#i hope this goes without saying but this is my fic idea so please do not take it! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

halsteadlover · 1 year ago

Text

𝐀 𝐰𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐧

*Pics not mine credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Derek Morgan x Female!Reader.

• Requested by anon: Could you please write a derek Morgan x reader smut where the reader and derek and the team obvi are on a case and while interviewing neighbors in the apartments the reader makes a stupid bet like "I bet whoever lives here is a hot single bachelor in his 20s" and then it's the opposite and when they are back in the car derek makes the reader pay up but with her panties and when she goes to get them back at the end of the day it leads to smut.

• Warnings: a really brief mention of a murder case (it’s just a sentence), dirty talk, cuss words, making out, semi-public foreplay (f. receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up you guyssss!!)

• Word count: 5.5K

• A/N: my first Derek fic 😭 I hope you like it guys, please let me know what do you think about it and also comment, like and reblog, it’d mean the world. Sending lots of love to everyone ❤️

What part of your brain thought it was a good idea to make a bet with Derek Morgan?

You didn’t even know why you did it, it must’ve been the pleasure of losing because there was no way on earth you would’ve won.

You and Morgan were about to go interview a witness for a case you were working on: a serial killer who was killing his victims by setting fires. You were walking next to each other while you thought of some way to make what was going to be a long and boring afternoon, interesting.

You and Derek had a, well… Particular relationship, to say the least.

Months prior you and him had started to have sex. It started out as a purely physical thing as you had always been very attracted to each other, but as time went on you found yourselves spending time together and enjoying each other’s company even outside of a sexual sphere.

Your relationship, both from a working and private point of view, had always been characterized by a playful banter, mischievous jokes, by the constant flirting so it wasn’t strange you both often found yourselves making bets aimed to make lose the other’s mind.

In fact, it was at that moment that you came up with an idea for a bet, however forgetting he took them so seriously it seemed like his life depended on it, especially since most of the time he won, and the penances were of a sexual nature. Of course you didn’t mind losing one bit.

“I bet whoever lives here is a hot single bachelor in his twenties,” you said, pointing to the apartment where you were heading, ready to question the witness. He grinned and glanced at you, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Oh baby girl, you still don’t understand it’s a losing battle?”

“What’s the matter Agent Morgan, you afraid of losing?” You challenged him with the deliberate pleasure of teasing him and in fact he immediately gave in to your provocation.

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly in amusement. You arrived in front of the apartment door that had the number ‘23’ on its sign. You were standing facing each other while he thought about the penance, he would’ve make you do if you – most likely – lost.

Another evil, mocking grin appeared on his lips, and you immediately knew you were in trouble. “You’ll give me your panties when you lose.”

“If I lose.”

“When. But you can still back out.”

“Never.”

He held out a hand towards you but you didn’t miss the way his eyes roamed over your body from head to toe, checking you out without shame. Over time you had learned to understand what he was thinking, what was hidden behind his look and you almost caught fire because you immediately recognized that look, it was the one he gave you when he was imagining you naked in every possible and imaginable position.

And in fact, you weren’t wrong.

Just the thought of having your panties in his pocket, walking around and smelling you, was enough to make his dick stir in his pants.

You knew the odds of you winning the bet were slim, but your competitive nature made you shake Morgan’s hand, and he gave you another one of his panty-ripping smiles.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, don’t take the victory for granted.”

He raised his hands in surrender, chuckling. “I would never dare but be realistic darling. Do you know how low the odds are?”.

“What if I win?”.

“You won’t.”

“What if I win?” You repeated, crossing your arms over your chest.

He shrugged, very sure he’d win. “You’ll choose the penance.”

You thought about it for a moment and a mischievous smile appeared on your lips this time. “I’ll do a strip tease and a lap dance.”

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “How is that a penance? Baby I’d drop on my knees right now to make this happen...”

“…But you’ll be handcuffed, you won’t be able to touch me and I won’t make you come.”

He opened his mouth wide, feeling his dick twitch just at the thought. He had to force himself to think of something else since he didn’t want to question a witness with a raging hard on but it was awfully difficult when all he could do was imagine you strip teasing and grinding on his lap. “Fuck I don’t know if I should win or lose.”

“If you want to end up with blue balls then you have to hope to lose.”

You knocked on the apartment door, still maintaining eye contact with Derek and trying to hold back your laughter since you knew exactly what he was thinking. You took your eyes away from him only to let them travel down his body and to the crotch of his pants which was clearly prominent at that moment. You bit your lip as you looked back at his face and he glared at you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered, feeling the situation getting even worse. Damn it, he felt like a damn horny teenager.

Before you could respond to his comment the door opened, revealing a person who couldn’t be more different from the object of your bet. He in fact was a she, a lady who couldn’t have been less than sixty years old.

Your smile dropped as the one on Derek’s face grew even more and, as you had already said, you wondered what part of your brain had thought it was a good idea to make that bet.

“Good morning. Can I help you?” she looked skeptically at both of you.

“Oh yes ma’am, you just made my day so much better,” he replied softly but glancing at you. “We’re FBI agents, may we ask you few questions?”

Over the next hour and a half you interviewed other witnesses near the fire scene and on your way to the car, Derek wouldn’t stop trying to get close to you and touch you.

“Derek stop it! We’re in public! God you’re so unprofessional,” you slapped one of his hands away that had been squeezing your ass for the last couple of minutes, trying not to laugh.

“There’s nothing professional about what we do, baby girl,” he replied with mock annoyance, “Plus I can’t help it, I can’t wait to rip your panties off.”

“Nuh uh mister, the deal was that I have to give you my panties not you taking them off me.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes as you approached the car but before you could get in he grabbed your hand and turned you towards him. He placed his hands on your face and as he pushed your back against the car door he crushed his lips on yours.

He didn’t care about passers-by in any way, in people’s eyes you might have looked like a couple who was passionately making out.

After the first few seconds of surprise, you immediately kissed him back, parting your lips and letting him slip his tongue into your mouth. You knew it was totally unprofessional to kiss your colleague in broad daylight while you were doing your job but all it took was for him to get close for you to lose your mind, no longer able to think clearly.

Your hands moved down his chest to encircle his waist, trying to pull him closer to you than his body already was. Your mouths moved in sync while he seemed to want to suck his soul out of you and although you were now used to kissing him, every time it was as if it was the first.

You almost moaned into the kiss, your body already on fire, wanting more. You wanted him so badly, you wanted his hands, his fingers, his mouth and his tongue all over you.

“Derek please…” you sighed when you broke away, his face still dangerously close to yours.

“Get in the car princess,” he ordered and his voice was so low and seductive that if he had asked you to give him a blowjob right there on the sidewalk you would’ve dropped on your knees without the slightest hesitation.

He opened the door for you and you giggled like a teenager before getting in, thanking him as you watched him walk around the car before getting in too.

“I would’ve fucked you in the car here and now if we weren’t in public. You’re so fucking hot baby,” he whispered against your lips after moving closer to you and taking your chin between his fingers. “But I’ll settle taking your panties off for now.”

He placed a hand on your breast and groped it before sliding it across your stomach to your jeans-covered pussy. You moaned as he began to touch you, making you squirm under his expert fingers.

“I bet you’re already wet, aren’t you honey?” He continued to tease you.

“Fuck Derek… They’ll see us…”

“You’re right,” he replied, stopping touching you, causing you to moan and grunt at the same time. “No one should look at what is mine.”

God Derek Morgan and the things he made you feel. You were starting to really hate him.

“You’re having so much fun aren’t you?”

He started the car but not before throwing you one last mocking and sexy as hell grin. “You have no idea how much.”

You squeezed your legs together in anticipation feeling the urge and desire grow more and more. You continued to look at him as he drove, observing every feature of his perfect profile with your hungry eyes.

How could someone be so perfect?

And it didn’t help he had one hand resting on your inner thigh as his thumb was stroking dangerously close to your intimate area. You didn’t know whether to hate him, to beg him to go higher or both but certainly the smug expression on his face made you want to punch him.

Derek drove to a hidden, dead end road, not caring the rest of the team was probably waiting to hear from both you and him.

He kissed you breathless again, threading a hand into your hair. But he didn’t stay there for long as he moved down your chest again, wasting no time in groping your breasts again, until he reached your pussy again.

“God Derek you’re driving me crazy,” you hissed as you struggled to keep control. He kissed you again and unbuttoned your pants and you lifted your hips before your brain could even process the movement, allowing him to slide them down your thighs. You took off your shoes, slipping your pants off.

He slipped his hands into your underwear and a loud moan escaped your lips that Derek felt right in his dick. “As I imagined… So fucking wet.”

“Fuck yes just like that,” you sighed as his fingers drew circles on your clit. You gripped the sides of the seat as if searching for a leverage, pleasure flowing through your veins.

He knew where to touch you, he knew HOW to touch you, what to do to make you lose your mind and control.

“I'm dying to taste this pussy, look at you soaking up my fingers,” he whispered in your ear, pressing his lips to your neck and sucking on your skin but being careful not to leave any marks. The team already didn’t give you any respite suspecting there was something between you, he certainly didn’t want to give them clear proof.

Two of his fingers slipped easily inside your wet pussy, curling inside you and touching that spongy spot that made you moan and thinking you were about to ascend to heaven.

“Yes, yes, oh god yes,” you kissed him, spreading your legs even more to give him more access.

“You like that don’t you? My pretty girl loves being so dirty, letting me finger this pussy in public.”

You dipped your head back in pleasure, feeling the orgasm already building inside you.

He pulled his fingers out and you grunted at the loss and took off your panties, bringing them to his nose and deeply inhaling the scent that drove him so crazy: you and sex. “Now I really don’t know how I’m going to go through the whole day without being hard knowing I have your panties here,” he spoke up as he stuffed them into his pocket. “But we should go back.”

What?

“Derek you can’t leave me like this!”.

“Oh I can and I will, we shouldn’t let the others think we might be doing something shouldn’t we?”

“You fucking piece of shit.”

He burst out laughing and you nearly punched him in his handsome face.

You were furious. Irritated.

You were furious, irritated but above all horny.

After that little stunt he had done in the car Derek had really left you like that, without an orgasm and with a mad desire to fuck.

The rest of the day was torture, especially having to work with other people while pretending you didn’t feel like you were on the edge the whole time. You didn’t spare Morgan some dirty looks after which he had to force himself not to laugh but he didn’t spare you those languid looks full of lust either.

It wasn’t easy for you but it wasn’t easy for him either since, unlike you, couldn’t hide his excitement so easily. Knowing he had your panties in his pocket and the memory of your wet pussy were giving him no respite.

In reality, you both loved that little game, teasing and torturing each other until the other lost his mind, even if… To be honest, wearing jeans without underwear was complete torture.

At the end of the day, when you were finally all in your own room, you took the opportunity to take a shower and put on a dress and the sexy lingerie you had put in your bag before leaving for the new case.

You giggled just thinking about Derek’s reaction.

You went to his room, knocking twice before he opened the door making your jaw drop and almost fall to the floor when you realized he was naked and only had a towel around his waist.

His body was still wet, sign he had just gotten out of the shower, the drops running down his sculpted chest that you wanted to lick off one by one.

“Oh man…” He sighed. “You’re breathtaking baby,” he began, shamelessly scanning your body from head to toe, a smirk on his lips. “I was wondering when you were coming.”

“You always opening the door like this, Agent Morgan?” You asked ironically before entering his room without even waiting for him to invite you.

“Woah woah woah, where do you think you’re going baby girl? Where is my kiss?” He scolded you, almost truly offended after closing the door behind him.

You giggled, but unable to take your eyes off his body and stop them from wandering hungrily over his figure.

“No, dry yourself first and then I’ll kiss you,” you replied before going to sit on the edge of the bed, placing your hands behind you on the mattress and tilting your head slightly as you looked at him.

He didn’t answer but came closer to you and placed two fingers on your chin, forcing you to lift your head and pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss that took the air out of your lungs.

“Jealous Agent Y/Ln?” He whispered an inch from your lips, referring to your initial question after making you get up from the bed.

“Not even a little bit, it was just an innocent question agent Morgan.”

Absolutely. You were 100% jealous.

But you knew from the way the corner of his mouth lifted in a twisted, mischievous smile he didn’t believe it one bit. “You know, being a profiler I thought you were better at hiding emotions. Lies don’t look good on you pretty girl.”

“That would be true if I had told a lie but that’s not the case, I’m not jealous at all,” you said with a confident tone as your gaze alternated between his eyes and his lips. He was so close and so tempting you felt like you were already losing patience.

“To answer the question, no, I don’t answer to anyone. Just you.”

“You? Derek Morgan?”.

He chuckled. “Strange right? But it seems like you’ve done some weird witchcraft on me because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“You already got in my pants, no need to be cheesy,” you retorted, biting your lip to keep from smiling.

He sighed, slightly shaking his head. “Always so cynical. What should I do with you?”

“Give me back my panties?”.

He raised an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten what the word ‘lose’ means?”.

“If I had known you liked them so much I would’ve bought you a new pair to wear you know.”

“You think you’re so funny don’t you?”. He grabbed your face with one hand, his mouth dangerously close to yours but never touching it.

You nodded with a smirk as you watched as his eyes were fixed on your lips. “Maybe you might like what I have now better.”

You took a step back and the look of pure confusion on his face was replaced by astonishment when he saw your hands lower the thick straps of your dress down your arms, then lowering the side zip and letting the dress fall around your feet.

The look of shock on his face was something you’d never forget.

Derek widened his mouth and eyes, letting his hungry gaze travel along your body wrapped in lace lingerie, studying every curve and inch of your skin. A warm feeling spread in your lower abdomen and it was amazing how just the way he looked at you was enough to turn you on.

“Holy shit…” he breathed out, “You… Are… You… Holy fuck…” he continued stuttering, unable to form a single meaningful sentence.

“Wow did I really manage to surprise Agent Morgan?” You giggled, your cheeks flushed and stomach filled with fluttering butterflies, knowing you had such an effect on him. Derek Morgan – the man who with a single smile and a look could’ve make rows and rows of women fall at his feet – was drooling over you, looking at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

“I’ll answer you when some blood returns to my brain.”

Your gaze trailed down his body and your insides clenched at the sight of his prominent erection beneath the towel around his waist. Your mouth watered just thinking about what was underneath that single fabric, imagining his dick in your mouth, in every hole in your body as he filled you completely.

“You look spectacular Y/n, my god” he murmured, his chocolate brown eyes still on your body and never on your face. You could see him struggling in not knowing what to pay more attention to, your breasts which were perfectly highlighted by the lace that gave that see-through effect while it showed the shadow of your nipples, if the hold-ups that surrounded your thighs that Derek wanted nothing more than to mark and bite or your pussy also covered in matching lace in which he wanted to dive and feed on it until he drown himself to death.

Derek moved closer to you, closing the small distance between the two of you. “Turn around. Show me this beautiful ass that torments me in my sleep.”

The tone of his voice alone made you almost beg him to do anything he wanted. You didn’t have to be told twice and you turned around, your skin on fire as you felt his penetrating gaze on you as he observed and studied every millimeter of your body.

You heard Derek exhale a deep breath behind you. “A fucking goddess. You’re absolutely mesmerizing.”

A rush of shivers gave you goosebumps as he placed his rough hands on your arms, stroking them slowly before moving up and moving your hair from your shoulders and letting it fall along your shoulder blades, leaving your neck exposed. His lips began to plant kisses on your skin and the mere contact made you sigh and tilt your head to the side, giving him more access.

“Do you have any idea how crazy you drive me?” he whispered in your ear and you clenched your hands into fists, pressing your nails into your palms in an attempt to release the frustration you felt. Every second that passed while he didn’t touch you as you wanted there was a shred of your sanity that was shattered.

You shook your head, realizing you hadn’t answered yet.

His hands went down your arms again, then moving up your hips until they reached your ass. You let out a gasp when his fingers tightened around the flesh of your ass, squeezing it, groping it with the sole purpose of torturing you and leaving you eager for more.

“God the things I want do to you baby, you can’t even imagine.”

“Do it Derek, do whatever you want to me… I need you.”

“I love feeling you so desperate for me.”

An empty feeling came over you as his fingers let go of your ass, moving to your hips. However, you moaned when he pushed his body against yours, pressing his erection against the curves of your ass and grinding against you without shame or restraint.

“Fuck Derek,” you murmured, now on the verge of losing your mind.

One of his hands ended up around your throat, forcing you to bend your head and rest it on his shoulder while the other cupped one of your breasts, palpating it over the top of your bra. You sighed, rubbing your ass against his hard dick as you couldn’t wait for it to stretch your pussy.

“That’s what you do to me, you make me so hard I can’t even think straight anymore.” He pinched your hard nipple from above the fabric. “You have no idea how much I want to rip this off of you but I know you’d kill me,” he chuckled in your ear.

“I don’t give a shit.” You blurted out, not evens embarrassed about how fast you said it.

“What do you want baby? Talk to me.”

God it was so damn hard talking when you were so horny you couldn’t even remember your name, the denied orgasm making things worse.

“You. Fuck me, please. I need you so badly Derek.”

He tightened his hand lightly around your neck, cupping your chin then turning your head towards him and before you knew it he slammed his lips onto yours, sucking the breath from your body as his tongue explored your mouth in a sloppy, deep kiss.

He slowly slid the fingers of his other hand – that until a few seconds before were on your breast – along your chest, your lower abdomen, touching your needy and drenched pussy with his fingertips. You whined during the kiss, spontaneously lifting your hips to try and meet his fingers.

God you were hating him at that moment.

“I can smell your wetness from here, is my baby horny for me?” he whispered on your lips swollen and red from the impetuous kiss.

“I’ll fucking kill you right now Morgan I swear to god.”

He laughed and your stomach clenched in on itself. “Don’t worry baby, I’m here. I’m going to fuck your brains out, so good you won’t even be able to get up when I’m done with you.” This time it was your pussy that clenched when you squeezed your legs together for some friction. Derek let go of your throat and began to play with your panties. Your breath hitched as he slowly began to lower them, trailing them down your legs.

“I think I’ll keep these too,” he whispered even as his voice came loud and clear to your ears. You turned your head to the side so you could look at him and let out a ragged sigh when you saw him kneeling behind you. His eyes shone under the light of the hotel room as they looked at you with so much intensity that they alone would’ve been enough to set you on fire.

He left a kiss on your ass, making you gasp to the point of embarrassment as he bit your skin and groped your now bare ass. “One day I’ll fuck this pretty little ass too and you’ll love every second of it.”

“You can start by fucking my pussy now.”

He chuckled again as he stood up. He placed a hand on your heated back, inviting you to lean on the bed in front of you and you obeyed, resting your hands on the bed and giving him a perfect view of your ass.

“I can see from here how wet you are baby girl,” he moved closer to you, his bare thighs touching yours and then you realized he had removed the towel from his waist.

God have mercy on me.

“I’ll eat this beautiful pussy later but now all I can think about is fucking her so good,” he said as his fingers brushed against you and this little contact, combined with his dirty words, made you squirm with anticipation. “After all, you deserve it after being such a good girl all day.”

You felt him place his tip near your entrance and you both moaned as he slid his dick against your folds, wetting it with your fluids. He provoked you, tortured you with every motion, it was what he was best at, he knew which points to touch to drive you crazy and leave you painfully longing.

“Derek please, I want you so much,” you whined in a pathetic tone full of lust and desire as he continued to penetrate you with just the tip and then pull out. You hated him and wanted him at the same time, so much it hurt.

“What do you want, princess?” His hands gripped your hips and he leaned over you, pressing his lips to your skin before leaving damp, wet kisses all over your back.

“Fuck me.”

“Fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth before lining his dick up with your entrance and finally filling you.

“Oh God yes, you feel so god Derek.” You panted vigorously, your heart beating so hard it almost stopped as you felt his soft and especially bare skin touching every corner of you.

He remained still for a few moments, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to maintain control of his body. You were so wet and it felt so good being inside you, Derek feared that with just one push he would’ve come on the spot.

“Baby please… Move…”

Baby.

Fuck.

That simple little word had no business making his insides twist like he had. You were used to calling each other nicknames, it wasn’t new, but there was something in that ‘baby’ you said: perhaps it was the vulnerability with which you pronounced it, breathless and as if he was the only one who could save you, the way your voice was so full of desire.

Derek pulled out before thrusting into you again with a strong thrust so deep if it hadn’t been for his hands firmly gripping your hips you would’ve probably fallen forward.

“You have no idea what you do to me, fucking hell you drive me crazy,” he breathed out, head tilted back and eyes closed as his dick pounded into you like he was angry.

You tried to formulate a meaningful sentence but as you opened your lips only gasps and moans came out. He was fucking you so deeply that with each thrust you felt a piece of your brain coming out of your head and your soul out of your body.

Exactly like he promised.

All the hidden frustration made its way and exploded like a time bomb, not much time passing until even the orgasm began to build inside you.

Your face was pressed into the sheets of the bed, your breathing heavy and quickening as your hands clenched the fabric into a fist. “Derek…” you whimpered in pleasure as you pushed your pelvis towards him with each thrust. It didn’t seem to be enough though, you wanted more and more.

One of his hands continued to hold your hips firmly while he slid the other along your back, until he reached your hair which he tightened in a fist forcing you to lift your head. His moans and groans sounded like music to your ears and you couldn’t contain the joy of knowing it was you who made him feel this way, it was you who made him lose control.

“Fuck I could stay inside you forever, you take me so well. This pussy was made for me,” he groaned as the tip of his dick hit your G-spot, making you see stars. You wanted to answer but when you opened your mouth all that came out were moans and sighs. “Just for me… You understand?”

“Just you baby, only you,” you babbled while loudly moaning, not caring one bit if someone could hear you having sex.

His lips kissed your shoulder, his tongue traced every inch of skin he could reach. “That’s right pretty girl…” he groaned in your ear, his sentence interrupted by another moan. “Fuck yeah you’re mine.”

“Holy shit baby… I’m about to come…” You managed to say and the orgasm that hit you full on like a truck gave you no mercy, didn’t let you escape as it sucked away your ability to breath. If it wasn’t for Derek’s hand still in your hair you would’ve collapsed on the mattress.

His thrusts became unhinged, even more out of control than they were before and it didn’t take long for him to reach his climax too. How could he resist? There was no chance, not when your pussy was tightening around his dick in the throes of orgasmic spasms, leaving him no escape.

Derek exploded inside you, emptying himself into you until the last drop of his seed filled your pussy, then leaking from your entrance and sliding down your thighs as he pulled out.

“Shit,” he breathed as you felt the weight of the mattress dip as he collapsed next to you. “You destroy me baby, how do you manage to do this every single time?”

You mumbled something nonsensical in response, eyes closed and too tired to say anything. He chuckled and stroked your hair, brushing it away from your face so he could get a good look at you.

You were so beautiful, ethereal, so mesmerizing it hurt and seeing that happy and pleased look on your face almost sent him to his knees, internally promising himself he’d fight every single person on earth just to always see you so relaxed and happy.

“How many women do you tell this?” you managed to say, opening one eye and keeping the other closed and a flock of butterflies exploded in your stomach when you saw the breathtaking smile he was looking at you with.

“If you think there is someone capable of making me feel what you feel, you’re very wrong. Like I already said, I don’t know what strange witchcraft you did to me but you really hooked me baby.” He propped himself up on one elbow and leaned towards you, pressing small kisses across your face, neck, shoulders and all the way up to your lips. “There is no one else since you came in in my life, I’m so obsessed with you it’s not even funny.”

You opened your second eye too, suddenly not so tired anymore. “Really?”

“Why, isn’t the same for you?” he asked, his stomach clenched with jealousy at the thought of a man laying a finger on you. “Please tell me no or someone help me I will kill every man who even looked at you, I’m an FBI agent and I know how to hide dead bodies in such a way that not even the families will ever find them.”

You burst out laughing, and rolled onto your back before throwing your arms around his neck so you could bring him closer to you and press your lips to his. “Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme?”

“Y/n. Don’t fucking test me.”

“I’m just kidding,” your lips brushed against his before planting another small kiss on them. “There couldn’t be another man even if they forced me, you’ve really messed up my life Agent Morgan and I’m pretty much obsessed with you too.”

“That better be. We’re exclusive since the day I kissed you in that elevator,” he grumbled. “God I love when you call me baby,” he then sighed happily and the way his mood shifted so quickly made. Your fingers caressed his soft, perfect skin and he mumbled with contentment. You noticed how his pupils were so dilated the chocolate surrounding them had almost disappeared. “Mine, only mine.”

“And you’re mine darling, I’m an FBI agent too and I know a thousand ways to make deaths look like accidents.” He pressed his lips to yours again, kissing you so deeply your heart almost stopped in your chest.

Derek Morgan would be the death of you, you were certain of that.

“Just give me five more minutes and I’ll show you how much we belong to each other princess, how much I look, think and breathe for you only.”

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daeniradraconis · 3 months ago

Note

omg i love your stories so much!!! you're such a great writer. i'm so glad i stumbled onto your fics somehow. can i please request prompt number 10 "i'm pretty low maintenance" with jack hughes?

Thank you so much for your kind words! 💖 I’m so happy you’re enjoying my stories! And thanks for the request! I hope you will love this as well! 😊✨ --- High Maintenance & Low Expectations

“I’m pretty low maintenance.”

Jack leans back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, looking very pleased with himself. He’s wearing a sweater that probably costs more than your rent, and his perfectly styled chestnut waves look like they were arranged by a professional hairstylist rather than just existing naturally. You, on the other hand, are elbow-deep in mashed potatoes, sweating like you’ve just run a marathon.

The kitchen is a battlefield—flour dusted across the counter, butter slowly melting near the stove, and the unmistakable, sharp scent of something definitely overcooked lingering in the air.

Luke snorts from his spot at the island, where he’s lazily peeling a carrot. He’s managed to peel more of his own skin than the actual vegetable, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. The occasional "aww" and "oops" are the only clues that he’s once again being clumsy with the knife. "That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard," he mutters, barely looking up.

Jack gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “Excuse me? I’m the easiest person to live with.”

You burst out laughing, not even trying to hide it. You jab your wooden spoon in his direction. “Jack, you literally refused to eat a bagel last week because it wasn’t from your ‘preferred’ bakery.”

“Because it wasn’t real cream cheese! It was that weird, low-fat nonsense—”

Luke cuts in, his smirk widening. “Also, you order groceries like you’re a Michelin star chef, but can’t even make toast without setting off the smoke alarm.”

Jack lets out an exaggerated huff, shrugging his shoulders. "I just like quality ingredients," he says, a teasing grin on his face. "Sorry I have taste."

“Ohh, shut up!” you groan, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand as you turn toward the stove. The gravy is on the verge of boiling over. You lower the heat, hoping it’s not too late. The turkey’s still in the oven, but the stuffing smells like it’s burning. The mashed potatoes have lumps, and the cranberry sauce—oh god—is now all over the floor. How the hell did that happen?

Luke looks genuinely concerned. “Do you, uh, want help?”

You whip around so fast Jack actually takes a step back. “No. Absolutely not. I need to impress your mom and dad because it's Christmas, and if you two help, this entire meal will end in a flaming disaster.”

Jack blinks, insulted. “I resent that.”

“You once confused salt with sugar when making cookies,” you say, raising an eyebrow like this is a fact everyone should know by now.

Luke winces, his face going pale at the memory. “Oh yeah, that was bad. I could still taste it for days—even after brushing my teeth.” He shudders, as if the very idea still haunts him.

Jack pouts, arms folded defensively. “That was one time.”

“And,” you continue, pointing at Luke, “you somehow managed to burn a salad. A salad Luke!”

Luke goes bright red, practically sinking into the counter. “It was a pasta salad! And you promised you’d never tell anyone!”

Jack’s jaw drops in disbelief. Then a grin creeps across his face. “Dude, how do you even—?”

“Tough luck, Lukey,” you say with a smirk. “Some secrets just aren’t meant to stay buried.”You wave them off with a flick of your wrist. “Again, no help. I’ve got this. Just—just go be useless somewhere else.”

Jack smirks, leaning in to kiss your forehead, completely undeterred by the fact that you look like you just ran through a hurricane. “You’re so hot when you’re stressed.”

Luke makes an exaggerated gagging noise. “I’m leaving.”

Jack just grins, like he’s having the time of his life. “Love you, babe.”

You groan, shooing them both out of the kitchen with your spoon, praying to every holiday deity that Ellen and Jim will see the effort you put into this meal and not the absolute disaster it’s turning into.

—

Jim and Ellen finally say their goodbyes, wrapping things up with warm hugs and reassurances that everything was great—despite the cranberry sauce never making it to the table and the turkey being a little on the dry side. You exhale, sinking into a chair at the dining table, swirling your glass of wine, feeling relieved that the dinner is finally over.

Jack, however, has made it his personal mission to ensure you don’t lift a finger for cleanup. “You did everything,” he insists, “now it’s our turn.”

Big mistake.

Luke’s at the sink, sluggishly stacking plates, while Jack wipes down the counters like he's trying to scrub away the entire kitchen with one swipe. The clinking of dishes and the lingering smell of burnt stuffing fill the air.

“Luke, if you’re going to load the dishwasher like that, you might as well toss the plates in the garbage,” Jack says, his voice dripping with mock horror.

Luke rolls his eyes. “It’s not a big deal, dude. They’ll get clean. Chill out!”

Jack gasps, as though Luke has committed a cardinal sin. “You can’t put the knife facing up! That’s how people lose fingers.”

You take a sip of your wine, watching the chaos unfold like it's your own personal reality show. You loved Jack—really, you did—but you couldn’t deny that dealing with him required an extra dose of patience. And you knew Luke well enough to sense he was running low on that.

Luke sighs deeply, way too loudly, as he sets the plates down. Uh-oh. Here it comes. “You are so fucking high-maintenance, dude!”

Jack scoffs, his voice full of offense. “I am not! I just like things done right.” He drops the towel he’s been aggressively wiping the counters with.

Luke raises an eyebrow. “Jack, you rearranged the sponge at least three times.”

Jack crosses his arms, baffled by why his brother finds this so problematic. His genuinely confused expression makes it hard for you to keep a straight face. “It has a drying position and a scrubbing position,” he says, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Luke smirks, and you catch that mischievous glint in his eyes. Oh no. You’ve seen that look before. This is the calm before the storm. The smile just before all hell breaks loose.

And then, without warning, Luke flicks a few drops of water at Jack’s face, his grin spreading wider. “Oh, I understand,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I just don’t give a shit about it.”

Jack freezes, staring at him in disbelief. “Did you just—”

Luke, still grinning like a maniac, flicks more water at him. “Oops.”

Jack narrows his eyes, looking way too calm. “Oh, you are so dead, Lukey.”

Before Luke can react, Jack grabs the sprayer from the sink, aiming it at Luke with deadly precision. The stream hits Luke right in the face, and he yelps, ducking behind the island. “HEY! Did you just spray me with the cleaning stuff?!”

Jack laughs, clearly enjoying the chaos, but there's a brief moment where his brow furrows as he watches Luke’s reaction. Luke sticks his tongue out, squinting in disgust at the taste of the rosemary cleaner. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ugh, that’s disgusting!”

Jack quickly checks the bottle in his hand, his smirk flickering for a moment. “Don’t worry, it’s organic!” he says, his grin widening. “You can thank my high-maintenance nature, you little shit."

“You idiot didn’t even check what you sprayed me with! You just grabbed it!” Luke’s voice is rising with each word.

Jack shrugs, still grinning like he’s just won some kind of battle. “Should’ve thought about that before you disrespected the sponge system!” He winks, patting the sprayer like it’s his prized possession. “Now run!”

Luke, now fuming and ready for payback, spots another bottle on the counter. Without missing a beat, he snatches it up and sprays Jack with it. The organic cleaner hits him right in the chest. The two of them laugh maniacally, both dripping with rosemary-scented spray as they tumble around the kitchen, completely lost in the moment, like a couple of kids in a water fight.

You lean back in your chair, wine glass in hand, watching the chaos unfold. They’re so wrapped up in their little spray battle, you can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

“Careful, you’re going to slip on the water or…” you start to warn, but, of course, neither of them listens. No sooner do the words leave your mouth than one of them knocks over a stack of glasses on the counter, the sound of glass shattering echoing through the kitchen.

You roll your eyes, taking another long sip of your wine. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Jack pauses, wiping water off his face, then turns to you with that mischievous grin. He’s soaked and sweaty, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. Slowly, he makes his way toward you, his eyes gleaming with playful confidence. “You love us,” he teases, pulling you close by the waist, before leaning down to kiss you.

You laugh, trying to pull away from the damp mess of him. “Jack! You’re gross! Let me go!”

But he’s persistent, kissing whatever he can reach—your lips, your cheeks, your forehead—his grin never fading. You giggle and squirm away, attempting to escape. But Jack’s not done yet. He grabs your arm to pull you closer, pushing his body against yours, his hips pressing into you.

“You’re not the girl who runs away from a little sweat, sweetheart,” he says between kisses, his voice teasing but affectionate. “I remember when—after practice—you licked…”

You press your hands against his lips, laughing in disbelief at his idiocy. Your face flushes instantly, the heat creeping up your neck. Of course, he just grins wider, that same stupid, adorable grin.

Jack pulls back slightly, his sparkling blue eyes locking with yours. As his hand gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, he brushes his thumb across your cheek. “I love that you do all the wild things with me in the bedroom without hesitation,” he says, his voice still low and tender. “But just mention the most vanilla thing we’ve done, and you turn into a blushing mess. You’re adorable.” His smile softens, his gaze deepening as he looks into your eyes.

Luke, standing off to the side trying to maintain some distance from the kitchen, turns around with a look of pure disgust. He glares at the two of you, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “Oh, no. Not this again. Can’t you two go five minutes without turning everything into a romance movie set?”

You and Jack just giggle, completely unfazed, while Luke dramatically turns his back to you both. “I swear, if I see one more kiss today, I’m going to lose it.”

Jack doesn’t even acknowledge his little brother’s complaint, leaning in for another kiss. And you don’t protest—not really. You’ve always been a sucker for his sweaty, silly kisses, even if Luke’s gagging in the background.

#jack hughes fanfic #jack hughes imagine #jh86 #jack hughes fic #jack hughes #nhl imagine #luke hughes fic #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes x you #luke hughes imagine #lh44

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darkwitchoferie · 4 months ago

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Train Ride - Chapter 2, Jeongin

A/N: Apologies, this is later than originally intended. During my proofreading, I realized I kept flipping tenses, which – annoying. But that meant I had to do a little more heavy editing than I intended. Do you ever just look at a word while proofreading and think ‘that’s not a real word’, but it totally is and is in fact the correct word you meant to use? Yeah, happened a few times. Please lmk if you want to be added to the taglist.

To my new followers – hello, welcome. My fic ideas are few and, sometimes, far between. But I hope you continue to enjoy this one. Oh, that said, don’t think I won’t finish this one. This one is already more than half finished and the half that isn’t written is outlined.

Cw/tw for this chapter: vaginal fingering, nipple play unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (m & f receiving), “accidental” exhibitionism, threesome

wc: 2.7k

Master list

Over the next week, the pair of you discussed your boundaries. Mostly they vary based on what the other individual guys might like or want, but there were hard lines for both of you. Mostly for you, and mostly centered on things you just didn’t like to do sexually. Though you did include things like allowing them all to have you with no additional protection since you had an IUD. As long as they were comfortable with it, you already knew they were all clean. The one hard rule was that if, at any time, you or Chan realized this type of sexually-opened, hopefully fully polyamorous, relationship was no longer working for you as a couple or as individuals, you’d say something. You two would keep talking about it, and include the others when and if they decided to fully be in a relationship with either of you, to keep making sure it was still a healthy relationship for all involved.

Then the conversation turned to how to invite the other seven members. You suggested posting a pic or short video of yourself masturbating into the group chat and inviting anyone who wanted to to come over and play.

Chan groaned, then laughed. “I think you’d give more than one of them a heart attack if you tried that. But definitely hold onto that idea for later.”

You then agree that they should be approached one-on-one, with each method to be different, depending on who you’re approaching. You suggested Jeongin first, seeing as he’s Chan’s roommate. You figure, and Chan agrees, that’ll make him the easiest target.

You specifically chose a day he has a schedule without the others, a photo shoot that was just him. Chan invited you over after he’d already left, letting you know that, as long as nothing went wrong, I.N would be back to their apartment by 3:30. You tried to keep yourselves distracted, not wanting to get started too soon. After all, it wouldn’t look like you’d accidentally forgotten what time he’d be back if he walked in after you were finished. Still, the anticipation and desire was making you both squirmy.

Finally, Chan’s reminder alarm goes off. You couldn’t help it, the second he looked at you after silencing it, you started giggling.

“Baby?”

“Sorry. Just, ya know, us – scheduling sex.” You laughed harder and he joined in this time. Your giggles continued, even as he gripped your hips and pulled you against him, dipping his head down to press open mouthed kisses to your neck. Chan makes quick work of your clothes, leaving you completely naked in no time.

“Already so wet, baby girl,” he muttered against the skin over your sternum as he runs a finger up and down your slit.

“Like you haven’t been hard for the last hour,” you countered. He only hummed, not denying it. That caused another gush of arousal from you – knowing he wanted this as much as you.

He laid you back on the couch, steadily kissing, licking, and sucking his way down your body until he got where he wanted to be. The flat of his tongue pressing against your clit had you arching your hips toward him and reaching down to grip his hair.

Despite inviting Jeongin to join you being the whole point, neither of you noticed right away when he walked in. It was when you heard his bag drop to the floor that you looked up and caught sight of him, flushed and staring at you. You were facing the front door and Chan had his back to it so, if not for your boyfriend blocking his view, he’d have a perfect view of your wet cunt.

“Innie,” you whimpered, reaching out toward him and digging a heel into Chan’s side. Chan pulled away, the bottom of his face coated in your arousal.

“Shit, sorry, Iyen-ah. Didn’t realize you’d be back already.” When he didn’t respond, but his eyes drifted down and locked on your pussy, the pair of you grinned at each other. “Iyen-ah?” Chan worked to hide his amusement as he waved a hand in front of the other’s man’s face.

That seemed enough to jolt him back to what was going on. He dropped his face, cheeks flushing deeper with the embarrassment of being caught. “Shit. Sorry, hyung. Sorry, noona. I’ll just, uh…. Go, yeah, I….”

“Innie, do you want a taste?”

His head snapped up and gaze locked on Chan’s face so fast, it almost gave you whiplash just from seeing it. “What?”

“I know how good she looks, spread out like this. And I can see you like what you see,” Chan nodded at the noticeable bulge in his pants. “Do you. Want. A taste?” He repeated his question, just a little slower.

“I… uh…. I mean –”

“Innie, please,” you pleaded, holding out your hand to him again. Slowly, nervously, Jeongin made his way over to you, eyes fixed on your face with a look that said he was waiting for someone to say you were just teasing him or you’d changed your mind. When he got close, you popped up just enough to grab his shirt and pull him in toward you. He stumbled a bit, but caught himself by bracing one hand on the back of the couch and the other landed just barely under you. “Do you wanna kiss me?” You asked softly, lips already close to his where he hovered over you.

“Yes,” he whispered, nodding. You grinned and pulled him fully into you. The small moan that escaped him as your lips connected had you clenching around nothing in anticipation. Chan, from his new vantage point sitting on the floor beside the couch, had a perfect view of it and reached out to squeeze your calf.

You weren’t sure if he realized then that you weren’t joking with him, or if he’d just decided to take advantage for as long as he could, but Jeongin quickly took control of the kiss. He tugged his hand out from under you, cupping your cheek and tilting your head for a better angle to deepen the kiss. One knee came down between your spread thighs to better hold himself up. His hand came off the back of the couch, fingertips grazing down your side, from shoulder to hip.

“Tease,” you muttered, pulling away just enough to speak, but your lips still touched his as you spoke. This time, as that same hand travelled down your side, his thumb brushed over your nipple causing you to gasp against his lips. This seemed to be all the encouragement he needed as his touches became a lot firmer and more deliberate after that. He shifted so that the hand that had been cupping your cheek was now holding your hip, thumb gently rubbing against the skin there. Starting at your jaw line, he began pressing open mouthed kisses across your jaw, under your ear, down your neck, and over your collar bone. You tangled the fingers of one hand in his hair, not letting him move too far away from your skin.

The hand on your hip slid over and two of his fingers gently pressed into you at the same time he wrapped his lips around one of your nipples. You moaned, arching into him and feeling him smirk against your nipple at your reaction. You whimpered, moaned, and writhed on the couch under Jeongin as he played your body as if he’d been taking lessons for years. He alternated sucking and licking your nipple, while his free hand pinched and rolled the other, then he switched sides. Meanwhile his fingers in your cunt were moving at the perfect speed to get you to and keep you on the edge of an orgasm without tipping over. Occasionally, his thumb would press on and gently rub circles against your clit. Again, just enough to not let you cum. It was maddening, but you loved it.

On the floor, Chan unzipped his pants with one hand to relieve the pressure while his other hand smoothed up and down the back of your calf, grounding himself and making sure you knew he was still there. He pressed a kiss to the top of your knee, causing you to jolt a little at the unexpected feeling.

“Forget I was here, baby girl?” Chan chuckled. You felt Jeongin twitch at Chan’s voice. “Clearly not the only one who forgot. Oh no, Iyen-ah,” Chan said as he started to back away. “Don’t stop now. She hasn’t cum yet, and you haven’t even had a real taste of her.”

Jeongin groaned, dropping his forehead to your chest. But his fingers didn’t stop. Instead, after a moment, his mouth started traveling down again, pressing open mouthed kisses to your tummy, licking or nibbling on the soft, smooth skin. He looked up at you, lips hovering over your cunt.

“Please, Innie.” Gently, you tugged at the hair you still had your fingers tangled in. He dropped a chaste kiss against your clit then wrapped his lips around it, flicking his tongue against the bundle of nerves, pulling matching moans from the pair of you. Chan’s grip on your calf tightened as he watched his friend finger you and suck on your clit. There was something about hearing the oh-so-familiar sounds you made when he wasn’t the one causing them that was driving him crazy in the best way.

You felt Jeongin’s tongue slip down to join his fingers, pushing into your cunt and thrusting a few times, before flicking up again to press against your clit. Your legs, that had been just spread on either side of him, came up to rest over his shoulders and hold his body against you as you grew closer to your orgasm. Finally, with a crook of his fingers and a particularly harsh suck of your clit, the coil in your belly snapped.

You arched up with a moan closer to a scream as you finally came. Jeongin kept working his fingers in you, letting you ride out your high on his digits. His fingers slowed to a stop as you came down from your high.

“Innie?” You asked, still trying to catch you breath.

“Hm?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course, noona.”

“We didn’t forget when you were coming back home.”

“What?” He looked from you face to Chan’s, sitting up and pulling his fingers out of you as he did, causing you to whimper at the loss.

“When I said we didn’t realize you’d be back already, I lied,” Chan elaborated. “We planned for you to be home.”

“I don…. I don’t understand.”

You sat up beside him, tossing one of your legs over his, but let Chan explain. “Baby girl here has a fantasy.” He explained the whole situation.

“Hang on, is this why you were distracted last week?” Chan nodded.

“Listen,” you started off, starting to feel a little guilty about lying, or at the least misleading, your friend. “If you don’t want –”

“Oh no, I want. You’re not backing out, are you Y/nnie?” he asked with a sly smile.

“Not a chance,” you grinned, tugging up his shirt then pulling him to you by the back of his neck after he’d pulled the shirt all they way off. He kept moving forward until you were lying back on the couch again and he could slot his body back between your legs. You let your hands wander his torso, tracing the ridges of muscle as he reclaimed your lips in a hungry kiss.

His lips trailed down your neck again, this time biting and sucking a mark into the skin of your neck and another just below your collar bone. You scratched your nails over his abs, delighted when they twitched under your fingers. Then you reached down, gripping the waist band of his jeans with one hand and popping the button on them with the other. You felt him smirk against your skin, even as he helped you get him out of his pants and briefs.

You reached down, wrapping your hand his cock and stroking a couple times before shifting so you could press his tip to your entrance.

“Impatient, are you?” he teased.

“She usually is,” Chan agreed. “Even though she’s already cum twice.”

“Twice?”

“Mm. Once just before you walked in.”

“Enough talk, fuck me now,” you demanded, rolling your hips up. Jeongin laughed but didn’t deny you. Instead, he gripped under your knee, bending your leg up and slightly out to open you up to him better. As he slid into your warmth, his free hand groped for yours in an effort to keep himself grounded. When he bottomed out inside you, he held still, both of you breathing heavy.

You vaguely recognized the look on his face as similar to the look Chan got when he was doing his best to hold back and not come too soon. Instead of saying anything, you brought your hand that was holding his up to your mouth and wrapped first your tongue then your mouth around one of his fingers. With a groan, he flexed his hand, allowing you to trap two of his fingers between your lips. As he finally started rolling his hips, he copied the movement with his fingers in your mouth. You moaned around his fingers, sucking them as he went.

There was something soft in his eyes, just for a moment, as he looked down at you sucking on his fingers. Then it was gone and he’s pulling his hand out of yours and away from your face as he sat up on his knees. Using both hands on your hips to hold you in place, he pulled nearly all the way out then thrust back in, setting a fast, but not too rough, pace and pulling little ahs and moans from you every time he thrusts back in.

Over his shoulder, you catch sight of Chan, standing up and having rid himself of his pants and boxers. Reaching out to your boyfriend, you shift a bit so your head is hanging just slightly off the side of the couch. At Chan’s raised eyebrow, you just open your mouth while holding eye contact.

You lose yourself in the absolute pleasure of being fucked in your mouth and pussy at the same time. There’s something indescribably wonderful for you about the familiar sensation of Chan in your mouth and the new sensation of Jeongin in your cunt that makes it so, even if you tried, you’re not sure you could keep track of anything. You’re pretty sure it’s Chan whose mouth is wrapped around your nipple now, but you couldn’t say for sure, lost in the haze of your building orgasm. Someone’s fingers find your clit and apply just the perfect pressure to have you arching off the couch, scream muffled by Chan’s cock. Seconds later, you feel warmth flood your cunt as Jeongin comes, followed by a grunted warning from Chan before he’s coming down your throat.

Chan collapses to the floor, head on the couch beside you. Jeongin tries to stay sitting up for a second, but gives that up and lays down with his head on your chest, his own chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You reach out to both of them, toying with their hair as your breathing slowly returns to normal.

“Okay baby girl?” Chan asks.

“So okay,” you reply in a raspy voice.

“Shower or tea first?” It was one thing he always insisted on when he used your throat like that – soothing tea after.

“Sleep.”

“Nu-uh, that’s not one of the choices.”

“Ugh,” you groaned.

“Why don’t you take her up to the shower and I’ll bring tea?” Jeongin suggested.

You both agree, but it still takes a few minutes before anyone moves. A while later, you’re curled up with your head on Chan’s chest and Jeongin’s arm around your waist as you drift off to sleep.

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Taglist: @skzficpriv @strayk1ds143 @vegetablesarefuntables

#skz smut #stray kids smut #skz x reader #skz ot8 x reader #bang chan x reader #yang jeongin x reader #felix x reader #hyunjin x reader #changbin x reader #seungmin x reader #han jisung x reader #lee minho x reader

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punkssavior · 2 months ago

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better than sex.

cm punk x fem!reader

part two of 'tired of you'. i decided to give these sweeties a prequel since you guys seemed to love their relationship as much as i do (before it ended, duh). this fic is also much fluffier than the last. ur fuckin welcome ;)

link to 'part one' is here. this fic takes place 3 years prior.

tags! @xkittypunkerx @idaisyy @ringoffiction @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @eringobragh420 @meadow-field

content warnings: mentions of blood/violence (very brief!), hookups, oral (f!receiving), car sex, occasional pet names.

wordcount: ~12k

Nights out were supposed to be fun.

Right?

What originally began as a multi-club run and bar hop quickly turned into a mishmash of fallen through plans, after the group of college friends you’d decided to meet up with began acting out of line.

“You told me to meet you at Aurora!”

“I’ve been standing out here for at least thirty minutes!”

“Well— can you tell him to hurry up please? I’m freezing my ass off out here!”

You hugged your brown, faux fur jacket tightly to your chest, walking out of the thumping New York City nightclub named Aurora. Your friends told you to be there at 10:30 sharp, which you were, after taking 2 trains and a taxi to get you there.

Surely your ‘friends’ weren’t intentionally trying to swindle you, leaving you standing out in the cold as they spontaneously decided to shake up the meeting plans.

Surely that wasn’t the case, you hoped.

The weather was unforgiving, that small fur coat and matching boots barely keeping your body at a livable temperature. You always hated going out in the winter, especially since none of your clubbing outfits were suitable for harsh winds and possible snow.

God, this was a drag.

The strip that Aurora was on was very secluded, resembling more of a dark alleyway than a place for bustling nightlife. As much as you hated to admit it, in order to prove to yourself and your parents that moving back to New York by yourself was a good idea, you were a little bit scared to be alone right now.

There was an event happening in the venue down the block, and you could tell from the colorful lights beaming out of the small glass windows and the neon sign at the entrance. But other than those two leakages of light, you hadn’t a clue what was going on.

With yet another huff of frustration, you pull out your phone once again and dial the number of your friend, Cassie.

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Cass,” you sigh into the microphone, “If nobody’s coming to pick me up, just fucking say it already. I mean, I’ve been standing out here for what, an hour? At this point, I might as well walk home! Y’know what, yeah! How about this, I’ll walk home so you and your stupid friends don’t even have to worry about getting me a ride! Take your dumb, fucking clubbing plans, and shove them up your—”

“You okay?”

You shriek, the feeling of a cold, rough hand resting on your shoulder by your neck causing you to whip around. Without thinking, you wind up your fist, and whack whatever, whoever, it was, square in the nose.

“Shit!”

The now embodied voice falls limp in agony, breathing heavy from the practically lethal blow as you take a step back.

Woah.

You gasp quietly, covering your mouth with your hands. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”

The man doesn’t answer; instead, he’s keeled over, now resting his hands on his knees. You stare down at him for a moment, in pure shock at the way you were able to just swing around and punch this poor guy in the face. You supposed it was a good omen for your survival skills.

“Don’t— don’t sweat it,” he finally answers you, his raven-colored hair hanging above the ground and over his features as he collects himself. You can see him gathering his breathing, his shoulders moving beneath his tight, dry-fit athletic top when he shakes his head.

“Are you okay?” your voice betrays you, as you take a step closer to his crumpled up figure. You knew deep down that stepping this close to a random guy on the street was one of the first things they taught you not to do in grade school— but you felt particularly bad in this situation.

Beneath where his face was parallel with the ground, you see a drop of blood hit the pavement beside your feet. You take a step back, to your original position.

“I’m fine. Happens— more often than you’d think,” he says, slowly coming to and standing up straight.

When he looks at you, you almost feel the need to gasp. The lower half of his chiseled face was doused in blood, caught in the crevices of his now forming smile. You admire him in a moment of utter shock, your gaze bouncing between a pair of hazelish eyes and a lip ring.

“Do you— get punched in the face by girls on the street often?” You attempt to lighten the mood, now feeling like a mouse as you notice just how much he towers over you.

“Girls on the street? No, never. But grown men in speedos? Absolutely, all the time.”

You wanted to speak again, but were stunned by the growing amount of blood that poured from his nose. But he took it like a champion, using the white tape dawning his wrists to sop up some of the flow. You also couldn’t help but notice the red X’s drawn on that wrist tape, now stained with crimson.

“You sure know how to pack a punch with those little ass hands,” he chuckles wryly, glancing down at the hand you’d punched him with. You follow his eyes, noticing a small speckling of red across your knuckles. “Might I ask why your first thought was to lay one on me?”

“May I ask why you thought it was a good idea to approach me on a dark street corner?”

“You were yelling into your phone. Seemed agitated.”

A smile fights its way onto your cheeks, and you shake your head, “An agitated young girl cursing someone out on the phone seemed approachable to you?”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

You laugh, still taking him in. He was built, surely some kind of gym rat or athlete. You assumed he’d just gotten done working out, evident from the way his forehead glistened with sweat despite the rapidly dropping temperatures outside. He also carried a confident air to the way he shot back up after being punched in the nose, a catty smile and eyes that were green enough to kill a man.

You were now simply infatuated with looking at him.

“I’m Phil, by the way. I’d shake your hand but I don’t think you want any more of my blood on your person.”

Hot blush falls across your cheeks, but you take his hand anyway, absolutely unbothered. “I’m Y/N. And I’d take looking like a crime scene over turning down a handshake from the first man I’ve ever punched in the face any day.”

Phil smiles, and it’s more warm and inviting than you’d ever expected from a man who looked like him. His jet-black hair was a stark contrast to the olive tones of his complexion, only making those damned green eyes pop out at you like a picture book.

“Y/N,” he repeats, savoring your name on his tongue, “Do you work out?”

“I don’t.”

“Hm.”

You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the small spatter of blood on your hand in order to tuck it away from the harsh cold. “Why do you ask?”

Phil shakes his head, pressing an index finger to his temple, “Still just reeling from that absolute roundhouse to my nose.”

“Did it hurt?” you inquire, wincing as you notice the blood continuing to drip onto his black shirt.

“Would you believe me if I said I barely felt it?”

“In your dreams, maybe,” you scoff, watching Phil as he digs into his pocket to pull out a crumpled up tissue, “You think you’re tough or something?”

Phil laughs, a hearty, genuine chuckle that almost felt like he was mocking you. You fold in on yourself slightly, unable to pull your stare away from the way he was delicately wiping his scarlet coated, busted nose.

“Some would say I am. But it’s up to you to believe that.”

“Are you picking a fight with me, Phil?”

Looking mildly offended, he scoffs, “I don’t fight chicks. In fact, I typically let them swing at me with little to no consequence.”

You harumph at his comment, shaking your head. The nerve of this guy to act like your first ever punch didn’t hurt him? How dare he.

“Well, it seems to me like that blow to your nose knocked a few screws loose in that pretty head of yours.”

You expect him to fire back with a witty comment, anticipating the ping-pong of banter. But instead, his smug smile pokes dimples into his cheeks.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Silence falls over the two of your bodies, the winter winds now whipping around you as you froze in time. You were completely speechless, Phil just standing haughtily before you and allowing you to take in his question.

“I, uh— I didn’t— didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think? About what you said? You had that quip ready and loaded.”

“It was an expression,” you feign innocence, your eyes growing wider by the second, “Y’know Phil, I don’t appreciate your tone.”

He laughs, just laughs. Everything under the moon tonight seemed funny to this guy and you hadn’t a clue why.

“It’s weird hearing you say my name this many times within the span of five minutes.”

You raise a curious eyebrow, slowly getting the feeling that a facade was being dropped, “You’re not used to people saying your name?”

“Not necessarily. Most people call me Punk.”

Punk. How fitting, you thought. Fitting enough for a man who has let his nose bleed for the better half of ten minutes while dressed exclusively in black. You push your lips to the side, mind still reeling about what exactly he was hiding behind that nickname.

And, respectively, what he was hiding beneath that tight ass shirt.

“Punk. Would you prefer it if I called you that instead of Phil— ‘er whatever?”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Phil, Punk, shrugs, his arms mirroring yours crossed against his chest, “Do you have a name that you’d prefer me to call you?”

Immediately, your mind went elsewhere. Far off elsewhere.

“I don’t think so, no.”

He takes a moment to think, his pupils enlarging when his eyes scan over your figure and eventually stop down at your brown fuzzy boots.

“Bunny.”

“What?”

“Those boots. Looks like you skinned a rabbit for those babies.”

You press your hand to your chest, awestruck by the abrasiveness of his words, “Heeeey! They’re fake, asshole!”

“Fake or not, they remind me of bunnies. That’s just how it’s gonna be.”

Punk looks back down at your boots, and you can’t help but cross your legs and stand at ease like a soldier. You wished you’d had gum to smack or a bubble to pop; for he had you feeling like a complete amateur in a battle of wits and compliments.

“So that’s the script we’re sticking to,” you mumble, trailing off, now self conscious of whether or not your jacket and boots actually look like you were compliant in animal cruelty.

“You tell me, Bunny. How does it sound coming out of my mouth?”

His words snap your eyes back to attention on his face. He juts his tongue out to wet his bottom lip, and you can’t help but notice the piercing that sat directly in the middle of it. You freeze at the sight of it, which you seemed to be doing a lot the more you noticed the smaller details of his person.

“Sounds nice,” you hum, satisfied. A bit distracted by his attractiveness and the small gap between his front teeth.

You were still telling the truth.

“Perfect. Now that we’ve gotten the semantics of politeness out of the way— care to explain why you’re out here alone on a cold winter night in a miniskirt?”

“I’m surprised it took you this long to point out that I was wearing a miniskirt, actually.”

Punk chuckles dryly, “I was concerned about the loud, hurtful obscenities you were yelling into your phone and here you are thinking I’m a shallow pig.”

You sigh in defeat, having lost the battle of wits once and for all. Punk seems to notice the sudden deflate in your ego, as you look out into the street.

“I was supposed to be clubbing with my friends— but they fucked up all the plans and now here I am. Standing outside in the cold. Just so happen’ to also be in a miniskirt and boots that apparently make me look like a bunny.”

“They left you here?” Punk asks, the concern laced through his voice far more prominent than the sarcasm.

“They didn’t even show up.”

The more you mulled over your unfortunate plans for the evening, the sadder you felt about how it all went down. You didn’t think that those low-lifes ditching you would have such an effect on you, but you just decided it’d be best to choke it down.

“That’s fucked up. I’m sorry, Bunny.”

“It’s fine. No skin off my teeth.”

Punk’s sharp face softens for a moment; you still can’t help but stare. The juxtaposition of a soft brown rabbit, Bunny, standing meekly before a tall, raven-haired, vampire was driving you insane. The thought of his blood splattering across your knuckles, the thought of him wiping up the mess, amused by the collateral damage and completely unphased by the pain.

Anyone else would run off, terrified of leaving their fate in the hands of a hard-headed stranger they’d met on a poorly-lit street corner.

Anyone else would be scared.

But not you. You weren’t scared of Punk.

In fact, you rather liked him.

“You cold?” He breaks the silence, sniffling as if to regain the sensation and feeling in his nose.

“Very.”

You take a deep breath in, remembering the little clutch purse that you’d brought that held all of your clubbing essentials; a singular tampon, a wallet, headphones for the train, the keys to your apartment and a loose cigarette.

Y’know, in case of emergency.

Soon enough, that cigarette is between your lips. You fish around the bottom of your tiny handbag as Punk just stares you down, nailing your furry brown boots to the pavement.

“Fuck,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, “Do you have a lighter?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Bummer.”

After looking down at your purse for so long and almost forgetting that he was standing there, you catch Punk’s gaze. With a straight face, he reaches up, and plucks the cigarette from your mouth.

“And you shouldn’t either.”

Your shoulders slump, a whine stuck in the back of your throat, “Can’t a girl take the edge off?”

“Every time a pretty girl smokes a cigarette, an angel loses its wings.”

It was still very cold. But the way Punk so graciously and spitefully took the cigarette out of your mouth and tossed it into a nearby subway grate made the pit of your stomach grow warm. You couldn’t deny the effect he was having on you. He was ballsy— fearless. Ten minutes into knowing him, you’ve already grown quite fond of this dynamic.

“Fine. No smoking. But can we at least go somewhere warm if you’re gonna keep asking me questions?”

“Is my body heat not enough for you?” Punk quips right back, somehow closer than you remembered him being.

“Standing here with you has been fun, but—it’s thirty degrees. Take me somewhere warm or else I’ll start screaming that you’re an axe murderer.”

Amused by your empty threat, Punk smirks. He took a moment to think to himself, before reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out a set of car keys.

“I’m parked in the garage. I assume you need a ride. No way Bunny’s gonna hop on home all by herself.”

“Bunny would’ve gotten home just fine.”

Your arms are still crossed against your chest, attempting to subdue the chattering of your teeth. But rather than leading you towards the garage in question, Punk stays still. His eyebrow raises at you, his lips pushed to the side.

“Well? Aren’t you gonna lead the way?”

“Aren’t you missing something?”

“Missing what? I have all my shit—”

You begin to frantically tap at your pockets, feeling silly once you remember that damn miniskirt.

“Here, I’ll make this easy. What’s the magic word?”

“Oh come on.”

Punk stands his ground, his teeth now sunk into his bottom lip, “I’m not going anywhere until I hear you say it.”

You huff like a child, stomping your foot against the ground out of pure instinct. The weather was taking over your senses, making your hands freeze up and the back end of your jaw clench.

“Fine—Please, Mr. Punk? May I please go sit in your nice warm car so I don’t get hypothermia and die?” You have your own fun, and let your eyes go wide and shimmery.

“Only since you asked so nicely.”

You could tell that the little show you put on made Punk stiffen up, a slick attempt to play it cool left him digging his hands into the pockets of his sweats before turning to lead you to his car.

Good call, Punk.

“So, now that you know my reasoning for standing outside of a nightclub with my ass out, how about you tell me what you’ve been up to on this fine Friday night?”

As the two of you walk towards the parking garage, shoulders occasionally knocking in time with the clunking of your boots, you turn to admire his side profile. He walks, looking straight ahead, almost as if he were attempting not to get sucked back into those eyes of yours.

“I actually had a match tonight.”

“A match? What are you, a boxer or something?”

“Every time you take a guess about me, you get closer and closer to the actual answer,” says Punk, sparing you a sideways glance, “One more guess and you’d be right on the nose.”

“The only thing that I can think of when you say ‘matches’ is boxing—”

“—Wrestling,” he jumps the gun, “I’m a professional wrestler.”

Oh.

“Makes sense why my punch didn’t hurt.”

You pout dramatically, feigning for a reaction out of him while the two of you walk through a practically empty parking garage towards a beat up Chevy Malibu in the very last spot.

“Why the long face, Bunny?” he asks, his car honking as he unlocks it, “Did you want it to hurt?”

That comment in particular makes you blush. You felt small enough next to him as is, but his wordsmithing abilities left you breathless. He smiles at you, rounding the hood of his car to hold open the door for you. There was something a little more complex than pure satisfaction hidden beneath those eyes of his.

You wait until the two of you are sitting side by side in the car before answering, thinking the thrill of anticipation is what’s getting him going, “No. I didn’t expect to punch anyone tonight at all. Just— kinda bummed that my first ever punch was square in the nose of a man who gets punched for a living.”

“You’ll get there someday. Maybe next time I’ll cry a little bit— just to make you feel better.”

You scoff, reaching over to push him in the shoulder. He takes it lightly, but you’re stuck on the firmness of his bicep.

“You keep implying that there’ll be a next time. What if I never see you again after tonight?”

Punk leans his head against the car seat, his eyes fluttering towards the windshield as his Adam’s Apple bobs. An open, empty parking lot with a singular flickering light really set the mood for the circumstances.

“Is that what you want? To never see me again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it was implied.”

Your face pinches. You wished you had that cigarette right about now. Punk’s face was unreadable, and you couldn’t stand it. This entire situation left you feeling a bit dizzy.

“You’re such a jerk,” you blurt out.

“And you’re kind of a brat. ‘Suppose it’s a match made in heaven.”

Feeling defeated, you huff, and fold your hands in your lap. You don’t think you’d ever met someone who could keep up with all of your quips. You were smart, but he was smarter. You were snappy, but he left you tongue tied.

“Wanna get milkshakes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

There it was again. That ping in your stomach every time he shot you down. It was getting to be amusing— the more he deflected and kept up that cocky attitude, the more you wanted to push his buttons.

“It’s late,” he mumbles behind a half-lit smile, reaching down to fiddle with his wrist tape, “Any more sugar in you and you’d be wound up like a toy.”

“You don’t know that,” you defend, mimicking his movements and twisting the costume ring on your middle finger.

“You’d be surprised at how well I can read people. Especially clever girls like you.”

You were a button pusher by nature, but Punk was made of rubber. Everything you had to say bounced right off of him. You couldn’t stand it, he was perfect. He was so fucking hot that it made you want to claw at walls and break through windows. It was absolutely infuriating.

“What are you doing to me?” you ask; once again, not thinking, moving your hands animatedly, “It’s like you’ve got a forcefield on my brain or somethin’.”

Punk scoffs, eventually reaching the end piece of his wrist tape and beginning to slowly unravel it, “I’ve been told I have a weird effect on people.”

“Weird is a fucking understatement.”

You were telling the truth. The chokehold that Punk held over you loomed like a storm cloud�� his eyes, his moody face, that thick, toned body and that damn black hair. You were a sucker for an emo boy, but you didn’t think that obsession ran deep.

Until right now.

A brief silence passes, and it’s tense. You keep sneaking glances at him as he waits for the car to warm up. He keeps catching your eyes every time they wander down to the little sterling silver ring pierced into his lip.

“So,” he begins to say, turning up the temperature dial all the way, “Finally warm enough for me to ask some more questions?”

“Well yeah, I guess… God, you make it sound like I’m in the interrogation room.”

“I meant that sincerely, dick. I was asking if the temperature of the car was to your liking.”

Although having met him under an hour ago, a comfortable smile slides across your face. You sigh dramatically, kicking up your feet onto his dashboard and letting your furry jacket fall open to reveal your cute little clubbing top.

“Sure, I’m warm. Hot, even. Might start sweating soon. This jacket’s a bitch and a half.”

“A cold-blooded woman. I like it.”

“It’s one of my most redeeming qualities,” you retort, gaining back some of that confident spark you lost in the crossfire of Punk calling you a brat, “So, what? Are we playing twenty questions?”

“Twenty questions?” Punk repeats, his sentence trailed with laughter, “I’ve been out of the scene for a long time— didn’t think it was long enough to have to resort back to icebreakers.”

“Hey, don’t laugh! It’s a good way to get to know someone! Here, ask me anything. No holds barred.”

Punk rolls his eyes begrudgingly, his massive ego somehow bruised at even the mention of such a childish game. He thinks to himself for a moment, ultimately caving when he looks over and sees your newly exposed chest.

“Alright, fine. I’ll bite. What’s your favorite color?”

“Lame,” you blow a raspberry at him, “it’s blue.”

“Y’know, I’d like to see you ask a better question.”

You sit up slightly in the car seat, uncrossing your legs from the dash and putting them back in their correct place on the floor. In one last attempt to commandeer the power dynamic in your favor, you place your elbow on the center console, and stare deeply into his eyes.

“Thought this one would’ve been a no-brainer, but— do you have a girlfriend?”

Punk scoffs, as if he were offended that you’d even assume, “A girlfriend? No.”

“Hm. Good to know. I’ll keep that on the back-burner.”

“Must be my turn again,” The cheeky expression lingers on his face— you could tell he was amused just by looking at you.

“Yep. That’s how the game works.”

“Okay,” he puffs, mimicking the batting of your eyelashes and the little twinge of flirtiness in your smile, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope. Not a boyfriend for miles.”

He nods, his lips pursing, “As you said, it’s really just— good to know.”

Twenty questions was an awful game. Despite being the one to suggest it, you were also the first to admit it. There was so much nothingness to be discussed when it came to getting to know someone— and asking mundane questions seemed far too manufactured for the way you typically liked to handle things.

Punk already seemed to take a liking to you, it was evident in the way he acted thus far. His body language, the way he was teasing you. It was just so comfortable. And comfort was a good thing in most cases.

But in this case, comfort wouldn’t do.

“My turn,” you blurt excitedly, repositioning your legs back up onto the dashboard, “I’d like to take this question to address the elephant in the room.”

“Elephant—?”

You smile at Punk, watching his eyes follow your movements, the tail end of his sentence getting lost somewhere in his distracted mind.

“You keep on staring at my legs, Punker. You wanna get your head between ‘em?”

“Pardon?” he asks, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows.

“You heard me, pretty boy.”

In a flash, Punk’s body is strewn across the center console. He’s kissing you.

Holy fuck, he’s kissing you.

His lips are soft and inviting, a stark contrast to the heavy breathing and wandering tongues between you as he presses his chest into yours. It was a whirlwind, you could barely keep up with him. You decide to pull away for a moment, honing in on those beautiful Kelly greens.

“Shit,” Punk laughs, his palm cupping your cheek and letting the remnants of wrist tape scrape against your skin, “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you apologizing for?” you breathe out, feeling like your back was superglued to the leather.

Punk retreats back to the driver’s seat, running a hand through his hair. He’s panting, that wicked smile still painted across his face, “Nothing, nothing— I just—”

And just like that, you’re attached at the lips once more.

You figured the less time spent talking right now would be for the better; getting to know someone was just semantics, anyway. If you think someone’s hot, and that person shares the sentiment, you firmly believe that you should get into their pants as quickly as possible.

Especially when that someone is a suave, punk wrestler who had some sort of bionic force field over your mind.

You deepen the second kiss, practically dislocating your hip as you stretch over the center console. You want to get closer— the inside of the car and the lowness of its ceiling preventing you from positioning yourself in the ways that you want.

“Get on top of me. Right now.” Punk’s words knock against your now plump lips, raw from all the teasing.

You oblige without another word, hoisting yourself over the console and straight into his lap. You think you have it all under control, despite the wobbling of your knees each time you look into his eyes.

“You’re very demanding,” you tease.

“And you seem— insatiable.”

Once you lower your hips onto his lap, a collective sigh fills the car. Not much was released from the tension in your lower half, but you fit into his lap like the last piece of a puzzle. He spread his legs comfortably beneath you, wasting no time in attaching his broad, blistered hands to y our waist.

Punk chuckles to himself, watching you adjust your ass so that it wasn’t digging into the steering wheel.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“This is just— an odd situation we’ve gotten ourselves into,” says Punk, reaching up to run his hand across your chest to the nape of your neck, “We met less than an hour ago. Now you’re straddling me in my car.”

“I’m a woman that knows what she wants as soon as she sets her eyes on it,” you whip back, taking your pointer finger and finally getting to run it across that dastardly handsome lip ring.

“I like you more and more each time you open your mouth. Makes me wonder what else it can do.”

Punk’s sentence trails off when his hand slowly snakes its way into the back of your hair. You smirk at his gentle quip, a subtle push in the right direction.

“Wanna find out?”

He pulls you back in, breathing in deeply as he nips at your bottom lip with his teeth. You moan at the feeling of his hand in your hair, tugging at the roots like he was trying to pull you away, but couldn’t stand to be far from you for longer than a second.

You swivel your hips against his, the tight biker shorts beneath your miniskirt leaving zero room for the imagination. When your hip makes one last dig, Punk’s entire body jolts— he takes that pent up frustration out on your soft flesh, nipping at your jaw towards your neck.

“Fuckin’ Christ, you’re—”

“Everything and more?” you gloat through heaving breaths as he starts a trail of love bites down towards your clavicle, “Super hot and amazing?”

You can feel Punk laughing beneath you; as if he hasn’t let himself enjoy life like this in a long time.

“You’re— unreal.”

With his words, you scoop up his face in your hands. It was hard not to just talk his ear off and shower him in praise for the foreseeable future, he checked every box for you as far as a man goes.

“What? What about me is so unreal?”

“Just— everything,” he hums, his eyes foggy and in a daze, “Can’t really put my finger on it at the moment.”

“Why not?”

“You’re like a fuckin machine gun. Loaded with questions.”

“Kiss me harder,” you purr, lifting your hips and planting them back down firmly onto the growing bulge in his sweats, “Maybe that’ll shut me up.”

Soon enough, you’re back in the game. Punk had taken the liberty of shrugging you out of your fuzzy jacket— the one he liked so much that he pulled a nickname out of his ass for.

He took time showering you in kisses; one would think a man of his stature wouldn’t be so delicate. But he treated you like he was picking petals off a daisy— and you were more than satisfied with that.

“Wanna take this to the backseat?” Punk grunts as your hands start to grasp at the hem of his shirt, he notices your struggle.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Figured you’re tired of the steering wheel digging into your ass.”

You smile warmly at his cute little quips, wanting nothing more in this moment than to pinch at his cheeks, “Why thank you for being so considerate, Mr. Punk.”

You grace him with one more searing kiss, letting him linger in the aftermath before rising from his lap. Making it to the back with grace, you slide into the seat behind the passenger as Punk stares at you from the front.

“I would have opened the door for you. You didn’t have to pull out a whole gymnastics routine.”

With flushed cheeks and a smile, you shrug, “It’s more fun this way.”

“Whatever you say, Bunny,” Punk chuckles, shaking his head as he pushes open the driver’s side door.

You sit timidly in the backseat for the few seconds that you’re alone, your body pumping with adrenaline. It was hard to believe the turnaround of how this night was going— from shitty, fallen through club plans, to meeting someone who may or may not be the love of your life. It was all happening so fast, you could barely keep up.

“So.”

Punk’s voice and the slamming of the car door snaps you out of your spaceout. You turn to him with an amused face, instantly brought back down to earth when you notice how he’d comfortably spread his legs. A silent invitation.

“Sooo…”

“Come here often?” he jokes, drumming his fingers against his knee and eyeing your figure.

“That was so fucking corny. You’re such a loser.” You laugh, mimicking his eyes and traipsing them down his frame.

Dear God, he was divine.

“Quit the name calling and c’mere, you fuckin’ minx.”

As if his words were a wish and you were a genie that granted them true, you slowly crawl over to him, softening your eyes and tossing your hair over your shoulder as you once again get comfortable onto his lap.

The kiss from earlier picks back up— it felt almost redundant to do so. But you couldn’t get enough of the taste of his lips, and he couldn’t stand resisting the scent of your vanilla perfume.

“How far do you wanna go?” You breathe out, not entirely thinking with your head screwed on while he claws tightly at your hips.

“As far as you’ll take me. Seems like you’ve got the energy.”

“What? Can’t keep up with me?” you pout, leaning in to nip at his jawline and graze his stubble with your teeth, “So much for being an athlete.”

Punk snorts, you’d almost forgotten how strong he really was. He pulls you closer to him, your chest fully flushed against his.

“Don’t test me. Just because you’ve got the libido of a rabbit doesn’t mean I can’t keep up.”

“Ahhh, I don’t know— you got that kind of stamina in the bedroom? Or do you save the real show for when you’re in the ring?”

“Bunny wants a show, huh? I’ll give you a fuckin’ show—”

Like flipping on a light switch, Punk’s entire demeanor changes. The oozing sense of a desire to be in control clouded the small Chevy Malibu like smog. His hands detach from your waist, with one hand cupping your face and the other sliding up towards your throat.

You were loving this energy— he was like a leech. Feeding off of your lust like it was keeping him alive. When his hand eventually clamped down against the sides of your throat, you moaned out, pushing out a weak smile through newly forming tears in your eyes.

“Punk—” you squeak, but it wasn’t loud enough to grab his attention. He was kissing you with so much fervor and passion that it almost knocked the wind out of you.

Your position quickly switched. He was now on top of you, crammed into the backseat of this entirely too small sedan, his hips meeting yours and causing friction in your lower half. The bulge in his pants was making you want to take whatever he was willing to give.

It was almost desperate at this point.

“Shirt. Off. Now.” The odds were seemingly back in your favor. You’ve been wanting to see what was hiding beneath that tight athletic top the moment you saw how his back muscles contorted beneath it, illuminated by the streetlamp after you whacked him in the nose.

“Help me,” he huffs, struggling to reach between your bodies towards the hem of said shirt, “Help me get this damn thing off.”

You chuckle at his eagerness, the clumsy fumbling in an attempt to peel off Punk’s shirt allowed you to see a bit more of the sparkle in his eyes as he laughed along with you. Once the shirt was off, the most you could do was stare.

Tattoos. So many of them. You wanted to run your hand across all of them and paint along the colorful, traditional style. He was truly a work of art.

The heat of the moment had never left, but for a second, it felt as though you and Punk were the only two people on this planet. He hovers above you, panting at the sight of lust in your eyes. His dark hair was like a set of blackout curtains that framed his face just right. You couldn’t help yourself. You pushed a lock of that hair behind his ear, catching what you assumed to be a bashful, blushed grin.

“What? What are you smiling at?” you ask through giggles, letting the back of your hand trail his jawline.

“Nothing, nothing— you’re lookin’ at me stupid right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you hum, “I can’t really help it. I—didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“I’ve got quite a few, yeah,” he nods, speaking to you as if his bulge wasn’t millimeters away from where the both of you needed it to be, “Glad you like ‘em.”

“I don’t have any tattoos, sadly. ‘Wish I did. The adrenaline rush of a needle getting shoved into your skin over and over again seems like it would be better than sex.”

Punk’s eyes flicker with desire, his gaze firmly planted onto your lips as you spoke. He was one track minded, from what you could tell. Though you weren’t sure which track he’d been focused on running.

“Better than sex huh? You say that like I don’t have you here, pinned to my backseat.”

“It was a euphemism, jackass,” you snarl, craning your neck to reach up and peck him on the lips, “Doesn’t mean I don’t still want a tattoo. Or, to be pinned to your backseat.”

“Maybe tomorrow we’ll go get you a tattoo, eh? Set you up with an artist and everything. That way you can really tell me if being under the needle is better than sex.”

The kiss picks back up for the hundredth time, though it was the fiercest kiss of them all. Soon enough, Punk was shimmying you out of your miniskirt and biker shorts, and pushing your knees towards your chest.

“Is it fucked up that I’ve been thinkin’ about seeing you like this since I laid eyes on you?” He takes his time with you, settling to the best of his abilities while crammed into the back of his own car.

The only sound you could muster was an airy giggle, his blistered hands rubbing circles atop your knees as he slowly started to spread you wider.

“Tell me. Tell me right now if it’s fucked up and I’ll stop.”

“What? Are you crazy?” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him, “I should punch you again for thinking that way.”

“Mmmh, I’d like to see you try.”

You understood why Punk kept implying that there’d be a next time. Because the way his gaze roamed down every dip and curve of your body and stopped to linger on your clothed core…

…You couldn’t imagine being here, in this moment, with anyone else.

“Can I just say— you’re fuckin’ heavenly,” Punk grumbles, his hands finally finding the lacy trim of your underwear.

“All these compliments are gonna start getting to my head, Punker. Choose your next words wisely.”

He chuckles, knowing full and well that he was holding the reins. You had him, basically, in a headlock. Your ankles clasped around the back of his neck, keeping him hostage towards the center of your thighs.

“Want these off?” he asks, pulling at your waistband.

You think for a moment, letting Punk take a second to drink you in, in all of your aphrodisiacal glory.

“Mmmh, no. Kinda’ wanna see you work for it.”

His eyes suddenly narrow with challenge, a newly formed drop of sweat beginning to roll down his forehead at the sheer impetuosity of his current position.

Face first towards your pussy.

Punk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes lock with yours— your head begins to spin as he lowers his, not breaking his stare for even a second. He takes his rough-padded fingers, and pushes aside the dainty lilac colored fabric of your underwear.

“Work for it,” he mutters, scoffing under his breath as he feels your entire body jolt, “Yeah fuckin’ right.”

Punk dives into you with expertise and precision, his tongue initially dragging a long, torturous swipe up between your folds. The pressure of his tongue against your now aching core felt like you were just launched into the air from a slingshot.

You gasp. You whine. Your legs had suddenly gone limp and dropped beside him. You attempt to claw at his colorful, painted shoulders but instead, end up reaching all the way to his back to dig your nails straight into his spine.

He hums in what you assumed to be delight, ripples from his vocalization sending a shock wave through your body, whilst he continues to prod at your entrance with his tongue.

“Holy fuck—” you breathe out, the sensation of his nimble tongue causing your legs to spasm, “Fuck— fuckin’— shit!”

With his head still buried between your thighs, Punk laughs. He simply can’t help it.

“You’ve got a mouth like a goddamn sailor,” his eyes pop up to look at you momentarily, but that wouldn’t do.

“Keep your comments and questions reserved for after the show, thank you.” Shaking your head, you push his mouth back down to where the attention was needed.

After all was said and done, you still couldn’t believe you were here right now. It seemed far too early into the evening to call any shots, though it was far past midnight now, but there was a stirring feeling in your gut about Punk.

The stirring could've been attributed to the agility of his tongue between your thighs, but the bigger part of you knew that this feeling could only be described as butterflies.

Butterflies. That’s exactly what it was. From what you knew about him so far, Punk was a gentleman. Treating you delicately like he was pruning a rose bush, but with just enough of that rough, jagged edge that made you swoon.

Back to the present. You’d been digging your nails into Punk’s toned back for so long that you started to notice red etchings in the place of your hands.

“Oh my God,” was all you could muster. His tongue flicked mercilessly at your sensitive clit— the way his head dipped and swiveled only proved the attention he was paying to you.

He really was working for it.

“Keep goin’… fuck, please keep going. I’m— so close.”

With your words, Punk’s head pops up. He replaces his mouth with his fingers, immediately pushing two of them inside you and stretching your walls along with it.

“What’s that? You’re close, you said?”

His eyes shot through yours like bullets, his face now morphed into, possibly, the most determined expression you’ve ever seen. He takes those two fingers and curls them deep inside of you, the sounds of your arousal suddenly echoing throughout the car.

“Yes— yes I’m fuckin’ close… Are— are you mocking me?” you pant, weakly chuckling at the mercy of his fingers.

“Mocking you? C’mon now,” he interrupts himself with a grunt, his voice rich and sticky like honey, “I just wanted to clarify… and hear that pretty voice while you cum for me.”

Stars begin to cloud your vision. Your heart rate was picking up at rapid speeds, chanting yes yes yes yes yes over and over again as if it were some sort of demonic hymn. Punk had you hypnotized, borderline possessed. His face melts in time with yours, studying your expression as you chase your orgasm towards the finish line.

“Punk, oh fuck. God, yes. Faster. Faster!”

“Give it to me, Bunny. Gonna cum all over my fingers like a good girl? Yeah.”

Punk nods to you, as if it were a sign to let loose. He was coaching you through this like he was born to please you, hitting all of the correct spots with his large digits and occasionally ducking down to lap up your juices.

“So fuckin’ wet for me, baby. So fuckin’ good. I know you’re almost there.”

Seconds later, he does the unthinkable, and presses his palm flat against your lower stomach. You whine at the now building pressure, still cursing and surprised at the fact that you hadn’t drawn blood from his shoulder blades after grabbing them so roughly.

His body shifts upwards, keeping his balance by still pressing deeply against your abdomen. He muffles your moans with a searing hot kiss, biting at your bottom lip to heighten both the pain and the pleasure.

“Cum all over my fuckin’ hand, baby. I wanna’ make a mess of such a sweet, pretty girl.”

You do as you’re told, naturally, your body jolting in pure bliss as release crashes over you. Your legs stiffen, and go weak once again, letting Punk grace you with one last dirty kiss before pulling away to ease you.

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, your body still in a state of shock.

“Mmmmmh,” Punk hums as he massages one of your thighs, still coaxing you through your high with his two fingers, “That’s it, Bunny. Let it all out.”

You finally get a second to relax your shoulders, your neck falling limp as you rest your head against the car door. It was hard to believe just how fast your heart was beating— that was probably the best orgasm you’ve had in months.

“Feelin’ okay?” Punk breaks the heavy, sweaty silence, abruptly pulling his fingers out from you and making you gasp. He seemed to be extra cautious now, making sure your lightheadedness wasn’t too much of an issue.

“I— Shit… Fuck, I’m sorry. Don’t really— have the words.”

He chuckles softly, taking it upon himself to reach out and lift you, propping you upright against the carseat. “I’ve rendered the chatterbox speechless? Never in a million years…”

“Oh shut up,” you whine, feeling the remnants of slickness between your thighs, “It’s gonna take a lot more than that to get rid of me.”

After a few tender moments of giggles, swatting at each other playfully, and threatening to punch Punk once more, you had resumed the position onto his lap. While still crammed into the back of the Malibu, his large, blistered hands roamed your sides and sent shivers down your spine. He had also asked you’d be opposed to keeping your skirt off for the time being.

Of course, you didn’t mind.

“Where’d you learn that shit, Punker?”

“Hm?” Punk seems to be lost in you, his eyes wandering down to the love bites he’d left on your neck.

“Oh come on. You just whipped me through fucking space and time and you’re gonna act all humble about it? Where’s your pride?”

“I don’t think it’s anything to brag about. Real men make girls cum. It’s as simple as that.” He punctuates his thought with a kiss to the tip of your nose, his eyes narrow and hazy with adoration.

“Oh, so you save all your gut-punch-trash-talking for the ring, huh?”

Your comment makes him laugh. It’s hearty, and rich; he’s so lost in your eyes that you’re afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his way back.

“If you came to one of my matches, you’d find out. But why don’t we save the shop talk for another time and get you home? It’s getting late.”

Your chest aches, the words echoing against your skull. Take you home? The thought of going home after one of the most exhilarating nights of your life so far felt like an arrow through the back. You didn’t want this to end, you didn’t want to leave this car. You didn’t want to leave this parking garage.

You didn’t want to leave Punk.

“Do you have any plans tonight?” you ask softly, the first time you’d put your guard up since you were standing on the sidewalk.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Come home with me. Stay the night.”

You blurt it out faster than you could process your thoughts— though you always were a firm believer in trusting your gut.

“You serious?” He tucks a rogue strand of hair behind your ear; he seemed to have put his guard down for a fleeting moment, too.

“Serious. I’ve got a nice king-sized bed all to myself and a vinyl collection that’ll make your dick hard.”

“Once again, unreal…” Punk chuckles, shaking his head. You feel his body rumble along with it and can’t help but hold onto him tighter.

“…Sure. I’ll stay the night. But if you’re lying about that record collection, I’m driving back and leaving you out on the sidewalk where I found you.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. If you don’t have a raging boner the second you step into my place, I’ll sell you my soul.”

“A deal with the devil,” Punk smiles warmly, before pulling you in for one last kiss that’s as sweet as molasses, “Prettiest damn’ devil I’ve ever seen.”

—

After a playful, sexually tense car ride that seemed to last an eternity, Punk finally pulled up to the front of your place. Throughout the entire duration of the drive, his hand was anchored to your thigh, rubbing slow, soothing circles that occasionally veered off between your legs; you talked his ear off about work, friends, and all of the other quirks that made your life worth living.

He also told you more about his wrestling career, and how he was working small indie shows in hopes to sign a bigger contract. You listened to his ramblings about what it takes to be a wrestler, not without asking him a million questions, of course.

You learned that his full ring name was CM Punk. And quickly realized that the ‘CM’ could stand for just about anything— Cookie Monster, Curtis Mayfield, Car Muffler. The possibilities were endless for you. But truthfully, hearing you talk and joke around was the only thing that mattered to Punk.

Your curious mind and nonstop motormouth quickly became one of the things that Punk liked most about you.

But he wouldn’t admit that aloud.

“So, this is the place huh?” Punk hums, tossing his head back at you with a bit of tension from before that still lingered, “The place that’s supposed to blow me away with a rockin’ record collection and a promised king-sized mattress.”

“Mhm. Welcome to my dojo. Usually there’s no boys allowed— but tonight, I’ll make an exception.”

Soon enough, Punk opened the car door for you, allowing you to slide out and stand beside him on the sidewalk in front of your apartment. You lived in a duplex in Brooklyn, in a somewhat seedy neighborhood that you quickly took a liking to after living in it for almost half a year. Your neighbors were kind, considerate, and never asked questions.

You hoped that’d remain true after tonight.

The two of you walk up to the porch, laughing playfully at the misfortune of your miniskirt before reaching the door. But before you fish out your key from your clutch, you spin around, and press your back against the screen.

“What’s the password, Punky Brewster?”

His eyes widened with challenge, a smug expression on his face, “How should I know? It’s my first time here.”

“I can give you a hint if you’d like,” you purr like a cat, trailing your index finger down his chest as he steps a smidge closer.

“A hint, huh? Lucky for you, riddles turn me on.”

You laugh heartily— you haven’t laughed this much in months. He was surely a spitfire for the ages; the only person for miles who was willing to keep up with your attitude for this long. You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes seemed to shimmer as he gazed down at you, the overhead lighting of your porch giving him a faux halo.

Fitting.

“This isn’t a riddle. It’s simple. You have something that I want. And I need you to give it to me.”

“Something that you want— interesting. Is it a physical object? An action? C’mon Bunny, cut me some slack. My brain’s fuckin’ fried.”

A desperate chuckle passes his lips, and he just can’t help but reach out to caress your cheek. Still reeling from previous events, you nudge your face right into his palm.

“I feel as though I’m being fair. You have something I want, and I need you to give it to me.”

You were implying that you wanted a kiss. It was simple. Merely because you couldn’t stand the thought of your lips being detached for longer than the time it took to walk up your front porch.

After thinking to himself for a moment, your cheek still cradled in his palm, the lightbulb flicks on in Punk’s mind.

“Oh. You fucker. I know what you want.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you shrug, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Only ‘cause you’re greedy. C’mere.”

Leaning in to kiss him for approximately the fifteenth time tonight still felt like slow motion. It wasn’t until your lips finally reconnected that the tension left your shoulders.

‘Mrrrrooowww’

A loud mewl from behind snaps the kiss. Punk stares at you in shock for a moment, but you knew exactly what that sound was. “What the hell was that?”

‘Mrrroowww’

At your feet sits a little tortoiseshell cat. The neighborhood stray.

“Jesus Christ, scared the shit out of me.” Punk steps back, teetering with uncertainty in an attempt not to step on the animal. You didn’t think such a small creature would knock a big man off his balance so easily.

“Scared?” you scoff, bending down to scoop up the familiar cat, “Of this little guy?”

Punk’s eyebrow raises, curiously admiring your Snow White-esque way of going about this. “Is he a friend?”

You chuckle at his sarcasm, petting the purring feline and letting him rub his head in your palm. “I guess you could call him that. This is Channing Tatum. Mr. Tatum, Tater Tots, Tater for short. He comes by every morning and night to hang out for a bit. I think we, uh, interrupted his busy schedule.”

“No shit. That’s his fuckin’ name?” Punk guffaws, crossing his arms in disbelief, “Who named him that?”

“Who do you think?”

Punk chuckles, running a hand through his hair, “Naturally.”

“Yeah. I feed him n’ stuff,” you rattle off like you were born to, still petting Tater and watching as he cocks his head towards Punk in curiosity, “He’s put on a few pounds since I moved here, but I plead the fifth. This dude’s got hookups at every house on this block.”

“Smart man. He’s a hustler.”

It took Punk a moment to reach out and pet Tater, the tattoos on his knuckles catching the light of the porch. DRUG FREE was scrawled across his hands in black ink, making your mind race with even more questions to ask him. But you didn’t want to bore him, or piss him off. So instead, you just soaked in the moment.

“What do you feed this guy? He’s got buff shoulders and a toned bod. Might have to hijack his diet.”

“I’ll give him a combo of wet and dry food every day,” the two of you were now petting Tater simultaneously, and he was loving every second of it, “plenty of water, too. Hydration is important for cats, you know.”

The loud purrs disrupted the peaceful silence between you and Punk. You catch his eyes in a sideways glance— he wasn’t looking at Tater anymore.

He was looking at you.

“I give you cat people a lot of credit. Cats usually hate me,” Punk smiles, leaning in to hear the loud, rumbling purrs coming from such a small creature, “This one might be special.”

“He’s pretty good at feeling people’s energy. He gets it from his mama.”

“Didn’t realize I was signing up to be a step-father.”

An airy chuckle leaves his chest, but you clam up. For no particular reason. “Why don’t we go inside? I’m still fuckin’ cold.”

There’s a pause in space and time. You set Tater down gently onto the porch and watch him scurry off, knowing he’ll be back promptly at eight in the morning for breakfast. But the way you clammed up just then didn’t go unnoticed by Punk, you just assumed he chose to ignore it.

You led him over the threshold of your apartment, tapping the tips of your fuzzy boots on the side of the door to rid them of any dirt, mud, or grimy New York snow-sludge. Punk mimicked your actions, as if he’s been here before.

“Shoes off?”

“Shoes off.” You repeat, pulling off one boot at a time as your ass hits the floor. Punk slides out of his Nikes, propping them up against the wall beside yours.

“Your place is nice,” Punk whistles, his hands on his hips as he admires your living room/kitchen combo.

“It’s not much, but it’s all me.”

“No roommates?” He asks, shuffling towards your kitchen island and poking his nose into one of your drawers.

“Nope. I got a discount on this place because the roof was caving in on my side. My dad’s a contractor, he came down from upstate and fixed it for free.”

“Jesus,” he glances at you on the floor, you were now sitting criss-cross applesauce. He can’t help but stare as you unzip your fuzzy coat, haphazardly tossing it onto the back of the couch.

“Meh, it’s no big deal. Knowing that the roof may cave back in any day now really keeps me on my toes. Gets me motivated, you know?”

Your dry humor makes Punk laugh, the gap in his teeth catching beneath the kitchen lights. When you finally stood up, and walked over to him to stand at the opposite side of the kitchen island, the two of you were now in a face-off.

The energy switch was minuscule. His eyes narrowed, as did yours, as you braced your hands against the granite.

“Want anything?”

“You know what I want.”

You scoff, “I meant like, a glass of water. Or something of that nature.”

“A glass of water, sure,” Punk agrees, watching you vigilantly as you round the corner into the kitchen where he was. He was standing in front of the fridge, causing your back to slide against his when you went to open it.

The energy between you was like static— it was jarring and abrasive, sending little shocks down your spine. He doesn’t waste much time, spinning around to hold you from behind.

“Punk,” you say, your throat now gone dry.

“Hm?” His face had moved towards the crook of your neck, lips hovering behind your ear, “what’s up, Bunny babe?”

“You’ve got a real personal space problem.”

“Not like you mind it,” he retorts, lips finally connecting to your neck as he leaves soft kisses in their wake.

“I don’t. Just trying to be a good host. That’s all.”

“Am I invading your space? Do you want me to stop?”

Punks hands move from your waist, scooping up your breasts to massage them, all in one motion. The action makes you whine, and clench the glass of ice cubes in your hand. He was licking and biting at your neck, nearing the spaghetti strap of your clubbing top.

“No, no. I don’t want you to stop.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

Punk spins you fully to face him, leaving the refrigerator door open and idle. The cool air hits your back and meshes with the contrast of how hot and searing his lips feel against your neck.

He really loved to bite at you, maybe he was a vampire.

In one motion, Punk takes the glass from your hand and sets it down on the counter behind him, pulling you into his waist as he rests his back against the granite. It was a ridiculously slow, methodical dance he was pulling, his breathing heavy against your ear as he can’t decide whether to hold your hips, or your ass.

You take your now free hands and lace them around his neck, finally able to fully flush your body against his without being restricted by the confines of a backseat. He hums in delight when your tits press against his chest, and pushes you away to get a better look.

“I don’t know what it is, but you’ve got me whipped. Not gonna lie, it was taking everything in me not to pull the car over and fuck you on the side of the highway.”

You blush at his admission, “I wouldn’t have been mad at that. Though I don’t know how fucking in that small ass car would’ve went.”

“Anything is possible. We could’ve made it work,” Punk smirks, brushing a lock of hair out of your face, “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

Making out with someone against your kitchen counter wasn’t particularly a dream of yours. But the way Punk held you tightly and let his hands roam across your ass beneath your miniskirt, sans biker shorts, made you want to fall asleep and never wake up.

You moan into his mouth, letting the rough, sloppy kiss take over your senses. Punk moves you fluidly, whisking you away from the counter towards the wall.

“P-Punk—” you sputter, due to his hand hovering around your skirt.

“Yes?” He asks softly, almost too sweetly.

“Can I just—show you around?”

Punk sighs, pulling away from you to scratch his neck. His hand slaps his thigh when it drops, motioning for you to ‘go ahead’ with a lazy smile.

You slither out from his hold, making sure to sway your hips and drag your hand along the granite of the kitchen island, “So. This is the kitchen. Obviously. We’re standing in it.”

You point around, and his eyes follow, occasionally reminding you of his presence with an “uh huh” here and there. Once you make it towards the stairs, you stop and spin to face him.

“You don’t care at all, do you?”

Punk’s cocky expression doesn’t falter. He’s leaning on the wall, his strong, tattooed arm hovering beside your head, which is how he was standing while you pointed out every single knickknack on your shelf.

“Bunny. Baby. You think I don’t care?” he clutches his chest, feigning hurt, “I bet I can recite everything you just said back to you.”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” you retort, crossing your arms with a pitiful pout, “You’ve been staring at my ass for so long to the point where it’s got bullet holes.”

At that moment, Punk wanted nothing more than to run the pad of his thumb along that plump bottom lip, but he kept his inner monologue at ease.

“The cat statues were a housewarming gift from your bitch friend Cassie, the one that ditched you tonight.”

Your eyes widen as Punk leaves the wall, stepping back over to the shelf. “The matchbox is from the restaurant that you worked one shift at— and then quit on the spot after a customer said your top was too low cut.”

“You found the bottle caps on the street in Queens, bought that seashell from a neighbor, and stole that pool ball from a billiard bar—”

A stammer gets caught in your throat as Punk, quite literally, repeats your words verbatim. “—Am I missing anything?”

“I—”

“You wanna tell me again that I’m not listening?”

“Oh fuck you,” you say sternly, but are unable to hide your smile when Punk pulls you beside him to take a gander at your trinket shelf.

“I’ve been trying, baby. But you’re not easy and I know that. If asking you about your frequent yard sale visits is what it takes to get you in my arms, I can do this all night.”

Smooth. He was so goddamn smooth. To spare him the satisfaction of giving him what he wanted the moment he asked for it, you slide out of his grasp once again, and scurry up a few stairs. The stairs that lead towards your bedroom.

“If you’re looking to do this all night, we’re already halfway there.”

“Time is a construct,” Punk scoffs, crossing his arms with that same lethal stare and mimicking your posture, “Show me to the bedroom, please.”

What started as a slow ascent quickly turned into a game of cat and mouse. You giggled as you flew up the stairs, hearing Punk’s heavy, socked footsteps gaining on you from behind.

“Stop it! You’re fuckin’ scary!” you shriek, clipping the corner of the stairs towards your bedroom door.

Your back is pressed against the door now, with Punk slowly creeping towards you. His broad shoulders grow taut against his athletic top with each eerie step.

“So I scare you. You’re admitting it?”

“What?” you raise an eyebrow, face flushing of all color, “you don’t scare me. You were just—running at me like it’s hunting season.”

“I wasn’t tryna’ scare you. But I mean, I could be scary if you wanted.”

You swallow. Hard. You’d only seen certain facets of Punk’s personality in the three hours of knowing him. And despite your curious nature and the inexplicable magnetic grip he held over you, the thought of him scaring you never really crossed your mind. You wondered what it was like to actually be threatened by him.

You wondered if he’d even give you the chance to know it.

“Really?” you stammer, your voice betraying you and fleeting off when he reattaches his hand to your waist, “You’d be scary for me?”

“Well, of course I would. It’s all an act. I can be whatever you want me to be, Bunny baby.”

A sinking feeling reaches the pit of your stomach, your insides growing warm and fuzzy with each passing moment.

“You’re quite the talker, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been told I have a magic mouth. Tongue included.”

You shake your head, chewing at your bottom lip whilst your eyes flick between his facial features, a stirring sense of God knows what clouding over your mind.

“Can I be honest?”

Punk nods solemnly, at full attention.

“I uh, haven’t done this in a while. I know I’ve only known you for like, three hours but— I don’t know. Don’t wanna mess this up.”

His face softens at your admission; you couldn’t quite get a read on him, but his expression had yet to reach this level of vulnerability. The steel cage that guarded that pretty, tough face seemed to snap, the corner of his lips tugging up into a sincere smile.

“Hey, it’s alright. I know I lay it on kinda thick when it comes to all the flirting but— truth be told, it’s been a while for me too.”

“I just— I wanna see you be scary. I wanna see you get mad. I wanna feel your jaw tick whenever you get irritated.”

Oh God, you were feeling yourself near the start of a class-act ramble. Shut up. Stop talking, you thought, for the love of fuck, stop talking.

“But I’ve also had so much fun making you laugh. And— calling you dumb names like Punky Brewster. I didn’t wanna leave the sidewalk. I didn’t wanna leave the car. I didn’t want you to just— take me home.”

“Shit,” Punk laughs, just as you mentioned, “you’re such a damn sap.”

Your body language grows more timid. Almost as if you were moving backwards from the progress you’d made whilst out on that sidewalk or in the back of that busted up Chevy. But truthfully, you didn’t want to mess this up. You had finally felt as though you’d found someone who was your perfect fit. A match made in fucking heaven.

“Is that a bad thing?” you mumble, looking down to muddle with your thumbs.

Before he speaks again, Punk sighs, tutting you with a click of his tongue before reaching up to pull your eyes back into his.

“No. It’s not a bad thing. And please, don’t you ever give me those sad puppy eyes again, ya’ hear?”

“I know, I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit sheepishly, “forget I said anything?”

“Oh, fuck off. Are you kidding me? That was just about the sweetest damn thing that’s ever been said to me, and you want me to forget it? Y/N, seriously. It’s okay.”

When he speaks your name, something about him snaps you back to reality. Maybe it was the fact that the emptiness that you felt in your chest from getting ditched by your friends filled right back up the moment you gazed into his eyes, but Punk genuinely had a hold over you.

And from the way he was taking in all of your babblings and praise, you could assume that he was feeling it too.

“Don’t get all pouty on me. I fucking hate that you’re not smiling right now,” says Punk, rubbing your chin with his thumb. You force out a smile that was hidden behind your own self doubt, starting to slowly feel comfortable again.

“Can I show you my room?” you hum, the nervous chewing of your lip morphing into a sultry gaze.

“You can show me anything, anytime.”

After the short lived grand tour, you and Punk made it to your bed. The promised king-sized mattress seemed satisfactory, getting rave reviews all around. It didn’t take long for Punk to sprawl across it, with your head seeking refuge on his chest.

“I’d kill to have a bed like this,” Punk says, running a hand across the side of your face, “I’ve got a fucking twin back at my place.”

“A twin? Jesus fuck. You’re like, six feet tall. There’s no way you can sleep comfortably in that.”

“You’d be surprised. Usually I’m so tired after my matches that I just— crash without thinking. I’ve got a roommate too, but he's never around. Always out doing fuck all and coming home at four in the morning.”

You shake your head, hearing the soft thumping of Punk’s heartbeat meshing with the mellow Led Zeppelin record that you’d chosen to play on your stereo. “Having a roommate must suck.”

“It isn’t exactly a dream, but he helps keep the rent paid. That’s all that matters to me.”

“Y’know— if you just stayed here all the time you wouldn’t have to worry about roommates.”

Punk laughs, his chest rumbling, “Wouldn’t that make you my roommate?”

“Well, to quote a great and honest man; I can be whatever you want me to be.”

“Using my own words against me huh? Damn, you’re good.”

A lazy smile spreads across your face as the two of you laugh, completely consumed with the moment. And each other. The scent of his cologne mixed with the sweat and adrenaline from hours prior— you were debating offering him a shower. You were also debating whether or not you ever wanted to let him leave.

You’d soon find out that the answer was never.

“Y’know Bunny, you’re alright.” Punk breaks the peaceful silence, sitting up and leaving your head to go with it.

“Just alright?” you tease, letting out a sigh and running your hand through his dark locks, “I thought I was heavenly. Unreal. Whatever other fuckin’ SAT words you pulled out on me tonight.”

“You told me the compliments were getting to your head.”

“That didn’t mean I wanted you to stop.”

Punk pulls you into a kiss; it’s the most fiery, the most passionate one of the evening. It was getting far too late now— you could almost see the sunlight peeking over the horizon through the coin slots in your curtains. You’d officially stayed up all night.

But you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

#cm punk smut #cm punk fanfic #cm punk #cm punk x reader #wwe smut #wwe fanfiction #wrestling fanfic

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forsworned · 11 months ago

Note

It’s said canonically that simon riley has trauma around intimacy from torture 😔 If you feel comfortable writing it, can I please ask for a short fic of an Afab reader body worshipping/lovingly pleasuring Simon after they both work through his trauma and he’s getting all soft and emotional and babbling about how good reader is making him feel and how much he loves them and can’t believe someone cares about him this much? I always liked the idea of Simon being portrayed as vulnerable and soft and not this dom sex god a lot of people portray him to be. I really love your work and would love to see your take on this request :)

Soft ft. Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Author's Note: So I do recall someone making a post about this and I have to say I do not agree with everything. Men definitely process trauma, specifically sexual trauma a lot differently than women do. While women experience guilt, men experience anger. And maybe it's not all men who experience it that way, but after reading the comic and making my own assessment, I can say that Simon does have lingering anger. Of course, he is hell-bent on avenging his dead family, but all that pent-up energy could be going toward trying to even the score. He is pretty level-headed and able to compartmentalize. He has support from his comrades as well as undergoes mandatory rigorous mental health assessments because that's military protocol. He needs to be able to perform his duties on the field without putting himself or others at risk. He also most certainly gets mandatory counseling. Although he may be reluctant, his superiors are very much aware of the possible impact that it has on his mental health. So all that to say that Simon is not without help. He is not as "damaged" as people may perceive him to be. He's not a broken individual. As seen in the remastered MW's, albeit reluctant he can clearly put his trust in others. He develops relationships with the people who he works closely with meaning he is capable of change. SIGH. I just wish people would break this down a little more, but I do get what you're saying. His masculinity, trust issues, and the type of secret operations he goes on can lessen the effectiveness of the therapy. He's definitely a very complex character with layers to him, but I just don't think he's as weak as you may think he is. It's also important to note that it hasn't been confirmed that this current Simon went through the same thing. He could have a completely different background. Honestly, Activision is so fucking inconsistent but ANYWAYSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I hope you enjoy this. Also if you read this all the way through, I applaud you. But thank you for enjoying my work, I didn't mean to critique you and your request, but I just couldn't let it slide LOL

Warnings: PnV sex, AFAB!Reader, Some Canon Simon Lore, Sexual Content, Mentions of Sexual Trauma

"Si—Simon..."

You sigh out in pleasure with every roll of your hips as you grind down on him. Your clit grazes against his lower abdomen, and his cock stretches you out pliant. Fingers dig into his shoulders, marking half crescents into his pale, scarred skin. But something feels off.

His hands loosen their grip on your hips, and upon opening your eyes you find him his half-lidded gaze distant in a familiar haze. He isn't present.

"Simon." You halt the rutting of your hips, cupping his stubbly cheeks. "Are you alright?"

His onyx hues fixate on you. He is clearly readjusting his withdrawn eyes to refocus on you. You didn't want to say it yet, but you had felt him go a little soft a few seconds prior. "We can stop."

"No, no." His fingers squeeze your middle as he sits up a bit. You shake your head, but he's not letting up. "Why stop?"

You firmly grasp his face and his blonde lashes flutter up at you with a seemingly unreadable expression, but you're no stranger to Simon's detachment. Although he loathes to admit it, it happens. The relearning of being intimate is tumultuous for him.

"Because you're not mentally here, my love."

He frowns. "But I want y'to finish."

You exhale sharply. He doesn't even deny it. "No, Simon. I'd feel disgusted with myself if I finished while you weren't here with me."

He struggles to reply. In all honesty, he doesn't know what to say. It's not exactly a common occurrence, but he's not too keen on having a conversation about it. You never pry though. His therapy sessions are his own, unless, of course, you join him if he so desires.

Couples counseling is mandatory. A rule you established when you first decided to tie the knot. If you had problems that were beyond just a sit-down talk, a professional would have to intervene. And Simon agreed. No fuss, no muss. To preserve the sacredness of your relationship, he'd do anything.

He sighs. "'m sorry, dovie." He caresses your sides, feeling the gooseberries on your skin rise. A small smile adorns his lips and you giggle at his smugness.

"Stop it." You begin to get off of him, but Simon holds you firmly. You feel his dick harden inside of you, now kissing your cervix. A little gasp escapes your chest as you readjust yourself.

"Y'like tha'?" Simon's grinning now. It's his confidence gleaming through the abysmal darkness of his mind. The life in his eyes feels revitalized, and you now feel his vigor—literally.

"Yes, but..."

"'m here, love." He reaffirms, squeezing your waist again. "'m here. Please, 'm achin' for you."

He groans a bit and bucks his hips when he feels you pulsate around him. You return your own moan, leaning forward but his fingers thread through your hair and he brings you into a sloppy, heated kiss. His hips thrust into you slowly and deeply, earning a guttural moan from him.

For a moment as you withdrew from the kiss, your gazes meet and Simon's eyes soften and become glossy with tears that brim over his oculars and spill over the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, baby." You coo, holding him close as you kiss his face. His sadness is silent, yet palpable. You're now babbling sweet, sweet words to him as you pepper him with kisses, and Simon holds you as if you're going to slip away. You gently guide him through the double inhale technique you learned from your therapist, and with the sweetness of your voice, the kindness in your eyes, and the tenderness of your touch, he feels at ease.

"I dunno how y'put up with me."

You grin, kissing the corner of his lip. "It ain't easy."

"Oh?" He flips you over on your back, pressing you firmly against the mattress and you giggle into the nape of his neck. "Wanna say that again, love?"

You thread your fingers through his sandy blonde hair and kiss the tip of his nose. "You're not hard to love, Simon."

His eyes soften once more and he kisses you deeply. Simon has never cherished anyone more in his life. You were always so patient and kind from the jump. You were truly the "greater woman" behind the "great man".

He rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes as you gently card your fingers in his hair.

"Thank you, lovie."

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the-fiction-witch · 8 months ago

Text

White Rose

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Gwayne Hightower Couple - Gwayne X Reader (uncle and Neice) Reader - Y/n (Neice) Rating - 18+ Fondling/ fingering / nipple play/ nipple sucking / nudity/ incest/ forced orgasm/ breast play/ bj/ hand jobs/ manipulation/ Word Count - 3195

Requested -

hello dear, i wanted to say that you fic are all amazing ♥️ can you please write one where gwayne is the sworn protector of reader who is alicent's daughter. alicent has committed herself to making sure that she is away from the world for her safety and the result is that she is very naïve. one of reader's friend got pregnant without being marry, so she goes to gwayne to ask how can a woman make children. and gwayne ask reader to undress, and he undress too, to explain her. he encourage her to touch and suck his dick, and after he say that when she will be pregnant her breast (which are already big) will be full of milk, so he suck her tits while massaging her pussy 😩

Y/n sat at the window of her tower looking out at the ships leaving the harbour, she sighed as she sat there.

“Uncle Gwayne?” She cooed,

“Yes, white rose?” He cooed as he stood beside her seat, looming beside her sword at his hip,

“Can I go outside and watch the ships?”

“You know what your mother says,”

“I cannot…”

“You cannot,” he told her, “You know you cannot leave the your room let alone the keep.”

Y/n sighed, “Please Uncle Gwayne…” She begged,

“I’m sorry white rose, but you cannot.” He said, “I wouldn’t be much of a sworn protector if I went against your mother’s commands.”

“But Mother commands too much,” She pouted getting to her feet to pace, “I am only allowed to leave my room for social occasions, I must wear these endless layers, I am never allowed on my own even to bathe and sleep, it is not fair.” she pouts lying on her bed face down,

He sighed and went over, “I know it is not fair, but you are my white rose. You must be protected from all those bad things out there,” he cooed stroking her hair,

“But I have you,” she turns to look at him,

“You do, but there are things in this world even I can’t protect you from,” he said, “Hey, come on, how about I call one of your ladies in waiting up and you two can have some cake,”

She gently nodded,

“Right away,” he cooed kissing her head and going to arrange it for her,

Y/n sat for tea and cake with one of her ladies-in-waiting, The lady linaena of House Lannister. The lady was only two years older than Y/n but acted and appeared far older given her knowledge and experience when compared to Y/n. But as soon as she arrived Y/n noticed something odd about her friend, she seemed to sit strangely, to often grimace or squeeze her eyes tight in pain, her hands resting always on her stomach.

“Is everything alright Linaena?” Y/n spoke up,

“Oh- yes, forgive me, my lady,” Linaena answered,

“Please, what’s wrong?”

“It- I am not very well my lady,”

“Oh, I am so sorry Linaena,” she cooed, “I hope it is not too bad?”

“No I… I- have a troubled stomach,”

“Goodness, any ideas what caused it?”

“...I had moon tea.” she admits, “Forgive me, my lady…”

“Oh…” She gasped, she took a moment puzzled but decided not to say any more on the matter, “I see, well if you are feeling unwell do not let me keep you.”

“Are you sure my lady?”

“Yes, of course, take your time. Rest.”

Lady Linaena took her leave returning to her own chambers to rest,

So Y/n called her protector back,

“A very short visit today,” He chuckled,

“...Uncle Gwayne?”

“Yes, My white rose?”

“What’s moon tea?” She asked,

“Pardon?”

“What is Moon tea?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Lady Linaena said it was upsetting her stomach, I was curious.”

He chuckled slightly, setting his sword down on the table, “Come sit with me.” He cooed taking her by the hand and kissing her knuckles before he led her to sit on the end of her bed, “Now, tell me what was discussed.”

“Lady Linaena seemed uncomfortable so I asked her if she was well, she said she was having trouble with her stomach and when I pressed her on the matter she said it was Moon tea.” She explained,

“I see,” He nodded,

“What is it Uncle Gwayne, I’ve never heard of moon tea before… may I try some?”

“No.” he told her firmly, “No, my sweet little white rose.” he said softer, “Moon tea is a very special tea that ladies drink when… well… when they don’t want to have a baby,”

“But Lady Linaena has yet to wed, why would she want rid of a baby if she is not wed?”

He smiled warmly, “Well, perhaps she was a very naughty girl and was doing things a young lady shouldn’t.” He explained, “Not like my sweet white rose,” he cooed stroking her cheek,

“What sort of naughty things?” she asked wide-eyed and Naive,

“Well, if she was drinking moon tea to get rid of a baby, then she must have gotten pregnant. And wanted rid of it because she wasn’t married yet. You see?”

“I guess so,” she nodded, “But how do ladies get pregnant Uncle Gwayne?”

He chuckled softly, “I think… it best if we have a full lesson on the matter.” he cooed, “Come, stand all nice and pretty for me,” he told her with a slight growl to his voice as he pulled her to stand between his legs, “Humm, good. Now very slowly pull off your layers for me. One by one. Nice and slow,” He demanded but his tone still gentle with her,

Y/n softly giggled and nodded, slowly she began to undress unlacing, unbuttoning, and unclasping all the various layers and elements of her gown,

Gwayne didn’t assist in any way just let her slowly work until her slip fell to the floor leaving her standing naked between his legs, He held back a groan and bit his bottom lip as he looked at her body, his eyes trailing over her curves and lingering in all her most intimate of places, “You are so beautiful, a sweet untouched white rose yet to be soiled and spoiled by the world,” he cooed his hands stroking his fingers over her stomach and waist’s tender skin which forced a ticklish giggle from her lips, “Now it’s my turn.” he growled in her ear. Gwayne then began to undress himself making sure to be slow and gentle letting her look at him as much as she needed to, and once he kicked off his britches leaving him sit on her bed completely naked he took her hands in his guiding them to his shoulders letting her stroke down his chest, “Are you ready for your lesson?”

“Yes, Uncle Gwayne,”

“Good,” he cooed, “Now look at yourself, look how beautiful you are, look at every curve and divot of this perfect body you reside in,” he told her running his hands slowly over her hips, “So immaculate, so stunning, an untouched, unspoiled white rose.”

She nodded,

“And now look at me, see how different we are?”

“Yes, very different,” she nodded blushing slightly,

“That’s because I am a man. And you are a woman. Men and Women are supposed to be different, meant to fit perfectly together,”

“Like a puzzle,”

“Yes, just like a puzzle.” he nodded, “When you look at me, do you start to feel excited?”

She nodded,

“Humm, that's desire. That’s your body telling you it wants to make the puzzle come together,” He smirked, “How you feel and so much more is how every man in the kingdom feels whenever they look at you,”

“All of them?”

“Yes my white rose, all of them. They all look at you and feel a burning desire to look at you, to make you theirs, to pluck the petals of my beautiful white rose.” He cooed, “They see you and all want you like this, exposed and willing, they want to make babies with you every last one of them.”

“How do they make babies?”

“Come on,” he cooed tightening his grip on her hips and pulling her into the bed with him, sitting her on his lap, he moved back a little so they sat in the centre of her bed with her sat on his thighs. “There, Now. When a man and a woman are wed they will be bed. And during the bedding, they will make love that's how they make the babies.”

“But Lady-”

“I know. But she did something very naughty, girls shouldn’t make love without being married. You understand?”

She nodded,

“Good,” He nodded, “Now, when a man and a woman feel the deep desire to make love,”

“And are married,”

“And are married yes,” he nodded, “They will start to kiss,” He cooed peppering little kisses up her neck making her giggle and playfully squeal in excitement, “And you’ll see the man will start to get hard,” he whispered in her ear,

“Hard?”

“Mhm,” he nodded caressing her chin before pushing her head so she looked down at his cock, “You see, watch me getting hard.” he cooed as he stared at her running his hands over her softly to make himself get hard for her,

“How did you do that?” she asked,

“I can’t help it, whenever a man see’s a pretty girl he gets hard. It has somewhat a mind of its own… it knows what it wants.” He growled, “See how egar it is to see you, to touch you, you make me wanna get all big and strong for my little white rose,” he groaned, “And if you or even I, was to touch it like this. It would make me feel… oh so good.”

“It would?”

“Yeah it would, and when a man feels amazingly good, he cums. His cock won’t be able to take the feelings anymore and it’ll be an explosion of pleasure, and his cock will spit out his jizz, his seed. Which is how babies are made.”

“From seed?”

“Mhm, When his seed is planted deep within it’ll grow into a baby.”

“Just like flowers?”

“Just like flowers, That’s how you bloomed my sweet white rose.” he cooed, “Your mother made your father feel so so good that he spilt his seed, which buried inside your mother and grew you.” He explained,

“So That’s what Lady Linaena did?”

“Yes, she made a man so happy he spilt his seed and got her pregnant but she drank her moon tea so she won’t be having a little baby,”

“I see…” She nodded, “So if I made you spill your seed it would make a baby?”

“Only if when I spilt it was inside you,” He cooed rubbing his nose on hers, “If my cock was deep inside your pussy” he groaned stroking his cock with one hand and softly cupping her pussy running his fingers between her lips, “You see my cock would have to be… in here,” he growled slowly pushing his finger inside her,

“Ahh!” She gasped,

“I know, it’s very tight, isn’t it? Umm cause you're a good girl, a good innocent little white rose, your petals still so tight. But tight is good, men love tight. That’s why men love taking little girls' innocence, cause of how tight and responsive you are,” He growled against her lips as he gently moved his finger in and out gently fingering her while he jerked himself off and watched her react,

Her face contorted unsure how to feel, she liked it but it kinda hurt, but it got easier the more he did it,

“When you get married, a man will adore doing this to you. He’ll want to have his cock inside you every moment of every day.” he cooed, “But there are other ways to please your husband.”

“How?” she asked,

“You see how I touch it, how I rub and stroke my cock?”

“Yes,” She nodded,

“Come on, you can do it.” He cooed kissing her hand and gently moving it to his cock, wrapping her fingers around his vainy shaft and guiding her back and forth, “Oooh-”

“What’s wrong Uncle Gwayne?”

“Nothing, nothing just… ummm that feels good. You're a natural.” he growled guiding her hand a little faster, “Just like that okay, keep going…” he demanded taking his hand away as he softly began to moan, “Oh fuck-”

“Like this?” She asked getting more into a pace,

“Yes… yes… Ohh y/n…” he moans throwing his head back, “Ohh my little white rose, how the fuck are you so good at this-” He groaned,

“I am?”

“Oh you are,” he groaned, “Ummm your gonna make me cum already,” he growled as he slipped another finger inside her and began to finger her at the same pace she jerked him off,

“Ughhhh!” She moaned in shock feeling pleasure now building between her legs,

“Yeah… ohh good girl, you feel good?”

She nodded,

“That’s how you're making me feel too,” he growled, but he forced her hand away and pulled his own from her,

Y/n whined at him suddenly stopping,

“I know, I know, but we have more to learn,” he growled licking her juices off his fingers, “Umm you taste so sweet,”

“I do?” she giggled,

“You do,” he nodded, “Do See how hard and desperate I am when you touch me like this?”

“Yes.” She nodded,

“You think you could make me feel better?”

“I can? But we might-”

“You can help me, without risk it’s okay,” he nodded, “Come on my little white rose just open your mouth and suck.” He cooed,

She nodded sheepishly and let him lead her down to his cock, she was nervous but he smiled down at her,

“Go on, just a little lick.”

She slowly licked from base to tip running her tongue along his shaft,

“Ohhh god-” he gasped, “Yes just like that keep going.” he nodded holding her hair to keep her close,

She nodded and continued to lick, swirling her tounge around his head,

“Uhhhh! Ohh yes! Yes… fuck! Y/n…” he moaned his hips bucking up towards her mouth, “Umm open those lips for me, nice and wide.”

“Yes Uncle Gwayne,” she nodded opening her mouth as wide as she could,

“Umm you're such a good girl,” he growled, “You look delectable with your mouth open.” he smirked before he guided his cock inside her mouth, holding her hair to keep her in pace, “Ohhhhh fuck-” He moaned, “Yes… yes… now suck my little white rose, suck as hard as you want,” he begged,

She nodded slowly hollowing her cheeks and sucking, finding her pace with her breaths and sucks,

He moaned and groaned loudly often bucking up to thrust into her mouth, guiding her hair to move her head up and down as she sucks, “Lick too. Lick all over,”

She began to lick and suck trying to keep at her pace,

But Gwayne was getting overwhelmed and began to thrust hard and fast fucking her mouth in desperation as he moans and groaned, “Fuck, fuck… I’m gonna cum-” He groans, “I’m gonna cum… I- Ughhhh!” His body froze suddenly as he moaned loudly burying his cock as deep in her mouth as he could sending his jizz across her tounge, “Fuck… ummm… that felt so good Y/n, My sweet little white rose,” he cooed between breaths, as he pulled his cock from her mouth, “Swallow.”

“Are you sure Uncle Gwanye?” She asked even with her mouthful,

“Yes go on, swallow it’s okay.” He nodded,

She nodded and swallowed it all, so he wiped her mouth and kissed her forehead,

“You did amazing,” He growled, “But we will have more to learn, you see if a husband and wife don’t want to make a baby, but they still want to make love and have pleasure, they can use their hands just like I showed you, or mouth like you just did for me or even…” he growled flipping her over onto the bed, grabbing her thighs and forcing her legs as wide as they would go, “Let me show you my little white rose,” he cooed kissing down her neck, planting the soft kisses down her chest which made her squirm and giggle, “Ummm… just a moment,” he cooed as he rubbed his face between her large breasts, “Someday when you do get pregnant, these will get even bigger,”

“Bigger!”

“Oh yes white rose even bigger,” he groaned cupping her breasts and kneading them as he rubbed his nose against her sternum, “They will swell and grow filling with milk for your babies. So you can feed your little ones from your breast.” he smirked his index and middle finger pinching and rubbing her nipples, “You see how hard they get when I touch them, even though you're not pregnant your breast want to feed, they want to do it. So they get nice and hard ready for a baby to suckle,”

“That sounds painful…” she whined,

“It can be, but it makes your babies ever so happy to feed from their mother… and… Husbands don’t dislike having a little lick too,” He growled licking across her entrapped nipple,

“Ummm-” She whined softly squirming more,

“Just enjoy it,” he cooed latching his lips around her nipple softly sucking and licking while his hand kneaded her other breast,

“Uncle Gwayne this feels funny,” She gasped,

“I know, I know,” he cooed, “It's cause you don’t really have any milk in here yet, but it feels good, doesn’t it? Feels all bubbly in your tummy,” He cooed returning his lips to sucking as his other hand moved to rub against her pussy once more stroking between her lips to find her clit,

She moaned as soon as his hand touched it,

And he bit down a little on her nipple as he purposely pleasured her hard and intensely, slipping two fingers inside her while rubbing on her clit, kneading her breast and sucking on her nipple,

She screamed and moaned out in pleasure as the onslaught of stimulation brought her to the edge of climax, she tried to call out, to ask what was happening to her but she was unable to form the words, until-

Y/n squealed digging her nails into her bed as pleasure washed over her, curling her toes, making her legs tremble, her hips buck up towards his hand, her body releasing a stream of squirt, her back arching up pressing her breasts closer to his mouth, her head thrown back and eyes rolling back into her head as she moaned uncontrollable animalistic sounds in response to the overwhelming pleasure,

Gwayne growled in satisfaction and kept going letting her ride out the whole of her orgasm until she was a gasping mess on the bed, he pulled back and licked his fingers clean, “Ummm look at you, you look so beautiful, sound so delicious. How can any man resist you.” he cooed, “That’s why you need to be locked up here white rose, cause every man in the kingdom wants to see you like this. And given the chance all of them will take it. So you and I need to stay safe up here okay,”

“Yes, Uncle Gwayne,”

“Good girl,” he cooed, “And I think we won’t see you little friend anymore, I don’t want her putting ideas in your head that a lady can do such things before she is wed,”

“But didn’t we-”

He chuckled, “I’m your uncle, I’m allowed.” he winked, “Come on little white rose lets tuck you in and we can have a little nap together and then I’ll show you some more little things,” He smirked,

302 notes · View notes

ink-stainedkiss · 5 months ago

Note

This isn't necessarily a request (unless you like the idea😍) but i am WEAK for saiki kusuo being happy and laughing, as ooc as it sounds IDC HES MY BABY AND HES HUMAN THEREOFRE I CONCLUDE THIS BOY CAN HAVE HIS DAILY DOSE OF GIGGLES.

Like, i read the fic you made on saiki finding readers thoughts funny, and i BAJDJSJAJDBS I SQUEALED.

Just imagining him breaking character, or AUDIBLY laughing, is so so sweet bro im not even joking. He'd only ever be comfortable doing it infront of his mom probably, or his close friends. EVEN SO.

Just needed to get it off my chest. 🙂 if you ever make more fics with happy/giggly saiki i might actually marry you. 🙂🙂🙂

This one goes specifically to you queen😍 and No. I’m going to marry you🫵😼

Missing You

Synopsis: Saiki starts to feel a bit weird when you are out and he realizes he misses you. Now to find a way to get you home faster…

Merry Christmas for those who celebrate! I hope you all had a great time because I sure did. Sorry my activity has been a little slow these past days have been busier than expected, so this one’s going to be a bit short. Also thank you all for the likes on my later posts! It feels so amazing to see you guys enjoying my other works. Anyways, please enjoy this tooth-rotting fluff of our beloved Saiki💕

“You on the phone”

“Saiki on the phone”

*Saiki is wearing his telepathy blocking ring in this, so he's speaking normally*

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.2k

Everyone knew that Saiki was not a dependent person. He was the furthest thing from it. He loved his alone time- actually scratch that. He craved alone time. It was just his luck that he was always surrounded by people that caused him so much mental pain. To Saiki’s surprise, he had found someone he tolerated. Well it was more than that, but you guys were just friends, so he couldn’t say anything. He realized you were the only one that didn’t put Saiki through a problem which he had to solve. There were no long adventures when you talked to him in the halls. No using his powers to fix something you had done. He was able to act perfectly normal around you. Which is why he grew such an affection toward you. He grew so comfortable that he told you about his abilities and like he expected you took it well.

Today was one of his favorite days. Where he was able to hang around your home without a care in the world. Whatever his friends were up to outside of your house was not Saiki’s business, nor did he care about it. He had developed a routine when you text him to come over. He would arrive at your house, wear his germanium ring and let his worries wash away. It was the closest thing he could get to being a normal teenager and he was damn sure going to use his time wisely. Whenever Saiki stayed at your home, you would ask to do something, nothing crazy. Something simple like baking a batch of cookies, watching a movie on the couch, or if you were very bored, you would ask to do Saiki’s hair, which he never denied. Because, well, it was you. How could he say no?

Today was a bit different. You had mentioned you needed to run some errands and you promised you would back around noon. Saiki was fine with this since it meant he would have the house to himself. You trusted him greatly so you didn’t mind if he stuck around while you were out. When you left he gave a small nod and then the house was silent. Today was very different because something felt off. He had been reading a book on your shelf out of interest, but for the past five minutes, he had been rereading the same sentence over and over. Something was tugging in his head, but he wasn’t sure what was wrong.

Today was different because he felt so off without you in the same room as him. He checked the clock, realizing I had only been an hour and a half since you left. You wouldn’t be back until later, so Saiki had to find something to distract himself. Today was different because tried to cure his “boredom” with his powers. He turned on your kitchen sink, watching blankly as he made shapes and animals out of the liquid. When that didn’t stop the tugging, he moved onto your room. He felt slightly better resting on your bed and he played it off as being tired, but no. When he kept checking the clock to see if it was any closer to noon, he came to the horrifying conclusion that he missed you.

It was such a foreign feeling. Saiki? Wanting someone to be around him? Well that’s what happens when you sneak your way into his heart. The psychic couldn’t stand it anymore and grabbed his phone, clicking on your contact and placing the device to his ear. The small buzzing reached his ear and he felt a small fragment of relief when you answered after the second ring.

“Hey Saiki, what’s up?”

He sighed, a bit humiliated he felt this way.

“Nothing.”

“Then did you need something?”

“When are you going to be home?”

He said home like he lived here with you, but if you minded, you didn’t make it obvious.

“I should be there in maybe three hours.”

That did not help.

“Can you get here sooner?”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

Might as well since there isn’t anything else getting you here faster. Saiki thought.

A small gasp sounded through the speaker, “I thought you said nothing was happening?”

“Just get here fast.”

And with that he hung up the phone.

—

You raced to your house, hoping you wouldn’t find it in ashes or hit by a tornado. Maybe you were being dramatic, but why would Saiki call you and tell you to come home quickly? It was shocking that you didn’t get pulled over at the pace you were driving home. When you pulled onto your street, you were thankful to not see any smoke, but that didn’t make you slow down. You slammed to a stop in your driveway, panic flooding your veins. You unlocked your door at lightning speed and the second it was open, you called out,”I’m here! What happened?!”

You shut the door behind you, scanning for some sort of danger, but you find your house was still intact. You were so confused. You were expecting some sort of freak accident with Saiki’s powers, but everything was in place.

“Nothing wrong.”

You whipped around, finding Saiki had teleported behind you. You blinked in confusion,”What are you talking about? You told me to get here quick and I-“ “I lied.” Your arms dropped at your side in defeat,”Then why am I here right now?” He gave you an emotionless stare,”Because I wanted you to be.”

Still in shock, you looked around, finding a scattered book on your couch. It was odd because Saiki is always the one to be neat. You turned to the boy, noticing how he was hardly making eye contact with you and he clearly wanted to say more. You recalled his words over the phone, then it all clicked.

“Saiki,” your words were barely above a whisper,”Did you miss me?”

The things that happened next were a blur. In the blink of an eye two arms were wrapping around you and you could feel Saiki’s head in the crook of your neck. He didn’t respond to your question, but this was enough to answer it. Honestly, you were a bit nervous. Was this really the same Saiki? The one who barely let people stand close to him, was holding onto you like a lifeline. You felt a long sigh escape his lips and instinctively you reached one hand up to rest in his pink hair and the other embracing him over his shoulder.

“I didn’t know how else to get you here.” He confessed gently, making your heart melt,”You could have just asked, Kusuo.” He tucked himself more into your neck, almost hiding his face from you,”But you were busy.” You rolled your eyes, “It was just getting groceries, I would have dropped everything if I knew you wanted me here.”

Saiki didn’t know how to respond, instead he used his teleportation to take you both to your room. You let out a grunt as you back hit your mattress, but your attention changed to the boy resting on you. He looked so at peace and you couldn’t believe this was still the same person. (It’s not like you were complaining.) As you softly played with his pink hair, a small idea popped into your head. Maybe I should go out more often if this is what I get to come home too…

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ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral · 10 months ago

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Hello everyone! I'm back with another Merlin au idea! This story was actually supposed to be a part of my fic "What to do When an Eldritch God Decides That You're Friend-Shaped", but I decided that this idea didn't really mesh well with the rest of that fic and would probably be better off as its own separate story.

And I will say, in my opinion, that this is probably one of my best au ideas yet. I had so much fun just writing this! Also, heads up, this post is going to be very long because I really love this idea! So, I hope you all enjoy! :D

In this au, which is set post-Camlann, Morgana wasn't able to take Merlin's magic away before the battle, so Merlin was able to save Arthur and defeat both Mordred and Morgana without revealing his magic. He was also able to prevent Gwaine's death since he kept Morgana preoccupied in the battle. So, Camelot is saved, and everything is great!

Except, Arthur has some questions. He knows from Morgana's furious screams during the battle that she was killed by a sorcerer named "Emrys", but Arthur never saw him. And Arthur recognized that name from when Morgana taunted him years ago by saying "Not even Emrys can save you now."

Arthur knows that he owes his kingdom and perhaps his life to this Emrys guy, but he knows nothing about him other than that he's a very powerful sorcerer, more powerful than Morgana. This frightens Arthur, as he doesn't know what Emrys wants or why he helps Arthur. For all Arthur knows, Emrys could be just biding his time to take over Camelot and was simply doing away with his competition by killing Morgana.

After things calmed down after the battle of Camlann, Arthur decides that he needs more information on Emrys. Who he is, what are his motives, how can they find him, and a million other details that Arthur needs to ensure his people's safety. He first goes to Gaius for information, but Gaius can tells him that, according to the myths of the Old Religion, Emrys is the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth and is held in high regard by the druids.

Gaius's answer only heightens Arthur's alarm, as the prospect of having to fight to most powerful sorcerer ever is terrifying to him. However, he still doesn't have any good information on Emrys, so he goes to the next best source: the druids.

Thanks to Arthur making peace with the druids after promising the ghost of the young druid boy and permitting them to use their magic for peaceful purposes only, there were a couple druid camps not far from Camelot. Arthur picked the closer one and took a day to travel there alongside Merlin and a few knights in the hopes of finally getting some answers.

When they arrive at the camp, they're met with worried glances and panicked faces, but the druid elders welcome them into the camp nonetheless, offering them all a seat by their campfire and warm meal. Once they got settled and Arthur exchanged some pleasantries with Iseldir, the druid chieftain, Arthur was finally able to ask what had been plaguing him for weeks.

"Iseldir, I know that your people hold a sorcerer named Emrys in high regard, and it's come to my attention that he was responsible for Morgana's defeat at Camlann and possibly on other occasions. Please, I need to know more about him and why he's chosen to help me."

Several people froze and tensed at Arthur's questions, including Merlin. Arthur sighed internally at Merlin's usual panic. He knew that Merlin could become easily scared in the face of magic, so he should have knows that his friend wouldn't approve of Arthur actively seeking out a dangerous sorcerer.

After a short, tense pause, Iseldir clears his throat and responds.

"I'd be happy to answer some of your questions about the god of magic!"

Wait, did Arthur hear that correctly? God of magic?! Arthur, in his shock, blurted out,

"Emrys is a god?! I had heard that he was a powerful sorcerer, not some deity!"

Iseldir chuckled a bit before responding,

"Emrys is indeed the god of magic in the Old Religion, the son of the Triple Goddess herself! He is not simply the master of magic, but rather magic itself, its very incarnation!"

That... was a rather frightening prospect, and it confused Arthur even further. Why would magic itself fight against Morgana? Why take Arthur's side? And, perhaps more importantly, was Arthur going to have to fight a god in order to protect his kingdom?!

Iseldir continued before Arthur's hysterical thought could bubble up to the surface.

"As I said, I'm happy to answer your questions, but please know that there are some secrets that Emrys has entrusted our people with that we cannot divulge, and there are some truths that might be... difficult for you in particular."

Arthur frowned at Iseldir's answer, unsure of what to make of it.

"What do you mean it might be difficult for me in particular?"

Iseldir winced a bit, grimacing like he didn't know how to respond without warranting a negative response.

"Well, there are some elements of Emrys's story that intertwine with your own life in some ways that you might not expect or be ready to hear at this point. Your life and Emrys's are highly connected, King Arthur, even if you don't know the extent of it yet."

Arthur's eyes widened at this admission. His life was connected to this mysterious god of the old religion? How could that possibly be true? He had didn't even know that Emrys was a god until a few moments ago! However, as curious as he was about what Iseldir could be talking about, he had more pressing matters at hand.

"We can discuss how I am connected to Emrys later. For now, I need answers to more important questions. Why does Emrys help Camelot? What is he hoping to get out of it?"

Iseldir looked much happier to answer this question, speaking calmly with a serene smile on his face.

"Emrys had many reasons to stand against the witch. She frequently hunted down and killed more peaceful magic users who did not share her taste for vengeance and bloodshed, including our fellow druids and even the Catha, a small sect of priests of the Old Religion that followed Emrys's will. Emrys fought against Morgana to protect these followers of his from her wrath."

Arthur nodded at Iseldir's explanation. As odd as it felt to have something in common with a god of the Old Religion, he could understand very well the drive to protect his own people. If Emrys's people were also in danger because of Morgana, it made sense for him to join forces with Arthur, even if Arthur was unaware of that alliance. Seeing Arthur's understanding, Iseldir continued with his explanation.

"Emrys also fought against Morgana in order to punish her for her hubris and use of dark magic. There are certain dark arts that take the power that Emrys grants us and twist it into a horrible force, bound only by the will of its user. Such arts are expressly forbidden by Emrys, and he cannot control what sorcerers do with such magic after its been corrupted so thoroughly. Morgana frequently used such forbidden arts and claimed the title of high priestess while ignoring the will of the gods, even the one that she drew her power from. Emrys is normally slow to anger, but for such transgressions, he became furious with Morgana and sought to punish her for treason against magic itself."

Arthur understood that a little bit less, but he could also relate to Emrys's reasoning as a king who had also had to punish some of his own citizens for treason.

"I can see that Emrys stood opposed to Morgana, but does Camelot have anything to fear from him? I can understand why he might not be very forgiving towards us considering my father's actions during his reign."

To Arthur's immense relief, Iseldir shook his head slightly before providing an explanation.

"No, Camelot has nothing to fear from Emrys. He knows that not everyone in Camelot agreed with your father's actions, and he can see progress that you've made since the end of your father's reign. In fact, Emrys has assisted Camelot many times even when Morgana wasn't involved!"

Arthur reeled backwards in shock at Iseldir words. The god of magic, helping Camelot freely? Despite everything his father had done?! Iseldir's explanation forced Arthur to re-evaluate what he knew of the Old Religion.

He had always seen the Old Religion and its gods as monstrous and barbaric. However, that wasn't the case, was it? Emrys had saved the kingdom that sought to destroy him. The Disir had shown Mordred mercy, even though Arthur had rejected their offer. The White Goddess had restored Guinevere's soul at the Cauldron of Arianrhod and healed her of Morgana's curse. Were all of the gods and goddesses of the Old Religion so benevolent and kind? Had Arthur misunderstood the Old Religion for his entire life?

However, Arthur was still shocked at Emrys in particular choosing to help Camelot, supposedly with no ulterior motives besides a common enemy in Morgana. That was how Camelot had survived against such odds? How could it be that magic itself was on their side?!

As Arthur looked at Iseldir again however, he noticed that the druid chieftain's face had pulled into a grimace again. Arthur certainly knew that look, he had seen it on the faces of his council members frequently.

"There's something that you aren't telling me, isn't there? I know that there are some things that you may be hesitant to divulge, but please, I must know everything I can about Emrys, for the safety of my kingdom."

Iseldir paused again, sighing deeply. He sat still for a moment, as if pondering how to proceed.

"Truthfully, there is another reason why Emrys assisted you, but it involves what I spoke of earlier, wen I said that your life and Emrys's are connected in ways that you may not expect. I am willing to tell you such things, but these truths might be hard for you to hear."

Arthur leaned forward, his curiosity piqued again.

"I have learned many uncomfortable truths about my own life through the years, so I will ask you: how could my life be connected to the god of magic?"

Iseldir nodded at Arthur's words and began speaking with a serious, nearly grim, voice.

"I assume that you are familiar with how life is exchanged in the practice of the Old Religion? For any life give, a life must be taken."

Arthur flinched backwards at Iseldir's words, already recognizing what topic was about to be brought up. He had come to terms with the truth of his birth years ago, but hearing it again didn't make it any easier. Blinking back tears, Arthur responded.

"Yes, I... I know. I'm aware that my father made a deal with the priestess Nimueh to secure an heir, and I know that my mother was the one who paid the price in the end."

Arthur heard quiet gasps coming from the knights around him, while Merlin silently put a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder. Iseldir, after a moment, continued with his explanation.

"You are correct in your understanding, however, there is one part of the story that you are unaware of."

Arthur jolted in shock at Iseldir's words. There was more to the story of his birth? Frantically, Arthur started asking questions.

"What do you mean? What haven't I been told?"

Iseldir patiently and softly answered Arthur's questions, trying to soften the crushing revelation that he was about to tell Arthur.

"The balance of life and death is at the very core of the Old Religion. However, it is not the power of creation. The power over life and death was used by the high priestesses to resurrect and bring life to someone who has already passed. To magically create a new life, a new soul, from nothing is an act of creation, something that takes far more power than manipulating the balance of life and death. An act of creation takes the power of a god."

"I... I don't understand. What are you trying to tell me?"

"I am sorry that you had to find out this way, King Arthur. But in order to successfully ensure that your mother and father had an heir, Nimueh called upon the power of her patron god: Emrys."

This time, it was Arthur was gasped in shock at this information, hysteria rising in him once again.

"Are you telling me that Emrys was responsible for my very creation?! That it was his power that created me?!"

"More than that, I'm afraid. To create your soul, Emrys did more than just weave his own power into a life. He cut out a shard of his own soul and breathed life into it, thus creating you. While we don't know his reasons for doing so, Emrys created you from a part of his own being."

Arthur felt like his breath had just been punched out of him. What... what did this mean?!

Iseldir must have seen his panic, and further clarified.

"In the eyes of the gods, this made Emrys your true creator and, in the eyes of the magical world, your father."

At those words, Arthur stopped breathing entirely. Unbeknownst to Iseldir, who kept going with his explanation, Arthur entire worldview was collapsing in on itself.

Magic itself was his father?! What did that even mean?!

And oh god was he even a Pendragon? Did he even have a legitimate claim to the throne of Camelot?!

Arthur's panic was so strong that he could barely feel how Merlin's supportive hand on his shoulder was now clenching hard enough to bruise.

(Meanwhile, inside Merlin's panicking mind: WTF??! Oh shit I owed HOW MUCH to Uther Pendragon in child support?! Am I a deadbeat dad to my own best friend??)

"This is why you triumphed over any foe, magical or otherwise. Emrys forbade any magic from truly harming you, and he rose to protect you when you needed him. He will always fight by your side, as you are, in many ways, a part of him."

Iseldir paused, now noticing Arthur's hyperventilating.

"I assume that you have many questions following this news. Please, feel free to ask anything, there's no need to be scared by this!"

Arthur took a deep breath and tried to keep from laugh hysterically. No need to be scared?! His entire life had just been turned on its head!

"If... if Emrys is my true father, what about Uther? Do I even have a claim to my throne?"

"Ah, there's no need to worried about that. While Emrys might be your father in terms of your soul, Uther is still your father in terms of blood. Do not fret, King Arthur, you are still of Pendragon blood and have every rightful claim to your throne."

Arthur calmed down a bit at Iseldir's words, breathing much easier now. This explained so many things about Arthur's life, how he had survived in situations that he by all means shouldn't have. Still, he had many questions for Iseldir.

"If I am truly the son of magic itself, am I even human, or am I some sort of demigod?"

At this question, Iseldir shook his head.

"That, I truly do not know. I'm sorry, but I don't think anyone knows the answer to that question except for Emrys himself."

Finally, an idea occurred to Arthur. He stiffened as he blurted out,

"Can I speak with him then? Is there any way to summon him?"

As soon as the idea took root in Arthur's mind, he couldn't get it out. Emrys had to have been looking out for Arthur for many years now, using his power to protect him. This notion of having a secret father who had been caring for him for years almost felt like having a second chance.

Arthur never had the relationship with Uther that he wanted. There was no affection, no bonding, and no comfort to be found there. Only expectations and demands.

But Emrys had apparently been helping Arthur for years with no expectations and no demands. Arthur had fantasized as a young boy about what it would have been like to have a kind, caring father, the kind he saw doting on their children in the marketplace. Now, it almost seemed like he had another chance of having a father, one who truly cared about him!

So naturally, Arthur wanted to meet him! Both the druids and the knights look slightly confused at Arthur's excited outburst about wanting to meet Emrys, but the druids tell him that they have everything that they need to perform a summoning ritual, but they'd need some time to set it up.

Arthur asks if they can set it up for him, and they nod and walk away to begin preparations. Meanwhile, Merlin and the knights ask Arthur if he's just lost his mind. They know that this must be shocking for him, but does he need to summon a god?!

Merlin shows the most vocal opposition to Arthur's plan, saying that they still don't even know if they can trust Emrys. All they have to go on is the word of the druids, and they seem pretty biased in Emrys's favor.

Arthur smiles and tells Merlin that he appreciates his protectiveness, but this is something that Arthur needs to do. He needs this closure, this chance to connect with his last living parent.

Arthur does take Merlin's concerns into consideration though, and orders for his men to leave the camp and take Merlin with them, so they're far away and protected if Emrys turns out to be untrustworthy.

(As the knights drag a struggling Merlin away, Merlin is frantically talking with Iseldir in his mind about what the summoning ritual entails and what it looks like. If he magically pops up next to Arthur right as Arthur does a ritual to summon Emrys, even Arthur would be able to put two and two together!

Luckily, Iseldir informs him that the summoning ritual will summon his soul, not his body, and Arthur wouldn't be able to recognize him. Still, Merlin tried to talk the druids out of the ritual, because Merlin doesn't want his soul to get yanked out of his body! But there was little that the druids could do with Arthur insisting on the ritual.)

After preparing the materials for the ritual, the druids take Arthur back into a tent to get him ready. Arthur's heart pounded in his chest with both excitement and fear as the druids walked him through what he had to do.

First, they gave him some plain but comfortable robes to change in to. They explained that Emrys preferred his followers to come to him in the garments of peace, not war, so his armor, chainmail, and weapons would have to be left in the tent.

After changing into the robes, Arthur felt strangely both vulnerable and comforted. As the druids rubbed some flowery smelling oil into his arms and then led him to a small wooden altar, Arthur couldn't help comparing this experience to approaching Uther.

Whenever he was meeting with his father, Arthur was expected to show no weakness, no flaws. He had to look the part of the warrior prince, trained since birth and hardened by battle. However, here with Emrys, Arthur was dressed in comfortable clothes and told to simply ask for Emrys's presence before the altar. He didn't need a sacrifice or penance or any sort of challenge to summon Emrys. All that the druids told him was to "call for him, and Emrys will answer."

Placing one hand gently on the wooden surface of the intricately carved altar, Arthur cleared his throat wetly before saying aloud to the empty space in front of him,

"Emrys, I'm... I'm not sure if you're here, but I'm your- your son, Arthur. You probably know me already, though, since you've been helping me and protecting me for a long time now. I- I wanted to thank you for your help. So, I would appreciate it if you could appear, so I could meet you and thank you in person."

There, Arthur thought that was a pretty good introduction! This was his first time meeting his new father, so he needed to make a good first impression!

Arthur stood, awkwardly shifting on his feet as he tried to push down his disappointment with each passing moment that Emrys did not appear. Maybe Arthur did it wrong? Maybe Emrys hadn't heard him? Or maybe Emrys had heard him, but was disappointed in Arthur and deemed him a weak son, just like Uther had?

As Arthur tried to swallow down his hurt, suddenly, there was a bright flash of light above the altar. It was so bright that Arthur had to throw his hand in front of his eyes and turn away, but his heart leapt at the sight.

Was this it?! Was he about to meet his creator and have another chance at having a father?

As soon as he could, Arthur lowered his hand and opened his eyes, anxiously awaiting his first glimpse at Emrys! As the light died down, Arthur was able to make out the outline of something...

As the light slowly dwindled, Arthur could see a bright, glowing ball of golden light, very similar to the one that had saved him from that cave so many years ago, floating above the altar. His eyes widened as he realized what, or more likely who, this light must be.

Emrys was a god after all, Arthur really shouldn't have assumed that he'd look like a human. The god of magic taking a human form, what a crazy idea!

Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Arthur called out to the light.

"Emrys? Is that you?"

At his words, the light floated down from the altar until it was hovering right in front of Arthur, an arm's reach away. Arthur fought the urge to reach out and touch the light, just to see if it was real and not just a product of his own wishful thinking.

After a couple seconds, the ball of light flashed, and Arthur heard what sounded like multiple voices coming from it, speaking in unison.

"Hello Arthur. I'm so glad to finally be able to meet you. I am Emrys."

(Elsewhere, Merlin mentally patted himself on the back for making his soul-self sound sufficiently inhuman and speak in a manner that was completely unlike his usual self. Arthur couldn't possibly figure his identity out now!)

Arthur let out a sound that was something between a joyful laugh and a sob. Emrys actually came! Clearing his throat, Arthur tried to calm down his excitement and nerves and put on his best diplomat voice. He needed to start off strong here!

"I'm glad that we could meet as well. It's come to my attention that I have many things to thank you for, including Camelot's victory over Morgana in our latest battle. You might have saved all of Camelot, and I owe you a debt of gratitude."

Emrys silently floated in place for a moment, making Arthur sweat with nervousness. Had he already blown his one chance of having a caring parent?

Finally, Emrys's... orb body (what else was Arthur supposed to call it?!) glowed again and spoke with his multiple voices overlapping in harmony.

"You do not owe me anything, Arthur. There are no debts between us. We are family, tied together by our very souls. You never have to feel indebted to me for protecting you and Camelot. I do it not for a reward or recognition, but because I care for you."

Arthur's eyes misted over as he took in Emrys's words. How many times had he wished to hear anything like that from Uther? How many nights had he lied awake wondering what unconditional love from a parent would feel like?

As tears started silently rolling down Arthur's face, Emrys drifted closer to him. Arthur was startled by this move and didn't really know how to respond. Hesitantly, he lifted his hands to ball of light, unsure of what to do.

Slowly, the light moved towards Arthur's outreached hands. Arthur almost expected to flinch back upon contact, but instead, when his hands finally touched the ball of light itself, he was only met with a warm, comforting sensation, and he instantly relaxed and leaned into it. The only thing he could compare it to were those warm hugs that Merlin gave him whenever he felt down, which he would never admit to Merlin that he enjoyed.

Arthur gently guided the light closer, until he was hugging it against his chest and that wonderful warm fuzzy feeling was spreading through his entire body. Arthur wondered if this counted as getting a hug from his father, and then immediately decided that the answer was yes. And his new father apparently gave very good hugs.

Arthur stayed with Emrys for several more minutes, until the sun was setting. From there, Emrys told him that he had spent too much time in the mortal realm and couldn't hold his form for much longer without taking time to rest. Panicking, Arthur asked if he would be able to see Emrys again, he couldn't lose his new father so soon after meeting him!

Emrys reassured him that they'd see each other again soon and that he'd be by Arthur's side the whole time, even if Arthur couldn't see him. Comforted by this news, Arthur bid his new father farewell, and the ball of light slowly dissipated.

Arthur then returned to Merlin and his knights, who had a million questions for Arthur. Arthur answered their burning questions as best he could, and they were relieved to see that Arthur was safe and not scarred by the experience of talking to the god of magic.

The next day, they returned to Camelot, and Arthur soon realized that even if he couldn't see Emrys himself, he could certainly the effects that Emrys had on the world around him.

Arthur never fell sick, his rooms were never too hot or too cold, his muscles were never sore from training, his attackers that snuck into the castle never managed to land a hit on him, his kingdom's crops prospered, and a million other things went right in Arthur's life, and for the very first time, Arthur understood.

Magic loved him. And, more importantly, his father loved him.

And it didn't escape other people's notice either. He had told the knights that he had brought with him to the druid camp to not discuss the revelation of his relationship to Emrys, but one knight got drunk at the tavern and told his friend, and someone overheard, and now everyone in the kingdom had heard the news that King Arthur was apparently the son of a god.

The fact that Arthur had secretly prayed for Emrys's help when Gaius reported about a deadly plague in the lower town, only for Emrys to immediately appear again as a ball of light in the middle of a council meeting in front of dozens of witnesses didn't help Arthur keep it a secret either.

(Meanwhile, Merlin hears all of Arthur's prayers for Emrys. He's able to take care of most of Arthur's concerns just as Merlin, but a very powerful/emotional prayer from Arthur actually summons him in his "Emrys" form, leading to some awkward moments, but he makes it work for Arthur's sake.)

On the bright side of Arthur's heritage being revealed, other kingdoms were now much more open to peaceful negotiations and trade deals.

And on one occasion where a very foolish king tried to declare war on Arthur, the enemy king's army only made it a hundred yards of Camelot's forces before the earth itself broke open into a wide chasm that started swallowing the leaders of the enemy army whole. No one was stupid enough to attempt an attack on Camelot after that.

Life goes on like this for about a year, until Arthur catches Merlin using magic for some mundane purpose. Arthur is shocked of course, but magic has been legal for a while now. When he questions Merlin on where he learned magic from, Merlin stammers and says "Well... uh, Emrys..."

Arthur cut Merlin off, yelling because apparently his father was teaching Merlin magic behind his back?! What was that about!

Merlin then decides to take this misunderstanding and roll with it, because there's no way in hell that he's looking Arthur in the eyes and telling him that he's actually Arthur's magical father.

Merlin spins a story about how Emrys had been slowly teaching Merlin magic so Merlin could help Arthur out and always have someone nearby with magic to protect him! Arthur accepts this story, but is secretly a little bit jealous. How come Emrys chose to teach Merlin magic and not his own son?

After Arthur asks Emrys about this, Emrys apologizes to Arthur, saying that he didn't know if Arthur would be interested. He then starts trying to teach Arthur magic (to pretty much no success). To further apologize to Arthur, Emrys gives him a gift! Emrys had apparently heard about how Uther had forbidden Arthur from having a pet as a child despite Arthur begging for one, so Emrys decided to remedy this by giving Arthur a baby dragon to take care of and to train to protect Camelot.

Everyone else is alarmed by this, but Arthur is almost moved to tears because he loves the little dragon so much already!

And this au is already wayyyy too long, so I'll cut it off there! I'm tempted to call this the "Arthur gets catfished into a healthy parental relationship" au lol!

I hope you all enjoyed this au! Sorry about it being longer than usual, but I had a lot that I wanted to write about this au idea! And if you want to see even more of this au, feel free to let me know if you'd like a continuation!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my (very long) ramblings! :D

#merlin #bbc merlin #merlin bbc #arthur pendragon #merlin au #emrys #god merlin #merlin prompts

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s7-evermore · 1 year ago

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My Heart Stays With You | Leona Kingscholar x Mistress! Yuu/Reader

NOTE: Hey, so I can’t find the FUCKING fic I was talking about in this post and despite all my desperate searching I STILL can’t find it so I’m WRITING MY OWN VERSION OF IT until the author of that fic MESSAGES ME AND GOES “EYO DUDE WTF THAT IDEA WAS MINE” so I can search their blog and finally read the fucking story cuz istg I can’t focus on my schoolwork with that fic weighing on my mind like a curse that’s been placed on my family for 40 generations.

EDIT: someone in the comments lovingly told me who the author of the original one was and it was @/kiwibirdmother but all their posts disappeared so 🤡 fuck. LUCKILY tho I used the wayback internet thing and I managed to read them again :D if you guys want a link to it I’ll share thru dm cuz I’m too lazy to post something about it rn ejdkskxkskx

SYNOPSIS: Leona had been forced into an arranged marriage with a noblewoman, but he had already been in a relationship with Yuu. They loved each other too much, and both of them weren’t willing to let each other go. So in their own selfish ways, they stayed together despite the ring shining on his finger.

The two of them never thought it would get to this.

Leona had hoped that he would at least be able to make her his officially. All he needed to do was graduate and introduce her to his family, as reluctant as he was to let her into the royal life for the fear that she would have to carry the weight of it, he was far too selfish to let her go.

But Yuu didn’t mind at all. Just like him, she was far too selfish to let him go.

. . .

. . . .

. . .

When the news came to her that Leona had no choice but to push through with the arranged marriage, he rushed to her room in Ramshackle Dorm to hold her in his arms.

“Stay with me,” He begged that night, holding her in his arms with all the strength he could muster. “Please stay with me.”

It felt out of character for him to say those words with such strong emotion, but in the years they’ve been together, as she approached her fourth year in NRC, Leona slowly learned to lower his walls around her.

Only around her. Just her.

“Stay with me. I won’t do anything with her. I promise.”

“But…”

Hearing her strained voice and her choked sobs as she cried on his shoulder broke his heart. His heart… that he had given to her all those years ago when she accepted him with all of her being…

How unfair could the world get?

“I won’t. You’re the only one in my heart,” he stated firmly, a promise that he would hold himself to for the rest of his life.

“That stupid marriage is only for formalities. A political convenience. That woman and I don’t even have to do anything, and I don’t intend on giving myself to her. Not my love, not my mind, not my body.”

He looked into her eyes, furrowing his brows with intensity. When Yuu looked at them, she could feel the fierce heat of his love for her and his unyielding devotion.

She understood his place. He really had no say in the marriage, it had already been set in stone. Leona knew this well, and yet he couldn’t help but feel guilty… she had been so kind to him, so understanding…

“Yuu…” his voice was molten gold, and it seeped through the cracks of her heart.

“I love you. Only you. Please stay with me.”

“I will,” she said without hesitation.

He kissed her the moment she said those words, and a night of passion between them followed.

That wouldn’t be their last.

The night before his wedding, Leona drove to a villa some distance away from the palace.

It was distant from other residences and a little more solitary. Leona knew it would be perfect for Yuu, so he bought it immediately before anyone else could so she could live there with Grim after their graduation.

He knocked on the door, and it opened within a few seconds.

He felt his heart beating rapidly when he saw her face. For a moment, Leona felt at peace.

Yuu smiled, looking just as relieved, “You’re here…”

He moved to embrace her.

Ever since the arranged marriage, it was the first thing he would do whenever he visited her. An act of reassurance that he would forever be hers.

“I came just as I said I would,” He said.

“It’s tomorrow,” she quietly muttered.

“Will you go?”

“I promised I would.”

“It would hurt you…”

“It would hurt you just as much…” she said, her voice breaking, “I…I promised you that I would…always be there to comfort you…”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable any more than I already have,” he sighed. His woman was far too kind to him. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she tried to be a little petty.

“I think… I think it would make me more uncomfortable not seeing you, knowing that you would be with her…”

Leona knew that his brother was aware of his distaste for the marriage, but the will of their father, even as he lay sickly on his bed, had to be followed.

“Leona…”

He knew what that tone in her voice meant.

He looked down at her slightly, immediately noticing her half-lidded eyes and her sudden shy but sensual smile.

“Will you stay with me a little longer…?”

She didn’t even have to ask.

He pulled her to her bedroom. And there, they lost themselves into each other’s arms, wrapped up in the heat of their love.

. . .

. . . .

. . .

“Did you meet up with your friends?”

The question came to him as they basked in the afterglow of their lovemaking. She had her head against his chest, his arm around her as he slowly traced shapes on her skin.

“Jack said that you asked him and Ruggie to escort me…” she said, recalling her meeting with her friends from NRC the past week.

Leona had taken it upon himself to invite some notable people from NRC, especially those he knew she would be close with. Most of them also knew of the relationship they kept going through with, as dangerous as it was.

Vil Schönheit had actually been the one to visit her first. He was invited as Leona’s acquaintance and former school “friend”, according to Leona himself. Vil was one of the few people who knew about their continuing relationship despite Leona’s arranged marriage, and out of respect for Yuu (who Vil was clearly fond of) agreed to keep it a secret.

Kalim and Jamil were invited as well, under the pretext of Kalim being the first son of House Asim and Jamil as his servant. When they came to her home, they reminisced on old times and agreed to keep in touch.

As she told him about their visits, she remembered another thing.

“I didn’t expect you to invite Malleus to the wedding…” she said.

“He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

“Yes but…”

Although she continued writing to malleus, as he was her cherished friend, she knew that the two of them hardly got along.

“A lotta random royals, nobles and celebrities are invited out of formality, so I thought that I might as well invite someone you’re familiar with. Kalim, Vil, Idia, and Malleus came to mind at first.”

He looked down at her as he stroked her hair, “I’m sure you’ll be fine with their company. If you’re around people like them then no one should be able to bother you. I made sure to tell them all to visit you before the wedding.”

Malleus didn’t come alone, of course. Lilia, Silver, and Sebek came there as the Briar Valley prince’s attendants.

Those four weren’t daft by any means. She knew that they had probably already figured out that they were keeping their relationship a secret from the public.

“Are you alright with this?” Sebek had asked her, his voice strangely reluctant and…soft.

“We both aren’t,” she admitted to him, “But this is… the only way we could live right now.”

Malleus sighed, lamenting how unfortunate your circumstances are.

“If you need a place to belong, let us know,” He told her. “Briar Valley will welcome you with open arms.”

“Thank you…” she smiled kindly at her friends, “But I belong with Leona.”

“Leona, congratulations on your wedding.”

Leona watched as Vil approached him with Yuu around his arm.

Vil turned to the bride with a practiced smile, “and to you as well, my lady.”

“Congratulations, both of you,” Yuu said with a smile that made Leona uncomfortable. He hated her fake smiles.

He hated this. He hated all of this.

“You truly are fortunate, Lady Aisha,” her words pierced his heart like a bullet. His hands were itching to hold her in his arms. “To be wed to Leona… well, it might not be easy but…”

Yuu met his eyes, something profound shining within them, mixed with hopelessness and pain.

“I’m sure…he’ll be a very wonderful lover.”

The bride noticed the look Leona was giving the human girl while pondering the meaning of her words. With a strained smile, clearly masking her irritation, Aisha intertwined her arms around Leona’s and smiled at her.

“Oh I am well aware of that,” she says with a sickeningly sweet smile, “he is always so good to me.”

Yuu didn’t mean to take her words too far, but despite the bitterness in Aisha’s words, she smiled like a flower in bloom, masking her pain like it was nothing.

“I wish you both happiness.”

. . . .

. . . . .

. . . .

“Kifaji.”

The royal family’s long-time aid turned around at the sharp call of Leona’s new bride. Her features were marred with irritation, unbefitting of the occasion.

“Yes, my lady?” He acknowledged her calmly, ready to take every complain she has.

“Who is that woman?”

Kifaji looked at where she was pointing only to see Leona chatting with Yuu.

The aid’s expression softened at the sight of them. Leona’s eyes were unguarded as he spoke to the young woman, seemingly taking in every word she was saying. Yuu, on the other hand, despite the occasion simply seemed happy to be in the presence of the second prince.

It was the same scene he had seen quite a few years ago, when Leona brought her along with some other schoolmates for Tamashina-Mina. She was a darling little thing— she was beautiful. She got along well with their friends and Leona cared about her more than he liked to admit. But it didn’t escape Kifaji’s eyes when he saw Leona buy her a gift. A necklace the same color as his eyes, just as she requested.

“You should have chosen one with your eye color instead.” He heard Leona say to her.

“No,” Yuu shakes her head, “I like the color of your eyes better.”

She was sweet and by no means a push-over. She knew how to keep Leona in place without being pushy, and it was clear to anyone that Leona favored her greatly.

Kifaji had…hoped that he got to see Leona happy with her.

If it hadn’t been for the arranged marriage that the two princes’ father wanted… then maybe… maybe then the second prince would finally smile for the rest of his days…

“That is Miss Yuu, a long-time friend of his Highness,” he told Aisha calmly. “Prince Leona is quite fond of her, as is Prince Cheka, please do get along with her.”

“They look too close to be friends,” she quipped.

Kifaji could only do what he could for the Prince he had taken care of…

“I would not worry about that,” he said, expression unchanging, “I am certain that they are only friends.”

The lady huffed before fixing her wedding garments and going back to the party, Kifaji could finally breathe.

It was 12 AM at midnight, just two hours after the wedding and the reception ended when she heard something park itself on her driveway.

Before she could get the chance to look out the window, someone immediately knocks on the door.

In a rush, she opens the door only to see the lion that had been plaguing her thoughts, feeding the shadows whispering in her mind.

Large arms wrapped themselves around her in a warm embrace.

“I drove here as soon as everyone was asleep.”

She returned his embrace, feeling the beat of his heart against hers.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I can’t stand it. She was so annoying…” he buried his nose against her hair. “All she did was complain when all I did was nap on the bed.”

Lady Aisha must have gotten angry that Leona wouldn't touch her on their wedding night... She thought to herself. The thought of Leona sharing a bed with another woman made her heartache. She wanted to erase the image in her mind..

But she couldn’t do much now, can she? He was a married man now, but it wasn’t to her… no, it was to someone else.

However…

“Aren’t you gonna welcome me home?”

He will always return to her. Never touched and never kissed by anyone else but her.

She chuckles, looking up at him with pained eyes.

“It’s your wedding night, you know…? You could at least…”

“I told you, I ain’t touchin’ her.”

“You…you don’t have to… but it might make your family mad if you suddenly—“

He places a hand under her chin and forces her to look at him before stroking her cheek.

“I don’t care,” he says with finality. “I don’t care about that stupid wedding. I don’t care about her. I don’t care about any of them.”

His forehead touches hers, a tear escapes her eye.

“I care about us.”

And he kisses her with more love than he could ever give.

Another night passes, and Leona is once more entangled in Yuu’s arms.

#AAAAAAARRGGGHHHHHH #I WROTE THIS OUT OF SPITE #I HOPE THE WRITER WHO WROTE THE THING I WAS LOOKING FOR SUDDENLY DMS ME AND SLAPS MY FACE SO I CAN GO TO THEIR BLOG AND FIND THE FIC T^T #LET LEONA AND YUU BE HAPPY #STUPID ARRANGED MARRIAGE SHIT UGH #LEONA IS SO LOYAL TO YUU YALL HE AINT TOUCHIN NO WOMAN #HE'S ON HIS WAY TO MASTERMIND THAT OTHER LADY OUT OF HIS LIFE DOE JDKFVNKSDFJNDKFJVN #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst yuu #disney twst #twst #Leona Kingscholar #Leona Kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #Mistress! Yuu

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edgeray · 10 months ago

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Ray! 🍅 anon here, I said I wasn't going to request but there's one idea I've been really, REALLY itching at.

So you know how you reblogged "cold nights" by beiibeii? Yeah about that... I think I cooked an angst idea of this on a related tangent? (If you choose to write this, ofc)

How about Mother!Reader who is faced with the same scenario of Arle neglecting them to the point that she loses hope in their relationship? Think of the angst when the children constantly remind their Father of important dates but she's away or somehow missing most of them because of work. To the point reader just implies for them to stop trying and accepts the fact that they married Arlecchino but is now simply the Knave's wife? Like even the children can see them losing hope which is why they sometimes lowkey plead with their Father to actually pay more attention to Mother. Mother marrying Father means that Mother is strong but behind their strong facade you can see their sadness! You can feel their loneliness! And their sense of isolation and sorrowful acceptance of their new reality. And Arle does not pick up on the subtle signs until it's Too Late. Like. Reader in the coffin Late.

And as the Knave's wife Reader does need to undertake missions like in "I am Fine in Your Arms" but because reader has lost so much hope in living a wife outside of being the Knave's wife, reader does not make an effort to return alive. The angst of the burial, maybe the children blaming their Father etc. The really young ones aside, I don't think they would be actively angry with their Father, just very, VERY, disappointed. HotH would lose its warmth for a while before Lyney, Lynette and Freminet try their best to build it back (but of course, it never becomes as warm as it used to be)

Whether or not you choose to give this one a happy ending is up to you, but on my end the only happy ending that I cooked up for them is that Arle wakes up in the next Samsara with all these memories of losing Reader and prevents the relationship from going South in the first place. (Bonus points if Reader also has the memories and compares it to how they were treated by Arle previously, makes a comparison, and goes "How I wish this were my Arle" without knowing that it actually IS their Arle, just acknowledging she fucked up BIG time and is now making heavy amends for it. and Arle Knows because of that look that Reader gives her, sorrow and joy in a complex blend.)

...I think by now you can tell that I'm an angst writer too HAHSHHSHA Nobody leaves my fics without getting a knife and I promise it's just for the plot (like we always say).

I've still been keeping up with your writings (Beauty and The Beast actually fits, holy-) (Someone send Siren!Arle a whole farmhouse of ham for her consumption please) and yes I agree that you've been pumping out bangers after bangers. (I mean. Given that, you probably can afford to be a little indulgent? If writing this much quality about your muse doesn't give you the OK to put your hands all over them, abs and all, what does?)

As always, prioritise your sanity and schedule first, stay well rested and hydrated!

Lost Warmth

(Arlecchino x GN! Reader)

A/N - Link to my momma's (@beiibeiii) piece right here. If I see you read this before reading the masterpiece I just linked, know that I am a very disappointed axolotl. 😔 Anyways, you might be able to tell just how long this has been sitting in my inbox… haha… my bad guys. T^T. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to write more angst. :3 And thank you for the additional comments 🍅 anon. I do have quite a soft spot for siren! arle, seeing that she was my first request (and requested from my momma :3). Wanted this to be a little longer, but I do have to wake up earlier tomorrow, so this is what you get T^T. Hopefully it's still good. Content warnings / info - angst, character death (duh), reader is referred to as ‘Mother’ but is otherwise GN!, 1.4k words

Cold is a feeling you've long gotten used to. Cold is your husband's dismissal of your existence, with every interaction ending with her blunt words and back towards you, leaving you with a crumbling heart. Cold are the long nights as you anxiously wait for Arlecchino's appearance for a candlelit dinner you spent half the day preparing, only for her never to return until you fell to exhaustion on the couch, a flower bouquet that remains unreceived in your hands. Cold is the creeping loneliness in the late hours of the night, when you've finally grown tired of anticipating someone that will never come, and returned to bed alone. Cold is the way you shiver underneath the thickest of blankets, no one's body warmth to sink into, no one's softly whispered words into your ear to drift you to sleep. Cold is when instead of your husband, only dim stars, a bottle of liquor, and the tears that stream your face join you in bed.

When was the last time you had felt warmth?

You recall when the Knave first started courting you, how gentlemanly she was for such a rumored cruel Harbinger. You were first just a caretaker of the House of the Hearth, this small orphanage which you quickly found to be home for you. You couldn't help but adore the endearing children, watching as you slowly became a staple in this family. Despite your best efforts of hiding it, Arlecchino noticed when you snuck in the occasional pastry or cake from the town's most lavious bakery for the children, out of your own paycheck as well. It was then, your husband admitted, when she first fell for you. It had taken her months of encouragement from her ‘pestering’ children before she asked you out, and it was impossible to not fall for her charm.

How could you not? Not when she held you like you were her world. Not when she viewed you higher than the Tsaritsa herself. Not when her touch was heavenly, her words silky and sweet. When she proposed to you, your heart leapt with levity, and you thought your life was perfect now. A warm house, fitted with warm parents, that was what you had had, you had never felt so content.

Then came the long nights. Nights when she trudged home later than usual, where she fell asleep without a word but sunk into your arms still. Then she started forgetting, forgetting about the dates and birthdays, and anniversaries more and more. At first, you chalked it up to her demanding Harbinger duties, but as time grew and the excuses started to run out, the perfect life you knew was crumbling.

You became aware of this two years after your marriage when you had been preparing dinner for the two of you once she arrived home, slow cooking a steak since the early hours of the morning. Just as you exited the kitchen, you heard some children surrounding your husband before she left for another Harbinger meeting, telling her that you had a surprise for her once she came home and how excited you were for her to enjoy a new recipe you created. Your heart swelled with hope and appreciation for your children, especially when Arlecchino promised she would return in time.

You should have known better.

You ate your tear-ridden steak alone and went to bed, leaving the steak out for her for whenever she returned home. Just like how you fell asleep, you woke up without your husband's presence, and when you arrived at the kitchen, the meat and the note besides the plate were untouched.

You tried to eat the cold steak for lunch as well. You threw it away at the first bite. That day, you gathered your children, pleading them not to ‘pester’ Father with more reminders, as she was very busy. All that you gained back from the children was pitied expressions, and the agony in your chest worsened. Your children could pity you, but your husband couldn't? Even with your husband's coldness, you still carried out your Mother role, if only for the children. You cannot deny that the children's antics helped you forget the ever-present void inside you, caused by Arlecchino.

You never learned the reason for Arlecchino's behavior, why she had grown so cold towards you. Now, you suppose, you would never know.

Red fills your hazy vision as you lay on the ground, your entire body aching and fatigued, desperate gasps for air while your heart pounds in your eardrums. Your side was sliced, and the crimson liquid quickly poured out of the wound while you tried to stop the bleeding, but to no avail.

This is your end, you think to yourself as you weakly turn on your side, every nerve in your body protesting against the movement. Your bloodied hand comes into view, your engagement and wedding ring gleaming slightly underneath the blood. The rings bring your thoughts to Arlecchino–oh, how you imagine the common disappointment in her otherwise apathetic expression, disappointment at your mission's failure. Your eyes bubbled and blurred with tears, vivid memories of your wedding flashing through your mind. The wedding ring is beautiful, still polished with that bold scarlet, the same color of her eyes, the same eyes you could never stop drowning in.

Would she even know your absence? Would she ever acknowledge you, treat you properly like her partner even if you did return? You doubt it. Did you want to return a cold bed, to a husband that does not love you, to a house no longer warm?

It's warm.

Your body feels like fire courses through your veins as you feel inexplicably hot, yet it's a welcomed heat. It's the first time you've felt this, but it feels familiar, comforting, like a hearth, and you want nothing more than to surrender to it. It soothes your heartbeat and calms your breath, easing your body as if you were to sink into the most plush of beds, swallowed by the thickest of blankets. The warmth coils around you, wrapping you like a cozy embrace, evoking you to sleep. Your eyes flutter shutter, a faint smile plastered on your lips.

It feels just like Peruere's arms.

—

Arlecchino receives a letter addressed to her on the third day you've been sent on a mission. The contents make her drop the paper, and she rushes outside, without an additional word, leaving the House.

The children do not see her until she returns late into the night, a body wrapped in cloth in her arms. Arlecchino raised her children to be smart, to be attentive, to be logical. Whose body it is, they realize with little difficulty.

The children weep that night. Arlecchino does not. How can she, when her source of emotions is gone?

The burial takes place soon afterwards. As your body is placed into the ground, Arlecchino can feel the weight of her children's stare on her back. The charged tension between her and the children is palpable without words. She cannot discern which of the two reactions cut deeper. The seething fury underneath the oppressive grief for the young ones, having to lose another parent, or the crushing dismay inhabited by the older ones, specifically the twins and Freminet.

Their thoughts are clear, even when none of them speak out loud.

How could you fail Mother?

The House of the Hearth no longer suits the orphanage's name, not with your missing presence. There is no warmth, no matter how much the trio tries to fuel a lost flame. Even with Arlecchin's pyro vision, it is futile.

Arlecchino stands before your gravestone, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in her hand, and she rests it beside the other bouquets by your grave. Six bouquets in total, for each day after your burial.

“For all the flowers, I should have given you, my love,” she whispers as she addresses you, glancing up to the heavens. The last two words make her feel like a fraud, undeserving of calling you hers, when she had clearly never shown so.

Arlecchino, the Knave, the Fatui Harbinger, does not plead, does not beg, does not kneel. However, her knees drop to her dirt, and she grovels. “Please… wait for me one more time, my dear. Once I meet you again, I promise I'll never leave you alone, I'll never let you out of my arms again.”

There is no reply.

Arlecchino feels cold.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact fics #genshin fanfics #genshin fics #edgeray.writes #edgeray.requests #edgeray.🍅anon

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

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I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience.

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream.

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel.

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside.

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement.

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either.

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day.

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price.

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear.

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks."

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke.

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes.

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things.

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to.

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you."

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not.

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed.

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young.

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant.

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick.

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car.

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh.

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for.

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old."

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had.

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan.

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his.

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away.

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in.

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good…

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point.

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest.

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects.

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…"

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple.

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want…

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying.

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already.

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…"

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull.

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth.

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago.

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway."

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed.

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap.

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too.

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?"

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say.

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes.

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart.

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?"

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco.

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not...

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong.

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in.

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream.

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?"

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise.

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel…

And Alaska.

#john price x you #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain price x you #price x reader #captain price smut #captain price x reader #john price smut #john price #mw2 smut #captain john price #john price fanfic #cod fanfic

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coco-loco-nut · 1 year ago

Text

Choices

pairing: logan x reader, pato o’ward x reader

summary: when your first love comes back into your life, you are stuck between two choices.

a/n: please enjoy my drunk, post-indy, fic idea (i wrote most of the plot while drunk at the bar. college towns are great guys 😂)

masterlist part 2

———————

“I am so proud of you, amor!” Pato hugs you as soon as he sees you after your graduation. He’s been supporting you since you joined the team as an undergraduate engineering last summer with Arrow McLaren.

“I couldn’t have done it without your support, Pato,” you smile, admiring your boyfriend. He would make sure to visit you when he got the chance, and he always picked up when you called needing to vent or asking for motivation. Your lock screen was a picture of the two of you at a hockey game you snuck him into the student section for, he showed up as a surprise that weekend to help you relax.

“Don’t say that, you got this because of your own merit. The guys send their congratulations, by the way,” Pato tells you. The only people who know about you dating are the other drivers, you didn’t want to risk your internship.

“I hope they aren’t too tired of me, I just accepted an offer for a full time position,” you tell him what you’ve been keeping secret the past few months.

“You deserve it. Does that mean you will be coming to Indy with me?” Pato asks, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand.

“Of course. Now, let’s find my parents, I know they will want pictures,” you kiss Pato quickly before looking for your parents. He spots them waiting a few yards away and pulls you over. They have to leave after a celebratory lunch, but Pato stays to help you finish packing up your apartment. You utilize his muscles for putting things in your U-Haul trailer. He even manages to convince you to let him drive to Indianapolis with you.

It doesn’t take you long to settle in with the team that year. Your coworkers throw you a 23rd birthday party the next spring, inviting everyone who worked in the garage (including the drivers) to celebrate. You worked your tail off proving why you deserve to be there and they said you deserve to let loose before the summer.

Later that second summer you are on a date with Pato for your two year anniversary when you get a call from your boss offering a promotion, which you quickly accept.

“You deserve it, you’ve worked so hard,” Pato reaches across the table, grabbing your hand and squeezing it.

“Your support makes it possible, babe,” you reply, squeezing his hand back. You are so helplessly in love with him. At the end of the season, Pato has a ring picked out and he had a plan before he is flown out to Abu Dahbi to drive in free practice for Formula One.

Unbeknownst to Pato, while he is away you are asked to join a virtual meeting with some higher up engineers at McLaren.

“We’d like you to join our Formula One team as we finish developing next year’s car. We will assist in your relocation, all you need to do is say yes,” the offer is virtually laid in front of you. Your mind immediately goes to Pato.

“When do you need an answer?” you ask, making sure you don’t sound disinterested.

“Two days,” they say and you nod.

“I’ll have my decision into you by then. Thank you so much for the opportunity,” you tell them, mulling it over in your brain. A copy of the details pops up in your inbox.

“We hope you say yes,” they tell you as you leave the call.

As you read the document, you know what your answer is going to be. The next day Pato returns and you go for a walk through the local park.

“Will you marry me?” Pato blurts and your heart drops.

“Patricio-,” you start and he cuts you off.

“I know, we are young but-,” this time you cut him off.

“I’m moving to England. McLaren wants me to move to the F1 team, and they are offering to pay for me to get my Masters as well as helping with my relocation, and the money is good,” you start to ramble but stop when the hurt in his eyes matches the hurt in your heart.

“Mi amor, I can support you here, I have enough money for both of us,” he says, praying you didn’t accept yet.

“Babe, I know, but I have to do it for myself. I have to accept the job,” you say, silently pleading that he understands.

“What about us,” tears start rolling down his cheeks.

“I don’t know, Patricio,” tears form in your eyes as you say his name softly, he loves it when you call him by his full name.

“We can make it work,” Pato says, despite both of you knowing it won’t.

“Pato,” your voice cracks with emotion. The two of you know what has to happen.

“I know. At least keep this, it’s only meant for you. Maybe one day it will be on its rightful place,” he pulls out the ring and shows it to you. That’s when the tears flow, and he pulls you into him.

“Please don’t think that I don’t love you. I would say yes a million times if it wasn’t for this offer. This is the hardest decision I’ve ever made,” you cry as he holds you tight.

“I know. I love you more than you know,” he whispers. He walks you back to your apartment, leaving you with a heartfelt kiss goodbye. A few days later you are gone.

When you meet Lando and Oscar, you are wary of them, they remind you too much of Pato, but it only takes a week for them to crack your shell. They saw how sad you were and learned how young you are and immediately wanted to get to know the new American on the team.

You carefully balance work and classes, wishing you could pick up the phone and call Pato, but you can’t. Instead, you fiddle with the ring you keep on a chain around your neck, you added a P charm to the necklace.

“Y/n! I want you to meet Logan, he’s American too,” Oscar drags a blonde boy into the motorhome behind him during testing. You look up from your coursework and offer a welcoming smile.

“There aren’t many Americans around, are there?” you jokingly ask, motioning for Logan to sit down.

“No. So where are you from?” Logan asks as you quickly mark where you are at. Oscar slips out of the room, hoping his matchmaking skills worked as you tell Logan about your start in Indycar.

Oscar failed at first, you were determined to keep Logan in the friend zone. But he broke down your walls and somehow convinced you to date him a couple months later.

Everything goes smoothly from late May until October when COTA comes around. You visit your family the week before the race, and that’s when your mother drops a bomb.

“What are you going to do when you see Pato this weekend?” she asks.

“What?”

“Didn’t you see? Pato is driving free practice at COTA and Mexico,” your mom tells you and you feel your stomach flip, it takes everything in you to not reach for the ring around your neck.

“No, I must’ve missed that email,” you say softly. You do really love Logan, but there is a reason you can’t bring yourself to take off the necklace unless you are with Logan. There’s been times when you have wanted to tell him, Oscar, and Lando about Pato, but you never do, it’s too painful.

You arrive at COTA and it’s clear something is off, but you brush every question off. Pato arrives the same way, nervous to see you again. He is wearing a hair tie on his wrist, one that you left behind. He wears it for the same reason you wear the ring.

“Oh! One of our engineers is from America, used to work in IndyCar. Maybe you know her,” Lando says to Pato, not picking up on Pato’s uncomfortableness as Lando drags him around. It’s odd for the Mexican driver to be uncomfortable.

“Y/n, hi,” Pato awkwardly and breathlessly says, you almost drop your tablet from where you are standing in the garage. How is it possible for him to look this good.

“Patricio, hi. How are you doing? Tough luck on the 500, I meant to text you,” you say softly, setting the tablet down and approaching him and Lando. He can barely breathe, to him you’ve only gotten more beautiful.

“Thanks, it’s okay, I’ll get it next year. Maybe I would’ve won if you were there,” Pato ruefully smiles, your heart drops.

“Maybe, but don’t think like that. You’ve always been okay driving without me,” you match his rueful smile. Lando looks between you, a little confused. Pato goes to say something, noticing a P sticking out of the collar of your shirt where a necklace is, but Oscar interrupts.

“Hey, Logan is looking for you outside,” Oscar tells you, you can’t suppress the happy look on your face.

“It was nice talking to you again, Pato,” you tell the Mexican and quickly exit towards where Logan is waiting.

“How do you know her?” oscar asks suspiciously, picking up the longing look Pato is giving you.

“She’s my ex, she broke up with me when she moved to formula one. We were going to get married,” Lando cringes. he remembers how sad you were when you joined the team, it’s why he befriended you. “Who is Logan?” Pato asks Oscar, feeling like he’s missing something.

“Her boyfriend,” Oscar says, feeling the urge to defend his best friend and engineer, but also wanting to crawl in a hole and die.

“That’s something you need to talk about with her, if it makes any difference, she was unhappy for a long time after moving here,” Lando says, ending that topic.

Pato nods, turning his focus to the drive. Luckily for you, you are currently one of Lando’s engineers, so you are busy with him all weekend.

“Y/n, we should talk,” Pato approaches you carefully.

“Pato,” you say his name warily, it’s like a dagger to his heart.

“Please. Come with me to Mexico. I won’t try anything out of respect to your boyfriend, but we both deserve to talk about some stuff. Plus, Mami and Elba miss you,” Pato says and you pause to think about it.

“San Antonio is on the way,” you think out loud, still mulling it over.

“It’s just tomorrow that we’d be there, leaving first think Tuesday morning to get to the track on time,” Pato insists. Even if it’s a bad idea, almost all of you wants to go.

“Okay, I’ll join you,” you relent, and he almost hugs you.

“I’ll drive you from the hotel,” Pato says, turning to leave before turning around again. “You will have to unblock my number so I can text you,” he adds and you fight the smile playing on your lips.

“I never blocked you, Patricio,” you admit, and his heart melts at how you say his name.

“Oh, I will see you soon then,” he says, not quite sure how to reply, leaving you to pack you backpack.

“You okay?” Lando asks and you shoot him a weird look.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We know you used to date him,” Lando says and your eyes widen.

“We?”

“Oscar and I, yeah. Wait, you aren’t even denying it,”

“I broke up with him to take the job here when he was proposing even when I wanted to say yes, we dated most of the time I was at Arrow McLaren, I still wear his ring and initial on a necklace,” you blurt, knowing Lando isn’t going to judge too much.

“Oh. Wow, ok. Is it a nice ring?” Lando asks and you tug the chain, pulling it in front of your polo. “He has good taste. What were you talking about?” Lando pushes further as you tuck the chain behind your polo again.

“I’m going to San Antonio with him tonight and tomorrow,” you say, needing someone to confide in that isn’t your college friends.

“Does Logan know?” Lando asks and you shake you head.

“That’s the next step, once you are done asking questions,” you bump his shoulder lightly.

“No, like, does he know about your history with Pato,” Lando asks, glad Oscar isn’t around.

“No, I can never bring myself to tell him. I think we both know that we might not last past this season,” you admit. Logan and you had said as much to each other a couple weeks ago. He admitted that he isn’t sure where he sees it going after the season.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lando pauses, thinking about it.

“Don’t be, he knows that I had just gotten out of a serious relationship when we became friends and I know he isn’t ready for something long term yet. Obviously I’m still going to try to make things work, because I do love him, but I’m also going to take comfort in knowing that we tried,” you pull your backpack over your shoulders. Lando says a quick goodbye before you walk out to find Logan’s rental car where he is waiting.

“Hey sweetie,” he kisses you when you get in. Any tension in your body leaves when you see him.

“Hi, Lo, ready to get back to the hotel?” you ask as he backs out of the space.

“So ready, I just want cuddles and a nap,” Logan groans a little, you reach up and play with the ends of his hair as he drives. Despite you having a room from McLaren, you are staying with Logan in his room this race weekend.

“That sounds perfect,” you admire the way the sun makes his hair look lighter and his blue eyes clearer. You change while he takes a quick shower, tucking the necklace into a pocket in your backpack.

“Don’t go to San Antonio with Pato,” Logan says suddenly while you lay in bed with him.

“What?”

“Come with me back to Fort Lauderdale instead, please. I heard Pato tell Oscar that you were joining him, and I know your history with him even if you didn’t explicitly tell me. And I get it, it must be hard to bring up. I don’t want to lose you, I love you,” Logan whispers and you feel your gut twist as you are left with a choice.

Logan offers you a chance to start fresh and continue the new relationship you built, but Pato offers the chance to rekindle an old flame that never quite burnt out. How the hell are you going to choose.

part two

#f1 imagines #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #logan sargeant #logan sargeant imagine #logan sargeant x reader #lando norris #pato o’ward imagine #pato o’ward #pato o’ward x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

Overtime 13

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss, Mr. Hansen, runs you ragged but you find solace in an unexpected friend.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Jake Jensen.

Author’s Note: This one is dedicated to my dearest @thezombieprostitute

Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

The next day arrives in a tide of anxiety. You’re both impatient and unprepared for what awaits you. That’s not so much different from any other day but that simmer in your stomach has turned to a boil.

You get ready slowly. You think of Mr. Hansen and his remarks. You ignore them and pull on a pair of grey plaid slacks and a tidy blouse with daisy buttons. You put a bow in your hair and pay special attention to moisturizer and mascara.

You drive to work on half a cup of coffee. Caffeine will only add to your nerves. You have until noon and that won’t even be the end. After the interview, there is the matter of waiting for a response.

You grab Mr. Hansen his usual. You take the elevator up and knock on his office door. He’s not in. You enter and put his cup on his desk. You come back out as he struts by your desk with a whistle. He slows as he sees you, his eyes scanning up and down. He doesn’t say anything but his expression clearly speaks his disappointment.

“Critter--”

“Coffee’s on your desk, sir,” you answer.

He doesn’t respond. He goes into his office and you go to your desk. You hope that things can go back to the way they were. Just for this more. Let you be complacent and him be quietly unhappy.

You fidget uneasily as you stare blankly at your screen. There’s an email to confirm your meeting time. Noon... you look at the clock and groan. Still hours to go.

It isn’t long before Mr. Hansen reappears. He slurps his coffee loudly. “You get sugar in this? Tastes extra sweet today... not so salty.”

You look up at him guiltily, “no, Mr. Hansen. I didn’t do anything.”

“I fucking know you didn’t. One thing I can say about you, Critter, is you’re a fast learner.” He praises but it hardly feels like a compliment. “Well, sometimes,” his eyes fall down and he leans in to see past your desk, “I’m not seeing any thigh.”

“Sir, I don’t have any other skirts. Sorry--”

“You should be fucking sorry and I should dock your pay for noncompliance,” his voice deepens. “Don’t got a skirt. Go fucking find one. You got thirty minutes before Walker shows up.”

“Walker, sir?” You frown. That’s not in your calendar.

“Oh, I penciled him in. You know, I’m a big boy, I can do just fine without you, Crit. I just prefer not having to do any of the dumb shit you sit around and stress over,” he scoffs. “While you’re getting that, don’t forget to grab some pastries. Can’t have a big prospect coming in to a dry reception.”

“Sir,” you push yourself up by the arms of your chair. “I’m on it.”

He’s already turning away before you’re on your feet. He struts off as you snatch up your purse. You’re almost grateful for the chance to get away. All night you felt suffocated by Hansen, even in his absence. Being in the office is much worse.

You find a thrift shop a few blocks down. There’s not much else open this early. You pick out a skirt in your size without much consideration. It’s grey. Plain. Nothing showy. You stop to grab a box of sweet pastries from the Italian deli then head back to the office. You’d like to take your time but you don’t need to give Hansen any more reasons.

You drop your things on your desk and scurry away to change. The skirt isn’t bad. Almost to your knees. And you didn’t notice the draping before.

As you settle in, Mr. Walker arrives. He’s tall and broad. He’s the only man you know besides Mr. Odinson that makes Hansen seem a little less intimidating. You stand to greet him.

“Hello, I can go get him--”

Walker looks you up and down and tilts his head. He sports a mustache similar to Hansen, but darker, and with a shadow of stubble around his square jaw. He sniffs.

“You new here?” He asks.

You blink. You shake your head, “no, sir.” You don’t bother explaining you’ve been here for years.

“New skirt?” He wonders.

You pause and look down. You pause then jump back into action. The sooner he’s in Hansen’s office, the sooner you can be alone and prepare yourself mentally for your interview.

You knock and receive no answer. You assume as much. You tap again. Hansen growls from within.

You open the door, “Mr. Hansen, Mr. Walker is here--”

“Where the fuck are the pastries?” He snarls as he squeezes on a hand grip, the joint squeaking with his strength.

“I’ll bring them in, sir.”

“Nah, put them in a conference room with Walker.” He squeezes the gripper until his knuckles pale. “And try smiling. I need him in a good mood.”

“Yes, sir.”

You go and show Walker to a conference room with a smile, not that he notices the extra effort. You offer him some of the pastries before you go, leaving the door slightly ajar in expectation of Mr. Hansen. You’re all too happy to be back at your desk while he’s distracted with real business.

Your mind wanders. He said it himself. He doesn’t need you. He can survive just fine without you. So he shouldn’t be bothered when—if you hand in your two weeks.

As you turn the corner, you smack into someone else. At first, you’re terrified that it’s Hansen. Oh great. Instead, Jensen takes a step back as he gently holds you at arm's length.

“Woah, you okay?”

“Oh, uh, sorry, yeah, I was... thinking.”

“Heard you got an interview today,” he says, “good luck.”

“Right, uh, yeah. At lunch.”

“Only a couple hours, huh?” He grins.

You nod and slowly glance down as his hands remain on your arms. He chuckles and rescinds them, “sorry. Uh... I like that skirt.”

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Is it new?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, okay. Um, sorry if I’m like holding you up. You must be anxious about the interview. I’ll let you go but—tell me how it goes, after?”

You look him in the eye. He’s so nice. Too nice.

“Sure,” you agree. “Thanks, Jensen. For getting my foot in the door.”

“Me?” He shakes his head. “I didn’t do much. I said your name and they jumped at the chance. You know, you got a reputation around here. You work hard.” He tucks his hands in his pockets, “you have to. You’re the only one who’s lasted that long with Hansen.”

“Oh, right, I guess...” You blink and nearly recoil. “Speaking of.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s not my biggest fan,” he says. “Hey, I really hope you get it.”

You smile, this time for real. “Me too.”

#jake jensen #lloyd hansen #dark jake jensen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!jake jensen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #jake jensen x reader #overtime #drabble #series #the gray man #the losers

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albinokittens300 · 6 months ago

Text

!Spoilers Under The Cut!

A/N: SO...been a minute since I wrote fic but. Made sense since I have ideas floating around might as well write and share them. Please note not only am I rusty writing in general, this is my first attempt at these characters. Be gentle on me please XD. I do hope you all enjoy. Let me know what you think, and maybe I'll try and get another one out maybe before Act 2 drops this weekend. All this ended up being was a little drabble of a possible reunion between Ekko and Jinx because I need some Timebomb goodness. Isha making an appearance is a bonus! Fair warning I make some wild leaps about what goes on during Act 2, so beware this is based some of my speculation.

He lets it go on for a few turns into different allies before finally stopping.

Ekko knows his little shadow is nothing more than a child, judging by the sound of the sets on the stone and the occasional clang of metal being kicked or tripped on. He usually wouldn't be worried- but with no one chasing after and taking her back to where she belonged, he took it as the sign it was. To follow him so far means she is all alone. Having just gotten back across the bridge, helping an orphan wasn't something on the list of deep concerns. At least, not until it needed to be.

"As quiet as you are, I have to say it'd be easier to get around if you weren't hiding." He says softly. Light brown eyes peek around the corner, playing at being undercover without actually doing so. She is hard to make out in low and greeish light, but he manages. "You can come out. Not gonna hurt you. All safe, I promise."

His hair raises, though, when her gaze flicks back to where he can't see. By all appearances, she is getting permission. So the girl isn't alone. When she takes a few steps out, he tries to remain unsuspicious.

"Whose behind there?" He asks as he kneels while she approaches.

"Definitely not who you're expecting." A darker, familiar voice speaks.

Jinx hasn't even revealed herself before the instinct takes over, and Ekko grabs the little girl and puts her behind him.

Attempting to pull her away from the known danger sets off another problem, though- the little girl reacts as if she has been burned. Letting out a cry, she wiggles away from him quickly before running back and wrapping herself around Jinx. While she removes the hood of her cloak, revealing a far too proud smirk, another arm wraps around the kid's shoulder. His eyes quickly scan her other side. A few bombs are latched there, but no pistol or any of her bigger toys. It was not a situation he loved, but it was preferable to facing down a minigun.

When Ekko's eyes return to the child, he doesn't think someone so small has ever looked at him so frightened. Something screams this isn't right as he watches for a few seconds.

"Relax, this one, I'll admit, has a reason to be a bit jumpy." She says, directing the words at the girl. Then, leveling a look at him. "What was it Vi said you had to say when the two of ya caught up? About looking good for a dead person?"

"That makes three of us, then." He says back. "Wanna explain what is going on down here, seeing as you are my welcoming party."

"Ah, nothing much. War, revolution, infighting, and unifying! All of that. If you are looking for the Firelights, they aren't at the tree. Or what's left of it." She says with a wave of her hand and a shrug. The blood runs like ice at the words and he rounds on her.

"What did you-"

"Woah, woah, I didn't do anything. Those wackos from Noxus? They are the ones who tracked the tree. My only part was helping everyone out." She hisses back. When his face changes, so does hers—relaxing just the slightest bit. Helped them out? Months trapped away should mean nothing surprise him. But it does.

He sees her arms crossed, watching and almost waiting for him to decide how this will go. Deciding to match her lack of hostility, just this once, he looks around to the eerily empty and quiet lanes.

"Guess I got a lot to catch up on."

That brings a less taunting smirk to her face. "Just a bit."

#Arcane Season 2 #Arcane Season 2 Spoilers #Ekko #Jinx #Isha #Timebomb #Ekko x Jinx #Fics #Drabble

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letteredlettered · 5 months ago

Note

Hello!! I've read all your hp works and I wanted to say that I love them all and they've made me feel feelings. The way you write drarry and just hp in general is very close to my heart.

That being said, there is a question I wanted to ask you as a writer. What does plagiarism mean and what does it constitute? Like... I hear that term a lot but just reading a definition is not making it clear to me. As far as I understand, copying someone's work, word by word is plagiarism. Does it also count as one if I copy someone's idea but just modify it a bit. Carry on is such a work and it's resemblance to hp and main pairs similarity to drarry are well known. Even hp itself has a evident similarity to Neil Gaiman's ‘The books of magic’ , at least as far as the titular character goes. It was also said that maybe jk stole the idea from there but Neil later said that it wasn't the case. So I'm guessing that's not plagiarism.

Let's take another example, I love you fic away childish things .. so if I wrote a fic with the same idea.. is that plagiarism? Or if I copy the plot? What if I liked a particular scene very much.. or a sentence very much and I used it as a base for a new fic.. or used that scene/sentence itself but in a different context is that plagiarism? I'm sure a lot of people have read Running On Air by eleventy7 in the drarry fandom. So if I use the sentence “Going away is easy, coming home is hard.” in a fic I write (maybe in another fandom or the same) does that count as plagiarism? Ofc I'm assuming that other people will know which scene or sentence I'm using on account of said fic being a famous work (in this case, fandom). But there could be a case where the source is not well known. What if I took something from a particular folktale of a community or country? Would that count as plagiarism? Jk Rowling herself has said that she used a lot of info while writing hp from various stories, folktales, religious books, lore and some good old tropes of said genre and pure imagination. Most of it was done unconsciously while writing. I guess it doesn't count as plagiarism if the place where you're copying from doesn't have a particular author (for eg folktales etc). Like.. God is not gonna sue me if I wrote things similar to some religious text. His followers on the other hand... yeah best not go there haha. But yeah.. what if I used different things from various sources, like.. just picking my way across it all and using them to write a story, just mish mashing things together like a collage and making something out of it. Will that be plagiarism? Or is that just being inspired by other art? On the other hand there is a saying that every art has a genesis and nothing is original. Every work is inspired by some other work be it art, music, writing or whatever. So where does one draw a line between inspiration and plagiarism?

I know it's a very long ask and I'm using a lot of scenarios but I wanted to cover everything that might come under the word 'Plagiarism'. What are your thoughts on it? What is included in plagiarism? Specifically, in writing.

If you made it this far thank you for reading where i essentially just ramble lol. I would like to know your answer and if you have any reading material on it please point me towards them. Thank you and I hope you're doing well xoxo

Plagiarism is copying word for word. It's one kind of stealing.

Copyright infringement is also a kind of stealing. That's a legal term about copyrighted material, but laws from some countries around this issue can maybe help clarify what is socially considered stealing and what is considered fair use. "Fair use" is also a legal term (at least, in the US); it refers to reasons you can use a copyrighted work without permission. I think that what many people socially consider "not stealing," even though its using someone else's ideas, falls under fair use.

Fanfic generally falls under fair use. The Organization for Transformative Works (OTW)--which is the organization behind AO3--argues that while fanfic uses things like characters and settings from copyrighted work, fic falls under fair use because it is creative and transformative.

The transformative part is important. If you copied Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone word for word and put it on AO3, that would be plagiarism. It's not transformed in any way. But if you write a story in which Harry and Draco fall in love, you're significantly transforming the story in a way that progresses the world of literature.

Other attributes of fair use (beyond whether the work is transformative) include whether the work is done for profit, whether the market for the original copyrighted work will be impacted negatively by the derivative work, and how substantially the derivative work uses the original copyrighted work. Fanfic uses the original copyrighted work quite substantially in many cases, but if it doesn't impact the market for the original copyrighted work and isn't done for profit, that shouldn't disqualify it from fair use. This is why it's extremely important never to ask for money for a fanfic, and why any author doing that should be reported to the hosting site.

Now, you asked about the Harry Potter series. While JKR may have gotten ideas about kids attending magical schools from other books, HP differs significantly enough that whenever she was sued for copyright infringement, she won her cases. Some might call JKR's books a ripoff of other books like it, but most agree that while not terribly original, these books do not count as stealing. (I would add, though, that just because someone wins a case doesn't mean it's not stealing. Disney steal shit all the time but wins cases because they own everything.)

You also asked about Carry On. I would say about that series, too, that it is substantially different enough from other books, that it doesn't count as stealing. There are just lots of books about kids secretly going to magic school, as it turns out. But I would add that even if there were more similarities to HP than there are in Carry On, Carry On could not be considered theft, because it is transformative.

Carry On, like Lev Grossman's The Magicians, is in a conversation with books like Harry Potter, books about magical schools and books with young, Chosen One protagonists. Carry On is not a fanfic; the characters are not the same; the set-up is not the same; the plot is not the same. But it is a book that asks questions about Harry Potter, and other books like Harry Potter. It's asking, what does it mean to be the Chosen One? Isn't there something sinister about a supportive mentor figure who pushes young people into war? Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games is also in a conversation with books that have young Chosen Ones, and it asks the same questions. Carry On further asks, isn't there a strange chemistry between the archetypal Golden Boy protagonist and the archetypal schoolmate antagonist? That's something tons of high school romance stories ask, and tons of HP fics, but it wasn't something that hadn't yet been done in a magical school Chosen One series--not with homosexuality--which also makes it pretty damn transformative.

You asked about using a line from Running on Air in a different work. This is plagiarism, because it's the exact words. Using that sentence in any work would be plagiarism. Using the exact sentence that someone else wrote, not matter how well known the work, is plagiarism. You likely won't be sued, but it's still stealing in most cases.

Now, it could be acceptable to use a phrase from the sentence to reference Running on Air. You'll see this in a lot of older literature. You'll see a little phrase in quotes that isn't credited, but your Penguin footnote will tell you they were referencing another author there. That was common because everyone was expected to have read the same body of work in certain cultures.

In fandom, lots of people will have read the same fics, so it could be a nod to another author to quote their work in a fic of your own. That's generally not the culture, mostly because the reason authors would do that had more to do with literary ideas that story telling, and most fic has a focus on storytelling. And, because fandom is a non-professional community where it's easy to reach out directly to the authors, if you do want to quote something by a different author, the author should be asked--again, because that's the culture.

Some material is so often quoted that it's idiomatic. If you say "I put away childish things" in a work, that may be from the Bible, but most people know where it's from, and even if they don't, it's part of our language now. Same would be true if I put in a work "Parting is such sweet sorrow," which is from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Few would call it stealing if I didn't credit such sentences, but if you're not sure whether it's idiomatic, a place where you're using the exact words should be credited with a footnote or citation.

You asked about using a line from a folk tale. As you say, folk tales often don't have known authors--but more importantly for your question, they usually don't have definitive versions. There are literally thousands of versions of Cinderella. If you used an exact sentence the Brothers Grimm used in their version of Cinderella, that would be plagiarism. Any exact language from an extant version of the story would be the same way.

A lot of what I'm saying is about how law works (particularly in the US), which deals with what might be socially acceptable in terms of whether something is stealing or not. But many cultures do have oral traditions that have a specific way a story is told. I would argue that's still a specific version, and if you're quoting the exact language, it's still stealing. But lots and lots of cultures have stories they like to tell but always tell it a little different, in which case you might be stealing ideas but not plagiarizing. And some things that are said enough, such as "Once upon a time" and "And they lived happily ever after" are idiomatic and not consider plagiarism.

But idioms touch on an interesting topic related to idea theft, which is how likely it is that you came up with something on your own, or that anyone could without the original text. The line you quoted from Running on Air is unique, but the idea that coming home is hard is commonly accepted. Indeed, there is an idiom that states "You can't go home again," which refers to the difficulty of coming home again.

Therefore, if someone said, "Going home is difficult," it might be a paraphrase of the sentence from Running on Air, but it might also be a paraphrase of the idiom, and it would be a little silly to call that plagiarism. Paraphrasing can be plagiarism, but it depends on a) how closely the paraphrase hews to the original, b) how much is paraphrased (as soon as you're paraphrasing more than a line, it really starts to be plagiarism), and c) whether someone could reasonably come up with it themselves.

So, if someone said, "Leaving home isn't difficult, but going home again is," that paraphrase is a lot more directly related to the original sentence and could be considered plagiarism. However, in a story without any other Running on Air references or similarities, I would assume an author came up with that based on the idiom and would never even dream of accusing them of plagiarism. But if the next two sentences were also similar to lines from Running on Air, I'd get suspicious.

In fact, the original line you quoted is close enough to the idiom that if I read it in a different story, I might assume that the author hadn't remembered that that line was from Running on Air. This has definitely happened to me--I used a line or phrase that I thought was mine, but I actually got it from somewhere else. If you're doing it consciously, you shouldn't. With paraphrasing, I think it's a little dicier; some would say if you're consciously paraphrasing anything it's a problem, but if you know you read that line from Running on Air but also know you've thought about that idiom about coming home a lot, it might be fine to say something sort of similar, as long as it's not the same and as long as you're not taking other things.

The same is true with ideas. You asked about Away Childish Things. If you read that fic and decided to write a fic about Harry de-aging, you might have been inspired by me, but it isn't stealing because de-aging is a common trope in fandom. You could've come up with it yourself or by reading any number of things. You asked about the plot; if you wrote a story in which Harry and Draco got to know each other by identifying illegal potions and then while doing some of that work together, Harry got de-aged and later Draco got de-aged, I would still say that this is a plot you could have thought of yourself. If you wrote a story in which everyone was infected by a potion that was like Imperius, meaning Harry only trusted Draco to help him, and Harry de-aged, and then to cure him Harry re-aged and then Draco de-aged, and could only re-age one year at a time, dealing with all of their Hogwarts years again and revealing Draco's history with his mentally ill mother and Muggle dating, I would say...okay, that's hewing pretty closely to Away Childish Things and feels a bit like you took something from me.

If you called a shop in your fic Tailored Tinctures, that's very specific, and I would say you took something from me. If you had an indicator solution in which you had to dip your thumb and your thumb turned cerulean to indicate a positive, I would say you took something from me. For these kinds of questions, it has to do with the amount you took but also the specificity of it.

As I mentioned, fandom has its own culture. Usually if you get an idea from someone else it's a very good idea to drop that author a line and say, "Hey, I got inspired, do you mind if I do?" But I don't do that when there are a hundred fics that all have the same idea, because by then it's starting to be fanon, and using fanon is not considered in this culture to be stealing.

Different people have different ideas about this, but I do feel that I'm pretty close to the general thought on this. Some people will say that any time you are inspired by anything you must credit, or you must ask, or you must never use it to begin with. But most of us are inspired by things all the time, and the only times we claim we aren't are the times when we really can't remember what the original inspiration was, or when things are so jumbled that ten different things inspired one idea. In those cases it isn't true that we aren't using other works, only that we can't identify them.

#answer to an ask

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