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euphemiaamillais · 10 months ago

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playing dangerous pt 3 - coriolanus snow 🎀

coriolanus snow has always wanted the perfect woman. he’s searched high and low, among the likes of heiresses and actresses, and even—though he’d never dare admit it—district girls. he’s given up hope, until he finds you. you’re perfect—innocent, beautiful and obedient. he’s been watching you for months, and one night, he just can’t resist taking you home and making you his.

cw: 18+//stockholm syndrome//dub-con//blowjobs//fingering//piv sex//mentions of kidnapping//possessive coryo//hair pulling

pt 1 & 2

he allows you to take dinner with him that evening, but before you can come to the table, he barges into your room, searching through the pile of clothes which you have left strewn across the bed; too watched with exhaustion to have put them away.

‘what are you doing?’ you ask in your softest tone, attempting not to sound like you’re scrutinising him.

‘i’m finding you something to wear, sweetheart,’ he remarks, settling on the black dress before; the one that you quite liked.

‘what for?’ you ask curiously, wondering if he’s going to take you out somewhere. your heart races—if you get out of the house, you’d get a chance to escape. it seemed to good to be true, you were probably getting ahead of yourself.

‘dinner,’ he replies. ‘i can’t have you sitting at the table in nothing but a slip. that’s hardly appropriate.’

‘are we having guests?’ you question, and he laughs, shaking his head. your heart sinks. of course, he’s too clever to put you on display so soon, when you’d make him look like a fool and start accusing him of kidnapping you.

‘no, of course not,’ he drapes the dress over his arms, and digs into the bag of underwear, deciding what ones he wants to see you in. of course, he has every intention of taking them off of you, but he wants to dress you up like his little doll; so you have to look perfect.

you watch him silently selecting the clothes for you, feeling no more than a mannequin. it’s ridiculous, it’s as if you’re being primed for the slaughter. you wonder if he’ll allow you the decency of dressing yourself, but you suspect not. you are exhausted, and surrender yourself to the humiliating experience of having his hands all over you.

coriolanus pulls the slip over your head, your arms limp and weak with hopelessness, and admires your form. if only dinner wasn’t sitting on the table. he’d bend you over right now if he wasn’t worried about the roast going cold—he’d ordered it especially for tonight, wanting to impress you. he figured if you saw how wealthy he was, you’d know he could take care of you, and that there was no need to keep rejecting him.

‘you’re so beautiful,’ he muses, one hand caressing the small of your back, feeling the smooth skin just above your ass.

you blush a little at the compliment, shocked that for once you aren’t rebuking him. his hands are still cold, and tickle as he touches you. he sits you down on the bed, and you comply, a little dizzy from exhaustion, watching as he spreads your legs.

he slides the underwear—black lacy things—up your smooth thighs, and you do admit you feel relieved to be covered. he’s seen so much of you today that you don’t bother to cover your breasts, and he ogles them. they’re so perfect; pert and utterly lovely. your nipples are hard from the cold of the room, not that you notice, you’re too distracted by the piece of flotsam on the bed.

he doesn’t bother with the bra, though he’s bought ones all to match—after all, his little doll must look the best. the dress is loose enough that he simply slips it over your head, and he figures it’s only going to come off soon; not putting your bra on leaves him with less time fussing about before he fucks you.

coriolanus pulls you up, noticing you’ve gone heavy, but when he pinches you a little at the waist you perk up, snapping out of your dissociative reverie. your stomach grumbles hungrily when you catch the scent of the dinner.

he sits you across from him at the table, which is small enough that it feels strangely intimate—perhaps it is. you find the strength in your arms to eat, too enticed by the delicious scent that you practically want to inhale it.

‘this looks delicious,’ you thank him, shoving the food in your mouth a little indelicately.

he watches you, an impish grin tugging at the corners of your lips and you shovel it down. you must’ve been starving, poor thing. he’d make sure you were full by the end of the night—blood rushes to his cock at the thought of him forcing you to swallow his cum. you’d misbehaved so badly today; he hoped you hadn’t forgotten that you had to pay the price.

coriolanus eats in silence, leaving you to feel a little embarrassed that your plate is nearly cleared once he starts his own meal. you decide to take a sip at the large glass by your plate, filled full with wine—you’re certain it’s not posca this time, for it tastes delicious. you’re greedy, and, perhaps hoping the drunkenness will spare you from too many feelings, you gulp it down.

the wine warms your veins, and burns a little as you swallow. he notices that your glass is half empty, a look of surprise crossing his features—you’ve clearly warmed up to his offers a little. and he’s glad of that. if you’re swayed by alcohol, it’ll be easier to get you on your knees. he knows girls are like that, he’s done it enough times, imbibing them with champagne to get them into bed.

‘are you enjoying your dinner?’ he asks, and you nod with a little giggle. you’ve never been able to handle alcohol properly, and your head swims with the consumption of the heady wine.

‘yes, it’s delicious,’ you lick the fork, and he eyes you with interest.

‘good,’ he smiles at you, and you decide to swallow the rest of your wine for good measure.

you’re afraid, you have to admit, foot tapping nervously at the floor. it’s cold in his apartment, and you see a window open, wind flapping at the casement. no wonder you’re freezing.

coriolanus finishes his food, and takes a slow sip of his wine, not taking it greedily like you. you can’t sit still, the previous lethargy you’d felt dissipating entirely, and making way for drunken giddiness. he takes note of this, and refills your glass with the wine.

you drink it obediently, the taste satisfying some urge in your throat. it’s terribly strong though, and your head begins to feel a little heavy, but nevertheless you are removed from the feelings of fury that were boiling in your belly earlier in the day.

‘now,’ he says, abruptly standing up from his seat and making his way over to you. ‘are you going to be a good girl and do as i say?’

a giggle plays at your lips, and you sway a little. you glance back at the now empty wine glass, realising how much you’ve had and how quickly it seems to have taken its effects.

‘i’m not sure i’ll be any good,’ you pout, hand reaching out to brush a piece of flotsam from his trousers.

he grips your wrist with his hand, fingers encircling the delicate thing as you gasp. he looks so foreboding standing above you, eyes blazing with anger, brows furrowed in frustration.

‘you’re going to go to your room, and i’ll be there in a minute,’ he commands, dragging you to the door. ‘i want you to think for a minute, about what i’ve asked, and then decide what to do with yourself. you can do that, can’t you?’

his mouth twists into a frown, and you nod, stifling the drunken guffaw that was threatening to spill from your lips. it was all so ridiculous, the way he told you what to do; like you belonged to him.

‘mhm,’ you mumble, trying to stand properly, relying too much on him to prop you up. you hadn’t realised how toned he was until now, and you felt your core burn a little with desire. had he always been so attractive?

you hated how he acted as if he owned you, but the alcohol had made you feel so heady that all you could think about was him touching you—you wondered what his hands would feel like up your dress; caressing your breasts, perhaps fingering your cunt. you clench your thighs together to quell the feeling, and give him a sleepy nod before stumbling into the bedroom.

—

you’re splayed out like a fool when he enters, wondering why he’s sent you to your room. if he wanted you so badly, why didn’t he just take you on the sofa? it was much more convenient, being two feet from the dining table.

you attempt to prop yourself up with your elbows, and watch as he comes to stand above you again. you stick one foot out, playing with his trousers. when you glance up at him, he isn’t pleased. you’re acting like an idiot; a blubbering fool in fact. he wishes he hadn’t poured you so much wine, but at least you weren’t whining about how you didn’t want him to touch you.

‘have you come to rape me?’ you tease, and he slaps you across the face. his hand leaves a searing mark, and tears spring to your eyes. your skin tingles from the strike, cheek red and blotchy.

‘you’re not funny,’ he scolds, bending down a little to meet you at eye level. ‘you’re going to do exactly as i say, or else i’ll bend you over right now and fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.’

you sink back in fear, feeling his hot breath on your cheek, icy eyes spurning you as they flicker across your face, attempting to register your emotions.

‘okay,’ you mutter, surrendering to him. he’s terrifying like this; broad shouldered and so tall. you feel like if he squeezed you hard enough that he’d break you. it probably wouldn’t take much more to kill you… you wonder if he’s fantasised about that.

‘good girl,’ he smiles, anger disappearing with the first signs of your obedience. he knew it would prove difficult at first, getting a girl he’d kidnapped to obey him, but he didn’t realise you were such a little brat. obedience could always be taught, and you were complying more than you had this morning.

‘now,’ he begins, stroking your hair. ‘i want you to be a good girl and get on your knees. can you do that for me?’

you nod lazily, and slip off the bed, sinking to your knees. the position is uncomfortable, but the clenching of one of his fists is enough to keep you in place.

‘so pretty,’ he coos, thumb ghosting your lips. it’s the first time he’s touched them, and he marvels at how soft they are. he can’t wait until they’re wrapped around his cock, sucking as he fucks your pretty throat.

he slides his thumb inside your mouth, and you open just enough to let your tongue slip over his finger. he groans a little, the softness of your tongue as it coats his thumb in sticky saliva. you’re gazing up at him with wide eyes, wondering what he’ll do next. he’s taking his time, which surprises you. he seemed so adamant before, that you thought he’d have tossed you on the bed and begun his assault immediately.

your knees creak against the floorboard, aching as you attempt to remain in your position. he slips his thumb back out of your mouth, and wipes your sticky saliva all over your lips, smiling as he does so.

‘see, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?’ he inquires, and you shake your head, thumbs twiddling in anticipation.

you watch as he undoes his belt, and then the zipper on his trousers, pulling them down to his ankles with one swift tug. his cock is bulging in his boxers, and your eyes go wide in shock—how big is he? you know so little about men, but you’re not so stupid that you can’t imagine that might hurt if he decide to put it in you.

‘look, you’ve made me so fuckin’ hard’ he gestures, palming his cock through his boxers. you gnaw at your bottom lip, trying to swallow the fear that brims in your stomach.

he groans from his own touch, but doesn’t let his hands linger too much longer. that’s your job now, after all. his little doll to corrupt—he couldn’t wait to bury himself inside your tight little cunt, watching as you squirm under him, acting as if you weren’t enjoying every second of it.

coriolanus pulls his cock out of his boxers, gripping it at the base. you can feel bruises forming in your knees, and you want nothing more than to get up and stumble into bed, letting sleep take you. the wine has an almost hypnotic effect on you.

his cock is staring you right in the face. you’ve never seen one before—it’s large, so big you wince at the thought of him stretching you out. he’s so hard, you can see his tip is red and throbbing, veins pulsing a little angrily.

‘open your mouth,’ he commands, you shake slightly but oblige, and he slides the tip past your lips.

you’re not sure what to do, and so let it sit there while you stare dumbly back up at him. a scowl tugs at his lips, but you wait, wondering what his next instruction will be. you’re so uncertain, and afraid of what he’ll do if you don’t oblige.

‘suck it,’ he instructs, pushing it further in your mouth.

you stretch your lips around it, struggling a little to take him in. he’s not even halfway, but you can feel it push towards the back of your throat. he grunts, feeling your teeth scrape the top of the shaft.

‘teeth,’ coriolanus says with displeasure, and you feel your face turn bright red in shame.

you attempt your best to round out your lips and hollow out your cheeks, finding it easier to take him in. he groans, feeling your saliva coat his cock. you look so pretty on your knees, staring at him; dumbfounded.

‘fuck,’ he cups your chin, giving your cheek a soft stroke as he bucks his hips. ‘you’re so good, taking me in your mouth. you like it, don’t you? being a little whore for me?’

you nod, knowing not what else to do. he thrusts his cock further down your throat, and you choke, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. your mouth waters, tongue running up and down his veiny shaft.

‘use your hands if you can’t take the rest of me in,’ he says, and do you grip him, running one hand up at down. he’s just so big. ‘soon enough you’ll be able to take all of me, i’ll be sure of that.’

your eyes widen with fear, but you do your best to keep sucking, bobbing your head up and down. a few tears trickle down your cheeks, and saliva dribbles as you move your mouth up to the tip.

‘mhm,’ you grunt, sliding it out of your mouth to take a breath. you’re gasping, and he can’t help but laugh; you like like slut, knees shaking, lips puffy from the abrasion.

you press him back against your lips, tongue swirling around the head, watching as he nods in satisfaction. you’re a fast learner—he knew you weren’t entirely stupid. he can feel himself edging closer to his release, what with your tongue teasing the tip of his cock you dip your head back down, and take him back into your throat, gagging again as you attempt to take him down.

in this moment, you find, you want nothing more than to please him. please him because he’s commanding it, and you’re afraid of what he’ll do if you say no. but at the same time, you have to admit to yourself, something sends a shiver down your spine as you take his cock in your mouth, stretching your lips around the sheer size of it, gagging and salivating as he bucks his hips faster.

coriolanus lets out a ragged groan, and you feel something wet and hot spurt onto your tongue. you slide his cock out of your mouth, sticky with saliva, and find that it’s dribbling with spend.

‘swallow,’ he says, grabbing the base of his cock as cum dribbles from the tip.

you swallow the cum that is sitting on your tongue, it’s slightly salty, but you follow his orders. surmising what he’s going to do next, you open your lips again to accept his cock again, and he smiles. you’re learning very fast.

‘good girl,’ he praises, stroking your hair as you lick the rest of the spend up with your tongue, and again, swallow it. ‘you like that, don’t you?’

‘uh huh,’ you murmur, reaching one hand back against the bed to balance yourself. your knees are so sore.

‘you can stand up now,’ he remarks, tucking his cock back into his boxers.

using the bed, you stand up with shaking legs. your knees are tender; some of the skin is sunken in; purple with bruises.

‘look at you,’ he teases, watching as you stumble a little, legs so sore and achy. ‘your knees are so bruised. my poor little doll.’

you are hazy, but feel him push you down against the bed, locking your legs between his. he’s on top of you, biceps flexing as he holds himself up. you look angelic, just waiting for him to fuck you, the way your eyes are wide with want, and the way your lips tremble. you’ve still got cum at the corner of your mouth; and he adores how it looks, how he’s marked you as his own.

coriolanus slides your dress up your thighs, pushing it up to to your waist. the smooth skin is again dancing with goosebumps, his cold hands causing the skin to tingle. he can’t believe how pliant you are in his hands, how you aren’t even protesting. you’re too exhausted to push him off of you, and the aching between your legs is growing stronger as he brushes against your skin.

‘such a good girl,’ he murmurs, rubbing a finger over your clothed cunt. he can’t believe how pretty you look in those panties, the ones he chose and dressed his little doll in.

you gasp, feeling a surge of warmth through your body as he brushes against your clit. it satisfies that urge deep in your belly, and when he pulls his hand away, you find yourself mewling, longing for more.

‘please,’ you gasp out, a strange urgency in your voice.

‘did you like that, hm?’ he asks, ghosting his fingers teasingly over your panties. you’re so wet, you’ve soaked through the lace.

‘yes…’ your voice quivers, and you rut your hips, wanting more.

‘god, you’re so fucking wet,’ he groans, slipping a finger past the hem of your panties and sliding into your slick folds.

you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t believe it. he can barely get one finger inside of you. he knew you’d be innocent, but the way you’d sucked his cock so well made him wonder how many times you’d touched yourself. but he adored the fact that you were all his—that he was the one to corrupt you, branding you as his own.

you whimper from the feeling; it’s deliciously enticing. the way he pushes against your walls, finger arching, reaching for something. he presses a thumb back to your clitoris, causing you to cry out. it’s so sensitive, and he rubs it in circles, watching you writhe about in ecstasy.

his cock is hard again, and he decides he cannot wait much longer. he has to have you. and besides, you haven’t earned your own pleasure yet. it was about what he wanted, after all.

he tugs your panties down, watching as your slick cunt is revealed to him. seeing it up close, beautiful and glistening, makes him catch his breath. he can hardly believe it’s all his.

‘god,’ he breathes, freeing his cock once again, and taking it in his grip.

you watch in anticipation, missing the feeling of his fingers bringing you to your pleasure. you felt like something was unfurling, but as he removed his touch, you were left wanting, cunt clenching around nothing.

you squeeze your eyes shut, and feel him run the tip of his cock in your wet folds; it doesn’t hurt, but you are waiting, gnawing at your lip as you wait for him to slip inside of you. coriolanus presses the head of his cock into your cunt, catching his breath as he slides in.

you’re even tighter around his cock, and he feels your walls trying to compensate for his girth, stretching out around him. your breath is heavy, and you grasp at the sheets. you won’t lie, it hurts. if you weren’t so drunk you probably would have attempted to make him pull out, but he doesn’t seem to likely to be persuaded.

his fingers had been pleasant, and perhaps if you’d met in another way, you might have let him fuck you eventually. at least you could console yourself that he was gorgeous, even if he was probably a psychopath.

he pushes himself further inside, groaning as you take him in. your slickness coats his cock, and when he moves, sliding out a little, his cock is covered in a white ring. he knows you want him; you can’t deny it, the way you have bucked your hips against him, rutting like a desperate animal in heat. it was pathetic, and yet signified to him that you were all his. his perfect girl.

‘so fuckin’ tight,’ he huffs, beginning to fasten his pace. it’s taking in everything not to pound you right away—you’re so delicate, but he needs satisfaction.

you bite your lip, crying out as he thrusts. ‘it hurts,’ you can’t help but say, tears pricking in your eyes.

coriolanus scowls, finding it an insult to him that you’re being so vocal about it hurting. he grabs a fistful of your hair, and tugs you up to meet his gaze. your head tingles, hair strands clinging on for dear life.

‘did i tell you you could complain?’ he taunts, and you shake your head, attempting to pry him away from you. he only pulls at your hair harder, and you feel your chest racking with sobs.

‘please… you’re really hurting me,’ you whimper, but he ignores you.

‘be quiet or i’ll really give you something to scream about!’ he loosens his grip on your hair, your scalp thankful, but his cock is still stretching you out.

you bite your tongue, laying back as he fucks you. god, you really are so tight. his cock is throbbing, and he wonders how many pumps are left before he’ll come, spilling himself inside of you. watching you squirm beneath him, begging him to stop—but really he knew you’d be thanking him soon enough.

you looked so pretty, eyes glistening with tears, lips trembling. he feels you clench around him, your own body involuntarily ceding itself to him. you feel a gush of warmth trickling out of your cunt—not that there’s much room with how big he is.

‘gonna fill you up,’ he grunts; hips bucking with need.

he can’t take it much longer, his thrusts grow lazy, and he lets out a breathy groan. you feel him release inside of you, hot cum spurting against your tight walls. coriolanus wants to keep it inside of you though, reminding you that you’re his, and he’ll do what he wants with you. he ruts lazily into you, cum coating his own cock as he pushes it further inside of you.

‘mhm, you’re so good to me baby,’ he presses a kiss to your cheek.

he notices the tears on your cheeks, and laughs a little. coriolanus wipes them with his fingers, gazing at you with his cruel, icy eyes. he can’t believe you’re crying. what a stupid little slut. you’re so innocent that you can barely take his cock.

‘did i hurt you?’ he taunts, and you nod dumbly.

‘poor thing,’ coriolanus coos. ‘you were just so tight; i couldn’t resist. but you took me so well.’

you feel more tears rolling down your cheek—you’re aching, and as he pulls out of you, you feel his cum dripping down your thigh. it’s so sticky; you want it off of you, but he’s still got you in his hold, thighs trapped between his large legs.

‘are you going to thank me?’ he asks, gripping your chin as you attempt to look away. you’re so ashamed, and your head is pounding from the wine. the overstimulation is washing over you.

‘thank you, sir.’ you offer meekly, voice choked up from all the crying.

a sick grin curls at the corner of his lips, and he carefully thumbs at the dark bruises on your neck; where he had marked you earlier.

‘you’re all mine,’ coriolanus tugs at your bottom lip, coercing your mouth to open.

he spits inside, and you feel it hit the back of your throat. there’s something so animalistic, so primal about the way he does it. you know you don’t belong to yourself anymore. you live to please him.

‘now swallow it; show me that you can obey me,’ he commands.

you do so, feeling the hot spit trickle down your throat. the tiredness nags at your eyes, and you find yourself blinking rapidly.

coriolanus smiles, watching as you learn to become more obedient. soon he won’t even have to coax you. you’ll just do as he says. get on your knees when you see he’s had a long day at work, spread your legs when his cock is hard. you’ll be at his beck and call—the perfect woman for him.

‘good girl.’ he says, and all you can do is smile, knowing there’s no way out of this. you belong to him now.

—

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daisies-daydreams · 11 months ago

Note

I’m in desperate need of a desperate Miguel who worships the very ground his wife walks on 😔🙏 BRO IS HUGE AND I JUST KNOW. I JUST KNOW HE WOULD LOVE TO BE LIKE A CAT AND MAKE BISCUITS ON HIS CHUBBY WIFEY. And the ASSets are just sprinkles on the cake. So let’s just say chubby wifey puts on a whole cute outfit and her hair is cute and everything. They go on a date and Yk she gets stares and compliments..BUT MIGUELS POSSESSIVE ASS IS LIKE ‘keep looking..keep saying stuff..BUT THIS ASS IS MINE’ Yk. And then it ends with Miguel bending us over at a 90 degree angle and possible 180. How does he do it idk. Science.

Adore You (Miguel O’Hara x Plus-Size!Wife!Reader)

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x Plus-Size!Wife!Reader Category: Fluff/Smut (18+) Warnings: Jealous!Miguel, Swearing, Manhandling, Oral Sex (F!Receiving), Vaginal Fingering, Mating Press, Full Nelson, Unprotected P in V Sex (You know the drill), Rough Sex, Slight Exhibitionism, Creampies, I'm Not Fluent in Spanish Word Count: 5.5k+

A/N: Hi hi! Thank you very much for your request! I love husband!Miguel (that man has my whole heart I swear). I hope you enjoy! 💕

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI

The valet’s cheeks flushed the second you stepped out of the car.

“G-Good evening ma’am,” the thin man stammered. You flashed him a friendly smile as you smoothed your hands over your dress, your breasts nearly spilling out from the tight-fitting clothing as you adjusted yourself. Your eyes sparkled as you looked up at the luxurious restaurant before you - a large marble building laced with ribbons of ivy. You smiled when your husband, Miguel, came beside you and gingerly laid a hand on your hip.

“Happy anniversary, cariño,” your beloved whispered with a bright grin [honey]. You beamed and turned around, your hands gliding over his muscular forearms. Miguel’s eyes softened as you raised yourself on your tiptoes and puckered your lips. He smiled and dipped his head down to capture your lips in a warm, tender embrace. His brows furrowed when the valet cleared his throat.

“Right,” your husband muttered as he handed the man his keys. The valet thanked him before climbing into the large, black sports car. You squeaked as Miguel’s hand glided from your hip to the globe of your ass.

“Mi amor,” you whispered loudly as your cheeks flushed [My love]. Your husband chuckled.

“What? I’m just escorting my lovely wife inside,” he mused with a wink.

“Mhm,” you hummed with raised brows. Miguel pecked your forehead as he kept his hand over your bum while leading you inside. You looked around in awe at the several marble pillars that lined the walls of the restaurant.

"O'Hara, party of two," your husband said to the hostess at the front desk. The blonde woman nodded before grabbing two thick menus.

"Please follow me!" she chirped. You smiled at your beloved as the two of you were escorted to the back patio. The sound of piano music combined with the casual chatter of the guests filled your ears as you stepped back outside. You gasped when you saw a table set by the balcony: a bottle of wine neatly placed on the side, a card resting on a plate, and rose petals sprinkled across the white table cloth.

"One of our servers will be out momentarily. Enjoy your evening!" the woman said as she clasped her hands together.

"Thank you," you grinned before she turned and walked back inside. Your heart warmed as Miguel took your smaller hand into his.

“Do you like it?” he asked before kissing each and every one of your knuckles. You swallowed the lump in your throat as you nodded.

“I love it. Muchas gracias, mi vida,” you sniffed [Thank you so much, my life]. Your husband smiled and cupped your cheek.

"De nada, mi amor," he whispered [You’re welcome]. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as Miguel stepped over and pulled out your chair.

"Mi señora," he hummed [My lady].

"Gracias, mi caballero," you giggled as you took your seat [Thank you, my gentleman]. Miguel kissed the top of your head just as your waiter strolled up to the table.

“Welcome to Le Jardin de Marbre! My name is Mark and I’ll be taking care of you this...fine evening,” the dark-haired man lilted as his eyes grazed over your form. You felt Miguel shift behind you before Mark's smile fell. He cleared his throat while your husband took his seat. “Would the two of you care for any other drinks besides your wine?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, I'll have a water, please,” you replied. Miguel simply nodded with a short grunt. Mark grinned before popping open the bottle of red wine. You gasped as the cork flew over your head and over the balcony.

“Ah, I’ll get it later,” the waiter laughed nervously. You giggled while Miguel’s furrowed his thick brows. Mark leaned close to you while he tilted the neck of the bottle over your sparkling glass.

“Might I say you look wonderful this evening, ma’am,” the bold man whispered. You flushed a little as you gazed back down at the menu.

“Th-Thank you,” you muttered. You blinked as you shifted your gaze between your glass and the bottle. “Um, that’s good,” you piped up. Mark looked down to see that he’s nearly filled your entire glass.

“Sorry about that,” he said with an apologetic smile. Miguel raised a brow as he poured his drink next. Mark's hands shook as your husband's frown slowly shifted into a deep scowl. The server placed the bottle down before stepping back.

“I’ll go get your waters,” Mark said before quickly turning on his heel. You took a small sip of your wine, the slightly sweet flavor washing over your taste buds as you turned your attention to the card in front of you.

“Would you like me to open it now?” you asked.

“I'll leave it up to you,” he smiled before taking a sip of his drink. Your heart skipped a beat as you carefully ripped the envelope open. You pulled the card out with a giddy smile as you straightened in your seat. You smiled as you opened it, a small postcard slipping out. You eyed it briefly before your attention was stolen by the words in front of you:

“Mi Cielo,

Words can’t describe how much love I have for you. Every day I’m thankful to have you as my wife-my beloved. You make my heart glow when I wake up next to you every morning, when I get home from work, when you hold me after I’ve had a long day. You are so precious, (Y/N), and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with someone as incredible as you.

Te amo mucho, mi vida. Feliz aniversario.

Sincerely,

Tu gran oso”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as your bottom lip trembled.

“Lo siento, mi amor. I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Miguel cooed as he brushed his thumb over your cheek [I’m sorry, my life]. You shook your head.

“No, it’s okay. I’m just so, so happy to have someone as amazing as you in my life,” you beamed. Miguel’s eyes softened as he slipped his hand into yours again.

“Gracias, bella,” he murmured [Thank you, beautiful]. “Did you see the little gift I left in there?” Miguel asked with a sparkle in his eye. You glanced down at your lap to see the postcard staring up at you. Your heart raced as you picked it up, admiring the picturesque image of Niagara Falls. You curiously flipped it over.

“Make sure to bring your raincoat ♥️”

You gasped and looked up.

“You mean…” your voice trailed off. Miguel smiled brightly and nodded.

“I was even able to book the same suite. It’s only for a long weekend, but I know those few days will be well spent with you, mi vida,” he cooed as he kissed your hand. You couldn’t stop yourself from getting up and wrapping your arms around your husband, your heart brimming with joy.

You’ll never forget that day he took you to Niagara Falls. It was a complete surprise when Miguel knelt down on the deck of your hotel room, the rumble of the falls filling your ears as he asked you to spend the rest of your life with him.

“Te amo mucho, gran oso,” you sniffed [I love you very much, big bear]. Miguel cupped your cheek before pressing another tender kiss to your lips.

“Te amo mucho, conejita,” Miguel beamed [I love you very much, little bunny]. You bit your lip as you pulled back and took your seat. Your heart pounded against your sternum as you pulled out the small box from your purse.

“My gift isn’t as big,” you said a little sheepishly. Miguel parted his lips as you handed the box to him.

“Oh, bebé. You know I’ll love any gift you give me,” he cooed [baby]. He leaned in closer. “Size doesn’t matter, right?” Miguel smirked. You rolled your eyes and laughed.

“Right…it’s how you use it,” you reply with a wry grin. Miguel shook his head as he chuckled.

“I love your quick wit, conejita,” your beloved hummed. You leaned forward on your elbows as you watched Miguel start to unwrap his gift. You bit your lip as he pulled the lid off with a quiet "pop". His eyes lit up when he saw a silver watch glisten beneath the dim candlelight. You squeezed your hands in your lap as he slipped it out of the box.

“Oh, hermosa,” Miguel breathed as he slid the watch against his wrist [beautiful]. You bit your lip a little harder as he admired it. “The very first gift you gave me,” he murmured softly. You nodded as you rubbed the back of your neck.

“I know you said that you’ve been meaning to get it fixed for a while, so I stopped by the jewelers last month,” you said. Miguel clasped the watch over his wrist, smiling as he observed the hands of the little clock tick by.

“Thank you so much, (Y/N),” Miguel smiled as he leaned forward. Your heart skipped a beat as you met him in the middle, your lips slowly caressing each other in a loving embrace. You sighed as he cupped your cheek, your heart fluttering as his warm lips sweetly brushed over yours. You pulled your head back when someone nearby cleared their throat.

“Your water, ma'am,” Mark said as he placed your glass onto the table. "Sir," he said to Miguel with a bit more flat tone. You slumped back in your chair before realizing you haven't even looked at the menu.

"We still need a few minutes," you said to your waiter.

"Of course," Mark said with a bright grin before excusing himself. You and Miguel relaxed as you opened your menus. You smiled at the way the candlelight flickered in Miguel’s soft, brown eyes.

Tonight couldn’t have been more perfect.

+++

You patted your napkin over your mouth before sinking into your seat with a satisfied smile.

“That was the best food I’ve had in a while,” you sighed happily. Your husband quirked one of his thick, dark brows.

“Even better than my cooking?” Miguel asked. Your eyes widened.

“Oh, um, well-“ your husband started to chuckle.

“Don’t worry, hermosa. I know my cooking’s terrible,” he snickered. You giggled.

“I mean, I was going to say something…” you lilted. Miguel placed a hand over his chest as if cradling a fresh wound.

“Ouch,” he replied.

“You said it, not me,” you shrugged before taking another sip of your wine. Miguel chuckled, his eyes half lidded as they raked over your form.

“I think this wine’s making us both a bit too bold,” Miguel smirked. Your cheeks warmed as he gently reached beneath the table and laid his hand on your knee. You bit your lip as a wave of heat swept through your core.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” you replied with a low whisper. Just as Miguel tilted his head and leaned forward, Mark’s shadow loomed over the two of you.

“Your bill, sir,” he said as he set the paper down on the table. Your love made no effort to hide his annoyance as he took the receipt.

“Thanks,” your husband said. He pulled out his credit card after the server briskly walked away. Miguel sighed and rose from his seat. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered with quick peck to your cheek. You grinned and watched as he walked back into the restaurant.

+++

Miguel hummed as he strolled towards the restroom. It’s been so long since his heart has felt this full. Your smile, your laugh, the smooth, gentle touch of your lips against his all made him feel more complete. Miguel wore a bright grin as he pushed the restroom door wide open.

“Did you see the juicy ass on that chick sitting next to the balcony?” Mark loudly whispered. Miguel froze and lingered in the doorway when he saw two waiters at the urinals.

“Dude, I know. I’d love a piece of that cake…if you know what I mean,” the other server chortled. Miguel narrowed his eyes. Okay, there’s a lot of people out on the patio. Surely they weren’t-

“And that tight, black dress-fuck. Can’t imagine how those pretty tits would look while she’s-“

Both of them whipped their heads around when Miguel let the door slam behind him, a deadly glint flickering in his eyes as his jaw tightened.

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he said while straightening his shoulders. Mark frowned as his eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

“O-Oh,” he simply replied as he awkwardly shuffled in place. Miguel tilted his head, his muscles bulging beneath his crisp suit.

“H-Hey man. We didn’t mean any harm,” the other waiter said as he hastily zipped up his pants. Miguel scoffed and narrowed his eyes.

“Well, I suggest you speak about my wife with much more respect-or any woman for that matter,” he spat. Their faces grew cherry red as Miguel tugged on his jacket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I’m going to go home and make love to my beautiful wife,” Miguel said as he tugged on his jacket. He scowled as he turned on his heel and stomped back outside.

+++

You blinked as Miguel strolled up to the table. To say he looked enraged would’ve been an understatement: his nostrils were flared, shoulders tensed and face glowing a bright cherry red.

“Miguel, what’s wrong?” you asked as you placed a hand on his large arm. Your husband paused as he glanced towards the glass doors. His eyes became half-lidded as he took your hand into his before pulling you up. You squeaked as he reached down and cupped his other palm against the globe of your ass.

“M-Miguel,” you said in a loud whisper as you nervously glanced around. You could’ve sworn you saw him smirk as the waiter rushed up to your table. Mark’s hands trembled as he threw the credit card and receipt down.

“Thankyouhavealovelyevening!” he squeaked before running back into the building. You furrowed your brows before grabbing your things.

"I wonder what happened to him?" you wondered aloud as you slipped your cards into your purse. Your face glowed with heat as Miguel squeezed your supple ass with more force before guiding you across the patio.

“Miguel, people are looking,” you whispered as your eyes scanned the crowd.

“Let them look,” he replied with a low rumble as he opened the door for you. You tilted your head down as waiters, patrons, even the receptionist stared as your husband escorted you to the front of the building.

Miguel didn’t even need to say anything as the two of you made your way towards the valet stand, the man’s face beet red as you approached. He quickly snatched your keys and rushed to get your car, nearly tripping over the curb in the process. You glanced up at your beloved, his face twisted with even more fury than before. You bit your lip as you turned around and rested your hands on his chest.

“Miguel, bebé, please tell me what’s wrong,” you pleaded while rubbing your palms against his white button-up. Miguel’s shoulders remained stiff as you rubbed his chest, your bottom lip poking out every so slightly. "¿Por favor?" you asked [Please?]. He frowned and glanced away as the valet rolled up with your car and scrambled towards you.

“H-Have a good evening,” the man said, his face completely drained of all color. You gave the valet an apologetic smile before you slid into the black, polished car. The tension on the ride home was nearly unbearable. Miguel’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he kept his eyes on the road, his large hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned pale. The sound of soft jazz playing on the radio did little to ease the knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.

Did you do something wrong? Did he actually hate the gift you gave him? He put so much effort into booking the restaurant and the place the two of you stayed where he proposed to you…and what did you give him? A repaired watch.

You felt completely deflated by the time Miguel pulled up to your apartment complex.

“We’re home,” he said in a subdued voice. You nodded, your heart sinking into your stomach as you unbuckled your seatbelt. Your shoes clacked against the sidewalk as the two of you made your way to the front door.

“Evening, Mr. and Mrs. O’Hara,” the doorman Ben said.

"Evening, Ben," you said with a small smile. Your throat tightened when Miguel wrapped one of his bulky arms around you and pulled you to his side. You frowned as the two of you stepped inside, his grip unyielding as you walked into the elevator. You felt Miguel loosen his hold on you, allowing you some space to step back.

“Miguel, what-” you gasped when he pinned you against the wall and captured your mouth in a wet, sloppy kiss. Your breasts rubbed against your strapless bra as you felt him slide his tongue past your lips, his wet muscle tangling with yours as something hard poked at the inside of your thigh. You panted when he pulled back, his pupils blown and drinking in your curvaceous form.

“Y-You’re not mad at me?” you blinked. Your husband furrowed his dark brows.

“Mad? Why would I be mad at you, mi ángel?” Miguel purred as he rested his hands on your hips [my angel]. You gripped the lapels of his navy blue jacket as he began to grind his hard cock against your clothed pussy. You bit your lip as a pulse of arousal shot through your core.

“Te deseo, Mami,” your love groaned [I want you, Mommy]. You gasped as he rubbed his hard, throbbing cock against your crotch while he kneaded the supple flesh of your waist. “God, you have no idea how much I wanted to rip this dress off your body and fuck you right on that patio,” he rumbled and nipped at the shell of your ear. You shivered as Miguel trailed his lips over your pulse.

“Miguel,” you panted as he ground his hips against you, your clit throbbing against the fabric of your silky panties. Your husband pulled back as soon as the elevator dinged.

“Mi amor, por fa - te necesito,” he husked as he dipped his hand beneath your chin and tilted your head up [My love, please - I need you]. You felt your inhibitions quickly dissolve as a wave of heat pulsed through your core.

“Soy todo tuyo,” you whispered as you laid your hands over his chest [I’m yours]. You moaned as he bared his teeth against your neck and slid his hands over your plump ass. You squeaked and ducked your head into his broad shoulder when he slapped your rear, the slight sting sending ripples of arousal through your heat.

“I’m going to make sure you never forget this night,” Miguel growled as he kneaded your supple cheeks in his massive palms. Your heart raced as he picked you up by your waist and carried you into the penthouse. You dropped your purse on the tiled floor as you threaded your fingers through his dark, silky locks. Miguel groaned as your lips met in a passionate dance, your tongues gliding across one another with a soft squelch. You hungrily devoured each other’s mouths in a heated kiss as he kicked the bedroom door open. You squeaked at the sudden noise and tensed in his arms.

“Lo siento. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Miguel whispered, his plump lips dancing over yours [I’m sorry].

“It’s okay,” you murmured gently, your hands falling down to wrap around his thick neck. Your husband's eyes raked across your body as he laid you down on the plush, king-sized bed. You dug your nails into the back of his neck as he suckled over the nape of your neck, his deft fingers rolling the skirt of your dress over your hips. He sucked in a sharp breath when he laid eyes on your clothed sex.

“See what you do to me, bebé?” Miguel groaned before taking your hand and trailing it down his shirt. Your breath hitched when you felt the heavy, hard cock twitch against your palm. You bit your lip and mewled as your love nipped at your soft skin.

“Papi, fuck,” you gasped as he slid your thong to the side and rubbed at your slick, puffy folds with his digits. You husband rumbled as he spread your pussy lips apart with his thick fingers.

"Mm, tan mojada," Miguel groaned with a smirk [so wet].

"Please, Miguel," you swallowed thickly as you spread your legs as much as you could. Your husband licked his lips as he locked eyes with you.

"Don't worry, baby. Just need to make sure you're stretched out for my cock first," he rumbled. Your mouth opened in a silent moan when he suddenly sank two of his thick digits inside your tight, weeping hole.

“Oh my God!” you shivered and gripped the sheets as he curled his fingertips against your sensitive, spongey g-spot. Your gummy walls clenched around his two digits as Miguel chuckled. He parted his lips as he massaged your hip, his eyes lit with a deep, primal hunger.

“That’s it, bebé. Keep making those pretty noises for me,” Miguel grunted as relentlessly thrusted his fingers inside your plush cunt. Your eyes widened as he kissed down your chest and stomach before hovering his lips over your mound.

“S-Shit!” you moaned and arched your back as your husband dipped his head down and eagerly suckled on your bundle of nerves. Miguel grunted against your juicy slit, your arousal smearing over his broad chin as you ground your hips against his face. “M-Miguel, baby,” you groaned as your love flattened his warm tongue over your engorged bud.

“Tan bueno - sabe tan bien,” he growled against your wet folds before lapping at your clit [So good - tastes so good]. Tears of pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes as Miguel continued to fuck your tight pussy with his thick fingers.

“Bebé,” you choked as you felt his digits stretch you out while he swirled his tongue around your bundle of nerves. Your jaw went slack when he curled his fingers inside you again, letting the intoxicating pressure linger for much longer.

“Make a mess on my face, Mami,” your husband urged with a low growl. A high-pitched cry left your swollen lips as Miguel eagerly pumped his fingers in and out of your tight, slick hole, the tension in your lower belly growing tighter and tighter.

“S-Sí Papi - just like that,” you encouraged him as you fisted the crisp bedsheets. Miguel groaned as your arousal dripped down his chin and neck, his tongue painting bold, wet stripes from your stuffed hole and all the way up to your clit. Your eyes rolled back as he pumped his fingers even faster while puckering his lips around your bundle of nerves.

“M-Miguel!” you squealed when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving your hole puckering and begging for more. A bolt of pleasure struck through you when he started to hastily unbuckle his belt.

“Lo siento, mi vida. I can’t wait anymore,” Miguel growled as he shoved his slacks and briefs down in one swift motion. Your cunt fluttered when you saw his thick, heavy cock spring free, a thick bead of precum adorning his flush tip. Your husband's eyes remained on your dripping cunt as he shoved his jacket and white button-up onto the floor. Your mouth watered as you stared at the mortal Adonis standing in front of you, his rippling muscles tensing as he pumped his girthy shaft.

You gasped as he quickly climbed on top of you and cupped his palms against the back of your knees. You squealed when Miguel pushed your legs towards your shoulders, your puffy tummy poking out as he nearly folded you in half.

“Ah!” you cried as he slammed his cock inside you in one fluid thrust. Your legs tensed in his grip as you tried to adjust to the sudden fullness inside you, his girth stretching your tight hole with a delicious burn.

“Eyes on me, conejita,” Miguel murmured, his hot breath falling over your face and neck. You glanced through the sheet of tears that blurred your vision, your body quaking with pleasure as you felt the head of his cock kiss your cervix.

“I want you to make as much noise as you'd like. Don't worry about the neighbors...for tonight, it's just the two of us. Okay, Mami?” Miguel rasped before nipping the shell of your ear. You whined as your walls ached for the sweet drag of his veiny cock. You nodded vigorously as you bit your lip, the heaviness of his cock deliciously weighing in your tight hole.

"Such a good little wife," Miguel grunted as he pulled his taut hips back. Your heart skipped a beat as Miguel rested his forehead against yours before he sheathed his cock down to the hilt.

“Fuck!" you choked as you felt the slight sting of his cock molding your walls to its shape.

“God, I love how your tight, perfect pussy grips me,” Miguel murmured as he rocked his hips back and forth. His breath hitched as your walls squeezed his veiny shaft. Your cheeks burned as he wrapped his lips around yours while he thrusted into you at a rapid, sloppy pace.

“M-Miguel!” you screamed and wrung your hands in the sheets as your lover pounded into your cunt, each drag of his cock deliciously stretching you out more and more. You squealed as Miguel squeezed the back of your knees, his balls slapping against your plump asscheeks. You shivered as he released a deep growl, his cock throbbing and twitching between your swollen, gummy walls.

“R-Right there Papi!” you yelled as the bulbous head of his cock perfectly grazed over your g-spot. You threw your head back as your husband leaned forward and wrapped his lips around yours while he desperately pounded into your raw cunt.

“So good, so good to me," he panted. You moaned as you felt your cunt already starting to clamp down on his shaft.

“M-Miguel, wait! I’m gonna-” you were cut off when he pressed his lips to your neck, his hips snapping against yours and making your thick asscheeks clap loudly.

“Cum for me, conejita,” he grunted. Your bottom lip trembled as the tight knot in your belly suddenly snapped.

“MIGUEL!” you screamed as your slick walls clenched around his girth. Miguel’s thrusts stuttered as your pussy squeezed his cock in a vice grip, your slick gushing past the stuffed seam of your raw, tight cunt.

“Mierda,” your husband breathed as you unraveled beneath him [Shit]. You babbled as your cunt pulsed; every contraction sending an overwhelming wave of bliss over your trembling form. You moaned as Miguel continued to thrust his cock inside your weeping cunt, your arousal sticking to the front of his thighs as he groaned above you. Hot tears rolled down your puffy cheeks when Miguel suddenly pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach.

“Miguel?” you breathed as your heart raced. Your squealed as your husband pulled you up and wrapped his arms beneath your knees.

“Unphase the blinds to level zero,” Miguel rumbled. Your eyes widened as he lifted you up and immediately sheathed you down on his stiff cock, your slick pussy swallowing his length whole.

“¡P-Papi!” you gasped as he carried you over to your wide bedroom windows, the holographic blinds slowly fading to reveal the neon glow of Nueva York. Your thighs shook in his bulky arms as he froze just inches from the window. Your heart raced as you gazed at the lewd reflection of yourself in the crystal glass, your hot breath fogging against the clear surface.

Your jaw went slack as Miguel started to thrust into your wet heat, your gushing cunt squelching with each snap of his hips.

“Look down there, mi amor. Look at all those men who will never be able to fuck you like I do,” he rasped as he bounced you on his shaft. Your eyes glazed over as you gazed down at the streets below. You’d be more embarrassed had you not just cum on your husband’s dick…but there was a tiny part of you that indulged in being claimed by your beloved. “They’ll never get to hear your pretty moans, feel your soft, perfect pussy grip their cocks,” Miguel growled as he nipped at your neck. You dug your nails into his forearm as he pounded into your cunt with no restraint, his breathing growing ragged and arms tensing beneath your legs.

“Say you’re mine, (Y/N),” he groaned before puckering his lips over your pulse. You moaned as shook in his hold as you tried to swim through the haze of your ecstasy.

“I-I’m yours, Papi!” you screamed. You gasped as Miguel raked his teeth over your hickey.

“Who do you belong to?!” he snarled. You sobbed as your cunt greedily sucked in his cock with.

“I belong to you, Miguel!” you moaned loudly. You mewled as your arousal leaked onto the floor.

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” your husband groaned as he kissed your cheek before thrusting even faster.

“Mmmm-Miguel,” you slurred. You screamed silently as he sank his teeth into your shoulder, the slight sting mixing with the intoxicating pleasure that rippled through your core. Your throat tightened as his cock dragged along your soft walls, your slick dripping down the inside of your thighs and gliding over your jiggling asscheeks.

“Gonna cum for me again, hm?” Miguel husked before tracing the tip of his tongue across the fresh bite mark.

“S-Sí, Papi,” you whined. You felt him smirk against your shoulder as he kept you in front of the window, your heart racing at the thought of someone seeing the two of you in such an intimate position. You moaned as his thrusts began to falter, his hot breath falling over your exposed skin.

“M-Mig-!” you shouted as your vision was flooded with white.

“Yes, that’s it Mami. S-Soak this fat fucking cock with your sweet cum,” your husband rasped as you threw your head against his shoulder.

“Fuck,” you sobbed as a wave of pleasure rushed through your heat, your pussy squirting all over his massive, swollen cock. Miguel groaned as he squeezed your legs.

“So close,” he hissed through gritted teeth as his cock twitched inside your fluttering walls. You gripped your hands over his as your body jiggled with every powerful snap of his hips.

“Por fa Papi…fill me,” you whispered breathily. Miguel grunted against your neck as he slammed you down on his cock for the last time. Both of you moaned as he painted your slick walls white with thick, heavy ropes of his seed. You felt Miguel shiver behind you as his cock throbbed, his warm cum splashing against your swollen cervix.

“Yes,” Miguel growled deeply as he kept your back pressed to his chest. You swallowed thickly and shuddered as his cock began to soften inside you, thick beads of his cum swelling and dripping down the curve of your ass. The air was filled with your deep, heavy breaths, your bodies coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

“That was…wow,” you didn’t even have the mental capacity to describe what just happened. Miguel chuckled softly and nodded.

“Yeah,” he grinned and pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. You squealed as he gave your legs another gentle squeeze. “Activate blinds to ten,” Miguel called out. The windows soon fogged up with the holographic blinds again as he took a step back. Your eyelids began to grow heavy as he carried you to bed. You whimpered when your giant husband laid both of you down, his cock softening between your raw, oversensitive walls. You sighed as you felt his hands mindlessly wander across your body, his lips grazing your neck every so often.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Miguel murmured as his lips dancing over your pulse. You sighed.

“Actually, could we just stay here for a little bit?” you asked and slightly turned his face. The corners of your husband’s eyes crinkled as he gave you a gentle smile.

“Of course, mi amor,” he purred and pecked your lips. You returned his grin as he kept you against his chest, his large, bulky arms wrapped around you like a cozy cocoon. You kissed his bulging bicep before tracing your fingertips across the many dips and curves of his arm. Miguel sighed as he nuzzled his face against your neck, his warm breath tickling over your pulse.

“Te amo mucho, (Y/N),” your beloved whispered before gently kissing your cheek. You sighed as you relished in the way his lips lingered on your skin while you closed your eyes.

“Te amo mucho, Miguel,” you murmured softly.

----

Thank you for reading! 💖

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keeksandgigz · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 2: Au coeur des ténèbres

Part 2 of Words are Futile Devices- A Steddie x Reader Call Me By Your Name AU

Summary: As some weird feelings come to light, you begin questioning your initial opinion of your two guests

cw: some suggestive content, reader's vivid smutty imagination. reader is a bit less of a cunt, brief description of insecurities (nothing too detailed), slut shaming if you squint, kissing, a lot of internal angst, overall a lot of words I'm sorry

word count: 3k

author's notes: I'm so sorry for the wait, but its here!!!

Heart of Darkness laid in your lap as you sat in your father’s study. Eddie typed away at his desk, while Steve looked at some old archeology dissertations from past students. You were often forced to sit in and listen to the guest’s nonsensical jumble of words and phrases in an attempt to sound smart.

You had been scolded by your father twice for trying to interact with Eddie, who seemed laser- focused on the parchment in front of him, the metallic clicking of the keys of the typewriter in the faint background of the stuffy old study. Giovanna had come by twice with a pitcher full of apricot juice from the garden, which the two had gulped down without giving much thought. You saw the way the juice dribbled down Eddie’s chin, how he lifted his thumb to clean off the mess, then wiped his finger on his black cutoff shirt and proceeded to continue typing. His fingers flexed and tensed in between typing, thick and sturdy as he stretched and massaged the palm of his hand with his ringed fingers.

Steve sat on the dark green couch, legs spread, his shorts riding up, up, up bunching at the crease between his thighs and his groin. One of his legs bounced as he reviewed case studies, artifact pictures, lip trapped in between his pearly teeth.

There wasn’t a whisper of a breeze, or a draft, but you shivered nonetheless. The two could’ve been patronizing and condescending, but that didn’t take away from the fact that you saw the way their skin, not yet tan from the sunlight, rippled with sweat at each whisper of a movement in the stuffy study. Steve’s leg bounced as he studied the pictures projected on the walls, his already short shorts riding up with each jump of his leg, exposing more and more of his thigh, you blushed.

This charged silence broke once Steve opened his mouth. He held up another glass full of apricot juice.

“What’s apricot in Italian again?” he asked, wiping remnants of juice from his chin.

“Albicocca” your father said, smiling. He went on a rant about the etymology of the word, which you really couldn’t care about. A fun little rehearsed bit he did every year, the students’ impressed faces beamed up the stuffy study.

“If I can beg your pardon, what you said is slightly wrong” it was Eddie. Surprise tinged your face in hearing him speak up. In the two days that you’ve known him his vocabulary was littered with grateful praises and quiet musings, here it had a slight tinge of pride.

“It’s uh— actually the Greek etymology for apricot comes from Latin. It’s praecoquum, then praecox, then precokia and then we get the Arab al- barquq— albicocca” he mused in a butchered italian, but all you could hear in his observations is just cock, cock, cock. He sounded nervous delivering his lecture, almost as if he was scared of getting kicked out for defying an authority of mind like your father.

Instead, he looked at him with an impressed smile, and Eddie blushed a bit. Steve delivered a friendly pat on the boy’s shoulder.

Not as lucky as many.

Later that day, when Steve stole your friends for a volleyball game on your lawn, you watched his sweaty body, clad in a blue swimsuit, shoulders flexing and shining in the early afternoon sunlight jump up and duck down along with the worn ball that keeps jumping between both sides of the net.

Eddie sat on the lawn, in the shade. His pearly complexion having acquired just the most undetectable sheen of red that threw the boy in a panicked frenzy earlier that morning. He was sorting through loose pages of what appears to be his manuscript.

“Why aren’t you playing instead of staring at me?” his head perked up from the typed up pages, and you could feel yourself heat up. Not even the sun could hide the tinge of pink that colored your cheeks.

“I could say the same thing about you” you stammered out, snippy and embarrassed.

All he could do was chuckle as he motioned his papers towards the book you had ignored sitting in your lap. “I like that book. Heart of Darkness? One of the few books I actually liked when I was in English Lit in high school” he smiled. A smile that seemed genuine, much different than the courteous smiles he had reserved for your mom and dad.

“And that was when the dinosaurs still roamed the Earth?” you curled your nose.

A sardonic laugh escaped the boy.

“Very funny. And how old are you again?” he scooted his butt closer to you, his loose papers now forgotten on the lawn. The proximity made you a bit nervous.

“Twnety-one” you breathed out “I wouldn’t give you any less than fifty- six” you nudged his shoulder and he laughed.

“Shouldn’t you be at some snooty college party right now? I dunno, traveling the world with some sorority sister?”

“And miss this gorgeous sight to behold?” your tone dripped of sarcasm as you pointed at Steve, mid jump into grabbing the ball.

Right as you said that Steve missed, ending up on the grass, a pained moan followed. Eddie isn’t given any time to answer you, stopping in his tracks and to run and pick up his friend to escort him where you were. You couldn’t care less about the physical ineptitude of your guest— if there wasn’t any blood or bones sticking out it wasn’t worth worrying.

“Pass me some water, please?” asked Eddie.. You complied, rolling your eyes as he began kneading the injured boy’s shoulder. He hissed at the first swipes of the long- haired boy’s hands— big and firm. You let down a short swallow.

“Steve you’re tight— you stressed?” Eddie asked, squeezing the juncture between the boy’s neck and shoulder.

“I’m fine Ed” he smiled up at the boy, but instead of moving, Eddie dug his fingers deeper into the golden flesh of the honey- eyed boy.

“Here, feel” he grabbed your hand and placed it on Steve’s warm shoulder— firm and freckled, still wet with sweat. “Isn’t he a bit tight?” Much to your shock you retreated your hand, but the feeling of the smoothness of his tan skin seemed to be encased in the fiber of the palm of your hand.

“Yeah, I guess” you muttered, going back to Heart of Darkness.

Dissatisfied with your curt and cold response, Eddie had your friend Chiara feel the back of the injured boy, whose fingers seemed to linger along Steve’s back for long, almost mapping every mole and mark to store in her mind for later. She was an artist, and an artist’s eye was never wrong.

Steve smiled at the girl, and in return she giggled. Once she left you closed the book in your lap once again.

“Careful, she’s gonna try to draw you naked” you teased Steve, whose eyes seemed to be glued on the way your friend scampered around the lawn.

“Like I’m complaining” he retorted with a cheeky smile, and that made you feel weird.

What did she have that you didn’t? Why didn’t he look at you like that?

You cursed the way you seemed to act too much like a grown up, the way you took yourself too seriously to even participate in a dumb volleyball game.

Maybe you should’ve played.

Taking your towel and your book with you, you made your way back into the house, almost stomping in protest, at the way the honey- eyed boy didn’t seem to spare you a cheeky smile or a wandering eye. Didn’t matter that they both seemed like two idiots who only cared about getting the experience from your father’s expertise, exploiting and squeezing the knowledge out of the overripe peach of his brain, which seemed to become less and less awake with every year that passed.

You disliked the way that Steve seemed to want to make a pass at each and every one of your friends, and them letting him. With his rude and pushy American ways of wanting to make everything his, his property, his Don John-ish manners that made him expect something from everyone he came into contact with.

You hated Eddie’s arrogance in his surveying and picking your brain, making the six year difference between you two seem like a chasm, with his snobbish knowledge of literally every book that sat on your bookcase. Fingers rubbing his stubbly, boyish chin as he examined each and every shelf, spine, title. He always seemed to have something to say with you, wanting to prove himself to the whole world, confirm that he wasn’t just some trailer trash who had finally made it out of the few acres of overpopulated land. You could not remotely fathom how those two were so close together, coming from such different backgrounds.

However, as you tried to silently beg for Steve and Eddie’s attention, that was seemingly anywhere else but on you, like an old, neglected dog, you seemed to realize that, in some twisted sort of way, you wanted to fall victim to their charm.

Like many of your friends did, much bolder, some older, and more confident than you had been, in the past years, not hesitating to pounce on your guests with hunger similar to a hyena. The hunger of a repressed teenage girl who had just reached adulthood, craving everything that came with it– even risque summer romances with men who had traveled around the sun for much longer than they had. Throwing their plump, glowing bodies on the dance floor around the sturdy necks of your father’s students. With every year that passed, you could not escape the vicious circle of your giggling friends, who competed over who would get to lure your guests into their greedy grasp first, and you’d all hear about it the morning after.

You’d heard about gorgeous but incredibly incapable men, well- endowed, but short, much older and more experienced. There was something about their stories, the lightheartedness in their laughs, as if playing with these men’s hearts and minds had become a game, that made you feel like a different person. Coming home and contemplating on leaving the communicating bathroom door open, so that your guest could catch you sleeping on your stomach without any shorts on, or adjusting your swimsuit at the pool right as they passed by to read on the lawn. You never brought yourself to act upon these contemplations, too scared of what your father might have thought of you, and rather, delighting yourself in tormenting your guests as a way to cope with a feeling of inadequacy that seemed to swell with each year that passed.

Ever since Steve and Eddie had arrived– young, attractive, and most peculiar thing of all, there were two of them– your friends could not stop arguing about which boy would have fallen in the arms of your friends. Anna had gushed about seeing Steve’s dick through his tiny, blue swimming shorts earlier that day during a game of volleyball, escalating into a conversation that hours later could not seem to leave your mind, as you sat on one of the lawn chairs of the balcony.

You had not entered your room, afraid your restlessness might have woken the two boys. Nursing a cigarette in between the intrusive thoughts of whether Anna was right. Had she already claimed her prize? A part of you stung at the thought that not even four days into their stay, your friends had already gotten their slimy hands on your guests. A different part had wanted it to be you to have received such attention from the honey- eyed boy. Would he have been attentive and careful? Or full of passion and bravado, much like how he’d presented himself to you since he’d arrived?

“This seat taken?” Steve had startled you. The irony.

You heard him let out a whiff of air, like a muted laugh “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” He sat down on the wicker chair next to you, without waiting for your permission. He took in the still night air that had oftentimes brought you counsel, accompanied by the melody of the night cicadas.

“Can’t sleep?” he mused, playing with the woven wicker on the arm of the chair.

“Didn’t wanna wake you guys up” Your dry response was accompanied by a lazy drag off the half- finished cigarette. Steve reached an arm out in your direction, you took the hint.

“I was downstairs finishing some work for your dad, the jet lag still keeps me up” you watched his lips wrap around the cigarettes, right where your mouth had been just seconds before. Your breath hitched at the realization as he let out the smoke from his mouth, slow and deliberate.

“So, uh, you and Anna? I heard you guys had a thing going on” you passed him the ashtray on the small table next to you as he shook the ash off the cigarette and brought it back to his mouth.

He shook his head, “She’s your friend?” he asked, sardonically, turning away from you to look into the distant trees.

“Not really, rumors travel fast around here” you tried to keep your mouth shut, but something inside you just pushed you to intervene, to let him know that she was certainly not good for him. “And she also has a reputation,” you added, gulping.

He put out the cigarette in the ashtray, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose and sat back on the wicker seat “Is that so?” A smirk adorned his face, almost as if he didn’t believe a word you were saying.

You nodded, heating up a bit at the way his legs spread and his shorts rode up his legs “She gets around” You avoided his gaze, looking at Giovanna downstairs in the garden, finishing up her last chores for the night.

“Never stopped me before” he retorted, shrugging. The sour look on your face only made his sly smile slice his face further.

“By the way your nose is curled up I’d say you’re jealous” he laughed, standing up. You heated up at the– very correct and very obvious– observation.

“I am not” you retorted, maybe a little bit more upset than you should’ve been at his dig, standing up abruptly.

“What is it then?” he inched closer to you. You could smell the remnants of the cigarette on his breath. You felt your eyes widen and your throat close up “You’re envious of your friends getting more attention than you? Am I supposed to feel bad for you because you feel inferior to them? Maybe if you stopped being a bitch to everyone that crossed your path you’d get laid too” With each stinging sentence the boy got closer and closer to you, his chest almost touching yours, and with each dig you swelled up with anger. Why was he treating you like this all of a sudden?

Deserved? Sure. You had been nothing but a raging cunt to him since his arrival, but his words seemed to intend to cut deeper than that.

However, instead of hurting you, his words only revved you even further, wanting most of all, to shut up his nonsensical attack against you.

You watched his heated expression as he stopped his ranting, leaning on the railing of your balcony.

“Well? Nothing to say for yourself?” he muttered, his voice much lower than his previous scolding. You couldn’t say anything, inside you were fighting demons you had only heard of from your friends. You were panting as if you had run a marathon, but to him, you were just a child throwing a tantrum.

He scoffed “Y’know what? Grow up” he laughed, before motioning to turn around. Something in your chest pulled you towards him. The need to become more like your friends, that had lied dormant as you had awaited to provocatively lure your guests into your room, had been nudged.

As Steve walked away heatedly, closing the door to his room, you imagined grabbing his shoulder with strength you didn’t know you had and spin him around before crashing his lips onto his.

Kissing him with a hunger that was only for you to satiate. Needing to feel yourself bloom out of a cage that you’d put yourself in because you took yourself too seriously. You imagined exploring his sturdy, tanned body.

As you got ready for bed, peeking your face into your guests’ room, where Steve had fallen asleep without changing out of his clothes. You imagined slipping your hands under his billowy shirt, as his hands gripped your waist so tightly that his fingers could have left marks in their wake. Slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, feel the softness of the skin underneath, scratching it with his fingernails.

You thought about intentionally upsetting him, just to have him that close to you again. You thought about his reaction to your tongue making its way into his mouth, licking and tasting his lips, his gums, his tongue. Wanting him to have access to you, to look at you. To peek his head into your room to find you asleep on your stomach, wanting him to see your scrunched up face as you transcribed your music, leaning against a tree as you read. Swimming with your friends, but only staring at you, at the way the water would drip off your body, at the way you would look while suntanning.

A devious thought pervaded you as you imagined both of your guests fighting to have you. Fighting to look at you. Fighting for your attention.

You laid in bed, drunk on the vivid images of your body undulating in between the two boys, heated and needy like you’d never been before.

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kc-writes-sometimes · 2 months ago

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Crown and Kin | Chapter One

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter One: The Bastard with Violet Eyes

Word Count: 2,641

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella’s journey takes an unexpected turn when she crosses paths with powerful figures in King’s Landing. As she navigates a world where bastards are often overlooked, Daella begins to unravel mysteries about her origins and the people watching over her.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

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Daella of King's Landing

People rarely paid attention to bastards. Snow, Rivers, Stone, Hill, Waters, Pyke, Storm, Flowers, and Sand—all were cut from the same misshapen cloth. They came and went as they pleased, their movements unmonitored, their musings unheard. Whether they lived or died mattered little to those of importance.

A bastard boy might find glory in battle and be granted knighthood. He could gain both brothers and honour at The Wall, or even pursue knowledge within The Citadel. A lack of name or title did little to hinder a boy from charting his own course and seizing his freedom.

But for bastard girls, the world offered fewer paths. The highest honour they could achieve was to be sold to one of the more reputable establishments on the Street of Silk in King’s Landing. Most, however, ended up working and dying in the brothels of Flea Bottom, just as Daella’s mother had.

Daella didn’t remember her mother well. Was she truly a beauty? Did they share the same pale skin, dark waves, and violet eyes? Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if she remembered her at all. The memory of her had faded, worn down by the passage of each moon since her death. Daella recalled the somberness of the women when her mother died, how they cooed at her as though she were a lost lamb on the cusp of slaughter. Her mother’s name was still spoken sometimes, but always in hushed tones behind silk curtains and makeshift wooden doors.

From what Daella had been told, her mother was a rare prize in King’s Landing, where few had the privilege of keeping company with the Dornish, let alone bedding one. She was loved by guests and whores alike, giving everything and keeping nothing. She even spared a few Silver Stags for the City Watch to ensure the safety of the other girls, which was how Daella ended up where she was.

Her life had been a far cry from that of the ladies of the Red Keep, yet the women of the brothel had always provided for her as best they could. They’d kept her safe, warm, and fed, even subjecting themselves to the ire of men who noticed her skulking around the brothel’s dark corners. It was a strange thing, to be raised in such an establishment without the expectation or encouragement to join the trade. But the women had promised her mother they would care for her as their own, and they had.

As Daella pulled herself from her makeshift bed and set her feet on the cold ground, she could already hear the giggles and moans of the women upstairs. Some were just starting their day; others had yet to finish. She couldn't risk lighting one of the torches scattered around the room, so she fumbled under her bed for the shoes carefully stored there. Her hand brushed the rough black material, and with a small, victorious smile, she silently slipped them on. Peeking her head out of the room, she glanced down the dimly lit hallway to ensure no one had noticed her presence. The side door to the brothel, typically used by the City Watch when they didn’t wish to be seen leaving in the early hours, had often been her means of escape. Slipping through the doorway, Daella made her way onto the moonlit streets.

“Daella,” a gruff voice called from behind her. She turned sheepishly toward the sound, feeling her heart race in her chest. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness just enough to make out the figure stepping toward her.

“Ser Harwin,” she muttered, feigning innocence and stepping backward, just out of his reach. This wasn't the first time Ser Breakbones had caught her sneaking out. Their dance had become almost routine. She’d get caught, he’d chastise her, she’d run, and he’d chase her. But at only six years old, Daella could never make it far before he scooped her up and dragged her home.

“You know you’re not supposed to be out here by yourself,” he sighed, taking a few steps closer and sinking to one knee to look her in the eye. Even on one knee, Ser Harwin was a large man. The women in the brothel often remarked how broad and handsome he was.

“I only needed some air. I wasn’t going to go far,” Daella whispered, attempting to defend herself as she stared at the ground. “I promise.”

“Come, Daella, let’s get you home before you get yourself into trouble,” he said, standing to his full height. His pretty brown eyes watched her intently as he turned to lead her back. The moment he turned his back, she scurried into a nearby alleyway and ran, paying little mind to the shouting behind her. Ser Breakbones really should have known better by now.

The acrid stench of alcohol and unwashed bodies filled the air, causing her nose to wrinkle as she slipped through the throngs of people out enjoying the night’s revelry. Ser Harwin’s voice faded into the background, drowned out by the lively chatter of those pressed against walls or sitting on the floor, taking pride of place in front of the stone square where entertainers performed for coin. Her small stature proved useful as she weaved through the crowds just in time to see a plume of orange flame escape the mouth of the man before her.

Rosalie, her mother’s best friend, often said that as a baby, the only way Daella would quiet down enough to sleep was if the fire burned high and hot. The heat never bothered her, unlike the women in the brothel, who regularly complained that it was already too warm. Daella was almost certain the budget for firewood increased tremendously after she was born.

Another plume of flame pulled her from her thoughts as it ascended into the night sky. As Daella watched the flames recede, she scanned the faces of those surrounding the square. Her gaze froze when she noticed a towering figure across from her, dressed in black with both hands resting on a sword at his hip. The faces around him were a mix of shock, surprise, and wonder as they watched the fire dancers, but this man’s gaze, though shielded by a heavy hood, seemed squarely fixed on her.

“There you are,” came the deep, steady voice of Ser Harwin as he placed a gloved hand on Daella’s shoulder and spun her around to face him. “I’ve told you before, Daella, you can’t outrun a man of the City Watch. Although, you did make it further than normal this time,” he added, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. If Daella didn’t know any better, she might have thought he was proud that she managed to evade him for as long as she had.

“You only caught me because I was distracted,” Daella huffed, pouting as she crossed her arms. Her eyelids grew heavier as her gaze darted between the fire dancers and the swirling crowd. A yawn crept up on her, softening her pout as she fought to keep her eyes open.

As the crowd began to thin and the moon dipped lower in the sky, Ser Harwin grinned and said, “Come now, my little flame, let’s get you home before Rose has both our hides.” He swept Daella off the ground and tucked her against his side. His dark armour was as cold and unyielding as ever, except for the soft gold cloak draped over his left shoulder. Daella noticed his helmet was missing, likely lost during their game of chase, letting his brown curls fall into place at his jaw. No doubt he’d endure another one of the Commander’s long-winded lectures on the proper care and maintenance of City Watch equipment. The men often grumbled about those tirades when deep in their cups, though they wouldn’t usually dare speak ill of their Commander—unless encouraged by wine during their trips to the brothel.

Ser Harwin always whistled while he walked. He couldn't carry much of a tune, nor had Daella ever asked what he was whistling, but she found it soothing nonetheless, especially when she was on the cusp of sleep. As they turned into one of the alleyways leading home, Daella noticed a dark figure leaning against the wall along their path. As they drew closer, the man’s stature and presence became clearer. He held himself much like the figure she had seen earlier at the square.

“I didn’t take you for a man of depravity, Ser Strong,” the man said, eyeing Daella in Ser Harwin’s arms as he pushed off the wall. His tone was threatening, yet a hint of amusement coloured his words. “I would have thought this one was a bit young for you.”

As the man removed his hood, Ser Harwin inhaled sharply, tightening his hold on Daella. Raising her head from Ser Harwin’s shoulder, she tried to get a better look at their intruder. All she managed to notice was his long silver hair, which the moonlight caressed like it did the waters of Blackwater Bay during high tide. She had to stifle the urge to reach out and run her fingers through those strands.

“My Prince,” Ser Harwin said, bowing his head in supplication. “We were not aware you had returned to King’s Landing.”

“That would be because I did not send word. It seems the City Watch has grown careless in my absence.” The previous amusement in the prince’s voice was now gone, replaced by a steely edge. “If a man like me can infiltrate King’s Landing simply by walking through the main gate, I’d say you Gold Cloaks have quite the problem on your hands.” His mouth was drawn into a thin line, and Daella could feel the displeasure and frustration radiating from him. “I wonder, how many of you would even bother to look up if I flew Caraxes over the Dragonpit and across Flea Bottom?”

Daella’s eyes widened, and she gasped as the name slipped from his lips. The fierce conquest of the Stepstones by the rogue prince and Caraxes was a favoured tale among the smallfolk in King’s Landing. Yet, with so many versions of the story swirling around, she was never sure what was fact and what was mere embellishment. Some of the women even said the prince had finally gotten what he wanted—a crown of his own.

“I will be sure to bring your concerns to the Commander at first light, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied with a nod, attempting to move past the prince.

“You never did give me an answer, Lord Strong,” the prince said, his gaze settling on Daella. “But no matter, the answer is irrelevant. I’ve known of your preference for those of us with silver hair for quite some time.”

Ser Harwin’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but as the two men spoke, Daella felt his muscles gradually relax, his grip on her loosening. Before she could stifle it, a soft yawn escaped her throat, causing both men to turn their attention to her with faint smiles.

“Are we boring you, little one?” the prince asked, his lips curling into a smile as he stepped closer, his voice tinged with amusement.

Daella nodded, her eyes now able to take in his features as he approached. His jawline was strong, much like Ser Harwin’s, though the prince’s was clean-shaven. Where Ser Harwin’s nose was crooked from many breaks, the prince’s was perfectly straight. Her gaze wandered over his face until it met his eyes—eyes that were anything but ordinary. Instead of the usual blue or brown, she found herself staring into a pair of striking purple irises. While her own eyes were a pale violet, his were a deep indigo, so dark they reminded her of the midnight sky.

“Is she yours?” the prince asked, his gaze flicking back to Ser Harwin, a smirk playing on his lips.

“No, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied quickly, shaking his head. “She’s the daughter of one of the women who worked at the brothel. I promised her mother I’d look after her.”

The prince’s expression softened slightly, though a hint of mischief remained in his eyes. “A knight playing nursemaid. Now that is something I did not expect to see.”

“I made a promise,” Ser Harwin said, his tone firm but respectful. “And I intend to keep it.”

The prince studied him for a moment, then turned his attention back to Daella. “What’s your name, little one?”

“Daella,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Daella,” the prince repeated, his voice gentle as he tested the name on his tongue. “A name as beautiful as the girl who bears it.”

A flush crept up Daella’s cheeks at the compliment, and she looked away, feeling suddenly shy under his intense gaze.

“Take care of her, Ser Harwin,” the prince said, his tone suddenly serious. “The streets of King’s Landing are no place for a child, especially not one as precious as this.”

“I will, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied, bowing his head once more.

The prince gave Daella one last lingering look before turning on his heel and disappearing into the shadows, his long silver hair the last thing she saw before he melted into the night.

Ser Harwin let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders relaxing as the prince’s presence faded. “Let’s get you home, Daella,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. He adjusted his hold on her and began walking again, his pace quickening slightly as if eager to put distance between them and the prince.

“Who was that?” Daella asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“That was Prince Daemon Targaryen,” Ser Harwin replied, his voice laced with a mixture of respect and caution. “He’s a dangerous man, Daella. Stay away from him if you can.”

Daella nodded, though her thoughts were still fixed on the prince’s piercing purple eyes and the way he seemed to see right through her. Something about him stirred a strange mix of fear and fascination within her, a feeling she couldn’t quite place or understand.

As they approached the brothel, the familiar warmth and muffled sounds of the women’s laughter greeted them. Ser Harwin set her down gently just outside the door, his expression softening as he crouched to meet her gaze.

“You gave me quite the chase tonight, little flame,” he said with a tired smile. “But you need to be careful, alright? This city is full of people who would do you harm without a second thought.”

“I know,” Daella replied, feeling a pang of guilt for worrying him. “I just wanted to see the fire dancers.”

“And you did,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “But next time, let’s watch them together, alright? No more running off on your own.”

Daella nodded, the weariness of the night finally catching up to her. “I promise.”

“Good girl,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head before rising to his full height. “Now, off to bed with you. Rosalie will be waiting.”

Daella gave him a small smile before slipping inside, the familiar warmth of the brothel wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. As she made her way to her little corner, she couldn’t shake the image of the prince from her mind. Something told her that tonight was only the beginning, that her path and Prince Daemon’s would cross again. And when they did, she wasn’t sure if she would be ready for what it would bring.

But for now, she was just a little girl, a bastard with violet eyes, hidden away in the shadows of King’s Landing, where no one of importance would think to look.

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hoshinoyozora · 2 years ago

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Tale of the Timeless Couple

🖤 Pairing: Yandere! Malleus Draconia x Female! Reader

💛 Word Count: 1,1k+

❤ Warnings: -

[Edited]

Do not re-upload my writing to another website or use it without my permission. Also, don’t ask for a sequel unless I like the story enough to write one. Please reblog so other people can see my stories!

Youths were known for their naivety, and just like many others, it was the cause of your downfall too.

Beguiled by the promise of happily ever after, as shown in those romantic movies and books, you’d mindlessly agreed to eternal life with your soon-to-be husband, Malleus Draconia. It was especially enforced by the bitter knowledge that Crowley had never intended for you to return, and that you’d have no means of funding yourself after graduation due to the lack of necessary documents. It was either you marry a rich man and become slightly more ‘recognized’ as the proper citizen of Twisted Wonderland, or doomed to work as a maid in someone else’s house. Malleus, of course, saw no error in your judgment, despite the seeming shallowness of it, and swiftly carried out your transformation.

Due to your relationship with him, you’d always been a part of his little family. But only now did you fully integrate into it, into their lifestyle. The Draconia Family. The Royal Family.

It was blissful in the first few years, as many marriages were, burdened only by the new responsibility of being a ruler to both humans and dark creatures. Malleus and Lilia helped you with the Royal affairs, while Silver and Sebek familiarized you with the Draconia knighthood system. Sometimes, Malleus’s grandmother would visit and chat with you, offering either piece of valuable advice or rumors that would aid you in some way. You weren’t really allowed to go anywhere anymore, and definitely not without tight security. But Malleus permitted you to attend your friends’ weddings, just as how he permitted them to attend yours; a visit that excited nearly the guests in there due to it being a Royal one, and thus, exclusive.

Their occasional letters were probably the highlight of your day, and you thanked Malleus for having the bigger heart not to get jealous and cut off the only connection to your past and humanity. Your heart warmed when you saw pictures of their babies, noting all the resemblances in their features, and mused about what kind of face your child would have.

It was serene.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Perhaps it began when you received Deuce’s letter containing a photo of him and Ace in an overdue reunion at a restaurant. Your eyes, sharper from the transformation, noticed all signs of aging on their faces. Instinctively, you touched yours and felt only the youthful smoothness of the skin. You rushed to the mirror, and your stomach sank once you realized the signs would never appear in you. For some, it might be a blessing. But for you, it only served to remind you of what you lost.

Your humanity, in all its glory. Ugliness and beauty. The smoothness and the wrinkles.

And then, several years went by, until Jack passed away peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by his big family. You mourned in your office whilst clutching the letter Ace sent to you, unable to attend the funeral without messing with everyone’s schedules.

Black was the color of the Draconia family, but that day, it took on a special meaning.

Ace followed, still a mischievous man to his old age with a more tamed pride. Deuce remained as a policeman until a particularly nasty magic incident occurred, leaving Epel as your only living friend. No longer fixated on the idea of a ‘manly man’, he confessed to you that he was actually lonely. His wife had long died, and his children had all grown up and moved out of the house. You wished you could’ve visited and comforted him, but once again, duty was your obstacle.

Until you belatedly found out that Epel had suffered a heart attack after helping with his family’s farm.

“What are you thinking about, my love?”

A pair of arms hugged your swollen stomach from behind, but you remained motionless as you gazed through the window. Malleus rested his chin on your shoulder and stared at your profile.

“Well?”

“Nothing much.”

“You know better than to lie to me, my love.” said he, twirling a lock of your hair with his left finger. “If you have a problem, you can talk to me and we shall find a solution together.”

Malleus wouldn’t understand that the problem you had was beyond repair, and you feared his response should you reveal the truth.

“All of my friends died, Malleus. Except Sebek, but he’s just a guard to me now.”

“Humans have always had short lifespans.”

You flinched, and you wondered why you reacted that way when you were basically near immortal now. Perhaps some human instincts hadn’t fully disappeared yet.

“I miss them.”

Malleus fell quiet, and your heartbeat slowly picked up with each second passed in silence.

“It is a normal reaction,” he drawled as though empathy was something unfamiliar to him. “and you’ll get over it in due time.”

You wetted your lips, preparing yourself to ask the question that had been haunting you.

“What would you do… if I were to go home?”

“You don’t think I’d allow you to do it, do you?”

You stiffened in his embrace.

“… What?”

“Crowley had always been very slow when it comes to finding your way home, but he hadn’t completely stopped until I ordered him otherwise.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Luckily, you learned that it was futile to place any hope on him, so I wouldn’t have to inform you anything.”

“Why…?”

“Why? Because we were meant to be together, of course. The moment you agreed to be my lover is the moment you agreed to be mine forever.” Malleus sighed blissfully, tightening his hold on you. “And it doesn’t really matter whether you accepted my proposal or not, although it does make everything a whole lot easier. I don’t wish to hurt you, after all.”

You were mistaken. You were horribly mistaken. There was no happily ever after in marrying him. Financially, yes, but mentally? Literally?

“What about my friends?”

“I told you, they’re humans. They have terribly shorter lifespans than ours. Therefore, I don’t need to worry about them so much. Not when they’ll die sooner or later.” Malleus hummed, swaying your body in an invisible yet haunting tune. “Although, of course, I still have to supervise all of your correspondence.”

It was understandable, and you should’ve expected it. Some letters might contain threats, however unlikely it was, and Malleus was merely ensuring the safety of everyone involved. But the knowledge that he read everything that you wrote to them – intimate things that you were more comfortable sharing with your friends than your husband – unnerved you.

Maybe it was why he spent more time with you when you complained to Deuce about him being busier nowadays.

“Now, don’t overthink about the past. You’ll upset our baby.”

He caressed the bulge in your stomach, where the long-awaited child resided.

A shame that you couldn’t share baby pictures with your friends, not even the news of your pregnancy.

#twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst imagines #yandere twst #yandere malleus #yandere malleus draconia #yandere malleus x reader #female reader #twst malleus #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus draconia

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weepingwonder · 4 months ago

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Lost Boy

In which there is a portrait of Regulus Black hanging in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

The first time Sirius Black steps into Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and finds the screaming portrait of his mother, he nearly decides to burn the place down with the memory of her in it. Even after he’s pulled the curtains shut on her snarling, furious face, her yells echo off the walls and reverberate in his skull. He might as well be back in Azkaban for how miserably sick it makes him. He wants to sink his nails into something, to feel blood gushing up between his fingers.

Grimmauld Place is a knotted, twisted sort of space. It is dark and disorienting, and even a whole childhood spent within its walls was not enough for Sirius to become fully familiar with it. Layers and layers of old magic leave a sort of burnt smell in the air and wrap around his chest like a vice. For some, it would feel comforting, like coming home. For Sirius, it is a tight, oppressive thing. He's been running out of air since the moment he stepped inside.

There is a part of him that is tempted to sit there in the hall and tuck his knees into his chest with his hands over his ears. For one despairing moment, Sirius wonders if he's merely traded one cell for another. Not even the dementors could make him feel as small as his mother could.

But Sirius, for all that he has tried to shed his family name, is still a Black. So he straightens his back, tilts his head up, and puts his shoulders back as he walks through the house. They are all dead, he reminds himself, and he is alive. And isn't that just ironic? That he could spend his whole childhood raging against his family, only to be burdened with the task of carrying the name alone. It makes him want to vomit.

As he walks, lights flicker on, though it does little to brighten up the place. He makes his way to the kitchen, stepping gingerly through the sitting area and halting at the sight of his mother’s favorite chair next to the fireplace, the cushion still slightly depressed from years of carrying her weight. It’s as if she has only just gotten up, perhaps to greet a guest or grab the morning paper to read.

“Never thought I'd see you step foot in here again.”

In Azkaban, Sirius often replayed every conversation he could remember having with James. He would agonize over every inflection, clinging to the cadence of his friend’s voice. He was so afraid of forgetting.

But this voice. He could never forget it. He'd know it anywhere, no matter the horrors, no matter how much time has passed.

He looks up, and his heart seizes in his chest. There, just above the fireplace, sits a portrait of his little brother. He is depicted just as Sirius remembers him: sharp features, steely eyes, an impassive expression on his face, still slightly rounded with youth. It is so undoubtedly Regulus that Sirius wants to run. It is all at once too much for him to handle: the hurt, the longing, the resentment, the disgust, the grief. But he can't run from it, so he does the next best thing.

He turns into a dog.

Regulus looks down at him with a raised brow. “This explains a lot. You never were very good at getting a handle of your emotions,” he all but sneers.

Padfoot raises his hackles, muzzle pulled back into a snarl.

“Really, Sirius,” Regulus sighs. “Aren't you a bit old for the dramatics?”

Padfoot growls.

“I suppose they didn't just let you out of Azkaban, then?” Regulus muses. “Not sure the life of a fugitive suits you, but even Mother would be impressed you managed to break out.”

At the mention of their mother, Padfoot barks loudly.

“Of course, we both knew you didn't belong there,” Regulus continues. “No one knew better than us that you'd never betray the Potters.” Even to Padfoot’s ears, Regulus’ voice sounds bitter. “Mother was most displeased that they wouldn't even give you a trial. Said it was an insult to the family. Stormed the Ministry, even, but Crouch was too eager to have everything wrapped up and much too righteous to be bribed. Truly pathetic.”

Despite himself, Padfoot finds himself listening intently. Most people, he thinks, would take this story as a show of Walburga Black’s love for her son. But Sirius knows better, and so does Regulus.

“She only made it a few years after your incarceration. I watched her go mad. I don't suppose talking to a portrait of her dead son everyday helped much,” Regulus says, as if he's simply filling Sirius in on the morning news. As if they're old friends catching up over tea. As if there's not a chasm of grief and anger that sits between them. But Regulus was never very good at voicing his emotions either, so maybe it’s fitting that they've both reverted back to doing what Blacks are best at: enduring.

“There were times, near the end, where she thought she was talking to you. Her greatest failure, she always said. Her biggest regret.” Regulus looks down at Sirius with a look he can't quite parse. And you? Sirius wants to ask. What do you think?

He's not sure either of them could bear for him to ask it aloud, and he's sure he already knows the answer anyway. Padfoot flattens his ears back, and growls again. It comes out a bit like a whine instead.

For a long moment, Regulus simply watches him. Then, quietly, he murmurs, “Welcome home, Sirius.” His mouth quirks into the barest hint of a smile, no doubt indulging in the irony.

And Sirius, well. He can't do this. He can't do this. Above all things, Azkaban was a monument of grief. He had cried for Lily and James, cried for Remus, cried for his old life. His life Before. But when he was most cold, and equally as out of his mind, he’d cry for Regulus. He thinks, in some ways, he will always be crying for his brother. And having an echo of Regulus here in front of him makes Sirius feel as though he's going mad all over again. He just can't do it.

So Padfoot tucks his tail between his legs with a whimper, turns around, and runs.

From then on, Sirius makes a point of avoiding that room altogether. And if, for some reason, he has to go through it, he turns into Padfoot before Regulus can speak to him and trots by as quickly as he can, but not usually before he catches Regulus muttering something to the effect of, “I see your immaturity is still intact.”

Some nights, though, Sirius just cannot bring himself to close his eyes. He's afraid he’ll wake up in a cell again. He's afraid he’ll wake up in his childhood bedroom. He's afraid of being alone. And god, but he just wants to hear someone talk, to hear a voice outside of his own head.

Before he can even think too hard about it (he tries to avoid thinking entirely these days, except for where Harry is concerned), he makes his way to the fireplace. More importantly, he makes his way to Regulus.

Against all instinct to transform into a dog so that he may bear it easier, Sirius stays himself. The painting of his brother is asleep, and Sirius can't help but notice that it doesn't quite capture how much younger Regulus always looked when he was sleeping. There is a lack of depth to the painting that will never do justice to real life, and Sirius is reminded all over again that his brother is really and truly dead. Looking at it is like pressing his thumb into a bruise.

Regulus opens an eye. “Can I help you?”

Sirius laughs like it was punched out of him. How can he? he thinks somewhat hysterically. What could he possibly fix now?

“Have you ever?” Sirius retorts. He grasps, desperately, at the thread of anger inside of him, and pulls, letting the grief fall away around it. He does not know yet, that anger and grief are one and the same.

Regulus raises a brow. “That’s hardly fair.”

"When has a Black ever played fair?”

“I thought you weren't a Black,” Regulus challenges.

“I thought you were,” Sirius shoots back, but there is a question in it.

“Of course I am,” Regulus tells him, and there is something in Sirius that is inexplicably disappointed. Regulus died upholding Black family values. What did Sirius expect?

“You always did like to lick Mother and Father’s boots,” Sirius sneers. “Was it worth it? Dying for your cause.”

Regulus tilts his head then, considering. His lips quirk for a moment, like there's a joke somewhere that Sirius is not picking up on.

“Yes,” Regulus says simply. “I think it was.”

And it makes sense. Of course it makes sense that the boy who was a blood purist and showed nothing but devotion to Lord Voldemort would think that dying for him in a blaze of glory was worth it. In death as he was in life. It makes Sirius want to burn the portrait in front of him.

“I hate you,” Sirius spits, and Regulus just looks at him, face unchanging. Still a little amused, even.

“I know,” Regulus agrees, and it's not, I hate you too, which, to Sirius, counts for something. Maybe even everything.

He doesn't want to think about it. He turns on his heel, ready for some much-needed distance.

“I’ll be back to burn you,” Sirius mutters.

He thinks he hears Regulus laugh as he goes.

Sirius does not burn the portrait, but of course they both knew he wouldn't. They were always each other’s weakness, and no amount of time or space could change that.

But the days persist, each followed by a night plagued by nightmares and twisted memories. He wakes up gasping, with James’ name on his lips, followed by Lily’s, and always, always followed by Regulus’. These days, Sirius is nothing more than a waking, walking graveyard. He stumbles through the halls of Grimmauld Place, both haunting and haunted.

Almost inevitably, he finds himself back at his brother’s portrait. On this particular night, Regulus is already awake, as if expecting him. Maybe he was. Maybe Sirius has become predictable in his mad sort of grief, and he hates himself for it. He hates how weak he feels, like a child climbing into his brother’s bed after a bad dream. It had always been the other way around.

“You're back.”

“I don't want to be,” Sirius admits.

“I'm not real,” the portrait reminds him. Regulus is not gentle or kind when he says this. His voice is sharp and vicious, merciless as Regulus so often was, as he had to be to survive in a family like theirs.

Sirius clenches his jaw. He wants to reach through the frame and shake his brother’s shoulders. He wants to pull him close, he wants to shove him as far away as possible. The conflict in him swells and spills over, a wretched combination of longing and hate and years of bitterness wrapped in love and life. He does not know what to do with it, he wants to shed his own skin to be rid of it. For one hysterical moment, Sirius thinks he might cry.

He hastily turns himself into a dog and sighs as the transformation dampens his emotions. Regulus gives him a pitying sort of look, and it makes Padfoot’s hackles rise.

He says nothing else, though, and Sirius, in spite of himself, can't get himself to leave. Padfoot’s head droops in exhaustion, and before he can think too hard about it, he lets himself drop to the floor, curling his tail around his body. He knows his brother is still watching him, and as Sirius starts to fall asleep, he can't really bring himself to care.

The first time Sirius brings Remus into Grimmauld Place, it goes about how Sirius would've expected. He was half-afraid the Blacks had drenched the place in some sort of dark magic that would burn anyone deemed less than “pure” the moment they walked in, but instead they were simply met with Walburga Black’s enraged portrait, spewing a litany of curses and slurs their way.

So, it could have been worse. After they've pulled the curtains shut, Remus gives Sirius a look. “That can't be good for you.”

“Well, it's not like it's my choice,” Sirius says bitterly, and Remus gives him a sad look. It makes Sirius want to snarl at him. “Anyway, it gets worse.”

“Worse?” Remus asks, looking slightly ill at the thought. Sirius smiles grimly and leads him to the spacious living room.

Regulus looks up at them when they arrive.

“Bringing half-breeds into the house, now, are we? Mother must be rolling in her grave,” he comments, and Sirius wishes he could punch him.

"Mother no longer has a say in anything. And neither do you,” Sirius says coldly.

“Sirius, what—” Remus looks like he's seen a ghost and, well, he basically has.

“My mother apparently saw fit to have a portrait of Regulus installed,” Sirius informs him. “Of course she couldn't live without her precious son. It's all very sweet.”

Regulus sighs.

“Sirius, you've got to remove this portrait,” Remus says. “This is definitely not good for you.”

At that, Regulus looks supremely offended. “I have more of a right to be here than you do, werewolf,” he says haughtily.

“How do you even know—?” Sirius starts to ask, and Regulus gives him a deadpan look.

“You and your friends weren't exactly subtle in school. Besides, I have been known to actually shut up and observe, unlike you—”

"And yet, you're the one who's dead—”

"Thankfully,” Regulus mutters darkly.

“—and I'm still very much alive, so I will continue to do as I please,” Sirius says hotly.

“You mean do as Dumbledore pleases,” Regulus practically spits. “The man who left you to rot in prison.”

And Sirius flinches back at that because… yeah. He has thought, several times, that maybe he's still in prison, except this time, it’s Dumbledore holding the keys. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and his jaw clicks shut.

Regulus tilts his head. “So you aren't just his brainless lapdog.”

Remus grabs Sirius’ arm. “Why don't we go make some tea? We can talk about… whatever this is.”

Sirius shrugs his arm away, and Remus coils back, as though burned. Sirius can't bring himself to care.

“Fine. Let’s talk,” Sirius all but snarls and heads for the kitchen without a second glance at Regulus or Remus.

Remus sighs, steeling himself for an overdue conversation with a very volatile Sirius. He's not excited for it. He makes to follow Sirius, and gives the portrait one last disapproving look.

Regulus is looking exceedingly smug. Remus scowls.

Sirius knows Regulus’ portrait will pose a problem as the Order moves in, but he still can't bring himself to move it.

For the most part, Regulus just watches people come and go without comment. A couple of them give his portrait a nasty look as they recognize him, but most of them pay him no mind. But Sirius knows his brother. He knows Regulus is listening and watching intently. He's interested in news of Voldemort’s second rise to power, and Sirius cannot wait to rub Voldemort’s defeat in his brother's face when this damned war is over.

Because it will end. It has to.

So, all in all, Regulus listens a lot and talks very little. That is, until Hermione Granger comes in.

Sirius finds himself quite fond of her. Not just because she's one of the reasons he's free, and not even because of her loyalty to Harry. No, Hermione reminds him very much of Lily Potter. Not just because she's a fiercely intelligent and talented muggleborn witch, but because she, like Lily, is also the perfect mixture of kind-hearted and hot-headed.

Hermione avoids Walburga Black’s portrait like the plague for obvious reasons, but when she finds the portrait of Regulus Black, she can't help but approach it curiously.

“Hello,” she says politely. “I didn't realize Sirius had a brother.” She shoots Sirius a questioning look, and he just shrugs, unapologetic.

Regulus gives her an assessing look. “Yes, well, ‘had’ is the key word there. In any case, Sirius is rather averse to acknowledging me as such. And you are?”

“Hermione Granger,” she says confidently.

“Granger,” Regulus repeats slowly. “How… mundane. Half-blood?”

“Muggleborn,” Hermione says firmly, without shame.

Regulus looks past her to where Sirius is standing. “Mudbloods and blood traitors and werewolves,” he tuts softly. “You always did have such… peculiar taste in company.”

"Fix your language,” Sirius says sharply.

But Hermione, used to Draco Malfoy’s liberal use of the term, remains unfazed. “You're not very kind,” she tells Regulus.

He looks amused. “No, I’m not.”

"Hermione is one of the reasons I escaped the Dementor’s Kiss,” Sirius tells him.

“What a shame,” Regulus says mildly. “I think it would have been an improvement.”

“It would have been cruel,” Hermione says heatedly. “Nobody deserves that.”

“Oh?” Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Not even the Dark Lord?”

“I can't say I think he has much of a soul to suck out of him,” Hermione says icily. Regulus barks out a laugh, and it's so uncharacteristic of him that Sirius does a double take.

“Indeed,” Regulus agrees.

Hermione gives him a thoughtful look. “You worked for him, didn't you? Voldemort. No one ever calls him ‘the Dark Lord’ unless they worked for him.”

If Regulus is surprised by her use of Voldemort’s name, he doesn't show it. Sirius wonders if he’ll lie. He wonders if he’ll correct Regulus if he does.

As it turns out, he needn't have worried because Regulus inclines his head. “I did.”

“Did… do you regret it?” Hermione asks, as if she can't believe this boy, who couldn't have been much older than her, would swear his life away. And Sirius, who has tried to have this conversation before and knows how it ends, prepares himself for the inevitable disappointment.

“You are quite bold for someone of your, ah, background,” Regulus observes, appearing more curious than bothered.

“Am I supposed to be meek and timid because my parents are muggles?” Hermione challenges. “They raised me to be good and kind, which is more than you can likely say for yourself.”

“Some purebloods would kill you where you stand for talking to them like that,” Regulus tells her, and Hermione puts her chin up defiantly.

“I don't make a habit of talking to those kinds of people.”

“That’s probably wise.” He watches her quietly, considering. He seems to be choosing his next words carefully. “To answer your question… I did what I had to do, in the end. And what about you, Miss Granger? Will you be able to say the same for yourself, when it's all over? Will you still be good and kind?”

Hermione clenches her jaw. “I can try to be.”

Regulus looks at her like she's a particularly interesting puzzle he can't quite figure out. The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.

“You certainly can.”

Halloween was never going to pass without Sirius getting drunk out of his mind. Remus is already passed out in bed, but Sirius… he can’t seem to rest. He paces through the hallways, jumping at things that aren't there, flinching at the sound of Kreacher rifling through some forgotten closet for some trinket, some memory of what used to be.

Sirius keeps his hand on the wand he's been using. It doesn't feel right. Not like his old wand. But he grips it tightly anyway, and resists the urge to blast the shit out of everything around him.

Azkaban put a stasis on Sirius’ grieving process. It kept him hanging right at the beginning of it. It kept him replaying his last words to Lily and James over and over again, seeing their bodies unmoving on the floor, and his own rough, calloused hands closing their eyes for the last time.

Before Azkaban, when Sirius had found out Regulus died, he didn't let himself grieve at all. He hadn't seen his little brother in years, and there was no body to be found, so he could almost make himself believe that Regulus was still out there, somewhere. That maybe they would eventually cross wands in battle, and they'd get pretty damn close to killing each other but never actually would.

But in the prison, reduced to only his most potent miseries, Sirius was unable to avoid the truth: his little brother was dead. Almost everyone he loved was dead.

And now, here he is, on the anniversary of the worst night of his life, and he is just itching to pick a fight, to release all the pent-up, unfiltered grief that sits right under his skin at all times.

He takes a swig of firewhiskey and makes his way to his brother’s portrait. It's not his wisest idea, but Sirius has never been wise, especially when it comes to his brother.

Regulus takes one look at Sirius and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“You're an embarrassment,” Regulus tells him, and Sirius just barely resists the urge to throw his bottle of firewhiskey at the portrait.

“I hate you,” Sirius tells him, and Regulus sighs.

“So you've mentioned,” he says dryly. “Is that all?”

“No!” Sirius practically shouts. His ribcage feels tight with a pressure that's been building for weeks, and he digs his fingernails into his palm as if to try and relieve it. Sirius has always been a little too much of everything all at once, and James was one of the very few people who could manage it. But he's not here. Sirius is. He's here and painfully, achingly alive, and he feels a rush of fury at the unfairness of it all. And his stupid, stupid brother—so fucking soft, so weak—how pathetic it is to die licking someone else’s boots. “Why did you have to follow him? Why couldn't you just—why couldn't you just be—”

“Like you?” Regulus sneers.

"Strong,” Sirius spits. “Brave.” Not like me at all, Sirius thinks.

“You’re the one who ran away!” Regulus accuses.

“You’re the one who stayed!” Sirius rages.

Which is worse? The unspoken question sits heavy between them. It takes up all the oxygen in the room and Sirius can't fucking breathe. His chest heaves, heart pounding hard enough that he's sure the room is shaking with it.

For a long while, Regulus says nothing. He looks at a space just past Sirius’ shoulder and Sirius wants to grip his brother’s chin in his hand and make him look at him. He wants bruises to blossom under his fingertips, to feel the warmth of blood rushing underneath skin.

“You didn't ask me to come with you,” Regulus finally says. His voice is quiet, as if he knows how fragile the moment is, as if he's afraid to see what might break.

“Would you have?” Sirius shoots back.

Regulus purses his lips. His eyes lock back onto Sirius. “I guess we’ll never know.”

And Sirius—

Sirius shatters. He just sort of keels over, the air wrenched from his lungs, because for the first time, maybe ever, he is realizing that his little brother is truly dead. That this… this echo of him cannot give him the closure he so desperately wants because the real Regulus never gave it either. Sirius presses a hand to his chest just to feel the thrum of his own heart and, oh god, it aches, please make it stop and Regulus is right there, bloodless, forever stuck on the cusp of adulthood, and neither of them will ever get to know what could of have been, because both of them failed to be brave for each other when it mattered most. Regulus lived with that bitterness until the very end, and Sirius knows, with sudden clarity, that he will too.

He chokes back a sob, shoulders curling inward, and he thinks he hears a low, pained whine coming from somewhere. It gets louder and louder, until there are hands on his shoulders, arms wrapped around him tightly, tugging him backwards, away from the portrait. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, someone—Remus—is telling him and Sirius opens his mouth and screams.

He kicks and snarls and yells as he's dragged out of the room, half-mad with grief and longing and all the love in him he never got to give. He screams louder than his mother, louder than his father, louder than his guilt and his hurt and his shame.

“I tried!” Regulus is yelling, desperately. “I tried to be brave! I betrayed the Dark Lord!”

And Sirius screams, louder than his brother.

#sirius black #regulus black #sirius and regulus #remus lupin #hermione granger #wolfstar #long post

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divinityunleashed · 10 months ago

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"What do we do? Black is out there destroying those who are our allies."

"There's nothing we can do, Green Heart. We don't even know how Black even managed to get there, the original transportation we had was destroyed in the carnage he put us through!"

"All we can do is just watch helplessly..."

"This freaking stinks!!"

#dashboard commentary #guest muse: green heart #guest muse: purple heart #guest muse: white heart #guest muse: black heart

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gilverrwrites · 26 days ago

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Probation ♥

Black Mask/M!Reader/Deathstroke, 4K words Commisioned piece for @vile-hearts Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, smoking, non-graphic mentions of crime/violence/death, arguing, face slapping, unprotected sex, burning, abuse of power (boss/employee), pre-established dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, collars, mild choking, name calling, denial, unsanitary cum eating, spit (but not in a kinky way). They're both assholes. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT >> Reader is described as moderately fit/strong and having dark hair. <<

The air in Roman’s office is cold. Cold enough to send a shiver down your exposed spine and throw off your balance. Fortunately, you manage to keep your grip on the drinks tray, preventing it from falling. Unfortunately, Roman still notices your near faux pas and offers you a curt ‘tsk’ as you place the decanter and two empty glasses on his desk.

“I thought you could handle this. Don’t prove me wrong.” He chides, eyes boring into you from beneath his menacing, skull-shaped mask. He’d taken you off False-Facer duties ever since the newest Robin had taken a sizable chunk out of your arm with his katana, and though you’d hated every second, distraught at being unable to prove useful to him, you’d complied. Who were you to question him, after all? Your wound is now in the final stages of healing, stitches almost ready for removal, and you’re exceptionally grateful that he’s brought you back on business, even if it is purely domestic. ‘Baby step.’ He’d assured. You had to prove you could handle the little things again before he put you back in the game.

Admittedly, you don’t care what he has you doing, so long as you’re doing it for him.

“I can handle it.” You insist, even as your hands shake while pouring his aged whiskey. It’s not because you can’t handle it, it’s because you’re anxious to prove yourself to him once again. “I promise, Daddy.”

“We’ll see.” He muses pedantically as he takes his drink from you. The mask, while sexy as hell, depraves you and any others from deriving emotion from his face, but as you settle in your place, on your knees, at his feet, he threads his leather-clad fingers in your dark tresses, scratching your scalp and easing your nerves. Some might think it patronising, dehumanising even, but you take it for what it is, a sign of his affection.

You remain in position while Roman gets some paperwork done, and he continues to absentmindedly play with your body throughout; restlessly straightening your steel collar, teasingly stuffing his gloved fingers in your mouth, twisting your cold-hardened nipples to let out any frustrations while you await his guest.

The wait isn’t too long, or at least, you’re too distracted being Romans stress toy to pay attention to the passing of time.

Slade Wilson is by no means an ill-mannered man, but he gets a kick out of rubbing people the wrong way. Out of pushing people’s buttons to assert his dominance; even with those who fill his coffers, and he does it with the rightful confidence of a man who knows he can get away with it, who knows he can kick the ass of anyone who begs to challenge him. So, when he arrives, he doesn’t bother knocking, ignoring security and barging in on rain-soaked boots that tarnish the floor with each step. He’s wearing his signature two-toned mask and the sight of it sends a surge of arousal to your already half-hard cock, but not more so than when he takes it off, tactfully tossing it on Roman’s desk and watching you with his one, icy blue eye.

“Wilson.” Roman greets him without moving from his seat.

“Roman.” Slade returns as he takes the seat across him, the desk now impeaching your view of him.

“Is it done?” Your boss asks.

The assassin replies with a blunt, insulted scoff. You hear his chair creak as he presumably leans back on its hind legs. “You take me for an amateur? Of course it’s done.”

It irks you that you’re out of the loop, but you remain tight-lipped. Only moving to pour Slade a drink in the second tumbler once he accepts Roman’s offer.

“How is the broken soldier, aye?” Slade asks as he lets the chair fall back on all fours and leans forward to examine your arm. While Roman has routinely checked in to play with your weak and wounded body while you were out of action, you hadn’t seen, or been fucked by Slade since the night of your injury,

“Remains to be seen.” Roman answers for you, as is customary. “He's in a probationary period.”

“You’re too soft, I would have fired him.” You’re not convinced of his words, partly due to the smirk on his face, but mainly because Slade had been the one to patch you up and bring you home. When you crack a sneaky smile in his direction, he laughs, confirming his jest before reaching around you, ignoring his glass to grab Roman’s cigar box from which he takes one without asking. As he sits back, he hands you the snipper and lighter, and you make yourself useful, bending over to light the cigar and allowing your wet-look boxers to ride up, baring the bottom half of your cheeks to Roman.

The motion also adds pressure to the plug that had been almost permanently lodged into your ass since your return, causing you to whimper aloud. Just because you’d been demoted out of field work, didn’t mean Roman had taken things any easier on you in the proverbial ‘bedroom’ department.

Once the cigar is lit, and a steady rise of smoke begins to permeate the room with its sweet tobacco smell, you watch with brazenly lustful eyes as Slade’s lips pull from it. His sharp, stubbly jaw grows tight as he inhales, and relaxes when he blows a plume back out.

“Now, you never did thank Mr Wilson for pulling you out of the fray. Did you?” Roman chimes, and already you know where this is going.

“No, Daddy.” You shake your head, but you’re still fixed on the saviour in question. You lick your quickly drying lips before offering Slade a coy; “Thank you, Daddy.”

Slade raises a brow, the hint of an expectant smile on his lips.

“Come on kid, you can do better than that.” He’s already working his belt loose with his free hand. Sturdy fingers deftly finding his zip. Unsurprisingly, he’s not wearing underwear, and he slips his semi out readily, watching you back as he easily begins to stroke himself.

You don’t need to be told twice, sinking to your knees between his outstretched legs but before you can lay a finger on him you hear Romans scolding voice from behind, and you internally curse yourself, knowing what he’s about to remind you of. Your body already readjusting as he speaks. “Don’t forget yourself. Hands and knees.”

It’s not enough for you to simply lock your hands behind your back or to hold onto your ankles when sucking cock. Roman likes for you to be on all fours. Serving as a reminder that you’re an obedient pet.

The grin on Slade’s lips has grown, and he teasingly tuts at you before taking another drag of his cig.

You don’t think about whether or how you’ll be punished for that later. Ignoring the excited tingle at your core while you try again, avoiding too much pressure on your bad arm as you open your mouth and lean into Slade’s lap.

Almost fully erect, Slade seizes jerking himself and proceeds to tease you with his thick length instead, holding it to your face and then pulling away before you can get your mouth around it. Enjoying the way your eyes grow round and sinfully hungry whenever he slaps it against your cheek until an involuntary pout forms on your face.

“I’m just playing with you.” He’s cooing, but there’s no kindness in his tone. It’s a sordid and mean musing, punctuated by the blowing of rich smoke. “If you really want it, say ‘Please, Daddy.’”

“Please, daddy.” You don’t hesitate, uncaring of how pathetic you must look and sound. He’s seen you beg for far worse. “Please, please let me suck your cock.”

“Since you asked so nice.” He finally releases his dick, letting it hang as you plant open-mouth kisses from base to tip, happily worshipping it. You’d missed him in his absence, but you hadn’t realised how severely until you roll your tongue across the veiny base of his length, savouring the musky flavour.

“Thank you, daddy.” You offer your gratitude once more before taking the crown between your lips, cheeks swelling as you push forward, purposely dipping back and forth in short bursts, taking no more than an extra inch with each motion.

“What’s the matter? Roman not been giving you enough dick while I’ve been gone?” While he’s mocking your unhurried technique, there’s a tint to his cheeks that suggests he’s enjoying it more than he lets on. “You forget how to do it?”

You shake your head once more, holding back a laugh as Roman slams his glass on the desk.

“Fuck off.” As always, Roman has little tolerance. “I could fire you.”

“Finding work isn’t a trouble for me, Romy.” Slade fireback, getting off not just on your submission, but on grinding Roma’s gears, as made evident by the glint in his eye.

“How many of those jobs come with a fucktoy?”

Slade doesn’t respond to Roman playing their favourite trump card, at least not to Roman, but he does look back down at you.

“Let me help you.” He used that same bullying tone, a hand ghosting behind your head, not to grab or pull, yet, but to insistently guide you further down. You moan as you feel his tip grazing the back throat, opening wide to allow your spit to seep out, moistening his cock, smoothing the friction as he begins to rock his hips. It has always seemed that no matter how much cock you take from Slade, he always has more to give and now is no exception. “See, you’ll be taking it all again before I’m done smoking.”

All the while, and despite their bickering, you know that Roman has been enjoying the show. That’s not your ego talking, it’s fact. You hear the tell-tale sound of his fly being undone, of his drawer opening, the click of a lube cap being opened, and the salaciously wet slapping of every stroke to his cock.

Though you’re listening in anticipation for the moment Roman grows discontented with simply watching, you continue working Slade between your lips, allowing your drool to gather and drip down your chin, coating him thoroughly as you idly bob yourself around his deliciously weighty member. But your wandering attention is noted. Vexed, Slade slaps you, sharp and hard. Certainly not at his full strength, but enough that it makes your skull throb as hard as your confined dick. Enough to leave a mark.

He flips like a switch. It’s hard to tell what will trigger his temperament. Fortunately, you like it just as much, if not more when he’s cruel.

“Eyes bigger than your fucking ass.” He spits, grabbing your head as soon as your eyes consciously lock onto him; using his strength to force you deeper, ignoring how your throat spasms to fight the very much wanted intuition, and the chocked whines that emanate from you as he forces himself to the depths of your throat. Not stopping until your nose is buried in his thick, white thatch and your mind is overwhelmed by him. His coarse fingerless gloves and combat trousers dig into your skin, his earthy smell fills your nose, the faintly sweaty flavour of his cock as you choke around it consumes your mind. “Being nice, saved your life, show me some goddamned respect.”

Eager to make amends, you don’t look away from him for a second, even as your eyes water and your skin burns.

"Yes, daddy. Sorry, daddy.” Is what you mean to say, but all that comes out is a sloppy, garbled mess. You don’t falter as you hear Roman laughter behind you, or when Slade begins using your hard metal collar as a handle, choking you further as he rough snaps your head up and down, no doubt bruising your skin as he forces you to fuck your face on his cock and allowing you only milliseconds to catch your breath whenever your eyelids begin to falter.

“That’s it.” He continues as you lose yourself to the hypnotic feel of his cock rutting in and out of your mouth. His tone does not suggest praise, but the way his eye softens, his lips curling into a languid smile, does. “That’s a good boy, keep taking it like a good little cock hungry whore.”

So dazed and distracted by the euphoric feel of him bulging in the confines of your throat are you, that you don’t catch Roman’s footfall. You don’t know he’s behind you until his now bare fingers hook into your shorts, tugging them down your thighs.

You shiver, forcefully, as your heated cock is exposed to the chilly air, but not as hard as when he grips the base of your plug.

“Good boy.” He echoes Slade’s sentiment as he places a firm hand between your shoulder blades, steadying you for what’s to come. “Keep it up, stay still for, Daddy. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You agree, but once more your voice is muffled by the shaft between your parted lips. The reverb of your voice on his sensitive skin causing Slade to moan around a puff of his cigar, inhaling too much. He sputters briefly above you, his powerful body shaking, causing his member to pulse, uncomfortably at the back of your throat. By the time he comes too, your eyes are rolling back, not just from his movements, but because Roman has started to edge the plug from your ass, teasingly slow until your tight ring is stretched around the thickest part.

“Shit. Noisy little fucker.” Slade continues to twitch and hisses, enjoying every coo the Roman elicits from you as he fucks the metal toy in and out of your gaping hole.

“He can’t help it.” Roman cuts in, voice laced with mocking. “He wants to be filled up.”

“You do know how to pick ‘em. I’ll give you that.” They continue chattering over your head. Decidedly about you, not with you as they use your body. Slade on one end, keeping your mouth occupied, Roman on the other, tormenting your needy hole. “What are you waiting for?

“I give the orders around here. You’ll do well to remember that, Wilson.” Despite his objection, Roman lets the heavy toy clatter to the floor uncaringly.

He doesn’t ease himself in. There’s no doubt in his mind about how much you can take, or at what pace. Not because he’s taken the time to learn, but because he knows you can and will take anything he gives you, and you’ll do it happily. Like man’s best friend, his obedient dog, his dirty fucking cock-sleeve. There’s no scissoring his fingers to widen your walls, no extra lube beyond that which he’d used for his own pleasure as he’d watched you sucking off his best hitman. He just lines it up and plunges straight in.

Both men chuckle at the way you jerk and pant from the incursion, and Roman leans forward, pressing his weight on your back until he’s inches from your ear, short breath brushing the sensitive skin as he growls. “Look at you, greedy whore. Taking it from both ends. Don’t even think about touching yourself.”

Even if you wanted to disobey, you don’t think you could. Roman begins to rock in and out of you rapidly, and with such force, you need both hands to steady yourself.

“Good boy.” He says once more, and you could just melt from the praise. Not to mention the intoxication of being used so thoroughly by your daddies. Every snap of Roman's hips echoes through his office and drives you deeper into Slade’s crotch. “Keep being a good fuckin’ object. Let daddy fuck this tight ass raw.”

“You’re both noisy fuckers.” Slade groans, sinking deeper into his chair. You take no heed to his complaint; you don’t have time to before he flicks his half-smoked cigar at Roman. The man has flawless aim, so you know he misses deliberately. It lands on your back, and you do well to wind in your reaction to just a twitch when the hot tip scolds your skin before rolling to the floor. He stubs it out with a loud stamp. The burn and the noise both causing your tender walls to clench even tighter around Roman. In turn, Roman cusses, digging his nails into your parted cheeks as he enjoys the tension, proving Slade right.

“C’mere.” Slade goes on, kicking up from the chair forcing you and Roman to shift to his will. “Let me use this thing properly.”

He does this when he’s close, asserts himself, uncaring of how it affects everyone else. With a wide-leg stance, he leans over, and holds your head in place with his forehead in an almost-headlock, forcing you upright until Roman has to fall back onto his haunches. You don’t let him do all the work, even if you’d enjoy him berating you for it. Once Slade finds the angle he wants, you shimmy until you’re positioned just right to bounce on Roman’s cock.

“Bastard.” Roman mutters, and though he sounds breathy and sex-drunk, there is a definite undertone of malice that sets your already shaken nerves ablaze. “Fuckin’ lucky this feels good.”

Slade pays no heed, to him, or you for that matter. All he cares about now is chasing his own climax, and selfishly using you to get it. There’s no more stopping to breathe, you’re reliant entirely on your ropey ability to suck it in through your nose as he erratically pumps against your wet tongue. A score of swear words escaping him all the way through until he finally lets out a familiar, guttural grunt, muscles tensing as he rags your head back. Squeezing the base of his cock, he aims his translucent, sticky cum across your face, his eye watching with concentrated brows and gritted teeth until he has nothing left to give.

Rarely is Slade spent after any kind of sex, his stamina is near infinite. So, there’s no panting, no lazing about in the afterglow. He simply mutters a cocky “You’re welcome.” Whether in reference to your gratitude for saving your life or giving you a face-full of his seed is unclear. Then he releases your body from his steely grip and steps around you, leaning on the desk to watch from behind as he sips his whisky and leisurely tidies himself up.

You fall back onto your hands and knees, diligently still riding Roman’s cock even as you attempt to lick up any drops of cum that dribble close to your lips.

“Look watcha did! He’s a fuckin’ mess now.” Roman is all bark as he matches your stride.

“Looks better that way.” Slade retorts with a sneer. “His outside matches his insides. Now anyone can see that he’s a pathetic, cum slut.”

Roman mulls the words over briefly, and then his bite comes. Though you could probably take Roman one-on-one in a brawl, you wouldn’t ever dream of fighting him. So, when his hand comes down on the base of your neck, fingers splaying under your collar, you let him force your upper body to the floor. Face down, ass up. “Now he looks better.”

In this new position, every harsh thrust hits the sweet spot deep in your core that has your toes curling, and your dick throbbing. You white knuckle the floor, biting your lip to fight the urge to start fisting yourself. You’re so close, it would only take a couple of pumps, but you’re a good boy. Daddies good boy. So, you fight the urge, even as you’re on the brink of seeing stars.

“Is he right?” Roman’s ragged, gravelly voice does nothing to ground you. His wild, frenzies rutting into your ass, and the feel of his nails purposefully raking down your back all has you on edge. “Are you a dirty fuckin’ cum slut?”

“Yes, yesyesyes.” You chant in time to his turbulent rhythm, slurring into the hard ground every time he bottoms out.

“Whose dirty fuckin’ slut are you?” Roman urges and you can tell he has little left to give. Roman, whilst legendary amongst the underworld, is as human as you are, and it shows in his hitching breath and shaking legs. In the way he slaps your ass to try and reel himself a few more seconds. “Huh? Who?”

“You daddy! You!” Your leg is twitching like a god damned dog, and you let it, channelling all your willpower into following orders and neglecting your own pleasure. “You’re my daddy.”

“Damn.-” Your words send Roman toppling, literally. The cool, hard feel of his mask smacks against your spine as he cums deep in your ass, huffing and choking on his own pleasure, spit wetting the arch of your back as he keeps snarling at you. “-Fucking.Right.You.Are.”

Roman needs longer to catch his breath and find his footing. He snakes his arms around you, holding you to his still clothes chest, uncaring if or what Slade thinks of any perceived affection. Intimate or not, the warmth of his body does nothing to simmer your arousal. You’re still aching to find your own climax, but you keep your mouth shut, following the rules and letting Roman hold you until he steadies himself. If your choices are getting off or passing probation, you know which you’d rather in the long run.

Once Roman stands you remain on the floor, in position, shorts still tangled around one ankle, face plastered with half-dried semen. Once he’s zipped up, you follow his leather oxfords in your peripheral as he walks around you, avoiding the mess Slade and you had made as he examines your body. At some point, he must have found his gloves once more, because when he touches you again, the leather barrier has returned.

Gently, he traces a finger over your bandage before asking. “How is it?”

“Good, didn’t even think about it.” In truth, your rapidly bruising throat and the burn on your lower back hurt far more than your old injury.

Roman taps his fingers against it, clearly considering your answer before pressing harder. You should have expected it, and you give him what he wants to hear, groaning in pain because you know he likes it when you hurt for him. You like hurting for him too. If only he could see the way it makes your already slickened tip leak with pre-cum.

He doesn’t ask again. Instead, he stands up straight when he’d done, tapping the flaky puddles your dripping face had smeared onto the floor. No doubt you’re making just as much of a mess behind you, as Roman’s own release seeps from your open hole.

“Clean this up.” He instructs, before stepping briefly to the side and kicking over your discarded plug. “That too. When you’re done you can put it back in.”

You know what he means, you don’t wait for further clarification, crawling over and jamming your face to the floor. Flattening your tongue, you lap at the bittersweet discharge, blissfully relishing every drop.

“Gotten a lot more compliant since he got stabbed.” Slade muses from above, clinking his glass against Romans as they return to conversing without you. “He really doesn’t have a mind of his own anymore, does he?”

“Not unless I tell him too.” Roman boasts, lurid pride emanating from him.

“You gonna put him back on the beat soon?” You pray neither notice how you perk up at the question. You’re desperate to be back on the street, to sink your teeth into a fight, or a robbery, or even just a security detail.

“We’ll see.” Whether he noticed your keenness or not, Roman knows very well how badly you want it. “Probation isn’t over yet.”

Hi reader! Just wanted to remind you that you are so so so loved! ♥

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writerseclipse1 · 6 months ago

Text

[four seasons of love] chapter 1: a welcome arrival

a joel miller x reader series by @writerseclipse1

|| next || fsol masterlist ||

warnings: reader is in her 30s, joel in his 50s, abby in her 20s, mentions blood, injury and murder, small description of (canon-typical) physical violence, guns and other weapons, lmk if i missed anyt.

summary: jackson is stunned by an unexpected yet certainly welcome arrival. the plan falls into place a little too perfectly, like two sugars in a plain, black coffee.

word count: 3.8k

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ a/n: first chapter done!! hope u guys like it <3

++++++

March 19, 2037

“I hate it here,” Mike grumbled under his breath, slinging his rifle over his shoulder to adjust the thin material of his shirt. He heaved out a sigh, cheeks tinted a slight pink as a cool wisp of wind—left over from winter—brushed over his face. From his left, he heard a snicker and, turning his head, he saw Eugene stifling his laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“I mean, if you hadn’t fucked up last patrol, you wouldn’t be here,” Mike scoffs at Eugene’s chuckling, the bitter man crossing his arms over his chest as he looks at Eugene with a less-than-pleased look yet this did nothing to ease Eugene’s chipper mood. “Do better at your job and maybe they might let you patrol Jackson next time.” Eugene bursts out in a fit of laughter when he sees the corner of Mike’s mouth curl up into a sneer, his mouth opening to retaliate. The retort dies in his mouth however, when the latter sees a figure from below, back hunched and a trail of blood at its feet, and Mike’s heart leaps out of his chest when it collapses right outside the walls of Jackson.

“What the fuck is that?!”

The gates open and half a dozen men clutch their weapons, laser focused and pointed at their target, ready to shoot on command and at will. Maria clutches a pistol in one hand and a scanner in the other, swiftly attaching it to the neck of the intruder. The apparatus lets out a ‘click’ before the screen turns green. The woman signals the group to advance, their feet trudging along the grass.

They crowd around it, one of them nudging the body with the butt of his rifle but backs away when Maria clicks her tongue and gives a pointed look. “What do we do with it, boss?” The woman pauses, weighing her options before she sighs and shakes her head, surveying the blood absorbed by the soil.

“We take ‘em in.”

++++++

“Whatcha waitin’ here for?” Tommy’s head perked up at the sound of his older brother’s voice. His lips form a half smile, meeting Joel halfway to give him a side hug, wrapping one arm around his older brother’s shoulder.

“Been a week of waitin’ but we got a newcomer comin’ outta the med bay. Found her right outside the walls,” Tommy mused, crossing his arms and leaning on the wall behind him, staring at the curtain that separated him and his brother from the newcomer, the doctor, and Maria, who he speculated was speaking to the newcomer. “If she was out there for ten minutes longer, she woulda been dead before we even got here, well, that’s what Nolan told us.”

Joel acknowledged this with a huff, nodding as he let himself absorb his brother’s words, but something was out of place. “Hold on, where’s she gonna stay? As far as I know, we haven't built any new houses.” The older man already knew the answer but he still asked, praying that his guess wasn’t the case.

“Yeah well, about that,” Tommy grimaced at Joel’s sharp glare. “Now, come on, give the girl a break! She was just on death’s doorstep, be hospitable for once.” He nudged his brother’s arm but before the latter was about to counter with his inevitable refusal, he interrupted him. “I’m sure you know how it feels to be bleeding and alone. Wouldn’t want our guest to feel that way, do ya?”

It stopped Joel in his tracks, looking at his brother with an unreadable expression, the gears turning in his head as his decision was swayed by practicality versus sympathy. In the end, the soft sigh that Joel lets slip out of his mouth was the source of Tommy’s satisfaction. The younger man patted his brother’s shoulder with a grin, nodding his head. “Thanks, Joel. And who knows? You might like the girl more than you think.”

Joel didn’t get to retaliate before the curtain was pulled back, revealing Nolan Matthews—head doctor of the infirmary—with a mask that certainly did nothing to cover his evident smile, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he neared the two. “Good news, she’s alive and well, and definitely expecting a full recovery from all the injuries she sustained. It’s insane how she got here with all of it, though,” he turned to Joel. “Best keep an eye on her for a couple of days until she’s completely back on her feet. Just give me five minutes and then you’ll be allowed into the room.” Once again, the doctor gave Joel no chance to respond before he disappeared behind the curtain.

Tommy ignored Joel’s pointed gaze, a victorious smirk gracing the younger man’s face while his brother greeted him with a scowl. “So now we’re tellin’ the whole town that a girl’s gonna stay in my place forever?”

“Not forever, unless you want her to.” The groan that escaped Joel’s mouth did nothing to ease the smile from his brother’s lips. In fact, Joel swore Tommy’s grin just got bigger. “Come on, you have an extra room! It’s just until we get a couple more materials to make one for her, that’s all.” If Joel looked closer, he would have seen the way Tommy’s hand moved behind his back, his fingers crossing as he licked his lips. No way in hell would Tommy make a new house for just one person when someone else had a functioning extra bed. Plus, he thought he was helping his brother out. It’s been a while since Joel had mingled, maybe he just needed a bit of a nudge.

“You two done? She’s ready to meet you.” Maria’s voice cuts them from their internal squabbling, the two nodding their heads as they push themselves off the wall. ““Couple more materials” my ass,” Joel muttered to himself as he moved the curtain out of his way and entered the room.

Joel was the first one among the two that you laid your eyes on, your gaze staying on him longer than it should have before your eyes flittered to his brother. Maria cleared her throat, tearing your attention from the two imposing men. She introduced the pair to you, her lips spreading out into a warm and welcoming smile. “This is Tommy, my husband,” she held his hand, squeezing it in her grasp and you gave him a meek smile as he tipped his head in your direction. “And this is his brother, Joel.”

Joel’s gaze had been pinned to the floor the entire time but when he felt Maria’s hand on his shoulder, he looked up. He looked much younger than you knew him to be but the greying hairs on the skin of his jaw and the ones on the side of his head told you otherwise. A swift glance gave you the chance to peek through the hazel glaze of his eyes, telling you of the murders he’d committed, the hardships he’d gone through, and the love that had slipped from his hands. Like his brother, he nodded his head in your direction, eyes still piercing into yours. “Welcome to Jackson.”

The corners of your lips turned upward, your own name slipping through your lips as you looked between the three, your eyes eventually focusing on Maria as she started to speak. “Thing is, we don’t have your house ready yet, but Joel offered his spare bedroom for you to stay in until we finish. Is that okay with you?” If you paid closer attention, you would have seen Joel glare at his brother and the smug smile on Tommy’s lips but you only nodded, slightly surprised that you were still welcome in a settlement with about 300 people.

“Yes, of course. I’m just grateful you still have room for one more person,” your voice came out small, looking up at them with gratitude. Before you could react, Maria had engulfed you in a hug, her accepting gesture making you relax even the slightest, almost making you forget what you had come here for in the first place.

Almost.

“You’re always welcome here and there will always be room,” she smiled, helping you stand on your shaky legs. “Now come on, we’ll show you around.”

++++++

“Take your shoes off and put ‘em in the rack before you come in,” Joel’s gruff voice cut through the air as you followed him up the steps to the porch which was painted a light shade of brown. Heeding his request, you untied your boots and let the laces hang down the sides of the shoes and without another word, followed him into the house.

After you had finished your tour around town, Maria had insisted that Joel lead you to your “temporary” place of residence and show you your room. The sun hadn’t even set, its rays still shining down on Jackson without abandon but you felt the exhaustion of the week spent in the infirmary slowly come down on you like feathers dropping onto your shoulders.

The exterior matched the interior, with minimal furniture and a layout that was certainly easy to memorize. The kitchen and the dining area on your left and the living room to your right. Other than looking over his shoulder to see if you listened to his earlier request, Joel paid you no mind, letting you explore the house as you wish. Hanging your jacket on the coat stand and placing your boots in the rack, you headed to the living room first. You sighed softly at the warmth of the fireplace as your fingers ghosted over the brown, worn out leather of the couch and a part of you wondered just how many times he had accidentally fallen asleep on it rather than his bed.

A sudden ‘thump’ from your left drew your curiosity to the corner of the room. You took a second to appreciate the small library Joel had set up on a wide, wooden bookshelf and to also admire his slightly obvious affinity for reading. He didn’t seem like the bookworm type, especially if you took him at face value. A book laid on the ground and as soon as you picked it up, you wiped the dust off the cover with your sleeve. “An Idiot’s Guide to Space.” It made your eyebrows raise in curiosity, the pad of your thumb brushing over the somehow sleek cover of the book.

“Didn’t peg you as a space nerd,” his head tilted in the direction of your voice, eyes focusing on you as you kept your back to him. Smoke rose from the surface of his coffee, watching it disappear as he let the comment hang in the air for a while but you didn’t mind, not expecting a reply from him in the first place.

“‘M not. I’m into woodworkin’ and a lil’ bit of history but none of that—” he brushes it off with a wave of his hand in the air. “—whatever. But, uh, Ellie, she likes space so I’m tryna figure out half the things she says.”

“You have a daughter?” You would be lying if you said you were surprised.

“No, no.” Shaking his head, he wiped his hands on the towel that hung from the oven, idly walking toward you. “She’s a kid I came here with, saved her from getting eaten alive out there.” His footsteps got nearer and nearer and you felt your words die in the back of your throat when you felt his presence behind you, the scent of coffee and his natural aroma invading your senses. You made no move to turn, your eyes scanning the title of the book over and over until it was ingrained in your mind.

You snapped out of your daze when he cleared his throat and you looked over your shoulder, seeing a cup of coffee in each of his hands and you hurriedly returned the book to the shelf. Turning around, you carefully took the mug from his left hand, blowing gently before taking a sip. You peered at him from over the rim as you muttered a soft ‘thank you’, not noticing how he hid his face by sipping his own coffee.

Not long after, you found yourselves on the couch, a noticeable space in between you and him. Joel was never one for small talk but he gave himself the chance to indulge in it, just this once maybe. He found it comforting, talking to someone with no apparent knowledge of him and his actions prior to his new life in town.

“Five years huh?”

“Yep.” Joel would consider himself a quiet person so it was a surprise when all the questions you asked didn’t go unanswered. Some were short and brisk but you seemed to understand him, not pressing on the subject unless he elaborated further. “Time’s fast though, it’s the reason my back always hurts like a bitch.”

Your chuckle echoed through the otherwise empty house as you leaned over to put your now-empty mug on the coffee table, right beside where Joel put his. The embers in the fireplace crackled, the fire fizzing as it slowly died. A sigh escaped your lips, making Joel’s head turn and watch as you rolled your shoulders. “I guess that’s my cue to go to bed.”

“Alright then,” he stood after you, his palms pushing him up and he tipped his head toward the stairs. “Lemme show you your room.”

It wasn’t anything startling, a simple bed next to the window on the left and a small dresser on the right. You were just grateful for the clean sheets and the assurance of the locks on the front and back door. Pulling the handles, the dresser revealed a small pile of clean clothes that smelled like they were fresh out of the laundry.

“I traded a few things in for ‘em, don’t mention it.” He said, seeing your mouth opening and about to release a cluster of words of gratitude and ‘you didn’t have to’s. “‘Just wanted my first guest to be comfortable.”

“Well, I’ll rate you five stars on Airbnb,” you teased, biting your lip to suppress a smirk when he let out a hearty laugh, one you heard from Maria to be a “rare find these days” yet you find yourself chuckling along with him.

“Wait, you know what that is?” An excited expression graced his face, the corners of his eyes wrinkling and his teeth showing as his lips pulled up into a grin. His arm went up to rest his weight on the door, his free hand resting on his waist.

“I’m not as young as you think, Mr. Miller.” He extended a hand toward you and you looked up at him through your eyelashes, his laugh turned into a ghost of a smile on his face.

“Call me Joel.” The edges of your lips quirked up as you took his calloused hand into your smooth one.

“Nice to finally meet you, Joel.”

You learned two things that night: Joel was in his 30s when the outbreak began and he gets talky when he gets his coffee.

++++++

“Took you long enough,” the blonde's familiar voice echoed from behind you and you bit back a groan.

Sometime after the moon was high into the sky and you were sure that Joel had locked his door, you quietly slid out of bed and down the stairs, relief flooding you for the absence of a creaky staircase. Slipping your coat back on, you grimaced at the thought of soiling Joel’s living room before you ultimately decided to grab your boots and put them on once you got out the back door.

Sneaking out—of the house and of Jackson—was easy enough but navigating through the night without a flashlight made the hairs on your neck stand with every soft whisper of the wind. You remained on high alert, hands grasping your gun tight but you felt the tension in your shoulders relax when you saw the familiar shack, a dim glow lighting up the inside.

“Give me a break, he was a bit chattier than what you told me,” you muttered, slumping onto the couch beside Manny and Owen, giving both men a fist bump. Leaning back onto the backrest, you slung your ankle over your other knee and crossed your arms over your chest as Abby stayed standing, watching the small fire flicker inside the lamp. “What now, boss? Do I bring out the good ol’ golf club and finish the job?”

“Are you ridiculous?” Came her retort and you bit back a laugh at her annoyed expression. “If that was our plan, his brother might come after me and we’d all be dead. If you wanted me to get killed that easily, you could’ve said so.” Her braid swung over her shoulder as she stretched her neck.

“That was a joke, Abigail, if you couldn’t tell,” you could see her jaw tighten, as if she was stopping herself from bashing your head with a golf club. Her distaste for you was loud and clear and it was evident the feeling was reciprocated.

The plan was simple: infiltrate Jackson, get Joel to fall in love with you, lure him out of Jackson by pretending you got kidnapped, then Abby finishes the job in a ratty, old cabin without any witnesses, the same one you were in right now.

“And why me? She could do it herself if she really wanted him killed,” you mused as you glanced at Abby, crossing your arms as Isaac tries but fails to stifle a chuckle.

“No way in hell,” she snarled, her hands balling into fists from the top of the table. “Am I gonna get all lovey-dovey on the man who killed my father. If anything, the only time I’m gonna be laying my hands on him is when I finally get to murder that son of a bitch.”

“You’re also closer to his age than Abby.” Owen piped up, pushing himself off the wall he leaned on. You tried not to roll your eyes but it was difficult when he was being such a fucking tryhard.

“More important than that,” Isaac sent the two a pointed look, putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his intertwined fingers. “You’re my most valuable soldier, my right hand, if I may. If there’s anyone this self-proclaimed mission needs, it’s you.” Pride swelled deep in your heart and the daggers Abby stared into your skull didn’t go unnoticed, but it went without a response.

“Alright, alright, let’s get things done,” Manny started, clearing his throat as he put his weight forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as the attention completely turned to you. “What happened today?”

Clearing your throat, your mind raked through the events of today as your teeth dragged over your teeth. “For one, it’s a miracle I got there in the first place,” your hand smoothed over the back of your neck, wincing when you felt a sting travel from your nape. “You did a number on me, Anderson, felt like I was on the brink of death when I got there.” Abby felt more than smug at your admission because making your life hell is her mission in progress, the side quest of her main task: getting revenge on Joel Miller.

Before you started to traverse through the remote area the town was situated in, Abby insisted on getting you roughed up. Just a little to invoke sympathy in the people, but she beat the shit out of you so hard you even felt bad for yourself.

“Just get on with it,” she said, a barely-there, shit-eating grin on her face but you only dug your nails into your palms, not having the energy to contest. “What about Joel?”

“Met him almost instantly, right after they let me out of my hospital bed,” you picked on the hidden bandages that were wrapped around your torso as your body started to throb from the pain you’ve been trying to conceal since you stepped foot in the town. “Then they told me I’ll be staying in his house until they get my house fixed up.”

Abby’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. She wasn’t, by all means, religious but she was taken aback at how Joel was being served to her on a silver platter, like someone out there wanted her to take what she’s been longing for. Not to kill Joel, but to avenge her father in the same way he was taken from her.

“One thing I noticed though,” your voice broke her out of her revenge-filled reverie, looking at you with an unreadable expression. “Was that it’ll take a while for him to fall in love with me, not that I’m basing it off on assumptions but he’s a quiet person in general.” “How long is “a while”?” Mel asked, coming out from one of the bedrooms with her hands on her hips, looking at you expectantly.

“Maybe a year if I’m right.”

“A year? We can’t wait around here for that long,” grumbled Abby, who was greeted with a groan from you. Massaging your temples with your thumb and middle finger and trying to prolong the coming of your inevitable headache, you offered an idea.

“Radio. You got one back at base and I’m sure they have one I can borrow,” you raised your eyebrows, expecting an answer from the blonde. “How’s that?” Her arms crossed over her chest and her knee bounced, a habit she had when she was lost in thought. Eventually, she spoke again yet her words were dripping with skepticism.

“Every Saturday at this time, you give us a weekly report with all the necessary details and, if you can, add in your ETC so we know when to strike. If everything is ready to go, the code word is “do not disturb.” Wrote all that down?”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” you joked, mock saluting her as you stood, only rolling her eyes at you as you shrugged your coat back on and headed out, but not before bidding them a good night and wishing them a safe trip back to Seattle in the morning. They all watched as you weaved through the thick trees scattered in the forest, their attention never wavering, not until you disappeared in the darkness of the night.

It wasn’t a rare occurrence for Abby to be losing sleep over this. It was something her brain did often, questioning her own methods and skills. This time, it settled on the fact that this mission would take a year to complete, more or less. Was it really worth the time?

Then again, she waited five years to kill him. Another year wouldn’t hurt, right?

++++++

#the last of us #tlou #joel miller #abby anderson #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou hbo #tlou 2 #tlou x reader #ellie williams #tlou joel #joel the last of us #joel x reader #maria miller #tommy miller #four seasons of love [joel m]#fsol #the tipsy bison

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dross-the-fish · 1 year ago

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They found the elusive Phantom of the Opera curled up on pages of strewn sheet music, weeping with such pitiful heartbreak that none in the party dared to approach. “Je Meurs…” the deformed man sobbed to himself, unaware or uncaring that he had an audience. Dr. Watson shifted uncomfortably, “Either of you lads speak French?” he whispered to Quincy and Lawrence. Both shook their heads in dismay and Watson gave a resigned sigh, “I guess we’ll have to hope he speaks English.”

Before the doctor could approach the crying figure Adam Frankenstein stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I know French. Let me speak to him,” he said in a quiet rumble. Watson wrinkled his mustache. He was fond of The Creature and thought that after several months in his company he’d learned everything he needed to about him. Not the case, it seemed, for it had not even occurred to him that Adam could be a polyglot. Truthfully, Watson barely understood how a creation who had spent so much of his time in isolation knew English, much less French. Holmes would have had him figured out top to bottom by now, he thought to himself with a pang. “Fine, but please don’t scare him he seems…vulnerable,” he made a resigned gesture. The volume of the sobbing behind him intensified. “I’ll try but no promises, I daresay I am an even more frightful aberration than he,” the corner of Adam’s mouth quirked upward in a rueful smile, “Perhaps, from one living corpse to another, we may strike a kinship founded on our mutual ugliness” he mused. Watson’s frown deepened but before he could chide Adam he was cut off by a piteous cry: “Christine!” Quincey perked up, “I know that! That’s a girl’s name! You don’t think this is over a girl, do you, Larry?” Lawrence grimaced at him, “God, I hope not. After everything we went through to get down here our sentient zombie better not be dying of a broken heart.” Adam threw them both a look as if to say. Quiet! You’re distracting me. Once everyone had settled, he approached the Phantom and knelt beside him, addressing him in French. “Hello, are you hurt?” The Phantom started, as though he had been shaken from a dream. A bloodshot eye, as yellow as Adam’s own, peeked tearfully through the lattice of bony fingers covering a pallid, badly deformed, face. “What are you?” he asked, pausing his weeping long enough to be cognizant of the monstrous giant kneeling beside him. He turned away and groped behind him for a black mask that had been carelessly discarded on the floor, putting it back on while The Creature waited patiently. Adam did not answer him at first, after a thoughtful pause he offered: “Someone like you.” That seemed to be explanation enough for the wretched man for he resumed his crying “I am dying,” he said between sobs, “I am dying of love.” Adam nodded sympathetically, “Love, and the want of it, are indeed, powerful enough to die from. What happened?” “I kissed her! I kissed her alive! She let me-she let me! I have never…” he trailed off in a fresh wave of tears. Adam patted his back. “Where is she now? Has she forsaken you?” he asked. “Forsaken? No. Never! She would not…she is a good girl…she would have been my bride! My living bride! I could not keep her, not after she allowed me to kiss her. I have freed her!” the Phantom seemed to compose himself a little and he sat up, wiping his eyes on his sleeves. He seemed to notice, for the first time, Watson, Quincey and Lawrence hanging back watching him. “Who are you and why have you come here? I am in no condition to entertain guests. No guests have ever graced my lair save for the Daroga who shall, no doubt, be very cross with poor Erik, and there was Christine who has taken her little chap and fled forever…” The three Englishmen exchanged confused glances and Quincey offered an apologetic shrug. “He wants to know who you are,” Adam clarified, switching to English. Quincey nearly tripped over himself crossing the floor with his hand extended to introduce himself, “Quincey Harker, very nice to meet you! Sorry about your traps, we had to dismantle them to get down here. They were very impressive, by the way! Adam, will you tell him I’m impressed? I’ve never seen such feats of engineering before,” he babbled grasping and pumping Erik’s hand enthusiastically. Erik froze and replied, in slightly accented English, “Thank you…do not touch me,” as his mind finally began to clear he tensed, realization sinking in that there were four men, one of whom was larger than any man he’d ever seen, who had him effectively cornered and at a disadvantage. Quincey dropped Erik’s hand with a muttered apology and Watson nudged him aside, “I am Dr. John Watson. We’re supernatural investigators. You’ve noticed, surely, that the undead are rising at an alarming rate and we were hoping that, with you being the only other revenant we’ve discovered to be in full possession of his mental faculties,” he gestured at Adam, who grinned in response, “that you might be willing to come with us and lend us some aid. It is my belief that through researching cases like yourself and Mr. Frankenstein here we can derive a cure or at least a way to restore those inflicted to a sustainable quality of life.” The Phantom looked from man, to man, to creature and shook his head, “You are mistaken. Despite the rumors, for which I myself and largely responsible, I am no corpse. Although that shall undoubtedly change very soon. No, I am only Erik.” Adam’s face fell, “Are you saying that you are…alive?” he tried and failed to keep the disappointment from his voice. Erik gave a biting laugh, “I should not be! Nothing that looks like me should have been able to draw breath yet here I am, living as of yet,” he withdrew a little from Adam, who all at once seemed to him, to be much larger and more menacing than before, “Are you not?” he crept back, his long spindly legs bent at the knees in a half crouch as his hand subtly reached inside of his coat, “Are you in fact, one of the undead?” Black lips drew tight and white teeth bared as the creature’s face darkened, “I am! Whatever you’re about to try, don’t. I promise it will not work and the destruction will be your own.” Watson threw out an arm to keep Adam from advancing, “Steady there! No call for that! No one is here to harm or threaten anyone,” he threw Erik a pleading glance, “Please, we’re no danger to you! We’ve no interest in harming you or forcing you to come with us. I see we’ve made a mistake and we’ll leave you in peace. Right, Adam?” Adam looked from Watson to Erik and forced himself to relax, “Right,” he affirmed, though he did not take his eyes off of the thin, crouched man. Like a caged animal The Phantom regarded them before he followed their example and straightened, “I apologize, I am…unaccustomed to civil company, much less when it presents itself with… such a… creature,” he was blatantly staring in a way that made Adam’s hackles raise. “I hardly think that’s fair coming from you. Living or not, you’re not really much different from him, are you?” Lawrence interjected brusquely, “Let’s face facts here, you’re a monster in your own right even if you are only human.” “I suppose there is no denying that,” Erik sighed, “I suppose we should part ways. I cannot linger here and neither should you. No doubt, after they clean up the chandelier, there will be a mob gathering to come and tear this place apart and thanks to you I no longer have the protection of my traps.” “You could come with us,” Quincey offered, “Even if you are alive, we could definitely use someone with your knack for engineering back at our headquarters in London. We have rooms and we’ll give you free food and board.”

“I was going to wait for death to come and take me but perhaps it is not yet time to bring my story to a close,” Erik considered, taping his chin beneath his mask, “Could I bring a friend? If I am to leave Paris I should not like to go without a companion, though he may finally be through with me after how poorly I have treated him.”

“I don’t see why not,” replied Watson, “We have room and we need as much help as we can get.”

“It is agreed then. I know not what awaits me in London but perhaps it will be better than waiting to die here in this tomb. Allow me half an hour to collect my things and I will join you.”

#Phantom of the opera #Frankenstein #Sherlock Holmes #Lawrence Talbot #crossover au #HE'S IN #tbh I don't like the writing but it's as good as it will ever get so meh

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ozarkthedog · 7 months ago

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Happy birthday Ozzie, and congratulations on your follower milestone!!! You beautiful bean, I'm so glad this hellsite put us in each others' paths.

📝 For location-based smut prompt, Tim Rockford and dealer's choice of

public -8 inside one muses’s office. OR public 9 - inside a third party’s office they shouldn’t have access to.

Just need this man to get freaky with me in an office setting is what I'm saying because look at him:

😭 i’m thankful everyday that we’ve gotten so close! here’s my token of gratitude. 😘💙

18+ mdni. Tim Rockford x f!reader. oral sex (fem receiving). public but private setting — office. special guest.

This is so wrong.

It was bad enough that Tim was your superior and that you'd been sneaking around for the last month, fucking each other whenever he had a few moments of free time, but using a random co-worker's office? That was flat out stupid.

Tim drops to his knees in the small room, making quick work of your skirt and hooking one of your legs over his leather holster encased shoulder.

He breathes in deep as he presses the lower half of his jaw against your panty clad mound. "Been thinkin' about this sweet pussy all day." He holds your weary gaze as he slots the thin material to the side and latches his lips around your clit.

Your fingers card through his hair, tugging just so to make him groan into your slick heat. His tongue dances along your slit, dipping between your folds, earning him soft hisses and mewls from your gasping lips.

This is sure to blow up in your faces, but as Tim slides two thick fingers into your dripping core and rubs expertly against your slick walls, you couldn't care less.

"Shit- you're fuckin' soaked." Tim groans as your velvet walls mold to the shape of his girthy digits.

Your spine bows against the corkboard nailed to the wall; it's pinned with a precise diary of information: crime scene photos, newspaper clippings, and various stake-out notes. The small plastic tac heads dig into your skin as Tim sucks your clit into his mouth and vibrates the little button with a deep groan.

Your chest heaves under your blouse as the pleasure steadily mounts. Your hips move on their own, grinding against Tim's stubble and tongue. Brute hands circle your hips, keeping you safe and balanced as your peak draws closer.

He leans back on his heels and stares up at you. His cheeks are flushed a desert pink, and his lips glisten under the dim light as he works you closer and closer to the edge.

"Come on my tongue. Wanna taste you." Tim husks before diving back into your cunt with a feral energy you'd only come to know since being with him.

Your eyes flutter closed as the pleasure envelopes you, drowning all your senses. Had your eyes been open, you would've seen the shadowy figure slink through the door just as you were starting to come.

A heavy wave of arousal coats Tim's tongue as he pushes it further into your drenched hole. He grunts at your taste, greedily drinking you down and licking every creamy drop from your swollen cunt as you bite back the wanton moans that threaten to slip from your lips.

Tremors rake your body as you catch your breath and come back into your body. The foreign, bitter smell of smoke perks your senses. Your heart slams into your throat as a red ember glows from a dark corner of the room.

"You put on quite a show, Gatita." A deep voice praises from the black abyss.

Tim moves lightning fast, spinning on the spot and shielding your body from the unknown figure.

Javier Pena steps into the light. Your co-worker and whose office you now had the pleasure of corrupting.

He stalks toward his desk with a glint in his eye, pinning you and Tim to the floor as he retrieves a folder that's left on top of a mess of papers.

The men exchange silent words while Javier takes a long drag from his cigarette. Tim relaxes, his broad shoulders slightly sagging once he realizes the threat is neutralized. Javier smirked at your wide eyes while he exhaled a lungful of smoke toward the ceiling.

"You should lock the door next time," Javier suggests as he moves to leave. He hesitates, hand perched on the shiny, brass knob before looking over his shoulder. "Unless you're looking for a third person to join."

Ozzie’s 11k birthday sleepover

#ozzie 11k birthday #tim rockford x reader #tim rockford #tim rockford x you #javier pena #pedro pascal

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tryingtimi · 5 days ago

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His Grey Fang

Something that needed to come out through one of my current favourite characters.

TW: MENTION OF DEATH | GRIEVING | CHARACTER EXPLORATION | WC: 1,276

The vigil neared its end when Dae first wished to leave.

It was a nudging feeling like the cold breeze in the birthing thought of coming dawn. Black shrouds hunched over the tables as if the guests, too, were waiting for their turn on the burial ground. The mass’s soft buzzing blended into the quiet noise of the city underneath, careful words and misty eyes mourning a man none could have known truly.

“Were you close?” asked a shrivelled elder Dae didn’t care the name of.

“Not really.”

The man’s slurring expression stretched into confusion and then blankness. Like everyone else, he too searched her face, dry cheeks igniting the silent resentment only this moment could. He didn’t bother her further.

Dae stayed put on the hard wooden bench for half an hour longer, hands wrapped around a barely touched, sour drink. She didn’t speak, she didn’t listen. She was avoided, alone in a crowd of hundreds. A few years younger girl sat at her family table with shineless eyes and a shaken posture. She clutched a portrait of Dae’s grandfather. Her father and aunt sat at the main table beside the girl, receiving condolences, and Dae found that right. The only ones with a right to grieve.

When she finally left, ashen skies waved over the city. People raced along in their graphite colours, and it was strange how the stopped time oozed out into the world from the vigil. Downtown had nothing to do with a closed-up, sickly man, but it misted for him, clouds like smoke hardly keeping their tears to themselves.

Bongju meandered beside Dae, hands in his pockets. “Are you going back to work?”

“’Course. Someone needs to, and I rather have Father have his time.”

Her friend nodded, understanding. He didn’t look at her face to find something, instead, he watched the sky, waiting for the inevietable drench.

“He was the one encouraging you to fight, right?” he asked after a time, the only person with an un-blurred face under a dawdling, white sun. Dae lit a cigarette, scoffing.

“Encouraging, sure. We haven’t talked besides the family necessities, he just bought me a punching bag and a bandage. Said I had talent, while he didn’t know who I was at all. He didn’t even try to figure it out. But you know well he had talent, yet he never offered to teach me. And when I chose to do something else, he didn’t ask, just went to find another — not even blood relative, might I add — grandchild to pester about it.”

“Are you angry with him?”

Bongju was generous enough to not sound surprised.

“No. I didn’t know him, Ju. I can’t be angry with someone whom I don’t even know.”

“Is that right?” he mused, standing aside while she opened the office’s creaking door. “I suppose it is. Then you're not upset at Inseo, either?”

Dae didn’t turn on any light, leaving only the grey-white outside brighten the small, musty area. She sat before the packed table, months of backlog watching her just as pityfully as the masses. “No reason to be. It wasn’t her choice to be nearly closer to the old bear than Father. They had something strong in common that no one did, was all.”

And no one could choose with whom they had that connection. Dae realised that long ago, hoping it would ease the yearning to find her own person for it. She pulled the first paper from the pile, remembering how her grandfather’s big eyes saddened when she first decided to join the office rather than the ring. He said she couldn’t be stirred away from anything she sunk her fangs into. The strangeness of the feeling gripped her chest again. She understood his passion, yet they couldn’t share it. A brick heart could not fill another.

Days had gone by like a black and white film, silent and faded on the edges. Dae worked, falling into the repetitive rhythm well. It could have occupied her mind if it wasn’t already full. Shards of moments made her stop in her tracks from time to time; moments with the old bear. Moments she thought she had forgotten. Moments she thought insignificant. The holidays where he recited the first moves he learned in his youth to her Father. The dinners where he never picked at the food, not eating, nor plumping, ever. The family gatherings, where the only topic he could think of was Inseo’s accomplishments, told to Dae with unending pride.

A skinny man, like every thin branch on the leafless trees. A white beard and ponytail, like the early morning wisps on the horizon. He became a ghost of her childhood, following around in corners Dae wasn’t aware of in a long time. There was no talking, yet there was always a thank you when she forced a conversation. There were no questions, yet there was always a praise when he caught her practising. There was sadness in not knowing her doing it. There was resentment in longing for a question from him. She worked, and remembered. She contemplated, and wondered: what to mourn if they had no connection at all? Could she truly lose the absence of someone? She didn’t know, so she continued working and remembering, until one day, it was time to empty his apartment.

Dae volunteered, finding it hard not to.

The grey horizon clung to that day, too. Mist tumbled within stone buildings and warm bodies in a stuffed, but somehow desolate city. It always calmed Dae, for reasons she couldn’t truly grasp. Her grandfather kept calling her Grey after Father told him that fact. Dae didn’t mind the sound of it.

She stopped before the apartment’s door, realising she never stepped over its threshold. She knew where he lived, but he never invited her in, never let her enter. The stubborn brick of her heart was thrown into a blaze. She pushed back the entrance with force, letting it shut behind.

Grey.

Dae stood in a wholly grey room, with so sparse of things she would have thought no one lived there for a lifetime. Essentials, bookshelves, a punching bag in the middle of the hollow living room, and practice dummies beside it. All the books, bandages on the one coffee table, or the bags’s leather spoke about a thousand usage. Few, easy, barely ever spoiling food filled the joke of a kitchen area.

Dae swallowed, taking the framed portrait of herself as a babe from one of the shelves. It was dated to a few days after her birth. She put it back, and noticed another one on the other case, two years later. That was how it went on, almost every shelf and commode holding a framed version of her, up until her present self. Beside those, there was Inseo, not overruling, but complementing her portraits.

None of his martial accomplishments were displayed like those pictures.

Dae choked on the lump in her throat. Her tears welled up, then warmed her cold cheeks as they fell. It wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t regret. It wasn’t anything like before.

She kneeled beside the coffee table, touching the used, but still sturdy red bandages. She picked it up, and ever so slowly wrapped around her knuckles. There was every drop of stubbornness in those tiny rips on the textile, one she inherited from the very man himself. A connection she yearned to have — and always had, after all.

#Project Sasin #tw mention of death #always so interesting to live something through a totally different personality (and circumstance) than yours #kinda how she got her nickname tho im not sure its canon #since its an impulse piece

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nekohime19 · 1 month ago

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Heart behind the lie # 55 : welcome back

They escape Heaven

Macaque was used to sudden change of plans. When you lived with an impulsive monkey (especially if said monkey was your King), it was necessary to be flexible. As such, Macaque learned long ago that sometimes one just had to throw themselves in the midst of chaos and give up on the perfect plan they took hours to think of.

Now was such a moment.

Macaque leaped after the dragon-girl without a second thought and left the heavenly guest room, Wukong immediately ran after him, not wanting to be separated for even one second. MK was broken out of his stupor and followed after them, the rest of the team followed the tide after a bit, even if they were still baffled by the sudden change of tactics. Mei was leading the charge, pulling them in a frenetic run rhythmed by the sounds of clatters and alarms.

The whole palace was taken over by a sudden frenzy. Armor cladded soldiers run around, shouting at the top of their lungs that the guests escaped. They swarmed every corner of the place, hoping to stop them from advancing any further. If they wanted to escape, they needed to be fast. Everything from now on was a race against time itself.

“Take left!” Shouted Macaque, they needed to get to the armory first, then they'll pave their way towards the ship and escape Heaven's tight clutches. Of course, Macaque couldn't use his magic to fight, his state was still too unstable, and he didn’t have any weapons on hand, but it didn’t mean he wasn't able to defend himself.

One soldier jumped in front of him, his sharp spear in hand.

“Macaque-” MK, who wanted to warn Macaque of the danger, cut himself when he saw the black-furred monkey lunge forward and knock out the guard with a well placed punch.

“You were saying?” Asked Macaque with a raised eyebrow.

“.. No, nothing.” Snorted MK, he didn't have to worry too much, a warrior stayed a warrior no matter the state.

Macaque teared off the glamors veiling his ears. The palace was in a blare of shouts and clatters, it was impossible to hear everything correctly if he didn't remove the magic blanketing the side of his head. His ears flared like one eagle's proud wings, their shine was duller than in the past, and they were full of cuts and nips, nonetheless they worked perfectly well. Of course, Macaque didn't dare touch the glamors recovering the rest of his face. Especially the one hiding the ugly sight of his milky-white marred eye. This was a sight he wasn't ready to show. He'll hide it for as long as his battered heart desires.

He was broken out of his musing by the cry of a soldier charging towards them, he hissed, not liking the shrill voice of the heavenly guard. Wukong most likely noticed his discomfort. He growled and pounced forward, knocking out the guard with one single jump. Then, the great sage ran to Macaque's side again, looking up at him expectantly.

“Thanks, bud.” Snorted Macaque as he patted Wukong's head, he patted Sock (who was on Wukong's back) in passage, because truly the lil sage was too cute not to pat. The golden-furred monkey leaned in his touch greedily and chirped in delight.

They resumed their run, pushing forward despite the waves of heavenly guards coming their way.

“There! That's the door!” Shouted Macaque as he pointed forward. Mei didn't even know where he was guiding them but she truly didn't need to. She trusted him to pave their way. It was odd, in a way, to be given so much trust. Macaque never thought that after everything he did to those people, they'd trust him so readily, so willingly, yet here they were. It was something to cherish. In his overly long life, Macaque didn't treasure these sorts of things very well. More often than not, the trust weaved between Wukong and him had felt too natural, so much that he took it for granted. People said you'll miss something the day it'll be lost. They were right. It was in the thrall of loneliness, when no-one trusted him, when he didn't trust anything either, that he learned to long for the bond he discarded.

He vowed to never take trust for granted ever again.

Mei kicked the door open and they stumbled inside of the armory. Sandy and Pigsy quickly got to their feet and closed the heavy door, sealing it with a wooden bar they pushed in specific slots made for this usage. They heard soldiers, on the other side, knock themselves on the door. The wood cracked under the sheer pressure, but it stood still and strong. They all breathed a common sigh of relief.

The armory was vast. It was lightened by the wavering flames of a chandelier, the metal candleholder swayed above their head like a pendulum, going back and forth as if it was pushed around by ghosts. Macaque grimaced at the sight, truly an ominous sign. They found their weapons pretty quickly, they were neatly piled atop each other in one corner. Macaque picked up his spear and shield, it felt good to hold them, it was familiar, safe. He carefully tucked the liu'si and turned towards the others.

Mei was crying all over her sword, vowing to never let it go again. Pigsy and Sandy hummed in delight and swung their weapons around before properly tucking them. Tang clutched his staff as if it was a precious treasure.

“So what do we do know? Soldiers are gathering on the other side of the door.” Sighed Red Son, he threw a look at the heavy door, eyeing the creaking wood with caution.

“I cannot believe I was dragged along.”Muttered Nezha as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The lotus prince looked up and walked towards the only window of the armory. “Which of you can make a cloud?”

MK raised his hand as if he was in the middle of a class. “Me sir!”

“Then we'll need to make an extra large one.” Sighed Nezha as he opened the window.

“You don't mean…” Muttered Tang with a green face.

“Yes, now we're talking! Let's jump out of the window!” Cheered Mei.

Despite never bothering to call upon his own cloud, Macaque was well-aware of wind magic intresicaties. Calling a larger cloud, like Erlang did earlier that day, demanded more effort. But if one allied his power with another, it was possible to call upon a large cloud more easily. Of course, you could also reshape your cloud once it was in your hand, but it was difficult to do so for those who didn't have nimble fingers, and who didn't dwell well in wind magic. After all, one wrong press, one wrong push, and the clouds could fade away in your very hands. Clouds were fickle. They came and went as they wished. When one used wind magic to call a cloud, they merely projected their wishes through the sky via the wind itself, letting it carry the voices or gestures to the ever high clouds. The clouds would then either hear your voice or feel the vibration of your gesture and decide if they want to reply. Except for Nimbus, Wukong's ever so loyal companion, Macaque had never seen clouds be that loyal to living beings.

Wukong's relationship with his cloud was something entirely unique to him. Macaque speculated that the thunder who struck Wukong's stone egg, making it hatch, blessed him with some sort of affinity with the sky itself. Elemental blessing wasn't unheard of. It was rather common to be blessed by the wind or the foam. Macaque himself could be considered blessed by the shadows. But no one had ever been blessed by thunder. Simply because the power of bolts were too strong, too lethal, for ordinary people to bear. But Wukong was by no means ordinary.

Or maybe Nimbus was just a Wukong groopie, that was a possibility too.

Nezha and MK joined hands and closed their eyes. Dual casting was always tricky the first few times, especially because it required to harmonize with another's magic, but Macaque was certain MK could pull it off. The boy had more resources than most thought. After a few minutes, they called upon a cloud, pushing their voices in the wind. They waited for any sign of response and breathed a sigh of relief when a plump cloud descended, heeding their call.

The whole team hurried and jumped on the cloud, escaping the palace. Soldiers bursted in the armory soon after and cursed at the open window, the guests escaped! MK hopped off the cloud once they neared the place entrance. The boy hurriedly took his staff back. The magic weapon hummed in delight at being picked by a familiar hand, sparks of gold traveled through the red metal, greeting MK in glee.

“We need to go!” Reminded Red Son, MK chuckled nervously and hopped on the cloud again. Macaque guided them towards the ship.

Mei turned back when she heard the whizzing sound of something piercing the winds. Erlang Shen and some heavenly soldiers were following them with their own clouds. “Faster!” Shouted the dragon girl. But their cloud was larger and thus slower. Red Son launched fireballs to slow their pursuers down. It was well-known that clouds weren't fond of heat. It worked well for a few seconds but it couldn't hold the swarm of heavenly soldiers off for too long.

The team stumbled on the ground, the ship was only a few meters ahead. Erlang Shen and the soldiers also stepped off of their clouds. The three-eyed god narrowed his eyes and shouted :

“Stop right this instance! You are not allowed to retrieve your weapons and ship.”

Of course, they ignored him and rushed forward. Erlang eyebrow twitched angrily at the blatant disrespect. The god lifted his spear, his muscles bustling like an old machine, and hurled it at the team. Macaque immediately reacted, he pushed the others behind him and lifted his shield. The spear collided with Macaque's shield, the shock reverberated throughout the warrior's skin, like the echo of an earthquake. Macaque was pushed back for a few seconds, the sheer force of the spear enough to almost make him lose grip on the shield but he held on. After a bit, he managed to throw it off with a roar.

“I'm too old for this.” Winced the warrior as he massaged his shoulders. Gods it hurt. Erlang Shen wasn't considered one of Heaven's best warriors for nothing. Wukong trotted towards him and pawed at his pants in worry. Macaque sighed fondly. He crouched down and patted the great sage. “Don't worry about lil old me.” Chuckled Macaque. “You don't need to protect me, I'm a warrior aren’t I ?” Wukong perked up at his words and looked at him with something akin to awe, sparks of gold slithered in his eyes, hints of familiar magic. Macaque raised an eyebrow at the peculiar reaction but he didn't have time to question it. Erlang was approaching.

Erlang Shen stepped towards them, soldiers in his back, ready to fight. But Nezha jumped forward before he could approach anymore.

“Please, Erlang. They want to leave the Heavens. We don't need to monitor them anymore.” Informed the lotus prince. The three-eyed god narrowed his gaze, searching for the truth.

“And how do you know they're not lying?”

Nezha gritted his teeth. “I know they're not.” Erlang didn't seem convinced, he ordered the soldiers to be ready with a flick of wrist. The whole team clutched their weapons, the ship was so near, but soldiers were all around it, making it impossible to have enough space to take flight safely. They needed to clear the way.

Macaque didn't know who exactly gave the first order, it didn't truly matter, the place turned into a large-scale brawl. Nezha was fighting Erlang at the center of it, the two gods crossing weapons. The lotus prince seemed to talk while fighting, still hoping to reason with the three-eyed god, and the more he listened, the more Erlang features softened into something akin to understanding.

Macaque was twirling his spear, he wasn't used to this fighting style yet but he did great nonetheless. He parried with his shield with one arm, and hurled the sharp edge of his spear with another. He quite liked that combo. When a soldier approached his side, Macaque swung his shield and hit him square in the face. The soldier stumbled back and winced. Oh, Macaque quite liked that move, he smirked. It was thrilling in a way to discover new ways to fight. Macaque had always preferred peace over war, but to be a warrior, one had to find some sort of charm in the battlefield. Macaque found beauty in the way weapons clashed, in the way your body pushed past its limits, melting with blades and breaths, becoming one with the battlefield. He almost forgot how addictive it was to feel blades collide against blades, to see sparks dancing when metal clashed. Perhaps because he was so distracted, Macaque didn't notice Wukong slip away.

In one moment, the battlefield was as chaotic as a storm, blades and fists colliding, in another everything was rendered static, all eyes turned towards the eye of the storm. Macaque wiped away the sweat falling in his eyes and turned towards the center of the brawl, where Nezha and Erlang were exchanging blows. His eyes widened at the sight.

Wukong was in-between those two, on his own two feet, blocking Erlang's spear with one hand and holding Nezha off with another. Sock, who was perched on his head, looked down at the two gods and lowered the edge of Erlang's spear (who was dangerously near her) with one pawe. She had a look of contempt on her face. It was probably one of the funniest things Macaque ever saw.

“Let's stop here.” Sighed Wukong. “We're leaving.” Macaque held his breath. Wukong was back? He didn't even notice him slipping away. When did he break free of the feral state? So many questions brewed in his head.

Erlang thinned his lips, he took a step back and dusted himself off. It was easy to start a fight when the great sage wasn't in his right mind, now that he was back, provoking him was dangerous. Sun Wukong wasn't one to be taken lightly. He was a Buddha. The Victorious Fighting Buddha. Starting a brawl with one as mighty as him was no light decision. Erlang glanced at Nezha and his face softened.

“In light of what the lotus prince told me, I am willing to let you all off the hook this time. But the next time you come here without prior notice, I will carry my duties.” All soldiers stepped back the second Erlang talked. Macaque breathed a sigh of relief. At last they'll be able to leave this place.

Wukong nodded gratefully at Erlang and patted Nezha's shoulders to thank him, then he turned towards the team and smiled.

“Monkey King!” Shouted MK as he rushed towards his mentor and hugged him. Wukong oofed, surprised by the sudden hug, and patted MK's head.

“You're alright, bud?” He asked, he then added after a bit. “You're, huh, squeezing me a bit too tight there, oof.” MK stepped back and sheepishly rubbed his head, apologizing for the tight squeeze.

“About time you came back.” Huffed Pigsy with crossed arms.

“Monkey King! We're so glad.” Sobbed Tang, probably relieved the brawl was over.

“Welcome back, Mister King.” Nodded Sandy.

“Monkeyman is back in the place!” Cheered Mei, she grabbed Red Son and put one arm over his shoulder. Red Son sighed but let her do as she pleased, he then nodded towards Wukong to welcome him back.

The great sage beamed, he then walked towards Macaque, his tail swaying nervously.

“Your, huh, new fighting style suits you?” Tentatively praised Wukong, unsure of how to begin this conversation. Macaque snorted at his awkwardness. This moron.

The black-furred monkey tucked his weapon away and tugged Wukong in a hug, the golden monkey tensed for a few seconds before melting in his arms. “Welcome back.” Mumbled the warrior with a smile. Wukong tightened the embrace and nuzzled his neck.

“Yeah, I'm here now.”

Ch1 / Previous / Next

#shadowpeach #lmk #lego monkie kid #shadowpeach fanfic #lmk shadowpeach #heart behind the lie

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stoneagedevil · 1 year ago

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Thank you for blessing us with your stories 🥺 May I request Anton with a reader who is a nanny working for his wealthy target?

Lucky | Anton Chigurh x f!Reader

TW/CW: Blood, murder, abuse, guns, thievery.

You’d wished him dead for years. Every spring when you had time to yourself, you’d blow away the seedlings of a white dandelion, wishing him dead. Every summer you’d wished the heat got to him in the tailored suits that had to be perfectly pressed, lest he struck your hand thrice with a ruler. Fall, you’d wish on any falling leaves. Winter, you’d hope he’d get caught in some terrible blizzard.

You hated your boss with all of your mind, body, and soul. About as much as one person could hate another.

But there were others who felt the same way, but for different reasons.

And that’s why Anton was chosen to deal with him.

Kenneth Scott was his name, a successful business man who often bought storefronts as cover for money laundering, after all, something must be done with the copious amounts of cash made from dealing with the cartel. Mexican Brown Dope was making him more money than he could spend in a lifetime, especially his.

Especially since it’d be cut so short.

He was known to sick his help on the doorbell. Ask a question or two, and then invite the guest inside. Anton didn’t anticipate this would be difficult, as Kenneth didn’t expect anyone to be ringing the doorbell, entering cooperatively, and then greeting the host with the bullet in the chest. He also didn’t anticipate being so intrigued by the maid.

You. The live-in maid. Whose life was a living hell as you scrimped and saved and pickpocketed any gold-toothed-suit-wearing-son of a gun that walked into this hell hole. If they were waltzing up into one of the richest men’s mansion, surely they’d be packing a fat wallet as well. There was just one issue. Your boss.

There were many times you eyed the imported stainless-steel set of kitchen knives. Thought of picking the lock to his bedroom door at night. Taking what you needed. Leaving. Becoming a ghost. And then the what if’s and the second-guessing hurried into your mind.

What if he sees one missing and beats you within an inch of your life? What if the fiddling with the lock wakes him up? What if you don’t get his heart? His head? His arteries? What if you do get his arteries and blood goes everywhere, and then the cops show up and they know it was you? What if? What if? What i-

You were suddenly brought out of your spiraling by the ringing of the doorbell. Your eyes shut hard, lashes barely kissing your cheeks as you took a deep breath in, and then out.

“Alright. Let’s go then.” You said softly to yourself, pacing to the front door.

When you opened the door, you were met with the chest of a tall man shrouded in black clothing. He was carrying a shotgun of sorts. Looking up, you took notice of his dark eyes, larger nose, and unusual glossy haircut. You both stood there, like aliens figuring out how to be human.

“If you’re gonna shoot him then you’d better be quiet about it.” You stated, rather matter-of-factly. Anton was somewhat caught off guard by this, his eyebrows raising almost imperceptibly.

“It has a silencer on it.” He replied.

That was good enough for you. You opened the door wider.

He walked past you, your ghostly fingers expertly reaching into one of his pockets, and he was none-the-wiser.

“He’s upstairs to the left. That’s his office. If he reaches to the left - his left, that means he plans on shooting you. He’s left handed. Gun’s in the top drawer.” You gave all of this information to Anton very seriously, as if preparing him for an interview.

“You hate him?” He mused. You’d acted as if he was your savior and he hadn’t even pulled the trigger yet. He wasn’t used to the feeling.

You looked at him dead on, his dark eyes meeting yours, which were piercing and fiery, “More than anyone could ever hate another person.”

That was enough for him. You lead him to your boss’s office, gently knocking on the door to save the scabs on your knuckles from ripping open once more. Anton took notice of this.

“What is it?” A gruff voice spoke harshly through the solid wood.

“You have a visitor, sir.” You stated calmly. As if it was any other day.

“Who? I wasn’t expectin’ no visitors.” He was angered. You looked at Anton, gesturing for him to speak.

“Anton, I’ve been sent by one of your business partners to speak about a deal.” He lied through his teeth, eyes never leaving yours.

“Fine, fine.” You both heard the lock click, heads turning down to the knob, and you gingerly reached out to turn it.

By the time you’d opened the door, your boss was already in his leather seat at his desk once more. “My apologies for her. I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Kenneth said, and he folded his hands over the desk.

Anton’s eyes took in the room. Everything was as expensive as one could have an office. Unnecessarily so. You can’t take these things with you when you go. Landing on the desk, his eyes took in a cup with several pens, and one bloody ruler.

“It won’t take long.” He stated, pupils shooting up to Kenneth’s.

It wasn’t long before Kenneth saw the shotgun, before he inched his fingers closer to the left drawer just as you described. It wasn’t long before the man was laying on the ground and spluttering “you bastard’s” and “you fucking bitch’s” at the two that stood there and took it in.

You walked up to him slouched behind the desk, his breaths becoming shallow and ragged. You took out the bloody ruler from the cup. Leaning down, you softly said, “I hate you, Kenneth.” Finally plunging the ruler into one of the holes in his chest. He was dead.

You sat back on the heels of your feet, taking in another deep breath in, and out.

Euphoria.

Anton stood straight behind you, taking it all in.

“Don’t kill me. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I’m nothin’.” You said.

“I kill nothings. But you’re something.” He replied. You were something he couldn’t quite understand. Something he wanted to, but something he wasn’t sure that he could.

You turned to look at him.

“Why’d you only got a quarter on you?” You asked.

He tilted his head, hands reaching into his pocket, but finding nothing. You reached into one of yours, pulling out a quarter from 1958. “Is it special?”

“Yes.”

You stood up finally, walking calmly over to him, and holding the quarter out to him. His eyes flicked down to your delicate hand holding the quarter, then looking at your face.

“If it made it into your hand, then it was for you.” He stated.

Your mouth quirked up on one side as you stated down at the coin, and he felt that perhaps there was something wrong with his heart that would require a real doctor.

“My lucky quarter?” You said hopefully, looking back up at him.

“As long as you don’t get it mixed up with the others. It’ll become just a coin otherwise.” He stated, “which it is. Are you good at pickpocketing?”

“The best.” You replied confidently.

He took the coin from your hand, dropping into your pocket, and turned towards the doors of the office. You stayed put, stayed behind, until he turned around, opening the door and holding it open, just as you’d done for him.

“You don’t have anywhere to go. You can’t stay here.” He said. This was a fact. If you had family or friends, you probably would’ve left after the first strike of the ruler.

“I know. I don’t need anywhere. Just somewhere.” You took the quarter back in your hand, twisting it in between your fingers. The metal was cold, but comforting as you ran your thumb over the reeded edge of the coin. His gaze lingered on your fidgeting with the quarter.

And then, you walked through the door, him following closely behind.

Thank you for requesting, I hope that you liked this. I wasn’t sure about a nanny, as I wouldn’t really know how to incorporate children into this, but a maid/housekeeper was definitely doable. 💜

#fanfic #x reader #no country for old men #anton chigurh #anton chigurh x reader #anon ask

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