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pparacxosm · 28 days ago

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something borrowed

(dearly beloved part 2: electric boogaloo ! ; tashi duncan x fem!childhood best friend!reader x patrick zweig ((x art donaldson?? a little?)); nonlinear narrative; playing fast and loose with tenses; where do i start; patrick and reader are their own trigger warning; tw pregnancy and childbirth; major major tw for talk of abortion; tw depression and antidepressant talk; cw breeding kink centric smut; more artashi wedding scenes; baby lily !! ; art donaldson #dadding out; grammy donaldson mentioned ! ; tw vomit again i’m so sorry lol; cw more menstrual talk; tw adultery but i mean come on; baby names; lasagna; we all have annie’s reblog to thank ((blame)) for this)

‘ JESUS: Judas—

JUDAS: You forgave Peter and bullshit Thomas—you knocked Paul of Tarsus off a horse—you raised Lazarus from the fuckin’ dead—but me? Me? Your “heart”? . . . What about me??!! What about me, Jesus?! Huh?! You just, you just—I made a mistake! And if that was wrong, then you should have told me! And if a broken heart wasn't sufficient reason to hang, THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT, TOO!

JESUS: Don't you think . . . that if I knew that it would have changed your mind . . . that I would have?

Pause. ’

Stephen Adly Guirgis, ‘The Last Days of Judas Iscariot’

“Is it one of those ugly ones?”

You’re not special; you, too, hate hospitals. Not the least because your parents ralphed up all that cash for med school and you tanked like a castiron anchor. But there’s so much else to feel guilty for. You feel guilty for being alive while people are dying. You feel guilty for wanting to die while people are being born. You feel guilty, and nauseated, by this sickly visceral fume of birth and babyflesh, and the fact that you’re so upset.

You’d marked it on your calendar, is the thing.

March seventh, Doomsday, the purge, the end times.

Tashi Duncan’s Caesarean section.

Timely and clinical, fittingly so. You’d bought a little beanie for the occasion. The beanie is soft and grey and pink. It has a cartoon flower embroidered on the side of it.

But then this is the spawn of Art and Tashi Donaldson. The baby is inherently desperate, and eager, in that order.

It’s February twentyeighth.

It’s probably for the best, you think, while you and Art are on either side of the hospital bed, and he’s grasping Tashi’s hand more tightly than she is holding his, even though she is the one whose innards are being shat out. You don’t believe she could take another scar.

You grimace as she crowns. Art is sobbing and sniffing. He looks at Tashi like he’s getting to watch God populate the world with greenery. It makes your mouth tug sharply to one side, and you close your eyes, briefly, escaping the bright white light.

You watch the papery sheets go redder and redder with every gush from the cavity of her torso.

The baby is not rosy pink so much as she is carmine. Before this, as an idea, she’s existed mostly in black and white. Aminocentesis results on a MacBook screen. The sonogram on their coffee table. The concrete wall of your abject jealousy. The living colour of her, it shocks you more than her glass-shattering screech.

Art holds the baby first, of course, since Tashi is somewhat incapacitated. You soothingly caress her damp hairline.

“What was that like?” you whisper, wincing down at her.

Tashi sheds a few tears and manages a smile that’s part relief and all agony. “Remember…” she croaks, “Remember when Tre fuckin’… like, roundhouse kicked you up the crotch?”

You blink, quirking your brows. Then you snort in surprise, grinning. “Oh my God, yeah,” you giggle. “When Yas and Matteo got that trampoline.”

Tashi nods weakly, her desiccated mouth twitching at the memory, her eyes shivering gently closed.

The baby is tiny against Art’s body, cradled so carefully in his arms. He’s counting all her toes and fingers.

“Hey there,” he murmurs to her, like they’re the only two people on this earth Tashi made. Then he sinks down onto the stool by Tashi’s head, and holds this tiny, beautiful thing out toward her. “Say hi to momma,” he says, his voice soft as gauze.

Tashi reaches out. Her hands are trembling but all of her is trembling; both you and Art tried to get her on the epidural, but fuck if she’s not stubborn. She crooks the tip of her index finger into the fleecy receiving blanket, pulling it down just a little so she can see the baby’s entire pink face.

The baby opens just one bleary eye, only halfway, but it’s enough for her to see you, for you to feel yourself being seen.

Tashi sobs and Art sobs and you wonder, momentarily, if her obstetrician can reach up the cavity of your body, too, and tug out your heart.

So, of course you hate hospitals, and of course you feel guilty. For many reasons. Chief among them being how, the very moment your dear, gutted friend conks out, you’ve stolen to the hall to ring her ex. And he’s asking you, hopeful, if her fucking newborn is one of those ugly ones.

You sigh into the receiver, shaking your head all solemn. You’re sure any passersby think you’re delivering horrific news. “She’s beautiful,” you confess sadly.

“Fuck!” Patrick says forcefully, like he’s just stubbed his toe.

You can hear the hum of the highway on his end of the line, and he’s definitely a bad enough driver that he shouldn’t be calling you right now, because you don’t want to be back here at his bedside when he’s in a fullbody cast after a nearfatal accident—and you would come to visit, actually, if he were in the hospital; maybe that’d just be the guilt again—but this is pretty urgent.

You frown, tucking your hand under your armpit and managing a smile at a passing couple cautiously rolling their precious trolley to the NICU. “They named her Lily.”

Patrick scoffs. “Those fucking assholes.”

“Right?”

You appreciate his company in your deplorable sorrow. There’s a special corner in the firescape for the two of you, but at least it’ll be the two of you.

“That’s a beautiful name for a baby girl,” he says, practically insulted.

You sigh again. “I know,” you pout.

They’d planned the wedding, as they did all other things, a bona fide team. A well oiled unit. Art and Tashi. A&T. Handing off tasks with practiced efficiency, like another one of her hyperintensive drills, wherein he would sooner keel over heaving than drop the ball. The wedding planner was effectively ornamental once they really got into it.

And they really got into it.

Tashi was one of those little girls who stuffed a stream of toilet paper in her ponytail and pictured the vinyl flooring of her home’s warmly lit passage as a ceremonial aisle on the Amalfi Coast at sunset. Here comes the bride, aluminium foil wedding band, ramshackle wildflower bouquet picked from the backyard, et cetera.

Most times, she’d have you play groom.

But you don’t internalise that too much. Because she had you play a lot of things. And sometimes she’d have their senile Mastiff Mutt, Franklin, play groom, too. Really, the most important part was her having you at all.

And, apparently, as a little boy, Art used to page obsessively back and forth through the decrepit scrapbook of his grandparents’ Peoria union, the pictures frayed and hued dandelion. So it’s great that they found each other, and so many dreams were coming true, and everything was fine. Everything was better.

You’d been happy she was happy, really, you had. You hate big endeavours in your name. If she’d married you, you’d have made her elope to Puerto Rico.

And now she was all sprawled three-ring binders, pen behind each ear, Game Face On. And Art was there, talking place settings in full sincerity, so yeah. It’s fine. Better, even.

She let him intercalate all the mawkish, ubercorny bullshit—the Fleetwood Mac, the garter toss, the pictures of his grandmother at the centrepiece of every table. Because they were a team and it was his wedding as much as hers. And you’d told her, too. You’d told her that she’s going to have a mawkish, ubercorny bullshit wedding to a mawkish, ubercorny bullshit guy. But she’d waved you off with a dismissively sentimental smile. I just want to marry him, she’d told you, which had felt like a million and one serrated spurns all over.

A getaway car, really? you’d deadpanned. Then, leaning closer to her phonescreen, eyes narrowing at their shared twodozenpage Pinterest board, incredulous and disgusted, Are the cans really necessary?

Apparently so.

You were standing at the foreshore, toes all grainy, shoes in hand, pistachiorose and Patrick Zweig on your tongue, your ass still seadamp. Art and Tashi pulled up in front of you, cans rattling, like a justmarried Lyft order.

When you climbed into the backseat, they were in the middle of sharing in dulcet laughter over something or the other. Something that did not concern you. Which was fine, and better, and the flower arrangements were spectacular. And, anyway, you’re busy trying not to get sand on this vintage carpet.

“Shouldn’t you two be honeymooning?”

Art looked back at you, his arm outstretched, wrist resting on the bend of the wheel. He gave you this smile you couldn’t discern, which most of his smiles were, and are. He blew a raspberry from his rubicund mouth and tsked.

“What, without you?” he scoffed, wry but playful, and you realised that, though he teased, and wanted you to know as much, his goodnature was sincere.

And your fingers twitched to wrap his seatbelt—because he was wearing the seatbelt—around his rosy throat five or six or seven times and tug hard.

Tashi threw her head back and laughed into the humidity of the night, of their wedding night.

Tashi squirmed in the leather passengerseat of the ivorycoloured 1960 Ford Thunderbird convertible.

You were leaning over in between them from the back, straddling the armrest. And she watched Art turn his head and kiss you. His hand looked huge on the messy, delicate bone of your jaw. It felt cool and clammy, you remember. Tashi sucked in a breath. You two broke apart after a moment, laughing, your palm coming down on his forearm like he’d just made a joke.

“That,” you said, making a puerile face as he absently brushed a thumb over your cheek, “Was too far.”

Your eyes were still shining with tears.

Art nodded, grinning, slipping his hand from your face and running it through his sweaty shoresand hair. “Anything for you, baby, but maybe not that.”

Tashi was flushed and florid and tamping her thighs tighter together and she wanted you both to put your hands on her.

Her arm slunk across the centre console to press her palm into his chest. And she ran her nails along the tender skin of your inner arm. And Art looked back at you like he was asking for permission, which was the first time in a long time he’d done that. And probably the last time since. And you don’t know why you nodded, but you did.

He gave you another strange, cursory kiss on the corner of your mouth, then leaned across the centre console and nipped at Tashi’s earlobe. The whetted burst of pain sent a visible shiver through her bones. She bit her lip and sighed.

“Mrs Donaldson,” he’d murmured, all husky and low. His white buttonup was all sweatrumpled and unfurled. He looked handsome and disheveled like a fallen angel or those illustrations on the covers of erotic paperbacks.

You swallowed, overwhelmed by it all.

You pressed the seam of your lips to the skin where her neck met her shoulder and her lithe fingers encircled your wrist and guided it between her legs.

You and Art are friends—good friends, by now—but sometimes you feel more like business partners. Cofounders of Keeping Tashi Duncan Happy and Okay Inc.

So, when he cannot stomach all the vomit—so, so much fucking vomit—for all his earnest, anguished, tearful trying, he calls you. Because he and his hairtrigger loins can’t help her right now.

And you don’t tease, or berate, or say it should’ve been you.

And he doesn’t protest, or control freak, or remind you it wasn’t you, it was him.

He dips out to stock up on crackers and barley sugar sweets, and you stay with Tashi and stand sentry on emesis duty.

You hadn’t known that any one thing was capable of maiming her this way. Tashi Duncan, your impenetrable infanta. Fast to get up, faster, still, to dry her tears. But this baby is wringing her bone dry. She’s feeble, swollen, and practically debilitated.

You feel her spine shift as she shakes and heaves into the toilet. You hate her like this. At mercy to her bones.

You can’t help the archaic scorn. None of this, none of any of it, would’ve happened, had it been you. But it wasn’t.

You cradle Tashi’s feverish head in the bend of your knee. You thread your knuckles through her sweaty curls. You rub your fingers into her collar, tracing her bones where they have been swallowed by her plummy sallow skin. In college, you used to give each other lymphatic drainage massages.

You’re on Virginia Key Beach with T and her brothers, at the edge of the ocean. You’re, like, fourteen. Tevin’s mouth is a comically fluorescent shade of blue as he topes down a Slurpee. Tre hops over waves. Tre keeps saying the sharks will get you, they’ll smell it, blood in the water, blood in the water and Tevin keeps holding the Slurpee so high that the ultramarine of it obstructs the sun. And Tashi is yelling I’m not even on my fucking period! even though she is red and wet between her thighs, and give it to me, Tev, it’s mine, you took mine! as she reaches and reaches and reaches, unable to grasp what she wants.

There are some women unmoved by such trivialities as their own blood. Eightinch stilettos, eight months in. People will assume Tashi Duncan, pulchritude and powerhouse, to be one of these women.

But you’ll know better.

She’s so good at the tennis, ultimately, because she listens to her blood. She lets it move her. Lets it give her power. She is a mesmerising glass carafe of red.

But when it spills, it pours. When she breaks, she shatters.

Art Donaldson’s child writhes inside her, swills her blood. And you watch.

Patrick takes you home from the hospital. You were planning on sinking into the void of your couch while forking miserably into a whole tray of lasagna by yourself, but you feel bad. You feel guilty and lonely. So you invite him in.

You thunk your stoneware roaster on the granite of your peninsular countertop. He’s sat on a barstool and you’re standing across from him, and he wastes no time tucking in. You nudge at the broiled cheese with your fork.

You’re crying, which he doesn’t mind, but it’s a little distracting while he’s trying to eat, is all. He peers up at you, circumspect, as he chews.

You roll your eyes at him. “Please don’t make me cry alone,” you tell him.

He chews, swallows, licks some pasta from his gums. He rests the fork against the edge of the tray and dusts his hands off.

“I don’t cry,” he says, shrugging like it’s out of his hands. The corner of his mouth quirks up as you fix him with a sullen glare.

“I’ve seen you cry,” you say pointedly, dropping your own silverware.

He shrugs again. “Yeah,” he says, “One time. That was the only time I’ve ever cried. Ever.”

He has this way of saying things like he absolutely means them. This hamfisted sincerity, serrated deadpan. And, when you’re emotional like this, all husked and raw, it’s unfortunately an extremely effective way to make you laugh. His eyes gleam with victory as you duck your head and giggle wetly.

“You feel special?” he smirks.

You roll your eyes again, tears still trickling pools into the tender shadowed skin beneath your eyes. “I feel especially depressed,” you reply thickly.

He flits his eyes back and forth between the both of yours a few times. You’re reminded of the abject tedious torture of sitting through one of Art’s tennis games. “Are you really? Or are you just moping?” he asks you.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your little Effexor prescription vial, rattling it twice, and tossing it his way. It’s a sloppy underhand, but he catches it easily.

“Huh,” he muses, turning it between his fingertips. “That’s why you look so different? I thought you were just putting on sympathy weight.”

Your lips wobble, and your eyes burn and blur again, your throat swelling shut like fucking anaphylactic excoriation, and you catch your face with your hands and cry.

“Don’t be mean right now,” you blubber.

Patrick blinks, sobering with a smart, the humour seeping off his face and replacing itself with an almost comically disturbed frown.

“Okay, okay,” he says, his voice light with a culpable urgency reserved for a triggered, irate straitjacket patient. He reaches over the lasagna, the savoury brume warming his forearms, and he takes your wrists and peels your fingers from your eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

You hiccup breathlessly. Your tears slithering down your cheeks in rills.

“I’m sorry,” says Patrick. He presses his thumbs into your pulsepoints, like he can quash your distress through your radial arteries. “You look hot, okay? Really, you do.”

For his part, he seems genuinely contrite, and utterly concerned, and he probably means it. He is rarely insincere, even when his tongue is in his cheek. But your sulky inner voice says he’s bargaining. How about I quit being an ass and you stop with the ugly crying and I can finish this pasta and hotfoot it out of here? But this is your house. And your pasta. And you think you should get to mourn his exgirlfriend’s womb, if you so choose.

You sob harder, shoulders quavering. His brows raise in quiet alarm when you wrest your arms from his fingers.

You snuffle and swallow. “Please stop,” you moan sadly.

Somewhere between the cake cutting—which walked that revolting, quintessentially Art and Tashi line between sweet and sexy; she daubed some frosting on his nose, he licked it off her finger—and your purloining of a slice or two for your and Patrick’s beachside bitchsesh, the speakers are thumping with ‘I Wanna Be Your Lover’.

Everyone is wasted.

You don’t even mean to, but one of Art’s cousins, who is clearly eking out his fraternity days that have long since started mouldering, keeps ordering you shots from the open bar. And you keep downing them, one after the other. He’s wearing a practically lurid red polo that really errs on the ‘optional’ side of Black Tie Optional, but he has a really charming smile, the light glistering off the white of his teeth as you dance.

And—fuck it—he’s hot. And he’s looking at you like he wants to kiss you in the middle of this dance floor, grinding against you like you’re teenagers at a CYO dance.

The lights are scintillating technicolour and the music is so loud you can feel it in your rib cage and it doesn’t take long for the room to start spinning like the world’s trippiest ferris wheel.

Cody—or Connor, maybe—goes to the bathroom to piss, and you track down the newlyweds on the other side of the room. Tashi’s beautiful eyes, already aglow, light up even more when she sees you.

“Hi, baby!” She kind of has to yell over the music. God, it’s been a while since you’ve seen her let loose like this. Either of them, really. They’re having a great fucking time. The Happy Couple. It makes you feel sick. “You good?”

“I’m fucked up,” you smile blearily, because all of a sudden the room’s spinning has increased in velocity.

You fight the urge to grab for her hand for some fleeting sense of stability. Because, if you do, you’ll tackle her to the ground and kiss her until someone hauls you off.

And her husband’s right there.

“Me too,” says said husband. He is flushed in the face, grinning elatedly, his eyes drunkenly disfocused, Tashi’s glossy, nudepink lip-print on his cheek.

Tashi, as ever, seems appreciably more put-together than Art looks and you feel. All silken and nitid. Art’s holding her with the desperate adoration of someone who knows, in the far far end of his bevvied mind, what you’re thinking right now. You narrow your eyes at him. Then,

“Do you wanna dance?” you ask on a whim.

“Sure,” Art shrugs, a sloppy smile curving on his lips. And by now Tashi’s turned to exchange polite smalltalk with some or other extended family member, so he impishly adds, “Let me ask the missus.”

He and Tashi have a short conversation that you can’t quite hear, and then she’s pulling you in by the wrist to whisper in your ear,

“Don’t let him drink anymore, okay?”

She pecks a kiss onto your cheek before you have time to question this rule, but you know her well enough to know she’s also surreptitiously telling you to slow down. You spitefully nab another shot on your and Art’s way to the dance floor.

Art’s a good dancer. You would certainly not have pegged him as one, if asked. But when he’s twisting and moving his feet and putting his hands on your waist in a halfway facetious impression of a slow dance, you realise it’s true.

“Congratulations, by the way,” you shout when you get close enough to his ear. “Happy for you.”

He winces at your volume, raising his fingers to his ear and laughing and looking at you and shaking his head. “No you’re not.”

Patrick watches you sob for a few more moments before smacking his hand against the counter.

“Let’s make one,” he says, declaratively.

You snivel and sweep some tears away, looking up at him. “What?”

“Let’s make one,” he repeats, more urgently now, “If we make one right now, it’ll show up before the end of the year, and we can still weaponise it. Come on.”

He’s sliding off the stool and reaching across the counter to grab your hand and tow you out of the kitchen.

“Patrick,” you whine in demurral, stumbling after him.

But he pulls you along even harder, making a decisive path toward the hallway. “Come on!” he insists, “I’m serious.”

“You’re broke.”

Which is true. He’s been snipped off from the trust fund, which you’d thought was purely the stuff of Murdochian nightmares. But he whipped out his Chase Mobile app and showed you the negative balance to prove it. He’d rather bum it out than suit up and schmooze. So he’s not spoiled for funds right now, nor is he spoiled for wins, and you aren’t equipped with great confidence in a potential future as his baby mama.

“They’re pissed, they’re not cruel,” he tells you, effectively shoving you into your room and kicking off his shoes. “I’ll be back on the payroll with a kid on the docket, I promise. My mom would love it, actually. My sister just had a hysterectomy, this’ll be like a family miracle. You’ll have the child support of a Kardashian.”

He grabs your head and kisses you sloppily—he tastes like tomatoes—clumsily walking you back into the bed.

You think he’s too old to be fingering you the way he is. Rubbing your clit all clumsy, like a faulty button on an old remote. You’re a little sticky, but not enough for what he plans to do here. He sighs and leans back.

“This isn’t working,” he says, all pensive, sitting back on his heels. It’s a little difficult, though, to take him seriously, when his cock is on the front end of halfmast and still rising.

When Tashi first started seeing him, you remember her barrelling into your room all stiff and saucereyed and clamorous. As though a particularly warhankering pigeon had just been elected president, or an alien society had been discovered in the thick of the Amazon. But no. She held your shoulders and shook them wildly and yelled, I’m telling you, it’s fucking huge!

She made a point to you that she’d never be caught dead gushing about his dick to his face. She said it was important to humble him.

So you want to maintain that tradition.

And, anyway, it’s a big dick, not the cure to cancer. You don’t even know what he needs it all for. It’s probably all he has left. You can’t imagine it even gets him very far.

People have frontiers. Parameters. Limits. To their patience, to their bodies. Patrick used to kill the sprinting drills, back in school. He likes going end to end, reaching those limits. But once you start pissing someone off and/or ramming into their cervix, everything else is probably a nonstarter.

You sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. “Uh, yeah. It isn’t.”

“Well, is there something I can do? Should I act like her? Will that get you going?” He asks, but he doesn’t wait for your answer. He huffs and crosses his arms and imitates Tashi’s angry moue.

And his dick is still hard, harder now, so you splutter into laughter. You laugh really, really hard. Then he guides your legs back open and swipes his fingers between them again.

And he grins and says, “Bingo.”

You got really into Pilates for about a month or two mid last year. You’re starting to think you should have kept at it. Your knees are hooked over his shoulders, the undersides of your thighs pressed to his chest. Your hips ache, but it feels, regrettably, really fucking great otherwise.

It’s eminently uncomfortable, sure. For your part, it hasn’t really occurred to you to let a man fuck you raw. Your lingering childishness still recoils a bit at the very idea. And it feels strange, that gauche drag of skin on skin. You’d need to be really wet for this to be working, and that hilarious necessity makes you wetter in response, and then he’s slipping in and out and fucking you raw and he doesn’t even seem to be trying too hard.

He’s a little relieved. You’re letting this happen and taking it like a champ and your pussy’s deep enough to give him room to work.

So he does. Because he knows how. He knows how to work things from here.

He’s had more sex than you’ve attended pilates classes.

The thought of you, splayed and tensile across a reformer, gets him pretty hot. Very hot, actually, and he can tell because the surface of his skin is bloomed pink, and your fingers blench away from his shoulders like he’s caught aflame.

He knows by now how tremendously warm he runs in these moments. He usually asks about a girl’s AC before things get going.

Should he say that aloud, or will it piss you off?

You probably see your appending to the convoluted list of unfortunate holes to sheathe the great penis of Patrick Zweig as a little beneath you.

This is his chance to remind you that Tashi Duncan doesn’t go back on her word for just any heavy pair of balls.

He angles your hips to get deeper, experimenting with ways to evoke a reaction. He’s working you like you’re paying him.

You’re trying really hard not to say anything too nice about his dick. But he’s plunging hard and fast into you, rolling his hips with all the dexterity of fucking Magic Mike, and—well—you wouldn’t be able to, even if you wanted.

The words you’re saying are not in the dictionary. You’re sweating, panting, tugging a little mercilessly at his hair. Patrick bends your legs and hoists your pelvis. He can’t keep a trainer right now, but some adrenalinefueled strength is allowing him to support your body like it’s nothing. He wasn’t bluffing about you looking hot. He’s groping you all over with the ferocious depravity of a necrophile.

There’s some real blasphemous perversion slipping off his tongue. Ersatz porno shit that should be giving you early onset morning sickness, but he’s going all Daniel Day Lewis with it, and you’re kind of buying it.

Fucking come-slut… fuckin’— fuck… gonna breed you… gonna put a baby in you.

You’re audibly wet. The air around you grows practically mephitic. You’re losing your fucking mind. If this shit falls flat, and he can’t get you pregnant tonight, and you dump and block him and never want to speak to him again, he at least hopes you remember this for a long time.

And—you know what—fuck it if that wasn’t memorable enough, he thinks, feeling his cock twitch as he slooshes molten litres into you. Because he’s pulling out, flipping you over, and hiking up your hips. Maybe this’ll be.

He fucks you, he comes in you. A lot. He needs a second to replenish.

You steal to the kitchen. Your inner thighs are chafed and viscid. You cover the lasagna dish and cache it away, and take a second to scoff at some vapidly controversial Twitter thread. You yelp when you feel his arms around you again, lifting you off the tile and carrying you back to the bedroom.

Patrick’s never really thought too hard about his come. It’s an ancillary deluge. A mess to clean most often. Maybe he’s considered meliorating his diet when someone’s gleaned a taste and gagged.

But right now it’s serving a purpose. And he is, among other things, relieved for that, too. He’s not gonna sit around and mourn this while it happens and ask you if you’d really have his child. He’d rather look you in your beautiful, milky pussy than a gift horse in the mouth.

He refuses to waste a drop of himself. He makes sure to coat your insides with it.

He lies sheathed inside you for many minutes after he comes, gripping your hips harshly to him, groaning like this were the real orgasm.

Afterwards, he holds your knees to his chest and lifts your ass and presses his palm to your cunt as if sealing an entrance, making sure nothing escapes. He’s trying to give his guys a fighting chance.

You were, at first—as in, after two or three rounds—a little amused by this stupid, elaborate routine. Something out of an old maid’s pastel mommy blog. You were amused, and frankly weirded out, by what seemed like a laughable lack of dignity on his part.

Now—now you’re feeling aroused by it. Because being aroused disrupts the dumb ritual and kind of annoys him.

When he is holding your knees up and your cunt twitches, he rolls his eyes.

“You already got off,” he chuckles, shaking his head. He sounds a bit spent, too. He’s usually flaked out by now, in his actual customary postcome routine. “Just stay still for a second.”

The fact that he doesn’t want you to come makes you almost desperately want to. He holds his palm over your cunt but he offers no friction.

The simple touch is enough, though. You can find your own internal rhythm.

Your head falls back against the pillow.

“Oh fuck.”

And maybe you’re being particularly loud and lewd in this moment, while he’s trying to be serious, and get something done. Because you’re still doing this longcon in calling his bluff. You don’t think he knows what he wants.

You don’t want to believe that you two are really so bitter as to start a life out of spleen.

You still don’t know if he knows whether or not he actually likes you.

“What the fuck?” he laughs, “I said don’t.” He squeezes your cunt like he wants to tear flesh from bone, trying to render you still again.

But it only makes you moan louder.

“Oh, fuck, that’s so good,” you mewl indecently, smirking a bit, because you’re joking, but you also sort of mean it, “It feels so good having your come inside me, I can already feel your little fuckass kid crawling around in there. He’ll grow up loving bagels, I just know it.”

These taunts are supposed to disgust him or hurt his feelings or simply turn him off, and Patrick does sort of look like wants to throttle you. Because he’s tired and a little grumpy and he knows you’re not letting him stay the night. But a part of him has always found you funny. So he just ends up getting hard again. Your crude, glib moaning brings him to such a pitch of want that he yanks you into his lap and fucks you roughly, gripping your jaw.

And you grin as he brings your head close. You feel it’s some kind of victory.

Even though you’re just prolonging this dumb, bitter, unfulfilling farce. Making sure there’s more of him inside you.

You two should not be parents.

By the eighth or ninth round, he starts getting conversational.

“I was one of those babies that never shut up,” he tells you, fucking up into you in cowgirl. He grunts and makes a thoughtful face. “Colic? Is that what it’s called? Yeah, I think I was a colicky baby.”

You make a face down at him. “I thought you said you’ve never cried,” you pant, rocking your hips back and forth.

He rolls his eyes again.

“Yeah, obviously I was lying. I cry all the fucking time.”

You consider this, your hips stilling, your palms resting against his hairy hotplate chest.

“Over what?” you ask, “Tashi?”

He blinks, scowling a bit, like he thinks you’re making fun. Then his grips your hips and starts to move you on his dick again. He doesn’t answer. Your pussy feels warm and raw.

Geez, how long have you two been at this?

He asks, absently, about baby names.

“I thought every girl had, like, a whole fucking list of them,” he says, pushing his semen back into your used cunt with his long fingers.

You don’t entertain that presumptuous conversation, but you don’t underestimate his commitment, either.

He’s back the next day, and the next, like clocking into a shift. He brings supplies. Sliced pineapple, fresh honey, ground cinnamon, cough syrup, two boxes of ClearBlue.

“I read acupuncture helps too,” he says.

“Absolutely not,” you say, but you let him feed you baby aspirin while you ride him in reverse on your couch watching Selling Sunset.

He feigns disinterest, but keeps tilting to look past your shoulder whenever the arguments start riling up.

“Ugh, Nicole’s a bitch,” he mutters.

Then he grunts and comes inside you, grasping your hips to sink you down and hold you still.

Her name, for the better or worse part of the first and second trimesters, was actually Stella.

Art’s grandma used to love that Philip Sidney poem, and Pam’s favourite film is Streetcar. It’s just that Tashi got sick of the name, and all other things, at a stage. So it didn’t stick.

They were oscillating between Lily and Rooney towards the end, and only made the final call when they saw her.

But, for a while there, she was Stella.

Stella’s craving peanuts, Stella’s the size of a rutabaga, Stella’s a kicker. And, boy, was she.

She’d ram her foetal feet into Tashi’s ribs over and over like she was on a treadmill. Which Tashi was starting to think of as karmic consequence for all the times she’d have Art doing cardio until he fainted.

You crouch down between her knees, resting your head against the amorphous motion of her distended stomach.

“Hey hey, Stella girl,” you whisper, “You wanna stop giving your mom a hard time?”

Tashi chokes out a wounded laugh from above you.

“That’s how Art talks to her.”

“Ugh, don’t ruin it,” you frown, moving to stand up.

But she sticks her leg out to halt you, grabbing your hand and tugging you back down, shifting her hips and spreading her thighs further apart.

You never could resist her sweet face when it was all crumpled up in asking. Because she got all soft and wet, like a flower caught in a gale.

She looks even softer now, over the horizon of her bloated body.

You gently tug her cotton shorts down and put your mouth on her and Stella stills.

“One more,” you say anxiously, eyebrows knitted in concern as Patrick sighs and unboxes a another pregnancy test—the fifth one—and you quaff down another glass of water to get your bladder teeming, because no way.

No way, right?

You’ve been taking him raw at all angles, and swigging shots of cough syrup, and weaning off the antidepressants, but no way.

“I don’t know what you thought was gonna happen,” he calls from beyond the bathroom door as you’re pissing on stick number six.

It’s just that you don’t feel anything.

You think you should be feeling more.

You think of Tashi, writhing and groaning like a bullet victim, miserably clutching her turgid body. You think of newborn Lily, her cottonsoft, tiny eye peeling open and seeing you. Deep steeped coffee, gleaming in the sterile light. Tashi’s eye. Tashi’s hair. Tashi’s baby. That tender absorption, that vivid creation.

If this kid is taking nothing from you, it’s gonna come out all Patrick. And—just—you don’t have the bandwidth to contend with such a prospect right now.

He drives you to the clinic every time. Every single time. One night, you rouse sharply from a morbid dream punctuated by the squall of wailing children. You call him. It’s 2 AM. He answers, and comes over, and drives you to the clinic, and tries not to nod off as you’re filling out the medical paperwork for the dozenth time. He also tries not to express any overt reaction to you changing your mind again.

Is it a kindness, to tease a man with the brutal decimation of his unborn progeny? No, of course not. His mum’s already preemptively enrolled the thing into a fancy German daycare.

But you hate that he’s given you an ultimatum and put it inside you. That’s the worst place, in relation to you, for an ultimatum to be.

If you tell Tashi, either he’s in, or you’re out. And those aren’t really odds you’re keen on rolling.

There are all sorts of ways to be a shitty friend. You opt for evasive gambits via claims of hectic work schedules and immovable errands. Any retching you do is that of guilt. You’re loathe to lie to her, to house this wretched zygote, to stay away. But she used to be able to tell when you’d changed your shampoo. She’d sniff him on you, in you, in a second. She’d just know. And she shouldn’t. She can’t. And if you could just unearth this presentient betrayal and toss it in a petri dish, she doesn’t have to.

You don’t know what matters more.

He drives you to the clinic. Teary teenaged girls, redcapped pickets out front. The receptionist knows you two by name by now.

Patrick slumps beside you. He’s still slogging through the first chapter of Last Child in the Woods. He’s pretty sure he’s never sat and read an actual, physical book to completion before in his life. But he’s too easily abstracted for Audible. So he’s working on it.

You’re groaning frustratedly and thunking the clipboard repeatedly against your skull. He absently slips a hand over your forehead, shielding the next few collisions before you huff and drop the board and turn to face him. He looks at you askance.

“You can change your mind,” he shrugs. Again, he generously omits.

You scoff at him, incredulous and a little irked. “I’m not gonna change my mind,” you grumble.

He shrugs again. “Okay.”

He knows what it’s like to have a mother in sackcloth and ashes. To be less of a son than a sentient thing of regret with little arms and legs. To not know what to do with that, or yourself. He wouldn’t do that to a kid.

You watch him thumb through Richard Louv for a few more moments.

Then, “You’re probably sick of me, aren’t you?”

He smiles a bit before schooling it stoic, slowly lowering the book and fixing you with this wry but incongruously tender look. “Of course I am,” he tells you.

“Get mad at me, then.”

He smiles again.

He knows what that’s like, too. Dad mad at mom. Stilted five course dinner. Dad telling him and Saskia what a goddamn headache mom is on the drive to school. Of course he’s sick of you, he’s always sick of you. But he likes you. And his head feels fine.

He turns back to the book, shrugging.

“Can’t,” he says simply.

You feel for baby Lily. She’ll never be able to get away with anything.

It’s Art who sniffs it on you, in you.

Tashi’s asleep upstairs when, after a fortnight and a bit, you rally up the guts to come over. Art opens the door and looks surprised for mere moments, and there is perhaps a flicker of concern, but then he smiles. And there’s only very mild ire there. The rest is fatigue and goodnature.

“Hello, stranger,” he smirks, turning to filch a set of keys from the marble catchall in the foyer. He is wheeling Lily out in the thirteenhundred dollar stroller he had lost six nights of sleep picking out. “You coming?”

So now you’re on a walk.

Lily lays on her soft belly in the stroller. The walls around her are a breathable mesh, and she fights to hoist her head and gawp at passing trees. This is, apparently, the only way she’ll do tummy time.

“And the only time she gets any sleep,” Art adds, jutting a finger over his shoulder in the general direction of their home down the street.

Lily’s wearing a ruffly lavender romper. Her skin is a healthy shade of linen and her hair is dark. Her fists have tiny moony fingernails that—when you comment how, Her nails are long. Like, sharp—Art explains how he keeps trying to cut them with a pair of tiny silver scissors. But they make Tashi nervous, their sharpness and its proximity to Lily’s fleshy hands.

“She said she wants her to get a grip on the world,” Art chuckles.

You snort, and you have to skip a bit to keep up with his brisk strides. “Oh, that’s definitely what she said,” you confirm.

Lily tosses and turns a bit in the strollerbed. She gurgles an impressive spit bubble, by Art’s standards. Most things she does are probably impressive to him, quite frankly. He tells you how, the other morning, she had thrown up breakfast onto his shoulder with such verve and accuracy that they’re already talking tennis lessons.

“Oh God,” you grimace. Not at the story, but at the memory of his nauseous pallor in the throes of Tashi’s own gravid sickness. “How’s that been for you?”

Art flashes a selfdeprecating simper. “I’m managing.”

When she casts her little coral taglet security blanket curbside, Lily scrunches up her face, grasping, gearing up for the Big Scream. Art sighs and says, “No, please?” as he stops to pick it up and give it back to her, and his arm, when he sticks it in, blooms with little ruddy strings as she claws at him.

He looks more than a little surprised she isn’t crying.

Apparently, in that meantime, you had jutted your fingers into the cot and offered her a pinky as a peace offering. Versailles-style, like you’ll be punished later.

But he seems content with how she’s chewing you and figures you guys can stop here, for a bit, beneath these treemottled springtime sunbeams. In the garden of the home in front of which you’re standing, huge orange bougainvillea loll their petaltongues in the breeze.

“I just…” Art flounders for his words, then scoffs a not unkind, but vaguely embittered, sort of laugh, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why him?”

You groan. “Don’t ask.”

“How is he?”

“He’s—” you waver, then shake your head, before finishing, “Ugh.”

“Patrick’s ‘ugh’? Patrick? Wow. Should we call all the outlets? I mean, that’s never happened before. Patrick. Ugh. You’re blowing my mind.”

You snort, and Lily laughs, and Art informs you that that is a very hard reaction to glean. And he rubs his temples, because all the wails sort of tremor at that same migrainous pitch. No matter if they’re amused or rabidly apoplectic. But you can enjoy it, the laughter.

“Can you just tell her for me?” you frown helplessly up at him.

That flicker in his tired eyes that wants to agree is purely paternal, but he sighs and shakes his head. “You know I can’t.”

He’s genuinely sympathetic.

“She’ll forgive you,” he tells you. You roll your eyes and hang your head, kicking piteously at the wheel of the stroller. He intercepts your foot with his, lightly shoving it away before bending to search for your gaze. “Hey,” he says, “She really will.”

You huff. “She’s never had to.”

You instinctively press your fingers into your womb, through your shirt. You feel the strange sensation of something starting to swell beneath the flesh.

“You’ll be a good mom,” says Art.

It’s a small relief, for you, to feel your face screw into its shut-the-fuck-up-Art expression. It’s something you know how to feel, a well trodden path. Maybe, once they drop you like a bad habit, he’ll still send you those furtive pictures he likes to take of Tashi sleeping. And you and Patrick can dualmasturbate to them, pretending your swollen belly isn’t in the way.

What you like about them, all three of them, is that they have all always loved you so simply. Tashi is severe, and Patrick is flippant, and Art is occasionally insincere. But they each care about you, to varying degrees, in their own ways. And they do so without reservation, even when you’ve been an ass.

You think that’s how you’re supposed to love your child.

You should probably figure out how he does it in the next five to ten seconds.

You ask, “What makes you say that?”

And his eyes flick down to where Lily is still gumming your knuckle like a dog with a bone, then back up to you, and he gives you one of those smiles. Your face screws. Shut the fuck up Art. Then, he tells you, “You love harder than you give yourself credit for.”

Lily gags around your pinky.

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gothic-thoughts · 10 months ago

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Shut Up and Listen

(took WAY too long to realize out of all my Jojo content, ion have Jotaro 🙄)

Part4! Jotaro Kujo x Black Fem Reader Smut

MDNI, DomesticAU, Babysitter!Reader, Boss!Jotaro

CW: ForbiddenAU, Jojo cheating?? afab parts mentioned, quiet quickie, unprotected cream🥧, tame words(nun vulgar)

Word Count: 1719 (give or take)

(A/n): sorry his first fic is a smut, I hate doing that tbh 😓

Jotaro took a deep breath as he walked to the front door ready to face the possibility of seeing his ex-wife's angry face. He reluctantly opens the door to see his daughter's sitter sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in hand and smiles. He sighed, releasing the breath he held back as his heart began pounding in his chest.

Since his wife filed for divorce, the only peace he could get after work was whenever (Y/n) was here, whether it be to watch over his 5-year-old daughter or just to check on him. Either way, Jojo's heart pounded against his ribcage just from being around her but it only added to his wife's suspicion of his adultery.

"Hey, Mr. Kujo." She whispers, "How was work?"

"(Y/n), please, you come over way too much to be so formal."

"Last time I called you 'Jojo' in front of your wife, she looked like she gonna tear my head off."

He scoffs, waving off the thought of her, “Yeah, I bet.”

(Y/n) chuckles softly as he takes off his shoes at the door and tiptoes across the living room's squeaky floorboards before gently sitting next to her much shorter stature.

"Wine after work?" He smiles, taking the other glass from the table. "You know me so well."

"You always complain about needing a drink so I brought."

"You probably need it more than I do, dealing with that one. How was she?"

She groans. "Tantrum."

"About?"

"He just hates resting for some reason. You know how kids are. Though, her mother coming over probably gave him a boost of energy

Jojo almost chokes on his wine, "Her mother? She was here you said? Why?"

"She said she came to see Jolyne for a bit but I feel like she was looking for you."

"Good grief, of course she was. Where is she now?"

"Her inn."

"Good. I don't think I can deal with another fight after a long day. I'm gonna snap." He sits up, "Anyway, did she say anything to you?"

“What do you mean?”

“Anything?”

"What, no not really. I mean, it doesn't matter, she was just..."

Jojo puts his drink on the coffee table. "What did she say to you?"

“Jotaro, I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“She just...reminded me...of my job.”

He furrowed his eyebrows to figure out why his wife would feel the need to remind (Y/n) of her, but he quickly realized that was just it; his ex-wife was telling her to stay in her place. His eyebrows part and irritation instantly washes over his features as his beloved babysitter puts her glass down. “Listen, Jojo–”

"Don’t.”

“I only come over to watch your daughter. I don't know why I tried to go above and beyond by checking on you--”

“Because you’re amazing--”

“Because now your wife hates me. Like I’m pretty sure she fucking told the neighbors cuz they’re starting to look at me like I'm the worst person on Earth whenever I take Jolyne out."

The sudden sternness in the tone makes the man’s lips part before he bites the inside of his cheek in thought. They both look to the ceiling, listening for the sluggish pitter-patter of Jolyne’s footsteps making their way to the staircase—but it remains silent. Jojo sighs with relief and slides closer to her while she averts her gaze to the wine on the table. He rests a hand on her thigh.

“Sorry, it’s just--”

"No." He whispers, guiding her chin to face him, "I'm sorry for putting you through this. You deserve so much better than this.”

“What, no. It’s not you; your ex-wife’s just making life hard.”

He pauses, “Yeah, you’re right. But frankly, I could give a damn what she’s doing, I’m not letting you go—not if it’s not what you want.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Honestly, the highlight of my day is coming home to you and my daughter. I’m not letting that go for anything.”

“You...you serious?”

“You know I’m not one to joke about what I want. Or do I need to show you more recent proof?”

She nods then gasps as her boss quickly links his lips with hers. (Y/n)'s hands slide up his broad chest to yearningly grab his broad shoulders and rest the other on the back of his neck. They cup each other's faces and grasp at each other's shirts, groaning into each other's mouths for more.

Neither minded the amount of saliva due to their fervor as he picked her up and sat her on his lap. He holds her body so close that her breasts squish against him but pushes on his chest, breaking their forbidden kiss. Their lust-filled eyes open while they pant heavily on each other's reddened lips. Jojo's hand rests on her face, thumb swiping back and forth along her plush cheek.

"Sorry.” He whispers, “Didn’t know how much longer I could go without doing that.”

“What if someone sees?”

“Curtains are closed. Don't worry about it." He secures his hands under her thighs, "Let's go."

“Go where- oh!”

He carried her up the main steps, but instead of going to his room, he brought her to the guest room, a little farther away from his daughter's bedroom. He kicks the door shut before locking it, then sets her on her feet and continues to make out, sliding his long, white jacket down his arms and to the floor behind him. Their shirts were the next to go, being dropped at their sides before he pulled her hips closer, pressing his huge bulge into her pelvis.

“We do have to make this quick, though.” (Y/n) whispers breathlessly, "She told me she’d come back when you got off.”

“Shit, alright.” He picks her up again and walks to the available bed, where he mounts her, “Quick, got it.”

"Is this moving too fast? I mean..."

“We can stop now if you want.”

(Y/n) shakes her head, hands sliding down his side to his belts where she quickly unbuckles them. He looks down at her fingers and then back at her face with a small smirk. Before she knew it, his pants and boxers were down by his thighs while her leggings lay discarded on the hardwood floor. He tugs her underwear to the side and guides himself in with a breathless sigh from the tightness, head tilting back.

“Oh my...g-god.”

“Heh, sorry. Too quick?”

"Jus’ a little...big. Fuck Jojo."

He presses open-mouth kisses to her neck, "Not hurting you, am I?" He whispers.

“No...god, fuck no. Feels so fuckin’ good.

“I’m not even that deep yet.”

“I might go insane if you do. Just... jus’--”

“Oh yeah?”

The pads of Jotaro’s fingers dig into her hips as he pulls her closer to try to meet his base, but chuckles at the remaining inches between them.

(Y/n) grips his shoulders and curses under her breath, insides gripping him tightly, trying to stay sane while he stretched her wide. (Y/n) gasps out before biting her lip to keep her moans quiet when Jojo finally moves his hips at a slow yet deep rhythm.

He tried to keep it together but soft moans still came out while he gripped the sheets under her as his movements gradually became harder. (Y/n) shivers and groans at the change, arching her back slightly as euphoria ran up her spine. Once she moaned his name softly, he lost more of his composure and leaned down for another sloppy kiss in an attempt to keep himself from moaning.

"Jojo, don’t f’cking stop, please; oh my god.”

"I know we're farther from the front," He whispers against her lips, "But you gotta keep it down, ngh~"

She nods. "But you're going so deep...so-o deep. You feel so good."

"I know.... fuck, I know. Goddamn, you’re so fuckin’ tight."

He lifts her legs to his broad shoulders, hips slamming against her ass over and over and creating the sound of heavy, wet slapping that fills the room. (Y/n)’s legs trembled so much from the deep strokes that she cried out only for him to cover her mouth and press his plump lips to her ear to shush her.

“Fuck, (Y/n).” Jotaro mutters, thrusts becoming harder, “You’re gonna wake my daughter if you keep that up.”

“But, ah, gonna cum. So close, Jojo, I’m so close~”

"Come on, cum for me then; that’s why I put you in this fuckin’ position. Cum.”

He quickened his movements and gently pressed his lips to hers again, moaning into her mouth while his girth throbbed and pulsed with every swift drag through her wet, squeezing walls. She kisses back, scratching his large shoulders, as her orgasm rushes through her nerves. (Y/n) holds the back of his neck as he guides her through her climax, making her moan and gasp in his ear.

"I-I think--"

"What, you gonna--"

"I think I love you."

His face doesn’t change but his hips speed up on their own, "D-do you mean it, (Y/n)?"

She nods.

"I-I do too.... a l-lot more than I should."

"Hah~ Goin' t-too...fast."

"Seeing you every day before work is enough to fuel me for the day."

"You’re m-making it hard t-to--mmh god!"

"Fuck, you don't know how badly I've wanted this shit."

"J’taro--"

"Kissing you, touching you, making you cum for me—fuuck, it’s too much."

Her back arches off the bed, and he slides his arm between the bed and her lower back, continuously pulling her into every heavy, breathtaking thrust.

"Ah~ Jojo! F-fuck, fuuck~!”

“Me too. Don’t worry, I’ll–”

“No, don’t stop. Please d’nt fuckin stop~”

“Then...you want me to..."

"Y-yeah, just please." She scratches up his shirt, "Don't stop~"

Jojo's hips stutter and his eyes shut as his thighs continue to smack against the back of hers. He groans loudly, burrowing his face in her neck when he meets the edge and spills his load inside her. He gasps and clutches at the sheets, while she plants soft kisses to his chest. They pant loudly together as his hips stutter to a stop, their bodies shivering together to calm down as huffs of breath in each other’s faces start to rile them up again.

Before they could get another word out, the front door could be heard opening from up the hall.

#x black fem reader #x black reader #black reader #black writers #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo's bizarre adventure #black fem reader #jotaro x reader #jotaro kujo #kujo jotaro #jotaro kujo smut #part 4 jotaro #part 4 jojo #jjba jotaro #jjba part 4 #jojo x reader #jojo smut

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loveanddeepspice · 23 days ago

Text

𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕖

✞ synopsis: you've come back to the small town you grew up in for a visit. though your relationship with the catholic church and faith in general have been strained since you were younger, you find yourself drawn back to the church... or more specifically... the new priest... you aren't ready to share your secret sin with him... but you may not be able to help yourself.

✞ pairing: sylus x curvy fem!reader

✞ rating: 18+ (minors do not engage)

✞ cw: religion (catholicism), priest, lapsed faith, adultery, priest kink, suicidal mention, dead parent, sex, masturbation, drugs (marijuana), mentions of other drug use, drinking (more will be added when/if they arise)

✞ disclaimer: this fiction explores a romantic relationship between a lapsed Catholic and an unconventional priest. it is not designed to be inflammatory or critical. catholic authors were asked to participate in the process. we hope you enjoy it, but we know that these topics can be sensitive, so please skip this fiction if it will in any way offend you.

✞ chapter: 5 / ?

✞ co-authors: redbriony, confuseddoughnut (they do not have tumblr)

✞ ao3 link: here

✞ chapter synopsis: a series of risky decisions gets you into more than one kind of trouble.

✞ index: chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5

Please comment on this post if you want to be added to the tag list for updates!

The next few days were spent in the confines of your childhood home, your bed almost becoming your permanent address as you thought about that kiss. The kindness and how the words expressed resonated with you in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. But more than anything, how the kissing Father Sylus had made you feel - the tenderness of it all. But surely you were getting ahead of yourself and even found yourself a little disgusted with yourself over the whole encounter.

But he had just been so close, too sweet, and his face was so beautiful, and all you wanted to do was press kisses all over him.

But it’s wrong, isn’t it?

Something inside you rebelled against the idea for obvious reasons. Any resolve you had would disintegrate when you decided to act or speak on it.

But then, one evening, Rafayel called. You barely answered in time because part of you was hoping it would be someone else.

“Hey babe, just wanted to check up and see how you’re doing. Haven’t heard from you.”

You blinked, frozen for a moment as you twisted into a sitting position on your bed. “Fine. What’s up?”

He chuckled, and you weren’t sure if he was annoyed. You felt slightly upset at yourself for not reaching out when you could have. A normal rekindled friendship typically involves a friend being there for the other, especially after what he revealed to you. But before you could follow up with an apology, he spoke again.

“Nothing in particular. I wondered if you wanted to get some of the old gang together and go up into the woods like we used to.”

You knew the place he was walking about, the old lumber yard out in the middle of the woods where the kids from town used to gather. It had been a favorite spot to hang out, build bonfires, other illegal shit teenagers liked to do when they wanted to get away from their parents.

“What do you mean ‘the gang?’” You asked.

“Well, uh, it’s just gonna be you and me. When I tried to call anyone else from school, they either laughed at me for being back here or didn’t answer.” You could hear his nervous laugh when his words cut off. “Still a small town, and everyone is the same.”

You couldn’t resist, though. Even if you were a bit too old for that behavior. Reliving your past was one of the reasons you returned home in the first place. “I have nothing better to do, so yeah. Sounds great.” You paused, wondering if you had said the right thing, hoping that Rafayel understood what you meant. “Sorry, I’ve been…not myself lately. Lot’s on my mind.” You rubbed the back of your knee with your fingers before standing, keeping the phone to your ear as you crossed the room to where your suitcase lay open on a chair.

“I get it.” He responded with a laugh, light and airy in a way that made you smile. “Life is pretty shitty, especially for people like us who - well, you know.” There was a hint of apology in his tone as you heard him open and close a door. “This is the perfect opportunity for me to listen to you now.”

“I kissed the priest.”

“Fucking, what? The hot one?”

You sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward a bit, a bit shaken now with your admission. Even though you had spoken it out loud, you still felt as if you couldn’t totally come to grips with the situation.

“Well, yeah. He’s the only one.” You said, curling your hand around the hem of the comforter. “And I’m also in love with a married man. I’m losing it. This is what happens to people who don’t peak in high school or something!”

Rafayel said nothing, obviously processing. Then he began to chuckle, which turned into a laugh. Then, he let out the most ridiculous roar of laughter.

“Wow,” he managed to gasp out after a bit, only to laugh again. You could imagine how his shoulders probably shuddered as they shook and the grin plastered on his face. “Okay, once Talia goes to bed, I’ll grab her car and pick you up. And then you’re explaining this whole damn story to me. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“I can’t even comprehend this,” Rafayel breathed after you recounted your tale of how you ended up back home, finishing off with the way Father Sylus had kissed you and the way your panic overtook you. He shook his head, hands clenching and unclenching, brow knitted as he looked at you.

The two of you sat in Talia's car, parked outside the old lumber yard in the woods. The empty dirt parking lot was bathed in the moon's light peeking through the clouds. The bowl on the dash between you both served as a reminder that some things hadn’t changed and that this was the first place you had smoked weed.

Rafayel picked it up, fingers curling around the glass as he brought it to his lips. The flick of the lighter illuminated his face in the dark car, shadows dancing across his cheekbones as he inhaled deeply. You couldn’t blame him for his reaction.

When he passed it to you, you mirrored his actions, feeling the smoke fill your lungs and the earthy taste coating your tongue. You held it in briefly before exhaling slowly, leaning back into the passenger seat.

“And Xavier asked me out.” You said.

Your friend’s face contorted in disbelief before he let out a short burst of laughter. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope.” You giggled and looked out towards the old building before you, wondering how he could think you were making any of this up.

“Damn, you have three guys chasing after you, begging for scraps. I bet the doctor has loads of money.” Rafayel clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “This is every girl’s dream! I don’t understand what the problem is.”

And as if it suddenly hit him all at once, he started to laugh, and the laugh turned out to be contagious. You both soon ended up in a fit of giggles inside the growing colder car.

“I mean, what am I supposed to do? Ask him to leave his wife?” You huffed.

“Relax! Think about it. People get divorced all the time.” The high was definitely setting in as Rafayel rested his head on the back of the seat. “And if he’s as hopelessly infatuated with you as you said, he might do it anyway.”

“Rafayel! That’s horrible.”

He leaned in and playfully nudged your shoulder, saying, “I can’t help but be honest with you. Who would I be if I wasn’t?” He caught the look on your face and rolled his eyes, flicking the lighter absentmindedly. “Or, you know, you could just call him up and give him a piece of your mind. Maybe that will push him right in the direction of Silver Springs.”

You rolled your eyes and muttered, feeling the familiar laziness creeping into your body. You barely resisted the urge to snort at his suggestion. “The Fleetwood Mac song?”

“Yeah, Stevie cursed him, you know. Lindsey. In ‘97. Hexed him right on stage in front of everyone. So if I were you, I would call him up and tell him what direction he can shove his thumb up his own ass.”

You laughed again, shaking your head at Rafayel’s ridiculous suggestion. The pot was doing its job, making everything seem way funnier than it should be.

“I don’t know, man,” you sighed, sinking further into the seat. “Even if Zayne does leave his wife for me, which would be so wrong, what about Father Sylus? I mean, I kissed a priest, for Christ’s sake!”

Rafayel took another long drag from the bowl before setting it between you in the cupholder, smoke once again billowing in the car as he responded. “Hey, forbidden love is the hottest kind. And I figure if I’m going to get any entertainment out of this town, it’s gonna be from you at this point. So just call the fucking doctor while I’m still high.” With that, he shoved your shoulder, and you turned and shoved him right back.

You grumbled as you reached for your phone, unlocking it as the smoke settled around you. You scrolled through your contacts until your thumb was right over the number. It was so tempting, especially with the encouragement of the young man beside you - but you stayed still.

You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.

“Fuck it.” You breathed deeply, heart hammering, and hit the phone symbol. As soon as you heard the first ring, you nearly jumped.

Why do I do this? A mantra in your mind, like a worm in your skull, beating against the insides repeatedly with a tiny hammer.

You waited, putting the phone on speaker so the idiot beside you could hear. After a few long rings, you were about to hang up when there was a click. An unfamiliar voice picked up instead of the one you were used to, and the wave of anxiety almost made you dizzy.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft, not as straightforward or bubbly as you had imagined she would sound.

Silent, you swallowed thickly, and along with the fear, you felt the ache settle in once again. The sharp guilt began coiling around you. You looked toward Rafayel, who suddenly looked just as panicked as you. He quickly grabbed your phone, raising an index finger to his lips and giving you a stern look.

“Hi! Uh, I’m calling about your car's extended warranty!” Rafayel quickly stated, cutting off whatever the woman was about to say next. Then, he turned and threw your phone out of the open window.

The two of you stared at each other blankly. Then, all the adrenaline hit you at once, and the numb haze obliterated.

“Oh my God, fuck!” You managed to say, trying and failing to fight the delirious laughter that began wrapping through your body. You barely noticed your vision clouded with tears, and your next laugh came out mixed with a sob. “That was his - and you just - HA! You threw my phone out the window!”

“Listen, Y/N, I don’t think that was a good -”

“FUCK.” You kicked the dashboard with your foot, the glove compartment popping open and spilling its contents onto the car's floor. “How could you throw my phone out the window like that?” you cried, turning to glare at Rafayel through your tears.

He held up his hands defensively. “I panicked, okay? I didn’t want you to do something you’d regret later. That was his wife on the phone, not him! What were you going to say to her anyway?”

“I don’t know!” you wailed, burying your face in your hands. The high rapidly dissipated, ruined, and replaced by a growing despair. “I’m a horrible person. What am I doing with my life?”

Rafayel sighed and scooted closer, draping an arm lazily around your shaking shoulders. “Hey, you’re not a horrible person. Do you want a Xanax?”

“No, I don’t want Xanax! Go get my phone!”

“Okay, okay! Just chill out.” Rafayel moved to open the car door but paused, a muttered curse leaving his mouth before he hurriedly attempted to clean up the drug paraphernalia scattered on the console. Then he turned just in time to have a flashlight shone in his face. In all of your agitation, it appeared that neither of you had noticed the other vehicle that had pulled up.

“Hi, Tara.” Rafeyel greeted the deputy at the window with a thinly veiled hint of irritation as he shielded his eyes with the back of one hand. “Good to see you.”

Tara looked at him, and then her eyes landed on you and widened slightly, her mouth parting as she put the two of you together. “Really? You’re back home?”

Tara was only a couple years younger than you, and there was no surprise that this was her chosen profession. You remembered how she used to hang around all the time in high school, staying behind and hoping you’d ask her to hang out to go to a party. Even back then, it was as if you couldn’t shake her, the girl pursuing anything and getting into anything she could think of.

“So, uh.” Tara leaned over and peeked into the car, leaning her free hand on the window. Perfectly manicured nails and the same cherry red lipstick; her features and skin soft. “What are you guys doing?”

You started to laugh again, unable to resist the odd delight rippling through you. Rafayel tensed, and his lips pressed together as he looked at you in warning.

“Nothing, officer.” You answered with a grin. “Don’t you have more important things to do? What’s all we ever did when we came up here?”

Rafayel slapped a hand to his forehead. Tara scoffed and looked around nervously, as if confused as to how you reached the admission you realized shouldn’t have slipped out of your mouth so easily. Her sudden lack of boldness reminded you of the faux courage she often displayed when she was younger, which was why you were never that close with her.

As long as you’ve known Talia, she was the type to call the priest whenever something happened. Even though you partially expected it, you were still on edge seeing Father Sylus walking into the tiny police station with her.

You were sitting on a bench with Rafayel, feeling angry and frustrated, and your high completely came down when the two of them walked in. Your head snapped up at the sight of the tall man next to Talia, looking composed and put together while she looked like she had just taken a sleeping pill. It truly was no surprise to see Talia rushing in to rescue Rafayel from whatever trouble he had gotten himself into.

“Rafayel.” Talia’s small, five-foot frame was in front of her nephew. “You…” She rubbed her temples and let out a groan.

“Sorry, Talia.” He held up his hands, which were cuffed together, a bit of a chuckle leaving his mouth as if he thought this was the most amusing thing that could possibly happen to him.

You averted your gaze again, the memory of the kiss burning in your mind, and you couldn’t bear to look up. A fresh wave of shame washed over you. Talia’s exasperated voice faded into the background as your heart pounded.

“Come on, let’s get you two out of here,” Talia finally said with a sigh. She turned to Tara, who was seated at the desk nearby. “I’m assuming there won’t be any charges? They were just being stupid, right Tara?”

Tara glanced between you and Rafayel, conflict flickering across her face. You could see the gears turning in her mind, weighing the social capital to be gained by letting this slide versus following protocol. After a tense beat, she sighed and waved a dismissive hand.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s go fill out the paperwork.”

Talia nodded curtly and followed Tara out of the room, and an awkward silence descended, thick and lingering, although you couldn’t pinpoint the cause of it. You kept your gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum, tracing patterns with your eyes.

“Hey, Father,” Rafayel said, “What’d Talia say when she called you?”

“She asked for a ride, said she would kill you, and needed someone to perform the last rites.”

Rafayel let out a short laugh at Father Sylus’ dry response, but you remained silent, still unable to bring yourself to look at the priest. Your mind kept replaying that moment - the gentle press of his lips against yours. How could you face him now, after what transpired between you? What would you even say?

“Right.” Rafayel hummed, “Suppose I should thank you then. Potentially saving my soul and all that.” He nudged you with his elbow, “Ain’t that right, bestie?”

“Yeah, thanks.” You mumbled, only lifting your head when Tara appeared in front of you to remove the handcuffs from your wrists. Talia moved before her nephew, jingling her car keys before dropping them into his hands.

“Let’s get out of here before I change my mind, Rafayel,” She grumbled. He flashed her a cheeky grin but wisely kept his mouth shut this time.

“I can take Y/N home.” Father Sylus nodded toward you once you stood and shook out your wrists. Nervously, your eyes flickered to Rafayel, who looked terrified for you for a brief second before mouthing the words, 'Touch his butt.'

A moment later, you found yourself outside the police station next to the priest who had consumed your thoughts since that ill-advised kiss. You shivered in the harsh autumn breeze that cut straight through the light jacket you wore. You risked a brief glance at Father Sylus. He stood without a jacket, radiating heat, and for a moment, you wanted to press against him to feel that warmth.

You found your words. “I - I can get home on my own,” you said, a bit harsher than was necessary. “I’m an adult the last time I checked.”

Father Sylus paused at the bottom of the steps and turned around. There wasn’t any tension or hesitation in his tone, just like the other night. He was just genuinely inquiring. “How are you feeling, Y/N?”

Shivering slightly and wrapping your arms around yourself, you looked toward the man and offered a smile. Your voice had the faintest tremor as you tried to joke, “I’ve been better.”

Father Sylus glanced at you from the corner of his eye as you fell into step beside him, releasing a little snort at your sarcasm, a gesture that, for some reason, sent a hot rush of awe through you.

“That’s all right, Y/N.” He said with a sad smile. “We can talk about it later if you want. For now, the important thing is getting you home.” Reflexively, his hand came to rest on the small of your back as he steered you toward the parking lot.

Just the brief caress of his warm hand on your back made your thighs clench. It didn’t mean anything, you told yourself, but your stomach churned as the sweet electricity of his touch rushed through you.

Stop it, you told yourself. He was just showing you where he had parked. Yet his lingering warmth was flooding your senses. Swallowing thickly, you pinched your brows together and hoped you didn’t actually upset him in any way.

“Should I be worried?” he asked.

“About what?”

“The things you’re into.”

Stopping, a hard lump formed in your throat, and the entire world fell into a hush. The nearly pitch black parking lot of the police station, the night chill, the beautiful priest that just - was he teasing you, now?

“Again. I’m in my twenties. Weed,” you snapped, emphasizing the last word, “Isn’t a big deal.”

His palm felt scorching through your jacket as he closed a hand around the top of your shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Hey now,” He said, making your breath hitch as you stiffened slightly. “It was just a question.”

You said nothing, simply sliding into the passenger seat of Father Sylus’s car.

A quiet settled between you two in the car, then. All you could do was look out the window at the dark neighborhood and overanalyze every word, every touch, trying to pinpoint exactly how you felt. But how could you even explain that the man beside you gave you the thrill of wanting to do something terrible? Because there had been a moment with him, something that broke the reality of the relationship the two of you had. It didn’t necessarily feel awful, more like an unspoken truth waiting to be expressed.

You tried to control your emotions and thought process, registering that you were in front of your house now. Just as you were going to say goodnight and grab the door handle, you heard Father Sylus speak.

“I owe you an apology for the other night.” The quiet murmur was easy to miss, but you did everything possible to hang onto the sound. A mix of breath. You looked back at him, trying to catch his eyes in the darkness only illuminated by the porch light from the distance.

“I don’t want to make things difficult for you.” He continued, “I’d still like for us to talk.”

As tempting as it was to open the car door and leave, the ache in your belly nearly overwhelmed you. A terrible, crushing sense of longing settled in. Knowing where the lines were drew a blank in your mind. Where the hell were you supposed to draw the line? Fuck, was this situation genuine, or just one of opportunity?

“Can I ask an inappropriate question, Father?” You choked out, swallowing the lump of anxiety that wound its way around the base of your neck. You watched as he shut the car off.

“What is it?” He wasn't looking at you, but the hand still on the wheel tightened slightly.

Inhaling deeply, your heart thumped at an aching speed as you murmured your question, your voice beginning to betray how much he affected you. “Do you kiss a lot of girls?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Why the hell did you mean to bring that up? What good would knowing do, even? Right, of course, you would just go ahead and ruin the image of purity - what was the worst that could happen?

“Well,” You continued, unable to stop yourself but choosing your words carefully, “You kissed me. So, do you kiss a lot of girls?”

Father Sylus was quiet for a long, brutal moment. You felt sweat bead on your skin despite the car being cool. Clenching your fists and digging your nails into your palm, you try to brace yourself. You hadn’t intended to ask your question so outwardly , but what other way was there to put it?

“Y/N, you’re trying to minimize our connection,” he said. He took a deep, steadying breath and then rubbed a hand over his brow. “And I can ignore it. I can try to pray for the strength to bear it.”

Then, he met your gaze directly. In the light from the porch, you could see how his crimson eyes tore into you, emotion suddenly exposed and bared. For the second time, he had allowed you to glimpse what was hiding under the careful mask he put on.

You almost flinched as he touched your knee, his tone dropping. “But I won’t diminish it.”

You found yourself falling, then, into those wounded eyes. You slid your hand forward and set it over his, the heat from the simple touch making you feel like you had touched an ember.

Before you knew what you were doing, you leaned across the center console to kiss him, slow and sweet.

Please don’t push me away.

For a moment, you feel his surprise. However, just before you pull away, he pulls you forward, one warm hand sliding up your back and the other threading through your hair gently, reverently.

You moan softly into his mouth, and his grip tightens slightly. He deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue into your mouth. You lose yourself in the feel of his lips on yours, his hands on your body.

The gentleness he handles you with stokes the fire within you, warming you from the inside and slowly turning into a fever. You long for him to hold you tightly, to show you he wanted you too - you need that affirmation.

Then his lips grazed the shell of your ear, voice husky and warm. “You’re far too close for your own good.”

What sort of torment was this? All these words hung in the air that you wanted to say, but none came to your mind except for -

“Fuck me,” you rasped. Your face felt hot as the words spilled from your lips, driven by the intensity of your want. “Please, I -”

He silenced you with his mouth, capturing your lips again. His kiss is no less intense and consuming but maintains a level of restraint that a part of you hoped was rapidly crumbling. Your hands move on their own accord, reaching for his belt.

A hand on your wrist stops you before you can go any further, his skin like silk against the pounding pulse point of your wrist. It was a heavyweight, slowly making its way up to where your heart was beating wildly.

He’s looking directly into your eyes when he brings your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles gently.

“No here, sweetheart.” His voice is feather-light as he speaks. “Not like this.”

While he let go of your wrist, something unseen held you in place. But it was only momentarily before the horror of what you had tried to do crashed over you.

“Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry, I - what the fuck am I doing?”

With the state you were in, it wouldn’t take much for the well of tears to come. Unable to look at him, you unlocked the car door and pushed it open, nearly tripping on your feet as you stumbled onto the pavement.

You didn’t look back, fearing falling apart, and slammed the door shut.

Rather than going through the front door, you circled the house and went up the back porch through the kitchen. Once inside, you walked past your dad in the living room, who was sleeping on the couch with the television blaring and a near-empty bottle of beer within arm’s reach.

You went into the bathroom in the hallway, shut and locked the door, then slid down onto the cold tile.

The rejection shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. No, this was different. Something deep inside, something raw and fiery, made the ache grow exponentially. It was the memory of the touch, the intoxicating mixture of scents.

Anger clawed its way to the surface because you couldn’t even wrap your head around what you felt. How pathetic, how foolish, how humiliating.

Clutching the sides of your head, you let out a scream, frustration causing your body to shake.

You wanted so badly to disappear.

Did God have a sense of humor or something?

tag list: @celestialforce @readerxyourbabe

#lds #love and deepspace #lads #l&ds #lads sylus #lads rafayel #lads xavier #lads fanfic #sylus x reader #sylus x you

54 notes · View notes

pedgito · 2 years ago

Note

i have a request 🫣 prince paul having an affair with his chamber maid, and he’s extra mean and arrogant because she’s the help. maybe it starts out with him requesting (demanding) she wear skimpier clothes in his presence and it just escalates from there 👀

author’s note: honestly never forgiving you for this. <3

cw: 18+ (minors dni) period typical drama (you don’t need to have seen the show to understand), chambermaid!reader, lots of degrading (not in a nice way), adultery/infidelity, mentions of reader being infertile, lots of tension, bratty!paul (he’s such an ass), oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, power imbalance, if i missed anything lmk!

word count: 5.5k

He’s not quite the man you expect at first glance. Paul, that is. His mother was an atrocious being, soft for show and nothing but hard edges, laced with ill-intent at every turn, opportunity—every chance she had, she was betraying the semblance of trust she had built.

And maybe that was her plan after all, the reason why she rules the way she did—but people talked and you heard every bit of it.

No one cared for chambermaids, especially not the one addressed to a tantrum prone young prince who despite his misfortunes still had the attitude and personality of a spoilt-child, all condescending tone and disregard for basic human decency.

But, it’s your normal—and it’s easy to fall into that routine, his voice is like white noise as you work, if he had the nerve to notice you. He’s often caught up in his own thoughts, scowl on his face as he brushes past you with no acknowledgment, not that you expect it. He’s cold at first, brisker—more than he has been lately, but your place was recognized.

Paul didn’t have the time to talk to the likes of you.

Yet, that’s exactly why he did—though, it wasn’t without your own valiant effort.

The first time it happens you almost jump out of your skin, pressing fresh sheets on his bedside chair to redress his bed, his pouting figure perched at the end, head bowed.

“Can you believe her?” He asks, voice soft but tense. You turn back, thinking he’s talking to someone—anyone but you.

There’s no one.

So, you say, “She’s quite evil, isn’t she?”

It’s a solid enough response to get a reaction out of him, even if it’s barely noticeable. His shoulders shake with the chuckle he holds back.

“She’d have your head if she was to hear that,” Paul points out, tipping his head back over his shoulder, eyes still downturned toward his floor, “careful what you say.”

“Sir, I need to change your bedding,” You urged, hands gripping the silk duvet, destined to rip that blanket away whether he moved or not, “please?” You ask softly and he’s standing silently, rounding the bed to reach for the gold plated goblet at his bedside, sipping what you could only assume was a fruitful, fancy wine from their large collection.

He watches silently, intently as you rip the old sheets away and replace them with new ones, body stretching over the bed as you fold in the corners, breasts pushed tight against the fabric and hips peeking out through the stiffly tailored dress, the itchy material driving you crazy every day.

His lips are perched on the rim, dark eyes glaring from a distance as you glance up at him briefly, met with his heated stare. You blush slightly—no man has ever looked at you in such a way.

You clear your throat quietly, flipping the blanket over the sheets and smoothing it out until it’s pristine—and you almost make it out without consequences or crude commentary.

“Lose the dress next time,” Paul orders, “it’s unbecoming of you.”

“Pardon?” You ask shakily, dirty fabric balled up and held tight against your chest, “Sir—er, Prince Paul, your majesty…I don’t think that is appropriate.”

“You’re my chambermaid,” His expression changes quickly, speaking through clenched teeth, “you do as you’re told.”

You nod obediently, though slow.

“Only here,” He clarifies, “Close the door from now on, only come at night—do you understand?”

You nod.

“Good,” His face changed on a dime, softening slightly as he stepped toward you, ringed fingers clinging against the metal of his cup as he tilted it toward you, pressing it against your lips, “drink.”

You’ve never tasted alcohol, not allowed those luxuries. It’s bitter as it hits your tongue, the tartness of the wine causing you to grimace slightly, lips stained a deep red as your tongue peeks out when Paul pulls the goblet away.

“Obedient,” He notes with amusement, snorting softly through his nose, “that is…useful.”

He doesn’t elaborate, nodding for you to leave as his expression hardens again, eyebrows drawn together tight.

“Mutter off,” He grumbles, “and do as you’re told.”

You shouldn’t have expected anything less from him, the situation souring in a matter of seconds as you walked away quickly, disappearing down a dark hall to rid yourself of the dirty laundry, avoiding the judging gaze of the consort as they walked by, ducking your head in a effort to hide in plain sight.

Before that encounter, Paul hid himself away after the death of his first wife and child—and while his wife had been horribly unfaithful, you could never wish that on anymore. Paul constantly grumbled about having a child to serve the purpose that his mother wanted, he’d finally accomplished it and then it was being swept out from under him in such a brutal manner.

It didn’t soften the blow of infedelity any less, or that he’d lost his son, a potential heir to his throne.

And for a while you barely see him, either tucked up under his covers and refusing to let you inside, or gone on some task with his army of men—you couldn’t be bothered to care.

You were poor, lowly, at the bottom of the pecking order and never destined step foot outside of this place, that much was obvious. It’s taught you to be mindful and overly observant—you knew Paul’s wife was cheating on him from the beginning, small inclinations that things were arye, but it wasn’t fully confirmed until you walked into a vacant room to his unfaithful wife being fucked by his bestfriend. As horrible as Paul may be, you weren’t sure he deserved that.

The period between then and now is tense, but manageable. You’ve got plenty of duties to keep yourself busy outside of his room, helping set tables for one of the many extravagant parties the council had weekly, tidying up the main rooms and helping greet guests from time to time. You were always presentable, clean, hair pulled back in a loose bun and any strays tucked behind your ear. It added an extra softness to your face, bare of any makeup—Catherine always commented on how beautiful you were, too pretty to be in the position you were now. You could never tell if she was lying or not, her first nature is always to make connections first and destroy them later.

She wastes no time in finding Paul a new wife, much to his initial dismay. He becomes rebellious during the time before, not that he wasn’t already the cause of most issues, but you quickly become used to it.

You find yourself picking up two pairs of clothes rather than one, slipping into his bedroom in the early mornings while he’s still tucked under the duvet, a naked, nameless woman wrapped around him and much less covered.

His mother would have a stroke if she knew he was finding sexual comfort in the likes of paid sex rather than putting his efforts forth to find an acceptable replacement, someone who is fertile and willing to submit.

And you can always slip in and out without being noticed, returning at night to finish up the more tedious and difficult tasks, avoiding conversation and his eyes at all costs.

Until you walk into an unfortunate situation one night, Paul buried in the cunt of a woman who’s much too loud, his pale legs tensing with every rough thrust of his hips—and sex wasn’t foreign, but it was private. It was a private, sacred act that should be kept between the two parties, but for Paul, that’s not the case.

He hears the door creak open, your eyes wide as he glances back at you, a deep smirk on his face.

His clothes are clutched to your chest along with his necessities for his bath—you’d normally start it for him by now, but you’re frozen, eyes stuck on the sight before you.

“She’s watching,” Paul says to the woman quietly and she moans softly in response, “—do not let me stop you,” Paul says, voice labored slightly as he wraps his hands around her thighs, pulling her impossibly more flush, his body blushing a bright shade of red, similar to the fake blush you patted on most morning as you helped him dress—though this, it’s so much better, “I’m nearly done.”

Your mouth is slightly agape, tongue feeling dry as you try to regain your composure, shaking your head as you slip past—the noises grow louder, heavier, and you quickly shut the bathroom door out of fear you might be caught again, eyes drawing toward him without meaning to.

You draw the bath, scolding hot as he liked and dip your fingers in to test the temperature, shaking the water from your fingertips as the door creaks open.

He’s still naked, unashamed as he walks toward you. It wasn’t the first time you’ve seen Paul naked, but it feels different. He’s not as showy, and more often than not he’ll shove you away, order you to busy yourself as he washes up—he doesn’t say a word this time, lifting his legs to step into the tub, softening cock bouncing against his thigh. He’s large, girthy and uncut. You’ve never heard many of the women talk about him in such a manner, so it comes as a surprise the first time you see it. It’s nothing like the older men you’ve seen undressing from their loins during your rounds—he’s younger, leaner, and oozing with an unbelievable confidence.

You still barely spoke to him then, handing over the washcloth and soap silently as you walked about, filling up his glass with the alcohol he usually requested; an awful tasting red wine that was much more bitter than it was sweet.

It was quite poetic, actually. It represented Paul perfectly.

His eyes drag up your coveted figure as he reaches for the glasses, stopping on your face, cheeks hot from the stuffy temperature of the room.

“Stay,” He says fiercely, catching you by surprise, “you can help, be of use finally.”

When he turns to sip and sit the drink down you roll your eyes, fist clenching tightly.

“Do you mind?” He asks, holding up the soaked washcloth toward you.

“Your majesty…you want me to bathe you?” You ask slowly, carefully.

“Are you hard of hearing or something?” He asks coarsely, teeth biting through his words as he bared them to you.

It was hard to know what would set Paul off, even the littlest things a trigger.

“No, no.” You reply softly, not bothering to finish your sentence as you squeezed the washcloth over his back, his shoulders stretching slightly as he rolled them, lifting his arms up on the edge of the tub.

“Not quite used to that?” Paul asks curiously, tone softer now.

“Sir, I’m not sure what you’re referring to—“

“No use being coy.” He notes, looking back at your briefly.

You weren’t nearly as timid as he assumed you were, not in the slightest. But, you appreciated the life you had, that you were living, and you weren’t going to jeopardize that by letting your sharp mouth get the better of you.

“Not necessarily, no.” You tell him honestly, “I’ve caught Potemkin in some…strange situations, but I usually excuse myself quickly—“ Paul leans back slightly to give you access to his chest, the wetness of his hair dampening your dress, “sex is private, s’not meant to be intruded on.”

Paul hums a soft noise, eyes linger over your body as you stretch and rub at his chest with the soap, smoothing out the washcloth over his skin before your hand dips under the water, reaching the soft skin of his stomach.

“You’re much too shy,” Paul teases, “you cannot be that way here, not with who I am—with who my mother is.”

“I do my duties and stay in my room, your majesty. It is important, also, to be mindful of where you stick your nose.”

It earns a laugh from him, genuine and unrestrained. His wet fingers loop around your wrist as it resurfaces from the water, and he’s pushing your sleeve up slightly, wetting the fabric.

“I tend to enjoy it,” Paul admits, “what a better way to remind people of what’s rightfully mine, yes?”

You snort at that, glancing down at him. Every signal in your brain is telling you to shut up, but your mouth moves anyway.

“Mmm, I assume paying for it also translates over to it being your property, correct?” He scoffs lightly, not as angry as you were expecting, but his grip tightens.

“Correct,” He seethes, tilting his chin up daringly, dragging you closer abruptly while your hands shoot out to catch yourself, gasping sharply as his face is mere inches from your own now, “—need I remind you that you are also my property?”

“I’m well aware, your majesty.” You bite back, “That does not allow you access to my body if you wish to lose a limb—“

“A delicate thing like you—“

You shake your head slowly, the words dying on his tongue.

“If you would like to keep fucking women in your bed, or at all, I would be careful with your next few words, sir.”

Paul smirks slightly, pushing you away with ease.

“I never said anything about force, you know,” He hints at, “I’m not that evil, not in that sense, at least.”

“As you shouldn’t be,” You retort, “Are we done here?”

Paul stands as you reach for the weak excuse for towel, cock resting proud against his stomach as both of his hands cup himself, allowing himself some decency—though it’s blatantly obvious.

You’re not sure whether to be flattered or offended, handing the towel off silently and dragging your feet toward the door.

“You can leave, yes—“ He hesitates for a moment, and your eyebrows draw together in confusion.

“Is everything okay, your majesty?”

Paul smirks darkly, eyes drifting away from you.

“Just a thought—I shall keep it to myself,” Paul says cryptically, “—‘less I risk losing an appendage as promised.”

Your laugh curtly, a subtle smile creeping onto your own face.

“You’re very smart, sir.” You tease.

“If only my mother would think as such,” He responds bitterly, mood shifting quickly, “—leave me, busy yourself.”

It’s not as harsh, but you don’t linger any longer than needed.

It’s the first time you manage to have a semi-normal conversation with Paul—though, nothing was ever conventional with him.

He remarried a few months after the encounter in the bath, your small conversations coming to an abrupt stop, his demeanor flat and angry more often than not.

No more random ladies in his bed, no more late nights perched on his desk table letting him ramble on about how much he hated his mother—you didn’t exist anymore.

He’s being the good little boy his mother asked him to be and promises her another heir, hoping this one holds up. And his wife seems kind-hearted at first, but that quickly sours.

It’s how you were in the position you were now, in his chambers stripped down to nearly nothing, as he’d asked, and going on about your business as if nothing was different. You didn’t have the luxury to question Paul’s orders, being as obedient as you could—as you were always taught to be.

He’d been angry the night before, about his mother but…something else. It lingered, you didn’t ask, and now it was itching at your mind, bugging you to no end.

Paul catches you when you’re bent over to grab a piece of stray stationary that had fell to the floor, making a noise you can’t decipher before speaking.

“Good,” He chide, “you listen.”

You weren’t sure what Paul was capable of, truly—and you didn’t want to find out. Because being the spawn of his mother, those tendencies were there at the surface, if not already exposed.

You turn slowly, breasts pressed together in the thin bra, underwear clinging to your hips and you curtsy slightly.

“Your excellency.”

You were laying it on thick, wondering what his angle was.

Paul examines the room carefully, stumbling a bit as he walks.

Drunk. He was drunk.

Not so much that he couldn’t speak or think for himself, but he seemed looser, less perturbed. His face was flush from the effects of the alcohol as he slipped his glass up along a random shelf.

“Fresh linens—you’ve even got my outfits lined up for the ceremony tomorrow,” His eyebrows quirks up interest, “you have been very busy.”

“It is just my job, sir.” You explain softly, hands clasped in front of you tightly, the cold draft in the room making you shiver.

Paul approaches slowly, plucking the stray paper from the desk and examining it, “Seems someone has been rummaging through my belongings again.”

You freeze, eyes tracking his every movement with regret, knowing that you were likely to blame—it could be a hit this time, a few stinging words and a night without a meal, you braced for impact.

“Do you women really think of yourself as the smarter species?” Paul asks, curiously but his voice is laced with an edge, a motive. “That us men are that dim.”

“Uh—“ You start quietly, stammering for the right words.

“She’s fucking the cook, you know.” Paul drops on you, making everything click in one fleeting moment. “The help. Like you.”

You bow your head, your normal snarky response subdued for the moment.

“She’s been writing letters, just the same as the other filthy fuckin’ whore I used to be bethrothed to.” The smell of liquor was strong as it fell from his breath, but his eyes still connected with you, flicking with life.

He always looked sad, small in comparison to most of the royals despite his attitude and harsh manner of dealing with things and people and really anything that bothered him. He was just as vile as he was kind—most of it being an act.

You knew he wasn’t being sweet to you out of the goodness of his heart, he had reasons. He was calculated in the most deceiving ways.

“How—how do you know?” You ask softly.

Paul huffs a small laugh, dropping the paper back onto the desk and allowing his other to trail up your front, finger wrapping around the material that joined your breasts together—if he pulled hard enough it would snap, the weak fabric no match against his strength.

“Caught them.” He spits out viciously, plump lips pouting around the words as he tugs you toward him, you move easily.

You weren’t scared of Paul—that was never the case. But, you knew it wasn’t smart to go against his actions, the things that he wanted. Because really, you weren’t sure how badly you wanted them either, until his fingertips were touching your skin, his eyes roaming your nearly naked frame.

“But sir, she’s—“

“With my child.” He answers for you, pausing for a moment to catch the stutter in your breath, his hand smoothing down over your stomach, your skin ice cold underneath his scolding touch. “No more sir, or your majesty—or whatever bullshit they teach you to say to me.”

You nod jerkily, head dipping down to watch his fingers trailer further and further, breath quickening with every movement.

“Considering my first son was not even my son, I shouldn’t be surprised,” Paul says lowly, his hand cupping your cunt light, the delicate touch of his fingertips tracing along the seam of your underwear, “it seems no woman can understand the concept of faithfulness.”

And you had to give him that—as much of a tyrant he could, he’d never tried to be unfaithful in his relationships. He had his indulges during those long, lonely in between periods, but never during.

Yet, here he was. A married man, touching you in ways that felt…too good. He was no different than his wife, but maybe that’s what he wanted.

“I must admit you are much prettier than the previous help, solnishko.” His free hand reaches up to tilt your chin up confidently, eyes connecting with him surrounded by an intensity you haven’t felt before. “I would much like to keep you around.”

“Unless I disobey,” You counter softly, “you would not hesitate to order my beheading, yes?”

Paul shrugs carelessly, “You wouldn’t be the first, I can assure you it would not be the last.”

His thumb rubs over your chin, rising to your lip, saliva wetting his finger as it stilled there, giving him a glimpse of your clenched teeth, not realizing your fist had been curled so tight at your sides until he’s speaking again.

“Relax,” He comforts, though it’s nothing but a mockery, “I would not hurt you, not unless I’m given reason.”

Your eyes squint slightly, narrowing on his bluff.

“Say it,” He orders, “say what is on your mind.”

“You are a scared boy,” You challenge, his demeanor faltering for a half-second before he recovers, “all talk and nothing else.”

The gentle hand on your face quickly turns to stone, slipping around your throat in warning, squeezing lightly. Your eyes close, trying to ignore how unbothered you are.

It wasn’t the first time your life has been threatened, it was all old news.

His fingers move quickly, slipping under your panties to touch bare skin. Paul snickers evilly at the wetness pooling between your folds, the soft noise your throat makes when his finger drags through—warm and thick.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Paul says smugly, “how long?”

“I’m afraid I might need you to elaborate, sir.”

The squeeze is light, but tense. A warning to your words.

“Paul,” You correct yourself quickly, “I apologize—old habits.”

“How long have you wanted this?” He asks slowly, tongue and teeth enunciating every word like he’s spitting venom at you.

You couldn’t give him a period of time, because there wasn’t one. The attraction was a surprise to yourself, from the moment he touched you after stepping into the room, you knew. You could handle the not so subtle glances he took, the teasing words and throw them right back—but you both had never crossed this line. Sure, Paul could be coarse and suggestive more often than not, but part of him never expected you to follow through on his commands, even if it meant your life.

He’s intrigued by you, enthralled. He hates himself for it more than he cares to admit. But, all good things did come in moderation.

“Must you ruin the mystery of it all?” You retort playfully, eyes lighting up as he tilts his head, trying to decipher the growing smirk on your face. “May I ask you a question, your—er, Paul?”

“So long as you choose your words wisely.”

“Why ask me here in such a state?” You ask, “If the others knew—if they found out, you would surely face consequences yourself.”

“I won’t,” He forces out through clenched teeth, jaw flexing underneath the skin, “this stays here, understood?”

“What exactly is this?”

He can see the way you’re relaxing under his hold, more comfortable speaking to him in such a tone. He’s used to being talked down upon, constantly disregarded—never challenged.

“Madam, whatever I want it to be.” He smiles, sickeningly sweet, proving his point by dipping a finger into your entrance.

You gasp softly, back hitting the edge of the bed as he maneuvers you the short distance there.

“But, your wife—“ You interrupted in a hushed tone, his mouth hanging open slightly as he glared up at you, “how does this make anything better?”

“Not better, even.”

You nod obediently, moaning softly at the loss of contact as he stands, wiping his hand along the front of his trousers.

“Undress yourself.” He orders, seating himself on the edge of the bed as you turn, switching positions with him.

Your eyes glance toward the door briefly, the light from the moon shining in through the stained glass, the candlelight dim—if anyone walked by, they would assume Paul was sleeping, but behind closed doors…it made your heart skip a beat in anticipation, excitement even.

It was reckless, but you didn’t care.

Paul unbuttons his trousers swiftly, already down to a few layers rather than his several, regal waistcoat and all—it was just his loose white shirt and a faded pair of tan pants that cuffed at his ankles.

He’s not shy in the slightest, cock already half-hard as he palms himself, squeezing lightly at his balls before fisting himself tightly, raising a foot up on the bed frame to steady him, free hand coming to rest beside him.

Your bra goes first, loose straps falling down your shoulders with no resistance, pulling at the string holding the material together tied behind your back. The cold air has the soft buds of your nipples hardening instantly, skin prickled with goosebumps. Paul makes an appreciative noise, thumb rubbing at the thick head of his cock, the uncut skin allowing for an easy slide as he works up a harsh rhythm, cheeks flushed an even deeper red than earlier—there’s more than just alcohol affecting his system.

He doesn’t speak a word, only nodding his head to urge you further, slipping your underwear down and beyond your ankles quickly.

“You are—“ His voice catches, grunt slipping past his lips, “divine.”

You smile slightly, a surge of pride rushing through your body at the sight of him, clearly unhinged by you.

“Would you like your cock sucked?” You ask bluntly, adding the endearment for extra measure. “Sir.”

Paul grins widely, reaching forward to tug you by your wrist, “Get over here.” He urges, settling to your knees impatiently, never one for niceties.

But, you didn’t need that. You didn’t expect it from him.

“How do you like it?” You ask curiously, nudging his hand away to replace it with your own, eyes watching the small, glistening bed of precum that leaked from the tip.

“I’m sure you’ve sucked a cock or two before.”

“I’m asking you,” You challenge, “What do you like?”

“Control,” He answers quickly, without hesitation, “going to let me fuck your mouth, milaya?”

The softness of the word makes you smile, though it’s subtle.

“As you wish, your excellency.”

He hates the terms, the formality of it, but it only eggs you on further. He was still Paul in your eyes, but this was easier. It kept a level of disconnection you need.

His hand roots into your hair roughly, gripping a decent chunk before pulling you forward, his large hand enveloping your own to rub the head of his cock against your lips.

“Open,” He orders, pressing your mouth open, “further—-there, good.”

You moan at the guidance of his hand along your jaw as he presses himself further into your mouth, “I know,” He soothes, “it’s much larger than what you’re used to, isn’t it?”

And he was, by far—but you’re also not exactly inclined to say yes, not allowing another boost to his ever growing ego.

You moan softly, eyes falling shut when the head of his cock nudges against the back of your throat, breathing deeply through your nose as he watches, waiting for you to pull away.

It never comes.

You can see the burning flames of fire in his pupils, deep set behind those wide brown eyes. He’s speechless, for once.

He pulls you back harshly, allowing you a small gasp of air as the corners of your mouth quirk up in amusement.

“Does that answer your question?” You say teasingly, a mocking need to your tone that Paul has never heard before. But, he can’t be bothered to reprimand you, too busy wallowing in his own desperate need for pleasure, release—human connection, even.

Paul growls low through closed lips, pressing his cock back inside your mouth with ease, the warm, flat of your tongue running along the underside of it, a faint taste of his cum rendering you thoughtless.

It’s been long, far too long.

And you’d do just about anything for a moment of blissful peace, drowning in your own arousal.

His thrusts are pointed, lacking the delicate touch you’re used to, but it’s everything you need, swatting his hand away finally to cover what your mouth couldn’t possibly reach, his other still firmly fisted in your hair. It had to be a mess now, pulled from its bun and glowing over your shoulders.

Paul wasn’t trying his best to stay quiet either, groaning a flurry of obscenities above your head—“Fuckfuck—need to have you,” He begs, “I will not finish this night off without knowing every piece of you, darling.”

He pulls you away suddenly, lips flushed and covered in spit.

“Maybe I’ll make my mother happier with another heir,” He jokes lightly, pulling you to your feet, shoving you promptly onto the edge of the bed until you’re settled on your back, ass flush with his hips, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your thigh, “—it’s only a joke, you may laugh.”

“I am unable to bare children, Paul.” You tell him openly, “Why do you think I have this job? Because I enjoy it?”

His fingers slip over your cunt wordlessly, pressing into you slowly. Two fingers instead of one, but the stretch is welcomed.

“What a shame,” He comments quietly, your breasts bouncing slightly bad your gripped the sheets beside your head, hips rocking with the steady movement of his fingers, “wish there were more help like you.”

“So you could fuck them, your majesty?” You retort.

It strikes a nerve, his cock replacing his fingers rather quickly, without warning. You gasp ruggedly, hand reaching out to grasp at his wrist, his hands smoothing over the tops of your thighs to pull you close, his brows drawn together in concentration, short blonde curls stick to his forehead.

“Watch your mouth.” He warns, eyes darkening with his words.

“Or what?”

You must’ve had a death wish, but Paul can’t even be bothered to act upset.

“I assure you, you do not want to find out.”

And with that, Paul swats your hand away, his own circling around the backs of your thighs to push them higher, his eyes dragging toward the point of connection, and you’re gripping him better than anyone he’s ever had, the warmth like a vice as he grunts, sharp thrusts producing the loud slaps of skin against skin mixed with your own desperate moans.

Paul doesn’t try to quiet you, only spurring him further into madness.

“Just as fucking mouthy as I thought,” He tells you, “why must you challenge me so much?”

“It’s—it’s,” You stammer, his hand muffling out the scream that threatened to escape, his eyes examining you until his thrusts slow slightly, allowing you to continue, “You like it too, I can see it.”

“So what?” He asks redundantly, breath labored, “Does that make you special?”

You reach for his white tunic, thighs widening to pull yourself upright, forcing him even deeper inside you. He watches you intently, your face stopping a few inches from his.

“You tell me, sir.”

“Paul,” He tells you, eyes rolling back as you squeeze yourself around him, the hand not busied with his shirt wrapping over his shoulder, pulling him to you, “say my name.”

“Paul,” You relent, adding a dangerous comment to hopefully spur him further into his growing addiction for you, “you shall be king soon, yes?”

He nods absently, his mouth reaching for you, tilting your head up to give him access to your neck, feeling that mouth to mouth might be too far, despite your current situation.

“Then fuck me like one.”

There’s a noise that settles in his throat, deep and suffocated as he grips the long tresses of your hair, pulling it taught as he fucked into you wildly, “You are dangerous, milaya.”

“I know,” You smirk viciously, head dipping down until your eyes connect, “—so come inside me. I will walk around the halls and no one will know, it will be our secret, sir.”

His face buried into your neck, one hand gripping at your thigh painfully tight as he slips one between you both, drifting over your clit gently, the small touch igniting a spark inside you.

It’s never something most men paid attention to, or yourself even, to busy with your duties to allow time like this to yourself—it doesn’t take much, a few quick, precise circles before your clenching around him tight, forcing him into his own orgasm, his teeth peeking out to bite against the skin of your neck softly, his groans muffled by the action.

There’s a moment of calm that washes over, Paul’s hips moving slowly as he comes back down, removing himself from you just as gently.

“Secrets.” He corrects. “I will never be done with you.”

You laugh softly, tilting your chin up dangerously close, lips barely grazing his own.

“I never asked you to be, milaya.” You retort, repeating his earlier term of endearment.

“Tell me,” He starts, eyes raking down your figure and back to your face, “do you understand Russian?”

You nod shyly.

“You are going to get me in trouble, my little darling.”

If only he knew how right he was.

Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡

#joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #prince paul x reader #prince paul #prince paul x you #joseph quinn smut #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn #eddie munson #my writing

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createserenity · 27 days ago

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The Painted Veil - Complete

Chapter 14 of 14 is now posted and the fic is complete. I've had such an amazing time writing this fic so huge thanks to @mirjam-writes first being such a great collaboration partner for this bang and to @do-it-with-style-events for organising the Silver Screen Bang. Also thank you to @masoney for betaing and supporting me through writing this.

Rating: E

CW: Mentions of serious illness and vomiting but nothing graphic. Brief adultery.

Summary: Crowley lives a life of leisure in 1920s London and when they meet at a party, Aziraphale is instantly smitten with him, whilst Crowley thinks Aziraphale is kind, but dull. When circumstances force them into an ill-advised marriage Crowley finds himself undertaking the journey of a lifetime, first to Shanghai and then beyond into the heart of China, where he faces challenges he never expected and is forced to confront not only outside dangers, but also his beliefs about himself, Aziraphale and what their marriage could be.

Sometimes the greatest journey is the distance between two people.

Excerpt:

"I love you,” Crowley repeated more softly, pushing himself upright from where he was sprawled against Aziraphale's shoulder and plucking nervously at the blanket beneath his fingers. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. And I'm sorry it took me so long to love you like you deserved. I should have loved you from the beginning really. I would have done if I'd known you then.”

@goodomensafterdark

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfic #ineffable fandom #crowley #good omens fanart #aziraphale #do it with style events #silver screen bang #the painted veil #good omens au #human au #my writing

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starlinehoney · 2 months ago

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cw!! fem!reader, age gap, nsfw content, car sex, adultery, mention of biting ?? idk. pls lmk if I missed anything.

NSFW under the cut

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Art feels pathetic.

He knows this is wrong. So, so wrong. He considered himself a man of honor, someone who would never disrespect the sanctity of his own marriage. But here he was, with a wife and a child waiting in the hotel room, fucking some starlet in her car.

It’s a tight squeeze— the car, that is. A beetle isn’t exactly the most spacious car, not ideal for anything that requires space.

Luckily, you don’t need much. He’s about as close as he can get without breaking anyone’s bones. He has you in the backseat, leaned up against the drivers side door. His hips are relentless, and he has your mouth covered tight. He already felt guilty for this, he didn’t wanna hear you talk about how good he’s fucking you. He shouldn’t be fucking you at all.

Maybe it was your fault, he tries to reason, tries to find some way to make it ok. You came to him as a fan with your tits spilling out of your top in some mini skirt the size of a fucking belt. What was he supposed to do when you came batting your eyelashes up at him in the hotel lobby?

And god, you feel good. He loves Tashi, but he’s sure he’s never felt anything as good as being inside of you. You’re so reactive. So pliant. Like you’d let him take a bite out of you if he asked. You’d let him devour you in your entirety without a thought. He watches in awe as your eyes roll back with a muffled groan and your velvety walls spasm around him.

It’s at this moment that it sinks in. He’s pushing forty, fucking some twenty-something year old in her car. He can’t remember if he’s wearing a condom, and in that moment he can’t quite find it in himself to care. He feels like Patrick.

As he cums all he can do is mutter quick, whined apologies into your shoulder. A chant, a prayer. It’s an apology to everybody and no one in particular. He wasn’t used to being the one in control, so maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was regret.

He can’t tell, and he doesn’t wanna find out. He pulls out and blinks a few times as he watches your slick, puffy cunt leak with white. He sighs a soft curse and pulls out his wallet. His hands you forty bucks for a plan b and kisses your forehead softly. He’d feel like a monster if he didn’t give you something. He mutters one more apologetic something before getting out of the car and walking back to the hotel by himself, guilty and dewy with sweat, smelling like sex.

He has a feeling he’ll be sleeping in Lily’s bed for a while longer.

#depressed dilf art #moony this is for you queen 🤞#art donaldson #challengers #art donaldson x reader #fem reader #art challengers

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sugarbbgrl · 3 months ago

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She (Price x OC)

I officially have an idea for a fic I'd been wanting to write for a while now, I really hope it goes the way I want it to. It's inspired by 'She' by Harry Styles. I've been listening to it on repeat, trying to figure out a way to format it into a story. Feedback is greatly encouraged and appreciated <33

John is in a broken marriage. Candace is his younger daughter's homeroom teacher.

wc: 1414

cw: mentions of infidelity (wife), angst, heartbreak, children (LMAO), mentions of divorce

John couldn’t exactly pinpoint when things changed. He’d always been a loving father and husband. He and his wife have been together for ten years, meeting through a friend and almost immediately hit it off. They share two lovely daughters together and a beautiful home. He may have been physically absent sometimes, work having been the culprit, but he never missed a daily call with his family. But there’s been a heavy shift in his marriage, he could feel it almost immediately walking into their home.

While John’s kids are more than elated, sharing tight hugs and a few shed tears, John’s wife is distant, nothing more than a tight lipped smile sent his way. He knows it can take a toll on people when their partner isn’t around, but they’d made a promise to each other: for better or for worse.

She barely said a word to him, her back turned to him when they slept, barely even touching him or even looking at him. It’s never been this tense around each other, but now you could cut the tension with a butter knife. She didn’t say goodbye to him once she left for her own job, leaving the task of taking his teenage daughters to school himself, which he didn’t mind, but just leaving like she did wasn’t adding up.

Then it did. He could smell another man’s cologne and her lipstick smeared every so lightly around her lips. His heart shattered, tears welling up in his eyes. He couldn’t even fathom the woman he’s been so in love with committing the sinful act of adultery. Every question swarmed in his mind, the ‘why’s’ and ‘how’s’ coming together in one big jumbled mess. But his wife couldn’t care less, just sneering at John and heading to their shared bedroom, making sure to lock the door behind her.

John slept on the couch that night, getting little to no sleep. He was restless all night, silent sobbing and tossing around on a couch not fit for a man of his stature. Those questions and the sight of his wife in the state she was in plaguing his mind all night. How could she do this to me? He thought to himself. I’ve given her everything and more.

It happened again the next morning; she left without a word. John sniffled and made himself some coffee, hoping the bitter beverage would liven him up some for the sake of his children. He would fake a smile while being home with them, not wanting to worry them more than they must be. He quietly washed himself and changed, barely even taking a peek around the room that was once filled with so much love.

Everything was completely different.

John had been home for a few weeks now, still keeping his bed on the couch, sleep coming only slightly easier. He hadn’t even wanted to discuss what he’d bared witness to. He’d seen more signs since the first night. Missing pieces of clothing, small marks he knew for a fact he didn’t give his wife, and even more avoidance on her part. He knew the conversation would come soon, he just didn’t know how to approach the conversation.

But then one day everything changed. He’d woken up to take his kids to school, the usual routine since he’d been home. He’d take his time getting ready, waiting on his girls to finish getting ready before heading out. It never occurred to him that he hadn’t met their teachers, so he took it upon himself to do so that day, making sure to look his best for the rare occasion.

His oldest daughter’s teacher was an elderly woman, smelling of chanel and lilac. She had a warm smile and wide framed glasses perched on her nose. She spoke in a light tone and welcomed John in a warm, grandmotherly hug. He made sure to explain his work situation and why he’d been absent to meetings, but avoided the brutal details. She understood and sent him off with her contact information.

But then he saw her. His younger daughter’s teacher was drastically different from the previous. About ten years John’s junior, she was radiant. Her hair was midway down her back, bright red with striking hazel eyes, seemingly staring into his soul and learning all of his darkest secrets. She wore a long sundress, the wind picking up the bottom lightly to show a pair of flats on her feet. She smelled warm, like vanilla and jasmine and lips painted a light pink. She was radiant, like sunshine on a cloudy day.

“Oh, you must be Mr. Price!” Her smile was wide when she laid eyes on him, greeting him. “Jenny talks so highly of you! I’m Candace White, her homeroom.”

John looked down at her extended hand, small and delicate like a flower in the meadow. His heart raced as his hand connected with her, his rough palms almost swallowing her soft ones. He was speechless, he hadn’t felt this attracted to someone since he’d first met his wife. His wife. The thought of her soured his tongue and dried his throat, he hadn’t even thought of her all day, deciding all together it'd be better not to think of her under another man.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. White.” John returned the smile, dropping her hand lightly and stuffing his own back into his jean pocket.

“Miss, I’m not married.” Candace chuckled and clasped her hand together at her front, correcting John’s misuse of the honorific.

“Ah, yes, my apologies Miss Candace.” John brought his hand up to nervously rub the back of his hand on his neck, emphasizing her correction. When did my palms start sweating? He thought to himself, failing to realize his skin had gone so clammy. I hope she hadn’t felt them when she shook my hand.

The sound of the morning bell rang through the school, indicating the start of the school day. Teachers and students alike swarmed to the front doors, doing their best to not be late.

“Well, it was lovely to finally meet you, Mr Price. I’d best get going.” She smiled once more and went to turn away, beginning her journey to the school.

“Wait,” John called out, his hand flying up to grasp her forearm. Her skin was warm, small specs of freckles dotted along her pale skin. “Can I get your number?” John asked, his hand firm against her arm.

Candace’s cheeks warmed, red spreading to her face and a nervous smile toyed at her lips. “Mr. Price-”

“I meant, can I have your contact information in regards to my daughter?” Now it was his turn for his face to flush, not realizing how forward his question was without context.

“Oh, of course.” She beamed, pulling out her phone. “Just give me your number and I’ll shoot you a quick text with my work phone number and email.”

John gave her his number, watching her intently, studying her movements as she typed away at her phone. He watched the way her eyebrows furrowed in slight concentration and the way her teeth pulled at her plump, painted lips.

“There we go.” Candace smiled at John after looking up from her phone, a light ‘ding’ sounding from John’s phone. “Don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions or concerns regarding Jenny! Bye, now!” She turned to walk away with a small wave, making her way up the stairs.

John stared at the new message in his phone for a beat, admiring the new contact he has yet to officially add to his list. He knew it was going to be strictly professional, parent-teacher conversations, but the man couldn’t help but let his mind wander. Sweet good morning texts and dates set, his imagination leading himself into the deep end.

He needed to have that conversation with his wife, he wanted a divorce. He couldn’t stand being left out of dry, waiting around for her to finally change her mind. His interaction with another woman has opened his eyes wide, he didn’t deserve this kind of treatment from the woman he loved for ten years. He’d been the best father and husband he knew how to be, she betrayed his and their children’s trust.

He wanted out, he didn’t care to be second any longer. She gets to have her cake and eat it too, just like John deserves as well. He gets to finally have fun.

#call of duty #john price #captain price #captain john price #price mw2 #captain price x oc #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #kyle gaz garrick #ghost riley #soap mactavish #ghost cod

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acaciusbride · 10 months ago

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Bedside Manner (Medic!AFAB!Reader x TLOU2! Tommy Miller )

Spoiler Free Summary: you’ve been secretly in love with Tommy Miller for years. When he gets injured, you - the town medic - take care of him. One thing leads to another…

CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR TLOU2

Spoiler Friendly Summary: After losing the closest thing to a best friend you had, the man you’ve secretly pined after for six years is brought to your door gravely wounded. Given time and proximity, you finally act on your feelings.

Pairings: Tommy Miller x Reader , past one sided Joel Miller x Reader

CWs: major character death, spoilers, unprotected PIV, unsafe sex, oral sex (m!receiving), implied thoughts of adultery, Tommy has a dirty mouth, praise kink, big girthy unspecified age gap, mutual pining, cowgirl lmao.

Before the outbreak, there was a rule, a code that all doctors, medics and nurses followed. Do no harm, always help where you can, and don’t get involved with your patients. Simple enough.

That code still mostly applies these days, though you’re pretty sure it’s a much more loose moral code, thanks to your FEDRA sponsored medical education. Wham bam thank you military dictatorship, you’ll take your education and run, thanks very much.

You’ve always had a thing for him. Ever since he joined the community almost seven years ago, just a few months after you, when you were younger and freshly establishing yourself as one of the town medics.

Of course, you’d been too young, too shy, too focused on your job and earning your place in the community, and even if you’d felt a spark between you? It had never gone anywhere. You’d contented yourself to just admiring him from afar, pushing down the pangs of envy when he had married Maria.

Nobody had ever seemed to notice that your gaze always lingered on him. Nobody, except Joel. The arrival of Tommy’s older brother had been a welcome distraction, for a while. Joel had a fair few old injuries for you to keep an eye on, and more than a few mental scars you weren’t equipped to do anything about.

The older man had been your friend; hell, if you hadn’t fallen - albeit rather pathetically and unrequitedly - in love with his brother years ago, you could have grown to love him, perhaps. He had been company. Someone to talk to about the state of the world. To rag on the early days of FEDRA with.

And hell, when you’d both been drunk and lonely, he’d been someone to fall into bed with without any fear of complications. Rough, hasty fucks with no strings, just a line of trust between two jaded people. Never mind the age difference. You weren’t afraid of him, and hell, he knew what he was doing. The one time he had tried to be slow and gentle with you, pressing his lips to your throat, nuzzling into your soft skin, you had let slip your secret, moaning his brother’s name as you came apart around him.

Joel had never given you shit for it. Never been mad about it. Never even mentioned it, but he’d never been soft with you again.

You’d cared about him, in your own way, and now he was gone. Joel was gone, and Tommy…

Ellie and Dina had brought him directly to you, accompanied by two of the patrolmen from the wall. At first, you had been frozen in shock before directing them to get him on the table, for Ellie to fetch your field kit.

Shot in the kneecap. A bullet to the skull, passing through and exiting via his eye. Fuck, he was lucky to be alive. You’d set the younger women up in the guest room and told them you’d call for them if needed, and stayed vigilant all night, waiting.

He had woken just before dawn, and hadn’t left since. Three months had passed, and while the wound to his head was healing well, he still walked with a limp.

“Maria still won’t see him,” Ellie had told you, “I heard them yelling at each other.”

He’d said as much to you, when you had asked about whether they were coming off that break any time soon.

“Doubt we ever will, hon. No matter, really. It was a ticking clock, for a while, anyway.”

He’d moved into your guest room, brought a cardboard box of his belongings over. You hadn’t argued, simply said you could oversee his rehabilitation better this way.

And that had been that. Somehow, you’d lost the person akin to your best friend, and ended up with his brother - the man you had loved for years - living in your guest room. It didn’t seem like a fair trade, even if you were glad for his presence.

Your boots crunched on the snow as you walked up the path to the house, let yourself in and took off your coat, setting your field kit satchel down.

“Tommy? You here?” You call out automatically for your… roommate? Friend? Patient? Who the fuck knows. All of the above.

“Yeah. Upstairs.”

You make your way up the stairs, taking them two at a time, trying not to think about how long it must have taken him to get up here on his own, when he still has to use a cane to get around.

He’s in the guest room that’s become his room, one hand on the wall to brace himself as he looks out the window. You know it’s probably the wrong fucking time to admire the view, but you can’t help but do it anyway, take in all six feet of him, how broad he is, how well put together, even in his mid fifties and missing an eye.

He has his dark curls tied back in a messy bun, has trimmed his facial hair since you saw him this morning. He cants his head to look at you as you come in.

“Are you okay?” You get out, a tiny bit breathless from how fast you took the stairs.

“Aside from moving like a fuckin’ old man? Sure.”

Tommy used to be an optimist, fiercely so, but the loss of his brother and his subsequent injuries have made him bitter and jaded. You understand completely. Put up with his moods because you understand his grief. Understand what it means to be in pain. And because you know better than to pick and choose which parts of someone to love.

“You’re getting better. You won’t need the cane at all, soon.” You encourage; at the moment he only really needs it for the stairs, for longer walks.

“Whatever you say, doc.” His remaining dark eye rolls slightly as he returns to looking out the window. You turn to leave, to give him space, before you start taking his bad mood personally, but he sighs and reaches out a hand to catch your wrist. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

“You’re allowed to be rude to me. Better you take it out on me than anyone else.” You shrug, then promptly shut your mouth. You don’t need to start making things awkward, not when you’re pretty sure he thinks you got over him years ago.

His eye narrows as he looks at you.

“Well, fuck. Joel wasn’t kidding, huh?” He exhales. Sounds, suddenly, very tired.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Your blood turns to ice as you get the words out.

“My brother… well. I loved my brother, but he wasn’t a good man. You know that. He never talked about you to anyone else, would have broken anyone’s jaw who tried, but he may have… shared some… details… with me. On occasion.”

“I’m pretty sure the entire town knew me and Joel fucked on occasion.” You say. The words taste oddly bitter coming out. You’re not ashamed of what happened between you, but talking about your past with Joel with Tommy just feels… whatever. It’s not like he sees you like that.

“It bothered him, you know.”

“What did?”

“Joel’s older by five years.” Tommy doesn’t even notice that he’s using present tense as he speaks; “he did everything first. And he was always there gettin’ me outta trouble. He was always first. I think it bothered him, that he wasn’t your first choice.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” You repeat, finally, because the idea that Joel may have told Tommy how you felt…

“We’d had a few drinks, and he told me. He told me you’d never gotten over that spark we had. Told me how he was fuckin’ you one night and it was me that you called out for. And y’know what? I haven’t been jealous of my brother in a long goddamn time, but in that moment… fuck. I wanted to knock him out.” His gaze darkens as he watches you, watches your cheeks heat at the implication.

“I ~” you can’t deny it. Are too fucking embarrassed to deny it. And somehow… grateful. Grateful that Joel had spared you the mortification of ever confessing.

“Been thinking about that a lot, recently.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “Thinkin’ about you screaming my name when another man’s fuckin’ you. How much I wish I’d gotten a chance to see for myself, all those years ago. Imagine my surprise, finding out you still wanted it…”

“Want.” The word slips out of your mouth to correct him before you can stop it, before you can think of how it’s a bad idea, of how he’s technically under your care and that you shouldn’t -

“Want? Still? It wasn’t… it wasn’t Joel? I thought you were just takin’ care of me cause I’m his brother…”

“No. No; it’s not like that. I loved Joel, but I wasn’t in love with him. He was my best friend, as weird as that sounds… it… no. It’s you. It’s always been you. I never wanted you to know, I didn’t want to make things weird, and you’re married, and -“

“Was married,” Tommy corrects you softly, “not anymore. Now it’s just you and me, in this big old house, and I’m startin’ to think I’d really, really, really like to hear how my name sounds from your mouth when I’m fuckin’ you.”

There’s a sort of edge to him now that wasn’t there when you first met him… and you find that you like it.

“I… you’re still hurt.” You say lamely, distracted, so distracted, by his thumb rubbing circles on your cheek.

A wicked smirk crosses his face.

“So I can’t fuck you into the bed just yet. You said yourself I’ll get better. Ain’t nothing stopping you from riding my cock, is there, honey?”

You’re beyond glad that he didn’t say these words six years ago, because the you of the past would have melted into a puddle under those words. As it is, your knees are a little weak as you nod, try to be a little clinical about it, try not to let how eager you are show.

“You need a distraction, right? If we’re careful… I don’t see why we couldn’t-“

His mouth is on yours before you can finish the sentence. The kiss is needy, demanding, years of hidden desire released in a single touch. You’re careful, still, in how you touch him as you wrap your arms around his shoulders to pull yourself closer, lips parting to allow his tongue entrance.

You’ve thought about kissing him dozens of times. Hundreds. Never, though, had you imagined it would be like this. That his mouth would be so soft. Taking in the pine soap iodine scent of him. Your hands find the thin strip of leather tying his hair back; tugging it free, you run your fingers through his dark curls, humming quietly at how soft his hair is.

Idly, your fingers play with the buttons of his dark blue shirt; when he doesn’t stop you, releases your waist so he can get the shirt off, you make short work of the buttons and tug it off, leaving him just in his jeans.

“Go on and undress for me, honey.” The pet name falls from his lips as he softly nuzzles his mouth into your collarbone, nips at sensitive skin, teasing.

Shaking ever so slightly, you step back, unbutton your shirt, let the fabric fall as you make a start on your pants, shimmy out of them. Your bra and panties join the pile, leaving you bare to his gaze. He steps closer to you again, backs you up towards the bed as he slips a hand between your thighs.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as he drags his index and middle finger through your slick, slow, deliberate, humming low in his throat at how wet he finds you.

“Fuck…” he almost hisses it as he readjusts his jeans with his free hand, eye dropping closed for just a moment as he slides his fingers inside you, just to the first knuckle, but it’s enough to make you mewl for him.

“Gotta get you ready for me, hon, don’t want you to hurt yourself. Fuck, such a pretty pussy, gonna feel so good round my cock…” Tommy’s rambling, and he knows it, but he’s letting years of repressed desire come to the surface, years of being faithful and not looking twice at you, even when he’s wanted to.

Your hands reach for his belt, get it undone and work on getting his jeans down. Almost lazily, he steps out of them, pulls his fingers out of you and draws them to your lips. With eyes half closed, your lips part and you suck his fingers clean.

“That’s it… good girl.” He moves then, settles himself on the bed, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes lazily as he watches you. Fuck, his cock… you’d been too distracted by his fingers to notice until now. He’s so big, thick and curved and perfect, bigger than you’d ever imagined.

“C’mon over here, honey, ain’t gonna bite.” Tommy’s voice is soft, low, encouraging as you crawl onto the bed, careful to not put any weight on his bad leg as you straddle him, feel the hot weight of his cock pressed against your stomach as you lean down to kiss him.

You know it’s probably wrong. That, given you’re the medic in charge of his care, you absolutely should not be doing this, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when his rough, callused hands settle on your hips, thumbs drawing little circles on your skin.

“Soon as I can manage it,” he tells you, “‘m gonna get y’to sit on my face.”

You shiver with delight at that particular idea, kiss him again, a slow lazy kiss, before you start to slowly kiss your way down his chest, wanting to kiss every single freckle on his body as you eventually settle between his thighs, tucking your hair behind your ears.

“Honey, you don’t have to-“

“I want to.” You tell him, smug at the flash of wicked lust that flickers across his face at your words. “Trust me. I want to. Let me take care of you?”

He groans low in his chest, leans back, props himself up against the mountain of pillows on the bed, and watches you. Slowly, deliberately, you wrap your hand around his cock and stroke him, paying attention to the tip, already leaking precum under your touch.

Leaning in, maintaining your eye contact, you lick the head of his cock, humming softly at the salty taste of him, taking him further into your mouth until your nose is pressed into the soft curls at the base of him.

“Fuck, that’s it, such a pretty mouth, shit~” he draws the last word out in a drawling groan, fingers twisting into your hair and holding you in place as he bucks his hips up into your mouth lazily. You take him in eagerly, flattening your tongue on the underside of his length, licking and sucking at him greedily, rubbing your thighs together to try and get some sort of friction.

“Get up here and sit on my cock before you make me cum with that mouth.” His Texas drawl is so much more pronounced as he demands this of you; pulling away from his cock with a lewd, wet sound, you kiss your way back up his chest until you’re straddling him again, his big rough hands back on your hips.

“What, you don’t wanna cum down my throat?” You tease, humming softly as you drag your soaked cunt along the length of him, feeling yourself tighten around nothing at the sheer anticipation of being filled by him.

“Some other time, hon, c’mon, don’t tease this old man, now.” He rocks his hips ever so slightly, and you shift, notching the thick head of his cock at your dripping entrance, sink down onto him.

“Not that old,” you manage to retort, exhaling sharply as your hips meet his, flush against him, his cock stretching you open deliciously. Maybe it’s not how you’d originally envisioned this; you’re both six years older than you’d hoped, you’re jaded and your joints are fucked, he’s lost an eye and will likely walk with a limp for the rest of his life, but none of that matters right now, not when he’s finally, finally inside of you, looking up at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Really seeing you.

“Fuck, where have you been all this time?” He groans as you start to move, resting your hands on his shoulders to brace yourself.

“Right in front of you,” you reply, mewling softly when his hands move to cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, teasing. “Not my fault you weren’t looking.”

In answer, he bucks his hips up, pressing as deep into you as he can in this position, with his leg still aching.

“Fuck…” the drawn out curse is half a groan of pleasure as you tighten around him, a hiss of pain.

“Careful,” you chastise him, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose, “you gotta be careful.”

He smirks, lets go of your tits to trail his hands down your sides, to grip onto your hips.

“Then ride me, baby, stop fuckin’ around. Ain’t gonna break, and if I die now with a pretty girl wrapped round my cock? Worse ways to go.” He smirks at you and you laugh, the sound fading to a moan as he takes advantage of your distraction to press a thumb to your swollen clit and rub at it, making you tense up above him, thighs tightening against his.

“That’s it, honey, fuck, like that, fuckin’ love this pussy, can’t believe I waited this long…” Tommy Miller is a lot of things, has done a lot of things, but he tries to be an honourable man. So much as he might be running his mouth now, saying these deliciously filthy things to you, you both know full well that he’d never have touched you if he was still with Maria.

You try not to think about that, focus instead on the feeling of him inside you, grinding his hips roughly into yours as you ride his cock. For a while, the only sounds in the room are soft exhales, the lewd sound of skin and skin meeting, your little needy mewls and the occasional low moan from Tommy.

“Soon as I’m not completely fucked up…” he props himself up as best as he can so your chests are pressed together, “I’m gonna make you scream for me.”

“You mean it gets better than this?” You tease, though it comes out far less teasing and taunting than you planned, given how breathless you are, how you tighten around him at the words.

“You have no idea,” Tommy rests his head on your shoulder as you ride him, able to move faster with his arms around you. “C’mon, honey, need y’to cum for me, know you want to…”

His lips brush your throat as he says it, nose gently nuzzling below your earlobe. It’s such an intimate gesture, it shatters your self control. He grinds up into you as you move to meet him, whimpering as you tighten around him, urged on by the hand he slips between you to rub your clit once more.

“Thaaaaat’s it, honey, let go, be a good girl for me, fuuuuck…” he’s amazed he’s managed to last this long, honestly, at his age, with how long it’s been since he actually enjoyed fucking someone this much; but he’s determined to see it through, to fuck you through your peak and over the other side of it, leaving you sweat damp and clinging to him, whimpering and gasping.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, Tommy, I ~” you can’t get the words out, choke on them, mewl his name as he roughly grips handfuls of your ass, holding you in place as he rocks up into you, chasing his own release now, uncaring about his injuries.

Your moans are muffled by the heated kiss he devours your lips in, muting his own curses and growls as he pulls you down onto him, unthinking, uncaring as he spills into you, feels your cunt tighten painfully around him again, pulling him in deeper.

“Fuck, baby, so fuckin’ greedy for my cum, look at you. Feel so fuckin’ good, look at the mess we’ve made…” he rests his forehead against yours, panting as he tries to catch his breath, riding the last waves of his own release.

You hum, grind down onto him as you feel his release start to drip out of you around his slowly softening cock.

“So,” you say, managing a smirk, still dazed from the fact that he’s touching you, holding you, kissing you. “Did that satisfy your curiosity?”

He pulls out of you with a frankly obscene grunt, lays you down next to him, wraps his arms around you, good eye sparkling with amusement and lust.

“Perhaps. Or maybe we’ll need to try again. Just to see whether you scream louder when I’m fucking you.”

Your cheeks heat as you lean in to steal an open mouthed kiss.

“We’ll need to wait til you’re better.”

Tommy fixes you with a filthy smirk that promises all that and more.

“Good thing I have a fucking amazing doctor, then, huh?”

You can’t help it. You laugh, for the first time in a long time, eager to see what the future will bring.

#my writing #the last of us #Tommy Miller x Reader #Tommy Miller #tlou spoilers #Gabriel Luna #my fics #tlou smut #the last of us fanfiction

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merakiui · 31 minutes ago

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[1] 𝔴𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔥.

yandere!twst x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, brief nsfw, non-con, restraints, mentions of murder and adultery, religious imagery, choking, violence masterlist // prologue // one (you are here) // two

You wake to fingers in your throat. Not on your throat, as one might assume in association with asphyxiation, but in your throat.

Fingers with pointed nails that burrow into your esophagus, scrabbling for a handhold as if whatever’s inside is trying to climb out through the only passage it knows.

It begins with a simmering itch, hardly noticeable, but then it’s insistently scratching, choking you from within. With a dying wheeze, you jerk up out of bed like a corpse reanimated. You can only claw desperately at your neck, helpless like a dove with clipped wings. Bent over the mattress and shuddering with every dry heave, you force your own fingers into your mouth in a futile attempt to pull whatever’s inside free from its fleshy confines.

In a shocking struggle, you manage to brush something coarse just before you remove your fingers, now slick with saliva. Much like the rain falling in a steady curtain outside the little window, the hellish sensations from within persist just as incessantly. You scrape at the back of your throat, your eyes wide with manic terror. Miraculously, you manage to grab hold of it—the wicked offender!

In one rough tug, the lodged object comes spilling out of your mouth in dark tendrils. It’s magical like a trick from a hat.

You pull lengths and lengths of soil-clumped human hair from your throat, choking all the while. It forms a sizable lump on the bed.

What is this madness? you think in a blind panic. Before you can even register the wetness on your cheeks, you’ve already coughed up enough hair to fashion into an elaborate coiffure.

And just when you think you might lose yourself in this never-ending torment, a brilliant flash illuminates the dark. Someone places a hand on your shoulder, and it ends all at once. The hair vanishes in a blink. With it, the creature attempting to crawl out of you is banished to a forgotten sliver of shadow.

Hasty in your movements, you perform a perfunctory pat-down. Nothing is amiss. It’s as if the previous ephialtes and its accompanying fright never occurred.

Surely an omen birthed by foul temperaments, you reason, turning to face the person.

The person.

Reacting on instinct, you feel around for your dagger and, seizing it, drive it towards the trespasser. They catch your fist in both hands. Their palms are unnaturally soft.

“You need not be afraid.”

Now faced with their pure countenance, so full of white light, you discern traces of humanity in their figure. Four pairs of grey eyes blink back at you. The rest of their face is obscured in dazzling luminosity. Wings unfurl from behind, stretching wide enough to encapsulate you in a feathery embrace.

“Do my eyes deceive me? It cannot be, yet it is! Right before me—an angel!”

The divine being hums in acknowledgment.

Overcome with a fierce shame, you lower your blade and scramble off of the bed to bow before them. “Forgive my barbarity, angel. I acted on an impulse driven by baseless fear. I implore clemency.”

“Lift your head so that I may look upon you and know of your honesty.”

You do as instructed. Your heart pounds ruthlessly inside your ribs, fueled with newfound anxiety. “I thought you to be an intruder,” you confess. “Of this I am earnest, but I shan’t resist should you seek to punish me.”

“My child, you are a lamb full of faults. Even so, you are deserving of forgiveness. That is why I have come.”

The angel lowers to sit on the edge of the straw mattress. They gesture to the space beside them.

“You’ve…come for me? Surely you jest. I have been condemned to isolation for a crime I am wrongly accused. I am an innocent prisoner, angel. You must know this.”

They extend a wing in sympathy. Soft feathers kiss your cheek, drying tears you hadn’t realized were there.

“Be at rest. You need not scramble.”

“Am I saved? Will you free me from these vile stone walls? Truly?”

Before you can beg for revenge against Father Flamme, you clamp your mouth shut and remind yourself to uphold a pious disposition. The angel’s wing shudders and withdraws to fold against their back. You watch a loose feather float to the floor. It’s rendered ash before it can come into contact with the grime.

“Indeed, child. Come.” They offer their hand next. “There’s no need to bow in reverence. I am aware of the veracity of your faith. Rather, I shall deliver a message on behalf of Him.”

“Him…” You flounder with wide eyes. “Oh! Oh, can it be true? Has He recognized my efforts? Have my prayers been answered? Am I saved—forgiven?”

The angel nods. You almost cry from the relief. All of your doubts… They are meaningless in the presence of God’s heavenly messengers.

“Take my hand, child, and I shall free you from that which entraps.”

Your hand twitches towards them, but then it halts.

Wordless, the angel gazes at you.

“Aah, so that is the net you intend to cast.”

You rise from your position on the floor and, slipping your rosary off, you drape it around the angel’s neck. Before they can question your behavior, you shove them onto the bed. They fall in a startled flurry of feathers. Guided by suspicion, you move to sit atop them. They lie flat on their back, watching you carefully. It’s in that single second that you see something new flash in those unassuming greys. Something malevolent. You grab hold of your dagger and yank at the rosary to bring them closer. The iron blade is poised at their chest.

It is a threat and a warning—a sincerity. You will not hesitate to spill unholy blood.

Such a shameless mask of blasphemy!

“My child—”

Your knuckles ache from the tight enclosure your fist forms around the beaded chain. Again, you drag them towards you when they resist.

“You dress yourself in flesh and feather so that I may be blinded by purity, but beneath such flimsy pageantry is the odious effluvium of the Devil!”

“My dear child, I come peacefully.”

“How dissonant a nightingale sings when its mouth is filled with treacherous filth. Foul beast, your tripe is of no value to me.”

Their eyes darken, and suddenly they’re looking through you rather than at you. The dreamy lilt falls away, and with it comes a churlish snarl.

“And what of you, Sister?”

“There is no angel in this world who would spare me a glance.” The tip of your dagger pokes through the faux angel’s robes, almost piercing silvery skin. “No angel, no matter how authentic, would dare embrace these sinful, blood-bespattered hands of mine.”

The creature remains silent, studying you with all four of its beady eyes.

“You cannot fool me, demon. Reveal yourself! I shall look upon your monstrous countenance when I drive this blade deep into your heart, and it will bring me impeccable satisfaction to have triumphed over your temptation!”

Gradually, the light dims enough so you may espy a mouth twitching into an impish grin. And then a cloud of thick smoke envelops you. It stinks of rot and death, of dank cellars, of mildew and monstrosity. You stumble away in an effort to escape its clutches, swatting through the haze before it can choke you with its filth.

In the midst of the shroud, a pair of pointed teeth wink back at you. Blood leaks into the creature’s irises, and every soft, saintly feature twists into something rough and hard. A sickly pallor spreads over his body, coated in sticky obsidian that drips like drool from a cursed mutt’s mouth. You squint through the fog, searching for the monster.

“So you’ve come to test my faith, have you?” you demand, clutching the handle of your dagger with unfaltering tenacity. “You’ll find your attempt is in vain, for I shall never accept anything from a demon!”

“Oh, I’ve come for more than that, Sister.”

Clawed hands part the smoke. It disperses in seconds, allowing you the opportunity to observe the fiend in his flesh. Twisted horns sprout from a head of crimson hair, curling into a crooked crown. A leathery, spade-tipped tail flicks to and fro. The creature’s clothes are queenly in design, albeit torn with time, stained black with execrable blot. A dark band encircles his throat, and when he tilts his head stringy tissue snaps in place to prevent his decapitated head from rolling.

You inhale sharply and catch a new scent on your nostrils. This devil, with his inky Medici collar, each pointed tip a dagger itself, smells distinctly of dead flowers.

Large, black wings shred through mottled skin, unfurling in a grand, demonic display. A mysterious liquid drips from the thorns lining his wings, landing in scalding plip-plops on the floor. He stands on blackened hooves, not nearly as tall and intimidating as you once imagined, but he’s still a grotesque effigy all the same.

Gingerly, the demon plucks the rosary from his neck and casts it at your feet. Just before the wounds are healed, you make note that the holy object has left his skin singed.

“You intend to kill me?” he taunts, laughing. “With such a feeble blade? Hah! Why, that would hardly leave a blemish. Human tools are no match for me.”

Ink drools from the exquisite tattoo on his face, and he gathers some on his thumb to paint his lips in the ghastly smear.

“I should expect nothing less from a wrathful Sister such as yourself. You’d sooner drive a blade through me than allow yourself to bask in the forgiveness of an angel, an imitation though it may be.”

To make such a brazen mockery of a divine being… Rotten devils do not possess a glimmer of shame!

“You talk freely, but your every promise has a heavy price. There is no forgiveness to be had from a foul creature like you.” You swipe your rosary from the floor and fasten it around your neck. “Begone, or I shall pray you away.”

“I should like to see that valiant effort. Alas, you’ll find it rather wasteful.” He strides your way, his hooves clicking an ominous rhythm against the stone. “I’ve come to collect you, my wrathful Sister. There is no negotiation to be had, nor a debate of what and who is right or wrong. This is a fate as final as death.”

“You talk of nothing but rubbish!” You stumble away, brandishing your blade with halfhearted courage. “You… You cannot take me.”

“And yet I already have,” he answers simply, smiling wickedly. His tail traces a path from your stomach to your breast, lingering just above your heart. “Did you not wonder who might dwell in your shadow? Who accompanied you in your madness at a time when you were most vindictive?”

Utter tripe! It cannot be true. He intends to lead me astray.

He’s quick on his hooves, sidling up to you from behind. His hands settle upon your shoulders, inky claws drumming calm rhythms. “I’ve watched over you, Sister. Longer than you could ever suspect. I know of your transgressions—every incident of wrath, each inscribed in permanence on your very soul. Which, as you might already know, is quite the potent delicacy for those of the same station as myself. So while I may don angelic trickery, you play a deception that has since become wholly unsuitable for your oh-so-virtuous character.”

“I’ve no inkling what you’re referring to. Not the slightest inkling!” you protest, shaking yourself free of his grasp.

He chuckles and steps forward. His tail brushes your jaw, leaving a slick trail of sludge in its wake. In a furious shiver, you scrub at it, but it sullies your hands.

“It was you! You’re the fiend who has cursed me so. That trick—the hair. Your malevolence knows no bounds.”

His eyes crinkle in amusement. “I am the very sin you deny. The very sin you run from even though you once embraced me so tenderly.”

“You’re wrong… You’re wrong! I would never lower myself to your devious standards.”

“But you have, and you continue to flee, seeking shelter under a roof that cannot provide the solace you’re after. Not anymore.” He indicates the room—your prison cell—with a sweep of his tail. Moonflowers and roses curl around the bed, blooming beneath silver light. You can’t estimate when they may have appeared, but just as the light falls upon the demon you know it must have been his doing. “The flock you have vested so much trust in have abandoned you, left you for dead at the edge of the pasture, and just beyond beautiful safety is a world of wolves waiting to feast.”

Peace, you remind yourself, steeling your frazzled nerves. He provokes me intentionally. A weak heart is susceptible to minacious influences. I mustn’t succumb.

“Father Flamme would never do such a thing. This is merely a test of my abilities as a lady of the church.”

Alas, those words do not sound right in your mouth because Father Flamme has done such a thing, even though you’d rather not confront his lustful betrayal.

The demon’s nose twitches, and his red eyes shimmer with irritation. “You wear on my patience, Sister. Denial and delusion are shrouds befitting fools, and you are no fool.”

“You are aware I would never content myself with the likes of you. Rather, it is you who is the fool for assuming I would accept you so blindly. My faith is sturdy as stone. You will never sway me.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It is a fact.”

“Sister, you should know your confidence is pitiful and misplaced.” The demon lowers to sit proudly at the edge of the bed. He folds one leg over the other, and you watch the drip-drop of ink slip from his hoof. It puddles on the floor, burning through the grass now sprouting up through stone. “If not myself, the truth of tragedy will reveal all.”

Rigidly on your guard, you frown. “And that might be?”

“There is a beautiful woman lying slain and scattered amongst the hogs. A brutality of which your village has seldom seen. Might you know something?”

You hold his fiery stare with an unshakable determination. “I do. Everyone adores her.”

“Not everyone,” he corrects, his tail flicking from side to side, as if he’s entertained with this dissection of the obvious. “Not a certain Sister, perchance?”

“I’ve no association with her.”

“How skillfully you dance on the tip of a needle.”

“That is the truth. I’ve no association with a woman like her.”

“Not anymore, for she’s good and gone. The living can never visit the dead just as the dead can never return to the living.” The demon brings his fingertips together to illustrate his next point. “In the moments between life and death, those worlds nearly touch.”

“As they might on All Hallows’ Eve. An erroneous argument.”

“Ah, but this instance is far more tangible than that.” He waves his hand in the air and from nothing comes something—a fistful of darkened hair torn right from a scalp. He holds it up to the light and hums, turning it over just as slop drips from the clump. “Well, Sister, what say you?”

You click your tongue. “Surely you’ve plucked your humor right from the filthy recesses of the hog pen.”

“Then you must have been there before me, otherwise our penchant for such morbid mischief would not align so celestially.”

He tosses the dark cluster at your feet. You nudge it hesitantly, as if it may spring up at any moment.

“What is it you want?”

His tail flicks in your direction.

“You cannot have me.”

“Your approval is not a requirement. If I must, I shall take you by force.”

“You are nothing but a foul, empty dream. Come morning, I will be rid of your presence.”

His clawed hands curl into tight fists, and he inhales a long breath. “But not my influence. Never my influence.”

With a swish of your habit skirt, you turn your back on him. “Your voice wears on my ears. Begone with you and take your tricks whence you came.”

“Deceitful Sister, you cannot rid yourself of me so easily.” A shadow slithers over to you. From the floor, he rises to meet you. “You’ve exhausted my patience, and thus I shall resolve to scrape the truth from the corners of your very heart!”

You jerk away from him, but a vine snaps forward to wrap around your ankle. You’re pulled onto the grassy stone floor by accompanying vines, each one lined with thorns. They pinch at your clothes, threatening to tear fine fabrics and render them rags.

“Then I must say farewell to our cordial conversation now that you’ve shown your true colors, impatient devil.”

He smiles down at you, fanged teeth shimmering in the light, and his red eyes look small and beady like an insect’s. “I shall tear you apart just as you desire. Perhaps I should use your method if I wish for effective results? Then the hogs will know the taste of human twice more.”

You bark out a bitter laugh. Any attempt of struggle is met with resistance from the plants. They’re curled around you like botanical shackles, tightening their coils every time you squirm. A thorny rose rests upon your breast, beautiful beneath the moon and dangerous in the dark. You know better than to give in to its scarlet temptations.

“You want me to confess to my crime when it is quite clear it never could have escaped your omniscient eyes! If you’ve known all along, your plot has been ineffective from the start. So I’ll say it now and spare myself the vexation: I put that woman there—in a grave amongst the hogs—and I’d do it again should she somehow return for vengeance. I’d do it a hundred times over if I must! However much it will take to prune her blight from the flowers in my world!”

For a beat and then a few breaths, no words are exchanged. The both of you watch the other closely. You school your scowl into something serene and soften your once thunderous intonation.

“I am not afraid to admit my terrible transgression here. You should know I feel no such remorse for that wicked woman and her lies. That witch.”

The demon towers over you, a curious lilt to his stern voice. “Do you expect to remain free now that you’ve met me?”

“I can’t be certain of that, but I do know I will fight you until my last breath.”

“Ah, is that so?” His tail curls around the handle of the dagger and he dangles it above your face, just out of reach. You grit your teeth and struggle against the vines, but they hold firm in their entrapment of your limbs. “There’s still one detail you’ve forsaken. You’re not yet absolved of your rage. Rather, it’s still festering within your heart.”

“Open your mouth wider and perhaps I’ll be willing to hear your nonsense.”

The demon grits his teeth. “I’d rather not cast pearls at ungrateful swine.”

“How your warped perception honors me so!” You tilt your head in mockery. “If you must know, foul beast, the sins of a hollow-hearted husband are unforgivable. It is only because he is my father that he knows the blessing of another day. Know that I’d sooner cut him down with just the same amount of rage if these familial ties were not so entangling.”

The vine that had once snaked around your throat falls still, its pressure lessened only by way of the demon’s piqued curiosity.

“It burned a hole through me every waking moment I remained shackled to this forbidden truth. Is marriage not an oath—to be forever fond even in sickness? And yet he would rather leave my mother to rot in her chamber than keep to the promise seared onto his heart! So I thought there was no demise more fitting than the execution to which I condemned the witch he adored so ardently. My mother has always sought to provide for me. It is only fair that I return her goodwill and guard her heart when she is unable to.”

He looks at you differently now, as if learning this forbidden knowledge has somehow excited him. Perhaps, rather than that, it is the feeling of having been proven correct that incites a delicious thrill from deep within.

“It is as I assumed,” he says after a beat of silence. “Your loyalty is certainly meritorious. There is nothing sweeter than wrath-fueled obsession mired in the candied glaze of a woman’s choler.”

“I am guilty and irredeemable, but I am no fool. You tread lightly, demon. Is there something on my person that requires prudence, perchance?”

His lip curls in a soundless snarl. The vines slither away from the beaded chain wrapped around your neck. Bearing the Holy Cross, it’s been carved from the finest rosewood and blessed by Father Flamme himself. If there’s anything that can shield you from a devil’s sinful tyranny, it’s your rosary.

But then a thorn-studded vine reclaims possession of your neck, curling roughly in threat. You choke on your surprise.

How can it be?! Impossible!

Steadily, still minding the religious hindrance, his vines explore the clothed expanse of your restrained body. Your rosary has minimal effect. When he reaches to touch you, he pulls away with smoldering flesh. And then, turning to look you in the eyes, he laughs. It’s loud and victorious, shot through with a cold, crazed strain.

“I see!” he exclaims, lifting his hand to the moonlight to inspect the damage. The wound closes up slowly, skin stitching together with gooey strands of blot. You wrinkle your nose in disgust. “You’re not so invincible now. I may not be able to lay a finger on you myself, but my precious flora certainly can. Whether it withers, shrivels, or burns away, it matters not.”

You struggle around a retort. Peace. Be at peace. I mustn’t let my anger control my actions. If I’m unable to fight with my body, then I shall battle with verbosity.

“Oh, I imagine this is quite disheartening for you. To have placed so much faith in this pitiable pendant… There, there.” Petals brush your cheek in faux comfort, catching invisible tears.

The moonlight spills across his face and you see him for what he really is: a contemptible creature of impiety.

A shiver bolts up your spine. You are helpless beneath the beast, but you refuse to act so and give him the satisfaction.

“What do you aim to achieve with your trickery?” you ask, contorting your expression into a sneer. “My faith is much too sturdy to crumble at your influence.”

“Ah, but even the sturdiest of foundations can be eroded with time, Sister.”

“Then I suggest you return at a date in which such a feat is sensibly plausible.” Glaring up at him, mummified in thick vines, you add, “I’ll have long departed the earth by then, so perhaps you’ll find the answer to that assumption in the mouths of worms.”

“Enough!” he snaps, seething so much blot spews from fangs bared. “I’ll hear no more of your impertinence!”

Just then, the vine around your throat constricts. Thorns burrow into your flesh. A choking noise gurgles from the depths of your esophagus, and you thrash wildly on the floor, eyes bulging and mouth opening in a silent scream. The tendrils curled around your knees part them in impatience, and perhaps if he was of a pious temperament he might have fallen to his. More vines slide beneath your habit skirt, prodding relentlessly like weeds in a flowering garden.

Again, you find yourself questioning your god. If He is so benevolent—if He is meant to embrace, love, and protect all as they tell you in the church—why is it that you are prepped for slaughter, shut away in a slice of shadow where salvation can never hope to reach?

Leering at you, the demon seems pleased with his gruesome handiwork. A demented smile sharpens on a countenance most cacodemonic.

“How tranquil and still the world is when insolence and disobedience are extinguished. You cannot fight against me. Although it’s risible you think you can, foolish Sister.”

As if slicing through skin, the thorns tear at your pantalettes, inching dangerously close to a sacred space—a space you vowed to keep virginal with an oath of chastity. This gives way to a fresh form of terror—one that is reminiscent of lechery, wearing the face of Father Flamme.

The breath that would have stuck in your windpipe is snuffed by the demon’s thorny stems and vines, all stabbing at you and drawing blood. It stains porcelain moonflowers in cutthroat claret until they resemble the prettiest of roses.

“K-Kill me,” you cough out, “and then you—you shall—you’ll never—never—know an h-hour of serenity.”

“Oh, I shall do more than that.”

This, you know, is a promise that can only foretell the worst.

Death is fair in mortal acumen, but wrath is not. And the foulest sort of death is the kind that chews through you after you have been hollowed by hellish hands.

When there is nothing left for wrath to chew through, how can you expect to remain whole?

Bracing yourself, you recite prayer after prayer in your head. Your vision dims and with it comes the release of all manner of feelings: regrets and triumphs, moments of misfortune, the inconsolable, mulish notion of survival.

You meet the tyrant’s crimson stare and refuse to shed tears for him, readying yourself for defilement as one might a beheading. The act itself shall be swift and painful, but it’s the time in the aftermath that shall stretch onwards and leave you searching for safety in your own body. Perhaps it will take the arbitrary forever to find that peace.

There is a lapse in action that stuns parasitic invasion just before it can spread petals previously untouched.

From the very bottom of the tower, a faint shout resounds. Louder, then, as if echoing a certain authority. You strain to place a name to the familiar tone, but your heart recognizes it well enough. The demon ceases his assault at once, his pointed ears pricking as he listens. And then the vines slither away and he retreats into the shadows of a now-bare room, lit only by the rays of the rising sun. Air rushes into your lungs. You take in gulps of it, ever-grateful to have survived.

You lift yourself up from the frigid floor next. Your heart thumps in time with the distant toll of church bells. Shakily, you clutch your rosary and stagger towards the tiny window. As you watch the sun cut across the horizon, every stroke of light banishing last night’s evils, you wrap your arms around yourself and mumble your appreciation in relieved repetition.

All that is left of your encounter with the demon is your dagger stuck into a crack in the stone, its elongated shadow warped against the wall.

You point at nothing when you whirl to face your nonexistent foe.

“Begone with you, demon dross, and never return! Your perfidy is naught but worthless under the divine shadow of the Lord!”

It is Father Flamme you heard. Surely! Yet even as you await his appearance it becomes impossible to fathom.

There are no visitations granted for a seven-day sentence.

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst x reader #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle rosehearts x reader #yandere riddle #yandere riddle x reader #the test of faith #the test of faith chapter one #n/sfw #tw: noncon

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mabelstone · 1 year ago

Text

Competition

matt stone x f!reader

genre: enemies to lovers, mature

summary: part two of Provocateur

word count: 4.9k

cw: more drinking, brief violence, mentions of blood, mentions of adultery, unprotected sex, hate sex... teeny bit of slapping

You were four shots deep at this point on top of the two martinis you smashed down and you were feeling it. For the past hour, Matt had you in hysterics, throwing your head back, ugly laughing from deep in your chest.

"More shots!" He exclaimed, flagging down your bartender friend whose patience was thinning with you both.

"Christ, are you trying to kill me?" You scrunched up your face, not sure you could handle any more. The room was already spinning and it was hardly 9pm.

"Gotta eliminate the competition," he joked, sliding another shot of tequila your way.

"Funny," you rolled your eyes, cheersing your glass with him before throwing it back. You cringed at the taste, fighting back a gag as the liquid burned every inch of your oesophagus. "No more, seriously, or I'll need my stomach pumped."

He agreed, dragging you to the dance floor with him. "No, no way," you protested, realising how strong he was by the way he effortlessly pulled you along with him.

"Loosen up, would you," he scoffed at you, pulling your body flush against him. You rested your head against his shoulder, mainly because you were struggling to hold yourself up. He likely noticed, one of his arms snaking around your waist, the other taking your hand in his. You groaned, knowing where this was going.

"I don't know how to slow dance," you mumbled against him, craning your head up to look at his face. You were in heels and he was still towering over you. You brought your free arm up over his shoulder - for stability, of course - realising just how broad he was. He was so delicious, and the alcohol was only making your burning hunger for him far more unbearable.

"It's easy, just sway with me," he looked down at you, gapped toothed grin on full display. For a minute there, you swore you would make a good match. You weren't repulsed by him in that moment.

You followed his lead, juxtaposing his steps, his grip on your hand insurmountably more gentle than when he shook your hand yesterday.

"There! You got it," he praised, spinning you around by your hand. You erupted in a fit of giggles, hands coming up to his chest to brace yourself when he pulled you back in. You stayed there for a moment, feeling his heart beat against your palms, laying your head against your hands as he propped his chin atop your head, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you continued to sway.

You didn't know what came over you, but when you looked up to him, your heart swelled in your chest. Taking his face into your hands, you pressed your lips to his. His lips were soft and warm and seemed to fit perfectly against yours like a puzzle piece. You took him by surprise, but he soon reciprocated, moving his lips against yours carefully, quick hands finding your hips as he deepened the kiss.

Once somewhat satiated, you pulled away, your eyes meeting his, pupils blown. "That was a moment of weakness, that promotion is mine," you joked with a soft smile.

For once, he didn't have a smartass remark to add. Instead, his thumb grazed your cheek tenderly. It made you feel strange, pulling away from him.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you excused yourself, ignoring the glare the bartender gave you.

And you did, elbows to the basin as you rested your head in your hands. Why did I do that? Well, you knew why. You were intoxicated and he was giving you the perfect amount of attention. What's worse, you really liked it. You could've stayed in that moment forever, and God forbid you weren't in a private place, or else who knows how far you would've gone. You looked up at yourself, angry that you had that giddy feeling coursing through your veins. Angry that you were left confused - even angrier that you were considering him a viable option.

No way, you had a rule against dating coworkers - especially if they were the reason you mightn't advance in your career.

You took a deep breath and left the bathroom, finding an indifferent Matthew receiving an ungodly tongue lashing from the bar tender. With furrowed brows, you approached the two; Matt with a stone cold expression, seemingly unphased; the bartenders' veins bulging from his forehead and neck.

"And you-" the bartender turned to you, an accusing finger pointed in your direction. You cocked your head slightly, brows knitted together even tighter now in confusion. "Thought he was a prick, huh? Tell me why you're mouth fucking him in my bar then."

"You need to calm down," you spoke, raising your hands out before you in defence.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do," he growled, smashing a glass on the bar table. You gasped softly, taking a step back. He was definitely doing lines behind the bar. He had the tendency to lash out like this when he was high, one of the countless reasons your time together was exclusively in the bedroom.

To your surprise, Matt didn't flinch whatsoever, only stepping back to slightly push you behind him... guarding you?

"Don't speak to her like that," Matt's tone was stern and unwavering, cool almost. His jaw jutted, seemingly his signature move when he was aggravated. The bartender clenched his fist, a single drop of blood running down his hand. Everyone else in the bar was silent, watching on intently. You felt a million eyes burning holes through you, your heart thudding against your chest.

"Let's just go," you pleaded quietly, tugging on his arm. You could tell Matt wasn't finished, but nonetheless, he nodded, shooting the bartender one last glare before wrapping his arm around your waist, pushing you ahead of him before starting to walk out.

You jumped again at the loud smash of glass, this time a few shards ricocheting off the ground, nipping at the backs of your ankles. Before your inebriated brain could process what just unfolded, Matt was storming toward the bar, letting himself in through the little hatch door. You hand flew to your mouth, muffling yet another gasp as you watched his fist collide with the bartenders' face. You couldn't watch, but judging by the gasps from others in the bar and more sounds of glass shattering, they were undoubtedly piling into one another.

You stepped outside, the quiet nightlife an easing contrast to the shit show that just erupted inside.

You were conflicted; do you wait for him? Do you catch the next cab and leave as fast as you could? Was he even going to come out? You felt sick, though in the freezing cold, your palms were sweating profusely and you felt hot. Your spiralling thoughts were cut short when lo and behold, Matt stumbled out, busted lip, nose gushing with blood and bruised, bloody knuckles.

"Holy shit, are you okay?" You fretted, taking his hands in your own, inspecting the cuts on his knuckles.

"You should see your boyfriend," he snickered, releasing one of your hands to wipe his nose with the back of his.

As awful as it was, it really did something for you to see him like this. It sparked a fire in you that you were choosing to ignore, staring a bit too long.

"You... okay?"

"Hm? Yeah, yeah," you giggled nervously, releasing his hand now. "I think we've had a big enough night, I think you should get home and clean up."

He chuckled, nodding along with you. You both walked in silence for a bit, the sound of your heels clicking along the cobblestone path drowned out by the soft passing of cars, the music from the bar slowly fading out of earshot.

"I'm really sorry about that, Matt," you frowned, running a hand over his bicep. Touch wasn't your strong suit, but in the moment it seemed fitting, and he smiled to himself.

"Don't worry, kid, shit happens," he shrugged, hailing a cab from the curb. "Seriously, fuck that guy though."

You both laughed as you climbed into the cab, a soft pink hue tinting your cheeks when he opened your door for you. You gave the driver your address, the buzz of the alcohol still clouding your senses as you watched Matt look out the window. You couldn't suppress the smile that crept onto your face; the way you always ended up around this man. You couldn't escape him. He must've felt your gaze, turning to you, a grin of his own forming.

You leant forward, pressing your lips to his once again. You were diligent and gentle in doing so, not wanting to hurt his busted lip any further. One of his hands crept to the back of your head, slipping his fingers into your hair, while the other found your thigh, gently circling his thumb into the soft skin. You shuddered lightly under his touch, wanting, craving more of him to the last fibre of your being.

The cab pulled up outside your apartment, the driver clearing his throat, causing you both to pull away. You ran your thumb over his bottom lip, wiping away the faintest drop of crimson.

"Bye," you practically whispered, Matt reciprocating. You thanked the driver and headed up to your room, head absolutely reeling.

***

Monday at work, you were nervous to see Matt. Truthfully, you couldn't get him off your mind. That smile that made you queasy, the affectionate gestures that just made you confused. When you went home that night you felt lonely, cursing yourself for not inviting him up. At the same time, though, you were grateful you didn't. You knew it was probably just drunken stupidity overloading your senses and you would regret it.

Your heart thrummed in your ears as you approached your desk. There he was, fingers rapidly typing at his computer, a large cup of coffee being neglected on his desk. You urged the smile off your face as you sat beside him, trying to be quiet to not disturb him.

"Morning," you spoke soft, logging into your own computer. He only hummed in response, not even looking to you. Your heart sank a little, an immediate wave of anxiety dousing your every nerve ending. "Everything okay?"

"Mhm, just trying to get my work done," he sighed flatly, your face burning a dark red. "You should do the same."

You laughed softly, yet there was no humour in your tone. What a fucking asshole, you thought to yourself, swallowing the lump in your throat before doing as he suggested.

As the day went on, you didn't exchange any dialogue, nor did he even look at you for more than a few seconds. Why were you upset? It clearly meant nothing to him. You preferred it this way, anyway. Now you had purpose again to destroy his chances of getting your promotion. You packed up early after receiving a tip of Madame's whereabouts tonight, praying she would actually be there.

"Where are you going?" He finally spoke, turning to face you now. Good God he looked so edible today. A big cut over his slightly puffy bottom lip, those big, beautiful eyes that looked extra tired, slight bruising under the left.

"Home," you returned his flat tone from earlier, turning away and heading for the elevator. You heard the faintest scoff from his direction, using every muscle in your body to not turn around and scream in his face. Instead you got in the elevator and pressed 'ground level'. The doors started to slide closed when you saw him approaching. You mouthed, sorry, with your finger jamming the close doors button, a faux pout on your lips as the doors shut in his face.

You climbed into your car, a residual frustration hanging over you like a dark cloud that wouldn't go away. How dare he?

***

You arrived at the hotel Madame was supposedly staying at, and now was the time she'd be checking in. In an attempt to be inconspicuous, you wore one of your usual coats with your hair clipped up Pam Anderson style, large rimmed sunglasses shielding your eyes. You nearly leapt with joy when you saw her talking to the clerk, a bell boy carrying a ridiculous amount of bags for her 2 night stay. You took a seat on one of the red velvet seats in the lobby, cringing at the feeling, but staying put. You watched intently, your glasses hiding the fact as you kept your distance.

You watched her for roughly twenty minutes, a bit disappointed when nothing was happening. She did the usual; checked in, ordered some people around. Then she headed out for a cigarette, and you trailing far enough behind that she wouldn't notice, but close enough to see something that made your jaw drop.

Madame had planted herself in the lap of a man who was not her husband, obscenely making out with him to the point you felt a bit perverted watching. You were quite well hidden, but judging by the display before you, they probably didn't give two shits who saw. Once he started running his hands up her dress, you quickly snapped a photo and headed back inside. You'd seen more than enough.

The heavy cloud was lifted, excitement bubbling inside of you as you finally had a story. You got in your car, unable to hold back your smile that stretched from ear to ear, absolutely ecstatic.

As awful as it was to be excited to expose this woman... A) you had no remorse for cheaters, and B) you were going to crush Matthew Stone.

***

By the end of the week, Matt was back in his old office. Yours was still being renovated, but you didn't mind. No, not today. Today, you were submitting your article for authorisation with the big boss. Like, your boss' boss. You didn't want to get too ahead of yourself, but you were positive your story would bode well.

You packed up for the day, heading out before turning on your heels when you heard your name being called. Of course it was Matt.

You sighed before turning and entering his office, folding your arms before him. "Yes?"

"Just wanna wish you luck," he grinned, though you couldn't quite tell if it was out of kindness, or if he was being his typical condescending self. "You look really nice, by the way."

"What are you getting at here?" You sighed theatrically, running a hand through your hair.

"Have a seat, would you?" He smiled again, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. You unwillingly obliged, slumping down into one of the seats. Velvet again! What is wrong with these people?

"You ignore me all week and now you wanna talk?" You raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively, not wanting to be a part of his fucked up mind games in any form.

"That was wrong of me, I'm sorry." You wanted to kick him in his stupid gap teeth... but you also wanted him to bend you over his desk until there were nail marks in the wood and you were screaming his name. "I just couldn't have any distractions, and God knows you're a good one."

You rolled your eyes at him, gesturing with your hands for him to get to the point.

"Right, right." He cleared his throat, folding his hands on his desk. "Now that this is all over, what did you write your exposé on?"

"I guess you'll have to find out when I make the headline and get my promotion," you smiled, getting up from the chair. You weren't going to sit here and be humoured by him. He'd probably found a way to go in and change his submission, and you'd never give him the satisfaction.

He groaned once you left the room, trailing close behind you.

"Jesus, slow down," murmured, catching the closing elevator door with his hand. "You don't need to ice me out," he rolled his eyes this time, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt. You couldn't control your eyes as they followed his movements, large, veiny hands that were nearly fully healed now.

"Can't you just leave me to have a nice afternoon?"

"I wanna see you tonight," he confessed, following you out to your car space.

"After the way you treated me? Fat chance," you scoffed, unlocking the car and climbing in. His car was conveniently parked beside yours, causing you to roll your eyes in frustration yet again.

He rolled down his window, his voice faintly echoing outside your closed window. You sighed before rolling it down, looking toward him incredulously. "What?"

"Madame," he started, putting his car into gear. "Cheated on her husband." He pulled out of the lot, and that horrible, heavy cloud of frustration was back.

You watched his stupid white Mercedes disappear from your view, jaw slack, sitting in disbelief. How did he know that?

It's like a switch flicked in you or something. You loved this job more than anything. He knew that, he wanted to get under your skin. And by God, did he. You pulled out of your parking space and headed straight for his house. You didn’t care how crazy you looked, he was an asshole and you were determined to make him pay.

Your blood boiled in your veins, scorning every capillary beneath your skin, peppering a trail of angry kisses across your cheeks in the form of pure anger. You white knuckled your steering wheel, clenching your jaw tighter each time you were trapped at a red light.

You remembered his address from when you were in the cab together last, and were familiar with the area as you nearly bought a house on the same street. There was his ridiculous Mercedes in the driveway, almost mocking you, so to speak, silently taunting, ha! Beat you to it.

You practically flung yourself out of your car, slamming the door behind you as you stormed to his front door, knocking so hard your knuckles stung.

“I knew I’d get you to hang out with me,” he grinned widely, smug as ever. Somehow he’d already changed into a black t-shirt and knee length cotton shorts. Damn, he always looked good. “Bit concerning that you know where I live, but I’ll let it slide ‘cause I want you here-“

“What is your fucking problem?” Your cheeks were still burning red, your fists clenching at your side as your heart pounded against your ribs, egging you on to strangle him to death.

“Come in,” he rolled his eyes, grabbing your arm and effortlessly pulling you into his house. “Don’t need the neighbours eavesdropping your meltdown.”

“Meltdown?” You laughed incredulously, even angrier by his stupid unbothered demeanour. “You stole my idea once again, you asshole!”

He tsked, walking toward his kitchen, grabbing out two glasses before continuing, “the name calling is a bit juvenile, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How did you know she’d be there?” You asked, brows knitted together as you clenched your jaw, resting flat palms against his kitchen counter.

“That doesn’t really matter now, does it?” He chuckled, sliding a glass of water to you. “Let’s be real, I have a bigger name than you, they wouldn’t have even thought twice about your submission.”

You walked toward him, inches from his face at this point. So close, in fact, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, you could smell his cologne. “You’re going to revoke your submission.”

“Or what?” He furrowed his eyebrows in faux fear, hands gripping your waist, pulling your front against his.

You breath hitched slightly, the feeling of his tight abdomen pressing against you with his fingers digging into your sides sending a chill through you. Quite the contrast to the fire ignited inside you.

“What’re you gonna do, huh?” His hands trailed down to the swell of your ass, fingers lightly gripping the soft skin. He pouted in your face, kneading your ass a little harder. “Nothin’ to say? S’what I thought.”

He pressed into your ass, your pelvis flush against his body. “You don’t want to find out,” was all you could muster, a defeated blush splattering across your cheeks as your voice wavered slightly.

“Cute,” he grinned, pressing his lips against yours. You cursed your lack of autonomy, hands quickly flying to cup his face without a second thought, opening your mouth slightly in invitation. He accepted, sliding his tongue in slowly, tasting one another as he grabbed your lower thighs, picking you up as if you were as light as a grocery bag, wrapping your legs around his waist. You desperately tugged at his soft curls, your tongue roaming the expanse of his as your soft sounds of approval reverberated off one another.

He grunted as your lips trailed to his neck, leaving warm, open mouthed kisses on his skin. He opened what you could assume to be his bedroom door, lowering you gently onto his bed before he pulled away. He unbuttoned your dress pants, warm fingers brushing your hipbones as he pulled them down, a trail of goosebumps forming on your skin.

You watched his careful, almost premeditated movements, as if he prepared for this exact scenario. His eyes raked over your figure hungrily, eager lips placing wet kisses along your inner thighs, sparking a fire in your stomach as the goosebumps continued to prickle at your skin. His lips got close enough to your underwear that you jolted when he licked a flat stripe over your skin, only about an inch away from where you needed his tongue.

You bucked your hips reflexively, an embarrassingly desperate noise escaping your lips. He roughly pushed your hips back down, mocking the noise you made. Your face instantly heated up, trying to pull from his touch.

"I'm joking," he chuckled, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your panties. "Sounds pretty, wanna hear more," he more mumbled the last part as he slipped your panties off, blowing cold air onto your very wet heat. You squirmed lightly under his touch, involuntarily bucking your hips as he drew his tongue flat up your clit, ripping a groan from deep inside your chest.

He flit his tongue across your clit again, this time applying diligent pressure to the area; tracing gentle shapes into your it.

“More,” you breathed, desperately reaching for his hand on your hip, forcing it down to your throbbing core. You were wet enough for him to slowly slip a digit in, siding in until up to his knuckle was coated in your slick, pulling out completely. He coated his ring and middle finger with your slick before sinking both digits in without warning, eliciting a sharp whine from you. Your hands flew to the short praline curls you’d grown to love and hate so bad, raking your fingers along his scalp as you ground against his face. Times like this you were reminded why big noses were a feature you loved in your sexual partners.

He pulled his mouth away, flipping his hand so his wrist was bumping against your clit as he continued to thrust his skilled fingers in and out of your heat, unrelenting with his rhythm. He knew he found that dizzying spot inside of you when you arched your back against him, your chests touching as he hovered over you, muffling your pretty affirmations of pleasure with his own lips.

He continued rubbing his palm over your clit, realising how close you were when your walls began to tighten around his long, slender, concerningly skilled fingers.

“Matt,” you warned, unable to even kiss him back with the waves of pleasure rippling through you.

“Not yet,” he grinned against your lips, pulling his hand completely away from you just before you reached your peak.

“Fuck you,” you cried frustratedly, pushing him away from you.

“Give me a minute, would you?” He laughed, pulling his shirt over his head, his pants following shortly after.

Your eyes widened and your jaw slackened, not only at the sheer size of him, but the impossible girth.

"I-" you shook your head profusely, as if to admit that it wouldn’t fit in any way.

“You can take it,” he encouraged brazenly, clearly very fond of his endowment.

“At the risk of giving you an even bigger head, nuh-uh.” You closed your legs, holding yourself up on your palms. He tsked you again, stroking over his length slowly, using his spare hand to grab the back of your neck, connecting your lips once more. You melted into him, reciprocating immediately.

“You’re so easy,” he chuckled triumphantly, rubbing his cock across your aching heat, collecting your slick over the tip.

You slapped him across the face without thinking, your stomach flipping at the girly whine he released.

Unbeknownst to you, he wanted you to get angry. "Do it again," he demanded, and you did. Well, attempted to. When your hand was but millimetres from his face, his fingers laced your wrist with a vice grip, slamming it into the pillow above your head as he thrusted his entire length into you in one swift motion.

You released a guttural gasp/moan, your unrestrained hand frantically searching for something, anything, to hold onto, opting for the broad shoulder before you, leaving behind crescent moon shaped indents on his lightly freckled skin.

"Mmh- so tight," his words were almost lethargic sounding, drawn out and breathy.

"I fucking hate you," you confessed through grit teeth as he continued to rut in and out of you at a mouthwatering pace, teetering on the fine line between pleasure and pain.

"Not a big fan of you either," he grunted between thrusts, a moan cutting through the end of his sentence as your walls flexed around him.

"You feel so good though," another juxtaposing confession from you, wrapping your free arm around his shoulders for leverage, pulling yourself up to connect your lips with his once more. He reciprocated greedily, taking up all of your air before shoving you back onto the bed, propping your legs up over his shoulders. He bottomed out once more, this time pummelling your g-spot with each precise thrust, and now you were being loud.

You exchanged sounds of pleasure and insults, the neighbours undoubtedly hearing every word and likely very confused.

He slipped his fingers down to rub your clit, immediately hurling you to the edge.

"Finally got you to shut up," he chuckled playfully. Embarrassingly enough, you attempted to speak but no words came out, only a strangled, almost painful moan; mouth dry from panting profusely and eyes threatening to roll back. You were a hot mess, and you had no idea what it did to him.

The look on his face combined with his unmistakable skill sent you well and truly over the edge. He looked so focused, furrowed brows, droplets of sweat threatening to fall, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. You couldn't even formulate a warning, coming undone around him. You slipped your legs down his arms, thighs now resting atop his, back arching, toes curled. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling your chest against his as he fucked you through your orgasm, soft and drawn out praises, "theeeere you go, yeah," slipping past his tongue and melting down skin.

Your eyes were screwed shut as you slowly came down, wrapping your arms around him as you continued to match his thrusts.

"Cum in me," the first words you muttered in a while; words that seemed to be the magic phrase. He gripped you hard, hips stuttering as he released inside of you, his own eyes rolling back as ecstasy surged through his being.

You carefully climbed off him once your breathing steadied, immediately picking up your clothes and slipping them back on. He lulled his head to the side from where he'd laid back, curls wet and stuck to his forehead. "Glad we resolved things," he grinned, covering himself with a blanket.

"That was amazing," you sighed in a mix of exhaustion and contentment. "So, there's one thing you're useful for."

"M'gonna have to piss you off more often."

You scrunched up your nose with a fake smile. "Bathroom?"

"Down the hall to the left," he sighed this time, stringing his arm over his face in a more understandable fatigue. "You might wanna fix your face too. You look like a hooker."

You shot him a glare, not that he could see, before heading to his bathroom. Sheesh. He was right. Your mascara had run down your cheeks, smudged all around your eyes. Your hair was an absolute birds nest, and your lips and cheeks were flushed a matching shade of pink. You used the toilet, grimacing at the uncomfortable wetness between your thighs, a messy mixture of both of your arousals.

You walked back into his room just as he'd pulled his briefs back on, standing in the door frame, brazenly admiring his figure. Though very tall and skinny, his muscles were well defined and lightly glistening with sweat.

"See you at work."

You did the walk of shame to your car, his conservative looking neighbours looking at you both disgusted and mortified.

you can tell when i write this over a few days when the writing style changes 😗 hope you enjoyed

#matt stone #matt stone x reader #matt stone smut #enemies to lovers

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