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yanderenightmare · 11 months ago

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TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, omegaverse/hybrid au, size difference, pet-play, predator x prey, collaring, handcuffing

fem reader

Think about being a bleating little bunny hunted down by two big bad wolves…

Your fear tastes so good – layered thickly in the air – so sweet in their mouth it’s almost painful how hungry it makes them – seeped and soaked and stained on the bed where they keep you collared and leashed for their own personal use.

You drive them both wild with your aroma and all your cute little struggles where you try so adorably to shove them away and crawl out of their reach. It’s never any use, and yet you still try despite being so stupidly small beneath them – so tiny it only takes one of their hefty hands to have you completely overpowered.

But they’re as sweet as they can be – as sweet as your smaller body allows them to be when it so obviously isn’t meant to take their thicker fatter meaner cocks in its petite little holes – prepping you on tongues and big fingers until you’re as loose as you get before stuffing you with something that’s always going to be too big for you.

They have to tie your hands to something – where despite them being fruitless in their effort, they can become bothersome to leave free – often attaching them to the loop in your collar, so you keep them to yourself all cutely while they mark you with their fangs – making you into a pretty artwork with coarse fingers rubbing your perky little nipples into sore nubs.

You’re really just too cute; it’s cruel – looking up at them with those adorably big eyes and that button nose wrinkling on each little sniffle when you beg them to let you go. Lop-ears sadly framing your face – so soft in their hands and so sensitive it makes you bite your lip all preciously each time they give them a little nibble.

You sob under their touches – knees shaking – as one of them laps at your clit with a bearded chin tickling your puffy pussy-lips, gnawing some on the swollen flesh while slurping your hole. His thick and eager tongue paints through your slit again and again and again on an unrelenting repeat – similar to the eager tail whipping behind him – swallowing all your juice down – growling ferally at the maddening taste while your thighs sweetly tremble around his jaw.

Your other predator bites on the plump of your ass, leaving spotted rings in his wake. Cupping your buttcheeks – fully fitting in the palms of his mighty paws – he cards his claws into the fat and spreads them wide open for an attack on that pretty tight little ring hidden between them. You always whine so sweetly for him – your cute fluffy cottontail doing a little dance while he circles your rim with his tongue – warning you of what’s to come later in the day when he’s finally had the taunt hole fully stretched and as ready as it gets to take his fat knot.

He moans into you while thinking about it – about your cute bunny butt swallowing his meat and being blown full of his thick creampie. Going livid at the mere thought alone – his cock bobs impatiently against his happy trail while he forces restraint upon himself – knowing how if he tries splitting your poor little butt on his pole now, he’d most likely tear you in two.

Instead, he amuses himself by prodding the pretty hole with the tip of a very special golden carrot – fresh batteries turning your rim numb while he slides ring after thicker ring inside you until you close around the tuft of golden leaves at its end. Tugging on his cock impatiently, he places his head – fluffy pointy ear-down upon your belly – listening to the drums echo inside you as he turns the vibrations up high enough to feel it through your skin.

Of course, he wants to make sure that his precious little bunny is prepped and ready before subjugating you to a good butt-fuck – being kind enough to satisfy himself with your mouth until then – making you cry and choke around his thickness, swallowing his cock down your tight throat until your little nose burrow in the dark curls around his base – watching the pretty furrow between your brows beg for air as your eyes roll back and turn white with desperation.

He lets you suck his balls as mercy once you’ve choked him down long enough – to the point you’ve lost your pretty voice – gripping one of your lop ears, he holds it tightly by the base – thinking there's nothing cuter than spitting on your chubby bunny-face while you dizzily comfort yourself by nuzzling his sack so sweetly.

Your pussy is left alone after it’s made swollen by a handful of orgasms, but not before the abuser slaps his handiwork with a grin. He wipes his chin off your slick, then grabs your other free ear – messaging the softness as he pulls your mouth off the other’s sack and onto his cock – fucking the pocket of your cheek while you sob from their rough handlings – fearing they might just tear your poor ears off.

They both stand above you as you kneel for them by their feet, lolling your teary lips against their heavy balls – groaning as you give them all sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as they fight for space in your tiny mouth – telling you to beg for the cum stored inside while you slide you pink little tongue over them until they drip with your drool. Then, making your lip and mouth the spine of their shafts, sliding both fat manhoods between your plump lips until making you take one head at a time, licking the slit clean of slaty precum.

But more than childsplay with their cocks on your cute face, they like propping your other two holes – make you moan and cream on them – entirely obsessed with fucking you full of the two of them – pushing in so deep, they have you screaming and shaking in uncontrollable spasms as you clamp down hard around them.

It feels extra sweet when they fuck you at the same time – feeling the other through the wall separating the holes – timing their thrusts – pushing in until completely sheathed down to the base, bottomed-out with their knot swelling up inside you, pumping you full of hot cum before sloshing out – leaving you panting and twitching.

Both holes fluttering around their absence – they inspect them to see how good they have your little bunny-holes stretched – grinning at the sight of both entrances gaping for them as though they can’t wait to be taken by their big dicks – both chuckling deeply when seeing how much of their cum your tightness pushes out before they fuck it right back inside you again – completely mesmerized by the big belly bulge the two of them are making in your tiny body – taken and riveted by the thought of breeding you despite knowing that it would be impossible for you to carry either of their pups.

None of it keeps them from emptying the full value of their balls inside you for the umpteenth time – both of them slobbering at your neck while messaging you with big hands on your tits and hips, hissing out carnivorous desires your feeble constitution doesn’t understand before they sink their teeth down hard into the soft flesh of your vulnerable neck – claiming you as both their pretty little prey and silly little mate.

BNHA – EndMight, EndHawks, BakuDeku, KiriBaku, DabiHawks, ShigaDabi

JJK – Toji x Shiu, SatoSugu

HQ – Miya twins

DS – DouAka

HxH – HisoIllu

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere smut #yancore #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk smut #bnha smut #yandere bnha #mha smut #my hero smut

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creamflix · 2 months ago

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gojo satoru x female reader; 18+ content, minors and blank blogs do not interact. established relationship. slight findom (financial domination). pussy eatin', overstimulation. praise, gojo is very much in love with you (and your pussy). pussy drunk gojo, part of my #needthat drabble(s) — masterlist here ☆

everyone knows gojo satoru is addicted to you — but it’s not just about the way you look.

sure, you’re stunning, and he makes sure of that, down to the last detail. your hair? of course, he’s paying for every high-end treatment to keep it soft, shiny, and perfect. your face? he’s already gone through your wishlist and purchased every luxury skincare product on the market. and your nails? let’s just say you never need to worry about a fresh set because he’s constantly sending you thousands just to make sure they’re done to perfection. he likes them in the color of his eyes, naturally.

but none of that compares to how obsessed he is with you. particularly that pretty little cunt of yours — there’s no way he’s going to neglect her. it’s his favorite part of you, and as a way of saying thank you for being his perfect girl, his good girl, he spends hours worshipping between your legs.

satoru’s fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open as he burrows deeper, his tongue flicking against your clit with maddening precision. he’s found that sweet spot, the one that makes your back arch and your thighs tremble, but it’s not enough for him. not yet. he wants more. he wants to see you completely undone — mind blank, body trembling, unable to form a single coherent thought.

he wants to see that hair of yours, so carefully washed and blow-dried with his money, messy and wild against the sheets. he wants to see your face, always so radiant and dewy from those expensive products, flushed red, dripping with sweat. and those new nails? the ones you got in the color of his eyes? he wants to feel them clawing at his scalp as you try to pull him away, as if you could ever stop him when he’s like this.

you tug at his hair, gasping and whimpering, trying to push him off when it gets too much, but satoru just smirks, taking your frantic grabs as an invitation to dive even deeper. his tongue laps at your slick folds, collecting every bit of your arousal, humming in satisfaction as he swirls around your swollen clit again.

“oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice muffled by the fact he refuses to leave his spot between your thighs. “you’re so sweet.” his lips press against your clit, sucking gently, and you let out a high-pitched cry, your hips bucking against him. he chuckles, and the sound vibrates through you, sending sparks of pleasure straight up your spine.

your legs shake around his head, and he just grips your thighs tighter, pinning you down to the bed. there’s no escaping him now, not when he’s determined to fuck your mind so thoroughly that the only thing you’ll be able to think about is him.

he presses his tongue flat against you, dragging it up in slow, languid strokes, savoring every single drop of your essence. “you’re too good to me,” he hums, his words laced with affection, even as his actions drive you wild. “how else am i supposed to thank my perfect girl, huh? gotta make sure you know how much i appreciate you.”

you try to speak, to tell him something — anything — but the words are lost in a whimper as his mouth finds that spot again, that perfect spot, and your vision blurs. your nails dig into his scalp, tugging hard enough to make him groan, but instead of backing off, he only doubles down, sucking on your clit with just the right amount of pressure to make your whole body jolt.

“oh god— satoru, i— i can’t,” you choke out, your voice ragged and breathless, but he just smiles against you.

“you can,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet teasing. “and you will.” he pulls back for just a second, long enough to look up at you through hooded eyes, his mouth slick with your arousal. “c’mon, baby. lemme take care of you.”

and before you can even respond, his mouth is back on you, working you over like a man possessed. his tongue slides inside you, curling just right, and your body tenses, another wave of pleasure crashing over you so hard that you can barely breathe.

your nails scratch against his scalp as you try to hold on, but satoru’s relentless. he wants you to lose control, wants to see you fall apart because of him. your thighs squeeze his head, but it only makes him groan, his pace quickening as he pushes you over the edge.

you cry out, your whole body shuddering as the orgasm rips through you, your mind blank, hazy with pleasure. and satoru? he just keeps going, his tongue still working you, still lapping up every last drop, as if he’ll never get enough.

because, really, he won’t. he’s completely addicted to you, to the taste of you, the feel of you. this is how he thanks you for being his girl — by leaving you so fucked out, so dazed, that you can barely remember your own name.

and when you finally come down, panting and trembling, he pulls back just enough to smirk at you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “see, baby?” he says, his voice low and satisfied. “told ya i’d take care of you.”

#needthat

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allgirlsareprincesses · 4 months ago

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Choosing the Beast: Modern Folklore Heroines Embrace the Animal Husband

“I choose the bear.” The refrain rang out across the web, with many a woman nodding in agreement or at least understanding, and certain men huffing with indignant outrage. Just a meme, really, but did it speak to a deeper truth? Is it merely age-old mistrust of patriarchy talking, or a true desire for the beastly, the wild, the untame?

I’m no sociologist, of course, but I have noticed an emerging trend in fem-gaze media that seems to reflect this view. In movies like I Am Dragon (2015) and recent shows like My Lady Jane and The Acolyte, the heroine chooses the beast, loving her animal husband in his wild form rather than requiring him to transform back into a mundane man to earn her affection. This is such a departure from the typical folktale pattern that it’s difficult to even find an historic example where this occurs.

Commonly thought to reveal the desire to tame a dangerous mate in a patriarchal society, most animal husband tales (ATU 425a) feature a hero who ultimately transforms permanently into a human. This is viewed not only as freeing him from the maddening effect of his wild form, but also saving his bride from committing the sin of bestiality. In these tales, the animal mate’s transformation is necessary for the salvation of both.

Is the modern heroine then damned by choosing her husband’s beastly form? Or does she actually free them both from the yoke of patriarchal expectations?

Bathing: Discovering the Wild Masculine

The first motif that stands out in these modern screen examples is bathing. In animal spouse tales, there is often a dynamic of the hunter and the hunted, and thus a moment when the hunter comes upon their would-be lover unawares. Perhaps they find the animal spouse sleeping, or they cast a light on them unexpectedly, see them without their animal skin or disguise, and so on. And of course, they often come upon the lover at their bath.

There is an implied eroticism in this discovery, finding one’s quarry not only undressed, but also in the most private of activities. Water of course symbolizes fertility, but bathing is also purifying, symbolically washing away all that might make a mate undesirable. And this, perhaps, is the reason that historically this motif is used almost exclusively for animal brides, not animal husbands.

For the animal husband, he either actively chooses to reveal himself to the bride (perhaps on their wedding night), or she violently strips away his disguise, often armed with “flame and steel” like Psyche and her many avatars. Animal brides on the other hand are nearly always discovered at a body of water, bathing. The hunter will then capture her either by stealing her animal skin or cloak, or by placing his own clothing on her. What does it mean, then, when it is the husband who is discovered bathing in a body of water, held as an erotic object in the feminine gaze?

In The Acolyte, Osha follows Qimir to a pool where he slowly undresses, in full knowledge that she is watching. On the shore, she steals his lightsaber, just like the hunter who steals the animal skin, symbolically claiming him. When he emerges, Qimir dons new clothes, as if acknowledging that he is a different person than before he entered the water, almost purified in a way. Osha is forced to confront that there is more to the murderer in the mask than she realized.

Similarly, in My Lady Jane, our heroine goes looking for Guildford just before sunrise on their ill-fated wedding night, only to discover him bathing in the stables. The scene is gratuitously filmed from Jane’s (very horny) perspective, flipping the script on the countless scenes in screen history shot with the masculine gaze. Immediately after she discovers and confronts him, Guildford transforms against his will into a horse, and Jane realizes that he is an Ethian, a creature she has been taught is demonic and unnatural.

And in I Am Dragon, Mira makes several discoveries in quick succession: first, she deduces that Arman is actually the dragon. In the next moment, she slips from the island’s peak and falls, saved only when Arman transforms at the last moment and breaks her fall with his dragon form. The water begins to wash over his unconscious body, and at first Mira thinks that she will allow him to drown. But the sight of Arman in his human form after he rescued her, worried over by his animal familiar, stirs her to pity and she wraps him in a sail and drags him to safety. In this way, she clothes him, claiming him as her own.

Each of these heroines discovered a new aspect of her husband at the bath, finding him unexpectedly alluring, and ultimately choosing to begrudgingly claim him. Each animal husband tried to wash away his beastly form, to separate himself from the wild masculine. These men feel a sense of disassociation from a part of themselves, but now that their brides have discovered it, there will be no more hiding. Further, the bride now holds the power in the relationship, evidenced by how her husband needs her: Qimir needs Osha to be his apprentice, Guildford needs Jane to help him “break the curse,” and Arman needs Mira to heal him from his wounds.

Playing House: The Half-Husband

The second feature of these stories is a period of domesticity for the couple. For a brief time after the husband’s beastly nature is revealed, the lovers “play house” like children. While sexual tension is present, they typically do not consummate their union during this time, but instead cook, eat, rest, and care for one another. What’s more, they ignore or even attempt to actively destroy the husband’s animal form. They deny that this is part of him and therefore part of their relationship.

In I Am Dragon, Mira heals Arman, and wakes the next morning to find he has left food for her (dragonfruit, appropriately). Together they begin building a home out of shipwreck debris they find scattered around the island. A cheery montage shows them decorating a living space, choosing clothes, playing music, and dancing. But the specter of Arman’s monstrous form lurks on the edge of their idyllic life. Mira has nightmares, and tells Arman how much she fears “the dragon,” notably not referring to them as the same person. And eventually, it emerges that Mira has been planning to escape, rejecting Arman’s dragon form entirely.

After he sheds the helmet and robes of The Stranger, Qimir turns his attention to caring for Osha: he heals her, lets her sleep in his bed, provides clothes, and cooks for her. In turn, after some lightsaber-wielding, Osha becomes more comfortable in his home and accepts the food he offers, eventually even trying on his helmet. Later, they bicker amiably on their way to Brendok, like an old married couple on a road trip. When not facing down Jedi, Qimir leaves his menacing persona behind and transforms into an empathetic, protective, and alluring partner.

Jane Grey, meanwhile, finds herself using her honeymoon sequestered away in a private cottage to try to cure Guildford of his Ethianism. With her knowledge of medicine, she concocts various potions and magical cures, but none of them succeed. Guildford often checks in on her after these disappointments, making sure she’s getting enough sleep and taking care of herself. It’s also clear that they’ve been regularly dining together when Jane suddenly dashes off to rescue her friend. Guildford follows her and the two protect one another, followed by an almost-tryst. Even when they move into the palace, their day-to-day (or rather night-to-night) life is one of comfortable domesticity, although they continue to deny Guildford’s horse form.

In each of these cases (although less so in The Acolyte without Season 2 to continue the story), playing house can only last for so long while the husband’s animal nature is denied. There is a part of him that is suppressed, rejected, and this leads to him being incomplete, a half-husband. Each hero is unable or unwilling to accept and celebrate his whole self with his bride. Eventually, it is that denial that leads to a rift between the couple, which can only be healed not with the transformation of the husband, but with the embrace of his animal form.

Enforcing Patriarchy: The Rival

Each of these relationships exists in direct opposition to the dominant culture in the story: Arman as the Dragon is the literal enemy of Mira’s people, Qimir as Sith is the enemy of Osha’s Jedi masters, and in My Lady Jane, intermarriage between humans and Ethians is punishable by death. By choosing to stay with their animal husbands, even for a brief time, our heroines are openly defying the patriarchal norms of their societies. But no oppressive society is about to take that transgression lying down. In each story, a rival emerges to enforce the patriarchal order, kill the beastly husband, and retrieve the bride.

In I Am Dragon, Mira’s betrothed and descendent of the dragon-slayer, Igor, journeys to rescue her from the dragon. Over the course of the story, it becomes clear that Igor cares nothing for Mira herself, and merely feels entitled to her as his bride. Dragon-slaying is his heritage, so he must find her, kill the dragon, and take his place as the hero of his people. Even the marriage ceremony illustrates his ownership of her: he takes hold of a rope tied to her boat and reels her in, thus binding her to the patriarchal order. Contrast that to Arman, who offers her the power of flight, a symbol for freedom.

In Osha’s case, Qimir’s rival for her loyalty is clearly Master Sol, who wants to keep his former pupil dependent on him and the Jedi. Sol takes patronizing fatherliness to an extreme, constantly rescuing Osha rather than letting her stand for herself, teaching her to deny her feelings and instincts, and lying to her to “protect” her. The Jedi refuse to allow that there might be any other way to access the Force than their own, thus invading the home of the Brendok witches and ultimately orphaning the twins. Sol continues to press this dominance to the end, challenging Qimir and insisting to Osha that his own lies were justified.

In My Lady Jane, there are two rivals, both women. Lady Frances attempts throughout the show to dominate her daughters and crush their wills, forcing them into unwanted marriages, applying political pressure, and even counseling Jane to abandon Guildford to save herself. The other rival is Mary Tudor, who is determined not only to emulate her father’s violent, oppressive, and misogynistic reign, but to crush anyone she considers “unnatural” or who poses a threat to her rule. These characters stand as clear examples of how women can enforce patriarchy, too.

In each story, there is a moment when the rival briefly recaptures or “rescues” the bride from her beastly husband, bringing her to a moment of decision: will she stay within the bounds of patriarchy like a good little girl? Or will she make an act of defiance to choose her own path?

Marriage: Choosing the Beast

The bride’s choice will ultimately decide not only her fate, but that of her mate as well. As an independent character, the wild masculine is deeply wounded, separated from himself and thus from his bride. He longs to transform not into a greater, more whole person, but into a lesser, half-person. Alone, without the embrace of his anima, he cannot see the value of his beastly form. Instead of healing, he faces annihilation.

As a part of the bride’s psyche, the beastly husband represents her innermost desires, the truth of her heart, and a spirit freed from the expectations of her society. He is her animus, her missing wild masculine. If she transforms him into a man, then she will tame his wild nature, bringing him to heel under the boot of the patriarchy. Choosing the human form and rejecting the beast means rejecting her own psychological needs. It would be just another form of psychic dismemberment.

Fortunately and unusually, each of these modern brides chooses her beastly husband without demanding he transform. When Osha finally agrees to become Qimir’s apprentice, she takes his hand under the willow tree, clasping the newly-bled lightsaber between them. A few scenes later, this wedding imagery is repeated when they hold hands over the saber again, this time looking into a sunrise/set. Notably, at the moment they “marry” under the willow tree, Qimir is wearing his beastly helmet with rows of menacing, wolfish teeth. He has not come to the light side or shed his Dark Side persona, but Osha has embraced him anyway without fear. And while they might not both be healed (yet), they are more whole together than they were apart.

When her efforts to cure Guildford of his Ethianism repeatedly fail, Jane begins to suspect that his “condition” cannot be cured at all. But listening to her Ethian friends Susanna and Archer finally convinces her that the truth is Guildford doesn’t NEED to be healed - being an Ethian is who he is, and it’s nothing to fear. Unfortunately, Guildford still associates his beastly form with his mother’s death, so he is unable to accept it as Jane encourages, and flees. After a near-death experience, he uses his equine speed to return to the castle just as Jane is deposed and captured. As our heroes battle toward the end, Guildford comes to learn that there are many other proud Ethians, and that his family loves and accepts him in any form.

Still, he’s unable to transform at will, and when Mary captures him and sentences both husband and wife to death, it seems their story may end in tragedy. But as Guildford has been struggling to accept himself, Jane too has been battling with her own conscience. Does she renounce Guildford to save herself? Use her wits to kill the guard and escape? Bend to her mother’s manipulation? Jane confronts each temptation, and ultimately chooses to face death rather than betray Guildford or herself. But when her Ethian friends (the wild instinct) appear to disrupt the execution, our heroine seizes the opportunity to rescue Guildford. Unable to free him from the burning pyre, she confesses her love for him, and they kiss amid the flames.

Fire is often a herald of transformation, burning away illusions to reveal the truth. And when Jane and Guildford exchange their vows in this symbolic marriage ceremony, Guildford’s fears and illusions are finally burned away. Now that his bride has accepted his beastly form, he can accept it too, and so he at last transforms at will into a horse so that they can escape. Their story ends with them married and whole before the sunrise.

Among our modern heroines, Mira is the boldest in her embrace of the beastly husband. Offered yet again as a bride to Igor, she realizes that this is not what she wants, and casts off the tether from her boat. She declares “I love the Dragon!” using the name of her husband’s animal form rather than his human name. Then, she sings the song that will call the dragon to her, and he appears to carry her away again.

But their story is not over yet! Earlier in the story, Arman told Mira of how he loses control when in dragon form, and that dragons are compelled to reproduce by burning maidens to death and retrieving their offspring from the ashes. Returning to the island with her a second time, the dragon drops her on the altar and prepares to spew fire, but Mira lunges up and kisses him. This act of love, even when he is a monster, stuns the beastly husband. Again, Mira declares her love and kneels before him, saying she does not wish to be parted. We might expect the animal husband to transform in this moment, but instead he lays his fearsome head in her lap as a lover. Their story ends with a child and a flight in the sky, silhouetted by the sun just like the other couples.

Each bride, when confronted with the option to return to the patriarchal limits of her childhood, chose instead an act of love and acceptance for her wild masculine. This embrace helped the beastly husband to accept his whole self, and he is healed without having to cut off the wild parts of himself.

What Does It Mean?

Again, this story is so rare in world folklore that it’s difficult to even find examples. On fleeting occasions that the woman chooses an untransformed beast, it is presented as a cautionary tale. These women are framed as a danger to the community for their bestial impulses and abandonment of the social order, much like witches who were said to consort with the devil. It was certainly never presented as a happy ending, insofar as we can tell from written accounts.

So what does the emergence of this tale mean for our culture? I would argue that this is just the latest step in our ongoing reckoning with historic gender roles, as well as renegotiating with other forms of systemic oppression. People of all genders are pressured to reject a part of ourselves, cutting us off from our own truth and desires that run counter to the enforced social order. We must not challenge patriarchy, must not embrace different gender expressions, must not blur established hierarchies of power, must not find joy and power in our identities, and so on.

This enforced denial does tremendous damage to everyone caught in the system, and so through story, we dream our way to escape. We dream of embracing the dark, wild parts of ourselves, of flying free on a spaceship or a dragon or enchanted horseback, and of being totally loved for who we are.

It’s clear patriarchy is still fighting back against this emancipation of the wild feminine and wild masculine, given that both The Acolyte and My Lady Jane were canceled not long after their release. In the case of The Acolyte in particular, there was a sustained campaign from its announcement to harass and silence the creators. Demoralizing as this phenomenon may be, it’s important to remember WHO ultimately owns these stories:

“Fanfiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage done in a system where contemporary myths are owned by corporations instead of owned by the folk.

-Henry Jenkins, NYT 1997

Ah, an oldie-but-goodie. But Dr. Jenkins is right. Corporations may greenlight, film, release, and then cancel these stories, but ultimately they belong to the people. We take from these tales what speaks to us, leave what does not, and then retell them ourselves in fanfiction, in art inspired by the stories, and in lessons we pass on to our friends and families. If the embrace of the wild masculine speaks to you, let the story take root in your own life. Do you know someone who needs to be embraced, just as they are? Do you need to accept the parts of yourself that society tells you to hate? Do you want to be free, healed, and whole?

If so, then let these stories show you how, and tell more like them. Embrace the beast, and find your joy.

Sources:

Beauty and the Beast Tales From Around the World by Heidi Anne Heiner

In Search of the Swan Maiden: A Narrative on Folklore and Gender by Barbara Fass Leavy

And a relevant song for you, as a treat:

Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D.

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p0orbaby · 5 months ago

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Tropicana with the Bits

summary: honeymoon sex on a boat? yes fucking please

warnings: SMUT 18+, public sex (boat), strap-on use, use of a camera, spit, spanking, dom!ale vibes

a/n: this has been sat half cooked in my draft for a while. a certain blonde’s performances in the olympics have spurred me to finish it…

word count: 1.4k

This is the fucking life.

The sun. The sea. And a ‘24 quadruple under your belt.

Oh, and a shiny new ring and a brand new wife to tie everything up nicely.

Like a lazy, spoiled cat, you stretch out on the deck of the yacht, the gentle rocking of the boat a sleep-inducing background rhythm. The Mediterranean sun kisses your skin, leaving a warm, tingling sensation that pairs well with the salt of the sea air. A soft breeze rustles the pages of a magazine you’ve abandoned, and the distant squawk of gulls mingles with the sound of waves lapping against the hull. You close your eyes, letting the tranquility wash over you.

Alexia commands the helm, her presence undeniable even in stillness. Dressed in a white linen shirt, unbuttoned to reveal her abs and the curves of her breasts, and a harness snug against her hips, she looks like a wild, untamed champion. The breeze teases her hair, and her eyes meet yours with a predatory gaze.

You think back to the first time you met her on the pitch. Mature for her age, dominating the midfield with grace and power, even back then. And you hated it. You hated how she skipped past you like you were nothing. Discarding you like you were dirt on the bottom of her boots.

She was so effortlessly good, it drove you mad.

Mad to the point that there wasn’t a second that went by that your thoughts weren’t filled with one Alexia putellas. Her smirk emblazoned on the inside of you eyeless every time you tried to sleep. Her intensity clouding your head enough to make you miss simple passes, your concentration shattered by the mere thought of her. She haunted your dreams and invaded your waking moments, a constant, maddening presence.

And things haven’t really changed.

She looks at you with that same intensity, but you know it’s because she’s thinking about what position she likes you in best, not the fastest way in which she can embarrass you on the grass. Your brain is still plagued by the thought of her, but now you know what she’s hiding underneath those jerseys, so your brain fog is warranted.

You are certain your wife is made by the gods themselves.

Leaving the wheel, she approaches with a slow, deliberate stride. Her shirt billows open, exposing more of her tanned skin and the black strap-on jutting proudly from her hips. The sight sends a rush of heat through you, your body aching for her touch.

Or aching from how much she has touched thus far into your honeymoon. You can’t tell, and you don’t care to. This is your time to celebrate, to relax and enjoy your freedom. Her touch, her voice, her presence—everything about Alexia drives you wild with desire. You remember the late-night whispers and her mischievous grin when she suggested bringing a camera on this trip. The memories of your wedding night flood back, the way she took you on the balcony of your suite, moonlight caressing your intertwined bodies.

This time, there’s a camera set up in the corner, its lens catching the light like a voyeur. A wedding gift from you to her, both the camera and its purpose. The idea of being filmed, of capturing these intimate moments forever, had always excited her, and after years of her playful begging, you finally relented.

So here you are, as naked as the day you were born, squirming slightly as anticipation coils in your belly.

Alexia kneels beside you, her hands cool against your heated skin as she traces patterns on your stomach. The strap brushes against your thigh, a teasing promise of what she has in store for you. She leans down, her lips capturing yours in a searing kiss. Her tongue explores your mouth, her teeth grazing your lower lip, and you melt into her. Her other hand grips your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck, where she leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses.

She pulls back, her eyes dark with desire. “¿Estás preparada?” she murmurs, her voice a low growl. You nod, your breath hitching in your throat. She smirks, her fingers trailing down your body to part your thighs. Her touch is confident, experienced, each stroke designed to drive you wild. She pauses, glancing at the camera, her eyes gleaming with excitement before returning her focus to you.

The first thrust is slow, deliberate, the strap filling you inch by inch. You gasp, your hands clutching at her shoulders, your nails digging into her skin through her shirt. She moves with a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic, each stroke driving you higher, closer to the edge. The feeling of the silicone inside you, combined with the solid deck beneath you and the gentle rocking of the yacht, is almost too much to bear.

Alexia leans down, her breath hot against your ear. “Te ves tan jodidamente bien,” she whispers, her voice rough with arousal. The words send a thrill through you, your body tightening around the strap. She grins, a feral expression, and picks up the pace, her hips snapping against yours with increasing intensity. She’s putting on a show, not just for you but for the camera, her movements precise and deliberate.

She pauses for a moment, pulling out almost entirely before thrusting back in hard, eliciting a sharp cry from you. “You like that, don’t you?” she taunts, her voice dripping with dominance. “You love being fucked like this, being watched.” Her words make you moan louder, pleasure and embarrassment making your skin flush.

Alexia’s hand slides between your legs, her fingers finding your clit and rubbing in slow, torturous circles. “Beg for it,” she demands, her voice firm. When you hesitate, she smacks your thigh, the sting sharp and thrilling. “I said beg for it”

“Please, Ale,” you gasp, your voice trembling with need. “Please, fuck me harder”

She smirks, clearly pleased with your response. “Buena chica,” she purrs, increasing the pressure on your clit as she resumes thrusting, harder and faster this time. Your moans grow louder and you’re certain you have just disturbed a flock of Caspian Tern.

Alexia grabs your hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle, each thrust hitting deeper, making you see stars, galaxies, andromeda. Her free hand moves to your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath catch, causing you to suck in breaths when she’s too distracted to press at your windpipe.

“Such a pretty sight,” she murmurs, glancing at the camera again. “All spread out and desperate for me”

She leans down, spitting on your chest and rubbing it into your skin with rough, possessive strokes. “Mine,” she growls, her eyes burning with intensity.

You can barely form a coherent thought, your entire world narrowed down to the relentless rhythm of her hips, the firm grip on your throat, and the fiery trail her spit leaves on your skin. Each thrust pushes you closer to the infinity, the pressure building inside you like a ticking time bomb.

Alexia’s hand moves from your throat to your ass, delivering a sharp slap that makes you cry out. “Take it,” she commands, her voice scratchy with arousal and sharp with authority. “Take everything I give you”

You nod frantically, your body on fire with need. She slaps you again, harder this time, the pain mingling with the pleasure in a deliciously heady mix. Her movements become almost brutal, each thrust sending shockwaves through you, your orgasm building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Look at me,” she commands, her voice a growl that sends another wave of pleasure through you. You force your eyes open, meeting her gaze. The intensity there is almost too much to bear, a conflagration of desire and possessiveness that leaves you breathless. She smirks, pleased with your obedience, and redoubles her efforts, her hips driving into you with unrelenting force.

When you finally come, it’s with a force that leaves you shaking, your entire body tensing and then releasing like spring that’s snapped under the weight of pleasure. Alexia doesn’t stop, drawing out your orgasm, riding it out until you’re a quivering, boneless mess beneath her.

Only then does she slow, her movements gentle, soothing, as she helps you come down from the high. She leans in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss, a stark contrast to the fire behind her movements just seconds ago.

Finally spent, she collapses beside you, pulling you into her arms. You nestle against her, your head resting on her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart. Her hand strokes your back, a comforting rhythm that lulls you into a state of blissful contentment. The gentle rocking of the yacht, the warmth of her body against yours, it’s all perfect, a cocoon of love and satisfaction. Alexia glances over at the camera, a satisfied smile playing on her lips, before she whispers, “This is just the beginning”

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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swappermanent · 16 days ago

Text

Laying the Foundation (Part 2)

The first morning in Miguel’s body was surreal. Waking up to a reflection that wasn’t mine—a youthful face with sharp cheekbones and unruly black curls—was like stepping into a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. My skin was taut, my muscles lean and tight. Every movement felt effortless, as though I was walking on air. I couldn’t stop staring at my reflection, running my hands over the abs that Miguel clearly took for granted.

“I can’t believe Miguel agreed to this,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head with a mix of disbelief and excitement. But whatever doubts I had quickly dissolved when I remembered the reason I’d taken this leap: Tomas.

When I stepped onto the site in Miguel’s body that morning, the rush of anticipation nearly knocked me over. Tomas was already there, setting up for the day. His shirt clung to his chest, damp with the morning sun’s heat. He looked up as I approached, and when his eyes met mine—Miguel’s, really—his expression softened into that devastatingly gorgeous smile that had haunted my thoughts for years.

“Morning, Miguel,” he said, his voice warm and familiar.

“Morning,” I replied, keeping my tone easy and relaxed, even though my heart was pounding.

I caught him glancing at me—not once, but twice—his eyes lingering on my arms as I casually adjusted my tool belt. He smirked, and for a second, I wondered if he could hear the wild thudding of my pulse.

For the rest of the week, I made it my mission to have Tomas pursue me. There was something exhilarating about the slow burn, after all those years of yearning from afar. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and I wanted him to feel the same maddening pull I’d been feeling for years.

I leaned into Miguel’s effortless charm, adding little touches to my routine that I knew Tomas wouldn’t miss. I made sure to stretch in ways that highlighted my lean muscles, flexing casually whenever Tomas was in view. If I caught him watching, I’d lift my shirt to wipe the sweat off my face, revealing the abs that I could tell made his breath hitch.

“Hot today, huh?” I’d say, letting the corner of my mouth twitch into a smirk.

“Yeah,” he’d reply, his voice a little strained, his eyes flicking to my stomach before darting away.

But damn, it wasn’t just me playing the game. Tomas was giving as good as he got. The way his biceps flexed when he adjusted a beam, the way his shirt clung to his back when he leaned over to grab a tool—it was all deliberate. And it was working. My resolve to take things slow was unraveling faster than I could manage.

By Friday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to have him.

The crew was packing up for the day, the air buzzing with that end-of-week energy. I caught Tomas lingering nearby, pretending to check something on his clipboard. His eyes flicked toward me when he thought I wasn’t looking, and I knew. I just knew he was waiting for me to make a move.

I sauntered over, Miguel’s easy swagger coming naturally to me now. “Hey,” I said, keeping my tone light but with just enough edge to make him curious. “You doing anything later?”

Tomas’s head shot up, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and hope. “Uh, no. Why?”

I leaned casually against the truck, letting the smirk play on my lips. “Thought maybe you could come over. Chill out, watch a movie or something.”

His face lit up, his smile so big and genuine it made my chest tighten. “Yeah, yeah, I’d love that,” he said quickly, almost tripping over his words.

I didn’t miss the way he bit his bottom lip or how he shifted his weight, his jeans tightening in just the right spot to make my pulse race. Watching him get flustered like that, so eager and unsure, sent a rush of heat straight to my core.

I tilted my head slightly, letting my voice drop to a teasing tone. “Calm down, big boy. It’s just a movie.”

His laugh was nervous but adorable, a soft, shaky sound that made me want to pull him closer right there. “Right. Just a movie,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yup,” I said with a wink, deliberately adjusting my growing now cock in my pants.

As I walked away, I could feel his eyes burning into my back, and I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. Tonight was going to be perfect.

---

At least, that’s what I thought.

About an hour before Tomas was supposed to come over, my phone buzzed on the couch. I grabbed it, my stomach twisting when I saw his name flash across the screen. For a moment, I stared at it, irrationally hoping he was just calling to confirm plans, but deep down, I knew better.

“Hey,” I answered, trying to keep my voice casual.

“Hey,” Tomas said, and immediately, I could hear the tightness in his tone. “Listen, I hate to do this, but I can’t make it tonight. My sister called—she’s dealing with some stuff, and I need to head out of town for a week to help her out.”

The disappointment hit harder than I expected, like a punch to the gut. “Oh,” I said, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just... family stuff,” he sighed, sounding genuinely regretful. “I’m really sorry, Miguel. I was looking forward to tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, managing a chuckle I hoped didn’t sound forced.

“I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” he added, his voice soft but firm, almost like a promise.

When we hung up, I tossed the phone onto the couch with a groan, running my hands over my face. A whole week of tension, teasing, and glances—it had all built to this, only for it to evaporate. And now? Now there was nowhere for that energy to go. Worse still, being in Miguel’s body wasn’t doing me any favors. I’d forgotten how relentless a 21-year-old libido could be, the way every glance, every thought, could light a fire I couldn’t easily put out.

I needed a distraction.

Grabbing my phone again, I opened Grindr. I hadn’t touched the app since stumbling on Tomas’s profile weeks ago, but tonight? Tonight, I craved the validation, the rush, the fleeting thrill of being wanted. It didn’t take long to set up a new profile—Miguel’s face as the main picture and a short, casual bio: 21, masc, looking for fun.

The response was overwhelming. My inbox flooded with messages almost immediately, most of them crude, a few polite, but all of them feeding into the heady rush I was chasing.

Of course, I hadn’t stopped at just a basic selfie. Miguel’s phone, as it turned out, had a “hidden” folder of photos—ones that FaceID, amusingly, gave me full access to now. A few clicks and swipes later, and I had added a tastefully suggestive picture of Miguel’s sculpted torso to my profile.

The reaction was exactly what I’d expected: a mix of awe and outright thirst.

One message caught my attention almost immediately. The sender’s name was “E,” and his profile photo was a headless torso so perfectly sculpted it looked like it belonged on a marble statue. His profile claimed he was 22, but the sheer maturity of his build—broad shoulders tapering into a lean, cut waist—hinted at someone who’d spent years refining their body.

His first message was simple: “You’re unreal. That face, those tattoos... and that body. Damn.”

I couldn’t help but grin, feeling a flicker of satisfaction that was as validating as it was intoxicating. For once, I wasn’t being seen as “hot for my age” or some other backhanded compliment. In Miguel’s body, I was just plain hot—no qualifiers.

I shot back a reply: “Coming from someone with a body like that? I’ll take it as a compliment.”

His response was instant: “It should be. You’re my type in every way.”

A thrill raced down my spine. It wasn’t Tomas, but this guy’s attention scratched an itch I hadn’t realized had been so desperate.

“Your body’s insane, by the way,” I typed. “You sure you’re only 22? Looks like you’ve been at this for years.”

His reply was cocky, but not off-putting: “Hard work pays off. But honestly, I think I’m more impressed with yours. Those muscles look like they actually get put to good use.”

I bit my lip, staring at the screen. “Actually, I’m a construction worker,” I replied. “So, yeah, they definitely do.”

The back-and-forth was exhilarating. For the first time in years, I felt truly desired—not cautiously, not with caveats, but fully and unapologetically.

The conversation escalated quickly.

Every reply made my pulse race, every compliment chipped away at the thin veneer of control I’d been holding onto all week. By the time he sent a picture—a close-up shot of his cock, thick, hard, and glistening—I was trembling. The caption that followed was simple but devastatingly effective: “How would you feel about having this inside you?”

I nearly dropped the phone. Heat coursed through me, a potent mix of arousal and adrenaline. My mind blanked, words failing me as my hands worked on autopilot. I sent my address with a short, urgent reply: “Come over. Now.”

His response came almost immediately: “On my way.”

I set the phone down, my chest heaving. A part of me knew this was impulsive, reckless even—but another part of me didn’t care. After years of yearning and restraint, I was ready to feel wanted, to feel alive.

Tonight, I’d let myself have that.

---

When the knock finally came at the door, my pulse spiked. I took a deep breath, checked my reflection in the hallway mirror, and opened the door.

And froze.

Standing there, looking every bit as sculpted and devastatingly attractive as his Grindr photos had promised, was Elias. My son.

For a split second, my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing. The man who’d been sending me filthy messages all night—the one who’d sent me that picture—was Elias. He was grinning, his dark eyes filled with hunger and excitement, completely oblivious to who I was.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and smooth as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Before I could say anything—before I could even think—he leaned in, his lips crashing against mine.

Panic and shock warred with the electric jolt of the kiss. His hands were on me, strong and confident, pulling me closer as his lips moved against mine. He scooped me up effortlessly, like I weighed nothing, and carried me over to the couch. His strength was staggering, and it didn’t help that earlier, in my brazen Grindr exchanges, I’d mentioned how much I loved a man who took charge in the bedroom. He was taking that as gospel.

As soon as he settled me down, his lips were back on mine, hungry and commanding. I tried to focus—tried to gather my thoughts enough to stop this before it went any further—but the feel of his body pressing against mine, the heat radiating from him, made it nearly impossible.

He shifted, his mouth moving down to my neck, kissing and nibbling in a way that sent sparks shooting down my spine.

“Wait,” I managed to gasp, but my words were swallowed by a low moan as his lips found a particularly sensitive spot. My resolve faltered.

His hands weren’t idle, either. With just his left hand, he began unbuttoning my shirt, each pop of a button quick and precise. His right hand tangled in my hair, his fingers gripping just tight enough to send a shiver through me.

By the time my shirt was open and slid off, Elias had shifted lower, his mouth trailing hot kisses down the length of my chest. He didn’t just kiss—he licked, his tongue tracing a slow, tantalizing path over my skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Damn, he knew exactly what he was doing. I bit my lip to stifle a groan, my fingers gripping the edge of the couch.

Elias straddled me on the couch, his knees bracketing my thighs as his hands pressed firmly against my sides. He pulled back just far enough for his dark eyes to meet mine, and for the first time, I had space to think. Really think. What the hell was I doing? Could I let this go on? Could I tell him the truth?

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but then he reached behind his neck, gripping the fabric of his shirt, and tugged it off in one fluid motion.

The sight stopped my words in their tracks. His chest and abs were a masterpiece of sculpted muscle, each ridge and curve perfectly defined. A faint sheen of sweat made his skin glisten, and my eyes couldn’t help but follow the deep V that led down to his crotch.

Any train of thought I’d had derailed completely.

After tossing his shirt aside, he came back down, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was just as intense, just as hungry, as before. This time, though, the sensation of his bare chest pressing against mine sent a shockwave through me. His skin was warm, firm, and impossibly smooth, and the way our bodies fit together felt maddeningly perfect.

I couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The feel of him, the weight of him, was overwhelming in the best way. He kissed me like he was claiming me, his hands roaming over my shoulders, down my sides, and back up again, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. My own hands found his back, tracing the ridges of muscle, marveling at the strength beneath his skin.

The foreplay seemed endless, but in the best way. For what must have been twenty minutes, we explored each other, our breaths mingling, our bodies slick with sweat. His lips wandered from my mouth to my neck, then to my chest, where he bit and licked at sensitive spots that sent me arching against him. My body was electric, alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years—if ever.

And then, finally, he slid my pants down, taking his time as he worked them off my hips and legs, leaving me exposed beneath him. His own pants came off next, revealing a cock that was nothing short of massive. Thick, long, and already glistening with precum, it made my breath catch in my throat.

Elias wasted no time pressing himself against me, his cock sliding along my ass crack with an agonizingly slow rhythm. The heat of him was almost too much, the sweat and precum making it glide with ease. Each movement sent shivers up my spine, the sensation maddeningly pleasurable. I could feel every inch of him, the weight, the hardness, the undeniable need in the way he moved.

I bit my lip, my breathing ragged, as his hands gripped my hips, holding me firmly in place. Every nerve in my body was on fire, and the line between pleasure and overwhelming lust blurred into something I couldn’t resist, even if I tried.

Elias shifted, his cock poised right at the entrance to my loosened hole, the head pressing with just enough pressure to tease but not push through. My breath hitched, and my entire body tensed in anticipation. He looked down at me, his dark eyes smoldering with an intensity that left me completely undone.

“Beg for it,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver straight through me.

This was it—my chance to stop this, to end it before it went too far. I knew what I should do. But the hunger in his eyes, the heat radiating from his body, the overwhelming need coursing through me—it all made resistance impossible. My mind went blank, and all that was left was raw, unfiltered desire.

I locked eyes with him, craven lust written all over my face, and whispered, “Please. Please fuck me. I need you inside of me.”

His gaze darkened, a satisfied smirk curling at the edges of his lips. He gripped my hips tighter, his fingers digging into my skin just enough to leave marks. “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said, his tone both teasing and firm.

Then he thrust in, and I gasped, my body arching against him as he filled me completely. The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, but the sheer rightness of it drowned out everything else. In that moment, everything clicked—his body against mine, his strength, his heat. It felt so perfect, so right, so full, I knew I’d never be the same. There was no going back.

#Guilherme Schein #peterisf1t

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syrma-sensei · 1 year ago

Text

→ Home.

gif credit.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/ben x Wife!reader.

Rating: Fluff, implied Smut.

Warnings: Bens's pov, very soft ben, implied pregnant sex, praising, horny reader, antiquated mentality....

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: Ben's discovering new life affairs while expecting his first baby.

tagging: @zepskies

Soldier Boy guzzled down his third raw drink before he decided to call it a day and go home. He took off his supe gear and changed into more casual clothes in the dressing room in his quarters at Vought's tower after he took a quick shower. He shook his head with a sneer when he tugged the shirt above his head, remembering her telling him —bossing him— that he wasn't to come home stinking with blood and cigars and whiskey and Vought. Soldier Boy didn't take shit from anyone, but he found himself helpless against her wishes—orders. He was grinning though, amusedly so. Sometimes he wondered where his obedient and good wife went. He liked that version of her, nonetheless.

Though he liked to think that his baby was igniting her wild spirit, his pretty wife seemed to have gotten quite sensitive to strong scents, and her stomach grew weak ever since he got her pregnant with their first child four months ago. It was chiselled in his mind; the memory of her hoping onto his chest with happy shrieks when he returned from work affirming the news.

He had been sensing the baby's presence for a week thanks to his superhuman senses before that, and he'd told her that night to go check on it with a doctor. They were eagerly trying to have a baby so it was of no surprise, but it still pulled a huge smile on his lips and made pride swell in his chest. He was going to be a father in nine months. The thing he wanted to be the most.

But as it turned out, pregnancy wasn't as magical as his mind fantasised to be. It wasn't all fuzzy and beautiful like he imagined. He cursed the damn commercials for that. Fucking marketing.

The first couple of months were rough. Morning sickness, vomiting, ungodly cravings at ungodly hours, horrendous mood swings, and worst of all; minimum intimacy. She'd become fragile unlike her nature. And she got overly concerned that he might hurt the baby whenever he suggested penetrative sex. Orals were, certainly, out of the equation. It was both frustrating and maddening to say the least. He was a fucking man and had needs. The best he could get was quick and not so enthusiastic handies from time to time when she could provide. Long story short, he was growing blue balls from the ordeal. Fuck, he used to make fun of men who couldn't get laid properly. The irony had such an impact on his ego; his pride of being a fucking man.

It was not easy for someone like him to stay faithful to his partner. He rarely recognised commitment before he met her, and being surrounded by blatant temptations all the time didn't make things any better. He could have anyone at any time, ladies would eagerly kneel and suck him off without a question if he wanted them to. But he'd be damned if he wasn't in charge of his own self. He'd be damned if he dared to break her heart. He'd be damned if he ruined his family, a family he never thought he'd ever have, for such vagaries.

In time, however, pregnancy did prove itself to be the most beautiful of all affairs. Surprisingly so. Whenever he spooned her up hugging her from behind, he found odd tranquillity of hearing hers and the babe's rhythmical heartbeats, or when he caressed her bumping tummy, feeling his child's life forming inside of her body, a creature they both made, lack of sex seemed to be durable and trivial at some point. Something he himself wouldn't believe before. But here he was. His disgust and appal from what pregnancy entailed gradually dissipated and were replaced with zeal and thrill. And most certainly, he enjoyed the changes of her body the most. Ben just loved the way her boobs were swelling up with milk, and the way her stomach was flourishing with his child. Boob massage was something he greatly took pleasure in. Kneading her sore breasts while hearing her moans of relief. He'd come to learn that intimacy could be found in many other things than sex.

Ben noticed he'd come to hating every moment he spent away from them. His temper got much worse, his teammates observed. And he became more aggressive than he already was when fighting crime. The happiest moment of his day was when he dropped the shield and took the helmet off to head home, where his beautiful wife would be eagerly waiting to have dinner with him even though most of the nights he'd come home and find her dozing off on the couch where she'd been waiting for him. He'd carry her to their bedroom and have dinner by himself — he skipped that very often — then slip right behind her on the bed holding her close to his body. The concept of coming back home to someone was so much alluring to him. He felt his life was complete. Real.

Ben arrived at their penthouse, assuming he'd find her soundly sleeping while she stayed awaiting him. He didn't announce his return loudly as he used to do before the pregnancy. He didn't want to wake her up. But much to his surprise — and delight, Ben found the place dimly lit with scented candles, sensuous silence prevailing within the air.

Ben's eyes glimmered, and an instant wolfish grin slipped into his lips when his eyes landed on his wife's figure as she clambered down the stairs. A thin, short gown with a raunchy red colour hugged her frame, its fabric was so thin that he could see her skin glowing through the red. Her breasts were full, putting her cleavage on more display. Whereas the bump of her belly was deliciously visible. Her hair was neatly styled and spruced up and her pretty face was elegantly painted with make-up.

“Welcome home, Ben,” She warbled with a smile, eyes filled with sultry desire as she strolled down to him. He was dazzled by her appearance, he was practically eating her with his eyes. Fuck, pregnancy did make her much prettier. “Hope you didn't have dinner yet 'cause I made you something special tonight.”

Her palm grazed his stubbled cheek. Ben leaned into her touch, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm, a grin gracing his mouth. “'Course I didn't. Why the fuck would I eat outside when I have a capable wife like you at home?”

She giggled gleefully at his statement as he pulled her flush against his body. He eyed her with a hazed gaze. Her mouth was luring him in, deliciously so. He liked that lipstick shade on her lips so much. He couldn't but to give in to the utter temptation. Ben tilted his head down and captured them in a burning kiss. An instant moan escaped her throat as his mouth passionately pressed to hers. Her arms encircled his neck, hands combing through his brown hair. He synced their heads for a better angle, and deepened the kiss, tongue slipping into her warm mouth. His hands brushed her sides then her ass.

He broke the kiss momentarily and she gasped vehemently. He could hear the rapid pace of her heart and the gushing blood through her vein, pooling down in her groin. He crushed her lips again, hands travelling up to remove the dress but she squealed and pulled back.

“Benjamin, dinner's gonna get cold!” She laughed again when he buried his face in her neck, kissing her skin softly.

“Is that really what you're fucking concerned about now?” He grumbles in a teasing tone.

She giggled, “Should I be concerned about something else—woah!” Ben grabbed her hips and lifted her effortlessly, heading to the living room with her pretty legs around his hips. His lips plundering hers again all the way until they reached the couch where he sat with her straddling his lap. The kiss went wild once they settled comfortably on the couch. His big hands stroked her thighs ardently. They trailed up to her ass giving it a firm squeeze and she moaned in his mouth, plucking the rim of her satin panties. He smirked into the kiss, fingers tracing down to her core. His grin widened when he met her bare cunt.

“Oh, baby,” He rasps when she rolls her hips slowly, pressing her cunt on his clothed cock, “Aren't you a pretty fucking tease?” He tugged at the lip of the crotchless panties, a mischievous grin playing on his mouth.

She guffawed with a coquettish tilt of her head, and his cock twitched in an immediate response. However, the innocent look on her face opposed the tortuous pace of her hips. She was fucking tantalising him with those hips. And he fucking liked it despite the screaming urge growing in his chest to flip her over and fuck her raw. Oh, she did like it rough, the little slut. She liked to be beneath him and beg him to go harder and faster, to yank her hair and make her choke on his dick. She loved how he manhandled her with his superhuman strength despite being only a human, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't take great pleasure in it too. Ben's nothing if doesn't live to be in charge. He'd been shocked that a tiny woman like her could handle him as such. But he was quick to remember that she was with his fucking child. He couldn't go rough on her like he used to do even if they both craved it.

She didn't stop her torment as her delicate hands rested on his shoulders for support. He could smell the sweet scent of her arousal soaking his crotch and he growled, “Holy fuck, you gonna let me fuck that pretty pussy of yours, or you planning on making me cream my pants?”

Her lips twisted wickedly, “Depends,”

“On fucking what?” He grunted, brows furrowed, puzzled. He was way too hard and drunk by her scent to clearly think or read between her lines, “Baby, you're fucking killing me here.”

“Aw, am I to seal the greatest era of America's history?” She giggled again, “What an honour.”

Then it clicked. The fucking slut. She was tempting him to ravish her. Maybe he should, but again, he worried about her and the child. Because honestly, he wasn't so sure if he could restrain himself if he unbridled that side of his.

Then his mouth splitted in a huge grin, brushing his cheek to hers to grumble in her ear, “The only honour you're gonna get is milking my cock empty in that slutty pussy of yours.” He chuckled triumphantly when he sensed her shivering in delight. Leaning his head backward, he saw her chewing on her lower lip adorably with a cute pinkish red dusting across her face, whereas her eyes were searing with covetousness. Ben pecked her nose and lifted her up again, gently. She trilled a series of choppy laughters and playfully kicked her legs when he carried her to their bedroom.

Needless to say, she took whatever honour he bestowed upon her like a champ.

He was craving a whiff of a cigar. He used to smoke after a good fuck in bed, she'd even share him a couple of drags sometimes. But since it was off the table — temporarily — he focused on and enjoyed her fingers running on his chest.

Fuck, pregnant sex did feel amazing. He gotta admit. He did hear from here and there that a woman with child, at some point of her pregnancy, would be touched by sudden and high libidinousness. But fuck, didn't that catch him off guard. And fuck, if he didn't enjoy it down to the last minute detail. And dare he say, it was the best sex he ever had. It was perfect; she was perfect.

Never did he think that he'd find home, his real home in a simple elementary school teacher he met on one of his tours throughout the country. A beautiful and smart woman who always kept him on his toes and had him wrapped around her pretty fingers.

Ben smiled and kissed the crown of her head, and slowly, it turned into a trail of kisses down her face. Then he captured her lips, and soon enough, they were engaging in a heated make-out session.

“Ben,” She whispered as she gazed at him, voice a bit hoarse from screaming and crying beneath him for hours.

His hand was rubbing circles on her ass languidly, “What is it, dollface?” He drawls with a thick voice.

“Sorry for not being a good wife for you the last couple of months.” She said meekly, bringing his hands to cradle them in hers, while he just frowned at her words, “They were tough times on me, on us.” She sighed, pressing light kisses on his rough hands, “But everything's gonna be set right again, I promise.”

Ben's frown only got deeper when he noticed the lick of fear and desperation in her eyes and voice. Fuck, she was scared shitless. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His wife was scared if he was screwing around on her because of her lack of attention due to the pregnancy, for she used to shower him with doting and devotion as a good wife did. Fuck, did he, by any mean, do anything wrong to arise such qualms in her? He certainly did not. Then he fucking remembered that nasty reputation of his that proceeded him.

Fuck, gotta reassure her and chill her the fuck down. He can't have her in such a position. He can't have his home in such a precarious, dark place. Not after what the two of them had done to build what they had up. He wouldn't allow it.

“Hey,” He passed rough-padded thumbs under the lines of her eyes, palms caressing her cheeks, “Nothing went fucking wrong to set back right, sweetheart,” Then he gave her belly tender strokes, “You're an amazing wife,”

She was; everyday she woke up, five in the morning, to prepare him a delicious-ass breakfast. She took it upon herself to be his barber and shaved his beard almost everyday and trimmed his hair every now and then. She was patient when he wasn't. She embraced him when he was practically a walking ticking bomb. She patched him up — when needed — at night when he'd return to her roughed up from fighting crimes. She soothed him down when frustrated and angry. She took his bad temper and relieved it thoroughly. She was everything. She was home.

Ben's finger flicked her nose playfully, “As I'm fucking sure yer gonna be an amazing hot momma,”

Ah, here it was, the sheepish smile that reached her eyes. He'd fucking cherish it forever.

He kissed her forehead, “You're perfect; my perfect wife, my perfect home.”

🦅 Soldier Boy Masterlist.

🦅 Main Masterlist.

🦅 AO3.

#soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy/ben #soldier boy fic #soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x fem reader #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy x you #soldier boy imagine #the boys smut #the boys imagine #the boys soldier boy

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goldengalore · 2 years ago

Text

Intimacy

An anxious!reader fic.

Summary: Y/N hasn’t been intimate with someone in a long time, which makes her nervous about having sex with Harry for the first time.

Word count: 6.5k

Warnings: anxiety, smut (featuring soft dom!harry, fingering, thigh riding, oral - m receiving)

A/N: This is one last idea (for now) that I had for the anxious!reader universe. Lots of smut, but it’s very soft and sweet and full of love :)

***

His hands. Y/N can’t stop staring at his hands.

There are a lot of things she finds attractive about Harry. Too many. It’s actually maddening how one person can have so many attractive qualities. Lately, her brain has decided to fixate on his hands. They’re pretty and elegant, strong and masculine.

His long fingers are often decorated with an ornate collection of rings. Sometimes his nails are painted with vibrant colours; other times, they’re unpainted but still clean and neatly trimmed. She can often see the veins that travel up the backs of his hands into his toned arms. He moisturizes them well too, so they rarely look dry.

Y/N would be lying if she said her obsession with Harry’s hands is completely innocent and merely about aesthetics, that she hasn’t imagined how those fingers would feel in her mouth or between her legs and orgasmed to the thought of that while lying alone in bed at night.

It doesn’t help that he’s a highly affectionate person, finding any excuse to place his hands on her whenever she’s within reach. Even now, as they lounge on his couch, he pulls her legs into his lap and begins massaging them. She’s wearing a knee-length dress today, leaving her lower legs exposed. His hands don’t move up past her knees, but that doesn’t stop her imagination from running wild anyway.

“Y/N?” His smooth, commanding voice—another annoyingly attractive feature of his—pulls her from her thoughts.

“Hmm?” Her eyes flick up to his emerald ones staring back at her. She realizes with embarrassment that she hasn’t listened to a thing he’s said in the past minute or so.

“What were you staring at?” He glances down in his lap, where her gaze was just a few seconds ago.

“Oh, just your hands.”

His brows furrow slightly as he starts inspecting his hands, turning his palms up, then down. “Why? Something wrong with them?”

“No! No, they’re just… nice. Nice hands. That’s all. Sorry, what, um, what were you saying?”

A teasing smirk forms on his lips. “Nice hands, huh? Never heard that one before.”

She rolls her eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising to her cheeks. “Please. I’m sure you’ve heard that a million times.”

“Mmm, not really.”

She narrows her eyes at him, not believing him for a second. His smirk broadens.

“Anyway,” he says, resting his hands back on her legs, “I was just saying that I really missed you last week.”

Now she feels even worse about zoning out on him. He’s been out of town this past week for work. They reunited just this morning after his flight landed back in LA.

“I missed you too, H.”

“This week made me realize something.”

Her heart skips a beat. “What?”

“Made me realize how much I hate being away from you. I know our friendship started over Zoom meetings and phone calls and whatnot since I was on tour, but…” He shrugs. “After spending time with you in person these past couple months, I can’t imagine being away from you for weeks or months at a time. I think I’d go mad.”

His confession feels like being swaddled in a warm blanket. While he was away, Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about him. His fluffy hair and dimpled smile, his kind eyes and boyish laugh, even his cute nose consumed her thoughts from the moment she woke up in the morning to the moment she fell asleep at night. She found herself cursing the slow passage of time frequently throughout the week. To hear that her feelings were reciprocated makes her giddy inside.

When she takes a while to respond, he says, “I hope that wasn’t too intense. It’s just been on my mind lately and I had to say it.”

“No, I feel the same way.” I think I’m in love with you, she says in her head but struggles to speak aloud. She has never been the first to say those words in a relationship.

He smiles, relieved. “Okay, good.” He holds her gaze for a few seconds, then shifts closer, her legs still strewn across his lap. His hand comes up to cradle her jaw as he leans in for a kiss, sucking her top lip into his mouth.

She scoots even closer, practically sitting in his lap now. The movement causes her dress to ride up. Harry rests his other hand on her bare thigh, squeezing it lightly. Her heart quickens. His hand inches along her inner thigh, hiking her dress up even further. Suddenly, her whole body tenses up and she shrinks away from his touch.

“Sorry, I—I can’t,” she stammers, quickly removing her legs from his lap and tugging her dress back down.

She sneaks a glance at his face and detects some hurt there. It lasts for a split second, but her brain registers it anyway. She feels awful. This is the second time he has tried to get intimate with her beyond just kissing. The first was the night before he was supposed to fly out of the city. They were cuddling in his bed. She was giving him all the signs that she wanted to take things further—letting her hands roam all over his body, grinding her hips against him—but as soon as he started returning her touches, she pulled away.

It’s frustrating because she fantasizes about it all the time, yet when it finally starts to happen, she freezes up. It’s like her mind and body are on completely different pages.

“I’m sorry, H,” she repeats.

“It’s all right.” He gives her a reassuring smile. “You’re not ready for that. I understand.”

“But I am ready. I just…” She looks up at the ceiling as if the answers to her puzzling emotions will be there. “Ugh! I don’t know.”

A long silence stretches between them, though it probably feels longer in her head than it is in reality.

“I should go,” she finally says, rising to her feet, but he grabs her hand before she can go anywhere.

“Already? We haven’t even had dinner yet.”

“But I made things awkward!”

“No, you didn’t. Stop that.”

She was trying to avoid his gaze, but he tugs on her hand to make her look at him.

“We’ve been apart for a whole week. You think I’m letting you run off that easily?” He frowns a bit. “Wait, that sounded creepier than I’d intended.”

She giggles, feeling somewhat lighter. “Okay, fine. I’ll stay.”

They order sushi for dinner and crack open a bottle of wine. The awkwardness she felt earlier fades as Harry starts telling her about a deep conversation he shared with the five-year-old girl sitting next to him on his flight. Y/N is glad she decided to stay because if she had gone home to spend the night by herself, her overthinking mind would have eaten her alive.

After dinner, they transfer back over to the couch with their wineglasses in hand. They sit cross-legged, facing each other. The wine has helped her loosen up some more, granting her the courage to explain why she’s been so reluctant to get intimate with him.

“I’m not a virgin,” she tells him. “I know it probably seems that way because of how I act every time we try to do anything sexual, but I’m not. Not that there’s anything wrong with being one, obviously. I just thought you should know.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Although he doesn’t press any further, his eyes are curious and attentive in a way that makes her want to spill everything, just lay out all her secrets and fears and insecurities in a big, messy pile in front of him.

“I’m not a virgin, but I haven’t had sex in years,” she explains. “And I’ve always had to have a few drinks before doing it. I tried doing it sober once, and it was a total disaster. I was on the verge of a panic attack the whole time, and the guy didn’t know what to do. I just told him to keep going, so he did until he finished and—”

“Lovie, that’s not okay,” he interjects, brows pinching together in concern. “He should’ve stopped when he realized you were having a panic attack.”

“Well, to be fair, I told him to keep going. It was totally consensual.”

“Still. He should’ve at least stopped to make sure you were all right. Seems like basic human decency to me.”

“I guess....” She shrugs, knowing that he’s right but not wanting to think about it much longer. “Anyway, after he finished, he told me that having sex with me was like fucking a scared baby deer.” She forces a laugh, though the memory still makes her cringe inside. “Needless to say, I was mortified and never saw him again. And that’s the only time I’ve had sex while sober.”

“And all the times you weren’t sober, did you at least enjoy it?”

She hesitates. “Um, define enjoy.”

He appears even more concerned now. “If you’re having to ask that question, I’m afraid the answer is no. If you enjoyed it, you would know.”

“Well, I just asked because if by ‘enjoy,’ you mean ‘did I orgasm during it,’ then it’s a no. But my anxiety was a lot more under control, so I guess that could be considered a form of enjoyment… Right?”

Rather than answering her question, he asks, “You’ve never orgasmed during sex?”

She shakes her head. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but her cheeks still feel like they’re on fire.

“Have you ever had an orgasm?”

“Oh, plenty. When I’m alone, that is.”

“I see.” He rubs his jaw and looks away, sinking deep into thought. She can’t read the expression on his face.

“So, now you know how bad I am at sex,” she jokes to fill the silence.

He looks at her with a raised brow. “I don’t know about that. If anything, it’s the guys you’ve been with who were bad at sex if they couldn’t even make you come once.”

“Oh no, they were all very experienced.” Y/N doesn’t know why she’s defending these men, as if they would do the same for her. Perhaps it’s because she’s spent her whole life thinking she was the problem and this is the first time someone has suggested a different perspective to the one she’s become so accustomed to.

“Experience doesn’t always equate to being good at something.”

“I guess not.” She bites her lip and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I do want to try again… with you. I just don’t know how to stay calm without having a few drinks in my system.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to work on that.”

His use of the word “we” doesn’t go unnoticed by her. We, as in this is our problem, not just yours. We, as in we’ll figure this out together, you don’t have to do it alone. She feels a surge of something in her chest, and the only term she can think of to describe it is love.

“I’m calm right now,” she says with sudden realization, placing her wineglass on the table so quickly that it almost topples over. “So, technically, we could try again—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “We’re not having sex for the first time while you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk drunk though. Just a bit tipsy. I think we could still—”

“Y/N, it’s not happening,” he states firmly. “Other guys might have been okay with that sort of thing, but I’m not, okay?”

Her shoulders slump. She looks down in her lap. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I just want you to know that I want it as much as you do.”

“I know. Hey”—he tilts up her chin—“we’ll get there. There’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

He has no idea how much of a relief it is to hear those words. Her biggest fear this whole time has been him losing interest in her because she can’t seem to get over her anxiety around sex. It’s happened before. Guys often expect her anxiety to disappear after the first time. When it doesn’t, they take it as a blow to their ego and react by making her feel like a freak for being anxious at all. The humiliation leads to even worse anxiety the next time she gets intimate with someone. It’s a vicious cycle.

She doesn’t want to get her hopes up or anything, but maybe that cycle finally ends with Harry.

***

When it comes to Y/N, Harry just doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself. Even before they met in person, he would dream of the day he could finally have her in his arms, how perfectly their bodies would mold together, how electrifying that first contact would be. For months, he’s been dying to touch and feel and kiss every inch of her, but after hearing about her sexual history, it’s no surprise why she’s so hesitant to take that step with him.

Taking things slow is not a problem for Harry. If anything, he feels lucky to be the one who gets to show her how fun and exciting and stress-relieving sex can be when the people involved actually care about each other’s pleasure.

It’s been a few days since that initial conversation. They’ve had several more discussions about it since then, and he thinks they’re ready to try something now.

He stares at Y/N lying on his bed, looking cute and cozy in his forest green Pleasing crewneck. Her lips are swollen from all their making out, her neck and collarbone littered with red spots where he licked and sucked on her skin like an ice cream cone.

“Question for you,” he says, leaning his head on his palm. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”

“Hmm… A couple days ago?”

“Would you feel comfortable doing that in front of me?”

Her eyes widen. “Y—you want to watch me touch myself?”

“Only if you’re okay with it.” Her reaction already indicates that she’s not.

“Oh, I… I don’t think I am,” she admits, confirming his thoughts. “I mean, I don’t even like being watched while I cross the street. It’s like I forget how to walk.”

“Okay, different question. How would you feel about getting in a bath with me?”

She thinks about it. “I’d be okay with that.”

He runs them a bath lightly scented with a lavender oil he bought recently, while Y/N leans against the doorway and watches. Once he begins to undress, she follows suit. Starting with his crewneck, she removes her clothes at an extremely slow pace, as if she’s on the verge of changing her mind at any moment. He finishes undressing before she does and pretends not to notice her eyes bulging at the sight of his dick. Instead, he leans over to the tub to test the temperature of the water.

“I’ll get in first,” he says. “Then you can sit between my legs. Sound good?”

She swallows. “Yup.”

He steps into the tub and submerges everything but his head and upper chest into the water. His back rests against one side, his long legs outstretched in front of him.

In the meantime, Y/N finishes undressing. He forces himself not to stare, knowing that it’ll only make her more nervous. She moves quickly now, striding over to the tub and climbing in on wobbly legs. He holds out his hand for support.

“Careful,” he says.

She sits down between his legs with her back facing him. There’s still a lot of space between them.

“Just lean back against me,” he tells her.

She hesitates for a moment, then leans back until she’s flush against his torso.

He smiles. “There you go.”

“Okay, what now?”

“Nothing. Let’s just sit for a minute.”

They enjoy the next few minutes in companionable silence. The warm water seems to dissolve all the tension in her body, which is exactly why he suggested this idea in the first place. Her shoulders relax. She sinks deeper into him.

After a while, he says, “I’m going to try something. If you don’t like what I’m doing or you want me to stop, I need you to tell me. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. My ego can handle it. Okay?”

She responds with a tiny nod.

“I need you to answer me verbally, lovie,” he says softly in her ear. “Just so I can be sure we’re on the same page.”

“Yes. Got it. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Don’t have to apologize.”

“Sorry,” she says again, automatically. “Fuck! Sorr— Shit! Why do I keep—” She starts to sit up, but he places a hand in the middle of her chest, gently pulling her back against him. He can feel her heart galloping like a racehorse.

“Y/N, relax. You’re okay. You’re doing great. Just breathe.”

She inhales a deep, shaky breath, then releases it.

“That’s good. Keep doing that.”

Her heartrate gradually decreases with each breath she takes. Once she appears to have calmed down, he moves his hand from the centre of her chest to one of her breasts, cupping it tenderly in his palm. His other hand comes to rest on her belly before making its descent between her legs. She squirms a little once the pads of his fingers make contact with her clit.

“Are we okay?” he asks.

“Y—yeah.” She takes another deliberate breath.

He rubs her clit in small, tight circles and kneads her breast at the same time. Her hands rest at her sides on top of his thighs. As he pinches her nipple, twisting and pulling it lightly, her fingers dig into his thighs and his cock twitches between their bodies. He wonders if she felt it. His middle finger prods around her slit now and slips inside without resistance. He pumps it in and out a few times before adding a second one, using his thumb to rub her clit.

Y/N is completely silent, but the slick substance coating her pussy and the subtle rocking of her hips is confirmation enough that she’s enjoying this. He peeks at her face to find her eyes closed and her bottom lip pulled between her teeth like she’s afraid of accidentally making a sound.

That is another thing they’ll need to work on. Harry likes being vocal during sex and equally enjoys when his lovers are vocal too. He doesn’t want Y/N to hold anything back around him. But they can work on that another day.

“Does this feel good?” he asks.

She nods, then remembers what he said earlier and answers out loud, “Feels good, yes. Really good.”

Satisfied by her response, he presses a third finger inside and pushes all three of them deep into her with every thrust, turning her into a squirming, quivering mess in his arms. Her back arches off his torso as she comes, the smallest whimper slipping through her self-restraint. He gradually lessens the stimulation on her clit, then removes his fingers completely. She lets her head roll back against his shoulder.

“Wow,” she sighs. “I’ve never… That’s never happened with someone before.”

“Wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“No, it was great. Um… thank you?”

He chuckles. “My pleasure.”

Suddenly, she sits up and looks over her shoulder at him. “So… your turn now?”

He waves his hand, splashing some of the water with it. “Don’t worry about that.”

She frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs casually, trying to act cool as if he can’t feel his dick throbbing furiously under the water right now.

He could take her up on the offer, but he wants to focus on her today. Y/N is too nice to admit it, but he has deduced from their recent conversations that her previous partners were too greedy in the bedroom, exploiting her selfless nature for their own benefit. It’s quite unfortunate. Someone like her deserves to be spoiled, not exploited. At least now that she’s with him, he can make sure she gets the treatment she deserves.

After they’ve cleaned up and stepped out of the tub, he grabs one of the towels off the counter and starts handing it to her, then stops.

“Can I dry you off?” he asks.

She seems surprised but not opposed to the idea. “Sure.”

“Okay, just one moment.” He quickly pats himself dry, then grabs the other towel and walks over to her.

Timid eyes gaze up at him. They fall shut as he raises the towel to her face and dabs away all the little water droplets. Next, he moves down to her neck, shoulders, chest, and so on… After he’s done with her upper body, he sinks down to his knees on the mat and works on her lower half, taking his sweet time and humming softly to himself. He glances up to find her smiling at him.

Once her entire body is dry, he leans forward and plants a kiss to her belly before standing up with the towel thrown over his shoulder. Y/N’s eyes follow him as if in a trance.

“All good?”

She just blinks at him.

“Y/N?”

“I’m in love with you.” The words rush out of her like a whoosh of air that had been trapped in a sealed container. “God, it feels weird saying it out loud. It’s been in my head for so long and I didn’t want to say it because that makes it feel more… real.”

“Why’s that a bad thing?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Because you think I don’t feel the same way?”

“Do you?” She winces slightly as if she’s bracing herself for possible rejection, as if the answer to that question could be anything but “absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent yes.”

“Of course I do, Y/N. I thought I’d made that pretty obvious.”

“You should know by now that nothing is obvious with me.”

It’s true. Even when they were just friends and Harry began dropping hints that he wanted to be more than that, they pretty much all went over her head. Y/N is a smart woman; she just happens to be totally oblivious when it comes to love and romance, which he finds deeply endearing about her.

“Well, take this as your confirmation that I am, in fact, very much in love with you,” he states, taking her face in his hands and giving her a big, sloppy smooch on the lips, which she accepts with a laugh.

***

“That’s it, lovie. Keep going. You’re doing amazing.”

Y/N rocks back and forth on Harry’s thigh, her cunt positioned directly over his tiger tattoo. His thick, firm quads provide the perfect amount of friction against her needy clit.

A week ago, the idea of riding his thigh while he watched her would have made her extremely self-conscious. But since then, they’ve spent each night exploring each other’s bodies. He has given her several more orgasms with his fingers and mouth, while she has given him some with her hand. They’ve masturbated in front of each other. One night, he gave her a full-body massage that turned her on so much that he hardly even had to touch her clit to make her come.

She doesn’t mind being watched anymore. Not by Harry, at least. His gaze is never judgemental or critical. She doesn’t need to fret over saying or doing the wrong thing and ruining the moment. This has made her fall even more head over heels for him.

“Look so pretty getting yourself off on my thigh like this,” he says, toying with her breasts.

A moan starts to leave her mouth until she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth to trap it in. Harry reaches up and drags her lip back down with his thumb.

“Let me hear you,” he says. “Wanna hear how good this makes you feel.” He grips her chin between his thumb and index finger, keeping her mouth open.

She’s close now, the heat of her orgasm building in her core. Her hips grind faster against him. He lifts up his thigh to heighten the pressure on her clit. The tight knot in her lower abdomen unravels, and she comes with a loud moan, soaking his thigh with her juices.

“You make the sweetest sounds when you come,” he says, releasing her chin.

She pecks him on the lips and, before she’s even recovered from her orgasm, gets on her knees between his legs.

He frowns. “What are you doing?”

She looks at him like it should be obvious. “Returning the favour?” As she begins to reach for his cock, he grabs her wrist.

“Nope,” he says. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you have to pay me back for every orgasm. Sex doesn’t have to be so transactional, you know?” The smirk on his face conveys that he’s joking, but that doesn’t stop Y/N from having the sudden, embarrassing realization that perhaps she does treat sex like it’s transactional and just wasn’t aware of it until now.

“I—I know that,” she fibs a little. “I just want to make you feel good.” That part, at least, is not a lie.

Harry has been spoiling her heavily this past week, which has been delightful. She can tell he’s making every effort to gain her trust in the fact that he doesn’t expect anything in return for how incredible he makes her feel. But Y/N likes making him feel good too. She likes the way he hisses and shudders when she finds his most sensitive spots. She likes watching his usual composure crumble simply from her touch. She lives for it.

“Please?” she adds to her request, giving him her best doe eyes.

“Okay,” he says. “If you really want to.”

“I do.”

He lets go of her wrist, allowing her to reach for his stiff cock again. Nerves make her hands tremble, as she remembers how long it’s been since she gave someone a blowjob. She wants it to be perfect, but realistically, she’ll probably be a bit rusty.

She strokes him in her hand and runs her tongue along the underside of his shaft until, finally, she feels ready to take him in her mouth. Her lips wrap around his tip and slowly move down his length, tongue gliding against him. She considers deep-throating, then decides against it because it’s been way too long since she’s done it and she needs time to work up to it again. Any insecurity she felt about that disappears the moment she glances up at Harry. His eyes are closed and jaw clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

Emboldened by the look of absolute ecstasy on his face, she bobs her head up and down his shaft and massages his balls with her hand. She moans around him, and he releases a low groan at the sensation it produces. Then she lets his entire length slip from her mouth, teasing him by flicking her tongue over his tip and leaving little kisses along his shaft until his fingers are weaving through her hair in desperation.

“Didn’t know you could be such a tease,” he says with a breathy laugh.

She grins innocently, then takes him into her mouth again, determined to suck him to completion this time. His hand feels good in her hair. She imagines him holding her head in place while he fucks her mouth. She never thought she would be into that sort of thing until now.

“I’m gonna come soon, Y/N,” he warns her as he gets close.

She doesn’t pull away. He thinks she didn’t hear him, so he repeats himself. She makes eye contact to convey that she heard him, that she wants him to come in her mouth, which he does moments later. She relishes the taste of it, swallowing every last drop. As she draws back and wipes her mouth clean, he stares at her in amazement.

“You’re really fucking good at that,” he tells her.

“Thanks! I had this boyfriend in college who only wanted blowjobs all the time since that didn’t involve having to make me come, which was basically impossible for him. He was kind of demanding, but he taught me how to give a damn good blowjob.”

Harry grimaces. “You know, the more I learn about your previous partners, the more I want to hit them over the head with something.”

She laughs. “I think I make them seem meaner than they were.”

“No, I think you make them seem nicer than they were.” He pats his thigh. “Get up here.”

She stands up and sits on his thigh with her legs dangling between his this time. His arm wraps around her back.

Locking his eyes on hers, he says, “You are worth so much more than being some guy’s blowjob dispenser, all right?”

“I know, I know,” she says. “I was just young and naive back then, but I know better now.”

“Good. Don’t ever let any man or woman treat you that way. Okay?”

His eyes are so full of care and concern for her that she thinks she might just cry.

“Okay,” she replies.

***

Harry loves writing about the initial euphoria that comes with falling in love. It’s intoxicating and exhilarating and all-consuming. Many of his most successful songs were inspired by this peculiar feeling. It’s no wonder that he keeps heading into the studio lately to harness all this creative energy and inject it into his music.

Today, Tom, Tyler, and Mitch are all in the studio with him. Mitch is riffing on his guitar while Harry adlibs over it when Jeff pokes his head into the room.

“H, Y/N’s here to see you,” he says.

Harry raises his brows. “She is?” She didn’t tell him that she’d be visiting the studio today.

“Yeah, she’s waiting out front.”

“Is she all right? Did she say why she’s here?”

Jeff shrugs. “No clue. She seemed fine.”

Y/N always seems “fine.” She’s quite skilled at pretending everything is okay when it’s not, which can be rather concerning. Harry tells the guys he’ll be back, then heads to the front of the studio where he finds his girlfriend staring at a wall decorated from top to bottom with framed album covers of legendary musicians.

“Hi, darling,” he says as he approaches.

She turns to him, eyes illuminating as soon as they meet his. “Hi! Sorry, I told Jeff not to go get you, but he did anyway.” She gives him an apologetic smile. “I hope you weren’t in the middle of something. I swear if you were writing your next Grammy-winning single and I just ruined your flow, I’ll be so mad at myself.”

“Stop it. You haven’t ruined anything.” He steps closer, taking her hands. “Now tell me what brought you here. Are you okay?”

He studies her as she replies, “Yes, I’m fine. I’m not here for any particular reason. I just…” She hesitates. “I needed to see you.” As soon as she says it, her eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, that sounds so needy.”

“That’s okay. We all get needy sometimes. Do you want to sit in the studio with me?”

She bites her lip, giving it some thought before shaking her head.

“Okay.” He brings her hands between their bodies, swinging them apart and together again. “Then tell me what you need.”

“I—I need…” She glances down in the general direction of his crotch.

A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “You need…?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”

He tilts his head to side, feigning innocence. “Say what?”

“Baby…”

He wanted to make her say it, but the pleading look in her eyes makes him cave. “You need my cock, is that it?”

“Shhh! Not so loud!” Her head spins around to make sure no one heard them.

He laughs. “There’s no one around, lovie.”

“Still!” She sighs and presses her hands against her flaming cheeks. “It’s not fair. You’ve been teasing me with it this whole week, and it’s all I can think about. Couldn’t even focus on my art today because I kept thinking about how…”—she drops her voice to a barely audible whisper—“how you would feel inside me.”

It’s been exactly a week since Y/N first hinted that she’s ready to go all the way with him. Harry was the one who wanted to put it off a little longer. He predicted that if he made her wait long enough, her hunger for it would overpower any anxiety that might crop up during the act.

Smiling, he brings his hand up to her cheek, her skin hot against his cool palm. “Aw, I know, sweetheart. You know the only reason I’ve been teasing is to make sure you’re ready for it.”

“I know. And I’m ready now. I really am.”

“Okay, but we can’t exactly do it here, you know that?”

“Why not? Isn’t there a bathroom in here somewhere?” She pushes up on her toes to look over his shoulder down the hallway where he came from.

“We’re not fucking in the studio bathroom, Y/N.”

She groans and lifts her hands up to his chest, scrunching his shirt between her fingers. “But I can’t wait any longer!”

“Yes, you can.” He wraps his hands around her wrists. “You’re going to be a good girl for me and wait until I pick you up from your flat tonight.”

She pouts and concedes, “Fine.”

He kisses her pout and gives her a hug that lasts for several minutes because she doesn’t want to let go and he never lets go until she does, so they’re in a standoff for who’s going to let go first until finally, Y/N releases him.

After that, the rest of the day moves at a snail-like pace. Harry can hardly focus; he’s too distracted by the thought of what’s to come tonight. Every lyric he comes up with sounds too raunchy to put in an actual song. Even his friends jokingly speculate about why he’s acting so strange—especially Tom, who just loves to make him squirm.

That evening, he has to make a conscious effort not to speed all the way to Y/N’s flat. The plan was to pick her up, take her back to his place, and maybe eat dinner before having their fun, but he thinks he’ll have to skip most of those steps.

Y/N buzzes him into her building. She’s on the second floor, so he doesn’t even bother with the elevator and takes the stairs two at a time. As soon as she lets him in, his mouth is on hers. She kisses him right back, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing up against him. They make their way to her bedroom and remove all their clothes, ending up on the bed with him on top of her.

“Naughty girl,” he says between kisses to her neck. “Came all the way to the studio because you were needy for my cock, hm?”

She covers her face with her hands. “H, don’t tease! I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

He gently pulls her hands away from her face. “Don’t be embarrassed. Do you have any idea how sexy it is that you want me that badly? Got me all hot and bothered at the studio. Could barely keep myself together for the rest of the day.”

A mischievous little grin makes its way onto her face. “Really?”

“Yes, really. That’s the effect you have on me.” His hand drifts down between her legs to find that she’s already drenched, so he grabs his cock and runs the tip up and down her slit. When he looks back up at her face, there’s a hint of apprehension that wasn’t there before. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just remembered that I haven’t had something so, uh”—she swallows, glancing down at his cock—“big inside me in a while.”

“Do you want to be on top? That way, you can go at your own pace.”

“What if my pace is too slow and you can’t come?”

“What if I come two seconds after I’m inside you? Would you still love me?”

“Of course!”

“There’s your answer then.”

She squints at him, her lips curving up. “Well played.”

They switch positions so that she’s on top of him, straddling his hips while he leans back against the headboard. She carefully guides his cock up to her entrance, inserting the tip before lowering herself onto him. Her tight walls stretch and expand to accommodate him. She winces from the discomfort. He massages her hips, reminding her to take her time.

It takes her several attempts to get him all the way in, but once he’s there, the feeling is indescribable. He curses under his breath, closing his eyes briefly.

“Is that okay?” she asks.

“Perfect,” he responds in a strained voice. “It’s perfect.”

She seems reassured by his response and starts moving her hips in slow circles, getting used to having him inside her. Then she lifts up and sinks all the way down again. Soon enough, she’s riding him at a steady pace, her hands on his shoulders, her breasts swaying gorgeously in his face, beckoning him to place his hands over them. He has pictured this moment so many times, he can’t believe that it’s finally happening.

He starts thrusting up into her, meeting her halfway. As his thrusts become sharper, her jaw drops open.

“Harry—”

The sound of his name slipping out of her mouth like that, all salacious and full of yearning, is a drug he can see himself getting addicted to.

“Please,” she whines.

He slows down, worried that he might have been too rough. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just— Please don’t stop. It feels so good.”

“Feels good, huh? Someone finally fucking you like you deserve?”

She nods, her eyes rolling back as he resumes the movement of his hips.

“This is what it’s supposed to feel like,” he tells her. “Remember this.”

“Oh, I will.” She barely finishes her sentence before he pounds into her again.

He feels himself about to crest and reaches down to rub her clit. A final medley of moans and grunts leave their mouths as they come. Her pussy spasms around his pulsing length. As the waves of pleasure subside, her body goes completely slack in his arms, worn out from the intensity of the experience they just shared. She rests her head against his shoulder, basking in the afterglow while he brushes his fingers through her hair.

Her soft voice breaks through the silence. “I didn’t know it could feel this good. I’ve been missing out.”

“We’ve got plenty of time to catch you up. Don’t you worry.” He kisses the side of her head, earning a contented sigh from her.

***

Thank you for reading! For more anxious!reader and other fics, check out my MASTERLIST

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagines #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x you #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles oneshot #harry styles x y/n #domrry #dom!harry #anxious!reader #my writing

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sordidmusings · 14 days ago

Text

How to Break Rules (Sir Crocodile x Reader)

Art by xuchuan25 on x!

TUMBLR ATE THE FUCKING ASK WHEN I SAVED IT AS A DRAFT 🙃 luckily I had it saved in my doc and it was anon so they wouldn't have been notified anyway

Anon Ask: Crocodile doesn't seem like the type to kiss during sex unless he's down bad. Maybe he starts a casual relationship with a strict "no kissing on the lips" rule but anywhere else is fair game. It's fun to think of the different ways a possible "first kiss" could happen when he's already rawed you lol and the different reactions if he initiates it or you do and whether it's spur of the moment or calculated.

A/N: OOOOOOOOOO love this and have actually come across this in my own travails haha as someone who loves service, there is such a rush in being told “you can kiss me anywhere but my lips; you have to earn that” 😩 Like it’s just dangling that fruit of how much of a rush it’ll be when you earn the right, when you’re told you’ve been so good for so long. It is also kind of a wild and intense dynamic to be in to have done So Much Stuff but not a simple kiss 💀💀💀

I will also say that I have a WIP smut request in this vein that has been FIGHTING ME FOR MONTHS 🥲 except it’s reader who has put down the rule of “no kissing” and the reason is because love is a requirement for it. Hoping this exercise helps get more flowing for continuing that beloved behemoth 🙏🏻 Ficlets and thoughts in bulleted form below! They get longer as they go because that’s what tends to happen for me lol

Word Count: ~3k total over a few scenarios and such

Warnings: brief allusions to sex but nothing nsfw, gn!reader, not actually unrequited love, a few flavors of reader personality, from very bratty to docile, for dynamic variety 🤌🏻, jealousy/possessiveness

Goodies below the cut - dig in (‘∀’●)♡

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

At first I was a bit clinical in my brainstorming of this, more stuck on the grid of who does it to who

He kisses you

Involuntarily

Poor croc is finally at his limit in keeping his lips from yours and being so deep in indulging in all the rest of you is his undoing. Every piece of you feels so good even though every moment with you is agony - agony from having you but not all of you, being with each other but not belonging to each other. He was Tantalus and you were his fruit and drink, always slipping just past his fingertips. If he could taste you, share your breaths, feel your voice, then maybe he’d finally stop wasting away.

On purpose

You’ve been vexing him with your teasing, always gifting him the touch of your soft lips everywhere but his own. He didn’t want to be the one to fold on his own rule, but no matter how loose he got your mind, how far you were from forming words, how pliant and placating, you’d kiss him and kiss him and kiss him but never his lips. It didn’t matter if he hovered his own over yours close enough to taste your voice on the air, you’d never push forward. It was maddening.

One day he finally barks at you after you turn your face away, “Why do you always run?”

You answer, confused and honest, “You told me I wasn’t allowed.”

The response is a hook at your neck, pulling you closer; a hand in your hair, cradling you; a mouth on your own, consuming you.

A promise to you that you’re truly his

This Sir Croc warms more to the idea of you being his with no qualms stemming from his own pride.

It took a long while, but your home in Croc’s life was built brick by brick, sure and steady and obvious. He noticed it and kept an eye on it like he did with everything, but he did not reject nor rush it. No, it was inevitable beyond his will, the way you slipped into his head and chest and nested there. No stubbornness would stop the way it warmed him. No clinging would allow you deeper into a space that was always meant to be yours. As he first noticed the foundation you’d set, saw the promise of his future in your care and vision, he knew he was meant to exist next to you.

He waited for this understanding to sink in you too. It never did.

No matter his well-thought gifts, steadfast support, or opulent compliments, you never pressed to take more promises from him than he offered himself, never set to make claim to him outside of closed doors. He knew he had to change that.

The thought possesses him the next time he brings you around with him and someone has the gaul to approach you. They ask about why Croc keeps you so close to see if they had a chance to stick to your side instead. That won’t do.

Croc stalks over quickly, seeping dominance but not quite aggression. When he gets to you, he places a weighty hand on your right shoulder and leans over the left, fully encasing you in his presence.

All the other man sees is the threat leaning over your shoulder and he scatters before you can finish saying “-my boss.”

Much happier with Croc surrounding you, you lean back into his warm chest. A low chuckle plays with the hair around your ear, causing you to shiver in delight.

“A boss? Is that all I am to you?” There’s a teasing lilt to his deep voice, one steeped in deep fondness.

“Of course not,” you assure. He guides you to turn with his hook under your chin, letting his fingers tickle the back of your neck to your other shoulder as you spin to face him. The smile on your lips is easy and familiar and softens Croc into clay, ready and happy to be molded into whatever you want. Yet you always just ease him back into his own shape, each time with fewer cracks and dents, waiting for him to be as solid as he’d like for when he enters the kiln.

“Then tell me, dear,” his voice is as warm and rich as the purple of his eyes. He pulls his cigar from his lips with two fingers. You watch his lips as he speaks. “What am I?”

Before the falter in your smile can fully steal it away, Croc slips forward to taste it on your lips. You freeze and Croc snakes his hook behind your neck to pull you forward, but by the time it gets there you’re already pressing into him. You’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t savor the feeling of finally belonging fully to each other.

You kiss him

Power Move

Sir Croc never seemed able to control you and he loved and loathed it in equal parts. It’s one of the reasons he sought you in the first place. You knew exactly when to push and when to follow, when to challenge and when to submit. It was a very rare day when you genuinely got on his nerves.

Today is a very rare day.

You’re clearly upset with Sir Croc - not leaning into his affection, barely answering his attempts at conversation, unwilling to look at his face for more than a second. More than anything you refuse to tell him what’s wrong.

Now, you’re not doing it just to piss him off; you don’t feel quite allowed to be upset about the issue so you don’t want to share. You don’t want to have an attitude but every time you see him it reminds you of the realization that you’d do anything for him. Worse than that, that thought was immediately followed by the Knowing that you aren’t his and the uncertainty that you ever will be.

Right now, you feel like you’re not his to have, but his to use.

Though, he does give you special treatment. He lets you closer to him than any others, treats you with gentleness except when you corner him into using a firm hand. He’s never even used his power over you when it’s not for play and pleasure. Except for one little rule.

No kissing on the lips.

You thought you’d earn it months ago. You’ve earned everything else, every sweet treatment and treasure you could think of will be yours if you ask it of him. He’s come to spoil you even more rotten than a queen with her fat lap dog, and yet you’ve not gotten a single kiss to the lips.

It’s begun to feel like he’s keeping it from you to let you know he’ll never fully give himself to you because he never fully intended to keep you. And it hurts.

And now he’s mad because you’re mad but you can’t tell him why you’re mad and the whole thing is maddening.

You watch him knock the ash off his dwindling cigar into the ornate ceramic tray on his desk. The heavy sigh accompanying it annoys you. Why is he the one sighing?

Oh, now he’s rubbing at his temple. He thinks he’s frustrated? You’ll show him frustration.

“Should I go?” You ask, peeking at him from the corner of your narrowed eyes.

“Do you want to go?” Croc rebuts, sounding confounded and at the end of his rope.

You eye him unhappily.

Instead of responding, you stand up from the leather sofa across from his grand desk. It’s a decent distance, two chairs to its sides are placed closer, but of course you chose to sit away from him today. It’s to your advantage now; you need space for your next move.

You make your way to him slowly, swerving your hips smoothly the way he likes and adding a teeny bit of weight to each step - both to be closer to stomping and to have the motion give a slight bounce to all the soft parts of you for him to watch.

And watch he does - his face melts into the hungry admiration he saves for you, albeit still a bit guarded.

When you get to his desk, instead of addressing him you gracefully gather the papers spread across it into your hands. You take a moment to pretend to scan through and consider them, only to frisbee them onto one of the chairs.

Croc’s eyes turn sharp and burning.

“Brat-” he cuts himself off, looking at your face and picking up that you’re having even less fun than he is. He sucks in a tense breath and hisses it back out. Let’s try that again.

“Am I working too much and you need more attention? Is that why you’re having a fit?”

Good enough.

“If I was having a fit, the whole base would know,” you bite back at him.

Instead of arguing or redirecting, Sir Croc settles on watching you. Nothing’s worked, so he’ll just allow you to take this wherever it’s headed.

You plant your palms on his desk and let the quiet linger. He lets you lean into his space and stare him down. He’s unsure what you’re looking for and honestly so are you. You’re unsure if you find it but you do find some fortitude in the settling air. You finally speak up.

“Do you remember the rule you set when we started this…” your eyes flit around, searching for the right word, “agreement?”

“No kissing on the lips unti-”

Your hand is fisted in his shirt, your lips are warm and insistent against his.

You expect anger, pulling back, or even shoving hands. Instead, Croc is scrambling out of his seat, careful to keep your lips locked, and helping you to clamber over the desk towards him with a greedy grip. You won’t be free from his taste or hold the whole night through. Now that they’ve had you, they’ll haunt you all your days, keeping him alive with each time they possess you.

You sneak your way into it

Sir Crocodile doesn’t get to enjoy late risings often. That’s why he makes sure to wring them of all they’re worth, and that’s only become better with you there.

Knowing that the morning lacked a rude awakening, you both indulged in a night of the senses - seeing the sights, hearing live music, eating and drinking with abandon before coming home to get your fill of each other in all five senses, especially touch.

As Sir Croc comes back to his body, floating from the abyss of sleep one breath at a time, he finds his sense of touch being coaxed and teased. Gentle fingers brush across his skin along familiar trails made to map and admire his large form. They round over muscles, press into places of softness, tickle at the sensitive skin of his wrist, his blunted forearm, his hips, his neck.

The touches all feel so full of adoration and something else he’s felt more and more from you. He’s finding it harder and harder to ignore, especially because he’s used to adoration and there’s something different in yours - something softer, gentler, surer. Something he is sure by now is genuine love.

Each time it comes out he lets it wash over him as best he can without solidifying its bond. After all, this was never meant to be love.

But feeling your affection made it impossible to ignore how much better life would be if he always woke up with you.

Sir Croc encourages more of your touches, following them where he could and bedding his cheek into the top of your head. You happily snuggle deeper against him and his heart leaps.

Knowing he’s awake, you begin placing sweet kisses against his skin, teasing at the edge of his trimmed chest hair. He lets out a long breath with the undertone of a content groan rumbling through it. You smile against the plush of his pec, happy he’s still fuzzy from sleep and primed for your plot

Your lips trail and massage higher, over clavicle and to neck. He tilts his jaw away to give you free reign of the sensitive skin from his throat to his ear. Your thigh mimics the rising of your lips, trailing slow and tender over Croc’s front until it brushes from his thigh to his stomach. The rise and fall with his breathing is calming under you and the steadiness made it easier to notice when his breathing hitched and his muscles twitched against you.

His hand returned your affection mindlessly, simply following whatever instinct compelled him. Mostly it trailed from the nape of your neck to your hip and back, taking small moments to press you closer when he didn’t want one of your kisses to move quite yet.

Everything was deep breaths echoing against skin, the comforting pressure of bodies melding wherever you touched, the dance of give and take with affection. Each place you pushed your love, Croc opened himself to feel more of it, even when you left his shoulder chest and neck to explore his scarred cheek

He doesn’t even hesitate to let you near when you first trail the tip of your nose over the strong angle cut by his jaw. The barely there stubble blended to a moment of pure softness before being interrupted by the ridges of his scar

Croc is fully and willingly enchanted by your soft and smooth actions. He couldn’t bear to make you stop, couldn’t care for any pretense or boundary of his it would break so long as you don’t stop touching him so sweetly. His whole body feels light and alive and he’s struck with the realization that he’s as in deep as you are.

You place your first kiss to his face on his scar where it cuts across his cheekbone. He presses just a millimeter deeper into the plush of your lips

You follow the path of the scar, feeling his lashes tickle the tip of your nose on your way. All the while Croc keeps his languid caresses going on your skin, still lulled by recent sleep and the comfort of your touch and warmth and the want for more.

When you get to the bridge of his nose, you break contact to press your foreheads together. His hand slips up your back to rest at the back of your neck, holding you to him. You bump your nose on his and he bumps back. You tilt to leave a kiss on his cheek. His finger tail up to softly scratch at the base of your skull. You smile against him and feel his own cheek rise momentarily against you.

Sir Crocodile feels more free of thought and obligation than he has in years. Your slow acts of worship have brought out a peace in him that he’s rarely known. There is no rush or push, just a calmness and sureness that this is where he should be and how he should feel. That you both belong here.

And then something changes when you kiss right outside the corner of his lip.

He is left wanting.

You linger at the spot before moving just barely away and coming back just a hair closer to his own lips.

Each near miss felt unnatural and unsatiating, quickening his heart and breath in his discomfort and discontent. The hand at your head goes from caressing to holding, urging you to stop fleeing and teasing.

You smile again against him and this time there’s no mirrored grin from him; he’s falling too quickly into a pit of need, one he didn’t notice you digging with every caress and kiss.

You tease your lips to the corner of his, planning to press more firmly directly on target, but his hand grips you firmly and he’s turning and insistent lips slot hungrily against yours.

You gasp in delight while he shudders out a breath he’s been holding since he met you.

Then I had a better angle come to me by remembering a basic writing preference, that the circumstances around the kiss - the ‘why’ not just the ‘what’ are much better for generating a scene, luckily in the above I think I amended that mistake when I went into more detail! (keeping these more to the stream I originally wrote them in cuz I fear I went on too long above LOL)

He kisses you after fearing for your safety

He kisses you for fear you’ll leave

You kiss him in anger, wanting to prove you’re worthy

He kisses you while you sleep, too afraid for you to know the hold you’ve had on him all along

He kisses you to soothe you, pull you from your fears and sorrows to just float with him in your little bubble away from all the hurts of the world, held aloft by sensation and need and affection

He kisses you to possess you, someone else coming too close and needing the message

You kiss him in joy, ignoring all the dirt and grime that came back with him from Impel Down

You kiss him with a sorrowful heart, needing to comfort the man who was larger than life now sat sadly before you bare of all, even his golden hook and ego

You kiss each other, your lips had sweetly made their way up his neck and across that strong jaw, coming to rest unsure right at the corner of his lips, your shaky breathes puff sweetly across his cheek as he tilts his head to rest temple to forehead, the turn to face you fully is slow and caressing, his own breath coming to mingle with yours, your noses bushing gently. The barest tilt of his head has your lax lips tentatively brush his, just the faintest tickle of skin on skin. A shaky exhale - his or yours you’re not sure - and your lips press more surely, first easing in like the first step into dark waters before you both succumb to diving under. A fierce grip slips to the nape of your neck, endlessly dragging you closer

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading and thank you anon for your ask 💜 I'm gonna be better at getting back to the others (life was being life lol) and up next I have some comfort fics and x marine reader! And perhaps a little filth 👌🏻

Masterlist

#sir crocodile x reader #sir crocodile #one piece #x reader #reader insert #one piece fanfiction #one piece x you #canon x reader #one piece x reader #gn reader

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kairawrites · 4 months ago

Text

old habits.

🌺masterlist 🌺

Pairing: trent alexander-arnold x reader

Author’s note: pls listen to fever by lucky daye, i beg you!

Summary: A break somehow turned into a permanent separation. It’s been seven months since he’s been in your presence, but once he’s in your orbit, Trent throws your world off its axis.

Words: 3268

The bass thumped through the floor of the crowded club, the vibrations resonating in your chest as you swayed to the rhythm. Those around you were lost in their own world, arms raised, heads thrown back in laughter and carefree joy. But despite the fun, you were hyper-aware of Trent’s eyes on you, just like they had been all night.

You knew exactly why. The dress you’d chosen was one of his favorites. He’d always said it brought out something in you, made you glow. Maybe that’s why you wore it tonight, why you let your friends drag you to the weekend at the villa, despite knowing he’d be there too.

As you dance, your hips move fluidly to the beat, trying to focus on the music, on the warmth of your friends' energy. Trying to allow it to suppress all the stress from work. You tilted your head back, closing your eyes as you let the rhythm take over, begging the music to drown out the thoughts of him.

To drown out the way his eyes had lingered when he’d opened the door of the Uber to help you out upon your arrival to the club. His gaze first met yours, holding it for a moment that felt both too brief and too long before it dropped to take in the rest of you. He looked at the dress, the way it hugged your curves, the tantalizing cutouts that revealed just enough to keep his imagination running wild. His eyes traced the smooth expanse of your skin, lingering on the delicate straps of your heels that accentuated the length of your legs.

To drown out the way he'd only managed to get out a few words, his voice a little rougher than he’d intended. “You alright?” he asked, the simplicity of the question betraying the hours he'd spent rehearsing what he would say when you finally came face to face again after seven long months. "You alright?" was nowhere on that list, and he silently cursed himself for fumbling in the moment that mattered most.

But then, you’d smiled—just a small, knowing curve of your lips—and that familiar, bashful smile you adored crept onto his face, softening the intensity in his eyes. It was the smile that had always made your heart skip a beat, the one that reminded you that you were the only person in the world to make him feel this way.

To drown out how his touch lingered on your hand longer than necessary as he helped you out of the car, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. It was a simple gesture, but the warmth of his skin against yours sent a ripple of memories through you. Before you could respond, your friend gave you a playful nudge from behind, urging you to move so the rest of the group could file out. You couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder as you moved with the crowd towards the door, catching his eyes still locked on you, following your every step.

To drown out how in that brief moment, it was as if the months apart had dissolved, leaving behind the undeniable connection that had always been there. The weight of his gaze on your back had felt like a tether, begging to pull you into a past you weren’t sure you were ready to let go of, even as you walked further away.

You appeared to be having the time of your life as you danced. But across the room, Trent was struggling. Every time he glanced your way, he felt a tug of something deep in his chest—something he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried. You were captivating, lost in the music, your laughter ringing out as you moved with the girls. His friends kept trying to engage him in conversation, but his attention was always drawn back to you.

It was maddening—how you still had this effect on him, how the sight of you in that dress could unravel him so completely. He took a long sip of his drink, trying desperately to divert his attention, but the shimmering lights had other plans. They cascaded over your skin, highlighting its rich, deep tones and casting an enchanting glow that accentuated every curve as you moved. The play of light and shadow left him mesmerized, utterly dazed by the way you seemed to glow with an almost ethereal beauty, each flicker of light intensifying his longing.

He was yanked headfirst into a memory—the last time he’d danced with you. He could almost feel the tingling at his fingertips, his body aching with the phantom sensation of yours pressed against his, the way your hips had moved perfectly in sync with his, how you grinding against him left his head cloudy-spinning, the heat that built between you as you both surrendered to the moment.

His grip tightened around the glass in his hand as he recalled the way your smile had lit up his world the last time you’d shared a moment like this. The way your eyes had met his with that spark, a silent communication that only the two of you understood. He remembered how he’d pulled you close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered something that made you laugh and press even closer to him.

Now, as he watched you dance, Trent couldn’t help but imagine stepping forward, closing the distance between you, and pulling you into that same embrace. But instead, he stayed rooted to the spot, his chest tightening as he realized that the days of being the one who got to dance with you were over. Trent’s eyes followed your every move, memorizing the way you looked in that dress, the way your hair caught the light, the way your smile hadn’t changed a bit.

As the night began to wind down and the club’s energy slowly ebbed away, exhaustion crept in. Your feet ached from hours of dancing, but your body still buzzed with the lingering thrill of the music—and the heat of his eyes on you all night. When you all returned to the villa, the others started to disperse, seeking the comfort of a hot shower and bed. But you couldn’t shake the restlessness coursing through you, so the kitchen beckoned, offering a moment of solitude. As their laughter and conversations faded into the background, a wave of relief washed over you, the quiet of the villa a soothing contrast to the club’s pounding noise.

You made your way to the kitchen, the dim light of the freezer casting a soft glow as you opened it. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw it—a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, sitting right there on the top shelf. A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you reached for it, the familiar weight of the pint in your hands bringing back memories of all the nights you and Trent had spent just like this. It was a ritual you’d never grown tired of, something simple that had always brought you closer together. The fact that he’d remembered to stock the freezer with it tonight made something warm unfurl in your chest.

Instinctively, you opened the drawer and picked up two spoons, but then you paused. The reality of your current situation hit you, and with a quiet sigh, you put one of the spoons back.

You hopped up onto the kitchen island, the marble cool beneath you as you peeled back the lid of the ice cream. The first bite was pure bliss, the sweetness melting on your tongue. You closed your eyes, savoring the taste.

As you ate, your mind drifted back to the night’s earlier moment, to Trent’s simple question: “You alright?” You’d wanted to tell him the truth—that you weren’t. Seven months later, you still found yourself reaching for him in the middle of the night, still fighting the urge to text him whenever something significant happened. Despite feeling this way, you couldn’t share it because it was you who had suggested the break in the first place

Your job demanded too much of your focus, while he was entrenched in the demands of playing for Liverpool. You’d hit a rough patch, both of you fearing you’d finally lost the three-year “honeymoon phase” all of your girlfriends envied. Asking him for space had seemed like the only solution at the time, but it quickly turned into hardly speaking and not seeing each other at all.

Because for Trent, it was all or nothing. He couldn’t be in the same room without wanting to touch you, without his fingers aching to brush against your skin. He couldn’t talk to you on the phone without slipping into nicknames only he’d ever use for you, names that held more meaning than simple words. He couldn’t follow you on Instagram without liking your photos, leaving comments that made it clear he was still very much invested, that those pictures were posted for him, and him alone.

He couldn’t bear to see other guys looking at you, chatting you up, their interest undeniable. It would be excruciating to hear your laughter directed at another man’s jokes, knowing that the laughter you reserved for him was now shared with others.

He couldn’t bear to call you a friend when the gang got together to hang out, because his own eyes betrayed him every time. They followed you, lingered on you, reflecting the longing and unresolved feelings he couldn’t hide, making it impossible to keep up the pretense of casual friendship. That’s why he took your request for space so literally. He tried his best to keep a clear distance between you two, strategically meeting up with friends when he knew you wouldn’t be tagging along. For Trent, the line between wanting you and being without you was too blurred to navigate, so he chose to keep the space as wide as possible, even if it meant missing out on the simple joy of being around you.

The sound of soft footsteps broke through your thoughts, and when you opened your eyes, Trent was there, leaning casually against the counter across from you. His presence seemed to fill the room, his dark, warm eyes locking onto yours as if no time had passed since you were last this close. He wore a fitted white t-shirt and dark, well-worn jeans—the kind of look that always made your heart skip a beat.

“Thanks for the ice cream, T,” you said softly, your voice carrying a note of something deeper, something unspoken. “You didn’t have to.”

His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, one that you hadn’t seen in months. “Old habits, I guess.”

You nodded, taking another bite. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy with everything that had gone unsaid for so long. Trent’s eyes followed your movements, the way your lips wrapped around the spoon, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed. There was a hunger in his gaze, a longing that he was barely trying to hide.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to study him, really study him. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his stubble framed his face– his hand instinctively reached up to rub at his jaw under your watchful eyes.

“Old habits,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it any louder would shatter the fragile peace between you.

Trent pushed off the counter, closing the distance between you with a few measured steps. His hand found its way to your leg, resting just above your knee. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. It was a simple gesture, but it carried a heavy weight, a history that lingered between you.

You stayed still, not pulling away, as his fingers began to trace slow, deliberate patterns on your skin, moving from your knee down to your calf. His touch was familiar yet electrifying, sending shivers up your spine and making every nerve in your body come alive with awareness. Your heart raced as he unbuckled and gently slipped off one of your heels, the action tender and almost reverent.

The cool air hit your bare foot, contrasting sharply with the warmth of his hands as he began to massage the arch. His fingers worked into the muscles with practiced ease, and the tension in your body began to melt away. You had to bite back a sigh of contentment; it felt so good, so right, that it was impossible to ignore how your body responded to him, even after all this time.

As you tried to find a distraction from the overwhelming sensation, you sighed, “About the Euros…”

Trent’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, his expression one of genuine surprise. “You watched?”

You rolled your eyes, a soft, playful smile curving your lips. “Of course I watched. I always watch for you.”

His surprise gave way to something warmer, softer, and you saw his eyes soften, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t think you would care.”

“I always care,” you said quietly, the words carrying a weight of truth that neither of you had been willing to confront.

His hands continued their work, kneading the tension away, and you couldn’t help but relax further into his touch. Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring the sensation of his fingers, which seemed to know exactly where to press to make you feel good. Another step in an unspoken routine.

Old habits.

The massage was thorough, gentle yet firm, and as he moved to your other leg, you found yourself completely at his mercy. The tension in your body unraveled with each stroke of his hands. When he finished, his touch lingered, his fingers drifting up your calf, sending a final shiver through your entire body. He watched your reaction intently as he traced the last patterns of his touch.

His thumbs brushed instinctively against your thighs, and you opened your eyes to meet his gaze. He flashed a cheeky smile and teased, “Guess I still have that magic touch.”

You bit back a smile, the warmth of his words and the electricity between you making it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance.

You shifted slightly under his intense gaze, the brushes of his thumbs against your thighs making it hard to focus. “So,” you started, your voice betraying a hint of nerves as you swirled the spoon in the pint, “how was LA?”

Trent’s lips curled into a slow smile, his brow arching as he caught the glint of curiosity in your eyes. “It was fun.”

“That’s good.” You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the memories of the headlines and the pictures that had circulated flashed through your mind. You had known about the trip because of your mutual friends, but it was impossible to avoid the media’s spin on it. The tabloids had been relentless, insinuating that Trent was finally enjoying his newfound freedom, soaking up the sun in LA, surrounded by beautiful women and living the carefree life of a single man in his twenties.

As he stepped closer, settling between your legs, his touch drifted to your hips, creating a new, electric sensation. This close, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes—his skin now a shade darker, the golden tan accentuating the sharp angles of his face, and his hair, slightly longer than usual.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out, your fingers gently threading through Trent's hair. The motion was instinctive, familiar.

Trent's eyes softened as your hand moved through his curls, and he instinctively reached up to brush his fingers against where yours had just been, a small smile playing on his lips. “I need a cut before the season starts,” he remarked, though there was a hint of reluctance in his voice, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go of this moment.

You hummed softly in response, your fingers lingering in his hair a little longer before trailing from his hair to the nape of his neck, where his skin was warm and smooth. The intimacy of the gesture made your heart ache with a mix of nostalgia and longing. His breath hitched, just slightly, at the contact, and you felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch before relaxing again.

“I like it when you grow it out,” you admitted quietly, your thumb grazing the soft skin there.

His eyes locked onto yours, the warmth in them deepening as he leaned in a fraction closer, the space between you shrinking with every passing second. His right hand moved to the small of your back, fingers splayed out pulling you to the edge of the counter, the contact sending a shiver up your spine.

“Do you?” he asked, his voice low, the words carrying more meaning than just a casual question.

You nodded, your gaze never leaving his. Your touch found its way to the front of his shirt, drifting up his chest. As your fingers brushed against the fabric, you felt his heartbeat thrum steadily beneath your palm.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he chuckled softly. The touch of his fingers on your chin was gentle but insistent, guiding your face upward.

His eyes dropped to your lips, and you could see the shift in his expression—his gaze softened, filled with a mix of longing and hesitation. His eyes revealed his desire to kiss you, yet it was clear he wouldn’t be the one to initiate. It was up to you to bridge the gap, to ask him to take back the space he had given you. He needed you to reverse the separation that had grown between you and to reclaim the love he’d declared for you.

He took a soft breath, and you leaned in, closing the remaining distance between you. Your lips met his in a hesitant kiss. It was a fleeting, featherweight touch.

As you pulled back, you saw the look on his face—a mix of relief and something profoundly soft, a vulnerability that spoke volumes. His eyes held a gentle warmth, his touch lingering on your cheeks, thumbs gently grazing your skin as if he wanted to savor every moment of this reconnection. His nose brushed against yours, your eyes drifting shut.

He closed the gap between you again. His lips moved against yours with a gentle urgency, exploring and rediscovering the familiar contours of your mouth. The urgency of his body caused you to tip back towards the kitchen counter, a giggle escaping your lips. His hands quickly gripped your hips, lifting you up and off the counter in a swift motion leaving your head spinning.

He stumbled through the kitchen, lips refusing to leave yours, his steps uneven as he tripped over his own shoes kicking them off, his focus entirely on you. The dim light cast shadows around him, making it difficult for his mind to settle on anything but the pressing need to be close to you. His brain struggled to find a clear path in the darkness, to the sofa, barely registering the familiar layout of the room. All he knew was that there was no way he would make it up the steps, down the hall, and to his room.

#trent alexander arnold #trent alexander x reader #trent alexander x you #trent alexander imagines #trent alexander arnold x reader #trent alexander arnold x black reader #football imagines #footballer x reader #x black reader #black! reader #black reader fic #black reader

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thissortofsorcery · 8 months ago

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This is my contribution to the @harringrove-relay-race!! It's been so much fun so far, and I'm so excited to share my piece!

Thank you so much to @kuroubojin for passing the baton to me 💕

Billy thought that finally getting King Steve into bed would be different.

Well, he didn’t think he’d actually get King Steve into bed, in the first place. But as much as Billy hates to admit it, now that he has, he’s feeling a little out of his depth.

In the many, many times he thought about what sex with Harrington would be like, he’d pictured something a little more… Wild. He thought fucking Harrington would be like a fight, biting and clawing and pushing to see who’s gonna come out on top. He thought he’d have to wrestle King Steve down and show him who the real king was, and it would be rough and hot and loud. Impersonal, though. Billy likes to get off fast and easy, after all. There’s no reason to draw it out or to linger after.

But. But.

Harrington caught him off guard. Billy never expected the teasing and the pigtail-pulling to pay off in the first place. He didn’t think he’d actually see Harrington’s fire turned on him, giving as good as he got, every barb out of Billy’s mouth being met with burning words and an upturned nose. It only egged Billy on more.

It came to a point where Billy couldn’t put his eyes on Harrington without his whole body responding, heart thrumming and veins singing with adrenaline, palms sweaty at the sight of an answering smirk.

And now, well.

Running into each other at the quarry turned into a shared case of beer and a cigarette, turned into this.

Billy pinned down on the backseat of Harrington’s damn BMW, leather seats sticking to his sweaty back. Billy doesn’t know how long they’ve been kissing; all he knows is that he lost his shirt somewhere in the middle, and his jeans are open and rucked down to his hips. Harrington’s skin is hot, feverish under Billy’s fingertips, soft skin covering firm, defined muscles that roll with every movement of Harrington’s hips.

Billy’s never cared much about kissing, but he can’t get enough of Harrington’s mouth. It’s obvious that he likes it, having latched onto Billy’s lips however long ago and not relented since. Billy’s not complaining. Harrington finds places in Billy’s mouth that he never thought could feel this good, takes over every one of his senses easy as breathing. He’s a tall wave bowling Billy over, taking up all the space in his head and chest and lungs, and it’s all he can do to hold on.

There’s no fighting while they fuck, no raucous and derisive laughter, taking potshots at each other like they have something to lose.

It’s good.

Billy was sure it would be, but… It’s like nothing he’s felt before. Harrington is everywhere; the scent of his hair products in Billy’s lungs, the taste of his sweat on Billy’s tongue, his body a heavy weight on top of Billy’s. His name on Billy’s lips, a litany of Steve, Steve, Steve that Billy barely registers is coming from him.

Harrington’s mouth never leaves his skin, not for a second, the maddening slide of his tongue leaving a line of fire wherever it goes. Harrington’s breath is hot on his neck.

Billy can’t figure out why it feels so overwhelming, why this feels so different from anyone else he’s fucked before. After a while, he stops trying to.

By the end, Billy doesn’t know which way is up, if it’s been minutes or hours. He can barely hear himself breathe over the thundering of his pulse in his ears. He forgets that he’s not supposed to drag this out, that he’s not supposed to linger, too busy riding the aftershocks of the pleasure Harrington brought out on his body.

He’s struck dumb. Or fucked stupid, more like.

This is nothing like he thought it was going to go. It was supposed to be about getting off, but Harrington turned it around on him.

The backseat is cramped, and Billy’s skin is uncomfortably sticky against the warm leather, but his body sings when Harrington rearranges them so Billy’s lying on top, on his stomach, and with his nose tucked into Harrington’s neck.

“C’mere,” is all Harrington says. Then he drapes his dumb members only jacket over Billy’s back. “I know how cold you get.”

Billy thinks he might be able to fall asleep like this. He’s not even itching for a cigarette.

“You good?” Harrington says, and Billy grins against his chest. Harrington’s chest hair tickles his lips.

“You gotta ask?” Billy laughs, a soft, light thing. He didn’t know he was capable of making a sound like that.

Billy still can’t feel his toes, but he’s not gonna tell him that.

“Dunno,” Harrington mumbles. There’s a note of uncertainty to his voice now, a dip in his confidence that Billy wasn’t expecting, not now.

Billy lifts his head to rest his chin on Harrington’s chest. He’s staring at the darkened car ceiling, but his hand is tight on Billy’s hip.

“Could be better,” Billy says, and Harrington’s eyes jump to him, a touch too wide. Billy’s smirk grows. “The beer’s outside.”

Harrington bursts out laughing, pale throat stretched and gleaming in what little light spills into the car.

“If I go out and get it you’re gonna freeze to death,” he says, one hand coming up to Billy’s face. The tips of his fingers stroke lightly over his forehead, almost imperceptible, and push a stray curl away from Billy’s eyes.

It hits him then, why everything feels so different from his other fucks. He barely has two brain cells left to rub together, caught in Harrington’s warm gaze, and it’s been niggling at him this whole time. How is it that Harrington can make Billy’s brain just shut off.

“Wouldn’t want that,” Billy mumbles distractedly.

“No.” Harrington’s smile goes soft around the edges, and his fingers stroke Billy’s cheek. “I wouldn’t.”

Harrington’s looking at him like he’s precious. Like something he wants to keep.

Billy’s retort gets lost on the way to his mouth.

“I’m good,” is what he ends up saying. Harrington smiles.

He is good, Billy thinks. Right here, under Harrington’s jacket, legs tangled together, the chill of the night shut away for now.

He’s better than he’s been in a while.

Thank you for reading my piece!

Please look forward to the next one, done by the the lovely @billysblueeyes!!!! Go go go!!

#harringrove #harringrove relay race #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #sorcery writes #mine #harringrove fic #harringrove ficlet

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admiringlove · 6 days ago

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persuasion. the way writing this was kind of hurting me too ugh. anyway here it is, another part of my @angstober event this year. again, sorry for the delay. and please watch out for some very slight nsfw themes. masterlist of the event can be found here.

you couldn’t keep doing this to yourself.

this endless teetering back and forth. like a newton’s cradle, every action meeting an equal and opposite reaction, but never any resolution.

the first time you left was harrowing. painful in ways you hadn’t thought possible. your chest had burned, your hands had trembled, and every step away from him felt like you were leaving parts of yourself behind. the arguments echoed in your head long after, looping endlessly, even though all you’d truly wanted was his arms around you.

toji’s arms.

but he never gave you that, not when it mattered most. he always seemed so far away during those moments, like his mind was locked in some impenetrable place you could never reach. and next to him, you felt small. you felt like a child fumbling for answers, even though there wasn’t much of an age difference between you.

when you left that first time, you’d told him you’d come back for your things later. you couldn’t bear to stay long enough to pack your life away from his. instead, you’d grabbed the clothes scattered across his apartment—an afterthought of intimacy you thought you’d had—and left.

your place wasn’t a home; it was a shell. the silence there was too loud, suffocating in its starkness, reminding you with every passing second what you’d walked away from, and who you hadn’t yet been able to let go.

your room had become a husk, hollowed out of the life it once held. the absence of him pressed against the walls like a shadow, suffocating and stark. his things weren’t strewn across the floor in that careless, maddening way he always managed, nor did that strange, musky scent linger in the air; the one that clung to his clothes and skin, a scent you once loathed but came to crave. he wasn’t sprawled on your bed, that half-smirk pulling at his lips, looking at you like you were the only thing worth devouring. he wasn’t there to drag you down with a grip that bordered on desperate, kissing you like he needed you to breathe.

no, now the room was just a room. the furniture remained, untouched, like a stage after the curtain had fallen. the fake vines tangled along the walls, the band posters clung stubbornly to their place, and the photographs on the desk smiled back at no one. the bookshelves loomed overhead, brimming with stories you didn’t have the energy to revisit. everything was exactly where it should be, and yet, it all felt wrong. lifeless.

the man you loved wasn’t there. fushiguro toji wasn’t there.

that night, you sighed into the darkness, and when the weight in your chest became unbearable, the tears came. quiet at first, then relentless, soaking into your pillow until it felt like drowning. you woke up to the salt of it still clinging to your cheeks and the heavy dampness beneath your face. the idea of going back to his place—to face him, to gather the pieces of the life you’d left behind—was unbearable. a week passed. seven days of silence so loud it fractured you. no rough hand reaching for yours in the dark, no shared laughter echoing from your phone’s glow. no wild thrill of butterflies thrumming beneath your ribs.

without him, the world dulled, fading into muted shades of grey. the sharpness of living—the chaos of loving him—had bled out. and you were sure he was fine. you could give him that much credit. he was always good at holding you just far enough away that he wouldn’t feel the sting if you left. replaceable. that’s what you must’ve been to him.

but he wasn’t. he could never be.

he was a fever, an affliction, something that sank into your bloodstream and burned. without him, there was nothing but withdrawal. the ache, the longing, the torment of wanting something you knew would destroy you.

and so, after a week of circling the inevitable, you found yourself standing at his door again. he opened it halfway, leaning lazily against the frame, that shit-eating grin plastered on his face like it belonged there.

"finally came back, didn't ya?"

you didn’t rise to the bait, your expression deadened by days of sleepless nights and the hollow ache gnawing at your chest. "i came back to get my shit, loser," you muttered, rolling your eyes as you pushed past him. you kicked off your shoes at the door, out of habit more than anything else, and made a beeline for the bathroom with your bag in tow. he followed close behind, trailing after you like a shadow, until he propped himself against the bathroom doorframe. his arms crossed loosely over his chest, that insufferable smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you.

"yer really takin' everything, huh?" his voice was low, a little rough around the edges, as his gaze flickered to the toiletries you were gathering. you spared him a glance—brief, cautious, like looking at the sun too long might burn you—and quickly looked away. you couldn’t give him more than that. your heart had been steeling itself for this moment all week, and even then, you weren’t sure how much more you could take.

he didn’t have to do much. the way he leaned there, the way his voice curled around the words, the sheer nearness of him was enough to unravel you. you kept an arm’s length between you, refusing to let him cross that invisible line.

you dropped the shampoo and soap bottles into the bag with a heavy sigh, your hands trembling just slightly. "yeah, that’s what people do when they break up," you said, your voice flat, though the weight of the words nearly crushed you.

for a moment, the air stilled, heavy with unspoken tension. then you heard it—soft, deliberate footsteps closing the gap between you. you didn’t turn. you didn’t need to. you felt him before he reached you, his presence looming in the small space like a storm cloud.

his reflection joined yours in the mirror, his dark eyes fixed on your face. he could see it. your defeat, the way your shoulders slumped, the resignation etched into every line of your expression. you’d known, hadn’t you? you’d known exactly how this would go, as if it were scripted, as if you’d walked willingly into his hands.

his arms slid around your waist, slow and deliberate, pulling you into the warmth you’d been trying to escape. his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his breath soft, his voice softer.

"come on, we aren’t really broken up. are we?"

you swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the sink as if it could anchor you. "yes, we are—"

"i apologized, didn’t i?" his words were gentle, deceptively so, the kind of tenderness you’d begged for in last week’s shouting match. but he hadn’t given it to you then. no, toji saved that tone for moments like this, when you were already teetering, already crumbling.

his ego was insufferable. a goddamned egomaniac, that’s what he was. fushiguro toji, the man who knew exactly when to break you down and when to scoop up the pieces, holding them just tight enough that you didn’t slip away.

just like that, you ended up in his bed again. the grey hoodie you’d worn lay discarded on the floor, forgotten, as cold unrelenting air seeped through the open window. it didn’t matter—not when he moved the way he did, reckless and punishing, slamming into you like he was trying to shatter something inside you.

as if he knew exactly what he was doing. as if he knew he was breaking your mind beyond repair.

and you’d gone back. over and over, swearing each time would be the last. it never was, though, was it? the only difference between you and toji was that you loved him for all his broken pieces, while he only cared for moments like these—animalistic, primal, and starving.

how many times had you come back to him? how many times had he been conveniently nearby when the weight of your breakdowns became too much to bear? you’d stopped counting after fifteen—somewhere between your pride and his grin, the numbers blurred together.

and now here he was again, in your room, in your bed. the very bed where you’d spent sleepless nights imagining him after you left. it was almost poetic, in the cruelest way.

you looked down at him, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you straddled him, your breaths still uneven. his grunts had quieted now, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his arms wrapped around you with a familiarity that made your stomach twist. you were bare to him in every way that mattered, as you always were.

"we can’t keep doing this," you sighed, slipping off of him and onto the bed to lay beside him. your chest rose and fell heavily as you stared at the ceiling, your thoughts spinning.

he tilted his head, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before he rolled his eyes. "ya say that, but then ya call me in the middle of the night for a quick fuck."

his words hit like a slap, but you didn’t flinch. instead, you turned away, pulling the blanket over yourself as if it could shield you from his gaze. "i mean it this time," you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

he scoffed lightly, a sound that grated against your nerves, but you didn’t look back at him. instead, you closed your eyes, letting the silence stretch between you.

"when you leave this time," you said quietly, "you won’t see me again."

your words hung heavy in the air, the finality of them sinking in even as you felt the mattress shift under his weight. but whether he believed you or not didn’t matter anymore—you were done trying to convince him, or yourself.

"come on, seriously, not this again," he groans, dragging a hand through his hair, the exasperation in his voice palpable. "we had such a good time, and now you wanna dampen the mood with this shit—"

"fushiguro," your voice cuts through his complaint like a blade, sharper and more commanding than it’s ever been. it makes him pause, his spine straightening on instinct, his eyes narrowing as if trying to gauge whether you’re serious.

but you are. more serious than you’ve ever been. "i can’t keep doing this with you. it might be amusing for you, but it’s killing me. yeah? we had a good run."

those words—we had a good run—hit you as hard as they hit him. the taste of them feels foreign in your mouth, bitter and heavy. you never thought you’d say that to him. not to toji, not to the man you still loved with a depth you couldn’t articulate, more than you’d ever admit, more than he’d ever understand. your heart fractures as you sit there, each crack spreading deeper when you see his face harden.

he doesn’t say anything. not right away. instead, he gets up from the bed, the mattress shifting as his weight leaves it, and strides toward the desk chair where his clothes are piled in a careless heap. His movements are brisk, almost robotic, but the slight clench of his jaw betrays the simmering frustration beneath the surface.

"i’ll wait for yer text," he mutters, tugging on his tight black shirt in one swift motion. the fabric clings to his frame, the same way it did hours ago when you first saw him, but now it feels suffocating.

you turn your gaze away. you can’t watch him like this—not when the sight of him could undo everything you’d just resolved. "i blocked your number, remember?" you remind him, your voice flat but steady. "it’s why you came here today."

he freezes for a fraction of a second, the realization dawning on his face. "oh," he mumbles, his tone subdued. "okay. i’ll wait for you to unblock me, then."

"no, you won’t," you reply firmly, forcing yourself to look at him now. every word feels like dragging glass through your throat, but you press on. "this was the last time. it’s not happening again."

his eyes flicker, a brief flash of something you can’t quite place—irritation? disbelief? something deeper he’d never admit?—before he scoffs, shaking his head as if dismissing your declaration entirely. "whatever you say, doll."

"toji." his name falls from your lips with a weight that makes him stop. you sigh, sitting up straighter on the bed. the loose shirt you’d thrown on clings to your body in awkward folds, and your cheeks burn with an unwelcome warmth. you meet his gaze, forcing yourself to hold it this time. "close the door on your way out, yeah? and leave the spare key."

he blinks at you, as if processing the words takes more effort than it should. for a moment, his posture stiffens, his jaw tightens, and you think he might argue—but he doesn’t. instead, he nods. a single, awkward bob of his head, so uncharacteristic of him that it leaves you momentarily disoriented.

you watch as he moves toward the door, his steps slower now, almost uncertain. his broad shoulders seem to hunch slightly, his usual confidence replaced with something hesitant. when he reaches the corridor, his hand hovers over the gold-colored doorknob, suspended in mid-air.

he pauses there, turning his head to glance at your living room. it’s the same space he’s been in countless times, but now, it feels foreign to him—as if he’s unsure where to place himself, unsure if he’s allowed to linger any longer.

then he looks back at you, his dark eyes locking with yours. there’s something in them you don’t want to decipher, something too raw and too late. your mouth goes dry, but you manage a tight-lipped smile, awkward and full of finality.

he doesn’t say goodbye. doesn’t say anything. he just turns back to the door, his movements slow and deliberate as he opens it, the faint creak of the hinges cutting through the silence.

and then, without a second glance, he steps out.

the sound of the door clicking shut feels deafening. final. like the last note of a song you wish you could replay but know you never will.

#toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji angst #toji fushiguro angst #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujustu kaisen angst #toji smut #toji fushiguro smut #fushiguro toji smut #jjk angst #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk toji x reader #jujutsu kaisen

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brummiereader · 12 days ago

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Binding Love (Part Six/ Dark!Tommy)

Summary: Your new life, far away from the soot and fog, from your husband's raging paranoia and murders committed in the name of love, has feelings of guilt surface as your daughter continues to demand the whereabouts of her father. But even the false hope of a bright future faces jeopardy when you run into a familiar face in your small hamlet as Tommy spirals into madness back home in Birmingham.

Warnings: Dark!Tommy, language, violence, psychological mind games, controlling behaviour, toxic relationship, manipulative behaviour, psychological abuse, mutual pining, angst, murder, suicidal thoughts, use of one racial slur.

Word Count: 3K

[Masterlist] [Previous Part] [Trailer]

"Back again so soon" the raven-haired woman with a stack of jangling gold bangles and bulky stoned rings adorning her skin squinted with a smirk as she looked up through the midday sun to your husband hovering over the fire she had lit, its ashes swirling into the chilly winter skies.

" 10 shillings. One reading" Tommy blew a cloud of smoke down to her rising feet. The length of her dress trailed in mud from her hardened life on the road her free spirit called to, flowing behind her as she walked to her wagon.

" 20" she replied, knobbly fingers curling around the framed door to her home with an ushering nod of her head for your husband to follow her into the rickety wooden trailer, to the smell of sandalwood and frankincense burning as she placed the small gas lantern clutched in her hand onto its stand.

"15. And this time, you'll tell me where she is" Tommy's eyes darkened, grabbing her chin between his fingers as she hissed into her cushioned seat to the small table clothed in red and the stack of cards sat in the center.

Three times in one week Tommy had made the journey to the old woman's lonely wagon atop of the rocky field in the green pastures of the Black Country by horseback. Each time seeking answers to the burning question of your whereabouts that had sent him into a spiraling madness in the short time he had spent imprisoned. A time short lived thanks to his trusted friend Johnny Dogs knack and acquired skill at the removal and disposal of dead bodies.

But in the time that was spent pacing back and forth in his iron-clad cell, Tommy had entered a state of mind far darker than he'd entered with. With only whispered gossip leading to empty ends, your husband had resorted to the only thing his maddening mind sought. Other worldly guidance. His last and only chance to find you and his daughter.

"The child's toy" the wild haired woman's hand snapped out, crimson talons grabbing Elsie's cherished pony from your husband's fingers as her piercing eyes roamed over the shuffled cards, head gesturing with a snap for Tommy to pick the response he yearned to dull the torture he felt inside.

" Speak, old woman" Tommy demanded her toying response from her as he forced the card in her hand over onto the table.

" Thrashing waves, she stands on the cliff's edge. Your bern in her arms" her giggling voice watched the widening stare of your husband with satisfaction, his jaw clenching at the same card that had been dealt over and over again to his waiting eyes as she pushed it across the table with a cackle. "The Fool"

" LIAR!" Tommy's voice roared, toppling the array of cards onto the carpeted wagon as he lunged forward, straining hands grasping the throat of the woman whose many predictions had seeped into his unstable mind.

" New beginnings, freedom!" she gasped through your husband's tightening fingers as he cocked his head to her changing words.

" Go on" his brow raised as her life balanced precariously on the edge of Tommy's crazed moral compass and the response from her he would deem satisfactory or not.

" A new journey awaits her. But! But...one step off the cliff's edge, and she'll fall into danger. She needs your guidance to...to keep her safe" the jolting words had his fingers releasing from around her neck as she clawed at her drying throat.

Tossing but a single shilling at her feet, Tommy placed a fresh cigarette between his lips, fingers striking the aspen match against its box as he walked out of her disheveled home.

"But a fool you are, Thomas Shelby. And too late" she quietly seethed with a menacing giggle, throwing the measly bronze coin from her as your husband snapped back at her vapid words and manic laugh with fury, flicking the lit match into the pile of tarot cards with a heavy slam to the door that saw the precariously seated gaslight fall to the carpeted floors.

Locked within the flames, screams of pain, of death rolled over the fields of England as Tommy drew his gun from his holster, pushing the metal barrel to his temple.

" I'm coming, darling" he closed his eyes with a whisper at the image of you and Elsie flickering behind his lids, yearning to be reunited with you in the watery death he believed you had succumbed to.

With the click of the trigger, Tommy fell to the ground, only for his eyes to snap open to the earthy bed of grass surrounding him and a pair of laced boots approaching him through his fluttering lashes.

" Heaven doesn't want you, Tom. And hell's too afraid you'll take over" Arthur's voice and reaching arm pulled him up from the ground, hand full of unspent bullets clutched within the calloused pads of his fingers.

" 'ere" he pulled a silver flask of whiskey from within his tailored waistcoat, eyes turning from the blackening wagon as his stomach churned in disgust at the smell of burning flesh.

" You're right, brother" Tommy swigged back the sharp notes of spice and oak, believing the other worldly forces he had sought had intervened and not that of his brothers' hindsight to remove the beckoning call of death Tommy had answered to.

Unable to stand the gruesome trail of dead bodies that had accompanied Tommy to the four corners of England in search of you, Arthur waited by the car as your husband watched the collapsing walls of the old woman's wagon fall apart into charred blackness.

Rising from the muddied ground, your husband squinted through the fumes until he reached the remains of the dead woman and your daughter's pony still intact in her hands. A distorted sign of proof to your husband, that you were both still alive.

" Fuck sake" Tommy's brows knitted together as the disintegrating mane of Elsie's horse disappeared between his fingers, the small toy holding more importance than the body at his feet he stepped over without an ounce of remorse as he walked down the grassy hill to the waving hand of Johnny Dogs stood with Arthur by his car.

" Tom...Tom, she's been spotted" Johnny's arm looped around Tommy's back with a nodding grin, patting the slouching chest of your husband with a small picturesque postcard of a seaside town in his hand as your husband hunched over with welling eyes of relief darting to the greying skies.

"Seems heavens still on my side, eh boys?"

"Elsie shut the door" you pulled your chin from the palm of your hand as you sat against the bay window watching your daughter, muddy boots and unkempt hair traipsing through the kitchen.

"Elsie!" your patience snapped as she continued to ignore you, kicking her shoes off before running out of sight upstairs with a string of demands to see her father following her stomping feet before the slam of her bedroom door closed shut.

"Fuck..." you pinched the thumping headache between your brows as you stood up, swinging the creaking door shut as your eyes darted down to the lock.

Did you want him to get out and find you? Haul you back to Arrow House? Was that what you wanted now? you thought to yourself as the tips of your fingers brushed over the brassy handle.

Anything would be better than this, you snatched your hand away as your welling eyes and slow steps plodded you back to your spot by the window you had set up camp for the past week.

Your new home. Your new life. A small bricked cottage by the white cliffs of Dover, a large garden for Elsie to play in, a crackling fire for you and your daughter to curl up to on long winter nights. Far from Birmingham, far from the fog and soot, far from your husband and his raging paranoia. It was everything you had hoped it would be. And yet, you still longed for him. Still dreamed of him. Was he dreaming of you?

"I'm sorry" you clutched your wedding band looped through the chain around your neck. The binding gold ring you had once expelled to the small dish on your vanity, now permanently settled against your heart as you spent your days dwelling in regret.

For guilt had become your closest companion in the past weeks, a companion that would join you in the evenings when your daughter lay sound in her bed, and you knocked back the rapidly dwindling bottle of whiskey stuffed behind the frilly pillow on the bay window as you gazed out at the waves, mind drifting to Tommy.

Was it the empty void of Tommy's paranoia no longer filling your days that had you regretting your choice? Or was it Elsie's constant questions about the whereabouts of her father that had you wishing you could turn back the clocks of time, to forgive and forget? your mind plagued you as the sacrifices you were willing to make as a mother if it meant making your daughter happy seeped into your thoughts. After all, he was only trying to keep you safe, wasn't he?

"Y/N?" a voice and the creak of your front door opening drifted to you as the detective that had arranged your witness protection strode through.

"You should be keeping this shut" he shoved his raised gun back into its holster with a disappointed huff, thumbling with the rickety lock as your frowning face approached him.

Why did he have his gun raised? Tommy was in jail. You was safe, wasn't you? you stepped forward with a head full of concerning questions when Elsie came running down the stairs.

" Daddy!" your six-year-old screeched, mistaking the gravelly voice for her fathers as she came to a stumbling stop at the bottom of the stairs.

" Hello Elsie, look what I found for you" he bent down to her small frame, handing her a newly purchased pony, locks wrapped in a red ribbon.

" Elsie" you nodded to her with a stern face to thank the gentlemen as her sulking lips and swaying legs quietly accepted the horse.

" Thank you" she sniffed, turning the poor replacement for the one Tommy had first brought her in her hand as her pleading eyes looked up at you to let her leave.

" Go on" you let her go, hands threading through the ends of her locks as she hurried back upstairs with another slam to her door.

" She'll adjust" the officer guided you to the kitchen clearing his throat, deciding not to put another dousing of stress into your already difficult day with the news of Tommy's release.

" Tea?" he asked, watching you fall into your spot by the window with a passing nod of your head.

With a fresh brew of Earl Grey cupped within your palms, you scooted your feet back as the detective settled himself opposite you on the wooden bench.

" How are you?" his questions tore your from the bottom of the garden and the swinging gate, toing and froing.

Tommy, your heart jumped with muddled emotions of both fear and relief that he'd found you as a gust of wind battered against the window, and you slouched back into your seat with disappointment.

" Fine" you absently responded, gaze drifting over the unkempt grass outside, looping your necklace tightly around your finger as the muffling chatter from the officer continued.

You could be as cold as him, as callous as him, you tried to convince yourself that you possessed the same darkness as your husband, that you could ignore his misgivings if it meant hushing the sounds of codependency you still shared with him.

" So, how about it?" the detective's voice drifted back into your preoccupied thoughts as his heavy hand cupped your knee.

" Sorry?" you scrambled to understand what you had missed as you pulled your cardigan around your body, shielding yourself from his roaming eyes your absent mind had let go unnoticed.

" Take you out, so you can let your hair down?" he sent you a playful smile, lips curled around the warm mug of tea as your scrunching brow and his misplaced affections had you rising to your feet with a fumbling cascade of apologies.

" I'm sorry, I'm just...I don't think, I don't think I'll be in the mood" you politely refused his offer, suddenly feeling vulnerable, suddenly desperate for your husband's overbearing protectiveness as the officer stalked towards you.

" Maybe when I pop by next time then?" he smiled, brushing a lock of hair from your flinching face as you stepped back, feeling like you had given the wrong impression after the countless times you had welcomed him into your new home, the countless times he had made the long journey from the midlands to check on your safety you accepted feeling indebted to him.

" M-hm" you wordlessly replied as you slipped behind the kitchen table to the front door, hoping he'd get the hint and follow you out.

" Take care Y/N, and lock that door" he squeezed your arm with a wink, fingers waving to Elsie stood at the top of the stairs with her father's infamous Shelby scowl staring him down.

Pulling his coat around him from the icy winds, he came to a stop along the cobbled path, mumbling his appetite for you as he turned to see you stood by your open door, only your cardi shielding you from the bitter cold and the thin nightie underneath.

" Pretty little thing, ain't you just" he turned back to his car with a pleased smile as his partner raced towards him.

" Boss! Boss, there's a road block that's causing chaos down by the turning" he breathlessly informed the seasoned officer as he clutched onto the wooden fencing.

"I've had a Shepard ranting and raving for me to do something for the past thirty minutes, Sir " the young officer looked up at the creasing brow of his superior, watching him walk to his waiting car with a shake of his head. "Sir?"

" Not our district, son" he slipped into his car turning the ignition, tires rolling past your coastal cottage to the bend in the path and said road block with a disgruntled huff at the sight in front of him.

" Fucking gypsies" his fingers tightened around the wheel, eyes honing in on the empty wagon abandoned in the middle of the road and the Shepard's failing attempts to keep control of his herd as his dogs snapping jaw barked at the wooden block in the road, when a tap to his window and a grinning stout man with thumbs hooked under the suspenders of his trousers appeared outside of his car.

" Top of the morning to you, officer"

"The fresh air will do you good. Do us both good" your attempts to convince your child quickly fell short as you marched along the frosty ground in the freezing temperatures that came with living by the sea.

" Can we go home now?" she looked up at you with wind-nipped cheeks and a reddened nose as you battled with the bagful of shopping between your numbing fingers.

" I just need to pop into the corner shop..." you were cut off by your daughter coming to a scowling stop and a stomp of her foot as she pulled her mittened hand from yours.

" Back to Daddy, back to Birmingham Mummy!" she shuffled her feet against the icy cement, doe eyes pulling at the withering strings of your heart as she looked up at you.

" Elsie..." you sighed, crouching down to her as you adjusted your poor attempt at a knitted wooly hat over her ears, clueless on what to say, knowing she was too young to understand the complexities of her parents' relationship, and the gruesome things her father had done in the name of love. " Darling, I..."

" Mrs Shelby, I thought it was you. Didn't I tell you Mildred, I wasn't seeing things" the nattering of an elderly lady accompanied by her friend walking arm in arm shuffled towards you along the slippery ground as you bolted up with widening eyes, head snapping over your shoulder to see the last person you wished to see approaching you.

"Just last week, I was certain I saw you down by the bakery" she came to a stop in front of you, gleaming eyes patiently waiting for your response.

" Mrs Cross" you pulled your daughter into your body as the woman who was known as Small Heath's biggest gossiper, just so happened to be in the same hamlet in the same godforsaken freezing ends of England at the same time as you smiled to you and your daughter.

" What are...are you here on holiday?" you swallowed back your mounting panic, desperately trying to shroud your nerves with a pleasant smile of surprise.

" Goodness no, not in this weather" her brow furrowed at the pointy icicles hanging over head as she adjusted her fur coat around her frail body.

"A bereavement in the family" she clarified when questions about your unexpected appearance in Dover spilled from her inquisitive mind.

" And you?" her glistening eyes peaked with curiosity, eager for a new topic of conversation for her and her friend to natter over during their afternoon tea.

" Just a small getaway" you lied, keeping things brief as you clutched the bag of potatoes and parsnips for the soup you envisioned warming your shivering bones in your hand, knowing too well how quickly anything that sounded untoward would travel back to Birmingham at the speed of light if you let your tongue slip.

" Some much needed family time together, hm?" her observing eyes scanned behind you, expecting to see your husband accompanying you on said getaway.

" Yes, just the three of us" you lied for a second time through eager smiles at the blissful image of a happy family spending time in a quaint cottage by the coast you hoped the nosey resident of your hometown envisioned as your daughter's head darted up at you with a frown of confusion.

" How lovely" her attentions drifted to your daughter's eyes cast down in a sorrowful gaze at the slippery pavement and the lone strand of graze stuck beneath the sheath of ice that covered it. " Is that not so, Miss Elsie?"

" I want to go home" your daughter sniffled her response, while your fingers squeezed tightly around the corded bag in your hand as your heart began to rapidly thud against your chest at the gossiping woman's questions that could worm out the real reason why you was currently in the small deserted village if the unfiltered honesty of your child elaborated.

" Oh sweet child, you've not missed out on anything, my dear. Just last week I sent a postcard back with news from my end. And my neighbour Ethel diligently informed me that our little town is the same as it has always been" she informed your child with a gentle pinch on her plump cheek as her words hurtled a thousand worries to you.

Did she tell her gossiping conspirator that she had seen you? Had news gotten back to Tommy about your whereabouts? you began to panic as a ball of unease settled in your stomach, when your taunting mind reminded you of your sentiments that morning with one last question. But isn't that what you wanted, him to come find you?

"It was lovely seeing you Mrs Cross, but we must be off. Goodbye" you sharply turned on your heel, leaving your muddled emotions with the elderly duo curiously watching you scurry away with your child's dragging feet behind you.

" Strange Mildred" the old lady's eyes narrowed in on you slipping behind the cobbled wall of the corner shop before turning back to her friend with a knitted brow.

" What is, dear?" her shivering companion queried as she watched her baring along the slippery ground.

" Where is, Mr Shelby?"

With your daughter tucked safely asleep in her bed, you wrapped the ties of your dressing gown around your body, padding to your bedroom window and the flickering candle sat on top of the windowsill as you waited for the reassuring presence of the cop car that would roll past your home every night.

" Slowly" your husband commanded the detective as he sat behind the driver's seat of the unmarked car with the barrel of his gun pointed to the side of the officer's head.

"We wouldn't want to give her a fright, now would we?" Tommy's smile contorted into a malicious smirk as they slowly approached your house, the frightening scene shielded by the dark confides of the car and cloudy night skies.

" Well would you look at that. There she is. My wife" Tommy's eyes darted to you stood at the window as a sigh of relief left his throat upon seeing you after weeks of waiting. Heart momentarily overcome with satisfaction, with love, before his anger for your daring actions shrouded the moment.

" Go on, flash the lights. You're scaring her" Tommy demanded, scooting forward in the leather-padded seat upon seeing your head dart up and down the lonesome road in a panic as his gun burrowed into the quivering man's skull.

With the blinking confirmation of the headlights reassuring you of your safety, you sent a short wave of gratitude as your nightie fell open, revealing your thin slip underneath that had the detective snap his head away, nervously clearing his throat.

" You enjoy watching my wife, you fucking perv, eh?" Tommy's anger snapped in the mumbling man's ear as the officer scooted in his seat away from the exposed sight of you.

" Just doing as I'm told" he nervously darted his shifted gaze to the rear-view mirror and the darkened reflection of Tommy sat behind him, eyes shadowed by his peaked cap and the lies his searing stare were reading through. Lies that only confirmed his need to protect you, to keep you safe.

" Go" Tommy ordered him with a nod of his head to the road ahead of them as you blew out the burning candle before returning to the warmth of your lonely bed. Oblivious of who was behind the wheel of your nightly patrol and the man accompanying him.

"Please" the officer pleaded for his life to the sound of the rumbling wheels coming to a steady stop along the gritted path as Tommy's reaching hand pulled the key from the ignition.

" Sorry officer, threes a crowd" he swiftly pulled his cap from his head, slicing the shining blade across the man's throat. Inflicting a bloody gurgling death on the detective until he succumbed to the liters of blood pooling in his lap and lifelessly fell forward onto the wheel.

Crimson stained gloves pinched around the cigarette in his hand, Tommy's long coated frame stood in front of the rear headlights of the abandoned car as a cloud of smoke parted in front of his eyes to the emerging sight of the picturesque cottage you and your daughter slept peacefully inside of.

" Sweet dreams, my darlings"

Next Part

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