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desireangel · 4 months ago

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Bad Things | Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond is plagued with doubts and seeks refuge in the one place where he is at peace with himself; between his beloved wife's legs.

Pairing: Aemond x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only!! this is so in Aemond's thoughts, self doubt, lack of remorse, smut, oral (f receiving), talk of sex, slight breeding kink, Aemond is lost in his head and obsessed with eating his wife out, Aemond may be prince regent of Westeros but he is king of eating pussy, unedited, hmm kinda just porn really - let me know to add anything if need be!

Author's Note: Came home drunk (typos??? potentially. unnecessary droning on??? potentially.) after a couple cocktails and had the urge to erm write. About oral sex specifically, of course. Anywayssss, enjoy (I hope!) - xoxo kisses!!! <3

Masterlist!

Sometimes Aemond let his mind wander to all that could have been and all that could come to be had he only made his decisions differently. He seldom felt regret - never felt as if he would change the things that have led him towards the path of greatness he was on. But what ifs and the memory of failures are as stubborn as a newborn plague and Aemond was just as vulnerable to illness as those whom he revered and those whom he detested.

It was warm under the light of the setting sun, a kiss on his skin as Aemond rested against the balcony at the window and watched over what he longed to have for himself. If things had been different, at any time and any place, where would he be now?

The thought of living his life without his injury had come to sicken him but it lingered at the back of his mind. Had certain moments taken a different turn, would he still feel the need to drive people to respect him through fear and prove himself worthy at every chance he could find? Aemond swallowed at the thought. And he stood there, looking to the skies as if the clouds could free him from the suffocation of the feelings that had haunted him since the night he lost his eye.

Feelings of failure, feelings of defeat, feelings of fear and feelings of humiliation.

Even after meeting you, and understanding that loving you meant different things - things he wasn’t familiar with, things he wasn’t sure he was capable of becoming familiar with - the lingering thought of what if was all consuming.

Aemond could hear you coming seconds before you were beside him. He was thankful you stood by his side, silently and wordlessly as your eyes dragged across his face, analysing what you could of his thoughts from his perfected emotionless expression. Quiet moments like this, where Aemond got lost in his mind grew fewer at each move he made within this war.

But here you both were, silently in each other’s company. Aemond was a passionate lover. But he was also at times a cold and imperfect partner. And some of those times where he retreated into himself, although he had rarely lost control of himself in front of you, left him vexed at your presence.

Because to Aemond, you were perfect. Frustrating at times but that was often the fault of his own lack of patience and tolerance. You were, at the end of the day, too perfect. He saw your compassion, your empathy, your kindness. And he saw your strength, your wit, your fearsome loyalty.

And here Aemond was, unable to even regret many of the times he acted without any of those perfect things. After the fate that Lucerys had met, Aemond found he could not find it in himself to feel remorse for much else.

You let your fingers graze along the leather sleeve on his arm, your light touch burning into his skin through the fabric. He closed his eye and kept it closed for minutes of silence that felt like hours before he spoke lowly.

“I have done bad things.”

You sucked in a breath. “Would you be here today if you had not done those things?”

“No, you do not understand me. I cannot bring myself to care for some of the vile things that I have done. That I have caused. I should care, should I not?”

Releasing a long sigh, you shifted on your feet. Aemond knew that you were different to him. You didn’t agree with many of his actions and decisions but you knew there was nothing you could do except to be there when he needed you. It had taken time to realise you couldn’t change the way he thought, the way he felt, the way he reacted to things - you weren’t sure if you truly, deeply wanted to take on that burden.

As Aemond grew more honest with you, you had come to realise that when it came down to it he was not a completely good man. But he was good to you and while Aemond saw your strength, you knew you were weak when it came to him. Loyalty and love for your husband burned painfully in your chest no matter his imperfections and you never bothered to try to justify it.

“Perhaps if I had acted differently, somewhere,” Aemond’s words were rushed, a switch from his normally slow drawl. He would curse himself tomorrow for his moment of weakness but he couldn’t ignore the pit in his stomach. “Then I would not be the way that I am now.”

You stared at him for a moment. His expression was of ice and had you not known him the way that you do, then you would never have noticed the confliction in his eyes. “There is no use-”

“I know there is no use in thinking about what may have been, I know,” Aemond spat.

“Alright,” you paused. “But you will never know what could have changed. You made your decisions, you were the author of your own fate, Aemond. ‘Tis the way things go - we must face it. What difference would it make if things could have been different? You cannot undo what you have already done.”

Aemond’s jaw ticked and he moved so that his arm hung at your waist. You briefly glanced back inside at the servant who prepared your nightly cup of tea at your bedside. Aemond seldom made a show of your relationship when you weren’t entirely alone. Nevertheless, you didn’t let your mind linger on that fact.

He gazed down at you, his ocean-strong eye never failing to make your breath hitch and goosebumps to rise on your skin. You were relieved that he seemed to agree with your words. Aemond’s shoulders had lost much of the tension they held and the start of the sweet smile that was shared only with you played on his lips.

He had to try hard to believe what you had told him. Because here you were, no matter what he did and no matter his lack of conviction, at his side and wrapped around his finger. You were the calming breeze that cooled his heat, you were the shade that gave him relief from the scorching sun and you were the water that flushed the burn from his skin. Aemond was not one to be an emotional man but he knew that he had love for you and your endless, boundless support. And he dreamed of how he would share with you the world that will one day be at his feet.

“I shall share your bed tonight, my love.” Aemond’s words were as they always have been; smooth with honey but laced with venomous promises. You bit back a smile as he pulled you inside, addicted to whatever venom dripped from his words, from his eye, from him. “And that shall serve as all the reminder that I need to be sure I have not been so misguided that I have lost my way to no return.”

When he pressed his nose into the crook of your neck, dragging it along your soft skin, he inhaled deeply. Aemond thought for a moment of how perfect it would be if he could bottle your scent and keep it with him forever. A reminder of the woman for whom he wished he could become a good, honest man.

Your body felt so familiar to him that it made his mind turn quiet and Aemond could only think of having you closer, closer, closer. And it was never close enough, no matter how hard he squeezed at the flesh of your hips to pull you in, no matter how your breath tickled his skin and how your eyelashes fluttered against his hair as he dragged his lips over your shoulder and along the side of your neck.

If there were no roof atop your heads, you would have thought that it rained flames onto the both of you and to relieve the burn of it, you melted into Aemond, pressing yourself further into him and squirming for more as he grabbed at your nightclothes to toss them to the floor.

You tugged hopelessly at the buckles on his tunic, whining. “Get it off, Aemond.”

Aemond didn’t need to be told a second time because hardly a moment later he was as naked as you were, pushing you until the back of your legs hit the edge of your bed and you fell onto it gently. A strained groan fell from his lips as he let you pull him down with you, holding his face in your hands as he held himself above you with an arm beside your head. You gently removed the leather that covered his glimmering sapphire, sighing contently.

Admiring Aemond as he was, bare and honest and beautiful had become your favourite way to see him. Without the need to hide any part of himself from you.

Smirking, he let his lips graze yours softly. It was a stark contrast to the way Aemond’s other hand was roughly grabbing at whatever flesh he could hold, squeezing you and sending shockwaves straight through to your core.

You could barely get the words out of you. “Kiss me–Gods, kiss me.”

And he did kiss you, his lips desperately clashing against yours with a new kind of vigour. Aemond rarely kissed you with such force, such rage and such raw, unfettered need. But as his teeth knocked against yours, catching your lip in between and drawing blood, he entertained the thought that maybe he did regret something. All of the kisses he never had the chance to give you.

The air between you was charged with something sharp and electric, a primal energy that clouded your head and had you gasping Aemond’s name at the way he brushed his knuckle against your core. Normally, he would have taken his time with you. But despite the fact that you had the entire night ahead of you, Aemond was rushed and impatient.

“Always so ready for me,” he murmured, taking in a sharp breath as his fingers rubbed through your slick folds, pulling a soft whine from you. Aemond’s cock twitched at the perfect sound and he ground his hips against the plush of your thigh. He dragged the pads of his fingers teasingly up from the slit of your hole to the hood of your clit, drawing teasing circles so softly you could have been convinced his touch was a figment of your fantasies.

“Aemond, please-”

He shushed you softly. “Patience, my sweet.”

Aemonds lips, wet on your jaw, travelled down the expanse of your neck and over your collarbones. He nibbled at you, amused at the way you arched and squirmed, replacing his fingers with his cock and sliding it against your clit. When his lips met your nipple he sucked harshly with a flick of his tongue, giving your right breast hardly enough attention before turning to the other.

It sent shivers down your spine and you were sure Aemond felt you shudder against him when his lips travelled lower, leaving a wet trail down your skin until he was finally just below your naval. Aemond turned his head, his teeth pinching the flesh of your thigh harshly, just above where your thigh curved into your pelvis. You squealed.

“Hm,” He chuckled darkly, smiling up at you and shaking his head with a deep tsk when your legs instinctively moved to shut. His hands groped at your thighs and pushed them up so that you were folded yet entirely spread in front of him. “I will fuck you with my tongue first. And my fingers. Then I will fuck you with my cock and fill you with my seed, only after I have made you quiver and shake from the pleasure of my mouth on your perfect cunt.”

Aemond’s eye dropped to your sopping cunt and his words coiled in his throat, coming out as a muffled moan. You gasped as he lewdly spat, his head falling downwards in an instant, wave after wave of pleasure stealing the oxygen from your lungs as he sucked on your pussy, tongue weaving across your clit and back down.

All of the loud doubts that plagued his mind turned into whispers of incoherence the moment his mouth met the velvety skin of your womanhood, Aemond’s favourite place to lose himself when his thoughts became unbearable. The tangy, sweet taste of your arousal pulled a deep growl from his chest and when your hips jerked against his face, he wrapped a strong arm over your hips to hold you in place.

As Aemond’s tongue dipped into you, his lips latched on the expanse of your cunt, you let out a cry, your hand falling to his hair and pulling hard. Your body was hot with desire, thighs squeezing your husband’s head as he greedily feasted on the most intimate parts of you. He pulled away for one quick second to catch his breath before burying himself in you once again, the obscene smacking sounds of how he relentlessly sucked and lapped at your slit.

For such vulgar noises, they had become increasingly beautiful.

“I dream of staying here forever,” Aemond’s words were muffled, difficult to hear over your own whimpers and the movement of his lips on your folds had you bucking to follow his mouth. He hid his grin in your wetness. “I can do no wrong with the taste of you on my tongue.”

The pleasure that Aemond always submerged you was almost becoming overwhelming and you lost the ability to form sentences, muttering and mumbling in response. He could decipher his name, falling for your flushed lips so many times, and his eye flickered up to watch how your body climbed to the highest point of satisfaction where such a sinful act became heavenly.

You were always beautiful, Aemond thought. But you were at your most beautiful when you came undone for him, lost in the throes of bliss and grasping at him as if you could not live for another second without his touch. He carried you through your orgasm, unrelenting as he greedily devoured every part of your pussy, looking up at you with his darkened eye and shining sapphire, strands of his hair that had come loose sticking to the wetness on his jaw. Aemond relished in the strangled, melodic sounds that you made for him.

When you jerked away from him with a squeal, so sensitive when the tip of his tongue flicked against your clit that your hips bucked suddenly, Aemond pulled away while chuckling and placing featherlight kisses along your shaking thighs. He watched how your cunt continued to clench around nothing as you came down from your orgasm, the messy mixture of his spit and your arousal glistening under the light from the lamps.

You let yourself relax into the bedsheets and moved to close your legs, tugging Aemond to meet you for a kiss and giggling when he stopped to quickly wipe your slick from his face. But before your knees could come together, he caught them, settling himself in between and you could feel the steady heat from his hardened cock grazing across the outside of your slit.

“I think my pretty wife believes she is going to have a restful night,” Aemond teased against your lips, sliding a hand down between your bodies and spreading your folds once again to make way for his fingers. You shuddered against him with a mewl. “You are mistaken, my love, if you believe I will not have you full of my seed by the time I am done making love to you. I am a man of my word, am I not?”

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sleepymarimo · 1 year ago

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𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥!

read cw! summary: how the straw hat pirates treat you, a free use member of the crew pairing: straw hat crew x afab!reader, appropriate characters only ofc! cw: mdni, free use, multiple partners, vaginal sex, oral (m! and f! recieving), creampies, fingering, handjobs, groping, sex machines, voyeurism, exhibitionism, mutual masturbation, bondage an: this shit rated... porn. yes im sorry this is posted so late pls forgive me guys i love y'all wc: 2.8k+ for kinktober '23!

𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐘, as hyper and excitable as he is, doesn't fuck you as often as you thought he would. no, the captain can't say that he's particularly interested in sex.

however, what he loves to do, nearly everyday, is grope you. his hands always scramble to squeeze at your tits or ass, your tummy or thighs, and he'll do it at almost any time of day. when it came to this whole arrangement between you and the crew, he appeared to be the most shameless.

his rubber limbs seemed to sneak up on you at the most random times of day, his head poking out from around a corner and giving you a cheeky smile.

when he does use you for more than a grope or touch, it's always fun- a mutual experience that, more often than not, leaves you both laughing.

is willing to share! if he sees you busy with someone else, he'll interrupt without thought, be it with a smack to your ass or squeeze of your breasts

sometimes he'll let you wear the hat, usually if he's in a particularly good mood

sweet, fun and spontaneous. doesn't really mark you up, intentionally anyway, nor is he ever too rough. he'll make jokes, stretch in odd ways and makes sure you always have a smile on your face

an unintentional exhibitionist. he'll grope and fuck you anywhere, thinking it's funny watching people catch you. he's been yelled at by nami for it, though

finishes everywhere and anywhere, usually getting too caught up in the moment to really care. he's messy, not thinking twice about cumming on your face, in your mouth or on your breasts

likes overstimulating you, pushing you to your limits for the sake of fun

foreplay is not the best. sometimes he just gets too excited and uses his saliva to prep you. aftercare is a lot better! he'll get cuddly and bring snacks, becoming quite clingy with you

at first, 𝐙𝐎𝐑𝐎 doesn't really take advantage of the free use arrangement. he's rather indifferent about it, perhaps not seeing the appeal.

that all changes after a battle that was much too close, his adrenaline running high. he throws you over his shoulder, harshly tossing you onto the bed and working to get his clothes off while growling at you to get on all fours.

he briefly remembers overhearing you talk to the girls about your times with sanji, and he makes it a mission to outdo the cook in any way he can.

you never know when he'll strike, but when you're standing on the deck and suddenly feel goosebumps rising on your skin, you know just to bend over

acknowledges that you're up for free use, but he's selfish. if he gets the urge and you happen to be with someone else, he'll most likely huff out an 'oi, move over' and get to it. usually though, he prefers to have you to himself, with your attention only on him

after a session with zoro, you'll likely be leaving with bites and bruises. he knows sanji's 'schedule' with you and intentionally fucks you beforehand, wanting to piss off the cook by leaving marks on you

had to be educated on foreplay! the others got mad at him when he put you out of commission for a few days, since he didn't prep you enough. could also use some work with aftercare, since he usually falls asleep

more than okay with taking advantage of the agreement in the sense that he allows himself to be a little bossy, as if it were a transaction (which it kind of is...)

lots of orders and quick commands. a deal is a deal, and he doesn't really build some sort of special attachment with you (like a certain cook will)

finishes in you or on your ass without fail. is pretty smug about it, mostly because he knows that the cook is going to be licking it up from you later

difficult to predict when he'll need you. could be a few times a day or twice a week or once a month. more likely to engage if he's drunk, just had a battle or if he knows sanji is near

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 has a pretty regular schedule when it comes to using you. with what she has to deal with on the ship, she wants nothing more than to plop onto bed, spread her legs and have you eat her out.

she doesn't hesitate to give you orders, somehow doing it in a way that's so sweet that you forget she's simply using you to get off. like luffy, shes also pretty big on groping, or at least, more than you'd expect.

a lot of 'innocent' touches. soft and curious pokes to your ass as you walk by. maybe a squeeze of your tits while the two of you hugged.

she's a touchy woman, up for cuddling and keeping you in the girl's cabin. nami knows the effect she has on you, using it to her advantage. when her cunning hands, she'll feel you up and give you compliments in that sultry tone of hers- the one she uses to get what she wants.

not a fan of sharing, especially with the guys. she is, however, more than willing to share with robin. with the three of you in the girl's quarters, things get pretty intense

very much a tease! she gets you worked up with the lightest of touches until you're begging her for more. nami makes you work for it

the navigator doesn't mind getting messy. she'll finger you, coax you into sucking them dry, then do it all over again. she likes spreading your wetness around, making a point to tease you about how excited you are

'better than all those dirty boys, right?'

head pusher and hair puller. when you're giving her oral, she isn't shy about letting you know what she wants

she likes being treated like a queen, obviously. nami feels high and mighty when you eat her out two or three times in a row, but when she sees how desperate you are for release, she starts coddling you and is quick to return the favor

is the first one to make you squirt, putting the guys to shame

nami is a busy woman. she mostly has you eat her out when she's stressed during the day, cuddles for a bit, then gets back to it. better with foreplay than she is with aftercare, but its fantastic all around

always seeming to hesitate would be 𝐔𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐏, who thinks that for some reason, you'll say no to his advances. even after weeks of the arrangement being in place, he'll always ask if what he does is okay.

he’s so so sweet! he touches you like it’s the first time, every time. the sniper is prone to getting heavy bouts of confidence though! with shaky breaths, he’d ask you if he made you feel better than your captain. hell, he loves it when you call him captain.

when he does find it in him to be brave, he always manages to surprise you. he creates all sorts of contraptions, with sex being lighthearted and fun as you go through his projects together.

loves to restrain you, to feel like he has control of you. you help him grow more comfortable and confident, which he appreciates. plus, he gets to let out that pervy side of him that he usually tucks away.

reluctant to share, mostly because he doesn't want to be outdone. however, he and luffy sometimes team up to give you quite the fun experience. lots of jokes and just a hint of playful competitiveness, all of which leave you nothing short of satiated

uses you on a weekly basis, but cozies up to you nearly everyday. he makes jokes about what he has in store for you, making promises of pleasure that leave your stomach in knots

an unintentional marker. might spank you too hard or leave a bruise, which makes him wheeze in embarrassment before he feels a swell of pride. a sort of 'i did that?!' to 'oh… i did that'

ties you up in all sorts of ways

he really does get off on your whines and moans. likes when you're loud

loves when you give him head. the control he has, combined with your sole focus on him, drives him crazy

the sound of you gagging on his cock turns him on more than he'd ever admit. he'll get a confidence burst and start to be more rough

loves finishing down your throat. he feels so confident and cocky, but as soon as he cums he's nervously asking if you're okay

good with foreplay and even better with aftercare… worries about your well-being and shows his gratitude toward you and your willingness to participate. tells you stories after you're all done, lulling you to sleep

when the arrangement was finalized, 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈 was one of the first to take advantage of it. nearly every day he indulges in the sweetness you offer. eating you out is a must! even though sanji is aware that this is just an agreement of sorts, it doesn't stop him from growing a little more attached to you.

sex with him is all encompassing and intense in the softest way possible. he does a good job of making you feel prioritized and wanted, beyond the scope of the free use deal. he's more attentive to your desires and how you want to get fucked on any given day.

truthfully, he's just happy to be able to serve you. funny enough, he tries to be respectful when it comes to groping you around the ship or in public. while luffy might be shameless in how he touches you, sanji does not want to make you uncomfortable or taint the 'lady-like' image he has of you.

he sees you as a meal which must be savored, after all.

sanji prefers more intimate sex, even if it's just an agreement. for this reason, he's not huge on sharing.

sometimes though, while he's getting hot and heavy with you, zoro will just barge in and remind the cook that you're free use, before just… joining

gets pissed off when he spreads your legs and sees zoro's cum leaking out of you. it doesn't stop him from lapping up each drop though, since nothing could keep him from that pussy of yours

sanji uses you on the daily. the cook's appetite is insatiable, but he always makes sure to prioritize your comfort and pleasure

such a sweet talker, swirling his tongue over your clit and insisting that you're the most precious person on the ship

likes leaving subtle marks on your body, on more intimate areas that you'll forget about until you're alone.

the spot below your ear, the insides of your thighs, the delicate skin of your wrist… he thinks that smaller bites and marks have their own charm. big ol' bruises on your collarbone or neck just seem so brutish!

finishes wherever you want him to. there are moments where he'll beg to cum inside your cunt, though. you gladly let him do so.

aftercare king. any food you want is yours. he'll draw a bath for you and eat you out one last time for good measure. gets irritated when he sees the others being too rough with you

miss 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐍 is a force to be reckoned with. it takes her a few days before she has her first session with you, not because she was hesitant, but because she was waiting. watching.

she can play the long game, reading your cues and how you behave after having sex with other members of the crew. once she's sure she can break you down, she takes you. sex with robin is always a dizzying experience, almost unreal. between the many hands caressing you all over, and that cat-like gaze of hers, it's hard not to lose yourself.

very much a dominant lover, though whether she's soft or mean depends on her mood. regardless, she takes pleasure in watching you writhe and come undone.

it's a power play, a control she isn't fond of relinquishing.

only shares you with nami, franky and occasionally jinbei (if he's up for it), mostly because they can read the mood and follow her lead

weekly user, perhaps thrice a week if she's feeling up for it. most of the time, she's content to get you worked up for her and her only.

you can try to run off to someone else, but she knows she brings a certain element to the bedroom that no one can match

robin is slow and steady, curling her fingers just right and pulling away when you're about to burst. she's the second member to get you to squirt

she's nice to you in the meanest way possible. a lot of 'my, you're quite excited today' and 'such a sweet little thing'

hands on you and your most sensitive areas at all times. rubbing your clit, twisting your nipples and stroking every inch of skin. it's a full body experience.

does not particularly care for marking you up, physically at least. she leaves her own prints on you, something more soul-binding that goes beyond bruises and bitemarks that are bound to fade

takes care of you well before and after sex. she doesn't really indulge in quickies, only having sex when she knows the two of you will have an extended period of time to really enjoy it

on a more serious note, robin is also the one to explain to chopper what is going on between you and the crew. it does seem odd to the little reindeer, but he makes sure to be ready with contraceptives or pelvic exams when you need them.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐘 always has something special whipped up for you. within the first few days of you agreeing to this free use agreement, he indulged in you.

his dirty mind runs free with you and he doesn't hesitate to try out some new toys. thrusting sex machines and vibrating saddles… he has so many prototypes that he loves watching you squirm on.

he's also been able to give himself…upgrades that make things even more interesting. his favorite would be his detachable dick. he'll attach it to machines, watching and feeling as it effortlessly works into you.

he's not shy about such matters, not at all. sex with him is fun and he does a wonderful job of making you feel high-spirited and confident. your enthusiasm feeds into his pervy side.

down to share with anyone, honestly. this cyborg is up for most anything, given that you are, too

has you on the daily, but you never know when. sometimes it's in the morning, other times while you're getting ready for bed. if he's just restocked his cola though, you can expect a round or two

gives you his detachable dick and lets you use it as a dildo, so he can feel your cunt around him even when he's working in the shop

he eats you out and makes it messy. he spits and slurps as if your cunt was cola-flavored

likes getting head the same way. the sight of you with drool lining your lips and chin, mouth stuffed with his dick... he might let out an 'ow!' right then and there

doesn't mark you up intentionally. he just does his thing and makes sure you feel good. if he happens to leave some marks, he doesn't think too much of it

gets a little pissed off when zoro or luffy mark you up too much. he thinks they don't have to be that rough...

enjoys cumming on your chest and breasts. he's a simple man with simple pleasures

big on foreplay, but could work on his aftercare. he likes getting you worked up, likes to see you eager, but afterwards he's just so out of it. usually falls asleep and maybe hooks an arm around you

resident pervert 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊 does not hesitate. once the agreement was set into motion, your panties were quick to be snatched up.

the skeleton is a voyeur, preferring to watch as opposed to actively participating. even when you know he's spying on you, you pretend not to notice. whether it's you masturbating or having sex with another member of the crew, you can bet that he's peeping in.

brook is also very much into groping, never missing the opportunity to squeeze your plump flesh when you walk by.

truthfully, he just revels in being a pervert, especially when he knows there aren't any consequences.

up for sharing in the sense that he likes to watch. some members are more okay with it than others

he's scared the living daylights out of usopp, has been threatened by zoro and gotten encouragement from franky. he just laughs though, finding a thrill in getting caught

his eye (sockets?) are on you pretty frequently. at the end of everyday, he'll ask for your panties and pockets them with gusto

it's common for brook to ask for your panties after you're done having sex with someone else. he just thinks it's so naughty!

he'll walk by you and ask you to flash him, losing his mind every time you lift your shirt and show him your breasts

his groping is never hard enough to leave marks. he likes the squishy skin, since he's all bone, so he just has a hand on you and absentmindedly squeezes your breasts like you're a walking stress ball

like he always asks for your panties, he always asks for permission to touch and grope you

one of the most respectful would be 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐄𝐈. it takes him a while to settle into the whole arrangement. a part of him did see it as taboo, especially considering that he's a fishman.

however, he realizes that what he asks of you doesn't have to be inherently sexual. that's why, jinbei enjoys having you do mundane tasks for him, all while completely nude. his eyes are never lewd or hungry, but thoughtful as he watches you fold his clothes or make his bunk.

ever the respectful man, he doesn't want to leer at you as if you were an object. things build slowly and intimately between the two of you.

it starts as you wandering around without clothes, then it's mutual masturbation, then eventually he's fucking you.

this fishman prefers to have you to himself. he wants sex to happen in a comfortable atmosphere. it's a calming, almost therapeutic environment that he prefers to navigate you through, without the presence of others

would not mind if robin joined in, seeing as she's mature and would enjoy the vibes

he prefers not to have sex when he knows he's in a bad mood. he doesn't want to let such trivial, emotional matters guide him, but sometimes it's not avoidable, so…

marks come in the form of spanks, red patches on your ass that he's quick to soothe with a rough palm. it's a way for him to get his anger and frustration out, though the next day, once he's calmed down, he's quick to apologize

cumming inside you seems so taboo that he finds himself doing it more than he should. it's a guilty pleasure that he denies himself less and less as time goes on

sex is weekly, sometimes less. he has a fairly good handle on himself and makes it a point not to lose himself in pure lust.

he also very much takes into consideration that you're busy with others, so he doesn't want to overwhelm you

once this little arrangement is finalized, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 never worry about being alone or untended to. they know better than to leave their little free use doll unsatisfied.

when you're sick or unwell, it's everyone's problem. though you're the one being used, you're so protected and well cared for, like their secret treasure.

even if some don't explicitly express their gratitude, anyone can acknowledge that this agreement takes a toll on you in one way or another.

luffy lends you his hat, zoro shares his sake, nami loans you money, usopp makes you trinkets, sanji lets you get first pick on dessert, robin teaches you how to read poneglyphs, franky designs machines for you, brook plays you special tunes and jinbei lets you ride on all the whale sharks you want.

overall, it's a pretty sweet deal!

taglist: @queen-of-elves, @who-the-hockeysticks, @sxhy-town, @flower-hua, @iwannachokeontojifushiguroscock (thank y'all for being patient 🫶)

#one piece smut #luffy x reader #zoro x reader #nami x reader #usopp x reader #sanji x reader #robin x reader #franky x reader #brook x reader #jinbei x reader

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edges-of-night · 4 months ago

Note

Hello, hope this message finds you well! I would like to request (if the idea interests you of course) the fellowship responding to the reader asking “would you still love me if I was a worm/toad?”

What an inspired idea, anon haha! This one was fun to think about; hopefully it’s just as much fun to read! Enjoy ♡

･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.

Even though you asked him out of nowhere, Aragorn considers your questions rather seriously. Sitting by a fire with you, it takes him a while to answer: “Why wouldn’t I?” It should’ve been obvious to you that a ranger – and one as kind and gentle-hearted as him! – would naturally see beauty in every creature, no matter its general reputation. To him, it’s not a question.

･ﾟ✧ Boromir.

Boromir would shoot you a confused smile when you asked him your question. “What? Why would you turn into a worm…?” You’d blush and explain it to him, which would make him laugh in relief. “Why worry about such nonsense?” – “What, me turning into a worm?” – “No, silly! Me not loving you!” he’d say and pull you close for a kiss ♡ (He’d probably still worry about the sudden question because he cares for you that much haha!)

･ﾟ✧ Frodo.

When you ask Frodo your question, it catches him off-guard. He’d look up from his book and ask you to repeat, even though he was already listening carefully. But the question has him double-checking! Your adorable explanation makes him laugh. He’d take your hands and say, “The things you think about! If you ever manage to turn yourself into a worm, you must turn me as well, so that we may live happy lives in our worm-house underground.”

･ﾟ✧ Gandalf.

Gandalf smokes his pipe when you ask him your question and smacks his lips as he contemplates the scenario. “A curious proposition…” For a moment, the furrow of his bushy eyebrows makes it look like he was about to scold you for your nonsense, but then he’d shoot you a playful smirk and assure you that yes, if you were to turn into a worm, he would still love you all the same.

･ﾟ✧ Gimli.

You ask Gimli your question at a late-night banquet, making him pause and laugh. “I do not know if a worm would want to live in stone though! Wouldn’t you leave for grassier, muddier grounds? What would a worm want with a Dwarf?” Just like that, he has turned your question around! The ensuing nonsense conversation makes it certain: The two of you are inseparable ♡

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

Legolas is a very playful Elf and enjoys the games and riddles you two tend to play, so your question would not come entirely out of the blue for him. He would tilt his head and pout, pretending to consider it gravely. “A worm? A creature so foul and tiny and all too disagreeable?” – his face splits into a grin – “Why yes, of course!” Additionally, he’d incorporate “little worm” into his endless list of pet names for you.

･ﾟ✧ Merry.

Your question to Merry would probably come up during one of your philosophical conversations. But instead of stopping Merry dead in his tracks, he’d simply answer, “Yes, next question.” To him, it genuinely is not up for debate if changing your appearance would impact his feelings for you. When you dig deeper, he’d probably say something like, “I’d have to get used to it, but that’s it” and grin at you.

･ﾟ✧ Pippin.

Let’s be honest: The question would probably come from Pippin in the first place. Maybe he had watched a worm or a toad travelling through a meadow nearby, or even overheard other Hobbits asking their partner about the dreaded scenario. He keeps wondering if he’d still be lovable as a worm but leaves no doubt should that fate befall you: This Hobbit loves you to the moon and back!

･ﾟ✧ Sam.

No contest: Sam Gamgee wins this one by a mile. When you ask him, no matter how unsurely, he’d cross his arms with a thoughtful sigh and start his answer by explaining how important worms are in the circle of nature to keep the ground and gardens alive. “And that’s just that, y’know? I don’t have to find ‘em beautiful, but I’d simply be lost without them. And if it was you, oh, y’know, there’d be no question about it. I’d tinker with a bit of wood to make you an indoor garden, so you have some dirt to crawl in even when we’re inside the house. Something I can carry around. And somethin’ to eat. Unless you don’t want to. I’d bring you the good dirt from Farmer Maggot, and some apples, too. Your favourite flowers must be there too, so that’s – hm? What’re smilin’ at me like that for? You asked the question…”

#lotr imagine #lotr headcanons #lotr x reader #fellowship x reader #aragorn x reader #boromir x reader #frodo x reader #gandalf x reader #gimli x reader #legolas x reader #merry x reader #pippin x reader #samwise x reader #* ask #* request #* humour #* fluffy

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jinxs-gf · 4 months ago

Text

chuck’s favorite regular

jinx x bartender!reader

summary: it’s your first night working at The Last Drop. the stories of jinx being an…interesting customer are true

content, warnings: bar & drinks? jinx calls r ‘toots’, idk how much I like this writing style (bear with me now)

word count: 1.1k

a.n. this was requested but the ask disappeared 😭

It was your first night bartending at the Last Drop. Silco's bar. He owns a lot of them, close to owning all in the Undercity. This one just so happens to be special. Previously the Hound of the Underground's place. Now Silco proudly resides inside it.

Your future bartending partner, Thieram warned you about your boss's daughter. How she was a wild card and if you happened to get caught in her wrath there was no escaping until she decided to let you out. Not unlike a spider's web, you could only hope she'd let go and not eat you alive. To have mercy.

Though he insists Jinx has none.

He's...kind of right you decide. She's not done anything crazy yet. But she gives off this certain energy, one that screams be careful, to not turn your back on her.

She looks fairly innocent at the moment, at least compared to the bar that's in full rage. Loud music, dangerous games, dancing bodies...who could believe this is the girl that torments Thieram on the daily? Maybe she won't be so bad...

You’re contradicting yourself you realize. It's only your first time meeting, you shouldn't set your opinions on her just yet

She sits on the bar table, kicking her legs and looking at you expectantly.

You gulp, "Can I uh...help you?"

"Yeah you can, toots. Mind getting me my drink?"

Dammit Thieram. He didn't tell you what she orders. He spent so much time warning you about her yet he couldn't simply give you what she drinks?! What if she gets upset that you don't know and unleashes her-

"Earth to toots! Yoohoooo" her hand is shaking aggressively in your face, snapping a few times.

You stand in your spot, completely dumbfounded, eyes wide and pulse jumping.

"Uh...what is your drink?" Your voice is meek and careful (and a bit shaky), you felt as if you were poking a bear with a stick. Stupid stupid stupid.

Jinx cackles suddenly and very loudly.

"You crack me up, toots. It's only blood in a bottle."

She drinks blood?! Thieram! How could he not mention-

You try to be as nonchalant as possible despite your own blood running cold.

"So you're like a...vampire? Or-"

She laughs in your face once more, "Oh you poor thing," it's said quite mockingly, "it's a joke! You were totally convinced!"

You blink your eyes once, twice, and shake your head. As if it'll erase the image of a blood sucking Jinx. Your blood...from your neck. A very graphic image your mind unfortunately conjured up.

As if she wasn't intimidating enough, knowing she's loaded with guns and bombs at all times. Imagine if she was a vampire?! You'd be doomed.

However, you were curious now, what if she did have fangs? Maybe you could get a peek-

"My drink is the bottom cabinet in front of you. It gets a special place for Chuck's favorite customer."

Chuck?

You squat down in search for her drink, reach for the lone bottle, "Oh um, who?"

"Oh you've got to know Chuck! He's hilarious! A friend of mine, not my best friend of course. He's a little weird—you can tell him I said that."

You nod along, terrified of the blue eyed menace (one of the many nicknames given by Thieram, you agree. Though even thinking it worries you, what if she can hear your thoughts?). Speaking of Thieram—oh! That’s who she’s talking about.

"You two must get on well," if the man in question's stories were anything to go by, you'd say they didn't get on well. He doesn't enjoy her company, but she certainly enjoys his. By tormenting him.

You only hope you don't land in the same boat as him.

"Oh we definitely do, toots. Who’da thought a girl like me could befriend a scaredy-cat like him? I'd say we'd make good friends too someday. Maybe tomorrow!”

"What's that supposed to mean?" Because to you it sounds like a threat. If you become a good "friend" to her like Thieram is, does that mean you'll get the same treatment? And as soon as tomorrow?! You've barely worked at this place for a few hours and she's already planning on tormenting you by tomorrow!

She doesn't answer your question, instead pointing to (what you assume is) her cup. If the colorful scribbles were anything to go by. And a straw lying right next to it. At least you didn't have to go searching for those.

You nod, gulping. You're hoping to please her, not get on her bad side.

Jinx brings her feet up the counter, crossing and holding them with her hands, rocking playfully back and forth.

She’s dangerously close to the edge, one miscalculated move and she’ll go splat onto the sticky floors.

Maybe it’ll knock some sense into her? Okay that’s rude.

You quietly hand her the drink, plopping the straw in.

Jinx jumps down the counter to sit on the stool, hunched over the bar table to sip. She dramatically smacks her lips, as if taste testing. You’ll admit you were a bit nervous, what if you forgot something in her drink? What if you poured it in wrong the wrong way? Would she get upset over that?

After a few seconds she smiles and nods manically, “10 out of 10! You pour a good cup o’ juice, toots.”

You breathe out relieved, deciding to play along, a little humor could ease your anxiety surely, “Thanks, am I already better than Th- Chuck?”

"You're certainly prettier than he is."

"Oh."

You blank, unsure of what to do with that information. Be flattered? Terrified? Or is she being sarcastic? You continue to play along,

"Flattery will get you nowhere," you joke and only hope it lands.

"It'll get me a free drink," she wriggles her eyebrows.

"Don't you automatically get free drinks? I heard the last guy that asked you to pay mysteriously disappeared."

"You heard right, toots."

You gulp for the—how many times have you done that tonight? She's great at making one sweat.

“It was great getting to know ya toots, but I’m a busy girl. Gotta bounce—think you’ll be okay? Ya know what? You seem like you can hold your own, here—just in case!”

Jinx goes in for a rough hug, and it’s over before you process it at all.

But wait—what was that noise behind you? That sudden weight on your back…

Uh oh.

And explosion goes off on you, and for a second you think it’s over.

But no, it’s simply a colorful, glitter bomb. The damage is done though, you’re sweating at your hairline. And your poor heart, it’s practically begging to run out of your chest.

There’s a note left on the counter, is it too hopeful to think it’s a ‘sorry for the bomb I just planted on your back’?

Nope. It’s simply a winky face in purple ink.

And you can't help but wonder...is she flirting with you?

How sick and twisted.

first time meeting and already down bad for each other? hmm

the request:

Reader is a newly hired bartender that Silco hired. One night it's the usual busyness. Loud music, shimmer people, etc etc. Similarly to "chuck" Jinx enjoys fucking around with them. Little powder bombs and stuff like that.

#jinx x reader #arcane jinx x reader #jinx x gender neutral reader #jinx x female reader #jinx x male reader #jinx x y/n #jinx x you #arcane x reader #jinx fanfic #arcane fanfic

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deathbxnny · 2 months ago

Note

SO HEAR ME OUT A LITTLE ROT NEVER STOPED ANYONE-

Ok anyways- Capitano, Dainsleif & Arlecchino where reader was also from Khaenri'ah and they where alive when the Cataclysm happened yeah yeah but like say they got impaled in the like upper stomach and so that’s where their rot is (it wasn’t enough to kill them).

- (￣▽￣)

Capitano, Dainsleif, and Arlecchino with a Khaenri'ahn!Gn!Reader.

This was honestly pretty interesting to write about, so thank you for the request, Anon, and I hope you'll enjoy this post!!<3 (I made this way too angsty ngl-)

Content: Vague mentions of rotting, angst, established relationships, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》CAPITANO

He knew you during his time in Khaenri'ahn and stuck by your side even after it fell, and you too were victimized by that cruel curse. He was rotting away under his armor, whilst the injury you sustained did the same, albeit much slower than his. He never commented on it, however, and neither did you on his appearance. You both understood that in this world, only you two could truly sympathize with the other's plight.

And so, he made sure to let you know that your beauty never faded to him. You were always stunning in his eyes. The curse could never take that away from you no matter how much it rotted away your flesh. If insecurities arise, then he's quick to whisk them away with kind and gentle words that may seem unlikely to come from him. Yet he means every letter.

Your past haunts the both of you, yet there is a certain pride in the way you came out victorious in the end despite your cruel circumstances. Even if your flesh rots away completely, your love will withstand it all.

》DAINSLEIF

The guilt is painful. Perhaps even worse than the curse and way worse than the suffering you, too, endured after your home was destroyed. And a part of him will, therefore, always wonder if death wouldn't have been a mercy on you especially after all. He can't bear to see your flesh and body rot away, the injury he couldn't prevent being a forever reminder of his failures, and it killed him inside, even if he never showed his discomfort. He didn't dare to. He wasn't in a better state anyway, despite being somehow still strong enough to continue every day. It was only a matter of time.

Your insecurities and turbulent thoughts of self-doubt are swept away by his calming voice and words, an ache in his heart whenever he sees you reminisce on what you once were. The world of Teyvat was vast and wide, so endless, and yet you two were lonely in it, despite the comfort you had in only eachother.

A time would come in which you'd succumb to the curse or beat all odds and escape it. But whatever fate chooses to be, Dainsleif is honored to experience it at your side.

》ARLECCHINO

Arlecchino considers her past as just that. A past that she left behind in pursuit of better greater things, especially after the fall of Khaenri'ah and her previous mother Curcabena. Life moved on, and yet, you were a gentle reminder in her life to never close that door to her origins entirely. Both of your appearances, hearts and souls had been changed by the curse. And although she was one of the very few lucky one's that escaped the clutches of the rot, she still acknowledged that you were indeed not as fortunate. Not that she minded.

To her, you forever remained the same no matter how bad your condition may have become or how worse it's going to be. Her children respect you as their parents, and she respects you as her lifelong partner. And that's enough for her and you. Any insecurities you may have are gently soothed by the security she gave you through the House of Hearth and herself.

Arlecchino knows that, ultimately, the curse is inescapable no matter how hard she pulls away from it. But alas, she supposes that it doesn't matter too much, if she goes down with you at her side. It will at least be less lonely that way.

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin capitano #genshin capitano x reader #capitano #capitano x reader #genshin dainsleif #genshin dainsleif x reader #dainsleif x reader #dainsleif #genshin arlecchino x reader #genshin arlecchino #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino

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epnusika · 6 months ago

Text

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- Cruel King Romantic Headcanons

——————————————————————————————————

•] Like his devotion towards his people, the Cruel King tries to do what is and his best for you.

•] Loves to call you Dearest, Love, Lovely. Sometimes uses two of the nicknames in one sentence.

•] Gives the most sweet kisses. He would kiss your forehead, take your hand in his and kiss the back of it with soft murmurs of 'I love you' under his breath. He's absolutely smitten by you.

•] A wise and a kind ruler at heart. Like, have you paid attention to how much his people adore him??? If you had an argument, he's the one who apologizes first, even if you were in the wrong. He's the first one to reach out in hopes to understand and fix the root of the problem.

"Lovely, my love... Please, listen to me. Let us talk things out. I sincerely apologize for my cruel words and for hurting you with them... Please? Tell me what's on your mind."

•] When it comes to love language, he's not one to spoil his partner with pleasantries or anything materialistic. Considering the state that Blackrock is in where food and materials are scarce, he would instead pour everything into spending time with you, even with a busy schedule.

"Dearest, my love... Why don't you accompany my side today? I'd love to hear what you've been up to lately."

•] That... and also acts of service. You lost something? Don't worry, he'll order his guards to find it for you. Craving a certain type of food? Okay! He'll tell the Kitchen Wizard to switch the meal of the day to your liking. Not feeling well? He'll be right by your side immediately and taking care of you. While he's your partner, you don't need to lift a finger.

•] If you're forgetful, he would try to remember the things you might forget or your habit of misplacing items.

"What are you looking for, my love?"

•] While you scratch your head in confusion trying to remember where you placed an item, the Cruel King stared at the very object left behind on a table. He couldn't help but chuckle as he turns you around, guiding you to it before leaning down to kiss your forehead.

"Here you are... Is this what you were looking for? Don't forget it next time. Okay, my love?"

•] Nonetheless, if his plans for spending quality time with you is ran over with his busy schedule... just having a glimpse of you around the castle would be enough to put him in a good mood and fuel him for an entire day.

•] Would be the big spoon when it comes to cuddling. He loves to hold you in his arms to feel your warmth against him while the two of you talk about each other's day. He's the listener in the x yapper trope. Sometimes he doesn't understand what you're talking about but that's okay, he just loves listening to your voice as it lulls him to sleep.

•] His fear of the future is actually DOUBLED because of you. No, not in a bad way. He's just so afraid that the fall of Blackrock meant that you're dragged in the mix. He can't afford to waste time or even relax when the voices tell him that in a few years.. all that he's worked hard for, all that he's tried protecting, would vanish when the Icedagger falls into the hands of another.

•] Occasionally, the voices would give him unbearable migraines. His restless brain has been working tirelessly, trying to think of a way to save his people, especially you. He's sitting on his icy throne, hand on the side of his forehead with a furrowed expression. If you're in the room with him, he would reassure you that he's fine but... eventually, he's reaching out a hand to you in an attempt to hold yours for comfort.

"May I? Lovely? Allow me to hold you, even if it's just for a moment..."

•] Please hold his hand :(

•] Doesn't get much sleep because of the voices, along with his duties as the King. So, you would have to drag him to bed in order for him to have rest. Tucking yourselves under the covers, he's out like a light before you can even open your mouth to scold him again. Holding you close, he's savoring the warmth of your body, soothing him from the cold and heavy responsibilities gnawing on his back.

•] Actually developed a habit of daydreaming. He gets quite bored sitting all day in the throne room, not to mention... The voices continuously nag him every day. So, in order to quiet them down and to pass the time, he resorted to daydreaming.

•] He would imagine scenarios in his brain where he hopes that he could do it with you someday. For example, taking you out to town once the catastrophe is over and watching how spring rolls back into Roadtown. Amusing yourselves with greenery and warmth, a stark contrast to the cold climate of the Blackrock mountains.

#block tales #blocktales x reader #x reader #roblox #cruel king #headcanons #cruel king roblox #cruel king x reader

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moonselune · 6 months ago

Note

Hi! Could I request Astarion, Gale, and Wyll with a reader who is typically well spoken until someone flirts with them? Not an overly dramatic reaction, but more like they start stuttering and blushing. I would like this to have some NSFW in it, but you absolutely do not have to. Thank you! And have a wonderful day!

NSFW | MDNI | I F!reader

This was an absolutely fantastic request thank you very much for blessing me with it also this is the first time I have written smut for the boys, I did assume f!reader but will in future try and make it more gn xx

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm golden glow over the camp as you and Gale sat together by the fire. You enjoyed these moments of peace with him, the world falling away as you talked about everything and nothing. Your words flowed effortlessly, a natural charm evident in your every sentence.

That is, until a charming stranger wandered into your camp. The traveler was on their way to Baldur’s Gate and had stopped to ask for directions. Their conversation quickly turned friendly, and before you knew it, they were openly flirting with you.

“You have a certain… sparkle in your eyes,” the stranger said, leaning in a little too close. “Are you a sorcerer, or are you simply magical by nature?”

You felt your cheeks flush, your usual eloquence escaping you. “I, um, well… thank you. I… I’m not really—”

Gale, sitting beside you, watched with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Ah, I see,” he interjected smoothly, putting a comforting, yet possessive hand on your shoulder. “It seems my partner is a bit tongue-tied at the moment. Quite the rare sight, I assure you.”

The stranger chuckled, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Well, I should be on my way,” they said, giving you a playful wink. “But do let me know if you ever need help with finding your words.”

"I wouldn't worry, kind saer, trust she has a most eloquent partner," Gale jabbed, dismissing the traveller with a wave of his hand. As the stranger departed, Gale turned to you, his amusement evident. “Tongue-tied, my dear? Now, that’s something I never thought I’d see.”

You sighed, still feeling the warmth in your cheeks. “I don’t know what happened. I just… couldn’t think of anything to say.”

Gale’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “It was quite adorable, really. But perhaps I should help you practice, so you’re never at a loss for words again.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “And how exactly do you propose to do that?”

Gale leaned in, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “By teaching you how to use your tongue properly, of course.”

Before you could respond, Gale’s lips were on yours, a gentle yet passionate kiss that left you breathless. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “Follow me.”

You let him lead you to the privacy of your tent, your heart racing with anticipation. Once inside, Gale’s demeanor shifted from teasing to serious, his eyes dark with desire.

“Let me show you,” he said, his hands deftly working to remove your clothes. His breath hot on your neck, his lips mere inches away from your skin. “How a well-practiced tongue can render one speechless.”

You shivered at his words, the anticipation building as he guided you to lie down. His kisses trailed down your body, each one sending sparks of pleasure through you. You let yourself become lost under his touch and when his lips finally reached your most sensitive spot, you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair.

The grip you held on him only encouraged his lesson further. Gale’s tongue moved with expert precision, teasing and tasting in ways that made you moan uncontrollably. “Gale… oh, gods… please…”

He looked up at you, your slick coating his lips, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and hunger. “Please what, my love? Use your words, remember what this lesson is about.”

You whimpered, trying to find the strength to speak. “Please… don’t stop. It feels so good…”

He smiled against your skin, his tongue working even more skillfully, humming into your core. “That’s better. But I think you can do even better than that.”

Your body arched towards him, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable, you tugged and pulled at his hair. “Gale, please… I need... I need to come, please,”

Gale’s eyes darkened with desire at your words and his actions became more forceful, as he groaned into the wet mess of your core, “As you wish, my most eloquent love.”

The world outside your tent disappeared, leaving only the two of you. Gale’s actions became slow and deliberate, drawing out the pleasure until you were on the edge of bliss. His tongue lacsadaisically entered your core, his nose nudging your clit, his beard soaked in your fluids. You felt your legs begin to tremble and Gale held onto them with a firm carress.

When you finally came, it was with a cry of his name, your body trembling with the force of your release. Gale lapped up every bit of it and rode you through your high. As you came down, Gale crawled up your body, settling between your legs, chin resting on your chest.

“Well, my love, it seems you’ve found your words again.” Gale chuckled softly.

You smiled, still breathless. “Yes, but only because of you.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your chest. “And I will always be here to help you find them, most dutifully.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

The evening air was cool and refreshing as you and Astarion strolled through the bustling market. Your hand intertwined with his, and the two of you enjoyed the serenity of being together. Despite the crowds, there was a certain peace in the chaos, a comfort in the presence of each other.

Your conversation flowed smoothly, filled with laughter and gentle teasing. You prided yourself on your eloquence, your ability to converse and charm effortlessly. That is, until the vendor—a strikingly handsome elf—began to flirt with you.

"You have an eye for beauty," the elf said, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long. "Perhaps I could help you find something as lovely as yourself?"

You felt your cheeks warm, your usual poise faltering. "I… um, well, I—"

Astarion’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you struggle. "Oh, my love," he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement, "you seem to be at a loss for words."

The vendor raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your sudden bashfulness. Astarion took a step closer to you, his presence a reassuring warmth against your side. "It's adorable, really," he continued, his tone teasing. "You’re usually so well-spoken."

The elf chuckled, clearly enjoying the scene. "I'm flattered," he said, his eyes still locked on you. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation later?"

Astarion's smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I think not," he said smoothly, pulling you closer. "My dear here has other plans."

As you walked away, Astarion’s amusement was palpable. "You do know how to put on a show," he said, his voice low and suggestive.

You sighed, trying to regain your composure. "It’s just… I don’t know why I got so flustered."

Astarion stopped and turned to you, his eyes dark with a predatory gleam. "Oh, I know exactly why," he murmured, leaning in to whisper in your ear. "You’re not used to being the one flustered. Usually, you’re the one making others blush."

His hand slipped around your waist, pulling you close as you walked into a secluded part of the alley.

"But I think I rather like seeing you like this," he purred, his lips brushing against your neck. "So vulnerable, so easy to tease."

You felt a shiver run down your spine as his hand trailed lower, slipping beneath the fabric of your clothes. "Astarion," you breathed, your voice shaky.

"Shh," he hushed you, his fingers expertly finding their way past your underwear and directly to your most sensitive spot. "Let's see how much I can make you squirm."

His touch was light at first, teasing and tantalizing. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan as he increased the pressure, his fingers moving with skilled precision. "Astarion, please," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Please, what?" he asked, his tone mockingly innocent. "You’ll have to be more specific, darling."

You whimpered, your body arching into his touch. You were glad that the sun was setting and the market was beginning to close, you ddint need an audience to Astarion making a show of you. "Please, I need you."

He chuckled darkly, his fingers never stopping their tormenting rhythm. "Need me? How delightfully vague. Tell me exactly what you want."

Your mind was a haze of pleasure and desperation.."I want you inside me," you managed to gasp out. "Please, Astarion."

Astarion’s eyes flashed with triumph, his smirk widening. "As you wish," he said, his voice a low growl. With a swift, practiced motion, he positioned himself, his hard length pressing against your entrance. You were slick from his teasing fingers and it seems your predicament had had a similar effect on him, as his tip leaked with precum. It wouldn't be the first time you guys did it in an alley, and it most definitely would not be the last.

"Now, now I want to hear every sinful moan and word from you," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "Just don't be too loud unless you want that dear merchant to come join us."

As he thrust into you, all coherent thought fled your mind. The world narrowed down to the feel of him inside you, the pleasure building with each movement. You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as he drove you both towards release.

In that moment, all your earlier embarrassment was forgotten, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly consumed by Astarion. And as you choked out his name, you knew there was no place you’d rather be.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

The evening was peaceful as you and Wyll sat together in the tavern, enjoying a quiet moment away from the chaos of adventuring. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow on Wyll’s handsome features, and his deep, melodic voice filled the space between you as he recounted a tale from his past. You listened, entranced, your usual confidence shining through as you engaged in the conversation.

Then, a stranger approached your table. A charismatic bard with a roguish smile, they leaned in and addressed you. “Forgive my interruption, but I couldn’t help but notice your captivating presence from across the room. Would you honor me with your name?”

You felt a sudden rush of heat to your cheeks, your usual eloquence faltering. “I, um, well… thank you. My name is… uh…”

Wyll’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched you struggle. He leaned in, his hand gently squeezing yours under the table.

“This is my partner,” he said smoothly, his tone protective yet playful. “And I believe you’ve rendered them quite speechless.”

The bard chuckled, clearly entertained by your flustered state. “Speechless, indeed. A rare and beautiful sight.”

As the bard moved on, Wyll turned to you, his expression soft and affectionate. “I must say, I’ve never seen you quite so… tongue-tied before. It’s absolutely adorable.”

You sighed, still blushing furiously. “I don’t know what happened. I just couldn’t think of anything to say.”

Wyll’s grin widened, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I rather enjoyed it, to be honest. Seeing you so flustered… it makes me want to keep you all to myself.”

He stood, offering you his hand. “Come with me, love. Let’s find somewhere more private.”

You took his hand, following him to your shared room upstairs. As soon as the door closed behind you, Wyll’s demeanor shifted from playful to intensely passionate. He pulled you close, his hands caressing your face as he gazed into your eyes.

“You have no idea how much I adore you,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “Every time you blush, every time you stutter… it drives me wild.”

You shivered at his words, feeling the heat of his desire. “Wyll…”

He silenced you with a kiss, his lips gentle yet demanding. His hands roamed over your body, worshipping every inch of you with reverent touches. “Let me show you,” he whispered against your skin, “just how much I love you.”

Wyll’s kisses trailed down your neck, each one leaving a burning trail of desire. He undressed you slowly, savoring the sight of your bare skin as if it were the most precious treasure.

“You are perfect,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “Every inch of you.”

You moaned softly as his lips found the sensitive parts of your body, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. “Wyll… please…”

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust and love. “Please what, my love? Tell me what you need. Use your most beautiful words.”

You blushed again, your earlier shyness returning. “I need you, Wyll... I need you to..”

"Love you? Adore you? Fuck you?" Wyll’s smile was tender and bashful as he positioned himself over you. “As you wish, my beloved.”

He entered you slowly, the sensation overwhelming. Wyll moved with a practiced grace, his every thrust drawing out your pleasure until you were both lost in the intensity of your love. His hands and lips continued to worship your body, nipping and carressing, making you feel cherished and adored with every touch.

When you both reached the peak of your pleasure, it was with cries of each other’s names, your bodies trembling in unison. Afterwards, Wyll held you close, his hands still gently caressing your skin.

“You are everything to me,” he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. “And I will always love you, just as you are.”

You snuggled into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his love surrounding you. “And I love you, Wyll. More than words can say.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Then let’s stay like this, my love. Just you and me, forever.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope you guys enjoyed it !! - Seluney xox

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voltronisanobsession · 1 year ago

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A small teen wolf thought I had

I’m really missing season 1 Stiles, so let’s imagine him having a crush on reader😍

We all know how Stiles had an enormous crush on Lydia, it was absolutely devastating tbh. Like this dude was lowkey devoted to her💀💀

So what if a new student (reader) moved into town and it’s love at first sight for him. He’d bump into you after rambling to Scott about whatever was on his mind and knocks your binder and books to the ground.

Helping you pick up your stuff, right when he’s giving you your notebook, he’d look up and just. Stare. Cuz ZOOWEEMAMA YOURE ABSOLUTELY STUNNING IN HIS EYES

You’re busy thanking him and apologizing for the collision, waiting for him to let go of the notebook, voice slowly fading out when you notice him just staring at you with his mouth slightly open.

“Thanks for helping me. Can I have my book?”

“Uh huh.”

“…”

“Stiles, you know you have to let go of the notebook.” Scott is trying his best not to slam his head in a locker when his friend still doesn’t let go LMAO

Your chuckle snaps him out of whatever daze he was in, causing him to blush and apologize awkwardly. You’d smile at him and in good nature, joke about it and walk away, leaving him in awe.

Most people would normally give him the stink eye, but seeing how you joked about it made his heart flutter a bit.

Everything is HISTORY after that. If you have any classes with Stiles, you already KNOW he’s gonna try and sit as close to you as possible. Teacher assigns partner or group projects? He’s springing out of his seat and going to you first. You both have the same lunch period? He’s inviting you to sit with him and his friends. You’re having trouble with a certain class? Man, he’s already offering to help you after school, you’ll nail that test with flying colors!

You just get him! You like his sarcasm and MIRACULOUSLY understand his random references from movies and video games! With all the time you guys spend together, his crush on you grows more and more.

You appreciate how Stiles is so interested in the things you like and dislike. You love how he asks why you enjoy a certain movie despite the terrible reviews it got. Why you dislike an artist he just began listening to. You both love the same things, but have different opinions on everything, every conversation flows so naturally with him that you can’t help but develop a crush on him too.

You’ve never met anyone as eccentric and energetic as him, he never fails to bring a smile to your face teehee

Stiles is the type to remember every little, seemingly insignificant, thing about his crush. When your birthday rolls around, this dude has so many gifts ready😭 a warm feeling fills you when you open one gift to see it’s an item you’ve mentioned in a passing convo yall had MONTHS ago

He’s so sweet and kind with you too like don’t get me started. Stiles just enjoys being around you and seeing you happy makes him happy. SEASON 1 STILES IS THE DEFINITION OF PUPPY LOVE LIKE UGGHH

Takes you out on late night drives, barges into your room through the window with any takeout food you’ve been craving. Hed even take you out on a mini ‘date’ to the local arcade!!! his dad sees how much you mean to his son and is super happy that Stiles is happy. Loves when you come over to study with him, he’s always telling you stories about when stiles was younger (he would definitely cover your ears with his hands and speak loudly over his dad LMAO)

I’m telling y’all, stiles having a crush on you is the cutest thing ever, especially if you reciprocate his feelings!!!When you guys get together, cuz it’s not a matter of if with his friends, you’re the ultimate duo.

He’d confess his feelings for you in the most cheesiest way ever, probably during or after a school dance cuz why not.

UGH I NEED TO WRITE MORE STILES STUFF I LIVE HIM SM‼️ HE WAS NEVER THE SAME AFTER SEASON 3😭😭😭

#teen wolf x reader #stiles x reader #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles teen wolf #stiles teen wolf x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf stiles #teen wolf imagine #x reader #imagine #stiles stilinski

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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 1 year ago

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The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre.

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp.

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?”

Or somethin’ along those lines.

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark.

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in.

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice.

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor.

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned.

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone.

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice.

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up.

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick.

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep.

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression.

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly.

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain.

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread.

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me.

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose.

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it.

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be.

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile.

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him.

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else.

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me.

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?”

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply.

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.”

He tilts his head away in dismissal.

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest.

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight.

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too.

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?”

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits.

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!”

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices.

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate.

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow.

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up.

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me.

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down.

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work.

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause.

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought.

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen; Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night.

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes.

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter.

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger.

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it.

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face.

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin.

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.”

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently.

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving.

Give me strength. Give me strength.

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe.

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly.

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me.

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact.

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive.

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation.

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?”

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace.

“Kiss me again, then.”

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth.

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second.

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid.

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own.

A switch in his brain must flick on.

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt.

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable.

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt.

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return.

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?”

He kisses the hollow of my neck.

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this.

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me.

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.”

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him.

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.”

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton.

I sigh, try not to squirm.

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing.

I nod. “Yeah.”

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering.

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips.

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back.

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world.

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine.

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra.

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut.

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip.

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper.

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead.

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl.

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point.

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else.

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me.

My cunt flexes.

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.”

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?”

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager.

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter.

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.”

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.

“Lie back.”

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth.

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger.

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit. My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse.

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers.

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here.

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away.

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see.

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him.

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders.

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him.

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside.

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound.

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out.

“It’s okay,” I reply.

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver.

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

#true detective #rust cohle #marty hart #rust cohle x reader #rust cohle x reader smut #okay cool this is a bit niche hope you liked it #this show made me question my life's purpose #the first season at least #thanks matthew mcconaughey #anybody else here like Fiona apple or what #the idler wheel TD

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crystallizedtwilight · 1 year ago

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Lock is super cute n all but Barrel is all that AND a bag of beans (a.k.a. he's really nice)... kind of feels like barrel deserves better sometimes ....(this isn't said in bad faith to you, the artist, btw! I'm only shaking the angst jar a bit)

Lock thinks so too.

Of course Barrel has better options. Belladonna or, hell, just about anyone.

Lock thinks that maybe Barrel would find it easier to wake up next to someone who doesn’t accidentally scratch him with their claws during a nightmare, maybe someone of his own species, or someone who is generally more…pleasant and effortless.

A partner who was soft and nice instead of sharp and difficult.

So Lock puts the distance between them before someone else does. He hates it, surrendering the best thing that ever happened to him, but after wasting so much of his time, doesn't he at least owe Barrel this? The chance to be happier with someone better?

He turns distant, cold, avoidant. Enough for Barrel to ask, "Hey, what's wrong?" And Lock realizes that, truly, he must be the most selfish creature in the world for not just saying I'm fine.

Lock wanders so dangerously close to speaking his heart that he panics, turning to run like he always did when he came close to acknowledging why. But Barrel catches him around the waist, voice soft and desperate, as he says more to himself than to Lock,

"I've let you run too many times."

Lock flails and sobs and sinks his teeth into the forearm that binds him across the chest.

"You can bite me if you want, but you’re going to listen to what I have to say," Barrel tells him low and steady, "I would rather wake up next to you with scratches than unscathed next to anyone else.”

"Why?" Lock sobs, asking the question furiously, frustrated. It just didn't make sense. He wasn't worth it and he wished Barrel would just tell him what he already knew.

But when Barrel speaks his voice is so desperate, so fiercely certain, that Lock is inclined to listen.

“Because there’s no one like you, Lock. You’re fun...and spirited...and always up for a laugh. You’re open to anything which makes every day with you an adventure. You’re one of two people in this world who’s been through hell and back with me and yet you still approach life with so much enthusiasm.

I know you kept me safe from the worst of Oogie, and you kept this trio together like it was your mission. Every good thing I have is because of you. You’re bright and exciting and when I’m with you I feel like I’m home. Every day I wake up feeling so lucky you even let me hold you.

And I…I didn’t say it for so long because I know you didn’t want to hear it, but fuck that…I love you. I’ve always loved you. It’s always been you, Lock.”

Lock sobs into Barrel's forearm and Barrel presses his forehead to the back of Lock's neck, letting him. The grip becomes an embrace, and Lock is weak in his arms. He lets his weight drop and Barrel lowers them to the ground. When Barrel speaks again, the tears have caught up with him as well.

"So don't you dare tell me you're not good enough."

#lb

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thepigeonhasapen · 1 month ago

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I was wondering if you could do the Olympian Gods with a reader whose asexual? Like, what would their reactions be, would they mind, stuff like that d:

Asexual Reader, Olympian Edition

(Doing these asks out of order but shhhhhhh. Also strong warning for acephobia because Zeus in an ass)

🩷Aphrodite🩷

Very chill about it. She's the goddess of love and that includes ALL kinds of love. Self-love is one of her favorites. The fact that you know and accept who you are and that you're willing to let her in on it? Well, Aphrodite might just adore you even more than she already did.

"You’re...? Well of course I don't mind, dearest! In fact, I think that's positively wonderful!"

Regardless of whether or not you're interested, Aphrodite still can't refrain from making comments about your physical appearance. She'll try and curtail some of them if you find them uncomfortable, but she loves lavishing praise upon you and talking you up to her friends.

Partially jealous to be perfectly honest. She can't help but wonder if you have a more pure understanding of beauty because you're not looking at it though the rose-tinted lens of horny. Aphrodite is deeply fascinated by asexuality and even if she doesn't quite understand it, she tries her best.

⚔️Ares⚔️

Doesn't mind. Honestly, it doesn't even really impact him that much. Just neatly writes sex out of the equation and carries on.

"You seem nervous, my dear. You... oh? Is that all? No need to distress yourself so much over such things. I love you as you are and knowing this will not change that."

May ask you a few questions at the beginning but mostly leaves the subject alone after that.

If anyone's giving you shit, all it takes is a dirty look from Ares to shut them up. What can I say the man has a way with not using his words.

🏹Artemis🏹

You too?? Artemis tries to play it off cool but she's low-key thrilled actually. Internally screaming because thank the Fates, she can get as close to you as she wants and she doesn't have to worry about things getting Weird™️

"You’re ace? That's... cool. Sorry, that came off as really insincere. It's just... me too, you know? I got a little surprised is all. And um, we've been hanging out for a while and I just wanted to say, you know, now that we're talking about this and I know you're not gonna take this the wrong way, I think you're really neat. I love hanging out with you. ...Don't go spreading that around though, okay?"

Artemis is sex-repulsed. If you are too, she drags you to family events so she can make faces at you whenever her family starts talking about their sexual conquests. If you're not, she's deeply fascinated and will probably ask you WHY on earth you would want to do that.

Despite the fact that Artemis doesn't want to have sex, I feel like she'd still enjoy certain kinks. Primal play, petplay, and leather are things I feel she'd enjoy partaking in. (Source: I am ace and very kinky lmao)

🦉Athena🦉

What a good match, Athena is asexual too! She probably blanks your confession to be honest because she sometimes forgets that people actually have sex frequently and on purpose.

"Asexual? Yes, alright. And how fared your journey up to Olympus by the way? I hope Hermes treated you well."

Sex-neutral. Will occasionally give sex a go if her partner happens to bring it up but will mostly just forget it's existence as a thing entirely.

Athena is actually quite haughty about her asexuality. She is definitely looking down on anyone who is swayed from the path of wisdom by someone else's sex appeal. Loves that you can understand her point of view on the subject.

❄️Demeter❄️

As Demeter has aged her sex drive has shrunk to like nil so really nothing about your relationship is much different.

"Asexual...? Ah, like young Artemis, yes? Fascinating. I've never been able to pin her down long enough to converse upon the subject. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Demeter tends to be a touch more overprotective than she needs to be. If anyone even so much as gives a hint of giving you shit for it, Demeter is sending them an absolute withering glare that has the potential to kill even the most vibrant flower. She follows it up with some bitterly cold words if necessary but it rarely comes to that.

She's honestly quite relieved about it really. She was never really that horny of a person and is happy to find someone who can relate to that. I personally think Demeter is some kind of acespec but that might also be my asexual ass projecting my aceness onto every character I get my grubby little hands on lol

🍇Dionysus🍇

Chill about it. He's chill about literally everything, what do you expect? Dionysus is commonly associated with trans people and I like to believe that queer people in general just flock to him because he's just so open and accepting.

"Ace, yeah? Congrats, man, thanks for telling me. Just let me know if I ever step on any toes, 'kay?"

Not gonna lie, he secretly corners Artemis and Athena to bother them on the subject just in case he's got it wrong. He didn’t as it turns out, but he's glad he checked in anyway because it was an enlightening conversation. With Athena anyway. Artemis runs off at the first available opportunity.

Happy to go whatever speed you want, if you want to go any speed at all. He may still get a little handsy sometimes but he doesn't mean anything by it, he just really likes holding you like a teddy bear. Honestly, I think he'd get a real kick out of somebody aegosexual and think it was such a super fun party trick that you can say such horny things and not be interested at all. Probably mildly pesters you to engage with smutty things because he finds your unamused expressions absolutely fascinating.

🪽Hermes🪽

Bursts out laughing when you tell him. It's not for the reason you think and he does feel really bad about it when he sees your face.

"Haha, of all the...! Haha– oh, hey, hey, I'm sorry, it's not that. I totally don't mind you being ace or anything, far from it, it's just that I seem to have an accidental habit for attracting your type and I seem to be collecting you."

Besides you, the person Hermes spends the most time with is Charon... who is also asexual. Hermes, the uberhorny hypersexual fuckbunny who would literally die for a quickie every five minutes find this hilarious. Opposites attract I guess? Hermes has a good giggle about it everytime he thinks about it.

Doesn't mind if you don't want to have sex. If you do, great! But if you don't, it's not a big deal.

🔱Poseidon🔱

Poseidon is... confused. It'll work out better if you're sex-repulsed and straight up don't want to have sex ever, otherwise poor Poseidon will absolutely struggle. He doesn't understand the difference between sexual attraction and aesthetic attraction and is just genuinely so out of his depth. You like the way he looks... but you don't want to have sex with him??

"What's that? Asexual? I, uh... okay, just between the two of us, you're gonna have to explain that one to me, babe."

He talks to Dionysus. Even after that he still doesn't get it. Poseidon tries his best to be supportive but has like no idea how. Probably shooes away people who try to even mention sex in your vicinity. It's gonna take awhile before he understands how this works. Confused but he's got the spirit kinda?

May initially try to convince you that you just haven't had good sex yet. Sit him down, explain this all to him, and he'll probably get it. Okay, let's be honest, he still doesn't get it but he respects your choice and generally leaves the subject alone. His libido is quite high though so he will frequently sleep around just to scratch that itch.

⚡️Zeus⚡️

We were doing good until we got to you, huh Zeus? Zeus just quite firmly doesn't believe in asexuality. He definitely thinks you're just confused or that you haven't had sex right yet or that you'll change your mind at some point.

"Asexual? Oh dear, have you been talking to that daughter of mine, Artemis? She's always on about something or other, if she chooses to talk to us at all."

Zeus won't force you to have sex but he will make subtle (he thinks he's being subtle anyway) comments about how you're a tease or a prude. If you're interested in having sex, Zeus doesn't understand the definition and just thinks you don't find him attractive. His feelings are now hurt. He will be throwing a violent totally-not-a-tantrum now.

Will eventually, probably shut up about it. Look, he's never gonna understand it so shutting up about it is the best you're gonna get from him. This idiot thinks with his penis, okay? Athena stole all the intelligence from him at birth. Just doesn't get it, very confused, cannot even comprehend the idea of not wanting to bang everything in sight.

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gold-onthe-inside · 29 days ago

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A No Body, No Crime song fic about Spencer’s partner seeking justice for their friend’s murder while trying to hide it from Spencer cuz he’s law enforcement. Maybe Spencer’s also investigating the case somehow - can be xOC

smells like infidelity

who? spencer reid x blake!reader (cont. from wrong person...) content warnings: infidelity, murder, gun violence and overall canon typical violence (i mean it, a person is murdered at the end, do not read if squeamish) word count: 2.2k songs: no body, no crime (duh) by taylor swift + still by niall horan a/n: i genuinely had a lot of fun with this one, thank you anon

If there was anything you had learned from being Alex Blake's goddaughter, it was how bureaucracy worked, or rather stopped things from getting done. The Syracuse PD chief had looked at you very empathetically, assuring you that his best detectives were on the case, which wasn't saying much from the state of his precinct. You'd done your research, looked at the number of solved missing persons cases they'd solved and you knew you had to take matters into your own hands, especially considering they'd let go of your main suspect.

Evelyn, or Evie as you knew her, had looked harried when you'd seen her last, barely eating her pasta, before confessing the greatest motive that could exist in a married woman's disappearance - an extramarital affair. "H-He's just different," Evelyn had said, bags under her eyes. "He's been drinking more, and I know what alcoholism looks like, alright? It'd-It'd be one thing if it was beer or whiskey, but wine? He doesn't drink wine, ever."

"Tastes change, Evie," you'd offered weakly, but even you knew it was suspect.

"Not like this," Evie had insisted, and you were fairly certain a vein was about to pop. "And it doesn't explain the pearls he bought from our account. Do I look like a pearls kind of girl?"

You had shaken your head, if only to appease her. "I have to say something, right?" Evelyn had asked. "I mean, I deserve some kind of explanation, we've barely been married a year!"

You had managed to calm her down enough to finish her meal and dessert, and you'd assured her that you had her back, and to call you if anything happened. She never ended up making that call. Another Tuesday night passed, nothing. You'd called her cell, checked with her workplace, all but her husband, until the police told her that he had already reported her missing. You had thought about telling Spencer, but it had only been a month since the two of you started seeing each other (which had been infuriating to tell Alex, with her smug 'I told you so' face). Instead, you had left Alex a voicemail, telling her what you were gonna do, and then headed back upstate to talk to her husband, some lawyer who you had thought was far too smooth to be real.

It was late evening when you used the knocker to his door, stepping back and looking around the front of the house. A truck was parked out front, and you frowned. You'd always thought he was too posh for a truck like that, and then you noticed the new tires. The door opened and you were face to face with a young woman, probably in her mid-20s, younger than you, younger than Evelyn too. "I'm looking for Harry Weaver?" you asked, keeping your tone polite, your eyes unmistakably catching the pearls around her neck and the velvet emerald wrap dress that you swore she had seen Evie wear a few Christmases ago.

"And you are?" she asked, raising a perfect eyebrow.

"He knows me," you said, not indelicately, but it was in everyone's best interest if this woman got out of her way.

The woman looked you up and down, clocking that you were nowhere close in competition with her perfect blonde curls and petite figure, then stepped back. "Harry, love!" she called out, and you stepped over the threshold, the interior nothing like the truck standing outside. "Someone's here to see you." Her black stilettos clacked over the polished wooden floors, past a round table with a lacy table runner and what was clearly an expensive vase filled with fresh flowers. Noone should be this rich, was the first thought to occur, and then there he was, in a tight polo shirt, a Rolex on his wrist and sharp blue eyes that rivalled Pierce Brosnan, coming down a spiral staircase in polished dress shoes (seriously, who wears those indoors?).

His eyes sparkled in recognition of you. "She's here about Evelyn, no doubt," Harry said, holding out his hand for you, and you took it, smiling sadly, well-practiced, even though the fact that there was no ring on his finger made you want to twist his arm until it fractured.

"The police have no idea where she's gone," you said, dropping his hand, which he used to gesture for you to take a seat.

"Trust me, I've spared no expense in trying to find her," Harry said, his voice still smooth as butter. "My PI suggests it's stress. She wanted a fresh start and… Our marriage was in the way, it seems."

"It's the first I'm hearing of it," you said.

"Can I get you something to drink?" the woman asked. "Wine? We've got a great Merlot."

"I have to drive," you said, your face apologetic and helpless, and you swore something flickered in her eye.

"Harry, honey, what about you?" she asked, looking at the man who couldn't deny her anything.

"Sure, what's a small glass between friends?" he said and you resisted a scoff. His wife was probably dead, and he had killed her, and still had the nerve to play the cool guy around them.

The woman gave him a saccharine smile, walking away, and Harry looked at you. "It's not what it looks like," he said lowly. "I decided to work from home, what with Evie gone. The last thing I need is police showing up at my place of work, and I can't do a thing without Betty. She's my secretary."

How cliché, you thought. Having an affair with his secretary, seriously? Are we still in the 90s? "Of course," you said placidly. "By the way, I wanted to ask, the truck outside, is that yours?"

"No, that'd be Betty's. Or rather, her father's. He, uh, used to fix boats or something, I don't really know," Harry said, waving his hand carelessly, before letting out a sigh. "Look, I know why you're here. I don't know what Evie told you, but it's not true."

"She's wearing Evie's dress," you said lowly, almost dangerous, your anger bleeding through.

"She spilled coffee on her dress and needed a change," Harry said and you scoffed.

"Evie's not gone two days, and you've gone and replaced her. I can't get my guy to replace my TV that fast."

"We had a fight, that's it," Harry insisted, looking at you. "She… She was convinced that I wasn't faithful, refused to believe me, I mean, she was getting hysterical."

"And then what, she just packed her bags and left?" you asked.

"No, she just… she just left," Harry said, looking broken, but you knew his ability to fake it. "You have to know… I love Evie more than anything. It's just this merger's been eating up all my time and she got the wrong idea. She's the only one for me, you have to believe me!"

"Is that right?" Betty asked, walking over with a bottle of Merlot and a glass of wine. "Evie's the only one for you?"

Harry swallowed, his eyes widening as Betty approached him, a sneering look on her face, and you could tell this wasn't about to end well. You're praying you're pressing the right numbers, sending it to the right person, your hand in your coat pocket.

"Betty, no, I-I only meant--"

"Evie, Evie, Evie, God, you never shut up about her," Betty scoffed, dropping the glass with every intention, the sound of it shattering making you flinch.

"Betty, baby, listen--"

"I have done everything to get you to look at me," Betty cried, staggering towards him with the bottle in hand. "You told me I was prettier than her, you told me!"

"Betty, calm down, you're getting hysterical," Harry said, hoping a firm hand would guide her, and you inched away, hoping to be imperceptible.

"Betty…" you said slowly, "what did you do?" Harry looked at you, frowning.

"You don't seriously think Betty--"

"Why not?" Betty asked, tears flooding her eyes, red and watery, her voice loud and shaky. "Or did you think itty bitty Betty was just some girl you could fuck and shelve away?"

"Betty," you said, swallowing, "did you do something to Evie?"

"God, I am so sick of that bitch!" Betty cried, looking at you, all but snarling. "She's gone, okay?" she yelled at you. "Get over it!"

"Betty, what did you do?" Harry asked, stepping forward. "Did you hurt Evie?"

"Stop saying her name!" she shrieked, swinging the bottle back to hit Harry right in the head and all you could do was clap your hands over your mouth as the man toppled over, his head hitting the polished floors with a crack. Betty didn't even look especially pressed about it, watching the supposed love of her life sprawled unconscious, glass and wine spilled all over the floor. At least, you hoped he was only unconscious, and Betty took a swig of wine, then put it down with a sigh, her hand slipping into her pocket to pull out a revolver.

"Betty, what are you--" She didn't even wait for you to finish the question before shooting Harry in the head and it was all you could do to not scream. Run. You should run. There's no way Alex and Spencer can get here before-- Betty raised her gun right at you.

"Sorry," Betty said, not sounding sorry at all, "Can't leave behind a witness."

"Wait!" You cried out. "Please! Just-Just tell me what happened. I-I just want the truth."

Betty scoffed, tilting her wrist. "The truth? Harry was sick of her, and I gave him what that bitch never could. But he didn't have the nerve to drop her. All that high society bullshit. So I did what he didn't have the balls to do. I killed her. Good thing Daddy told me to get a boating licence at 15. Not to mention the life insurance policy I get to collect in a few weeks."

"How are you gonna convince the police it wasn't you?" you asked, managing to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"Oh, that's easy," she said, grinning at you. "You came here, convinced that Harry killed Evie, and you shot him out of revenge. And then I caught you after you dumped him," she gestured to Harry, "And guess who'd left their gun behind when you took him? So, of course, I had no choice but to shoot you in self-defence. Sorry, honey. Guess this is the end."

You swallowed, out of cards to play, and closed your eyes when you heard the faintest siren outside. "Not yet," you said, right before the door burst open, Morgan kicking it down, followed by Spencer and Hotch. You felt your boyfriend (technically, you hadn't talked about labels yet) wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you away from Betty while Derek and Hotch had the woman surrounded.

"She killed Evelyn," you kept repeating as Spencer ushered you out of the house and to the waiting ambulance.

"I know, I know, angel, we've got her now," he said, and you frowned.

"How did you get here so soon?" you asked, as you felt someone wrap a blanket around you, your gaze fixed on Spencer.

"Blake told me about Evelyn," Spencer said, shrugging. "I wanted to help, but JJ said if you wanted you'd ask for it, so, I worked it out on my own. Figured it had to be Betty. She owned the truck, had the boating license, knew enough about the law to get away with it."

You sighed, sitting on the edge of the ambulance. "Well, that's just embarrassing. I didn't realise it until she came out with that wine."

"That's okay," Spencer said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You don't have FBI resources at your beck and call." You smiled at the gesture, but Spencer still looked serious. "You do, however, have me at your beck and call. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to get you in trouble at work," you said softly. "I know Strauss doesn't appreciate you lot crossing red tape."

"I'd rather have Strauss mad at me than find you…" He couldn't even finish the sentence, he was that terrified of losing her.

"I know," you said gently, taking his hand in yours. "I should have asked for help."

"Hotch is getting Syracuse PD to drag the water to see if we can find Evelyn," he said, shaking his head. "I know these local precincts are overburdened and underpaid, but this level of incompetence in handling this case is…"

"Thank you," is all you have in you to say, and it's not enough. You have to kiss him, like it's your birthright, your hands on his waist, his large, spindly hands cupping your jaw as he takes your breath away. He pulled away, all too soon, having to remember that he was here as a professional.

"Come on, it'll be dark soon, and you're not wearing nearly enough layers for the forecast." You chuckled lightly, keeping the blanket around your shoulders, coupled with his warmth, as he guided you to the car.

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