#basks in red sunlight

[papayainsectorone]

Pregame Paddock Entertainment.

summary: what starts as playful jealousy simmers into something hotter, dirtier, and undeniably possessive. a little tension. a little show.

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, friends-to-lovers, smut, public sex (semi), jealousy, possessiveness (playful), oral sex (f receiving), dom-ish lando

word count: 2.5k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

The paddock hums with its usual chaos—cameras clicking in rapid bursts, pit crews weaving between garages, lanyards swinging with purpose. Nothing’s changed, not really. Same crowd. Same noise. Same familiar rhythm of race weekend life.

But you feel different.

You’re still playing your usual part—half a step behind Lando, fingers curled around a cold bottle of water, sunglasses perched high on your nose. You smile when people greet you, laugh at the right moments, pluck fruit from the McLaren snack table without guilt. To everyone else, you’re still just his best friend. The girl who’s always around. The one who knows the engineers by name and knows better than to post from the garage.

But underneath it all, there’s a quiet hum in your chest. A steady, simmering confidence. Because you know something no one else does.

And it’s not guilt. It’s not nerves. It’s not even about hiding it. It’s just... yours. You wear it like a secret laced into your skin: the kind of knowing that adds a little extra sway to your hips and a slight smirk when Lando’s hand brushes a little too close to your lower back on the walk in.

You’re still basking in that quiet heat when Charles finds you.

“There she is,” he says, strolling over like the air bends for him. He’s in Ferrari red, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy like he hasn’t stopped since morning. God, he’s unreal—sunlight catching on his jaw, that accent already waiting to ruin you.

You smirk. “Already looking for me? Race day flirting starting early?”

He laughs, low and amused, glancing you over. “You look different today. Glowy.” His tone is playful, but his eyes search your face like he’s trying to place the change. “Something good happen?”

You raise your brows, feigning innocence. “Maybe it’s just the lighting.”

Charles narrows his eyes, like he knows there’s more to it. Because of course he does. You’ve been trading barbs and glances for months now, both of you too charming for your own good, too smart to let it go anywhere—except for that one night, the post-race blur where champagne turned to tequila and tequila turned into you pressed against a bar stool with his lips on yours.

It hadn’t gone further. Not really. But he remembers. And so do you.

Now, he steps just a little closer, enough for his voice to drop. “You’re walking around like you’ve got secrets.”

You grin. “Maybe I do.”

A beat passes between you, heavy with heat and things left unsaid.

Then Lando calls your name from behind, laughing about something you didn’t hear. You turn your head toward him, and just for a second, Charles follows your gaze—and the way Lando’s eyes stay on you a moment too long.

Charles looks back at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

He leans in a little, that easy grin on his face. “If it’s the lighting, I want some of it.”

You laugh, the sound instinctive, effortless. You swat his arm like always—light, playful, maybe lingering a second too long. But even before you glance beside you, you feel the shift.

Lando hasn’t said a word.

No quick-witted jab. No teasing smirk. Just silence. Stillness.

You turn your head, and sure enough—he’s watching. Not glaring. Not even frowning. Just... quiet. His jaw’s set tighter than usual, brows faintly drawn, like he’s working out a calculation in his head he doesn’t particularly like the result of.

And that feels different, too.

Charles doesn’t notice. Or he does, and he plays through it anyway, cool as ever. He shifts his weight against the wall like he belongs in a photoshoot, casually hot in a way he’s never had to try for. His eyes flick back to you.

“There’s a party Sunday night,” he says, his voice velvet-wrapped in that maddening Monaco-French lilt. “I’d love it if you came.”

The corner of your mouth quirks before you can stop it. “You know I love a good party.”

You don’t even think twice as you glance over your shoulder. “Lando, you coming?”

“Yeah.” His reply is immediate, automatic. “Of course. I was actually gonna ask you about it.”

But his tone—flat, a hair too precise—gives him away. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to be sharp if you know how to listen. And you do.

Charles doesn’t seem to hear it. Or chooses not to. He flashes that signature grin, gives you a two-finger salute, and disappears into the paddock like nothing about the moment just shifted.

Lando’s eyes follow him until he rounds the corner. His jaw flexes once. Twice.

The walk across the paddock isn’t unusual. You and Lando side by side, slipping through clusters of people calling out greetings, dodging a few cameras, pausing to talk to someone from Red Bull you only sort of know. It’s familiar—routine, even—but something’s off.

Not in a dramatic way. Just... quieter.

Lando’s usually running commentary, sarcasm, muttered jokes, snide impressions of other drivers is conspicuously missing. Instead, he walks with his hands in his pockets, gaze distant, mouth drawn in thought. Not sulking, just... somewhere else.

You figure it’s paddock fatigue. Or maybe pre-race mode. You’ve seen it before. No big deal. That’s what you tell yourself.

But the energy sticks to you, follows you both into the McLaren motorhome. You make your way through the familiar halls until you’re finally inside his driver room. He opens the door for you, lets you step in first, then quietly shuts it behind him.

You spin around and lean against the tiny table, arms crossed loosely. “Alright, what’s with the broody silence? You’ve gone full tortured poet on me.”

Lando snorts. “Apparently Leclerc’s hotter than me. Tough break.”

You laugh. “Oh, my poor jealous baby.”

He scoffs, arms folded now, shoulder pressed to the door like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You and Charles were basically eye-fucking in the paddock.”

You blink. “We’ve always been flirty. That’s just Charles.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I remember your definition of ‘flirty’ from that post-race party last year.”

You smirk, amused. “Oh, you mean the one drunk kiss in the dark corner of a club while you were fucking that girl in the bathroom?”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Still. I had plans to ask you to the party Saturday. But I figured lover boy with the accent beat me to it.”

You raise a brow. “My type now, is he?”

“Well, yeah,” Lando says, eyes flicking over you, then back to the floor. “He’s got the hair. The voice. That whole French Riviera romance novel vibe.”

You snort again. “You’re actually jealous.”

“I’m just saying,” he sighs, finally pushing off the door and walking toward you, “this friends-with-benefits thing? I like it. Like... a lot.”

You watch him quietly now, curiosity blooming under your grin.

He runs a hand through his curls, frustrated. “And yeah, the sex is insane, but also—God, I don’t want you swapping me out for some Ferrari upgrade.”

Your laugh is immediate and sharp. “Lando. You absolute twat.”

He stops in front of you, grinning despite himself, but there’s something in his eyes—something he’s not trying to hide anymore. Lust.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly how hot this makes you.”

You pretend to think. “Hmm. Jealous Norris is kinda sexy. Might be my type after all.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

You giggle, hand resting on his chest. “Yeah, but I’m your worst.”

“You flirting with Leclerc just to mess with me?”

“Maybe I will from now on” You grin. “But I’m not in the mood to let you watch me fuck someone else either.”

He inhales sharply—caught between a laugh and something deeper.

And before he can speak, you kiss him. Slow. Teasing. Sure.

When you pull back, your lips hover a breath from his. “At least not yet.”

Lando stares at you, stunned for a beat, then lets out a groan-laugh. “You’re evil.”

You beam. “You love it.”

He leans in again. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “Way too much.”

“Maybe i should remind you who you´re leaving the paddock with.”

He doesn’t say more than that—just surges forward and kisses you like he’s been holding back. It’s sharp and possessive, all tongue and heat. You barely register the click of the door lock sliding shut until his hands are on your hips, guiding you back step by step.

You laugh breathlessly when the backs of your thighs hit the narrow bench. “Seriously? Here?”

Lando’s already leaning in, eyes alight with smug mischief. “Charles’ motorhome is right across the path.”

You blink. “You’re seriously serious?” But you’re laughing, even as your pulse kicks.

“Window’s open too.” He tilts his head toward it, voice deliciously low. “Thought you liked a little excitement.”

You open your mouth to retort—something sarcastic and mildly threatening—but you never get the chance. He kisses you again before words can come, and this time it’s filthier. Slower. Deeper. Like he’s tasting something he missed.

Clothes get tugged away in messy, impatient layers. Your top is rucked up to your ribs, and his hands are everywhere—skimming your sides, cupping your breasts, fingers dipping just low enough to make you twitch.

By the time he sinks to his knees, you're already breathless.

He glances up at you through thick lashes, the corner of his mouth lifting into a knowing grin. “You said you like parties,” he murmurs, parting your thighs with deliberate ease.

“Lando—” your voice stumbles somewhere between warning and begging.

“Shh.” His breath ghosts over your skin. “Be a good girl and scream.”

Then his mouth is on you—hot and slow, tongue flicking in maddening patterns that make your head drop back against the wall with a thud. He licks you like he’s savoring something sweet, teasing your clit with just enough pressure to keep you teetering on the edge without giving in.

Your moans come out muffled, trapped behind your hand as you press your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a scene. But it’s hard to be quiet when his curls are brushing your thighs and he’s humming against you like he’s got a favorite song playing in his head.

Your fingers grip his hair, tugging reflexively as he flattens his tongue and rolls it, again and again, right there.

“Fuck—Lando,” you gasp, hips jumping beneath his hold.

He pulls back just far enough to look up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening. “Little louder, yeah? Let them hear.”

You manage a breathless glare, but it falters when he presses two fingers into you and sucks at your clit at the same time. Your gasp escapes unfiltered—loud, desperate, your head tipping back, chest heaving with each breath.

“Good girl,” he mutters, almost reverently, but there’s mischief in it too.

By the time he stands, you’re trembling, your knees weak from trying to keep it together. He doesn’t gloat—not really. Just slides his briefs down, eyes locked on your eyes as he guides himself to your entrance.

And when he sinks in—slow and deep, hips slotting against yours with a delicious press—you swear the whole motorhome tilts.

It knocks the breath out of you. You hold onto his shoulders as he starts to move deep, smooth strokes that build and build and build. One of his hands grips your thigh while the other cups your jaw, keeping your gaze on him like he wants you to see how badly you’re unraveling for him.

“Still thinking about Charles?” Lando mutters, voice low and cocky, lips brushing your ear as his hips snap harder, deeper.

You laugh—sharp, breathless—but it stutters into a moan when he shifts just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

“Didn’t think so,” he grits, and the smugness in his tone is nearly drowned out by the sound you make in response.

You claw at his back, nails dragging just enough to make him hiss, your breath catching as pleasure coils tight in your belly. The rhythm of his thrusts gets rougher, more erratic, like he’s chasing it too, both of you right on the edge.

“Fuck—Lando, I’m—”

“I know,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, voice cracking with how close he is. “Come on, baby. Come for me.”

And you do—body arching, thighs shaking, the kind of release that makes your vision white out at the edges. You bite your lip hard to keep from yelling his name, but the sound still slips out, raw and broken.

Lando’s not far behind. He swears under his breath, hips grinding deep one last time before he stills, groaning your name like a secret slipping past his teeth. His fingers tighten at your waist as he pulses inside you, head dropping to your shoulder, breath hot and fast against your skin.

You both stay like that for a moment sweaty, breathless, tangled.

Then he lifts his head, smirks down at you, and says, “Still think he’s hotter than me?”

You snort. “You’re insufferable.”

He's calmer now. Sweaty, flushed, but calmer. He’s pulled his fireproofs halfway back up and is hunched over on the bench beside you, elbows on knees, hands running through his hair like he’s trying to cool himself off or gather the pieces of his sanity. Maybe both.

You nudge his bare arm with your knee. “You good?”

He chuckles, breath still slightly uneven. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect to get all—” he waves his hand vaguely in the air “—possessive like that. Bit of a dick move.”

You arch an eyebrow. “A bit?”

He laughs, but then turns to look at you properly. “I’m serious. I’m not actually mad about Charles. He’s a good guy. And if you wanted to—” he shrugs “—y’know. Go there. That’d be completely fine. Your call.”

You stare at him.

“Oh, yeah?” you say, voice sweet. “That why you had to make me come so hard half the paddock probably heard it?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t deny it. Just smirks, smug and lazy, eyes flicking down your body like he’s reliving it. “You were mine first.”

You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder, but you're grinning. “You’re so annoying.”

He beams. “Yeah, but I’m right.”

A beat passes. You both sit there in the comfortable aftermath, heartbeat finally leveling out, skin cooling. Then you glance at the still-open window and groan. “God, I hope this is still a secret.”

He snorts and stands, pulling his suit up fully now. “It will be.”

You raise a brow.

“I’ll be subtle,” he adds, grinning like he absolutely will not be.

He bends down and kisses your cheek, soft and lingering. “Wish me luck.”

“Go be fast,” you mutter, still catching your breath.

He’s out the door before you can say anything else.

tag list: @lifesass @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0

[floralpools]

Bewitched.

Warnings: Minors dni, smut, oral, cunnilingus, unprotected, fluff, some violence, biting

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Witch reader

Summary: You're a witch with a specific skill set, one that has intrigued a certain hybrid.

Word count: 2.7k

...

Voodoo. Magic. Impulse. Obsession.

She was his newest fascination.

Klaus heard her laughter cracking through the walls of the barren bar before it cut short. He observed the sunlight blazing across her poorly parked car. His lips slanted in mild amusement. He told himself, that’s all it was, all she was. Mild amusement for an immortal. Though, something felt different.

He strutted into the place, head hung high as he scanned the bare vicinity. His eyes halted on a man behind the bar, rinsing glass cups. The bartender's eyes adverted from Klaus, the second he caught his stare. The man's nerves were duly noted as Klaus approached him.

“I’ll have a glass of your finest red,” Klaus spoke artfully, with a fake smile plastered on his face. The worker shuddered. “Ug- we’re not serving right now.”

“No worries mate,” his mellifluous voice paused. “The red I fancy isn’t something I’d find on your menu.” The man's gaze shot up to Klaus’s. His lips trembled as Klaus continued his jest. “Unless you intend to provide me with a bite, I suggest you tell me where she’s hidden.” Klaus’s threat echoed through the building, till silence took its place.

Suddenly, the sound of a back door, opening and slamming shut jolted Klaus away from the bartender. He instantly raced to the door, ripping it open. He watched as her frame scattered into her rusted car. He growled. There was no way he'd let her escape once again...

Your body was convulsing with anxiety. Who were you to know a little magic truce with the “other side,” would have a certain hybrid on your front doorstep. It didn’t help when you levitated everything in your apartment at him, including your freshly made spaghetti with bolognese. It was to be expected, that would piss him off...

Yanking the car door shut, you forced the key in and started the engine.

“Where are we headed this time darling?”

“Ahhh!” You screamed, snapping your head to the uninvited passenger. Klaus sat leisurely beside you, and you swear your life flashed before your eyes. “I must say, I enjoyed our time in Chicago. Perhaps San Fran may be the next best thing, love.” His smug face adorned your features, absorbing the way your face contorted in both fear and frustration.

“Jesus,” you huff, and Klaus’s smirk grows. “As much as I love the idea, somehow becoming your personal chauffeur isn’t that appealing.” Klaus chuckles lowly, leaning in, more and more.

“Well, if you hadn’t decided to run off, you crafty little thing," he drawls sweetly, "We wouldn’t have the pleasure.”

“If you weren’t trying to kill me, maybe I’d stick around.” Klaus’s brows twist like he's appalled by your words. “Who said I was interested in killing you?”

“You- I- then, what do you want?” You stammer. Klaus went quiet. You watched as his expression goes blank, before he acts as though he was in deep thought. Then, his mouth gaped in 'awe,' as if the answer suddenly came to him. “Your talents of course.”

“My talents.” You repeat, baffled.

“Yes, do keep up, my dear.”

“Why? You could have any witch at your disposal, at a moment's notice.”

The corner of his lips elevate once more. “I’m flattered.”

He’s become so close now, you feel his breath, and you try not to shiver as it grazes your neck. He, on the other hand, basks in your scent.

“But, unlike my other witches, you have a gift,” he muses. “Your connection with the dead is something to behold, and something I crave.”

After a prolonged silence, you speak. “If I help you with whatever," you move further into your seat, "When it comes to an end, you’ll let me walk away, unscathed?” Your brow quirks, and with every fibre of your being, you manage to maintain eye contact. “Yes, you have my word.” Klaus’s expression went stoic, holding an unflinching seriousness that made your heart rate stutter. And strangely, you knew you could trust him.

That's how you ended up as his lackey. For the past 5 weeks, you were at his beck and call as he tormented humans, werewolves, and vampires alike.

Like any other day, your conscious is eating away at you, as you call upon another ancestor of those he plagues. Today though, you finally broke. He had been cruelly punishing a guy for hours, as you questioned his late brother through the veil.

“That’s enough!” Klaus’s eyes dart to yours, and his angry appearance softens. Instinctively, he grips your forearm and drags you out of the motel room.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

“What's wrong is that I’m tired, and his brother is telling me jack shit about those ‘hunters.’” You huff, closing your eyes.

Klaus firmly presses himself stock-still, resisting every urge that wishes to devour you, as you naively allow him to hold you so close, let your guard down, and close your eyes. Such an urge that has only worsened, and become insatiable since you started your venture together…

“Love, why don’t you grab a bite from the cafe across the street, while I fill up the car's tank?” He says heartfeltly, "That way we both can have a break."

Your eyes flutter open, and you nearly tremble at the gentle look that flickers in his gaze. However, his body language, which clutches you tightly, suggests he is anything but. “Okay.”

After five minutes alone in a booth, you gather up the last of the courage you were trying to dispel. Now, heading back to the rented room, to release the hostage. Stupid, very stupid, you think. But you can’t help it.

When you enter the room, the door slowly creaks shut, and shadows engulf you. It’s too quiet, and you can’t see the hostage. Unease fills your system, and you begin to regret this decision. That impending regret soon became alarms going off, when the captive grabs your torso, roughly caging your arms. His grip is inescapable, and when you try to scream, his free hand covers your mouth.

“You fucking bitch,” he murmurs with disgust, and you wince. “How about I leave you bleeding out here, all laid out for you bloodthirsty master.” The man crackles with humourless laughter. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

While his venomous words made you cower, you relentlessly struggle against him, fighting with all that you could muster. Unfortunately, your captor was a werewolf, and far too strong for you to at least break free, to cast a spell.

He muffles Klaus’s name with his palm, and tears prick your eyes. Even after the numerous times you’d bicker and argue, he was still the first person who came to mind, who you hopelessly called out to.

The man began lifting your body towards the door, urgently turning the knob. Just as the outside light cuts into your vision, you're wrenched from him, pulled into a powerful embrace. With ease, Klaus’s arms carry you away, swiftly placing you in the backseat of your car, locked safely inside.

His figure then disappears just as quickly, and you hear your aggressor's voice wail in pain. Shaking, you curl over yourself, covering both ears pathetically.

After what feels like an eternity, two large hands cup your tear-stained cheeks, bringing you out of your shell. He quiets you, as he slides inside the vehicle, smoothly pulling you onto his lap. One of his arms supports your back, while the other strokes your hair. Calming you down, he mutters things like: 'Everything’s fine now love,' 'I’m here,' 'I’ll take care of you...'

“I’ve never felt so helpless,” you mumble.

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you could've done to stop a werewolf, especially when a full moon draws near,” he soothes. You press your cheek further into his broad chest. “Though, I wish you would’ve just listened to me for once, and stayed put.”

You shoot your head up, adjusting to face him, close enough that your noses nearly meet. “If I listened to you, I’d probably be dead by now.”

“Oh really?” He grins, eyes creasing, “How so?”

“Well, for one, that time you ordered me to question that vampire chick's dead boyfriend about his affair, right in front of her.” Klaus guffaws. “You're laughing, but she would've bit my head off.”

“She wouldn’t have,” he denies, still chuckling.

“Yes, she would have Klaus.” You start to laugh too.

“You know, I wouldn’t have let her.” His face deadpans, “Like I didn’t let our were-friend hurt you," he voices, airily. "I gave you my word.”

“Yes, of course, your word.” You giggle nervously, glancing at the hand currently bracing your thigh, gliding its thumb back and forth. “It’s not all that I’ve given you.”

You look up and are met with a mysterious look this time. Your brows furrow in confusion. He smiles dreamily, “Your skills as a witch truly know no bounds.”

“The hell are you talking about now?” You retort, making Klaus laugh loudly.

“I’m talking about your spell," he whispers. "The one that has bewitched me.”

You freeze, heart dropping.

“You don’t mean that...” Your sentence trails off as Klaus stares through you.

He’s so unpredictable, that a part of you believes he's most likely playing some sick game. But, there was also a possibility that he meant it, and all the hidden desires, for your unconventional boss, were about to bubble to the surface.

“I've meant every word, from the moment I met you, when you got the better of me.” He smirks, breath fanning your face. “Witchcraft.”

Then his lips take yours, slow at first, but the entanglement shortly turns desperate. Slightly hesitant, you grind on him, eager to pull him closer. He groans, and his hands enthusiastically roam your waist and back, beckoning you nearer.

Moving in a frenzy, as your fingers tangle in his locks, you swing your leg to straddle him. He moans your name in between kisses, and palms your ass.

Continuously rolling your body into him, makes you feel his arousal, causing a whine to escape. When your lips break apart, his mouth runs down your jaw, to your neck. You gasp, but you don’t stop him. He audibly tells you how much he’s enjoying himself, and you squeeze your thighs over his.

“I can only imagine how sinful you taste here darling.” He remarks as his hand slides over your core, and you whimper. “How about you let me try?” He hums politely. “You know you want me to.”

“No,” you huff.

“No?” His voice rises questioningly, and a hand gropes your chest, while the other grips your chin, tilting your head down to peer into his eyes. “Not here,” you finish, and he smirks wildly.

“Then, I’ll just have to get us a private room?” He purrs seductively into you ear, making you shiver. “One that is, unoccupied,” he rolls his tongue, and you shiver again at the double meaning behind his words. You don’t even want to think about what he did to your assailant…

“Please,” you sigh into a kiss, pecking his lips, which seems to surprise Klaus momentarily. His surprise briskly turns into a beaming smile. “To be continued,” he utters before shifting you off him, and rushing out the car.

Not long after, Klaus reappears with that same childlike cheer gracing his features. Jerking the door open, he outstretches his hand like a gentleman. You accept it, and his palm completely envelops yours. He tugs you to his hip, and nibbles on your earlobe while you walk to a random room.

As soon as the door locks behind you, he presses himself against your backside. “Now, how about that taste?” He mutters while lifting your hair to kiss your nape, and rubbing himself against you. You press closer, before spinning around to enclose your mouth on his again. He groans into your mouth approvingly, backing your body toward the queen-size bed.

His lips free yours when your back legs hit the edge, and you fall backwards with a yelp. His hands soon make work of your lower half, removing your clothes as he kneels infront of your cunt. You inhale deeply, as cool air hits your bare body.

He goes silent, so you raise your head to peek at him. Klaus ogles you heatedly, like the predator he is. “Lovely,” he sing-songs.

He abruptly grips your thighs and heaves your core to his mouth, so close, his breath warms your skin. “K-Klaus.”

“Hmmm,” he hums shortly, before delving into you. You sob a cry of shock. His tongue expertly runs over your folds, sucking the nub with such a slow deliberation, like he can’t decide how he wishes to take you at first, as if he’s imagined every which way he could.

You whine, motioning him to make his choice, bucking up, feeling his stubble scratch you. Then he grows aggressive, hungrily lapping your clit, over and over, until he ushers out your orgasm.

When your lengthy climax finishes, he moves to sigh pleasantly into the crook of your neck. “You’re incredible,” he emits with a chant of your name, thoroughly relaxing your shaking form.

“Fuck, take off your clothes,” you beg. He immediately abides by your command, tearing off his shirt and pants. You grab his necklaces to haul his lips to yours. You savour every inch of yourself on his tongue, and he relishes in how dirty the act is.

“There’s only so much I can do before dawn, and it won't nearly be enough to satisfy my hunger for you.” His poetic words erupt something within. You exhale, “It seems you’re going to break your promise then.”

He stills at your words, befuddled. You elaborate, “There’s no way I’m coming out of this unscathed.” A timid smile spreads across your face, and he almost nods in understanding, feeling a strange quiver in his chest.

Wordlessly, he pulls himself from his slacks, and you take off the last of your clothes. Suddenly feeling a little out of body, you decide to take back some control of the situation. So, you flip your positions, once again, surprising Klaus, though he allows it.

You straddle him, and lower yourself onto his thick cock. You whimper the second the tip enters, and he growls, pressing his fingertips into your hips, definitely leaving bruises.

“You’re too big,” you gasp.

“You can handle it, sweetheart,” he states mindlessly. He wraps his arms around your waist and arms, pulling you down onto him. His hips press completely into you, pushing himself inside to the hilt. A wheeze leaves your lungs as he grounds into you. “Klaus, it’s too-“

“It’s perfect,” he finishes for you. You barely have any time to adapt to his size before he begins pounding. Pleasure wracks through you, and he takes whatever control you had away. His pace is unnerving, and you utter incoherent words, while his fangs graze your neck.

“Tell me,” he groans through his panting. “Tell me you want me.” He demands, though it almost sounds like he’s begging for it. “I-I want you.” The words stumble out as his thrusts reach your center.

“More,” he just about whines.

“I want you Klaus,” you shout. “You feel so good- fuck I’ve always wanted this, you.” You ramble, egged on by him. He loves it, and you feel it in his strength. He holds you tighter, and the air abandons your body.

Feeling his leg tremble, you know he’s close. “Bite me.” His clamped-shut eyelids pop open, and his dark pupils bore into yours. You kiss him, and take his bottom lip between your teeth. “Bite me while you cum,” you command.

He gulps before taking his last few pumps into you. He moans into your neck as his teeth puncture your flesh. You cry out at the mixture of pain and pleasure that shatters you both.

After almost 10 minutes, he releases you from his firm caress and kisses the holes in your neck.

Still inside, he turns you both on your sides. You catch your breath. “How are you still hard?” You sigh in exasperation, and he chuckles breezily. “I told you, you’ve bewitched my very soul darling.” He smirks.

“This is only the beginning.”

if u liked this, check out my fic adaptation, "spellbound," on wp @ floralpools 🫶

[shiny-jr]

Hi!🇮🇳 I love your writings especially the damnation series

I was thinking about a 'Dungeon concept' where reader is a traveler/adventurer and encounter different beasts and monsters(twst boys) who want to keep reader with them.

The dungeon can have several levels with different environments and it can offer a vast area for writing. Reader explores these levels to reveal deeper parts of the twisted dungeon.

Basically a twst monster au!!

Warning: Yes, another yandere thing. Mentions of violence and blood. You have been warned.

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts.

Note: What? Shiny actually writing for a request? Shocker. It can happen! Although I'm not sure if you can consider this a request or not, but I did like the idea. You, user, are very brave for coming out and talking about a monster AU in my inbox. I think I shall call it: "Dungeons and Devotions." Anyways, yeah, like I said, you're brave for that. I know what you are.

But! Very interesting, has lots of potential, color me intrigued. So, I'll bite. I actually don't watch or partake in a lot of media with dungeon concepts, but I was obsessed with Monster High when I was younger. So, I took some inspiration from their designs and characters. I actually took the time to write this and not write for the Empyrean AU, so I hope you enjoy this. ✨ I was going to do all dorms, but this part got really long so I just left it at one, but I might be willing to do more later.

Humans are not alone.

At least, that's what the stories said. Ancient accounts tell of a time when there were others who walked the earth as well. Others that certainly were not human beings. These were beings nightmares were born from, entities that served as the inspiration for horror stories passed on for generations.

But those were just scary bed time stories and warped historical records distorted by time, were they not?

That's what you had fully believed, until you found where all those monsters went.

It happened by pure accident. One day, you had decided to go for a hike. Take a new trail, see some new sights, breathe the fresh air and bask in the warm sunlight. All was fine and dandy until you lost your way, having gone off track until you were completely lost. All it took was one wrong step and you were falling. Down, down, down you fell for what felt like hours before everything went black . . .

HEARTSLABYUL

Hell. You must have fallen so far that you landed in the depths of actual hell.

The sky, no, there was no sky here– the horizon? It was red. Blood red. Even when you looked up from where you had fallen, there was no sign of a gaping hole through which you had tumbled through. Wherever you were was so deep into the earth, that you could not even make out a ceiling.

Around you were crooked trees, black like ash as they curled and bent in the oddest unnatural shapes like shadowy apparitions looming over you. There was no green on them. There was no green as far as the eye could see. Anything that looked remotely plant-like, was gray like ash, rusted brown, or different shades of red. Even the ground which you landed face first on was twisted and uneven.

That's when you were spotted by... something. Something wild and rabid, a hungry beast that sent you running, dodging branches and tripping over dense foliage as you ran for your life until you came upon an impassable wall of stone blocking your path, leaving you with nowhere to go. You were cornered. That's when the spray of blood came.

The spillage didn't even immediately register in your mind. Not until your mind, high off the fear and rush of adrenaline, recognized that you were will breathing. You were still alive. And there was a person in front of you, standing between you and starved beast that had pursued you. Barely could your mind grasp everything going on, so much was happening all at once. All you could do was blink as past the mysterious figure, you saw the beast's head slowly droop down until it hit the floor with a sickening squelch. The dismembered head fell into a puddle of its own blood and its body collapsed.

When the figure suddenly turned to you, you didn't know whether to cry tears of relief or scream in horror. Yes, this figure had saved you. Yes, their silhouette was human shaped, but they were wielding a giant axe. The haft was thin and black, almost as long as a person in height, while the blade itself was a fiery red combined with golden accents and a substance black as obsidian. The cutting edge was definitely big and sharp enough to decapitate even the grandest of beasts.

Just as you were about to thank this heroic yet terrifying stranger for saving your skin, he stepped out from the shadows and that's when the words died in your throat. Horns. He had horns. This wasn't a human.

The creature had stepped closer and gripped his mighty battle axe as if he were prepared to use it again, but he stopped when he saw you. Clearly he was just as shocked to see a thing like you just as you were stunned to see him. Thankfully, he did not behead you like he did to that beast a few seconds ago.

Finding your voice, you managed to spew useless words of warning and baseless threats for him to stay back, but he appeared to immediately realize your words were all bark and no bite. And he understood you. This being spoke like a person, frowning as he lowered his axe and commanded you to quit your pointless jabbering.

This being was red. Red like his surroundings, red like fire, red like the blood he made his enemy bleed. Horns curved atop his head, brushing past short locks of hair. Pointed ears poked past the strands, blending in with his red hair. A demon! Despite being a creature of hell, he was quite short in stature and had wide innocent eyes the color of smoke.

It was clear the demon, who politely introduced himself as Riddle, was just as intrigued as you were. Although you were still far more afraid, considering that you had seen him slay a beast. That's when Riddle told you to follow him. It wasn't a request. While you didn't trust the demon, it was either him or risk encountering another monster out here, and frankly, if you were to die, at least it would be swift if the demon chose to end you with his axe.

That's when Riddle led you past the wall into an entire city that lay deep beneath the world you knew. Humans, you learned, were not supposed to be here. They didn't do too well here where there was no real sunlight and there were dangers at every corner. There hadn't been a human down here in over centuries. For now, you would stay with him.

As it turns out, Riddle was the overlord of this domain. At first, the demon did not reveal anything, until the days passed in his castle. Something about you stirred his cold heart. Perhaps it was pity, as you were so defenseless and lost. Once he began to warm up to you, maybe won over by your ramblings of home, he began to cave to your desire for knowledge. There were seven domains in this underworld, each layered one on top of the other. He, Overlord Riddle, ruled the Heartslabyul domain with an iron fist.

Slaying mindless beasts were just one of his tasks, but as the Overlord, he went after the most dangerous kinds. However, people were not spared from his axe. Riddle would personally execute those that threatened his rule or wrecked havoc across his domain. No one was exempt, no hellish beast, no fellow demon, not even a human. Although he stated that there was no reason to execute you, as your only crime was being incapable of defending yourself and occupying the Overlord's time with rather meaningless but entertaining conversation. So, he spared you.

The Demon Overlord was certainly frightening, but, he was curious about you. It wasn't something he displayed so easily, but you could tell by the way he intensely watched you go about your day, his eyes laser-focused on your every move even though he pretended not to watch. You couldn't exactly blame him if you really were the first human down here in so long.

At first, Riddle would return with his axe stained red. However, once he realized how squeamish that would make you and how it drove you away from him, he developed the habit to return in pristine condition, without even the slightest speck on him. Although you could still guess where he had been, either condemning his enemies to death or terrifying them into submission. But with you, although overbearing, he was well-articulated and carried himself with a certain grace.

As the days added up, customs and habits were built. Such as a small little game, where you would both ask a question about each other's life and culture. If the question could stump the other person and they couldn't answer, then they would 'win.' Riddle won most of the time, as he would ask the most peculiar of questions. On occasion, he does ask some questions with such looks of wonder that you can't help but feel some sense of sympathy for him. Questions like: is the sky on the surface really blue?

As patient as he was with all your inquiries about his strange world, there was one question he never answered: How could a human get back home? If he knew the answer, he didn't show it. Each time you asked, he would become irate, and so you would drop the subject.

Throughout your time in the Demon Overlord's castle, your goal never changed: Find a way home. Riddle was simply a friend, the demon who had saved you from the maws of a hellish fiend and granted you sanctuary in his home. It was by pure accident that you learned that Riddle's opinion was quite different than yours. Sometime throughout your stay, he had become attached and developed some rather intense feelings. According to a book of monsters you discovered deep in the shelves of his personal library, demons are deeply protective of their loved ones, often subtly guarding them through quiet gestures or grand notions. Riddle was grand in his display, and it all made perfect sense now as to why he implemented a rule barring other demons from most rooms of the castle so as to not interact with you.

One day, before Riddle left the castle, he gifted you a mystical red gem with a rune engraved into it. A chill went down your spine as you recognized it vaguely. Although you didn't comprehend its exact meaning, you recognized the symbol from a book about demon courtship. If you recalled right, demons tended to inscribe runes into rare objects so their partner would have a spell protecting them and be able to carry their loved one's essence with them. The Demon Overlord hesitated for a moment once the gift was in your hand. If he wasn't already red, his flesh would've been blooming with warmth as he leaned. The kiss on your cheek was brief as the base of his horns bumped against your temple– then he left before you could even utter a single word.

That's when you knew you had to leave. Immediately. If the book you found earlier was factual, then once Riddle returned, he would not let you go. The Demon Overlord had already prevented you from leaving by confining you in his castle, isolating you from others, and purposefully retaining information from you.

The only place you could was down, down into deeper levels. Yes, it was further away from the surface and home, and you had no idea what awaited you, but if you stayed in Heartslabyul, Riddle would never allow you to leave his castle and he would no doubt send demons to search for you once he discovered you were gone. The only place he wouldn't think to look were other domains. Perhaps the Demon Overlord's gift to you would actually be of use as you searched for a way down.

[monstersholygrail]

The Mist Switch

Male Fairy x Elf fem!reader— aphrodisiac mist, dub con, nipple play, bondage (vines), clit play, tentacle penetration (vines again), voyeurism

As Elves, neither you nor your elf friend you were secretly crushing on knew just how long your prank war had been going on for. You had started it, of course, after chickening out of your attempt to kiss him and instead pushed his face into a pie.

Ever since then you two had been pranking each other every now and then whenever the mood strikes. The last prank was done by you when you put meat in his trousers and got a beast to chase him around for a bit.

Now was his time to prank you back. He had it all planned. He hired a little fairy to spray you with a magical mist that for 24 hours would turn you into the size of a fairy. Oh he’d torture you until you cracked and finally confessed your love for him.

Could he just admit he loved you too? Yes. Would he? Not when this option was so much more fun.

The little fairy flew and flew until he found you frolicking in a nearby meadow. You looked so beautiful, your soft curves glimmering in the sunlight. As he flew closer he couldn’t stop himself from imagining the way he’d suck on your hard nipples, bringing you to release from that one touch alone. Before he’d move down and stuff his face against your entrance just so he can taste how sweet you are straight from the source.

His mind was hazy with lust as he reaches you, his eyes unfocused on anything beside your gorgeous plump body. Blindly reaching into his bag of magic he sprays some mist in your face at the same time you spot him.

“What just happened?!” You ask in alarm, looking at the unknown fairy who’s staring at you like he wants to devour you.

A warm buzz begins to flood through your body. Making you tingly and aroused. Your eyes widen as you rub your thighs together for some friction. Your pussy gushing with arousal.

“W-what did you do? Who are you?” You ask breathlessly, wanting nothing more than to take this strange fairy suffocate him with your pussy.

The fairy looks at you in shock over your reaction, having no idea what went wrong. You’re not shrinking at all! He looks down at his hand and only now notices he sprayed you with the aphrodisiac mist instead of the shrinking mist! His cheeks burn red from embarrassment.

“I-I was hired to prank you with a shrinking mist but it seems as though they got mixed up,” he explains bashfully, showing you the bottle.

You internally curse your friend for hiring such a dumb fairy but also god do you wish he was here to take care of you. Your eyes fall back on the fairy… the incredibly sexy fairy. Fuck, you just needed something to ease the fire burning hot inside you and soaking your panties.

“Well you caused this so you need to take care of it. Now!” You say with a huff.

You lay in the bed of flowers, throwing your robes off recklessly. Not caring about anything other than this fairy getting you off. The fairy looks down at you in awe, all his recent fantasies coming true. He wonders if he subconsciously did this on purpose just so he could fuck you, but he wouldn’t think about that right now. Not when you need him so badly.

The fairy’s wings flutter and he’s flying down on top of you before you can change your mind. Not that you would with your need so unbearable. He lands on your soft belly and he could just melt into you, your skin is so warm and lovely. You hiss the moment he touches you, you’re so sensitive you could cum just from his little body grinding onto you.

Using his strength he picks up your breast and opens his mouth wide to suck on your hard nipples just as he imagined. You moan loudly, hips jerking in the air. The little fairy holds on tight and sucks greedily on the bud, basking in the way you writhe against the grass.

“P-please! I need more,” you beg, your mind lost to the lust that rages through you.

The fairy releases your nipple with a loud pop. He flies down to your glistening cunt, your folds all lovely and wet and waiting for him. His cock tents in his small pants, getting harder and harder the longer he touches you. Using his body he spreads your fat lips and you moan, trying to rock closer to him. He cries out, holding onto you so he doesn’t fall off.

With a bit of his own magic he commands vines close by to wrap around your arms and legs, tying you firmly you to the ground. You gasp and squirm against them, their rough caress only turning you on even more.

The fairy pulls down his pants and lines his aching cock up against your clit. He grinds into you and you both release long ragged moans. His own mind begins to cloud over and all he can focus on is giving you both the pleasure you need so bad.

Your body twitches and shakes with deep pressure of the fairy’s cock rubbing your clit so nicely. You can feel his hips snap against your core, short grunts leave you every time his balls slap against your over sensitive clit. The vines stopping you from moving with him or moving away from the unrelenting pleasure.

Yet you still have a deep rooted need to be filled to the brim and you throw your head back, the fire inside you only getting hotter without your release. Sensing what you need, the fairy uses more of his magic and a second later you jump as long thick vines slide deep inside your hot wet cunt.

The fairy and his vines work in tandem to bring you higher and higher. The fairy digs his fingers into your wide waist and ruts into you like a madman, wildly desperate to feel you come undone because of him. All while his vines plunge deep into your depths, brushing along your gummy walls and hitting you just right.

You cum with a fierce scream that echoes throughout the meadow. The fairy releases soon after you, his hot cum jolting outward and spraying all over your delicious belly.

The fairy sags against you, completely spent. The two of you lay there, your limbs still tied to the ground as you both shake with the force of your release. You can feel the heat inside you start to settle a little yet it’s still there, just waiting to ignite.

The sudden sound of a branch snapping in the distance has your head jerking up in surprise. You come face-to-face with your elf friend, a smug smirk on his lips. He crosses his arms and leans against a nearby tree. Looking up and down your plump form you can see his own eyes cloud over with lust.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He asks, pushing off the tree and heading toward you both.

[spencersmopbucket]

Fatal Attraction (1) | Paul Lahote

Pairing: Paul Lahote x Reader Summary: When you, Edward Cullen's scorned ex lover, return to Forks to answer a desperate cry for help, you don't expect fate to be easy on you. However, you certainly didn't expect to find your mate or to find that your mate is a 6'5 hunk of mortal enemy.

Part 2

For someone in your situation, you really should've been far more unpleasant than you were.

You were 104 years old. You were born in (hometown), which was very, very far from where you were now. And at this point in your life, you wandered around aimlessly, sight seeing beautiful things (many of which you'd already seen), hunting to quench a thirst you wished would just die out, and hurting.

You were hurt. You were angry. The only reason you hadn't taken to the Volturi to end yourself was because they'd want your abilities and would force you into the Guard.

You had a lover up until around two years ago.

Edward and his coven were incredible. They were the type of family you so badly wanted to be a part of. They perfectly understood each other -- protecting, cherishing, and loving each and every person in the family. You were part of it for decades, the one person to fully understand the most complex of the group.

When you'd met Edward, you were a nomad. Your bleached skin sparkled in the sunlight of the mountain top, basking in it, enjoying the warmth as it heated up the porcelain surface. But someone was near. The scent was pungent in the middle of the forest.

Linen. Old books. A faint touch of cedar. Your nostrils flared, your red eyes darting around to find the source.

He revealed himself when he was ready to.

A beautiful man with golden eyes. Bronze hair. A curious yet tense look on his face.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved. The forest was silent around you, save for the occasional whisper of the wind.

"You shouldn't be here," Edward said finally, his voice low, cautious but not unkind.

You tilted your head, studying him with equal curiosity. "Is this claimed territory?"

The man analyzed your red eyes, clearly finding that your carnivorous habits differed from his own (based on his bloodless, golden eyes.)

The man analyzed your red eyes, clearly finding that your carnivorous habits differed from his own (based on his bloodless, golden eyes).

"Not claimed," he said carefully, "but protected."

You let the words sink in, weighing his meaning. Protected. By him? By others like him?

"And you're the protector?" you asked, your voice light but edged with curiosity.

A faint smile ghosted across his face, almost reluctant. "One of them."

You hopped up onto a tree, sitting on the limb. Your booted feet swung as you studied him. You were silent for a few moments, just taking him in. Trying to make sense of him.

"If you're protecting a little town in Washington, your diet must be a bit unorthodox." You finally commented, picking at a piece of bark on the tree. "However, I already knew that. Your eyes." You noted.

Edward chuckled under his breath — a low, almost musical sound. "You're observant."

You shrugged lazily. "I have to be. Survival depends on it."

For the first time, a genuine smile broke through on his face. It was faint, but it softened him, made him look less like the wary protector and more like someone... lonely. Someone who might understand you in ways you had long ago given up hoping for.

Humming, you hopped down from the tree, slowly and curiously approaching the man. He simply looked down at you, his height greater than yours.

Extending a hand, your lips stretched over glinting teeth.

"Well, protector, I'm Name. And you are?"

For a second, he just stared at your hand — as if he wasn't used to such easy gestures, as if he didn't trust it. Then, almost hesitantly, he reached out and clasped your hand in his. His skin was like marble: cool, impossibly smooth, yet not unpleasant. Same as yours.

"Edward," he said, his voice soft but sure.

A jolt of something electric and sharp traveled up your arm at the contact — a feeling you hadn't felt in decades, maybe since you were human. Judging by the slight darkening of Edward’s eyes, he had felt it too.

You didn't pull away. Neither did he.

"Edward," you repeated, tasting the name. Your smirk deepened. "Fitting for a knight in shining armor, don't you think?"

That earned you another one of those almost-smiles — shy, fleeting, precious.

"I'm hardly a knight," he said under his breath, almost like he didn't mean for you to hear it.

You cocked your head, still not letting go of his hand. "No? And here I thought you were protecting the poor defenseless humans of Forks."

Softly letting his hand go, you stepped away.

"Alright," you cleared your throat unnecessarily. "I hardly like to intrude on other people's territory. I'll be on my way, Edward."

For a moment, he looked conflicted — as if some part of him warred against letting you leave. His golden eyes flickered, studying you with an intensity that made the cool air between you feel somehow heavier.

"You don't have to," he said suddenly, the words slipping out quicker than he seemed to intend.

You paused, brows lifting slightly in surprise.

Edward shifted his weight, almost awkwardly, a hand raking through his bronze hair. "I mean... you're not a threat. Not to us. Carlisle would want me to at least offer you... a place to rest. To be safe. If you need it."

You blinked at him, trying to read between the lines. Caution. Kindness. Curiosity. Loneliness. It was all there, laid bare even in his tightly controlled voice.

"You don't even know me," you said, your tone gentler now.

He smiled — truly smiled this time, though it was still small. "Not yet."

Your heart — what was left of it — twisted painfully in your chest. For the first time in a very long time, you felt something other than loneliness clawing at your ribs.

Hope.

And damn it, it scared you.

You forced a smirk back onto your face to mask the storm inside you. "Alright then, protector," you said, your voice light and teasing as you turned slightly, giving him a look over your shoulder. "Lead the way."

Edward hesitated for just a heartbeat — then he followed.

You and Edward were passionate. Happy. It was almost enough to ignore the fact that the love between the two of you wasn't a mating bond, and you both still had someone out there that wasn't each other.

You became a part of the family. You moved in to the house, got enrolled in school, curved your diet. For years, you had a life with the Cullen coven. You had a life with Edward.

Until the arrival of a new student. Until the arrival of her. The human pet.

The difference in his behavior was immediately evident. After the first day, he literally fled from Forks, declining your offer to join him. The first red flag.

After that, you slowly grew apart, until he finally broke your heart.

You had seen it coming. You weren’t blind. But still — nothing could’ve prepared you for the way it shattered you.

Edward didn't say much when he ended things. He barely looked you in the eye. And when he did, you saw it — the guilt, the confusion, the pull toward someone that wasn't you. It wasn't rage you felt when he left you standing there in the woods, empty and alone. It was something quieter. Colder. A grief so deep it hollowed you out from the inside.

You didn’t beg. You didn’t cry. You simply stood there, the mist curling around your ankles, and let it happen.

Let him go.

Because if you were anything, you were proud. And no matter how much you loved him, you would not fight for a heart that was already lost to someone else.

You packed your things the next night, not saying a word to the others — not even Alice, who had tried so desperately to reach you through the swirling storm inside you.

And you left Forks.

You wandered again, like you had before. Only this time, the world was duller. Colder. Not even the most beautiful sunsets or bustling cities could stitch together the broken pieces inside of you.

Two years passed.

Two years of wandering, of surviving, of refusing to fall completely apart. Until one day, a call came. A desperate plea from Carlisle.

A threat bigger than any before. An urgent need for help.

And despite everything — despite the way your chest still ached at the thought of that house, that family, that boy with the bronze hair and golden eyes — you answered.

Why was your help so important to the Cullens?

You were powerful. You had an ability, as Alice, Edward, and Jasper did.

The Volturi called it the "empathic flame." It was incredibly rare — in fact, the Kings were certain that you were the only vampire alive today that had it. That's what made you so valuable to anybody, let alone the Cullens.

You had the rare ability to manipulate and amplify another's emotions to the point where they physically manifested as flames. If focused enough, they could scorch an enemy, burning through skin and eventually destroying them. The fire wasn't just a byproduct of their anger, their hatred, or their fear — it was a direct result of your control. A unique and terrifying weapon.

At first, the power had been uncontrollable, like a spark that you couldn't quite quench. When you'd first discovered it, you'd learned the hard way: emotions weren't just fleeting feelings — they were forces you could bend, twist, and manipulate, sometimes with deadly consequences.

But it took years to learn to temper it, to refine it. Now, you could do things with it that most vampires couldn't fathom. You could turn a vampire's ferocity against them, suffocating their reckless aggression in a blanket of overwhelming fear. Or, you could use it on your own side — amplifying the calm in a battle-hardened vampire, focusing their clarity to make them nearly unstoppable.

The Cullen family had come to rely on you in ways they never expected.

You were the shield and the sword — a counterbalance to their strengths. Alice’s foresight, Edward’s reading of minds, and Jasper’s emotional control were a force to be reckoned with, but you were the wild card. A weapon that could end the battle before it even started.

Even when the Volturi had gotten wind of your ability — and they had, long before you ever left Italy — they understood just how rare you were. And just how dangerous.

That was why you had to be careful. Careful about when you used it, careful about how you used it, and careful about who you trusted. The Volturi would take your ability in an instant if they thought they could harness it for their own purposes. You knew that. You’d seen what they did to others who were "too valuable" to let go.

Stepping back into Forks felt like going against every shred of pride you had. If you weren't so empathetic, you wouldn't have. You hated it there. You hated the reminder of what had happened, how lonely you were. You hated the scent of human blood, which you'd been struggling not to turn back to.

You preferred somewhere rural. Somewhere that no one else would find you.

Of course, Carlisle had searched for you. He wouldn’t give up. He never had, and you should’ve known he wouldn’t now. The Cullens always had their way of worming their way back into your life, even when you wanted to stay gone.

But what made it worse? What made it more unbearable? The fact that you couldn’t kill Carlisle’s son. You hated him — or at least, you used to — but there was a reason why your heart still clenched when you thought about him. And that, that was the weakness you couldn’t rid yourself of.

Turning the corner onto the familiar road that led toward the house that had once been home, your thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to Edward. You could still hear the sound of his voice in your mind — the way he said your name so softly, how his lips always brushed against yours, almost too gently, as if you were something breakable.

And that... that was why you had left. Because you couldn’t stay in the same room as him. Not when everything about him made you ache with longing and resentment.

Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders. The Cullens needed your help now. An enemy was rising, and even with your power, you weren't sure what the outcome would be. But there was no backing out. Not now.

You made it to the door and raised your arm to knock. Before you could even manage, the door opened. Arms were thrown around your frame, pulling you into a crushing hug.

You immediately recognized the scent. Alice. You smiled, rolling your eyes.

"Hello to you too, Al."

Alice squeezed you tighter, her voice a melodic giggle as she pulled away just enough to look you over. "I knew you’d come back eventually," she said with that same knowing smile she always wore. "Though I didn't think it would take this long."

You rolled your eyes again, though there was a soft warmth behind it. Alice had always been the persistent one, and despite your best efforts, you had never been able to completely escape her.

"I didn't have much of a choice, did I?" you teased, your voice more playful than you'd intended. The tight knot in your chest from being back here — back in their world — loosened just slightly. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all going to be more complicated than you wanted.

Alice's grin widened, her eyes flicking to the side briefly. "Nope. But I’m so glad you’re here," she said as she stepped back, pulling you further inside.

As you crossed the threshold, the familiar smell of the Cullen house hit you — a mix of human and vampire, a blend that once felt like home. It was both comforting and suffocating.

"How’s everyone else?" you asked, trying to push down the inevitable tension that lurked beneath your calm demeanor. You couldn't ignore the pull to search for Edward, to see if he was here, to see if he’d even acknowledge your presence.

“Carlisle and Esme are in the kitchen, working out the details of the newborn army," Alice said, a flicker of concern crossing her face before it was quickly replaced with a smile. "And Edward... well, he’s been trying to act casual, but I think we both know that’s not happening.”

You fought the instinctive wince.

"Great," you muttered, your hand resting against the doorframe as your mind raced. "So, the world’s about to end and they need me, huh?"

"More or less," Alice said with a small chuckle, her eyes shining with excitement despite the gravity of the situation. "But we could really use your help. I know you’re hesitant, but..." She looked at you, really looked at you, and for the first time in a long while, her gaze softened with understanding. "We need you, you. Not just your power."

You swallowed hard, your heart clenching. "I’m not sure I can give that to you," you whispered, the words feeling like they were torn from your chest. “I’m not the person I used to be.”

Alice’s expression softened, her voice quiet. “I know. But that doesn’t mean you can’t help us. We’re all just trying to do what’s right. And... I think you’re still part of this family, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You looked at her, really looked at her, and in that moment, something deep inside you cracked. Maybe she was right. Maybe you were still a part of this strange, mismatched family, even after everything. Even with the wounds you hadn’t allowed to heal.

"Fine," you said with a sigh, the words heavy on your tongue. "I’ll help. But I can’t promise anything."

Alice beamed, her enthusiasm almost infectious. “That’s all we can ask for!” She gestured for you to follow her. "Come on, Carlisle’s been dying to see you. And... I think someone else might want to talk to you too."

Your stomach flipped. You knew exactly who she meant.

You were dragged through the house and into the kitchen, where everyone now stood.

You had to admit, the tension in your chest was loosening, if only just a little. But you were about to face them all—Carlisle, Esme, Rosalie, Emmett, Jasper, and Edward.

Carlisle was the first to spot you, his face breaking into that calm, warm smile you remembered so well. "Welcome back," he said softly, his voice kind but serious. You could see the concern in his eyes, a gentle reminder of why you were here.

You nodded, trying to keep your composure. “Thanks,” you said, meeting his gaze with a quiet understanding. You both knew why you were here, and that made things just a little more difficult.

Esme came next, her arms open wide. You didn’t hesitate this time, accepting the embrace. Her scent was familiar, like the comfort of a mother’s love that you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. "It’s so good to see you," Esme said, her voice filled with warmth. "You’ve been gone too long."

You pulled away, giving her a faint smile. "I wasn’t planning on being gone this long, but..." You trailed off, not wanting to get into the reasons why you'd stayed away. Not now. Not yet.

Rosalie, standing next to Emmett, was next to approach. Her golden eyes softened slightly when she met your gaze. “You look exactly the same,” she said, her voice steady, but there was an unmistakable warmth there. You'd always had a special connection with Rosalie. She was one of the few who understood the weight of your past, the loneliness of it all.

Before you could respond, Rosalie pulled you into a hug, her arms strong but somehow comforting. "It’s been way too long, you know?" she added, her voice muffled against your shoulder. "Alice has been driving us all insane talking about you coming back."

You chuckled softly, pulling away as Rosalie smirked at you. “Typical Alice,” you said, glancing over at the pixie who was already looking smug.

Alice bounced on her toes. “I told you, she’d come back,” she said, her grin wide and mischievous.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, yeah,” you muttered. "I’m here."

Emmett stepped forward then, clapping you on the back with enough force to make you stumble slightly. You hadn’t forgotten his playful nature. "Finally! I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist our charm." He grinned at you, that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “It’s good to see you again, seriously. We’ve missed you.”

You chuckled, steadying yourself. “I’m sure you have, Emmett. It’s hard to miss this much muscle, after all. You missed me giving you a run for your money?” You said, flexing your arm.

Emmett gave a mock offended look, but it was clear from his laugh that he didn’t mind. “You’ve got jokes, huh? I’ll remember that.”

Jasper stepped forward next, his expression calm but his eyes full of understanding. You knew better than to expect a grand display of affection from him—he was always more reserved, especially with emotions like these. Still, his presence alone felt grounding, a reminder that some things hadn't changed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unspoken message of support. He didn't have to say more. His presence spoke volumes.

You smiled back at him. You and Jasper had always had an understanding. Both empaths, but one could use it a bit.. differently than the other.

Finally, you caught his scent before you saw him. He came down the stairs, his golden eyes immediately zeroing in on you. You looked back at him, a frown slowly forming on your face involuntarily.

Edward.

He spoke first.

"Hello, Name." He said, testing the words. He hadn't said them in years.

"Edward." You responded, your words clipped.

Then, another scent. Strong. It made venom fill your mouth, your fangs growing, touching the inside of your cheeks. You stiffened, cutting off your air flow.

That must have been Bella. Just as you suspected, she meekly stumbled down the stairs behind Edward, coming to his side. You'd never met the girl that ended your 11 year relationship, but you couldn't say you ever wished to.

Now, you had no choice.

Edward noticed immediately, his eyes flicking to you with a sharp intensity, and then back to Bella. The connection between you two was always like this —i ntuitive. But there was no time to address it now, not when Bella stood there, her presence suddenly undeniable.

Bella shuffled closer to Edward, her eyes flicking nervously between you and the others. You could see the slight tension in her posture, the uncertainty radiating off her. She had to know that you weren’t just anyone. You were him, Edward's past, and that was not something easily forgotten.

"Um... Hi," Bella’s voice was soft, hesitant. She wasn’t as bold as you'd expected, and it only made the whole situation worse. She looked at you with wide, uncertain eyes, clearly aware of the sharp tension in the room.

You cleared your throat, stepping away slightly.

"You smell very strong." You said, your voice heavy with thirst.

Bella flinched, her eyes widening at your words. The tension between you both thickened, and you could feel the weight of the room shift. Edward’s jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing on you, but you didn’t care. The thirst was there, pulsing in your veins, clawing at the back of your throat.

Bella, clearly uncomfortable, took a small step back, her eyes darting nervously toward Edward. She didn’t fully understand, not yet. But she could feel the weight of the unspoken words between you and Edward, the history, the pain. And now, the thirst.

"Sorry," Bella mumbled, her voice quiet and unsure. "I didn’t mean to—"

"No," you cut her off, your voice low, the irritation in your words unmistakable. "It’s not your fault. It’s.. Natural." You took another slow breath, the scent of her blood tantalizing, but you forced yourself to look away. The control was there, barely. But you wouldn’t lose it. Not here. Not now.

"You're.. Name." She addressed. "I'm Bella."

You managed a small smile. The little human.. She had a clear bravery. To address you meant that she must have known the story. Your story. Edward wasn't one to lie, but he was one to brood and feel guilty. You had no doubt that he told her, though no one in the room would address it.

You couldn't believe she introduced herself first. She must have known that you wanted to rip her head off. And Edward's. In one swoop.

"I am. It's nice to meet you, Bella." You said politely, nodding your head towards her.

Bella smiled nervously, though there was a hint of something else behind her eyes. She wasn’t naive. She knew exactly what you were, and what your presence meant. But she wasn’t backing down, either. She wasn’t running from the reality of this world, even if it scared her.

"Uh, it's... nice to meet you too," she said, her voice trembling slightly, but there was a steady determination in her gaze. It was clear she wasn’t backing down either. And that, if anything, was a small relief.

Edward shifted uncomfortably beside her, his eyes flickering between you and Bella. His silence was loud. You could feel it—his guilt, his helplessness. It was suffocating. And it made you want to scream. But you didn’t. Not yet.

You looked at him for just a moment, eyes narrowing. "So," you said, breaking the silence, "newborn vampires? Do you know who organizes them? What they're here for?" Your voice held an edge to it, but it wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. You could feel the tension in the room already, thick and sharp like a storm just waiting to crack open.

Edward’s jaw tightened, and he shifted on his feet, as if uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading. Bella, still standing slightly behind him, looked from you to Edward, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern.

"They're organized by someone we’ve... encountered before," Edward replied slowly, his voice measured. "Victoria. She’s been working behind the scenes, creating an army of newborns to take us down."

You felt your teeth clench at the mention of her name. Victoria. The fiery-haired vampire who had been nothing but trouble from the start. You'd never encountered her, but you knew about her through letters exchanged between you and Rosalie.

"And what’s her game?" you asked, forcing your voice to remain steady. "What does she want with you all?"

Edward’s eyes flickered briefly to Bella, before looking back at you. "She wants revenge. For her mate, who I killed. And she’s using the newborns as pawns."

A flash of annoyance flickered through you at the mention of James. That whole situation had left scars on the entire family.

"You’re not worried about Victoria," you said, your gaze never leaving Edward. "It’s the newborns that concern you."

The thought of an army of them—powerful, uncontrollable, and bloodthirsty—sent a dangerous ripple of anticipation through you. It wasn’t just the Cullens who had to face them. No, you knew your abilities were vital in keeping everyone safe. If things got too out of control, you would have to step in.

Edward’s eyes darkened, a flicker of his old protective nature flashing through them. "We have a plan. Carlisle and the others have been training the werewolves to help us, but we may need your power."

Werewolves.

Your jaw dropped.

"You're working with dogs?" You hissed.

Edward’s expression shifted, a mix of amusement and defensiveness crossing his features. "They’re not just dogs," he said, a slight edge to his voice. "They’re allies. We’ve been working together for a long time now."

You couldn’t hide the disbelief on your face. "Allies?" you repeated, your voice tinged with sarcasm. "You expect me to work alongside them?"

There was no mistaking the tension in the air. The idea of working with werewolves — creatures you had never particularly seen eye to eye with — was almost laughable. The last thing you wanted to do was ally yourself with something that was, essentially, a natural enemy.

It was even worse than you were suddenly hit with the smell.

"Play nice, leech. We will in return."

You spun around at the sound of the voice, your fangs barely hidden, eyes narrowing immediately at the sight of the newcomer. A tall, russet-skinned man, his posture brimming with arrogance. His scent hit you instantly — wet fur, earth, and something raw, primal. It was unmistakable.

Jacob Black. You knew him too. You'd known him since he was just a child, clinging to the police chief's pant leg and pushing his father's wheelchair around.

You didn’t hide the distaste on your face. "So this is one of them," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "A werewolf."

Jacob’s lips quirked into a smirk, his eyes locking onto yours with a fire that felt almost challenging. "I’m not just a werewolf, sweetheart. I’m the one who’ll keep your precious Cullen family safe while you try not to bite someone’s head off."

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you stood taller, narrowing your eyes at him. "Don’t get too cocky," you shot back, the venom in your words as sharp as ever. "Just because you’re a ‘protector’ now doesn’t mean I won’t burn you to a crisp if you get in my way."

The air crackled between you two. The tension was palpable. You could practically hear Edward’s teeth grinding, his usual calm composure strained. But you didn’t care. You weren’t here to play nice.

Jacob took a step closer, not backing down in the slightest. "I’m not afraid of you, bloodsucker," he growled. "I’ve got bigger things to worry about than your little flame trick."

Your lips curled into a grin, your eyes glowing with a flicker of dangerous amusement. "You should be," you said softly, the words carrying a weight that made his eyes flicker. "Because one wrong move, and I’ll show you exactly how much heat my flames can carry. And trust me, you don’t want to test that."

Jacob didn’t flinch, though you could see the tension building in his shoulders. He seemed to consider your words for a moment, then chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "You're a real piece of work, aren’t you?" He took another step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. "I get it. You don’t like us. We’re not your kind. But the enemy isn’t here to pick sides. We’re all in this together now. Whether you like it or not."

You held his gaze, unblinking, but something in his words —his confidence— shifted something in you. Maybe it was the way he wasn’t backing down. Maybe it was the fact that you were both in the same damn situation. Either way, it was frustrating.

"I’ll tolerate you," you said, your voice low and dangerous, "because I have to. But don’t get comfortable, dog."

Jacob’s smirk didn’t fade. "Likewise, leech."

-

The next day, it was time to train. Though you could feel the nerves on the rest of the Cullen family, you were eerily calm. You knew you could handle this. After all, you'd singe anyone that had an issue.

The vampires arrived in the clearing first, the rain falling in misty waves. Your jacket was soaked. You all waited in silence for the rest of the Pack to arrive.

It made you want to puke, if that were possible anymore. Werewolves. You were expected to work with fucking werewolves. It was obvious that whatever class Edward once had was gone, if this were his idea. Your golden eyes glared at the rustling woodline, the scent of wet dog filling your nostrils once again. At least you were outside this time and not confined in a kitchen.

You crossed your arms, the dampness of your jacket doing nothing to quell the fire inside you. It wasn’t just the scent of the werewolves that had you on edge — it was the fact that you were about to be forced into working with them, cooperating with creatures that were the very opposite of you. A natural predator.

The rain continued to fall, a soft, persistent drizzle that only added to your growing frustration. Your thoughts turned dark, your gaze unwavering as you waited for the Pack to show up. It was almost too easy to imagine the worst-case scenario. Werewolves had a certain...wildness about them that made it impossible to predict their next move. And you? You were nothing if not calculated. Every move, every decision, was meant to ensure you came out on top.

Edward was standing slightly behind you, his expression unreadable as he too scanned the woods, likely picking up on your agitation. The tension between you both was palpable. Despite your control, your anger simmered beneath the surface. He had been a fool to think that working with them would be easy for you.

Finally, the rustling in the trees grew louder, signaling their arrival. You stiffened instinctively, but forced yourself to take a deep breath, calming your volatile thoughts before the rest of the Pack stepped into the clearing.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. The Pack was here.

Jacob was the first to emerge from the trees, his large frame cutting through the mist. His eyes locked onto yours immediately, and there was that familiar, ever-present cockiness in his grin. Then, the rest.

Only some felt comfortable enough to come out of their natural wolf form.

This one was smaller than Jacob, but still imposing in his own right. His dark hair was messy and tousled, the light rain soaking through his shirt. He had an easy, almost laid-back aura, one that contrasted sharply with the energy around him.

You studied him, noting the slight, unintentional bounce in his step, as if he was a bit more at ease than everyone else in the clearing.

He caught your eye, giving you a small but friendly wave, though you didn’t return the gesture. You could tell he wasn’t as confrontational as Jacob or the others. He seemed almost... curious, his expression open but not entirely without caution.

"I'm Embry."

You stared at him for a moment, trying to piece together what exactly you were dealing with. Another werewolf? You could feel the heat radiating off him, the telltale scent of wet dog mingling with the unmistakable tinge of wolf.

"You're a kid. Don't you think you're too young to be fighting in a war?" you said, keeping your tone cool and neutral. You didn’t bother to fake any interest — but curiosity flickered in your chest. Who was this one?

Embry didn't seem to take offense to your words. In fact, he chuckled softly, the sound warm and easy, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. He didn’t look like the type to back down, not even from your cold tone.

"I’m not a kid," he said, his voice calm but with an edge of determination. "I’m older than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, still not fully convinced. His youthful appearance, that carefree attitude, didn’t fit the usual profile of someone ready to fight in a battle like this.

"I can handle myself," Embry continued, his gaze steady on you. "And besides, war doesn’t really ask if you're ready, does it?"

You frowned at that, the reality of the situation settling in. War didn’t care. But that didn’t mean you had to like the idea of a werewolf —especially a younger one — joining the fray. The tension between the Cullens and the wolves had always been a delicate one, and the thought of working alongside one of them made your stomach churn.

"Fair enough." You said shortly, turning back to the Cullens.

Or that was until you felt another presence.

The moment the rustling from the trees caught your attention, you knew someone else was approaching. Embry turned slightly, a playful smirk crossing his face as he watched the new arrival, and then, without missing a beat, the two were engaged in a rough, friendly scuffle—tussling with the kind of ease only two werewolves could manage.

You watched them for a second, your golden eyes flicking between them with growing annoyance. They were too casual for a situation like this. Too... careless. You hated the way they didn’t acknowledge the danger that loomed.

The tall, broad-shouldered figure had that unmistakable arrogance in his stride, the sort of cocky swagger that made it clear he thought very highly of himself.

But before you could even fully register his presence, the most bizarre thing happened. He locked eyes with you.

The air shifted. His movements faltered, and for the first time since he'd arrived, his attention was fully focused on you. The playful fight with Embry stopped. The playful energy, the jokes—all of it faded as Paul’s gaze hardened, his eyes flashing an intense, golden brown. You felt the air around you thicken, and a strange energy pulsed between you two.

"Paul?" Embry asked in confusion.

You didn’t know what was happening at first, but you felt it in the pit of your stomach—a magnetic pull, like gravity itself had shifted. Your breath caught in your throat, and before you could even process what was happening, Paul’s entire demeanor changed. His lips parted slightly, his fists clenching.

And then it hit you. He was imprinted on you.

You froze.

The shock on his face was instant. His expression darkened with anger, confusion, and disbelief all at once. His body stiffened, as though he were fighting some invisible force that had latched onto him. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and his eyes flicked over your face, searching for something — anything — that would explain this absurdity.

"No," he growled under his breath, his voice barely audible but thick with the kind of rage you’d only seen in werewolves. "No fucking way."

He stumbled back as if he’d been hit, shaking his head violently, his muscles tensing as though the very idea of imprinting on a vampire — on you — was something he couldn’t bear.

Before anyone could say a word, Paul’s body spasmed with pain. The shift was sudden, violent. His body rippled and contorted, muscles bulging, bones snapping as he phased into his wolf form right before your eyes. He howled in frustration, a guttural, enraged sound that echoed through the clearing and into the trees, sending shivers down your spine.

The others reacted immediately — Jasper tensing, Edward’s gaze following Paul’s every movement — but no one dared to move. It was as if the entire forest had held its breath, waiting for Paul to do what he was so clearly struggling to do.

Paul didn’t look at anyone else as he ran, his massive wolf form bounding through the trees with a final, ferocious howl, the sound of his angry cries fading with every passing second.

Embry’s wide eyes met yours, his mouth slightly agape, but the words didn’t come. No one knew what to say. It wasn’t just shocking — it was unprecedented.

"He… He imprinted on her?" Embry’s voice finally broke the silence, his tone incredulous, still processing the absurdity of it all.

But the rest of the pack was still too stunned to speak. The Cullens stood in eerie silence, only their eyes darting between you, Paul’s retreating form, and each other.

The tension in the air was thick — raw. And you couldn’t help but feel it too. You weren’t sure whether to be irritated, confused, or... relieved. Relieved that you were finally set free from Edward.

Whatever it was, you didn’t know how to handle the fact that Paul Lahote — a wolf — had imprinted on you. A vampire.

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter II)

…in which Geta acts like an utter buffoon, and the ginger cat—well, acts like a ginger cat.

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

chapter I

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon

tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here

word count: ~3k

ৡ ৡ ৡ

On one of those warm, cozy days, Livia sat in her chamber in the House of the Vestals, just a short walk from the temple. Caesonia lay at her feet, reading aloud from Hesiod, while Livia slowly braided her hair, slipping into a light trance. The steady rhythm of her sworn sister’s voice lulled her, and every so often, she startled, lifting her head to keep from drifting off.

"You’re falling asleep!" Caesonia exclaimed, breaking off mid-sentence. "Is this how you study?" Her tone was scolding, but not entirely serious. They had been sitting there since dawn, and for most of that time, Livia had listened diligently.

"Sorry, I’m listening," she mumbled, trying to gather her thoughts as she straightened up, letting go of her sister’s hair.

"No, this won’t do. Let’s go get some fresh air."

The garden surrounding the Vestals’ house was vast yet felt intimate, a peaceful refuge tucked away behind the temple walls. A narrow, shaded path lined with cypress trees wound through it, like a quiet green corridor. On either side, the garden cascaded down in terraces, filling the air with the sweet fragrance of roses, wisteria, lilies, and narcissus. White marble benches and small, graceful gazebos rested beneath the shade of almond trees, magnolias, and acacias, their branches heavy with delicate blossoms, offering quiet spots for reflection and rest.

They settled on a bench, letting the soft sunlight warm their pale skin, savoring the sweet scent of the flowers. Livia’s hair was loose, and she wore a simple white tunic and sandals. At home, she rarely wore jewelry or styled her hair, unless they had guests.

"The High Priestess is in a foul mood today," Caesonia said lazily, squinting and basking in the sun.

"She’s always in a foul mood," Livia replied, catching a faint smile from the Vestal out of the corner of her eye.

"Careful! One day I’ll tell her all this, and she’ll have you whipped," Caesonia teased, playfully grabbing Livia’s side and tickling her ribs, making her laugh.

"Stop!" Livia caught her hands. "Then you’ll be the next one whipped!"

It was indeed a fine, warm day, despite the onset of autumn. The priestesses stopped laughing and gazed thoughtfully at the clear sky, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Then, from somewhere in the treetops, came a sudden rustling—leaves stirring, birds startled into flight. Livia flinched, her eyes darting toward the tangled branches of an acacia. The dark green canopy shifted restlessly in the breeze. And then, from deep within the foliage, a flash of red shot downward, streaking straight toward the Vestals’ feet.

Caesonia yelped and pulled her legs up, clutching Livia’s shoulder.

"That bandit again!"

The ginger cat, entirely unbothered by her fright, wove around Livia’s legs, rubbing against them insistently. She gave a faint smile, bent down, and scooped the animal onto her lap, stroking it between the ears. It purred deeply, kneading her with its claws, scratching even through the fabric of her tunic.

"Oh, sister, at least one man is touching you," Caesonia chuckled, finally relaxing. "Only tomcats are ginger—and this one has no shame at all."

The cat stretched luxuriously on Livia’s lap, rolling onto its back with a pleased rumble. She ran a hand over its warm belly, and in an instant, it seized her wrist with all four paws, biting and kicking. Livia bore it without protest, unwilling to push it away, while the cat stared up at her with wide yellow eyes. A strange shiver ran through her—then came a particularly sharp bite. She finally brushed the cat off.

It flicked its tail, let out an indignant meow, and vanished into the garden.

Livia’s tender skin stung where its claws had dug in. She glanced at her hand without much interest—one scratch was especially deep, a long, bloody line running from her index finger to her wrist.

"You should take better care of yourself! We should have the slaves keep him out," Caesonia gently blew on the wound as she stroked Livia’s hand.

"It’s nothing," Livia replied lightly, wiping away the blood to reveal a faint pink line. "See? It’s already fine."

They sat quietly in the sun, but the stillness didn’t last long. Near the villa, slaves had begun moving about under the gatekeeper’s direction, their voices breaking the afternoon hush.

"Are we expecting someone?" Livia asked, watching the commotion.

"No, the High Priestess didn’t mention anything," Caesonia said, squinting as she tried to make out what was happening.

Life in the House of the Vestals was one of routine and devotion—days spent in study, interrupted only by prayer before lessons resumed. Moments of peace like this were rare, especially for Livia, who hadn’t even served a full decade yet.

The gatekeeper was already making her way toward them. Their solitude was over. With a sigh, Livia rose to her feet, brushing ginger cat hairs from the folds of her tunic. As she tucked her hair behind her ears, she silently cursed herself for not covering it with a veil. If they had guests, appearing like this—bareheaded, in a plain white tunic, with her hair simply loose—was hardly appropriate.

Suddenly, she recalled how the citizens of Rome had stared at her in the Colosseum, their mouths agape in awe… A pleasant shiver ran through her. She was still a priestess of Vesta, and in any guise, she inspired reverence.

The High Priestess had once said that Christians considered pride a sin. If so, Livia was the greatest sinner, for more than anything, the young priestess took pride in her position. Though her family had once been respected, they were far from wealthy, meaning her fate might have been that of an unloved wife to some old man, like Cassandra. Had that brought her much happiness? Claudia, though married to a man she loved, hardly looked happy—more sickly and pale. While other priestesses sometimes found themselves intrigued by gossip and the mysteries of love and passion, Livia lived only for the love of Vesta. Caesonia said that this was for the best. Livia herself agreed.

Her gaze drifted to Caesonia’s white garments, and she noted to herself that the tunic was less than perfect—its whiteness tinged with gray, the fabric wrinkled. Livia primly smoothed the folds of her own impeccably white tunic. Even now, at home, bareheaded and unadorned, she never forgot who she was.

At the house, on the open marble terrace, guests were indeed waiting. The slaves serving the Vestals were easily recognizable by their white attire, but the young men and women dressed in red and gold were unfamiliar to Livia.

Her lips tightened, her brows furrowed. Who had disturbed their peace?

A chill ran down her spine when she finally saw the cause of the commotion.

"Emperor Geta, what an honor," - she bestowed him with a light nod, then immediately lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. Here, on her own ground and surrounded by her people, Livia felt confident.

The young emperor stood in the shade under the terrace roof, as if reluctant to step into the light. Why was he alone, she wondered?

"Lucilla is at the temple with your High Priestess," - he explained. His voice was hoarse, sounding strangely unsure, as if the presence of the Vestals made him uncomfortable.

"And you are curious about how the Vestals live? We are flattered, it’s been quite a while since emperors have graced us with their presence," Livia quipped, and Caesonia pinched her hand—subtly, but firmly enough to make her hold her tongue.

"Perhaps His Imperial Majesty would like to see our garden? Livia would be honored to show you the most beautiful flowers while you await your mother," Caesonia slyly set her up, but there was no way out. At the word mother Geta grimaced, but still nodded eagerly and stepped into the sunlight.

Livia immediately noticed that the Emperor rarely spent time in the sun. Dressed in a white tunic and a gilded toga with a purple border, he looked out of place among the pristine white garments of the priestesses and slaves. His ginger hair was neatly curled and styled, a small golden laurel gleaming in the sun. Yet, to her surprise, there was a restraint in his dress today, a simplicity that stood in stark contrast to their first meeting.

He orders the servants not to follow them, though Livia can tell he’s overheated—powder has smeared on his neck, and the skin where it wasn’t applied has immediately turned pink.

"We can stay on the terrace if you’d prefer," she offered, more out of courtesy than true concern as they made their way down the cypress-lined path into the garden.

"And you’re not feeling the heat?" His question, though a bit silly, makes Livia feel a wave of discomfort. She doesn’t like being flustered. Still, she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear, wishing once more that she’d covered it with a veil. She feels his dark eyes on her, studying her with interest, and again she’s certain there’s no respect in that gaze.

For a young, unmarried woman, being alone with a man like this was hardly proper. But she was not just any woman, and he was not just any man.

She comforted herself with that thought as they walked beneath the cypress shadows.

"You don’t visit the city often, do you?" He was making an effort to be polite, and it amused her. Why was he trying so hard? Their order was loyal to Rome, and the emperors were Rome. Even if they were the worst people on earth, the Vestals would stand by them.

"Nor do you and your brother, do you?" They stopped at the same bench where she and Caesonia had sat earlier. "I find the world’s bustle repulsive, Caesar. How people live, what they think, what they talk about… it’s all empty, fleeting. Entertainment, finery, words—just tinsel they drape over their aimless existence. Do you understand me?"

He likely didn’t. He enjoyed entertainment, finery, and idle talk himself, but he listened so superficially that he didn’t even realize she was speaking about him. Instead of offense or anger, his dark eyes held only curiosity, even delight.

Emperor Geta sat a short distance away, careful not to touch her, but she caught the sharp, pine-like scent emanating from him. While he studied her shamelessly, like a child, she only watched from the corner of her eye, unwilling to show interest.

Of course, it flattered her to be speaking, for the second time, with a Father of Rome—one who smiled foolishly and nodded at her every word. Where was his brother? Livia thought of Caracalla—not out of genuine curiosity, but simply because the emperor had dared to touch her, pretending as though nothing had happened! Insolent, pompous…

"I’d like us to meet more often," Geta interrupted her thoughts. "Our father wasn’t particularly devout, so the Vestals didn’t receive the attention they deserved." His gaze swept over her, far too openly, as if she were some common street girl rather than a priestess.

Livia pressed her lips together and looked away, conceding defeat in their silent staring contest with the emperor.

"Yes, your father was rather occupied with persecuting Christians and crucifying them across the streets of Rome," she said. Even with all the authority and privileges her position granted, she was still beneath the Emperor. Provoking him wasn’t wise, but she despised his tone—the way he looked at her. Let him complain to the High Priestess if he wished.

Geta froze as if she had struck him. Her words about his father unsettled him in a way she hadn’t expected. His powdered face tightened, lips pressing into a thin line, jaw clenching.

"Do you speak this way to everyone, or have I earned special treatment? Because it seems to me you’re taking too many liberties," his voice turning cold, laced with quiet menace.

She flushed with shame, stung by his words. It was true—she had thought him less educated, less clever, treating him more like a boy than the man who had caused Rome to burn for months. He was dangerous, and angering him was foolish.

"Who am I, Livia?" His next question followed her silence.

Forcing herself, she turned to face him. He sat rigid, his pale fingers gripping the edge of the marble bench so tightly they seemed to blend into it.

"The Emperor," she answered, avoiding his probing dark eyes, regretting her earlier sharpness. "Father of Rome and Pontifex Maximus. Forgive me, Caesar, I got carried away. Vestals don’t often speak with men," she added, hoping this conversation would end soon.

He squinted slightly, his taut lips easing into something resembling satisfaction.

"Messengers of the gods," he lifted a finger adorned with a heavy ring, first pointing at her, then at himself, "must have a strong bond to ensure Rome’s strength. After all, the sacred fire of your temple is the fire of the emperors, isn’t it?" He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for her answer. Geta was pressing on their divine connection, and it was clear he knew more about the temple and its priestesses than she’d assumed.

"Yes, Caesar," she replied, her voice steady but with a hint of resignation.

The sun climbed high into the sky, relentlessly baking her dark hair. Livia fidgeted, the heat growing unbearable. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck, and she noticed that Geta’s dark eyes followed it, tracking the drop with an unsettling focus. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his pale skin.

"I’d like you and the other priestesses to attend the games again in two weeks," he said, sensing her discomfort, his tone confident as though he knew she wouldn’t dare refuse. "The plebeians were thrilled by the last games, and seeing you…" His eyes swept over her from head to toe. "The white robes, the veils—it drives the common folk wild," a strange smirk tugged at his lips, "and not just them."

The silence hung awkwardly between them, the conversation taking an uncomfortable turn. Were all men like this?

"You should discuss that with the High Priestess, Emperor," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension. He simply nodded and rose from the bench, stepping in front of her and blocking the sun. His towering form loomed over her, and the boyish air that had accompanied him earlier was gone, replaced by an aura of overwhelming authority.

Livia glanced up at him, and Geta smirked, a self-satisfied grin curling on his lips as he extended his hand, fully aware she wouldn’t take it, nor would she ever touch his pale palm. Did he think she’d break her vows just to lay her fingers on the divine emperor? In her mind, the priestess wondered what his skin would feel like and, oddly enough, she imagined it would be as cold as marble.

They returned to the terrace in silence. The High Priestess and Lucilla, back from the Temple of Vesta, were already waiting. Livia, lost in her thoughts, almost misses the sympathetic glance from the emperor’s mother. The daughter of Marcus Aurelius was a striking woman, though no longer young. She seemed as if she wanted to speak to Livia, to approach her—but Geta got to her first, leaning in close and whispering something in her ear. His grip on her forearm was anything but gentle.

Livia caught only fragments of his words:

"…where is he?"

The senior priestess noticed her lingering and, displeased, sent her off to the temple. Under Geta’s mocking gaze, Livia once again felt the sting of shame and frustration. Still, she lifted her head high and, escorted by her assigned guards, left the Vestals’ house.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The sunlit marble walls of the Temple of Vesta gleamed, a dazzling white against the deep green of the laurels and cypresses. Livia stood before the grand temple once again, mesmerized. She saw it every day, yet each time, a wave of awe and reverence washed over her anew. As she approached the entrance, the dark thoughts that had been clouding her mind dissipated, replaced by a profound stillness.

The men who had accompanied her remained below, at the foot of the steps leading to the sacred house of Vesta. Men were strictly forbidden from entering, and any who dared defy the law faced a dreadful fate.

Inside, the temple was cool and serene, untouched by the outside world. Livia made her way toward the sacred fire, her steps measured and slow. She paused, allowing herself a moment to stare into the flames. For a long while, an unbroken peace lingered in the air, the flickering light of the altar dancing across her face, its glow reflected in her eyes.

In this place, Livia always felt a profound sense of calm and protection, as if the very walls of the temple held her in an embrace. Here, she was the vessel of the goddess—pure, untouched, like the sacred flame itself.

That’s why the voice—a man’s voice—that suddenly echoed behind her was such a shock.

"So, this is the legendary eternal sacred fire?" the intruder drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Her heart jolted, the blood rushing to her ears. An intruder! A man! In the temple of the Great Goddess! Her hands flew to her chest, and she spun around instinctively, positioning herself between the flame and the interloper. No man could enter the Temple of Vesta. Everyone knew the consequences would be terrifying. If someone was brazen and fearless enough to break this rule, that person was undoubtedly dangerous.

"You have no place here!" Livia’s voice rang out, sharp and steel-like, before she even cast a glance at the uninvited guest. Her words echoed loudly beneath the temple’s vaulted ceiling.

Only then did she see the one who had disturbed the temple’s serene silence. The faint, melodic chime of his golden bracelets echoed softly, and Livia’s fingers tightened around the folds of her tunic.

"And why is that?" the emperor replied tauntingly, taking a few slow, deliberate steps forward, his blue eyes glinting in the light of the sacred fire, never leaving her.

If his brother, Emperor Geta, had dressed modestly today, Caracalla was once again flamboyantly adorned and painted in striking colors. The first thing she noticed was a small golden earring with a white pearl that shimmered red and yellow in the firelight. She should have called the guards, shouted for help, driven him out—but he… he was an emperor. If they had let him in, would anyone help her expel him?

He took a step forward; she stepped back. A quiet, satisfied laugh echoed in the temple, rising to the high ceiling. The heavy burgundy fabric, embroidered with gold, rustled as Caracalla stopped in the center of the sanctuary, clearly pleased by her frightened expression.

"Are junior Vestals even allowed near the fire?" The earring clinked softly as he tilted his head, studying her. The pearl rested against his pale skin, nearly blending with it.

His lips seemed even redder than she remembered—bright, vivid, and strangely cruel. He smiled, but she felt no warmth or mirth, only a stifling irritation and an unsettling fear.

"You’re breaking laws established long before either of us was born, Emperor," she tried to steady herself, though it was no easy feat. "Twice now."

"Enlighten me, priestess," Caracalla replied, his smirk widening as he clasped his hands together. Her gaze lingered on the endless array of massive rings adorning his delicate fingers, but she quickly forced herself to meet his eyes, determined not to reveal how terrified she was. She knew the fate that awaited any Roman citizen who dared break the laws—but what punishment awaited an emperor?

"You touched me when we first met, though you knew it was forbidden," her frown deepened. "And now you’ve entered the temple, fully aware that’s prohibited too."

Caracalla moved his lips from side to side, as if truly reflecting on his past actions, then flashed a wide grin, a gold tooth catching the light. He took a few unhurried steps, narrowing the distance between them until he was just a breath away.

"Yes, I did." A sweet scent wafted from him, reminiscent of the temple during festivals—the fragrance of incense burned to honor the gods. He wasn’t a god, so why did she feel such trembling unease? "Should I be punished, Amata?" The mockery in his voice was so blatant that she nearly choked with rage. How dare he!

Livia faltered, lowering her gaze to collect her thoughts, but the soft rustle of his heavy garments made her tense again and look up.

A faint breath of air skimmed her cheek, though there was no breeze in the temple… only him. His hand, pale and delicate, almost feminine, nearly brushed her face—but no, it lingered in midair, achingly near, cloaked in that faint sweet scent.

With his fingertips, he followed the shape of her face without touching her, tracing the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the trembling line of her mouth. A ghost of a touch. And yet, she felt it—the phantom heat of his fingers crawling over her skin.

The emperor didn’t touch her—so why did it feel like sacrilege?

As a priestess, she should have cast him out, gotten rid of him as quickly as possible. Instead, she found herself holding her breath, terrified he might lean in closer and press her right up against the altar.

"Please, leave," she rasped, all her bravado gone. Rules and laws didn’t frighten him—so how could she make him go? And more importantly, why was he here? "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see the one who caught my brother’s eye," he lowered his hand slowly but didn’t step back. His presence filled the space, and she found herself looking down to avoid his gaze. "Li-vi-a," he dragged her name out, savoring each syllable.

"Emperor Geta, like you, I assume, came here because of your mother, Lady Lucilla." The priestess chose her words carefully, steering the conversation away from the disturbing direction it was heading.

"You really think he cares about Lucilla’s wishes?" He ignored the word mother entirely. "Geta wants you, but he’s too cowardly to take you. So he just stares and then has the others—dark-haired, pale-skinned slaves. Only they can’t give him what my brother so desperately craves…"

His hand hovered near her cheek again, then slid lower, as if the emperor was about to grab her by the throat, but then, still, he changed his mind, curling his fingers into a fist and pulling away.

"They’re all whores, not Vestal virgins, Livia. That’s why he keeps seeking you out," he leaned in, pushing into her space closer than any man ever dared, his hot breath brushing her ear as he whispered, "to keep your image sharp in his mind while…"

What he said next made her flush a deep red. Not here, not in the Temple of Vesta, pure and sacred like its priestesses, should such blasphemy be spoken! His very presence was a desecration, a strike against everything they stood for. How dared he speak to her like this?! How dare he whisper such filth in this holy place!

"Get out!" Her voice rang with fury, her anger rising like a storm, giving her strength she never knew she had.

She had already realized that Caracalla was dangerous—much more so than Geta, even if what he said about Geta was true. If her defiance had angered Geta earlier today, what would Caracalla do? Would he order her to be flogged?

No, the young emperor doesn’t get angry. On the contrary, he laughs loudly, visibly pleased with her reaction, and Livia, mesmerized, watches as the white pearl sways, lost in his red hair.

"So alike in appearance, yet so different at the same time, little bird!" He cut himself off, his smile fading, and his gold-lined eyes narrowed.

"My brother told you about the games, didn’t he? Of course, he did. Well, see you later, priestess, though…"

Without finishing, Caracalla strode out of the temple, and Livia followed to ensure he was truly gone. At the exit, he turned, flashing a crooked smile over his shoulder, showing his profile.

Livia squints, blinded by the sun behind the emperor, by the glare of his golden laurel and the shimmering brilliance of his ornaments and robes.

"Not Jupiter, fierce and stern, but Sol—the god of the sun and light," she thought with a strange thrill. Radiant, luminous, fair-skinned, youthful, with a wild mane of unruly red curls—he struck her as beautiful for the first time. And that thought horrified her.

"…Perhaps we’ll meet much sooner," he winked at her boyishly, as if they shared some delicious secret.

Livia stepped back into the shadows, her sweat-dampened hands hidden behind her back, watching him until he left the temple grounds.

Only then did she lean against the wall, exhaling shakily. Her perfect composure had cracked. The sun beat mercilessly on her head, but she couldn’t move—just as she couldn’t under Caracalla’s piercing blue gaze.

"If Emperor Geta is the moon—cold, silent, enigmatic—then he, Caracalla, is surely the sun: bright, scorching everything in its path, neither gentle nor warming," she thought, wringing her hands nervously.

At the foot of the stairs, a slave boy in white robes appeared, gesturing for her to come. She hurried down, noticing the small bundle in his hands.

The message was indeed for her, from Claudia. The news was far from joyful. When Cassandra, before… before her death, had sent a plea for help, Livia hadn’t responded. It had been spring, the festival of Vesta in full swing, and there’d been no time… and then her sister was gone.

Claudia begged her to visit, pleaded desperately, for Livia was her last remaining kin.

This time, Livia wouldn’t abandon her sister. She’d fulfill her request after speaking with the High Priestess, but… as fate would have it, Claudia and her husband were now residing in the emperors’ palace. Nausea gripped her.

As if mocking her, that same ginger cat appeared at her feet, purring deeply and rubbing against her.

Truly alike, indeed.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story. It’s been about two months since the events of the finale and what Geta did.

[togament]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐘. ume, sakura, suo, kaji, togame.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: mentions of alcohol, drinking it, Ume’s cuteness and extreme softness, mega warning for Ume’s I kinda got ahead of myself again (it’s longer than the others ;;), AFAB!reader, NSFW FOR TOGAME AND HIS FILTHY MOUTH, small argument in Kaji's (but he makes up for it, I swear.)

𝐔𝐦𝐞.

- responsible, of course. He doesn’t drink and would most likely be the one cleaning up after everyone when they’re wasted, handing out cold bottles of electrolytes and glasses of water. Possibly the one passing around properly proportioned drinks so he could keep an eye on everyone, handing out snacks too. The absolute best Mama Hen (Papa Rooster?) you could ask for in a house party. But if you’re the only ones awake? He sneaks in a drink or two with you. An emotional drunk. Prepare to sniffle with him as he practically thanks you for being around, for being the absolute best, for being his best friend, for making him fall in love with yo—

“You’re the best, y’know that?” He sips his drink, nursing a bottle of electrolytes in his other hand. He says it so suddenly, so abruptly, you think you misheard it. You scoot closer to your best friend, arms pressed against each other as you both lean against the wall, facing your knocked out friends. With your cheek pressed onto his shoulder, you shake your head. “Should be telling you that, Ume. The party was a success because of you. Hiragi’s parent’s antiques live to see another day.” With that, he nudges you gently with a chuckle. “C’mon let me shower you with praise, alright? Listen.” Sounding a bit serious now, he has your full attention.

He threads his fingers through yours and he squeezes once. You squeeze back. Seeing his reddened knuckles from recent scuffles, you raise your intertwined fingers to your lips to press kisses onto each knuckle as he speaks. A dusting of pink ever present on his cheeks. You swear you could hear his heart beating at the same rhythm as yours is.

“I…” He pauses, tearing his eyes away from you for a moment before he looks into yours once more. Determined. Eyebrows slightly furrowed. “I think I love you—“, another pause, he shakes his head. You squeeze his hand in return to steady him and he gives you a smile you’ve never seen him give you before. Your heart’s beating double time now. “I—I know I love you. I do. More than just a friend, a companion. I know you might not feel the same way, maybe you see me as family and that’s fine but I just—“ “I love you too, idiot.” You interrupt his overthinking before continuing, “Always have. More than a friend, actually.”

If your friends weren’t a few feet from you both he’d scoop you up and twirl you around. Hell, if he had a tail he’d be wagging it nonstop by now. Your hands, now sweaty, are still intertwined. He’s practically beaming with sunlight, ready to burst. While you’re basking in it. Your sun. Your sun.

You both kissed each other that night with the taste of cheap whiskey and electrolytes on your lips.

𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐫𝐚.

- Asian glow, meet Sakura. Sakura puts the Asian glow to shame, my guy. He’s got a tomato for a head when he drinks. You’re not even touching or kissing him, he’s just… RED. Doesn’t like getting plastered but when he does get a couple of drinks in? He’s screaming for you every second, looking for you, needing you around him. (Nirei’s sprinting to look for you, Suo’s making Sakura drink enough water, Ume’s preparing a cold bottle of pocari sweat for him.) What normally would make Sakura run away screaming would now make him actually, fully accept it. You can feel him melt into you, pressing his cheek to yours. He’s a very clingy drunk. The others don’t point it out as much. They don’t want to poke the (extremely, extremely clingy) bear.

“Where is she???” He literally screams into the crowd, getting on his tippy toes and hopping over heads just to get a glance of you hopefully walking towards him. Nirei’s already lost in the group of people, weaving through them to get to you. Thankfully, you’re just at the kitchen whipping up a couple more drinks when Nirei finally found you. “He’s at it again, huh?” You say as you take a swig from your drink, looking at a messy haired Nirei. He looks like he went through hell and back. “Y-yeah. I think you should go. He’s been groaning for you nonstop-“ Nirei then guides you through the crowd, hand on your wrist so you wouldn’t get lost.

He pulls you towards Sakura whose now lounging on the couch. You both were hoping for a relieved Sakura but instead are met with your bicolor haired lover staring daggers into Nirei and his steady grip on your wrist. Nirei immediately lets go and as he does, Sakura pulls you into his lap causing your drink to spill a little, dribbling down your cheek and your neck. “What the hell Saku—“ you’re interrupted by him licking a strip up your neck, lapping at the spilled drink. His hands grow more possessive as they hold you closer to him, kneading your flesh through your clothes.

“Missed ya,” he mutters into your neck, nuzzling his nose into it like a kitten would. “Where’d ya run off to? Been looking everywhere for you, baby.” he’s a completely different person when he’s tipsy, clingy and touchy, not really caring if your friends see him practically claiming his spot as YOUR lover. “Went to make some drinks. Don’t tell me you need me with you all the time.” You tease him. While he’d normally blush and stammer at that, he’s now pressing kisses into your cheek, smiling into each one.

“Mhm. Need ya all the damn time, angel. Don’t leave.”

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓.

𝐒𝐮𝐨.

- doesn’t drink (he doesn’t eat either so—) He really just doesn’t like drinking alcohol. He gets the appeal, sure. He could go for a couple of glasses, sure. He could maybe finish 2 bottles of whiskey by himself and not feel a thing, SURE. But he doesn’t like drinking it. He’s more of like a casual enjoyer, maybe having a finger or two of whiskey on the rocks with friends. Always the one cleaning up after them (Nirei) too. But when it’s just the both of you though, it’s a different story. Sure you can’t tell if he’s plastered or not from the get go but there’s a tell. He’s more… open with his emotions.

“You look gorgeous in that dress, my dove,” you turn slowly to your lover who’s eyeing you down from beside you. You’re both at one of the booths of the speakeasy you frequent, away from curious eyes. By the way he’s looking at you, you feel like he’s undressing you with his eyes almost. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows dryly. Is he blushing? You can’t tell under the dim lighting, “Absolutely—gorgeous,” he ghosts his fingers along your curves, his gaze following the invisible path he’s drawn out. Making sure to go extra, extra slow around your derrière before he pulls his hand away to take a swig of his drink.

“What’s gotten into you tonight? Drunk already?” You say while you reach over to straighten his suit out, trying your damndest not to let your growing arousal show. You swear you can feel the booth heating up. “Drunk off the alcohol? Oh, dearest no. Off of you, however? Well…” He’s staring at you from over his rocks glass. The ice clinks as he puts it down on the table.

“How could I not? I could drink you in all fucking night.” There’s that tell. There’s the swearing. You pause, meeting his heavily lidded gaze. You swallow. “Care to give me a taste, dove?”

You feel his fingers creep up your leg and you part them so willingly. Nobody’ll peek into your booth. Not with your lover around.

𝐊𝐚𝐣𝐢.

- Lightweight to Average drinker. He’s a sleepy drunk but he doesn’t want anyone seeing him in such a vulnerable state so he often opts to bail or not drink at all. Most of the time he bails though. Not about that social drinking life. Only you could manage to convince him to come with though. You’re always met with the tiniest amount of resistance but you can manage, right? (He’s got a soft spot for you. Of course he’d go. You don’t have to ask twice. He just likes seeing you pout when he says no the first time. It’s cute.) Still, don’t get him drunk please don’t—oh no he’s got a bottle in his hand. He’s guzzling it. Oh no. Ohhh no.

You’re in Hiragi’s bed, hidden under the covers with your lover’s arms wrapped around your waist and his face resting on your shoulder now fast asleep. How’d you both find yourselves here? Well, first, Kaji ended up breaking a couple of glasses (he swears it was an accident), then almost started a couple of fights (you know how he is with his mouth), then tried napping on the couch with you while everybody’s drinking (he was complaining about the noise but… it’s a party, Kaji.) Hiragi, thankfully, allowed you both to hole up in his room for a little while to sober up. Locked inside with a couple of bottles of pocari sweat (care of Umemiya!), you’re intertwined now.

You sigh, flicking your boyfriend’s forehead gently, “idiot,” he winces, tightening his grip around your waist to pull you closer. Thank god he’s mellower now. “Ow—shit! What’d you do that for?” He rubs his forehead on your cheek, HIS cheeks slightly blushing from the alcohol. “You shouldn’t have drunk too much-“ “Well you brought me here what was I supposed to d-“ “Oh I don’t know, not drink an entire bottle in one sit—“ You feel his lips against yours, the tiny argument now forgotten. You can taste the alcohol and some sweetness from his lollipop from earlier. Then you hear something you never thought you’d hear fall from his mouth willingly.

“…sorry.” Huh. You angle away to take a proper look at him. He only grumbles and hides deeper into your neck, using the covers as a shield against from you. He’s acting so needy and soft. If he wasn’t so tipsy you would have pounced on him to pepper kisses along his cheeks. You attempt to pull the blanket down but he’s holding it so tightly. “Say that again, baby? You’re what?” You can’t hide the smile from your lips but then he pinches your side causing you to yelp. “Y’heard me the first time.” Rolling your eyes, you nuzzle into his touch. “C’mon just a tiny one? The tiniest little sowwy? Fow me?” You whisper and you’re only met with three kisses on your forehead.

“I love you. Sorry.” You smile, bringing up Hiragi’s comfortable blanket over your sleepy bodies.

“Love you too, idiot.”

𝐓𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞.

Is an absolute lightweight so he ends up being a sleepy drunk or doesn’t drink at all. But with you around and he’s had maybe a drink and a half in his system? He’s absolutely feral. So touchy, SO so SOOOOO horny when he’s got even the slightest amount of alcohol in his system to get him tipsy. He’s touching you, caressing your face, your arms, your ass (if you’d allow him to. The man understands boundaries.) While he’s normally so soft spoken around you, teasing you in his own silly, dorky way, he’s a different man when he's tipsy. His vocabulary is a different beast. Sloppy and direct. His 6’2” frame and entire weight practically leaning onto you for support on Hiragi’s family couch — to some he looks as though he’s dozing off. It’s anything BUT that. He’s whispering the dirtiest, raunchiest things into your ear, teasing you with that deep voice of his. He knows what he’s doing. You like it, of course.

“I’m so fucking hard right now, doll—god it’s throbbing.” He whines softly into your neck, breathing so heavily you swear his body’s quivering. That voice does things to you and he KNOWS it. “Wanna fuck yet throat. Have my cum spillin’ down yer mouth, yer chest….fuck—y’put a spell on me, didn’t ya? Makin’ me wanna fuck all the damn time.” He ends it with a chuckle, peppering slow, loving kisses along your neck, clearly doesn’t care if anybody sees you both now. “Y’know, when yer not around, I fuck my fist to the thought of ya, of yer ass bouncing on me, of yer pussy dripping into my fingers. God I wanna fuck ya so badly right now—“ You can’t help it. You cross your legs to have some relief and you shift your weight slightly, feeling your throbbing clit pressed in between.

“Crossing your legs like that—yer getting off of this aren’t you? Wanna fuck me too huh?” He whispers, drawing it out slowly with a slight purr.

You nod and you can feel him perk up a little. He eases up as he stands slowly, pulling you up with him. He’s leading you down the hallway, away from the prying eyes of your peers. They’re all too busy to care where the both of you are headed.

“There’s a vacant room ‘round back. Hiragi wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t he?”

a/n: huuurrrr pulled this out of my bum I hope you like it omg I literally wrote Togame's half asleep asjdk also feeling very bad for Hiragi and his house. kaji part dedicated to @kajibunny and our late morning rambles btw ohoho i mahal na mahal u come get your man!!!!

[naffeclipse]

Minnow Pt. 2

Reader x Shark!Eclipse

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

Pt. 1

———

You would think that miraculously removing a 40 ton dead whale from the beach overnight without the use of heavy equipment or even a dumping ground for the gigantic carcass would earn you a raise or even a superficial pizza party. Perhaps a simple thank you.

But no. You, as a member of the council, who is often sent to fetch coffee drinks, are rewarded with a new problem.

Walking the shoreline, you bask in the orange light of the setting sun as the horizon begins to engulf the day within an endless maw. The tourists have mostly migrated back to their condos and hotels and rented beach houses. A few stranglers shout at their children to finish packing away plastic sand toys while loading up little carts that struggle too much in the pale sand before slipping away to the packed and baking parking lots.

Left behind is a slew of trash. Soda cans, cigarette butts, food wrappers. Beginning to touch the shores along the foamy push of the tide reveal a few floating articles left carelessly by beach goers. The greatest offender are plastic bottles. Green, yellow, blue, and white containers lying ending and discarded upon the shoreline.

The council cannot have tourism dying down due to filth, regardless of who is the cause of such a mess.

That’s your reward for such an endeavor. 

You must admit that you didn’t do it yourself. You bargained with a fish-man, and the magic he spoke of was as potent as he promised. He’s kept his end of the deal. Now, you’re suppose to reward him with seven kisses. You’re down to six which you must still give the creature with a shark-like tail and wicked teeth to match.

You stand in your dark wetsuit, intending to swim off the work you’re about to accomplish. Trash bag in hand as the beach becomes a quiet solitude in the falling sunlight, you begin to pick up pieces one by one. Your bag fills to the brim, and you must tie it off and fetch another one before continuing down the small stretch of the coast. 

It is only when you finish with your task, and straighten your back to relieve the ach beginning in your spine that you hear it. A sound of the ocean, like seaspray, but haunting and beautiful. It carries in the salty tange of the air. 

A song calling for you.

You leave the bags of trash tied and secure. A twilight blooms into the soft blue wake of the sun. Stepping into the surf, your skin prickles at its cool sensation. You stride deeper into the brine until your feet leave sand and you begin a gentle stroke through the calm waves. Weightless, you swim.

Briefly, while you peer over the surface and attempt to keep the salt from stinging your eyes, you spy a sharp dorsal fin cutting through the waves. It follows you. The sight might have terrified you with the promise of bull sharks lurking close by, but the dark color and the flash of red barring down the side of the sleek body reveals the one who joins you.

You kick calmly. A tail, long and sleek and gray, flicks up briefly before disappearing down below. A slight apprehension brews in your middle.

What if he decided that seven kisses isn’t enough? Maybe he could simply attack now where no one would hear your screams.

Something moves below. You blanch. The shadow underneath you is much larger than anything your body could cast. Under the warbling blue water is a face staring up at you. Round and disk-like, Eclipse’s mouth splits into a hungry grin. His impressive array of cartilaginous fins crowning his head in red and black rays are barely visible in the deepening darkness. 

He takes you by the hips. Your breath catches when he emerges, his body rising to cradle yours upon his gray and rough flesh. Left to float upon him, you tuck your arms in close while resting against his chest. Water spills off of him in thin sheets. 

His eyes, a brilliant and burning orange, upturn in delight.

“Hello, minnow.”

You don’t understand the bashful reflex which takes hold and causes you to glance away from the intensity of his gaze. It is so bright. 

“Hi,” you say, then take a deep breath. “Do you want another kiss?”

“I do,” he purrs. He, however, continues to swim. His tail undulates and carries you towards the line where sky meets the sea. The beginning of stars speckle the navy blue darkness above before it turns void-like. 

You aren’t sure what he’s waiting for. You figure he would grab you, as he did before and as he has done now, and plant one on you. Maybe slip in his tongue again. You pretend to not turn rosy pink at the memory. 

Instead, he begins a gentle rumble. A deep purr fills his chest where you lie upon it. It soothes the aching of your body from a long day running from the community building to deliver messages to people that should have read their emails.

“Eclipse?”

“Yes?” The rumbling stops. You miss it.

“How did you get rid of the dead whale?” You turn your head to hold his gaze.

His hands rub softly along your hips, as if wishing the wetsuit wasn’t in the way. A sharp, gleaming smile takes hold of his jaws.

“I told you before, minnow. My magic makes much possible.” He lifts a hand to tuck a stray, half-wet hair from your face. His claws are careful along the skin of your temple.

You furrow your brow. Biting your tongue, you must resist the urge to ask if seven kisses are really worth it and instead square your shoulders and press slightly on his chest to present yourself.

“Okay, let’s do this.” You close your eyes. You don’t pucker your lips, but you do wait, hoping you’re not too braced—as if anticipating a pirahan to bite you rather than a kiss from a mythical fish-man.

“Why must we rush our time together?” he chuckles deeply. “You look exhausted, minnow.”

You open your eyes, half squinted, disgruntled at the insult. Yeah, maybe you are, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m not too exhausted to give you a kiss.” You’re not certain what angle he’s going for. He already has you, and you’re ready and willing. So, what gives?

“No, I can see that.” His fingertip draws down your face. Carefully, you hold yourself still while he circles the dark stains underneath your eyes. The sensation is slick with sea salt and soft. Terribly, wonderfully soft. Your eyelids flutter under his caressing. “Relax. You feel as tense as a clam about to be cracked open.”

You have no counter argument, and what would really be an argument when you’re floating on a fish-man in the wide open sea? He could grow impatient. He could realize that it’s much easier to not take kisses from a human. 

“You’re not going to drown me, right?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

He meets you with an amused expression, his eyes glittering. 

“Do you think I'm so foolish to forsake your payments?”

You open your mouth for a false start, then stop, and try again. “I don’t know.”

He rumbles, a deep, pleasing sound that shakes the tautness of your body free. 

“You are honest,” he muses, and begins to card his slick, dark fingers down your scalp, softly digging in between strands of your hair. “Let me enlighten you.”

While his tail sways back and forth in rhythmic motions, he begins a deeper growth within his chest. It thrums against your body. You steady yourself, folding your arms over his chest while you soak in the tender caresses of his claws along your hair.

First, your eyelids begin to droop. Is it wrong to want to take a nap on a creature that could easily kill you? The quivering of your muscles begin to grow lax, and your legs drape down the sides of his powerful and dark and gray tail, and are swept into the cool wake of his swim. Barrs of red decorate him in bold, striking patterns, like the tiger sharks known to roam these waters. Your fingertips softly brush against his ribcage before catching yourself.

Next, your head begins to sink. The weight of the fish-man’s gaze never lessens, even as he now peers at you, eyes half-lidded in reflecting ease. He continues to pet you, slowly pushing you closer until your cheek rests on his wet and slippery flesh. You stiffen slightly, unsure if this is too far.

Then, you hear a heartbeat. A strong, confident drum underneath the sternum acting as your pillow. You marvel for a moment. 

He seems so real. 

The water softly splashes your sides as you begin to doze, caught under a spell so profound, you truly don’t see a reason to escape it. Drowning right now would be a small price to pay for this mere moment of peace.

Eclipse holds his hum, and it begins to grow in cadence and pitches. A lullaby you have no name for. Perhaps there are words to it, but he remains content to soothe you deeper into his embrace. At last, his hands rest upon your back and secure you against him. He continues to drift, and the world darkens until a twinkling night.

You have fallen asleep on the beach after a day of swimming. You’ve fallen asleep on your couch after telling yourself just one more episode of your favorite TV show. Falling asleep on a  creature who cradles you so carefully while he sings you to sleep is new. 

But when you open your eyes, it is still that perfect blue in between night and day, and you think you must have only drifted for a moment.

A purr grows, until Eclipse murmurs, “You must return to shore, I assume.”

You slowly push yourself up, supported by his body, as you gaze around yourself. The water is calm as it so often is early in the day, and your legs are soaked with brine. The stars overhead are beginning to fade. You ponder a moment, before regarding the fish-man.

“Is it morning?”

“It is.” He turns his burning orange eyes skyward. Then, holding your gaze, he asks, “Did you sleep well?”

You did. You hate to admit it, but your body is light and the weight that usually gathers upon your shoulders when you spend a night tossing and turning over tomorrow’s tasks are simply gone. 

“Yes,” you whisper in astonishment.

“That is good to hear, my minnow.” He purrs again, and flicks his sharp tailfins. The powerful surge carries you to shore, right before the sand gets too high. 

He stops there. You still lean against his chest, almost avoiding his gaze but not out of fright. You feel his heartbeat pick up in tempo in what you imagine is anticipation of something exciting or wonderful.

“May I have a kiss?” he asks, hungry but tender.

You swipe your tongue over your teeth. Before you can grow afraid of morning breath, you nod.

His wet hand lifts from the surf to cradle the back of your skull. He rises to meet your mouth. You close your eyes, and captured in his embrace, you taste the rich and salty wash of the waves upon his lips.

For several heartbeats, he simply holds you there against him. His mouth is wide, and the press of teeth is behind it, but he does not bite, and he does not force more than just the chasteness of two lips interlocking. He seems to savor you. He seems to inhale your scent before he gradually, reluctantly, releases you. 

“Thank you for the kiss,” he rasps.

"Yeah," you utter in a stupor, feeling as scattered as the seafoam upon the beach with the taste of him still on your lips, "No problem."

You open your eyes. He stares back, softened with adoration, before he slips you gingerly off of his tail and back into the water that rushes your skin in a harsh ‘good morning’. 

“I will call upon you again soon,” he says, swiping his tongue over his teeth, “Goodbye, minnow.”

You stand in the shallows as he twists upon his tail, and dives back into the sea. His dorsal fin remains above the surface, cutting through the blue like a knife before the glare of the rising sun upon the ocean hides him away in the waves.

Two down. Five more to go.

You stand and watch the ocean for a while. You’re going to be late to a council meeting. With great reluctance, you climb the sandy coast to retrieve the trash bags you filled last night.

There is still a problem on your hands. It does not feel like one anymore.

[0bticeo]

YOUR HEART'S GOT TEETH

summary:

he grins a little, rueful. “you’d do it, wouldn’t you? sink that dagger in my heart, if it came down to it.” you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. his stare weighs on the small droplet, one curled finger tilting up your chin.  “would you want me to do it?” his thumb pressed down on your lower lip. your heart skips a beat. “it has to be you,” he mutters.

wc: 4.4k, part one out of two (smut in part 2).

tw: blood and gore, betrayal, reader's a former black widow because crossovers are neat, natasha romanoff mentioned, canon typical violence, teasing, close proximity, kissing (dubcon? reader's into it but conflicted), unresolved sexual tension

somebody is insistently poking your cheek. you frown and burrow yourself in the source of warmth on your left. another poke, pointer finger a little harsher, brushing the cheekbone left bare by your mask. you groan and open a bleary eye. the sun blinds you. dick grayson is smiling down at you. 

“wake up, sleepyhead.”

you groan. bury yourself back in that heavenly warmth and feel a hint of heat creeping up your neck when you realise it’s his shoulder you’ve been snuggling against.

“told you not to wake me up unless an apocalypse started.”

contrite silence.

you raise your head, eyes squinting suspiciously, sleep-induced drowsiness vanishing. dick has a tense little smile on his lips. matter of fact, the entire living room is tense, as sunlight-bathed it may be. you catch sight of a frowning damian and a glimpse of red- oh, hell. if jason’s there, too, shit is about to hit the fan, hard . you groan again, mumbling against the coldness of kevlar.

“why does this type of thing happen exclusively when i’m on a day off–” 

“you don’t have days off, crow.”

you look up at dick, wounded.

“rub it in, will you?”

in hindsight, you should’ve expected it. crows are a bad omen, and ever since you took that moniker for your vigilante persona, misfortune’s been hot on your heels. then again, it’s been trailing you for a while. 

(lights out. the burning weight of a gun in your hands. feet aching from the imprint left by pointe shoes. the cooling body of your sister. the cold, satisfied gaze of one of the many handlers roaming these halls.)

misfortune and death have followed you ever since you were a child. so when batman – uncowled, frowning, tired – tells you about the dead rising, you’re barely phased. still, dread sips in your core, a heavy weight, cold and ominous. he talks about bodies, drained of blood. barry, dead. barry. speedster. how the hell–

“the league is compromised,” he continues, absently fiddling with a vial. 

alfred settles besides you, calm and composed, the epitome of british phlegmatism, pouring you coffee. the situation must be dire indeed, if he consents to brew coffee out of all things. still, you take it, downing the cup like it’s the last one you’ll ever get. you’ll need it, with how sluggish you’ve been lately, patrol after patrol piling up on your shoulders.

“what makes you think we aren’t?” you ask, wary. 

batman looks at you, eyes like steel.

“the holy water in your beverages would have killed you.”

you tilt your head.

“i assume you did research on ye olden vampire folklore and found it all to be true?”

“yes.”

“oh, naturally.”

damian may or may not have thrown his hot chocolate in your face upon learning it was laced with holy water. you dodge, dick’s chest rumbling with laughter as you do, warm and steady and safe and – god, get a grip, crow.

you bask in lethal sunlight, cross in hand, because sanctity repels the corrupt. you wonder if you should tell batman that trying is no use. if they got to barry, the league is done for. one of them would have turned the others. even clark –

dick grins, spinning the cross between two long, slender fingers. you follow the motion, gaze lingering on the blue stripes stretching from collarbone to fingertips. 

“i guess the stakes are pretty high, huh?”

you roll your eyes and slap at dick’s chest with a low hiss of: “focus”. a little fond. softer than the killing machine you’ve been molded into. your heart skips a beat when he grins back at you, hip nudging yours. 

you think it’s good to see them all here. no matter what, as sure as the sun will rise, they remain somewhat of a constant in your life. batman has back up plans upon back up plans. you should be fine. you will be. so why are you so on edge?

(he feels it, the way your heart hammers in your chest, hummingbird-fast. hears the pulse of it, a trembling little thing. had he been lesser, he would’ve wanted to cradle it close, cup it in the warm expanse of his palms.

as it is, his heart is cold and his hunger monstrous.)

the streets of gotham are as familiar as the motions you go through each morning, a well-loved path. above, mother moon bleeds red.

you patrol, because it’s the only thing that can take your edge off, and desperately wish for a miracle. it’s foolish, you know. lucifer may be lazing about indolently in hell, you may have stared into the eyes of the reaper on one strange occasion, but you don’t believe in god.

nietzsche’s words echo in your head, broken, outdated record crackling back to life. god is dead. god remains dead. and we have killed him.

at his feet, a vampire. dead.

you wonder how to kill what can’t be killed. omnipotent. omnipresent. omniscient. you slide down a beaten down wall, silent as a shadow, and catch a split-second glimpse of red, stake deadly in strong, murder-wrought hands.

this is crime alley, and here is its protector, the bloodsoaked prince of gotham himself. red hood.

how shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? 

you meet his gaze through the opaque lenses of his domino mask and keep patrolling. higher and higher, wind sharp in your ears, gliding against the steel feathers woven in your shoulders, over your arms. neon lights slide off the dead white of your eyes, your half-mask a faceless, dead thing.

what was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? 

there was something about holding that cross in your bared palm, the glove tucked in your utility belt. the heavy weight of it, the cold silver stark against your skin. salvation incarnate in a godless world, and you desperately want something to go right for a change, because fuck murphy’s law and everything it entails.

a blur in your peripheral. sharp, hungry. well-oiled machine, you dig your stake between the third and fourth rib and watch as flames engulf him. it. what was once a living, breathing human being before fangs tore off his throat, before his dying breath choked on a mouthful of blood.

blood doesn’t spill on your hands. you feel its warmth nevertheless. 

who will wipe this blood off you?

the voice in your hand sounds like your handler. cold. sharp. unforgiving. you’re gonna carry that weight, raw guilt on your palms for all the lives you have taken. 

footsteps, lithe and graceful as a swan.

“remind me not to get on your bad side.”

nightwing leans against the wall, the neon of aircraft warning lights bleeding red on his frame. half in the shadows, half burned in flames. you offer a tentative smile, tucking away your bloodied stake. 

“i don’t think i’ll ever turn my blade on you.”

he hums, skipping towards you, impossibly fluid. 

“which one would you use, if you had no choice?” he breathes, inches away from you.

it’s at his throat before you know it. a sharp, deadly thing. he recognises it, the long, narrow blade you stumbled across in a bidding. miséricorde – a blade used for mercy kills. his fingers trail down your wrist, finding the junction where your glove and sleeve meets. the pad of them presses on your inner wrist, reaching for your pulse.

“you flatter me, crow. picking the dagger i gifted you?”

gone is the metronome heartbeat you assume on patrol, the one that’s been drilled into you upon countless hours of practice, the one that had your sisters put down like dogs for failing to keep. your pulse hammers, radial artery stuttering under his thumb. he feels it, you know, despite the kevlar. 

“do me a favour, blue.” you sheathe it back with your free hand, the blade disappearing in the confines of your suit. “don’t make me use it.”

don’t get bitten, you want to beg. don’t put me in a position in which your blood will stain my hands, too.

he grins a little, rueful.

“you’d do it, wouldn’t you? sink that dagger in my heart, if it came down to it.”

you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. his stare weighs on the small droplet, one curled finger tilting up your chin. 

“would you want me to do it?”

his thumb pressed down on your lower lip. your heart skips a beat.

“it has to be you,” he mutters.

you cannot see his eyes. only stare at the milky-white concealing atlantic blue, that perfect shade. it unnerves you, perhaps. 

“i thought you and babs-”

he grins, amused.

“no.”

oh .

“i’m sorry.”

you’re not. some awful, gleeful little part of you is grinning, sharp and bloody. yours . yours to keep, to ensnare in your pretty little web, to covet and cherish – 

a split-second reckoning. you’re no black widow. not since he came along, not since he helped you. you’re crow. sharp, deadly, trying to be better than what they molded you into. maybe you’re too late. maybe you’re the sand at the bottom half of that dreadful red hourglass. maybe –

“you’re thinking too much.”

your coms sparkle to life.

you blink. he’s close . you didn’t even see him move . maybe he’s always been there, half a step away from you, impeccably warm in the cool gothamite night. something like fight or flight settles in your bones, adrenaline rising before a fight, body electric, brushing against his. oh. 

oh .

you can feel his breath dusting your cheek, the way he curves into you, drawing closer and closer, two halves of a whole. his nose brushes your jaw, gently nuzzling against you.

you let out something like a strangled whine, raw and aching, his hand trailing up your side, brushing against your ribs as though reaching for the heart beneath. he smiles, abyss-deep. 

“head back to base. now.”

you part. his thumb lingers on your lip, wiping away the small droplet of blood. you disappear in the shadows without a sound. you’re cold.

(he licks his finger clean and shudders, eyes rolling back behind his mask. his smile cuts through the night.)

you don’t bother flicking the lights back on in your living room. merely slip inside through your open window and scratch under your cat’s chin as you make a beeline towards your fridge. there’s still leftover curry in it. some divine pasta dish dick whipped up the last time he came here – maybe you should finish that. 

you shoot him a quick text. a picture of the plated dish, captioned: “do i get to kiss the cook?” you’re fishing around in your drawer for cutlery when you see it. a glimpse of gold. you sigh, shoulders heaving as you get your plate from the microwave, grabbing the cat on your way. nero rewards you with minimal wriggling and a few gray hairs on your suit. 

“good evening to you too, diana.”

she seeps out of the dark, shadow-fluid, with the grace of a predator. her lips flash red in the dim lighting of your kitchen, golden flecks from the street lights shimmering on her bracelets.

“i come in peace.”

you push forward your plate in a silent invitation. she raises an amused eyebrow, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. relaxed. non-threatening. it doesn’t fool you. her kind is faster than yours. she’d break your neck before you’d finish blinking.

“i assume you want to turn me.”

“that honour doesn’t belong to me.”

you take back your plate and dig in, wary. your cat climbs on your shoulders. the only thing between you and the apex predator of a warrior in front of you is the dinner table. somehow, you doubt ikea’s eikedalen table would hold her back that long.

“why are you here?”

she smiles. it cuts through the penumbra. you see the faint outline of her fangs in the shadows. something in you breaks a little.

“our king wants to see you.”

you swallow your mouthful of pasta. divinity never tasted this bitter. you file away the information. the vampires abide by a strict hierarchy. their monarch’s word is law. he – male, faster, stronger – wants to see you. unharmed and willing – otherwise she would have knocked you out and dragged you to him. 

blink and your thoughts are clear and your mind wary. you gesture to your pasta with your fork.

“mind if i finish this?”

exasperation flashes in her eyes.

“do go on. we have all night.”

you don’t. she’s tense, in a way that has nothing to do with rigor mortis. her fingers dig in the skin of her bicep, hard. her claws leave small indents. they don’t draw blood. vampires can harm their own flesh. good to know . 

your plate is half-finished. you take your time. mouthful after mouthful, eating quietly, mind running faster than light. you hum to yourself, adding a bit of parmesan cheese. 

“what’s next?”

she looks at you. her eyes are red. you want to claw out your own, reach under the glassy orbs of your half mask, shatter them and dig to forget that sight.

“the world will be ours.”

you hum. twirl your fork around, the spaghetti wrapping around it. 

“i assume we’ll be used as cattle.”

she grins.

“clever girl.”

you stand. wash your plate. place it in the dish rack. stroke your cat’s fur absently. as you bury your face in his fur, nuzzling his head, you have the sinking feeling you’re not going to see him for a good long while. diana rolls her eyes.

“ sentiment .” it sounds like a curse. “come, now. you’ve made him wait enough–”

she chokes on your blade. four others join, sinking in undead flesh, pinning her to the wall. you creep closer, stake in hand.

“haven’t you heard? the stakes are high.”

you’re about to sink the stake in her heart when you’re seized in a flash of brilliant green - green lantern. you snarl. he laughs.

“can’t believe she gave you trouble. why didn’t you restrain her arms?”

you don’t need your arms to spit in his face. and you laugh and laugh when it does land. 

crack. your head slams against the wall. when diana grabs you by the hair, you’re grinning, all sharp teeth and bloody gums.

“careful. not sure you king would want me harmed.”

diana prowls towards them, enticing, a charming lilt to her voice. they come in peace, she says, making no move for her weapon. you doubt you’d see her move if she did. then again, as she is now, she is the weapon.

they track down batman and his bats to an empty warehouse. you see it. the thrill of the chase. how one drop of his blood leads them straight to him, shark-fast. the realisation sinks into you harsher than green lantern’s claws do.

you never stood a chance.

you shift in his grip with a groan. right shoulder dislocated. bruised ribs. you’ll get to live until you’re brought before their king. 

you catch sight of dick and your shoulders sag in relief. he’s unharmed. you shift. you just need hal to break focus before you strike– 

“unhand her,” dick growls, fist tightening around one escrima stick, electricity crackling in the air. “ now. ”

green lantern grins. you’re all but thrown into dick’s chest. you hiss, your shoulder aching as you meet the warmth of him. his arms wrap around you, his lips brushing your forehead, where blood slowly dries from where you’ve been thrown against the wall of your own living room. you hear a low rumble in his chest and melt a little, nevermind the two vampires waiting with bated breath.

a soft whisper as dick steadies you, fingers wrapped firmly around your arm.

“are you all right, crow?”

you wince, drawing a sharp breath as the motion jostles your shoulder in its socket. it snaps back in place with a sickening crack.

“peachy.”

green lantern has been weaving sweet promises, stepping closer to batman. barry’s death? an accident . that absolute bastard. 

“think of all you could accomplish as a human, as a god,” he says, the green lantern suit a mockery of what his corps stand for. “all you could do for humankind and vampirekind.” 

oh, and he’s awfully tempting about it. batman is a symbol wrapped in mortal flesh. bruce would need a successor to uphold his mission. but this? them ? they could grant him an immortality spent helping . no more aging. no more worrying about who would take the cowl. 

(you won’t have to hold dick together as he takes himself apart donning that blasted mantle. being batman hadn’t done him good. you saw it in his eyes, the light slowly dimming, that perpetual frown.)

batman shifts in his gait.

“no.”

all hell breaks loose. they’re fast . but you’ve managed to catch diana off-guard – look at you, innocent and relaxed, boa constrictor on the loose, ready to pounce and kill. 

blood.

it’s over.

you’re done fighting for your life, the two vampires burning away courtesy of a trap laid by batman’s handywork. hal is the first to go, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. diana’s screaming. one moment you let out a relieved breath as batman answers his com. the next, you watch as his chest bursts open, an open palm cradling his heart. he falls. 

and dick is laughing. he laughs and laughs, head thrown back, beautiful and terrible as he tosses bruce’s still-beating heart aside, blood dripping down his fingers, fangs glinting sharp. he brings his bloodsoaked fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick the blood. it drips down his plush lips, down his chin, trickles down to his adam apple.

your own heart is beating out of your chest, an erratic little rhythm. fight. flight. 

freeze.

he leers at his mentor’s corpse, lips stretched in a lazy grin, head thrown back, heady with power.

“i wish i could have turned you, but even if i had, i still never could have trusted you.”

black bat’s scream breaks your heart.

(the cold barrel of a gun pressed against your head. your sister staring you down, green eyes cold, hair the shade of your blood. 

“they will put you down like a dog if you don’t fight.”)

you throw yourself in the fray.

it’s a slaughterhouse, diana shattering your wrist, sending your stake flying, red robin’s skull crushed on the ground, black bat lays limp and broken, and damian – fangs sink in his neck and you watch as dick feasts . a sick warmth settles in your core. you blame it on the fury boiling hot in your veins. 

“go, hood,” you bark, blocking one of diana’s strikes, feather-blade slashing through the tendons of her wrist, talos’ law. “take cass to green arrow.”

doesn’t matter if you fight, spider shedding out her crow husk, you will die here, because if dick has no mercy for his brother, he won’t have any to spare for you. damian gurgles weakly on the ground, and you watch as dick slices his wrist with his fangs and let the blood pour in his gaping mouth.

jason slips something in your hand. a flashbang. you smirk.

“don’t die.”

“will do. now go! ”

red hood does. falls back with green arrow and alfred, black bat’s unconscious body cradled in his arms. he shoots you a glance as you narrowly evade diana’s claws, the sharpness of them drawing a fine streak of blood on your cheek. 

and then it’s only you, him and the sharp, sharp edge of your blade. 

his hand brushes your shoulder, the dislocated one. fingers firmly clamping down on it. you scream, head thrown back. his nose meets your skull, cracks. he’s laughing, a low chuckle that has his chest rumbling behind your back. he pulls you close, arms wrapped around your waist, nose brushing the crook of your neck.

“give up,” he purrs. “i was always better than them, and now i’m god-like.”

you squirm, black dancing at the edges of your vision, pain eating away at your consciousness, sharp and vicious. you can’t use your left arm. fuck .

think. you’re not dead yet. he doesn’t want you dead. 

you need time. you need to get damian out of here. the simplest plans are the best, so you tilt your head back, revealing a sliver of your neck, the thin crimson stripe on your cheek. dick hums, craning back your neck until it’s just short of painful. your mask is cracking, revealing one bloodied eye, half-lidded. 

(“spin your web.”)

“are you in need of worshippers, my king?” you breathe, low and croaked. 

his grip tightens on your hip, spinning you around in a mock waltz until you’re facing him, your hand splaying on his torso, the kevlar still soaked from bruce’s blood. he laughs, low and so very pleased. you think you’ve never seen something as beautiful as he is now, dark and bloody and terrible, cradling you against his sharp edges like something infinitely precious.

“i need a queen.”

his tongue laps at your cheek. your breath hitches, fingers flexing by your side, and you melt against him, a warm little puddle of desire, finding safety in the wolf-maw of your demise. he shudders against you, lips pressed against your skin, fingers digging in the meat of your hips. 

you reach for him. he obliges, mouth slotting against yours, hot and heavy. you taste blood. damian’s. bruce’s. yours. he nips at your lip and you let out a startled little gasp, desperate for purchase, something to ground yourself with. you find only him, so you cup the back of his neck. his tongue slips in your mouth, and he moans at the taste of you, pulling you closer, closer… 

you want to drown in him you realise. you want him to ruin you. 

for you, he’ll have mercy.

he grunts, staggers back, surprised. there’s a dagger protruding from his chest. miséricorde. you’re already by damian when diana makes a move for you. a bang. a flash.

they topple seats of power. the white house, blasted away by the last son of krypton. they burn the life-giving forests and jungles to the ground. 

when the vampire king opens his eyes; you’re gone.

they kill the sun so there’s no dawn for justice.

the war is over before it even has time to begin. 

you part ways with jason and damian. 

“he will want his brothers by his side.” you sigh, leaning back against a beaten down alleyway in a no-name city. “might as well make the chase trickier for him.”

damian frowns; eyes redder than the lifeblood he’s lost.

“what of you?”

you smile, rueful.

dick circles you; steps silent on the floor of the beaten down warehouse you call your refuge. the nightwing suit is still soaked in his father’s blood.

“he wants a queen.”

his eyes are red. you want to weep

“why so sad?” he croons. “i’m here, am i not?”

he tilts your chin with one long finger. these damned fingerstripes have your mouth watering, even now. something tells you he knows it. relishes it. he shouldn’t be so warm. not when his heart is decaying in his ribcage. his nose brushes yours, his smile softening by a fraction.

“join me, darling.” 

your heart skips a beat at the pet name. you remain stubbornly silent. 

his fangs lightly graze your neck, his breath warm on your skin. a low chuckle. you despise him, he knows. yet… yet here you are. bloody, bruised, leaning into his touch like you used to after patrol, when he was the one to patch you up in his flat, fingers lingering on your nape, your shoulders, your collarbones. days long gone.

“come on…” he purrs. “don’t make me beg.”

you reel back. wrench yourself from his embrace with a quiet desperation that surprises even you. he’s a threat. you must kill him. this is no different than any of the contracts you’ve ever had.

“ stop ,” you beg.

he raises an eyebrow.

“why should i? you’ve missed me. ached for me. have done so for years.” he leans closer, words sharper than the blade strapped to your thigh. “don’t think i didn’t feel your eyes on me when i was with babs.”

you growl. 

“you killed her. killed them all. why? ”

he shrugs, the movement impossibly fluid. 

“as much as i longed for our family to reign by my side, i would never have been able to trust them.”

“what makes you think you can trust me?”

he laughs at that. low and warm and rich, in all ways dick grayson but not. not quite. he prowls closer to you, cornering you until you’re pressed up against the wall. he’s warm and broad and you’ve missed him. there’s an edge to him, finally bare to the world, one you’ve only seen when you first met him when he was working under slade. you might get cut. maybe you want to bleed for him.

your fingers dig in his hair, impossibly soft under your skin. you bury your nose in his neck, where his pulse should be, and find none. you let out a trembling sigh.

“i hate you.”

dick tilts his head, dark locks brushing your cheek. his lips are inches away from yours. you feel the ghost of a smile on your mouth.

“you’ll come around.”

you wake up in cold sweat with the phantom warmth of his lips on yours. dread settles in your core. something’s wrong. years of training kick in – breathe in; out; focus on your heart, settle for a metronome pulse to hide your fear. the air bears the scent of decay and everything rotten; an all-consuming wrongness seeping in earth’s core. 

you’re surrounded. there may be many of them, there may only be one – him – doesn’t matter. you won’t be able to escape without them noticing. you’re trapped. 

all exits are blocked. you didn’t have the time to dig an escape tunnel. hiding is not an option. you’re down to three stakes. half the steel feathers on your suits are gone – lost to the fray. your head is spinning from lack of proper food, your hands stained with cracked blood – yours and that of the few vampires stupid enough to cross you.

you rise.

“come in, i know you’re here.”

a blade at your throat. long; sharp and thin.

“you’re coming with me.” he smiles down at you, almost tender. "my queen."

he doesn’t turn you. doesn’t force you to sink your teeth in him the way he’d do to you. doesn’t force you to consume the lifeblood of him, to consume him. no, he holds the blade above your heart with a predatory nonchalance. you’re frozen, his torso pressed against your back, arm tightly wrapped around your waist.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source. 

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free. 

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. 

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand. 

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach. 

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords. 

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits. 

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder. 

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile. 

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen. 

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway. 

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious. 

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room. 

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring. 

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave. 

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with. 

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once? 

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts. 

“You wanna?” 

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly. 

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor. 

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good. 

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides. 

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup. 

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them. 

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs. 

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare. 

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply. 

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip. 

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. 

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says. 

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment.

Want more to read? Check out my masterlists.

[wriothesleybear]

Genshin/Hsr men’s favorite body part of yours

~warnings: Fluff in Sunday’s and Dr. Ratio’s, suggestive in Boothill’s (hickeys), spiciness in Wrio’s (hickeys, pussyeating, grinding, cum, sex positions), Gallagher’s (spanking, ass grabbing, biting, marking, pussyeating, sex positions, anal), and Diluc's (morning sex, bath sex, nipple sucking, chest marking, a bit of pervert Diluc, morning wood), fem!reader, MDNI!

Sunday loves your hands, especially your fingers. He swears your hands were crafted from the aeons themselves. He always starts his kisses on your hands, beginning with your fingertips first. He brings your hands to his soft lips, pressing a kiss to each fingertip. He then moves up to planting a kiss on the palm of your hand, then the back, and up your arm. He loves hearing you giggle and say that it tickles. Once he reaches your neck, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of it, slowly peppering kisses on the sensitive skin there. He’ll admit, it’s hard for him to hold himself back when he hears you breathlessly whisper his name as you tilt your head to allow him more access. Before it can go any further, he pulls away, cups your face and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Darling, you make it hard for me to hold back sometimes.” He chuckles as he whispers against your skin.

Wriothesley loves your thighs. He would die happy squished between them. He loves to rest his head on your thighs as you trace his scars. He especially likes to do this on your picnic dates out on the surface as he basks in the warm sunlight and calm breeze. He goes feral when you wear a sundress or thigh highs that accentuates your thighs. God. He can’t hold himself back when you purposefully wear things that show off those beautiful, soft thighs of yours. During love making, he takes extra time to pepper kisses and hickeys on your thighs. When you squish your thighs around his head as he eats you out, grinding against his face, making it hard for him to breathe, he swears he can come just from that. He actually has before by grinding his hips against the bed while he ate your pussy. It felt so good but it wasn't enough so he folded you in half and fucked you into the mattress. His favorite sex positions are mating press, missionary, holding you up by your thighs against the wall, basically anything that gives him access to touch your thighs while he fucks you. It’s a shame when you wear outfits to hide your littered thighs the next day though. When you tell him it’s his fault, he corners you against the wall and whispers in your ear, “But you sounded like you were enjoying it last night when you were moaning my name while I marked you up.” His breathy voice sends shivers down your spine and it doesn’t help when he puts a strong hand on your thigh, softly rubbing it. As it slowly begins to move up your inner thigh, he’s interrupted by a knock on his office door. He’s a bit annoyed but promises you with a kiss that you two will continue this later.

Gallagher loves your ass. He’s an ass guy. He likes to come up from behind you while you’re busy doing something and slap your ass. If you slap his ass back, he’ll just think you’re adorable. He’s the type of boyfriend to rest his hand in your pant’s back pocket. He likes to eat your pussy from behind. He likes to spread your ass cheeks with his large hands, giving him a good view of your tight asshole and glistening pussy. His favorite sex position is doggy or reverse cowgirl because he likes the view of your ass bouncing on him as your pussy swallows his thick cock. He would definitely be into anal but only if you are comfortable to do it as well. Spanks your ass cheeks often while he fucks you. You usually have red handprints left on your ass cheeks but he sweetly peppers them with kisses when he’s done. He has bitten your ass before, leaving behind a bite mark that lasted for a week. When you told him you were mad about it, he only responded by cupping your ass and whispering in your ear “I could mark other places on your body if you didn’t like it on your ass. Maybe someplace where everyone can see.” He laughed when he saw how it turned you into a blushing mess and made you stumble on your words. You let it go and just told him not to bite so hard next time. He promised he wouldn’t as he pressed a kiss to your lips.

Boothill loves your neck. He always messes with you and nibbles on your sensitive neck with his sharp teeth. He is careful to not hurt you though and makes up for the teasing by licking and kissing the marks he leaves. He gets a big head when you walk around, showing off the hickeys he made. He does get sassy and pouty when you try to cover them up though. He’ll deliberately move the piece of clothing or wipe off the makeup covering his marks on your neck. He likes to mark what’s his and show it to the galaxy who you belong to so please just give him this. Plus he’ll bug you less..sort of. He’s still a little annoying when you give him what he wants. If you really want to shut him up, pull him into a kiss to throw him off. It sometimes works. Most times, he’ll continue to bug you about how into him you are. You could always bring up how he can’t curse correctly which usually shuts him up for good, but you usually let it go due to seeing how happy he is.

Diluc loves your chest. He loves to rest his head on your chest at the end of the day while you comb your fingers in his soft hair and rub his back. Don’t be shy to hum him a song because it’ll make him fall asleep much quicker. He literally gets so soft when you do this. It’s hard for him to move from that position for a while. When you two are making love, you notice he spends extra time on giving your breasts attention. He loves to pepper kisses on them, massage them, and suck on your nipples the most. He doesn't last long when you give him a tit job. It's feels like literal heaven when you slide his cock between your soft, jiggly breasts. The view of you with his cum decorating your tits is a true masterpiece that he would pay millions of mora for. He would never admit it but he likes when you wear clothes that accentuate your breasts. He tries to not be disrespectful and oogle your chest when you wear those types of outfits, but his eyes wander sometimes. Especially when you bend over next to him to look closely at what he’s doing, giving him access to look further down your blouse or when you laugh at a comment he made, making your chest bounce. He feels guilty for staring but he can’t help it sometimes. Of course he doesn’t like the extra attention you get from other men when you’re visiting him at the tavern. When this happens, he takes his furry coat off and rests it on your shoulders, making sure to cover your chest. When you wear his dress shirt to bed, oh boy does it make him blushy. He thinks you look so cute with how his shirt slightly drapes off your shoulder and the sleeves go a bit over your hands due to the length. In the morning, you wake up with his shirt in disarray on your body. He notices how the shirt rose up your thighs, exposing your panties and a few of the shirt buttons got unbuttoned during your sleep, fully exposing your voluptuous breasts. If he didn’t already have morning wood, he certainly would be hard just from the explicit, glorious sight of you. He’s sometimes very eager in the morning, which he tries to hide, but it’s hard to ignore it when you can feel his hard cock press against your thigh as you two share some slow morning kisses. This usually leads into some slow, morning sex or a quicky in the bath before work.

Dr. Ratio loves your lips. His eyes are always on them when you aren’t paying attention. He notices the way you nibble your lip when you’re concentrating on something. He sometimes shuts you up with a kiss when you two are debating over something. When he pulls away, he notices the cute look on your face as you stand there flabbergasted, with redden cheeks. He acts unphased, turning away to focus back on his work. When he doesn’t hear any movement from you, he turns his head and notices that you’re still frozen from his sudden action. He smirks. “What is it my dear? Stuck on a question?” You only turn to look at your work and whisper a ‘shut up’. He smiles and chuckles to himself as he turns back to his own work. You sometimes try to get back at him and surprise him with kisses but it doesn't phase him in the slightest, making you pouty which he thinks is funny and adorable of you.

[utterlyotterlyx]

Way Down We Go

Lucien x Tamlin!Sister!Reader

Summary - Basically Lucien smut with very little plot

Warnings - fluff, smut (p in v), forbidden love, oral (f!receiving), slight breeding kink, Lucien being the man of my dreams xo

Water baby.

Lucien had always called you it, and at first you had found it rather patronising, but you soon warmed up to the sweet pet name he had bestowed to you.

There had been countless occasions where he would stroll through the gardens of the Spring Court manor and find you idly floating in one of the ponds or fountains. Lucien would stand at the waters edge silently, enjoying the way the water made your dress stick to your skin and turn it almost translucent to the point where he could make out the faint peaks of your nibbles beneath the fabric. That wasn't his favourite part, no, it was the serene smile that would always form upon your lips.

Sometimes you would open your bright eyes and find him stood there, and you'd engage in conversation with him, polite and elegant as always. But other times you wouldn't open your eyes at all, and Lucien had often stood there until he was called away, enjoying the joy etched onto your face.

No one knew what drew you to the water. Tamlin had always teased you about it, telling you to go and drown whenever you had a spat to which you'd simply flip off with your usual level of sarcasm and ire. It had always caused Lucien to bite his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing.

Being Tamlin's sister meant that you were off-limits to him, even Tamlin had said that Lucien was not worthy of someone so light and perfect as you. Coming from Spring, it had made sense that you were at one with nature, not only were you a shifter like your brother and father, but you were also able to manipulate the earth, to sprout flowers in the palms of your hands and grow trees with a single thought if you required a touch of shade whist you floated in the streams.

Animals also adored you, bounding from the forest if they caught a speckle of your scent, one of early morning sunlight and lilies. It wasn't rare to see you lying in the grass with a school of new-born fox pups basking in your glow, stretching across your stomach as you read beneath the willow tree atop the mound to the west of the large estate.

"Why does everyone think that she's so perfect? She's a pain in the ass," Tamlin asked to no one in particular as he stared out of the window, catching a glimpse of you trapsing through the gardens with a fox in tow dressed in a sage green ensemble that brushed over your shoulders to expose your dainty freckles to the air.

Lucien hummed in reply, "Because she is perfect," he told his friend and High Lord, chuckling at the eye roll from Tamlin as he mumbled that he knew that you were, but that didn't mean that you weren't a pain in the ass.

To everyone else, you were the Daughter of Spring, a fair and benevolent creature that the fae genuinely believed was a decedent of the gods, maybe even the Mother herself. But to those within the manor, you were a rebellious thing, consistently pushing the limits of your freedom. Alis enjoyed your spirit far too much.

So did Lucien.

Tamlin had excused himself to patrol the boarder shortly after, fixing his green riding jacket to his frame and untucking his hair from the collar, leaving Lucien alone within the dining room.

Shortly after his departure, you entered the ornate dining space where Lucien sat reading over reports with a book between your fingers. You glanced about the room, noticing his arched brow of inquiry before closing the doors behind you and turning the lock; you crossed the gleaming oaken floor, enjoying the manner in which Lucien leant back in his chair and parted his legs, watching each step you took like a predator assessing its prey.

There was no denying Lucien's beauty. Everything he was, you beheld. The long red hair that you often braided when you were alone, braids that he would fight to keep in place and when a singular one would unwind he would find any reason to visit you and have you fix it. The russet orbs that glimmered in the sunlight made you weak. Then there was the issue of his body, his perfectly sculpted and muscular body that was so alluring that it was difficult to not be wrapped around him at all times.

Sighing, you nestled yourself onto his thighs, hitching your skirt around your waist as you shuffled to make yourself comfortable, you draped your arms lazily around his neck, lowering yourself to capture a chaste kiss from his lips, "Has Tamlin ventured from the estate?"

Lucien smirked at your words, his body tingling from the sensation your lips next to his ear brought him, "You know that I despise it when you talk about your brother when you're sat on me, my love."

His large hands rested on your hips, keeping you steady as your body straddled him; you laughed at his words, his humour matching your own, and you sank further down on him, feeling his cock twitch beneath the fabric of his briefs, "Would you rather I got off?" Your voice was light and held a level of teasing to it, and you slowly began to dismount Lucien, stopping in your tracks when his grip tightened and held you in place.

"Well I never said that," Lucien leaned forward, his hands travelling up to rest on the centre of your back despite the table cushioning your weight from behind. His finger traced down your throat all the way down your sternum, pausing at the corset of your dress that he had heard you complain of that morning, stating that Alis had secured it too tightly to your figure.

A wickedly feline glint consumed his stare, his finger dipped into the corset that was so tight that he could feel your heartbeat against the digit and leaned further to capture your lips against his, trailing kisses along your jaw until he found that certain sweet spot beneath your ear.

Emitting a breathless moan, you threw your head back as his lips worked their way to the curve of your breasts, "We can't. What if Tamlin comes back?"

"Let him," Lucien idly pulled at the strings of your corset, tugging each rung loose as he spoke against your skin, "I'm not the one who has the issue telling Tamlin that we're mates." Lucien continued to kiss along your breasts and collarbone, softly sucking and nipping at the skin.

"He'd be furious," you ground down on his lap, a low growl emitted from his lips, so low and dangerous that it made heat pool between your legs.

"I. Don't. Care." Lucien lifted you into the air and set you down atop the table, standing between your open legs and taking your head in his hand, willing it to the side to give him better access to the neck that haunted his dreams.

"Luc," you breathed, feeling weak under him, his fingers working quickly to unfasten the corset holding your breasts in place so that he could dip his head low and swirl his tongue around your right nipple.

That simple action had your back arching against him, and Lucien smirked at the scent of your arousal infiltrating his consciousness.

Lucien indulged the unconvincing scolding, planting his palms either side of you and pulling back slightly, "What is it, baby? Do you want me to stop?" Lucien drifted the tip of his nose down the bridge of your own, enveloping you in his scent, in the same scent that you had both worked hard to glamour from your brother.

"Gods no," your mouths collided in a battle of lips and teeth, Lucien captured your bottom lip between his canines and used the action to prise your mouth open just enough for his tongue to roll against your own; his hands slid up your thighs and rested just inches away from where you needed them to go, his thumbs dragging over your skin teasingly.

"That's my girl," he mumbled against your lips, his rough toned voice making your core clench with need, you always loved it when he called you that, his girl, and the damned bastard knew it.

Lucien's lips trailed from your mouth, leaving open mouthed kisses across your breasts that were exposed thanks to his handiwork at unfastening your corset and pulling it down your arms so that all you wore was your dress around your waist. You were the most magnificent creature he had ever seen, and you were his, his until the day you both ceased to exist.

Your mate dropped to his knees, looping his arms under your legs and pulling you to the edge of the table. His warm breath swept between your thighs as his eyes dropped to meet your core that was begging for his touch, "Always so eager," the vibration of the words against his lips made you shudder, realising how close he truly was from tasting you.

Without waiting for your reply, he ran his tongue up your folds, humming at the decadent taste of you on his lips and your body jolted at the touch. His tongue swirled around your clit, assessing the perfect spot he knew would have you screaming his name in a matter of minutes and pressed a light kiss to the area, smirking at the breathless moan that escaped your lips. "Luc, please," you whined, his hands had pried your legs apart and had moved to grasp onto the flesh of your ass, spreading you to give him better access.

Lucien attached his lips to that bundle of nerves, winding his lips around it and sucking gently, flicking his tongue against it and running a finger through your folds, "So needy," he mumbled against you.

Arching your back from the table, you slid your fingers into his hair, gently tugging him closer and moving against his face, rolling your hips against the graceful and fire-tinged flick of his tongue against you. It was so sinful, to have his head buried between your thighs pulling every moan and mewl from you that he could whilst you lay on the table where you had dinner each night, nipples piqued upward toward the ceiling and juices coating the table edge.

Your mate sensed your urgency, mainly from the way you were grinding against his tongue; Lucien coiled his fingers around your thighs, keeping your legs in place despite your writhing against the table and fingers clawing against his scalp with desperation. It didn't take him long to find the specific spot that had you crying out, he pushed two fingers into you, pumping them inside and curling them upward to meet the rough spot inside of your walls, keeping a steady pace when you cried out his name to the skies; a hot white heat consumed your body, his fingers stretched you deliciously, preparing you for what was to come.

But Lucien was a gentleman, he always made sure that your pleasure came first, and he was happy to serve you in whatever way you needed him to.

"Tell me," he pressed a kiss to your folds, smirking at the jolt the touch sent through your body before rising and pulling you upright to meet his chest. One of his hands cupped your jaw, making your cock-dazed eyes find his whilst his other unfastened his belt and unbuttoned his briefs, pulling his cock from the fabric and pumping it twice in his fingers, "Do you prefer the stars above or the ones I make you see?"

It wasn't a question that you needed to answer, you couldn't anyway, your mind still calming from the orgasm that had ripped through it only moments before; your legs still quaked as he settled himself between them, running the tip of his cock through your folds and capturing the slick left in the wake of his tongue ravaging you. Lucien trailed his lips along your shoulder, tasting your sun kissed skin and pecking against the herds of freckles that appeared when the sun was strongest.

Capturing your lips against his own, Lucien pushed into you, pushing until he was hilted and waiting a moment for you to adjust, your walls quivering around him threatening to become undone within a matter of minutes. A low growl fell from him, his fingers raked through your hair and he rolled his hips, thrusting so slowly that it allowed you to feel every single inch of his cock stretching your walls. Lucien's movements quickened slightly but it was still torturous to endure, but you loved the feeling of having him inside of you too much, the way he rocked his hips into you, the way his fingers coiled around the base of your neck and the way his lips pressed sloppy kisses on your mouth. All of it was enough to drive you irrevocably wild.

The frenzy had come and gone, you had decided to accept the bond during a time when you knew Tamlin would be gone for long enough for Lucien to be able to act somewhat normal around him. You had spent two weeks in that bed being fucked by fire, and even if you did rise from the comfort of the bed against his wishes, Lucien would always find you and drag you into the nearest cupboard, pinning your chest against the wall and taking you from behind without a single care as to who could have seen him or heard your mewls.

Though, the desire for him to be always buried inside of you had never faltered, and he would make sure to visit you nightly to remind you of that fact, even if he had to climb up the vines outside of your window to stay undetected.

"You look so good with my cock in you," Lucien's voice was low, his hands cupped your face and he moaned at each thrust you met with your hips; he dragged his thumb across your swollen lips, red and puckered from the onslaught of his mouth, neck coloured from his possessive markings.

The table groaned against the ground, rocking with every movement as Lucien's pace hardened, part of him eating itself alive to stay inside you for as long as possible, but the other part of him anxious about Tamlin returning a minute too early and tearing him to shreds.

"Do you know how much I love you?" You panted through the moans Lucien was drawing from your pretty little mouth and ran your fingers up his arms, setting his nerve endings on fire with the lingering touch of your fingers against his skin, tracing the muscles sculpted by the gods.

"Tell me," his fingers lightly wrapped around your throat, pulling your chest to his, making your eyes peer upward through their lashes at the perfect male rolling into you whose own gaze had darkened at your question.

Lucien's other hand travelled between your legs, his index finger circling around your clit and causing your breath to catch in your throat that bobbed against his grip. Lucien repeated his order, his grasp tightening around your neck and pace quickening so that you could hear your skin sounding against his, "I love you so much that I would walk away from this life to live in the middle of nowhere with you, just us, a life of our own." Lucien groaned at the image, returning home from catching fish in the streams with his bare hands to his perfect mate and even more perfect babes, "I love you so much that the thought of being with child, your child, brings me nothing but serenity," you widened your eyes deliciously, doe-like and innocent, knowing what those words did to him, "You can give me what I want, can't you?"

Lucien's resolve was fading, and the grunts that were sounding from him were edging you closer and closer to one of your favourite places. His index finger continued drawing soft mewls from your lips, your walls tightening around his cock as it slammed continuously into you, surely cracking the legs of the table with each movement, "Yes. I can," his hand moved to the back of your neck, forcing your lips to meet his in a symphony of desire and adoration, and the final few circles of his fingers had you coming undone within moments.

A white hot flash poured through you, had you crying out against his lips, and the convulsions of your walls drew Lucien to the same fate. Lucien fucked you with the fire you had always wondered about long before you had found out that you were mates, his moans delicious enough to send you into a haze as he emptied himself into you, continuing to roll into you to fuck his seed in as far as it could go, determined to give you what you desired.

Lucien's movements slowed, the feral beast tamed and locked deep within him, and he lowered his face to catch your lips once more, not wanting to remove himself from you like usual, but for a different reason this time. He pressed his forehead to yours, russet orbs staring into your own with a type of wonderment you hadn't seen before, "You'd give it all up, for me?"

"I'd give anything for you," and it was true, a life without Lucien wasn't one you wanted to live, so if Tamlin did find out and exile him, you'd follow. The simple life became much more appealing each passing day. "And, to answer your question," you ran your fingers down the contours of his arms and up his chest, curling them over his shoulders, "I think I much prefer the stars you make me see."

Lucien threw his head back and laughed, a smile so beautiful and bright that it could be the most perfect thing you'd ever see in your entire life, and certainly your most favourite thing in the universe.

Lucien's laughter dimmed and his eyes found you again, his hands worked seamlessly to pull your dress back up over your arms, kissing every inch of skin of your shoulders as he tied the corset against your skin, though, he removed your panties from your legs, folding them into his pocket and smirking at your inquisitive arched brow, "I'm not done trying to put my child in you just yet."

Authors Note

I go delulu for my Lulu x

[solxamber]

I TRIED TO DO A REQ EARLIER BUT IT WENT HORRIBLY CUZ I WAS IN A RUSH IM SO SORRY IF I MIGHTVE CONFUSED YOU.

My ask: Could you do the housewardens with an idol/ really famous reader from back in their world and they have a really bright smile that can blind people

THANK YOU AND. AGAIN IM SO SO SORRY

Housewardens x Reader with a Blinding Smile

hi! don't worry about it, i hope this is what you wanted and thank you for waiting <3

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle is absolutely floored when he learns about your past life as an idol. It's not information he comes across on his own—instead, it’s Ace and Cater who excitedly tell him while showing clips of you performing for fun.

He watches with wide eyes as you move confidently on stage, each song accompanied by that radiant, nearly blinding smile. For a moment, he’s struck silent.

In those videos, you have a smile that can outshine the sun itself. His cheeks turn bright red as he watches, wondering how he’s ever going to handle dating someone with such star power.

Riddle finds himself wanting to shield you from crowds, too aware of how many admirers you have. He’s conflicted—proud but also slightly intimidated, especially when he realizes that he's one of the people drawn in by your smile.

When you flash him that dazzling grin, he can’t help but stammer, tripping over his words before eventually managing a whispered, “Please... not so bright. I can’t concentrate.” But even with his flustered protests, he’d never want you to stop smiling, not when it makes him feel like the luckiest person in the world.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona can be a bit jealous and even snarky, especially when others are drawn to your bright smile. He's familiar with admiration and attention, but not the type that seems to radiate from you so naturally.

Even in the middle of a crowded area, if you look his way with that blinding grin, he’s done for. He can’t help the soft smirk that forms in response, though he tries to play it cool.

“Keep smilin' like that, herbivore, and you’ll make it harder for me to keep you out of trouble,” he drawls, pulling you close with that lazy grin of his own. But he’s privately enchanted, even though he’ll never admit it out loud.

Whenever he catches you smiling in his direction, he relaxes, his usual cynicism melting away, and in those moments, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he’s lucky to have you.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is utterly captivated by your charm and star-like presence. When he first realizes just how famous you were, his business mind whirls with ideas about how you could take Mostro Lounge to new heights.

However, the moment he sees your blindingly bright smile directed solely at him, his business schemes crumble, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling he can't quite control.

He’s incredibly flustered around you, but he adores how you light up his world. Your smile has an almost hypnotic effect on him, and he finds himself working harder to impress you, pulling all the stops in ways he’s never done for anyone else.

If he’s feeling particularly brave, he’ll murmur, “Don’t go flashing that smile to just anyone… it’s far too precious to be shared,” though he’s always the one most drawn to it.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is thrilled. He’s already brimming with positive energy, but knowing you were an idol only excites him more. He eagerly listens to every story you share about your performances, begging you to show him your old routines, and applauding with boundless enthusiasm.

Your blinding smile is simply the cherry on top, making him feel like he’s basking in pure sunlight whenever he’s with you.

If there’s a crowd around, Kalim proudly tells everyone, “Did you know my partner’s a superstar?” while he beams at you, completely unashamed of his open adoration.

Your smile gives him energy, and he’d do anything to see it again and again. Kalim often finds himself daydreaming about throwing a huge festival in your honor just to see you shine on stage once more, with him as your biggest fan.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil understands fame and the effect that a dazzling smile can have. Still, even he’s caught off guard by the intensity of your presence and that nearly-blinding smile you give so freely.

He can hardly believe he’s dating someone who has a charm and radiance that rivals his own, and sometimes, he’ll go silent just watching you, almost in disbelief.

“Careful,” he teases, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We can’t have you outshining me now, can we?” There’s a competitive edge in his tone, but it’s softened by genuine admiration.

Though he’s usually focused on maintaining his own image, he quickly becomes protective, shielding you from the harsher side of fame and relishing in the moments when that radiant smile is just for him. In those rare times when you’re alone, he’ll smile back, admitting softly, “You’re beautiful… but let’s keep that our secret, hmm?”

Idia Shroud

Idia is bewildered—and just a bit overwhelmed—by your past as a famous idol. He can barely handle crowds, let alone the idea of the entire world being captivated by your bright smile.

When he sees you perfom and realizes just how magnetic you are on stage, he spirals a little. To him, you’re almost otherworldly, and he can’t believe someone like you would even notice someone like him.

When you flash him that blinding smile, though, he freezes, practically combusting with embarrassment. “N-No fair! Are you trying to kill me or something?” he stammers, face going red as he looks away.

Even as he complains, he finds himself replaying those moments when you smile at him, treasuring them like rare, legendary loot in a game.

Your warmth and brightness make him feel alive in ways he can’t explain, and though he’s shy about it, he’d do anything to protect the light you bring into his life.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is mesmerized by you, plain and simple. He’s never met anyone with a smile so radiant it could rival the brightest stars, and he finds himself drawn to you like a moth to flame.

To him, your smile is nothing short of magic, something that warms his heart and fills the void he’s often felt in his life.

When you smile at him, Malleus’s usually stoic expression softens, and he watches you with an intense, almost reverent gaze. “You shine brighter than the stars, my dear. Tell me, is that your true power?” he muses, half-teasing but fully captivated.

He takes your hand, holding it carefully, as if you’re as fragile as you are radiant. Your brightness becomes something sacred to him, and he’ll make sure no harm ever dims it.

In his presence, your blinding smile is met with an equally warm, if quieter, adoration, and he would keep that glow alive forever if he could.

(you can let me know if it's too short or if it's not what you wanted, I'll be happy to write it)

Masterlist

[1800titz]

HI. This is the pornstar!AU (Tiger Harry). Enjoy :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: face-fucking, anal play-ish, Sir kink, general manhandling, light dom-sub dynamics

WC: 8.6K

“Are you open to raw anal?” is probably not a statement Y/N had …entirely expected to hear when she’d agreed to discourse over pastries and dirty chai lattes. 

It’s a pretty good one, all things considered, and asked with complete professionalism, according to their careers and the open, apathetically businesslike expression shaping the features of her counterpart. Y/N takes a sip of her latte. It is quite a good latte. He wasn’t wrong there. 

Harry blinks. 

It’s very on brand, despite the way she’s sure one of the baristas has definitely twisted around from the dishpit, side eye discreet …but there. And in the barista’s defense, she couldn’t even blame her for eavesdropping on the sordid contents of their public discourse. Y/N isn’t going to turn around and look. 

In Harry’s, he didn’t exactly shout. 

The man across from her takes a slow sip from his latte. Good latte, very good latte. 

She can’t help but admire his varying assortment of rings as he cradles the cup, irises winding from the blocky, golden S to its chunky counterpart, the H. So many times she’d admired those hands, those ring-clad fingers traipsing over bare skin, just the tips meddling over abdomens and winding circles around navels. Those digits sunk into the hair of his partner, tangled into the roots as he manually bobs her head over his cock. Those fingers twisting over the pink tip of his shaft, lining it up before his hips pump. Those long fingers splaying over cunts, swiping a thumb to ogle in front of the camera. 

There've been so many instances where Y/N had wondered the significance of that H and that S. And it’s been really quite simple all along.

Should I call you Tiger in person, then? she’d tapped out over the LED keyboard, days prior when they’d only been discussing the prospect of a meet up. Days prior, before she’d flown out for an on-camera collaboration, to bask in the sunlight of California, to enjoy overpriced dirty chai lattes and oddly promiscuous dialogue in the corner of a cafe. 

I think I’ll just take Harry when the cameras aren’t rolling x, RideTheTiger had messaged back. 

Anyways, it’d probably be a sleazy, poorly-executed one liner (and consequently, a horrifically red flag) in possibly every other circumstance, but this isn’t a first date and RideTheTiger has, thus far, been the furthest thing from sleazy. Even paid for her dirty chai latte, practically shouldering her out of the slot at the register. Pulled her chair out for her, asked about her traveling fares prior to delving into said anal topic. It’s all been fairly gentlemanly. Very business-partner-coffee-meeting. 

“No condom,” Harry tacks on, like it’s clarification for the raw segment of raw anal, as if it actually needed some sort of clarification. 

Y/N takes another sip. Damn good latte. 

“I like it,” the young woman tells him, clearing her throat on this edge that implies she’s mindful of her volume. Somehow, even as a freelance pornstar, she still hasn’t quite managed to get over the awkward degree of shame that a public setting incites. “I like the...” 

That barista is definitely fucking peering over.

“…The mess,” she settles on, because anal creampie doesn’t feel like a term to be said with her whole chest over a guava pastelito. 

For a short moment, Harry just watches her, jade roaming and the corners of his mouth slowing seeping into a simper, like he knows brazenly discussing anal creampies in the middle of a cafe — not quite packed, but still a cafe — has her kind of squirming in her seat. He takes another drink. 

“She’s got airpods in,” the man tells her eventually, forest-y irises jolting to something behind her head — the barista that’s clattering about behind the counter. And if she’s listening in, she’s probably going to go home and find one of them online, or ultimately both, and probably subscribe. 

The tension in her shoulders melts away the longer he grins at her over the lip of his lid, dimples indented in the flesh beside the upturned edges of his mouth. It’s just what they do for a living. It’s just sex. It’s just talking about the sex they’re going to have on camera. 

There’s bells and whistles to it, too, but it beats sitting at home and answering phone calls where angry customers screech all tinny through the headset and don’t comprehend the words, “Sir, if you can’t use your inside voice and talk to me like a civilized human being, I’m not going to be able to resolve your issue.” For Y/N it is. At least she gets a couple of orgasms out of this. 

“Sorry,” she tells him, shoulders slumping, “I think I’m still not— I get …weird talking about it in public settings.”

Tiger gives her this careful look over, eyes amused. 

“S’okay, I understand. If you’d rather get into the details back at mine, I’m okay with that.” 

“No, no,” Y/N protests, motioning out with her free hand, almost like her frigidly humiliated disposition will turn him off from collaboration, “No. It’s just, like. Sex work— it’s— it’s 2024. Nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Harry blinks. He gives her another one of those slow, knowing grins with his strawberry mouth. 

“No, seriously. We can get into the …rough drafting in a more private setting.” And then he takes another casual, horribly nonchalant sip, “I get it.” 

The man splays back against the chair, the hand not clutching at his beverage laid against smooth bamboo varnish, the nails there neatly manicured and painted with a soft shade of green lacquer. Y/N wonders what that particular color would look like with a glimmering top coat after he’s sunk the digits in between her thighs. She casts her gaze back up to his face. 

“I just figured I’d ask because we exchanged tests last week.” 

Clean as a whistle, RideTheTiger, (appropriately renamed in her contacts as Harry Tiger OF collab), had messaged on a Tuesday afternoon. That text was tailed with an HDR attachment of paperwork detailing his clean-as-a-whistle results, for proof. And the polish on his nails, fingertips gripped over the edge of the sheet, had been a pretty sky blue in the picture. 

She’d wondered the same thing, then; what OPI’s Rich Girls & Po-boys would look like glazed with a sheen of her slick arousal. 

He’s just a fuckable man, Y/N thinks, sat back in his chair like discussing sex work scene scripting is a normal mid-day affair, soft dusting of stubble coating his jaw, curls swept up off his forehead. His white tee shrouds the swallows and the inky butterfly she’s seen flexing over his tummy, the laurels that seep into the deep cut of his v-line, but it does very, very little to hide the artistry that litters his arm. 

That same arm she’d seen in videos, wrapped in pumped muscle as his fingers had worked his partner to the brink of bliss at a merciless pace, plush mouth shaping over some sort of filthy croon, dimples indented. Those same hands cradling over his counterpart’s throat with a gentle squeeze, that same thumb swiping messily over his partner’s bottom lip. Those same eyebrows with a crease carved between their furrow, those same curls in sweaty, disheveled disarray from the incessant rake through of his hands as his cock got swallowed up by a pretty, swarthy-skinned brunette, or maybe a blonde. A curl that’d flopped over his forehead in those videos, hardly hiding a rivulet of sweat that’d dripped from his hairline, is neatly tucked back under designer shades, now. 

Designer shades he’s bought with his dirty porn money, because despite his spiffy, clean boy, seemingly innocuous demeanor, RideTheTiger is dirty, dirty, dirty. 

Because under his warm smiles and his twinkling jade, there’s an alter ego that lives on the internet. One she’s all too familiar with. 

It makes her chest sort of flush under her sweater. This is happening. This is going to happen. 

The chair creaks a little when he sits up, clearing his throat, “I didn’t want to assume, but. I mean— I’m sure you’ve seen, like, my tips. Is it …odd to say I’m a fan of your content?” his gaze slowly settles from his drink to her face, smooth baritone almost …bashful as plush pink splits into a beam and his words catch on a laugh, “Is that …weird?”

Y/N knows exactly what he’s referring to. They’d been two mutuals subscribed to one another, chunks of profit migrating from inbox to inbox. It’d been like a volley, electric currency bouncing through the expanse of the internet, racket to racket, account back to account, pinging notifications striking on uploads behind paywalls. Only then, Tiger was just a man behind a screen. Tiger wasn’t sitting at a table in front of her, and they weren’t discussing the crude elements of the video they were going to shoot together. 

“Not at all,” Y/N clears her throat and pairs it with a side-to-side shake of her head. 

She’ll never admit that she’d touched herself to the solo session that’d popped up in her DM’s behind a paywall only last week, an automated promotion sent out to all subscribers. The one where he’d been sat in one of those lush, swivel-y chairs in front of his computer, firm thighs splayed and ringed hand tugging over his leaky cock. The camera angle was broad enough to capture his eye contact with the lens, the way his front teeth would nip at his bottom lip, the way the column of his straining throat would go on show as he’d tipped his head back with a groan. 

She blinks, staring ahead as she remembers the way cum had painted all the way up over the panting butterfly. Harry grins from across the table. She half-expects him to brazenly admit he’s done the same to her content. So far, she’s concluded that he’s quite unashamed. 

“Makes it easier to fuck, right?” Y/N says, beating him to the punchline. 

He makes this face then, tipping his head, eyes widening and blinking playfully, mouth curling like he’s appalled by her brazen admission in said public setting. Before the young woman can get flustered by his teasing, he sits back and lets his features relax into something soft.

“Yeah. It does.” 

Harry doesn’t tell Y/N she should wear a plug on the day that they calendar in for shooting. Not while they’re in the cafe. In fact, he waits three whole hours until the very precise moment where she’s using her apple pay at a drive through for the notification banner to swipe down. 

When Y/N steps into his entryway, there’s a wilting cactus stemming from a ceramic basin next to a bowl of keys and varying knick knacks. There’s a pair of dice in there, too. 

“This is Tim,” Harry introduces, unprompted, motioning to the withering plant in passing. 

Y/N nudges with her chin like a sort of acknowledgement, tailing him through the hallway, where a neat array of three framed, abstractly artistic renditions of Kama Sutra positions line the segue. She’s half convinced that the doggy one follows her movement like one of those oddly unsettling renaissance portraits. 

“Very nice.”

It’s a Thursday, and they’ve determined today to be the day that they collaborate. She’s wearing the plug, and she tries to ignore the anticipation curdling in the pits of her tummy as she tails him to the lounge. 

“I think I overwatered him, honestly,” Harry tells her, aimed over his shoulder, “but I can’t bear to part with him.” 

He’s wearing gray sweats, and he’s definitely opted to go commando, if the imprint of his dick when he pivots to face her is anything to go off of (though, whether he’s ditched underwear for the sake of the shoot or solely for comfort, Y/N isn’t sure). All she’s really, actually sure of is that she urgently needs to unglue her eyes from the outline of his cock. 

“D’you want a drink or anything? I mean, I don’t like to do any alcohol before shoots, but if you want, I have seltzers in my fridge.” 

He’s all soft attire — the sweats and bare feet padding over tile, curls a little mussed and swept back. A white tee coats his torso with a cartoonish bee in the center. The words ENJOY HEALTH, EAT YOUR HONEY circle the little piece of outlined artwork in blue. His nails are still green. 

Y/N clears her throat. “Do you have water?” 

“F’course.” 

The kitchen is beside the lounge, and he tells her, as he makes his way over and opens a cabinet to cull a glass, “You can have a seat if you’d like. Figured we’d get the details down before we start filming.” 

His couch is an onyx leather, its form like one of those fancy ones from a 1970s inspired catalog. Y/N sinks into the cushion. She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Behind her, the fridge whirs in the kitchen as the water pours into the glass. She’s admiring his fireplace when he stretches the beverage out to her.

“What are we feeling today?” the man winds around to the bend of the sectional, flopping back against the cushions with a sigh as his cotton-clad thighs splay, “…Slow and romantic? Something a little more rough?” 

“Used and abused,” Y/N responds, surprised she manages to keep her cadence as even and nonchalant as she does. The second the statement escapes her, though, she takes a long sip from her glass and hides her simper behind it. 

“Used and abused,” Harry parrots, sitting up a tad as his hands seek new territory from their priorly relaxed splay over the back of the couch. His palms smooth down the fronts of his thighs, instead, and he gives her this little grin; something mischievous that lets his dimples wink alive. “I think I can work with that.”

Yes. She’s certain he can, based on his track record of deviously, deliciously rough content. Three weeks ago she watched a video where his partner was laid out on a table, duck-taped limb to limb, and Y/N had watched his hand — rings removed — roam her body with such delicacy as he drove forward into her. It was all up until the point where the same hand had snaked up around her throat, and then he’d brought it back and smacked her right across the side of her unsuspecting face. It’d sent his partner’s head snapping to the side, and a wave of heat riding through Y/N, coursing through her blood as she’d flipped the vibrator between her thighs to a higher setting. 

Yeah. He can work with that. 

“Since we’re going with that route,” Y/N blinks out from the fog of memoirs circling back to Tiger’s hands exploring and pinching and delivering blows. 

Tiger is much more subdued in this setting. 

“Let’s talk things you’re into, things you’re not so into.” 

The young woman gnaws into her cheek to bridle her grin. “Um. Anal’s a go. Obviously.”

Harry nods, mouth friendly, “Okay.” 

Y/N deliberates. She takes another sip. Harry waits patiently. His green bores into her, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, pupils climbing up to the ceiling as she contemplates. She cocks her head.  

“…Face-fucking. That’s nice. I like dirty talk. I like getting my hair pulled. I like a little bit of pain. You know, like. Spanking. Face slapping, but not, like,” the edges of her mouth cave up, “MMA level—“

The joke culls a huff of soft laughter from him. He nods. 

“Just. General manhandling is good with me,” Y/N tells him. 

Harry nods, his fingers interlocked over his spread knees, and then he sits up a tad. 

“Alright. If we’re going with face fucking, I’m a fan of the trusty tap-tap-tap,” he tells her, motioning with his left palm and patting over his thigh in a series of three as he speaks, “If it ever gets to be too much and you can’t say it, just tap three times, yeah? Just like this.”

Y/N nods. She takes another sip. For a moment, Tiger still has his forearms braced over his lap, but then he sits up a little more. 

“And then when you can say, if anything’s uncomfortable, if you want me to do anything different, just let me know. Doesn’t matter if the camera’s on.” 

Y/N crosses her ankles. She uncrosses them.

“S’all about authenticity. Y’know,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over the plush of his bottom lip, “I don’t wanna be throwing you against the wall or choking you if it doesn’t feel good, even if it looks good on camera. If you’re a clit girl, we’ll play with your clit—“

Her thighs press together.

“If you’re a g-spot girl, we’ll focus on the g-spot.”

She swallows. 

“The throwing against the wall and the choking,” Y/N doesn’t bother hiding her simper as it grows, “Those are good with me, too. And— clit stuff. Yeah.” 

Tiger is hot. Fire hot, like lava coursing and bubbling over rigid stone, even in his soft attire with his soft curls and his soft smiles. He’s got these eyes that feel like they bore through her clothes, but it’s not in an uncomfortably hungry way. 

“What do you… what should I call you during the shoot?” 

His strawberry mouth curls a little. 

“I hear Tiger a lot. M’fine with whatever besides Harry on camera. …If you wanna get a little more into roles we can do Sir. But s’all up to you.” 

It feels like he’s just got this effect — this intense gaze that makes her tummy swirl. It’s not innately an odd shift, going from this entirely professional discourse to soft touches roaming up her sides once they’re in the bedroom. 

It’s the setting for their shoot, and she finds that he’s already got a camera set up on his dresser. One of those that opens up and has a little screen piece that swivels to show what’s currently recording. Harry trails over to it, toggles with the little screen, and, she assumes, begins recording. 

There’s a shag rug by the bed in cream. Y/N eyes it as Harry tugs his shirt over his head, as he makes his way over. Tiger is fire hot, but his touch skims her arm like testing the waters at first. His palms cups her face, the pads of his fingers grazing the sides of her neck, close to her nape, and then his cushiony mouth finds her own. That’s testing at first, too. It’s not a chaste, innocent first kiss by any means, but his mouth is gentle, at first. His hands aren’t hard, and his mouth slots against her own with a kind of tenderness. When her fingers tease up at his waistband, fingering at a warm line of skin between his sweats and his t-shirt, his mouth morphs hungrier. 

“Just—“ Y/N manages between searing kisses as his fingers work the seams of her shirt apart through button-work, “—-jumping right into it, huh?” It’s probably not the sexiest thing to say from the get go of the camera rolling, but she’s honestly still got bits of nerves coiling up in her. This is RideTheTiger. This is happening. She’s going to fuck RideTheTiger. 

Another short kiss, this one she can feel the cushiony pink of his mouth curving up into. 

“Sorry,” Harry amends against her mouth, lips ghosting wetly against her cupid's bow, and the word sounds sort of amused.

And then he’s manually spinning her and marching her over to the dresser, where the camera is set up, her stumbling, rushed gait steadied by the firm press of his thighs from behind as he walks her, colossal hands cupped over her arms. 

“This—” he starts, an introduction blatantly made for the lens, and her pulse stutters when his palm slides up and across and cups over her throat warmly — not quite squeezing, but just there. His other hand explores the expanse of her silhouette from the waist down, pads of his fingers roaming over her tummy, “—is the infamously naughty Birdie.” 

Her veins thrum with something, something hot when the ringed digits traipse to the button of her jeans, just looming over. 

“Can I take these off?” Harry murmurs against the shell of her ear. The tips of his curls tickle at her temple, and she knows he asks it low enough that it’s meant for her. She knows the camera will pick up on it anyways, too. 

“Yeah,” the agreement falls out meshed with an exhale, and her head tips back against his shoulder as his fingers do deft, impressively one-handed work at quick discarding. 

The other hand fondles at one of her tits, only covered with fabric for so long before he takes advantage of the opening he’d made along the line of buttons, pulling at one side for the pink polka-dotted cup of her bra to come out on display. This is all very pro-level disrobing. Y/N decides that when Harry multi-tasks, popping the button of her denim through, pinching at the zipper and tugging down, all still with his other hand caressing over padded flesh at her chest. Ultimately, though, both hands make their way to her hips, and his digits wriggle under either side of her waist band to strip her jeans off, until they rest at about an immobilizing mid-thigh, with an unceremonious yank. 

“I’m Tiger,” Harry talks again, finally, after what’d been a silent moment of apparent concentration, his chin ducked into the nook where her shoulder and her neck meet. 

The man’s fingers toy up under the hem of Y/N’s shirt, wandering over a bare sliver of skin between the top and the line of her panties before they climb the buttoned suture and make work there. 

A chill rolls down her spinal cord, stemming all the way from the nape of her neck, the back and underside of her skull, when Harry declares, almost like she’s not even there, his voice a low and heady baritone, “But, she’s going to call me Sir, and we’re gonna play a little rough with her today, because that’s what she asked for.” 

He’s mid her panting ribcage when the tone in his dialogue switches. It melts from sultry and low to something mirthy when the man sighs and huffs against her neck, like the rounded latches are a long-time nemesis, “Buttons, buttons, so many buttons.” 

Y/N can’t curb the surprised laugh that bubbles from her in response. Her hands rise from her sides (where they’d prior been pretty glued, mostly out of awe and the raw sort of submission manhandling incites), and her forearms brush against his own warm skin as the pads of her fingers shakily work over the stitch he’s on. Harry makes an amused sound into her skin as the corners of her mouth curl up. 

This is real. These are the real moments, the ones that she’s ogled so many times from the other side of the screen, caught on camera mid an otherwise entrancing, perfectly choreographed session of picture-perfect fucking. Like the one where he’d spit and it hadn’t landed where he’d wanted it to, or the one where his partner had spent so long in an angle with her hair over her face and his palm cupped over her mouth, that by the time he’d let up she was spitting out stray hair that’d sunk in past her lips, like a cat with a hairball. Soft laughter had bloomed from the both of them when recognition had dawned, and he’d fingered over her tongue to help her as they’d switched positions. It makes sense why Harry never seems to edit those moments out. 

Authenticity. 

Y/N hopes he doesn’t cut this fragment of the video out. 

“Sorry,” the young woman tells him, her voice garbled with giggles. 

His hands snake up from under her own and they’re the one to pop the final button through. A chilly ring brushes the inside of her wrist. The top separates. 

“There we go,” Harry says, tone colored with enthusiasm, and the way his fingers grip up under the cups of her bra, four for each, and tug abruptly, letting them rest under her freshly-bared tits, kind of, sort of gives her whiplash. 

“Teamwork,” his thumbs slip under either side of her underwear and slink those down until just enough is showing for the eye of the lens. 

Her gaze flits to the viewfinder, and the little icon of her denuded silhouette, pressed up against his chest, one swarthy, inked arm tucked over her ribcage and the sight of his other, ringed digits skimming lower, down her tummy, has her squirming in his grasp. Harry sponges kisses to the side of her neck, and then those ring-clad fingers slide between her legs. Every melty muscle in his arms grows wide awake and tensed like fucking stone. It’s only for a second, before he draws his index and his middle digit, splayed into a blissful V, across either side of her clit. That’s when she liquefies like putty in his hands again, humming softly. 

“…And we’re gonna play with her arse,” Harry tacks on for the camera, almost like it’s an offhand afterthought and not the entire basis of the scene they’ve etched out. 

Y/N laughs, but it melts off into something soft and whimpery when the V lingers and drags. 

“Would you like that?” Harry murmurs, nose tucked into her hair — another comment where the volume implies that it’s obviously meant to be shared between just the two of them — his mouth ghosting over her earlobe and his hand climbing up the ridges of her ribcage like a ladder, “Hm? You want me to play with you there?” 

When his palm expands to rest over the gap between the caging of bone, the space extends out on a breath and she rocks in his touch, hips rolling back subtly. “Mhm.” 

It’s not something he fails to pick up on. The pads of his fingertips expertly toggle at the clasp of her bra — honestly, she’s ludicrously impressed, not only by his keen recognition of the frontal clasp, but this seemingly innate, deft ability to discard clothing pieces with one hand. The straps relax and slip down her shoulders the second the cups fall free and apart. 

“Mhm?” Harry mimics; a low, teasing hum. Y/N thinks then, that this little, patronizing repetition thing he’s got going on could be categorized as a kink in and of itself. 

The palm that’d settled over her diaphragm slinks up to grope at one of her tits. 

It’s kind of game over from there. 

There’s something hard and solid digging into the small of her back, and the longer he spends fondling between her thighs, the longer he spends swiping his thumb over her nipple, the more heat teems to her core, like a glowing warmth that seeps and pulses. The more sure Y/N becomes that his fingertips are definitely culling that top coat she’d pictured all along, enhancing the color there with glinting excitement. 

“There’s a good girl,” Harry purrs when her legs spread a smidge more in response, despite the way they’re nearly glued together with the immobilizing squeeze of her waistband resting mid-thigh. 

The tip of his nose burrows into her hair and grazes at the skin on the side of her neck when his head ducks, fingers sneaking further until the pads press to explore where she’s gushing. His index and his thumb work in tandem to pinch at a nipple and tug. 

And then his tongue licks a practically searing stripe right beside her jugular, and his words send air over wet skin to soothe the flame, “…Getting my fingers all wet, aren’t you?” 

Gameovergameovergameovergameover.

Shelosesshelosesshelosessheloses.

Another burst of air over the wet skin, the soft creak of a chuckle — that’s what reminds her that she’s definitely not breathing. 

Fuck. Y/N sucks in air with a chest tensed like metal armor. His teeth nip over her earlobe. 

And then RideTheTiger slides his slick fingers out from between her legs, coaxing (when she sags in his grip like a marionette that’s had its strings snipped), “Why don’t you give them a little spin and show them the pretty plug you’ve been wearing for me, pet.”

Touch, touch, touch. When Y/N pivots for him, turning her backside to the camera, his mouth brushes the crest of her cheekbone. His warm pecs go flush with her own chest, his palms settle on her love handles and the insides of his rings stipple chills to combat the heat of flesh on flesh. He sponges a kiss to her throat when the young woman throws a glance back to the little screen and shakily presses her palms to the globes of her backside, pulling the flesh there apart to show off the pretty end, silicone petals cradling the shape of a rose. 

That’s when he kneels, cheek pressed to the side of her thigh, when he casts his gaze to the plug with that telltale furrow to his brow bone that she’s seen caught on camera so many times. That’s when his teeth burrow into the pillow of his bottom lip, when he brushes a nearly tentative touch over the plug with the tips of his fingers. That’s when Harry nudges at it and jade bounces from the pallid pink plastic to the shape of her jawline tensing above in response, mouth growing mirthy. 

Nothing prepares her for the way he praises, almost like he’s in awe (and nearly too low for the camera to catch), “So pretty.”

A crease works in between her own eyebrows when his index and his thumb pinch over the plug and twist. And then he lays his thumb over the base and pushes, lightly, as if it can go any further. He draws the pad of his index over the hilt of the plug almost thoughtfully, and then tap-taps in a pair of two that makes her roll her lips into her mouth

“Don’t move,” Harry instructs, after a moment, sneaky, devious fingertips withdrawing altogether. She’s holding her breath again. Y/N readjusts her grip. 

“Just like that,” comes his croon from below, undeniably heady and entirely responsible for the warmth churning between her thighs, “…Just like that, little bird. Show it off, baby.” 

Little bird hits her like a fucking freight train. 

It’s just a play on words, a moniker he’s melded from her stage name, her online personality. It’s been all of, maybe, six minutes — a generous consideration for the timeframe — and he’s already managed to morph her porno pseudonym into a pet name with his soft murmur. 

She’s so focused on the ironic way that such a delicate thing off his tongue makes something so violently carnal stir within her that the young woman doesn’t even notice that he’s been sat near her thighs for a solid second, unspeaking and untouching, besides the paste of his warm cheek beside the press of her hands. 

It’s a suspiciously mischievous sort of silence, but Tiger is no secret-keeper, not when he pats over the back of her leg, a one-tap gesture, and rises to announce, one third amused and two-thirds smug, “Thumbnail.”

The admission is so crude and unexpected that it draws a peal of sputtering laughter from her, feigned indignation meshing with mirth as he rises from the floor, all cocky with an unfairly alluring curl that’s strayed from the rest and flopped to lay over his forehead. 

“You want to use my ass as your thumbnail?” 

Muted raspberry breaks its relaxed line to curve up, obviously self-satisfied and obviously unashamed. Y/N doesn’t think she’ll ever quite keep up with the casual nature of Harry’s mannerisms, not when he hums and his grin splits further, twisting around her to daub her jaw with a kiss.

“…And not my pretty face?” Y/N blinks.

“Last I checked—'' Harry tells her, fingers raking through her roots and palm cradling at her scalp in a way that coaxes chills to bud and roam down the nape of her neck. The digits twist her hair into a bun until his palm is squeezing at her hair all bunched like a flower blooming in reverse, “—You were here to be used and abused, per your request. Not to ask questions.” 

Despite the way he cranes her neck back with the motion, the way it has her jaw unlatching and a surprised exhale full of want escaping, despite the way he drags his teeth down her neck in a line, nipping, Y/N manages to keep her voice impressively even. 

“You don’t want my pretty face painted with your cum as the thumbnail?” she baits, throat bobbing on a swallow. 

He bites. 

At first, his lashline narrows a smidge in obvious inkling that the brazen words have affected him, but then he tips his head and his smug beam morphs more sluggish, more pleased than amused. 

“You want my cum painting your pretty face?” 

“Mm,” Y/N hums in agreement when he turns her head to paste a kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

“Yeah? That’s what you want?” 

His tone is suggestive as he manhandles her over onto the fuzzy rug she’d admired before things got all murky with arousal and …cinematic. Y/N twists in his grasp until he’s nudging her onto her knees with his hands. 

And his voice is low, easy like a sigh, each note interlaced with nonchalance and seemingly effortless power, “Let’s see how good you suck cock.”

Before Harry shoves his waistband down, though, he stuffs a hand into his pocket and culls his phone. He gives her this look down from behind it, thumb tucked behind gray elastic.  It’s this wordless, expressionless sort of seeking; all good? Y/N nudges with her chin, lashes fluttering. Tiger toggles over the screen one-handed, and her eyes flit to the uneven pull at his sweats — if only for a second — that showcases bare skin and the cut of a V-line on one side. As he nudges the sweats off to rest under his balls, the phone pings. It’s the sound of a notification — he’s recording. 

His dick is pretty. Pretty in pink with a prominent vein on the underside and a soft dusting of neatly trimmed, dark pubic hair over his pelvic bone that his happy trail had foreshadowed, and his tip is a ruddy shade that matches the tint of his mouth. She’s seen his cock before, obviously, but ogling it in person rather than as a conglomeration of pixels is a different sort of experience. He’s always looked big on screen, the sheer size of him with a fist over his shaft always implying it. But he’s big. Big enough for two of her hands to cradle over his cock comfortably with the head peeking out from her grip, digits never quite meeting in the middle. Y/N spits into a palm before wrapping it over his shaft, eyes flickering up front under her lashes to meet the lens of the camera. 

“You’re so big,” the young woman admits after a moment, irises bouncing from her grip to the phone looming over, and she drags her tongue over her other palm to cup over him with two like it’s proof. 

And Harry strokes over the side of her scalp, almost like he’s wordlessly scratching a dog’s ears in praise, a soft, pleased huff escaping through his nostrils and his lips shaping over a smug sort of beam that never really unseals. 

Almost tentatively, with her eyes still bouncing from the lens to his cock and back, Y/N leans forward and drags his tip over her tongue. Harry sighs in response, fingertips still hovering at her roots. She purses her lips and lets saliva dribble from her mouth onto his head messily, swiping over the wetness with her thumb, and then she strokes down his shaft with two hands as she wraps her lips over him and draws a circle with her tongue. The subtle, although sharp, inhale she earns in response to the motion has her batting her lashes up at the camera.  

“You’re not shy at all, are you? Not in front of the camera,” Harry says after a moment. 

He’s so obviously bridling a hiss when she drags her tongue up under his leaky tip, his front teeth lodging into the pillow of his bottom lip and brows furrowing. Despite the phone cradled over her face, the young woman still has enough room to observe his. Y/N bats her lashes coyly, pupils flitting back to the camera as her mouth opens to showcase the view of her hands working in gentle twists while she drags his cockhead over her tastebuds. 

“…No, you’re not that shy, little girl that you were in the cafe at all.”

She seals her lips over his tip, hollows her cheeks, and hums. 

“…All prim and proper,” the fingertips that’d scraped over the side of her scalp trail to the back of her head, “…Didn’t even wanna say you liked cum dripping out of you. Didn’t wanna let everyone know that you’re a little anal whore.” 

The words coax her to clench over the plug. 

“…S’okay, baby,” Harry tells her after a moment, “I like that you’re a whore on camera for me,”and then the hand that’d cradled over the back of her skull encourages her own palm to slowly unwrap and fall away as he curls it over his shaft to guide it’s aim. 

Y/N pulls off, and Tiger smears the tip over her spit-slicked, swollen mouth. It parts, and Harry traces over the open seam of her lips like he’s applying lip gloss. 

“Please,” the young woman says, mouthing over his tip, almost inaudible. 

“Hm?” 

“Please,” Y/N repeats, and the drag of his tip slides over her bottom lip on the s. 

Harry inhales from above. He doesn’t immediately give her what she wants, instead opting to draw over her cupid’s bow as he tips his head, voice quiet and still somehow full of a dominant edge. “So polite. You wanna taste more of my cock?” 

The young woman nods, eyes tipped up, and he smears his cockhead over her mouth again. Harry’s teeth nudge into the plush of his bottom lip before he directs, “Stick your tongue out for me. I’ll give you a little taste.” 

And he does. He grazes her tongue with it the moment it’s on show, basking in her soft breaths puffing out against him and the sweet sight of her gaze, unwavering. 

“S’that good?” Harry asks, mouth curling at the (currently) brazenly lewd young woman at his feet, “What you wanted?” 

And she just nods up at him. Despite the way she wants more, the way she wants to close her lips around him and keep twisting her grasp to watch his seams split in ecstacy, Y/N motions lightly with her head. A little sound escapes the back of her throat when he drags the tip of his cock back over her top lip and sighs. 

“You really are such a little whore, aren’t you?” Harry says, tracing along the open seam of her lips with the tip and dragging it over her tongue again, “Give me a pretty smile. Show me just how much you like it.“ 

His words melt off into a rumbly hum when, as he draws over the border of her bottom lip and takes his cock off her tongue, her pretty teeth slowly seep shut and the corners of her mouth form something absolutely overjoyed. Her head cocks, and she grins up at him. All innocuous too, if it weren’t for the head of a cock smearing over the edges of her smile. His thumb slinks out from the hold he’s got over his dick to graze with the pad at the shiny white of her top teeth. 

“Good girl.”

Somewhere around there is when her teeth part and his thumb mingles onto her tongue. Then, the young woman wraps her lips over the digit and sucks. The tension of her cheeks hollowing over his finger in the silence is cut short with a ping — Harry turns the camera off and flings the phone somewhere in the direction of the bed. There’s no definitive thump behind her, so Y/N assumes the man makes it. She hums and pulls off of the digit with a pop and a giggle. 

Dimples pluck alive beside his smile. “Something funny?” 

“No,” the young woman clears her throat, the apples of her cheeks still emphasized and round with her apparent amusement, “Nothing. It’s just.” She blinks up at him, “…Surreal, sort of. Your dick’s just as pretty in person as it is on camera.”

Tiger cocks his head and swipes over her bottom lip with the tip of said dick. She’s quite good at stroking his ego. 

“Thanks. That’s sweet, darling.”  

A furrow works between his brows as her tongue peeks out to daub at the lingering head. “You watch a lot of my videos?” 

And the admission comes almost hungry, with no remorse, “Mm. Touch myself to them.” 

That’s when his brows crease more, when heat swells down through the trench of his tummy and teems up the underside of his balls, where they drive taut at the words. 

“Christ.”

Blown jade bouncing from her lips to the contact of her own eyes and back. Eventually, he swallows and directs, “Tongue out.” 

When she displays it for him, jaw wide, those shambles splinters of composure seemingly fuse. The Harry that emerges nearly gives her whiplash. 

“You touch yourself to my videos?” Harry coos, and the words are coated with so much condescension that Y/N is sure she’d be humiliated in any other circumstance. 

Her tongue twitches under his cockhead. The man looming over swipes that same, leaky tip over her taste buds, and his grin broadens into something like a borderline sadistic Cheshire cat. And then he’s leaning over a smidge, cock still angled over her outstretched tongue, opposite hand fondling under that, at her jaw, and squeezing at her cheeks. 

“That is so—“ emphasizing the words with the slap of his tip against her tongue, Harry grits out, “—fucking—“ another tap that has her uselessly lolled tongue jolting and a garbled little sound wresting from the back of her throat, “—cute.”

Y/N blinks up at him, one hand uncurling slowly and falling away as he nudges the back of her head to swallow more of him in past her lips. 

“Why don’t you use that hand and play with your little clit for me? The way you do when you’re watching me.” 

She makes a muffled noise around him as he sinks in further, and her hand traipses between her poorly, poorly splayed thighs. 

“That’s it,” Harry murmurs, though whether the praise is directed at the way the tips of her fingers pry between her legs or the way she blinks wetly over his cock as she takes more of him into her mouth, Y/N is unsure. “There’s a good girl. Look at me— yeah. Fuck.” 

He holds onto either side of her head, long fingers splaying over her skull, and the young woman splutters when his tip prods at the back of her throat and teases at her gag reflex. The tip of her nose grazes his happy trail, so all in all, it’s a solid effort in one go. Harry holds her there for a moment, relishing in the squeeze of her throat over him as she fights sputtering more, and a throaty groan rips from his vocal chords before his fingers tangle into her hair. That’s when he yanks her off. 

Her chest is already rolling in pants, and the way his palm collides with the fleshy area of her cheek nearly launches her lightheaded headspace into overload. The blow isn’t loud, and it doesn’t really hurt, but he does it a second time, palm grazing over the same fragment of skin. It’s the hand that doesn’t have any rings, and Y/N’s mouth curls up in borderline delirious bliss, teeth unsealed and lips swollen and saliva-daubed. Tiger coaxes a moan when he goes for it a third time. But this time, his hand snakes to palm over the column of her throat and squeeze.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” Harry tells her, thumb cruising over an inch of skin, “Such a slut for it.”

Her pulse thunders under his grasp. It’s almost like his touch pries the nearly animalistic giggle off her lips. She’s still beaming open-mouthed, and her voice is raw when she beckons, “Yeah—“

And then there’s a ragged gasp and subdued sort of gag, coated with surprise, when Tiger nudges her face forward and unceremoniously shoves his dick back down her throat, his brows pinched.  

“Get that mouth back on my cock.” 

Her hands find his thighs, just wavering over them, curling and unflexing as her eyes squeeze shut. 

“Don’t close your eyes. Look up at me. Look up at me— there you go,” Harry cooes when, despite every instinct that coaxes every muscle in her face to clench and tense, Y/N follows his directions and blinks up at him through a watery sheen. “Shit.”

And then he’s hauling her off and she’s gasping for breath, only for a short moment before he slides back past her jaw until her chin is flush with his sac and he’s pulsing in the warm confines of her mouth. Her lashes flutter. A devious kind of laugh bubbles from him, breathy, and low, and short when the heels of her palms press into the sturdy muscle beneath his laurels. Except this time he doesn’t yank her all the way off for a third time. He holds her there for a second, swearing softly at the view, and then tugs her off until his tip’s on her tongue and pumps back in. It’s a subtle motion — testing, like he’s observing her reaction, really assessing her comfort levels with this. He does it a few more times, as gentle of a motion as it really can be until she squints her eyes shut and muzzles a cough, blinking up at him rapidly through the blur. 

Harry swipes a thumb under her eye, where a rivulet leaks, praising almost in a whisper as she practically vibrates at his feet, “That’s it.” 

Another second to gasp in air, and then he’s fucking her mouth, brushing her gag reflex with every drive forward and every pump out. Y/N sort of loses herself in it — in the fingertips burrowing into her roots, in the huffs and groans that escape him, in the warm muscle beneath her touch, in the way his dick slides down her throat. It’s quite nice. RideTheTiger is fucking her mouth, and it’s nice.

“Look at you,” Harry hums after a while, the hold on the back of her head firm, and she blinks at him all teary-eyed, gagging around him as her chin presses flush with his balls. “So sloppy. Made my nice joggers all wet.” 

Drool pools down her chin, and strings of it dangle from his balls and sully the fabric further. She bats her lashes up at him, and tears slink off from her waterline. Her fingers flex and relax over his thigh, never quite loosening the tension there fully. The man swipes the thumb on his free hand under her eye, where inky black has smudged off from her lashes, and the lewd, left corner of his mouth tips up lopsidedly. 

“You’re such a pretty girl when you’re making a mess,” and then, to nail the demeaning compliment home with the most heady, joyfully smug tone, “Yes you are, little bird.”

His sluggish grin morphs into a borderline pornographic lip-bite then, and he cranes his neck back with a throaty hum, fingers tensing and relaxing, before his digits ultimately tighten in her hair and coax the young woman off. She coughs like she hasn’t breathed in ages, 

Y/N doesn’t know how she gets up to her feet. It’s a lightheaded clamber, coaxed by Harry’s fingers tugging at her hair, his hand on her arm, his definitive, “Get up.” Somehow, though, she manages, despite the fact that her jeans are still half-on, and Harry steadies her and makes her dizzy all at once when his mouth presses hungrily to hers. One hand cradles the side of her neck and the other braces her at the hip. It’s a heated kiss, like Tiger doesn’t mind that her chin is coated with spit, or that the same spit smears over his own jaw as their mouths connect. Y/N nearly trips over her own feet as he walks her, backwards, into the general direction of the bed. The mattress meets the backs of her knees and his hand (which has, since settling on her hip, mingled up her side and cupped over one of her tits) sends her toppling back against the sheets. Harry nearly snickers at her look of indignation. Instead though, he tucks his fingers up under her half-down denim and tugs until her pants are off and she finally, finally has the ability to spread her legs. He tosses those onto the rug, and Y/N watches Harry finish disrobing, kicking the gray sweats into a rumpled pile beside her jeans. 

The camera is still rolling on the dresser, and it’ll keep rolling. It’ll keep rolling when he sinks his face between her thighs, it’ll keep rolling when he pulls the plug out and nudges his fingers in, when he slips his cock into her cunt and then, eventually, switches to her other hole. Or maybe it’ll go in an all different order. Tiger cradles her by the hips and repositions her roughly. The lens doesn’t catch the way she’s all shimmery between her legs with want from its angle, but Harry does, eyes glued there as his fingertips trail featherlight up her thigh and back down. 

A crease works in between his brows like he’s contemplating something, and then he pats the same fragment of flesh he’d been caressing and instructs, “Flip over.” 

Y/N tips over to her side and then rolls onto her tummy, but when she clambers onto her hands and knees Harry beckons, “Where are you going, little bird?” He sighs, warm palm grasping over her ankle and yanking her back towards the edge of the bed, just until Y/N is splayed and forced to shimmy her way back into a pretty arch. “Hm?” 

His hand is still gripped over the joint when the other climbs up the back of her naked thigh, skin on skin petting softly there. “Where are you going, little girl?”  

She’s going to implode. She nearly does when his colossal palms cup either cheek of her backside and spread. He hums like he’s pleased. 

“Which hole should I fuck first…” Harry ponders aloud from behind, but it all feels sort of rhetorical when he nudges over her tightest, little hole, pressing like he’s teasing a breach with the tip of his digit. 

She thinks he must be using his other hand, too, because the pad of his thumb drives a circle over her puffy, spit-slicked clit. The ring of muscle flutters. 

“…Hm?”

SECOND PART HERE

[honeyedmiller]

Sarah’s Birthday

a firefighter!joel miller x f!reader drabble

series masterlist

synopsis: Sarah turns fifteen, and you and Joel bask in what your future will be together.

rating: explicit. 18+, minors do not interact.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: illusions to smut, a lot of fluff, family dynamic, no use of y/n.

a/n: this was originally part of part ten but i felt like it dragged on for too long, so i made it into its own little part (shoutout to nini for the idea)! hope you enjoy <3

You wake up with a good kind of ache in your bones. 

The one where you’re sore from your… escapades with your fiancé the previous night. 

Your fiancé. 

You can still feel his lips ghosting your skin, still hear his sweet whispers of endearment. See the look in his eyes when he made love to you all night long, making you feel so cherished and protected. 

You awaken to those thoughts and the dawn of the summer sun peeking through your shared bedroom window. You stretch your limbs before a glint catches your eye. You pause, admiring the shine. 

You get so lost in thought that you barely feel Joel stir next to you. It’s only when he gives your bare shoulder a kiss do you look away from your dream ring. 

“Look how beautiful it looks in the sunlight,” you muse. 

You can see Joel’s soft smile from the corner of your eyes as you watch in awe how the sun catches perfectly on your ring. 

“Not as beautiful as the woman wearin’ it.” 

You turn your head to face him now, admiring him in his sleepy state. His eyes are barely cracked open, his curls are in disarray, and his voice—god, his voice—is thicker than molasses in the morning. It’s this deep, raspy drawl that makes you swoon like a person crazy in love. 

Fuck, you are crazy in love. 

“Love it when you sweet talk me,” you say. He sleepily grins and leans in to kiss your forehead, pulling your body into his. 

“We have to get up to set up Sarah’s surprise,” you murmur into his chest. Your lips fall graciously onto his warm skin, and he hums in content. 

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles, giving you a brief squeeze. 

Your head pops up from his chest and you look down at him with a quirked brow. His eyes shoot over to his bedside alarm clock, bright red numbers blinking 6:30 right back at him. His eyes flick back to your face, softening as they study your face. A soft smile plays at his lips before he leans up to kiss you. 

“Baby, she doesn’t usually get up until ten in the mornin’. You really think it’s gonna take that long?”

You sigh, laying back down on his chest. “S’pose not. I am pretty sore from last night,” you tease. 

Joel’s chest lightly rumbles as he chuckles at your words. 

“Want me to kiss it better?” There’s mischief laced in his tone as his warm hand travels down your naked body. Goosebumps arise on your skin at his touch, and you can practically feel Joel grinning from ear to ear with how receptive you are to him and his touch. 

“No. ‘Cus then we’ll really not get anything done, and I don’t think my body can take one more round right now.” 

He gently grabs your jaw and turns your face up toward his. He looks concerned now—maybe even a bit worried. 

“Fuck, did I push you too far last night? Did I hurt you?” His sweet brown eyes are worrisome, and you shake your head immediately. 

You switch positions so you’re now on top of him. You straddle him and cup his face, leaning down to kiss the worry line between his brows. 

“Oh god no, Joel. Never. I just don’t think I’ve had that many orgasms back to back to back,” you laugh, and the tension immediately dissipates from his shoulders and you see him visibly relax. 

“I’m sore in the best way possible, baby. If it was too much I would’ve let you know. I promise.” 

He nods. “Okay, good. Last thing I want is to ever hurt you, especially when we’re intimate.” 

You smile down at him. “I love you.” 

He returns it. “I love you too, darlin’. Let me run you a bath since it’s still so early. Sore muscles ain’t fun.” 

“As long as you join me,” you bargain. 

He laughs and gives your hips a love tap. “How could I say no?” 

And so you both clamber out of bed and Joel draws you both a bath with your favorite scented bubbles ‘for extra relaxation’, as he’d put it. 

“Come on in, cowboy. The water feels really good,” you say. 

“Just gimme one second baby,” he says, and you nod. You sink into the warm water, relaxing your aching muscles. He comes back a second later and climbs in behind you. He leans you back against his body, and you sigh in content as your eyes flutter shut. 

“So, I wanted to give you this,” he starts. You open your eyes to see a beautiful silver band engraved with three flowers on the front, a micro diamond in the middle of each. Inside of the band are three tiny words that read honorem, fides, amor. 

“Honor, loyalty and love…” you trail off, and you feel Joel nod behind you. 

“My dad had this ring made for my mom when they were newlyweds. She passed it on to me and told me to give it to the woman I’d someday marry.” 

Tears well in your eyes at his words, and you can only let out a whisper. “It’s beautiful.” 

He slips it onto your right hand ring finger, kissing your knuckles. “It’s my promise to you that I’ll honor you, be loyal to you, and love you for the rest of our lives. You’re half of my heart, baby. I don’t want you to doubt that even for a second.” 

“When did you know?” You ask, and when he’s silent for a few beats, you elaborate. “The moment you knew you wanted to marry me.” 

“Honestly?” 

You nod. 

“At your sister’s wedding.” 

You crane your neck to peer up at him. “Joel,” you whisper. “That soon?” 

He nods like what he just told you is the most casual thing in the world. 

“Mhm. Knew right then and there when I saw you standing up there near your sister that I want to be up at that altar with you one day. Make you my wife.” 

“When did you ask Sarah? My parents?” Your voice is a mere whisper, trying to wrap your head around his words. 

His hands move up your torso, palms slightly grazing your breasts. Your nipples tighten and you gasp at the contact, and Joel softly chuckles behind you before his hands move to your shoulders. He starts to massage the tightness out of your muscles, and you relax even further into him. 

He leans down to kiss just below your ear before answering you. 

“I asked your parents at the hospital when Emily had Mateo. Your mom was so excited, and I think your dad may have teared up a little.” 

You laugh at that, knowing your dad isn’t a very emotional man. 

He squeezes your shoulders, kissing your skin once again. 

“I asked Sarah shortly after my accident. She’s been completely on board this whole time and has been houndin’ me about when I was gonna ask ya.” 

You smile at that, knowing how persistent she can be sometimes. 

You’re quiet for a few moments as you admire the ring before turning your neck so you can kiss him. “I… have no words. Just—thank you. Thank you for taking a chance on me, thank you for believing in me, and thank you for being patient with me. I can’t believe I lucked out with the man of my dreams.” 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers. 

You squeeze his knee underwater. “It’s a good thing we have the rest of our lives for me to figure it out then, isn’t it?” 

-

You want to make sure everything is perfect for Sarah before she comes downstairs to see her small surprise. You have balloons, a personal heart-shaped cake, and a couple of presents you and Joel bought her set up on the dining room table. 

You finish making the appetizers and desserts in time, and Tommy and Maria make their way over to help set up for the party. You’re in the middle of making chocolate chip waffles for breakfast when you hear Sarah coming down the steps. 

You plate her breakfast, setting it down on the table before she rounds the corner. She rubs her eyes as she makes her way into the dining room, and you try to hold in a laugh as it takes her a second to process everything. 

“Wait what? This is all for me?” 

“Happy birthday, baby girl,” Joel says, bringing her into a hug. 

“Thanks dad,” she laughs, moving to hug you next. “Thank you for setting all of this up for me.” She gives you an extra tight hug, to which you return. 

“How’d you know it was her?” Joel asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he pretends to be offended. 

“Please, dad, I love you so much but you don’t have cute ideas like this. Like, ever.” 

You, Maria and Tommy all laugh as he sticks his tongue out at her, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” you say, and she beams at you. 

“Thank you.” 

She hugs Tommy and Maria too as they wish her a happy birthday. She looks down at the table, and excitement is written clear as day on her face as she sees the chocolate chip waffles. 

“Ugh, I love you guys. Thank you.” 

She digs into her breakfast and opens her presents, thanks everyone again, before she rushes upstairs to get ready for her party. 

You laugh as she dashes up back to her room, loving that she’s so excited for her celebration. 

Within a few hours, the party is officially in full swing. Music is playing over a speaker, the grill is piping hot, and drinks are sweating in the palms of many hands. 

You’d think that teenagers wouldn’t entertain the idea of a bouncy house water slide, but it turns out, all of them absolutely love it. They’re all having a blast running around, while the adults are mingling. 

You make your way up to the grill where Joel, Tommy, your brothers, and your dad all stand. 

“Gentlemen,” you greet them. “Why are you guys standing like a pack of wolves around the grill?” You tease, and they all laugh. 

“Why do you women sit at one table and talk for hours on end?” Andy retorts, and you point at him knowingly. 

“Touché.” 

“I hear congratulations are in order,” your dad says, wiggling his brows. 

You grin shyly and show off your ring, and your dad and brothers all seem to nod in approval. 

“You’re a good man, Joel. I’m glad it’s you that my daughter gets to marry.” 

“Aww, dad, you haven’t gone all soft on us have you?” You grin at him, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t give me that. You’re my baby girl, so of course I’m gonna go soft on you for this. I’m allowed.” Everyone laughs and you hold your hands up in surrender. 

“That’s definitely fair.” 

“What can I do for ya, pretty lady?” Joel asks, slinging an arm around your shoulder before pulling you into him. 

“I need a cheeseburger, Miller, or this pretty lady will be raging with hunger real soon.” 

“Well fuck, no one wants to see that,” your dad says, and you bark out a laugh. 

“No, they really don’t.”

“I’ll take care of it. Give me ten minutes and I’ll serve you a plate with the fixin’s you like on it,” Joel says. 

“Thank you.” You grin at him and pat his chest before pecking his lips and stepping away, but Andy pulls you to the side before you can even take another step. 

“Dude, I need you to do me a solid,” he says. 

You quirk a brow at him. “What’s up?” 

His eyes dart past you and back to the table where you were sitting with your mom, Maria, and Maria’s cousin. 

“Who’s that gorgeous woman sitting next to Maria?” He asks, and your lips form into a smirk. 

“Why do you wanna know?” You tilt your head to the side, and he groans as he turns his face toward the sky. 

“Shadow, please. She’s fucking beautiful and I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of her. Can you find out if she’s single, and, I dunno, put in a good word for me if she is?” 

You wipe the smirk off of your face, because you truly can see how smitten Andy is over her. You remember your conversation with him back at your parent’s house a few weeks back, and you know teasing him about this is in your nature, but you decide to pump the brakes and take it easy on him. 

“That’s Maria’s cousin, Natasha. She’s an attorney and she is, in fact, single.” 

“Jesus, you women are like the fucking FBI.” 

“Or we just actually talk to each other to get to know one another. Like normal people,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

“Yeah yeah, okay. Fine. But can you, I dunno, introduce me to her?” He’s fiddling with his hands, and you don’t think you’ve seen him this nervous in a long time. Andy was usually always so confident and suave around women he had interest in, so this truly surprises you. 

“Come on,” you say, nodding your head back to the table. 

He pauses for a beat. “Wait, really? Just like that?” 

You roll your lips into your mouth, trying to refrain from rolling your eyes at him for what seems like the millionth time today. 

“Yes, Andy, just like that. I’m not that mean. I wanna see you get the girl too, you know,” you sigh, and he laughs. 

“You’re not mean, baby sis. Maybe a little insane, but not mean. And, well, thank you. I appreciate you.” 

“I’ll show you insane if you don’t shut up. But, enough with the emotional shit. C’mon,” you nod your head, and you walk back over to the table with Andy in tow. 

Natasha’s eyes land on Andy and he smiles at her, to which she immediately returns. 

“Andy, honey, why don’t you sit next to Natasha here. I’m gonna go get myself a plate,” your mom says, and you have to stifle a laugh. That woman works quicker than anyone you know. 

“Oh, uh, sure,” he says, looking at her. “Is that alright with you?” 

She softly laughs, waving her hand to the chair next to her. “By all means.” 

He gives her a small smile before plopping himself down next to her, and you and Maria share a knowing look before you dive into your own conversation. 

And the rest of the day blurs into nighttime, singing Sarah happy birthday with an almost gutted-looking Joel at her side as realization that his baby girl is growing up hits him. You know it’s been a bittersweet day for him.

Guests eventually dwindle as the hours of the day tick down. Sarah wanted to end her birthday with a slumber party at her friend Katie’s house, so by the end of the night, it was just the Millers brothers, Maria, Natasha, and your family left.

You’re all sitting around the living room in good conversation. You’re leaning into Joel’s side, and his lips brush your cheek lovingly as you rest your left hand on his thigh. 

“So Joel,” Maria starts. Everyone’s attention moves to her, and she offers him a kind smile. “How did you propose to her?” 

All eyes are on Joel now, and he clears his throat as he sits up straighter. His right hand covers your left that’s settled on his lap, giving it a squeeze. 

“It was at the ranch. Already knew that place would be somethin’ special when Tommy and I were little boys runnin’ around causin’ a fuss,” he chuckles. “‘N now that I know the land will be ours officially, I wanted to ask her where new memories will be created for the rest of our lives—startin’ with that one.” 

“Actually,” you start, looking at him and then to Maria. “He asked me a while ago, and I’ve been giving him a hard time. I didn’t say yes right away. He knew I wouldn’t say no, though, but I had to keep him on his toes.” 

“Are you serious?” Andy snorts. “Classic. Sounds like some shit you’d do.” He points the neck of his beer bottle at you, and you smile at him before flipping him off. 

“Hey now, I deserved to work for it. She’s one thousand percent worth it,” Joel says, kissing your temple. “But then I called her my wife yesterday after we had a little run-in and nothin’ more has ever felt so right. The day she described her dream ring to me, I phoned a buddy of mine whose wife makes custom engagement rings. Then I gave her the ring my mom passed on to me to give to the woman I’d someday marry.” 

The women aww in unison, but Cole holds his hand up. “What the hell do you mean by a run-in?” 

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Oh yeah. Forgot to mention we fucking ran in to Christian yesterday at the grocery store while we were getting the rest of the stuff for Sarah’s party.” 

“Are you fucking serious?” Andy asks. Everyone who knows about him looks at you in disbelief. 

You nod in confirmation, but gently nudge Joel in the ribs. “Yeah. But Joel socked him hard as fuck across the nose after he tried to play tough guy and said some disrespectful shit.” 

“Holy fuck,” Cole says, while Andy and your dad laugh in unison. Your mom and Maria look mortified, but Joel just shrugs. 

“He deserved much worse in my opinion, but I definitely broke his nose. He threatened to have me arrested.” 

Tommy laughs now, taking a swig of his beer before pointing the neck at Joel. “This fucker has a mean right hook, I’ll tell y’all that.” 

“I’m glad to hear my soon to be son-in-law is protecting my baby girl like that. That’s one of the many reasons I gave him my blessing.”

“He’s a good man, sweetheart. It’s about time you found true happiness with someone who reciprocates the love you put into them,” your mom says, and tears start to well in your eyes. 

“No more cutting the onions, mom. Jesus,” Andy says. 

“I have a knack for knowing these things about my children, Andrew. Watch yourself.” She gives him a warning look, and he holds his hands up in surrender. 

The night goes on as normal conversation ensues, and eventually the house is left with just you and Joel by the time it hits midnight. 

You’re putting the last of the leftovers in the fridge when Joel comes up and hugs you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist. You turn in his arms, sliding your hands up his chest and around the back of his neck, intertwining your fingers together. 

“Thank you for everything you did for my little girl today, baby. Guess she’s not so little anymore,” he sighs. “It means the world to me that you love her like your own.” 

You smile and peck his lips. “Of course, Joel. I just hope she enjoyed herself today.” 

“Oh, she definitely did,” he starts, leading you up the stairs and into your shared bedroom. “I haven’t seen her have this much fun in a long time. ‘N I definitely have to give credit where credit is due, darlin’.” 

You sit down on your side of the bed, leaning against the headboard while Joel lays down on his back before tossing his arms above his head and closing his eyes. 

“Well I appreciate you, honey.” 

Your hands smack your thighs as you look down at him, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“You know what this means though, right?” 

Joel peeks one eye open to look at you. 

You give him a knowing look. It’s one that makes him twist his torso so his face is now buried into his pillow, and he lets out a loud, pained groan. 

His little girl is growing up too fast. 

“It’s time to start planning for her sixteenth birthday party.” 

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[kismetarchive]

Counting the freckles on König's face as you two lay on the couch after an exhausting day

pairing: könig x gn!reader

König's face was a privilege only a select few people have ever seen in his life — barely enough people to count on one hand.

Even amongst those select few, they didn’t see his face on a daily occasion. He keeps his identity locked behind his sniper hood, leaving only his heavy gaze as a small window to his soul; everyone except his schatz.

during the long deployments where he was left with only a polarid of you tucked away in a pocket next to his heart he'd stare at it every night, his heart tugging wondering if you were safe — if he'll make it back to feel your touch on his scarred body.

When he returns he immediately tugs off all his clothes, haggard hands tugging at your own so he could feel you as close as possible; to feel you intimately without the restriction of cloth or anything else, just limbs tangled together in a loving embrace.

You lay on top of König, his large physique dwarfing you in comparison as your hands interlocked with his and lips lazily brushing against each others lips as you laid comfortably under the fluffy blanket.

His mask was tossed into a random cupboard, clothes strewn off into a corner of the room and his eyes half lidded as he looked at your gorgeous figure under the mellow sunlight. Seeing you bask like an angel under the warm light of the evening.

You broke away from the tender kiss, eyes glancing across his chiseled cheeks and noting the faint freckles on his face.

"You have freckles." You spoke softly, not wanting to break the silent peace in the room.

"Ja, they're more visible in the summer." Konig replies back, his cheeks tinting red seeing the star-struck look on your face — like the simple dots on his face had carved their way into your heart.

"They're pretty." You'd hum, your lips gently grazing against his cheek and pressing a soft kiss against each one. König let you pepper kisses all over his face, letting himself be a canvas for your kisses as he floated away somewhere soft and away from the war-torn and violent world he was brought up in.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」