#with VERY STRANGE undertones too... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kunareads · 1 day ago

Text

always, forever

choso x reader

obsession is just another form of devotion. and no one is more devoted to you than choso is.

masterlist

wc: 6.8k

um. i apologize in advance. this version of choso is very special to me and so is this reader, which is why it took so long to finish. i love them!!

content: stalker!choso, obsession, toxicity, dark romance, power dynamics, yandere in many ways, unchecked limits but not dub/noncon, choking, slapping, biting, bruising, spitting, restraints, praise, ownership, unprotected p in v sex, oral (f! receiving), religious undertones, worship/devotion, subspace, u and choso are NOT normal about each other like at all

18+ please <3

choso has always been good at paying attention.

people don’t expect that from him. he’s quiet, watchful, the kind of presence that blends into the background. most people assume it means he’s not listening, that his stare is vacant instead of calculating.

they don’t understand. he notices everything.

he notices when you use a new mascara. he notices how you reach for your phone when you hear a notification, even when it’s not yours. he notices the way your lips part before you laugh, how you tilt your head when you’re listening, the way your eyes linger on someone when you want them to stay.

he notices because it’s you. and you make it easy for him. you’re open, unaware.

it’s normal, the way he watches you.

he’s your friend. you trust him. you say his name when you see him.

morning, choso.

his chest tightens every time. it fits there, in your mouth, like it belongs to you.

would you still say it like that if you knew what it did to him?

your friendship is easy. you text him late at night when you can’t sleep. you pull him into conversation when he’s too quiet in a group. you lean against him when you’re tired, press your fingers to his wrist when you need his attention.

you let him in.

so it only makes sense that he knows you better than anyone.

he doesn’t think it’s strange that he watches you leave your apartment every morning. or that he walks the same route. or that he knows how long you’ll pause before crossing the street. this is part of his day, too.

he doesn’t think it’s odd that sometimes, he gets close enough to touch the loose thread on the back of your coat. or the nape of your neck.

once, you dropped your phone and bent over to pick it up. if you had turned around then, he would’ve been right there. standing too close.

but it’s not stalking. he’s not obsessed. he’s just making sure you’re okay.

+++

choso likes keeping things.

it started small. innocent.

a receipt left on the table after lunch. a pen you let him borrow. a candy wrapper, the foil crinkled between your fingers when you pressed it into his palm. he didn’t mean to keep them. he just…never let them go.

then, a bit more personal.

a cherry chapstick left in his car. an earring you thought you lost—he remembers watching it fall, small and shiny and delicate. a tissue, blotted with lipstick.

none of it was on purpose.

but you leave so many pieces of yourself behind. you’re careless, in a way that only makes sense to him. he had to start paying attention.

the things he keeps now are less accidental.

a bracelet you thought you lost. a nearly empty perfume bottle. strands of your hair, pulled from his hoodie after you borrowed it. a bloodstained tissue, from the time you cut your finger cooking for mutual friends.

your voice in his head hours after you’ve spoken. your fingerprints burning his skin like you meant to leave them there.

a photo of you sleeping. that one’s his favorite. a little secret, tucked between pages of a book. a moment you don’t remember, but he does. proof.

he knows things about you that you’ve never told him.

he knows your passwords. your wifi login. how much money is in your bank account.

he knows what you search for late at night, when your body is warm and restless. he knows what you watch twice, what you turn the volume up on, what you come back to later. sometimes, he watches with you.

at the bottom of his drawer, there’s a single zip tie. red and sturdy, waiting. it isn’t yours.

but it makes him think of you.

it’s not wrong. he’s just keeping you safe.

+++

afternoons are harder.

your lunch breaks are less predictable than your mornings, but even your unpredictability follows a rhythm. sometimes you run an errand. sometimes you meet a friend. others, you stop into a cafe, settle by the window, scroll through your phone between bites.

today, it’s the latter.

he leans against a brick wall across the street, observing you through the glass. you’re alone, stirring sugar into your drink, the sleeve of your sweater pulled over your hand.

then some guy slides into the seat across from you.

choso doesn’t recognize him. doesn’t care to.

the guy says something. you laugh and tilt your head, play with the edge of your napkin as you talk.

he’s seen you like this before—warm, engaged, giving. he knows it’s nothing. he knows that. but the sight still twists in his chest.

it’s not about fear. he doesn’t worry about losing you. that’s impossible.

it’s about keeping you.

about being on the receiving end of that smile. your attention, your laughter—they belong to him. no one else deserves them. they don’t know what to do with them anyway. they don’t hold them the right way, don’t understand how dangerous it is to waste them.

if he walked into the cafe right now, crossed the room, took your wrist—would you let him?

he imagines it. leaning close, lips brushing your ear. let’s go home.

your breath catching. your body tilting toward him on instinct. your little nod.

but he won’t do that. you have to come first.

he remembers the last guy. the one who texted too much, who made you laugh too easily. the one who stopped showing up.

he got the message. you didn’t even notice he was gone. but choso did. he noticed every second that passed before you stopped checking your phone, before you moved on like he never existed.

how long before this one needs a message, too?

his hands flex in his pockets. he takes a step forward. but he exhales, lets it go. he turns before the thought can take root, before the want takes shape and he can’t push it down.

he walks away, but the feeling doesn’t.

+++

when evening comes, choso’s right back where he belongs—watching your apartment from a distance, waiting for your windows to light up.

you should be here by now. he’s been standing here long enough for his body to register the cold. long enough for his pulse to slow.

he waits. this is easy to do when it’s for you. when he knows that, eventually, you’ll come home.

it’s fine.

maybe you stayed late at work. maybe you lost track of time. maybe you ran into someone.

it happens.

his fingers tap against his thigh once, then again. then again. a pattern, his body tracking the time even if he doesn’t mean to.

twenty minutes.

a car passes. the street lamp flickers.

his jaw tightens, but his breathing stays even. it’s not impatience. not paranoia. just an understanding of how things are supposed to be.

thirty minutes.

the cold bites at his knuckles. his fingers flex. the rhythm on his thigh picks up.

forty minutes.

his hand stutters.

something’s wrong.

he doesn’t decide it. he doesn’t even process it. the knowledge just settles, heavy and absolute. instinctive. like sensing a storm before the clouds roll in.

his hand slips into his pocket.

your key fits nicely between his fingers.

he crosses the street.

+++

your apartment smells exactly like you: floral, a little sweet, undeniably familiar.

he moves through your space, cataloging. your blanket on the couch, waiting for you. the unopened mail stacked neatly on the counter. a single glass in the sink. everything is where it should be.

but something’s wrong.

his eyes flick to your bookshelf. the order is off. books are misaligned, there are gaps where there shouldn’t be. choso’s not even sure you’ve touched these shelves before—they’re always perfectly neat, always the same.

his gaze dips lower. a box, tucked away. not well enough.

he hesitates.

then he crouches, pulling it out, fingers ghosting over the lid. he doesn’t know why he holds his breath he lifts it.

the first things he sees make him smile, just a little. a matchbook from a bar you both went to. a concert wristband, still looped closed. he carried you on his shoulders that day. a pin he gave you once, the clasp slightly bent.

his hand skims over them. he’s always known you were sentimental, but seeing it like this—seeing himself in it—makes something in his chest loosen. he thinks you’re cute.

then, a polaroid. the two of you, smiling. a moment he remembers. he runs his fingers over your image.

underneath it, another. just him.

he stares for a second before setting them aside.

the hoodie string he thought got lost in the laundry, coiled in the corner. a cigarette butt, flattened at the tip. his brand.

when did you find out he smokes?

his hands move slower now, pulling each item from the box, laying them out beside him.

a receipt—his, not yours—crumpled, then smoothed back out. a lock of his hair, neatly tied with a ribbon. his scalp tingles like he can feel where it was taken.

more photos. him again, but he’s not posing this time. stepping off a curb. shopping for groceries. sleeping.

his heartbeat pounds in his throat.

his fingers graze a slip of paper, the ink faded but still legible.

choso is restless today. he doesn’t talk much, but his weight shifts when he gets impatient. his breathing changes when i touch him. he watches me more when he thinks i won’t notice. i always notice. i wonder if he knows how soft his voice goes when he says my name. i could listen forever.

his fingers press into his thighs, his breathing slows, his mind splintering at the edges.

it’s not the same as him. it’s not.

he reaches the last few items in the box.

a mirror, small enough to fit in his palm. his name in lipstick, smeared over the glass where a finger had brushed.

a knife. the one that should be at the back of his nightstand drawer.

the room presses in around him. his body stills. his thoughts feel slow, thick.

he’s missing something. he must be.

before he can decide what to do with it, the door unlocks.

choso stays frozen where he is. his breath pulls in his throat.

you step inside, closing the door behind you. your movements are easy. fluid. unbothered.

there’s no shock, no fear when you see him. no gasp or startled jolt. you don’t even hesitate.

you walk to the living room entrance and stop there.

and instead of asking why he’s in your apartment, looking through your things, you just look at him expectantly.

his fingers tingle.

you shouldn’t be this calm.

his gaze moves over you, searching for a flicker of guilt, a flash of panic—something.

but you’re steady. unblinking. he feels like prey.

is this a test?

the silence stretches, taut and thin, and something inside him bends with it. part of him already knows where this is going.

he should say something. ask something, demand an explanation. how did you get those pictures? his knife? his fucking hair?

but his breath is caught somewhere between inhale and exhale.

you tilt your head. the corners of your lips curl upwards.

and then, lightly, “you found it.” your voice is sweet, but underlined with a tone he’s never heard before.

his stomach clenches. his fingers tighten around the box.

“i left it there for you.”

his mind fumbles for an answer, a reason this isn’t what it looks like. but nothing comes.

it’s exactly what it looks like.

you left it there. for him.

he should be horrified. he should recoil. but the pieces fit too well. the truth clicks too easily.

you’re just as bad as he is.

realization winds through his ribs like smoke. relief follows soon after, dark and cool.

he places the box down beside the scattered items with an exhale. his arms are looser now, his muscles relaxing.

he understands.

he stands and takes a step forward. then another, tilting his head, voice low. “say it.”

amusement glints in your eyes, your lips parting slightly.

“you first.”

him first.

choso doesn’t move, neither do you.

but something shifts—*pulls—*like gravity bending around you. his hands flex at his sides, his jaw tightens against the weight of the moment.

then, finally, he reaches for you.

one hand cups your jaw, the rough pad of his thumb grazing over your cheek. the other slides down, curling around the delicate skin of your wrist. he presses your pulse, just enough to tell you he’s here.

he lifts your hand, turning it, bowing his head in quiet worship.

his lips brush the inside of your wrist, featherlight, careful.

warm breath fans over your skin, then his teeth, sending a tremor through you.

the scrape of enamel blurring into the glide of his tongue is overwhelming.

he feels the way your fingers twitch against his palm, hears the sharp inhale you try to bite down. his thumb rubs slow circles into your cheek.

he lifts his head, moves in, and then he’s kissing you.

it’s needy. built from tension too thick to hold any longer. heat and teeth and hands—one pressing your wrist behind your back, the other sliding to the base of your skull, pulling you close, closer.

you give it back to him—your free hand tangles into his hair, nails scraping. his hair ties come loose one by one, and you slip them down over your wrist. a quiet keepsake. for later.

the moment is raw and unsteady. his mouth explores, breathless against your jaw, then lower. his teeth scrape below your ear, testing, waiting for a reaction.

you press forward, not willing to stop this.

he exhales against you, then moves, walking you backward until the edge of your desk presses into your spine.

his belt slips from his waist in one motion. the leather slides over your skin, smooth as his hands work, looping, tightening, adjusting.

he pulls it snug, your wrists now pinned behind your back, the press of leather holding you in place.

he thinks of the zip tie in his drawer. red, uncut, waiting.

not tonight.

then he lifts his gaze, eyes searching.

“you could stop me.”

it’s a door cracked open for you. you could stop him. he’s telling the truth. if you pulled away right now, if you said no—he’d let you go. because taking was never the point.

but the thought of stopping him doesn’t even form properly.

how could you?

you don’t pull away. you don’t resist at all. instead, you tilt your chin up, watching him.

and then, a smile.

something inside him aligns, seamless and final. everything before this was waiting. his mind quiets. the constant restlessness, the gnawing hunger—gone.

you’re his. you always were.

he tightens his hold for just a second before taking a step back.

the sight of you, wrists bound, waiting for him—he just needs to see it. needs to convince himself it’s real, to prove that this isn’t just another fantasy unraveling in the dark. that he’s not imagining the way you’re looking at him right now.

he drags his gaze over you, memorizing. you look exactly how he imagined you would. better.

you shift, testing the belt. not to escape, just to feel it.

his eyes track the movement, feeling the pull of you. he exhales, slow and controlled, and moves back in.

his hands travel over you, pushing your shirt up, fingers pressing, tracing. his lips aren’t far behind. he takes his time, dragging heat and teeth and intention over you*. marking you.*

his fingers slide lower, brushing your inner thigh. he watches the flutter of your lashes, the pull of breath in your throat.

then softly, “i should keep you like this.”

a pause. his fingers move higher.

“tied up.”

a flick of his fingers through layers of clothing.

“waiting for me.”

how long would you last like this? how long before you’d beg?

the longer your wrists stay bound, the deeper the inevitability settles into you. you lean into it, let it take root.

he drags a thumb over the waistband of your pants. he undoes the button. lowers the zipper.

you don’t help him. you can’t—and that’s the point.

his fingers press into your hips as he works the fabric down. your panties follow. you watch as he stuffs them into his pocket and drops to his knees before you.

his hands settle against your thighs, and choso lets himself feel the gravity of this. it’s hypnotic, the way you open up for him, the way you let him take what’s his.

he’s craved this. dreamt of it. and now you’re here. bound, vulnerable. every version of this moment was different—except for one thing. you always looked at him like this.

he half-expects to wake up still standing across the street, waiting for the glow of your windows.

but this isn’t a dream.

he dips down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss above your knee. then another, and another.

you want to touch him. to twist your fingers in his hair, to pull him closer, to feel his shoulders flex under your hands.

he takes his time. works his way up, teeth scraping, tongue flicking against sensitive skin. he closes his eyes as he breathes you in, but he doesn’t give you anything.

a sharp nip to the crease of your thigh. a lazy drag of his tongue there. he kisses right above your clit—so close, so fucking close, but not enough.

you whine. you need him.

he smirks. “you open up for me so easily.”

his tongue presses flat against you, slow at first, moving through the heat of you. you let out your first unrestricted moan.

then deeper. more.

he groans into you. “shit—” he drags his tongue through your slick again, his mouth starting to water. he savors your taste, taking his time, patient and thorough.

his mouth covers you completely, sucking, dragging you higher, working you open. you’re moving, pressing closer, needing more. the slow build makes you dizzy.

but just when your breath stutters and your thighs start to shake, he pulls away.

your head jerks, a whimper slipping out, raw need spilling over.

but he just slides his fingers through your opening, coating them, spreading it.

“you shouldn’t let me do this,” he says, but he’s already lifting his fingers to your face. his lips curve. “but you’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?”

when you take his fingers into your mouth without hesitation, fire surges in his chest*.*

his pupils blow wide, his breath catches. he pulls his fingers out, spreading them over your lips, your jaw, rubbing wetness in, watching it shine under the dim light.

“so fucking pretty like this.”

he buries his face back between your thighs with a moan. his tongue moves rougher now, making up for all the time he’s spent wanting and waiting.

you can’t move, can’t do anything but sit there and let him have you.

the pleasure builds too fast, too sharp, and you realize—he’s dragging you over the edge whether you’re ready or not.

his hands, his mouth, his breath—you swear you can feel him everywhere. on your skin, under it. in your cells, unraveling you from the inside out.

he keeps you spread open, his tongue fucking into you until you break.

you come undone, sharp and shattering, your body arching and your vision flickering. he growls against you, greedy, drinking in every sound you make and every drop of your release.

you tremble, breath coming in jagged, desperate pulls, aftershocks rolling through you.

he doesn’t stop until he’s done. until he’s sure he’s tasted everything you have to give. only then does he pull back, breathless, flushed, his face slick with you.

his hands don’t leave you. one stays firm on your thigh while the other drags up your body—slow, possessive, tracing the marks he’s already left behind.

his lips follow the same path. butterfly kisses at first, soft and fleeting. a press of his mouth to your hip, your stomach, your ribs, his breath warming your skin.

by the time he reaches your chest, he’s standing again, crowding you. his mouth teases each of your nipples, then moves up to your collarbone, your throat, then your lips—deep and heady, like he’s sealing something in place.

you taste yourself. it should be filthy, humiliating. but the way he does it, the way he runs his tongue against yours with so much care, like it’s meant to be this way—you shudder, melting into it.

his hands move behind you. he unfastens the belt, unwinding it with slow precision. your arms drop, the tension leaving so suddenly that a tremor runs through them. before you can move, he catches your wrists, holding them gently.

“you okay?” his thumbs smooth over the tender marks.

you nod and smile, just slightly, but it’s enough. he takes in the gesture, tucks it into the little box in his mind reserved for you.

his grip on you changes—firmer, more intent. the next kiss is messy, the way he presses into you, the solid weight of him between your thighs.

you feel him, hard and thick, putting pressure on your core through his jeans. he rolls his hips once, and the friction pulls a moan out of you.

your fingers twist into his hair, pulling so tight it must burn, but he keeps moving against you. he whispers your name, a quiet, broken sound.

does he even hear himself? does he know how much weight it carries, how needy he sounds when he says it? what it does to you?

you push.

your teeth catch his lower lip, biting down hard. enough to hurt, enough to bleed. you drag your tongue over it, tasting him, wanting to thank him for giving this to you.

he moans, growing desperate and grinding into you again, gripping your thighs, holding himself back. “you make me insane.”

before you can answer, he moves.

he lifts you effortlessly, walking you through your apartment like he’s lived here forever. his mouth is everywhere—kissing, biting, tasting—as he presses you against a wall, a doorframe, and then the bed.

he sets you down. his hands move to his shirt, pulling it over his head in one motion, muscles shifting under his skin. his pants follow, and then he’s back, sitting and reaching for you, drawing you into his lap and guiding your legs around him.

he moves one hand down to run his length through your slick, wetting himself up before easing you down onto him.

he’s thick, almost too much to take, and you whimper softly as his fingers slide up your sides, grounding you.

“you’re okay,” he coos. “you’re doing so well, pretty girl.”

he doesn’t rush you, doesn’t move at all to speed the process. he just watches you, takes you in, drags his hands over your skin like he finally has what he wanted.

his arms wrap around you when you eventually sink all the way down. he wastes no time rolling his hips, feeling you, reveling in the way you whimper at the stretch.

the position is deep, intimate, almost tender. but the way he holds you, the way he grips and takes and owns as he drags you down and snaps his hips up to meet you—there’s nothing soft about it.

you pull back enough to look at him, really look, and it makes your stomach churn.

he belongs to you. you love him. you love him too much. more than is reasonable, more than is safe.

you want him to know what this feels like—the unbearable ache, the madness, the constant need that grips you so hard you don’t know what to do with it.

before you even realize what you’re doing, your palm cracks against his face.

his head jerks to the side, his jaw tightening as something dark flickers in his eyes.

he stares, breath measured, holding something in his throat. the red on his cheek spreads like watercolor, stark against the black ink on his skin. a smile tilts at his lips.

”again.”

so you do it again.

his hand slides to the back of your neck as he lets out a breathless laugh, his other arm locking tighter around your waist, forcing you up and down, over and over again.

he’s fucking lost in it. in you, in this, in the way you give and take and ruin.

your body is stretched open, raw and aching, so fucking full, drunk on the way he claims you, the way he needs you.

then, lower, slurred against your skin, “*please—*baby, spit in my mouth.” half-lidded eyes lift to yours, and you realize he’s not just asking. he’s offering himself up.

you’re pulling his head back by his hair before he’s even done speaking.

his lips part, tongue barely peeking out, ready and waiting.

you let it drip into his mouth, and he groans like you’ve blessed him as he drags you into another desperate kiss.

it’s not enough. it’s never fucking enough. you need more.

“tell me you love me.”

it tumbles out, raw and unguarded. you both know it’s not a request—it’s a demand. a life sentence. a tether neither of you will be able to break.

his answer is instant. “i love you.” it lands like a vow, like a promise. like knowledge he was born with.

it floors you. tears brim in your eyes, and before you even process what he’s just given you—”i love you, choso.”

you love him. you love him. and that destroys him. his name belongs here, with you. always has.

his arms crush you, a vice around your body. like he could break you open and crawl inside, stay there forever. his thrusts turn brutal, desperate, unhinged, carving you into his shape.

he wants to say something, but nothing comes. just you, just this.

because the realization is too much.

because he never thought he’d hear this from you. never expected to be allowed to have this, to keep this.

because he’s been content just knowing you, quietly keeping you safe.

but this? this is something else entirely.

his grip tightens, almost desperate as his rhythm grows rough, erratic. your name spills from his lips like a prayer, over and over, his body going tight.

he moans freely against your skin, holding you flush to him as he buries himself deep, spilling into you. he’s locked around you, unyielding, trying to hold the moment in place, trying to stop time itself.

and it undoes you.

the warmth of him pressed into you, the way he swells inside you as he releases, the way he stays, like he belongs there—it sends you spiraling.

you tighten around him like a vice, gasping his name, sinking your teeth into his shoulder as your body locks up. your nails rake down his back, desperate, needing to mark him, keep him, to ruin him the way he’s ruined you.

his breath stutters, still drowning in his own pleasure, but he cradles your head, fucking you through it. “that’s it, pretty girl. let me feel it.”

and you do. you give him everything. every wave, every pulse, every broken sound as the feeling rolls through you. your body trembles in his arms, spent, oversensitive, but he just holds you, smoothing a hand down your spine, pressing slow, grounding kisses to your temple.

he pulls out of you, a slow retreat. the absence leaves you aching, still open for him, your combined juices leaking out.

time slows. your heart pounds against his. the heat between you lingers, warm and hazy. his fingers trace lazy patterns over your skin, letting you relax into him as you both come down.

once you’ve both settled, he lifts you off of him carefully, reluctant to let go. his hands guide you, breathing you in, smelling sweat and sex and something unmistakably yours.

his thumb drags down your back. he watches the way your body responds, still trembling, still open. he fits a pillow beneath your hips, shifting you into place.

he hovers, kissing you—over your shoulder, your spine, the side of your ribs, soft but weighted. his body follows, pressing you under him, where you belong.

“you’re not done yet.”

a shudder moves through you.

his lips press between your shoulder blades, lingering, exhaling before he pushes back into you.

the position lets him sink deeper than before. the stretch is slow, unrelenting, and you let out a low moan into the mattress.

his groan is rough, his voice wrecked. “you take me so fucking well.”

his pace builds—deep, ruthless. he’s everywhere, taking you apart, remaking you in his image.

you feel his teeth on your shoulder. his teeth on your neck. his tongue dragging fire over your skin.

you’re too sensitive. it’s too much. you reach back, trying to slow him down, but he’s faster. he grabs your wrists and pulls them behind you, dragging you upright into him like a puppet on strings.

your body bows into his. his breath is hot against your ear, his lips brushing over your jaw, your cheek, your throat.

his hands pull you down onto him again and again, pushing you beyond yourself.

fingers trace your collarbones, his thumb finding the soft dip in your throat before he wraps his hand around it. he doesn’t squeeze—not yet. but he feels the way you clench slightly around him.

“you like this?”

a whimper escapes you—not an answer, but enough of one. your hips rock back, body moving on instinct.

slowly, methodically, his fingers flex around your throat, measuring, testing.

then he closes his hand, cutting off everything but him.

your breath is gone.

everything stills. the world narrows—collapsing to the points where his hand meets your throat, where he’s buried inside you.

you clench around him hard as your limbs go weightless. a slow, creeping quiet drags you under, like slipping underwater.

you can feel your own pulse weakening under his hand. you can feel the numbness creeping up your spine, feel your eyes roll back, feel how completely you trust him to guide you.

he could kill you like this. is that what this is? a kind of offering? if he asked, would you give him even that? you both know the answer. he could demand your life right now, and you’d hand it over. just like he would if the roles were reversed.

he’s studying you, observing every reaction, watching you slip, mentally recording the sounds you make as you fight for air. his thumb strokes your jaw, coaxing you deeper.

and in the haze, you think:

he’s made you something sacred, something holy. a body to bow down to, a name to whisper between gasps. if this is devotion, you’ll kneel. if this is love, you’ll let it kill you.

everything is soft—your vision, your breath, your body. he’s siphoning the world away, tightening his hold even more. the floor drops out, and you’re falling, though you don’t know for how long or to where.

he lets go.

your body seizes as air floods your lungs, a shuddering inhale that rattles in your chest, half sob, half plea.

an orgasm overtakes you without warning or control, tearing a ragged cry from your throat. your vision flickers, your body spasms around him, but he doesn’t slow down.

“oh, fuck—” his voice is ruined. his hands keep you open for him as he fucks you straight through it. “keep fucking cumming for me, pretty girl.”

you try to squirm away, the pleasure making you hot, blinding you, too much.

“no—no, stay here,” he grits out. his palm spreads over your nape, forcing you down, shoving your face back into the mattress to take it.

he fucks you like a punishment, like a gift, dragging more sounds from your lips and tears from your eyes, letting you feel everything—every thick push, every deep stroke, every pulse of him inside you.

you were made for this. you were made for each other. shaped by each other’s hands, bound by each other’s will.

your body can’t decide if it’s too much or not enough, because somehow—somehow—you’re cumming again, clenching so hard around him he’s nearly forced out of you.

your body breaks open, pouring out and soaking the sheets, soaking him, feeling the delicious release as the force of it drags you under.

his breath stutters, his grip bruising as he chases it. he buries himself, spilling inside you, filling you and leaving something permanent behind.

his forehead presses against the back of your neck. his body stills, but his arms tighten around you, sealing you in the moment with him.

because this is it.

if you ran, he’d find you. if you fought, he’d break you down, drag you back, make you forget why you ever wanted to leave.

his fingers slide into your damp hair, pushing it off your forehead. he tilts your face just enough for his lips to brush your temple.

his breath is soft, warm when he whispers, “thank you, pretty girl.” you don’t know what you’ve done.

+++

you’re drifting. the world is muffled, distant, like sound traveling through water. your limbs don’t work, your mind doesn’t move. you just exist—empty, light, gone.

somewhere, you know choso is holding you. you can feel his warmth at the edge of your consciousness, an anchor you can’t quite reach.

but you’re safe here. his.

his hands shift, adjusting you away from the mess on the bed. you hum—more of a breath than a sound—pliant in his grip.

“baby?”

no response.

his thumb presses lightly into your jaw, trying to coax a reaction, but there’s nothing. your body is slack in his hold, breath coming too slow.

his stomach dips, sharp and visceral. his hands are calm when he cups your face, but his breath isn’t. his heart isn’t.

his fingers press against your wrist, searching for your pulse. still there. slow but steady.

but you don’t move. you don’t even look at him.

“baby, you with me?”

a hum, noncommittal, far away.

it’s not enough.

his throat tightens. his hands shake, just barely.

what if he went too far? what if you don’t come back?

the realization curls like smoke under his ribs.

he smooths your hair, tilting your chin up, a thumb stroking your cheek. “i need you to look at me, pretty girl.”

nothing.

“please.” his voice breaks on the word. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, breath shaky, exhaling slow. grounding himself before he grounds you.

“okay,” he murmurs, softer now, steadier. “okay, baby, i got you.”

his lips rest against your temple. he breathes you in.

your breath, shallow and warm against his skin. the quiet rise of your chest against his. your weight, soft in his arms.

his stomach clenches. he shouldn’t love this, not like this, not while you’re gone. but part of him does—how tender you are, how easy you are to hold, how completely you’ve let him have you.

his thumb brushes over your parted lips. something possessive curls inside him, unshakable.

“you’re so fucking beautiful.” he kisses the words against your skin, the bruises on your neck, the fading heat where his grip had been. his lips ghost your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

“need to clean you up, baby. can you move?”

nothing. you don’t even try.

you just burrow closer, pressing your face deeper into his chest, a quiet little sound slipping from your throat.

his breath catches. something pulls. twists.

you don’t want to move. you don’t want to leave him.

his fingers splay across your stomach, feeling the steady rhythm of your breath. he strokes a hand up your side, cups the nape of your neck, presses his lips your pulse point.

“you don’t have to.” he exhales. “i’ll take care of you.”

he lifts you, cradling you against his chest as he carries you to the bathroom. the warmth of the room contrasts the cold counter when he sets you down, but you don’t seem to register it.

unease tugs at his ribs, but he tamps it down, turning the faucet and watching steam rise from the bath.

when he settles you into the water, you lean into the warmth lapping at your skin.

something sharp lingers in his chest. he wants you back.

he strokes your hair back. his voice is soft, but there’s something dark beneath it.

“stay with me, pretty girl.”

choso washes you like he’s caring for something fragile. strong hands smooth over your arms, your back, your legs. each touch is a silent plea.

“breathe, baby.”

the words feel distant, like they’re coming through a thick fog, but something in you listens. you inhale, slow and deep.

“just like that. you’re safe.”

the haze clings to you, wrapped around your limbs. but beneath it, you feel him.

“you were so good for me,” he says, almost to himself. “so perfect.”

he wraps a fluffy towel around you, pulling you into his chest. your head tips forward, resting on his shoulder. a small shift, a silent seeking.

his stomach tightens. “i got you,” he says, voice softer now.

he carries you back, setting you on the bed. the world fades in and out, but the weight of your body is returning. the first thing you register fully is him.

he dresses you—clean panties, soft shirt. his touch is attentive, reverent, but his mind is restless.

he needs you back.

his hands are calm as he pulls the fabric over your head, but when your fingers twitch against his bicep, the lightest touch, something in him holds its breath.

“that’s it, baby.” his voice is raw, aching. “come back to me.”

the haze thins, peeling away in pieces. awareness pulls you in slowly, settling, anchoring.

you exhale. stretch.

choso watches, still, silent, breath held.

your lashes flutter. your gaze lifts.

and then you meet his eyes.

his whole body exhales, something releasing inside him.

“there you are.”

it’s quiet, almost a whisper, but his voice is full of something raw and undeniable.

the weight of what just happened settles in his chest.

it’s not regret.

it’s proof.

that you need him. that you trust him. that you belong to him.

you always have.

and when your fingers curl weakly into his shirt, holding him there, he wavers, unsteady.

you’re back. fully. you feel the soft fabric of the shirt against your skin, the scent of clean laundry, the steadiness of your own breath.

and him. always him.

choso watches you, unmoving, like you might disappear if he blinks.

your lips part, about to speak, but you don’t get the chance.

he’s kissing you. slow, deep, and final.

his lips move against yours like he’s sealing something permanent, like he’s branding you. a promise. there’s no hesitation, no question or room for doubt.

he feels it now, how irreversible this is. you were supposed to run. even if you wanted him, even if you eventually let him, you were supposed to pull away just once, just enough for him to know that there were lines between you. but there aren’t. you didn’t. you never even thought about it.

his fingers drift over the marks on you, pressing gently on them like he can make them deeper. “mine.”

you tighten your hold on his shirt, anchoring yourself to him, and when he pulls back, you whisper—”say it again.”

his breath hitches. then, lower, rougher, “you’re fucking mine.”

he kisses your jaw, your cheek, following the words with his mouth, speaking them into your skin like a prayer.

you exhale and nod, soft and small. you don’t even have to say anything. he sees it in your eyes.

you’re his.

something breaks inside him. something desperate, something he’s been holding back for so long that he didn’t even realize it had slipped.

he presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking, and then—

“you’re never leaving me.”

it’s too dark to be sweet, too honest to be a threat.

his eyes sting. and you see it, in the way his hands tighten around you, like he’s holding onto something fragile, something precious. not just you, but the knowledge that he has you now, that he can’t ever lose you. he’s afraid.

you could still ruin this. you could say something else, shift the balance, make it so he has to do something drastic.

but instead, you smooth your hands up his chest, over his shoulders, curling around his neck, grounding him.

“i never wanted to,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

his grip tightens. “you mean that?”

it’s a question. but you both understand that he’s not asking if you mean it.

he’s asking if you understand what happens if you don’t.

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arieslost · 1 year ago

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home to you | op81

oscar piastri x fem!reader

summary: oscar does what he should’ve done a long time ago.

word count: 2,978

warnings: healing sunburn right at the beginning, a touch of angst

masterlist — join my tag list here!

this is a PART TWO! read part one here :)

Your sunburn is peeling.

Oscar’s been watching you absentmindedly pick at it for the last ten minutes as you recount your day to him. He’s paying attention to what you’re saying, of course, but now he’s worried that you might accidentally hurt yourself.

“Stop doing that,” he says when you pause to catch your breath, reaching for his phone as if he could put his hand through and stop you himself.

“What?” You frown, and then look at your shoulder. “Oh, right. It’s weirdly satisfying though.”

“This is why you can’t go to the beach by yourself.” Oscar sighs. “You never put on enough sunscreen.”

“I know,” you reply quietly.

As much as both of you have tried, neither of you can help the awkward undertones that seep into every silence you share now. Oscar knows you love him, and you know that he doesn’t feel the same way.

You think he doesn’t feel the same way.

When he saw that look on your face that morning in the kitchen, it reminded him of the way he stared at you on prom night. Oscar didn’t get asked to the senior prom, but you did, and you had turned the offer down. Oscar asked you why, and you told him that you only wanted to go with him, otherwise you weren’t going. You’d dragged him back and forth from your table to the dance floor all night long, and it all would’ve faded into the mush of fleeting high school memories if your favorite song hadn’t come on. Oscar remembers every detail of how your eyes lit up, how you cried, “I love this song!” even though he knew you did, and how you’d grabbed his hands and started dancing with a refreshed energy. He felt like time had stopped and his world revolved around you, and it felt right.

So yeah, he knew the moment you gave him that look that not only did he still love you, but you finally, finally felt the same way. And, for the second time, he’d epically fucked it up.

He often wishes that he could go back and confess to you like he wanted to that night. You’d stayed over because you were too tired to drive home. You were both single. It was the perfect time. But now it’s four years later and he’s sitting in the hotel bathroom on the other side of the world, his girlfriend asleep in the hotel bed, and you on the other end of his phone screen picking at your sunburn that he could’ve prevented had he spent more time with you on vacation.

“You doing okay, Osc?” You ask, pulling on a hoodie of his that you stole from him before he left for his very first F1 race. “Aside from the races, I mean. I know you’re doing great with those.”

“Yeah, I’m alright.” The words come out with practiced ease. “I’d rather hear about how you’re doing though.” I miss you like you wouldn’t believe.

“I think I’ve told you everything like five times now,” you giggle. “I could tell you about the guy that came up to me in the grocery store this afternoon and took a painstakingly long time to ask for my number, but that’s not a long story.”

Oscar’s heart stops. “What?” He replies, teeth gritted, before he clears his throat and lightens his tone. “I mean, what?”

“Yeah, it was kind of strange. He started the conversation by asking me how you were doing, obviously, because you’re so cool and famous-” Oscar flips you off when you roll your eyes, and you laugh. “Anyway, I guess that was his icebreaker, because then he just abruptly segued into grilling me right there in the cereal aisle about my life and how he ‘couldn’t believe he’d never seen me before.’” You recount dramatically. “I’m telling you, Osc, it was nonstop cheesy line after cheesy line. I felt so bad for him I let him have my number.”

“So, he used me as an in and then harassed you until you gave him your number?”

You nod slowly. “Pretty much.”

“You better not actually be considering going out with this guy.” Oscar scoffs.

“Oh, no, I’m not!” You rush to clarify, and he can see a faint blush rising on your cheeks. “I mean, it’s not like I’m waiting for anyone-anything. He was just weird. I only gave him my number so he’d leave me alone… I blocked him when he texted me.”

“You’re horrible,” he starts laughing now, relieved that this guy never even stood a chance. “I love it.”

“You’re supposed to be encouraging me to get out there and find a boyfriend, loser. Brush up on the best friend manual.” You complain, pulling the hood over your head and hiding your face from him so he can’t see how much it hurts to think about finding someone that isn’t him.

He doesn’t notice anyway; he’s distracted by the sound of the covers moving and his girlfriend yawning.

You hear it too, and glance up at the camera. “You have to go?”

His heart breaks at how sad you look. “Yeah, sounds like she’s actually waking up this time. Sorry, honey.”

You shrug, and he knows you’re trying to appear unbothered. “It’s okay. We got, what, an hour and a half? That’s a whole extra 45 minutes or so.”

“You’re allowed to tell me how you really feel, y’know.”

“Damn it, Oscar. You just see right through me. I don’t know why I even bother.” You sigh, covering your face with your hands.

“I don’t know why, either,” he attempts to joke. “Look, I-”

“Oscar? Where are you?” His girlfriend calls, and you stiffen up at the sound of her voice.

“Be there in a minute!” He responds, turning his attention back to you. “I’ll call you again as soon as possible, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye, Osc.”

You hang up first.

“I love you,” he whispers to his blank phone screen, and gets up to start his day.

You say it back to your own blank screen and go to sleep.

Oscar comes to the steadfast conclusion that he wants you and only you at his side at his home race, and not as a friend.

Breaking up with his girlfriend still looms over him. He lies awake for way too long at night trying to figure out the nicest way to do it, but his thoughts always end up taking a detour to you and how he wishes it was you sleeping next to him instead.

Despite the struggle going on in his mind, he goes through the motions of PDA with her for all the cameras and other drivers in the paddock to see. Lando is the only one who realizes what his issue is.

“Mate, you have to figure this out.” The older driver said out of the blue as they were lounging in McLaren hospitality after qualifying.

“Huh?” Oscar frowned at him, tearing his eyes away from his texts with you. “I know I fucked up that quali, but it’s not like I can’t improve.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, you muppet.” Lando rolled his eyes, and said your name like it’s obvious. “You just have to break up with the girl you’re with now so you can have the girl you really want.”

“You say that like it’s so simple.” Oscar mumbled, looking at the text from you that had just come in.

Just focus on the race, Osc. Quali’s behind you, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll be cheering you on, what could possibly go wrong??

“It is, if you think about it. Besides, you’ve been acting so weird lately she might already think something’s up.”

“Gee, thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.” Oscar groaned, sinking lower into his chair.

“Always here for you, mate.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I don’t care.”

That enlightening conversation gets Oscar to finally work up the courage to tell his girlfriend those dreaded words following the race– “We need to talk.”

He waits until they’re in the hotel room after dinner to say it so there’s no audience, primarily because he knows that she’s prone to throwing fits when things don’t go her way. The memory of her losing her mind when he took you to breakfast during vacation comes screaming back to him at the speed of light.

She doesn’t say anything at first; instead, she takes her time removing her shoes and taking the pins out of her hair. Oscar can’t stand the silence, so he starts speaking again.

“It’s about-”

“I think I know what this is about.” She interrupts him.

“You do?”

“I’d have to be stupid not to know, Oscar. You’ve been off for the past few days, it’s only with me, and every time I wake up you’re hiding in the bathroom on the phone.” She holds up a hand when he opens his mouth. “I know it’s her, and I’ve known since that vacation. You don’t have to tell me.”

“You’re… you’re not gonna yell?” He can’t hide the surprise in his voice.

“It won’t get me anywhere, will it?”

“It never did.”

She smiles matter-of-factly. “I guess I have to work on that.”

She packs her things without argument. Oscar offers to buy her a plane ticket somewhere, but she waves him off and thanks him anyway before walking out the door.

The Australian Grand Prix is in two weeks. Oscar doesn’t think before he calls you.

“I’m coming home. I need to see you.”

Your heart has been in your throat ever since Oscar called you this morning. He was so hasty that he didn’t even tell you when he was coming, so every little movement you see outside your window has you running to see if it’s him or not.

He doesn’t show up until almost 9:30 at night. You can hear the engine of his car as he flies through your neighborhood with practiced ease and nearly drifts into your driveway. Your stomach is jumping with nerves and excitement; you didn’t think you’d see him for another two weeks, and despite the awkwardness that your feelings have brought to your friendship, you want nothing more than to hug your best friend.

He starts impatiently knocking on the door as you nearly trip down the stairwell in your rush to let him in.

“Hold on!” You shout, fingers shaking as you unlock the door and wrench it open. “Are you trying to break my door?”

“Jokes later, let me hold you,” he says, reaching for you and meeting you in the middle of the doorway as he pulls you into his chest for a tight embrace.

You melt into him immediately, your arms wrapped around his neck and your nose pressed to the warm skin that peeks out of his hoodie. “I can’t believe you’re here,” you mumble, squeezing him.

He shivers, kissing the top of your head. “I’m here, baby.”

I’m sorry, baby. You think about that so much that it shouldn’t hurt anymore. It sobers your mood a little.

“Why, though?” You ask, pulling away a little to look at him. “Don’t you have things to be doing?”

“I may have forced them to clear my schedule by coming home without telling anyone.”

“Oscar!” You exclaim. “Why? You could get in trouble!”

“Can we talk inside?”

“Yeah, of course. C’mon.” You take his hand and lead him into your house.

He takes off his shoes, leaves his suitcase in the hall, and goes to your living room on autopilot, where he flops down on the couch and lets out a long breath. You sit next to him, knees bumping together as you look at him with a reasonable amount of concern. “You’re acting weird. What’s wrong with you?”

“I broke up with her.” He says, rolling his head to the side so he’s looking at you. “So, nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Bullshit, Osc, it seemed to me like you really liked her.”

“You didn’t, though.”

“Who cares what I think?” Your brain fully computes his words. “Wait- actually, no. I’m not even going to act surprised by the fact that you knew that.” You sigh.

“I care what you think. I care about you. A lot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I don’t think you do.” He sits up straighter now, turning his whole body to face you. “Like, in a romantic way.”

You blink at him a couple times. “No you don’t.”

“I don’t?” He repeats incredulously.

“You can’t. You don’t.” You say. “You’re lying.”

“I’m lying?” He says through a laugh. “You’ve known me your whole life. When have I ever lied to you?”

You press your lips together. The only time he’s ever lied to you is when he planned your surprise parties. “I’m gonna need you to do a really good job explaining yourself, otherwise I’m kicking you out. You can’t do this to me, Oscar, you know how I feel-”

“Yes, I do, and I’d love to explain if you’d stop spiraling for a second.” He interrupts, taking your hands to ground you.

You’re once again having the dilemma of wanting to push him away and pull him closer simultaneously. The pressure of his hands holding yours succeeds in calming you, so you allow it.

“The whole reason I knew how you felt in the first place is because of the way you looked at me in the kitchen. You didn’t notice, but I looked at you the exact same way at the prom.” He says, gauging your reaction by how your face contorts slightly as you try to remember the prom at all, aside from the fleeting memory of forcing him to slow dance with you. “That feeling like time stops? Like-”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” you recall, looking down as he runs his thumbs over your knuckles.

“Right.” He nods. “Look, the bottom line here is that I screwed up by not telling you then, and if I had, we would’ve been dating for years at this point and this conversation wouldn’t even be happening.”

You feel like you look like a fish out of water with how your jaw is opening and closing, searching for something to say in response. “Osc-”

“If this makes you change your mind, I get it.” He continues. “But the whole reason I came here is to tell you that I love you. I’m in love with you and I have been since we were 18.”

You go to muster up something to say in response when he says one more thing. “Oh, and I’m tired of only being able to see you through the phone. That’s the other reason.”

You can’t help it– that, paired with his polite cat smile, his flushed cheeks, and his confession has you dissolving into giggles. That quickly morphs into laughter that sends you leaning so far forward your head is practically in Oscar’s lap, but he doesn’t seem to mind because he’s laughing too.

“I hate you so much,” you gasp out, pushing yourself back up so you can look at him when you tell him the complete and total truth. “I’ve been in love with you since we were 14.”

“Shit, that means I have eight years to make up for, not four.”

“Sucks to suck.” You say, easily falling back into your age-old banter.

“You sound like Lando,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “And I was gonna ask if I could kiss you.”

“Ah, shoot. I ruined it.”

“Hmm, no. I’m gonna ask you anyway.” He shifts closer to you, brushing your hair out of your face with both hands. “Can I kiss you? Please?”

You start nodding before he even finishes asking, maybe too enthusiastically, but it’s Oscar. He knows you. He wants you. You don’t need to be embarrassed.

The press of his lips against yours is soft, gentle. You always thought that if you ever kissed Oscar it might be too weird, but the only thing you feel now is right.

It feels right to thread your fingers into his hair. It feels right to let him tug you closer, closer, closer, until you have no choice but to straddle him so you can be as close as he wants you. It feels right when his hands slip under your shirt and lightly run over the skin of your back, when his tongue meets yours, when you give his hair an experimental tug and he moans into your mouth.

The only thing wrong about it is that you have no choice but to break the kiss in order to breathe, but even then you don’t move far from each other, breaths mixing in the minimal space between you both.

“We could have been doing that for a long time,” Oscar sighs, throwing his head back against the couch.

“We have all the time in the world now that we stopped being idiots and confessed.” You point out.

“D’you think you can come to the race in a couple weeks? We can take it slow with this, no one needs to know… I just want you to be there.” He asks.

“Of course, Osc, are you kidding?” You run your hands over his shoulders and down to where his hands rest on your hips. “Though, if you win, I can’t promise no PDA or anything.”

“I’d expect nothing less from my girlfriend.” You can feel him tense up a little, like he’s expecting you to react negatively, but he relaxes immediately when your smile lights up your whole face and you kiss him again.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

“I love you,” you whisper back.

No one else needs to hear it just yet. You only need to tell each other.

note: i sincerely hope this made up for any tears i may have caused with the angst in the first part. this is the first time i’ve ever been inspired to write a part 2, and i think it’s because i desperately needed it to end happily. thank you so much for all the love on falling for you; i never expected it to get as much attention as it did!

requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika !

tags (i’m sorry if i couldn’t tag you!): @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @niallerswolf @fangirl-dot-com @hood-jabi @vellicora @k-pevensie28 @cami26cami @arian-directioner @vildetry06 @hauntedphotographybookstaco @bigheartsthings @northpizzasposts @notturlover @riv3rbank @gesfjjsl @oliveisunstable @lily1sposts @sadbut-true0 @lilcowboy0 @alltoowelltaylor @kimis-gloves @superheroreader @alexmarie29 @anedpev @lalalaphie @waitingforsmartpeople @arrowenchantress @zillygoose @its-cat-eyes @gxllumsriddles @fionaschicken @mrsgeorgerussell63 @bre013 @lizzypiastri @blldsnjs @samantha-chicago @homosexualjohnwayne @opheliabluewolff @catbat011 @drivelikeiido @what-is-happening-helpp @decafmickey @tania2748 @steviesscoops @annahowardsworld

#full fic #op81 week #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #formula one x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #op81 fluff

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andypantsx3 · 1 year ago

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READY OR KNOT | 2 | TODOROKI SHOUTO x READER

SUMMARY: Todoroki Shouto is so unsettlingly beautiful, you’re certain he has to be an omega. That is, until a chance encounter with a pushy alpha reveals you were incredibly mistaken—and the surprises don’t stop there. Shouto's suddenly mystifying behavior adds another layer of complexity to an already confusing inter-agency investigation. It would be so much easier to figure things out—and suppress your growing feelings—if only Shouto would stop being so strangely attentive to you... TAGS/WARNINGS: pro hero au, fem + afab reader, omegaverse, alpha shouto, beta reader, misunderstandings, courting behavior, slightly case fic-y, undertones of sexual violence (not between main pairing), aged-up characters, eventual smut, 18+ minors please dni! LENGTH: 4.9k, 2nd of 7 chapters

It turned out it was not so easy to forget what had happened with Shouto. Especially when Monday morning rolled around, and with it, some very pressing questions about the party.

Mina found you first thing in the morning, already up to your eyeballs in the case file at your desk. A frown marred her pretty mouth as she rounded the corner into the case analyst area. She neatly dodged your deskmate’s ginormous stack of paperwork, nearly as tall as she was, eyes homing in on you like dark little missiles.

“I heard about what happened with Suzuki,” she said, looking you over with uncharacteristic concern. Her eyebrows were drawn, her features pinched. It was an expression that didn’t overtake her cheerful visage all too often. “Are you okay?”

You blinked up at her, the name escaping you for a moment, until you matched it up with the support alpha from the party on Friday. Your lips downturned in reflexive distaste.

“I’m fine. You must have heard that Shouto scared him off,” you answered. “All he really managed to do was imply some stuff.”

Mina’s eyebrow twitched, like she had more questions on that, but she dutifully adhered to the matter at hand first. “I did hear that and we are going to be discussing that in a second. But that doesn’t mean you’d still be okay with everything that did happen. I’ve got a meeting with HR about Suzuki this afternoon, and I’m thinking of firing him.”

You jolted, a quick pang of guilt striking through you. Firing him. That seemed a very intense option.

You thought Suzuki was an asshole, sure, and you remembered all too well the horror that had overtaken you as he’d reached for his belt. But you also knew he had been drunk out of his mind—drunk enough that he thought you were an omega of all things, somehow perceiving things that weren’t even there.

You’d thought about it a lot this weekend, running over the events in your mind, and while the whole incident left a sour taste in your mouth, you thought Suzuki probably had been close to alcohol poisoning considering how strongly he smelled of Tetsutetsu’s horrible drink. He wasn’t exactly sound of mind, the lines a little blurry.

You’d never waylaid anyone like that while intoxicated, but you had done and said your fair share of things you regretted when you’d sobered up. You didn’t know what to think.

You looked up at Mina, finding her watching you consideringly. “No?” she asked.

You scrubbed a hand over your face, unclear what the right thing was. “I saw him and he was like, really not all there, Mina. I think he should be punished for sure, but what if you gave him a warning that if this happens at all again, he’s gone?”

One of Mina’s eyebrows arched. “Shouto said he was holding you against the wall even after you said no.”

You could feel your nostrils flare in anger at the memory, the feeling of that hand against the wet patch on your shoulder, unbudging.

“He did, but he also thought I was an omega, Mina,” you said. “I think he was close to alcohol poisoning, actually. He hasn’t caused any other trouble like this, has he?”

Mina shook that head of wild pink curls. “No, he’s been a model employee thus far. But I still don’t like it. That’s not what the Pink Riot agency is.”

A sigh filled your lungs. The support of Mina and Kirishima was enough for now. “I don’t like it either. But he was drunk, and nothing did actually happen, thanks to Shouto. Give him a warning that any other tiny slip up means firing, and I will be satisfied.”

Mina looked hesitant, dark eyes searching over your face, but eventually she sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “Fine. Once and only because you’ll need an accurate record from support in your investigation and it will be harder to get if he’s gone. But he will be fired if I hear even a whiff of a rumor again.” She paused. “And you’ll have to talk to Eiji, because he’s going to like this even less than I do.”

That wrung a smile out of you.

Kirishima was a good alpha and seemed to think of the agency almost like his pack. As easygoing as he was, he guarded his people resolutely, like a farm dog patrolling a chicken coop. You could almost imagine him standing at attention, head forward and tail pointed like an arrow.

As heartwarming as that image was, that didn’t mean you wanted to be the one to tell him though. You shook your head, throwing out your hands. “Oh no. Your alpha, your problem. The one privilege of my secondary gender is I’m not part of this shit.”

Mina clucked, sighing. “He is my problem.”

You laughed, knowing very well she’d know how to solve it. But her expression shifted, suddenly looking sly, and you realized she was about to saddle you with another problem.

“You’ll have to tell Shouto then,” she said, her voice deceptively light.

You blinked, eyebrows raising. Shouto…? “Why the heck would I need to tell Shouto?”

A grin slowly crept over Mina’s mouth, and she leaned in conspiratorially, looking altogether too pleased. Her hot pink nails settled on the edge of your desk, tapping delightedly. “Because he’s your assigned supervising hero. And you’ll be seeing him again in just a few minutes.”

A sudden flurry of butterflies erupted in your stomach, your mind flashing through the feeling of Shouto over you, tall and strong and warm, pressing you carefully to the wall. You could all but feel the whisper of those pretty eyelashes on your skin, feel his careful exhale, the brush of his mouth against your throat.

Your ears prickled with heat, and you could feel your face go slack in shock. He would be here—? In front of you again?

“He’s—what?” you garbled out, trying to dispel the phantom feeling of Shouto against you.

Mina looked downright smug. “He asked to be assigned right after I spoke to him at the party on Friday. Interesting, don’t you think?”

Heat licked at your cheeks. “Is it,” you managed tightly. “That’s… nice of him.”

“Very,” Mina agreed. “Especially since I heard about what happened after Suzuki left.”

You hated her.

“I’m a beta,” you reminded her, not liking the implication.

Mina’s dark eyes rolled. “Eiji liked me even when he thought I might present as a beta.”

“That’s different,” you told her, floored that you’d sidetracked into this so quickly. “I’m actually a beta. Also what the hell are we even talking about. This is a work case.”

Mina flapped a hand at you. “I’m sure you’ll both work it very hard, very thoroughly,” she said with no small amount of relish.

You seized the case file in question, holding it up between you like a shield, flapping it at her in turn. The manila folder flopped stiffly, the pages making a sort of wobbly sound. “Why are you like this,” you hissed.

Mina’s eyes glittered, and she opened her mouth to respond, when the soft tread of a boot in the hall made her perk up. Her grin went unholy. “Speak of the devil,” she said.

Shouto certainly did not look like the devil, as he rounded the corner. The fluorescent lighting made a sort of soft halo off the glossy strands of his distinct two-toned hair, and his features were just as angelic as you remembered—finely-wrought and almost deliberately formed, as though he were sculpture from the hands of a master. He was almost too beautiful to look at this early in the morning, and you felt your breath draw up short in your lungs.

He blinked when he saw you, those heterochromatic eyes widening nearly imperceptibly as he approached.

“Morning, Shouto-kun,” she purred. You hated her.

“Good morning,” he said, his tone low and soft. Your fingers tightened on the file folder, bracing yourself against the loveliness of the sound.

A flush rose to your cheeks as you did so, and Shouto’s eyes followed you curiously. Beneath the high collar of his hero uniform, you could just glimpse a flash of his scent patches, neatly placed as usual. You wondered absently what he would smell like if you peeled them back and leaned in close. As a beta, your nose was not as good as the other genders, but if you got in close enough, and if Shouto’s scent was strong enough, you’d probably be able to tell.

He looked like he’d smell delicious.

A cackle from Mina alerted you to the horrifying fact that you’d just been staring at Shouto as he approached, mouth open and expression vacant.

“Uh… good morning,” you managed.

The corner of Shouto’s mouth quirked up, and something beneath your skin tingled in response.

“I hope you are well,” he murmured.

You could see Mina’s eyes darting back and forth between the two of you with barely suppressed glee, and a sudden bolt of shame went through you.

Just because it was super obvious how hot you found Shouto didn’t mean he felt the same. He was a fucking pro hero for crying out loud. Rescuing people was what he did—the save on Friday did not have to mean anything.

Plus, knowing for sure that he was an alpha had closed the window on your little celebrity crush. Out of the hundreds of couples you’d met in your lifetime, you’d only ever met one alpha-beta pairing—both tradition and biology seemed to win out in almost all mated pairs, alphas and omegas unable to help their inherent attraction to one another.

And with that in mind, it was actually super disrespectful of you to even think about this impending partnership in any terms less-than-professional.

You rallied yourself, inclining your head respectfully to Shouto, gesturing with the case file in your hands.

“Yep, I’m good. I’m grateful for the save and I’m sure I’ll be even more grateful for your help on this case.” You turned to your boss, routing her back on track. “Mina, what information have you shared and what do I need to get him up to speed on?”

Mina’s pout was so defined it could be seen from space. You ignored her, raising your eyebrows.

“I only put the call out to other agency heads for a supervising out-of-agency hero. Just that it’s an omega assault case possibly involving a pro, and your name as the lead investigator.”

Your gaze returned to Shouto. He was still watching you intently.

“How much time do you have before you’re needed back at your agency?” you asked him. “Do you want to grab a conference room and I’ll get you up to speed? I’m sure Mina has a lot to do just now.”

He nodded, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that should not have wrung the oxygen out of the atmosphere, but did. “I am on patrol after lunch, but I’ve asked that my schedule be cleared until then.”

Perfect. Plenty of time. You stood, hefting the case file with you, clearly dismissing Mina, who looked put out.

“Great, I’ll show you to the conference room then,” you said. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Mina flashing you a pink finger, and you could easily guess which one. You stuck out your tongue at her as you passed Shouto so he couldn’t see, not above pettiness.

You gestured Shouto into one of the smaller rooms across the floor with especially good soundproofing, holding the door open for him. You sucked in a breath as he brushed past you, trying not to admire how tall and broad he was, the way those shoulders spanned the breadth of the doorway.

Shouto took a seat and you spread the case file out before him, trying not to look down at him as he glanced up at you. His fingers twitched on the conference table, like he was holding them in place. You carefully retreated to a safer distance, hoping you hadn’t annoyed him.

“Okay so the basic brief is as Mina said. There have been multiple reports of a suspected pro harassing omegas late at night in Bunkyo. Initially they were identified as a masked male wearing scent patches, roughly five foot ten, always wearing some dark jacket. But the suspected hero element came into play late last week when they attempted to strap quirk suppressors on their target. The omega in question had a vapor quirk so she was able to dissolve and escape before he did.”

Shouto’s eyes tracked you as you spoke, solemn and attentive.

“So far the suspect has not shown any signs of a quirk himself, and without any scent ID it’s hard to know what secondary gender to look for. Our best option is to work the possible-pro-hero angle and rule out who we can, since that’s all the identifiable detail we have on this guy at this time.”

Shouto nodded, propping an elbow on the table. You tried to ignore how even that small gesture made him look like a center spread in Heroes Illustrated.

“I’d like to read the individual reports and hear your plan once I have,” Shouto said.

You perked up, pleased with the terms he was speaking in. A good case analyst always had at least a sketch of a plan—what order to speak to specific people in, which angles had highest priority of investigation, and how the labor could be divided and work double-checked.

Most heroes were people of action and hated having to be corralled into approaching cases like some sort of assignment, instead of busting in and blowing things apart. But it was the best way to make sure all avenues were investigated thoroughly and that work was peer-reviewed in case someone missed something.

Shouto’s phraseology told you he was familiar with approaching cases like this, meaning he probably listened to the Todoroki agency analysts. You’d never worked closely enough with him before to know, only trading high-level information back and forth on a couple of joint cases, presenting findings in a meeting room stuffed full of Pink Riot and Todoroki agency heroes.

You found yourself smiling faintly.

“I’ll get you some coffee while you read. Everything is in chronological order in the file and I’ve tabulated some notes,” you said. “How do you take yours?”

Shouto’s gaze slid over you, careful and assessing. He paused. “I’ve been told I should not share that information.”

Your eyebrows went up. “Your… coffee order?”

Shouto nodded seriously. “Bakugou says it’s disgusting and embarrassing.”

Bakugou—pro hero Dynamight, that was—was Kirishima’s best friend, a loud alpha of an explosive manner and incendiary opinions who often showed up unprompted at the agency to stomp around and mean mug, all the while hiding that he was attempting to press leftovers on Kiri and Mina. You laughed, curious what Bakugou had browbeaten another pro over.

“Your secret will be safe with me,” you said coaxingly.

Shouto blinked, mouth quirking slightly again. He looked like he genuinely liked the idea of that, and your stomach fluttered in response.

Of course then he opened his mouth and provided a rundown of the inhumanly numerous sugars and syrups he liked, such that it constituted more of a soft drink than a coffee order. You tried to keep your eyebrows from creeping up into your hairline, smothering a laugh.

That was so unexpectedly cute. Especially for an alpha.

“One coma-inducing order of sugar with a splash of coffee, coming right up,” you saluted him.

He did something with his face that was a cross between a tiny smile and a pout, and you threw yourself out the door before you dissolved into a puddle of goop.

You went down to the cafe that operated out of the ground floor of the Pink Riot building, a favorite lunch spot of most of the heroes for how enormous their sandwiches were. The order took a fair few minutes, as it took the barista a good while to pump in the zillions of requested syrups, his eyebrows raised nearly to the moon as you recited them.

When you returned to the conference room, Shouto was already well into the case file. He glanced up as you entered, those heterochromatic eyes pinning you with an unexpected intensity. You started, wondering if you’d done something wrong.

But then his mouth slid into another tiny smile, and he looked so genuinely pleased to see you—or the coffee cup—you found yourself helplessly smiling back.

After depositing his cup next to him, you fetched your laptop and emailed Shouto’s agency the case files while he read. You wrote up the preliminary notes you’d been able to pull together on the case—a list of three agency heroes whose exact whereabouts had been accounted for during one or more of the incidents, who were therefore not on your list of possibilities.

Shouto was staring at you when you shook yourself out of work mode an hour later, quiet and intent. You startled, jumping in your seat.

“Oh my god—I’m sorry—did you say something? I didn’t mean to ignore you,” you said.

Shouto shook his head, another smile quirking that perfect mouth. That expression was growing familiar. “I have just finished,” he said.

A sense of relief washed over you. “Okay great. Did anything stick out to you that you think I’ve missed so far?”

“No,” he murmured. “Your work is very thorough. I would like to hear your plan.”

His tone was low, almost appreciative, and you tried not to let it go to your head.

“Okay, then we’ll begin with the active duty and equipment logs,” you told him. “I’m already through all of the duty logs available, but I still need the one from Thursday when the last incident happened—it’s supposed to be ready this afternoon. That will rule out a few heroes, and the equipment logs can tell us more about who had what out during the time of the attacks—I think we start with the heroes who had suppressors on them then.”

Shouto nodded, looking like he was following along. “You want to narrow the pool before you speak to anyone in case you arouse suspicion.”

You nodded, pleased he understood. “Yes.”

That blue and gray gaze nearly pinned you to your seat. “That is smart.”

A sudden wash of heat licked up your spine, pooling in your limbs. You struggled to keep your face neutral, your ears burning. “Th—thanks.”

“Who have you ruled out so far?” he asked.

You turned your screen to him, showing the notes you’d drawn up. “Kiri’s clear—no shock there—Tetsutetsu, and Tetsu’s sidekick who was with him on a cleanup during the first incident. I’m hoping Thursday’s log will clear at least one or two more.”

Shouto inclined his head in agreement. “And your interview plan?”

You smiled, and scrolled down to your notes on that, pleased at how he was letting you lead the investigation. He listened intently as you walked him through an outline, double-checking that everything worked with his schedule.

As you talked, he offered a few suggestions of his own, but he mostly seemed content to follow your outline—completely unlike even the most agreeable of the Pink Riot agency alphas. In fact it was so contradictory to everything you’d experienced thus far that you found your gaze darting to his scent patches over and over again, as if assessing whether they were really covering up an alpha scent.

But no—you had felt the pull of his Order under your skin on Friday. You, a beta, naturally resistant to Orders in the way omegas weren’t. And you’d gone so boneless against him, too, affected by his proximity in the most embarrassing way. Shouto was definitely an alpha, with that kind of pull—and probably a preternaturally strong one at that.

But he was also just—your eyes drifted to his coma-inducing coffee cup—kind of a strange one, too.

The two of you discussed the case for a few more minutes—until your stomach growled, loud enough to interrupt your planning, and the corner of Shouto’s lips lifted again.

“Would you like to finish up over lunch?” he asked, saving you the embarrassment of excusing yourself.

You grinned. “I think my stomach already answered for me,” you agreed.

Shouto helped you reorganize the paper files and lingered over you as you locked them into your desk cabinet, waiting for you patiently. Then he let you lead him downstairs to the cafe. You were conscientious of not standing too close to him in the elevator, all too aware of him in that tiny, enclosed space.

When you made it down to the ground floor, Shouto surprised you by steering you over to one of the tables, bidding you to sit.

“What do you enjoy here?” he asked, looking down at you expectantly. “I would like to get it for you.”

You shook your head. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I should be treating you for the save. How about you tell me what you want?”

Those heterochromatic eyes blinked down at you, and a tiny crease appeared between Shouto’s eyebrows. His mouth turned down. Against the subtlety of his expressions thus far, the look appeared almost distressed. “I insist,” he said, something strange in his tone.

“Shouto, really, I—-”

“I insist,” Shouto said, a little more firmly. There was the flicker of something strange under your skin again, like the tiny molecules of your body shifting in response to him.

You froze, startled, and your mouth opened for you before you realized what you were doing. “I—a pesto sandwich—”

You clamped your mouth shut, mystified.

But Shouto looked pleased. He smiled, wider than you had seen so far, a devastatingly handsome quarter-moon sliver that sent your pulse pounding in your ears. You watched him turn and walk off, something you might have said was almost smug in his step, had you known him better.

You sank into one of the seats, befuddled by what had just happened.

Shouto returned a few minutes later with water and an order number, placing the bottle in front of you like an offering. You regrouped, thanking him, then raised your eyebrows as he leaned forward, looking serious.

“I have been wanting to ask. Where does the alpha who harassed you work?” he asked, his tone dropping low. A strip of afternoon sunlight caught in his hair, dancing like flickering flames in the strands of scarlet, liming them in an orange glow.

He was beautiful in the sun, and it took you a minute to reroute your brain from his face to his question.

“Suzuki’s in support,” you said. “But Mina’s disciplining him, and I don’t have to see him often. I do expect he’ll behave after this. But why do you ask?”

Shouto frowned, leaning in closer. “Support maintains the equipment logs.”

It was the same at the Pink Riot agency too. “I—well, yes, but—”

“I should like to be there when you go to support,” Shouto said, catching your eye. His expression shifted into something solemn, his mouth a flat line.

You waved your hand dismissively. “I appreciate it, but don’t worry. He’s not gonna do anything, it’s literally just logs—”

“I must insist,” Shouto said again, his tone soft but unmistakably firm. His fingers flexed tightly where they rested on the edge of the table, the knuckle of his index turning white.

Despite yourself, his concern warmed you, that hot, tingly feeling heating your ears again.

“I really would be okay,” you said. “But if it means something—I’ll wait until tomorrow when you get here?”

Shouto nodded. “I would like that very much.”

A smile teased at your mouth. Now that was stereotypical alpha behavior, much as you appreciated his concern. Suzuki wasn’t going to jump you over a log file in a workplace—especially not after Mina had taken him to task. Shouto’s concern was unnecessary, but so very typical of an alpha. It felt familiar, like Kirishima’s brand of protectiveness over his tight knit agency, you thought. Harmless and well-intentioned.

A tray being placed on your table cut off any response you might have given, and your eyes blew wide as you registered the amount of food on it. Your mouth dropped open when a second tray was placed alongside the first one, the cafe worker smiling down at Shouto before she left, clearly recognizing him.

Shouto looked down at the food, his features arranged in minute shock.

“I do not remember ordering this…” he said, glancing at his receipt slip. You watched as his eyebrows furrowed slightly, that crease appearing between them again as his eyes flickered over the order. Then he cut himself off, those long eyelashes fluttering. “I… apologize.”

Apologize? Meaning, he had ordered this?

“You bought all this?” you asked, floored.

Shouto gave a tight nod. “It… would seem so.”

Your gaze picked over the trays again. They were piled high with at least six sandwiches, several pastries, a takeout container of soup, four different kinds of cookies, two fruit cups, and a handful of the granola bars they kept by the register. It was a literal mountain of food, and you sort of doubted even a pro hero could put that much away in one sitting.

“If you were so hungry we could have come down so much earlier,” you insisted, but Shouto’s embarrassed expression only deepened.

“It is… not for me,” he said slowly. It looked like it pained him to admit it.

You blinked, drawing back in your seat. “It’s…..me?”

Shouto nodded seriously.

A shocked laugh leapt out of you, bright and pleased. “Shouto, I was hungry but this is like, eleven meals!”

“You will have leftovers, then,” Shouto replied, sounding embarrassed. The tips of his ears were red where they peeked through his mop of multicolored hair.

You were so suddenly, utterly charmed by him, a splash of warmth pooling in your stomach, flooding through your limbs. You had absolutely no idea what had possessed him to do this, but it was undeniably sweet. Coupled with the easy way he’d let you take the lead on the investigation, and the way he’d moved to protect you on Friday night—it all painted a portrait of a very good, very kind sort of person.

You’d really lucked into a good partnership. You were grateful.

“Thank you, Shouto,” you said sincerely. A hint of a flush colored his high cheekbones, and he nodded.

You decided not to press him anymore, setting aside your speculation for when he’d gone. Instead, you unearthed your requested sandwich from the mound of food, and selecting a pastry at random. Shouto watched you as you bit into your food, a strange sort of intensity in his gaze.

Eventually, however, he took his own food, and the two of you chatted as you ate, moving on from the case to discuss his patrol, your shared friends, and a slew of other silly topics. You found him just as easy to talk to outside of case work—he had the same straightforward way of approaching life as he did his casework, his outlook consummately honest and thoughtful.

You regretted it when Shouto eventually had to excuse himself for patrol, but not before disappearing and reappearing with a takeout containers and a bag for all the things he’d ordered you, which he carefully but insistently packed away, before putting in front of you with a meaningful look.

You laughed again, taking the bag from him as you got up to make your way back upstairs as well.

“Thank you for lunch,” you told him, trying to convey how sincerely grateful you were. “I’m looking forward to our partnership.” You stuck out your hand to him, smiling up at him.

Shouto’s expression didn’t change much, but his mismatched gaze grew warmer where it rested on you. “As am I,” he said, tone soft.

Long fingers curled around yours, and for a moment you felt that same, weak-kneed desire to collapse against him as you had on Friday. It took an inordinate amount of focus to pump his hand in a handshake, and even more willpower to let him go.

You waved him off, and watched him go, feeling a strange sense of emptiness as that broad back disappeared through the door. In just a few short hours, it seemed, Todoroki Shouto had dug himself a comfortable little spot in your heart—far deeper than a case partner should have.

You ruminated on this as you made your way back upstairs, mind running over the events of the last few days. You couldn’t figure out why Shouto was having a weirder effect on you than any other alpha, even accounting for his unearthly good looks, nor why he seemed to be equally lost today—ordering a zillion things without even realizing he’d done so.

As you made your way back to your desk and cracked open the case file again, you resolved to solve this mystery as well. You were good at getting to the bottom of things—and Todoroki Shouto would be no exception.

#todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #shouto x reader #shouto x you #shouto todoroki x reader #todoroki x you #bnha x reader #andie's writing #character: todoroki shouto #tw: a/b/o

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a-small-safe-place · 1 year ago

Text

Then, Nothing.

Yandere Cullen family

A/N: Renesmee is a platonic yandere. The rest of the Cullens are romantic yanderes for you, but it is mostly centered on Bella and Edward right now.

You met Renesmee in a park. You were babysitting a child for a family, and she happened to approach you. This child looked too grown to be the age she said but also looked too young to be anything older, and something about her was off-putting in an uncanny valley way. However, something compelled you to engage with her. She said she did not want to play with any of the other children. Renesmee said they were too ingenuous. That seemed like too big of a word for such a little girl. She talked your ear off, though. She said she does not "talk" much at home, and that it is easier just to be not verbal. That worried you; was this child being abused and forced to stay silent at home? Who even were her parents?

As if on cue, a very beautiful man and woman approached. They looked too young to be the girl’s parents, but also too similar to her to not be her parents. They were also more inhuman in appearance than Renesemee. The mom, Bella, was more welcoming than Renesmee’s father, Edward, who chose to remain standoffish.

Bella smiled and told you, “Renesmee doesn’t usually talk to people besides her family; you must be special.” Her tone sounded as if she had been flirting with you. You chose to ignore it. Maybe just because she was so inhumanly beautiful made it seem like she was flirting. “I don’t know about how special I am, but your daughter is certainly unique; she seems so bright for her age.”

Edward finally spoke up, but in a flat and uninterested tone, “she is; we are very proud.” An awkward silence settled over the area. Thankfully, the child you had been babysitting came up ready to go home.

You began to see them more and more around town. It seemed as if Renesmee could sniff you out in a second if she happened to be in the same area as you. You were relieved that you did not live in the area and lived in a part of town that was in a much lower tax bracket. If you did live in the area, it would not be surprising if Bella, Renesemee, or even Edward showed up at your doorstep. Edward was the most normal out of the three. Bella’s behavior was nice, but something about it felt awkward with a sinister undertone. If she looked different, it would seem more sincere, but something about all three of them made you want to run away as fast as you could despite their beauty. A driver for the family that you babysat for had seen them when picking up you and the child and joked that Bella and Edward were probably related given that they looked similar. He loved to gossip and asked you a million questions about them. You shuddered at the idea. That could explain why their daughter was so peculiar, but wouldn’t incest result in more physical deformities and not just strange behavior from a child? Even if they were related, they did not seem to be that close, definitely not siblings. Everything about them seemed the same but also different.

You tried your best not to think too much about it, but it got to the point where you would see at least one of them anytime you were out on that side of town. You were fine trying to avoid them; each time your excuse was along the lines of “oh they need this kiddo back home!” or some other similar response. That is until you ended up getting fired. The mom refused to say why, and she reacted in disgust when she saw you. Before this, both of the parents enjoyed having you as their sitter. It was a harsh dismissal. You decided to stop by the grocery store before going home. You needed something, anything, to make you feel better about your loss of work, and with the influence your last family had in the community, it was clear you would not be babysitting for a while. Or so you thought.

“Hello,” Edward’s voice sounded from behind you. He did not seem happy to be there. “Sorry,” You mumbled, scooting out of the way, assuming you were in front of something he needed. “I have a job for you,” He said cryptically. You turned around to face him feeling confused. Edward continued to talk. “It will pay well. I know you take care of children, and I wanted to take Bella somewhere on a date, and we do not have a sitter for Renesmee, and she has warmed up to you.”

“You want me to babysit?” You asked somewhat dumbly causing him to smile a bit and chuckle. “Yes, she has warmed up to you, and Bella thinks you are trustworthy. The only catch is that you have to care for her at our home. You may not leave when you are watching her, even if you have an emergency.” You weren't a fan of that stipulation, but you figured they would allow you to call them to come back in a dire situation.

“Okay, fine. When do I need to be there, and is this going to be a regular thing?” You asked. He seemed a little irritated that you're asking these questions. “Tonight. You will start now. It will be a regular job. You can follow me out to our house.”

You arrived at his and Bella’s home. It looked like it was designed by the best architect. Renesmee greeted you outside. “You're here! We are going to have so much fun! Come one! Come meet my family.” As she is dragging you in, Edward is driving away. He did not even mention when they will be back or how much you were getting paid exactly. He was probably making sure you would not take the money and leave. There are people inside. Four people, two guys, and two girls sit on the couch and sofa. You hear a few people in the kitchen. “These are my aunts and uncles! That's Uncle Emmett and Aunt Rosalie; they are married, and then Aunt Alice and Uncle Jasper; they are married too. My Grandma Esme and Grandpa Carlisle are in the kitchen. Grandma wanted to make dinner for you… I mean us.” Two of them smile at you, the two dark-haired ones. The two blondes look mad and somewhat disgusted. This is weird. You have never babysat with people around. Why could the family not watch Renesmee? She seemed to like them just as much as you. Renesmee pulls you into the kitchen. Her grip is surprising for a little girl. A blonde man and a woman with caramel-colored hair are cooking. They look far too young to be a grandma and grandpa. Something about all of these people seems so familiar. As if you have seen them before. Not just on the rich side of town but on the poor side of town too, in your neighborhood. They both introduce themselves and clearly know your name as they greet you. “Are you hungry?” Esme asks, handing you a plate of food. It smells divine, but this has to be a trap. Most families prefer you not to eat a bunch on the job.

Renesmee grabs a plate and begins to eat. “It's so good! Grandma worked hard on it! You have to try it!” It is impossible to say no to her for some reason. You take a plate and take a few bites. It tastes wrong. There are hints of good flavor, but it is heavily covered up by the taste of medicine. The gravity of the situation hits you. “I need to excuse myself; I need a bathroom break.” The shakiness in your voice is clear. You pretend to go to the restroom, but book it to the door when you're out of sight. You see your keys are missing; even your phone has disappeared from your pocket. You step outside only to see your car missing. Suddenly you're grabbed from behind. This person is very strong but knows how to hold someone down without injuring them. You're stuck with a needle. Your life does not flash before your eyes, but each time you've seen these freaks in public flashes in your mind as your vision spins. A wave of calm lays over you. It is unwelcome because it feels unnatural, but it is too comforting for you to care as your vision goes in and out. You see some flashes of memories that do not belong to you. They are from a lower angle, so it has to be from Renesmee's mind. It is Carlisle assuring her that you are going to be safe because they all love you as much as she does.

Then, nothing. You're out like a light.

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nekrosdolly · 1 year ago

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feline delight (18+)

albert finds you on the streets. too cute to pass up, he takes you home against your will.

a/n; sorry this took so long! hope it was worth the wait :D

cw; half-alive dove maybe eat, cat hybrid!reader, afab!reader, owner!wesker, kidnapping, captivity, stockholm syndrome, drugging, dubcon/noncon, body betrayal, leashing + collaring, reader doesn't wear underwear, manhandling, breeding kink, wesker likes seeing you in pain sorry, no prep (please prep irl), unsafe sex (p in v, clitoral stimulation, creampie, implied multiple rounds)

tags; @4inchfae @thatgirlgames @whiskers-my-beloved @icecream596

albert never had a penchant for pets, let alone a hybrid like yourself. bringing you in may have been the best thing he'd done in years. you needed a home desperately, regardless of how much you scratched and clawed at him when he'd carried you off to his research facility without so much as an introduction. you hear him rustle around in his pockets with one hand and then, the uncapping of something. before you can look at what it is, a fine needle pierces right into the muscle of your neck. your vision fades within seconds, and you stop scratching.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

you didn't know what to expect, but waking up in a cage clean and clothed hadn't been on your list. you thought you'd surely be dead. but, there you were, with a black long sleeve shirt and skirt, thigh-highs adorning the better half of your legs, and a black leather collar around your neck. looking around, a small bell attached to your collar rings. not moments later, you hear footsteps. you look up at the man who has taken you in- tall, blonde, and very intimidating.

albert crouches before the kennel you're cowering in and looks you over as if he didn't get a good enough look when he bathed you. you hiss quietly and shrink into one of the corners furthest from him, cool metal digging into your back with each attempt to get further away.

behind his shades, his hazel eyes thoroughly examine you. the fear you give off is aromatic with a faintly sweet undertone of something more. gratefulness, perhaps. he did bathe you, clothe you, and put you in a very nice kennel of your own. your collar is a perfect fit, no less, and even though you didn't ask for any of this, it's more than you know what to do with. you've no bruises, no gashes, no injuries. how strange.

he's pondering what to say to get you to calm down. to trust him a little. maybe come out of the kennel, but that would be for later.

"hello." he places a gloved hand on the kennel's top rather carefully, so as not to startle you, and leans in just a bit. his voice is nicer than you would think. a bit nasally, sure, and the accent is cheesy, but he could read you the yellow pages and you wouldn't mind.

"…" your silence makes his jaw clench by a fraction. he'll have to fix that. for now, he'll ease you into things.

"what's your name, little one?"

"haven't got one." you rasp, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your chin atop them. ears flat against your head, your tail swishing- cautious and afraid, you are, and well within your rights to be.

he nods.

"we'll have to fix that, won't we?" he forces a little smile on his lips when you nod. you're not sure why you do when, two seconds ago, you'd have run off if the kennel door was opened. he's smart, he's thought this through. you're not leaving the kennel until you trust him, unbeknownst to you. your tail is ramrod stiff on the cushioned floor of your captivity, and at least he was kind enough to furnish it for you.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

it's hard to trust him even though you know it would be smart to pretend.

he only lets you out to feed you, and from the start, he'd made it clear that if you tried to run, you'd be dead. at the same time, twice a day, he opens the cage for you to crawl out of. he extends his hand to you, looping his gloved fingers around your collar and guiding you to sit by his feet. he links a leather leash through the d-ring attached to your collar and walks you through his home, the environment sterile and hardly lived in.

it's when he puts you in his lap at the dining table and force feeds you that he fills the tense silence. the food itself is good, and you wonder if under different circumstances, you'd want him to be your owner. as you eat, he talks. you are, to some extent, grateful that he feeds you, even if he is only doing the bare minimum.

"have you been good, dear?" he asks, and you nod as per usual. it's rare that you decide to talk.

"good girl." he scratches the spot behind your ear, forcing you to lean into his hand and purr. he chuckles quietly. as he pets you, his stress melts away. you're so cute. a meek, naive little thing that he loves taking care of.

as dinner finishes, he picks you up and keeps you in his arms as he cleans up. you're silent, sedated by the drug he's put in your food, and you're bodering on falling asleep in his arms. a swell of pride of warms his chest as a little snore escapes you, followed by your tail wrapping around his arm.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

day by day, bit by bit, you miss him. he keeps you company when he's not at "work" or whatever that is, he talks to you, he pets you the way you like, and it's nice when you forget about how you got here. the only thing you've come to dislike is the lack of underwear. it's not that he can't afford some, it's that he enjoys your discomfort to a worrisome degree. he likes its easy access, even if he hasn't taken advantage of it (or you) yet.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

he comes around and you find yourself less defensive, thanks to your breeding cycle. you press your face against the bars of your enclosure.

"owner," you whine as he walks past, a spark igniting in your gut. his scent is stronger than it was this morning, and you're hyperaware of the growing warmth filling your body.

"yes, dear?" he stands at his closet, his back to you as he strips himself of his work clothes.

"can i come out?" you paw at the door of your cage, ignoring the rattling noise it causes.

he doesn't respond immediately, letting you stew in your silence for a moment as he finds something more casual to wear. you don't normally ask to come out- this is progress, proof of your trust.

"in a moment. let me get dressed, darling."

it's enough for you to stop whining. your tail swishes happily and your ears perk up when he approaches the cage in grey sweatpants and a black shirt and crouches down to undo the lock to the cage. you practically jump into his arms, purring loud when he wraps his big arms around you and pulls you into his chest.

"thank you." you murmur, nuzzling your cheek against his chest. his smell, like poison, makes you dizzy with desire. the warmth is growing uncomfortable, your ears pinned flat against your head.

he hums in response as he strokes your hair, a purr emanating from the depths of your chest. the heat spreads the more he touches you, pooling between your thighs. he tries not to notice when you rub them together and mewl pathetically.

"is something wrong?" his voice is a match to the flame in your gut.

it's your turn to be silent, trying to even out your breathing despite the overwhelming urge to lean in and take a nice, long whiff of the pheromones he gives off.

"darling, answer me. you know better." he says in a more stern tone, looking down his nose at you.

"… i'm in heat." you state quietly, avoiding his gaze. if you could see his eyes, you're sure they'd be wide and a little bit dark.

"are you, now?" he hoists you up in his arms as he stands, his forearms just under your ass. you're bent slightly over his shoulder. "we'll need to remedy that, won't we, pet?" he chuckles. a chill runs down your spine. just what have you gotten yourself into?

he's not a mean lover, just a little rough. he sets you on his bed and pushes you down with a cold hand to your chest as he moves on top of you. anxiety cools your blood, makes it like ice pushing through your veins.

"wh-what are you…?" he presses a finger to your lips, silencing you, and kisses your cheek.

"i've been waiting a long time for this, darling. it would be wise to avoid making me wait more." there's a threatening undertone to his voice, the burn of discomfort making itself known in your shoulders. he wedges his knee between yours, forcefully parting your thighs so he can trail his hand up them, pinching here and there just to see you flinch, and smooth two fingers along your weeping slit. a hint of a smile makes itself known as you shudder, thighs parting wider to accomodate his hand. his cold digits stop at the very top, feeling for your puffy clit, and rubs slow, tight circles around it.

you hate that it feels good, and you hate yourself for having a breeding cycle. a soft moan leaves you at his light touch, your eyes locked on the hand rubbing your clit. he presses down a little firmer, eliciting a whine from you.

"look, doesn't that feel much better?" he croons, his voice low with his lips so close to your ear. reluctantly, you nod, and that earns you the reward of his fingers rubbing you a little faster. you squirm a little, trying to get more than just surface-level pleasure.

"words."

"y-yes. that feels good, thank you." a hint of malice laces through your tone, but you're grateful for what he's giving you. your face is on fire as only the pathetic wet noises from your cunt fills the air, and you (try to) hide your face in your hands, only to be met with a sharp slap to your cunt. you flinch, the pain subsiding after he continues playing with your cunt. your hands come down from your face and instead grab the sheets.

your stomach tightens, twists into a coil that winds tighter with every pass over your hardened clit. but you can't cum like this, not when your breeding cycle is ongoing.

"owner- p-please, need more." you whine, and albert kisses your cheek as a response, denying you of what you need.

"such a needy thing. fine. you'll get what you want." he takes his hand from your pussy and to the waistband of his sweats, pushing them down rather impatiently, as well as his boxers. weeping, his cock is bright red at the tip from want (how long has he been hard for?) and large. you're worried.

he chuckles at your fear-stricken expression before grabbing your legs and pressing them against your chest.

"be a dear and hold these for me, hm?" he says, and you do as you're told. you hold your legs by the backs of your thighs, pressing them so your knees hit your chest. he strokes himself once, twice to the sight of you spread out for him, your cute cunt drooling. slick drips down your perineum, inviting him.

you watch him slot himself in place, the tip of his long cock dragging through your folds to bump your clit, making you gasp. your entrance clenches around nothing, a pitiful whine leaving you.

"greedy." he shakes his head softly as he lines himself up, and without warning, thrusts himself entirely inside you.

the stretch is worse than you imagined. you flinch away from him, but he grips your thighs and tugs you right back onto his cock. it hurts, and the burn is something you hadn't accounted for. tears prick at your lower lashline. he leans down, his frame practically engulfing yours, and kisses your cheeks.

"don't cry. struggling only makes it worse, you know." he coos, tapping your jaw. you nod softly and wrap your arms around his neck for support, sniffling as the tears trail down the sides of your face. to ease your discomfort, his hand works itself between the two of you again and thumbs at your clit, dulling some of the pain. another moment, and your tears have disappeared.

"y-you can move. m'okay." you mumble to albert's delight. he starts slow, mostly on your behalf, and hisses at just how tight you are around him as he thrusts shallowly into your aching cunt.

the moment you make a noise, he grips your thighs tighter and starts bullying his cock into you quite intensely. the tip of his cock kisses your cervix with every single harsh, downright mean, thrust. he's not doing this for you, and that becomes readily apparent. still, you can't deny that it feels good to be fucked.

albert's quiet, aside from small huffs and hisses of enjoyment. you're so wet, it's making a mess of his lower abdomen and thighs. the lewd slapping of skin on skin combined with your precious mewls and whimpers of pleasure spurr him on, his nails digging into your thighs. his cock brushes against the spongy spot inside you, making you cry out and arch your back off the bed.

"there- a-again, please!" you grab the hand not rubbing your clit and lace your fingers together as the pressure in the pit of your stomach builds and builds, leaving you dumb on your owner's cock. he complies with your request, if not to feel you cum then just to see your pretty face when you do.

he bullies that spot relentlessly, to the point where some of his hair falls in his face. gummy walls squeeze and suck him in more, a loud cry leaving you as you reach your peak. slick gushes from your already crying pussy, thoroughly coating the both of your lower halves. it's dripping from you as he continues pumping into your hole, the schlick noise amplified now.

"w-wait- wait-" you grab the hem of his shirt, but he ignores your protests.

"we're not finished until my precious girl has her cunt filled with cum." he moves your hand away, forcing yourself further into the mating press he's got you in. you can feel every single inch, and how the throb of his dick indicates his climax. a few more sloppy, mean thrusts and he's spilling his seed into you. decidedly, it's a good feeling, and you need much, much more. your heat ceases momentarily, however, as he keeps his cock inside to ensure that nothing leaks out. your tail wraps around his thigh, the end flicking happily.

"i mean filled in every sense of the word, darling." he gathers some of your slick that's coating his lower abdomen on two fingers and pushes them in your mouth, watching with delight as you kitten-lick them clean. a dark grin forms on his pale lips, his length twitching at the sight. it's then that you really give in, that you decide it's better to be this way- fucked full of his cum and brainless. a familiar heat flares in your gut once more.

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animasola86 · 17 days ago

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LOST & FOUND 🫂 CH5

Day Two of your new life as Mommy and Daddy's little girl. This time, it's Daddy's turn to spoil you rotten. But before that: another shared shower that brings you very, very close to him.

soft!Daddy!dom x Mommy!domme x little girl!reader

WARNINGS: F!Reader insert. NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Mommy/Daddy kink. Dd/Md/lg dynamics. Dom/sub undertones. Pet names. Shared bed. Nudity. Shared shower. Size difference. Mutual washing. Angst/Comfort. Frottage/non-penetrative humping. Hand job. Cum shot/eating. (More notes under the cut!)

WORDS: 11.1k 🔷️ READ ON AO3 🔷️ 1–2–3–4–5–6–7

A/N: REMINDER: Reader (we call her pumpkin) is in her 20s, Mommy and Daddy are in their early and late thirties. Everything's more or less consensual. There's a bit of backstory for Reader (who basically suffers from depression and anxiety), but other than that, she's pretty neutral (only attributes she has are: hair long enough to braid and female genitalia, and she's bisexual or at least bi-curious, and leans more to the submissive side of things). In this chapter: It's Daddy's turn, so Mommy only has a few cameos, if you will. ❗ (Please READ THIS if you're confused about the tags I listed this under!) ❗

Chapter 4 🔷️ Chapter 5 🔷️ Chapter 6

After dinner, which you finished full and sated, you spent the rest of the evening on the couch between Mommy and Daddy, both of them with their hand on your thighs. You didn't really pay attention to whatever movie they were watching, you quickly dozed off, snuggling against Daddy's shoulder with Mommy leaning into you.

You had no idea how you got into bed that night or out of your clothes, but when you woke up the next morning, you found Mommy draped around your body, holding you tightly, breathing softly into your neck. Had she spent the whole night here? You felt warm all over, moved by her care and affection, until you noticed that she was completely naked – as were you. Then you felt really hot.

Breathing a little harder, you felt her hand on your boobs, long fingers gliding up and down, pinching your nipple between them. She was fast asleep, you were sure, but you still didn't dare to move away. And when you did try to squirm, she pressed even harder into you, grinding her pelvis against your ass. You really wondered what had happened, what she did to you, what you did to her. There was nothing in your hazy mind.

Even though you should be shocked and appalled, you found yourself disappointed, because you wanted to remember whatever happened between you. Did she have her fingers in your cunt again? Did she make you do the same to her? Maybe she just wanted to cuddle, skin on skin, to share the warmth after a day spent together so intimately?

It wasn't a particularly new sensation though, to not remember what you did. You had phases in those months of darkness were entire days slipped away from you, gone from your mind forever, where maybe nothing happened, or maybe a bit too much. Yesterday had been an intense day, from painful beautification to an endless shopping spree, so maybe at the end of the day, your mind just shut off, not allowing anything new to get in.

Whatever the case, it didn't really matter, because you were sure Mommy would gladly repeat anything that happened between you when you were more conscious. You hoped so. The throb in your cunt hoped so. The way she'd looked at you before dinner (one of the last things you did remember) had been so intense, that hunger in her eyes unrivaled by anything you'd ever seen (except for a somewhat similar kind of hunger in Daddy's eyes).

You still wondered what she meant by having you for dessert.

Shifting slightly in bed, you let your eyes wander through the semi-dark room. Your room. What a strange thought. Maybe if you spent a little bit more time in it, it wouldn't feel as foreign anymore.

A sudden noise cut through your thoughts: the bedroom door opening with a quiet creak. Stiffening under the covers, unconsciously leaning more into Mommy's body, you listened, squeezing your eyes shut as you pretended to be asleep. Before your mind could come up with the only possible explanation for who would enter your room, it gave you a few more ideas, one darker than the next, and all of them made you shiver, some even elicited a little whine from you. You had always been afraid of the dark, and strange noises only fueled your vivid imagination.

But then you felt a warm hand on your shoulder as the mattress dipped a little. “Wake up, pumpkin,” you heard Daddy's quiet voice, a low thrum in the air, a vibration that surged through your body, pushing away any remaining dark thoughts.

Your eyes flew open, sleep (and Mommy) still clinging to you as you shifted to get closer to him. He helped you out of her death grip, and it was only when he pushed the covers down that you remembered that you were stark naked. While shame crashed through you as he pulled you out of bed and onto your feet, you tried to cover up, though he didn't even seem to mind when he gently nudged you into the bathroom.

With your heart nearly exploding in your heaving chest, you stopped in front of the shower, not daring to look back at him, but when you heard the rustle of clothes, you couldn't fight the curiosity after all. You caught a glimpse of tight skin and bulging veins snaking along his abdomen, a trail of dark hair guiding your eyes lower, yet before you got a look at something else, you looked away, your ears burning up badly, your breath hitching in your throat.

He stepped behind you then, his large hands on your shaking shoulders. “There's no shame in nudity, darling,” he whispered softly, leaning in to rub his beard against your soft cheek. “Right? It's all completely natural. Wouldn't you say?”

You swallowed hard, rolling your shoulders under his grip. “Y-yes, Daddy,” you replied quietly, not so sure you would agree. It was one thing to be naked with Mommy, or with another strange woman who was paid to rip hair off intimate places, but Daddy was very clearly a man, and while you'd seen naked men before, you'd never been so close to one as stunning as him. It was intimidating.

You felt even smaller, punier, uglier.

You just couldn't understand what he saw in you when he had someone like Mommy with him. She was clearly the better woman, a real woman, with big natural breasts, a narrow waist and wide hips, a well-shaped rear and long limbs, while you... were not, had none of that, at least in your eyes.

Biting your lip, you fought the strangled sob that tried to squeeze through your tight throat. Daddy seemed to feel your concerns, his hands squeezing your shoulders. You could feel his presence behind you, his tall, wide frame, his warmth, something brushing against your lower back.

“No need to be nervous, pumpkin,” he reassured you, turning his head to kiss your cheek. “It's just a shower. Mommy had one, didn't she? And now it's my turn.”

You inhaled sharply, your exhale a shaky little breath. “O-okay,” you muttered past trembling lips. He moved his hands to your arms, giving them a gentle squeeze, before he nudged you forward, his fingertips brushing against your butt cheeks. You stepped into the shower, still not facing him, and he followed you, closed the door and leaned past you to turn the water on.

You saw his big hands grabbing the bar of soap from one of the little shelves embedded in the wall, rubbing it between his large palms before he started spreading the suds on your shoulders, down your back, around your midriff, up your chest. You just stood there, frozen in place, your eyes closed as you leaned into his ministrations, the water spraying over your head. He is so gentle, you thought, for a big guy like him.

He would only soap you up, no uncomfortable touches, no groping, he wasn't as forward as Mommy had been. He did weigh your breasts in his large hands for a moment, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, his tall frame warm behind you, but it was just another means to clean your body, nothing more. And you almost wished it was more. The longer he moved his hands over you, the more you hoped he'd really touch you. In places Mommy had touched you.

Eventually he'd put the soap away and lean past you again to grab the shampoo. You blinked your eyes open against the constant spray of perfectly-tempered water, inhaling the steam surrounding you, watching his fingers work as he squeezed a little dollop onto his palm.

“Look up, pumpkin,” he said softly, and you did, tilting your head back so he could sink his fingers into your hair. Your eyes fell closed again as he massaged your scalp, little mewls escaping you as you sank into the relaxing touch. Once he'd lathered up your hair and wrapped it into a loose knot, his fingers rubbed down along your neck, before he tilted your head back even more.

You leaned into him, trusting him despite barely knowing him, and he held you with his hand around your elbow, the back of your head meeting his broad chest, and as your eyelids fluttered open, you met his gaze, a smile on his lips before he brought them closer to yours. One of his hands closed around your neck while one of yours moved up to grip his wrist as he leaned down fully to capture your lips for a chaste kiss, a simple pressing and brushing and gliding until a breathless gasp parted your lips.

He held you by the throat as his tongue dipped into your mouth, his beard scratching over your soft skin, the extra tingle sending shivers down your spine and straight between your legs. You clung to him, caught between his arms, back pressed into his chest, head tilted to meet his deep kisses. You didn't quite know what to do with your tongue, letting him move it around, while your own rapid breaths mingled with his.

You felt lightheaded by the time he leaned back a little, bringing his lips lower to kiss along your jaw before he nibbled at your neck, his hand sliding down between the valley of your breasts, his fingertips teasing at the soft mounds. You heard and felt him inhaling deeply, his face pressed into the crook of your neck, his beard rough against your shoulder. One arm snaked around you, while the other hand continued lower. He stopped, however, before he could reach the place you wanted him to touch you the most, where the throbbing was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

He pressed his wide palm into your stomach, fingers spanning so far, before he exhaled against your neck. Another moment ticked past and he straightened up again, shifting you slightly so you stood fully under the spray of the water. As if nothing happened, he returned his hands to your hair and rinsed out the shampoo. You were left standing on trembling legs, still a little breathless, lips tingling, skin aflame under his touches.

This shouldn't feel so good, so comfortable, the doubts kept reminding you as they tried pushing past the cotton in your head. You didn't know this man and yet you allowed him to touch you like this. Sure, it was just a shower, but he was washing you like he would wash a child, or at least it felt like it, someone under his care, someone who couldn't do it themself. But then this was your role now, wasn't it? Letting these people take care of you, pamper you, treat you like the little girl they wanted you to be.

You were supposed to call them Mommy and Daddy, so really, what did you expect would happen?

The thing was, beneath the few doubts still screaming in your mind, there was content silence as you leaned into the capable hands of the man you barely knew but felt strangely connected to already. There was a clear attraction you couldn't deny, the insistent throb in your core, the little drip of your arousal mixing with the water cascading down your body, it was all real. And frankly, you were too tired to fight it.

After months of neglect and darkness and wasting away, it was the change you needed, and you'd do anything to keep it that way.

Daddy still had his fingers in your hair, soothing out knots and snarls, so careful you barely noticed it. You kept your eyes closed, leaning into him, feeling the bulk of his body behind you, the constant little pressure of something against your back.

“Daddy?” you whispered through the spray of the water.

“Yes, pumpkin?” he replied, his voice that deep vibration that made your heart beat faster.

“Can I wash you too?”

His hands paused. “If you want to,” he said then, smoothing your hair down, brushing his fingers over your shoulders and along your arms.

You felt him stepping back a little, and you inhaled deeply, opened your eyes and turned around, not only presenting your front to him but taking a first look at him as well. Your cheeks were already burning, and you tried your damnedest to keep your eyes above his navel. You could see a little smirk as he leaned past you and grabbed the soap again, holding it on his palm.

Your fingers closed around it while you held his gaze, breathing a little harder. The spray of the water kept hitting the back of your head, but you didn't care, you focused on him, on his tall frame. You felt so small standing before him like this, having to tilt your head back to look up at him. The expression on his handsome face was calm, patient and curious, his warm eyes raking up and down your body as you rubbed the bar of soap between your hands.

And just like that, you felt nervous, that same intimidating feeling taking over as you finally took a closer look at his body. As cheesy as the thought felt in your head, you couldn't help but compare him to those marble statues you'd seen in the museum before. Smooth skin, tight over hard muscles and bulging veins, perfectly sculpted body, toned arms and torso and legs (you did dare a look lower, still vehemently ignoring the sight between his thighs though), the only difference were the patches of dark hair between his pecs, trailing down his stomach, leading lower to –

Suddenly you felt his hand grabbing yours, bringing the soap up to his chest. You blinked, looking up at him, your face positively aflame. His gaze was kind, but his eyes were darker than usual. He guided your hand (and the soap) over his skin, watching you closely. You inhaled deeply, focusing on the task, rubbing more and more suds over him, and eventually he let you do it on your own.

The cotton in your head expanded as the doubts grew quieter, and you simply enjoyed being able to take care of him like this. He turned around for you, presenting more muscles under tight skin, and as you massaged his broad back, feeling the occasional twitch jerk through his body, you let your eyes wander, blushing deeply as they landed on his (of course equally well-shaped) rear. He stood perfectly still, a mountain of a man, a sight you'd never seen up close before.

But the more you touched him and explored the bumps and dents and ridges of his body, the more comfortable you felt about it, no longer as intimidated. You stepped closer and stretched behind him, trying to reach around his shoulders and up his neck, but you gave up when you slipped on the tiles, stumbling into him. He turned then, one arm around you, holding you up, an amused smile on his lips.

Trying to play it cool, you carefully took his hand and lifted his arm a little, moving the soap up and down, smiling softly when you wondered if he was as ticklish as you were, but you fought the temptation and concentrated on lathering him up. Once the other arm was done too, you paused, nervously fidgeting with the bar between your fingers, your eyes fixed on the hard muscles of his abdomen.

“I can take it from here, pumpkin,” he said quietly over the rush of water behind you.

You bit your lip, wanting to focus lower, really wanting to, itching to look at him, all of him, but before you could make a move, he took the soap from you and moved it between his large hands. You blinked, caught between wanting to watch him and to give him some privacy (strange concept when you were so close to him, when from the moment you stepped into their house, privacy and personal space were no longer on the menu).

A finger on your chin made you look up at him. “Have you ever seen a cock before, darling?” he asked nonchalantly.

You almost choked on your own spit. After clearing your throat, you averted your eyes and nodded.

“Touched one too?”

You nodded again, though the memory of that was hazy and somehow not as pleasant as you'd like to think. But that didn't stop you from wanting to touch him, even if you had no idea how to approach the matter.

“Give me your hand,” Daddy said quietly, extending his own, palm up.

You inhaled deeply, chewing on the inside of your cheek, then placed your small hand into his. You watched with bated breath how he brought your joined hands to his groin, your eyes wandering over the thicket of hair where some of the soap suds had seeped into, and then...

His cock was warm, firmer than you expected, not hard, but definitely not soft like the ones you had come into contact with before. He gently placed your hand under it, holding it up. It was heavy and... Your hand looked so small, your fingers not even able to wrap completely around it. “Big,” you whispered out loud, blinking at the sight and feel of him. Long and girthy, a prominent vein pressing into your palm, a little throb to it, the head poking out from a layer of tight skin.

A soft chuckle sounded in your ears, making you look up nervously. He smiled at you, amusement making his eyes crinkle. Your lips twitched, but you had to look away again, feeling so hot and bothered your chest was rising and falling faster. He kept his hand under yours, slowly moving it up and down his thick shaft, knuckles brushing against the soft flesh of his balls, and the more you touched of him, the more intimidated you felt all over again.

You stared at how your hand, guided by his, kept stroking his impressive cock, unblinkingly, and your eyes started burning from the hot steam around you. Though your head was full of cotton, focused on him, a few louder voices made it through. The doubts were back, but also a nagging realization. Despite the intimate encounters you had with these people you were supposed to call Mommy and Daddy, it suddenly dawned on you that they were expecting something from you too.

They didn't just want to care for you, cuddle and pamper you, buy you clothes and feed you, and even if they never explicitly said so, you knew there was more. Like Mommy's fingers in your cunt. Daddy's hands weighing your breasts. Their deep kisses that were anything but innocent. You were their toy, in a way, something to play with, something to use.

And holding this heavy cock in your hand only churned the nervous tension in your stomach. That thing was supposed to be inside you. That much was obvious, clear as day, and yet, you couldn't see it. It wasn't that you didn't want it, the throb in your cunt definitely wanted it, but the thought was scary. Not just the fact that he was so big and you were so small and it would never fit, but somehow you couldn't quite understand why he'd even want this, with you of all people.

And what if he won't like it? What if he really won't fit, deeming you... unusable? What if you didn't meet his expectations? They never said so, but your whole situation, this entire relationship, was centered around kink and sex, wasn't it? And if you couldn't deliver, would they send you away again? Why would they keep you?

Your heart was thundering in your chest, breaths erratic, your hand unconsciously tightening around his shaft. Tears burned in your eyes, and when a single croaked sob escaped you, you felt him letting go of your hand before he cupped your face and pulled your chin up, leaning down to look at you.

“What's the matter, pumpkin?” he whispered softly, concern deepening the lines on his forehead.

You blinked your eyes into focus, meeting his warm gaze. Your lips parted, but no words came out. His thumbs rubbed over your cheeks, catching the tears falling freely now.

“Shh, it's alright, don't cry,” he cooed, bringing his lips to your temple. “Talk to me, baby girl.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Will... will I be enough?” you managed to croak out, licking your trembling lips.

He leaned back, watching you with a frown. “Darling, of course! You are enough, you are more than enough. You are everything we've ever wanted,” he told you, his hands tightening around your head as he bent down to press his forehead to yours.

“B-but you... you don't even know me...” you muttered, more tears welling up in your eyes.

“Oh baby,” he whispered, pulling you against him until your cheek rested right between his pecs, his steady heartbeat loud in your ear.

His strong arms wrapped around you, squeezing softly, the embrace tight enough to dampen the doubts for a moment. You went limp, your hands falling to your sides. When he spoke, his voice was a low vibration ringing deep in your bones, silencing the echoing voices.

“We may have just met, but the moment I first saw you, when I first looked into your beautiful eyes, I knew it,” he said, his large hands rubbing up and down your back. “Knew that I would never let you go, that I'd have to guide you, help you, do everything in my power to see this wonderful girl smile and laugh and be happy again. I saw how lost you were, pumpkin, and I know you have your doubts, but you are no longer alone, no matter what your mind is telling you and has told you for so long. We will not push you away, we're here for you, Mommy and me, and as strange as it may seem to you, we have been looking for you, and we will only let you go when you are the strong, confident person you once were, who was excited about the world and its opportunities.”

You leaned against him, crying soundlessly, warmed by the water and his words. He rested his chin on top of your head, curling himself around you.

“Don't be afraid or intimidated by us, by me, by anything. You have no reason to. We want you, sweet girl, all of you, and we will do anything to empty that pretty head of yours,” he whispered, his chest moving against you when he inhaled deeply. “But we'll do so at your pace, okay? No need to panic or doubt yourself. We'll make you feel so good, pumpkin.”

You had to give it to him. He could both calm and comfort you, but also make you incredibly hungry for more. The itch in your core grew so strong you had to clamp your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the tension. Squirming in his hold, your hands moved up to grip at his sides, fingers gliding over shifting muscles, warm skin pressing into yours, his cock hard and heavy against your stomach.

“What do you need, baby?” he asked softly, his hands teasing lower, fingers curling around the slopes of your rear. “You can ask for anything. I'm here for you, okay? Daddy's got you.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, breathing harder. You had no idea how to even word the need crashing through your insides, so you kept shifting from one foot to the other, rubbing yourself against his hard body, your hands clawing at his lower back.

“Do you want me to touch you, baby girl?” he rasped, his fingertips dipping between your butt cheeks.

You stiffened, pausing the squirming, before you pressed your rear against his hands, a mumbled “Yes” escaping you. A rumble went through his chest when he gave a little laugh, slipping his hands lower, cupping your ass properly. And then he lifted you effortlessly, pulling you up and against him. Your arms wrapped around his neck while you instinctively pressed your thighs against his waist.

He shifted you slightly, one hand curled around your shoulder, the other slipping beneath you, and then it happened, your heated center pushed right against his cock, hard and stiff, pointing upwards, pressed between his lower stomach and your body. The spray of the shower hit your back, a steady stream of warmth adding to the heat gathering low in your core.

His hands settled on your waist, a strong grip, and when you leaned back a little to look at him, you saw him watching you, his face a little tight, that muscle in his jaw twitching, and his eyes were... intense. There was hunger. A dark stare.

“Cross your legs behind me,” he told you, and you did. “Hold onto my shoulders, yes, like that. And now, grind on me, baby girl.” He started the motion by gently moving your body up and down so that his shaft would press right between your labia, the head catching on your clit, and just that first stroke already blurred your vision.

Your hands dug into his shoulders, your pelvis working against him, up and down, back and forth, a slow rubbing and grinding, the heat and bulk of him gliding through your slick slit. The tension grew, your lips parted, chest heaving, heart thundering. He kept his hold on you, watching you, guiding you as you moved against him. Little moans escaped you, your limbs tensing and twitching around him.

You could feel him getting even harder, throbbing against you. Every upwards slide and downwards stroke sent shivers down your spine, little tingles that went all the way into your toes and fingertips, and when you could barely move anymore, he kept going, pushing you up and down, his fingers tight around your waist, probably leaving bruises, but you needed the strong hold, the reminder that he was there, helping you.

The friction felt like nothing you'd ever felt before, somehow both soothing and scorching hot, burning through your nerves, setting the cotton in your head on fire, and all you could feel was him. You tried keeping up with the grinding and sliding, but all those shudders felt out of your control, so you leaned in, wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your cheek against his, the scratch of his beard adding to the sensation. You were breathing frantically as your hips undulated against him, faster now, desperate to find that sweet release.

A low groan vibrated through him as he shifted his hands to cup your rear, pushing and pulling you into him, the additional pressure sending even more shock waves through your body. The heat built and built, your clit throbbing, the head of his cock rubbing and prodding it, his warmth all-consuming. You were teetering on the edge, so close, and then he spoke, low in your ear, a deep thrum that shot straight into your clenching cunt.

“Come for me, baby,” he rasped. “Come on Daddy's cock.”

You couldn't even control it anymore, it just happened, the tension almost painful until it finally exploded, like fireworks behind your eyelids, a sudden surge of energy through your entire body, a soothing wave, a roaring storm, all at once. You came with a croaked little cry, a breathless "Daddy!", burying your face in the crook of his neck, your hands clawing at his shoulders, your legs twitching as your toes curled.

He held you, slowed the grinding motions, and you noticed him twitching too, a little jerk through his big body, another quiet groan, before something warm and wet gathered between your bodies, slippery on your already soapy skin. You felt him, thick and warm pressed against your swollen labia, the echo of that delicious friction still thrumming through your nerves. Exhaling loudly, you relaxed against him, holding onto him.

His lips brushed against your damp forehead. “My good girl,” he whispered, his voice rougher than before, causing you to smile into his neck. You felt safe in his arms, any kind of worry silenced, pushed to the far back.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmured, slowly making the effort to lean back a little, angling your cunt a bit more against him, the motion making that muscle in his jaw twitch as you looked at him. The hardness left his eyes when he smiled at you. “That felt really good...”

“It did, hm?” he mused, nuzzling your cheek. “For me too, pumpkin.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips against yours, and you grabbed his face and pulled him closer, finding the courage to deepen the kiss. A surprised little moan escaped him, further pushing you to show him how much you liked whatever was happening between the two of you.

Your tongue pressed between his lips, quickly met by his, and while they glided frantically against the other, a wild dance that stoked the fire within you, he tightened his grip on your ass and suddenly moved, stepping away from the constant spray of warm water, until your back hit the wet tiles, a cold shiver crashing over you.

You gasped into his mouth, eyes flying open, meeting his heated gaze. His hands moved up your sides, big palms rubbing at the goosebumps spreading all over your body. The missing support made you clench your legs tighter around him (which pressed your cunt harder against his cock), your fingers curling around his neck as he cupped your face and pulled you in again, his tongue delving deep, your rapid breaths mingling with his.

You clung to him, desperate for more, your hips already grinding against him again, your back rubbing up and down the wall. He watched you through hooded eyes, slowing the movements of his tongue and lips before stopping altogether, tilting his head to rest his forehead against yours, labored breaths fanning over your tingling lips.

“Needy little thing,” he whispered in an amused tone. “You've warmed up pretty fast to me, hm?”

You felt the heat crashing into your cheeks, a slightly embarrassed giggle escaping you as you stilled the undulating of your pelvis. “You're so easy to warm up to, Daddy, I can't help it,” you mumbled back, biting your swollen lip.

“That's okay, pumpkin, I'm glad you did. I like to see this hunger in your eyes,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “But we should take it slower now, wouldn't you say?” You pursed your lips, considering, when he added: “Show me your fingers.”

He leaned back, shifting you in his hold, his hands back under your thighs, when you took one hand away from his neck and held it up to him, frowning slightly. His eyes traveled from your face to your fingers, a smile widening on his lips.

“Look at that, you're all pruney...” he mused, leaning his head closer until he could press a kiss to your digits. “This shower escalated quite a bit, huh?”

You chuckled nervously, teasing your wrinkled fingertips against his beard. He exhaled loudly through his nose as the muscle in his jaw twitched again, moving under your fingers.

“So tempting,” he muttered under his breath, his dark eyes boring into yours as you kept tracing the edges of his facial hair. “Pumpkin, we have an entire day of this ahead of us, let's get moving, yeah?”

You nodded, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. With a little grunt, he pulled you away from the wall and set you on your feet again, after nudging your thighs apart, and begrudgingly you let go of him, sliding down his body, your core mourning the loss of his cock pressed against it.

This time, you openly stared at it, marveling at the different shape, noticing it was even longer and girthier than upon your first inspection. The mushroom head was red and glistening, the shaft tight, the veins more pronounced, and it bobbed angrily against his lower stomach as he took a step back.

“Eyes up here, baby girl,” he said sternly, but when you looked at him, blushing profusely, he grinned at you.

You blinked, your eyes flicking over his face as your lips twitched, and you watched him curiously when he leaned up and grabbed the shower head. He rinsed the rest of the soap suds off your body, then his, and you noticed something else smeared on his abdomen, but then he rubbed his hand over it and washed it down the drain too.

“Can I clean you too?” he asked quietly, shower head in his big hand.

You frowned, wanting to say he already did, when he pointed the jet of water at your stomach, slowly moving lower. “Oh,” you mouthed, then nodded, your blush spreading down to your shoulders. Slowly you opened your legs a little, holding your breath when he brought the warm water to your mound. Your heart gave a sudden jerk when he lowered his free hand and gave your core a gentle rub, your cunt clenching around nothing when he brushed against your swollen clit.

He bent down a little and moved his hand and the water between your thighs, rinsing your legs, fingers pressing lightly into your soft flesh. The need flared up again, your eyes skipping from what he was doing back to his cock, and you wondered why he didn't do anything about how hard he was. You were right here, weren't you?

From the deepest point of your mind came a weak shout of rage, reminding you that you shouldn't be so eager, so willing, so easy. He might not like that. He did call you needy. But at the same time you were kind of proud of yourself to even have these urges. It had been so long, and it only took this man (and Mommy) a bit over twenty-four hours to change the wires in your brain, at least a little. It was a start. A horny start, but a start nonetheless.

“Daddy?” you whispered as he put the shower head back, letting the two of you soak in the steady stream from the rainfall shower above you for a bit longer.

“Yes, pumpkin?” he asked, his hands resting casually on your hips.

“C-can I help you with... y-you know...” you stammered, losing your confidence as soon as you uttered the words, or tried to.

A smirk tugged on the corner of his lips. “With what, baby?” he teased, making you squirm, your eyes moving from his face down to his groin. “No, say it. Tell me what you want to do.”

You inhaled deeply, shame burning through your body. “I...” you started, forcing yourself not to lose steam. “I want... I mean... you... you're... hard... right? And I... I thought...” You averted your eyes, your nostrils flaring. You couldn't say it. You could touch it, rub your cunt against it, come on it, but say its name? Never.

His fingers pushed against your chin, making you look up at him while his other hand gently grabbed yours, long fingers curling around your wrist. “What do you want to do, pumpkin?” he asked pointedly. “Give me a full sentence.”

You kept squirming, furrowing your eyebrows. “M-make... makeyoucome,” you blurted out quietly. “Iwannamakeyoucome!”

He laughed softly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “Once more, slower.” As gentle as his tone was, there was an underlying authority behind his words, demanding, dominating. It sent a shiver down your spine.

“I...” You squared your shoulders, facing him fully. “I want to make you come, Daddy.”

He nodded, smiling. “And how do you want to do that?”

A frustrated huff escaped you, and the flicker of a dark shadow moved over his handsome face. You blinked, staring at him. “By... by touching your...”

“Yes?”

Your eyes were burning, his scrutinizing gaze tightening your throat. You looked away, down his body, basically staring at his cock again, willing the word onto your tongue. But it didn't work. Only a croak escaped you.

Daddy's hand curled around your jaw, pulling your face up and closer to him. You blinked a tear away. “Cock,” he said, his eyes boring into yours. “Say it.”

You licked your lips, shivering even under the warm spray of water. “C-co...”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting, his lips forming the word, trying to help you along.

“Cock,” you gasped out, your eyes widening, your cheeks burning up.

He rubbed your chin and smiled wider. “Now give me a full sentence.”

You exhaled loudly through your nose, swallowing hard. “I... I want to make you come by... by touching your... your cock...” you muttered.

“Good enough,” he said, patting your warm cheek. “Let's get dried up first, okay?”

You heaved a sigh of relief, nodding with a shy smile.

After he patted you down with one of those soft towels, your hair in a tight towel turban on top of your head, he held out a tube of lotion, for your skin, he said, watching you as you took it with your cheeks still aflame. As you dared a look into the large halfway-fogged-up mirror, you could see the reddened skin on your legs and your mound, under your armpits, still sensitive from the waxing. Unscrewing the cap, you chewed on your bottom lip, that need flaring up again as your eyes moved back to him.

He was drying himself off, one towel around his waist, the other on his head where he rubbed it over his short hair. “Need my help, pumpkin?” he offered with a smirk.

“I... I can do it,” you muttered, awkwardly crouching down to start applying the lotion to your legs.

“I know you can,” he said, lowering the towel, his hair tousled in a way that made him look at least five years younger. You looked away quickly, that insistent heat settling low in your stomach. “But you can still ask for help, you know? I wouldn't mind...”

You kept chewing on your swollen lip, quickly finishing your legs, before you stood up again, watching him. You put another dollop onto your palm and rubbed your hands together, then put the cool cream under your arms. He took a step closer, his large frame towering over you as he gently took the tube from your slick hands.

You froze when he squirted some onto his hand and started rubbing it into your back, his fingers applying just the right amount of pressure that made you shiver deeply, quiet moans slipping from your lips when he kneaded your stiff shoulders. His hands moved lower when he leaned over you a little. “This okay?” he breathed into your ear, eliciting a soft gasp from you.

“Yes,” you whispered, closing your eyes when his fingers slid along your sides, following the curves of your body.

A sudden slap to your ass cheek made you yelp and jump forward, his other hand curling around your shoulder to pull you back. As a dull little pain throbbed beneath your skin, he leaned in again, resting his bearded chin on your bare shoulder. “Ask me, baby girl,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

You swallowed audibly, blinking against the steam of the room and the shame filling your cheeks. “C-can you...” His hand moved around your body, large palm pressing to your stomach. You looked down, breathing a little harder. “Can you... touch me...” you whispered barely audible, your pulse thundering in your ears as you moved your own hand to place it on top of his, giving it a gentle nudge downwards. “Here?”

“Where, pumpkin?” he rasped into your ear, rubbing his rough cheek against your jaw.

“Between my legs?”

“What's it called?”

You huffed a frustrated little sigh, pulling your hand away and clenching it into a fist at your side. It wasn't that he sounded condescending or trying to mock you, but you just couldn't talk like that, you never had, never even asked for these things in the first place.

He sensed your apprehension, exhaling against your cheek as he straightened up again. His hands found your arms, and he turned you around a little, then grabbed your chin and made you look up at him.

“You have to learn to voice your needs, baby,” he told you quietly. “It's nothing to be ashamed of. I cannot read your mind, even if I can sense what you want, but I want you to say it. I told you, you can ask me absolutely anything.”

His eyes moved over your flushed face, your own blurry from the tears burning within them. Tears of frustration mostly, anger at yourself. The lump in your throat grew bigger the longer you looked at him, at his handsome face, cheeks slightly red from the warm air, hair still messy, eyes so warm and deep, the shape of his lips so enticing... And you felt so small and so stupid.

Averting your eyes, you clenched your hand around the tube of lotion, before you raised it up, showing him, then moved your eyes down, tilting your hips slightly. An amused exhale escaped his lips. “Say it, pumpkin, I know you can do it.”

“I can't!” you huffed, shaking your head, the first tear spilling from your lashes. You struggled in his hold, and he let you slip from it when you turned around and slammed the lotion onto the vanity, your shoulders shaking. “Never mind...”

He didn't sigh or show any sign of disappointment or frustration himself, he just followed you, his arms coming around your body as he pulled you back against his chest, embracing you tightly, his chin resting on top of your head.

“It's just a word, baby girl,” he whispered. “Don't beat yourself up over it. But for the future, we're going to work on your communication skills. And we will, and it'll be fine. It's so important to know what the other wants and needs and thinks, and there is no shame in sharing. It's freeing, trust me. One day, you'll like it too.”

He moved his hands down your sides as he leaned back a little, his fingers curling around your hips before he gripped them tightly and pulled your rear against his front. You gasped a little when you realized he'd dropped the towel, his cock pressing warm and hard into your lower back.

“I for one would really like to feel your small hands on my cock now,” he said quietly, continuing to rub your backside against himself, his fingertips digging into your flesh. “But I would also really like to rub my fingers over your cunt. Your skin must be burning a little, right, pumpkin? Let me help you. Would you like my fingers on your cunt, baby?”

You swallowed, your chest rising and falling faster. The throb between your legs grew with every low vibrating word he uttered. “Yes, Daddy,” you mumbled under your breath. “Please... touch my...”

“Cunt,” he repeats quietly, one of his hands moving lower, fingertips teasing at the irritated skin. “Or would you prefer pussy?”

You couldn't help the shame crashing through you. It was a deep-rooted thing, words you'd never used before. You knew it was silly, they were just words, like he said, but it felt wrong to say them out loud, as well as voicing your depraved little needs. But then it should also be wrong to be this intimate with a literal stranger, or to call a grown man who wasn't your father Daddy. Thinking about it, you realized naming certain body parts really was the less perverted thing here...

He shifted behind you, taking a half-step around you. You turned your head a little, watching him out of the corner of your eye when he gently grabbed your hand and moved it back until your fingers brushed against something warm. You inhaled sharply when he curled your digits around his shaft.

“Cock,” he whispered, holding your hand there, while moving his other to grab your free one, bringing it to rest flush against your mound. “Cunt,” he added.

You chewed on the loose skin on your bottom lip. After taking another shaking breath, you gave his length a gentle squeeze. “Cock,” you whispered, then moved your other hand a little lower, fingertips teasing along your slit. “Cunt.”

A soft laugh escaped him before you felt his lips on your warm cheek. “Good girl!” he praised, the words rushing through you like liquid fire, sending pleasant shivers down your spine.

He pried your hand off his cock and gently turned you around, smiling down at you. Your face was practically burning, but you met his gaze, a timid smile grazing your lips. He leaned past you and grabbed the lotion tube off the vanity, squirting some onto his fingers. Then he waited.

Swallowing the remnants of the lump in your throat, you looked at him. “Can you put that on my... cunt?” you then asked quietly, a little furrow between your eyebrows.

His face lit up. “With pleasure, baby girl,” he replied, leaning down to brush his lips against yours while his hand moved right between your thighs, the cooling lotion making you gasp against him as he rubbed it gently over your warm skin. He put most of it onto the gentle slope of your sex, teasing it against your outer labia, but then used his other hand to give your clit a little prod.

You twitched against him, your breath hitching in your throat. His thumb pushed firmly between your lower lips and rubbed upwards under the hood, and the coming nudge against that sensitive bundle of nerves made you squirm into him, your hand finding his wrist. To keep his hand there or to push him away, you weren't sure.

“Remember what else you wanted to do, pumpkin?” he said quietly against your lips, his hooded eyes intense as you met them.

“Make you come,” you replied just as quietly, blinking the rising embarrassment away.

He nodded, giving you another peck, before he leaned away, his hands moving around your thighs. In one swift motion he had lifted you up and sat you on the edge of the vanity, your legs pushed wide apart as he stepped between them, his cock bouncing slightly against his thigh and then against yours. He settled his hands on your hips, looking down at you with a smile.

“Do you want to try out what works or do you want me to show you how?” he asked, tilting his head.

Your hands already inched closer to him, your eyes glued to the long and girthy appendage in front of you. He wasn't as hard as before anymore, the head halfway covered by his tight skin, but the veins were just as prominent, a little throb to them as you stared at them. With your gaze fixed on him, you didn't even care how exposed you were, though your cunt seemed to weep just being so close to his cock, the constant clench of it as soothing as it was infuriating. But this wasn't about you.

You wanted to please the man who had been so patient with you, so gentle. Nobody had ever treated you like this, and you felt as if you owed him something in return. “I... I wanna try,” you finally mouthed, licking your lips as you looked up at him. He nodded, still smiling, his hands on your hips giving you a soft squeeze.

“Go ahead, don't be shy.”

You had told him you'd seen and touched a cock before, but now that you were so close and personal with one (without water and anxiety clouding your vision), it could have been all a lie. You remembered hesitant fumbles under blankets or into loose shorts, something warm and fleshy, sometimes leaky and wet, a throb to it. Your hand moving up and down, squeezing, shifting skin, a little jerk, a groan, then stickiness all over your fingers. All in a matter of seconds, really. Compared to what you'd already done to Daddy's cock, everything else you ever experienced was blatant child's play.

Inhaling deeply, you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and focused on the task at hand, literally. When you eventually touched him, cradling him in both of your hands, feeling the weight again, the warmth, the bulging veins, your mind slowly emptied, the cotton expanding, your entire concentration on doing a good job. You looked up gingerly, meeting his patient gaze, eyes crinkled, lips curled. Your heart beat faster just seeing him like that.

He didn't do this for his own pleasure, this was about you getting used to handling his cock. And you were grateful. You still had no idea what they expected of their new submissive, but you'd figured it must be sexual favors, and judging by how your whole body tensed under the prospect, in a good way, you knew you could handle it, you wanted it, wanted to please them and make them proud and stay in their favor.

Still mesmerized by his dark eyes, you curled one hand around his shaft. You weren't able to close your fist, but when you started moving it slowly up and down, you knew it was enough when he hummed softly. “Just like that, pumpkin,” he whispered, watching you closely, his hands still on your hips as if he wanted to ground you, show you he was there if you needed him.

You gave him a shy smile and continued, squeezing his warm flesh, shifting the tight skin and veins under your palm. Whenever you reached the head, you'd curl your hand a little, giving it an extra squeeze before pulling the skin taut again, eliciting more little hums and low moans from him. You kept watching him, taking in every tiny twitch, of his lips, of that muscle in his jaw, observing how his mouth opened slightly, how his eyebrows moved a little.

“Is this good, Daddy?” you breathed softly, increasing your ministrations.

“Perfect, baby girl,” he rasped, voice already tense and hoarse. His fingers dug deeper into the soft flesh of your hips before he suddenly let go. You paused, frowning. “Keep going,” he said with a nod while his hands moved up to your head and slowly unfurled the towel turban holding your hair.

He freed it with confident fingers while you kept stroking his cock, your wet tresses falling over your shoulders before he eased them down gently, carefully pulling at some snarls. Then, he cupped your face, leaning in.

“You're so good for me, baby,” he cooed, nuzzling your temple, inhaling deeply. You closed your eyes, smiling softly as you felt his lips trail along the side of your face until he reached your mouth. “So beautiful, so talented.”

Heat crashed through you as you gasped into his mouth when he pushed his tongue between your lips, the kiss slow and gentle, your hand on his shaft stilling its movements for a moment. He kept one hand on your face, thumb under your chin to guide the kiss, while his other hand joined yours, giving it a gentle nudge as he curled his long fingers around yours, picking up the pace again. You replied with a tighter squeeze to his hardened cock as your joined hands slid up and down his length, quicker and rougher, his breaths sounding more labored as they mingled with yours.

He broke the kiss, panting into your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, and your eyes fluttered open as his squeezed shut, and you watched the tension on his face growing stronger, tighter, before it suddenly eased, a low groan escaping him as you felt his cock throbbing against your palm, his hips bucking into your hand. The hand that used to guide yours slammed down on the vanity to steady himself, his body giving another jerk, and then you felt something warm splashing against your thigh and stomach.

Looking down you saw the angry red tip spurting thick ropes of cum onto your skin, your hand still holding him steady, his hips still pushing against your fist. He stilled eventually, his tall frame relaxing, a deep exhale, a warm breath, hitting your tingling lips. The hand on your face (that had curled into your hair but you had been too mesmerized by the sight in front of you to complain) slipped down to your shoulder, then landed on the counter next to your hip as well as he just stood there, breathing deep, eyes still closed.

You didn't dare to move for a moment, just holding his still heavy but slowly softening cock, some of his cum dripping down your digits. You'd think you'd be disgusted by it (like you'd been in the past), but instead you were fascinated, enthralled even, by the feel and warmth of his spend, almost tempted to bring it to your lips and taste it...

He moved then, straightening up a bit, his hands finding your face again as his eyes opened, a soft warm glow in them, a smile spreading over his entire face. “Thank you, pumpkin,” he said hoarsely, watching you as you smiled back, heat crashing into your cheeks.

“You're welcome, Daddy,” you whispered a little timidly.

He caressed your warm face, thumbs rubbing over the corners of your lips. Slowly he tilted your head down as you both looked at how his cum covered your stomach and crotch and legs in thick globs, gravity slowly pulling it lower. He leaned back, taking one hand off your face to touch the hand still clutching at his cock. Let go, he whispered, and you did. Holding your hand, he moved your fingertips up your lower stomach, gathering his seed.

“This will always be yours, baby girl,” he said softly, raising your joined hands to make you look at the wet sheen on your fingers. “Soon, very soon, I will put every single drop into your cute little cunt, because that's where it belongs, right, pumpkin? It belongs to you... just like your cunt belongs to me, and I will do whatever I want with it...”

His voice was so low and gentle, a little hypnotic, and almost as if he was talking to himself. You blinked at his words (both vile and enticing), not quite understanding but nodding all the same. “Yes, Daddy,” you mouthed, watching him, your eyes going a little cross-eyed as he brought your glistening fingers closer to your mouth.

“Tongue out, baby,” he ordered gently, and you parted your lips and extended your tongue, waiting. He moved your fingers closer, and as soon as they touched, the taste exploded in your mouth, a little bitter and salty, but there was something about it that set the cotton in your head on fire. Your cunt clenched as you flicked your tongue around your digits, licking up as much as you could gather.

He watched you with dark eyes, his face a bit stoic, focused on how you cleaned your hand. His own moved back down and swept up more until your stomach and sex were more or less clean, and when he brought his fingers to your mouth, your saliva-slick hand closed around his wrist as you pulled it closer, hungrily licking up the rest.

“Pumpkin,” he croaked out, a little shiver crashing down his tall frame as he observed you with an intensity that made you lick around his digits slower. You felt him pushing them deeper into your mouth, onto your tongue, almost teasing at the back of your throat, and you didn't mind, you just stared at him, your vision a little blurry, overcome by whatever kind of lust was swirling through your body. “Pumpkin!”

You gasped, his fingertips giving a little nudge, a deep prod, that made you flinch and almost gag, and he quickly pulled his hand back, soothing it along your throat. You swallowed against his palm as you blinked in slight confusion.

“You are quite the temptress, hm, baby girl?” he mused, leaning back fully now, his hands mindlessly rubbing over your inner thighs. “I just wanted to take a shower with you... and look at us now,” he added, chuckling slightly.

You bit your lip, giving him a smile/frown combo, wondering yourself what had happened. He bent down a little, brushing his nose against yours before pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth.

“It's alright, we still have enough time,” he said, and you noticed him stealing a glance at the watch lying on a pile of clothes on a cupboard opposite the vanity.

“For what, Daddy?” you whispered curiously.

He rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck, before he flashed you a dazzling smile that made your core throb badly. “For another little adventure,” he replied cryptically. “I'm sure you'll love it just as much as I will. Come on, now, let's get you ready, okay?”

You were still sitting on the counter, crossing your feet to swing them innocently as you watched him fumble with something in the cabinets next to the mirror. When he handed you your prepared toothbrush, you blushed deeply, but quickly took it, turned and held it under the faucet for a moment before following the hint. While you brushed your teeth, he grabbed a hair brush and started untangling your tresses, gently gliding it through once it was all smooth.

“Come down for me?” he asked, and you jumped off the vanity and turned for him, facing him in the mirror as he stood tall behind you, his hands quickly continuing taking care of your hair. He was really good at it, you were surprised, even more so when his nimble fingers parted your hair and started arranging it into two braids that started at your temples, working around your head until he picked up a small hair tie and fastened the thin ends.

“Where did you learn that?” you asked past the toothbrush in your mouth, honestly mesmerized by what he was able to do, too mesmerized to mind your manners, but he didn't seem to care.

“Mommy taught me,” he replied, meeting your gaze in the mirror. “And you know, braiding hair and braiding rope is kind of similar.”

“Braiding rope?” you asked with a frown.

He finished the second braid, then put his hands on your shoulders, leaning down. “All in good time, pumpkin. I'd say you're in for some surprises,” he mused with a soft chuckle. While confusion washed over you, he kissed your cheek, then nudged you closer to the sink.

After you were done with your teeth, he made you wash your face, still as gentle and patient as before, and when he told you to use the toilet, you felt a little weird and like a child all over again, but he'd give you a kiss, then gathered the clothes from the cupboard and left the bathroom, telling you to join him when you were done.

Luckily the cotton in your head kept you from falling into that familiar pit of doubts again, so you just did as you were told, not thinking much of anything except wondering what else he had planned for you, before you eventually stepped out of the bathroom, nervously chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He was already dressed, not wearing that fancy suit you saw him in before, but a pair of jeans and a T-shirt (making it impossible not to stare at his toned arms). Standing in front of your closet, he rummaged through its contents. You realized it looked different, full of clothes you recognized, those that Mommy had bought for you yesterday. Speaking of Mommy, you looked around for a moment, wondering where she was, but the bed was made and she was gone, because you probably spent too much time in the bathroom with Daddy.

You looked back at him, catching a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror beside him, realizing you were still completely naked. But before any kind of panic could settle into your bones, he turned around, his arms laden with a variety of clothes he fanned out over the bed. He met your gaze with a smile, extending a hand.

You quickly walked to him, putting your hand onto his palm and pressed into his side. “Choose something,” he told you, his thumb rubbing over the back of your hand.

Your eyes wandered over shirts and shorts and skirts and several sets of cute underwear, and in the end you decided on a pair of jean shorts and a white T-shirt with a pink kitten printed on the front. Before you could pick which color underwear you would wear, Daddy moved in and pointed to the soft pink ones, a matching set of a cotton bralette and panties adorned with little white bows.

He gathered your choices for you and gently shoved them into your arms, nudging you back into the bathroom, where you got dressed quickly. Returning to the room, Daddy motioned you to sit down on the bed before he crouched down in front of you. You watched, with your cheeks burning almost painfully, how he put your feet into frilly white socks and a pair of blue running shoes, his fingers working quick, his touches as electrifying as before. You didn't even care that he didn't let you put those on yourself. It felt kind of nice to have him do it, not as degrading as you would have thought.

You guessed that was what Daddies were supposed to do. And if it made him happy (he did look rather pleased having your small feet in his large hands), you played along gladly.

When he eventually led you down the stairs and into the kitchen, you saw Mommy sitting on one of the stools surrounding one side of a large kitchen island, sipping a cup of coffee and lazily flipping through a newspaper spread over the counter. Daddy paused, his hand tightening around yours a little.

“What are you still doing here?” he addressed her, and she looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, good morning to you too,” she sighed, and swiveled on her chair, her long legs crossed, feet clad in black high heels, a different black dress adorning her beautiful curves. “We really gotta work on your time management, you know?” she added, looking at the elegant watch on her wrist.

Daddy huffed a laugh and looked at you. “We got a little distracted, hm, pumpkin?”

You blushed deeply, deciding not to say anything while leaning into him.

“How about I'm the one to take care of her morning routine from now on?” Mommy suggested, getting up from the stool and taking a few clicking steps towards you. Without saying anything else, she swooped in and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you against her body. “Morning, mi amor,” she whispered, pressing her lips to your cheek.

“Good morning, Mommy,” you whispered, giving her a shy smile.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, and you nodded, suddenly remembering that you woke up in her arms, still not knowing what happened last night.

Daddy cleared his throat, his hand tugging on yours. Mommy threw him a dark glare before returning to the island, picking up her phone. You looked from her back to him, feeling a little out of place between them. You'd noticed it before, but there was always a strange kind of tension hanging in the air whenever they were in the same room.

“I got her the 12pm appointment tomorrow,” she said, turning back to Daddy who nodded. “I will take her, you have to go back to the office. They're already going haywire because you took one day off...”

He sighed. “Sure.” He turned to you then, raising his free hand to put a finger under your chin. You looked up at him, mildly confused. “But today is all about us, pumpkin, never mind anyone else, okay? Just you and me and the great outdoors.”

Your frown deepened, but at least now you knew why he dressed you so casually. There were more questions in your head, but as soon as he smiled at you, they didn't seem to matter anymore.

“Greta packed you a basket. Have fun,” Mommy said distractedly, her thumb swiping quickly over the screen of her phone. “I gotta go now.” Finally, she lowered the device and her eyes met yours. Daddy had let go of your hand to walk to the fridge, while you stood there, a little lost in the big kitchen. Mommy approached you, her hand finding your face before she twirled her fingers around the end of your left braid. “You look so cute, kitten,” she said gently, her hand trailing down to the print on your shirt. “I wish I could come with you, but I am highly allergic to anything nature,” she said with a stiff laugh. “But you have fun, okay? Be a good girl for Daddy.”

You nodded eagerly, looking past her to the tall man leaning against the counter, watching the scene with a twinkle in his dark eyes. “Of course, Mommy,” you replied, turning back to her.

She smiled, leaning down to press her lips to yours, her fingers back on your chin. The kiss grew from a quick peck to a deeper tongue wrestle that left you utterly breathless. Eventually, Mommy inhaled deeply, leaning back slowly. “I'm gonna miss you,” she cooed, caressing your jaw.

Then she turned abruptly and walked away, the click of her heels echoing through the room. She didn't say goodbye to Daddy, she just left. You watched her in growing confusion before you felt Daddy's hand nudging your elbow.

“Ready to go, baby girl?” he asked, his fingers curling around your side, pulling you into him.

You had no idea what was going on, but you nodded anyway, knowing whatever he had planned, it would be fine as long as he stayed with you. It was a strange realization, but after spending such an intense (and intensely intimate) morning with this man, it didn't really matter anymore that you still barely knew him. Somehow, you trusted him, and the biggest thing: you wanted to be with him. The cotton in your head wanted it as much as your clenching cunt.

Being with him felt good, cleansing, distracting. No matter where the journey would lead you.

Chapter 4 🔷️ Chapter 5 🔷️ Chapter 6

End notes: Nothing to say, just:

Thank you for reading! New chapter every Saturday!

Up next: Daddy takes you on a little road trip, happy to have a new passenger princess...

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fioiswriting · 1 year ago

Text

Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew.

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded. He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt. It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation. A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges. And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled. Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger.

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders. Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it. He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own.

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell. Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost. King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you. Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you."

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor. You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back. It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you.

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead. It must have been your imagination. You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest. Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen.

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears.

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets. And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company.

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal. You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead.

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly.

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway.

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him. You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be. You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't."

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs.

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you. You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin. Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall. Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself - but you can't help feeling your heart clench. You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time.

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him. A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly. Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind. A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy. Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips.

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion. You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you.

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit. He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely.

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion.

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly.

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience.

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps.

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you.

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him. He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence. You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious.

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching.

He doesn't let go of you.

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him. It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his.

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you.

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him. You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow.

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other. Your hands are buried in his long silver hair. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet?

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress.

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices.

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body.

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry. You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable.

You need him.

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears. You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him. It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you.

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting. For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness.

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you. You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy.

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth. You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie. You know you should lie. To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years. You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not."

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips.

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye. It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words. You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath.

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe. It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity. Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know."

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him.

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him. You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up.

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know." Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence. He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions.

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

Text

Pink : Part III : Two

Series Masterlist : Part I : Part II

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Content Warnings: Heavy angst; DD/lg dynamics; Dom/sub undertones; Daddy Kink; Jealousy; Unprotected Sex; Creampie; Inappropriate shaving; Squirting; Belly bulge; Dirty talk; Orgasm delay/denial; Overstimulation; Face slapping; Spanking; Light degradation; Rough sex; Breeding kink; Divorce; Not safe to read if triggered by pregnancy; Use of misogynistic language; Discussions of mental and emotional abuse; Cliffhanger

A/N: All tags have been updated.

Word Count: 12.7K

Rating: Explicit 18+

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

3. Two

“You know that feeling of… of realizing you’re a good person? It’s like– yes, I know objectively that I probably am. That I try to be kind, I try to do things that are good and right, but you know those strangely self perceptive moments where another person makes you – forces you – to realize you’re good? And it brings your whole life, your whole self into clarity, and it’s like – I am good, and I deserve good things. I am good.

But he treated me so badly, for so long. He took away pieces of me, he took away that awareness of goodness. And how could I not believe him, when he constantly told me and showed me that I deserved so little, when it was what I accepted for myself? Constantly waiting for him to turn into a man he never was, never had been and never would be. I accepted those things for myself, I let them happen. Maybe I was weak or stupid or naive or all of them combined. Maybe I was just a girl. But I thought it was hope at the time. I thought I was being hopeful and good, and now I realize that was no true form of goodness. It was only the version of good he needed me to be, a subservient and silent type of goodness.”

“And you know, I had a neighbor who– her husband died last year at Christmas, and it was so sad. They were older, always together, it was… it has nothing to do with this, but I don’t know. It was like when a tragedy is soft and quiet, and it just folds into the rest of life unheeded. Such a strange thing for someone on the outside looking in. I lived next door to them, and I’d see them all the time living their lives together, and I barely knew them, but suddenly he was gone, and I was conscious of the fact that she was over there alone all the time now. Without him. When before he’d always been there. I don’t know what I'm trying to say. It’s just that it didn't happen to me, it affected me in no way, and yet, I felt her loss keenly. Afterwards, I helped her with her cat, an old skinny thing, Jazz. She started going out of town a lot after her husband died, getting out and away, you know, that sort of thing. And I’d cat sit for her, and he was so sweet. But he was old too, and a few months later, he died also. And I remember the week he was going to pass she’d texted me and said he’d go soon, and I told her I was praying for him, thinking of the both of them. I don’t even pray, but I needed to tell her I was with her in some way. And it was nothing, a few nights going over there to feed the old boy, a few text messages. It was the absolute bare minimum I could do, but a few weeks after the cat died, she wrote me the loveliest note. She told me that she appreciated me, that she thought of how kind I’d been during those days, when I’d told her I was thinking of them. She told me that I was a good person, and that she hoped my kindness was returned to me many times over.

And I’d forgotten, you see, I'd forgotten that I was good. That I had a capacity for goodness within me, and that I deserved to be reminded of it, like all soft creatures are. We all need reassurance and a kind word sometimes, and I’d forgotten that about myself.” You glance up at his eyes, the most tender look held in them. “Do you know what I mean, Joel?” You ask, voice very small, shy and afraid, for one moment, that he won’t understand you.

But he pets your hair, cradles your cheek, “Yeah, honey. I think I do know.”

It’s a terrifying ordeal, the way the two of you fold into each other in the weeks after that first night. And yet, unstoppable. You do try, and you’re sure he does, as well. The first few days, trying to stay away, not answering his calls, no texts because he says his fingers are too big, and he can’t work those tiny fuckin’ buttons, forcing yourself not to run back over there into his arms and his bed. But then he’s calling and calling and calling, begging, making it his turn to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night, saying all the right things like, I haven’t been sleeping, and I need to see you, and I’m suffering, I’m suffering without you, touching you in all the right ways that should be wrong but aren’t. All baby, I hurt when I’m not inside this sweet pussy. He says you make him weak, and you tell him that the only weak thing here is you, and you don’t make it much of a struggle for him when you let him in your home, in your cunt, when all you can say is I miss you, I miss you, your cock, your hands, I can’t stop thinking about you. The two of you are one and the same in all the ways it counts. And he’s not your father-in-law anymore, a chameleon now in the form of the only man who’s ever understood you, wanted you, seen you as more, as a complexity.

He makes you wonder how you could have ever thought of yourself as anything like sexless when all he makes you is hungry and desperate and wet. Fucking everywhere you can, as often as you can, never being very careful, pulling out and counting your cycle and starting out with a condom but ripping it off halfway through because I just have to feel you – irresponsible bullshit. Not having your head screwed on tightly enough to even really care. He has you on his living room floor one afternoon, whole day gone away on his cock, and the two of you lay there for hours afterwards, bare limbs wrapped around each other, soft, wet cock tucked safely inside of you where he says it belongs. “How could you have not been angry?” You ask him because you can’t help yourself. Because you want him to teach you to be wise now that he’s shown you how to be good. “That he was kept from you? That you missed an entire lifetime of being a father? I never once saw you furious or resentful. How did you do it?”

“Don’t know,” he sighs. “Dunno… I– It was, kind of, the worst thing anyone’s ever done to me, truth be told, but I didn’t have a chance to compute, to sit in any sort of anger. He was right there all of a sudden, too full of anger to leave any left over for me, and he needed me so much. He needs me so much.” And you know he’s right, and there should be guilt now, gnawing at you, but there is really only jealousy. “And he– he…” A swallow, like you can read his mind, you know what he’ll say, already nodding. “And he hates me,” he whispers into the quiet of this lovely home he’s made for himself, his words mixing with the butter yellow ray of sunshine the two of you are lying in, slanting in through the big bay window. “He hates me, hates who I am. That it’s me he found when he came lookin’.” You have to cry for him then, maybe even for the both of them, maybe even for all three of you.

“Yes,” you choke, so full of sadness for the tragedy of it all. You can’t comfort him with a denial for you’re not a liar here with him. Protection like that isn’t necessary.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He hugs you so tightly, “There’s no reason to cry.”

“I can’t help it,” And return the words he’d given you once when you’d so badly needed a kindness, “You deserve more.”

He’s quiet for a long time after that, and you know him well enough now that you can hear the gears of his mind working and turning, and that makes you even sadder, perhaps, the greatest tragedy of all, this knowing, and eventually he says: “And yet, he is the son I have.” And at the end of it all, you think you are all only yourselves, and nothing can really be done about that.

And you say you want to be wise like him, that it’s your next lesson, so perhaps you should hold your tongue instead of saying: “He only just got you back, and I’m taking you away from him again. Because that’s what I want – I want to take you away and keep you only for myself. I want you to be only mine and that makes me bad. I’m bad.” Your first lesson quashed beneath the fist of your greed for a man who isn’t for you, and who you shouldn’t want, and it’s wrong and maybe even sinful or disgusting or any and all the things that are always bad. None of that matters. He’s turned you into a real person now, none of the rest of it matters.

But he understands, because of course he does, because he always has. He grips your jaw in his hands, large, strong hands, hands made for taking care of things, and tells you, not so wise seeming anymore: “Sometimes I look at myself, and it’s like I'm two feet tall. Why didn’t I meet you sooner? First? How could I have been such a coward to not go out there and search for you? I should have known you were out there, I should have sensed it. How can a man be jealous of his own son?” He turns you over then, cock hard and thrusting again, kisses you full on the mouth, and it tastes like ownership, and says, “You could never be bad. No matter what you did. You’re only ever good. Haven’t I taught you that?”

“Joel, there’s someone at the door,” peeking into the restroom where he’s just stepped out of the shower, wet and steaming, shaking his head out like a dog, towel covering all the fun bits. He’d just had you too many times already, and still, you want more. You’re made of nothing but greed now; he’s taught you how to be good, but he’s also taught you how to be greedy. You’d been strewn across his couch, eating chips and wearing his clothes and leaking his come and waiting for him to finish in the shower and come out to make dinner. He was doing steaks on the grill and baked potatoes with all the fixings and roasted vegetables, and he’d even gotten a pie and ice cream, but he said he wasn’t telling you what the flavor was, only that it was your favorite, and you can’t think how he’d know you love rhubarb, but if that’s what he’s gotten, you were going to let him do anything to you. Literally anything he wanted. Not that you didn’t already… but still, it’s the sentiment that counts, you think. He’d also said you weren’t allowed to shower, that the rule tonight was that you weren’t allowed to wash him off, and you really didn’t mind that so much. So there you were, after he’d put on Stepmom for you, and you were just thinking that Julia Roberts was surely the most beautiful woman who’d ever been born, when someone had knocked on the door, a rhythmic, friendly: tap, tap, tap, that had your heart dropping down into your stomach, and you scurrying into the master bath to frantically tell him that someone is here while you’re here wearing him all over and inside of you and what are you going to do now? He gives you a calm smile, running the towel over his wet head, giving you an eyeful of the fun bits now, and you try and not peek, you really do, but it’s really just the most exciting part on him, you can’t help yourself. His smile turns knowing, that look in his eye, “S’alright, sweetheart. Don’t fret, I’ll get it.”

“But–” you try and protest, maybe he should just pretend not to be home. What if it’s– you can’t even think of it. But then no, he’d not come here. He hates coming to this house, the proof of everything he wasn’t all in his face like this was humiliating for your ex-husband.

His smile remains, but his eyes go a little stern, “No worryin’, I’ll take care of it.” He tugs on his jeans, the man literally never wears underwear, slut, and tugs on a shirt, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he passes you, hand dragging over your belly, smelling of soap and Joel and want, want, want. You follow him on tip toes down the hall, pausing at the mouth of the living room, chewing on your lip and your fingers, about to spit your heart out with nerves as he pulls the door open.

“Hi, Joel, honey. How’s it goin’?” Pretty, bubbly, overly friendly voice you were definitely not expecting. You take a small step forward, the mouth of the hall slightly to the left of the front door so that you can see her without her seeing you, watch his profile as he talks to her. Edie, he says, and that dishwasher givin’ you trouble again, and laughs at her reply, the sound of their conversation going out of your ears as you watch him, head falling sideways on your neck a little bit, the way he laughs at whatever the woman that’s come knocking on the door of his home all friendly and comfortable to interrupt his time with you is saying, loud, bellyfull, one arm braced against the doorframe so that you can see her eyes flit every few seconds to the thick bulge of muscle there. Your face goes hot, your insides green and bitter, but he’s laughing just handsomely enough that you know it’s not real. You know his real laugh, and it isn’t this one. The woman leans forward, blonde hair and big boobs and batting lashes, but Joel shifts backwards subtly, keeping a respectful distance, and your pulse throbs at the backs of your knees and the pit of your stomach. She likes him, she’s here because she likes him, asking him to look at her dishwasher or something, yeah, sure, sure that’s the only thing she wants looked at.

“I’ll come take a look at it tomorrow. How ‘bout that? I’m sure it’ll be another quick fix like last time, but you should probably think about just replacin’ the thing at this point,'' he tells her.

“Oh, can’t you now, Joel?” She pouts, “It’s just that–”

“I’m tied up tonight, Edie,” he cuts her off, an indulgent, too charming smile on his face, and oh, it pisses you off, that smile. You turn on your heel, stomping down the hall back to his bedroom. Huffing, gnashing your teeth. The sight of him with another woman, a more appropriate woman because of course she is, it makes you sick, angry, something terrible, so, so jealous your bones itch beneath the surface of your skin. It makes you small and slanted again, wrong place, wrong time, wrong girl. Not for him, never for him, and it’s so unfair, and he is so– so… Smiling at her like that, using that tone of voice, propping up his stupid huge arm like that so that his muscle’s all defined and put on display, and you hate him and the way he makes you feel and how much you want and need him. On the verge of tears or screaming or vomiting you scramble around his room, trying to collect your clothes and your strewn panties and where the fuck is your bra and your other shoe?

“What’re you doin’?” Comes his soft, steady voice a moment later. Entirely too even for the way you feel right now. You want to hiss at him or bite him or do something entirely uncivilized.

“I have to go home.”

“Why?”

“I have something to do. I forgot.”

“Something, what? What do you have to do?” But you ignore him, rifling through the strewn clothes on the armchair in the corner – where the hell is your goddamn bra? “Look at me–” he barks, now having stepped further into the bedroom.

“Oh, fuck off,” and there’s a part of you that knows that you’re being irrational, that he’s done nothing wrong, but you feel so provoked suddenly. In need of a fight or a thrashing or something, something to make this terrible feeling poisoning you on the inside go away.

“Watch your mouth, little girl,” and his voice is so calm and so quiet and so scary. It makes you lock up one second, spin around the next to spit and hiss at him like an angry cat. You will not watch your mouth. “She wants you.” You almost stomp your foot like a child throwing a fit, but he’s entirely still and silent, taking you in with the most unfathomable of looks. “Do you know that?” And this time you do stomp your foot. “Do you want her back?”

He blinks once, and then like a lightbulb turning on, even though you’re obvious as daylight, “You’re jealous.”

“Do you want her back?” You ask again, real tears in your voice this time.

And his gaze goes soft and tender and entirely understanding, “Never.” He shakes his head.

“She looked like a fucking idiot.” You pout, childish – how will he ever want you when you act like this?

“I only want you.” But you don’t believe him. How could you? When there’s nowhere for this to go. When he deserves so much more than the options afforded to him here between the two of you. And you want to fight with him because there’s nothing to be done, no choices, no other recourse, and it’s not his fault and there’s no one to blame and no outlet for this terrible anger inside of you. You feel like you’re choking on it, being swallowed whole, that head breaking water feeling reversed so that now you’re deep at the bottom of the well of your own wanting. You turn back to the fruitless search for your bra. He’s hidden it from you, you’re sure, some evil old man ploy to keep you here trapped and braless with him. “Did you hear me? I only want you,” he says again, voice closer now.

And you think you’re mumbling or crying, something hysterical bubbling up inside of you, I have to go, I have to go, your movements manic and jerking. He grips your arm, jerking you around into his chest, face flushed with anger now, but voice still even, “You’re not fucking listening to me. I only want you,” and yanks your hand to feel the hard cock trapped beneath the confines of his jeans. This is only for you. But it’s not, not in any real way, not in a way that would let you keep him and that realization sets something off inside of you. You thrash in his hold, let me go, let me go, trying to kick him in the shins while he tries to wrap his arms around your struggling form, that rumbling chant constant in your ear, I only want you, I only want you, I am only for you. It feels like he’s burrowing beneath your skin, unzipping you, splaying your insides wide open for his gaze, taking hold of your bones, a puppet on his string. You manage to yank your arm out from beneath his grip and unthinking, a buzzing so high pitched it makes you dizzy and nauseous sounding in your ears, you slap him in the face. Not very hard, maybe, but enough that you hear the crack of your palm meeting the grizzled scruff of his cheek. The sound like a bone snapping, setting off something inside both of you even worse, more frenzied than before. He groans deep in his chest, big hand fisting in your hair and jerking it back so hard you yelp in pain. “Hit me again, do it again. I want you any way I can have you, even angry. Do it again,” he goads you on, but that mindless hand is fisted in his shirtfront now, pulling you closer to him, tear stained mouth seeking his, opening to receive his filthy kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, but all he says is that he only wants you, again and again, grips you harder, makes it hurt more, and you whine and whimper and scratch and bite, a wild thing, the two of you caught up in some strange struggle of push and pull and want and fight. You can feel the hard length of his cock grinding against your belly, searching for something hot and wet to fuck into, and you hitch your knee around his hip, open yourself to him, listen to his groan in your ear, throaty and full.

“You just need a little remindin’? Don’t you, huh?” He tugs your head back, none too gentle, to look at your tear slicked face, his eyes on fire, almost a little manic. He spins you away from him, shoving you towards the bed, ignoring your whines and protests, shut up and bend over, pushing you over the edge of the bed and crouching down behind you. “You just need a little remindin’ of how to be a good girl. I know that’s all this fightin’ is. Right, baby?” No, you try and struggle, kicking your leg out uselessly to the side, but he pins you with your arms back behind you at the small of your waist, pushing his shirt up your back to expose the naked curve of your ass and the pussy you know he’ll find humiliatingly wet and hungry for him. “Just need remindin’ of how to be a good girl for me, right?” His fingers slide down to the apex of your thighs, finding you dripping and swollen from his earlier use and your current desire, all twisted up and compounded ten fold with your jealousy.

“So wet already for me, baby,” he coos at you.

And oh, he’s so annoying, and you’re so embarrassing and weak for him. “Shut up, old man,” you whine. A single finger enters you slowly, rubbing up against all the terribly sensitive and swollen places inside of you, then pulls his wet fingers from you to deliver a single stinging swat to the curve of your ass, sticky wet imprint of yourself left behind.

“Yeah, and this old man fucks you better than anyone else,” he slips his fingers gently back inside of you, “Remember that you little whore,” he says even more gently. The words make you twist and writhe, a terrible flush of lust burning through you. He feels you tighten around his fingers, groans appreciatively. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He twists his fingers inside of you, pressing hard against something that makes you feel like you’re about to wet yourself. You cry out, squeezing your eyes shut and shaking your head, refusing to answer. “No lyin’. You daddy’s little whore?”

“Nuh uh,” you shake your head, your hips moving with the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. He brushes his thumb slowly over your pulsing clit, plays you like a game.

“No?” His voice is so soft, so teasing.

“I’m not your whore–”

“You’re not? Then what are you, baby? Tell me.”

You’re right there, so close, about to come on his fingers. “I'm your baby. I'm your baby. I’m yours– I belong to you, daddy.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt, hand coming to grip your ass cheek so hard it hurts, fingernails digging into your soft skin, dragging down the smooth surface. You can hear him panting behind you, shaking, trying to control himself. He makes a gruff, rough sound in his throat, gentles his grip on you.

“You don’t think I don’t get fucking jealous?” he spits when he’s finally managed to control himself. “You think I don't think about you with my own son and want to die? That he got to have you in a way I never will, and even worse, wasted you? You don’t think it makes me sick with envy?” He brings his fingers back to play in your wet folds, feels the slick drip of you, thrums at your clit, opening you to him with a hand on your cheek and licking you from clit to asshole. Running the flat expanse of his tongue over the length of your sex and then sucking hard at the apex of nerves, hard enough that you can’t tell if it hurts or feels good or a little bit of both. He’s got you bent over the end of his bed facing the dresser so that you have a clear view of the two of you in the mirror above it. And the sight of him, massive frame crouched down behind you, huge and hulking, face buried in your cunt from behind, the curved slope of his nose, the long, thick lashes, eyes closed like he’s enjoying himself more than he’s ever enjoyed anything else in his entire life as he licks your ass and sucks on your clit. He pulls back, and you watch, almost in slow motion, as he shocks you by swatting your entire sex with his big hand, and then immediately brings his face back to lick and kiss your smarting skin. “But he didn’t fuck you the way you needed to be fucked,” he continues. “And I do. He didn’t understand you, but I do. At least I have that.” It sounds like he’s consoling himself, and you can’t help but find consolation in it as well. Your eyes move up to your own reflection, sweat slicked and tear stained, eyes glassy, wet fingers inside of your mouth because you need something to chew on to stand the terrible throbbing in your cunt on the verge of coming. He licks you again, presses his tongue to your asshole. “Did you ever get wet for him like this?” He pulls back, runs the pads of his fingers over your clit in fast, hard up and down motions, makes it feel so good it hurts, you’re right there, you’re right there, pulls away. “Were you ever desperate for him like this? Cunt all drippy and swollen and pathetic for him like you are for me, my sweet baby?”

Never, daddy. Never. Only you. You can’t lie to him when he’s got his tongue inside of you, it’s just not possible. Only me. Only mine. You press up on your tippy toes, roll back down onto the balls of your feet, “Yeah, rub that sweet pussy all over daddy’s face,” he mumbles into your skin, slurps at you. He wraps his lips around your clit once more, sucks and licks and sucks again, and your cunt goes so, so tight, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, daddy, and then just stops. Pulls away entirely, gets to his feet, leaves you to throb and shiver and beg, whole body flashing hot and cold on the precipice of orgasm. Still holding you pinned in place with your wrists at the small of your back, you watch his eyes roam along your draped form, he drags his hand down the wet length of his face, wiping the drippiness of your slick away. “Stay just like that for me,” and his eyes move to yours in the mirror, as if he’s known the entire time just how riveted on him you’d been. “What?” He asks with a crooked brow and a mean little smirk. “You think you get to come? After that little display?”

“Don’t be mean,” you whisper, staying exactly as he’d directed. Trying your best to be a good girl.

“Shoulda thought of that before, sweet girl.” He bends over the length of you so you’re eye to eye now, gets his face right up close to yours and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “You wanna pretend to fight, stand there like an indignant little girl stomping your foot and yellin’ about bein’ jealous while my come runs down your thighs still. Obviously, I’m not doin’ a good enough job of remindin’ you you’re mine, how much I want you. Gonna fix that now.” Presses another soft kiss to your mouth now.

“You’re trying to dominate me,” you whine, struggling to press against his mouth again even as he pulls back out of your reach, plants a big palm between your shoulders to keep you still.

“You bet your fuckin’ ass I am. You’re gonna do what I tell you to when you’re letting me fill you with my come the way you are. And you’re gonna like it too. You get me?”

“Yes, daddy.”

But then he goes serious, that teasing glint in his eyes flickering away suddenly. “You have nothing to be jealous of. Ever. I don’t want anyone but you. I don’t care about anything else but this.” And even though you’re sure it must be a lie, it sounds so lovely, you choose to believe him for now. You nod up at him, sniffling and crying again a little bit. “And no one takes care of you like I do,” he finally says, as if it’s a reminder, a consolation to the both of you once again.

And he’s right, as he tells you to stay put, be a good girl and not move, leaves you there bent over the bed, that chant sounds in your mind, no one takes care of you like he does, no one, no one, no one.

He steps back into his bedroom to the sight of you still draped over the bed, big eyes wet and slightly vacant, pussy red and swollen and bared to him like a wound with his name on it. You’d brought your fingers up to your mouth, chewing on your fingernails the way you did sometimes when you were anxious or overwhelmed, and when your eyes flit to him, taking in the bowl of warm water, the washcloth and shaving cream in his hold, they go wide, shocked. He arranges his things, gripping you by the hips to turn you over, pulling his shirt from you, leaving you entirely naked, and settling between your spread thighs. “Wh– what are you doing?” Voice all breathy and hitched, the thrum of your excited pulse in your throat.

“Gonna shave you bare. Then I’m gonna eat you ‘til you’re crying, ‘til you’re so swollen you can barely take my fingers. After that, I’m gonna wedge my cock inside you and fuck you ‘til you’re so full’a my come you’ll remember not to forget you ain’t got no reason to be jealous ever again.” He strokes your curls gently with the pad of his thumb, something like fondness in the gesture, clicks his tongue. “These’re so pretty. Gonna miss ‘em.”

“Oh my god,” you choke when he drapes the water warmed washcloth over your spread pussy.

“You wanna be a brat, you wanna fight and act like you don’t know I belong to you and you to me? That none of that other shit matters– I’m gonna remind you, don’t worry.”

You crane your neck, pushing up on your elbows to watch him remove the washcloth and cover the soft curls of your groin with shaving cream. When he opens the blade and brings it to your skin, the sight of the straight edged blade against you, the smooth cream as the steel reveals the bare, satin soft skin beneath, has your chest heaving, sweat pooling at the little notch of your throat – fucking gorgeous and his.

“You’re going to be so sensitive, baby,” he murmurs as he bends your leg back and opened wide, splitting you for his gaze. Delicate with the movements of his wrist as he shaves you. “All bare and slick down here, just for me. You’re so swollen already.”

You mumble something, moaning and letting yourself flop back against the mattress, he’s quick to pull the blade from you, pausing his movements while you settle, gives you a second to press the balls of your palms into the sockets of your eyes, whining Joel and daddy and please. And the trust in this moment between the two of you, that you’re letting him wield a blade so close to your fragile center, letting him do this to you as a way to remind the both of you of the power you cede and wield over and to one another, something that gives him the opportunity to inflict his will in a way that recenters you, reminds you that you’re his, his to do with you as he will, and it’s just the two of you in this space and you trust each other implicitly, it has a sense of control swelling inside of Joel, making his cock rock hard in his jeans, leak down his thigh. Control in a way there is none of in everything else between the two of you. Control in a way there cannot exist in any other aspect of your relationship. When he’s finished, he cleans you slowly with a new warm, damp cloth, then goes to put away his supplies, and when he returns, he looms over you, taking in the sight of your little bald cunt now.

Slowly, he starts to pull his clothes off, watching the quick panting of your breathing, the dip and swell of your belly, so aroused by the intimacy you’ve just shared that your pupils are blown wide and dark. “You’ve made such a mess, little girl,” he says, dragging a single finger through your overflowing slit, following the slick from your swollen clit to your asshole where it pools beneath. He fingers your folds gently, avoiding your swollen clit, your little hole winking at him wantonly. “Please–” you whisper so softly, almost gasping for breath you can barely get the words out.

“Oh, I know, sweetheart. I know you need to come so bad, don’t you?” He drags his palms up and down your thighs, up to your waist and then tugs you down over the edge of the bed and onto your knees in front of him, wide eyes riveted hungry on his cock. “How does it feel? So sensitive, isn’t it?” He’s so hard his erection stands straight up towards his belly, balls hanging heavy and full and aching. He gently drags his fingers along your scalp, feels the heat emanating from your skull. “Lick it all over, get it nice and wet so I can put it inside you.” He knows he needs to be careful now. The two of you are wide open to each other in this moment, so on edge he could come just at the look in your eyes, and you, something more than just vulnerable. He’d worried briefly, in the past weeks, if he should stop, send you away, take himself away, tell you it was too much. You were getting too attached, and although he knew it was too late for himself, that he was beyond salvaging when it came to you, he could imagine nothing worse than seeing you come out hurt from this. Could also imagine no scenario in which you wouldn’t anymore. He feeds you his cock, fisted tightly at the root to stave off his impending orgasm, slides all the way to the back of your throat until he feels his tip hit resistance, enjoying the sight of you choking on it for just a second. Good girl. “Fuck– fuck, yes. See, see how good you can be for me?” He tells you as you suck on his tip, hollowing your cheeks and running your tongue all around the wide head, tonguing his foreskin, making him hiss and bear his teeth at you while you look up at him with falsely innocent eyes. He yanks you up and against him, gives you a filthy, wet kiss, all tongue and teeth and false control, swallowing down the taste of his own precum. He’s never felt less in control of himself, of a situation, than he does right now. He has, in these past weeks, entirely lost sight of himself, of what this should and should not have been, blindly led by his cock and his heart. He’s lost all control, and Joel is nothing but weakness and want now.

Turning you in his arms, he sits at the edge of the bed, thighs spread wide and pulls you onto his lap, impaling you back onto his spit-slick cock so swiftly he doesn't even think you’re expecting it until he’s bumping against your womb, your knees hooked and spread wide over his own. Too desperate to lick your cunt again the way he’d planned. You let out a long, shocked keen, back arching, trying to escape the too big cock suddenly shoved inside of your tiny hole. Joel has to grit his teeth, take deep breaths through his nose and out through his mouth before he can speak at the feel of you fluttering and pulsing around him, “The more you whine, the harder I’ll fuck you, got it?” There’s nothing even close to a coherent response coming out of your mouth, and he was right, shaved bare like this, you’re so much more sensitive. He pulls the lips of your sex gently apart around where he’s impaling you, takes in the sight of your little hole stretched obscenely around his fat cock in the mirror’s reflection and slowly starts to seesaw his hips back and forth, watching his glossy length disappear in and out of you. “How does it feel, baby? You’re so pretty, look at yourself.” He whispers into the small shell of your ear, presses a soft kiss to the lobe, tugs on it with his teeth. He slides in all the way, pulling your hips down so that his balls press against the curve of your ass. “Look, see where daddy’s so deep inside you – can see it in your belly.” Your head lolls back on his shoulder, gaze hooded and delirious, but your hand moves down to the soft skin of your stomach, gently cupping the outline of his cock inside of you. “I’m so deep inside of your tiny cunt, baby. Look at how you’re all mine–” He starts to move again, flicking at your clit, interchanging between fast and hard and slow and so soft you can barely feel it, and your face looks like you want to say something, tell him something, scream, but can’t. And there’s so much he’d like to tell you too, all the things you deserve and probably need to hear from him, but can’t either. He feels you start to tighten up on him, the heat in your body suddenly seeming to flush higher and brighter, almost to boiling, your cunt going so, so tight it almost pushes him out. He presses inside harder, holds you in place with one hand, and thrums fast and hard at your clit with the other, focusing the tip of his cock at the front wall of your pussy, “You’re gonna come–” he grunts, holds you in place and hammers into that swollen place inside of you he’d kill to own for the rest of his life. “Fuck– fuck, you’re gonna squirt all over my cock, aren’t you? Can feel it–” Your face spasms, your belly clenching hard and tight, and you gush, letting out a pained, animal sound, voice broken and breathless, wetting both of your thighs with your come, the bed covers beneath soaked dark. Joel doesn’t stop. He wants more, again, all of you, thrums again at your clit with the pads of his fingers, changes the angle of your hips to roll you fast and hard onto his come-slicked length, pinches your clit hard, watches you squirt all over him again. Something like the sound of his name leaves your mouth in a broken cry, your chewed raw nails trying to claw at him ineffectively. “Dirty fucking girl – creamin’ all over your daddy’s cock,” his voice is gruff, not entirely his own. There’s something here – you’d told him once you’d always felt out of control. In your relationship with Sam, aware of what he was, always, of what you were and were not, and that there was something about control that was so necessary to you now. And there is something here like control, your control over him, taking hold of him entirely so he’s unsure of what it is he should and should not be, here and now, with you. He should not be delusional, he should be aware. He is not adhering to either very well.

He goes to his feet with you still impaled on his throbbing length, erection so hard it hurts, can barely stand up straight, blood pounding on rhythm to the chant of your name. He pulls you from him, watches the slick slide of your cunt walls dragging along his length, the cream of your slick left as a reminder all over his skin. He presses you onto the bed, rolls you this way and that too look at you all over, bends to drag his tongue through that drippy cunt of yours that squirts and comes so prettily for him, then back up and kneeling above you, between your glossy thighs, and thrusting into that tight cunt, grunting as you clench around him. So hard he feels the screaming tip of his cock punch against your cervix, listens to you make a hurt, hiccupy sound when his balls slap against you.

He should be gentle. He should be careful. He should be aware, not delusional, himself. He should reach back and take hold of that man he always thought himself to be, hard and cold but never cruel. Maybe not good, but always aware and never weak. He’s none of those things now here with you. Joel is now only himself. You’ve made me into a real person, you’d whispered onto his tongue. What he’d not told you was that you’d done the same to him.

You’re a gift, a gift, a gift, a gift. A gift in the way his son never was. A gift in the way that a whole lifetime lost and returned to him never was, and Joel is weak and two feet tall and made of paper, but for you. Anyways, or despite it all, still made only for you.

“Fuck me like you’re in love with me,” you say, read his mind, take hold of the beating mass in his chest. Fuck me like you’re in love with me. And maybe you don’t mean it. Maybe you’re too far gone. It doesn’t matter.

He does it anyway. Pulls back, wedges back inside the too swollen, too sensitive, too tiny cunt that belongs to him. He bears his teeth at you, grabs hold of your face so hard you’ll bruise, and fucks you like he’s in love with you. It comes to him so easily, after all.

Shoving his knees high up beneath your thighs, he brings your ankles to his shoulders, little feet knocking against his ears, he wishes for sense, he finds none, only a deeper, sharper angle. The sounds of your cries and the things you whisper in his ear he knows you should not say and he should not listen to that fill him full of things he should not feel like I was made for you and daddy, there’s no one like you and come inside me, please, please, I need it. He pulls his hips back, swings them forward, listens to the sound of his balls slap, and you beg for harder, savors the fire that pools in his belly and the base of his spine. And he thinks that he should pull out, he’s been so fucking careless with you and your future and your vulnerability, but he’s like a monster full of greed, intent on nothing but staking his claim, leaving a claim, desperate for a way to be remembered or never forgotten or never left behind. “We have to be careful,” he begs you, and feels scared and terrible for a moment, not to be trusted with a gift like this in his hands. “I’m going to get you fucking pregnant, God.”

But you’re like some siren, something taking him away from himself, and you tell him, “I don’t care, I don’t care,” voice gone so far away from yourself too, all hazy, full of bubbles and too cock drunk to be true or sane, but it lands like a gut punch anyway. And Joel tries to hold onto himself he does, he swears he does, tries to remain rational, and aware of what this was supposed to be and not supposed to be. Tells you to please, “Shut up, shut up. Please, don’t say those things to me, I’m begging you.” But eventually that siren song wins out, the feel of your cunt sucking him deeper, milking him dry, your small damp hands pulling at his hair, stubby nails dragging down the skin of his cheeks, over his back, and Joel’s weak now. Weak and full of want and greed and delusion so that all that’s left is capitulation and: “You want daddy to fuck his babies into you? You want me to fill you up and keep you forever?” But something of himself must remain because he covers your mouth, big hand wrapped around your sweaty little face before you can answer, forcing the words silent inside of your mouth, the truth you both know you’d spit out otherwise. Yes, yes, I do. And as if the idea of you carrying his child held a direct like to your orgasm, you start to come around him, overwhelmed cunt, split in two and carved in the shape of his name now, clenching around him, going so wet and hot and tight Joel’s sure he’ll never be able to leave it ever again. You reach down between the two of you, grasp the half of his cock outside of your wet clutch, shiny with your slick and jack him off with sharp little tugs, make sure he fills you with his spend full to the brim. He spills over and out, dribbles down the slope of your ass to leave you lying in a little puddle of his semen, and when he pulls out, careful to not ask you to hold all of his weight over you, he brings your fingers to your gaping cunt, “Feel where daddy’s been,” lets you play in the imprint of himself he’s left behind.

He lays beside you, steaming hot little thing worming up against him, nuzzling beneath his chin, pressing tiny kisses that tell him all the things the both of you need to hear and say, and he feels himself go cool and dry inside and out. Something terrible suddenly swelling within him. Something that reeks of truth, and you must smell it in the air as well because you share a piece of your own painful honesty with him, force him to confront it. “Sometimes I think I’m impossible to love,” in the smallest voice he’s surely ever heard.

“Haven’t I shown you how untrue that is?” Because if there’s one thing he’ll never do with you, it’s lie.

You tuck your hand beneath your cheek, and you glow, and he feels blinded by it for a moment, eyes wide and so vulnerably tender, something afraid that makes something equally vulnerable inside of him rage and beat its chest. “Is that what this is? Are we in love, Joel?”

He thinks you must see the fear in his eyes, because yours suddenly go calm, fathomless, something steady for him to hold on to, and that stench of honesty chokes him. “Yeah–” he nods, swallows, thinks of his son, hates himself. “I think so, baby.”

What can remain the same after honesty like that? After splitting yourself open and showing each other your insides in such a way? What could possibly remain the same? Nothing. The truth is laid bare, and all that’s left now. And instead of setting you free, the truth never really sets you free, it makes everything terribly fraught and frightened and fragile.

When he moves to stand, the sound of your desperation for him to make you his in an irreversible way rings like exploding shrapnel in your ears, “Do you think we’re bad?” You ask because you’ve only ever wanted to be good, but his eyes are so haunted, large and round and fathomless. His face, taking on a sudden sort of gauntness as he thinks of what to say to you after the worst has already been said. You watch the line of his throat ripple as he swallows several times, reading the real truth in his eyes before he shakes his head slowly, incongruous like a lie, “Never you,” and he does not include himself, “Never you.” It’s devastating. Devastating that the only thing that’s ever mattered, the thing that has finally made you good, is bad in his eyes.

You sit at the kitchen table, watching him while he makes dinner for you. Cold and shivery and wet between your legs in a way that’s not comfortable anymore. In a way that feels like an essential part of you is slowly dripping out, leaving you grossly empty inside. The beautiful dinner he’d bought and made for you tastes like ash wrapped in all the honesty surrounding the two of you, and you stare at each other and there's no need for more words because the truth is all right here in front of the two of you to see with your own two eyes. You want to go get dressed, but you don’t want to call attention to the seed of wrongness that’s been planted now. Are we in love? When the answer had so obviously been yes for so long already. Naive, silly girl. And you want to be angry with him. Ask him why he’d done this to you, made you fall in love with him when he’d said before that you couldn’t, when it was all so hopeless. You also want to hear him say it, say the words out loud with teeth and tongue and sound, you want to taste the words in your mouth because seeing them in his eyes wrapped in all that hopelessness isn’t nearly enough to satiate this hunger he’s stoked inside of you. You want to ask him to hold you, to crawl into his lap and have him cradle you like a child protected in the embrace of stronger, wiser arms. You want to have never been put on this path, to have never met his son, never have married him, never have met him. You want the whole terrible ordeal to be wiped from mind and mouth and memory. You want to have not had to accept it all, not have moved on, not be grateful in ways you can’t even understand for the lesson it’d all posed. You want it all to have never happened. To never have experienced the entire convoluted mess of feelings this ordeal of tearing down your entire life to make yourself anew had caused. To have never fallen in love with your ex-husbands father.

He sits in his chair, hands cupping his chin for so long, silent and staring, probably wondering what to do with you, and when he finally stands, nothing but a long, pained sigh to interrupt the terrible silence, you finally muster the strength to go find that missing bra. Crawl home, once again a ghoul in the night in need of wound licking. And it must be that very same terrible silence, the even more terrible look in his eyes that has something pressurized, set to burst, bottled inside of you because when a knock on the door sounds once again, you don’t even stop for half a thought, exploding suddenly. In his clothes and come, ripping the door open, the words on your tongue ready to spit at her that he’s already got one desperate woman on his hands that needs taking care of, and no, he will not be fixing her dishwasher or her pussy or anything else she thinks she might need him for.

But it’s not the neighbor. And you have nothing but fear lodged in your throat to spit out when you meet his eyes.

Eyes like his father’s, colder, crueler, furious and humiliated, take you in. Just fucked hair and a flannel that’s not your own, mis-buttoned, come-dryed thighs. And worst of all, his voice, like he isn’t even that surprised, like he’d come here just to find this, “You fucking whore.”

“Sam–” you’re not sure if you actually say his name, but the intention is held there, on the tip of your tongue. A plea for mercy or a shout for help or protection or something.

“You fucking whore,” and you flinch at the scream in his throat, scuffle back into the safety of the house of the man you love who is the father of the man you were married to, the man who broke you, the betrayed son. He’s shocked still for a single second, before he’s charging at you, fist not entirely raised but definitely held with consideration. And, “I knew it, I always fucking knew it,” before Joel is there, stepping between you and your ex-husuband, his son, blocking you with his body, big hand wrapping entirely around your forearm to hold you close to himself, to hold you in his protection.

“You better put your fucking arm down before I break it, son.” That moment, Joel’s voice, the utter betrayal in his son’s eyes. The sound of you breaking something that you should have never ever gotten in between. It is worse than all the rest. You take him in, the sight of this man who you used to be married to, he’d always seemed so large in your eyes before, so unattainable. Something never to be fully touched, only gazed upon. Always apart, always cold. Sam’s eyes fall to the place where his father holds you, and his face spasms, something terrible. Broken and alone, a child cast out into the cold. And you want to say that he seems so different now, haggard and gaunt and whittled down to bare bones, but it isn’t the truth. You always knew what he was, your most terrible bit of honesty. You always knew, you’d just not cared before. There was never any separation, no space for you to take a breath and want better for yourself. To be under his scrutiny, something that at one time felt like admiration, but was never anything even close, it was like nothing else, like everything, a great lie. But he was too aware of it, of himself, of that power he held over you, and unlike his father, he was cruel with it. Your eyes move up to the back of Joel’s head, the hard edge of his jaw, the muscle that spasms furiously there. What would it do to you now to be under that same sort of attention, influence, admiration, but from a kinder, gentler, honest source? What had it done to you? Dangerous to risk yourself again, impossible to stop now.

“I always knew it,” he says again, “I always knew you wanted him. What? You let him fuck you?” The words in his mouth are a terrible thing, Joel says something, tells him to hold his tongue, to get the fuck out, but your eyes are riveted on the sight of his face, this man you used to be married to who’d broken you so completely, who’d stolen your very memory of yourself. He seems wholly unrecognizable now, and in a way, it frightens you, that someone you’d known for what seemed like so long could be such a stranger now. Joel’s hand is an anchor, such a comfort wrapped around your arm. “You barely let me touch you for two years, but you’ll bend over like a whore for my fucking Dad?” His voice breaks and it makes you want to laugh a little bit.

Joel shoves him backward, jerking you forward still in his hold. “Say that word one more time in my house, and I won’t be held responsible for what I do to you. And don’t fucking look at her,” he snaps, reaching up to give him a quick two tapped slap on the cheek to focus his gaze on himself. “Get out, Sam. I’ll call you later. We can–”

But unheeded or too far gone, like he needs to hear the sound of the words as a comfort to himself in this moment, Sam looks back at you, “You’re a fucking whore. I wish I’d never met you, I hate you.” Joel shoves him backwards again, harder this time so that his leg slams into the side table, overturning the lamp there into a crashing heap on the floor, so hard that when he pulls you with him it feels as if he’ll wrench your shoulder from its socket with the force of his anger. You yelp in pain, but cling to him anyways, refusing to let him go either, hiding behind the hill of his shoulder. Pushing his son away, not letting you go. It’s wrong, it’s wrong and you’d told him that you wanted to keep him, to take him away from his own son, that you were made of nothing but greed, but there’s something wrong here, inherently not right, bad.

And even yet, you can’t help the look on your face that must surely be nothing short of humiliating to Sam for the way he reddens, the little muscles in his face jerking uncontrollably. You’re done here, Sam. Get the fuck out, Joel says again, taking a step forward to herd him out, pulling you along, keeping you close. You taunt him with your gaze, can’t help yourself, “I thought I was a prude?” You say from behind the protection of his father’s body. “Isn’t that what you called me for all those years? Thought I was frigid, unfuckable, unlovable? Am I not anymore?” You ask in a small, breathy voice, falsely guileless, entirely provoking. “Have you changed your mind now that I’ve taken your Daddy from you?” False pout and mocking eyebrow.

Joel’s head snaps over his shoulder, incredulous look on his face, and Sam flinches as if struck, splintered glass in the shape of his son’s gaze, it fractures, falls back to where Joel holds you.“I wanted to talk to you,” He says to his father, “I wanted to– You’re really choosing her over me?” It costs Sam something to say this, and you weren’t expecting it either because suddenly, the game changes. His voice is child-like in its hurt, that son who longed for his father for all those years. “After everything that was stolen from us, you’re not going to choose me?” You know in that moment, he’s won.

“This isn’t about choice, son,” Joel tells him, but you hear it for the lie it is. “This isn’t about you versus her.”

“But it is,” and his eyes flash to yours, victory held in them. “She was my wife. And you’re my father, and you have to make a choice now. This is fucking sick.” There’d always been an intelligence to his cruelty, and he wields it now. The sound of his son’s name is a choked thing in Joel’s mouth. He goes rigid, a painful stillness, muscles vibrating with warring emotions. You hold your breath for it. He looks down at where he holds you, tightens his grip painfully, and then slowly, so that the three of you are sure to take in the whole procession of it, he lets go of your arm. One finger at a time, the heat of his palm leaving you, and you’re alone.

“It isn’t about choice,” he says again, and yet, one has already been made. You stand still, head bent, gaze riveted on the place where he’d let you go. He takes a step away from you, towards his son, and his voice is low and gentle and soothing now, and you’re still staring at the barrenness of your arm.

I had such potential to be good, you think. He just never saw it. But you don’t know who you mean. And you don’t think it matters anymore.

They say more to each other. Joel’s hand on his son’s arm now, pushing him towards the door, but still, still comforting for the thing it symbolizes, a benediction of choice, and you turn around to face the other side of the room. You can’t look – wrapping your arms around yourself. You don’t think you’ll run this time. Face it head on, let it be over now in full. Sam’s voice rings shrill, the sound of your name and curses and accusations, fighting a futile fight against his father’s even baritone, the sound of the slamming door, and then silence. When you turn back over your shoulder, they’ve stepped outside together, leaving you alone inside the house.

He’d asked you once what you wanted, and you can’t fathom what the point of it had been. What does it matter what I want? That’s the least significant thing here. It always was.

When he finally comes back inside, you’re dressed, lost bra retrieved, your bag packed and sitting at your feet. You’d gone into the kitchen just before, taken a peek at the pie, and you were right, and you don’t know how he could have possibly known, but he’d gotten you rhubarb. Your face is dry now, no tears and no will to cry. There’s nothing to speak of in his gaze when he leans back against the door to look at you, swallowing down words you’re sure will mean nothing in the face of all of this. And you look at him and you love him and you think, I was married to a man once and now I’m not and now I’m with his father and I love him in the way I never loved the son; and so now, I must ask myself, am I merely looking for the love of lesser man, who could have never given me what I needed, in the eyes of a man who seems to have all the answers?

You don’t think so. And yet, there are still no answers to be had, and no questions left to ask.

“I’m going this time,” In case he has designs to force you to stay, and even though there’s a light of acceptance in his eyes, he still shakes his head. Swallows and gathers his seams about himself before he says, “You aren’t leaving me,” gaze churning from warry to flinty to resolved.

“I was never supposed to stay at all. I was never supposed to be for you. You said so yourself– you said we couldn’t fall in love. That I wasn't for you.” You get to your feet, pulling your purse over your shoulder, and he rushes towards you, pushing the bag back down to the floor, taking your face in his hands hard, something like panic in his eyes and in the air and in the vibration of his voice.

“It doesn’t matter, none of that matters– Whatever was before, whatever was in the past doesn’t mean shit when it’s just you and me here together–” And you’re crying now, real, great sobs of grief.

“You were the one that said we couldn’t fall in love,” you cry again, try and pull away, but he holds you to himself, squeezes you against him, shivers like he too is crying, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I was a fucking idiot, a damn liar. There was never any other option, baby.” Most terrible of terrible truths, you’d both known if for the lie it was the moment he’d said it, even before, probably. You stand limply in the circle of his embrace. He’d said once that he’d been a coward not to go out and look for you, but you know the opposite is true. No one is more of a coward than you were for not having waited for him. For having been so desperate for love, you’d been willing to settle for the wrong kind. You’ll never be able to settle for false comfort like that again, and it’s all his fault. “You’ve ruined me now. I’m ruined.”

He pulls back to take your face in his hands again, and you were right, he is crying. “I’m ruined! And I need you to give me another chance. I demand another chance– to… to fix this. To–”

But another chance for what? To change what? “He’s your son, and I only want you to be happy.” And you know he couldn’t ever be happy, truly happy, estranged from his only child. After all, like he’d said, the theft of him had been the worst thing ever done. You wouldn’t commit a crime like that against Joel also, never.

“Baby, please, I think… I– I love–”

“Please–” You press the tips of your fingers to his mouth, silencing him. “Please, don’t do this to me now.” It makes you angry, this intent of his to trap you here with his love when there’s no room for you to stay. You turn away, picking up your bag again, but he snatches you back into himself, wrapping his big arms around your waist, crushing you against his chest. And you’d struggle if you could, but there’s so little fight left in you. “You’re the one that said – you said we couldn’t!”

“I know what I fucking said,” he spits, voice so angry it almost frightens you. “But there’s still– We have to talk, we have to–”

“What can you possibly imagine there’s left to say?”

“Everything.”

“Or nothing.”

“Look at me. Look at me–” He pulls your head back and to the side by your chin. There’s a bright flush sitting high on his cheekbones, and his eyes shift quickly back and forth between yours, searching for a way to fix this. To fix the good thing that’s now been broken. His thumb strokes the point of your chin softly, and he presses his mouth slowly to yours, eyes open to watch for your reaction. “This wasn’t a mistake,” he tells you, “We weren’t a mistake.” Weren’t. The final nail in the coffin. “I know, I know that there are so many things– that we can’t… but just– just stand here with me for one minute, please. Just give me one more second, and I’ll–”

He doesn’t finish the thought, and you let him kiss you one last time. And when he pulls back, because it doesn’t feel like it really matters, and because you just want to hear the sound of it coming out of your mouth, because you wish it was true and not the complete opposite, because you want to be as cruel and ugly outside as you feel on the inside, you whisper, “I hate you,” a full bodied lie.

His eyes shutter and flicker for a moment, a wash of hurt suffusing them. But because he’s never been a weak man and because he’s always been honest, and he’s always, always above everything else, been good, he says, “And I love you,” and there it is. You’d thought you wanted to hear the sound of that too, but now that you have, it’s more terrible than you could have ever possibly imagined. And after that, there really is nothing left to say.

Joel goes to see his brother afterwards because it’s what he always does and who he always goes to when he’s lost. When a son in the shape of a man made of nothing but childish fear and anger and hurt, had appeared one day, dropped out of the blue sky, onto his front porch, when he realized he wanted his daughter-in-law in a way no good man should. And now, that he’s admitted, because the realization had already been there, swift and uncompromising, the admittance had been all that was left, the hard going part, that he was in love with you – in love with the woman who had been married to his son, here he finds himself again. Lost and weak and two feet tall, made of nothing but hollow bones. “I’m not myself,” he tells Tommy, and then amends the lie because he’s not come here to tell lies. “She’s made me into someone I don’t recognize and wish I could be forever.” How would he get his old self back now? Impossible. You’d taken him away with you, he was only half made now, half man, half strength. And Tommy is understanding because it has always only been the two of them, and he’s always seen Joel for exactly who he is without judgement. The most honest eyes in the whole world, his brother. “I'm afraid that she’s the love of my life. I’m afraid that I’m not really so afraid at all. And she won’t even talk to me.” You’d left his house a week and a day ago, and Joel was going out of his mind, losing pieces of himself along the way, his sanity, his sense of right and wrong, his self restraint, self possession. He was about to do something crazy, he felt it gnawing and itching at his bones. He could barely remember the look of betrayal in his own son’s eyes amidst the madness of the memory of the hurt in yours, the sight of you walking away from him. “And my son. My son, my child, Tommy, he hates me. And I’m in love with the woman he used to be married to, who he hurt. And he’s a cruel and small man, and he needs me. He needs my help, and I have a responsibility to him. But Tommy– Tommy, I love her. She’s mine. And what am I going to do? What am I going to say to him? How will I ever face him again? She’s mine, and I– I can’t explain it, I can’t excuse it. But she’s mine– she’s my woman. She belongs to me. I know this as well as I know my own name, my own face.”

And his brother, his brother, his brother who always understands him, who always stands beside him, he claps him on the shoulder and says, “If anyone can find a way, Joel, it’s you. I know you can. You’re stronger and smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. And you don’t abandon yours.” And so Joel must believe him because Tommy is his brother, and he knows him, and he knows that even though he’s weak now, even if he must let himself be weak now, in the face of all of this, Joel is not truly a weak man where it counts.

You and Sam had only ever spoken once on the topic of children. It was, from the first moment broached, a non possibility, not even half of an option. Devastating, but now, all this time later, almost like a grace from God. You’d wanted a baby so badly, more than anything in the whole world, and he would not give you one. He’d said your desire for a child was incongruous with your cold nature, how frigid you were.

And you’d been so long, caught in the who am I, in the what am I doing. You never stopped to ask why. Molded into a bad shape, but mute and deaf to the intricacies of what had carved you so. You’d needed to destroy yourself entirely, tear down everything around yourself, and then recreate yourself and everything else in your life in a new image. Perhaps, then, you’d finally have the chance to be good.

Your husband’s father had given you this. Joel had given you this.

And Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel. How to tell him that you’re sorry? That you’re vile and cruel and yes, even cold sometimes, but for him, for him you can find it in yourself to be soft, something to be forgiven, you hope. His son had called you a prude, and then, his father’s whore. Did it matter what the truth was? You weren’t so sure. Did you want Joel because you were a whore? Because your own father had never loved you, and you were thus desperate to fill that void left by lesser, crueler men? Did it matter? You hated the idea that this desire for him had to have been born by consequence of another man. What about what you wanted? What about the fact that it felt good when he was inside of you? When he gave it to you rough and hard and when he told you that you belonged to him because you did, because it was the truth. What about the fact that you were in love with him? That should have counted more because you said it counted more. And then that was it, nothing more to the thing of it. So what if he was the father of the man who’d been your husband? The man who’d stolen all of your surety, your passion, yourself. Sometimes, retribution feels fucking good. So what about it? And then, and after all, you were in love with him. So what did it all matter after that?

People liked to say that sometimes a bad thing is worth it if it feels good enough. But what if you didn't think it was bad at all, and what if it didn’t just feel good enough? What if it’s actually everything, the best thing you’d ever had in your whole life? And what if it is simply and solely, or maybe even also, who cares, who cares, what if it is simply because it’s Joel? Joel who is beautiful and strong and good. Maybe even perfect in a way that you need.

He’d told you once that he’d never had the chance to be angry, that it had been stolen from him, the worst thing ever done to me, he’d said. You know that you could never do that to him. Never hurt him in that way. And there might be so many options. Choices. Truths. Yourself. Finally, you are only yourself. Good in the way he’d shown you to be. In a way that did not bow to anything but the sort of goodness you needed. But Joel; above all else, Joel. He is the first choice, and everything else seems inconsequential after that. What is goodness worth in the face of all he’s given you?

So, you sit now, within the basin of your empty bathtub, no more leaky kitchen sink echoing through your empty apartment, he’d fixed it weeks ago, and peer over the lip of the tub. And there, blinking up at you from the face of the skinny pink and white stick, is your answer to goodness. It had always been within yourself. And you think, if it must be just the two of us now, then let it. After all, your father has finally taught me how to be good.

End.

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wisecura · 3 months ago

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Yes, I think Gojo Satoru needs his own

he's a favorite

🔪 - will have dark undertones (or full blown black flags).

🔞 - will have smutty content.

♡ - a request fic I got

warnings will be put for the stories that have less traditional dark undertones. most of my work will have themes that may be unsettling or uncomfortable so please do not interact with these stories. this can include dubcon, toxic relationships, manipulative behavior, potential poor decision making on the Y/N perspective. I write things I find interesting and if that offends you, then please don’t read.

Red in the title means its a WIP (typed up concept in my Docs just waiting to be finished/edited/published), and will hopefully be released soon.

Gojo x You (my golden boy makes me feral)

╰┈➤Where will this go 🔪⭑ summary: a short fic where the Satoru Gojo is pondering what he wants to do with you, while stalking you.

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╰┈➤Next and another 🔪🔞⭑ summary: you start a teaching position at Jujutsu Tech only to meet the infamous renowned "strongest" sorcerer. How long will it take till he's obsessed? warning: dub-con, very manipulative behavior, public sex

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╰┈➤You Did What? ♡🔪 🔞⭑ summary: satoru gojo was your over-the-top, unbearable, yet strangely endearing kouhai back in school. maybe you were just a little too sweet to him, though, because now he's showing up at your door with a marriage proposal in hand. warning: implied stalking, noncon/dubcon, forced arranged marriages, popped cherries, he's a good boy, some yandere undertones (but definitely not my craziest work)

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╰┈➤Sweeter ♡ 🔪 🔞⭑ summary: entering high school only to be met with the two hottest strongest sorcerers of your generation was not something you were prepared for. so, what happens when they take a strange liking to their cute, sheltered underclassman? SatoSugu mix

this has a smutty p.2

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╰┈➤His Favorite ♡ 🔪 🔞⭑ summary: you’d always been gojo’s top student, excelling in class and earning your promotion to a grade one sorcerer. but at your graduation party, the clan heads and higher-ups are pressuring you about settling down and marriage. surprisingly, gojo doesn’t seem too keen on letting his favorite student slip away so easily. COMING SOON FOR YOU

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loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year ago

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please don't kill me mr ghostface (part 1)

(AO3 Mirror), (Main Masterlist), (Kinktober '23 Masterlist)

(Part 2 - coming soon!)

pairing: stalker!Miguel x f!reader, slight yandere undertones. (he's a murderer lowkey but very gentle and sweet and scary hot that's all guys I promise.)

summary: murders on campus. the odd toothbrush goes missing. what's new, honestly. life keeps ticking and you end up at a Halloween party somewhere you shouldn't. there, you meet a gorgeous man in a strange mask. he seems sweet, and all you're looking for is a bit of fun. what could go wrong?

warnings: 18+ , fingering, anal play (mig eats ass, send tweet!) , rimming, p in v, soft dom mig, some switchy + needy behaviour, mild threat of violence (not by mig), alcohol consumption. Minors DNI

a/n: 5k words of ignoring red flags. girl get a grip!

wc: 5.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You look too good to feel this shitty.

That's the thought you're left with, picking at flimsy spiderwebs draped on a sofa. Sandwiched between two couples making out like their life depends on it, of course, but that's beside the point.

“Someone said there's CCTV of a guy walking out the building at 3am… seems a little convenient, if you ask me…”

There's a TV on in the background, barely cutting through the dense chatter. By this point, your eyes have glazed over, trying not to let them rattle around in your skull. Drunken conversation around you, and it's the same thing as always; long, winding tales of a campus killer - the kind out of a cheesy slasher. What the news says, officially, is that there weren't any links between those 3 bodies that turned up out on the playing field, an empty dorm, a supply closet; but it hasn't stopped people from indulging in wild speculation.

“No, no, she just didn't turn up to my Econ class….I swear–”

Stay in pairs. Don't walk alone at night. Whilst you think it's all tangential at best, you're not one to tempt fate. The gossip, you could do without. But it doesn't hurt to keep yourself safe, pepper spray nestled in your usual bag.

Tonight, however, you've left it at home, thinking the friends you came with would be enough. Somewhere, somehow, they're off chugging shit beer and you're milling about the place and sinking into couch cushions. There's something sticky by the seat, and there's a crackle as you're jostled - the sharp edge of a stray elbow almost knocks your drink away.

Fuck.

For one night only, you're a cheerleader. A short, short skirt and little top; it has you feeling overdressed. Even though you've left the pompoms at home, next to your taser; seemingly, you've read the mood wrong - stupidly assuming people would dress up for a Halloween party. As you make your way to the kitchen, tugging down your skirt here and there, that's all you can see; half-hearted costumes - cat ears, white sheets and flimsy masks. It feels like you stick out in comparison. You've gone all out, with nothing but the threat of a beer sodden lap for your trouble.

It's a big house. Alpha-delta-phi, kappa-something-or-the-other; a frat with too much money and too much time on their hands. With all the doors you walk past, shallow thuds and thumping ringing out behind them, you're as good as lost. The best ragers this side of campus - as raved about by one of your friends. It feels like bucketfuls of horseshit right now, wandering around packed halls - and oh. Is that the same staircase?

“ Fuck, watch it!” You clatter into the side of an arm, a t-shirt with a superman symbol emblazoned at the chest. He's pretty, but his features curl into a sudden sneer.

" Sorry –" You start but he doesn't let you finish, wagging a thick finger in your face.

There's a girl draped on his arm, merely watching as he shouts; loud over pumping music from the next room over.

"Hey, dipshit , you gonna keep staring? Mouth open like a fucking fish– do you know how much this shit costs?" Your eyes are wide, as he gets closer - stinking of alcohol and pot and God knows what else. You're not drunk enough to entertain this, shirking away from confrontation. The room is hot, his breath is sticky , and–

He grabs your arm. Immediately you're trying to wrench yourself away, not daring to look into blown pupils. Clammy, his grip tightens on bare skin and your stomach churns. He's solid, bigger than you and unable to keep the anger out of his voice…. and fuck. You're scared.

Fear, rising like bile at the back of your throat. Bitter and sharp, fear at the fact that there isn't anyone to help; that everyone else looks away and pretends that this isn't happening. Fear at the spittle that sprays from his mouth like poison, stinging skin. You screw your eyes shut, expecting a slap, a blow, or something worse and then…

Thud. The hand around your wrist is no more, replaced by a gentle pat on your shoulder. Nothing lingering, just a light touch to get you to open your eyes; to see that guy on the floor, clutching at a swollen jaw and split lip.

"You okay? "

It's deep, muffled by a mask, and the figure in front of you has to crouch to be heard over incessant chatter.

You're nodding, sheepishly, not trusting yourself to keep that edge out of your voice.

Ghostface, the masked man, the only other person at this party properly dressed up; he only cocks his head in a gesture that says a thousand words. His robe pools around his wrists, thick fabric that you grab onto without thinking, grip just as tight as your would-be assailant. You don't even want to think about it, what could've happened if someone hadn't stepped in. It has you biting back tears, more shaken than you'd like to admit.

"H-Hey, hey, easy…" He's rubbing little circles into your shoulder, hesitant. Your lip wobbles, ever so slightly, but he catches it, gently pulling you aside.

There isn't a crowd. The stragglers, those that saw the display, barely look at the guy on the floor, scrambling to his feet and far away. In the meantime, you fight off tears and force yourself to flash a shaky smile.

"Good. " You croak, taking his hands off your shoulders. "F-Fuck , I mean… I'm good. Thank you."

He doesn't quite budge, giving you that strange look again. At least, you think so, rearing up to his full height to cross his arms. Quiet incredulity, almost cartoonish, and it almost makes you laugh. Almost.

"Let me get you a drink… some water, or something." He says, stretching out a gloved hand. Sensing your hesitance, he quickly adds, "... Please ."

Chewing your lip, you only have to think for a second before taking it, and you're led out through double doors. Your masked man is big; broad shouldered and hulking, cutting through the writhing mass with ease. It's just as well, you think, unable to sort through the tangle of things that rattle around in your head. You hate this fucking school, sometimes. Boys will be boys. Wear more appropriate clothing. Well, wasn't she just asking for it? A culture of inaction; of hand-wringing and hand-waving… passing on the blame until three dead bodies show up on campus.

That's one thing you have to thank the so-called serial killer for, at least. At least something might actually change around here.

Empty, the kitchen is a mess, but nothing you wouldn't expect. Drink long gone; a distant memory spilled on a carpet, somewhere; you perch awkwardly around a counter, not knowing where to put your hands. Rattled, you've resorted to a glassy stare; stewing and festering and thinking so intensely it might frighten off your masked man.

It doesn't. He merely taps you, a gentle elbow to your side and he offers you a glass of water. Weakly, you give him a smile, gulping up the liquid.

"You here by yourself ?" He asks, muffled by plastic.

You can't help it, eyes wide at the implication - a masked man, a killer on campus - and he must realise the way it sounds.

In no time at all, he clarifies, "I just mean… fuck … is there someone I can call? So you're not alone."

It's a kind gesture. Kinder than you'd expect from a stranger. Slowly, you shake your head.

"They ditched me about an hour ago." You give a bitter laugh. "Just me and you, Mr Ghostface."

And with that he laughs; deep and sonorous, causing heat to bloom at your chest. Despite yourself, you smile, and you swear you see a glint of something behind the mask.

It has you itching for a drink. All of a sudden you make your way across the room, swiping at empty beer bottles and cans, rummaging around for some hard liquor. When you find it - a half empty bottle of something that smells like carpet cleaner and acetone - you're taking a swig, and offering it to the man across from you. It's sneaky, but you don't think he clocks your paltry attempt to see what he looks like under that mask.

He shakes his head, hands up in defeat.

"You sure?" Your voice is lilting, hazy around the edges. Creeping up closer, you press your body to his, taking another unceremonious gulp. Under that cloak - heavy, somewhat well made - you can feel him, lean and cut muscle that tenses as you get closer.

Batting your eyelashes, you make full use of the cheerleader get-up, snaking a dainty hand to his side, and then up to the counter. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was ogling you, chest taught and tight at the way you feel against him.

Or maybe, he's bored as shit. You wouldn't know - with the mask, and all.

Wobbly, you clamber up onto the counter, helped up by a gentle hand at the small of your back… and oh. You like that: big, thick fingers that press into you, carefully tracing your waist… and why won't they go down a little further? Grab handfuls of the flesh at your thighs, your ass, everything in between?

He's too conservative for that, you think. Nervous, too. Nevertheless, he slots between your thighs, big palms flat next to your ass.

"I… I don't mind watching." He says, voice low.

It makes you giggle as you drink, sweet and soft, and liquid dribbles past your lips, down to collarbone. Mr Ghostface is gentle, tracing a finger across the juncture of your neck, light pressure on the vein that sits nice and pretty at its side.

It goes to your head. The alcohol, the large man of few words with a hand on your neck. When he finishes swiping at the liquid and pulls his hand away, you curl your hand around his, bringing it to your lips. Pert lips wrap around his finger, tongue swiping over leather, and you swear you can hear his breath hitch - heart clearly skipping a beat.

"Careful…" You say, leaning forward to press your tits against him, brushing away imaginary fluff from his shoulders. "I really like this costume."

"I like it too." He clears his throat. "You look nice."

"Nice? Is that all I get, Mr Ghostface?" You're teasing, tracing up his broad chest to his neck and then just under his chin. Carefully, you hook a finger under the thin strap of his mask, tugging ever-so gently.

Quickly, he stops you.

"Not yet, sweetheart."

You pout, flashing him a frustrated look - and God , does he want to kiss it off of you.

"But soon?"

"If you're good." You swear you can hear him smile, hands wrapping around your waist.

You get a bit bolder, hand tracing up his sleeve, clutching at thick, corded forearm. Watching intently as he keens, pushing you to the edge of the kitchen counter with only one hand at your back. This close, you even like the way he smells, like rust and oil and earth, the way he feels around you; strong arms caging you in, protecting you. You feel safe, for some reason.

When he sighs into you, exposing a sliver of tan neck, you feel your knees go weak - unable to stop yourself from mouthing at it, pressing little kisses into the skin. He seems so sensitive, rocking into the counter for some pressure already, clutching you closer and closer until there's a hickey blooming just under sharp jawline.

"Fuck- " He hisses, pawing at your waist a little more desperately.

Suddenly self conscious, you separate with a wet smack, and inspect your handiwork.

"Shit." Eyes wide, you press a finger into the flesh. Your masked man winces. "M'sorry. Got carried away."

He heaves, placing his head on your shoulder for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

"It's fine," He strains. "Don't worry… s'fine."

Admittedly, he doesn't seem too fine, adjusting what feels like a painful hard-on beneath a loose cloak.

Cradling his head so he can look at you, you whisper something bold, even for someone who's downed more than a couple shots worth of cheap liquor.

"I know somewhere… I-I think … that we could go if you wanted to…" His head lolls, and you hear him swallow roughly. "Somewhere quiet . We'd be alone. Just us."

A beat passes and you think you might've read this wrong, much too forward for your own good. It’s why he surprises you by nodding - slowly, at first, and then with more conviction. Taking your hand, he snakes it under his mask, and you almost gasp when you feel soft, plump lips at your knuckles and palm, pressing shaky kisses to the skin.

“I need to do something first.” He says it so quietly, you almost miss it under the mask. “Where can I meet you?”

You don’t ask questions.

“Pool house.” You nod towards the windows, overlooking a sizable pool. People mill about its edges, but you know the little house is off-limits for the night. “Side entrance. They… leave it unlocked, sometimes.”

He doesn’t ask questions.

Before he goes, he snakes a hand under your skirt, giving your ass a sizable squeeze - leaving you breathless.

You don’t feel the cold as you slip out, playing with a loose thread at the hem of your skirt. The side entrance is stiff but unlocked, and you duck past a screen, head on a swivel. Like a good girl, you sit on plush cushions, thighs pressed together to relieve a pressure that has been building since you met your masked man. And you want to touch yourself; to circle that little bud with clumsy fingers, imagining it was him.

You wait. And you wait. You settle between the cushions, adjust your skirt, look at your hair through a makeshift mirror - the glossy surface of windows overlooking the pool. Not wanting to risk turning on the lights, you wander past what little streams in from across the pool; flashing and pounding with the heady bass of music. You can't help but wonder where he's gone, if he's even coming, and what he had to do so desperately that he'd leave you wanting more.

At this point, you don't even care if he takes off his mask. You don't want to know a name, or see the real man underneath the costume. You just want him; writhing underneath as you bounce on his fat cock.

"Hey."

That voice makes you jump, swiveling to face him. How did he get in without you noticing? He was so quiet, so–

"Missed you." He says it so soft, it makes you melt, walking slowly towards him. Shrouded in shadow, as you get closer you notice he's shed his cloak, donned in a white t-shirt and straight leg jeans. Big boots, thick with fresh mud, thud onto the tile. When you meet, two figures cut by bright light, you almost gasp. He's taken off the mask. Instead of Mr Ghostface, you're met with a man - and he is so, so beautiful .

Tan skin. High cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass. His hair is haphazardly slicked back, fluffy and curly in all the right places. But it's his eyes: mischievous and glinting and serious all at the same time - absolutely gorgeous. You could look at him like this forever; chest heaving, messy, out of breath.

Your hand comes to his chest. He’s hot to the touch, clasping his great big hand atop yours. Squeezing, he pulls you closer, other hand creeping up bare thigh, before hooking under your ass in a move that makes you squeal.

From this close, his lashes look so pretty; wispy and romantic and yearning.

"You look beautiful.” He doesn’t kiss you, not yet, content with only watching - studying you with sharp eyes. “Always do."

All you hear are the compliments, too tipsy to notice what the stranger implies. You're not usually one for a one night stand, but he is intoxicating - intense in a way that's hard to explain.

Carding one hand through the curls at the nape of his neck, you press your lips to his in a kiss that starts off sweet and quickly deepens. He is hungry and devouring; licking up your moans with plump lips.

You lead him to the sofa, only separating for fleeting breaths. Eyes low, illuminated by a flash of light here and there; you force yourself to concentrate on him , shuddering breaths and all. He’s hard, rocking into your lower half splayed out beneath him and arms caged around your head. It’s sly, but you snake a hand past his t-shirt, across his back and then fumble with the belt. It makes him smile, soft laughter spilling into your parted lips; before he sits up above you.

“You want it that bad, huh?” Windswept, he croons, batting away your hands to unbuckle the clasp himself.

You groan, shifting upwards. You don’t notice the way his eyes dart down, eying up the peek of thigh that spills out of little shorts.

“Say it f’me, sweetheart.” He hikes up your skirt, exposing your covered cunt. He’s gentle, pawing at the flesh, pressing the heel of his palm right above your clit.

“F-Fuck!” The pressure is delicious, and you roll your hips up, up, up; chasing some semblance of relief. When he stops, you whine - clutching at his forearm, frustrated. “Want it, please .”

“Want what?” He prompts, lifting his shirt over his head in one quick movement. You’re met with the wide span of his chest, muscle taut and tight above you.

“Want you in me. I want… I want you to fuck me ‘til I break, pound my fucking hole so hard I can feel it in the morning. I want– ”

You’re babbling, now, spurred on by the way he tugs off black shorts, lifting up your legs to slip them off. He’s too slow, clearly enjoying watching you squirm and writhe.

“You can have it, sweetheart.” He coos, before capturing you into another kiss. This time, he separates and you follow him up; finally parting with a wet smack. “I’ll give you whatever you want, however you want it… but you gotta do something first.”

“ Anything .” You breathe.

“Fuck yourself, for me. I…I–”

“You like to watch.” You finish it for him, breathless.

“Please.” His head dips low; big, red-brown eyes never leaving yours.

The way he says it leaves you panting, hung off of every word. And you croon, leaning back into couch cushions, already hot at the way he kneads his thumbs to the flesh near your pussy. This close, he can see the way your cunt pulses, eating up a tiny thong between glistening lips. He’s kneeling on the floor, now, snaking his body around to get a perfect view, flashing looks between both your pretty lips.

More than willing to oblige, you pat at your clit, sending sweet pleasure coursing through your lower half. Even though your legs tremble, he holds you down, placing gentle kisses to your inner thighs. Slipping your thong to the side, you dip two fingers past your slit, gathering up slick to press carefully into your hole.

“So… so pretty. ” He sighs, not daring to close his eyes despite the pleasure he feels. When you notice how his other hand is buried in his pants; jerking up and down to match your pace. You start slow, for now, pumping two fingers in and out, heel of your palm snug against your clit. The sounds are obscene, the wet schlick-schlick ringing out in the quiet room.

“Prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever s-seen.” Your stranger moans, slathering over your thighs with sloppy kisses, occasionally swiping at your knuckles. Lower and lower, as you get faster and faster, his tongue makes you feel amazing. You’re close - entranced by your spot in the limelight and the sharp eyes that watch every ministration.

It’s only when you’re knuckle deep, well and truly fucking yourself ; chasing something just out of reach with his help; when two things happen, catching you by surprise. The first, the one that sends electricity down your spine, that makes you jolt and shiver and almost cum right then and there…

…is a wet kiss pressed to your asshole. He slathers and slobbers and licks large stripes up and down; ripping a great moan out from you. He doesn’t stop there, spreading the globes of your ass to delve deeper, tongue-fucking you as your hand stills - unable to concentrate on anything else. Pornographic, he humps his lower half to the same pace, sealing his mouth over your hole. With the vibrations of his moans sending pleasure straight to your clit, you finally cum - a rolling, bubbling orgasm that ends just as intensely.

The second thing that happens, just as you fall off the edge, is that you’re plunged into darkness. The lights from across the pool, once bright and flashing; are cut off. The music stops, and chatter dies down. Your stranger holds you through it, licking up cum from your neglected cunt, whispering sweet things into the skin.

“There it is, baby. Nice n’ slow.” He soothes as you whimper, hand tight in his hair.

In the dark, you’re heaving, feeling him slow down as your cunt clenches around nothing, empty. Shaky, you sit up on your haunches as he follows you up.

“Is everything…? What happened?” You’re a little panicked, shaken up from your orgasm.

“You’re okay, you’re okay. ” He rubs little circles into bare skin. “Too much?”

You shake your head, nuzzling into him. He gives your forehead a kiss, and you feel warmth bloom across your chest.

He shifts. “Just give it a…”

As if on cue, a generator whirs to life, flooding the little room in red light. Something similar seems to happen across the pool, as you take a quick glance to the window.

Your head is a little fuzzy. It aches as you catch his eye, looking at you intently.

“Do you want to stop? We don’t have to–”

“No.” You say it resolutely, with so much force it even catches you off guard. “I want to.”

“Fuck.” He mutters, brows pressed together imperceptibly.

For someone you’ve just met, he still looks at you like ice about to melt, like he’s bearing witness to the last breaths of a dying star. He looks at you like he knows you; like he knows how many half-truths and one-night stands you’ve had to endure. It makes you shiver; here, bathed in crimson light, pressed against one another.

He starts with your lips, a gentle thumb pressed flat, and then deeper, deeper, deeper. It’s like before, you realise, the taste of liquor and leather long gone. He keeps his eyes on you, careful as he pops the thumb out, groaning at the length of spit that comes with a flash of your pink tongue. You splay yourself out underneath him, drinking in the sight above; your stranger, your masked man once upon a time, shirtless and breathless and rock hard against your cunt. Now, he tugs down black boxers, its band cut across his torso just so. Thick hair; dark, curly, neatly trimmed; and you reach to trace down his happy trail, to get a hand on his pretty cock.

He just watches , eyes dark, leaning forward to rock into your soft palm and put his mouth on the skin that pillows out from a tight crop top. To give him more access, you tug it down, exposing sensitive nipple. And then that tongue; searching, inquisitive, precise; wraps itself around the flesh. You keen - a pretty moan that has his heart fluttering and eyes clasped shut.

“Inside.” At first, it’s a whisper, said in the throes of deep pleasure. You repeat it, slowing your hand at his cock.

When he doesn’t answer; still slathering at your tits, pawing the flesh that spills out from your costume; you tug, a sharp thing that has him moaning and sitting up on his haunches.

“Said I wanted you inside, baby.” You say - and his breaths are deep, his eyes are wild. “Do you want it? Do you want me?”

“A-Always….course I— ” He stops himself, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Finally, he nods and you continue, satisfied.

“Watch.” You titter, reaching down to line him up; carefully gathering slick up at the head of his cock. His tip weeps; shuddering like your stranger does above, getting close and hitching up you up to stay flush against you. His eyes stay trained downward. Inside, he mouths at your neck, groaning once his cock sinks into your fluttering hole.

There’s a tightening grip at your hips, big hands bunching up the skirt to keep you close, with a careful pressure at your clit. That sends heat coursing through your veins, tasting deep crimson in the air. He fucks; up close and humping like he wants to crawl into your skin, with a fervour you’ve never encountered before. It has you hot and sticky, desperate for that biting edge that keeps slipping from dainty fingers. You start to put a hand at your clit, tracing between your bodies when a strong hand pulls it away. Firm.

“No, no, no…” He whispers it, putting your wandering hand to his face, kissing the palm.

“Please. ” You whine. “M’close. So close.”

You feel him twitch inside, hips stuttering at your tone.

“No.” He says it again, resolute. “I’m going to make you cum. Gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart… just… just be patient. Please. For me .”

You’re reaching up for a kiss, of which he obliges. This time, it stays sweet; pink tongues swiped over lips.

“Look at me.” His hips shift, changing angles to hit that sweet spot like you’ve been moulded to his dick - like he knows just where to touch you to make you fall apart. “Look at me, hermosa. Ohh f-fuck, you take me so well… so pretty. You gonna milk my cock? Feels so good around me, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Like we’re ... L-Like–”

You groan, unable to tear yourself away from his writhing form: strong, lean muscles, tensing in the red light. And oh, isn’t he pretty, mere moments away from release, from spilling thick cum inside you.

“M’gonna–”

“I know, I know, hermosa. ” You like the way he says it, rolling off his tongue like honey; treacled and sweet. “Cum f’me, sweetheart. Want to feel you clamp around my cock. Cum for me. ”

And just like that, you’re gone; nails digging into his back as you careen off a steep cliff’s edge. Your stranger quickly follows, pulling out to wrap a tight hand around the base of his cock, spilling onto your stomach as you clench around nothing.

You’re whining, getting ready to complain; why hasn’t he come inside? why doesn’t he want to stay?; when he stills, settling by your side. Propped up by one arm, he crouches down to stroke at your cheek, to touch your jaw, moving your head this way and that - as if he’s looking for something hidden behind bright eyes.

In the red of the emergency lights, you suppose you’re looking for something too. A beat passes, and then another. The generator splutters, whirring and coughing. The lights turn off; replaced by the noise and white lights from across the pool.

So lost in one another, you hadn’t quite noticed; everything else falling away.

He clears his throat, clambering off of the sofa and tugging up his trousers. Quickly, he returns, a bundle of towels draped across his bare shoulders, and then he wipes off the cum - gently, separating sweaty limbs. Your costume is more or less intact, but you’re unable to do more than just lay there. He’s diligent and patient, not in any sort of rush. When you sit up, he pulls on a shirt, kneeling by your legs to play with a loose thread at your skirt. Too intimate, you suppose. With his head on your lap, you don’t think you care.

“We should leave.” You say it first, what’s been left in the air for someone else to pick apart.

“We should.”

“Can’t leave together.” You say simply, curling a hand in his hair.

Humming, he looks up lazily, with a hint of a smile. “You go first.”

Neither of you make a move to get up.

“Mr Ghostface,” You start, giggling. “What happened to your mask?”

“Lost it.” He’s cryptic. Finally, he stands.

Your stranger stretches out a rough palm, and you take it, getting up on shaky legs. You almost collapse onto his chest, but he’s there; solid, stoic. Looking up, and it catches you off guard: the intensity of his stare, how he watches in a way that makes you feel stripped bare.

“You first.” He repeats, still holding on.

He’s pretty. Of course he is, but the shadow and light makes his features even more pronounced. In the quiet, you take the opportunity to catch him off guard; standing on tip-toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. Jaw tight, he doesn’t react the way you want him to: ever-still, passive. Fuck. You’ve read it wrong: not used to the intensity of this kind of foray. After all: a one night stand seems too reductive, doesn’t quite span the depths and furrows of how your stranger has taken you apart. Finally, you leave the strange man still standing in the pool house. You don’t dare to look, but you can feel him; the weight of his stare at your back.

You can feel his hands, too; the ghost of his touch lingering as you make your way back to the house, mingling with the crowd.

~~~

You don’t tell your friends. You make your back home after the party, bundled into a taxi with a hand tight around your own wrist. It doesn’t feel like his hand on yours - not even close.

“I didn’t actually fuck him yesterday!” Your friend tugs on your sleeve, giggling into your shoulder as she recounts her night. A debrief with the girls turns into hungover breakfast-bleeding-into-lunch at your dorm. They’re bundled onto the sheets, some eating greasy takeout and others nursing bludgeoning headaches.

You’re fine, mostly. A little bit of liquid courage, but your hangover pales in comparison to some - catatonic on your rug and scrolling through their phone in a limbo-like state.

“You didn’t fuck him, but you wanted to.” Someone pipes up, and the conversation devolves into raucous laughter.

You laugh, tucked into yourself. The wonders of a half-dozen sophomores during Halloween - able to grin despite the shit storm that’s been mounting. Campus killers notwithstanding - they make you smile, at least.

“Were you there towards the end?” Someone asks, poking an elbow at your side. “When there was that blackout?”

You nod, simply - not trusting yourself to say more.

“I-I mean…” Her voice is suddenly shaky, thrusting a phone into your unsuspecting hands. “Well… they’re saying it must have happened then, or around that time.”

You squint, confused.

“And it could’ve been anyone, I suppose. There were like, what, a hundred people there? More? ”

“What?”

“A body. They found a body - by the pool house, or something…”

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns

@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #kinktober #miguel o hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #kat_writes😼

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anomaly-hivemind · 4 months ago

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Behind You ☆ Ghostface x reader | Kinktober Day 24

Summary: You get in your car only to have an unwanted visitor in the backseat. So, instead of getting stabbed, you get in the back with him.

Word Count: 1102

Tags: quickies, car sex, mask men, mask kink, face fucking, blow jobs, oral(male receiving), fingering, fem reader, choking, manhandling

You have been on edge lately, getting strange phone calls and pictures of you with little notes on the back, all of which are vaguely threatening, if not in a flirty undertone. Either way, it has made you very paranoid. You have a stalker, and there is no other word for it. This is why you're listing off every related curse word to yourself when you end up in the situation you are currently in.

You got into the front seat of your car, after spending far too much time in the store trying to get things you needed, and it had gotten dark. You hopped into the car and cut your music in hopes of stilling your nerves, and as you locked your doors, it was like sealing your faith. You freeze when you feel the gloved hand reach around your neck from the back of the seat. Your heart drops to you and you want to risk looking back at your stalker. You didn't even get to grab the seat belt before getting grabbed. You could hear them breathing heavily from behind you but it was muffled.

“You're going to do what I want and this will go real easy for you.” A distorted voice spoke through the thickening silence. You didn't want to die so you just got a short nod.

“That's a good girl.” The person muttered before grabbing you by the arm and forcing you to move into the back.

You stumble and borderline fall into the back seat, feeling completely disoriented. You look up and see your masked stalker looking down at you. A pit formed in your stomach, and a lump in your throat had your mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

You quickly sit up almost feeling dizzy with nervousness as the thick silence you despite your music playing faintly through the radio. You feel the gloved Hand yank your pants and underwear off roughly, and you feel the cold fabric of your seat against your bare lower half.

“Alright, pretty, behave, and we'll both have a good time.” He rubbed his gloved fingers against your folds, causing you to shiver. You let out a loud hiss when he pushed his fingers into you, scissoring them apart to stretch you out.

“Please don't kill me,” you whimpered out; your voice was shaky, and your heart was beating so loud it felt like it was going out of your chest.

“That's the last thing you need to worry about unless you do something stupid.” He pushed his fingers in and out of your cunt with each word he said, his voice rough as his thrust.

A part is you couldn’t deny that there was a mix of things turning you on between all the fear. You could literally hear the friction of his gloves disappearing with how wet you were getting for him. You could feel the bulge on his pants pushing against the fabric.

“I know what you're thinking, slut, you've always been so telling. Go ahead and suck it bitch!” You hear the voice change peak as he growls out his sentences to you.

You don't need to be told twice, and you, with shaky hands, work to free his cock out of his boxers. You put him against your wet tongue against the tip; you cover his cock with your saliva as he fucks you with his fingers, his knuckle brush against, adding the needed stimulation That was bringing you closer to cumming. You suck on his cock while moaning against him. You hate how good your stalker and potential future killer were finger-banging you. You clenched around his fingers, and your legs tried to push close. Your orgasm seems to only irritate the man as he yanks his fingers out of you and shoves his cock down your throat.

“Who said you could cum, you fucking slut” he forced you down against his balls, and you choked and gaged against him as your eyes watered.

“You'll only be cumming on my cock…And even then, I still might not let you cum!” He hissed as his hand held you down and still so he can fuck your face roughly.

He was slamming into your face so hard that you almost thought you were going to throw up from all the gagging. You hold his thigh in hopes that he will slow down, but he doesn't. Instead, he starts to move more aggressively and without rhythm as he works to claim your mouth. The hand that was once on the back of your head moves to your throat. He roughly pulls you off of him and yanks you by the neck upward. He flips you onto your back and holds you into place.

He holds your place by the neck tightly, causing you to gasp for air and grab at his hand to try and pull it away. Your body thrashes as it gets harder to breathe. He moves on top of you and loosens his grip as he slides into you fully. You both let out a moan, and you take in as much air as you can. He brings his other hand down to your neck and so both his hands are wrapped around the delicate area.

He starts thrusting into your soaking pussy, the sounds becoming louder than the faint radio. He tightens his grip on your neck, and you tighten your grip on his cock. You whine out a gargled wheeze as you start to get light-headed. You both were on the edge of climax from before, and it was all starting to climb back up.

You moaned out a bated breath as you felt like your orgasm was overcoming you. You felt like you were going to pass out or die at his tight hands. But the way he was making your pussy feel like heaven on ice was clouding your judgment more than lack of air was. Your eyes rolled back as his grip tightly more; everything went white as you experienced the most intense climax of your life, and then everything went black.

Your Ghostface staker releases his grip on your neck and blows his load in your accepting cunt before pulling out of you. He crawls his way into the front seat and starts your car. You're startled back to consciousness by the sound of the music getting louder. You feel like a puddle, and your legs still shake as you look over at the man driving your car.

“Time to take you home,” he purred, and you can't help but smile.

#smut #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #ghostface kinktober #ghostface fanfiction #ghostface smut #ghostface x reader #scream smut #scream #dead by daylight #jed olsen #scream 1996 #billy loomis #stu macher #dbd ghostface #dead by deadlight

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kurishiri · 6 months ago

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alfons v.s. ring . . . ring schwartz epilogue 💍

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— cw: suggestive undertones.

Kate: If it’s come to this... then let’s do it! I mean, pretending to do naughty things!

Ring: Y-yeah, I do know that’s our only choice here, but... there’s no way I could do it.

R: Um, those kinds of things... I’ve never actually done them before!

R: But... s-since you’re really cute... I’m sure you have plenty of experience and whatnot...!

Kate: W-what do you mean, ‘plenty,’ there’s no way I have that much experience! Anyway, forget about that, we need to do something about this...

K: Ring, you go shake and push on the bed to make it creak!

K: And I’ll listen in on the other room and make sounds to match!

Ring: ...That seems more doable.

Ring went atop the bed and started to jump on it.

The bed did start creaking, to be sure, but it also was making some jarring noises that made me think the bed was really about to break down.

Kate: Could you be a bit more gentle though, Ring? It’s too much...!

Ring: Oh, umm, then... how about this!?

He briskly stepped off the bed before he put both hands on the bed and started to push down.

By doing so, he could create a good creaking sound that didn’t go too far.

Woman’s voice: The bed from the room next door has started creaking.

Man’s voice: In that case, they’re probably just a pair of lovebirds. Guess we were worrying ourselves over nothing.

Woman’s voice: ...That said, don’t you think it’s strange that there’s not a peep from the other side?

(Oh, that’s right! I have to make noise too.)

Kate: Ah, ahh... ahhn...

Ring: H-hey, um. I can’t say I’ve heard others doing you-know-what before, so I may be wrong, but...

R: When women do, you know, the deed, do they really sound this monotone...?

Kate: I mean, we’re not actually doing it, so that makes it harder...

Woman’s voice: The panting from the room next door sounds a bit strange, wouldn’t you say?

Man’s voice: It sounds real flat...

(First Ring, and now the two in the next room over are doubting me too...! At times like these, then...!)

Kate: I-I’m really, really sorry! I’ve been told by a lot of partners that my panting sounds suuuper flat!

At this point, I decided to play into the role of ‘a woman whose pants sound flat’ as I raised my voice.

Ring: N-no matter how you are, I won’t mind at aaalll!

While continuing to push down on the bed, Ring returned a fitting line in response.

...Very monotonously, may I add, for the both of us.

Woman’s voice: ...Huh, I guess they really are just one odd couple.

Man’s voice: I mean, seeing as they’re using a room of a strange manor like this, that would be a given, probably.

Kate: Oh, thank goodness, it seems they’ve bought the act...! Let’s keep this up then!

Ring: Alright... but, sorry, I’m a bit hot, so I’ll take my jacket off.

Seeing as the bed is hard, having to push down hard enough to make sounds continuously must have taken a considerable amount of stamina.

With that, Ring casually took off his top layer and put it aside.

(...)

Maybe because of the way his clothes fit his body so well, his well-trained muscles were brought to the surface.

The sweat that came from shaking the bed moved traced the back of his neck, making him quite sexy.

Ring: ...Kate? Is there something wrong?

Kate: N-no, not at all! It’s nothing——

Taken aback at having become more conscious of Ring, my legs buckled suddenly,

and, preparing for the impact, I closed my eyes then and there.

Kate: ...!

(Hm? Wait, it doesn’t hurt...?)

Ring: Are you okay?

When I slowly opened my eyes, there Ring was, nearby, as he asked with a touch of worry in his voice.

(So Ring is the one who saved me and stopped the fall...)

Our bodies were touching, and I could feel his body was a bit warmer than mine, and he gave off a pleasant, earthy scent.

(Even though he’s holding me in his arms, he seems completely unperturbed... his appearance hardly betrays the fact he must be training regularly.)

(...Wait, what in the world are you looking at, Kate!?)

Kate: T-thank you for saving me. I’ll let go now.

Ring: ...Wait.

Kate: Huh...

When his earnest voice stopped me stiff, Ring’s hand gently slid to my cheek.

(W-what the...!?)

Ring: Your face is all red. Did you hit it somewhere?

(Oh... so he was worried for me.)

Kate: N-no, I didn’t. I’m fine.

Ring: But...

Kate: It’s just... we’re so close together that I’m a bit nervous... is all...

Ring showed no sign of pulling away himself, so I opted to give him an honest answer then. And when I did, Ring also turned red, as though it had moved over from me to him.

Ring: I-I see... then, umm, I’m glad if you’re okay.

R: Sorry for keeping you like that. ...And should we continue then? What we were doing before, I mean.

After that, we continued our act of panting and shaking the bed until we exited the room.

Ring looked exhausted as we exited the room, and there was Alfons, waiting out in the hallway.

Alfons: Thank you for your hard work. Now then, were you able to listen in for what we needed?

Kate: Yes, all of it and everything...

Alfons: My word, is that a hoarse voice I hear? And not only that...

A: I see Ring has stripped his outer layer off and is positively sweaty as well.

A: Would it be safe to assume... you two have gone aaall the way, by any chance?

Ring & Kate: “No!” “Absolutely not!”

Fin.

will vs darius jude vs nica alfons vs ring

← prev fin

END NOTES: this story was so silly and makes me smile whenever i read it, haha. ring seems to be the most popular of the vogel trio, seeing he has gotten a dark mafia design, and it’s not hard to see why. his charm is in his innocence, and it’s like a breath of fresh air in this game, and i hope i could capture it too.

i’m overall curious about all the vogel members and feel this story event is a strong debut for all three. thank you for reading, and hope you enjoyed! i’d love to hear your thoughts as well ♡

full masterlist 🪞💍

#the silly #i saw that end coming loll #ikemen villains #ikevil #イケメンヴィラン #ikevil ring #ikevil ring schwarz #ring schwarz #ring schwartz #ikemen villains ring #cybird ikemen series #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikemen series #otome game #otome #ikevil translation #ikevil translations #div: cafekitsune

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sparkrls · 1 year ago

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simple questions

MASTERLIST

Summary: in which Harry is eager to makes his girl happy and she just wants answers to simple questions

Author’s Note: a blurb i wrote based on these Harry pics because I am NOT over it

Word Count: 2.6k words

•••

Her boyfriend was an idiot. That’s what Y/N resolved as she watched him stumble over his words as he was asked a simple question of, “Who’s the girl you’re with?”. It wasn’t even anyone important asking, just a fan who’d noticed Harry and felt brave enough to ask for a photo, albeit with hands that shook as she passed over her phone.

It had started as Y/N’s idea. She knew she was entirely at fault for Harry’s nerves, but it wasn’t even completely her idea. She had just asked him, “Have you ever had a public outing with a partner?”

It was an innocent question, asked due to pure curiosity, not with any ulterior motive as Harry suspected. He had given her a look, trying to get a read on her intent behind those words. He tended to do that a lot. Doubt people’s words, like they had some double meaning, and they were trying to trick him into making a fool of himself. She had a tough time getting him to trust her enough as to not doubt her as much, but the trust issues slipped through every once in a while.

Harry then stumbled over his words, the way a newborn doe might trip and fall as it clambered onto its frail legs. Simple questions were never his forte. He could answer you deep, philosophical questions and ponder them in his mind without hesitation, but it was the simple questions that tripped him up. A whole conundrum, if you asked Y/N.

Eventually, Harry admitted, “No.”

She’d stared at him with a deadpan expression, because it had taken an extraordinary amount of ‘um’s and ‘uh’, along with some weird humming sounds to get a one-word answer from him.

So she followed up with, “Don’t you wanna?”

“Do you want me to do it with you?”

“Well, no, I was just asking because-“

“I’ll do it with you,” Harry rushed to say.

Sometimes he tended to rush himself into doing favors for people he didn’t really want to do. A tendency lots of overly kind people had. And he’d always have this particular warm, soft tone when he did. And she loved that little tone that indicated he was feeling kind. But lots of times he regretted agreeing to those things and would stumble home to her apartment, grumbling and griping about whatever stupidity he’d been forced to do. So it grew into a strange mixture of adoration and disdain for that tone. Because she never liked to see her boy tired to the bone because he was too polite to back away from a promise. (Although she did love running her fingers through his soft hair until he fell asleep with his head on her lap)

This time, however, Harry wasn’t using that warm tone. It was a much different one, a bit of a higher pitch, and with a much sweeter undertone. It was a tone he used when he was trying to win the favor of his girlfriend.

She chuckled, “Baby, I didn’t ask you to-“

Harry had one arm rested on her waist and the other underneath the pillow she rested her head on. “But I wanna,” He said with a small pout, an almost whiny quality to his words. His cherry lips looked so kissable when they stuck out that way. “Wanna show the world you’re mine.” He leaned up until his nose was nuzzling her neck, and his lips brushed against her collarbone. “Mine and only mine.”

His lips clamped down on her skin, sucking at it for a moment before allowing his teeth to nibble lightly. Sharp stings followed wherever his teeth sunk in so deliciously, sending sparks throughout her whole body.

Y/N had learned early on that Harry had a very possessive side to him. He’d spent years feeling that everything he was belonged to the public, including all the dirty details of his personal life and his friends and partners. And now he had regained that privacy (he’d had to pry it by force from the unfailing grip of the media), he wanted to claim everything as his own.

It was why Harry was so fiercely protective of his friends and loyal to a fault. He felt the incessant urge to always stick by their side. He finally knew what it was like to have something belong to him, and it was his greatest fear to lose it.

After a lot of therapy, communication and compromise, Harry had not only found a healthy balance for himself but for his relationship with Y/N as well. A certain possessiveness that she wouldn’t deny him because she could never refuse anything he asked, and it was just part of who he was. But a harsh line as to not become controlling or overprotective as Harry had threatened to do in previous relationships.

The habits snuck into their daily lives, as Harry had a tendency to leave marks where everyone could see them. Therefore, the hickeys on the neck which Y/N always had to cover with concealer because she despised turtlenecks with a passion.

“Love, I’m not doubting your choice,” she began to speak, interrupted by Harry leaving open-mouthed kisses from her jugular up to the base of her jaw. And it was getting hard to think straight when his lips were on her and his tongue was tracing delightful patterns.

Y/N cleared her throat trying to focus. “However, I don’t want this to be an impulse decision. Think it through.”

Harry separated his lips from her skin long enough to murmur, “I’m sure. I wanted to make it public to everyone soon anyways, might as well go out together.” As he spoke, his warm breath grazed against her sensitive skin, causing goosebumps.

“Go out where?”

“The Man U match, obviously.”

And that was why Y/N spent the next week fussing over her choice of hairstyle, whether to leave her natural waves or straighten it or straighten it and then create strategically messy waves. And then freaking out on the phone to her best friend about whether her outfit was a good choice or not. Because of course, she had to look stylish for her first public appearance with Harry- those photos would be circulating the internet until the day she died- but she also had to dress for the unforgiving winter and plan for rain. Even if she was going to be in the VIP suite with Harry, the entrance and exit could possibly have rain, and she couldn’t always count on an umbrella. She’d learned that the five times she’d gotten stuck in the rain while waiting at a too-full bus stop in peak traffic in London.

The point was, Y/N didn’t want to let down Harry nor the fans by wearing the wrong hairstyle, clothes or makeup. Resulting in overthinking every tiny detail down to the jewelry.

The morning of, it was Harry who soothed her nerves saying, “Love, if you don’t want to do it we don’t have to. It was always a choice.”

“I want to, but it’s just…” She looked up at him with a shaky breath. “It’s scary.”

“We can wait,” Harry replied, placing her face in his hands, his thumb caressing her cheek. “We’ll stay home and watch the game on the telly, we’ll wear our sweats and I’ll order in some food from that Thai place you’ve been wanting to try.”

Taking a good look at Harry from top to bottom, from those dress pants that clung to his thighs in the most delightful manner, and the button-up that tragically hid his well-sculpted biceps to the sweater vest he’d bought the first time they’d gone shopping together. He looked so soft and warm, yet so confident and sure of himself. Like a scale that had finally found balance.

Harry had an energy that screamed youthful, but he’d recently settled into the warm feeling of peace that came not with age, but the realization that chaos wasn’t necessary to be happy. He wasn’t afraid of his career always being on the chopping block, or the precarious opinions of outsiders. He had found himself, and with it, found an inner peace he’d never had before.

And it showed. From the way he dressed, to the courage of him showing up to their hotel room with the surprise of a shaved head one day, to the way he carried himself so firmly. He was centered. He was calm. And he was happy.

This was the first time everyone else would get to see Harry after the latest stage of his self-discovery. And Y/N wouldn’t be the one to hold him back. “No, I want to go,” she said firmly. “But I want you to pick my outfit.”

To no one’s surprise, Harry picked an outfit that was primarily made up of clothing from his own closet, completely shoving aside the outfit she had previously picked out for herself because, “Babe, I have better taste than you.”

Y/N didn’t have bad taste, but when it came to fashion, she laid her trust in Harry… most of the time.

The only thing he kept were the jeans she’d picked out, a new pair she’d gotten recently which flattered her figure. They were high waisted and cropped at the ankle, the color a grayish tone of the classic denim. Most importantly, they highlighted her ass. The one thing that no matter how insecure she was, she always loved. And Harry did as well, if the way he swatted her ass playfully a couple of times a day was any indication.

He paired it with a long-sleeve white top that clung to her skin, a green sweater on top that was slightly baggy on her figure as it was one of his and one a black coat that would keep her warm. Harry was careful to make sure all the layers would keep her warm even in the winter air, as he knew she tolerated much less cold than he did.

“Cute,” Harry said with a dimpled smile when she finished putting on the outfit and gave him a twirl to showcase it. “You’re really pretty, darling.” He hooked his fingers through her belt loops and yanked her forward until she almost toppled into his chest as he sat on the edge of his bed. He gave her a soft smile, the kind he gave her right before a heartfelt message- “And ten times prettier because I chose the outfit.”

Y/N swatted his arm playfully at his joke, and he simply laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “It’s a basic outfit.”

“Aw, don’t be mean because the outfit I picked out is better than the one you did.”

“You’re such a bully.”

Harry grinned at her. “Is that so?”

She nodded in mock earnestness. “Yeah. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Harry replied simply.

“No, I don’t.”

With a couple of more kisses which included wiping the lipstick from Harry’s lips, the couple got into the car and held hands as the engine started and drove them to the stadium.

“So, we’re cheering for Man U, right?”

Harry sighed heavily. “Love, do you even know me?”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” She said with a chuckle, raising her hands defensively. “Man U for football and Green Bay Packers for the other football.” She gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry baby, but I know nothing about football.”

“I’m going to be explaining all the rules, aren’t I?”

Y/N’s silence was enough of a response.

But then it was time for the most dreaded moment of the day, when they entered the stadium hand-in-hand, walking past press and media and paparazzi.

Harry laced his fingers between hers and gave her a small squeeze before opening the car door and stepping out. He was quick, making her almost jog to catch up with his long strides. He’d warned her he would move hastily as to avoid lingering around the cameras longer than necessary.

There was one quick snap and a small flash and then-

They were inside the stadium and no press could chase them in any longer.

“Wait, that was it?” Y/N asked, glancing at the door they’d just walked through as their pace slowed down.

Harry glanced at her quizzically. “Did you expect more?”

“Well, you always describe it all huge and dramatic, flashing lights and a billion cameras and a huge crowd of screaming lunatics-“

“Football matches are different,” Harry said, chuckling as he interrupted her rant.

“I got worried over that?” Y/N signaled over her shoulder, her jaw dropping. “Seriously?!”

Harry laughed. “What do you expect me to say? You’re an overthinking maniac?”

She huffed, “This is your fault.”

Harry kissed her when her lips pouted. “Love you, darling.”

“Love you too,” She grumbled as they made their way to the VIP suite.

And that’s the full story of how they’d ended up at the Man U match- which they won, thank god, because Harry would’ve teased her relentlessly for being bad luck- and with a fan asking for a photo and asking who Y/N was.

“Um, well- she- we met- me and her-“ Harry couldn’t seem to form a train of thought, so she rolled her eyes and took control of the situation.

Holding out a hand for the fan to shake, Y/N said her name and said, “I’m Harry’s girlfriend. Nice to meet you, babe.”

The fan’s jaw dropped. It was a bit hilarious, but out of sheer politeness, Y/N held back her laughter. “You are definitely hot enough. Cool. Bye.” Turning on her heel, the fan walked away.

Harry seemed in shock as Y/N laughed, turning to him, completely bewildered. “You hear that? I’m ‘hot enough’!”

Without a care in the world of the dozen of cameras probably pointed at them, Harry grasped her face in his hands and gave her a deep, loving kiss.

Y/N scanned his face, a giddy smile on her own, “What was that for?”

“For being my girlfriend,” Harry replied before pulling her back in for another kiss. So maybe she’d allow her boyfriend a celebratory kiss or two or maybe five before they had the decency to move out of sight of the cameras. And just maybe, it wasn’t their last football match together.

Two years later, Y/N and Harry would return to the very same stadium for yet another Man U match, a bit older, a lot more mature and their love stronger after growing roots for so long. The tree flourishing with branches extending to the deeper reaches of her heart, she had never felt so fulfilled. Like the world was so much lighter and easier to endure even with the extra weight of a diamond ring on her finger, and a white gold band identical to the one on Harry’s hand.

“Who’s the girl you’re with?” The fan asked, a 15-year-old girl with her hair dyed blue and a Love On Tour shirt on, her curious eyes scanning Y/N, a flicker of familiarity in them.

Harry smiled, looking his wife up and down, admiring the outfit he’d carefully chosen for her earlier that day. He inhaled deeply, and for once, he didn’t trip over his words as he replied firmly, “This is Y/N. I’m her husband.”

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andypantsx3 · 1 year ago

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READY OR KNOT | 1 | TODOROKI SHOUTO x READER

Tetsutetsu’s apartment was exploding with people by the time you made it in from the cold.

Even from outside, you could hear the chatter of dozens of voices, the thumping bass of a distant party playlist. The front door was practically wedged shut by all the bodies blocking it, and you had to suck in a breath as you squeezed yourself through, slithering through what seemed to be every single employee of the Pink Riot agency—a plethora of bulky pro heroes stuffed in among lanky support techs and sleepy-eyed case analysts.

Inside, it stank of warm beer with a slightly sweeter, sharper liquor undertone. Your nose wrinkled. You could only imagine what the scent was like to your alpha and omega coworkers, grateful you had a beta’s dulled sense of smell, and no innate reaction to the physical proximity of other secondary genders. The space was already almost overwhelming as it was, the press of people nearly claustrophobic, although no one else looked like they minded much.

You shoved yourself through the crowd, squeezing through people, somewhat regretting how late you’d gotten here. You hoped there was still something good to drink.

In your defense, you’d gotten bogged down with a bombshell of a new case at the agency, something Mina had pulled you aside to talk about on your way out to the party. She’d meant for you to pick it up Monday, as you couldn’t take any action until a supervising hero had been assigned to you. But it was so unlike any other case you’d been handed in your years at Pink Riot that you’d immediately yanked your coat back off and holed yourself up at your desk, poring over the information in shock.

The case file told you that there was a rogue pro hero harassing and assaulting the omegas in Bunkyo ward—the very ward the Pink Riot agency operated in.

What was more, local authorities suspected someone from the agencies within Bunkyo itself, considering the attacks were exclusively confined to the ward and had so far never deviated. The police had been alerted to the fact that a hero might be involved when one of the omegas who had been attacked last night had escaped, shaken but untouched, and reported their aggressor attempting to strap quirk suppressors on them—tech that was almost exclusively a tool of the heroics trade.

And so all Bunkyo-based agencies had been asked to internally investigate their heroes, with mandatory out-of-agency supervising heroes to be assigned to the cases as well, to ensure everything was above board and no cover ups were being staged. And you, as Mina’s personal friend and therefore the case analyst she trusted most with a sensitive file like this, had been assigned the task.

And it was already almost too mind-boggling for you to bear.

You plowed your way towards the kitchen, eager to chase away the idea of any of your hero coworkers as the perpetrator. You liked and trusted all of the heroes Pink Riot had on call, and hoped so desperately that another agency was at fault here. You couldn’t imagine a single one of them being responsible for something like this. You couldn’t imagine the harasser themself attending this very party.

Once in the kitchen, you discovered that Tetsutetsu had invited more than just the Pink Riot agency itself—he had also apparently invited a plethora of heroes from his former UA days. Sero Hanta and Uraraka Ochako were propped up in the kitchen with Mina and Kirishima, smiling and chatting, while Iida Tenya stood next to them, looking, as usual, like he was on the verge of a hernia. Monoma Neita was skulking in a corner, along with a couple of lower-level heroes you recognized as Tetsu’s Class B friends.

Mina perked up immediately when she caught sight of you, hopping off the counter at Kirishima’s side, beckoning you closer with a hot pink nail.

“You have to taste this disgusting thing Tetsu made,” she told you gleefully, gesturing at something vaguely gelatinous on the stove. You recoiled reflexively, even as Mina ladled a generous portion into a plastic cup for you, passing it over.

You did not like the weight of it in your hand—and the smell of it, even to your duller senses, was not exactly appetizing, more nail polish remover in profile than anything.

“Wow, this looks almost as lovely as the new case file. How generous of you,” you intoned, taking a small, investigative sip. The taste zipped down your spine all the way to your toes, so alcoholic you could almost taste an emergency room visit.

But it figured. Pro heroes in general were a hard bunch to get drunk, their metabolisms fast and their bodies honed to withstand limits a normal person could never. You imagined this was Tetsu’s own invention based on years of personal research.

Mina sloshed her own cup at you, bright-eyed as she normally was, but otherwise looking unruffled. “Tetsu and Eiji already have a bet going which of them can put back more of this, but my bet is on me,” she grinned. “They’re behind a cup already.”

You winced. “Such responsible agency heads I have.”

Mina practically cackled. “You love it.”

You couldn’t help the fond smile that pulled at your mouth, listening to her bright laughter. “I do.”

And it was true, after years at the Pink Riot agency you were spoiled for anywhere else.

Your caseload was broad and interesting, Mina and Kirishima the perfect amount of invested but trusting, always caring about the results you brought in for the safety they brought Bunkyo ward, but never micromanaging you or demanding the impossible. The agency was a little bit smaller than other agencies founded by members of their former class—a mid-sized, fairly-closely knit operation that prioritized action and minimized bureaucracy.

And it was a sort of family operation. Mina was an omega, small and bright and totally beautiful the way so many omegas were, the warmness of her personality like a magnet. And Kirishima was her bonded alpha—fairly friendly and easy-going for one, you thought—but strong, firm in his resolve, and deeply committed.

You liked them, liked their relationship, and liked how their traits translated to their management of their joint agency. You liked how the agency had basically sprung up around them, filled to the brim with good people. And so yeah, Mina was right. You did love it.

“Make sure you unwind,” Mina ordered you, flashing a pink nail in your face. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that it’s been like two hours since I saw you disappear with that case file.”

Your cheeks heated. “Did you know some agency heads like it when their employees do their jobs?”

Mina grinned wickedly, then made a sort of clucking noise. “Did you know that some agency heads are no funsies? I like when my employees do their jobs and still have time for a social life.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. Your social calendar had never been so full as when you started working at Pink Riot, their rosters absolutely packed with outgoing heroes. Someone or other was always throwing a party, organizing a celebratory dinner when an especially big case was closed, or dashing across the floor yelling “drinks on me!” after nailing a particularly notorious villain.

Between the agency and your own friends you thought you were kept rather busy. But the sudden, shifting look of undue interest on Mina’s face told you she thought otherwise.

“When was the last time you went on a date, hmm?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows. “I never catch you smelling like anyone. Looking for anyone here?”

“And who told you you could smell me?” you demanded.

Mina cackled. “It’s not like I can turn my nose off. Plus you smell nice and comforting. Very beta. I wouldn’t stop smelling you even if I could.”

Your ears went hot. Alphas and omegas were always so nosy and inquisitive, a byproduct of being able to smell way too much for your comfort, a fact you and your circle of beta friends never missed a chance to bemoan.

And this was not the first time you’d been told as much, most betas apparently smelling some level of chill and less intrusive than the insistent scents of alphas and omegas. You didn’t exactly understand how something could smell chill, but enough people had said it that you accepted it.

“Well then it’s good I’m not polluting that with other smells,” you said. “Now mind your business.”

Mina’s grin was sharp as she reached over to ladle more of Tetsu’s concoction into your cup, a small revenge. “Fine but keep your options open tonight! I know plenty of nice beta boys I can set you up with—there’s a couple of analysts from Ingenium’s crowd here tonight.”

You nodded, affecting sincerity, although you had absolutely no plan to follow through. You were going to find your agency friends, go ham on some apps, and then head back home just as soon as Mina and Kirishima ended the night the way they usually did—locked mouth to mouth after drinking a little too much, causing a scene.

You waved Mina away, poking your head back out the kitchen door and surveying the rest of the party. Over near the couch, you caught a flash of a couple of your fellow case analysts in conversation with Asui Tsuyu, a beta hero at your agency who you got on well with. Your people exactly.

However, no sooner had you started to push back into the crowd than something slammed into your shoulder, sending you stumbling back into the wall. Your drink splashed right up over your shoulder, cold and biting. You let out a strangled noise, turning your head on impulse and catching a mouthful of hair.

“Oh my god, I am sooo sorry,” a soft voice said. You realized you’d collided with an omega analyst from another Bunkyo agency—a girl you vaguely remembered from a joint case a few years ago. She was small, petite, and delicately pretty in the way of most omegas. And she had also managed to empty nearly the entirety of your cup onto you.

“Shit, shit—I got your shirt wet!” she said, yanking herself back from you. She looked a little glassy-eyed, but genuinely apologetic, and she wiped at your shoulder with her bare hand. Definitely a bit drunk.

“No—it’s fine,” you told her, attempting to duck her hand. “I also didn’t see you!”

The omega girl didn’t look reassured however. She frowned, pausing over you—then suddenly slithered right out of her cardigan, throwing it over your shoulders.

“We’ll hide it like that. Please take it,” she said, her delicate fingers flitting back and forth over your now-covered shoulder, like she still itched to fix something. The cardigan was soft and warm, and even you could tell it smelled good—a soft, powdery, classically omegan scent.

“It’s really fine—” you insisted, immediately shrugging the cardigan back off, though you appreciated the gesture. You glanced down at your shoulder, surveying the damp patch that was slowly soaking closer to your boob. “It’s clear—it will dry in a couple of minutes and no one will be any the wiser. It already stinks like alcohol in here anyway.”

The omega girl hesitated as you handed her sweater back to her. She leaned in to sniff you tentatively. “Are you sure? I really am so sorry. Your mate is going to be so mad, now you can’t really smell you over the vodka unless you get in close—”

You held up a hand, sending her a reassuring smile. “I don’t have a mate, so there’s no problem. I promise.”

You did not add that as a beta, your pool of potential mates was limited to other betas, and that no beta’s sense of smell was enough to get worked up over this. Alphas and omegas tended to forget that not everyone was as sensitive as they were.

She bit her lip, the gesture pretty, but looked somewhat mollified. “You’re sure?” she ventured one last time.

You nodded. “Totally sure. I appreciate the gesture though.”

She nodded, still looking hesitant, and you decided there was only one way to put an end to this.

“Nice to see you, though. Maybe I will catch you around later!” you said, waving her off firmly. You quickly abandoned your now empty cup on a nearby table and turned to head back into the living room. You spotted Tsuyu’s head of dark green hair through the crowd of shoulders, a homing beacon in the dim.

As you charted an unsteady path through the crush of people, you noted several more heroes and analysts from other agencies, including Kaminari Denki and a beaming Midoriya Izuku, crammed into a corner and chatting animatedly to—oh.

Your cheeks flushed. Pro hero Shouto was here.

The other hero stood tall and solemnly handsome across from Midoriya, just as maddeningly gorgeous as always. You, like every other person with working eyeballs, had long nursed a tiny bit of a celebrity crush on him, as he was literally the most beautiful person on earth—a fact evidenced by his now six-year running sweep of Tokyo Beat magazine’s cutest hero award.

In your time at Pink Riot, you’d worked a couple of joint cases with Shouto’s agency and met him a few times in passing. You’d always found him to be a little bit intense, but kind, thoughtful, straightforward, and diligent. He was every bit the reassuring hero the media made him out to be, and even more striking in person. He also always wore scent patches flush at the sides of his neck, concealing what his secondary gender was from prying noses, although you’d always sort of suspected he had to be an omega.

He was tall and solid and strong in the way of most pro heroes. But his features were so finely-wrought, so strangely graceful and elegant for a man, that you would have put significant amounts of money down on his omega status.

Not that it mattered. Betas really only dated betas, and alphas really only omegas, so Shouto’s status wasn’t much to you, regardless of what it was.

You slipped past, averting your eyes, wondering absently if an omega like Todoroki Shouto ever encountered harassment like the victims in your newest case file. Maybe his scent blockers were for this very purpose—hiding his omega status so he didn’t run the risk. You imagined with a face like his, he would be sure to garner migraine-inducing levels of undue interest.

This thought was suddenly arrested, however, when a hand pressed to your chest, shoving you back into the wall you were sidling past.

Your breath wooshed out of your lungs as a strangled “fwuuh” noise escaped you. Your gaze jerked up to find an alpha you somewhat recognized was holding you against the wall, grinning in an incredibly unsettling way.

Fuzzily, you matched his face to one of the techs from the support department, someone you occasionally saw at work functions but never worked directly with. Support interfaced mainly with the heroes, mending their tech, inventing new items, and—if Mina’s complaints were to be believed—running up quite the bill for the agency with their experimentation.

“Can I—help you?” you garbled out, staring the alpha down.

He leaned in, leery, slurring, “What’sa pretty li’l thing like you doin’ here, huh?”

He smelled strongly of Tetsutestu’s horrid concoction, like the alcohol was literally seeping from his pores. You frowned, shifting uncomfortably under his hand. It was large, and too-warm against your shoulder, and the desire to turn and bite it welled up in your mouth.

“Can you get off me?” you asked, grabbing the alpha by the wrist. A support tech though he was, his hold on you was firm, and your grip didn’t dislodge him. He clung to your sweater, his gaze glassy but intense.

He closed his eyes, nose twitching like he was-–ew—like he was scenting you. “Aww come on baby. A li’l omega like you? There’s no need to pr’tend you don’t want this.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion bubbling up inside you. A little omega like you? What the fuck was he talking about? Was he that blasted?

“You have three seconds before I bite you,” you said, certain that would be clear enough, even if he was too drunk to tell you were a beta.

But his hand didn’t move. Instead he laughed, hot and humid and smelling strongly of liquor, and he fumbled with something at his belt.

A hot wave of fear suddenly washed over you, a stab of panic lancing your heart. He wasn’t going to expose himself right here, was he? You pushed back against the wall, feeling entrapped, yanking at his wrist harder to get him off of you.

“I’m not an omega,” you said loudly. “And I’m not interested, now get—”

The alpha’s hand was gone. You blinked, suddenly finding his face missing too, your vision gone entirely gray and strangely…knitted?

“Do not touch her,” a deep voice intoned, and you realized you were staring at a broad back, clad in a handsome gray sweater. You tipped your head back, your gaze fixing on a suspiciously familiar mop of scarlet and white hair.

Shouto. Pro hero Shouto had put himself in between you and the asshole alpha.

A thrill raced down your spine.

“The fuck I won’t,” a snort issued over one of Shouto’s strong shoulders.

There was a small, silent moment where you watched Shouto’s head tilt just the tiniest bit. He didn’t say anything in return—but a sudden, creeping unease slithered over your senses, raising the hair on the back of your neck. An audible hush fell over the people nearest you, though you couldn’t see what exactly was happening, caged between Shouto’s back and the wall.

You could just make out Shouto’s scent patches, perfectly even against his neck like always, and wondered whether they would help—-if the alpha couldn’t smell Shouto was an omega, maybe he thought he would respect his boundaries more?

“Dude—” someone hissed, from somewhere near the alpha, just as Shouto spoke once more.

“You will leave,” he intoned in that deep tone again. His voice was soft, placid—but the feeling of unease grew within you, a strange itch under your skin. You had the sudden urge to flee, but one of Shouto’s hands closed over your wrist, as a cerulean eye caught yours over his shoulder. “You…please stay.”

You could do nothing but nod, your feet practically freezing in place, the desire to obey subsuming your entire brain. What the hell was happening?

As Shouto turned back to face the alpha again, that hunted feeling grew stronger, like there was something in the apartment that you should be very, very wary of. Your throat started to close up, and your breath came a little short.

The room was so suddenly silent that you could hear the nervous shift of the people beyond Shouto, and you caught the sound of the alpha suddenly stumbling back.

“You’re—are you fucking Ordering me?” The alpha asked, but you could hear that he was still backing away.

The question crawled right under your skin along with the unsettled feeling.

An Order. As in, an Alpha Order. From Shouto? Pretty, kind, patient, careful Shouto? Classic omega material Shouto?

Was…using an Order on an alpha, and it was working?

Your head spun with the mismatch between Shouto’s face and the latent command in his tone. It was almost too strange to be contemplated, and yet here it was playing out in front of you.

Shouto, for his part, didn’t bother answering the question. “I believe I asked you to leave,” he said firmly. His voice carried an inflection that sliced through the air like a knife.

“Sorry, Todoroki, he’s super fucking drunk—I’ll get him out of here,” another voice said, one you recognized as a different support tech.

It sounded like he didn’t need to expend the effort, however, as the alpha’s footsteps were already beating a hasty retreat. The other support tech’s footsteps followed, his pace clipped on the hardwood.

As soon as they were out of view, the suffocating feeling all but evaporated. You could almost feel the sigh of relief around the room, and the line of Shouto’s shoulders untensed.

He turned to you slowly, drawing in a deep breath. His normally blank expression had been exchanged for something troubled, his perfect eyebrows knitted in concern, his full mouth pursed up like he’d just let it drop from a snarl.

He blinked down at you for a second, those distinct heterochromatic eyes flicking over you, before you found yourself suddenly crowded back into the corner, your back bumping the wall. Shouto leaned down and gave a delicate sniff at your temple, as if checking your condition.

“Are you alright?” he asked. His voice was still strange, rough with something you couldn’t name.

He was warm where he lingered over you, his shoulders broad enough that they blocked the light and cast falling shadows into the meager space between you. He was near enough that the dip of his sweater collar rasped over your shoulder, sending a swarm of tingles over your skin. You drew in a careful breath, trying to figure out just what the right answer was, coming up with nothing.

Shouto frowned over your lack of a response. His nose pressed right into your hair, and he crowded even closer, like he was trying to find the source of your discomfort—even though he’d just chased that source right through the front door.

“Your scent is difficult to find,” he murmured, his chest expanding and contracting. “It is covered by many things…” He trailed off as he seemed to find it—and then something strange happened—even stranger than the scene with the support tech alpha.

Shouto froze in place, going so unearthly still he might have been transmuted into marble. You heard his breath catch and hold in his lungs, and his fingers came up to grasp your sleeve, clutching you tightly.

You opened your mouth to ask what was wrong when a shudder swept down him, from head to toe. His grip on your wrist tightened for a moment, and a groan bubbled up from somewhere low in his throat.

“Your scent—” he rasped, then cut himself off.

He huffed out a harsh breath instead, stirring your hair, before his face dropped into the cradle of your shoulder. He breathed in, slow, measured, his mouth just barely touching the skin of your throat. You could feel his long, pretty eyelashes flutter against your skin, and the sensation sent shivers down your spine.

Something under your skin shifted in response, then.

To your utter shock, you could feel yourself tilting your head to the side, baring your neck. A strange feeling of malleability settled over you, like your bones had jellified and your muscles had atrophied.

“Shouto—?” you garbled out, unable to articulate any question beyond what the fuck was happening? You knew it had something to do with the way Shouto was most definitely not an omega after all. The thought made your brain fuzz with static.

Pretty, gentle, elegant Todoroki Shouto was an alpha. Kind, placid, beautiful Todoroki Shouto was even some kind of…distressingly strong alpha.

It crossed all the wires in your brain to think of that face possessing that kind of strength. But there was clearly something there. And you were being so weird and embarrassing about it, but you couldn’t have moved, even if you wanted to.

It felt like a short eternity, the time Shouto stood over you like that, his face pressed into your throat, your own throat bared to him. Your heartbeat pounded in your chest, simultaneously hammering a zillion miles a minute, and yet feeling slow, syrupy.

Distantly, you registered the hum of voices in the background, Tetsutetsu trying to rekindle the happy atmosphere. But Shouto was so warm over you, breathing slow and shallow, a tall, strong anchor weighing you against the wall.

It could have been minutes or hours before he finally stepped away. He looked calmer, but a little dazed. You felt the same way, mystified by what had just occurred between you.

His gaze picked over you in some kind of assessment. “You’re well?” he asked carefully. His voice was pitched low.

“Yeah,” you managed, your throat weirdly dry. “Yeah. I—thank you, Shouto.”

Shouto inclined his head in a nod. “You, as well. I don’t usually…I try not to rise to anger. But when alphas try to use their power to—” he cut himself off. His throat bobbed with some emotion you couldn’t name.

“Your scent is….calming to me.”

You nodded. The beta chill thing again, like Mina had said.

“Your friendly neighborhood beta, at your service,” you saluted him, trying to ignore the strange, lingering shiver in your limbs.

A tiny smile quirked the corner of Shouto’s mouth, but his gaze remained fixed on you, almost inhumanly intense.

“That is not quite what I mean,” he said, but did not elaborate. There was something in his voice, in the way he was looking at you that you didn’t understand, but you didn’t know him well enough to try to dig into it.

Instead you just gave him another smile, your face heating as you noticed several people around you were still watching you.

You figured it was probably time to make an escape after that little scene you had just caused, for Shouto’s reputation as well as yours. You didn’t need people thinking Shouto had been scenting you for any reason other than your apparent beta chill pill scent, especially now that people at the party would know he was an alpha.

God, he was an alpha, even with a face like that.

You waved at him, garbling out another, “Well, thanks for the save! I, um, have to be going, but I’ll see you around!” before throwing yourself back through the crowd, your head spinning.

Mina had come out of the kitchen and tried to flag you down as you passed. You waved back at her like you’d misunderstood, quickly fighting your way back to Tetsu’s front door. You felt the weight of dozens of eyes on your back, and the prick of two heterochromatic ones, somehow more certain and weightier than the others. But you didn’t turn around, eager to get out of the crowd, still reeling from what had happened.

You didn’t know how you had been mistaken for an omega by that drunk alpha, and understood even less what had possessed Shouto to sniff you all over like that, embarrassed by how much you had liked it. It most probably had something to do with how inherently non-aggressive beta scents were supposed to be, maybe helping Shouto down from how keyed up he’d been about that other alpha.

But it had still been so embarrassing and strange, the way your head had tipped right back for him, the way your limbs had gone to jelly in his hold. You hoped he’d had a little to drink too or he’d probably realize how weird you were, reacting like that.

Finally, you spilled out of Tetsu’s and into the night, the evening air cool on your heated skin. The phantom touch of Shouto’s mouth still lingered on your throat, warm and disconcerting.

You beelined for home, your head swimming. You wondered just how long it would take you to forget how very strange this evening had been.

#todoroki x reader #todoroki shoto x reader #shouto x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #character: todoroki shouto #andie's writing #tw: a/b/o

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