#stop coloring the entire movement with that brush

[mommyownsmee]

[TW: SOMNO; CNC; BREEDING KINK] [Music: LITHE]

The dim glow of the candles casts a soft, golden hue over the room, flickering slightly where the breeze from the half-open window disturbs the light curtain. The scent of us lingers in the air, mixed with the remnants of warm skin and sleep, heavy and consuming. The sheets are tangled around our legs, the cool linen damp where our bodies have pressed together through the night. The mattress dips beneath your movements, springs creaking softly in protest as you grind yourself against me, your weight warm and solid atop my body.

The air in the room is thick, almost suffocating, heavy with the humid warmth of late summer. Outside, the distant hum of the city filters through, the occasional sound of a car rolling past on wet pavement, the distant buzz of neon signs casting faint streaks of color against the darkened walls. Rain had fallen earlier, the scent of it still lingering, damp and fresh, clinging to the air like an unspoken promise. The sheer curtains shift slightly with the wind, ghosting against the windowsill, framing the room in a quiet intimacy that feels both endless and fleeting.

My body still aches from last night.

You had taken everything I gave you—every command, every touch, every brutal, consuming moment of pleasure until you had nothing left to offer but obedience. I had left you shaking, breathless, too exhausted to do anything but collapse against me, your body spent, marked, claimed. You had whispered my name between ragged breaths, had curled into me, body pliant, the last remnants of resistance broken down into submission. And yet, despite everything, despite how completely I had worn you down, despite how thoroughly I had used you—You still disobey me.

The strap from last night is still buckled tight around my hips, snug and unmoved, the fabric pressing into my skin, a quiet reminder of the way I took you, the way I had made you beg, made you surrender, made you mine. I never removed it—I fell asleep like this, my body still thrumming with the satisfaction of watching you break for me, of feeling you tremble, of knowing you were exactly where you belonged.

You were supposed to wait. You were supposed to stay where I left you, your body sore, obedient, ready for when I decided to use you again.

But instead—

I’m waking up to the heat of your body pressing against mine, the slow, desperate roll of your hips dragging your slick folds over my cock. The warmth of you, the soft friction, the way your breath catches each time your clit brushes against me—it’s intoxicating. You’re already soaked, already dripping, already so fucking needy for me that you can’t even wait for me to wake up properly. It pulls me from the depths of sleep, from something that almost feels like a dream—except this? This is real.

The way you move—needy and shameless, claiming my cock like it belongs to you—is real. Like you own it. Like you’ve spent the entire night aching for me, your body wound so tight that waiting a second longer would drive you insane.

You knew better. And yet, here you are—awake before me, climbing onto my lap, positioning yourself over my strap, and taking it without my consent. You didn’t even want to ask. All you had to do was get up and sink down onto it. And you did.

And fuck, the way you’re feeling against me… the slick heat of your cunt sliding over me, coating me in your arousal with every slow grind, makes my stomach tighten. It’s not just the physical sensation—it’s the way you’re taking it. The way you‘re using me, knowing I’m too dazed to stop you.

You’re playing with fire. Pushing my limits. Dragging me toward that place where I stop thinking and start taking. You’re so wet, so fucking desperate, and you don’t care if I wake up or not. No hesitation. No shame. You take what you need.

“I need it, Mommy,” you whisper, your voice a hushed plea against my skin. It’s breathless, thick with sleep and raw with arousal. The sound alone makes my cunt throb beneath you. “I need you to breed me. I need all your cum inside me. I need to be full of you. Feel so empty.”

The old wooden headboard taps softly against the wall with each movement, a quiet rhythm that syncs with your slow, deliberate grinding. The scent of the candles we forgot to blow out the night before lingers in the background—something deep and musky, mingling with the salty, unmistakable scent of sex. The nightstand is cluttered—half-empty glasses of water, a forgotten book lying open with its pages slightly curled, a phone blinking with an unread message no one cares about right now.

I’m still barely conscious, lost in the haze of sleep, my mind sluggish, my limbs heavy. But the pleasure is undeniable. It seeps into my bones, coils in my stomach, forces my body to react even before my brain catches up. And you know it. You feel it.

You feel the way my hips start to twitch beneath you, the way my breath stutters, the way my cock presses against your slick heat. You feel my body giving you exactly what you’re after—even without my permission. You know you should stop. You know should wait. But you simply don’t.

You keep going, rolling your hips, grinding yourself down, using my cock to chase your own pleasure like a needy little thing. Your fingers are curling against my chest, nails digging in just enough to make me feel it��to ground yourself as you’re riding me, slow, steady, possessive.

“Needed this, Mommy… Needed you so bad… Fuck—feels so good… I can’t stop—”

I groan, the sound low and rough, muscles tensing beneath you. My fingers twitch at my sides like I should stop you. Like I could stop you, even in my sleep. But you know better. You know me too well—know exactly what you’re doing. And you don’t stop.

The soft rustle of fabric beneath us, the shift of the sheets against my skin, the subtle creak of the bed frame beneath our weight—all of it blends together into a quiet symphony of need. The room is warm, but not uncomfortably so, the air thick with something indescribable, something heavy, something that makes it impossible to think about anything other than the way your body feels against mine.

You angle your hips, sinking down harder, taking me deeper, and fuck—it’s almost too much. Your cunt clenches around me, greedy, like you were made for this—for me. Your breath hitches, a soft, broken moan escaping your lips as you take me deeper, as you push yourself further.

The mattress gives slightly beneath us, dipping and shifting with every movement, the weight of you pressing me deeper into its embrace as you adjust, as you make yourself even more comfortable in your slow, relentless conquest of me. The warmth of your thighs presses against mine, your skin slick where our bodies meet, heat pooling between us like a secret no one else will ever know. The sheets slide further away, forgotten, lost to the tangle of limbs and heat and slick, desperate need.

After a moment you’re pressing yourself down harder, letting out a needy little whimper, your hands sliding up my chest, nails scraping lightly against my skin. My skin burns where you touch me, heat prickling along my spine, my pulse a heavy, thrumming beat in my ears.

Your breath is hot against my ear, your voice thick with arousal and just a hint of amusement. The pillows are scattered, one having slipped off the bed entirely, lying forgotten on the wooden floor. Your fingers twitch against my chest, nails skimming lightly over my skin, tracing idle patterns as you move against me, teasing, unhurried.

The worn cotton of your shirt clings to your body in places, barely covering anything, the fabric rising with each slow, deliberate roll of your hips. I can see the way it slides off your shoulder, exposing the soft curve of your collarbone, the line of your neck, the sheen of sweat along your throat.

The dim light flickers again as a stronger gust of wind pushes through the window, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city—But up here, in this room, in this bed, none of it matters. The rest of the world ceases to exist. There is only you, only me, only the unbearable heat of our bodies pressed together in the dark.

Your lips part, a soft, breathy moan slipping free as you grind down, the fabric of the shirt finally shifting just enough to give me a glimpse of your bare breasts beneath it, the shadows teasing at what I already know, what I’ve already tasted, what I crave to feel again. The candles’ glow catches the faint sheen of sweat on your skin, painting you in molten gold, highlighting every curve, every dip, every place I want to touch, to claim.

“Need it so badly,” you breathe, rocking your hips, making me feel how desperate you are. “Need you to breed me. Need all your cum inside me. Want you to fill me up—make me yours.”

Fuck.

That sentence alone makes my entire body tighten. Even half-asleep, my eyes barely open, those words send a sharp, molten heat shooting straight through me, spreading wet and heavy between my legs. My stomach clenches, my hips buck against your heat, and suddenly, I’m awake. My breath stutters, my jaw tightens, my body responding before my mind can fully catch up.

I grab your hips, fingers digging into your soft skin, my voice a low, rough growl. “Get up.”

I barely recognize my own voice—it’s thick with sleep and raw with arousal.

The candles flicker again, the light shifting over the lines of your body, the fabric of your shirt slipping further, baring more of your skin to the warm air. The scent of you—sweet, intoxicating—fills the space between us, mingling with the lingering traces of rain, of the old wooden floors, of the night itself. The sheets slide further away, completely forgotten, left crumpled at the floor. The mattress shifts beneath our weight, the soft creak of the springs drowned out by the way your breath catches, the way you press yourself down harder, the way you refuse to stop.

I grab your hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of the shirt you’re wearing—mine, worn and stretched, barely clinging to your frame. It hangs off you in a way that drives me insane, slipping from one shoulder, exposing the slope of your neck, your breast, the faint sheen of sweat glistening under the candlelight. The way the fabric shifts with your movements teases me, offering glimpses of bare skin, of the curves I already know too well.

“Get up,” I growl again, my voice thick with sleep, with something darker curling at the edges.

The air between us is humid, heavy, thick with the mingling scent of your skin, of the lingering candle wax melting in its holder, of sweat clinging to the sheets. The room itself feels smaller now, as if the walls are pressing in around us, enclosing us in the warmth of this moment, in the weight of your body against mine.

I shift beneath you, tightening my grip, making it clear what I want—to flip you over, press you into the mattress, claim you properly. But you don’t move. Instead, you smirk, lazy and teasing, your breath hot against my skin.

It’s slow, that smirk. Knowing. And then you roll your hips again, grinding down with that deliberate, torturous rhythm that makes my stomach clench, makes my restraint snap thread by thread.

“No,” you purr, dragging your nails down my chest, your voice sweet but dripping with something dangerous. “You don’t want me to get up. You want me to take what I need. You want me to keep riding you, to milk you dry, to use you until you’re nothing but a desperate, fucked-out mess.”

The light is casting shifting shadows along the walls, illuminating the way your body moves above me. The way the oversized shirt pools around your hips, riding up with every slow grind, revealing more of the slick heat between your legs makes my head spin.

I know I should stop you. I should grab you, shove you off, flip you over, and remind you who’s in control. But I don’t.

Because you’re right. I do want it.

I want to feel the way your body clenches around me, want to watch your head tilt back, your mouth parting as you lose yourself in the pleasure of fucking me. I want to hear you whisper those filthy little confessions, to push me, to break me, to convince me until I give in.

You know exactly what you’re doing. You rock against me, slow and deliberate, dragging your slick heat over every inch of me, making sure I feel it. Every roll of your hips is calculated, pushing me further, making me unravel. The sheets beneath us are damp with sweat, the soft linen sticking to my back as I fight the instinct to grab you, to take control. The distant sound of a car rolling past outside feels like it belongs to another world—one where this moment doesn’t exist.

“I’m not stopping,” you whisper, lips brushing against my ear, breath hot and teasing. “Not until you give me what I want.”

I shake my head, a weak protest, my voice hoarse. “No… I can’t… Stop.”

But even as I say it, my hands twitch at your sides, fighting the instinct to grab you, to hold you down, to fuck you the way you‘re begging for.

You don’t listen. Of course you don’t.

You tilt your hips, sinking down harder, letting me feel just how wet, just how ready you are for me. The oversized shirt you’re wearing slips down your arms, your breasts. It does nothing to hide you, does nothing to stop my gaze from drinking you in—the way your thighs tremble as you move, the way your lips part with every sharp inhale, the way you look in this light, all soft curves and wild hunger.

“You’re already giving in,” you murmur, dragging your nails down my chest, watching the way I shudder under your touch. “You say no, but your body says yes. You’re already so deep inside me, so hard for me. I can feel how you’re soaking the sheets with me. You can pretend all you want, but I know the truth.”

I swallow hard, jaw tight, trying to resist the way you move—the way you feel. But fuck, it’s impossible.

“You feel it, don’t you?” you purr again, voice dripping with satisfaction. “How perfect we fit. How fucking good it feels. You don’t want me to stop.”

The room feels stifling, the warmth wrapping around us like something alive, something tangible. The neon light outside has shifted, the red glow growing stronger, painting your skin like something sinful, something forbidden.

I clench my teeth. “I… I can’t…”

But it’s a weak protest. We both know it.

You lean in, your lips brushing against my jaw, your voice sinking into me like a drug. “Then don’t.”

My breath stutters as you kiss down my neck, slow and sensual, tongue flicking against my pulse. “Don’t hold back. Don’t pretend you don’t want this.”

I know that you know it. The way my jaw clenches as I fight against the pull, against the raw need curling in my gut. The way my hands tighten at my sides, the way my cunt pulsates beneath you, betraying me, proving that despite every hoarse “No” I breathe, my body wants nothing more than to give in.

And you enjoy it too much. You press your hands against my chest a little harder, your body sinuous and sure as you rock against me. The soft creak of the mattress beneath us is the only sound in the room, aside from the uneven rhythm of our breathing, the occasional hitch in your throat when you sink down just right.

“You want it,” you whisper, dragging your lips along my jaw, your breath warm and steady. “Admit it.”

My head tilts back against the pillow, a deep groan tearing from my throat.

“Tell me.” You bite my earlobe, the sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight through me. “Tell me you want it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard. “No— I— I can’t—”

Your hand slides down, pressing against my stomach, right where our bodies meet. You circle your hips, slow, deep, making me feel the maddening stretch of your heat around me.

The scent of rain drifts in again, mixing with the warmth of us, with the remnants of summer night air. In this moment, time is slipping away.

“You’re going to put a baby in me.”

My breath catches. Every muscle in my body tenses.

“I won’t stop until you do,” you murmur, pressing your forehead against mine, your lips hovering just inches away. “Until I feel you spill inside me, until there’s no way I’m not yours. Marked for everyone to see.”

A sharp, strangled sound leaves my throat.

One of the candles flickers one last time before the flame dies out.

The room there falls into darkness.

“You’ll give it to me,” you whisper, dragging your nails down my chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake. “I know you will.”

My breath stutters, my jaw tight, my body betraying me with every sharp inhale, every twitch of my fingers against the sheets. The mattress dips beneath us, every movement shifting the weight between us, the bedsprings giving a quiet protest.

“You want it, don’t you?” Your voice is velvet-soft, dripping with wicked intent. You drag your lips along my jaw, slow, teasing, your breath hot as you let your words sink in.

I’m clenching my teeth, my body tightening beneath you, my fingers twitching at your hips but still refusing to act—to pull you closer, to push you away. The war in my chest is suffocating, the heat in my veins unbearable.

You hum, amused. Unrelenting. “Say no,” you murmur, circling your hips, sending another pulse of unbearable pleasure through me. “Tell me to stop.”

I don’t. I can’t. There is no word forming on my tongue. No word that would be able to slip out of my mouth.

Your lips curve into a knowing smirk against my skin. “That’s what I thought.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make me feel the unbearable loss of you before sinking back down, dragging out the sensation, making me shudder. My hands finally move—instinct overriding restraint—fingers tightening at your waist, digging into soft flesh, a silent acknowledgment that I’ve lost this battle.

A low, breathy moan slips from your lips, your body trembling at the way I finally, finally touch you. The sheets beneath us are damp with sweat, twisted from movement, the scent of you clinging to every inch of fabric.

“You feel it, don’t you?” you murmur, rocking against me, slow and torturous. “How perfect we fit. How easy it would be to just let go. To give me what I want.”

I swallow hard, trying to hold onto the last thread of restraint, but the way your body presses down against mine, the way you feel so unbearably warm, so impossibly soft, is unraveling me by the second.

“You don’t want me to stop,” you say again, voice like silk, like a promise. “I can feel it.” Your nails scrape lightly against my skin as you shift, adjusting, taking me deeper, making my breath stutter as pleasure coils tight in my stomach.

“You want this,” you murmur, your voice thick with something dark, something knowing. Your fingers skate along my chest, nails tracing barely-there lines over heated skin. “You always do.”

I should stop you. I should grab you, flip you onto your stomach, remind you who’s in control. But I don’t. Because you’re right. I do want this.

I want to watch the way your body moves above me, the way the flickering neon light paints your skin in shifting hues, the way you whisper those wicked, breathless words against my ear, unraveling me one syllable at a time.

You hum against my skin, pleased, satisfied, your breath warm as you press closer, your fingers tightening where they rest against my chest. “I told you,” you whisper, voice dripping with amusement, with triumph. “You can’t resist me.”

You know me too well. You see through the tension in my jaw, the way my breath stutters, the way my fingers tighten in the sheets.

The heat between us is unbearable, thick and inescapable, wrapping around my body like a vice. A sliver of cool air comes in through the slightly cracked window, but it does nothing to soothe the fire burning between us.

You lean closer, your breath hot against my ear, your voice nothing more than a hushed whisper laced with dark amusement. “You can’t hold back forever.”

The remaining flickering candles on the nightstand have almost burned themselves out, the wax pooling at their base, the flame struggling to stay alive. Just like my restraint. Just like every last shred of control I have left.

You tilt your head, watching me, studying me, your eyes dark, heavy-lidded, filled with something unreadable. And then you smirk, slow and knowing, because you can feel it—the way my body is betraying me, the way I’m losing this fight second by second.

Your fingers slide down, ghosting over my stomach, your touch light but searing, sending a shiver up my spine. The last candle on the nightstand finally sputters out, plunging the room into darkness, leaving nothing but the neon glow from the window to paint the scene in shifting colors. The flickering red light catches on your parted lips again, on the faint rise and fall of your chest, on the wicked, triumphant gleam in your eyes.

You press closer, your breath hot against my ear, your voice nothing more than a hushed murmur laced with quiet victory. “You’ve already given in,” you whisper, your lips barely brushing against my skin, sending a slow, burning shiver through me. “You just won’t admit it yet.”

It’s maddening—the way you say it, the way you know. The way your voice drips with satisfaction, teasing, taunting, pulling me further into the trap you’ve been weaving all night. My breath stutters, my restraint frays, my hands finally move—not to push you away, not to stop you, but to hold you, to claim you the way you’ve been demanding all along.

A soft, breathy sound slips from your lips, something caught between a gasp and a moan, something triumphant. Your fingers curl against my chest, nails pressing in just enough to make me feel it, to mark me, to brand your victory into my skin.

The room is still, the air heavy, the silence thick with something unspoken, something undeniable.

Then the neon light flickers again—red and blue and red—casting shifting hues across your face, your expression raw, desperate, entirely too real. Your breath hitches, your body trembling slightly under my touch, the control you held slipping just a little—just enough for you to realize that the moment you’ve been pushing for is here.

That you’ve won. That I’m not going to stop you. Not anymore.

I inhale sharply—my breath coming out as a slow, shuddering exhale.

And then, I move.

The bed creaks beneath us, the sound swallowed by the night.

“You want it, baby?” My voice is low, rough with something dangerous, something inevitable. I feel the way your body tenses, the anticipation curling through you, the way your fingers grip at my skin. I press the full length of my strap between your folds, the slick heat of you coating every inch.

“Then take it.”

I push inside—slow, just to feel it. The way your body stretches, the way you clench down around me, the way your breath stutters, turning into a choked little whimper.

And fuck, you’re perfect.

So tight, so ready, so utterly mine.

My hand slides up to your throat, tilting your head so you have no choice but to look at me—to let me watch the way your body reacts to me, to the way I take you.

And I can see it.

The flush spreading across your skin, the way your lips part, the way your fingers press against my chest, your grip faltering as you struggle to keep yourself upright. Your body is betraying you, unraveling, pleasure overtaking every muscle, every thought.

Your brows furrow, your expression shifting, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open in breathless gasps.

“Mommy, please—”

You don’t even have to finish your sentence. I know what you want. You’ve been convincing me for at least an hour now.

I grab your hips and slam into you, dragging a wrecked sob from your throat.

Your body jolts with every thrust, your hands slipping off my chest, hanging at your sides, your moans turning into high, broken cries as I take you apart.

“You’re going to look so fucking good, baby,” I murmur, my voice dark, possessive, my grip tightening, owning you in every way possible. “All round and full for me. Everyone will see it. Know it. Know exactly who you belong to.”

The thought alone makes something in me snap.

I press deeper, harder, watching the way your body gives under my control—how you melt for me, how your eyes roll back, lost in it, lost in me for that moment, too dumb and wrecked to do anything but take what I give.

And that’s exactly where I want you. Where you belong.

The neon glow outside still pulses in slow, lazy waves, painting your flushed skin in shifting hues—deep red, then blue, then red again—like a heartbeat, a rhythm that matches the desperate, aching roll of your hips against mine.

Your fingers tremble where they try to grip my shoulders, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your body caught between surrender and hunger, between control and the way I take it from you piece by piece.

“You like disobeying me, don’t you?” My voice is low, rough, more a growl than a question, but I already know the answer. I can feel it in the way you push back against me, in the way your thighs tighten, in the way your breath stutters but you don’t stop moving. “You want me to breed you like the whore you are, even though what you did?”

A sharp whimper escapes you, half-choked, desperate, pleading, but you still don’t answer me. You still hold onto that last sliver of defiance, that last flicker of resistance, testing how far you can push me before I snap.

I tighten my grip on your throat—not enough to hurt, not enough to scare you, but just enough to remind you. Just enough to make your breath hitch, your pulse hammer beneath my fingers, your eyes widen as you realize how easily I could break you completely if I wanted to.

“You should be begging me for forgiveness right now,” I murmur, my lips brushing against the shell of your ear, dragging the words over your skin, letting you feel the weight of them, letting them sink in like a promise. “But instead, you’re riding my cock like you earned it.”

Your body shakes as I press deeper, as I pull you down harder, forcing you to take every inch, forcing you to understand exactly what happens when you disobey me.

Your lips part, a high, broken sound slipping from your throat, your nails digging in, your body going boneless against me, and for a moment—just a moment—I think you might finally give in.

But then you smirk.

And then you roll your hips, deep and filthy, grinding down with purpose, making me feel every slick, desperate inch of you.

It’s not an apology. It’s not surrender. It’s another fucking test.

I see it in your eyes, in the way they flick up to meet mine, challenging, pushing, daring me to do something about it. And fuck, I do. I move before you can even breathe.

In one swift motion, I flip you onto your stomach, pressing your body into the mattress before you can even protest. A gasp rips from your lips as I pin you beneath me, my weight pressing down on you, my hand tangling in your hair, forcing your head to the side so I can see you—so I can watch every shattered expression cross your face as I take back the control you tried to steal.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” My voice is a low, dangerous murmur against your ear, my breath hot, heavy, my grip tightening in your hair as I drag your head back just enough to make you feel it. My other hand slides down, nails raking across your spine, over the curve of your ass, reminding you exactly who you belong to.

You don’t answer—you can’t. Your mouth falls open, your breath coming in shallow, desperate pants, your body trembling beneath me, but that smirk?

It’s still fucking there.

You like this. You like pushing me, testing me, knowing exactly what buttons to press to make me snap. And fuck, it’s working.

I press down harder, my chest flush against your back, my breath hot against your neck. “You wanted to be punished, didn’t you?” I drag my nails up your side, slow, deliberate, feeling you shudder beneath my touch. “That’s why you disobeyed me. That’s why you woke up and took what wasn’t yours to take.”

You whimper, your hands fisting the sheets, your body caught between resisting and giving in. I can feel the conflict, the way you crave the consequence, the way you need me to remind you exactly who’s in control.

I let go of your hair, only to grip your wrists, pinning them above your head, stretching your body beneath me as I press closer, as I make sure you feel every inch of me, unyielding, inescapable.

“You’re mine,” I murmur, my lips brushing against the back of your shoulder, letting my teeth graze your skin, letting you feel how close I am to breaking you completely. “And I’m going to fill your cunt and give you what you deserve.”

Your breath hitches, your body arching, needing more, and fuck, the way you react to me, the way you tremble beneath my hands, the way you push even as you surrender—It makes me feral.

I tighten my grip, forcing you to stay where I want you, forcing you to take what I give. “Say it,” I growl, my voice thick, rough, demanding. Your body shudders, your lips parting, but no sound comes out. You’re too far gone, too wrecked, too lost in it.

I press down harder, my mouth against your ear, my breath sending another violent shiver down your spine.

“Say. It.”

A ragged, broken sound escapes your throat, your fingers curling against the sheets, your back arching, offering yourself up. “I’m yours,” you whisper, voice barely audible, barely a breath, but fuck, it’s enough.

The world beyond these walls doesn’t exist. There’s only this.

Your body is wrecked, trembling beneath me, breathless and pliant, your fingers twitching against the sheets like you’re searching for something to ground you. But there’s nothing left to hold on to. You’ve already given in. Already surrendered. And I made you.

My hands are still on you, on your throat, my other hand pressing into the soft curve of your hips, holding you exactly where I want you, exactly where you need to be. I can feel the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the aftershocks of what just happened still rolling through you in slow, shuddering waves.

“You should’ve waited for me.” My voice is soft, deceptively gentle, but edged with something darker, something dangerous. My breath is hot against your ear, my lips brushing against the damp skin of your throat as I lean in, letting my weight press you deeper into the mattress.

I can feel the way your body reacts, the way you shudder, the way your thighs tighten as if you’re trying to prepare yourself for what’s coming—even though we both know you can’t. Not really.

“You knew I’d punish you for disobeying me.” My fingers ghost down your stomach, trailing lower, teasing, not giving you enough. Just a whisper of touch. Just enough to keep you on edge. Just enough to remind you that I own this moment. That I own you.

Your breath stutters, your nails digging into the sheets as you try—fail—to stay still beneath me.

“Didn’t you?”

A small, broken whimper escapes your lips, barely audible, barely more than a breath, but I hear it.

I drag my teeth over the side of your neck, slow, deliberate, feeling the way you arch into me, the way your body is already responding, already begging for something you haven’t even asked for yet.

“You wanted this,” I murmur, my voice dripping with amusement, with satisfaction, with something unshakably dominant. “That’s why you climbed on top of me this morning without permission. That’s why you took what wasn’t yours to take.”

Another sound escapes your lips—a half-swallowed whimper, desperate, wrecked.

“But you forgot something, baby.”

My hand moves lower, pressing against your stomach, feeling the way your breath catches, the way you tense beneath my touch. The room feels even smaller now, the air heavier, the heat suffocating.

I grip your chin between my fingers, tilting your face toward me, forcing you to look at me, forcing you to see the way I’m watching you.

“You don’t get to take from me.” My voice is barely more than a breath against your lips, low and dangerous. “You wait until I give it to you.”

I let the words settle, let them sink into your skin, let them own you the way I already do.

And then I move.

You gasp, your back arching, your hands flying up to clutch at my arms, at anything, but I don’t let you take control. I don’t let you escape.

“You’re so fucking desperate,” I murmur against your jaw, feeling the way your body tightens, the way you pulse beneath me, the way you shudder when I grip your hips and force you on my cock, making sure you take it, making sure you feel exactly how much you pushed me, exactly how much I’m not letting you get away with this.

“You wanted me to ruin you?” I laugh, low and dark, dragging my nails down your spine, feeling the way you jolt under the touch. “Then you’re going to take every second of it.”

The air is thick, electric, buzzing with something I can’t name—something dangerous, something feral, something that has every muscle in my body tight, every nerve on fire.

“You belong to me,” I murmur against your throat, feeling the pulse beneath my lips, feeling the way you tremble under my control. “Every fucking part of you belongs to me.”

The weight of those words lingers, settling deep into your bones.

And this time, when you finally respond—when your lips part and you let out a shattered, gasping “Yes, Mommy,”—

It’s not defiance.

It’s submission.

Complete.

Utter.

Perfect.

That’s what I wanted from you all along.

“You knew what you were doing when you took what wasn’t yours to take,” I murmur, my voice low, dangerous, dripping with something possessive, something unshakable. I drag my lips along the side of your throat, letting my teeth graze the sensitive skin there, feeling the way you shudder beneath me. “You knew what it would mean.”

Your body is trembling, caught between resistance and surrender, between fear and hunger, between the need to push me further and the desperate, undeniable desire to let me break you completely.

“You should’ve waited for me.”

I press deeper, letting you feel it, letting you understand exactly what I’m about to do to you.

“But you didn’t.”

Your breath catches, your body arching, reacting instinctively to my voice, to my touch, to the way I hold you still, refusing to let you escape, refusing to let you pretend you don’t want this as much as I do.

“So now you’re going to take all of it.”

My grip tightens, my nails digging into your hips, forcing you to stay still, forcing you to take everything I give you, forcing you to feel it.

“Every second.”

Your body jolts, shuddering beneath me, your muscles tightening, your breath hitching in a sharp, broken moan. I don’t let up. I don’t slow. I don’t let you escape the weight of this, the reality of what’s happening, the undeniable, unrelenting force of my control over you.

“Every inch.”

I make you take all of it. I make you feel all of it. The pressure. The stretch. The overwhelming fullness that has you gasping, that has your fingers clawing at the sheets, that has your breath breaking apart into shattered, incoherent sounds.

You asked for this. You begged for this.

“Every fucking drop.”

I press you down harder, making sure you feel the moment when I finally let go, when I lose myself completely in the heat, in the intensity, in the sheer, overwhelming need to leave a part of myself inside you. My breath stutters, my body going tense, my fingers digging into your hips as I hold you still, keeping you right here, making sure there’s no possible way you don’t understand what I’m doing to you.

You’re whimpering, your body trembling with need, but I don’t let you move. You don’t get to decide when I give you what you want. That’s my choice. My power.

“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” I murmur, my voice thick with control. My grip tightens on your hips as I slide in and out of you, teasing you, making you crave it even more. “Say it. Tell me how bad you need it.”

A needy moan escapes your lips. “Please,” you gasp, pushing back, trying to take me in deeper. But I hold you still, denying you, making you beg properly.

“Please, what?” I press, my voice laced with amusement and dominance.

“I—” You shudder, breath hitching. “I need it. I need you to—”

I grip your chin, forcing you to meet my gaze. I want to hear you say it.

“Use your words, baby.”

You swallow hard, desperate now, needy, ruined by my teasing. And then it spills from your lips, raw and pleading.

“I need you to fill me up. I need you to breed me.”

A dark, satisfied groan rumbles from my chest, and my grip tightens. “Good girl.”

And then, finally, I want to give you what you’re begging for.

I keep thrusting into you in slow, claiming strokes, stretching you to fit me, making you feel every inch. You cry out, gripping the sheets, your body shaking with relief, with pure, overwhelming need.

“That’s it,” I groan, setting a punishing rhythm. Every thrust forces you to take me deeper, to take me how you were meant to. “Taking me so well. Taking me like you’re made for me.”

Your gasps turn into whimpers, then pleas. “Please,” you pant, voice high and breathless. “Please, I want it—I need you to give me your baby.”

A guttural growl escapes me, and I grip your hips so tight I know you’ll feel it tomorrow. I slam into you, grinding deep, forcing my cock as far inside you as your body will take. My breath is ragged, my muscles tight as the need to fill you, to breed you, to claim you completely consumes me.

“You want my baby?” I snarl, my thrusts turning rough, relentless.

“Yes—yes, please, I want it so bad, I need to be full of you, need to carry you—”

Your body gives in to me completely, molding against mine, surrendering, accepting, taking it all the way I need you to, the way you wanted to, the way you were made to.

I groan, gripping your throat, pinning you down completely as I lose myself inside you.

“Then take it.”

You swallow hard, your body jolting under the force of my possession, and I groan at the way you squeeze around me, at the way your body welcomes me, takes me, begs for more without words.

“Please—please, I need it, I need you to breed me, to fill me, to put your baby in me.”

“Good girl,” I growl, setting a punishing rhythm, thrusting deep, claiming you with every stroke. “You’re going to take it all, aren’t you? Going to let me fill you up until there’s no doubt who you belong to.”

“Yes—yes, I want it, I want to be so full of you.”

I grip your throat, pulling you up against me, keeping you bound, helpless, completely at my mercy as I thrust even deeper.

“Say it,” I demand. “Say what you want.”

Your voice is wrecked, your breath ragged.

“I want your baby.”

I groan, my control slipping.

This is possession.

My cunt pulses, my control slipping for just a moment as I give in, as I let go.

As I cum for you. And you cum for me.

The heat of our orgasm floods us, filling us completely, my body shuddering against your as I push deeper, grinding against your ass as I make sure every last drop stays where it belongs.

My whole body shakes, throbbing. It almost feels real—The feeling of me filling you, marking you, claiming you, owning you.

This is what you begged for.

This is what you were made for.

This is why you’re mine.

You‘re mine.

Mine to take. Mine to fill. Mine to ruin.

The thought alone sends another wave of satisfaction coursing through me.

I linger there, savoring the way you squirm beneath me, still so eager, so desperate for more even as you're already stretched and used to perfection. I’m feeling the way your body trembles, the way you instinctively tighten around me, trying to keep me inside.

When I finally pull back, I pause, my gaze locked onto the mess we‘ve left behind. You slowly leak from your wrecked little cunt, your juices glistening in the dim light.

I press two fingers inside you, pushing it back in, making sure you keep every last drop.

“You’re going to keep it in,” I murmur, my voice still thick with lust, with possessiveness. “I want to see you dripping with me for the rest of the night. I want you so full of me that there’s no doubt who you belong to.”

You shudder, body still trembling, still desperate. “Again,” you whisper after a few seconds, voice wrecked but still needy. I can see it in your eyes—the silent plea for more, the need to be taken again, used again, bred again.

I smirk, running my hand down your back, watching as you arch instinctively into my touch, still so pliant, still so eager to be owned.

You shake your head, your body arching into my touch, chasing it, needing it. “Never enough,” you murmur, eyes wide, glassy, pleading. “I want more—I want all of it.”

With a silent laugh I grip your hips again, dragging you back onto your knees, spreading you open for me one last time. You moan as I press my cock against your swollen entrance, already sensitive, already pulsing with the aftermath of everything I’ve given you—but still, you push back against me, needy, desperate, insatiable.

“One more time,” I murmur, voice dark, filled with promise. “You can take it, baby. You were made for this. Made to be filled. Made to be bred.”

You whimper, pressing your face into the sheets as I slide inside you again, slow, deep, possessive. There’s no urgency this time, no desperate, reckless pace—just the steady, claiming rhythm of ownership.

I drag my hands over your stomach, pressing down, groaning at the thought of how it would be if my juices could really take root inside you.

“You feel that?” I whisper, pressing deeper. “That’s me. That’s my baby inside you, growing, claiming you from the inside out.”

A wrecked sob catches in your throat, and fuck, I feel the way your body clenches, the way your fingers grasp at the sheets, the way you milk me for more.

“Yes—yes, please,” you gasp, voice trembling, wrecked, pleading. “I need it, I need to be pregnant with you, swollen with you, so full I can’t think of anything else.”

My breath stutters, something dark and possessive curling deep in my chest.

“Good girl,” I groan, gripping your throat, tilting your head back so you feel every inch of my claim. “Then take it. Take all of it.”

I thrust deep, holding you down as I fuck you one last time, grinding against you, forcing my strap deeper inside you, making sure you take every single inch. Your body locks up, a shuddering whimper spilling from your lips as you collapse beneath me, trembling, wrecked, completely owned.

I stay inside you, breathing hard, letting the weight of what just happened settle over us. The room is heavy with heat, the scent of sex thick in the air, the evidence of my claim dripping between your thighs.

I exhale slowly, my body still pressed against yours, keeping you grounded beneath me. I trail my fingers down your spine, soothing the tremors still rolling through you, my touch shifting from dominance to care, from ownership to reassurance.

“You did so well for me, baby,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against your shoulder, letting you feel the warmth of my lips, the softness after the storm.

You make a soft, incoherent sound, too lost in the haze to find words, too spent to move. I smile against your skin, pressing another lingering kiss to the back of your neck.

And then, carefully, I shift you onto your side. You whimper, shifting slightly, but I don’t let you go far. I pull you against me, pressing you into my chest, wrapping you in warmth, in safety, in me.

The silence after is thick.

Not the absence of sound, but something deeper, something heavier.

The world beyond these walls still exists—distant sirens wailing, tires hissing over wet pavement, the muffled voices of the city waking up to a new day—but inside this room, inside us, time has slowed, stretching out into something unnameable. Something electric. Something undeniable.

You’re still trembling, still gasping, your body limp beneath me, molded into the mattress like you’ve forgotten how to move. Like I’ve taken everything from you and left you with nothing but the rise and fall of your breath, the erratic pulse beneath your skin, the raw heat still coiling between us, refusing to fade.

And fuck, you’re beautiful like this.

So soft. So pliable. So mine.

I watch the way your body shivers as I finally loosen my grip, the way your fingers twitch as if you’re still reaching for something, still searching for the remnants of control I stripped from you.

I trail my fingers down your spine, slow, soothing, grounding you with my touch as I let the weight of what just happened settle into the space between us.

“I’m so proud of you. You took me so well, baby.” My voice is low, rough from use, from command, but there’s something else there now—something softer, something warm, something yours. “So fucking good for me.”

You whimper, shifting slightly, pressing your cheek deeper into the sheets, too exhausted to lift your head. The flickering neon glow from outside catches on your damp skin, highlighting every inch of you I’ve ruined, painting you in streaks of color—red, then blue, then red again.

You still haven’t spoken.

You can’t, can you?

I broke you.

The thought sends something dark curling through my chest—pride, satisfaction, something deeper.

I press a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your neck, feeling the way you shudder beneath me, the way your breath stutters, the way you’re still so lost in me. My hands are gentle now, sliding over your sides, mapping every curve, owning every inch of you in a way that doesn’t demand, doesn’t take—just holds.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” I murmur, my lips brushing against your damp skin, my fingers stroking idly over your back. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

Finally you do.

A deep inhale. A slow, shuddering exhale.

The first sign that you’re coming back to me.

I press another kiss against your shoulder, slow, lingering, as if I can soothe the intensity of what just happened with touch alone. The room is still warm, the sheets still damp, the scent of us thick in the air, woven into every breath we take.

You shift beneath me, your body still boneless, still sensitive, but needing something. Needing me.

I move carefully, pulling back just enough to slip my arms around you, to gather you against me, to hold you in the aftermath of everything I just put you through. Your fingers twitch against my arm, and after a long, aching moment, you cling.

I hum softly, pressing my lips to your temple, letting the quiet fill the space between us, letting you rest, letting you have me.

“You’re perfect,” I whisper against your skin, my voice barely audible, barely a breath, but fuck, I need you to hear it. “So fucking perfect for me.”

A slow inhale. A trembling exhale.

And then, finally—

“Mommy?”

Your voice is hoarse, small, wrecked beyond recognition, and fuck, the way it makes something inside me ache.

I tilt your chin up, forcing you to look at me, to see me, to know that I’m here.

“Mommy‘s here, baby. I love you so endlessly much.”

Your lips part, but whatever words you were about to say get lost in another shudder, another broken sigh, another release of everything you’ve been holding inside you.

I pull you closer, wrapping you in warmth, in safety, in me. “You’re safe,” I whisper against your temple, against your skin, against the fragile pieces of you I just unraveled. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve always got you.”

And that—the way you melt into me, the way your body finally relaxes, the way your fingers curl against my chest as if you’re home—

That’s when I know. That’s when I feel it.

You were always mine to put back together.

And fuck, I love every second of it.

[maroononthemoon]

"ARA stands for animal rights activists and that is *wild caricature not actually based in reality*"

"Think PETA *an organization that cares more about money than anything else and most actual activists do not support, and even then you have to parrot literal meat industry propaganda to make them sound more unequivocally evil than they already are* that's what the typical ARA believes"

I am so sick of seeing these posts reblogged by otherwise intelligent people who advocate critical thinking and social justice in every context except apparently animals.

This is what climate deniers and the oil industry did to environmental activists. Do you realize that? Spread lies to paint the movement as unhinged and ridiculous and dangerous. Create a boogeyman to make the industry look better than it is and make everyone else who at least acknowledges the harms of the industry feel better about not doing anything about it because 'at least you're not like those crazy activists' right?

You don't have to be a vegan. You don't have to be an activist. But please for the love of fuck, stop swallowing and spreading bullshit. Stop going out of your way to undermine a movement you can't be assed to actually learn about.

[viridescentelf]

Yandere elf x reader - Bath time :)

Character and Art belongs to @meo-eiru! Please check out her blog ✨ Another BIG thanks for creating him!

This is a follow-up to my last fic: if you want to read that one, click here. I'm not sure if I'll do another one, a bit out of ideas lol.

Warning: 18+ content, drugging, general nsfw, explicit

—————

The water stung your damaged knee. Silas was preparing something in a wooden pail, humming some tune, while you sunk deeper into the hot spring. The water brushed your chin, as you glared at the back of the stupid elf’s head, bobbing back and forth as he dunked colorful fluids from flasks into the bucket. His long, luscious hair was levitating on the water's clear surface, covering his butt.

You were so close to freedom. He told you he’s enchanted the area now, stopping you from leaving entirely. No idea how that worked, but he showed you by pushing you gently against an invisible barrier. Your cheek had squished against the unseen partition, like when a human tests their cat’s intelligence against walls in those videos. “To protect you”, he explained in his sing-song trill.

If you hadn’t been injured, you would’ve made it. Away from this maniac.

“Look what Mama made!”

Silas held the bucket under your nose, smiling serenely. The liquid was a mix of pinkish goop and specks of sparkles. Your eyes lingered on the strange soup, then turned up to meet his excited face.

“What the fuck is this”, you mumbled crossly.

“No swearing, darling!” He patted your head. He didn’t know what the word “fuck” meant, but he read that it is bad for children to use. “It’s my healing salt! Doesn’t it smell amazing?”

Silas kept holding it under your nose. It did smell good, damn it.

“It will heal your poor leg. Plus, it makes everything feel a bit tingly. Healthy for cleaning up down there.” He gestured to his crotch.

Fuck.

Without warning, he dunked the solution into the bath. The mixture oozed slowly into the clear spring. The effect of it was almost instantaneous. You felt the biting pain ebb from your limb and you sighed in relief. Elf magic was so fascinating. If only Silas wasn’t such a freaking psycho. You would love to learn more about it. And then go back home and sleep in a bed without tits in your face.

He was right about the prickly sensation. You felt a warmth pulsate down there, as you absentmindedly sunk deeper into the water. Your gaze blurred and you felt the comfort of the heat engulf you.

Silas pulled you to him and placed you in his lap. His towering upper body remained out of the pool, the breezy touch of his skin a great juxtaposition to the searing heat of the water. To be fully engulfed, he would have had to spread himself across the whole spring, leaving no room for you.

You felt him grow below you. The effects of the water seemed to work on his form as well. His cheeks blushed.

“Be good, darling.” He breathed into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Let’s heal you completely.”

Your leg was fine. You didn’t need any more healing.

Silas’ lips brushed yours, his tongue slinking quickly and entangling in yours. The potion and his saliva were making you go crazy, your lap roaring with want. It was impossible to bottle up.

The potion made movement slow. You were attempting to push away with the last of your wits, but it came across as you gently pressing his chest together. He misunderstood and held your face up to his breasts.

“Drink up…”, he trebled, leading your mouth to his hard teat. It was hopeless.

Your wet lips traced around it and you felt the elf jitter under you with excitement. His hands were softly trailing down your back and took hold of your bottom, squeezing the soft tissue. The water delayed his movement, but you felt him lift you slightly, hovering dangerously above his throbbing shaft.

You could feel him against your entrance, nudging slightly. The heat consumed you, thrumming in the area, wanting. You released your lips from his chest, gazing dozily into his red face. If he was blushing more, you could not tell. He looked so enthralled; the big, dumb eyes full of devotion to you.

Silas crashed into your lips again, kissing desperately, lapping up every part of your mouth. The more saliva you exchanged, the more you felt yourself pulsate. The waves within you crashed, begging for relief. You tried to use your arms to push him off of you, but they felt so limp.

You hated this effect he had on you. You couldn’t stop yourself. This surge and needing the release - it drove you insane.

Floating above him in the spring, you felt him twitch there in unfair expectation. He was far too massive for you.

Silas wrapped one arm around your waist, pushing you closer into his body. Your breasts compressed against his and he moaned shakily at the sensation.

“Mama will heal you, dear…”, he huffed after releasing himself from your lips, with bits of drivel escaping his mouth. “I lov-“

You couldn’t take it anymore. You sat down on him, letting the beginning of him enter you with a strong jerk. He filled you up, with just so little of him inside. Your entire body shook from the flash.

Silas head knocked back; his eyes crossed as he let out the loudest yelp you had ever heard from him. He had never felt you like this before. He only dared milking himself in your sweet mouth, for fear of tearing you apart. But this… the feeling of your tight, velvety walls, the little he could feel of it was enough to make his world spin.

He instinctively grabbed your hips with a jolt and lifted you up and down on him. He wanted more of that sensation, more. More. More!

You were bouncing on top of him and felt every sinew explode with electricity. He bucked his hips slightly when you bobbed back down, but not too much in fear of breaking you, slowly deepening each thrust.

Although you could hear his pitiful “Ah! Ah! Ah!”s, your entire environment seemed to muffle. All you could feel was the inconsolable penetration. The way every jab made your groin burst into flames. The water splashed vigorously around you, as he guided your body into his. He lifted you like you weighed nothing. His head was still jerked back with his eyes in the back of his head, it seemed he was unable to do anything other than plunge halfway into you.

You couldn’t help but release low moans yourself, the note of your bellows making him tense up more. His large hands were clasping your ass, the flesh spilling out between his long fingers. You whimpered and let him consume you, every thrust splitting your walls further. The loud clapping of your bodies and the vigorous splashing, you were intoxicated. The sounds. The sensation. It was diabolical.  

You let out a string of deep moans, as you came, the wetness around his shaft increasing as you tightened your grip around him. Silas couldn’t hold it any longer, either, as he erupted within you, squealing from the overwhelming pleasure.

He spilled out of you. A puddle of white foam bubbled around you. Silas heaved loudly, blinking excessively and tilted his head back forward, staring dumbfoundedly at you.

He looked like you beat him up. Tears were escaping his rippling eyes, as a tiny sob hiccupped out of him.

Fucking baby.

“D-Do you feel better now? Have I healed you?”, he squeaked, pulling you into his arm cages again.

You rolled your eyes and nodded out of sheer vanquish. There was no point explaining to him that this wasn’t how you heal humans. There was no point explaining to him that mothers don't do this.

Silas kissed your head and swirled his hand in the water, making his semen drift away from you. “Oh…all the precious milk. Gone…”

He grabbed a sponge from behind him and started cleaning you feebly, his hands still shaking from the massive release. You saw a tear fall from his cheek. Without thinking, you brushed another one off his cheek.

He gaped at you after the gesture, pausing his scrubbing.

“O-oh darling. You really love me, don’t you? That’s why it felt so good…”, he smiled widely, more tears splashing out of his googly eyes.

You didn’t answer. You didn't know why you just did that.

Silas hugged you so tightly, you let out a wheeze.

“I love you too, my sweet!!” he squeaked and squished you more. “It’s getting late. We still need to have dinner! And you need a proper portion of milk!”

You closed your eyes, sighing.

Another milking session...

[screampied]

✧ ⁺˳ cw. fem! reader, husband nanami, unprotected, whiny nanami, using a vibrator on him, praise, nıpple play, mdni.

“go ahead m- my love but, that’s kind of . . kinky,” nanami sheepishly huffs, slouching further back against the fluffed pillows that rests on the mattress. with pretty umber eyes boring into you, he’s giving your nude body occasional three second glances before he stares between your legs—you’re a mere tease, hovering over his leaky cock. just a few seconds ago, you were riding him and now, you abruptly stopped with a cute impish look curling against your lips. “a vibrator on..me?”

leaning in, you press a wet kiss into the pulled out blue collar of his business shirt he wore. ruffled and crinkled, you smell near the edge of the fabric, intaking a long whiff of his cologne before humming. “jus’ hold my hand, ‘ken,” and he feels his heart race at your sweet words. nanami’s legs sprawl themselves further apart before he grabs onto your hip. another hand finds its way to yours, interlocking his slender fingers within your own. the inside of his open palm was warm and his breath hectically shakes once he hears the faint ‘pop’ sound of you switching the toy on. “thaaat’s it kento, just relax.”

“f- fuck,” nanami’s jaw tightens almost immediately once the rubber head of the vibrator skims its way onto his tip. you’re real slow, pacing your movements but he was already near the inevitable carnal edge. nanami lets off a throaty groan, gradually tossing his head back and his adam’s apple bobs in rapture. as you’re cowering over his lap, you use a free hand to swipe a few blond strands of hair way from his face. so pretty. nanami’s trying to maintain his neutral stoic expression but he ends up shivering right away instead. his sounds were so pleasing to the ear. gruffly low moans came from him—he’s moaning out your name again and again like a broken record whilst briefly teetering his weight underneath you. the jittering toy rubs all over his swollen tip before his abs clench underneath his shirt. “honey, you’re killing me here,” and his bottom lip quivers before he stares at your teasingly jerking body. “let me touch you at least, please.”

amused, you hum at how needy he was.

how desperate he was to touch you more, brushing his fingers inside of the cave of your warm just wasn’t enough. he wanted more.

the toy was on the lowest level—yet, it felt like it was at its highest point. nanami’s pathetically twitching and spiraling underneath you, and you’re not making it any better by leisurely dragging your sopping cunt against the toy and his tip at the same time. “ngh, kento you feel so good, baby,” you feel a tugging coil within your stomach practically snap. nanami’s cock stood tall, rosé-colored with his cockhead glistening with pre-cum. it’s pretty, his balls were all full and a few achy veins prod through his skin at the toe-curling friction.

as the seconds pass, the tumultuous screams of the vibrator only grow louder. nanami’s thigh starts to bounce before his mouth pries open. “aw, ‘s okay, kento. doing so good.”

“honey, don’t ‘aw’ me,” he groans, and you can’t help but giggle at his brief sass. it later turns into a long drawn out moan because he can barely hold his head up anymore. nanami’s entire body feels hot - too hot. with your body so close up to him, he’s burning up, with the help of the toy also. he swallows thickly, failing to get that lump that’s trapped in the far back part of his throat.

your teasing had his blond arched brows curling up in obscene frustration—he even made an attempt at feeling down body but you grab his wrist. a small pout twists against his spit-glossed lips before he grumps. “how are y- you gonna deny me what’s mine?”

you kiss near his chiseled chin, feeling his naturally crooked lips curl from your tender touch. he wants you so bad.

“be patient, baby,” you murmur, hot breath ghosting against his skin. you’re so close that you feel the brief tickle of minuscule hairs that grow underneath his bottom lip. nanami grunts, the vibrations of the toy making him moan. but not only does it make him moan, it makes him whine.

the second you flip the switch to turn it on the second level, nanami loses it. he’s an entire drooling mess underneath you as it’s grazing against his tip. you’re holding the toy with one hand, softly moving it back and forth against his swollen head and poking at his peeling frenulum. his entire cock felt the teeth-shattering convulsions and they feel like straight electricity.

“pleaseplease,” he whimpers out, entirely a abandoning his bland façade. this was a new nanami. you don’t think you’ve ever heard him beg before, let alone hear him whine. his voice was so sweet despite the creeping rasp that bellows from his words. his hair was a mess, nanami’s sweating pinballs as he’s jostling underneath you. his pretty pink lips get gnawed at by his teeth before they start to quiver. “let me touch you, i wanna touch my wife. fuck, jus’ wanna touch you. feel you everywhere, please.”

and as he’s rambling with compressed eyebrows and a needy pout, you lean your head down, pressing yourself right up against his beefy pecs. tears of sweat race down his perfectly sculptured body, although you can spot a bit of a rounded tummy on nanami.

it’s cute. just the way his presentable blond happy trail roams further down toward his decorated pubes, you found yourself staring a lot longer than you intended. “you wanna touch me?” you sweetly coo, swaying the toy back and forth in a circular motion with your entire wrist, feeling his shaking only intensify. he could hear his unsteady pulses from his heart beat through his ears—and oh, he’s never felt so sensitive.

his response was a desperate nod—nanami groans lowly, an almost growl as his lips part. strained breaths snatch from his lungs before his eyes meet yours. as he stares at you intently, he swears he’d fallen in love with you all over again.

nanami was a simple man. a simple pussy whipped man.

“go ‘head, touch me,” you purr, and he doesn’t expect for you to press your lips right up against his pecs - only to then slide your head up his shirt, putting your lips against his neglected perky nipples. as you suck, he doesn’t waste any time, allowing his broad big hands to roam all over your body, savoring your soft skin colliding with the insides of his palms.

nanami then whines again, the current stimulation making him an entire mess and leaving him speechless. with the way he’s sounding because of your tongue salaciously flicking near his sensitive nub, you could barely recognize him from his tone. the warm tip of your tongue gingerly rolls itself around his nipple while you’re still rubbing the toy over his drooling tip. his head tosses back again before he uses a hand to grab onto the wooden creaking headboard. “fuck, fuck you’re an odd one, sweetheart.”

you hum with his nipple still stuffed in your mouth before throwing the toy aside on the other part of the bed. he hears the soft thud before feeling your welcoming warm cunt slowly sink its way back down onto his cock. nanami groans, his eyes widening—lips spreading and jaw clenching. “oh m- my,” he eyes trail down at you, and he pulls you closer into his chest. “honey, you’re so dirty. ‘m gonna cum.”

and as you’re sucking against his pec, nanami lets off a hoarse groan. he’s halfway in and he’s already shooting inside, various creamy ropes pour into you all at once and you hear the familiar squelch. it’s abrupt and so quick it gives him whiplash. his body feels like it’s all on fire—he chews the inside of his cheek before he’s just left stunned with his mouth dangling open. “mmf,” you feel a few viscid strands of saliva dribble from the corners your mouth, and he feels his cock twitch at the sight.

nanami grunts, everything feeling like an indescribable blur. his body including his weighty shaft that’s partially buried inside of you was limp. this candied fervor he’s feeling—he never wanted it to go away. one of his hands cling to your waist, piercing his padded callused thumbs into your soft skin. “ugh, told you,” he grouses, feverish balmy spurts of cum still oozing its way inside. it’s velvety, you feel wads of it spill inside before spilling right back out, painting down the edges of your thighs with ivory white. nanami’s breath was still shaky as you’re playfully jerking forward, barely moving a muscle but to him, it feels like you’re riding him. “y- you always make a mess out of me.”

“good boy, kento.” you remove his pec from your mouth, getting from under his shirt and you cup his face—only to pepper a few sprinkle of gentle kisses near his cute buttoned nose.

his lip quivers at your praise and he almost always gets off from it - your praise. your praise to him was technically dirty talk. as he’s slumped underneath you, all submissive and broken, nanami has the most pussy drunken grin.

“i- i wanna get you pregnant again, sweetheart. wanna make you a pretty mommy again. please, god i need more. more of you.”

[neckromantics]

More creepy and unsettling, creature Astarion please.

I beg of thee. Vampires are meant to be an uncanny valley type of thing. An undead creature of the night that passes itself as just the right amount of living and mortal for you to let your guard down. I need more examples of his vampiric nature showing once he's grown comfortable enough, and I need it now.

~

An Astarion who is so silent in his movements that you often got jump scared by it in the earlier stages of your relationship.

You'd be lounging around on the sofa. Reading a book, lost in thought, all serene and cozy beneath a nice knitted blanket-- just having an all around nice, relaxing time when you see movement out of the corner of your eye. You glance up for just a moment, to the space before you that was previously unoccupied, and his entire face is suddenly hovering right in front of you.

Just waiting. Not moving. Pupils blown so huge that there's barely any color left to his eyes. Fangs are peeking out over the bruise-purple skin of his bottom lip. He's pallid. White as a corpse. Definitely in need of a good feeding.

His intentions were entirely innocent. He really only meant to ask you a question, and here you are being all dramatic and jumping several feet into the air and throwing your book off to the side in a panic. Thankfully, you're able to catch yourself before you full on shriek in his face.

(You love him and his ghoulishly handsome face, you really and truly do, but you sincerely thought for a moment that he was a spectre come to take you to the afterlife.)

~

Astarion, who routinely forgets to breathe. Yanno, like it's nothing.

You're well aware of the fact that vampires don't need to breathe. It's more of a force of habit than anything else, really-- something left over from when he was still mortal, he says.

Although, during bouts of intense emotion, or some sort of uh, stimulation, the focus on something so trivial gets put on the backburner for a bit.

The two of you will be sharing a particularly passionate kiss (or worse) when you feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest stop short. It's like all of the air has gotten caught in his lungs, and he ends up making these creaky grudge-like sounds in place of his usual low moaning. A clicking in the back of his throat in place of a sigh. If you play your cards just right, there might even be a rattling from deep within his chest that almost sounds like a purr.

When he finally does breathe, usually due to a well executed nip to his bottom lip, or the gentle brush of your fingers against one of his ears as you play with his hair, it comes out as an animalistic hiss. A sharp, choking gasp that sends goosebumps down the length of your arms.

~

How you catch him watching you sleep.

How you'll wake up in the pitch black of your bedroom in a cold sweat. Your hair is stood on end, a fearful shudder threatening to rattle your frame. A spike in your pulse that has your sleep addled brain doing somersaults in your skull. All of your instinctual alarm bells go off at once, telling you that something must be terribly wrong. Something must be watching you.

You try to blink away the bleariness-- try to shake off the fog of sleep for long enough to get your bearings, and catch a glint in the dark so ominous that for a moment you're scared stock still.

Something is watching you. Someone, rather.

Astarion's eyes gleam back at you in the dark like a wild animal's might. A bobcat, maybe, like the ones you'd often find stalking pray outside the tree line of camp all those nights ago. Pupils that glow a filmy, holographic orange despite there being no light to reflect off of them.

You don't notice until after you've taken a second to calm yourself that he's hovering over you. The bed just barely dips from his weight as he supports himself, and you'd be baffled by it all if you had any braincells left.

"Go back to sleep, darling." His voice is so soft, even over the pounding against your eardrums. Soothing. Tranquilizing. And though your eyes do begin to feel heavy, you're not exactly in the mood for rest anymore.

Especially not when he's pressing cold, feather-light kisses down the length of your throat not a moment later.

~

Please, I beg. Give me more.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 4 — BODY WORSHIP

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — dr ratio, gallagher

— warnings. — fem! reader, body worship, fingering, constant praising <3 mating press

⚝ — DR RATIO

dr. ratio’s hands were careful, like a sculptor admiring his finest work, tracing the contours of your body with a clinical precision that gradually gives way to admiration— and his gaze moves over you with a power that makes you feel like the most exquisite specimen, every inch of your skin holding his full attention.

"perfection," the man glances down to your spread legs with your folds being on full display, the color in his tone rural, as though he’s cataloging every detail in his mind. his fingers glide between your folds, your glistening slit, before trailing up to your clit, taking in the softness of your pussy like he’s memorizing the map of your body.

veritas takes his time, always, touching you as though each movement holds the weight of discovery, as though you’re the answer to a question he’s been trying to solve his entire life.

"you have no idea how perfect you are, do you?" he whispers inserts a finger and wiggles it around— the sloppy, wet noises your pussy was making only added to the aching pain in his cock.

he admires the way your muscles constrict around a single finger, how he shifts inside your skin and curls his digit, the smooth lines of your wall being slippery and so hot.

his lips brush over your collarbone as he inserts a second finger, then lower as he groans softly. "i could study you for hours… every inch of you is a masterpiece," his hips begin to grinf into the mattress as he toys with your pussy, stuffing you with two digits and scissoring them inside your drenched insides before taking a tit in his mouth.

one good suckle sent you up against the wall and he sees it— more precisely it's your teeth dug into your lower lip and your fingers digging into his shoulders as your toes curl into the blankets, mind fuzzy with being so loved, so cherished and appreciated by the man you so desperately desired.

⚝ — GALLAGHER

gallagher had a way of being more on the direct side— if you catch my drill, unable to hide the awe in his gaze as his eyes roam across your form.

"damn, look at you," he breathes and smirks, the lust in his demeanor exuding the most intoxicating energy. his hands move immediately to your side, fingers tracing every curve, every line, like he’s trying to commit it all to memory, afraid he might miss something and needs to do it again— maybe then he should use his mouth to kiss every curve of your flesh.

there's a hunger in his eyes you were instantly deciphering, a hidden force to show just how much he adores every inch of you.

"you're… perfect," he brushes over your cheek.

gallagher tilts his head, eyes lingering on the smooth expanse of your stomach before his fingers side down to your thighs, making you wrap them around his waist.

his grip tenses slightly, his thumbs brushing the curve of your hips with an almost possessive severity as his cock stood erected and proudly between your folds.

"i don’t think you understand how beautiful you are," he takes his length before playfully slapping his tip against your pussy— once, twice, leaning down to press his lips to your shoulder as he opts to slide himself inside.

"fuck, ugh—always so tight," he rasps and rolls his eyes, biting into his lower lip to prevent his groan from coming out too loud as your hands find refuge in his disheveled hair, holding him in place.

his hips move forward with a deep rut, sliding in sloppily now while barely maintaining an even form— although that doesn't stop gallagher to fling your legs over his shoulders and press your thighs against your stomach to make you real tight for him, real messy and ugh, the view must be the most beautiful to him.

your face with tears bedding your lashes, your pouty lips being all bitten and pulsing, your pussy spread apart and fighting to keep him in as you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze him so dearly he notices a heart beat down there— while the sound of your juices were too distracting as well, gallagher might just need to take a taste of it first.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[pynkfairyheart]

pairings: Onyankopon x black!reader

warnings: beach sex, fluffy

a/n: this was something i quickly put together bc guess what y'all. a bitch turns 22 today!!!! AHHHHHH. ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ we'll see if im sober enough later to share some pictures, but i do hope yall enjoy this fic. she's very cutesy

Birthday wishes

Loved. That's the feeling coursing through your body as the ones you loved sang you happy birthday. Your cheeks hurting from the attention and laughter due to Jean and Eren's off key singing.

Looking up from the dessert decorated with flames your eyes scanned the tent before landing on him.

The single dimple decorating his left cheek was prominent as he happily sang along with the group. The most handsome smile being sent your way as your eyes locked, giving you a full display of his gold grills decorated with your initials on each upper canine.

To say Onyankopon was a good boyfriend was an understatement. He was everything and more when it came to your wishes in a man. He was respectful, kind, passionate, extremely handsome, and the most caring man you had ever met.

Birthdays had never been your thing due to something always going wrong leaving you sad at the end of the night. However, with Ony he made it his mission to have you feel properly celebrated, always leaving you feeling like a princess by the end of the night.

Throughout the entire 3 years of your relationship, he seemed to make each birthday better than last. This year being a surprise trip to Bora Bora.

Forcing yourself to break eye contact with him you looked back down at the dessert just as the song ended.

“Girl, make a wish. I'm hungry” Sasha blurted out immediately, earning a chorus of laughs and a light shove from Mikasa.

Quickly thinking of a wish, you lightly blew out the candles and basked in the cheers and applause sent your way.

After hours of having all attention on you, there was finally a time when you and Ony could run off together.

Silently the two of you walked hand in hand as you listened closely to the crashing of the waves.

“You having a good day?” He broke the silence once no longer in the eyesight of your friends

“I am” You smiled brightly as you stopped to admire the sunset “I can't thank you enough for doing this, Ony”

A small chuckle escaped him as he stopped to look at you.

Unable to tear his eyes away from your face as his heart melted at the glow the orange hue dancing on your face gave you.

God, you were just so beautiful to him. The way you smiled down to the way the soft breeze lightly blew your sundress was enough to make him fall in love all over again.

“Don't thank me, princess. You deserve this and more” He voiced as his large hands gripped your waist, a gentle hum leaving him as he finally felt satisfied with the feeling of your body flushed against him.

“I’d do anything for you. I'm just blessed to have you in my life” He admitted, voice softer than before.

Leaning down his lips brushed over the sensitive skin of your neck before trailing up to lightly place a kiss on your lips

Before you knew it you were staring up at the colorful hues of the sky as he delivered slow and passionate strokes

“Ony” You mewled softly, nails scratching across his back as he practically laid on top of you.

"Mhmm?" He murmured, his voice vibrating against your neck before lifting his head to stare into your eyes

There was nothing you could do but drown in those chocolate brown eyes. Complete bliss surrounding you as the waves seemed to time perfectly with his delicate movements.

“I love you so much” You finally gasped out. Voice wavering due to the intense amount of love and pleasure coursing through your veins.

“I love you too, mama” He whispered, strong arms reaching down to hook under your leg, giving him a better angle

The moment was perfect. The crashing of the waves, transition into nightfall, and grunts that slipped past Ony’s lips

You weren't exactly a true believer in wishes but at this moment in time you were the biggest believer of all.

[eowynstwin]

imprimatura / muses

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish shows up one day to model for your studio class. He's flirtatious, too attractive for his own good, and more interested in you than you'd ever expect him to be. And his boyfriend Ghost is interested too. - ao3

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

next

[meazalykov]

a love born in war

kika nazareth x spanish!reader (requested)

summary: mistakes flourished into love

warnings: enemies(ish) to lovers. angst. happy ending

the stadium is lit with the restless energy of fans, flags waving in a blur of colors, and chants echoing under the floodlights. 

the grass was pristine, dew glistening under the glare, but you didn’t have time to admire it. every nerve in your body was coiled, ready to strike. you always played like this—fierce, focused, unyielding. years in la masia had shaped you into the player you were, and joining the women’s senior team two years ago has sharpened your edge. 

the match against portugal wasn’t just another world cup qualifier. it was a battle, the kind of game where every player gave more than they had. you were number eighteen with the spanish national team, a midfielder who wasn’t afraid to challenge the world’s best.

portugal’s number eighteen, kika nazareth, had been the center of your focus all evening. talented, quick on her feet, and capable of turning any half-chance into a goal, she demanded every ounce of your attention. 

you respected her game, but respect only went so far when it came to securing a victory.

your own jersey, with the number eighteen stitched proudly on the back, clung to you, damp with sweat. it was a coincidence, but a strangely fitting one, that both you and kika wore the same number for your respective national teams. 

eighteen—symbolic for the way you both played: fast, smart, and determined. 

the ball danced between feet, weaving through the midfield as kika broke into a run down the left wing. you followed her movement instinctively, timing your steps, waiting for the right moment. when the ball was passed to her, you lunged. 

your tackle was clean in your mind, a swift motion to claim possession. however, the impact was harder than you intended, the sound of your boots connecting with the ball reverberating through the field. kika went down, her body crumpling to the ground in a heap as her body rolled ten feet along the grass. 

for a second, everything seemed to freeze. the crowd gasped, the sharp intake of thousands of breaths sucking the air from the stadium. you stood there, blinking, the adrenaline surging through your veins as kika lay still. panic clawed at you as you jogged over, hand outstretched. 

“kika?” you said quickly, your voice firm but apologetic, “are you alright? i’m sorry let me help you.”

she stirred, her eyes fluttering open, a dazed expression clouding her face. for a moment, relief washed over you—she wasn’t seriously hurt. then her hand smacked yours away, the sound snapping louder in your ears than it should have. 

her glare was cold, sharper than you’d ever seen from her. “i don’t need your help,” she hissed, her portuguese accent heavy, her voice dripping with venom.

you stepped back, stunned by her response. kika was known for her kindness on and off the pitch. you had seen her console teammates after losses, offer smiles to fans who approached her timidly, she's friends with aitana too. this anger, this sharpness—it was foreign coming from her. 

“look, i didn’t mean—” you started, but she cut you off with a curt wave of her hand, dismissing you entirely. 

aitana was suddenly there, her arm brushing yours as she crouched near kika. her voice was calm, soothing. “y/n, drop it,” she said firmly, her eyes darting toward you as if warning you not to escalate things further. 

you swallowed the lump forming in your throat and nodded, stepping back, though the sting of kika’s rejection lingered.

the game didn’t stop. the referee signaled play to continue, and you forced yourself to shake off the encounter. kika was back on her feet, her movements as sharp and quick as before. now there was an edge to them—a tension that hadn’t been there earlier. 

you felt it every time she got near the ball, a silent reminder that she was looking to prove something, maybe to you, maybe to herself.

it happened again. the game was nearing its climax at the end of the match.kika broke free near the edge of the box, the ball glued to her feet as she weaved through defenders. you saw the opening before she could exploit it and slid in, your body low, your legs cutting through the grass. 

the tackle was precise, meeting the ball cleanly, sending it spiraling away. kika went down again, her momentum carrying her to the ground.

pandemonium erupted. the portuguese bench was on its feet, their voices rising in protest. your teammates on the pitch surrounded the referee, gesturing wildly as they argued it wasn’t a penalty. 

you stayed on the ground for a moment, catching your breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. kika was up again, her eyes burning as she pointed an accusatory finger in your direction.

“what the hell is wrong with you!??,” she spat, her voice louder this time, cutting through the chaos around you. “you don’t play fair.”

kika’s words hit you like a punch to the gut. you scrambled to your feet, brushing the dirt from your knees as you turned to her. “it wasn’t dirty,” you said, your tone defensive, though guilt crept into the edges of your voice. “it was a clean tackle. i’m sorry if it felt rough, but i wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“don’t lie,” she snapped, taking a step closer, her chest heaving with the effort to contain her anger. “you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“kika,” aitana interjected again, her voice firmer this time, her hand on kika’s arm to pull her back. “enough.”

you wanted to say more, to explain yourself, but the referee’s whistle cut through the tension, signaling the restart of play. you turned away reluctantly, your mind buzzing with everything left unsaid. 

the game resumed, but your focus was fractured, your movements less precise. each time kika came near, the memory of her glare, her words, her rejection, played on a loop in your mind.

when the final whistle blew, the stadium erupted into cheers and groans. spain had won, but the victory felt hollow to you. as your teammates celebrated, you lingered near the edge of the pitch, your eyes scanning the field until they landed on kika. 

she stood with her teammates, her arms crossed, her expression still tight with frustration. 

you thought about approaching her, about apologizing again, but the memory of her smacking your hand away held you back. instead, you walked toward the tunnel, your head low, your hands clenched into fists at your sides inside of your burgundy colored jacket. 

later, in the locker room, the mood was jubilant. aitana and salma were laughing, their voices echoing off the tiled walls. jenni was recounting a moment from the game, her hands gesturing wildly as she mimicked a move. 

you sat quietly, your back against the cool metal of the bench, your phone in your hands as you stared at kika’s name on social media.

“what are you doing?” alexia’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. she leaned against the lockers, her arms crossed, her brow raised in that way that made it impossible to lie to her.

“nothing,” you muttered, locking your phone and setting it down beside you.

alexia wasn’t convinced. she sat beside you, her shoulder bumping yours. “you’re thinking about posting something, aren’t you?”

you hesitated, the urge to defend yourself bubbling up before you let out a sigh. “no. not a full post. i was going to text kika from portugals team.. i want to apologize. she’s clearly upset, and i didn’t mean to hurt her.”

jenni wandered over, her interest piqued. “you’re talking about kika?” she asked, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “don’t bother. she’s probably already over it.”

“or not,” misa chimed in from across the room, a mischievous grin on her face. “but either way, you don’t need to apologize right before the world cup. it’ll just make things worse.”

alexia nodded in agreement. “she’s right. let it go. these things happen in football. it’s part of the game.”

you frowned, their words sitting uneasily with you. “it doesn’t feel right, though. i hate leaving things like this.”

“sometimes, you just have to,” alexia said, her tone softer now. “it’s not worth the drama.”

you nodded slowly, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift. the night dragged on, the celebration around you feeling distant, muted. 

two years later.. the renewal had been a no-brainer. barcelona wasn’t just the club you played for; it was your home, your identity. 

from the moment you stepped into la masia as a child, you had been shaped by the club. when the club offered you a three-year extension to stay until 2027, you signed without hesitation, barely skimming the terms. this was where you belonged, where you’d always belonged.

life felt steady, predictable. you trained, you played, you won. everything was as it should be—until the news broke.

kika nazareth joins barcelona femení from S.L benfica.

her name stirred memories you thought had long faded. the 2022 world cup qualifier against portugal. the tackle that had sent her sprawling, the cold glare she’d given you as she smacked your hand away, the biting accusations that followed. 

you hadn’t thought about her in years, but seeing her name now brought it all back, and with it, a flicker of unease.

you didn’t voice your concerns immediately, but aitana noticed the way your jaw tightened when the signing was announced.

“you’re overthinking it,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice as the two of you stretched after training. the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pitch. “she probably doesn’t even remember that game.”

“maybe,” you muttered, tugging at the hem of your training top. “but she hated me back then.”

aitana snorted, shaking her head. “kika doesn’t have it in her to hold a grudge. she’s too nice for that. besides,” she added, smirking, “you’ll see soon enough. it’ll be fine.”

you wanted to believe her, but the doubt lingered, biting at the edges of your mind. when kika finally arrived at the training facility, you couldn’t avoid her.

 she was magnetic, her smile bright and disarming as she greeted everyone. she carried herself with an effortless confidence, the kind that made people want to be near her. when she approached you, your stomach twisted.

“y/n,” she said, her portuguese accent soft but clear as she extended a hand. “it’s nice to finally meet you properly.”

her words caught you off guard, but you took her hand, shaking it firmly. “uh, yeah. it’s nice to meet you too.” you hesitated, the memory of that match flashing in your mind. “and… i’m sorry. for back then. i didn’t mean to—”

she waved it off with a small smile, cutting you off before you could spiral. “it’s fine. let’s forget about it. we’re teammates now, and that’s all that matters.”

just like that, the tension dissolved. whatever you’d expected from her—coldness, resentment—was nowhere to be found. 

instead, kika treated you like she treated everyone else: warmly, openly, with a genuine kindness that made it impossible not to like her.

over the next few months, the two of you grew close. it started with small things—partnering up during training drills, sitting next to each other on the team bus—but soon it became something more. 

on the pitch, you celebrated each other’s goals with an almost childlike joy, always seeking each other out in the chaos. off the pitch, it was no different. kika was all over your social media, just like you were on hers. kika’s laughter and inside jokes filling your stories. 

she’d tag you in posts with captions that only the two of you would understand, and you’d do the same.

then came the shared clothes. it wasn’t intentional at first. kika would forget a jacket at your apartment, or you’d borrow a shirt from her when you stayed late after a team dinner. 

over time, it became second nature. you’d slip into her sweaters without asking, and she’d do the same with your hoodies. no one commented on it—at least, not until the day you showed up to a team hangout wearing kika’s favorite blue sweater.

you were the first to arrive at ingrid’s apartment, greeted by the familiar warmth of her home. the others trickled in slowly—mapi, ellie, esmee, aitana—all of them pausing when they saw you lounging on the couch in the oversized sweater.

mapi was the first to speak, her brow arching in amusement. “y/n, isn’t that kika’s sweater?”

you blinked, glancing down at the soft fabric, the distinct blue unmistakable. “oh, yeah,” you said casually, as if it were no big deal. “she let me borrow it.”

“borrow it?” ellie echoed, her tone teasing. “or steal it?”

ingrid leaned against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “very subtle,” she said dryly.

“okay, what’s going on here?” esmee asked, her eyes darting between you and the others. 

“are we missing something?”

aitana, ever the instigator, leaned forward with a smirk. 

“let’s just cut to it. do you have feelings for kika?”

you froze, heat creeping up your neck. for a moment, you considered denying it, brushing it off with a joke. but then you shrugged, your voice calm as you said, 

“yeah, i do. is it that obvious?”

a chorus of laughter erupted, their collective “yes” ringing out like a team chant. 

“at least it’s not one-sided,” aitana said, her grin widening.

 

“kika’s head over heels for you.”

before you could respond, the door swung open, and kika walked in, balancing a tray of smoothies. her expression was apologetic as she set them down on the counter. “sorry i’m late,” she said, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. her gaze softened, a small smile curving her lips. 

“you look good in that,” she said, nodding toward the sweater.

the teasing subsided after that, though the others exchanged knowing looks. by the time everyone settled in to watch a movie, you and kika had naturally claimed the loveseat. it felt easy, curling into her side, her arm draped lazily over your shoulders. 

the movie played on, but you barely paid attention, the warmth of her presence lulling you into a sense of comfort.

at some point, you must have fallen asleep, because when you stirred, the soft press of lips against your forehead brought you back to consciousness. kika’s voice was a whisper, barely audible over the movie’s dialogue. 

“bona nit, meu amor.”

you didn’t respond, too drowsy to process the words fully, but the feeling stayed with you even as sleep pulled you back under.

when you woke the next morning, the apartment was quiet. sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. 

everyone else had gone home last night, but you and kika were still there, tangled on the couch. her arm was draped over your waist, her face relaxed in sleep.

you couldn’t help but stare, your heart swelling at the sight of her so peaceful. her lashes fluttered suddenly, and her eyes cracked open, meeting yours. 

a lazy smirk tugged at her lips as she stretched slightly, her voice thick with sleep as she murmured, “how long are you gonna keep staring at me?”

your cheeks flushed, but you smiled, your voice soft. “sorry, love.”

she chuckled, shifting closer, her nose brushing against yours. “it’s okay. you’re lucky that i am in love with you, sweetheart.”

the words sent a warmth through your chest, your smile widening as you whispered back, “i love you too, kika.”

she grinned, her eyes fluttering shut again, and you stayed there, soaking in the quiet, the warmth, and the overwhelming sense of belonging. 

masterlist

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ AS YOU WISH ꒱ DILUC RAGNVINDR X READER

warnings ⟢ minors do not interact—i will block you! bondage. slight dubcon (but not really...trust). cunnilingus. reader has a vagina, wears panties, is shorter than diluc, and is referred to as “dearest” once.

word count ⟢ 952

notes ⟢ this fic is part of @ficsforgaza’s kinktober event! my prompt was diluc + bondage. i want to give a HUGE thank you to my beloved zebra (@tartagliove) for the beautiful redraw of darknight hero diluc in the banner. ze—i’m in awe of your talent, and i feel honored to have your artwork at the top of my fic!

The sounds of gore cease suddenly.

You hold your breath and listen, straining to hear signs of who won the battle. Tendrils of smoke drift into the air and the ripe stench of death coats your tongue; gooseflesh skitters across your limbs. When the blindfold is ripped from your head, you let out a shriek, chest heaving as you regain composure. A mere pace from you is a masked figure who is renowned in Mondstadt, more legend than man: the Darknight Hero.

His entire body is obscured by an inky cloak, a birdlike mask covering all but the lower half of his face. A shock of crimson hair is gathered high into a ponytail at his crown, his tresses a cascade of flames that lick down his neck and back. His irises are the same color: the glowing embers of a dying fire, sparking hot then fizzling out.

Before you can so much as thank him, he gestures to your arms. They are bound with rope that looks like it was dipped in the cosmos—indigo charmeuse pinpricked with wandering stars—intricately woven with Abyssal magic to suspend your wrists above your head.

“It’s going to be a while until that magic wears off.”

His voice is rich and flinty; it reminds you of charcoal. When his gaze flickers to your flimsy nightwear, you squirm against your restraints, acutely aware of your vulnerability.

“What would an Abyss Herald want to do with you, I wonder?” The hero slowly circles you, appraising, an umbertail falcon stalking his prey. “You have no vision. And you certainly aren’t prepared to fight.” A gloved fingertip, sooty with ash and ichor, grazes the hem of your shorts—much too close to your inner thigh.

“Is this an interrogation?” you snap. “Because I’d also love to know why I’m here.”

An amused smile tugs at the man’s lips. He’s so near that you can see the puckered flesh of a scar that cuts across his cheek; he grasps your chin with surprising gentleness. While his words are terse, they drip with honey. “You’re a mouthy one, hm? So tell me, then,” he pulls your shorts down and they fall to your ankles, a digit moving to stroke the waistband of your panties, “were you touched here?”

“S-stop,” you stutter, swallowing thickly. “This hardly seems appropriate for the hero of Mondstadt.”

One strong hand steadies your waist while the other pets the pubic hair that curls out from beneath your lacy briefs. He chuckles and leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear in a whisper, “Are you claiming you don’t want this?”

From the moment you first spied the tall, broad figure of your savior, a simmering warmth ignited in your belly, kindling into a roaring fire. Lust seeps through the thin garment that barely preserves your modesty, clinging to your labia. Even in the dim, flickering light of the room, your need is apparent in your smoldering stare and spit-slick pout.

Swiftly, he withdraws. “I will not stoop so low as to force myself on—”

“Don’t play the proper gentleman all of a sudden. Touch me.”

Without another word, the Darknight Hero drops to his knees. His eyes are a dusky glass of dandelion wine, drinking you in as he mouths at your clit through sopping fabric, his tongue pressed flat, savoring your arousal. But he doesn’t tease you for long; he tears off your final layer and discards it like an afterthought, humming at the sight of your exposed cunt. The stubble on his cheek scrapes the plush of your thighs as he spreads your legs. You wobble with the movement, the rope burning your wrists as your arms stretch uncomfortably.

A sweet peck to your clit is your only warning before he slips between your folds. He starts with tender licks and caresses, occasionally dipping down to lave at your hole, then returning to where you need him most, sloppily sucking until your head grows fuzzy with pleasure. You try to focus on and decipher the patterns that his slippery muscle weaves. His mouth melds perfectly with your heat, and his deep, rumbling groans heighten your bliss.

But your shoulders ache, and you’re worried that your ankles are going to give out on you.

“Diluc,” you whimper.

In an instant, your husband stands up—chin dewy with your desire. He rips off a glove and singes the rope; your body floods with relief as your arms fall slack. He removes his mask to reveal his drawn expression: brow furrowed and jaw firmly set. “I pushed you too far,” he states, examining the bands of raw flesh that encircle your wrists.

You shake your head vehemently. “No—not at all. I agreed to this, you know.”

His visage softens with your reassurance, though his eyes still shine with concern. He presses a featherlight kiss to each of your injuries. “Shall we return home? I’d like to get some salve on your wounds as soon as possible. In fact, I may visit Sucrose for a fresh jar. Of course I won’t detail what happened or why we need the salve...”

Diluc’s anxious rambling trails off, and he soaks in your palpable irritation as you frown.

“What is it, dearest?”

“Well, I was hoping the Darknight Hero would finish what he started,” you huff, ignoring the heat that blooms in your face at the admission.

“Oh,” he smirks, stepping closer, “is that right?”

“Don’t make fun of me—I’ll make you regret it.”

“I would never dream of such a thing.”

“So…” You press your palms to his chest, rising to your toes. “You’ll take me up to Mr. Ragnvindr’s study, hero?”

His lips ghost yours, sticky, heady with you. “As you wish.”

[kkanabel]

drunken confessions ✫ chapter i

curly x reader

summary: Curly is the designated driver for tonight, so he’s helping you as you vomit your guts out because you pushed yourself too hard with the liquor. He knows you don’t like him the same way he does—right? At least he thinks so before you confess to him that you think about cuddling with him after sex.

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

words: ~4k

t/w: alcohol overuse/abuse, vomiting, friends with benefits (not yet, but next chapter?), mutual(?) pining, confused!curly, hookup culture, slim jim exists, mentions of sex, gn!pronouns for reader (mostly, i think. if i fucked up somewhere, pls let me know), curly tiddies, no yucky yet :>

a/n: more self-indulgent shi

All you could feel was the burn of alcohol tearing through your stomach and throat, the sickening churn rising up in seemingly never ending waves. Every retch was like an eruption clawing its way out of you. Your knees dug into the grimy bathroom tile, cold and unforgiving beneath your trembling legs, while your head hovered just inches from the stained toilet. The acrid stench of stale piss mingled with the sour tang of alcohol-induced vomit in the air, but you were too far gone to care.

You gasped, desperate for a shred of relief, but all it brought was another violent heave, your body convulsing as the acidic mix of stomach bile and alcohol forced its way up. The taste coated your tongue, sharp and bitter, burning with every ragged cough. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, blurring your vision until the world was nothing but smudges of color, swirling and shifting in a drunken haze.

The bathroom spun, walls tilting at angles that didn’t make sense. You closed your eyes, but the movement didn’t stop—it only grew worse, as if your head was spinning further and further from your body. Somewhere, distantly, you registered the heavy thud of footsteps approaching.

A shadow loomed in your periphery, tall and broad. You blinked, your vision swimming as the figure crouched beside you. A low chuckle and sigh cut through the haze, followed by a sigh. A warm, solid hand brushed your damp hair out of your face, careful and deliberate, though some strands clung stubbornly to your sweat-slicked skin. The hand was persistent in grabbing all of the strands of hair, still, and you felt those strands slowly dragging away from your face, tickling your cheek.

“Mmm, he smells good,” you slurred, the words bubbling out before your mind could catch up.

The figure let out a short laugh, his voice low and rich with an edge of exasperation. “Thanks, I guess,” he muttered, his hands working deftly to gather your hair. A scrunchie appeared—when had he grabbed that?—and his fingers moved with surprising precision, tying your hair back with a tenderness that made your head swim for entirely different reasons. The feeling of it mixing with the dizziness in your mind made you want to retch more.

You focused on the feeling of his hands, big and rough-looking but impossibly gentle and warm as they worked. It was easier to concentrate on that than the relentless nausea still clawing at your insides. For a moment, your head lolled forward, and your gaze landed on the thighs crouched inches from you.

Thick, solid, and muscled, the fabric of his pants stretched taut across them as he balanced on his heels. Nice legs, your drunken mind noted appreciatively. Such good legs. You nearly drooled at the thought, the alcohol-fueled haze exaggerating everything—the sheer size of him, the warmth radiating from his body, the confidence in the way he held himself, the relaxing scent emitting from him. No, it wasn’t the alcohol. He’s always like this.

You wiped away the saliva dripping down the corner of your mouth when you realized you were actually drooling.

“Drink,” he said firmly, pressing something cool and smooth into your hand. You blinked sluggishly, your gaze trailing up his body as if it took every ounce of effort to move your eyes. Slowly, his face came into focus—familiar blonde waves framing a sharp jawline, his blue eyes laced with concern and faint amusement. 

“Come on,” he urged, uncapping the water bottle for you and tilting it toward your lips. “Small sips. You’ll feel better.”

The room still swayed, but his voice was steady, grounding you as you forced yourself to take a cautious sip. The water hit your throat, soothing and alien after the harsh burn of alcohol and bile. For the first time in what felt like hours, your chest didn’t feel like it was on fire.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softening as he settled beside you, his muscled arm brushing against yours. “Just breathe.”

You tried, but the alcohol still coursed through your system, muddling your senses and making everything feel heavy and slow. But despite the fog, his presence felt solid and safe.

You’d come to this party with Curly, Daisuke, and Anya, the agreement being that he’d take the role of designated driver. While the rest of you had steadily climbed the ladder of intoxication, he hadn’t had a single drink. Someone needed to be sober enough to herd the chaos, after all. But now, Anya—with her kind words and nurturing personality—had decided to crash here, swept up in the hospitality of her friends who were hosting the party. And Daisuke? He was half a step away from disappearing into a shadowy corner with someone you doubted he even knew the name of. That left you, a person switching between vomiting into a piss-stained toilet and clutching a water bottle as though it were a lifeline, and Curly, who had assumed the unfortunate role of babysitter.

You sat upright now, leaning heavily against the toilet as though the cold ceramic could anchor you. The spinning world tilted on an axis only you could feel. Your stomach still churned, threatening to revolt, but you’d managed to hold it down—for now. The bathroom lights seemed far too bright, stabbing through your blurred vision like tiny daggers, and everything smelled like disinfectant, vomit, sweat, and regret.

Curly was crouched in front of the cabinet beneath the sink, rummaging through its contents with quiet determination. His broad back and shoulders flexed under his blue zip-up jacket as he reached toward the very back, his movements deliberate. When he straightened, you caught the glint of victory in his blue eyes as he pulled out a half-full bottle.

He twisted the cap open with a practiced motion, pouring a measure of liquid into the cap. “Mouthwash,” he explained, handing it to you with the calm patience of someone trying to appease a feral animal.

You took it, your sluggish brain processing his words only after the cap was already halfway to your mouth. The sharp, minty taste hit your tongue like a wall, and your throat reflexively tightened mid-swallow. Oh, right—not a shot. You blinked, cheeks puffing out as you swished it around. The world seemed to swish along with it, the slow, nauseating spin threatening to pull you under again.

When you finally managed to spit it out into the sink, the lingering taste of bile was blessedly gone, replaced by the cool, almost medicinal mint. Relief washed over you in waves as you leaned heavily against the grimy counter. Curly stood only a foot away, leaning against the door while watching you with that infuriating mixture of concern and amusement.

You turned your bleary gaze up to him, chest warming with something that wasn’t entirely alcohol-induced. “You’re suuuch a good man,” you slurred, a lopsided grin spreading across your heated face. His expression shifted—a flicker of something you couldn’t quite catch mostly because you were trying not to fall—but he smiled back, soft and faintly melancholic.

And heavens, what a smile. The sight of it seemed to still the swirling chaos in your head. You frowned, your drunken mind scrambling for the words. “S-So,” you stammered, leaning closer, “Soooo prettyyy.” 

Curly froze, his brows knitting together as he tilted his head. “What?” he asked, his voice edged with confusion and something else, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You nodded sagely, or at least as close to it as your impaired motor skills allowed. “Pretty,” you mumbled again, gesturing vaguely toward his face. You huffed when you realized that the word your mind had come up with first wasn’t nearly enough to describe him.

He blinked at you, lips parting in disbelief before pressing into a thin line. “You’re drunk,” he stated flatly, though the tips of his ears gave him away. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Before you could respond Curly bent down, slipping your arm around his shoulder, his strong hands steadying you as he lifted you to your feet. The room seemed to tilt violently, and you stumbled, only to find yourself braced against his solid frame.

The walk to the exit was a blur of sensations. The muffled bass of the music reverberated through the walls, shaking your chest with every beat. Multicolored lights danced erratically across the room, spilling over the crowd like liquid fire. Laughter, shouting, and the occasional drunken stumble filled the air, the party now a surreal kaleidoscope of noise and motion.

Curly called out to Daisuke in the corner, who was mid-face eating. “Daisuke! Stay safe! Protection!” He said, simply, as he helped you walk. 

You heard a faint and slurred “Okayy, dad!”

But none of that held your attention. Your gaze dropped—your head still woozy—and landed squarely on his chest. The thick cotton of his shirt clung to him in places, the outline of his pecs impossibly defined. Broad and firm, the kind of chest that told you he spent serious time lifting heavy things and didn’t cut corners about it. Your lips parted slightly as you stared, your hazed brain hyper-focused on the rise and fall of his breathing.

“I wanna biiiiite,” you declared suddenly, the words drawn out in a sing-song slur.

Curly stopped mid-step, glancing down at you with wide, incredulous eyes. “You wanna… what?”

“Bite,” you repeated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, still staring at his chest.

He frowned, clearly trying to piece together your drunken logic. “Bite what?” he asked, his voice teetering between confusion and sheer disbelief.

You simply smiled, too intoxicated to elaborate further, and rested your head against his shoulder, murmuring something incoherent as you took in a deep breath of his scent. He didn’t seem to mind that you were blatantly sniffing him—especially because he was more focused on making sure that you didn’t collapse altogether and then melt into the floor. He grimaces at the memory of you collapsing onto the ground and refusing to move from your spot until he joined you.

His grip on your arm was firm but careful, guiding you through the dimly lit house. The party noise faded behind you, leaving just the steady rhythm of your uneven steps. 

He frowned at your heels as he thought about earlier that evening, when he’d picked you up from your apartment. 

When the door swung open, he froze in place. You were quite the view—your outfit hugged every curve, the fabric shimmering faintly under the light. Glittery flecks adorned your cheekbones and eyelids, catching the dim hallway glow and refracting it like a halo around your face.

An angel. That’s what you looked like. Like some celestial being who had descended to earth, radiant and untouchable.

“Hey!” you chirped, grabbing your bag and stepping past him to lock the door. “Ready to go?”

He nodded stiffly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice coming out far too casual for the way his heart thundered in his chest.

Sliding into the passenger seat of his car, you adjusted your dress, the hem riding up just enough to draw Curly’s gaze to the expanse of your thighs before he snapped his eyes forward, jaw tightening. He gripped the steering wheel as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded, hyper-aware of your presence beside him.

“Thanks for driving, Curly,” you said as you buckled your seatbelt, flashing him a soft smile that nearly undid him.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice coming out too casual, too even, for the way his pulse pounded in his ears. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stare straight ahead. He needed to focus on the road, not on the faint shimmer of glitter on your skin, catching the light of passing streetlamps like you were made of stardust.

And definitely not on the fact that you were driving him insane just by existing. He needed to hurry and pick up Daisuke and Anya before he’d go crazy from being alone with you for too long.

You were always like this—effortlessly stunning, warm, and kind. The kind of person who could brighten even his worst days. Sure, you complimented him sometimes, but he couldn’t help but think you didn’t mean it the way he wanted you to. Every compliment you gave him only deepened the ache in his chest. 

Like that one time you’d glanced at his lap while he was driving and said, “Those pants look really good on you, Curls!” before flicking your eyes away so quickly it felt almost dismissive. Did you mean it? Or were you just being polite?

That doubt gnawed at him constantly, and that night and this night was no different.

At that party, he stuck close to the wall, cradling a water bottle instead of a beer. He’d made the conscious decision not to drink a single drop of alcohol tonight—someone had to drive, and he knew better than to let himself get sloppy around you. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip, not when he was already walking a fine line between admiration and outright longing.

From his spot near the edge of the crowd, he watched you, as he always did. You floated between groups, laughing, dancing, shining like the brightest light in the room. It was a privilege and a curse, being the one who got to witness you in these moments.

And then he saw him.

Some guy in a leather jacket, with a clean-shaven jaw and a cocky grin that made Curly’s stomach twist. He watched as you slid into the guy’s lap, your arm draped over his shoulder, your lips curling into that mischievous smile that he knew all too well.

“Mmm, your lap’s such a good seat,” you purred, your voice dripping with flirtation. “I wonder what else on you is...”

The words hit Curly like a punch to the gut. His grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled audibly. He tore his gaze away, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.

Why him? What’s wrong with me?

The bitterness crept in, sharp and relentless. 

Why aren’t you doing that with m—

“Whoa there, tiger,” a familiar voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

Curly turned to see Jimmy leaning against the wall beside him, a lopsided grin on his face. His old friend looked the same as ever—rough around the edges, with a reckless air about him that hadn’t changed since they were children.

“You need to stop showing the jealousy on your face in broad daylight,” Jimmy said, taking a swig from his beer. “It’s embarrassing.”

Curly scowled, turning his gaze back to the crowd. “I’m not jealous.” His voice was low, clipped, as if saying it with enough conviction might make it true.

“Sure you’re not,” Jimmy said, clearly unconvinced. “But just so you know, pining in the shadows isn’t a great look for you. You should just tell them how you feel.”

Curly let out a humorless laugh, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “Yeah, right. They don’t see me like that.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “You sure about that?”

Curly didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The truth was, he wasn’t sure about anything when it came to you—except that you drove him crazy in every possible way and that he needed to get rid of these feelings somehow. From the way you filled every room with your energy to the way you always seemed to find him in a crowd with that warm, teasing smile of yours. That smile was like a lifeline and a torment all at once. Did you even know what you did to him?

Probably not.

He hated that he couldn’t read you, hated the way your actions seemed to contradict each other. Sure, you complimented him now and then. For a moment, he’d let himself think you might be interested. But then there were nights like this, where you’d sit in some other guy’s lap, laugh at their jokes, and tell them things that left his chest aching.

Why them? What do they have that I don’t? 

The question looped endlessly in his mind, a bitter echo that wouldn’t fade.

But what he didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that your behavior wasn’t just random. It wasn’t some cruel game or thoughtless act. You weren’t trying to hurt him, and you had no clue that you even were.

To you, it was simple: he couldn’t possibly feel any sort of attraction towards you.

After all, he never flirted with anyone, never went home with anyone after a party, and certainly never looked at you the way you imagined he might look at someone he actually wanted. Curly was kind, attentive, and always there for you, but it was easy to mistake that steadiness for a type of distant affection. The kind a best friend might give, not the kind that left your stomach fluttering and your chest tight.

So, in your own way, you tried to move on.

The guys you flirted with, kissed, let your hands roam over—they were placeholders, distractions from the ache of wanting someone you believed you couldn’t have. But there was one thing you never let yourself do.

You never hooked up with a guy who had blonde hair or blue eyes.

It felt too close, too much, like you were chasing after the ghost of what you really wanted but could never have. And in your mind, it was safer this way. A line you could draw in the sand to keep yourself from breaking completely.

But he didn’t know that.

All Curly knew was the bitter jealousy gnawing at his insides as he watched you, the taste of it sharp and acidic, almost choking. All he saw was you shining in someone else’s arms while he sat on the sidelines, telling himself, 

I’m just not their type. They just don’t see me like that.

Jimmy’s voice pulled him back.

“Look, man,” Jimmy said, his tone slightly softer now, less teasing. “I’m not saying it’s easy. But you’re not gonna get anywhere like this. If they really doesn’t see you that way, at least you’ll know for sure. Isn’t that better than torturing yourself like this?”

Curly stared down at his water bottle, the plastic warped from his grip. Is it better? He wasn’t sure. But the idea of confessing, of laying himself bare and being met with rejection—it felt unbearable. There’s no way he’d ever want to risk his friendship with you—making you feel uncomfortable around him since you very clearly don’t return his affections.

And so, he stayed quiet.

Jimmy’s voice cut through his thoughts again. “Look, man, I haven’t seen you in years, and this is how I find you? Sulking in the corner because a girl you’re clearly in love with is sitting in some loser’s lap? You’ve got to get it together.”

Curly shot him a glare. “Why are you even here?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Got dragged out by some coworkers. Didn’t expect to run into you, but hey, maybe it’s fate. Someone needs to talk some sense into you.”

Curly shook his head, draining the last of his water. “Yeah, well, thanks for the unsolicited advice.”

Jimmy smirked. “Anytime.”

The sound of your drunken mumblings pulled Curly back to the present. You were slumped against the passenger door, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The dim glow of the streetlights passing through the windows played across your features, softening the chaos the party had left behind on your smeared makeup. The quiet hum of the car engine was a soothing contrast to the noise still pounding in his memory.

“You doing okay?” he asked, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

You turned your head toward him, your gaze unfocused but somehow managing to land on his chest. For a moment, you just stared, lips parted slightly as if you were caught in some profound thought—or maybe just too far gone to find words.

Curly’s brows knitted together. “What?”

“I wanna biiiiite,” you slurred finally, voice thick with sleepiness, tequila, vodka, and who knew what else.

He blinked, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as his mind attempted to process. “You wanna... what?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your glassy-eyed focus shifting from his chest to his face.

“Bite what?” he repeated, his voice now tinged with exasperation and a growing sense of dread.

“Tiddies,” you mumbled, your fingers twitching in your lap as if you were reaching for a pair of two.

Curly groaned, dragging a hand down his face in disbelief. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he slowed to a stop at a red light.

His exasperation earned a giggle from you, the sound light and airy, as though his frustration were a personal victory. But as the laughter subsided, your eyes lingered on him under the glow of the red traffic light. The crimson hue painted his sharp features, catching on the curve of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble along his cheek. You stared at him for a long moment, something shifting in your expression as tears began to pool in your eyes.

Your lip wobbled. “How can one man have so much sex appeal!?” The words came out as a wail, slurring together with all the melodrama you could muster. A fat tear slipped down your cheek, and you sniffled, your face crumpling like a child who’d just dropped their ice cream.

Curly’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in alarm. Wait. Wait, what?

“Wh—What are you talking about?” he stammered, his tone a mix of disbelief and rising panic.

“You’re just—” you hiccupped, sniffling again, “the w-worst!”

His confusion deepened, his brows knitting as he stared at you like you’d just grown a second head. You were sobbing—full-on crying—and he had no idea what was going on. What did you mean by “so much sex appeal”? And why, exactly, were you crying about it?

Do people cry about things like this? he wondered, his mind racing. They find me attractive? Are they joking? Oh my God, they’re serious.

Panic prickled at the edges of his composure. “Yes, I’m the worst,” he said quickly, trying to calm you down. “I’m sorry, okay? Whatever I did, I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle, though his face betrayed his complete and utter bewilderment.

You sniffled again, staring at him as if he’d just confessed to being attracted to cartoon horses. “Nooo! Curls!” you wailed as he pulled into the driveway. “You’re not actually the worst! I’m sorrrrry!”

He put the car in park, still reeling as your hand suddenly shot out to grip his shoulder. You looked at him with wide, watery eyes, your other hand flying to your mouth like you couldn’t believe what you’d just made him say.

But barely five seconds passed before your expression glazed over again. Your fingers tightened on his shoulder, your drunken brain moving at a completely different speed.

“Mmm,” you hummed, leaning toward him slightly. “You look so comfy...”

Curly tilted his head, his confusion mounting. What now?

“You’d be sooo nice to cuddle with after sex,” you mumbled dreamily, the words slurring together into a drunken confession. “Curly? Sex? Woah… Mmmph…”

His brain short-circuited.

Did they just—no, they didn’t. No way. Except they did. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

He gaped at you, his face caught in a perfect storm of shock, disbelief, and something dangerously close to flustered. His thoughts scrambled for some semblance of logic. They’re drunk. They don't mean it. This is just... random drunk nonsense, right? RIGHT?

“You—what—” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly as he struggled to piece together a response.

But you were already leaning back against the seat, your lashes fluttering shut as sleep began to claim you. And Curly? Curly sat frozen, staring ahead at the dashboard as if it held the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

His pulse raced as your words echoed in his mind, and he could do nothing but sit there, trying—and failing—to make sense of the chaos you’d just unleashed.

a/n: let me know what y'all think pls! i feel like this one isnt as good as the previous one i did buuuut i wanted to write about this so bad

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics.

also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!

as always, not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos/inconsistencies lmfao stay safe & hydrated as always!

thanks for reading! <3

crossposted on ao3

taglist: @m-carriaga2021, @skyeconch

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

[jobean12-blog]

Promise Me

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 1,080

Summary: Joel is not happy when he finds out you left to go search for something and didn't tell him...

Author's Note: Just a little angry (but soft always) Joel because he's overly protective and needs you to be ok. Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the sweet @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: some angsty bits here and there but only bc Joel is protective and you're his, softness, spicyness and some fluff

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

Joel shoots to his feet with a string of grumbled expletives, intending to go out and start his second search of the day when he hears the sound of soft footfalls on the stairs.

His heart starts to beat wildly as he waits to see who’s at the door. It opens to reveal you, looking as beautiful as ever, and with that his anger reaches its boiling point.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Your entire body startles with a strangled scream and you drop something to the floor. You back up against the wall and search for some light, finally noticing him seconds later.

“Oh my god Joel! Are you crazy?”

Some of his anger deflates at your panicked tone, but not all.

“I’m not the crazy one! Crazy would be leaving for half the damn day and not tellin’ me where you’re off to!”

With a scoff you reach down to pick up what fell from your hands. “I didn’t know I had to report all my comings and goings to you!”

His chest heaves with his labored breathing and he steps closer.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” he warns.

You stay silent as you stuff the contents of your hand into your jacket pocket, trying to skirt past him and into the small space you call home.

He’s had enough, stopping your progress with a firm hand on your waist.

He spins you around until you’re caged against the counter, his arms resting on either side of you, and leans in close.

“Where. The. Hell. Have. You. Been? I’m not goin’ to ask again darlin’.”

You get right in his face.

“I went looking for something ok! And I found it. And I’m fine.”

His eyes sweep over you, assessing you so closely you feel stripped bare.

He doesn’t move away but heaves a yielding sigh of your name.

Your expression softens with a frown and when his head drops toward his chest you tentatively reach for his jaw, pressing your fingers to the patchy scruff to lift his eyes to yours again.

“Joel?”

“I...,” he starts quietly. “I thought somethin’ happened to you!,” he says, much louder now.

His agonized eyes meet yours and after a moment’s hesitation, he speaks again.

“Believe it or not, I care about you. More than you know. The last few hours have been pure hell, darlin.’ You think it’s funny to scare the shit out of me?”

“No,” you answer quietly. “I don’t think it’s funny and I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Then why were you gone all day angel?” he demands.

“Well…I,” you begin hesitantly, then blow out a breath. “I wanted to find some crayons! I found a coloring book the other day but I have no crayons! It took longer than I expected. I thought I would be back before you even missed me.”

When he just stares at you blankly you continue talking, your voice barely above a whisper when you ask, “do you want to color with me?”

He remains quiet and you add, “I’m sorry.”

He nods and slides his hand into your pocket, carefully pulling out the worn box of crayons.

“All that for some crayons?” he muses softly.

“I love to color,” you say with a small shrug. “Don’t be mad.”

Resolute in his anger he doesn’t reply but keeps you caged in, his eyes dropping to your lips.

With tentative movements you brush the fallen hair from his forehead and trace the line of his jaw before pressing a kiss just under his ear.

“I promise I won’t do it again.”

Another kiss, this time lingering on his neck.

He can feel his defenses slipping and against his better judgement he leans into your touch, the feel of you threatening to completely topple his anger.

Your hands start to trail down his chest toward his stomach but he grasps them, dragging you into his embrace.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Promise me you’ll never leave me like that. Never again.”

“I promise Joel.”

He brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the inside of your wrist then letting the other hand slide down your back, satisfied when your breath hitches in your throat.

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing you against his body, lining you up with every inch of him.

A roll of his hips lets you feel his need and your eyes close, parting on a moan.

“Are you still mad?” you ask. “We could color? It might help you relax.”

His head dips slowly, his warm breath fanning your lips before he closes the distance and cuts off your surprised gasp with his mouth. He grabs the back of your neck and commands the kiss, only deepening it when you bite his bottom lip.

His possessive growl is followed by a question spoken directly against your parted, swollen lips.

“Do you see what you do to me?”

His breath shudders in and out, sounding loud in the quietness surrounding you. He works open the button of your jeans, then slips his big hand down the inside of your panties.

“Next time you need somethin’ you come to me,” he says. “I’ll give you everything you need.”

Your head rolls back and your eyelashes flutter against your cheek, your breathy affirmation driving his fingers right where you want them.

He leans down and brushes his lips to the shell of your ear.

“I protect what’s mine.”

The next morning, by the soft glow of the rising sun, you sit on the makeshift bed, your back to Joel’s chest and your knees pulled up with the coloring book resting on them.

“I forgot how small these things are.”

You study his hand. Long, thick fingers dwarfing the green crayon held between them.

“Nah. Your hands are just really big,” you purr. “And I lo…”

“Yeah, yeah. I know angel. You love ‘em.”

“I love, love, love them!” you exclaim, feeling his light chuckle.

You snuggle closer to his warmth and rest your head back along his chest.

“You have to stay inside the lines,” you playfully chide.

“Well, it’s not that easy from this position!” he shoots back.

“I can move over here…”

He tightens his grip, not allowing you to move an inch out of his arms.

“Don’t. I need to keep you close.”

“Forever?” you ask with a giggle.

He gently grasps your chin and tilts your head back to meet his eyes, his expression fierce.

“Forever angel.”

@hiddles-rose @lizette50 @kmc1989 @lorilane33 @blackwidownat2814 @littleseasiren

[torturedbridgertonsdept]

Secluded

Colin snuck you inside the home

tags/warnings: 2k words | f!reader pov | smut | softdom!Colin | consent checks | d*ggystyle | f*ngering | pinv

—

Your eyes roamed around the quiet, sky blue halls of the Bridgerton home. Your hand was intertwined with Colin’s as you silently followed his lead. A low, masculine laugh escaped him. The sensitive nature of your meeting created excitement for him. You had lied to your mother this morning, informing her that you would be visiting with Eloise for afternoon tea. He had lied to his family saying he caught a stomach ache from lunch so he could be home alone.

“Are you quite sure, Colin? What if we are caught?” You whispered, your head on a swivel as he led you into his study.

“Are you afraid?” He teased. “My entire family is having an outing in the park and they will not return for hours,”

You glared at him, unbelieving of how bold he was.

“Do not worry, love,” He groaned from irritation. He had anticipated you trusting him a bit more than this. “No one shall find us in here, just keep your eyes on that door and leave the rest to me,” Colin spun you around to face forward.

You were pressed against the back of a settee, his strong chest pushed into you. A breath escaped you as you were startled by the sudden movement, but soon the feeling was replaced with his calloused fingers traveling up and down your arms. Goosebumps quickly developed on them to his delight.

“You look quite beautiful today,” Colin’s low voice vibrated beside your ear. He thought you were a vision as you ran in your brightly colored day dress and had not been able to think of much else since he viewed it.

“Colin,” You moaned softly into the quiet air of his study, the light echo made you more aware of how sound traveled around the room.

"Shh," he shushed in your ear, his lips almost brushing against your flushed skin. "If you keep making all those delicious sounds, it will be difficult to stop myself from doing the most unspeakable things to you." Colin's hands continued their exploration of your arms, slowly trailing up towards your shoulders before gently pushing away the cap sleeves of your gown.

You bit your lip as a reminder to keep your voice down as he touched you. You detested how convincing he was. One wink of his cerulean eyes and you were melting in his hands. His hips pushed forward into you, pressing your womanhood against the top of the settee. You felt his warm and slow breaths over your neck.

“Are you certain there are no servants who will be patrolling around?” You asked again, as your eyes looked directly at the brass door handle. You felt as if you could be instantly ailed with a heart attack if that handle were to move even slightly. The scandal that an encounter like this could bring would surely ruin you.

"Positive," Colin assured, his lips finding the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder. "I have left instructions for the staff to keep away entirely." His teeth gently skimmed your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin causing your eyelashes to flutter. "But, if you are so worried about us being caught-" One of his hands snuck around you, his long fingers slowly tugging at the bust of your gown past your breasts. "I suppose we should be quick."

Your body began to heat up as your chest was now bare, his hands exploring the flushed skin. His lips kept peppering your neck as his hands lifted each of your breasts, feeling the full weight of them in his palms.

“Do you wish for me to stop?” He grunted as his hips rolled into your backside.

“Certainly not, we are already here,” You said breathlessly, a smile tugging at your mouth.

You wished to appear brave before him. You’d hoped that showing your willingness to fan the flames of his passion, he would see you as a more desired prospect. According to the society papers, the Bridgerton brothers were not fond of demure, simpering debutantes. You felt it necessary to stand out amongst the other ladies of the ton.

"Very well. You are so good to me, my sweet," Colin grunted, the feeling of your body pressed against his igniting a fire within him. His fingers teased your nipples as his lips continued their journey down the length of your throat, stopping to lavish your shoulder in attention. As one of his hands drifted down, slowly towards the heat between your legs. He shifted his hips once more, grinding his painfully stiff length against your backside.

Colin watched your every move, his eyes dark and his mouth parted slightly. He placed two long fingers against your aching clit and began to move in slow, teasing circles. "That's it, love," he encouraged, the roughness of his words making your breath catch in your throat. He took his time, relishing the feeling of your wetness on his fingers, the sounds of your pleasure like music to his ears. "You enjoy that, don't you?"

“Colin, please,” You begged, your face hot with embarrassment. You had never had another gentleman touch you like this, and you certainly did not know how to respond to it. You thought him slightly cruel to tease you, but his charm was difficult to resist.

“Tell me or I shall stop,” He warned, suggestively mocking you. You felt his fingers separate from you for a moment, your body desperately needed them to return.

“N-no, do not stop, please,” Your hand stopped his wrist from traveling any further.

Colin's breath shuddered as you guided his hand back to your center, his fingers resuming their slow, trailing motions. "You are absolutely wet for me, love. It would please me very much to feel you climax around my fingers right now, and then do it all over again with my mouth. But you're being a tad bit too loud," Colin lifted a hand to press a single finger to your lips as a warning.

You hissed in pleasure, feeling his hand connect to you once more. “Sorry, I shall be quiet,” You promised in a whisper.

Your hands clawed into the wood on the furniture, scraping at it in response to his touches. His arms were fully wrapped around you now, one hand exploring your center, the other holding your lips closed.

“Perhaps I shall have to keep you quiet myself,” Colin growled.

He ran his fingers over your plump lips, tugging at the bottom one, silently ordering you to open. You gave a quiet gasp as you allowed him to slip his two middle fingers into your mouth.Your tongue teased his fingers as they pressed down against your tongue.

"Oh, that's lovely. You know just how to please me, don’t you?" Colin's fingers below you continued their expert circular motions against your sensitive bundle of nerves, his index finger occasionally brushing against your entrance. His hips rocked against you, desperate for any kind of friction. He felt the vibrations of your soft grunts against his hand and felt even more eager. His fingers left your mouth with a wet pop, his chest heaving as he undid the top button of his trousers. He pushed you down gently, you held yourself up on the cushions. He threw the rest of the fabric of your gown up to your waist before quickly unbuttoning his trousers.

“Are you ready to have me?” He asked, his thumb running over your hip.

You nodded furiously. “Yes,”

When he finally freed himself from the confines of his undergarments, he gasped in relief.

"Colin, I-" You attempted to speak before his mouth was on yours, cutting you off and stealing any words that were about to escape. He took a grip of your thigh, startling you for a moment. He was excellent at making you lose your senses, his kiss as intoxicating as brandy.

“The door, darling. Eyes on the door,” He reminded you, sternly yet playfully.

“My apologies,” You whispered, whipping your head back around, your breaths erratic as ever.

“Just relax. I shall take great care of you,” He trailed a hand from the back of your neck down to your hips. He took a moment to marvel at your bare center before positioning himself at your entrance.

“Are you ready?” He asked, determined.

“Yes,” You nodded.

Colin grasped your hip once more before carefully pushing himself into you, his breath catching in his throat as he felt your tight heat wrapped around him. "Oh, God, love," he groaned quietly in your ear, his voice strained as he tried to control himself. "You feel so heavenly," Colin began to move slowly, his body pressing you into the couch while his hands wandered around your chest.

You had to balance yourself on one arm as the other was preoccupied with stifling your noises. You could feel your eyes roll back as he eagerly pumped away at you.

“Are you alright, darling? Should I slow down?” He asked, stopping briefly to brush your hair over your shoulder.

“Please, do not stop,” You shuddered.

His thrusts in combination of your sex rubbing against the settee was causing you to reach an intense peak. His breath quickened, the intensity building as he felt a familiar coiled heat in his abdomen. He continued to pump into you, each movement making his head swirl.

His breath hitched in his throat when he saw how tightly you were holding onto the couch. "You are doing so well," he groaned, his pace growing a bit more frantic. "I need you to, oh God, I need you to-"

He shuddered, his breaths coming out as pants. His head fell forward against your back, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as it hit your sweat-dampened skin. "I'm getting close,"

“I am too,” You let your mouth say briefly before covering it back up. There was no telling if he’d make any more sudden movements to cause you to make noise. You weren’t willing to take the chance. Your breaths came out in short strong bursts from your nostrils, gradually crescendoing with each thrust Colin gave you. He licked his lips, then bit his bottom one. Seeing you lost in pleasure was a sight for sore eyes. You bent over in the most lustful position over the couch was enough to make anyone blush. Your stomach fluttered and you felt sweat running down the center of your chest, as you grew ever so close to an orgasm.

Once you had reached it, a muffled shriek came out of you. It worryingly echoed a bit, but you had no time to fuss about it now. A rush of pleasure started from your core and journeyed to your limbs as you came down. You trembled, sinking forward and onto the couch.

The spectacle of your out-stretched body and feeling of how your core pulsed on his cock was enough for Colin to go over the edge. His thrusts were becoming sloppy with little sense of rhythm. He gave a low grunt, followed by a strained hum, before grabbing a handkerchief from his vest pocket and finishing into it.

He carefully withdrew from your tembling body, his breath shuddering as he looked down at the mess you both made of the couch. "That was incredible," His voice was rough and hoarse, still breathless from their activities. He walked around then collapsed beside you, the cushions sinking under his weight as he pulled you off the edge close against his chest.

You two were lying there for a moment, gazing upon each other’s intense expressions as your breathing regulated.

“Get up, darling,” He said, taking a step back and buttoning his trousers back up. “Let me assist you with your dress. I want you to look perfect and pretty again when my family returns from their promenade,” He carefully bent down and helped you up. It was endearing for him to watch you stumble back on your feet.

“Thank you,” You said in your fit of dizziness.

He chuckled at your wobbling stance, his hand coming to rest on your back to keep you steady. "It seems I've left you a bit shaky," He said with a smirk as he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead.

He helped you readjust your gown and chemise before pulling your cap sleeves back up. "There," he said with a satisfied smile. "You look just as beautiful and proper as when you entered my study."

[whateveriwant]

No thoughts, just Punk!Simon.

Punk!Simon who dresses like he shops exclusively at Hot Topic. We're talking band t-shirts, combat boots, leather anything he can get his hands on. His style is bold, accessories maximized, and his entire wardrobe can be condensed into one of three colors: black, gray, and dark gray.

Punk!Simon who likes to wear lots of jewelry. Thick chains, bulky rings, decorative pins pressed into his jackets. His pieces are mostly silver and always real, none of that fake, turn your skin green shit. Keep him far away from metal detectors because he will set them off.

Punk!Simon who listens to only the grungiest of grunge rock music. Ask him for recommendations and he's spouting off six or seven bands that are so underground they may as well reside in the Earth's mantle. Don't leave him in charge of the playlist when driving together unless you want a bad case of tinnitus for the next four hours.

Punk!Simon who’s tatted up to high heaven. You thought he only had his left sleeve done, until you saw him working out without his shirt on one day. Turns out it doesn't just stop at his shoulder, but continues downward, wrapping around his trunk like vines of black and gray ivy.

Punk!Simon who's sporting more than one set of piercings. You ask him how many he has and (with a smirk) he tells you six, and you try to take a mental tally of the ones you've seen. 1) eyebrow 2) industrial 3) nostril 4) snake bites 5) areolas 6) . . . 6) . . . . . Huh. Where's the sixth?

Punk!Simon who experiments with a little body modification. Not just the normal piercings and tattoos, but things many people would consider to be on the more extreme side. Stretched lobes, sharpened canines, . . . bifurcated tongue? 👀

Punk!Simon who, on an uncharacteristically unmasked day, grabs your attention as you enjoy a round of drinks with friends. One minute you were sitting there, chatting, just minding your business, and the next your gaze was locked onto Simon's tongue as it darted out from in between his plump lips. You tried not to let your eyes linger, but you couldn't help it. You'd never seen something like that before in person. A tongue split right down the center, cut with surgical precision from the looks of it. It had clearly been done on purpose, not an accident or deformity, but you hadn't expected to see it as you watched him lick away a bourbon droplet from the corner of his mouth. As you stare, said mouth then curves slyly, impish, into a grin just shy of wicked. The movement makes your eyes dart upwards, where they meet Simon's, and he's giving you a look that says one thing: Caught you.

With that taunting expression, Simon turns in his seat, plants his elbows on the table, and blocks out the rest of your group as he asks lowly, “Somethin’ the matter, sweet’eart?”

His tone makes you startle, eyes rounding in surprise, mouth fluttering open and closed like a flailing fish. “N-No, I was– I– You– I–”

“Wha's wrong?” His brow furrows, teasing. “Cat got your tongue?”

Oh, the bastard.

But the reminder has your gaze dropping back to his lips unthinkingly, almost like you secretly wish he'll grant you another peek for your sick fascination.

He doesn't, keeps that serpentine tongue tucked within the confines of his jaw, but it's like he can read your mind because his smile curves further, drawing even closer to you as he says, “Curious?”

It's like the rattling of a deadly snake's tail, the way he hisses out the question. It means to warn you of danger ahead, of expert predation, of total and utter annihilation should you let him take a bite.

You drag your eyes back up to his smoky ones, half expecting to find slitted pupils that speak of poison. There isn't, just a mirthful quirk to his brow, and a solitary nod is all you can offer him in return.

“‘S alright.” He tips his chin in encouragement. “Go on, then. Ask.”

Another glance to his lips as you rummage through the dense brush that entangles your brain. Plucking one of the first you find, you ask, “Does it hurt?” eyes moving back to his.

That earns a little chuckle from Simon, an even smaller shake of the head. “Not now that it's healed,” he tells you truthfully, cheek dimpled in amusement. A beat passes, him waiting for another of your questions, and when you don't conjure one up, he jokes, “That it?” Clearly, he expected a barrage.

You take a second, searching for another, then simply, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why'd you do it?”

Simon raises his shoulder in a shrug. “Dunno. Wanted to do somethin’ fun; different I s’pose,” his reasoning is as carefree as his voice sounds. He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Plus, ‘s more useful than you think,” he tacks on at the end, something mischievous glinting in his eye. Deception maybe. Bait definitely.

Useful, he says? You doubt it. Having a second tongue sounds like a burden honestly. You'd have to learn how to talk, eat, and drink all over again, just like when you were a small child. But if he said so, and with such confidence, then it begs the question: “How?”

How is having a second tongue useful?

Throughout your entire conversation, Simon's maintained steady eye contact with you, his focus never faltering from yours. But now, as your brow creases in confusion, Simon breaks away, lids lowering as he gazes down at the floor. He rolls a thought around his head for a moment, that cheeky look still etched into his face. When he huffs an amused breath through his nose, it only deepens his smirk that much more, and then slowly, painfully unrushed, his eyes rake up, up, up your body, until settling on yours once again.

The look he gives you now is dark, a grin like the devil’s as he peers up at you. The tip of his forked tongue pokes out as it makes another swipe across his bottom lip.

No thoughts, except for Punk!Simon who takes you back to his place and shows you just how useful two tongues can be.

[prythiansprincess]

CHAPTER THREE

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🤍 pairing: theodore nott x reader.

🤍 song inspiration: so hot you're hurting my feelings by caroline polachek.

🤍 author’s note: just like the temperature, things are heating up in this fic.

Step 3 of Pansy Parkinson’s Perfect Plan of Plotting

Jealousy — : The feeling of resentment, bitterness, or hostility toward someone because they have something that you don’t.

You would think that putting my two idiot friends together in the honeymoon suite and then sending them off to the literal temple of love would force them to face their feelings, but Theo and Y/N are proving to be more stubborn than I gave them credit for. Fear not, though. Through the scheming and plotting, I found an unlikely ally. Imagine my surprise when Mattheo Riddle helped concoct my most devious plan of all. Throw in a romantic vineyard, an abundance of wine, and a few lingering gazes from a hot tour guide and what do you get? A very jealous Theodore Nott. 

Third Year, Hogsmeade Village

The snow fell softly over Hogsmeade Village, covering the streets and storefronts in glittering white. Amidst the bustling crowds, you chattered excitedly as you tugged Theo along the cobblestone square. There was so much to see during your first visit to Hogsmeade and you didn’t want to waste a single second. 

“Slow down, bella.” Theo said as he tucked you to his side. “We have all afternoon to explore.” 

“Sorry, Teddy,” you said shyly. “I’m just so excited.” 

With a smile, Theo tugged the ends of your green and silver scarf and bound it tightly to keep you warm. “How about we make a loop around High Street and finish off with a warm mug of butterbeeer?” 

You beamed. “That’s perfect.” 

The first stop in the long line of shops was Honeydukes. Inside, you marveled at the colorful candies and browsed through the aisles stocked with Peppermint Toads, Fudge Flies, and Jelly Slugs. Beside you, Theo happily snatched up any free samples offered. The two of you toasted your Fizzing Whizbees before biting into the fruity chocolate. 

You giggled as strawberry syrup dribbled down Theo’s chin. He flushed and attempted to brush off the mess with the back of his hand. 

“A little more to the right,” you instructed. Theo swiped at his left. “No, my right.” He cocked his head, clearly confused. “Here, let me.”  

You waved his hand off before licking your thumb and swiping the strawberry sauce off his face. The tips of Theo’s ears turned bright red as he smiled shyly. “Thanks, fragolina.”

After purchasing a mountain of sweets, the two of you made your way down the next few storefronts. Theo insisted on popping into Spintwitches to purchase new quidditch gloves. 

“Are you excited for your first game?” you asked as he slipped on a pair of dragonhide gloves. 

“You could say that,” your best friend answered rather aloofly. He fidgeted with the straps of the gloves, impatiently tapping his fingers against the scales. 

You placed your hand above Theo’s, soothing his nervous movements. “You should be excited, Teddy. You’re going to kick Hufflepuff arse.” 

Theo snorted. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say arse.” 

“It’s the company I keep,” you teased. “I’m afraid my best friend has a mouth that would make a sailor blush. He’s a terrible influence, really. But a bloody good quidditch player.” 

“Two in a row?” Theo taunted. “You’re on a roll, Y/N. I appreciate your faith in me, though. I suppose I have to win now, huh? Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the entire school.” 

“You’re gonna do great, Theo.” 

“Only if I have my lucky charm there,” he said with a wink. “You’ll be in the stands cheering me on, right?” 

You squeezed his hand. “Of course I will.” 

Theo grinned and squeezed back. “A word of advice, though? Don’t get the gloves. They look like dried dragon bollocks.” 

At that, Theo tipped his head back and laughed. You burst into a fit of giggles as he chased you through the aisles, swatting at you with the gloves. Alerted by the commotion, the shopkeeper rounded the corner and bellowed at you to stop. Throwing caution to the wind, Theo dropped the gloves and tugged you through the door, his cheeks red and flushed as the two of you spilled out into the snowy street. 

“Where to next, bella? Before that old geezer clubs us over the head with his mop.” 

“This way,” you said confidently, dodging through the crowd. A few people muttered their discontent, but you were too busy laughing and ducking into your safe haven to take notice. 

The fragrant aroma of freshly brewed tea greeted you as soon as you walked through the door. Theo followed close behind, grimacing at the pastel pink walls and frilly lace that covered every table. While you were aware that Madam Puddifoot’s was an establishment frequented by couples, you weren’t quite prepared for the overwhelmingly romantic undertone of the entire place. Each table seated couples of all kinds, some talking, some sipping their tea, while the bolder ones simply kissed like they were the only people in the room. 

“It’s a bit stuffy in here, isn’t it?” you mumbled as you loosened the scarf around your neck. 

Theo cleared his throat, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. “Hm, yeah. Just a bit.” He averted his gaze from the couple, his cheeks just as flushed as yours felt. “Did you want to…I mean…we could…” 

“Yeah, we should. Look around. Browse.” 

“Right.” 

Clearly, the two of you were unprepared for this sort of situation. You knew that your fellow classmates were beginning to explore dating. Hell, you and Pansy even helped Blaise pick out an outfit for his date with Astoria last week, but that had all been hypothetical. This was the real thing. 

In all honesty, you hadn’t given dating much thought. You liked things the way they were. If you were to get yourself a boyfriend, it would mean less time for your friends. Less time with Theo. The thought alone deterred you from even trying. 

As you pretended to browse the tea section, you stole glances at your best friend. You wondered if Theo fancied anyone. If he did, he never said, despite the fact that Mattheo and Enzo managed to have a new crush each week. Perhaps Theo was just more private when it came to matters of the heart. Although, you were sure that he would’ve at least told you. There were no secrets between the two of you. Right?

“Bella?” Theo asked as he waved his hand in front of you. “Are you alright?” 

You nodded, bobbing your head so fast that the motion nearly took your beanie clean off. “Sorry. What were you saying?” 

“I’m going to pop into the loo for a second. Wait for me here, okay?” 

“Sure, Theo.” 

You watched as Theo weaved through the aisles, smiling softly as he looked back at you. A group of girls giggled as he passed by, whispering amongst themselves. Objectively, you knew that your best friend was attractive. Even as a third year, Theo towered over your peers. Combine that with his perpetually messy waves and piercing eyes, it wasn’t hard to see why your classmates swooned over him. 

Surely, Theo was aware of the effect he had on people. It was impossible to ignore all the sighs and glances the girls shot his way, but he seemed immune to the attention. Instead, he glanced back and flashed you a lopsided grin. The gesture was so boyish and earnest, a signature Theo smile that few were privy to. Suddenly, the thought of him keeping anything from you seemed so silly. 

Flustered, you turned away and pretended to browse through the shelves. The tea labels all blurred together as you made your way down the aisle. You were more of a coffee person anyways. 

“That’s a great choice.” You startled to find an older boy speaking to you, pointing at the tea packets you were absentmindedly parsing through. “Chamomile always helps me feel calm.” 

Diggory, you thought. You remembered seeing his jersey flash by in a blur during one of the quidditch games you attended. Cedric was a few years older than you, but it didn’t stop the girls from your grade from having a crush on him. 

“Y/N, isn’t it? You’re in Slytherin.”

“How do you know that?” 

Cedric flashed you a charming smile. “The scarf was a good hint, but I’ve seen you around. You were at the last quidditch game.” 

You nodded in confirmation. “Your team played well against the Ravenclaws.” 

“Are you a big fan of the game?” 

“Not intentionally,” you replied. “My best friend is a diehard Roman Redcaps fan, so I’ve been to a handful of games. I’m mostly there for the cotton candy, though.” 

Cedric chuckled. “We have that in common. Unfortunately, there won’t be any cotton candy at next week’s game, but perhaps your presence will be sweet enough.” 

You bristled, taken aback by his boldness. Was he flirting with you? Surely not. “I’ll be there, but I’m afraid we’ll be enemies out on that field.” 

“Hopefully not off the field, though.” 

So he was flirting. You stared at the older boy, trying to see him from your fellow peer’s perspective. Cedric was classically handsome, no one could deny that. He certainly knew how to wield that charming smile, but it had absolutely no effect on you. 

“Diggory,” said a stern voice.

Theo returned to your side, looking a bit put off. He angled himself in front of you, putting space between you and Cedric. 

“Oh, hey, Teddy. Cedric and I were just having a little chat about the upcoming game.” 

Cedric nodded. “I assume you’re the Roman Redcaps friend that Y/N was talking about.” 

“Best friend,” Theo corrected. You shot him a confused look as he glared at Cedric.

The older boy raised an amused brow. “You just made chaser, right? Looks like congratulations are in order, mate.” 

“Thanks, mate,” Theo replied in a mocking tone. He turned to you, impatience written all over his face. “Are you ready for that butterbeer, bella?” 

You nodded slowly, baffled by your best friend’s behavior. Perhaps it was just some strange sports rivalry peacocking that you didn’t quite understand. 

“Sure, Teddy.” 

You said goodbye to Cedric, much to Theo’s annoyance. He had no parting words for the Hufflepuff, choosing instead to be a menacing presence at your side. For Salazar’s sake, he was taking house rivalry way too seriously. 

“I’ll see you at the game, Y/N.” 

Before you could answer, Theo grabbed your hand and stared Cedric down. “You will. She’ll be sitting in the Slytherin stands wearing my jersey. Hard to miss with my last name on her back. Later, Diggory.”

Day Three, The Sunflower Vineyard

The Sunflower Vineyard was a wonder to behold. Located at the edge of town, the charming estate stretched out for miles and miles in the Italian countryside, comprising a sprawling three story villa, fertile farmland that housed rows and rows of grape vines, and a magical greenhouse that boasted rare and unusual plants. 

Usually closed to the public, the matriarch of the Martino family welcomed you within the gates of her vineyard as a gesture of goodwill to one of her oldest and dearest friends. Needless to say, Nonna was adamant that none of you were to embarrass her under any circumstances. While she spoke to the entire group, everyone knew that the message was targeted towards Mattheo who nodded absentmindedly at the warning. 

The car arrived at the villa right after lunch and brought you to the vineyard. Theo grumbled about wanting to drive, but you reminded him that there wouldn’t have been room for everyone in the baby blue convertible. When you finally pulled up to the vineyard, his annoyance was all but forgotten. 

The gilded gates parted open as you peered at the rolling hills that extended far beyond your sight. True to its namesake, sunflowers dotted the vineyard and painted the landscape with bright shades of yellow. You gaped at the stalks, some of them taller than you. 

As you slowed to a stop, the villa loomed overhead. The property was massive, its huge windows overlooking the front lawn. The neatly trimmed hedges curved in the shape of the driveway and framed the marble fountain, which faced the massive wooden doors of the villa. When the driver escorted you out of the car, a tall and tan brunette with bright hazel eyes greeted your group at the steps. 

“Welcome to the Sunflower Vineyard,” the man greeted. “My name is Dante. My grandmother and I are pleased to have you as our guest. Since it is a rare occasion for the vineyard to have visitors, she entrusted me to give you the grand tour.” 

As the self-appointed leader of the group, Pansy took on the task of introducing everyone. “Lovely to meet you, Dante. My name is Pansy. This is Enzo, Draco, Blaise, and Mattheo.” 

The boys politely shook Dante’s hand. Pansy moved on to introduce you and Theo, but Dante stopped short at the sight of you. 

“And who might you be?” 

“Y/N,” you supplied, shaking his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

Dante smiled, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss on your knuckles. “The pleasure is mine, bella.” 

“Now that we’re all acquainted,” Theo interrupted, staring down at Dante. He seemed rather unimpressed by your appointed tour guide. “Shall we start?” 

“You must be Theodore.” 

“I prefer Mr. Nott,” your best friend replied with an edge to his voice. Pansy elbowed him, which caused Theo to roll his eyes. “But I suppose you can call me Theo.” 

Dante laughed. “Grandmother said you were quite the joker.” 

“That’s me. A certified clown.” Theo wedged himself between you and Dante, positioning you beside him instead. With an arm around your waist, he nodded towards the wooden doors. “Lead the way, Dante.” 

Unperturbed, Dante began the tour with a walk through the villa. The inside was bright and spacious, filled with expensive paintings and artifacts that were older than you. Rich tapestries and ornate furniture decorated the house, but each room you peered into seemed pristine and untouched, so unlike Theo’s ancestral home, which you adored for its coziness and charm. Still, the place held much history. 

The Martinos were an influential family. Their empire dated centuries back, supplying wine to dynasties and diplomats. A fact that Dante was proud to declare. 

“We even served Vicência Santos while she was still Minister of Magic.” 

You perked up at that. Vicência had led the Brazilian Ministry for nearly two decades before becoming the first witch to be appointed as Supreme Mugwump. From the moment you learned about her in History of Magic in fourth year, you idolized Vicência and hoped to follow her career path leading the International Confederation of Wizards.

“What was she like?” 

“Brilliant, courageous, and a little bit scary as well. I remember hiding behind my grandmother’s skirts every time she visited the vineyard.” 

“Did she ever speak of the walk with the Qilin? Or her time as headmistress of Castelobruxo? Or how she dealt with the Bulgarian conflict during her first year as minister?”

Dante smiled. “We’ve got a fan, I see.” 

“Y/N is studying International Law at Oxford in the fall,” Theo said haughtily. “Of course she’s well-versed when it comes to Vicência’s accomplishments. She’s going to be an even better Supreme Mugwump when the time comes.”

You flushed at the proclamation. “If the time comes. I’ll have to do well in my studies first.” 

“I don’t doubt that you will,” Dante said with a smile. “In any case, I’ll be sure to cast my vote when your name is on the ballot.” 

Theo rolled his eyes. “Supreme Mugwumps are elected by the Confederation, not civilians.” 

“Still,” you hedged, shooting Theo a bewildered glance. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Despite the obvious tension, no one else seemed to pay the conversation any mind. The other boys were politely nodding, but you could tell by the way that their eyes glazed over that you had about ten minutes at best before they started growing restless. 

“Would you mind showing us the greenhouse?” You interjected, eyeing Pansy who was one eye twitch away from smacking Enzo all the way back to London for touching the fragile art. 

Luckily, your tour guide was more than eager to lead you to the sprawling gardens located at the back of the villa. The fresh air and sunshine seemed to calm the boys as they happily strolled through the path that snaked around the edge of the massive swimming pool. Tucked at the corner of the property, the greenhouse glinted in the sunlight. It reminded you of the one at Hogwarts where your Herbology class was usually held. 

Dante showed you the assortment of plants they were growing, the variety of which would’ve inspired Longbottom’s envy. Among them were Devil’s Snare, Venomous Tentacula, and Aconite, which you knew for a fact sold for a pretty galleon in the black market. Pansy warned Mattheo not to touch any of them and the curly headed boy pouted in response, sticking his tongue out when her back was turned. 

You turned to catch Theo’s attention, but he was too busy glaring at your tour guide who seemed none the wiser to the animosity. After a brief tour, Dante gave you free leave of the greenhouse and excused himself to check on things inside the villa. As soon as he was out of earshot, Pansy released a sigh. 

“For fuck’s sake, Draco.” The witch scolded as she tugged the blonde down from a wooden cart. “Get off the damn cart and put away that bloody electronic square.” 

Draco frowned as he repeatedly tapped at the mobile in his hands. Hermione had given it to him before the trip, after much despairing on Draco’s part that he wouldn’t be able to speak to his girlfriend for an entire week. Never mind that they would be spending the next four years at Cambridge together. 

You decided to take a softer approach and patted Draco on the back. “I don’t think there’s service out here, Dray.” 

Your friend sighed exasperatedly. “I told Hermione I’d check in every day. We haven’t texted since last night. She’s been so busy with her internship.” 

“Aw, is our little loverboy feeling lonely?” mocked Mattheo. 

Just as you glared at the brunette, Theo smacked Mattheo over the head. You gave him a grateful smile before consoling Draco. “Ignore him. Dante said that we were more than welcome to the flowers in bloom, so why don’t you pick some out for Mione? When we get back to the villa, I’ll teach you how to press them and you can make the dried flowers into a present for her.” 

At that, Draco brightened. “That’s a great idea, Y/N. Will you show me how to make a bookmark out of the flowers?” 

You smiled, touched by your friend’s thoughtfulness. “Even better! Hermione will love it.” 

“Thanks for being helpful,” Draco said, leveling an accusatory glance at Pansy that she wholeheartedly ignored. He kissed your cheek and beamed. “I’d better get started then.” 

As Draco thoroughly examined the flowers in the greenhouse, Theo chuckled. “I never thought I’d bear witness to a Malfoy performing manual labor.” 

You cocked your head at Draco, who leaned down to pluck a daisy. “I think it’s sweet.”

“You do?” 

“Of course,” you replied. “What girl doesn’t love receiving flowers?” 

While Theo absorbed that information, Dante returned to escort you to where the wine tasting would be held. The boys eagerly followed, seduced by the mere mention of alcohol. As Dante led the group to the second floor of the villa, Theo kept a hand on the small of your back. 

“These stairs are slippery,” he explained, leaning in to support you. “Wouldn’t want you to slip, bella.” 

You murmured your thanks, swallowing thickly as Theo moved his hand to rest on your hip. The heat radiating off of him seared your skin more than the summer sunshine. At the head of the staircase, Dante offered you his arm. 

“The last step is a little tricky,” he said after he assisted Pansy across the rickety step. 

Theo tightened his grip on your hip, holding you in place. “It’s alright, I’ve got her.” 

Dante cleared the last step just as Theo swept you off your feet, picking you up bridal style. You yelped in surprise, encircling your arms around your best friend’s neck as he carried you to the balcony like you weighed nothing. Behind Dante, Pansy raised an inquisitive brow. She was definitely going to bring this up later. 

You glanced up at Theo, cleaning your throat. “You can put me down now, Teddy.” 

“You sure, Y/N? I’d be more than happy to carry you to your seat.” 

“There’s no need for that,” you interjected, stumbling over your words as your cheeks heated. Everyone else was waiting on the two of you, watching the scene unravel with varying degrees of amusement. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.” 

Theo smirked before gently setting you down. “Suit yourself.” 

Ignoring your friend’s curious glances, you stepped out onto the spacious balcony and marveled at the spread that had been laid out for you. The mahogany table resembled an overgrown charcuterie board, filled with expensive cheese, fresh slices of meat, and ripe fruit. Each of your names were written on place cards, the cursive handwriting just as luxurious and elegant as the bottles of wine sitting on the center of the table. 

The boys spread out amongst themselves as Dante explained the different vintages that would be presented to you today. Beside you, Theo took a handful of crackers and spread brie and fig jam on them. He lifted one towards you, drizzling it with a bit of honey. 

“Want a bite?” he asked cheekily. You nodded and reached out for the cracker. Theo shook his head and pulled it out of your reach. “Open up, bella.” 

“What?” 

“I’ll feed it to you so you don’t get your fingers all sticky. I know you hate the feeling.” 

“Um — sure — yeah. I guess that makes sense.” 

Theo smiled in satisfaction as he brought the cracker to your mouth. His fingers brushed your lips as you took a generous bite. The honey dripped down your chin, but Theo wiped it before it could stain your dress. You were about to thank him for the save, but then he licked the honey off of his thumb and suddenly the words escaped you. 

Flustered, you murmured something unintelligible before turning your attention back to Dante’s presentation. He was in the midst of explaining the importance of the fermentation process, but none of it truly registered if you were being honest. When he finally directed you to taste the first sample, you nearly drained the entire thing in one gulp. 

Beside you, Theo took a much more dignified approach. He always joked that cooking and drinking were the two things that he was better at than you were. You were inclined to agree. Nonna trained him to have an impeccable taste for wine. Theo swirled his wine glass, examining the color and clarity of the liquid. He inhaled its sweet fragrance, describing the different notes to you in hushed tones, like it was a secret between the two of you. 

“Primitivo,” Theo murmured, his lips stained with crimson. “This wine is from Puglia. A 1945 preserve. Because of the type of grape it comes from, the flavor is deep and rich. Back in the day, they used to believe that red wine was an aphrodisiac.” His eyes shimmered with mischief as he spoke. “Tasting it now, it certainly has a certain seduction.” 

You blinked, twisting your emerald ring as Theo stared at you intently. It seemed impossible to be drunk off of one glass, but you couldn’t deny that his gaze made you feel intoxicated. Seeing your best friend in his element was definitely doing strange things to your mind. 

From the head of the table, Dante smiled. “That’s correct. This bottle is from one of our sister vineyards in Puglia. You’ve got quite the taste for wine, Theo.” 

“I’d expect nothing more from Serafina’s grandson.” 

The matriarch of the Martino family floated through the balcony, the hem of her elegant burgundy dress brushing the marble floor. Her white hair and dark eyes were a stark contrast, but her smile was warm and welcoming. Theo greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. 

“Ciao, Rafaela,” Theo drawled as he flashed her a charming smile. “Grazie per averci.” 

“The pleasure is mine, Theodore.” Rafaela surveyed the group, leveling your friends with scrutiny. Fortunately, you had plenty of experience winning over tough, Italian grandmothers. “These must be your friends.” 

The boys introduced themselves, giving Rafaela the customary cheek kisses. She pinched Enzo’s cheek, which made Mattheo snort beside him. Pansy cut the curly headed boy a glare, but the old matron seemed pleased by their mischievous display. Rafaela assessed the proud tilt of Pansy’s chin, smiling as if in approval of your friend’s steel. Last, but not least, Rafaela turned her attention to you. 

“You must be Theodore’s girlfriend.” 

Before you could correct her, Theo interrupted. “Rafaela, meet Y/N. I’m sure Nonna’s told you all about her.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Martino,” you said shyly. “Thank you for welcoming us into your lovely home.” 

“Beautiful and well-spoken,” Rafaela observed. “No wonder Serafina is eager to add you into the family. The two of you make a beautiful couple.” 

“Theo and I aren’t actually —”

“That’s kind of you to say,” Theo interjected as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “We are quite good together, aren’t we, bella?” 

All around you, your friends barely managed to keep their composure. Pansy smirked while Mattheo wiggled his eyebrows. Blaise and Draco exchanged a look, leaving Enzo to stare in confusion. You managed a nod as Theo smiled smugly at Dante. 

“I will leave you to it,” Rafeala said after a moment. “Be sure to visit the sunflower field, it’s quite romantic while the flowers are in bloom.” She smiled slyly at you and Theo. “Give Serafina my regards.” 

After the strange encounter, you kept sneaking glances at Theo. He was definitely acting weird today. You just couldn’t figure out why. 

Still, you tried not to ponder it too long, choosing instead to focus on the rest of the wine tasting. As the drinks flowed, the afternoon passed by in a blur. While you thought you knew what to expect from the strong wines, you quickly realized that you were ill-prepared. The alcohol quickly crept up on you. The sweetness of the wine masked its strength, putting you under the false guise of sobriety. By the time the last bottle was served, you were well and truly sloshed. 

“Are you alright, fragolina?” Theo asked. “Or am I going to have to carry you again?”

You shook your head, determined to hold your own. “I’m prine.” 

“Prine?” 

“Perfectly fine.” 

Theo bit back a smirk. You rolled your eyes before wobbling out of your seat. “Now let’s go see some bloody sunflowers.”

How you managed to make your way downstairs without toppling over, you had no idea. The only thing that brought you comfort was that you were hardly the most drunk out of the group. The rest of your friends weren’t faring any better, except Theo. An Italian knew how to handle their wine. It was in his blood, or so he said.

Ahead of you, the boys giggled and stumbled over their own feet like teenagers who had snuck a bottle out of their parent’s liquor cabinet. Pansy behaved with a little more decorum, but judging from her glassy gaze and flushed cheeks, she felt the effects of the wine more than she let on. 

As Dante led your group toward the sunflower fields, your friends were barely holding it together. Enzo blinked sleepily, rubbing his eyes while he swayed on his feet. Mattheo kept bumping into the tall stalks. Draco and Blaise had long given up, choosing instead to wait in the car. 

“These sunflowers were planted here over a century ago by my great-grandfather, Stefano. Before he built his fortune, he worked this very same field as a farm hand where he met my great-grandmother. Valentina was a merchant’s daughter and way above Stefano's station, but that didn’t stop them from falling in love. When her father discovered their relationship, he disowned her. It was hard for Valentina, but Stefano promised her that he would restore all that she had lost. My great-grandfather worked hard to fulfill that promise. After their second child, he surprised Valentina with the sunflower field, where he would go on to build a beautiful home for her.” 

“How romantic,” you breathed. 

“Indeed, it is something out of a story book,” Dante said with a smile. His gaze flickered to yours as he spoke. “One day, I hope to find a love like Stefano’s and Valentina’s.” 

“Keep hoping,” Theo muttered under his breath. You elbowed him for the sarcastic remark. “What? It’s good to be optimistic. I’m sure you’ll find a nice girl to settle down with. Preferably one from town and not anywhere else.” 

Luckily, Dante took no offense. Without missing a beat, he kept regaling the group with tales of Stefano and Valentina. While your friends were distracted, you tugged Theo towards the back of the greenhouse. 

“What are you doing?” Theo asked. “We’re going to miss out on Stefano and Valentina’s great love story. Our tour guide would loathe not being the center of your attention.” 

You didn’t miss the sarcastic tone that dripped from his words. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” 

“You know what.” 

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that, bella.” 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you scolded. “What’s with all the hostility? Dante’s been nothing but gracious to us.” 

“Gracious,” he repeated, dragging out the word. “Yes, I suppose flirting with a taken woman is a very gracious thing to do.” 

“But I’m not taken.” 

“Dante doesn’t know that! Nonna told him we were dating, so hypothetically, he has no business flirting with you. It’s way out of line.” 

“And you being outright rude to him isn’t?” 

Theo crossed his arms. “Why do you care if I’m rude to him?”

“Because, dumbass, snubbing the grandson of one of your grandmother’s most loyal friends, not to mention business partner, is entirely idiotic. Especially when you’re both likely to inherit the family business, which means you’ll have to eventually work together.” 

“Oh,” Theo said, blinking in surprise. “So you were being nice to him because I might have to conduct business with him in the future? Not because you like him, but because it’ll be good for me in the long run?” 

“Obviously, but you seem hell bent on making an enemy out of him.”

“Only because I thought he was hitting on you!” 

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. You should’ve known that Dante’s compliments would trigger this whole overprotective best friend nonsense. For years, Theo had held the opinion that no member of the opposite sex would ever be good enough for you. He was convinced that every guy had ill intentions towards you, but he’d never been quite this far off the mark. 

“I highly doubt it, given the fact that I’m not Dante’s type.” 

“How do you know that?”

“He’s checked out Enzo’s arse at least three times in the past hour.” You nodded towards the group, catching Dante in the midst of flashing a flirtatious smile at a completely oblivious Lorenzo. “Trust me when I say that Berkshire stands a better chance of catching our host’s interest than I do.” 

Theo’s eyes widened. With a sheepish smile, he rocked back on his feet and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m an idiot.” 

“A little,” you respond with a sigh. “But unfortunately, you’re also my best friend, which means I have a responsibility to save you from making a fool out of yourself.”

“This is why you’re the genius in this friendship, not me.” 

You scoffed. “You weren’t exactly the brightest crayon in the box today.” 

“Hey!” Your best friend protested. “That’s mean!” 

“The truth hurts, Theodore.” 

“Now you’re full naming me?” 

Emboldened by the wine, you held your chin high as though you weren’t craning your neck to the point of pain just to look up at him. With a smirk, you delivered the final blow. “What are you going to do about it, Theodore?” 

You emphasized each syllable of his name with a poke, prodding at his chest as he frowned. The challenge hung between you, charging the air with tension. Theo was quick to react, flipping you over until your back hit the wall of the greenhouse. With a smug smirk, Theo pinned your wrists on either side of your head. 

The sudden switch knocked the breath out of your lung, making you feel dizzy and lightheaded. Theo was so close that you could smell the wine on his breath. As you looked up, the sunshine crowned him in gold, highlighting his freckles and flushed cheeks. The baby blue color of his linen shirt matched his eyes, bright and alluring while he stared down at you. You held your breath as his gaze dipped down to your mouth, licking his lips instinctively. 

“Bella,” Theo murmured, his voice deep and rich like the wine swimming in your veins. 

A rustling sound snapped you out of your reverie. Dante appeared before you, pausing when he caught sight of your compromising position. 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

You scrambled backwards, flushing deeply. “No, we were — we were just heading back.” 

Your tour guide muttered a quick apology before he scampered off. Theo barely spared Dante a glance, his focus fixed solely on you. His gaze flickered to your lips once more before he slowly released your wrists. As Dante ran off, you groaned. 

“Now look at what you’ve done,” you said, pressing the back of your hand up to your forehead. Was it just you or was it hot all of a sudden? “Dante’s going to think we were up to no good.” 

“We’re always up to no good.” 

“Not helping!” 

“I’m sorry, bella,” Theo said in a soft, sincere tone. “For being rude to Dante. For acting like an absolute idiot all day. I promise I’ll apologize to our host for my behavior, but I need my best girl to forgive me first.” 

Your best friend stepped closer and summoned a bouquet of sunflowers. He plucked a bloom before tucking it into your hair and smiling. “They say that sunflowers face wherever the sunshine is. I suppose that’s why I’m always looking at you.” 

Flushed, you shyly accepted the bright yellow flowers. “How could I possibly stay mad after that?” 

“You can’t,” Theo said with a wink. “It’s part of my poetic charm.” 

“Twat,” you replied with a scoff. “But really, these are lovely. Thank you, Teddy. Consider yourself forgiven.” 

He beamed and linked your fingers together, twisting your emerald ring out of habit. “I’m glad. Now I’m off to right my wrongs with Dante. Though now that I think about it, I’m a little offended that he’d choose to objectify Enzo over me.” 

“Your ego really knows no bounds, does it?” 

“Of course not,” Theo drawled as he flashed you a cheeky smile. “That’s why you’re here to keep me in check.” 

“Then if you really must know, Berkshire totally has a cuter butt than you.” 

“You take that back, Y/N!”

[scarletlizzard]

Pool Party

Pairings: milf!wanda x fem!reader

Tags, Minors DNI: smut, fluff, yearning, age gap, fingering, little choking, dom!wanda

Summary: You and Wanda have been flirting and teasing each other since the day you met. Or, at a pool party, you're not getting enough of Wandas attention.

Wanda is one of your moms best friends. She lives across the street with her two kids, who she shares custody with her ex-husband. When she first moved in across the street it started off innocently. Your mom and you going over and helping them move in, bringing them homemade chocolate chip cookies. You even watched the twins while your mom and Wanda went out with other friends or if Wanda was running late from work.

But the looks. Wanda had a way of giving you very specific looks. Always watching you and every single move you took.

Since the first moment Wanda laid eyes on you, she was completely enamored. She watched you walk over that hot June day in shorts and tank top, beads of sweat dripping down your chest as you offered your help. The way you gave her the most innocent eyes when the two of you found yourselves alone and your mom was in the other room.

Your small town southern accent drove her crazy. She constantly asked you questions just so she could hear you talk. "You're so adorable when you say that." Was something you were used to hearing from Wanda.

As time went on the looks turned into touches.

At first, it was small, fleeting moments where her fingers would brush against your arm. The feeling of her cool metal rings on your skin, causing goosebumps to rise. Sitting next to each other on the couch, watching a movie after the boys had gone to bed, she let her hand drift down to rest on your thigh. She rubbed small circles with her thumb. Saying goodnight to you after babysitting the boys and sending you home with a kiss on the cheek, too close to your lips. Everything about Wanda Maximoff invaded your senses, and you both knew it was wrong.

But neither one of you did a thing about it.

"Harmless flirting," you told your best friend one day. It was an exceptionally hot July day, a year after the Maximoffs had moved across the street. Your mom decided to throw a pool party for the neighbors and some close friends. Currently, you were laid out on a lounge chair in your best-looking swimsuit, crimson red, which you know is Wandas favorite color. Next to you was Kate, laughing and shaking her head at your naivety.

"Oh, Y/N.. you guys should just fuck and get it over with. You'd feel so much better, get all that stress out. Plus, Ms. Maximoff is hot. I'd beg to be with a woman like that." Kate looks through her sunglasses across the yard where Wanda stood talking to your mom and a few other neighbors. "And, she's totally into you. There hasn't been a moment her eyes haven't been on you today."

It was true, Wanda had been watching you closely the entire time. She was at the point where she didn't even care if it was obvious, she couldn't stop staring at that little fucking red bikini you had on. She knew you had worn it for her, and she was on the verge of showing her cards in front of everyone. To try to keep her cool she turned her back on you as you talked to Kate. You frown at her sudden movements.

You had become obsessed with wanting Wandas attention. You were constantly trying to make sure her eyes stayed on you. You wanted her thoughts to be filled with the idea of you. So at this, you felt as if her attention was gone, onto the next.

Fine.

You huff and stand from the chair, grabbing a bottle of sunscreen from the table and looking around the yard. "What are you doi-" Kates words are cut off as you begin to call Buckys name, waving at him. Kate sighs and leans back against the chair, saying, "This should be good," as she watches you adjust your swimsuit.

Everyone knew that Bucky had a thing for you. He always had, ever since freshman year of high school. There were a few kisses, 2 or 3 school dances, many dates, and even a little groping between the two of you throughout the years. Bucky was great and nice and hot, but only you knew the real reason why things would never work out with him.

Bucky smiles at the sound of your voice, which also catches the attention of Wanda again. You smile to yourself as you notice her looking, and you make your way over to Bucky. She watches from across the yard with a closed fist by her side as you strut over to him, standing there soaking wet in his swim trunks. You rest your hand on his arm as you lean up and whisper something in his ear. He smirks and nods, letting out a chuckle as you hand him the bottle of sunscreen.

"God, you look great... it's been too long since we've hung out, doll," Bucky says as you sit in front of him, his hands spreading the cold white sunscreen onto your shoulders and down your back. You smile back at him and return to face forward, making eye contact with Wanda. Her emerald eyes burned into yours as she slowly tilted her head to the side. You swallowed hard as she did and removed your gaze from her. You had seen the head tilt before, but never directed at you, and you would be lying if you said it didn't scare you a little.

"I know, things have just been so crazy since we graduated.. I miss you more than I thought I would," you tease him, making him laugh.

"Uh huh.. I'm sure you did. Bet you really missed this," he says with a smirk on his face before picking you up in his arms and walking to the pool. You let out a playful scream, banging your arms against his chest, but his arms are tight around you. "Bucky no!" You manage to get out before he's throwing you into the water, jumping in right after you and lifting you again in his arms. You're both laughing now as he holds you and pulls you close, "It's definitely working." He whispers in your ear.

"Oh good! I've missed James around the house. I always thought those two would be married one day.. fingers crossed, maybe they've still got a chance," your mom says aloud to Wanda, sipping her wine and smiling at the sight of her daughter in the pool. Wanda, on the other hand, was trying to compose herself, failing miserable. "Are you okay, Wanda?" She asks her neighbor whose face is bright red, staring daggers at the boy in the pool. Wanda gives a small smile, downing the rest of her drink.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine! I think I'm gonna grab another drink," Wanda says and nods to your mom. She stands for a moment, making eye contact with you again. Your face burns at the stern expression she gives you, and you clear your throat as you watch her walk inside.

"I'll be right back," you say to Bucky, who chuckles, shaking his head.

"I'm sure you will, Y/N.."

After getting out of the pool, you wrap a towel around your wet body, walking into the empty house. Besides a certain redhead you know was waiting for you. Many times, Wanda had been over to your house, sneaking up to your bedroom when she could get away. It was bold and exciting, the feeling of being caught any second. You think back to one of the times she had come up.

"I brought you something," Wanda smiles at you after you had let her in, shutting the door behind her.

"For me?" You ask, looking curiously at her hands behind her back. She reveals a book in her hands, but not just any book. A first edition, signed copy of your favorite book. "Wanda! I- you shouldn't have!" You look at her in disbelief, shaking your head, but she puts the book in your hands and sits on the bed next to you.

"You've done so much for me and the twins lately. You deserve it, really.." she says softly, a warm smile on her face as she watches you flip through the pages. You remember thinking Wanda was so thoughtful, so caring that she remembered when you told her this was your favorite book. You turn to face her, eyes bright and a smile so wide, you didn't realize how close the two of you were.

That was the first time Wanda Maximoff had kissed you.

There had been many other moments after that where you and Wanda had snuck off for a private kiss, a heated makeout session. It never went further than that, and none of them were ever as sweet as that first one.

So you walk up the stairs a step at a time, resting your hand on the doorknob to your room and opening it up. Wanda stood there with her fire red hair down past her shoulders, a loose shirt, and shorts concealing her swimsuit underneath. You expected an angry look on her face, but all she did was tilt her head, for the second time today. That was all it took for you to shut the door behind you.

In three steps, Wanda was towering over you, just an inch away from her body touching yours. Her hands went to your towel, making it drop from your body. She lets her fingers slowly move up your arm as she leans her head down closer to your face. "Did you wear this for me, detka?" You bite your lip, hearing her words come out thick in her sokovian accent.

"Yes.." is all you can mutter out, staring up at her with those innocent eyes. Wanda hums, taking another step so your back is pressed against the door. Helpless and trapped between her and the hard surface.

"Yet you let that boy put his hands all over you." Wanda practically spat, facial expression finally showing the truth, she was angry. Jealous. You reach your arms up to rest your hands on her shoulders, rubbing your thumbs softly against her.

"What do you care? What did you call this? Harmless flirting," you spit back, a smirk on your face. "So I assume that means I can do whatever..." You lean up on your tip toes to whisper in her ear, letting your lips rub against the soft skin there. "... or whoever I want." You use your hands to push her away, moving away from the door and from her. She scoffs and lets you walk past her before she grabs your wrist.

"Is that what you think? No.. no, I don't think so," Wanda says and spins you around to see her green eyes darkening as they rake over your body. She walks until the back of your legs hit your bed and she pushes you down onto the mattress. You gasp at the sudden movement, feeling her lift you further up the bed before crawling on top of you. "Oh sweetheart.. I'm going to ruin you."

You can't help the lewd sound that escapes from the back of your throat at her words, and you feel her lips connect to your neck. Your hands find themselves on her back, shoulders, anywhere you can grip onto her. You wanted her as close as possible to you. She begins to suck softly, biting down harshly as she does. Wanda does this over your exposed neck and collarbone, leaving little purple marks each time. You feel one of her hands begin to grope your body, removing your top to reveal your breasts.

"Detka.. You're so pretty for me.. fucking perfect tits," she mutters out, eyes glued to your chest before she's kissing them and sucking on your nipples. "So fucking perfect.." she sighs as she begins to kiss down your stomach. Your breathing becomes harder and she looks up to you with reassuring eyes.

Yes, Wanda Maximoff wanted to ruin you, wreck you. You had teased her beyond usual today, and she needed to show you who she belonged to. But this was also her first time seeing you like this, you letting her touch you, so she also needed to know you were okay. She was also restricted by time. Anyone could come up at any moment and catch the two of you. The thought alone made you crave Wandas touch, immediately.

"You, okay baby? Huh? What do you want, detka?" Wanda spoke between kisses, her fingers running over the top of your bottoms. As you stare down at her, you feel nothing but warmth and comfort. "I want you, Wands.." Your face heats up as you verbally announce it, watching her mouth form into a smirk. She's quick to relieve you from your bottoms, and you're finally bare for her to see.

"Tsk, tsk.. look how wet you are, sweetheart. Who made you this way?" She asks with a tilt of her head, fingers running along your slick folds.

"You, Wanda.. only you," you sigh out, gripping onto the sheets for support. She hums in approval at your words, sticking two fingers inside of you without warning. Her other hand moves to cover your mouth before you can let out any more moans as she continues to rapidly move her fingers in and out of you.

"That's it, detka. Be a good girl for me, huh? I'll fuck you properly later, but for right now you're going to take my fingers," all you can manage is a small nod as her slender fingers curl inside you, hitting your g spot. "So perfect for me, fuck I've been wanting to do this for so long now. I bet you taste so good.." Wanda groans out and bites her lip, squeezing her hand tight against your mouth.

Between Wandas praise and dirty whispers, and the way her fingers were hitting that sweet spot over and over again, you were already on the verge of an orgasm. Wanda watched you squirm underneath her, thinking of all the different ways she would have you now that she could touch you. Her words were true. She had been thinking and literally dreaming of this moment for what seemed like forever.

"I feel your little pussy squeezing around my fingers, detka. Are you going to cum for me?" She speaks lowly, removing her hand from your mouth. A small moan escapes as you manage out in a hushed voice, "Yes, Wands.. fuck I need to cum.."

"That's right, sweetheart.. tell me who you belong to. Tell me who's making you feel so good.."

"You, Wanda! Oh fuck... I belong to you," you whimper, feeling her hand wrap around your throat. You feel her fingers squeeze softly, just enough to bring you even more pleasure.

"Cum for me, detka.. be a good girl and let go.." Wanda groans at the sight of you, the feeling of your wet cunt squeezing around her two fingers.

Your legs begin to tremble, and she smirks as her hand becomes wetter. "That's it, baby... good girl.. just like that.." She talks you through your orgasm, slowing the pace of her fingers until your moans reside and you're left panting on the bed. Wanda moves her hand from around your throat first, then her other from inside you.

Your lips part as you watch her put her two fingers, wet with your own slick, into her mouth. Wanda moans at the taste and closes her eyes shut as she cleans her digits sinfully. "You taste so good, Y/N.." She opens her eyes and smirks down at your surprised expression, then crawls on top of you. Wanda closes the gap between the two of you and kisses you softly.

The kiss is wet and sloppy, your mind still trying to keep up with what just happened, including the multiple times Wanda made you say you belonged to her. Suddenly, a knock at the door causes you both to jump with a gasp.

"Uh.. Y/N? Your mom is looking for you.. just um... fyi.." Kates voice sounds, and you sigh in relief, eyeing Wanda as she stands in front of the mirror trying to freshen herself up. You follow suit and stand up, taking the top of your bikini as Wanda hands it to you.

"Thanks, Kate, I'll be right down!" You shout back through the door, hearing her steps head down the stairs. You give Wanda an apologetic smile, but all she does is walk behind you. Her fingers take the strings of your top, tying it in a tight knot behind your back.

"I meant everything I said. You belong to me," her voice is stern as she meets your eyes in the mirror, her index finger trailing along the marks she left on you, while her other hand rests on your hip. "So that James boy..." she trails off, giving you a confused look at the smile on your face. You let out a small laugh and turn around, bringing your hands up to wrap around her neck.

"Bucky, James, ... is gay," you say and bite your lip, watching for Wandas reaction. Her shoulders relax, and she shakes her head, a laugh leaving her lips.

"But your mom said you two used to.."

"In high school, we kind of made it seem like we were a thing to throw everyone off. He's got a boyfriend now, in New York. I know it was wrong, but.. I just wanted to have all of your attention." Your fingers weave into her hair, your voice becoming quiet at the end of your sentence. Wanda hooks a finger under your chin to make you look up at her.

"You don't have to do anything to get my attention, sweetheart. You always have it, all the time. You always have." She smiles at you, scrunching her nose up in the most adorable way. You giggle at the sight, a sound that fills Wandas chest with warmth. "Now go downstairs before your mother comes up here, okay?"

You nod, leaning up to press your lips to hers. You loved kissing Wanda.. her kisses were all taking. When she kissed you for the first time, you knew you would never belong to anyone else.

"Well?" Kate asks, lifting an eyebrow as you stand next to her.

"Well, what?" You sip your drink.

"You feel better now, don't you?" You can practically hear the smirk on her face, but you don't look to find out if it's there. Instead, you keep your eyes on the older redhead across the yard, who's already gazing back at you.

~~~~~

Hey guys, this is the first story I'm putting out here! Any thoughts or comments are greatly appreciated, or any ideas you have, I'm open to submissions. Thanks!