#that and the thirst for The Noz | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thoughtfullyrainynightmare · 2 years ago

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Prompt: Slow and sensual

Pairing: Vanessa x Nozel

Genre: Smut

Fanfic type: Oneshot

Length: ~1.0k

Warnings: smut, no mention of protection, sex with underwear on, implied creampie, slight teasing, Nozel being soft, minors DNI

”Come on...” syllables like silk. Like a taunt, in the dimly lit room.

“In a moment,” was replied with silken words as the hard edge of a hairclip graced over Vanessa’s skin.

Nozel’s hands held onto hers, pinning them over her head as his lips hovered over her skin, body hunching over her form. His chest was heaving, and his throat felt dry; or perhaps it was simply thirst. A very specific kind of thirst. The kind he couldn’t quench with a mere glass of water.

But.

He had to be patient. He needed to be patient. Even if for this… rare… scarce occasion.

“Nozel,” she whined, wriggling under him with nothing but her undergarments.

“In a moment,” he repeated against her skin, allowing the syllables to flow over her, tender and soft as if a summer breeze. A quiet utterance shared only by the two of them.

His lips pressed against her skin; caressing, taunting, travelling all around her as his hand still stayed above her head, pinning her down.

But to her, it seemed, at first, only a game, where his goal was to prolong her growing need to feel him against her. Nothing more than a tease and a taunt to deprive her of him.

“Getting tired, are you?” She tried with a purr; wiggling her hips again.

The movement of his lips ceased, and his eyes turned to look at her from under his brows, as if to ask a question. Because she was trying to rile him, to make him loose his composure and simply do… what he usually did. Take her with nothing but hunger that even at that moment ached his entire being. Hunger and thirst, the near consuming need to drink up her love and affection in a moment of carnal pleasure, even if a heat of the moment, rather than a night of sensual love making.

But. He thought that he ought to give some back. He ought to caress her, with body and soul, at least once upon a time. Occasionally. Just often enough to remind her, that he did love her. Remind her with this act too.

And thus, he stopped to look at her, quirking an eyebrow at her before a soundless sigh fell from his lips. It was followed by him shifting over her, so that he faced her, so that he was able to look her in the eye with a veil of silk and satin behind those mauve eyes of his, right before he lowered himself down again and pressed a kiss onto her lips without a word.

The kiss, although brief, was soft and tender, and told her that this wasn’t the time to tease. To taunt or push him.

This time he wanted to be soft. For her.

So, as he trailed back down, and his lips begun travelling over her skin she didn’t oppose. She didn’t tease. She merely let him, and focused on the sensation; closing her eyes, and drinking in the sheer, pure love that he was pouring onto her. The moment engulfed her, and she let it; dwelling into it, until she felt his hand trailing down the length of her body, to her panties, as the hand had let go of hers.

Her eyes parted to see him pushing the garment to the side, and align the tip of his cock with her entrance. But before he pushed in, he stopped to look at her, even if with a mere glance.

She felt as if there was a question in that gaze he gave her, and so, she smiled to him. She smiled, as if to encourage him.

His eyes fell back down, and hers closed, as he began pushing in. Slow. Steady. Gentle. Just pushing her walls apart.

Her lips parted and she breathed in, filling her lungs, only to exhale it out as a moan, as he begun rocking into her with a careful, slow pace.

His thrusts were heavy, and strong, but only heavy enough to draw long, soft moans from her throat. Gasps of air. A sweet melody that took a hold of him in the best possible way.

Her body tensed under him. Arms wrapped around him, just enough to take a hold of him, but not restrict his movements. “Noz…el…” she moaned, looking at him through half lidded eyes.

And his eyes, closed for a moment in a slow blink, as he swallowed. Only to quicken his pace, just a little. Just barely enough to begin chasing his own high.

But as her moans and gasps only grew louder, he lost himself, too, into the act. The sounds, she made, only encouraged him. Kept him rocking into her, with a growing pace.

Until she came undone under him. And he came undone, over her.

Waves of warmth washed over them, filling them with a tender sensation as their chests heaved in unison, eyes met, and smiles decorated their lips as seconds ticked in the air, but neither of them cared to count.

Her lips parted, but she didn’t quite know what to say. So, she simply put her hand onto his cheek, and smiled, while drawing circles onto his cheek with her thumb. But as she did, the words, came to her. Three simple words, that she needed to tell him, time and time again.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replied before lowering down again, and pressing his lips against hers, sealing the moment.

#vanessa x nozel #black clover fanfiction #black clover oneshot #black clover smut

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esta-elavaris · 1 year ago

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NOT THE ESTAVERSE

Oh my god. I need to sit down. I'm already sitting down, but I need to like. Sit down again. To recover.

Thank you! Honestly it was so much fun writing Clara because she's just so nasty. Like, I figure it was the only way to have someone married to Beckett without us all just feeling very, very sorry for her. And I think he'd like someone like that, because he seems to revel in the fight throughout movies one and two rather than just the prospect of victory, like he absolutely gets off on it, and while he'd maybe like the idea on the surface of having a meek and obedient wife, I think in reality that would bore him and someone like Clara would have him like "oh no, oh god, why do I have to like that one".

I hate how much I enjoyed writing it tbh, because now I just want to write more of them.

I feel u tho, like if I do write more for him it'll be for the entertainment factor and not for the unholy thirst that drives me forward with The Noz.

Flufftober Day 14: "I hate it." "No you don't." - Cutler Beckett/OC [2,799 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

I was trying to figure out how the hell to write Beckett in a romantic setting and my brain gave me toxic power couple, enjoy. This is more hurt/comfort with eventual kinda-sorta fluff than anything else, but I did my best and so no one can judge me xoxo

It was the evening of her husband’s farewell party before he departed for the Caribbean, and Lady Clara Beckett was a woman on a mission. She had been ever since her dear husband had announced he would not be bringing her with him when he set sail, citing that it was too dangerous and that there was no real need for her to be there - wording that had earned him a look that said more than an earful ever might. But good reason had failed, her discussions with him had been for naught, and he had resolved not to listen. So now, there was only time left for dirty tactics.

He had no right to be too cross about that. It was something he often revelled in, and while she couldn’t give him the credit in saying she’d learned it from him, watching his actions certainly encouraged her. Clara suspected he found it charming at times – but she knew tonight would not be one of those times. She wasn’t even sure she wanted it to be one of those times, her annoyance at now being bloody well listened to warring with her fury at how calm and impassive he was as she’d argued her case. No, she couldn’t quite decide if her plan for the night was with the aim of ‘winning’, or just of royally annoying him.

Although with two goals, she was more likely to achieve at least one of them, was she not?

Her maid did not seem to think so, if the silence in which she dressed her was anything to go by. Clara cared little. It at least saved her from any inane conversation – focused instead on the overall effect. Straight from the court of Louis XV, the gown was red silk, simple and sophisticated without frills or lace. Primarily because none was needed, as the neckline spoke for itself, dipping so far down that it exposed the curve of the pale, smooth underside of her breasts. Were she more well-endowed, it would’ve appeared obscene. Thankfully, she was fairly certain she could just get away with it.

Rubies dangled from her ears, bringing out the warmth of her dark locks where they were piled artfully atop her head, but when the maid brought out the matching necklace, Clara waved her away. It would ruin the effect.

With the maid dismissed thereafter, she had a moment alone to steel herself for what lay ahead. Standing, she inspected her reflection one last time and found that she rather liked what she saw, her dark eyes staring cooly back at her. Then, she took in a deep breath – and found it was a good thing they were throwing a dinner party and not a ball, for the dress would never remain in place for something like dancing – and then made for the door.

A footman was striding down the corridor as she stepped out, and when he saw her, he froze, and then did his utmost to keep his eyes firmly glued upon her face. Clara took that as a good sign, but kept any indication of that to herself.

“Lord Beckett?” she asked.

“His…study, my lady. Seeing to a handful of letters before your guests arrive.”

“Very well, thank you,” she nodded, and made her way there – her shoulders squaring and her chin raising more and more with every step.

Her husband was indeed in his study, alone behind the great mahogany desk, his eyes fixed firmly on whatever it was he was writing now. She knew not why he would leave any correspondence so late, but no doubt there was a reason behind it – there was a reason behind everything he did. They had that in common.

Stepping inside without announcing herself, she swept her way towards the chair before the desk and sank casually into it, leaning back and watching him with great patience. He looked up, his quill stilled, and a great splotch of ink fell down atop the letter.

Clara smiled. Cutler did not.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly.

Only once he’d managed to lift his gaze to her eyes.

“It’s from Paris,” she said, her tone light.

“Then the French can let their wives wear them. Change, Clara. Immediately.”

“Take me with you to Jamaica. Tomorrow.”

Realisation hit him then – visibly, his jaw clenching as he heaved a great sigh, leaning back in his chair as he considered her like she was some new great opponent. His head was already in whatever games lay ahead, then. Or perhaps he simply saw her as good practise. There was something flattering in that.

“No,” he said.

Clara shrugged.

“Then it appears we’re at an impasse.”

“So that’s your plan, then, is it? To flounce around showing me precisely what it is I’ll be missing, as if I’m not already well aware?”

His tone might’ve been scathing if not for the certain note of excitement threatening to slip through his annoyance. He did so enjoy their little games.

“You, and everybody else,” she smirked.

Annoyance prevailed then, for he seemed to like that notion even less than his first assumption. Much to her delight. It wasn’t so much, she knew, about the prospect of other men seeing and desiring what was his – for what good was a beautiful wife if not for that very purpose? So long as she never let them think they had a chance in hell (and they never did – infuriating as he was, she was rather fond of her husband), he liked that aspect of things. No, his reservations here would lie in what his leaving behind a woman such as her suggested about his wits. Which was exactly what she intended. She wanted everybody to look at him tonight, after looking at her for a good long while, and wonder if he’d lost his mind in deciding to let her out of his sight.

“Change your dress, Clara,” he ordered. “You have countless other very becoming ones. Choose one of them, and wear that instead.”

Flattery would get him nowhere. Downstairs, the sound of the servants admitting the first of their guests into the house echoed throughout, and her smiled shifted into a smirk as she rose to her feet.

“Would you look at that? I’m afraid it’s too late.”

Turning, she strode to the door of his office before pausing and turning back to him, drawing herself up to her full height as she posed with all the elegance she could muster. Which, as it was, happened to be rather a lot.

“You haven’t said what you think of the dress.”

He scowled at her. “I hate it.”

Clara grinned, seeing through the assertion immediately – rather helped by how, despite his protests, his eyes were glued to her figure.

“No you don’t,” she said.

Their guests were more people whom they were supposed to like rather than those they really held in any high regard. Then again, did anybody really like anybody in London? Neighbours, business associates, and not quite anybody who would be offended at the lack of an invite but instead those whose offense would actually matter, should it come to that.

Lady Clara Beckett greeted them all warmly, tittering appropriately over the origins of their silverware, or the sofa on which they sat as they waited for dinner to be served, or the year on the fine bottles of wine served – and, of course, the dress.

If Cutler was still cross with her (which she knew he was) he did it almost immaculately well, engaging in small-talk over his upcoming journey, talking in serious tones about the threat of the pirate problem, and humming with a great deal of false humility over what his chances may or may not have been at stamping it all out.

Of course, she said “almost” immaculately, for there was one sore spot. One of his good friends – or allies, rather – a fellow Lord, had seen fit to bring his son along with him. Said son was but a year older than Clara, and had presented a rather strong case for her hand way back when she’d still had to endure things like courting and what her potential prospects were. Alexander had never had a chance at “winning” her, but he didn’t seem to know that. Nor did he seem to have much care for his own wife – a boring little Blowsabella who scarcely seemed able to say three words without blushing, as though fearing they were the wrong ones, leaving Clara pitying the lobster that had to die to feed such a bore tonight. Instead, Alexander instead spent much of the evening all but glued to Clara instead, doing his utmost to be charming.

To his credit, he was rather good at it.

No doubt he smelled blood in the water, knowing her husband would soon depart and leave her alone for what could be years.

The evening was a roaring success, as all evenings she put together were. The conversation flowed nicely, dinner was impeccable, and the drinks that followed were so jolly that they were all very reluctant to leave thereafter. She had to suppress a smirk when Alexander’s father leaned in close to Cutler as he left, his face flushed with drink, saying in what he likely thought was a whisper.

“You must be out of your mind to leave a woman like that behind, my dear fellow. Out of your mind!”

His son looked very self-satisfied to hear it, shooting her a look that could only be described as scheming as he herded his wife out of the door. It closed behind them, and she knew her husband had caught the look thanks to how his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“That went rather well, I thought,” she said happily.

“I suppose you were particularly pleased with those parting comments at the end, there,” his tone was scathing.

It rather warmed her.

“If the opinions men hold over your decision to leave me behind bothers you so greatly, perhaps you might rethink those very actions in the first place. When has what others said ever bothered you when you knew the course of action you were taking was the right one?”

“Perhaps the opinions of others bother me when those opinions were cajoled by my wife behaving like a common whore! Perhaps it’s not my present decisions that concern me, but instead the decision I made not one full year ago when I chose such a woman over one who would know her place and do as she was damn well told!”

Silence hung in the air when he was finished. Clara was content to let it remain there, watching him without respond, allowing him to fully consider precisely what it was he’d just said to her. For the first time ever – in all the time that she’d known him – her husband looked alarmed, the fury slipping from his face like rain from a windowpane.

“Clara…darling…” he sighed.

Darling, was it? He only broke out the terms of endearment in truly dire circumstances. Her expression must have been thunderous, then.

“I wish you safe passage on your travels, husband. I’m rather tired, so I’m afraid I won’t be awake to see you off come morning. You may write, if you so wish,” her tone was clipped, and there was a finality to her words.

Although it would be a good long while before he got any response beyond what was entirely necessary – information as to the running of the household, and so on.

The only way she allowed her temper to shine through was in how she snatched her hand away when he reached for it, rising to her feet and leaving the room. The maid noted the curl of her lip and her silence well enough, dressing her for bed and binding her thick dark hair into a long plait behind her head with no attempt at chit-chat, finally leaving the room swiftly thereafter.

Once the door clicked shut behind her, Clara rested her elbows atop the vanity and sighed heavily. How dare he? More infuriatingly still, he’d left her feeling as though she had done something wrong. Not in her manner of dress – she would wear whatever she damn well pleased within the bounds of good taste and propriety. And what did men know of fashion, anyhow? No, what she was questioning was the goodbye she'd offered. Paltry. Cold, even, considering it would be at least a year before they saw one another again. More, conceivably.

But what else could a man expect, upon likening his wife to a whore? And as for his other assertion – the mere suggestion that he’d ever be content with some insipid little fool who simpered and smiled and did not know precisely who and what he was. It would have been hilarious, were it not so insulting.

She been lying in her bed, glaring at the canopy for some time when a knock sounded at her door. Instantly she knew it was him, despite the fact that he never knocked. So she rolled over and put her back to the door, just in time for it to open. Footsteps, muffled by the rug, drew near and then the bed behind her sank as he sat down.

“I’ve spoken to your maid. She believes she can have your belongings packed and ready to go come morning.”

Clara scoffed.

“To what end?”

“You are my wife. Your place is by my side.”

“Yes, well I’m sure there’ll be many bored ladies in Port Royal eager to warm your bed when you make port, so you shan’t miss me. You said it yourself, I do not know my place. I should hate to change that now.”

“You know that isn’t true. None of it.”

“An hour ago, I might’ve thought not. Then, however, you likened me to a whore and everything was made quite clear.”

“You’re coming with me to Jamaica. Would I decide that if I thought you a whore?”

“I suppose it depends on the hourly rate. I’m not going.”

“Clara.”

“I’m not. And I’m not just saying it so that you might convince me otherwise, I’m saying it because I know you changed your mind solely to stop me from being cross with you. I don’t want to win – not anymore. Not that way, in any case. I’ll get up in the morning and see you off if that’ll convince you that I mean it. But I will not go.”

The bed behind her rose, indicating he’d stood, and something within Clara seized up – devastation outweighing the relief that he’d finally listened to her. But then he rounded the bed instead, coming to sit before her. She could not roll onto her other side without the display bordering on the ridiculous, so she forced her face to remain stony as she regarded him. He’d undressed before coming here – now in a nightshirt and devoid of his wig. It was almost easy to forget who he was, and what he was capable, without all of the finery and the accoutrements that went into Lord Beckett being Lord Beckett, his dark hair sticking up here and there.

She would not allow herself to be charmed by it; for that was likely his intention.

“Come with me to Jamaica,” he said. “Please. Not because you’re cross, and not because it shall mean you have won, but because you are my wife, and I’ve little wish to spend the next year or more without you. Tonight has shown me that well enough.”

Clara stared, pushing herself up so that she was sitting upright. Because he never said please. He’d proposed with less heart than what he’d just shown now. Her eyes lowered, and she angrily urged herself to get a grip – a fire blazing in her gaze when she met his eye again.

“Never use that word to refer to me again,” she warned.

He weighed the response, nodding slowly and then finding her hand amidst the covers. “So long as you never grow predictable. So long as you never bore me.”

She could promise well enough that she’d never do that. Based on the rueful smirk on his face as she slid over to admit him into her bed, he knew that well enough.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

#'estaverse' jesus christ #i wasn't ready for that

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