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rynneer · 1 year ago

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Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after an accident in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

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Chapter Two

You’ve never missed plumbing more than you do now, looking around the bathroom. Polished stone walls, a polished stone floor. Just like every room in the mountain. Oh, how you long for a warm, hardwood floor.

Small basins sit on a granite counter below a mirror, with a bucket tucked underneath for easy refilling. The mirror is covered with a heavy cloth—Fíli says it’s been shattered and will fall apart if the cloth is moved. The rightmost basin is spotless, reflecting the light from the lamp hanging over your head. Another is decorated with long hairs that you pulled from your head when you tried to brush your poor mane.

Though at first you chuckle at how neat Fíli keeps his side of the counter, it dies in your throat. Maybe he no longer does it, but you recall that early in the journey, he would only tidy his things up when something was bothering him. To see his side scrubbed so clean—he must be very bothered.

It doesn’t take much to figure out what’s bothering him, either. It’s been a few days since you awoke in the middle of the night, head emptied of your life together. And while you certainly have feelings for him, your schoolgirl crush falters against his fierce love. Your heart leaps when you imagine touching him, yet you flinch from his hands. The right balance has yet to be struck.

With a sigh, you swipe your hand along the cool metal of your washbasin, gathering the hairs into a ball and flicking it onto the counter. You’ll dispose of it when you finish.

Fíli, eager to tend to your every need, already filled the large, marble bathtub with hot water. A pleased sigh escapes you as you step in. But your heel slides forward on the bottom of the tub, and you fall with a yelp, your head smacking the stone before you slip under.

drowning. drowning drowning drow–

Sudden panic shocks your system. You surge back above the surface, your breaths coming in short, shallow bursts.

“Y/N!” Fíli bursts through the door. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Instinctively, you hug your knees to your chest to hide your body. Fíli rubs your shoulders from behind. “Easy, love. What happened?”

You take a moment to compose yourself, taking deep, steady breaths. The back of your head throbs painfully. “I just fell. I’m alright.”

“You’re not alright,” comes his worried voice from behind you. A groan of pain escapes you when he touches the tender spot where your skull met the stone. He leans forward over your shoulder and rinses his hand in the water before standing and snatching a towel from the counter. You stare dumbly at the red liquid falling through the water from where his fingers left it. With a shaky hand, you probe the back of your head. Your fingertips come away red with blood. More pain, as Fíli presses the towel against your hair.

“It’s not too bad,” he says after a long silence, lifting the towel and gently parting your wet hair around the wound. “Just a cut. Head wounds always look worse than they are.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to reassure you, or himself.

Fíli dips the bloodied towel in the water and wrings it out. He places it in your hand and brings it to your head. “Hold that there for a moment.” You hear him bustling around in the wooden cabinet by the door. He mumbles something under his breath about dust and cobwebs before grunting in frustration. “There!” His bare feet slap against the floor. For the first time, he comes around in front of you. In his hands, he carries a roll of bandages and a small flask of alcohol.

You almost drop the towel from your head in your rush to cover your chest. Heat pulses from your face in waves so intense that he must be able to feel it.

Fíli’s shoulders sag. “I’m your husband. You do not need to cover up in front of me,” he reminds you, though you both know you won’t listen. He strips his belt from his trousers and places it in your hand. “Close your eyes. Bite down on this.”

Your brow furrows, but you do as he says. Fíli removes the towel from your hand. You hiss in pain as he presses an alcohol-soaked bandage against your head, burning like a brand of fire. You’re glad for the belt now as your teeth dig into the leather. You lean forward instinctively to escape the pain, but Fíli quickly puts a hand on your forehead and pulls you back

“Hold still,” he grunts as he begins to wrap you up. You strain against him, the pain starting to make your eyes water. “I said, hold still!” he snaps this time, fingers digging into your temple.

Surprised at his harsh tone and rougher handling, you relent. After days of feather-soft touches and kind, understanding words, it’s almost a relief. Maybe he hasn’t quite lost his edge yet. Silence falls as he finishes his ministrations.

“I’m sorry, amrâlimê,” Fíli says at last. He shifts so he’s kneeling at your side instead. “I hate to see you in pain, and then my touch caused you more pain when I was trying to help… it’s too much like the first time.”

“The first time?”

Fíli winces and curses. You guess he didn’t mean to let that slip. He holds out his hand, helping you out of the now lukewarm water. It takes all your willpower not to hunch over, to cover yourself in front of him. He reaches up to the curtain hiding the mirror. Before you can protest, remind him that it’s broken, he sweeps the cloth away and wraps it around you as a makeshift towel.

The glass is pristine, newly polished. Not a single flaw mars its surface.

“I didn’t want to add more to your worries if I could help it,” he explains. “I wanted a chance to warn you before you saw.” Fíli leads you to the mirror.

When your face comes into view, you gasp. A harsh pink scar slices across your right cheek, ending on the underside of your jaw. You raise a shaking hand to trace the path, feeling now the slight dip in your skin. A few other scars pepper your body, ones you’ve already seen, but none as obvious as this.

“I tried to keep you out of the fighting, I really did,” Fíli’s whisper is shaky. “But we got separated… and then it just wouldn’t heal properly and–” He breaks off, tears welling up in his eyes, the memory clearly upsetting him.

With tears in your own eyes, you step closer and lean against him, resting your head on his chest. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “For everything. I’m so sorry, Fíli.”

Fíli takes you into his arms, laying his cheek on your head. The two of you stay like that for a long time. He was right—you do fit very nicely in his arms at this size.

“Y/N? Fíli?” There’s a thudding on the door. “Are you finished yet? I need to take a piss.”

Fíli kisses the top of your head, pulling away from you. He adjusts the curtain around your shoulders and smooths the bandage over your wound. “We’ll get you a proper bath later. Promise.”

We’ll get through this, you hear instead. Promise.

He ushers you out of the bathroom, barely dodging his little brother as Kíli blows by you and slams the door behind him.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. He really needs to piss.”

Fíli shakes his head and chuckles. He flings open the wardrobe doors and pulls out a long, dark blue dress, trimmed with silver. His colors. “I thought you might wear this tomorrow night,” he explains, crossing back over to you and holding up against your front. “I just had it made.”

“It’s nice,” you hum in agreement, rubbing the velvet sleeve between your fingers. “Um, what’s tomorrow night, again?”

He rolls his eyes. “Amad insisted on a big celebration for my first birthday in Erebor.”

You snap your head up. “Your birthday? Fíli, I’m sorry, I didn’t know–”

“I’ve had eighty-two of them already,” he reminds you. “It is not that big of a deal.”

“Not a big enough deal to tell your wife?”

He replaces the dress in the wardrobe, grabbing a discarded nightgown from off the large bed. “My wife has had other things on her mind.” Fíli pulls it down over your head, smoothing it down your sides as you finally drop the curtain. There was a hint of a smile on his face when you called yourself his wife.

“Re-learning her way around Erebor, for one.” Kíli emerges from the bathroom and gives you a friendly shove, sending you stumbling.

One thing you’ve learned well, the brothers are a package deal. Fíli doesn’t go far without Kíli dogging his steps. You’re almost surprised he doesn’t share your chambers—but his chambers do neighbor yours.

Fíli catches you, flashing him a glare. “Careful, Kee.”

Kíli returns his brother’s look with wide, innocent eyes. “What? We’ve got to toughen her back up.”

“She’s hurt her head.”

“Oh, I thought the bandage was some sort of new fashion.” Kíli pulls you away from Fíli, lifting you by the waist and tossing you onto the bed. “Straight to bed for you, then!”

“Kíli!”

The cold air stung your eyes and shocked your lungs as you made your way, haltingly, back to the gates of the Lonely Mountain. All around you, soldiers celebrated triumphs or cradled fallen comrades. Most remained on the fields, but a few dwarves were also making a beeline for the mountain. Company members, all of them. You’d hastily agreed to assemble in the entry hall whenever it seemed the battle was over.

Bofur. Ori. Nori. Glóin. As you reached the gates, you found yourself taking inventory, scanning your companions to make sure everyone was accounted for, and mostly intact. It made you feel like you were doing something useful.

Five were missing.

You turned your anxious eyes towards the Ravenhill. Thorin. Dwalin. Bilbo. Fíli. Kíli.

A hand squeezed your arm. “Lass–”

“Don’t, Balin,” you interrupted him. “Please don’t tell me they’re gonna be okay.”

He cleared his throat. “I was going to say, you need to get your face seen to.”

“It can wait,” you shrugged him off. Your face had long since numbed. Unfortunately for the rest of your body, it was better shielded from the cold by the thick clothes you’d borrowed from the dwarves. Your left ankle throbbed, sending twinges of pain up your leg with each step. A trail of dried blood led down your arm from a laceration to your shoulder, slowly scabbing over.

Balin shook his head and led you to sit down by the wall. You leaned your head back against the stone. Every breath billowed out in a frosty cloud.

He pulled a handkerchief from somewhere in his coat. “Óin!” he called to the medic, checking up on Ori a few yards away. “Anything for our lass?”

There was no response from the half-deaf dwarf until Ori swatted at his arm and gestured towards you. Óin grumbled something and tossed a flask in Balin’s direction. The old dwarf wet his handkerchief and started gently wiping at your face. You winced at the cold touch.

“Look!” someone shouted.

You lifted your head, dreading what you would see. Two figures appeared over the crest of a hill. Bilbo and Dwalin, you assumed. Canon survivors. You held your breath, tracking the movements of the eagles in the sky, waiting for them to descend with dead bodies in their talons.

But none did. Behind Bilbo and Dwalin, three more dwarves followed. Alive—one limping, another clutching at an arm. But alive.

You scrambled to your feet, ignoring Balin’s protests, and sprinted as fast as you could. Jolts of pain shot through your leg until you could run no more. Fíli caught you in his arms as your ankle finally failed beneath you.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” you gasped, clutching at him. “You’re okay!” You’d forgotten all other words.

He hugged you to his chest, burying his face in your hair. “We’re alright. Everything is alright, amrâlimê.”

“Are you hurt?” you mumbled.

“Not badly.” Unsatisfied with the closeness, Fíli’s gloved hand curled around the back of your head and brought it even tighter against him.

You stifled a hiss of pain as his armor rubbed against your cheek.

He pulled back immediately, his eyes round and worried. “Oh, Mahal, Y/N,” he breathed. Fíli bit the end of his glove and yanked it off, tracing his thumb along a sensitive path on your face. When you again winced, he scooped you into his arms and rushed to catch back up with his brother and uncle.

Kíli, the limping one, nevertheless flashed you a quick grin. “We did it,” he panted.

You didn’t know what reaction you’d expected when Thorin and the boys returned. Cheers, celebration. Instead, they were met with silence, all activity stilled, the Company eying Thorin with uncertainty.

Thorin looked around. You could see him doing the same thing you had done, conducting a headcount. Satisfied, he gave a short nod. “See to the wounded. Balin, Dwalin, a moment.” The three dwarves gathered in the corner of the hall, heads down and voices low.

Careful of your ankle, Fíli sat you down and began cleaning your thawing face with Balin’s abandoned handkerchief. The gentle motions were comforting, until the alcohol-soaked cloth passed over your cheek. You jerked away with a yelp at the unexpected burst of pain.

Fíli winced, but he took your chin in his hand firmly. “It’s a bad wound, Y/N. I need to clean it.” He stripped off his glove. “Bite down on this for the pain. I’ll be as gentle as possible,” he promised.

Your eyes watered as he wiped you down, but you squeezed them tight and sank your teeth into the glove.

“I’m done,” he said at last. He patted himself down for a second, tearing off a scrap of his tunic and holding it against your cheek as a makeshift bandage. Taking his glove back, Fíli gave you a small smile.

You looked into his blue eyes, so full of life. Not hollow and sightless, the face that haunted your dreams. And Kíli, resting against the wall as Óin examined his leg. Not bleeding out in the snow. Thorin, talking quietly with his friends. Not lying atop the Ravenhill.

They were okay. Everything was okay. Finally, you let the walls holding back all your anxieties and fears fall. You collapsed against Fíli, weeping.

“Shh, shh,” he pleaded. He pressed gentle kisses into your hair. “Amrâlimê, please, please don’t cry.

“You were going to die,” you whispered, your breath hitching. “Please don’t leave me.”

His hand rubbed up and down your back. “I won’t ever leave you. I want to marry you!” Fíli drew back to look at you, his brow creased with sudden worry. “You will marry me, won’t you?”

You blinked away tears, voice still shaky. “Are… are you proposing?”

“Are you saying yes?”

The word stuck in your throat and it took you several tries to get it out. “Yes.”

The tension melted from his face. Fíli grinned, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, still careful of your wound. “We’ll be alright, amrâlimê.”

#fanfiction #fíli #kíli #the hobbit #fili x you #fili x reader #angst and hurt/comfort #it gets angstier before it gets fluffier #everybody lives #soft Fíli

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hmmarble · 9 months ago

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HMMARBLEDESİGN - DRAGON+

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zomdoc · 3 months ago

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All I Want

Warnings & Ratings: 18+ Explicit — Smut

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 6,725

Relationship: Alfred/The Hunter (M/FtM)

"The Hunter comes across a bath house in the belly of the Cathedral Ward and can't resist the unmissable opportunity. Unfortunately for him, the scent of his bath draws in a surprise visitor."

Tags; smut, established relationship, voyeurism, bath sex, gender & body dysphoria, aftercare

Warm, flowing water; floral soaps and balms, smooth and soft on the skin; mostly clean towels. The Hunter was under the assumption that he had lost all of these things to time. It wasn't until he came here, to a small, unassuming building hidden in an alley of the Cathedral Ward, that he was proven otherwise.

The door was locked, he remembers, chained, and bolted. On first glance, the building is completely inaccessible and not worth the effort to find an entrance. That is until one approaches the door and is hit by the alluring whiff of fresh suds and the faint sound of trickling water.

After what feels like an eternity of tearing through beasts, being covered completely from head to toe in blood and unthinkable pain, even the hint of a good bath is an unmissable opportunity. The chain on the door was sawed through at the first inclination of such a thing in the Hunter's mind.

And here he is. The building before him is absolutely a bathhouse. A clean one, at that. He wonders how long this place has been locked up like this. It must have been this way since before the Hunt started since the inside is completely untarnished by the night outside. He takes notice of the white tiled walls and floor, spotted with mosaic colours and marred by age; the front desk, abandoned and littered with papers and coins that have long fused with the wood; the sight of an—albeit empty—bath at the end of the long hall, sitting in the centre of a dimly lit room.

The Hunter removes the cloth mask from his nose and mouth, taking the scent of the building into his lungs. Despite the pungent stench of mildew, the brunette chooses to focus on the herbaceous undertones. The aroma is comforting. It reminds him of his time before he came here—what little memory he has of it. Lavish soap lathered over one's flesh... Familiar smells are the only thing a hunter can cling to, really; the rest just seems to melt away.

He approaches the bathroom, steel-soled boots clicking against what he believes to be terracotta. The room is bigger than it looks from the hall, octagonal in shape. Each wall is inlaid with a unique piece of stained glass, floor to ceiling. The windows, despite presumably facing the outside, are mostly dark aside from a few splotches of light that cascade disjointed beams of colour directly into the basin in the centre of the room.

The thing that catches the Hunter's eye is the basin itself. Being made completely of stone, it stands out against the faux marble surroundings. The centrepiece, which also doubles as the taps and showers, is a statue of four women; each one's face obscured by erosion from years of use. They stand in various poses, some vaguely erotic in nature, naked aside from trails of thin cloth that do little to conceal their bodies. Each one holds a jug over the basin, some carelessly throwing their arms into the air or burying their hands into their hair, lost in ecstasy. Such a display must have been controversial for the Church. Maybe that's why they closed this place.

Looking over his shoulder, back down the hallway, the Hunter notices large, red curtains hanging around the archway, held back by their own twisted, golden ropes built straight into the wall. He doesn't need any more encouragement to make his decision.

Firstly, he has to make absolutely sure that the water is clean. He unties the golden ropes holding the curtains open. They flop together, creating a cloud of dust as they meet in the centre of the archway. Discarding his saw cleaver and pistol to a rack nearby, reserved for such personal effects, he approaches the basin. It looks to be about waist-deep and is completely bordered with benches, breaking only to allow room for the hand-carved steps leading into the bath.

The taps sit at the feet of the statues, one for each lady. He takes a step forward, careful not to slip on the stone, and reaches for one of the brass faucets. It screeches as it turns, forcing a considerable amount of effort out of the Hunter. The entire building creaks and groans as it awakes from its slumber, and the sound of rushing liquid soon makes itself known.

The Hunter has only a second to step back before a surge of water gushes out of the jug of one of the women. It's brown at first, sending a pang of disappointment and genuine sadness through the Hunter's chest. With crossed fingers, he watches, waiting for the liquid to change. Thankfully, it does—the brown muck slowly fades to be clear and clean.

A sound of relief escapes him, and he can't help but smile. He looks around for any sort of drain and spots them at the bottom of the centrepiece, connected to the floor. He covers the one behind the currently flowing stream and goes around the statue, turning on each faucet and closing the drains once the water runs clear.

He tries not to get his boots in it, knowing how filthy they are, and quickly retreats from the basin. It fills up surprisingly fast; the sound of liquid slapping against rock is deafening as it ricochets off the walls. He strips down to only his vest and briefs, glancing around the room for soaps or salves. He spots an ornate wooden cabinet, previously hidden from view by the bath statue, which looks to be where such things are stored.

Steam begins to crawl up the walls as the water becomes hot, collecting in the peak of the ceiling. By the looks of it, this part of the building has a conical roof. The Hunter approaches the cabinet, fiddling with the handles on the door. It feels like the doors will fly off the hinges at even the slightest application of force, which they do. He sighs, dropping the doors with a sharp clatter, and examines the contents: a myriad of musty-looking bottles and tins, clearly aged but still appealing.

He grabs one—a slim, rose-coloured vial, still corked. The label has long worn off, leaving small strips of yellowed paper behind. He makes out a few letters here and there: 'B - h - E - x'. He shrugs, uncorking it and inhaling, nose just above the lip. The aroma matches the colour, a pungent rose petal scent with softer earthy undertones. It stings his nose, makes his lungs feel warm. The sensation is a pleasant buzz. He puts it back amongst the other vials, planning to return to it.

The Hunter glances over his shoulder towards the bath. It's almost full. Around the edges of the basin are drains going into the floor, all emanating that musty mildew stench, providing a safety net against flooding, so he needn't worry too much about it overflowing.

Stacked on top of the unit and generally strewn around the room is a large collection of candles. Most half-used, but still good. It would be nice to have some light aside from the fragmented glow from outside whilst one bathes. He goes back to his clothes, which sit in a pile near the rack with his weapons, and searches for a lighter. He retrieves his silver Zippo, which came courtesy of the hunter's garb he had found, and goes around the room, lighting each candle. Some spread their flame to others thanks to the breeze of him passing, making the chore a lot less tasking.

By the time that most of the candles are lit, small waves lap softly at the lip of the basin. The Hunter shifts his weight from foot to foot, unable to contain the giggle of joy pent up inside. He hasn't had a bath in ages. He hasn't been warm . There is a difference between the warmth of another person, which he experiences regularly thanks to Alfred, and the warmth of a good soak.

He dashes back to the cabinet, grabbing as many vials and tins as his hands can fit comfortably, before tiptoeing up to the water's edge. He reaches towards the rippling surface with his foot, barely breaking it to gauge the temperature. It's warm, alright. He quickly puts his soaps and whatnots on the floor just beyond the drains bordering the bath to remove the rest of his clothing.

When was the last time he saw his own body? He can't recall. Usually, mostly due to circumstance, he and Alfred have clothed rendezvous—although, he suspects that he's never attempted to remove his own clothing due to discomfort. The incongruence between his mind's rendition of what he should be and what his body is has always hurt. The effects of simply calling oneself an 'unfortunate' or 'discouraged' man begin to wear off after a while. Although he doesn't have much time to dwell on such thoughts. The Hunt takes main priority.

Now that he has a real moment of rest, undistracted by anyone or anything, the notion arises again. He looks down, seeing himself for the first time in what feels like an eternity. He remembers being skinny, fat melting off of his bones owing to his seemingly incurable illness. He came to Yharnam with the intention of discovering a cure. Stories of their blood healing, its wondrous ability to "cure all ailments", became too enticing to resist. He could have never expected where he was to end up.

The brunette slips his vest over his head, skin prickling at the sudden change in temperature, and casts it aside with his other clothing. Jagged scars line the undersides of his breasts, creating a crude, red divider between his bust and abdomen. Skin pulled taut, collecting at the tension spots of each defect. He runs slim fingers over the rough surface of the wounds. They've long since become numb to touch, but they leave him aching sometimes—usually when his chest takes the brunt of any type of force.

All that remains of what was once his bosom are small, lightly swollen mounds, resembling that of pectoral muscles. He remembers the process. Painful, torturous even, with no sedatives to speak of and only himself. It's a surprise that he even survived such an ordeal, never mind manage to sew himself up afterwards. But he's grateful to whatever divine entity that was watching over him that day, if such things are possible of granting mercy. The swelling never did completely go away, though.

Was he always this pale? He rubs his hands down from his chest to his hips. Skin stretches over bone as if a skeleton this size was never supposed to fit such a shell; he counts his ribs, each one underlined by deep shadow, as his eyes trail down to his sunken-in stomach. Discomfort bubbles inside as he examines his slim waist and his pelvis that juts out with awkward, solid curves.

He tries to stop looking at his body—in all its unfamiliarity. It's getting him nowhere, certainly not any closer to his desired bath time. He removes his linen briefs, discarding them to the pile with the rest of his apparel and trying not to let his eyes drift down there, and dips his entire foot into the water. A sigh escapes his lips as he sinks further in, the surface creeping up his body until it encapsulates his entire lower half up to his breast. It's deeper than it looked, but this isn't an unwelcome surprise. Nor should it really be a surprise, considering how freakishly tall Yharnamites tend to be.

The Hunter allows a moment to adjust to the temperature before attempting to move further. The water ripples against his flesh, almost tickling. He sighs again, this time consciously, as he leans his head forward to wet his hair. It leaves a murky residue behind as he straightens out again, forcing a slightly disgusted sound out of him. In fact, all the liquid around him is immediately tainted. Days worth of old blood and dirt strip away from his skin, revealing his true colour. If he thought that he was pale earlier, he isn't ready for what he really is.

He wades away from the dirty water, not wanting to think about how filthy he is, and makes his way to the edge of the basin where the soaps he had picked sit. He looks through them. Bottles and vials of all shapes and sizes, all exuding some earthy aroma. He taps his fingers lightly on the cork of each one as he decides. Some have clearly been used, the stopper sitting at an awkward angle in the throat, but this doesn't deter him. One must make use of the items at hand, regardless of if they're a stranger's hand-me-downs.

After a minute of deliberation, he finally plucks the same rosy elixir he had looked at earlier from the collection. Uncorking it with ease, he tips the liquid into the bath. It swills around his body, leaving dusty pink trails, and begins to bubble, forming thick foam on the surface of the water. Another pleasant surprise. Upon realising the liquid's purpose, the Hunter proceeds to empty the whole bottle, tapping the bottom of the glass to coax out the last few drops. The scent of roses begins to permeate every crevice of the room as the liquid spreads around the bath, soon creating a layer of frothy bubbles over the entire basin.

The man hums in relief, basking in the smell. He feels a light, fizzy sensation as the elixir peels off even more dirt from his thin frame. It's nice, if not slightly invasive. It prickles at his sensitive parts, sparing no area in its cleanly crusade. He leans back against the wall of the bath, running his hand over his stomach under the water.

He turns to the bottles again, looking at the remnants of the labels. Some have no words, but blurred traces of an illustration. He can make some of it out. Women, mostly. Long, flowing hair; exaggerated bosoms and pencil-thin waists. He wonders what he looks like to others. Like that? He wonders what Alfred sees. The only man to know of his 'sex predicament'. The thought causes that same rising discomfort as before.

The perfumey odour creeps past the curtains, seeping into the hallway and under the front door into the wider world. It catches the attention of one particular man nearby, leaning against a fence as he puffs on the butt of a thin cigarette and admires the view of the Forbidden Woods.

He passes it off as an illusion, a sweet scent cropped up by his mind to substitute the usual rot, but is swiftly convinced otherwise. It strikes him, overwhelming his senses with a buzzing headrush. The blond flicks his cigarette over the fence, hearing it hiss softly as it lands in a puddle below, and turns to face the smell. He inhales deeply, trying to distinguish the origin. Earthy tones... flowers and soil, and something else. Something intimate.

It draws him in, coaxing him away from his post. He recognises this scent. It stirs up pleasant memories: the intermingling of bodies, soft markings left on the skin to represent a possessive love, sweat, and hot passion. It stirs a certain body part too, making him red in the face.

Alfred recalls the last time the Hunter visited—an uncomfortable encounter that left him filled with nothing but yearning. An awkward conversation, a brief exchanging of hugs, a meek peck on his cheek. He couldn't understand the reasoning behind his reserve or why he left in such a hurry. Now the scent of him somewhere else, a scent that he only associates with their intimate rendezvous, forms an empty, carved-out feeling in his chest. He has no other choice but to seek out the source.

The man makes his way from the central plaza of the Cathedral Ward, following his well-trained nose down to one of the lower streets of the area. He looks around, unable to distinguish the direction it’s coming from due to how strong it is down here. He inhales deeply. A romantic odour, luring him in from every corner… He has to take a minute to regain his focus.

A brief memory of this street flashes before his mind. Discussions between church members about it being cordoned off, but why? The images blur together in his head. He can’t trust whatever muddy recollection his consciousness decides to throw at him, so he simply decides to press forward.

The Executioner searches each alleyway and crevice until he comes across one where the scent is undeniably pungent. He spots the busted chain on the floor before the heavy double doors at the end of the alley and is driven towards them by pure instinct. Something inside him knows that this is the place he’s been looking for. He examines the doors, the carvings in the stone frame specifically, and recognises the worn-down symbols for ‘bath’. An expression of faint shock dawns on his face as realisation sets in.

The blond slyly enters the bathhouse, closing the door as softly as possible behind himself. Noises of swishing, lapping water resonate down the hallway, ringing in Alfred’s ears as he advances forward. He walks until he reaches the curtains—the only barrier between him and the thing that he currently craves the most—and pauses for a moment. He hones in on the sounds. Muted fizzing, overpowered by the echoes of the ripples created by the Hunter’s body slapping against the basin and the floor.

Every breath is like a squeeze to his crotch, the scents and sounds alone making him feel weak. Alfred runs his fingers down the seam between the curtains longingly. What if the Hunter is right behind them, ready and waiting to boot him in the face for being a shameless pervert? The thought only worsens his condition, seeing as he can’t help but imagine him completely bare head-to-toe. A sight that he has unfortunately never had the chance to see properly. Maybe a bit of extra skin in a vulnerable moment, but never total nakedness. He loves the Hunter beyond his body, so he’s never pushed him for access besides what he’s shown himself, but a man can’t help his cravings.

He pulls the curtains apart just barely—one little peek won’t hurt. The blond is immediately blinded by a rush of foggy condensation, making his vision hazy. He rubs his eyes with his free hand, careful not to open the curtain too wide, as he tries to snag a glance. He watches the Hunter’s figure move through the miasma, wet flesh reflecting the warm light of the candles around the room, as he becomes clearer.

Alfred’s breath hitches in his throat, light and quivering. His eyes trace his lover’s form, frail and thin. He never could have expected him to be so gaunt, but it doesn’t dampen his desire. Sickly pale skin reinvigorated by the heat of the bath, flushed with colour that collects in his face and shoulders. For once, he looks alive— his movements loose and careless; hair finally released from its usual restrictive binding, free to crawl down his neck to touch his shoulders; eyes half-lidded and truly relaxed. Seeing the Hunter like this is erotic enough on its own; no touch needed.

His free hand subconsciously moves to his crotch, palming at the tightness in his pants. His eyes bore into the Hunter’s back, which is scarred and torn from battle. Seeing it bare allows the blond to count the inflamed stripes that create brutal patterns engraved into the other man’s skin. The brunette’s movements are ethereal, beautifully delicate in nature, as he lathers soap through his hair and massages it into his scalp. He has never seen him treat himself with such tenderness—such care. It only turns him on more.

Lazy palming quickly turns into intense rubbing. Alfred’s breath is ragged and weak; it’s taking everything in him to not make a sound as he watches. His conscience scolds him for being so riled up over a bath, of all things, but he can’t help it. The Hunter leans forward, washing his hair off in the water. The Executioner catches a glimpse of his face, a blissful, closed-eye smile. He dips back behind the curtain, afraid that he might be caught if the brunette decides to open his eyes. He grunts softly as he thrusts into his hand, covering his face with the hand that was holding the curtain open.

“Fu…” he whispers, breath catching in his throat. He stumbles, drunk on sweet scents and lewd thoughts. He is almost immediately brought back to a state of lucidity by the sound of a sharp gasp echoing through the bathroom behind the curtain. He goes cold, looking down and seeing a single quicksilver bullet lying on the tiled floor by his boot. It must have slipped out of the pouch attached to his glove.

Alfred has two choices: he could reveal himself and hope that the Hunter doesn’t deglove his face, or he could run away and never speak to him again.

“Who’s there?” The Hunter calls out with a confidence that shakes Alfred, considering that he’s completely naked and rib-deep in pink, sudsy water. The man replies naturally, without thinking,

“It’s me.” He mentally kicks himself, but he knows that he would have chosen this option regardless. “Just me.”

The Hunter’s eyes widen. He scrambles, grabbing at bubbles and foam—the only ‘things’ he can grab right now—to shield himself from view. What is he doing here? How long has he been there? His heart races in his chest, and he suddenly feels small and intensely uncomfortable with his nakedness.

“A-Alfred?” he stutters out. The man behind the curtain hums in acknowledgement, confirming his identity. The Hunter is relieved, in a way, that it’s Alfred and not someone else. He should have known better than to use the entire bottle of that damned rose elixir knowing how pungent it was at just a whiff.

“I’m sorry.” the blond apologises, sounding sincere, “I followed your scent and…” He pauses for a moment, thinking about how to word what he wants to say. “You are… beautiful.”

The Hunter is stunned by this. He blinks, unable to formulate a response. Beautiful is the last thing he thinks that he is. But hearing those words come out of Alfred’s mouth with such candor… It sends a warm feeling rippling up from his stomach into his chest, where it takes a grip on his heart and makes it ache. The brunette swallows, taking a deep breath to prevent the tears welling in his eyes from falling, and turns his back to the curtains again.

“How long have you been there?” he asks, slowly but surely uncovering himself. He loosens his arms and his shoulders, but they remain a little tense. He can’t help his anxiety, but it’s Alfred, after all. It’s only natural for him to want to see; their relationship is anything but abstinent. He knows that he craves to touch Alfred’s skin sometimes—wants to see what's beneath those big, heavy robes.

The blond thinks. He wants to be honest; he’s already been revealed, so there’s no longer any point in trying to hide.

“Maybe 5… 10 minutes,” he responds with a sigh. He’s disappointed in himself for not only giving in to temptation but also for pushing the Hunter’s boundaries. The last thing he wants is for him to be ashamed of himself, of his identity, or of his body. Alfred loves him. “I’m sorry, again. I’ll go if you want me to.”

The Hunter looks down into the water. He can see his reflection through the breaks in the foam, fragmented and distorted by ripples, and hums in thought. His gaze drifts from his reflection to his chest and the scars that accentuate the divide between his upper and lower halves.

“You can stay,” the brunette settles with his decision, smearing his reflection with suds. He looks over his shoulder, seeing that the curtains are still closed. A breathy chuckle escapes him. “Did you peek?”

Alfred is taken aback by this question. His face and ears flush bright red with embarrassment. He grumbles, fidgeting with the rope belt tied around his waist. He sighs again, pressing his head against the curtain. The Hunter raises his eyebrow at the sudden indentation in the velvet.

“A bit…” he admits, voice full of shame. The feeling is only amplified by the lack of response from his beloved. The tightness in his chest becomes so intense that a quiet whine squeezes out of his throat, like a kicked dog. The blond almost jumps out of his skin when laughter breaks out in the room before him, echoing off the walls and down the hall. The Hunter can’t help himself. Despite all his discomfort earlier, he finds this endearing. He loves Alfred too.

“It’s okay,” the pale man responds between giggles. “I suppose that I can’t expect any less of you. I must admit, this smell is quite… alluring.” He turns to look at the curtains proper. He can also smell something. The brunette inhales, making a point to be obvious about it, and then hums. The scent of understimulated male yearning.

The Hunter wades towards the edge of the basin, propping his arms up onto it—reminiscent of those illustrations of the sirens that sit on rocks and sing to lure in vulnerable sailors to feast—and tapping his fingers against the stone. He can hear Alfred’s breathing, heavy and uneven, from behind the velvet veil that separates them. There’s a moment of silence, tension as thick as the foam covering the Hunter’s body. He knows what he’s doing.

“Would you like to come in?” The brunette finally perks up, resting his head against his arms. “The water is nice and warm.” Alfred is speechless at the idea of the Hunter letting him watch him bathe, never mind the fact that he’s inviting him into the bath.

The blond gathers his bearings, takes a stabilising breath, before pushing the curtains apart fully and entering the room. The sight of the Hunter propped up like this, skin bare and moist and hair clinging to his face, with those sultry eyes boring into his sends him over the edge. He lets out a ragged groan as he unintentionally releases into his pants. The smaller man raises his eyebrows at the sound, tilting his head questioningly.

“Something the matter?” he asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. He can tell already. He can not only smell it but he can see it too—in Alfred’s eyes and the way his heart is pounding so fast and hard that it makes the chain around his neck jingle. Alfred doesn’t seem to notice.

“No.” he replies, fumbling with the belts and clasps holding his clothes together. He’s eager, staring down at the Hunter with a familiar hunger in his eyes. It makes butterflies explode through the brunette’s stomach (and crotch). Alfred lets his clothes stay wherever they fall as he discards them from his body, soon revealing his bare chest.

Dusted from collar to hip in blond hair, burly and muscular, and just overall large . He’s sweating, small droplets of condensation catching in his body hair and making him sparkle in the candlelight. The fluttering in the Hunter’s core quickly transforms into fiery burning, increasing in intensity the more that Alfred removes.

Once it comes to his pants, Alfred doesn’t hesitate to remove the top layer, discarding the shorter grey covering to the floor as well. He pauses in his stride, however, when he sees the Hunter’s eyes resting on something, wide and shocked. He follows them down to see a large wet patch in his pants alongside a persistently large bulge. He could die right there and then from the sheer mortification, but he decides to try and play it off.

“Ah… Excuse me,” he says with a breathy chuckle as he finally releases his belts. “At least the soldier still stands.” The Hunter laughs, covering his mouth and going red in the face as he tries to hold in a snort. They laugh together. It’s like the world outside doesn’t exist. Nothing exists right now, apart from them.

Alfred abandons his garbs, revealing his entire lower half as he steps forward towards the bath. The Hunter struggles to pay attention to anything other than the raging hard-on right in his face. The only thing he can really do to rip his eyes away from it is turn his back. He hears Alfred enter the water but refuses to turn around until he gathers himself.

He doesn’t get much of a chance before he feels Alfred’s presence uncomfortably close. Not touching, but close. He looks over his shoulder and up at the other man. The blond’s hair is damp, wavy from the condensation, and strewn across his face, clinging to his forehead and his neck. The Hunter’s eyes can’t help but trail down to his chest.

“Wandering eyes…” Alfred chuckles, wrapping his arms around the brunette and pulling him close. He presses himself against him, length rubbing against the small of his back, and groans softly into his ear.

“Says you.” The Hunter scoffs, instinctually rubbing up against Alfred in response. He bites his lip gently, stifling the soft sounds begging to be released from their contact. It feels like it's been an age since they've touched—since he's felt Alfred's warmth pressed up against his own—so even this minor gesture causes his whole body to prickle with fiery pins, concentrating where their skin meets.

“I can't help myself.” Alfred hums, burying his face into the Hunter's hair and inhaling deeply—wetness permeating his nose with a refreshing sting. The water shifts and the smaller man feels the other's hands creep around his hips, squeezing and groping. He can no longer stifle himself, and he allows a quiet moan to escape him. What he didn't account for was how much it would echo in a room like this, and Alfred responds with a groan of his own.

His hands travel down, running over the Hunter's stomach and to his thighs. They've never experienced such intimate skin-to-skin contact before, with both circumstance and the Hunter's shame being at fault for that, and both men pine for even the smallest touch. Alfred yearns to explore the Hunter's body, to uncover the mysteries of his flesh and see to every heavily-scented nook and cranny, but is thoroughly distracted by his need for friction.

“You are simply exquisite…” the larger man purrs, taking the more tender flesh of the Hunter's neck into his mouth and sucking, creating a deep red mark and digging his teeth in. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make the other man cry and whine, almost buckling under his own weight, and submit himself.

Both unable to resist their desires any longer, they rub against one another openly, allowing their sounds to bounce off of the walls and echo back to them. The Hunter turns around to face Alfred, wrapping his arms around the other man's neck. He doesn't look up to meet his eyes, still burdened by his insecurities, but presses their bodies together, feeling Alfred's length slip between his thighs. It's a step. More like a leap, if you ask him, considering that he's never been confident enough to even pull down his pants fully.

Alfred squeezes the Hunter’s hips, pulling his lower body closer and moaning as the man's thighs massage his cock unintentionally. His hands move down from his partner's hips to his ass and he picks him up, causing a loud splash with the sudden movement.

“Alfred!” The Hunter yelps, quickly wrapping his legs around the other's waist and gripping onto him for support. Alfred has no trouble holding him like this, especially with the relieved tension from the water, and responds to his cry by humping against him.

His cock slips between the Hunter's folds with ease, almost penetrating but managing to hold himself back for the moment. He rubs against him, twitching when he feels the other's clit throbbing against his shaft. The Hunter buries his face into the crook of Alfred's neck and whimpers as the man's tip finally enters him.

A severe lack of intimacy and self-pleasure has left the man quite sensitive as of late. He gasps sharply, pussy clenching around Alfred’s cock as it slowly disappears into him, his already swollen clit ache even more. His muscles tense more the further that Alfred pushes, needing to get used to the size of his dick again.

Their sounds mingle, bouncing off of the walls and mixing with one another to create a sensual melody. The process is slow, Alfred managing to prolong it for as long as he can before it becomes too much for him. He likes to tease both the Hunter and himself—the other man's core being the prize at the end of the game. He presses further, inch by inch, stretching the Hunter slowly and allowing him time to adjust. Their voices are full of pure passion, burning desire controlling their actions.

“Please…” the Hunter moans softly, finally breaking Alfred's will. He thrusts into him, deep and hard with the added force required by the water resistance. The smaller man cries out, walls throbbing around the blond's cock and digging his nails into his shoulders. Alfred sighs passionately in response and continues to thrust—his grip on the Hunter and his angle allowing him to fuck into him with little tension.

The Hunter's spine tingles, every inch of his body hypersensitive. The ripples bubbling over the surface of the water send vibrations running down his skin straight into his crotch, making him squirm. Alfred responds by gripping the man's ass, groping him so violently that it almost hurts, and fucking into him so deep that he may as well be thrusting into his cervix.

The tears come, not giving the Hunter a chance to blink them away before they fall. His moans are interlaced with soft sobs and sniffling that only encourage Alfred more. The sound of their love echoes throughout the chamber and down the hall—thrashing water and heavy panting—as Alfred frantically ruts into him, chasing his climax. The Hunter rakes his nails across the other man’s shoulders and throws his head back in pure bliss, walls fluttering around the blond’s cock and coaxing a sharp hiss from him as he clenches his teeth and tries not to succumb to another orgasm already.

“You like that, darling?” Alfred rasps, bouncing his beloved on his cock and nibbling on the lobe of his ear gently. The Hunter’s breath hitches as he fumbles for a response, pushing back against the other man’s thrusts and bucking his hips with a shrill cry whenever he hits his g-spot.

“F-Fuck! Yes, Alfred, Gods…” He manages to stutter out, clenching tightly around Alfred’s shaft. “I love you! Mnf, please, Alfred, I love you…” He reaches one hand into the water, finding his swollen clit and massaging it gently between his fingers. Alfred feels the smaller man’s cunt throb around him and desperately fucks into him, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach as his climax nears.

The Hunter writhes, whimpering uncontrollably and mewling unintelligible pleas for more, as the ache between his thighs builds with every thrust. His fingers snake up into Alfred’s hair and entangle themselves with the damp, blond strands, grip getting tighter the closer he comes to his own climax. Alfred releases a strangled sound when his hair is pulled, and his movements become sloppy as he begins to lose his composure.

“My dear Hunter,” Alfred breathes, unable to hear anything over the sound of his own heart racing and his partner’s lewd moans. “I think—”

“Please come inside of me, Alfred…” The Hunter interrupts him before he can finish, but he doesn’t mind at all. The other man’s plea causes the painful tension in his stomach and cock to finally release. He jerks the Hunter’s body closer, burying himself deep inside of him as his seed floods his needy cunt. The Hunter howls passionately as Alfred’s cum fills him up, feeling the blond’s cock twitch and throb as it releases into him.

A wave of hazy static washes over him as he finally comes, jerking his fingers against his hypersensitive clit one last time as he rides out his orgasm. Alfred pants, holding the Hunter close to him and allowing both of them some time to come down from their highs and recuperate. The water calms as Alfred’s thrusts slow to a stop, and they spend a minute just holding each other and enjoying the warmth around them.

The ringing in the Hunter’s ears slowly fades as he grounds himself, and he finally peels his body away from Alfred’s with a slick, wet sound. They chuckle together, the bigger man holding his lover’s hand to help him balance himself as he unwraps his legs from around his waist to stand on his own.

“Are you alright, dear?” Alfred asks, rubbing his thumb over the Hunter’s hand and looking down at the man with half-lidded eyes. The Hunter looks up to meet his gaze and is struck by the pure love in the other man’s eyes. It overwhelms him, pulls at his gut, and makes him melt for Alfred all over again.

“Yes…” he responds, steadying his breath and squeezing the other man’s hand once he finds his footing. He finds himself unable to break eye contact, for once, enraptured by the look in his partner’s eyes. “I love you…”

Alfred smiles, planting a soft kiss on the Hunter’s forehead and cupping his cheek with his other hand. He rubs his thumb over the tender flesh gently, pressing their foreheads together and feeling the other’s breath against his lips.

“I love you too,” he replies, voice sincere and romantic. They remain in their embrace for a moment before Alfred pulls back to look at him again. “Would you like me to wash you?” He tilts his head questioningly—almost like a curious puppy—and the Hunter hums pleasantly at the idea.

“That would be nice.” the smaller man smiles, running his hands over Alfred’s chest and nuzzling against him to hear his heartbeat. They cherish the moments like this where they’re allowed intimacy in such a cruel world.

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mabelstone · 1 year ago

Text

Competition

matt stone x f!reader

genre: enemies to lovers, mature

summary: part two of Provocateur

word count: 4.9k

cw: more drinking, brief violence, mentions of blood, mentions of adultery, unprotected sex, hate sex... teeny bit of slapping

You were four shots deep at this point on top of the two martinis you smashed down and you were feeling it. For the past hour, Matt had you in hysterics, throwing your head back, ugly laughing from deep in your chest.

"More shots!" He exclaimed, flagging down your bartender friend whose patience was thinning with you both.

"Christ, are you trying to kill me?" You scrunched up your face, not sure you could handle any more. The room was already spinning and it was hardly 9pm.

"Gotta eliminate the competition," he joked, sliding another shot of tequila your way.

"Funny," you rolled your eyes, cheersing your glass with him before throwing it back. You cringed at the taste, fighting back a gag as the liquid burned every inch of your oesophagus. "No more, seriously, or I'll need my stomach pumped."

He agreed, dragging you to the dance floor with him. "No, no way," you protested, realising how strong he was by the way he effortlessly pulled you along with him.

"Loosen up, would you," he scoffed at you, pulling your body flush against him. You rested your head against his shoulder, mainly because you were struggling to hold yourself up. He likely noticed, one of his arms snaking around your waist, the other taking your hand in his. You groaned, knowing where this was going.

"I don't know how to slow dance," you mumbled against him, craning your head up to look at his face. You were in heels and he was still towering over you. You brought your free arm up over his shoulder - for stability, of course - realising just how broad he was. He was so delicious, and the alcohol was only making your burning hunger for him far more unbearable.

"It's easy, just sway with me," he looked down at you, gapped toothed grin on full display. For a minute there, you swore you would make a good match. You weren't repulsed by him in that moment.

You followed his lead, juxtaposing his steps, his grip on your hand insurmountably more gentle than when he shook your hand yesterday.

"There! You got it," he praised, spinning you around by your hand. You erupted in a fit of giggles, hands coming up to his chest to brace yourself when he pulled you back in. You stayed there for a moment, feeling his heart beat against your palms, laying your head against your hands as he propped his chin atop your head, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you continued to sway.

You didn't know what came over you, but when you looked up to him, your heart swelled in your chest. Taking his face into your hands, you pressed your lips to his. His lips were soft and warm and seemed to fit perfectly against yours like a puzzle piece. You took him by surprise, but he soon reciprocated, moving his lips against yours carefully, quick hands finding your hips as he deepened the kiss.

Once somewhat satiated, you pulled away, your eyes meeting his, pupils blown. "That was a moment of weakness, that promotion is mine," you joked with a soft smile.

For once, he didn't have a smartass remark to add. Instead, his thumb grazed your cheek tenderly. It made you feel strange, pulling away from him.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you excused yourself, ignoring the glare the bartender gave you.

And you did, elbows to the basin as you rested your head in your hands. Why did I do that? Well, you knew why. You were intoxicated and he was giving you the perfect amount of attention. What's worse, you really liked it. You could've stayed in that moment forever, and God forbid you weren't in a private place, or else who knows how far you would've gone. You looked up at yourself, angry that you had that giddy feeling coursing through your veins. Angry that you were left confused - even angrier that you were considering him a viable option.

No way, you had a rule against dating coworkers - especially if they were the reason you mightn't advance in your career.

You took a deep breath and left the bathroom, finding an indifferent Matthew receiving an ungodly tongue lashing from the bar tender. With furrowed brows, you approached the two; Matt with a stone cold expression, seemingly unphased; the bartenders' veins bulging from his forehead and neck.

"And you-" the bartender turned to you, an accusing finger pointed in your direction. You cocked your head slightly, brows knitted together even tighter now in confusion. "Thought he was a prick, huh? Tell me why you're mouth fucking him in my bar then."

"You need to calm down," you spoke, raising your hands out before you in defence.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do," he growled, smashing a glass on the bar table. You gasped softly, taking a step back. He was definitely doing lines behind the bar. He had the tendency to lash out like this when he was high, one of the countless reasons your time together was exclusively in the bedroom.

To your surprise, Matt didn't flinch whatsoever, only stepping back to slightly push you behind him... guarding you?

"Don't speak to her like that," Matt's tone was stern and unwavering, cool almost. His jaw jutted, seemingly his signature move when he was aggravated. The bartender clenched his fist, a single drop of blood running down his hand. Everyone else in the bar was silent, watching on intently. You felt a million eyes burning holes through you, your heart thudding against your chest.

"Let's just go," you pleaded quietly, tugging on his arm. You could tell Matt wasn't finished, but nonetheless, he nodded, shooting the bartender one last glare before wrapping his arm around your waist, pushing you ahead of him before starting to walk out.

You jumped again at the loud smash of glass, this time a few shards ricocheting off the ground, nipping at the backs of your ankles. Before your inebriated brain could process what just unfolded, Matt was storming toward the bar, letting himself in through the little hatch door. You hand flew to your mouth, muffling yet another gasp as you watched his fist collide with the bartenders' face. You couldn't watch, but judging by the gasps from others in the bar and more sounds of glass shattering, they were undoubtedly piling into one another.

You stepped outside, the quiet nightlife an easing contrast to the shit show that just erupted inside.

You were conflicted; do you wait for him? Do you catch the next cab and leave as fast as you could? Was he even going to come out? You felt sick, though in the freezing cold, your palms were sweating profusely and you felt hot. Your spiralling thoughts were cut short when lo and behold, Matt stumbled out, busted lip, nose gushing with blood and bruised, bloody knuckles.

"Holy shit, are you okay?" You fretted, taking his hands in your own, inspecting the cuts on his knuckles.

"You should see your boyfriend," he snickered, releasing one of your hands to wipe his nose with the back of his.

As awful as it was, it really did something for you to see him like this. It sparked a fire in you that you were choosing to ignore, staring a bit too long.

"You... okay?"

"Hm? Yeah, yeah," you giggled nervously, releasing his hand now. "I think we've had a big enough night, I think you should get home and clean up."

He chuckled, nodding along with you. You both walked in silence for a bit, the sound of your heels clicking along the cobblestone path drowned out by the soft passing of cars, the music from the bar slowly fading out of earshot.

"I'm really sorry about that, Matt," you frowned, running a hand over his bicep. Touch wasn't your strong suit, but in the moment it seemed fitting, and he smiled to himself.

"Don't worry, kid, shit happens," he shrugged, hailing a cab from the curb. "Seriously, fuck that guy though."

You both laughed as you climbed into the cab, a soft pink hue tinting your cheeks when he opened your door for you. You gave the driver your address, the buzz of the alcohol still clouding your senses as you watched Matt look out the window. You couldn't suppress the smile that crept onto your face; the way you always ended up around this man. You couldn't escape him. He must've felt your gaze, turning to you, a grin of his own forming.

You leant forward, pressing your lips to his once again. You were diligent and gentle in doing so, not wanting to hurt his busted lip any further. One of his hands crept to the back of your head, slipping his fingers into your hair, while the other found your thigh, gently circling his thumb into the soft skin. You shuddered lightly under his touch, wanting, craving more of him to the last fibre of your being.

The cab pulled up outside your apartment, the driver clearing his throat, causing you both to pull away. You ran your thumb over his bottom lip, wiping away the faintest drop of crimson.

"Bye," you practically whispered, Matt reciprocating. You thanked the driver and headed up to your room, head absolutely reeling.

***

Monday at work, you were nervous to see Matt. Truthfully, you couldn't get him off your mind. That smile that made you queasy, the affectionate gestures that just made you confused. When you went home that night you felt lonely, cursing yourself for not inviting him up. At the same time, though, you were grateful you didn't. You knew it was probably just drunken stupidity overloading your senses and you would regret it.

Your heart thrummed in your ears as you approached your desk. There he was, fingers rapidly typing at his computer, a large cup of coffee being neglected on his desk. You urged the smile off your face as you sat beside him, trying to be quiet to not disturb him.

"Morning," you spoke soft, logging into your own computer. He only hummed in response, not even looking to you. Your heart sank a little, an immediate wave of anxiety dousing your every nerve ending. "Everything okay?"

"Mhm, just trying to get my work done," he sighed flatly, your face burning a dark red. "You should do the same."

You laughed softly, yet there was no humour in your tone. What a fucking asshole, you thought to yourself, swallowing the lump in your throat before doing as he suggested.

As the day went on, you didn't exchange any dialogue, nor did he even look at you for more than a few seconds. Why were you upset? It clearly meant nothing to him. You preferred it this way, anyway. Now you had purpose again to destroy his chances of getting your promotion. You packed up early after receiving a tip of Madame's whereabouts tonight, praying she would actually be there.

"Where are you going?" He finally spoke, turning to face you now. Good God he looked so edible today. A big cut over his slightly puffy bottom lip, those big, beautiful eyes that looked extra tired, slight bruising under the left.

"Home," you returned his flat tone from earlier, turning away and heading for the elevator. You heard the faintest scoff from his direction, using every muscle in your body to not turn around and scream in his face. Instead you got in the elevator and pressed 'ground level'. The doors started to slide closed when you saw him approaching. You mouthed, sorry, with your finger jamming the close doors button, a faux pout on your lips as the doors shut in his face.

You climbed into your car, a residual frustration hanging over you like a dark cloud that wouldn't go away. How dare he?

***

You arrived at the hotel Madame was supposedly staying at, and now was the time she'd be checking in. In an attempt to be inconspicuous, you wore one of your usual coats with your hair clipped up Pam Anderson style, large rimmed sunglasses shielding your eyes. You nearly leapt with joy when you saw her talking to the clerk, a bell boy carrying a ridiculous amount of bags for her 2 night stay. You took a seat on one of the red velvet seats in the lobby, cringing at the feeling, but staying put. You watched intently, your glasses hiding the fact as you kept your distance.

You watched her for roughly twenty minutes, a bit disappointed when nothing was happening. She did the usual; checked in, ordered some people around. Then she headed out for a cigarette, and you trailing far enough behind that she wouldn't notice, but close enough to see something that made your jaw drop.

Madame had planted herself in the lap of a man who was not her husband, obscenely making out with him to the point you felt a bit perverted watching. You were quite well hidden, but judging by the display before you, they probably didn't give two shits who saw. Once he started running his hands up her dress, you quickly snapped a photo and headed back inside. You'd seen more than enough.

The heavy cloud was lifted, excitement bubbling inside of you as you finally had a story. You got in your car, unable to hold back your smile that stretched from ear to ear, absolutely ecstatic.

As awful as it was to be excited to expose this woman... A) you had no remorse for cheaters, and B) you were going to crush Matthew Stone.

***

By the end of the week, Matt was back in his old office. Yours was still being renovated, but you didn't mind. No, not today. Today, you were submitting your article for authorisation with the big boss. Like, your boss' boss. You didn't want to get too ahead of yourself, but you were positive your story would bode well.

You packed up for the day, heading out before turning on your heels when you heard your name being called. Of course it was Matt.

You sighed before turning and entering his office, folding your arms before him. "Yes?"

"Just wanna wish you luck," he grinned, though you couldn't quite tell if it was out of kindness, or if he was being his typical condescending self. "You look really nice, by the way."

"What are you getting at here?" You sighed theatrically, running a hand through your hair.

"Have a seat, would you?" He smiled again, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. You unwillingly obliged, slumping down into one of the seats. Velvet again! What is wrong with these people?

"You ignore me all week and now you wanna talk?" You raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively, not wanting to be a part of his fucked up mind games in any form.

"That was wrong of me, I'm sorry." You wanted to kick him in his stupid gap teeth... but you also wanted him to bend you over his desk until there were nail marks in the wood and you were screaming his name. "I just couldn't have any distractions, and God knows you're a good one."

You rolled your eyes at him, gesturing with your hands for him to get to the point.

"Right, right." He cleared his throat, folding his hands on his desk. "Now that this is all over, what did you write your exposé on?"

"I guess you'll have to find out when I make the headline and get my promotion," you smiled, getting up from the chair. You weren't going to sit here and be humoured by him. He'd probably found a way to go in and change his submission, and you'd never give him the satisfaction.

He groaned once you left the room, trailing close behind you.

"Jesus, slow down," murmured, catching the closing elevator door with his hand. "You don't need to ice me out," he rolled his eyes this time, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt. You couldn't control your eyes as they followed his movements, large, veiny hands that were nearly fully healed now.

"Can't you just leave me to have a nice afternoon?"

"I wanna see you tonight," he confessed, following you out to your car space.

"After the way you treated me? Fat chance," you scoffed, unlocking the car and climbing in. His car was conveniently parked beside yours, causing you to roll your eyes in frustration yet again.

He rolled down his window, his voice faintly echoing outside your closed window. You sighed before rolling it down, looking toward him incredulously. "What?"

"Madame," he started, putting his car into gear. "Cheated on her husband." He pulled out of the lot, and that horrible, heavy cloud of frustration was back.

You watched his stupid white Mercedes disappear from your view, jaw slack, sitting in disbelief. How did he know that?

It's like a switch flicked in you or something. You loved this job more than anything. He knew that, he wanted to get under your skin. And by God, did he. You pulled out of your parking space and headed straight for his house. You didn’t care how crazy you looked, he was an asshole and you were determined to make him pay.

Your blood boiled in your veins, scorning every capillary beneath your skin, peppering a trail of angry kisses across your cheeks in the form of pure anger. You white knuckled your steering wheel, clenching your jaw tighter each time you were trapped at a red light.

You remembered his address from when you were in the cab together last, and were familiar with the area as you nearly bought a house on the same street. There was his ridiculous Mercedes in the driveway, almost mocking you, so to speak, silently taunting, ha! Beat you to it.

You practically flung yourself out of your car, slamming the door behind you as you stormed to his front door, knocking so hard your knuckles stung.

“I knew I’d get you to hang out with me,” he grinned widely, smug as ever. Somehow he’d already changed into a black t-shirt and knee length cotton shorts. Damn, he always looked good. “Bit concerning that you know where I live, but I’ll let it slide ‘cause I want you here-“

“What is your fucking problem?” Your cheeks were still burning red, your fists clenching at your side as your heart pounded against your ribs, egging you on to strangle him to death.

“Come in,” he rolled his eyes, grabbing your arm and effortlessly pulling you into his house. “Don’t need the neighbours eavesdropping your meltdown.”

“Meltdown?” You laughed incredulously, even angrier by his stupid unbothered demeanour. “You stole my idea once again, you asshole!”

He tsked, walking toward his kitchen, grabbing out two glasses before continuing, “the name calling is a bit juvenile, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How did you know she’d be there?” You asked, brows knitted together as you clenched your jaw, resting flat palms against his kitchen counter.

“That doesn’t really matter now, does it?” He chuckled, sliding a glass of water to you. “Let’s be real, I have a bigger name than you, they wouldn’t have even thought twice about your submission.”

You walked toward him, inches from his face at this point. So close, in fact, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, you could smell his cologne. “You’re going to revoke your submission.”

“Or what?” He furrowed his eyebrows in faux fear, hands gripping your waist, pulling your front against his.

You breath hitched slightly, the feeling of his tight abdomen pressing against you with his fingers digging into your sides sending a chill through you. Quite the contrast to the fire ignited inside you.

“What’re you gonna do, huh?” His hands trailed down to the swell of your ass, fingers lightly gripping the soft skin. He pouted in your face, kneading your ass a little harder. “Nothin’ to say? S’what I thought.”

He pressed into your ass, your pelvis flush against his body. “You don’t want to find out,” was all you could muster, a defeated blush splattering across your cheeks as your voice wavered slightly.

“Cute,” he grinned, pressing his lips against yours. You cursed your lack of autonomy, hands quickly flying to cup his face without a second thought, opening your mouth slightly in invitation. He accepted, sliding his tongue in slowly, tasting one another as he grabbed your lower thighs, picking you up as if you were as light as a grocery bag, wrapping your legs around his waist. You desperately tugged at his soft curls, your tongue roaming the expanse of his as your soft sounds of approval reverberated off one another.

He grunted as your lips trailed to his neck, leaving warm, open mouthed kisses on his skin. He opened what you could assume to be his bedroom door, lowering you gently onto his bed before he pulled away. He unbuttoned your dress pants, warm fingers brushing your hipbones as he pulled them down, a trail of goosebumps forming on your skin.

You watched his careful, almost premeditated movements, as if he prepared for this exact scenario. His eyes raked over your figure hungrily, eager lips placing wet kisses along your inner thighs, sparking a fire in your stomach as the goosebumps continued to prickle at your skin. His lips got close enough to your underwear that you jolted when he licked a flat stripe over your skin, only about an inch away from where you needed his tongue.

You bucked your hips reflexively, an embarrassingly desperate noise escaping your lips. He roughly pushed your hips back down, mocking the noise you made. Your face instantly heated up, trying to pull from his touch.

"I'm joking," he chuckled, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your panties. "Sounds pretty, wanna hear more," he more mumbled the last part as he slipped your panties off, blowing cold air onto your very wet heat. You squirmed lightly under his touch, involuntarily bucking your hips as he drew his tongue flat up your clit, ripping a groan from deep inside your chest.

He flit his tongue across your clit again, this time applying diligent pressure to the area; tracing gentle shapes into your it.

“More,” you breathed, desperately reaching for his hand on your hip, forcing it down to your throbbing core. You were wet enough for him to slowly slip a digit in, siding in until up to his knuckle was coated in your slick, pulling out completely. He coated his ring and middle finger with your slick before sinking both digits in without warning, eliciting a sharp whine from you. Your hands flew to the short praline curls you’d grown to love and hate so bad, raking your fingers along his scalp as you ground against his face. Times like this you were reminded why big noses were a feature you loved in your sexual partners.

He pulled his mouth away, flipping his hand so his wrist was bumping against your clit as he continued to thrust his skilled fingers in and out of your heat, unrelenting with his rhythm. He knew he found that dizzying spot inside of you when you arched your back against him, your chests touching as he hovered over you, muffling your pretty affirmations of pleasure with his own lips.

He continued rubbing his palm over your clit, realising how close you were when your walls began to tighten around his long, slender, concerningly skilled fingers.

“Matt,” you warned, unable to even kiss him back with the waves of pleasure rippling through you.

“Not yet,” he grinned against your lips, pulling his hand completely away from you just before you reached your peak.

“Fuck you,” you cried frustratedly, pushing him away from you.

“Give me a minute, would you?” He laughed, pulling his shirt over his head, his pants following shortly after.

Your eyes widened and your jaw slackened, not only at the sheer size of him, but the impossible girth.

"I-" you shook your head profusely, as if to admit that it wouldn’t fit in any way.

“You can take it,” he encouraged brazenly, clearly very fond of his endowment.

“At the risk of giving you an even bigger head, nuh-uh.” You closed your legs, holding yourself up on your palms. He tsked you again, stroking over his length slowly, using his spare hand to grab the back of your neck, connecting your lips once more. You melted into him, reciprocating immediately.

“You’re so easy,” he chuckled triumphantly, rubbing his cock across your aching heat, collecting your slick over the tip.

You slapped him across the face without thinking, your stomach flipping at the girly whine he released.

Unbeknownst to you, he wanted you to get angry. "Do it again," he demanded, and you did. Well, attempted to. When your hand was but millimetres from his face, his fingers laced your wrist with a vice grip, slamming it into the pillow above your head as he thrusted his entire length into you in one swift motion.

You released a guttural gasp/moan, your unrestrained hand frantically searching for something, anything, to hold onto, opting for the broad shoulder before you, leaving behind crescent moon shaped indents on his lightly freckled skin.

"Mmh- so tight," his words were almost lethargic sounding, drawn out and breathy.

"I fucking hate you," you confessed through grit teeth as he continued to rut in and out of you at a mouthwatering pace, teetering on the fine line between pleasure and pain.

"Not a big fan of you either," he grunted between thrusts, a moan cutting through the end of his sentence as your walls flexed around him.

"You feel so good though," another juxtaposing confession from you, wrapping your free arm around his shoulders for leverage, pulling yourself up to connect your lips with his once more. He reciprocated greedily, taking up all of your air before shoving you back onto the bed, propping your legs up over his shoulders. He bottomed out once more, this time pummelling your g-spot with each precise thrust, and now you were being loud.

You exchanged sounds of pleasure and insults, the neighbours undoubtedly hearing every word and likely very confused.

He slipped his fingers down to rub your clit, immediately hurling you to the edge.

"Finally got you to shut up," he chuckled playfully. Embarrassingly enough, you attempted to speak but no words came out, only a strangled, almost painful moan; mouth dry from panting profusely and eyes threatening to roll back. You were a hot mess, and you had no idea what it did to him.

The look on his face combined with his unmistakable skill sent you well and truly over the edge. He looked so focused, furrowed brows, droplets of sweat threatening to fall, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. You couldn't even formulate a warning, coming undone around him. You slipped your legs down his arms, thighs now resting atop his, back arching, toes curled. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling your chest against his as he fucked you through your orgasm, soft and drawn out praises, "theeeere you go, yeah," slipping past his tongue and melting down skin.

Your eyes were screwed shut as you slowly came down, wrapping your arms around him as you continued to match his thrusts.

"Cum in me," the first words you muttered in a while; words that seemed to be the magic phrase. He gripped you hard, hips stuttering as he released inside of you, his own eyes rolling back as ecstasy surged through his being.

You carefully climbed off him once your breathing steadied, immediately picking up your clothes and slipping them back on. He lulled his head to the side from where he'd laid back, curls wet and stuck to his forehead. "Glad we resolved things," he grinned, covering himself with a blanket.

"That was amazing," you sighed in a mix of exhaustion and contentment. "So, there's one thing you're useful for."

"M'gonna have to piss you off more often."

You scrunched up your nose with a fake smile. "Bathroom?"

"Down the hall to the left," he sighed this time, stringing his arm over his face in a more understandable fatigue. "You might wanna fix your face too. You look like a hooker."

You shot him a glare, not that he could see, before heading to his bathroom. Sheesh. He was right. Your mascara had run down your cheeks, smudged all around your eyes. Your hair was an absolute birds nest, and your lips and cheeks were flushed a matching shade of pink. You used the toilet, grimacing at the uncomfortable wetness between your thighs, a messy mixture of both of your arousals.

You walked back into his room just as he'd pulled his briefs back on, standing in the door frame, brazenly admiring his figure. Though very tall and skinny, his muscles were well defined and lightly glistening with sweat.

"See you at work."

You did the walk of shame to your car, his conservative looking neighbours looking at you both disgusted and mortified.

you can tell when i write this over a few days when the writing style changes 😗 hope you enjoyed

#matt stone #matt stone x reader #matt stone smut #enemies to lovers

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writing-whump · 1 year ago

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Don't pretend to care

Part 2 of the Sushi poisoning (Part 1). Hector is recovering at home and has an emotional talk with Isaiah.

Hector woke up in his bed.

The air was stale and he was way too warm. Throwing the covers off he was reminded why he was there - his stomach muscles were sore to the core, like someone kicked him under the ribs multiple times.

How did he even get here? It was late afternoon, he was planning on surprising Arnie at lunch. Ahh, that's where it all went wrong.

Tentatively lifting himself up into a sitting position, he found a wash basin by his bed and a glass with water. His throat was rough and dry, and his mouth tasted terrible, but just the idea of water in his stomach made him slightly nauseous.

This whole thing had been a mess. He threw up his weight in sushi at the mall, had to be rescued by Isaiah, and got Arnie all panicked. The car ride home was a blur for him, he could barely put one foot after another at the elevator and he had to go to the bathroom immediately after they came when his bowls decided to get rid of everything that got in too deep to be thrown back up.

Jeez, what a day.

"You should drink some of that."

And it apparently wasn't ending yet.

Hector followed the voice to find Isaiah sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles. Coat and suit and all, like he was on a business meeting that happened to be in a room without chairs.

Hector rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't just seeing things. His oldest brother looking all nonchalant on the ground by the foot of Hector's bed seemed more like a ghost illusion than something that could happen.

"I send Arnie to the pharmacy. You threw up in your sleep, but you didn't wake up at all. You also almost passed out in the shower, so we figured we better watch over you." Still that neutral impersonal tone.

Hector cleared his throat. The surface felt like he gurgled nails. He was feeling more and more stupid over making such a fuss over bad food. Good thing he slept over those events.

"Any-" Hector coughed against his hand, "any particular reason you are sticking around?"

Isaiah gave him a leveled look before glancing down at Hector's shadow next to the bed. It was pulled out almost entirely, folded over itself like a lump of dark clothes.

Hector paled. "Was it...did I-...is Arnie-?"

Isaiah's face was like made of stone. "No. But your shadow was unruly. Kept jumping up and down looking for someone to fight. An enemy making you so miserable, I suppose." He gave Hector another stare that Hector couldn't read. "It calms down when I'm near."

Now Hector felt his face burning instead. Shadows were part of wolves. They were part of their souls, their real feelings, the truest, most violent and primitive parts of themselves.

And Hector's just obviously revealed everything there was to know. Everything Hector tried to cover up with excessive hostility, denial of ties...denial of any hurt.

Silence stretched between them.

Hector lowered his gaze to the floor, saying quietly: "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Stay when you don't want to. Pretend like you care when it's just a pose for you. Don't...don't make him believe you are going to be around, when you don't mean it."

"Is that what you think?"

Hector snarled, head snapping up to glare at Isaiah. He hated this. He hated that cold expression and even colder tone, the ways shadows were supposed to be truthful so Isaiah's was always controlled and quiet. He hated all of this.

"And what else should I be thinking? You never tell me anything. You never show me anything. Fucking poker face with you. Always. Just don't let anybody get to you. I don't know why the fuck you are doing this. Does it look better to pretend like you are a good big brother who- who answers calls and takes Arnie to lunch and-and pretends like he cares, cause it would be unseemly to look like you don't?! What, would your city wolf friends find it rude? Would your reputation suffer for it? What kind of crap is this?!"

Hector heard all about it. Isaiah, the eternal lone wolf who left the strongest pack in Western Europe. One would think that would make him an outcast and a loner, but no, it made him connected to fucking everybody. Every big pack in the city knew his name, had dealings with him, had gotten help from him in some way. He had his nose sticking everywhere, helping with truce dealings and territory negotiations and training pups. He had friends and acquaintances with every wolf, helped them to get into universities, helped teenage pups with their adult exams to get permission to work and study with humans.

The whole city was tainted by Isaiah's hand, like he made all the packs his own big personal web, with himself at the center.

At the Wolfson pack, he was the Executioner of the Leader's will, the scary one, the unreachable one. The unbeatable one.

Outside the family, he seemed to be the most helpful, friendly and influential wolf Hector never ever imagined.

Why did this happen? Why was Isaiah all training and coldness and distance at home, becoming a traitor, spitting at Father's legacy, but tore himself to pieces to be friends with strangers in the whole city? Assembling a pack of weirdos who needed his protection, when he had two brothers who missed him...who wanted him back?

Hector threw his legs over the rim of the bed, not able to bear to be in such a low position while he was burning with anger, his shadow slashing angrily around the bed.

It had Isaiah standing up as well, though he did it all smoothly, like this wasn't upsetting at all.

Hector's eyes blazed as he shot to his feet, grabbing Isaiah by the collar of that pristine white shirt and expensive-looking suit and pinned him against the wall with shaking hands. "What the hell is your deal? What do you want from us, huh?!"

Isaiah's green eyes stared back at him, wide and tranquil.

That was all Hector's busted body could take though. He swayed, grabbing for Isaiah's shoulders to stay upright as vertigo assaulted him. His legs went weak and his stomach muscles heaved and twisted like he was about to throw up.

"Sit down. Come on, sit down," Isaiah barked, moving towards the bed so Hector could collapse on it, breathing harshly. The blond wrapped his hand around his stomach, doubling over as he fought against the gags.

Isaiah crouched next to him, bringing the basin under Hector's chin. Damn it all, Hector wanted to be angry with Isaiah, for not getting help from him!

Hector strained over the basin with harsh coughs and gags with Isaiah giving up his position to sit down next to him, bracing Hector's shoulder so he would kip over. Only a pitiful mouthful of bile ended up being the result of Hector's straining, spit hanging from his lip all the way down.

Isaiah got a towel from the foot of the bed Hector hadn't noticed before, mopping his mouth and chin like a child before helping him lean back against the cushion.

Hector was busy taking deep gulping breaths against the nausea, rubbing his stomach to ease the cramps. They came and went with a force he didn't understand, he was running on empty.

Isaiah stayed at the edge of the bed, watching him with a concerned expression. "Maybe we should talk about this later."

Hector's eyes lolled towards him, hands kneading into his stomach angrily. He was sweaty and hot all over and tired from the struggle. "You only dare to come anywhere near me when I'm hurt or sick. No way we are talking about this any other time. Today or never with you." He wanted to sound more angry, but it came out more like a whisper.

Isaiah sighed, looking somewhere to the left where Hector's face was like he was in a heated internal debate with himself.

"I have no right to want anything from you. I have already ruined everything."

Hector looked at him with bleary eyes. "So what's this deal with Arnie then? He wasn't with you so much. You didn't ruin him all the way, so why start now?"

Isaiah actually winced at that. This close up, Hector could see the slow slow process of Isaiah putting the mask away. His face didn't actually change, but the cold stony expression melted away. His forehead creased, his mouth twisted together, his eyes got a haunted shade to them.

Hector stared at him, realizing his brother was truly giving him what he asked for.

Isaiah closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped away from the bed to lean against the wall opposite it, hands in his pockets. Another silence stretched between them.

"I'm not doing this for fun, Hector. I'm...this is hard for me too, okay?"

"Then tell me."

Isaiah flinched as if Hector punched him.

"I don't know where to start. I don't know how to talk about this. But everything I have done...I wanted to protect you. You and Arnie both. With what Father did...I couldn't-..." Isaiah made a funny expression. If his face could break into pieces Hector thought this is what it would look like.

"I needed to get out after what happened. I don't know how to explain- but Arnie he," Isaiah's eyes glinted with moisture when he looked up, "he wanted to believe in the best of me and I- I needed that so badly. I want to make everything up to you. Although I know you will never let me and I don't deserve to ask."

"Ask what?" Hector breathed out, stomach twisting in turmoil, heart somewhere in his throat.

Isaiah looked down, then up, then to the side, like he didn't know what to do with himself. Hector had not seen him like this since...ever.

"Is it so bad? For me to be close?" Isaiah said in a hoarse voice.

Hector curled up on his side, towards Isaiah but so one side of his face was hidden against the pillow. Waves of heat and cold coursed through him.

He didn't know what to say, what to do in the face of such raw emotion. Somewhere along the way he had given up on believing Isaiah still had any - that he could feel so deeply for them.

Was it really all just a facade? Did he keep himself together so hard to prevent this from spilling out every step of the way?

Hector could not bring himself to ask more questions. Isaiah said nothing else, fighting tears, pain etched into his face, sniffling a little as he tried to put himself back together.

It never crossed Hector's mind Isaiah might not be doing this willingly. That there might be reasons outside of his knowledge and understanding. That this was hard for Isaiah too. He just wanted to get under his skin, to see things, to see him feel things...

Now he wasn't so sure the truth would bring him any peace anymore.

@bellysoupset

#sickfic #emeto #hurt/comfort #bromance #my writing #werewolf wip #Hector

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dantesunbreaker · 1 year ago

Text

NSFW: In the Night Part II

(Terzo x AFAB!Reader)

A/N: I've got so many ideas for this story that it may need more chapters than I expected.

Sunlight stings your eyes as it breaks through the windows, unpleasantly pulling you from restless slumber. There is a dull ache pulsing throughout your body, coming to a warm throb at the juncture of your thighs. Memories of last night come crashing back to you like a five ton freight truck. Memories of a night full of love and passion...and the horrific image of your Terzo spewing blood, covering his hands, trickling down his arms and across the bed. Your eyes snap open, hand outstretched to reach for the man sleeping beside you... only to find an empty space. The black satin sheets look undisturbed, not a wrinkle in sight, as if no one had laid there in a long time.

Tears begin to fall before you can even think to stop them. It had all been a dream, a sweet blissful dream that allowed however brief of an escape from the heart wrenching reality you were so eager to forget. Your Terzo is dead. Taken from you far before his time, demise set in motion by the very same ministry he worked so hard to support.

In a fit of rage, you let out a scream of anguish as you hurl everything from the top of your nightstand to the floor. Furiously, you wipe your eyes with the backs of your hands as you rush for the bathroom, tripping on your discarded clothing along the way. Through blinding tears you splash cold water over your face in hopes to control the heat you feel rising up your cheeks. When your vision clears, you grip the edge of the sink, chest heaving as you stare down into the basin. Water swirls and spirals down towards the drain, but you give pause at the sight. Why is the water pink?

You feel as if an ice pick has struck your heart, time seemingly frozen as you slowly lift your gaze to the large mirror before you. Red streaks trickle down your cheek, half washed away. But left nearly pristine appears to be a lip mark left in blood adorning your forehead. Fresh tears burn as you grab a washcloth and begin to furiously scrub until your skin feels hot and raw. When there is no longer a speck of blood left on your skin you toss the cloth aside as if it were a snake that bit you.

What does this all mean? How could this be possible? Could Terzo actually still be alive? Was last night real?

Thoughts racing, you try to put together the pieces of this mental puzzle that is troubling your mind. If there was blood on your face, would there be more evidence that perhaps your dream was more than a dream? You make quick work of slipping into a fresh set of clothes, throwing your habit over top as you return to the bedroom with purpose. But a quick lap around the bed bears little fruit. Only your clothes seem to be strewn about where they were haphazardly thrown. Distressed, you pull back the sheets knowing that surely blood would have soaked through into the mattress.

“I don’t understand,” your distress only continues to reach new heights, finding not a single stain along the white fabric of the mattress. If there is no blood on the bed, then where did the blood on your face come from? Certainly you did not manage to kiss your own forehead. There is only one thing left you can think of to set the records straight.

You barely manage to get the door to your suite closed as you make a mad dash down the halls of the Abbey. On a mission, you don’t ever register that you collide shoulders with someone coming the opposite direction down the hall, sticking to your path completely unphased. Navigating through the numerous corridors, you feel as if a hand clutches your heart, squeezing tighter and tighter with each step closer to your destination.

Heart beating heavy against your chest, near ready to break free of your ribcage, you pause at the entrance of the crypt, palm pressed against the cool stone as you attempt to steel your nerves. Answers to your questions lie just beyond the archway, a single flight of stairs from where you stand. Part of you wishes to turn back, to walk away and leave it all up to mystery. Should the casket within lay empty, then perhaps you were not as crazy as the day is leading you to believe. But turning away now could also save you the heartache of knowing that your love is truly lost.

Sucking in a breath, you descend the first step. Inaction often serves far worse of a lesson than that of making a mistake. As you make your way down, you attempt to assemble emotional walls to block out the pain of whatever lies ahead. You know the futility of the attempt, but it brings you some sense of peace that eases your descent. When you reach the bottom, time seems to stand still. With a simple turn of your head you would have your answer. Instead, you choose to savor this moment for a little longer, cherishing the unknown as it allows you to cling to a flicker of hope. But nothing ever lasts forever, and so you turn.

Looking just like Snow White resting in a glass casket, your Terzo lies cold and still, ceremonial candles aglow all around. For a moment you feel a strike at your heart, suddenly overcome by immeasurable grief. It’s a feeling indistinguishable from the pain you felt that first moment you heard the news of your partner’s demise. Choking back a sob, you take a step into the chamber, trembling hand reaching out to trace along the edge of the coffin.

“Oh Terzo,” you sigh, moving to stand beside the head of the coffin, afraid to look at the lifeless face of the man you love. You feel foolish. This wasn’t the first time you have seen the body, there was a service after all. But yet, you still allowed that little glimmer of hope to cloud your mind. “What am I supposed to do with myself? Is this the first sign that I am going crazy?”

Of course, your questions go unanswered, leaving you alone with your own thoughts in disheartening silence. Sucking in a deep breath, you squeeze your eyes shut as you turn your head. Mentally you count backwards from three, forcing your eyes open as you reach the end of your countdown. Tears stain your cheeks for what feels like the hundredth time for the day as you gaze down at the former Papa. He looks so peaceful and serene. If you didn’t know any better, you could convince yourself he is only sleeping. As if at any moment those two toned eyes would snap open, Terzo leaping up to give you a start and then together sharing a laugh for how easily you were fooled. But unfortunately, that isn’t the punchline to this joke.

A sudden cool breeze hits, sending a sharp electrifying tingle from the top of your head down to your toes. Has someone else come to pay their respects? Terzo was a well loved member of the ministry, it would be of no surprise if he had regular visitors. But just as you prepare to call out, your voice catches in your throat, a whimpering moan coming out in its place. You can't mistake what feels as if someone has rubbed their hand over your crotch, palm digging in just right to strike a match of arousal in you. A surge of panic rushes through your veins, looking all around for whoever touched you, but there is nothing except for the sound of your heavy breathing and the occasional crack of an imperfect candle wick.

“I must really be losing it,” you close your eyes with a sigh, an arm resting atop the glass coffin and laying your head there. It was just your imagination playing tricks on you

So when you feel a hand running along the length of your spine you nearly scream as you lift your head to look all around. But you are alone. Yet, the pressure of a hand stays pressed to your lower back, having halted in place the moment you moved an inch. When it seems you have once again settled, this invisible hand continues its descent until it is cupping between your thighs.

Though you know that it must be wrong, you can't help but feel yourself growing wet from these phantom touches. Similar to a cool breeze, it feels soft and refreshing, a soothing relief to your tender sex. What kind of crazy makes you experience such vivid sexual fantasies? A yelp leaves your lips as you feel this hand begin to rub you over the layers of fabric. The damp splotch growing along your underwear is unmistakable.

“Oh, Terzo!” You moan out the name instinctively before you can stop yourself. The soft yet teasing touches are the same that Terzo would so commonly use to work you up. “Am I really imagining getting felt up by my partner...while resting against his coffin?” But you throw all caution and concern to the wind when the hand gives just the right amount of pressure as it drags along your sex. What harm could come from seeing this fantasy through?

With nothing to lose, you spread your legs, thighs parting so that your drenched pussy is more accessible. In the same instance, the hand parts your folds, two fingers sliding up to the knuckle inside of you with ease. Of their own accord, your hips buck back against the touch. A slow rhythm is set, fingers curling to stroke your walls in a just so perfect way. You press your cheek against the glass, arms spreading out as all your strength channels to your legs to fight against the urge to drop onto your wobbling knees. When the heel of the hand begins to press into your bundle of nerves with each thrust, you nearly cry.

“Oh fuuuuuck,” you’re near breathless as you moan softly, nails beginning to claw against the glass beneath you. “Oh I’m so fucking close!”

A third finger is suddenly stretching you out ever further, pounding into you with such force that your hips begin to bounce against the side of the coffin. Your core tightens, tension rising as you draw closer and closer to the edge. But nothing prepares you for the feeling of the fingers shifting in warning before a tongue suddenly circles your clit. A silent scream tears through your throat, head thrown back as your back arches, hips thrown back closer to the source of your pleasure.

Your climax hits you with such power that for a moment your vision becomes cloudy with a black haze, your body's way of fighting off a sensory overload. But there is nothing to be done about the way a mouth closes around your aching bud, sucking you feverishly as fingers continue to work you through your orgasm. It drives you mad, drawing out your peak to lengths you never thought possible. Tears gather at your eyes as you are pushed through overstimulation, your hips now bucking desperately to pull yourself away.

Only when you let out a sob, broken by pleasure, do you get any sense of relief as you topple through a second climax. This time you are slowly eased through with soft gentle touches that have you letting out demure sounds of ecstasy. You can feel something wet dripping down the inside of your thighs, your underwear completely soaking with the evidence of your release. A kiss presses against your clit with an almost fond gentleness as the fingers gingerly slide out of you. And then everything is gone, just as you watch as all the candles in the room are snuffed out, leaving you in a post-orgasmic daze.

As you come crashing down from your high, sweat clinging to your skin, your legs begin to tremble like a newborn fawn. The upper half of your body rests atop the glass casket, cheeks burning as you glance down at the man within. For the first time since Terzo’s passing, you look at his still face with a soft smile. You can easily imagine the witty remarks he would be making at seeing you in such a state, making a mess of yourself with only his hands and tongue. No one but your Terzo would know how to torture your body to just the right limit to have so feeling so euphoric.

“Yeah, I think I have absolutely lost it,” you sigh with a soft laugh, slowly regaining the strength in your legs as you straighten up. “First it’s a wet dream about you, and now I’m having a day time fantasy that has me making a mess of my pants. Seems even when you’re gone, I can’t keep you out of my head.”

One of your hands glides across the top of the coffin, stopping when your palm lies just above his heart. It feels as if the energy has been drained from the room, a cold empty feeling taking its place. You know that your sanity must be questionable because despite seeing your partner’s dead body in front of you, it truly felt as if he had been in the room, had been the one touching you. Not just your mind conjuring up a fantasy, but as if Terzo himself had somehow returned from beyond the grave just to remind you how well he knew your body.

“I love you, Terzo,” you sigh with a soft yet somber smile, wishing desperately that you could properly give a parting kiss. “I miss you so much, everything is so hard to face without you.”

Giving one last glance at the fallen Papa, you gather up the energy and strength to push off the casket so you can stand on your own. A brief moment of wobbling, legs feeling jelly-like, is all that occurs before you manage to find stable footing. Eyes cast down, you start on your way up the steps, full focus on keeping your legs from buckling out from under you. So when you reach the top of the stairs only to collide with something warm and solid, you can’t help but scream as you instinctively throw your arms around whatever is in front of you to keep you from falling.

“Uh.... Is everything alright, Sibling?” You hear a rather nervous, timid voice from above. Slowly your eyes pan up to meet with a pair of dual colored eyes. Well this isn’t good.

“Oh..um I’m sorry, Cardinal,” heat rushes into your cheeks as you realize you are practically wrapped around the newest arrival to the Abbey, pressed nearly chest to chest.

With a nervous laugh, you pull away abruptly, nearly toppling backwards down the stairs until just as equally as awkward, the Cardinal reaches out to hold you steady. A moment passes, both of you simply staring at each other before it seems your brain catches up with the rest of you. This time you manage to step to the side, standing well within the archway so that the threat of falling down the stairs is no longer so imminent.

“R-right, well..” Cardinal Copia giggles anxiously, pulling his hands back quickly once he realizes they are still resting on your shoulders. “There is uh, no need to apologize! And none of this Cardinal business, there is no need for formalities. Copia will do just fine.”

“Alright, Copia then,” even though you have yet to interact much, there is an endearing quality about his awkwardness that draws you in. A longing to know him better. “Well, was there something I could help you with?” You glance back down the stairs into the dark chamber below. “Or were you coming to pay your respects?”

Copia’s gaze follows yours, staring down into the dark depths of Terzo’s crypt. A somber yet comfortable silence falls over the pair of you, Copia’s hand tentatively moving to rest on your shoulder. When you don’t shake him off, Copia takes that as acceptance of his attempt at providing comfort.

“Well.. actually, it was you that I thought I could help,” your eyes flick up to Copia’s face when he breaks the silence with a suddenly more solemn tone. There you find a soft look of concern, one you feel all too undeserving of. “You seemed very troubled when we bumped shoulders in that hall, seemingly not present at the moment as you didn’t respond as I called out to you. I thought it best to at least come check on you.”

Red once again flushes up into your cheeks as you are hit with a sudden wave of embarrassment. How could you run into the Cardinal without noticing? That makes it twice in one day of colliding with the Cardinal. So much for good first impressions. Yet, your heart feels warmed at the thought of a near stranger feeling such concern for your well being, even when met with such an abrasive interaction. But...how could you explain to someone that you had such a vivid wet dream that you had to check if the man of your dreams was in fact dead?

“It was a dream,” you begin hesitantly, picking and choosing your words carefully but your voice begins to thicken with emotion as you once again think of the memory. “Terzo was in my dream last night, and...it felt so real. So when I woke up and he wasn’t there...I just had to make sure.”

It is then that you realize Copia still has a hand resting on your shoulder, for when your voice catches briefly in your throat, you feel a gentle squeeze that grounds you back into the moment. Your eyes feel watery, but you somehow manage to hold back the tears as you give Copia a weak smile. Nothing that could be said would make things better, and from the look in his eyes, you can tell Copia understands this. Instead, the hand at your shoulder pulls away, now offering it palm up, giving you the choice to join hands.

“How would you like to join me for lunch? I’m sure you never got the chance to have breakfast this morning,” Copia’s cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, a smile quick to grace his lips when you slowly place your hand in his. “We can talk, or we can not talk. But whatever you should decide, I will gladly be there to help you through it...Should that be something you would like.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the Cardinal’s shy awkwardness, so much unlike Terzo, but still just as sweet and caring. “Yeah, I think I would like that.”

#papa emeritus iii x reader #papa emeritus x reader #terzo x reader #papa emeritus iii #cardinal copia #terzo #ghost fanfiction

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