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cuntdevil · 26 days ago

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★ SORRY WON'T HEAL EVERYTHING !

you've been lying to megumi, saying that you need his help in organic chemistry, when in actuality, you just want to be in close proximity.

( fic demographics. ) jujutsu kaisen, megumi fushiguro, sexually mature | minors, ageless & blank blogs: do not interact & 6472 words !

╰┈➤ aged up!megumi fushiguro, tutor!megumi fushiguro & rich college student!reader, crush to enemies to lovers, breaking & entering (not really but megumi & reader gets into a little tussle-ish), bickering, reader is described to have a bush, dom!reader, sub!megumi, dry humping, edging, nipple play, whining & begging, edging, multiple (2) orgasms, overstimulation, unprotected sex, creampie, cowgirl position, etc.

( author's note. ) no special note this time other than to comment & reblog with your thoughts uwu !!

The world is cruel to pretty rich girls like you. Creating a stigma that you all are just ditzy and dumb, leeching off the money that your daddy worked damn hard for and will tarnish their legacy. And it's unfortunate that people think that you'll end up the same way. Majoring in Biochemistry, people don't know how you've made it so far. Convinced that you've been sleeping your way around with the university professors to stay on top of things, or coercing the board with bribe money to continue funding the legacy admissions that continue to come. Or, you’ve been paying off your tutors to do the work for you. Either way, people have painted a fairly dark picture of you that couldn't be more wrong.

You wouldn't say you're a genius or some sort of prodigy, but you understand the material. When you don't, you're studying your ass off and going the extra mile to make sure you do. You have access to the best learning tools there is, enrolling in subscriptions to websites to receive the guides and tips you need. You put in the work, and people reduce you to nothing just because they have their stigmas and biases on rich people. It's a shame really, but if they want to make a presumed opinion about you before knowing you, then you'll play right into their hands.

You play the cute little bimbo that takes notes fancily, titling your notes with calligraphy pens and markers. Color-coordinates everything you do because it's pretty, and not because it'll help you retain the information better when you look over and study. You'll put down sticky notes all over your textbooks, highlighting important keywords that pop up just because the professor said so, and not because it coincides with something else and you were paying attention to it. And after the lecture, when everyone's packing up their belongings, you'll linger behind because you have so much stuff to put away. Not because you want to talk to Megumi Fushiguro, one of the top students in the class.

When people see you sauntering over the messy-haired boy who always looks bored of everyone, they think of the typical. You're going to ask him for help when in actuality, you'll pay him just enough to get him to do your work for you. You're lucky enough that the professors know that your work is legitimate as you've spoken to them outside of class for them to collect that much from you. So, they don't bat an eye when you're calling for the boy's name as he's ready to leave. “Fushiguro, can you wait a minute?”

You catch him off guard the moment he turns around and realizes that it's you. His eyes widen before he controls his composure, returning to his slouched pose and waiting for you to catch up. “Yeah?”

You're polite, holding your hand out as you introduce yourself. “Hey, I'm (Y/N).”

He takes it, feeling the smoothness of the palm of your hand. You smile widely, eyes beaming brightly as the corner of your lips only expand. “Hi. I would introduce myself, but it seems like you already knew my name, so…”

“Oh, well, yeah,” you shrug sheepishly. “I've heard the professor call it out a few times or so. Anyway—” It feels harder than you thought it would, approaching him to ask for help. Truth be told, you're lying under the jurisdiction that you need assistance in the class. You need far from it, but you've seen him from time to time, developing a small crush on him and apprehensive on how you should approach him. You thought this would be the best and most believable way. “—I wanted help on the next assignment. You seem to know the material really well, too. I'll pay you! Just tell me your rate! It won't be a problem.”

It won't be a problem. Tch. Megumi can't help but wonder if he's your next victim. That he'll be the next fool struggling to finish his own assignments on top of yours. While the extra money does sound good, he has more dignity than that and so should you. “I'm sorry, but I'm busy.”

He doesn't give you the opportunity to say anything else before he's heading through the double doors of the lecture room.

The next time you run into Megumi, it's at the courtyard and you have more confidence than you did the last time. Maybe you shouldn't though because he's hanging out with his friends. One a boy with pink hair that has adorable brown eyes that resemble a puppy and the next a girl with auburn brown hair that stops at her shoulders. The two seem to be arguing over something while Megumi's face is on his phone.

“Fushiguro, hey!” He recognizes your voice now, and he lets out a dreadful sigh before he turns around. Yuuji and Nobara have thankfully stopped their pointless bickering because of you, so he should be an ounce but grateful. When he spins around in his seat, you're wearing a cute little get up. A denim jeans skirt that falls mid thigh and a silk baby pink top with bows on the shoulder. You adorn goddess braids that are pulled up in a half-up, half-down do— a bow holding the ponytail together as well. You look cute.

“Hey,” his dryness should let you know perfectly clearly that he doesn't bother, but you're a stubborn girl. You had talked yourself over the entire ordeal for the past two days since and didn't let it deter you. You just instilled the hopefulness that he truly was busy and needed to get to his next class. Now, he was available and you could properly talk to him.

“We didn't really get to talk properly last time,” you beam. “I know you said you're busy, so I want to say that I don't have a problem doing it whenever you're available. I can give you my number and we—”

“Can we talk in private, please?” Megumi asks, seeing that you were serious in regards to a tutoring session. You nod, humming out an ‘mhm’ as Megumi gets up and leads you to somewhere secluded and where his friends can't hear nor watch. When he's a safe distance away, he turns to you as you still look so expectant and hopeful. Part of him is starting to think you genuinely need help, but his bias starts speaking against him.

“Look,” Megumi starts. “I don't have enough time in my day to do the workload for both me and you. I'm being nice when I say find someone else to do your work for you and leave me alone.”

Your face falls, to what Megumi believes to be your hopes of getting the easy way out of the next Organic Chemistry assignment being crushed. However, it's more-so annoyance than anything else as you become heated in it. Megumi's about to leave when your voice rings in his ears. “Did you really think I took time out of my day twice to ask you to help me cheat?”

“What?” He asks, taken aback.

“You heard me,” you snap. “Do you really think that if I wanted someone to do my homework, that I wouldn't just find the next guy smart enough to do it for me? For a smart guy, you're really clueless.”

“T-then, what?” Megumi clears his voice. “Did you really need help? I'm sorry if you did—”

“Honestly, I already had the work done,” you prop a hand on your hip, frowning. “And no, I didn't need to pay someone to do it for me. And I didn't use the internet.

“You know what I really hate about people,” you continue to drone on. “I hate that they would just jump to conclusions rather than get to know someone to know that, hey! They're actually smart. But no, you guys would rather go with the presumption that all rich people cheat their way out through life. Yeah, I have a card in my father's name to buy what I need and want, but he's too prideful to pass his name down to a girl that can't tell the difference between rDNA and DNA, so yeah, it's not as easy for me as it looks!

“To think I had an inkling of a crush on you that I was desperate enough to ask you to tutor me under the hoax of needing help, when you're just a stuck up asshole like the rest of them. Ugh, this was such a waste of my time!”

This time, you're the one to leave Megumi speechless, stomping off to your next class.

Megumi didn't realize how many classes you had together, but you did. Whenever you made eye contact with him, you turned immediately back around. Whenever he was close to approaching you ready to apologize, you were out the door in a flash. He must've really worked you up to the point that you quit your facade, raising your hand more in class to answer questions. You even started correcting him during the lectures, having students stunned when the professor had confirmed that you were, in fact, correct. It had his ears red when Inumaki nudged him and snickered at how you one-upped him.

However, in Organic Chemistry, you're staggering. Try to stuff all of your things inside your bag because honestly, you do like making your notes pretty— for the pretty colors and for better retaining the information. You're close to sipping your bag shut when something falls out, your pencil pouch again. Someone beats you to it, picking it up for you right as you're trying to maneuver things around.

“Thank you,” you begin to ramble. “I packed so much stuff today, and I honestly really didn't need to because the professor didn't even end up asking for them. Like—”

When you look to see who it is, you're quick to shut your mouth and give him the cold shoulder once again. Your time is dry, just as he was with you once upon a time. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” Megumi sighs, grabbing your wrist when you're ready to head on out. “Please, just listen to me.”

“Oh?” You cross your arms. “Like how you were so willing to listen to me.”

“I'm sorry—”

“Apology forgiven. Bye,” you cut him short, trying to leave his tight grasp around your wrist, but he won't budge.

“You were right,” he admits. “I was being an asshole, and jumped right at the gun, thinking what everyone else was thinking. They just said you were some spoiled rich kid and I believed them right away. My apology is crappy and you don't have to forgive me, but if you really want that tutoring session, it'll be free of charge. I'm available on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursday afternoons.”

He reaches for a crumbled paper in his pocket, which you hesitate to take. When it's in your grasp, he finally lets go. “Call me or text me when you're available.”

You pout, not liking how your heart is skipping a beat when you look up at him. Your wall is quickly breaking as you stumble on your hips. You can only get yourself to mumble, “I’m busy,” before you're grabbing your bag. Completely forgetting about your pencil pouch.

—

You don't realize you've been missing your pencil pouch for four days straight. In your defense, Organic Chemistry is your last class of the week, so you have a huge chunk of time in between it. You had emailed your professor about it, but she had said that didn't it see it when you left. You checked the campus’s lost and found and even reached out to the custodial staff to see if they had found it when they were cleaning, but to no avail. It was just a pouch that you could easily replace at the snap of a finger, but you hated not trying to look for something before spending money. Trying to retrace your steps, you're wondering if you were with anyone the last time you had it— fuck.

You curse to yourself incessantly as you realize that maybe he picked it up when you had forgotten it. If so, why hasn't he returned it to you? Is this some sick tactic of his for you to reach out to him? He did give you his number, after all. Groaning, you feel like you'd rather buy a new pencil case at this point in time.

You find yourself an easily forgiving person. Knowing that if you messaged him, you'd forget what he did to make you upset in the first place and easily break your resolve. For once in your life, you wanted to stay angry for a decent amount of time before reaching out again. You are proud of yourself, though, because he apologized to you first. However, you didn't want to falter so easily and forgive him just yet. No, he could wait a little longer until you're ready to message him.

Two hours pass until you have the phone in your hands, fishing for the slip of paper that you had to fish from your dirty laundry hamper after shoving it in your pocket that day. You luckily found it, not thinking twice when you dialed his number in your phone and saved it under Fushiguro.

to fushiguro: hey. it's y/n. do you have my pencil pouch by any chance?

You didn't want to further elaborate on it, hoping that he knew what you were talking about the moment you hit send. When Megumi received the message of an unknown number, seeing a sliver of it that revealed your name, he sat up on his dorm bed as he clicked open. Reading the message in its entirety, he was close to saying yes and that he would return it to you next class, but he remembered what he told himself. He wanted you to talk to him, to schedule a tutoring session. And he'll make you do it the best way he knows how.

to you: sorry, but we're able to compute that. please message with your preferred tutoring date, time and preferred meeting spot.

It was stupid, but he was hoping it would work. He figured that he could annoy you to the point where you would give in and set up one, or you'd block him and he'd finally take the hint that you don't want to talk to him ever again. But, he really wanted to address the fact that you went through all of this because you liked him. It warmed his heart.

You frowned at the message, rolling your eyes as you quickly grew agitated. Was he really going to do this right now?

to fushiguro: are you kidding me rn?

to fushiguro: fushiguro, if you don't answer me seriously, i'm going to block you!

from fushiguro: im calling your bluff. schedule an appointment if you want your pencil pouch back.

to fushiguro: no. give it back to me at org chem.

from fushiguro: no.

to fushiguro: fuck you.

to fushiguro: im being so serious. fuck you.

Megumi curses to himself, never registering that he could piss you off this bad. However, he was adamant on meeting you in private. You didn't realize that in your pouch, you had labeled your dorm room number in case it got lost. When he messaged you again, you blocked him.

—

There's a knock on your room door as you're underneath the covers of your bed, the lights off as you're doom scrolling. You pause, sure that your roommate had brought her key along with her. Unless she had lost it— that would be the third time this year. Grumbling, you jump from out of the bed, “Maki, if you lost your key again, I swear to God! I'm not going to open the door for you anymore—”

“Please!” Megumi begs. “Don't shut the door on me!”

“I'm going to file a harassment report on you,” you sneer, trying to shut the door but he's wedged his foot between the frame to block you from doing so.

“(Y/N), I'm sorry,” Megumi whines out. “Please, just listen.”

“I did and I said you were forgiven,” you groan, trying to kick his foot from between, but he's being such an ass— a strong one at that.

“But you don't mean it,” Megumi huffs. “And, I have your pencil pouch, right here. I can give it to you if you just let me in.”

“Not in a fat chance,” you pant as Megumi's come to wedge his body inside. “You're starting to become really weird, y’know. It's not that deep. It's just a pencil case.”

“Says the girl—” Megumi exhales, finally halfway inside. “—that texted me for it.”

He nearly knocks you down with the brute force he has to use to get inside. You stumble back as you nearly lose your footing. You catch yourself against the dresser, pushing yourself back on your feet as Megumi stands inside. You're breathing heavily as you both collect yourself. You've given up, seeing the stakes that he was willing to take for you to talk to him. You surrender, your hands falling to the side as he stands before you in silence. “You're inside my room now. Say what you have to say.”

Now that he was here, Megumi didn't know what to say. He takes a look around, noticing your choice of decoration. Your side of the room is simple, a pink tapestry hung with floral designs with a cork board hanging over your bed— important dates, photos and sticky notes attached to it. On your desk, you have your notebooks and textbooks aligned where tabs are neatly placed inside it. He shuffles toward them and you don't say a word, watching as he flips through them. You've taken elaborate notes, have study guides and print outs annotated. They're better than his own.

“Wow,” he chuckles to himself. “I really underestimated you.”

“Is this what you came to do?” You ask him, sitting on your bed as you observe the boy. “Look through my things and violate my privacy?”

“You can report me after this,” Megumi says. “I deserve it.”

“You sure as hell do,” you mumble. “Can't believe I had a crush on a creep.”

There's that word again. Crush. Megumi looks over at you, his face heating up at the thought. “Do you really— have a crush on me?”

“I did,” you correct him, though you're lying to yourself. “Before I found out you’re an asshole and a creep.”

“Why?” The question catches you off guard, your eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him in your sitting position.

“Why, what?” You ask for elaboration. “Why did I have a crush on you?”

Megumi nods, cheeks tinted in a deep shade of red that it's nearly concerning. “What made you attracted to me?”

“I don't know,” you shrug, placing your hands in your lap as you begin to fiddle with them. “You're cute. I mean, you have messy jet black hair that I’d love to play in, and these serious blue eyes that I'd want to make lighter. But, when you frown, I also find it cute.”

Megumi grows even more flustered, finding himself looking away. “You're also cute when you blush.”

Megumi finds the courage to sit on the edge of the bed, close to you. “You can… You can play with my hair now— if you want.”

And you hate it. You hate it how cute he looks right now, eyes pleading with yours and asking you to touch him. And how your body wants to give in and lean in. And they do. They have a mind of their own as Megumi's body leans against yours, giving you better access to his head. It's comforting, running your hands into his locks.

He can feel your heartbeat against him, how it's grown calmer by the second as you absentmindedly run your fingers through his hair. “You're also very smart,” you continued. “I liked that about you, but then…”

“I'm sorry,” Megumi whispers. There's a big pause.

“Yeah,” you hum. “You keep saying that.”

Megumi pulls away from you, getting on all fours as he crawls. You scooch further, wondering what he's doing until your back hits the headboard having you pinned down. His eyes seem sincere this time when he says it. “I mean it, (Y/N). I really am sorry.”

“I know,” you breathe, his face inching closer to yours that you can feel the heat of him. Your heart's starting to pound again as all rationality flies out the window, telling you to push him off and grow a backbone. However, you know that this has gone long enough and that you truly did forgive him the moment he apologized the first time. You were just being petty.

“Please forgive me.”

“I do, Fushiguro.”

“Call me Megumi.” There was a small measure of uncertainty. If he should really do this, what he's about to do. His fingers linger on your face, your beautiful skin as he looks down on your plump lips. You lick the bottom lip, and in his mind it's so tantalizingly slow that you must be purposely teasing him. His thumb reaches for it, gliding against the skin before his eyes are meeting yours again. It's faint, your nod, but he notices it. It gives him the courage to make your lips touch, his pink ones against yours.

It's chaste and dry at first, both of you testing and tasting the waters before you're both pulling away. There's a cloud full of need inside the two of you, a thin layer of arousal sprouting out of you as his chest presses against yours. Enveloped in each other's heat as Megumi comes to push a few strands of hair out of your face. Your hand comes next to caress him, mustering the confidence for both of you to really dive in the waters.

He tasted of spearmint and strawberries. You, the sweet artificial flavor of cherries. It's addictive as Megumi finds himself moaning into your lips first. You find yourself giggling against him when he pulls away, wanting to apologize yet again. However, you seize the opportunity to flip him over, catching him off guard as his eyes widen and you pin down his arms. This change of position, he has no problem with it. Eyes glossing, his hands instinctively find your hips, pulling them into him as you feel his growing erection.

With a breathy sigh, underneath your flimsy shorts, you can feel him. Feel his cock hardening underneath you as you press your hips down on him, putting all your weight on the poor boy's groin. You rock your hips gently just to tease him, feeling your own cunt clenches at how quickly Megumi grew aroused. But who are you kidding? So did you.

He’s hard inside his pants, loose fitted sweats where the material is thin. You’re wearing shorts that barely cover your ass, feeling how he continues to harden underneath you. Your languid movements, how your hips sensually as you rock back and forth. The hem of your tank top is riding up, revealing an inch of skin as a cute happy trail becomes visible. Megumi finds his hands roaming to your hips, pulling you to ground yourself against him before you swat away his arms and lean down to his level. Pretty plump lips that are close to his as he’s got no other choice but to look at you so close up. They curve into a smile, a small giggle leaving you before you’re licking at them and making them shine. “No touching.”

Megumi lets out a whimper in protest, daring to return his fingers to grip at your waist, but you grab ahold of them before they make contact. Your gaze is sharper, glaring at the boy as he can only mewl out, “Why not?”

“Why not?” Your manicured nails are sharp, digging into his pale skin that it’ll surely bruise. However, he can only feel himself twitch into the pain as you move against him, tutting out a sound of disapproval and looking down at him as though he’s stupid. “After you’ve been so mean to me, you think you deserve to touch me?”

“S-sorry,” he apologizes, but this time it doesn’t meet his eyes. Only leaving his lips in a desperation for your touch. Sorry, sorry, sorry. You come to roll your eyes as it becomes more meaningless everytime he says it. With both of his hands in your tight hold, you bring them to pin them over his head and pull Megumi in for a kiss. He moans into your lips, his pelvis jutting upwards in a need for more. To feel the friction and heat of your pussy against him. You let out a breath, a high-pitched squeak that leaves you as your tongue dives into his mouth.

His body has fallen so eager to you, begging for any close proximity that you can give him. The warmth of your body being too much that already he feels himself near, how he can imagine his length flushed in a red so needy that he’s ready to combust. “I—please…”

His face heats up in a bright shade of crimson that it’s nearly concerning. He finds himself embarrassed about how worked up he got over just you kissing him and the buck of your hips. You find it cute. You can feel his cock twitch underneath you fortunately, and you stop before he can spill himself inside his pants. The moment your weight isn’t pressed down into him, he whines in protest as his blue eyes look for yours in pleading. You shake your head, bottom lips poking out in a pout. “Nuh uh,” you say. “Can't have you wasting yourself in your pants.” Even if it’ll be the hottest thing you’ll ever see.

Still, there’s a wet patch in his pants, darkening the material as you slot yourself in between his legs. His shirt has ridden up considerably, revealing most of his stomach and the short pebbles of hair leading down to his length. Your touch is cold. Megumi shivers underneath it as you tuck your fingers underneath his pants and underwear, tugging it down slowly in exaggeration to reveal his cock to you. Shaft and balls a dusty pink with the head of him bright with need. Where he’s not too gifted in girth, he’s been blessed with a slightly over average cock that’ll surely be enough to reach your g-spot. Pre leaks from his tip, jolting ever so slightly at the cold air engulfing the room.

You hum in delight, finding him so pretty like this. His shirt rose and his pants pooling at the ankles before you can remove them completely. He pants heavily, a visceral desire reverberating off of his chest as you leave him wanting for more. To have you over him like this, his pupils dilate as he watches you crawl over him and reach to pull off his shirt. When he’s completely bare underneath you, he lays down pliantly as he waits for your next move. You can do anything to him, he wouldn’t care, he just needed you.

With his length hitting his lower stomach, you’ve positioned yourself to how you previously were and returned to your teasing movements, rocking against his length. It’s overwhelming, but in a way that doesn’t have him begging to leave. He keeps his arms over his head, his short stubby nails doing nothing as his fingers dig in his flesh. Again, your chest is pressed against his as you kiss him, tasting you and loving what he receives.

How did these events transpire? If someone were to ask you, your mind would go blank, only happy with the outcome of it all. You hold Megumi’s face in your hands, caressing his cheeks as your tongue dances against his. Filled with so much fervor as your movements sound the gentle creaks of the bed, you have to restrain yourself from what you truly want. How you truly want him to fill you up and give you what you’ve been craving this entire time. But, he looks so handsome like this— watching how his face heats up with either lust or embarrassment, or how he moans and whines against you. To feel how you’ve had him on the brink of an orgasm just from kissing alone, it’s enough to build up your ego, never having a man like this. It’s usually the opposite.

When you detact your lips from his, a string of saliva is attached, becoming thinner and thinner until it snaps. Megumi’s blue eyes have darkened significantly, pink lips opened up slightly as he takes you in. Taking in your absolute beauty as you’re still clothed. Under your tank top is nothing, forgoing a bra and your nipples are poking through. They rub against the fabric in heavy need, and he can only imagine how they’d feel in his mouth.

“Can you take off your top?” His voice is low, coming out breathy as his mouth waters. He’s afraid that you’ll say no, so he makes eye contact with you, eyes widened in a begging motion as he adds, “Please.”

You’d be lying if you said that didn’t make your heart flutter and before you can thoroughly think it through, your arms cross as you pull up your shirt. Your breasts spill out of the tight fitted top, dropping out like a breath of relief. Dark areolas that are puckered as your nipples stand out prominently. Megumi’s body has a mind of its own, sitting up on the bed before you can completely register as he takes you ahold of him and drags you down to lay on top of him. His mouth opens to suck you, and you can feel the warmth of his lips as he lets out a wanton moan.

It’s dragged out as he can taste your skin, feel how your back arches into him as you can only succumb to the pleasure. Your hips buck against him, pressing against his cock as he continues to leak precum. The translucent mess sticking to your bottoms as he holds your waist tightly against him as he ruts himself into you. The salt of your skin is quickly washed away as he sucks and nips at the pebbles, seemingly wanting for something to come out of you.

His eyes are shut as his grip on you is tight and forcing your hips to ground against him as you call out his name. “M-Megumi…”

Such a quick turn of events as your mouth hangs open as he moves you how he wants, tightly ground him as he rocks his hips into you. He alternates between your breasts, giving them equal opportunities of love as you can feel your slick sticking to your underwear. Your juices pool at the amount of friction against you. You can feel Megumi’s erection against your covered cunt, and the wetness of each other against it. It feels so dirty and so nasty, but simultaneously all too good to pull away from each other.

“You feel so good,” Megumi breathes against you, feeling that familiar knot within his stomach as his cock twitches. And he’s greedy, not wanting to stop in fear that you’ll edge him again. “P–please… Make me feel even better.”

“I will…” you draw out, voice getting higher. “I will. Just— Don’t stop right now!”

Megumi shakes his head in promise, his hold on you getting impossibly tighter. “I won’t. Trust me.”

There’s a huge wet patch on your shorts now, the cotton in your panties being too weak to hold all of your juices in as Megumi beckons that much from you. You continue to grow aroused the more he moans against you, sucking on your breasts and kneading them with heavy devotion. However, those same moans become more choked and staggered as you feel his length against you, a wetness foreign to yours leaking from him. Cumming all over your shorts as his lips finally leave your breasts to get ahold of himself. Eyes shut as his eyebrows knit together before he’s returning back to you. “Fuck,” he breathes, eyes open again yet hazy. That same pink tint returns to his cheeks and you can anticipate what’s about to leave it next.

“Don’t say it,” you giggle, putting a finger on his lips. His eyes widen before he’s chuckling, about to say it again before he can catch himself. Instead, he replaces it with, “Okay.”

Soon enough do you replace the word from his vocabulary, stripping yourself out of your shorts and down to your soaked panties. Your juices stick to your inner thighs as you push the crotch of your underwear to the side and leave Megumi a short period of time to ogle your bare cunt. It’s such a beautiful sight to behold, the dark curls of your happy trail leading to the little bush that you adorn. How he’d like to run his fingers along the tufts of hair, but you’ve got his hands up again, commanding him not to touch. Your folds glisten magnificently in the lighting as Megumi’s dark pupils are trained on your pussy, watching how your essence sticks to them.

With the cum that sticks to his stomach, you use a finger to collect the strays and paint it over your clit. He watches in awe, the white painting to the contrast of your dark nub and into the hairs. It’s messy and downright disgusting how you’re playing in his release, but it has his cock needy in delight and anticipation. Your pussy envelopes his shafts, painting him in your sweet nectar that has him wondering if it’s the forbidden fruit. And if so, would you be willing to let him have a taste? Would God allow him to?

His tip kisses your entrance, nearly bringing him to his second release when you sink down onto him. It’s so dramatically slow, or maybe that’s mind conjuring that, beckoning himself to disobey you and pull you down against him to sheath himself completely inside you. Your hole swallows him up like corset strings continuing to pull and pull. You’re an enchanting temptress hovering over his body as your walls suck him in whole. It’s a miracle how he hasn’t succumbed to his wants by now.

You feel full, feeling how his cock has embedded itself inside you. Your pussy clenches around him, a sigh leaving your lips of true satisfaction. You still yourself for a moment, body going unmoving as he watches Megumi from below. He looks so in awe as though he’s in complete adoration of you and your body. His hands twitch overhead as you know he wants more than nothing that touch you again, wanting to feel the warmth of your skin as you fuck yourself on his cock. You’re amazed by him, how he keeps such a calm and collected composure inside of the classroom. Making him appear as he has everything together, but here he is— underneath you and you have his entire composure falling apart in a matter of seconds. How he was eager to have you play in his hair and shortly disintegrated into a thousand tiny pieces the moment you kissed him.

How he went under great lengths to try and prove that he’s truly sorry. You wonder how he feels, believing that the pretty rich girl that he thought was stupid now has him to the point where he can’t even think a coherent thought outside of your pussy. He’s come to believe that your cunt is magical and how it’s managed to make him come undone in such a short period of time. And when you start bouncing on his cock, you have him completely enamored.

Your breasts move up and down at the pace you’ve set, already having him a moaning mess. The stench of sex reeks throughout the dorm room, your juices and Megumi’s release being so potent that your roommate will scorn you and have you spray air freshener until it’s gone and can’t smell a trace of it. Skin slapping against skin and your wanton moans filling the air as neither of you are quiet and you show no ounce of remorse for those next door hearing it. The bed creaks with your movement, and you’re watching how your juices stick to him every time you meet his pelvis.

You’re focused on your pleasure, using his cock to get you off as you bounce and grind against his length. Pressing into him, his tip kisses at your g-spot, having you mewl against him as you fall into his chest. Breasts pressed into his chest, based on muscle memory, your lips find his in a matter of seconds as you continue to fuck his cock. Your pussy wraps him in a tight grip, having Megumi moan out against you. They’re swallowed away, but he doesn’t care.

You find yourself gnawing at Megumi’s bottom lip when you feel your release approaching you, that familiar coil in your stomach greets you. Your mouth goes dry as your eyes squeeze shut as your teeth let go of Megumi’s lips. You don’t have to utter a word for him to know that you’re close. Your impending orgasm only eggs his on as he moves inside you. When your movements become more sporadic as your thighs begin to shake, it’s as though your body is control of his, commanding him to cum alongside you. Your juices seep down, adorning his cock in your creamy essence as continuously milks his cock. A white ring forms at the base as your cunt grows messy itself, the mixture of cum twirling itself inside of your pretty little bush as you ride out your orgasm. You whine at the overstimulation, your clit rubbing against Megumi as it becomes sensitive.

Together, the two of you pant until that lust-blown fog is cleared from your minds and you’re staring into his eyes. Those blue eyes that stared back at you with so much lust and adoration. When you’re both breathing steadily, you lay your head in the crevice of his neck and feel the rhythmic beat of his heart.

It’s his turn to play in your hair, messing with the braids and the curled locks of hair that reside outside of it. He comes to chuckle, the vibration jolting you up as you shift. His cock still inside you, your movement has him groaning when you look up at him in curiosity. “What?”

You’ll probably slap him for this. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

#megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro smut #megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi smut #megumi smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #megumi fushiguro #megumi #fushiguro megumi #x reader #x black reader #( 🀄 ) : standalone.#tw: (n)sfw

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odoraful · 4 months ago

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𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓

wriothesley has been hesitant to tell you about his past, afraid that it will tarnish your view of him. reconciling with this is no easy task, but he has you by his side to guide him

content: wriothesley x gn!reader; established relationship; 'baby' pet name; reader and wriothesley live together; nightmare sequence; mentions of blood; spoilers to wrio story quest!; reader doesn't know the full truth of wriothesley's past; wriothesley worried about how good of a partner he is :( ; hurt/comfort; reverse comfort; 4k words

a/n: i just wanna gently hold wriothesley and tell him that he's doing so well <3 also i give full credit to critical role and the wonderful talisen jaffe for the quote "pain doesn't make people, it's love that makes people"

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Before opening his eyes, Wriothesley smelled iron. Pungent and pervasive. It filled his nostrils and sunk unpleasantly in his churning stomach. He knew he was lying on his back on a cold, hard surface, but that was about as much information he was certain about. Where he was or how he ended up in this state escaped him.

He tested his other senses. Every swallow of saliva went down like sand in his throat. His fingers were limp as he tried squeezing them into fists, the strength siphoned out of him. Slowly regaining some sense of himself again, he could finally label what the scent was. Blood.

At that realisation, he peeled opened his eyes, dreading the scene he would find himself in. A scene he knew that would be painfully similar to memories he quashed a long time ago. He grimly thought whether the blood would be trailing from his hands, or already dried up beneath him, a red dye stained on the floorboards. The lights above accosted him, dazzling his vision. Fontainian households were always so bright, and it didn’t help that the walls of them were white too. But, even then, there were always nooks and crannies shrouded in darkness. Wriothesley found that the more glittering lights there were, the darker the shadows they casted.

He sat up with a groan, his body the weight of bricks. Looking around, there was no such scene he imagined before him. The room he was in was… ordinary. Pristine white walls lined with book shelves against spotless light timber flooring. A fireplace was tucked between two shelves, where the hearth held blackened remnants of burned wood. Wriothesley was situated on the floor between the fireplace and two brown cushioned sofas facing each other separated by a low table. He swore there were other furnishings in the room, but for some reason he couldn’t focus on them. The edges of his vision blurred and he couldn’t make out any other details besides what was most salient.

It wasn’t necessary though.

He knew where he was.

He was almost even in the exact spot they found him slumped in when he was a boy. Back rested against a bookshelf, hollow eyes gazing into the distance. The officers were unable to hide the pure shock on their faces at the grisly tableau in front of them.

Bile rose in Wriothesley’s throat. Despite there being no evidence of violence, the scent of blood lingered in the air, filling his lungs. He went to stand, the movement ungraceful and slow, as if he were swimming in the ocean with thick layers of clothing on. Lying on the floor wouldn’t do well for his nausea. He walked towards to sofa to sit and assess this situation. Sinking into the cushions, he rubbed his temples with his hands.

He thought this house had long since been torn down. How had he been taken back to his old home? His mind sharply retracted those words. No, he wouldn’t call it that. Home was a place of safety and love, but the place he grew up in was built on a foundation of lies and malice. The only small glimmer of home he could recall was his bonds with his siblings.

“█████.”

A voice whispered from just beside his ear, as if speaking a secret.

Wriothesley’s skin prickled. His head snapped around, but he was only met with empty space.

Impossible, he thought. No one who should know that name. He buried it a long time ago when he was handcuffed to the bed in that emergency ward. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. Digging up memories of his past.

“█████, where did you go?”

This time, a different, more louder voice came from the opposite direction. Wriothesley could make out its qualities—young and wistful. It was that of a child.

Wriothesley was not often scared. When someone like him had seen both the worst and best of what life had to offer, he was seldom caught off guard. Even backed into a corner, there was always a way out for him. A few carefully chosen words was his preferred method, but now, his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Hearing that name being said aloud chilled him to his bones. The colour drew from his face, skin turning ghast-like. He was terrified.

“You left without saying goodbye.”

A young girl sniffled, sounding on the verge of tears. Wriothesley scanned the room frantically, trying to find the source of the voices.

“Why did you leave us?”

A young boy this time. Familiarity clawed at the back of Wriothesley’s mind. His eyes bulged in horror.

“█████, we miss you.”

“You said we would play together.”

“They took some of us away.”

“█████, will you ever come back?”

Wriothesley covered his ears, but it did little to quiet the ceaseless voices. Multiple of them spoke at once, rising in urgency, surging around him. Overlapping and defeaning, burrowing into his skull no matter how hard he squeezed and squeezed his ears shut. He was backed into a corner with no way out. He screamed in his head, roaring in agony. He couldn’t stay here, he needed out.

Hearing the pleading of his own mind, Wriothesley jolted awake.

Like a conductor ending a symphony with the close of their hand, the cacophony of voices abruptly stopped.

Void-like silence met him in the waking world.

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He felt his heart lodged in his throat, as if he had been pushed off the tallest point of the Palais Mermonia. Steadying his shallow breathing, he pushed his back further into the bedsheets, trying to ground himself.

Just a dream, just a dream. He repeated, sighing loudly. His bedroom had never been a more welcome sight as he sat up, careful not to awake his resting partner. At least, that’s where you should have been. There was no weight of your body beside him. He swept a hand over the bed, and made contact only with the sheets and crumpled quilt blanket.

Still reeling from the terrors of his dream, Wriothesley’s mind drew the worse conclusions. Had you been taken? Had you left him? Panicked, he began to call out your name. His voice was hoarse, but he was glad he could speak after being robbed of it in his dream.

A triangle of yellow light cut into the darkness of the room as the door cracked opened. Relief flooded him seeing you standing there, wrapped in a fluffy robe, hair ruffled.

“Baby, is everything alright?” You asked softly, approaching the bed.

Wriothesley’s chest rose and fell in quick intervals. His body arched over like a crooked branch, shivering ever so slightly. Alarms blared inside you. You had never seen him in this state before.

“I- I thought you had gone somewhere,” he said, voice quavering.

The mattress dipped as you sat atop, kneeling beside him. “I didn’t leave.” You lay a hand on him, watching closely at his expression with a furrowed brow. “I’m here, I’m here,” you soothed gently, rubbing small circles into his shoulder.

He gave into your touch, his posture easing. Seeing him slowly relax, you raised your hands to cradle his face. Warmth radiated through him, expelling whatever anxieties had possessed him. His breath shuddered. Immediately, he nuzzled into your touch, burying his face in the faint scent of soap and lilies. He could stay here forever. It would be all he needed to revitalise his senses and keep him alive. He covered one of your hands with his own, encompassing it completely. His calloused fingers slid between yours—a sensation that contrasted against the softness of his lips as he kissed the inside of your palm. A feather-like touch that caused the butterflies in your stomach to flutter.

“I was just in the bathroom.” You reassured him. Wriothesley hummed in response. “Did something happen?”

He hesitated, wondering how much he should tell you.

“I just had a nightmare.” His voice was muffled, lips grazing your skin as he spoke. “It was nothing, really.”

You gently turned his head towards yours, prompting him to focus on you. “It doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

His heart stung at the pure concern on your face. Different from the times when you tended to him when he injured himself whilst boxing, or when you saw him passed out at his desk from his persistent workload. There was desperation layered in your knitted brows and parted lips.

“Let me get you a glass of water.” You said, caressing his face. Hints of stubble brushed under the pads of your thumbs. “You’ll feel a little better after being hydrated.”

Coldness returned to his cheeks as you pulled away. You couldn’t even turn around before Wriothesley’s hands were on you once again. He snaked his arms around your waist, embracing you tightly.

“Don’t go.” He rasped. “Please, stay with me.”

His pleading tugged at your heartstrings. As much as you wanted to stay in his arms, you could tell from his voice just how dry his throat was. “I won’t be far from you. I’ll be gone only for a moment.” You kissed his forehead, sealing your promise.

You waited until he loosened his hold on you (albeit begrudgingly), and hurried out of the room to fetch some water. Wriothesley leaned against the bedhead. His head was clearer now, and he tuned his hearing to the far-away whir of machinery in the Fortress.

He was glad to have a shared room with you away from his working environment. This was an entirely new floor he had extended above his office. The design of which began after he had seen you curled up in sleep on one of his chairs, waiting for him to finish his duties for the day. Resting somewhere backgrounded by piles of administrative paperwork didn’t make for the most relaxing setting. And so, he swiftly drafted plans to create private quarters for the two of you.

After a long day, he would head straight upstairs to meet you. You’d be there snuggled on the lounge with a novel, and his footfalls would be enough for you to abandon your book on the table and rush over to the door. Now, while the sun could not be seen in the stronghold beneath the waves, it found its place with you. In the way your smile beamed and eyes twinkled as you greeted him. You were so, so bright, and yet he could never look away. At first, it almost startled him how easy you gave your love to him. There was no ulterior motive with you. You loved him wholly.

He sadly wondered how quickly your glimmer would fade if he revealed parts of him that had never seen the light.

The tapping of your slippers approached the door, and you entered with a glass and pitcher of water. Placing them both on the bedside table, you poured water into the glass and handed it to him. Wriothesley didn’t realise how parched he was until he took the first sip. Eagerly chugging the rest down, he you in the corner of his eye, chewing on your bottom lip. You were on the cusp of saying something.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked, taking the empty glass from his hands and putting it to the side.

“Your dream that is…” You faltered through your words. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you seemed upset when you woke up.”

More than upset, you thought to yourself, afraid.

Wriothesley reached out for you wrist. You let him guide you into bed, slipping under the blankets. He pulled you in closer, arm draped around your waist, until your bodies were flush with each other. Your expectant gaze fell on him. He plastered on an assuring smile, but couldn’t quite draw the corners of his lips up to reach his eyes.

“I was only a bit shaken,” he replied, keeping his tone light. “It had things relating to my past. My subconscious must have it out for me for not letting me get a good night’s rest.” Hopefully that was enough to mollify the true contents of his dream.

You toyed with the edge of the blanket. Wriothesley’s past was something he didn’t divulge in too much detail. Even after being together for some time, all you knew was that his childhood was a difficult time, and he had to run away from his foster parents home. You had a good sense that he no longer wished to recall these events from the way he was quick to brush off the topic. It was hard for you to balance between wanting to know more, and also respecting his privacy.

“You know that you can tell me about anything that’s bothering you, right?”

Your eyes never left his, watching the way they brimmed with fondness as he answered.

“Of course I know that baby, it’s just that…” His eyes casted downwards.

In his line of work, keeping up a poker-face meant keeping things under control. However, with you, he never hid his true emotions, and you saw conflict dance across his features.

“I’m worried it might change how you see me,” he confessed, fidgeting with his fingers as if he were itching to move.

“Wriothesley,” you covered a hand over his, halting his movement, “nothing will make me change the way I see you now. You aren’t the same person as you were back when you were young.”

Those words settled in his mind, prodding at the uncertainties he had about opening up. You continued,

“You can share anything about your past with me. And, what is it they say…” You tried to recall a line you had read recently. “A burden shared is a burden halved?”

He couldn’t fight back a smile, teeth peeking out from beneath his lips. “Putting those philosophical books you’re reading to use?”

“Actually, it’s a collection of poetry from Mondstadt.” You corrected, pursing your lips smugly.

He breathed a laugh, spirits lightening at how endearing his partner was.

From the day he selected a new name for himself, he chose to begin anew. Although he knew that nothing in his past constituted any part of his life now, it still clung to him. A fog clouding his mind during moments of solitude, drawing out doubts that stumbled into the open. If he did tell you the full truth, would you see him as nothing more than someone raised in a loveless place? Who was pushed to do what many considered unthinkable? Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled slowly—ruminating.

You calmly awaited his next words, knowing that you would accept both if he chose to tell you or not.

Wriothesley spoke again,

“I mentioned to you before that I didn’t have the most… peaceful childhood.”

You nodded, grim at the thought of what those adults had done to those innocent children. “Mmm, you told me about your foster parents, and how you ran away from them.”

“Yes, but that’s not the whole truth.”

Pausing, he steeled himself. He caught on a thread that had long since been loose and began to unravel his past.

“After I escaped, I couldn’t shake off the guilt of abandoning my siblings, but there was also no way I could stay in that household after what I had learned.”

He recounted the story in the same way one would read aloud an article published by The Steambird. So separated from his past that he had little inflection in his tone. Even so, you saw a flare of emotion in Wriothesley’s eyes.

“So, I tried to keep myself alive and tried to get stronger, so that I could return and protect them.”

“Archons,” he bowed his head, dark hair falling over his brows, “I don’t even know how much time passed out there, everything seemed to blend together.”

You felt an ache in your chest, like someone had tightly gripped your heart. “I can’t imagine how tough it must have been.” Picturing a younger Wriothesley in your head, frightened and alone, made you shiver.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “It was.” He returned a sad smile to you, though regret laced his words. “I wouldn’t wish that life for anybody, but I did learn a lot.”

“I snuck back into the house after a while of being on the streets. I-“ He rubbed his temple with his free hand, unable to find the right words. “One of my siblings told me that while I was gone, a few of them had been… adopted into other families.”

Your skin turned cold, knowing exactly what that meant.

“I-I think I heard their voices in my dream.” His voice wavered, face scrunching up as he remembered those ghostly voices in that empty room. “They were asking why I left them there, wondering where I was.”

You squeezed his hand. “But you did return. You swore that you would come back for them and you did,” you asserted.

Shaking his head, he turned his hand over to interlock your fingers with his. “Perhaps I was too late.”

“I found my foster parents sitting happily in the drawing room, and suddenly, I felt so, so angry.” His expression turned sombre, staring down at the blanket covering you two. “At them, at myself, at the world, and something snapped in me and I did the only thing I felt I could do in that moment.”

A heaviness tugged down on his chest as if in protest at the continuation of his sentence. But, there would be no hiding it now. He swallowed thickly.

“I killed them.”

The words left his lips in a whisper, and hung in the space between you.

You stilled. The faint beating of your heart could be felt between your hand in his.

Sensing your stiffness, Wriothesley forced himself to look at you, searching your face in the hopes of finding any kind of reaction. He half expected you to pull away in terror. Disillusioned at the fact that your partner was a murderer. But, he found no such revulsion. Instead, your eyes glossy with tears captured a sadness so sincere and profound that his heart shattered into pieces, piercing him from the inside out.

“It was a long time ago.” With every word he spoke, the shards seemed to dig deeper. “And I definitely don’t associate myself with that person anymore.”

“But, I understand if this changes how you see me. If you need time away-”

“Don’t say that,” you interrupted, shaking your head fervently.

You blinked, tears lining your lower lashes. The sight of your partner blurred slightly in your vision, his face contorted in pain. You understood. The distance he wanted to put between you was merely a façade. Buried beneath it was a wordless plea for you to stay. He had bared everything to you, and you would not let him hurt by himself any longer.

“It doesn’t change how I feel towards you.” Determination rose in your cracked voice. “You were so young. No child should ever be placed in a position like that.”

Surely, there must be some part of him that agreed. Some part that would allow forgiveness. Wriothesley’s gaze flicked between your eyes, lost in your expression, as was you in his. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I-I can’t be the one to say whether it was the right thing to do,” you continued, “but what I do know is that you were just a child who needed to survive and wanted to protect those you cared about.”

How many people had treated him with kindness as a child? It upset you to think of all the adults that turned their backs on him. Reducing his character to only what they saw on a case report. Likely considering him to be nothing more than a psychopath. Your pulse thumped in your ears at the injustice of it.

“You are not who you were in the past.” You said slowly, enunciating every word. “Pain doesn’t make people, Wriothesley. It’s love that makes people.”

His expression melted softly. The creases between his brows smoothing.

“And I know that you love and care so strongly, you’ve shown me that every single day.”

Icy blue eyes held so much affection as he stared back at you—transfixed. Now more than ever did he believe you were the sun to him. Basking in your warmth, feeling the comfort of it tingle his skin. What you had said to him had begun to sink in. However, while he couldn’t refute your words, the mindset he had formed could not be altered in a single moment. Perhaps he would not completely believe your words now, but that was alright. You would be there by his side every day to remind him.

Clearing his throat, Wriothesley tested out if his voice was still fit to speak. Though this room was private to the two of you, he spoke quietly, as if he craved only your attention.

“When I was serving my sentence here, I always dreamed about what my new home would be."

He recalled the confinement of his cell, and how his mind would drift from counting the bolts in the metal wall to imagining a new life for himself. Wanting a place that was safe and people he felt at peace with felt like a mirage to him. However, if he could go back in time and speak to his younger self in that cell, he would tell him that things would turn out alright. The journey would not be without difficulties, but he would finally be in a place where he no longer had to look over his shoulder, fearing for his safety. And, he would be with someone who would be proud to call him their love.

“I think I found it here, with you.”

He took the chance to close the distance between you two. His forehead rested against yours. You closed your eyes.

“I love you, Wriothesley,” you whispered, instinctively.

His breath caught in his throat. How fortunate he was to have you in his life. Not only to receive your endless love, but to learn just how capable of loving he is.

He whispered back in reply, his breath gently fanning across your cheeks. “I love you too.”

Neither of you broke away, staying in this position for a moment. Everything had been untangled before you, and a odd mixture of both sorrow and solace stirred inside you. Sorrow at listening to what Wriothesley had gone through as a boy, and solace at how tender the man before you was, his hair tickling against your forehead.

You continued to speak softly to each other for a while longer. The conversation floated from his time at the Fortress to how he became its administrator. As he spoke, the accuracy of the quote you shared before was confirmed in the inexplicable lightness he felt in his chest. A burden shared is a burden halved, he recited to himself.

Time drew on, and you both sensed that if you didn’t sleep now, you’d be up until the Fortress’ inmates began their morning shifts. Curling up beside each other, you asked to play big spoon this time so he could fall asleep easier. Though he was taller in stature to you, you insisted on it. If it were a different day, he probably would have put up a greater fight, but there was little argument in him now at the chance of being wrapped up in your arms. He was lulled to rest by your rhythmic inhales and exhales. The night quietened, and no more voices followed him in slumber.

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post a/n: thank you for making it to the hidden easter egg author note haha, i appreciate you greatly, and i hope it was an enjoyable read!!! 🥺 i just wanted to yap about my thought process writing this piece. you definitely don't have to read all this, it's primarily for my own notetaking! <3

i felt like this was probably one of the hardest pieces i've written so far (?) i found it tough to build up that tension of reader not knowing wriothesley's full past and him still grappling with his actions as a young boy, and even what that dialogue would look like! i had to step away and come back a few times just so i could look at this with a fresh pair of eyes. it may not be perfect but i'm glad to have finished this! :')

#odorawrites #genshin wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x you #wriothesley x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin impact wriothesley #genshin wriothesley #wriothesley genshin #wriothesley

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golden-cherry · 1 year ago

Text

deal - cl16 (19/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: There's so much going on in Charles' brain, but having to come clean with his feelings is the hardest.

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of fingering, masturbating), angst, swear words, Lando being a little shit

Word Count: 3.4k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: sorry. and happy season finale. let’s hope for a better 2024.

Charles has never been so happy about a pot of plants.

After you slammed the door in his face, he barely made it to the street before throwing up in the nearest plant pot. His fingers clawed around the hard ceramic edges as his body struggled against the nasty words he spat at you.

He doesn't even know why he was so mean to you.

Was it because you had a wonderful evening last night? Because you two got so close that you both almost kissed? Because you fell asleep next to each other and he slept incredibly well? Or because Lando texted him in the middle of the night and asked what your favorite food was so that he could do everything right on your date?

Maybe he does know why he was so mean to you.

"Charles? Concentrate, please," he is snapped out of his thoughts and Charles sits up a little straighter in his chair. He can feel something crack in his spine.

The meeting has been going on for hours. So long, in fact, that the private chefs in Maranello have already had to bring food to the room four times, with the last meal being dinner. Charles has eaten so much pasta and bruschetta that he feels sick just looking at the leftovers on the table in front of him. And the water with the slice of lemon in the glass in front of him no longer tastes very refreshing.

No matter what he eats or drinks, he can't get rid of the disgusting taste in his mouth.

He wonders if your "I hate you" is as heavy on your stomach as the nasty words are on his. He would love to take back everything he spat in your face. Turn back time and undo everything. But he can't do that. Unfortunately.

He'd love to bang his head on the tabletop.

In fact, he can barely remember what he said. It's as if his brain short circuited, has had some kind of blackout, or as if a bomb has gone off and wiped everything out. Which doesn't excuse any of it. But from your hurt look, the tears in your eyes and your venomous response, it was so unacceptable that he'd like to slap himself for it.

It wasn't the first time Lando had asked Charles for dating help and they are actually such good friends that Charles has always been happy to help him. But the fact that the Brit asked for help so that he could take you out nicely - that doesn't sit right with him. Which is complete nonsense, because he has no reason to. He has no claim of ownership over you. And besides, he didn't want to kiss you in the bookstore.

Although that's not entirely true either.

He did want to kiss you. Desperately. And you'd been so close all day, you'd shown him your favorite place and everything had pointed to you wanting to make the move to something more - and then you gave him that look when he asked you for a dance. And he can understand why you didn't want to. After all, it's your place, your favorite place, and never would Charles do anything to tarnish that place in any way. Create a memory that you would later regret.

The Petit Mondes is your safe haven. And as much as Charles wants you - and he definitely does - he wouldn't cross that line.

Since you've known each other, Charles has had to fight every waking - and to be honest, every sleeping - moment not to jump you. He can't stop thinking about you standing in front of him half-naked in a towel. Or how you turned around just a few steps away from him before dinner with his friends to show him your outfit. How you slept next to him and dreamt - dreamt of him. A moment he will never forget.

Although he is actually a late riser, Charles woke up early that morning. Not because he had slept in, but because he was warm. Contrary to his expectations, it wasn't because of the comforter or the heating, but because you were lying half on top of him. Your head was resting against his shirt-clad chest, one of your legs was draped over his hip, while your arm was wrapped around his middle.

At first, he didn't understand what was going on at all. He wanted to lift his arm to rub the sleep from his eyes, but he was met with resistance in the form of a lightly clad, sleeping beauty. His arm was wrapped around your waist, his hand was a little too high on your ribs to pass for being friendly, and by God - he hadn't felt this comfortable in ages.

Feeling your closeness had triggered something in him that confused him, but at the same time made him incredibly relaxed. He had pulled you closer to him, pressed you against him and enjoyed your warmth. For a moment, he had even considered whether he should just pull you all over him so that he could be as close to you as possible.

Before he could think about how wrong that would be and how many boundaries he would be crossing, you had turned in his arms so that your back was against his chest. Your body molded perfectly against his, your warmth engulfing him, but nothing could have prepared him for the fact that you were going to move your butt a little in his direction, right up against his crotch.

Charles had been awake in a flash and while you continued to sleep soundly, all the blood from his brain had rushed to his dick. Embarrassed, he'd squinted and focused on something else - Ferrari strategies, Joris last Christmas with the Leclercs, anything - and had scooted back a few inches to stick his hand down his pants so he could fix his raging boner.

But alas, you'd followed him like a magnet, squirming against him like you knew exactly what you were doing, so that his cock was wedged between your ass cheeks. Your body had been so warm, so soft against his hard one, that he had to stifle a moan.

Something you hadn't been able to do. If you hadn't been so close to him, he would have missed your soft gasp of his name. That's when he blew a fuse.

He would have loved to wake you up with kisses along your neck, let his fingers wander slowly over your skin until they finally disappeared into your panties. He would have let them glide through your folds and collect your wetness before gently rubbing your bundle of nerves. You would have turned to him and moaned into his mouth as he slid one of his fingers into your tight walls.

He'd never escaped his bedroom so quickly and quietly and jumped into the freezing cold shower.

The water felt like fine pinpricks as it splashed down on his burning hot skin, but no matter how cold he turned it on - his cock stood angry and proud. He put his head back in despair, his brain vehemently refusing to see his friend in this light, to desire you like this. But before he could do anything about it, his fingers had wrapped themselves around his aching cock. His imagination ran away with him, too many images popped up in his mind's eye as he squeezed it twice in the hope of relieving some tension. But the only thing it triggered was the feeling of a moment ago, when his cock was against your ass.

He was almost ashamed of how quickly he came.

He just hoped you didn't notice when he came back into the bedroom and woke you up with it. He had thought about lying back next to you, but had decided on the foot of the bed to create some distance.

The fact that you were dreaming about him threw him off course. And he'd really wanted to kiss you - by God, he'd wanted to do even kinkier things to you - but the timing never seemed right.

And then Lando's message came.

The vibration in his pocket brings him back to the present. Charles takes a quick look around to make sure he's not the center of the conversation, then glances at his phone.

Lando: You need to come home now.

He looks at the screen, confused. Why the hell is Lando texting him? Lando of all people? Did you tell him all the things Charles threw at you? How badly he treated you?

Charles: I'm in Maranello.

If you really did confide in Lando, his answer sounds pathetic. Why else would Lando text him? His friend certainly knows that Charles screwed up. And also that you want to move out of the apartment. But does the Brit really believe that Charles could change your mind when he's the reason you're moving out?

Lando's answer comes immediately.

Lando: I don't care. Get your ass over here.

The Monegasque turns on the keypad lock on his cell phone and places it on the table in front of him. It wouldn't make any difference if he went home now and tried to change your mind. What could happen is that his presence would only strengthen your decision to move out. Besides, he doesn't know how he's ever going to face you again.

Before he can think about it, his cell phone starts ringing. The eyes of his co-workers land on him and he apologizes with a quiet "mi dispiace" before leaving the meeting, phone in hand. Out in the corridor, he doesn't even need to look at the screen to know who is calling.

"If you don't go back to Monaco immediately, I'll come to Italy myself to get you," Lando snaps at him and Charles has to hold the receiver away from his ear to stop his eardrums from bursting.

"Hi, Lando."

"Don't give me 'Hi, Lando'. Get your fucking ass over here."

Charles rubs his forehead before running his whole hand over his face. "I can't just leave here."

"Don't talk shit like that. We both know you're not up for the meeting," the Brit replies bitchily. "Don't act like you don't have a choice."

The Monegasque rolls his eyes. "What do you want to hear from me now, Lando?"

The answer comes like a shot from a gun. "I want to know what you've been up to! Are you completely stupid?"

Charles would like to know the answer too.

"You go home right now, explain your shitty behaviour and apologize."

"And you're interfering because...?" His tone is cold.

"Because I was in your apartment all evening and had to watch how devastated Y/N was. I'd love to kill you for it."

"Go ahead and do it. She sure as hell wouldn't mind."

He swears he hears Lando take a deep breath on the other end of the line.

"I'm going to tell you this once. Just once, Charles. And I'm saying this for her sake, because I still have hope that you're the person I was praising to her."

Praising? If you've told Lando everything, then you've certainly told Charles everything about the Brit. That he just wants to get you into bed. So why would Lando want to help him?

"What you did was absolute bullshit, Charles. Totally below the belt and you've never acted as fucking shit as you just did."

Charles rolls his eyes. "Is there anything positive coming?"

"Shut up, you idiot. I don't know what you've done in the few days you've known each other to make her so crazy about you, but I don't have to. Any blind man can see there's something between you. Something good. So go home now and save what can be saved before she really decides to leave the country."

Charles, who had just been leaning against the wall, stands up straight. "The country? I thought she just wanted to move out."

"She's been thinking about it, asshole. United States, Australia. Something really far away from you."

"But she has her job here, at that one magazine. There's no way she'd leave like that."

"She got fired, motherfucker. Before you made your weird deal. Nothing's keeping her here anymore. So get your ass over here now before she really decides to take off."

How could Charles be so blind? He knows the magazine, his mom reads it occasionally and he actually knows that a new issue comes out every week. You've known each other for five days - five days that you've spent entirely with him. Something that would definitely not be possible with such a full-time job.

"And what do you want from me now? That I drop everything to go home even though she doesn't want to see me?"

"I've never seen anyone as stupid as you."

"Can you stop with the insults?" Charles snaps through the phone.

"You have nothing to say to me, you arsehole. She told me what you said about me. You owe it to us to go off and try to make things right."

Charles can't help but laugh. "Us? So you two are already an us?" He doesn't know why he's talking to one of his closest friends like this. Especially when the latter only wants to help put things right that Charles has messed up. The Monegasque has no reason to be angry. But the disgusting taste in his mouth, which he hasn't been able to get rid of for hours, is not anger. Unfortunately, he only realizes it now.

He's fucking jealous. And he can't do anything about it.

"We're friends, but apparently you don't know what the word stands for," Lando replies snippily. "Go home, explain to her why you behaved so badly and apologize to her." His voice softens, warmer than it has been throughout the phone call. "Charles, I know you're being careful because you're afraid of getting hurt again. And I can understand that, I really can." He takes a deep breath. "But it's Y/N we're talking about here. Sit down and talk to each other, be honest, and then it'll all work out."

Charles' gaze wanders to the huge Ferrari logo hanging on the wall next to him and his bad guilt returns. You don't even know who he is. To you, he's Charles, the roommate who shows you beautiful places, introduces you to his friends and with whom you share a bed. You are the only person who knows him as Charles and not as Charles Leclerc.

What would you think of him if the cat was out of the bag? When you see who he really is, including the spotlight? What happens if you like Charles, but not Charles Leclerc? He doesn't know if he could handle it. His job is his life, he's on the road all year round and what little time he has he has to divide between friends and family.

That's why his relationship with Annika failed. She was right about what she threw at him. That you always have to wait for him and that it's not fair. And she knew what she was getting into from the start. But you don't. You would be thrown in at the deep end if you decided to go for it. If you chose him.

"I don't think it's that easy," Charles says quietly, and he has to suppress the tremor in his voice. "She - she doesn't deserve this life. This risk. She - she," he takes a deep breath and has to wipe away the tear running down his cheek. "She's too good for me. She deserves someone great."

"How strange," Lando replies. "That's exactly what she says about you. So get in the car and apologize. I'm sure you'll be able to sort it out. And if you say shit like that about me again, I'll drive you into the wall in Bahrain next year."

Charles curls his mouth into a thin smile. "I'm truly sorry, Lando. And thank you for everything."

"I'm just absolutely the best." Charles can almost hear his grin before the Brit hangs up.

When the Monegasque re-enters the meeting room, all eyes are on him. With deliberate steps, he walks to his chair and grabs his jacket before looking at his team boss. "I'm going home."

His boss crosses his arms in front of his chest. "You can't just leave like that, Charles. We need to talk about next season and everything that's gone wrong this year."

"I can tell you exactly what happened," the brunette replies as he zips up his jacket. "The strategies this year were all for the trash, you screwed me over and you cost me the title." He grabs his wallet and car keys from the table in front of him. "Make sure things go better next year. After all, it doesn't get any shittier than this. See you next year. Have a good holiday."

He knows that his Ferrari can drive fast. And he also knows that he shouldn't drive that fast. But the roads home are empty and he wants to get to you as quickly as possible, in the hope that you haven't left the apartment yet. The accelerator pedal is almost stuck to the floor and he would certainly have to pay a heavy fine if the police caught him speeding. But apparently luck is on his side and it takes him just over three hours to turn onto the streets of Monaco.

The closer he gets to your apartment, the faster his heart beats and he can feel himself starting to sweat. What's the best way to start the apology?

I'm sorry I was so shitty to you, but it was because -

I behaved like crap, but it was only because -

I'm sorry I was such a bad friend, but you should have -

Wow. It actually all sounds like shit.

Maybe Lando is right. Maybe the most reasonable thing would be for Charles to just be honest, even if it means destroying everything between you. But you deserve the truth.

I'm sorry I said those bad things to you and I'm sorry I hurt you. Of course, apologizing can't undo any of it, but if you gave me the chance, I could explain myself to you. I was jealous because we had such a nice evening and then I find out you planned a date with one of my friends. I wanted to kiss you in the bookstore, I've wanted you ever since we met. You've been messing with my head from the beginning, taking over my heart and I can't think straight when you're with me. Maybe it's crazy because we've only known each other for five days, but I've never felt about someone the way I feel about you. I'm in lo-

His train of thought stops abruptly as he turns into the street. A green Nissan is parked on the sidewalk in front of your apartment, the driver's door is open and the hazard lights illuminate the walls of the house.

Charles worriedly parks at the next opportunity before jumping out of the car and dashing to the front door, which is wide open. He can already hear angry voices from outside, a male voice that almost shouts the whole house awake.

And your voice, angry and rough and shaky, as if you were at the end of your tether.

Charles sprints up the few steps to your apartment and stops like a flash on the top step when he sees you. You're wearing your pyjamas, your hair is disheveled, as if you've run your hand through it several times, and when you see him, you snap your eyes open as if you've seen a ghost.

But it's not the sight of you that makes Charles' blood boil.

It's Raphael's, who follows your gaze and takes a step back when he realizes who he's facing. "Your roommate is Charles Leclerc?"

next part

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc prompt #charles leclerc blurb #charles leclerc imagine #lando norris #carlos sainz jr #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc cute #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc x yn #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc fluff #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic

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stevebabey · 1 year ago

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totally didn’t expect the other part to do well at all but 😳 apparently i don’t know steddie fans. as such, have a part two <3 part one is here again, look out for the borrowed hunger games lines

“You’ve ruined your life, you know that, right?”

The kitchen had been basking in the lull of the quiet morning before Eddie had spoken up, breaking the silence. Steve blinks, realising he’s been zoned out staring at the swirling bubbles atop his mug of coffee and look up at Eddie across the table.

“Doing what you did.” Eddie continues. There’s this slight in his voice. Steve figures it’s not really aimed at him.

Chief Powell had agreed to not release the details of the case to the public for obvious reason. However, it went without saying that of the cops working the case, not all would be so free-thinking. There were plenty who deemed leaking the alibi and letting the town devour Steve’s reputation a more than fair consequence.

And, well, Eddie didn’t have any reputation left to tarnish or save.

Steve takes a sip of his coffee and lets the warm flavour coat his tastebuds as he tries to puts his thoughts in the right order.

He knows how Eddie sees this— sees it as this burden that he’s imposed on Steve’s life. That he had been able to accept it at first, the whispers of freedom tempting enough that he could be selfish enough to gasp them.

Then yesterday afternoon, Steve had come back from Bradley’s Big Buy with dried yolks splattered across the windscreen and regret howled through Eddie like a hurricane, fierce and wild. Realisation of what Steve had condemned himself to— no- what Eddie had condemned him to finally sunk in.

Steve can tell he’s been stewing on it all night. In the couple weeks he’s been here, staying in under the Harrington roof just down the hall from Steve, he’s surprised by how easily his brain has tacked on to Eddie’s habits. His little Eddie-ism’s. That’s what Steve calls them.

Like how Eddie’s nose will twitch if there’s something on his plate he doesn’t like, but he’s too polite to say it.

How he thumbs up and down the edge of a book when he’s reading, completely entranced. Doesn’t even notice his moving, twittering fingers.

How he’s always so much twitchier the morning after a sleep laced with terror after terror. It gives him away before Steve even see the bags under his eyes, the hollowness of his face.

Steve recognises that one from himself, from back when he’d gone through it all for the first time. The flinch is unshakeable when you’re convinced it’s all going to come back— that the world is going to tear itself up and spit out monsters you haven’t even dreamed of.

Today, Eddie isn’t twitchy like that. He’s tired, a sunken in face that comes from a bone-deep aching tiredness. He picks at his breakfast, bitterly avoiding the eggs on his plate.

And Steve can’t pretend to understand how Eddie grew up — can take his guesses but ultimately won’t get near the experiences he knows Eddie has lived through. Steve has only ever been on the other side. Stayed silent while someone else through snide comments and used the word fag like a jagged blade, to cut someone down.

So, he doesn’t know. Not even a year with Robin as his best friend and all her knowledge could’ve prepared Steve for the startling fear he’d felt when coming out of the store to the sight of a group of boys around his car, cartons of eggs in hand. One with a crowbar.

They would’ve smashed his windows if he had come out a minute later, he’s sure of it.

It had been like getting doused in icy water — the Letterman jackets on all of them, the sneers, still jeering taunts as they’d scattered across the parking lot. Steve had felt the bile rise in his throat as he got in the car and sat, staring at the steering wheel, his slimy fear melting and mixing with his anger.

Eddie’s point of view suddenly resounded within Steve in a way he hadn’t known before. Standing on tables, hollering about conformity, leaning in to every foul rumour about him— like a person drawing to full height, making himself as big as possible, to scare off a bear.

Steve gets that a little more now.

So, when Eddie tells him you’ve ruined your life he knows what he’s trying to tell him. Except, Steve doesn’t know how to say lightly that he’d gladly ruin his life to save Eddie’s. It’s too much — but Steve always is. Always loves in these big heavy ways that are too hard to handle.

So instead, he shrugs and says, “Consider it a trade.”

Eddie cocks his head, like a dog, just an inch.

“For following me into the lake and saving my life.”

Eddie scoffs and his head lolls back dramatically like what Steve’s said is ridiculous. “Jesus H Christ, dude, you saved yourself. I told you that I would’ve been too cowardly to come after you if Birdie and Wheeler hadn’t gone in first.”

He mutters the word cowardly with a hiss.

“Well then, a trade for drawing the bats away.”

“You mean the time I nearly became hamburger helper for the bats?”

“Christ, Eddie,” Steve scoffs. “I didn’t take you as someone who fished for compliments so hard.”

Eddie frowns, dropping his fork with a clatter on his plate. “I— what? I’m not- I don’t even—”

Steve cuts in. “You helped us and you saved my life, whether your horrible little brain can admit that or not. So,” He sits back in his chair with another little shrug and sips his coffee. “Equal trade.”

Eddie frowns, a crease forming between his brows. “No, not equal, Steve. You don’t get what you’ve done you— ugh, you just don’t—”

He huffs, cutting himself off, clearly unsure of how to voice his frustrations. He slumps back in his chair and eyes the eggs on his plate again with a glare this time.

Steve waits a moment and hopes he isn’t overstepping when he says, voice quiet, “I know, Eddie.”

Across the table, Eddie’s eyes raise to meet Steve’s and he doesn’t sound smug, he doesn’t sound angry, he just sounds defeated when he speaks.

“Do you?”

“Maybe not quite the extent of it until yesterday but, yes… I know.”

His words sink it and Eddie looks… affronted. His eyes get a little wide and a tremble finds his lips. Like the whole time he’d been convinced Steve wasn’t sure what he’d been getting into, that the reality hadn’t set in— that any moment he would rescind his alibi and throw Eddie to the cops and let them snap the cuffs back on him.

Steve hates that expression. Loathes that Eddie is so surprised that anyone would do this for him — something as important as keeping him alive and out of prison. Steve hates it because he knows it means that somewhere along the way, somebody had convinced Eddie that nobody would.

So, if he’s got to be the one to convince Eddie that someone will— that he will make the effort, will put his neck on the line because… well, isn’t that what Steve does best?

He’ll do it gladly.

Eddie picks up his fork and stabs his fork into the egg, the buttery yolk spilling onto the plate. Steve takes it as a truce, as him meeting him in the middle.

"So,” Steve swirls the mug in his hand and swills another sip back. Swallows it and takes a page out of Eddie’s book and goes the joke, leaning forward, forearms on the table. “If I’m gonna be your boyfriend for the foreseeable future I should probably know more stuff about you. Y’know, like, uh, the deep stuff.”

Eddie’s sunk back down in his seats but at Steve’s final sentence, he perks up. A smirking sort of grin crossing his face and Eddie twists a piece of his hair in front of his mouth. He hasn’t kept eating yet, too focused on the conversation.

"Uh-oh, the deep stuff.” He’s got that teasing tone in his voice. “Like what?"

"Like...” Steve scrambles to pull something from his brain. “Um, what’s your favourite colour?"

“Oh well, now you've stepped over the line."

Eddie’s sarcasm melts into a chuckle as Steve laughs, ducking his head instinctively. When he lifts his gaze, he’s relieved that Eddie looks a little lighter. Not much but a smidge of difference — Steve can see it if he squints. He’s sure it won’t be the last conversation they’ll have about this but for now, it’s settled.

Curiosity piques in Steve and he tries to sound casual when he says, “No, really, what is it?”

Eddie blinks and curls his hair around his finger once more, tugging it lightly. He seems to be considering his answer, eyes dropping to the sweater Steve’s donning.

“Yellow.” He finally says. “Not mustard but, y’know, lighter. Colour of the moon on Halloween or…”

“Cheese?” Steve suggests.

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, the right kind of cheese, sure. What about you? Favourite colour?”

Steve considers it — for the longest time, it had been red because Tommy had told him that red or blue were the coolest colours to like, way back in third grade. No one has asked him since then.

“Pink, actually.” Steve admits, hand coming up to brush across his nose, trying to hide behind the motion. He envies Eddie’s long curls suddenly. He feels the need to explain, more words rolling off his tongue. “Like, y’know, when the sun starts to set, like all dusky, it’s just… nice.”

Eddie’s staring at him peculiarly, his lips parted yet quirked up in this faint smile. If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d call it awe. Breaking his stare, Eddie chuckles again, finally properly picking his fork up to finish his meal.

“Steve Harrington.” He murmurs warmly, more to himself. His lips twitch with a smile. “You just keep surprising me.”

—

some people wanted more 🤲 uh get tagged idiot - normally i don’t do taglists but u were all so kind as to reply to the post & i didn’t get a chance to say thank u for ur lovely words! this is my thank u! have sum more!

@friendlyorange @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @lostinadmiration @life-love-musicaltheatre @oldlovershippiemusic5 @phoeniceae @catateme9 @lolawonsstuff @justagaypanda @pluto-pepsi @whoopstie @scenesofobx @justforthedead89 @musical-theatre-gay @theperksofbeingstjimmy @ikilledabuginthewall @imauselessartist @fridgebaby @lingeringmirth and uhhh @corrodedcoughin cos i still do a little squeal when u rb my tings even tho we’re mewchies :D

#ignoring the other characters rn lmao #i wrote it in a day. Sue me #something about like eddie being convinced that steve Doesn’t Understand #cos if he did he wouldn’t have done this!!#and steve being like i know eddie… i know #I Knew It And I Did It Anyways #steve’s puts-himself-on-the-line selflessness vs. eddie disbelieving he’s worth it #[street fighter voice] FIGHT!#uhhhhh does baby boy steve even know he likes men yet? probably notttt #¯\_(ツ)_/¯#ruby writes steddie #steve x eddie #steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie hurt/comfort

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kaznejis · 6 months ago

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Tarnished, but so grand- Erik Lehnsherr x Reader

Part 1 / Masterlist / AO3

You flickered your eyes back to him then, finding him staring back at you; his mouth twisted and eyes forlorn. “You’re leaving?” He could only nod, still staring. You inched forward, shock pulsing upon you in waves, “What! Why?” Pause. “Is it because of-” “Yes.” He said instantly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he did so, tone breathy but muted.

Word count: 5.7k

“I couldn’t believe it, Y/N, he kissed me! Scott kissed me!”

You could only hum in response, staring into the dregs of your cereal bowl; the tepid milk and soggy remains of half-eaten cereal staring back at you.

“-And it was so romantic, he pulled me away from the bonfire and then he said-” Jean spoke animatedly in the seat across from you, waving her arms and practically squealing with excitement as she recounted her own turn of events from the night before; the hangover gripping at the edges of your conscience and the guilt, oh the guilt, alongside the dread and horror and disgust rendering you useless; allowing you to only manage a small range of primal, ape-like grunts in response.

Upon stumbling, dragging yourself up to your room the previous night- you had been able to do nothing but collapse into bed, tranquillity washing over the swell of your lips, the bruises upon your back and the tears that wet your cheeks. Waking up the following morning, however, had been a different story. First, you had combatted the grewling ache of your hangover; your head pounding and vision wiry as you squinted at the morning sun that blasted through the open window. It had taken you an embarrassing amount of time to reach your hand forward, intertwine the vines upon your windowsill with the silk of your curtains, and to pull. Once the issue of the sun was eradicated, then the realisation set in; the ball of dread that instantly expanded within your stomach and chest and heart- the shortness of breath that instantly set in, the memories of the previous night flooding back. At first, you chalked it up to a wayward dream, dreams about Erik were nothing new- they had practically facilitated themselves as an integral part of day-to-day life. But, as you woke, as you remembered, the indents upon your back became all too real- the angry, red marks from the press of the tree upon your back as you had-

No, you had whispered aloud; clawing at the grainy sheets upon you and dragging a trembling hand down your face. No fucking way.

Despite your resistance, despite your objections- it had happened. Nothing would erase that. The professor that you had grown to respect, to admire- had pressed you against a tree and practically demolished you; intertwined your tongue with his before leaving you cold, alone in the depths of the trees- their swaying, dark silhouettes humouring your tears. Your tears as he had left, stumbling backwards in the grass; his plaid shirt billowing around him like leaves in the wind.

`’-Y/N? Y/N.” Jean clicked a finger in front of your face, immediately snapping you out of your reverie; leaving you blinking dazedly at your friend as she stared back at you with concern, “Are you okay? You disappeared on me there for a while.”

You cleared your throat, cringing in disgust at the bowl of gloopy cereal you had practically been drooling into; removing the sodden spoon and pushing the plate to the side; you managed a plain smile at Jean, a shrug of the shoulders, “I’m fine, uh- just tired.” Your words were clumsy, abrasive; sentences slogging together as your tongue struggled to work through your own emotional turmoil.

“Hungover, I bet.” Jean laughed, throwing her head back and allowing her hair to flow down her back, “You were so wasted.”

“Says you,” You nudged her knuckle across the table, smirking as she pulled it back with feigned hurt; clutching at her hand as if it had been sliced, “As if you had gotten the courage to talk to Scott sober.”

“Hey!” It was her turn to swat at you across the table now, “Actually- now that I come to think of it, where did you go last night? I checked your room on my way in and you weren’t there.”

You stilled for a moment, your inhibitions freezing in horror as you stared at her; body half poised in defence as you had been avoiding her attacks, “Oh! I-” You stuttered, mind going blank for a long moment; this only spurred Jean onwards, exemplified through her sudden change in demeanour; the cock of her head, the furrow of her brow, and the way she leaned fully towards you. You could only shrug; allow an airy laugh as you looked everywhere but her eyes, “When I come to think of it, I can hardly even remember.” Jean leaned backwards then, crossing her arms; unimpressed, “Seriously, Jean! That’s how drunk I was-”

To your relief, the bell sounded for the end of breakfast; though, it was a Saturday- with no obligations to attend to, Jean was free to follow you as she pleased. You used the dining hall's long benches to your advantage; speed walking down your respective side and disappearing into the swelling crowd of students attempting to leave. Ignoring Jean’s calls as they grew fainter. You couldn’t do it, you couldn’t explain yourself to her; whilst your own guilt, regret was a prevalent, persevering factor- you felt the need to protect Erik, protect him from your wretched self. What would Jean have thought if you had told her of how your professor, the very same professor that answered her questions in class and graded her essays, had held you up against a tree and pressed his lips upon yours. What would she think of the way that you would live and die for the chance to taste him again, feel the cold palm of his hand flit higher upon your thigh, for any aggravating factors to disappear as he would finish what he had started within that iridescent alcove?

The rest of the weekend continued with that form of mindset; the lingering doubt that suffocated your mind. Any attempt, any semblance of completing your assignments remained fruitless. The curtain of nightfall began to close as the hallways bustled with student’s heading to their own rooms for the night. Abruptly you slammed your notebook shut, huffing as you moved to stand before your open window; a few stray groups were scattered upon the grass, namely Jean and Scott- cuddling beside the lake and giggling together. You moved away then, unable to watch any longer. You were happy for her, for them, of course you were; you just wished that your own Friday night endeavours had been as successful.

Whilst they had been successful, as to say, you weren’t currently curled beneath the moon with Erik himself.

That thought spurred you away from your room; needing a breath of fresh air, a moment to think. The route you took to the gardens led you directly through the classrooms, before you found yourself standing before Erik’s. The wooden plaque upon the door stated ‘Professor Lehnsherr’, you dragged a finger across the words; feeling the engravings upon your skin. Raising your hand to the handle, you were surprised to find it unlocked, though the room remained empty.

His classroom was dark; the curtains drawn halfway, casting tepid shadows upon the empty desks covering his room. His own was swept clear of any belongings, any ownership; not a trinket or picture or memorabilia upon the oak surface. It has always been like that, you soothed yourself; not allowing yourself to take the empty desk as the red heron that it would be, had it been owned by anyone else. You knew that Erik lived in solitude, everyone did; when he wasn’t teaching, he was with Xavier- and if he wasn’t with Xavier, it was a token to his lonesome. You would find him, in those darker hours, seated at his desk, that empty desk, writing or planning or thinking. You had found admiration in his ability to condone silence; the comfort he drew from the blow of the wind and the subsequent flutter of his curtains. He had told you so, months before, of the comforts he found in the quiet.

“Years on the run,” He had chuckled, watching you perched upon the edge of his desk, legs swinging idly, “Makes you admire the finer things.”

As you sat alone later that night, thinking of the unusual dark of his classroom and the absence of his presence within the house; you thought about how maybe, just maybe, you were one of those ‘finer things’. You are always there, he had gasped into the night; into the very air you too exhaled upon. My horrible, wretched thoughts. But how could they be so? Did he see the way he had mouthed upon your neck, curling his fingers into the hem of your skirt, so close to that sweet spot; as wretched? Did he see the way you had succumbed to his every command, every lesson, as wretched? A white rabbit, with the rosy pink belly, walking straight into the jaws of the wolf. The girl who can control nature, bend ivy at her will and grow petals in the palm of her hand, and the big bad Magneto.

You didn’t see it that way. He was kind; kind even before your lips had connected, even before he had spilled every morsel of his thoughts and dreams. His own reluctance showed that; the disgust he projected towards his very own feelings, the things that sets him apart; makes him human. Abhorrently, dejectedly; his own kindness shone in his supposed rejection of you. In leaving you in that forest, available to the beasts and curling claws of nightfall; he had been saving you from himself.

You knew in that moment, seated upon your own bed; that you needed to see him. Needed to tell him that you knew, you understood him. You felt the ivy of your touch entangle upon the intricacies of his mind like no one else ever could. So, with that, you marched from the room; mindless to the thin pyjamas that you adorned, mindless of your own lack of lightsource within the dark hallway. The bare skin of your feet peeling from the marble floors as you ran- passed the student dormitories, passed the common area, passed the classroom and finally, into the teacher’s suite.

You slowed then, lowering your pace to a creep as you curled your fingers upon the edge of the hallway; peering into the darkness of the corridor. Despite your position as one of the older students within the school, you were still entering restricted territory. It had practically been drilled into you on day one by Mystique; never enter the teacher’s suite. To your surprise, it didn’t look much different to that of the very hallway you resided in; the same high ceilings, the same arrangement of doors; in fact, it was entirely identical. The mystification you felt towards the teachers lessened somewhat- this was where they lived, where they slept, a sacrifice made in order to be at the beck and call of the students; young mutants just like they had once been.

The only problem; you had no idea which room belonged to Erik.

Though, before you could dwell upon the thought; a strip of light appeared as a door opened down the hallway- you gasped, flattening your chest against the wall as you continued to peer around the corner.

‘-Please you can’t do this.” A voice, Mystique’s, sounded; she seemed upset, angry. She stepped into the hallway in her mutant form, arms crossed and stance defensive in front of the open door.

Another voice sounded then, stressed and upset; the sound of it visibly weakening Mystique’s resolve, as her arms unfolded, defeated. “I’m sorry Raven, but I have to.”

“Please, Erik, why?” You realised with deafening clarity, that the other voice had belonged to Erik, “Did something happen? We can talk through this. All of us, I can call a meeting right-”

“Raven.” Erik snapped, appearing in the hallway; his back was straight as he stared down at her; fists clenched around a cardboard box as he attempted to pass. Before he could so successfully, she snatched the box from his hold, dropping it onto the floor; its contents spilling upon the hardwood floors, “What-” Then she was gone, storming down the hallway and into a door at the end of it- the slam that followed was violent; jostling the very foundations of the walls you leant upon. You could only watch as Erik sighed, scratching at the base of his skull before kneeling; his working boots facing you as he began to clean up the mess. Once he finished, he lifted the box once again; but instead of taking it where he had initially intended, he turned and returned to his room, allowing the door to close behind him.

In that moment, curiosity got the better of you; curiosity towards the argument that had commenced, curiosity as to why he had sounded so upset. Before you could think twice, you were in front of his door, fist raised; you allowed yourself a short moment of clarity, a split second of what the hell am I doing? Before you knocked your fist against the wood. Erik’s movements within the room paused; you breathed, suddenly all too aware of how little clothing you were wearing- the chequered pyjama shorts and matching lacy tank top. Crossing your arms, you could only stare wide eyed as the door swung open.

“Raven, please-” Erik began, though he froze the moment his eyes landed upon you, the moment his eyes caught sight of your exposed legs and pursed lips. He swallowed, the sound loud and grating in the hallway- for a moment, he was speechless; seemingly taking you in as you stared right back at him. Though, the moment ended as quickly as it began; his face dropped as he grabbed you by the shoulders; pulling you into the room before closing the door behind you, ensuring that it was locked. He turned to you then, shoulders rising as he visibly struggled to find the words, eventually; he did, voice hushed, urgent. “What- what are you doing here, Y/N?”

Gulping, you found yourself unable to answer his question in the rise of his anger and the sight of the strip of bare skin where his tank top and loose pants didn’t quite meet. Using your inability to speak as an excuse to move your eyes away from him, you surveyed the room. The room was beautiful; intricately decorated with deep, royal hues of red and black, long pillars lining each corner of the room and a large master bed placed directly at the centre. But, what truly drew your eyes were the boxes splayed throughout the room; some still in their flattened form, some filled with various belongings. You flickered your eyes back to him then, finding him staring back at you; his mouth twisted and eyes forlorn. “You’re leaving?” He could only nod, still staring. You inched forward, shock pulsing upon you in waves, “What! Why?” Pause. “Is it because of-”

“Yes.” He said instantly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he did so, tone breathy but muted.

“I’m sorry,” You shook your head, tears filling your eyes as you collapsed upon his bed; making yourself as small as possible upon the sheets, “I shouldn’t have done that- In fact, I should be the one to leave.” You stood, nodding determinedly at him, “I’ll go and see Charles tomorrow; I was the one that kissed you, I should-”

“No.” His tone sliced through your train of thought, rendering you silent. His chest was heaving with breaths, bracing up and down beneath the thin linen of his tank top. He had the beginning of dark circles forming beneath his wrinkled eyes; the foundational period of a lack of sleep. Gulping, you waited for him to continue, the urge to reach forward and run a finger through the light stubble upon his jaw ever-prevalent. He began to speak before pausing, his gaze earnest; broken and open for you to feast upon, cast your worst abjections upon him. “What I did was wrong, Y/N-”

“What you did?” Shaking your head, you paced before him, floods of dread filled your gut; dread at the implications he sported and the fear within his voice, “I don’t know what you think that was Erik, but-”

“Y/N, I am your professor.” His tone was final, serious; his chest raised and fell rapidly as he visibly tightened his jaw, his teeth grinding within his mouth. “I teach you history three days a week, I grade your papers and I answer any questions you may have; that is my duty.”

“What does duty have to do with-”

“Everything,” His voice had risen; trembling upon the line of full blown shouting. Shaking his head, he splayed a hand over his mouth; turning away from you slightly- you could only watch, hands shaking, as he visibly filed through his own thoughts, “I was allowed here to protect you, people like you. To protect people like me; not to expose them to my perverted inhibitions-”

“Perverted?” You cackled, genuinely throwing your head backwards; the residual tension of humour and horror rising within your throat, “Erik, I am a completely willing adult-”

He shook his head determinedly, “You are my student.” Shrugging, you cast your arms wide, wild eyes entirely unbridled as you stared at him; the fire within your soul could not be snuffed, “Well, I won’t be soon. It’s almost summer and then my training is up; I’m free to do as I please.” You were visibly angered, voice clipped and cheeks blazing with heat, “Don’t leave because of me.” Emotions dimmed, you crossed your arms; swallowing, tongue between your teeth, “If anything, I’m just some silly little girl.”

Sighing, he walked to his bed and sat upon it. His back was hunched; arms long in his lap as he refused to meet your eyes. So deep in his own state of emotional turmoil, your own internal vitriol cast no objection upon him. He seemed to be waiting; waiting for you to shout, to scream, to curse him for defiling your so-called perpetual innocence. You beat the rise of his voice with your own, “I’m not angry at you, Erik.”

He froze, his form stilling; arms encased within his lap as his eyes widened, his voice was low when he spoke, the syllables long and pained, “What?”

Shaking your head, you tightened your jaw; willing your eyes to stop filling with tears, emotion overtaking you at his silence, his inability to just understand. You repeat yourself once again, “I’m not angry at you,”

“Y/N, I don’t understand-”

“I wanted it,” Swallowing, you faced your feelings; your doubts, head on, “I wanted all of it, just as much as you did.”

He shook his head, standing and stepping forward; his hands spasmed at his side, desperate to reach out, to touch, “As I do,” You shook your head, confused, “Just as much as I do Y/N.”

“Erik-”

“We can’t tell anyone,” He was whispering now, a hand raised to brush the hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear, “Not until I’m no longer your professor.” A beat. “Do you understand me?”

You nodded, immediate and fast, “Of course.” Ever obedient to his every command.

“Good,” He gave you a closed-lipped smile, his cheeks crinkling, “Good girl.”

Requiring no further confirmation, you leaped forward; gripping his face as you encased his lips with your own. As they met, he gasped your name like a prayer; the syllables sacred and protected, gasped in tandem with the beat of his heart and the rush of his own blood. The deafening waves of pleasure took power to your conscience as he walked the two of you backwards; kicking stray boxes from his path as the two of you crashed upon his bedsheets- the harsh lines of his body pressing you down, down into the velvet of his bedspread as you clawed at his shoulders. Keeping his lips upon yours, he moved a hand upwards, gripping at the hair at the base of your neck; he pulled then, your head tilting backward as he bit at the skin of your lip; devouring your mouth within his own and licking at the blood that he drew. You bent immediately to his will.

Allowing your eyes to slip shut, pleasure and shock and desire admonishing any sense of awareness; you felt as he began to move downwards, his lips trailing upon the curve of your neck, the bend of your jaw and the skin beside your ear. His fingers danced at the edge of your shirt; inching it, slowly and carefully, upwards towards your armpits. You took it upon yourself to push him backwards, raising slightly only to reach down and pull the shirt off, over your head and onto his bedroom floor. You could only blink as his eyes caught upon the bare skin of your breasts that had laid beneath the singular layer, could only blink as he trailed their outline with his fingertips before trailing them further downwards, to the waistline of your pyjama pants. He stopped then, eyes raising to your own; past the rapid rise and fall of your burning chest, “Can I?”

Nodding hastily, you dragged a hand through his hair, watching as he manoeuvred both your pants and underwear over your hips and down your legs in one go, “Almost died when I saw these little shorts.” He practically sighed the words out, pressing a kiss to your upper thigh as he pulled the material over your knees.

There, you laid completely naked beneath his entirely clothed form. The predetermined power dynamic existing between you was ever prevalent; but in that moment, you felt like the powerful one- empowered by the way his throat bobbed and eyes glistened at the expanse of your skin, by the way his hands lifted your thighs and the ghost of his breath warming the mound between them. Whimpering at the sensation, at the feeling of being watched by him; the burn of his gaze- you pleaded, begged with your own eyes, begging him to do something. Nodding, rubbing a soothing hand upon your thigh, he leant forward, testing the waters- planting a kiss upon your clit. You reacted instantly, jolting and tightening the hand within his hair; you felt him grin against the skin of your pussy, his breath releasing in chuffs. Then, he moved; dragging his tongue through your folds, the sensation lighting a fire within you as you collapsed backwards against the sheets; writhing, hand still secured within his hair as you pulled.

It felt like hours, years, mere minutes as he lapped at you; his tongue making sinful, disgusting noises against you as his hands gripped at your hips; securing you down upon the bed as you attempted to writhe beneath the hold of his pleasure. Panting, your hair stuck to the damp skin of your lips as you threw your head to the side; finding purchase anywhere you could- you felt your orgasm begin to build, the tingling sensation burning within your abdomen, spreading to the hilt like wildfire. This wasn’t like when you would touch yourself to the thought of him, beneath your duvet; head held firmly to your pillow- this was free, unadulterated pleasure; your climax reaching faster than you could anticipate.

Through the haze within your mind, through the scratch of your fingers upon his scalp; you found purchase to the last string of your own sentient conscience, “Erik, wait-’ He halted instantly, pulling back; his hair pointing in a number of directions and mouth ajar; he looked horrified, terrified at the thought of hurting you. Laughing, you shook your head; reaching forward to run a finger over his swollen red lips; you snorted, instantly spitting out an apology, “Sorry, I’m sorry I just-” Your voice was awash with humour as you spoke, grinning down at him, “I- I was going to cum.”

“Ah,” He replied slowly; nodding as he scratched at the base of his head; his gaze was shy from beneath his eyelashes.

You couldn’t wipe the grin from your face as you watched him, reaching forward to pull him upwards until he faced you directly, as the cotton of his tank top brushed against the skin of your breasts; you realised with stark clarity that he was still fully dressed. With a glance downwards, you spoke, “I think you need to match me here.”

Cocking an eyebrow, he tilted his face; smirking down at you as he moved a hand to dissect the hair from your face and lips, “Do I now?”

“Yes, I think so.” Nodding, you dragged the strap of his top from his shoulders with your pointer finger; tracing the wiry muscles of his bare arms propped above you as you did so. He rose then, grinning at your dejected moan as he moved to pull the top over his head; exposing the expanse of his chest; small, pink nipples and dusty hair painting a trail down his naval. His form was muscular yet thin; the outlines of muscles existent like ivy wrapped around his biceps, strong yet undefined. You walked two fingers upon his naval, toying with the waistband of his sweatpants as you smiled toothily up at him; he rolled his eyes before pulling down his pants, allowing his cock to spring free.

You spent a long moment willing your eyes not to widen; fearful of breaking the finely held thread of tension- his dick was, what Jean would describe as, ‘Boyfriend Material’. You hadn’t understood the term when she’d said it during your recent trip to the cinema, shaking your head as she betted that Scott ‘definitely had a boyfriend material dick’. When you had tried to discuss what Erik’s dick might be like; she had simply gagged, waving her hand exasperatedly as she begged you not to discuss such a thing.

But you definitely understood what she had meant now.

“Hey,” A voice said in front of your face, Erik, in the midst of your personal vignette- Erik had lowered himself back down; arms braced above your head as he smiled down at you, head quirked to the side. Grinning back, you wrapped your arms around the base of his neck before bringing him down into a soft, slow kiss. It was the slowest kiss the two of you had experienced so far; not fueled by abrupt pleasure or the weight of confession- the two of you simply existed, within his bedroom with the flat-packed boxes; upon his silk sheets. You felt it as he breathed you in, inhaling heavily through his nose as he continued to move his lips upon yours. When he pulled back to allow you to breathe, his mouth was visibly curved downwards with emotion; his thumb traced the skin of your jaw before tracing the skin of your lips, tracing where his own had just been.

His lips quivered; pink and wet with the sheen of your combined saliva, “Have you ever-?” He questioned, his eyes flickering downwards; you shook your head meekly, swallowing heavily as he nodded; a sweet, sincere smile curling the edges of his mouth, “Okay, darling.” He cooed, reaching upwards to tuck your hair behind your ear, smooth a hand over the red of your cheeks.

You found your voice, watching him through the flutter of your eyelashes; his bare skin and ruffled hair- the parts of him that you had never seen before, that he was allowing you to see, “Never got the chance, having superpowers and all.”

He laughed, nodding down at you, eyes glistening with adornment, almost as if he were in love. Though his face turned serious then, mouth straightening and eyebrows creasing as he looked upon you, “You can say no, sweetheart. We don’t have to-”

“I want to,” You cut in, nodding determinedly up at him; reaching up to smooth out the crease of his brow, “More than anything.”

He kissed you then; his hand instantly moving to cup your jaw, the other moving to caress the skin of your thigh; procuring a sickly, sweet burn that caused you to pant against his lips; his own instantly curling into a smirk as he felt you do so. As his fingers met the hilt of your thigh, sliding between the heat above; he lowered his head until he came face-to-face with the pebbling skin of your nipple before placing his tongue upon it, twirling and flicking the bud as you gasped, back arching against the damp sheets below. You couldn’t help the almost pitiful moan of his name that left your lips, your eyes squeezed closed and head thrown back against his pillow; you felt him grin against the underside of your breast, his ministrations against the juxtaposing cold of your breast and the warmth of your clit causing deafening sensations to ricochet within your stomach. The twists of pleasure allowing only whispers of his name within your mind.

Unable to do anything but lay there, you grit your teeth as he slid a finger into your heat; the length of it procuring a pinching pain as you winced. Pausing, he stroked the skin of your thigh; pressing a kiss there as he watched your face for any further signs of pain, “Tell me if it hurts too much.” He spoke into the skin of your thigh, you nodded down at him, granting a reassuring smile as he turned back to watch his hand- pushing the finger deeper and swiping at your clit as he did so. Soon, the pinching pain turned to pleasure; your muscles loosening as you realised that this, actually, felt good. Soon you were a moaning mess within his hands; three fingers within you as he bent you to his will with the curve of his dexterous hands. Those hands that weld so much power, able to inflict so much pleasure.

Eventually, you grasped at his shoulders; panting and moaning as your nails pressed crescent moons into the skin there, “Please,” You moaned, eyes watering as you begged him, “Please I need more.”

He rose instantly, cock hard and aloft as he moved to his bedside table; retrieving a condom from the depths of it. He rolled it upon himself, before propping himself above you once again, his cock held at your entrance. He rubbed it between your folds, once, twice; his condom instantly covered in your own juices, before he looked up at you; one step away from the finale. “Sweetheart, are you sure?”

Nodding, you bared yourself down upon him; lifting your legs to brace his hips. He cocked his head to the side, eyebrows raised and chin lowered as he watched you; visibly demanding verbal confirmation, “Yes, Erik, yes. I’m ready.”

Letting out a shuddering moan, he needed no further confirmation; inserting himself within the space he had enlarged- eyes instantly rolling back as he did so. He was not forceful as he inched himself inwards; his eyes did not stray from your face, searching for any sign of pain or resignation. You did not show any, mouth ajar and eyes wide as you moaned his name; legs tightening around the bracket of his hips. Upon reaching the hilt, he lowered himself to your chest; burying his face into the curve of your neck, the skin instantly growing wet with the humidity of his moans and your own sweat. “Is this okay?” He whispered, mouthing at your neck as he remained completely still; you nodded before shifting your hips, smiling as you felt the rush of breath against your neck. He instantly began to move; sinking home and immediately abandoning it as he methodically pushed in and out; his abdomen grinding against your clit.

“Beautiful, so beautiful,” The sounds were more visceral moans than words as his hands steadfastly clutched your hips; procuring sounds that you didn’t believe to be possible to fall from your mouth; garbling mixtures of his name and indiscernible pleading. The sweat congregating between your bodies was slick and hot; the fibres of your beings connected at every last point as you moved together. You knew for a fact that you looked sincerely debauched; but with Erik whispering and moaning into your ear; you could hardly register a second thought as you sunk into the pleasure he allowed you. He too looked a mess when he moved from your neck; hair damp at the ends from sweat and eyes scrunched shut; mouth falling open as he seemed entirely lost to the verisimilitude of pleasure. He had never looked so beautiful, so unruly- the strict, formal clothing a distant memory as he moaned and whimpered and gasped above you.

You felt your high reaching slowly as his abdomen brushed against your clit; the methodical movements torturous in their sporadicity. However, the moment he moved his thumb to your clit; you knew the end was near. He moved it in time with his thrusts, causing your mind to go blissfully blank as you could think of nothing but your fast approaching orgasm. The noise that left you as you came was barely a sound at all; head thrown back and eyes closed as your breaths crackled. You felt it as Erik came with you, hips stuttering and pulsing as he groaned for a long moment above you. He collapsed upon you then, the both of you panting together as you laid there in the pool of sweat formed upon his sheets.

A large hand cupped the back of your head as you came back to yourself, a low voice humming praise and compliments into your ear as you came to. The cold air hit you for a moment as Erik pulled himself out of you, disposing of the condom before lifting you into his arms; pulling back the duvet and depositing you into the warmth of his bed.

Sleep tinged the edges of your vision; though you couldn’t get one thought out of your mind, “Please don’t leave.” The words were barely a whisper, spoken into the darkness of his bedroom.

Erik shuffled beside you, sighing before wrapping you up in his arms; comforting and secure “I won’t leave you sweetheart, not again.”

#erik lehnsherr #erik lehnsherr x reader #erik lehnsherr x y/n #erik lehnsherr x you #magneto #magneto x reader #michael fassbender #x men #AM I MAKING YOU FEEL SICKKKKKK

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mydadleft471 · 3 months ago

Text

An Ailing Heart, A Shimmering Soul

Summary: Another Tarnished invades the Shadow Keep and Messmer takes care of them. But something seems off this time. You comfort him when he is most vulnerable.

Spoilers, per usual, for Elden Ring and Shadow of the Erdtree. Warnings for descriptions of violence and a slight amount of spice wink wonk ;D (I've never wrote anything spicy please go easy on my ass, I'm so down bad)

I had two requests, one from the lovely @asianbutnotjapanese and the other from anonymous, and I thought they'd go so well together! I'll link the posts here and here! Thank you both for the requests! I love writing comfort for this lanky man.

As always, thank you for reading, reblogging, liking, and commenting! It makes my day every single time!

Another Tarnished had invaded the Shadow Keep today. This one made it to Messmer himself. Many others found themselves terribly outmatched by his many knights and guards.

You waited patiently in Messmer’s chamber for him to return victorious, just as he had done a multitude of times before. Fiddling with your hands, you tried to drown out the screams and thudding from the room adjacent to Messmer’s, but your thoughts did little to distract you. Your mind wandered, as it always did in these moments: would he come back from this fight?

You shook your head. Of course he would. He was a mighty demigod with more than his mother’s wishes to fight for now. He had you. It was something he whispered into your hair when you lay huddled against his massive form in his bed. You were drifting on the very edge of sleep when his voice, silky and smooth, cut through the silence.

“I will return to thee, beloved consort. This I shall promise.”

Your heart had flipped in your chest. You knew he meant it and he never went back on his word.

The large door creaking open interrupted the sweet memory. Pushing yourself off the bed, you stepped timidly until Messmer came into view.

Blood adorned his chest like rubies and his eye was glued to the floor. He had left his spear in the previous room.

You hurry towards him. “Are you hurt?” You grab his hands and clutch them tightly.

“Merely scratched and covered in blood that is not my own.” He sounds tired.

Carefully, you lead him over to his ornate washroom. He doesn’t say anything as you pull him behind you like dead weight. Even his serpents stay still as they’re perched on his shoulders. Dropping his hands, you hurry to grab some bath salts he likes and a fluffy towel. You turn the faucet and the tub begins to fill with warm water. Pouring some of the salts in and swirling them around, the room begins to smell sweetly of jasmine and vanilla.

Looking back at your lover, you notice that he watches you tiredly. His eye droops and he doesn’t stand as tall as usual.

“Do you need help taking your armor off?” He merely nods in response, so you get to work.

You stretch your arms up to take off his helmet and he bows his head. You set it on the table behind you and comb your fingers through some of the rebellious strands of red. Carefully raising the cloak he wears, you allow the serpents to wiggle out of it before undoing the clasp and letting it fall to the floor behind him. Moving around him, you work on the various buckles on his armor and before long, it joins his cloak in a bloody, crumpled heap.

“Come, my love,” you call out to him and his eye shimmers in response. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You take his hand and gently guide him into the bath, letting him go as slowly as he needs to. Once he settles into the warm water, he lets out a sigh of relief. You tilt his head back and pour water over his hair, just as you have done many times before. It’s become a daily thing to wash his hair and body. He loves the tenderness in every touch you lay upon him.

You begin to massage some of his favorite shampoo into his fiery locks. You take your time ensuring his scalp has been thoroughly washed and thread your fingers through the tips of his hair. He shudders and shivers in pleasure.

You want to ask what’s wrong. He’s come back from fights exhausted and worried, but he’s never looked so dejected. Perhaps the fight was too close for his liking? When you took off his armor minutes earlier, you hadn’t seen any new bruises or wounds on his body, so that couldn’t be it. The Tarnished that came to his Keep enraged him, sure, especially if they had hurt any of his men, but they had never made him like this.

“Messmer?” His eye opens slightly. “What’s bothering you?”

“Whatever dost thou mean?” His voice is dejected and quiet.

“Did something happen during your fight?” You tilt his head back and wash the shampoo from his hair.

“‘Tis nothing. Thou needn’t worry.”

You sigh. “I thought we talked about this, about being open with each other. If something is bothering you, I want to help.”

He reaches for your hand and you gladly give it to him. He turns it over in his hand, seemingly marveling at how small yours is compared to his. He kisses your knuckles and moves your hand so you cup his cheek.

“That Tarnished held the belief that I was keeping thee prisoner here.”

Your mouth hangs open. “Prisoner? My love, no! I’m happy here.”

“They did not thinkest so. Perhaps they imagined themself a protector, like I.”

“Messmer,” you make him look at you. “I stay here because I want to. I stay here because I love you. Okay?”

“I had never felt rage such as that. I lost myself.” He admits.

“I’d be angry too. It’s okay.”

He lets out a shuddering breath and a golden tear streaks its way down his pale cheek. You reach out to brush it away.

“I do not deserve thee, beloved. I am naught but a cursed monster.”

“You are so much more than that. I don’t care if you’re cursed.” You pull away from him and pour a generous amount of conditioner into your hands. You gently apply it to his hair.

“You make me truly happy. I hope you know that.” You whisper those words into his ear.

“I shall try to remember that.”

You wash away the conditioner and wrap your arms around his shoulders, not caring about how the water soaks through your clothes. He grabs one of your hands and holds it. You lay a light kiss on his neck and he shudders again.

“Do you want me to wash your body, my love?” You ask into his hair.

“Please.”

“Okay.” You smile and unwind yourself from him.

You gather some soap and begin to lather it on his shoulders. You take your time and even knead out some of the knots in his back as you go. He lets out small gasps and you can see that his ears are a bright red almost rivaling his hair. You raise his arms from the water and squeeze his arms, feeling his muscles. He shoots you a look and you quickly look away, continuing to wash him as he requested. You tilt his head back, sweetly sweeping your hands across his neck and travel down to his collarbones, giving them the same treatment as the rest of his body.

“I ask thee stop this teasing.” His eye is screwed shut.

“Oh shush. You like this.”

“Perhaps.” You smirk.

Continuing down his body, you lather his chest in soap and delicately make your way to his stomach. He visibly tenses at this and you shoot him a puzzled look.

“Thou’rt cruel indeed. Continuing may force my hand.” He warns you, his eye shimmering a bright gold.

Oh. Oh.

As much as you would love to indulge in him, right now he needs comfort. You nod, face blushing as red as his, and you begin to wash away any remaining bubbles kissing his skin. Grabbing a fluffy towel, you wordlessly hand it to him and he stands. You tear your gaze away from him as he dries off and try to keep your thoughts decent. You go fetch his favorite robe from his chambers and grab his brush from where it sits on his bedside table.

When you return, he’s sitting on the plush chair in front of the large vanity he had made for you. You offer him his robe and turn around, waiting for him to dress himself. He clears his throat and you turn around.

“Would you let me do your hair tonight?”

“If it would make thee happy.”

“Always. I love taking care of you.” That earns you a loving smile.

You begin to brush away any tangles he has, but since you’ve been giving his hair regular maintenance, it’s become easier to manage. The bristles gently scratch against his scalp and he lets out a pleased hum. You have such a lovable demigod.

Once you’ve ensured his hair is soft and smooth, you part his hair down the middle. You can see him watching you in the mirror.

“I think you would look stunning in braids.”

He shakes his head. “Braids are intended for nobility and those with honor.”

“You’re a demigod, my love.”

He opens his mouth to say something but he stops when he sees you standing behind him with your hands on your hips, daring him to refuse you. “There is no sense in arguing with thee, it seems.”

“You are correct.” He rolls his eye. You were so stubborn.

Staring on the left side, you take three small strands and delicately weave them together. His hair is easy to work with and within a few minutes, you have a tiny braid.

You hold out your finished work. “Hold this, please.” He does as you ask, and you almost chuckle at the sight of him concentrating on keeping it pinched between his fingers.

Moving to the right side, you do the exact same thing. Strands of red dance in and out and soon, you have another braid. You admire your work.

You take the first braid from him with a small thank you and carefully lay them down on his head, making them join at the ends. It creates an oval-like shape and emits an air of importance. You grab a small hand-held mirror from the table in front of him and give it to him. He stands and faces away from the vanity, repositioning the tiny mirror so he could see the beautiful, yet simple, job you did. He eye crinkles and he seems to like it.

“Thou hast done a wonderful job. I thank thee, beloved.”

You take the small mirror from him and return it to the vanity table. You gesture for him to sit, which he does without protest.

“Your serpents deserve braids too.” He chuckles and his companions look at you with wide eyes.

You open the drawer of the vanity and pull out two tiny braids made from some fabric. You had been practicing with these so your braids would look perfect.

The serpents come closer and you gently lay the strand of fabric on them. They shake a little at first, then flick their tongues excitedly.

“I think they look handsome, don’t you think, Messmer?”

He throws his head back and laughs. “They look quite ridiculous.” The serpents hiss.

You gently pat them both and they nuzzle into your touch. “Don’t listen to him. You both look wonderful.”

In truth, they did look a little silly, but they seemed proud to wear braids like their master.

“Thou always tends to my ailing soul, beloved.” He kisses the top of your head.

“Proud to serve, my Lord.” He rolls his eye at the use of his title.

He scoops your hands up in his and gazes into your eyes tenderly. “I shall say it now for fear that thou dost not realize: thou art free. Wherever thy soul wishes to roam, thou mayest go. I only request that thou returnest to me safe.”

You shake your head. This man. You lean up on your tiptoes and he bridges the gap, placing a loving kiss on your lips. There is no rush, no fight for dominance, just the both of you existing in the same space. Your hearts swell in admiration for one another.

There is nowhere else you’d rather be.

#messmer the impaler #messmer x reader #messmer x tarnished #messmer the impaler x reader #elden ring x reader #some spice this time oooo #i love this guy #and his snakes #this is peak male physique

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littlekohai77 · 7 months ago

Text

Ikevil NSFW hcs

𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚜. 𝙾𝚔𝚊𝚢? 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍.

🅆🄰🅁🄽🄸🄽🄶: NSFW, minors dni or bald Jude is gonna come for you, villains, members of crown, what more do you need? Aren't they enough of a warning? Mention of pregnancy, bdsm, degradation, overstim, edging, dacryphilia.

*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*

♡🆆🅸🅻🅻🅸🅰🅼 🆁🅴🆇:

Pussy pleaser spotted!!

Cares more about your pleasure than his own. Willing to blue ball himself at the drop of a hat to give your sweet cunny some well deserved attention.

Favorite position: probably something where he can see your face well. He wants to see how you react to him. Do you love it? Do you hate it? Are you conflicted? Do you feel guilty to be getting fucked instead of doing your job like the good little girl you are?

I think cow girl would be his favorite. Cause he gets to sit back and let you take the reigns. It helps show him more sides of you. Sides that he wants to explore and get to know more.

He's the type to never push you to give him oral. He won't have to say a word, you'll just feel the need to do it, you'll feel compelled to.

If he ever wants you to do anything, he'll just ask you to do so. He doesn't command it yet you always feel compelled to. It's just hard to say no to him and you don't really know why. Is it because you want to please him? Is it because you think you need to repay him?

The thing about him is, he never ever uses his powers on you in bed, doesn't matter if you beg him to, he just isn't.

He knows just how strong he is and he doesn't want to make a habit of controlling your actions. He fears that in some point in time, he might just feel very tempted and find controlling you more convenient than persuading you. Which would tarnish you freedom in the relationship and cause a major imbalance in power. He also doesn't want to break that trust that he worked so hard to build.

♥︎🅷🅰🆁🆁🅸🆂🅾🅽 🅶🆁🅰🆈:

Ahemhmhmhnshdbsxbdhdbd

Bro he fucks with my head so bad. Anyway,

His favorite position is probably spooning.

He likes the intimacy of the act.

Like you both just woke up and are lazing around in bed. And then you push your butt against his crotch a few too many times that he just loses it. 😩🙌

His face nestled in the crook of your neck, his breath brushing up against your nape as he slides his cold slender fingers under your nightgown and pinches you nipple while holding your legs apart with his own and thrusting his hips into yours.

Also also

He's the type to both enjoy giving oral and receiving. But the thing is, despite enjoying, he doesn't give it often. Why? Cause fuck you.

Nah I'm kidding.

He just tries to keep up his persona.

But there are times where you just look too delicious or are being too good of a girl that he gets so overwhelmed with love for you and just splits your thighs apart and slots himself in between.

This also happens when you're riding him, he just gets so overwhelmed by how good you're making him feel that he flips you over and starts pounding you into next week.

❥🅻🅸🅰🅼 🅴🆅🅰🅽🆂:

You're his mistress and his your little naughty kitty.

Definitely enjoys being rode to tears.

He's very experimental. Always ready to give everything a try. Will even do fletching.

You guys probably have a healthy balance of sweet-slow sex and rough sex.

He enjoys being choked. Like suffocatted. Every time he wants you to go harder. That's concerning ngl. 😰

He's not the most obedient. Very rebellious and always has a comeback ready.

But it's easy to shut him up. Just sit down on his face. Or edge him till he's crying.

(Sorry I'm not really good at writing subby characters and I can't really see Liam in a sexual way.)

☃︎❆🅴🅻🅱🅴🆁🆃 🅶🆁🅴🅴🆃🅸🅰:

🗣️ Pussy Pleaser spotted ‼️

But he's like that for selfish reasons.

He pleasures you to literal unconsciousness, not because he wants to make you feel good, no, he wants to see the beautiful expressions that you make when you're getting fucked, when you're thighs are shuddering from the pure intensity and a tear slips down your flushed cheeks, when you're about to fall apart.

His favorite position is probably missionary. He gets to see your face, he gets to control the pace. All perfect for him.

Much more of a giver when it comes to oral. But there's one condition, you must not look away. You look away and he stops. You deprive him of that sickeningly sweet expression of yours and he latches himself off of your little clit.

Another torturous thing he does is edge and overstim you. Because sometimes he gets a bit addicted to that face you make when you climax or are about to. So to see it again and again. He just keeps going and going. He knows from experience that not stopping would highten your sensitivity and make you cum faster. And that's exactly what he wants, for you to show him that utterly heavenly view again.

If you try to hide your face, he's gonna stop or holds your arms in his hands.

But that's not to say he doesn't enjoy romantic sex either. He enjoys it quite a lot. He loves the faces you make when he's thrusting into you slowly, peppering you in kisses and squeezing you gently. He loves that look of adoration in your eyes. That happiness, how content you are.

❍🅰🅻🅵🅾🅽🆂 🆂🆈🅻🆅🅰🆃🅸🅲🅰:

He's a womanizer. So that makes me feel like he's a Dom.

I think his go to position would be doggy. Just because of how easily accessible it is in Victorian era attire.

He seems like the most twisted and manipulative man there is.

So he probably does both degradation and praise. He needs the right thing to sway you in the right direction and there's no guarantee that everyone would be into degradation.

He's more into degradation. Because it's hard for him to give praise and make it feel genuine to himself. Because the simple knowledge of him knowing that he's faking it and forcing himself kind of ruins that allure.

But he pulls through any way. He's a great actor to be honest. Should consider becoming Liam's coworker.

He's probably into edging. Both himself and you. He enjoys the sweet sweet torture of losing his high again and again, and he also enjoys how your composure cracks and you beg him to make you cum.

He really loves being begged and having the position of power.

Even when taking the submissive role, he's still got the most control. Aka, he's a power bottom. He provokes you into getting what he wants and while you might think you're putting him in his place, this is actually exactly what he wanted and you fell right into his trap.

He prefers receiving than giving oral.

✾🅹🆄🅳🅴 🅹🅰🆉🆉🅰:

You better pray you're a masochist.

He's really rough. Shoves your head into the pillows and fucks you into the mattress.

He's into degradation. Calls you every dirty name in existence.

Slapping and spanking are definitely his go to. Doesn't spit on you though. It just doesn't sit right with him. And he finds the act disgusting.

He's one to give orders with rewards and if you can't follow through you face punishments.

☠︎︎🅴🅻🅻🅸🆂 🆃🆆🅸🅻🅸🅶🅷🆃:

Service Dom. I repeat, SERVICE DOM.

But he's scary. He's the type of service Dom that does what he wants. He's selfish like that. He does it because he wants to make you happy. So he asks what would make you happy, if it's good enough he'll do it, or he'll think of something better and do that.

Definitely more into giving head. Doesn't really enjoy receiving cause taking that large of a cock in your mouth seems uncomfortable for you.

Favorite position is probably you sitting on his face.

☣︎🆁🅾🅶🅴🆁 🅱🅰🆁🅴🅻:

Your tears are his lubricant.

Pussy Slapper™

Favorite position is probably doggy style. But he pulls on your hair, supports himself on one arm, his chest to your back, places his head besides yours and licks your tears off your red cheeks as if it's ambrosia. Btw he slapped you, that's why your cheeks are red.

He's into patient x doctor roleplays.

He's into degrading you, spanking and spitting on you.

One thing he doesn't do unless necessary is probably tie you up. Holding you down just makes him realize how much stronger he is than you and he gets pretty drunk on that power trip.

He's all about receiving when it comes to oral. He face fucks you. Literally grabs onto your hair and shoves your head up and down his cock.

Maybe does romantic sex once in a while as an apology for treating you so roughly and finally gives you head.

◡̈🆅🅸🅲🆃🅾🆁:

Definitely has a daddy kink.

Also a breeding kink. Wants to make you a mommy and have lots of kids. A whole entire army in fact.

Mating press galore.

Probably sucks on your boobs. Hopes that one day you'll get pregnant and it'll leak milk.

Literally fantasizing about naming his kids as he's thrusting into you.

He's also a service Dom. But he's a tease and will only go as far as you tell him to.

Like literally if you say 'touch me! ' he'll just graze his finger against your inner thigh, a spot a hair's breath away from your core.

*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*

𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍.

𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝... 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞. :)

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vivwritescrappythings · 23 days ago

Text

if she would have me

knight!könig x plus-size!fem!reader

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 6

könig personally comforts you through the news of your betrothal. things get out of hand.

tw: fem reader, afab reader, crying, body image issues, kissing, smut, oral (f receiving), lots of bad descriptions of a pussy, not proofread.

wc: 3.8k

masterlist

MDNI!

—

Your ears were ringing as you left your father’s study, tears already stinging at your eyes.

He requested that König left the room before he spoke to you, your knight meeting your gaze for your permission first. You could have kissed him then and there—König was the only person who treated you like your thoughts were important. Only with your nod did he exit the room.

The knight had become more protective as of late, hovering nearer with a more rigid demeanor than you had ever seen before. He stood up straight, towering a full head over most people he encountered as he stood on the edges of rooms or walked at your side. There were never more than a few strides between you two. You could not tell if it was due to the kiss or Lord Fischer’s increased presence.

The lord had been spending more time with your father as the days passed. You never knew what they were discussing, the two murmuring to each other in hushed tones before outwardly acknowledging you. Lord Fischer was alright, he took less offense to your humor than other men at court even if he never quite grasped it. You did not mind when he attended dinners or greeted you at events.

König, however, certainly did mind. You could see it in his increased vigilance, Lord Fischer often having to step around him in some capacity to speak with you. Even if his vigilance had not changed, you could tell in the way König kissed you as soon as Lord Fischer left you alone.

Once you began you never stopped. You had been the one to practically beg for a second kiss—telling König that it would not tarnish your virtue or confuse your feelings for him. It was framed as a learning experience for you prior to getting a husband, or that was how you tried to present it. He was helping you learn how to better impress men.

That ended with you pressed against the wall next to the door to your chambers, his hood pushed up just below his nose as he kissed you. You felt alive, lightning running up and down your spine as you stood on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.

He soon had kissed you enough that you lost your clumsiness, even bold enough to tease him with your tongue and nip at his lips with your teeth. You took every opportunity you could, any moment you were alone ended up either with König bent over you or you seated on his thighs.

At first you were petrified of sitting on his lap, denying his requests and squirming away from the press of his hands. The last time you sat in someone’s lap was when you were a little girl. You were far too large to climb onto another person, the idea of König feeling the true weight of you on his legs made you want to crawl into your bed and hide.

But he coaxed you into it with promises that you were just a little thing compared to him, nothing he had not already experienced before. The squish of your hips through your dress only seemed to pull a deep hum from him the first time you let him settle you on his thigh. You held your breath as you expected him to shove you off, to say you were too heavy like you knew yourself to be. Instead he brought you in to kiss him as though he did not even notice the weight.

You wanted it all. Greed had never been a trait you identified with, but you would have taken everything König was willing to give you. Heat pooled in your belly every time your lips touched his. The neediness was unfamiliar, leaving you wanting for something you struggled to identify.

It was König who pulled away when your fingers found the straps of his plate armor. He always peppered your hairline and forehead with his lips as he did, citing that you were a lady and he could not tarnish that.

You wanted to curse it all to hell.

But that day was different. You were practically running from your father’s study, vision blurry and steps clumsy as the need to be as far away as possible overtook you. König shouted after you, it was the loudest you had ever heard him as you lifted the hem of your skirt to stop from tripping.

His footsteps were loud behind you, the metallic clinking of his armor echoing in the empty hall as your strides lengthened. The last time you ran you must have been young—it was not proper for a lady. You had no idea you could even move so fast.

He caught up to you at the stairwell up to one of the seldom traversed towers in the castle, gloved hand curling around your wrist like a cuff as he pulled you to a stop. “What is the matter?” he whispered, crowding in close to you with his head bowed toward yours.

You both were panting, your chest heaving as tears started to slide down your cheeks. His hood moved with his breaths, billowing out and sucking in on a rhythm as he kept his hold on you. The concern in his gaze was obvious, eyes slightly narrowed.

It was hard to find the right words, only useless stammering coming from you as you cried more freely. König shushed you softly, his free hand smoothing your hair from your face and rubbing your cheek his thumb as he tried to get you to calm down. The panic felt all consuming, your throat tightening and your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled for breath.

His broad shoulders hid you if anyone were to walk through the halls, but few people were in that wing of the castle that time of day. An unknown amount of time passed before you relaxed enough to breathe, eyes burning and cheeks clammy from your tears.

“Lord Fischer asked my father for my hand,” you confessed, your voice thick from crying. König grunted, his displeasure clear in his gaze as his forehead pressed to yours.

“Will you accept?” he asked, voice low. His hand cupped the nape of your neck, his fingertips pressing into your skin.

You sniffed, shaking your head slightly. “It does not matter, my father has already accepted on my behalf.” You took a deep breath and wiped your face with your hands. “Once we are wed he is planning on returning to his family seat with me. When I leave the castle, you will be freed from your service. You will not come with me.”

König’s hand found purchase on your waist, pulling you close. You leaned into him, inhaling the scent of marjoram and sage and oakmoss that clung to him.

“Do you wish to marry him, my lady?” König asked, tilting your head so he could look at you properly.

No. You had no desire to marry Lord Fischer. The only man you found yourself looking forward to seeing every day was the one in front of you.

You shook your head, biting your tongue to keep the idiocy that just sprung to your mind from tumbling out of your mouth. König would never marry you. Kissing was one thing, simple fun that no man would take seriously. Marriage was a laughable thought. He would likely marry some eastern girl who was unlike you, tall and limber and beautiful.

It was what he deserved.

“Then you will not marry him,” he murmured, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. It was so matter of fact that he took you by surprise.

“What do you mean, König?” you asked. Your brow furrowed as you tried to glean understanding from the small part of his face that you could see. He looked calm, eyes partially lidded as he focused on you.

He hummed, nodding. “If you do not wish to marry him, then you will not.” He was already pulling up the bottom half of his hood, exposing the scars you had memorized the locations of as his pale pink lips descended toward yours. “I will not let you.”

Your noise of confusion was swallowed by his mouth. It was different from your previous kisses, König’s hands holding you firmly against him as he parted your lips with his tongue. You could taste the salt from your tears as his fingers threaded in your hair. Your nose pressed against his cheek, the coarse fabric of his hood scraping against your skin.

“How could you stop it?” you asked, breathless as you parted. He surprised you, stooping lower to drag his mouth in a trail from your lips to your jaw. You exposed more of your neck to him, chills running down your spine as he nipped lightly at the hinge of your jaw.

“Would you like to be married?” His deep voice was muffled by your throat.

You could hardly consider his question thoroughly as you swallowed, trying to make sense of things. “Yes,” you answered, breathy and wavering.

König grabbed your hip, squeezing firmly and bunching the thick fabric of your skirt in his hand. “Who would you marry? A lord? A knight?”

A knight. A knight a million times over.

Your breath rattled in your chest. “What of you?” you asked, face and chest feeling like they were set aflame as your skin warmed. “Will you marry?”

He scraped his teeth over the nape of your neck, making you gasp. “Yes, I plan to.”

Hope threatened to take over, taunting you at the back of your mind as one of your hands fisted in the back of his hood. You needed to hold on to something, feeling unmoored aside from the feel of König’s mouth on you.

“A common girl?” You let out a whimper you would be embarrassed by otherwise, his hand hiking up the hem of your skirt a fraction of an inch as he licked a stripe up your throat. “A lady?”

Me?

König smiled against your skin, the shape of it printed against the underside of your jaw. “My lady, if she were to have me.”

Your stomach flipped, a gasp rattling behind your lips as you grabbed onto his arms. It was hard to tell which direction was up, König’s words repeating in your mind. He pulled you from the wall, using his strength to turn and lower you onto the stone steps. You were too shocked to speak, mouth opening and closing a few times before you found your voice.

“Do not jest, König,” you murmured, cheeks warm as he held himself up over you. He was kneeling on your skirt on the steps, one hand planted next to your head.

His pale blue eyes searched yours, his blonde eyelashes fluttering against the sliver of his cheekbones that was visible beneath the hood. The dark fabric had fallen loose from where it was caught above his mouth and hung over the lower half of his face once more. You wanted to push it up so you could see his expression, but you felt frozen.

“I would not jest,” he said, the grin audible in his voice.

He leaned down to you, pulling his shroud back up to free his lips. You kissed him eagerly, an arm thrown around the back of his neck holding him close. It felt different now, giddiness blooming in your chest as you let your eyes shut.

“What of my father?” you asked, still returning each stamp of his mouth against yours as you spoke.

König started to kiss your jaw again, dragging up the hem of your skirt as you panted from his touch. “So you would have me,” he confirmed, a hand smoothing up the curve of your waist until his fingers skirted along the underside of your breast.

You gasped an agreement, part of you worried that you would be waking up for the dream soon. But König was pulling his glove off his hand, the armor on the outside of it clanging against the stone step as he cast it aside. His fingers and palm were calloused from years of training with swords, coarse against the soft skin of your leg as he began to venture beneath your skirt.

“König,” you whispered, brows knitting together as his hand caressed the bend of your knee. He gently squeezed the soft fat of your thigh, the wet feel of his mouth tasting your throat making a hot whine escape your lips. “What of my father? He already promised me to Lord Fischer.”

There was an anxious buzz at the back of your mind as you felt the soft flesh of your thigh give beneath the press of his fingers. You wanted to shove him away before he could recoil, your teeth set together as you tensed.

But König had no qualms, thumb swooping over the soft skin as his hand traveled higher. “Do you trust me, liebling?” he asked, blue eyes swooping up to meet your gaze.

You nodded, biting your lower lip. Trusting König was never part of the question–you trusted him with your life. His fingertips skated further up as they traced from the outside of your leg to the inside. Your heart was in your throat, breath catching as you let him part your soft thighs.

It was easy to forget that you were in public, the hard edges of the stone steps melting away as goosebumps lifted on your skin. Your eyes were wide as he touched the edges of your undergarments, shifting them aside with practiced ease that made your stomach do flips. Heat pooled between your legs.

“God,” König groaned as his thick fingers curled against your sex and stroked.

He watched you earnestly as he touched you. You kept your expression open, letting your eyelids grow heavy and your lips part. Your face warmed as you panted with the strokes of his fingers. He wanted to see it, and you wanted him to see.

Your heavy skirts were bunched up at his elbow, his stare pinning you in place. His thumb pressed over the crest of your sex, firm and swirling. It sent you gasping, a soft ‘oh’ escaping you as your hips stuttered off the step. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, repeating the motion until you were keening.

You needed more. He tilted his head, a soft huff of a laugh rumbling from him as you lifted your hips toward his hand. You propped yourself up on your elbows, chest heaving.

Then König was moving away from you, making you panic as you resisted the urge to reach out for him. You wanted to grab him and keep him with you, but instead you watched him move down your body.

He pushed your legs apart, moving down the steps as he lifted your skirt. You swallowed your anxieties as you watched him duck his head beneath the hem of the dark red fabric. He pressed a wet kiss to the inside of your knee, his stubble scraping against your skin and making you squirm.

You realized with a shock that his hood was lifted up higher than you had ever seen it, the shape of his nose pressing against the hinge between your hip and your thigh. He was hidden beneath the fabric of your skirt, the hem settling across his broad back. There was a hot breath against you as he dragged his parted lips to the mess of curls between your legs. His hand fitted around the curve of your hip beneath your dress, pulling you closer.

“König, w-what are you–” you stammered out as you felt his breath against your sex. Your hand pressed against the shape of his head beneath your skirt, your heart rate quickening. Then his mouth was on you.

The noise that came out of you was embarrassing, pitchy and whiny as your spine nearly jolted off the steps.

He opened his mouth against you, feasting eagerly as he flattened his tongue over your sex in long strokes. His lips fitted around the crest of your sex as he sucked gently, almost making you sob. A quiet grunt vibrated against you as you spilled against his tongue and mouth, soaking the scratch of his stubble.

You were unmoored, his hands the only thing keeping you in place on the steps as he kissed and licked between your legs. The world around you went a little blurry as your head rolled back.

His lips were soft and plush against you, the feeling indescribable as the velvet of his tongue teased the spot that kept making you whine. You threw your hand over your mouth desperately, trying to muffle your whines. The occasional scrape of his stubble against the insides of your thighs made you want to scream.

You made yourself count your breaths, a desperate attempt to stave off the spots in your vision. The angles of the stairs dug into your spine as you sagged back against it, your hand cupping the back of König’s head. You pulled him closer to the wet mess between your legs, fingers itching to bury themselves in his hair. The shape of the crown of his head would have to do in the meantime.

In your delirium you could feel his smile against you. His efforts doubled, consuming you with gentle caresses of his tongue and the heated press of his lips over the sensitive bundle of nerves at the crest of your sex.

You needed him there, something instinctual making your skin crawl as your breaths became shallow. There was a feeling in your stomach that made you feel like you were flying and dying at the same time, your muscles knitting together as your hips rocked against König’s face of their own accord. You were on the edge of something you did not recognize, coiling up tight in your belly.

It was like he knew, there was no doubt in your mind that he could sense it. His fingertips dug harder into the soft flesh of your hips, keeping you from moving away from the flicks of his tongue. The rumble of his growl was muffled against your sex, making your eyes roll.

His tongue was insistent and eager, focused on the crest of your sex after he chased something. Your spine started to arch, locking up as your throat tightened. König did not relent, pressing on toward something, something you did not–

It ripped through you like a flame, a hot and blinding mess of pleasure as your muscles tightened and tightened and tightened. You shouted into the scoop of your palm, a warning to König and yourself as you continued to wind into a coil so tight you saw no end to it. You did not know what it was, or what you would do.

The buzzing wave building in your sex finally broke like a crack of lightning. You were falling.

It was hot and unbearable, locking every muscle in your body as you felt like you were suffocating. Waves of heat and pleasure rolled through your core and pooled in every crevice of your body.

There was a messy rush of moisture that König drank with ease, and you collapsed against the stairs in a loose heap.

You lost sight and sound for far too long, a rose-colored blush staining your vision as your soul floated somewhere above your body. Everything was muffled, the deep sound of his voice softened as he said something against the slick skin between your legs.

He was still feasting on you when you returned to yourself, teeth scraping lightly at the sensitive skin as your hips twitched. The press of his tongue at your entrance made you sob, something squeezing and devastatingly empty making you crave more. You clutched at his head, trying to pull him there.

You had forgotten where you were, the light diffused through the windows of the tower had become ethereal. The breadth of your focus had been drawn in, König taking up the entirety of it.

Then you heard your name.

But it sounded wrong, there was no caress of König’s accent, no sharp focus on the consonants and no melodic lilt.

Then it repeated.

You blinked, König was moving away from you in a rush that you could not quite understand as you tried to come to the surface.

Your father stood in the hall, a few lords at his flanks.

Lord Fischer was among them.

König was standing, the broad spread of him covering where he left you disheveled on the stairs. Panic struck through you as you stared at the set of his shoulders, the cool confidence that seemed to exude from him.

“My lord,” König said, deep and raspy. It must have been the first time he had ever spoken in front of your father. One armored glove still rested next to you, his bare fingers relaxing at his side as he leveled his gaze on the men before him.

You were glad you could not see his expression, shame locking your chest tight as you wished the earth would open up and swallow you whole. How could you have done that somewhere so public? How could you have thought that you would not have been caught?

“I should have you killed!” your father shouted, more shrill than you had ever heard him. You flinched, still too stunned to try to gather yourself. “You dare refer to me as your lord after you defile my daughter!”

Chaos erupted, the chatter of the lords your father was with grating on your ears as they all spoke over one another. You could not make out the majority of what they were saying, snippets reaching you.

The word marriage came up often. Virtue just as much. Honor even more.

“I will marry her.”

It was so loud that König practically shouted. The chatter ceased, you could hear the stares.

“You will marry her, Ser Kilgore?” It was your father’s voice that finally came after long moments of silence.

“Happily, my lord.” Quick and to the point, it was as you had always known König to be.

“If I withheld her dowry?”

König chuckled, shaking his head. “I would marry her anyways.”

You could cry, dragging yourself up to a sitting position as you looked up at your knight. The silence was far too long, hesitation making you choke.

“There are far too many witnesses for you to marry her to another,” one of the lords whispered, breaking the tension. It was true. Too many people have seen it. No one would take you now, no matter the size of your dowry.

Your father cursed, the sound of it making you flinch. He sighed. “Then I suppose there will be a wedding.

Your lips parted as you understood, your eyes falling closed. König asked you to trust him. You should have known.

He had planned this all along.

#könig x reader #konig call of duty #konig cod #konig x you #könig cod #könig call of duty #könig #konig x reader #knight!konig #reader insert #konig x plus size reader #plus size reader #könig x you #könig mw2 #könig x plus size reader #fem!reader #konig smut #könig smut

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reiding-writing · 7 days ago

Note

For a Halloweeny fic you could do like a bau!reader and Spencer going to a haunted house while away on a case.. you could make it more fluffy or more a thriller/drama thing, whatever you're feeling like <<3

HAUNTED HOUSE — SPENCER REID!

you and spencer search a ‘haunted’ house, that might actually be haunted.

a/n — a little halloween blurb, thanks for the idea !!

masterlist.

You and Spencer are sent to investigate an old, crumbling house on the outskirts of a small town in rural Illinois, a place that even the locals keep their distance from.

Supposedly, it’s haunted—whispers of creaking floorboards and flickering lights drift around like the dust in its empty rooms. But it was also a likely suspect for where kids kept going missing around the area, so it couldn’t be left unsearched.

Spencer looks slightly pale as he stands beside you, adjusting his flashlight, gaze fixed firmly on the front door like he's trying to psych himself up. He’s heard the rumours too, and you know how superstitious he can get.

“Ready to meet our resident ghost?” you ask, a grin twitching at the corners of your mouth.

Spencer tries to hide a frown. “I don’t believe in ghosts, you know,” he mumbles, a touch of defensiveness in his tone. “But historically, homes like these… well, they do tend to have unusual histories.”

You give him a mock-solemn nod, widening your eyes dramatically. “Right. Unusual histories. Very rational.” And with that, you push open the door, stepping into the cold darkness beyond.

The house is dimly lit, with thick shadows pooling in every corner. Your flashlight beam skims over a musty rug, tarnished wallpaper peeling at the edges, and a cracked mirror that only reflects your flashlight’s weak glow. It’s quiet. Too quiet. You see Spencer shiver slightly as he steps in behind you, his expression determined but slightly uneasy.

You let a silence hang between you, just long enough for him to start looking around nervously. Then, slowly, you lean in and whisper, “You feel that, right? Like… something’s watching?”

Spencer visibly tenses. “Don’t start,” he murmurs, but his eyes dart around as if he’s trying to catch sight of something shifting in the shadows. “There’s no statistical evidence to support hauntings—”

A floorboard creaks sharply underfoot, and Spencer’s voice dies. He goes completely still, clutching his flashlight like it’s a lifeline. You suppress a laugh, barely.

“What was that?” he whispers.

You lean in, voice low and conspiratorial. “I heard that the ghost here likes to knock… three times…” You knock three times against the nearest wall. The sound echoes through the empty house.

Spencer flinches, his face a mix of surprise and mild horror. He opens his mouth, probably to throw some scientific reasoning at you, but then, down the hallway, another knock answers. A hollow, soft thud—just once, but loud enough to reach you both.

You raise an eyebrow, turning to Spencer. “Was that you?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes wide. “No. That… that must have been… the house settling.”

“Right, right,” you say, not buying it one bit. “The house settling. Just like all those stories about people hearing whispering voices or seeing strange figures here. Probably just… wind, right?”

You watch his face, noting the way his brow furrows. He’s still holding onto his skepticism, but only by a thread.

You press on, deepening your voice and dropping into your best spooky narrator impression. “I heard the ghost is a woman who lost her eyes in an accident… can’t see, but they say she walks these halls… blindly searching for her next victim.”

Spencer’s mouth opens slightly, but he’s too tense to even object now. He flicks his flashlight down the hallway as if daring the ghost to appear.

The moment is perfect.

You slip behind him as he takes another cautious step forward, and in a low, breathy whisper, you murmur, “Spencer…”

He spins around, eyes wide with sheer panic. His flashlight beam swings wildly around the room, and he barely contains a yell. He narrows his eyes, catching your grin, and lets out an exasperated breath. “You— You’re impossible.”

You chuckle, but before you can answer, there’s a soft scratching sound from somewhere upstairs. The mirth fades a little from your expression. That one didn’t sound like it came from either of you.

Spencer glances at you, his look equal parts accusation and genuine fear. “You… didn’t set that up, did you?”

For a second, you almost want to tell him yes, that it was just another part of the prank. But the scratching continues, persistent, and… you can’t deny the chill creeping up your spine.

“It’s probably just a rat,” you suggest, not as confident as before. And, Spencer’s nod is just as unsure.

“A rat, right….”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #mgg

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slytherinslut0 · 1 year ago

Text

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Thirteen-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Dirty Talk, Toxic Behaviour, Angst, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Jealousy, Possessive Behaviours, Emotional Manipulation, Begging, ThighRiding, Masturbation.

****FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

The moment you stepped into Mattheo's private dorm, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions churned within you. The room, drenched in shadows and dimly lit by a few strategically placed candles, seemed to echo his enigmatic personality. Deep emerald and silver tapestries adorned the walls, and the air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood, mingled with the faint aroma of whiskey, creating a heady atmosphere that hung like a thick fog.

Your anger simmered just below the surface as you practically shoved Mattheo off you, his arrogant figure slumping onto the edge of the opulent bed, running a battered hand through his messy hair as he stared at you. The room's opulence felt suffocating, practically a mirrored image of the turmoil roaring within you. Your eyes roamed the space, catching glimpses of Mattheo's life--scattered parchment filled with scribbled notes, half-empty potion vials, and a tangle of dark robes strewn carelessly on a chair.

You couldn't ignore the mounting frustration, the way his careless demeanor clashed with the chaos he had unleashed in your life.

"This," you seethed, running your hands through your hair as you fought to keep your voice steady, "this has to stop, all of this."

Mattheo met your gaze, his expression unreadable. The room seemed to shrink around you, suffocating you between its walls. Your anger crackled like electricity in the charged air, the weight of the night's events pressing on your chest like a crushing burden. You knew you should leave, escape the suffocating atmosphere of his room, but an inexplicable force held you in place, rooted to the spot. The battle within you raged on, torn between the allure of his dangerous world and the need to protect your own sanity.

"Here we go again," Mattheo mumbled, his voice carrying a tinge of exhaustion, collapsing back on his green duvet. "Give it to me, Raven. Get it all out."

"Can you please not be insufferable for five fucking minutes?" Your words sliced through the charged air, your frustration escalating with his casual dismissal of your anger. "Do you even understand what just happened? Your already suspicious brother just found me walking you back to your dorm on a Saturday fucking night while you pretended to be blackout..."

You took a determined step forward, your anger palpable, radiating off you like heat waves. "Oh, but wait, you wouldn't know that he was suspicious, because when I tried to tell you about it, you basically told me to shut the fuck up, among other things..." you let your words hang, heavy and loaded, hoping they would pierce through his indifference. "Your ignorance is going to ruin my life, Mattheo. I don't think you realize it...or maybe you do, and you just don't care."

"My brother doesn't know fuck all." Mattheo grumbled, his frustration evident as he brought both palms to his face, rubbing his eyes wearily. "And even if he did, what's he going to do? He has no proof."

You rolled your eyes, exasperation boiling within you. "He could still kick me out of the guild...could tarnish my reputation with Dumbledore...the possibilities are fucking endless, Mattheo. Didn't you see the way he was looking at me? Did you not hear what he said?"

"Yeah, I saw the way he was looking at you alright," he said, irritation lacing his words. "Fucking pri-"

"Enough, Mattheo," you spat, your voice cutting through the air as you stepped closer to him. "Stop acting like you own me, like I'm yours to protect, control, or possess. It's time to face the facts. This is becoming too much. We've both admitted that we can't stop thinking about each other...how can we continue this after that?"

"Same way we always have, Raven," Mattheo said, sitting up to meet your eyes, leaning back on his palms. "We have this conversation every week. One of us says we can't do this anymore, but then the cycle continues...you know you can't resist this..."

"Gods, Mattheo...even on my tiptoes I wouldn't be able to reach your fucking ego." You hissed, stepping closer again, your skin pricking with frustration. "And I love how you say that like I've ever had a choice...like you haven't already embedded yourself in my fucking soul..."

Mattheo's lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he remained silent, his eyes searching yours for answers. The air between you crackled with tension, heavy with unspoken emotions. His usual confidence wavered, and for the first time, he seemed at a loss for words.

"I was fine with this until you took it too far, until you started making things complicated...the Tom thing has me sick..." you continued, your voice softening despite the anger that still lingered within you. "We're trapped in this vicious circle, Mattheo. Every time I try to pull away, you pull me back in, or vice versa...we're both tangled in this mess we've created, and I don't know how to break free..."

His expression remained unreadable, a mixture of frustration and helplessness flickering in his eyes. It was as if the reality of your words had finally caught up with him, forcing him to confront the depth of your entanglement. A heavy silence settled between you, Mattheo's gaze locked onto yours, his facade of indifference crumbling in the face of your honesty. He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly, but no words escaped his lips.

"Why?" you whispered, the weight of your words hanging in the tense space between you, crackling with unspoken emotion. You took a single step closer, your eyes searching his for a glimmer of understanding. "Why can't you admit that this needs to stop? That this can't continue?"

Mattheo blinked, his gaze flickering over your face, his lips parted, and his voice, tinged with uncertainty, left his throat in a hoarse whisper. "I...I don't know."

"You don't know?" you hissed, frustration bubbling within you. "You're willing to ruin my fucking life over an I don't know? Do you seriously hate me that much?"

As though a switch had been flipped, Mattheo stood, closing the distance between your bodies in a movement so forceful that you stumbled backward. His large palm found your arm, steadying you in place in front of him. His eyes, darker than the midnight sky, bored into you, filled with emotions you couldn't decipher.

"I don't hate you, Raven," he said, his voice firm, the intensity of his gaze paralyzing you.

Your heart stalled, your body near collapsing under the weight of his words. "You don't--"

"I never hated you," he repeated, his tone harsher this time, his grip on your arm tightening. "I couldn't fucking hate you even if I tried, and believe me, I have tried."

You were left speechless, entirely at a loss for words. The revelation shook you to your core. "You...but..."

"You make me fucking crazy, you make me feel like I'm always on the verge of losing control...and I don't lose control, Raven...not like this..." he growled, his voice a low, husky timbre that sent shivers down your spine.

Anger radiated off him, tangible and wild, as if it could set the room ablaze, surrounding your body with ease.

"You're a fucking mystery...everyone sees you as the school's brilliant little good girl, buried in books and academics...but underneath all that, you're so much more..." his free hand found your other arm, pulling you closer. "You're everything...you're honest, remarkably witty, and fuck, you have the sharpest snark that could keep any bloody asshat on their fucking toes..."

The intensity of his gaze softened for a fleeting moment, revealing a hint of vulnerability beneath the rage.

"You said I don't know half of the woman you are, but I do...I know all too fucking well, and part of me wished I didn't..." his voice was almost a whisper now, your heart hammering against your sternum like a frantic caged bird. "And that's only because you make it impossible to hate you."

"You're drunk..." your breath hitched, caught in the raw honesty of his words. The air seemed charged with tension, heavy with unspoken desires and regrets. "You don't mean any of this..."

Mattheo's jaw clenched, the tension in the room escalating with each passing moment. His grip on you tightened, the pressure sending a shiver down your spine. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, his internal turmoil mirrored in his intense gaze. It felt like his words were crashing against the walls of your mind, struggling to find a place to settle, leaving you in a state of emotional disarray. He averted his eyes, as if seeking refuge from the intensity of the moment, his silence speaking volumes, his thoughts a storm brewing behind his gaze.

"Raven...I..." his voice escaped him like a fragile whisper, hanging in the charged air between you. "I don't hate you...I hate Berkshire for fucking touching you...I hate my brother for trying to fucking get with you...I even hate Zabini because I overheard him telling Malfoy that he'd have your virginity in a fucking day if he tried..."

His words hung heavy in the room, a raw confession that left you speechless. Mattheo's eyes, usually steely and confident, now held a vulnerability you had never seen before. The truth of his emotions enveloped the space between you, suffocating yet strangely liberating. You found your voice, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

"I don't want you to hate anyone...you shouldn't hate anyone over a girl you can never fucking be with..." you said, your voice laced with a mix of frustration and resignation, the reality of your situation hanging heavy in the air. "Don't you see the problems here..."

Mattheo's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes clouded with an emotion he refused to acknowledge. Slowly, he released his grip on you, his fingers trailing away reluctantly as he retreated towards the worn-out couch in the corner. With a flick of his wand, he cast a spell that enveloped the room, muffling any sound and concealing the scent of the illicit substances he was about to indulge in.

Sinking into the couch, he seemed to meld into the shadows, the dim light casting eerie shadows across his face. His hands moved with practiced ease, rolling a blunt with expert precision. The room filled with the acrid aroma of marijuana as he took a long, deliberate drag, the smoke swirling around him like a protective veil, momentarily shrouding his vulnerability.

"You're right," he said, exhaling slowly, the smoke curling around him like a shield. "I see the problems, Raven. I see them crystal fucking clear."

Your heart pounded forcefully, its rhythm echoing the turmoil within you. Mattheo's ease with the weed fascinated and disturbed you simultaneously. He inhaled the smoke effortlessly, hardly flinching at its burn, filling the room with a scent that made your head spin and your body loosen, momentarily dulling the ache that was roaring through your limbs. Your throat felt drier than cotton, aching with the need for moisture, as you released a long, shuddering sigh. You blinked, unable to tear your eyes away from him, taking a hesitant step closer.

"Why do you do that?" Your voice was a fragile whisper, laden with genuine curiosity. "Drink, smoke...it's like you're never sober."

Mattheo's eyes flickered with a mix of emotions, a guard descending over his features as he took another drag from the blunt. The smoke swirled around him like a protective shield, veiling his true sentiments.

"It's numbing, Raven," he said, his voice a low rasp, smoke curling around his words as he spoke. "Quiets the chaos for a little while." He paused, his eyes locking onto yours, a raw honesty flickering in their depths. "And it’s just a temporary fix...then I'm back to reality, back to wanting things I can't have."

Your pulse quickened; Gods, he was scarily vulnerable tonight. You'd never seen this side of him, and it left you utterly bewildered. Every word he uttered tugged at the strings of your empathy, threatening to unravel your carefully crafted resolve. You knew you had to put an end to this, had to sever the ties that bound you, but his vulnerability was like a persuasive melody, tempting you to stay, to comfort him, to succumb once more to the magnetic pull of his pretty words.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, you huffed, forcing a small, half smile. "Those pesky demons, huh..."

Mattheo's laughter rippled through the room, punctuated by the tendrils of smoke that swirled around him like spectral dancers.

"Yeah," he said, the bitterness in his voice cutting through the air, his tone dropping to a near-missable whisper. "Who would have known that the worst one would be disguised as a fuckin' sweet little angel..."

For the hundredth time in twenty minutes, you felt like your lungs had seized function, the air in the room growing heavy. The smoke from the blunt hung in the air, a haze of confusion and desire, intertwining with your senses. Your fingers trembled, desperate for the feeling of being buried inside his hair, craving the intimacy that only Mattheo could provide.

Unable to find the right words, you let your feet carry you closer to him, drawn like a moth to a flame. His eyes met yours, the intensity in the room building with each step, an unspoken understanding hanging in the air like a storm on the horizon. As you stopped roughly an arms length away from where he was seated, the room seemed to pulse with raw, unspoken desire, the tension between you reaching a breaking point, yet neither of you dared to move further. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you in a suspended moment, where everything seemed possible and yet infinitely complicated.

"Come here, Raven..." he murmured, putting the blunt out on the tray next to the couch. "Please."

The moment he'd uttered that word, the moment it had left his lips, your defiance crumbled, leaving your sanity in tatters. With timid steps, you approached him, and he drew you onto his lap. Your thighs straddled him, his battered hands finding firm a hold on your hips, the grip so tight it felt like it could crush bones. The intensity of his touch ignited flames on your flesh, just like it has done endless times before.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still, your surroundings fading into insignificance. His touch became a lifeline, grounding you in the tumultuous sea of emotions. His lips barely moved as he uttered the words, each syllable laced with a heaviness that echoed the weight of your shared desires.

"One more night," he murmured, his voice a soft caress against the charged air. "Then that's it."

A reluctant agreement hung on your lips, the weight of reality pressing down on your shoulders like an unbearable burden. The ache of impending separation settled in your chest, and yet, you couldn't deny the magnetic pull that kept drawing you back into his arms, no matter the cost.

"One more night," you whispered, your voice barely audible, as if acknowledging the fleeting nature of your shared moments would make them more tangible, more real. "Then we're done."

A soft hand glided along your side, its roughened patches snagging slightly on the fibers of your cardigan. He traced the contours with a careful touch, his gaze drifting down to your chest, tracing the hidden curves beneath your attire. With a subtle pull at the hem, he met your eyes once more.

"Take this off..." he whispered, the desperation clear in his tone. "Take it all off."

Not needing a second prompt, your trembling fingers delicately worked on the buttons, skillfully releasing each one, your eyes never wavering from his intense gaze. His hands, possessing a gentle yet electrifying touch, traced a sensuous journey up your thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Every movement felt like a carefully orchestrated dance, a silent agreement between you two.

The sweater cascaded to the floor, a soft thud underscoring the charged atmosphere, before your hands moved to your blouse, the air thick with anticipation and desire. As soon as it was undone, Mattheo helped you shimmy it off and tossed it onto the growing pile on the floor. You shivered at the sudden cold air on your bare chest but the warmth from his body quickly enveloped you, heart stalling as he leaned into you, reaching behind your back to expertly undo your bra. After a moment, it too fell to the ground.

"Fuck..." he purred, darkened obsidian eyes fixed on your chest. "Look at you..."

His hand moved to your neck, his thumb tracing a path down your collarbone, before sliding over to one of your breasts. As he twisted and pinched your nipple, your head fell back with a moan, your body arching towards him, evoking a deep growl from his chest. Your hands moved to the hem of your skirt, ready to peel it off your body when he halted you, pulling your hands up to rest on his shoulders.

"That can stay on..." he murmured, voice hoarse with desire. "My sexy girl in her short little uniform skirt."

He leaned in to capture one of your breasts in his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin and sending shivers of pleasure through your body. You moaned, sinking deeper into his lap as pleasure overtook you, shuddering as you felt the outline of his erection pressing against your needy centre.

"Take off your panties," he commanded gruffly, his hand moving to slip his fingers beneath the waistband of your skirt. "I want to feel you..."

You eagerly complied, shimmying out of your panties and tossing them aside. A moment of hesitation washed over you, a wave of shyness and vulnerability making you feel exposed. Your gaze faltered, tracing a path from his lips to his chest, a nervous lump forming in your throat. Despite the anxiety, your fingers found their resolve and moved to the buttons on his shirt, meeting his eyes once more as you began to slowly undo them.

"I want to feel you, too, Matty..." you murmured, your voice horse as he met your eyes. "Please..."

Without wasting a second more of time, Mattheo manoeuvred himself out of his shirt, tossing it to the pile on the floor before leaning back, allowing your eyes to roam his now bare chest. Your lungs stalled, your cunt clenching with need as your gaze trailed from his thick shoulders, adorned with a tapestry of scars, cuts, and bruises--down to his defined, sculpted abs.

Each mark seemed to carry a weighty narrative, a testament to his resilience and strength. Your eyes traced the lines and contours, your thoughts weaving a web of admiration and empathy. Mattheo's abs were sculpted with precision, each muscle defined and rippling beneath his skin. They formed a chiseled landscape, emphasizing his strength and dedication to physical fitness. The play of light and shadows in the room accentuated the contours, creating a captivating pattern that drew the eye. His abdomen, toned and firm, brought an unspeakable heat between your thighs.

Mattheo's gaze raked over your naked body, lips parted in exasperation, releasing a long breath before he shifted closer only a little bit, his eyes focused on your hips.

"Do you ever touch yourself?" he asked, his voice a husky whisper, slipping his hand toward your heat.

Your lungs stalled, taken aback by the question, but when his eyes met yours, you nodded, feeling a flush of embarrassment spread over your face.

"And do you think of me when you do it?" he continued, his thumb circling your clit and sending jolts of pleasure through you.

"Yes," you gasped, your hips moving involuntarily against his hand. "I do..."

Mattheo's eyes were intense, locked onto yours as he stimulated your body, jaw tensing as you ground against his crotch, fingers digging into the flesh on his shoulders as though it could anchor you to reality.

"Yeah?" He leaned in further, nibbling on your earlobe, slowing his pace on your clit, leaving you squirming against him. "You think of my hands? Touching you like this?..."

Your breath caught in your throat at his bold question, but there was no denying the raw desire coursing through your veins. You nodded, your voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, Mattheo..." you gasped as he sunk his teeth into your earlobe now, groaning as your fingers dug into his skin. "Your hands...your mouth...all of it..."

A wicked grin curved on his lips as he leaned back, his eyes locked with yours. "Show me," he murmured. "I want you to touch yourself for me...show me what you like...show me the effect I fucking have on you..."

Without giving you a chance to respond, Mattheo's strong hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer before he shifted you over so that you were straddling only one of his thick thighs, covered still by the fabric of his black trousers. You gasped as a jolt of arousal shot through you, and he leaned in close, hands finding purchase on your hips.

"Ride my thigh," he said roughly, his eyes dark with desire. "Show me how you'll take care of yourself since I won't be able to anymore..."

Your heart slammed your sternum, an unadulterated lust scorching your skin melding with an inexplicable hurt in your chest. Masking your pain, you pulled bottom lip between your teeth, slowly beginning to roll your hips against his thigh, gasping as you felt his muscles flex beneath you.

"Yeah, just like that, Raven..." Mattheo growled, aiding your hips in moving, gripping them tightly with his strong hands and pressing you down firmly against him. "Fuck, you're so wet...that's all for me, isn't it?"

He watched you intently, his gaze focused on every move you made, and as you rubbed yourself against his leg, his eyes turning darker with desire.

"Yes, Matty..." you moaned, breath torn with overwhelming pleasure. "All-fuck-all for you..."

His abs flexed as you moved against him, rippling beneath his skin with each thrust. You could feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the scent of his musk, making you wild with need for him. Your fingers moved to your clit, rubbing fast circles around it as you felt the pleasure rolling through you. You whimpered softly, the heat building into a slow burn as the sensations grew more intense. You spread your legs wider, pressing down on Mattheo's thigh with increasing pressure as you moved faster.

Mattheo watched in rapt attention, his gaze fixed on your fingers as they played with your clit. His own body was tense with desire, and you could feel the heat radiating from him, singlehandedly spurring you on.As you continued to grind against his thigh, you could feel the pleasure building to an almost unbearable crescendo. Every movement, every touch of your fingers, every flex of Mattheo's muscles was driving you toward the edge of ecstasy.

"Fucking hell, Raven..." he groaned through barred teeth. His gaze was fixed on you, intense and hungry, like a predator stalking its prey. "You're making me so fucking hard..."

His body was a wonderland beneath you: hard and smooth, with rippling abs and strong thighs that tensed and relaxed as you worked yourself against him.

"Shit..." you mewled, spurred on by his words, his eyes, his hands, everything about him. "You wish I was doing this on your cock, don't you, Matty..."

The sensations were overwhelming: the friction of your slickness against his leg, the feel of his hands on your hips, the sound of your breathing growing ragged and uneven as you drew closer to orgasm. You pressed down harder, panting with need as you felt the waves of pleasure crashing over you. Mattheo's eyes never left you, drinking in every detail of your movements, savouring the sight of your flushed skin, your lips parted in ecstasy, and the way your body quivered with desire.

"Fuck, yes, baby..." his pupils dilated with a mix of satisfaction and hunger, feeding off your pleasure as though it were his own. "I would fuck you so fucking good...I'd make you cum on my cock so many times you'd lose count..."

"Oh...shit..." His abs flexed noticeably with each grind of your hips, the defined muscles contorting beneath his smooth, pale skin. You could feel the power and strength beneath your fingertips as you reached out to touch his sculpted abdomen, tracing the lines and feeling the firmness beneath your touch. "I wish you fucking would..."

The sensation of your fingers sliding against your clit sent electric sparks of pleasure coursing through your entire body. The strokes became faster, more urgent, driving you closer to the edge. Every nerve ending was alight with desire, amplifying every sensation, every breathless moan that escaped your lips.

"Don't fucking say that right now, Raven..." his hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you against him with even more force. "I'm barely fucking holding on...one more word like that and I'd flip you over so fucking fast..."

Your eyes rolled, your lungs sputtering, his words filling your veins with magma. "Fuck, Mattheo..."

As he watched you, he began to grind his own groin against your thigh, adding to the sensations that were already pushing you toward orgasm.

"God you're so fucking hot," he murmured, his voice low and breathless. "I'll be thinking about this every time I jerk off...fuck, you're just the dirtiest little thing Raven..."

You could feel the muscles beneath your skin tensing, ready to explode with pleasure. Every touch from Mattheo was like fire on your skin, every sound he made was like fuel to your already raging inferno. You could hear his breath quickening as well, matching the rapid pace of your own.

His grip on your hips tightened, his voice tight as he fought through a groan. "You're close aren't you, princess?"

"Yes," you moaned, head falling back, fingers increasing their pace on your clit. "I'm so close, Matty..."

"Fuck," his breathing was ragged as he ground his groin against your thigh. "Beg for me, bitch...beg to cum all over my thigh like the good little slut I know are."

The words sent a thrill through your body, stoking the fire that was already burning within you. You met his gaze with wide, pleading eyes, your orgasm on the very edge of rattling through you.

"Please, Matty..." you whispered, the desperation clear in your tone. "Please let me cum...please let me cum for you..."

"Mm." Mattheo's fingers dug into your skin as he ground his groin against your thigh, his movements growing more urgent as he sensed your climax building. "That's it, let go for me baby..."

Your whole body tensed as you felt your orgasm approaching, like a wave rising inside you. Mattheo's leg was slick with your arousal, and the thought of covering him completely sent you over the edge. You cried out, your voice raw with pleasure, as the first tidal wave of your orgasm hit you like a fucking train. Your whole body shook as you rode out the waves of pleasure, your hips bucking against Mattheo's leg. He held you close the entire time, his hands gripping you tightly as you convulsed in ecstasy.

Your breath came in short pants as you slowly came back to yourself, your head resting against his chest. Mattheo let you catch your breath for a few moments, his own breathing still ragged as he held you close. Finally, he leaned back to look into your eyes, his hand cupping your cheek.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, admiration clear in his voice. "Absolutely fucking filthy...but beautiful...so beautiful..."

Your heart swelled with affection for him, and you leaned in to kiss him without even really thinking twice about it, his lips were hot and insistent against yours, his tongue tangling with yours in a heated dance. His hands roamed over your body, tracing every curve and dip with hungry fingers. You could feel the fire starting to build within you again, the memory of his touch sending shivers down your spine, his insistent erection pressing against your thigh, your fingers crawling down his chest before softly grazing over it.

"Let me take care of you now," you whispered, your words a gentle caress against his lips, acutely aware of the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. "Last chance, Matty..."

"No." His response was unwavering, his grip firm yet tender as he pulled you closer, repositioning both of you so you lay lengthwise on the couch. His body enveloped yours, offering a comforting embrace, while his fingers traced a soothing path, brushing your hair away from your face. "You've done more than enough for me."

Your mind reeled with disbelief, completely taken aback by the intimacy of the moment. Your body tensed involuntarily as you found yourself pressed against the warmth of his chest, small beads of sweat glistening off his skin. Inhaling sharply, you caught a scent that mingled with his natural aroma, a hint of weed still lingering in the air. As you exhaled, a sense of surrender washed over you, your eyelids growing heavy with drowsiness as you eventually drifted off without even realizing it.

—————-

Here’s chapter fourteen->

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idkyetxoxo · 3 months ago

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Daemon Targaryen - Rumours

Summary - Tensions rise as the princess grapples with the weight of whispered accusations regarding her virtue, all stemming from her uncle Daemon. With her reputation and future at stake, she must navigate this landscape, knowing that one wrong move could spell her ruin.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen reader

Warnings - Sexual content (slight)

Word count - 2252

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"I cannot tolerate threats of murder against anyone who dares to question me," I declared, my steps echoing through the solemn chambers.

"And why shouldn't I?" Daemon retorted, his voice challenging, as I sank onto a nearby chair, rubbing my temples in frustration.

"My father can not keep cleaning up your messes," I reminded him sharply, the consequences of his actions pressing heavily upon me.

"He questioned your virtue, sowing doubt throughout the realm," Daemon argued, his words cutting through the air with precision.

I exhaled wearily, acknowledging the uncomfortable truth in his accusation. It was an open secret that Ser Criston Cole, my sworn protector, harboured a dangerous fascination for Queen Alicent Hightower, seeming almost like her puppet.

"Alicent Hightower has never shown warmth towards me," I admitted bitterly, realizing that my position as heir to the Iron Throne threatened her son's safety.

"She manipulates him like a pawn in her twisted games," Daemon continued grimly, his expression darkening. I moved to sit on the edge of my bed, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"He wasn't entirely wrong, uncle," I conceded through clenched teeth, frustration tainting my voice as Daemon smirked knowingly.

"They don't see it that way," he countered coolly. "Ser Criston Cole is sworn to you, it becomes a problem when he spreads whispers about the princess and future heir throughout court."

"He's being manipulated into it. Threatening him openly only gives credence to the very claims he seeks to spread," I explained, my tone pleading for understanding.

"You seem to be defending him a lot," Daemon observed, his tone shifting slightly, a curious challenge lurking beneath the surface.

I cocked my head to the side, curiosity sparking in my own eyes. "Are you jealous?" I asked, a teasing lilt to my voice.

He smirked an expression that danced between amusement and defiance.

"Of him? Never." His words hung in the air, rich with unspoken implications, the tension between us simmering just below the surface.

"Besides, the princess's virtue has been tarnished, hasn't it? You played a role in that," I added, gesturing towards Daemon, who burst into laughter.

"As I recall, it was mutual," Daemon insisted, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that brought a faint smile to my lips, a reminder of the night that lingered in my memory as a treasured blur.

A knowing smile tugged at my lips. "Indeed, but we both know the consequences if our secret were to be exposed. It would undoubtedly create quite a stir," I replied, stepping closer to him, the air thickening with unspoken understanding.

Daemon leaned back slightly, his smirk deepening as he spread his legs, inviting me closer. I moved between his parted thighs, settling onto his lap with delicate grace. My hands instinctively found his neck, fingers lightly tracing the curve where his jaw met his throat.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Daemon cautioned, murmuring softly, his hands sliding around my waist, drawing me closer until our bodies were pressed together, the undeniable heat between us palpable.

"As are you," I countered softly, leaning in to brush my lips against his earlobe, feeling his steady breath against my cheek.

"As I recall, you're the one who said, 'The princess gets what the princess wants,'" I whispered teasingly into his ear, feeling his sigh against my cheek, his chest rising and falling with a hint of arousal.

He chuckled softly, and I couldn't help but smile, satisfied with the reaction I had provoked.

"And what does the princess want now?" he breathed, his voice low and husky, sending a thrill down my spine.

I met his gaze, a smile playing on my lips as I whispered, "Whatever she desires," before capturing his lips in a kiss that ignited a long-held passion between us.

As our kiss deepened, the world around us seemed to dissolve into the intensity of our connection. I felt Daemon's fingers threading through my hair, his touch sending shivers down my spine. My own hands grasped at his shoulders, pulling him closer as if trying to meld our bodies into one.

His touch ignited a wildfire of desire within me, and I arched into him, my body responding eagerly to his caress. The air between us crackled with electricity as his hands wandered boldly, tracing the curves of my body under the fabric of my dress.

"Aren't you a sight," he murmured against my lips, his voice low and husky with desire intensifying the heat that coiled in my belly.

A gasp escaped my lips as Daemon's hands found their way beneath the fabric, parting my thighs with confident ease. I trembled at his touch, my breath hitching as his fingers explored, igniting sparks of pleasure that raced through my veins.

His smirk against my mouth only fueled the fire burning between us, each touch a promise of more to come. The need for him clouded my senses, making me ache for him in a way that was almost unbearable.

I undid his belt, his laughter soft and teasing. "Eager princess?" he asked, amusement colouring his voice.

All I could muster was a nod, anticipation coursing through me as I raised my hips, letting him slide off his pants. "You have no idea," I replied, my voice trembling with desire.

Lowering myself back down, I began to move, a slow, tantalizing grind against his crotch, teasing and testing his restraint. His reaction was immediate, a guttural groan escaped his lips, his head falling back in sheer pleasure.

"Don't tease," he managed to growl, his hand finding its way to the back of my hair, fingers tangling possessively.

Smirking, I leaned in close. "Your wish is my command," I whispered, my voice low and sultry.

Positioning myself, I invited him to enter me, the tension between us mounting with each passing moment.

"Daemon," I whispered breathlessly, feeling the heat of his desire matched by my own. "I want you."

His eyes darkened with need, and he shifted beneath me, guiding himself to where I ached for him most. "As you wish, my princess," he murmured, his voice thick with longing.

Just as the heat between us reached its peak, a sharp knock on the door shattered the moment like a cruel awakening. We broke apart with startled gasps, hearts racing as reality crashed back in around us.

Daemon's jaw tightened with frustration, his eyes locking onto mine in silent urgency. "Ignore it," he urged, his voice rough with need.

I hesitated torn. Another insistent knock followed, louder this time. The sound was followed by a cool voice calling my name, Alicent Hightower, the Queen herself, requesting entrance.

My heart raced as I hastily adjusted my dishevelled appearance, exchanging a quick, knowing glance with Daemon. He leaned back casually, a smirk still lingering on his lips, though his eyes held a glint of mischief and anticipation.

The charged atmosphere in the room seemed to pulse with unspoken words, a dance of secrets hovering just beneath the surface.

"Enter," I called out, my voice betraying none of the tumultuous emotions raging within me.

The door creaked open, revealing Alicent's composed figure framed in the doorway, her expression inscrutable as she swept her gaze over us. The air shifted, heavy with the weight of our previous exchange.

"Princess," she greeted me evenly, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly as they lingered on our rumpled appearance. "I trust I am not interrupting anything... important?"

"Not at all, Alicent," I replied, inwardly steeling myself for the conversation that was sure to follow. "What can I do for you?"

Alicent's gaze flickered between us for a moment longer, a subtle tension hanging in the air before she spoke again.

"May I speak with you privately, Princess?" Her tone was polite yet tinged with an underlying urgency that sent a chill down my spine, a reminder of the balance of power we navigated daily.

I glanced at Daemon, silently urging him to leave us alone. He gave me a smile, his touch lingering briefly on my hand before he turned and left the room without a word, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoed in the silence.

Alone now with Alicent, I faced her with a composed demeanour, though my mind raced with apprehension and uncertainty about what she might know or suspect. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as her piercing gaze bore into me.

"Of course," I replied calmly, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. Each heartbeat resonated in my ears, a reminder of the delicate game we played.

Alicent stepped further into the room, her gaze unwavering as she regarded me with an intensity that made me uneasy.

"I'm aware of the whispers circulating at court," she began, her voice measured yet edged with steel. "Rumors that cast doubt on your virtue."

The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

My heart skipped a beat, but I maintained a serene expression, feigning innocence.

"Surely you don't believe such baseless gossip," I responded evenly, though inwardly I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation, the collision of truth and deception that loomed ahead.

Alicent's frown deepened, her gaze piercing through my facade with unsettling clarity.

"I need to know the truth, Princess," she pressed, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Are these whispers founded in reality?" The weight of her question felt like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

I met her gaze squarely, holding back the urge to falter under her scrutiny. "Of course not," I replied firmly, my tone unwavering. "How could you even question my maidenhood?"

The words tasted bitter on my tongue, a necessary lie that threatened to unravel me.

Alicent's lips tightened into a thin line, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features before she masked it with practised composure. She knew I was lying, but there was little she could do in the face of my denial.

With a subtle nod, she straightened, her expression regaining its usual calm facade.

"Very well," she said coolly, her voice carrying an undercurrent of warning. "But remember, Princess, appearances can be deceiving. Guard your reputation carefully."

The warning hung like a storm cloud overhead, a reminder of the fragility of my position.

Rising to my feet with a resolve I hadn't felt moments ago, I squared my shoulders and met her figure with a firm gaze.

"Might I remind you, the king, my father, has named me heir. Such whispers, as you say, could easily be construed as treason," I argued assertively, watching as a flicker of concern crossed her features.

"My reputation is mine to worry about," I added, emphasizing each word with a deliberate calm that belied the tumultuous emotions swirling within me.

It was a statement of autonomy, a claim to the power I held, however tenuous it might be.

With that caution hanging in the air like an unspoken threat, Alicent turned on her heel and left the room, the sound of her retreating footsteps echoing in the silence that followed. The door clicked shut with a finality that left me breathless.

I allowed myself a moment to gather my thoughts. The encounter had left me on edge, and I knew I needed to address another loose end before things spiralled further out of control.

Summoning my resolve, I called out for Ser Criston, my voice firm and authoritative. Moments later, there was a knock at the door, and the knight entered, his expression respectful but curious. He bowed deeply, awaiting my command.

"You wished to see me, Princess?" he asked, his voice steady.

"Yes, Ser Criston," I replied, "We need to discuss the rumours circulating at court."

His expression tightened, a flicker of concern passing over his features as he approached me. "What rumours?" he asked, though his tone indicated he was well aware of the gossip.

"The ones that question my virtue," I stated bluntly, watching his reaction closely. His eyes met mine, worry reflected in their depths.

"I assure you, Princess, I have done my best to quash such rumours," he said earnestly, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Your best may not be enough, Ser Criston," I replied coolly, my voice low and dangerous. "These whispers threaten my position and the stability of the realm."

He straightened, a determined look settling on his face. "I understand, Princess. I will ensure that no one speaks ill of you."

I took a step closer, my gaze never leaving his. "See that you do," I warned, my voice dropping to a whisper. "And remember, Ser Criston, I know where your loyalties are supposed to lie. Do not give me any reason to doubt them."

A shadow crossed his face, but he nodded resolutely. "You have my word, Princess."

"Good," I said, my tone softening slightly. "You are dismissed."

He bowed once more, backing away before turning to leave the room. I let out a slow breath, hoping my words had been enough to secure his silence and cooperation.

With Criston gone, I turned my attention to the hallway, my gaze scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. As if on cue, Daemon appeared, leaning casually against the wall, a proud look on his face as he observed me. His presence was both reassuring and disconcerting, a reminder of the dangerous game we played.

"Well done, Princess," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "You handled that beautifully."

I walked toward him, my steps measured and deliberate. "You shouldn't be here," I said softly, though a small smile tugged at my lips.

"Couldn't resist," he replied, pushing off the wall to stand before me.

"Go now," I urged softly, glancing down the corridor. "We can not afford any more suspicion."

"Until next time, Princess," he said, his voice a low promise.

A/n - Crispy Cole’s got a track record of questionable loyalty and bad timing x

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #team black #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #hotd daemon #prince daemon targaryen #the rouge prince #daemon targeryan

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moondirti · 2 years ago

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cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton.

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom.

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause.

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago.

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing.

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings.

You wish he’d hang around more.

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained.

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in.

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence.

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.”

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities.

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows.

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt?

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative.

A dead end.

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends.

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried.

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas.

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight.

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still.

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore.

He’s jus’ taking the piss.

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do.

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command?

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.”

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it.

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli.

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh.

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day.

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling.

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken.

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?”

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze.

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room.

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.”

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor.

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?”

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.”

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts.

Then –

“You don' drink?”

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested.

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees.

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.”

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church.

I’d murder for a whiskey.

You mean scotch?

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees.

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout?

Negative, sir.

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did.

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water.

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid.

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?”

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line.

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one.

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it.

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less.

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side.

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from, too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you.

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.)

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise.

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it.

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile.

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.”

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?”

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning.

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon.

You spit the first thing that comes to mind.

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.”

And still with the revelation of what you just said.

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance.

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards.

“Afraid she’s not my type.”

And that’s all he gives you.

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin?

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead.

Fuck.

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb.

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy.

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.”

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves. You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo.

read at 3:25 am

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood.

“Didn’ know what you liked.”

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart.

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient.

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin.

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes.

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush.

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red.

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant.

Anxiolytic.

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache.

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him.

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now?

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud.

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks.

Atta’ girl.

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars.

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes.

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door.

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp.

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder.

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long.

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.”

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart.

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once.

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.”

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him.

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin.

“Alright?”

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be.

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal.

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.”

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums.

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.”

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask.

“We’ll be ready for them.”

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team.

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls.

It’ll be hard not to miss it.

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun.

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you.

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes.

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command.

What did he mean by that? Bad timing?

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths.

He can’t know. Can he?

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun.

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag.

I’m good.

You’re not. Drink.

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak.

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors.

He doesn’t miss a thing.

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless.

He draws a deep inhale.

He knows.

“Didn’t finish, pet?”

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid.

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness.

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into.

“Turn around. Face the window.”

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says. Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour.

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms.

“Keep an eye out. Got it?”

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine.

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant.

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves.

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts.

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught. It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone.

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut.

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?”

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire.

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–”

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss.

“We can be quick,”

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.”

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more.

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world.

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,”

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper.

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs.

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust.

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street.

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.”

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone.

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.”

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl.

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat.

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried?

It was only a shadow.

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it.

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour.

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss.

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures.

But your name is not for nothing.

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green.

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid.

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you.

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest.

Sniper.

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before.

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you.

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price.

Never at you.

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb.

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed.

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat.

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back.

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash.

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns.

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base.

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else.

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety.

No, that’s not quite right.

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate?

You need a cigarette.

Not embraced.

Your eyes fly open.

Simon.

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers.

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead.

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine.

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left.

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf.

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.”

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will.

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand.

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.”

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages.

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards.

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus.

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here.

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe.

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like.

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind.

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out.

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location]

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill.

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway.

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach.

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him.

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema.

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough.

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down.

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?”

He takes a step forward. “Your head–”

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound.

“And Johnny?”

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?”

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated.

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle.

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel.

“Sent on some other mission, then?”

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde.

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches.

You think you know why.

“It’s not your fault, Lt.”

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you.

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.”

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness.

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you.

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that.

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks.

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon.

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity.

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.”

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head.

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.”

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…”

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless.

“I still–”

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls.

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.”

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.”

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles.

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-”

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low.

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava.

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask.

“You’re quivering.”

“Huh?”

His thumb swipes over your hole.

“Oh–”

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you.

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth.

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit.

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper.

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper.

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers.

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall.

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise.

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him.

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs.

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia.

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks.

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex.

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him.

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.”

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you.

“Chocolate?”

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon.

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.”

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

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