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venomvalley · 4 months ago

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PILLOW PRINCESS

sevika x fem!reader // 9.7k words

SUMMARY: A woman from one of Piltover's most prestigious houses bites off more than she can chew when she steps into a bar in Zaun looking for a bit of excitement. Unfortunately for her, she entered the wrong kind of establishment.

TAGS: 18+ only! corruption kink, brat taming, biting, oral (r!receiving), shimmer strap, size kink, choking, reader is a closeted lesbian and in her mid-20s, dom!sevika. poorly discussed societal issues (for obvious reasons)

NOTES: my first foray into the arcane fandom and its a fucking novel length shimmer strap fanfic. anyway i wrote this entirely for me but yall can read it too

-> READ IT ON AO3 | PILLOW PRINCESS MASTERLIST

There are two universal truths to the city of Piltover: its citizens are rich, and the social game is deathly boring. After endless years of networking and grandiose dinners and ballroom dancing, you've dealt with the weight of propriety for long enough.

The Undercity seems the only remedy to free you from your gilded cage.

The idea comes to you one morning in the library of your family home, perched atop a velveteen chair with a thick, dusty tome opened before you on the desk. Some boring old thing about the history of pottery and dishware to prepare you for yet another meeting with a potential suitor and his family.

You still aren’t sure how to tell your sickly, neurotic mother that you prefer the company of other women, and that it's been this way for a long time. She insists on grandchildren to perpetuate the family legacy, and you’ve resigned yourself to your duty as an affluent family's eldest daughter.

But you've put off the inevitable for as long as you can. Sabotaged all potential marriage up to this point by way of faking illness and poor attitude and un-ladylike habits that your mother should have beat you for doing.

And yet—

“Did ya hear about that orgy the Enforcers crashed?”

Guardsmen making their usual rounds, passing through the library. Unaware of your presence behind a particularly imposing bookshelf (though you curl in on yourself anyway) as you watch them between a crack in the books.

The taller man laughs. “Yeah, my buddy was there. Had thirty people crammed inside the backroom of a tea shop.”

“You couldn't pay me to live in the Undercity.”

“Well, it's good for one thing, at least.”

“The whores?”

“The whores.”

You turn back to your tome as the men pass by your field of view, joking amongst themselves.

Your mother forbade you from engaging in certain… activities until you married, solely in fear of a scandal tarnishing the family name. You shared your first kiss at the age of eighteen with the daughter of a merchant family inside the pitch-black closet of her bedroom, so nervous that you soaked through the back of your nightgown with sweat. A few months later, you began stealing from your mother's collection of erotica hidden in the library, and thought about the merchant's daughter while you touched yourself shamefully in the privacy of your bedroom.

And thus ends the extent of your sexual experience. A facet of your lifestyle that you’re neither proud of nor satisfied with.

But whores. You know what whores do. By their very nature, people talk, and Piltover is no exception. Perhaps the people of the Undercity are more welcoming than your family leads you to believe, and you could find a pretty woman with kind eyes who finds joy in the inexperienced.

Or perhaps they laugh you out of the building.

A bar, then. A more natural, relaxed setting, if the stories from your peers hold any ounce of truth to them. Grab a bitter-tasting drink, sit in some dark corner of the room, and watch for the woman of your wildest dreams to walk through the door.

But you need a plan. Venturing across that blasted bridge (an added layer of your gilded cage) will be daunting due to your mother’s incessant hovering, but you have a scapegoat in mind: your aunt, currently stationed at a research outpost across the bridge. The perfect excuse.

You have a cloak somewhere in your closet to wear over your clothes, a safety measure to hide your status. Gods know that gold-hemmed dresses and silk shirts and velvet pants would not fit well with the simple outfits of the Undercity (of which you have nothing in your closet to mimic).

For the first time in a very long time, with a plan set in stone, you're excited.

You lay low for the rest of the week in preparation for The Question. You appease your mother with her odd requests, help your father in his workshop, and even smile at the man from the artisan house that your family invites over for dinner.

You play your role perfectly, and when the time comes, stood at your mother’s bedroom door as she reads a book beneath the covers, you pray the gods smile upon you.

“Mother?” you ask, stepping into the grand room. The four-poster bed is a symbol of excess, as is the lush carpet and the hand-stitched curtains and the jewels she wears to bed.

She hums, glancing up from the page she's skimming.

“I was wondering if I could take a trip to see Aunt Elise?”

With a heavy sigh, she sets her spectacles aside and fixes you with a disapproving look. “Must you go now, child? Tristan is a highly suitable candidate for your hand.”

“It'll only be for the weekend. Please?”

“In this family, a weekend is a lifetime for the unwed.”

For a moment, you consider bashing your skull against the wall. You still might, given the trajectory of your life. Tristan is sweet, skilled in his profession, but he’s painfully boring. Enjoys his pottery and discussing the weather and making tea, and not much else of substance.

No excitement for you, which is perfect for your family. They can't have their little bird growing wings.

You plaster on your sweetest smile and take a seat beside your mother, the silken sheets smooth and cool against the back of your thighs. “But Mother, does absence not make the heart grow fonder?”

She gives you a poisonous glare then scoffs, waving you away with a glittering hand. “Leave me be. I'll tell your father to inform the guards of your trip.”

You gush your thanks then leave in a rush, only celebrating once the door to your room has been shut and securely locked, dancing a circle about your room and screaming into your pillows.

Over a quarter of a century on this planet, and you've never freely roamed past the bridge, always flanked by undercover guards or the overreaching eye of your father. But the underground is fair game. Nobody would expect you to venture so far away from your house’s influence and protection, and your mother trusts you to go straight to Aunt Elise's, so she won’t assign a group to accompany you.

An entire weekend of freedom.

You aren’t sure what to do with yourself the rest of the night, too filled with energy to sleep, so you pack a bag with your least gaudy clothes, a healthy amount of gold, and toiletries for your journey.

Then there's the matter of what clothing to wear. Given the manner of your visit, you want to dress a bit… sexy, but not opulent. Flaunt your assets, but don’t expose them. A corset and tight-fitting trousers it is. Boots to match. Pretty makeup to entice the pretty girls.

The following morning, your mother frets over you as soon as you step downstairs. Don't go out after dark. Walk straight to Aunt Elise's. Under no circumstances should you make a single detour. Advice you’ve heard again and again in a thousand different ways.

A guard escorts you to the bridge, exchanging words with the patrolmen. He gives them the note stamped with your house's symbol, bids you well, and sends you off.

Your first step off the bridge thumps your heart against the wall of your ribcage. A small, defining act of rebellion that signals the tone of this entire weekend. It feels wrong, like your mother might croak in direct consequence of your disobedience, but you take another step. And then another. And another. And the guilt gets easier to cope with.

Do you not deserve this? The right to move freely like all others in the cities?

You lift your hood and tighten the lapels of your cloak as you pass through the busy streets. A group of small children kick a ball back and forth in the square. Two men stand outside a shop, covered head-to-toe in soot, smoking cigarettes. A woman kisses her lover, bidding him a good day at work.

The lives of the people across the bridge have always fascinated you. So simplistic and happy, if a lot less fortunate. You know little about them—their schedules, their hobbies, their culture. All wrapped up in a neat little bow of dangerous.

The further down you go, the more the sunlight blots out and the air thickens, settling in your lungs like bitter-tasting smoke. Neon signs top the buildings, bathing the streets in bright, beautiful lights. But there's a wrongness to the place that you can't put your finger on. Something lurks in the shadows. Eyes pierce your back.

Despite your hesitation, you keep walking, mind set on completing your mission. You think to ask for directions to the nearest bar until a man you pass says you look like you suck a mean cock, and you abandon that plan in its early stages of development.

The streets continue to wind in a dizzying maze of lights, but the flurry of laughter and noise grows closer with each step you take. You need a bar. A nice drink, a pretty girl to talk to, and a place to recline for the mercy of your aching feet.

After rounding one final corner, the crowd thickens, and you know you've reached the lifeblood of the city. Nobody pays your blob of a form much attention, too busy arguing and smoking and dragging their peers along to their next destination.

You're enraptured. The street is so much livelier than Piltover, the people more outgoing and rowdy. Loud and animated, smiling and laughing, cursing freely.

But you haven't missed the dark corners where people weep, and cry out for food, and beg for money. You see the emaciation and the sickness and the violence on the outskirts of the crowd. Two dichotomies of the same city, wrapped up in a neon package.

You never could have expected this. So different from the stories that were fed to you by your elders, and you aren't sure how to process it. What to do about it.

Your mother would kill you if she knew you were here. Would lock you in your room and throw away the key until the time comes for the inevitable wedding, and then she would order your husband to do the same.

But for now, in this moment, you have none of that to worry about. None of the people you pass recognize the infiltrator in their midst.

A sign overhead catches your attention as a group of men stumble out the front door, hollering in celebration. You wait for them to pass before glancing inside, and spot a bar with alcohol lining the shelves of the wall.

Good enough for you after all this travel.

You step inside and stare at the room for a too-long moment, a scowling-faced woman shouldering you out of the way. The interior implies grandness. Velvet couches and tiled flooring, ceilings much too tall for the assumed outside. A golden light halos the room, smoke from the customers thickening the air. You aim a dry cough into your sleeve when the smell hits your lungs.

Women of all shapes, shades, and sizes, in various states of nudity pepper the furniture. You’ve never been granted the pleasure of openly ogling the feminine form, but in this place, they welcome it. Those seated on the couches spread their legs as you pass by, curling a finger to beckon you closer; one woman leans forward to display her sizable cleavage, brushing slender fingers down your arm; against the wall, a couple kiss like only they belong to the world, a thick, pale leg thrown over the man’s hip.

Your breathing quickens in your chest, heat boiling just beneath the skin of your face as you flee to an empty corner of the room.

This is not a bar.

On the back of your neck, a sweat breaks out, and you consider your options. For a too-long moment, you curse yourself for being so foolish as to think that the Undercity didn’t hold such open debauchery, and even more that you, sheltered as you are, could navigate it successfully. But if you could pull this off, what a way to prove yourself wrong. The unbelievable story you could tell your friends. A little rabbit wandering into the wolves’ den and making it out alive.

No running. You have to stay, to finish what you started.

The room falls quiet just as you ground yourself, and you glance about the room to spot the disturbance.

You find it—her—at the entrance. A presence larger than life, such gravitational pull in the sharpness of her eyes that you dare a step forward. Thick thighs, a trimmed waist, one muscled arm freed from her cloak. Dark skin and darker hair. Mouth-wateringly tall.

A squirrely man cowers as she passes, boots heavy on the floor, before the room fills with conversation and laughter yet again.

Dangerous. The antithesis of your family’s future for you, and you find yourself enraptured. A perfect revolt against the box you’ve been locked within.

She walks up to a richly-dressed woman standing at the bar, and they talk animatedly amongst themselves for a few long minutes. Long enough that your staring crosses into the territory of unsettling (you feel the strike of your mother’s palm on the back of your skull, and hear her remark of staring is rude, child).

Before you can look away, the richly-dressed woman waves a hand in your direction, and you tug the hood of your cloak further down your face in hopes that your presence continues ignored.

Fate does not smile on you tonight.

The woman that first mesmerized you strolls—no, not strolls, saunters up to you with a gait that screams ‘top of the food chain’. Anxiety flutters in your chest when she brazenly lifts your hood just enough for the light to hit your eyes.

Worse yet, she bends at the waist to lock gazes with you, as if flaunting the intimidation her height brings.

“I think you’re lost, princess,” she says, voice low and even, and a familiar heat licks up the back of your neck.

Humiliation.

Anger rears its ugly head, a response to her flippant tone. If she knew who you truly were, she wouldn’t dare address you in such a way.

You plant your hands on your hips, mouth curling into a disapproving frown. “I most certainly am not lost. I'm free to come and go as I please, same as you.”

Just like that, the tall woman grins, gaze sharpening as she takes you by the chin with large, warm fingers.

“You have any idea where you are?” The tips of those fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing a purse to your lips. “This isn't a place for girls like you.”

You freeze beneath her touch, a familiar warmth stoking in your belly, draining the anger from your bones. A sensation once relegated to explicit books and the caress of your own hand, a shameful thing that stamps you down to smallness.

“Girls like me?” The question comes out timid, garbled from the position of your mouth.

She drags her gaze up and down the length of your body, tilts her head at the salacious sight of your cleavage beneath the knot of your cloak. “Girls who have no idea what mess they're getting themselves into.”

Beneath the shroud of moonlight, you've touched yourself in bed to the exact type of woman that stands in front of you: rough around the edges, built like she could snap you in half (with a scowl to match), an aura that reeks of experience. Gods, her hands—large and warm with long, thick fingers that would feel much better in places designed for… stretching. Places that aren't the tender fat of your cheeks.

And then she releases you, rising to her full height. Looks down her strong nose at the surprise on your face. “Go home. Before you get yourself in trouble.”

You should heed her warning. She clearly knows more than you about many things, but therein lies the problem—your want to stay. A great reminder of why the risks you’ve taken must reap reward lest you trudge across that cursed bridge with your virginity still intact.

You'll most likely be engaged before the end of the month, and then you'll be tied forever to a man that your heart could never want. You need to know the touch of a woman before your fate is forever sealed.

Once upon a time, your mother said that your stubbornness would be your downfall.

“No. I came here for a reason, and I'm not leaving until I get what I want.”

“And what could a spoiled brat like you want with a whorehouse?”

“I don't think that's any of your business.”

“I'm making it my business.”

She takes three large steps forward, and you scramble back until the cold, hard wall halts you, the contents of your bag digging into your spine. Close enough to the woman to lean forward and kiss the swell of her chest (and what a lovely, large swell it is, tantalizing beneath the fabric of her cloak).

You understand now why the man cowered in her proximity. She commands the room, sucks the oxygen from your lungs with a simple glare.

Dangerous. Enchanting.

“No, I—I didn’t know this was a brothel.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you wish you could unspeak them, and by the smug look on her face, you’ve just proven her hypothesis correct.

“Oh, you’re a treat. My lucky day.”

“I don’t—“

She turns on her heel, heading toward the bar. “I’ll get you a drink.”

“I don't drink.”

A pause in her step to call out, “You do now.”

To be fair, you do drink, but you highly doubt that this place stocks anything more than swill, especially given the refined preference of your palette.

The woman from before steps up beside her as she waves the bartender over, and you watch, enraptured, as they lean in close and talk amongst themselves. Every few moments, they turn back to glance at you, and you shift your weight from foot to foot. You're no stranger to attention, but this is a strange place. The implication sends a chill down your spine. If anybody found out the true nature of your identity, you couldn't imagine what they might do.

The woman of your dreams holds out a glass to you, half-filled with amber liquid, and you glance around the room before creeping toward the bar. She bows upon your approach in a mockery of your status, and you yank the drink from her hand with a dismissing scoff. A bit of alcohol sloshes to the floor.

You can't stand her.

She traps you between herself and the well-dressed woman, long fingers curling around her own glass to lift it to her full lips. She tosses it back, the long line of her neck on display as—

You want her so badly your knees threaten to buckle.

Your drink goes down much less smoothly. Swill, just as you predicted. It burns your mouth, coats your tongue with the taste of antiseptic. A war of expression wages within you as your teeth grit on instinct to keep a grimace at bay.

“It’s so nice of you to join us, dear. Quite rare, but we’ve had a few Pilties work here in the past.” The well-dressed woman presses a hand to her chest. “You may call me Mistress Mave, and this here is Sevika.”

Your eyes squint as you stare at her, the bitter alcohol churning fierce in your belly. When you look over your shoulder, Sevika raises her empty glass in greeting.

And then you register Mave's previous comment.

Your head snaps around to regard her. “Wait, no! No. I didn’t come here to… work.” You wince at your choice of words, once again wishing you could take them back. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but I would do a very bad job.”

Mistress Mave’s gaze quickly cuts to Sevika before settling back on you. “So you’re a patron of this fine establishment?”

Beside you, Sevika takes a large gulp of her refilled drink, and you wince at the phantom burn in your own throat. “Girl didn’t even know this was a brothel.”

“Well, there must be some reason you’re still here.”

To ogle at a room full of under-dressed women. “Curiosity, I suppose.”

Mave shrugs. “As good a reason as any. Can’t be much excitement in that ivory tower of yours.”

“I liken it more to a gilded cage.”

She giggles, resting a warm hand on your shoulder, and you think for a moment that your insides might burn to a crisp. A wildfire of want rages within you, and the freedom of choice for the first time in your life dizzies you beyond belief.

You could buy a night with anyone in this room.

Unfortunately for you, the only person you truly crave cannot be bought, and she stares a hole through the bottom of her empty glass, lips twisted up in thought.

As if your gaze holds a tangible weight, she looks up at you. Leers at the expanse of your body like she can see through your clothes.

“So. You want some excitement.”

You swallow thick when she leans in close. Smells of leather and bourbon and something sickly-sweet that itches at the back of your throat. You wonder about her taste. The warmth of the space between her legs. What her expressive mouth might feel like on the more delicate parts of your body.

Now is the time. “Yes.”

A glint of metal slides across the bar top from Mave’s direction, only for Sevika to stop it with a palm (without taking her eyes off you, and that shouldn't be as arousing as it is). She picks it up with thumb and forefinger and presents it to you: a simple metal ring with a dangling key attached.

“Offer's open, princess, but I'll only ask once.”

You know what the key means. A private room. Alone with the most attractive woman you've ever seen. There's only one way this can end, and you're almost at the finish line.

So why do you hesitate?

Sevika pins you with a stare, commanding the attention of your gaze, and she must see the war that wages within you. She clenches the key in her fist and turns to walk away.

Your chest pangs from the sharp spike of your heart rate, and you clamp both hands around her thick wrist to halt her. “Wait, wait. I want to, I just… I've never done this.”

Yes. It's fear that leaves you wary. Fear of under-performing, of disappointing your family, of never coming back from this.

But the fear of never having Sevika triumphs all others.

Her lips stretch into a smile, eyes darkening to something predatory and heated. “That's all you had to say, princess.”

When she holds out the key again, you don't hesitate to take it.

Mistress Mave wishes you well as Sevika leads you toward a stretch of low-lit hallway at the back of the room. She walks you past door after door, muffled sounds of pleasure breaching the privacy of each room, and glances back to gauge your reaction. Raises her brows at the sight of your wide-eyed expression, but says nothing. You've already cemented your place in the realm of naivety. No need to rub salt in the bleeding wound.

She stops at the last door on the right. Unassuming, same as the others, and you aren't sure what you expected. You shift your weight as she takes the key from you and slots it into the lock, wary of what manner of debauchery might lay on the other side.

People enjoy all manner of odd things. Whips and braided rope and dripping candle wax. Orgies and audiences. Biting and bruises and blood.

Gods, you hope there isn't an audience.

She opens the door and ushers you in.

“Here’s your mansion for the night,” she says with a sweep of her arm.

You choose to ignore her comment, instead glancing around the quaint room bathed in golden lamplight. A full-sized bed sits in the center with two worn end tables on each side. A chair in the opposite corner, covered in dingy fabric. A suspicious red stain on the wall above it catches your attention, and nausea broils in your belly when you think too hard about how it got there.

You resist the urge to curl your lip.

Sevika steps up beside you with a wry smile, and your eyes lock on to the adorable gap between her front teeth. The only thing adorable about her. ��What, not good enough for you?”

“It’s… fine.” At her amused exhale, you take a step back. “Isn't there a… a time limit on how long we can stay?”

“This room is mine. Nobody will bother us.”

Your eyes widen. “You have your own room here?”

“So you are judging.”

“I'm not. I just don't understand why anybody would want sex so often. I've heard it's more of a chore than anything.”

And yet, look where you are.

“What kinda shit do they teach you up there?”

You drop your bag by the door then step over to the bed and remove your cloak, spreading it out over the dirty sheets so you can sit comfortably. Who knows what manner of bodily fluids have befriended the fabric.

“No sex before marriage, sexual urges are a distraction, make babies until you either die or get too old.” You roll your eyes, reclining back on your hands as she steps over to you with a scowl. “My family is more… conservative than most other houses.”

“I can't believe I actually feel sorry for you.”

“How sweet.”

With a flourish, she removes her own cloak, tossing it behind her to land perfectly in the chair.

Truly, you try not to stare, but the woman is a masterpiece. Strong arms and legs, a trim waist, deliciously broad shoulders. For reasons unbeknownst to you, your interest most lies in the expanse of bare skin between her tight shirt and pants. The shadow of her hipbones, the dip of her bellybutton, muscles carved from stone.

Then there’s her arm. Metallic in make with a design so intricate you wouldn't dare try to map all the parts out, faintly whirring from the fan on the shoulder. A pretty gold that contrasts well with the shade of her skin. A glow of muted pink liquid settles in vein-like structures. You want to reach out and trace each little design with your fingertips.

Fever overtakes you, sends heat down your chest and spine to settle in the pit of your belly. You've never felt unadulterated want like this before.

She takes a seat beside you to remove her boots, spreading her legs to fit a warm one against yours. It's wholly unnecessary, and yet you squirm regardless, leaning into and away from the touch. The tilt of her mouth from your view of her profile—gods, what a lovely nose—proves that your reaction was her intention all along. You eat right from her palm again and again, and you love it (though you would rather die than admit such a thing).

In a rush, you're tugged to your feet and planted between her spread thighs, and she fusses with the hidden toggles on the back of your corset. She faces your body away from her, fingers hot and teasing against your spine.

You listen to her struggle for a long few moments, biting your lips to hide your laugh.

Who knew that a simple clothing item could best such a woman?

She growls, passing fruitlessly over each clip yet again. “How do you even—get this fucking thing—”

At the sound of a popping stitch, your smile sharply fades, and you twist away from her with a scowl. “Don’t rip it, you brute. This corset is worth more than your life.” A gift from your aunt for your twenty-third birthday. Your mother would surely kill you.

Her brow furrows, a shadow hiding away the pretty grey of her eyes.

Then the world flips on its side. One moment you're standing before her, and the next, you lay on your back, cushioned by a lumpy mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

The bed dips between your spread legs, and you lift your head to find her crawling over you. The sight is dizzying, a scene straight from one of your mother's novels—the heroine at the mercy of a dangerous warrior, much like a rabbit caught between the metal teeth of a trap. What always follows is a ravishing (you pray to any being listening that the pattern continues).

You swallow down the lump in your throat when she sits back on her haunches, your thighs framing the taper of her waist. Her touch sears you, alights your nerves with such sensation that your hips roll against hers on instinct.

In three quick tugs of her metal hand, the toggles on your corset snap from end to end, seams popping in the process. The clothing item falls away, revealing your breasts to her low-lidded gaze.

She tilts her head, eyes flickering over your midsection. “Cute,” she says, splaying a large hand over the expanse of your belly, callouses rasping against your skin. The tip of her middle finger brushes the underside of your breast, and something fierce and chaotic hammers away within your ribs.

You can't even be angry. Too aroused to conjure a complete thought. Already, the place between your legs thumps rhythmically, begging for her touch. For her mouth. For those long fingers you've admired since she took you by the face.

She quirks a brow. “Nothing to say?”

You shake your head in response, breath stuttering on each inhale. The position is overwhelming, your center trapped against her pelvis, and you wish so badly that you could feel her without all the clothing between you.

“You’ve really never done this before.” More statement than question, as if the realization suddenly befalls her. And once it settles in her mind, she leans forward, sucking a rough, toe-curling kiss into the pulse of your neck. “Innocent little Piltie. Never thought I'd see the day.”

Inhaling a breath through your teeth, you reach up to comb a hand through her loose hair. If you were a bit more brave, you would take hold of that blasted hair tie and rip it out, but you resign yourself to the soft, thick strands that frame her neck.

Her treatment of you is rough, but never unpleasant. Relieving, in fact, given your perceived fragility by those around you. She sharpens her teeth on your most vulnerable spots: the curve of your neck, the line of your collarbone, the swell of your chest. Suckles at your skin like you’re her own personal canvas. Pulls you close with a muscled forearm beneath the curve of your back.

And although you wriggle beneath her, unsure of how to cope with so much sensation, you refuse to let her have all the fun. You shove at her shoulders with a low whine, and she separates from you with a sharp exhale.

“What?”

You tug at the hem of her shirt with shaking fingers, thighs tightening around her waist. “Take this off.”

She rolls her eyes, grumbles spoiled brat under her breath, but obeys anyway. Under no circumstances do you stare at the flex of her arms as she stretches them out then tosses her shirt aside.

At the sight of her wrapped chest, your excitement wilts, mouth twisting into a pout. Your fingers fit beneath the material. “This, too.”

Once the tie is undone, the wrap falls over your thighs, and suddenly, she sits before you bare from the waist up.

Your first pair of breasts, here to touch and kiss and lick, to indulge in, and though you've lived a life of excess, you know that no food or extravagant purchase or amount of gold will ever fulfill you like the sight of her. The curve of them bottom-heavy, nipples a few shades darker than the color of her skin. A puckered scar slices between her lower ribs, the perfect size for a knife, and you want to kiss it.

You want to—you—

Gods, you can't even think.

She exhales a laugh, removing the wrap from around her waist. “You've never seen tits before?”

She seeks to rankle you, but your brain locks onto the shape of her areolas. The perfect shape for your mouth.

“None but mine.” You extend your arms, desperate for the taste of her skin, its warmth. The weight of her against you. Your mouth waters. “Come here.”

“Mind your manners. Say ‘please’.”

You don't hesitate, hindbrain need driving your actions. “Please?”

Humming, she leans over you on her forearms, chest hovering directly above your face, each breath ghosting her soft skin against your bottom lip.

By the end of the night, you're sure to die of a self-induced heart attack.

In a surprising stroke of tenderness, she cradles your head in hand as you suck a nipple into your mouth. You attempt to recall the scenes from your favorite books, how the women in them enjoy their pleasure, and draw upon your lonely nights in bed for inspiration.

“Harder, princess. You won't break me.”

At her request, you suck her breast deeper into your mouth, fitting your tongue against her pebbled nipple. She exhales a sigh against the crown of your head, canting her hips against yours, and you moan around her flesh, meeting her arousal with your own.

She pulls away with a wet pop from your lips, hands darting to the buttons on your pants. Makes quick work, tugging both them and your underwear down your legs before meeting the leather of your boots. You sit up to help her, unclipping the straps down the sides.

Your need is palpable, same as hers. The anticipation makes you clumsy and off-balance, a flutter of giddiness sending you into a fit of giggles.

She rips your boots off by the soles, stepping back to let you finish as she works to remove the rest of her own clothes.

Everything happens fast. Your trousers land in a heap on the floor at the bottom of the bed, and two different hands, one organic and one metal, grab you by the legs to seat you at the edge of the mattress. You blink and her mouth is on you, teeth latching onto the seam of your inner thigh. So close to where you need it, and you reach down to guide her with a hand in her hair. In a striking display of speed, she catches you by the wrist with her metal hand and pins it down to the bed.

As punishment, she moves her lips further up your thigh, marking her trail with sharp nips of her teeth. Pain melds into a pleasure that leaves your jaw slackening, your hips twitching toward the wet heat of her mouth, begging of their own accord.

You never thought you would enjoy being pinned down and marked up and thrown about like you weigh nothing, but Sevika has opened up a deeply-buried box of desires that can never be closed again. You want more this, of her, of whatever she chooses to give you.

You can dissect the why later.

“Please, Sevika. Please.”

The sight of her between your legs, furrow-browed and glaring, mean in the best possible way, sends another wave of heat to the pit of your belly. “Why should I?”

She rests her thumb on the root of your clit, trailing along its hood. Waiting for you to respond, to give her an adequate reason behind your selfish indulgence.

You don't have one.

“Because I need it.”

She clicks her tongue, moving her thumb to tease over your labia, dipping just enough into your entrance to coat her skin with your slick.

“Brat like you gets everything she wants. About time you had to wait for something.”

When your hips begin a desperate grind to chase the sensation, she pins you to the bed with her metal arm, your wrist still gripped in hand.

Only when you stop your struggle, when you submit beneath her does she give you what you've been begging for. You clench around nothing, muscles of your thighs tensing as she finally, finally presses her tongue against you. Long, languid strokes of soft wet heat that steal your breath each time she reaches your clit. She kisses your—your pussy like she might kiss your mouth (gods, how vulgar), rolling her tongue over your clit, sucking your labia into her mouth, licking into you so deep that your back arches off the bed.

The silly books hidden beneath your mattress could never do this justice. The pathetic feeling of your own hand could never compare. How foolish of you to believe otherwise.

You feel flayed alive when she pulls away with a wet squelch, a large finger pressing into you. “Cute down here, too,” she says quietly, as if musing to herself. Your thighs shake when she begins a steady rhythm, the schlick of your insides loud in the small room. “Sensitive.”

You've never been this wet before. She's carved out your innards and replaced the empty cavern with need and heat and instinct. You thrash against her hold, desperate for stimulation, and she presses her arm harder across your hips to keep you still.

This is what you've been looking for, craving for so long. To be trapped and vulnerable and at the mercy of a pretty, intimidating woman.

You can't do much to guide her besides whimper and moan and beg and plead, the only free part of your body—your hand—fisted in the sheets beside your head. She feasts on you like it's an act of worship, messy and wet, mechanical fingers curling around your own.

Once she latches her mouth around your clit and slides another finger into you, it takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for you to reach your peak. Your subdued hand tightens into a fist, metallic edges digging into your skin, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when every muscle in your body tightens in preparation for an atom-rending orgasm.

Time suspends just before the coil in your belly snaps, and your chest burns from the rib-stretching breath you hold, and your knees curl toward your chest to fully expose yourself to her mouth.

She suckles hard enough that the pleasure sharpens into a knife, thick fingers still stretching you open, forcing through the first milking clench of your insides, and you break.

For a moment, you believe your soul separates from your body as every nerve alights with sensation. Fractals appear in the blackhole darkness of clenched-shut eyes. You curl in on yourself, muscles aching from how tightly they wind. Her muffled groan vibrates against you, and some shoved away part of your brain purrs at the thought of her getting off to this—to pleasuring you.

As quickly as your peak came, it leaves, and you sag against the sheets, extremities gooey and useless, gasping for breath. Utterly spent, wrung out, at her mercy.

She no doubt prefers you like this. Perhaps that's why she approached you in the first place: one of Piltover's finest standing in the corner of some seedy brothel, doe-eyed and scared, ripe for the picking. Perfectly corruptible.

Fortunately for you, this is what you came for.

A wet hand pats your cheek, hard enough to jostle your head. “Hey. You alive?”

Untrusting of your vocal chords, you release a throaty whine, blinking open tired eyes.

“Good. Now scoot.” She smacks at your flank as the bed slowly dips beside you, and your body jolts into action. “Top of the bed.”

If you had an ounce of thought to your brain or the energy to move your mouth, you would snap at her for being so demanding, for ordering you around like a dog. But your face burns when your pussy clenches around nothing, drooling onto the sheets.

You actually like this.

What is wrong with you? Your fantasies never ventured into pain-filled territory, and now you silently wish for her to spank you again like a misbehaving child. You should feel shame, but you don't, and you can’t help but wonder how that could be.

She is a witch, and you’ve fallen under her spell. The only theory that makes sense inside your orgasm-addled brain.

“Can I… return the favor?”

She stands before the end table, rifling through the contents of the drawer. Long, sinewy legs on display, the curve of her bottom perfect for grabbing. “No.”

“What? Why?”

“Because. I don't teach.”

“I’m a very fast learner.”

She turns toward you with a glare, hand holding two objects you can’t yet identify. “No.”

You pout, eyebrows canting upward in your best pleading expression, and you want to taste her so badly that you consider throwing a tantrum, but decide against it once she rejoins you on the bed. As if she would budge anyway.

Your eyes are drawn to the movements of her hands and the leather straps that she buckles around her hips and thighs. High quality and sturdy with a piece of thick fabric beneath a metal ring covering her pelvis.

“What is that?”

“You’ll see.”

She picks up a phallus-shaped object from between her thighs, and your eyes widen at the sight of her slotting it into the metal ring.

A fake… cock (gods, what's gotten into you?), of thick girth and average length. An inset of flowing pink veins. It's daunting, a bit scary to look at.

She expects you to take that?

You fiddle with your fingers as she coats the thing in lubrication, and although you don’t have second thoughts, per se, you need to know that she’ll take things slow.

“It looks like it’ll hurt.”

She smooths a rough palm over the skin of your thigh, squeezing the fat beneath her fingers. “Won't hurt you unless you want me to.”

You believe this utter stranger for some odd reason, and that eases the ache in your chest.

“Can we go slow?”

She scoots in close, to the same position as before—on her haunches, your thighs around her waist. Thumbs at the fat on your hips, looking down at you with a wrinkled brow.

“I’m not a monster.”

Your face softens at her hushed tone, shoulders relaxing from around your ears. “I know you aren't.” You brush a stray hair from her brow, palm cradling the blue-hued scars on her face for half a second before she pins your wrist to the sheets beside your head.

“I'm going to fuck you now.”

You flatten your lips into a line and nod, the grim expression on her face clearly wishing for you to shut your mouth.

You can do that, as long as she makes good on her promise.

The first brush of the fake cock over your clit is warm. Warm and giving and soft as a human body, which strikes you as peculiar. Because it isn't, and it shouldn't feel like an extension of her, but it does.

You tense up in anticipation, thigh muscles flexing, tugging her closer, and she squeezes at the flesh beneath her fingers. Says, “Don't. Relax.” She thumbs over your wet clit, a sudden rush of sensation that coils around the knots of your spine, and you bloom for her, sinking into the sheets. “There you go.”

She doesn't stop until your breathing deepens and the pit of your belly starts boiling with heat, and you shudder at the press of her cock against your entrance.

“Please. Please, just—”

“I know.” Her voice softens into an almost-coo, the closest thing to tenderness you'll most likely get from her, but it's enough.

Something sweet and warm swells in your chest as she presses into you, achingly slow—an inch forward, an inch back, again and again until her pelvis meets yours, your insides stretched deliciously, full up to your ribs.

And just like that, your mission is complete. Not only have you lost your virginity, but the most beautiful woman you've ever laid eyes on is the one impaling you. And as she promised, it doesn't hurt. She sees to your pleasure like she’s paid for it, still circling your clit, metal fingers carefully plucking a nipple. Plays your body expertly, makes you melt beneath her, morphs you into something pliant and needy—sexual being first, human second.

When she begins moving, she doesn’t stop, hips rocking in a long, languid rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. The best thing you’ve ever felt, perfection, more you need more you need—

“Harder.”

A simple request, a two syllable word that defies the impossible weight of your tongue. It comes out garbled and strained, embarrassingly weak, yet the concentrated wrinkle of her brow throws you off.

No more teasing. This is serious.

“There’s a word you’re supposed to say,” she says, voice even-toned and normal, a sharp contrast to the way she’s ripped you apart, to how you gasp and whimper.

“Please?”

Begging comes easy as the rational faculties of your brain shut down one right after the other, and she leans forward, prosthetic fingers encircling your throat.

“Again.”

A light squeeze against the thump of your pulse leaves you moaning, the chill of the metal a perfect contrast to the flushing heat of your skin.

“Please?”

This time she grins, lips stretching wide, eyelids lowering to cast her gaze in muted shadow.

“Good girl.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as her thrusts pick up speed, her hips slapping against the back of your thighs, each bottom-out slick and noisy. With your free arm, you cling to her, the bend of your elbow fitting over the nape of her neck. She lets you pull her close, the muscled expanse of her stomach flattening against yours (impossibly warm, the skin soft, fuzzy below her navel), her teeth biting hard at the curve of your shoulder.

You clench around her as the sharp pleasure-pain darts down your spine, tilting your head back to expose more of your neck to the roughness of her touch—the fingers still heavy against your pulse, the mouth hell-bent on marking you for her own satisfaction (and, to a lesser extent, yours).

A burning sun builds at the base of your spine, the sensation deeper set than your previous climax, heavy between your hips, unraveling you down to your bone marrow. You relax into it, spreading your thighs in invitation. A silent begging.

Her lips latch onto the underside of your jaw, and you finally steel your resolve and rip the tie from her hair. Fist a hand in the thick strands, tug hard enough that she pulls away with a groan, thrusts pausing, almost nose-to-nose with you.

And she smiles, an excited, almost vulgar curl to her lips. “Bunny’s got teeth, huh?”

You want to kiss her. She even teases the idea, taking your lower lip between her teeth, and all the heat in your body rushes to your face. Your breathing quickens, every nerve in your body bending to her will.

Her mouth brushes against your ear, breath fanning over your skin. “Roll over.”

You open your mouth to complain, and she slides two slick fingers over your tongue, deep enough to gag you before pulling back.

She tilts her head, nose brushing against the heat of your cheek. “Are simple instructions too hard for you now?”

You hum your dissent around the intrusion in your mouth, tasting yourself on her skin.

She pulls out, leaning back far enough to loop her metal arm beneath your hips and flips you over. A rough smack to your bottom (”Up,” she grouses) has you rising to your knees, face buried in the sheets. The mattress dips on either side of your legs, and she wastes no time sliding back into you, the slick sound of your pussy bringing heat to your cheeks.

In this position, her cock feels impossibly deep, heavier and thicker inside you. The hands that grip your waist keep you still as she rocks her hips, building up to the rough pace she set before as you mewl and cry and drool into the corner of the pillow between your teeth.

Your brain whites out as climax overtakes you, fizzling all the tension from your bones, her hands the only thing keeping you upright as pleasure unfurls from the deep pit within your very soul. More full-bodied and languid than any others that came before, as if she's unlocked some pleasure center you never knew you possessed.

You'll think about this night for the rest of your life.

Her thrusts slow to a crawl to give you a chance to recover, palm soothing the sweaty skin over your spine. The perfect touch to center you back inside your body.

You're exhausted. Wrung out. Satiated and purring.

You reach a hand back to press against her lower belly, a silent signal that you're done for the moment. She pulls out of you with a chuffing laugh, massaging the fat of your thigh one final time before rolling off the bed and unbuckling the straps of her harness.

“Still alive?”

At the sound of her smugness, you open a bleary eye to glare at her, though you might get a bit distracted at the tufts of dark hair between her thighs and the sheen of sweat on her skin in the glow of lamplight. You consider biting her just as she's done to you, carving your signature into the thin flesh of her wrist, though your reasoning lies more in the realm of dog that's had their tail yanked one too many times.

She joins you in bed. Sinks into the sheets with a heavy sigh through her nose, beads of sweat drying on the bridge. Picks up a metal case from the bedside table and opens it to reveal a row of thin cigars, like the ones your father smokes.

When she lights it, the smell reminds you of home, and you swallow down the guilt that rises like bile in your throat.

Then silence.

You drift for a while, basking in the afterglow, before an emptiness opens up between your ribs. A strange loneliness that can only be filled by skinship. You edge toward her, bridging the gap between your bodies, and upon your first touch against her arm, her head snaps to look at you, eyes wary, brow pinched.

“I don't cuddle.”

You blink. “Oh.”

That stings. It shouldn’t, given the nature of everything that came before, her averseness to non-sexual touch, but you need… something. A hug, perhaps.

You scoot away from her and wince at the soreness of your muscles, curling up on your side.

Definitely a long, hot bath, with the floral smelling soaps and oil infused salts you keep stocked in the cabinet beneath your bathroom sink.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t leave. She stays next to you in bed, still puffing away on her strangely small cigar, and the bitter smell settles a comforting warmth in your lungs. Like a mug of tea on a cold night, or dinner by the fire, or the smell of clean sheets.

Briefly, you wonder what memories bring her peace. If she even possesses such things.

“You really should go home,” she says, smoke curling from her nostrils. “There’s nothing else for you here.”

You pick at a cigarette burn in the comforter, unable to meet her eyes. “You’re probably right.”

“I am right. You’ll be chewed up and spit out before sunrise.” She leans in close, eyes lidded, the smell of tobacco soaking into her skin. “You’re lucky I found you first.”

You want to kiss her, to smudge your lipstick against the curve of her mouth, but you can’t find the bravery to follow through. No doubt, she would grab you by the face and say, ‘I don’t kiss.’

Instead, you smile. “I agree.”

She huffs out a breath through her teeth, settling back against the headboard.

And then she rests a large, warm hand on your head, thumb smoothing over the curve of your cheek. Tender and intimate—much too sweet for the tone she's set thus far.

“This is all I can give you.”

You lean into her touch like a dog begging for a scratch, uncaring of how pathetic it makes you seem. “I understand.”

You lay like that for a while. Soak up her warmth and attention as the air thickens with the smoke from her strange cigar.

A piece of you mourns for the future, for the inevitable truth that you'll never see this woman again. You'll leave to Aunt Elise's in the morning to heed Sevika's words, and you'll go home to your mother's cage and Tristan's proposal, and you'll accept your fate with a smile.

“My family doesn't know I prefer the company of women,” you whisper, and you aren't sure why you chose her, but you have to get your secret out before the noose tightens around your neck. “I know you don't care, and I'm not asking you to. I just needed to say it out loud for the first time.”

She sighs. Quietly says, “Well, you did.”

Her comment is not angry, or snarky, or bitter, but pitying. Sympathetic.

You don't really deserve it.

“Thank you. For everything.”

She scrunches her nose in discomfort, but says nothing. Pulls away from you to stamp out the fire of her strange cigar.

You wonder what she’s thinking. What she’s been thinking this entire time. More of a mystery than you could have ever predicted.

Why did she choose you? Was it because of your perceived status, or in spite of it? Did she enjoy what happened? Was it like scratching an itch, or will she think about you from time to time?

Perhaps you’re the one thinking too much, but your mother once told you that your first time would be remembered for the rest of your life. (Another reason why your husband should take your “purity”.) You’re an hour out from the experience, but you already know she’s right.

As the night continues, you have each other again and again and again, trying all manner of things. She lets you suck on her—“they’re called tits around here, princess”—as she stretches you with two fingers. Lets you ride her thigh for twenty minutes while she leaves kisses on the column of your throat (a particularly erogenous area for you, you discovered). Even lets you take a hit of her small cigar in between rounds, and you cough so hard you almost throw up.

During each downtime, you talk. About Piltover, and your trip through the Undercity, and your hobbies back home, and your family, and your suitor. She says little each time, simply dozing on her side of the bed as you babble away, and you aren't sure why she lets you talk her ear off. She's a puzzle you lack all the pieces to.

By morning, you’re covered in hickeys and bite marks and deliciously sore between the legs. Sevika snores next to you in bed, on her stomach, head half-buried by her pillow. Hair blanketing her face.

You take stock of yourself as you stretch out your legs. Achey but relaxed, foggy-brained by the throes of sleep. You don't regret last night. There's no guilt or shame rustling around inside your head. You accomplished your mission with outstanding success, and your heart feels lighter as a result.

But something nags at you: the prospect of going home to your gilded cage.

And after seeing the streets of the Undercity, the circumstances of the people who live here, your dread does inspire guilt. Your parents never told you about it, forbade you from ever seeing the heart of the destruction, and you feasted on the lies because you didn't know any better.

Well. Now you do.

And still, you aren't sure how to help. If you would even make a difference.

You never expected this outcome from what was supposed to be an exciting journey to sleep with a pretty woman.

For now, you'll go to your aunt's then you'll return home and play your role well and forget that this night ever happened for the sake of your sanity.

Tradition never changes. Suffering is an unfortunate facet of life. Destiny is set in stone. What's the point of trying?

All you can do is make this moment last.

You roll onto your side and roam your eyes over her face, the features you still see beneath her curtain of hair. She grumbles in her sleep, nose scrunching as she dreams.

Maybe it would be better if you left now. To rip the bandage off. There’s nothing more to say, nowhere to go from here in regards to your severely short relationship with Sevika.

You creep out of bed and collect your clothes from the floor. Choose a new outfit from your bag and quietly slip it on. Behind you, the bed creaks, and you freeze in place, turning your head to look at her.

Still asleep, stretched out on her back.

You wish you had some paper to write a note with, to share some last minute words. But you don’t, and your chest aches at the thought of leaving her without saying goodbye.

It’s better this way.

On your way out of town, you drop your entire bag of gold next to a sickly woman and her child. The same duo you saw last night, cuddled beneath a shared blanket.

She smiles at you, grabs you by the hand and squeezes as tight as she can manage.

A drop in the water to solving the issues that plague these people, but it’s a start. Not like you need the money anyway.

When you finally venture into the research outpost after a while of travel, Aunt Elise greets you with a twinkle in her eye and a crinkled nose and says, “You need a bath, girl.”

#arcane x reader #sevika x reader #arcane x you #sevika x you #sevika smut #x reader #my fics #ns/ft #fic: pillow princess #btw they never see each other again <3 #reader goes home and gets married and has a miserable life #sevika just kinda does her own thing

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manicandobsessive · 2 months ago

Text

You’re my lady, I’m your fool | L.H.

Summary: Logan missed his girl.

Warnings: fluff fluff and more fluff, the man is lovesick, cursing, pet names, SUGGESTIVE, mdni please, reader is shorter than logan, based on a wham song, not really proofread im lazy, kind of rushed ending but its still cute

WC: 1.5k+

I had a vision after listening to this song and I wrote this in approximately 1 hour. I’m a wham girlie.

Home. You. Dinner.

That was the mantra Logan chose to repeat in order to remain sane on his drive home. Pedal to the medal, at least 30 over the speed limit at all times. The truck rumbled and groaned with the weight of years of memories and use under him, but he continued his trek home regardless.

Gonna have to change the fuckin’ oil soon, too. He thought. The mere inconvenience adding to his already ever-present irritation.

Every douchebag in Canada had decided today was the day to test his patience. From his dumbfuck coworkers at the lumber yard to the asshole currently riding his tail. He’d had enough. He wanted to be home with you. His girl. His sweetheart, angel, darling, the list goes on. The thought of you was the one string pulling him back to reality. The tether to his life he cherished with every bone in his aching body. He truly didn’t know where he would be if he didn’t have you.

Probably jail.

But you taught him the beauty of kindness. Yours being a beacon of hope for him when he accidentally spilled beer on you at a dingy bar. He’d been staring at you anyways, but humiliating himself wasn’t on the agenda for the night. Yet you didn’t scoff at him, didn’t look at him sideways, not even a curse under your breath. You didn’t bat a fucking eyelash and without skipping a beat, you asked if he was okay. The first example of many showing your unwavering selflessness. It was admirable, you were the better half of the pair of you- in his opinion. He often found himself frustrated with your lack of regard towards yourself, brushing it off like nothing. He’d tried time and time again to tell you to take care of yourself, not to worry about him. And you always, always told him the same fucking thing:

“Can’t control it, Lo. Just care about you.”

Hugging him tightly around the waist, resting your chin on his pecs and looking up at him with that sweet, sweet smile. Your bright eyes and soft face making him huff as he instinctively moved his own arms to hold you closer to him. He never could find himself angry with you.

He reminisced on those memories often. On top of plenty of other moments with you that brought a pleasant smile to his face.

He had no idea that accident at the bar almost 3 years ago would bring him to this point, but fuck if he isn’t overjoyed that it did.

Love was never on Logan’s radar. Written off as another extra thing he didn’t need to bother with. He was certain that life would never be for someone like him- that he’d never find someone to accept him for what he is. For who he is. And you did without a second thought. You’d blown life right back into him, showing him what real happiness is. He swears that when he met you the sun shone brighter each day. Something you would always roll your eyes at, calling him cheesy. But he wholeheartedly believed it- which is saying a lot coming from a man who no longer believes in much else.

The soft glow of your shared cabin came into view, practically calling to him by name. The visual had already calmed his racing heart, knowing you were waiting for him. Probably in one of his flannels and old socks. Your hair flowing freely and your entire demeanor relaxed. It was his favorite look on you, other than when you were begging for him, caged between his thick arms. An endeavor for later, to say the least.

He slammed the truck door shut, moving with a newfound purpose to the front door. He kicked off his boots, leaving them on the front porch. If you took care of the house, the least he could do was be mindful of it.

And laundry, he knew you fucking hated laundry.

The door swung open. Logan made a silent note in his head to oil the hinges of that thing, the creaking got on his nerves.

He’d heard faint music from outside, the notes only getting louder the closer he got to where he needed to be- near you. He knew you were cooking, he could smell the various seasonings and vegetables. But most of all the music. You always had something playing, but it was only ever this loud and upbeat when you were in the kitchen. He’d found you dancing and singing enough times to know what the deal was.

And tonight was no different.

He knew you loved this song, something your dad had you listen to as a kid. A song you grew up on and still loved to present day. He was never a big fan of 80s pop, but whatever you enjoyed he was right there with you. Bopping his head along or tapping his foot lightly, it always made you giggle.

He leant against the wall, watching as you moved with ease throughout the kitchen. How you weren’t an extraterrestrial being was beyond him. He swore you had a halo sometimes.

The grace of your smile, the lightness in your steps, even your voice as you sung along to the music entranced him. Like a siren call. He made his way into the room, smiling when you weren’t even phased in the slightest at him catching you mid concert.

He was however surprised when you pulled him in by his arms, swinging them back and forth as you laughed. He was so caught up in your smile he didn’t even register you telling him to dance with you. Slowly but surely he gave in, a deep, warm chuckle erupting from his chest as you jumped and sang with the energy of a kid on Christmas morning. Your soft hands and sweet scent making him all the more taken with you, if that was even possible.

He spun you, lifting you off the ground in his arms as you let out a squeal.

“Logan!”

He put you down, not bothering to even try removing his arms from your waist as he looked down at you with the most lovesick expression on Earth. Scratch that, every universe. There wasn’t a single one where he hadn’t been head over heels in love with you.

“Hi baby.” He smirked when your face flushed as it always did when he called you that. He loved seeing it, it gave him butterflies. Even after all this time.

You slowly inched your arms around his neck, entangling your fingers with the hair on the base of his neck. He hummed and buried his face into your own, making you giggle. He pressed feather-light kisses on your neck and jaw before pulling back to look down at you once again.

You sung along to the rest of the song, Logan even joining in for one part:

“You’re my lady, I’m your fool.”

He sang, making you smile as you pecked his lips and he drew you in for a much deeper kiss.

“How was work?” You asked as he rested his forehead against yours. He groaned, not bothering to ruin the moment with the laundry list of complaints he’d had about people.

“Hell.” He simply replied, “Missed ya too much.” He mumbled against your lips, kissing you yet again.

You hummed in contentment against his mouth, pulling him impossibly closer. He was so intoxicating you nearly fell to the floor every time he kissed you. Always making you forget your name with the way his lips and tongue moved against your own.

He slowly walked you backwards, not breaking the kiss as he led you to your bedroom. He’d needed to show you how much he missed you since he left this morning. He was a lovesick fuck, and was damn proud of it.

You obliged without hesitation, allowing him to take control and softly rest you on your back on the bed. He kissed your eyelids, cheeks, nose, forehead. Anywhere that was accessible to him, he worshipped it- worshipped you. Your breath hitched, arching into him. You’d nearly forgotten you were in the middle of cooking when he came home. The realization hitting you in the face as you squirmed.

“Lo, dinner.” You huffed, trying- and failing- to push him away so you could finish cooking. Of course, you couldn’t fight off a man with a metal skeleton, let alone want to. You needed him, desperately. But you also wanted to make sure the house didn’t go up in flames.

“Logan.” You groaned, he growled against your skin. Pinning you down effectively as he continued his trail of kisses down your body.

“Logan Howlett.” You said with all the authority you could muster up in the moment. He stopped, lifting his head from your stomach and looking at you with a raised brow and that stupidly handsome smirk.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I gotta finish dinner.” You tried to look as stern as you could, but the way his rough hands were gently stroking your thighs made it impossible. Not to mention the look on his face. You knew him well enough to recognize it. Whatever he was about to say would solidify the one thing you knew: you weren’t leaving this bed anytime soon.

“I’ll cook. Jus’ lemme have this, sweetheart. I missed ya.”

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #logan howlett fluff #logan x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #james logan howlett #logan wolverine #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlet x reader #origins logan my love #x men origins wolverine #origins logan howlett #manicwrites🙀#logan howlett fic #x men movies

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joelscurls · 1 year ago

Text

I wanna show you off

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 4.1k

summary: The women who live in your building aren't subtle in their hatred for you — or their affection for your boyfriend, Joel. You decide to set them straight.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, porn with plot, no outbreak, established relationship, implied age gap, horrible neighbors, general cattiness, all the ladies want Joel, alcohol consumption, fluff, explicit smut, possessive!reader, exhibitionism, dirty talk, oral (m receiving), facefucking, unprotected piv, creampie, one (1) spank, use of pet names (baby, angel, darlin', etc.), I think that's all? lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: idk what happened. I saw one too many tiktok edits set to the song agora hills by doja cat and blacked out. anyway, enjoy!

If it weren’t for your rent-controlled apartment with a perfect view of the downtown skyline, you would’ve moved out of your building by now.

Your neighbors don’t like you. You’re certain of it. You can tell by the way the ladies stick their noses up at you in the elevator and whisper to each other the second they think you’re out of earshot.

It had started, you suspect, because of your age. You’re a lot younger than all of the other residents here, your apartment left to you by your grandmother after she passed away.

The building is prime real estate, situated in the heart of one of the city’s most desirable neighborhoods. Most of the people who live here have done so for ten, twenty, even thirty years. And it seems that time has festered a sort of social hierarchy: one which places you at the very bottom.

You shouldn’t care. And you hadn’t, for a while. But their eyes have started to feel like daggers, pointed directly at you at all times, and you feel as if you can’t even enter the building without judgment.

You’re not a bad neighbor. You’re not. You’d learned through living in a dormitory in college how thin shared walls can be, and, as a result, the proper volume at which to keep your music; how you should always be cautious to not let your door slam closed on the way in; that you should never vacuum after eight pm or before eight am.

You never leave trash in the hallway, and you park your car only in your allotted spot, despite the fact that it’s the farthest away from the building.

Even so, the lack of weathering in your face makes them look at you like you’re less, like you’re a greedy little thing who has taken something she isn’t worthy of.

It’s the same way they look at you when they see you with your boyfriend, Joel, for the first time.

They leer when you walk into the foyer, hand-in-hand with an older man. He’s handsome, rugged, something out of Nicholas Sparks novel. And you’re you.

Joel thinks you’re being paranoid at first, says they couldn’t possibly hate such a sweet, friendly girl. The girl he loves so damn much. But it doesn’t take long for him to notice it too: the glares, the scoffs, the misplaced judgment — never set in his direction, only ever yours.

One Sunday afternoon, as he sits on your couch watching the Cowboys game with a sweating bottle of beer in his hand, you step out to grab your mail. You’re close to tears when you return, flinging the door open, envelopes slipping from your trembling fingers.

He leaps up as soon as he catches sight of your face. Your expression is stuck somewhere between sadness and rage, bottom lip tucked between your teeth so firmly he worries you’ll draw blood.

“I hate them,” you sob as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his broad chest. You’re wetting his shirt, the one he just bought the other day. But he won’t let you lift your head. If anything, he holds you tighter.

“Wanna tell me what happened, darlin?” he asks, leading you toward the couch. You sit down together, your body still wrapped in his, and you groan.

“It’s stupid.” Your voice is muffled by cotton. He loosens his grip on you only enough to let you turn your face. “I was getting my mail, and they were down in the lobby,” you sniff. “The woman who lives right next door – the one with the outdated perm, and the one across the hall with the yippy little dog.”

“Mhm,” Joel soothes, running his thumb gently along the tense line of your jaw. “Did they say somethin’ to you?”

You huff. “No, not to me. They didn’t see me there.”

Their hushed voices still ring in your head like a fire alarm in need of new batteries: relentless, infuriating.

Don’t know what in the world a handsome gentleman like that is doing with a little girl like her. You’re tellin’ me. What a shame. Such a young thing – she can’t possibly know how to handle a man like that. He needs a woman his own age!

“They said I’m not good for you,” you weep. “That I’m too young. That I — I c-can’t be what you need.”

“Darlin,” Joel drawls. He fishes the tv remote off of the coffee table and flicks the screen off. Drops it somewhere next to him on the cushion. The apartment is noticeably quiet now, apart from your shaky breaths and the dull drone of an idling truck engine from the street below.

“You know I love you, right?”

You sniff again. Nod.

“I don’t give a shit if people think you’re too young for me,” he huffs. “You’re a grown woman. You give me everything I could possibly need and then some.”

“Yeah?” you squeak. You know deep down that Joel wouldn’t stay with you if he had any reservations about any aspect of your relationship. But after months of no reprieve from stinging glares and brash insults, you feel as if you’ve been broken down, reduced to an anxious, overwrought version of yourself.

Joel repositions himself, sprawling back on the couch and pulling you with him so that you’re laying against him. “Yeah,” he repeats, stroking your hair. He tucks a loose strand behind your ear, away from your glassy eyes. “Those ladies can get their asses in line.”

You laugh, then — a real, genuine laugh — the kind that Joel can somehow always pull out of you, even in the most inopportune of times.

You’re so grateful for him, for his innate ability to calm you down when it feels like the world is crumbling below your feet. Grateful that he’s yours.

You lift your head. Prop yourself up by the elbow on Joel’s thigh. Wipe away the lingering wet on your cheeks with a deep, settling breath.

“Does it stroke your ego, having a fan club of women who wanna fuck you?”

He smirks. Pulls you closer to him with a hand cradling your face.

“Maybe a little,” he whispers, his lips ghosting yours. “Does it stroke your ego, bein’ the only one who gets to fuck me?”

And in truth, it does. You’re the only one who knows where he likes to be kissed, how he likes his cock stroked, how to make him cum embarrassingly quick with just your mouth.

You’ve learned him intimately, every inch of him. Ruined him for any other woman.

So in a fucked up kind of way — it does.

“Yeah,” you admit. You suck his bottom lip into your mouth, silently reveling in the way he immediately moans, the way he bends to you.

“These all mine?” You bring a finger to his lips, sputter on a shaky exhale when he unexpectedly parts them and sucks the digit into his mouth.

“Mhm,” he hums around you, takes your free hand in his and guides it down his body, across the expanse of his torso, the plush of his belly, pausing when you reach his crotch.

Your pulse quickens, then, a dull throb forming at the base of your neck. You extricate your finger from his mouth with a gentle pop.

“This too,” he whispers, canting his hips up toward the flat of your palm.

He’s half-hard, his clothed bulge pleading for attention. But he pulls your hand away quickly, not letting himself get carried away at the feeling of your fingers grazing him through denim.

Instead, he re-situates it against his chest so that you can feel his heartbeat where it hammers under skin, against flesh and bone. “This is all yours too,” he says, voice so low it reverberates in your skull.

“All of it — all of me. Don’t gotta worry your pretty little head with anythin’ anyone else has to say about the matter. Got it?”

His words are spoken with so much conviction that you have no choice but to believe them, to let them stick in your brain like anchors in sand: deep and immovable.

Yours, yours, yours.

And nobody else’s.

“Yeah,” you smile into the column of his neck, inhaling his scent: mostly him, but with notes of you.

“Got it.”

It’s two weeks later when she makes a move on him: the woman with the perm. Joel is taken aback by her boldness, with you just a few feet away, digging your key into the lock of your mailbox.

“You must work with your hands,” she purrs, grabbing one of his wrists and examining his calloused fingers with such little integrity, his mouth actually slips open at the unabashedness of it all.

“Uh-”

“I’m Sheila,” she hums, raking her fingers through tight, blonde curls. “And you are?”

“Joel,” he grunts noncommittally. Wrenches his arm back. He doesn’t miss the way her eyebrows twitch in offense.

But she’s insatiable, this woman. She bounces back like a rubber band, not-so-subtly pushing her breasts together, the zip of her sweatshirt slipping down an inch and her mouth curving into a salacious grin.

You just about stop dead in your tracks when you round the corner to the lobby, junk mail in hand, and see her, her body turned towards Joel’s, chest pushed out and hip popped. She has a bedazzled tote bag full of groceries slung over her shoulder, a head of leafy greens poking out the top.

“Hi neighbor!” she smiles mockingly at you, all lipstick-stained teeth, when you sidle up to Joel. “I was just telling your friend here what nice, strong arms he has.” She’s not looking at you, eyes locked firmly on Joel’s biceps, nearly drooling at the sight of him.

Heat spools behind your ears, red-hot.

“Not her friend,” Joel corrects before you can. “‘M her boyfriend.”

“Oh,” she says. “Boyfriend.” Her lips wrap loosely around the word, like it’s some fanciful thing. “You’re too old to be someone’s boyfriend.”

Joel takes a step away from her, closer to you, and splays a steadying hand across your back. “Man-friend, then.”

You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because this entire conversation is fucking awkward.

Sheila pays you no attention.

“Well,” she sighs, overtly staring at the exposed skin of Joel’s chest, where the top two buttons of his flannel are undone, “Joel, if you’re ever lookin’ for a good meal, I’m just next door.” She flits her eyes up to his and smirks. “Know a big man like you has gotta eat.”

Your vision blurs scarlet.

Joel is equally as infuriated. The disrespect of this woman, to so openly flirt with him in front of you. His fists ball tightly at his sides.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he gruffs. “Anyway, nice to meet ya ma’am-“

“Sheila,” she reminds him.

“Sheila,” he repeats, only to appease her. He turns to you, squeezing your waist affectionately. “We should probably get goin’, right sweetheart?”

You’re still fuming, barely able to register Joel’s voice next to you through the thick haze of pure fury clouding your mind, but you manage to nod, spit out a hurried yeah.

And with that, Joel is turning on his heels, pulling you with him toward the elevators. You don’t dare look back at her, but you can feel her eyes boring a hole in the back of your head.

Her footfall fades into the mailroom and you breathe a minuscule sigh of relief. At least she’s out of your sight.

“Please just move in with me,” Joel begs when you’re finally behind closed metal doors, the inspection plaque situated above the buttons suddenly extremely interesting as you try to focus on not thinking about setting this woman’s apartment on fire.

You’ve talked about living together a few times. It’s just — you’ve never considered it so seriously until right now.

“I can’t let them win,” you mutter, agitated.

You hate how they’ve made you feel, like you’re some helpless animal tucked in the corner, hiding from them. Just waiting for the next ambush.

With the passing of each floor, your anger simmers, bubbles into a silent rage in your stomach, one which threatens to boil over at the next underestimation of Joel’s devotion to you. You need to make it known, once and for all, that he’s yours.

Words from your grandmother play on a loop in your head, ones she repeated to you often when you were a child: if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

And then you have a thought — a devious thought — maybe you don’t have to say anything to get your point across. Not to them, anyway.

Your mouth is on Joel the second you’re back inside the four walls of your own apartment, slotting against his pulse point and sucking a desperate bruise there.

He’s not expecting it — why would he be? You’ve just been seething the entire elevator ride up to your floor, the entire walk down the long, winding hallway to your unit. He’d practically been able to see the steam billowing from your ears.

So the switch-up is more than a bit dizzying, to say the least.

“Whoa, darlin’,” he pants, his large hands draping over your shoulders. “What are you-”

“Joel.” Your voice is stern; it demands his attention. “Do you trust me?”

Your hand trails down his body languidly, in a straight line to the waistband of his jeans. And fuck, of course he trusts you — more than anyone. But this is wrong, fucked up, for you to make him feel good when you’ve been made to feel so small these past few minutes.

Still, his cock doesn’t get the memo, twitching in his jeans as you place another open-mouthed kiss on the underside of his jaw, your fingers beginning to fiddle with his belt buckle.

You give him no choice with the way you’re touching him, the way you’re looking at him when you pull back, all pleading eyes and parted mouth, but to resign all protest. He’ll give you the world, and if right now you want to use his body to blow off some steam, who is he to complain about it?

“Yeah baby, of course,” he breathes. “What do you need?”

You smirk at him audaciously, tongue smoothing over your teeth. “Need you to be loud,” you purr. Your voice is so innocent in juxtaposition to the words you spew. It sends a chill down the column of his spine. “Let them know who makes you feel good.”

He nearly cums in his pants untouched, grasps at the fabric of your shirt with clumsy hands and nods. “Fuck, okay.”

His belt falls to the floor with a clang.

He lets you take control, then. Lets you mark him with your tongue and your teeth, lets you back him to the door with deft fingers working his shirt buttons open before sinking to your knees in front of him, freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his jeans and boxers.

It’s already weeping for you when you pull it out, precum beading at the tip. He’s so big, growing heavier in your hand with each passing second, and you lose yourself for a moment, hypnotized by him.

“Always so eager to please me, aren’t you, pretty girl?” Joel’s voice pulls you back to earth, soft and adoring.

“Louder,” you remind him. Plant a kiss right over top of his leaking slit.

“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. One of his hands flies to the crown of your head, anchoring himself with fingers in your hair. “Dirty fucking girl.”

His voice fills the entranceway, confident and filthy.

“Mmm,” you hum approvingly.

“Yeah? You want me to tell ‘em? Tell ‘em you’re making my cock drool for you? That nobody — shit-” You enclose your lips around his tip, suckling on it as your fingers wrap around the base of his length and you begin to stroke him lazily. “-that nobody has ever made me feel this good?”

Footsteps echo down the hallway and the sound makes you reflexively pause, your hand stiling on Joel’s cock. It’s followed by the jingling of metal, the click of a key in a lock, the opening and closing of a door — all close enough that you can pinpoint the source, can tell where exactly it’s coming from.

Sheila is home.

Perfect.

It’s probably worrying how excited it makes you, the prospect of her hearing, of her sitting alone in her apartment, at her empty dining table, and listening to Joel fall apart at your hands. Maybe they’ve driven you to and over the edge of sanity with their words, her most of all. Regardless, you can’t help the way it makes your cunt flutter around nothing.

You lick a slow stripe up the underside of Joel’s cock, starting just above his balls and dragging the flat of your tongue up, up, up to his tip. His breath shudders, his grip on your hair tightening, and the subtle sting at the center of your scalp gives you another idea.

“Do you wanna fuck my face, Joel?”

“Do I wanna — fuck — you’re gonna kill me, angel.”

“Go ahead,” you encourage, unhinging your jaw as wide as it can go, letting your tongue droop over your bottom lip.

Saliva pools in your waiting mouth and Joel groans at the sight of you, so malleable for him, begging to be used.

“You sure?”

It’s not that he doesn’t think you can handle it. He knows you can. You’ve taken him down your throat more times than he can count. Always so fucking eager to please him, you are — just one of the many reasons he feels so goddamn lucky, so infuriated that anyone would think otherwise.

But still, he can’t help but worry that he’ll hurt you.

You nod, eyes locked on him, confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt that you want this. He nods back, beginning to feed his cock into your mouth, easing it in slowly and halting when his head hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag.

You don’t pull away, don’t show any indication of displeasure. In fact, you dig your fingers into the meat of his thighs, bearing down on him as you push forward. Mascara tears stain your cheeks as you choke on him, laser-focused on relaxing your throat so that you can accommodate more of his length.

Joel pulls back, retreating entirely before pushing in again. He slowly increases his pace, your eyes hooded, so doelike and innocent, as his cockhead bruises your larynx.

The sounds he’s pulling from your mouth are absurdly lewd: muffled gags and frantic inhales of breath. And then there’s him, moaning wildly, not sure if he’d be able to shut up even if he needed to be quiet. Your mouth is good, too fucking good and he’s going to — fuck, he’s going to cum if you don’t stop.

He pulls out abruptly, a string of drool and precum tethering the tip of his cock to your swollen bottom lip. You’re panting, coughing, still bracing yourself against his legs when you fucking smile up at him.

“Christ,” he says. “Fuckin’ angel, you are. Mouth feels like goddamn heaven.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I need to cum in that perfect little cunt,” he breathes, pulling a strangled moan from the back of your rawed throat.

He helps you up, spins you around to face the door. You brace both hands on the wood, humming as he pulls your pants down to your knees. His breath is on the back of your neck, trailing up to the shell of your ear with one whisper just for you, because he can’t help it.

“So fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

You shiver, responding with a tilt of your head, inviting him in with a needy little mewl. He cradles your face in one of his large hands, the other rubbing over the curve of your ass as he kisses you passionately, tasting himself on your tongue.

The hand on your ass trails lower as he deepens the kiss, two fingers pressing against your clothed seam. You’ve all but soaked through the fabric, wet cotton molding to his knuckles as he caresses them along your pussy before pulling your panties down in one swift motion.

You whine into the kiss, desperate and dripping for him. “Please,” you breathe against his lips. “I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.”

“Know you will,” he coos, mouth parting from yours as he straightens out and lines himself up with your entrance. You arch your back, rocking onto the balls of your feet as he teases you with the tip.

His cock is so thick when it finally notches into you. It’s always so devastatingly thick, no matter how wet you are for him. The stretch stings, a jolt of warm pain coursing through your walls as he stills halfway in.

“You okay?” he asks, one hand resting at the small of your back, the other on your hip, fingers gripping to you only tight enough to hold you in place.

“Yes, fuck — yes,” you whine. “Need you to fuck me, Joel.”

“I’m goin’ to baby, don’t worry,” 'he promises, pushing in another splitting inch. “Pussy’s so goddamn tight, ‘ts suckin’ me right in.”

It feels like hours pass with Joel’s cock motionless inside your aching cunt, his warm breath fanning across your back as he focuses on not cumming. You’re whimpering, begging under the weight of his body, to please just fucking move.

When he finally obliges you, pulling all the way out and then bottoming out in one deep thrust, it nearly punches the air out of your chest. You scrabble for purchase on the door, fingernails scraping against chipped paint. “F-uucckk,” you moan, eyes rolling back in your head as he sets a dizzying pace.

The sound of his balls slapping against the back of your thighs is enough to attract attention on its own, the loud smacksmacksmack going straight to your cunt. Joel growls behind you, driving into you even harder, the tip of his cock brushing against your g-spot.

“Oh, shit,” you cry. Your pussy inadvertently squeezes him and he curses at your back, low and deep.

“Not going to last if you keep doin’ that,” he warns. “Cunt is too fuckin’ good. Best I’ve ever — uuuhh — had.”

He’s not just saying it for show. It’s true. You know it is, too. He’s told you before, both under the influence of your pussy and not. Waited too many goddamn years to feel like this, he’d said once.

“It’s — fuck, it’s fine Joel,” you mutter. “I’m close too, just keep going, right there.”

A door across the hall creaks open. A pair of footsteps patter across tile.

Do you hear that? Yeah; what is that noise?

Joel laughs darkly behind you, snaps his hips up, forcing a guttural moan out of you.

“Think they caught us, darlin’,” he says. “Caught you takin’ my cock like you’re fuckin’ made to.”

Oh my word!

Joel is unrelenting, pounding into you despite the voices right outside your apartment, and you fear for a moment that you’ve created a monster. One of his hands leaves its place on your waist, cracks down on the center of your asscheek with a slap, the flesh recoiling under his palm and you gasp.

The feeling travels between your legs, straight to your neglected clit. It pulsates under the hood with every pass of Joel’s cock over your g-spot, and you feel yourself hurtling toward the edge dangerously fast.

If these people don’t leave, they’re going to hear you cum. Do you want them to hear you cum? Yeah, you think, clit jumping again at the thought, I think I fucking do.

“Joel, fuck-”

“You gonna cum?” he goads. “Yeah, can feel you squeezin’ me — you’re gonna cum, aren’t ya?”

This is vulgar! We should file a noise complaint. C’mon.

His hand snakes around your front then, finds your throbbing bud, and with a few passes of his calloused fingertips, you’re gone, vision whiting out and all noise around you muted.

Joel keeps you upright between him and the door, his grip on you tightening as your muscles slacken. He follows closely behind, cumming inside you with a carnal noise from the back of his throat, rope after rope of his spend filling your cunt.

He pulls out with a grunt, immediately collapsing on the floor. Without his support, you topple over too, falling onto his lap with a satiated giggle.

A banging comes from the other side of the wall then, shaking your kitchen cabinets a few feet away, the clanging of glassware jolting you.

Keep it down next time! I don’t need to hear that!

And then you’re laughing like teenagers, Joel pulling you in for a sloppy kiss, all tongues and teeth.

“Think they’re really gonna make a noise complaint?” Joel asks when you finally come up for air.

“I dunno,” you smile. “Does your offer still stand — for me to move in with you?”

“Always,” he vows, forehead resting against yours.

end notes: ty for reading! pls consider commenting or reblogging if you enjoyed <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal as joel miller #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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moonastro · 10 months ago

Text

groom persona chart

venus in the house

what is a groom persona chart? this chart exhibits qualities that your husband will have and possible placements that can be seen in their chart. it is simply a chart all about your spouse in a woman's chart. the asteroid groom can be identified using the code 5129.

venus rules love, aesthetics and desires, it is the planet of beauty and is a benefic. in the GPC the planet signifies your husbands love language, their needs and wants and aesthetics that he may be interested in.

reminder: this is my interpretation from observations and first hand experiences, so don't take this to heart.

venus in 1st house: fs is the definition of love. will shower you with sweet talk, make you feel like a queen and the luckiest person in the world. can look beautiful and have a beautiful appearance and aura. fs can look aesthetically pleasing and can just display themselves as someone ethereal. this is a placement where they tend to be the jewel in the room it reminds me of a prince placement, people forget or don.t establish their flaws and are mesmerised by their charm and beauty. their love language can be to compliment on your looks and compliment you on your appearance, hair, make-up, jewellery and all that sorts of stuff. fs is very self aware and can be into small detail and self awareness however may do so in their mind and keep it to themselves. fs may crave attention though and may want to be praised by their looks and appearance considering their efforts maintaining their looks.

spouse can have natal venus in aries, 1st house, fire sign, fire house.

venus in 2nd house: fs is gracious with his words and is patient. he likes the more high end things in life and will make sure that you have the same experience with that. likes to spoil so your spouse can spend and love to spend money on people that they love. can be strict but only to the point where he may receive pleasure from his actions so spouse can be quite controlling at times. however, sometimes it can be for the best in order to get out of your comfort zone. spouses aesthetic can be laid back, an admirer and can be full of lust. whatever he has his eyes laid on he needs it in an instant, so he may approach you within your guys first meeting. can be quite sensual and a bit un bothered at times, they can have the mindset of everything will work out for me anyway so why worry kind of thing. since venus is in its own house, venus is comfortable and spouse may be very open and comfortable the idea and commitment of love, they see it as an opportunity for them and can also claim it to be a gift for them. spouse is very attentive to what you have to say to him, he memorises each detail that is said and makes it his best effort to use it to his advantage like for special events and whatnot.

spouse can have natal venus in taurus, 2nd house, earth sign, earth house.

venus in 3rd house: usually spouse can talk abruptly when they have interest in something they love. they tend to give lots of words of affirmation and can talk sweet nothings just so they can hold your attention to them that much more. has love and interest in academics and may be quite the study type. loves to learn new things and is a very quick learner. spouses aesthetic is quite the study type, loves to know the fact that he knows stuff that others may not. loves to be one of a kind, and loves to be special. spouse likes to be in his own space but values socialising just as much, they need others to recharge themselves. can think very precisely about things and be quite analytical and precise with their thoughts. love to follow schedules and have plans, this eases their mind and makes them be certain that that plan is still going on.

spouse can have natal venus in gemini, 3rd house, air sign, air house.

venus in 4th house: fs can be the non-dominant one but can try to reach the needs of their partner. even though if they dont agree with your views or opinions they will follow them just to make you happy and fell like you can trust them. traditional roles are important to them so most likely they will have traditional views of what should be done in the household but with that they will carry out their task and provide for their family and will not think otherwise about it. fs can have a firm mindset that family is the most important thing in the world. fs love language can be providing for their family and their loved ones. are interested in his family needs and is very loyal to his wife. fs aesthetics may be based on what they were brought up with as a child or most likely what they are most familiar with, they tend to dislike change and stick to one thing.

spouse can have natal venus in cancer, 4th house, water sign, water house.

venus in 5th house: spouse is a hopeless romantic and loves to tease their partner and be playful. this is them simply being themselves and being comfortable around you. spouse can attract great prosperity and luck in his life. may be gifted in many talents and hobbies and may even be interested in the entertainment industry. can be interested in music and the arts and can be really good at it also. the spouse aesthetic is relatable to a lot of people which can be the reason for their likeness. spouse can have many followers and many admirers themselves. they aren't the awkward type and will make everyone feel welcome in the presence of them, are extremely friendly to everyone also. spouse can have a particular interest in other people, they are curious of other peoples lives and lifestyles.

spouse can have natal venus in leo, 5th house, fire sign, fire house.

venus in 6th house: doing things and doing tasks for their significant other is very important. its even more important when they get praised for it as well because they will continue to do it and with contentment as well. they tend to love very practically and not take things overboard. they respect boundaries of their partner and can be invested in your day to day routine and life. can have a beautiful body and may really take their energy into taking care of his health which can include having healthy habits, eating balanced meals and having good physical activity. may dedicate his aesthetic towards his occupation and may spend most of his time and efforts trying his best at his work. spouses work place may be quite aesthetic and they spend most of their time there as well, could also have items in the workplace for convenience.

spouse can have natal venus in virgo, 6th house, earth sign, earth house.

venus in 7th house: spouse likes to be equal individuals in the relationship. they love it whenever them and their partner can share roles equally within their time together, it makes them have a sense of completeness. however, the spouse can be liked by his charm and balanced nature and can attract enemies that are jealous of how many admirers he may have. there's no good without the bad also it comes both ways. spouse loves to be on everyone's good side and can show their charm to win hearts of others. spouse may feel relieved knowing that others think highly of him. loves being friendly to people and loves it back from others. in romance, spouse can be quite the romantic since venus is in its own house. they love being commitment and love taking care of their partner with the extents of sharing moments that couples like to do. can romanticise dates and events that you guys will attend in order to make it that much memorable.

spouse can have natal venus in libra, 7th house, air sign, air house.

venus in 8th house: the fs can be so deeply in love that they can have no where to be attentive to but you. they feel very intensely and most of the time when you are making out your fs will have lots of willpower because they will most likely want to turn the make out session into something more. they will have to resist a lot. can have lots of intrusive and spicy thought about you. this image just came into my mind of them just staring at you and you noticing and calling them out on why they are staring, them saying nothing but in fact👀they were probably imagining the beyond lets just say. your fs can be full of surprises and can hide their affection from you very well so when he does something out of the blue it can leave you feeling confused. their aesthetic is full of mystery and and chill vibes, its really them teasing you as well. they can tend to do that pretend to not be interested when in fact they are just so you can chase them. they tend to crave s*x and sexual activity. this is the type though to keep in private until it is only the two of you. is the silent freaky type.

spouse can have natal venus in scorpio, 8th house, water sign, water house.

venus in 9th house: spouse requires attention in order to satisfy their love for you. may acquire random bursts of love for you at spontaneous times. they love to go and explore things they haven't yet experienced and love to go with their partner. they prefer to explore new places with their loved one by their side rather than by themselves. can be experienced in love matters and may be confident and know what to expect in relationships which will acquire them to be like a mentor within the relationship. the fs aesthetic is quite loving and prosperous, they give and dont expect to be given back. people trust what your spouse may say or do, he may be the type that is very reliant and people notice how gifted and talented he is.

spouse can have natal venus in sagittarius, 9th house, fire sign, fire house.

venus in 10th house: fs will have an acute sense of the world around them. they will have certain expectations of how the world can see them. can be quite precautious of what other people think. can be quite professional and mature when it comes to love. for example can be mature when conflict occurs and so forth and may establish sensible outcomes for problems within the relationship. spouse can handle professional matters very well and may be the one to act carefully when it comes to their profession. spouses aesthetic can be profession biased and may be serious about their authority. they dont like disappointment and making mistakes however in the end they realise that they are valuable lessons to which they take their time to reflect on. as a partner they are responsible and will take care of you very well. when in need of their help they like the fact that they are needed so will gladly help you out. can feel like they are responsible for you so will look out for you a lot.

spouse can have natal venus in capricorn, 10th house, earth sign, earth house.

venus in 11th house: fs can enjoy company of other people but know how to identify the ones that have caused them harm and they tend to stay as far away from them as possible. will go to great lengths to fulfil their needs and wants. can be interested in alliances if it benefits them so your fs can become friends with someone to help them forward. usually can have goals related to their outcomes in life that benefits them. since this house is the house of good spirit, spouses charms and personality may benefit them through many things. may not have many enemies unless afflicted or other placements show otherwise. in relationships, spouse is affectionate and cares about their partner, can give needed space for you and not cross any boundaries. will respect your views and decisions in addition to being a supportive husband overall, so expect him to be your no.1 fan.

spouse can have natal venus in aquarius, 11th house, air sign, air house.

venus in 12th house: spouse can be quite delusional at times but thats just the nature of them in order to make their situation and life that much better. they tend to make up situations in their head that never happened before and that confuses them if that occurrence has happened or not which can go two ways. its not bad at all, they are dreamers and manifesters, they may have manifested you or you could be the exact spitting image of the girl they have manifested. spouses aesthetic may be quite delusional, they may be influenced by their dreams and thoughts and may achieve great lengths because they can easily envision their future reality. spouse may love the idea of love but can be scared of actual commitment in fear of losing their freedom and routine. however, as a partner they will shower you with deep love that goes beyond the scale. they can experience things differently but can give you the world if he could. would go through great lengths to make you happy and may even displace their own happiness to fulfil yours.

spouse may have natal venus in pisces, 12th house, water sign, water house.

thank you so much for reading and supporting!!!

#groom persona chart #venus #astrology community #astro observations #asteroid astrology #astro community #astro notes #astro placements #astrology #astrology degrees #astrology observations #kpop astrology #astro blog #astronotes #astrology placements

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angelsforthenight · 18 days ago

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screen babe, mean babe, guess who’s gonna cream babe! (pt. 4)

camgirl!vi x reader (pt 1, pt 2, pt 3)

summary: days are going by too quickly and fickle feelings blossom between you and vi. you make the most of each day with her, but when a certain someone comes back and places a hard choice on you, decisions will have to be made.

PRE A/N: hi lovelies,, even though i really really love when u guys send me messages and express how much u love my work (i adore it sm pls keep doing so) pls don’t ask me when i will update a chapter because i can never tell you a specific time and it stresses me out .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. believe it or not it takes a lot to write a series fanfic and i’ve already got a lot on my plate with work and school so pls acknowledge that ;; ANYWAYS I HOPE U ENJOY AND I LOB U GUYS

content (18+): lots of smut, situationship, tribbing, sub!vi, brat!vi, dirty talk, begging, risky sex, sort foot fetish but i don’t wanna call it that 😭🙏, very faint angst, lots of fluff too!!! crushing & yearning, dbf!sevika feature, we get a bit of vi’s pov, cliffhanger at the end :p

“you’re never gonna forget about me, are you?”

your legs are currently slotted in between vi’s, sticky not only from the film of sweat coated over your bodies, but also the undeniable arousal that has grown and festered between you two.

vi gasps sharply when you push yourself forward; bumping your clit against hers and smearing your fluids.

“you’re so… f-fucking smug.” she has to force the words out, now familiar with the fact that you always expect an answer to your questions. you reach down and cup her face, squeezing her cheeks.

“because i’m right. you’re gonna go off to wherever the hell knows where and i’m still going to be on your mind.” you grin, fucking her harder. vi’s hand flies to her mouth as she stifles in a cry. she doesn’t want to wake your parents who are asleep next door.

“i prefer not to think about that.” vi pitches her hips up, making sparks of stimulation rivulet down your entire body, right down to your feet. a whine doesn’t fail to escape your lips.

you and vi have been at this since the night of the barbecue party. fucking. it’s the best thing you could’ve wanted, especially because you always get to tease and taunt vi in the process. the unconscious ‘competition’ that had been going on between you two is now no more, but if it was, you’d be so many points higher than vi right now.

“i’m close. keep talking to me.” you sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

“i— fuck… c-can’t really talk either, you know. hah!” vi tries to sound snappy, but with the way your clits are gliding together at an intense pace, her voice comes out as pathetic instead.

“how bad do you need to cum right now?” you huff, your gaze struggling to focus as the impending release threatens to overtake you.

“real bad.” vi whines, tipping her head back. your hand reaches for vi’s, intertwining your fingers with hers.

“beg for it. i know you can.”

with how close you two are about to cum, your movements begin to grow sloppier, inconsistent. vi squeezes her hold on your hand.

“oh god… please let me cum. pleaseplease—“

it’s a salacious view alright. what with the harsh pants and the outwardly pornographic noises filling the room, creaming your sopping pussy against her own.

“then go ahead. make a mess.” you permit. vi doesn’t even need to be told twice, tipping her head back as her body goes rigid, shuddering violently. she swears she can see god, and you, the same.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

you are something quite like the sun these days. even your parents have noticed your heartened mood.

“you have roses in your cheeks.” your mother would point out warmly, the old-fashioned saying never failing to make you blush even more. you’re fucking glowing, and you have no one else to thank but vi. the bond between you two have nurtured like a river, flowing deeper with each passing day. is it too early to say that you’re falling in love?

it’s currently the evening and vi’s exhausted after a long day of running after animals, cleaning kennels, feeding and watering. you’re half sat/half laying in between her legs, with the cd she bought for you playing soothingly in the background. vi traces her name on the nape of your neck and you squirm, scrunching your face up.

“that tickles. and you’re not slick.”

you turn around only to see vi smiling impishly, like a mischievous child. “i was gonna write violence, actually.”

“liar.” you smile, turning back around and nuzzling comfortably against her front. you could fall asleep right now if you wanted to.

her fingertips graze against your scalp, tracing circles and stars and spirals. her name is what she writes the most, however, from the back of your head to the nape of your neck. as if engraving her name in your brain.

you’re the happiest you’ve been in a while.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

fried chicken for dinner tonight. vi’s got one of those nights when she comes early from work, and your parents like her so much that they insist on eating all together and chatting when they all have the chance to. whereas two weeks ago you hated it, you’ve now come to appreciate it.

you sink your teeth into a wing, immediately regretting doing so because of how hot it is.

“damn it.” you mutter, blowing on it repeatedly. vi, sitting across from you, watches you amusedly. a slack smile playing on her lips.

“that’s why you gotta be patient.” she chirps, and your parents agree. you roll your eyes, though your heart betrays you by fluttering in glee. any sliver of attention from vi gets your heart going, and by the way she’s looking at you makes you hope she likes you the same way you do.

your clothed foot grazes vi’s under the table before sliding up her leg. vi quickly glances at you before focusing on her food again, quietly clearing her throat. you smile, your eyes brazenly set on her. it seems to be embarrassing her, considering the way her skin is beginning to match the colour of her hair.

you make matters worse by guiding your foot upwards, boldly pressing the heel of your foot against her crotch. it makes vi jolt so hard that her knees hit against the table, making the dishes clatter. you quietly snort.

“are you okay, violet?” your dad asks, raising a brow. vi’s jaw slacks open, her brain momentarily short-circuiting as she tries to figure out something to say.

“i… um. sorry. i get… s-shivers.” she mutters slowly. your foot doesn’t move.

“it’s okay, dad, i get them too sometimes.” you chime in, though your eyes are still settled on vi’s nervous ones. you take this a step further by ever so slightly shifting your foot up, with the right amount of pressure. vi instinctively clenches her thighs against your foot. the fabric of your sock crammed against vi’s dressed cunt is unbelievable, and vi hangs her head low, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tries her hardest to act normal at the dinner table. this is all so fun, watching vi try to stay as still as possible. her food is left discarded on her plate, completely forgotten about, whilst you amusedly nibble on a fry.

you press too hard, and high-pitched whimper leaves her lips. she thinks nobody heard because she instantly shot up from her seat, offering to take plates to the dishwasher. she shoots you a withering glare, one that makes you feel a pang of heat on your lower stomach.

you innocently smile back at her, offering her your plate for her to take.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

“that wasn’t cool what you did back there.” vi huffs whilst she tilts her head to the side, letting you pepper sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all over her neck.

“you didn’t like it?” you let yourself be selfish, planting purple bruises on the slope of her neck where it meets her shoulder.

“it’s not th—ah..t. it’s ‘cuz we were with your p-parents, so it’s weird…” vi’s voice is beginning to slew into a heap of slurred babbles, because you’ve now brought your teeth into the mix; nipping and sucking at her skin.

you glance up at her, taking in the hazy look on her face, the way her eyebrows are already settled in that familiar needy look you worship so much.

“good thing we didn’t get caught then. right?”

vi gazes down at you, furrowing her brows. the corner of her lips twitch into a little smile.

“you’re really something y’know?” she whispers, brushing your hair to the side so she can see more of your face. “you know what? you’re right. i’m probably not gonna forget about you.”

you blink, eyes widening a fraction as you register what she’s just said. mere words have somehow blown you off your socks and left you speechless, your dominant and playful demeanour gone like the wind. vi isn’t going to forget about you.

you glance down, busying yourself by running your hands up her thighs so vi can’t see how flustered you’re getting, how hard your heart has started to pound against your ribs.

“you mean that?” you mumble quietly, the question slipping out of your lips before your brain even gets a chance to stop them. you mentally curse yourself for sounding so needy and desperate. vi looks down at you quietly, before gently guiding your chin up to focus your gaze on her. she flashes you a grin.

“what was that tone? ’you mean that?’ you sound so sad.” you flush red when vi mimics you, swatting her hand away and looking away from her.

“fuck off.”

“no! just say you’re gonna miss me.” vi teases, trying to get you to show your face. you jerk away like a baby refusing to be spoon-fed. “come onnnn!” she coos.

vi pounces on you, making you both tumble onto the sheets. you squeal as you two get yourselves into playful roughhousing. you lightly pull at vi’s hair whilst she shoves your face, rolling around on the bed. you can’t help but burst out laughing at how silly you two are acting.

“there she is.” vi breathes, raising herself above you, her hands being on either side of your head. you guys both pant breathlessly, synchronised, as if connected.

“so what if i am going to miss you?” you mutter.

vi smiles sympathetically, a look you both want to diminish from your brain and keep it locked in there forever. you really don’t want vi to go. for her to just go back to being a cam-girl on your screen.

vi leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. though vi was the one to initiate it, your lips chase after hers, cupping her cheeks and holding her close. as if she’ll disintegrate if you let go.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

you two sleep together in your bed that night. it wasn’t planned, it just kind of happened. your heads are huddled together, vi’s cheek pressed against yours. despite the onslaught of boiling summer heat you’ve been experiencing these past few weeks, the covers are pulled up high, just under your chins, tucked in comfortably with the woman you’ve come to fall for.

you sleep so well that you don’t even realise your mother coming in the room to leave some towels in the cupboard. she’s quite surprised at the sight, not having really known how close you two have gotten. she smiles to herself and creeps away quietly, not wishing to wake you two up. she knew you’d be embarrassed if you found her there.

it’s the sound of vi’s alarm that wakes you two up. you inhale sharply at the unexpected blaring noise, whilst vi groans and lazily switches it off. she squints her eyes at the harsh sunlight bleeding through your sheer curtains. she then glances down at you — who’s trying to bury your face in her arm so you’re isn’t met with how bright it is.

“think it’s time to get up.” vi mutters, her voice laced with sleep. you groan awake, stretching and purposely shoving her a little while you do so.

“hey.” vi giggles, shoving you back.

you two end up staying in bed for a while longer, lazily mumbling about all sorts of things: how vi has the day off today, and you suggesting you go to the ice cream parlour downtown together. all the while, the tip of vi’s nails drag against your scalp soothingly.

though this little tranquil moment feels lovely, there’s a little voice nagging in the back of your head that vi will be leaving soon, in less than a week, so you shouldn’t feel too comfortable. guilt slithers up your spine at how much this feels like a relationship, like you two are girlfriends. the fact that this moment won’t last upsets you.

you faintly move away from her. “i’m gonna start getting ready.”

“mmm i’m gonna stay here for a little longer. i like your bed.” vi stretches.

after getting dressed, you pad downstairs. you expect to see your parents in the kitchen, but instead you surprisingly find sevika instead. sitting against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, reading a magazine as casual as ever, as if she’s been here all along.

“oh, look who’s finally up.” she glances at you through her glasses, before taking it off and setting it down on the table.

“sevika?” you blink repeatedly, “what are you doing here? where are my parents?” your thoughts frantically rush to vi, dreading how awkward things will most-likely be if she comes downstairs. your mind then proceeds to flash to the barbecue party, how you were so drunk you were practically throwing yourself all over the poor woman.

“they went out, told me to look after the house.” she grins. “i haven’t left this side of town quite yet. sorry to disappoint.”

“disappointed? no! definitely not… i’m more than happy you’re here actually.” you ramble, spilling more than you should. sevika simply stares at you amusedly.

“what’s with you lately? sit next to me.” she instructs gently, her voice so low and guiding that you can’t help but comply immediately. her silver eyes pierce through you so hard you’re afraid she’ll be able to somehow read your mind, so you look away. you do not want vi to come downstairs and see you like this.

but alas, vi does. skipping down the staircase and even cheerfully singing a little tune to herself. however upon seeing you and sevika, her face falls. in fact, it even sours.

“oh. hello.” she greets sevika flatly. glancing at you straightaway. you want to melt.

“morning. violet, was it?” sevika looks at her.

vi hums in response, you internally cringe at vi’s obvious attitude. “you?”

“name’s sevika. i’m a friend of the family.”

there seems to be this inexplicable tension in the room that is so thick that it feels like it’s being shoved down your throat and constricting your airways. you make up an excuse to leave, lying that there’s plants that need to be watered.

vi fleetingly hates you for leaving her alone with this older woman, who exhibits an air of being intimidating yet lenient all the same. she knows you two are close, judging by the way you two acted at the party. it may be selfish to admit, but she didn’t like it. not even in the slightest. sure, it’s worrying, considering you two aren’t even dating, and she’ll probably never see you again once her stay here expires, but she doesn’t care.

“you’re staring at me a lot. is there something on my face?” sevika smiles. vi swears she’s not being crazy when she says she can feel the condescending tone bleeding out of her.

“no.” vi mumbles as a response, trying to peek at the garden to see where you are at; silently pleading for you to come save her from this painful conversation.

“so… you and y/n? y’all close or..?” sevika raises a brow.

vi narrows her eyes. she’d be pleasured to snap in sev’s face about that being frankly none of her business and that she should be playing bingo or some shit (vi has no sense of what forty year old women do.)

“sure. close enough to know that she’s good with her hands… which explains the planting thing.” vi passes it off as a simple gardening thing, but she meant more, and sevika knows she meant more. they glare at each other silently, an invisible zing of electricity charging between the two of them.

you come back just in time to fizzle out the tense moment, and both women stare up at you, saying your name at the same time. vi and sevika glare at each other whilst you stand there confused; obviously unaware of what happened whilst you were gone.

sevika’s the first to successfully grab your attention, getting at your name first before vi does.

“you mind if we talk? privately?” she mutters.

“it’s fine, i’ll just go upstairs.” vi bitches, storming up the stairs like an angsty teenager. you furrow your brows at her behaviour. maybe it wasn’t such a good idea leaving them alone.

“anyway. i mostly came here to talk to you about something.” sevika says, her eye contact as strong as always. you quietly nod, though a little inkling in your brain is worrying about vi, hoping she isn’t actually sulking upstairs.

“i’m leaving today. do you want to come back with me?” sevika’s words make you pause, your gaze fully focused on her.

“just for a few days. i already talked to your parents about it. i think you’d like it. would be good for you.” sevika smirks.

your brain short-circuits, just shy of exploding. a year ago, you were absolutely gutted upon hearing that sevika was leaving. you wanted nothing more than for her to pack you up in her suitcase and take you with her. you adore sevika. anything she says, goes.

but on the flip side, you cannot just leave vi: someone you’ve bonded with heavily, even outside of sex. you can’t even begin to imagine her face if you’d tell her, especially since vi’s days of living in your house are coming to an end. you don’t even think you’d be able to see her go if you went with sevika.

then again… vi came here with a purpose. she simply wanted to do volunteering and wanted a place to stay in. having sex with you is probably just a mere bonus, that’s all she probably sees it as. you two don’t mean enough to each other than you hope.

you get out of your head, noticing that sevika is looking at you expectedly. whatever you pick will matter, and will leave an impression that’ll hardly be forgettable…

part 5 (final part)

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