕞𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕐𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨

ʚ pairing ɞ stepbrother!denki kaminari x reader

NSFW, dark content, aged up characters (21+)

ʚ word count ɞ 4.7k

ʚ summary ɞ having a step brother isn’t easy, especially if he is as fun and good looking as yours. you always got along just fine, but some very depraved and dark corner of your mind always forced you to look at him different, to imagine things that were taboo—to touch yourself while thinking of him. so when you had to crash at his place for a couple of days while your apartment was being fumigated, things escalated rather fast. i mean, it’s fine if it doesn’t go in, right?

ʚ tags ɞ mention of death (reader’s mother), tw stepcest, tw dubcon, masturbation, tw voyeurism, oral (f!receiving), tw spit, pussyjob, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, breeding, recording, blackmail

Most people say that having a parent remarry and having step-siblings is awful. You, however, don't see it that way.

Despite the devastation of losing your mother at a young age, you were grateful to your father for stepping up and taking care of you with everything he had after your mother's passing. You were 4 at the time, and things didn’t quite make sense until you got older—but with time, the more you matured, the more you came to terms with the situation. The older you got, the better you understood how much of a super dad you actually had—on the one hand, he always prioritized you, gave you everything he could and made sure that you didn’t miss out on anything, partially spoiling his little girl. On the other hand, he also chose to be very honest with you and talk to you about difficult topics instead of shying away from them. Therefore, you were able to understand what happened to your mother and were fully supported while working through the grief.

For all this, you were truly grateful to your dad, though, there came a time where you became aware of all the sacrifices that he had made for your sake as well. Turns out, that he avoided dating anyone else for the longest of times, resulting in you having to actually push him into pursuing romance and give him your slightly aggressive blessing.

"Dad, it's just a date." You roll your eyes at him.

"It feels like I'm betraying your mother, our family."

"Dad," you hold his gaze firmly. "Mom is gone. I'm in high school. And you deserve to be happy! Get out there, have some fun!" You push him forcefully out the front door and fix the collar of his shirt. "Don't be home too late, I’ll leave you some lasagna in the fridge. Now go!"

And when he found someone that made him happy, someone that made his worries go away, you were nothing but supportive. She was gorgeous and smart and had witty remarks that made you laugh, so you accepted her into your life. However, she also had a son, the same age as you—a tall and lanky boy named Denki Kaminari.

The first time you met him it was awkward, you were both 18—just about to graduate from high school, you were shy and quiet and he was just all over the place, bouncing with energy. But you found common ground, talking about games and anime, so you became friends rather quickly, progressively spending more and more time together. You’ve always been an honest person so denying that you thought he was handsome was pointless—fluffy blonde hair and amber eyes that turn gold in the sunlight, he had a very intoxicating smile, and most importantly of all—he made you laugh. But he was your dad’s girlfriend’s son, so he was—in all ways possible—off limits to you. Therefore you were content just admiring him from afar.

Sometimes, you stared a bit too much, making up scenarios in your head before bedtime, turning off all the lights before you push your panties aside, ashamed that it's him you’re thinking about.

And here you were, two years later walking your respective parents down the aisle, grinning at each other and testing out how it feels to refer to each other as brother and sister.

"Okay little sis, shall we hit the open bar, get wasted and embarrass our parents?"

"Totally, big brother," you winked at him and his face turned red at a comically fast pace.

"Okay, how about we drop the sis ‘n bro stuff? Feels weird."

"Does it now, big brother?" you bat your eyelashes at him, a seductive smile plastered on your lips. All Denki can manage is a dramatic groan in response, walking away quickly, hearing you cackle as the distance between you two grew larger.

He might be off limits, even more so now that he was your step brother, but you still enjoyed making him flustered. The perk of it was that it was extremely easy to do so—blow some air on his nape, trace a finger along his jawline and he’s ready to turn into a puddle on the floor.

And you did this within limits. Of course.

Your parents were happy that the both of you got along so well, and even happier when you both got accepted into the same college, living in the same city. Although you studied different courses, rarely seeing each other on campus, you did occasionally go to parties together, Denki making sure to get your drunk ass back home safely every time. He was kind and dependent and always had your back.

Even more so when you had discovered that your suspiciously cheap rental apartment was infested with termites, having to be fully fumigated, and you had to ask your step brother if you could crash at his place for a couple of days.

“Of course!” his voice sounded chipper over the phone. “We’re so totally having a Marvel marathon, I am not taking no for an answer, pack your shit and come over, I’ll have nachos ready in 30 minutes.”

The line went silent as he hung up and you found yourself smiling at his enthusiasm. A voice at the back of your head told you he’d be such a fine boyfriend—if he wasn’t your step brother.

Yet, you allowed yourself a few minutes of imagining what kind of dates he would take you on—arcade dates, bringing you to museums so he can narrate over the audio guide with absolute nonsense and making some lame joke about van Gogh and George Weasly and ‘hole-y’. You shake your head as if to purge the thoughts and you get on with packing your essentials for the next couple of days.

You stare at your underwear drawer and contemplate. Would it be weird if you pick the sexiest lingerie you own... just to stay at your step brother's place for a few days? Totally not.

“Self-care.” You say to yourself as you take out several lacy thongs and bralettes that match, carefully placing them in your suitcase. You just like wearing nice underwear, what’s the big deal? It’s only for you to see anyway.

Right?

Happy with the items you’ve packed, double checking if you’ve got your toothbrush and all your chargers— you take a deep breath and vacate your apartment, heading over to Denki’s.

“We should’ve just gotten an apartment together, it would’ve been so much cheaper and nicer.” Denki whined as he helped you carry your suitcase up the stairs, as his building had no elevator.

“So what I’m hearing is you want to see my pretty face every day, correct?” you smirked, noticing the barely visible butt clench he did upon hearing your words, at which you chuckled. “Honestly, you’d get sick of me in about a week so be glad we don’t live together.”

He grumbles something you can't understand under his breath and you allow him to move on from the topic.

The first night in his apartment goes well—you have dinner together and then proceed with a quiet movie night. Snuggled together under a fuzzy blanket, the light of the TV was illuminating Denki’s face, showing off his best features—playful amber eyes, devilish smile and a sharp jawline. You spent more time looking at said face and judging the softness of his blonde locks, rather than looking at whatever movie he put on for you.

The realization that you haven’t gotten laid for a few months now and that your step brother is awfully handsome makes you feel a certain way, insides knotting up and devious thoughts plaguing your mind.

Mindlessly, you place your hand on his thigh under the blanket and you feel his body immediately tense up under your touch. Kaminari tries to play it off cool, like nothing has happened, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen.

So that’s how you wanna play, hm?

Your hand travels up and down his thigh, caressing it, squeezing it every once in a while and slowly but surely going further up with each stroke. At the same time you maintain a blank façade, pretending to be fully focused on the movie.

Once your hand starts getting dangerously close to his now semi-hard cock, Denki lets out a fake cough and gets up under the pretense of getting ice cream and some new drinks. Your eyes follow his frame as he exits the room almost skittishly and the dangerous thoughts make you lick your lips in excitement.

He’d look very cute broken and torn up over experiencing sexual desire towards his little step sister.

A plan begins forming in your head.

You spend the rest of the evening making Denki’s temperature rise and his ears turn red with embarrassment—a subtle press of your tits against his arm when you cling to it, removing stray hairs from his face with a gentle hand, accidentally tracing his jawline with your finger, keeping his gaze just a tad longer than appropriate.

Meanwhile, Kaminari continues shifting uncomfortably in his seat, trying to find a pose that would allow him to hide how turned on he is, purposefully avoiding looking down your cleavage or observing how your shorts were riding up your thighs, revealing more plush skin that he wanted to sink his teeth into.

You don’t push too far though, you still had a couple of more days staying at his place, plenty of time to make your plan come to fruition. The movie comes to an end and you both decide to call it a night—you kiss his cheek and thank him again for allowing you to stay over, wishing him a good night and heading over to the guest bedroom where you were staying. His own room was right next door and you begin wondering how thin the walls really are.

Removing your clothes and kicking your panties aside, you make yourself comfortable on the bed and slide your hands down your torso, imagining how much bigger Denki’s would be, warmer than your own, eager.

Your mind conjures images of your step brother losing himself under you as you hover over his face, tongue lapping at your core like a starved man, staring up at you with those intoxicating cat-like amber eyes. Cupping your breast, a low moan escapes your lips as your other hand glides between your legs, humming with approval of how wet you are because of your step brother.

You touch yourself, rolling your nipples between your thumb and index finger, drawing circles on your clit and letting your mind relish in all the taboo things you want to do with Denki, paying less and less attention to the needy sounds bouncing off of the walls, yet hoping that they reach Denki’s ears.

And they do—in the other room Denki has his ear pressed to the wall, already fumbling with the zipper of his pants, his face so red and hot because he knows how wrong this is. You’re his little sister, not by blood, but you were family, and God, you were still incredibly gorgeous and just his type.

He had put so much effort over the years into not being a creep, not watching your ass as you walk away or blatantly staring at your tits. He had learned to be subtle, to be unnoticeable, to steal glances and satisfy himself by just imagining your lips around his cock—just that, nothing more.

But now, having you in his apartment, being surrounded by the scent of your perfume mixed with the coconut-scented shampoo you use—he was losing his mind. You’d been so much more touchy than usual this evening and your hand on his thigh made him feel dirty, so here he was now, listening in on you, knowing full well what you were doing and how incredibly wrong this was, invading your privacy and taking advantage of it, but he couldn’t help it.

Lip tucked between his teeth to keep quiet, he spits onto his palm and spreads his saliva over his cock, slowly fucking into his fist, trying to match your pace he was trying to guess from the cute whines he could hear. He imagined you spreading your pussy for him, beckoning him to take advantage of you, calling him ‘big brother’ in that seductive voice of yours that could drive him mad. Hearing you panting louder, breath uneven and needy, he allows himself to go faster, now picturing himself pushing his cock into your tight little hole, imagining his cum leaking out of you and just like that, faster than he’s ever experienced, he came in his hand shooting thick ropes of cum onto his knuckles and pillow, his heart threatening to leave his chest cavity.

The post-nut clarity hits him and Denki is plagued with shame and guilt, quickly removing his pillowcase and bedsheets and tossing them to the side, replacing the old one with new clean ones while mentally berating himself, feeling disgusted with his own actions.

He no longer hears you moaning in the other room, the sweet sound dying down and feels relieved, shoving his face into the freshly changed pillow and trying not to scream at himself. It felt like he had committed a crime, a sin of some sort, his own guilty conscience not allowing him to get much sleep, forcing Kaminari to toss and turn for the most part of the night, shaking his head as if trying to push away the thoughts of your breasts in his mouth out of his mind by force.

The next day, he seems to be the same, shoulders sagged with guilt, barely managing to look you in the eye during breakfast. Both of you had classes, so you drive to campus together and Denki, happy to have a distraction from his lewd thoughts about his own step sister.

You on the other hand keep your focus on your plan the entire day, not paying attention to a single lecture, forgetting to even eat lunch—completely consumed by your desire to have your step brother snap.

You had it all figured out—with your classes finishing earlier than Kaminari’s, you could head home before him and use the spare key he gave you to prepare for his return. You knew your brother was very curious, not a doubt in your mind that he would seek you out when he got in and you hoped that what he found would be enough to make Denki lose control.

And to no surprise, everything goes exactly according to your vision. You shower and put on some of that pretty lingerie you had brought with you, leaving the door to your room slightly cracked open, whilst entertaining yourself until the target audience for your little performance had returned home.

You’re lying on the bed—face down, ass up when you hear the front door open, the sound making you quiver with excitement, heart beating even faster as his footsteps approach, the fingers playing with your clit speeding up, your arousal dribbling down your thighs in fat droplets

The house was suspiciously quiet, leading Denki to believe you hadn’t gotten back yet. He’d kicked his shoes off to the side, tossing his bag onto the couch before heading towards his room with the intention to shed off his outside clothes and switch into something more comfortable. That didn’t end up being the case. Noticing that the door to your room was ajar, he takes a quick glance through the crack, freezing in his tracks as his sunshine eyes fixate on your drooling cunt, clenching around nothing, your arousal soaked fingers toying with your puffy folds. In this position you can’t see him, so Kaminari basks in the sight for a few moments to enjoy this, to memorize it and engrave the image of your cute cunt into his mind—trying hard to ignore the raging boner in his pants.

Kaminari gulps, feeling as if there’s a massive lump in his throat, right hand absentmindedly adjusting his now hard cock.

“Denks,” your needy voice shocks him out of his trance. “Please...”

His brain short circuits.

Time feels frozen, the noise of the outside world fading into nothing and the sound of his heartbeat ringing in his head deafeningly loud.

His name just left your mouth.

You said his name. You begged for him.

Once more, Kaminari hears his name, watching you arch your back even more, spreading your legs further and sinking down onto the bed while begging for him incoherently.

Denki sits there, motionless, watching his little step sister cumming hard, making a mess on the bed sheets while chanting his name.

For many years, his sanity and patience were tested—like a string tightly pulled back. In this single moment as he watched his step sister shake in the aftermath of her orgasm, that string finally snapped.

He opens the door, slowly at first and then in two short strides he’s behind you, pulling you up by the hair, pressing your back to his chest and breathing hard down your neck.

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that little sis?” Inhaling in your scent, the blonde holds you tight against him, tugging on your hair again to force you to look up at the ceiling—knowing he wouldn’t be able to have any self-restraint if he looked into your eyes.

“Moaning my name as you cum? You want your big brother that badly, hm?” His throbbing shaft presses against your ass, still clad in jeans, but you could feel it through the fabric.

You shut your eyes in embarrassment but don’t attempt to escape his grip, the lack of response to his question makes Denki even more impatient.

“Answer.” he growls in your ear.

“Y-Yes,” your voice comes out uneven. “I w-want my stepbrother, please.”

Your eyes stay tightly shut but your body gives your reaction away—shaking with anticipation and excitement, feeling your juices begin to slide between your folds again.

“Didn’t think you were this sick in the head, but who am I to refuse my precious little sister, huh?” You can't see his face but you can hear the sinister smile, feel how thrilled he is by the way his grip on you tightens. Suddenly, Kaminari’s pushing your head back down onto the mattress, crouching down to take a good look at your glistening wet cunt. Your little pleasure nub looks so cute and swollen he can't help himself by giving it an experimental lick, appreciating the way your body tenses. So he does it again and again—paying good attention to your needy bud, kissing and lightly sucking on it, mapping out how you react to each movement.

You drip like sweet honey onto Denki’s tongue, showering him in lustful mewls and needy grinds against his face, tiny fists balling the sheets when he slips his tongue inside your needy hole. He eats you out like a man starving, holding your hips steadily in place. Your big brother loves the way your thighs tremble and your breath is uneven and he is determined to get you to cum on his tongue, he needs it.

And it doesn’t take long for your slick to overflow from your body, the thought alone that your step brother’s chin was shining with your mess was enough to make you melt into a puddle, the taboo aspect of what you were doing pushing you over the edge too quickly.

With a silent cry, you cum hard, pressing yourself against Kaminari’s face, a trickle of drool sliding down your own chin as your eyes roll back from pleasure so intense, your senses become overloaded for a moment that all you see is white.

Before you come back down from your high and your soul returns to its body, Denki has managed to kick aside his jeans and boxers, knees digging into the edge of the mattress and his leaking cock glides between your sticky folds.

For a split second an uneasy feeling captures your heart in an icy grip.

“Don’t worry. It’s okay if it doesn’t go in, right little sis?” the blonde’s voice is thickly coated with smugness, with a sense of toxicity that should be so incredibly off-putting, yet it makes your insides twist with desire.

Two orgasms in, and your head starts to feel fuzzy, the heat emanating from his length rubbing against your slit making you feel like you have one foot off of the edge of insanity. You circle your ass against his dick, desperate and teary-eyed, pleading and chanting his name like it’s a prayer, enjoying the friction of your step brother’s mushroom cockhead against your sensitive clit.

His hands explore the expanse of your body, following the curves and dips of your hips, squeezing the doughy skin on your hips. Denki was greedily taking in every weak sigh you let out and every shudder you respond with, basking in the knowledge that he’s the one making his little sister drip down on his girth, oozing into the sheets and making a mess of them. You feel the heat rising inside you, knots forming in the pit of your stomach, the madness creeping further across your brain with the sound of Denki’s filthy words in your ear. The sound of his dick slipping back and forth on your wet cunt. Everything is so obscene, even the scent of him is working you up more, the knots twisting tighter.

You crave more.

You shouldn’t.

Denki—he’s your step brother there would be so many consequences, so many drawbacks of your current situation.

But consequences be damned, because the vein on the underside of his shaft feels so good against your sensitive clit, so much so that your brain throws all logic and reason out the window.

Denki is nearly as desperate as you are, and he gripes and grunts loudly—so close to release, just from the wetness of your pretty pussy engulfing him. So when you lift your hips up and angle them against the head of his girth, pushing past your entrance with ease—he nearly loses it.

The softness and warmth of your cunt wrapping around his cock makes him feel like his soul is ascending to high heavens, eyes rolling back in his skull and body shaking in ecstasy with every inch of him that you take until he’s fully sheathed in you, balls laying flat against your swollen pleasure nub.

You don’t give him time to prepare, to react even—slamming your hips back against his as quickly as your body can handle, yearning for that the feeling of the tip of his dick reaching deep inside of you and helping the pressure build even faster.

Cock drunk and cross-eyed, absolutely debauched and unashamed, your body forces out another orgasm, causing your muscles to spasm with a string of curses leaving your pretty lips as your soft walls clamp down on the blonde’s dick.

Denki sees stars, the only thought crossing his mind in that moment being that he will never have pussy this good ever again—so snug against him, pulsing violently around his length, selfishly sucking him in deeper. And with that singular thought, your step brother decides to fuck you stupid, make you feel the exact same way he does—like nothing would ever be good enough again.

Snapping out of the trance your perfect pussy has put him in, he props up a leg on the bed, pulling his length out of your heat and marveling at the way your cunt gleams luxuriously with the crude mix of his precum and your erotic juices, clenching and spasming around nothing. You whimper, but before you can clearly state your protest, Kaminari spits on your raw and abused mound, slamming his entire length into you once more, with only a single motion, setting a meteoric pace—spreading your ass cheeks apart so he can fuck into you harder.

Forgetting all his previous misgivings about fucking his little sister, Denki gives into his carnal desire and takes everything he can from you. A thumb now collecting the arousal from between your legs and using it as lubrication to toy with your pert ass, slowly pushing in the digit into you as you become impossibly tighter around him.

“One more time—I need to feel you cum around my cock one more time, sis,” Angling his hips to hit your sweet spot with every thrust, Denki practically makes you scream out his name, the blistering heat of his cockhead kissing your cervix repeatedly, leaving your brain absolutely scrambled.

You don’t even think it’s possible for you to cum again, but the telltale signs of your impending orgasm are there. However, it feels different this time, as if there’s some sort of pressure bubbling up inside you—like a volcano ready to erupt. A string of pleas leave your wet lips, not really knowing what you’re begging for but Denki understands—maintaining the same angle and rhythm, he sneaks a hand around your torso to rub gentle circles over your puffy clit, the action pushing you over the edge.

With a loud cry, you tense up around him so hard that he has to pull out, clear liquid gushing from your aching cunt as you squirt onto the bed and taint Kaminari’s golden skin, body shaking violently with tears streaming down your face until you’re overwhelmed by the feeling. The view of your pussy gushing and squirting is so enticing, but Denki is too greedy to allow you time to calm down, grabbing your hips and propping you up, lining his tip with your sopping entrance again and drilling into you at a ravenous pace.

You’re too sensitive, too sore, even—but he holds you firm against his chest, a hand around your throat, slightly restricting your breathing and keeping you from protesting while the blonde chases down his own release.

“ ‘m not fucking pulling out,” he growls into the shell of your ear, a cruel smile twitching at the corners of his lips. Kaminari’s words make you clamp down greedily on him, body instinctively trying to milk him for all he’s worth.

A couple more ruthless thrusts of his cock deep into your abused little pussy and he’s thrown over the edge, balls tightening and thick cum spilling deep into your womb—there’s so much of it, too much, to the point where it’s leaking out of your hole before he’s even pulled out. Your insides are burning hot with his seed and you can’t even be bothered to remind yourself if you’re on birth control or not, too fucked out to be able to conjure up a coherent thought.

Slowly pulling away, the tall blonde stares at your pink puffy pussy, thick cum oozing out in globs and dripping down your thighs—he collects the sticky substance with two fingers and promptly pushes the digits past your soft lips.

“Nasty little step sister, if I had known you were this slutty and desperate, I wouldn’t have spent countless nights fucking my fist—I would’ve fucked this pretty pussy of yours instead.” He taps the two digits that were in your mouth against your clit and your body jolts.

He moves away from the bed, grabbing something from your desk that you can’t see, still trying to collect yourself. Before you even had the chance to ask what it was, your step brother shows you his phone, the screen showing you a replay of what had just happened minutes before—a video of Denki fucking into you with no sound.

“Y-You recorded that?” the panic sobers you up as you quickly rise from the bed and try to take the phone from him.

But Kaminari’s much faster.

“Of course.” The corners of his lips turn upwards but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His body language shifts as he leans down, eyes raking over your naked, soiled body, a cool and foreboding aura seeping into the room, sneaking up on you. “Leverage, step sis.”

The words feel icy, goosebumps rising on your skin—with you barely recognizing the amber eyes looking down at you.

It was twisted, it was wrong, but one way or another—Denki Kaminari will keep you all to himself.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑! I do not own any of the characters or people mentioned in my work. these are works of pure fiction that do not reflect the views, opinions, or actions of any person, real or fictional. Furthermore, all characters I write for [thirsts, drabbles, fics, etc.] are aged up to 21 or older – they are adults with adult characteristics presented and written in adult contexts.

all rights reserved © by maliciouslove. my work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. all fanfics belong to me, please do not copy, translate nor repost the fics or files seen above as this is strictly prohibited.

#unholytext.exe #denki kaminari x reader #denki x reader #kaminari x reader #stepbrother!denki kaminari x reader #stepbrother denki #denki kaminari smut #denki smut #kaminari smut #bnha smut #mha smut #tw.stepcest #tw.dubcon #tw.voyeurism #tw.spit #tw.blackmail #tw.overstimulation #tw.breeding #tw.recording

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 14 days ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 6: Bloodstone]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Only 1 chapter left!!! 💎

You must not have heard him correctly. Down by the bow, third-class passengers are still laughing as they kick pieces of ice back and forth. Children who have been shaken awake are giggling as they dash around in their worn, patched coats. On the Promenade Deck, tycoons and aristocrats are flagging down stewards to fetch them fresh drinks. There is no more humming of the ship’s engines, although no one else seems to have noticed; they have quit and will never work again. In a few hours, they will be resting on the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s just barely April 15th, and half the passengers aboard won’t live to see the sunrise.

Kill Daemon??

You’ve never even hit anybody, not unless they struck you first. “I can’t kill someone.”

“Yes you can,” Aegon insists. His tone is urgent; there isn’t much time left. “And you won’t have to do it alone. Like I said, I’ll help you.”

A drop in your stomach, a chill down your spine, wide-eyed primal fear like a prey animal’s. “Even if I wanted to, Daemon can’t be killed.”

“He’s not a monster. He’s just a man. He has blood and organs just like we do. I promise you, if we cut him he’ll bleed.”

“He’ll hurt me,” you whimper. “He’ll know what I’m trying to do and he’ll break my neck or push me overboard. You don’t know him, he’s…he’s…he’s relentless, he’s cunning—”

“We can have what we want,” Aegon says, grabbing your face with his hands, fingertips callused from years of playing viola on streets, in pubs, in small rented rooms, on the decks of ships. “We can leave Titanic together. We can stay with my family for a while in New York, and then we’ll go back to Ireland so you can be with yours, and when my father dies we’ll spend half the year in England and the other half with your parents, and you’ll get to keep Draco, and Daemon will never touch you again. You’ll be free, Petra. And you deserve that. But no one is going to give it to you. You have to fight for it.”

Is it possible? Is it really? You imagine having breakfast with your parents in Lough Cutra Castle, the table full: you, Aegon, Draco, Fern, everyone smiling over plates of fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, and white pudding, cups of tea breathing steam into the cool morning air. Are you willing to fight for that? Are you willing to murder? At last you say: “Daemon isn’t the only problem.”

“Who else?” Aegon asks, demanding, impatient, though his hands are gentle. “Rhaenyra? And the old woman, right? Draco’s governess. Dagmar.”

“And Daemon’s bodyguard Edward Rushton, we call him Rush. He carries a pistol.”

“Okay.” Aegon nods, his eyes distant, his thoughts whirling like Titanic’s colossal propellers once did and never will again. You know he’s devising a plan. We only have an hour or two.

“Aegon…I have to get Draco into a lifeboat first.”

“Right.” He kisses you, a quick brush across your cheek like a dusting of snow, and you think: I can’t lose him. “Over a thousand passengers are going to die tonight. Let’s make sure four of them are people who deserve it.” Then he takes your hand and together you descend the steps to B-Deck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlet fever is named for the distinctive rash that marks its victims, tiny red dots like blood blisters, so itchy they are soon scratched raw, raised bumps of braille in the shape of ominous omens, corporal constellations of bad stars. Dagmar was reminded of them the first time she ever saw bloodstone, a dark green crystal freckled with red, a pendant that Dameon sent her from across the world where he was opening a new mine in Australia.

Valentin was the first one to get sick. He was the youngest, the only boy, and while perhaps mothers are not supposed to have favorites Dagmar knew in her bones that she did. She held him—three years old, white-blonde hair, loud and wild—as he grew quiet and weak and hot with fever, and then he was gone. After Valentin was Juni, and then Karin, and then Mikele, and finally Gunnar, a lumberman who worked hard and never complained, not even when he was dying of kidney failure. Dagmar was once a woman with four children and a husband, but then she was no one, untethered to the earth, unmoored from everything that had been, and people left adrift in the ocean are likely to drown and spend eternity in the crushing, sunless abyss.

She wandered for a while, too old to fathom a new life, too young to simply wait to die herself, and of course suicide is a sin. To keep from starving she took jobs as a governess; the only thing Dagmar knew how to do was raise children, and she was good at it. With each new household she found herself searching for Valentin’s eyes and hair and spirit, for a child that could make her believe he was alive again. But none of the temperate, blue-blooded little boys or girls of England—where Dagmar had fled to escape the memories of her homeland—came close to filling his footsteps, his handprints, the hemorrhaging puncture wound he left in her chest.

Then one brutally cold winter, Dagmar was referred to the 8th Duke of Beaufort Baelon Targaryen, deep in mourning for his wife Alyssa who had recently perished in childbirth and at a loss to handle his two sons. Viserys, the heir, was already eight years old and too set in his ways to ever see Dagmar as a mother. But Daemon, only four—so much like Val, Dagmar had thought as she lifted him from the floor—was sad and needy and vicious, furious at the world for stealing his mother from him, and this was something Dagmar could understand. She became his new mother. He became her reason for living.

Daemon grew up, as all children do if they are not preserved forever in youth by untimely deaths, and Dagmar drifted away to other castles and mansions, other families, other attempts to silence the ghosts that rattled doors and windows as she slept. But no one could replace Daemon, and each time she received a letter or a gift from him—photographs from his mining expeditions, bracelets and hair combs, taxidermied foreign beasts—Dagmar would write him a thank you note and always include the same postscript: Daemon my dear, my brave rogue prince, it would be the greatest joy of my life to one day help look after your own child. And at last, when Draco was born he summoned her, and little Valentin was alive once again.

Now unlike Daemon, Draco did have a mother, but she was young and easily managed, inexperienced with babies, eager to please her husband. Daemon was so sage and charismatic and renowned, and she faded into his shadow until all her colors were gone and she was black and white like a photograph, never knowing what to do or say, staring inanely from doorways. This was just fine as far as Dagmar was concerned. She could pretend that Daemon’s wife was dead like poor Alyssa Targaryen.

Here on Titanic, the baffling shockwave yanked Draco out of his dreams. He’s crying, soft disoriented whines, and Dagmar soothes him and reads him The Little Mermaid and tells Fern—also awakened by the shudder and now pacing restlessly around the staterooms—to make some tea. Just as Draco is finally dozing off again, there is a loud knock at the front door. Dagmar brings Draco out into the sitting room, leading him by one of his tiny pawlike hands, to find Fern speaking to a steward who will not come inside any farther than the doorway, as if he is in a hurry. Fern, puzzled, is clutching the white lifebelts he has given her.

The steward is explaining: “I’m sure it’s just a precaution, ma’am—”

“It’s not a precaution,” Daemon’s wife says as she sweeps into the room, and for some reason there is a man with her, a blonde man in a black wool coat. Immediately, Dagmar’s blood turns to dark viscid poison. What is she doing? Why can’t she disappear? “Thank you,” Daemon’s wife tells the steward briskly. “I’m sure you have other rooms to visit. You should be on your way.”

The steward is evidently too busy to be offended. He retreats into the hallway and vanishes, and the strange blonde man shuts the door behind him. Dagmar scrutinizes the intruder, and he glares back at her with eyes like deep water, a murky melancholy blue. He’s the same man she saw on the Boat Deck, the one who reminded her so much of Viserys when he was young, that solemn, grieving boy she could not coax into loving her.

Why can’t Daemon’s wife just die? Why should she live when so many have been lost? Why would God judge her more worthy than Valentin, Juni, Karin, Mikele, Gunnar?

“What’s going on?” Fern asks Daemon’s wife, her voice reedy and timid.

Instead of an answer, there is a question in return: “Is anyone else here?”

“No,” Fern says, perplexed. “Why? What’s happened?”

Daemon’s wife holds out an empty hand, not to Fern but to Draco, who Dagmar is still grasping with bony fingers gnarled by arthritis. She says: “Draco, please come with me.”

“Why?” he asks, but he has already taken a step towards her, tiny bare feet. Dagmar does not surrender him. She will not, she cannot. He stops when his arm is fully extended and then looks back to his governess, his surrogate mother, his pale eyes full of doubt.

“We have to go somewhere,” Daemon’s wife says. She is still reaching for him. “Draco, please. I need you to listen to me, we don’t have much time.”

“No,” Dagmar sneers. “You don’t know how to take care of him. You never have.”

“Can I go?” Draco asks softly, and Dagmar pretends she has not heard him.

“Draco,” Daemon’s brainless young wife pleads. Her eyes flick up to Dagmar’s, and there is a moment of terrible understanding between them, as if they are mirror images: neither can try to force him without driving him into the embrace of the other. He is not a child who is easily tamed; he is a wolf, he is a dragon.

“Dagmar?” Draco says, peering up at her, and he’s asking for permission but in another minute he might be stomping his feet and screeching loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.

Dagmar glances at the lifebelts Fern is gripping tightly. What’s wrong with the ship? Is it sinking? But no, Dagmar cannot believe this. Titanic is unsinkable; everybody in the world knows that. She tells the boy: “She’ll take you away from me. She’ll steal you. But she won’t keep you safe and warm and happy like I would.”

“I’m your mother,” Daemon’s wife tells Draco, and now her voice is choked and there are tears glittering in her desperate eyes. The blonde man looks at her like he would carry the weight of her anguish if he could, every last pound. Who is he? Why is he here? “I know it might not feel that way sometimes, but I am. And I love you more than anything. I would never hurt you. I’m trying to protect you. Draco, I need you to come with me right now.”

And horribly, unthinkably, he yanks his little hand out of Dagmar’s. She claws for him and he spins around to face her. “No!” Draco shouts. “I decide! Me! Not you!” She is stunned into silence. She watches him careen across the sitting room, and Daemon’s wife scoops him up as if he belongs to her. She holds him for a while, a minute or more, before she sets him down on the floor and quickly helps Draco get his socks and shoes on. The boy does not complain. Then she lifts him again and—with what appears to be great effort—passes him to Fern, who while bewildered accepts this task, now carrying both the boy and the lifebelts. Daemon’s wife grabs all the coats hanging from the coat rack and piles them into Fern’s already full arms.

“Fern, take him upstairs to the Boat Deck. Get to a lifeboat, do not wait. They will be launching them soon if they haven’t started already.”

“Lifeboats?” Fern repeats, blinking, stymied.

“Yes,” Daemon’s wife says, and she and the maid share a long, silent, meaningful look. Draco gazes worriedly around the room, gnawing on his fingernails. The blonde man watches Dagmar, his expression severe, hateful.

Fern asks: “How much time until Titanic…?”

“An hour or two. You won’t be in the lifeboat for long, a ship called Carpathia is en route. But she’s not close enough.”

“Oh,” the maid exhales numbly. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”

“Stay with Draco. Don’t leave him for a second. Get into a lifeboat, keep him warm, wait for Carpathia. I’ll follow you as soon as I can, but…there are some things I have to do first.”

“Like what, ma’am? What could be so important? You shouldn’t wait either.”

Instead of answering, she says, low like a dire warning: “If you happen to see them, do not speak to Daemon, Rhaenyra, or Rush. Don’t tell them what’s going on.”

“Yes ma’am,” Fern replies quietly, and nods like she suddenly understands. She takes Draco and hurries out of the room. Now Dagmar is alone with them: Daemon’s idiotic little girl of a wife, her inexplicable companion.

“This ship can’t sink,” Dagmar says; but is the floor tilting? She has only just noticed it.

“Of course it can,” Daemon’s wife counters. “Any ship can. I kept telling everyone how terrified I was of the voyage and you all treated me like I was insane. But I was right. I wasn’t a coward and I wasn’t stupid. And you can’t make me believe that I am anymore.”

Dagmar is about to reply—something cutting, something cruel—but then her steely Scandinavian eyes snag on the stranger and all at once it hits her like a man’s knuckles. She gasps, shocked, ferocious. Aegon. Viserys’ son. A villain, a traitor, an unworthy beneficiary of a grand inheritance. “I know who you are. How the hell did you get here?”

The man grins menacingly. “Fortune brought me a ticket. Best luck I’ve ever had.”

Dagmar screams, hoping he will hear her: “Daemon?!”

Aegon lunges, catches her around her long thin waist, wrestles her towards the door to the private promenade deck. Dagmar isn’t strong, but she is fierce; she scratches at his eyes and bites his hands when they try to smother her howls. They stumble together through the doorway and out onto the pine planks, knocking over lightweight wicker furniture. When her teeth close around Aegon’s fingers, Dagmar tastes blood like warm copper.

“A window!” Aegon is telling Daemon’s wife, but she’s already there after slamming the door to the sitting room shut, franticly turning the hand crank under the nearest window. The glass opens, and freezing night air pours in.

They’re trying to kill me, Dagmar realizes. They’re going to throw me overboard.

She jabs a bony elbow into Aegon’s throat, and he collapses to the deck, wheezing and helpless.

“Daemon!” Dagmar shrieks again. If he hears me, he’ll save me. My savior, my son. “Help!”

But it’s his wife who arrives instead. She collides with Dagmar, strikes her with two open palms, shoves her through the window. Dagmar’s hipbone cracks against the windowsill, a dry brittle snap, and then she tumbles out into the darkness.

Her last thought as she sees the stars—before she hits the frigid water and is knocked unconscious, then dragged under by the merciless weight of gravity—is that if they were red they would look like the dots on the skin of a child with scarlet fever, like the crimson flecks in a bloodstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my God, I…we…” You stare down into the black waves that swallowed her so effortlessly, a flash of her long silver hair as it came undone and then nothing. “She’s gone. She’s really gone. We killed her. We’re murderers.”

In reply, Aegon coughs and gasps for air, still crawling around on the deck. You run to him and help him stand up.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“I’ll be fine,” he rasps. “Just need a minute.”

You look down to see blood dripping from his fingers, thick beads of crimson like teardrop-shaped rubies, like oil paint. You ache for him, you feel his pain as if it is your own. “Your hands, Aegon, your hands…”

“I’m okay,” Aegon assures you, smiling. “The bitch chewed me up, but I’ll live.”

“I want to save your paintings,” you say. “We can’t let them go down with the ship. We’ll take them to the Boat Deck and give Fern your portfolio, make sure she and Draco get safely into a lifeboat, and then…then we’ll…” We’ll finish what must be done. We’ll free you and me and Draco.

Aegon is nodding as he rubs his throat, already bruising. “Any idea where Rush might be? The guy with the gun?”

Before you can answer, you both hear it: the sound of a door swinging open and heavy footsteps inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

He likes that Daemon calls him Rush. It’s better than Eddie, which is who he was when he was a boy being kicked and backhanded by his stepfather, and laughed at by the other kids at school for not having shoes to wear. Now he is someone brand new, and that boy Eddie could be a character in a book or a song, vaguely familiar but not real.

Daemon has never hit Rush, never even threatened him. He has never stolen his laborers’ promised wages or cornered maids to violate them, impregnate them, ruin their lives. He goes into the mines he opens and periodically travels the world to inspect, descending into clouds of dust and chipping gemstones from the walls with his own tools. He is kind to his son Draco. He is brave, he is brilliant, he knows how to have a drink with working men and captivate them with his stories. Rush would do anything for Daemon, who saved him from a life of obscure, powerless poverty. He would overlook any number of sins.

Rush gusts into the bedroom and sets about gathering up valuables and stuffing them into a suitcase: business correspondence, jewelry, sketches of designs, bundles of cash from the safe. Daemon will regret having to leave the taxidermied tiger head, but it’s simply too large and heavy to bring with them. Rush hasn’t located Daemon and Rhaenyra yet, but this isn’t so unusual; they are always sneaking around, evading being found purely for the sake of it, the deception, the thrill, ravaging each other in ever more inventive places. God knows where they were when Titanic struck the iceberg, or if they are aware of the impending sinking. Rush is not panicking yet; there’s still time, though perhaps not too much of it. With each passing minute, the ship lists further towards the starboard side. He is just about to get Daemon’s dagger from the writing desk when he hears the door open to the private promenade deck. Rush turns to see Lady Targaryen peeking in from the threshold, pale blue dress, white coat.

He has never felt any loyalty to her. She is a thoughtless, mollycoddled girl, raised in a castle with parents who loved her, and what would she know of what the world was like for everyone else? Daemon only roughed her up when she deserved it, when there was no other way to make her listen, and never too badly: no split bones, no scars. In Rush’s opinion, it was just enough to give her a taste of adversity.

He sighs. “Well, unless you plan on drowning or freezing to death tonight, you might as well follow me up to the Boat Deck. I’m just here to collect some things. They’re only putting women and children in the lifeboats now, but I’m sure first-class men won’t be far behind.”

She says nothing, only watches him from the doorway. The old witch Dagmar isn’t here; she must have already taken the boy to the highest level of the ship, where affluent passengers are waiting impatiently and still in denial that Titanic will soon disappear beneath the waves, asking stewards to fetch them drinks and cigars, calling out song requests to the string quartet.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Daemon or Rhaenyra, I assume?”

“I thought they were with you.”

“No,” Rush says, smirking. “I seem to have lost track of them. They’re not in either of their staterooms. But don’t fear. Daemon is more than capable of looking after himself. He’ll turn up soon enough.” Perhaps I missed them up on the Boat Deck; it was crowded, it was chaos. Perhaps Daemon is already helping Rhaenyra into a lifeboat, his large rough hands steadying hers as she steps inside. He would save her first.

“I’ll help you pack the valuables,” Lady Targaryen says suddenly, and starts towards Daemon’s writing desk.

“Just keep out of the way,” Rush snaps; and then he sees something and stops dead.

A painter’s easel has slid halfway out from beneath the bed as the floor tilts. This is a peculiar enough item, but the paper clipped to it is stranger. The image is of Lady Targaryen, that is certain, but she isn’t alone; there is a man with her, and while nothing is shown below the collarbones, the activity in which they are partaking is unmistakable.

If she’s found a lover, Daemon really will kill her this time.

Rush gapes at the painting for several long seconds and then looks up at Lady Targaryen. “What the fuck is that?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand hovers on the handle of the desk drawer. You can’t open it and take the dagger while Rush is watching. You know that beneath his coat he wears a shoulder holster containing a Colt 1911. Even with a blade, you are outmatched.

Aegon appears in the doorway to the private deck with a wicker chair. He hurls it at Rush as hard as he can, and as Rush curses and fumbles for his pistol, you seize Daemon’s dagger from the drawer and plunge it into Rush’s back, once, twice, three times, many more. You can’t help but scream as you stab him, because it’s horrible beyond description: the resistance of gristle, the muffled popping of organs, kidneys or a liver or a spleen, and Rush is groaning and contorting, dark blood spilling across the slanting floor. Aegon struggles with him for the gun, ultimately wrenching it out of Rush’s weakening, shaking hands. He’s dying, and while you harbor no affection for him and never have, you remember the children your parents lost. Life is not something to take carelessly. It is already so fragile, and each death creates mourners like heads springing from a hydra.

Over a thousand people will die tonight. Is that really possible?

Rush has stopped moving. You are kneeling with the gold hilt of the dagger in your fist. The gemstones are splattered with blood: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire.

“Here,” Aegon says, trying to give you the pistol.

You recoil. “I don’t know how to use that.”

He laughs, a half-hysterical little cackle. There is a smudge of Rush’s blood across his cheek like a stain of lipstick. “I don’t either!”

“Keep the gun. I trust you.” You turn to the easel that has slid out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt—once white, now speckled with red—and realize that stray blooddrops have been flung across the painting, dots of red turning tacky on the thin layer of oil paint. “I ruined it,” you say, soft and mournful.

“No,” Aegon disagrees, smiling. “You just added some more color.”

You use the bedsheets to wipe the worst of the blood off your hands and the dagger. Then you pull Aegon’s leather portfolio out from underneath the bed, open it, and store the new painting safely inside. In the meantime, Aegon rolls Rush’s body into the closet and entombs him in a heap of gowns you’ll never wear again. You stand, pick up the dagger, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the oval-shaped mirror…and instead of looking away, you stay there for a while. The woman in the glass—like silver, like moonlight—has frightened eyes but a glinting blade as well. There are massive maroon splotches on the belly of your ice-blue dress; you button your coat to conceal them. Through the open door to the private deck, frigid night air floods in like the seawater slowly filling Titanic.

What does water that cold feel like? Like knives, like fangs? A thousand people will soon find out.

“Ready?” Aegon asks. He puts the pistol in the pocket of his stolen black coat.

“Almost.” You find your handbag from yesterday, green to match the emerald-colored dress you wore before Aegon painted you, before he uncovered you like a rare gemstone. Within is Aegon’s small aluminum lighter; you tuck the dagger inside as well. You yank out a handkerchief and clean the blood from Aegon’s cheek with it, then peer down at his swollen, bloodied fingers and knuckles, ravaged by Dagmar’s bitemarks. They are trembling. “Are your hands—?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling you in and kissing you, touching your face and your hair, his lips warm and soft in a haze of copper-scented glacial air. Would you do this again for him? For Draco, for yourself? Yes. I’d do it a hundred times. “We’re halfway done.”

Up on the Boat Deck, people are finally realizing that the ship is in mortal peril. First-class women, shimmering in their gowns and their jewels, are being hastily loaded into lifeboats along with their maids and their children. You spot Fern in one vessel; she is wearing two coats herself, and has bundled Draco in at least four from what you can tell. She holds him on her lap, and Draco is uncharacteristically hushed, compliant, fearful, gawping with startled blue eyes beneath disorderly white-blonde hair. They are seated beside Benjamin Guggenheim’s elegant French mistress, Léontine Aubart. Ben himself is striding back and forth on the deck with a number of companions, all in pristine black suits and puffing on pipes or cigars, assisting the weeping women as they flee to the lifeboats.

“We are prepared to go down as gentlemen!” Ben is trumpeting. Nearby, a string quartet is playing not an Irish song that you have known since childhood but the mellow, merry, please-don’t-panic melody of Samson and Delilah by Camille Saint-Saëns.

“I guess my viola is long gone, huh?” Aegon tells you. “Oh well. I hope the fish enjoy it.”

Ben Guggenheim continues: “Let it be known for all time that we stayed until the end to save the lives of the innocent, our beloved women and children, and that they survived because of us. Our bodies may fail, but our Christian good deeds will last eternally.”

“Hear hear!” other men are shouting drunkenly, raising glasses of brandy. Stewards and officers cast them brief, rather impatient glances. You wonder if any of the aforementioned gentlemen have considered the women and children of the third class, many of whom must have already predeceased them as they were drowned below deck, ignoble, invisible.

You think for the first time: Are they going to let Aegon into a lifeboat?

“Mam!” Draco shouts when he sees you, reaching out with both arms. You sprint to where he is still secured in Fern’s lap and lean over the side of the lifeboat, clasping his cold little hands and kissing the top of his head. Then you give Aegon’s portfolio to Fern.

“Take this with you. Try to make sure it doesn’t get wet.”

“Are you climbing in now, ma’am?” Fern asks hopefully. “There’s room for one more if we squeeze together.” Her eyes dart to Aegon. “Perhaps two.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “Not quite yet. But I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you have to come with us,” Draco says. The ship’s officers are signaling for the vessel to be lowered into the water. You spy other familiar faces aboard: young pregnant Madeleine Astor, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown. Being a first-class passenger will save her life tonight.

“I’ll get in another boat. I promise.”

“No,” Draco says, and now he’s sobbing. He can’t understand the scale of it, but he knows something is terribly wrong. “Mam, we can’t leave without you. There’s room in the boat. Please get in. Please.” And you think: Maybe he does need me after all. Maybe he always did.

“You can go with them,” Aegon murmurs through your hair. “I’ll finish this. I’ll take care of Daemon and Rhaenyra.”

But he might need your help…and you cannot leave him here alone to freeze or drown or be murdered when Daemon discovers his lethal intentions. “You’re safe,” you tell Draco, one last touch of your palm to his hair, one last reassuring smile you hope isn’t a lie. “Stay with Fern. I’ll be in another lifeboat and I’ll see you again when this is over.”

“No, no, no!” Draco cries, still grasping futilely for you; but the lifeboat is lurching down towards the water and he is soon beyond your reach. High above, a flare explodes in the inky night sky, gleaming silver rain to tell any passing ships that Titanic is doomed. The North Atlantic is like black glass, smooth and reflective. Distant constellations are mirrored there, and you remember a passage from a book you gifted Daemon for your second anniversary when you still believed he might one day love you, an ancient tale from India about the beauty of the ocean: Its huge white waves looked like clouds; its gems looked like stars; its crystals looked like the moon; and its long bright serpents bearing gems in their hoods looked like comets, and thus the whole sea looked like the sky.

“Lady Targaryen,” Ben Guggenheim says as he marches over. He is swaying like he might be drunk. If he is, you can’t blame him. The truth is cold, and poison is warm: alcohol, smoke, a lover’s hands, a gush of blood. “Do you require any assistance, my darling?”

“No, thank you,” you reply swiftly before he can inquire further, and Aegon’s arm circles your waist as you hurry towards the entrance of the Grand Staircase together. You clutch your green handbag close to your chest. Where are Daemon and Rhaenyra? When will this be over?

From back by the lifeboats you can hear Ben Guggenheim shouting: “Tell my wife and daughters in New York that I love them! Tell them that I died a hero, and that I shall see them again when one day we are reunited in heaven…pray for my soul…tell the newspapers of our courage tonight…”

You and Aegon escape into the very top level of the Grand Staircase, the dome of glass and wrought iron above, the English oak wood steps winding below. As you enter, a frenzied crowd passes you on their way out to the Boat Deck: shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, J. Bruce Ismay, a number of others. And then, just as you and Aegon are beginning your descent, you see her on the landing below, frozen in place where she gapes up at you from beside the clock. Soon its ticking will fall silent forever. It will live on only in the memories of the survivors.

Rhaenyra is alone on the staircase. She is wearing a red and black gown and a white lifebelt; she is on her way to evacuate the sinking ship. You have intercepted her not a moment too soon. But she is not looking at you. Her Targaryen-blue eyes are fixed on Aegon, incredulous. It is the first time she has truly noticed him since she came aboard, and she remembers his face from photographs, from portraits, from awkward, frosty visits when they were both children.

“Aegon?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

In response, he removes the pistol from his coat pocket. Rhaenyra screams and bolts down the staircase, Aegon right behind her, flying like a phantom, like a shadow in his stolen black wool coat.

You try to follow, but they are faster. You slip on the steps, one of your blue shoes clattering away as you grip the banister to keep from falling. You reclaim your shoe where the staircase meets A-Deck; outside the illustrious Promenade Deck encircles the perimeter of the ship. You steady yourself against the bronze cherub statue as you slide your shoe back on, then resume the chase…but you don’t know where Aegon and Rhaenyra have gone.

Farther down the Grand Staircase? Out onto the Promenade Deck? Into the maze of hallways?

You try to listen for them, but the turmoil outside is growing louder. You hear a gunshot, but you cannot tell from which direction; the sound reverberates through the steel of the ship and melds with the chorus of failing machinery: groaning joints, snapping beams, steam vented from the massive funnels. You pause in the doorway that leads out to the Promenade Deck, black freezing air drawn into your heaving lungs.

Which way?

Now there are footsteps on the Grand Staircase coming up from B-Deck. You race back to the bronze cherub, but it is not Aegon or Rhaenyra who meets you there. It is Daemon, appearing on the landing like a fogbank or a thunderstorm, black suit, glinting deep-set eyes, towering over you; and once again you are a seventeen-year-old girl climbing into the marriage bed with him and hoping he’ll like you, once again you feel yourself to be entirely at his mercy, in terror of him, in awe of him.

Daemon grabs you by your coat and pushes you against the bronze cherub statue, its edges prodding at your spine. You yelp and he chuckles, and he asks, so casually he must know nothing about Aegon or his pursuit of Rhaenyra like a hound after a fox: “And what are your plans for this evening, dear? Dinner and dancing? Or perhaps a nice brisk swim? Good for one’s health, I hear.”

You can’t find your words. Your fingers that grasp your handbag are numb and useless. Daemon is inside you again, not your body this time but your mind, snipping threads and dissolving mirages. How did I ever believe I could kill him?

Slowly, Daemon’s grin dies. He releases you, and then for some reason—a trick?? a trap??—offers you his empty hand. “Come on,” he says, as if relenting. “I’ll help you get to a lifeboat.”

You stare up at him, and the shock must show on your face, the disbelief, the cautious wonder.

“I can’t take you away from Draco,” Daemon says, answering a question you don’t need to ask. He owns all of you; you have no secrets. “He’s so young. And I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

Draco, you think with abrupt glass-sharp clarity. I’m doing this for him, and Aegon, and me.

You don’t take Daemon’s hand. Instead, you open your handbag and rip out the dagger. You slash at Daemon’s throat, and you almost cut him deep enough, a fraction of an inch from the carotid or the jugular or the windpipe. But Daemon pulls away at the last second and you only wound him, scarlet rivulets spilling down his neck and staining the white shirt beneath his suit jacket, melting rubies, hard soulless gemstones in the sockets of his eyes.

Daemon throws you down the staircase and you hit the oak steps hard, bruising, twisting, rolling, the thoughts jolted out of your skull. The dagger is knocked from your hand and is lost. You fumble blindly for it where you are sprawled on the next landing, halfway to B-Deck. Your vision is blurred by stars like those in the mirror image on the North Atlantic Ocean.

But I need the dagger, I need it, I need it, I can’t kill him without it.

And as you lift your head you see Daemon coming down to meet you, a gemcutter here to break you over and over again, until there is nothing left but glimmering dust, until you have never existed at all.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon x y/n #aegon x you

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zer0pm · 2 years ago

Text

Imagine demanding Luis to unlock your chains. When he doesn’t, you take matters into your own hands.

A/N: DID SOMEONE SAY PART 2 OF THIS PIECE?!

You did and I’m grateful for all the love that has been thrown for my work. So here’s me giving some of that love back. Hope you enjoy 🙏

Warning: SMUT AHEAD. Look away, minors! Look away! Avert your eyes from the sexual content! Shoo! Begone!

Warning 2: It’s quite long so mentally prepare yourself.

“I still didn’t catch your name.”

The cheek on this guy. Using the fact that he holds the key to your restraints as a bargaining chip to become familiar with you. As if he hadn’t just forced you into a partnership with him already. The absolute nerve. You had more important things to do, such as finding Leon and the president’s daughter. And this Luis Serra was effectively wasting your precious time. Well, two can play this game.

You start by offering him an inviting smile before relaxing your hands until your palms pressed flat against his chest. The man didn’t seem to fully register your subtle movement until you slid them upwards, feeling the fine leather beneath your fingertips. The motion takes him by surprise, his eyes following your touch. He then casts an inquisitive glance your way.

“¿Que haces?” Apparently he wasn’t expecting this, convinced that you didn’t much care for him and thus was taken so off guard that he slipped into his native tongue. He must have remembered himself right after as he repeated the question, making sure that it sounded more direct. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Voice comes out in a low, sultry drawl as you grip the lapel of his jacket with one hand, gently tugging at the material. “I’m about to give you what you want. But I’m going to need you to come closer.”

Once you were certain that you had his complete attention while also making sure that you didn’t lose yourself in the mesmerizing grey of his eyes, you make your move. With your other hand, as best as the chains allowed, you reach for the key that was lodged in the lock of your chains. Disguising your intention, you run your fingers down the expanse of his chest in an explorative manner. This earned an appreciative hum from the Spaniard as he leans his head towards you expectantly.

Too easy.

Mindful not to look down between you two so as to not give yourself away, you lean in as well while also blindly searching for the key. “My name is…” you whisper. His bated breath mingles with yours, the lids of his eyes heavy, grey growing dark in anticipation. Another inch from either one of you and the gap will close. Just as your fingertips touched the end of the key, something warm firmly grips your hand. A sudden chill runs down your spine.

You can hear the reverb of something between a scoff and a chuckle come from Luis’ lips. “Nice try,” he smirks knowingly.

With a strength that catches you off guard, he pushes you away from him. Key in hand. He flaunts the tiny piece of metal before swinging his arm as if he was making a play to toss it aside. In your panic, you jump towards him, shoving him off balance with your shoulder. He breaks your fall as you two tumble down together.

The man curses in Spanish from the sudden pain and you took advantage of this by quickly searching for the key. You spot it a bit of a ways above Luis’ head and use both bound hands to reach for it once more. The chain that links your wrists together are caught by a familiar hand and suddenly pulled down until your hands were restrained between your two bodies once more. You sigh in frustration and the man beneath you clicks his tongue against his teeth.

There is an amused glimmer in his gaze as he speaks. “The stubborn-type, eh? All this trouble over a name.”

You in turn throw him an annoyed glare. “I was going to say the same about you.”

Instead of showing offense, he laughs. “Perhaps we’re more alike than you might think.”

Rather than entertain him further, you try to wrestle against his hold. Luis seemed prepared for it this time, matching your strength, only he had the advantage as he had free reign of his arms and hands. One hand kept your chained hands between your chests, the other gripped at the bicep of your arm, effectively minimizing upper body movement. Out of instinct, you rebelliously wriggle with your hips and legs with the sole focus of getting off of him. However, the man’s longer limbs kept you caged against him and the only thing you managed to do was awkwardly seat your bottom on him, knees bent by his sides.

When you grounded down in your struggle, the man tensed below you. Thinking you have finally one-up him, you repeated the action and noticed he wasn’t nearly putting up as good a fight as he did before. This allowed you to sit upright, dragging his hand with you until his arm extended slightly, and you continued your efforts to be free of him.

Luis’ breath became labored. “Stop.” he commands with gritted teeth, his voice barely above a whisper. When you didn’t listen to him, he moved his other hand from your arm to your hip, squeezing harshly in warning.

“¡Basta! Stop moving!” he growls.

You bark back defiantly, “I’ll get off when you let me get the fuckin-“

That’s when you felt it. Or rather- him. A hardness pressed beneath your nether region. Despite the layers of fabric, there was no mistaking the telling throbbing pushing up against you as if demanding your attention below.

Your throat runs dry but your brain kept sending signals to your mouth. “Ar…. Are you-“

“Sí.” the man had a pained, conflicted look about him, a picture of breathtaking self-control as he kept his body completely still. His eyes didn’t meet yours, gaze locked upon where your hips met as if to keep himself in check and not allow his body’s desires to act out untowardly.

“Surely you know how the human body works,” he tries to sound clinical, face strained in vague distress, “and will not fault me for the involuntary reactions of mine. It already doesn’t help that you’re easy on the eyes.”

You should be chastising him for getting excited when it was neither the time or place and danger was surely around the corner, but bit your lip at your own wave of pleasure upon feeling his arousal pulse. A totally different kind of heat washes over you.

What do you do now?

Neither of you spoke for a moment, a tense silence settling in until Luis breaks it with a forced cough.

“Well, this is- uh, fun.” he says without humor. “Pero, perhaps we can call it even and stop the game here. ¿Sí?”

His words went in one ear and out the other. You were frustrated beyond belief. Fueled by adrenaline and temptation. There was no one around. And you have an impossibly handsome Spanish man between your legs with a hard-on for you.

When you didn’t answer, he spoke up again. “As much as I like this position, I must regrettably ask that you- Whoa!”

As best as you could, you shoot your bound hands straight up in the air. As he still had a grip on the chain link, Luis was dragged upright into a seated position from the floor and his face stopped right in front of yours. The movement caused friction in both of your sensitive areas, mouths could do nothing to stop the groans that escaped them. His eyes open to your heated gaze, confusion and desire swirling in the grey irises.

You breathe, “You talk too much, Luis Serra.”

And it was you who closed the distance. Teeth and tongue clashed in a new battle filled with pent-up energy and lust. Your mind quickly becomes hazy as you allowed yourself to be consumed in his emanating heat and musky scent. A nip at his bottom lip earned you an enthusiastic thrust of his hips, an appreciative squeeze at your bottom rewarded him with a carnal moan from your mouth. The only time you pulled back was for air and the man before you glances between your dazed eyes and bruised lips, hypnotized by your already ruined appearance.

“Are we, uh, still playing the same game?” His question nearly disarms you. You have a feeling he was really asking if you were of sound of mind about this. Your eyes roll reflexively.

“Really going to keep running your mouth?” You then follow up with a roll of your hips, the Spaniard throws his head back with a deep, guttural groan. Dark wavy locks brush against his cheekbones, eyes shut closed. With his thick neck exposed, you steal kisses along his sensitive pulse and stubbled jaw. Another primal groan vibrates from his throat.

“Eres muy mala.” Luis grumbles without a hint of disdain. Rather, when you finally pull back to allow him to look at you, you find him wearing that familiar cocky smirk. “But I must admit, I’m kind of into it.”

A charmer through and through this man is. His next move takes you by surprise.

He shoves you off of him.

As soon as you recover from your initial shock, the dark-haired man grabs you by the chain again and drags you to the far end of the room, further away from the key and exit. Using his strength and your own momentum against you, Luis tosses you forward. Your upper body lands right on top of a wide metal table propped against the dingy concrete wall.

He takes advantage of your momentary state of confusion by forcing your arms to extend towards the wall. It wasn’t until you heard the unmistakable click of metal did you fully regain your senses and look up to see what he did. The arrogant man used one of the wall mounts to lock your chains taut in place. He literally chained your chains. You’re caught in a trap again!

Just as you were about to curse him out, you feel something hard press firmly against your bottom followed by a pair of warm hands settling at your hips and the heat you didn’t realize you were missing came back in throes. You almost wanted to point out how unfair the shift in dynamic was, but all coherent thoughts were thrown out the window when he started grinding into you.

“There,” Luis hums at your apparent silence, “much better.”

Damn him. And he had the gall to say you were bad.

His movements were slow and methodical, like he was testing the waters to see if you were actually fine with this. Your pleased sighs were the signs he needed to continue and go beyond. Next, you feel his curious hands rubbing at your sides over your shirt before he lifts it enough to slip them beneath the fabric. Feeling his skin on yours sent chills throughout your body. His touch wanders, palming at your every curve, line, and muscle and you melted into his hands, encouraging his exploration.

The temperature in the room was becoming unbearably hot. As if hearing this thought, you were pulled up by your torso as far as the chains would allow and felt your back meet his chest. Now, his hardness was at your lower back and you purposefully melded your backside against his straining cock, mentally drawing the length of him. Needless to say, without even seeing it, you were impressed by his size. The man didn’t carry himself confidently without warrant. A soft, almost adoring kiss upon the shell of your ear pulls you from your shameless thoughts.

He whispers hoarsely, “My friend, are you particularly fond of this shirt?”

“What?” you manage to choke out. “Why are you aski-”

The sound of tearing answered your question before you can finish it. Tattered fabric scatters around your feet and the air within the room suddenly felt like soft caresses on your bare torso.

“You didn’t even let me answer!” Your voice sounded more excited than annoyed.

“Lo siento. You were too slow.” Luis presses another chaste kiss to the side of your head. However, you can practically feel his wicked grin. “And frankly, are much too sexy for clothing, anyways.”

Damn, this man was making you feel things.

Despite your skin now bare against the elements, it did little to alleviate the heat building within you. It only amplified when his hands returned to your form, making a slow, sinful journey from your stomach to your upper chest. The pad of his fingers push upon the sensitive buds of your nipples, earning a wanton gasp from your lips. His hips jerk forward at the sound you made, his erection pulsing against your ass, sparking tiny, wonderful jolts of electricity within you. The sensations were making your toes curl.

One hand sneaks back down, his thumb finding it’s way under the hem of your jeans and underwear. His reach teases towards your sensitive spot and you bite your lip in anticipation, wanting so badly for him to touch you where you need him to but your mind too much of a mess to voice it into proper words.

“Mírate,” his warm breath fans against your ear in hoarse, gentle whispers. “Promixa vez… Te quiero llevar a la cama.”

You only manage to translate “Next time…” until the synapses in your brain fire all at once when his fingers began to toy your sex without warning. When his skillful hand deftly undid your jeans, you didn’t know, but at the moment, you didn’t care.

Holy hell. This guy was playing your body like a fine-tuned instrument and your voice eagerly sounded to his ministrations. Your moans and gasps music to his ears. The coil in the pit of your stomach was tightening to the point of snapping as his hand quickened the pace upon your bundle of nerves. He was stroking you graciously while also harshly grinding you into the edge of the table from behind. Your voice was reaching greater heights from the onslaught of overwhelming sensations.

“Last chance, my friend.” Luis growls, barely reigning in his instinct to simply bend you over and have his way with you. “Are we still playing the same game?”

The same question echoes. He asks one thing but really means another. This dashing, infuriating man is asking you if you want to go all the way, past the point of no return. Luis Serra is a stranger. Yet he had the sense and consideration to weigh your feelings in the matter, giving you an choice to opt out even though it would have been so easy to let it lie and let your baser instincts take over. It was almost romantic in a way. You didn’t have to think twice about this.

“Either you fuck me now,” you pant, chains clinking around your wrists, “or I’ll find my way out of these and fuck you myself.”

Luis chuckles lowly in intrigue. “¿Prometes?”

He makes quick work on the rest of your clothing, letting your pants and underwear fall at your ankles. He helps guide you completely out of them. It was probably a strange sight. You completely exposed while he was completely clothed. The only bits of him you can hear rustling is the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his pants coming undone. You were starting to shiver from anxious chills until you felt an arm wrap around you assuringly.

A patient hand gently fingers your entrance, preparing your body for something larger. You eventually move along rhythm of his fingers, goading him to take it to the next level and he acquiesces to your silent request. The heavy heat of his cock that was poking between the gap of your thighs move upwards. Your body instinctively tenses when the head of his member prods against your opening. Luis’ lips pressed against your temple in comfort and finally, finally, he slowly sinks into you. You gasp and he curses.

No amount of foreplay could have prepared you for him. Not all the way in and already you felt so full of him, his cock throbbing against every sensitive nerve inside of you. You whimper in both pain and pleasure and Luis tends to you by wrapping his arms around your middle, planting more kisses along the side of your head right behind your ear.

“Estoy aquí, ángel. Té tengo.”

Like the gentleman he portrays himself to be, he waits for you to relax around him. With great self-control, he pumps into you slowly with a tenderness that could bring tears to your eyes. The initial discomfort soon faded and was replaced by wonderful bouts of sensual ecstasy that has you gasping. Luis keeps up the pace with gusto, nearly pulling all the way out and slamming back into you. The pressure he was piling inside you with every thrust has you screaming to the point that you can feel your voice growing hoarse. Meanwhile, you can hear him moaning his praises for you in his birth tongue. This man wasn’t just talking himself a big game. He knows what he’s doing, fueling his pleasure by ensuring your own. And he was making certain that you chased yours fast.

He pulls out and you involuntarily whimper at the loss of contact. You weren’t left alone for long as he lifts you to lay on your side on the table, your hands forced to rise above your head at this new position. Luis grabs a hold of one of your legs and bends it at the knee over his shoulder, entering your heat once more. Your blood boils fiercely at this new angle, you can see him and everything he was doing to you. And he can see you’re practically rendered speechless with every powerful thrust. At this rate, you weren’t going to last. The fluttering inside your core now popping like firecrackers.

Sweat pours down his handsome face, pupils dilated black with desire for you. “¿Cómo te llamas, ángel? Tell me. And I’ll give you what you want.”

He’s asking for your name again. The catalyst behind this whole affair. “Really bent on that, aren’t you?” you manage to pant out, your lungs barely keeping up with each strong snap of his hips.

“I wasn’t at first, only wanted to tease you.” He groans, his voice finding difficulty to stay level when he’s fucking into you without abandon. “But now- ah! I really want to know. I want to call out your name. ¡Joder! Let me call out your name, mi amor.”

The way he was begging tugged at you deep. Your name was on the edge of your tongue, but your heart was gripped with fear. Fear that if you so much as uttered what he’s asking of you, the spell would be broken and you’d be left unsatisfied. This felt too damn good to risk ruin with sentimentality. So you did what you have been doing best. Prevaricate. And make him want you more.

“Uncuff me. And I’ll tell you anything. Anything you want.”

You feel the vibrations of a laugh rumble deep from his chest.

“Eres tan… ¡Mierda!”

Like a cord finally snapping, the dam breaks and everything building inside spills out with a long, final cry of ecstasy. Stars dotted your vision, for a moment you forgot to breathe as you feel yourself unraveling. Within, you feel him cumming inside as well. Liquid hot ropes painting your insides, leaving you quivering uncontrollably. His hips slow to an eventual stop, his voice coming out in soft, satisfied sighs.

Slowly letting your leg down, Luis pulls himself out and hovers over you, hands flat beside your head. The man peppers your back and shoulders with soft nips and kisses. His stubble makes slow, sensual scratches along your skin as he reaches up to the flesh of your ear, biting onto the lobe affectionately. You turn your head to meet his lips with yours, noting how wonderful his kisses feel. He pulls away slightly to study you intently, varying emotions flashing over his eyes.

“Now,” he started, “about that name.”

Back at this again. You had to admire the man for his tenacity. “Told you already,” you huff once your breath returned to you, tugging at the chains around your wrist. “Remove these cuffs and I’ll think about it.”

His voice cracks in disbelief, “That was not what you said- ¿En serio? After all of that?”

“You’re more than welcome to keep working for it.” The words left your lips before you can stop them and an amused groan escapes from Luis’ own, sending another sinful heat to flow down your core.

“Eres muy mala.” He sighs with a shake of his head. There was no hint of annoyance in his husky tone, a devilish smirk plastered on his face. “Hanging with you- not healthy.”

“Right back at ya.” The remark earned a swift smack on your ass. You almost yelp out of reflex and shifted your eyes to glare at him.

The way he looked at you, however, tells you that he wasn’t against the idea of going again. And truthfully, you were all for it. Luis leans over to capture your lips once more, sweet and filled with promise, while his hand began to wander your body mischievously. The familiar tingle of heat starts to boil inside-

The alarming sound of inhuman groans down the hall jolts you two from your intimate high. Spell broken and you fully take in your nakedness in this increasingly dire situation.

“Get these chains off, Luis!”

“¡Sí, sí! Right away!”

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is-the-fire-real · 8 months ago

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Another bit on the pro-Pal fandom, this one axiomatic

Being a good person is not the same thing as pretending as though you believe you are a good person.

Being a good person takes work. You have to do stuff. Doing stuff is hard. Doing good stuff is harder, because you have to put thought into determining what you think is good beforehand. That requires self-reflection, honesty, a willingness to challenge oneself, and taking in information from other people to verify that your concept of "good" is, well, good.

The nice part is that once you evaluate what is good and start doing good things, it becomes easier. You gain inner calm, peace, and even joy.

("Good" is not always the same as "necessary". Necessary work can be a slog, or it can be horrific. But there can still be a calming satisfaction at the core, the security that this is necessary and therefore worthwhile.)

Pretending to believe you are a good person takes less immediate work. You don't have to do anything that positively impacts the real world, and you don't have to do any of that annoying, time-consuming self examination. But in the long run, it's more exhausting. By far.

You are insecure about whether or not you are a good person. You're pretending to believe you are good. You can't feel secure in something you pretend to believe. That insecurity gnaws at you, especially when you engage in bad behavior--harassment, doxxing, posting gore, swarming tags, encouraging and promoting suicide among your fellow "activists", telling your opponents to kill themselves, stalking, spamming unrelated content with literal Nazi propaganda.

None of those are good things good people do. And you understand that. You would think someone was bad if they did those things to you. The cognitive dissonance between who you want to be and who you really are, as determined by your actions, is scary. It's painful. It rears up every time someone you have labeled a Zio colonizer scumbag asks you to please just stop and you remember a time when you begged someone--an abuser, a troll online, a 4channer, your parents--to just stop please just leave me alone.

That must feel terrifying, and again, it makes you insecure. It makes you question if you're doing the right thing.

So you do the work to pretend to believe you are good. And that's far more work than goes into being good.

You recruit others, and all of you agree that you will pretend together. Tabletop gaming has taught us how powerful this imaginative play can be. You all reassure each other that you are good and you are right. But since you're all lying to each other, that means you must spend more, and more, and more time every day telling each other that you are good, chasing that high, that feeling that you are a good person and your actions are justified.

You tell each other that your "opponents" in this "battle" are not people, so anything you say or do to and about them is okay. You look at lists of "dehumanizing tactics" and instead of internalizing what those lists are teaching you, you go: "Ah, so if I don't use the word 'vermin', anything I say should be fine!" And then you say it.

You do not smile over good news. You only smile when one of your opponents logs off Tumblr because you made the site unusable and unsafe for them. (The expression you make there isn't really a smile, but we'll call it that, since the corners of your mouth do turn upward.) You tell yourself you're just attacking Zionists and pretend you do not see how you're really going after Jews.

No self-examination; that would mean admitting that you're lying to yourself and others. Instead, you traumatize and exhaust yourself until you're psychologically incapable of self-examination. You watch snuff films. You stare at mangled bodies until you're weeping and physically ill (certainly, you're too ill to check whether the video is real, or if it was taken from this conflict).

You force your beliefs into your fandom spaces so that others, the bad people, cannot escape their complicity in genocide.

But more importantly, you do that so you can't escape.

You cannot engage in any fandom but the pro-Pal fandom because that takes imaginative energy away from your biggest pretense--that you're a good person.

You are NOT hurting people because you are striking a blow for Palestinians. You are hurting people, including yourself, because you do not want to do the work of becoming a good person. You are afraid that self examination, at this point, will reveal to you that you are exactly the sort of person you believe you are fighting.

That fear, that insecurity, that dread, that restless sense that if you ever rest or stop or think for just a moment, you'll discover something awful? That's your conscience.

I do not ask you to change your mind about your political opponents. Your defenses are already on your lips and in your mind; a thousand How Dare Yous for me hinting that you look at other people as people. What I will ask you is to consider this.

I came to young adulthood just as Bush was elected, and the Iraq War post-9/11 was the first war I really followed as an adult. I did what you're doing now. I forced myself to look at photographs of destroyed bodies. I looked at photographs of torture perpetrated by US soldiers. I blogged about it obsessively.

I told myself that I was Doing My Part to end the war. But really, it's that the anxiety of being an American during the war made me insecure over whether or not I was responsible for all of this, and therefore, a bad person. If I pretended my looking at snuff photos was activism, and that it was good, then I could pretend to believe I was good and shout "Not in my name" at protests. I could deny my responsibility.

What I really did was traumatize myself. It's been almost twenty years. I can still see some of those torture pictures in my head. In the end, that is the extent of the impact of my online activism. The blogs are all long deleted, and nobody remembers them.

Only my trauma remains.

I do not want this for you. I want you to be wiser. There is still time. You can stop.

Stop hurting yourself and other people. Do the hard work. Examine yourself and your actions. Consider what your own heart is trying to tell you whenever you start to get the shakes and your throat gets tight. Do not take that feeling out on random people online because they have a Magen David in their pfp.

Once you have done the hard work, it gets easier. You will be able to advocate and work for whatever causes you believe in because you know they are good, not because you're joining your friends in cosplaying goodness. You will still be traumatized, and you will still be sad, and you'll definitely still get angry. You will have to face how you've acted exactly like your own past abusers, and that's a real tough row to hoe.

But at the end, you will be able to advocate and work because you want to, instead of feeling as though you must in order to keep up the masquerade.

#free gaza #free palestine #palestine #politics as fandom #suicide #torture #trauma #worse than slacktivism #abuse #is-the-fire-real original #g-d damn it you've got to be kind #i understand you won't listen to this. it's okay if you don't #i may have addressed “you” but i was soothing my own conscience #because i think it's a good thing to tell people to stop harming themselves and others #and it's not my responsibility to change your behavior #it's yours #i'm also not addressing your antisemitic actions #not because you aren't doing that #but because that is between you and your dark night of the soul

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yan-lorkai · 7 months ago

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Hello lorkai, I hope you are well! I don't know if your requests are open, but if they are, could you make a Drabble, head canon or whatever you feel comfortable working with, where Yandere Alucard has a human girlfriend who doesn't talk too much, is shy, the rest They think it is because the bride is very afraid of the great vampire, but it is quite the opposite.

If you don't receive any more requests, you can ignore it, I hope you are feeling well and hydrated properly! ^_^

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: Hiii darling (⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠｡⁠)⁠ﾉ~, they are open indeed. I never close rqs btw. Did some headcanons but honestly I might write a drabble with this concept later. You too drink some water dear, it's been really hot these past few days!

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: Yandere content, fem!reader, mmm fluffy (?), Alucard being Alucard btw

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ The vampire king and his bride, so different in the eyes of anyone who can observe them for a few seconds. No one is able to understand the interaction you have, they are so used to Alucard's bloodthirsty and dangerous image, his provocations and sadistic laughter, that seeing him be soft with you, a human nonetheless, is something incredibly new. And incredibly terrifying too.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ You are so quiet and skittish that Hellsing soldiers can be found whispering about you and your relationship whenever they see you two together. Did Alucard forced you to marry him? Did he threaten you? Does he scare you and that's why you don't talk to anyone? Honestly they came up with so many theories about you. But they'll never gonna downright ask you about those theories though, as they are afraid of what Alucard could do to them if he knew they were pestering you with their silly questions.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ They could never even imagine the way you laughed and screamed in delight whenever Alucard surprised you with a tight hug. His hot breath tickling your neck as he held you close, telling you all about his boring missions and the vampires he killed, in vivid description by the way, unless you don't want to hear the details, if that's the case he won't go into much detail about him ripping off their arms and leaving bullet holes in their bodies. He also tells you about the beautiful sights he had seen and that he wished you was there with him.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ You are opposites like yin and yang, light and shadow, husband and wife. When you are with him everything seems right and safe, as if nothing could ever go wrong. You find so much easier communicating with Alucard than with most people, which is funny since Alucard is, well, him. You are quite timid when you have to interact with others and your husband likes to tease you a little bit about it.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Plus he like how you depend on him to relies to others what you wanted to say. It feeds his ego a little when you cling to his arms while you two wait to order takeout or when you two are in public and it's crowded that you asks him to take you to somewhere more calm. Usually somewhere dark too since he doesn't like to go out in the morning but will do if you want. Honestly he might just take you to cuddle inside his coffin while he take a nap, this way you don't have to talk to anyone and you also can spend time with him. It's a win-win in his opinion.

#yandere hellsing #yandere hellsing ultimate #yandere alucard #yandere alucard x reader #alucard x you #alucard x reader #hellsing alucard x reader #yandere alucard x y/n #tw yandere

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loveshotzz · 2 years ago

Text

Big Boss

older!steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve’s had a stressful day at work, you know just how to help.

word count: 1.8k

warnings: 18 +porn with little plot, we’re just giving our favorite daddy some sloppy toppy. oral (m receiving), dirty talk.

authors note: this is just a little fun blurb in the colors univserse but could be read as a stand alone. Had to finish this as a joe keery day gift to you. inspired by this post . thank you @pastel-pillows for always being so filthy in my asks and every single one of you for always being horny for our favorite boy with me.

Steve was stressed, you could tell by the way he only came out of his office once to refill his coffee mug instead the half dozen times he’d found excuses for your first two days here. Finally reappearing again when the clock struck 4pm, his bare feet pad with force against the plush cream carpet of his living room where you sit lounged out on the contrasting dark brown leather couch. A guest. Scratching his peppered scruff with deft nails he grumbles a “Hey honey” giving you a chaste kiss on that top of the head before running a clearly frustrated hand through his already messy hair stomping off to the kitchen.

Despite the itching feeling to go check on him, you decide to give him space. This was unchartered territory. You try to refocus on the passage of the book you’d left off on before he appeared, avoiding the picture of Jenny hanging on the wall that always seemed to catch your line of sight.

The pop of a cork being pulled makes you jump, the hollow noise echoing through the hall before the clink of glass signals he's pouring wine. You wonder if it’s the same as last night, cheeks heating up at the thought of the way he had you cumming on his tongue in the middle of dinner last night. The flush of the red wine made him insatiable, even though he said it was just you.

Biting your lip into a smile, warmth floods your stomach as you press your thighs together, your body already needing more and he’s not even touching you. Not yet. Closing your book with a sigh of defeat you glance towards the kitchen. Steve’s back is to you as he leans against the island, the black cotton of his shirt stretches over his shoulder blades when he lifts the glass to his lips, downing its contents in one gulp before pouring himself another one.

“You gonna save some for me baby?” The nickname you give him is new, but you say it so sweet it makes his muscles relax at the sound of your voice. You wonder if he’s smiling like you are.

He huffs out a tired laugh pushing off the counter to grab another glass before finally turning around to face you. The smile you’d hoped was there doesn’t disappoint as his hazel eyes meet yours through the thin rims of his glasses. Grabbing the bottle with his free hand, the wet spot in the lace you wore just for him grows when it looks small in his grasp.

“Got plenty saved for you.” He grins at his own joke making his way over as your gaze drops to his loose fitting worn jeans. They look like they’ve been in his possession for years, hanging low on his waist, you get a peek of the happy trail leading to what you’d hope to get to soon.

You uncurl your legs from under you, the small yoga shorts you have on leaving little to the imagination as your toes hit the floor. He steps confidentially between your spread legs, the spark that had been missing from his eyes returning as he towers over you.

“I know you do.” Your fingers gran at the denim on either side of his thighs using them as leverage to pull yourself to the edge of the couch, quirking an eyebrow with a knowing smirk when his pants start to strain.

He holds out your empty glass for you to take, fingertips brushing yours on purpose when you grab it. The intensity of his gaze has you squirming as he holds your eyes, filling the ruby liquid half way. He sets the bottle down on the end table when he’s done, not moving an inch from your space.

Taking a sip, the bitter fruit hits your tongue making you remember it tastes much better on his. Running a bold hand up his thigh, you hook a finger through his belt loop tugging gently.

“What’s got you so stressed?”

His face softens at your question, fingers reaching out to tuck a fly away hair behind your ear. Soft tips tracing the shell, sending goosebumps across your skin.

“Just a long day, nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.” Running his knuckles across your cheek bone, his lips twitch when you lean into his touch. Already putty in his hands.

“Let me help you relax?” Your words are soft when you look up at him, and the green specks in his eyes turning black.

“You wanna help me relax? How are you gonna do that baby?” The pad of his thumb swipes against your bottom lip when he asks. His jeans tighten even more when your tongue comes out to collect the salt from his skin.

“I’ve got a few ideas in mind, but I need you to sit down first.” your cheshire grin gives away your intentions and he gladly listens.

Standing up when he sits down, his eyes stay on the curves of your body. He watches you intently as you polish off your glass like he’d done in the kitchen before setting it down. Your cheeks heat up from the wine and his stare, getting his full attention like this always makes you bold.

You run your hands over all his favorite dips, the softness of your hips, finger tips catching the hem of his old shirt you’d thrown on lazily after your shower together this morning, teasing just a peek of the skin underneath. Leaning his head back against the cushions of the couch, you enjoy the way he greedily drinks you in.

“This looks an awful lot like teasing me honey.” There’s a playful edge to his voice despite how hungry he looks.

Giggling when you drop to your knees, it only makes his smile grow, pearly whites showing through his pink lips.

“I promise, that’s not my intention. Mr Harrington.” Practically purring his last name, his eyes roll in the back of his head at the sound of it. A low groan rumbling out of his chest when your hands start to wander up his legs, squeezing the muscles of his thighs under the layer of denim in your way. You needed it gone.

The bulge in his pants is intimidating when your fingers brush against the zipper, a low hiss slipping out from between his clenched teeth.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you look up at him from under your lashes as you find the button of his jeans. Nodding, his pupils take over any color left in his eyes when you pop it open with ease.

“Need it baby.” He sighs when you start working at the zipper, lifting his hips for you so his pants pool at his ankles.

You’re more than happy to find he’s opted out of underwear when his cock springs free smacking hard against the dark happy trail covering his stomach. Precum already leaks from its pretty pink tip and it kicks up when the heat of your breath fans over the sensitive skin. You’ll never get over how big he is, always challenging yourself to take him deeper than the last time even if it left your throat bruised in the process.

The carpet is rough against your knees as you scoot closer, wasting no time to take him in your hands. Your fingers are barely able to wrap around the girth of him as you lick a long flat stripe up the underside. The tip of your tongue tracing the large vein protruding and it makes him exhale a loud breath you didn’t know he was even holding.

“Shit, honey.”

You do it again with a little more mess, spit coating your lips before sucking gently at his sensitive head to collect whatever he already has for you with a greedy tongue. His long fingers find their way into your hair when you take him halfway into the heat of your mouth, humming against him when he starts gently scratching at your scalp.

“S’good for me. Look at you, so pretty like this.”

His praise goes straight between your legs, as you hollow out your cheeks. Spurring you on with his words you try and open up more of your throat for him pumping whatever you couldn’t fit with your hand until you could.

Your nose brushes against the dark patch of hair that frames the base of him when you finally hit your limit. His moan vibrating off the walls echoing through the empty house as you take him deeper than you ever had before.

“God, just like that angel. Taking me so good. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”

You can feel the intensity of his stare, he loves watching you like this. Head bobbing up and down with tears prickling the corners of your eyes that keep looking up at him searching for more. Your tongue swirls around his length in a way that makes him lose his mind while his fingers stay gentle, continuing to play with your hair. His voice is thick with want whispering praises that make you feel special on your knees for him.

The outline of his cock moving inside your throat has him twitching, saliva dripping onto your hand that keeps stroking him while the other starts massaging his heavy balls. His toes curl into the carpet when you somehow fit the rest of him in your mouth, your nose hitting the warm skin of his stomach.

“Fuck! honey, I’m gonna cum, holy shit.” He tugs at your hair signaling to meet his eyes as he starts thrusting up, gagging you just enough to make you restrict around him in a way that has him shooting hot down your throat.

His jaw goes slack, brows pinching together while he holds you right where he wants you, forgetting his gentle nature as his orgasm washes away the stress of his day.

You swallow everything he gives you, making sure to suck him clean as you slowly start releasing him from the confines of your mouth. He shudders with a bob of his Adam's apple when your lips let him go with a loud pop, tears staining your cheeks with a proud smirk. He needed a picture of you like this.

-read more is a bitch line-

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#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington oneshot #older!steve #colors series

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