#filters? I hardly know her | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tteokdoroki · 1 month ago

Text

✎ᝰ. OCT 15TH ★ MUTUAL MASTURBATION - tobio kageyama .ᐟ

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN CINDERELLA] once upon a time, a soon-to-be crowned princess, once down on her luck, says fuck it and settles on consummating her marriage with the crown prince before they’re actually due to be married ( 9.2K ).

✧ chapter contents - minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, heavy smut, cinderella!au, royal wedding, mutual masturbation, cherry chasing, clothed sex, soft sex, oral sex, cum play, fingering, jerking off, cinderella + fem!reader, prince charming!tobio kageyama.

✧ fairy godmother's note - yurrr three for three ! i really enjoyed writing this one and i hope you like it as much as i enjoyed it at the time !! ily guys see you in the next one :D - m.list ⋆ kinktober m.list ⋆ taglist ☆

“it’s a perfect fit…”

luck has never been on your side. up until now — it was almost like the universe had turned its back on you. your mother’s spirit had faded before you’d even opened your eyes to the colours of the world and not long after, your father passed away… leaving you with his wicked wife and scornful step-sisters.

for years, all you’ve known are the painful wounds of cruelty inflicted by their hands. nights of tending sore arms and legs and joints after tending to their every incredulous need. you hardly remember the feeling of love — its warm embrace and tender touch, love to you is an emotion that died with your father when you laid him to rest as a young girl. you’ve been down on your luck ever since then, never knowing if you’d ever be able to experience the same feeling ever again.

for one night only, you’d managed to get a taste. the sweet sensation of love and affection bursting across your tongue on the night that you’d danced at the royal ball where the king and queen’s only son sought out a beautiful bride. out of all the girls, ladies and princesses there — kageyama had chosen you. danced with you non-stop. laughed with you all night. looked at you as if you were the only girl in the entire world for hours on end. for one night, you felt whole again, happy once more, whether that was down to fairy godmother’s magic or your own subtle charm.

but now, with the crown prince of your kingdom on his knee before you, you can see that your dance meant more than just a fleeting moment.

tobio kageyama of royal blood had practically searched the ends of the earth for a foot that fit perfectly into the glass slipper you’d left behind. by his own will and determination he’d wanted to find you, to love you and make you his — this very reasoning causes your stomach to swim with hope and newfound excitement. this could be it.

the change you’ve been looking for and the love you’ve been seeking all your life. “the shoe…it fits,” kageyama repeats breathily, the prince’s usual stoic expression quickly replaced with an adoring and charming smile that sends a pang straight through your beating heart and directly into your longing soul. “it’s you, you’re the one i’ve been looking for.”

with a twist of his wrist and his lips dangerously close to your knee — the prince wriggles the glass slipper ( now cleaned of any blood and bits left from your spiteful step siblings cutting off their own toes ) onto your foot, his chest a little lighter and his deep ocean eyes a lot brighter when it slides on without resistance.

“it’s me,” you beam, much to the bitter dismay of the only family you’d known throughout your years. the family that never truly loved you. “you’ve found me…”

leaning up to grasp your hands, stained black with the cinders from the fire you usually prod and poke at to keep alive, kageyama lets out an airy laugh robust with his own joy and excitement. “and i’m never letting you go, never losing you again. marry me, would you?” one of his thumbs moves to brush tenderly over your ring finger and any sunlight filtering into the room refracts off of your glass slipper — perfectly illuminating the mysterious azure swirling in the prince’s eyes.

he cocks his head to the side; innocent and pleading like a puppy — and you know right then and there that you’d be a fool to let a great love like this pass you by after all that you’ve been through. “oh kageyama,” you coo shyly, basking in the way that the prince shudders as his name peers from between your precious lips. “of course i’ll marry you!”

and just like that, your fate and newfound happiness are sealed. the crown prince leaps to his feet to twirl you in his arms, lips pressing to yours and acting as a signature to sign off on your new life and love. you’re wanted, you’re loved and by a prince no less.

but even then, you remain unsure if you even deserve it all.

these doubts are only exacerbated after your first few days at the palace, which pass in an overwhelming blur.

despite the cruelty in which they’d treated you with, you don’t get to say goodbye to your step-family, nor pick out and see your belongings as they’re packed up for your new home in the king’s castle. in the same day that you’re moved into the towering palace, full of high ceilings and art deco so expensive you can feel your worth drop at every piece you admire — wedding preparations swiftly begin and you’re once more bombarded with all sorts of questions. how do you like your cake? your wedding colours? what style do you want your hair? how many guests? the royal servants mean well, you know, but they give you no room to breathe — as someone not accustomed to a lifestyle where your every need is met in a millisecond and you, yourself are not expected to wait hand and foot on someone else.

anxiety replaces the traces of elation that had once flushed its way through your system, beginning in the four chambers of your heart. how do you know that you’re cut out for this? going from poverty to a princess? there are no classes to teach you how to step up and rule a kingdom after having notably nothing for your entire life. you’re in desperate need of guidance, the gentle direction of the one man relying on you to help create a beautiful, powerful kingdom now and for the many years to come, you have just that, you have the ring of a crown prince on your finger but…

but, you hardly see tobio as the days go by. the very first night he was whisked off by the many men and royal guard to celebrate his engagement. one moment, he appears by your side — frustratingly handsome, with darkened sapphire eyes that rival the countless Crown Jewels you’ve been shown during your stay, a jaw hard set and angular that makes your knees weak while he explains his demands for your wedding to any staff who may question your choices and a smile so rare that your entire world flips on its axis to disorientate you and like you’re drowning in the palace kitchen’s fresh batch of hot sugar whenever he sends it your way. you consider yourself lucky to be betrothed to such a man, all because of a slipper.

in those far and few moments where the dark haired prince has time to put aside for you — tobio cannot keep his hands off of you. either settling them on your waist or keeping them interlocked with his. you shudder at the sensation of his nose brushing over your hairline or his lips on the very ring he’d given you — a moonlight silver band with a sapphire gem just like his eyes, all for you. ever since you slipped between his fingers at the royal ball he’s been terrified to let you go, as though you might disappear for good. he doesn’t say it, you can hardly read past his stony expression and stern voice ( used only around others, never when you’re alone together ), but you can feel it when he squeezes your hand in passing and hidden away in the intensity of his stare.

you’d be lying if you said you don’t feel the same, frightful that your Prince Charming will be ripped away along with the happiness that you now have. like when your father died and left you with that wicked woman. but before you have a chance to treasure your prince and seek his reassurances, tobio is off again, leaving you surrounded by an ocean of doubts and fears that you’ll never live up to yet another family’s expectations.

a pauper to a princess, and next, a queen.

is your love for each other enough to qualm your unease?

even if the queen finds you pleasant and the king finds you beautifully perfect for his son upon introduction — none of them phased by their son’s choice in bride. a commoner of no noble blood but thoughts of being out of place eat at you all day, even with kageyama so subtly affectionate by your side.

you’ve come from nothing, by no means cut out to be a royal, and still… everyone wants you here. including kageyama.

and you just can’t help but feel like an imposter.

by nightfall, a week later, the maids have settled into a regular routine of drawing you a buttermilk bath with honey and rose petals.

scrub brushes and soft cotton cloths work at the stubborn grit on your skin — washing away the memories of the turbulent life you once lived. the cinders from under your nails add a darkness to the milky water like a drop of ink on a blank white canvas, a reminder of the commonness you exuded before moving into the palace to be with your prince. the sight makes you press your lips into a thin line, your wet tongue gliding over the chapped skin nervously. if the maids notice yet more remaining dirt from your past, they fail to comment on it.

now with soft scented skin and a dampness to the back of your neck — they aid in dressing you, baby blue silks and cotton white tule is draped over your frame under the dazzling moonlight as they help prepare you for bed. a time that you dread, where you’re left alone with your insecurities once more.

with your wedding to the crown prince but a week away, the royal staff have kept proper tradition in making sure the two of you remain apart until the wedding night. that, coupled with the fact that you hardly see kageyama during the day, only add to the sting of loneliness and self doubt filtering through your veins. like lemon juice on an open wound.

“we’ll be back to dress you in the morning, your highness,” your lady in waiting tells you, a tone of patience cushioning the fall of her voice as the group of maide leave you the mirror to admire your solemn reflection. parting your lips, they move around the syllables of your name — debating on correcting her and telling her to use it in place of ill-fitting titles. you decide on the latter, shaking your head ‘yes’ while offering up a timid smile in response. it’s far too early to start speaking out of turn; treating your staff as your step-mother would have treated you. “should you need anything, please ring for us m’lady.”

your head bobs shyly once again and the maids take their leave. “thank you, i will.”

despite the quiet of the night, where every soul lays sleeping soundly under the stars and watchful eye of the silver moon, your mind and heart are restless — wide awake. you’re alone and you should be excited. you’re about to marry a prince and become a royal and all you can think about is the bed that’s too soft beneath your back and the clothes that are too fancy to be worn as they itch and scratch at your freshly scrubbed skin. the ceilings of your private quarters are way too high, providing a wide space for your panic to fill — constantly reminding you of the fact that you don’t belong.

leaving you with the sinking feeling that you still have to leave by midnight.

before long, the hours tick by and sleep continues to escape you — every insecurity and doubt you have weighs heavy on your mind like a winter blanket instead of a peaceful slumber that you crave… periodically interrupted by the hoot of an owl and… knocking?

abruptly sitting straight up in bed, you toss the covers to the side all too quickly — blinking the sadness and sleep deprivation away. “c-come… come in!” you call to the culprit, swallowing down your nerves as your lady in waiting from earlier enters with a small curtesy. you scramble out of bed clumsily to return the gesture, still not used to the royal treatment. “is something wrong?”

the maid smiles fondly, taking a liking to how jumpy you are. “the prince has requested your presence in his chambers tonight.”

“o-oh!” while relief and nervousness floods through all four limbs of your body and anticipation crackles over your brain like a thunderstorm kicking into gear — you can’t help but to question the crown prince’s motives. why would kageyama want to see you so late at night? was he having doubts too? was he worried sick? isn’t this.. improper?

observing how you fiddle with the silver band of your engagement ring — your maid must sense your thoughts as they pollute the air with scents of unsureness or nervousness because she takes a tentative step into the room, grasping your attention, to provide a reassuring explanation. “he thinks you might be lonely… i think he misses you too, my dear.”

to hear that you’ve not been the only one craving affection from your lover has you perking up — your shoulders a little lighter and the burden of assimilation relieved. slightly. it proves to you that kageyama is still as caring and thoughtful as he was that night at the ball, your heart leaps to know that he’s thinking of you also. “do i…do i need to bring anything?”

“no, just yourself your highness,” coos your maid in amusement, offering her arm as you pull yourself from bed — eager to meet with your future husband once more.

after a short walk from your room to his, guided by candlelight, you’re pushed into the crown prince’s quarters without warning, flinching as large oak double doors creak shut behind your back. leaving you locked and enveloped in the darkness of four foreign walls. your breath hitches once you meet a pair of ocean eyes and a midnight dark gaze, your own adjusting to the dark veil cloaking the room’s lighting. once your vision has settled, you take note of tobio’s figure sitting on the edge of his bed, as if he’s been waiting for you with muted eagerness all this time.

for a moment, or what feels like eternity, neither of you say anything — your baited breaths tickle the cool night air, neither of you can will yourself to move and reach for one another’s embrace despite how much you’ve truly missed each other. it’s almost as if you’re seeing him for the first time and he’s seeing you all over again. recounting the night at the ball, where tobio was forcibly stopped in his tracks by your beauty and your grace. where he felt the beat of his heart slow so much he thought he might have died and gone to heaven. it’s only then that he remembers just how real you are, that he pushes himself off of the bed and takes longing, timid steps towards you at the far end of his room.

almost as though he’s about to ask you for another midnight dance.

“tobio i—“ you rasp, swallowing down the yearning tone acting as a blockade for your words in the base of your throat. there’s so much that you want to tell him and reassurances that you want to ask of the dark haired prince, words that never come and only die prematurely on your tongue. everything with tobio is brand new and rushed, you would hate to ruin the connection with your insecurities. but you need him, right now, you need him to reach out to you and console you — craving his warmth and the beat of his heart you’re sure only syncs up with your own.

you need him and he knows that you do.

tobio kageyama has never been the best at comforting others. growing up an only child and in his own kind of privileged solitude, he’d never had the need to provide sympathetic symphonies or kind hearted whispers — he was a prince. it had never and would never be his purpose in life. born to serve a kingdom left in his name, tobio was to be only one thing. a charming, strong willed ruler. at least, until he'd met you. until he saw you just inches away from the centre of his room, swimming for words and while your doe eyes searched desperately for a solace in him. in your future king, husband and lover. a solace he now felt he absolutely, instinctually needed to provide.

as long as you were with him, you’d only feel safety and serenity, that was the new mantle tobio kageyama would take up.

in three short strides he’s across the room, tobio’s smooth large hands cupping the apples of your cheeks as he guides you into looking up at him. “i missed you,” he says the words for you, azure eyes dancing across your face as though to commit every detail to memory. the way your brows creasing the centre of your forehead and the way your lips droop into a needy pout. he kisses you next, unexpected, but slow and gentle — coaxing a sigh of content from your warm mouth. he feels your lashes flutter shut against his pale toned cheeks, and your body melt into his sturdy frame like butter. like you’re being welcomed home — your dainty fingers grip his wrist to keep yourself there. “i thought you might be lonesome… we haven’t been together all week.”

nodding, your eyes remain shut because you fear if you open them — you’ll wake up from a dream. but tobio’s free hand on your waist, squeezing, grounds you and reminds you that your engagement to the prince is a reality. “the palace has been overwhelming without you,” you admit, feeling the dark haired prince’s fingers slip into your own.

with a keening whine, you lean into the now empty space where your lover’s hand once was. kageyama grins subtly, wisps of fondness pulling the corners of his lips upwards into a crooked smile. “you seem tense. come lay with me, my princess.” comes his delicate whisper, quiet so that the night remains undisturbed, almost afraid that he's speaking too loud will cause you to shatter into a million tiny pieces. you know that the crown prince will hold you together if you fall apart and allow yourself ushered towards his king sized bed positioned where he stood just minutes ago.

kageyama’s hold on your waist is firm, reassuring — his large palm covering a wide expanse on the small of your back. you’d be a fool to say you didn’t enjoy the sweltering sensation of his touch burning through your thinly veiled night clothes. a liar to say you weren’t imagining his touch going any further. there’s a brief moment where the dark haired prince twirls you in his arms, much like a swift movement from the ballroom, before the backs your knees hit the edge of his bed and you fall into its plush swan-feather mattress.

flustered and bewildered, your once heavy eyelids shoot open to look up at your prince while you scoot backwards onto the bed by the force of your elbows — your breathing grows uneven and mismatched, throat bobbing as you swallow the delightful anticipation brewing within from watching tobio expertly crawl up the bed to pin you against it. athletic and rugged arms that have wielded many a weapon cage you against luxury silken sheets — a pair of wild admiral blue eyes drink you in as ig you’re the last glass of water on earth while pale, milky cheeks glow fiery rose above you.

kageyama’s breath fans warmly over your face, his expression stubbornly contorting to reveal his late night desire for one thing.

you.

his vulnerable dame who looks oh so pretty under the glinting moonlight.

“tell me,” he murmurs to you hoarsely, the bend of his index finger brushing over your cheeks which turns into his hand when he moves his feather light touch the plains of your unmarked neck. possessively. “why is it that you cannot sleep?”

at first, you’re taken aback by your lover’s question. there are many reasons you could list, starting with the abrupt change to your lifestyle. your home sickness and even, the fact that you miss him…but as kageyama’s gentle hand cascades like the calm flow of a river over your shoulders, collarbone and even dangerously close to your heaving chest — you lose the answer in the hazy fog of your mind. “m-many things, my prince,” you stutter out breathlessly, smaller-than-his fingers lunging at his wrist to hold his hand in place above your heartbeat. “right now… it’s your touch. i hadn’t realised how much i…needed it. how it makes my heart race.” heated tension in the air mounts like a stack of bricks, cemented together by a neediness neither of you have felt before.

the desire for human touch and closeness, the temperate buzz of love that’s new to the both of you.

it clings to every molecule of air in the room, weighing you both down with a contagious cloying cloudiness. both of you sick with a scorching proclivity that has you feverish all over. you need to touch him, you need to kiss him, to be with your tobio kageyama or you have no idea what will happen. will the world end if you don’t feel your skin against his? will the two of you go up in flames if you don’t get any closer?

the sounds of sheets shifting in the night bring your attention back to the real world. your lover adjusts, the entirety of his lean frame, keeping you trapped against cotton peaks. “i’m afraid i feel the same, i find it hard to keep myself from touching you,” your browns furrow cutely at tobio’s strangled words, throat running dry as you note the prince’s seemingly internal struggle to stay sane above you. to make sure he doesn’t do something you might both regret. “i find it hard to believe that you’re mine...”

“tobio, please i—“

whatever you had planned on saying dies on the tip of your tongue the moment tobio kageyama kisses you for the second time that night. this one is different from the first, fuelled by delirious passion instead of the need to comfort — his tongue laps at the small part between your ruby lips from where you’ve gasped in surprise. kageyama tastes you and tastes you, lapping up whatever flavour lies in your mouth — sweet enough to make moan darkly from the depths of his princely soul as he breathes hungrily into your mouth. almost relieved to finally have his pressed against your own after holding himself back. you take it, you taste it, you let your back arch itself into the broad width of his chest and wolf down everything he gives you. the first drops of his saliva as it oozes onto the palette of your tongue, his eager huffs that clouded your mind and make you feel as if you’ve been poisoned.

the world slows and the night turns silent for the two of you. wet smacks of your lips slotting together perfectly echo to the highest point of the ceiling in the prince’s chambers — heat rises in the room as well, kageyama’s touch turning to veiny hands pinning you beneath him using a brutish grip on your waist. not that you’re complaining.

but in an instant, tobio is pulling off of you — breaking away from the kiss like he’s been doused with a bucket of ice cold water from the kitchens. “i’m… i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have—“ the dark haired prince’s nose turns to nudge against your youthful cheek, hot and wet lips now running down to the junction between your neck and shoulders like a tamed stream of warm water. “s-sorry, i’m not sure what came over me.”

compared to his usual stoic expressions and tones, the kageyama before you now looks as though he’s fallen ill, the tips of his ears, nose and apples of his cheeks are all tinged with a rose blush and his chest rises and falls at a rapid, uncomfortable pace. confusion intertwines itself with the beat of your heart and must show on the details of your face, for your lover’s mouth moves to form the question ‘are you alright?’ that is quickly interrupted by your own hazy actions. you pull tobio back onto you by the roots of his dark hair with one hand, the other tilting his chin down towards you. each of his kisses, growing sloppier and sloppier; feel real — not like the fever dream you’ve been walking through since moving into the palace.

“i can’t…i can’t believe that you’re mine either,” you hum between the pattern of mismatched kisses against swollen lips, letting out a tune of innocent moans like the finest music to your lover’s ears. your shaky fingers curl in kageyama’s soft baby hairs — keeping him close, although the force of your lip locks cause your head to tilt back into the plush array of pillows.

everything is so hot and passionate and brand new to you, you must be losing your mind. with your eyes fluttering open, you realise that you’ve never seen kageyama look at you so darkly, his own eyes till of sensuality and mirth. you can tell from just a brief glance the depth of his desire for you, he’s waited far too long to have you like this. and now, the sexual tension is obvious.

his rough tongue slips from your mouth to the corner of your lips, dragging a loving trail of wetness down to your prominent collarbones — the prince dares to leave a dark mark in a colour that rivals the midnight skies outside, basking in the cute bleats you let out periodically and the way your nose scrunched up adorably at the pleasure he gives you. using the pointed edge of his teach, kageyama moves to pull down the baby blue, tule bolero the maids had dressed you in — hungrily inching it off of your shoulders while a free hand slides down to play with the doughy, smooth skin of your thighs. almost filling beneath the hem of your nightdress.

gasping in surprise, you resist the urge to bolt upwards — tentatively tugging tobio by the hair away from you to garner his attention.

“w-wait! what about our wedding night?”

a touch of condescending laughter lays wetly on kageyama’s kiss swollen lips, pulling them back just enough to see toothy smirk and pearly white teeth. “what about it?” without missing another beat he swoops down to steal another salacious smooch from you, tongue edging past the weak seal of your mouth to roll around and toy with your own. he can practically taste the nervous desire on you as he steadies a hand above your head to ground himself. “we’re set to be married shortly. surely i can indulge in my future wife before then…”

judging by his movements, such as his tightened grip on the headboard above your head and the bounce of his lips between his perfect teeth, you can tell that tobio remains intent on kissing you. not that you can blame him; it’s the most you’ve tasted of one another since your arrival at the palace. but you will yourself to speak and for once, to voice your concern — knowing that your partner will still love you at the other end of your words. “my prince i…i-i haven’t,” inhaling deeply through your nose, you steal your nerves and fight the sweet mewls that brew like a storm at the back of your throat — a natural response to kageyama who now insists on peppering kisses at the base of your neck (since he could not have your lips). “i have not experienced this before. a-and i want you, i do! i’d just… i’d like for our wedding night to be…”

the crown prince pauses his actions, his dizzy and lustful stare darting up to meet yours whilst his dark, midnight hair no longer tickles your neck. “special?”

“special.” you repeat with a wavering nod of your head.

a beat passes where neither of you speak and the silence is filled by your ragged panting. for a second, just a split second, you’re afraid that tobio might not understand or may even reject you but just as he were earlier — he lets a tender smile tug in the corners of his soft lips (reserved only for you) as a thread of adoration weaves itself between the jet black flecks in his darkened eyes. “i don’t want to do anything you might regret or that you wouldn’t ask me for…” he murmurs huskily, leaning down so that the words press against the shell of your ear and cause you to arch your back desperately.

“i have no regrets… not right now i just,” you whine into the night, gripping kageyama’s for some kind of the to reality. “want to go slower, not all the way…”

“not all the way…” the prince muses hungrily, smoothing over your inner calf. you feel his teeth tug at your earlobes as tobio’s tone dips into low and sexy territory — setting the butterflies in your tummy alight with newfound lust. “then it’s alright with you…i’d still like to ease you, to touch you. it might help you sleep.” he reaches down, lips ghosting over the faint adam’s apple in your throat, grinning as it bobs beneath his touch. “i promise to be gentle.”

“promise?”

“you have my sworn word.”

you blink up at the crown prince with big doe eyes, willing him to see the trust laced within them. “okay…i’m okay with more.”

kageyama makes haste in his next movements — undoing the poorly tied ribbon holding your bolero together and pushing your nightgown all the way off of your shoulders. a hand squeezes yours reassuringly the more fabric he peels away from your trembling frame. endearing praises, hushed whispers of ‘good girl,’ and ‘you’re so beautiful’, are written across your marked flesh in tobio’s signature too — all the while he remains careful, considerate of your wish as he presses wet, sloppy kisses onto the surface of your newly exposed skin. an almost pained gasp tears through your throat, stealing all of the air from your lungs, when your prince removed enough of your clothing to expose your breasts to the icy night air. a little more, and your soft, supple stomach is revealed too.

apprehension tingles below your surface. you’ve never been naked in front of someone before, much less a person that you love. the feeling makes you instinctively cover up — grip retreating from your loved one’s hair to wrap around the curve of your breasts. effectively shielding them from kageyama’s insatiable view.

“don’t hide from me, my sweet love,” kageyama coos. “you’re so beautiful. i want to see and have all of you.” pulling your arms down until they rest at your sides, he’s quick to sooth you, an eager mouth immediately encapsulating your hardening nipples, tongue rolling over the circumference of your areola wetly. you can’t help but whimper, fingers jumping up like a twitch and tightening in his midnight locks whilst neither of you dare to look away — gazes locked with a key that’s been long thrown away.

the prince’s face flashes with heat while he languidly flicks at your nipples with the searing hot tip of his tongue, a dazed expression etched across the gentle slope of his handsome features, making him appear as a man who’s stumbled across an oasis — dying for water. his very face right now sets your core alight.

it would be distortion of the truth to say the look painted upon your own features didn’t rival tobio’s. there’s got to be tears somewhere or a glossy pout to match the light sheen of sweat dousing your body. either way, you know that you look a swivel-eyed mess — every touch, kiss, bite and pinch you receive from the crown prince accompanied by the unfamiliar twinge of lust you feel for your future husband currently smothering you into satiny sheets, drives you up a wall that was once many feet high. your blood boils hot, buzzing beneath your skin, so hot you might as well have a fever. it’s all so new for you, so overwhelmingly good that you could die here and be happy, slick and cherished.

somewhere in the mess of your blistering hot limbs and lusty laments, kageyama bunches the skirts of your night dress at your middle and makes his veiny, large hand comfortable between the apexes of your thighs. you quiver violently and even make a darling noise as tobio goes on to prod a knuckle against the seat of your fresh underwear — chuckling almost mutely at the dampness that soils them in response. “oh princess,” kageyama swallows thickly, amused. “you’re soaking right through these already. poor thing.”

the way in which the prince purrs down at you, eyes murky and hooded, tone superlicious with notes of superiority only serves to drag you further away from the light above. dragging you under the surface of a desire oh so sinful.

you realise then that you’d be happy to drown in tobio kageyama.

whether you meant to let it out or not, a pathetic sniffle breaks free from the barriers of your pouty lips and clenched teeth — eliciting a sick and prideful sort of expression on the prince’s handsome face. a face that hardly ever moves or shows any emotion for the people of his kingdom. another secret to be kept between the two of you. this version of the charming prince revels in the way that you squirm against his knuckles and finger tips as they bully your swelling clit relentlessly. basks in the juices that darken your underwear despite the innocent gleam to the tears in your eyes. tears that have yet to fall.

“i can smell just how wet you are, princess,”

shame begins to curl around your organs, but hardly wins the war against your brewing sexual appetite for the dark haired male licking a withering pathway from the valley of your breasts, down your stomach and over your belly button to the point just above your pelvis. “i-i’m sorry, my prince.”

while tobio battles between torturing you and nurturing you, a hoarse groan loaded with desire vibrates around the cavity of his chest — vibrating through the bed and shooting to your spasaminf centre. “don’t be, i take pride in knowing that i have this effect on you.” now settled between your shaky legs, your betrothed blows a bout of warm air against your sex, rubbing at you faster and harder until your thighs instinctively spread wide enough for his dirty-minded gaze. “so pretty, mmph.”

“y-you should…you should see the way you look…down there, my love.” bravely, you somehow manage to talk through your pockets of dulcet whimpers and poor attempts to fill your air with lungs. it’s hard to speak and difficult to breathe when kageyama is busy pressing two fingers to your clothed entrance, fucking the slight resistance of your treacly hole as streams of your premature arousal ruins your panties further. azure eyes loose their vibrant shade at the sight, gaze honed in on the newly defined shape of your puffy folds.

you’re quick to throw an arm over your face in embarrassment afterwards, however, too afraid that you’ve spoken out of turn with the royal despite your improper predicament.

“oh? what a mouth you have there, sweetheart. how… endearing.” tobio smirks zealously, gaze momentarily flickering up towards your angelic face as it twists with uncharted bliss — all the while, he never stops pinching and rolling your clit, ensuring that you’re soaked through and trembling. “i thought i told you not to hide, that i wanted to see you while i made you feel good,” he continues on, warning you whilst briefly stopping his assault on your slippery sex to push past the lace trimming on your underwear and teasingly pat the entirety of the treasure hidden behind it.

screwing your eyes shut and scrunching up your nose, your head flies back into the pillows while your thighs instinctively snapping closed around your betrothed’s hand — keeping him trapped against your cunt. “o-oh my gods, tobio!” you cry out loud enough to shake the earth down to its core. even with you whinging and writhing, he doesn’t stop touching you, further building on the pleasure at the base of your spine that threatens to explode. stroking you more and more, the more that you ooze.

“sorry,” tobio laughs airly and presses a kiss to your inner thigh, using your moment of weakness to pull your limp arm away from your pinched, sweaty face. “such a pretty sound, when you cry out my name,” his kisses move higher, ghosting over your drenched underwear and pulsating pussy. “can you do me a favour, my love?”

blinking slowly, you attempt to catch a breath in the moment of respite kageyama has given you. you’re hardly there as he tugs your panties off all the way, barely able to register the cool hair now hitting your sticky mound. “hmm?”

“give me your hand,” he commands. you oblige, reaching for his own hand with the one that once covered your face. you let the crown prince manoeuvre you as he pleases — nearly jolting out of your skin when you feel your own rough padded fingertips brush over your clit. “touch yourself for me.”

“w-what?” your teary eyes, nearly overcome with sleep, fly wide open in shock. you struggle to sit up where kageyama keeps you pinned.

he smiles. one of those smiles saved only for you. “touch yourself for me, i’d like to know how my future wife likes it.” he repeats simply, guiding three of your fingers to gingerly circle your throbbing pleasure bud. “like you would if you were alone. i know that you’ve indulged before, i can see it on your face…”

now is no time to be nervous, after all, for the last thirty minutes your crown prince has had you spread wide open and a mess beneath his skillful fingers — scenting him with the slick from your cunt. although you’ve hardly had the time to touch yourself in the past, between the dizzying demands of your cruel step-mother and her petulant children, you’re able to remember what your body likes. what you like. what gets you there the fastest — and now that you have your own prince to fuel your desires, you no longer need to imagine what it’s like to be claimed. owned. fucked.

free from kageyama’s restraint, you shuffle into a sitting position and timidly circle your clit as it pulses with the rapid beat of your heart. you hiss involuntarily and the dark haired male lets out a surprising, withering whimper — laser focused on how you ooze like a tap with running water.

“thank you for indulging me,” with pools of marina trench blue engrossed by the way you start to move, the soft jut of your hips into your fingers and the way you bite down on your plump shiny lips to keep the whines in — kageyama presses a wet chaste kiss to the back of your arousal soaked hand and then shuffles to sit back on his haunches. kicking off his briefs and other clothes, he knees on his bed — fighting the urge to blush as you watch his cock spring free.

he stands tall, erect. tan tip flushed against his creamy pale skin as he leaks a fresh wave of precum all over his tense tummy. just as tobio takes a hold of himself, you push two fingers past the tight ring of your unused entrance — immediately curling them to find the familiar pleasure spots clinging to your sluice walls. like a biological instinct, his hips buck upwards, looking for friction to ease the burn in his erection — blood carrying lusty hormones straight to his leaky tip, keeping him hard.

he’s begging to be touched and you need some motivation.

scissoring your dainty digits, you work yourself open — fucking your cunt silly, faster and faster the less nervous you become in front of your lover. “t-tobio!” you slur, lashes fluttering against your cheeks while you drench yourself in your own slick. your juices begin to splash against the insides of your supple thighs, wetting them like your tongue wets your lips as you lick them — hungrily waiting for kageyama to do something. anything. “tobi…please! n-need to see you…d-do it too…”

“well since you asked so nicely, my love,” the prince finally takes to palming himself, rolling the pad of his thumb over his blazing mushroomed tip — tapping at the string of precum gathering in its centre. he uses it as lube, squeezing himself to the ruthless rhythm of your cunt spasming around your fingers. matching your pace as if to mimic the way he’s going to fuck you. he looks so pretty and flushed — it pulls whistle tone bleats from between your trembling lips. his midnight blue and stormy eyes cloud with desire at every sound you and your slick hole make, those very sounds thick like molasses as they run through his ears. rotting kageyama from the inside out.

a house of pleasure built by bricks of bliss builds up at the base of your spine — cemented together and supported by tobio’s constant praise and encouragement. a little faster love. such a good girl. ride those pretty little fingers for me. you’re driven by the sight of his dick in his hand, jerking on it cor dear life and spreading webs of white up and down his shaft with each flick of his wrist. his balls are heavy; loaded with cum that he’s saved all for you; it’s predecessor smeared thickly over his thighs and sheets. maybe you stare for a little too long, locking eyes with the prince carnally, because he laughs over the erotic sounds of your squelching sexes and unified moans.

“it’s fair in size, i know,” he says gruffly, gritting his perfect white teeth — stopping his mouth from watering at your body jerking and your fingers that pull out of your tight heat to trace the length of your juicy slit. “but i’ll make it fit on our wedding night,” kageyama thrusts upwards just as your two of your digits sink back into your creamy clenching cunt. “that’s a promise…fuuuck…”

tears tiptoe over the edge of your waterline in response to the filth pouring from tobio’s mouth, streaking a hot part down the apples of your cheeks that now glisten under the high moon. “that’s what i want; for you to fill me… like no one else,” you sour over the saliva pooling in your mouth — no better than the man himself as you tease your thoroughly fucked cunt, bearing down on your own g-spot. “w-would you… will you cum inside?” you ask over the lewd sounds echoing from your squishy insides as they ring out into the sex tainted air. they form the perfect melody with kageyama’s rough groans and laments, increasing in octave the deeper your digits reach into your pussy.

your elbows threaten to give out and kageyama can tell that you’re trying so hard to sit up and watch him. pride swells in his chest at your vision, a hand between your pudgy thighs and your salacious curves all on display just for him. your skin; marked with beautiful scars and stretch marks glimmering with a light layer of perspiration. you’re perfect, like an angel sent from heaven to watch over him. and he’s so lucky to have found you. “you’d like that, wouldn’t you. if i creamed that princess cunt of yours, filled you with my seed. bred you until you were carrying an heir. all. for. me.” punctuating his horny rambling, the prince bucks his hips into his soiled fist — stuttering as he goes. “got s-such a filthy mouth on you love, you’ll ruin me with it.”

he’s close. the both of you are. if tobio kageyama falls from grace now, you’ll be right there with him.

you nod rapidly, holding back a choked sob as the bedding below your shaking legs darkens from how your juices spill everywhere. “i want your heir, i want your seed, i want your…oh gods!” tipping your head back, the tail end of your words die in a high pitched squeal that dances in the buzzing air between you. everything burns with how close your release is. you drag your forehand up to your bare chest to you with your nipples — tugging on them harshly. anything to impress your lover, get him close too.

“want my what?” the dark haired prince howls, squeezing the base of his girth. “so greedy and you’re not even a princess yet. punish yourself for me, love. smack that pretty pussy for me — s’pecially if you won’t finish your words.” tobio’s words waft over your mind like a fog over a swamp, pulling a veil of impurity over any remaining thoughts you might have had. dopamine crackles around in your emptied skull, twirling around the ring of your fluttering hole. you gush and gush and gush, pouring the royal family’s future riches out onto the bed like an endless stream of erotica when you pull out from your selfish heat. “come on, love, keep movin’ for me… slap that pretty princess cunt. make your prince proud.”

“tobio!” you mewl for the millionth time under the midnight moon and bring your hand down against your mound in a harsh slap, kageyama’s entire body shuddering at the loud wail you let out. like a songbird chirping for him in the morning. a stream of your juices fly up your arm, glaze the apex of your thighs like icing on a cake as a result. some even reaching the prince himself — drawing a languid lament from him. “s-so close…think i’m going to…”

you cut yourself off, spanking your pussy again and again and again until the prince’s head is heavy with the sound of your broken whines and pap of your sex replaying repeatedly in his mind. “oh you’re so good, so perfect for me love,” his cock twitches, an incredulous amount of his seed waiting for you. his lucky love, his beautiful betrothed, his princess to be. “me too, love. me too, me too, me too,” he’s right behind you, tobio trying to keep his cool and his movements steady but lasciviousness coagulates in the tone of his unsteady voice while he fucks his hand like a mock up of your pussy. “c’mere, beautiful. come here.”

despite commanding you, kageyama reaches you first — his lean frame collapsing over you as if to shield your sins from the world. the seedy tip of his cock presses hotly against the length of your slit, right over your fingers still moving swiftly over your throbbing cunt. you feel everything, overwhelmed by the humid air between your sweaty bodies — the prince’s lips as they capture yours and the pulsing veins twisting around his cock decoratively.

the dark haired heir to the thrown continues to gist the base of his erection — freehand grasping desperately onto the headboard to steady himself as his high quickly approaches. your own freehand finds purchase on the bag of his neck, toying with the damp baby hairs there while the two of you exchange loving, lasting lip-locks. tasting the affection and sweat on one another’s Cupid’s bows.

it’s this way that the two of you reach your climaxes. it hits you like a thunderstorm over an ocean, dragging you under the surface of white hot bliss. the bricks that were building high walls of pleasure in your lower tummy come crashing down with your orgasm — and you know then that they were either never steady or that tobio kageyama was the only one strong enough to break them down. you cum hard, juices splashing out onto the sheets, painting your lover’s shaft and expelling a musky sent into the heavy air. you scream as it washes over you — souring the man above you on.

“gods…fuck, my love. i love you, love you, love you.” tobio makes the fall not long after you, finishing himself off right over your clit — nudging his cockhead against your abused mound until viscous droplets of milky white cover it, seeping between your fat pussy lips. he cant help but look as he floods your slit with seed, choking on a moan at the sight and releasing the poor headboard from his clutches. “you’re so perfect,” he peppers your face with smooches, all of them gentle and carefully placed to soothe you. even as they cascade down your neck, sternum and eventually hover over your sensitive sex. “i c-can’t stop now, have to taste you.”

not a drop of cum, from you or from tobio, will be wasted tonight.

securing his grip on the globes of your ass, kageyama pulls you into his impatient and eager tongue. he starts by opening wide, slotting his mouth against the entirety of your ruined folds — immediately sucking all of the cum and juices from them and moaning as if they’re the first flavours to hit his tongue after being starved for a millennia. the vibrations make you spiral and arch from the bed, reaching for the high heavens. the tip of his tongue wriggles past your slick entrance, the movement eased by how your fingers stretched you out. it flickers in an upward motion, making you see stars like those of the Milky Way between sloppy and uncoordinated kisses.

he’s eating you out for not just your pleasure, but his own, hungry and rabid — filling you up as you cry and cry at the overstimulation. you taste so good, the prince will drink you dry if he has to. tobio slurps what you leak, pushing his saliva in and out of your messy hole while you keenly rut into his face — effectively covering his puffy lips and chin in liquid gold. your own face feels tight and hot, throat raw from moaning so loud.

your betrothed can't help but moan with you in tandem, whimpering pathetically at every roll of your cunt onto his tongue — forcing him to eat his cum out of you. “tobi, it feels… it feels—!” you pant and grasp at his sweaty hair — tugging him further into your cunt, making him wriggle deeper inside, against pleasure points you had no idea existed along your own ribbed walls. he latches onto your clit and rolls it between his teeth mercilessly until your nails are clawing at his scalp and the air in your throat escapes you.

rapture tears you apart and pieces you back together all in one — evident in the way your cunt gushes into his mouth like a fruitful stream. there’s no room to breathe or cope between kageyama’s tongue pinned to your clit and the content gripes he lets out between your soaked thighs. by now he’s probably cleaned his release from you, yours too but he doesn’t dare stop until he’s replaced the mess with a new orgasm from you.

briefly, the prince pulls away from your pussy — tied to you by a rope of cloudy elixir leaked from your hole. a mix of him and you. a visual representation of your union to one. “such a good girl,” he snarls so deep you hardly recognise, but it makes you clench around nothing — pushing cum you didn’t know was there out of your entrance. “chase that feeling, don’t let it go, love.” he goads, spreading your thighs apart even more just to watch the webs of your arousal form and break apart. “so messy… are you close for me, princess?”

you nod rapidly, tearily, and kageyama sighs dreamily, licking your lips at the sight of your mound glistening under the night’s natural light. he licks you up and down with fever and newfound video — focused on pushing you over the edge once more. the crown prince hooks his strong arms around your thighs and anchors you to his hot, hardworking mouth because he knows that you’re so shaky from the euphoria pulsing in your bloodstream that you’re too weak to do it on your own.

your betrothed tongues his words wetly into your overstimulated sex. “show me how messy you can get, princess. make my face wet with it. so sticky. so good.”

“c-cumming! tobio…please!” with a high pitched squeal, your release hits you just as the world around you fades to white and tobio is with you right the way through. his pink tongue flicks at your sluice sex hungrily, brushing over your g-spot to guide you to the other side of your high. it shoots out of you in clear streams, dousing the man between your legs in everything that belongs to you. like some form of ownership.

you screw your eyes shut to stop the static buzzing behind them. your jaw goes slack and your body falls limp, you tremble so hard that kageyama has to reach up and scoop you into his arms to calm you down. a soft grip tilts your chin towards him as he kisses you once again, allowing you to suck your own flavour from his tongue and eventually settles between your legs. hugging you close to him.

“i love you,” you bleat gently, finally coming to. how could you not. he’s your prince charming and he’s shown you that he feels the same.

kageyama shifts, expression melting into one of those special smiles for you. “i love you…”

for some reason, you feel the need to return the favour — reaching down between your bodies and intertwined limbs for his cock which you know is hardening again. but the dark haired prince is quick to grab your wrist, bringing it up to his swollen lips for a gentle kiss against your pulse point. “don’t,” he mutters against the skin there, tasting your sweat with a teasing lick. “sleep, my princess. we’ll have plenty of time to learn the rest later. on our wedding night, remember.”

the prince wriggles his eyebrows, eliciting sleepy and heartfelt laughter from you. “but—“

“an eternity, remember.” he reaches for your other hand and laces your fingers firmly. a reminder that he’s never leaving you. not now. not ever. “you are to be my wife, in my arms where you belong and away from your cruel past. i want you as you are and will teach you whatever you want to know. just rest, for now. sleep my love.”

you remain silent for just a moment, mind racing with a million things to say. though, for tonight, you settle on but one thing — despite having said it a million times tonight. “i love you, my prince.” you whisper tiredly, cupping his handsome face with adoration.

“and i, you. forever more, my princess.” your lover, tobio kageyama, parrots back to you tenderly. the clock strikes for once for an hour past midnight — indicating your new chance at life, that you’ve stayed at the ball beyond the twelfth stroke of the clock and you feel your eyes getting heavy, drifting off in your prince charming’s arms.

the end.

1K notes · View notes

pedrospatch · 4 months ago

Text

call it what it is

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: A disagreement over patrol duty leads to declarations that have been long overdue.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. established relationship. HEFTY AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and joel is 56). ellie and joel are fine bc i said so and they deserve nothing less. reader handles a rifle, joel’s a little too overprotective and almost seems controlling, but i promise he is not. well, maybe just a smidge. arguing, admission of feelings, joel miller says i love you (yes this is ooc, no i do not care bc i need this old man to tell me he loves me). angst, fluff. quite a bit of side character interaction before we get to joel and reader in the second half. the only physical description of reader is that she is shorter than joel. fair warning, i am quite rusty.

word count: 4.2k

a/n: hi hello. i have not shared a wip in over 2 months. i was going back and forth on whether or not i wanted to share a fic with so much going on but decided i wanted to get back to doing what i enjoy. that and ofc that new footage was a boost of inspo. i am sending so, so much love to anyone who happens to see this author note, whether you read this fic or just happen to see this note in passing whilst scrolling. i know things have been tough, but i am here with you. <3

Joel wakes with a gentle start. Yawning, he rolls over from his side onto his back, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as warm, golden sunlight filters into the bedroom through the sheer, white linen curtains drawn over the window. He stares up at the ceiling, his breathing slow, steady, and even. He’s still getting used to it, it seems. Waking this calmly, with a tranquil peace he had been so certain he would never in his life feel again. He knew it couldn’t be a mere coincidence the nightmares had all but stopped tormenting him in his sleep when the two of you stopped doing that awkward little tap dance around one another and began sharing a bed, a home, a life.

No more bolting upright in sheer panic in the middle of the night, heart pounding and drenched head to toe in a cold sweat. No more believing he’s failing in his sleep. No more waking up feeling like he’s lost something.

Even his dreams about Sarah had become so, so much more pleasant. Images of her in that field on that night were replaced by different memories, like watching her teammates dogpile her after she’d scored the winning goal in their soccer tournament, or the big, triumphant grin she’d flashed him over her chocolate milkshake as the pair sat in their usual corner booth at their favorite fifties-themed diner in Austin—much to Joel’s surprise, Sarah had politely declined her teammates’ invitation for pizza once the match ended, choosing to celebrate her victory with him. Just the two of them.

“Y’sure you don’t wanna go with your friends, kiddo?” he’d asked, raising an eyebrow. He had been certain she was approaching the age where she would start spending less and less time with her old man. “I wouldn’t mind, y’know.”

“Positive,” she had reassured him with a smile, looping her arm through his and leading him off the pitch. “I’d much rather be with you, dad.”

Rather than smelling metallic in his slumber, he smells the grass that stained her white and blue striped jersey. Her cheeks are smeared with dirt, not with crimson.

Stifling another loud yawn, Joel stretches his arm out over towards your side of the bed, his calloused fingers seeking the warmth and softness of your naked body—instead, all they find are empty sheets, cold and long abandoned. He turns his head, and as suspected, you are not laying there beside him. That’s hardly out of the ordinary. Out of the two of you, you were the early riser, up before the neighbors’ rooster even had the chance to sound the alarm. Joel knows how much you treasure your quiet mornings lounging on the porch swing he’d built for you as you watched the sunrise with a hot cup of coffee in hand. He often made a genuine effort to get up and join you, but lately, his patrol rotations had been all over the place thanks to a shortage of patrolmen. He found himself sleeping in whenever he had the chance, seeing as he never knew when he might have to work a damn double. Or maybe it was just his age catching up with him.

He checks the time and then rolls out of bed, groaning when his sore knees and his aching lower back protest his movement.

After taking a quick shower using whatever hot water the kid had left for him after her own shower—much to his annoyance, it was not very much—Joel brushes his teeth and gets dressed for the day before pulling on his boots and heading downstairs into the kitchen where he finds the culprit responsible for the cold downpour he’d been forced to wash himself under. Ellie’s sitting at the table, absentmindedly stirring her oatmeal around her bowl with her spoon as she flips through one of her comic books. Just as he’s about to greet her, he spots the clean, empty coffee pot on the kitchen counter and frowns. You hadn’t even made coffee yet?

Now, that—that is out of the ordinary.

“Where is she?” he asks.

“Well, good morning to you too, old man. Oh, I slept great, thanks for asking,” Ellie quips without looking up at him as she flips the page. She mumbles something under her breath he doesn’t quite catch, something like, and you get on my ass about my manners?

Rolling his eyes, Joel snorts in response and pads over to the coffee maker on the counter. He spoons in some of the grounds he’d traded for earlier that week into the reusable filter, pours in water from the tap, and turns it on to brew. He grabs two ceramic mugs from the wire dish rack beside the sink and sets them down on the counter. “She out back?” he questions, yanking the refrigerator door open—he tries to remember the little things, like how you enjoyed your coffee with a bit of milk as well as a dash of cinnamon, if you had the rations, or something to trade for the precious spice. He always made sure that you did.

“Nope.” Ellie shovels a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth and adds thickly, “She went to get some eggs.”

Joel shoots her a look of disgust over his shoulder. “Jesus, Ellie! How many times do I gotta tell you? Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s bad manners,” he scolds her, shaking his head. He turns his attention back to the refrigerator. As he reaches for the glass bottle of milk, he pauses and his eyebrows pull together in confusion when he sees the wicker basket on the top shelf. “Wait a minute.” He feels her stiffen in her chair. “Why the hell would she go get eggs when we’ve got a full basket of ‘em right here in the fridge?”

She clears her throat. “Oh, uh, my bad. I got confused. Think she said she was gonna go get more honey? Uh, I used the last of it to make my breakfast this morning and she, uh—she wanted some for her toast. You know, ‘cause she really likes putting honey on her toast,” she rambles before piling more oatmeal into her mouth.

Closing the refrigerator door, he turns to her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as uneasiness settles deep in the pit of his stomach. “Ellie?”

There’s a momentary pause. “...yeah?”

This time, Joel doesn’t bother to chastise the teenager for talking with her mouth full. “Where is she?”

Ellie nervously swallows her food and holds up both of her hands. “Hey, I already fucking told you, man.”

“Look, I know you like the back of my own hand, kiddo. And I know damn good and well when you’re lying to me.” Joel crosses his arms over his chest. “Now tell me the truth. What do you know that I don’t?”

Groaning, Ellie sits back in her chair. “Ugh. She made me swear not to tell you! She’ll fucking strangle me if I do—”

“Yeah, well, not if I fuckin’ strangle you first myself,” he threatens her. “M’Serious, Ellie. Tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

“Alright, alright! Jesus,” she huffs. “She’s with Tommy. He’s been taking her out of town to do target practice in the mornings, just the two of them. She usually gets back to the house before you get up,” she admits.

Joel’s arms fall back to his sides, his shoulders tense. “And how long has this been goin’ on?” he asks, rigidly. There’s a sudden tightness inside his chest, a feeling he hasn’t felt it in a while, but is still all too familiar to him.

After Tommy spread the word around town that more people were needed for patrol duties, you’d expressed an interest in the role, but Joel had been all too quick to shut you down, telling you he didn’t want you stepping foot outside the community’s gates.

“No,” he’d said. “Not happenin’. S’too dangerous.”

“But Joel—”

“I said,” he lowered his voice. “No.”

He hadn’t offered you an explanation as to why he was against it, refused to give you one good, solid reason as to why it was acceptable for him to risk his own life to protect Jackson, but it wasn’t acceptable for you to do the same.

Joel hadn’t known how to tell you the truth. How he needed you far, far more than you needed him, how the mere thought of losing you, the best fucking thing that could have possibly happened to him since the world ended, made him feel like his heart was going to stop.

A few weeks had passed since then, and thankfully, you never brought it up to him again. You had lost interest in patrol duty. Or so he’d thought.

“How long has this been going on?” he repeats after a minute.

“C’mon, man! Haven’t I already snitched enough?”

“Ellie,” Joel bites out her name. “Tell me. How long?”

She sighs in defeat. “Two weeks? Maybe three?” When she notices the muscle in his jaw tick, she grimaces. “You do realize why she didn’t fucking tell you, right?”

“Don’t,” he warns her, sharply.

“I’m just saying,” Ellie mutters, peering down into her bowl.

Without another word, Joel angrily storms past her and straight out the front door, snatching up his rifle on the way. He heads straight for the stables, trying to ignore the anxiety flaring inside of his chest.

Focus.

Now, breathe in. And breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe...

You exhale as you slowly squeeze the trigger.

Y’squeeze it like you love it, you had been told by your reluctant instructor.

The round fires off into the distance and you swiftly grab the bolt handle, bringing it up, back, forward, and then down again. You pull the trigger once more, then repeat and continue firing one shot after the other for a total of five rounds.

The rifle’s recoil nearly sends you flying backwards, but a strong hand on your back keeps you nice and steady. That same hand then moves to your shoulder and gives you three firm taps.

“Alright, alright! Christ,” Tommy laughs. He withdraws his arm from around you and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ calm down, Annie Oakley.”

Picking up his binoculars, he rises to his feet and looks through the lens at the makeshift targets that he’d set up for you, three empty soup cans lined up in a row on top of a wooden fence about twenty-five yards away—your longest shooting distance to date.

“Well?” You don’t even bother masking your impatience as you lower the rifle, carefully propping the weapon up against the tree stump you’re perched behind. Rubbing your sore shoulder, you hope the kickback won’t leave a bruise. You wouldn’t know how to explain that to Joel. “How did I do?”

His response comes in the form of a long, low whistle.

There is no telling if that had been good whistle, or if it had been a bad one. You groan. Now was not the time for him to dick around. “Please tell me I got at least one of them?”

“You got ‘em all, actually.” Tommy replies, lowering the binoculars and peering down at you. There’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “Good job, kid.”

Kid? Not exactly a nickname one wants to be called by the brother of the much, much older man that they are romantically involved with. It’d taken Tommy months to accept your relationship with Joel, especially when you moved your things out of your unit and into his over the summer. Part of you wonders if him referring to you as a kid is simply his own subtle way of telling you—no, of reminding you, that he’s still not comfortable with it.

And perhaps he never would be.

After all, you had still been a teenager when you first arrived to Jackson a few years ago, stumbling upon the town just a few months shy of the twentieth birthday you weren’t sure you would survive long enough to see.

You were indeed a kid when you’d met Tommy Miller.

Were.

Scowling up at him, you snap, “I told you to stop calling me that. I’m not nineteen anymore, Tommy.”

Having read your mind, he gives you a small smile and acknowledges, “Yeah, you’re right. You definitely ain’t a kid anymore.” He offers you his hand and hoists you up to your feet. Before dropping your hand, he gives it an apologetic squeeze.

You relax a little and smile back at him. “Did I really get all three?”

Tommy nods. “You sure did. You’re a damn good shot. I gotta be honest with you—I didn’t expect you to be this fuckin’ good,” he admits sheepishly.

Chuckling, you scoff, “Thanks. I think.”

“It’s a compliment, sugar.” He winks and flashes you a lopsided grin. “In fact, I’d say my work here is done.”

“Great! So when are you putting me on the roster?”

His grin instantly vanishes. “Uh, listen. About that....”

He trails off, and your heart sinks a little.

Tommy wouldn’t back out of this now—would he?

“Oh, no. Don’t you dare go back on your word, Miller,” you say, lightly poking him in the chest. “We had a deal. You said if I did well enough, you’d think about it.”

He nods in agreement. “Exactly. Said I’d think about it. And I think that puttin’ you on the roster for patrol ain’t a good idea.”

Your mouth falls open. If he never had any intention of holding up his end of the bargain, then what had been the point of teaching you how to shoot?

You didn’t understand.

“You just said it yourself, I’m a great shot! I’m a good on horseback, too. I’m stealthy. I’m diligent. What more do you fucking need from me, Tommy?”

Tommy’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “Joel would fuckin’ murder me with his bare hands if I even thought about puttin’ you on patrol duty. Hell, he’d murder me just knowin’ we’re out here and I’m teachin’ you how to shoot. It’s a damn fuckin’ miracle he still hasn’t caught onto this, y’know.”

Shocked, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline. “This is about Joel? Are you serious?”

“‘Course it is.” He pauses. “Listen, now I know the three of us had our—differences—when he first told me ‘bout you two. Still takin’ me a bit of gettin’ used to, but I can see he’s real serious about you. I know my brother, and I know he won’t risk losin’ what’s most important to him. Ain’t no way in hell. He doesn’t want you out here and you know that as well as I do.” Tommy shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, shrugging as he shuffles his weight from one cowboy boot to the other. “Unless he’s alright with it, I ain’t gonna put you on the roster.”

For a moment, you’re at a complete loss for words.

Upon seeing the crestfallen expression on your face, he makes a suggestion. “You can try talkin’ to him ‘bout it again if it means that much to you. Ask him—”

“Ask?” You want to laugh. You almost do. “I’m an adult, Tommy. I don’t need his permission to do this. Or to do anything for that matter. Joel doesn’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

Tommy smiles wryly. “Well then, if that’s the case, why are we sneakin’ around and doin’ this behind his back?”

Your shoulders slump in defeat.

Because the ramifications could be disastrous.

Joel had made his stance on the matter abundantly clear, and yet here you were, deliberately disobeying him.

“Stumped you real good, didn’t I?”

Before you can even start to think about how you can possibly respond to that, you hear the sound of hooves in the dirt behind you, followed by whinny of a horse.

Tommy’s face pales as he glances over your shoulder.

“Shit.”

There’s no need for you to ask. His grimace says it all.

Somehow, you will yourself to turn around just as Joel’s steed comes to a halt beside the mare you and Tommy had ridden out on together. He jumps out of the saddle, grunting at the forceful impact on his knees when his feet hit the ground. His rifle hangs from a worn, brown leather strap slung across his back.

He approaches the two of you looking absolutely livid, and your throat goes dry.

“The hell is goin’ on here?” He breezes right past you, roughly shoving his brother with both hands. “Why the fuck would you bring her out here, Tommy? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Joel, c’mon. Take it easy—”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me to take it easy!”

“Joel!” You reach for his arm. “Wait, it’s not his fault!”

Joel shoves him again, then takes him by the collar of his shirt and pins him against the ponderosa pine tree behind him. “You’ve been bringin’ her outside the gates behind my fuckin’ back for weeks, asshole?”

The panic begins to set in—he’s taking his anger out on the wrong person, and deep down, he knows this too.

“Joel! Stop! Let him go!” Grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, you try pulling him off of the younger man. “Stop it! It’s not his fault! I asked Tommy to bring me out here!”

He whirls around, his nostrils flared, jaw clenched.

You’ve seen this side of him a handful of times before.

But his anger has never been directed at you.

“What?”

Immediately, you let go of him and take a step back. “I asked Tommy to bring me out here and teach me how to shoot so that I can start working patrol,” you explain, hoping, praying, he doesn’t catch the slight tremble in your voice. “This was all my idea, okay? If you’re going to be mad at someone, then be mad at me. Not at him.”

“So you did this after I fuckin’ told you I didn’t want you out here?” Joel seethes. His neck becomes flushed, his tan skin now a deep shade of red.

“Joel—”

He cuts you off. “I had to find out from Ellie? You tried to get her to fuckin’ lie to me? After all the work it took for me and her to—” Stopping mid sentence, he places his hands on his hips and shakes his head.

“Joel. Please.” Behind the anger in his dark brown eyes, you detect something else. A mingle of hurt, concern—fear?

Tommy awkwardly clears his throat. “Well I’m, uh—I’m gonna head back to town,” he says, touching a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll let the two of you work things out in private.” As he passes Joel, he lightly claps him on the shoulder. “Girl’s a sharp shooter, big brother. I’d reckon she’s almost better than you.”

His effort to lighten the mood fails. Miserably.

Offering you a subtle nod of encouragement, Tommy hops into the saddle of his mare and takes off towards the commune.

Silence falls over the both of you. It feels suffocating.

Unfamiliar.

Finally, you speak. “Joel, please just hear me out—”

“What the hell were you thinkin’? Or were you just not thinkin’ at all?”

“I was thinking I want to pull my weight in Jackson.”

“You already have a fuckin’ job,” Joel reminds you.

“Making sandwiches and serving whiskey at The Tipsy Bison?” You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I am capable of more than that, Joel. So much more. Don’t you believe I’m capable of doing more?”

“I don’t want you out here,” he grits through his teeth. “Capable or not, I don’t want you outside Jackson’s walls. I don’t want you on patrol and that’s fuckin’ final. You understand me?” Now it’s him who falters, and you wonder if you’re imagining things, or if that’s really a tear you see sliding down the side of his face, disappearing into the salt and pepper scruff of his beard.

“That’s not your decision to make, Joel. It’s mine.”

“M’responsible for you. It’s my job to look after you—to protect you.”

Something about the way he is looking at you, it feels like a punch to the gut, and it’s at that precise moment when you begin to realize that he’s not angry. He’s afraid.

“Joel, I know that all you want to do is protect me,” you sigh, letting your arms fall down to your sides. “I know you do. But you’re doing me no favors by trying to keep me sheltered. By treating me like I’m defenseless. Don’t forget, I’m a survivor too.”

“You already know how fuckin’ dangerous it is out here. Clickers, raiders—”

“I can handle it,” you insist, stubbornly.

“You’d be puttin’ yourself right in harm’s way!”

You shoot back, “You mean, the way you and so many other people put yourselves in harm’s way every single day for the sake of keeping Jackson safe?”

A frustrated growl rumbles through his chest. “Christ, why are you bein’ so fuckin’ foolish? You’re just askin’ to get yourself killed!”

“I can take care of myself!” You realize your hands are shaking and curl them into tight fists at your sides in an effort to hide it. “Just accept it, Joel! Accept that I can take care of myself, alright?”

That is all it takes to tip Joel over the edge he’s been teetering on. “Then what do you fuckin’ need me for?” he shouts, his voice thundering over the quiet plains of Wyoming. “If you can take care of yourself, what’s the point in us bein’ together? Why are you with me?”

“Because I love you!”

As soon as the confession comes tumbling out of your mouth, you take a step back, your wide eyes meeting his own. Until now, neither of you have ever called this what it is, been bold enough to say it’s love.

Loving after so much grief, so much loss, is daunting. It’s something you thought you would never be capable of doing again, not in this lifetime. Not in this world. It’s happened, though.

You love Joel Miller.

And he loves you.

He’s never told you he does, but he’s shown you.

From the way remembers how you take your coffee in the mornings, to the way he laces his fingers with your own, holding your hand when he’s buried inside of you, whispering sweet nothings into your collarbone every single night.

“You—you what?” Joel’s whisper is hardly audible.

You inch your way closer to him, your voice soft. “I love you,” you declare once more. “I’m not with you because of what you can do for me. I’m not with you because you can take care of me.” Closer. “I’m with you because I love you—because I’m in love with you, Joel.” Closer, until your chest brushes against his, and he can smell the subtle scent of your homemade, rosewater soap. “The only thing I need, and have ever needed from you, is your love in return.”

His throat bobs. Before you can utter another word, he lifts his hands and gently takes your face, cradling it in between his large palms, gently. His eyes search yours, immediately finding the sincerity behind your words. Leaning down, he brushes the tip of nose against your own as one of his hands travels down, his long fingers curling around the nape of your neck. His thumb lightly strokes the column of your throat.

“I love you,” Joel says hoarsely. Three words he hadn’t said to anyone in over two decades—it feels foreign to him, they ring strange in his own ears. He tries it again, clearer this time, and with a little more confidence. After all, he’s only saying what he has known from the very start. “I love you.” His other hand moves to your hip, pulling you even closer to him. “M’gonna love you for the rest of my life, baby.”

He leans in further and presses his lips to yours lightly, at first, but he wastes no time in sweeping his tongue across your bottom lip, silently asking for more.

Your mouth parts for him, and he backs you against the ponderosa, kissing you deeply, greedily, like he’s a man starved.

You whimper into him, your hands sliding up his broad chest and past his shoulders until they’re tangled in his soft, graying curls. He breathes you in, like you are the oxygen he needs to stay alive.

It isn’t until you both hear the sound of rustling behind a nearby shrub that you’re forced to pull apart. “Don’t move,” Joel instructs in a hushed voice. He keeps you pinned against the tree, his hand abandoning your hip. He glances around, slowly reaching behind his back for his rifle. His tense shoulders relax when the both of you see a pair of rabbits dart out from one dried bush and straight into another. Exhaling an amused huff, Joel shifts his attention back to you and rests his forehead against yours.

Smiling, you reach up and softly graze his beard with your fingertips. “Guess it’s about time we called this what it is, huh?”

“Guess you’re right, darlin’.” He lifts his chin, brushing a kiss onto your forehead. “M’sorry for raisin’ my voice to you. For talkin’ to you the way I did. S’just, the thought of somethin’ happenin’ to you out here scares shit out of me.” Taking a step back, he pulls the strap of his rifle from around his shoulder. He chews the inside of his cheek and silently stares at the gun in his hands. After a minute, he meets your curious gaze. “Do you really wanna do this, sweet girl?”

You nod. “Yeah. I really do.”

Joel sighs. “Can I put a condition it?”

“Depends on what that condition is.”

“I’m your patrol partner. Every shift. Every rotation.”

You roll your eyes. “Joel.”

“At least for the first few weeks,” he bargains. “Last thing I need is for you to be paired up with some fuckin’ idiot who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doin’.”

Knowing that would be the only way he’d have some peace of mind, you decide to agree. “Fine. We’re patrol partners.”

“Alright then.” Joel nods and hands you the rifle. He flashes you a small grin. “Show me what you got, baby.”

divider credit to @/saradika 💛

for fic notifications please follow @joelsgreysupdates!

#joel miller x reader #fic: call it what it is #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

vultbae · 6 months ago

Text

negroni ✩

art donaldson x female reader

↳ summary: After winning against Patrick, Art takes the night off to grab a few drinks at the Ritz Carlton lobby bar. There, he meets a profound admirer.

Things go wrong with the girl who bought him a Negroni.

↳ warnings: fingering (minors dni), age gap (reader is 22), manipulation, infidelity, angst towards end.

↳ extra warnings: english is not my first language pookies + my first fic + yall I'm messyy so I added drama out of nowhere. if u read this I love u thank u for giving me a chance

word count: 4.9k

✩

"Excuse me, no smoking."

The blonde man lifts his chin to encounter a young waitress warning him about the cigarette dangling off his mouth. His middle and index fingers immediately approach the cigarette and gradually pull the filtered end from between his lips. "Sorry." Art frankly apologizes.

The waitress's purposeful avoidance of directly looking at him makes Art borderline giggle. He can't help but discreetly give her a comprehensive look; the girl is attractive, with velvety skin that impersonates caramel and peaceful facial features. He shushes all the pushy thoughts resembling the waitress to his wife staying upstairs. He is not that desperate, plus, everyone knows he is married to the Tashi Duncan.

Art audibly clears his throat and articulates before the young woman strolls away, "Can you get me a Negroni, please?" He requests, showcasing a courteous smile. The woman nods.

He didn't even realize when he positioned the cigarette between his lips. He had been anxiously waiting for an instance when he could be alone -at least since the match against Patrick. Tashi cheerfully agreed to let him descend to the lobby bar to grab a few drinks.

✩

Art had been attentively scanning his frame on the wide mirror and adjusting strands and strands of hair as he paid more attention to his hairstyle; his somber eyes descended from his impeccable hair to the unfastened buttons of his seersucker shirt, revealing a fraction of silk-like, gloomy skin from chest to lower stomach, his well-grooved muscles casting shadows under the bathroom's dim yellow lighting.

"I'm going out!" Art shouted from the bathroom as he fastened the remaining buttons of his shirt.

From the corner of his eye, he sensed Tashi approaching the bathroom doorframe and standing by it. Art tilted his head up to encounter Tashi, his wife, silently grinning, dressed in a beautiful pearl-white silk robe, "I won't be gone for more than an hour-

"It's fine," Tashi interrupted. "I'll watch a movie with Lily. We can talk about it later."

Art nodded. His eyes stared at her with minor fascination. Tashi couldn't figure out why, but the feral spark on Art's orbs evaporated. She walked away.

Art slightly opened his mouth to say something but suddenly cut himself off, lips slamming together. He didn't say anything. He allowed the slim figure of his wife to vanish from his eyesight. He authorized himself to go out alone for the first time in years and think about his relationship with Tashi and tennis -if, at this point, they were not equal. And his relationship with Patrick, of course.

After today, he felt things he hadn't felt in a while.

✩

An insistent tap on his shoulder provokes Art to flinch and abruptly land on earth again.

"Excuse me, Negroni..?" Another waiter says in a quivering voice—a statement rather than a question—hardly maintaining eye contact. He is holding a tiny round silver tray with a bloody-looking Negroni sitting on it.

Before the amateur waiter can shakily grasp the crystal glass to place it on Art's table, Art raises his arm and moves the Negroni himself. As soon as he places the glass on the marmol table's surface, his long fingers seize the thin wedge of orange embellishing the glass, bringing it to his lips and sucking on it instantly.

He doesn't realize that the one time he and the waiter are maintaining eye contact is while he sucks on a slice of orange -slowly.

"Thank you." Art says, dragging the wedge out of his mouth, detecting the scarcity of color on the waiter's facial canvas. "Why is he so pale?" Art thinks. The meddling stare from the waiter endures for maybe five seconds before Art frowns his eyebrows slightly in confusion; the poor guy nearly jogs away from Art's table.

Does he carry that much power over people? It has been long since Art calculatedly flirted with or attempted to gain someone's attention. To be accurate, since Tashi entered his life. He has officially lost the "open-to-the-public" charming spark and neglected his intrinsically flirty side.

But today, for some reason, he feels different than usual. Not that he is trying to test it...

The Ritz lobby bar is moderately quiet. Art peeks at a few travelers relaxing with their baggage as they sip cocktails in miniature glasses and couples drinking -"probably pre-gaming before a night out," Art assumes. His gaze disembarks over two guys in their premature 20s, brunette, and blonde, chuckling and vividly chitchatting about topics he can't overhear properly. Art is hooked to the scenario in front of him as he stares enthusiastically: it bitterly reminds him of his friendship with Patrick, whom he hasn't heard of since the match.

As he finds himself —once again— daydreaming about what once was, Art takes decent-sized sips of his Negroni, with his right hand hugging the crystal glass just right. He is sitting on one of the many hickory brown leather armchairs dispersed across the bar, manspreading as his left hand lays over his lap.

Suddenly, a personal reflection pops into his mind like a light bulb unexpectedly turning on; what is he doing? Sitting submerged in loneliness in a 5-star hotel lobby bar will not change anything. It simply won't. He would rather go back to the suite and have some pleasing fucking sleep. He is feeling tired, and confused, and depressed, and—

Well, If anything, people who recognize him could come and disturb his night.

Art locks eyesight with the first waiter wandering across his vision field; he pitches a writing motion with his hand and requests the bill. As the waiter walks in his direction, he chugs down the leftover sips of cocktail in the glass.

"Bill?" Another waiter wearing a burgundy uniform asks Art. The tennis player shakes his head up and down, murmuring a yes please, "Don't worry, on the house."

"I can afford it." Art stresses, with a robust sarcastic undertone tinting his voice tone while attempting to maintain the most benevolent smile on his catalog.

The waiter chuckles in exaggerated glee. "I know, Mr. Donaldson. Your bill has been cleared by another customer," he clarifies, standing in front of Art with the straightest stance and hands intertwined in the manifestation of hospitality. The waiter clears his throat, "Actually, by the young woman over there," and discreetly points his finger at the stools by the bar gantry.

Art's gaze dashes over to a woman standing by the bar gantry. He can only see her back, not her complete complexion. Although he has internally accepted this demeanor as improper, he allows his eyes to scan over the woman's silhouette freely, lingering a little longer on her legs. In the background, he can faintly attend to the waiter talking about hotel-specific branch issues and how stays such as his and Tashi's benefit the hotel's branding -isn't this the Ritz Carlton?

"Yes, I agree." Art blurts out as soon as he realizes the waiter has concluded his monologue, his gaze glued to the enigmatic female standing five meters away from him.

"Thank you, Mr. Donaldson. Have a great night." Just as Art opened his mouth to greet him in return, the waiter had already shifted on his feet to approach another table.

Art reevaluates what he is about to do. Should he greet her, thank her, or gently communicate how unmannered it can be to buy a married man a drink?

But also, what if it's an obsessed groupie attempting to instigate drama?

It doesn't matter. Buying Art Donaldson a drink is disrespectful. Literally everyone —quite literally everyone— who knows Donaldson knows he is married to Tashi Duncan!

Come on, a woman, unattended in a bar, buying me a drink? Art thinks.Of course, she has hidden intentions, he reassures himself. Art shifts on the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees, still pondering whether he should approach her.

Why isn't he simply disregarding this and walking away?

He hadn't felt so much excitement about something so childish in a while. It felt like being nineteen again. After hugging Patrick today, he sensed a heartwarming relief regarding Tashi cheating on him. But, on the other hand, he's a fucking human.

Fuck it. He just wants to chat with the girl and perhaps communicate that she shouldn't do that again. Right, that's it.

Art picks up his belongings and strides towards her.

"Hey, sorry..." Art speaks, dragging the stool beside the woman and grinning warily at her. His soothing, recognizable tone of voice instantly captures her attention.

Art expected many things, but not a drop-dead gorgeous woman. A girl. She looks...young— not underage kind of young, but unquestionably not over twenty-five. On the other hand, as a well-known tennis player, he's had plenty of exquisite-looking women begging for attention; Tashi herself is stunning. Somehow, this woman left his lungs tightening for a sizzling second, which is concerning.

Plus, her aroma. Jesus, the scent, Art thinks. He would continuously go weak on the knees when Tashi wore that damn tangy, dark cherry fragrance she had. He immediately identified the distinct smell.

"Mr. Donaldson, oh my god..." The girl's voice pitches high, and she extends her right hand in his stomach direction as if she had been rehearsing for this moment. "I didn't believe you would accept the drink," she adds enthusiastically.

Her voice is too harmonious for his ears.

Art stretches his hand and shakes hers. "Well, I didn't." Art retorts, unconsciously smirking at the girl's harmless bliss, "I was pretty much obligated to accept the free Negroni."

"Well, either way, I am honored," she says with a slight shrug and giggles, "Names Y/n; by the way, very nice to meet you, Mr. Donaldson. Big fan of yours"

"Nice to meet you too, Y/n," Art unpretentiously expresses. His facial expression goes abruptly blank as he realizes he might be snitching on himself. "Uh, Y/n, I don't wanna sound rude, but what you did... with the drink," he struggles to word it nicely, worrying about coming out as unpolite. He laboriously swallows as Y/n raises her eyebrows, expectant. "You shouldn't buy drinks to married men," he concludes.

Y/n lets out a gigantic gasp, "Oh my- this is so embarrassing," her hands fly over to her mouth, covering it in mortification, "I am so sorry, Mr. Donaldson-

"Please, call me Art," Art interrupts, a smirk rising on his face.

"Well, Art," Y/n corrects herself, now speaking with a mischievous undertone, still with an infectious grin plastered on her face. "I go to Stanford. I couldn't stop hearing about you —your skills. Well, I grew up in a household of tennis enthusiasts, and I, myself, am a tennis player. I just wanted to show my appreciation for what you've done for the tennis culture."

Art's cheeks feel hot. Heck, they are burning.

"Oh.." he mumbles, mainly to himself out of amazement.

"I would never, don't worry, Mr. Donaldson- I mean, Art." Y/n reassures, emphasizing the never. But as she justified herself, a sad half smile crooked on her plump lips, "I mean... No one can deny you are very handsome, but I am a respectful woman-"

He unmistakably heard the last sentence but will bypass it for his mental stability. "It's fine, Y/n." Again, he runs over her words, interrupting, "I should be apologizing; I don't want to come across as an entitled asshole."

For some reason, Art can't stop feeding the conversation. You are a fucking horndog, Art internally insults himself.

"Let me buy you a drink as an apology," Art says bluntly, requesting clearance but simultaneously demanding. Y/n, on the other hand, has her eyes set on the blonde man in front of her, both gazes perforating each other. "I mean, if you are of age.."

She giggles.

"Twenty-two. Took a gap year," the girl admits, "and I wouldn't mind a Negroni," she adds, now faking a nonchalant accent.

Y/n can hardly believe the circumstances she has put herself in. She observes the man standing before her, deftly moving from how he calls the server to how he licks his lips after ordering the Negroni. He's so fucking hot, she thinks. She had only seen him through flat screens and once attended one of the numerous lectures he gave back on campus.

But no, Y/n wasn't an obsessive stalker. Earlier that day, she had been at the New Rochelle Tennis Club with her father and the new newbie guy he was coaching —she can't even recall his name. Long story short, the guy had asked her on a date, and as a grandiose concurrency, Y/n had suggested the Ritz —they serve finger-licking cosmopolitans at their bar. It wasn't until she reached twenty minutes earlier by mistake that she contemplated bailing on her plans. Why? Because she laid eyes on the mouthwatering blonde man sitting by himself, ingesting a depressing ass-looking Negroni.

She knew it was a hit or miss. But she would rather miss if it came to the possibility of messing around with the man of her most soaked dreams.

Y/n's nostrils pleasingly burn as she inhales a warmish, spicy fragrance emanating from Art's clothes and skin. She can't dodge the impulse to frequently peek at the opening of his shirt, revealing milky skin. Her breathing becomes erratic just by fantasizing about him without the fucking seersucker shirt. She knows he's fucking ripped.

Y/n chews on the bottom of her lip anxiously, contemplating her words. "By the way, what you did today was insane."

Art arches a brow. "You mean playing tennis?"

"That wasn't even tennis; that was an entirely different game," Y/n responds as if Art had offended her. "It felt as if the court was entirely yours," she overpraises him, feeling rewarded by the minuscule giggles escaping from Art's lips.

Art feels his heart warm up at the familiar sentence choice. "It is not a big deal, just a good tennis match," he elucidates.

She rolls her eyes. "Sure... or maybe you are just too skilled for other players." Y/n softly laughs.

Art bits back the tiniest groan of frustration. He feels his dick hardening underneath the light-washed denim jeans he's wearing. He tries to comprehend if it is because of the sudden sensual undertone in her delicate voice, her unmistakable submissive look penetrated deep into her big eyes, or the fact that Tashi had not touched him below the hipline in months and turned him into a precocious motherfucker. Or it could be the alcohol making him horny. He hadn't noticed before how tight her clothing was —it took one swift glimpse at her body for Art to see her thighs spilling out of the hem of the strapless mini-dress. It took another one to realize she was now gently caressing his arm.

Art was convinced there was nothing left to wipe the carefully crafted agitated expression from his face. "Could be, yeah," he says, subsequently coughing to avoid strangling on his own spit. "I don't want to be seen as some kind of God."

"Well, you move like one," Y/n affirms, chuckling at her own filthy sentence, her fingers playfully stirring the brand-new Negroni sitting on the bar table with the cocktail straw. She licks her lips, "You know what I mean."

Bullshit. There is no way this girl doesn't want to fuck.

She dodges eye contact, but there is a peculiar shift in the air, and a smirk exponentially extends her lips.

"I know what you mean." Art snaps back, incapable of looking away from the cocktail straw now entrapped in between her glossy lips.

His muscles and head feel more lightweight, but his ocean eyes remain entirely tied to her outline.

Their bodies have shuffled negligibly closer—inappropriately closer. Art senses warmness filling his face from the subtle friction of their knees: the coarse texture of his denim and Y/n's smooth, bare skin.

From her peripheral vision, Y/n glimpses a security guard patrolling the hotel lobby. She makes eye contact with the robust man for a split second, whose facial expression reshapes in dull stunner as he peeks at who's sitting next to her.

Y/n sets her crystal glass on the bar counter. "Thank you so much for the drink."

"Wait. Are you leaving?" Art questions, with feigned etiquette that reeks of desperation.

Y/n's eyes dart to the man standing near their stools. Art tracks her gaze and sighs. "You already gifted me minutes of your time and a Negroni. That's enough coming from Art Donaldson."

Art hesitates. "They are not in my business." He practically whines, progressively revealing his despair to the young woman sitting before him.

"I still need to Uber home," Y/n excuses, pouting at her words. "A woman can't be alone that late-

"I can drive you."

✩

The drive is around twenty-five minutes.

Y/n quietly sits in the copilot seat of Art's Bentley Bentayga. By her left side, Art grips the steering wheel confidently, his fingers switching effortlessly over the controls as they drive through the streets of the suburban county of Westchester. She peers through the shadowy window glass on her side —there's a winter storm outside.

"How many days are you staying in Westchester?" Y/n asks while her gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery framed by the window.

Art clicks his tongue. "Not much. Most likely leaving tomorrow morning."

"Did you do anything fun around the county?"

"Well, a rich-people county isn't the most amusing place to visit." Art jokes, speaking with a devilish tease.

Y/n doesn't reply. Instead, her eyes quickly flicker to his silhouette under the fuzzy skyglow leaking through the car's transparencies. Art's blonde hair captures the faint illumination beautifully, each strand seeming to shimmer under the dim light. His muscles tighten at—

Red light.

When the car stops, Art twists his head to the right, his and her gazes collapsing. He runs his tongue over his upper lip before talking, "You mentioned something earlier..." he begins to say.

In the stillness of the moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the engine idling.

"I mentioned many things," Y/n corrects.

A faint crease of discomfort crosses Art's brow, and he shifts slightly on the red leather seat. Y/n examines each of his subtle hip and torso motions as he gets rid of the discomfort. Finally, again sitting still, he resumes. "Let me be specific. You mentioned I am handsome."

A sudden warmth spreads across her cheeks, an unmistakable flush of embarrassment.

"I don't think this is appropriate."

"I don't think neither of us cares about what's appropriate anymore."

It feels as if the world has stopped for Y/n. It feels as if a spell had caught both of them, leaving them besotted, and fucking horny, and awaiting the other to give the—

Green light.

"I think there's a parking lot next to a store that shut down recently 3 minutes away."

That's all Y/n says. Art presses down the gas pedal and tightens his grip on the wheel to suppress some exotic sensations that rocket down his spine.

Raindrops splatter against the windshield and the car's roof, and the blonde guy continues to drive through a road of infinite rain-soaked side trees swaying in the wind's rhythm and closed shops.

It takes four minutes and fifty seconds to reach a gigantic parking lot beside what once was a Dollar Tree. Although Y/n can scarcely appreciate the space due to the weather conditions and the tinted glass, she can see some faded, bright yellow parking lines now covered in dirt and droplets of rain. The place is totally empty.

Y/n's heart sprints ten times faster when the engine settles into a contented hum. Goosebumps flourish on her skin as serenity inundates the car interior—complete silence. The SUV has parked on a random corner.

And she doesn't want to look in Art's direction because she knows he's already looking.

She plays it credulously. "I think this is a great place to talk in peace," Y/n murmurs, finally turning her head towards him.

The fleeting moment her eyes cross with his evokes a sense of vulnerability for the girl. Art's orbs shamelessly spark with a glimmer of mischief, like a predator stalking its prey. The unbridled desire is nowhere near disguised now, and Y/n knows the guy won't keep playing the innocent role anymore. Is buying him a drink disrespectful? Bullshit. But she's grateful the poor, troubled man will have some fun. She knew he'd surrender faster than expected.

Yeah. Art had lifted the white flag as soon as he reached out a hand to grasp the door handle of his sexy ass Bentayga to open it for Y/n, and his eyes had flown by instinct to the girl's ass when she was hopping on his car.

Now, he can't tear his eyes off her lips.

"I've had a fucked up day." Art suddenly breathes out. There's a steady rise and fall of his chest, but Y/n can tell he's struggling to maintain it. His eyes ascend to lock in with hers. "I want to forget who the fuck I am."

Y/n is drowning in the noise of her own accelerated heartbeat. "I can help you." Y/n's words shoot out in submission, haltingly batting her eyelashes at him.

It's humorous mainly because she has no idea what is happening in his life. She doesn't know the mess between Tashi and Patrick; the fact that Tashi allegedly fucked Pa—well, whatever. Y/n doesn't know. She understands the man is disturbed, though, because the instant she stepped inside the luxurious lobby of the Ritz Carlton, she could tell the man had no emotion on his face. She recalled watching his matches when she was younger, and one thing about Art Donaldson was the radiant vitality his presence brought to any room he was in.

It's evident that the radiance was gone. For whatever reason.

Their bodies draw closer, the only barrier being the gear stick and seat partition between them. Y/n can feel Art's warm breath clashing against her lips, a slightly intoxicating and crisp scent of gin climbing to her nostrils. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue before grabbing Art by the collar of his shirt and pulling him into her mouth. He briefly widens his eyes but reciprocates instantly.

He is the sort of kisser who goes slowly but deepens as much as possible, inserting his tongue everywhere attainable. Y/n tastes good and, heck, excellent —sweet and spicy, as if she chewed cinnamon gum before assaulting his mouth. The flavor and the satiny texture of her lips push him to near insanity; Art pumps his tongue in and out, desperately, sweeping against hers because of the faint, delicate moans leaking from her side every time he does it —it makes him vertiginous.

It isn't until Y/n sucks on his lower lip that he splits off to breathe. "No marks." Art forewarns with his face dropped in soberness, heavily panting.

He discerns something shifting inside of him when Y/n's beautiful features soften for a beat, casting a veil of a peculiar sentiment he's too emotionally dumb to interpret —bitterness? sadness? He can't tell. The fuzzy thoughts fade when her lips attack again, parting his with ease, allowing her tongue to slip inside. "Shut up." Y/n spits lowly between kisses.

A couple of sizzling minutes of pure, obscene french kissing pass before Art realizes the pressure underneath the light-washed denim over his crotch is tormenting him. His left-hand glides over Y/n's thigh and gently squeezes, letting her know he needs to move forward. At this point, he has readjusted the position of his body over the red leather seat, facing Y/n straight; the hand resting over her thigh gradually shoves the hem of the mini-dress upwards, revealing more skin and dangerously approaching her pussy.

The tempo of Y/n's kisses becomes unsteady with the sensation of his physical touch near such an intimate area. It felt weirdly mortifying for her to be this wet this early —her pussy felt slippery and willing to take whatever Art proposed. She breaks off the kiss out of involuntary reflex, with her gaze immediately descending on Art's left hand, too big for her, and skillfully positioning the lace of the light-pink panties aside.

If Art was a magician and opening her legs was a challenging magic trick, goddamn, he'd be a good magician. Y/n had no idea how, in such an undersized space, her legs had managed to spread that wide. The specific moment when Art's middle finger comes in contact with her wetness is a blur, but the filthy, low-pitched groan that his mouth emits as the first finger rubs her pussy lips will never be forgotten. Y/n unconsciously rocks her hips in search of more friction-

"Stay still." Art demands, chest rapidly going up and down. Although he attempts to sound demanding, his voice is weak in want and ridiculously desperate. Y/n's cheeks flame up when he begins toying with her clit, rubbing slow circles, with an equally attractive and irritating cocky grin resting over his face.

But she wants that one finger to go in. Y/n sighs in eagerness, muttering a series of pleasepleasepleases.

"Art..." Y/n mutters between choked moans, bucking her hips forward into his hand. Art gazes at her, intoxicated by her facial expressions and the mild tone of her voice, delivering such nasty noises. His eyes don't leave Y/n's face as he thrusts his middle finger past her slick folds. He feels his dick twitch at her exaggerated facial response.

What was one finger quickly became two, picking up their speed and twirling inside, hitting the sweetest spot. "Not a virgin, right? " Art abruptly asks, terrified but astonished at the tightness her pussy held, clenching down on his digits and squeezing.

"No... oh my god—" Y/n yelps, hardly managing to articulate words as his fingers keep steadily penetrating her pussy.

Y/n tilts her head back and instantly feels a trail of sloppy, wet kisses on her jaw; Art is nearly over her body, working his way downstairs and upstairs, too. The accelerated rhythm of his fingering ceases for a hot second as his available hand reaches her chest to unashamedly pull down the neckline of Y/n's mini-dress, freeing her tits and letting them bounce out of the expensive cloth.

As a sheer coincidence and dissolving in pleasure, Y/n's eyesight dismounts in one of the tall buildings in front of the parking lot. What she sees is practically ironic. An immense billboard with Art's face crammed inside, by his side Tashi Duncan's iconic facial features, and an oversized Aston Martin logo. "Game Changer," the thing reads. Funny, she thinks. He is a game changer, though —not sure if he is the same kind Aston Martin broadcasts.

But seeing his face and Tashi's painfully reminds her the man is not hers.

In fact, the man has a whole wife.

"Fuck me." Y/n requests, still a complete mess, moaning, arching her back, breathless.

And nothing happened where she thought the fire test lay. Art obliged. In fact, he seemed enthusiastic. He wants to make her his. Y/n modestly smiled at the thought.

"Yes... fuck, yeah." With a deft hand, he reaches down and unfastens the button of his pants; he eases the zipper down, and the faint sound of it sliding makes Y/n nauseated of anticipation.

Art reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a beautiful, black leather wallet. He flips it open, his brows furrowing in concentration as he sifts through its contents. With a muttered curse under his breath, he begins to dig deeper; Y/n doesn't understand what's happening —is he searching for a condom?

After eternal seconds, the blonde guy lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head, resigned.

Y/n sits beside him awkwardly, unhurriedly pulling up the neckline of her dress, covering her now shivering body.

"...So?" she questions.

He remains silent.

"I don't have condoms."

"I'm on the pill." Y/n offers.

The look Art shoots at Y/n isn't gracious. In fact, it triggers a big spark of frustration on his face, eyebrows knitting together in a light scowl as he looks at her incredulously.

Then it turns worse when, by mistake, his gaze falls on the same billboard Y/n had seen earlier.

"I can't. Sorry."

Y/n slowly closes her legs and adjusts her neckline. "Why?"

Art's eyes fall to his lap. "Well, starting from the fact I have a family-

Y/n interrupts. "Well, you didn't seem to care when you offered to drive a total stranger."

It was most likely the sassiness and the blaming in her voice that unexpectedly threw him off. Really threw him off.

"That's none of your business. I just took the opportunity of a warm hole."

In one swift, rampant movement, her hand connects with his cheek with a resounding crack, the sound echoing through the air like a crash. His head jerks to the side. A slap.

She had fucking slapped him.

With a trembling breath, Y/n doesn't think twice before she pushes open with unmeasured force the door of Art's fucking ugly car —or that's how she thinks of it now. The storm still persists, rain pouring down in sheets. Tears accumulate over her eyes as she steps out into the downpour, grabbing her purse tightly.

"Hey, hold on..."

She completely ignores Art's words, which get easily lost in the roar of the rain.

But she turns to face him one last time, sitting on the pilot seat, visibly ashamed of himself —and still with unbuttoned pants.

"Fuck you. I hope you lose every single fucking tennis match." And with a forceful push, she slams the car door shut.

As Y/n steps away from the vehicle, leaving a splash in the puddles on the floor, she wishes the man she met two hours ago had run after her and begged forgiveness. But of course, he didn't. Instead, she watched as the vehicle got started again and drove past her, quickly rejoining the road and disappearing in the darkness.

✩

#art donaldson smut #challengers fic #challengers smut #challengers fanfic #art donaldson imagine #challengers x reader #art donaldson x reader #smut #fanfic #imagine #mike faist #challengers

2K notes · View notes

vampiefemme · 2 months ago

Text

a soft n smutty piece for fall coziness… <3 the changing seasons always make me feel melancholic and i feel like ellie would take care of r if she was the same :)

tw: depression, nsfw, 18+ only

the sun filters into your bedroom through the half-drawn curtains, a warm glow that paints everything golden. you stretch out under the covers, hand reaching for sunlight, palm open against the blankets as warmth envelops your fingers. numb with cold, you defrost.

even as your hand soaks in the warmth of the sun, guilt twists inside you, ice cold. the phone in the kitchen has rung out three separate calls today, shrill and blaring in the silence of your apartment; you've melted too deep into the mattress to answer. the kitchen may as well be miles away.

she’s probably worried, you fret. what if she thinks i’m dead? i need to call her back.

but as much as you want to force yourself to leave the comfort of your duvet, the you-shaped crater in the bed, you can’t do it. you just can’t.

you’re not surprised when you hear the sounds of your girlfriend’s arrival, ellie’s key scraping the lock before she swings the door open. you’d given her your spare key months ago. she’d only used it on days like this.

you hear the rustle of plastic, the harried zips and thumps of ellie removing her boots at the front door. and then she’s appearing in your doorway, her face twisted with worry; brows drawn together, lips turned downward. she looks heartbroken.

“baby,” she says, voice tinged with a cocktail of equal parts relief and concern, “god, i thought you were—”

“dead?” you interject. your voice softens when you add, “i’m okay, el. i’m sorry i didn’t pick up the phone.”

“no, it’s okay, don’t worry.” she pads over the worn carpet, plastic bag crinkling at her side as she approaches you on the bed. “i brought breakfast.”

she holds up the bag for emphasis; you can see three to-go boxes inside. the smell of hash browns and scrambled eggs and pancakes wafts out towards you, and you hate the way it makes your mouth water. she knows breakfast is your favorite. you can hardly resist it, even this late in the day, as the sun sets outside your window.

“thank you.” you smile up at her. it’s forced—it doesn’t meet your eyes. she notices, because she always does.

“you don’t have to eat right now,” she clarifies. hazel eyes swoop over the bed, appraising the blankets splayed out over you in disarray, and she hesitates. you hold out your hand for her in encouragement. “come here, ellie.”

so she does. she sets the bag of breakfast food on the nightstand, then climbs over you with a clumsiness that seeps through her caution. you smile. genuinely. and then she’s kissing you, soft lips pressed to yours as her auburn locks tickle your cheeks. the kiss is gentle and languid, slow and soft and encouraging. she tastes like home, and you realize you’ve been aching for this feeling all day, body numb in the confines of your bedroom. you lose yourself in her kiss, sighing deep through your nose. her tongue is warm and wet against your lower lip; she works your mouth open and licks into you, sending heat rushing to your belly where it pools like molten gold.

you’ve found yourself in a haze lately: a fog so thick that it blurs out all feeling, leaving you spent in the silence of your apartment even after days of doing nothing. days of just thinking.

but ellie breaks through the fog as her hands cup your face, thumbs brushing soothingly over the apples of your cheeks. her tongue slides deliciously over yours and you moan without thinking. she freezes for just a moment. she draws back and you nearly whine, eyes barely opening to peer up into his.

“we don’t have to do anything,” she assures you as she leans forward to kiss the bridge of your nose. “not if you’re feeling down.”

your heart swells with affection for her: her disheveled hair, her soft gaze, her flushed lips swollen from kissing. her consideration for you. her love.

“but i want to,” you breathe. “i want it, ellie.”

so she disappears into the crook of your neck, the warmth of her mouth sending a shiver rocking through you as she presses kisses to your sensitive skin. each kiss gets more heated, her lips parting to suckle on the flesh right over your pulse. you moan and she pauses before murmuring against your throat, “are you sure?”

you nod almost frantically. “i’m sure, i’m sure.”

it doesn’t take long for her to undress you, which you’re grateful for. she works your shirt off and rolls your panties down your thighs, her hands smoothing back up over the supple skin.

on days like this, when you’re hardly afloat in the tidal wave of your melancholy, she tends to hold you with gentle wariness, as if you’d shatter if she moved too quickly. and you love it. the obvious adoration in her gentleness, in the need to take things slow.

but you decide you don’t want that today.

when her face is within reach again, you pull her in for a heated kiss. it quickly evolves into all tongue and spit and teeth, your lips smacking audibly as you trail your hands down her sides. you grip the soft cotton of her shirt and slowly pull it upwards, exposing inch by inch of pale, freckled skin, and when your fingers brush over her ribs, you feel the slow shudder that afflicts her. her body responding so instantly to your touch makes you dizzy with arousal; that pool of heat in your stomach grows ever-larger. it doesn’t help that she’s touching you too, the calloused pads of her fingers delicious against your skin. she grips and squeezes you in all the right places, drawing sharp breaths and high moans from your throat as her hands explore every inch of you.

suddenly, it’s hard to remember what came before this. the haze that had lingered over you for days. all you can think about is the feeling of ellie’s body against yours, her jeans scratchy as she rocks her hips down to yours. you hook your legs around her waist, bare cunt desperate for friction, even through a layer of denim.

you pull back from rushed, sloppy kisses to gasp at the sensation—you shamelessly rub yourself against her through her jeans, unable to find it in you to worry about the mess you’re making. ellie watches you in awe, your eyes half-lidded as your hips roll upward, your pretty lips parted in a delicate “o” shape.

“fuck it,” she rasps, and she’s lurching back to sit up on her heels, ripping her clothes off in a blur of fabric. her shirt falls off first, and then she works her way out of her jeans, so eager she stumbles a few times. you beam at her, eyes clouded with lust, and when she finds her way back between your legs, the feeling of her bare skin against yours has you gushing impossibly wetter. you find yourself in the same position as before, only now without the barrier of ellie’s clothes between you. you grind yourself up against her, twitching and gasping each time her pelvis glides over your clit; you can feel how wet you are, how messy you’re leaving her. and she can feel it, too, evident each time she moves her hips against yours and moans with her head tucked against your shoulder.

your impatience is a balloon that’s been filled and filled and filled, and it finally pops. you reach between your writhing bodies to ellie’s cunt; her teeth close around your shoulder when you give her clit a few slow strokes, fingertips pressing hard into the bundle of nerves. she soothes her bite with her tongue and then laughs under her breath, uttering lowly, “i’m sorry, fuck, just feels good.”

you hum in response, pausing to reach into the nightstand drawer, where you keep a harness and strap for situations like this. she draws in a shaky breath, turning her head to kiss your neck again, tongue circling your skin before she pulls back to slip into the harness. then she’s back on you, pulling you in for another heated kiss as she drags the tip of the strap through your folds and up to the bud of your clit. you’re soaked everywhere, and her cock feels so smooth as it glides effortlessly over you; you’re barely breathing.

ellie’s voice is in your ear, quiet but thick with lust. “let me eat you out first.”

and it sounds amazing, it really does. any other time, you’d relent, let her mouth at your cunt for hours until you’re so fucked-out you can’t think straight. but that’s not what you need right now.

“i need you inside me,” you tell her, voice low and sultry, almost unrecognizable from its usual timbre. ellie hears it, too, the husk in your tone making her grit her teeth with a low, gravelly moan. “shit, baby—can’t say no to that.”

she slides into you so easily, your cunt opening smoothly around her as she pushes in to the hilt. you both sigh in pleasure, you at the feeling of being so deliciously full, her at the satisfaction of watching your expression dissolve into pure bliss.

“so fuckin’ wet, goddamn,” ellie murmurs. she draws back only to fuck into you again, and you whine when she brushes up against the end of you. the spot that only she can find. that only spurs her on—she starts fucking you in earnest without much buildup, too pent up to be patient and slow and intentional. she knows what you want, you realize, flooded with arousal as her hips slam into yours. her strap drags perfectly through you, so deep you see stars behind fluttering eyelids.

“ellie,” you moan, brows pinched together, mouth hanging open.

she doesn’t slow down, skin smacking against skin as she fucks herself into you. “what do you need, baby? i’ll give it to you. i’ll give you anything.”

another moan tears out of your throat at her words, your arms moving up to snake around her neck and reel her in for another sloppy kiss. “more,” you gasp, your foreheads pressed together, slick with sweat. “more, please, more.”

ellie gives you one last, searing kiss, then pulls back to readjust. she stills inside you while she grabs hold of your legs, palms squeezing the doughy flesh of your thighs before she pushes them toward your chest. your knees are up by your shoulders like this, and you reach your hands around to support yourself, though your own touch can’t rival her. “good girl,” she praises when she notices what you’re doing, allowing your hands to replace her. she instead brings her attention to your hips, holding them still while she pulls almost all the way out and fucks back into you. and it’s rougher, now, more intentional. ellie moves faster, harder; you cry out a blissful oh my god, tears burning in your eyes from the sheer pleasure of it.

this is it—this is what you needed. and ellie gives it to you exactly how you want it, her body smacking against your ass and the backs of your thighs, her cock hitting that sweet spot within you so rhythmically that you find your brain is entirely empty. the ceaseless noise in your head has quieted, in its place is sheer pleasure.

your release sneaks up on you; you’re not thinking straight, overwhelmed with lust and the warmth it floods through your veins. you come suddenly but with so much force it nearly knocks the wind out of you. squirming and shaking under ellie’s towering form, your cunt spasms around the silicon cock and she groans out in delight.

spent, ellie lowers her weight on you, still careful not to crush you beneath her. you’re both catching your breath, but she can’t drive away the urge to kiss you. slower, this time. more loving.

“hey,” she says, “i love you.”

you smile against her lips, giving her another few pecks before you tell her, “i love you too.”

her arms are warm, lithe, and strong around you, holding you as close as she can. but when you start to wiggle underneath her, she groans in disapproval.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i just—i really wanna eat some pancakes.”

947 notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 5 months ago

Note

Sometimes I think about Dr. Riley sitting in his office, fidgeting with a pen staring out of the window, waiting for something... someone. There's a storm coming.

I still think about Dr Riley.

I think about him having a very inappropriate relationship with his patient, Clover. Clover who got her nickname because her special ops team thought she was sooo lucky… until she wasn’t. Until she made a mistake, miscalculated, and got two of her teammates killed. Clover, who had to look Captain Garrick in the eyes as he told her to take indefinite leave until she got her head on straight.

Clover can’t think or eat or sleep without hear the high pitch whine of a drone in her ear. Public places make her skin crawl. She can hardly function. Manages to feed herself and slink down to her building’s gym in the middle of the night, when no one else is there. She runs herself ragged, to the point of exhaustion, and only then can she manage sleep.

The train is late.

The tardiness makes everyone on the platform uneasy. They shift and grimace, fingers fidgeting, eyes roaming.

It’s grey down here. Grey up there, too. A city blanketed in rain, thick cottony fog obscuring streets and buildings, rolling through day, washing it into night without giving the sun it’s singular chance.

It’s grey everywhere. Grey in your bones, in your head. Grey cotton stuffed between your ears to stop the bleeding.

You try to let the anxieties of the delay drift past you, like a warm breeze, but it feels like a winter’s wind instead. Icy. Vicious. Cutting to the bone.

You’re a dog at the end of a chain. Ready. Waiting for the signal. Captain’s orders.

Relax. You’re at home. Waiting for the call. Going to finish therapy, so you can finally get out of here.

The yellow line of the boundary lays straight in front of you. You count the cracks in the concrete and wonder what would happen if you took a step off the edge.

Just one.

A single step.

Would these people try to save you? Would they scream and run? Would they watch you die, body exploded into bits by a train that couldn’t stop? How long would it take you ID you? Who would they call?

It’s not that you want to die. You’re more… curious about it now. Morbidly so. Wondering when it will happen, if death is following you around, waiting to collect his due.

You steady with a long breath, attention focused on the wall across the tracks, counting each tile. Your eyes are still sharp, as sharp as ever, and you focus in on each one individually, judging the distance, imagining a scope in your line of sight, smooth trigger under your finger.

There’s a collective sigh across the platform when the train squeaks to a halt, and you intentionally board last, watching the backs and profiles of everyone else. Back packs, long jackets, anxious faces are all catalogued and sorted, filtered and stacked into neat little piles.

You tug at a piece of skin around your nail, trying to tear it down to the cuticle. The delay has made you uneasy, nervous. Not at all like you used to be. Not at all like your old self.

This will be it this time, you coach, train car pulling away and rocketing into darkness. You’ll get it this time. It’s almost over.

“Hi, sorry I have an appointment at ten, with…” you check your calendar. “Dr. Riley? I know I’m late…” the woman at the desk smiles. It’s clinical, just like every other time. You don’t think she likes you much, you’re not like her. Not like any of them.

“That’s alright, it’s just this way.” She leads you through a maze of hallways, coming to a stop at one dark, wooden door. “Dr. Riley? Your ten o’clock is here.”

It opens to the biggest man you’ve ever seen, clad in jeans and a black hoodie. Is this… is this the shrink?

He says your name. When you don’t answer, he says it again, a little louder. His Manchester accent is full of grit, a mouth full of rocks, but there’s something warm in it too, something spinning you in a soft cocoon of yarn.

“H-hi.” He extends his hand, a massive palm, dwarfing yours.

“I’m Dr. Riley, come in. Thanks, Laura.” He bids the receptionist goodbye, and clicks the door shut behind her, turning with a motion to the couch. “Take a seat. I was just about to call you.”

“I’m sorry, the train was delayed and-“ He holds up his hand, a motion to stop.

“You made it, that’s what matters.” Your hands shake, and you clutch them in your lap. It’s a side effect, they tell you. It’s supposed to go away, but you’ve stopped counting the days.

He’s not what you expected. Your last doctor in this building was an old man who wore a dress shirt and slacks. Dr. Riley looks like he’s in his forties. He’s built out like a solider, broad shoulders and broad chest filling out his casual clothes, glasses reflecting his focused gaze. There are scars on his face, faded white streaks on his upper lip, cheek and jaw. His nose has been broken and repaired, and there’s a patch of his eyebrow missing, like it’s been burned away. He’s part shadow, part marble, full lips, sandy brown hair, chiseled jaw, ocean eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” He begins, glancing at the laptop screen.

“I need to pass my psych eval, sir.” You focus on the question, and not the lone drone rattle rolling through your skull.

“There’s no rank in this office.” Oh, duh. “Why do you need to pass an eval?”

“I’m ready to return to my job. Just need to pass this last step.” Sir. You bite the honorific off just in time.

“If you can’t pass a psych eval, I’d say the conclusion is you’re not ready.” Your spine straightens at the authority in his voice. “And you’re not here for an eval.” Wait, what?

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not here for an evaluation, you’re here for therapy.”

“N-no, sir- ah, Dr. Riley,” his lips tilt, a fraction, and your knees press together involuntarily. “I’ve already had therapy.” He ignores your protest.

“You’ve failed three evaluations in the last two months. You can’t just keep throwing it all the wall, hoping it will stick. You need care.” The room pitches, and you’re trapped on a tilt-a-whirl, locked into a too loud, too bright carnival ride, sirens and screams screeching in the distance.

He says your name again.

“Sorry.” The tablet folds into a laptop, balanced on a broad knee.

“Tell me about them.”

“About…”

“The psych evals. Failing three in such a short time window is a feat.” You blanche. You hate that word, fail. It stings. It’s an affront to you, you who doesn’t fail. You who was the top of her class, first selected, first pick. Your captain depends on you, your team counts on you, to not fail. At anything. Ever.

“I… I struggled with them.” There are photos on the wall, framed medals and degrees. A picture of a German shepherd, and a hanging house plant of some kind, spritely and green, leaves and vines twisting from its perch.

“Let’s start today talking about why you’re struggling with them, then.”

“I don’t know why. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.” You’re peevish, and he raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I’m just… stressed. My team-“

“is operating in the field without you.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s causing you stress.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” What is this?

“Why is it causing you stress? Do you not trust them to operate successfully without you?”

“No… I do.”

“What about your captain? Do you not trust him to lead them?”

“Of course I do.” Your fingers tighten on the chair. “I do. But they’re down a man, and they can’t be down for too long.”

“I’m sure your team cares more about you getting the care need, over rushing back into engagement too soon.”

“I know, but I’m ready.”

“You’re not. And I know your captain, Garrick? He wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your wellbeing.” How does he know cap?

“You know captain Garrick?” Dr. Riley smiles.

“I do. And like I said, he wouldn’t want you passed through if you weren’t ready.” He’s got you pinned, metaphorically. Back against the mat, shoulders immobilized. You can’t crawl your way free, can’t fight or twist out of his grip. “Do you want to talk about why you’re on leave?”

“No! No, I… don’t need to.” You complain. “I’ve had eight counseling sessions in the last two months.”

“They’ve clearly helped.” He drawls, glancing at you over the laptop. The eye contact rakes a shiver down your spine, and you find your feet.

“I don’t want to talk about it again, sir.” You whisper it to the ground, silently begging he won’t make you.

“There’s no rank here.” He reminds, voice soft and understanding. “But I’m your clinician now, and I won’t sign off on you taking another psychological evaluation until I’m confident you’re healthy enough to return to work.”

“Can I ask…” you taper off, but he nods to encourage you. “Can I ask why I’ve suddenly been switched to a new doctor?”

“You failed an eval three times. The practice decided you needed a different approach to care.” There’s a pause, and the laptop shuts. His hands settle across his thighs. “Let’s talk about what they call you.”

“Sir?” His lips press together but deigns to remind you a third time about rank.

“Clover.” Oh.

“Yeah, that’s what my team calls me. Only my mum uses my real name anymore.” You joke, and he smiles in a small way, gaze unreadable, bearing down onto you from above.

“Is there meaning behind it?”

“I used to be considered good luck.”

“Used to be?” You blink. Used to be. Like you used to be someone else.

“I guess… my luck ran out.” He nods thoughtfully.

“Why do you think that?” Because you fucked up? You got your friends killed? Because you got into a jam you couldn’t get out of? Because you were tortured into an unrecognizable piece of human pulp?

“I… I don’t know.”

“You do.” He states matter of fact, leveling you easily. You gape.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You mutter, looking towards your knees.

“How about mirrors?”

“What?”

“How do you feel about mirrors?” The question sets you aback. It’s never been asked, not in your previous sessions, not by anyone. No one knows about the mirrors in your flat, covered by shirts and sheets and dish towels. Turned away, forced into corners. The bathroom vanity obscured by a long white bedsheet; your reflection hidden at every turn.

“I… I don’t like them.” The honesty on your tongue tastes good, but it burns.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I don’t like to look at myself, now.” The laptop reopens, and he types in silence for a long moment. The quiet settles around the two of you, ticking of a second hand clicking away in your ear.

“I’m going to give you some homework.” Homework?

“What kind of homework?”

“I want you to look in a mirror.” You draw a sharp breath. “When you’re at home, and you’re alone, I want you to really look at yourself, see yourself, for as long as you can. If it’s only a few seconds, it’s only a few seconds. There’s no time requirement. The only thing you have to do… is look.”

“Dr. Riley…” you laugh nervously, and he meets your eyes with a serious expression.

“Only for a few seconds. Can you do that?” No.

“I can… I can try.” You can do whatever he wants, if it will get him to pass you on the eval. If it will get you out of here.

“Good.” The watch on his wrist glints in the afternoon sun. “I’ll give you my number. Text me when your homework is done.”

“Okay.” That’s it? He stands, and you look away, unable to focus on anything but the edge of the table, brown wood slatted together and worn with age.

“You can run away now.” He murmurs, standing between you and the door. “This was good, Clover. I know it’s not easy. You did well today.” Words catch in your throat, caustic and rough. Still, you try to get them out.

“T-thanks.”

You try to do your homework that night.

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror in your pajamas, one hand on a hem, waiting to pull free and reveal your reflection.

You can do this. You can. Just do it.

The tug never comes.

You stare at the white sheet until your eyes start to cross.

Better luck tomorrow.

You hold steady in your routines. Eating. Walking. Stretching. Strength. You do yoga in the evenings, weights in the mornings. You spend too much time in your building’s gym, mindlessly pounding out miles on the treadmill, headphones blaring at full volume. You do it all robotically.

You’re outside of your body. Out of your mind.

But you could still pull a trigger.

Sometimes, when you can stand it, you take your walks outside, bypassing those who linger on sidewalks, cutting through parks and alleys. Fresh air and sunlight are supposed to help, but you don’t think it does any good. The rot is still there, curled up in your bones, blackened and sticky, festering like an infection. It’s a monster inside your body, a monster you now share your life with, cutting away pieces, long after being freed from the cell.

You eat. You walk. You try to look in the mirror.

With three days before your next session with Dr. Riley, you still haven’t managed to complete your homework. You try, in the hall, in your bedroom, again and again in the bathroom, but it never happens, you can’t quite get yourself to cross the bridge.

Failure.

Dr. Riley is waiting for you in the lobby on the day of your next appointment.

“Hi Clover.” He smiles, and it’s genuine, warm, almost wrapping around your shoulders.

“Hi, Dr. Riley.”

“How was your week?” You lag him, letting him guide you to the office, where the yellow lights are dim and darkened, casting shadow across the brown couch where you take your seat.

“It was fine.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, really. I’ve been at the gym a lot, trying to keep myself in shape for when I go back.”

“Exercise is good as long as you’re not overdoing it. Do you do anything else?”

“Um, I take walks outside.” His leg shifts, ankle on knee, and then his hand folds over his thigh. Something akin to interest brightens in your heart but is desperately snuffed out. He’s your therapist. “I walk in the park a lot.”

“Oh yeah? Which?”

“The one off of eighth.”

“I walk there too, nice park. Lots of trails.” You try to imagine him in joggers, taking a stroll. “I’m going to guess; you didn’t do your homework?” Heat unfurls across your face.

“I tried, but…”

“That’s okay. I thought we could try today, if you feel up to it.” Here? Now? Your eyes go wide. You look around.

“I don’t see a mirror.”

“There’s one on wheels down the hall, the occupational therapists use it all the time. Can I bring it in?” Your stomach twists up, nausea tossing your lunch from side to side.

“I uh… I don’t know.”

“You can do it. I know you can.” You hedge, unsure. Can you? Will you?

You can try.

“Okay.”

“Alright, close your eyes. I’ll be right back.” The door opens and shuts, and then opens again, wheels rolling close. You clench your eyes closed so tight it nearly hurts.

Warm fingers grab yours.

“It’s over here.” He murmurs, leading your blind steps away from the couch, coming to a stop… somewhere. “Whenever you’re ready.” You can’t feel him anymore, but you know he’s there, at your back. There’s a faint ruffle of air through your hair, against your neck. “Take a deep breath.”

You focus on the pace of your lungs, the expansion, the give and take of your ribcage.

“I can’t.” You whisper. You’re floating in space, unable to pull the trigger.

A kind hand on your shoulder brings you back.

“You can do it. Try.” The encouragement, the belief is a vine in your heart. Alive and green, it sows roots as deep as it can manage, clinging to fibrous flesh and hollowing you out. It catches on valves and ventricles, spiraling forward in a complicated web like an anchor.

You see him first, in the mirror. Stare straight back at him, falling into his gaze, vibrating in his hold like a child’s wind-up toy.

“Not me. You.” He says gently, and when you can, you bear it.

You almost gasp. It’s been two months since you’ve seen your own face, your complexion, your nose and your eyes and your chin. You’re long healed, bones set perfectly, everything right as rain. You look normal. You look fine. It’s the most shocking thing, to see yourself looking healthy, pieced back together, nearly whole. Your lower lip trembles with effort to hold yourself at bay, to keep yourself from breaking apart, drifting back towards the moon.

“That’s it. Great job, Clover.” His hand still rests on your shoulder, but you shake with a violence now, a torrent of emotion, threatening to cut you off at the knees. “It’s okay.” He whispers.

When you can’t stand it any longer, you close your eyes.

“How did you know?” You’re resettled on the couch, hands tucked under your thighs.

“Know what?”

“That I hadn’t looked in a mirror… since…”

“I know a thing or two, about coming back different. I know how it feels when you don’t want to see yourself.” You glance at the medals on the wall, primly tacked to a plush pillow, encased in glass, and wonder.

“Did you work with captain Garrick?”

“We were in a task force together, before I retired early to do this.” He smiles, easy and light, but there’s something guarded in it, something sharp, shark’s teeth aiming for docile flesh. It purrs, and makes you want to pull back more layers. Gives you something else to focus on, something else to fall into, but it’s gone before you can really study him.

“Oh.” It’s all you can say as he types something on the laptop, and then puts it away.

“That’s all for today. I’ll see you next week then?”

#peaches writes #Dr Riley

672 notes · View notes

bluetooththereptile · 1 year ago

Text

Crimson bride

(Yandere Damian Wayne x twin sister reader)

( English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in the following text.)

Summary: Your life is going to end horribly, your will to live is slipping away, will your only hope come to save you?

Tw: mentions of violence and abuse

The smell of blood and incense had filled the air, your lungs could hardly bear the responsibility of bringing you oxygen under the pressure of your stress, not that they could easily filter the smoke in the air anyway. It felt like the air was on fire, with each breath your body shuddered slightly, your body could hardly bear the burden of keeping you alert. The beads of sweat slithered down your spine, making the already uncomfortable rags even more unbearable. You were just 11, why were you stuck in a room full of adults in dark long robes...you were not sure...or perhaps you knew what was going to happen, but you didn't know why on earth you were there. You eyed the sacred blade in the hand of the leader of the group, the light of the candles shimmering on its uneven blade, and swallowed your saliva down your throat that now had turned extremely dry. You could already feel the pain in your chest. Dear God, if you hear me...please help!

The dark monks' chants echoed in the chambers, and the puddles of red wax candles under the feet of pillars carved with different images of unholy creatures, seemed like oozing puddles of blood to you, already boiling with crimson liquid of life right out of hell, where they hailed their master from. The veil on your head was thin enough for you to recognize people's faces, well, at least the ones who didn't have a mask on, and your terrified eyes spotted the figure of your grandfather standing behind the leader, himself holding a golden bowl at hand. You gritted your teeth at remembering his words. The memory is still fresh for you, it was just two months ago when he was having a drink with the leader himself in his boudoir, with you present by his side.

"She's a fitting lady Ra's...I give you the credit of having good hereditary genes..." the leader spoke in his smooth voice, his eyes scanning you up and down. You knew how the way he looked at you was inappropriate but you still stayed, holding the tray of drinks, standing by your grandfather's side, if you were going to flinch even for an inch, your mother wouldn't be happy. "She is..." your grandfather hummed, rubbing his chin before he chuckled "What is it old friend? You seem too interested in my child..." the words spoken made your shoulders stiffen slightly, your fingers tightening around the edges of the tray. "I am...but not for what you think...she is too young for marriage for a mortal man..." his smirk grew wider as he continued "But she's at the ripe age for being gifted to our dear lord...she'd make a decent bride..." you could see Ra's hold on his glass of drink tighten, what did his friend mean? Did he want to marry you off to someone? You wondered, but your confusion soon turned into horror as the leader continued "Her heart fits the unholy bowl perfectly" Oh no...you had heard from your nanny that this man was bearer of bad news but this...this was unpredictable! Your head turned to your grandfather to see how he'd respond...please say no, please say no, I've been a good granddaughter...please say no! "What price do you offer?" And with that, your whole world shattered, you felt like life was slipping away from your shell of being as he negotiated the price of marriage, did he...did he just agree on making you a sacrificial lamb?!

You snapped out of your thoughts by feeling the extremely warm hold of the leader on your naked arm as he pulled you away from the corner of the damp room, the metallic chains on your weak ankles clinking loudly as you dragged them on the floor, your feet already bruised by the rough edges of the old tiles on the floor, leaving red trails of blood. He walked you to the alter, your heart skipped as you saw the white dressing of the stone bed, flower petals spread on the surface, how hauntingly fitting for a bridal bed... The man stopped you right before the altar and started chanting in a language you didn't know a word of. But whatever it was, it was working...because the tiles under your feet started to turn unbearably hot, the circles and symbols drawn onto the walls and the floor turned bright red, oh dear God...if you hear me...please help! You had lost your hope a long time ago, but still, you wanted to hold onto a sliver of hope, maybe your grandfather would change his decision at the last minute, or perhaps he would come...but no...how could Damian come to the other side of the world that quickly? He was just a child, like you, sure, he was a capable boy but still, he was just a boy. His words circled in your mind as the priest poured a warm liquid on your body that painted it red, its sweet aroma filling the air, unbeknownst to you, it was a poison that through skin pores penetrated the body and ran into your blood, slowly relaxing your muscles until your heart would stop, this way, if the demons preferred to have your body whole, you'd still be dead. As you felt your skin itch and your vision turn slowly blurry, Damian's voice echoed in your mind "I will come...I promise...I promise!" His voice was filled with determination, but you knew he'd be late. It was already too late...

They helped you lay down on the alter, the wet veil sticking to your face, slowly suffocating you, but you were too weak to move on your own, your eyes were closed, as if the liquid had sealed your eyelashes together, and the voices around you were turning into distant murmurs, your hands limp as they crossed it on your chest. It was too late...and he hadn't held up to his promise...your lips formed a pout, unable to cry, hardly latching onto the task of breathing, your breaths became labored. Soon your chest would be cut open and your warm paralyzed heart would be put into that golden bowl, and then thrown into a fire...you had hoped things would be different, but you knew from the very start, that you were unwanted, and one day, your family would give you up if they have the chance to do so.

Your ears couldn't detect the loud sound of the explosion of the tear gas in the room, how the cult members shouted and pulled out their weapons but were disarmed quickly by the man in black and a few younger ones. You didn't notice them until someone yanked the wet veil from your face and wiped the clotted liquid off of your nose and mouth, putting an oxygen mask on your face "Y/N!" The voice seemed familiar, but you were too weak to respond "Y/N!" He cried for your attention, his trembling hands shaking your shoulders, his voice muffled by his mask, his hold was pushed away from you when you felt a sharp pain on your neck, the detoxing liquid surged in your veins forward by copious amounts, yet you were already unconscious to see your father cry silently as he held your body close to his chest. Poor girl...poor poor girl...he wished he was there sooner.

Your nanny had pulled the small phone behind her apron with trembling hands, she knew your actions had consequences, but she wanted you to feel happy, so she'd do anything in her power to ensure it'd happen. You quickly snatched the phone out of her calloused hands and started to take the number you had repeated over and over in your mind since the moment you had snuck into your mother's study and had found it deep in her files, it was the Wayne Manor's, where your Damian lived with your father. You were separated since birth, him getting most of the attention of your mother, well the one who was to be her weapon, you were too weak to fight from the very first moments you had started to walk, but still, you tried to have a connection with your twin, who even if neglected your attention or bullied you, still felt a twinge of sibling love deep down. It was not until when he was sent to live by his father that Damian had found out how much he dearly loved you, and how much you meant to him. You dialed the number, hearing it slowly beep, one...two...three...you could hear your nervous breaths into the phone, and four "Hello?" You stiffened at hearing Damian's voice, moving your lips to speak but you couldn't, the sheer luck of having him pick up the phone himself was too much! "Hello?!" Damian's voice turned sour with annoyance, you knew he'd hung up quickly so you finally spoke "Hi..."

"Y/N?!" Damian's voice had turned from annoyed into one of surprise and concern, you spoke softly, asking how he had been doing, smiling as he quickly stammered to answer you, but then, when he was rambling on about missing you, you smiled sadly "Hey...I wanted to tell you something..." you interrupted him "Hmm? What is it?" He had asked with curiosity "Please, forgive me if I've done you anything wrong...okay?" "W-wait...Y/N..what do you? What is happening?!" "Grandpa wants to marry me off...to death..." and there was silence, a very uncomfortable silence. "I will come..." his voice was now filled with determination "I will come, I promise!...w-when's is the ceremony?" "Within two weeks-" the phone had slipped off of your hand when your mother's stinging slap met your face, you turned to look at her with wide eyes, trembling as you heard her crush the phone under her feet.

Your eyes opened up to a white light, with warmth surrounding your body. Were you in heaven? You naively asked yourself, but when the pain washed over your body, you knew you were still alive. "Hi..." Damian's voice made you turn your head to his direction at your side, your neck strained from being motionless for too long. He was holding your hand tightly, and your blurry vision could find the outlines of his face in what you could recognize as crying. "Welcome back..." his voice trembled as he sniffled, adjusting the oxygen mask on your face. You blind a few times to make your vision better, still, it felt a little blurry, but you could at least recognize you were somewhere dark, which you'd find out was the Batcave in the future, and Damian was sitting on your side. Your lips curled upwards slightly at how he held your hand to his chest, looking at you affectionately "Sorry I was late..." he spoke softly "But I will make things right from now on, I promise" he promised, and he would do anything in his power to ensure that.

#yandere #yandere batman #yandere dc #yandere x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere bruce wayne #yandere robin #yandere Damian wayne #yandere bat family #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #yandere batboys

1K notes · View notes

webshooterrr9 · 6 months ago

Text

dbf!miguel staying over

i mean....... i had to eventually...

w.c: 2.6k

content warning: alcohol usage, age gap (reader is 21, Miguel is 35), smut, unprotected PiV sex (wrap it before you tap it!), slight dom/sub dynamic but not really because mig is such a sweetie and reader is sassy af, teasing because mig is secretly a meanie :(, not really tho he wants it just as much as her, big scary men whimpering!!!

sorry for y'all who don't speak spanish cuz i didn't feel like adding translations because it messed up the look but dw most of it is in english

Miguel and your father have been friends since college.

When your dad needed help with homework, Miguel was there. When your dad needed someone to pass to during the game, Miguel was there. When your dad mourned the loss of your mom, taken from the world too soon, Miguel was there. There were countless nights where Miguel would tutor your dad on subjects he struggled with after missing classes to take care of you: the angel he was gifted with in high school. Although he admits you came into his life a bit too early for comfort, he has always loved and prioritized you. And Miguel quickly became your dad’s best friend because, although he never met you, he could tell just how much your father cared about you.

And so he was always there for your dad. All through college and beyond.

It wasn’t until you started college that Miguel had the pleasure of meeting you. Your dad had planned a hangout with the three of you, telling you about how important it is to have a good friend on your side, how it helped him when times got tough.

And now you’re 21 - sitting on your childhood bed after coming home from college for the summer. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been thinking about Miguel since you’ve been home. When you met him three years ago, you were somewhat intimidated by him. How could you not? Look at the sheer size of that man. But you came to know through your school breaks that he was a lot more laid-back than you previously thought. You hate to admit it, but you’ve developed a slight crush on him. It’s stupid, you know, but how could you possibly resist those deep brown eyes and that smooth baritone voice that pulls you in every time?

Knock knock “Chiquita?”

You recognized that silky tone. It was Miguel.

“Yeah?” you say, putting your phone to the side. “Come in.” The doorknob twists and your door slowly creeps open. Behind it was that beautiful man: soft brown curls, slightly hidden by a backwards cap, a strong nose, dusty jeans that hug his legs just right, and a plain white tee with a gold cross dangling from a chain around his neck. Your dad’s best friend. Miguel.

He steps into your room and lingers by the door, a lazy smile across his face. Dios… he was something else.

“¿Qué estás haciendo, mami? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

You sit up straighter, trying not to look as lousy as you feel. He came in here looking like a goddamn Roman god and you’re just sitting in your pjs. “Just scrolling,” you reply. “Trying to enjoy my time without homework.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Your papi invited me over,” he says, stepping further into the room. “Just to catch up and share a few Modelos.”

You watch his arms cross over his chest, the sleeves of his tee tightening around his huge arms. “Doesn’t explain why you’re in here,” you say. “Shouldn’t you be out back with him, then?”

“What, ¿no puedo saludar a la hija de mi amigo?" he laughs. “That’s not fair.” he adds with a fake pout that makes you giggle.

“I didn’t say that,” you smile. He walks over and sits on the edge of your bed. You notice his watch gleam in the sunlight filtering through your windows. “Did you come here from work? Your shirt is dirty as hell.”

“You know how it is, beba. Being a blue collar worker is a tough job.”

You snort. “Please, being a mechanic is hardly blue collar work. You stay inside a garage all day.”

“My customers would beg to differ,” Miguel says. “You should see how many señoras come into my garage looking for a replacement for their shitty husbands.”

“Makes me feel like they’re tryna put a ring on it.” he wiggles his calloused fingers in front of you for added effect.

“Well, it makes sense,” you say. “You’re about their age anyway.”

“Oye!” he laughs. “I’m thirty-five, thank you very much. Not even close to their age.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, viejo.”

The sun had set an hour ago and he hadn’t gone home yet.

Despite the amount of times Miguel offered to leave, not wanting to overstay his welcome, your father insisted he stay for “ten more minutes” and handed him another beer each time. The sound of the two men laughing from the living room kept you awake. It normally wouldn’t bother you, since you’re a night owl anyway, but you have plans with your friend tomorrow that you have to wake up early for.

You exit the comfort of your bedroom and head into the living room where you find Miguel and your dad chatting loudly on the couch. Miguel’s arm is draped over the back of the sofa, which accentuates his already defined chest - not to mention the dim lamp light casting beautiful shadows on his face.

“Ah, mija, there you are!” your father exclaims, very drunkenly. “I was wondering where you were. No te he visto en todo el día!”

“Lo siento, papi.” You reply, leaning against the wall. Miguel’s stare feels hot on your skin. You can see him through your peripheral vision, looking as handsome as ever.

“Es tarde en la noche, chiquita.” Miguel says, his words coming out slower due to all the Modelo in his system. “Why are you still up?”

“That’s exactly why I came in here; to tell you two to shut up.”

“¡Oye! Watch your mouth, mija.” your dad says sternly, while Miguel just chuckles.

“Sorry, pequeña,” Miguel says, setting his beer down on the coffee table. “We’ll keep it down. But don’t swear at your padre, yeah? Respect your elders.”

“Uh huh.” you shrug, waving the two men goodbye as you retire to your bedroom. You were sure that Miguel would still be there when you woke up in the morning, but hopefully he’ll be passed out by then and not still chatting with your dad.

----

You fall asleep almost immediately. The newly-installed fan in your room helped rid the summer heat and cool your bedroom to a comfortable temperature, while still allowing you to snuggle up under the blankets. A band tee and plain panties is all you wore, which was normal for you unless you were staying at a friend's house - at which point you’d obviously throw on some shorts. The moon shining through your windows acts as a sort of night-light, and you’re soothed to sleep by the crickets outside and the less-deafening sound of chatter from your living room.

Your alarm wakes you up around 8am, which is earlier than you normally start your day. As you go to turn off the noise, you hear a tired groan come from behind you. “Mmph… turn that off.”

You flinch and turn around, covering yourself with your blankets at the stranger in your bed. But it wasn’t a stranger. It was Miguel.

“Miguel!” you whisper-shout, nudging his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

He huffs and pushes his face into your pillow, and this is your first chance to get a good look at him. He’s shirtless, of course, but his muscular frame isn’t what draws you to him. His hair is tousled from sleep in a way you haven’t seen before, a grumpy pout peeking out from the pillow he’s buried his face in. He still has his gold chain around his neck, but he seems to have discarded his hat and jeans - which you see laying on your floor. You knew this man was gorgeous… but this was the most stunning you’ve ever seen him. The morning light only makes it better.

“Tu papá durmió en el sofá,” he mumbled, the sleepiness of his voice making him sound more attractive than ever. “And his room was too hot to sleep in.”

“That doesn’t explain why you decided to crawl into my bed unannounced.” you say.

He turns his head to look at you, and one of his arms slides under his pillow to prop himself up. “Cálmate, princesa. You had tons of room and it was cool in here.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

You sit up and brush the hair out of your face, trying to wake yourself up so that you can get ready. Miguel sleepily snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you back down. Your head flops on the pillow and messes up your hair once again.

“Quédate, mami. Sleep with me.” he mumbles, closing his eyes once more.

“E-Excuse me!?” Oh you were definitely blushing now. No way he just said that! You knew that he didn’t actually mean it like that… but you also knew that he wasn’t dumb. Whether his intentions were pure or not, you knew that he worded it that way on purpose. Was your silly little crush reciprocated?

He hugs you closer to him, pulling you flush against his bare chest. The cold metal of his necklace makes you shiver, especially in contrast with how hot his body is. Temperature, you mean.

“You heard me.” he doubles down.

“Do you even-”

“I know what I said, chiquita.” Miguel opens his eyes now - the lazy drawl of his voice becoming more awake and purposeful. His gaze on you is unbearable. You could feel the intensity of his stare. “And I know what I meant.”

You stare at him in silence. How could you speak? The man who you’ve had a crush on since you started college was in your bed, half naked, making a move on you. Part of you thinks that he’s waited long enough to finally do this, but another part of you feels some sort of guilt. He’s over a decade older than you, and a family friend no less. You can see through his eyes that he feels similarly, but his passion is overpowering any sense of guilt. Besides, you’re both adults. How bad could it be?

He leans over you, pinning you down onto your own mattress. A position that’s typically domineering, and yet, you can see his gaze soften uncharacteristically for him. He brushes a strand of loose hair away from your face.

“Que linda…” he mumbles, eyes trailing all over your face. “Eres tan hermosa.”

Miguel leans his face closer to yours, his gold cross dangling from his neck and touching yours. You can feel his warm breath ghosting over your lips. You’re stunned but also… excited?

“Miguel.”

“Yes?”

“Quiero sentirte.” you whisper, your eyes meeting his. You hear his breath catch in his throat. “Tócame. Hazme el amor.”

He chuckles, a flirty pout crossing his face. “Oh, pobrecita…” he grins, tracing your jawline with his dexterous fingers. Your face tilts up closer to his, your lips brushing as he speaks. “You know I can’t do that.”

...

What?

“Why not?” he can visibly hear the disappointment in your voice. It almost makes him feel bad, especially with how beautiful you look in the morning light.

“Don’t wanna wake your papi, nena.” he caresses your face once more, leaning back a little so he can look at your face properly. “I can’t make you scream while everyone else is asleep. We have to keep this a secret. But where’s the fun in sex if I can’t hear your pretty whines, hm?”

You smack his chest. “Oh fuck off, Mig. Come here.”

Before he can respond, you grab him by his necklace and drag him down to your lips. The moment your mouths connect, it’s like fireworks going off in his head. He swears you taste better than any bizcocho he’s ever had. Miguel holds your waist as you tangle your hands through his hair, and he lets out a soft groan. His hips involuntarily rut against your thigh, and he decides he can’t take it anymore.

His hand dips between the two of you to tug your panties down, freeing your skin to his touch. His thumb lazily circles your clit, while the other calloused hand is still resting on your hips. He feels like he’s in heaven, feeling you squirm underneath him, but he knows this is only the start of the fun you’ll have together. He swallows every sound you make with his lips on yours, his tongue fighting with yours for control. He pulls his hands back once he’s sure that you’re wet and ready. You two are gasping for air by the time your lips part, and his deep eyes look into yours with a silent plea. You nod your head desperately.

Miguel makes quick work of removing what little clothes he had left on his lower body before sinking into your warmth, slowly but surely. You gasp.

He leans his forehead against yours, savoring the moment of stillness. It’s like you two are in your own little bubble - no one else can interfere. He kisses you lovingly as he starts to move, silencing any moans or sighs you might have that others could hear. You’re just for him, no one else can experience you. His thrusts are slow, but agonizingly deep. You feel it deep in your core, kissing your cervix with every push of his hips forward.

“God…” he whines. “You feel so fucking good. So good for me, baby.” You arch against him, your hands dragging along his back for support. He glances down at where your two bodies connect, and the sight almost makes him pass out. “Que cosita más linda, mami.” he whispers.

“Damelo… please..” you whine, scrunching your eyes shut with all the pleasure you feel.

“I am, nena, I am. It’s all for you, princesa. I promise.”

His pace speeds up a little more, but he’s still pushing into you just as deep, “Show me you love it, baby. Mírame.”

You meet his gaze with glassy eyes, breathing heavily and nails digging into his back. You wrap your legs around his slim waist and he throws his head back at the tighter feel. “That’s it, baby. Así así…”

He’s rutting into you wildly, chasing his high. You look down to watch as his dick disappears into your cunt. The wet sounds of his hips smacking yours clouds your mind. Each roll of his hips brings you closer to the edge. “You’re so pretty, muñeca. So so pretty f’me.”

His large hands sneak under your t-shirt and grope your tits, squeezing and caressing in a way that makes you hazy. “Want you to look at me while I fill you up. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You nod your head frantically, scratching the skin of his shoulders. You’ve never wanted anything more. The two of you are getting dangerously close to climax, and you swear you can hear him whimper.

“God, baby, feels so fucking good. No puedo más, no puedo más…!”

A squeal escapes you as he spills into your heat, with your own crescendo arriving shortly after. There’s a creamy white ring around his base as he starts to slow the roll of his hips. Miguel eventually stills and collapses, hugging you close in the same sort of cuddle as before, but still resting inside you.

After the exhaustion wears off, you pull back to stare into his eyes. A hand comes up to cup his face, rubbing his flushed cheek gently. “That was fucking amazing, Mig. I haven’t felt that good in so long.”

He laughs softly, returning your affectionate gaze. “Do you think your papi heard us?”

“Definitely not.” you giggle. “He’s a heavy sleeper.”

“That’s good.” Miguel holds you for a few more minutes, just silently staring at you. You can’t even imagine how blissed out you must look right now, but it’s all so gorgeous to him. “Eres increíble, mi vida.”

You hum in delight, stroking his cheeks once more. “You too, mi cielo.”

... you're gonna have to cancel your plans for today.

sort of switched to Miguel's pov in the last section cuz i wanted to experiment :))))

i hope you guys liked it!! dbf!miguel inspiration from @mybvalentine

and yes... he's a mechanic. it just suits him ok??

----

webshooterrr9

#webshooterrr9 #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #fanfic #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara x you #atsv miguel #i wrote this with one hand #dbf!miguel #owns my heart #mechanic!miguel

1K notes · View notes

soulofapatrick · 1 year ago

Text

I Like Your Mind - Edward Cullen x female reader

Summary: As soon as you meet Edward, you're both drawn to each other with an intensity you never expected

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: None

Y/N’s POV

I step into the Cullen house, my heart racing in my chest, and my mind filled with a mixture of fear and fascination. Bella has brought me here, introducing me to the family of her new boyfriend - Jasper Hale - and I can hardly believe where I find myself. I know their secret, the one they’ve been hiding from the world, the fact they’re vampires. And I know Edward can read minds which makes the whole situation even more daunting. But, as Bella races off to find Jasper, I’m left alone I the living room, taking in the stunning surroundings.

The Cullens’ house is unlike any place I’ve ever seen. The air is heavy with an unspoken history, and everything within is both timeless and modern. A grand piano rests against one wall, a dark mahogany masterpiece, and the soft notes of a melody linger in the air, a testament to the musical talents of the family. On the opposite wall, a massive bookshelf houses an impressive collection of novels and ancient texts. Their spines form a spectrum of human knowledge, artfully arranged.

My gaze drifts to the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the room, offering a breathtaking view of the dense, ancient forest that surrounds the house. The trees stand tall and proud, their branches intertwined like guardians, protecting the Cullens from prying eyes. The afternoon sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that dance across the polished wooden floors.

As my eyes linger on the tranquil forest, my imagination takes flight. I envision myself running through the woods, feeling the cool, damp earth beneath my feet. The leaves would crunch softly with each step, and the intoxicating scent of pine and damp earth would fill my senses. My heart would race, and a rush of adrenaline would surge through me as I lose myself in the untamed beauty of the wilderness. But, what captivates me the most is the idea of running through the forest in the rain. The thought of raindrops falling like liquid diamonds from the heavens, pelting the leaves and creating a gentle, rhythmic melody, sends a shiver of delight down my spine. In my daydream, I am drenched, my clothes clinging to my skin as I twirl and leap through the woods, liberated and carefree.

The rain washes away all my worries and fears, leaving only the exhilaration of the moment. It's as if the world, with all its complexities and complications, has melted away, leaving only the simplicity and purity of the rain-soaked forest. It's a feeling of utter peace, a sense of being one with nature and the world, a sensation I've longed to experience again.

Lost in the serenity of my daydream, I sense a subtle presence to my right. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and a strange but not unwelcome shiver runs down my spine. Slowly, I turn my head to see one of the Cullen brothers standing there, a striking figure with sharp, chiseled features. He exudes an air of quiet strength and confidence, and I can't help but admire his physical appearance.

As I take in his feature, I quickly realise that this isn’t Jasper, as Bella would undoubtedly be with him if he were here. Besides, Jasper is known for his blond hair, which contrasts with the dark brunette locks of the Cullen brother beside me. His eyes, however, remain a shimmering gold, and their intensity is captivating.

Going over Bella’s description, I recall that she mentioned Emmett to be big and buff. Emmett is tall and muscular. He has dark curly hair and dimpled cheeks. Despite his intimidating appearance, he is light-hearted and carefree. This man in front of me is almost quite the opposite with perfect and angular high cheekbones, strong jawline, a straight nose, and full lips causing my heart to quicken with a sudden realisation. In a hushed voice, I tentatively ask, “Edward?”

The name hangs in the air between us, my uncertainty evident in the way I speak his name. The Cullen brother gives a small nod, his eyes holding a hint of amusement and there’s a small smile on his pretty lips as he says, “Hello.” His voice is a velvet whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. My cheeks heat up in response, and I can’t help but feel flustered by his presence. Turning my face away from him, I gaze out at the enchanting forest, using the breathtaking view to regain my composure.

But just as I start to calm my racing heart, I sense his movement. Edward is moving closer, somewhat hesitantly as if he’s scared to do so but he moves so close I can feel the coolness of his chest against my back. The physical proximity is both thrilling and nerve-wracking, and I can’t help but wonder what his intention are as I continue to look out at the tranquil forest.

The peaceful silence in the room is broken by Edward’s soft voice, barely above a whisper, “I like your mind,” he admits, his words sending a rush of warmth through me, “It’s quiet.”

His words wash over me like a gentle caress, and I can’t deny the intrigue of his interest in my mind. It’s a compliment I could never have anticipated, coming from a vampire who can hear the thoughts of others. The intimacy of this moment is palpable, and I can sense the internal struggle within him, as if he’s torn between his desire to touch me and the realisation that we’ve only just met.

Despite my rational thoughts screaming at me to maintain my distance, I surrender to the magnetic pull of Edward Cullen. My back leans into his cool, sculpted chest, and the sensation of his icy hands on my hips sends a shiver of anticipation coursing through me. It's as if the enchantment of the Cullen house, the breathtaking view of the forest, and Edward's irresistible presence have combined to create a spell that I am unable, and unwilling, to break.

Closing my eyes, I allow myself to become completely enveloped in everything Edward. I’m hyperaware of how he feels behind me, the firmness of his chest pressed against my back, the subtle rise and fall of his breath against my neck as if it’s a force of habit for him despite vampires lack of need to breathe. His scent, a delicate blend of lilac, honey and sunshine, fills my senses and intoxicates me, wrapping me in a warm, inviting embrace.

The moment feels intensely romantic, the air electric with the unspoken connection between us. I know that Edward can read my thoughts and perceive my view of him, and in this vulnerable instant, I choose not to resist. I grant him access tot he unfiltered depths of my desire, allowing him to see and feel the passion that simmers beneath the surface.

The tension in the room crackles, the rain outside intensifying as if mirroring the fervour building within us. It's a clandestine dance of two souls drawn together by an unexplainable force. In this silent, electrifying embrace, I become an open book for Edward, my thoughts and desires laid bare, and I can only wonder what he'll make of the desires that race through my mind like wildfire

With a slow and deliberate movement, Edward turns me to face him, his eyes open and unguarded. They flicker with a hint of vulnerability, as if he, too, is uncertain of the depth of this connection. His gaze drops to my lips, and I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin as he hovers close. His fingers twirl my hair around them, an intimate gesture that feels like an attempt to memorise every part of me that he can reach. The air crackles with anticipation as I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my chest, The world outside seems to fade away, leaving only the two of us in this electrifying moment.

Edward’s gaze remains locked on mine, a silent promise of the depths of emotions and desire that lie beneath the surface. In the hushed room, our shared anticipation and vulnerability create an electric tension that’s impossible to ignore. His lips are tantalisingly close, and I can feel the coolness of his breath as he hovers near. It’s as if he’s about to kiss me, his intentions clear in the smouldering depths of his golden eyes. But he hesitates, his voice barely a whisper as he mumbles something about not being able to stop once he starts, a confession laden with both longing and restraint.

Unable to resist any longer, I tangle my fingers in his tousled hair, an intimate gesture that communicates my desire and intent. With a gentle, yet urgent push, I guide his face the rest of the way down until his lips finally meet mine.

As our lips meet in a hesitant and guarded kiss, a complex swirl of emotions and desires floods the space between us. Edward, despite his initial restraint, can’t help but respond to the fiery connection we share. His lips, cool and soft, brush against mine with a caution born of a lifetime of self-control. The kiss begins with a tentative exploration, as if he’s testing the boundaries of this newfound intimacy.

The initial hesitancy slowly gives way to a growing intensity, and I can sense his need for more. His grip on me tightens ever so slightly, fingers digging into my hips, a delicate balance between desire and restraint. His response is careful, as if he’s constantly aware of his vampire strength, wary of causing any harm to me. The kiss deepens, his passion building, and the chemistry between us becomes an irresistible force that pushes us further into uncharted territory.

With a slow and deliberate movement, he begins to walk me backwards, his lips never leaving mine, until my back makes contact with the cool glass of the windows, drawing a gasp from me. It has Edward smiling softly, golden eyes a little glazed as if in a trance of disbelief this is happening before his cold nose bumps my neck, making my pulse jump. I should be scared by how close he is to my jugular but I don’t feel any fear or anything, especially when Edward places a soft kiss on my jugular, a silent acknowledgement of the temptation that throbs beneath my skin. His lips are cold, but their touch is gentle, sending shivers of desire coursing through me.

My hands tangle back in his soft locks, guiding his lips back to mine, their coldness a stark contrast to the burning passion that courses between us. In that moment, I am both vulnerable and empowered, willingly allowing myself to be drawn further into this intoxicating dance of desire.

Each kiss makes me feel more alive, more connected to a world I never knew existed. The world outside may be drenched in rain, but in this electrifying embrace, a different kind of storm rages, a tempest of emotions and desires that we can’t control. His lips, cool and velvety soft, meet mine over and over again in a symphony of fire and ice, a fusion of elements that ignite a burning desire deep within me.

His body presses against mine, a solid and unyielding presence that leaves me feeling both vulnerable and empowered. The contrast between his cool skin and the heat of my own sets my senses ablaze. As we deepen our connection, the room seems to spin around us, and I lose myself in the feeling of everything Edward.

The room is charged with our passion, and I can feel it deep in my core. Every kiss is like a secret, a stolen moment in a world that is entirely our own. We lose track of time and space, our lips locked in an intimate dance that only intensifies the fever that has drawn us together in the first place.

But then, like a bolt of lightning in our own private storm, I hear Bella’s joyful squeal. Edward pulling away from me, and I let my face fall into the warmth of his chest, overwhelmed by embarrassment. As I hide from the world, I can feel the soft rumble of amused laughter in Edward’s chest, a sound that both soothes and electrifies me in equal measure.

“Fuck yeah!” Bells shrieks with joy and I flip her off over Edward’s shoulder as he wraps his arms around me, stifling a laugh as he can probably hear all of my silent insults and embarrassed thoughts thrown Bella’s way.

“It’s okay.” He murmurs, fingers carding through my hair and I just hum, letting my eyes flutter closed in contentment. I don’t care how quick this is happening, all I know is I need Edward and no-one else so I’ll live with the embarrassment if it means I can have Edward.

“You have me.”

┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

TAGS: New Tag List Form

Twilight Masterlist

#twilight #twilight x reader #twilight x you #twilight x y/n #twilight angst #twilight fluff #twilight smut #Edward cullen #Edward Cullen x reader #Edward cullen x you #Edward cullen smut #Edward cullen fluff #Edward cullen angst #edward cullen x y/n #edward cullen fanfiction #Robert pattinson

1K notes · View notes

aemondsbabe · 7 months ago

Text

Duty & Sacrifice | Claimant Pt 2

summary: your wedding to jace will happen whether you and aemond like it or not; even still, you know where you truly belong

pairing: dark!brother!aemond x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark aemond, threats against jace, jace slander do not come at me you were warned, blood purest aemond like he's voldemort coded idk he loves that valyrian o neg, breeding kink, fingering, unprotected sex, piv sex, biting, brief hand on neck, possessive aemond, obsessive aemond, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 3.7k

a/n: big thank you to @rabbit-hearted for sending a request for more dark!aemond! i hope you enjoy!! dark aemond was a bit toned down in this one but he (and the reader) will be going unhinged psycho in part 3 uwu

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🔪read part 1 here!

❤️my masterlist

🦋find me on ao3!

🌟add yourself to my taglist!

“Oh, you look absolutely beautiful, Princess,” your lady’s maid coos over your shoulder while she finishes tying the laces at the back of your gown, eliciting a chorus of echoing hums and titters of agreement from the other women fluttering about your chambers.

“Thank you, Kella,” you murmur, meeting her gaze in the mirror, your lips stretched into a thin, tight smile. Even in your periphery, the sight of the ivory dress makes your stomach turn and twist into barbarous knots and you quickly glance away. You try to ignore the pang of guilt that eats at your heart as you keep your eyes trained on the shelves beside the mirror, silently reciting the name of each book stacked on them over and over again, anything to keep your mind occupied.

It only halfway works, just as it had every time before – every other time you stood in this exact same spot as the tailor measured and fitted your dress, as you discussed hairstyles with your maids, as you chose jewelry with your mother. Helaena had spent weeks, hours upon hours, sewing bead after bead into the alabaster fabric, creating intricate patterns of florals giving way to flames, and you could hardly bring yourself to look at it.

If I don’t look, it’s not real. If I don’t look, it’s not real, the words, foolish as they were, echoed in your mind for the millionth time as your maids added final touches to your outfit – sliding your feet into shoes and clasping on various ornate jewels.

“Should we finish the hair first or get the cloak on first?” You hear one of your lady’s maids ask another, somewhere off to the side.

“Mm, I think the cloak,” another one answers; you can hear the doors of your wardrobe being pulled open, “Her tiara may get snagged otherwise.”

Glimmers of red from the small garnet gemstones decorating your gown create bloody splotches in your periphery as morning sunlight filters through your windows; your mind begins to wander again despite your best efforts and crimson quickly gives way to hues of sapphire. Absent-mindedly, you dig your nails into your cuticles as you recall that night. The events play out behind your eyes like they have time and time again in the weeks between then and now – the pin-pricked chill you’d felt from his gaze, the way his whispered promises made your heart ache with a confusing whirlwind of longing and dread, the way his hands had felt against your skin. The sound of your blood pumping wildly in your veins drowns out any other noise as his voice echoes in your head.

“Prove your devotion to me, my Strong girl,” he had commanded, directing your attention to the hilt of his dagger. And you had, the memories of it make you shiver even now.

You had.

But it didn’t matter because here you are, clad in an ivory gown that may as well be a death shroud for all the joy it brings you.

“Princess?” A little gasp falls from your lips as you’re hoisted out of your reverie and your eyes finally focus on Kella standing before you, matching cloak in hand.

“My apologies,” you say, managing a little chuckle, “I’m not sure where my head was at.”

“No trouble, Princess,” Kella smiles, waving a hand dismissively, “I’m sure you’re eager to get the day started, marrying a prince and all.”

“Eager, yes,” you sigh, forced smile falling flat the second she looks away. The back of your throat tightens when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and, for the umpteenth time today, you try desperately to ignore the urge to run – to sprint all the way to the Dragonpit, mount Silverwing, and go. Instead, you swallow down the sick feeling in your gut and compel yourself to be still as Kella drapes the cloak over your shoulders, the red silk underlining enveloping you in a sanguine veil.

Just as she’s about to fasten it to the little ties at the shoulders of your gown, the doors to your chambers bang open, causing both of you to jump as your heads whip toward the sound of the noise.

“Prince Aemond,” Kella says breathlessly, draping the cloak over an arm and curtsying politely.

“Get out,” he murmurs lowly, violet eye not moving from yours as he stands at the doorway, arms tucked behind his back, “I wish to have a moment alone with my sister.” Your heart hammers so wildly that you’re amazed the sound of it doesn’t echo off the walls – that it doesn’t burst in your chest.

You don’t miss the uncertain glances your maids give one another, though they ultimately nod their heads. A small chorus of, “Yes, your highness,” rises around you as they scurry from the room; Kella quickly drapes your cloak over the back of your vanity chair before leaving as well, the doors to your chambers closing behind her.

Aemond quickly locks them, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips for a precious second as he does so, before turning to you. Your brows furrow as nervousness builds within you, nails digging into your cuticles as you desperately study the neutral expression on his face as he stalks toward you.

“Don’t you look breathtaking, sweet sister,” his eye sweeps over your form as he speaks and you feel as if every ounce of air is pressed from your lungs when he gently grasps at your chin, angling your face up toward his when he comes to a stop before you.

“How did you get in here?” You question, hating how feeble your voice sounds, how your heart slows the second he touches you. Your question is a valid one, though – your mother had taken great caution in the weeks following the night of your betrothal feast to keep you and your brother as separated as possible.

He chuckles as he tilts your face to the side, exposing your neck. “Someone may have delivered an anonymous tip to Cole informing him of a supposed smallfolk revolt brewing in Flea Bottom,” you don’t miss the twitch of a victorious smile on his lips, “Of course, the Gold Cloaks had to attend to it – we wouldn’t want anything ruining such a… joyous day. Once they were gone, it was easy enough to slip from the Sept and make my way back here.”

“You’ve been planning,” his eye stays fixed on the ruby necklace clasped around your neck as you speak, though he hums in acknowledgement at your words. After another few seconds of heavy silence, you cannot help but huff and jerk your chin from his careful grip, “Did you come here to merely ogle at me or do you need something?”

“Mm,” he hums, narrowing his eye for just the barest of seconds, “There is something I need indeed, Strong girl.”

“Don’t call me that!” You snap, the little huff of laughter he gives only makes you more agitated. He turns his back to you and stalks over to your vanity; it’s only then that you see he’s holding a small box behind his back, “What is that?”

“Only a little wedding present,” Aemond drawls, violet eye meeting yours in the mirror as he runs his fingers over the soft ivory silk of your cloak; his nose twitches in disgust, the most subtle of movements that you’re sure only you are able to spot.

“Can… can I see it?”

Another twitch of his lips, a little pulling at the corners, just enough for you to know he’s satisfied about something, makes your heart squeeze in your chest. Whatever game he’s playing at, whatever imaginary battle he’s thought up in his mind, he’s winning.

Am I even fighting back? Do I want to?

Silently, he makes his way back over to you, each heavy step a nail in your proverbial coffin. He’s standing before you again, long hair spilling over the shoulders of his tunic like a pearlescent waterfall, held back from his face by two thin braids that join in the back.

Finally, he opens the box, carefully sliding the lid off. Your lips part as you stare down at the contents, eyes as wide as the moon as it feels like all the air has been sucked from the room.

“I had it made by the finest craftsman in the city,” he murmurs, eye gleaming with pride at your stunned reaction, “Do you like it, little one?”

“I… Aemond, I…,” you stammer, at a loss for words as you look over the necklace resting on a bed of soft cloth. Made from a breathtaking assortment of pearls, the attention to detail is immaculate; each milky white stone is threaded onto a fine silver chain, all leading to a gleaming deep blue sapphire in the center, framed by the figure of a small silver dragon. “I-It’s gorgeous, brother, I… thank you.”

“You deserve only the best,” he purrs, watching closely as you reach up and carefully run your fingers over the glittering stones, “Shall I put it on you?”

“I already have a neck –” You start, only for a loud gasp to rip itself from your throat as Aemond tears the ruby necklace from you, the delicate gold chains easily snapping and sending dozens of tiny rosy stones clattering to the floor. All you can do is gape at him, one hand grazing against the place on your neck where the necklace once sat.

Meanwhile, your brother’s violet eye merely follows a few of the stones as they skid across the stone floors. “Pity,” he tuts, stalking around you like a lion would its prey before stopping behind you and meeting your gaze in the mirror.

“Do you have any idea who that necklace bel–”

“I don’t give a shit about who it belonged to,” he hisses, reaching over your shoulder and grabbing your jaw, forcing your head to turn back enough to meet his heated stare, “All that matters is that you belong to me, not some sniveling fucking bastard who shall only bring you ruin.”

He stares at you for a second more as if trying to drive the point somehow further into your heart before finally releasing your chin, smirking at the little shiver that runs down your spine when he skims his fingers over your neck.

Your eyes flutter shut as he delicately sweeps the hair away from the back of your neck before pressing a soft kiss there, only to trail more down the crook of your neck and shoulder; time seems to slow for a moment while you savor the feel of his lips against your skin and your chest tightens when he groans.

He huffs when he straightens back up, like being apart from you, even if only by a few scant inches, is painful – a feeling you know all too well. Opening your eyes, you watch as he carefully clasps the sapphire necklace around your neck. The larger middle stone sits perfectly at the base of your neck, the rich blue hue sparkles beautifully against your skin.

“Flawless,” he says lowly, gently kissing just below your ear before trailing his eye up to the floor-length mirror the two of you stand before, hands resting on your waist, “We look perfect together, don’t we, little one?”

Automatically, you nod your head, unable to separate your gaze from the mirror. He’s right, he always is. The two of you simply fit together – perfect compliments of the other.

He smiles lazily over your shoulder and pulls you closer against him, relishing in the small gasp that leaves your lips as his length presses against you, already half-hard and wanting. “Yes, you and I were meant to be together,” he breathes, slowly pulling up the skirts of your gown, “You may be marrying that traitorous little cunt, but you’ll belong to me soon enough, sweet sister.”

Your brows furrow at that and you start to question him, ask what exactly he means, but before you can utter a word, a feeble, stuttering moan is wrenched from your lips instead. Aemond holds you steady, keeping one hand firmly around your waist, as the other fits itself between your thighs; you’re helpless to do much else than watch yourself fall apart in the mirror as his lithe fingers slip through your already drenched center.

A pleased hum reverberates against the side of your jaw as he presses soft kisses against your neck, ravenous eye glued to your chest as it rises and falls with sharp pants, your breasts heaving beneath the bodice of your wedding dress.

“Promise me you won’t let him touch you,” your brother growls, swirling his fingers around your already aching pearl with practiced ease, “Swear to me that I am the only one who will ever claim you, sweet girl.”

“A-Aemond, I…,” you gasp, already having to fight through the fog in your mind to remain upright, much less speak, “Brother, please!”

“Swear it!” He snarls, biting harshly at your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“I promise, I promise!” You quickly concede, the truth willingly spilling from you. You did not want anyone else, you never had – your gaze had been firmly set on Aemond for as long as you could remember. Your heart had soared with hope when Aegon and Helaena’s betrothal was announced, only for those hopes to be squashed when you were all but promised to Jace not too long after Aemond’s eye had been taken – doomed to a marriage built on regrets.

Your older brother had felt the same from an earlier age still, always doting on you, even as a child. He loves Helaena, yes, but his heart had only been yours. His screams still echo in your mind – the only time he’d ever raised his voice at your mother, when he’d stormed into her chambers as soon as Aegon had taunted him with news of the raven from Driftmark.

But it was the same each time, excuses of repairing relations and making amends, commands for you and Aemond both to grow up – to make sacrifices for the realm.

Was I ever more than a lamb raised for slaughter? That question has kept you up for more hours than you care to admit. Now, watching in the mirror as a man who is not your betrothed brings you to heel on the morning of a day you have mourned for years, the dam inside you finally bursts – you are tired of bowing to duty.

“Aemond, please!” You gasp, nearly crying as the fog in your mind finally lifts, “Please, take me, please!”

He pauses at that, the fingers on your aching bud stopping as his eye flicks up to yours. His eye is studying, calculating while he looks over you — there is a terrible relief in being finally, truly seen. “Is that what you wish?” He hums, chuckling when you pant as his fingers circle your dripping entrance, “To be filled with me, little one?”

You’re nodding before he’s even finished the question, desperate whines spilling from you as he slips his hand from between your legs, only long enough to loosen the ties at the front of his trousers.

“I’ll breed this sweet cunt,” he grunts, the arm around your waist moving to hook securely around your chest while the other grabs at his length, positioning it at your entrance as you hold your skirts out of the way in a trembling grasp, “Give you a pure Valyrian babe, just as you deserve.”

All of the air is knocked from your lungs as he pushes into you, spearing you on his cock in one swift motion. Your fingers abandon your skirts to instead claw helplessly at the arm draped over your chest, knees nearly buckling as Aemond pauses long enough for you to adjust.

“Gods!” You whimper as he sets a punishing pace from the outset, though the harsh thrusts feel like paradise after being deprived of his mere presence for so long. Your head droops forward as he snakes a hand around your hip to begin rubbing at your pearl yet again, lucid enough to know that the two of you are operating on borrowed time.

“You have always been mine, all of you,” he gasps, watching as your bodies writhe together in the mirror. After a moment, he growls and grabs at your neck, forcing your head up until your eyes meet his. “That’s it, sweet girl,” he praises, leaning forward to kiss and nip at your neck and shoulder, “You’re mine, you’re mine…”

You nod as best you can as he chants the words again and again like a prayer, pushing his length in and out of you in time with each one, until your mind is nothing but a cacophony of mine, mine, mine.

“I-I’m, Gods, I’m – Aemond!” You all but sob, the knot in your stomach that had been pitifully winding itself for weeks finally about to unravel as your cunt tightens around him, his grunts and growls in response only pushing you further to the end.

“Do it,” he commands, redoubling his efforts on your bud, his other hand scrambling frantically to grasp at your stomach, “Let go and I’ll breed you, I’ll give you a babe, our babe, little one. Let go for me, let go.”

His muttered command sends shivers down your spine and you’re powerless to do much else other than obey and your eyes squeeze shut and your lips part as a harsh, shuddering cry is knocked out of you; fire seems to ignite every cell within you as you pulse around his length. Your knees buckle when your high washes over you, Aemond’s grip around your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

“Good girl, good girl,” he murmurs, the sound of his voice just barely cutting through the rush of blood in your ears. A handful of thrusts later and he stills against you, growling and squeezing you to within an inch of your life as he fills you, cock twitching.

You both still for a moment, harsh pants filling your chambers as you catch your breath. You whine when Aemond finally pulls his softening length from you, though he shushes you sweetly before leading you to your vanity chair and sitting you down.

“I don’t want to marry him,” you whisper suddenly, sniffling softly as tears sting the back of your eyes, “I don’t w-want to, Aemond, I –”

“Shh, shh,” he says softly, gently cupping your cheek and angling your face up toward his, “There’s nothing we can do to change today, as much as it pains me. Were it possible, I would gut him in the Sept and stake my claim to you then and there, Gods be damned, I –”

He pauses, cutting himself off with a harsh sigh, “I will have you, I swear it. I will not fail again.”

Were it any other time, the dark shadow that lingers behind his words would give you pause, would frighten you as they have before.

Now, though, they settle over you like a warm blanket – there is a safety in this fear. Aemond, for all his faults, is nothing if not determined.

Whatever surety had settled within you only an hour before is swiftly and sharply pushed from your mind as you exit the carriage and climb the many steps up to the doors of the Great Sept of Baelor, unsteady even with Aegon at your side.

By the grace of the Gods, Aemond had managed to slip from your chambers, and supposedly from the Red Keep, unseen by all except your lady’s maids, and they had all been sworn to secrecy long ago. Once he had gone, they filed back in and had blessedly made no mention of the intrusion as they bustled about you yet again – quickly braiding your hair through the prongs of your tiara and securing your cloak to your shoulders.

They knew better than to ask about the sapphire clasped around your neck, or about the mess of rubies on the floor.

Your eldest brother, however, had not been so forgiving; his dark eyes had narrowed the moment you were seated together in the carriage. “Today, sister? Really?” He had teased, a dangerous spark in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you had grumbled, clenching your legs together as you sat.

“Hm,” he hummed, chuckling softly, “Maybe I’ll soon be mother’s favorite after all.”

“We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife,” the septon’s booming voice fills the Sept as you stand together with Jacaerys, your hands in his, “One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

You try your hardest to keep your eyes trained to his, to keep your lips crooked into a smile, but all you can focus on is the two stares practically searing your flesh.

Alicent’s face swam in your vision, the way her cheeks had paled when she had caught sight of the jewelry clasped around your neck, at the guilty look in your eyes. You can feel hers boring into you now and you have no doubt her jaw is clenched, her fingers bloodied and raw.

The other stare makes your skin prickle, much as it did on the night of your betrothal feast. You keep inwardly scolding yourself, again and again, as your eyes lock with Aemond’s every few seconds as he stands at the base of the steps to your side.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity,” the septon continues, gesturing to you and Jace, “Look upon one another and say the words.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” you recite together, all the while you desperately try to ignore the hollow, aching pit slowly opening itself in the very center of your chest.

“I am hers and she is mine,” Jace murmurs, dark gaze fixed solely on yours as he squeezes your hands, a terrible longing in his stare, “From this day, until the end of my days.”

“I am his and he is mine,” you say, each word feeling like a knife being twisted in your gut, “From this day until the end of my days.”

The septon gestures once more for the two of you to step closer together; it takes all of your restraint not to gasp when you feel a rivulet of Aemond’s spend leak down your thigh as you do.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Jace says softly. His warm hands cup your cheeks before he leans in but when your lips touch, all you see is sapphire.

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

consider adding yourself to my tag list or check out my works on ao3!

656 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 11 months ago

Note

Hi omg could I request Remus comforting insecure reader who makes jokes about her looks all the time and stuff and kind of tries to avoid talking deeply about it because it actually really hurts deep down but Remus wants to address it and when he talks to her she’s like “you wouldn’t get what it’s like to be ugly you (as in Remus) have always been beautiful” ? I hope that makes sense 😭Totally understand if you don’t want to write this!

Of course you can lovely! Thank you :)

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 884 words

Remus’ self control starts to fray when you discard your third outfit.

It’s not that he’s impatient to get to the restaurant—you’ve both got plenty of time, and watching you try on clothes for him is a far from unappealing way to pass it. The issue is that you don’t seem to get how fucking phenomenal you look in all of them.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, making a face at yourself in the mirror before lifting the top over your head. It’s tossed onto the bed, where Remus picks it up to put it back on its hanger. “That color makes me look sickly.”

“Dove,” he reprimands. “It does not.”

“Rem,” you mimic his tone teasingly. The late afternoon light filters through the window, and he honestly isn’t sure if the glow he’s seeing is from that or from the smile you give him. “I already look like this, I don’t need to accentuate it.”

You do that. Self-deprecate. Like it’s anticipatory, like you’re in on a joke that hasn’t been told yet. It makes Remus’ skin prickle.

“Anyway, I’ll be with you, handsome.” You set one hand on the bed and lean over to peck him on the lips. You take the top with you as you go, hanging it back up in the closet with a nod of thanks to your boyfriend. “I’m not aiming for mind-blowingly gorgeous, but I’d like to look at least remotely in your league, if I can.”

“You always look mind-blowingly gorgeous,” Remus says softly. His chest aches with earnestness.

You select a different top, tossing a coy grin over your shoulder. “Thanks, honey.”

“No, really.” He feels suddenly hot with desperation. Remus doesn’t usually get in your way like this. You make your jokes, he disagrees politely, and he lets you move on. But the need to make you hear him, to talk until you finally get it, see how obsessed he is with you, has been building. If there’s one hill he’s going to die on, he wants this to be it. “You looked lovely in that top, and in everything. You’re exquisite, dove. Do you get that?”

Your smile falters, and you turn away. You speak into the closet, over the schwick of hangers sliding. “Exquisite.” Humor bends the syllables of the word. “You’re too sweet. Careful, or you’ll give me an ego to eclipse the sun.”

Remus wishes, but he seriously doubts there’s any danger of that. Your perusal of the closet picks up its pace, criticism a shadowy gray cloud above your head. He stands from the bed and steps forward to wrap his arms around your waist. You still, relaxing into him automatically.

“I don’t understand why you have to deflect like that,” he says, doing his best to sound kind even as a protective ire burns fiercely in his chest. “You’re always making these cruel jokes about yourself, and you won’t listen when I tell you how wrong you are. Why?”

“Remus.” It’s hardly a murmur, and yet the plea is clear. “Can we drop this, please?”

Just like that, the fire in his chest is smothered. A dull ache takes its place. “Not if you’re going to keep doing it,” he says, kissing the nape of your neck. “Just tell me why, please.”

You clasp your hands over his, seeking comfort even as you stiffen in his arms. “You wouldn't get it.” There’s no venom in your tone, but Remus hears the slight edge. “You don’t know what it’s like to be ugly, Rem. You’ve always been beautiful.”

A laugh barks out of him, sharper than he means it to be. “I wouldn’t get it?”

You’re quiet. He takes you by the shoulders, turning you to face him. Your eyes drop to his chin.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t know how it feels to be insecure?” he asks. “Dove, I grew up with giant tears and scars on my face. People stare at me.” Your eyes flit up to his, shame and apology clear within them. When they go back down, Remus follows, ducking so you can’t hide from his gaze. “I understand that when you feel like something about you is ugly, no one can convince you it’s not. You have to do that on your own, pretty girl.” A flicker of emotion—discomfort, aversion, something else—passes over your face at the endearment. Remus has to swallow against the upset that clogs his throat. “But do you think you could try talking about yourself more kindly? For me, if not for you. It hurts to hear you being so cruel to someone I care about,” he says softly.

Every line of your face is tense with discomfort at the topic, but you finally meet his eyes. Remus’ smile is reflexive. He’s not sure how you can find things not to love in this face so full of sweetness.

“Sorry,” you say, sheepish.

“Don’t be sorry.” He rubs your upper arms affectionately. “I know you don’t do it to spite me, darling.”

You bring your hands up around his neck, hugging him loosely. “You really are beautiful,” you murmur into his sweater. “With the scars, too. I’m not just saying that.”

“So are you.” Remus kisses the top of your head. Someday, he’ll get you to believe it.

1K notes · View notes

shalomniscient · 7 months ago

Text

greetings gamers. my return to this webbed site approaches so i just wanted to say thanks for sticking around !! *throws arle fluff smut at y'all*

cw. [NSFT UTC] gross amounts of fluff, praise, creampie, kinda lazy morning sex yk notes. this is kind of selfship adjacent but can be read as a normal readerfic as well taglist. my comrade in arms of arle fluff nation @e-hibiscus 🫡🫡🫡

“dearest.”

arlecchino’s voice is barely above a whisper as she tries—and fails—to sit up on the bed. the cause? your arms wound tightly around her waist, and your face nuzzled into the crook of her neck.

“hm?” you respond with a lazy hum, snuggling even closer to her, if possible. your body is soft against her firmer one, and her hands rest placidly on your waist. she could simply move you, it wouldn’t be difficult at all for her, but she doesn’t. she can’t seem to be able to find the heart.

“i have work to attend to,” she reasons with you. “you know this.”

you breathe out a giggle against her neck. “okay. go, then.”

not surreptitiously at all, your arms get ever so slightly tighter around her, and she sighs. “beloved…”

“what?” you ask innocently, a self-satisfied, cheeky grin on your face. it’s such a lighthearted expression on you that she feels her conviction tremble in its presence. she has long mastered anger and sorrow, but the love you coax out of her still seems to be as wild and free as the day it was born.

“i cannot leave if you do not let me go,” she says, and you shrug, eyes twinkling with mirth. you lean in close, close enough that she can feel your warm breath spill across her own lips.

“then don’t,” you offer simply, and she rolls her eyes, but the slightest hint of a smile twitches at the corners of her mouth.

“you and i both know reality is far more complex than that,” she argues gently. the sunlight streaming through the windows only grows stronger by the minute, illuminating your lovely face in shades of gold. “my schedule does not allow for such leisure.”

your smile turns a twinge enigmatic, almost mischievous, and arlecchino’s eyes narrow. “doesn’t it?”

“little minx," she growls, but there's no bite to her tone. "what have you done?"

“managing your schedule is part of my duties, you know. and as your excellent adjutant, i made a few executive decisions on your behalf regarding your work-life balance.”

“‘a few executive decisions’,” she echoes, raising a brow. “i’m quite certain that is above the pay grade of mere adjutants, my dear.”

you roll your eyes at that, a teasing pout forming on your lips. “would you much prefer i make them as your wife, then?”

“immensely,” she agrees, and you laugh again, and arlecchino feels a swirl of butterflies come to life in her belly. how strange, that such feelings can be inspired in the soul of someone like her.

how beautiful, too.

“so will you stay?” you ask eventually, your tone hopeful, and she cannot find it anywhere in herself to deny you. not that she would want to, anyhow.

“it seems that i will,” she concedes. a free day is rare for her, and a free day to spend all with you even more so. she will not squander such an opportunity. “i am all yours, today.”

you beam at her then, and oh, not even the sun rays filtering in through the windows could even hope to compare to the brightness of your smile. you reduce her to a moon caught in your orbit, able to do nothing but reflect your radiance with a small smile of her own, one that only you could ever see.

your lips fit perfectly against her own when you kiss her, slow and sweet, as if she were something to savor. it sends thrills running up and down her spine, her cold blood starting to run hot. you must have noticed her reaction, because when you draw back, there’s a hungry glint in your eye that arlecchino is all too familiar with.

“i missed this,” you confess against her skin as your lips trail kisses down her neck. “missed having you.”

“we are hardly celibate even during work, my dear,” she chuckles, delighting in the way your teeth sink into your lower lip as you recall all the times the both of you had lost yourselves in each other at various places that normal people would certainly never dream of.

"that's different," you say, almost petulantly, and arlecchino runs a hand through your hair as you continue to reverently kiss your way down her body. and in a sense, she understands. desperate fucking between meetings in hidden hallways against cold walls or hard desks can certainly be enjoyable, but there is admittedly something special about this slower pace. perhaps, she muses to herself, as she lets the sensation of your lips over her skin wash over her, this is the love-making authors and poets write about.

her fingers wind tight in your hair and you squeak as she tugs you back to her lips so she can kiss you again, hungry and wanting. she has you properly straddle her hips, the fabric of her nightshirt ridden up to reveal the smooth muscle of her stomach. your hands trace the contours of her abs as you plunder her mouth, your tongue teasing the pointed tips of her canines and making her growl into your mouth.

"eager little thing," she murmurs when you draw back for breath, eyes half-lidded and dangerous in a way that makes your blood sing. her hands fall down to your hips, squeezing ever so slightly, and she delights in the way you're so soft under her touch. you take the opportunity to tug your own nightdress over your head and toss it over your shoulder, allowing her a stunning view of your bare upper body. and from where you're sat, low enough on her body, you can feel the twitch of her hard cock against your ass, still restrained by her sleep shorts.

you grin at her words, a hand reaching behind you to palm her through the fabric. the muscles in her jaw jump and flex as she grits her teeth. "pot, kettle, don't you think?"

"get on with it," she huffs, nails digging into your flesh ever so slightly as you tug her shorts down and free her aching cock, already dripping pre-cum. you look down lovingly at her as your fingers daintily wrap around her, exerting a delicate pressure as you pump your hand up and down. her eyes nearly flutter shut as she leans back into the pillows, the crosses of her pupils growing as she looks up at you.

as you continue to stroke her, she takes the liberty of rubbing her thumb over your stiff clit through your underwear. you jolt and squeak against her, surprised, though she keeps you firmly in place with her other hand. in doesn't take long for you to start rocking your hips, grinding against her hard abs and her thumb. your breathing deepens as pleasure ebbs through you like a tide, drawn and released by the gravity of your husband, your moon.

once she feels your slick drip through the now ruined fabric of your underwear and onto her skin, she stills your hips, and coaxes you to rise a little. you obey, and her dark hands push the fabric of your panties to the side while yours aligns her to your eager cunt. you gasp when the tip pushes in, the feeling of her stretching you out pleasurable in a way unlike anything else. you brace your hands on her chest and she coos at you as you take more and more of her.

"just like that, sweetheart," she murmurs, watching as more of her cock disappears into your tight heat, "so good for me, aren't you, sweet thing?"

you practically collapse onto her when she bottoms out, your hips now flush. your cunt clenches and squeezes and arlecchino has to resist the urge to fuck into you. she needs to let you adjust first. so she wraps her arms around you as you shiver on top of her, your face buried in her neck. her warm hands run up and down your spine, gentle, comforting, until your breathing evens out.

"ready?" she asks against your temple, and you whisper out your assent against her skin. arlecchino hums at that, shifting her legs to plant her feet flat on the bed. she offers you a soft, affectionate, "good girl" before she's pounding up into you, her strokes slow but deep, tip pushing up against that sweet spot inside you every time.

you can't do anything but tremble and moan. your whines and whimpers of fuck, so good, baby, so fucking good and right there, right there makes her go near delirious, rational thought slipping from her with each second. it doesn't take long for you to start clenching tighter around her, and she knows you're close. and you tell her as much, between breathy moans.

"'m close, baby, so close," you stutter out, pushing yourself up on trembling arms. your expression is pinched into one of pure pleasure, your lower lip caught between your teeth and your eyes screwed shut. "oh, fuck--i love you, just like that, fuck, i love you so much--"

arlecchino groans as you babble your professions of love, her blood warming in her veins. not scorching like a raging flame, but still just as bright--like a hearth. "i know, sweetheart, i know," she mutters, driving into you harder with each thrust. "cum with me, sweet girl. can you do that for me?"

you nod eagerly, rocking your hips to chase the feeling of her cock dragging along your sensitive walls. arlecchino pulls you down by the neck with one hand to crash your lips together, while the other toys with your stiff clit through your thoroughly ruined panties. you whine and whimper into her mouth, and she swallows each noise eagerly, greedily.

"i love you," she breathes out, a hand on your cheek, thumb stroking the ridge of your cheekbone gently even as she pounds into you. "my sweet girl, my wife, my sun."

she kisses you again and then seats you firmly on her cock, her tip mashing against that spot inside you and pushing you over that edge. you practically wail into the kiss as your body tenses and trembles with each dizzying wave of pleasure. the force of your cunt bearing down on her pulls arlecchino along with you, and she groans as she cums, spilling ropes of cum into your squeezing cunt. her arms around you hold you close as you drift through both your highs until you come back down, panting against her chest.

she takes your hand, limp as it is, and brings it to her lips to kiss your knuckles. "take your time and rest, dearest," she hums, tilting your chin up to look her in the eyes. her gaze is soft, affectionate, but there's a hint of danger in them that makes your throat go dry in a good way.

"after all, thanks to you we have all the time in the world today, don't we?"

#sev.writes #[nsft]#arlecchino #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino smut

765 notes · View notes

comfortless · 10 months ago

Note

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

“How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

#könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig #konig #cod fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

andersonfilms · 6 months ago

Text

❝ THE NIGHT WE MET ❞ ✶ ABBY ANDERSON !

it's here! the first installment of a series i've had the pleasure of creating with emi. thank you to my muse, the wonderfully brilliant @abbyscherry. we've put our blood, tears, and all of our queerness into this. happy to post and get this out there. in the future, there will be many parts to follow! enjoy <3

tags. eighteen+, nsfw themes, sexual innudenos, masc!reader.

it’s typical. the basement fills with smoke in the air, nearly anyone is on something. the anxious feeling ties in her stomach, lacing a hint of restlessness in her nerves, making her more sick than she needed to be. too much, too fucking much. a moment needed to find her own heartbeat. she allows the smell of weed to fill her lungs when she steps in. she personally doesn’t really know anyone.

except you. she’s too nervous to make any type of introduction. you’re not really friends. no. abby just knows of them and she’s almost positive you don’t know of her. these type of parties always occur on friday night in the warmth of spring? never white of her radar.

but even she has to admit, it seems nice.

everyone’s smoking, chilling, having a good time and abby comes down there for a hit but everyone is occupying any space to sit. anxiety wraps around her neck, an unsettling feeling, so she decides to head elsewhere until she hears an unfamiliar voice. their voice extends to her like sweet honey she’s dying to taste. “abby, do you wanna hit?” abby nearly starts hyperventilating because you know her name. she nods “i, um, i was just doing to head upstairs. nowhere to sit.” abby shrugs nonchalantly. “if you want to take me up on it, my thighs are available for you, baby.”

fucking crimson red. abby knows her cheeks resemble the color. she’s done for. one conversation and she’s practically on the floor. you take another hit, the smoke filtering out of your irresistible lips into the foggy air. you slouch further as you open your thighs even more, abby’s gaze flickers to your crotch before meeting your eyes once again. she’s never seen anyone smirk so proudly. you’ve got her right where you want her, hardly having to move an inch to catch anyone’s attention. abby isn’t any different.

“‘m too big. it’s fine, i’ll just go back up.” you’re frowning. eyebrows raised as if it’s a challenge.

“well, maybe for some of the other girls who like to hang around with you,” abby’s confused. have you been watching her? oh god. “but certainly not for me. so, why don’t you be a good girl and take a seat.”

with caution, slowly, she’s making her way over to you. each sends a shiver up her spine. what the actual fuck are you doing to her? taking another hit from your blunt as your eyes never leave her. watching as she adorably walks up to you. when she’s close enough, standing right in front of you, you’re whispering softly and only she can hear “sit down on my lap, pretty girl. i got you.” the second she does, it’s heaven on earth.

“are you sure i’m not too…heavy?” abby questions. she’s always been quite conscious of her size. tall, built, but you don’t seem to mind. “light as a feather, babygirl.” passing for a moment you ask her if she wants a hit. her eyebrows burrow at the small, the rolled blunt in your hands. “just weed baby, but don’t feel pressured.” abby nods in acceptance. you reassure her as you slide one of your huge hands on abby’s thigh, rubbing slowly as the other becomes occupied by holding the blunt up to her lips, and asking every few seconds if she was okay, and if she wants to keep smoking more or stop.

abby’s hair is down, but it’s in the way of seeing her freckled face so you whisper in abby’s ear “baby, is it okay if i move your hair to the side? wanna see your pretty face when i talk to you.” abby fumbles over her words like a lovestruck idiot. “yeah, um, you can move it.” she feels their fingertips graze her neck as her blonde locks are pushed to the side. she whines at the loss of your lips pressed against her ear, but oc isn’t going to comment on it. yet. “so much better, baby. now i can appreciate just how beautiful you are.”

abby’s noticing all the glances thrown your way the longer she sits practically on you and gets a sudden confidence boost and leans back into your chest— your hard, defined chest, that she can feel, and her cheeks redden if that’s even possible when you’re arm is tightening around her waist, holding her protectively as your eyes harden, glaring at everyone staring. “want another?” you mumbled, lips grazing the shell of her ear, the hotness of your breath sending shivers down her spine.

“m’okay for now” she smiled shyly, fingers reaching out to fumble with the ones you had around her, playing with them for a few seconds before looking around, the buzz of smoking going to her head a little. “s’cool”

“hm?” you’re chuckling, moving your head at a better angle to see her. “what’s cool, pretty girl?”

“my head’s fuzzy” abby giggled, eyes fluttering closed as she slumped her head back against your shoulder. “s’good though. feels good. i like it” she smiled.

“yeah?” you chuckled against her ear, hand creeping up her shirt and you rubbed her skin gently. slowly. comfortingly. “s’that good, pretty girl? you want anymore or are you done?”

“don’t think i can handle anymore” she mumbled, tired all of a sudden.

“s’okay” you smiled, leaning back, her body following and getting more comfortable. her cheeks are flushed again, glad she’s facing away from you so you can’t see how flustered she really is over your touches and words. “want me to get you a drink? beer? water—”

abby lifts her head and her blue eyes sparkle when she’s turning around in your lap to look at you, giving you a good view of her crimson cheeks and you can’t help but smirk down at her. “no, m’comfortable” she pouted.

“s’good, don’t want you to be uncomfortable” you’re talking to her, and abby swears she’s trying to pay attention to what you’re saying, but she’s more focused on your voice itself. At how raspy yet soft it is. how gentle it sounds against her ear. almost whining at the subtle touch of you pushing her hair to the side again, fingertips ghostly brushing against the skin of her neck. sending shivers down her spine.

she hates the way she can’t control the little sound she let’s out when your nose runs up and down on the side of her neck, smiling smugly against her like you already know what you’re doing to her. “wanna do something?”

her eyebrows furrow, lips forming into a pout as she turns her head to look at you. “do what?”

abby’s cunt clenches around nothing when your face is suddenly so much closer to hers, a smirk forming on your lips at her confusion. “body shots”

“b-body shots?” she’s stammering, unsure if you’re being serious or not. “with you?”

licking your lips, you finish smoking and chuckle at her, the smoke cloud showing just enough of your face for her to see. “yeah, baby. body shots, with me”

“now?”

her face flushes even more red, if that was possible when you chuckled, but nodded nonetheless. “yes now, if you want to, the choice is all yours but i’d like to”

why was she nervous all over again? was it the way you were looking at her? was it the way you were smiling, tucking strands of hair behind her ear? or the way your breath fanned against her lips and it made her want to suddenly to kiss you? it could be any of those reasons, or all.

“um—” she giggled, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger, and nodded shyly at you. “yes, please”

with a pat on her side from your hand, abby stumbled off your lap, almost falling over her own feet in the process and couldn’t help but laugh loudly when you’re reaching out, wrapping your arm around her waist that she giggles uncontrollably into your chest. “m’sorry” she manages to get out amongst her small giggle fit.

her giggle had you laughing, holding her tightly in your arms. “are you okay?” you choked out, a few tears ran down your face as you slipped your hand up her shirt, and rubbed her back slowly. helping her calm down in a way you somehow knew would work. “you wanna get some air before?”

“no. i wanna do it with you”

“oh?” you smirked, chuckling under your breath.

“what? no! n-not like that!” abby shook her head with another stammer that made you laugh, lifting her head up, and blinking repeatedly under the lights. “wait that came out mean, i didn’t mean—”

“pretty girl, relax, s’okay”

abby felt her confidence grow as she walked away from the large crowd. your hand resting protectively on her lower back, making sure no one gets too close to her, and your eyes darted around, wanting her to have the best night possible and no get randomly bombarded with other people.

she chose you to spend her night with.

you weren’t going to let anyone ruin it.

interlocking your fingers with hers, you cocked your head to the side, eyeing up the few that were in the kitchen. drinking and giggling away, probably high out their mind and not really sure what was going on anymore. too high to give a shit that you were both standing there, waiting for them to leave. which made a smirk appear on your lips when abby’s giggling again behind you, trying her hardest to stifle the sounds upon your sudden cough, a small hint for them to get out. “thank you” you bowed sarcastically as their quickly rushing out the kitchen, still laughing to themselves. “let’s get this party started, yeah, pretty girl?” you’re grinning, wiggling your eyebrows at her.

wearing nothing but a white button down, no bra, cleavage on show with the three buttons undone minutes later. laying down on the countertop, abby’s sprinkling salt along their sternum. you smirk at her shaky hand. “you alright babygirl?” your raspy down flooding to her slippery cunt, as if every bone in her body wasn’t already nervous enough. she pauses as she grabs the lime on the countertop, placing it by the shot of tequila.

mhm….you can’t just let this slide. the pretty girl you met tonight is just so shy, you feel your clit pulsating. the weed from earlier making your head feel lighter at the thought of her tongue licking your body. your tattooed hand with fingers decorated with rings grips her chin forcing abby’s gaze down to you.

“grab the lime and shove it my mouth. want you to pull it out of mine with yours. how does that sound, babygirl? wanna feel my lips some more?” your drop your hand, letting it drop between her tits, until it reaches the waistband of her jeans. digging your fingers in, letting your skin kiss the skin of the v-line exposed. you pull her towards you even more forcing abby to bend over. her face impossibly close to yours. “be a good girl and stuff my mouth, angel. i’ll return the favor later…if you want.”

pale skin floods with crimson, she bites her lip, unable to say a damn thing. what the fuck is she supposed to say to this? with all her might, she stifles the giggle begging to be released, concentrating on the task at hand. the simple one you’re making incredibly difficult.

“i made it so easy for you. kicked everyone out, jus’ you and me, but you if you don’t want to do this, all you have to do is say the word. i’ll only get my feelings hurt a little bit.” you offer a small smile as abby lets her eyes drift to the salt perfectly laid across your sternum, fuck, you shouldn’t look this good.

“i do—” abby pauses, collecting her next thoughts together before speaking. “i just, i’ve never done a body shot and you’re um very…”

“what babygirl? i’m very what?” you’re eating it up now. practically getting off in the way abby fumbles with her words. grasping at straws as you watch her gawk at your toned chest. “stop.” the pretty blonde pouts.

“you know you’re so—” god, why can’t she just fucking say it? “s’just a lot. you make me nervous. i kept getting looks. especially from the the girl in the white cropped top with your name on it.”

“if you have something to ask, i’m all ears.” she’s cute, god. not even yours and she’s already jealous. it should turn you off, but it’s the most adorable thing in the world. plus, she’s being so sweet about it too. the itch for a taste if her only increases. “are you single?” you simply nod, letting the words soak in, gauging her reaction.

“have been for months. just some don’t like getting left behind s’all. everyone with eyes can see i’m taking interest in someone new. i don’t let just anyone sit on me.” your hand grabbing onto her hip, thumb rubbing softly over the bone. “c’mon baby. i know you’re shy but don’t you wanna use me?”

she’s quite for a moment and it’s clear you have to take the lead. as much as the blonde is a bundle of joy, she’s an even brighter ball of shyness. either way, you’re itching to satisfy the craving.

“do you want me to tell you what to do?” abby perks up at the question, desire pooling in the pit of her stomach. all of this, from the very beginning of her night with you, is completely new. with the roles reversed she feels backed into a corner. for the first time, she knows it can feel good like this.

abby nods, but it’s not enough. “no babygirl, need to hear you say it. tell me you want to.” even in your haze, you wanted to make sure she was good with everything. abby’s heart doubles over, her heartbeat unable to rest.

“i do, um, want to.” abby mumbles, scratching the back of her neck, a hint of smile hidden beneath her pink lips, swollen from all the insistent biting. “mhm, alright then. let me talk you through it, yeah?”

oh.

“first, you’re gonna lick the salt lined up on my chest. then take the shot like a good girl. and i’m going to put this lime in my mouth and you're going to take it out and get a taste.” you reach for the lime, sinking your teeth into the wedge, giving her a small nod telling her you’re ready.

now or never, abby supposes.

for far longer than necessary, she stares at your chest as if she’s inspecting each speckle of salt. the tattoo along your sternum doesn’t really calm any, only heightens them. painfully so, you’re patient. waiting for her to make the first move.

her grip extended as she bends over, each arm on either side of you. giving her some room operate. the last thing she wants is to be awkward about it even if she feels she already has been. her head leans down, abby’s hair tickling your skin as she looks at you, blue eyes entranced as she flattens her tongue on your skin, licking one bold.

you’re looking down at her in awe. truly, you half expected her to chicken out but she didn’t. welcoming the salty taste in her mouth, she looks at you with half-lidded eyes, tongue smoothing her lips as if she’s expecting there to be more of you. pushing herself off slightly, she takes the shot of tequila.

she nearly gags on the burn in invading her throat. not one for drinking typically, and if she does it’s certainly not straight liquor. you find the innocence inviting. abby’s crimson cheeks flaring up in embarrassment, shaking her head violently as she tried to disguise her feelings, making you giggle.

abby rolls her eyes playfully as she leans over once again, wet lips barely touch your own, before the lime is brought into her mouth, sucking on until the sour acid overflows and drips down her chin and onto your chest.

but abby doesn’t think about what she will do next. suddenly, it’s a reflex. her tongue is licking up the excess of liquid on your chest, cleaning up the mess she made. a quiet whisper of abs, is let out as you feel her wet tongue. you want to laugh. you almost do, until she’s licking her way up to your neck, kissing your jaw softly before pulling off your body.

“someone really wants a taste of me.” you tease, watching her blush but the need doesn’t fade. lost in the red of her gaze causing her to nibble on her lips. you sit up with ease, now eye level with her. “you’re way too high tonight, feel like it’s my fault. i think i’m a bad influence.” you cradle her pretty face in your palm, thumb caressing her soft jaw.

“was it too much?” abby questions, eyes pleading with acceptance. “no, not at all. if anything, just made me want more.” you talk a beat to look at her. it’s a privilege, getting to witness her up close, wide-eyed as she tries to figure you out. she won’t. not yet at least, not until you let her.

“next time i can make it too much for you, if that’s what you like.” you tilt your head to the side. “not everyone likes it like that, but some girls do. i’m willing to bet you do.” your fingers reached up to her nose, following down the bridge and the bump in her nose. “you just give me a call and let me know, babygirl. alright?”

“i don’t—” she paused, suddenly interested in the dribble of lime on your lip, and she can barely stop herself, again, when she’s using the pad of her thumb to wipe it away. the action quickly had you looking at her with wide eyes. not expecting her to do something so bold when the most of the night she’s been too shy to even look at you. but this makes you laugh, and flick your tongue out and catches her thumb. grinning at her abrupt squeak.

“you don’t what, babygirl?”

“have your number” she breathes out, almost breathlessly. her body tingling at the feeling of just your tongue against a part of her body. even if it was just her fucking thumb. it was something. “so i can’t, you know, call you”

nervous and shy abby was one you needed to meet again.

“do you want it?” you’ve got that stupid fucking smirk on your face again. a smirk that abby wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss it off you or smack it off your handsome face. either way, she’s nodding shyly and absentmindedly fumbling with the ring on your thumb. oblivious to your smile at her nervous habit. “words, use them, yeah?”

abby pouts, hating or loving, she hasn’t really decided yet, on how you can make her do things that she wouldn’t normally do. especially shutting her up by using certain words. you cocked your head to the side when she’s nodding again, lips parted before her baby blue eyes connect with yours. “yes” she clears her throat, “i would like your number”

“and i’d like yours so find me a pen, pretty girl”

moving away from you, abby missed the sudden safeness you gave her. tonight was the only conversation she had with you, but she already felt safe. the comfort of just your hand on her lower back, she missed. “does this house even have a pen? i don’t even see a trash can anywhere” she grumbled, pushing her hair over to her other shoulder. the action not going missed by you.

“pretty girl, are you good?”

“no” she sighed, rummaging around in several of the draws, opening the cabinets, and finding no pen in sight. rolling her eyes dramatically as she slams shut the final draw again. admitting sudden defeat to an inanimate object. really mature abs.

you cleared your throat, eyebrow raising when abby turns around, looking at you like she just got caught stealing something from one of her friends to find you smirking, your right hand in the air, holding a pen. “if you spent less time being bratty, you would be able to find a pen” you chuckled, shaking your head.

abby makes her way back towards you, slightly more confident once she’s in reach to steal the pen from you before you had chance to do anything, and holds it with a grin. “m’not a brat” she mumbled, tilting her head to the side in thought.

“sure you aren’t. what are you doing?”

“m’trying to think where i wanna put my number”

“on me?”

“on you” she nodded, tutting under her breath and trailing her finger up your chest. giggling when you’re sucking in a deep breath “can i put it here?” she asked softly, those eyes locking with yours again.

“uh huh” you nodded, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. “you can put it wherever you want, pretty girl. as long as i walk out of this house with your number, then m’fine with it”

abby didn’t need to be told twice. placing her free hand on your other arm, using the other than was holding the pen to slowly, teasingly you thought, to write her number on your skin. the coldness of the tip of the pen had you sucking in another breath, her fingertips brushing against you had goosebumps rising on your skin afterwards. “there” she smiled, leaning back slightly and passing you the pen. “done”

shakily taking the pen from her, you laughed a little breathlessly and shook your head. “where do you want my number?”

“wherever you want” she’s using your words against you and it makes you laugh once more.

a shiver runs down abby’s spine when you’re picking up her arm in your hand gently, stroking her skin with your thumb slowly and leaning a little closer, into her space, to press the pen, and ink against her arm. your breath tinkling her as you write each number slower than she wrote hers. teasing her back, aware of how much you’ve already got an affect on her.

a crimson blush coats her cheeks when you’re pressing your lips right at the end, gasping softly when you bite down on her skin gently. “think that’ll be a good reminder of me until we meet again, sweetheart?” you asked, voice slightly deeper than it has been all night.

she nodded dumbly with a shy smile. “yes” came her quiet reply.

her eyes widen when you practically jump off the counter and wrap your arm around her waist, tugging her into your chest. her lips parting when you press yours against the corner of her mouth, and you can’t help but smirk when you’re stepping away from her, no longer in her space, a space she refused to let others into, but loved you being that close and pouted. “i look forward to seeing you again real soon, yeah, pretty girl?”

she’s watching you stumble out the kitchen like a lost puppy. heart thumping in her chest and music ringing through her ears when you turn your head a final time and blow her a fucking kiss. how is she going to go on about her day when you’re already the only thing in her head?

hope all my masc gays feel feed ... hehe <3

#ღ ELECTRAPLAYER — you own me #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby anderson x masc reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson fluff #abby anderson fanfiction #abby anderson tlou2 #tlou x reader #tlou2 #abby anderson x you #abby x reader #abby x you

347 notes · View notes