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marthawrites · 4 months

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Devour

Daemon Targaryen x wife reader

Word count: 1.8k+

About: The early days of your moon's blood are always the worst. During your suffering, your husband, the Rogue Prince, takes it upon himself to help ease you.

Includes: FILTHY SMUT. FILTH. Featuring established relationship (husband x wife), Daemon is sweet to his wife, menophilia (aka period kink), menstural cramps, reader is emotional, menstural blood, pussy eating, dirty talk, face/blood licking, and unprotected vaginal sex. I think that's all apologies if I missed anything!

Note: Hello lovely reader! This fic was inspired by my dragon friends ♥ Double warning: Please keep in mind the content of this fic. If you do not like it, do not read this. I've never wrote anything like this before! It was definitely out of my "comfort zone" but I had a lot of fun with it! Reader is implied to have a painful first couple days of her period. Reader is implied to "not have dragon's blood", and she's from an unspecified House. Other than that, reader is non-descript. As always, please enjoy!

Banner made by the incredible and sweet @zaldritzosrose who went above and beyond for this impromptu writing challenge!

Despite leaving it unattended, steam continued to rise from your abandoned bath. Your fingertips were pruned, as were your toes, and your skin bloomed with heat. If you could handle the temperature for even one more minute you’d still be in the tub allowing your husband, the Rogue Prince, to add hot water from the hearth whenever it grew tepid. But, unlike your husband, you didn’t have dragon’s blood; the heat affected you easier than it did him.

You sat in a chair in front of your vanity, now, patting your skin dry with a warmed towel. Your bath wasn’t one for cleanliness. No, not at this time. It was one for comfort. For relief. A ripe womb was both a blessing and a curse to women.

The beginning of your moon’s blood was always the worst. It came with cramps and fatigue–neither of which faded for the first day or two. Even though you’d only been sitting for a short time, you knew there’d be a smear of red upon the chair’s protective linens once you stood.

You had been in the bath for nearly an hour. The most divine hour. Not once during that time did you suffer any cramps. Now that you were out, however? You pushed on your lower belly in an attempt to ease the pain, nostrils flaring with it.

“Can I get you anything, sweetling?” Daemon asked in a voice that was both concerned and gentle.

Shaking your head, you answered, “no, no I don’t think so.”

“Perhaps you should get back into the tub for a bit?”

The sweetness in his tone touched your emotions, and for a moment you had to blink back tears. “The heat makes me faint after so long. I’d hate to make you deal with me passing out while I’m in this…,” you waved a hand, gesturing to yourself, “condition.”

“Come lay down then,” he said easily. He grabbed one of your robes–a lovely cotton piece with a silken sash and delicate embroidery–and walked to you. Helping you into it, he didn’t bother tying it before guiding you to your marital bed.

Smiling softly, you kissed him. “Thank you, husband.”

Daemon pushed you down with care, chasing your warm, soft lips all the while. He loomed above you while supporting himself with one arm. “My poor little wife. You must be very sore today?” He asked, fluttering kisses along your jaw. Your neck.

Goosebumps rose to the top of your skin beneath his affection. There was no doubt Daemon adored you. He had a reputation across King’s Landing, the Stepstones, Pentos, and likely many places between–people and their constant wagging tongues. But, whatever harsh words were said about him, his ambition, hot-temper, and moodiness, your saccharine charm–and occasional fiery tongue–soothed him. He cared for you. Truly.

“Yes,” you answered. “The Gods punish me for not giving you a little dragon. Only when my womb is full and growing with your babe will these stop. And the pain of bringing your child into the world will be worth it.” Sadness clung to your words. It sent your eyelashes glittering, too, as you looked up at him.

He shushed you. “It will happen. The process of making a child is where all the fun is, anyway,” he said with the twinkle of a wink.

If you had more energy you might argue with him about it. But alas you didn’t. You simply offered a little nod. “I think I’ll rest now. Wake me for supper?”

One of his palms trailed up your side, gripping into the softness of your waist. “Who said anything about resting now?” He asked with a quirk of his fair brow. “Because surely I didn’t.”

The feel of him touching you like this immediately sent a different sort of ache in those low muscles in your belly. It was a marvel how your body always reacted to him. No matter how small or subtle, your senses always bent to him. “Daemon…,” you whispered against his mouth. “What’re you–,”

That same hand lowered from your waist and wandered between your thighs. He knew how to silence your pesky questions. “What kind of a husband would I be if I let you suffer anymore than you need to?”

“...a husband like any other?” You proclaimed half in jest and half in truth.

“And am I a husband like any of these other daft cunts?”

You giggled. “No. You’re Daemon Targaryen, brother of the King and–oh!” His fingers brushed that delicate space between your thighs and you purred. You were always so, so sensitive during your moon’s blood.

“Lay there and look pretty. Let me help in a way that I can,” he said, voice hot and gravely as he lowered to lay between your thighs.

Mortification quickly filled you with the prospect of what he was going to do. He’d never done anything like this before! Not during your cycle! “You needn’t do th–ah!” Whatever you were going to say died on your tongue as your husband’s slid over your clit. Seven Hells he meant to do it and he wasn’t going to let you say no or push him away.

While he’d never done this during your cycle before, he has pleasured you in other ways. He knew how sensitive you were during it. He kept his attention on your bud, circling and flicking over it with lazy laps.

Embarrassment melted into lust as Daemon continued. You hardly knew what to think or do! Was this really happening? Your hips began to slowly grind along with him, cunt seeking further attention and friction.

“There you are…,” he said, grinning a feral blood-stained grin up at you. His eyes sparkled with dark delight. “Don’t fight it. Let me make you feel good.”

You nearly came at the sight. Holy shit it was so wrong and so… exciting. You gasped in equal pleasure and surprise as his tongue dipped lower than before. Instead of lavishing your pearl again and again, it slid and teased your entrance. Daemon’s groan barely made it to your ears but you felt it against your core. He actually worked his tongue in and out of you. Fucking you with the warm muscle. “G-ods!” You panted, hands flying down to tangle in his hair.

His hands moved and held firmly onto your hips, wide grip holding onto your ass and hips alike. Your soft flesh yielded to him and he fucking loved the way his fingers dented into your skin. He coaxed you along, letting you ride your bliss on his face; using him as he’s often used your mouth for pleasure.

A metallic scent hung in the air around you. Once again, embarrassment and shame filled you as your hazy mind realized that was your metallic scent. Rich, coppery, thick. Part of you knew he had to be a mess right now–your blood smeared all across his pale Targaryen features. Yet, he never stopped. He could have. Multiple times. He could have used his fingers like he’s done in the past. Or eased his aching cock into your body. But, no. He chose this. He wanted this. Your blood on his tongue, lips, face. The taste of your earthy sweet arousal and coppery lifesblood. No part of you was forbidden to him. He would fucking devour you whole before he let you think there was any part of you not worth his devotion.

Pleasure coiled so tightly in your belly you’d forgotten all about your previous pains. When your bliss peaked, you fell into a beautiful darkness that had you coming back to your body shaky and tingly.

With uneven breaths, and a lopsided smile of release, you looked down the front of your body just in time to watch Daemon push up. Your husband was fucking magnificent. He looked insane. Crazed. The gleam of his Targaryen eyes zeroed in on you.

“You are the most irresistible creature,” he said, sitting up on his knees before pulling you up to him.

Your relaxed muscles followed his movement. His smile was a dark, wondrous thing. Blood smeared his mouth, chin, nose. You’d never seen him like this before. You looked up at him, wordless and breathless, eyes communicating everything your mouth couldn’t.

Daemon’s hand wrapped around the front of your throat, holding and forcing your attention on him–as if your attention could be on anything else right now. “Kiss me,” he said. “Lick all your blood off my face like the good little wife you are.”

Tension thrilled throughout your entire body. Your eyes widened at his proposition. You gulped and opened your mouth to say something. But, again nothing came out.

“You heard me. Kiss me and tell me ‘thank you’ for eating your bleeding cunt.”

A sound came from you. A whine. A whimper. Something. And then your mouth was on his. You tasted yourself on him, your arousal and lifesblood, and it sparked something deep inside you. “Thank you,” you breathed against his mouth. Your kiss was all lips and tongue; a needy thing. “Thank you.”

He groaned in satisfaction. “Anything for you,” he said on the edge of humor. He still held your throat, but it was lighter now.

You licked over his lips. It felt… right. To worship him as he worshiped you. You licked up the center of his nose, then across the tip, before kissing over its bridge when it was clean. Your mouths crashed together again and he kissed you as fervently as you did him. It was debauched. Filthy. Yet… with Daemon–your husband–no limits existed.

“What do you say about making this a normal thing, hm?” He asked, releasing your throat to instead squeeze your breasts. Your nipples were already pebbled; eager as the rest of you. He rolled, and pinched, and squeezed the sensitive mounds, knowing how you enjoyed those played with, too.

You nodded wordlessly. The ache at your center roared to life again; lust demanding more. You behaved, though, and began licking over his chin. Your tongue dragged along it, the natural texture and taste of his skin sending yours prickling. He had small traces of your blood on his cheeks, too, and you lapped those away next.

“Such a good wife,” he said, proud.

Your smile kissed him again. “I feel much better now.”

Smirking like the dragon he was, he pushed you back on the bed. He opened the ties of his breeches until his hard cock sprang free. With your thighs spilled around his waist he wasted no time in slotting between them. The head of his cock pressed against you, your wetness already coaxing him to slide into your body. “Let me in,” he growled.

“Please,” you moaned. “Easy, though. Please.”

He already planned that. Your plea was all he needed. With a push he sunk into you, filling you wholly and completely. With gentle power, he fucked you until all of those cramping muscles were deeply relaxed. Until you were deeply relaxed.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

Masterlist

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#house of the dragon #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon smut #daemon fic #daemon imagine

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perotovar · 7 months

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baby, i'm-a want you — (ch 1) "session one"

gif by me

pairing: joel miller/dieter bravo (just this time. main pairing is still javi/joel) rating: E (18+) mdni word count: 3.5k content: swearing, joel and tommy's southern accents being cute af, dieter being a menace, joel being awkward af (but it's cute), cringey porn dialogue, male masturbation (briefly), one (1) handjob, one (1) blowjob (it's messy), lmk if i missed anything! dividers: @saradika-graphics beta: @qveerthe0ry (ily ♥)

summary: javier peña has been doing this a long time. he's really good at his job. joel miller? not so much. he started doing this to get some extra cash to support his daughters. what happens when they're supposed to do a scene together? aka, the au where most of the ppcu boys are gay porn stars~

(read this first ->) prologue | series masterlist

Joel never would have guessed he’d do something like this ten years ago. Hell, not even five years ago. He’s not even totally sure how he got here, if he’s honest with himself.

He just remembers an, admittedly shady, business-looking man coming up to him and shoving a business card in his face. He asked if Joel had ever slept with men before. Joel was taken aback and thought he was coming onto him in a really bizarre way. He had, but that was none of this man’s business as far as he was concerned.

“There’s no pressure, I promise. Here, my website is on the card. If you see what you like, you gimme a call, okay?” The man had winked, grabbed his coffee, and left.

Joel was left sitting in the middle of that coffee shop stunned into silence.

Later that night, sitting in front of the laptop Sarah nearly forced on him, he clumsily typed (using only his index fingers) the name of the website from the business card into the search bar.

Love Bites

The name and the man, Max Phillips according to the card, and his invasive question should’ve told him everything he needed to know, but Joel wasn’t prepared for the absolute onslaught of nudity he was met with.

“Jesus–” Joel mumbled to himself, slamming the laptop closed. Not that that would take it away, but he could hope. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head to himself. “The fuck you get yourself into, Miller?” He grumbled.

Slowly, and with one eye closed, he opened his laptop again. Once he got both eyes on it again, the website wasn’t… too bad. Well, it was still a porn site, but it wasn’t anything he hadn't seen before. He started looking around some more and didn’t bother turning it down. He lived alone now, both girls having moved out within the last year or so. He missed the hell out of them, and frankly, found himself bored more often than not. He and Tommy still owned Miller Contracting, but Joel stuck to the delegating and organizing part now. He had too many knee and back problems to keep up on the actual building part.

His finger rolled over to the “profiles” section of the website. He raised a brow and clicked on the trackpad hesitantly. There were several headshots of the men that made content for the website. He felt his cock twitch in his jeans and cleared his throat awkwardly, exhaling heavily. Well, it… had been a while. What could it hurt, right?

He did have a lot of options…

Dark eyes trailing over the men on the site, he smiled softly. They all had little biographies that explained what their sexualities and preferences were. He snorted a little at seeing two different cowboys; one gay and a little older than himself, the other bisexual and perhaps around the same age. The younger cowboy had a prominent mustache and had a preference for “tying people up”. Bit on the nose in Joel’s opinion, but there was something for everyone. The older cowboy tended toward more amateur-style, “romantic” videos. Joel’s heart softened a little, but decided he wasn’t really in the mood for that sort of thing.

In his search, he found just about everything; a messy haired, self proclaimed “adventurous” sort, a masked man that liked to roleplay, a clean cut looking man that considered himself a “romantic”. You name it, they probably had it. But his eyes landed on a particular man…

He had deep, intense eyes and a thick mustache. His hair was styled like he walked out of the 80s and he was wearing a thin gold chain. He had a bit of a Burt Reynolds thing going on, and normally that wouldn’t be something Joel was into, but this time, well…

Joel clicked on his – Javier’s – page and started browsing the videos he had available. His bio said he was “fluid and polyamorous”, but Joel didn’t know what that meant. Wow, he was… popular. That didn’t surprise Joel at all, but his eyes landed on one of Javier’s “solo” videos. It looked like it was filmed in his apartment, but it probably wasn’t from how well lit it was. The video started off like Joel guessed all of them did; a fancy graphic with the words “Love Bites” in the center of the screen before the sound effect of someone taking a bite out of something, and a faint moan. The tips of Joel’s ears warmed, but he pressed on, watching Javier walk onto screen and sit in the middle of the couch that was in frame.

Javier’s jeans were very tight, but maybe even moreso because of how fucking hard he looked to be. Joel swallowed a lump in his throat, his cock twitching again. Javier had an easy smirk on his handsome face, but he seemed like he didn’t have the cockiness that Joel expected a pornstar to have. The video seemed like it was personally sent to Joel and that thought made Joel’s cock stand to attention almost comically quickly. Unzipping his own jeans, he groaned at the constriction leaving, allowing him to breathe easier. He squeezed his cock and looked back at the video, Javier already getting started without him. He was stroking his own cock slowly, almost teasingly, biting a plump bottom lip. Joel moaned and shut his eyes for a quick second as he took himself in hand–

Ring, ring.

Joel groaned, squeezing his cock harder, and dug his phone out of his pocket. Tommy. He sighed and paused the video on Javier’s blissed out face and big hand wrapped around his–

Ring, ring.

“Christ, Tommy, what is it?” He grumbled, pressing the too-new-for-his-liking phone to his ear.

“Jesus, who pissed in your oatmeal this mornin’?” Tommy’s easy voice filtered in, a chuckle wrapped around his words. “And why are ya outta breath? Ya okay?”

“What–? Yeah, ‘m fine, Tommy. Why y’callin’?”

“Wonderin’ if ya could stop by tonight. Maria’s makin’ meatloaf and I know ya like it.”

Joel did really like Maria’s meatloaf. He sighed to himself and shut his laptop, his cock having softened considerably since hearing his brother’s voice. “Yeah,” he cleared his throat, trying to subtly zip up his jeans while he held the phone against his shoulder. “I’ll come over in a little bit, just gotta… gonna make a phone call.”

“Ooh, ya finally have a date, old man?”

“Can it,” Joel grunted. “‘M forty-three. Ain’t that old. And no, I was gonna call Sarah. See how her classes are goin’.”

“Send her our love, will ya? ‘N tell her she’ll have a cousin soon. Maria’s ‘bout to pop any day. ‘M scared to death,” Tommy sighed. The happiness was clear in his voice, though. Joel was happy for him, and smiled to himself. “How’s Ellie doin’, by the way?”

“Good. Think she said somethin’ ‘bout joinin’ a… roller derby team? Don’t rightly know, but,” he shrugged to himself. “Sounded like somethin’ she’d like, way she was describin’ it.”

Talking on the phone with Tommy always went the same way. He’d find a way to chew up a couple hours of your time, but Joel never minded. Once they said their goodbyes and their I-love-yous, Joel picked up Max Phillips’ business card and sighed, rubbing his thumb over the phone number.

What could it hurt, right?

That was two years ago. He’s been working for Love Bites for two years and had been avoiding Javier Peña as much as he could.

Joel’s never been good at… initiating conversations. Ellie would always give him shit for it. She usually went up to whoever had caught Joel’s eye and slyly made it her goal to get them to come over to him.

But Ellie wasn’t here and she never would be. His girls knew what he did and even if they were a little concerned for him at first, they saw how much happier he’d been since joining. He was healthier, gaining a bit of “chub” as Sarah called it, and a healthier glow to his skin. He was on camera more often now, so he had to eat well and work out a little more. He didn’t do anything too crazy, and the audience that watched his videos had a lot of positive opinions and comments about his physique. It made him blush to think about it for too long, so he tried not to.

What was he saying?

Oh, right. Avoiding Javier Peña.

He’d had a huge crush on him ever since that first video he watched, and frankly, didn’t want to make a fool of himself if he talked to him. He’s filmed one video with him and it was the best Joel had felt in years. He almost came too quickly, and the video was supposed to be twenty minutes long. They had to pause so Joel could calm himself down, but Javier was patient and lovely with him. Javier had been doing this a lot longer than Joel had, so he wasn’t worried, which made Joel feel better. Just a little embarrassed. Afterwards, he had to leave, making up a story about seeing his girls for dinner that night.

“Javi!”

Joel’s eyes snapped up from his phone. He was in the middle of texting Sarah, saying that he’d call her when he got home from work. He had a scene with Dieter today.

And there he was. God. Joel’s cheeks flushed at the sight of Javier standing in the hall in his robe. He must’ve just finished his scene with Shane, the new kid. He couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the sound of Javier’s deep, commanding voice was enough to send a chill down Joel’s spine. Before he knew it, Javier was talking animatedly with Steve, another actor, as they walked off down the hall and disappearing around a corner.

He knew, realistically, relationships between porn actors could happen. Silva and Jake had been together for years. Joel’s problem with that was, well… Joel. His last real relationship was with Sarah’s mom years ago, and when the girls were in high school he had a relationship with this guy, Ezra for a while.

Smack!

“Jesus–!” Joel jumped, holding onto one of his ass cheeks protectively. Only one person would have done that.

“Hey, handsome,” Dieter grinned, sticking a hand down the back pocket of Joel’s jeans and squeezing. “Getting lost in Javi’s eyes again?” He winked.

“N-no! I am not,” Joel grumbled, finishing off his text and shoving his phone in his pocket.

Dieter snorted and rolled his eyes, then removed his hand to hold it out for Joel to take. “C’mon, big guy. You get to cum on my face today,” he smirked.

Filming with Dieter always felt good. He was a bit wild for Joel’s personal tastes, but he always made sure Joel was comfortable, and today was no different.

Joel was playing a “plumber” that needed to work on Dieter’s “pipes”. This of course led to Dieter offering to “pay” in his own way.

“Oh, come on, big guy like you doesn’t need money, right?” Dieter recited his lines expertly, running a hand down Joel’s t-shirt covered chest. “Bet it gets lonely doing this sort of work, huh?”

Joel had gotten a lot better at the acting part of things over the past couple of years. He was super stiff (and not in the right way) in the beginning, but now, he easily plastered on a smirk, eyes glued to Dieter’s lips. “Sometimes,” he shrugged, a big hand hovering over Dieter’s shoulder. Dieter saw the hand out of the corner of his eye and grinned, curling his fingers around Joel’s thick wrist and moving it down to his ass.

Joel smirked, squeezing the plump flesh appreciatively. “Bit forward o’ you,” he rumbled.

Dieter visibly shivered and bit his lip. “Sexy guy like you, of course I am,” he breathed. He leaned forward and kissed Joel messily, the hand on Joel’s torso moving down to unzip his jeans. Joel was already painfully hard and grunted into Dieter’s mouth when his pants were opened and lowered enough to pull his cock free. Dieter moaned and curled his fingers around Joel’s shaft, pumping rhythmically.

They stayed like that for a while; open mouth kisses, heavy breathing from Joel, and Dieter’s moans being picked up by the mics.

Dieter pulled away to look down at the thick cock in his hand and bit his lip at the sight. “Fuck,” he groaned, his own cock twitching in his sweats. “Can I suck your cock?” He looked up at Joel demurely, eyes big and nearly black with desire.

Joel forgot he was supposed to be acting for a minute and grunted, hips bucking into Dieter’s grasp. “F-fuck, yeah,” he nodded, eyes glazed over. Dieter smiled and guided Joel over to the couch on the set. Technically, Dieter was supposed to get on his knees in the “kitchen”, but he knew Joel wouldn’t be able to stand for that long with his back problems. Sometimes Dieter’s improv classes came in handy. Max couldn’t complain too much, as long as Dieter sucked Joel off, then the video was still following the script.

Joel grunted as he sat, hard cock swaying slightly. Dieter giggled a little and happily got down on his knees, hands traveling up and down Joel’s thighs appreciatively. “Such a pretty cock,” he hummed, licking his lips as he watched it twitch in front of him, a drop of pre-cum gathering at the tip.

“Why dontcha put that mouth to use, then?” Joel smirked, gripping the base and tapping the head against Dieter’s cheek. “Want your discount, right?”

Dieter smiled and opened his mouth wide, eyes shut in pure bliss. Joel gripped Dieter’s messy curls and held him still as he hit the head of his cock against Dieter’s tongue. Dieter moaned and opened his eyes, watching Joel’s face for any cues to stop. They never came, but it was something they all had to keep an eye on. When everything seemed to be going well, he happily wrapped his mouth around the head of Joel’s cock and started bobbing his head up and down.

He moaned, the vibrations traveling down Joel’s cock and up his spine, making Joel groan in return. “Mmm, knew you’d be good with your mouth,” he grinned, holding the back of Dieter’s head to set a pace Joel liked better.

Dieter heard a cameraman move to his right to get a better angle of his mouth, so he amped it up a little. He got messier, saliva dripping down along the sides of Joel’s shaft. Joel moaned weakly, resting his head on the back of the couch, but keeping one of his hands tangled in Dieter’s messy curls. Dieter started bobbing his head slower, eyes locked on Joel’s face as he moved further down his shaft, taking as much as he could down his throat. He choked slightly and pulled off, pre-cum and saliva covering his mouth and Joel’s cock. He smiled up at Joel and panted heavily, curling his fingers around the base to pump the thick cock.

Joel’s eyes rolled back and he grunted, hips bucking off the couch. “C’mere,” he breathed, heavy work boots landing heavily on the set floor as he stood. “Gonna fuck your face.”

Dieter shivered at the low timbre of Joel’s voice and nodded happily up at him. He pulled his sweats down and gripped his own cock in hand and started stroking himself rhythmically. Dieter opened his mouth for Joel obediently and nearly choked again when Joel shoved his cock down Dieter’s throat. He moaned weakly when Joel’s hips started moving, his heavy balls slapping against Dieter’s chin.

Dieter just had to take it, the lewd sounds of Joel fucking his face filling the otherwise quiet room. He fucking loved it because Joel was subtly massaging Dieter’s scalp and it sent shivers down his spine. His fist was almost a blur over his own cock and tears leaked out of his eyes, a blush high on his cheeks.

“Mmm, bein’ such a good boy f’me,” Joel grunted, biting his lip to rein it in a little. Dieter moaned at the praise, eyebrows downturned in pleasure. “Yeah? Like bein’ my good boy?”

Dieter whined and nodded as best he could, eyes completely glazed over. Joel slowed down his hips a little and let Dieter breathe for a minute. Dieter panted hard, a near-dopey smile on his face. “Come on my face,” he breathed heavily, extending his tongue for Joel. “Please.”

It was Joel’s turn to shiver as he slapped the head of his cock against Dieter’s face again. “Gonna have to earn it,” Joel smirked, reciting his lines as well as he could.

Dieter whined and pouted up at him, his own hand slowing down a little. He didn’t say anything, letting Joel continue.

“Make me come, and I’ll paint this pretty face o’ yours.”

Dieter’s face lit up and he curled his fingers around Joel’s shaft. He watched Joel’s face while he wrapped his lips around the head and bobbed his head. His free hand held Joel’s hip and subtly moved to his ass and squeezed. He moaned around Joel’s cock and shut his eyes briefly before obediently looking up at him, big eyes wet and innocent.

“Atta boy,” Joel grunted, cupping Dieter’s face lovingly. Dieter removed his mouth to kiss down his length as he stroked him, attaching his lips to one of Joel’s balls. “Mmm, fuck,” Joel breathed, tipping his head back.

The hand on Joel’s ass moved slightly until one of Dieter’s fingertips prodded at Joel’s asshole. Joel grunted in surprise and smiled down at Dieter. “Really want me all over ya, huh?”

“Yes,” Dieter nodded, sucking one of Joel’s balls into his mouth. “Please.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and– ooh, fuck – Jus’ might get your wish,” Joel panted, shutting his eyes. He felt the build up in his lower stomach, his cock twitching violently in Dieter’s hand. “C’mere, baby boy,” he grinned, taking his cock back to stroke himself over Dieter’s face.

Dieter was buzzing, lifting Joel’s t-shirt to lovingly caress his hairy tummy, mouth open wide and obedient.

Joel felt his balls draw up and his hips buck until– “Fuck–! Shit,” He moaned, thick ropes of come spurting out from the tip of his cock and landing on Dieter’s face and mouth. He caressed Dieter’s hair, thick fingers massaging his scalp while the other hand stroked himself until his balls were completely empty.

Dieter happily licked his mouth clean, and hid his face in Joel’s stomach, whimpering into the sweaty skin. He moaned weakly, his entire body trembling as he came, completely untouched. Dieter was the only one in the cast that could do that, and he loved showing it off as much as he could.

“Shit,” Joel smiled, petting Dieter’s sweaty curls back and out of his face. “Ain’t you a sight.”

“Cut!”

Dieter deflated, a huge grin on his face. He started giggling into Joel’s stomach and smiled up at him. “Fucking love your cock, Joel,” he hummed happily.

“That’s what you always say,” Joel snorted, helping him up onto his feet. Dieter was a little wobbly still and cuddled into Joel’s side. He always got a little clingy after a scene, but Joel didn’t mind. As different as they were, Joel would probably consider Dieter one of his closest friends. It always worked in their favor, their natural chemistry and closeness coming through the cameras.

They were handed a couple towels and some water, the both of them taking them gratefully. Max came up to them, his usual shit-eating grin on his face. Joel always thought Max reminded him of a vampire, with that mischievous glint in his eye that always seemed to be there.

“Great show, boys,” Max started. “Dieter, d’you mind if I steal Joel away for a second?”

Dieter whined and clinged onto Joel tighter. Joel grinned and hugged him back. “Sorry, boss, looks like he ain’t leavin’ anytime soon.”

Max rolled his eyes, but continued anyway. “Fine. Meant to tell you earlier, but things got rolling, you know how it is–”

“What is it, Max?”

“You’ve got a scene with Javier tomorrow.”

If there were a record player anywhere, Joel would probably hear it scratching right about now. Dieter paused too, and looked up at Joel with worried eyes. He knew all about Joel’s crush, and was always telling Joel to just go for it. Joel froze briefly, but tried to school his emotions as best he could.

“O-okay, um. What time?” He asked shakily, gripping Dieter’s fluffy robe tighter.

“I’m thinking around noon? That way Javier can prepare, y’know?”

Preparing was always done before a particularly intense scene. Joel tried really hard not to think about Javier wearing a plug for a while before coming to set.

“Right,” Joel nodded, cheeks going a little pink. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re the best, Joel!” Max snapped his fingers and walked off, talking to a couple of assistants.

Dieter tapped on his chest and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You really gotta say something, Joel,” he said softly.

Joel sighed and nodded. He knew that.

He just didn’t know what.

#joel miller #dieter bravo #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller series #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo series #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe #ppcu fanfiction #oaksfics

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softpascalito · 10 months

Text

Snowy Surprise - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel takes advantage of your lunch break on patrol for ... other activities. Afterwards, a promise he made about christmas decorations comes back to haunt him.

Relationships: Joel Miller x F!Reader WC: 2200 Tags/Warnings: Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Jackson!Era, Soft Joel (The Last of Us), Established Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, Female Reader, Neck Kissing, Dirty Talk, Semi-Public Sex, Christmas Tree, Snow Read on AO3 full advent calendar (updated daily)

notes: hello loves! i really wanted to do something special for christmas time this year and i had so much fun with kinktober that i decided to make a little pedro pascal advent calender! this also doubles as a piece for stephs (@toomanystoriessolittletime) winter writing challenge for this week! check it out here ♥

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

“God, I hope they're serving some warm food tonight,” you mutter, your body slowly moving up and down as you steer your horse up the hill and through a small trickle, the water glistening with the thin sheet of ice that is decorating its top. It crunches under the hooves of the animal as you make your way past the abandoned houses, the caved in roofs and trees heavy with fresh snow.

The ice crunches again, this time behind you, and it's the only indication that you're not alone. He stays quiet.

“The soup we had last week- what was it? Pumpkin?” You ask absent-mindedly. “That was delicious. And hot. Burned my tongue. But it was worth it.”

He still doesn't say anything. Not that it's unusual. It's why you're such a good fit. You’re complementary in that way. You talk, he listens. He pretends to be annoyed, you know he secretly likes the way your thoughts fly out of your mouth, practically unfiltered in his presence.

You let your horse fall back slightly until he catches up with you, the two of you riding side by side. “Joel?”

He turns his head at that, soft brown eyes landing on yours as he seems to be snapped out of thought, “Hm?”

“Were you listening to what I said?”

A small grumble escapes his throat, a dark eyebrow moving up ever so slightly. You roll your eyes at him, deciding to just drop it, “Forget it, it doesn't matter anyway.”

He lets a few moments of silence pass until you reach the small lookout and demount your horses, tying them to a small fence post in front of the building. When he passes you on his way inside, there's a small smirk on his face.

“It wasn't pumpkin. It was carrot.”

He does listen.

Joel signs the patrol book while you busy yourself with the binoculars. The snow is almost blinding, the past week having brought more of it than you're used to, even in Jackson.

It's the favorite topic at night in the tipsy bison, with people complaining about the cold, about pipes bursting and about paths needing to be cleared every few hours. But above all the complaints is the knowledge that the vast amount of snow also has its upsides, keeping infected unable to move as fast and raiders from entering the valley at all.

That, and the children have taken to sledding down the small slopes in the town center, filling the air of the community with genuine laughter and happiness that more than makes up for the hardships the winter brings.

“Coast looks clear,” you mumble into his direction and Joel gives a small nod of approval as he finishes scribbling what is no doubt another joke at Tommys expense into the large book.

As you place the lens caps back onto the worn-out binoculars, two strong hands are placed on each side of your hips, Joel's body gently pressing into yours as he hums into your ear.

“Are we on time?”

You sigh dramatically but do check the small watch you carry in your backpack, finding that you've made good time on your way to the outlook, “We've got time for a small lunch break.”

But Joel doesn't let go, his arms only tightening their grip as he brings his lips to your cheek and you feel his teeth graze over your skin.

“Lunch break. For lunch,” you try weakly but he's having none of it. Joel's gloves come off with a swift motion and he drops them to the ground, his arms sneaking around you and pressing you into him with a little more force. His fingers don't quite extend to your most intimate areas yet, instead just teasing around them, his touch a little more forceful than usual to make sure you can feel it through your thick winter jacket.

“I think I have a better idea,” he mutters into your ear and you nod, pressing your body back against his as you give in.

It's not fair. The way that your brain practically goes silent the moment you're in his arms. It's like a storm raging outside and falling quiet the moment you shut the door. You wonder if he knows a secret pressure point on your body that noone else has ever found, one that eases your worries, that slows down the thoughts in your head that usually rush past at what feels like lightspeed. There's always something to worry about, something to consider, something to feel.

When you're with Joel, you only feel him.

He knows this. And he recognizes every time, without failure, the moment when your brain falls quiet, just by the way you push back into him, a soft gasp on your lips.

“Joel- it's too cold- '' you mumble. There's no heating around you, making the logistics of what he undoubtedly has in mind more than difficult.

“It's okay. I got you,” Joel whispers back. His hand is still warm from the thick gloves he always wears on patrol and he doesnt open a single button of your clothing, instead opting to flatten his hand and slide it into your pants.

His fingers barely fit into the front of your jeans and it causes them to press down on your skin immediately, drawing a whimper from your lips. He shushes you gently, curling his hand to reach further and a moment later, his index finger is inside of you, the calloused skin brushing against your inner walls.

“Fuck, Joel, please-” You practically beg, a familiar heat already burning in your core as you push yourself into the palm of his hand, squirming with the way his hand aligns so perfectly with your front.

Maybe it's because of the cold or because he knows that you're still on a schedule but he doesn't make you wait as long as he usually does, slowly beginning to move his finger in and out of you. You can feel your own wetness staining the inside of your panties as it runs down his fingers and your own hands begin to wander, one clutching onto his arm while you sneak the other around yourself, brushing over the outline of Joel's hard cock behind you.

He hisses under his breath, feeling the touch even through the thick fabric of his jeans and a second finger enters you almost automatically.

“This is about you, darlin’,” he mutters, pressing himself against you a little harder and using his unoccupied hand to grab your wrist, “You just be good for me and stay still.”

So he doesn't want to go all the way, probably a smart choice in the current weather. Any disappointment you feel is quickly washed away however as you feel Joel's fingers curl inside of you, brushing over the spot that makes your knees weak.

You have no idea how he's able to finger you this well in the current position, restricted by the cold and all the layers of clothing between you. The small room is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing and you can feel the warmth of Joel's breath in your neck as he uses his nose to push aside the scarf that's wrapped around your throat and nips at your skin.

His other hand, still wrapped around your wrist, comes to your front, still restricting your arm while also holding you up.

“Come on, let me hear you, baby,” he mutters under his breath. “Noone around to tell us off. Just you and me.”

And again, your brain doesn't protest. You don't think about the dangers of being too loud, of humans or infected being attracted by the sound, of anything really. Your body and your brain seem to agree. You're safe with him.

So you let the noises flow from your lips, whimpering and moaning, mixing Joels name with a string of curse words when his thumb begins rubbing over your clit.

“Fuck, Joel, please, please, please let me come, Joel-” You break off into another fit of unintelligible words and Joel hums behind you, rubbing his nose against your ear. You can practically hear the grin on his face, “Go on, darlin’.”

It only takes a few more thrusts of his fingers inside of you until you're falling apart in his arms, your body jerking as the pleasure of your orgasm shoots through you.

Joel's arms stay tightly wrapped around you and he gives a few more gentle, shallow curls of his fingers, letting you fully ride out your orgasm, before he withdraws his hands from your jeans, leaving your underwear a mess.

“There we go. That's my girl,” he mumbles into your ear as he turns you around carefully and tugs on your jacket a bit, making sure that you're properly protected against the cold. It's endearing how much attention he pays to your shirt being tucked in correctly and your zipper being drawn. He holds you for a while longer, placing gentle kisses on the skin that he still can reach until he's sure you're good to go. You catch a glimpse of him licking the taste of you off his fingers before putting his gloves back on.

Your legs are still wobbly when you head back to your horses a few minutes later and you nod towards the woods, “I'm gonna go pee real quick.”

You're not sure why you blush now when you've literally just had Joel's hand knuckle-deep inside of you but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he almost enjoys it, a small smirk playing around his lips, “You do that.”

Ever the gentleman, Joel waits with Old Beardy and Japan while you stalk through the snow for a few more meters until you find a spot that looks like it'll work well-enough as a makeshift toilet. It takes a moment to undress with all the layers you're wearing and you curse as you pull your panties down to find them stained with your own juices, the sticky liquid smeared throughout the cotton fabric.

Meanwhile Joel's hand is scratching the soft neck of his horse when he hears a small yell. In an instant, he has his revolver drawn and is hurrying into the direction you disappeared into mere minutes ago.

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest as his boots sink into the snow with every step, his muscles ready to strike out at whatever danger is lurking behind the trees.

And then, suddenly, there you are. Standing in front of a pine tree that's only a little taller than him, your hand caressing the needles wet with snow.

Joel takes a breath, his gaze flying over the surroundings once more before he lets out a small sigh and lowers his gun, “What's going on?”

Your eyes, round and gentle, wander between the tree and him, lips pursed, like you know his reply to a question you haven't even asked yet.

“I know it's not the most practical option but-” You mumble and you can see the gears turning in Joel's head before he pinches his nose, closing his eyes for a moment, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It's been a few weeks since you sprung the idea on him while cuddling one night, mentioning that you hadn't had a Christmas tree for years and that with the woods around Jackson so full of pines, it would be a waste to not get one. Joel didn't care much for it but he was so content in that moment with you in his arms that he gave in, agreeing that a little bit of decorating wouldn't hurt. And it seems like precisely that promise is now back to haunt him.

Your hand leaves the pine and instead you reach for Joel, tugging on his jacket a little, “Come on. We have some rope, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we do have some rope,” he almost grunts, still keeping his eyes closed. When he opens them again, the brown in his eyes matches the trees around you and you're close enough to see the snow reflected in them.

“How bad do you want this?” He asks, honestly. He's straightforward, as always, so you decide to be as well.

“I really want it. It's perfect, it has the right size and we can keep it outside until I have finished the decorations and-”

Joel raises his hand a little, effectively cutting you off. He's heard enough.

“Okay.”

It's late when you get back to Jackson, riding through the wooden gate on your horses, the freshly cut pine tree tied to a makeshift sled behind you.

“I can't believe you talked me into this.”

Joel had offered a few more grunts and complaints about picking a tree so far away from Jackson when there were more than enough close to the perimeter. But then you had leaned over to him, just as he finished tying the tree down with a few sturdy knots.

“Maybe I can make it up to you by using this for something else, later.”

He smirked on the ride back, only stopping when you reached the small road that led down to the town and putting on his usual, gruff demeanor.

It barely lasts until you reach your doorstep.

notes: i hope you liked it! if you did, feel free to let me know if you want to be added to my twitter/tumblr tag list so you get a lil notification every time your advent calender is ready to be opened. wishing everyone a very lovely december ♥

#softpascalito #advent calendar #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel / reader #joel x reader #joel miller / reader #joel miller / you #smut #christmas tree #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedropascaladventcalender #stephswinterwritingchallenge #day one

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wakasaz · 7 months

Note

Becoming Wakasa’s yakuza wife (｡♥‿♥｡) Gosh I just know he enjoys spoiling you in every way. Especially on your honeymoon night (͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Ღ Pairing: Wakasa Imaushi x fem!reader

Ღ cw: [n]sfw, 18+, mdni

Ღ an: not proof read

Ღ The wedding was small and intimate. You wore a white dress and Wakasa wore a black suit with a purple tie. The same color as his eyes.

Ღ Wakasa looked at you with nothing but love in his eyes. He thought you were the most beautiful woman he has ever laid eyes on. He couldn’t believe you were finally going to be his wife.

Ღ When he proposed he had taken you back to the first place you two had met. He spent months trying to find the perfect ring but decided to just have one custom made for you as nothing he was seeing in stores was good enough. You always said how much you loved his eyes so the ring is a perfect match to his eye color.

Ღ You cried when you turned around and saw him down on one knee. You didn’t even look at the ring, throwing yourself at him and saying yes over and over as tears ran down your face.

Ღ You and Wakasa exchanged vows that you each wrote. He told you about how much he loved you since the day you met and that he knew you would be the one. You told him he was your best friend and how you love him more than anything and you couldn’t wait to be his wife.

Ღ After exchanging vows and I do’s he pulled you into a heated hiss dipping you in the process. His tongue swiped your bottom lip and you opened your mouth for him. Your fingers found his hair pulling on the multicolor strands causing him to moan into you.

Ღ You and Wakasa couldn’t keep your hands off each other at the reception soon deciding to sneak away while your friends danced.

Ღ Wakasa carried you into the hotel room. Kicking the door shut with his foot. His lips were on you the whole time. Kiss and nipping anywhere he could reach. He sat you on the bed gently before loosening his tie. His lips found yours in a heated kiss and he crawled on top of you deepening the kiss. His hand found the end of your dress sliding up to your panties feeling your wetness. You moaned into him as he started stroking you through the fabric.

Ღ After teasing you for a few minutes he pulls away bringing you with him. His hand finds the zipper on your dress slowly undoing it. Your dress lays at your feet. Wakasa groans seeing you didn’t wear a bra then his lips are on you. He takes one of your buds into his mouth kissing and licking until it hardens. After teasing the right side he switches to the left before kissing down your stomach as he drops to his knees. “I need to taste you” He says against you. He licks up the center of your panties and eats you through them, teasing you. You whine telling him to take them off and he chuckles against you.

Ღ He stands staking his tie off and placing it over your eyes tying it in the back as he guides you to lay on the bed. You go to kick off your heels but he stops you. “They stay on” he mumbles against your lips. All you have on is your panties, garter, and heels. He kisses and licks down your body till he reaches your center. He slowly pulls your white panties off, being careful not to move the garter. He put them in his pocket.

Ღ His is biting your thighs, giving attention everywhere except where you crave him most. He laughs when you impatiently whine and wiggle trying to get it to move. He kisses down your leg until he is at your center where he splits you with his tongue, teasing, licking, and sucking. He eats you like a man starved. His finger finds your center, curling at just right spot before adding a second. Your moaning and crying out his name. You want to take the tie off so you can see him but every time your hand goes to it he smacks it away telling you it stays on. Your hands find his hair where you pull trying to ground yourself. You feel like your release is coming. Wakasa always did know exactly what to do with his tongue. You blame his oral fixation, you swear he has.

Ღ Another flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers and you are releasing all over his face, Screaming his name as you find your bliss. Wakasa swears you taste devine. The best thing he has ever had in his mouth. He continues to lick, overstimulating you. You yank his hair pulling him up to you. His lips are on you in seconds. You can taste yourself on his tongue moaning into the kiss.

Ღ Wakasa strips before he is on you again, entering you slowly. You both moan at the feeling. Your pussy always did squeeze his cock just right. He starts out moving slow so you can adjust before picking up the pace. He is squeezing any skin he can find with his hands, having to be touching you at all times. Your nails scratch down his back pulling a hiss from him.

Ღ It’s not long before you both find your release at the same time, Wakasa filling you up just to pull away and watch it drip from your center. You whine at the loss of contact. He chuckles, removing the tie from your eyes, kissing your lips before flipping you on to your stomach.

Ღ “We’re not even close to done yet, baby.” Yeah, it's going to be a long night.

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luveline · 2 years

Note

Hiiii, Jade <3 How are you? Could you please write a single dad!au for Spencer? Pretty please, with a cherry on top :*

hi! I'm okay thanks so much, and ty for your request! I hope you like it ♥︎ single!dad spencer x fem!bau!reader

Amanda is, as you'd expect, a very small version of her father but without the photographic memory. She is a happy, lovely, caring sweetheart of a child, and everytime you see her, you think you might like to marry her dad.

There's something to be said for the heart of a parent. You look at Amanda and it amplifies every bit of Spencer's goodness, especially now when she's napping in Spencer's lap at his desk in the bullpen, completely at ease. He has one hand behind her back and the other stretched over to his desk.

"You know," Emily whispers, leaning against your desk with two hot cups of coffee, "he told me why he named her Amanda. It might kill you."

You take one of the coffees. "Thank you… Do I wanna know?"

Your crush on Spencer is common knowledge for everybody except him: he's a genius in everything beside social relationships.

"Amanda," Emily says quietly, "I don't remember the Latin word he definitely told us it's derived from, but I do remember what it meant. 'To be loved,' and 'Worthy, of love.'" She raises her eyebrows at you. "He said he wanted there to be no mistake. That she was loved from the beginning, and she always will be."

"Oh no," you say.

"Yeah."

"Are you kidding?" you ask.

Emily laughs as you cover your face with both hands, long sleeves pulled over your fingers. You hide away from the world and Spencer and his tiny pretty daughter and pray you'll be swallowed up by your uncomfortable chair.

"You'll be okay," Emily says. "Drink your coffee. Only six hours 'til we get to go home."

"I don't even really want coffee," you mumble, lips against the rim of your cup.

She pats your shoulder. You return to your work but absolutely can't focus. Ever since you started your job here at the bureau you've had the world's worst, most ridiculous crush on Spencer. There are a myriad of reasons why but the most important is that he talks to you. Everyday, all the time, he talks about things you'd never even heard of before, and he talks about the weather. He knows more about you than most people know and he shows it so subtly.

He links trade routes back to your favourite treats, because this boat got stuck in this place so there's going to be a short supply but he knows where you can get some and he can get them for you the next time he goes. He read this book lately by an author you'd definitely hate, but she talked about a different article Spencer thinks you'd love, so he forwarded it to your email last night. He and Amanda went to Niagara Falls last weekend — here's a mug with a rainbow waterfall on the side because he noticed your old coffee mug has a chip in the lip.

You scratch down a phone number wrong three times in a row and feel your eyes closing of their own accord. He makes it hard to think.

"Hi, Miss Y/N."

You look up from your things to find Amanda waiting still as a post by your chair.

"Hi, beautiful," you say. You look over her shoulder for Spencer and find nothing but files and computers and the click-click-clicking of twenty computers. "Dad's in the bathroom, huh?"

"Mm-hm."

"You want me to drag his chair for you?"

She shakes her head and rushes back to Spencer's chair, pulling it with her back to your desk. She struggles up into the chair and you pull her in, her shiny black shoes rubbing against your knee.

"Sorry," she says.

"No, that's okay, you don't have anything to be sorry for. These are nice shoes, baby, I think your dad's been spoiling you again."

"He says they make me walk faster," she tells you, "'cos they have ergo-domic shapes."

"Oh wow! You look amazing, you always dress so smart." You smile at her gently. "You want some dried fruit? I have mango, pineapple and apricot. Or I have a normal orange with all the juice," you offer.

She nods. You have no clue what she's nodding for so you give her the dried fruits and the orange and smile to yourself when she says a breathy thank you. She can eat all your snacks. You'd offer your moon cake if you weren't worried about her being allowed. Fruit is a safe bet.

She sits happily eating fruit for a while. You try to poke some light conversation out of her, how's school and how's their pet fish Mr. Banana, and is it fun to be at work with dad today?

"Hi."

You bite your own tongue. Amanda doesn't acknowledge her father beyond her head dipping back in wait of his hand. Sure enough, he reaches over the back of the chair and strokes her baby blonde curls, brown towards the ends. You imagine they'll be the same warm brown as his when she's older.

"Hey, Spencer," you say, crossing your hands over your tummy.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"

You're lying. He's a profiler. You both know both of those facts.

He squints at you playfully. "You should tell me if something's wrong."

"Dad," Amanda interrupts, "we have to… have to give people space." She offers him the dried fruit bag. "To tell us in their own time."

Despite the clumsy, adorable way that she says it, she has a point. Spencer bites back a smile, properly chastised, and takes the bag.

"What is this?" he asks.

"Sorry," you jump in, "I should've asked you first, I just didn't," —you lower your voice— "really know what to do. I'm not bad with kids. I'm, uh, not good with them, either, maybe."

"You're great with kids," he says. "Having a baby is complicated, but taking care of them once they get to Manda's age is easier. She just needs love and patience and regular feeding. You're one of the most loving people I know, and your patience is appropriate. And, you know." He passes back your bag of dried fruit. "You always have snacks in your desk."

His easy compliments warm your face. You cover your cheeks with your sleeves.

"Dad, you made her happy," Amanda says, pleased.

Spencer laughs and the sound lights you up from the inside out, reaching over the chair to lift Amanda into his arms. He pushes his hand into the small of her back and straightens out the skirt of her red dress. If you'd been paying attention, you'd notice the slight pink tint of a blush working over his ears and cheeks.

"Aw, Mands," he murmurs, "we really have to work on your context clues."

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #dad!spencer reid

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starbunii · 3 months

Note

Sorry if this is a personal request but!! Can I get Venti, Scara, and Gorou with a S/O who has heavy triggers to alcohol/the smell and stuff bc of a parent who was always drunk so they had to be the parent in the house? Not like abusive or anyth but just always drunk and emotionally distressing to see

No worries if you don't wanna take this, ty for reading! 💕

. fear of alcohol 𓂃 ♥︎

𝜗𝜚 ┈ venti, scara, and gorou x reader (seperate) ! ｡

notes: idm taking this at all! i feel very honored that you came to my writing for this kind of comfort. that means very much to me. i hope you're ok and in a safer place now, anon. if not, it's ok. everything will get better; i promise you <3

headcanons ノ fluff/angst (?) ノgn! reader ノcanon universe

second person pov !! please enjoy! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

-- ♡ --

venti

now, we're all well aware of his drinking habits. it's a fun past time for him, and it helps him relax

one night, he tried to drink around you, and was admittedly very surprised when you didn't want to

the two of you were practically attached to the hip, you two did everything together! so...why was this any different?

once you explained everything to him, he immediately understood and put the alcohol away and makes a fun soda/cider kind of drink instead!

over time, he starts drinking a lot less. on the odd occasion that he does get drunk, he just lets you know and stays kind of far away (he'll miss you greatly, but your comfort is safety is far more important to him)

will come to you the next day, hung over and clingy, but most of all; so happy to see you

scaramouche

he only really drinks as a sign of politeness, but nothing too crazy

he hates the taste and gets 0 enjoyment off being drunk. him coming home wasted isn't something you have to worry about

however, if you're at a place like a party or a festival, where there's a large collection of drunk people, he'll immediately whisk you away and take you somewhere else; wherever you want to go

if you two go back home, he'll immediately start to pamper you. he wants you to remember that you don't owe him anything. that you aren't a child stuck as a parent

he knows you weren't exactly abused or anything, but he's still careful with his touches regardless, only wanting you to be comfortable

expect gentle massages and light kisses. he'll praise you on how well you're doing, no matter if you're freaking out, or if you're just calm

gorou

similar to scara, gorou only drinks for polite reasons, or if there's something to celebrate. he never goes too far

however, if he does get drunk, he might get a tad bit clingier. not to the point where he's totally helpless; just more affectionate

if you need him to step away because you're getting upset, he'll do so with no complaints. he knows your boundaries need to be respected

will 100% show up with a bouquet and a box of candies the next day as an apology, even if he didn't exactly do anything wrong

gorou would probably stay the night with a buddy to make sure you don't end up triggered or scared. the last thing he wants is for you to be unsettled because of him or something he did

listens if you need to just vent and talk abt it. he understands that what you went through was traumatic, and that seeing someone you love in that very same state must hurt you to a degree. he'll just hold you and comfort you, providing all you need <3

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #venti #venti x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #gorou #gorou x reader #anon i love you please stay safe #ghost.writes

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coloursflyaway · 3 months

Text

Reach Out And Touch Faith

Pairing: Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland

Rating: T

Word Count: 7.500

Read on AO3

And Charles doesn’t notice that Edwin doesn't touch him anymore, maybe for no other reason than that he doesn’t want to, because doing so hurts, but then there’s a night when Edwin walks past him and he raises his hand like he wants to brush it against Charles’ arm – his metaphorical heartbeat picks up at that, like Charles has been waiting fo this even more than he realised – but then, a second before his hand connects, Edwin pulls it back like he’s been burnt. And that, well. That hurts too.

Edwin stops touching Charles; Charles doesn't deal well with it.

For @tragedy-machine and @just-slightly-chaotic who sent me two prompts that worked too well together for me not to write them one too long story ♥♥♥

Charles isn’t sure how or even when it starts.

Sometime after they come back from Port Townsend, but there is so much going on with moving Jenny’s belongings and integrating Crystal fully into the agency back in London and finding Niko, alive and well, if a little frozen, that he almost doesn’t notice that sometime in between, it changes. That Edwin does.

He’s never been particularly physically affectionate, but over the years, the decades, Charles had managed to get Edwin to at least occasionally touch him, and to allow Charles to touch him in return. Only that now, it stops.

It’s not that obvious, at least not at first, but at some point, Charles wants to put a hand on his arm and Edwin twists so that Charles touches thin air instead. Then, on another day, Charles leans over his shoulder to get a peek at the book Edwin is reading from and Edwin angles it differently, so that Charles has no option but to stand beside him instead. The next time, Edwin is sitting on their sofa, and Charles is about to throw himself down next to him, the way they usually sit (Edwin with his back as straight as if he was ballroom dancing instead of relaxing, his knees at a precise 90 degree angle, hands holding a book; Charles flung carelessly across the cushions, head pillowed by his own arms or the armrest, his legs bent at the knee or stretched out so his feet are resting in Edwin’s lap) but instead of looking up at Charles and giving him a smile, or maybe even lifting his book so Charles’ feet will fit better, he gets up like there is something incredibly important to do when Charles knows that there isn’t.

And Charles doesn’t notice it, maybe for no other reason than that he doesn’t want to, because doing so hurts, but then there’s a night when Edwin walks past him and he raises his hand like he wants to brush it against Charles’ arm – his metaphorical heartbeat picks up at that, like Charles has been waiting for this even more than he realised – but then, a second before his hand connects, Edwin pulls it back like he’s been burnt.

And that, well. That hurts too.

It becomes more apparent after that, all those little moments that Charles must have missed or glossed over because he didn’t want to see them. He doesn’t get to fix Edwin’s collar anymore because Edwin does it before Charles has the chance to even notice, their arms don’t brush when they are walking, the one time they get stuck in a dark tunnel for a case, Edwin doesn’t reach out and wraps his fingers around Charles’ wrist like he used to. On instinct, Charles moves to do so instead, but stops himself before he can even feel the ghost of Edwin’s skin against his.

Because no matter how much he wants to touch Edwin, he isn’t sure why Edwin has stopped wanting to be touched. It might be nothing but a passing change, might be something more important that Edwin has to sort out for himself, the only thing Charles knows, that he promises right then and there, is that he will give him whatever time he needs to do it.

Maybe it has to do with Esther tying him up, or Hell, or that absolute wanker of a Cat King; Charles tries out every explanation he can think of but none of them really, truly fit. Then again, Edwin is complicated on his best days, and it’s nothing he seems to want to discuss with Charles, so Charles just resigns himself to this, even if it leaves his fingers cold, and the space between his ribs empty, and his heart lonelier than it has been in decades.

“Hey mate, you find that plant you wanted?”, Charles calls out as soon as Edwin returns to the agency; he didn’t quite see him come through the mirror, but he knows Edwin is back anyway, like something in the very air around them shifts. Go over and hug him, his mind whispers, but Charles forces the thought down, crushes it into the furthest corner of his brain.

“It’s not just a plant, Charles”, Edwin admonishes, even if gently, as soon as Charles has come close enough to see the eyebrow he has raised. “It’s a mandrake, very difficult to find, and yes, I have found it.”

He holds up a glass jar that is filled with something brown and vaguely dirty; something that doesn’t look like Edwin should be as proud of as he seems to be. The mass even seems to be wiggling slightly, still.

“And where did you find it?”, Charles asks although he isn’t sure he wants to know; Edwin looks unharmed, so at least he doesn’t have to worry. “And, even more important, what did you have to do to get it?”

“Oh, nothing much at all.” Edwin straightens his own collar, and Charles’ fingers itch at the missed chance. “I gave them the haunted needle cushion from 2002, since I doubt we still have any use for it, and we definitely need the mandrake to restock the potion shelves.”

“Aw, I liked that needle cushion, it shrieked every time I used it”, Charles says, and doesn’t pout at all. “But I guess you are right, the potions do have priority and I can sew on patches without making the needle cushion cry out to the beat of Sun and the Rain if I have to.”

Edwin smiles at that, and for a moment, it’s all like it used to be, like it should be, but then Charles moves to take the jar from Edwin’s hands like he always does; their fingers brush, and Edwin jerks back like he has been stung and Charles feels the smile freeze on his lips, feels his fingers and his heart freeze too.

They are on a case which Niko is almost too excited for, because it involves a magician (“You mean that it is not real magic?”, she asks and Charles feels a bit like he has to tell a child that Santa isn’t real when he nods. It only lasts one second though. “In that case, his sleight of hand is even more impressive. He claims he can make his entire assistant disappear!”) and while the girls are interviewing the man, Edwin and he sneak off to look around the theatre they are in.

It’s quite pretty, old-fashioned, and Charles knows that Edwin loves it without him saying a word.

“The Amazing Arnold, that’s quite a name, isn’t it?”, Charles says as they round the corner; they are looking for strange, glowing glyphs that have been left on places imbued with magic around town. “Maybe we should stick around for the performance? I think Niko would enjoy it at least, and I’ve never seen an actual magician perform.”

Edwin hums in a way that is painfully familiar, and Charles’ whole body is screaming for him to reach out and brush his knuckles against Edwin’s side, bump his shoulder into him, any kind of contact, but he doesn’t dare to.

“I think that might be -”, Edwin starts, but then the door in front of them is flung open.

“Hello boys”, the woman standing there drawls, a smile on her lips that looks both seductive and ironic, a hint of a German accent clinging to her speech. “Before you ask, yes, I can see you, there was an unfortunate accident with some real magic some years ago. Arnold cannot, the poor thing, so please don’t mention it, he feels bad enough about the whole mess already.”

“And you are?”, Edwin asks, obviously unamused by the interruption, but the woman just chuckles, her laugh the kind that comes from whiskey and cigarettes and long, long nights.

“Amina. The assistant. Quite charmed, I’m sure.” She extends a hand, but Edwin doesn’t take it, so Charles does instead. It’s contact, not the one he wants, but some kind of it, and Charles’ hands tingle with it, even if he cannot feel her like he can feel Edwin, even if she is not the one he craves to feel.

“Quite”, he agrees and shakes her hand for maybe a second too long anyway, gives her a smile and tries not to look over at Edwin and wish it was his hand instead. “Definitely a pleasure.”

“No kiss?”, Amina asks, half joking, half flirting, before she pulls her hand from Charles’, leaving it empty, leaving it lonelier than it was before. “Oh well. I guess I will have to go to my partner for that. Anyway, can I help you darlings with anything?”

Amina turns out to be more than helpful, leading them to three different locations where runes are twinkling in their little corners like those fluorescent stars Charles used to have up on his bedroom ceiling when he was a child. They are pretty in a way, even if they seem to be part of a city-wide spell, which never bodes well.

“Thank you so much for your help”, Charles tells her as they are parting to find Crystal and Niko, and glances at her hand; Edwin stiffens beside him, even if there is nothing around them that would warrant that reaction when Charles looks around for a cause.

“It was absolutely my pleasure”, Amina replies, and blows them, blows Charles a kiss as she saunters away, and for a moment, Charles thinks about just how much he has missed kissing.

They stay for the performance, sitting at the very back of the crowd, but Edwin makes sure that Niko is seated between the two of them, clapping and grinning and so enchanted by Amina disappearing only to step back onto the stage a minute later, that Charles almost forgets about how much he longs to lean into Edwin’ side and feel his presence next to him.

“Did you like it?”, Charles asks afterwards, as they are walking home, the girls chatting excitedly next to them.

“An adequate amount”, Edwin tells him, and he sounds strangely stilted “Although it, of course, does not compare to real magic, it was rather well done. And Niko seemed to enjoy it a great deal.”

“Don’t worry, we all know that you’re the far better magician between the two of you.” Charles thinks for a moment, then adds, “Although I suppose that means we should get you a cool nickname, too. Don’t you think? The Astonishing Edwin, maybe? The-”

“Oh, we are absolutely not doing that at all!”, Edwin cuts him off immediately, but there is a hint of laughter in his voice, something that sounds much more like him, and even though the want is still burning underneath his skin, Charles takes the thought and buries it deep in his chest, because no matter what, they’re still okay.

In the end, they find another twenty-three sets of runes, and Edwin dispels them with nothing more than a bit of turpentine, some mumbled Aramaic and a flick of the hand that Charles wants to hold.

It’s later, much later, another day, and Niko has woven a few tiny braids into Charles’ hair, which had calmed a bit of the craving thrumming through his veins, even if it’s not enough and not the right person’s fingers and Charles is still missing Edwin’s touch in a way that is starting to border on physical pain. Every day seems to make it worse by now, but Charles has borne pain before, and he will do it again without questions if this is what Edwin wants.

The braids must look ridiculous, but all in all, it was definitely worth it, if only for Crystal bursting out laughing at the sight of him.

“Charles?”, Edwin asks from behind where he is sitting; when Charles turns around, Edwin is standing there, holding a small jar of moss that Charles had brought back from a market ages ago, looking at him with wide eyes. “What on Earth is on your head?”

“You like it?”, Charles asks, grinning already; he’ll never know how he looks, but that’s okay if something so small as a couple of braids could make the three people he cares about most in the world happy. “Niko put them in there. Including the bows and the plastic bead things.”

“In fact, I do not like them at all”, Edwin says, but he is starting to smile, even if he is still trying to contain it. “They’re quite atrocious. A crime, I would even venture to say.”

“A crime?”, Charles asks, shaking his head just enough so he can feel the braids moving; finally, Edwin breaks, laughing in that soft, sweet way of his that only seems to come out when they are alone. “What against? I did allow her to do this, you know?”

And Edwin raises his hand, like he wants to touch the plastic clips, or maybe even Charles’ hair, and it’s like time slows down because suddenly Charles craves it so much it’s like the taste of metal on his tongue, the burning of a fever underneath his skin. He can almost feel it, Edwin’s fingertips brushing across his forehead as he takes one of the beads, his touch so familiar and yet so missed, his -

Edwin drops his hand and his smile again, looking out of place all of a sudden.

“A crime… a crime against your face”, he stutters out and Edwin never stutters; he turns around and leaves and this time, Charles is too dumbfounded, too confused to even follow.

“Can we go get some coffee?”, Niko asks as they are strolling through London. She’s all in yellow today, making her look like a literal ray of sunshine, and Charles is glad for it; he needs it.

Edwin has been strange ever since the incident with the braids, if possible avoiding Charles’ touch even more than before, and while Charles had just been confused by it up until now, he’s starting to become worried. Especially since it’s not just the touches, it’s how Edwin acts around him in general. Like he is worried what he will say, or what Charles will say, and never in all the thirty-odd years they have known each other has Edwin ever been like this. Not around Charles, at least.

“Yes, sure”, he answers before the others can; back when he was alive he never liked coffee, but he knows that Niko does, something about the Japanese schooling system requiring large amounts of caffeine. “Over there?”

He points at a Pret A Manger on the corner, but Niko pulls a face and points to another, slightly more pretentious looking cafe two streets down. Charles doesn’t know the difference, but Crystal seems to, because she nods excitedly.

“I love Black Sheep Coffee, have you ever had one of their cinnamon rolls?”, she asks and just like that, the girls are off, caught up in a world that Charles cannot enter anymore, and while he does miss eating and drinking, he can’t find it in himself right now to mind it. At least it forces Edwin to talk to him.

“They seems to be having fun”, Charles remarks, just to get some kind of conversation going, but Edwin just hums at that, and then something happens that Charles hadn’t expected anymore.

The hem of Edwin’s sleeve brushes against the back of his hand, something Edwin doesn’t seem to notice at all, but the sad, empty facsimile of touch runs through Charles like a lightening bolt, leaving his mind empty and desperate, and although he finally has Edwin to himself again, he can’t find a single thought to say.

Crystal gets a pistachio latte, they are told, while Niko is nursing the single biggest cup of black, iced coffee Charles has ever seen, and they look happy, while Charles is still rattled, both by the touch and by how much it affected him, by what it means. Weeks ago, he would not even have noticed it, and yet the brush of cotton, something he cannot even feel in the true sense of the world, just knows it’s there, can now undo him like this.

Just how long has it been since Edwin has truly touched him, allowed himself to be touched?

“Did anything happen while we were gone?”, Crystal asks and Charles isn’t sure if it is because she can sense the tension between them, or just so, but he shakes his head anyway.

“Not really”, he tells the girls, and feels like he is lying to them for the very first time. “Very uneventful, us.”

It gets better over the next few days, which is a relief, even if Charles is still not sure why it had gotten worse in the first place. But he thrives on it anyway, treasures the first smile Edwin gives him like he had the very first one from three decades ago, stuffs the first affectionate eye roll into the depths of his heart and the crevices of his mind, holds the little well done, Charles Edwin mutters in the palms of his hands until they are back at the agency, turns it around and around until he has absorbed its glow.

There are no touches still, but it’s something, and as much as Charles craves more, he’ll take whatever he can get.

Another thing: now that he is not getting to touch Edwin any longer, Charles is twice as aware of everyone else Edwin touches.

It’s not a lot of people, but not too long ago it had only been Charles, and as horrible, as mean and as selfish as it feels, part of Charles misses it, almost as much as he misses the feeling of Edwin’s thumb brushing across the back of his foot, the rest of his fingers carelessly circling his ankle, like that is where they belong.

The thing about touch is that it works so differently now that he is dead.

When he touches Crystal or Niko, or one time, even Jenny, it’s like he feels it in his head; there is pressure and his nerves are firing although there is nothing there to feel. It’s better with other ghosts, less static and more like a memory of a sensation.

It’s different with Edwin.

It makes sense, because Edwin is different, Edwin means more to Charles than anyone else ever will, but it’s also just because Edwin’s touches have always, from the very start, felt the most real of all of them. Not quite like Charles remembers it feeling when he was still alive, but close enough that sometimes, he forgets that something is missing at all.

And maybe that’s why that now that he isn’t touching Charles anymore, it almost feels like dying all over again.

“That was quite an astute observation”, Edwin tells Crystal, and there was a time not too long ago when Charles would have been proud of him for it, but now the only thing he sees is Edwin’s hand on Crystal’s shoulder, the only thing he can think of how much he wishes it was his shoulder instead.

Crystal, Niko and Jenny are having a girls’ night, watching a show called Love Island and the two of them have been expressly uninvited (“You would hate it, Edwin”, Crystal tells them, crossed arms and an expression on her pretty face that doesn’t allow for disagreement. “And you, Charles, you might end up liking it too much.”) so it’s just Edwin and him in the agency. Usually, Charles wouldn’t give the fact a second thought, because that is how it has been for more than half of his existence, but nowadays, every opportunity to be alone with Edwin is rife with tension, with hope and with the craving brewing under Charles’ skin, the hunger that is getting harder and harder to contain.

He’s sorting through the contents of his backpack, but less because it needs sorting and more to give himself a reason not to join Edwin on the sofa. Not because he doesn’t want to, he is aching for it, but to prevent himself from doing something stupid, something like moulding his body against Edwin’s side and pressing as close to him as their spectral forms allow, like begging Edwin to at least lay a hand on his knee as they are sitting next to each other.

“Charles?”, Edwin calls out to him and pulls him from his thoughts with a single word. “Shouldn’t you be quite finished with the backpack by now? Or is there something you need assistance with?”

It’s so kind, it’s so Edwin, it’s so how they have always been, and when Charles looks up at him from where he is sitting on the floor, something hits him that feels like nostalgia, like loss, like desperation.

“Nah, mate”, he says and forces a smile onto his face, even if it feels like lying, too. “It’s all good, just trying out a few new placements.”

And he thinks about crawling over and hugging Edwin’s legs, pressing his face against his kneecaps, resting his head in his lap and finally finding peace.

Edwin holds out his hand and Charles puts the spanner he is looking for into it; for a moment, a split second, Charles fingertip brushes against his palm, and it takes all the strength Charles possesses for him not to grasp Edwin’s hand between his and never let go again.

Niko is a bright spot of colour in their otherwise slightly dreary office, illuminating the room although rain is pounding against the windows, the sky so dark it might as well be nighttime. She’s cradling a cup of tea in her hands, listening intently to what Edwin is telling her.

“...it turned out to be a mirage completely! A good one, I have to admit. It was only because Charles came up with the idea of using a mirror that we realised it. Even if he was a little proud of himself, it was quite a genius idea”, Edwin explains the Great Fae Chase of 2006, and Charles should jump in and offer some opinion of his own, maybe some background information, but he can’t.

Because Niko is sitting next to Edwin on the sofa, and her delicate little hand is resting on his knee like it is meant to be there, her head on his shoulder, and Charles’ palm is burning up with jealousy, his head too heavy with need.

“Are you missing something?”, Niko wants to know later, apropos of nothing, and it hurts and it stings that it must be so obvious and yet Edwin doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe just doesn’t care enough to do something about it. Because if someone knows how tactile Charles is, it’s Edwin, isn’t it?

“Yeah”, he answer, because he wouldn’t know how to deny it, not when asked so directly.

Niko just looks at him for a moment, then takes his arm and cuddles up against him; it’s everything Charles needs and yet not enough.

“I hope you find it”, she tells him, and Charles knows she means it, knows that it’s nothing either of them can influence.

“Me too, Niko. Me too.”

It’s just that everything that Edwin does now is overlayed by a layer of longing to the point where Charles catches himself staring at Edwin in the breaks between conversations, the space between words, the quiet hours when the girls have gone back to their respective homes.

Even before this, Charles was always aware of Edwin, how he looked and the sway of his walk, the elegance of his gestures and the nuances of his expressions. Only that now it’s like Charles cannot look away sometimes, the longing that is burning across his skin so vicious that it feels like looking at Edwin is the only balm that makes it bearable. Because watching Edwin is the closest he can get to physical touch.

And Edwin, well. Edwin is easy to watch. There is grace to every of his motions, beauty in every slope, every plane, every curve of his features, and Charles knows that the affection, the devotion he holds for Edwin is tinting his vision; it doesn’t matter. Edwin is handsome, but he is beautiful in Charles’ eyes, above all other beings.

So, Charles watches Edwin hold his notebook while he writes in it and traces the tendons that move underneath his skin with his eyes, wishing he could follow them with his fingertips instead. He takes in the gentle slope of his shoulders and wishes he could rest his head against it until the memory of doing so is suffocating him, choking him with a need that feels almost visceral. He watches the shadows play across Edwin’s cheekbones at night when the only light left are a few candles they have lit and he wants to reach out and feel them on Edwin’s skin as well.

Charles watches and he watches and he watches until his fingers are burning with the need to reach out. He doesn’t.

“Are you quite alright?”, Edwin asks at night and Charles wants to say no, wants to beg for a single brush of his hand, but whatever has made Edwin withdraw from him like he has must be big, must be important enough to change their dynamic completely. And if Edwin doesn’t want to touch him, then Charles won’t force him to.

So, he answers, “Of course, mate. Everything’s brills.”

And smiles.

Edwin is talking, explaining something about a case, or a spell, or something completely different, and Charles is trying to listen, but his gaze is fixed on Edwin’s lips instead, barely hearing a word that is falling from them.

Because Edwin’s lips are blushed pink and look soft as they wrap themselves around the vowels, the tip of his tongue peeking from between them occasionally, and Charles wants to trace them, wants to kiss them and lick into Edwin’s mouth, nip at them until they are red and plump with all the love Charles has for him.

The thought comes so naturally that Charles doesn’t even notice it at first, because its flavour, its longing has become so familiar within these last weeks, but then Edwin pauses for a second, and in that break between words, Charles thinks of teasing Edwin’s lips open with his tongue, and…

Oh.

For a moment, Charles wonders if it just the fact that he wants Edwin to touch him so badly by now, because that need is burning under his skin like nothing ever has before, but then Edwin’s lips wrap around an o, part again for a th and no, it’s different.

He wants Edwin’s fingers stroking his hair because it makes him feel calm and loved, he wants to rest his head on Edwin’s shoulder because it makes every burden easier to bear, he wants Edwin to hug him like he used to, stilted at first, with all his heart once he has gotten used to it, because it’s the place in the world Charles feels safest, cradled in Edwin’s arms.

But he wants to kiss Edwin because… because he wants to kiss Edwin.

It’s a new feeling, utterly unfamiliar and yet one that feels like the most natural extension to the love he has felt for Edwin for more than three decades. It’s new, but it feels vast enough to be mistaken for something ancient; a potential finally fulfilled, an eternal maybe that Charles had not been aware of, but that fills his chest now, pumps through his spectral veins like lifeblood, chanting yes, yes, yes.

The realisation is a supernova, filling him with something almost indistinguishable from bliss, because when he was telling Edwin that they would figure the rest out, this is what he had been hoping for. That one day, he would look at Edwin and feel his metaphorical heart speed up; that Edwin would let Charles take him out on date after date until he could look at him and say, yes, I know the answer now and the answer is yes, always yes. That he would be able to fall in love with Edwin in return.

Because Charles loving him back would make Edwin happy and Edwin’s happiness is the single most important thing in the world; because what would be a greater gift than loving Edwin in yet another way?

The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to be said out-loud, because even if Charles doesn’t know if he can say I love you and mean it in every way yet, he could say I want to love you and it would be the truth, could say I will love you and I am going to love you forever, and it would be just the same thing.

And he wants to say those words almost as much as he wants to touch Edwin, almost as much as he wants to kiss him.

And that is what stops him in the end.

Because Edwin doesn’t want to touch him.

Charles knows him too well to think that Edwin’s feelings towards him have changed, because if there is one thing Edwin is, it’s stable, it’s safe, and there is no way Edwin would have confessed his feelings if he he hadn’t been sure of them. But Charles… he doesn’t know if he could take it to tell Edwin he wants him and not have it be sealed with a kiss; at the same time, he doesn’t know if he could take it if their kiss was something that Edwin didn’t want, that he was not burning up for like Charles is, now.

So he swallows the words down, and forces himself to look away from Edwin’s pretty, pretty lips and keeps the confession he wants to make so much for later.

“Edwin, is this the- ah fuck!”, Crystal starts and almost drops a priceless glass chalice which had been used for blood rituals in ancient times; Edwin is there to catch it before Charles can. Crystal tries to do the same, and Charles watches as their fingers brush and he didn’t know it could be worse than it had been, but it is.

It’s the smallest touch, and he knows it, but it makes him want to scream, both in desperation and jealousy and to just get those words out, which he is keeping locked away in his heart.

Crystal doesn’t seem to notice the contact, and why should she?

It’s only Charles who would be willing to sell half his soul to feel Edwin’s hands in his.

Almost it feels like there is a switch in his brain that has been flipped, because it’s late at night and Edwin is sitting on the sofa with yet another book in his elegant, long-fingered hands and Charles has organised and re-organised his backpack so many times he is starting to become confused by its content’s placements, has sorted through their gallery of magical objects, has re-wrapped the handle of his cricket bat four times within a month and a half.

There is no excuse left he can find to keep himself from the temptation that is sitting close to Edwin, so he picks up a book whose contents he won’t remember, and joins Edwin like he used to.

Edwin looks up at him for a moment, an easy smile on his lips, and the switch has been flipped, because Charles thinks I want to touch you so bad, thinks, I want to kiss you so bad, thinks please tell me you will let me one day, thinks I can’t take this, thinks please, thinks please, thinks please.

Crystal takes him aside one morning, just grabs him by the arm and drags him through the door and into the small park close to their agency. She doesn’t say a word, but something about her demeanour makes it impossible for Charles to ask what is going on.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, actually?”, she asks suddenly, spinning around to face Charles. There’s no anger in her face, even if there is some seeping into her voice; she looks worried, mostly, looks confused.

“What?”

“There is something wrong with you”, she repeats, pushing a hand through her hair. “Look, I don’t know you as well as Edwin does, but I know that something is wrong and I don’t think you are doing anything to fix it. And you should. Because we’re worried, I am worried, Niko is worried, even Jenny is worried. Edwin is definitely worried. So could you please either tell us so we can do something about it, or fix it yourself?”

He can’t.

Yet, the words keep echoing in his mind every time he looks at Edwin and his brain goes blank because of how overwhelming the need to touch him is.

Fix this.

But there is nothing to fix, because nothing has broken between them, it’s just that Edwin doesn’t want to be touched any longer, and Charles has to respect that and hold out as long as he can before he breaks down and begs for a brush of Edwin’s hand, which feels like it might be any day now.

And it can’t be something that hurt Edwin into not allowing himself to be touched at all, because he hugged Niko three days ago, let his hand brush against Crystal’s just this morning, so it’s nothing that Charles can attack with a bat and a well-timed swing.

It’s just Charles, who is the problem. Who he doesn’t want to touch. Who he has been acting strange around sometimes, like there is some kind of tension between them that Edwin won’t address.

It’s just Charles.

It’s just-

Oh no.

Anything.

Anything but that.

They have never had a fight since they met, yet there was one time in 1994 when Charles had said something stupid (in hindsight, he cannot even remember what, only knows that back then, he should have cut his tongue out instead of saying it, it would have hurt less), Edwin had stormed out of the agency and had not come back for five days.

It had been the worst five days of Charles’ existence, and yet, most definitely, five days of torture he had deserved.

Afterwards, they had never talked about it, just going back to the way they were before, but Charles had never forgotten the sound of the door being slammed shut, of sitting there, on their sofa, waiting and waiting and waiting, alone and desperate and forgotten.

Although it’s torture, Charles waits until the girls have left for the night, because even if he wants to break down in front of Edwin and beg for his forgiveness the second he realises, he can’t bring them into it.

So, he waits for the door to click closed, waits for Edwin to turn around, and there are tears gathering in his eyes before Charles has even said the first word.

“I’m sorry”, he chokes out and the words are wet and hideous, a disguised sob, and the tears spill, but Charles’s hands are trembling so much he doesn’t dare raise them to wipe them away. “I’m so sorry. I’m not sure what I did, but if I could, I’d undo it in a heartbeat. I’m so, so sorry, Edwin, I never-”

“Charles, what has happened? Are you alright?”, Edwin interrupts him and he sounds terrified; he takes a step forward, reaching out for a moment before he snatches his hand back, and Charles’ heart breaks like it has never broken before.

Whatever he did, it must have been so momentous, so terrible, and yet he never realised it, too caught up in his own craving, his own hunger, that he never even stopped to consider that he might deserve all of it. For what could be a crime more fitting of any kind of punishment than hurting Edwin?

“No”, he sobs, clenching his fists around the hems of his sleeves because even now, he wants nothing more than to reach out and cling to Edwin. How selfish, how despicable, how utterly undeserving of Edwin’s love, his affection. “Of course not. I hurt you and I don’t even remember it. Just tell me what I can do to fix it, I’ll do anything, just let me try.”

“What? You haven’t done anything. You’re scaring me, Charles”, Edwin tries, and his voice trembles, but Charles can hardly hear his words, because his hand twitches again like it wants to reach out, but Edwin keeps it firmly at his side, leaving Charles alone and desperate and forgotten.

It sends a fresh wave of tears down his face, hot and damning, because whatever Charles has done must have been so terrible that Edwin cannot even speak it out-loud.

“I did!”, he insists and it hurts, everything hurts. “You won’t touch me anymore, not even a little, and I am so sorry it took me so long to realise it, but I am so, so sorry, please just tell me what to do, because I can’t take it anymore, it’s driving me insane-”

He’s still so selfish, asking for forgiveness for his sake and not Edwin’s, and it’s no wonder Edwin doesn’t want to touch him any longer, who would?

Edwin looks at him like he has been struck, his eyes so wide and pained that Charles can make it out even through his tears, and yet, Charles’ hands plead to hold him; he just grips his sleeves tighter, burrowing his nails so deep into his palms he would draw blood even through the fabric; he’d deserve it, too.

“Please. Just tell me. Or if you don’t want to do that, tell me what I can do to fix this.”

“I-”, Edwin stutters, and Charles has to look away from him before he begs him for something he doesn’t deserve to ask for anymore. “Charles, you didn’t do anything wrong. I thought – I didn’t want to touch you lest I make you feel uncomfortable. With my… feelings out in the open, I didn’t want to presume you would still want to continue with the same kind of physical affection as before.”

It must be an excuse, because there is no universe out there in which Charles would ever want Edwin to touch him less, and Charles looks up to to tell Edwin just that, beg him to please just tell him what he did wrong so he can try and earn Edwin’s forgiveness, but then Edwin takes another step forwards and…

… and hugs Charles.

Hugs him like Charles has dreamed of for weeks and weeks now, with Edwin’s arms firm and secure around his waist, the point of his chin digging into Charles’ shoulder, their bodies pressed as close as physics will allow them.

It feels like nothing Charles has ever felt before.

It feels undeserved and tainted and like something Charles should not be allowed to sink into, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks until they blot out the world; it feels like heaven and it feels like a ray of sunshine after a week of rain and most of all, it feels like finally, finally being home.

Edwin shuffles them over to the sofa, never letting go of Charles, even though his tears are soaking into Edwin’s suit, potentially ruining the fabric. They keep coming, too, even while Edwin guides him down onto his lap, shifting and rearranging limbs until they are so intertwined that Charles cannot make out where he ends and Edwin begins, whispering sweet nothings against his temple, into his hair.

And it takes time, might take hours until Charles can believe it, but Edwin wouldn’t hold him like this if he had committed an inexcusable crime, wouldn’t stroke his hands down Charles’ back if he felt repulsed by him, wouldn’t press the softest, the sweetest kiss to his forehead if he didn’t think Charles deserved the affection.

It dries his tears, even if slowly, and when the sun has already started to rise, Edwin pulls back a little; Charles has to hold back the whine that is threatening to spill from his lips.

“Charles”, Edwin says so softly it feels like a caress, feels like the fingers that are tracing his spine. “You have done nothing wrong. Will you believe me, please?”

And Charles nods, even if the guilt still lingers on the outskirts of his mind, etched in there by hours of mindless terror, but Edwin’s responding smile lets it melt away a little more, a glacier warmed by a supernova.

“There’s nothing that I want more than to touch you”, Edwin continues, and his smile becomes wry, like he is confessing something, like it is something he thinks he might be ashamed of. “If anything, it’s me, who wants to touch you more.”

Which is laughable, because Charles is here, in Edwin’s arms, soaking up every inch of contact between them like a dying flower would soak up water, sunlight. It’s him who has been starving for the lightest brush, the most fleeting of contacts for weeks now. So, he shakes his head, sending his last remaining tears flying; Edwin laughs at it, fond but still disbelieving, before he raises a hand to wipe away the remnants of wetness from his cheeks.

Charles shivers at the touch, almost turns his head to press a kiss to Edwin’s palm.

“I’m the one who is love with you, remember?”

He says it like it’s an irrefutable fact, and it warms Charles’ heart from the inside, makes it grow until it is pushing against his ribs, trying to get even closer to Edwin, to make him see just how much love it holds for him.

And from one moment to another, the words, the ones he had swallowed down before, are back on his lips, begging to take flight.

“I love you”, Charles says and lets them, although his voice is rough and torn up, and Edwin smiles again, but not in the way Charles needs him to.

“I know”, he says, but Charles shakes his head again, because he doesn’t, and making Edwin understand is the most important thing in the world all of a sudden.

Because while he wouldn’t have been able to say the words and mean them completely before, he can do so now, he realises with a start, because Edwin is holding him like he is precious, touching him like it is an honour and not a chore, and Charles would walk to the end of the Earth for a single kiss from his lips, would rip his heart from his chest to lay it at Edwin’s feet if he thought it might make him smile.

“I love you”, he repeats, voice breaking from crying, from how much he means this and how much he needs Edwin to know. “I’m in love with you. I didn’t want to tell you before, because I didn’t know if you would want to kiss me. And I wasn’t sure if I could do it without kissing you.”

Everything between them stops, the world itself might stop, because Edwin’s eyes widen and there is the light of every sun in the universe captured in them, and God, Charles never wants to stop looking at him, never wants to be apart from him for more than a second.

“I do”, Edwin finally says, after an eternity has passed, and he sounds breathless, sounds hopeful, sounds so happy it makes Charles’ heart flow over with it. “Want to kiss you, that is.”

“Although I look like this?”

And Edwin laughs at that, eyes sparkling and the hand he has on Charles’ back pulling him closer by a fraction of an inch; it sets Charles’ skin aflame like nothing else ever has, like nothing but Edwin’s touch ever will.

“Always, Charles. You could be smeared in blood and dirt and I would want to kiss you.”

Edwin looks like he means it and Charles has never wanted anything more; he leans in and Edwin does the same and there is a breathless, timeless second, then their lips meet and they are as soft as Charles imagined them to be, taste like love and springtime and bluebells and happiness.

On his back, Edwin’s fingers twitch, trying to pull him closer still, and Charles goes willingly, licks into Edwin’s mouth and tastes the happiness there, too, tastes the love. Writes his affection onto Edwin’s lips with every motion, spells it out with little nips of his teeth, promises that it is forever with every sigh that spills between them

And when tears spill down his cheeks this time, his hands are trembling so much Charles wouldn’t be able to wipe them away, but it doesn’t matter anymore; he reaches out and holds onto Edwin instead.

#dead boy detectives #dead boy detective agency #edwin payne #edwin paine #charles rowland #painland #payneland #paynland #chedwin #charles x edwin #edwin x charles #i had a ton of fun with this and yes i made charles cry and i am sorry but maybe he should cry less pretty if he doesn't feel like doing it #all the time

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wongyuseokie · 2 years

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Count for Me | c.s.c

Summary: You’re unsure what to get your boyfriend for Valentine’s. Thankfully, he has a plan, and you might just be very spent after giving him exactly what he wants.

☆ 18+ minors dni |☀︎fluff | ♕ smut | ♥ completed works Word Count: 2454 words Pairings: Seungcheol x Female Reader Genre/Trope(s)/AUs: PWP. Smut & Fluff Content Warnings: Smut, fluff. Seungcheol is a dom and wears a suit. Yes, that’s a warning. I’m not sure exactly what else to put, except this is just pure filth. Mentions of Seungcheol’s toned body because that’s its separate warning. Cuddling and bath time fluff.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected sex, overstimulation, hard dom! Seungcheol, use of sex toys, oral (male & female receiving). Squirting, fingering, blindfolds, collars, handcuffs. Spanking? Deep throating, cum swallowing. Creampie. Slight degradation? Multiple orgasms, to the point of it being lowkey spent. Lolol.

Authors Note: This was written for a Valentine's Day Fic Exchange for my ever-so-lovely @missgeniality. Ilysm, it's been an absolute pleasure getting to torture you with Seungcheol thirst traps and making you simp for him the way I do. Hehe. Authors Note 2: Thank you to @here4btsfics, as always, for beta'ing and helping me out with this fic, that too on Christmas ilysm 💕!! Thank you also to @darlingvernon for reading over this and giving me feedback. ILY and ty for thirst traps.

“Seungcheol, baby, what do you want for Valentine’s Day?” You asked as you wrapped your arms around your boyfriend's toned torso. Seungcheol smiled as he clasped his hand over yours.

“Princess, I have everything and more. What more could I possibly want?” You sighed against his broad shoulders, humming as you thought about what to get him. Seungcheol grinned as he turned around to face you, his hands on your waist, pulling you into his bare chest. His hand trailed along your spine, making you shiver, and his hand wrapped around your nape.

“Princess, I have one present in mind, but baby, I need you to be honest in your response.” You nodded.

“What is it?” Seungcheol’s grin grew.

“I want to fuck you so hard that you can’t walk. I want to cuff your wrists behind your back. I want you on your knees and a collar around your pretty little neck, one with a chain so I can pull on it, princess. Oh, and I want you to call me daddy.” You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Tomorrow evening, princess, be ready.”

The following evening, you had spent the last hour exfoliating, shampooing, and shaving. You wanted to be clean and soft for Seungcheol, wearing a lace bra and underwear when Seungcheol entered the room.

Seungcheol was wearing a black suit; he smiled when he saw you.

“Lie down, princess,” Seungcheol said, his voice low, and you nodded, lying down on the bed. Seungcheol grabbed your ankles and spread your legs apart. You felt two cold cuffs clamp around your ankles, one cuff on your foot and one around the bedpost. You propped yourself up on your elbows and saw Seungcheol undressing down to trousers; you drooled at seeing his naked torso.

“Baby,” you mewled, and a sharp slap to your cunt made you buck.

“That’s daddy to you,” Seungcheol said. His eyes were piercing, his voice making you gulp.

“Sorry, daddy,” you apologised, making Seungcheol groan, his cock hardening at the nickname.

“Safeword, sweet girl?”

“Peaches.”

“Good girl, time for daddy to have fun with you,” Seungcheol said as he pulled your arms together and cuffed them together.

“Simple rules, princess. You do not touch me unless I tell you to. Address me as anything other than daddy, and you won’t cum. Understood?” You nodded, already feeling yourself grow wet at his words.

Seungcheol left the room, and when he returned, he had a few things in his hands. He placed a silk blindfold on you, making you feel as if all your senses were heightened at losing your vision. You heard Seungcheol move, and you felt him sit between your spread legs. Seungcheol moved his hands up your body until they landed on your breasts, massaging and fiddling with the lace material; he pulled down the lace fabric to reveal your breasts and hardened nipples. He bent down and wrapped his plush lips around your nipple while his hand massaged the other breast. Seungcheol loved your breasts; every time you wore a tight shirt, he ended up fucking you no matter where you were; he’d find a place.

Countless moans and sighs left your lips as Seungcheol’s ministrations had you in complete and utter bliss. You felt Seungcheol move his mouth away from your breast. When he latched on your nipple again, you felt a cold sensation as Seungcheol sucked on your nipples with an ice cube in his mouth. You tried to move to feel his mouth on your nipples further; however, the cuffs rendered that attempt useless. Seungcheol dragged the ice cube down to your stomach before throwing it away.

Seungcheol moved his hands to your lace panties, ripping them at the crotch, groaning when he saw how wet and swollen you were. “All this for me, baby?” You nodded, “Yes, daddy. All for you.” Seungcheol smirked, hearing how desperate you were, how you practically begged; it shot straight to his painfully hard erection.

Seungcheol ran his long fingers along your swollen cunt, each stroke parting your wet folds, making you whimper as he gently grazed your folds. “Daddy, please, more.” You breathed out, “gladly, pretty girl.” Seungcheol nodded, not that you could see.

Seungcheol moved his fingers away from your cunt and collected another ice cube. He ran the ice cube along your wet pussy, several times until he fixed it onto your swollen clit, running it in circular motions on your clit. Seungcheol kept rubbing until the ice cube melted on your cunt.

“Daddy, please. I’m so close.”

“you’ve been such a good girl; let me make you cum,” he hummed as he circled his fingers on your clit, making you cum, and shake.

“Count.”

You gulped, trying to catch your breath, “one.”

Seungcheol pulled the blindfold off you, smiling at your fucked out state.

“What’s your lucky number again, princess?” You glared at him. You know he didn’t forget and were fucked for picking eight as your lucky number.

“I seem to have forgotten.”

“Eight,” you muttered, and Seungcheol grinned.

“Seven more orgasms, pretty girl. We’ve only just begun.” Seungcheol said, and you felt your cunt clench at his words.

Seungcheol undid the cuffs on your wrists and legs, rubbing and kissing where the cuffs sat on your skin.

Seungcheol undressed and laid down next to you, his feet at your head, and tapped your thigh, and you knew what he meant. You crawled onto him, your wet cunt on his mouth while your hands and mouth found his hardened length. Seungcheol wrapped his lips around your clit, and started to suck. You almost forgot about his erection until you felt a harsh slap on your ass.

“Suck me off, baby girl, make daddy cum,” Seungcheol instructed, and you moaned as you took Seungcheol into your mouth. He was thick and long, and it was easy to gag on his length in this position, but you liked the feeling of choking on him. It made you delirious and turned you on even more.

You ran your tongue along the side of his shaft, making him hiss. Another slap to your ass made you moan.

“Don’t you fucking tease me.” You nodded and took his length in your mouth, moaning at his taste; you sucked, circled your tongue on his tip, tasting his arousal and moaning. You always thought he tasted so good. You moved your mouth down, deep-throating his length. Seungcheol bucked his hips into you. You ran your hands along until you reached his balls and started to massage them.

You moaned around Seungcheol’s cock as he pushed his tongue inside your cunt. Your moans kept vibrating against Seungcheol’s length, making him whine and whimper. You felt him still suddenly as he spilled his release inside you. He groaned against your cunt as he came into your mouth. The vibrations of his groans pulsated against your clit, making you shake and cum onto his tongue. You kept sucking and swallowing his release; he whined in overstimulation as you kept sucking on his now over-sensitive tip.

Seungcheol slapped your ass, making you take his cock out of your mouth and fall back next to him.

“Did my baby enjoy daddy’s tongue?” You nodded as Seungcheol got up and started searching your drawers. He pulled out a purple dildo; it could penetrate you and stimulate your clit.

Seungcheol rolled his eyes, “pretty girl. You remember your lucky number, right? What number are we at now?

“Two.”

“Good girl, I get to make you cum six more times,” Seungcheol noted, and you felt your cunt clench around nothing at his words. Seungcheol pushed the toy inside you, your back arching. He positioned the clit stimulator on yours and turned the toy on, showing you no mercy as he kept you moaning as the toy thrusts in and out of you.

“Does this toy feel better than daddy, princess?” You shook your head no. Seungcheol pulled the toy out of you, making you whine, and slapped your clit.

“Answer me.” You whimpered as you felt his fingers tracing your swollen clit.

“No, daddy.” You breathed out.

“With the way you’re moaning, I’d think the toy is better than I am.”

You furiously shook your head, “nothing is better than your cock, daddy.” You thrashed about as Seungcheol kept rubbing your clit.

“Really?” Seungcheol said, moving his fingers away from your clit, making you whine.

“Please, daddy, please let me cum.” Seungcheol smirked.

“Oh princess, I love when you beg.” Seungcheol placed the toy back inside you and leaned down to wrap his full lips around your clit, sucking and licking the swollen nub. You started to shake as you came. Seungcheol pulled out the toy and pushed his tongue inside you. Moaning as he tasted your sweet release, you fisted your hands in his hair, tugging as he licked you out.

You felt a sharp slap on your clit, making you buck your hips, “count,” Seungcheol demanded.

“Three.” Seungcheol smiled, placed a kiss on your swollen cunt and moved away.

“Off the bed and on your knees, princess,” Seungcheol instructed, and you shakily got off the bed and got onto the floor on your knees.

“Safeword?” Seungcheol asked as he gently cupped your face in his hands.

“Peaches.” He smiled and pulled you in for a kiss.

“Good girl.” Seungcheol grabbed a leather collar with a metal chain and placed it on your neck. He pushed a smaller, but insanely powerful vibrator inside your cunt, “you’re going to suck me off, and that vibrator is going to make you cum. This chain is just to ensure that your lovely mouth doesn’t move away from my cock, understood?” You nodded.

Seungcheol turned the vibrator to its highest setting and walked back until he sat on a chair. He motioned for you to come over. “Crawl to me, princess.” You whimpered. The vibrator was already starting to stimulate you, and crawling to him made you dizzy with lust. You crawled until you reached Seungcheol.

You wrapped your hands around his thick length and your lips around his tip. You started by sucking the end of his cock, red and dripping in precum. You swiped your tongue against it and took him into your mouth. You felt Seungcheol yank on your chain, making you choke around his cock, and making you pull off cock.

“Don’t you dare tease me.”

You nodded as Seungcheol let go of the chain and wrapped your lips around his thick length, sucking and moaning as you deep throat him. You began to whimper, moaning around his cock as the vibrator kept moving inside your cunt. You stilled as you came and started to massage his balls, anything to ensure that your orgasm didn’t entirely consume you.

“Did you cum, princess?” Seungcheol asked, his voice low and staring at you with half-lidded eyes; you pulled your mouth off his dick just to answer him for a second.

“Yes.”

Seungcheol nodded, “how many does that make?” he asked with a smirk.,

“Four.”

Seungcheol nodded, “get up,” you did as he asked. Seungcheol stood up and pulled the collar off you; he placed soft kisses on the tender skin, making you smile. Seungcheol reached down to pull out the vibrator; he brought the metal device to your lips.

“Open. Taste yourself, princess.”

You opened your mouth and licked the toy until you had cleaned it. Seungcheol groaned at the sight, “fucking hell.” Seungcheol pushed you back onto the bed and climbed on top of you. He lifted your legs onto his broad shoulders and pushed himself inside you.

“Fucking hell.” You wailed. You were so incredibly sensitive, and his length inside of you felt too much and too good simultaneously as he started to thrust.

“Fucking hell, baby, you are so fucking tight.” Seungcheol moved his hand down to your clit, and rubbed as he pounded into you.

“Daddy, please, I can’t.” Seungcheol slapped your clit before resuming his thrusts.

“You picked eight as your lucky number. Don’t complain.” You moaned as he kept fucking you. You felt something snap inside you, thrashing about until you came around his cock, clenching. Seungcheol continued to fuck you through your orgasm until he came inside you.

“Number, princess?”

You felt tears of pleasure running down your face, “five.”

Seungcheol smiled, “you’ve been so good for daddy, baby.” You whimpered and moaned; you were a mess.

Seungcheol pulled out gently. He moved down your body and to your cunt. Seungcheol pushed his tongue inside you and licked you until he had cleaned his release out of you, making you cum again.

“Number?”

As your eyes rolled back in pleasure, you sighed, “six.” You tried to pull away from his grip, but his arm wrapped around your thighs, making it impossible for you to do so. Seungcheol kept licking your swollen and felt folds, his lips massaging your throbbing cunt. He kept licking until you came again. You felt a harsh slap on your clit, making you curl up and whimper.

“Daddy, I can’t.” You whimpered again as you felt your seventh orgasm consume you entirely.

Seungcheol gently held your face. “Hey, hey. Are you okay? I can stop.”

Your heart swelled at his concern. “We’re at seven, daddy. Just one more, please fuck me, daddy.” You whispered, and Seungcheol felt his cock harden at your tone. Your heart melted at his concern. Seungcheol flipped you onto your hands and knees and pushed his cock inside you; you fell forward as he did so. Seungcheol caught you and held you up as your legs gave way.

You were tight, and his length would split you in half at this rate. Seungcheol pounded into you; there was no rhyme or rhythm to his movements; he wanted you to cum. You suddenly wailed as your legs gave way, and you squirted hard, pushing his cock out of you. You shuddered and shook at the orgasm that consumed you. Seungcheol smirked.

“Princess, you squirted for daddy, good girl.” You nodded, not knowing what you agreed to; you were fucked out. “On your knees, princess.” You tried to protest but shakily got on your knees as Seungcheol started stroking himself.

“Open, swallow daddy’s cum.” You nodded, and Seungcheol stroked and pushed his cock into your mouth, his grip tightening on your hair as he came to your mouth. His warmth coating your throat. Seungcheol gently pulled out of your mouth.

You whimpered and nodded as you fell back on the bed. Seungcheol smiled at you and went to the bathroom. Moments later, he carried you to the bathroom and gently placed you into the tub. Seungcheol got in behind you and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Seungcheol smiled at you. “God, I’m so fucking glad that your lucky number is eight.”

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ja3hwa · 1 year

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♡ 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟎: 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐞 - 𝐊.𝐘𝐒 ♡

Pretty Boy

【sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs】 : It's Yeosangs turn to know what it feels like to have rope pull and tug on his beautiful skin, and he can't help my whimper at the sheer idea of it.

『ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ』 : 634

-> ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Suggestive, Fluff.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Boyfriend!Yeosang x Gn!Reader

[ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs] : Slight powerplay. Just some sweet poetic lovey dovey shit. Shibari tying. Yeosang is lowkey a Rope bunny.

Thank you, @thesafecafe, for requesting Yeosang for this day, my darling. I hope you enjoy the read. ♡♡♡.

Yeosang was kicking himself for opening his tipsy mouth. He had gotten back from an after-party he and the boys were attending, and one thing led to another he accidentally told you he always had the biggest urge to be tied up. And what sparked this idea, well, he had tied you up in the past after you confessed to him your licking to it, and he was more than happy to obey your sweet request. But something about seeing your beautiful skin with the gorgeous red rope tight around your body. Holding you still while some of it moulded your curves in a way that was none other described as a work of art. You were his work of art.

And he wanted to know…

Wanted to feel the rope against his skin. He wanted to know how tight you could tie his hands behind his back or above his head. Would you do the same pretty pattern he had done on your body, or would you gift him his own unique pattern? He wanted to feel pretty. Give up control to you to have him as you please. He wanted to know what it felt like to be dotted over. And you were more than happy to obey his sweet request.

It started off simple. He was in his boxers while you were still in your pj’s. You wanted him to be as comfortable as possible, starting to bind his wrists and arms, seeing if he was okay with the tightness and feeling of the rope against him. And once he voiced his green light, you moved on to tying the rope around his chest, making shapes along his soft skin. His breathing began to hitch, feeling excitement grow in his lower tummy. You kept going with your knots, noticing he was relaxed against the fibre. You decided to tie his hands against the headboard, given it would grant you more access to him when the time came. Which Yeosang did not seem to mind in the slightest. All he did was watch the way your pretty manicured fingers knot and tighten the rope against his pale skin.

“A-Angel.” Yeosang felt himself get hotter, shifting on the silk sheet. You just chuckle seeing the red blush painting his cheeks, growing towards his ears. You tightened the last piece of rope along his tummy, pulling away to look at your work so far.

“You are so pretty Sangie.”

God, your words made his head spin and his hips jerk upwards. Yes, pretty. that’s what he wanted. He wanted to be pretty. Wants you to call him as such. He bit his lip with a knitted brow. His eyes only half opened while staring at you with a glossy haze. You had to smile while pulling out another bag of rope from your special box. If you knew Yeosang would act like this while being tied up, you would have done this sooner. There was a sense of dominance in this act. And not dominance like power or strength. But rather, it is one of care and security. Wanting nothing more than to tend to his needs and make him feel like a goddess among humans. “My pretty boy.”

Wrapping the rope around his ankles, tying them together in a cuffed knot while creating a pattern on his thick thighs to keep his body in place. He hiccuped a groan, feeling his mind slip into a place he’d never been before. Pretty boy. Your words echoed in his head as he felt like he was starting to float. You were the only person in his mind. The only thing he needed. And the ropes holding him in place made him want to be your pretty boy. Be your good boy.

- ♥︎

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arcielee · 1 year

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Silk Binds

Paring: modern Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 1500+ Warnings: Smutty smut, slight bondage, foreplay (female receiving), overstimulation, p in v. Author's Note: This is a a request and I just wanted to say thank you so much, anon. ♥ I really enjoyed thinking this through and though I didn’t delve into everything requested, I enjoyed the idea of comfort fluff shared between partners who know one another so well. I hope you enjoy! As always, a huge shout out to @aspen-carter and @foxee-writes for being my darling beta readers! Dividers by @jaysdividers Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx

It had started with a tag sent by a friend, a series of stories from a depraved site that you would read in silence; you did your best to remain stoic, but both fortunately and unfortunately, your boyfriend had been with you far too long and knew you too well.

“What are you reading?” His voice was coy, playful, and he curled up to your side, slipping his arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.

Your face burned with his question and, at first, you brought your phone to your chest. His cheeks dimpled with his suppressed laughter, surprised by your sudden shyness. You nestled against his chest, his voice low and soothing, coaxing you to share with your significant other until you finally hand him your phone.

Aemond was quiet, no reaction except for the curl of his lips when he finished the chapter. He turned towards you, pressing closer until his nose touched the column of your neck and trailing upwards until his lips were against your ear. “Is this what you want, sweetness?”

This is why you loved him. After all these years together, he was still so willing to do or try anything for your satisfaction.

And a few nights later, you felt the flutter of trepidation as you watched his large hands take care with tying the silk cloth around your wrists. You held them obediently towards him, as if you were about to say a prayer.

He made sure you were bare, wearing only a pair of cotton panties, but his features were focused on the task, his lips pursed into a thin line and the furrow of his brow with his concentration.

“How do you know how to do this?” You could not help but ask.

He looked up to your face and the bicolor beauty of his gaze, his one lavender eye nearly swallowed by his blown pupil and the sapphire stone that replaced his other, caused your breath to hitch in your throat. “I looked up a YouTube video,” he hummed, pulling the silk cloth under and over, between your wrists, with the trail of leftover fabric enough to leash you to him.

He tugged to check the hold and you stumbled forward, your fingers pressed against his bare chest to hold yourself; you could see the curl of his lips, pleased with himself. “This should hold,” and he leaned forward until you felt the warmth of his breath tickle the shell of your ear. “Now, don’t forget,” he whispered. “Dracarys.”

Aemond waited until he saw you nod your understanding of the safe word, then his eye roamed over to admire your form, the curves of your body and the goosebumps that flushed over, your nipples erect and the subtle, fervent clenching of your thighs. He smirked and you watched his gaze darken, pulling you until you were staggering towards the bed, dragging you on to the mattress.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, your back flushed against the sheets and your arms above your head; you watched him knot the excess fabric to the headboard, keeping you in place.

Satisfied, he pulled back and shifted until he was straddling your thighs, his body weight and warmth made your core clenched.

You could not help the subtle tremor that rolled over you when he reached forward and allowed a single finger to touch your hip bone, tracing the waistband of your panties towards your center and dragging it down over your clothed slit, drenched with your anticipation.

“So wet for me already,” he mused, smirking again.

When you opened your lips to reply, his other hand held up to stop you. “That wasn’t a question,” his tone matching his dark gaze. “Or do I need to get the gag as well?”

Aemond was startling with an almost ethereal beauty; his broad shoulders, the planes of his abdomen and the lines led to his slender waist, the jutting of his hip bones with how he was seated, watching as you mulled over your words. There was a moment you debated to push him further, but instead you remained quiet, licking your lips, and his smile brimmed on sardonic.

He leaned forward and the touch of his silver hair to your bare chest caused your back to arc slightly. There was the purr of his low baritone when he said, “That’s what I thought.” He leaned towards the left side of the bed and reached into the top drawer, pulling out your vibrator. “Good girl.”

Your breathing quickened as he moved and nestled his thigh between to spread your legs apart, his hand dipped to hook into your panties and push them aside. You felt the curl of his finger and loved how he was so adamantly aware of your pressure points within, the jolting feeling of pleasure pinning you against the mattress.

He watched you and you mewled pitifully as he added the second second finger, joining the come hither curl of the first digit and the motion caused you to squirm. He was quick to bring his other palm to press down on your hip and hold you still.

“Aemond,” you breathed.

He hummed, looking down to your center and you watched his bow lips part, the pink of his tongue that ushered forward a line of spittle that broke away and onto your cunt. “You are doing so well, sweetness,” he encouraged, adding a third finger and you cried softly with the stretch.

You heard the hum of your vibrator and watched as he brought it to the tops of your folds and nestled between, gingerly rubbing it against your bundle of nerves. The sensation, coupled with the motion of his three fingers, their rhythmic in and out of your cunt, brought you to the precipice of your climax and it began to crest over you with his simultaneous ministrations.

His thumb pressed a button and the hum grew high-pitched, the vibration intensified, and tears spilled on your face. “Aemond,” you gasped. “Aemond, please-”

He hummed, “Not until you come for me, sweetness.”

And it crashed into you, roaring in your ears as your cunt clenched at his fingers with your release; you whined at the pressure of your vibrator still against your clit. “Too much, too much,” you cried out. “D-dracarys!”

Only then did the sound stop, abrupt, but your core still throbbed as you laid there, panting and your cheeks wet, trying to pace your breath. You shifted your weight, trying to ease the slight ache to your wrists and only then were you aware he was standing at the side of the bed.

You watched him remove his sweatpants, his cock swollen and flushed, and he crawled back between your thighs. His hand grabbed his base and he dragged his tip along your silken folds, until it glistened from your release.

You could have cried from the overstimulation, your pleasure curling up your spine, your wet eyes searching for his face and saw he wore the same severity to his sharp features, the sight of him caused your core to clench. “We are not finished, sweetness,” he murmured, lining himself with your entrance. “Not yet.”

Despite the years spent together, even after your orgasm, you still relished in the delightful stretch as he sheathed himself in you. You whimpered and he held still, that dark façade cracking for a moment as he watched you, always careful, always considerate.

You exhaled, but your eyes met with his stare; you bit your bottom lip to prepare and gave a quick nod.

He folded you in half, it seemed; he pulled your legs up, until the tops of your thighs pressed into the mattress and his large palms held behind your knees. There were the lewd sounds with his brutal pace, perfectly agonizing as his hips snapped against you and his hip bones dug deliciously into the softness of your thighs.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, still sensitive from the first release, feeling him hit that same sweet spot within you. The build up was quick and you cried out again, stars dancing in your eyes.

His thrusts grew lazy and he pulled back, fisting his length and the pearly ropes of his release fell onto your abdomen; his arm reached forward and held himself above you, your legs melted back into the bed. His eye caught you and he quickly untied the knot, then pressed a kiss to your hairline with the promise, “I will be right back.”

He returned with a warm washcloth and you hummed as he was careful to wipe your stomach. He moved to remove the silk bindings and saw the red from the holding; he took care to massage your palm in turn, kissing your wrists.

You sighed from the intimacy of the moment, enjoying the softness of his lips against your skin and, when he was finished, how he fit so perfectly against your backside; you enjoyed the comfort of his arm that wrapped around your waist and how he pulled you flushed against his chest.

arcie’s masterlist

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd modern au #modern aemond #modern aemond fic #smut and fluff

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perotovar · 7 months

Text

into the beat of the night (ch 7) "in my side"

moodboard by @hellishjoel (ty, honey ♥)

pairing: frankie morales/oc!river price (they/them) rating: E (18+) chapter warnings: deadnaming, misgendering, seriously there's a whole character that just dismisses river's entire being so if that triggers you or you don't want to read it i completely understand, one (1) panic attack, one (1) depressive episode, frankie being the best boyfriend in the world, possible food triggers (river doesn't want to eat while depressed), discussions of past abusive behavior (gaslighting, belittling, etc), if i missed anything lmk! word count: 3.5k dividers by @saradika-graphics beta: @scenaaario

main masterlist | series masterlist

They had been at the mall for a couple of hours now, but Frankie didn’t mind. He enjoyed helping River pick out clothes, but he preferred when they went to thrift stores. Less people, fewer crowds.

Plus, the thrift stores usually had something that he could fix up. He had been working with his hands a lot more lately in his free time.

Now, he leaned against the dressing room outer wall, waiting for River to come out and show him a shirt they wanted to try on. Frankie smiled to himself as he thought about his partner.

They’ve been official for six months now. It feels as fresh as when he first saw them at the Night Owl, and as comfortable as if they had been together for years. They spend an equal amount of time at their respective apartments, and visit each other on their lunch breaks frequently. Frankie isn’t sure he has ever been so happy in a relationship as with River. In previous relationships, there was always an expectation of him. A role he had to play. With River, he can just be. They don’t expect anything of him. Except maybe his attention and love.

And he had no problem giving them that.

“Frankie?” River laughed softly.

Frankie startled and turned his head toward his partner. “Sorry, Riv,” he smiled sheepishly. “Zoned out a little. Is that the shirt?”

River’s face softened at their boyfriend’s easy smile. The past six months had been some of the best in River’s life. They were so thankful for Frankie’s respect and patience.

“Yeah,” River nodded. “What d’you think?” They tugged on the long sleeves, pushing their thumb through the hole cut into the fabric. They twirled a little and did some silly, flirty poses for Frankie. He smirked, his eyes twinkling in interest as he shamelessly checked them out.

“You’re insatiable,” River giggled, pushing Frankie’s shoulder playfully.

“Rachael?”

River froze, their entire body going cold in an instant. Their smile dropped and they shut their eyes, face pinched. They’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Riv? What’s going on?” Frankie stood, one large hand reaching out to cup their face. When River flinched slightly, his heart cracked, just a little. “Baby?”

“Rachael!” The voice chirped again, “It’s been so long! I didn’t think I’d see you here!”

Tears welled up in River’s eyes at the sound of the voice. Her voice. Why did she have to come back into River’s life now? Of all times?

Frankie felt unmoored, suddenly lost for a way to comfort River. He was interrupted by a short, very pretty woman appearing at River’s side and clutching their bicep. She was blonde, and had an almost ethereal beauty about her. Frankie’s brows furrowed and his chest puffed up a little, feeling possessive. Who was this touching his partner?

River opened their eyes slowly, and when they did, Frankie didn’t see his partner in them. His Río. They looked completely numb. “Hello, Evangeline,” River said in a flat tone Frankie didn’t recognize.

Evangeline? Frankie blinked, his left hand tightening around the handles of the bags he was carrying.

Who was Rachael?

“It’s been such a long time,” Evangeline sighed wistfully. “What have you been up to?”

River hadn’t turned to look at Evangeline yet, staring at Frankie’s chest and tracing the pattern of the t-shirt he was wearing today; Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. They swallowed around a lump in their throat and let out a shaky breath. “Working,” they answered simply.

Evangeline ignored them and turned towards Frankie, startling like she just realized he was standing there. “Oh, I’m so sorry! How rude of me, I’m Evangeline.” She said her own name like she was someone to know, and held out her hand for Frankie to take. He looked at her face, then her hand, then River, and decided against it. “I’m sure she’s told you about me?”

“Frankie,” he said simply, voice low and eyes never leaving River’s face. He had to get them out of here. “And no. They haven’t,” Frankie bristled, dark eyes finally landing on Evangeline’s face and finding her staring at him, accusation hardening her features. She was judging him.

Well, the feeling was mutual.

“Riv?” He said softly. River blinked away tears as they looked up at him, avoiding his gaze. This was the smallest he’d ever seen them and he hated it. He didn’t know where his confident, loving River went, and had no idea how to get them back.

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually go by that silly nickname still?” Evangeline giggled.

River winced and bit their lip. They turned and went back into the changing room without another word. When Frankie heard them sniffling, his entire body stiffened.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Frankie snapped, finally finding his voice, and crossed his arms. He stood a good foot taller than her, but that didn’t seem to bother the petite woman. It didn’t seem like much of anything did. “And why are you calling them Rachael?”

“That’s her name, obviously,” Evangeline rolled her eyes. “Her real one. We dated. For a long time.”

Frankie squinted his eyes. This must have been River’s last serious relationship. He had only heard of her in passing, and certainly never a name or how demeaning she was. Not that they ever needed to, now that they had him.

He ignored the name part on purpose.

“You must be her new plaything,” Evangeline sighed, like she felt sorry for him, as she pretended to check her manicure. “It won’t last long.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember asking for your opinion. You can leave now,” Frankie grumbled, taking a step closer to tower over her.

“I’m just trying to help,” she rolled her eyes again. “This is what she does. She’ll keep you around for a little while and when she gets bored, or finds someone new, she’ll leave.”

Frankie sighed angrily, the bile in his throat starting to sting. He set the bags of River’s purchases down on the floor next to the dressing room and quickly turned toward the checkout. Making a harassment complaint would probably get rid of her easily enough. He squeezed his fists tighter at his sides, heavy work boots thundering across the linoleum. Before he made it very far, he heard the sound of heels clacking and turned back toward the changing rooms.

Evangeline was gone.

Frankie sighed and made his way back to River. He stood in front of their changing room and knocked softly on the wall next to the curtain. “Río? Baby? Are you okay?”

River felt like they’d been kicked in the stomach. They could barely breathe or stand. They were hunched over on the bench in the changing room and hiding their face in their hands. They sniffled a few times before coughing, their hand pressed against their chest to try and breathe.

“I’m going to open the curtain, okay?” Frankie’s voice sounded like it was a hundred miles away. Light from the store poured into the small room, making them look up. Frankie was illuminated by the shitty fluorescent lighting, but it was one of the most beautiful things River had ever seen. “Mi amorcito,” he said softly, getting down on his knees in front of them. He cupped their face tenderly and rubbed their tears away with his thumbs.

“Frankie,” River sniffled, face pinched in pain.

“Shh, c’mere,” he soothed, pulling them down onto the floor with him so he could hold them close. He rocked them in his arms and pet their hair comfortingly. “Do you wanna go home?”

River nodded against his skin, their face buried in his neck. He felt the collar of his shirt getting wetter by the minute, but he didn’t care at all.

“C’mon, baby.” He patted their arm gently, encouraging them to stand with him. He laced their fingers together as he grabbed their bags, and led River out of the mall.

It took a few days for River to explain just what happened at the mall. They’d asked Frankie for some space and while he really didn’t want to give it to them, he also respected their wishes too much to argue.

When River texted a picture of Jonsey napping on their lap and their Baphomet slippered-feet in the background, he knew he had the greenlight to visit them. He was at work when he received the photo, and he knew River knew that, so he waited. He responded with his own picture of his greased up hand and forearm and the hangar he was currently working in. He spent the rest of his workday thinking up a plan for that evening.

River hadn’t seen nor heard from Evangeline in a long time. At least seven years. Hearing her voice again brought River back to a place they hoped they’d never return to.

River’s therapist told them that Evangeline was gaslighting them. They’d heard the term used before, but didn’t fully understand what it meant until Dr. Owens explained it to them. Evangeline had been emotionally manipulative and abusive, and even got physical once or twice.

She never accepted River for who they were and did everything in her power to downplay River’s feelings. River still didn’t understand why.

Evangeline would tell River that all of their dysphoria was something else. Everything River felt or even thought was strange or abnormal. Evangeline was the only one in the relationship that was of sound mind. River was already in a vulnerable place when they met, and Evangeline knew just how to exploit that.

There was a chance that Evangeline did actually love River. When they first met in their statistics class in college, their connection had been magnetic. They did a lot of the same sort of things that River and Frankie did now, but River could see now how different it was with Frankie. River was never scared that Frankie would judge or make fun of anything they said. With Evangeline it was like trying to cross a minefield. Whether it was a new band they found, or exploring feelings about their sexuality, River could never predict what would set Evangeline off.

The straw that broke the camel’s back for River came when they wanted to get top surgery. Evangeline blew up, throwing things around her apartment because she was “tired of the weird nonbinary bullshit”. She didn’t believe it existed, and was convinced River was just looking for attention.

River left, changed their number, and never looked back. The night Evangeline tried to get into their apartment in the wee hours, they had the locks changed, too.

A soft mrrp beckoned River’s attention from the floor. Jonsey tilted his head to the side as he looked at them before jumping up onto the couch. He walked his way over to them and got comfy on their lap, kneading the skin of River’s tummy like dough. River smiled sadly and scritched his face lovingly. When Jonsey started purring, they knew they would be stuck there for a while.

Looking through their phone at photos of Frankie, they felt awful. They hadn’t told Frankie any of this, hoping that they just didn’t ever have to think about her ever again. Frankie deserved to know, though, and they wanted to get it out in the open and out of the way.

When they received the photo from Frankie at work, their heart thundered in their chest. They really did love him. They just couldn’t voice it.

Yet.

The smell of River’s favorite takeout place filled the air in Frankie’s truck. His stomach roared to life at the smell of noodles and vegetables. Chicken for him, none for River. He looked in the backseat at the giant pillow/stuffed animal of a bat he found at the store. He hoped they’d like it.

He pulled into River’s apartment complex and parked outside their building. He took a deep breath in the silence of the cab, grabbing the food and the bat, and kicked the door shut with his boot. He held the pillow close as he knocked as softly as he could with his boot against the door.

All the tension in Frankie’s shoulders left as soon as he saw River’s tired face. It looked like they hadn’t slept in a while. Their hair was in a high messy bun, and they wore a pair of boxer briefs, an old faded t-shirt with the words Sisters of Mercy across the chest, and their Baphomet slippers.

“Hey, baby,” Frankie hummed softly, a hopeful smile gracing his features. “Got you something to eat in case you were hungry.”

River smiled sadly at the food. They hadn’t eaten in days, and they probably looked like it, too. The smell of the food hit their nose, making their stomach grumble in protest. Frankie chuckled softly at the sound.

“Figured.” He held out the bag toward them before doing the same with the stuffed animal.

“And who– who is this?” River had to clear their throat in the middle of speaking, realizing they hadn’t spoken in days either. They set the food down on the coffee table as Frankie shut the door behind him, looking over the large bat pillow with a raised eyebrow.

“Do you hate it?” Frankie asked, biting his lip. He usually got Marisol a stuffed animal whenever she was upset. He knew River wasn’t a toddler, but he also knew that they deserved something soft, too. “I saw it at the store, and…” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

River hummed and hugged the pillow close. “I love her,” they smiled up at him.

“Her?” Frankie grinned.

“Her name is Agnes.”

Frankie snorted. “Alright. Agnes it is.” He stepped closer to them as they hugged Agnes and tucked a few stray hairs from their bun behind their ear. “How are you doing, mi río?” He asked softly, cupping their face and rubbing his thumb across their cheekbone.

River’s eyes grew a touch sadder at the question, but they smiled anyway. “A little better,” they answered honestly. “Missed you,” they mumbled, setting Agnes down on the couch so they could wrap their arms around Frankie’s middle. They held on tight, squeezing the air out of his lungs but it felt like the first time Frankie properly breathed in days. He held them just as tightly, before kissing the top of their head.

“Missed you too, baby,” he hummed. “Was worried about you.”

River frowned and squeezed him a little more. “‘M sorry for making you worry,” they said into his shirt, the smell of oil and metal wafting off of him. The scent grounded them.

“Shh, no need to apologize, okay?” He pulled back a little, keeping his arms around them, but looking into their eyes seriously. “I’m always gonna worry about you. Even if I know you’re okay. You know I care about you,” he smiled, brushing the knuckle of his index finger against their nose softly.

River’s heart melted at the gesture, their cheeks growing warm. They smiled and looked at the bottom of his neck, a particular freckle catching their eye. They leaned forward to press a soft kiss to it before resting their head on his chest. Frankie held them close and rocked them gently.

River’s stomach roared, causing them to freeze for a second. Frankie chuckled and kissed the top of their head again. “C’mon. Lets get some food in you, yeah?”

They ate in silence. And when it wasn’t silent, Frankie was talking about Marisol or work. River listened intently, the sound of their boyfriend’s voice soothing them. Frankie put down his spoon after he finished off his fried rice, and grabbed some chopsticks. River’s eyes were glued to the thick fingers of his right hand, pupils dilating.

“Baby?” Frankie smiled softly, picking up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks and holding it above his plate. “Did I lose you?” He teased.

River jumped a little in their seat, their eyes snapping up to his face. “Hm? No,” they cleared their throat, picking up a piece of zucchini with their own chopsticks. They stared at the vegetable and bit their lip. They probably wouldn’t be able to finish the meal Frankie went through the trouble of getting for them. Their appetite seemed to have disappeared again.

Frankie raised a brow, face pinched in concern. “You don’t have to eat anymore right now. You ate most of your noodles, which I’m glad to see,” he said softly. “You can always finish it later.”

River nodded, feeling like they were on autopilot. “We were together for five years. I didn’t… I wasn’t… me, yet.”

Frankie froze, watching River’s face carefully. They were staring out into the middle distance, somewhere around Frankie’s shoulder. “Baby, we don’t have to–”

“Yes, we do,” River’s voice was scratchy, but firm. “I went to therapy after we– After I left her. She wouldn’t let me get top surgery.”

Frankie’s eyebrows furrowed and he set down his chopsticks, crossing his arms over his chest on the dining room table. The air in River’s apartment was still, the dim light from the kitchen making River’s dark features even darker. “‘Let’?” He asked quietly.

River nodded as they swallowed around a lump in their throat. “Yes. There were… rules. Well, unspoken ones. She never believed in, well… this,” they sighed, gesturing to their torso. “Still doesn’t, it seems.”

Frankie stayed quiet, letting them continue, despite wanting nothing more than to put his fist through the table in front of them.

“The… name she called me doesn’t apply to me anymore. My parents don’t even call me that anymore,” they whispered, a bitter laugh tacked on at the end.

“Deadnaming,” Frankie mumbled softly.

“Yeah–” River looked up at him, a confused expression on their face. “You know what that is?”

Frankie smiled shyly, but sadly. “Y-yeah, uh,” he chuckled. “I’ve been doing some research. Only fair,” he shrugged easily.

Tears welled up in River’s eyes as they smiled, picking at the nail polish on their fingers. “You’re amazing,” they whispered.

Frankie blushed, but didn’t argue. This wasn’t about him right now. He rested an open hand on the table, inviting them to give him one of their own. When River gave him one of their hands, he held it firmly in his own, thumb rubbing against their knuckles protectively. “Go on,” he encouraged gently.

River sighed heavily and nodded. They talked for a long time. Explaining anything and everything about their relationship with Evangeline, who they were before, and what brought them to him now. Not much was different, just the fact that they were more secure in who they are now.

“Gotta be honest,” River said softly, voice a little hoarse from talking so much. “Was scared how you’d react to a lot of this. I’m not sure why,” they shrugged. They knew deep down that Frankie would never judge them, nor would he be scared. They’d been through too much together.

Frankie lifted their hand and kissed River’s knuckles tenderly. “I get it,” he nodded. “I felt the same way when I told you about the military. About Colombia. I wasn’t sure if you’d see me differently or not.”

River shook their head. “No. Love you too much for that,” they mumbled quietly.

A wide grin broke out onto Frankie’s face slowly, cheeks burning red. “Love you, too, Riv.”

River hummed happily, then froze. With wide eyes, they stared at Frankie for a minute. They pointed at themself, a silent question written all over their face.

Frankie laughed softly. “You did,” he grinned, standing slowly so he could be closer to them. He cupped their face in his big hands as he looked down at them in their seat. “Love you so much,” he whispered, kissing them properly, lips melding easily against theirs.

River was completely lost in it, fingers tangled into the fabric of Frankie’s t-shirt tightly, like if they let go he’d disappear. They moaned softly into his mouth, a tear falling down their cheek. Frankie hummed in response, catching the tear on his thumb. He pulled away slightly to catch his breath and pressed his lips to their forehead. He kept them close like that for a little while, smelling the old dry shampoo stuck to River’s scalp.

“You should take a bath, baby,” Frankie said softly. River snorted into his shirt, face buried in his tummy.

“You saying I smell?”

When Frankie didn’t answer right away, River laughed, really laughed, for the first time since they were at the mall together.

“I–I’m not!”

River rolled their eyes and smiled up at him, chin resting on his torso. “Wanna join me?”

Frankie raised a brow and smirked, but his face grew serious quickly. “Río, we don’t have to do anything like that–”

“I know,” River muttered. “I didn’t want to. Just wanted,” they bit their lip. “Just wanted to be with you.”

Frankie’s heart melted and he nodded, kissing the hook of River’s nose. “I think I can do that,” he winked.

River didn’t doubt that for a second.

a/n: if you're curious, this is agnes and river's slippers ♥

#frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fic #frankie morales angst #frankie morales au #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fic #triple frontier au #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe #oaksfics

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hythlodaes · 13 days

Text

and then came june

emile/leofard 9.2k words [read on ao3] explicit summary: modern AU. when leofard becomes friends with benefits with his university's star quarterback, he never expects to fall for him. (also ty @scionshtola for letting me borrow cori!! ♥)

Chapter One- Spring

Leofard has every reason to feel alone in this world.

He doesn't remember his parents, doesn't know what happened to them, only that he was left to grow up by himself. He used to wonder about his relatives—when other children would talk about grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, and he'd think, Where are mine? Why couldn't they take care of me?

He's long grown out of those thoughts.

At nineteen, he loses the one person that he could call family. Not related by blood, Raimille still loves him as a son, still leaves him everything she has with only one request: that he graduates college. At nineteen, he moves across the country with the car he loves with all his heart, speakers blasting Nirvana the whole way. Years in foster care have taught him never to feel sorry for himself, only to chase the freedom that he finds out here. After watching Raimille waste away with sickness, he chooses life.

And he never feels alone. He meets Stacia at orientation, and she instantly becomes the sister he always wished he had. Over the years he meets friends in classes, at parties, at work, and it becomes a new kind of family—silly, loud, and his.

Then, early spring of his junior year, he meets Emile.

—

It starts with a half joke between Leofard and Stacia at two in the morning, curled up on the couch of their apartment and barely awake after marathoning their favorite movies all day. We should throw a party, Leofard murmurs into the tv flashed dark, and Stacia—his usual voice of reason—doesn't say no.

Their apartment ends up cramped with dozens of college students the next weekend, loud and messy and the kind of thing that makes Leofard laugh until his stomach hurts. He shines under the extra attention, his body warm from alcohol, and it’s the kind of happiness that feels just real enough.

He runs into Stacia as the front door opens again. A bunch of tall, bulky guys spill through, and Leofard may not follow their school's football team the way Stacia does, but she's dragged him to enough games that he recognizes a few of them.

She always says she comes from a football family, and well, that includes Leofard now too.

"God, they're huge," he comments, and he's about to turn his attention away when his gaze catches the last of them ducking under the door. He’s a little taller than the rest, and dark brown hair falls to his chin but he tucks it behind his ear, big eyes searching the room before someone claps him on the shoulder.

The guy smiles, eyes curving into half moons, and Leofard feels the corners of his lips threaten to raise.

Stacia shakes her head. "Leo, I swear if you try to sleep with anyone on the football team..."

"Who said anything about that?" he asks, but this time he lets his mouth pull into a grin. "I'm just appreciating the view."

The night drags on, the music blurs from one song into the next. Leofard feels only slightly hazy—that sluggish kind of drunk that makes the room spin a little slower. He gives into it, hearing his own laughter as a loud and distant sound in his ears.

He finds himself in the kitchen again, a full drink in his hand. Utata sits on the counter, singing along to the music at the top of her lungs, and Leofard keeps his focus on her for a moment too long. In hindsight, it's funny that he doesn't see it coming, but Leofard turns away, knocking into the person behind him, and the entirety of his drink spills onto their shirt on impact.

He has to tilt his head back to meet wide brown eyes, shock evident in the gaze that looks down at him. Leofard recognizes him from when he came in, but he's even cuter up close, where he can make out the freckles on his cheeks, the pout of his lips as he glances down at his shirt.

"Shit, sorry," Leofard says, wincing at the red splotch that trails from collar to hem.

"It's okay," the guy says quickly. His voice is softer than Leofard expected and a little hard to hear over the music. He looks up over Leofard's head and into the kitchen. "I'll just rinse this off."

Leofard almost laughs until he realizes he wasn’t joking.

"Hate to say it, but that's not coming out, baby," he yells over the music. "Come on, I'll get you a new one."

"You'll—" he starts, but Leofard claps him on the back as he walks past him. He leaves no room for argument, and the guy follows him to his room. The door shuts behind them, quieting the party to a dull roar in the background. It grounds Leofard for a moment, steadies him against the blurriness of the alcohol in his system as he goes to his bureau.

“You called me baby,” the guy says, and when Leofard glances over his shoulder, he’s looking around the room, pausing at his desk to pick up one of Leofard's records. He meets his gaze. “This is your apartment.”

“Right on both counts," he answers, and the guy smiles at him. There’s a warmth in Leofard’s chest that has nothing to do with being drunk. "What's your name?"

"Emile." "I'm Leofard."

"I know," he says, and clears his throat. "I've heard about you."

Leofard’s hands still. "Really?"

"Well...I've heard about your car."

"Even better," he says, letting his lips split into a crooked grin. He turns his attention back to the bureau. "Given the obvious, I'm not sure if I have anything that'll fit you."

"You really don't have to, I'm sure this will wash out."

"As much as I enjoy the mental image, do you really want to walk around in a wet shirt the rest of the night?" he challenges, just as he finds an old band tee that's always been way too big for him. When he turns around, he has to smile at the pout on Emile's lips. It doesn't last long, but he continues to stare at Leofard for a moment before his shoulders slump in defeat.

Then he takes his ruined shirt off.

Leofard has to bite down on his tongue—he should look away. He doesn't. His eyes roam along the thick muscle of Emile's chest and up to the line of his broad shoulders, back down the bulk of his arms. Lifting his gaze, he meets Emile's, who watches him watch, something not quite discernable in his eyes before he smiles shyly—it's the tilt of his chin, the curve of his lips...

"Baby, you're something else," Leofard breathes out, and hands him the clean shirt.

Emile rolls his eyes before he puts it on. It stretches around him—where it hangs loose on Leofard, it clings to Emile, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Thank you.”

"Don't mention it," he says, and he shifts his weight between his feet, unwilling to let the moment go. "So what’s this you heard about my car?”

“Oh,” he says. “Some of the guys were talking about it on the way over—said you could hear it halfway across campus.”

Leofard raises his brows, grinning helplessly. “It’s not that loud. Shit, I thought it would be something good.”

"Like what?"

"Like what? I've worked on that car for the last six years of my life, it's perfect. A thing of beauty."

Emile laughs, watching him for a moment longer before he asks, "Will you show it to me?”

That single question sets his mind racing. For a moment, he can see it so clearly: Emile's long legs in the passenger seat, Leofard's hand on his thigh. He'd roll the windows down, stealing glances at his loose hair blowing in the wind while the Shins play over the speakers.

He thinks he’d show Emile anything, if he asked.

"Play your cards right," he says. "I'll even take you for a ride."

Emile laughs again, something closer to a giggle. He must be just as drunk, but he's so cute in Leofard's shirt, his big eyes bright with amusement. “You're flirting with me.”

“Well, you’re the one wearing my shirt.”

“You spilled your drink on mine!”

Leofard grins. “And I almost wish I did it on purpose.”

A blush colors Emile’s cheeks as he turns his head away. “I wouldn’t say no,” he murmurs, and when he looks back, he doesn’t hide the way his eyes cast down Leofard’s body and back up to meet his gaze. He clears his throat. “You know—to a ride.”

Leofard swallows hard. Everything in him says to move closer, to reach out, to touch him, but he holds himself back. “Come on, let's get another drink.”

The sound of the party passes over them as Emile follows him out of his room. They walk down the hall together, but as soon as Leofard makes it to the kitchen, someone wraps an arm around his neck and yells into his ear. Leofard makes out half of the words, but as he looks behind him, it seems that Emile is similarly lost in the crowd.

The stab of disappointment lasts longer than he expects it to.

The night grows weary, the music still plays. Leofard is definitely drunk but it only makes him tired. There are a few times throughout the night when Emile catches his eye across the room, and a small smile crosses his lips. It feels like something secret exists between them—something merely waiting for the right moment.

They collide again.

This time it’s Emile’s hand on his shoulder, holding himself steady as his body sways closer, as he leans down. Distance is a second thought when he fixes those brown eyes on Leofard, lips curving up at the edges in a shy smile.

“I thought you were going to show me your car," he says, his soft voice loud over the music, but all Leofard can focus on is the strength of his grip on his shoulder, and as he blinks at him through the blurry lights of the living room, the only thought on his mind is touch him.

This time he doesn't hold back.

He reaches out to wrap his arm around Emile's waist, hand grazing along his own shirt clinging to his body. He bites down on a grin at the way Emile shifts into his touch, the way his eyes widen when Leofard inches his fingertips beneath the hem, teasing at his warm skin. With their faces this close, Leofard just has to tilt his chin towards him to be heard, keeping his voice deep, quiet. “All you have to do is ask, baby.”

“Please?” Emile murmurs against his ear, and Leofard closes his eyes for a moment. That single word sets the room spinning, keeping in time with the way his heart pounds in his chest. He turns his head towards him, noses brushing for a moment, breath ghosting against each other's lips, and he swallows hard as he pulls away.

“Come on.” Fresh air sounds like a good idea.

He turns his gaze to the door, and Emile is a step behind him as they head outside. There's a few people smoking on the front steps, but in the fuzzy dark they hardly pay Emile and Leofard any mind as they slip around the corner. The streetlights barely reach them here, washing the yard in gray light while everything sits muted and quiet. Only the distant sound of music from the house can be heard, a beat that sinks under the surface of the night.

It's cold, but Emile's body is warm as he crowds him against the side of the house, the excuse of seeing his car all but forgotten. Leofard touches the hem of his shirt again as Emile's head bends towards his, and there's a certain sway to them both, something hazy but desperate, lingering at the boundary line between them.

Leofard crosses first, reaching up to wrap his arms around Emile's shoulders and pull him down into his space, where he meets his mouth with his own. Emile tastes like sugary punch, and he kisses him softly until he parts his lips. Leofard gasps against him, tangling his fingers in his hair as he deepens the kiss, a sound caught in the back of his throat as Emile's hands skim down his back and pull his body against his.

It's the right kind of messy—lacking just enough control to satisfy that desire in his chest. It says I need you without holding back, and Leofard hates how much he wants that from a stranger familiar enough to give it to him.

He pushes further, hands seeking the touch of his skin beneath his shirt, and he moans when Emile slots his thigh between his, as a rhythm begins to build, heavy breaths warming the air between them, and—

"Hey, Emile, are you out here?" comes a voice from the dark.

They break apart. Leofard doesn't recognize whoever calls out towards them, but he keeps his eyes closed as he catches his breath. Emile’s touch shifts to his waist as he leans back in, his voice just above a whisper. "That's my ride home."

Leofard cracks his eyes open. "You're kidding."

“I wish I was.”

He has the thought to offer to take Emile back himself, but he's too drunk to drive. His next thought is to offer to let him stay the night, but he dismisses it the second it comes to mind. The thought of Emile taking his hands off of him is unbearable in this state, but he can't think of another way out.

“Okay, Cinderella,” he relents, and he can see the stretch of Emile’s smile even in the dark. "This was fun."

"It was," he agrees, and for a moment Leofard thinks he's going to kiss him again, but he just shakes his head. "Goodnight."

Leofard watches him walk back towards the lights of the driveway, where the silhouettes of his friends wait for him. Leofard just stares, his head in a daze as he blinks into the night. Emile opens the door to the passenger side of an old jeep, throwing one last look over his shoulder before he gets in.

Headlights pass over the yard and then disappear down the street. Leofard tilts his head back against the house, willing his body to calm down before he goes back inside, where the party slows to a stop. Stacia raises a brow when they meet in the kitchen, but he merely shrugs a shoulder at her despite the disappointment in his chest.

When he finally makes it back to his room, he has to laugh at Emile's stained shirt left on his bed. Cinderella indeed. He tosses it into his closet and crawls under the blankets. The room still spins even when he closes his eyes, but he thinks about the warmth of Emile’s body along his, the press of his lips, and what could’ve happened if they had a little more time.

He lets his hand drift down his stomach—an echo of Emile's touch—but almost isn’t quite enough.

—

It doesn’t stay on his mind for long.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t keep an eye out for Emile on campus—he’d be hard to miss, anyway—but a week goes by, then another, and Leofard lets go of the idea of running into him again. He never mentions it to Stacia, who would only make fun of him for it anyway, he merely chalks it up as a missed opportunity, something that wasn't meant to be.

Where he's content to let it stay, until a few weeks later.

Utata invites him and Stacia over on a Friday night. She says she's throwing a small party, but they all know better. She's one of his only friends that lives with her family off campus, which means whenever her parents are out of town, they have the whole house to themselves.

Leofard walks over with Stacia—they meant to show up early but they're both perpetually late, and the party is in full swing by the time they get there. Cars line the street and the yard, and inside the lights are low, skimming over the crowd in a blue haze. It smells like smoke and like someone spilled punch, which makes him think of a stained shirt, and—

"I'm going to grab a drink," he yells over the music, and Stacia nods at him before she disappears into the packed living room.

He navigates through the crowded hall, and it’s funny how everyone feels a little familiar at this point, strangers faces that he can pick out from classes over the years, from this same party he's been to time and again. It's always the same and yet they keep doing this, keep repeating it because it's the smallest break from the stress of school, from the stress of figuring out what they're supposed to be doing with their lives.

At the end of the hall, he runs into Cori.

They’re bent down in front of Utata’s dog—Pickles, a fluffy collie that's currently nuzzling his face into her lap as they scratch behind his ear. Leofard’s used to seeing them at school, their similar majors all but guaranteeing shared classes over the years, but they've become something like friends at this point.

Mostly they share the same love of cars, which—and he would never admit this to anyone, not even Stacia—Cori is far more knowledgeable of.

"Hey," he says, and a wave of hair cascades over their shoulder when they glance up at him.

“Hi,” they return. "No one was paying attention to Pickles."

“It's a good thing you're here, then," he says. "I was just going to grab a drink, do you want any—“

His voice cuts off as he glances into the kitchen, where his gaze lands on the one person he thought he'd never see again. Big brown eyes curve into half moons as he smiles, loose hair curves around his chin as he talks, the light of the kitchen makes his skin golden.

Emile is here.

“Leo?” It’s Cori who says it, and Leofard barely registers his own name.

"Sorry, I—" he starts, but then Emile looks over, brows lifting when he notices Leofard. A small smile crosses his lips, but someone grabs him by the arm, pulling him out of the kitchen. He lifts his drink towards Leofard for a moment and then he's gone again.

"Someone you know?" Cori asks.

"Yeah," he answers, and he clears his throat, forcing himself to look away. "I'll catch up with him later."

He tells himself that he'll let it happen naturally, that if they run into each other again then he'll talk to him, but it's just a few minutes later that he finds himself fumbling over an excuse to Cori before heading in the same direction that Emile left in.

The music has definitely gotten louder, and the sound of laughter and conversation has risen to match it. The living room is a mess of people dancing and silver balloons that get thrown into the air, skimming along hands raised from the crowd. Emile shouldn't be hard to find, but Leofard doesn't see him anywhere. Maybe he left already—

"Looking for someone?" Emile asks, and Leofard turns towards the sound of his voice. There's something so bright about his brown eyes as he grins. "Hi, Leofard."

"Hi," he returns, and he catches himself smiling back. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Me neither. I owe you a shirt."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Looked better on you, anyway."

Emile glances away for a moment before huffing out a laugh. "You're so..."

"What—charming?" he suggests.

"Something like that."

"Come on, let's dance."

He immediately shakes his head. "Oh, I'm not much of a dancer."

"No one's judging, baby," he says. "Besides, everyone's too drunk to care."

"Are you?"

Leofard didn't even stop for a drink. "Not yet."

"Me neither," he says. "I have a meeting with my coach first thing in the morning, I shouldn't even be here."

"Miss me that much?"

Emile laughs. "Yes Leo, I've actually spent all this time looking for you."

"Well here I am," he returns. "May as well make the most of it."

Leofard watches him press his lips together, the way his gaze shifts over him as he considers it. His shoulders lower the slightest bit and Leofard smiles, knowing his answer already.

"Fine," Emile says. "One song."

"Before you turn into a pumpkin, yes I remember," he says, and he takes him by the hand into the crowd.

He was right, hardly anyone even looks over at them as they begin to move to the music. The beat is fast and heavy, pulsing through him as he keeps his eyes locked on Emile. They move closer and closer and impossibly closer, and Emile puts his hands on Leofard, long fingers pressing into his waist.

More.

Leofard raises a brow before he turns in his embrace, moving back until he fits against Emile’s chest. Emile’s hands skim down to rest low on his belly, and Leofard covers them with his own as he rolls his hips against him.

Blue dimmed lights, the kiss of balloons against the ceiling, he blinks in and out of a dream. There’s something possessive about Emile’s touch, and Leofard lets his head fall back against his shoulder as the music beats through him. Are both of their hearts pounding? Emile’s head lowers to his neck, and he can feel the warmth of his breath as his lips ghost against his skin—

The song ends.

For a moment, neither of them move.

"You know," Leofard says, turning to face him. "We have unfinished business, Cinderella."

"What do you mean?" he asks, but his hands are still on Leofard, and they inch the slightest bit lower.

"I mean," Leofard starts. "I never showed you my car."

Amusement makes a home in Emile's gaze. “I don’t think that’s what we were doing.”

“No? Maybe we’ll have to try again.”

Emile glances at his lips for a long moment before meeting his eyes again. The next song starts but they don't move, still standing too close, faces angled just right—all it would take is the slightest effort to kiss.

It's been weeks, but it's the same feeling crawling up Leofard's chest.

"Come on," he murmurs. The music drowns out his voice but Emile's hand finds his as he leads them through the crowd. Going outside didn't work for them last time, and he knows Utata would kill him if he took Emile to her room. Still, they go upstairs where the house is emptier, the music is still loud but the sound of voices dims to the background.

They slip into the bathroom.

Silver blue light streams in through the window, echoing across the tiled wall. The silhouette of Emile steps ahead of him, and they stay in the dark, bodies moving closer. Emile is so big and solid and yet he yields to Leofard, lets him crowd him against the sink. It's quiet enough that Leofard can hear the hitch in his breath, the small sound in the back of his throat when Leofard puts his hands on him.

In the dark, their lips meet.

It's better than his drunken memory, sharper without the haze of alcohol blurring the lines between them. His heart races as they rush into it, his own desperation climbing as they continue what was cut short. He kisses Emile's jaw, lips brushing along warm skin as he works down to his neck, and he has to hold back a grin as Emile's hands bunch at his shirt, pulling him closer.

"Isn't this," Emile breathes out, "a bit of a risk?"

"Maybe," Leofard returns, but he lets his hand skim down to Emile's jeans, tugging at the waistband. "I can stop if you want, baby."

Emile pushes his hips into his touch. “Keep going.”

Leofard bites down on another grin before he presses his mouth to his shoulder, hand reaching lower to undo the button of his jeans. Heat surges through him at the sound of Emile's shaky breath, at the crack of his voice loosening into a moan as Leofard finally touches him.

It’s like the rest of the room disappears. Leofard pulls back enough to watch his face, to see his brows push together, his lips part, the way his eyes shut as his head tips back. He does not hide his pleasure, and in the ghost of the moonlight, Leofard is transfixed.

"Wait," Emile murmurs, and Leofard looks up in question when he puts a hand on his wrist to stop him. "I want to—with you."

Leofard is about to ask what he means when he reaches over to tug at Leofard's jeans, a small smile on his lips as he looks up to meet his gaze. His hair is a mess, lips still parted, his big eyes wide as he watches him—Leofard doesn't stand a chance.

He's already close, and he groans openly as Emile takes them both in hand. Somehow they find each other's lips again, and they kiss as their hips work together, the sound of the party all but gone as they pant into each other’s mouths. For a moment, all that matters is the rush of warmth through his body, building with each stroke until his breath catches in his throat.

They’re still kissing when they come.

Leofard tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut until the feeling begins to fade. The world comes back to him in pieces: the distant sound of music playing, Emile's hand steady on his hip, the room shifting into focus when he opens his eyes again.

He catches Emile's gaze, and they both laugh.

"Utata would actually kill me if she knew."

Emile shakes his head. "I won’t say a word."

And then it's just the two of them in a dark bathroom. They clean up, taking turns washing their hands and fixing their hair and clothes. Leofard almost wants to put the lights on just to see the flush of Emile's skin, but once they're both ready, they slip back into the empty hallway, where a rare question leaves Leofard's mouth: “What if I asked for your number?”

Emile blinks at him for a moment. “Oh, I don't really date. It's kind of hard with my schedule, and I don't want to commit to anything if I'm not sure about it—not that I don't like you! I just don't know if it would be a good idea, or if I'm even in a place to figure that out..."

His voice trails off and his brows push together as he watches Leofard for a reaction.

Leofard laughs.

"Relax baby, I'm not exactly boyfriend material either," he says. "I just wanted to hook up again."

"Oh," Emile says, and he begins to laugh as well. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he returns. "We can leave it like this, too."

Emile bites his lip. "No—no, I'd like to see you again."

"Yeah?" He fishes his phone from his pocket and opens his list of contacts before handing it over. He watches the way the light flashes against Emile's face as he enters his number. It makes his freckles stand out, and it's hard not to stare at the way they cross over his nose. He clears his throat. “I don’t date either, you know.”

“Okay,” Emile says, and he lets their hands brush when he gives him his phone back. “So no expectations?”

“No expectations," he confirms. "We can just be friends."

Emile smiles. “Just friends.”

—

If Leofard knew, in that moment, that Emile was in love with someone else, he probably still would've gone for it.

If he knew how easily his own heart could break, how this conversation would be the one he'd come to regret—

Well.

Maybe that would've made him pause.

—

He sleeps in too late the night day, the sun bright behind his blinds and warming him even as cool air seeps in through the cracked open window. His blanket is in his fist, curled up beneath his chin as he takes in a deep breath and stretches his body out for a moment before relaxing back into his pillow.

He gives himself a few more minutes; it’s been a while since he's felt this good.

It's noon by the time he gets up, and he shuffles into the kitchen with his blanket still wrapped around him. Stacia's at the table with a steaming cup of coffee and an open book, but she stares blankly at the space in front of her. It takes a moment for her to look up at him, and the looming afternoon light only highlights the dark circles under her eyes.

“You good?” he asks.

“Hungover,” she returns. “You?”

He bites his lip for a moment as he recalls last night, the phantom memory of Emile's hands on him, the new phone number in his contact list. “Just tired.”

It’s a testament to her hangover that she doesn’t notice the tone of his voice—light and entirely too pleased with himself—but he leaves her to her coffee while he makes breakfast. Though he is prone to burning most of the food he cooks, he is more than capable of eggs and toast, and he pours himself a cup of coffee to sip at while he works.

Sometimes it's like this: bare feet on the cool kitchen tiles, warm sunlight on his skin, the smell of coffee in the air—moments of the smallest, most simple happiness can happen so unexpectedly.

When he sits back down, he takes a breath and asks, “What do you know about Emile?”

Stacia's head pops up from her book. “Jenidaut?”

“Maybe?” he says, lifting a shoulder. He doesn’t have a clue what his last name is. Through a mouthful of toast, he says, “He’s on the football team.”

“Yeah,” she answers. “He’s the best quarterback this school has ever seen. He’s a sophomore and there were already rumors of a Heisman this season.”

Leofard just blinks at her.

“You've seen him play. Do you remember that playoff game last year?" she tries. "They put him in at the last second and he caught the game winning pass—I lost my voice from screaming."

See, he remembers actually going to the games, but as far as what happens during them? “I thought Emile was the quarterback...”

“Well not at first, but Varlineau injured his shoulder and Emile took his place,” she says. “You really weren’t paying attention, were you?”

“I pay attention,” he argues, but quickly relents at the look she gives him. “Just not that much.”

She shakes her head. “Why are you even asking about him?”

Hands on his body, head tipped back with a groan, the heat of his skin—Leofard clears his throat. "I might've hooked up with him last night."

"What," she exclaims, and he has to laugh at the way she sits up, eyes wide, her hangover all but forgotten. "The hell, Leo, why wouldn't you start with that? Tell me everything!"

It starts in their own apartment, it starts with a stained shirt, it starts with kisses that lead nowhere in the dark. It leads to last night, to their dance, familiar enough with each other to push them over the edge. He brushes up against the details, skims past them, but he fails to hide his smile at the memory of the two of them slipping away from the rest of the party.

He can tell that she notices, but all she says is, “So, what—are you going to call him?”

“Probably,” he says, lifting a shoulder. The truth is, he can’t imagine passing up another opportunity to see him, but he just smiles before he takes another sip of coffee—

“We’ll see what happens.”

—

He gives it a couple days.

It crosses his mind while he partakes in his favorite activity—laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, music playing too loud while he ignores his homework. He can't seem to focus, mind spinning between thoughts but unable to land on one, and he turns his attention to his phone laying at the other end of his bed.

Emile would make a better distraction.

Still, he stares for a long moment without moving, and the second he wonders if he's nervous, he gets up and makes himself call.

It rings a few times before the soft sound of Emile's voice comes through. "Hello?"

Leofard smiles. "What's this I hear about you being a hotshot quarterback?"

There’s a beat of silence, and then: “Leofard?”

"Who else?"

He hears him laugh. "And you call me a hotshot."

"Am I wrong?" he says. "My roommate was just talking about some play you did last season, thought I'd see if it’s true."

“Yes, it's true,” he says. "Is that the only reason you called?"

"No," he returns, biting down on another smile. "Let's go for a drive, I'll pick you up."

"In the infamous car that I still have yet to see?"

"The one and only."

"Alright," he says. "Give me a half hour."

He tells him where his dorm is, and Leofard gives himself approximately twenty minutes to look nice before he has to leave. One glance in the mirror, he ruffles up his curls and takes off his old sweatshirt and replaces it with his favorite beat up denim jacket.

Stacia is in the living room when he comes out of his room, and she takes one look at him and raises a brow. "Off on a date?"

"It's not a date," he says, grabbing his keys.

"Off to get laid?"

This time he laughs. "I'll catch you later."

"Be safe, have fun!" she calls out after him.

Early evening means the campus is quiet. Leofard lived in the dorms his freshman year before moving in with Stacia, so he's familiar with them. He navigates across campus to Emile's building, biting down on a grin at the sight of him waiting on the front steps.

Emile looks unfairly good, simply in a sweatshirt and jeans, hair falling loose from his ponytail. He looks up and waves.

Leofard is in trouble.

"Hey, gorgeous," he says as he gets in the car.

“Hi,” Emile says, smiling in that shy way. His attention turns to the dashboard. "So this is it."

"This is it," he says. "What do you think?"

"It's nice."

His voice tips up at the end, almost like a question, and Leofard can't help but laugh. “You sure about that?”

“I don’t know anything about cars,” he admits. “But it's pretty."

"I've always been obsessed," Leofard says as he pulls out of the parking lot. "I got my first job just so I could buy it."

He worked every day after school. Raimille wanted to pay for it for him but he wouldn't let her, convinced he needed to prove that he could do it himself. Part of him regrets it, if only for how much time he unknowingly lost with her.

"I like that,” Emile murmurs, the sound of a smile in his voice as they take to the tree lined streets, headlights coasting over gravel. "You know, I never actually learned how to drive."

“Shit, baby, I’ll teach you,” he returns. "Why not?"

"I was just busy with football, I guess," he says. "And my friends were always willing to drive me."

"So football is your thing."

There's a long pause, but then, "Yeah, I guess."

Leofard's brows dip down. "Not your thing?"

"I don't know," Emile answers, and there's a slight laugh in his voice. "I don't love it anymore. Not the way I used to, at least."

"Stacia says you're the best quarterback this school has seen."

"Stacia?"

"My roommate," he says. "Which is an understatement—she's more like an annoying sister. And my best friend. She's the biggest fan in the world, drags me to your games sometimes."

"You've seen me play?"

"Don't get too excited—it's kind of like you and my car," he explains. "I don't know anything about it, but it's pretty to look at."

Emile laughs. "You're such a flirt."

"And you've got a nice ass," he returns. "Are we just stating the obvious?"

"Leo."

"Yes?"

In his peripheral, Emile shakes his head. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," he answers. The evening begins to settle into night, deep hues of the sky bleed into the orange sunset peering through the spaces between trees. Leofard smiles to himself. "Don't you ever just want to get out for the sake of getting out?"

"That's usually when I go for a run."

He glances over at Emile, getting the feeling that there's far more to him, but he won't ask. "Then let's see where it takes us."

It takes them across town for ice cream, which takes them to an empty park. It's too cold to get out, so they sit in the parking lot, music playing softly while they talk. He learns that Emile's from Maine, that his eyes light up when he talks about his sisters, and that he's a music major. He brushes it off when Leofard asks, but he sounds more excited about playing guitar than he does about football.

He learns that Emile is a good listener, even if the spoon at his lips is distracting, and Leofard ends up talking the night away. Everything from school to work to his car. He doesn't mention Raimille, doesn't mention family at all, because he never wants his loss to define him.

And then it's sugar sweet kisses in the dark, Leofard fumbling over the console to settle in his lap. It's cramped against the roof of the car, but nothing else matters when Emile's lips are on his, when his hands roam up his thighs as his heart picks up a beat, breath growing heavy as their kisses deepen.

Emile reaches up to tangle his fingers through his curls, pulling him that much closer, and Leofard rolls his hips against his, grinning when he moans into his mouth. At twenty two, he feels like a teenager getting off in his car again, something secretive and exciting about it. Emile kisses his neck and he can't help but let his head fall back, giving into it as it overwhelms him.

He stays in Emile's lap afterwards, head on his shoulder, face tucked into his neck. Neither of them say anything for a moment, but Emile's hands linger on his back, smoothing over him in an absent rhythm. It doesn't last long, but it's nice.

When Leofard pulls away, they smile at each other as he reaches up to pat Emile's hair down, and they clean up the best they can before he scrambles back into the driver's seat.

He turns the music up as they drive back to campus, the windows cracked and leaking in cool air. Each time he looks over at Emile, he's staring out the window, and Leofard can't tell if he's okay or not, but maybe he just doesn't know how to accept something peaceful.

He pulls up to Emile's dorm, but Emile stays a little longer, looking over at him with a soft expression.

"You should call me again."

Leofard grins. "You can count on it, baby."

—

It begins in a bathroom of a crowded party, and what starts as intermittent, becomes frequent.

They learn each other's schedules, and between classes and Emile's workouts and Leofard's job, they find time during the week to hang out. Since Emile lives in a dorm, they always meet at Leofard's apartment—Leofard either picks him up, or Emile will walk over—and in the privacy of his room, he finds out just how much better it can get.

That first shirtless glimpse of Emile the night they met couldn't have prepared him for the sight of him stretched out naked in his bed. Leofard can hardly look away, can never keep his hands to himself, always tracing his fingertips along warm skin. They learn the ways their bodies fit together, how to say more and now through touch, through breathless gasps, through the way their eyes meet, tangled up and not letting go until they're whispering jokes and giggling into the small space between them.

Whenever they finish, Emile doesn't leave right away. He never stays the night, but they always end up talking for hours, about school and friends and life, video games and tv shows, or stories about Leofard's job at the pizza shop down the road. One time they watched a marathon of Saved by the Bell while they ate leftovers from the fridge, and Leofard ended up driving him back to his dorm at three in the morning, Elliott Smith playing softly to fill the tired quiet between them: I’d say you make a perfect angel in the snow.

Leofard has had friends with benefits before, but this is the first time it feels like they're actually friends.

It's nothing more, despite what Stacia says. She's only run into Emile a few times in the apartment, but she always raises a brow with a smirk, always teases Leofard the next day about his boyfriend coming over.

Leofard just laughs it off.

He's too young to be tied down, too selfish to be good at a relationship. The thought of trying to make this romantic sounds exhausting, like a performance neither of them know the steps to. What exists between them is the easiest thing in the world—he couldn’t be happier with this arrangement.

No expectations, they’d said, and it was a good idea.

It begins to change with this:

Early May means finals, and with one year left of school, one year left of his promise to Raimille, Leofard needs to make sure he passes these classes. The only one that gives him trouble is his English paper—he's never been good at planning or gathering sources, and he keeps putting it off until he has ten pages due the following day, and maybe two done, at most.

It becomes a marathon to finish on time, surrounded by stacks of books and a perpetually full cup of coffee at his side, but he gets frustrated with himself again and again as he loses focus. He stares at his laptop for so long that his vision feels a little blurry, so when his phone rings, he accepts the distraction for what it is.

"Hello?"

"Hey," says Emile on the other end of the line, voice soft.

Leofard bites his lip as he stares at the ceiling. "What's up?"

Emile is quiet for a moment, and then: "I was wondering if you're free tonight."

Leofard spares a glance at his laptop. "Shit, I wish I was, but I’m going to be stuck working on this paper all night."

"That’s okay," Emile says, and there's something distant and strange about his voice, but Leofard can't tell whether or not he sounds disappointed. "I don’t want to—we don’t have to have sex.”

Leofard frowns at the ceiling. They've never hung out for any other reason. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just…” he trails off again. “Sorry, I’ve been having a really hard day, and I don't want to be alone. My friends ask too many questions and I—I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So I’m an option because I don’t care?” he jokes.

“God, no, that sounds terrible,” he says quickly. “You’re just…easy to be around, Leo.”

Leofard’s left with the sound of his heart beating in his chest. For a moment, his thoughts blur together and it feels like he only hears himself say, “Come over."

Emile lets out a soft breath. "I promise I won't distract you."

Something in Leofard's stomach twists uncomfortably, and he wants to tell him that that doesn't really matter. What comes out instead is, "Do you want me to come get you?"

"No, I'll be okay," he says, and pauses. "Thank you."

Leofard has a hard time focusing on his paper after that, unsure of why it bothers him so much. He gets a single sentence done by the time there's a knock on the door, and Leofard gets up to answer it before he can think better of his appearance.

He regrets it when the door opens and Emile’s expression shifts into a grin. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

Leofard scrunches his nose as he looks down at his outfit—an old baggy t-shirt and sweatpants. “Sorry I didn’t get dressed up for you, baby.”

“No, I like this,” he says as he steps inside. “You look comfy.”

It's difficult not to be affected by those brown eyes steady and warm on him, the softness of his smile. “Don’t get any ideas, I will indulge them.”

Emile laughs. “I’ll be good. Look, I brought my books so I can study too.”

He holds up his bag. Leofard shakes his head. “Do you ever get tired of being so cute?”

He lets him inside, and he ignores Stacia’s grin as she glances up at them from the couch. Emile stops to greet her while Leofard goes to his room, where his laptop is still open, books spread out everywhere. He cleans off a space for Emile on the bed, who merely raises a brow before settling in beside him.

It feels oddly intimate. They work separately but they're merely inches apart, brushing elbows and passing books and stray comments. Leofard wasn't sure he'd get anything done with Emile here, but he finds it easier to focus with someone beside him.

For the most part, Emile seems fine. Leofard finds his thoughts drifting towards what could've happened today that he's having such a hard time, but he can't ask—Emile specifically came to him because he won't ask. Still, it doesn't stop him from worrying. They know each other but they don't, their intimacy is limited to the physical, and that's all they wanted, right?

He doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about it.

It becomes more obvious as the night goes on. Emile doesn't move for several minutes at a time. Leofard gets through half a page of his paper without Emile turning a single page of his book, and when he looks over, Emile’s gaze is fixed blankly at the space in front of him, worrying at his lip with his free hand. It takes too long for him to notice Leofard watching, but he offers him a closed lip smile when he does. Leofard smiles back.

With two pages to go, it creeps past midnight. Leofard is ready to throw his laptop out the window when Emile's book slips from his hands onto the bed. He looks over to the dull light of the lamp casting shadows over his face pressed into his pillow, eyes closed and chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm as he sleeps.

Leofard stares for far too long.

He half asses one more page, makes the margins and the spaces between lines bigger so that it goes onto another, and closes his laptop. Emile shifts but he doesn't wake up, and Leofard debates for a moment what to do. To wake him and send him home seems cruel, especially if he's having a bad day. To let him stay here feels...too close.

Carefully, he gets up to brush his teeth, but by the time he gets back he still hasn't decided. He stands in the doorway of his own room, watching the late night shadows cast over the shape of Emile in his bed, and something tugs in his chest. He closes the door with a soft click and crawls back in beside him, pulling the blanket over them both.

This time Emile stirs, eyes blinking open slowly. "Leo?"

"Hey," he says, his voice whisper soft. "You fell asleep."

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

"Just stay—it's too late to walk back and I'm too tired to drive."

He doesn't think that either of these things are true.

Emile is quiet for a moment, but then, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice drifting off. He reaches over to turn off the light. "Of course, baby."

He can't remember the last time he shared a bed with anyone—maybe not since his second foster home, when the other kids would come to his room at night and he'd tell them stories until they fell asleep. He takes a deep breath at the memory, and watches the ceiling until his eyes grow used to the dark. Judging from the sound of Emile's breathing, he falls back asleep quickly, and Leofard lets his head turn towards him, foolishly wondering what it would be like to reach out and touch him.

He closes his eyes and waits for all of it to pass.

—

The sun spills into the room through Leofard’s cheap blinds, paled light that still stirs him awake. There’s a weight around him, something solid that seeps warmth into his body, and his brows furrow for a moment before it comes back to him.

Right. Emile stayed the night.

Leofard knows their size difference well, but for the first time he lets himself catalog it—the way Emile’s broad chest spans past his shoulders, his heavy arm curled around his waist, and his cheek pressed to the top of his head. Each point of contact says you’re safe, and to Leofard’s surprise, he doesn’t mind.

He’s never needed anyone. He’s never wanted anyone like this, but he isn’t awake enough to overthink it as he lets himself inch further back into Emile’s space, sliding his arm along his to cradle it against his chest.

Blinking through the dust dazed light, he breathes in time with him—something steady to pull him back under as his eyes fall closed.

Distance will be easier in the morning.

—

Except—then he's alone.

He wakes faster this time, but the only evidence that Emile was here at all is the rumpled blanket beside him. Something in his chest pulls at the sight, but he refuses to call it disappointment. Leofard wouldn't have woken him to say goodbye either, if their roles were reversed.

Putting on his glasses, he glances at the clock to see that he still has a couple hours to submit his paper, and he chooses to ignore his laptop in favor of coffee.

He stretches out his back as he gets up, but there's a crick in his neck from spending all day working on his paper yesterday. It's forgotten the moment he opens his door and hears the sound of voices trailing from the kitchen. He frowns to himself, but when he turns the corner, Emile and Stacia sit at the table eating breakfast, so deep in conversation that neither of them notice him.

"I trust you saved me some coffee?" he asks, interrupting. They both look up, and there's a sly smile on Stacia's face and an earnest one on Emile's. He doesn't know how to process the way it makes him feel.

"Sorry, you're on your own," Stacia says.

Emile laughs. "There's some left."

Leofard still just blinks at both of them before he goes to pour himself a cup of coffee, his brain struggling to catch up with the situation, and for once in his life he's quiet as he listens to them talk about football. Stacia's voice is bright and more excited than he remembers it ever being, and Emile indulges her, going back over specific plays and explaining the story behind them.

“That pass from Estinien,” she says, and apparently it’s all she needs to say. Leofard watches the twitch of Emile’s mouth, the way he looks down at the table as he runs a hand through his hair.

“It was his idea,” he says quietly. The memory seems to come to him, and he smiles a little to himself before he looks back at Stacia. “We used to practice those kinds of throws together all the time—it only worked because no one was expecting it.”

But before Stacia can say anything, he continues, "I should probably go, though. I have a final at noon."

"I'll drive you back," Leofard offers before he can think about it.

Emile glances at him, his expression soft. "Thank you. I'll go grab my books."

Leofard just nods as he gets up and leaves the kitchen. He wants to ignore the look on Stacia's face but it's impossible with the way her lips curve into a smug grin.

"Your boyfriend stayed the night,” she says the moment he’s out of earshot.

"Stacia," he returns, not quite a warning but more of you know it's not like that. "He fell asleep, I wasn't about to kick him out."

"Of course not." She takes a sip of her coffee, and just when he thinks she's going to let it go, she says, “I’m assuming you were the little spoon.”

“Stacia.”

She laughs, but then her voice turns a shade softer. "He's a sweet guy."

"He is," Leofard lets himself admit, and he stares in the direction that Emile left, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to tell her we didn’t have sex last night.

Because there's a limit to their relationship. There is a defined boundary, and last night doesn't fit within that. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. A moment later, Emile bounds back into the kitchen, bag slung over his shoulder and surely way too energetic for this early in the morning. Leofard just smiles. "Ready?"

The drive back to his dorm takes only a few minutes, but Leofard can't help but sneak little peaks at him along the way. The windows are down because they’re always down, and Emile’s hair blows with the wind while music plays softly, morning light along his profile. Leofard tries not to think about his body curled around his, different from the way they usually touch, and ignores the thoughts that creep into the back of his mind.

He parks outside Emile's dorm, and Emile turns towards him.

"Thank you," he says, his voice so earnest that, for a moment, Leofard can't return his gaze.

"Of course," he returns, and he thinks too hard about what to say next, settling on, "Did it help?"

"It did," he says with a nod, and he leans in close, sliding a hand along Leofard's jaw as he pulls him in for a soft kiss. Leofard gasps against his mouth but leans into it, letting his lips part against his and lingering for too long.

“As a promise for next time,” Emile murmurs against his mouth.

“Next time,” Leofard echoes, opening his eyes as he pulls away. “Let’s celebrate when finals are over.”

Emile smiles. "Good luck!"

He gets out, and Leofard is left to watch him go. Something stirs within him, a feeling that is both unfamiliar and unwelcome, and as the door to the dorms closes behind Emile, Leofard stares for a long moment before he looks back at the road.

Under his breath he mutters, “What the hell...”

He goes for a drive.

#oc: emile jenidaut #leofard myste #emile/leofard #modern au #screaming forever !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#i've been thinking about this AU for a long time now #and it's been so long since i've posted anything #but this project means a lot to me and i have so many plans for them i'm just sdjfsdf yelling #and this might not be a good time to post but i need to finish packing o7 #my writing

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