#consumable simmer pot | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pseudowho · 2 months ago

Text

The Watchmaker

Newly employed as the assistant to a renowned watchmaker, you soon discover how deeply his obsessions run.

Warnings: 18+, boss/assistant relationship, mutual longing, loss of virginity, fingering (f!receiving), nipple play, hand job (m!receiving), creampie, gentle manhandling (consensual), breeding hints, gentle period-drama Nanami snippety-snaps and becomes unhinged, two desperate people getting far too sexy over timepieces and pots of tea

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

It was unusual for a lone young woman to be lodged and apprenticed by a single man; and, yet, it came to be, when you alone passed the Watchmaker's interview.

You approached on dry cobblestones, to a handsome, deep shop, with glossy black and gold railings and doors. Your corset felt heavy with the city's summer humidity; the river held the heat like a simmering pan, and its heady stench threatened to consume you. You were used to being without a chaperone, but your modest dress and poor accompaniment drew more wayward glances in this part of the city.

You hurried into the shop, a brass bell above the door tinkling your arrival. Nobody came to greet you. You followed the voices to the back, the eyes of many timepieces following you, their ticking as whispers and gossip in your wake. You came, in time, down tiled steps to a workshop, warm and bright and full of men...naturally.

A single, cursive note graced a sign before the only remaining workbench.

Repair the clock.

Such meagre instructions for a sought-after job. In golden lamplight, a pile of cogs and a loose-handed clock face glimmered like dragon hoard. You cast your eyes, stroking your corset and heavy skirts. You nodded once, and reassured yourself, only once.

"You can do this."

The Watchmaker, a tall man whose broad shoulders and thick hands did not suggest one with a delicate touch, neither agreed nor disagreed; he simply watched, silently observing you like the many faces of his timepieces. You set to work before your audience. The Watchmaker came and went, seeking to observe the half-dozen men competing alongside you.

And, in time, half a dozen sweating young men failed one, by one, by one. The Watchmaker's disgust was apparent, and his sneers soured one, by one, by one, until the last young hopeful curdled like milk before him.

When the Watchmaker came to you, you and your box of gold were not at your station. He frowned, kept company only by muted ticks and tocks. He followed your trail, out to his walled garden.

The test would have been considered a 'trick' only by those who were angry that their lack of respect for precision and accuracy had been identified. You, who could not fathom such sloppiness, found an honest solution.

"A sundial?" The Watchmaker rumbled. You felt a rush of heat from fingertips to toes, untouched by such a voice before. Smoothing your skirts again, and finishing your adjustments to hide the heat in your cheeks, you nodded.

You had fashioned your clock face and myriad small clock pieces to form a glimmering sundial. You had positioned it just so, and confirmed its position with the time shown on your own, battered pocket watch.

The Watchmaker circled you, with narrow eyes that may contain humour were they not so scrutinising. He was impeccably tailored, you noted; a high, crisp collar and rolled back white sleeves revealed enough throat and forearm to make you sweat. An exquisite navy waistcoat nipped his waist only marginally more than his tied apron, and he hummed at your sundial.

"Not what I'd call accurate."

"I disagree. While it may not be very precise, it is accurate. The cogs for the clock couldn't be set in such a way as to make the seconds correct. They were always just out. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

He almost smiled; his eyes certainly did. Nodding, and not one for hyperbolic praise, he bowed, instead.

"Nanami Kento. I would be privileged to offer you the role as my apprentice."

The earth formed a springboard, launching you to heaven, and it wrenched the breath from your lungs on the way. Checking yourself before you babbled over with incredulous tears, you choked out an answer on a sloppy curtsey.

"Even though-- even though I'm a woman?"

A scoff. "I don't see how that's relevant."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Mr.Nanami sought your constant presence.

A natural timekeeper, himself, he sought the company of those like him, who would not expect him to partake in social niceties and small-talk. It was no wonder, then, that he became a Watchmaker, whose many-natured friends had the same face but twice a day.

While Nanami Kento was normally at peace in ticking solitude, the many hands and ceaseless seconds had eventually, as the years went by, begun to grind into an aching loneliness.

You felt it, as summer crisped to autumn, and frosted to winter-- his desire for your company. The way his obsession bloomed to include you alongside his timepieces. The way he lingered in doorways while you handled the customers' repairs. The way he seemed breathless when your smile sent another happy patron on their way. The way he would flinch if you brushed past him.

And god, how it burned you. Eyes downcast in reverence could not remain so for long, so magnetised were they to him. His silences were rarely cold, but rather, simply those of one who held his tongue until he had something to say; a far cry from the men you knew, who sought to usurp the monarchial peace through vocal domination.

Learning such craft at Mr.Nanami's thick, calloused hands, required intimate proximity; he would have to lean around you, at points, with his chest to your back. He moved your hands within his, teaching you the dexterity needed to repair a tiny watch with surgical precision. He leaned like this around you now. You could barely breathe.

"You were not wrong. Though not strictly right, either," he murmured in your ear, his breath grazing over your cheek. His hands held the tools in yours, using your body to perform miracles. You felt faint, flushed, hot against his body, and breathed a shaking breath, quiet in your frustration so as not to disturb the sleeping cogs.

"I want to be perfect, I-- I need it--"

An amused hum, used to your angry tiny mechanics. "You are perfect, thank you. Now let us make the pocket watch match."

As your hands worked in tandem, and another impossibly tiny cog found its home, you gasped in delight, relieved, and not thinking.

"Ah, yes, Kento, we--"

Mr.Nanami stiffened behind you. You backpedaled.

"Ah-- I mean, Mr.Nanami-- I'm so sorry--"

He did not seem upset, though his ears reddened as he stepped away from you. He murmured again, unused to being perceived.

"No, no-- it's quite alright-- I use your given name, after all."

With his face flat but his eyes alight, when you looked up at him in wary apology, he sought to reassure you with a smile.

"Really, please-- please do call me Kento."

"It feels...wrong."

"I...would not seek to make you uncomfortable. It is entirely of your preference."

Your heart drowned out the whispering whirrs of the room. You heard the tap of Mr.Nanami's feet as he ascended the workshop stairs, and blurted out.

"--Kento, I'll...I'll call you Kento. Please."

A pause. Another silence. Kento's voice tightened with something altogether more intimate.

"I fear I shall get used to it far too quickly."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Too long were you lingering in your respective doorways, before bed. Too sweet, were the shared evenings in a firecrackle sitting room. Too electrifying, were the hands that met to pour just one more cup. Too intentional were the slim-eyed stares that burned down to the very bones of you.

If you died, and committed your body to science, the ghost of you would be unsurprised if a surgeon found Nanami Kento's name scored across your ribs; for nobody else could access that cage to your heart and soul.

Nobody else could warm you, during Winter fairs on the frozen river.

Nobody else could take your hand, to help you down the stairs at the Timepiece Exhibition.

Nobody else could still you with a look, or teach you with such few words, and this was so wrong, so wrong, he's your teacher your mentor your--

Your peak hit you in a burst of static. You clasped your hand over your own mouth, as if it would sell you out for your filthy crimes. Still, you arched in your bed, your toes curling against the sheets, bucking up into nothing in waves. Clarity did not hit you after, for it had already hit you during, and had done nothing to still your fingers.

Rolling over, and pressing your face into your pillow after the ecstasy had passed, you held your breath. It was too quiet.

Your eyes sprung open. The muffled bustling you had heard from the bedroom next door, had stopped. You weren't sure when. The silence was deafening...until movement started again, more clipped than it had been before. You could feel him, moving with irritation, a prowling beast in a cage.

It was over an hour before Kento's own hand travelled down his belly, to grasp himself with whispered curses and pleas of your name. Long enough, he hoped, for you to be asleep. Long enough, he hoped, that he could hide this rampant obsession that was so wrong, so wrong, he's your teacher your mentor your--

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"I should think I'll be home for tea. Inspector Aberline's grandfather clock again. It has stage fright, I fear, for how often the Inspector stares at it."

Kento's words, from hours before, rolled through your mind again and again. The smile you had sent your final patron of the day on his way with, slipped away, for you saw the lamplighter beginning his rounds on the cobbles outside. The sun had already set; he was late, tonight. You'd have offered him a lantern, but without Kento beside you, you felt you would need its warmth and light more.

Your eyes flickered to a package on the desk. It was imperative, Kento had said, that this was delivered to the customer today. 'Today', as a concept, was growing increasingly more abstract as it threatened to expire.

You saw the deep, dark circles under Kento's eyes, in your mind's eye. He had not been sleeping well. He needed the rest. You could not bear to see him overburdened.

Taking a deep breath, and undoing your apron to replace it for your heavy coat and gloves, you tucked the package under your arm, locked up to the tune of the tinkling bell, and stole away through the night like a thief in the dark.

Clacking across cobblestones, and trying to diminish the noise of your boots upon them, you walked for what felt like miles. Though you were sure you were safe, in this part of the city, the darkness turned shadows into beasts of great renown.

Spring-Heeled Jack stalked you from the shadows. You clutched the package closer, walking faster, breathing harder--

"What the hell are you doing out here, at this time of night?"

You squealed, and flattened against a red brick wall. Kento, imperious and huge in a heavy brown overcoat, glowered down at you with unbridled rage.

"The package," you squeaked, brandishing it as a shield, "you said-- said it needed to be delivered--"

"And it is not your place to take it upon yourself to do so. Returning to find you gone, out delivering a bloody package, while there's a killer on the loose? Extraordinary." The coldness that Kento reserved only for others, now directed at you, was a bitter sting.

Still; Kento held out his arm, stiff. His lip curled when you did not immediately take it. He grew frosty as he waited, and you slipped your arm into his, to a mollified grumble.

"Come," Kento rumbled, arresting you in a hold so intimate against his side, "let us not waste a journey. The customer isn't far from here. It shall give you time to think about your foolish choices."

You felt furious tears prickle behind your eyes. Like a dog with a bone, Kento struggled to let his anger go, and you snapped up at him, "Give it a rest. You're not my husband--"

"--yet, if it would allow me any sort of say over your safety, perhaps I should be your husband." Kento had frozen, looming over you. Your belly twisted, your face hot. You turned aside, chastised like a child.

"I'm no girl," you whispered, venomous, "I can take care of myself--"

"In a world that places no value on women, why should you ever feel safe? Out here, instead of in my--"

It was Kento's turn to redden. His jaw clenched. His fingers tapped upon the package. You felt righteous anger bubbling over, and rolled the dice, in a stabbing final gambit.

"In your what, sir? In your workshop? In your arms? Or in your bed?"

Kento's stony impassivity was tested, but remained steadfast even against your snapping. But you knew him, now; you saw how his chest hitched, heard his knuckles crack, and caught the faintest flare of his nostrils. Ducking his head for a moment, and dramatised by lamplit shadow, he stepped in just once to whisper above your ear.

"You forget yourself. I am your mentor, and you are my assistant, and--"

"--and I've had enough of you pretending that's all we are--"

"--and it's hard enough not bursting into your room at night when I hear your fingers drag my name from your mouth, so if you will be so kind as to cease and desist, I will not have to press you against this damn wall to hold your tongue with my own."

His hissing reproach doused the argument with ice water. Numb-footed and stunned, you walked through treacle, as Kento dragged you to deliver the package. Your chest was still thickened by mortification by the time you approached the Watchmakers' familiar iron railings.

You found yourself pressed inside, hearing the door bolted with force. Kento's hands softened as they removed your coat from your shoulders.

"Bed," he snapped. Kento turned his back to you to light a waxdrip candle. White shirtsleeves billowed from the shoulders of his waistcoat, and he checked his pocket watch as if it would give him the answer. You reached one hand out, to bunch in the back of his waistcoat, as if a child, and he snapped again.

"Alone."

You flinched. You closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. You swallowed hard, rolling the dice again.

"I hear you, too. In your room at night. The walls are thin."

"So is my patience, young lady, I will not tolerate--"

"You treat me like a girl to distance yourself from me, but pleasure yourself to my name? Please. You can make a fool of yourself but don't make a fool out of me--"

Kento spun with a growl, lifting you by the waist to drop you upon the counter. You squeaked, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself when he closed the gap between you.

"Do not act as if you know," Kento whispered, low and slow, "what it's like to feel like an animal in fine tailoring. Do not act as if you know what it means to be reduced so, that I must spill myself onto my belly every night, to preserve your virtue.

I do not blame you, naturally-- it's my burden entirely-- but if you add one more ounce to my shoulders with that incorrigible little mouth of yours, I'm afraid your virtue shall be...under threat."

You couldn't deny the heat pooling between your thighs, now, trapped as it was by Kento's taut body. You couldn't deny your craving for such fabled bliss.

"How does it feel," you whispered, your hand creeping up the buttons of his waistcoat to stroke the silk of his cravat, "Kento? How does it feel? Do you use your hand, or--"

An agonal little choke broke past Kento's high collar. His eyes begged you to stop him. You felt his long fingers twitch on your waist.

"Do not ask me--"

"Please," you whispered again, just as desperate as him, "please, I need to know, I can't keep living life in the dark--"

"My hand," Kento choked out, his chest barrelling with the weight of his breaths, "I use my hand. But even in the dark, I can't seem to convince myself that it-- that it's--"

You felt him falter, and you begged him, your tugging loosening his cravat enough to see his throat bob behind it. Kento whined, begging in kind. His face twisted, as if the thuds of pleasure lengthening his cock were hurting him. The torture was sweet; you felt it, too.

"Don't make me say it," Kento pleaded, nose to nose and nuzzling from side to side, "I can't take it--"

"You can-- you can take me--"

"--you don't know what you're saying--"

"--I do, Kento, please--"

"--don't know what you're sacrificing--"

"--you wouldn't," you pressed, feeling his hands moving against his wishes to unbutton the back of your dress, "you wouldn't sacrifice me, I know, so just--"

Kento groaned, a sound so sinful, just to feel your dress release and slip down over your shoulders. Pinching the ends of your sleeves, with his fingertips grazing your palms and inner wrists until you shivered, he pulled. A gossamer shift of white ghosted over your skin.

"So many layers, upon a lady," Kento murmured against your lips, "like unwrapping a gift."

He sounded drunk, and the honeyrich pools of his eyes had darkened. You couldn't pinpoint the moment his resolve had crumbled, but crumble it did, with the tick-tocking eyes of many upon you. Kento grazed his fingers against your lips, ordering in a whisper.

"Open." You didn't have to, your jaw already slack as promise burned you at the edges. Kento swiped his thumb and forefinger across your tongue with a groan, and reached out, snuffing the candle between them.

What dim light there had been, died. None that breathed would hold court or witness to what Kento was about to do to your virtue.

"This will not happen only once," Kento murmured against your neck, his tongue darting out to taste you until you mewled. He cursed to hear it, becoming more unhinged by the minute. "I will take your maidenhood as a lover, but take your hand as my wife. You cannot refuse."

You could refuse-- you knew you could, in absolute safety, but such refusal would take his mouth from you with immediate effect. His hands would cease their insistent glide up, and up, beneath your skirts. He would stop rutting forwards against nothing, with each whimper that left your lips. He would no longer drag your bodice down with his teeth, to suckle at the plump swell of your breasts.

You nodded, breathless, your hands shaking against the buttons of Kento's waistcoat. He grunted as it fell open, and your hands settled upon his waist. His graze against your neck was more insistent, now, and sloppier; hungry, open mouthed kisses that suckled the salt from your skin. Occasionally, you heard him murmur, begging to you, or to his god, or to himself, for any sort of release.

Overtaken by need, you finished unbuttoning his trousers, and tangled your fingers in his hair, instead.

"Don't know what you're doing," Kento mumbled, drunker by the minute, "going to ruin you, I-- I'll ruin you-- I'm no sensible size for a virgin--"

"So you suggest I find some other man?" You panted, "You suggest I find someone smaller--"

"They don't fucking deserve you," Kento spat, forcing the last of your skirts up to grind himself at your core until you whined. With your corset untied, Kento tossed it to the floor behind him with disdain, and yanked the final layer down to free your breasts.

Shuddering, he gripped his cock to restrain himself.

"Divine," Kento whispered, ducking to nuzzle against the tips of your breasts, "I have to-- please allow me to--"

Without waiting for an answer, Kento lapped your nipple into his mouth with a groan. Suckling until you pleaded his name, with hot bursts of pleasure to your core, Kento's hands reached the crest of your thighs, and groaned to find more layers in the way.

"Buy you some more," he grunted against your breasts, gripping the fabric between strong fingers to shred it apart, "my apologies-- now, just-- oh, fuck, I--"

His fingers had slipped between your folds to glide through them. Needing to see you arch against the sudden intrusion, Kento pressed you back until you were lying on the counter, and loomed over you. You caught sight of him for the first time in minutes.

Kento was utterly dishevelled, unabashed, and too far gone. With his cravat and waistcoat hanging loose, and a long, thick swell beneath what remained of his unbuttoned trousers, he looked more debauched than your wildest fantasies. He twitched with the spurt of pre-cum that left his cock, to see you spread out before him.

Sniffing, and dragging one hand back through his parted hair, Kento scoffed at your look of glassy-eyed wonderment. His fingers curled through your lips until that sought-after arch graced his eyes, and you mewled again, your thighs clamping around his hips

"More than one of us can be reduced to a beast," he growled, circling your clit with calloused fingertips, "as you have insisted. I've taught you with these fingers before. Let us teach you something new; how it feels to peak upon the hands of a man."

"--o-oh god, oh god oh god--"

A bark of laughter, "--he won't help you now--"

"--oh, sir--"

"Try again."

"K-Kento!" You chastised through blinding pleasure. Kento chuckled again, intoxicated and made ruthless by it, and holding you flat by the belly as his hands worked miracles on your core.

"That's it-- good girl--"

The way he praised you had always brought you to a blush, but how he growled his praises while he fingered you to completion was another entity entirely.

Your hips rolled up, trying to fill the emptiness that his fingers alone couldn't. Your body was rendered base with pleasure, and nature's insistence that such passiveness should be used to leave your belly full of seed.

You could see that, too, in his eyes; an urge; a hunger that belied his gentle nature. In sudden clarity, you understood his cry of agony, from mere minutes before: 'Do not act as if you know what it's like to feel like an animal in fine tailoring.'

"--K-Kento, I-- I don't know if I'll-- it's too much, aches-- augh--"

Your approaching peak threatened to overwhelm you, and you squirmed and begged, though you knew not what for. Kento pinned you, with one splayed hand on your belly, and whispered you on.

"That's it-- don't be afraid...shhh, now. Good girl-- that's it-- beautiful--"

You came with thigh-clamping bursts of ecstasy, so sharp and static by the hands of another, that your belly ached and cramped with the force of the spasms. Kento's fingers slowed, massaging the pleasure out of you at length, though you could feel his body growing heavy with the weight of self-restraint.

You felt yourself twitching, crunching forwards involuntarily, with little more than broken whimpers and cries as he talked you down. Though, as clarity dawned in supple bliss, you felt he may be trying to talk himself down.

"...good...that's good, that's enough, I...I am satisfied, I..."

Kento lied to himself so exquisitely, as if he didn't palm his cock with one trembling hand. As if he hadn't pulled his shirt off to relieve the prickling heat of his skin. As if he couldn't kiss you because that, oddly, would be the intimacy that broke the dam.

You broke it for him, sitting up and wrapping your arms around his neck so he couldn't rear away from you. He tried, at first, with a grunt of surprise, gripping you by the waist. Feeling your lips against his rendered him dumb again, feral and nuzzling his nose to yours, like an addict in a field of poppies.

"Please-- I'm afraid I won't-- won't be gentle--"

"Bed," you whispered against his lips, "not alone."

Kento groaned again, cupping his hands beneath your thighs to lift you, and carry you up the narrow wooden staircase. He knew every shoeworn step in the dark; knew where the corridor dipped; knew the amount of steps between his bedroom door and yours, so many times had he paced between the two.

With his curtains un-drawn, only the cold winter moonlight lit the room. Meticulous, uniform possessions left meticulous, uniform shadows. The whole room smelled of Kento; of soft wax, leather and musk. In his room, in his arms as one leg flicked the door deftly closed behind him, felt like being brought home.

"If I show you how," Kento whispered, laying you on his bed, just to stalk you slowly up to his pillows, "will you...can I..."

You'd have said yes to anything. Without knowing exactly what Kento asked for, you nodded. He saw the absolute trust in your eyes, and stiffened, his eyes darkening with something more profound than need.

"Do you know what physical love entails?" He rumbled, nosing against your neck again, and depriving you of the first kiss you so desperately craved. "Do you know what it is, to be taken?"

You swallowed hard, feeling lead weights in your still twitching belly. You cursed the society that had sought your submission through ignorance.

"We...are supposed to fit together," you whispered, to Kento's satisfied rumble. Stil, it was not enough; you knew he would not continue past his insistent suckling of your throat, if you showed true ignorance, so you mumbled past your blushes.

"You...press yourself inside me, until...until you..."

"...go on."

"Until...you finish, like--like--"

"...like you did, on my fingers. Except, your completion simply fills my soul...metaphorically speaking. My completion fills you literally."

Your hand had trailed down his bare chest, reverent at his form, so different to your own and witnessed before only in fine art and statues. He didn't stop you as your hand trailed lower. He simply fixed you with a stare, that was half hope and half despair.

With rising breaths, you looked down between your bodies as you freed him. Animalistic relief twitched across Kento's shoulders, for the release from his confines. He groaned into your throat, husky in a way that made you throb. You longed to see his pleasure as he had seen yours.

Tentative, you grazed his length with the barest fingertips. Rigid, woody, hot, velvety, wet at the tip and so long and--

"Oh," you breathed, gripping him and feeling his heartbeat through his sex, and utterly unsure what you had expected, "feels...good--"

Kento breathed harshly, and had dropped onto his elbows above you, his face twisted in agony. He panted, fractious.

"Don't-- do not--"

Your hand flinched away, horrified for having hurt him, and he cursed, rolling off you to sit, strewn and messy and barely dressed, against the head of the bed. Your eyes fixed again on his manhood, heavy and twitching against his belly.

"I won't touch-- I'm sorry--"

"Don't stop," Kento emphasised, breathless, "don't...dont stop."

With a flush of heat in your cheeks, you understood the nature of Kento's agony, and it only made you hungrier. Crawling over him in the barest white undergown, to straddle his thighs and sit upon them, you reached out to grip him with one trembling hand again. Kento arched, moaning that rusty, desperate moan again.

"Show me? Like you do in...in the workshop."

"God, your hand is so sweet--" With his own hand, big enough to engulf yours, he wrapped around your grip to his length. Slowly, deliberately, and watching where your hands clasped around him with sweat on his brow, Kento used your hand to pump himself.

Feeling the glide of silk on iron made your core wetten and clench. Watching how Kento moaned, bucking into your joined fists and reaching up behind him to grip the pillows, was hypnotic. Within seconds, your hand had begun to move independently of his, stroking him with raw determination to witnessq his unravelling.

Kento groaned in time with your rhythmic strokes. His newly freed fist bunched, instead, at your hip, having rucked your slip aside to dimple shaking fingertips in the plush of your curves. You began to squeeze a little tighter at the tip, twisting a little, and making Kento see stars.

"Hah--haaaaah-- don't-- don'tstop-- better than any dream-- good girl, please, please--"

Your thumb swiped without warning across a bead of wetness that had seeped from the slit in his tip, and Kento swore, bucking hard enough to make you chirp and grip his thighs for purchase.

"--wait--wait-- I'll spill in your hand, wait--"

This didn't deter you; if anything, it spurred you on to faster and faster strokes. Kento writhed, sweating and gripping, and you watched the heavy balls beneath his length tighten up, and--

"--ungh--coming--don'tstop...unh--"

Kento's whole body tensed. His face fixed in divine ecstasy. You watched his length jerk in your fist with thick, warm glugs of sticky white seed. You stared, your new obsession making you want to stroke Kento's release between your folds, but you held him instead, feeling him rut into your fist to chase his high.

After what felt like a lifetime, Kento came back to earth, with a heavy chest. While lax, for now, something in the way he looked at you, kneeling above him and examining the way his release dripped down your forearm, told you he was barely sated.

"Always were a...a fast learner."

"Well, you always wrote me off as a child--"

"I did not," Kento huffed, a mortified, angry flush colouring his cheekbones, "I knew exactly the woman you were. I do not lust after girls. If I didn't separate you, I knew I would...I knew we would..."

You nodded. You had both fought to convince yourself against such inevitability. Pondering, and curiously disappointed in the aftermath of Kento's pleasure, you stroked his slippery length in your hand again.

"You're...still hard."

Kento's eyes flicked down, that animalistic hunger taking seed in his eyes again. When he spoke, it was low, and barely measured.

"It would not usually, but-- but feeling you above me, so close that I could flip you over and trap you beneath me, I--"

You felt your breath leaves your lungs at once. Kento winced, disgusted with himself, but you snatched it away before it could take root.

"Please-- I want that, please--"

"With all this seed, and more to come after I bury myself inside you, you will be with child within days," Kento spat, gripping your cum-slick wrists to stop you stroking another orgasm out of him. Kento froze; having been about to throw you off, he saw the look in your eyes. The look of willingness. That sheer determination that had taken you as his apprentice in the first place.

"You like that," he mused aloud, enraptured as you lifted your undergown away to reveal yourself in your entirety. With your wrists gripped in one broad hand, the other stroked down between your breasts, to settle, stroking, on the soft plush of belly just above your mound.

"You...like that? The thought of a part of me, growing inside you? The thought of me spilling myself so deep, it has nowhere to go but your belly?"

The thought made you lightheaded. Why? Why was the thought of the same sticky release that coated your hands, inside you instead, so alluring? Beast in fine tailoring a beast in fine tailoring a beast--

Kento rolled you over. The strength you always knew he had, carefully restrained by waistcoat and pocket chains, bore down upon you now. He kicked away his trousers, desperate to be as bare as you, and brought his sheets over his hips to bury you both in a warm little den. You shivered to feel his length rest on your belly and mound, so close to where you wanted him.

Kento shook his head, trying to see logic, "If I finish inside you-- you really will be in danger of bearing my child, you..."

His voice had faded, gobsmacked as you stroked your seed covered fingers between your folds, mulish and clipped.

"There," you snipped, "I've already covered myself in you, so that's that--"

"You are utterly feral, this is what I get for bringing a guttersnipe into my workshop--"

"--so you might as well just finish the deed, sir, because--"

Kento laughed, overjoyed by your fearless audacity. His lip curled, and he reached down again to stroke his sticky seed between your folds.

"You think that's what I meant by inside?" He pressed, so close to the entrance you had never sought to penetrate, "You think I meant here? No, my love...I meant here."

You squeaked to feel Kento press one thick finger at your entrance. You felt the briefest sting of resistance, felt yourself clench and buck. Kento stopped, and pressed a first kiss to your lips, so sweet that you rushed through a wildflower meadow in summer.

He stroked circles just inside your entrance, loosening you with the slick of his seed, and kissing you with an intimacy that felt so much more than all the sordid deeds you had stolen from each other so far.

"And when I say 'here'," Kento continued, his breathing getting heavier, "I meant deeper. Much deeper than my fingers could reach. In truth, I would rather break your maidenhood with my cock, than my fingers. Some...filthy little part of me, I think. I loathe it. But, since we are well past being dishonest with each other..."

"Want that, please--" you babbled, squeaking with the promise of being filled with the rod you felt dragging on your belly, "--please, do it, I need to know, need you--"

"You beg like you mean to corrupt," Kento grumbled, pressing a little harder against your entrance and shivering as you squeaked, "I was a good man before this...I think. Shhhh, shh shh...that's it...soften you up...good girl."

"Not a girl," you gasped, your voice breaking and your nails digging into Kento's shoulders. He laughed, a full, rich, deep laugh of genuine delight. He pressed a kiss to your forehead as his fingers were replaced by his cockhead.

"You are right," he rumbled, nuzzling his nose to yours again, "you're certainly not. At least...you won't be, in a moment." Nose to nose with you, and whispering into your mouth, Kento pressed insistently forwards, "Hold onto me."

You did, feeling a brief sting, and stretched and stretched and stretched and--...full. You whimpered, bringing your legs around Kento to embrace all of him to you. He grunted, and gasped, pulled to bottom out within you, when he had meant to take you slowly. You clung him inside you as he moved to pull out, and begged, afraid it was already over.

"Nonono-- don't come out-- stay--"

Kento bucked into you involuntarily, and groaned a godless sound, arching up and gripping the headboard, white-knuckled.

"Got to-- got to move, to-- to finish...but at this rate--Christ, you'll kill me-- god, can't-- can't finish straight away like a boy--"

If the pleasure of being locked into the warm, wet drag of your pussy hadn't almost taken Kento to the edge, the way you looked up at him with glassy adoration would. He moaned again, another certain stepping stone to damnation.

One more glance at you had Kento planting one forearm above your head, and plaiting his fingers with yours upon the pillow. He gasped, trying not to take you too roughly, and finally, whispered again.

"Hold onto me."

Smooth, and fluid, and with the barest scraps of self control, you saw stars to feel Kento drag his cock back to your entrance, only to fill you again. You felt the thickfriction drag, and its bursts of belly-deep pleasure than rendered you oddly submissive. You revelled in it; drugged, and sighing, your eyes slipping closed.

The drunken animal in Kento had returned in force.

"...feels...weird...good--- don't stop, Ken--"

"--sh-shit, won't last-- I'm sorry--"

Kento watched you in wonderment. Whatever pleasure your ripe core gave him, could not compare to that given to him by your face; your mewls, and sighs, and whispers.

You couldn't seem to whisper his name, though; it tasted so sweet upon your tongue, that you could not bear to let it go.

You could feel Kento losing his ragged self-control. Watching your face, the plush bounce of your breasts, and the way your thighs spread against your belly every time he fucked into you, was an otherworldly delight. You took it; gladly. Your pleasure built strangely-- deeper, and more powerful, and yet not quite enough.

Your fingers sauntered down your belly. In your addled, fucked-into state, you barely noticed what you were doing. Kento noticed, though, and growled, a droplet of sweat dropping from his forehead between your breasts. His thrusts deepened, harder and faster and desperate for orgasm.

"F-fuck...just like that...just like you do at night-- my name--"

"Ke...Ken--"

"My name."

"Kento," you half-sobbed, lost in his promise to fill you with the sticky cum that had dropped down your hand, "please--pleasepleaseplease--"

"--the begging, fuck, I'm-- I'm done, I'm-- ungh, fuck--"

You knew Kento must be finishing. You felt him twitching, and jerking, within the snug gripping heat of your cunt, ruined by him as per his promise. You felt the curious warm spill somewhere deep inside you.

You knew the look of bliss upon his face. Your fingers, still rolling the remnants of his seed around your clit, moved faster and faster and faster--

You arched, seconds after Kento's own peak had begun, into your own. You heard the headboard crack under Kento's grip, heard the rhythmic, fractured moans that may have been his and may have been yours, too lost were you both in oblivion.

The world may have completed one full turn. Struggling to hold himself up, Kento shook, dopey and half-asleep after filling you as he had threatened. You locked him within you, and held him like a lead blanket, nuzzling into his throat.

"Just...stay there. Stay. I like it."

"That feels...indecent," Kento mumbled into your neck. His uncharacteristic colloquialism was winding back again, and you felt the clipped man in the waistcoat and pocket chain returning to earth. You whispered, to his devilish laugh.

"How are we supposed to make watches together after that?"

"Carefully. Very, very carefully. As husband and wife."

"...oh."

2K notes · View notes

moonselune · 2 months ago

Text

🎄A Very BG3 Gentlemen Christmas🎄

Gale:

The cozy warmth of the study was offset by the faint chill of winter creeping through the frosted windows. The room was alight with the soft glow of a roaring fire, the scent of pine from the nearby Christmas tree mingling with the faint aroma of mulled wine. You stood in the middle of it all, wrapped—quite literally—in crimson ribbons that you had artfully tied around yourself, each bow a playful promise. This was your Christmas gift to Gale, and you couldn’t wait to see his reaction.

Unfortunately, your plan had hit a slight snag.

Gale was seated in his favorite armchair, his nose buried in the ancient tome you had painstakingly tracked down and gifted him earlier that day. The way his eyes lit up when he unwrapped it had been magical in its own way, but now, hours later, the book had fully consumed him. He hadn’t even noticed your grand entrance.

You cleared your throat. “Gale.”

“Mm?” he hummed absently, his finger tracing a line of text. “Fascinating… Did you know the original binding techniques of this era often involved enchanted thread? Remarkable craftsmanship.”

You took a step closer, deliberately letting the bows on the ribbons sway as you leaned against the desk. “That’s wonderful, Gale, but I have… another gift for you.”

“Another gift?” His head tilted slightly, but his eyes remained glued to the page. “You’ve already outdone yourself, my love. Truly, this is the best Christmas in years.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“This one is… special,” you said, your voice laced with suggestion.

“Special, you say?” he murmured, finally glancing up for a fleeting moment. His gaze brushed over you but didn’t linger, his focus drawn back to the book. “I can’t imagine what could top this, but I’m intrigued.”

You were starting to lose patience. With a sigh, you circled behind him and rested your hands on his shoulders, leaning close.

“Gale,” you said, your voice low and insistent. “Look. At. Me.”

“In just a moment,” he replied, oblivious. “I’m at a crucial section on the incantations of—"

Enough was enough. You stepped in front of him, bent slightly, and cupped his jaw with both hands, tilting his face upward.

“Gale Dekarios,” you said firmly. “Look at me.”

And then it happened. His eyes finally focused on you, and the book slipped from his hands, landing on the floor with a dull thud. His expression was priceless—a mixture of shock, wonder, and sheer disbelief as he took in the sight of you, wrapped in ribbons and glowing with a mischievous smile.

“You’re… you’re…” Gale stammered, his voice catching as he gestured helplessly at you. “You’re wearing ribbons?”

“Only ribbons,” you clarified with a playful tilt of your head.

His cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and he reached up to gently touch one of the bows on your shoulder. “This… this is… I mean, you…”

“You’re welcome,” you teased, stepping closer until his hands instinctively came to rest on your bare waist.

Gale exhaled a shaky laugh, his amazement giving way to warmth. “You are the most enchanting, most extraordinary gift I could ever hope for.”

“Better than the book?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Far better than the book,” he said, his voice soft as his hands slid around to pull you into his lap. “Though I may need to thank you for both… at length.”

You grinned, leaning in to kiss him, and for once, the ancient tome lay forgotten as Gale’s full attention was exactly where it belonged—on you.

Astarion:

The room was filled with a cloud of warm steam, the scent of pine, cloves, and orange peels lingering in the air from the simmering pot of mulled wine you’d prepared earlier. Astarion reclined in the large copper bathtub, the water rippling as he shifted dramatically, his arms flung over the sides as though recovering from some great ordeal. His wet silver curls clung to his forehead, and his crimson eyes fixed on you with an exaggerated pout.

“I can’t believe you,” he drawled, his voice a mixture of mockery and genuine indignation. “How could you do this to me, your own lover? It was ruthless. Merciless. Positively inhumane.”

You stifled a giggle, your hand dipping into the water to scoop some of it and gently pour it over his hair.

“I didn’t realize you were so delicate, Astarion,” you teased, fingers working a lather of soap into his damp locks. “It was just a snowball fight.”

“‘Just a snowball fight’?” He turned his head slightly, though the luxurious massage you were giving his scalp quickly dissuaded him from moving too much. “You ambushed me. I didn’t even see that last one coming! And you—I saw you laughing! Laughing at my suffering!”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again as you recalled the memory. The way he’d flailed when your expertly thrown snowball had hit him square in the chest was nothing short of theatrical.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” you lied, poorly, as another giggle escaped. “It was just… you looked so surprised.”

“Oh, is that all?” he huffed, his eyes closing as your fingers continued to knead into his scalp, the tension in his posture melting away despite his indignation. “I suppose it’s funny when the vampire freezes to death.”

“You’re not freezing to death,” you pointed out, rinsing the soap out of his hair with a gentle stream of water. “You’re in a hot bath now, aren’t you? Being pampered no less.”

“It’s the very least you could do after your assault,” he countered, though his tone was softening with each stroke of your fingers. He opened one eye to peer at you. “I’m still wet. And cold. And utterly traumatized.”

“Utterly traumatized,” you repeated with mock seriousness, leaning over to grab the goblet of blood you’d set on the edge of the tub for him. “Here. Maybe this will help with your recovery.”

He sat up slightly, taking the goblet with an exaggerated sigh.

“I suppose this will do… for now.” His fingers brushed yours as he accepted the drink, a hint of gratitude in his expression despite his theatrics. He sipped slowly, savouring the blood you had so kindly donated to him, before setting it aside. “Though I’m not entirely convinced you’re sorry.”

“I am sorry,” you said, though your grin betrayed you.

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look sorry.”

You leaned in, placing a soft kiss on his forehead, then his nose, and finally his lips. His indignation melted completely as he kissed you back, his hand reaching up to cradle your cheek. When you pulled away, he was smiling despite himself.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured, his voice now filled with warmth. “But I suppose I’ll forgive you… this time.”

“Good,” you said, your fingers returning to his hair. “Because I’m not apologizing if we have a rematch tomorrow.”

He laughed, the sound rich and light, as he reclined back into the tub.

“We’ll see who’s laughing then, darling.” But the way his eyes gleamed with affection told you he didn’t mind losing—not if it meant moments like this.

Wyll:

The living room was an absolute disaster, a whirlwind of crumpled wrapping paper, tangled ribbon, and half-used rolls scattered across the floor. You and Wyll sat cross-legged on the rug amidst the chaos, determined to make progress on wrapping presents for the orphans at Halsin's shelter. The intention had been pure; the execution, however, was rapidly devolving into a comedy of errors.

"I don’t understand," Wyll said, brow furrowed as he wrestled with a piece of overly creased paper. "This shouldn’t be that hard! Fold, tape, fold again. How do people do this?"

You tried not to laugh as you watched him; Wyll’s hands were far too big for the small wooden box he was trying to wrap. His brow furrowed deeply as he pulled a strip of ribbon from the ball, only to somehow manage to tie it to his fingers—and then, with shocking precision, his whole palm became firmly affixed to the paper.

“Uh…help?” Wyll said, sheepishly holding up his hand, now cocooned in wrapping paper and ribbon. He wiggled his fingers, unable to escape his accidental gift-trap. “This was not part of the plan.”

You covered your mouth, your shoulders shaking with laughter. “How did you even—? Wyll, are you trying to wrap yourself?”

“Apparently,” he sighed with a dramatic groan, though the smile on his face told you he wasn’t really upset. “The Blade of Frontiers: slayer of fiends, champion of justice…bested by ribbons and paper.”

“Hang on,” you said, crawling over to help free him. “I’ll rescue you, O mighty hero.”

Before you could finish untangling him, however, you got distracted. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted one of the toy wooden trains meant for the children—a quaint little thing, painted red and green, its wheels polished and ready to roll. Without thinking, you picked it up, running it back and forth on the floor with a soft click-clack sound.

Wyll raised a brow, his hand still half-wrapped like a bizarre festive mitten. “Are you seriously playing with the orphans’ toys right now?”

“I’m testing it for quality,” you replied innocently, rolling the train along an invisible track. “We want them to be happy, don’t we?”

He snorted, watching you for a moment before shaking his head and finally freeing his hand from the ribboned trap. “Maker’s breath, you’re worse than me. Come on—we’re supposed to be getting back on track.”

You sighed and set the train aside, giving him a sheepish grin. “You’re right, back to work.”

However, as you grabbed another roll of ribbon, inspiration struck. Wyll was still sitting there with his horns through his hair, utterly unaware of the devious sparkle in your eyes. Quiet as a whisper, you scooted closer, ribbons in hand.

“What are you doing?” Wyll asked, narrowing his eyes as you leaned toward him.

“Nothing,” you said sweetly, fighting back laughter as you began tying a festive red ribbon onto one of his horns. Wyll froze, a mix of amusement and bewilderment crossing his face.

“Wait. Are you decorating me?” His voice was incredulous, though he didn’t move to stop you.

“Yes,” you replied matter-of-factly, adjusting the bow so it sat perfectly. “Hold still—you’ll ruin my work.”

He huffed dramatically, though his grin betrayed him. “This is absurd. I’m not a…a tree.”

“No, you’re better than a tree,” you said with a wink, tying another bow to the opposite horn. “You’re the most festive champion Faerûn has ever seen.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but when you leaned back to admire your handiwork—bright ribbons trailing from his horns—he started laughing. The deep, rich sound filled the room, infectious and warm.

“If anyone walks in and sees me like this…,” Wyll said, his cheeks flushed as he pulled a loose piece of ribbon from his lap.

“They’ll know you’re the life of the party,” you teased, sitting back with a smug grin. “Besides, it suits you.”

Wyll’s eyes softened as he looked at you, his smile lingering. “You’re lucky I adore you.”

“By the gods I am,” you said with a cheeky wink, grabbing another ribbon and waving it like a threat. “Now hold still—I’m thinking of adding some bells next. Ooh! And a star!”

Wyll groaned dramatically, but he couldn’t stop smiling as you playfully reached for him again. For all the mess and chaos, the two of you sat there surrounded by wrapping paper and laughter, the firelight flickering warmly across the room. It was imperfect, clumsy, and entirely yours—exactly how a holiday together should be.

Halsin:

The grove was finally still, the soft hush of evening settling over the festivities. After hours of chaos—distributing presents to bright-eyed orphans, sharing stories by the fire, and ensuring everyone was warm, fed, and smiling—you and Halsin found a moment to simply be. The two of you had retreated to the great oaken hall, where a large pine tree still stood, its branches weighed down with simple ornaments and twinkling lights. The room smelled of pine resin and the faint embers of a dying hearth fire.

With a contented sigh, you collapsed onto a bench, leaning heavily into Halsin, your body still buzzing from the day’s busyness. He chuckled, the deep rumble vibrating through his chest as he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“You did well today,” Halsin murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “The children’s laughter… their joy. It was worth every moment of chaos.”

You hummed in agreement, eyes fluttering closed. “It was a perfect Christmas, but exhausting.”

“Indeed,” Halsin said, a teasing edge to his voice. “Though you seem to have missed one thing.”

You cracked open one eye, looking up at him suspiciously. “What? No way. We double-checked the list. Twice.”

Halsin’s lips twitched into a small smile as he nodded toward the tree. “Look again, my heart.”

With a groan, you hauled yourself upright and stumbled over to the tree. Sure enough, tucked just beneath its branches was a small box wrapped in green paper and tied with twine. You blinked, suddenly alert, and picked it up. A gift tag dangled from the twine, with your name scrawled across it in Halsin’s neat, unmistakable handwriting.

You turned around, holding the box aloft and fixing him with an accusing glare. “Halsin. We already exchanged our gifts this morning.”

The archdruid smiled serenely, utterly unrepentant. “I may have planned ahead.”

With a mix of curiosity and suspicion, you sat back down next to him, carefully untying the twine and peeling back the paper. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft moss, was a delicate silver necklace. The pendant was small but exquisitely crafted: a single snowdrop flower, petals inlaid with white enamel, and a tiny glimmering gemstone at its center.

You froze, your fingers trembling as you held it up, the light catching on its intricate details. A lump formed in your throat. Snowdrops—symbols of hope, of rebirth, of beauty in the harshest winters.

“Halsin…” you breathed, barely able to get the words out.

He watched you with infinite warmth, his large hand coming to rest gently on your knee. “It is a small thing, but meaningful. When I saw it, I thought of you: a rare light in the coldest times. It seemed fitting.”

Your chest tightened, emotion swelling as you turned the pendant over in your hand. You knew Halsin well enough to understand the significance of this. He was no fan of crowded cities—the noise, the smells, the clamor of it all. For him to have gone into the heart of one, just to find this for you, made the gift all the more precious.

“You went into the city for this?” you asked, your voice soft, incredulous.

Halsin gave you a sheepish smile, as if the idea of it were no great feat. “I did. I cannot deny it tested my patience, but you are worth that and more.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you quickly wiped at them with your sleeve.

“You big softie,” you choked out, trying to tease him but failing miserably as your voice wavered. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupted gently, reaching to take the necklace from your hand. “Here. Allow me.”

You turned your back to him, sweeping your hair aside as his warm, calloused fingers brushed against your skin. He clasped the necklace around your neck, the cool metal settling just above your collarbone. When you turned back to him, his eyes softened as they took you in, the snowdrop resting perfectly against your chest.

“It suits you,” he said softly, his voice low and reverent.

You managed a watery smile, blinking against the tears threatening to spill. “I don’t know how you keep topping yourself, but this… it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Halsin chuckled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You flatter me, my heart. But perfection is fleeting. This moment, however…” He reached up, his thumb brushing a tear away from your cheek. “…this moment I will treasure.”

You couldn’t help but laugh through the tears, leaning forward to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Halsin pulled you against him, his embrace strong and grounding, his chin resting atop your head as you breathed him in—the smell of pine, earth, and warmth.

“I should scold you for making me cry,” you murmured into his shoulder.

“And yet you haven’t,” Halsin teased softly.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your lips curling into a smirk. “Because you’re lucky I love you.”

He grinned, his eyes bright and filled with love as he leaned forward to kiss you—a kiss slow and lingering, full of warmth and tenderness. Outside, the wind howled and snow fell steadily, but in this moment, everything was still and perfect.

Credit to @tsunami-of-tears for the super cute dividers !

The gentlemen as promised! Hope you guys enjoyed this, will hopefully get back to requests now I just really wanted to make sure I got something christmassy out before the holiday is over. - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

216 notes · View notes

polarisjisung · 1 month ago

Text

LOVE ON THE COURT | 40 MY LOVE ALL MINE

SYNOPSIS | every college student has their struggles, but raising her younger brother has Y/N top of the list, struggling her way through college whilst balancing her academics and basketball captaincy is difficult no doubt and with Jaemin, her ex best friend and captain of the guys basketball team, and his growing one sided hatred towards her, it doesn't seem to be getting any easier

WARNINGS | swearing, jealousy

Jaemin would be lying if he said he wasn't excited. Well at least he was.

The sound of Y/n's voice, usually music to his ears was no worse than nails against a chalk board today, and he couldn't help but hope she'd stop talking. Quite frankly, he couldn't stand it.

She had been talking about Jay all day.

Even now, as she explained how she'd ended up somehow managing to burn a pot of pasta and had to call Jay to help her save it, he fought the urge to stuff his fingers inside his ears and stop listening.

Despite his usual patience, Jaemin felt himself growing more frustrated.

The tickling feeling in his stomach had quickly been replaced by a deep churning, bubbling inside of him, simmering, ready to boil over.

Small details he otherwise couldn't have cared less about, the heart next to Jay's contact name, the sweet texts he'd accidentally caught sight of, the fact that Jay and Y/n had so many pictures together that it was hard to find anything else in her camera roll. Jaemin pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. It irked him.

Her eyes lit up with every mention of his name, her smile seemed just a little brighter and her mood seemed to lift, like everything about Jay made her feel at ease, like he was perfect.

Jaemin wanted it to be him.

The giggles, the sparkle in her eyes, the pep in her step, God, he so badly wanted it to be for him.

For a moment, he almost forgot everything he had planned, things already not going the way he hoped. But still, he persevered. The day wasn't ruined, not yet. He could get over it. All he had to do was direct the conversation away from Jay.

Easier said than done when the man himself had magically appeared in front of him and Y/n inside the mall. Jaemin's fingers curled into a tight fist, teeth clenched together, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched Jay lean in closer to Y/n a little further ahead of him.

A knot twisted in Jaemin's stomach.

He could see the girl’s smile, her eyes sparkling so much brighter now that he was in front of her.

That oh so familiar feeling bubbled up inside of him, hot and consuming, as he fought the urge to stride over and interrupt their conversation. The warmth of the room was suffocating, and Jaemin could feel his face flush with a mix of frustration and helplessness.

His mind raced with thoughts, replaying moments where he could have said something, done something differently.

But the wave of insecurity was fleeting, and as he marched over, there was just one thing on his mind.

Jaemin was a man on a mission, and he'd be damned if he let it all go to waste over something so trivial.

He moved quickly, with an indescribable urgency, reaching out for Y/n's arm, not caring who was watching.

"Hey Y/n, let's go." he had a grip on her wrist stronger than any other, not even wasting his breath to acknowledge Jay who stood opposite her as he dragged her away.

"But Jaemin I was talking to Jay." Y/n's retort fell on deaf ears, Jaemin's only focus being on making their way outside. Though he didn't fail to miss the way she apologetically waved goodbye. He rolled his eyes.

"Jaem, I was talking to him." She continued, softer, trying to pull her wrist from his grip, was he always this strong?

If he wasn't so focused, then perhaps Jaemin would've found the slight furrowing of her brows adorable, confused at his actions.

"Jaemin are you even hearing me?" she asked, growing restless in his grip as they finally reached the car park.

He sighed, letting his grip fall loose as he raked his fingers through his hair, huffing.

"I've been hearing you all day long."

Her heart dropped, his tone so much sharper than she'd been used to recently. His stare was piercing, his jaw set in a harsh line.

Y/n felt hot under his gaze. And her heart dropped when he exhaled, shortly and with the click of his tongue.

For a moment it was quiet, and their eyes locked. Jaemin's chest was rising and falling faster than ever before, the usual soft aura that surrounded him nowhere to be seen. His presence strong.

Y/n stood opposite him, perhaps just a few feet away, with her lips slightly parted as she stared at him in shock. So many emotions filled the air between them, each of them struggling to find the words to approach the situation.

"Do you like him?" Jaemin finally snapped, sick of the silence consuming them.

"Huh?"

Jaemin scoffs.

If she wasn't before, Y/n found herself absolutely taken aback now. Jaemin had never acted like this before. It was weird, how he was being so... brash

"Do you like Jay?" he asked again, this time giving her no oppurtunity to respond,, "Because it's driving me insane. The way you speak about him like he's the only thing that matters, the way you look at him like he's the only one in the room. It feels like a punch to the gut."

Confused, Y/n parts her lips to speak, a sinking feeling in her chest at the slight crack in Jaemin's voice.

"What's wrong Jaem, what do you mean?"

She inched forward, taking his shaky hands into her own. Jaemin didn't protest, melting into her touch. But the fire in his eyes is far from extinguished.

"I mean, seeing you with him makes me go batshit crazy. When he looks at you with hearts projecting out of his eyes, I wonder if you like him the way I like you." Jaemin's cheeks burned, the words echoing in his ears, unravelling and honest. He hadn't expected it to play out this way. "I like you so much it hurts. And everything I've ever done, ever felt, it feels like it falls down the drain the second you smile at him. I'm jealous, "

He says, not lacking confidence for even a second, punctuating his words with harsh ragged breaths.

"I'm so jealous. Because I wish it was me you laughed at that way or me you called when you burn the new pasta recipes you try out. I wish it was me, I wish it was us who filled every corner of your camera roll. Forget like Y/n, I love you, and you never seem to see it."

When he's finished, Jaemin takes a moment to catch his breath but his eyes don't leave hers once— like he's studying every detail of her face, committing it to memory.

"Jaem.." she trails off, and Jaemin desperately holds onto his hope, praying that just this once, things would work out. His eyes bore into hers, searching, though hes not sure what for.

Her eyes had always held the world, always so open and honest yet right now, all Jaemin saw was the glow of his reflection staring back at him.

"I didn't know you felt that way," she pauses, as if to find the right words to say, but Y/n doesn't think she can, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

When Jaemin looks up, averting his gaze, she can only reach up, caressing his head with the utmost tenderness and care before guiding it back down. Her touch is feather light, almost like he's delicate, a vase ready to shatter and break with one wrong move.

Even now, as their eyes lock, faces barely even centimeters apart, Jaemin feels it, the rush of electricity that sparks through him. Like he's on fire.

His voice came out in a whisper, and suddenly that raw, gentle, caring side of Jaemin was stood in front of Y/n again, his presence warming.

"I was scared" A shaky breath fell from his lips, "I thought we would crumble, that we wouldn't be able to handle it. That we'd end up like before" he sighed, feeling so incredibly stupid as he heard his own words. "I thought we'd be over, for good."

A mix of vulnerability and fear shines in Jaemin's eyes, his heartbeat echoing.

He feels like he's on a tightrope, teetering, ready to fall and break with the slightest movement. But God, he's holding on for dear life.

"I didn't think y-" Jaemin cuts Y/n off, the tension palpable. He needs to know her answer. He needs to know now.

"That's the thing, Y/n, you don't think. I'm standing here pouring my heart out, and you're just... suprised? I need you to see me, peach. To really see me."

Her heartbeat raced, and for the first time ever, Y/n truly, genuinely and really found herself conscious of the way her cheeks flushed at the sight of the man in front of her.

His hair tousled in the wind, the tips of his ears turning pink— that was his favourite colour, hers too— his eyebrows were strong and arched. She realised everything she loved was held between those features, his compassion, his care, him.

That was it.

Despite all the people she'd loved in her weird and wonderful ways, it finally made complete sense. Why she never realised.

It was so hard to put Jaemin into words, because she loved him in a way she had never loved someone else.

Because Y/n didn't look at Jaemin and see just a boyfriend, a partner, or a lover—Y/n looked at Jaemin and saw forever.

Her forever only.

"I love you." She speaks with full surety and a big smile, tears welling in her eyes.

"Say it again." Jaemin holds his breath, needing to hear her once more before he lets himself go, to become truly vulnerable in front of the one person who meant everything to him. Forever.

"I love you, Jaem."

prev | masterlist | next

NOTES | I hate writing confessions I've come to realise, but its here guys, jaemyn is official ‼️ i also don't fw writing do u wanna be my gf/bf bs so you're gonna have to imagine that i just CANNOT do it without gagging, total me problem but it is what it is , maybe I'll grow up and write it into a bonus chapter or something 🤷‍♀️

TAGLIST: @jenobubbles @justalildumpling @nanawrlds @222brainrot @sungookie @pepperedthot @dinonuguaegi @haechansbbg @90s-belladonna @bath1lda @jeongintwt @daegalfangirl @ahnneyong @jammingjaem @paper-boats-rose @iraa567 @errrrrat @kyusqult @suzayaaa @jising-jisang-jisung @soonyoonswoo @nctrawberries @wonbin-truther @sunghoonsgfreal @lotties-readings @onlyhyunjin @swee7dream @natokkiz @beomgyusonlywife @nanaxwi @nosungluv @tommina @sinisxtea @20sdiary @otblous @p-d1ddy @lostinneocity @soobs-things @odxrilove @buns-inhiding @busy-daydreaming02 @starfilledgaze @papichulomacy @grassbutneo @iwilleatyourgod @jeeluv @mystverse @meowtella

#nct jaemin smau #jaemin smau #nct smau #nct dream smau #nct social au #nct social media au #nct dream social au #nct dream social media au #jaemin social au #jaemin social media au #jaemin #jaemin fluff #love on the court 🏀

168 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

Text

The House Guest 10

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: an old acquaintance calls in a favour, leaving you with an unexpected house guest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You stare through the window as hammering echoes through the glass. Despite the muffling of the barrier between you, it’s loud enough to put you on edge. Or maybe that’s because of the man calmly bringing the iron down on the nails.

As if he can sense you, he looks up, his dark hair flopping back. You quickly spin away. You have to be going stir crazy. Bucky was just concerned. A lot of people come up this way and get freaked out by the wilderness. You used to when you visited as a child.

You go back to the kitchen and take out the ingredients for your grandma’s classic turkey stew. It’s always a comfort as the temperature starts to drop. Still, it’s never as good as she made it. One day, you might figure out the secret.

Cooking is a good distraction. There isn’t much to do up here. Often, you enjoy that facet of your existence. You work then disconnect and just do your own thing. Now you can’t help but feel the desolation.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. The hammering continues. You put the turkey into roast. It’s always better to season and cook it first then shred it up for the stew. You set the broth to simmer with the chunked veggies and pace the kitchen as you wait for it all to come together.

You use a fork to pick the meat of the turkey legs and dump it all in the boiling pot. Another hour to meld together and it’ll be ready to serve. The longer you let it, the better. It’s always best the day after.

The silence doesn’t hit you until you hear the back door. The smell of pine follows Bucky inside. You put your attention to the pot and stir it.

He sniffs and sighs loudly as he enters. “Ah, smells delicious. Chicken?”

“Turkey,” you correct him as he twists on the faucet and squirts soap into his hands. He lathers up and looks at you. “It’s funny. Back in my day, not to sound like a crotchety old geezer, women cooked. They had recipe cards on the counter. These days, half the girls I talk to can only use some app to order pizza that tastes like ketchup on cardboard.”

“Oh, yeah? I kinda miss fast food,” you say dully.

“Huh. ‘Cause I miss the home cooking. It’s just... simpler.” He shuts off the tap and shifts closer, drying his hand on the dishcloth as he looms. “If it hadn’t all gone to shit, I probably woulda found a good woman. Settled down, lived the good life.”

“Right,” you nod awkwardly and set the spoon down.

He clicks his tongue and turns, putting his hand on the counter as he leans on one foot. His other hand goes to his hip. “But then I wouldn’t be here.”

“Fair,” you say, distancing yourself as you step around him to get to the fridge. “I got some cider left over? Want some? It’s mulled. Julian down by the Rocks makes it--”

“Think I’m good,” he says.

You put the large glass jug on the counter and open the cupboard. Bucky catches it and shoves it closed with a snap. You face him in surprise. He’s strong. You know that but feeling it is something else.

“Sorry, I... I’m in your way?” You wonder.

“No, you’re right where you should be,” he says.

You try not to lean away from him. Your heart is racing. You swallow and peer over at the dimming window.

“I could help you cover up the lumber before--”

“Already did that,” he interjects. “You know, I think I’m where I need to be too,” he edges closer. “Think after everything, I did find that good woman.”

You blink, speechless. You can barely think above the tempo behind your ears.

“I hear it.” He puts his fist to his chest and knocks on it. “I know you feel it too.” He stills his hand and holds it over his heart. “I was pissed when Sam brought me up here. Dropped me off like some stray dog. The longer I’m here, the more I realise he did me a favour. He didn’t dump me on you...” you wince as he pulls his hand away from his chest and opens it to cradle your face, “he gave me you.”

“Bucky,” you latch onto his wrist but can’t move it. “I think we need some space. Don’t you?”

“No,” he says flatly.

“You spend too much time in the same proximity, and it starts to get weird--”

“No,” he repeats. “I’m right. It’s perfect. You’re strong, you cook, you’re handy, not afraid to get a little dirty,” he slides his hand down to cup your chin. You flinch but can’t pull away. “And you got a nice ass.”

“Bucky,” you breath and gently shove his chest. “I’m saying to you that you’re wrong. I’m flattered and all but no.” You push harder as he squeezes tighter. You whimper, “ow, let me go. I’m calling Sam-”

“Shh,” his other hand swoops up to back of your skull. He lurches you closer, bringing you to your nose as he snarls down at you. “You’re not calling anyone.”

“Bucky--”

“It’s the way you say my name,” he growls.

“Please, you’re hurting me--”

He hushes you again as his thumb rubs behind your jaw. He turns you so your penned in against the counter. You splay your fingers across his chest, dragging them down to his stomach as you push on him. He stands unmoving.

“Let go--”

“You. Let go,” he insists calmly. “You built this wall around you. Let it down,” he drops his hand from your head and lets it trail down your back, “let me in.”

“No, I’m telling you.” You squirm against him. “Stop this, right now.”

“I know you want me. I found that toy. The little flower, hm?” He tickles along your side, your jaw aching in his grip. “You wanna feel the real thing? Huh?”

“Please,” you clasp the fabric of his shirt in your fingers.

“Doll, I want you think about this,” he buries his thumb behind your jaw until you whine. “You’re up here all by yourself. Lonely days, lonelier nights. Anyone could catch on. They could figure out just as fast as I did.” He leans in until you’re nearly bent backwards. “You need a man because any old beast could snatch you up.”

Your eyes glisten and you search his face. He doesn’t look human. He’s animalistic. His eyes are dark and dilated and his jaw is set with slathering hunger. Your lip trembles.

"Wouldn't you rather have the beast on your side, doll? Instead of tearing it down?” He purrs and shifts his hand around your chin, bringing his thumb up to poke at your lower lip. “I can be good for you, all you gotta do, is the same.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #winter soldier #captain america #drabble #the house guest #falcon and the winter soldier #avengers #mcu #marvel

206 notes · View notes

d3add0vedonoteat · 1 year ago

Text

Chicken Soup for Carmy

⚠️ Content Warning ⚠️ harsh language, sexism and violence in one scene (not from Carmy). Hurt/comfort, fluff.

A/N: I’m literally feral for this man. I’m sick atm and I started thinking about taking care of Carmy while I was making chicken soup. Bonus combo with Carmy protecting you from an asshole customer. Not proofread bc my brain is rotting. Plz be nice this is my first time posting a fic 🥺

It was cold. You braced yourself against the harsh Chicago wind as you made your way briskly down the street. After a late night phone call from your brother sent you into a spiral, you couldn’t sleep. You’d been tossing and turning all night until finally, at 4am, you flung off the covers and got dressed. It wasn’t a surprise that you’d come here. This place consumed all your mind and your heart since you started working here a few months ago. You used your key to unlock the door in the alley, sighing with relief as the warmth of The Beef welcomed you inside. It was quiet, the lights were down, it was peaceful. You slipped off your sneakers trading in your kitchen clogs and tucked your things safely away in your locker. You tied your handkerchief on your head as you moved. It was so comforting, the routine of The Beef’s prep work. You felt so at home, moving from the prep area to the walk in, diligently beginning the tasks that didn’t need to be started for a few more hours. He would understand. You thought to yourself as you began to prepare fresh stock for the day. He was a man after your own heart, your boss, Carmen Berzatto.

Avoidant, chaotically emotional, one wrong thing away from a complete meltdown, that you both disguised as workaholic tendencies. As you finely chopped onions, your mind quieted. Everything was shut out except for the task at hand. Your brother’s angry voice on the phone accusing you: “you never come home! You don’t even care about us! You can’t take come take care of your own mother?!” was drowned out by the rhythmic pound of your knife on the cutting board. You were in the zone.

Until a voice startled you out of your bubble. “Chef?” You jolted, looking up at the man before you. Carmy’s hair was messier than usual, the bags under his eyes were deeper and more purple. His lips were parted with each soft breath he took. He gave you a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?”

“I uh-” your mouth felt dry and you tripped over your words, as usual when he set those intense blue eyes on you. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Carmy nodded, not pushing you any further. All he said before moving toward the office was a simple: “Heard, Chef.”

You watched him go, noticing the slump of his shoulders and the labor of his normally spry step. There was no mistaking it, Carmen was sick. You stared at the office door for a long moment before you made up your mind.

You set a heavy bottomed pot on the stove with some olive oil. Your hands moved with well practiced efficiency as you chopped garlic and onions, celery and carrots. The garlic and onions went in first. Then the celery. A sprig of thyme and a dash of white wine. While that simmered you quickly seared some chicken breast and chopped it into perfectly bite sized pieces. All into the pot with chicken stock and water, tightly covered to develop the flavors. Next came the pasta. You cracked eggs into the well of flour, mixing and kneading until it became a smooth golden dough. You carefully, tenderly rolled the dough and cut it into thick, short noodles. A bath in hot water to cook, then they too joined the pot. In no time at all, you were ladling a generous portion into a bowl. You set a toasted piece of chibatta on the side, grabbed a spoon, and took a deep breath in an attempt to settle your nerves. Softly, you knocked on the office door.

“Yeah?” His voice responded.

“Chef?” You entered, nervous. Words failing you as they so often did in his presence, you set the bowl before him. Carmy’s eyes widened. The aroma made his mouth water. He looked to you, gaze softening. “You made me chicken soup?”

Your cheeks grew warm. “Y-yeah, I mean chicken soup always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”

Carmy couldn’t believe you. You noticed? He smiled at you. You were so beautiful. You were always so confident and sure on the line, delegating with efficiency, respect, and authority. He had hired you the second you stepped into The Beef. Your resume was impressive but there was something in the way you carried yourself that truly earned the golden reputation you had in the culinary industry. But you were different with him, in the occasional moments like this where it was just you and him. Shy, almost bashful, gentle, and soft. He loved it. He wanted more of it. He lifted the spoon, bringing a bite to his lips.

“Gotta get a little of everything.” You muttered, eagerly awaiting his response.

Carmy shot you a sideways smile. It was good. No, it was better than good. The warm broth slid down his throat and each bite exploded with a depth of flavor he couldn’t believe. It was pure comfort. It reminded him of being a little kid staying home sick from school. Curled up on the couch while Jerry Springer played, eating crackers and ginger ale until his mom would bring a bowl of chicken noodle soup. But this soup, your soup, was more than that. People always talk about cooking with love but he swore he could taste it. Each ingredient had been so carefully handled. Perfectly chopped vegetables, moist and flavorful chicken. The warm feeling in his chest grew as he inspected the bowl.

“Did uh, did you make this pasta fresh?” He asked, eyeing you.

“Yeah, it’s better that way.” You blushed.

“Thank you, chef.” He said. “It’s really, really good.” Carmy looked down, suddenly feeling heavy. The fear of closeness set into him and all he could think about was how he’d fuck this up. “You-you didn’t have to make this for me.”

“Oh, it’s okay!” You insisted. “It was no big deal.” You began to leave, giving him one last truthful smile. “I like taking care of you.”

“I like taking care of you.” Your words rattled through Carmy’s mind all day. Throughout all of lunch, prep, and dinner he couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said. The soup you had made was the first thing he’d eaten in too long. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him and you’d just done it because you noticed he wasn’t feeling well. No motive, no games, just tender love and concern.

Love.

Carmy shook his head to try and shake the thought from his mind. No, no, no there was no way you actually cared about him. Not like that. You were just being nice.

That’s just who you are; nice. You were always so kind. The way you’d help Marcus workshop pastries, the way you’d make Tina laugh and listen to her talk about whatever trouble Louis had gotten in, how you’d encourage Sydney and remind her that she can do this. Even the way you’d throw snark right back at Richie or how’d you’d always set aside a portion of Family for Fak and Sugar, even Pete. You were always thinking of others. Carmy wasn’t special.

Yeah. Not special.

Carmy insisted the thought as he scrubbed the grill. Not special. Not special. Not special.

“Carmy?” There you were. You were always there. You had a thick denim jacket on, bag on your shoulder, knit beanie pulled down over your hair. Your brow furrowed at the sight of him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Carmy shook his head. “I’m fine… you uh- you heading out?”

You shrugged, hoisting your bag a little higher on your shoulder and eyeing him skeptically. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah, in a bit.”

You chuckled, more exasperated than humorous. “No.”

“What?” Carmy asked, confused.

“No, you’re leaving too.” You insisted. You were feeling bold. Months of long looks and his hand on your lower back every time he passed you had culminated tonight.

You had taken over the front for Richie while he ducked out to take a call from his daughter. You’d insisted. It was slammed for dinner but everything was going fairly smooth until an irate customer approached you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He’d asked, slamming his plate onto the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean are you retarded or something?” He continued. You were stunned into silence. You had never had anyone speak to you like that. “How hard is it to make a fucking sandwich? I know your tits are bigger than your brain but Jesus fucking Christ it’s not hard!”

“I-I…” you were shaking. “I’m sorry that you’re not satisfied, sir. If you like, we can-”

“Not satisfied?!” He screamed. “How can I be satisfied with this piece of shit!”

He hurled the sandwich at you. It hit you in the chest, toppings and sauce splattering everywhere. Before you even knew what was happening, a blur of messy curls shot past you. Carmy launched over the counter, tackling the man. His fist collided with the man’s face over and over while Richie and Fak rushed after him. There was a cacophony of yells as Richie pulled Carmy back. “Get your girl!” Richie yelled. “Cousin! Go get your girl!”

Fak and Richie dragged the man out and threw him into the street. Carmy’s hands grasped your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” He wiped the sauce splatters from your brow. “Look at me.”

Carmy burned with anger as he watched you shake. Your white shirt and blue apron were covered in the sandwich. He imagined what you would do for him if he was in your position. How you’d care for him, how you’d tend to him… so he tried to do what you would. Gently he guided you to your feet and wrapped his arm around your waist. He practically carried you to his office where he sat you on the couch and quickly went to grab a clean shirt from his own locker. You were in the same place he left you when he returned. Carmy knelt before you, taking your face in his hands once more.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Tears welled in your eyes and you collapsed into his arms. He smoothed his hand over you back, repeating “it’s okay” over and over again. He felt like he was on fire. The feeling of you clinging to him, nuzzling your face into his neck, the smell of you, how you fit in his arms… it was too much. He wanted to run away and never speak to you again. He wanted to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of his life. He wanted to scream. He wanted to feel your lips against his. He wanted to find the piece of shit that yelled at you and rip him to pieces. He wanted your chicken soup every time he was sick.

All those feelings were closing in on Carmy once again as he stared at you across the kitchen. You still had his t shirt on. You were looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, uh… what did you say?” Carmy’s voice was softer than he expected.

“I said I’ll walk home with you.”

“Oh, no that’s okay. Ive got to-“

“Carmy,” you stepped closer. Your voice was firm but so tender. “You need to get some rest. Come on, I won’t take no for an answer.”

He couldn’t help but smile back at you. “Alright…” he conceded.

The two of you braced yourselves against the cold and hurried down the sidewalk side by side. You argued about who would walk who home. Carmy insisted on walking you to your apartment but you protested on the grounds that he’d just go back to the restaurant once he dropped you off.

“Fine,” you gave in. “But you have to call me when you get to your place so I know you made it home!”

Carmy looked at the ground, smiling. The warmth in his chest from your soup was steadily turning into a molten pool of lava.

“Heard.” He grinned. You wanted to know he’d made it home. You wanted to make sure he rested. I like taking care of you.

“Well, I’m just up here.” Your voice stopped his thoughts from spiraling before it could even start. Carmy’s brow furrowed. “What?” You asked, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

“You live over there?”

“Yeah? Like a block down?”

There was a beat of silence before Carmy let out a breathy laugh. “I live right there.” He pointed to the building on the other side of the street.

“No shit!” You laughed in earnest. Your hand came to rest on his arm. “Guess I’m gonna be walking you home more often.”

Carmy’s entire body was on fire. He could imagine the tingle of your soft hand on his skin through all the layers of clothing. He wanted to hold you close again like in his office, but this time you wouldn’t be crying. A deep pit opened in his stomach. How long before he made you cry? How long before he fucked it all up? Until you hated him and quit the restaurant and everything fell apart because he-

“Hey,” your voice. Always your voice that brought him back. When he looked over at you it was like everything but your face faded into a blurry background. You were all Carmy could see. “Do you want to come to mine? I haven’t eaten and I KNOW you haven’t either.”

Carmy’s heart fluttered. “O-okay.” He started, his confidence rising when he noticed your hand was still in his arm. “Only if you let me cook you something.”

“Ooh,” you smiled. “I’d never turn that down!”

Carmy chuckled, feeling lighter for the first time in years as he walked so close beside you that your shoulders brushed. “It won’t be as good as your chicken soup.”

#the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmy x you #carmy x fem!reader #hurt/comfort #sickfic #carmen berzatto fluff

903 notes · View notes

fanaticsnail · 5 months ago

Note

hi sis can you write me a sanji fic pleaseeeeeee

One hurt/comfort Sanji fic here for you, Smol-Snail.

Limits

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 2,500+

Synopsis: Baratie has been overbooked, and the tension in the kitchen has been overwhelming. Being a hard-working kitchen hand, you have been covering far too many shifts. Sensing the overwhelm, your coworker attempts to aid you through your emotions.

Themes: Sanji x gn!reader, hurt/comfort, kitchen slang, eating food, minor swearing, fluff, angst, domesticity, hidden feelings, almost kisses, playful banter, nicknames.

Notes: Spoiling my sister usually includes Mihawk or Garp, but I am absolutely loving the change. Thanks for the ask, sis! Hope you like it. Also, gosh it's good to be back in Baratie again.

The crackle of water hitting a pan of hot oil popped and simmered, a string of curses and yells following the large rukkus. Voices overlapping, music blaring, orders expediting, and the clangs of silverware shuddering with ceramics in water continued to mute their tones in the air surrounding the lively kitchen of Baratie.

It had been a mean shift tonight. The restaurant was overbooked, over packed, and overwhelmed. Guests on the waiting list were made to wait longer than they had anticipated, adding to tempers flaring and temperaments turning foul on all sides. The front of house were begging with the back of house, the back of house pleading with the front of house. Chef Zeff had even jumped on the line, cooking alongside the lot of you to fight against the rush. The thump of his peg leg hitting the linoleum swelled within the serenade of the lively kitchen, the chorus finally rising without any indication of an interlude.

“Carne, 'hot behind', damn it!” Zeff growled angrily while standing to full stature. Carne was holding a tray of simmering desserts at chest height behind him while shifting from one surface to the other. “Communicate, kitchen. Ya’ hear?”

“Oui chef!” The kitchen all repeated the phrase like a prayer on their tongues to their hierarchical clergyman.

“Ca Marche-!”

“Sharps-!”

“Plate up-!”

“Push-!”

“To the pass-!”

“Through-!”

Sanji stalked through the rows up until the pass, pacing two and fro while jumping in to aid all those that needed support. Garnishing mains, whipping cream for desserts, assorting steel bowls of oils and accompaniments to coincide with breads and greens: Sanji did it all. Each time he stepped in to aid in the dance of the kitchen, his eyes fell to your frame to mentally check in.

Eyes down, shoulders hunched, rubber gloves thrust up to your elbows, you ensured the kitchen remained functional with the fluctuation of crockery, cutlery and dishes for truly impeccable service. The kitchen-hand, or 'Dish Pig', was the backbone to a functional restaurant, the mental wellbeing of the house truly on the shoulders of that individual.

How could a chef create masterpieces without a canvas? How could guests in the dining hall consume their delectable arrangements without the means to raise each bite to their lips? The kitchen-hand ensured all was possible, and the chefs barely paid you any heed while you slaved away to grant them relief in their supplies.

You attempted to hone in on your craft, using your fingernails beneath the rubber gloves to chip at caramelized and caked scorches on iron pots like a scourer. Breaths heavy and labored, you shifted everything from your focus asside from one thing and one thing only:

Keep the kitchen clean.

Bubbles and suds consumed your senses, your hair sticking to your forehead in heavy clumps of sweat and soap. Your nostrils flared with the burn of eucalyptus, lemon and menthol. Working a fortnight of splits and doubles to cover for your colleagues had finally taken its toll on you, and stressors in your personal life added to the tension in your bones. The loss on your own mentality began to slip into a panic as another wave of silverware made their way to your arm side.

The mention of, “‘Ere ye’ go, dish pig. Clean up,” barely phased you, regardless to the usual playful temperament you displayed. You didn't even crack the smile you usually had on your face, your permanent exhaustion falling in the emotionless and dead-stare you displayed down at the dish rack.

The kitchen has began to pack down. Each element was extinguished, and stock was taken alongside a final tally. The chefs had removed their aprons, cravats and hats and began making their way towards the bar for their knockoffs. Your own drink would have to wait, the pile never reducing no matter how hard you had worked.

For each plate you cleared and cleaned, four more would somehow find their way to your hands. Each pot would have a lid to match, each pan would have an array of spatula, tongs, and forks to pair with. The chefs used the tools of their artistry with reckless abandon, and it was now you who was paying the price for their carelessness.

“A'ight, beers? That what we're drinkin'?” Patty clapped his hands and rubbed them enthusiastically together. Carne barked out a long string of laughter, allowing himself to succumb to the relief that came from a grueling shift while he clapped his hand over Patty’s bicep.

“I'm keen on one of them steins we just got in,” he admitted, squeezing lightly before looking to Zeff, “Is that on the menu for knock offs, chef?”

“Only is if you save two for me, you prick,” Zeff stated affectionately, “Give us a pale or an amber, I'll be in my office takin’ a damn breath. What about you, little eggplant? What are you drinkin’ tonight?”

Sanji hadn't spoken a word since he hung up his apron. He had been keeping an eye on you throughout your shift, feeling the tension waft in your aura the longer you silently chipped away at your monotonous task.

“I'm gonna have a cigarette,” he nodded to the head chef without moving his eyes away from you. “Then I think I'll sample that new amaretto rum you got in.” Sanji moved to Zeff’s side, casually glancing back at you while lowering his tone to the head chef, “But first, I'm gonna stay here a while. Leave inventory to me, and I'll take care of it, old man.”

Zeff noticed the drop in Sanji’s usual cadence and finally took notice to the quiver in your shoulders. With a curt nod, Zeff turned to both Patty and Carne and spoke to them with a simple scowl that meant: ‘Get out of the kitchen, now’. The two chefs quickly looked between Zeff and Sanji, then to the source of the noise continuing to fall from the underappreciated corner of the kitchen. With a nod of their own, they silently excused themselves from the kitchen with Zeff trailing behind them.

Where Sanji would've placed an unlit cigarette between his teeth and stalked out behind them, he would never do that without you. Both of you were similar in ages, and the rapport and camaraderie had always been a highlight to his kitchen shifts. The two of you were more than coworkers, more than simple friends, and you both lived and breathed Baratie in your own ways. You both loved that place, thrived on the chaotic energy working the line, and adored spending time in the dark before the next shift would begin.

The only difference between you is Sanji had been working his usual shifts, and you had been overworked far beyond your natural capacity lately. You were running low on mental energy, and you were taking it out on the dishes you were cleaning.

Wiping, scrubbing, clawing, patting, drying, prying, stacking, and placing away in their delegated areas: you had not spoken a word for the whole shift. Nothing more than a soft, shaky breath expelling from an otherwise vacant expression, nobody would know if anything was occurring within the battle of your mind.

But Sanji did.

Unhooking his apron and rolling up the sleeves of his uniform jacket, he placed it over his neck and slowly moved over to work silently in an unoccupied station. Several containers of various raw ingredients were hastily removed from their spots. Pots, water, flours, sugars, utensils and plates were all set up by his skilled hands: making something of your youth that he knew would bring you comfort.

Rolling glutinous rice flour into small balls with regular flour and water, he stuffed them full of purple adzuki mix, hazelnut white chocolate, and yuzu-honey dew custard. Placing the small balls in a steamer, he set a mental timer to check on them after a few minutes. Not his usual method to make dango, but he wanted to experiment for you.

He knew better than to disturb you when you were like this, and he allowed you to work out whatever was brewing in your mind on the dishes you were cleaning. He looked to the bowls and dishes he had just made in crafting you something delectable and grimaced.

‘All of those dishes just to make a simple dessert,’ he mentally scolded himself, ‘And that's just one piece of the kitchen. You're taking care of everyone’s dishes here, not just the kitchen’s.’ He gently lifted the lid of the bamboo steamer to gauge the consistency of the circular treats, nodding to himself once he viewed the squishy exterior.

Plating up the dish by patting them dry and rolling them in rice flour, he softly approached you with the bowl of rainbow-colored treats.

You were in your own head, your thoughts swirling in a tight coil threatening to snap. This shift had been enough to break a seasoned kitchen hand, and you had endured it all with a silent professionalism. Just when you were about to begin the next wave of remaining dishes, you turned and met your eyes with a plate of rainbow and sunshine.

“Hands, chef. You need to eat something,” Sanji softly spoke, his usual smirk and cocky attitude fleeing his face. The replacement of his usual demeanor was something you hadn't experienced with him. His eyes were rounded, his lips softly pouring, his head was lowered and seeking out your gaze with his own, and his empathy was worn with each subtlety.

All in one fluid motion, your head hung low and your glove-covered hands shrouded your eyes from his gaze. At the same motion, Sanji placed the bowl down beside you and hastily drew you into an encumbering embrace. It had finally been too much for you, and this was the first breakdown you had ever had regarding a shift. Heavy sobs were muffled by your rubber-covered palms while Sanji cradled you in his arms.

“Hold onto me, love,” Sanji softly whispered into your ear. You immediately unburied your face within your palms and nuzzled into the blonde man’s neck, arms wrapping beneath his shoulders and clinging to him like a rope offered from a cliff’s edge. “There you go. Good job. Just hold on, okay?”

“S-Sanji?” you attempted to whimper out, only being met with a soft shush and a tighter hold on your form. He rose one arm up to remove your dark chef’s cap from your head and carded his hands over your scalp in a soft brush.

“You've been pushing too many doubles, and saying ‘yes’ a whole lot lately,” he gently soothed you, “And while I love this place as much as you and the old man, I know my limits.” He gently lifted his head to gaze down to where your head was nestled in his collar, “You just hit yours, didn't you?”

“First time since I started,” you whispered into his shirt, “I didn't think I had one ‘til now, Ji.” Your admission alongside his arms holding you firmly dried up your tears after the heavy release.

“Course you do. We all do,” his soft baritone gently coaxed you. You slowly raised your eyes to meet his. His smile was like sunshine after a storm, warmth following a heavy winter, hope where hopelessness was found mere minutes prior, and a sanctuary found after a season of war.

When he looked at you, you felt like the most important person in the world. Time stood still in that moment, eyes darting between one another's and gently focussing briefly on the other’s lips. The close proximity you found yourself in was not unfamiliar to you, but this emotion swelling was far greater than you had anticipated. Sanji made to lean towards you, halting mid-way and second guessing himself from giving you the kiss he truly wanted. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours in a gentle seal of friendship.

Noses flush with one another’s, you both closed your eyes and dwelled in the silence for a moment. Nothing else was heard: no yells in the kitchen, no music from the dining room, no yells from your coworkers, and no demands from the patrons in the hall. All that was heard was the small thump of your heartbeat in your ears, and your shared breaths gently soothing one another in unison.

“I made you dango,” Sanji uttered softly, making no move to part from you.

“Thank you, Ji,” you expressed your gratitude just as softly.

“And while you eat, I'll finish up on the dishes,” he scrunched his nose playfully, moving away from your head and slowly releasing you from his embrace, “Then we can go and have a knock off. I'll have one of the bar staff take your shift tomorrow- And before you interrupt-!”

Sanji knew you all too well, halting your interjection before you had an opportunity to speak it out with a harsh expression.

“-I know it's a 'double split'. That's a four person job, and I know exactly the four people to do it,” he finally withdrew his arms from your shoulders and soothed your upper arms with a firm caress. “Now, hand over those gloves. I made a right mess cooking you your sweets, and I'm going to see to it that it's spotless while you eat.”

You slowly removed your arms from his body, halting them briefly on his hips while you bowed your head in gratitude.

“Oui, chef,” you huffed out in a bid to add humor to the scenario. Releasing him from your grasp, you began to remove your rubber gloves and hang them over the steel railing beside the sink.

Sanji slid his hands from your shoulders, his right hand moving to gently tap your chin up with his index finger. Following his motions, you met your eyes with his once more, offering him a small smile after the exhaustion of emotional release.

“‘Oui Chef’?” he gently teased you, his eyes playfully narrowing in his jest, “Hush, you. Now go eat your dango and tell me what you like about it. We got sweet red bean, white chocolate hazelnut, and citrus-melon mouse in the centers.”

Your eyes bloomed with a wave of gratitude, Sanji’s understanding washing from his aura and consuming you within his single glance. The only thing to break your joint hypnosis with the scent of the sweetness atop the bench, you bobbed your head a final time to your coworker and dearest friend.

You moved to sit by the sink on a wooden stool, plonking down and resting your worn feet with the plate sat in your lap. Head slumping on the steel bench, you close your eyes and raise one of the squishy spheres to your lips.

Placing the entire blob into your mouth, the center burst on impact of the clamp of your teeth. The flavors erupted over your palate, your emotions once again being forced to the surface at his thoughtfulness. Each tartness was compensated by the sweetness it needed, the sours holding a balance of soft umami to prolong the dance over your tongue.

Watching from the corner of his eye while elbows deep in the sink, Sanji smiled at the encounter, truly pleased that he could offer you that sense of comfort after a grueling few weeks. Each bite you took of his mastery had his heart swell. Knowing he could do this for you, take a piece of that burden away from you and give you some joy to focus on: that was all he ever craved in return from you.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

#one piece #x reader #ask snail #snail answers #one piece live action #opla #opla fic #sanji #sanji x reader #black leg sanji #black leg sanji x reader #x gn!reader #one piece x reader #baratie fic

248 notes · View notes

deviantly-inspired · 1 year ago

Text

Ok so I've seen the idea of food 'made with love' being what Dream enjoys most but I really think we, as a collective fandom, need to lean in more to the idea of it, actually.

We KNOW from the comics that Dream eats food; that he was starving after his freedom. But even though he's hungry, even in the waking world, he won't eat because there's been nothing but bad intentions and malice directed to him for over a hundred years. He's wary. Like a spooked horsed.

But Hob Gadling has always been so unashamedly fond of Dream, that it's... tempting. to indulge.

(it's more than tempting. He's already starving: for dreams for nightmares for softness for sharpness. Hob is the only person Dream knows that he would take any of it from. If Hob were to offer him poison then Dream would take it gladly, if only to have something to fill the void within him. How miraculous it is, then, that Hob would only every offer succor)

So maybe Dream stares at some home-made food that's being eaten on some picnic while they're about. And Hob needles him just a bit, trying to get some information. What all goes into being Dream of the Endless? And Dream enjoys their wordplay and games so he dances around answering but his gaze keeps going back to that soft little picnic, not too far. Hob steers the conversation towards intent, and Dream admits that, yes, he can sense the intent things are made with, before directing the conversation to something a little safer then the art of consuming.

(Dream would take and take and take and take anything that Hob would give him. Even poison. And would thank him for the malaise of it. It is safer, then, to not let even the hint of hunger touch his waking form.)

But Hob didn't get to over 600 by being a slouch on his academics. He's smart. perceptive. He knows people, and Dream is certainly a 'people' even if he's not quite a person. So he makes something simple, that night. A stew maybe, and thinks of his mother's care and simple wishes whispered to the cast iron. love and kitchen magic. Spells for healthy children and a meal that will fill for longer than it should. Hob wonders, to this day, if maybe she was some sort of real witch and not just the magic that all good mothers are. But he can't ask her so he whispers wishes into his potatoes and encourages the bone to seep fully- he's going to be all bones like you if you don't fill him up- and thanks the meat for it's part and imagines it sticking to the inside of whatever Dream calls ribs to keep him going for a bit longer than he might have otherwise.

(there's all sorts of magic in the world. most of it regular folks will never get to touch. but there is a type of magic, the oldest kind, that's alive and well even in the most scientifically inclined people.)

Hob presents this stew casually. There's no fooling Dream though. It's simple appearance does nothing to hide all that was poured into it. The way the vegetables sing of harbors and the meat dreams of comfort. How the broth simmers with comfort and fullness and broken bread over centuries. love thickens the whole of it into something that will last. Something that will stick and keep him full long past when he should be hungry. To fill the most ravenous parts of him. He wants to consume. He cannot.

I shouldn't, Dream says.

It's yours, Hob replies. I made too much anyway. Wouldn't want this to go to waste.

The idea of it wasting, left to rot, a gift returned, is abhorrent. Dream never claimed to abide by the mortal concept of good. He eats the stew, and then the second bowl and then the third. And hob is only too happy to give him more and more and more, until the pot is empty and, still, Dream starves.

I shouldn't, Dream says with his eyes locked on Hob's lips.

I'm yours, Hob replies. I've always been yours. There's enough of me to pour into you, however much you want for however long you want.

I will want you endlessly, Dream warns with what little strength he has. There is nothing in me that does not hunger. I was born of Night most of all and this means that I know what it is to be a black hole, i know what it is to consume everything, even light, and still never be full.

Hob smiles and leans forward and pours himself into Dream's mouth, all of himself, all that he can spare and then more and more and more. He tastes like lightening and warm broth and bread broken under starry skies. It tastes like every daydream Hob has had for 600 years. It tastes like the knowledge that this will last, sticking to the inside of his ribs warming from within bolstering against that which would sap the meat from your bones. It tastes like something that will last.

(the oldest magic across every universe is love, of course. but you knew that already.

All stories return to their original form, after all.)

#dreamling #dev writes

881 notes · View notes

honeyedmiller · 1 year ago

Text

Something In the Orange | Joel Miller

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, post-outbreak!Joel, takes place in Jackson, tiny bit of angst if u squint, implied smut, Ellie and Joel are on good terms (cus I said so okay? okay d:), established relationship, age gap (unmentioned), pet names, no use of y/n. 18+, minors dni.

word count: 1.7k

synopsis: you and joel enjoy a peaceful autumn morning together.

just felt sappy and soft bc autumn is finally here (still waiting for the weather to cool down in socal though lol) but here's a little one shot full of comfort and fluff

When you were little, you never understood why your grandparents enjoyed sitting out on their front porch for hours on end.

Now that you’re older, wiser, and the apocalyptic world seemed to have consumed your soul, you got it.

There was something in the simplicity of just sitting and enjoying nature as it was. You hadn’t been granted that luxury of simplicity in twenty years.

Now, you sit on the front porch of your shared home in your lover’s flannel and a pair of sweats adorning your body, blanket wrapped over your shoulders, and a hot cup of coffee simmering in your hand.

It was peaceful. Autumn was here, and she greeted Jackson wholly with hues of oranges, reds and browns, golden sunlight rising just above the horizon at six forty-five in the morning.

You knew the sun’d wake Joel soon enough. You left him his favorite mug on the counter and the rest of the coffee in the old coffee pot Maria and Tommy graciously gifted you two when you moved into your new home.

You, Ellie and Joel were still adjusting to Jackson. Adjusting to the community, adjusting to not having to scavenge for food, adjusting to the thought of not having to watch your back every five seconds, and adjusting to the fact that you were safe. Joel was here, you were here, you had a home, a comfy and warm bed, and you had safety.

Something you never in your life thought you’d take for granted, until the first day of the outbreak. Safety wasn’t something you had in twenty years.

Of course, you felt safe with Joel. You knew he’d do anything in his power to make sure you and Ellie were alright.

You also knew adjusting to this new life in Jackson was hitting him the hardest. Ellie’d made a few friends by now, slowly getting into the groove of things around here. You’d spent a lot of time with Maria and the newest Miller baby, helping around the community in any way that you could. Joel went on patrol with Tommy and a few others frequently just to keep the community safe.

But, in the early morning hours, Joel’d be drenched in sweat and writhe unknowingly in his sleep until you woke him up from whatever terrible nightmare he’d been having, soothing him back to sleep as you brushed your fingers through his damp curls and he clung onto you for dear life.

The first couple of months were the roughest for him. If he wasn’t having those nightmares, he’d be tossing and turning, wide awake until the sun came up. He was bone-tired and grumpy all of the time.

Luckily, things seemed to get a bit better over time. You both didn’t jolt awake and the slightest little sound anymore. You both got to sleep in. No one had to stay on watch while the other slept. You could both also enjoy intimate moments in peace now, too.

There was no rushing. No need for a quickie (unless Joel was feeling friskier than usual around you when he’d downed a few glasses of whiskey and consensually had to have his way with you in the bathroom of the Tipsy Bison). You both could enjoy each other in all glory. It was all slow kisses and the taste of pine scented skin and the slow drag of fingertips over each other’s bodies and fulfilling each other’s despair for one another.

Slowing down and enjoying your newfound life in Jackson with Joel and Ellie had been everything you’ve wished for since you three left the Boston QZ. You’d all been through hell and back, and you finally had paradise to live in.

You looked out ahead of you, seeing the red and orange leaves swirl around in the light breeze. It was a colder morning, with fresh dewdrops on the grass and the smell of earth wafting around you.

You heard the front door of the house open, seeing Joel appear with slightly messy hair, body adorned in plaid pajama pants and a black sweater. He looked so handsome even in the dawn of the day. He held his favorite coffee mug in hand, padding over to where you sat. You scooted over for him, the soreness between the apex of your thighs making you wince a bit.

Joel’d made the sweetest love to you the previous night and into the early hours of the morning, whispering to you how beautiful you were and how lucky he was to have you.

Joel was never a man of many words and surely had a hard time saying his emotions, but for you, he had no problem showing you how much he really loved you.

“Mornin’, honey.” Joel murmured as he sat down next to you, slinging an arm over your shoulders as he pulled you into his body. Joel’s body radiated so much warmth that the slight chill you felt was instantly gone as you snuggled into him. You hummed as you took a sip of your coffee, resting your head on his shoulder afterward. He turned his head down to you to kiss your temple, letting his lips linger for a few seconds.

“Good morning, my love.” You say, planting your free hand on his knee.

You and Joel loved to spend your days off close to each other, enjoying each other’s presence—even if it was doused in pure silence. Just being by his side or in his arms was the quiet reassurance that kept you going.

Joel’s grip tightened around your shoulder as his thumb brushed your flannel-clad arm in a soothing, back and forth motion.

“‘S a beautiful mornin’ out.” Joel’s voice is soft and steady; a voice he only reserved for you and Ellie. He was brooding and constantly sported a harsh brow while towering over most residents in Jackson, but with you, the only lines on his face that appeared were his crow’s feet when you made him smile or laugh.

“It is. ‘M so happy we can finally just do this.” You sigh, sipping your coffee once more.

“Do what, darlin’?” He asks, using a free hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. He kissed your forehead tenderly this time, then your nose. He smiled softly down at you as he awaited your explanation.

“Just… sit. In peace. Enjoy each other’s company. It’s all almost so… normal, being here with you. ‘S finally starting to feel like home. Our home, Joel.”

He squeezed your arm the tiniest bit before finally bringing his lips down to yours. He tasted like coffee and mint toothpaste.

“You are my home, baby. Wherever you go, I’m there with you. I love you.” Joel’s voice is just above a whisper, as if he said his words any louder it would ruin the sacredness of them.

“I love you too.”

He brings you in for another tender kiss before pulling apart from you. The sunlight caressed Joel’s tan skin with an ethereal glow, allowing you to bask in how handsome he was. It was rare when he wouldn’t shy away from your adoring stare. He’d always grumble that he wasn’t much to look at or to ‘quit starin’, but you just couldn’t help yourself.

Now that the days were shorter and nights were longer, you took advantage of just simply admiring him while the daylight encapsulated his beautiful features. Full, brownish-gray hair, beautiful brown eyes that looked like honey in the sunlight, tan skin that was peppered with freckles and tiny scars, a strong nose that fit his face perfectly, a (now) neatly groomed mustache with a sparse beard to tie it together.

“Quit starin’ at me like that, darlin’.” Joel chuckled, shaking his head.

“What, I can’t admire my man?” Joel’s heart always skipped a beat when you threw any endearment his way, but you calling him your man was the icing on the cake.

A tinge of a blush dusted his cheekbones, and you grinned as you brought a hand up to his soft hair.

“Don’t go all shy on me now, Miller.” Your teased, and he rolled his eyes while shaking his head.

“Shut up.” He mumbled playfully against your lips, pressing his lips to yours once more.

“Yeah? Why don’t you make me, cowboy?” You quirked a brow as you moved your body back, actively avoiding Joel’s kisses of affection. He grinned at you and set his now-empty coffee mug on the wooden planks of the porch beneath you both, wrapping an arm around your waist as he buried his face into your neck. He began to pepper kisses along your pulse point, making you laugh. He nipped at your skin in a couple of spots, shuffling your bodies so his hips were slotted between your legs.

It wasn’t like him to show this much PDA on the front porch of your home where a bystander could easily see you both, but you loved that he didn’t seem to have a care in the world at the moment.

His face hovered over yours once more, knuckles brushing against your collarbone and down your sternum. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your hands cup his face gently, thumbs swiping over his cheekbones as you stared at him lovingly. You turn your head to the side in the slightest to admire the sun now adorning the red and orange leaves on the ground with rays of gold, giving the atmosphere around you an orange glow.

Autumn had always been your favorite season. It reminded you of a simpler time when you were younger. Your grandmother would bake ghost sugar cookies with you and watch Halloweentown every time it came on TV, and your parents would take you trick-or-treating until you finally decided that you were “too old” at the age of thirteen. Oh, how you wished you weren’t in a hurry to grow up.

It reminded you that there’s beauty even in an untimely ending. That’s what most things in this apocalyptic life were: untimely endings.

But you were here, in Jackson, safe with the love of your life right above you. You turned your head back to him, kissing him once more as the rigid air chilled you once again.

“Take me to bed, Joel. Please.” You whisper, and he gets up from above you slowly, holding out his hand to you as you made your way into your home, needy fingers gripping at warm skin and teeth colliding as you both desperately kissed one another trying to make it upstairs to your bedroom.

When you finally did, you both relished in the peacefulness this life in Jackson had to offer, the early October sun shining through your window as you both found home within each other once again.

tag list: @pamasaur ; @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin ; @cool-iguana ; @party-hearses ; @nostalxgic ; @amanitacowboy ; @worhols ; @planet-marz1

#joel miller #joel miller one shot #joel miller fluff #post outbreak!joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagines #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfic #joel miller blurb #joel miller x afab!reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller story #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal one shot

409 notes · View notes

dreamingofthewild · 5 months ago

Text

I really want to speak about Gale's version of the new evil endings but no one is. More under the cut. Warning: spoilers for patch 7, please proceed with caution.

Gale's new evil ending feels like a powerful "what if," an exploration of what happens when his frustration, ambition, and disillusionment take over. I've always headcanoned that Dark!Gale emerges when the Karsite Weave corrupts him, and this ending supports that idea nicely.

It's a dramatic "screw you" to Mystra and could even pave the way for another of her downfalls or a major shakeup in the Faerûnian pantheon if the story were to be taken further. Watching him rip off that earring and seeing Mystra's statue topple was deeply satisfying, like watching a long suppressed storm break free.

In this ending, Gale isn't just angry at Mystra—he's furious with all the gods. His bitterness and jadedness come from viewing these deities as remote figures who manipulate and abuse mortals. This resentment grows as he witnesses how the gods have mistreated those around him and their consistent inaction. It’s like watching a pot simmer for too long until it inevitably boils over.

In the boat scene, Gale's bitterness towards the gods is palpable. Having glimpsed their celestial realms, he understands their power and is incensed by their refusal to intervene.

Imagine the orb feeding on his ambition and hatred, possibly spurred on by Astarion, Shadowheart, or Lae'zel. It's easy to see how he could end up on this dark path. This isn't the natural progression of his storyline, but rather a tragic twist where his indignation and fury at the gods consume him.

In this ending, he starts off as a hero with noble intentions but falls into darkness. He believes he is liberating everyone from the whims of the gods, when in reality, he will only cause chaos. It's reminiscent of a Greek myth, where the hero's flaws lead to their downfall. He still technically has good intentions, at least from his perspective, but in reality it's chaotic and will likely end in ragnorak. His ambition and ire have blinded him. He looses himself to them.

This ending delivers everything I wanted from a darker portrayal of Gale. While it may not be his best or my favourite ending for him, it’s undeniably cathartic and epically tragic.

Tl:Dr in summary Dark!Gale in his evil ending decides to wage a war against the gods. He uses his mind control powers to make everyone angry with the gods. They topple Mystra's statue and I presume they follow him through the tear in the sky he made to the heavens. He sees this as liberating them. But the scene ends there so we don't know what happens.

Alexa play Black Parade.

#bg3 #patch 7 spoilers #patch 7.0 spoilers #patch 7 #spoiler warning #bg3 spoilers #don't tell me that I did not put enough spoiler tags #Bg3 Gale #dark!gale #gale of waterdeep #Gale dekarios #FYI I explain at the end what happens so feel to read this if you want to know otherwise please skip #I would also love to know what other people's opinions on the ending are

79 notes · View notes

rottenpumpkin13 · 6 months ago

Note

what if it's bring your own lunch day at soldier? the cafeteria is closed and they aren't allowed to leave what would they bring?

Genesis: He orders overpriced Wutaian takeout from his favorite place in Sector 8 because he values his sleep and didn't want to spend an extra hour this morning preparing lunch.

Sephiroth: Is smart and brings a self-heating hotpot meal that only requires water to activate the heating packet. Is everyone staring at him as he sets the (many) ingredients on the table? Yes. Is everyone staring when the heat packet and pot start simmering? Yes. Is everyone staring because he consumed the entire hotpot in under two minutes? Also yes.

Angeal: Brings a very nice sandwich made with leftovers, a salad, extras for people in case they forgot their lunch, and a giant thermos of soup he goes around offering to people.

Zack: The only one who understood the assignment. He brings lunchables, fruit roll-ups, string cheese, pudding cups, yogurt tubes, chips, cookies, PB&J sandwiches, poptarts, and he fully plans on trading.

*Lazard sees Zack with his collection of treats* Lazard: Are you kidding me? Zack, this is hardly a diet fit for a SOLDIER. You need protein. You need vegetables. Do you really think men like Sephiroth are eating like this? No! *Sephiroth approaches Zack* Sephiroth: I'll trade you a ramen pack for a poptart. Zack: Two ramens. Sephiroth: You're scamming people. Zack: I'll throw in a pudding cup. Sephiroth: Deal. *They exchange* Lazard:

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #zack fair #ff7 crisis core #ffvii crisis core #crisis core

96 notes · View notes

barleyo · 2 years ago

Text

Pollen.

Recom! Miles Quaritch X Fem! Reader

A/N: I finished this is 3 hours, so this might seem a little rushed, but I am obsessed with this man in a life-consuming, unhealthy, scary way. I just feel the need to share the goings on of my mind with you all via my writing, so prepare for a LOT of Miles Quaritch posts. When I say a lot... I mean it.

(PART TWO IS OUT)

Wordcount: 1.4k

TAGS: Age difference, phone sex, public masturbation, solo fem and male masturbation, mutual masturbation, voice fetish, sex pollen, phone sex with a stranger, interspecies relationship

Solo missions were not uncommon for Miles. Any one-man job immediately went to him, as a colonel he could hold his own, however, the forests of Pandora were not kind to lone wolves. Everything and anything out in the wild posed a threat, animals and natives. Plants.

He was confident in his physical abilities, and even though he didn’t like to admit it, he was ignorant to the flora and fauna of this world, so in his mind, everything was blended together into a pool of danger and death. Any sound in the still forest was a red flag to him, any leaf crunching or branch shifting caught his attention. That’s why he was so quick to turn around when a loud rustling of leaves sounded behind him.

“Ha!” Quaritch turned around, gun held up in defense, ready to shoot. He held the gun steadily as the sound continued. He slowly brought his gun back into its proper place, strapped over his bare, azure shoulder.

Just as his guard fell, a small wisp of color lunged past him, knocking him onto the forest floor. He looked up, not seeing the creature, whatever it had been. Pushing himself up, he noticed that he had touched a mushroom-like plant. It was bioluminescent, and left a powdery dust on his palm.

“This fuckin’ place,” he sighed, wiping the white dust off onto his cargos. His face scrunched up in discomfort as an itching sensation ticked at his hand. He scratched at it to no avail. The feeling built quickly from a small itch to a flaming burn.

The heat spread from his hands to his arms, then to his chest, and soon coated his entire body. It felt as if he were submerged into a body of boiling water like he was being cooked, simmered and stewed in a pot.

“What was that shit?” He groaned, feeling the slick of his sweat drench through his shirt. Quaritch dug through his pant’s pockets and grabbed his walkie talkie, speaking into the front of it. “Colonel to Blue Team, over.” The line was dangerously quiet, the only sound being the fizzing of the radio. “Blue Team? Lyle?” He cursed, not receiving a response. “Forgot how bad the connection was on these things.”

He smacked the device, hoping it would offer him a clear connection. With his slicked palms, he dropped the walkie talkie, muttering profanities to himself. He snatched it and held it to his ear as a final pathetic attempt to connect to his team. “Hello? Anyone there, for God’s sake?”

To his surprise, there was an answer. Not just any answer, but a soft, clear one.

“Hello? Hello, are you there? This is (Y/N).”

He shuddered. From relief, maybe, but the warmth spreading to his crotch pointed towards arousal. It confused him, this wasn’t the first time he’d heard a voice as beautiful as this one, but instead of dwelling on it, he frantically spoke back.

“Yeah, ‘m here, Colonel Miles Quaritch, over.” His mouth was dry and his tongue felt far too large,

“Colonel? Uhm, well, what has you tuned into the lab department’s line? Can I help you?”

Such a beautiful voice, even for a science puke, he thought. “Damn radio won't connect to my team line, but I’m out in the middle of nowhere in this God forsaken forest. I fell on some weird mushroom lookin’ thing and now I’m so itchy and sweaty that I can’t even fuckin’ think straight,” he said into the device, “Hell, I can barely walk. It’s starting to hurt too.” He stretched the fingers on his aching palm, trying to soothe it. It did not work and the pain only shot through the rest of his body, just as the itching and burning had as well.

“Oh, Mr. Quaritch, I’m sorry to hear that,” the woman replied, urgency in her voice, “can you tell me what this ‘mushroom’ looked like more specifically?” There was a twinge of excitement in her voice that pissed him off.

“What’s that gonna do? Damn it, can you just put me on with my team?”

“Please, calm down. If I can figure out what you have interacted with, I can tell you how to fix it.”

He sighed. “I already told you, it was like a mushroom. It left this weird powdery shit on my hand.”

“Powder? Oh my,” she sucked in a breath, “Colonel, I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to answer me. Are you, uh, are you–”

“Miss, can you spit it out already? I don’t have time for this, if you’ve forgotten, I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere and sweating buckets right now.”

“Are you hard right now? Your– your dick, is it hard?”

Quaritch swallowed thickly, feeling the bulge in his pants twitch again.

“Yes, really hard. What does that have to do with anything?”

“The plant that you had touched, it is known to release pollen that arouses one to an extreme, if you do not satisfy yourself soon, the pain will be unbearable.” Miles could hear panic in the woman’s voice and the click of a door as if it were being locked. “You understand, don’t you, Colonel?”

“It’s already awful.” A groan reverberated in his chest as he spoke, “So I’m supposed to jerk myself off in the middle of the forest, right in the open?”

“I’m afraid so, please you must start now, the pain will be much worse without stimulation.”

He nodded, even though he knew she would not know and unbuttoned his pants, pulled his boxers down, and freed his dick. It was striped, just like the rest of his Na’vi body that he was slowly getting used to.

Miles nervously grabbed his own length. This wasn’t the first time he had touched himself in his Na’vi form, it was second nature to him now, but this was the first time he had done it out in the open, and the first time he had done it with a woman talking him through it.

He pumped slowly, fucking his fist. He couldn’t help but imagine his hand being the warm, tight cunt of the woman on the other line. A trembling moan strained from his mouth as he picked up the pace, seeking more friction in his palm. “(Y/N)--”

“I’m still here, sir, don’t worry,” she said, comfortingly.

His face flushed with a purple tint, not realizing she was still there. Obviously she was still on the line, it’s not like she could just leave, he rationalized it in his head. “It still hurts so bad, darlin’, fucking my hand ain’t helping,” he groaned.

“Just try, you must do it. You must cum, Colonel, please. Do it for me,” she whispered into the walkie talkie, embarrassed yet aroused by her own words.

“Fuck,” he hissed, sharp teeth barring down. “Need ya’ to touch yourself too, not fair if it’s only me.” Pre-cum oozed from his fat, leaky tip, beading at his hole.

“O-oh, I’m not sure..” her hands rested on the band of her panties, undecidedly fiddling with the elastic.

“Can’t cum unless you do it with me, missy, c’mon, need it bad.” His hips bucked into his hand again, moans catching in his throat.

(Y/N) hummed and slipped her hand into her pants. She slid the tips of her fingers through her wet folds, rubbing past her clit with gentle strokes. Focusing on the peaked bud, she drew tight, neat circles over it and felt her thighs try to close over her hand. “Oh, Christ, Mr. Quaritch, it feels good, mm.”

“I know, sweet girl, I know. Tell me when you’re ready, wanna cum with you.”

Lazily slowing down, Miles gave (Y/N) a chance to catch up with him. When he could hear breathy, needy moans from the line, he continued at his earlier pace, slamming his hips into his hand. Her whines were sweet to his ears, he could practically smell her, taste her. He threw his head back and huffed.

“Close, ‘m really close.”

“Gonna cum, baby girl? C’mon, cum like you’d cum all over my cock,” he rutted into his fist, feeling his balls tighten and stomach coil.

“Yes, fuck, yes,” she drawled out a messy, noisy moan, “Cummin’ now, sir, ah–”

“Good job, baby,” he said through gritted teeth as he spilled his seed on the ground, fucking himself through his fading orgasm.

There was a long, comfortable silence on each line as they each caught their breath. Miles was the one to break the silence.

“Thank you for helping out, bunny, but it just wasn’t enough. Still hurting. Gonna help me when I get back to base?”

“Yes, sir. Let me find some proper directions so you can come home.”

“Be ready for me when I get there, I wanna see you as soon as I get there, girl.”

#barleyxnighteye #smutfic #fanfiction #smutty smut smut #smut #avatar #avatar way of water #miles quaritch #miles quaritch x reader #x reader #avatar x reader #interspecies sex #na'vi x human #recom quaritch

469 notes · View notes

sickuma · 7 months ago

Text

"The Apartment We Won't Share."

A Simon Ghost Riley AU ( x reader )

— A series of distasteful yet beautiful memories come rushing back to your mind when you move to your brand new apartment. A lot of them laced to your past lover.

🐻 been a while since I've written here! Here's a short angst I scribbled down earlier :) Follow my tt for other works! ( @sickuma )

— This work is heavily inspired by Niki's song, "The Apartment We Won't share." And Taylor's "loml" ౨ৎ. ݁ ˖

“The door would have a fuckass curtain that would tangle to me everytime I enter the place, then there’ll be you waiting to greet me.”

Certainly.

You stare at it. The said curtain, as if it's staring back at you with glaring motives. It's there now, that stupid curtain, but for what?

It hasn't been a week since you moved to a new place. The place. Getting this specific apartment at this specific area wasn't as easy as you anticipated it to be, but here you are now after three years.

A sense of fulfillment was surely felt on your part but of course the lingering thoughts simmered in your mind, like a plague, refusing to let you enjoy this moment,

Whoever made it this hard to move on?

“The entire place would have dimmed lights—”

"Because white lights reminded you of hospitals.” You finish his sentence, whispering it quietly under your breath.

It didn't occur to you that every crevice of the place was exactly as you planned it, the two of you.

The small potted plants by the window, the mugs in different colours, even the daybed placed exactly at the living room, because the two of you would often fall asleep watching the television.

Every corner of this place reeks of him.

The coffee cups you wouldn't share, the singular blanket he wouldn't hog, the two towels that hang at the bathroom wall, the books you won't force him to read, and the space he wouldn't occupy.

Everything about the place was consuming, too consuming.

You're unsure if the right emotion to feel at this moment was shame or pride, whichever it was, it isn't enough to fill the grasping hole in your chest.

Everything seems to be here,

The cat you both talked about, the trinkets that sat at the shelves, the stories you anticipated to tell,

At the same time, it felt as of nothing was here at all.

Somehow, despite his absence, all the things that stayed in your life remained with a piece of him.

Everything waits for his nonexistent arrival,

The daughter you won't raise still waits for him, the stories to tell your daughter remain untold, and that daughter wouldn't ever know this world, nor the name of her father, which remains cold.

Everything resides in your heart, as if urging it to wilt with him.

“I'll wake up to you every morning, get up before you, and prepare you breakfast before we start our boring days.”

You pass by the kitchen, turning off the lights. Sitting beside your cat by the edge of the bed. Taking in the apartment, and every piece of him that plagued the place.

The curtain waits to tangle you,

I'm here too,

To greet you home.

⎯⎯ㅤㅤִㅤㅤ୨⠀♡⠀୧ㅤㅤִ⠀⠀⎯⎯

#cod x reader #mw2 x reader #angst #writing #cod ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod

80 notes · View notes

foodandfolklore · 1 year ago

Text

Easy Ways to Kitchen Witch

If you're new to the craft, or if your path is recently at a cross roads where you're feeling more drawn to kitchen witchcraft, you might be looking for some easy ways to start. So often when you picture Kitchen Witchcraft, you think of elaborate meals of baked goods beautifully decorated. And sure, that can be part of it; but if you try to make Instagram worthy food for every meal, you'll burn out real quick. So how can you Be a Kitchen Witch without braking bank or burning out?

Stirring your intentions

This is going to be brought up any time talking about Witchcraft and Food, so I figured I'd get it out of the way first. The idea being if you want to add energy or personal intention to food, so that when it's consumed the magic activates. A lot of witches swear by: Stir Clock Wise to Add, Stir Counter Clockwise to banish (Get rid of bad stuff in food). I've mentioned this before, I personally don't feel like this makes a difference. Instead, what makes a difference is stirring towards you to add Energy and intentions. Stir away from you to Banish or remove. Which direction is Towards/Away? Whatever way feels right to you.

The neat thing about stirring is you can do it with any food or drink. You don't need to be actively cooking to do some stirring. You can use a straw, a fork, a spatula; whatever. And if you have something that can't be stirred, like a slice of pizza, try turning the plate.

Candle to Raise Power

Any time you're cooking in the kitchen, or doing anything in the kitchen, consider lighting a candle. I have a round candle holder with a lid that I wash and reuse. Just plop a tea light or votive candle in there. Candles are great at heightening the energy in a room, and as someone who's struggled with depression and motivation, I've found this little ritual/routine helps gets me going.

A few tips, first you wanna make sure the candle is in a place where you can see it but not in a place where it may get in the way. I keep mine on the back of my prep counter. Next, avoid strong scented candles. Scented candles can be great for a lot of occasions, but the smell of the candle can muddle or mute the smell of the food. Finally, as with any time you use candles, please practice good fire safety.

Spell Ingredient Correlations can Carry Over to Food

Have you done extensive research on Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme? Well I got good news! All of that research was not for nothing! Herbs and Spices used in Witchcraft and Spells are commonly used in food. If you use cinnamon in a lot of your spell work for prosperity and success, try throwing some in your food with similar intentions and see how it goes.

Granted, this is not going to apply to every spell ingredient as many plants used in witchcraft are toxic. Or at the very lest can be problematic when consumed in large amounts or if pregnant. So please use some caution and common sense. A little research can take you a long way.

Simmer Pots

These are great ways to elevate your home's energy. Also a good way to use up some dried ingredients that's been laying around. A simmer pot is not anything special. You can take any small pot you got, fill it about halfway with water, add dried or fresh herbs, and leave it on the lowest heat setting on your stove, uncovered. Everything will simmer and release amazing aromas and energy. The properties of the ingredients in your pot can release into the air of your home. This can be good to do in colder months when cleaning. Just warms up everything.

Saucy Symbols and Sigils

If your oils and sauces are in easy pour bottles, consider getting a little creative when you use it. Gunna put some Ketchup or Siracha on that? Why not draw a pentacle. Oiling a pan? Maybe cook your food in a symbol of infinity or life. Or create your own symbols and meanings. Add them to your food to help elevate their magic. You may feel limited by the pour spout, but remember it comes down to intention. But if it makes you feel better, you can always transfer your sauces to bottles with more precise pour.

Make a Magic Potion

If you are not a huge fan of Cooking or Baking, remember there's still options for Kitchen Witchcraft. Magic Drinks. You can infuse your magic into syrups, juices, teas, cocktails, mocktails, smoothies, and more. There are options for people who can't consume alcohol, caffeine, dairy, sugar, any dietary restriction. I think I a lot of people write this option off because they think it focuses too much on alcohol or they don't like tea/coffee. But there's a lot of options when it comes of conjuring drinks.

Cook with Sun and Moon Water

If you're not familiar with Moon water, it's fairly easy to make. You fill a glass jar and leave it out in moonlight to charge with moon energy. Same idea for Sun Water. I find Sun Water is better for general Cooking and Moon Water is better for Teas as the energy from moon water is more mellow.

Adding some Solar Energy with Sun water to soups or to cook your rice and pasta in can help infuse your food with some Solar energy. It ups the overall energy and power of the magic in the food, as well as adds success and thus increases the chance of things working. There's also many other benefits, but listing them all might be worth their own post.

Kitchen Witchcraft is more than Cooking

I think the most important thing to remember is that Kitchen Witchcraft is not just food. Kitchens are often the heart of a home, and many things will go on and get done in a kitchen. Family meetings or get togethers may happen in the kitchen, people may do their reading or web surfing there. Or maybe it's where they do their homework or paperwork. They may do their hobbies at the table or counter. There's more than just food going on in the Kitchen.

So, feel free to expand out. Do some crafts with kitchen supplies or for your kitchen. Protective charms and garlands made out of cinnamon sticks and other items. Or just try other kinds of Magic. Maybe you like the idea of knot magic and want to try knitting a protective scarf. Or you like plants and want to get into garden magic. You don't need to stay in some box; try some stuff out!

#Kitchen witch #kitchen witchcraft #kitchen magic #magic tips #pagan #witch #witch tips #magick #spells #kitchen tips #klickwitch #food and folklore #sun water #moon water #food magic #drink magic

210 notes · View notes

universitypenguin · 1 year ago

Text

Summary: Lloyd delays telling Princess about her stalker’s identity. Vivian has a medical appointment, which leads to an episode of babysitting where Lloyd bonds with a three-year-old. Meanwhile, an unexpected event kicks the serial killer investigation into high gear.

Masterlist

Word Count: 6,866

Warnings: Smut, erotica level explicitness, impact play (Lloyd spanks Princess), and semi-rough sex. Criminal activity including stalking, kidnapping, and murder. Mention of child abandonment and dysfunctional family dynamics.

Chapter 22

From your perch on a barstool, you watched Lloyd stir a pot on the stove. He wore a snug pair of boxer briefs and nothing else. You decided this was your favorite look on him. Lloyd glanced over his shoulder and caught you staring. He smirked.

“See something you like, Princess?”

“Mmmhh. You’re like a real life Calvin Klein model, and you’re cooking me dinner.”

Lloyd snorted. “Their current poster boy is what, twenty-one?”

“I don’t know. Calvin Klein models were more of a middle school fantasy for me.”

“Which models, specifically?” he asked.

“The ones featured during the South African World Cup. The internet was plastered with their photos. You don’t remember?”

“Twelve years ago I was in Afghanistan. They don’t allow underwear commercials.”

“Well, I can’t remember his name, but he was a Danish soccer player, who was like three times my age.”

“You were drooling over thirty-six-year-old men when you were twelve?”

“What? He had really great abs.”

Lloyd shook his head, returning his attention to the pot of soup simmering on the stove.

“They were inescapable, and I had a lot of hormones, okay? All those delicious muscles slathered in baby oil was my sexual awakening.”

“Once you hit thirty, you’ll feel more comfortable thinking about sexual awakenings happening around the age of sixteen, or even better, seventeen.”

You laughed. “That’s not reality.”

He flicked off the burner and winked. “Once you eat something, let’s talk about these soccer player fantasies. I want details.”

“Don’t get your hopes up - I wasn’t old enough to fill in the details. Now, my highschool fantasies? Those are worth talking about.”

Lloyd caught you around the waist and pulled you into his lap when you moved to sit down at the dining room table. You giggled when his hands snuck under the hem of the button down dress shirt you wore, exploring the bare skin he found there.

“No panties?”

“Your dress shirt was all I could find. Someone must have stolen my clothes.”

“What a tragedy,” Lloyd murmured, nuzzling your cheek.

You giggled when his mustache tickled your neck. He kissed along your throat and across your jaw and chin, before finding your lips.

“First we eat, then you tell me everything,” he said.

Eating in Lloyd’s lap was surprisingly comfortable. He didn’t insist on feeding you and didn’t mind when you stole the spoon for yourself. After consuming half of the bowl, you handed it back to him and curled against him while he finished the dish. You sighed, content.

“See, this is even better than my fantasies. You can actually cook-”

“This hardly counts, it’s just soup.”

You ignored him, continuing, “-and you have chest hair. I didn’t know there was such a thing as a chest hair kink, but I definitely have one.”

Lloyd groaned as you traced the whorl pattern of hair on his right pectoral.

“Plus, you’re warm.”

“You’ll be all over me this winter, won’t you?” he said.

“Arm candy, bed warmer, and he’s smart? You really are the whole package, aren’t you?”

You stroked a zigzag pattern through the dark brown hairs of his happy trail just above the waistband of his boxers.

“Princess… you’re playing with fire.”

You smirked at his gravelly voice. “No, I’m not. You already turned off the stove.”

He grunted when you straddled him. The position put your breasts at the same height as his mouth. Lloyd nuzzled their upper swells as you sank your finger into his hair, petting the short strands at the back of his neck.

Lloyd unbuttoned your dress shirt and examined your breasts.

“Still sore?”

“They’re definitely tender.”

He rubbed one and you hissed.

“Yeah, that’s going to sting for a while,” he said.

“It’s not a bad sore, just kind of… raw?”

“Well, I did promise you raw nipples, didn’t I?”

“And a sore ass.”

Lloyd glanced up through his lashes. “I’m glad you brought that up, Princess. It reminds me… I only delivered on half of my promise.”

“Huh?”

“I gave you instructions, and you disobeyed me. That warrants punishment, don’t you think?”

“Lloyd, I’ve never let anyone paddle my ass, and if you think-”

He moved too fast for you to protest, manhandling you so you lay chest down, spread over his thighs. Your breasts pressed against his leg and you moaned at the pressure on your aching nipples. Tension coiled in your belly as excitement heightened your sensitivity, making the raw flesh sting.

“Lloyd!”

“Scoot up. I suggest you cooperate because if I don’t spank you, I’m going to have to come up with another punishment. I have a few ideas…”

The butt plug and lube in his nightstand drawer flashed through your head. You scooted forward.

“Good girl, so obedient. I think you want to be punished, don’t you?”

You whimpered at his velvety voice. “Y-yes…”

Lloyd ran a calloused hand over the back of your thighs. “I’ve been thinking of smacking this pretty ass for a long time, Princess.”

That piqued your interest. “How long?”

“Too long,” he said, caressing your bottom.

“The first day you met me?”

“The second day. That pencil skirt, the one that goes past your knees? It’s blue and tight.”

You suddenly regretted donating that skirt last year during a closet declutter, even if it was a size too small.

“On the day you gave me your first research file, that’s what you wore. I still can’t forget how good your ass looked as you walked away. Last chance to back out, Princess.”

You squirmed, but didn’t object.

Lloyd grunted. “Princess, use your words.”

“I don’t think you have the guts to-”

His palm cracked on your left ass cheek. You gasped, stunned by the blow. He slapped the other side with the same force and you cried out. He pinched the fleshy part of your inner thighs between his thumb and forefinger, hard, eliciting a yelp.

“Don’t hold your breath. If you do, you’ll pass out,” Lloyd said.

Then his palm cracked against your skin. The sides alternated: left cheek, right, left, left, right…

“Lloyd!”

You surged up, only to have his forearm shoved into the small of your back, pinning you down.

“Arch your back, Princess. Keep your ass in the air, practice makes perfect.”

“Ow, Lloyd! That hurts!”

“It’s supposed to. You can’t follow instructions, then you pay the price, my naughty… little… fucktoy,” he hissed, punctuating the last three words with a smack.

Your back arched.

“Please! Fucking hell, Lloyd! Damn it, oh!”

You struggled to get enough leverage to escape, but he was too strong.

“Next time you’ll arch your back just like this, won’t you? You’ll be a good girl and keep your chest down and your ass up, huh?”

“Gaaahhh!” you screamed when he peppered a series of blows on a spot that was already aching.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…! Lloyd, please!”

He wasn’t holding back and despite the pain, his spanking was having the strangest effect on your body. It was turning you on. Your protests were born from shock and confusion, because you hadn’t expected this to hurt so much. The pain was the shocking part; the confusing part was that you hadn’t dreamed it would feel so good.

Yet, your toes were curling and your legs stiffened with each stinging swat. Every strike aroused you further. The harsher the sting of his hand, the sweeter the pleasure in your pussy. It was like the sting traveled through you, racing through nerves and transferring the heat of burning slaps on your skin to the inferno deep in your core. Your pussy was throbbing with a fire that was more intense than pain. Then his next blow triggered a cry that had nothing to do with discomfort.

Your thighs flexed and your toes curled as your shriek tapered off into a needy, hungry sound.

“Oh, fuck… Lloyd…”

You whimpered and rocked against his thigh, groaning at the overwhelming rush of pleasure, mingled with pain.

Lloyd cooed. “That’s my girl. Your pussy’s dripping down my leg.”

Your nipples tingled, still raw from their earlier treatment. You were panting and shivering, sweat trickling down your neck. He switched hands, and you squealed at the next barrage of unrelenting slaps. The line between what was pleasure and what was pain ceased to exist. You were acutely aware of the pulsating heat in your nipples and the hardness of Lloyd’s cock pressing against your belly.

The feelings his spanking elicited now were sharp and hot, causing your moans to drop into a lower register as you rocked back to meet each blow. Slowly, he eased into a gentler pace, delivering milder smacks.

Your chest was heaving as darkness danced on the edge of your vision.

“Breathe, Princess.”

You gasped.

“That’s it, good girl.”

His fingers brushed your sex, and you wailed, shuddering at the intensity of the sensation. Your back arched when he stroked your abused skin. The gentle caress made you keen.

Lloyd hauled you upright, turning you so your back pressed against his chest. Without his support you’d have slid to the floor. Your body buzzed with an urgent need and you mewled as he gently palmed your breasts.

You moaned, caught in the grip of a sensation somewhere between pain and immense pleasure.

“There, there, Princess. You’re okay. Next time, what are you going to do? Hmm?”

“Keep… my ass… up,” you sniffed, fighting back tears.

He rubbed the backs of his knuckles against the side of your breasts. “You’ll keep your ass up, and?”

“Chest down,” you whispered.

“That’s a good girl. We’ll try again when your nipples aren’t sore and you can show me what an obedient little fucktoy you are.”

You whined, thighs clenching. Tears were falling and your ass stung but you were so turned on that the pleasure was acutely uncomfortable. Lloyd’s hands drifted from your breasts to roam your body, tracing your waist, belly, and hips. He skimmed your thighs, tugging them apart until you spread them wide, giving him unrestricted access. His fingers dipped into your sex.

“Aw, fucking hell. That pussy’s drenched for me. I knew you’d like your spanking, naughty girls always do.”

He pinched your tender nipple, and you keened, tipping into a state of delirium. Your head fell back against his shoulder as your body went lax. Lloyd murmured something approving, but the words were lost in the buzz of euphoria that echoed in your ears. You couldn’t stop trembling.

Lloyd’s fingers breached your cunt, probing your g-spot.

“Yeah, gush all over my fingers. That’s my Princess, so fucking responsive. You’re spent, but this creamy little pussy just can’t get enough, can it? She’s throbbing. I bet it aches worse than your ass.”

He used his free hand to tease your clit, and you bucked, sobbing from the intense pleasure. You grasped his wrist to ease the friction and Lloyd snarled.

“Cut that out, or I’ll put you over my knee again.”

He spread your pussy open and stroked your entrance, collecting juices and swirling them over your clit.

“Come on my fingers, Princess.”

After issuing the command, he worked your clit hard. Within seconds you jackknifed from a lightning flash of pleasure that almost made you surge out of his arms. Lloyd nipped at your neck and the unexpected sensation made you shudder. His teeth sank into your skin as your body rolled with waves of ecstasy.

When you came down from the high, you felt the hardness under your thigh and squirmed. Lloyd allowed you to slide off his lap but caught your hips to steady you when your knees wobbled. After taking a second to get your bearings, you turned to face Lloyd, then sank to your knees between his legs.

Surprise flickered in his eyes but he lifted his hips, cooperating as you pulled down his boxers. The thick, ruddy cock sprang free, and you grasped it by the base, then licked at its weeping head. Lloyd groaned, shoving himself past your lips in a silent demand. You accepted him eagerly, wiggling your tongue against the underside of his cock.

“Yeah, just like that…”

He guided your head, showing you the tempo he preferred, then let go once you’d adopted the pace.

“Harder,” he murmured, voice rough with arousal.

You hollowed your cheeks and gripped him tighter. He hadn’t tried to push into your throat, which only made you more excited to perform the act. Relaxing your jaw, you inhaled through your nose and took him as deep as you could.

Lloyd gasped. His cock twitched in your throat, and you swallowed reflexively, moaning. When you couldn’t hold the position anymore, you pulled back, gagging. After another deep breath, you braced your hands on his thighs and repeated the maneuver. He was restrained, and that emboldened you to swallow harder, pushing yourself out of your comfort zone. You kept your hands on his thighs out of caution, aware that his good behavior might end at any moment.

The self-protection didn’t prove necessary. Going down on Lloyd was fun. He wasn’t pushy, and he was vocal about his pleasure. The slurred praise he offered when you took him deep made you quiver with excitement. When your jaw needed a break, you ran your tongue over his balls, laving the swollen sac and basking in the rough, male noises that rewarded your efforts.

You chipped in surprise when Lloyd hauled you to your feet. He jerked you onto his lap, cupping your ass while he aligned your bodies. His thick erection grazed your clit. The sensation was so intense that you jerked away. Lloyd growled, hauling you back down.

“Come on, relax for me, Princess. I know you’re desperate to be filled.”

He was right. Sucking him off had triggered a fresh wave of arousal that had fire licking at your core. Lloyd captured one of your battered nipples in his mouth and sucked, purring when you trembled in response. He released it and caressed your hips, then stroked his palms over the tender skin of your buttocks.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

You pressed your forehead against his and whimpered as his cock probed the entrance to your pussy. “Yes… Please, fuck me.”

He thrust up hard, impaling you with a single stroke. You screamed and dug your nails into his shoulders.

“Ah, fuck! Lloyd!”

“Shh… relax. Let me in. I know, I know. This is a new angle for you, isn’t it?”

He felt huge like this. The girth was too intense and you scrambled to adjust, hooking your ankles over his knees and raising your hips. Lloyd kneaded your ass, causing a rush of pleasure and pain that flooded your pussy with juices and allowed you to sink down a little further.

You groaned, thighs quivering as you struggled to hold yourself up. You were afraid your legs would give out, and you’d be impaled again. Lloyd claimed your mouth and kissed you. HIs mouth was slow and sensual and coaxed you into relaxing. You rolled your hips and whimpered when he slid deep, brushing a spot that made you quiver. He grasped your hips and pushed them back, then drew them forward.

You gasped at the sensation.

Lloyd paused. “Too deep?”

“N-n-no… Oh, fuck…”

You squirmed and tried to mimic the maneuver. Lloyd moaned.

“Atta girl, baby. Get yourself off on my cock.”

Your hips snapped harder at his encouragement. When he sucked delicately on one of your nipples, you keened. You lost your rhythm, but it didn’t matter because Lloyd took control. He used your body’s weight to guide your hips in quick tempo, rooting himself as deep as possible with every stroke. Your legs shook violently and when the orgasm hit, you screamed, unraveling into sobs of overwhelmed pleasure.

Lloyd took advantage of the deep angle. The ripples of your channel seemed to aim his cock right at the sweet spot that made you quiver and turned your muscles to Jell-O. His thrusts became rougher and harder, and your pussy creamed. You cried, disoriented, helpless against the unrestrained response of your body. All you could do was hang on and shudder as your eyes rolled back in your head and Lloyd’s hands guided your hips through the last of the orgasm.

He hissed your name and his seed flooded your womb, triggering another orgasm that wracked your exhausted muscles. After the final burst of ecstasy, your head fell into the crook of Lloyd’s neck and he wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you tight.

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

Lloyd broke from his usual routine and silenced his alarm at 4 a.m.

He nestled against you, grateful that you were sleeping deeply, and therefore accepting of his intrusion into your side of the bed. When you were half-awake and still trying to cling to sleep you were very territorial about your personal space. He relished the victory of getting to hold you like this and pressed his forehead against the back of your neck. You slept soundly in these early hours, which sometimes allowed him to indulge in the affection he craved without disturbing you. Although he’d only intended to cuddle, he succumbed to sleep within minutes.

The buzzing of his phone woke him. Scowling at the time - it was just after six - he answered the unknown number.

“What do you want?”

“Hello, Lloyd.”

Lloyd’s nostrils flared. “Why are you calling me?”

“Is that how you greet an old friend?”

“We aren’t friends.”

“Fair point. Wait, don’t hang up. I have a new lead,” Court Gentry said.

Lloyd hesitated, his finger over the end call button.

“Go on.”

“The spy is trying to access files from B&H’s patent department. If they do, it’ll pose a threat to national security - a significant threat.”

“Then call Clayton Bishop, or the FBI - anyone but me,” Lloyd replied.

“Trust me, if I could, I would. You’re the only person I’m sure isn’t involved. The latest efforts to access the files prove this guy has hacking skills. He’s trying to exploit weaknesses in your cyber security and someone’s helping him. I know something is going down this week. I need your help.”

“No. I’m not a spy. Don’t call me again.”

Lloyd tossed the phone on the nightstand and sighed. The Chinese spy wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t even Court’s problem, but Gentry wasn’t the type to keep his nose out of other people’s business.

You murmured and rustled in the blankets, stealing the covers he’d loosened his grip on. Lloyd watched as you coiled yourself into a cocoon of blankets and wondered how you didn’t smother yourself by sleeping like that. His phone buzzed again. The sound made your lashes flutter and Lloyd rubbed your back. He was inordinately pleased when you settled immediately, your breathing evening out again.

Lloyd silenced the phone and checked his text messages.

There were three new messages, all from Jake. One had just arrived. The other two had come in around 5 a.m.

Hey. I need to upgrade the security on your guys laptops - work and personal. The stalker’s been trying to hack them. It’s mainly Princess’ work computer, but I want to cover all the bases just in case.

What time can I come over?

Lloyd? R u awake?

He responded, letting Jake know he could come over after eight, then went downstairs to make coffee.

Between the call from Court and Jake’s texts, the morning had gone sour. His anxiety was flaring back up and he was halfway through his first cup of coffee when it occurred to him that caffeine probably wasn’t the greatest idea right now. He poured the rest of his coffee down the sink and rubbed his jaw, wondering what problem to tackle first. There was the matter of telling you about Nguyen, reviewing your notes from the interview with Aliyah, catching up with Jake about the attacks on your laptops, and… Lloyd frowned.

The conversation with Court was still echoing in his head. Could the cyber attacks on your work computer have something to do with Nguyen? Did that fit the stalker’s profile? Aiden might be behind the latest attack. That would make sense… kind of.

Lloyd leaned against the counter, scowling, and wishing he hadn’t thrown the last of his coffee down the drain. Maybe Nguyen was the serial killer. Bishop still believed he was, and while Lloyd wasn’t keen on his boss’ blind faith in that theory, he suddenly wanted to take another look at Nguyen. His gut said that he’d missed something - something critical.

“Do I smell coffee?”

He turned to see you standing at the foot of the stairs, wearing his robe.

“Yeah, creamer’s in the fridge.”

Lloyd waited while you doctored your coffee and took a few sips. He’d figured out what he needed to say, but instead, he grabbed the files Landon had given him yesterday.

“Princess. We need to talk about your stalker.”

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

You sat at the dining table, reading the files. Each one was labeled with a name: Georgina Rochester, Aiden LeDoux, Shun Nguyen, and finally, Juan Medina.

Picking up Juan’s file, you frowned.

“What’s this?”

Lloyd cleared his throat. “We investigated all potential suspects we could think of.”

“Really? Investigating Juan would’ve involved talking to me. That never happened.”

“Given the circumstances, I can’t expect you to be impartial.”

Your gaze sharpened. “I’ve known Juan for a decade.”

“Princess, you’re too close to him to see him as a threat, and you know it.”

“And maybe you’re too far removed to see that he’s harmless. Everything in here is technically true - Juan got into bar fights and took anger management classes - but there’s more to the story.”

“Then explain it.”

“Juan’s little brother just turned twenty-one. He’s always had a bad temper and alcohol exacerbates it. Juan’s tried to keep him out of trouble but-”

“There’s no arrest record for the brother,” Lloyd interrupted.

“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Juan is the complete opposite of his brother and he’d never do anything to harm his family.”

“He’s been charged with multiple misdemeanors.”

“Two nights in jail hardly makes him a hardened criminal.”

“Princess, you’re one of the most loyal people I know. You’d defend someone you love even if they were guilty.”

“Maybe I would, but the idea that Juan would hurt me is ridiculous. He’s not angry or dangerous.”

“We can’t afford to dismiss any leads,” Lloyd said.

“But this lead isn’t significant. You should’ve discussed this with me.”

“I didn’t want to put you in a position where you had to defend him.”

“The impression you get of Juan from this file is totally wrong and knowing the backstory changes everything. Letting me explain would’ve saved time and resources.”

“No, it wouldn’t have. We’re running down every lead in this case - especially after what happened two weeks ago. I’m not risking your safety on a blind spot.”

“You’re not listening to me. I know Juan and I trust him. I’m absolutely sure he isn’t the stalker.”

“I don’t even trust myself to be objective right now, Princess. Neither of us should try to unravel the stalker’s identity. If Juan made the suspect list, he’s on it until Landon decides he isn’t.”

“Then I need to talk to Landon because investigating Juan is a waste of time.”

“I’m sorry this makes you uncomfortable, but we should turn over every stone.”

“You’re being unreasonable on purpose, aren’t you?”

Lloyd’s expression softened. “I’m sorry I waited to tell you about this, but please, leave the investigating to Landon. He’ll figure it out. If Juan is as squeaky clean as you think, it won’t take long.”

You sighed, rubbing your neck. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fly off the handle. I’m just…”

Suddenly, you were on the verge of tears. Your voice cracked when you tried to speak and you buried your face in your hands.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

Lloyd stood up and moved around the table. His arms wrapped around you as he let you bury your head in his chest.

“I’m here, Princess. Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this and things will go back to normal. You’re safe.”

“How can I be safe if Nguyen is in the country?”

Lloyd squeezed you. “I won’t let you out of my sight. Also, Jake’s coming over to update the security systems on the house and our computers. We’re taking every precaution and then some, okay?”

You pulled back and looked up at him, lips compressing in a grimace.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about something… Vivian has an appointment with her obstetrician. She asked me if I could watch the kids this afternoon.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Lloyd said.

“I agree, but she needs my help. If you came with me, you could search for evidence on Juan. Think of how much time that would save Landon. Can we take evasive measures and sneak over, or is it totally out of the question?”

He hesitated. “It might not be safe.”

“The last thing I want to do is put Vivian’s family at risk, but if there’s a way to make it happen…”

“Have you discussed this with Vivian?” Lloyd asked.

“I can talk to her.”

“Explain the situation and if she’s okay with it, I’ll figure something out. Just don’t say anything about Juan, please.”

You kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

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

Lloyd sat at Juan Medina’s desk in the upstairs master bedroom, preoccupied with Juan’s laptop. He kept an ear out for sounds that would warn him of an approaching toddler or the jangle of tags from the family dog, Chewy. The tan and white Cavalier King Charles spaniel had taken an instant dislike to Lloyd at first sniff, which he considered to be very insightful on the canine’s part.

The house was fairly quiet. The only sounds from downstairs were of you cleaning. He could hear the rumble of the washing machine, along with the frequent buzz of the dryer and the dishwasher. Your efficiency was unrivaled. He’d listened to the sound of you tackling a mountain of household chores while keeping the smaller toddler - the boy, Sam - occupied. Meanwhile, the three-year-old, Alyssa, had escaped to the backyard. From the window over the desk, he could see her playing in the yard.

His thorough search of Juan Medina’s laptop had yielded nothing of value. The man’s internet search history was full of hockey, nerdy online card games, and researching which fantasy novels he wanted to buy next. Judging by the bookcase, your brother-in-law’s primary hobby was reading. His offline commitments included a weekly Dungeons & Dragons meetup at the library, helping his mother with yard work, and taking the kids on monthly field trips with a local father’s group. Juan was probably pretty normal by regular standards, but to Lloyd he was the most boring person on earth. He was also envious of the man and that drove him nuts because he couldn’t pin down a reason why he felt that way.

Lloyd brushed off the feeling and closed Juan’s laptop.

Downstairs, the transformation in the family room startled him. The clutter of kid’s toys, piles of books, jackets, blankets, and empty drinking glasses had vanished. He barely recognized the room. In the kitchen, the countertops gleamed. You’d swept and mopped the floor and conquered the overflowing pile of dishes. The family room, the kitchen, the living room, it was all spotless. Even the sliding glass doors that had been covered in Chewy’s nose prints was now clean.

He noticed the basket of folded laundry by the couch and shook his head. How had you managed all this in just a few hours?

Lloyd walked out onto the deck where Sam was playing with a toy tractor. The little boy was so absorbed in his own world that he didn’t spare the man a glance when he walked by. Lloyd headed down the steps to the yard and headed to where you were crouched in the middle of the yard, looking frustrated.

“What are you doing?” Lloyd asked.

“I’m trying to fix this sprinkler head. Juan left Vivian a note to have Dad take a look, so I read a how-to article, which made it seem easy enough. I think I was lied to.”

Lloyd squatted down. “What step are you on?”

“Taking off the sprinkler head. I’m afraid if I use any more force it’ll break.”

“Do you have a screwdriver with a longer handle? You need more torque.”

You gestured to the tool box beside you. “Take your pick.”

He found the right tool and loosened the troublesome screw. Once it was free, you took over.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it.”

After knowing you for three years, he recognized the look on your face and easily handed over the sprinkler head. It was better to just get out of the way when you were on a mission. Besides, he wasn’t about to get grass stains on his freshly dry cleaned Tom Ford chinos if it wasn’t necessary. He scanned the yard, taking in Sam playing on the deck and then turning to the rock pile where Alyssa seemed to be digging a hole to China.

“What’s your niece doing?” Lloyd asked.

“Digging up rocks. Don’t ask me why, because there’s a perfectly good sandbox on top of the hill. She’s always in that rock pile.”

He left you to the sprinkler repairs and headed toward the rock pile. When he saw who was approaching, Chewy, the cocker spaniel, positioned himself between Alyssa and Lloyd. He gave the suspicious dog plenty of space and crouched down on the other side of the rock pile, leaving a large space between them to appease the dog.

“Hey, Alyssa.”

The three-year-old glanced at him, then stabbed her yellow plastic shovel into the dirt. There was a pile of stones next to her right foot. Lloyd watched as she sorted them, examining each before keeping it or tossing it back into the pit. He spotted one he recognized in front of him and picked it up.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked Alyssa.

She stopped digging and examined the rock he held out for a moment before shaking her head.

“See how smooth it is?” Lloyd scraped his thumb over the surface. “When you can scratch a rock with just your fingernail, that means it’s soft. The color and shape are also big clues.”

The little girl looked at him expectantly.

“It’s slate,” Lloyd said.

She held her hand out, and Lloyd dropped it into her palm. He watched as she searched her red bucket and then handed him two more rocks. Lloyd examined them.

“Yeah, these are slate, too.”

Alyssa dug into the bucket again. She paused, as if something had just occurred to her, and extended her hand and wiggled her fingers at him. He passed back the two pieces of slate she’d given him, and the one he’d picked up. She placed them carefully into the red bucket before offering him another rock.

Lloyd studied the specimen, hiding his grin. When he realized what she’d handed him he raised an eyebrow.

“This is agate. Sometimes people make jewelry out of these.”

Alyssa continued to pass him different rocks, though she only allowed him to handle one at a time. She was like a strict librarian who only allowed single book check outs and enforced the return policy with the zeal of a Mutaween. He identified limestone, quartzite, agates, and several pieces of granite for her.

“Which ones are your favorite?” Lloyd asked.

She reached under a dense fern and pulled out an old Folgers coffee container. It surprised him when she took off the lid and handed it over. Lloyd inspected the contents. There was a chip of Mica, easily identifiable by its flakey structure and pearlescent shine. Several of the greenish rocks looked like Sandstone, though one of them had the striations characteristic of Gneiss. Looking at the collection, he realized that Alyssa’s criteria for special rocks focused on color and shininess. At the bottom there was a gray rock with a dusting that looked like blue powder.

He rubbed it with his thumb and inspected it in the light. Chrysocolla or Amazonite?

“This is an impressive collection,” he said.

Alyssa reached under the fern and dug around, searching for something and brushed it off before passing it to him. At first he thought it was just a piece of limestone, but when he flipped it over, there was a clear impression on the other side.

“Wow. This is a cool fossil.”

It looked like a prehistoric crustacean, with lots of ridges and segments in the stone that showed the shape and structure of the animal’s body.

“Is this why you’re digging over here?” Lloyd asked.

The plastic yellow shovel she was using made sense, considering the fossil. He handed it back and watched as she packed the rocks into the Folgers container.

“Why don’t you pick a few rocks to take inside? You could display them on your windowsill or something,” Lloyd said.

Her lips pursed as she considered him, then glanced over her shoulder at you. Lloyd followed her gaze to where you were filling in the hole around the sprinkler head.

“Hey, Princess. Have you seen the fossil Alyssa found?”

At his announcement, Alyssa hissed, shoving the red plastic container underneath the fern. She glared furiously at Lloyd and grabbed the spaniel’s collar. He watched as she stalked across the yard to the deck, dragging Chewy along with her. Lloyd realized he’d committed a betrayal of great magnitude but wasn’t sure how.

When you’d finished with the sprinkler system, he asked.

“Why is Alyssa so protective of her rocks?”

“What rocks?”

“She collects rocks. She’s got a good eye for it too, but I guess she doesn’t like sharing them.”

“Oh, you mean the rocks she smuggles into her bedroom? We try to keep them in the yard because she stashes them in her bookcase and it gets all muddy. Vivian tosses them back in the rock pile when she finds them.”

“That must be frustrating,” Lloyd said.

“Yeah, Vivian can hardly keep up with it.”

“No, I mean that she’s finding interesting stuff. You should have them tumbled. One of her rocks is probably Amazonite or Chrysocolla and she has a really cool fossil, too.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. She knows what she’s looking for. I think it’s the colors in the rocks that attracts her attention. Blues and reds seem to be her favorite. Does she have any books on rocks?”

“No, she can’t read yet.”

“They have picture books,” Lloyd said.

“Huh. That’d be a great Christmas gift. Do you think I should re-seed the lawn?”

“What?”

“It might be too early, and I don’t know if Juan is planning on aerating,” you mused.

“You already did the dishes, the laundry, cleaned the house, and fixed the sprinklers.”

“Oh, crap! I forgot about the dryer. Sam! Come inside, it’s getting late!”

Sam launched a valiant protest when you tried to herd him inside. You tended to the toddler’s outburst while Lloyd went to find Alyssa. She was upstairs in her room. Chewy was curled into a ball on her bed and when he saw Lloyd, the fluffy spaniel growled. Lloyd stopped short, respecting the warning, and leaned against the doorjamb.

“If you pick out some rocks from your bookcase, I’ll help you polish them,” Lloyd offered.

Thirty minutes later you walked into the kitchen to find Alyssa standing on a stool next to Lloyd at the sink. A paper towel full of wet rocks sat next to a pile of used sandpaper.

“What are you two up to?” you asked.

“We’re polishing Alyssa’s rocks. Look at this one, it’s a carnelian.”

You examined the bright red stone and smiled at your niece.

“That’s beautiful.”

She looked down, shrugging, but smiled. Lloyd picked up another one.

“This is a blue lace agate.”

After he showed it to you, he handed it back to Alyssa, who snuck it into her pocket instead of laying it on the paper towel.

“Did you find these in the backyard?” you asked her.

She didn’t respond, so Lloyd answered for her.

“I think she might have, but I’m not sure. There’s enough variety here that I think she collected some of them from other places.”

“You should put them on display in your room. Your Mom will be home soon and she’d like to see them - especially now that they’re clean.”

Alyssa beamed. “Mine.”

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

The quiet hum of the Mercedes’ engine filled the car as you drove west towards the cabin. Lloyd glanced over and you sensed his scrutiny.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” you said, breaking the silence. “Is something on your mind?”

He turned his attention back to the road, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Tonight, at your sister’s place…”

“You really hit it off with Alyssa. I was impressed.”

“She’s a sweet kid, but I was actually wondering about all the housework. You did everything from the laundry to fixing the sprinklers. If your sister had hired a whole cleaning crew, they wouldn’t have done as much as you did.”

You sighed. “Vivian is juggling a lot right now. I was just lending a hand.”

“It’s not just tonight, though. You’ve always helped her out, even before, when you were in college. I’ve never seen her do the same for you, especially not to this extent.”

“She’s my sister, and she needed help. Besides, you never complain when I do things for you.”

“I pay you to help me,” Lloyd pointed out. “She didn’t even say thank you.”

You chuckled. “That’s just what having a sister is like.”

“Well, from my perspective, it seems like she’s taking advantage of you.”

“Lloyd, I can’t explain this to you.”

“What’s to explain?” he growled.

“I’m the oldest, it’s different. You wouldn’t understand, you’re an only child.”

Silence fell and again, the gentle hum of the engine filled the car.

“Actually, I’m not.”

“What?” you stared at him.

“I have two younger sisters.”

“You never mentioned… Lloyd, I didn’t realize… the articles about you never said...”

“I haven’t seen them in thirty years.”

“Why?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. You watched his shoulders rise and fall on a deep breath.

“My mother left when I was eleven. She took my sisters, but left me.”

“She abandoned you…? And left you with your father?”

“Yeah.”

“Lloyd, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“Did you ever reach out to them?”

“No.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

“I wasn’t even sure they were alive until recently. I doubt they’d want to hear from me. They’ve built lives of their own. What would contacting them do except stir up bad memories? If they can forget… that would be better.”

Better for who? You held back the question, unsure if he was ready to answer it.

Lloyd sighed. “I don’t know if they’d want to see me and talking about them isn’t easy. That’s why I’ve never mentioned them before.”

His face was stony but there was a quiet ache in his voice that hinted at the hurt hidden behind the composed mask.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For assuming. For not asking you about your family.”

He shrugged. “Who could blame you? Sharing isn’t exactly in my nature.”

You turned away, gazing out the window. You tried to imagine having your siblings ripped away but couldn’t manage it. What was wrong with Lloyd’s mother? How could she have done such a terrible thing? There were reasons, of course - desperation, fear, psychosis. None of those answers softened the anger you felt toward the faceless woman who’d snatched Lloyd’s siblings. Why would she leave him behind, sentencing him to live with the man she’d chosen to flee?

“You’re wondering why she took them and left me, aren’t you?” Lloyd asked.

“I can’t imagine what kind of a mother would do something like that. It’s awful.”

“She was crazy. That’s a solid reason, but if you ask me, it’s because I looked like him.”

You were confused. “Him?”

“My father.”

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

The cabin’s porch light glowed in a cozy welcome as Lloyd turned into the driveway. You pretended to look out the window to hide the tears in your eyes.

Lloyd’s childhood couldn’t have been easy. You’d known that already, but what he’d revealed tonight was crueler than your imaginings. He parked and shut off the engine, silencing the quiet hum.

The shrill scream of his phone pierced the quiet, making you jump. He frowned at the caller I.D.

“It’s Roth.”

You watched as he answered and lines of concern creased his face. The words on the other end of the line were muffled but the furrow between Lloyd’s brows suggested the news wasn’t good. He listened for a long time before he spoke.

“Alright. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been a disappearance. Another woman was abducted in Harmony.”

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

Next - Chapter XXIII

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

Masterlist

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

Taglist:

@denisemarieangelina @before-we-get-started @buckysteveloki-me @patzammit @badassbaker @meetmeatyourworst @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @thiskindahotkindamusic @jesgisborne @charmingprincess @amiets2 @seitmai @elle14-blog1 @chaoticsteverogers @kaleidoscopepov @fangirl-and-doctor-help @jesevans @openup-yourmind @kandierteveilchen @adoreyouusugar @awkwardgiraffe726 @pono-pura-vida @mysweetlittledesire @liecastillo @marantha @babyevansblog @lizzzaaaaaaaaaaa @thegirlnextdoorssister @ladygrey03 @cynic-spirit @rosedpetal @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @bambamwolf87 @yiiiikesmish @calwitch @peachiestevie @texmexdarling @here4thefanfics @rogersbarber @spikeluv84 @dear-fifi @crayongirl-linz @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @andydrysdalerogers @mrsbarnes32557038

#the princess and the lawyer #the princess & the lawyer #series: the princess and the lawyer #lloyd hansen fanfic #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen au #lloyd hansen fic #lloyd x princess #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen x fem!reader #lloyd hansen smut #minors dni #no minors #chris evans characters fanfic #chris evans character au #chris evans character x reader

204 notes · View notes