#desires. / things better left unsaid.

[trlblzd]

one night stand scenario between muses except stelle is physically unable to act normal because they keep getting plagued by the Thoughts also because the other is really hot how'd they even do that.

[naoyoki]

content warning : afab!reader , nsfw , needles and blood (we're tattooing choso) , car sex , cowgirl , nipple play , doggy style . wrote this while watching 'can i solve pll season 2 before the reveal?' on yt lmao ... hope yall like this! pinned

marking ink on choso was always a pleasure from your end. this man has been nothing but nice and respectful towards you. a true and fit gentleman, a cutie even. although this peculiar trait was forged due to his shyness you reckoned, truthfully it didn't matter much really.

but todays appointment was far beyond whatever you had expected it to finish as.

choso desired a face tat, a straight rectangular line running across his nose. it was not only your first time doing such art on someone, it was his first and apparently only face tattoo he would ever get.

this was not only special, but extremely nerve wrecking for you both. it was your first time coming inches close to a clients face, especially one as handsome as choso.

goodness, you were in a daze as you straddled him, he was too large, you could not get as close as you wished to get the perfect angles and to not mess up, even when the stencil guided your every stroke. his thick, rough hands rested on your hips, securing your position over him and keeping you stable.

however, his touch kept your thumping heart far from stable. you could feel it up your throat peeking around, ready to rattle you out. your cunt was no different.

'is he hard or is he just this big while limp?'

and fuck, did you really wanted to find out. particularly wishing it was the latter. with such thought in mind your pussy marveled by the imaginative construct, continuously clenching onto nothing but the fabric of your underwear. as if calling your clients cock.

and it was hard, so unbelievably hard to keep up the façade. the buzzing of the pen and the constant gulping sounds choso made was the only thing that could be heard in the shop as the last ones for the day.

the intense white light of the lamp above gave you the access to see each and every tweak and tear coming from choso's face. but that did not distract you from the carnal needs.

and to your unknown dismay choso was well aware of your predicament. you were sitting on him. how could he not feel your pulsating and aching cunt over him? the pain of the piercing needles kept him at bay; strong and resilient.

he had booked so late in the evening because he wanted to ask you out but, sweet lord did he hit the jackpot with this one. his crush on him, dueling her unresistable desires. all because of him.

"done, you can open your eyes, cho." you finished wiping up the ink and blood that built up on the last needle stroke with a sterilized wipe, "here."

you handed him a paper towel, "i don't want tears in my chair." choso chuckled, moving his left hand to grab on to your waist— causing you to freeze under his touch, the other one catching the paper towel and collecting his tears.

"you gonna wrap it up." he gestured, while holding on to the crunched up paper towel as he sat straight looking you right in the eyes.

you divert your gaze from his, with the unsaid excuse to set a little special tape the wraps around the fresh ink. but he knew better.

with the art work done you lead the man towards the counter at the back of the shop, the cash exchange was swift. just as his confession.

in the middle of his short sentence of confession you had the initiative to lock your lips on his quite gently, "you could take me home and stay over..."

although you did not reach that far, "oh god, choso, fuck!"

you were absolutely right with your predictions a few minutes prior. he was huge, long and thick with veins decorating the whole length. your pussy leaked, your slick and precum sticking on his lap as you bounced on his dick at the backseat of your car.

the car shook with each plunging thrust you provoked. choso's grip on your ass did not falter, assisting you with his crazy force to bury his cock to reach deep inside you. but that was until his focus shifted towards your tits. meddleing around your shirt, choso, with one hand began to play with your right nipple.

"shit cho!" you jolted, weakening by his teasing touch and closing your walls tighter on him, "so f'king good. keep touching me like that."

"is it that good?" he pushed himself into you without warning and with no care, "c'mon baby, scream how good am i."

he wanted to keep you, he wanted to blow your mind, choso desired to keep his mark on you, for as long as you could remember him. and if using you as he pleased, then that will do. your puffed up clit brushed against his pelvis and his mushroom tip relished into kissing your cervix and the soft g spot tissue. you had begun to gulp on your gasps, he was splitting you open as he pleased, and calling out on it made you further aroused.

"you're so good, f-fuck, you-you're so much better than i coul-d ever imagine~!" you clutched onto his shoulder blades while you immersed yourself yourself to match his pistoning, astounding yourself as the rush of your release came so easy and quick.

you did not know if he finished alongside you, choso moaned deliciously while you jerk around his lenght. so you accounted his jizz dripped from your hole onto the leather seats. but choso had other ideas.

the buzz of your delectable orgasm was subduing when you found yourself on all fours and ass up.

"oh, no sweetheart. we're not finished yet." he whispered, wrapping his ringed hand gently around your throat as he teased your folds with his still hard-on.

[fordlee]

Teen!Stan clumsily confesses his feelings to his brother. And Ford is taken aback and horrified and a little disgusted, but he just tries to pretend it never even happened and Stan is fine with that, too, if it means it doesn't change or damage their relationship. But it does. It contributes to the rapidly growing divide between them, the tension that snaps the night Stan accidentally ruined Ford's project.

Ford feels so free away from him, like he can finally breathe. And yet, somehow, he misses the suffocation. The close proximity. The likely wandering eyes while he's changing. Ford misses Stanley, more than he feels he should. He tries to write it off as nostalgia and nothing more. Ford only dares to contact him as a last resort. The last thing he sees of this world is his brother's face.

Thirty years later, Ford comes out of that portal just as obsessed as Stan is, if not more. It colors every decision he makes, every word he says, every time he projects himself onto his great nephew. Fury mixes with desire and longing. He wants to rip Stan apart and then stuff him into his mouth so they'll never be separated again, then vomit him back up because Ford couldn't stomach him.

Even after Weirdmageddon, it doesn't get better. Sure, they've reconciled and love one another again (as if they could ever really stop), but there's so much left unsaid. They're together on this little boat like they've always dreamed but it's so, so suffocating. Ford wants Stan to keep choking him with his presence just as much as his lungs scream for more space.

Does Stan still love him like that? Does he still want him that way? He's spent decades waiting for him, trying to find him, but surely not. Ford doesn't deserve him. He doesn't dare ask.

But he does watch Stanley as he sleeps. Steals his dirty clothes and inhales so deep and long that his lungs ache. Watches him out of the corner of his eye. Steals glances while Stan is changing.

Ford can feel a familiar tension building up. The kind of tension you feel only when two people are much, much closer than they should be. The kind you feel when you stop thinking of yourself as one person and instead just one half of a whole. It's only a matter of time before the tension snaps again.

[hirschkuh-im-traum]

Bloodlust

the plot is: after having a taste of each other you cannot deny that both of you're absolutely obsessed with the new flavour and the desire it awakes

part one, part two

words ≈ 6.3

warnings: smut (like a lot of smut, it's almost only smut with a little bit of plot in the end), still a lot of blood, still licking and sucking blood and just licking and sucking, cunnilingus, bites and scratches, alastor's shadow is a creepy voyeurist (sorry not sorry)

let me know if i missed anything

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

The dusk and the uneven candlelight wrapped two bodies on the bed like a velvet blanket. The night was cold and windy, the heavy curtains slightly trembled, and though you were bleeding in his embrace you felt warmth. You were hot, and you would never exchange this night for anything else. Even for redemption.

Alastor held you firmly with one hand on your hip and the other one on your scapulae. He pressed you close to him, licking the dripping blood from your neck, causing trembling in your body. His smooth long tongue went up and down, drew circles around the teeth marks, tickled you where you weren't bitten. You softly moaned, when his opened mouth covered your wound and sucked your blood and skin, and you knew this predatory kiss would leave bright bruises on you. Your claws dug into his strong shoulders, you threw your head back, and he embraced you tighter. Your hearts rapidly beat against each other.

You told him you didn't influence his vision, you just made his mind see what he craved. And these words didn't leave his head, whilst he caressed your body and sucked your blood. You slightly moaned, whispering his name, making him press himself to you more. He believed he wanted just your taste. Blood, skin, flesh. You always looked so delectable and yet so dangerous with your snow-white fangs flashing between your bloody red lips in a mischievous smile. And when had it all changed? When he began desiring different tastes of you? An hour ago in this very bedroom in these dim lights? Or did he always misunderstood his own desires? 

The only thing was clear to Alastor — you made him famished. When you first came all covered in blood, Alastor watched you from the shadows and felt an unpleasant emptiness in his belly; when you made your first kill in the walls of the hotel and thought nobody saw you, and you licked your bloody lips, he felt ache in his stomach; when you first gave him that hungry gaze of yours, he swallowed; and when his lips first met your skin, he felt starving.

Whatever hunger you evoked in him, you'd better satisfy it.

With a deep sigh Alastor parted his mouth from your neck, and you fell on the mattress when his hands let go of you. You watched how Alastor took off the undone shirt and let it fall to his knees. On his fours he crawled to you, wiping away remaining blood from his lips with his long tongue. His body radiated heat, as he leaned over you and pressed his forehead to your collarbone. He panted loud and uneven, and his breath burnt your skin like fire.

“You have no idea how much I…” He mumbled into your skin, the unsaid words grasped your heart like a trap.

Hot air fanned your chest again, as Alastor sighed and sat up. His fingers curved under the fabric of your clothes on your chest, and he began pulling down the little black dress of yours. It traced down through your hips, knees, and finally slipped down from your ankles. Alastor threw it to his shirt (you wished your scents could mix there), he grabbed your legs, putting them on his shoulder, and went down. His nose brushed your skin, as he went from your knees and core closer to your bosom, neck. He inhaled your scent, poisonous sweet and fresh like night. His face stopped between your bosoms, and you held your breath. He could hear your rapid heart. Alastor left a kiss on the right side, “Your scent,” on the left side, “Your blood,” straight on the middle, “Your soul.” Each word dribbled slowly and darkly from his mouth as a venom. The static filter disappeared, his real voice was low and husky, it fastened your pulse.

Alastor listened to your heart. The rhythm was fast and loud, it trembled like the heart of a bird caught in a cage. You could move under him, but it seemed you didn't even want to, staring at him with flashing eyes, chewing your lower lip. Alastor pressed his lips to where your heart was beating, taking in the melody of your life. The rhythm resounded in his head, your skin pressed more to his lips with your every deep breath, and he could feel you quivering under him with that contact. Alastor began to kiss tenderly, lightly. The wet kisses warmed your flesh, the sound of the smacks made you more aroused, moistening your core. Alastor stayed open mouthed against your chest, caressing with his tongue your skin. He was so close to your heart, to the source of your life.

Just a single strong enough tilt is enough to bury his teeth in you, to grab your trembling muscle and keep it between his teeth, to make you scream and to swallow you alive.

But you lay still, softly breathing and moving your legs against his hips, so calm and relaxed as if a starved cannibal wasn't hovering over you now. He glanced at you, saying, “Think I understand why you prefer to bite here,” His fangs slightly sank into your soft flesh, causing your gasp. “I can feel your life under my teeth. Inestimable feeling, indeed,” He purred in law.

Next moment a suppressed whimper escaped your lips, as his fangs grazed down your skin. He slowly tilted his head down, making the long but not deep scratches. You looked down to see several crimson lines sheding bright red liquid and a pair of blazing eyes watching you. Alastor stuck out his tongue and licked all that your body gave him, still looking at you as he lapped up your blood. His hands lay on your ribs, and you understood how small you were under him.

“Delicious… Darling, you're so delicious…” Alastor purred. He looked up when he heard your chuckle, “Ooh? You don't believe me?” You wanted to answer, but Alastor grabbed your wrist, and you watched in wonder how his long claw sank in your soft forearm and went down, slitting your skin. Blood ran down to elbow, and without taking his gaze from you, he commanded, “Lick it.”

You stared into each other's eyes, as you brought your arm to your mouth and began to make bottom-up licks. Your own tongue glided across your pale skin, you fed yourself with you, as you bobbed your head up and down and watched Alastor, wanting to see his emotions. His eyes flashed brightly, his Adam's apple moved up and down when he swallowed hardly and pronounced “Enough”. You closed your mouth and smiled. He definitely liked seeing you eating. No matter whether it was your victim, you or him.

“Which do you like most?”

“Yours.” You answered without hesitation, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“And I like yours.” His tongue traced from your elbow to your wrist so beautifully, you had to suppress your moan, but you blushed, when his eyes glanced down between your thighs and then back to your eyes. He slightly leaned to you, placing his palm on your lower back forcing you to sit up and lean to him.

“Come here,” He said, holding your palm tenderly and guiding you forward, whilst he slowly lay down on his back, and you turned up staying on your fours above him. He pushed your hips, signaling that you had to crawl further. His hands traced down your body from shoulders, to chest, to sides, to hips as you crawled to the metal rods of your bed headboard. You stopped when you appeared almost sitting on his chest.

“H-higher?” You looked down at him. Gleamy red eyes flashed with lust, tongue licked the lips in foretaste, “Higher,” He commanded. Before you did as he ordered, you took off his monocle. The rim was made of a black metal but wasn’t cold to the touch, warmed with his skin. The candlelight reflected in its red glass. “Ahh, thank you, dear. So providently, you must be reading my mind, hmm?” Hummed a static voice, and a cold shadow tendril took the object from your palm to place it on your bedside-table. Glancing down at him, you noted, “I can't read minds.”

“Hmm,” Alastor hummed pensively, and his furthest words brought rose on your cheeks, “What a pity!” 

His fingertips tapped against the soft skin of your buttocks when your hips hovered over his face. You heard a clap and suddenly cold air kissed your already wet entrance. You blushed when you heard a moan beneath you, “Mmm,” A drip of your juice fell into his mouth just when he made your panties disappear. You were already so wet, so exuding, so ready.

Hands on your waist gently pushed you down, and you spread your legs wider. You felt his hot breath on you and clenched onto your knees. The sharp tip of his tongue slipped along your heat, making you gasp and slightly jump up away from his greedy mouth.

“Don't be shy, dear. You'll feed me like I did, won't you?” His lips touched your folds, and he covered your pussy with gentle kisses, pressing down on your buttocks to bring you closer. A kiss on your left thigh, a kiss on your right thigh, loud smacks on your mound, a suck on your clit, more kisses to your soaking cunt. He glanced at you, waiting for your answer. “Y-yes…” You murmured stutteringly, and he placed his lips on your clit again, sticking out the tip of his tongue, slightly brushing it, “Ahh! Y-yes! Mm, yes, Alastor, I will!”

You heard a low chuckle under you and felt how his tongue rubbed along your slick folds back and forth, back and forth, making you slightly moan, its tip swirled around that tiny pink spot of yours just very slightly, even teasingly, causing trembling in your thighs, filling you with need. You looked down to see bright red eyes with half-drooped crimson lids, staring at you with lust, hunger, adoration. His pupils widened, he greedily breathed in your scent and lapped your taste. Oh, how tasty you were there, he licked every inch, every fold of your pussy like a spoon covered in syrup.

The tip of his tongue poked at your slot, slowly went up to your clit, pushed at your little organ and drew little circles around it. Your thighs shook slightly, you mumbled something, and he went back to your dripping hole, sticking out his tongue further. Your hips began to rock, as you wanted more and deeper. Feeling your anticipation with his tongue, he pushed you lower, and your walls clenched around his appendage as it slipped deep into you, making you claw into the sheets and moan voluptuously. Alastor groaned into your flesh when your pussy embraced his muscle tightly, he snatched at your hips more firmly, not wanting even a millimetre to separate you from him. His tongue swirled deep inside your soft walls, touching the places you never reached yourself and causing more of your juices to dribble into his mouth, causing more shivers run down your spine, thighs. His brows knit, as he savoured your taste with loud slurp and groan, and the lewdy sounds made your hips gyrate more.

The heat you felt, the pleasure Alastor brought you, was divine. You softly moaned, rocking on his face, throwing your head back, propping yourself with your hands against his hips. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed some motion and turned your head. You saw a tall slim shadow among the red flames of the candles. It stared at you with a wide grin, and you could see how hard it breathed, just as a dog after a chase. Its shoulders shook in strange movements, but you didn't see its arms. It was Alastor's shadow and it watched you and his master right now. You blushed and your head spun with this realisation, but suck at your clit made you switch your attention back to him. “Ah-alastor! Alast-tor!” But he only groaned into you, finally hearing how his name sweetly fell from your lips, and drove his tongue back in you, making your hips quiver. “Mmmm,” You mewled when his tongue rubbed your little nub again. Your hand wandered across his hips until it touched the hard organ of your lover, and you felt a deep sighed against your pussy. You glanced back, moaning just at the sight of his swollen member twitching in your tender grasp. The taste of his skin and cum phantomed on your tongue, awakening your appetite once again.

Alastor moaned when he felt your fingertips on his cock, stroking up and down his length with such tenderness and shyness. You didn't squeeze him tightly, just slowly traced along his cock, lubricating him with his precum. Alastor placed his thumb on your clit, and pushed his sinister tongue back into your sugar hole. You whined at a new touch that sent vibration through your muscles, making them tense and arch your back. “Ah-al.. Alastor, it's-” But the demon beneath you consumed from so deep parts of you and so voraciously, so pain and pleasure blended, occupying you brain and turning it into fuzz.

Your strokes became faster and you held on his member firmer, your hand moistened in his sticky fluid, and you brought it to your mouth. Alastor watched you sweetly licking your palm and wrist, your fingers and between them; you kept your eyes on him feeding yourself.

But then your eyes widened, and you covered your mouth with your now clean palm, afraid that the loud obscene sounds escaping from your lips could be heard on this quiet night. Rolling your eyes back, you pitifully moaned into your palm, rocking your hips, trying to take more in this blissful release, whilst your nectar poured down Alastor's throat, intoxicating him like a love potion, for he desired for more and for longer and forever.

“Fuck! Good… So good, darling,” He said as he sat up to his knees, grabbing your trembling body from your back and kissing off the sweat from your neck. You gasped when he pushed you forward, and you fell on your belly. With your back you felt Alastor's heat and hot breath against the nape of your neck, as he leaned over you, pressing his aching cock to your butt, his fingers closed down around your wrists.

“If you starved for days, I starved for months, dear,” His dark whisper burnt the place behind your ear, “It was luscious, dear. So good,” His fingers intertwined with yours, a moan escaped your lips when you felt him rubbing between your cheeks, “Can't even know whether I'm able to keep control tonight.“ The static in his voice became louder, the noisy warning of danger made you feel calmer somehow.

“Then don't try.”

The buzz subsided and you heard a slightly alarmed, “How's that?”

“Don't try to hold you back, Alastor. I want you, and I want all of you.” You bucked your hips back against him, making Alastor let out a suppressed groan. “I've been starving for months too, and if you let go of me now, you'll be able to see it yourself.” You were frustrated with his silence and inactivity, for he stopped those tender movements of his hips against your skin. You turned your head to glance at him and continued, smiling, “I am not afraid, Alastor. I accept anything you offer me. I need it, Alastor. Please. Please, let us not worry about what we’ll face when the sun rises. Tonight is only you and I.”

For a moment you could hear only the rustling static, and then Alastor leaned in, his bare chest met your back and you could feel with your skin his breath, as his chest touched you with his every breath. His lips captured yours in a tender kiss. No blood, no pain, just shivers running down your bodies, as you tenderly partake each other's breath and taste, proving your devotion for each other for tonight. For more nights.

Parting his lips from yours, Alastor didn't open his eyes but hid his face from your gaze, pressing his forehead to your crown. He whispered, “Not only this night, darling. You know it. You belong to me, now.” His cock slowly traced down between your nates, and his tip kissed the rim of your heated hole.

“Mmm… Yes..!” You moaned, dispelling his last doubts. His already dewy cock easily slipped deeper into you. “I fought back my desire to devour you for so long…” Your voice trembled.

“Longer than me?” You heard a smile in his voice and couldn't help but smile too. The half of his length was inside of you, and then he moved out but just to make his next thrust deeper.

“Ah! N-not sure! But from our f-fir-ohh-st meeting I-I thought only- ahh ‘bout you!” He slowly rocked his hips back and forward, not letting his whole length come into your core yet. Shivers ran down your spine, Alastor quietly called your name, told you how good he felt and how perfect you were for him, and you loved him being so vocal.

You remembered the first time you heard his footsteps in the dark corridor, the crackling of the atmospherics brushing your ears, his loud heartbeat telling you how hot his blood could be. When he first gave you the intent glare of his shining crimson eyes, his first sharp smile with long fangs, and the first touch of his warm hands. He grabbed you by your chin, forcing you to look up at him and answer his question, “So, do tell me, why are you sneaking at my door in the dead of night, sweetheart?” The first time you heard that bewitching voice hiding a threat behind its sweet tone, and coupled with his burning gaze and firm sharp claws on your chin, it gave you no choice but to say the truth, “Thought I smelled something scrumptious. I'm hungry.”

Since that day the static buzz still ran through your veins, sending pleasant shivers down your spine. His alluring voice echoed in your head, the phantom feeling of the atmospherics vibrated through your muscles, and every time facing him, you had palpitation and felt the heat in your core.

Alastor placed his hands under your hips to slowly lift your pelvis, making your back bend to a beautiful smooth curve. “Ahh…”, He pushed a little deeper, hands held on to your hips tightly, his head pressed against the nape of your neck, and a low moan escaped his lips as you mewled under him.

Alastor bowed his head down, so his teeth slightly grazed the skin on your shoulder blades, leaving the bright red lines, and making you softly whine with pleasure blended with pain. His tongue lapped the blood away, but his fangs made new scratches that were immediately caressed again with his tongue, “Good,” another lick and another thrust, “Very good.” Staying inside of you with half of his length, he helped you boost a little more until you stood on your fours. You chewed on your lip, feeling his cock inside of you, big but not deep enough, and you slightly leaned back. A trembling sigh fell from your parted lips, as his cock went deeper, and you slowly returned to your previous position just to pull yourself on him anew and feel him again. Alastor watched how he disappeared in the tight ring of your heat, felt how your pussy clenched around him and how your juice enveloped his cock, listened to your unintelligible sweet babble and moans.

“That's right, dear… Yes…”

A slender silhouette began to form on the maroon wallpaper, where the candles didn't pour their light. The shadow peered into your face, wryly grinning at you, it slowly tilted its head, admiring the sight of you being fucked with its master. Soft moans flew down from your slightly parted lips, only white fangs gleamed in the dark; your cheeks blushed so cute and probably were warm to the touch; tears were forming in the corners of your magenta eyes, as it became harder for you to control your breath and suppress your moans. The hazy black face suddenly flew closer to you, its hollow eyes seemed to look into the depths of your soul, whilst you moaned looking back at it. “A-alastor..?” You felt a cool humid touch — the shadow cupped your cheeks in its hands but soon let go of you and dissolved in the darkness. The same cold touch traced down your back, disappearing as it reached the pit above your buttocks, and a quiver went through you, making your body wave with pleasure. You heard a low chuckle behind you, but weren’t sure if it wasn't a hallucination. Alastor placed his hand on your chest, caressing your soft skin, playing with your hard nipples, then his hand slowly went down to your waist, and stopped on your hip to hold it firmer.

When your hips moved back, Alastor harshly pushed forward. You couldn’t suppress a loud moan, and you felt a hand on your lips. He pulled your hips closer to him until your pussy met the base of his cock, causing you to groan into his palm. “Shhhhh. You don't want to wake anyone up, do you?” Alastor whispered in your ear, and you nodded your head. His heated body pressed against yours, and he didn't move, giving you time to adjust his size. Tears were running down your cheeks and tracing down his hand, as you puffed against his skin and breathed his scent in. 

Slowly he began to thrust, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin reached to your hearing, and the sound made your pussy wetter, causing more of a sultry noise. The slaps became more rapid, louder, so was his breath; Alastor whispered the senseless yes's almost every time when his hips kissed your butt; among your quiet moans you tried to say his name, but failed on the last syllable, as he pushed harder, reaching to the very right spot inside of you. “Yes, good good, darling. You're just… perfect.” He breathed above you, and you felt how your orgasm drew nearer, your exhalations became rapid and you pathetically moaned in his palm, your drool slipped down under his hand, and when you thought your release was so near, Alastor retracted and removed his hand from your mouth.

“N-no, no, n-noo!” You cried in desperation, but a cold invisible touch to your face made you silent. Alastor turned you around and pushed you down on the mattress, he held your shaking legs together and placed them on his shoulder, leaning closer to you. “Now, my sweet darling, don't you dare to take your eyes off me, understand?” You could only nod your head. “Lovely.” Alastor stroked your knees, as he waited for you to catch your breath and your heat to cool down. The tip of his cock was still between your folds, your juices mixed on your skin.

The red wine moonlight haloed your lover from behind, casting a shadow on his face. The bright moon seemed to be stuck between his large antlers. With his sinfully grin and the red aureole sharply outlining his figure Alastor looked like an ominous saint. A saint you willed to serve and willed to eat, so he'd dissolve in you completely as you absorbed him. Or, if he commanded, you'd slide into his mouth to disappear in his void. What pleasure would it be to melt away on each other's tongues.

You bit your lower lip, holding back moanings, when a strong wave of pleasure quivered your body from your toes to head, as Alastor finally pushed forward, slowly entering in your soaking hole wholly. He looked deeply into your wide eyes flashing bright with delight and groaned, feeling how warmly you clenched around him. “Adorable,” He cooed at the sight of your fangs showing under your red lip and your eyebrows rising high in a pleading look. He made a few thrusts, firmly holding you by your ankles and hips, as you curved your toes.

You watched with devious gaze how Alastor parted your legs, letting you embrace his waist  and pull him closer to you. The hand Alastor kept on your hip slipped down to find its place between your thighs, his fingertips touched your clit, causing you to press yourself closer to him instinctively. 

“Not now. Perhaps some other day.”

The static statement made your blood cold — did he want to stop? — before you noticed a spot darker than night behind Alastor's shoulder. His shadow appeared again, its wide mouth was very close to your ankles, fingertips pressed to your knees. Did it ask Alastor something? Did it ask about you?

A strong hand grabbed your chin, turning your head straight, “Eyes on me,” Alastor said and rubbed your sensitive pinky spot, making you bite your lip harder. Blood slipped from under your fangs, and his tongue glided along your lips, collecting red droplets, and when he thrusted again he covered your mouth with his in a passionate kiss. You moaned into him, his tongue embraced yours, his hand went from your jaw to your cheek to caress it softly, while he thrusted so deep it almost hurt. Your lips parted, tongues slowly separated their embrace, and Alastor hushed at you again, whilst his fingertip still played with your clit, drawing slow circles around it or tracing up and down, while you whined with your mouth closed. He adored your moans and deep heavy exhalations burning his face; adored how you struggled so much to fulfil his task, keeping your eyes on him and not to roll them back or turn away your face; adored the smell of your arousal and sweat and how your bosoms rocked to the rhythm of his thrusts. He adored you, when your claws dug deeply in his skin and he felt blood running down his spine, “Ff-uck! Ahh, are you still trying to consume me?” You could only answer with your glowing eyes that lit up when you smelled blood. His blood. So delicious, intoxicating. The tip of your tongue swept drool from your lips. “Now now, stop looking at me like I'm your game. We’re both caught in each other's snare, darling.” And when he leaned closer to coo in your ear, you sank your teeth in his shoulder, making him groan. Your claws drew longer lines on his back, as he leaned forward, making your fangs go deeper in him and going himself deeper in you. You immediately retracted your fangs until your venom could flow into his veins, and in his fashion you licked his flavour clean, whilst he rocked his hips faster. “Such a bad girl,” He darkly chuckled, “Oh, I’m so getting you back, sweetest.” 

Alastor accelerated his pace. Through your teary eyes you saw how the long shadows wrapped you both, plunging you into complete darkness. You felt yourself hovering in the air, cold and moist air like fog, and only the heat of Alastor’s body above and in you warmed you. Everything around you seemed monochrome, and only his bright crimson eyes and a green “X” flashing on his forehead were the only visible things. You knew, Alastor couldn't cause hallucinations like you, so you guessed he summoned the shadows he had control over to hide you not only from prying ears and eyes but even from the dim light of the moon. Tonight is only you and I.

You couldn't control yourself anymore, a long moan escaped your mouth, and you threw your head back, when you heard Alastor's voice groaning your name and his moan, as he came at the same time as you. Your back arched, legs wrapped around his waist, pressing him close to you, not wanting to let him go, his seed creamed your walls from inside and your own nectar poured on him. You shook in his embrace, your hands clutched at his back and his hair, he was still filling you wholly and whispered, “Good, my dear. You're so. Fucking. G-good…”

When you opened your eyes you saw the crimson wallpaper and burning candles. The flame built beautiful unequal steps of wax, though the length of the candles hadn't changed. The curtains were closed. In the silent room only heartbeats and breath of the both were heard. It was your bedroom again.

You looked down and saw Alastor sitting at your legs, he fingered his cum back in your pussy and left light kisses on your thighs. You noticed some bruises and bitemarks there. The shadow hovered near him and watched the smooth movements of its master.

Alastor felt your gaze on him and looked up. He made a last push into your pussy with a proud smile and crawled to you to lie by your side. You immediately clung to him and he wrapped his arms around you. Your legs intertwined and you understood that both of you were absolutely clean now (excluding your inside, you felt how uncomfortably but pleasantly wet you were there), though the scent of blood of him on of you still was in the air and tickled your nose. “Thank you,” You said, turning to your side and looking at him. Alastor’s face was so beautiful when he was so close to you. You could see all the mesmerising shades of red in his eyes, the little wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, caused by his ever present smile, and even the tiny wounds on his lips after your vampire kiss. Alastor raised his black brow at your words, and you continued, “I don't remember if I told you that, but it was in my head for all night. Thank you.”

“Hmm,” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked at you again, his smile grew bigger and in eyes played a mockery, “You're welcome, my dear, but don't forget I'm grateful for you too. The pleasure you received me I have never experienced before. Thank you, dear. But!” His forefinger appeared in front of you and playfully bumped you in your nose, “For all night you said? That's a lie, dear, a shameless lie.” You stared in wonder at him. “We are so, so far from being finished. And have you forgotten? I still haven't taken revenge on you for the bite.” Your eyes widened, “B-but I thought… What happened in the shadow was-”

“Oh dear, don't you take orgasm as a punishment? Oh please!” He rolled his eyes, snickering at you, “It was just a treat, dear, that we both deserved after such long starvation.” Suddenly he wrapped your wrist with his hands and rolled over, pinning you down to the mattress with his weight. But this time his eyes flashed not only with desire and hunger. A bit of anger gleamed too, and the sight made your heart skip a beat both in fear and craving.

“The real punishment is starting now.”

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

A night creature like you never needed sleep. Neither day nor night. You could stay awake for days and just time after time gave your eyes rest by closing them, but your body or spirit never felt the urge to sleep. Alastor was the same. Why waste your time sleeping and see useless dreams when you could do something really entertaining? Go for a hunt for example? Or trying to eat your beloved alive?

But when the sky behind the glass changed in a lighter hue, the sign of the coming morning, you both needed a little rest after the longest night in your afterlife (at least, for you it was the longest). You felt exhausted and really needed a break, which you suggested to Alastor too, for you knew he’d never admit that he was tired, but by pretending that he just supported you, he could give himself a rest too. So now you lay in a warm embrace with your eyes closed, listening to each other's heartbeats.

The pink sunbeam hit your eyes and you opened them. The sunrises in hell were always red-pink, and the warm light of the sun entered your bedroom through the black uncurtained velvet, painting the room with a soft reddish hue. Looking around, you noticed that the candles were still burning, and with a wave of your hand you made them go out. One of your powers: to make lights go out but never light up. It was a beautiful theatrical menace before you chase your game in hunt. You propped yourself up on your elbow and viewed yourself. The night was hard and the bite marks on your tights, neck and breast with scratches on your hips and ribs, and also the muscle pain  in your legs were proof of that. Smiling broadly like a crazy man, you fell onto the pillow. You felt ecstasy, so satisfied, proud and filled with delight.

You cast an eye at Alastor. He looked a tad damaged too: vampire marks on his chest, arms, and his back was all red after the rough caress of your claws. Several little scratches were visible even on his antlers, as a few hours ago you clutched at them during the nth time he took you. But after all, he looked much better than you.

His eyelids trembled as the sun reached to his face too, and before he could open his eyes, you pressed your lips to his. He emitted a sound of surprise but next second you felt him clinging closer to you in a gentle but determined kiss.

When you parted your lips, your voices merged into a “Good morning, sweetest”, when you both whispered against each other's mouth and chuckled.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

When everybody went downstairs for breakfast, the first thing they saw in the dining room were you and Alastor, sitting at the table. No plate was in front of you, and Alastor held only a cup of coffee in his hand. All others plates were already filled with omelette with some vegetables and waffles on the saucers nearby.

“Sooo, you stay?” Asked Angel, taking his place next to you. You wore a black dress with a long skirt and long bell sleeves, a velvet choker wrapped around your neck, crimson gloves covered your wrists. Such an inappropriate outfit for breakfast just to hide all the lovemarks Alastor left on your body. He didn't like that you hid the job he was so proud of, but you alluded to the fact that he hid your lovemarks too, and also you mentioned that you didn't want to make the residents worry or even frighten them with your new wounds.

“Sure!”

“Why of course, she is!”

You and Alastor exclaimed at the same time and gave each other a glad look.

“Are you sure?” Vaggie crossed her arms on her chest, gazing at your figures with uncovered suspicion. Charlie sat next to her, pressing her hands to her heart. From the other side of the table you could hear how it beat in a shy hope.

“Yes, my dear, she stays.” Alastor stated with a poisonous smile, and you wrapped your hand around his elbow, slightly tilting your head to his side. A satisfied smile played on your face, but what surprised the crew the most was the lovely blush on your cheeks. Nobody even guessed that someone like you actually had blood running through the veins, but when you satisfied your hunger completely you were like alive again with red hue in your cheeks and warmth on your fingertips.

Angel was sitting closest to you, after Alastor of course, and noticed the marks on your neck, which couldn't hide the thin necklace you wore. You heard a smirk and glanced at him.

“And what so special did he do to bring you back to life, miss fancy fangs?” He asked with a seductive smile, arching his eyebrow.

“Just gave himself to me.” Your answer made Angel choke on his waffles, and it caught the attention of others, making them stop their conversations. Angel blushed but not only because of your words, there was also something too intimate in the glow of your red eyes, and something forbidden hid in the curve of your smile. But he was the only one who heard your words clearly, not counting Alastor, who placed his cup on the table and placed his hand on the small of your back so nobody could see, “Now now, darling, learn to choose your words properly,” Alastor said, giving Angel a dark glare, “I gave you my blood and this is the reason you felt so good."

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Angel exclaimed, making others listen closely.

“No. We're absolutely honest with you, Angel!” You said, looking at him and then turned back to Alastor. You looked up at him, your cheeks blushed more and you lowered your gaze, covering your mouth with your fingers, “But honestly, Alastor… Not only your blood.”

Angel looked at you with wide opened eyes, his mouth slightly opened in shock. Husk, sitting next to him, froze with his fork stopped half way to his mouth, as he heard your words. He cast an eye to your direction.

“Well, to be completely honest,” Alastor said loudly, pushing back his chair and standing up. He grabbed your hand, making you follow him and trying to keep his pace, as you still chuckled embarrassed into your fist. As Alastor passed by behind Angel he bent slightly to say, “She wasn't the only one who satisfied the hunger.” And hand in hand you left the dining room. Your ringing chuckle echoed in the walls.

Husk said grampily, “The fuck he said now?”

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

beautiful vampires: @totespferd @mo-0-o @ivebeenthearchersstuff @rintheremy @eris-norwega @certifiedalastorsimp @phantomk24

@alastor-konig-kakashi-shoutasimp

[zweiginator]

CORRUPTION KINK IS MY FAVORITE EVERRRRR😭😭😭😭 you don’t understand how much i love this small town series im gnawing at my furniture

you had no idea something so wrong could be so addicting. before this, the worst thing you had ever done, the furthest you had strayed from god was staying out past curfew--to get ice cream with your friends. your father grounded you for a week and took your phone too.

if he knew you had just given patrick--the supposed golden boy, your tennis coach--a handjob, he would disown you. it scares you to even think about. but patrick's forehead is warm against yours and he moans into your mouth one last time as he coats your hand. his abdomen. it's warm and sticky. a pearly white. in your innocent mind, it reminds you of frosting cinnamon rolls with your mom before church.

patrick praised you the whole time. good girl. just like that. fuck, yes.

hearing his voice, desperate and breathless, felt better than obeying the lord.

patrick drives you home. he presses a chaste kiss to your hand, your lips, your forehead. and he waits for you to sneak back in, for your bedroom light to flicker on. he leaves and you find it hard to get any sleep that night. a whirlwind of guilt snowballs in your gut. you feel nauseated. you also miss patrick already. you'll have to wait until sunday. you think about how much you want to confess. bile rises in your throat when you remember how it all must remain unsaid. your special secret.

you wake up early for church. at 6 instead of 7. you make your hair perfect and roll the lint off your favorite dress. spritz an extra dose of perfume on your neck where patrick likes to nuzzle into you and whisper filthy promises.

you're surprised, when you get there, to see your mother rushing to sit in the pew where patrick's parents are. your father shakes their hands, apologizes for running late. but he has to get ready for the sermon. patrick and his sister sit in the pew behind them; he saved a spot for you with his suit jacket.

"you look gorgeous." patrick nuzzles his head into your neck and you look straight ahead, fighting back a smile. he wraps his leg around yours and pulls you closer to him. "i haven't stopped thinking about you."

his hand is strong as it grabs your wrist, placing your much smaller hand on his erection. you remember the soft skin of him, how it felt to stroke him in your hand. how dirty you felt. how you wanted to stop but every time patrick said faster you went faster. you'd do whatever he asked.

you cough to cover your whimper, but your hand stays on patrick's cock. you rub him up and down and watch him get harder, bigger. patrick's left hand grips the pew and his veins protrude, pulsing.

your heart beats faster because patrick's sister is sitting right next to you. her hands are folded in her lap as she listens to your father talk about sin. evil, evil sin. how we must repent and stay away from devilish desires.

"i'd bury my cock so fucking far into your virgin pussy right now if you'd let me." patrick licks against your ear. you stop stroking him. a squeak leaves your mouth. your body feels like it's scorching, a thousand degrees. you swallow.

"what are you doing?" patrick's sister furrows her brow and you realize your hand is gripping patrick's thigh so tight you're wrinkling his trousers.

you tear it away.

"pay attention." patrick nods his head to the stage. unfazed.

you cross your legs for the rest of the sermon and patrick looks smug, his jaw popping in and out as he works to hold back the smirk that almost looks as if it's trying to crawl out from between his lips.

swallowing, you sit up straighter and repeat your prayers in your head. you beg for forgiveness until your father closes the heavy bible on his podium and the bustle of mingling churchgoers snaps you out of it. you promise god that you're a good person, you really are. you plead for him to absolve you of your sin--but you don't promise not to do it again.

[anastasiareadsnwrites]

Can you do one for Anthony x Male reader where reader is an open minded writer with more…… scandalous erotic melancholia and decides to show Anthony he can please him better than any woman.

Be Wherever You Are (Anthony Bridgerton x Male! Reader)

Author's note: Hiya, it's been awhile and I know this came out late as well as the Benedict fanfic as well but I am working on finishing the series I have out for the mothers of the Ton. Please if this wasn't to your liking request another one or point out some tips for future requests. Thank you so much for requesting!

Summary: As days passed on with your writing you couldn't help but notice that some of the men in your story had basically described the man you were starting to grow close with. Being the bold person you are you couldn't help but make your move

Warning(s): NSFW, 18+, bold! reader, sexual tension, describing muscular bodies, Anthony gets a little jealous, scandalous yearnings, oral sex, Anthony! recieving, Reader! giving, more to be added.

The MAIN Masterlist

The Bridgerton Masterlist

The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the dimly lit study, casting flickering shadows across the grand room. Anthony Bridgerton sat behind his desk, his brows furrowed as he poured over a stack of papers-estate matters, no doubt, the weight of responsibility ever-present on his shoulders. The world outside these walls saw him as nothing but the proper Viscount, the head of the Bridgerton family, always in control, always composed.

But you had come to know him differently.

Leaning against the door frame, you observed him quietly, the air between you thick with something unspoken. It had been weeks since you'd grown closer, you conversations no longer confined to polite society. In your stories, in the stolen glances, in the unguarded moments, you'd both begun to unravel before each other.

The flames in the hearth case a golden hue on Anthony's sharp features, highlighting the tension in his jaw as he worked tirelessly, ever the perfectionist. Yet, you could see it-the weariness in his eyes, the subtle sag of his shoulders. He was a man in need of something more than duty and tradition.

And tonight, you were bold enough to give it to him.

Stepping into the room, your presence commanded his attention instantly. He didn't look up right away, but you could sense the way his body tensed, the way his feathered pen faltered ever so slightly. Without a word, you moved closer, your footsteps soft against the Persian rug, until you were standing across from him, just a breath away.

"You always surround yourself with work," you said, voice low, carrying the weight of the moment. "Don't you tire of it?"

Anthony finally glanced up, his dark eyes locking onto yours, the flicker of something dangerous lurking in them. He didn't answer right away, his gaze trailing over your form with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

"What I tire of is being questioned about matters that don't concern you," he replied, his voice measured but with an edge that betrayed his frustration.

You smirked, undeterred by his attempt at resistance. "Is that so? And here I thought you might enjoy the company of someone who sees more of you than just the Viscount."

His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening-but you knew better. Beneath his facade, you had already seen glimpses of the man behind the title. And tonight, you would see even more.

You took another step closer, leaning over the desk just enough for the firelight to catch your face, your eyes meeting his with unmistakable intent.

"I see you, Anthony Bridgerton," you whispered, "and I think it's time you let someone else take control, if only for a little while."

Anthony's eyes narrowed, but not with anger-there was something else there. A flicker of uncertainty, perhaps even desire, the kind he was used to suppressing. The air between you was electric, charged with the weight of things left unsaid.

"Take control?" he repeated, his voice tight, almost mocking, but you could hear the strain behind it. "You overestimate your influence."

You smiled, the kind of smile that made your intentions clear without a single word needing to be said. Slowly, you moved around the desk, not breaking eye contact with him for even a moment. You could see the tension in the his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the armrests of the chair just a little too hard. He was trying to maintain his composure, to keep his distance, but the fire in his eyes betrayed him.

"Oh, Anthony," you said softly, standing beside him now. You let your hand rest lightly on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath his jacket. "I think you've been in control long enough."

His breath hitched, just for a moment, before he converted it up with a scoff. "This isn't a game."

"No," you agreed, leaning down to whisper in his ear, your lip just barely brushing the edge of his skin. "But you and I both know you're tired of pretending."

You could feel the way his body stiffened beneath your touch, but he didn't pull away. His hands remained on the armrests, knuckles white, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths as if he was trying to will himself back into the Viscount's rigid armor.

"I am not pretending," he finally said, though his voice lacked it usual conviction.

You straightened up, your fingers trailing lightly from his shoulder down the length of his arm before you leaned against the desk in front of him. The firelight danced in your eyes as you watched him, letting the silence stretch between you.

"Really?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "Then why haven't you stopped me?"

Anthony's jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked away, his gaze settling on the fire burning low in the hearth. He was fighting it-fighting you-but you knew you had already won. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to you, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"This is highly inappropriate," he said, though the words came out softer than they should have.

You leaned in, your face inches from his, daring him to push you away.

"Is it?" you whispered, your breath mingling with his. "Or is this exactly what you want?"

For a moment, you thought he might argue, might stand up and walk out, but then his hand twitched on the armrests, his fingers finally relaxing. His breath was shallow now, and when his eyes locked onto yours again, all traces of resistance were gone.

"Show me," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "Show me that you can give me what no other woman can."

Your smiled widened, knowing that this was the moment everything changed. You stepped closer, your hands brushing over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his waistcoat.

"As you wish, Anthony," you whispered, your lips hovering just above his. "But remember.... you're the one who asked."

With that, you closed the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was both fierce and gentle, a collision of control and surrender. Anthony tensed at first, as though this was something he wasn't used to-being on the receiving end-but then, slowly, you felt him relax under your touch, his hands finally reaching up to grip your waist.

The kiss deepened, and for the first time, you could feel him let go. The walls he had built around himself, the armor of his title, the expectations-it all began to crumble as he allowed himself to be vulnerable, to feel something more than duty.

You pulled away just enough to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his. His eyes were dark, filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty, as though he couldn't quite believe what was happening.

"This is only the beginning, Anthony," you whispered, your voice low and full of promise. "I'll show you want it feels like to be truly wanted...and to let go."

As you hovered close to him, your hands still resting on his chest, you could feel Anthony's breath starting to steady, but there was something else-something weighing on his mind. His eyes flickered with a sudden sharpness, as though he had remembered something important.

"I saw it," Anthony said, his voice low, almost husky, but laced with something more-a challenge, perhaps. "The draft on your latest story. You left it open on the desk last time you visited."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued, though you didn't pull away. "Did you now?"

His lips curled into a faint, almost teasing smile, but his eyes were serious. "It's funny how your protagonist...how he reminded me of someone."

You let your hands drift lower, fingers tracing over the fabric of his waistcoat, but you didn't break eye contact. "Is that so? And who might that be?"

Anthony's breath hitched as your hands slid down to his belt, your fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. You could feel the tension in his body heighten, but he remained still, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Someone who spends his days pretending he doesn't want things he shouldn't," Anthony murmured, his voice rough as you undid the belt, the soft clink of metal filling the room. "Someone who think duty can replace desire."

You chuckled softly, your fingers now teasing at the buttons of his trousers, working them loose with slow, deliberate movements. "I suppose you could say that the protagonist is inspired by someone," you whispered, your voice full of wicked amusement.

Anthony's breath grew shallower, his chest rising and falling as his trousers loosened beneath your hands, the fabric slipping from your fingers, revealing more of him. "And what is it that he wants?" Anthony asked, his voice barely more than a whisper now, but the question was heavy, loaded with meaning.

Your hands paused, fingers lightly brushing against the bare skin of his hips as you leaned in closer, your lips grazing the side of his neck. His pulse raced beneath your touch, and you could feel the weight of his anticipation hanging in the air.

"He wants," you murmured, letting the word linger in the space between you, "to be freed from the chains he's put on himself...to be claimed, to be wanted, in ways no one else dares to want him."

Anthony swallowed hard, his body trembling ever so slightly beneath your touch. You could feel his control slipping away, his composure cracking as your fingers dipped lower, brushing against the heat of his skin.

"And who is it that claims him in the story?" Anthony asked, though his voice was strained now, almost as if he already knew the answer but needed to hear it from your lips.

You leaned in, your mouth hovering just over his, your breath hot against his skin. "Someone bold enough to see him for who he truly is...and who isn't afraid to take what they want."

With one swift motion, you undid the last of his trousers, letting them fall to the floor, freeing him completely, your hands grazing along the edge of his bare hips. Anthony gasped, his control faltering completely as his hands gripped the arms of the chair, his head falling back slightly as he surrendered to the moment.

You stood there for a moment, admiring the sight of him-the usually unshakable Viscount, vulnerable, exposed, and at your mercy. The firelight flickered across his bare skin, casting shadows that dances with the unspoken tension between you.

"Now tell me, Anthony," you whispered, your voice low and commanding. "Is this where your story ends, or is it just the beginning?"

The weight of the moment hung in the air, heavy and electric, as you glanced up at him, meeting his gaze with a look that spoke volumes. He was waiting, teetering on the edge of control, the authority he wielded in every other aspect of his life slipping further with each passing second.

Without a word, you got onto your knees in front of him and leaned forward, your lips brushing against his length, teasing him, barely touching at first. Anthony's entire body tensed, his grip tightening on the arms of the chair, his breath catching in his throat.

You smirked, pleased by his reaction. You had him exactly where you wanted him-no more pretense. Slowly, you parted your lips, your mouth enveloping the tip of him with gently pressure. The heat of him the taste, filled your senses as you moved, taking him in inch by inch, your tongue swirling against his sensitive skin.

Anthony's head fell back against the chair, his eyes fluttering shut as a low, guttural moan escaped him. His hand moved as though to stop you-his last attempt at control-but it faltered, fingers curling into the armrest instead his resolve crumbling.

You moved with purpose now, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm, your lips and tongue working together to bring him pleasure. Each time you pulled back, you teased him with just the tip of your tongue, before sinking down again, deeper this time, letting him feel the full warmth of your mouth. His hips shifted involuntarily, his body reacting to the sensations, even as he tried to keep himself still, tried to maintain some semblance of composure.

But it was no use. Anthony's breaths came out in ragged bursts, his body trembling as you continued to work him over, the wet sounds of your mouth filling the room, mingling with the crackling of the fire. You could feel the tension in him building, the way his though tightened beneath your hands, the way his muscles quivered under your touch. He was losing himself in this moment, and you loved it-loved seeing him like this, vulnerable and at your mercy.

You paused for a brief second, just long enough for Anthony to groan in protest, his eyes snapping open, dark with need. "Don't...stop," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, his control slipping with each word.

You smiled, your hands lightly stroking him as you spoke. "Who's in control now, Viscount?"

Anthony didn't answer. He couldn't His mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a low, needy moan as you took him into your mouth once more, your hand working in tandem with your lips, faster now, pushing him closer to the edge.

His breathing was erratic, his body moving with you now, no longer able to hold back. You could feel him getting closer, the way his muscles tightened, the way his moans became more desperate, more raw. You pushed him further, sucking harder, faster, your tongue flicking against the most sensitive part of him, until-

"God-" Anthony's voice broke as his body tensed, every muscle tightening as he reached the peak of pleasure. His hips jerked involuntarily, his hand gripping the chair so hard his knuckles went white as he came, his release filling your mouth in hot, pulsing waves.

You didn't stop until he had given you everything, your mouth and hand working together to milk every last bit of pleasure from him. Only then did you pull back, swallowing and licking your lips as you looked up at him, a satisfied smile playing on your lips.

Anthony sat there, breathless, his head still tilted back, chest heaving, his eyes closed as he struggled to regain some semblance of control. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the sound of his labored breathing.

You stood slowly, leaning in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "I told you....no one could please you like this."

Anthony's eyes opened slowly, meeting yours with a mixture of awe and vulnerability. For the first time, he looked at you not as the Viscount, not as the man always in control, but ask someone who had been utterly, completely undone.

And he liked it.

Anthony's chest still rose and fell with the remnants of his release, but as the silence settled over the room, something new flickered in his eyes- something darker. He watched you, his gaze sharp and intense, but not with the softness of vulnerability that had been there moments ago. Instead, a shadow of jealousy clouded his expression.

You hadn't even had time to fully stand before Anthony's hand shot out, gripping your wrist with surprising strength, pulling you back down toward him. His gaze bore into yours, his voice low, edged with suspicion.

"Tell me," he murmured, his tone filled quiet intensity. "Do all the men in your stories end like this? Growing 'close' with you like this?"

The question hung in the air, thick with jealousy, his fingers tightening around your wrist as though he were afraid you might slip away, just like the words he was too proud to say aloud. You could hear the accusation in his voice, see it in his eyes-the doubt, the possessiveness. Anthony Bridgerton, the man who had always been in control, was now desperate to know if he was special...or just another conquest.

A slow smile spread across your lips, and you couldn't help but tease him. "Of course they do," you replied, your voice light, dripping with playful mischief. "Bold men who know what they want always find their way into my stories-and into my life."

You felt the shift immediately. Anthony's expression hardened, his grip on you tightening further. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as the weight of your words sank in. For a moment, you wondered if you had pushed too far, but then something changed in him- a flash of determination, of possessive need that eclipsed his earlier vulnerability.

Without warning, he stood, towering over you with newfound intensity. He was no longer the man caught off guard by his desires. He was the Viscount again-dominant, commanding. In one swift movement, he cupped the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you back down to your knees.

"If that's how it is," he growled, his voice rough with jealousy, "then you can show me how much better I am than any of them."

Before you could respond, Anthony's hips pressed forward, guiding himself toward your mouth. His movements were deliberate, demanding, as if he wanted to erase any lingering thought you might have of anyone else. There was no hesitation now as he thrust himself between your lips, his hands still gripping your hair tightly, setting the pace.

You moaned around him, the sudden shift in power igniting something deep inside you. You liked this- liked the way Anthony took control, the way he used your mouth for his own pleasure, his jealousy fueling the intensity of the moment. Every sound you made only seemed to spur him on, his hips moving with more urgency, more need.

"That's it," Anthony muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction as he watched you, his eyes half-lidded, dark with lust. "You like this, don't you? You like being used."

You didn't answer with words-you couldn't. But the way you moaned, the way your hands gripped his thighs as you eagerly took more of him into your mouth, told him everything he needed to know. You tongue swirled around him, your lips tight as you sucked harder, wanting to please him as much as he wanted to claim you.

Anthony's breathing grew heavier, his head falling back slightly as his hips rocked against your face, the muscles in his body tensed with the building pleasure. He groaned deeply, his hand tightening in your hair, his voice husky and filled with unrestrained desire.

"Better than any woman," he rasped, his words punctuated by a sharp thrust of his hips. "None of them could ever do this...none of them could ever make me feel like this."

The praise sent a surge of heat through you, and you responded by taking him deeper, your mouth working faster, more eagerly. Anthony's moans grew loader, more desperate, and you could feel him edging closer and closer to release. His grip on you was almost bruising now, but you didn't mind-you reveled in the way he lost himself in you, the way he surrendered to the pleasure you gave him.

"Look at you," Anthony muttered, his voice thick with lust. "My perfect thing. You'll never leave me wanting for anyone else."

You moaned in response, the vibration of your voice making Anthony curse under his breath, his bucking wildly as he reached the peak of his pleasure. His fingers gripped your hair tighter, his whole body tensing as he came, his release hot and heavy in your mouth. You took all of him, your hands steady on his thighs as you let him use you until he was spent.

When it was, Anthony stood there for a moment, chest heaving, his hand still tangled in your hair. Slowly, he released you, his fingers brushing your scalp softly as if he realized he had been rougher than intended. He looked down at you, a mixture of pride and satisfaction in his eyes.

He pulled you up to your feet, his fingers tracing along your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips, swollen and slick from the intensity of what had just passed between you.

"Better than any story," he whispered, his voice low and possessive. "Better than any fantasy."

[cupidscorpsee]

Just Say It

WC - 5,880 / 22 minute read

Warnings - Smut / 18+ content throughout / light degradation / very brief mention of blood (rough kissing) / age gap / feminine terms used for reader

A/N: ummm

In which you, Hugh’s year-long assistant, finally tell you him how you feel and it leads to unexpected events…

You had been his assistant for almost a year now, having done this since you were fresh out of college. You felt you were pretty close now with Hugh or, at least, as close as you can possibly get with such a busy man.

The assistant-actor relationship you had expected in the very beginning dissipated almost as quickly as you were hired. No, things felt very much like a casual friendship with him and you enjoyed that fact very much.

It was difficult, however, to ignore the difference in power dynamics you two shared. You felt so small compared to him, like you only mattered on a superficial level at most. You often wondered if you meant any more than just the “young woman who brought Mr. Jackman coffee every morning on the set of Deadpool & Wolverine”. You hoped you did.

As you walk around town one evening, making casual stops here and there—Hugh even buying a box of cigars at some point, which he rarely ever does—you notice how he was taking his time. He wasn’t in his usual rush—no speed-walking with his unrelenting athletic zeal.

Nor did he seem in a rush to go back home and read over his new script like he intended, or call his two kids to set up another father-daughter and father-son date (you believed he was such a phenomenal father and that warmed your heart every time you thought about it), or, as was usually the case, beg you to get him a coffee from his favorite barely-known Aussie cafe, which was only three minutes from where you two stood.

Perhaps he has nothing better to do but be with me right now, you thought.

Hugh lights up a cigar, then, to your surprise, offers one to you as well. You had been twenty-one for only [insert number] months now and you wondered if that was why he had finally offered you one when he had never done so before.

You accept it. You clumsily fumble with your cigar, not used to the strange size of it as compared to normal cigarettes. You weren’t much of a smoker, really. You attempted to light your cigar, but your red lighter refused to cooperate. The wind, it seemed, was stronger than your ability to fight your embarrassed blush.

"Here, let me help," Hugh said softly, his warm breath brushing against your cheek as he reached across the table you two were sitting at. His hands cupped gently around yours, and the proximity sent a jolt through your already frazzled nerves.

Your heart raced as Hugh’s fingers brushed against yours, igniting a heat that spread through your veins. You try to focus on the task at hand, but the closeness between you two made it nearly impossible to think straight.

Here was the truth: Hugh fucking Jackman was damn fine for his age and you’d be an utter fool to not recognize that.

With practiced ease, Hugh flicked the lighter and held the flame just inches from your face. You could feel the heat against your skin, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. As the flame danced before you, casting flickering shadows across Hugh’s kind features, you couldn't tear your gaze away.

Burn me, your brain whispered like a naughty secret better left unsaid. Burn me, burn me, burn me.

You would let him if he truly desired it.

"Thanks," you managed to murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

But Hugh only smiled, his eyes holding a warmth that sent your pulse into overdrive. “‘Course, mate.”

Your moment lingered, the air thick with a tension that seemed to only be on your part, before Hugh pulled away, his hand retreating back to his side of the table. But the memory of his touch lingered, seared into your mind like an indelible mark.

“Not bad, right?”

What? Oh. The cigar. You forgot to pay attention. “Not bad at all.”

“If I remember correctly, your application all those months ago said you didn’t smoke,” Hugh commented, a knowing smile on his face.

Feeling bold, you stand from your spot at the table, lean forward, and blow smoke towards Hugh. “I don’t.”

He grins.

After a bit, you two walk towards the rental house Hugh is staying in during the filming of his next film. You pause for a moment and then pull the slightly-bent script from your bag. Hugh only watches you, puzzled.

“I picked up your new script, by the way,” you say with a practiced calmness that doesn’t really match the stressfulness of the situation. “They just tweaked a few things, y’know?”

“You’re bloody joking,” he groans. “Changes already?”

You look at him, hesitate, then blurt out, “I can help you go over it, if you want. I want. Well, I– Yeah, I can help…”

He looks back at you steadily. “Okay. I would like that.”

You were growing frustrated, though unsure of the reasoning. It was as if some sort of organ in your stomach was clawing up to your throat and begging to be let out. Keeping it in was as exasperating as it was confusing. “I want that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve said that already. Are you alright, mate?”

You look him straight in the eye for once, surprised by your sudden courage to do so. You take another drag of your cigar, hesitating. “I think you know I’m not.”

There’s a silence, though not one of confusion or wondering.

“What do you mean?” Hugh finally asks.

“It’s not that hard to guess. No offense…”

What were you doing? What were you doing? What were you doing?

“Y/N,” Hugh starts slowly, obviously playing for time as he considers the weight of what you were subtly admitting.

“Fuck, I could lose my job for this,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair as you put your cigar out on the stair railing beside you. You two stood just outside Hugh’s temporary living space, Hugh leaning back against the railing of the stairs leading up to his front door, and you, in your nervous shuffling, at the other end of the railings near the potted flowers. “I’m sorry, I… It’s been a long day. Just forget I said any–”

“Just bloody say it, mate.”

You paused. It almost sounded like he was upset or annoyed, but from the slight, curious tone in his voice that you had come to understand as genuine interest, you knew he wasn’t, so you kept going. “I wanted you to know. Just in case I had a shot at… whatever. Anything. I just wanted you to be aware of… Yeah. I don’t know. I just… I just want you.”

It was sloppy. Really sloppy. But it was out now.

The silence between you was deafening and you could barely stand it. You thought you might implode if you didn’t tell Hugh how you felt, but, right now, you felt like you may still implode anyway.

His eyebrows furrow, his jaw clenches, and his mouth twitches as he considers his response. “This is wrong, kid.”

But I want you. I need you in my body and my soul. It hurts every second I spend looking at you and wanting more than what I have, you think. I can’t take another year of this. Not a month. Not even a week. A day would kill me.

Your thoughts were like a funeral pyre of which he had set the flame to.

“Is it?”

From the silence that follows, you know you won’t be getting a response. He simply nods once, as if finalizing the moment, and moves to unlock his front door.

He holds it open and gestures for you to head inside first. You do so and, being already familiar with this house (you had picked it for him when he had asked you to do so before filming started a week ago), you go to the living room and sit down on the dark blue couch, leaning back against the uncomfortably stiff pillow.

Hugh stops at his fridge first and goes to the couches with two bottles of beer in one hand, script in the other. He sets the bottles down on the coffee table between you two and sits down.

“I don’t want to lose this, Hugh…”

“What? Your job, you mean?”

“That, too.”

You don’t speak any further on that. Instead, you reach out for the bottle of cold beer and hold it in your lap. You stare down at the cap for a few seconds before realizing: “Do you have a bottle opener?”

Hugh takes his keys out from his pocket and you notice the small bottle opener keychain attached to his set. It was a gift from you during the holiday season a few months back.

He stands up with a soft grunt and leans over the seemingly plastic coffee table to move up closer to you. Very close. He stares right in your face, as though he likes it and wants to study it, linger on it. He reaches out slowly, hesitantly, and touches your lower lip with his finger, letting it travel left and right, then right and left again.

Hugh finally, for the first time since your hasty confession, smiles slightly at you, and that very smile fills you with a kind of apprehension about what will happen next. Or, at least, what you hope will happen next.

He slowly takes the cold bottle of beer from you, setting it, along with the other, on the hardwood floor beside the couch.

He looks at you for a moment, as if deciding something, before he places his hand at the end of the small, plastic table that served as the only barrier between you two, and gives it a harsh push. It makes a sharp scraping sound as it slides over, leaving the space between you two open.

Please do it, Hugh. Please, please, please.

Hugh nods slowly, as if reading your thoughts, and lowers himself in front of you, his waist between your legs now as he gently moves you lower by his hand on your chin. He brings his lips up to your mouth in a warm I’ll-meet-you-halfway-but-no-further kiss.

A conciliatory kiss.

A pity kiss?

You smile, nearly exploding in giddiness before returning the kiss—so famished you lose yourself in it. It's a gentle collision, a meeting of softness and warmth that sends shivers down your spine.

As you finally break apart, your breaths mingling in the air, you open your eyes to meet Hugh’s gaze. There's a newfound understanding between you two, a silent agreement: This stays between us at all times.

“Is that what you wanted?” Hugh murmurs afterward, lips still grazing against yours.

This is where it would logically end.

You don’t answer. You kiss him again, lifting his face, as if to discover more, know more. Even with your faces touching, your bodies are angles apart, it seems.

He lifts himself off his knees and stands in front of you, body angled downwards so he could keep his hands on your face. It was almost desperate, your kiss. Not because his kiss still lacked the satisfaction you were looking for, but because you weren’t so sure you’d get another opportunity.

You had your lips against his, practically pulling the man as close to you as possible now, and yet you still seeked more. Kiss me, love me, need me.

You wanted to consume the man one kiss at a time. It didn’t take long for him to get the picture and easily part his lips for you. Your tongue explored his own and you didn’t seem to mind when, in your excitement, your teeth knocked against his. In fact, you wanted more of exactly that.

You stopped wanting to be the gentle, secretive assistant you had somehow molded into around him. You stopped wanting passion at this moment. You did not even care for pleasure—his or your own. You didn’t even want proof that this job risk you were taking was worth it, for you already knew it was.

You didn't want words. Just the turning ceiling fan as it was, the stiff couch beneath your clothed thighs, the soft scent of Hugh’s cologne, and your spot between his open legs. You wanted all of it. Every inch of his kind soul’s beautiful vessel.

Against his lips, you murmur between breaths, “I’ll quit after this. If you want me to.”

He pulls back, though his heart isn’t in it. He feels wrong in a moral sense, yet he can’t seem to fully stop this. He starts to move his body away from yours. “You can stay here tonight, Y/N… It’s late and your apartment is bloody far.”

“I can take the couch.” It was the most sobering thing you could possibly say in the moment.

————————————————————————

Okay, so you were an idiot.

You laid on the couch beneath the blanket he had given you (he had profusely offered you the bed instead of the couch several times, saying he’d take the couch, but you declined), shifting your position multiple times—feeling restless—to combat the discomfort between your legs.

You had been having a dream a few minutes ago and you were glad you woke up from it. It was silly of you to be having such morally wrong dreams about your famous boss, so you decided to suffer and not go back to sleep.

Instead, you got up from your spot and took a warm shower. He had told you that you could do so if you wanted to at any point. Even with your stupidity, he was still as kind and considerate as ever.

He had headed to bed in his room hours ago, his door shut.

When you finish your quick shower, you step out with a blue towel wrapped around your damp body. It doesn’t take long for you to come to a horrifying conclusion: you had no clothes to wear now.

You sat at the edge of the tub and stared ahead at the mirror on the wall. Your hair was still damp and it clung to your face not unlike the way your shame did to your soul. You let out a frustrated groan of defeat and pushed yourself off the tub.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

You knocked on Hugh’s bedroom door, hoping to God he was still awake and you were not being a bother.

A slight shuffling sound was heard from the other side of the door before it was opened to reveal the man in a pair of dark-blue plaid pajama pants and no shirt in sight. His hair was a bit disheveled, but he still looked as handsome as ever. Your grip on your towel around your body tightened. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, mate,” he lied, his barely-noticeable groggy tone giving himself away. “You alright?”

You nod. “Clothes. Um. I don’t have any.”

His eyes lit up in recognition and he quickly moved to his closet. “Ah, damn, of course. Come in.”

You followed him back into his room, your eyes darting over its contents. Each breath you took seemed to echo in the dimly lit room, filling your lungs with the intoxicating scent of distant cologne mingled with the subtle aroma of his laundry detergent.

Your eyes swept over the space, drinking in every detail with a mixture of longing and adoration. The room itself seemed to pulsate with Hugh’s essence, from the unmade bed adorned with plush pillows to the scattered array of books strewn across his desk. You couldn't help but marvel at how each item seemed to reflect a different facet of his personality, further deepening your infatuation that almost bordered now on obsession.

He rummages through his closet for something—anything—that might fit you, though you knew that anything he could find would always be a few sizes too big with a man of his stature.

He takes a step back from the closet and huffs in defeat, unable to find a thing. “I have no idea, mate, unless you’d like to wear a belt to bed.”

You look at him and he looks back at you, and then there it is. There it is. That unspoken moment of mutual clarity.

There was a hesitancy that clung to the air. He understood your look and you understood his. All that was needed now was action, but could that happen?

He steps closer to you and slowly brings his hands to your hips. You wished the damn fabric of the towel wasn’t in your way. He begins to lightly stroke up and down your bare arm now. “You sure you want this, kid?”

Kid. Call me anything else. I am anything but.

“Y/N…?” he corrects when you don’t respond immediately, as if reading your less-than-content thoughts. You like having someone read your mind so effortlessly.

You nod. Yes, you’re sure. Never been more sure of anything in your twenty-one years of living.

Hugh lifts your face with his hand and stares at you the way he did in the living room when you first kissed, though even more intensely now. More sure of himself. Of his actions. “I’m going to kiss you now and you are not going to ask me about losing your job.”

You feel as if your fingers are suddenly burning with desire—like a sled dog deprived of work. Of purpose. “I will not ask you about losing my job.”

Then, he suddenly pulls back, as if he might change his mind about allowing this to unfold with his thirty-plus years younger assistant, but doesn’t and instead runs his fingers through your damp hair, messing it up with ease.

You bring your mouth to his in a fiercely eager kiss. If he wouldn’t do it first, you would. Something seems to clear away between you two, and you both abandon your hesitance to the kiss.

You hungrily kiss his closed eyes, his nose, his ears, his throat, discovering them with your lips. You didn’t realize how badly you wanted to explore every part of him with your mouth alone.

Hugh kisses you back just as eagerly, even roughly, nearly disregarding your need for oxygen. His grip on your arm was so tight, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had bruises the following day.

You, submitting yourself to him without being asked to, back up towards the bed. He steps forward and gently brings you down onto the mattress, climbing atop you and beginning to almost hastily remove your towel.

You are soon naked and lie back in a kind of ecstasy as Hugh moves his hands over your body. No secrets this time. No holdbacks. Hugh kisses you, kisses your body all over, then returns to kiss your open lips again more deeply, as if he too is finally letting go. Not a part of him isn’t touching you now.

You were squirming, as if unsure and desperate at once.

“I don’t bite,” he mumbles against your skin.

The man looked incredible. There was no way he was real, considering he looked like some guy out of a celebrity photo shoot. Not even “looked like”—he was that guy.

Loose pajama pants low on his hips, a soft trail of hair leading beneath it—and you knew what laid under them. His arm was beside your head and muscles bulged a little, hair messily swept back on his head, a bit damp. He wasted no time at all kissing your neck so much that blood vessels seemed to break.

He frowned when he had stopped kissing you and noticed your weary expression. “Am I making you uncomfortable, mate? We really don’t have to do this. I like the idea but I’d never want to push you. If I got the wrong impression…”

“No, no,” you blurted back quickly, desperately. Your face flushed. “I’m just… How do I do this? I want you—need you—so much I might implode if I don’t get every inch of you soon, but… is that too much? Should this not mean so much to me?”

He could see you were slightly stiff and it made his stomach clench in unease. This was already risky enough as it was.

He shook his head and leaned down to place a soft kiss against your jaw. “I like a little neediness, Y/N. And… if I’m already saying ‘fuck it’, then I’m taking that mindset all the way. I’ve been wanting to know what you taste like ever since you opened that bloody mouth of yours.”

A sudden shift in position left Hugh a little closer, his groin beneath the pants hitting your bare sex. Your breath shuddered. He noticed, but did not comment on it. “You’ve wanted this for a damn long time, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” It was an easy answer for an easy question.

“Well, you’ve got it.”

Your bare heat was growing a bit achy with need. Grow up, grow up, grow up. You hated how you were thinking and feeling like a teenager filled with hormones, but you wanted more than ever to climb on top of him and beg—beg for his hands or mouth or cock to take away all these stupid thoughts that were running rampant in your brain.

Give me something. Anything.

“You’re right.”

His eyebrows furrowed a bit before he understood the tone shift of the conversation. You wanted to get what you intended from him, and he wanted that for you. It was wrong—oh, so wrong—but who was he to deny you of that? Of him?

And fuck it, maybe he wanted this more than he initially let on.

He nodded.

You shifted and your body now sat beside Hugh as he stayed down for you, his body weight resting on his meaty pillar of an arm. You felt warm and tingly in all the right—and wrong—places as you reached for the fabric of his pajama pants.

You pulled the clothing over his cock and your face reddened at the sight of him. You were gentle with it, your warm hand shaking slightly as you wrapped it softly, carefully, around the base of him.

“You have no idea how often I’ve thought about this,” you whispered, giving him a slow stroke. He was warm in your hand and you could feel him twitch, sucking in a sharp breath.

“I could tell,” he whispered with slight grin and a follow-up swallowed groan as you continued to stroke him. “You were obvious with your signs, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl. Pretty girl. Pretty girl? You liked that a lot. Of course, you had been called that before by other exes, but something about hearing it from him in this context made you whine—audibly whine—and it embarrassed the fuck out of you.

“Oh, you like that? My sweet, pretty girl,” the man crooned, stroking your [insert color] hair back—a soft, intimate caress you would have never expected from him barely a week ago.

He watched you pull his cock again, rubbing the pre-cum over his tip with your thumb, making him breathe harder. “Y/N, pretty, I’m gonna need that mouth on me soon, fuck.”

He twitched again, getting desperate, watching your face grow a pretty flushed pink. You leaned forward and glided the tip over your bottom lip, his pre-cum wetting it. Hugh wanted nothing more than to frame the image in his head forever.

“Just tell me what to do. I’ll listen.”

You’ll listen? Where had this sudden version of you come from?

You began to kiss up the length of him. He swallowed another groan, his grip on your hair a little tighter now as his hips involuntarily bucked upwards. “I like seeing you like this, pretty girl. Honest with yourself. Do you think you can swallow whatever shame you might feel tomorrow?”

“I’ll try anything for you, Hugh.” You blinked up at him as you went back to slow strokes. That’s all you wanted. To behave. To be good. To let an emotion take over for once.

“You can’t use a safe word—”

Safe word?

“—with me in your mouth so tap twice on my thigh if you don’t want any more. If you want to stop or take a break. I hope you know I’ll be gentle with you.”

He’d never be angry or upset if you wanted to stop.

You loved the way even his sweeter, more considerate words in a sexual setting turned you on profusely. You smiled and kissed the hairy space just above his cock. “A famous big-time actor being thoughtful of others?”

“How bloody unheard of,” he mumbled back, matching your playful energy.

You looked up at him, seeking a green-light with your eyes. He gently twirled your hair on the left side of your head around his finger, seemingly studying your face, before he reached forward with both hands and pulled your hair back in a make-shift ponytail that he held together with only his right hand.

It was his permission.

You had no need for hesitation, quickly leaning down to take the head of his cock into your warm mouth and, despite yourself, moaning softly in relief. You’d been dreaming about this all year, just as he had—though his desire was maintained a secret much better than yours. You could feel the raging throb of your poor unstimulated clitoris as you took more of him.

“Fuck, that mouth…” he mumbled, wiping with his thumb as some of your own saliva coated the corner of your lips. “Have you really been hiding how much of a desperate slut you are?”

The derogatory words coming from his mouth shocked you, but did not disturb you. You tried your best to confirm his question, a muffled mm-hm leaving your throat.

“Yeah? Are you like this with every cock?”

Your stomach twisted at the thought that perhaps he did this with all the younger women—all his “pretty” assistants.

You let out a small mm-mm sound, denying his previous question. No, Hugh, only for you.

He gave you a low groan as your hand trailed up his thigh while you sucked him off. It was almost like a reward. He waited—almost hoped—for you to tap his thigh, signaling your stop, but you didn't. You didn’t even think of it.

You did, however, pull back, nearly choking but somehow managing to keep it down. You blinked your tears away and pushed yourself forward, wrapping your arms around his torso—bare chest to bare chest.

He hardly had time to return your affectionate gesture before you kissed along his jaw until you reached his mouth. You kissed him fiercely and he didn’t even seem to mind that your mouth had just been wrapped around his leaking cock. He couldn’t care less.

He promised himself not to have feelings for you that went beyond friendship and natural lust, but you were making that impossible.

What made you so fucking irresistible?

You pulled away, breathless. “I want you to fuck my mouth, Hugh. The way no man has.”

Your words were quiet, whispered, but so very filthy. Enticing, really.

He did as you asked.

He really did.

Hugh was gentle at first, scooping your hair up into a makeshift ponytail again. You were kneeling on the bed platform now, giving yourself more ease to suck at the level you were at and him the ability to move you as he pleased.

At first he pulled you down onto his cock, easing you into it—giving some opportunity to retract your wish—but when you proved you could take him, he began to truly fuck your mouth.

He wasn’t brutal. It wasn’t exactly what you expected. You thought he would be careless of your safety and mean, even. You had given him a chance to truly do anything he wanted and he chose… this.

It was so much better than you expected, but fuck, you were wondering now if he meant more to you than you had ever wanted him to.

He was firm with his strokes, but only pushed you to the limit, making you drool around his cock. You liked that he held your head still while you let him thrust into your mouth, pulling out to the tip and thrusting back in.

Even more so, you loved how he talked to you.

“God, look at you. My pretty assistant who could’ve been helping with something else this whole time,” he groaned, eyes dark as he looked down at you. “Taking it so well.”

His gaze was hooded as he pushed you down as far as he knew you were comfortable with, and he let out a low moan that went straight to your own arousal. “Fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t believe how easy it was for him to make your stomach flutter.

“You look so innocent—make quite the show being the perfect, sweet assistant in front of me all year, but you’re a bloody cockslut when you want to be, huh?” He was testing the dirty talk, giving you a glimpse of the degradation you had somehow known he was capable of.

You liked it. You liked him being mean in a specific context.

He could work with that.

His head was clouded in pleasure as he watched you drool down your chin. You were a goddamn dream, and he knew this had been the right decision. Morally wrong? Sure. But the right decision for the two of you and your pining.

He pulled out from your mouth suddenly, feeling himself get too close to finishing. He didn’t waste any time, for he was already five steps ahead.

Eyes looked down at you with intent, hands running over your inner thigh as you waited for what he would do next. You’d pictured that expression of his so many times, bit down on your tongue behind books held up to your face to get this very mental image away.

His hand had moved down to your wetness, giving your clitoris a few firm circles as he positioned himself closer between your already-spread legs. He smiled—that fucking stupid smile you loved—while his thumb rubbed over your bundle of nerves, making you shudder as you bit down on your bottom lip.

“What do you like?” he asked, his thumb’s pattern unwavering. “What makes you feel good, pretty?”

Honestly? You could cum just like this. Him touching you slowly, looking down at you with that beautiful, intimidating face. But you knew he wouldn’t like that answer. You didn’t want to seem so pathetic, either.

“I’m okay with anything you give me, but I…” you swallowed, a shaky exhale leaving your lips, “I just want you, Hugh. Please.”

He looked like he was taking note, nodding at your words. He smiled when you let out the softest accidental moan, as if he were becoming all-too-aware of how easy you were to please. How desperate you really were after all.

Before you could wrap your head around what was to be, his lips were kissing yours so passionately and brutally that you tasted blood from your bottom lip.

It’s as if he had no real care in the world; he just left his hardened cock visible to your eyes as he began to insert a finger into you. You tightened your grip on his free arm, becoming a quick mess of moans and heavy breathing with only the use of one finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters quietly as he pulls his finger out.

You are sure your face goes beet red. He finally starts to slowly push his cock inside of you, stopping once only his head was inside. You weren’t sure when he had shifted himself in order to do so.

He took a deep breath. He was more wound up than he had thought he was and your walls already squeezing the head of his cock weren’t helping as he did his best to hold himself back instead of just pounding into you. After all, he did promise gentleness.

Inch by inch, his cock dragged against the inside of your walls. You whimpered and moaned, your eyes shutting despite your burning desire to watch his face. He kept his thrusts slow, making sure to drag every inch, every vein up against that sweet spot inside of you. You were starting to get more vocal, your breathing picking up and eyelids closing shut.

He pressed his thumb to your clitoris once again, rubbing it to the same rhythm of his thrusts. Your hips started to move with him, like you were urging him to start moving faster.

So he did.

Your orgasm had you tightening around his cock and he fucked you through it. He leaned forward, almost folding you in half to capture your lips with his. You moaned into the kiss, your legs locking around his hips and your fingers finding their way into his hair. He kept his thrusts shallow now, barely coming out of you before bottoming out again. “Hugh…”

He gave a particularly hard thrust in response, making your eyes shut once again and your back arch as you whimpered. He set a more brutal pace, chasing after his own pleasure now.

Your nails began to dig into the meat of his ass and your legs locked around his hips, bringing him closer to you.

“You’re such a good girl. Such a pretty girl.”

“Yes,” you gasped. You were struggling to string sentences together, your brain overwhelmed from the pleasure. “God, yes, keep going, Hugh, please…”

His kisses had become sloppy and his rhythm erratic. He felt his orgasm quickly approaching.

One.

“God, fuck…”

Two.

“You feel so fucking good…”

Three more pumps of his cock and he was burying himself as deep as he could possibly get, releasing deep inside of you. He lets out a low, guttural moan.

He collapsed against you, catching himself on his forearms so that he wouldn’t crush you. He kissed your neck, making his way up to your jaw, cheek, and, finally, your lips.

You sighed softly, parting your lips to let his tongue slip inside of your mouth. Your legs were still wrapped around him, keeping him inside of you—exactly where you wanted him to stay. Bodies entangled.

“Will you explain the new film to me?” you whispered, your gaze nowhere near his own, but rather focused on the lips of the object of your desire—the same lips you had kissed only moments ago. “In detail.”

He pulls out with a grunt and lies beside you on the mattress.

“You’ve read the script,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in your chest. “You know what it is better than I do.”

You reach for his hand, lean back, and move it to your bare, practically-abused sex. You slowly swipe his finger between your slick folds before moving it away.

You look up at Hugh and move his now-wet finger towards his mouth. Understanding what you wanted in mere seconds, he opens his mouth and allows himself to taste you in an image that had you nearly swooning.

“Tell me anyway, Hugh…”

He wouldn’t have ever truly declined your request no matter how much he feigned logical hesitance.

You listened to him speak while his fingers trailed back down to your sensitive heat underneath blankets and the dead silence of the night of which would soon once again be interrupted by his whispered sweet nothings and your soft gasps.

Neither of you could quite get enough.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

hi, i have a miguel request! love your writing and thank you so much for taking on all these requests ♥️

miguel knows reader has a crush on them because he can hear their heart picking up everytime they're close and he likes them to. they're cordial and friendly with each other because the reader wants ro respect miguel's boundaries and miguel's not sure reader would want to be with someone that has his baggage. however he can't help but be a little touchy with them somtimes (little things - like moving them out of his way with a gentle hand on the waist, webbing their chair and pulling them closer to show them something, standing a little too close when they talk or picking something from a higher shelf from RIGHT behind them) he feels guilty and like an ass too because he knows the effect he has on reader but isn't (planning on) acting on it. (reader is also quite professional, except for the occasional blush there's no other indication that they like miguel, no one would really know if it wasn't for their superpowers) they are also not a spiderperson so miguel is extra hesitant to get involved with a regular human.

this is until reader and him are in a compromising situation where they're hiding or sneaking around for some mission and miguel puts his hand over reader's mouth on instinct in the middle of them talking when he senses someone nearby and hisses something vaguely authorative (maybe like quiet down now or shut up works too) and they're already pressed together agains a wall (miguel's protecting reader in case things go south) he not only hears their heart pick up but senses that they're aroused too and he can't really stay professional anymore :))

I'm so sorry this is so long!! please forgive me 😭

love you and hope you're taking care of yourself in the midst of being so damn talented and dedicated to all this writing!

hii!! this so effing cute!?? and the ideas you gave- just mwah. you’re so incredibly sweet, thank you and love you!! thanks for requesting, hope you like it💌

will they, won’t they

miguel o’hara x fem!reader

wc || 688

・₊✧ masterlist + taglist

There was an unspoken thing between you and Miguel, a feeling of uncertainty as if there's something often left unsaid. You and Miguel had a professional yet, flirtatious dynamic— a connection filled with friction, tension and longing.

You liked Miguel, you liked him a lot, but you were proficient. You knew better than to give into a silly little work crush, especially one that is unlikely to be reciprocated. You hid your desire for him well, concealed every reaction when he'd enter a room, every giggle when he'd ask you about your day. It wasn't always easy to disguise your feelings, sometimes your body would betray you, and you'd blush or smile when he looked your way. 

Miguel was often an enigma to you. He could be so distant and cold, yet so tender and sweet. He would show little gestures and remarks that were tricky not to overthink. He would frequently lay a gentle hand on your lower back to get past you or web your chair to bring you to him. Moments when Miguel stood so close behind you, his torso would be flush to your back as he'd help you reach from a high shelf, or times when his gaze would flicker to your lips in the midst of conversation. He'd do seemingly little and harmless things that often confounded you. It felt like he was battling his feelings and instincts, which ultimately made it confusing for you. 

You were unsure where you stood with him. Some days he'd be touchy and flirty and on others, bitter and uninterested. You knew Miguel had a troublesome past, so you were patient. You were aware of the struggles he had gone through, and you understood why he was so hesitant when initiating something new. 

So today, when you two were assigned to go on a mission to another dimension, you were naturally wary about the situation. You and Miguel have never been on a task together, so you were uncertain how he would act when it was just the pair of you, what version of himself he would be. 

Unfortunately for you, he was back to his cold self. Frankly, you were sick of being left astray and you wanted to express it.

"What is your problem?" you ask, emphasising your frustration. "You won't even say two words to me— Miguel?" you frown, chasing after his long strides. "What's your issue with me?" you ask, eyes squinting.

He avoids your questioning, continuing his quickened pace down the dark streets of Brooklynn. "I haven't got one," he mumbles, looking over his shoulder to you before resuming his visual assessment of the area.

"Miguel," you repeat, speaking louder and more agitated, tugging on his arm, trying to halt him. "There clearly is,"

"Can you not talk for a second," he murmurs, keeping his eyes glued ahead. 

"Don't tell me to shut up,"

"I didn't. I told you to stop talking," Miguel's features pull together in annoyance, stalking towards you, gripping your arm. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Shut up," he repeats, his eyes firm as he pulls you into the nearby alley, immediately caging you against the wall. "Just— quiet, please," he says softly. He covers your mouth, holding his palm over your chin, muffling your words as he stares down at you. His eyes are vigilant and gallant, almost like he's trying to protect you. "Just shush one second," he whispers, leaning to your ear. 

At that moment, you knew your gag was up. Your heart was wildly thumping in your chest, and you knew Miguel was aware of the effect he had on you. He didn't need to say anything— his cocky expression told you all you had to know.

"They gone?" you muffle in his palm, looking up at him eagerly.

He nods once, keeping his hand over your mouth, gazing down at you with lustful eyes. "They're gone," he whispers, slowly sliding his hand to your jaw, cupping your face upwards. "They're gone, querida." (darling) Miguel says quietly, his voice hoarse as he leans in, hesitantly brushing your lips with his like he was debating with himself.

— — — — — — — — — — ☆ — — — — — — — — — —

@sunshiines-stuff @queerponcho @selfryed @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser

[iamcalmdammit]

Positive || [Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader]

Summary: Ghost finds out you're pregnant with his child.

Warning: None. Fluffish angst.

Ghost stormed into your room without a warning and slammed the door after himself so violently that the whole room shaked in its wake. You almost had a heart attack, but quickly recovered enough to jump up and watch him with arms crossed over your chest, giving him the best disapproving look you could pull off in this situation.

In reality your heart was beating way too fast, as if it was about to escape from between your ribs. There were so many things left unsaid between the two of you that now you hated the thought of being alone with the lieutenant. Every single time you were paired up with him on a mission, you tried your best to stay invisible--you followed his orders without a word and kept communication to the bare minimum.

But now you had no chance to run away from him. You watched his chest rise and fall as he breathed, his eyes locked on you as he waited for something. You didn't dare to ask what it was all about, afraid it would only enrage him. Then your eyes moved to his hand and you realized he was holding a smaller paper bag. What was this all about?

"Are you feeling better?" he suddenly asked you.

At first you didn't know what in the hell he was talking about, but then you remembered. You hadn't felt well in the morning and asked Price to let you rest for a while. But that was a private conversation, you weren't expecting him to tell everyone about your medical issues.

Ghost suddenly took a step closer to you as he waited for your answer. Why did he have to be so damn intimidating? "I do, thanks," you managed to say after a little too long. "Did you come here just to ask me that?" you wondered out loud.

Shaking his head, Ghost threw the paper bag to you. You gave him a surprised look, but instead of answering, he only motioned you to take a look inside. So you opened the bag and found two pregnancy tests in it. What the hell was he doing?

"I'll wait," was all he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"I remember my sister-in-law's symptoms from the time she was pregnant," he explained calmly, although it was easy to tell he was all tensed up. "Let's see if I'm right. I brought two just to be sure."

"Even if I was pregnant--which I'm definitely not--what would you have to do with it?"

His gloved fingers curled into a fist as he considered what to say. You had a feeling that you already knew why he was so invested in this theory, but a part of you wished you were wrong. "You're working under my command, sergeant, I need to know if you're pregnant or not. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you or the baby."

"And you think that's the way to do it?" you asked, relieved to hear it was just that. "If I found out I was pregnant, I would tell Price who would then pass the news on to you."

Shaking his head, Ghost drew in a sharp breath which he soon blew out slowly to even his breathing. "That's not the right way to do it if I'm the father," he then said.

This was exactly what you were afraid to hear. Once--just once you both lost control and slept together after drinking some of the Scotch whisky Soap brought with him straight from home. That was the first and so far only time he took off the mask in front of you, too lost in the desire and alcoholic haze to think straight anymore.

Letting out a sigh, you ran a hand through your hair. "Ghost, that only happened once, what makes you think--"

"Have you slept with anyone beside me in the past weeks?" he interrupted you harshly.

"That's none of your business," you replied defensively.

The answer was simple: you didn't. You lacked the time and energy to go out and meet new people, but you were too proud to admit you didn't really have a life outside of work. Sure, you visited your family every now and then, but you didn't have friends in the traditional sense of the word.

Ghost saw through you without a problem. "So you did not," he stated before pointing at the bag in your hand. "Do the test. Now."

"Don't make me do this."

"Y/N," he warned you with a growl.

You closed your eyes for a second to think. Running away would have been an issue. He was standing in your way, and even if you managed to escape, where would you go? So you nodded and went to the bathroom to do as he ordered.

The minutes were passing painfully slowly. As you sat there on the floor, your eyes fixed on the two tests, you began to think about your options. Were you ready to be a parent? Would you have to do it alone? Ghost being here and looking so concerned made you think he would want to be a part of the child's life.

But how would that work with your line of work? You didn't want to quit, to give up your current lifestyle for having a family. As of this moment your maternal instincts were nonexistent, you couldn't even imagine what it would be like to be a parent. To be a single mom, no less.

When your phone began to vibrate next to you, you knew it was time to find out the truth. You took a deep breath, held it in for a few seconds, then slowly exhaled. You got this. It was definitely food poisoning, nothing more. Ghost was just being paranoid. You crawled over to the tests and took a look at them.

Fuck.

A minute or two later you were snapped out of your thoughts by a banging sound. Ghost was growing impatient as he had previously checked how much time it would take. He knew you knew the result by now.

"So?" he asked when you opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom.

"Negative," you told him with a forced smile.

"Both of them?"

You nodded. "Yes."

Ghost didn't seem convinced because he shook his head and held out his hand. "Let me see."

"I threw them out."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he groaned before pushing you out of the way and marching into the bathroom. Closing your eyes, you walked over to your bed and sat down on the edge, mentally preparing for what was about to come. "They are positive!" Ghost shouted, showing you the two tests when he got back to you.

Raising your hands defensively, you gulped and tried your best to calm him down. "Okay, now, don't be mad," you said quietly.

"How in the hell wouldn't I get mad, huh? You lied into my face," he snapped after he threw the tests on a nearby table. After letting out a long sigh, he sat on the bed next to you and reached out to wipe your tears away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you, I just…"

Shaking your head, you took one of his gloved hand in yours and watched it in silence. Even now that he was furious, Ghost was keeping himself under strict control. The night you spent together was probably the only time you saw him let loose for a short while. But you were pregnant. The two of you would have a child of you decided to keep it, and this was a matter that had to be discussed.

Before you could say anything, you saw him take off the mask and carefully put it aside. "Do you want this child?" he asked softly.

"I don't know. Right now the answer is closer to no," you admitted. "What about you?"

He thought about it for a while, but eventually he said, "I had a poor excuse of a father growing up so I promised myself that if I ever had the chance, I would be a good dad to my kid."

"So the answer is yes," you noted before you let out a humming sound. "We need to think about it. We are in this together, it would be selfish of me to make this decision on my own."

"So let's do that," Ghost told you with a smile, his free hand reaching up to caress your cheek as he spoke.

A part of you hated him for acting like this, being so gentle and considerate. You couldn't blame him for losing control, though, but you sure as hell didn't want to experience it again.

Before you knew it, he had his lips on yours, cautiously testing if you were okay with him kissing you. You were more than okay with it. You wanted him ever since that night, you had an overwhelming need every single time you were near each other. Just a simple touch of the hands would have been enough to make you burst into flames.

"I want you to go home now," he suddenly told you.

"Ghost, you–"

"Simon. I'm the father of your child, you can't keep calling me Ghost when we're alone," the lieutenant said, sounding surprisingly vulnerable. "And I know you don't want to go anywhere, but you need to see a doctor. I'll talk to Price."

Shaking your head, you squeezed his hand and gulped loudly. "You can't tell him. Please, let's not tell anyone."

He smiled at you briefly before leaning over to kiss you again, this time settling for a quick, soft kiss. "He already has his own suspicions, don't worry. And I won't tell anyone else apart from him, okay? Trust me," he added.

"Won't you get into trouble for getting your sergeant pregnant?" you suddenly asked.

After licking his lower lip nervously, Ghost shook his head. "Price won't make a big deal out of it hopefully, and we can tell the others you have a boyfriend back home."

Nodding, you accepted his words. You rested your head on his broad shoulder and thought about the next step. Now that you know he wanted this child, it was up to you to make your own decision.

"Can I go and talk to Price with you?" you suddenly asked.

Ghost took your hand. "Sure. Maybe it's for the better."

Soon you were standing in front of the captain like two students who did something wrong and now had to go see the principal. Well, in a military sense you actually did something wrong, so no wonder you felt like that. You could tell even Ghost was tense, although it wasn't as obvious as it could have been without the mask.

But Price understood. He scolded Ghost for all of this, sure, but apart from that he seemed happy for the two of you. "Ghost, you go with her. If anyone asks, I'll tell them you're making sure she gets home safe," he said in the end.

"Captain, I can go alone. I'll keep Ghost updated," you promised.

Shaking his head, Price pointed at Ghost. "His head will be with you. If he can't focus on the mission, he's no use for us."

And he was right. You couldn't risk others' lives because of this. Ghost apparently understood this as well, because he let out a sigh and said, "All right, I'll go with her. Thank you."

•••••••••••••

taglist: @untoldshortsofthefandoms

[trlblzd]

fwb situation with stelle i mutter into the wind with my hands clasped together hoping to be heard by the higher entities

[therealslimshakespeare]

MotA Fanfiction: John Brady and first person/reader/insert no use of y/n.

18+: John Brady had me at “like you told me” five seconds before “son of a bitch that’s France” and now we’ve got seven kids and a mortgage. The following could be a very existential diary page about the first few months of that marriage.

But basically, John Brady makes me rabid: here have some purple prose smut about it mixed into an essay on happiness

My mother readied me for many things but not for this. I dig through the archives of her heavy advice, her off handed comments, her jubilant prognostications, all I keep so dutifully in my mind, and I search for some hint from her that she knew it could be like this. But I find nothing, it is all too weak or strong or wordy.

Did it not come in words?

Were her misty eyes when she settled the veil over my face the true meaning of it? Had I mistaken her emotion as a presentment of missing me when it was instead tremulous excitement for what was in store? Had she known when she wrapped me in white and insisted it fit me lovingly to my proportions that it was not tidiness and appreciation for good seams but instead, that holy knowledge of what more awaited me? That a wedding dress in its fit reflects what happens when the groom removes it?

She knew I had myself a good man. Did she suspect how well he’d fit me?

And I thought it was merely cloth, I had been too busy even for my own wedding. I was too busy loving him, the idea of him, of him being mine. Perhaps if we had met in peacetime, if he had courted me between his hours at the office and my semesters I would have looked forward to my wedding, planned each detail and worried over all manner of things that brides are said to care about.

But we had not; I’d no sooner loved him than he’d gone, and no sooner had death returned him on loan than I married him. I loved him and everyone else but me seemed to know what that meant as he kissed frosting from my wrist.

I had thought I’d known at the registry office, signing in ink my name, scrawling a practiced B that ended with a flourished Y.

Mrs. Brady.

I’d thought I’d known then. I had given the benign judge a saucy smile of the fully enlightened. I had no idea. To ask me if I was happy that day would have been a good joke, to ask me if I could be happier when we waved out a window chalked with news of our nuptials: it would have been more than half insulting.

I was happy. I thought I knew. And that night, what little doubt I had about the gaps in my theory, he filled. Love in its rawest form, breaking me apart, making a place for himself, I clung to his shoulders; this part my mother had told me of. She told me it got better; I can’t speak to that. He was pushing and petting and I endured until surrender turned to fascination and again to arousal by his rhythm, the concrete sense of his need, the clarity of his release. And still I was urging my sweet boy to take and take; it did not get better, it got sublime. I could not fault my mother for her faulty preparations, even though I think she knew -for her own sake I hope she knew. There are no words for it when two bodies become one, minds meld and he finds his way eased by your blood till he’s in so deep you think he’s probed at your heart. I don’t hear of people speaking about that part, and mother didn’t tell me, but I think they know.

I am quite forgiving of her that night, I thought I knew then, I assumed what she left unsaid, it was merely out for lack of vocabulary. Lying beside him, having tasted heaven, I am generous. She tried. I know.

He had put a pillow under my hips before he opened me, it tilted me kindly for his invasion and I wonder who told him of that. His innate desire to please had long ago led me to find he was good at kissing, and that he liked to kiss me everywhere. He was as delighted by the back of my knees as he was by my throat, and he forgot all reason when he tasted between my thighs, only his firm and unyielding hands on my hips gave a mottled clue he kept at such kissing for his own satisfaction as much as mine.

I know that I am happy then, on my wedding night, and next morning I am happier still. I might try at being cross with my own self, for sabotaging my arrival at absolute knowledge except that I cannot help but be giddy for it; he loves to kiss me, my boy, and he has a warm blush on his face in the sunlight, this first morning I’ve woken up beside him, and his hands are already busy with me. Mine grow busy with him and I know this is how we will spend our days, kissing with him inside me, and I am happy.

No one who encounters me in the coming weeks can doubt it. My parents whisper amongst themselves, his too, church members and fellow servicemen. My Johnny is not settled with a job and so we lodge at various places in the next two months, and soon each of our hosts knows it, too. It cannot be stifled beneath his quieting palm when he breaks me apart, thin walls and no place to call our own except the harbor of my body, that’s his home and he goes into it. Often and more vigorously each time until I associate happiness with the most alarming strength of exertion from the lithe length of him rolling against mine, noses to toes; I draw blood from his hand.

Even my boy is beginning to see: he makes me happy. He has the most melancholy eyes, my boy, I recalled them as being calm and observant before he went away. But he has observed too much though he never says so, and out of his army greens there is not a speck of baby blue left in them, they’re cold gray and the only time I see them sparkle are when I’ve made him laugh so hard a tear rolls down his creased cheeks. I am impatient with his happiness, I know it and I know I’m wrong for it, but I miss the sky blue of them and the way I didn’t used to have to guess at what roils beneath them.

If he can’t feel happiness as thoroughly as me, he at least presents with quiet confidence as he finds a peacetime footing, there is a job offer in Maryland and we take our first road-trip. He is full of plans and maps and well drawn schedules and I am full of 55 mph breezes up the nose, feet in his lap and face hung out the window merrily, there are endless rows of pines and the feel of bark against my back at the rest pavilion. More, more, more, I demand of him and he gives it, it’s happiness turned hungry, greedy, close to vicious. Happiness that needs topping off.

We fight that night before his interview. A silly thing, inconsequential, hotel room adding to the displaced feeling I have begun to feel after our adventure calmed into adult necessity. He is preoccupied with being excellent and I am preoccupied with happiness. Chiefly if I make him happy or not; this is the first night he has not been so undivided in his passion and I allow it to vex me. I am young and I am happy and I guard it jealously, thinking that holding it -gripping him- tight fistedly desperate about it, will keep it all the closer.

“I am doing this for us.” his tone cuts me, I have admired it slashing others but it has never been directed at me before. He is wiser than I am and a self proclaimed cynic. I think he is fighting me in my happy quest, but, “For us, I’m doing this for us.”

His fingers dig into my cheeks and it is assurance enough. I have to agree that even heaven must have some maintenance work intruding on the celestial revels from time to time.

By the time I stand on the bed and cinch his tie the next morning before his interview, I have never been more in love. I am happy, yes, but there is admiration for him there too, but I struggle with finding a place for it.

Love, it seems, multiplies and I remain fixated with happiness in its tidiest form. Like the moment we cut the cake. I ask him that night if he has ever felt that, felt it simple and tidy.

“I feel a million things about you.” he swears instead; his tone suggests it is the most devout compliment.

I pray for wisdom next Sunday. I can feel that there is more to happiness than I know and it unsettles me. Our fight has long been made up but those million things that Johnny thinks and knows of me haunt the little life I try to construct, they haunt it as badly as whatever plagues his dreams at night.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” he begs a hundred times to me night after thrashing night; he suggests the sofa, I won’t hear of it. The bruises his flailing limbs land on mine are no darker than those he makes in calculated romance. His dreams respond to the feeling of my hands on his belly, he wakes easily with it, I have something to wake for and it is not perfect or quiet or even gentle always, but I am in love and when he allows me, I feel powerful and needed, hands on his belly, a thin tickle of hair beneath my palm. “You’re an Angel.” he swears to me, lips warm and plush against mine, I am so in love.

My cycle stops soon after the interview trip. I wait until I am sure to tell him one night, we are sprawled across our bed gasping back breath and I tell him, simple and direct as he prefers. I had wanted him one last time before he thought of me as a madonna. It had not been so different, I had been preoccupied with the child but I had also found my peak, and he had grasped greedily at my breasts, my nipples knotting beneath his fingers and only a lingering soreness in them to remind me of my secret. With his seed dripping from me, redundant and warm, I tell him.

“A baby?” My husband’s eyes glow, he cups my face like I am holy, his lips thank me with kisses to my nose and eyelids, “We’re havin’ a baby?”

He is all preparedness now. Striding with purpose and when he kisses me he is kissing the mother of his child; he gets the job in Maryland. We tell my parents of our happy news before we go, it surprises no one and yet there are celebrations as if we waited a decade. My Johnny is pleased and his smile is fixed, but I remember him when I told him, the glow about him, the naked press of him to me, his kisses on my belly. These are things I wish I could tell my mother -these are things that make me happier. Even more than the child itself.

On the way back to Maryland, our car trip is sedate, I eat ginger candies to quell the nausea and Johnny contemplates an unspoken thing. When I contemplate at all I think of driving down here over a month ago and the feeling of bark behind me and his hips snapping into me. I wonder if our child was made in the pines -how very different a few weeks makes a trip. He has foregone smoking his pipe indoors out of consideration for my queasy stomach.

“There’s somebody out here I should see.” He answers me at the gas pump, knowing I can tell he is preoccupied.

One of his crew lives off this exit, it’s why he’s filling up when the tank is half full. Johnny says he should go see him, and where he goes I will too.

Waist gunner Timmons is missing both legs. Together he and Johnny speak of bonds and education, his new job and the likelihood of drought, tidbits about the other boys' peacetime business failures, they laugh without malice. They laugh at themselves too. When taking our leave Johnny tells him our news. It makes me blush and I don’t know why, I was proud of our making the child. I should be proud of our finished product. I see him slip a hefty dollared bill in the coat pocket of the garden cover by the door as we leave.

Johnny stops our car at the end of the long gravel drive and while it confuses me, I know he is in a turmoil. His fists suddenly slam against the steering wheel and his face goes red beneath its freckles.

“Baby?” I question him but then he is weeping, forehead pressed to his knuckles on the steering wheel, aggravating buzz of a fly against the windshield unheeded.

It’s ugly and hiccuping and half panicked, he can’t seem to stop though the angry set of his shoulders tells me he wishes to, and after helpless fluttering beside him, I undo my waist belt and slide over to his side, arm thrown over his shoulders, forcefully prying him from the wheel. He lays in my arms and weeps for what feels like hours, letting me hold him and swear to him and soothe him. I’ve never known him like this, he speaks of Whys and Who’s and What’s He Got Going For Him to Deserve So Much Good Luck.

I am his good luck, his lips tell me as they press to my belly, he has fully sagged into my lap in his misery. I am his good luck, me and the baby and the job in Maryland and it is the first time I’ve ever thought of happiness as guilt.

The first days in Maryland, I cannot say that he is happier but he looks at me more openly, the guarded set of his eyes is gone and something sheepish but trusting shimmers there instead. Still steel gray but I notice the flutter of lashes around them and the dusting of pink cheeks more often. We never speak about Timmon’s driveway but I come to realize with a jolt: he’s softer for having let me see one of his million parts. I know him better now and it shows in his loosened shoulders and his shy smiles, the almost joyous eagerness he has to begin life here.

We close on an offer on a house, brick with a little porch, a small front drive and boxy lawn but in back there is a tall whitewashed fence going round and garden beds that are empty and waiting. It’s a prize and we are both delighted and he swoops me up, light as a feather, and brings me over the threshold.

“You’ve been waiting to do that!” I realize, he didn’t do it on our wedding night at the hotel or any of our other lodgings.

“We’ve got ourselves a home.” he grins back and there is such relief in his face I wonder at how much concern he was harboring before.

I begin to watch my man the way he watches me, I think less and less of whether he is happy and more and more if he feels safe. It’s why I’ve made no move to couple since he has not, not since I told him of the baby. We have been traveling, then moving in our boxes and he has been feeling whatever it was he felt in Timmons driveway. Some modicum of selflessness takes up residence in my childish heart, allowing him to hold me and not demanding proof of happiness from him. He cradles my belly every night as we spoon and I can feel his lips quirking in smiles as he gently hums to our child.

I watch my husband like he first watched me, from the bandstand, boyish cheeks blown full and nimble fingers flying over brass keys, I knew I wanted him then before he did. I went after him fast and furious, unlike myself in the way I tenaciously kept our first halting conversations going, shocking myself with the way I fanned my skirts around his lap and let him play beneath them -he was better at that than talking and I obliged him ravenously. Told him he looked handsome in his uniform and he told me he’d like to marry me. He came back to me as promised, four years late, yet the happiness that his first glittery eyed glance sparked in me is something I crave now as if I have not dabbled in far more heady pursuits with him thus far. His child grows in my belly but I miss his blush when I first stared at him past his bunker behind his music stand.

He watched me first, I wanted him worse. His eyes were blue then.

I admit my petulance to my mother after a week at the new house. Not that I am so wanton as to be bereft after a ten day abstinence, but that I cannot seem to settle some gnawing resentment that has begun. Again, not over the coupling. I am not sure what it’s over. I love him more than ever, and yet, that first blush of blazing white happiness of our first few days has given way to a nurturing watchfulness, an almost heartbreaking sympathy, a self effacing desire for his joy that robs me of my own. I ask her for a remedy.

She tells me I loved the idea of him before, and now I love him. And love is not made of happiness alone. She tells me to talk to him. “If you don’t know what it is,” she says, “he may. He knows you.”

He loves a thousand million parts of me, he had said. And then I had scoffed, feeling so sure I was comprised of only one: happiness.

Amongst the other basic necessities of settling in, we do our best to scope out the town, having arrived on a Thursday we attended mass soon in the only Catholic Church to be found in the small place, we find the town’s rec hall more promising, I keep my eyes peeled for a music store. There is one in Millersville, I find it when I go to inspect a couch that caught my eye in the Hutzlers catalog.

I do not know if he needs reeds. He hasn’t played since he got back, he may have a stack of extras in some box. But the sentimentality fills me strongly, the memory of missing him and waiting for him and having no ability to reach him over there except by sending the packages. And each of his letters with their little sheepish addendum: please send more reeds.

I got up from dinner that night to give them to him. He had asked about my day and as if I had some horrid secret to cover I had choked on my descriptions of the couch until I had broken down and admitted there was more. I place the item beside his plate and he puts down his fork while I stand in suspense.

An innocuous plastic wrapped package of saxophone reeds was probably not what my Johnny was expecting but he lets out a cut off little laugh about it.

“Did you even need more?” I am weirdly in knots over it, fingers nervously bunching at my dress and he leaves off opening the package to slip his own into mine to prevent the tick.

“I did.” he murmurs warmly, pressing a kiss to my forearm that dangles beside him, “Thank you.”

“Is that why you’re not playing?”

He looks surprised. “I -just busy, I suppose?” he questions himself.

“I miss it.” vocalized at last, I realize just how much.

“Do you?” his lips curve in a smile against my arm and move across to my belly, the hot gusts of his affection damping my dress. “Well, if my sweetheart misses it…” his lips have moved so low along my dress I feel an ache where I am missing other things.

He cleans his instrument that night while sat at the table while I do the dishes, our clearing of it a joint endeavor. He fusses over the need to grease it and other things too technical to be questioned but I understand, it won’t be played tonight. But it’s good to see him at the familiar task, his affection and seriousness for his work both manifesting across his face.

The next day he goes with me to Hutzlers, his opinion on household furnishings having been impeccable thus far and far more decisive than my own. He humors my myriad of hypotheticals regarding comfort and staining and color schemes, hands shoved easily in his pockets and a gentle smile on his face, I know by look alone he is categorizing each of my expert arguments into tidy little categories that he will present to me again in fifteen minutes time when a decision must be made.

In the end we purchase a pale blue couch with roses imprinted tone on tone into the fabric. It was decided upon only after he had hauled me down to the cushions to see if it were a plausibly good place to kiss. I now wonder if we have gotten a blue couch instead of a peach one simply due to the fact it was further from the window and he felt free to dip me down over the arm for a brief half minute.

Either way, it is set in stone that our new couch will be blue and on the way to the cash register, he immovably halts at a counter displaying the most heart wrenchingly cute baby items.

“We have to get somethin’.” he sounds almost exasperated at the previous weeks’ oversight.

We leave with ten different things, not having agreed upon what gender our child will be and I am unable to argue that booties are always a sensible option for either sex, I also want to strangle the woman behind the counter whose over eager desire to help robs me of the unguarded delight Johnny was showing over the little things before she came up.

He is opening my car door and teasing me for being so mercurial when he himself turns mildly glum before a hard determination sets his jaw.

“What?” I question, half wondering if he sees some old acquaintance or is having some awful recollection. I can’t imagine what amongst this urban place and departmental hedonism could inspire it but, stranger associations have done so.

“It’s midway through September.” he mutters, keen eyes fixed at the store’s grand facade, hand still heavy on the window before closing my door.

“Yep.” I am at a loss.

“But the seasons are milder down here.” he is presenting a case of his own for something and all I can do is agree, Maryland is more temperate than New York.

“Your mother even gave me a book about the different zones.”

“Yeah.” he is pleased with my perceived understanding, face lighting up, “So it’ll stay warmer down here.”

“For longer.”

“Yeah.”

“Johnny? What?”

He seems to realize I’ve not understood what he keeps looking at so intensely across the parking lot. “I want to buy bushes and flowers but it’s September.” he admits.

An extravagance this late in the season, and my man is not extravagant. “They’re very pretty.” I settle for acknowledging, knowing this is something he must decide but he looks so torn I would do anything to smooth that creased brow.

“It would make the place more, I dunno,” he stares down at his hand on the still adjar car door and shrugs, “…homey?”

“Some things are perennial.” a little blossom of hope tinges my own voice, my mind had gotten away with me -if he is this invested while yet undecided, I cannot imagine what diligence he might display at husbandry were he to act on it. And there’s nothing I have grown to love more in all my watching than him at some diligence.

We don’t get them. But in the car on the ride back there is discussion that the place is only a fifteen minute drive. Which pertains to the delivery of our couch, and we must hurry back to have the front door opened and I wanted to sweep where it will be once more. The delivery boys thump the blue thing on our floorboards carefully and its large presence is exactly what Johnny was saying we needed -Hominess. Emphatic. Settled. Ours.

No sooner have they left with his kind tips in their pockets than he is pulling me down on it, a hungry imitation of his actions at the store with hands more risky and insistent. I have been missing him so badly I come apart easily from his finger’s ministrations between my legs, sidetracked in trying to pull off my panties and garter belt. When he sees me go, he takes mercy and lets up, a gentle swiping through his prized currency of sticky pleasure and I watch him bring those long fingers to his lips, sucking them clean.

“You taste different.” he admits with heavy lidded eyes, “Since…” he doesn’t finish his explanation of the change in my belly, the slight swollen pooch that is our child.

“Bad?” I ask with feminine panic at the very notion.

He is settled on his belly between my thighs, blue couch a plush landing beneath us both, “N’bad.” is emphatically mumbled against me and my legs kick out the buzz of his voice. By his vocal and insistent enjoyment of it, I cannot help but be assured. Not bad. I keen up at our ceiling as he wrings one and then two and then -he won’t stop and I am needy for it, enjoying the familiar span of his hand dominating my belly, only this time it is cupping my swollen womb. I settle in relief that the proof of my maternity beneath his palm does not deter him, or at least, distract. He hums into his messy work and noses at me where I am all lightning and pulsing need, his hips jerking down into our plush new addition each time I pull at his dark locks.

Different, he says of my taste, and wedges his face in deeper, his hips beginning to move with the movements of his face against my parts and I swear to him that he is good, that he is perfect, that I’ve missed him, that he is beautiful and that he should have gotten those flowers.

His corresponding laugh makes me gush onto his tongue and his humor turns into a moan that only prolonges my delicious agony. He pushes my legs wider so forcefully I think he would like to take them off entirely if he could, his face smothered in my heat.

“You have a job now.” I present a case of my own to him, about the flowers as I try to get on top of the feeling, it is too much and he is unrelenting and I try to grasp onto something that is not his rocking body and clever lips, “A very good job and a car and -and we have this house, a-nd a-a a very nice couch -aaah God!”

His grip on my hips is deathly as I list his accomplishments until he seems to seize and then sag, tongue grown listless at last as his lips part and a shuddering groan fans over my tacky thigh.

“And we deserve flowers.” I whisper hoarsely, petting the dark strands from out of his eyes.

He’s spent himself in his writhing, I can tell by the molten expression on his face when his eyes finally drag up to meet mine over the small swell of my stomach, and set off by our new couch, they are the sparkliest of baby blues.

I have never been more startled. Or pleased. I had forgotten to watch for it, and so it had returned of its own skittish volition. I cling to that glimmer of blue until his smile grows wider and his eyes flutter shut in exhaustion.

Happiness.

At the end that night, bathed and fed and having inspected our new assortment of infant wear and argued once more over the likely gender, he brings his instrument out of its case with the package of reeds in hand. He has been offered a part time job at the high school, teaching music. It would be a hobby, he protests against his own interest in it, it would take away from time with me and Little One.

“I could go, too.” I point out.

“You’d like that?” he is pleased, the lamp is too dim for me to discern if there is blue but his lashes flutter briskly and I kiss his cheek, it’s hot beneath my lips.

“I always love watching you play.”

Before he fits the reed to the mouthpiece he makes me close my lips around it, a red stain marking it after, much to his satisfaction.

“You’ll be teaching children!” I swat at him, utterly pleased despite my own remonstrance.

“And I am married.” he says as if it were a universal absolution for all things.

The clock strikes five fifteen the next evening and he is not back. I have a plentiful assortment of excuses to choose from to explain his variance from routine. Traffic, work, a waylaying colleague -he has only been at work a couple of weeks, it is absurd to expect a forever unchanging home time. By five forty I cannot pretend expectation of what may have occurred and so keep the meatloaf warm with its proper cozy and when there is a bustle at the front door, I sprint to it like he’s back home from the war again.

It’s well I opened the door myself, he was endeavoring to while juggling three large potted plants in his arms. There is dirt in his white collar and I let out a little whoop at his uncharacteristic impulsiveness, stepping aside to help him get them through to the back porch. It doesn’t even need discussing, the large sliding glass door gives a beautiful view of the backyard from the living room and it’s sheltering insures privacy and a deterrent from our children’s stray balls flying to the next lot. At least for a few years. And the plants will go in the empty beds at the perimeter.

It is a Friday, and we eat my tepid meatloaf in between his smooching apologies for having been tardy and garbled plans for where we will put each plant and how we will stagger them according to their eventual size. It was far more than the three pots he brought, the trunk and also the cab were full of fauna.

Our excitement next morning is idiotic, we manage to snicker at ourselves for being so domesticated that this inspires frenzy but the self awareness gets not further than that, I throw on my rattiest -and coolest- sundress and he his jeans and with only his white singlet, breakfast is inhaled while standing at the backdoor, last minute plotting being discussed between bites. And then we spend our entire Saturday at it.

Johnny digs the holes and carries the plants to their allotted places and only then allows me to gently labor in filling soil over the roots, we eat cold meatloaf and slug down ice tea under the afternoon heat, not even bothering to go inside. When I have no other job, I weed the beds in preparation, watching unreservedly the way his shoulders glisten in his hard work. I have caught him eying the neckline of my dress, the recent changes he has imposed on my body now ensuring it does not gap so much as bulge while I lean over and grasp the next offending dandelion. I know he is watching and he knows I am watching and we are happy at our work, tidy garden beds filling out and his tongue pressed to his top lip to catch a drop of sweat.

The sun is a glittering soft light through the western trees by the time we take stock.

“Nothin’ left to do but water them.” he has his arm over my shoulder, hand nearly brown with caked soil where it hangs against my smudged breast, his undershirt gone translucent from sweat, the oddest attraction to his underarm blooms in me as he huffs in satisfaction next to me. I press a kiss to the swell of his pec instead, he folds with a shocked giggle, he is ticklish.

“It’s very homey.” I pronounce, feeling indeed a bone deep satisfaction over our garden at our own house from our own hands. His elbow crooks further and he has my neck secure in the bend, golden hour light the prettiest thing in the world as he nuzzles our sweaty noses and slowly claims a kiss.

“Our kids are gonna get to play out here for years.” he seems to realize as he lays his head atop mine, his voice sounds so softly comforted I can feel my eyes smart with tears.

He can feel my nod beneath his chin. “And us.” I suggest.

“And us.” he agrees with a laugh, “I’m gonna mow.” He decides suddenly and he is giving me one more smooch before moving away, headed at a jog to the garage for his machine before the sun fully dips. Never one to leave a job slightly imperfect.

I water our new additions while he pushes the mower, strip after strip, along our back yard, closer and closer to complete perfection. I have little doubt that once he finishes this he may find yet another task and knowing we have done enough, I go inside as he finishes the last swaths and grab a tablecloth, an opened bottle of wine along with salami and a brick of cheese. I have these waiting for him on a cloth, laid upon his freshly shorn grass. He cuts the engine, I watch him as he heedlessly take off his soaked singlet and uses it to rub the grass from his eyes. He is beautiful, my boy, where tan skin blends to fair and a strong, lean back disappears into jeans. There are dimples on his back, right below that belt, I know them, I’ve traced them with my tongue.

“C’mon, we’ve done enough. Sit and look at how perfect it is.” I beckon and his face lights up at my little spread, sauntering over, undershirt still clasped in his hand.

“Im filthy.” he warns and runs his hand along his sweat sheened belly in a motion I find obscenely captivating.

I pat at the tablecloth, “So am I.” for my dress is soiled and I am sweaty and only my hands are really fit for food as I scrubbed them thoroughly.

He holds his own up to show their grimey palms yet sits himself beside me anyway, and I notice the callouses dotted along the pads of his hands. I want to kiss them, soil and all.

“Then I’ll feed you.” I reply to his unspoken question and bring a bite to his lips.

We toast each other with the wine, drinking from the bottle and we watch as dusk begins to throw her first veil over the golden light.

“I’m not nauseous anymore these days.” I report and he is sweetly relieved for me, I pull out the pipe I packed for him and hand it to him between salami rolls.

His eyebrow, mobile and ever so empathetic, asks if I am sure but I am, and I watch as the match recreates a golden glow on his face once more today as he lights up and I watch him with the most lazy feeling in the world as he watches our gardens go muted by dusk.

“We’ve really done it.” he observes, relief dripping in his voice, a long exhale tinges the air around me with sweet tobacco and I am reminded of courting, of chasing him down while trying to appear reserved. Of wanting him so badly I had little choice but to remain devoted. The smell of smoke in the street would stop me dead in my tracks, thinking of this young man an ocean away.

I think I know what he means but I need to be certain, and I find I am hungry to know everything, every bit of him. If his current happiness is placed in stark relief against some previous melancholy, I want to know that, too. “What have we done?” I ask teasingly, scooting nearer to him on the cloth and kissing at his shoulder. He smells of gasoline and grass and pipe smoke. And I taste salt when I lick my lips.

“We’ve got ourselves a home.” he grins so easily, my boy, and if it were earlier in the summer there might be fireflies out in the twilight. “And you’re not nauseous anymore.” he giggles.

I’ve wanted long enough these many weeks, when my lips trail from the meat of his shoulder to his beautiful neck, he cannot mistake my intentions.

“O-out here?” he stutters out, hissing at the end by my bite on his fragile throat, i place my hand on his jeans and palm at him. There is still nothing so thrilling to me than the feel of a man firming, the way he awakes to me and only me and at my least whim, even while his mouth is all stuttering questions and his eyes are startled shimmering pools. He is always surprised when I initiate, as if he can imagine his own desire being that needy but not my own, he is always surprised and I realize it may be the only one of the million parts he does not fully know of me: how badly I love him at all times. “N-now?” he is rocking denim clad hips into my palm and their fit has grown impossibly taut.

I have the zipper down, my hand meeting the sweat soaked crease of his thigh and wiry curls that are equally wet from his work, when I wrap my small fist around him, he is clammy and pulsing in my hand. It should be revolting, perhaps, with dirt and gasoline and sweat acting like a gritty lubricant, but nausea has been replaced by something else hungry and while he may have found comfort in having provided the necessary civilian checklist for our lives, I am a woman whose body he has forever altered with his child and I have never loved anything so much as watching him at work. I want to smell it, feel it, taste the gritty earth of the man who has renovated my very flesh.

“Yes, now,” I beg, giving him one last squeeze before I lay myself back, sundress riding up my thighs, “I want you to take me under our gardenia.”

He watches me raptly, boyish eyes fawn-like and batting lashes fluttering like moth wings in the dim light; he rises to his knees and stays there as I unbutton my soiled dress. There are twenty four buttons to the hem and I make theater of each until I am bare. More than he anticipated, for while at work I did enjoy the last bit of clement weather on all my parts.

He makes a pained noise of want at the sight, maybe he too loves the sheen of sweat that makes us both shimmer in the far off patio light, how it reflects off my swelling belly, breasts grown large enough my necklines are impossible to keep discreet. I stop him from tasting me with a foot to his clavicle, I love his mouth but I want to be taken. And he indulges me, shimmying between the parted scraps of my dress and laying himself against my body, denim rough and thrilling against my bare thighs, the slightest space between our bellies lest he crush me. I am hardly large enough for it to be a concern but I can see his fascination with it, his preoccupation, his hair hangs into his eyes as he stares down at where his desire parts my petals and I can feel the drag of him against me, sweat and unabashed want making a swamp of me.

I peak and thrash from the torture of his steady grind alone, and in a typical moment of firm implacability, I feel my husband press into me while I am yet writhing. He scoops the back of my knees into the crook of his elbows, leaning over me with mischief on his face as he folds me, “You started this.” he still has enough self possession to remind before he gives into the grip of my heat and begins to move in me, engaging work-sore muscles not yet fully fatigued.

If my novel new shape has created some preoccupation, if my symptoms and moods had once ruled me in earlier weeks, it is worth it now for the way my body goes alight beneath him, electric delight curling my toes and fuzzing my sternum at each thrust, I respond to him half possessed and he snickers like he knew of this before me. I swell until my sheath is so tight it makes us both keen from it, slippery to the point of cacophonous. I claw at his back and his shoulders don’t stand a chance at remaining unmarred as he stays unperturbed and sweetly vicious inside me, jamming himself deeper. When I begin to scream he lets down a leg and cups my neck, forcing my mouth against his own.

He tastes of wine. I hook my toe into the denim of his waistband and tug it further down, till I can fully see the pale swell of his backside and I think the motion tickles him as he giggles in his rhythm. I can register that the air has grown cool as the sun fully deserts us, leaving us to it with a final curtain call on the happiest day I’ve ever known.

The force of our endeavor has shoved me up the blanket until I am well and truly beneath the far branches of our gardenia. I tilt my head up and smell the blossoms’ heady scent, their leaves and white flowers blending into the canopy of nightly stars beginning to show. Johnny’s warm face is tucked, groaning, into my neck, our bodies so close as he begins to falter in his control that I cannot watch him. So I watch the blossoms above sway in my vision as his need rucks my body up and down beneath them for a few more desperate minutes. I turn my face and press a kiss to his temple, his hair damp with sweat and smelling so much of him I clench. I love you, so good, you’re so good to me, so deep, so deep, I love you- my mind is adrift and where he rocks inside me is all I know and I babble and beg and praise him for it.

His breath is a hot steam over my clavicle, dirty hands tenderly grasping at a swollen breasts, he bites at my lower lip to hush himself when the pleasure overtakes and I too go under one more time, legs drawing up again under the wracking delight and my modest man groans and pants the filthiest appreciations, for taking him, slippery beautiful thing, tightest little cunt, could spend all my days in you, milk me, that’s it milk me sweetheart, you like it when I make you?

What he babbles to me as he spurts is never something later to be answered, it is gibberish and rhetorical and yet I believe every word, treasure them when he rolls off and pants beside me, I will rehearse them in my mind when he is gone to work. I know this last set will have me ready down to my thighs long before five o’clock.

In the cold night air his hands are soothing the damage his forceful want has done, petting my trembling flank down like a horse after a race, it gives me zapping little after-quakes that make him hum into our kisses as his warm palm feels me twitch and clench and melt.

We should go inside soon -we both mumble it at the same time and barely have energy to laugh over it. We stay on the tablecloth, grass texturing our backs, his only movements are to roll me closer to him, pulling my gaping dress with me, and plucking a white starry blossom for behind my ear. After he has placed it he drops his head again, pillowed on my upper arm and I can feel his breath even out across my throat.

My mother did not tell me of this. I have asked others in the most discreet way I can summon, but they all just say they hope I’ll be happy, they’re sure I’ll be happy, he seems to make me happy, they themselves are happy.

It is likely only myself at fault, but now I think of happiness as a very desperate thing, tentative and elusive and ever watchful. I did not expect to find its most distilled essence in quiet things. There is nothing more to write as our happiness did indeed persist after we woke and rose and went to shower, chilly from our exposure, it went on after we had wrapped ourselves under the bedding and clutched at each other like twins. But what is there to relate of such happiness? It has no great drama, it is not so very vigilant unless it is to actively prevent sadness, and even that is welcome here when it must be passing by. Perhaps the poets, or the preachers, or my wise boy would tell me it’s joy I feel. Maybe that was what I was looking for all this time.

Maybe that is what feels so foreignly precious about lying on a blanket with his spend cooling between my legs, our shrubs like loyal sentinels dotting the fence line and my man gently snoring atop me after having created a life sworn to himself when he thought he might die. It is sobering to be integral to that dream, but it is also peaceful.

It is joy, I suppose. Or a sort of Garden Variety Happiness.

Here’s my widdle Brady Taglist, thanks to each of you for expressing such interest and always showing such love. This was a bit of a weird passion project and I’ve got no idea if it actually “worked” but it was the branching out my creative brain needed. So many of y’all are already nailing this Man so well, 🤨😏 I’ve been such a happy recipient of all yalls works. Scream at me. Lemme know. Xoxo

@luminouslywriting

@ktredshoes

@archival-hogwash

@gigisimsonmars

@steph-speaks

@ab4eva

@lilfreebee

@slowsweetlove

@xxanaduwrites

@blurredcolour

@venus-planetof-love

@pearlparty

@winniemaywebber

@sagesolsticewrites

@ginabaker1666

[f1bordeaux]

Can you do one with Lando and the quotes, “We were supposed to get married” + “Wake up please I can’t do this without you” + “Everything I do I do in memory of her” thank u:)

What I Desire The Most | ln4

How do you cope? He isn't sure. None of us are really sure. Warnings: Angst, character death Pairing: Lando Norris x reader (y/n never mentioned) Word Count: 1189 Story Style | Poetry Style A/n:I wanted to write something small for this one, something with less dialogue and more story? It's sad, i suppose, so for that I'm sorry. But that's what you wanted, isn't it? ;)

There comes a time at the end of a party, after everyone has drunk their fill, when you know it’s time to leave.

Perhaps death is the same way.

Maybe the crowd has thinned, at least of those you knew. The front door is constantly opening and closing, conversation going with it. Everybody has an equal understanding that this is it, this is the end. There will be no more lingering, no more drinking, no more festivities. Time is up. Slowly, everyone will go, leaving behind an empty house with trash in the corners. Someone’s clothes are floating in the pool. The beer pong table is still set up in the dining room. You never got to finish that chat you started hours ago. But everybody is gone now. It’s time for you to go, too. Things will be left unsaid, stories will go untold. But you had fun. You laughed and cried and danced and sang. It’s time to start over.

Maybe the party is still in full swing when you decide to leave. Nobody has crossed the ‘too drunk’ line yet. Bodies sway to the music, heat is passed on from person to person, the fridge is full, there is somebody naked coming in from the back porch. And although you’re having fun, you realize that you need to go. You’ve had your share, you’ve shown your face, you’ve come for some laughs and now, it is time to depart. Your friends will be upset, wishing that you had stayed just a little longer. Your presence will become nothing more than a photograph strung on the wall. People will speak of you in conversations like so; “Remember her? Remember how amazing she was?” But you will not be there to listen. You’ll be out the door, walking down the street with a smile on your face. You’ll be content. The party was good, you’ll tell yourself. But it’s time to start over. Time to find better.

In this circumstance, the party is in full swing. You’re leaving too soon.

His hand is intertwined with yours, the temperature difference enough to send a chill through his spine. Somewhere in the crash, you lost your bracelet. He still wears his, though. It’s orange and white, the letter beads spelling out your name. You made it for him oh so long ago. At least, it feels like that. All of a sudden, it feels like he’s known you for his whole life. It feels like you two met decades ago, bodies so familiar that you knew they had been together in another life. Your body is cold now, however. It feels different to him. It feels empty.

“We were supposed to get married.” He whispered no louder than the beeping of the machine attached to your paling skin. The engagement ring on your finger has cracked in half. It’s somewhere in a plastic baggie with your phone, wallet, clothes, shoes. It’s somewhere you are not. Nobody really knows where you are to be honest. Maybe your soul is already gone. Maybe it’s not. Lando doesn’t know, either. He hopes you’re still here, listening to him beg. God he hopes you’re still here. “Wake up please. I can’t do this without you.”

Four years, he thinks. Four years was not nearly enough time with you. He needed at least a million more.

He knew that if you left him, leaving him alone on this cruel planet, that life would never be the same. He’d look for your body in each paddock he visited. Although nobody laughed like you, he would still turn around at the slight similarities other girls had in their laughs hoping, praying, that you’d be there. Never again would a race weekend feel complete. Never again would a podium feel right without your lips waiting for a congratulatory kiss. He’d have to move houses, too. There was no way he’d be able to walk in the front door of your Monegasque home and see all of your belongings next to his. Your shoes, your closet full of clothes, your blankets draped on the couch, your makeup on the bathroom counter. No, he would have to move.

He’d never swim in a pool again, too busy thinking about you and him swimming in your pool at late hours of the night. He’d never visit the beach, being reminded too often that the shoreline of Monaco was where you two met. He’d never eat pizza again-it was your favorite food. He’d never watch a Disney movie, that was what Tuesday night date nights were for. Life would become so dull, so colorless.

“I need you, baby. Please.” He spoke to nobody. He was alone in the hospital room. Sadly enough, he already knew it. “I love you.”

The weeks would pass, the days would drag on. There would never come a moment where he got over you. Sure enough, every girl who passed him in the paddock with your hair color caught his attention. He’d smile to himself, amused at how he predicted his own actions. His heart would pound, his hands would shake. It wasn’t you. It would never be you again.

He would be jealous of his fellow drivers who brought their girlfriends to the race. They opted to not speak about love, romance, date nights, their sex life or anything of the sorts in front of him anymore. A few of the boys took him to a music concert in Belgium. They followed it up with a trip to Ibiza. He refused to go to the beach, however. “Let’s just stay in the city.” He’d say. “I’m not a beach guy. I hate the beach.”

The nights were cold and lonely, the days were hot and blank. But, he raced. He pushed the limits of his car and of his body. He shocked everyone with his new aggressive, dominant and unforgiving driving style. “You’re going to kill yourself driving like that, Lando.” His race engineer would tell him.

“I know.” Is all he would respond with.

A tattoo, the first on his tanned skin, would pop up. Roman numerals-how typical, fans would say. But they would stop teasing when they realized the date, hidden on his ribcage, was your birthday.

A trophy-no, a slew of trophies would be dedicated to you; the most impressive one coming in Abu Dhabi two years after your passing. They’d begin to call him a World Champion. He’d continue to call you his reason. “Everything I do,” He’d say on the podium, tears staining his cheeks. He was a World Champion, he had a right to cry. “I do in memory of her.”

And in another life, when your body met his once more, when the heat returned to your skin, when the enjoyment of life returned to his, he would pull you close, saying with a smile; “I’ve been waiting for you.”

To which you would respond, “You’ve come so far, you’ve done so much.”

“You are better than all of that combined. You are what I desire the most. And at last, I finally can say I have it back.”

[wanderersbell]

Aaah i live for the idea of being the wanderer's travel companion!! i love the "lending you his hat" fic you did, it's so well done ♥️ i don't even have anything specific to request, i would just love for more cute moments like that 🙇‍♂️🙇‍♂️🙇‍♂️

a trip to vanarana

wanderer x gn!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: none

word count: 1620

a/n: anon i'm so glad you love that idea bc it's my fav and i think about it all the time! here's some more for you (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ this miiight be kinda off lore wise bc iirc the only reason people couldn't see aranara was due to the inability to dream, and considering they can now i feel like that also implies they can see the little guys but i could be wrong so oh well - enjoy!

bringing fresh fruit to the aranara in vanarana had become a special, self indulgent little routine of yours as of late. 

honestly, you weren’t even sure if they could eat, but all of it always vanished within a couple of days when you’d come back with more, and the aranara would greet you eagerly - so you figured wherever it went it must be getting put to good use. two to three times a week, rain or shine, you would drag the wanderer with you to pick up fresh produce from the market and carry it to the tiny village. he would grumble and huff the whole way, drag his feet like a petulant child, but refused to let you go alone if you offered to let him stay behind. 

“you’re basically exploiting me.” he points out, kicking a stray hilichurl arrow away from his foot. the camp the two of you just cleared out sits vacant now as you lift the discarded sack of fruit back up over your shoulder, the weight slightly heavier than before after tossing in the apples and sunsettias you just found. 

you shoot the wanderer a slightly exasperated look from where he’s still tossing hilichurl loot around with his foot instead of picking it up. he pretends to be lost in thought once you whip your head around to face him, wiping invisible dust off of his shoulder like dealing with a small camp of monsters is anything more than a minor inconvenience for someone with his level of abilities. 

“when i take you with me i’m exploiting you, when i leave you behind it’s excluding you.” you sniff, fixing him with glare when he finally meets your eyes. “has anyone ever told you that you’re difficult?”

his brows raise in faux disbelief, his right hand coming to rest over his vision like he’s deeply offended by your words. “me? difficult? is it so wrong to desire compensation for my troubles?”

you can’t help the way your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head, but a small smile still tugs at your lips at his dramatics. 

“is my company not enough for you?” you joke as the aranara village comes into view. the loud scoff behind you comes as no surprise. 

“not in the slightest. this is a waste of time, i have better things to be doing right now.” 

you give a thoughtful hum in response, choosing to say nothing else as the silent acknowledgment between the two of you goes unsaid, but speaks loud enough all the same. with you, when he can’t comfortably bring himself to admit the truth, he’ll say the opposite of what he feels. you know this very well, so what he means is: “more than enough, i’d cause a scene if you didn’t let me tag along.”

soon reaching the aranara village, you and your travel companion head over to the center of the clearing and you unceremoniously let the fruit fall to the ground, reaching up to rub at your sore shoulder immediately afterwards while the wanderer gives you a pointed look that you choose to ignore. he insisted you let him carry the bag before you left, you always end up complaining about how heavy it is, but you refused and wouldn’t let him take it from you despite knowing the truth of his words. 

it’s only moments later that the aranara start to emerge from their tiny homes and wobble over to you, their silly little hats and faces bringing a familiar sense of glee that overcomes you whenever you see them. 

“i’m back!” you exclaim with a huge grin that has your eyes squinting into crescents. “i hope your hungry! or ready to do… whatever you do with this stuff!” when you bend down to start taking the produce out of the bag and into a pile, the man standing next to you snorts lightly. 

the wanderer, ever the one to suck the joy out of things until they’re bitter and tasteless, is convinced they can’t eat and that you bringing them fruit is the equivalent of birds bringing shiny trash to people. this doesn’t bother you in the slightest though, so all he can do is stand back hopelessly and watch these little forest creatures rob you of perfectly good food. 

“you know, they probably throw it all into a hole and let it rot. compost for the garden.” he says while a few of the aranara swarm his feet and gaze up at him with expectant beady eyes. 

you give a nonchalant shrug in response. “that’s certainly not the worst thing they could be doing, so i don’t see a problem with it. contributing to their garden is a good deed, no?”

out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the floating aranara approach your traveling companion who glares suspiciously at the viparyas it carries in its hands. your heart swells immediately at the sight of the small forest creature offering him a flower out of the blue, hands flying up to cover your mouth lest you squeal in delight and ruin the moment. 

the wanderer still remains rooted to the spot, watching hesitantly as the aranara reaches out and waits until he outstretches his hand to drop the viparyas into his palm. his eyes momentarily flick down to the flower laying on his hand then back up to the aranara that bounces a bit in the air and makes a soft, pleased sound before turning and floating away. 

“oh my god,” you whisper-yell into your hands, eyes wide with disbelief at the interaction you just witnessed. with bewilderment clear on his face, the wanderer meets your eyes and purses his lips in embarrassment at the fact that you watched it all go down. 

fruit long forgotten, you clamber to your feet and lean closer to see the viparyas that’s still laying haphazardly on his palm. when you try to grab it, your travel companion finally snaps out of his shock and yanks his hand away from you with the flower clutched tight in his grip. 

“don’t you dare. it was given to me, not you.” he says firmly, smirking at the way your expression gives way to irritation faster than he can blink. 

“i thought you didn’t like the aranara!” you remind him, wholesome moment instantly ruined. “you hardly even help here, i’m positive it was meant for me anyways!”

when you reach out to try to take it again he turns his entire body away from you and peeks over his shoulder with a proud sneer. “if it was meant for you, it would’ve been given to you. this was obviously for me.”

a heavy sigh forces it’s way out of your lungs but you begrudgingly concede, willing to let him be possessive over the flower the little aranara gave him because, to be fair, it was a precious sight. you wave a hand at him dismissively and mumble a quiet, “fine, whatever.” before crouching down again to finish emptying the bag that had been forgotten, and you miss the way his expression falls at the genuine disappointment in your voice. 

tentatively, after a moment of contemplation, he leans over to tap you on the shoulder. when you turn your head to figure out what he wants, he thrusts the flower towards you with a tiny pout and blush on his face, eyes avoiding your own the way they always do when he thinks he accidentally hurt your feelings. 

of course, you didn’t actually mind that much, it was just a flower after all, but seeing the sincerity behind his actions, you can’t help but to play along and offer a small smile in response before tentatively taking the viparyas from his outstretched hand. 

the second your fingers brush he jerks his hand away and clutches it to his chest, standing back up with a huff and crossing his arms while you gaze fondly at the soft blue and purple petals. your chest clenches tightly at the fact that he had given it to you even if it was only because he thought you were upset, and when you glance up at him to offer him a grateful smile you find that he’s already watching you with a complicated expression on his face. 

“what?” you ask cautiously. “don’t tell me you already want it back.”

he clicks his tongue and averts his attention elsewhere. “of course i don’t, keep it for all i care.”

what he means is: “no, it’s for you anyways.” and the smile on your face unconsciously stretches into a giddy grin at his unconvincing frown accompanied color staining his cheeks while he pretends to ignore you. having already finished setting all of the fruit in a pile, you bundle up the bag and shove it under your arm as you stand up and walk over to his side, following his line of sight to watch the sky where the sun starts peeking out of the clouds with breathtaking rays of light. 

the comforting presence of the man beside you fills you with a warm, unexplainable feeling that you can’t help but want to cling onto forever, to hold onto so tightly that it permanently fuses with your being. 

“ready to leave?” he asks after a few blissful moments of silence, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. you nod softly, too content and peaceful to break the silence and speak. 

and so, you and your travel companion head back into town together, viparyas held tightly in your hand while the rays of light in the sky fully emerge from the clouds and illuminate the smiles on your faces. 

[builtbybrokenbells]

LEX TALIONIS | ORSUS (teaser)

the first ever sneak peak at my first ever fic for beloved twin lane. I hope you’re just as excited for this as I am 🤍

Masterlist | Taglist

“What game are you trying to play, sweetheart?” He asked, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“That depends… what’s your favorite?” You smirked up at him, giving a bat of your eyelashes to cement the flirtation in your tone. He gave a low chuckle, neglecting a response, instead raising his beer bottle to his lips and tilting his head back. As he drank down the liquid, your eyes drifted towards the exposed columns of his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing with each long gulp.

You couldn’t help but think about how foolish he was to expose his very lifeline to you, and although you were not a being of mythical nature and blood was not exactly your thing, you were certain that your lips, or better, your tongue settled gently atop the skin of his jugular would send him straight to his knees. You were tempted to test it out, just to see if your assumptions were correct. You could lean forward and try, but you knew it was best to wait; he would run himself in circles for a few moments before he inevitably landed himself in that exact position.

As he pulled the bottle away from his mouth, the glisten of alcohol making the plush skin of his lips glisten under the dim bar light, his eyes drifted back down towards your face before his head dropped into its earlier position. He was silent for a moment, as if he was trying to understand you better, and then he spoke softly, leaning down so you could hear him over the boom of the stereo system.

“I don’t like games at all, angel.” The sultry tone sent a shiver down your spine, but you did not let it phase you any further than that. Before he could pull away, you turned your head inwards, just enough so that your nose would brush against his. At the sudden touch, he did not shy away like you expected. If anything, he seemed to lean further into you without any hesitation. At that moment, you understood that you were not playing with an amateur; any lesser man would shy away from your strong nature. If you had to admit, him being open to the advance made your desire to play him grow even stronger. “I saw you talking to Josh. Do you think you’re being sly? Playing hard to get?” He asked, the sheer power behind his soft tone making your knees weak and your stomach twist in a knot. “Or are you trying to make me jealous?” If only he knew how extensive your evil truly was, he would never have spoken at all and instead turn away to run. His accusations were nowhere near the atrocities you were intending to commit. “What, you have nothing to say, now? Finally have you cornered?”

“Just don’t think you’d like what I have to say, is all.” You said, placing your empty cup down on the bar top without breaking the position. His eyes were boring into your own, as if he was trying to make you submit to him. In truth, you found his confidence comedic. Of course, you’d give him what he wanted, but he’d be doing you more of a favor than you were doing him. It wouldn’t take him very long to put down the dominant facade and comprehend that he was not the one with the power. “Some things are better left unsaid, Jacob.”

A flame was dancing dangerously behind his pupil, letting you know that there was much more to his character if you looked behind the mask he constantly had on. It intrigued you, making you wonder what would happen if you continued to nurse it with gasoline. Perhaps the explosion would be quite enjoyable, even for days after the disaster. Russian roulette was a game that often seemed tempting, and playing it with Jake made it all the more enticing.

The lights were low, making it incredibly difficult to place the emotion in his eye. Even then, it didn’t matter; all men were the same, and he was already caught on your hook. He was irritated, annoyed at your evasion and your intent to engage in what seemed to be a tiresome game of cat and mouse, but it was not enough for him to lack interest in you. The scent of whiskey on your breath, casted warmly over his lips was drawing him in further, making him wonder if he could still taste it on your tongue if he acted fast enough. He thought he had the upper hand, that he was the one who was charming you, but he could not seem to see that he was playing the game the exact way you wanted him to. He was blissfully unaware, and you were ready for the kill.

“If it means that much to you, Jacob, I’m sure the bathroom is free. Maybe a quick stop might convince you of where my loyalty lies.” The corners of your lips twitched upwards into a small, wicked smile. “Beloved Joshua was never offered an invitation like that, now was he?”

TAGLIST: @gretavangroupie @wetkleenex-gvf @edgingthedarkness @clairesjointshurt @jordie-gvf @lallisonl @writingcold @dannys-dream @ageofbajabule @GVFstuddedmajesty @mackalah @watchingover-hypegirl @earthgrlsreasy @blacksoul-27 @ur-m0ms-blog @Lyndz2names @gretavanomens @josh-iamyour-mama @gretavangirlie @cxffeecakez @stardustjake @highway-tuna @peaceloveunitygvf @dancingcarbon @kiszkas-canvas @thewritingbeforesunrise @myownparadise96 @just-ambam @jakeyt

[fatuismooches]

is fragile reader like, aware of how unethical dottores experiments are? if so do they support it? or would they be neutral or maybe even against it?

(also can I be 👽 anon?? :D)

Fragile reader would not care in the slightest. In the Akademiya, they certainly assisted in some of Dottore's... experiments, which weren't the point of completely unethical yet, but they knew what they were doing wasn't exactly the peak of moral goodness. So when they wake up and realize the kind of experiments Dottore does now surprises them for a little while, but they adjust. For one, if they were not sick, they'd certainly be his loyal assistant and fulfill whatever task he asked of them. Secondly, regardless of what Dottore does, they can't see themselves caring (and vice versa, if the roles happen to be reversed). Perhaps blind love is the word to use here? You'll only see Dottore as your Zandik, your husband, your life, and more. Nothing else matters. Thirdly, as they were once a scholar themselves, they share a similar mindset of seeking knowledge. And of course much of this is being done to overthrow Celestia, a goal fragile reader very much approves of.

Dottore doesn't exactly hide it from you, in fact, it'd be rather stupid for him to. One of the reasons he loves you, after all, is that you understand him. And I mean, it's kind of obvious... waking up in a big lab with lots of rooms that are off-limits... numerous clones to do things that are better left unsaid... interesting noises echoing in the deepest parts of the building, leaving much to the imagination... Dottore would always love to ramble on about his experiments with you, wanting to see your comments, thoughts, critiques, etc of course, he desires your feedback, his one and only assistant. But, if... those kinds of experiments, the ones not for the faint of heart, happen to negatively impact your health if he speaks about them to you, then he'll be quieter about them. However, they will still happen of course. You'll just be unaware of the exact details.

And perhaps sometimes... it's best to be left in the dark.

[girl-next-door-writes]

You Matter To Me

Characters: Steve Harington x reader

Summary: A shared moment before heading into the Upside Down where you and Steve both reflect on what is important.

Word Count: 1000 words

Prompt: You Matter To Me

A/N: I have been going through some ‘real world’ stuff recently and this song showed up on my radar again and despite the million fics I have to write I felt this needed to be written. It isn’t perfect, I couldn’t find all the words, but if you are reading this then I want you to know that you matter.

Nobody should have this much pressure placed on them, and yet he had taken it almost willingly. The role of leader, of protector, it weighed heavy on his shoulders, and although he hid it well, there were flashes of the truth hidden in those beautiful, soulful eyes; eyes you could happily get lost in, even on the worst days, perhaps especially on the worst days. Their warm richness comforting, even though the slivers of profound sadness swam in their depths. Each horror he had witnessed haunted him, words left unsaid and yet screaming as the two of you looked at each other. Insecurity, doubt, the fragility of his carefully crafted self-confident persona swam in those sad eyes, shattering your heart into a million pieces.

There were no words. The painful realization that nothing said could make things any better, caused a deep ache in your soul. Taking a seat beside him, you simply shuffled closer, tucking yourself into his side and slipping your hand into his. Interlacing your fingers, you looked down at your hands, silently vowing to stay right there by his side for as long as he would let you.

This beautiful boy had gotten under your skin, and although your emotions for him were largely undefined, he mattered to you. He was important. He was…irrevocably connected to you. How do you even begin to tell someone that? It isn’t as simple as those three overused words, and it was deeper than a romantic desire. You saw him, just as he truly was, and knew that he was enough, that your life was infinitely improved by his existence. Did he know that? Was he aware of how he touched everyone’s life? You felt an almost overwhelming desire to grip him by the shoulders and shake him until he understood that he was so much more than he believed; that he truly did matter. But instead, the two of you sat in silence, holding hands and watching the others preparing.

Steve stole a glance at you, allowing himself a moment to just be a nineteen-year-old boy, sitting holding hands with someone he cared about. It was a little addictive spending time with you. There was just something about the way you listened to him, like you heard all the parts he didn’t say out loud, and you didn’t think he was stupid or broken.

He had a close friendship with Robin, he adored his best friend, and then there were the ‘kids’, and Nancy; well, the Nancy thing was complicated. Now he also had Eddie… All these people depending on him, needing him to step up and take the lead. There was a part of him that wanted to run, to just get in his car and drive away from this hellhole and start over. If he’d gone to college then he wouldn’t be here for this shit, this would be someone else’s problem. The guilt of that thought gnawed at him and he subconsciously squeezed your hand. He was scared, but he knew he couldn’t turn his back, he would never forgive himself.

There was something different about this fight, a shadow in the back of his mind that said they might not all make it. Looking around at his friends, he felt his heart clench. They all mattered. Dustin would probably go on to cure some deadly disease or figure out a way for everyone to live on the moon or some shit. Lucas, he had a shot at becoming a pro athlete, if he focused. Nancy had a bright future as a journalist maybe, blowing the lid off government corruption and saving people… Each and every one of them had such potential to make a real difference in the world. The only person he could even consider disposable in the grand scheme of things, was himself. This might be the one thing, the moment where he might be of some importance, making sure the rest of them got through.

He was brought out of his thoughts by your head resting on his shoulder. It was such a small gesture but it grounded him, and he found himself leaning down, his cheek pressing against your hair as he closed his eyes.

“Steve?” Your voice was so quiet that he could easily have imagined that you had spoken.

“Yeah?”

“You matter to me. More than all this. More than most people.” Your words hung in the air between the two of you and he felt a tear roll down his cheek.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. Don’t go doing anything ‘heroic’, because if something happens to you then I’m just gonna have to make a deal with the devil, or bring you back as a zombie or something, and then you’ll be screwed. You will feel my wrath.”

“Your wrath?” he chuckled, an eyebrow raising in amusement as he opened his eyes again.

“Yes, my wrath. I will be incredibly pissed at you for doing something so stupid, and for leaving me, and then making me learn voodoo so I can bring you back to yell at you.”

“Yeah, that does seem like it might be a bit of a hassle.”

“A major one. So, just promise me you will try your best to see me on the other side of all this because, for some fucked up reason Harrington, you really matter to me.”

“Okay.” He said softly, his fingers playing with yours as he took your words to heart. Turning his head slightly, he placed a gentle kiss to the top of your head and let out a deep sigh. “And, for the record, you matter to me too.”

You didn’t reply, you didn’t have to. It was obvious that the feelings between the two of you were simultaneously infinitely complex and so simple. Hopefully there would be time to explore each and every nuance of what it meant to matter to each other, but for now, Steve was content to just sit beside you and feel.