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pseudowho · 7 months ago

Text

Bedlocked

On a University city trip, someone's got to share a hotel room with Nanami Kento, the class's misunderstood loner...and it's going to be you.

Warnings: College AU! Nanami Kento x Reader, double loss of virginity, "just one bed", heavy make-out, PIV creampie, dry humping, fingering, handjob, both reader and Nanami aged 19

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Nanami Kento wore the awkward bearing of a young man who was surprised by the man he was growing to be. Being uniquely in possession of those excellent traits which were overlooked by girls, but adored by women, he had outgrown himself, from personality to hair, and was unsure how to wear it. Not yet having grown the confidence to lean into his character, and own it, he had been written off by the girls in your class as sullen, boring, miserable-- a downer.

All the girls, that is, except for you. And this was how you found yourself to be sharing a hotel room with Kento, on your thesis research trip to Kyoto.

"--made a mistake with the bookings, we're several rooms short--"

'--well we can share a bed, that's fine, but I'm not sharing with him--"

"--I dunno...I don't think he'd try anything, I just...want to have fun, that's all, and he's a bit..."

You scoffed, pinching the bridge of your nose as the other young women spoke amongst themselves. Kento had not arrived, and yet, was the talk of the group. As the only young man in the class, he had maintained a respectful, professional distance from the young women in it. It had earned him what you thought was a rather undeserved reputation.

Where the others saw uptight, you saw diligence. Where they saw boring, you saw reserved. Where others saw sarcastic, you saw hilarious. Where they saw grumpy, you saw rage against the machine.

In truth, you had long-since harboured an obsession with Kento. His hushed intensity was magnetic, and carried a mass you longed to draw you in. While others saw you as opposites, you saw yourself and Kento as each others' perfect foil. Matching puzzle pieces. Each others' missing ingredient.

And, god, you ached for him, alone at night with your hand drifting downwards. And you would not let him be treated like a leper.

"For goodness' sake, I'll share with Kento." You piped up, seeing the other girls all look round at you. Their eyes drifted, widening in surprise at something behind you, and you did not hear the hotel lobby door swing open and closed outside of your view. "In fact, I'd be delighted to share with him. I'm sure he'll be just as funny and respectful as he always is."

"You think I'm funny."

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the question framed as a statement, and spun round to face Kento...but not as you knew him. You stuttered.

"Oh, wow, Kento...your hair..."

Gone was the sloppy, loping fringe. Instead, Kento's honey-blond hair was neatly parted, undercut, framing his face. All of a sudden, he was so...handsome. Kento glowered down at you, impassive and unreadable. He gave one baleful hum at your assessment of him.

"I assume something happened with the room bookings, then. For you to wind up stuck with me." Before you could answer, Kento pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning back to the doorway with one enormous hand grasping his suitcase handle. "You shouldn't have to make a decision to your detriment. It's not your fault. I'll find somewhere else to sta--"

Kento was interrupted, by your hand clasping over his on his suitcase handle. A grunt of surprise left his lips, at the feel of your dainty hand on his. He looked down at them, his expression always somewhere between anger and irritation. You knew better.

"Stay with me. We...get along well. We always have." Kento scowled, his eyes flickering behind you to the other girls, who, while surprised by how a simple haircut could alter Kento so, were sticking to their guns.

"I don't need your pity." Kento sniped, his voice low and earthy, "I'm perfectly happy to le--"

"And I'm perfectly happy to share. Stop being so headstrong and listen to me."

Kento bristled, looking torn between argument and agreement. As the others collected their keys, filing off to their respective rooms, you awaited his decision. With a huff, Kento fetched your room key, and headed off down the corridor. You fizzed with excitement at the prospect of spending more time with him, but suppressed it, following him with an air of assumed solemnity.

The airs and graces were soon dropped, when the door to your room swung shut behind you and Kento, and you found it to have--

"...just one bed. Shit." Kento's face twisted in discomfort, his Adams apple bobbing deliciously as he swallowed. His eyes trailed down to you, and caught your blush as if it were contagious. He turned to grasp the door handle again, stuttering, so unlike himself.

"Couldn't possibly-- absolutely not appropriate-- my mistake entirely-- find somewhere else--"

"Will you? Find somewhere else, I mean?" Kento faltered, his grip on the door handle loosening. He looked at you with something akin to dread. "On cherry blossom week? In historic Kyoto?" By the time you were finished talking, Kento had deflated like a sad balloon animal.

Night had long since fallen. You heard the laughter, baths and showers running, from the girls in the adjacent rooms. Your confidence was a total mask, as you opened your suitcase, rummaging inside for pyjamas. Your heart pounded in your chest, made all the worse by Kento's silent, tortured appraisal of you. You realised, with a jolt, that you had brought nothing but an oversized t-shirt and underwear to wear to bed.

Beneath his eyes, you were transparent. He felt the tension roll off you in waves. Kento cleared his throat, his ears red, a youthful flush across his nose.

"I'll-- I'll go shower." He offered, considering trying to drown himself. He heard you hum, speaking absentmindedly.

"Go on. Smelly boy." You had barely registered what you said, hearing something like a laugh from Kento as he swung the bathroom door closed behind him. You threw yourself face down on the bed, muffling your cries of anguish into a pillow. Kento leaned against the shower wall as water tumbled down his back, trying not to think with his cock, and failing miserably, cursing his body for its feral stupidity.

You remained face down on the bed. Trying to think unsexy thoughts was murder. You had always wondered how Kento looked, long and tight beneath old band t-shirts. You'd had the briefest glimpse of his abs and happy trail once, when he reached above you to switch the projector on in class. How you had restrained yourself from leaning in and licking the soft skin of his navel was beyond you. The thought of the noise he would have made, alone, had kept you going for weeks. The way you caught him looking at you in class the next day, took you the rest of the way.

"Shower's free." You sat bolt upright, your brain short-circuiting to see Kento stood at the bathroom door in nothing but pyjama trousers, steam billowing out across broad shoulders and swept back hair. You forced your mask back into place.

"Thought you'd died in there." You offered, not as casual as you sounded. You fumbled your shower bag and pyjamas out of your bag, and made your way to the bathroom. You and Kento danced awkwardly, trying to skirt round each other. With a grunt of irritation, Kento grasped your upper arms, moving you effortlessly around him into the bathroom. His touch was scalding. You wouldn't possibly make it through the weekend.

By the time you headed out of the shower, tugging at your t-shirt to make it cover more of your thighs, you blushed to your toes to see Kento sat up in bed, bare chested and reading. He read the same sentence over, and over, and over, trying with broken determination not to track his eyes up your legs, and imagine how you tasted between them. Feeling you hurriedly slip into bed beside him made his cock jump, and he reached out with a fumbling hand, switching off the light without warning.

Only the faint bathroom light illuminated the room. You both lay, backs to each other, on opposite sides of the bed. The silence grew oppressively heavy. You felt lightheaded, barely breathing, hyperaware of every noise and movement your bodies made. You were paralysed by thoughts of his honey-rich voice, his lightly freckled shoulders itching to be touched, how it would feel to be trapped beneath him while he fell apart above you.

"I'm sorry." You blinked, hearing Kento's apologetic rumble.

"...what are you sorry for?"

"This...this situation. I know I'm no fun to be around. And I've made my peace with that. But you--"

"You are fun. Very fun. I'm...not going to punish you for being an introvert."

Kento was quiet on his side of the bed, but no more relaxed. You had gathered the guts to reach one hand across the sheets to him, before he threw the covers aside, and moved to sit up.

"You need your own space. I'll sleep on the sofa." The 'sofa' sat at the end of the bed, barely more than a loveseat, and you snatched a hand out, grabbing Kento round the bicep. You almost shivered at the hard cords of muscle there, thicker than your hand by far, barely grasping on as Kento tensed.

"No. You're taller than me. I'll sleep on the sofa--"

"--absolutely not--"

"--stop being such a fucking gentleman and let me--"

"--I'm not a gentleman, it's just basic manners--"

"--listen, I feel fine, just come and share--"

"--offer some mad girl a bed and suddenly you're a gentleman--"

"Kento, please just come to bed with me."

Kento's brain stuttered, now. He rolled to face you, his whole body on fire, trying to sound calm. He was an open book, to you. You felt every nerve ending of your skin put to the flame.

"...come to bed...with you?" You moved to roll away and cover your face with your hands, indescribably mortified. Kento couldn't allow it-- not when he'd daydreamed about this for so long. He grasped your hands, rolling you back over to face him. He looked awkward, not used to his own strength, as you flipped back over with a squeak, and a weak apology from Kento. You had never noticed the beautiful whiskey depths of his eyes, before.

You were lost for words. The tables had turned so suddenly, you had no idea on which side you sat. Kento scoffed, a faint blush on his high cheekbones, scowling into a corner of the room. The silence thickened again. Kento huffed a laugh.

"Go to sleep. I'll...I'll just play some games for a while." He did not want to. He wanted to flip you over again, to hear that squeak again, wondering if you'd squeak or moan when he pressed his weeping length into your--

"Oh...what games did you bring?" Your eyes lit up, sparkling, sitting up in bed with a bounce. Kento melted. He wanted to put you in his pocket. He could manage the urges, but the affection overwhelmed him and he stuttered, fumbling for words.

"Because..." Kento waited on bated breath, your lips plush and parted, crawling just-so towards him on the bed, seeing how your breasts shifted between your arms beneath that fucking t-shirt and maybe she would want this too fuck we wouldn't come out all weekend once we've tasted each other fuck if she were my girlfriend she'd be my whole world wouldn't ask for anything else ever again--

"...because I'm desperate for a Gengar actually but I haven't got anyone to trade my Haunter with and--"

"Oh. I need a Golem."

"Oh."

"Nice."

You both rummaged in your bags, grabbing your GameBoys, and you swore, trying to find the cable to connect them. Kento raised his eyebrows, scooting himself back beside you in bed, and crossing his long legs.

"Really? You brought one? Who did you think was gonna trade with you, one of them out there--"

"I'll be honest, I was relying on you, Kento, like I always do." Kento's ears reddened. He moved to sweep back the fringe he no longer had. Instead, his long fingers swept back through his neat parting, mussing commas of blond over his forehead, in a way that made you want to do the same until his hair was a mess and he was groaning.

You sat shoulder to shoulder, comparing Pokémon teams. Kento favoured Steel and Fighting types in a balanced, well-prepared team with no weak links. You favoured Ghost types and anything cute, in a weird mismatched set-up that surprised your enemies. With your short cable connecting your GameBoys, you sat thigh to thigh. You hadn't noticed your toes scrunching against Kento's, foot, stroking your skin against his. You felt him shiver and tense.

"What-- what are you doing?" Kento asked, his voice catching in his throat. His chest felt tight. His whole being zeroed in on where your skin stroked his. You caught yourself, and curled your toes away, to Kento's disappointment. "It-- it's okay...you don't have to stop." Your games were ignored now, defunct in distracted hands.

You swallowed, the air thick with tension around you. He was so close, you could smell the residue of his cologne, and the natural masculine smell of him, earthy beneath freshly washed skin. The side of your breast, bare beneath your t-shirt, rested against his bicep. You felt his bicep clench, grazing your nipple. He felt the pebbled snag of your nipple against his arm. He knew he'd combust if he didn't feel your skin on his soon; knew his fragile resolve was breaking.

Your foot cautiously stretched back down, the sensitive skin of your toes stroking against the top of Kento's foot. You felt him shiver again, putting his GameBoy down with a grunt, his eyebrows drawn together with am arm over his eyes.

"Do you...like it when I touch you?"

Kento grumbled under his breath, his mouth twisted in faint derision. "Don't be cruel." You blushed, reaching out for his hand. Kento tangled his fingers in yours, pressing the back of your hand to his twitching thigh, and trailing featherlight fingertips over your palm and inner wrist, an erogenous zone you never knew you had until he elicited a shudder from you.

"See." Kento whispered, lightly stroking the spot on your inner arm that connected curiously to your clit and nipples, a fine gold thread of liquid arousal. "You like it, too. So if you don't mean anything by this, just stop. Don't...don't play games with me." He took his fingers away, and you almost whimpered, chasing his touch, begging.

"No, Kento, wait-- please...don't stop."

Kento short-circuited. He had never been so close to the fabled pleasure of anothers' body. Pornography had little impact for one without the flesh-memory of erotic touch. Kento's cock was thick, now, throbbing. You dropped your head to his shoulder, sighing with bliss as his trembling fingers resumed their butterfly kisses to your wrist. The growing tent in his pyjamas, and the way he spread his thighs aside to accommodate his erection, made your mouth water.

Kento shifted, his body moving on instinct, until he was tentatively leaning over you. He wanted to watch your face as he stroked your wrist, examining its fine little tendons and veins, and examining how you arched, your mouth parted, your t-shirt rucking up until he could see the warm squidge of your belly above your underwear. His voice was husky, thoughtful.

"You'd...you'd stop me, right? If you didn't want this?"

"Yeah, I...yeah. But I-- I don't want you to. I want m--"

Kenti bowed his head to drink the unfinished words off your lips, knowing you wanted more just as much as he did. He grunted against the taste of you, his lips shuddering and uncertain, only hoping his sincerity came through. Kissing him back hard, your lips and tongues clashed, both instinctual, hungry, tasting. You and Kento spurred each other on, your mutual desperation rising exponentially with each nip of the lips, each tongue thrust into each others' mouth, each moan snatched and devoured between kisses.

Your hands sunk into each others' hair, ruffling, teasing, pulling, and you whimpered into Kento's mouth at the massage of his fingertips over your scalp. You were drunk. You had to be drunk, so high off the spontaneity of a moment you thought would be planned to a T.

Kento's mouth wandered, pressing and sucking sharp little lovebites into you on his way down your neck. You had ended up tangled around him, beneath him, the tip of his cock almost escaping beneath his waistband. Riding on buckish young urgency, Kento's broad hand had risen to grope your breast, possessive, trembling against the urge to squeeze you too hard. When you whimpered, arching into his touch, his mind flew back to him, shocked and ashamed by his stunning lack of self-control.

"Sorry," Kento gasped, his mouth and hand flying off you as if burnt, "fuck, sorry, 'msosorry--"

He broke off at the sight of you. Strewn, your hair scrunched against the pillow, with love-swollen lips and roses blooming on your neck, you were serene; for him. Thrown like petals onto the sheets, all for him and his mouth and his hands. Kento felt the fog descend again, dampening his judgement, for the instinctual urge to fuck.

"Have you...have you ever..." You felt Kento's meaning. His voice was rough, deep as the valley, and hewn with stone. You shook your head, still supple and dopey from his attentions. Kento's held breath released in one husky groan. He swallowed, shaking his head down at you.

"No, I...me neither. Always wondered, always--" Always what? Always daydreamed about it almost constantly? Always chastised himself for being such a fucking animal? But, the look in your eyes as you drank him in. Kento and you met on that clouded bridge, in the middle. Your pussy ached with promise.

Kento's hand came to settle slowly on your breast again, delighted by the way you pressed into him. His fingers grazed down over your nipple, reaching the hem of your shirt, brushing upwards.

"I can...can I? Please?"

"Please. Please, yes please, god."

"Fuck...I can't...cant believe it-- finally--" Kento didn't seem to realise he was moaning his inner thoughts aloud, rucking your t-shirt up like unwrapping a gift. As your breast freed, Kento shuddered again, slanted brown eyes scrutinising your body with analytical intent, committing you to memory.

His hand ghosted over your tummy, tracing dimples and stretch marks on the way, before curling around your breast, giving the gentlest of squeezes. The noise that left his mouth was somewhere between a cough and a moan. Still possessed by a haze of need, his mouth dipped down, tongue flicking out over your nipple, before capturing it with his mouth as you arched again, keening. He pressed into your arch, one arm planted above your head, the opposite hand rolling your other breast between keen fingers.

He couldn't help but rock the straining underside of his cock against your barely-covered pussy. The material between you was so thin, you could feel the whole length of him, and the tapering shape of his bulbous tip as it snagged against your clit. Kento knew he'd cum like this, if he wasn't careful, and shivered at the idea of spilling his seed all over your belly. He brushed away his hurrying peak, so determined was he that you'd cum before him.

"--keep--keep doing that...Kentoooo--oooh, feels so good--"

A rush of competitive pride burned through him. He couldn't help but murmur against your spit-slick nipple, nuzzling it with his nose.

"Keep telling me...what feels good. Make sure I'm not selfish, 'cos I--I'll just take if you don't--"

Suddenly hyperaware of your own body and how you must look, dopey and blissful as you chased pleasure by rutting his length between your legs, you stopped, and Kento huffed.

"I can hear you--thinking you look stupid-- and you don't--" He scowled down at you, his voice hoarse and strained between heavy grunts of ecstasy. "Will you cum? Like...like that?" Kento nodded down towards where you had been rolling your pussy against him. You tried to pull an arm over your eyes, blushing, extraordinarily embarrassed. Kento tangled his fingers in yours, pressing them over your head.

"Hey-- hey-- listen, I'll...I'll let you see me cum...if you let me see you. Please." You swallowed, mouth watering at the thought of watching Kento break, such sincere fascination trickling down your spine.

"...okay." You answered, uncharacteristically meek. Kento huffed another laugh.

"Good girl." You blushed from hairline to toes, involuntarily bucking up against Kento with his words. He began to rut against you again, the friction good but not quite right, not as good as it could be. You threw caution to the wind.

"Hang-- hang on, I'll just..." You reached a hand down beneath your panties, parting your labia just enough for Kento's heavy length to snag harder against your clit.

Kento's eyes zeroed in on the creamy white discharge on your fingers as you pulled your hand out, and when he continued his motions, you fell supple and needy beneath him again, groaning with the pleasure of his bulbous tip and the ridge beneath it, catching your clit. Pleasure bloomed through you, so much closer to orgasm than you had thought.

"--don't stop--" You begged, arching up towards Kento until he fucked down harder with a broken growl, his own need to cum eclipsed by your pleasure. Drawing one nipple deeper into his mouth, and lubricating the other with his spit to roll it fluidly between his fingers, Kento learned fast, playing you like an instrument until your mouth gaped in a silent cry, your first orgasm received from another, roaring through you in waves.

Kento kept humping against you, not recognising that you had reached your peak. He faltered, hips stuttering and panting as you groaned, squirming and writhing, groping at him with desperate, fucked-out hands. Kento was obsessed, a spurt of pre-cum adding to the slick he'd already made between your legs. Utterly besotted, his slim eyes wide with blown pupils, he shakily raised one hand to stroke your hair, kissing your forehead through the bliss, shushing you with whispered praise.

"--so cute...look so pretty...thank you-- thank you--"

As you came down from your high, you heard him thanking you, and laughed, trying to cover your face as he batted your hands away, playful and smirking. Biting your lip, emboldened by post-nut confidence, you slid your hand down to grip Kento's clothed, pulsing cock. He stilled above you with a grunt, looking so angry again as that feral, desperate haze descended. You begged him, hushed and soft.

"Can I...feel it?" Kento's thoughts burst with single-minded relief. He nodded, breath catching in his chest, allowing you to roll him over onto the bed until you were lying on your side beside him. You stroked his clothed length, fascinated, watching every reaction with cruel innocence.

Unsure how to handle him, you faltered as your hand began to slip inside his pyjamas. Kento had one arm slung over his face, still scowling, wanting desperately to watch you play with his cock, but too self-conscious.

"Here, I'll--" Kento reached down, shucking his pyjamas down until his cock released. Kento seemed embarrassed by his size, distinctly bigger than average, and thick, his pink tip peeking out from beneath his foreskin. Mistaking the cause of your silence for disgust, Kento grimaced behind his forearm, apologising.

"--shit, 'msorry, I know I-I'm--"

"...wow." Your breathless little gasp, followed by your hand immediately circling round Kento's cock, sent his mind blank again, watching you with dumb adoration as you examined the weight of his cock in your hand. Your hand gripped him, stroking from ball to tip with an inexperienced squeeze that had Kento grunting, gasping and bucking beneath you. It didn't matter that you had clearly never handled an erection in your life; for Kento, who had never been stroked by a woman looking at his cock and face with hungry, adoring eyes, he was being rushed towards a toe-curling orgasm.

"--st--sta--stopstopstop, m'gonna cu--m'gonna cum--'m gonna--"

Your hand stopped immediately, and Kento snarled, before gasping, momentarily shocked by his visceral reaction to being teased just to the edge of completion. Your pupils dilated, obscenely aroused by the strange danger of a furiously needy man about to cum in your hand. You were lost in the tease, lowering your head and maintaining eye contact as you threatened your lips just over the tip of Kento's cock.

"...stop?"

Kento was glazed, eyebrows tilted, looking uncharacteristically concerned, darting between your mouth, and your eyes, and back again. His nose flared with hot little pants. A barely perceptible shake of the head. You smiled, laying the flat of your tongue against the tip of Kento's cock, and licking over the bulbous head with an incoordinate pump of his length.

Kento's moan rumbled from his chest outwards, muffled as he bit into his own arm, his mind blown by the wet little sucks of his cockhead that he'd imagined only in his wettest dreams. He hurtled with breakneck speed towards his peak, finishing with frantic bucks and begs.

"--oh my--fucking g-god--huuugh fuckfuckfuck sorry m'sorry--shit--"

Kento came with an uncontrollable roar of pleasure, both arms gripping the pillow beneath his head, biceps straining, balls clenching. You pulled free of his cock with a wet pop and a little cry of surprise, when the first spurt of cum salted your tongue.

You continued to stroke him, obsessed with the jerk of him in your hand, the way he groaned, low and long, with each stripe of thick, white seed up his belly. It was only after the twitches had ceased, his cock sluggish against his belly, that Kento began to gasp like a fish out of water and gripped his hand around yours.

"--sto--sta--stop...fuck...so...sogood sosogood..."

The words left your mouth before you even thought to stop them, a years old masturbatory kink suddenly within reach. "Can you cum like that inside me?"

Kento stared at you in mute shock, his neat new haircut mussed beyond repair. His post-cum brain struggled to process your request. You frantically babbled to reassure him.

"--I--I mean no condom--and hear me out hear me out-- I've got good protection-- and and I've never and you've never so we won't catch anything--"

Kento was above you, flipping you onto your back and suckling at your neck again within seconds. You heard his oddly grown-man chastisement into your neck, while his body moved in the total opposite direction.

"So fucking irresponsible-- just just "oooooh cum inside me Kento" just like that, fuck-- do you think I'm--I'm fucking stupid? Sh...shit...fucking yes please I can't believe I'm doing this--"

Kento's cock had barely softened, graced by the barely-there refractory period of youth. He was thick, heavy, and dragging down your belly. You were just as frantic as him, kicking off your underwear and watching Kento hyperfocus again; this time, on your bare sex, right before his eyes.

He knelt back, gripping himself in his fist as if holding himself back. Feeling his sharp eyes penetrate you, you moved to close your legs. Kento looked at you as if you were mad, batting your thighs aside with his knees as you covered your face, mortified.

"Beautiful." He berated, rubbing his fingers through the cum spattered on his belly, and sinking them down to glide cautiously between your labia. You gasped, squirming, and Kento watched his fingers coat with your slick with a gulp, feeling a fresh burst of blood engorge his cock until he ached.

He leaned to his bag, rummaging and cursing, before coming back up with a bottle of lube. You shot Kento a look and he shot you a look in return, berating you again with a voice stricter than fitting for his age; "I was expecting a room of my own."

"Oh yeah? How's that working out for you?"

"Very well actually-- stop laughing or I'll--"

"...you'll what? Make me?" You asked, coy. Kento let out a strangled little groan, and pinched the bridge of his nose as you laughed.

"...don't even...dont even know what you're asking...idiot--" Kento huffed as you drew a crooked smile out of him, your joyful muffled giggles a natural balm to his baseline rage. You stilled again, breathless as you watched him stroke his pulsing cock, your throat dry with voyeuristic anticipation. Kento panted, beyond embarrassment and hanging on by a thread.

Kento stroked some lube between your puffy folds, eyes heavy as you squirmed, prodding one finger softly at your entrance. You stilled beneath him, holding your breath. Kento tangled your fingers in his.

"Breathe." He hummed, and as you released a shaking breath, Kento began to ease one slick finger inside you. Your mouth dropped open, eyes closed beneath raising eyebrows, as Kento slid his long finger into you all the way to his knuckle. He hadn't realised he was holding his breath until he felt lightheaded.

"...you...you feel...fuck, incredible, so--so tight..." Kento whispered, his voice low and gravelly, that same primal urge to fuck immediately into you threatening to cloud his brain. By the way you gazed up at him, still and supple, you would probably let him too and he could just push right in and--

"...we'll take it slow," Kento reassured you, tight and tense, "...and I'll stop straight away if...if it hurts."

Your eyelids fluttered to feel Kento's thick tip prod at your entrance, sure he wouldn't fit until he pressed forwards, and you stretched like you'd never stretched before. You bit your lip against the faint sting, nodding urgently and gripping Kento's thighs as he looked at you in concern.

Kento was lost in the moment, his eyes zeroing in on where he gradually sheathed himself inside you. He'd never felt such exquisite pleasure, obsessed by how your plush walls moulded to the shape of him, sucking him in, slick and tight. You squeaked, biting into Kento's shoulder as he bore down on you, his cock almost sunk to the hilt. He stilled as he bottomed out, his fingertips bruising on your hip, trembling with jagged groans.

You felt so strangely placid, full, and wrapping your legs around the small of Kento's back to lock him inside you. The brief sting, the belly-deep ache, left you feeling like you had made a blooming transition from girl to woman in one deep thrust. Kento drank you in, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your lips and mumbling against them.

"...'m not gonna last long." Kento was possessed, pulling out a little before rutting into you again, delighted by your gasp, determined to break more noises out of you. His usual gentle nature was becoming quickly overrun by a firm, authoritative edge, not knowing yet how this would come to define him as a man.

Kento rocked into you, shallowly at first, before gaining the confidence that he wouldn't break you. By the time he had built a rhythm, pumping into you through sweaty pants, your breaths mingling together, he felt the drag of orgasm approaching him fast. Kento's imagination could never have matched up to the reality of dragging his cock through such nectar.

Any time Kento tried to talk, he broke off into anguished pants and groans into your throat, sinking his teeth there for a moment, seemingly irritated by how sloppy he'd become.

"...j'sso...uhnfuck...wet--best thing I--...huhnnn--"

Hearing you whimper and squeak as he moved within you offered him some condolence for being a speechless mess, at least.

Though you knew you wouldn't cum from this alone, you were lost in the addictive feeling of being full and fucked into by Kento chasing an instinctual high. You couldn't help but let your fingers wander downwards, rubbing your clit beneath them. The thick pressure in your belly made your pleasure three-dimensional, so much better than your fingers alone.

Kento was a quiet lover, saying more through heated glances and lingering touches than he ever could through words. Knowing he was holding back for fear of hurting you, you whispered against his ear, sending ripples down his spine.

"--harder-- pleasepleaseplease--"

"Fffuck okay...this?" Kento sunk into you to the hilt and jabbed, urging himself deeper, earning a guttural groan as his cockhead pressed against your cervix and soft-spot. He nodded into your neck, shuddering deeply. "Th-this...yeah...oh fuck, yeah..." Your toes curled against the back of his thighs, and you sobbed with the bone-deep adoration of his kisses to your womb. Kento's restraint snapped, tilting your hips as he gripped you, holding nothing else back.

Kento sped up, driving himself inside you with total abandon, his breaths coming out as spitting curses and groans. Finally, he strained above you, his moans breaking and peaking, unable to hold off any longer;

"--gonna...gonna...cum in you for--for-fucking-ever-- nnggh--"

Watching Kento break and spill himself inside you, his cock jerking with long, painfully pleasurable contractions, was the erotic vision you had sought your whole adult life. Hurriedly working your fingers until your own high hit you, had Kento collapsing on top of you to feel your pussy clenching around him, milking him of every little drop of seed.

Kento was silent, his corded back clenching over you. You nuzzled into his ear, pressing kisses along his jaw until he gave you his lips with a groan. Pulling gently out, and replacing his cock with his fingertips so he could feel how his seed dripped from your cunt, had Kento wondering vaguely how he'd ever use a condom now he'd tasted the ripe-peach of you without a barrier.

You nipped Kento's neck, jolting him back to reality. Glossy doe-eyes glimmered up at him in the dark; and you, desperate to feel full again, completely addicted to him as he was to you.

"...again?"

"...give-- give me a minute."

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"Heard some strange noises coming out of your room last night."

You kept your face innocently neutral at the breakfast table the next morning. You tipped your head to the side, inquisitive, as if you didn't feel multiple thick loads of Kento's seed soaking your underwear.

"Oh?"

"Mhm." A knowing stare from the other girls at the table. Kento sat down, clearing his throat, his plate piled with what should have been an embarrassing number of pastries.

"She's really good. At Pokémon battles." You had a single moment to admire Kento's absolute gall, the other girls looking at him with vague displeasure as he continued.

"Her Gengar's really strong actually. I wasn't ready for it. I thought Machamp would be a good choice, but--"

The other girls had already lost interest, turning their conversations elsewhere. Kento looked up at you from the other end of the table as you mouthed oh my god at him. He was inscrutable, apart from his twinkling eyes.

You were fortunate that none of these girls were at your wedding, years later. But you did occasionally still refer to making love as 'Pokémon battles', if just to hear your impassive, suited, quiet man laugh.

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mephilver · 10 months ago

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kids nowadays dont even draw bad anymore they watch the same 3 popular art style tutorials til their eyes melt then jump onto their ipad and get fully booked for commissions at 14

#i do get a little mad from jealousy but also their scope is so limited bc all they can draw is muscular webtoon style man headshots #and vtuber style headshots of women usually #but i cant draw a head or face at all so #ALSO on this topic i see so many 13-16yos taking comms and like..is that legal is that allowed???#i feel like when i was those ages it was a big no no #child labor laws for the self employeed very curious

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lunarharp · 1 year ago

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more phoenix wright situations

#unnecessary addition.#ppl liked this a lot - thank you pffggghh...#i will be drawing more AA over christmas bc i am dwelling a lot. i love kristoph as a character bc he really does get his comeuppance #him convinced that he's been playing this dark flirty obsessive chess game with phoenix all these years they were suspecting each other #and that one kiss signified that phoenix Owes him for yet another thing - realising he is queer - when like...#you were just another single element in phoenix realising he wants to be with another man for the rest of his life #that would be the most abject humiliation for kristoph - just another instance where he isn't nearly as significant as he thinks he is #and will end up in prison - while phoenix ends up happily and sweetly married as he deserves...#i don't usually spend much time thinking about characters i don't at all respect but he's just so GAY...and does get his comeuppance.#obsessed with the part in game where HE brings up how other ppl wouldnt see a man as 'self-respecting' if he wears fancy nail polish #this man is one of those homophobic homosexuals. he literally wouldn't be happy if gay marriage became legalised #and phoenix shares that with him while visiting him in prison with the glint of edgeworth's wedding band #he liked feeling like he was seducing straight men to the dark side.. what a fascinating and foolish person #again - i don't care for villains much - qifrey is the most morally questionable level i usually could get attached to #but when they're GAY...and their crimes are like idiot murders they ultimately get apprehended for rather than being like. Creepy to women #Well examining and then defeating such a man is fulfilling. Oooh thought turning phoenix bi was your funniest victory didn't you.#He has been head over heels for another prissy rich boy since primary school..you are nothing #i also don't really care at all about klavier despite respecting him far more than his brother obviously #and klapollo seems pretty real but i truly do not care i'd rather think about kristoph. klavier is not my kind of character #those two really represent how the far less morally respectable character can be far more fun to think about and examine at times🤔#i do get confused when others seem loopy for nasty characters i find reprehensible bc i don't find reprehensibility interesting #but i mean we all enjoyed scar in the lion king. if a spiralling villain is unnecessarily gay i'm glad he's there #kristoph is the scar archetype. gay awful brothers who are really pissed off that nobody cares about them #becoming less and less deserving of anyone caring about them the more they secretly murder people #Like what is wrong with you for real.#also thinking deeply today on how narumitsu was designed by a BL manga creator and were always designed to be BL i love them #ace attorney is a childhood thing to me. christmassy childhood thing. love that they age w/ me. canonically they're my generation. Love it

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yeyinde · 2 months ago

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extremely dubious consent. power/class imbalance. implied breeding. manipulation.

but regency era John Price paying off your chaperone to get you alone in a carriage for few hours and the whole time, your guardians think you're being properly supervised during this unorthodox courtship.

And sure, he's so much older than you, a widower with specks of grey along his temples and peppered in his beard, and more established in class and life compared to you, the poor thing that only just entered society and already got snatched up by the surly, gruff Duke. But it's John Price. Despite his temperament, he's such a respectable man, isn't he? They can trust him to protect you, of course.

And he does.

Your virtue, however? Not so much.

He does away with that little problem on the second outing he takes you on, smothering the protests that draw up, shaky and uncertain on your lips when the chaperone your guardians paid to watch over you walks away, swallowing it down with a searing kiss. Shushes you through it as he slips his thick fingers over the seam of you, arm buried beneath a dense layer of fabric, snuffing out those little gasps.

Don't worry about it, he rasps into the burning apple of your cheek. "s'how it's supposed to be, mm?" and when that doesn't quell the quiver in your brow, he adds:

"s'what I want, love. Jus' a little taste, mm?"

And the problem with gently reared girls is that they turn into such obliging women. Your eyes flicker downward—soft in your acquiescence even though your shoulders draw up cutely towards your ears. Pretty little thing. He couldn't possibly resist.

So he doesn't.

Taking such a lovely creature on the dirty floor of the carriage with your prim, proper skirts trussed up over your hips, shift in utter disarray from the scorching attention he lavished your breasts earlier is nothing short of euphoric. Aided by the adorable little whines you make when he finally notches his cock against your soft flesh. Worry flashing over your brow because he's just too big, too thick, for you to take, and maybe we shouldn't, Mr Price—

But you swallow him just as sweetly as he imagined you would when he pushes inside of you. Pussy fluttering around him in a panic at the blunt, thick intrusion, unused to such brutal treatment. And it's heaven, of course. Nirvana between the split of your pretty thighs. Pussy just made to take his cock. Loving it so tenderly like this

"Taking me so well, aren't you?"

Tears on your lashline. Nose scrunched up. He's sure it's a trial for you, but this is just a prelude. Ripping the bandaid off.

A necessary evil.

And if the altruistic facade falters under the blunt weight of his desire, his greed, then at least he has a failsafe to keep you in his pocket should your guardians decide he—in his age, his callousness—is not a good fit for their daughter. They are the doting type, after all. Romantics. Idealists.

It doesn't take him much at all to reach the apex of his pleasure, not when your hands press tight to chest as he bears his weight down, grinding his throbbing cock into the deepest part of you. Your moans, delicious little keens ringing so sweetly in his ears. Letting him ride you hard against the dirty floor, chasing his pleasure even as your knees dig into his sides, brows pinced but nodding along when he rasps in your ear about how good you feel and how it'll only get better, and next time—since you're bein' so bloody sweet f'im—he'll show you how to suck his cock between those damnably soft lips, keep his fingers buried inside of you while you fold yourself over the bench on your knees, mouth swallowing him down deep—

(If they can't come to reason and see why he's a good match, then the swell of your belly in a few months time will surely sway them—)

The thought breaks across his spine, molten heat puddling in his loins. Fuck—

Despite the viciousness of thrusts at the idea, you take his desire so goddamn well.

It sends him over the edge with a grunt. A belly deep groan. And just in time, too.

After he puts your clothes in order and slides you back into the seat, groaning when you squeeze your thighs tight together, keeping his cum from spilling out, your chaperone arrives with a nervous smile and a glint of guilt that's easily diminished with another slip of cash between palms. You stare, dazed and flushed, out the window, and barely even flinch when he lays his hand on your thigh, hold possessive. Proprietary.

"Time to go home, mm?"

And if he brings you back to your guardians flustered, limping, and a little dazed—well. The roads were just terrible, weren't they, sweetheart? Quite the rough ride, mm? He's sure next time will be better.

#i guess the era of older manipulative Price corrupting reluctant and bullied into liking it Reader has begun #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader

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mggslover · 1 month ago

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Through thin walls

In which Spencer finds solace in the sounds of his new neighbor.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Genre: smut (18+) Content warnings: perv!spence, mutual masturbation Word count: 1,7k A/n: i wanted to write a smut with a more sensual, almost poetic approach?? let me know what you think of it bc i truly don’t know how to feel about it… also tell me if you'd be interested in a part two where they would meet!

Spencer wasn’t one to find much solace in sleep.

Once, it had offered him comfort, a refuge where he could momentarily let go of his worries. But that was before his dreams started to haunt him. He was often praised for his eidetic memory, but what people failed to consider was that it also meant remembering your worst memories in precise, vivid detail.

Of course Spencer was aware of how crucial sleep was, how sleep deprivation could wear a person down to the point of breaking them. But when sleep was the very thing that tore at him, what good was it? He did try to rest—clinging to the rare moments on the jet, where the hum of the engines and the presence of the team offered a shield against the nightmares that awaited him. But in the stillness of his own bed, the darkness pressed in, suffocating him until sleep became a burden he couldn’t bear.

When Spencer prepared for another attempt at sleep, he braced himself for the familiar routine: tossing and turning in tangled sheets, silently reciting The Parliament of Fowls in a desperate effort to reclaim the peace it once gave him—back when his mother would read it to him as a child. He’d pace to the kitchen for a warm glass of milk, anything to calm his restless mind, only for the alarm to blare the moment his head hit the pillow.

What he didn’t expect, though, was to hear a sound from the other side of the wall.

Soft at first, like it was testing the air—a breath, a hum, something faint but undeniably there. Spencer sat up against the headboard, his face turned toward the shared wall. The walls in his apartment were thin, but he hadn’t heard anything from next door in ages, not since his neighbor had moved out.

He waited patiently, listening, and then—there it was again. A faint gasp followed by a low moan. Spencer’s breath hitched as he made out that the sound came from a woman. He tensed, his mind immediately jumping to conclusions. Was she hurt? His pulse quickened. The moan was deeper this time, echoed by a soft, shaky exhale.

He pressed his ear closer to the wall, straining to make out the sounds. A faint shuffle of movement reached him next, followed by a distant buzzing. Was someone else with her? His thoughts raced as he waited, not sure whether to jump to action.

The sounds didn’t stop. In fact, they seemed to intensify, morphing into a rhythmic string of moans, sounding almost…sensual.

Spencer sat frozen as the realization hit him. His stomach fluttered, a flush creeping up his neck and across his face as he struggled to grasp what was happening. He should turn away, should stop listening, but the sounds—her sounds—kept pulling him in. Her soft whimpers seemed to draw out something deep inside of him, an unfamiliar curiosity.

Another moan sounded, higher pitched, followed by a low, drawn-out whine that made Spencer flinch. His eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to stop the flood of thoughts from rushing in, but it felt like his body was magnetized to the sound. There was nothing but that—the rasp of her breath, the unmistakable signs of pleasure seeping through the thin wall.

The sound of buzzing grew louder, and when a curse left the lips of the women next door, Spencer couldn’t help but let a deep groan escape from his throat. He quickly bit down on his lower lip, heart pounding in his chest. The sounds from the other side of the wall abruptly stopped, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. He held his breath, muscles tensed, every nerve on edge, waiting for what might come next. It felt like an eternity before the buzzing started again—this time softer, but still unmistakable. Spencer let out a long, shaky exhale, the weight in his chest lifting slightly.

Spencer was a firm believer of the mind having control over the body. He’s seen enough cases where people’s minds compelled them to commit horrific acts they wouldn’t have otherwise. In Spencer’s case he’d learned to ignore the nudges of his body, quickly pushing his desires aside as a mere biological function he shouldn’t linger on for too long. Maybe it was his lack of sleep, or the desperation for a change of routine—because this time around his body was getting the best of him.

The tightness in his pants grew simultaneously with the pretty sounds next door. His hand clenched around the fabric of his sheets, but it didn’t stop the tension building inside of him.

He tried to shift his focus back to something logical. Distracting himself by thinking back on his chemistry thesis on Dipole-Dipole forces, how simple the alignment of the polar molecules sounded, but how complex it actually is—how the bond isn’t as intense as with ions, but something that builds steadily over time, almost imperceptibly at first, until it becomes undeniable.

As his mind went on thinking about the invisible, magnetic pull between the opposing charges, he couldn’t help but notice the similarities with the situation he was in. She, like a molecule with her own electric field, creating a captivating attraction, slowly drawing him in with every sweet sound that escaped her lips. He could only wonder what would happen the moment they would meet—if their charged particles aligned—how it could release something greater than either of them could anticipate.

He imagined the woman next door. He pictured her as a shadow first—a soft silhouette just beyond his reach, blurred by the apartment wall. But in his thoughts, the edges of her figure sharpened.

He wondered if she was touching herself, if her hands were trailing along her body in the same way he traced her in his mind. He wondered what her skin would feel like under his fingertips. Would it be soft, the kind that invited touch? Or would the gentle curve of her shoulders be warmer, more textured and defined?

His hand moved without permission, fingers tracing his own jaw, his eyes fluttering close. His fingers brushed against his neck, leaving a trace of goosebumps in its wake. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to touch her there, to feel the pulse beneath her skin.

Another moan slipped through the wall, soft and pleading. Would she react the same way if I touched her? The thought sent a jolt of heat through him. Spencer’s hand twitched as he unbuttoned the buttons of his shirt, his hand gliding over his bare chest.

Each breath, each noise from her, felt like a thread pulling him closer to the edge, closer to her. His body moved on his own accord. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, and he’s hit with the sensation of warmth and need.

He wondered if she knew how beautiful she sounded. If she was even aware of how loud she was. Or maybe she simply didn’t care. Maybe she liked how much she affected him with her whimpers and gasps.

He imagined the way her body would move, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the delicate arch of her back as she gave herself over to the sensation. He could almost feel it—like a phantom touch—her skin against his, the way she would shudder beneath him, lost in the same heat he was drowning in now.

His hand drifted lower, unable to stop. He pictured pressing her body into the sheets, hearing her moan against his ear as he would lean in and hide his face into the crook of her neck. He wondered whether she would surrender herself to the pleasure or try gaining more by wrapping her legs around him, pulling him closer. Whether she would like him to take it slow, savoring every touch, or if she would want him to be rough, to make her feel an ecstasy she hasn’t experienced before.

Another sharp gasp came from the other side of the wall. Spencer stifled a groan as his hand moved more urgently, guided by his growing pleasure. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Fully consumed by the thought of her—so close, yet still so out of reach.

Spencer wasn’t sure where his sounds began and where hers ended. He was swallowed by the overwhelming sensation, his mind too hazy to make out the border between reality and his imagination. His grip on himself tightened, spurred on by her sounds that seemed to match his own rhythm.

She had slipped so deeply into his mind that he could feel her, in every breath, in every shiver of his skin. Spencer felt it in his chest, the way his breath quickened, the way the pressure built. She had become more than just the sounds next door, more than a figment of his imagination. She had become a need. And in this moment, he had no choice but to follow where it led.

Her moans became more frequent. Spencer’s body responded instantly. His hand moved faster, drawn by the pulse of her release, feeling the way it thrummed through him as though they were one.

He could almost see her—her legs writhing, her eyes closed, her lips parted in that delicate, breathless moan. His mind painted the picture so clearly, it felt as though she were right in front of him.

Her release ignited his, a wave of heat rolled through him, pulling him under. His breath caught, his body shaking as he followed her, their climaxes crashing together—separate, yet so intimately tied.

As his breath slowed, Spencer lay still, his mind buzzing with the aftershocks of what had just happened. He could still hear her lingering moans in his mind, like a melody he couldn’t shake. His heartbeat, once frantic and wild, slowed to a steady rhythm. The air in the room felt lighter, less suffocating, the weight of longing finally lifted from his chest.

The exhaustion that pressed down on him was different from the nights before. It wasn’t the weariness of a restless mind, of memories from the past gnawing at him. It was the deep, almost tender exhaustion that followed from his release.

Tonight, there were no nightmares waiting at the edge of his consciousness. Just quiet. Just calm. Just her.

PART TWO

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid imagine #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fic #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid

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joelscurls · 1 year ago

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I wanna show you off

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 4.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know I love you, right?”

You sniff again. Nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, yours, yours.

And nobody else’s.

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

“Got it.”

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

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

“Uh-”

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

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

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

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

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

Heat spools behind your ears, red-hot.

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

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

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

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

Sheila pays you no attention.

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

Your vision blurs scarlet.

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

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

“Sheila,” she reminds him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His belt falls to the floor with a clang.

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

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

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

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

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

His voice fills the entranceway, confident and filthy.

“Mmm,” you hum approvingly.

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

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

Sheila is home.

Perfect.

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

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

“Do you wanna fuck my face, Joel?”

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

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

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

“You sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

“So fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my word!

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

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

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

“Joel, fuck-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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uraveragelonelysapphic · 2 months ago

Text

Lavender

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Nature had always been your life. How fitting that it could now cause your death.

Warnings: angst (with a happy ending!), mentions of vomiting and blood.

a/n: Hello hello! This is perhaps definitely ass, but I really wanted to write for these two because I'm hopelessly in love with them both. Please enjoy!

Hanahaki Disease 花吐き病 (Japanese) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.

The natural world had always brought you peace. The softness of the grass under your feet, the gentle breeze blowing against your skin, the tender feeling of a flower blooming by your hand. You were a green witch, after all.

That was what had driven your family away. You had been 12 when you first sprouted a lily from your hand. You were more curious than scared; you had always sensed there was something that separated you from the rest of your family. Something about the earth’s treasures had always called to you.

But even at your young age, you knew who you were living with. Sharing your abilities was a recipe for disaster; a sure fire way to have you outcast from your family.

So you did your best to keep your powers a secret, honing them in private, away from the watchful eye of your parents.

When you were 20, the inevitable happened. You were meant to be collecting berries for dinner when you had spotted a Willow Tree. It was worse for wear; you could feel it pleading for help as you approached it with a soft smile.

“It’s alright,” you soothed the tree as you gently placed your palms against the soil where its roots rested, “You’ll be alright.”

You closed your eyes, focusing on strengthening the roots as green magic pulsed out from your hands, through the soil, and into the tree itself, which began to heal instantly.

The snapping of a twig broke you out from your trance, turning your head to see your mother fleeing the scene. Your heart dropped as you quickly stood, moving to follow her.

She was too fast. By the time you had returned to your cabin, everyone and everything was gone. Your entire family had left you.

You fell to your knees in the middle of what was once your home, tears rolling down your face as you stared at the ground. Numb, broken, grieving.

You don’t know how long you stayed in that spot. You didn’t eat, you didn’t sleep, you just sat, staring, longing.

It wasn’t until a cold hand lifted your chin that you realized you weren’t alone anymore.

“Hello, darling,” a voice said softly, and you locked eyes with one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen. Her brown eyes were intoxicating, drawing you in. You tilted your head at her in confusion and intrigue. Who was she? What was she doing here?

“You’ve been sat here for a week, darling. No food, no water, no sleep. You’ll kill yourself if you keep up like this,” she said as she looked at you curiously.

Your eyes widened in realization. Death.

She shook her head at you gently, sensing your fear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not taking you. It’s not your time,” she said, stroking your hair gently.

“Thank you, Lady Death,” you stuttered out, in awe of her soft nature, directly contrasting the connotation of her very existence.

She smiled at you in response. “You can call me Rio, sweet girl.”

There was a moment where you two merely looked at one another before she looked away, taking on a rather stern expression. “But I feel the need to tell you, sitting here and mourning your abandonment will only hurt you. It’s not your time. So don’t let it be. Get up, you’re coming with me.”

You stumble away from her in confusion. “I thought you weren’t taking me?”

She shook her head. “I’m not taking you to the afterlife. I am, however, taking you in. You’ll be staying with Agatha and I.”

You knew that name. You had read about it during your private studies.

“Agatha? Like…’The Witch Killer’ Agatha? That Agatha?” you asked cautiously.

Rio cackled, extending her hand to you.

You took it.

And so began the years you spent with Death and her lover, Agatha Harkness. The two women were vastly different to their reputations that had preceded them. Sure, they both had a fierceness to them. They had to, in order to survive their daily lives filled with corpses and taking souls.

But, with each other, they held such a softness. Rio often came back from a long day exhausted and drained. Death didn’t tend to be a fan favorite, and people made it evident, shouting at her and berating her as she escorted the souls of their loved ones to the afterlife. But Agatha greeted her at the door each evening with a hug, simply holding her for minutes on end, whispering sweet nothings in her ear as Rio visibly relaxed into her hold.

And Rio returned the favor, treating Agatha with a love full of tenderness and warmth. Comforting her after each nightmare, preventing her from overworking herself, giving her soft apology kisses after any arguments.

Before long, you knew almost everything about the pair. You learned about Agatha and her son, and his loss which nearly tore Agatha and Rio apart. How Agatha was only a ‘Witch Killer’ to keep Nicky alive as long as she could. How Rio held such anguish and guilt at having to take Nicky’s soul. How Agatha once held it against her but now loved her as fiercely as ever.

The two were made for each other, and though they welcomed you with a similar softness to that which they showed each other, you chalked it up to them taking pity on a girl who was abandoned by her family. You knew they could never love you like they loved each other.

But that didn’t stop you from falling for them. It happened subconsciously; you never meant for it to happen. But when your heart panged in longing at seeing Agatha and Rio curled up in each other’s arms in the living room, you knew it had happened. It panged even further as you looked down, noticing a red carnation that had bloomed in your palm against your will.

You were determined to ignore it. Surely you could enjoy their presence without focusing on the way your stomach flipped when Rio smiled at you, or how your heart seemed to triple in size whenever Agatha would stroke your hair in affectionate greeting. But what you had to do became evident one morning.

“We’re headed out for a bit, doll,” Agatha said as you sat at the table eating the breakfast she had made for you.

You nodded. “Okay! Don’t stay out too late, I’m making your favorite for dinner, Ags.”

She beamed at you, making butterflies flare up in your stomach so violently they made you uneasy. “You’re a gem. Isn’t she just?” She turned to Rio, squeezing her hand gently.

“Oh, yeah, she’s the sweetest,” Rio replied, winking at you as you feel your heart beat faster.

The two bid you a final farewell before leaving for the day. As soon as they left, you began to feel an uncomfortable itch in your throat. You furrowed your brows, attempting to clear your throat to ease the discomfort, but to no avail. Eventually you began coughing. It was a cough that made you feel sick, made you feel like something was really wrong.

And when you coughed into your palm and saw the petals of daffodils, your suspicions were confirmed.

You had heard of Hanahaki disease but had always believed it to be a myth. Your heart dropped at the realization that your love for these women was going to kill you.

You had to leave.

So you did. You packed up that day and left, traveling solo for centuries as you studied the disease you suffered from.

Luckily, it impacted witches differently than humans. As your lifespan tended to be a lot longer, the disease was longer lasting; escalating at a slower pace before killing you altogether.

For the first hundred years, it had mostly been a consistent burning in your throat and coughing up various flower petals. Miserable, but bearable nonetheless.

After those hundred years, it began to escalate at a quicker pace as the flowers bloomed quicker and sharper. After 200 years of this disease, you were weaker than ever before. Coughing constantly, a never ending sensation of your insides burning, vomiting flower petals and blood.

Yes, there was the option of surgery, but you couldn’t bring yourself to allow that option to become a reality. You didn’t want to forget the love you held for Rio and Agatha. They had shown you kindness and softness like none other. You would die before you let yourself remove the memory of them from your very soul.

And you were getting close. You knew your time was running out.

And so, after another long day of slowly dying, you stared up at the sky, longing for your loves, even though you knew it could never be.

It was then that you felt yourself being sucked into the ground beneath you, and you let out a yelp at the shock.

Before you knew it, you were clawing your way out of the ground, now in a completely unfamiliar place. You were on a path in a strange, dystopian-looking forest. You could feel the magic buzzing around you as you pulled yourself up from the ground.

“Who is that?”

“I thought we already got a green witch?”

You heard a gasp and looked up to meet a pair of blue eyes you had longed for night after night for the past 200 years.

“Agatha,” you said quietly, tears welling in your eyes before you could stop them.

A familiar voice said your name and you shuddered at the sound.

“Rio.”

The two women stared at you and you stared back, unsure of what to say.

“So, are you gonna introduce us to the new girl, or…” a witch in a pink dress asked and you broke your intense stare-down to introduce yourself by name to the coven of witches.

“I’m a green witch,” you explained.

“We’ve already got one,” a teenage boy said, pointing at Rio awkwardly.

You knew well and good that Rio wasn’t here as a green witch, she was here on work business, but you didn’t want to blow what seemed to be a cover, and you also didn’t have a damn clue where you were, so you played along.

“Well, you know summoning spells, you never know how many you’re gonna get…” you tried cautiously, still feeling the gaze of your former housemates burning into the side of your head.

“Y/N, a word?” Agatha finally asked, and you gulp before nodding and following her and Rio to a secluded part of the forest.

“Hey guys…what’s up?” you asked with an awkward smile, trying to ease the tension.

Rio narrowed her eyes at you, crossing her arms. “What’s up is that you up and left 200 years ago without so much as a word to either of us. Care to explain?”

You tried to look to Agatha for support, but she wouldn’t meet your eyes. Your stomach turned at the thought that you had upset these women you loved so deeply.

You took a deep breath, staring at the ground. “I had some business to attend to. I didn’t want either of you to get wrapped up in it.”

“Was your business ‘killing yourself?’ You look rough,” Rio said, a teasing smirk hiding her worry.

“Thanks,” you rolled your eyes, some tension releasing from your shoulders at the knowledge that Rio wasn’t angry enough to ignore you.

“You left without so much as saying goodbye,” Agatha said quietly. She sounded so hurt, and you couldn’t believe you had brought this on the pair, but you knew they deserved to love each other in peace, not be burdened at being the cause of your death.

“Ags, I’m really sorry, I should’ve said goodbye, I just-“ you were cut off as a violent coughing fit shook you, causing both women to raise their eyebrows at you.

You turned away from them as you coughed a plumeria flower out of your throat. You quickly slipped the flower into your pocket and wiped a bit of blood from the corner of your mouth before turning to face the two witches again.

The eyes on you were soft and concerned, but you shook your head at them, shutting down their questions before they even asked. “I’m fine, just a cough.”

Rio opened her mouth to protest when a witch sporting orange streaks in her hair interrupted.

“I’m sorry to get in the middle of whatever this reunion is, but I think it’s time for our next trial.”

You furrowed your brows. “Trial?” You began to realize that you had no idea where you actually were.

“Duh, we are on the Witches Road, after all!” The teenage boy exclaimed, leaving you even more confused.

The road isn’t real. You knew all about the song that Agatha had used to lure her victims in.

“Wait, but-“ you stopped yourself from questioning any further when you saw Rio subtly shake her head at you, a silent plea to not reveal the truth of the road to the group.

You nodded in understanding, deciding to save your questions for later. “Alright, where’s the next trial?”

You looked up to see the group staring at something behind you. Agatha and Rio were particularly fascinated by it.

You turned around and your stomach dropped. You saw a cottage. It’s covered in vines and moss, making it appear worn down. But you thought it was beautiful. Perhaps that’s because it was yours. And Agatha’s. and Rio’s.

You looked at the path leading to the cottage. It was covered in flowers. You took a deep breath.

You just got here and already you were being given a trial.

As you and the rest of the coven approached the cottage, you couldn’t help but turn to the women you desire the most for comfort.

Rio had an arm wrapped around Agatha’s waist, her thumb gently stroking the witch’s hip bone. Agatha looked up at her, smiling in gratitude, and Rio pressed a soft kiss to Agatha’s forehead.

Your stomach churned at the sight, and you felt bile rising in your throat. You painfully swallowed it back down, cringing at the effect it had on your throat, already raw from the thorns slowly tearing it to shreds.

“You good?” The witch in the pink dress asked, and you nodded.

“Yeah. Let’s just get this over with.”

The inside of the cottage looked just like you thought it would.

Home.

The same furniture, same pillows and blankets, same decor on the walls.

Your eyes filled with tears as you remembered all the time you had spent here with the women you loved more than anything.

“Doll,” a gentle voice said, and you turned to see Agatha looking at you softly. She approached you slowly, holding a hand out for you, but you took a step back.

“I’m fine,” you said, brushing your face and continuing to move through the house.

“This is new,” you heard Rio’s voice from the room resembling your bedroom.

You entered and were greeted with a tapestry on your wall. It showed 5 flowers. Below the woven flowers was a message:

The words she never spoke will slowly begin to choke. For if they never cared, a life cannot be spared.

“It’s my life,” you breathed out, staring in horror at the plants on the tapestry.

Rio nodded, running her fingers along the tapestry as she identified the plants.

“Lily. Rebirth,” she began.

“The birth of your powers, the birth of you as a witch,” Agatha identified.

“Willow Tree. Loss.”

“The loss of your kin. Being abandoned by those you called family,” Agatha continued.

“Red Carnations. Deep, affectionate love.”

Agatha went silent at this, her brows furrowing.

“Daffodil. Unrequited love.”

Rio and Agatha were visibly shaken by this point. What hadn’t you told them? You were in love? With who?

Rio snapped her head to look at you upon seeing the last flower.

“Plumeria,” she said grimly.

Agatha’s eyes were wide. “What does that mean?”

Rio only continued to look at you.

“Rio, what does that mean???”

Her question was answered as you began to cough violently again, the sheer force of it bringing you to your knees.

Agatha rushed over to you in a panic. She looked at the rest of the coven in terror. “What’s happening to her?” she cried as you began to choke.

“The words she never spoke will slowly begin to choke,” the teenager said.

“Hanahaki disease,” the witch in pink breathed out.

“What the hell is that?” Agatha was crying now, watching as petals and thorns made their way out of your mouth covered in blood.

“A disease that affects someone facing unrequited love,” Rio said in realization.

As she put the pieces together she knelt in front of you in an instant, anger coursing through her.

“You left because of this,” she said, her voice low, “You thought we didn’t love you, so you left?” she asked incredulously.

“Didn’t want—you to—-see me die,” you gasped out, fighting for air as you began to cough up more and more blood.

“You’re not dying, Y/N. I won’t take you,” Rio choked out, her sorrow getting the best of her.

“Better this way,” you managed, and Agatha choked out a sob.

“It’s not, doll, we love you, we love you,” she cried helplessly.

The whole coven stood in shock. The two women they feared the most were in the most pain they had seen since they began to walk the road.

Both women hold you tight, desperately trying to convince you of their love.

Rio grabbed your face to look at her. “There’s a reason I took you in that day, mi vida,” she whispered as tears fell down her face, “I felt pulled to you. I knew you would be special to me. Aggie and I love you so much, please believe me.”

She leaned in and pressed her lips to yours, ignoring the blood and petals and thorns and focusing on you. Just you.

When she pulled away you gasped, finally able to gather air into your lungs.

Relief was visible throughout the entire coven. They had only just met you, but seeing how your existence being threatened had brought absolute devastation to two of the most intimidating women on earth had shaken them.

As you began to breathe again, you sagged against Agatha.

“You’re okay, doll, you’re okay now,” she assured you as she gently ran a hand through your hair.

The door to the cottage slammed open, and the rest of the coven took it as their cue to leave, giving you three a moment to recover.

As you laid against Agatha, you looked at Rio with tired eyes. “Sorry for getting blood on you,” you rasped, causing the woman to roll her eyes at you.

“You’re such an idiot, you know that?” She scolded before taking both of your hands in hers. “I. Love. You.”

Tears filled your eyes at her earnest confession. “I’m so sorry I ran,” you began, your body shaking, “I saw the love you had for each other, and how much you had healed each other, and I couldn’t hurt that. I didn’t want you to see me die. It wouldn’t have been your fault,” you said brokenly.

Agatha shushed you, kissing the top of your head. “You shouldn’t have run. It would’ve saved us all 200 years of agony,” she said, and you hang your head in guilt.

But then you felt a cold hand lifting your chin. And suddenly you were 20 years old again, looking into the eyes of Lady Death herself.

But this time, instead of looking at you with curiosity, she looked at you with something much stronger. She looked at you with love.

“But we’ve got you back now,” she said, smiling tearfully at you, “so we’re taking you in. Is that okay?”

Your body wracked with sobs as you nodded, and both women were holding you in an instant. Your back was against Agatha’s front as her arms wrapped around your waist. Rio straddled you, her arms wrapping around your neck as she pulled you close.

And out of the cracked wooden floor of that cottage, something bloomed.

Lavender. Healing. Love.

#agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #rio vidal #rio vidal x reader #agathario x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader

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hcneymooners · 2 days ago

Text

⋆ arcane headcanons but they're all vampires.

multi. vampire!f!characters x f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: what it says on the tin, baby doll.

cw: vampire-related violence, mentions of gore (nothing graphic), mentions of blood-drinking (duh), dom/sub, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, masturbation, cunnilingus, power dynamics, power play, impact play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, semi-public sex on occasion, unhealthy relationships (in the sense of vampires + their fledglings! no abuse i swear), manipulation, gothic themes, mutual obsession, age difference, older woman/younger woman, morally gray characters.

notes: this includes jinx, caitlyn, ambessa, sevika, + vi. i just watched nosferatu and it’s now one of my absolute favorite movies. i loved it and so now i must invoke the spirit of the vampire into every fictional woman i’m desperately in love with.

this is also fully for @digit4lslut who wanted more evil women. i concur.

The winter is long and arduous and you find yourself hungering for something dark and warm. The world has always seemed to press against you, take from you, eat at you. You’re in bed now, and the spot next to you is plush and warm from your lover’s recent departure. Your neck stings and you press a hand to it, pull it away to find a gleaming sweet mixture of venom and blood. Beyond your hand the door opens and with a few more steps the curtain shielding from around the bed are pulled back.

This is your lover's return. You look at her, smile softly as she crawls over you and hovers with a blood-wet mouth. Her chest rises, body fevered and aching after a hunt. She places a hand on your stomach, pushes down until you gasp and clutch at her. Yes, this is your forever. You cup her face, turn her toward the light.

You see her. You see your history. Who is she? What is your history? What is her name?

jinx.

♱ you both were small when you first met. you had a tendency to sneak out into the gardens, tuck yourself under the thicket of white hydrangeas and stare out into the water. one day, the darkness shifted and she was staring back.

♱ she was all wild hair and wilder eyes, skin pale as moonlight. her hair was crystal, ocean blue. you weren't scared—maybe you should have been. instead, you reached out your hand and she took it, fingers cold against yours.

♱ you let her trace your palm, intertwine your fingers. something began to hum deep and low in your body and her eyes went pink, bright and starlike. she smelled so overwhelmingly of rose and plum, almost sickly sweet. you breathed in deeply, from your stomach up through your chest—like you were swimming.

♱ that was the beginning.

♱ for years, she was your shadow companion. you'd meet in the garden at midnight, sharing secrets and stolen sweets. You’d tuck a cake under the flat of her tongue and she’d hold it, smile close-lipped while it turned to ash. she'd braid flowers into your hair while telling you stories about magic and monsters to distract you while she spit it out.

♱ then one spring, she vanished. you woke to nothing but a puncture wound on the flesh of your palm, the holes almost tender with their dried blood and lack of pain. you didn’t know it then, but she’d spread her saliva, her venom over it to spare you from any pain.

♱ the hydrangeas bloomed without her, and you learned what it meant to mourn someone who left no trace behind. you grew into yourself slowly, carefully, always feeling half-formed without her there.

♱ when you saw her again, you were twenty-three and she was everything you'd dreamed of in the dark. she stood in her cousin's drawing room, all sharp edges and sharper smile. "this is jinx," they said, "she's been abroad." you knew better—the girl from your garden had never left, she'd just become something else entirely. maybe she always had been.

♱ her cousin, viktor, spoke of marriage within weeks. you agreed, but your eyes were always on her. you caught her watching you too, gaze heavy with something that made your blood sing. this was what you'd been waiting for, you realized. this hunger. this need.

♱ you couldn’t be alone with her. you recognized your lack of will, your deference almost immediately and set about avoiding her when you could. you only realized she allowed it, was indulging your fancy, when she cinched your waist with an arm just outside of the dining room and pressed her thumb into your chin until your jaw hinged wide enough for her to see the tissue of your cheek.

♱ “enough of this,” she told you, and then closed your mouth. she leaned forward, flooding your mind with her saccharine perfume as she held your head inbetween her spindly fingers and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

♱ she took to painting you. at first, it was formal portraits, the kind viktor commissioned. but soon the paintings changed—you in the garden, surrounded by hydrangeas, then by roses. you sleeping, hair spilled across silk pillows. you with bitten lips and eyes that held secrets.

♱ you never told anyone how you'd pose for her in the dead of night, how your skin would flush under her gaze.

♱ "you're my best work," she'd whisper, fingers trailing over fresh canvas. "my masterpiece." her studio became your sanctuary, far from viktor's polite affections and careful touches. she never kissed you, but god, how you wanted her to.

♱ the sculptures started after your engagement was announced. you in marble, you in bronze, you eternally preserved in cold, beautiful stone. she worked feverishly, possessed by something you both couldn't name. "i'm making you immortal," she'd say, and her eyes would glow like embers. "isn't that what you want?" it was. it is.

♱ you found her old sketches one night—drawings of you as a child, then a teenager right before her abandonment of you, then a woman, dated through all the years she'd been gone. she'd never stopped watching you, never truly left.

♱ the pages were stained with something dark at the edges. you traced them with your fingers, understanding finally what it meant to be beloved by something inhuman.

♱ "do you ever think about that night in the garden?" she asked once, hands covered in clay as she shaped your likeness. "when we first met?" you nodded, remembering the cold touch of her hand. "i knew then," she said, "that you'd be mine. but you didn’t understand it."

♱ the way your heart raced at those words should have frightened you. instead, you whispered back, "i understand now."

♱ viktor speaks of jinx with a mixture of fear and reverence. "she's not right," he whispers against your neck one night, and you feel nothing but impatience at his touch. "the things she does in that studio..." but he never finishes the thought. the family—the coven, jinx’s voice corrected you—needs her, so they keep her close.

♱ you need her too, but for entirely different reasons.

♱ sometimes she watches viktor touch you—at dinner parties, in the garden, during your dancing lessons. her eyes are molten in those moments, and later you find your face torn to pieces, canvas slashed with violent strokes of red.

♱ anyone else would be terrified, but the desperation with which she wants you makes your body riot with heat. you begin to leave your windows open at night, hoping she'll come to claim what's hers.

♱ "sit still," she commands, and you do. you always do. she's sculpting your hands now, obsessing over every line, every vein. "beautiful," she murmurs, and her fingers trace the paths her chisel will follow. your pulse jumps beneath her touch. she smiles, knowing. you smile back, trembling and wanting.

♱ the studio walls are covered with you now. sleeping, laughing, reading, dancing—moments you don't remember posing for. "my muse," she calls you, but it feels more like worship. every angle of you captured, preserved, devoured by her artistry. you wonder if this is what it feels like to be transformed into myth, and if she would lash out at your desire to be her priestess instead of her god.

♱ you find her one night in the garden, beneath your hydrangeas. she's painting with something dark and wet, and the flowers are turning red beneath her brush. she’s upset, her spin flexing agitatedly. "your wedding is in a month," she says without looking up. "i'm running out of time."

♱ you kneel beside her in the dirt, press your fingers to her cold cheek. "what do you need me to say in order for you to just take me?" you whisper. her eyes flash in the dark.

♱ the paintings change again. now they're fever dreams—you with wings of thorn, you with a crown of bones, you surrounded by writhing shadows. in every one, there's a crimson figure reaching for you. in every one, you're reaching back. they're no longer paintings but prophecies, and you ache for their fulfillment.

♱ "he'll never see you like i do," she tells you, circling your latest statue. “i know,” you answer. "he'll never capture your essence." her hand hovers over the marble's heart. “i—i know.” "he'll never make you eternal." the way she says it sounds like a promise. "i know,” your breathing is erratic now. “i don't want him to," you answer. "i only want you."

♱ the sculpture shatters that night; neither of you mention the blood on her hands.

♱ you start finding dead hydrangeas on your pillow, their petals black with age. beneath them, sketches of you in a wedding dress, the train stained scarlet, the veil made of lace and gray shadow. her signature is always in red. you press the flowers between book pages, collecting them like love notes.

♱ "tell me about the night you disappeared," you ask her once, lying among the ruined canvases of her studio. she traces patterns on your throat instead of answering. "i had to become worthy of you," she finally says. "i had to learn how to keep you forever." you turn your head, bare your neck and spread your legs. she lies against you, begins to drag two finger to your center. "show me," you breathe. “please.”

♱ she eats you like she does everything else: wildly, insatiably, and relentless. you feel out of control, grasping at your thighs as you finish over her.

♱ the night before your wedding, she asks to paint you one last time. viktor warns against it, but you go anyway. her studio smells of copper and roses.

♱ she doesn't use canvas this time. instead, her fingers trace runes on your throat, your wrists, your heart. "art needs sacrifice," she says, and her teeth gleam in the candlelight. "and i've waited so patiently. given you up for long enough." you think of all the years she watched, waited, wanted. your hands find her hair. “stop waiting."

♱ your first night as her creature, you understand why she always painted in red. the world explodes into color you never knew existed—violets deeper than bruises, blues that pulse like veins, reds that sing of life itself. "everything's so beautiful," you whisper. she laughs against your throat. "this is just the beginning, baby."

♱ viktor never makes it to the altar. the coven whispers that he fled, abandoned his bride-to-be. only you and jinx know the truth of his final portrait, painted in shades of crimson and hung in the deepest chamber of her studio. his last gift to art. you understand now—true art should hurt a little.

♱ the garden blooms year-round now, hydrangeas stained perpetually dark with your midnight feedings.

♱ "do you remember when you were afraid of me?" she asks one night, centuries after. you're both covered in bed, her mouth slick from where she’s been drinking. "i was never afraid," you correct her, licking the color from her fingers. "i think i just always loved you and found myself incomplete. that’s terrifying at thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty. and it never stops.”

♱ “good” she murmurs, and you know then that if you ever die she will be the thing that kills you.

caitlyn.

♱ she's been watching you grow into yourself for years. quiet, careful, always maintaining that perfect distance. you think she's just being professional—the respected vampire mediator, keeping an eye on the human liaison to her kind.

♱ she knows better, knows what you are. she feels the pull every time you enter a room, like gravity shifting to accommodate your presence.

♱ you begin to speak to her, lay yourself bare. you find that she’s so attentive when she listens, her body twisting to match the shape of yours as she leans her chin on hands and never breaks her gaze.

♱ "you'll find them," she tells you one night, when you're crying in her study about another failed relationship. her hand hovers over your shoulder, not quite touching. "your perfect one is out there."

♱ the lie tastes of rot in her mouth. she knows exactly where your perfect match is—sitting across from you, centuries old and terrified of how young you are.

♱ you bring her wine she can't drink and tell her your secrets. your life spills out of you, a thin timeline that is a speck in how long she’s lived. she collects each one like precious stones, storing them away with all the other pieces of you she's gathered over the years.

♱ "i just want someone to look at me and know," you confess. she grips her desk until the wood creaks, fighting the urge to say: i know. i've always known.

♱ she can’t help herself in some ways. there are some things she can't hide, one of them being her favor. books appear on your desk about subjects you mentioned wanting to learn. your favorite flowers stay blossomed in winter outside your window. a shadow follows you home on dangerous nights. you think she's just being kind. she's being careful—so, so careful.

♱ "do you ever feel it?" you ask her once. "that pull toward someone? like your whole body already knows them?" she looks at you for a long moment, memorizing the way moonlight catches in your dilated eyes. for a moment, she zones out and listens to your body pump and pulse. she hears your sudden arousal, the sticky syrupy run of your cunt as you watch her the swell of her chest.

♱ "yes," she says finally, slightly breathless. "i know exactly what you mean." you smile, relieved to be understood. she turns away, centuries of control cracking.

♱ when you finally find out, it's not gentle. there's a fight, an ancient vampire who gets too close, wounds you and tells you too much.

♱ "ask your protector why she keeps you close," he sneers before caitlyn tears him apart. "ask her why she won't let anyone else have you."

♱ you're magnificent in your rage. "all this time!" you seethe, hurling books at her head. "watching me cry about being alone. letting me think—" she catches a particularly heavy tome before it hits her face.

♱ "i was trying to protect you," she starts. "from what?" you roar. "from me," she whispers.

♱ you settle and she finds it worse than the rage.“caitlyn, you are my mate. out of everyone, you could only ever save me.”

♱ "i've lived centuries," she tries to explain. "i've seen everything this world has to offer. i didn't want to take your chance at a normal life. you will resent me as time passes. that is the truth." you laugh, bitter and broken. "that wasn't your choice to make. and it was the wrong one. resent you? it’s as if you don’t even know me."

♱ she finds you in her study at midnight, surrounded by her journals. centuries of entries about you, dreams at frist—about the pull, about fighting it. then you came into the world and it was real, more terrifying.

♱ "when?" you ask, voice raw. "when did you know?" she kneels beside your chair, finally letting herself touch your hand. "the moment you walked into my office five years ago. it felt like walking into sunlight after an endless night."

♱ "i've memorized all your habits," she confesses one night, when you're still angry but can't stay away. "the way you tap your fingers when you're thinking. how you always have to turn to an even-numbered page in a book before you leave it. the exact sound of your heartbeat when you're about to cry."

♱ you want to hate how well she knows you. instead, you ache.

♱ she starts leaving collections of letters for you, months of longing bound in leather. you read about the first time she saw you smile, how she had to leave the room because the wanting was too much. about all the times she nearly shattered, nearly told you, nearly gave in.

♱ "i wrote novels of you," she whispers when you confront her. "i just couldn't let you read them."

♱ "i want to know," you demand one evening, tired of careful distance. "show me what it feels like."

♱ she presses her hand to your chest, lets you feel the pull that's been tormenting her for years. it's like drowning in fire, like every love poem ever written condensed into a single touch.

♱ "oh," you breathe. "why did you keep this from me?"

♱ you find her old paintings hidden away—you in every season, every light. she's captured moments you didn't even know she witnessed.

♱ "i told myself it wasn't possessive if i never showed anyone," she admits. you trace a picture of yourself sleeping, rendered in oils and longing. you turn to her, face open and wet. "what if i wanted to be possessed?"

♱ the first time she kisses you, it's like coming home. "i'm still angry," you murmur against her lips. “furious even.” her hands shake as they frame your face. "i know. i'll spend decades earning your forgiveness."

♱ you bite her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "decades? is that all?"

♱ she tries to maintain control even now—always asking permission, always holding back. you learn to break her resolve with casual touches, with bared skin, with whispered confessions. "let go," you tell her, pressing closer. "i want you to trust yourself so implicitly, that you let yourself go. i'm not made of glass."

♱ when she finally does, there are stars exploding behind your eyes and gunfire in your head. you will never forget the feel of her, her cunt swollen and pink and weeping against you.

♱ "i used to stand outside your door at night," she admits, tracing patterns on your bare shoulder. "listening to you breathe, making sure you were safe." you should find it creepy. instead, you think of all the nights you felt protected without knowing why.

♱ "next time," you say, "come inside."

♱ you start finding little gifts—first editions of books you mentioned loving, antique jewelry that matches your eyes, pressed flowers from centuries ago. "i've been collecting things for you," she explains, shy suddenly. "since before the day we met."

♱ you wear her history around your neck, let her sink into your blood.

♱ sometimes you catch her watching you with that old hesitation. you've learned to read it now—the fear that she's taking too much, loving too deeply. "i choose this," you remind her, pressing your wrist to her mouth. "i choose you." she kisses your pulse point like a prayer.

♱ "i thought i was protecting you," she whispers one night, when you're tangled in her sheets and her guilt. "but i was really protecting myself. from how much i could love you. from how much it would destroy me to lose you."

♱ you kiss the confession from her lips. "you will never lose me. but i will ruin you, if you ever try to keep me from you again. in any fashion.”

♱ she shivers, understands that you are saying this as a vow. she rolls you over, climbs on top of you, tries to tear apart your body to find a place to stay.

ambessa.

♱ she never looks at you. not really. you're furniture to her, useful and invisible. you clean lip stains from her wine glasses, replace torn sheets, erase all evidence of her endless parade of lovers. sometimes you find drops of blood on the marble floor and wonder what it would taste like to be wanted by her.

♱ "excellent work as always," she says without turning around. you've just finished clearing away another morning-after scene—scattered clothes, broken crystal, the lingering scent of sex and copper in the air. her praise feels like acid in your chest.

♱ you want her to see you. you want her to devour you. you want, you want, you want.

♱ you keep track of her lovers in your mind, a masochistic catalog. the willowy blonde who screamed her name. the dark-haired man who left claw marks on her sheets. the redhead who stayed for three nights (a record).

♱ none of them last. none of them matter. but they get to taste her, and you're just the ghost who cleans up their remains.

♱ "my perfect attendant," she calls you, when she bothers to speak to you at all. she doesn’t even know your name, yet you know every detail of her life—how she takes her blood (warm, with a drop of rum), which silk sheets she prefers (harvest gold, 800 thread count), the exact temperature she likes her chambers (a cool 65 degrees).

♱ you know everything except what her fangs would feel like against your throat.

♱ it breaks on a tuesday. you find another lover's scarf wound around her bedpost, stained with blood and something else. your hands shake as you untie it. maybe they were kept captive with it. ungrateful. she wouldn’t have to hold you down for anything. you would prostate, beg for her. you would be good.

♱ "leave it," her voice commands from the doorway. you turn, and finally, finally she's looking at you. but all you can see is the fresh bite mark on her neck, already healing.

♱ something about it needles at you, guts you. she usually doesn’t let them bite her back. "no," you whisper. then louder: "no."

♱ she raises an eyebrow, amused at your defiance. "excuse me?" the scarf falls from your trembling fingers.

♱ "i can't—i won't do this anymore. i can't keep cleaning up after them. after you. i can't—" your voice breaks. tears spill down your cheeks. her amusement vanishes.

♱ “my entire life, i’ve been right there. and i know you know. i know you can smell it.” you practically hiss it. “every day, i debase myself in front of you. i can never hate you but i want to get close.”

♱ "you're dismissed," she says quietly. you laugh through your tears. of course. of course she'd throw you away the moment you showed weakness.

♱ you leave without packing your things, without looking back. you don't see her expression as she watches you go, the way her fingers dig into the doorframe hard enough to splinter wood.

♱ another coven takes you in. lesser nobles, but they're kind enough. you don't have to clean up after anyone's trysts. you don't have to smell blood on sheets or wonder about the sounds coming from behind closed doors. you should be happy.

♱ instead, you dream of her every night. hot, detailed, torrid visions that make you wake weak and wet.

♱ a month passes. then two. you learn to breathe again, to exist in spaces that don't smell like her perfume. "you seem sad," your new mistress says. you force a smile. "only tired."

♱ gyou don't tell her that every room feels wrong, that every bed you make feels empty without gold upon it.

♱ she comes for you on a moonless night. you're changing linens (always changing linens, even here) when the temperature drops. "did you think i would let you go so easily?" her voice slides down your spine like ice. you don't turn around. you can't. “i thought you’d have returned by now, would have reconsidered what you gave up.”

♱ "look at me," she commands. you've never been able to deny her anything. she's exactly as beautiful as you remember, but her eyes are different. starved. "my perfect attendant," she purrs. "do you know how many lovers i've taken since you left?" you flinch. she smiles. "none."

♱ "come home," she says, like it's that simple. you gather your pride around you like armor. “why should i?” her eyes flash. "because you're mine." you laugh, bitter and bright. "i am—i’m not a medarda. i was never yours. i was your furniture, remember? you didn’t even call me by name."

♱ for the first time in centuries, ambessa medarda looks uncertain.

♱ she starts leaving gifts—not just jewelry and silk, but tokens of attention. oysters, shelled and presented to make your consumption easier. books you'd mentioned wanting to read, when you thought she wasn't listening. a bottle of the perfume you wear, worth more than your yearly salary. you send them all back. she needs to learn that you can't be bought.

♱ "tell me how to fix this," she demands one night, appearing in your chambers. you're still in your evening dress from serving at the coven's gathering, throat on display and adorned with delicate chains. her eyes fix on your nervous swallow.

♱ "you can't just command everything better," you say softly. "not this time."

♱ she follows you to another gathering, watching from shadows as you serve blood-wine to lesser vampires. you're dressed in black silk, your neck a graceful line adorned with gold. the whole room's attention shifts when you move—too many hungry eyes, too many sharp smiles. you pretend not to notice. the attention means nothing; it isn’t hers.

♱ you hear her growl when one of them gets too close, asking if you'd like to "serve privately." before she can move, you handle it yourself: a polite smile, a steel-edged refusal. you've learned to navigate these waters. you don't need her protection.

♱ (but oh, how your heart races when you feel her rage across the room. you’re almost sick with it.)

♱ "they want to devour you," she seethes later, cornering you in an empty hallway. "i can smell their desire. their need." you meet her gaze steadily. "now you know how it feels."

♱ understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by something darker. "is this what you felt? watching me with them?" you turn away. her hand catches your wrist. "answer me."

♱ "yes," you whisper. "every night. every morning. watching you choose everyone but me. wanting—" your voice breaks. her grip tightens. "wanting what?" you pull away. "everything. anything. just one taste of being yours."

♱ she moves differently after that.

♱ no more commands, no more assumptions. she courts you properly, like you're something precious. leaves letters detailing all the things she noticed but never said. how graceful your hands are when you pour wine. how your hair settles against your back when you sleep. how she missed your scent in her chambers.

♱ "i may have taken you for granted," she admits one evening. you're both in her study, you perched carefully out of reach. "i thought you would always be there. my perfect girl." her laugh is self-deprecating. "i didn't realize i was losing my only match."

♱ another gathering. another dress. this time when the vampires stare, she's at your side. "she’s spoken for," she says evenly. you raise an eyebrow. "am i?" her hand finds your waist, possessive but questioning. "if you wish to be."

♱ "make me believe it," you challenge. she watches you, then sinks low. she’s kneeling before you and the sight makes you dizzy—ambessa medarda, on her knees. the room goes silent.

♱ "i have loved you," she says, loud enough for all to hear, "in all the wrong ways. let me love you properly." you touch her chin, tilt her face up. "prove it."

♱ she relearns you slowly, deliberately. no more invisible servant—now she watches openly as you move through her chambers. "tell me if you want me to stop," she says, but you don't. you want her to see everything she missed before.

♱ "you've redecorated," she notes one night, when you finally return to her rooms. you've replaced the golden silk with deep purple, changed the artwork, rearranged the furniture. made it yours. "i'm not here to clean up after you anymore," you remind her. she traces a finger along your jaw. "no. you aren’t."

♱ the first time she feeds from you, it's like death— you are breaking apart all at once; you are coming together and it is sweet.

♱ "you taste like nectar," she breathes against your throat. you thread fingers through her hair, holding her close. "you taste like mine," you answer. she shudders against you.

♱ the next time she kneels for you is in the drawing room, her head beneath your skirts and your legs on her shoulders. she laps at you, pulls orgasm after orgasm from you until you kick at her back. even then she continues, with fingers instead of tongue. the pain, the pleasure—it’s endless.

♱ old habits die hard—sometimes she still tries to command rather than ask. but now when she slips, you arch an eyebrow and wait. "please," she'll correct herself, the word foreign and stilted on her tongue. you reward her with kisses that always spiral out of control.

♱ you keep one of her old lover's scarves, tucked away in a drawer. sometimes when she's being particularly imperious, you take it out, let her see it. "i could leave again," you remind her. she pulls you into her lap, buries her face in your neck. "you won’t. it won’t be as easy. you know this." you gasp as her teeth sink in.

♱ "do you miss it?" she asks once. "taking care of me?" you run your fingers along her spine. "i still take care of you. i just do it as your equal now."

♱ she presses you into silk sheets, whispers "show me" against your skin. you do.

♱ you catch her watching you dress for bed, something vulnerable in her eyes. "what is it?" you ask. "i suppose i keep waiting," she admits, "for you to decide that you would like something different." you straddle her lap, cradle her face in your hands. "i decided that i deserve exactly what i chose."

♱ the other covens still whisper—about how the great ambessa medarda let a servant become her consort, about how she kneels for you in private (did it in public, even). they don't understand that she's never been stronger than when she's yielding to you.

♱ besides, it is you who often submits. she drives you insane with how much you need her. you just force her to work for it.

♱ "sweet girl," she calls you now, never attendant. occasionally, she speaks your name, usually in the midst of pleasure. you're arranging flowers in her study (old habits), and she's watching you like you're something holy.

♱ you meet her eyes in the mirror. "yes, mistress?"

♱ her eyes darken. she rolls up her sleeves, comes over.

sevika.

♱ she comes to collect on a sunday. you're serving tea to your mother when the door creaks open—no knock, no warning. just sevika, silco's enforcer, filling the doorway like an omen.

♱ "time to pay up," she drawls, flashes teeth. your mother starts to cry. you pour another cup of tea.

♱ "would you like some?" you ask, steady-handed despite your racing heart. she blinks, caught off-guard by your composure. "what?" you gesture to the cup. "it's jasmine. very soothing."

♱ her laugh is sharp as broken glass. "you think tea will save you from your family's debts?" "no," you say simply. "but it might buy me an hour to pack."

♱ she studies you over the rim of the teacup she doesn't remember accepting. you pretend not to notice how she watches your throat when you swallow hard. "one hour," she agrees. you hide a smile in your cup.

♱ one hour becomes one day. becomes one week. becomes one month. you're clever with your delays—always just reasonable enough, always with something to offer. "you're playing a dangerous game, priya," she warns you.

♱ your fingers brush hers as you hand her another cup of tea. "i know."

♱ she begins to linger after delivering silco's threats and your family home becomes a strange fairytale in this winter—ice flowers blooming on windows, shadows moving like living things, sevika's footsteps echoing on wooden floors. you serve tea in your grandmother's bone china cups, and sometimes there are teeth marks on the rims that weren't there before.

♱ you always meet in your mother's parlor, all faded elegance and desperate pride. snow falls outside like ash, and the samovar steams in the corner, waiting. when sevika enters, the dark worn world follows her—frost crawling up the windows, ice crystallizing in your lungs. you never stood a chance at escape. so you just shift the goal.

♱ you learn that her mechanical arm aches in the cold, the phantom of the real one haunting her. that she has a secret fondness for your mother's butter cookies.

♱ "you're stalling," she tells you over and over. "yes," you agree. "is it working?"

♱ your mother catches on first. "oh, clever girl," she whispers, watching sevika watch you over dinner. "but be careful. a jaguar is still a jaguar even if it hides its teeth." you think of the way sevika's hands shook when you touched her last, how she pulls back if you flinch even slightly at her approach. "mmm. the jaguar is still a cat."

♱ your first kiss tastes like smoke and metal. she's furious about something—another clever excuse, another day bought—and you silence her with your mouth. she pulls back, eyes wide.

♱ "you can't seduce your way out of this," she tells you, her voice almost dead. you trace her bottom lip with your thumb. "i’m not trying to. my desire for you is a separate thing."

♱ she brings you gifts that feel like warnings: a silver hairpin sharp enough to kill, a red cloak lined with raven feathers, a ring set with stones that look like frozen blood. "are you trying to save me or damn me?" you ask, letting her fasten the clasp at your throat. she kisses your pulse point. "both. neither. everything."

♱ you find out she's older than your great-grandmother's grandmother. "does it bother you?" she asks roughly. you're curled in her lap, mapping the scars on her human hand. "does what bother me? that you're ancient?" she pinches your side. you kiss her neck. "you're just well-preserved."

♱ eventually, your meddling works. after one too many unsuccessful collections, silco summons you both.

♱ "fascinating," he muses, taking in sevika's protective stance, your carefully blank expression. "you've found quite an interesting solution to your family's situation." you meet his knowing gaze. you let your heart marr your face with its emotion. "oh, how sweet,” he murmurs. “marry my enforcer, erase the debt. is this what you want?"

♱ “i want to live,” you answer, with your jutting out. you feel sevika turn and look at you, feel the realiztion come that she’s been a (delightful) means to an end.

♱ "you’ve been using me," she accuses later, pressing you against your bedroom wall. "from the first day.” you wrap your arms around her neck. pull at her hair until her head falls back."yes." she shudders. "why?" you kiss her mechanical knuckles. "because i see you and you see me. really see me. you know i am wicked and you still drink my tea.”

♱ she fucks you hard, fast. your stomach is bruised from where she holds you, your legs nicked by her claws as she grabs you when you try to scramble away. she’s mean, understandably confused and maybe even feeling betrayed. you let her rut her frustration onto your cunt, gasp softly as she laps her slick from between your folds.

♱ “i should drain you,” she murmurs into your sweat-slick neck. you pull away, grasp her jaw. “i often thought that you should eat me. dreamed of it. sometimes,” you confess, “i even came. i had to squirrel away the sheets before my mother could find them.” she shakes, slips a finger inside of you. “liar,” she accuses. “if that makes it easier,” you respond.

♱ "my mother believes i did this to save us" you tell her one night, snow gathering on the windowsills like secrets. "she thinks i'm sacrificing myself." sevika's hand whirs as she pulls you closer. "aren't you?" you smile against her throat. "i only reward myself in this life. it’s not a sacrifice if you really want it."

♱ your wedding preparations become a dance of power and submission. you choose a lavish black dress with silver threading for the rehersal, drape yourself in diamonds cold as death. "you look like you're already one of us," sevika murmurs, and you can't tell if she's pleased or terrified. "isn't that what you really want?" you ask. her silence tastes pleasant.

♱ the night before your wedding, you find her in the garden, snow melting around her feet. "having second thoughts?" you ask, wrapping your arms around her waist. she rocks into you. "wondering when exactly i lost control of this," she admits. you press closer, sharing warmth she doesn't need. "bold of you to assume you ever had it."

♱ your wedding is a power play, a business transaction, a love story written in blood and tea leaves. you wear red and gold, traditional colors for a vampire's bride. sevika looks at you like she's drowning. "still think i'm just a clever little girl?" you whisper during your first dance. she kisses you hard enough to break your jaw. "you're the most dangerous woman i've ever met."

♱ you move into her quarters in silco's mansion—all dark wood and darker secrets. at night, you hear screams from the lower levels, but you never flinch. instead, you pour tea rigidly in cups rimmed with gold, light candles that smell of grape and amber, create a home in the heart of a monster's lair.

♱ "you should be more afraid of me," she tells you one night, after you've watched her tear someone apart. you're helping her clean blood from her joints, gentle and thorough. "what’s the point? i’m in this now. anway, you should be afraid of me," you counter, pressing a kiss to her gore-stained knuckles. her laugh catches in her throat.

♱ silco watches you at dinner parties, amused by how you've tamed his beast. but he doesn't see how you feed her morsels from your fingers, how your soft touches leave her trembling, how your love is its own kind of violence. how you aren’t afraid to lash her with it, refuse her affection to keep her in line. you know she needs this, that she’s rarely had it before.

♱ "you've made her weak," he accuses. you smile, all teeth. "i've made her mine."

♱ you develop rituals together, sacred as prayer and sharp as knives. every night, you clean her mechanical arm—each gear, each plate, each deadly piece. your hands never shake, even when they're stained with someone else's blood. "my good girl," she murmurs, and you pretend not to notice how her voice trembles.

♱ the tea ceremony becomes something close to holy between you. your grandmother's samovar, polished until it shines like a mirror, brewing tea dark as sin. you pour with steady hands while she tells you about the night's violence.

♱ sometimes you taste copper in the cup and realize she's kissed the rim, leaving traces of her work behind. you drink it anyway.

♱ you draw her baths after hunts, water turning pink with vicera that isn't hers. she lets you wash her hair, lets you trace the scars on her back, lets you piece her together again. "i could kill you just like this," she says when you massage her scalp. you kiss her shoulder. "i’d drag you down."

♱ on cold nights, you brush and braid her hair, weaving in strips of leather and small, sharp blades. your touches are gentle but your intentions aren't, and she knows it. "am i pretty enough yet?" she teases. you rest your chin on her shoulder, dig down. "you’re easily the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen." her pupils dilate and her legs part, so you reach a hand around her waist to drag between them.

♱ the other vampires think it's sweet, how you wait up for her. they don't see how you position yourself by windows, arranging your reflection to watch all the doors. how your devotion has teeth.

♱ you keep her schedule in a leather-bound book, writing in codes you invented as a child. meetings marked in red ink, kills in black, feeding times in gold. "my good little wife," she coos, but you catch her studying the patterns you create, trying to decode your secrets.

♱ sometimes she brings you presents from her hunts—jewelry still warm from its previous owners, books with bloodstained pages. you accept them with genuine delight, arrange them carefully in your shared space. "magpie," she calls you fondly. "collecting pretty things." you don't tell her that she was your first collection. your most prized.

♱ your bedroom becomes a museum of decadent violence—diamond necklaces with broken clasps, antique daggers hung like artwork, silk sheets that have seen both birth and death. you keep her arm's spare parts in a velvet-lined box beside your perfumes.

♱ "do you ever regret it?" she asks one night, watching you stitch up a wound on her human arm. your needle is silver, your thread is silk, your hands are sure. "falling in love with someone—someone like me?"

♱ you tie off the suture with precise fingers. "you simply have claws and i’ve always believed love was meant to scar." she kisses you, surging forward to suck you up.

bonus: vi.

♱ you first notice her at the local underground fighting rings, all raw power and feral grins. you can smell what she is - werewolf, obviously - but she's so young and unrefined in her movements that you assume she must be newly turned. still, something about her draws your centuries-old heart.

♱ you only dare to attend the fights under the guise of accompanying your brother, a known patron of these brutal entertainments. each night you tell yourself you'll stop coming, stop watching her. each night you fail, drawn to the way she dominates the ring with savage grace. you wonder if she could make you fall like that.

♱ she catches you watching one night, corners you in the shadowy hallway with a grin that's all teeth. "see something you like, vamp?" she asks, and you flush.

♱ you turn, run away, your chest clenching tightly as you remember her in the privacy of your rooms. your fingers work deep inside you and you let out a small wail as you think of her tattooed hands inside you instead.

♱ she keeps showing up at your usual haunts, those golden eyes following you with an intensity that makes your dead heart flutter. when she finally approaches you again, her flirting is clumsier but endearing, and you find yourself charmed by this baby wolf despite yourself.

♱ “it’s good to meet you under proper circumstances, vi,” you say and her eyes shine at her name.

♱ your "guidance" begins with teaching her to hunt properly, but she always seems to know exactly where to find her prey. you chalk it up to natural instinct until you notice how the other wolves defer to her in passing. still, the way she looks at you with those eager eyes makes you forget your suspicions.

♱ quiet moments become your undoing - the way she brings you still-warm blood in crystal glasses, how she curls around you on cold mornings like you're pack. you find yourself sharing centuries of secrets, and she listens with an ancient patience that should have been your first clue.

♱ the first time she takes you to her territory, deep in the woods where the trees whisper ancient songs, you feel the power thrumming through the earth. she presses you against the bark and holds you as you’re ravaged by the first feel of the werewolf bond. you let her. her hands leave bruises that heal too quickly.

♱ you convince yourself it's only in your head, her unwavering attention, just the mental thrill of forbidden fruit. but then she starts leaving little gifts where only you'll find them - a baby blue ribbon for your throat or hair, a wolf's tooth on a golden chain. each token makes your dead heart ache with something you dare not name.

♱ but the world cannot allow you peace. the tension between covens and packs grows thicker than old blood. you see it in the way your kind bare their fangs at passing wolves, in how the wolves' eyes gleam with barely contained violence in return.

♱ still, you meet her in secret, pretending the world isn't fracturing around you.

♱ when the council announces the marriage alliances, you volunteer quickly - anything to make living easier for her. she is young, has so much ahead of her. you arrive at court in your finest blacks, ready to do your duty. then you see her standing among the pack leaders, power radiating from her like the sun.

♱ it's when, in the middle of this supernatural court, that someone addresses her as "heir apparent" and your world tilts on its axis. the realization hits like a stake to the heart.

♱ vi, heir to the most powerful pack in the territory, had been letting you believe she was some untrained pup. the way you’ve been treating her is deeply disgraceful. you can feel her eyes burning into you as you swear your agreement to whatever contract, make your excuses, and flee under the pretense of preparing for the following diplomatic talks.

♱ your pride wounded, you avoid her for days that stretch into weeks. but she's persistent - leaving gifts at your door, handwritten notes that smell of earth and pine. your resolve weakens with each gesture, even as you try to stay angry

♱ she finds you anyway, because of course she does. she corners you in your own haven, and there's nothing puppy-like about her now. her power fills the room like smoke, making your knees weak. "enough games," she orders, and when she kisses you this time, there's no pretense of submission.

♱ "i know i withheld, but i only wanted to keep this.” you say nothing, raise a hand to sound the servants bell. she grasps your fingers, holds your hand. “i know you’re upset, but did you really think i'd let them marry you off to some other wolf?" she’s walking you forward, backing you against the library shelves.

♱ "i've been working for months to position myself as the logical choice for this alliance." her laugh is dark and rich against your throat. “even brought up the damn idea myself.”

♱ “i wasn’t listening,” you finally say. “i only answered to leave faster. to be less humiliated.” she softens at that.

♱ "that wasn’t ever the intention, my love.” you look away. “but did you really think i was some newborn pup?" she whispers against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. "i've been alpha-in-training since before you noticed your first gray hair, little bat."

♱ "all those nights at the fights," she continues, "watching you try to hide your interest from your brother, from everyone. knowing you thought you were being so careful with the naïve little wolf." her hands grip your hips possessively. "when really, i was just waiting for the perfect moment to claim what's mine.”

♱ the way she manhandles you onto your own bed leaves no doubt about who's really in charge.

♱ "my sweet girl," she groans as she marks your throat, your chest, your thighs. "watching you try to show me how to track when i could smell your desire from miles away. how to fight when i've led warriors. but gods, the way you touched me like i was new to this world…"

♱ she bullies her fingers into you, milks you until you cry. after, her mouth finds your cunt and she eats of you—slurping so loudly that you cover your face with embarrassment. she only grins, laps at you harder. you white out as she orders you to cum again.

♱ and so the war that threatened to tear your worlds apart becomes the very thing that lets you keep her. your nights are filled with new lessons now - how her pack honors the old ways, how the moon-song flows through her bloodline. in public, you play the part of diplomatic necessity. in private, she follows your body like law until your weeping and can barely stay up.

♱ she returns from hunts, blood-drunk and fierce but still gentle as she pulls you close. you think that perhaps being prey wasn’t the worst thing. this was your way of finally belonging to something wild and true.

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