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strangererotica · 4 months ago

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EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

PART ONE

After accidentally causing Reader’s very first orgasm, Anthony does what any gentleman would do: he teaches her how to make it happen again, anytime she likes… ♥️

In keeping with Bridgerton’s vibe, Reader is a young woman with zero sexual knowledge or experience. I imagine she’s around nineteen or twenty years old and while she has had suitors, none of them have inspired in her the feelings Lord Bridgerton evokes…

Lord Anthony Bridgerton. Six days have passed since your carriage ride together, and instead of making peace with yourself over your embarrassing display in front of him, you now have even more questions than answers.

Firstly, what was that overwhelming rush of feelings you experienced in his carriage? And secondly, why had Lord Bridgerton reacted so calmly while watching you carry on as you did? And thirdly, had he never really intended to call on you, even though he said he would?

In truth, Anthony Bridgerton had been preoccupied with thoughts of you since delivering you home last week. He’d originally intended to call on you, but felt that approaching the subject of what he could obviously tell was your very first orgasm would be impossible while in the company of others. So, he’d conceived an admittedly unconventional plan to discuss the matter with you, in private…

Anthony knew you had questions, and as a gentleman, he didn’t want to leave you confused or even worse, feeling as if you’d somehow done something wrong. Anthony was well aware of the fact that for young ladies, sexual education was limited to none. With all the privileges of a male upbringing, Anthony had acquired plenty of sexual knowledge and experience without the attached shame and social stigma a woman would receive if expressing herself in such a manner…

The sun had gone down over Mayfair, a crisp Autumn evening settling in as its residents did the same. You’d retired to your room for the night, ready to sleep and hopefully dream of carriage rides with Anthony Bridgerton, and without embarrassment. Being so close to Anthony had felt exhilarating, at first, until that terrible-wonderful-beautiful-terrifying surge of energy had taken hold of you. If only you could repeat the events of that afternoon, the ones that involved Anthony’s recusing you, his chivalry, his act of kindness…his touching you…without the resulting fit that had seized hold of your body. A realization washed over you. Could what you experienced have somehow been caused by Lord Bridgerton? He had observed the extent of your outrageous display with complete ease. It was a bit irritating, in fact, that he seemed to understand exactly what was happening to you, while you remained completely overwhelmed and in the dark.

You gazed at the ceiling, frustrated tears burning your eyes. What would happen if Anthony told anyone of your frightful episode? You could only assume he had not spoken word of it to anyone, because surely Lady Whistledown would have mentioned it in her latest scandal sheet. Clearly, Anthony Bridgerton was an honorable man. You chided yourself for thinking anything less than a gentleman of him moments ago.

Suddenly, a shadow at your window caught your eye. Usually, birds didn’t perch on your windowsill this late in the day…and what else could have caused the shadow, besides a bird? You closed your eyes, preparing for sleep. A dull thudding sound came from the direction of your window, lurching your body forward in bed and forcing your eyes open wide.

Anthony Bridgerton was crouched outside your window. Surely, you must be dreaming. And what a scandalous dream to be having, you thought to yourself with a giggle. It was only when Anthony tapped his knuckles against the glass that you realized, much to your horror, that you were most definitely not dreaming.

He smiled and pointed to the latch on your side of the glass, making a turning motion with his hand. You left your bed for the window, quickly grabbing a robe to cover your nightgown, which did little to conceal the shape of your breasts.

You unlatched the window and lifted it only so far as to hear each other speak. “Lord Bridgerton!” you whispered harshly. “Are you mad??”

Anthony’s smile faded only slightly, his head tilted in thought. “Possibly,” he conceded. “But nevertheless, I had to speak with you.”

“And why now?” you asked. “At the most inappropriate time? In the most inappropriate way-??”

“-Because,” Anthony interrupted. “The nature of my intended conversation with you demands privacy.” He sighed, glancing down at the latch again. “Now, are you going to allow me inside?” Anthony asked. “Or would you prefer I catch my death of cold? Or perhaps-.” He peered over his shoulder at the ground below. “-Falling to my death would better suit your-.”

“-Oh for heaven’s sake!” you snapped, throwing open the window, to Anthony’s delight. “Hurry in before someone sees you…”

He swung his legs over the windowsill, nodding a polite “thank you,” while keeping his steps as quiet as possible. Your eyes swept over the yard, trying to make out the face of anyone who might have witnessed the Viscount Bridgerton of all men climbing through your bedroom window. Thankfully, the grounds looked bare; you sighed gratefully, content with remaining free of scandal. For now, at least.

You turned to find Anthony seated on your bed, a sight that nearly gave you a heart attack. He saw the horrified look on your face, and immediately stood up- “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not wish to offend you. I find it…” He paused. “…Difficult, to know where you and I stand…to judge the nature of our relationship, after-.” Anthony swallowed, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“-After my frightful display in the carriage?” you offered, and he nodded.

“Yes,” Anthony replied. “Which, to be completely transparent, is exactly the reason I called on you tonight-privately,” he emphasized. “Because the nature of such a conversation is surely too sensitive as to be eavesdropped by others, do you not agree?”

Your eyebrows lifted, confusion written all over your face along with a blush of shame spreading over your cheeks. “People fall ill regularly, Lord Bridgerton,” you said, trying to calm the embarrassment making your voice tremble. “I fail to see how my…spell, though humiliating, as you seem eager to remind me, should warrant such a clandestine meeting as this...”

Anthony took a step closer; you flinched backward. “I do not wish to harm you,” he insisted. “Nor do I mean to imply wrongdoing of any kind on your part. If anything, it is I who acted thoughtlessly in not calling on you sooner, for not explaining that your-.” He smiled softly. “-Spell, or, falling ill as you call it, was not humiliating at all…”

You realized, for the first time in six days, that the feeling had returned. It stirred between your thighs like a dangerous, delicious secret. And while you couldn’t understand how, you were somehow sure that Anthony knew of your secret, too.

He took another step closer, and this time, you didn’t move backward. “Are you familiar with…” Anthony chose his words carefully. “…With the ways a woman’s body experiences pleasure?”

Your eyes widened; Anthony realized he may need to proceed with even more caution than he’d anticipated.

“When you…feel good,” he tried, watching your eyes for any sign of understanding. “That warmth you experience…inside your body…”

Anthony took another small step closer; you swallowed, feeling as if all the air had suddenly left the room. “…When you…touch yourself…”

He saw the lack of understanding in your eyes, and asked “you do touch yourself…don’t you?”

You shook your head, bewildered by Anthony’s lack of actual explaining. “Of course I touch myself, Lord Bridgerton,” you replied matter-of-factly; he seemed surprised by your blunt response. “I touch myself every day.”

“I’m glad to hear-.”

“-Everyone touches themselves every day-.”

He tipped his head in thought. “Well, it’s doubtful everyone-.”

“-In fact, I fail to see how that explains anything about my behavior last week, Lord Bridgerton,” you finished. Anthony looked slightly confused, and asked “when you touch yourself…do you not feel the way you felt in the carriage?”

You shook your head, embarrassment washing over you again. “No,” you replied. “I’ve never felt anything comparable to that while touching myself.”

Anthony considered his next question, and his reasons for asking it, carefully. “How do you touch yourself?” he asked, worrying immediately that he’d gone a step too far. Everything about this conversation was becoming more inappropriate by the second, but at least you seemed to have some experience in pleasuring yourself. It was a good start, Anthony reasoned.

You didn’t seem offended by his question in the slightest. “I touch myself each time I pull on my gloves, for example,” you explained, still not at all sure how this was relevant. “I brush my hair, which means I must touch myself to do so…” You continued to describe absolutely innocent everyday examples of ways in which you touched yourself, none of them pertaining to masturbation, as Anthony soon became aware.

He held up a hand to stop you, a gentle yet frustrated smile on his face. “While all of the examples you’ve given do indeed describe touching oneself,” Anthony replied, his smile fading. “They do not describe the manner of touching that would arouse feelings like the ones you experienced during your…spell, in my carriage.”

You stared at him blankly, completely confused. “How else would one touch themselves, my lord?” you asked. Anthony’s chest dipped as he exhaled, deeply. He hadn’t stopped thinking of the sounds you made in his carriage the week prior��of how you looked seized with pleasure, your pretty features contorted in ecstasy…the way your scent had remained in his carriage, how he’d used it to get himself off on the way back from your home…

Anthony knew he was treading on very dangerous ground. But despite his better judgement, he found the words he should not say passing through his lips, and his fingers drawing closer to touch your cheek: “Perhaps I might teach you, then?”

Your skin warmed beneath Anthony’s touch, his fingertip tracing your cheek and resting on your lips. It was all too much, the racing of your heart, the intensity of his gaze holding yours like no man had before. The beautiful ache between your legs was now pulsing, throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

“May I teach you?” Anthony asked again, softly. His thumb stroked the curve of your chin; your legs felt weak, unable to hold you. “Yes…yes,” you replied, every inch of you trembling. “Please…”

Anthony’s lips curved in a slight grin, but his behavior retained the calm sensibility of an instructor preparing to teach. He guided you toward your bed, gently imploring you to “lie back.” You followed Anthony’s direction, taking his hand as it was offered. His lips parted when your robe slipped off your shoulders, revealing the curve of your breasts, your peaked nipples lifting the fabric. You moved to cover yourself, but Anthony stopped you. “Do not be embarrassed,” he murmured, his voice low, sincere. “Your body is beautiful, (Y/N). It should not be a source of shame…not here. Not now.”

Anthony brought your hand to his lips, pressing your index finger to them in a pretend ‘shh.’ “No secrets,” he whispered. You whimpered softly, unconsciously pressing your thighs together, attempting to soothe the tension between them. Anthony noticed your discomfort…every part of him noticed. His cock twitched at the sound of your arousal, at the way your scent lifted through the thin fabric of your gown and straight to his nose. He watched your body tense as you tried to fend off the inevitable; you were going to come. And Anthony was going to watch it happen, again.

He loosened the cravat at his neck, the heat in the room increasing by the minute. He led your hand over your breasts, watching you gasp as your nipples perked to meet your palm. “That’s a good girl,” Anthony praised, his voice slightly strained. “Do you see the way your body responds?” He exhaled slowly, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the restraint of his trousers. “Now,” Anthony continued. “Bring your hand lower, like so…”

He guided your touch downward, dusting along your belly. You watched with widening eyes as your fingers moved closer to the space that throbbed more intensely with every breath you took. Anthony swallowed, feeling his resolve weaken. He had to keep himself under control; you were fragile, completely unaware of just how vulnerable a position you truly were in. A less honorable man than he would likely take advantage of an innocent young woman in such a state, having given him her full trust, legs spread and waiting for his command. Anthony clenched his jaw and resolved to continue your lesson, his desires forced into check.

He paused your hand just above the tender space you’d never touched, that no one had touched before. A space that in some ways belonged to Anthony already, as only he seemed able to arouse these desires in you from the start. How fitting, then, that he should be the one to guide your hand in exploring yourself, to the place that swelled and wept only for him…

Anthony’s erection was becoming distracting. He wondered if you’d notice, and ask about it. Thankfully, you seemed too consumed by the sensations affecting your own body to notice anything around you, for which Anthony was grateful. If you did ask to see it…looking all wide-eyed and innocent at his cock…asking why it stood like that, why he looked so intense-did it hurt…? What is it for…? Can you show me, my lord…? Anthony knew he’d crumble like a pastry and end up doing god only knows what…

He pressed his wrist against it, a subtle attempt at soothing away some of the pain denying himself was causing. Instinctively, you’d pulled your hand (and Anthony’s covering it) further between your legs, till your touch was hovering just above your clit. Anthony’s eyes were hooded, his lips parted and dry as he watched you. “Touch yourself, (Y/N),” he murmured, his voice husky, wavering. “Allow your body to tell you what she needs…”

Anthony gently lowered both his hand and yours, his fingertips fanning over your clit. You drew in a sharp breath, your hips bucking, the muscles in your stomach tensing as you lurched forward. “Shh…shh,” Anthony comforted you. “It almost hurts, does it not? A feeling so intense, it frightens you…like bringing your fingers too close to a flame…”

He lightly circled his fingertips over your clit again, pulling a helpless whine from your throat. Anthony’s cock twitched against his wrist, begging for relief. Sweat beaded along his hairline, his brow tense with concentration as he forced himself to maintain control.

“Focus,” he said, both to himself and you. “Lean into the feeling, frightening though it is…” Anthony used your hand to massage yourself. Your heels dug into the bed in response. “Let go of all the tension you carry,” Anthony whispered, his hand working over you. “Give in to the feeling….give in to...”

Anthony’s words failed as all his senses were consumed by the image, the scent, the sound, of you coming undone beneath his hand. You whimpered and wept, soft sobs of pleasure that spilled from your lips as your body convulsed. Your feet kicked wildly, making a mess of the bedding, sheets tossed this way and that as you flailed. In your beautiful struggle, your nightgown was thrown above your knees, putting your pretty, pouty lips on full display for Anthony. The scent of you was abundant, no longer inhibited by the cover of your gown. Anthony abandoned his pretense of modesty, aggressively rubbing the outline of his cock through his trousers while his other hand continued clutching yours.

He pulled away suddenly, a labored groan roaring up from his chest. You were just beginning to come down, your mind awash with the fuzzy, delirious bliss of orgasm. Anthony climaxed beside you, grunting through his release, filling the front of his trousers with semen. He turned to find you lying with your arms outstretched, your chest rising and falling and glistening with sweat. Your legs were still spread wide, your embarrassment long-abandoned, a big, satisfied smile lighting your eyes. Your smile faded just slightly when you noticed the look of exhaustion on Anthony’s face.

“My lord?” you said, concerned. “Are you alright?”

Anthony chuckled, nodding his assurance that he was well. “I assure you,” he replied, kneeling to sit at your bedside. “I am more than alright…”

He took your hand in his once again, feeling the slickness of your arousal on your fingertips.

“Did you…” you began, unsure how to ask. “…Did you do what I did, just now?”

Anthony’s brow lifted, his smile widening. “In fact, I did,” he said, to which you replied, in happy surprise, “I did not know that men could do it, also!”

Anthony threw his head back laughing, before quickly admonishing himself for making too much noise. He leaned closer and gave your forehead a chaste kiss, before making his way to your window.

“My lord?” you whispered. Anthony paused at the windowsill.

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

“If there’s anything else you might wish to teach me,” you said. “You’ll find my window open, from now on.” A mischievous grin turned the corners of your lips. “Remember that, will you?”

Anthony smiled, his mind already teeming with a thousand filthy things he wanted to show you. “I will remember,” he said, and exited through your window. ♥️

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vyzz-undercover · 1 month ago

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someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(8,800ish words) (holy fucking kill me mate)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

———————————————————————————————————

hi guys :3 guess what i got you all good im not dead,,, the gods have let me live another fateful fortnight (fortnite) also i love you all so so so much pls enjoy!!!! @moodymisty, @lemon-russ, @bispecsual, @the-raven-lady, @egrets-not-regrets, @pluvio-tea, @kit-williams, @thevoidscreams, @mothiir, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sinistermojo, @beckyninja, @passionofthesith, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @allergymoose, @scriberye, @yestheantichrist, @ma1dmer, @cucunot!!! if anyone wants off or on taglist lmk!!! im more than happy to adjust this in post OK BYE ILY ALL AGAINNNN!!!

———————————————————————————————————

There should be higher security in this wing, Cato notes.

But compared to the rest of the vessel, it's safe—as in, there's senior Admech's leaving their doors open while they buff out the scratches in their mechadendrites sort of safe. He bets seeing a mouse around here would cause a stir. Honestly, he can fully render the pict in his mind of some haughty Seneschal turning their nose up to his Primarch because of that.

Cato can imagine the exact following happening, 'eugh, why doesn't Lord Guilliman virus bomb the pipes? That's what I had done on my pissy little rowboat of a void ship!' in that nasally, all too predictable tone that every single bloody one of them seems to have bar maybe a few.

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

But it is safe. You're safe, here. He trusts his Primarch to ensure that for you. Being so cozy to Guilliman as a baseline certainly has its benefits. This place is good for you, unlike the bowels of the ship—where even Cato avoids going.

Not for any risk to his persons, of course. But simply because of the tightness of the hallways. And the stink of baseline sweat and oil that practically sticks to his senses for days afterward.

It's most certainly not because the low lumen count sends his mind wandering. And the flickering—damn those flickering lights—they make him uneasy. The impossible chance they'll flicker out and reveal a reality awash with fleshed decking is completely unrealistic. But still, down in those depths, he feels like he's stuck in a dying vessel, cracked at the bottom like a broken vase, leaking. Adrift, on a storm laden sea with the blackness pouring in—where within that black there is a barely perceptible colour in infinite abundance, like the phosphenes behind closed eyes—and there are eyes in that ocean—so, so many eyes, fixed with the glowing, molten hues of the warp itself; their shades a melted tapestry, a solvent thing, ever-changing.

Eyes and screaming. It sometimes returns to Cato like a bad case of tinnitus, ringing and shrill—but the mind crafts horror that pale reality in comparison, and in that wretched plane of existence those mental horrors bore real talons, and real hooves and real thought—and the caterwauling of its victims—his brothers—ever came from maws heaving and frothing in agony.

Cato hears himself stumble and slam a palm into the side wall to steady himself, but doesn't feel it. He feels like he's in free-fall, as if the ground has opened up and swallowed him hale and whole.

All time in that abominable realm was rendered simply nonexistent, without matter nor meaning to behold to any living creature. Naught but the notion of being practically alone and how chilling it was spiralling down the depthless lake of energy remained. No resistance of air lent to the sensation of plummeting, but he was sure he was for reason beyond any form of tongue. The distance was irrelevant and utterly unmeasurable. But the warp had no edge, no limit; and as it lacked a limit, the depth of him sinking was surely unbounded—just as it was eerily silent. A merciless wall of mute, dark unknown which swallowed all whole under it's cresting wave of solitude. Mute except the wailing, like song—song of sheer coincidence, where so many voices in unison chances harmony by mathematics beyond comprehension.

The sour taste on his tongue drags him loose of the claws about his mind.

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

Cold, unforgiving steel walling like a soothing downpour on his nerves.

Cato groans as he rights himself, shaking his head, and then rolls his tongue around his mouth; gagging a little at the bitter, acrid aftertaste of his Betcher's gland acting on instinct.

He'd thought himself largely past this now. It had been so long since it happened, and Cato tries, he tries so painfully hard not to imagine the same thing happening here, because he's okay, you're okay—nothing would try to take this ship.

The vile taste on his tongue annoys him, because he'd scrubbed his teeth raw in an effort to seem as polished as he could; and now his tongue probably stinks like an empty las cartridge.

He spits on the floor and straightens up, it's fine—at least that's what he tells himself. You're close, and you're safe and that's all the encouragement he needs to fall back into step.

Cato takes a few strides down the corridor towards your quarters before realising something rather important.

He reaches into the folds of his rest attire and practically yanks out a sheathed knife.

It'd be closer to a dagger to you, and he doubts you know how to use it, but—but—

He wants to give it to you.

It's what he'd like to receive, at least. After all, it is what he was given, once.

The smith on Talassar is long dead, from age or sickness, but it matters little. All that matters is that Cato had received it ages ago when he'd yet to make anything of himself and he wants your hands to know its weight. You never carry weapons to diplomatic ventures in the past, and you've told him as much, but he gathers it's because there's never been place for you to put them on your persons in those stupid outfits of yours.

It's a little bit brutish of a gift, yes, he's well aware. But there's no possibility of bringing any sort of cliche boon to your door, like flowers, or something of the sort. Or whatever those waifs of yore would demand as a courting gift.

He doesn't even realise he's continued walking until he's stopped and standing outside your chamber like a kicked hound.

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

He knows the universal override to all the input pads, but there's something seemingly rooting him to the spot.

The nervousness hesitation he feels regarding seeing you is a lingering problem—the longer he stays beyond the confides of your room only adds to the chances of being caught. And he's not about to wait for hours outside for a hint you're actually in there. He has right to suspect you are, but the possibility of a serf being there instead of you is unrealistic but present. Actually no, he's sure that a cleaning serf would not lock the door.

So, finally, he raps a knuckle against the door and sets his footing to a martial stance.

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

There's a clear surprise that paints across your face as he stares down at you, before it dissolves into a small, flustered smile.

His hands twitch where they hang by his sides, itching to reach for the dagger he wants to give you. He had planned how he'd do this on the way here. Thought it through and prepared, rolling it over and over in his head. And yet, actually having you before him throws any precedent out the nearest air-lock.

You're not in any sort of prim and proper way—you're in bedding clothes, more than anything: pants and a top.

The trousers are a light shade of cyan, loose around your calves but more form fitting around your thighs. Your hips seeming to be the only thing holding the pants up from showing the warm, smooth skin beneath; that, and a small thread tied in a crude bow. Your tunic is more of a inched stola, low necked enough that he can sort of see the top of your breasts.

"I didn't.. uh," you mumble. "I didn't expect you so soon."

He knows he's earlier than he promised, but he grunts in answer and looks over your shoulder.

You blink, "What?"

"Am I to wait out here all cycle, then?"

A small 'oh, right—sorry' from you is all he receives before you take a step back to allow him entrance.

When the door slides shut and locks behind him, Cato notes the lack on downlight activated. Everything is hazed in a moody, misty (hi) sort of warm, amber glow from the candles you've left burning. He thankfully wrestles down the urge to stand there scenting the air with his lip curled up like a beast. Trying not to linger on the abundant stink of you, you, you on everything, pervading every sense he has. Promising himself he won't smother into your pillows and start humping them like a rabid dog.

He distracts himself by cataloguing his surroundings. Cato has consistently focused on utilitarianism over all else, and it shows in his room. His room is accessorised in the style befitting of his many years and achievements; with walls lined with trophies and weaponry made by the best of the Imperium. It contains just the basic necessities required: a work area, a seat, a couple of lights, an agreeably Astartes-sized cot at the middle, and close to it, a dependable incense holder.

Your room is much smaller—but the ensuite appears the same, though. Which Cato doesn't know how to feel about. He surmises it was likely a converted Captain's quarters. It's not standard issue, and neither are the copious amounts of, for lack of a better word, trinkets. But he supposes being the Primarch's favourite little diplomat-bookkeeper-pet-thing is a title full of unseemly rewards. His Father has a strange, uncouth way of interacting with baselines, and he doesn't dare linger on the hypocrisy behind that thought coming from him standing in your private quarters.

Be as that may, he still feels enormous standing there in the cramped space between you, the bed, and the desk behind you, unimpressed at the amount of clothing bundled near his feet.

You stand in your own mess without any hint of shame. A silent Ambassador is typically a welcomed novelty, but a silent you makes Cato jumpy.

You near and try to urge him to lean down, clearly trying to coax a kiss from him.

"Water," he says abruptly.

You don't seem to be listening, just looking at him with a distracted sort of fascination—then the request clicks, and you stumble into the bathroom and run the tap.

He hears the glass he's to be drinking from clink with the hardware before it fills, and them you step out and close to him to hand it over.

He takes a big gulp and swishes it around his mouth before swallowing, and gladly the wretched sourness of lingering acid is gone.

With the threat of burning your little nagging trap gone—and you none the wiser to the fact he's an Ultramarine who can, in-fact, spit acid—he rears down and gives you what you'd sought.

A slow kiss, nice and sweet and gentle; and he closes his eyes this time, in preparation.

You grin against his mouth and pull back after, and he smiles a tiny bit at the way your lips are a little redder.

Cato huffs in satisfaction and straightens back up, going in for another draught of water.

"I am surprised you live in squalor, despite all the benefits of your station," he murmurs offhandedly, looking aside the rim at the room once more between sculling down the rest of the cup.

You frown, and glance about the room, "It's not that bad."

"It looks like a drop zone," Cato grumbles, holding out the empty glass—and you take it, while he's fixed on staring disapprovingly at the messy stacks of data-slates stacked and leaning like two great spires. "Have you no discipline? No self-respect?"

"Clearly not," you mumble and glare at him, eyeing him up, then down, then up again with a judgmental leer. Suddenly, something about the situation is amusing to you—and you snort.

Cato scowls, crossing his dense arms over his chest, "And what's that suppose to mean?"

"Nothing," you huff.

He glares back at you in silence as you turn and set the glass upon the desk—what little free space there is, in that shitstorm bundle of random work.

"I just think it's funny that you say that," you start again abruptly, rounding about to look at him. "Given the circumstances."

The scoff that leaves him is nigh a bark, "Exceptional circumstances."

You snort amusedly, "So where's your discipline and self-respect?"

"Somewhere between your thighs," he says, and prides in the begrudgingly fought-back smile he earns out of you with it.

He sits himself down on the side of the bed and continues priding to himself at the wit of the remark he made.

Cato relishes in the moment, simple as it is—you're oblivious to his own troubles and there's a sweet, lulling sense of comfort in that.

"You're a real class act," You pout, manoeuvring your rear up onto the desk inelegantly. Something tumbles to the floor to accommodate, but you're evidently unbothered. Your pants ride down at the change just enough that it put the part where your hip met leg on display. Just the temptation has him fiending off an insidious amount of lust.

He wonders if it'll hold up against an Astartes fucking you on it. But it's not bolted down, so he doubts that.

The bed will hold, though. And even if it doesn't, he'll still manage—he's sure he'll take every bit of you he can, on every surface he can manage. It's just a matter of time before he goes down the checklist, really.

Cato, understandably, groans long and low at the thought.

"Something the matter, Commander?" You intone with an annoyingly obvious faux-stupidity, crossing your legs and tilting your head a little.

"No," he rasps, and tears his gaze from your hip.

You eye him, "You look a little stiff."

He grumbles, and reaches into the breast of his robes.

The sheathed dagger looks flimsy in his muscle and callous laced palm, and when he holds it out to you, you look bemused.

Your brow arches up and you scowl a little, "What's that for?"

"You," he harrumphs, and turns away. Then Cato cannot, for the life of him, look back at your eyes—so he fixes his stare at your sandals set by one another at the door frame.

A little giddy huff leaves you as he watches you scoot off the desk top and reach for the weapon in his peripheral vision.

"You didn't have to," you coo, wrapping your small fingers around the hilt and freeing the blade from its casing. A little kiss hits his cheek and then he hears the gleam of it being loosed—he'd polished the time-dulled filigree to a mirror finish in preparation for gifting you, and even sharpened it back to a killing edge.

Your sweet hum of fascination as he sees the reflected candlelight dancing off the steel has him finally look back at you.

There's a big smile on your face, and your cheeks are a little red—and it's exactly the reaction he was after.

Cato tips his chin up, noble in his smugness, and smiles back.

"It's lovely, but—" you say, "I remember having told you before I can't wear weapons."

He pouts, and then he's sour again, "There's a belt loop on this one so that you can."

"I don't wear them for a reason," you digress.

"What reason?"

"Because it looks bad for a diplomat to do so."

Cato huffs petulantly, "That's not good enough."

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

"It's just one knife," He grunts, and gestures at you vaguely. "Why not put it on the inside of your thigh?"

And for some reason a few neurones misfire in his head at the thought of his dagger being so, so close to your—

"Do me a favour, Sicarius," you simper abruptly, as if there's a hidden punchline to the entire conversation he's yet to discover, "Look under the bed."

Cato scowls, but ultimately allows the request, putting one big palm on the duvet to leer down.

Oh, that's—that's a small fortune of ceremonial weaponry.

"Throne, woman," he starts, still looking and a bit stunned. "Why? Do you just collect all these? You don't hang them up, or anything?"

"I don't collect them willingly," you mumble, "They're just... handed to me, most of the time. Sometimes by dignitaries, a few by other Astartes. I don't understand it much, either."

Cato arches lower and reaches his free hand out to the gilded sheath of a curved sword, blue and gold and embossed with jewels. It's crusade-era levels of ancient—and Cato swears he'd seen it upon the lobby wall before the broad doors of Guilliman's chambers. That, and the hundreds of other favoured tools of war his Primarch so loved to display. Some hadn't been touched since the heresy, but still. Their nostalgic sentiments held strong. He supposes age does that to someone. Even for someone as noble and mindful as his Father.

Cato purses his lips as he lays a hand on the sword and tugs it free from the pile with ease.

He holds it up as he rights himself back on the bed and scowls, "This is—"

"I know," you sigh, and your hand braces against the side of your neck as you tut, "He insisted."

"He insisted?"

"He insisted," you grumble, and Cato tries hard not to find the embarrassed colour on your cheeks painfully endearing. "I said I wouldn't wear it, but he said it'd be a good thing to keep 'incase of emergencies', or something."

"Guilliman is right," Cato says sourly, placing the sword back on the ground and using his heel to shuck it backwards back under the bed. "You're easily assailable."

"You're the fifth Astartes to say that to me," Your face scrunches up, "I feel like it's an insult at this point."

"It's a valid observation," he shoots back. "You may as well be held together with silk and ribbons—like some spoilt little princess. You should expect the fanfare with that behaviour."

You leave his dagger on the desk behind you and take a few bold steps closer to him, crossing your arms over your chest; scowling as you say, "Oh, so you're the knight in shining armour here, then?"

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

He raises a brow and straightens up a bit, "Yes—yes, it is."

He likes the haughty attitude you get when you're subtly seething, he likes the little scowl you wear, and the tiny crease that forms on your nose. It gets his blood up, and warp damn him if he doesn't thrill at the slightest chance to have you gratifying his antics.

"Well, you got a pretty good reward for your troubles."

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

Your brow quirks sourly, and you cross your arms over your chest.

"Groxshit," you grumble.

Ah, so it's time for lying now. You weren't desperate, no—you haven't ever raised your ass to let him mount you, you haven't groped his cock—you most certainly haven't ridden him like an unruly beast, taking your pleasure—letting him fuck your tight cunt full, time and time again.

He ought to remind you, he ought to get you flushed with the words—because he knows you'll squirm, dithering, bright red in the face and aching between the thighs.

Instead, he snorts loudly, "Shut up and come here."

"I don't think so," you laugh.

Cato growls and rolls his eyes, "Suit yourself."

Still sitting, he lifts the folds of his robes aside and works his arms out of the sleeves, baring himself aside from the underclothes hanging on his hips.

With another huff, Cato shuffles himself back up against the headboard, settling into the pillows. He locks his fingers together, raising them above his head, stretching tall and taut; huge chest bulging as a strained groan slips free from his throat, earning a chain of muted cracks from his back in reward of his efforts.

Your eyes trace his torso where you stand aside the bed. Studying the ports and ancient scars that draw up from his hips in mirrored pathways, linear and geometrically precise—utterly surgical. Their routes turned up the sides of his ribs, stopping high on his serratus anterior, dodging his pectorals and wrapping around to his deltoids; where your gaze stayed—eyeing the tattoo of an inverted omega he had gotten so very, very long ago. It's faded a little, but the upside down Ω is still well defined.

He's got your attention now.

You shuffle forward, half on the edge of the bed; and lean close, flickering your eyes up to his—as if seeking some sort of allowance.

"Disgustingly predictable," He scoffs, cocking his head and relaxing a bit.

Seeing an Astartes out of their armour always was something to behold for baselines. Ever eye-catching even to those who'd seen it a thousand times over. It garnered awe and fear; but that was the reason the Emperor made them so large in the first place. Aside from the practical benefits of throwing their weight around, their presence alone was intended to be physically intimidating as a means to dissuade the uncooperative from resisting and to scare off contest.

To you though, his bared form is a source of lust. The stink of it in the air has him toey and eager.

But it is, afterall, the first time you've had a good, close look at him in his entirety.

Cato preens at the flush he earns when he smirks at you.

"I won't stop you, you know."

"I hope not," You muse and lay a hand on his sternum, kneeling onto the bed and scooting close as your fingers graze over the dark spread of hair dusting across his chest.

You scan from the tops of his broad shoulders down the definition of muscle to the interfaces on his fused ribs; your eyes trailing for a brief second to his dense abdomen where the hair went even lower. Arrowing down his under-cloth. His entire body was marked with brutal scars of every kind. Some raised and old, others raw and sunken.

He'd indulge a question or two about their origins if asked—or well, if asked nicely.

Oh, that meagre cicatrix below his left pectoral? That was a Carnifex he had fought. It was five of them all at once single handedly, actually—and he only had his great Talassarian Tempest blade. It was a lucky mark from the beast. It died seconds later. He's just that good—he's Cato Sicarius, afterall. You made the right choice letting him have you, please tell him that he's the right choice.

Instead, you sink down against him and lie against his side, tracing the ports on his chest.

Arguably, this is just as satisfying to Cato as gloating waxing on and on about his many successes. Your warm little body tucked against his like a perfect fit, and the feel of your fingers around the thinner skin rimming his interfacing ports isn't bad, either. It feels strange, yes, but it's a different sort of sensation. It's acutely sensitive. He almost feels like he's about to shiver at it.

But then your attention shifts to raking against the grain of the hair on his chest.

"I usually have it burned away," he says abruptly, because he's somewhat bemused by your fascination. Still, he puffs his chest out a little. "To allow greater synergy with my body-glove."

"Really?" You laugh, and it's a prettier sound than carillon bells to Cato's ears—all the while pawing at a thick hunk of his pectoral, "They toast you?"

"Only a single passing," Cato admits, "It doesn't hurt—stinks though. And then it's all hosed off."

You hum in acknowledgement and let your hand wander down his middle, following the trail of fluffy, coarse hair.

"Interesting," you hum, fingers tracing the path, stopping only when you're grazing just shy of the top wrap of his undercloth. "You feel a bit like a fur rug here."

Cato breathes in slowly, "Don't test your luck."

"It's an entirely valid statement, how am I testing my luck?" You grumble, glowering at him as you pull away.

"You ought to be reprimanded for insubordination," He says with a steely, disciplinary intonation, but the threat's hollow and you're seemingly well aware of that. He leans in and pulls you close again as his touch sweeps down your legs. His nose buries into your hair, big hands appraising groping.

You set about kissing his cheek, smothering yourself against him.

The airy gasp that leaves you when he squeezes your ass makes you bold, apparently, because the next words you choose to say are; "Do you accept bribes?"

Cato's immediate theoretical response is a snarky 'No,' but then the heel of your palm is sliding up the side of his cock through the wrapped linen.

So, pointedly, he eagerly groans out, "Yes."

You simper up at him, before fussing with the fabric. Exposing the dense plain of his hip, tugging and un-pleating a little more until he's bared from the navel down.

His cock's so hard it nearly bats you across the cheek as it springs free. To which Cato snorts, not even trying to hide his amusement.

You flinch a little in surprise, a hint flustered, and eye the hard length of him as if it's personally affronted you.

He sits a little more upright, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Offering his big, sturdy quads as a cushion to lean on as you slowly pump him in a steady motion.

"Well?" Cato snarks, "Get on with the bribery then."

You pout at him, glancing back—and huff, "You smell like an apothecarium."

Cato grumbles to himself, slow to gather his words as he watches you ogle him, "If I had... known that you wanted to get that damn snout of yours so close, I wouldn't've used such harsh soaps."

You raise an eyebrow and pout, "Wonder if they're toxic to ingest."

"I doubt it," he starts, "But I guess there's only one way to find out."

Your fingers glide over his big thighs, dodging his ports and smoothing upwards to trace the old paths of his surgeries.

And even with all his stoic, anally neurotic merit, Cato can't stifle the small subvocal hum that escapes him as you flatten your tongue, licking a warm stripe up the side of his cock.

The feeling of it is staggeringly new, and he's absolutely elated at the view. It's half the appeal, even if there's no way you're getting anywhere near as much cock in you as your cunt allows.

You wrap your lips around the fat tip, keeping it in your mouth as you stroke the thick base of him with a grip that can't even meet around the width; balancing yourself better on your knees by putting the other hand on his thigh—the sleeve of your top slipping down your arm.

"This may be a better use for your mouth than diplomacy," He says as he lets out a low sigh, hips jerking forward with shallow movements in time to the bobbing of your mouth.

When you pull off to swipe away the glaze of spit and pre-cum accumulating on your chin, you lap your bottom lip and huff, "You are a prick, you know that?"

Despite being enamoured by the sight of you disheveled, he grumbles petulantly and says, "And you had to take your tongue off mine to say that."

You frown at him, then acquiesce with a petulant little grunt.

Then your mouth descends on him once more, rocking back and forth, letting gravity angle him in. All Cato can do is relish in the sensation, finding no room in his brain for anything else. Just the feeling of the wet heat of your mouth swallowing around him, and the swirling counterpoint of your tongue—eagerness in your gaze as it flicks up to find his again—Throne, that makes him groan straight away.

You hum around his length in response, the vibrations ricocheting through his nerves and up his spine blindingly. His other palm is suddenly against his forehead, a bit stunned from the bombardment of new pleasure.

Your little fingers dig fruitlessly into his thigh, making him hyperaware, sending him grinding forward a bit only to be rewarded with another lurching buzz of ecstasy. The hand pumping the base of him shifts away, and then small nails rake across his navel, then his hip, tracing a port; and he buries his face into the crook of his elbow to stifle a heavy moan. They're only meagre claws, yet the pressure is strangely comforting as you lap at the blood flushed underside of his glans.

Cato's aware his voice catches as he keens aloud, pulling his arm away from his face to rest his forearm on his hairline. He's simply just enjoying the soft, hot drag your mouth around his tip again.

But a reedy little whine snags his attention, catching him unaware that he had even closed his eyes in the first place.

When he finally opens them, he swoons. Hard. Your cheeks are a stunning maroon, and your previously focused gaze now looks hazy and desperate, utterly lost in the act. He hadn't been cognisant he'd put his hand on your head, either. But watching you sink down around him again and again is intoxicating. How your pink tongue peeks out to lathe over a raised vein when you pull off for air has him dizzy. Your other hand's drifted down your pants and between your thighs at some point when he'd been lost in his own pleasure, fingers curling inside yourself. A deep inhale makes it clear you're absolutely soaking. And he's well aware that it is a meagre substitute—still, the eagerness of you is adorable lurid.

Distantly, he wonders just how many times you've had that hand there in this bed. It's the scene of the crime, really. You'd already admitted to it—and he ought to make sure you're full of his fingers to keep yours where there should be. That is, if he could move. He can't find the will to even sit up higher, let alone move the hand he's been using to keep your head steady. But, he does have the mind to comb his fingers through your tresses, at least.

You seem to realise he's realised what you're doing and you whine again, forcing yourself to take his cock further.

Cato lets out an approving moan and hisses out a feckless string of curses, thighs tensing sharply as his senses stagger at the heat that suffuses his belly.

The sick temptation to spend himself in your sweet vile maw is nigh all consuming, but it's nothing compared to the fact he's far more convinced on dumping it in your womb. Anywhere else feels like an injustice to the fact he's able to fill you—because just like some fang-toothed warp-spawn abomination, you've opened the door and invited him in, so he can make as much of a wreck of you as he likes, or as much as you like.

He yanks you off him by the reigns he's made of your hair and you choke a little.

The small groan at the messy handling of the situation is a testament to how badly you're after his end, "Wh-why...?" you rasp, the efforts having made your voice a little rough; the mix of your drool and his precum giving your chin and lips a wet, glossy sheen.

"Because—" he starts, and he's surprised by how ragged he sounds to his own ears. "Because, there's better holes to empty it in."

The little disappointed sigh that escapes you as you lick your slick bottom lip makes him immediately change his mind.

"Have it your way then," he heaves, and shoves your head back down—instinctively chasing the rising tide and rocking forward into your quickly opening mouth.

His hand is tight in your hair now, fist tangling the strands in his grip as you let him thrust freely. Your own hand grabs the side of his hip as his tempo stutters. By the Emperor, his father would kill him if he could see this. But, damn—the sight of you like this is sin. He's so much bigger than you it looks obscene with you servicing him like this. You're a mess, gagging and tearing up, but making no attempt to pull away. It's depraved, but if you're so desperate for a load down your throat, who's Cato to say no? He's more than happy to give you exactly that—and just on time, he feels his balls tighten up—static rising out up his spine as a groan tears from his throat. Caught daft not a millisecond later by a bodily shudder blinding him in a hot rush.

Cato pants as the shivers subside in heavy throbs, filling your mouth. He pets your head as you swallow, at first—and then the pockets of your cheeks puff out. And suddenly you're cringing and scrambling off of him and into the ensuite. The tap starts up, then you do, and all he hears spitting and sputtering.

You stumble out looking like you'd eaten something sour, swiping your hand across your lips before saying, "That tasted horrible."

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

A bright, wry smile plasters itself on your features, "And?"

"And, if you want more," he begins, eyeing you. "You'll have to lose the rags, woman."

You straighten, eager—and promptly start to wrestle your top over your head, just to throw it at his face.

Cato grumbles at the rudeness periodically, before he starts sniffing the article. Vomeronasal organ having a momentary frenzy. It smells of warm you, and a little bit of sleep. Like an embrace, and—fuck, his spent cock twitches back to life. He really shouldn't behave like this. It makes him assume he looks savage. Even he feels strange. So he wretches your top off himself and tosses it somewhere to the left.

Watching you suddenly appear on the bed, fighting your way out of your pants is much more entertaining.

He likes the way you shimmy onto your back and fuss yourself free; and the way you practically lunge back close to him when you're finally bare.

You lean over him and grin, and Cato appreciatively drags a hand down your back, palming your ass.

Promptly, he rolls himself and drags you along. He groans theatrically as if you're fifty times the effort to move than you are, simply because he can. And the shifting of his bulk makes the bed shake enough that the stack of slates on the table across the room falter, and tumble to the floor in a loud clatter of sound.

On your back under him, he preens at the flushed surprise on your face.

"That was too loud—you're too loud," you heave.

"I'm too loud?" He grumbles, pinning your far smaller shape down. "Says you."

That stirs a groan out of you, at least, squirming while Cato drags his tongue up the side of your neck.

"Someone can still pass by and hear," you whine, "We shouldn't make that much—"

"I doubt it," he grunts, cutting you off as he slides off the mattress and drags you to the lip of it. "We have a bed all to ourselves. Your bed—in your quarters, with six inches of steel in the way, might I add. They'd have to stand at the door to listen."

He flips you over, pressing you front down—slumping against you on his knees to grant a rough grind or two to make sure you're hyperaware of his thick erection plastered against your ass. Your legs kick out and you wriggle, a series of ragged gasps leaving you as you endure the onslaught. A small lick here, a small lick there—huffing and panting to stir an empathic response. Winding you up to writhe and flush as he groans next to your ear, only to start chuffing out mean spirited laughter when you moan back.

"See, you don't really care about anyone hearing, do you?" He rasps out against your throat before sucking the skin over a thudding little artery. "You're not sworn to chastity. They might just think, 'oh, the Ambassador's found another poor soul to suck the semen out of, shame,' or the likes."

"I don't know how you do it," You scoff, breathing hard into the covers as he pulls away and grabs you by the hips to hoist your rear up into that perfect taunting arch he remembers so well from the cabin. Aptly presenting yourself on your knees at mounting-height while he stands.

"Do what?"

You laugh, "Manage to find the worst possible thing to say every time."

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

Taking himself in hand, he angles the tip of his cock to kiss the soft rim of your entrance. And Throne, Cato's ecstatic. He finally gets to fill in the gaps of what he should've seen back in the cabin the first time. The theatrics you'd hidden under rags and your own embarrassment.

He hears the cartilage in your gullet click when you swallow dryly and grumble, "Fine then, but don't say I didn't—"

You're rudely interrupted by your own shuddering moan when he starts sliding into you, and Cato's never been happier to shut you up.

He bottoms out in you in one smooth thrust, and the sound you make next is a stellar thing. An eager, warbling 'Sicarius–' as his cockhead jars right up against your cervix. Warm, fluttering muscles around his length and the mewling of a whorish little Ambassador are ever a perfect combination.

But he wants to be closer—so, so much closer; he wants you pressed to his front, so he can absolutely smother himself against you. He wants to burn the feeling of you and him into his edict memory, so nothing can untangle it from him.

Cato has to bend himself at an awkward angle to manage it, but he's well aware of the fact he can manage a free hand to draw lethargic circles on your belly.

"And if they can hear, it's not like anyone will believe them," he pants, a little chuff of laughter chasing his words, looking down at your face buried in the sheets. "They'll think you're a busted piston, or maybe a whining pipe."

"You're such a—" you start as his hand slides slowly down your navel, and your voice tapers off, "You're a-ah..." he dips his fingers between your thighs, and you moan, "Thro—oh—ne..."

His pointer and ring finger spread the hooded peak of your folds, then the middle moves in and rolls over your clit again and again and again. Your smaller, folded body strains back from the new attention. Mewling at the stretch, and the hot, heavy press of trans-human dick inside you. It's just how he likes it. He's got you all to himself, his bulky hips flush to your ass, and his pleased rumbling beside your head. He's genuinely content, if not for the constant paranoia—but content is a feeling he never really appreciated before the warp everything went to shit. But that paranoia is inconsequential compared to the sheer amount of joy he feels with you near and receptive to his affections marauding.

"That's it," he rasps, and he has to swallow down how much he's raring to just blindly rut into you like a savage. "Now, be a good little whore—and say 'Cato, harder please,' for me."

The request falls on deaf... or rather, cock-drunk ears. You simply moan in answer and squeeze, over-eager for him to keep practically putting a dent your womb. It catches Cato by surprise when you climax all too suddenly, high-strung, and fuck, everything in that moment is absolutely perfect—Cato would gladly suffer for an eternity to stay, just like this, for as long as the accursed galaxy will allow. Your body reduced to a juddering wreck, arching forwards and suffering even more touch to your abused clit; your insides twitching in time around him with each passing graze of his finger over that sensitive nerve.

Rearing back isn't a safe choice either, because you end up getting even more of him in your cunt—unable to escape his efforts to hound you over the edge as soon as possible again.

"I c-can't, I-I—" you whine, and in response, like any reasonable Astartes, he keeps pounding until you're compliant.

"Say it," he pants.

"Ca—ah–Cato, h-harder, please—" you start crying as you shake underneath him.

His ears practically perk up at you finally using his first name; it was only quick and garbled, but he's so glad to hear it—he's already addicted to it, impropriety damned, because fuck does it sound good. It's always been Commander, and only recently had it been Sicarius—but now you're finally giving him the validation of crying out for Cato—for him, just him.

You can be louder, and clearer than smothered against the covers. So Cato acts on the brilliant idea to hoist you upright on your knees while he slams into you.

You're struggling erratically against the big hands holding you up, making the sound of a dying animal, now.

He fucks you right through your struggles, one hand keeping your head up under your jaw so he can arch down to tuck his chin on your shoulder. The mixed sound of your little rear making contact with his hips is a rushed, degenerate beat—Throne, the poor headboard of your cot against the wall too, it's almost like sabatons on steel, a rhythmic clank clank clank. And oh, then you make the sweetest little overstuffed sob, isn't that cute. Aren't you adorable.

He's only just started again and he's already liable to empty himself in you.

Suddenly, there's a scream of his name—and a quick, warm-wet splash from you that drips down his balls. Then you've apparently been struck daft and limp in his hold, sniffling out a wrecked little cry as you slacken. It's an entirely new phenomenon. It seems to be a good thing, seeing as you're squeezing on him like it's another orgasm—so he takes it at face value.

He keeps you upright and lets you cinch down around him, staying still—riding out the aftershocks of your finish and keeping his cock nice and warm and snug.

Cato is honestly surprised when you regain enough sense to weakly buck backwards and fuck yourself on him.

"Please... p-please," you slur, and it seems like all you needed was the incitement to be reduced to begging now; "Cato, in me, i-in me..."

Cato's completely enthralled, and he's never been more willing to follow an order faster. He'd walk right into an orbital barrage if you asked, right now.

He shifts his weight into the next thrust and meets your meagre attempts to get him to rut into you.

The loud, wet plap of him bucking forward is almost deafening.

His eyes roll back at the searing burr of pleasure that chases up his spine, panting through a clenched jaw, "So eager to be f-full of Astartes cum, huh?"

"Please, C-Cato—" You can barely even get the sentence around the pace of him practically rearranging your uterus into your stomach.

Fuck, he knows he's so beyond defective it's not even arguable, because he's practically feral for any hint of validation you'll give. And if you want to have your insides painted so badly, why should he deny you?

"I know," he pants, "I-I know."

You whine, well beyond words.

He's about as robbed of verbal sense as you are now, and he groans, your cries becoming hiccups.

He swears he almost blacks out for a moment when he actually finishes. His arrhythmic, choppy sighs chase each thrust. So suddenly seized by his end he slumps forward, pushing you with him, feeling half-dead and gritting his teeth as shudder after shudder wracks him. Persisting, his hips still keep pumping without a hint of respite, pinning you with his bulk while emptying himself inside you, just how you wanted. The subsequent leaking of his spend from you turns the pace of him still rutting into an even stickier cacophony of lewd wet sound. Hand splayed out beside your head supporting his weight, huffing and puffing to himself like a pissed-off bull as he works himself into overstimulation.

He stops at last with a long, trying sigh and pulls his slick and spent-wet fingers out from between your legs; dragging them across the sheets somewhere to the right before letting his palm splay on your hip, dry.

You're bent ass up under him, with your cunt still full of his cock, plus a thick load; moaning so lowly and continuously it's almost a purr.

Cato groans tiredly, rocking his hips a little for good measure despite the ache of it. "Does having me finish inside you feel that good to your little animal brain?"

Your voice is a fucked-out mumble as you say, "Well... 's not like... y'going to get me pregnant or anything."

Cato stays quiet, considering.

And that quiet seemingly sends you asking, "Are—are A-Astartes... sterile?"

"I'm actually not too sure," Cato huffs, and finally grows the spine to pull himself out.

Your gasp at his exit and subsequent little exhuasted 'hmm' is curiously without any hint of fear-smell.

He scowls, "And you're not at all concerned by that?"

A soft groan from you answers, "Got an i-implant... after the first t-time, just incase."

He doesn't have the balls energy to even begin to comment on the fact you'd correctly anticipated him trying after you again. Is he that predictable?

Cato rears back and makes an affirmative sound, groping at your ass, big thumb pulling one of your labia aside to ogle the fat pearls of cum dripping from you. You'd take another load, too. And if you ask him nicely enough, he might do just that right now—or have your mouth again. But he likes spending himself in your warm cunt far more. The way you squirm and squeeze on him when he's in you is intoxicating. Maybe later, given your exhaustion. You both have all cycle—or at least, whatever remains of his rest hours. Regardless, it's a genuine wonder the device hasn't succumbed to the stress of stonewalling an Astartes' draining his balls in you so many times these last few months.

He makes a soft tutting sound as his big palm smooths down your sides; his warm breath dancing across your inner thighs.

No better than some slavering beast, Cato gives into the urge sent by his hindbrain and licks a wide band from clit to taint in one smooth motion, and pulls away, seemingly briefly appeased.

Your squeal is priceless, but—eugh, his cum does taste foul. Nutrient gruel be damned, he needs to fix that somehow.

Sputtering as quietly as he can to avoid dignifying your similar reaction earlier, he grumbles to himself—still pawing and groping at your ass.

"You've ruined m-my sheets," you manage to say.

Cato grunts, "You're the one who decided to piss on them."

He says that, but knows it wasn't. It didn't smell like it—it smelt like satisfaction, and slick, and 'harder, please—please, Cato, harder.'

The sudden shiver that runs up his spine thinking about it surely isn't born of a vaguely possessive thrill.

Abruptly you roll onto your back and sit up, grimacing at him.

"That's n-not what that was," you hiss, flustered enough that you're stammering. "T-That was..."

Cato raises an eyebrow, "What was it, hm?"

Hook, line, sinker—

You dither, red in the face as you mumble, "It–it was nothing."

—and ta-da, he reels in an Ambassador.

"Oh, that's right," he grins and leans over you, "It was you finishing so hard you screamed my name."

Something bold rears it's head in you then, eyeing him petulantly; because you start swatting at him—and Cato's never had you actively physically retaliate for any jabs—so he just freezes, bemused.

They're barely even pats to his sturdy form, and it amuses him to no end that you're so small but still trying to annoy him.

So, he acquiesces; and starts using his own strength on you. He keeps it in check, of course; because you're still a twig of a baseline, even as grating as you are. He's practically tossing you around on the bed with minimal actual effort. Big hands stroking and kneading, rolling you around, pinning you beneath him and trying to annoy you back.

The efforts yield an entirely different result. You're laughing, hyperventilating, and every rough grope earns him a shrill little keen of excitement.

"Throne, you're a degenerate," Cato hums, giving you a wry look before reeling you back under him. "Getting off on being tossed around, are you?"

And with a yelp, you're made to watch him maraud his way up your body again.

You start grinning then, and it's not the typical sweet, coy smile of you luring him in; rather, it's one of a mad thing, feral and giddy.

You snigger sharply, a little breathless from struggling. "You say that like t-there's any downsides."

Cato scoffs, and rolls onto his back, pouting. "So anything that can rough you up will do, then?"

"I, unfortunately, have a very singular preference," you chuff, and snuggle up against him; tucking your chin against his neck, humming softly to yourself.

"Is that so?" He grunts, "And what would that be?"

The kiss to his jaw is heartachingly soft, and you snort a little when he turns to look down at you and your cheek is grated by his stubble.

Your big eyes are locked on his, half-lidded and lazy, and there's that familiar, honeyed look in them again. The soft, heady fixation of focused affection.

Cato feels like he's about to start weeping out of sheer joy. You're all his, your time, your gaze, your adoration—everything.

He's practically vibrating from elation.

"Despite your profession, you are terrible at hiding your emotions," he snarls, despite himself.

"Look at the time—aren't you expected somewhere, Commander Sicarius?" You ask sourly, but the warmth in your eyes stays the same.

Cato wonders if his expression betrays any of that sort of softness. If there's any residual capacity to show affection left in his face after all he's been through. He's sure there's something going on there that's got you looking at him with that sweet gaze. Or maybe you've gotten a good read on what's going on in his head now. He certainly feels as if he's been figured out. As if you've got him pried and nailed open like a xenos corpse in some creaking admech's lair. The prospect isn't anywhere near as daunting as it should be.

Still, he plays along.

"Probably, but you don't seem to really be complaining, Lady Ambassador," Cato quips low in his throat as he leans in close, only to pull away and sneer. Your lips part slightly as you swallow your words instead of speaking, clearly captivated. That said, he is also still a little breathless from teasing you so it was no surprise you seem dazed at his own attempt.

"No, I am—you've just more muscle than brain," you bite out with a flash of snark a second late, taunting him further by sticking your tongue out.

Retaliating immediately, he snares your mouth against his own; sliding his own tongue with yours and drinking in the soft moan that slips free. You nip his bottom lip vengefully, making him stifle a growl and lean away as he hisses, "Don't tempt me for a third."

It's no lie, because fuck, he probably could go for one more. Especially with the treatment he's receiving now.

"Why not?" you say in a tone that's so sweet one of his hearts aches.

"You want more already?" He drawls as he licks your jaw, your throat, everywhere and anywhere his mouth can reach. Tasting the salt of your sweat, and practically suffocating himself in the smell of you. Basking in his victory—Cato makes a sound like a great big feline, somewhere between a chuff and a growl against your neck; lazily entertaining himself by mouthing a bevy of bruises there. You almost immediately let him do as he pleases, your mouth hanging open, eyes half lidded and face flushed. Cato tries—and fails—to restrain the sudden amusement edging his tone at how easily you fall to your lusts. "You're going to overload that implant and end up gravid, woman."

"Throne, yes—" You slur, wriggling against him as he lathes his tongue across the top of one of your tits.

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

Cato glares at you, and raises a brow. You're pretending you hadn't said anything and he's stunned you think he's stupid enough to miss it, "Baseline ducal protocol likely dictates... I would have to carry you off to be wed if that happened," he says, rushed. "Or... something of the likes, I suppose."

"R-Right," You fake a cough and avert your eyes, and you're breathing a little heavy.

"Within the context, of..." Cato backpedals, suddenly hyperaware of himself. "Of... that theoretical scenario."

You harrumph meekly, and then mumble, "Oh, of course... I agree, in that hypothetical situation."

He blinks, flabbergasted, "...really?"

You clear your throat and nod stuffily, only to tuck closer against him.

There's an entire subsector's worth of unpacking those statements need; you agree, but is that you saying it's a distant assurance? That you'd let him, one day, or is it merely conjecture? The primitive satisfaction of that base biological imperative is a heady one. Dangerous, too. If there is a chance of knocking you up, it would require significant subterfuge to keep hidden. Astartes can smell that sort of thing—and fuck, a Primarch could probably tell who's it was when given a source sample. He's got no litmus test for how easy you both would be caught. Maybe if you're suddenly on leave, for say, nine-months? That's one solution.

But where would you go—oh, Throne, he's thinking about Talassar again, and you in a pretty little slip, or in his rest robes, lying next to him notating; maybe resting against his chest in the crook of his arm—the fantasy is mundane, and domestic, and anathema to his status as High Suzerain of Ultramar, but still his cock throbs and his cheeks heat at the idea of calling you Lady Sicarius.

Your hands card through his hair abruptly, combing and petting him, and hm... that's nice, why are you looking at him like that—

"What do you think you've doing?" He growls, ever the hypocrite—his face doesn't feel hot at all, shut up.

You harrumph, "Stop pretending you don't like it."

"Whatever," Cato scoffs, and leans into your touch—not before mumbling; "Cunt."

Self-admittedly, he entirely deserves the feisty little smack he cops to the snout the very next second.

"Don't call me that," you pout.

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

He's having you a third time just because of that, for sure.

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blooming-violets · 2 years ago

Note

“You’re doing so well.”

"You're doing so well." || Inexperienced Smut Prompts

[tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader]

Warnings: It's a smut prompt so you will be reading about two people fucking. Obviously.

“I can’t study Physics like this,” you whined. “We can’t do this here.”

Peter had taken it upon himself this semester to personally tutor you for your finals. He had developed an interest in you when you quietly shuffled into the seat beside him on your first day. He knew Physics was your least favorite subject and, if you failed, you’d have to retake the class again next year without him. Every week he would inch himself closer and closer to you during your sessions until, late one night, tucked away in his dorm room, you experienced both your first kiss and lost your virginity within the span of an hour. Peter knew how to manipulate your body in ways that made it impossible to ever want to stop. He could turn you from a studious, quietly reserved woman to a moaning, desperate whore in a matter of seconds.

Tonight, he had you sat on his lap. Literally. He picked you up and placed you down wherever he saw fit. Your underwear had been torn down your legs and stuffed into his pocket the second you met him in the student lounge. There were no “hellos” or friendly greetings. You hadn’t even had time to remove your bag from your shoulder before you were being exposed to him. He knew what he wanted, when he wanted, and he didn’t care where it was. The student lounge was empty this Sunday evening, thankfully, but it still terrified you to be doing this in such a public area. You tried to encourage him to take you back to his dorm room but that was when he had pulled you onto his lap, ending the debate before it even started.

Your legs straddled on either side of his thighs, your pleated skirt curtained over the two of you to hide what was happening underneath, though any college student who glanced this way would know exactly what was going on. Peter’s cock was buried inside of you as you faced him on the couch. Large, hard, and completely stretching you as far as your recently deflowered pussy could handle. His cock was the first thing you ever dared put inside of you and it wasn’t a small task. You had cried the first time he split you open despite how gentle he tried to be. Now, it felt almost at home buried between your folds, even if you were in a public area. Your brain was saying no but your body was screaming yes.

There were no thoughts inside of your head anymore. Only Peter and his cock. His hands brushed over your baby pink blouse, running along your spine, as he cooed in your ear, “Shh, baby, it’s alright. No one is going to see you. No one will see how much of a needy, little whore you are. Your secret is safe with me. I’ll know if anyone is headed this way. You just focus on the questions.”

You shivered when you felt his cock twitch inside of you. Neither of you moved a muscle. Your eyes closed as your breath hitched in your throat, another whine whimpering from your lips, “Peter.”

“Come on,” he urged. “Answer the question I asked. You should have been listening.”

His hands slipped to the front of your blouse, his fingers working to slowly undo every button. You held your breath, biting down on your bottom lip. You had no idea what he had said prior to sitting on his lap. He had been reading something out of the textbook leaning on the cushion beside him. He knew you weren’t listening. He enjoyed the turmoil he caused and liked watching your brain short circuit in his presence.

Peter reached behind your open shirt to unhook your bra, giving him easy access to your chest, “If you don’t answer me, I’m going to remove your shirt and leave you completely topless…out in the open…where anyone could walk by at any moment…I wonder how embarrassing it would be if someone saw you like that? Imagine what they would think of you then?”

You gave a sharp inhale, eyes widening in horror, “Please, don’t.”

“Would it really be a shame if someone else saw these beautiful tits?” He raised the cups of your bra so he could admire your chest. “I can’t be the first person to have laid eyes on them. Surely someone else must have gotten there before me.”

He knew damn well that no one had ever seen you naked before him. The wicked glint in his eye told you everything you needed to know. His teasing was nothing more than empty threats. Peter would rather die than share you with anyone.

You gave a bratty grumble and rested your forehead against his, “You’re a terrible, mean tutor.”

A devilish smilish toyed on his lips, “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

“Mhm,” you whined.

His hand slipped under your loose bra to cup your breasts. He carefully pinched your nipple between his finger and thumb, brushing over it with small, fast flicks.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head and you inadvertently bucked your hips. The sudden movement on his cock caused a satisfied groan to rumble in the back of Peter’s throat.

“Focus, baby.” He growled in your ear. “Don’t lose yourself. Not yet. Sit still.”

The urge to wiggle your hips was too much. Your clit was aching, begging to be touched, desperate for any sort of friction. Your toes curled in your shoes as you repressed a whimper.

“The question, Peter. Ask me the question again. I’ll be good.”

He nipped at the side of your jaw and mumbled the question against your skin, remembering the exact phrasing without even having to glance back at the book, “A charged particle traveling along the +x axis enters an electric field directed vertically upward along the +y-axis. If the charged particle experiences a force downward because of this field, what is the sign of the charge on this particle?”

He was speaking a language foreign to you. All you could think about was how wonderful he felt inside of you and how all you wanted to do was move your hips.

When you took too long to answer, he responded by giving a hard tug on your nipple, causing you to flinch in pain.

“Is the charge positive, negative, or neutral?” He began kneading your breast to help soothe out any pain he gave you. “Come on, pretty girl. You know this. Use that brain of yours for something other than cocksucking. If you get it right, I’ll give you a nice reward.”

“I-” You tried to steady your breath. The fact that you had his dick inside of you in the middle of a public space didn’t even bother you anymore. All you wanted was for him to satisfy you. You didn’t care who saw. “Negative! It’s negative.”

A proud smile broke out across his face, lighting up his eyes, “Good girl! Now tell me why it’s negative and I’ll give you what I know you want.”

“Nnghh,” words were becoming difficult to form. You couldn’t stop yourself from moving, just a little bit, to give your body what it needed.

“Use your words, pretty girl, come on,” he chided you.

“It’s…oh, god…it’s negative because positive charges in an-an electric field will have an electric force in the same direction as the field. And…negative…will be in the opposite direction…so…it-it’s negative because the charged particle experiences a force opposite to the electric field.”

“That’s my smart girl. Let me show you how proud I am of you, baby.” He placed a quick peck to your lips before thrusting his hips upwards as you stifled a shocked yelp.

You didn’t even know he could reach that deep. You felt like you could feel him bulging out your stomach. His hands left your chest to fall down around your hips, gripping them tightly, helping to move you with each small thrust. It wasn’t enough. He was dragging it out, still teasing you, wanting to make you work for it. If you wanted to give your body what it needed, you would need to take control.

You braced your hands on his shoulders for better leverage and began to ride him. Your pace grew from soft, little thrusts to long, hard strokes, finding a steady rhythm. Tears blurred your vision at the overwhelming sensations of how exceptional he felt. The wait was almost too much but now there was no stopping you.

Peter’s head had fallen back against the couch cushions, his eyes closed, “Fuck, that’s good.”

You responded with a quiet whimper, nuzzling your face into his cheek to try to get his attention back on your face, “I want to be good for you.”

He opened his eyes to give you a soft smile, murmuring against your puckered lips, “You’re always so good for me, babygirl.” His slights gazed down to watch as you rose and fell over him, impaling his cock into you. He liked to watch it disappear, liked to watch as you took it all, every last millimeter like the good girl you were. “That’s it. Take it all. You’re so tight, babe. So tight for me.”

You couldn’t do anything except chase the divine sensations rolling through your body. The pleasure rippled through you, the knot tightening in your stomach. With every thrust, you were closer to the finish line. It didn’t take much for you to get there. Everything still felt so new, so fresh, that every sensation sent you spiraling. Peter’s hands tangled in your hair, gripping onto the back of your head, as he pulled you close against his chest. Quiet sobs racked through your body. You felt silly for crying over how good his cock felt but you couldn’t stop. He reduced you to a shaking, shivering, sobbing mess in a matter of seconds.

“Shh,” his soothing voice whispered in your ear. “It’s okay, pretty girl. You’re doing so good for me. You’re doing so well. That’s it. Just take a little bit more. We’re almost there. I’ve got you.”

Peter took over, moving his hips, filling you to your core. He switched his pace from yours. Instead of your frenzied, jerking thrusts, he penetrated you with a slow, deliberate intensity. He cupped your cheeks, drawing your attention to him.

“Kiss me,” he whispered in a husky, low tone.

Your nose brushed against his soft skin as your lips crashed onto him. Your tongue pried open his mouth and slipped past his lips to tangle with his. You grabbed fistfulls of his shaggy hair, moaning into his mouth, panting, getting dizzy from the lack of oxygen. It didn’t matter if you passed out. It didn’t matter if anyone saw you. It didn’t matter if you failed your class. All that mattered was Peter Parker and the way he lit a fire between your thighs.

You could feel your climax growing, Peter’s too. His rhythm sped up. The quiet, needy whines in the back of his throat got lost under your own whimpers. The swell of his cock twitched inside of you. He gripped onto you so tightly like he was terrified of you disappearing from his grasp at such a pivotal moment.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” he gasped out between heavy breaths. “Let me feel you.”

You rested your forehead against his sweaty one, gazing through half closed lids at him, taking in every look of needy desperation that flashed across his features. He wanted you just as much as you wanted him. His words were all you needed to let yourself go.

Your climax washed through you like a tsunami, overwhelming your senses, and sweeping you away in a whirling maelstrom of pleasure. A scream got caught in the back of your throat, burying your face against his shoulder in an attempt to keep it from escaping. Somewhere, in the back of your blissed out brain, you remembered that you were still inside the student lounge.

The sensations of your sex spasming and squeezing around his cock was exactly what Peter needed to finish. He wrapped his arms tight around your waist and forced your body down as he thrust up his hips, making sure he was entirely buried inside of you, as he erupted. Spurt after spurt of hot cum emptied into your waiting cunt.

“Ah,” you whimper, hiding your face into his neck, the tears spilling freely down your cheeks now. “Oh, Peter. Yes, yes, yes. You feel so good.”

Your arms felt numb and tingly, your head spun and your vision blurred. You had to actively remember to breathe or else you’d fail to do so. You tried to squeeze out everything he had to give you, feeling him throbbing inside of you, twitching as a shiver shot through your body. You adored how he felt without a condom. It felt raw and real like this was how it was supposed to happen. The night you gave him your virginity, he had used one, but once you started taking birth control, you had asked him to stop. You wanted to feel every part of him, wanted him to live inside of you. He was the kind of person who shouldn’t ever be covered up.

You stayed wrapped around him, safe in his arms, as you came down from you high. Peter traced lazy lines up and down your spine while you focused on your breathing. You felt like your body was glowing, brighter than the sun, and ready to float away. It would give a shudder every so often as his cock softened inside of you until you finally lifted yourself from his lap. If you weren’t the first one to move, you two would never untangle yourselves. Peter never moved away until you did. He always followed your lead. You often wondered if he would hold you forever if you never pulled away. One day, maybe you would test that theory.

You could feel parts of him dripping down your inner thigh as you rose onto shaky legs. You hurried to fix your bra and button your shirt back up. Peter made no attempts to get off the couch, his softening cock resting against his thigh, a large wet spot made by you damping his pants. He gazed up at you, admiring your body while you tried to make yourself presentable again.

“You know we’re not finished, right?” He asked, raising his brows in amusement. “We went over one, single question. You have an entire chapter to get through.”

Your mouth fell open in shock, gasping in his direction, the realization setting in, “But-”

“But what? I told you I was going to help you pass this test. We still have work to do.” His mischievous smile grew. “Sit back down.”

#the amazing spiderman #tasm #peter parker #andrew garfield #tasm x reader #tasm smut #tasm peter parker #tasm peter #tasm peter x reader #tasm peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #inexperienced smut prompts #blooming violets #blooming violets fic

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personapeters · 21 days ago

Text

facetime — an evan peters one shot ⟡ ݁₊ . ⊹ ࣪ ˖

blurb: it’s 2012 and y/n’s boyfriend, evan, is gone for work — over two-hundred miles away. he’s busy with his first day back on set for ‘american horror story; asylum’ and facetimes her on a break.

rating: sfw — contents: kissing, fluff, eating struggles

her heart expectantly races in her chest as she anticipates the soon-to-be incoming call; she doesn’t know why she’s so nervous, all she knows is that she is. her palms sweat and her stomach flutters every single time; online, in person- it didn’t matter how.

seeing his face and hearing his voice was never anything short of bliss; the kind you’d only ever experience in a dream. she waited and waited for what felt like eternity until suddenly, it comes. the familiar ringing sounds from her phone and suddenly it’s the loudest noise she’s ever heard; her nerves seemingly amplifying volume. she picks up her phone from where it was laying face down on her thigh, the screen reading:

‘evan<3 would like to facetime…’

she sits up quickly in her bed, propping her phone on one of her many pillows before shakily hitting accept. the call says ‘connecting…’ for a matter of seconds, only further building the anticipation. she takes advantage of the time to quickly adjust her top, and take note of the time (ten thirty-four pm), before raking her fingers through her hair, reaching to flick on her lamp and-

“hey,” his comfortingly familiar voice sounded through the small speakers breathily, as if he released a while speaking. the audio was slightly muffled by the cushioning of her bed but that didn’t stop her stomach from doing a million different twists and twirls upon hearing him speak. he wears an impossibility sweet close-lipped smile softly on his unmistakably tired features; he was just so grateful to see his girl.

“hi,” she smiles, taking in the entirety of his appearance. his broad chest was adorned in a plain black t-shirt, lips as pink as ever, eyes dark and gaze slightly hazy, his shiny brown curls floppily cascading over his forehead. brown.

she smiles a bit wider at the sight of his newly colored hair. it hasn’t been brown for over a year now, leading back to far before they started dating. he bleached it continuously over the course of filming the first season of his current show; his character being a dirty blonde. he was a deliciously sexy blonde, don’t get her wrong, she’s convinced he’d look good with any color. but, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t miss the sweet, warm, natural brunette she had met him in two years ago.

he noticed her seemingly infatuated expression, raising one of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “what?” he laughed, a hint of awkwardness within the question. he didn’t mind her looking at him, hell, he loved looking at her, but after too long of anyones stare, self consciousness kicks in and suddenly he feels exposed.

it would happen often during talk shows or interviews as well, where he felt like he was the lone spectacle of judgment and observation, where quite literally, all eyes were on him. it was live; raw, no room for mistakes. he would squirm in his place, sometimes laying his hands over his lap, nervously rubbing them across his thighs or crossing his legs subconsciously, shielding himself from the outside.

“nothing- nothing,” she shook her head, “you just- your hair, i like it.” the grainy quality of the tiny phone and poor connection wasn’t enough to hide the small rosy tint that made it’s way to his cheeks. he smiles, huffing air out of his perfectly slanted nose with a laugh, swiping his brown locks off his forehead with his long, slender fingers while he spoke, “oh yeah, yeah thank you, uh, my stylist did it morning,” he briefly checks his reflection in his laptop screen, “i’m still kinda getting used to it.”

she nods as he speaks, her eyes never leaving her phone as she inventively listened and smiled, which never went without notice. he’s always loved just how undivided her attention was when it came to him, it made him feel important; special. she made him feel like everything he said was the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard, and she always let him know it.

“well, i think it looks perfect,” she shrugs lightly, watching as he looked down at his hands and smiled before he quietly replied, “thank you.”

he always shyed away and became a little… awkward when given a compliment, or really any positive form of attention; her being no exception. he appreciated it, truly, but sometimes he just didn’t know how to accept it; maybe he felt he was undeserving.

she prayed that wasn’t the case. someone as pure and light and down to earth and genuine and loving and- the list could go on forever; someone like him deserves to be shown love, and deserves to truly believe they were worthy and deserving.

his reluctance to accepting kindness and acknowledgment in the form of flattery was habit of his she was trying to break, if you could even call it that. she knows it would take time, and she was willing to give it to him; all of it, if that’s what it took. she wanted to teach him how to not only acknowledge words of praise and congratulations, but to accept them and believe them.

“so,” she quips, his head rising quickly to meet his macbook screen, his newly dyed hair slightly swaying over one of his dark brown eyes, “how’s it feel to be back on a set?” she smiles enthusiastically, “everyone doing okay? sarah, jessica, lily?”

his heart swells at the question, adoring how involved and inclusive she was. he absolutely loved that she knew the names of his co-stars, and loved it even more that she cared enough to ask about them.

he was truly in love with the nature and pureness of her heart; the entirety of her being was something exceptional. from the day they met, every time their paths intertwined briefly in between, all the way up until now; she’s shown him time and time again how her soul was authentic and unwavering.

“yeah- yeah, it’s amazing, i-uh, i got to read over some of the first episode’s script this morning, it’s… incredible and, yeah- ryan and brad have been really good with helping get everyone, kinda, back into the swing of things and-uh, answering any questions we have and, y’know, allowing us to give our input on different things and- and taking our voices into consideration. they always do, y’know, make sure we’re heard and understood and-and yeah… yeah it’s been awesome so far,” he smiles brightly, gazing mindlessly at the wall behind the laptop as he reflects back on his day, admiration shimmering deep within his brown eyes.

“and-uh, the girls,” he continues, his gaze back on the computer before him, “i… i actually haven’t seen too much of ‘em yet, we’ve all kinda just been in and out of our trailers all day. we don’t start filming ‘till next week so-uh, yeah, today’s just been fittings, visualizing, some rehearsing; all that good stuff,” he smiles tightly, internally cringing when he though about just how long he’s been babbling on for.

y/n adores it, god does she ever. she’s endlessly infatuated with how mentally, physically and emotionally invested into his craft he was. he has a passion, and an endlessly burning flame for it, pouring every drop of his existence into his work. it was beyond evident on screen, the way he allows his characters to completely engulf him; he transforms into each and every role flawlessly, proving just how talented he really is.

it was admirable, yet… concerning at times. he’d seldom put his own wellbeing before his work. she tried with every chance she got to remind him to slow down; figure out what he needs before pushing himself any further. he’d tell her he’s okay, that he loves how much she cares, and that he’d try his best abide by her wishes to the best of his ability but he could never fulfill them.

yet, she knew it brought him immense joy and a sense purpose like no other; watching the glow in his eyes as spoke so intimately and passionately about the people and creations surrounding him was nothing short of magical. he was magic.

with no exaggeration, she could quite literally listen to him speak all day and night, about any and everything. whether it be his trials and tribulations of being a young actor in the limelight, or the intricacies and difficulties of playing the acoustic guitar; he gave everything his all.

“visualizing?” she asks with a brow playfully raised in a questioning manner, unsure as to what the word means within the context. “yeah… yeah, it’s basically just like… getting into character; learning about them. stuff like-uh, their background, how they dress, move and talk- thoughts, feelings, emotions. it’s to sorta… connect with them, y’know? helps you step into their body- makes it authentic,” he finishes, waving his hands in the air in front of his chest as he spoke; she loved how animated he was.

“mmm, i see,” she hums in response, nodding as she listens with a small smile never leaving her lips. “that’s really cool, evan,” she replies genuinely, not a hint of sarcasm or humor in her tone; she was dead serious. she watched as he pursed his pink lips while furrowing his arched brows together, head slightly tilted. “what is?” he asks, laughing lightly, leaning forward in his seat to rest his arms on the table.

“just- all of it, everything; you,” she answers simply, feeling her heart warm as she watched him slightly turn away to smile. “you think i’m cool, yeah?” he jokes with a small smirk, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek.

she rolls her eyes lightly before nodding, “oooh yeeeah,” she laughs, dragging her words, a knowing look pulling over her features, “all the cool guys wear ducky socks,” she playfully mocks, having a strong inclination that maybe he’d be wearing just that. she didn’t think he would remember, but she really hoped he did.

about a month into dating, the pair were casually strolling through their local mall, deciding to make something out of the day they both had free; although, neither would have minded at all if they simply spent the day at one of their two homes, sticking to movies or board games or even nothing at all, just eachother; that would work too.

• 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 • three months ago •

the temperature peaked around ninety-one degrees that day, yet evan was still heavily clad in a black hoodie and a baseball cap to match, his eyes covered by his dark sunglasses. it wasn’t ideal, but the last time he tried attending a public space with some friends, they very quickly had to take themselves right back home.

despite not being able to see most of his face, y/n though it was insanely beautiful how his dirty blonde curls poked out of their cover every which way, messily wrapping around the perimeter of his soft, pale face. it was symbolic; every piece of art deserved a golden frame.

they strolled aimlessly around the mall, fingers intertwined tightly, his thumb occasionally rubbing circles on the back of her hand. they wandered about like this for a little over half an hour, stopping once or twice when something caught their eye; but for the most part, walking, talking and people watching was satisfactory.

that was, until they came across a random novelty shop, tucked away in a secluded corner, full of colorful, miscellaneous nicknacks and useless ‘as seen on tv’ products that they have most definitely never seen on tv. it took no time at all for the two to come to a wordless, mutual agreement; they had to look inside.

they wandered up and down each and every isle, whispering, pointing and laughing at the endless displays of completely ridiculous and likely- no, most definitely pointless items. toilet shaped piggy banks, phallic shaped gummies, pickle flavored lip-gloss; all fun to look at; nothing they’d want to take home.

that was until evan’s hands found the ends of a pair of bright blue socks, decorated with sun-yellow rubber ducks, all styled with different neon colored hairdos and various accessories like glasses, mustaches and top hats.

“woah, check these out,” he laughs, sliding them off the metal pole that held them up before turning to show his girlfriend. “no way,” she gawked, laughing lightly under her breath, flipping them over to look at them from the back, new variations and combinations appearing. evan flipped the label around, reading that they were called ‘dapper duckies’ and, if he was being honest, these were sick.

“twenty bucks says you won’t wear ‘em out tonight,” he challenges, a subtle smirk playing on his full, pink lips, her jaw dropping in fein disbelief as she scoffs. tonight, they had some simple dinner plans with evan’s brother and his girlfriend at a fairly nice restaurant. this would also serve as her first time ever meeting anyone from evan’s family; that would be a hard pass.

she raises an eyebrow playfully, “twenty, huh? that’s all me sacrificing my pride is worth to you?” he smiles, shaking his head ‘no’, fully believing that it wouldn’t affect her pride in the slightest. in fact, he’s confident in the idea that she’d unironically love to wear them at home or even to the gym, just not to meet his family.

“forty says you won’t,” she rebuttals, lightly pressing his firm chest with her finger, unaware that their thoughts on the matter were alike. she knew evan would wear them in a heartbeat just because he could. hell, he’d buy them now and walk out the store in them if she challenged him enough. he’d genuinely enjoy it; he’d own it. for someone who grew as shy and timid as often as he, he was also very expressive and unapologetically himself at the same time. it was a beautiful thing to see.

“alright- okaaay, how about…” he thinks of an ultimatum, not wanting to give in that easily, pouting his lips out slightly as he did so. “rock-paper-scissors, loser… loses,” he finished, staggering on the last word and awkwardly laughing at himself. she laughed along, rubbing his arm at she did, smiling at just how endearingly awkward be could be.

“fine, but when i win-,” she starts, but he quickly cuts her off. “when you win?” he questioned slowly, gradually closing the space between them, his hips lightly pressing just above hers; he was always down for some ‘friendly’ competition.

she nods, gazing upwards at his taller frame a solid foot above her own, reaching a hand up and slowly sliding his shaded glasses down to the tip of his slender nose with her index finger. she stared him directly in his dark brown eyes before repeating herself, “when… i win, you have to wear them your first day in ventura; the whole day.” she finished, a giddy smile creeping onto her face at the idea of him walking around on-set with the little yellow ducks hidden just underneath his pant legs. she imagines him showing them off his to his co-stars and crew; smiling wider at the idea of him mentioning his girlfriend being the reason he has them.

he held back a smile, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek, while sliding his hand over his mouth and down his chin before nodding, “yeah… yeah, alright.”

• 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 •

his jaw dropped slightly, fighting back a smile as he not-so-secretly glanced under the table, double checking to confirm he was, in fact, wearing them. he knew he was; he knew for months now that he would be, not allowing it to be something that he forgets. she could tell by the look on his face that she was right, and waves of buzzing warmth ran it’s course through her body at the realization; he remembered.

it’s been months, neither of the two mentioning his loss or him upholding his end of the deal and yet, he did. she really liked- no, loved the fact he made a promise and he kept it, even over something as silly and small and essentially irrelevant as socks. she didn’t have to remind or try and coerce him; he did it on his own, because he wanted to.

evan smiles softly to himself, remembering the day he lost two-zero in game of ‘rock-paper-scissors’ all too well. y/n won the first round and he begged for it to be a ‘best two out of three’ game. “okaaay,” she had sing-songed, and something told him this wouldn’t end in his favor; he was right. she offered him a chance to try and claim the third point, simply out of pity, but he said losing three-zero would just be far too embarrassing.

he’s surprised she even remembered after all this time, thinking the deal would have been long forgotten and boiled down to a minuscule part of the memory of that day; a thing of the past, but no. she remembered it too, just as he did, and for some reason that made his stomach flutter. maybe, it’s because he felt as though she too, carried that time- that day, like a souvenir on the ever growing shelf of their togetherness; like it was something worth remembering.

maybe he’s just being silly or maybe he’s a little too sentimental, but he couldn’t have imagined leaving his temporary home at four-thirty this morning without them on. he made sure before he left his home back in the city where his lover resides that they were safely tucked away in one of the many zippered pockets on his suit case; he’d been looking forward to it for so long, he couldn’t mess it up this close. and he didn’t.

he’s snapped out of his thoughts upon hearing y/n yawn, watching as shuffled around the bed, picking up her phone from where it was propped on a pillow before softly crashing down on her side, pulling the blankets up to her chin. she stares down at the screen blankly, her hair messily framing her face, blinking slowly, watching him as he watches her. they sit in silence for a moment or two, each pair of eyes focused on the other, and, after his nerves calming significantly from the rush of seeing her face and simply speaking to her, he didn’t mind it.

“you eat?” she asks suddenly, or at least tries, her voice slightly quieter and slower in pace than before; evidently tired. “hmm?” he responds, furrowing his eyebrows and pulling the computer closer to him, not exactly catching what she said through her drowsy speech. he rests his chin in his palm, holding himself up with an elbow as he awaits her response.

“did you eat today?” she repeats, yawning and lightly rubbing at her eyes, feeling them start to ache. truthfully, he hasn’t, but he couldn’t tell her that; he doesn’t want her to worry. foods and beverages are always fresh and readily available on set, but he just didn’t want any, hunger a seldom feeling.

he’d just rather spend all his allotted time running lines and initiating discussions with the on-scene production; he’ll eat when he makes it back to the apartment, assuming he isn’t too tired to do so or maybe in the morning when breakfast is catered; either way, he’d be fine.

“yeah, baby…” he trails off softly, watching closely as she struggles to keep her eyes open. he wants to ask her too; all the time actually. it’s something he used to do quite often; always asking for when the last time she ate at was, if she wanted him to bring her anything, what snacks was she craving. eventually, she asked him to stop altogether, saying she doesn’t want him focusing on her eating until he focuses on his. it took him back a bit, but he understood the reasoning; it was valid.

she knows his eating habits are poor, and it’s not that he can’t eat, he just doesn’t. she had asked him before why he found it so crucial that she was eating, and the expected answer was ‘for your health’ and ‘i just want to make sure you’re okay’. she followed up by asked him why he didn’t apply that same ruling to himself, to which he didn’t have an answer. he, for some reason, sees his own health as an option, and not a priority. that’s something she is not she was willing to allow or compromise on.

he watches closely as she slips further and further into sleep, and right now, he wanted was nothing more than to be laying flush behind her, softly running hands over her warm thighs, planting kisses in her hair and on her shoulders as she drifts off to sleep in his arms. he missed her scent, and hearing her voice in person. he missed absentmindedly twirling her hair between his slender fingers while they’d lie in bed, kissing the corners of her lips tenderly over and over and over again, swiping the taste of her coconut chapstick off his own with his tongue. fuck, there was nothing he didn’t miss.

he felt his chest ache as he thought harder and harder about it; he missed her more than life and it’s only been two days. two. more specifically, two mornings and one night. he couldn’t possibly image how he was going to make it until sunday. he wonders if he’s insane; if it’s unhealthy to crave and yearn for someone as strongly as he does. they’ve only officially been together for a fairly short time but he’s known her- of her for so much longer, so maybe it’s not as crazy as he thinks. he supposed only time would tell.

sunday’s were essentially an off-day for all the primary cast members, allowing time for the producers, crew, and executives to tie-up any loose ends and prepare the call sheet for the following week. though, it was never guaranteed. sometimes, they could be called back in if needed, maybe to reshoot a solo scene, do some voice-over recordings, or review any changed or additional lines added to their script. but evan intended on staying on top of everything throughout the week, so come sunday morning, maybe even super late saturday night, he can make the three-and-a-half hour drive back to san diego to hold his girl again.

he knew their time would be far too short, as he had to leave nearly faster than he came, in order to make it to set on time the next morning. but that didn’t deter him, nothing could. it would be short but sweet, and the man planned on savoring every sugar coated second of it; he wanted to come back to with a toothache.

he glanced at the time, eleven-twelve, leaving him three minutes to make it back to the reading-room, another hour and a half of table reading to follow before he can finally make his way to the apartment; only to come right back at seven-thirty the next morning. it wasn’t always going to be this taxing and repetitive; he’s noticed with most productions he’s been a part of that the week before filming was scheduled was usually the most demanding; he just had to make it through.

“love,” he spoke lowly, careful not to startle her. “mmm,” she replied, eyelids fluttering lightly yet remaining closed, shifting softly between the sheets and scrunching her nose- awake, but not fully and god, did he feel his heart clench at the sight. he so desperately wished he could reach through the screen and leave a kiss on the tip of her perfect nose, to run his thumb across her cheek and leave another peck on her lips.

“i gotta go,” he whispered again, listening closely as she hummed lightly in response, likely not processing a word he’s saying- just responding for the sake of it.

“i’ll call you in the morning, baby… please text me when you wake up,” he whispered again; no response. he swiped his slender fingers on his laptops silver trackpad, directing the cursor over the red ‘hang up’ button.

he wasted away another few seconds, watching as her chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm. her lips were perfectly pouted, her arms pulled into her torso and tangled within the blankets, stands of her hair falling like lace across across her face; she absolutely was his standard of beauty.

he glanced at the time and noticed he was already two minutes late, fully aware of the fact he’s the only one prolonging this process. he knew they wouldn’t mind him being at least a few minutes behind, but he minded; a-lot. it was rude, unprofessional, inconsiderate; all things he wasn’t, or at least he tried not to be.

so, without another giving it a second thought, feeling the sudden pressure to pick up the pace grow, he whispers a quick, “sleep well, i love you,” and hangs up the call. he closes his laptop, pushing it backwards on the table before standing from his seat, stretching his arms and legs. he groans as he does, shaking out his hair before flipping it messily to the right, adjusting a few curls into place with his fingers before he-

holy shit, holy fucking shit… there’s actually no way he just- did he just tell her he loves her? after four months of dating? four months. one, two, three, four. he said it out of his very own mouth, to her that he loves her; not to a friend, or his brother or his mom, but to y/n herself.

he takes a deep breath, feeling his skin get hot as he started to panic, the idea of her hearing what he just said and being absolutely repulsed and breaking up with him and blocking him on everything and- god, what was he thinking? he wasn’t. he knows he wasn’t. he was in a rush and it just… slipped out. fuck, that was too much. god, why was he so stupid? he was in a genuine panic.

no, no, it’s fine, she was sleeping… right? or maybe she- no, no, she was asleep, he was sure of it, he saw it with his own eyes; he even spoke to her again and again and she said nothing- nothing. he runs his hands over his face as he tries to collect his thoughts and calm himself down, his eyes frantically scanning the trailer for whatever he needs to bring before he exits; he doesn’t know, he can’t even think straight right now. he takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady his head and focus on the task at hand.

suddenly, only adding to the stinging on his already buzzing and frazzled nerves, a chime sounds from his phone, deep within his pockets. shit, it was definitely someone on the team messaging to ask him where the fuck he was at; he was nearly ten minutes late at this point. he feels terrible imagining everyone else waiting at the table, tired and ready to leave, waiting on him. and here he was, fucking up everything on both ends.

he somehow remembers to grabs his coat, swiftly sliding it over his arms (the air inside the building brutally cold) and zipping it up before snaking his phone out of his pocket, making his way towards the trailer door. he twists the handle, pushing his way outside and quickly shutting it closed behind him.

he skips a few steps on the way down, hitting the concrete with a thump, before jogging towards the main entrance of the building. he glances down at the device in his hand, placing his thumb on the circular, white home button, deciding to shoot a quick text back to let everyone know he was still, at least, a couple minutes away from arriving and being able to deem himself functioning, but he was still coming; it was the least he felt he could do.

he unlocks his phone, frantically swiping and tapping the screen until his texts messages sprung open. he stopped in tracks, breathing heavy and eyebrows furrowed as the message was not at all what he was expecting to see:

from: y/n • today at 11:21pm

i love you too

#evan peters #one shot #fanfiction #evan peters x female reader #evan peters x y/n #evan peters x you #evan peters x reader #evan peters fanfic

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the-modern-typewriter · 7 months ago

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ive been obsessed with your work and i honestly just can't get enough of them! Could i make a request please please please! Supervillain captures hero and tortures them for months until they suddenly get bored of them and ask villain to get rid of them. Villain doesn't know that it's hero he was ordered to kill by supervillain and when he enters the cell where hero was he becomes shocked by what he sees and can't get himself to kill hero. Please continue this however you like im so excited!!

The villain stopped in the doorway of the cell.

It would be wrong to say he stopped dead, given being dead was supposed to be a relatively peaceful thing after the horror of it all.

(The hero, surely, wished that they were dead.)

The villain's mouth worked, but no sound would come out at first. He felt like he'd been punched in the windpipe. In the stomach. In all the vulnerable, gasping places.

(The hero, surely, would find that laughable given the state of them. They would love to only have the air knocked out of them.)

They lay in a broken heap in one corner of the otherwise pristine cell - no chance of infection or disease ending their suffering early, oh no. They were a blot of colour against the white of it all. Bruises yellow and purple and green. Blood red. The glint of bone where no bone should be visible.

Perfectly clean, glossy hair. Intricate, shiny restraints untouched by the violence around them. No clothes.

"Have you come to kill me?" the hero asked.

Their voice was raw, raspy, whether from disuse or screaming he couldn't be sure. It was impossible to miss the most tentative note of hope in the hero's tone.

The villain swallowed. Hard. "Yes," he said. Then, "I've been ordered to. I -" He swore. "I didn't know you were here. I didn't - oh god. How long have you been here?"

He willed down the nausea. What right did he have to be nauseous?

It was impossible to miss the hope and, abruptly, equally impossible to fulfill his task.

He crossed the room in one swift movement, kneeling at the hero's side, flailing to pull off his jacket. To cover the hero with something soft and kind against the bitter chill of the dungeons.

"I'm going to get you out of here, okay? It's going to be alright."

He didn't want to bring a blade down on the hero's ruined flesh, he wanted to offer soothing creams and bandages. He didn't want to invite the hero to drink poison, when he could give painkillers. How could he destroy? All he wanted was to fix.

The hero's gaze finally moved over to him, with seemingly great effort. There was very little behind their eyes. Everything except desperation had been carved out, leaving them some hollowed thing with their innards dumped like garbage on the side.

The villain was reminded of Halloween pumpkins and husked-out dolls, rabid dogs too exhausted to do more than froth and whine.

"Please," the hero said. "Don't."

Once upon a time, the hero had never pleaded. At least not without a glint in their eyes, a mocking twist of their bright mouth, like pleading was a favour, an inside joke that they were both in on.

"You don't want to get out of here?" the villain demanded.

"I don't want to wake up here again tomorrow."

"I won't let that happen."

"Like you didn't let this happen?"

The villain flinched. There was nothing he could say to that, was there? He could beg forgiveness, but the hero didn't even say it like accusation. It was just a matter of fact. Resigned.

"Finish it." The hero closed their eyes, apparently done with the conversation. "If you ever cared about me. Just...just finish it. You need to finish it. Please."

The villain pulled a knife obligingly from one of his many sheathes. He'd seen a lot of dead bodies. His hand wavered, utterly unable to imagine the hero as one of them.

"No," the villain said. His shoulders squared. "No. You're right, I let you down. God, I let you down. But I - I'm going to fix it. I'm going to fix this."

Maybe it was selfish. He'd never claimed to be an altruistic man.

He stepped out of the dungeons some twenty minutes later, gently cradling the hero's body in his arms.

He stopped a second time.

The supervillain lounged against the stairs leading up, eyes glittering, a delighted grin upon their face.

The villain's mouth dried. He glanced down at the hero, who tensed, but did not seem surprised.

They seemed...guilty.

The villain's stomach plunged icy.

"Oh, you failed," the supervillain crooned. They pushed to their feet. "I really wasn't sure which way it would go. We had to have a little bet."

"You-"

The supervillain attacked with monstrous swiftness. Both hero and villain cried out as they hit the floor; the sounds impossible to distinguish from each other. Everything rang sickening with pain.

The supervillain caught hold of the villain's hair, yanking their head back. In an instant, the villain felt their powers sweep over his body, locking every joint and muscle in place. Rigid. Rigor-mortis.

"Good job," the supervillain said, to the hero, in the tone of one promising a lollypop to a toddler. "As promised, you can go now. Crawl away if you can. The front gate locks in one hour! You know what happens if you don't make it."

The hero choked on a sob.

The villain and the supervillain both watched them, agonisingly, try to move. They managed a mere inch. Dragging themselves, with bloodied-nails, across the polished floor.

Then the supervillain turned their attention, dismissively, back to the villain. They tightened their grip, dragging the villain's body back towards the cell, the way they'd come.

"Ah well," they shrugged. "That's a them problem."

"No." It came out a wheeze, barely audible through the villain's frozen lips. "[Hero], please, what-"

"This," the supervillain declared, throwing him down where the hero had been. "Is going to be so much fun. Traitor."

#heroes and villains #angst #tw: violence #villains and heroes #I considered going sweet and then...well #villains #dark fiction #writing #darkfic #writing snippet

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 years ago

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Better?

Eddie Munson x fem!reader [0.8K]

Eddie’s bedroom was a lavender blue haze in the night. The shadows were only and the streetlight that managed to leak in from behind the curtains was a tangerine, barely illuminating the lumps and bumps of legs and hips under the duvet.

You watched the hours tick by, Eddie’s beside clock mocking as the red numbers changed over. It seemed an impossible task, falling asleep. You weren’t sure why, it could’ve been a number of things, really. Our impending exams, college applications, the fact that your boyfriend had only just been exonerated from first degree murder charges.

Ironically, the boy in question was asleep beside you, bare chested and warm, leaning into your side in a way that was soothing, but steady up and down of his chest still wasn’t enough to pull you into a sleep.

You shuffled, winced when the bed creaked, and tried to find a spot on the pillow that would be the comfiest. Everything smelled like Eddie, his cologne, his laundry detergent, a little smoke and spice. It was easier to push your head to his shoulder, sneaking the chance to press a little kiss to the exspanse of his throat, hopefully without waking him up.

It was a little selfish but it calmed you, the way you could feel his pulse jump a little under your lips. But the boy stirred, mumbling a little, his body turning and seeking out your own even half asleep. His hands found your waist under the sheets, fumbling to push under your shirt - his shirt - for bare skin. He hummed, pulling you into him as his eyes fluttered open.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Eddie mumbled, voice deep and scratchy, his lips brushing over your forehead as he curled into you.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him you hadn’t managed to sleep in the first place, the clock telling you it was nearing half past two. So you hummed back and let him hold you, a warm, wide hand tracing patterns over your spine, guitar string callouses catching at you and making you shiver.

You weren’t sure how he knew. Maybe it some kinda magic, some soulmate thing, maybe Eddie could just feel the way you held yourself too stiffly in his arms, unable to relax no matter how hard you tried. So he pulled back from where his nose was pushed into your hair, eyes a little blurry and his curls sleep mussed. He peered down at you, gaze aching soft in understanding and he sighed.

Not unkindly, not impatiently, just a little sad for you, knowing how awful you’d feel in the morning despite how much you longed to close your eyes now. He knew you couldn’t help it and he hated seeing you when the sun came up, lips downturned and cradling a mug of coffee like it was your firstborn.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” Eddie told you softly, swinging his legs out of bed. “You comin’?”

He didn’t leave much room for discussion, gathering the duvet from you and tucking some pillows under his arm. He headed for the empty living room, bare feet shuffling, cotton shorts low on his hips and the black ink of his tattoos only just visible in the dark.

You didn’t ask questions, didn’t argue. Not this time, not when you’d tried before and lost, Eddie throwing you over his shoulder when you protested and told him to sleep, that you were okay, it was fine.

So you tumbled out of bed after him, walking down the hall until you could watch him throw the bedding on the sofa, the remote control already in hand as he fussed with the TV, flipping through static until an old school horror filled the screen, still in black and white.

Eddie flopped onto the couch, curls messy over the pillows and he held his arms out to you, smiling that smile you swore was just for you.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

He made an exaggerated “oof” when you let yourself fall onto his chest but the boy was grinning, arms wrapped around your waist to pull you closer, legs tangled, lips dancing across your hairline.

“You okay?” He asked when you got yourself settled, covers pulled over you both as you lay between his legs, cheek pressed the warmth of his chest. “This better?”

The movie played low, a gentle buzz of dialogue and background music, bad special effects and low light. It made the living room feel cosier, the light bouncing off of the walls, reflecting off the windows. Eddie’s arms were strong and solid around you and he nosed at your temple, a different but sweet kind of kiss.

Sleep already tugged at you, soft and kind like an old friend.

“Yeah, Eds,” you mumbled into his neck, smiling “this is better.”

#Eddie munson #Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #Eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson fic #Eddie munson imagine #Eddie munson blurb #Eddie munson oneshot #UDWS10K

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night-night-stories-before-bed · 1 month ago

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Two birds on a wire…

Warning ⚠️; blood, angst, description of wounds, character’s death, spoiler for the Harry Potter saga

Pairing; Severus Snape x Male Reader, unconfessed feelings.

Summary; You thought you had time, but sadly Severus didn't.

Note; So I am not satisfied with this work but can't seem to make it sadder. I love the tragedy of Severus’ life and yet maybe I wasn't in the mood for a sad story? I might rewrite this in the future.

~~~~~~~~~~

Severus and you never were friends. Not during Hogwarts nor after and especially not during the first war against Voldemort, but you were on good terms. You never had a real reason to be in any disagreement or fight. Except for how he treated kids. You knew what James Potter and his friends did to Severus, but it didn't excuse him for doing the same to innocents children.

No matter how many times you fought over it, he never changed.

And then, Voldemort came back.

You'll never forget the fear and horror that filled you when you saw Cedrik Diggory’s corpse and heard Harry Potter. You knew the boy was telling the truth. You always knew it wasn't over. And with his return, Voldemort brought chaos into the wizarding world.

Severus took back his role as a spy just like you took back your own role in the Order. You two began to spend more time together; at first, he assisted you when you had to brew potions, and then he did it for you without being asked. In exchange, you gave him rare ingredients and books you knew he would like. Slowly, a friendship grew between you.

You were the one he came to after his meetings with Voldemort as if you were his safe place. You let him vent, speak about what horror had been said or done and never once judged him when he was forced to participate.

He came to you after making an unbreakable vow with Narcissa Malfoy, which horrified you. The thought of Severus having to murder Dumbledore chilled you to the bone, but it was true that the young Malfoy didn't deserve to become a killer. Since Dumbledore was already dying it would almost be mercy. Almost. Mercy for the headmaster and cruelty to Severus. You wished to take that responsibility, but it was impossible. You could only keep the secret and be there for your friend.

You promised him to run away with him once Voldemort was dead. Promised to live free far from the wizarding world. And Severus had accepted. You'll always remember how he actually smiled at the thought of being free and not serving anyone ever again.

He even called you his dearest friend.

Friend. What an euphemism for what your feeling grew to be. You loved the man more than that, more than you had ever loved anyone. Yet you couldn't admit it by fear of rejection and that it would ruin your friendship. You didn't want to lose Severus.

But you could see in his eyes that he didn't truly believe it, that he actually could be free. He was just a liar. There was so much sadness and acceptance in those onyx eyes which only made you more determined. You wouldn't leave Severus behind, you wouldn't accept to watch him let himself rot. That what you promised yourself.

Even when Dumbledore did die by Severus’ hand and Voldemort got his grip on Hogwarts, you still stood behind Severus. Not physically, unable to be in the school, but you spoke with a two-way mirror. For the whole year, you kept in contact, trying to help.

Then came the Battle of Hogwarts.

It was Severus who thankfully warned you and you immediately came. You felt desperate learning that Severus was nowhere to be found, that he had ‘fled’ knowing it was a lie. Severus was anything but a coward.

He wouldn't abandon you behind. You two made a promise.

You still had to confess your feelings.

You made your way to the only place you could think of where Severus could hide; the Shrieking Shack. The old place always crept you out, the air so heavy and dusty. It looked like the hideout of a murderer or someone with bad intentions, but its reputation made it the perfect place for Severus to find shelter.

As always, the place was dirty and quiet. You looked around, calling for Severus with low whispers. The man had good ears, you knew he would hear you. But you have no answer. You frowned, a rusty smell hitting you. You were used to that smell, but not here.

The smell of blood, fresh.

- “Severus?” You called louder. “Severus are you hurt?”

Again only the silence of the Shack answered you. You didn't like it. Severus would never leave you in the dark like that. Sneak and scare you? Yes. Ignore you? Never. A bad feeling in your gut made you feel almost sick, but you decided to have a look from where the smell of blood came from.

You wished you didn't.

Wished this was all a nightmare.

You froze, a silent scream on your lips as tears filled your eyes. Eyes that couldn't look away from Severus’ bloody body resting against the wall. Even with all the blood he had lost, your friend looked so peaceful, almost like he was asleep or trying to play a terrible prank on you.

- “Severus?”

Your voice broke as you stumbled toward him. Again, no reaction. You fell on your knees next to him, hands grabbing the front of his robes. A whine left your mouth when you shook his body, trying to wake him up.

- “Come on, Severus, wake up. Please wake up.” You pleaded, refusing to believe what you were seeing. “You can't be dead. You can't! You promised me…”

You sobbed cradling Severus’ cold body in your arms. The coldness of his skin was all you needed to know Severus was truly gone. He was gone, leaving you alone behind.

Your fingers brushed the wound on his neck, feeling the littles marks left by a bite. Lips trembling, you realized what had happened. Voldemort had gotten him using Nagini that damned snake. A pained whine left your lips as you rocked his body in your arms.

You two had been through hell back and forth, fighting for this war and sacrificing everything with no one to call your friend. Except each other during the last few years. So much done and for what?

- “You can't... You can't do that to me! You promised me! And… and I still have to admit my feelings. You can't be gone.” You sobbed, nose buried in his black hair.

Behind you the floor cracked but you didn't react. You didn't care anymore having lost your will to live. Without Severus what was there left to fight? You had no one, not with the job you had to do.

- “Sir?”

That voice. You would recognize Harry Potter’s voice from anywhere. You kept quiet as the boy walked up to you and dropped on his knees by your side. You said nothing when Potter put his cloak on Severus, covering his body.

- “It was Voldemort, with Nagini.” He said, confirming what you thought. “He left me some of his memories for me to see, you know?” Of course you didn't. “He loved you too. You… you became his only light in the darkness, his reason to keep going.”

Potter’s words cut you deep, like a thousand crucios. You whined, holding Severus tighter as Harry laid his head on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you and Severus. And you cried. Cried for all you had lost and all what could have been.

#male reader #x male reader #harry potter #hp #severus snape x reader #severus snape x y/n #Severus Snape x Male Reader #angst #x reader #fanfic #reader

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terabyteturtle · 11 months ago

Note

hey!!! Can I have Jin Kazama x Pregnant wife (who happens to be a model) Reader headcanons. An idea I have is what if they have to keep the pregnancy a secret from Kazuya due to a fear of harm??? Make it fluff with a bit of angst

Jin Kazama x Pregnant Model Wife Headcanons

Once again, I apologize for taking so long! I tried my best to encapsulate everything you put in the request. Hopefully, it's what you wanted!

- It takes him a while to process the fact that you're pregnant. When you first break the news to him, he's just in shock. He experiences so many emotions at once that his mind just stops working. You better have a chair ready because Jin will need to sit down and process everything for a few moments.

- Once it sets in, he becomes angry with himself. He took every precaution to prevent this from happening, and yet somehow, it still did. It's his fault. It has to be. Jin blames himself for burdening you with a child potentially capable of mass destruction, and although he's tried to separate you from his family feud, you're bound to get dragged into it anyway, and it's all because of him.

- The fact that you're a model only makes matters worse. You already get a ton of publicity and exposure on a daily basis, but now that you're pregnant, that'll increase tenfold. With help from Lee and Lars, you and Jin have managed to keep both your relationship AND your marriage a secret so far. However, with a child on the way, it'll be impossible to keep that secret any longer. People will ask questions about the father's identity, and it's only a matter of time before the paparazzi find out the truth.

- Upon realizing this, Jin launches into full-on panic mode. As soon as he's revealed as the father of your child, his face is going to be all over the media. And Kazuya will be the first one to see it. Jin isn't entirely sure what his father would do, but he has his suspicions. He can only imagine the sheer horror of G Corp soldiers busting down your door, hunting you down like hound dogs trying to take you and the kid. If those suspicions are correct, then you'll likely be forced into hiding until the war is over. As long as Kazuya retains his powerful position, there's no telling how much danger you'll be in.

- Additionally, the people closest to him are sure to freak out. Xiaoyu and Hwoarang would panic, and he already knows Lars won't take kindly to it. He's not sure how Lee or Alisa would react, and that uncertainty only makes him more nervous. Jin knows that he should tell his loved ones before they find out through the media, but the mere thought of mentioning it makes his heart skip a beat.

- To top it all off, Jin's main mission is to exterminate his bloodline once and for all. The fact that you are now pregnant is pretty much the opposite of what he wanted.

- His course of action was to take Kazuya's life, then take his own. He was ready to sacrifice himself so that the Devil Gene would no longer exist. As much as he loved the people closest to him, as much as he adored and cherished every moment with you, he knew deep down that the world would be better off without people like him.

- But now, this complicates everything. He doesn't want to take his own life and leave you to raise the kid by yourself. Sure, friends and loved ones might help you out, but at the end of the day, you're going to have a lot of responsibility on your hands. Additionally, Jin knows how it feels to have grown up without a proper father figure, and he'd seen how difficult it was for his mother. He knows how it feels to have lost a parent, and no matter how much time passes, it will always hurt. Does he really want his child to witness those same struggles? To feel the same pain? Does he really want to leave you behind, after everything you've been through?

- Beneath that cold, edgy exterior, there's a soft spot in his heart that truly wants to settle down with you, but he doesn't believe it'll be possible.

- As he tries to solve his dilemma, a million questions race through his mind. Like, what if the kid has the Devil Gene? Will he have to kill his own child? But it's not just his child; it's your child too, and he can't bear to imagine the pain you'd feel if that were to happen.

- But then, what if the kid doesn't have the Devil Gene? What if they turn out to be a normal kid? In that case, he'd care for them and love them until the end.

- But that's when a thought strikes him.

- Why does it matter whether they have the Devil Gene or not? They're still human, after all. They still deserve love and compassion and nurturing. Just because they have the Devil Gene doesn't mean they're inherently evil; they still deserve a chance. Hell, Jin himself has it, and although he's done some terrible things, he's trying his hardest to atone for them.

- Maybe Jin could help teach them how to control it. Not that he really has control over it himself, but that's okay. Maybe they could learn together. Maybe that could be their way to bond.

- That's when he starts to realize how happy this truly makes him. He loves you more than life itself, and the fact that he's going to have a child with you is one of the greatest blessings life can give him. Being a father will come with a lot of responsibility, but Jin is willing to bear it and do the best he can for his kid. He realizes that he is willing to undergo the trials and tribulations that loom ahead, and he will fight to the ends of the Earth to keep you both safe.

- Jin will try and convince you to take a break from modeling and lay low for a while, as any publicity will become more dangerous as time passes on. You think it would be suspicious to just drop off the face of the Earth, which is why you let your agency know beforehand that you're going to be taking a hiatus for personal matters.

- As the baby starts growing and it becomes progressively obvious that you're pregnant, you will be heavily discouraged from going outside at all. For the baby's safety as well as your own, it's best that you refrain from going out in public where the paparazzi are bound to catch you.

- Naturally, Jin becomes very protective over both of you. He starts treating you like a glass vase because he's scared of hurting you somehow. He also gets slightly paranoid around the others and sticks by your side to make sure nothing happens to you.

- He still blames himself a lot for everything that's happening, and he's sorry that you can't just have a normal pregnancy. You have to reassure him that no one's at fault for this, and you're just as willing to fight for the baby as he is. If you have to break away from your normal life to keep them safe, then so be it. It'll all be worth it in the end.

- With a lot of encouragement from you, Jin confides in his friends, starting with Lee, who is happy to help you guys out. As the CEO of a well-known company, he can try to pull some strings and get the press to leave you alone. While it's no guarantee that they'll be gone completely, Lee will try his best to hold them off for a little while. He'll also give you a secret place to stay, stocked with plenty of food and water.

- Lars almost freaks out but manages to keep himself composed. He congratulates both of you and agrees to help you out in whatever way possible. If there's anything you need, be it more food, more water, or just more paper towels, he and Alisa will go out shopping and get it for you.

- Alisa and Xiaoyu are super excited and happy for you. Although the circumstances are not ideal, they still want to make sure that you enjoy yourself and celebrate your pregnancy. In fact, they've already started planning your baby shower.

- Hwoarang also ends up being super supportive. Though he makes himself out to be a tough guy, he has a big soft spot for babies. Rest assured, he will fight tooth and nail to keep this kid safe. Also, Hwoarang has officially proclaimed himself the child's godfather, and there is nothing you or Jin can do about it.

- If Jin's stressed out, you let him lay down and press his ear to your belly. Listening to the baby and being physically close to you has become the most calming feeling in the world to him.

- If Jin doesn't know what to do in certain situations, he'll stop and ask himself what Jun would do. He loves his mother deeply and thinks very highly of her. She was a loving and nurturing woman, so when it comes to taking care of you, he tries his best to emulate that kindness. Jun was a wonderful parent, as well as an excellent role model. When the baby arrives and he officially becomes a parent, Jin deeply hopes he'll turn out to be half as good as she was.

- He will constantly ask you if there's something he can do better. From this point forward, Jin will always be questioning whether or not he's doing the right thing. Your input is valuable to him, and if there's any advice or guidance you have to give, he'd greatly appreciate it.

- At the end of the day, Jin wants to be the best father he can be. Your child's happiness, as well as your own, mean the world to him. No one can take either of you away from him, and Angel have mercy on those who dare try.

#tekken #tekken x reader #jin #jin x reader #jin kazama #jin kazama x reader #headcanons

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huevinart · 1 year ago

Note

PLS PLS PLS IGNORE THAT MESSAGE THAT JUST SEND I ACCIDENTALLY TAP SEND WITHOUT COMMENTING IT IM REALLY SORRY

As I was going to type , Syzoth with a fem!reader who is not afraid of his true form and when seeing his form for the first time, she doesn’t show fear but gushes and giggles saying how cute he is because in her eyes she sees him as a cute reptilian 💚💚💚

Of course!! let's give Syzoth the love he deserves 🥹💚🦎

Remember that I am accepting requests for Syzoth x f.reader🐊🐊

Syzoth x f.Reader

(Fluff / Romantic)

My reflection in your gaze

Fear ran through every inch of his body, he had met Y/n as soon as he arrived on earth, before her he was an ordinary man, before her that was how he should be, he would not tolerate her eyes looking at him with contempt or horror, those eyes that so much healed his soul and brightened his day with their brilliance, they had to be protected from what now turned out to be the problem. His people despise his human form, but this time it was the other way around, on earth the monks feared him or looked at him strangely. It didn't take long for it to reach Y/n's ears that the boy who courted her, the one who made her fall in love, with whom she shared long talks, whose lips captivated when they touched hers in a passionate honey-flavored kiss; he was a shapeshifter. Maybe it was obvious, but she, y/n was very clueless, her recurring clumsiness generated sweetness in Syzoth, every occurrence, mistake or oversight of her beloved made her heart beat rapidly.

For her, her worst nightmare had arrived, but he would deny her, he would not show her, he would not lose her, not her... "Syzoth, come, show me"

"No, Y/n, you're not ready."

"I was born ready, my heart was born ready to see how sweet and tender you are in your natural form"

Syzoth looked down and sighed, should I take the risk? She would flee, along with her her hope of forming a new family and moving forward together along the paths of destiny.

"No, I will be horrible and geotesque in your eyes, I will extinguish that shine in your eyes and I will never forgive myself"

His beloved's response was a smile and a big hug "Oh my Syzoth, I love you just the way you are and nothing will scare me. Plus I saw you eat spiders, if that didn't scare me, nothing will scare me" after that Joke, the heart Syzoth gains courage, distances himself and transforms. Without saying a word he looks for the sparkle in the young woman's eyes, and comes across an open mouth of astonishment that tries to form a smile, without realizing that she is walking towards hers. "Don't come closer, are you afraid of me? Are you upset? Tell me something, I'm begging you."

The warmest gaze fell on Syzoth, even though he was too big, leaving Y/N tiny. She grabbed both of his cold, scaly cheeks and kissed him on the nose, leaving Syzoth speechless.

"You're a sweetheart, you're cute and look at that tail, oh my gods, I need to touch it."

"What? You don't dislike me?" After that question she kisses him again but this time on the cheek and hugs him.

"What does it matter if you are tattooed, if you are green and scaly, you are a Syzoth, my Syzoth, my lizard and I love you"

Trying to hold back tears as if it were a mission impossible, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her against her chest.

“That your gaze accepts me is the best thing that has happened to me, my beloved.”

"Boyfriend in the morning, huggable lizard at night, you won the lottery!"

"It may be more fun than you imagine, my sweet love."

Out of nowhere a comforting but still surprising shiver runs up from her tail to her back, and/n was caressing the tip of her tail, with the curiosity of a child. Without a doubt, this revelation would leave more than a simple warm touch to his heart, now it was the beginning of everything...

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat1 #mk 1 #mk syzoth #syzoth #syzoth x y/n #syzoth x you #syzoth x reader #mortal kombat fanfiction #mortal kombat x reader #reptile mortal kombat #reptile x reader #romantic #fluff

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waterlilyspad · 12 days ago

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The Horseman's Bride.

Not fandom related, but a short story I made for Halloween, who knows maybe I'll write more. This just kinda hit me out of nowhere.

(TW for violence, mentions of blood and gore, vivid depictions of derealization, panic attacks, near death experiences.)

Out of every moment throughout your life and every single possible slip up, accident, bump in the night, and tiny happenstance you’ve been alright. The time a boy in middle school stuck gum in your hair sure, whatever, that’s fine, the time you thought a van was following you home after work, just for it to be a very confused grandma, whatever. The point being you've never once been confronted with danger, and you were so careful and comfortable with how you lived that you never imagined you’d end up here, feeling everything all at once running through your head the good the bad and the not so bad considering you grew up in a suburb your whole life. The fact is you're running from death itself and there’s no one to save you.

You're running faster than you’ve ever run, almost faster than the man chasing you, well almost as fast if it weren’t for the fact the ground is littered with rocks, exposed roots, and very damp slippery maple leaves. Why horror movie protagonists slip and fall so easily makes so much sense. You also didn’t anticipate being chased down by a serial killer so you neglected to double knot your sneakers before going out today. The laces flopping open with every step. You also didn’t charge your phone for very long, so the advent of calling for help is out of the question by now. It’s agonizingly obvious but, you're going to die tonight.

It is such a disorienting reality, you feel like you're not you, that you're watching yourself from the outside as you run with all your might, you didn’t amount to much, and it’d probably be a few years before anyone finds you. It’s the worst kind of derealization, why was I born to live such an amazing life? With a family that loved me, with friends that picked me up when I was down, to have nice neighbors, a good home, amazing food, music, clothes, a sense of imagination and wonder that ensured you finished both highschool and college without ever losing yourself along the way, you think, why was I born woman.

You curse as you begin to descend a hill scraping your knee along the way down hoping this would throw him off but the killer is still hot on your trail, as if he knows every step and fault of the forest grounds like the back of his hand. If I were born a man maybe I’d still be okay, but I’m not. You think to yourself as you round a few trees dodging and running deeper into the woods your lungs are on fire, breathing is very hard for you, you’re not an athlete but your not entirely unhealthy either, adrenaline is one hell of a chemical response but if you were male maybe you’d stand a fighting chance or maybe this guy wouldn’t have bothered you at all. But none of that matters, the horrible belief remains If you were just running of your own volition you would’ve given up sooner. Your knees begin to shake and wobble, please don’t stop, keep going, you beg in your mind but they don’t listen, and soon enough the perfect mix of everything that could go wrong, goes wrong. You step on your loose shoelace, your leg catches the bridge of an exposed tree root, and your legs aren’t strong enough now to catch yourself, you fall face first into the mud and soot of the earth, picking your head up and trying to get back on your feet is impossible, you’re pretty sure you twisted something, but in the midst of your panic that doesn’t register as you try to pick yourself up, only for your palm to slip on a wet leaf causing you to fall again. He’s coming, you know it, this is it, why was I born to live beautifully, and die horrifically.

Tears of fear and exhaustion are streaming down your face, your ears are ringing, your heart is pounding like it could jump out of your throat at any minute, and yet time continues oddly and unnervingly it continues without a sound. You're sure the killer is just doing this to give you a false sense of hope, he’s keep playing with you. Raising your head to look around the scene, your met with a dense fog that wasn’t there before, but is now heavily coating the forest, you see what looks like a light source skimming the fog, there’s an uneven walk to it, and your eyes light up, it looks like the light from a lantern, someone is out here. “Hello?! Please help me!” You scream you begin to slowly lift yourself up by holding onto the tree behind you, seeing the light coming closer your relief washes over you, but soon the sight itself seems wrong? The light is placed at a weird distance from the ground that wouldn’t otherwise be within a reasonable arm’s length. It’s hovering high above almost like a very tall street lamp, additionally the sounds of footsteps multiply, it’s the unmistakable sound of hooves stomping into the wet ground.

Okay maybe it’s a horse rider? On his horse at night just like you do with no murderous intent, your think, but soon your wishful reasoning leaves you as the person nears closer, the fog draping them as they approach, the light isn’t even something they’re holding, it’s illuminating from their head. You rub your eyes to make sure before fear takes hold again. As the rider approaches your met with the incredible but horrifying sight, a man with a carved pumpkin for a head appears, his horse is larger than life, and as dark as sky, its yellow eyes burning into your very soul, nothing here is right, your breathing picks up almost immediately. The horseman reaches to his side pulling out an axe, a small tree axe. Your survival instincts go wild and your skin is jumping, screaming for you to run, and you do, tearing your eyes from the horseman and feebly trying to run before feeling an arm lock itself around your neck. You choke and scream for dear life as a knife is pressed to your throat.

that is until the wind cuts right behind you, and something warm and wet spatters across your back, you shiver and cry standing completely still your whole body is shaking, your back covered in fresh blood. You slowly turn to look, the man that was chasing you is now lying on the floor, a ghastly black smoke rising out of his exposed neck with his head lying father away from the body on the floor next to you. You let out a scream and cover your mouth as the clacking sound of hooves draws closer to you. You hear a thud as the rider dismounts, your legs feel like jelly, your head buried in your hands as you hunch in fear not wanting to look death in the eyes. Your legs give out entirely you're sure you're going to kneel onto the ground but arms catch you with a quick caution before you're hoisted up slowly with care like someone catching their feeble grandparent.

You lift your heavy head out of your palms as you look up at the pumpkin looking back down at you, there’s a kind of warmth to it, like a campfire, or the feeling you’d get when putting your hands over a lit candle. You stay silent in frozen sublime, the circular opening of the treetops set a void like halo over the creature, you didn’t know it now but the beyond was staring back at you. In a rush of sounds and other ungodly howls, your attention is drawn to the surrounding area as multiple eyes appear. Creatures of all kinds, humanoid and animalistic alike begin to gather round. The rider stands you up slowly as you remain pinned to his chest. There's a sound like nothing you’ve heard before, you can’t understand it but it’s coming from the rider, something beyond you replies with a sickly laugh, another with a groan, and some creatures begin to back away. “What…What’s going on.” You asked quietly as he stared back down at you, his large hand cupping your shaking one, “Audrey May, trust me.” He assures before he kneels with you, your legs finally giving out as you sit on the ground and rest against his front, you look up and around noticing ghastly like apparitions and creatures watching you and the rider with feverish intent.

So many questions are floating in your head now to the point it makes you dizzy, just trying to come up with a clear thought is a herculean task in itself. All of it instantly melts away as your right hand is lifted, you watch as his other free hand lifts a ring to your finger. You're too out of it to react, reserving yourself to staring on in horror and shock, was this thing serious?! You look up at him with a look of pure confusion he responds with a whisper. “Play along.” You're relieved slightly but still uneasy, his large hand slowly lifting the ring to your small finger, it slides on like a glove like it was made for you and you alone. After the deed is done he lifts your hand to his false mouth making a kiss-like motion you realize in that moment the jack o lantern on his head is just that, a gourd and not his actual head as the carvings remain still. “Shall we?” He asks with more volume than before, you nod playing along with this supposedly pretend proposal. His arms link behind and beneath you as you’re hoisted up to him. your arms link around his shoulders and behind his neck as he lifts you up with minimal effort before walking towards the horse.

Your eyes scan the area, there are ghastly figures all smiling, some talking amongst each other laughing with a horrible sound, you look up to the tree to see child-like figures giggling. More and more of them appear to watch the horseman take his claim. You look behind you over his shoulder and see the body of the man who was after you and his head lying in the dirt, his face frozen with terror staring up at you, it makes you uneasy, you look away immediately. The rider lets your legs down and instructs you to hold yourself by the saddle rope as he mounts, once he’s mostly up his arm wraps around your back and in one swift motion hoist’s you up onto the black stallion along with himself. He secures himself on the saddle and makes sure your secure as well, the creatures of the woods growing closer to the sight. The horseman has you lean in close as he grabs hold of the reins, his head turns to the nearing creatures. “Eat and be merry.” He instructs at his word they dash to the body, you close your eyes as the rider yips and the horse marches forward, the crowd making way for the two of you as they focus on their meal.

The horse gains speed as you exit the scene, flying through the woods with the clicking of hooves, the wind flying around you as you begin to breathe more easily, everything in your body hurts and the jumping of the horse’s pace digs into your aching body. You shiver as the cold hits your sweat, against your better judgment you lean into the rider shaking, he’s well aware of this, his right arm letting go of the rein and closing in to hold you to him. The two of you ride into a clearing that looks like an open field. Slowly you feel your chest lighten at the sight of trees opening to a clear. Above the wall of mist and fog a starry night, you look up, your eyes growing heavy as the weight of your entire ordeal washes over you, exhaustion hits once your adrenaline has subsided, so you just stare up at the underside of this strange pumpkin man whatever he is. Maybe you're safe or maybe you're not, but dammit you were going to sleep, you thought to yourself as the cold wind blew the hair from your face, please if you're some evil killer like the last one, please at least let me die while sleeping, would you? You think as your mind washes to black; you fall into a deep sleep.

((Little fun note in folklore Dullahans are the harbingers of death that lead souls to the afterlife, makes you think.))

#headless horseman #dullahan #monster #monster x reader #monster x human #monster x you #headless horseman x reader #halloween #happy halloweeeeeeen #happy halloween #spooky season #jack o lantern #halloween story #spooky story #original story #classic horror #classic movie monsters #dullahan x reader #classic monsters

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 6 months ago

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How is Yves at babysitting like a 9 year old for a few hours and the child is perfectly well behaved and even tempered and listens well? Is he still traumatizing them? Can’t he just cook the kid some pasta and stick it in front of the tv?

Is he capable of bonding with child at all? Like if the kid saw him cooking and wanted to help, would he let them help?

Yeah he's just going to stick the kid in front of the TV and just leave him be. He doesn't see the need to traumatize him at the moment, but he will monitor the child enough to predict when they might lash out. So he could truly leave him unattended while Yves fucks off to do other Yves stuff (like watching you through his hidden cameras).

No, it's impossible for Yves to bond with any child. Or any average person, as a matter of fact. If the child wanted to help him cook, Yves will straight up say no. The fate of the child depends on this reaction, will he back off peacefully? Then, he's safe.

If Yves can detect even the most innocent speck of resistance, such as the kid asking him why can't they help... The child can kiss their inner peace goodbye, and say hello to the horrors that will plague him for however long Yves wants. That should keep him busy while Yves gets to do something else.

The only person Yves genuinely cares about and loves is you. Maybe this warmth may extend to someone he deems as your worthy platonic protector, but that's incredibly rare.

He cannot bond with something he sees as an object, Yves does not recognize anyone around him as human, he just sees them as tools he could use to benefit him or you. It's even debatable whether you appear as human in his eyes or not, but you are without a doubt, the only one he loves and reveres deeply.

To Yves, the value of a child is very low. That was drilled into his once innocent mind time and time again. So he treats them according to his views.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere male #oc yves #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader

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writingjourney · 1 year ago

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Friday Nights at the Cinema Club | Vampire!Primo x gn!Reader

Summary: The handsome old gentleman who attends the late night showings is certainly the best part about your small town weekend job. But as the gentle attraction between you slowly begins to bloom, you realise that there’s more to him than meets the eye – and promptly find yourself chased into the woods by an unexpected monster.

Content: 14k words, vampire!primo, gn!reader, horror, violence, being hunted, harassment, men being assholes, smut (18+ MDNI, biting, blood kink/blood drinking, oral sex r!receiving, penetration, coming inside, unprotected sex)

This was originally intended to fill the “hunted” prompt for the @petrifyingpapas challenge. I am a little late but I hope you enjoy it anyway and give Primo his chance to shine! ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link – Part 2 | Secondo's story

“This life of earth, whatever my attire, Would pain me in its wonted fashion. Too old am I to play with passion; Too young, to be without desire.”

― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust: Part 1

Now

He’s been following you for weeks.

Primo just can’t stop himself, no matter how many times he tells himself that he’s overstepping. As he watches the hurried pace you set, carrying you home in the early hours of a cool spring morning, he smells your distress like an overly strong perfume. Jacket tightly wrapped around your tense shoulders, your steps quicken whenever you leave the safe light of a streetlamp. You’re always nervous walking home alone, even more so since the incident at work.

This is the very thought that calms his conscience – his concern is rightful, necessary even. He has to protect you because you have no one else who will. Not that you cannot protect yourself, he knows you can, you hold your own quite nicely, but why take any unnecessary risks? Four eyes see more than two, especially if two of those have preternatural vision.

Suddenly you stop, glancing around with searching eyes. “Hello?”

Primo stops as well. It’s impossible that you heard him, he didn’t make any sounds that a human ear could process. Your eyes dart in a different direction and he’s on alert immediately. A few rapid beats of your heart pass. You seem to decide that you’re alright because you continue on your journey even if your legs move that extra bit quicker, walking as fast as possible without actually running.

No, Primo knows you don’t need him. You never ask him to walk you home and when he offers, you politely decline every single time. You don’t need him. You don’t need him how he needs you, and yet it feels good to imagine that you do. That anyone does. The thought he will not entertain, however, is that his motive is a selfish one. He’s been lonely for so long that he pours all that he has into this… whatever this is. And why should he not? In all the centuries that passed since he was cast upon this earth you’re the most wonderful thing he ever had the pleasure to behold and his time with you is so tragically limited, no matter what happens.

“Fuck,” he hears you mutter then, effectively distracting him. Again, you stop very suddenly, glancing vaguely into the direction he’s hiding in but without any real focus. “Who the fuck is there?”

Primo doesn’t sense anyone else. Possibly, you just heard a strange noise which wouldn’t be the first time since the incident. You’ve been on edge ever since and understandably so. Of course you don’t know that there is no danger of the same thing ever repeating. Which doesn’t mean you’re safe from other perils. Primo dares to stalk closer, foolishly so, because he’s too close now and you must have spotted his movements in the dark because you start to run like your life depended on it.

To his utter terror, you don’t follow your usual route home but take the shortcut through the woods. With breakneck speed, you run along the mud path that meanders through thick pine trees and mossy hills. Primo has no issue keeping up with you of course but he worries about protruding roots and sharp stones you may not see with your human eyes.

His fear is misdirected. He’s so distracted, watching your every step, that he doesn’t notice the odd smell at first, the second strong, comparatively slow heartbeat amongst all the quiet and rapid ones of the forest animals. But this is no rabbit, no deer, no boar. When he finally notices the presence of the strange entity, the spike of panic is clouding every other rational thought.

He is after you – and he’s fast.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Four weeks ago

The man has been attending the late night showings for weeks now, every Friday and Saturday. Every week, he shows up exactly fifteen minutes before the screening starts, even though there are practically no waiting times in the small club cinema you’re working at. His attire was what drew your attention to him that first night, even before you’d seen his face, and his choice of clothing seems deliberate. Most evenings, he wears simple black slacks over expensive-looking Italian leather brogues. Tonight, he combined them with a loose white shirt with frills and an open collar that peeks out of a burgundy tailcoat with black lapels and gold embroideries. It looks old-fashioned but not out of place in the similarly dated establishment.

As he approaches you behind the counter, you’re struck yet again, despite being familiar with his almost ethereal looks by now. He must be close to eighty but his deep wrinkles only add to his effortless beauty. His most notable feature, however, is the skull paint adorning his stern face with two uncanny, mismatched eyes – one iris in green and one impossibly white. With his face framed by long blond hair spilling over his shoulders, silky and curled at the ends, he looks like a man who knows exactly how to present himself. An air of easy sophistication surrounds him as he takes deliberate steps in your direction. You’re not surprised that he shows up on weekends when your boss screens his beloved classics. At least that’s what he calls any movie that came out before the year 2000.

“So, Dracula today, yes?” It’s not a question as much as a statement, dripping with distaste. “And the 1992 one at that.”

“Do you not enjoy vampires, sir?” you ask, taking the money for his ticket. Every single bill looks pristine, like it’s been freshly printed, and again, he won’t accept the change you hold out to him, waving off with a gentle smile. Buy yourself a drink on my behalf, tesoro, he’d said once, and you aren’t questioning him anymore, you just pocket the money since there is no one you could split it with.

He regards you with interest. “I enjoy them, sì, though I never found their portrayal in cinema quite believable.”

You chuckle. “Well, perhaps that is because they’re not real.”

“Perhaps, yes,” he says unfazed. “Or perhaps it is the clichés, no?”

“I really like the movie,” you admit. “Though I wish she would just get with the vampire. I certainly wouldn’t hesitate.”

He cocks a curious eyebrow. “Davvero?”

His thick Italian accent makes you blush on any given day, even more so when he speaks plain Italian. There is something about the timbre of his voice that changes, like gold melting in the heat of a forge, the syllables fused together with a flick of his tongue.

“Mhm,” is all you can answer.

“Will you watch it as well, little flower?” he asks and you smile at the nickname he chose for you weeks ago when he caught you arranging a bouquet in the foyer.

“Oh, no, I’m not allowed to leave the register unattended. Or… well, watch movies while I’m supposed to work.”

“I see.” He smiles again, the black lines over his lips shifting so that he looks almost gentle, the severity of the paint watered down by the kindness in his eyes. “That is a pity.”

Is he flirting with you? You can’t tell. Surely, he is just being nice, a polite older gentleman. Would you want him to be flirting with you, though? No, of course not. You couldn’t even flirt back. Your boss might fire you if he found out that you even so much as looked at him the wrong way.

“Can I offer you a snack or a drink, sir?” you ask, remembering your actual job.

“You know, I will take a whisky today,” he says. “If you have it.”

“Of course we do, sir, you can choose your seat and I will serve it in a second.”

The stranger heads off towards the screening room with its soft, polished leather armchairs and moody lighting, jazz tunes wafting from the speakers. You look after him, his long hair gently swaying with every step, and the door to the backroom springs open. It’s your boss, Max, a man in his mid-forties, so unremarkable with his shaggy black hair and his blatant misogyny that he could be any man you ever met. Only that he practically owns you by way of paying for your every bill while you finish your degree. Jobs in small towns are hard to come by, decent men even harder.

“Go serve our customer, come on,” he urges. “I heard him ask for something”

“The register…”

“I take it. Move your pretty ass over, perhaps wiggle a bit when you do, the old pervert is going to love it.”

You make to leave without wiggling, heading towards the small serving station in the hallway. “Oh, hey,” Max calls after you. “I need you to clean up tonight. Cleaning lady called in sick. Feeling faint or whatever, broke down in the supermarket if you can believe it. They say she’s anemic, that’s their excuse for everything women have these days.”

“Okay,” you reply, hoping he chokes on his tongue one of these days. “Of course, Max. I’ll clean up. No problem.”

“Be a good little thing, don’t forget to check under the seats, always tons of junk down there after the evening showings.”

You nod and try not to run into the screening room and away from him. By now, all anger towards him has been numbed by the sheer amount of obnoxious remarks but you’re never sure if he’s above trying to actually touch you one day. So far, he’s all bark and no bite, but with men like him you never know. Being the only employee who works the night shifts doesn’t help but there is just not enough demand to bring in the others.

You find the stranger in one of the top rows, comfortably seated in what is your favourite spot as well. A smile creeps onto your face. “Here is your whiskey, sir.”

The man peers up at you in what looks like ingenuine surprise, his white eye showing a glimmer of sympathy. He must have heard you and Max but is clearly trying not to show it. You wonder how – you can’t even hear Max outside right now over the jazz music.

“Grazie mille,” he says as he takes the glass from you.

“Of course, sir. Enjoy your movie.”

“Thank you, fiore.” He smiles, always such a kind smile. “You are a wonderful host.”

You can’t help but smile back, looking at him for just a little longer than is appropriate. But Max must have started the film because the lights dim suddenly until it’s fully dark and you hurry back outside right as the title music starts playing.

Your stranger is the only guest tonight.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Now

You run. You run so fast that your lungs are burning in the cold night air. There is no palpable explanation for why you feel so panicked. For most of your way home you’ve felt almost paranoid in your constant fear of being followed. You felt like someone was watching you right from the start but when you came close to the woods your instincts just told you to run. By now, your legs carry you almost automatically despite the fatigue in your limbs. There is a tiny voice in your head that tells you you’re in danger. Big danger.

Halfway through the forest, the track gets steeper. Less feet have trampled it flat as the usual walking path ends and you struggle to keep up your pace. Unsettling noises grow louder to your right – panting, hurried steps, moans and whimpers. Two seconds later you suddenly hear an echoing growl that puts any wolf to shame. Your head whips around but before you can make out anything in the pitch dark your foot gets caught on a root. The impact is suffocating. Your lungs empty out and you think you’re choking on nothing. Only after a long moment in which you struggle for breath do you feel the sharp pain in your arm where it hit a rock, warm blood seeping into your sleeve until its wet and sticky.

Meanwhile, the steps hurry closer and even in the full moon light it’s hard to tell where you are right now. But then you see the trees swaying at the edge of the path and all you know is that you need to keep going. Everything hurts but you manage to get to your feet. As the world sways around you, you leave the safety of the trail in favour of the cover of the trees, their canopy shielding you from the moonlight and hopefully any following eyes.

But of course the creature chasing you doesn’t rely on their vision to find you. Before you walk another mile you can hear rapid footsteps and panting breaths behind you. Too scared to look around and risk another fall, you just run and jump and run even faster. The woods grow thicker, harder to navigate. You try to fish for your phone but when you finally pull it out, it slips from your grasp. “Fuck fuck fuck,” you mutter but you keep running. You can’t stop.

A familiar boulder appears somewhere in your peripheral vision and you wonder if you’re running in circles. You’re so lost. Even if the creature doesn’t get you, you’re doomed. But the thought is distant as a branch strikes you in the face like a whip. You run but more fallen branches block your path and as you try to jump, you get caught.

A shriek tears from your throat, so loud and drawn-out that your voice gives out before it ends. The steps are so close now that you know you’re going to get caught any second now. Cowering, trying to get as small as possible, you slowly shift around, ready to beg for mercy. An enormous shadow sprints towards you and suddenly, a bright streak of moonlight falls through the trees. You cry out again as your eyes take in the sight: Spit-coated fangs, claws, thick rough fur on what you can only describe as a giant made of muscles and the horrors of the night. Its facial features look familiar, shaggy hair falling into its cruel eyes. Whatever it is has no merciful bone in its body, that much you can tell. This is your death, you realise. This is it.

But before you feel the fangs sink into your skin or the claws tear you open, the monster loses balance. All you can see is a vague human-like figure pushing it aside into the shadows with a strength that is impossible to comprehend, two tall silhouettes wrestling for a moment before the huge hairy creature lets out a bone-chilling scream. The giant body slumps in on itself, lifeless, silent. You breathe in gasps, swallowing air that does nothing to calm you down. You fall over, sobbing silently in short-lived relief.

The monster is dead. But you’re not alone.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Three weeks ago

“So, are you a big movie fan?” the stranger had asked you today when you served him his whiskey. He always orders something now, almost like knowing you serve him permanently changed his ’no thank you’-attitude. Whenever you bring him his order he asks you questions and you end up chatting with him for longer than you should.

“Oh, I like them, yes, but the reason I work here, if that’s why you’re asking, is that it’s one of the few jobs I can do on weekends that pays extra for night shifts.”

“So do you have a day job as well?” he asks, taking his first sip. He’s wearing all black today, black leather gloves, a black shirt and black tailcoat. The only pop of colour is a red rose that he has tugged into a buttonhole of his open jacket.

“Finishing off my degree,” you explain. “I don’t think I’ll work here after that.”

His brow furrows in surprise. “No?”

You chuckle. “No, it doesn’t pay that well. It doesn’t pay well at all, actually.”

“I see.” He turns the tumbler in his hand, the amber liquid twirling inside. “I have to say I am glad. I do not think he treats you well.”

You glance towards the door but Max seems to be busy behind the counter still. “He’s… okay.”

The stranger huffs out a laugh. “No, è un stronzo.”

The smirk that tugs at your lips is hard to shake off, especially with the way he rolls the R in the word. “Yeah, he is. But I have to pay rent and get groceries, so...”

“I understand.” Another sip, slow, barely coating his lips. “Fiore, I do wonder… what is it that you truly burn for? What would you do if no restrictive invention like money mattered?”

You take a deep breath and then you start to tell him about your real interests, your passions. He listens with the avid attention of someone who genuinely cares, who doesn’t just ask out of mere politeness. It’s addicting, the way his intense eyes are glued to your lips, how his whole body is angled into your direction. You get so lost in his gaze, in your explanation, that you forget yourself for a moment.

“Eh!” Max suddenly calls out from the doorway and you jump at the sound of his voice. “Come over for a second, will you?”

You reluctantly leave the stranger in his armchair with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Enjoy your movie, sir.”

“I will,” he says. “Thank you, fiorellino.”

Max watches you with a scowl, roughly pulling you aside as soon as you’re within reach. “Do I pay you for chitchat?”

“No, Max, I’m sorry. I just…”

“You just what?” he snaps, clenching his jaw. “Flirting with the old men won’t get you higher tips, it only screams pathetic whore. You think he can still get it up?”

You stay silent, waiting for him to calm down enough to notice the impropriety of his words and actions. The urge to kick him is so hard to fight that you have to actively push your feet harder into the ground. Your fists ache with how hard you’re clenching them.

Eventually he simmers down, smoothing out his shirt as he clears his throat. “Anyway, you need to clean up again today. The cleaner still hasn’t shown up.”

“What happened?” you ask.

He shrugs but it’s an ingenuine, uncaring gesture. “Apparently she ran away or something. She’s been missing for a while.”

Missing? Wasn’t she anemic? Before you can ask any more questions he leaves you standing right there to start the movie. You head back to the register even though you know no other guests are going to be coming in tonight. For the whole duration of the movie, all you do is wait, scrolling on your phone from where you’re hiding it underneath the desk. No local news site is able to tell you anything about the missing cleaner other than the fact that she just left over night exactly a week ago and hasn’t been found ever since.

“Oh, did we miss the movie?”

You look up to see two men strolling into the lobby. They sway slightly, probably drunk, and smoke despite the big no-smoking sign at the entrance that’s impossible to miss. They look familiar in how unremarkable they appear, one is blond, the other one dark-haired, jeans and crumpled t-shirts betraying their status even though they move with the confident audacity only mediocre white men have.

“Yes, I’m sorry. The movie is almost over,” you say. “By the way, you’re not allowed to smoke in here, sir.”

“Are you off soon, then, sweetheart?” the blond one asks, taking another drag of his cigarette

“No, I have to clean up.”

“Ah, cleaning up… whatever, can’t be that dirty in there, huh?” He grins. “Unless… we make it dirty.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, a feisty one!” the dark-haired man says. “That’s how you treat your customers?”

“You haven’t bought anything.”

They whistle almost in unison, though their tunes are slightly off-key. This is not the first time this happens, it’s not even the first time these exact men show up here and try to harass you.

“Come on, maybe you can show us where you keep the liquor?” the blond man asks. “Have a drink with us?”

“I don’t think so, sir. If you don’t want to buy anything, I have to ask you to leave.” You try to stay polite, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “Please.”

He chuckles, tries to round the counter to touch you but there is a sudden shift in atmosphere. It’s almost like all of the warmth is sucked from the room, like the charged air of a thunderstorm is crackling inside its walls. The men seem to feel it too because they suddenly stop in their movements, giving each other nervous glances.

“You were asked to leave, signori, no?”

You look up to find your stranger entering the lobby. The movie must have ended because the lights are on again and he looks so menacing that even you feel a chill running down your spine. His white eye glimmers dangerously, the other one shimmering almost red now but it could be a trick of lighting. They’re narrowed, the skull paint and severity of his features giving him the air of a predator. When the blond man takes another step into your direction, out of spite or stupidity you’re not quite sure, the stranger is on him in a second. You’re surprised by how agile he appears in his age, wondering briefly if he just looks older than he is or if you’re just prejudiced. But the man backs away immediately, joining his buddy by the door. A second later Max enters as well from the backroom, looking mildly irritated but unbothered by the weird atmosphere as he slams the door shut.

“Any issues here?” he asks, taking in the two loiterers.

The men slowly backtrack, holding up their arms in pretend innocence. While the dark-haired one slips out the door, the blond man lingers. “No issue, no. Just had a question about your schedule.”

Max gives a dismissive wave of his hand and when the man is finally gone, he turns to you. “Were you rude to our customers?”

“They weren’t customers,” you say defensively, angry that he’d even assume something like that. “They were drunks.”

“Hmpf.” He gives the stranger another glance, still unimpressed, then grabs his bag from under the counter. “I’m off now. See you tomorrow. And hey, don’t forget to clean and lock up.”

“Yeah, see you,” you say, trying to swallow the lump of anger in your throat.

As soon as Max is gone, the stranger’s whole demeanour changes. His expression softens and he reaches out, his hand hovering right by your arm.

“You are alright, little flower?” he asks.

You nod but it’s hard to fight off the tears. Situations like that make you feel helpless and you hate it. Being at the mercy of these men is frustrating, especially with a boss who just lets it slide instead of protecting his employees. You could have handled the situation, you tell yourself, you’ve had to handle so many similar ones before, but it just feels so incredibly good that someone cares.

“I think so,” you finally choke out. “I just… This is not uncommon and I’m so fed up.”

“I understand,” he says. “Did these men bother you before?”

“Yeah, but other people as well. Even Max treats me like a piece of meat just because I’m young.”

There is a hidden anger in his face, a barely noticeable clench of his jaw, his brow slightly pulled together. You’re not scared anymore, though. The menacing energy he exudes is directed at something else, not you, and you can’t bring yourself to wonder how he manages to command a room like that.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” he asks.

You nod and he reaches out, running a gloved hand up and down your arm in silent comfort. You take a step closer and he lifts his other hand as well, gently cradling your cheek. When a fat tear of anger falls from your eye he catches it, telling you it’s okay if you need to let it out. But you don’t cry, you don’t want to feel weak or fall into his arms like a sobbing child. Nevertheless, his comfort feels like a gentle hug, calming you so easily.

For a moment, he lets you breathe in the same air, a leather-clad thumb swiping over your cheekbone with a calming steadiness. You smile at him and he smiles back, so softly that not even the skull paint can hide the gentleness of his features.

“I have to clean up now,” you say. “Thank you for being here.”

He simply nods, slowly pulling away from you. Only when he’s gone and you smell a faint flowery scent do you notice that he’s tugged the rose from his jacket into your hair. You press it to your chest, right above your fluttering heart, and pray that he never stops coming back.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Their blood tastes like shit.

Not literally but it’s by far the worst he’s had in a while, certainly worse than that of the cleaning lady he’s been feeding on last month. Admittedly, he did not consider that losing her would prompt your boss to just make you work longer. At the time she was just an easy victim on his way home, sweet young blood that was easy to obtain, the blue veins shining through her pale skin like they were begging to be used. But as he cleans his jaw with a handkerchief, Primo thinks that perhaps he can linger after the movies now. Any more time with you, however long, is of immeasurable value to him.

A groan. Primo looks down at the man, the blond stronzo who tried to touch you. He feels no sympathy, no reluctance. Full moon rolls around in three weeks and if they happen to die before then… well, bad luck for his partner. Though he can’t say he’s very tempted to drink from them again with all the junk in their blood – cheap alcohol, so much nicotine and other poisons. Perhaps he should just end it now, they’re at his mercy in any case. But no, they deserve to be punished for what they did and he knows bleeding out is not a very painful death.

Primo is not a cruel man, he likes to think. The nature of his being prompts him to act cruelly sometimes for self-preservation but unlike some of his fellows he finds no enjoyment in the kill. Not anymore, not after his initial lust for blood was quenched centuries ago. Nevertheless, he has to admit that his obsession with you is testing those limits in ways he’s never felt before. For you, he thinks, he could turn into a killer.

A gurgle. The second man is starting to wake up and Primo decides to leave. He placed the wounds in unobtrusive spots, never using both fangs to puncture their skin, too obvious. They’re going to think they’re hungover and move on but he’s going to find them again, slowly drain them until the next full moon is here and they’ll find their demise in a different way.

Primo is not a killer, no, but he chooses the killer’s victims.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Now

You’re frozen in your spot amongst the thicket, branches and rocks digging into your body, the throbbing pain in your arm slowly spreading out. The sight before you is absurd. A giant dead body, a monster, a… a werewolf? You can’t bring yourself to properly think the word and yet you know that’s what it is. Not that it matters anymore. The smell of death mixes in with the earthy scent of the woods and spreads out in the air around you. The second figure hovers above the body for as long as it takes you to gather your thoughts. Why, you cannot tell. Are they shocked by their actions? Making sure the creature is really dead? There seems to be a hesitation in their every movement as they slowly back away and move into your direction, their frame blurring with the surrounding darkness.

“Stand back,” you yell. “Don’t come closer!”

Your voice is high-pitched, unrecognisable in its trembling state, hoarse from screaming into the emptiness around you. Your fear has your senses heightened and every snap of a twig, every howl of the wind makes you flinch. The being before you now is smaller than the one before, human-shaped if your eyes don’t betray you. The canopy is so thick here, the trees surrounding you so close to one another that you struggle to see anything. And yet you can feel them moving.

“Stop,” you yell again. “Fucking stop!”

A sudden sliver of light catches their face and you can see two glowing eyes, the one that you know as a deep green shimmering red like it did in the lobby of the theatre the night the two men harassed you and the other one is still as white as bone. “It’s okay, fiore mio. You’re safe now,” he says and you immediately recognize the Italian accent, the nickname. “I’m here to help you.”

You slump in on yourself, not quite relieved but still a little calmer.

It’s him. It’s your stranger.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Two weeks ago

“It’s nothing personal,” Max says. “But I’m losing money here.”

You nod like you understand. You do understand, just not why it has to be now of all times, so close to when you would have been done anyway. A few more months.

“Just not enough people coming in,” he continues. “And the old guy doesn’t pay that much no matter how often you flirt him up.”

Again, all you can do is nod. Your boss wants to cancel the night showings and lay you off. Supposedly, no other shifts are in need of any more people and he can’t keep you on. It’s a cheap excuse, you know it is.

“So, I’m off then,” he says. “You can manage on your own one last time, right?”

You nod at him once again, watching him whistling a merry tune and twirling his keys on a finger on his way out. The tears come only after you hear his car driving off. You have no idea how to find another weekend job for the next few months and the sheer surprise of his decision has your stomach in knots. If he’d at least given you some time to prepare…

“Buonasera, fiore. Can I… uhm…” You look up into the stranger’s eyes, trying to wipe at your tears but it’s too late, his expression has already changed into what you can only assume is pity. “Scusi, is this a bad time? Can I help you, perhaps?”

“I’m so sorry… I just… Ugh, Max wants to cancel the late night screenings,” you explain, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “I guess this is our last night here.”

“Cancel?”

You sniffle, your voice scratchy when you speak next. “Well, as you may have noticed, you’re kind of our only guest.”

The stranger takes your hand, soft leather pulling you from the desk and towards one of the run-down couches in the waiting area. He’s so gentle when he beckons you to his side, never letting go of your hand.

“He wants to fire you, sì?”

You nod, staring at your intertwined hands against the velvet upholstering of the couch. His thumb draws lazy circles into your skin, his hand so big it almost swallows yours. You want him to swallow you as well, his whole body wrapped around yours, engulfing you with his safety – but you’re not sure that you could ask him for a hug.

“I’m sorry, it’s really not your problem. I mean, you’ll lose your weekend activities but I’m sure you can just get Netflix or something.”

“Netflix?”

You look up with a smile. “Or… I don’t know, buy a DVD.”

The stranger smiles back, squeezing your hand just a little bit tighter. “Now, my little flower, do you really think I am just here for the movies?”

When your eyes meet it’s like you’re sucked into a vacuum. You don’t know whether to focus on his white iris or the burning need that’s visible in his green eye. The decision is taken from you when he leans in and captures your mouth in a kiss. You reciprocate without hesitation and yet he’s holding back, a suppressed moan bubbling in his throat, despite the tenderness of his lips. It’s not enough, not nearly enough. You press against him, opening your lips for him, and then the moan finally spills out as his tongue vibrates against yours. His free hand pushes into your hair and settles at the back of your head, angling your face in whichever way he wants to taste you. His lips feel surprisingly cold just like his cheek as you bring a hand up to touch him. The makeup smears under your fingers, at your jaw, mingling with your spit.

And yet it’s not enough, not until you’re half in his lap, until his hands roam your body with reverent desperation, searching, exploring. The kiss never loses momentum. He sucks in a breath and you push your tongue into his mouth, running it along his upper lip until you can feel his teeth. You frown into the kiss when you feel something pointy, pulling your tongue back, but there is no time to think before he sucks at your bottom lip. A sharp sting as he punctures your flesh with his teeth. He moans as the taste of your blood settles between your joined lips, sucking whatever he can into his mouth. You allow him to drink you in, offering yourself up in a way you haven’t done with anyone else before.

There is a moment in which you think, hope, that it never ends. But then he pulls away and you gasp for air. You stare at him, traces of red blood fuzing into the grey smears around his mouth. He’s a mess, equal to how you feel, but his eyes are focused, his gaze sharp.

“Do you want to see the movie?” you ask, hoping he’ll say no, hoping he’ll just take you away.

But he just chuckles, his hands slowly disappearing from your body until you slump into the soft cushions on the couch.

“Actually, I think I have to leave early tonight,” he says. “I will see you next week, fiore mio. Please, per favore, do not worry about your job, I will set things right.”

You want to ask what he means, if he’s going to talk to Max for you, but before you realise that he’s leaving, before you even finish blinking, he’s already gone. Furrowing your brow, you walk outside and enter a clear moonless night. Your flushed face soaks up the cool air and you look around, searching feverishly, but there is no sign of your stranger. You expect to see him along the sidewalk, perhaps he’s in one of the cars getting ready, but even after a few more minutes none of them roar to life. Nothing disrupts the soft silence of your sleeping small town and you shake your head in wonder as you make your way back inside, the metallic taste of your blood still lingering on your tongue.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Primo is livid, furious in a way that he hasn’t felt in close to a hundred years. You are not part of their deal and yet this feels like a violation of conduct. Making you cry should be a criminal offense and he wants him to pay for it, in what currency Primo is not sure yet. He knows he can’t let his anger win but when he smells the creature from two streets away, even in his human form, he’s ready to sink his teeth into his throat. And of course he finds him in a nearby bar, nursing a beer while he watches football videos on his phone without a care in the world.

“You won’t fire them,” Primo spits out.

Max looks up in pretend confusion. “Huh?”

“You heard me, stronzo.”

“Your little flower?” He pouts, mocking him, then huffs out a laugh. “It’s business, man.”

“The job is important,” Primo says calmly, trying not to get too riled up. “A few more months.”

“Cry me a river. Just do with them what you want, fuck them, suck them dry. Whatever gets your blood pumping, Count Dracula.” A sardonic smirk. “Oh oops, I forgot.”

Primo won’t be provoked, not from the likes of him. “You’ll give them time,” he says calmly. “Or I have to rethink this… agreement.”

Max sighs in annoyance. “Fine. A little longer. And don’t think I haven’t smelled you on those two assholes yet. I only get to feast once a month and I expect the vampire to have better taste, that’s why I agreed to this in the first place.”

“I do have taste,” Primo says. “And we both know that’s not the reason or why are you sitting here all alone, lupetto, eh?”

Max snarls but says nothing to this painful reminder. Primo doesn’t feel bad. Their agreement serves the sole purpose of attracting less attention and would not work if Max wasn’t an outcast. Their solitariness saves them and keeps their peace intact. For now.

Primo leaves with an aching heart, hoping the werewolf stays true to his word. He comes back to the cinema only to see that you got done in the meantime and left. It’s not like he actually planned to continue what you started earlier but he really wants to catch another glimpse of you, see how you’re feeling after what happened.

He finds you two streets away, hurrying home even faster than usual. You’re scared, he can tell immediately as he hears your rapid heartbeat, the blood rushing through your body like a raging river. Since the two men tried to corner you you’ve been especially on edge. He knows it’s because you expect them to try again and he wishes he could tell you that they won’t, that he’s watching over you, that he’s been slowly draining them ever since despite the awful taste of their blood. He can handle it, he can handle anything if it’s for you.

Only for you.

Primo relaxes after he sees you closing the door to your apartment and your heartbeat slows down. That’s when he leaves – always. He’s promised himself that he never lingers, that he doesn’t stalk or overstep, only makes sure you get home safely after your shifts. Tonight, it’s harder to leave. He can still taste you on his tongue and what a taste it is. Never before has he savoured blood quite so sweet, quite so rich in aroma, and the violent hunger inside of him tries to keep him by your house for more.

But the kiss was a mistake to begin with and he’s not sure yet how to proceed because he never expected you to respond quite so enthusiastically to his advances. Of course he could immediately tell that you wanted him, the smell and taste of your excitement so overpowering that it cut off any reasonable thought while it happened. He hasn’t lost control of himself like that in over two hundred years and now he set things in motion that may cost him this precious connection that he has with you if he’s not careful.

For now, however, he allows himself this small pleasure and lets the happy, giddy feeling settle in his hollow chest. If he wasn’t aware that he was a few centuries old he would promptly assume that he’s a lovestruck teenager. And he could get used to it, he realises, because with you he’s quite ready to start this empty life all over again and fill it with everything that he’s been missing.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Now

“You’re a vampire,” you state, twigs and stones digging into your butt but you feel to weak to stand up.

The stranger approaches you slowly like you’re a wild animal he’s trying to tame, the roles reversed now in your agitation and his calmness. “I am, sì.”

The urge to back away, to run for your life, continues to simmer in your belly but you fight it because you know there is no escape now. You want to trust him but you feel like you’re in a fever dream. It has to be a hallucination, maybe you were drugged at work today, maybe you inhaled the fume of some rare mushroom when you fell.

Your eyes meet the dead creature again. “Is he-”

“Yes, Max is dead.”

“Max?” Your shrill voice betrays your shock. “My boss?”

“Yes.” He sounds oddly calm, not like he just killed a werewolf. “Please, allow me to take you home with me.”

“Home? Your home?”

“Yes, my little flower. I want to look at your scrapes and cuts. Allow me, please.”

You hesitate, even as you see the shape of his outstretched hand, the same black leather gloves now ripped and torn, revealing slivers of his pale skin.

“I understand you don’t… trust me,” he says. “But I promise, I will explain everything to you in as much detail as you want and then you can decide for yourself. I just want to make sure you are okay first.”

You swallow, your throat still painfully sore from screaming. “Are you going to… I don’t know, drink from me? Eat me?”

“I will not eat you. And I will not drink from you either,” he says. “All I want is to look after you.”

You suck in a deep breath, ready to collapse on the forest floor. He could lure you into a trap, he could have been plotting this for weeks now, and yet you still feel the butterflies in your belly stirring at the sound of his voice, your body aching to be with his, even now in its weak state. Reluctantly, you place your mud-smeared hand in his and when he lifts you up with ease, his arms wrap around you tightly. You have no strength to lift your arms but you let him hug you anyway, slumping against his frame.

And perhaps you’ve lost your mind. Perhaps you should use the opportunity to kick him, to fight, but instead you start to sob into his shoulder. The world you thought you knew comes crashing down around you and he holds you through it, whispering that it’s going to be alright.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

One week ago

You can’t stop thinking about him.

The week passes slowly but you do get a text message from Max telling you he’s extending your employment for as long as it takes you to find a new job. You have no idea how your stranger convinced him but you never wanted to get back to work so urgently before – to thank him, to ask if there is a chance that you could see him outside of this place.

Any thought you can spare is spent thinking back to your kiss, extending it in your mind for hours and hours, exploring the fantasy alone in your bed at night with your hand between your legs. You ignore any of the worries that this intimate moment conjured up. So what if the stranger has a bit of a blood kink and conveniently sharp teeth? You certainly don’t mind doing it again. He can bite you wherever he wants, you realise, and you’d gladly let him suck on the wound.

He’s back Friday night and you can’t help but feel relieved that he’s not ghosting you after his sudden disappearance last week. Maybe it’s because of your intense crush on him but you swear he looks more beautiful tonight than ever before. His long blond hair is shiny and smooth as it falls into his face, the paint more pristine than usual. He’s wearing his usual black slacks but today he paired it with a deep red shirt under a black tailcoat with a red pattern of embroidered roses. His tall, slender frame leans against the counter as he regards you with a smile.

“So, what am I watching tonight?” he asks.

“Hitchcock,” you say. “The Birds. Max is a big fan.”

“Hm, I haven’t watched that one since it premiered,” he says and then he removes his gloves. You watch as he slides his now bare hand over the counter until it touches yours.

“Well, I’m afraid I wasn’t born yet back then.”

“No, fiore.” He runs his thumb over the back of your hand. His skin is cold and pale and wrinkly, the lines and bumps revealing a map of his life that you can’t wait to explore. His long fingers slide under yours, surprisingly sharp black nails raking over your palm until he holds you comfortably. They look almost manicured, his hand dwarfing yours as he closes it. “You’re such a young thing and yet our souls have found such a deep connection, no?”

You gaze into his mismatched eyes, a fondness in them that makes your heart beat faster. As if he can feel it, the corners of his painted mouth curl upwards into a smirk until you can see the crow’s feet under his eyes deepen despite the dark paint.

“Yes,” you finally say. “Actually, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to–”

You’re interrupted by the door to the backroom opening. You jump, pulling your hand from his as you see Max casting you a curious glance. He’s been in a bad mood all evening so you’re not taking any risks tonight.

You cough. “Ugh, here’s your ticket, sir. Enjoy the movie.”

The stranger doesn’t seem offended by your reaction. Instead he smiles at you, accepting the ticket from your shaky hand. “Grazie, fiore. I will let you know if I enjoyed it.”

As he leaves for the screening room he doesn’t even look at Max. You remain frozen behind the counter, watching his elegant form with a rapidly beating heart. Mindlessly clenching the hand he just held in his, you desperately hope you get to ask your question later.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

The werewolf won’t leave earlier tonight. As he lets the movie run in the background, only vaguely paying attention, Primo listens for any signs. It looks like he has to sit it out today, though, even as his patience slowly wears thin. One more week until full moon, so Max must be getting antsy, and Primo made sure to keep the prey alive despite his protests in the bar. Every time he feeds from them, he is tempted to bite into an artery instead of a vein, watch them bleed out, not even drinking their blood. But having Max go hungry will piss him off and since he is already aware of you, Primo can’t risk not providing him with any easier targets.

After the movie concludes, Primo lingers but he doesn’t spot you in the foyer. When Max finally heads out he sees no reason not to look for you and conveniently, the only place you could be at is especially private.

The backroom houses a tiny kitchenette and two desks for computers with displays that are already black. You’re standing in front of the open door of a supply closet to gather your cleaning materials when he approaches soundlessly.

“Don’t be scared,” he says from a safe distance. “It is just me, fiore.”

You spin around, your beautiful face lighting up at the sight of him. “Oh, hello.”

“I owe you the money for the ticket,” he says. “You never gave me a chance to pay.”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry… It’s not… I’m not embarrassed or anything, it’s just that Max…”

“Oh, it is quite alright, fiore mio, I know.”

A grateful smile. You don’t flinch when he steps in front of you, taking your hand in his to press a soft kiss to your palm. How lovely you are, Primo thinks, a pure, honest sort of beauty that he doesn’t deserve but wants with every fibre of his ancient being. He could show you a whole new world of pleasure and he knows it’s always the quiet ones who are so proficient in the art of sin.

“I was hoping I would have some more time with you,” you say and he perks up.

“Were you?”

“The kiss…” A hint of red dusting your cheeks as you fiddle with the hem of your shirt. “I really enjoyed it.”

Primo can’t help but smile. “Me too, my little flower. Perhaps we should try it again?”

He can hear your heartbeat quickening at his words, can feel your skin heating up with the rush of your blood. Even now he is surprised by the evidence of your returned affections, struck by how perfect you are for him, your trust just another sign of hope that you can find it in you to love him back if he allows you to.

“Just tell me if you want me to stop,” he says and then he effortlessly pulls you into his arms. To his surprise, you kiss him first, standing on your tiptoes and melting into his body. Your mouth is insistent, soft and sweet and so eager for him. Primo’s hands explore the shape of your body, memorising your curves for eternity. Impatient now, he pulls you over to the kitchenette that consists of nothing but a mirror over a sink with a few cupboards housing a coffee machine and snacks. There is enough space for what he’s planning to do, though, and he grabs you tightly before he removes his tongue from your mouth.

He can’t see his own image in the old silvered mirror as he hoists you up but he can see the dips of his fingers in your ass as it hits the counter. You hold onto his shoulders as he kisses down your jaw and chin. He skips your neck, skips the temptation, and drags his mouth down your chest instead, ripping the button of your shirt open as he goes. No complaint leaves your lips, only soft gasps and tiny whimpers. Primo pauses to pull at his gloves and then at your pants and then at your underwear, impatient, urgent, until he can finally feel your hot skin burning against his fingertips. Goosebumps form where his cold hands touch you and you shiver against his palms.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please.”

He knows what you’re begging for and under different circumstances he might make you beg until your voice gives out but with the smell of your arousal in his nose there is really no way he can hold back now. His hands on your hips pull you to the edge of the counter and he kneels between your thighs, placing two open-mouthed kisses that leave blotchy grey marks. Your eyes are half-lidded, hazy with lust as he gazes up at you and that’s enough to break his resolve. As he wraps his lips around your most sensitive spot, sucking gently, your head lolls back in pleasure. You’re so hot, so sensitive, reacting to even the softest of stimulations, and it’s addicting in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

You cling to the edge of the counter as his mouth works on you with violent passion, urging you higher and higher with his lips and his tongue, carefully avoiding his teeth. The taste of your arousal is so intoxicating that he can’t stop himself from moaning and he can feel a shudder tearing through your body. Primo increases his pace and you move your hips as well, following his rhythm and chasing your pleasure without shame.

You cum with a scream. Your hand digs into his hair, tugging, holding on with surprising force and it’s the most delicious pain he’s ever felt. He runs his fingers through your cum, licking them clean with a soft hum as he tastes you once again. But he needs more, he needs so much more–

“Do you want to come home with me?” you ask breathlessly as he gets up from his knees, the pain in his joints distracting him momentarily. “Spend the rest of the night?”

He looks at you in surprise but then a soft smile forms on his face. You’re so eager, so fearless. “You should be careful who you invite into your home,” he says. “You may find yourself hosting guests other’s would not deem welcome.”

You huff out a laugh. “What, like the devil?”

A chuckle and he presses a kiss to your forehead, longing to feel your warm skin on his cool lips again. “I wish I could, fiorellino, but I’m afraid my schedule is a little different from yours.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we have to do this another time,” he explains, despite the painful tightness in his pants. “Preferably, I want to invite you to dinner. I don’t like that we did this in here, it is not very… classy. Maybe next Saturday?”

“Oh, okay sure,” you say, a hint of confusion crossing your face. “Of course.”

He stands to his full height, his frame towering above yours and it takes him every ounce of self-control not to just take you right here. You’re pliant, needy for him in ways he’s only ever dreamed of, and while it tempts him to no end he suddenly becomes painfully aware of his responsibility. He needs to get your full consent before he gives in to a possible relationship with you. But right now is not the moment to tell you what he is.

“This… this is not you turning me down, right?” you ask with wide, hopeful eyes.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Oh no, tesorino, this is just the start of what I want to do with you and now that I got a taste, I don’t think I will ever get enough.”

You smile, the bliss of your high still evident on your face, and he rubs your thighs in small circles for a moment, the softness of your skin a gentle reminder of how fragile you are. Primo leans in to kiss you and fights a grin when you lick into his mouth to taste yourself. Maybe not so fragile, he thinks, maybe your hunger matches his after all.

“I will see you next Saturday, fiore mio,” he says. “I’ll be here to pick you up and we can dine at my home.”

You nod tiredly and he feels bad for leaving you like this after what just transpired. He can smell your cum on his fingers even as he waits for you to finish work and probably will for the next few days. But Primo needs to collect his thoughts. This is the start of something big, something messy, and now that he tampered with the forces there is no going back. The regret that comes with it is excruciating. He can invite you to dinner, treat you like you’re the stars in the night sky, make love to you until you both pass out in exhausted bliss – but it won’t change what he is. And what he is might scare you off. The thought pains him but he tries to cling to the small shimmering light of hope inside his heart that perhaps you can accept him.

Until he figures out the logistics of having you over for dinner without giving you the scare of a lifetime, he decides to keep away from you. The temptation is too strong now, his need, his hunger, a quickly expanding black-hole inside of him that might eat you alive if he’s not careful.

His resolve is strong, he tells himself, and it remains strong all week. Well, that is until he sees you running into the woods a mere day before your date, chased by a starving werewolf.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Now

He lives in the old castle at the edge of town.

It really shouldn’t come as a surprise but as he carries you through candle-lit hallways and multiple small chambers, old is the last thing that comes to your mind. Everything looks well-kept, orderly, the old-fashioned style of his attire translating to the interior as well. You never stay in any room for too long, the castle so big that you have to climb several staircases until you reach another long hallway. Several men in black hooded robes that look like monk’s habits pass you on your way. They don’t turn into your direction as you pass, some of them carry books, some carry laundry.

“Who are these men?” you ask.

“They’re my ghouls.”

“Ghouls?”

“Mhm.”

You don’t ask any further questions but cling to your stranger’s neck even though there is no need to. You’re safe in his arms, his strength limitless, and he does not seem tired even as you finally enter a chamber that appears to be his bedroom. Big arched windows make up one whole wall of the room and a double glass door that seems to lead to a balcony. The only light source is the full moon outside, casting milky white rays through the old windows. A huge wooden bed with silky white sheets dominates the room from the centre, most of the old hardwood flooring covered by a burgundy rug with a floral pattern, two chests of drawers lining the opposite wall as well as a desk covered in what seems to be his correspondence.

“You’re safe here, my flower,” he says as he sets you down on the bed. “I promise.”

You sit, watch him as he kneels down beside you. His face is nothing but kind, so full of concern and affection, but you can’t help but feel out of place. Knowing what he is now, while it doesn’t change the core of your feelings, still circles in your mind and you have to fight your disbelief.

“You still hesitate?” he asks.

“Are you reading my mind?”

“No, fiore, I do no such thing.” He takes your hand, covering it with his broad ones. “I would not abuse your trust, even if I could. And we have trust, no?”

“I feel like I can trust you,” you admit, tears of overwhelm pricking your eyes. “But I don’t really know anything about you. I don’t even know your name.”

“Primo.”

You exhale and let the word roll off your tongue. “Primo.”

He smiles at the sound of it, a soft, recognising smile, as if he hasn’t been called by that name in a long time. “All I ask is that you let me look after you right now, sì? I will explain and we can talk in depth later, amore.”

“Amore?”

His brow softens, giving his smile a sad quality. “My affections for you have not changed. Though I do fear that yours might have.”

You shake your head at him but before you can say anything profound, two of the black hooded ghouls enter the room. Another one joins right after, rolling a big copper bathtub inside, and you don’t even question their magic when they lift their arms and the tub fills with water. One of the other ghouls lifts his hands as well and suddenly the water starts to steam. The third ghoul places a piece of soap and a washcloth on a nearby stool, then hangs a soft-looking cotton bathrobe over the edge before they all leave without uttering a single word.

Primo helps you out of your shirt and you gasp when you see the blood covering your forearm. The bleeding has stopped but the scrape is still burning, the pain a distant throb. When he sees it, his gaze hardens but he just leads you to stand without any commentary, helping you undress, radiating tension and concern.

“It is okay that I am here?” he asks when he sees you unbutton your pants.

You nod in reply. After everything that happened you can’t say that you feel very embarrassed being naked in front of him and you feel safer in his presence, safer when he helps you.

The water is scalding and you have to take a moment to get used to it before you can fully let the heat ease the tension you hadn’t even noticed before. Primo pulls up a chair, sitting right by your head, and picks up the cloth. You watch his brow furrow in concentration when he cleans your cuts and scrapes and his eyes meet yours a few times throughout, gazing at you with barely hidden hope. You want to tell him that your feelings are the same, if not stronger, but you can’t find it in you to disturb the silence with anything other than the occasional hiss when he touches a painful spot. It feels too fresh still, too many uncertainties plaguing your mind.

Once you’re clean and the water has cooled significantly, Primo helps you out and immediately wraps the soft cotton robe around you. As you sit back down on the bed, he walks over to his desk and fetches a small brown leather bag. Inside, you find multiple small vials in different colours and an antiseptic that looks just like any modern ones. He uses a cotton pad to clean out your wound before he grabs one of the small bottles, holding it out for you to see.

“Let me apply this to your cut,” he says. “It’s a tonic, it will help you heal.”

You roll up your sleeve to grant him access. “So, are you a healer of some sort?”

“Well, I am more of a pharmacist.” He chuckles and lets a small amount of the white liquid drop onto your arm. “Not a doctor.”

“It feels good,” you admit, the cool tincture sticks to your wound, easing the pain.

Primo smiles and wraps a bandage around your arm, tight but not too tight, like he’s done it a hundred times before. You can’t help but stare at him, his eyes and his whole face so beautiful and mesmerising, barely hiding his emotions in the depths of his features. When he catches your gaze, he tugs his hair behind his ear like he’s flustered and you spot a small cut above his left brow.

“He got you as well,” you say, grabbing a new cotton pad and reaching out for his face.

“It’s nothing, it will be gone within the hour,” he replies but he still lets you clean the scratch with careful dabs. “I suppose that I am not as powerful as I need to be to truly protect you.”

“What do you mean? You seemed very powerful to me earlier.”

“I am not ugh… how do you say? In my best years.”

You furrow your brow. “I always thought vampires stayed young forever.”

“Well, you see, I was turned well into my old age. I am not as strong and agile as someone who is born with it or turned earlier in their life,” he explains. “Usually, vampires do not like old blood, they prefer the young and healthy. But mine was… very hungry and very cruel.”

You lean over and press a kiss to his shoulder. “Is it painful to talk about this?”

“No, fiore mio, this was many centuries ago.” He regards you with caution, letting his eyes roam your body for a moment. “Do you feel better?”

“I do.” You reach out for his hand again, fiddling with his long, spindly fingers. “So are we… I mean, do you want me to stay here?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But we won’t…”

“No, I will not touch you intimately again before we speak,” he says, squeezing your fingers. “But perhaps you need some rest before we do. You can sleep in my bed, amore. The sheets are fresh.”

The exhaustion is too strong to fight for much longer, he’s right in that, and you crawl under the sheets, careful not to strain your arm. The silky material feels cool and soft against your skin but you keep the robe on for some warmth. Primo sits by your side, watching you with the fascination of a scientist observing the bacteria in his petri dish. You wonder when he last spent time with a human like this, if he was ever intimate with a human before, but that is a question for another time.

Instead you smile at him. “Do you want to join me? Or do vampires not rest?”

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“I would really like you to hold me,” you admit.

He visibly fights off a happy smile as he rounds the bed, shedding his clothes until he’s only in his pants and his white frilly shirt. Hesitating at the edge of the bed he pulls off the shirt as well and you can’t help but stare as he reveals his pale chest to you, speckled with light grey hair that runs all the way down to his waistband. He’s slender, bony around his ribs but with muscular shoulders and a soft belly, his slightly saggy skin the only real sign of his body’s physical age. You wonder how long he has now looked exactly like that. Centuries he’d said but that is a surreal thought you don’t quite grasp.

When he finally joins you in bed, you sink into his embrace, feeling his cool skin against your cheek as you rest your head on his chest. It’s odd, the quiet, the lack of a heartbeat, but with his fingers running along your spine, his nails scratching softly against your skin, you’re lulled to sleep in no time.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

You wake up in cold sweat – and alone. The bed is empty but you immediately spot Primo with a glance through the wide arched windows. He’s right outside the now open double doors you saw earlier, wearing a heavy, dark red robe, his blond hair softly swaying in the wind. You rise from the silken sheets and grab his wide shirt that lies as a puddle on the floor. The frills cover your hands when you slip it on and it’s long enough to cover you, his smell still clinging to the fabric and tickling your nose as you breathe in the fresh night air.

The doors don’t lead to a balcony like you initially assumed but to a small garden, surrounded by the castle walls and illuminated by the full moon. You have no idea how long you slept but it seems to be the middle of the night. You don’t take the time to fully admire the garden, instead wrapping your arms around Primo and burying your face in his back.

“Oh fiore, did I wake you?” he asks, covering your hands with his.

“No,” you whisper. “I’m not tired anymore.”

“Come here.”

He wraps you up in his robe, pressing you tightly to his chest. You feel his lips ghosting over your forehead, then he presses them more firmly to your temple. His skin feels smooth and you turn your head enough to take in the surrounding area.

“What were you admiring?” you ask, your eyes caught on a plant that’s blooming despite the lack of daylight, long white blossoms opening themselves towards the night sky.

“Datura,” Primo explains. “They call it the devil’s trumpet. Highly poisonous. Many night-blooming plants are but of course they offer more to see to me than others.”

You smile. “The rose you gave me, was it from your garden as well?”

“Yes.”

He hugs you tighter and the pressure on your arm brings back enough pain to make you hiss in surprise. Primo tenses and you look up, only to find him staring at you with his brows drawn together. His anger isn’t directed at you and yet you feel a hint of anxiety. You know you won’t like the conversation you’re stearing towards.

“It’s my fault,” he says. “You’re hurt because of me.”

You raise a hand to his cheek. “No, no, it’s not. He attacked me.”

“But he attacked you because of my carelessness,” Primo says, leaning into your touch but avoiding your gaze. “I marked you. When we first kissed, I bit your lip and marked you.”

“Marked me for what?”

He swallows as his eyes finally meet yours. “We had an agreement.”

“An agreement? To… to kill people?”

“No, I don’t do the killing,” Primo says. “It is not my style. I am too old for carnage, amore. Or at least I thought I was.”

You furrow your brow, his explanation not helping you understand what he means. “So what is the whole deal with Max?”

“He was a werewolf,” Primo explains. “We ugh… we had this pact, I want to say. My victims, I don’t kill them, I just drink what I need and he… he gets the rest. He can smell me on them, so he knows who to target once he turns and loses most of his rational thinking. When I bit your lip, I must have marked you without my intent.”

You feel your blood rushing through your body now. “So what, he kills your victims?”

“He eats them, sì.”

“So the guys who…” You swallow hard, balling your hands to fists against his chest. “The guys who harassed me who never came back, the cleaner who disappeared… did you…”

“I never said I am innocent. But I did not kill them.” He takes your hand, softly uncurls your fingers before he looks at you with so much sadness that your heart shatters in your chest. “I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore now. I know it is a lifestyle you have to condemn but it is the only way I survive.”

You feel tears welling in your eyes, uncertain whether you can accept the man you love harming other people like this. Of course it keeps him alive but handing them over to be killed is not very different from actually killing them. There has to be a different way, a way without murder.

“If we… if we were together… could you just drink from me instead?” you ask. “No more innocent people?”

“Have you ever donated blood, fiore? They will not let you give it too often, half a litre every three months.” He pauses, smiling sadly as he squeezes your hand. “That is to say… you do not produce blood fast enough. I would either starve or kill you.”

“But you could drink from me? And perhaps a bit from someone else and no one has to die?”

He nods. “I can but you might not like it, you might regret agreeing to this.”

“Try me.”

Primo furrows his brow. “Try you?”

“Show me what it’s like. How does it work? You bite my neck and suck?”

He shakes his head. “I will puncture your vein and drink until the bleeding stops.”

“You won’t suck?”

“Not when it’s you. I will just drink what spills out,” he explains. “Sucking would make the wound very bad, it would hurt you more, even though it is faster and gives me more of you.”

“It’s… it’s okay if you want to suck,” you say. “I want you to do it to satisfy you.”

“No, not this time, but thank you, amore.” A deep sigh as he relents to your request. “Va bene, but if we try this we have to go inside.”

Primo calls one of the ghouls as you settle back in bed and tells him to get you some fruit and a sweet drink for later. You’re buzzing, partly with anxiety but partly with sheer excitement. You remember the intense pleasure you felt when he bit your lip and wonder if this is going to be a similar experience.

As soon as the ghoul is gone again, Primo settles in bed behind you, ridding you of your robe and pulling you between his legs as soon as you are naked. You hold onto his thighs, the fabric of his black slacks rough against your palms.

“I will stop if you tell me to,” he whispers against your ear. “We go easy, I will not drink too much, yes?”

“Yes.”

You sink against his solid chest, unclenching your muscles. His fingers run along your neck, brushing any stray hairs aside and gently positioning your head how he wants it. A moment passes before you feel his lips trailing over the exposed skin, pressing soft kisses to the tendon at your neck that make you shiver.

“Relax,” he mumbles. “No sudden movements, amore.”

You try your best to follow. Primo positions his mouth so very carefully that you almost anticipate the bite. His fangs poke at your skin and he gently increases the pressure until you can feel them puncturing it. The pain is not unexpected but you’re still surprised by the impact, moaning softly. His hands grab at your thighs, a deep groan leaving his throat that vibrates against your skin. You can hardly feel the blood leaving you with how tightly his mouth is attached to the violated skin. At some point, you can feel his tongue swiping along the curve and his grip tightens, long fingers digging into your flesh.

The more he drinks, the more he’s stirring behind you and then he’s suddenly rutting against you in his chase for more friction. You can feel his hard cock against your lower back and you can’t help but grind back against him. Primo stops to moan, his hands roaming your form all the way over your hips and up to your chest. His cold fingers feel heavenly against your heated skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Drinking from your… from your love can be a very intense, intimate feeling.”

You hum in agreement and his tongue laps at your neck again, leaving a wet trail all the way from your shoulder to your ear before he attaches his mouth to the wound. He doesn’t drink for long before his hips buck again. Subconsciously, you follow the movements, gripping his thighs so tightly that your fingertips dig into the firm muscles.

“Can you feel it, fiore? Can you feel how our bodies long to become one?”

You only whimper in reply, your head lolling back onto his shoulder as a sick sort of pleasure tears through you, a throbbing need settling in your core.

“I want you,” he says, his voice resonating deep inside of you. “I want you, my love. Will you let me have you?”

“Please,” you whine.

His mouth leaves you altogether. The bleedings has mostly stopped, his spit and your blood cooling against your skin in the still brisk air. Primo slips out from beneath you, urgently pushing the red robe off his shoulders and his pants from his legs before his weight pushes you into the mattress. He settles between your legs, his now bare cock digging into your thigh, and you moan when his bare skin touches yours. He feels warmer now, not hot but definitely more… alive.

“You are the most wonderful thing I have ever seen,” he says and it’s beautifully grotesque, those pretty words leaving such a feral creature after he just drank from you, his face still showing the evidence of his attack.

Your heart clenches with unspoken love for him.

You lift your hand to his jaw, dark red blood dripping from his open mouth and onto your chest. He’s breathing heavily with his fangs bared to you, staring at you in wonder as you cradle his cheek and run your thumb over his skin. His eyes close and there is something so heartbreakingly intimate about the way he’s melting into your touch. A predator, a being who spent centuries on this earth, who hurt and fought and killed for you softens at the mere touch of your fingertips. You’ve never wanted anyone as much as you want him in this moment and you already know that you won’t hesitate to do whatever it takes to be his.

Primo shifts sideways, moving one of his hands between your legs. He probes at your entrance, slowly stretching you open until he can slide two of his fingers into you, careful not to hurt you with his sharp nails. You can see how hard he’s trying to hold back, every muscle in his face clenching. But he holds your gaze, watching your lips part as he curls his fingers, fucking into you until you’re whimpering with every thrust.

“Primo,” you whine.

He nods like understands your need for more but he doesn’t stop yet. Running your hand over his jaw you collect all the blood and spit around his mouth that you can get and reach down to find his hard cock. He gasps at the contact, more blood spilling from his lips and pooling between your bodies. You pump a few times, spreading the wetness, and he unravels, hips bucking into your hand as he moans.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please don’t hold back.”

His pupils dilate and he removes his fingers from you, gathering more blood from your chest to spread on his cock. He aligns himself and slowly pushes in, watching as he his length disappears inside of you. The stretch is incredible. You keen when he bottoms out, one of your hands fisting his hair and then he finally kisses you. The metallic taste of your blood startles you at first but then you can’t help but want more of it, pushing your tongue into his mouth. Primo won’t indulge you for long before you can feel him losing his restraint, battling for dominance over your mouth. He sucks at your tongue as his hips start to move, slow thrusts at first but he quickly loses patience.

His mouth slips from yours as he speeds up, leaving a mess of drool, face paint and cooling blood behind. He drives himself into you without holding back, just like you wanted, his gasps and moans filling your ears over the sound of his wet skin meeting yours. You tug at his hair, wrapping your legs tightly around him to get even closer, spreading the blood all over your bodies. Primo nibbles at your jaw, not breaking the skin but running his teeth along the edge before they settle at your neck again.

“I want more,” he growls against your skin. “I need more, amore mio, please. J-just a little bit.”

In reply, you angle your head to expose your neck to him. He immediately latches on, sucking the wound back open. He was right, it hurts more this time and perhaps it’s a figment of your imagination but you can feel your blood rushing out of you in a way that is dizzying, intoxicating. Everything feels more intense now, the deep thrusts, his sharp nails digging into your flesh, the throaty moans in your ear as he drinks.

You clench around him and the orgasm hits you without warning. You cry out in pleasure, raking your nails down his back as you ride out your high with a few rolls of your hips. Primo falters, his hips stuttering into yours as he approaches his own release. His mouth leaves your neck with a pop and he pants desperately. You’re overcome with emotion when you hear his needy sounds, when you feel him twitching inside of you, so close to letting go. The last few drops of your warm blood run down your clavicle as the wound slowly closes, stopping right at your heart.

“I love you,” you breathe. “I love you, Primo.”

He shudders, his cock jumping wildly inside of you before he freezes, spilling his seed with a deep, drawn-out groan. You hold him through his high, stroking his hair and back. He gives two more slow pumps, drawing out your pleasure until he collapses on top of you.

“I love you, fiore,” he mumbles, then he props himself up on his elbow, staring into your eyes. “I love you.”

A surprisingly gentle kiss. A hand caressing your wet cheeks. Primo rolls you onto your sides and you can feel your mingled cum, blood and sweat glueing your bodies together. It’s messy and sticky but you’re not ready to let him go either. His gaze falls to your bruised neck and he frowns, grazing the skin with his thumb until you groan in pain.

Primo shakes his head in displeasure. “I am sorry, amore. I made it worse.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “I wanted it, my love, and I have no regrets.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You want all this, fiore? You want this old man?”

You take a deep, shaky breath, your lungs burning and your head still dizzy, but there is not a hint of doubt in your mind. “I want you and all that comes with it. I’m not scared, Primo.”

“No, you’re quite fearless,” he agrees with a smile. “We will have to take care of your wound, clean up this mess, sì? But maybe we can wait a few more minutes, I am quite exhausted.”

You hum in agreement and pull him closer. He doesn’t object as his head comes to rest on your chest this time. The blood loss seems to register now because your vision starts to swim, and so you close your eyes for a moment to let the wave of dizziness pass. Your thoughts are jumbled, so many questions, so many things to consider.

“Primo?” you ask after a moment.

He hums. “Yes, fiore mio?”

“Will you ever turn me?”

A scoff, bitter and sharp, like it’s the absurdest thing he’s ever heard. “No, amore, I will do no such thing.”

“But if I wanted you to?”

“No.”

You open your eyes to find him looking up at you and lift a hand to smooth out the stern crease on his brow. “We’ll have to talk about this.”

“No,” he says again, then buries his face in your neck with a deep hum, wrapping his arms around you tightly. A moment passes. Then another one and he seems to mull the thought over in his head. He sighs in defeat. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“We will talk about it but not soon. We have many years to come before this ever matters.”

You’re satisfied with that for now, giggle when he presses a plethora of bloody kisses all over your neck and chest, and you can feel his smirk against your skin. You know he’s trying to distract you and it works. Your feelings for him flutter to live inside of you like a colony of bats and you breathe a kiss to his soft blond hair. As he falls asleep, he slowly exhales with his lips against your windpipe. You close your eyes and savour the feeling of his body wrapped around yours, thinking that if you’re lucky, this is a moment you’re going to remember for all of eternity.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed vampire primo – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

Read now Part 2: Friday Nights at the Vinothek | Vampire!Secondo x gn!reader

Masterlist – My Ao3

#vampire primo owns my heart #primo #papa emeritus i #papa emeritus x reader #primo x reader #papa emeritus i x reader #vampire primo #vamprimo #??#papa emeritus i fanfiction #papa emeritus i smut #papa emeritus smut #papa emeritus fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfiction #mind the tags #my writing #petrifyingpapas #friday nights

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incorrectinfinity · 1 month ago

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I think about Narancia way too much

Yall ever think about the inherent horror of body swaps? I have been thinking about that quite a bit for no particular reason.

Things happen to you, things are taken or given or changed or broken - but no matter how you look at it, what its status is, if it has been changed, or how you may feel about it, your body is your own through and through. You will always have your body. So like. What if you woke up one day as someone else. That'd be, at least to me, an inherently horrifying and uncomfortable experience.

That's why I find Narancia's death so uncomfortable. Not only did he die, but he wasn't even given the grace of dying in his own body. And beyond him, imagine being Giorno in that moment.

You joined this group a week ago and you're beginning to find your place in it, despite the changes and losses you've been through you are now in some form bonded to this group.

Then you see a friend in your body become completely mutilated by a force none of you could've seen coming.

I literally would not be able to go on living. The sight of seeing one's own body dead must be fucking horrific, nevermind knowing that someone you care about died in your place. I wouldn't be able to live the same life, I'd feel like a person trapped inside someone else's skin, someone who deserved this body more than I do because if I had to give up my body for someone else's life I would readily do that without hesitation.

The first and only time we see Giorno cry is when he tried to heal Narancia.

Narancia Ghirga is a character that refuses to leave my head because I know him. He was in my class last year annoying the shit out of our teachers. He was an obnoxious Freshman in my year who would tick everyone off while genuinely meaning well. He's the gullible and eager to please Sophomore who tries his best to be friends with everyone. He's the Junior who got in with the wrong crowd and went missing in the middle of the year. He's the Senior who now goes to a different school.

He was a student, a thug, a mafioso, a goofball, a nuisance, an idiot, a corpse, a kid.

He's just a kid.

Giorno wasn't the only one with dreams. Narancia wanted to go to school, he wanted to reconnect with Fugo, he wanted to be closer friends with Trish, he wanted to follow Bruno wherever he lead him.

He wasn't able to do those things, he wasn't even able to die as himself. He died as the rando who joined this group like 6 days ago who seemed fun enough but had a goal in mind that he couldn't let go. He died as the person who he'd saved and who had saved him, a natural leader who was always determined to overcome adversity. He died as his stupidly creative friend who would turn cars into frogs and brooches into tongues, who couldn't even stand to touch Abbacchio when he died out of refusing to accept his death.

He died as Giorno Giovanna.

Narancia Ghirga wittnessed the death of someone brilliant. He wasn't much at a glance but once you uncovered his wit it was impossible to overlook. He was endlessly loyal and amiable, overflowing with empathy and the ability to see himself in others. He was able to see those for who they truly were, not for who they wanted you to see. He shined like a bright star, thinking fast and acting faster. Narancia Ghirga heard the drip, drip, dripping of blood on the cold ancient pavement. He felt the night air freeze with dread. He looked up and saw himself mangled, he looked up and saw Giorno Giovanna dead.

The body that won the war, the body that saved Trish's life, the body that became the new Don, the body that wielded the most powerful stand of the known universe - that body had no owner.

Because just as Narancia had, Giorno Giovanna died on April 6, 2001.

#anyways back to pong #🎀.txt #jjba rambles #hall of fame

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wwinterwitch · 2 years ago

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questions — joel miller x fem!reader

summary: after a night at the bar, joel walks you home and you finally confess what has been on your mind since the night everything fell apart pairing: joel miller x fem!reader word count: 3.9k warnings and tags: doesn't really follow canon but sill minor spoilers for ep. 6 i guess?, angst with a good ending, alcohol consumption, reader is drunk, joel being joel, miscommunication, sharing feelings go wrong, i'm not used to write angsty fics i'm sorry if this sucks author's note: omg omg happy finale day!! i wrote this listening to question...? by taylor swift so that's what inspired this concept, also this was supposed to be a tiny little blurb idk how we got to almost 4k words but okay i guess

a reblog and/or comment on my posts really help me out as a content creator so thank you in advance if you take the time to do either!

navigation | pedro's characters masterlist

Before tonight you were fine.

You barely even thought about him in that way. You barely remember the way his skin feels against yours, or the way a simple kiss from him would leave you begging for more. It was like all those nights you two would stay up talking about whatever, his arms around you and your back pressed against his chest, never existed.

Training your heart not to long for him and your brain to keep him out of your thoughts was no easy job at first. It was almost impossible for your body not to want him close. Not being able to talk to him about whatever was on your mind and knowing he no longer will reach out to share even his most profound secrets was absolute torture. Walking next to him all day without being able to reach out for his hand or stop for a quick second just to hold him close to you was a living nightmare that you couldn't wake up from.

Because how could he be so easy to forget? Joel Miller. The first and only person you've fallen in love with. That special someone that opened up a door to a whole new world that you never realized you were dying to discover until he was standing in front of you, his extended hand being an open invitation to walk all these unfamiliar roads and witness the beauty of it all together.

It was new and scary and beautiful. You were addicted to loving him before you even realized exactly what it was. From the moment you were able to put a name to this new feeling he taught you, you vowed to be his for as long as he'll have you- but what a shame it was to realize that the ending to a seemingly long story was already written at the very back of the page.

Perhaps your love blinded you enough to believe he had fallen just as hard, only to realize he was still standing at the edge of the precipice, staring down as you fell into the darkness of the abyss. Perhaps it's the fact that death is all around that makes it impossible for anything to be born. Why would you be able to live a fairytale in the middle of a horror show? What could possibly make you so special?

At least he doesn't seem to be affected by the fact that you two drifted apart. It's not like he's the best at sharing his feelings to other people, his ever-frowning gaze always present in his face no matter the circumstance, but you were still hoping that maybe he cared enough to show you he's hurting even just a little bit.

That should be comforting, right? To know he's perfectly fine and that you never cross his mind in that way. He doesn't have the need to apologize or make it right. He doesn't regret what happened and it never plays back in his head as he curses at himself for not doing things differently. You and your...relationship? are that easy to forget.

No. It's not comforting at all. If anything, it makes everything worse.

You can still remember the night you told him you loved him. A moment in your painfully short history together that you wish you could erase. A disappointing ending to what could've been an absolute masterpiece.

Ellie was already asleep and the two of you were keeping watch. He insisted you should get some sleep but you wanted to stay with him. He wasn't a fan of showing you any type of affection since Ellie joined the two of you, so the nights are the only chance you have to be closer. It was like the moon and stars were your best of friends at that point, because they meant he could finally be yours.

The confession slipped from your lips in a quiet whisper. A simple and timid "I think I'm falling in love with you" was all you offered. It's not hard to remember the way your hands would slightly tremble, or the rapid beating of your heart. It's as unforgettable as the confidence you were feeling because despite being so nervous, you were certain that he'll say it back.

He never did. He didn't say it back that night, or the morning after, or any other morning that followed.

It was embarrassing to look back on it now that you know what happened next. You were snuggled up next to him, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders. His eyes were fixated on the fireplace that helped to make the chilling air of the night a little more tolerable.

Staring at his handsome complexion without his permission was probably one of your favorite things to do. He had confided in you a couple of times that he couldn't understand why you enjoy it so much. That he's not this breathtaking sight that deserves to be contemplated in the way you do.

Truth is, he's the most hypnotizing sight of all. You didn't care about the roughness of his features or the years visible in the corner of his eyes, hair and beard. He's gorgeous and unique and yours. You could stare at him for hours and never get tired of it.

Like many times before, he caught you staring at him. And just like those times before, he made a gesture that should tell you he disliked that habit of yours, only to be betrayed by the smirk timidly forming on his lips not so long after.

It was then, with his eyes staring back at yours, that the verbal proclamation of your love for him invaded the quietness of the night.

And that's when his smirk magically disappeared. His eyes became dark with something you couldn't quite decipher at the time, still staring back at you but not really. It was clear he wasn't there with you anymore, too lost in his own thoughts to truly acknowledge your presence anymore.

Before you could even think of saying something else, he surprised you with an almost robotic "I think you should get some sleep".

Feeling more heartbroken and confused than ever, you did exactly that. You got up and joined Ellie, cuddling up in your sleeping bag with your back facing him. It's still a mystery to you how you were able to cry yourself to sleep that night without making a sound. How you were able to control the hurricane of emotions after telling the love of your life how you feel and him not caring about it in the slightest.

And suddenly, being in love was still new and scary but it had turned into something horrible.

You had to spend every second of every day with him after that, pretending nothing ever happened. He never brought it up either, so you decided to ignore it to avoid making a fool of yourself again. His reaction was enough to let you know he never really loved you, so you ran with it and tried to continue knowing whatever you two had or could have was no more.

But it was still difficult at times. Ellie kept asking you questions regarding you and Joel even weeks after the incident. She's not stupid. She could see you two weren't exactly friends, no matter how hard Joel tried to convince her otherwise. She's also not someone who settles for made up excuses or half truths, which made her push the subject until she got a good enough answer. That's why she continued coming to you for answers, because she knew he'll never talk about it.

It was only when you explicitly confirmed you two weren't just friends before quickly telling her it was completely over that she eventually let it be. After that, she also started to pretend nothing happened.

Jackson became pretty much the light at the end of a pitch back tunnel you thought was never-ending. You were excited to meet new people and have new things to do during the day, knowing it'll help to keep you busy, forcing Joel out of your head.

It was so exciting in fact, that it helped to make it seem as if the quick "she's the one I've been traveling with" that Joel used to introduce you to his brother wasn't that terrible.

Tommy, who much to your luck was nothing like his big brother, made sure to show you around and introduce you to a few people. He got you a house so you and Ellie could settle in and helped you find a job at the local library, officially starting your new life that didn't revolve around Joel.

In time, you found your place in the commune (as you and Ellie love to call it to tease Tommy). Joel was slowly becoming just a bad chapter in a much bigger story that you started to write for yourself, and you're loving the new plot that's unfolding across the blank pages.

However, all of that progress came crashing down tonight. Tommy's birthday was being celebrated at the local bar and there was no way you would ever miss it. Not only has he become a very good friend, but you also needed the distraction.

The familiar faces, the food and drinks made you forget about Joel's presence for most of the night and you barely made the effort to acknowledge his presence. Without being able to prevent it, your eyes accidentally met for a few seconds. It was almost sickening that everything about that half-a-second-look was so much like a movie. You were laughing at something a friend had said before you finished your third drink of the night, casually scanning the room to catch Joel already looking your way.

He smiled and you barely smiled back before focusing on the conversation with your friends again as if nothing happened. The alcohol might have motivated you enough to just not care anymore. To show him you really couldn't care any less to try to be nice after he was such an asshole when you were completely vulnerable before him.

The idea of not caring seemed tempting. Thinking the alcohol was helping, you continued drinking until you forgot about pretty much everything- which didn't take that long considering your alcohol resistance wasn't that good after a long time without drinking. You don't care about Joel, or the hours passing by, or the fact that you're probably making a complete fool of yourself giggling and dancing with a few friends that are probably as drunk as you are, if not more.

All the hype from being intoxicated started to wear off after a while, becoming more and more sleepy until you were practically dragging your feet towards the exit, putting on your coat and hat to prepare for the cold night outside.

"Looks like you had a good time," you hear Tommy comment in a mocking tone, sending a sympathetic smile your way.

"I did! Thanks for inviting me. And happy birthday to you again!" you exclaim cheerfully. "I hope I didn't make a fool of myself tonight."

"Oh, you definitely did," he mocked, chuckling lightly. "But hey, those dance moves you were pulling off back there? Best birthday gift I'll ever receive."

You looked positively embarrassed after his comment, but managed to laugh it off. "I guess that's good."

"It is," he immediately reassures you. "Let's get you home now, okay?"

"Oh, you don't have to go with me. You can't leave your own birthday party. It's okay, I got it."

"I want to make sure you get home safe. It's fine."

"Tommy, please. You should stay and have fun."

"I won't have fun if I'm worrying about you all night."

"I can take her," you suddenly hear Joel's voice behind you, which immediately made you roll your eyes because you really didn't want him around. He noticed the gesture but didn't seem to care about it in the slightest, putting on his jacket. "I was heading out anyway."

Tommy couldn't have known you really didn't want to be around his older brother, completely unaware of your history with him. Perhaps if you told him, he'll insist on going with you or find someone else that could walk you home. But you never told him what happened, so you're stuck with Joel. "Okay, great. I'll see you guys tomorrow. Thank you for coming," he says, allowing the two of you to leave.

The first few minutes outside in the snow have got to be the most awkward minutes of your entire life.

You tried not to stumble despite still being a bit drunk, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of him. You're mad that he's here with you and you can't stand being alone with him.

"Did you have fun tonight?"

Oh, and of course he had to open his mouth. Because when has Joel ever done what you want him to do? It seems like he'll always do exactly the opposite of what you expect from him.

"Yes," was all you said.

"Just yes?" he tried again.

"Yes."

You heard him sigh. "So, no talking?"

"I'd really like that, actually."

The tone of your voice would've been enough to make him shut up for the entire walk. Even he seemed to be a little taken aback by the honesty of your answer because you could feel him staring at you for longer than usual before he focused on his boots as they left marks on the snow.

He didn't ask what was wrong because deep down he must've known. He can't not know. And in that drunken state you allowed yourself to be pity as you wished that he thinks about it every single day. That it tortures him. That he despises himself for breaking your heart and not doing something to make it right. That he looks back on it and hopes that he could go back.

But does he? Does he actually think about it every single day? Does he regret what happened? And if he does, why is he not trying to say he's sorry? Does he even want to say something at all?

It was almost as if the alcohol betrayed you. Or maybe it was your head that just allowed every barrier you have built these past few weeks to crumble down. Not caring turned into caring way too much and it was like you couldn't stop thinking about a hundred questions without being able to find a single answer to any of them.

Joel turns to look at you once again when he notices you stopped walking. Your head is spinning as more and more questions fill up your mind and you get frustrated because you know there's only one person who has all the answers.

Should you say something? Should you make a fool of yourself once again? It shouldn't be you. Why is he not doing something? How come you're the one who has to speak up about this? It's not fair.

But it was late, cold and you were just so drunk. And you know that no matter how much you try to move on, you'll never be truly okay until you hear an explanation as to why he broke your heart in such a vicious way. Even if he lies or tries to sugarcoat it, you deserve even the tiniest of explanations.

"Is everything okay?" he eventually asks, which only frustrates you more.

"Do you ever think about that night?" you let out almost immediately after, feeling the way your heart was beating faster than ever. As fast as the time you confessed your love for him.

He was quiet, so you decided to continue. "Do you ever wish you could go back and change the way it ended? Does...does it ever cross your mind or you seriously don't care?"

After those questions, Joel seemed to finally react. "Are we seriously doing this now?"

"If not now, when? You were clearly not going to say anything," you accused him, leaving him completely defenseless because he was very much avoiding ever bringing this up and you just called him out on it. "I just need to know why, Joel."

"I don't- let's get you home, okay?"

"Stop doing that! Stop trying to avoid this!" you exclaimed with obvious exasperation, feeling the corner of your eyes burning due to the tears that would surely roll down your cheeks at any point. "I was in love with you and you weren't decent enough to at least tell me you didn't feel the same way! Don't you think I deserved at least that?"

"We can talk about this tomorrow..."

"No, fuck that. I waited long enough," you quickly interrupted. "I was so patient with you. I gave you your space when you said you weren't sure about us, I respected your decision of being discreet in front of Ellie, I stood up for you countless of times when I shouldn't have. I did so much for you and you can't even look me in the eye and give me an explanation!"

"It's not-"

"You've got to be the biggest asshole I've ever met. And you know what's the worst part of this? That I'm still expecting shit from you. I still hope that you'll say you're sorry for breaking my heart and acting like you never did something wrong. I'm so fucking stupid to believe that you actually-"

"I was afraid!" he practically shouted, hoping that would stop your rambling. It seemed to work, because you were silent as soon as he said that. "There. Are you happy?"

"Don't put this on me," you immediately snap back.

Joel sighs yet again and takes a second to calm down, knowing that if he gets defensive this will end much worse. It's time to accept he fucked up and stop trying to act like he didn't.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "For this and for what I said that night. I should've been honest with you."

Now it was you the one who was silent, taken aback by his reaction. Usually, he'll try to come on top by creating any type of argument until he's able to get the last word. An actual apology was definitely not something you were expecting.

"I don't like people. I keep my distance and everyone else stay away from me in return. I like distance," he explains. "But then you came along and it was impossible to stay away. No matter how hard I tried, I'd always come back to you. I started to need you and it was scary because I should be keeping my distance."

Silence. Absolute silence. You were surprised to hear him being so honest with you, but you were also feeling a bit nostalgic because deep down you missed being the person Joel would go to when he needed someone to talk to. Even when it was difficult for him to open up, he always tried his best to rely on you whenever he needed it. Needless to say, it made you feel very special.

"When you said you loved me I didn't know what to do. It felt so...definitive. Because I knew that deep down I was falling for you too and if I said something that'd mean I'd never be able to let you go. And it was so scary to think of giving in to that feeling because...because I couldn't allow myself to care again."

You knew exactly what he meant by that. His daughter is not a topic he particularly enjoys bringing up, but you've heard a few things about her. And honestly, you couldn't really blame him for being scared. Despite all these years, losing his kid in the way he did has got to be the worst pain he'll ever experience. Of course he'll want to run away in the opposite direction when he starts seeing the similarities.

It doesn't excuse the fact that he avoided you, but you would never pretend like his feelings weren't valid.

He was scared of loving you because with love comes the inevitable attachment to that person forever. You care so deeply, the mere idea of ever losing that person shatters your world completely. And he knows what that loss feels like. He couldn't experience that again.

"Besides, you know me. You know I'm a mess. I couldn't let you ruin your life by loving me, because I'd just let you down- which I did, so I was right. So instead of saying something, I just said what I thought would help to make you not love me anymore. If I couldn't keep my distance, I had to do something so you'll want to stay away from me."

Once again, Joel was doing exactly the opposite of what you expected. He poured his heart out to you, sounding so honest and vulnerable. You've only heard him being this sincere whenever he would mention Sarah or that one time when you both stayed up talking in depth about your relationship with Ellie.

Tears started to roll down your cheeks as predicted as you stared at him. You don't know whether to hug him or punch him at this point.

"You're such an asshole," was all you could say.

The comment made him chuckle, but it was evident he was holding back his own tears. "I know."

"But that's exactly why I loved you. I know what you've been through, I knew you were a challenge and I was willing to work on it for as long as it would take us. The decision of whether I wanted to love you or not was never yours to make."

"I was trying to save you from having to deal with me."

"What if I didn't want to be saved?"

"Well, I think it's already too late for that," he replied. There was another pause that encouraged him to ask, "Is it? Too late?"

"I don't know," you replied. It was the truth.

"I can work with I don't know."

"What does that mean?" you asked curiously, wiping your tears away.

"It means I'm willing to make it right this time," he replied. "If you let me."

You frowned just a little, failing to hold back the smile that appeared on your face just seconds later. "You know you'll have to really try if you want to fix this, right?"

"I know. It's okay. You're worth it."

So far, so good, you thought.

"This means no more hiding, no more trying to push me away, talking about your feelings..."

"I can handle it."

"Can you?" you asked in a much more serious tone. It sucked not being able to fully trust his word, but you both know you had your reasons not to. "I just don't want to get my hopes up again over nothing."

You watched as Joel took a step closer to you, reaching out to grab one of your hands. He examines your face, making sure you're okay with him touching you before he brings it up to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles. "I promise you this time will be different," he says, and he's looking at you with so much affection, it's impossible not to trust him.

#joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller #joel miller angst #pedro pascal characters

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