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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 7.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, angst, mutilation, violence, death, being hunted, reference to unwanted attention from a man, 1890s period standards for men/women, religious references, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Miriam?” Your voice carries over the open street, one of the two small steps leading into your nonexistent front yard firm under your feet. Across the way and one house to the left, your older neighbor, Miriam, readies her horse for you—kept behind the paddock door of her attached single-stall stable. Men and women shuffle past along the cobblestone, clopping hooves and tipping soft caps. Giggles and gloved fingers.

The city is lively today, and you’ll be glad to be out of it for the better part of the morning.

You brush down the front of your shirtwaist, patting at the pleating along the front before folding your shawl across your shoulders; hiking it farther into your high-collared garment.

“Miriam!” You call again, shuffling down that last step and trying to shove yourself farther into the crowd. Keeping your black skirt close to you, you sigh long and pray the pouch at your side will stay away from the hands of pickpockets—a tailor gets off well enough, but every penny was worth it. One setback could ruin you.

Which was the reason you were now making your way into the country on your neighbor's horse.

Miriam glances up from where she fiddles with the bridle strap, her head mixed in with the masses. You smile, raising a hand far above the sea as men sneer down at you, hearing the tinkling bells of her laughter.

You make it to her and Whistlejacket the Thoroughbred as you huff, rubbing your gloved hands together before the clicking sound of your heeled shoes can catch up to your ears.

“By the Lord, it’s chilly, Love,” Miriam utters, patting the horse as you softly rub the animal's neck. Black ears twitch to you, chestnut eyes soft and pliable. You smile before replying with a chuckle.

“And the chill won’t stop Mrs. Ida from having my hide for that wool-lined cycling jacket, unfortunately.”

“Ah,” Miriam scoffs, “Mrs. Ida. I’d tell that one to mind her manners to the fine lady who makes her husband's waistcoats.”

“She always asks for them a size small,” you hum, rummaging through your satchel to make sure you have the money you need for the wool that’ll go inside the order. “One with more of a brain would say she was trying to say something.”

Your eyes glimmer as you send your neighbor a glance. Miriam slides you a cheesy look.

“‘More of a brain’, the girl says,” she mutters as you laugh brightly. “A wonder you’ve not found a husband yet.”

You ignore the comment, sliding down Whistlejacket’s side to slip your foot into the stirrup, huffing at the beast’s size before shimmying up with all the grace of a young hooligan. Panting on the saddle, both legs over one side on account of your skirt, you take a breath and happen to glance at the dark house that borders Miriams.

“Miriam?” The words escape you in a moment of curiosity. “Pray tell…is Mr. Riley back from his trip to London yet?”

Mr. Riley—Simon as you know him to be called by only a whispered passing. It was apparent with your little…interest in him. It wasn’t a carnal interest, no, God forbid, it was a hesitant need to understand him.

You’d never sown nor mended so many clothes than to his own collection.

Frock coats, waistcoats, shirts, ties, and trousers all—ripped to shreds before being placed on your counter like it didn’t matter a smidge. And those deep brown eyes of his…endless; seemingly incapable of human emotion above the tight layer of silk that the man wears up to his nose. There was something strange going on with Mr. Riley, and you were determined to figure it out, but he was also quite alluring to you in a simpler sense.

You liked how he spoke to you.

“London?” Miriam asks, putting a hand to her wrinkling chin. “My, was that where he was off to—how do you hear about these things, Girl?”

You clear your throat, putting back on your smile. “Oh, never mind that. I was just curious, see.”

Whistlejacket’s feet shuffle from under you, the tall beast’s strength seen through his broad neck and well-bred attitude. Miriam’s husband had been a carriage driver, and when he died, the widow had taken Whistlejacket into her care as the only living family she had.

You rub at his neck again, and the horse nods his head up and down, knickering.

“You’ll take care of the old fellow, then?” The question is layered, anyone going through the forest to the farmer’s fields knows that the shadows grow long.

Knows what can hunt you.

You glance at the woman, nodding firmly. “And bring you back your share for taking the lovely creature out.”

With that you’re out, taking the reins in your hands before easing Whistlejacket into a walk and entering the flow of traffic; waving a hand behind you in goodbye. Miriam calls on the smoggy wind.

“D-don’t stray from the path, Love!”

A path wouldn’t save you from the Ghost.

—

It is the year 1897, and beasts live here.

They roam in the dark corners and the forgotten alleys of every city and street—silent, unseen. Waiting to strike with white fangs or sharp claws; a snarl or a whisper. Vampires, demons, specters lost to time…Werewolves.

Nowhere was safe, and so, the world had to adapt.

As Whistlejacket’s hooves meet the slowly depleting cobblestone of the outer city, the clink of the metal bit dances in your ears; your face roves back and forth through the fields, those far in between houses. In your bag, you have more than just money.

Holy water, a crucifix, and, of course, a knife made of pure silver. When in doubt, silver was always the safest bet.

But the forest…the forest was unpredictable.

You breathe slowly as it comes into view hours later, those creaking branches and the breeze that speaks to you—in your head, you hear the plea. Or the threat.

Turn back.

The both of you stop only a foot from the treeline. Whistlejacket knickers, feet shuffling. Your hand finds his hide, rubbing soothing circles as your lips thin.

“Easy,” you whisper, but nothing could be farther from easy. Your fingers brush through the horse's hair as he moves his head, hooves taking a step back. “Easy.”

The blackness of this forest is unnatural—the others in the city and town go around it; a four-day trip. You didn’t have four days. Like a moth to a dark altar flame, the oblivion takes you in and the forest expands in your view the longer you stare into it, down that path of overgrown grass and gravel. Rocks and twigs.

With one hand you grab at your shawl and pull it closer to your neck, holding the reins lightly as your fingers twitch around them with the other.

“Easy,” you say for a third time, quickly looking away from the path and clearing your throat.

Clicking your tongue, your boots tap Whistlejacket’s side and after a puff from his large nostrils, the animal ambles forward, far slower than he had before but still moving nonetheless. Your hesitance bleeds into him, and you know the horse's senses are far better than your own.

But you were stubborn—you’d come too far to go back now, and if you wanted to be home by supper you had to buy the wool you needed and leave as quickly as possible. Going through this forest would take up most of that time.

The trees enshroud you, and in their brimstone grip, they reach with gnarled fingers like a leering phantom. You lean to the side to avoid one branch, feeling it pull at your shaul slightly; trying to grab at you, it seemed. This place would devour you whole, but you were less scared of the general aura and more of the fabled monster that patrols this place.

The Ghost.

Whistlejacket is unsure of this, despite the journeys you’d both been on. It always worried you how such a large carriage animal could still get so nervous after years of desensitization—the horse didn’t flinch at the yells from the city; or the howl of mutts at midnight. But this brimstone forest made him shiver under you like a child in the cold.

As you speak to him lowly, your hand reaches into your satchel and grasps that tiny silver blade, attaching it to your cinched belt as your skirt sways in a dead breeze. A chilled puff of air falls from your lips, though there is no coldness in these standing sentinels—it is a dead-like atmosphere. Every pound of your heart can be heard.

“You know, old fellow,” Whistlejacket’s ear twitches back to you, but his eyes do not leave the path. You spare a tense chuckle. “I’ve half the sense to tell Mrs. Ida to shove that wool lining right up her—”

Something sharp echoes far off into the trees and you pull on the reins with a tight breath.

Whistlejacket squeals, trying to bolt, but you keep a strong hand on him—eyes flashing from one dark void to the next in between the trees as his hooves dance. Your head bobs with every jerk of his legs, yet you barely notice it.

A twig? You ask, heart hammering. No, no that sounded like an entire tree getting snapped in half.

Eyes glancing over your shoulder, you look back down the road and find the tiny speck of light that signifies the exit of this place, the last glimmer of home. With a heavy look around, you close your eyes and shake your head.

Mrs. Ida was…something else…but she was one of your best clients for all her abhorrent behaviors—money was tight as of currently, and the woman’s husband was incredibly rich due to his practice as a physician. This wool was needed not only for the jacket but for your shop upkeep and the price of fabrics, needles, and threads. This wool was an investment you couldn’t miss.

“Whistlejacket,” you click your tongue but the animal snorts and shakes his head, backing up. “Whistlejacket!” Your voice carries despite not even being above a hard whisper.

“I promise you, when we get to the farm I’ll let you eat all of the sugar cubes you want—my treat.” Your hand finds the space between his ears and below his skull, the soft black mane twisting in your fingers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

Your eyes are half-narrowed.

That wasn’t a twig.

Monster Hunting was a booming profession—and many took to it out of glory or need for coin. Those hunters had been in and out of this forest for short generations, trying futilely to catch what was rumored to lurk here before they got ripped to shreds like their fathers had.

The Ghost.

Some say he stands over nine feet tall; and has fangs that are bigger than a man’s palm—claws like butcher knives. Blackened and dead is his brain, cruel and maniacal.

The Werewolf’s heart is chained to hell, and his soul to Satan. He is cursed ever to walk like a beast and feast on human flesh while in his wolf-skin and out of it.

A ghost.

The Ghost.

You close your eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the stench of blood or the injuries you’d seen those hunters bore—being dragged back into the city screaming and wailing in pain. Arms and legs ripped clean off, never to be found. Most never came back at all.

“Please, Whistlejacket,” you plead, bumping your forehead into his neck. Whispering into his skin, you take a deep breath. “We need to go on. Quickly. We can’t stop here.”

Stopping was making a bigger target on your back—letting your scent linger in the stale air.

With one last whinny, his fast flinching feet, the horse pushes forward as you click your tongue again; faster and more uneasy. But you didn’t slow him, no, if Whistlejacket was going to speed up, you were completely fine with that.

Moving again, you loose a sigh from your lips.

There were many dark stories living here, some too heavy to tell aloud, even—one specifically was the tale that you’d overheard in your shop while helping Mr. Riley fix a large hole in his waistcoat.

Riding along the path, you guide your steed down a small indent, blinking at the images your mind conjures up.

Mr. Riley had been far quieter that day than in the recent past, and you thought perhaps he was beginning to warm to you after a few long months of silence and clipped business talk. That day, though, you had your doubts.

Mr. Moore and Mr. Hill were coming in to inquire about the state of their overalls, working-class both and eager to have their second pair of articles fixed. Mr. Riley had been there first, and thus, you’d been talking to him for the better part of ten minutes.

“Mr. Riley,” you’d explained, holding his black silk waistcoat in your hands while opening and closing your lips. “I…I really must begin by asking how exactly you manage to do this to your clothes. In good faith, I half-believe you have a habit of getting into bar fights with a knife-wielding fiend in your free time.”

Brown eyes had stared at you above that cloth of his, soft cap on his head protecting blond tendrils of hair. Scars peel at his skin, old and pale.

You’d never been afraid of him, despite his large frame and his intimidating muscle—the gruff aggressiveness of his tone. It was strange, but you had a feeling he would never do anything nefarious…perhaps his morals shone through far better than his conversational abilities.

“Can you fix it or not?” He grunts in question, hands in his pockets. Eyelids blink at you slowly, long lashes caressing flesh.

You roll your eyes. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I can.”

In that intermission of silence, you’d heard the words from the men behind Mr. Riley—missing the spark of amusement that had coated those brown orbs as they watched you.

“Did you ‘ere, then, Mr. Hill?” A sharp, hurried whisper. Your eyes blink at the two as the man ahead of you slightly shifts his shoulders, tilting his head to the side to stare behind him. “There’s been killin' in the East district—they’re callin’ the ‘unters in, see.”

“Hunters?” Mr. Moore huffs. “They’ll not make a smidge of a difference now. I’ve heard about it—they say the Ghost slunk in from the Forest and ripped the man to pieces.”

“Aye! They found pieces of flesh hangin’ off the shop signs. Like he’d been put through a machine, I hear. Half a jaw was left in the street, an eye leading into the trees, and…and…”

“Gentleman,” you call, oblivious to how Mr. Riley is as tense as a rope, eyes small and tight on the two men. He barely breathes.

The two look to you as if being caught by their mothers. You frown. “Time and place.”

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“M’sorry, Miss, lost myself.” You smile through a sigh and turn back to Mr. Riley.

“Well, now then, I…” He quickly walks to the door, boots heavy and knee-length frock coat swishing as he pushes open the barrier and slips through. You gape, confused for a moment. By the time you think about opening your mouth again, you can already see him entering his own house across the street and pulling the door closed firmly.

The curtains close. Black night leaking out around the illumination of the oiled street lamps. It was the news in the morning that called to the true horror that you’d overheard in your shop.

Mr. Lambert was never your favorite patron, in fact, you’d call him a creep at best—insistent on marriage to you and a hazard, considering that your home was connected to your shop. He knew exactly where you lived and when to use your time in his less-than-pure favor.

Mr. Riley had been a natural deterrent in recent months, but what really struck you was that the brown-eyed man had managed to show up exactly when you needed him regarding Mr. Lambert. The small silver bell above your door rang his arrival whenever the other was trying to lean over your counter, smiling sweetly at you as if you were a prize to him and his leering eyes.

Mr. Lambert would instantly straighten, tense, and dart away with a metaphorical tail between his legs while shooting nasty glances.

But you’d never imagined him to be dead.

You’d never imagined his body to be hung from the trees that border the forest like a trophy—the Ghost had dragged him out of his home, the door busted off its hinges, and the inside all but demolished by fighting bodies. Neighbors said they’d heard howls on the wind; yowling and wet snarls like a rabid dog.

Mr. Lambert was mutilated. Unrecognizable mass of flesh and hair, bone seen through shredded skin and tongue lulling from a ripped-off jaw. One eye and a branch through his toro to hold him up.

Now halfway through the forest, in the densest bit of trees, you can’t help but imagine becoming just like him.

You hadn’t spoken besides to reassure Whistlejacket, yet the fact was that you couldn't even reassure yourself—like a child, you cling to the animal below you and try to ignore the murmurs. Your shawl had been pulled up and over your head, creating a sound barrier for you that truly did nothing to help.

Looking slightly to the side at a large and moss-layered boulder beside the path, you shiver not from the cold.

“Maybe I should have just waited the four days…” Your whisper leaked out, and it seemed a sin to break the silence that had been layered here.

A shadow filters past the side of your eyes, a silent motion atop the boulder that you think perhaps is a crow. You pull at your shawl to show your face a bit more, turning your head upward.

Atop the stone is not a bird—it is not an animal of natural birth or of sound mind. It is a beast of ancient rites and white-fanged dreams; left here among the living in a sick game of predator and prey.

You don’t register that it’s really there, the Ghost, until its blackened form stands to its full height, great shaggy fur under the remains of clothes scraps, and muzzle curled to show off fangs and pink gums. There are his ears, atop that head; they point to the sky before flinching back to staple themselves to its elongated skull. Long hands that scrape the stone below it near the claws that dig into the rock until they make long scratches.

Like a demon made flesh, this Werewolf was the epitome of nightmares. So strangely human and monster at the same time.

Eyes like a burial mound.

You stare in numb horror, gloved hands steadily tightening over the leather reigns until your knuckles pop. Whistlejacket does not yet know the beast is here, glaring into your soul and branding it; taking a large step closer to the edge of the boulder as the moss flakes under his egregious large paw-pads.

A low rumble is all it takes, those pupils small and beady, from within the breast of the Ghost’s expansive chest. Whistlejacket’s nose sniffs the air, his head turning and already tense.

The horse screams like a dying banshee, spine curling and legs kicking out. He bucks as the Werewolf snarls through a loud howl, all four limbs connected to the stone and roaring. Your back slams into the ground as you’re tossed off Whistlejacket, your mouth releasing a scream to join the rest of the noises that echo off the foliage.

Crashing into the path, your neighbor's horse disappears with one last high-pitched squeal into the darkness as you feel your bones rattle at the connection to your spine. Tumbling down a slight hill, you quickly get your skirts in order before scrambling to your feet with pain brimming in your scraped skin. Looking back to the boulder, your pounding heart rampages.

But the Ghost isn’t even there.

“Oh, Lord Almighty,” you whisper, backing up multiple steps. “Oh, Lord.”

The blade is missing from your belt—you don’t know where you’ve dropped it in the fall and that might just be the death of you. Mr. Lambert’s story infects you; the other hunters.

You frantically look at that mighty stone, up and down, while skittering backward.

Where did it go?

Panting, you only stop when you hit the firm frame behind you, a large tree trunk of fur, and a hard chest that you sink into. You freeze—eyes wide and unblinking. A thin squeak exits your mouth, and a reverberating call purrs over your vertebra, making you shiver with fear.

Minutes draw before you gather the courage to delicately turn your head upward.

Those eyes meet yours again, small and coated over with rage; pale fangs so close to your forehead they’re like ivory with dripping saliva. One drop hits your flesh, but you fail to register it.

Those eyes.

Up close you’re completely stolen by them, sucked in and whisked away as a bride, this mixture of dark wood and earth. Brown so rich you’d never seen something like it…or…or had you?

Incredibly, in between your panic, something sparks you as being familiar in a way you can’t quite place in this state.

The Ghost is gargantuanly large, so much so that he bends his spine to lean over your entire body and growl down at you, the sound starting in his gut and expanding up to his throat. The fur around his neck is so thick it’s like the mane of an exotic cat, ironically, as tufts of hair are on the tips of his ears.

You stare and try to memorize the look in his eyes as clawed hands come up at your sides, horrifyingly human with long fingers; five-pointed except for the fact that the skin is blacked like hide. Sweating, you shake before your lips start talking for you, as they usually do.

“I do hope I’m not intruding, Kind Ghost.”

The beast halts his slow entrapment, right ear twitching forward at your voice. He doesn’t blink, and his mouth does not close.

“I…I only wished for safe passage.” Internally you wonder if you’d lost your mind—if it had broken in this moment of hysterics. Your voice is far more steady than it should be. “I must get to the other side of the forest, you see. Urgently. I have business that must be settled. Though,” you add quickly, tone cracking for a moment. “Though, I knew not how to contact you to ask.”

The Werewolf’s heart can be felt on your back, a deep thum of pulsing power and raw death. It watches, its mouth twitching a smidge more closed and lungs rising. Its feral heat leaks through your clothes into your flesh.

A furred hand connects with your hip and you squawk as you’re shoved to the ground very suddenly, thrown to the side onto the grass with only your palms to catch you. You’re flipped over, those same claws slamming beside your head before you can push back up and try to run. But there could be no running. Like a moth to flame the Ghost would hunt you down until there was nothing left of you but bloodied carnage.

You throw up your hands in front of your face, the great form splayed over you and a sniffing nose digging into your stomach. There is a low whine of a hungry maw as the shaggy head moves up and around. Like a human, the Werewolf’s hand grabs at your wrist, pinning it down to the ground as the other digs into the earth, dragging it up like a farmer’s plough.

“H-hey!” You shout, pushing with your free fingers at the muzzle—in sound mind, you’d never even think to do such a thing. “Get off of me!”

You should have been terrified, and maybe you were, but you’d gone past the point of knowing it. This beast was leering over you like Mr. Lambert, but far more dangerous and…and…

“Are you smelling me?!” Your angry voice makes his dark eyes snap to yours, and in an instant, you’re staring up his muzzle, body splayed out below him.

You shutter.

“Eh…Just don't…rip anything, would you?” You were talking to a Werewolf as if he was capable of higher understanding in this form—as if still human. Voice small, you thin your lips and feel sweat run your eyebrow ridge, heart pitter-pattering.

Why were you still alive?

The snout resumes, running along your shoulder and finally stopping at your neck with a pass of the Ghost’s tongue over his lips. You close your eyes tight.

This was it, you think. Of course, you’d be the one to lose the only blade that could let you actually damage this monster, the silver glinting in your mind as you curse yourself violently. You feel the puff of his vile breath on your neck, his claws peeling at your shirt collar slowly back.

Your breath hitches, fingers winding through the fur below your grip, but the confusion breeds with the horror. The sensation of his soft fur wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was perhaps the finest material you’d ever handled. While it wasn’t the time for this, your occupation was impossible to ignore…this texture was far better than any silk.

But he’s stopped moving entirely. Lids fluttering, you open your eyes slowly, afraid but addled at the inaction.

Brown side-eyes you closely, fangs dripping next to the meat of your neck and parted to show a lulling tongue. The beast purrs as you stare, looming with enough mass to block the sun and moving that muzzle closer to your pulse. In an act of pure desperation and womanly instinct at the sight, you snap out your leg and, not hesitating a moment longer as the animal’s tongue meets your flesh, you send your shoe straight in between the monster's legs.

A sharp yowl makes your ears ring, but you slip out from under the Ghost as it banks back, snarling and yapping before it rights itself with a shake and rabid hunger. The look from before is gone—but you’re already through the trees by the time the enraged hunting cry makes your neck hairs rise.

Guttural, savage, and devoid of humanity.

On the path you find your blade, and you snatch it as you gather your skirt in the opposite hand and dash away. To where, you have to tell yourself, you do not know. But it’s human nature to run, to sprint until your throat tastes like blood and your stomach rolls with bile—all of that can be tolerated if for the simple promise of survival.

So run you did.

Faster and harder than you ever had in your life, you sprinted into the brimstone trees and the dead thorns, not looking over your shoulder at the noises of snarls and breaking tree trunks; claws through the earth, and the primal howl of a hunt. Your throat is raw and scraping, clothes thoroughly ruined as you crash through a thorn bush while cutting up your arms and legs in tiny streaks of crimson.

Droplets make a path behind you, a path, and a scent to tell you by. But with how the Ghost had been smelling you too deeply, you doubted it would be long before he tracked you down to finish the job.

You lose a shoe in the mad dash, lungs heaving and whimpering from the sudden absence of sounds entirely—as if the beast had disappeared into thin air. Still, you don’t brave a glace behind as you take turns and bends in the earth at random, running deeper and deeper into the foliage.

Bloodied and running out of strength as you hop a small stream, yelping when you slip and bash your wrist into the ground, you had never wished for Whistlejacket more. All you could hope was that the horse was making his way out the other side of this hellscape.

You never should have come through here.

Tears stain your eyes, blurring the edges as you manage to run into a small clearing, head whipping back and forth from one area to another. Every turn was the same—every tree similar!

But the house was different.

No more than a hut, really, it was stone and had a thatched roof, nestled in a field of black flowers and wisps of dead grass. The door was opened, but the ground was torn up by claw marks—spanning up the sides and near a broken widow.

You rush to it without a blink, and just as you make it to the threshold, you grab the thick oak door with your torn gloves. Turning, you find him across the open glade.

Air is shoved from your lungs as you wheeze, the black shadow in the tree line. Brown eyes burn past flesh and bone—beady. Twitching lips and high-pointed ankles with rising fur. It was like a statue. Not even moving; barely breathing as it…watches.

What had happened to the snarling—the howling hunt?

Had…had he been behind you the entire time?

You whip the door closed and frantically slam the bolt in place, the blade brought to your side and shaking in your tight hold as you back up quickly.

“Oh, Miriam, damn you, you’re always right.” You gasp, back hitting the edge of a table. “Curse me for never listening.”

Your neighbor had expressed worries the day before your departure, but you’d been stubborn as always—wool, you said you needed. Just enough for a coat. It was nothing; nothing that should have led to this.

You feel like passing out, bile rising into your throat before you swallow it back down and breathe in quick heaves.

But the door didn’t cave in, and no great monster barreled through to eat you up and pin you into a tree branch. The house settled, the minutes dragged on…

…and nothing happened.

Your heart slowly goes back to a hesitant normal, like a mouse after being chased by a hawk; a lamb by a wolf. Standing up straighter with blood saturating your clothes, the uneven strides of your shoe-less foot mean little to you as your form slinks to the broken window. You don’t feel the pain in your cuts—the sweat or dirt—before you bend down and hiss at the stretching flesh.

Knees knocking on the floor, you peek above the sill slowly, eyes wide open and tiny pupils quivering.

“Why didn’t it come into the glade?” You ask yourself, seeing the large shadow in the far-off coverage of the dropping leaves. A steadily dying sun. You weren’t making it back home tonight. “Why is it staying away—it knows I’m in here.”

Surely it wouldn’t let you live?

Your brows tighten, swearing there are eyes looking back at you through the kaleidoscope reflections of the glass. You duck down, vibrating as your vision runs across the strange hut.

One room, it only held a table, a tiny desk, a trunk, and a bed. A fireplace with no logs. Dust lived in the corners, and candles that were unlit were melted in plates and cups all around your view—score of them as if the dark was something the owner feared vehemently.

This would be your sanctuary for the night.

“Do Werewolves not come upon hallow ground?” Your voice bounces off the stone. “Was this a priest's hut?”

If there was a church nearby in this damned place, that would truly be the best scenario. Churches held hunters more often than not.

Standing, you walk the space, feet aching as the adrenaline wears off and it all sets in. You place your blade into your belt, but your fingers never leave the pommel. First, you go to the desk, picking through letters and thin papers.

Blinking, you pass them over in favor of the journal, the one next to the hastily thrown down quill—the spilled ink.

Your hand touches the leather and flips it open, ears peeled for any noise from outside. The drawings come into focus quite quickly.

Diagrams and intense study fill your brain, images of the Ghost sketched so lifelike that you flinch back and physically recoil until you gather your bearings.

“I don’t suppose this would be of any help,” you utter with a frown. “Will it tell me how to make silver bullets? Give me a revolver?”

Shaking your head, you close the journal before the faded name on the cover register—you walk away slowly before you halt.

"Simon Riley."

Your heart tightens and those brown orbs come back to you. It’s like your mind expands in a millisecond.

Simon Riley and his frequent trips out of the city. Simon Riley and his shredded clothes exactly like the ones that the beast wears. Simon Riley and his silent, black, soul. His secrets.

“No,” you try to convince yourself, chuckling as your panic spikes. Every interaction whizzes past with surety. “No, that’s not possible. I couldn't have been that inept when he was right in front of me.”

Anger pierces you, and all sense leaves. You know it to be true, know it to be the reality even if you'd just put the pieces together yourself. This was too perfect that God himself must have come down and laid it out for you to find.

In a moment of raw rage, you stomp to the door—hand snapping to the bolt and reaming it back. The outside chill makes you growl, but you exit the hut nonetheless. It was like a spit in your face.

“Simon Riley!” You scream into the air, hand in fists. “Get your arse out here and explain to me why I’ve been fixing your fucking clothes while you’ve been galivanting around the bloody forest!”

Call you insane, but seeing your work constantly ruined made you more mad than being chased like an animal, especially if this animal had no intention of killing you. He'd had the option, but he hadn't.

That only serves to make you even more angry.

Your finger points into the tree line. “I spend my God-given time to make them perfect for you, and this is how you repay me?” A rustling from the bush to your left. You snarl and turn to find the upright form as it blinks at you, muzzle closed and ears forward. It steps out into the grass with one paw before you brandish your blade at it.

The Werewolf freezes, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest.

“I’m going to rip that damn fur from your body and teach you what it’s like to have your practice insulted, you twat.” Those eyes don’t stray, just like they never had in your shop.

Yet there was a more primal tint to them—more wild, unrestrained. Aggressive.

The monster stalks forward with slow and heavy steps, walking up to you until it can once more stare you down. You take down a shaky breath and press your knife into his abdomen as fur encompasses your field of view.

Your confidence wavers.

“D-don’t you know it’s rude to chase down a lady in her travel shoes?”

A snarl grinds itself out in cut intervals as if he were trying to speak to you, snapping fangs and tilting head. You have somewhat of an idea of what it means.

“I’m not apologizing for kicking you in the balls, Mr. Riley. You deserved it.” You lower the knife from his abdomen.

A nose pushes itself into your neck again before you shove him off with a curse. He doesn’t even flinch before he tries once more.

“Would you quit it?!” You yell, scoffing. “What in the devil is wrong with you?”

It was like he was trying to rub his head all over you—as if nothing but a dog scenting a bone.

Isn’t he? Your lips thinned. It wasn’t foreign to think he wasn’t in the right state like this. Of course, he wasn’t. Mr. Riley would never act like this, even with how often you saw each other.

Lord, you didn’t even know if he liked you that much, but judging by whatever this is, it happened to be quite a bit. You huff and push him back with a scene of finality, slithering backwards into the hut before slamming the door.

There’s a low grumble from outside, the barrier shaking as a large paw presses on it with immense force.

“No!” You order, pulse running. “No—you figure yourself out first! I’m not letting you in like that.”

The sudden enraged roar is so loud the broken window shakes. It makes your veins quiver under your skin. But there's a heavy slam of leaving feet moments later, the sound of screeching trees as branches are bent back.

You pause and stand straighter after a long minute. Your lungs inhale.

“It listens better than the man,” you breathe, feeling weak. Bravery was tiring.

Yet, there was still the problem of the dead.

Simon Riley was the Ghost—a Werewolf. He’d killed people, many, many people in these trees.

You grab at your neck softly, the scent of earth and blood stuck under your fingertips, infecting your very soul.

“...So why didn’t he kill me?”

—

You helped yourself to the clothes in Mr. Riley’s trunk, taking what you could find and slipping into it for bed. It was nothing more than a large undershirt and pants, but you wouldn’t be the one complaining. Luck was back on your side, as you also found a small package of bandages and matches.

Lighting the candles one by one, afterward, you did what you could for your wounds. You weren’t keen on traveling to find water to clean them out, so, for now, a wrapping would have to do.

The beast patrolled the glade.

You’d hear him occasionally bend by the door, shadowing along the crack before there was a tapping of claws on stone and a huff of hot breath. He’d always leave you unaccosted, a smacking of gums and licking of chops heard through the cracked window before the dog darts away.

Where fear had been previously, curiosity starkly remained at the forefront.

“Simon Riley,” you mutter, sitting on the edge of his bed after that same event that had happened not an hour earlier. And the same an hour before that. Clockwork.

A wolf stalking his hunting grounds, making sure all is where it’s supposed to be.

He smells you in here.

“It’s too damn late for this,” you huff, rubbing at your face. Ideally, you’d like a bath and a hot meal, but there was no supper here. No food at all, really.

You plop down into the feather pillow, face nuzzling into the deep scent that you remember smelling from Mr. Riley as he came into your tailor’s shop. This was demented—unholy action.

If this were a different woman in this bed, she might be praying to her God for some salvation, an angel to come down and whisk her away. But the thought is like a stake in your heart.

If there were a different woman in this bed…would she even be breathing as you were?

You shiver and burrow deeper into the covers, pulling them up to your chin. For whatever reason, Simon Riley, the Ghost, had stayed his fangs from your supple flesh; now you weren’t even sure that when he was leaning over you he had any intention to hurt you at all. He had seemed like he was…waiting for something.

Simon Riley, your neighbor.

Your neighbor the Werewolf.

You groan and hold yourself in the candle-light, unsure. You’d heard the tales—the murders. Mr. Lambert. Those countless hunters mutilated. Like a child, you pull sparse memories that bring it all to light.

Mr. Riley was quite the gentleman when you happened to catch him.

There was never a time when you had to carry in your own fabric shipments—he was always outside to grab them before you could get one hand on the carriage compartment; it all seemed like lifting a feather. You’d speak to him about his day and his trips to the bigger cities that he always frequented.

He’d told you it was because of his business, and you’d refrained from asking what exactly it was that allowed him to purchase such exquisite clothes—or even how they always ended up ruined.

As your eyes flutter in this bed full of long black hair, you sigh and listen to the howls from far off in the distance; shivering.

“Where do you need ‘em, then?” The accent was aggressive, yes, but the tone was casual. You smile over at Mr. Riley and see the large trunk in his hands as the carriage leaves outside.

“I don’t know,” you tease, “But I think you look quite dashing being such a ready and willing neighbor, Sir.”

“That it?” He raises an eyebrow, but no expression slashes his visible face. To even get that was something to celebrate.

You raise a hand and wave him behind your counter, chuckling.

“I jest, Mr. Riley. Right back here the same as always.” He wordlessly ambles forward, feet heavy upon your wooden floors.

You smell the scent of fresh earth as he passes, and your fingers twitch at your sides. Clearing your throat, you ask easily as the man strangely flinches as he brushes your arm, eyes flicking just a smidge wider.

“Any more travels this month, then? I am a bit curious to hear about where you’ll be off to this time.”

“London,” is a swift answer. Brown eyes glance at you as the trunk is set down with a puff of breath in the space below the shelves. “Ever been?”

You shrug.

“No, unfortunately.” Simon stands to his full height, hands finding the insides of his pockets. You should be hesitant of his stature—his great shoulders—but you find it suits him. He tilts his head at you, his cap off today to let his wisps of hair collect at his temple. “You?”

Mr. Riley grunts, feet shifting.

“Quite a few.” He blinks slowly. “Not missin’ much. Bloody filthy.”

You laugh and tilt your head down, staring at the floor for a moment as your cheeks heat up. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Simon puffs a sound of amusement, looking you up and down. He stares at your waist before he hums.

“That a new one?” You look down at your corset above your blouse, putting a hand above the embroidery and nodding earnestly, touched that he’d seen it. Mr. Riley was far more in tune with his surroundings than others.

“Yes, had a horrible time with the designs—I’m not quite sure I like it yet.”

“It’s nice.” The man seems just as surprised about his quick outburst as you do, wide eyes meeting each other to connect with bare emotion.

It’s a long pause that leaves you stuttering, your heart skipping a beat as your flesh burns with brimming affection. Simon grunts tensely and darts his eyes away to stare hard at the counter behind you.

“Well, I…” you tilt your head, beaming through a soft chuckle. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. That’s high praise coming from you.”

“It’s nothing.” He takes his leave, firmly moving past you and shifting his body to make sure he doesn’t accidentally run into you. “Wear whatever you want, won’t make a difference… You’ll still be lovely.”

Before you can gape into the expanse of his back at the blunt compliment, he’s already out of the door with a whisper. You watch him cross the street from the window and see him climb his steps, sucking down a shaky breath.

An embarrassing giggle meets air.

The man far across the street pauses in front of his door, gloved hand outstretched. He stays there for a hint of a moment, and you swear he turns his head to space you a tiny glance over his shoulder.

Suddenly feeling as if you’d gotten caught, though you don’t know why, you squeak and hurry away into the back room.

You wake up to the sound of the door opening.

Drowsy and fatigued, your ears twitch to the sound of low groans and clipped growls—thick curses that would make any mother go shy that slip in and out of your reality.

You should be afraid.

Footsteps stumble in, the thick closing and bolting of the door eching. Candles flicker through your eyelids, and you make a low noise in your throat as your face scrunches.

All sound ceases.

So quiet that death himself would vacate the area, your brain catches the end of a set of surprised footsteps coming to the bed and a sudden low exclamation of, “Bloody fucking hell.”

It all fades in and out, glimmering and glinting.

A swift cleaning of the objects in his possession, organization, and fixing—moving papers. Feet stop at every other minute, and eyes burn into your face from above the covers.

His fingers pull back at fabric, seeing the clothes you wear, the ones that he needs as of currently.

A deep chuckle encircles you; your sleep deepens. Those same fingers, like a plague of slumber, travel up your bandaged arms and twitch along your shoulder—moving up until they come to the pulse at your neck. They add pressure and a breathless grunt is expelled as you tilt your head farther up.

That touch is moved to your chin, moving it back down to hide your flesh from that brown gaze before a heavy sigh brushes over you. The covers are all at once pulled farther up along your form.

The shadow disappears, and with it, it takes the extra blanket from the end of the bed, harshly grunting as the fabric is shuffled around and wrapped. A tiny mutter.

“You have a fuckin’ horrible habit of complicating things.”

You sleep on, and, if you were conscious enough to realize it, you would have felt the gaze on you for the remainder of the night from the table—watching, barely blinking above the heavy press of eyes.

Silent, if only for the soft breaths taken and no sooner exhaled on long, even, airways.

As if not but a dog that watches the moon under starlight; the gentle sight of snow falling outside of the den.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlized, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @l-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

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darknights-beloved · 27 days ago

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King of Hearts!Diluc R. headcanons and ideas

wc ⸺ 1.4k

cw; just a heartbroken diluc. </3. not exactly a diluc x reader as in direct insert but rather doing a personality, appearance just to properly decide on his overall character. not exactly ooc though obviously its a different au so, you get it. also lots of bittersweetness ‎૮ ꒰ྀི╥ ᴗ ╥꒱ྀིა ultimately he is the sweetest hopeless romantic ever ♡

also if this was an xreader fic then it would be soulmates trope w/ a tinge of forbidden love. so there.

At first glance.

Diluc is a king with a broken heart.

He rules over a kingdom that grows more delicate and fragile as his heart weakens the more years he spends in his immortal life, lonely with exhaustive volumes of blood dirtying his hands.

The kingdom suffers a famine due to the power loss. He lies to himself, tries to trick himself into thinking he has it all under control.

He doesn't.

Perhaps in this case, he- the king - is the damsel in distress, waiting for the one he holds dear to hold his heart in her hands and kiss it until it heals.

Comes to life, eagerly. Thump thump thump...

He waits.

Personality , Traits, etc

Diluc's eyes are canonically [ ? ] sharp, I think. It's like a hooded gaze. Alert, ready...present. always making sure that no danger is in sight. As for koh Diluc? I'd like to believe his eyes are more weary, droopier. His eyebrows, however, are always etched in a furrow. But his eyes? His eyes are just sad. Canon Diluc's dominant emotion is anger (phlegmatic-choleric) and koh Diluc is more sad (melancholic-phlegmatic). It's really the long years of his immortality, fighting alone despite his army, men and all. (But he is also secretly very kind. Any tough demeanor remains a demeanor)

You know what? Now that we're talking about the temperaments. Why not just get all into it.

I believe koh diluc's pdb is

Intj (T) 6w5 ,, tri type 615 [?] ,, melancholic phlegmatic ,, Ni > Fi > Te > Se ,, sp/sx ,, neuroticism (?) please give ideas.

Koh Diluc is so, so much more exhausted. He falls asleep on his throne with his arms crossed sometimes and furrowed brows relax into a softer expression. His Guards don't dare make a sound or try to wake him up. They know how he works himself to the bone.

He's actually a little more quieter, the only time he'd usually speak is when he needs to give out another order to his men, soldiers or servants. Other than that, he's quite quiet and keeps to himself a lot /isolating

King of hearts Diluc loves desserts. He adores them. Tarts, cookies, coffee and cake - oh, he loves cake (especially red velvet/chocolate…a little self-indulgent there haha) – caramel, little toffees, pastries, chocolate.... Gods, you name it. It’s not much of a secret since at every feast and dinner table there’s always an overly generous number of deserts and sweet treats.

Despite his cold almost burnt out demeanour hes actually very soft. He love gardening a lot and tends to his flowers. He loves reading romance novels, he loves woodwork and crafting. And blade/weapon crafting too! Usually, he keeps himself occupied to distract his mind from a lot of things. Also he's immortal. so....yeah

Aesthetics / Appearance

His color palette is wine red, velvety crimson and all reds royal. Gold as well, but it's more of a light-silvery gold. He doesn't appreciate things too bright. He really likes dark colors. But he'd also appreciate the simplicity of saturated colors. (He’s a goth/victorian king.)

Having fought for more than half of his immortal life, he had earned many scars. Printed on his skin, either a proud mark of his achievements, a proof of the brunt of his responsibilities or the shame that comes with being a king that his citizens fear.

He has claw gauntlets. They're silver and the claws are long, intricately and finely designed. Despite his battles against any corruption or evil that may seep into wonderland, the gauntlets almost remain unscathed. It was a show of both beauty and strength it held.

Also what if diluc had an army outfit. like im not sure what is called but omg

Diluc doesn't like his crown. It's heavy, flashy and it irks him more than he likes to admit. It was a crown crafted for royalty, gifted by the hands of fate. It was a sign of his responsibilities, the burdens he had to carry as a king with a broken heart. It's a striking gold crown. Adorned with the rarest gems of his world, but prominently rubies and garnets.

His cape is long, it's either a dark, commanding or an intense black. Hanging over his shoulders attractively, it trails behind him as he walks with such poised posture, and he never stutters in steps. Luxurious, soft fur drapes around his neck, coating the hood of his cape perfectly.

Diluc loves rings. He loves them, he loves them, he loves them. He has many of them, all beautifully designed for his liking. The intimacy of the beautiful piece of jewelry makes his heart thump. He's a romantic.

Secret Desires, Hidden Pain

He yearns to be a kinder, softer king to his citizens. But the fear of his vulnerability slipping, his heart crumbling, he wears a mask of stoicism. He already had a fragile, broken heart. If any enemies caught sight of his weakness, wonderland would be done for. Needless to say, the mask felt heavy and unnatural.

Because he's lonely there are times where he sits in the grand chair in the huge library, right across another, slightly shorter chair (fit for a queen). It remains empty and has remained empty for as long as he remembers. He sits in a deafening silence, letting his thoughts and the overwhelming gnawing of his emotions consume him. Before him lay a chess board, on the table. White faces against him while black faces the opposite side. A few pieces were scattered beside the wooden, intricate board. He moves a piece, slowly and deliberately as if time had melted away into a misty fog his present couldn't make sense of. His feels as though his immortal life is killing him. He moves another piece- his rook- playing the two player game by himself. One day, he's sure all the turmoil would mount and he'd throw the board, send it flying across the room so that it hits the wall. Slowly, he moves yet another piece. The king's shoulders slump.

Koh Diluc feels like he misses someone. Feels like there is an ever lingering feeling his heart. Feels like some memories of him in his mind is blurred and surreal, something he can't make sense out of scientifically. He feels it. He feels a distant love. It's almost a dream, an illusion. But part of him vaguely knew it was a little secret of his soul shared with him - well, maybe. Or his mind playing cruel tricks on him, mocking him for his loneliness.

Another rather...personal Diluc headcanon! His heart (if healed and well, and hypothetically the famine is gone) can heal injuries of his (fated) beloved with a simple touch. Just a hug, just a kiss, just a brush of his fingers against her delicate skin...

Because Diluc and his dearest lover's heart beats as one.

Architecture of the His Majesty’s Castle + Other sights

His palace is a show of extravagance. How big it is. At first glance it may seem as though it would take two whole weeks to explore it fully. From the chandeliers that hung proudly on the ceiling to the velvet carpet on the floor. Every room, despite big or small, was created with purpose. The most beautiful paintings were pedestalized on the walls. They were adorned with golden frames, or silver ones or perhaps even a void-like noir.

Diluc harbours a library, abundant with books. Books with lacy covers and intricate designs. Each page would surely cost a fortune. The information it contained was almost prestigious, for the library held knowledge that can't be found easily outside its confines. Tall, grand shelves and and shacks filled to the brim with books. Despite the grandeur of it all, it had a comforting feel to it. Oh to be snugged up in a plump couch by the window of the castle, leisurely reading a book during the dark hours of the night...

He has a bountiful, grand and extensively handsome rose garden. The whole piece of land was designed elaborately, with the finest of care. He takes long walks in them whenever he gets the chance to, to simply take a breath and clear his thoughts even for a moment. And appreciate the beauty of the scenic area. Despite his strength and ferocity, he tends to all of them with nothing but gentleness. To say he loves roses is an understatement.

Identity, Status, Trivia, other...

It is no secret that this man is ridiculously, obnoxiously and impossibly rich. Diluc is typically rich, yes. But king of hearts Diluc? He's on a whole other level. He owns everything. Everything.

The king is a warrior. He has fought many battles in the past, taken part in wars against other worlds which threaten to rip apart the fabric of reality of Wonderland and claim it for themselves. Wonderland is whimsical, strange- truly a place fit for the curious who are either brave to delve into the world or too foolish.

This is a more personal-ish headcanon, but I'd like to think that his citizens are similar to the ones in Simulanka. While the world may [ ? ] have been not created by Alice or other mages, I just like to switch it up. A little.

I'm thinking...hamsters, bunnies, frogs, cats, dogs, horses and? May be other animals I have to research more.

okay but also wonderland diluc owns a black steed <3 he pampers it a lot lol and its the toughest horse in the land. both kinda have the same personality

Mermaids, colorful fish, knights (they have no body, their soul holds their armour together somehow), those nut-cracker like figures in simulanka? Maybe. This needs a little more work but hopefully you get the idea.

Want my wonderland to be more comforting.

also he genuinely has nerd-like interests in black (barred) owls and hooded owls. He admires them, and has many paintings of the creature in his castle.

a/n: im open to ideas ok like 🥹♥️plis

#the library #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #genshin x reader #genshin diluc x reader #diluc #diluc headcanons #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact diluc #diluc ragnvindr #sorry for the long wait and other requested fics taking time :') i write then i anaylze write some more and try to perfect it all #: plus . . . ik...i made him sad but what can i do hes just #it is what it is #he sounds like vampluc >_<#its probably bc of his immortality #images from pinterest #theyre for inspo only none of those images are literal-literal #had to say this lol :oohfs:

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calliesmemes · 2 months ago

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YET ANOTHER ROUNDUP OF ASOLUTELY UNHINGED COMEDIC RELIEF

ASSORTED SENTENCE STARTERS FROM AROUND THE INTERNET, including quotes from Tumblr, Pinterest, TikTok, and X (formerly known as Twitter), for when a muse wants to be a bit silly <333

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

❛ I am not merely a clown; I’m the entire damn circus! ❜

❛ I will bite you if you continue this behavior. ❜

❛ Being a dramatic ass bitch isn’t a personality trait; it’s a lifestyle! ❜

❛ Trauma? Oh … you mean, my lore? ❜

❛ why must I cite sources? is it not enough to just say ‘trust me, bro’? ❜

❛ sorry for being a perfect sweetie and a genius it will likely happen again. ❜

❛ forget about touching grass; I need to touch WATER I NEED TO GO INTO THE OCEAN I NEED TO DIVE INTO THE SEA!!! ❜

❛ I’m attracted to men with muppet energy and no i will not be explaining. ❜

❛ you want me to make friends with people? the thing that killed julius caesar? ❜

❛ what’s your birthstone? mine is rock bottom. ❜

❛ I absolutely hate that I’m not bioluminescent. Pathetic. ❜

❛ ohhhhh my god i have got to stop mourning the past or whatever. ❜

❛ you expect me to act like a normal human being? I’m wearing a turtleneck! ❜

❛ i don’t struggle with same sex attraction I’m actually very good at it. ❜

❛ unfortunately i often find out without even getting the chance to fuck around. ❜

❛ I’m bisexual which means that I’m attracted to anybody who can defeat me in physical combat. ❜

❛ all anyone needs to know about me is that i’m a dumbass and i love women. ❜

❛ sorry but philosophers aren’t impressive i came up with stuff like that when i was 12. ❜

❛ I pay my own bills; I can cuss all I want! ❜

❛ I don’t have rizz; I have sad eyes and a weird presence. ❜

❛ my demons are chasing me and they’re doing the Naruto run. ❜

❛ honey we are ALL doomed by the narrative. it's not that serious. have some fun with it. ❜

❛ dating me is like interviewing a psych ward patient. ❜

❛ being a girl with very large brown eyes comes with great responsibility. ❜

❛ i’m autistic in ways that you can’t even begin to imagine. ❜

❛ being a loser may be a phase to you but its a lifestyle for me. ❜

❛ entering a magical portal in the woods would fix me. ❜

❛ I’m lonely but not in a hot mysterious way; more like in a pathetic way. ❜

❛ life is so unserious just say womp womp and move on! ❜

❛ you’re vibing? In this economy? ❜

❛ just because I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass. ❜

❛ my primary motivators are fear, spite, and aesthetic longing. ❜

❛ sorry about the chaos; I needed attention. ❜

❛ WHAT IS UP GIRL you look foreboding and malicious! ❜

❛ baby i can be your problematic bi wife. ❜

❛ i don’t think any of you understand how important i am to the plot. ❜

❛ what if we are both red flags? what then? ❜

❛ any dream can be a prophetic dream if you’re willing to do some really weird shit. ❜

❛ my hobbies include being right, being gay, and being a hater. ❜

❛ i have a phd in Loving The Color Pink And Also Glitter. ❜

❛ being a menace to society is a full time job and I am dedicated. ❜

❛ my life has been a bouquet of oopsie daisies. ❜

❛ i survive on spite, anxiety, and blasphemy. ❜

❛ if you’re not obsessed with me, why would I wanna be with you? ❜

❛ the hottest thing a man can be is a little afraid of me. ❜

❛ my love language is being a hater. ❜

❛ i don’t get enough credit for acting far less insane than i actually am. ❜

❛ the A in my name stands for always right. ❜

❛ Jesus is my homeboy but God has a lot to answer for and I will continue to be rebellious until he does so. ❜

❛ I’ll see a man with long hair and then remember that I’m not above temptations of the flesh. ❜

❛ i’m going to be honest with you I’m not going to be honest with you. ❜

❛ stop asking me if I’m ok I’ll literally make out with you. ❜

❛ part of my masculine charm is that I’m literally insane. ❜

❛ are you sure those are demons bro? or are they consequences from the choices you made? ❜

❛ i do not identify as a boy or a girl. i identify as a nuisance, an irritant, a fool, and a problem. ❜

❛ praying on someone’s downfall isn’t enough i need to participate in it. ❜

❛ we all need to chill. i won’t do it first but it’s something i noticed. ❜

❛ not to sound like a Victorian woman suffering from hysteria but going to the sea would fix me. ❜

❛ the silly goose convention called; they asked if you could be their keynote speaker. ❜

❛ i deserve unrestricted access to old castles and old churches i want to know all the secrets. ❜

❛ doesn’t matter if you’re cringe or based we’re all just here to suffer. ❜

❛ I’m no longer comedic relief I’m now serious panic. ❜

❛ this is getting difficult to romanticize. ❜

❛ done healing my inner child. next up is my inner teen. her highness needs a sword. ❜

❛ i am God’s silliest experiment. ❜

❛ i’m very vulnerable right now if anyone wants to take advantage of me. ❜

❛ sorry i overshared do you still think im hot? ❜

❛ I can yap for days and still maintain my air of mystery. ❜

❛ good luck sending me mixed signals; I don’t even understand normal ones. ❜

❛ not all of your life decisions have to be smart. some can be purely for cinematic value. ❜

#askbox meme #askbox prompt #rp ask meme #ask box #roleplay sentence meme #sentence starters #roleplay prompts #roleplay sentence starters #* sentence meme #rpc help

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luvrxbunny · 1 year ago

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winter wonderland

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Prompt: Strip Club

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, piv, unprotected sex (lmk if I forgot anything)

WC: 2.9k

A/N: uhh idk i kinda feel like i have to have an author's note? Idk what to say tho (not proofread) and um. ily guys <3

Bucky walks around his club, admiring his dancers- not sexually, never in that way. He admires them for their discipline, strength, and determination, he couldn’t do half the things they do on the pole, all with a smile and trying to look appealing to the hungry gaze of the men in the audience. He makes sure everything is ready for tonight, he just expanded to a new area and this is his grand opening. He hired some new talent, a new bartender, and spared no expense on alcohol, lights, and outfits for his girls.

He walks past the practice room and hears music blaring inside, a slow sultry, rock-esk song. He turns to see a group of girls standing by the window, watching whatever’s happening inside the room. “Psst.” He gets the attention of one of the girls, Fawn. “What’s happening in there?” He keeps his voice low, a hushed whisper to not distract the other girls and Fawn’s face lights up in excitement. “Oh my god, Winter. You haven’t met her?!” Her New York accent is thick with shock.

He feels a bit embarrassed at her reaction and she’s right, he should’ve met her by now but he’s been too busy. His expansion took him away from being hands-on more than he had accounted for, he had to outsource hiring to Cheetah. He gives her a shrug and prompts her to keep talking. “Well, she’s new to the scene, a cute little thing, nice little schtick she’s got going on.” He nods as she speaks, taking in her little pieces of information. “She- You know what? No. Go meet her! You were there for my audition, the poor girl hasn’t even seen you yet.”

He looks at her with his eyes wide, surprised at how she’s commending him, someone who’s technically her boss. “Okay, Fawn. Tone down the spice.” He scoffs at her with a smirk before opening the door, her cackle-like laugh fading out as he enters the room. Your music takes over his ears, a harsh beat, mechanical type of song. When he looks up you’re nothing like he expected. You have baby pink lingerie on, bunny ears sprouting from your head, soft white cuffs on your wrists and ankles with jewels littering your body. Your eyes are closed, your bottom lip tucked beneath your teeth, your brows furrowed in concentration as you spin, flip your body, and slide down the pole, showing off the little tuft, your bunny tail, at the base of your spine.

Your eyes are still shut lightly as you flip again, your feet planted on the ground as you walk around the pole slowly. There’s an irresistible arch in your back and you keep your toes pointed as they touch down on the ground. You spin yourself around, a ballerina spin before unhooking your leg and repositioning your hand for a carousel spin, showing yourself off. The song ends and you slowly drop yourself to the ground, sitting pretty with your hands still on the pole while the music dies out. You flop back onto the floor, panting from exertion with a smile on your face and your eyes still closed.

He just stares at you for a moment, your skin glistening with sweat, your chest heaving, and his dick pressing desperately against the fabric of his pants.

He never reacts to his dancers like this, it’s always purely appreciative, of their art and the work they put in. He knows the business inside out, he’s seen the struggle his dancers go through to keep their bodies appealing, to master certain moves. He’s never been able to see the arousal of it since seeing the inner workings, it’s like watching a workout video to him. Your dance though, the way you move, your outfit, the stark contrast between your aesthetic and the song, something about it all seemed to be a perfect storm for him. He’s buzzing with want. He wants you.

You’re still panting on the ground, your breaths beginning to even out some more when he speaks up. “That was impressive.” You shoot up into a seated position, your breaths quickening again in fear. Your eyes land on him and you stand up, covering your body slightly as you back up, standing behind the pole like it could help you, the action brings a soft smile to his face. “Who are you?”

He walks towards you, taking his hands from his pockets and holding them up in surrender. You back up even further and notice the window in the practice room, and how many girls are giggling on the other side. You jump and look back at him frantically- seemingly surprised at how many people had been watching you. “Calm down, honey. I’m Winter, this is my club.” Your back straightens and your hands drop to your sides before settling behind your back and you half bow to him before standing up straight and shaking your head at yourself.”Oh-! Hell- Hi, sir. I- My name is B- well, I go by Bunny.”

You have a soft, nervous smile and your eyes keep darting to the girls in the window, gawking at the interaction. “Nice to meet you, Bunny. Would you like to come to my office?” You breathe out a sigh of relief and nod at him desperately before rushing to his side, following him out of the practice room and into his office.

He gives you a large coat he had on a rack in the corner of his office with a chuckle before walking around to sit on his side of the desk. “Sorry, I don’t have something nicer for you. I usually have these really nice bath towel type things? But I uh- I left them at my other location so…” He trails off awkwardly and smooths his hands over his desk. He looks up at you and you’re just staring at him with a little amused smirk on your face. “What?”

You giggle at him, leaning forward as you laugh and he tries not to stare at your cleavage. “You’re- You seem awfully nervous for like- a strip club owner.” He actually belly laughs at that, it shoots from his chest, shocking to his own ears when he hears him. His laughs die down before your giggles and his chest warms at the sound, along with his cock as the rest of his blood rushes south. “To be honest, Bunny. I think that’s just you.” You laugh even more at that and it stabs his ego for a moment.

“I’m the only one who thinks that? I mean- It could be just how I’m seeing the situation but-” He tries not to laugh at your misunderstanding. “No, Bunny.” He cuts you off. “You’re the only one who makes me nervous.” Your rambling stops short, your back straightens again and his jacket begins to fall off your shoulders, exposing a bit more of your outfit. His eyes can’t help but dart down to take the sight in. It stabs him with arousal, he takes a sharp breath and leans back in his chair, spreading his legs to give his cock more room to grow, filling and fattening up for you.

“M-me? Cus- Is it like- because you- because we haven’t met before or..?” Your eyes dart around the room and your breathing is picking up. He can see your hips wiggling in the seat, either grinding into it or pressing your legs together- his new position takes his view from your lower half. His eyes trail up your body before meeting yours. “That’s not why, sweetheart.” You shake your head lightly with a little breath of disbelief. You have a questioning look in your eyes, like you truly believe that he’s lying or you’re completely misreading the situation.

“I mean-” You gain a cocky smirk, like you’ve finally figured out what’s really happening. “I’m a stripper, it’s kinda my jo-ob” You have a little tune in your voice, sing-songy, like it’s a joke. His face is straight when you look back up to him, not finding one hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Actually.” He sits back up in his chair, clasping his hands over his desk and leaning into you. “I find it harder to understand the- the more erotic side of stripping. Your work is artistic to me, I’m generally indifferent to all my dancers but-” His breathing shudders as he recalls your dance. “Something about your-” His mouth gapes as he tries to pinpoint what it is exactly that’s affecting him so much but he can’t think of just one. “You. Something about you is- seems to be affecting me.”

His eyes trail up your body and stop on yours as he finishes his sentence. There’s something so penetrating about his gaze, you can feel yourself heating up under it, a tingle growing between your legs and your panties beginning to dampen. You’re still cautious though, for all you know he could do this with every dancer. “You don’t usually—?” He cuts you off before you can even finish your question. “Never.”

You look him over, taking in his features and deciding whether he’s lying or not. You look in his eyes and they look… truthful. So you lunge for him, crashing his lips into yours, earning a shocked moan from his lips as his large hand comes up to hold your head in place. You lean closer to him, trying to get as close as possible until the desk begins to dig into your ribcage. You separate from him with a moan, a dissatisfied whine falling from his lips until he sees you rushing to his side of the desk, immediately seating yourself in his lap and connecting your lips back to his.

His hands are on your hips with a groan as he instantly grinds up into you, pressing his hot bulge against your clothed clit. You moan into his mouth, detaching your lips to watch the way his hips move against you, how his hands dig into your hips and grind you onto his cock. His head is thrown back and he’s moaning a bit louder than you would’ve expected, you’re drinking them up. You look back at him and arch your back, leaning to him and changing the angle of your hips over his cock. You kiss at his chin, whining against his bottom lip as he assaults your clit.

The fabric of the lingerie is creating so much friction against your clit, it feels good until it borders on painful, almost rubbing you raw with the rough material until he sticks his hand through the side of your panties, gathers all your nectar that’s been resting at the entrance of your hole and spread it all over your pussy, bringing that perfect slickness back to your clit and winning himself a moan of “Winter” against his neck.

He grunts at your outburst and brings his hands back to your hips. “Bucky, sweetheart. Call- shit. Call me, Bucky, baby.” You whine louder into his neck, insanely turned on by the fact that he trusts you with his real name and wants you to moan it for him. You’re too in your head though, mulling over your own thoughts, in the clouds to comply with his wishes. He thinks it’s because he’s not giving you enough so he backs your hips up.

Your head is buried in his neck and you whine at the loss of movement. You peek your head back to see what he’s doing and watch him fumble with his underwear, jeans already undone and unzipped, his hand now down his pants, jerking himself quickly before pulling it out. Your hips tilt to him subconsciously once his cock is out, red, leaking, and throbbing for you. You can already imagine how deep he’ll go, how sore you’ll be after, and how you won’t be able to think of anything but him while you dance for other men.

You lunge for his lips again as your hand reaches down for his cock, your fingers overlapping with his as you wrap your hand around his tip, forcing his out of the way as you slide down his shaft. He moans into your lips and brings his hand to the back of your head, holding your face to his lips more aggressively as his hips begin to thrust into your hand rhythmically. You pull back and consider letting him cum like this. The sight is something to behold, his shirt slightly lifted, showing off his happy trail to his unzipped jeans, his cock, big, pink, and pulsing in your hand with his eyes squeezed shut and moans spilling from his lips. You almost let him cum like that.

But then his thrusts change into a swivel, fucking himself into your hand languid and passionately and you’re suddenly jealous of your fist. So you let go, pull your panties aside, and seat yourself on his cock before he can even process what’s happening. His eyes shoot open with a yelp and one hand comes to grip your hip painfully while the other slams down on the desk before running over his face and through his hair. “D- hmmm.” He breathes out a frustrated breath of air that sounds like a groan. “I’m trying to last for you, Bunny. I don’t do this.” His hand loosely gestures between the two of you.

You’re nodding at him, half understanding what he’s saying but most of your strength is trying to stop your pussy from fluttering around him due to the intense stare he’d holding you with as he reprimands you. You breathe a sigh of relief and immediately start bouncing on his cock once he’s done talking. His eyes roll back and his hands grip your hips, trying to keep them down but not having enough strength to stop the overwhelming pleasure you’re pummeling him with. “Bunny-” He says your name like a warning and his hand tenses over your hip, you would listen if you weren't so far gone.

His cock has been pressed against your G-Spot since you dropped yourself on him. Your legs are too weak to push yourself off his cock far enough to rearrange him so you’ve just been fucking him into that spot again and again, unable to escape the pleasure. Your eyes are permanently on the ceiling, almost rolled back and your mouth open, letting ruined moans fall from your lips like a siren song. You’re calling to him, begging him with your sounds to take over and thrust himself into you, asking for him to fill your tight pussy.

His hands tighten over your waist and grind you onto him as his hips begin to jump in his chair, fucking into you with a force that’s making you see stars. “Bucky! Th- there! Don’t stop, Bucky.” You wrap your arms around him and his hand comes to the arch of your back, holding your body against him. “Fuck. What’re you doin’ to me, doll? Gonna make me cum so hard.” His hand slides to your upper back as your head lifts from his neck, your dazed eyes fixated on his lips. “M’gonna cum so hard for you.” His hand pushes you into his lips with a moan, you’re able to catch the way his eyes roll back when your lips meet before yours slip shut. He whines into your lips as his thrusts become weaker, more frantic, and lose their pace.

You pull away from him to moan into his mouth, unable to contain any sounds as he shoves you over the edge. Your body convulses, folding into his as you become a vice around him, choking his cock and forcing his orgasm to spew from his tip. It tears through him like a hurricane, every muscle tensing, his arms almost crushing you in their embrace as a painful groan shakes out of him and devolves into a whimper as your pussy coaxes more cum from his pulsing cock.

Your hips are grinding into him mindlessly, overstimulating the both of you as your orgasms die down. Bucky is whining pathetically under you, begging you to stop, slow down, and calm down all with his hands still on your hips. Instead of stopping you though, he’s just resting them there, letting you take whatever you need from him with no resistance.

Your hips eventually calm down, slowing to a stop over him, resting your head on his shoulder and basking in the silence of the room, in how his hand rubs over your back before pausing to draw random shapes. You’re drifting to sleep in his hold, humming contentedly when he presses kisses to the top of your head.

Someone knocks and opens his door without waiting got an answer. He spins in his chair around to hide your body from view. “What is the point of knocking if you’re not going to wait for an answer?” He speaks to the person in a sharp whisper. “Oh. My. God. I didn’t mean for you to get to know her like this! Jeez, boss.” Fawn. He turns slightly, only enough to see her and so she can see the serious look on his face. “Not a word to anyone.” She rolls her eyes and pulls his door shut with a snort.

You start to writhe in his lap, groaning, and your brows furrow. He coos at you until you fall back into your deep sleep, a soft smile on his face when you bury your face in his neck and breathe out a soft exhale. He whispers soft words in your ear, rubbing over your skin to keep you warm until showtime.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, here's the rest of my Kinktober Works, and be sure to check out my Main Masterlist!!

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bouncingbluebeast · 3 months ago

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So like, the X-Men have had a Best Butt Competition at some point, right?

((You put a bunch of superhuman hot people in a single mansion and have them living together for years - DECADES even - and surely someone like Gambit or Wolverine is getting ideas...

Scott's too much of a boyscout to admit any answers and calls it "immature". Mostly he's just insecure that he doesn't have that much for buns in the bakery. It's okay, Scottie, you have wonderful eyes...

Xavier wouldn't stand for it while he's still alive, having to empath around a bunch of hormonal gifted youngsters already.

Logan's a shortstack with a surprising amount of backbacon, though his leering and grumpy stoicism makes him pretty hot-and-cold as a judge.

Hank was an absolute hound-dog growing up, though I think he'd be far too concerned about disrespecting the ladies of the X-Mansion to participate. He did play football growing up, though. It builds the glutes very nicely.

Jean's pretty bashful about viewing her teammates in such a manner, though I think her ogling of Scott and Logan implies other priorities. I imagine she's a bit more willowy, but having a baby certainly changes the body and she's just as beautiful after. I think Jean Grey with freckles would be absolutely lovely. Give the Phoenix some stardust on her skin.

(It's difficult to guess a lot of the Marvel women's body types beyond "generically hourglass supermodel" because that's mostly what is viewed as 'ideal' or 'the pinnacle' of aesthetics. These superheroes are viewed more as concepts than people for designing their forms, especially in Marvel when it's a lot of Humans-Among-Gods)

Ororo. The Kenyan princess, Queen of Storms? Omega-Class Mutant, Alpha-Class Ass. The woman practically invented thunder thighs, and she is all the more powerful. I don't think anyone would dare disrespect someone who can smite you with a glance, but why even would you when she's so striking?

Colossus. Literal buns of steel. Points given for puns, taken for practicality. Only the bravest soldiers can claim those Russian peaks and I salute them.

Remy is a statistical wonder of Cajun cuisine while staying lean as a telephone pole. Not a single crumb of cornbread on this man's plate and it is the deepest tragedy. Secretly, I think this is the part Rogue was disappointed she couldn't feel-oop...

Anna-Marie the southern bell with hips to tell. With her hair and smile, you would be remiss to look lower and find less than if you stay in her eyes. I think a pear-shape makes sense for her, with a little pocket around her abs and very cute calves for when she wears a sundress.

Nightcrawler is a flirt and a charmer, but he is also a consummate and pious gentleman who is always seeing the good and beautiful in his companions. He'd never reduce his comrades - his found family - to something so base as the quality of their posterior. He knows that each and every one of them carries the beauty and the image of God, and he knows they are all winners in His sight.

((As he turns to leave, everyone agrees it's Nightcrawler.))

#out of the blue #blueberrystudmuffin #kurt wagner #logan howlett #hank mccoy #jean grey #scott summers #ororo munroe #anna marie lebeau #remy lebeau

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adelheidvonschicksal · 8 months ago

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hiii!! how are you? god, it's my first time requesting and I'm super awkward but I've been kinda having this dark mc brain rot! what would the love and Deepspace boys do with a secret gambler mc who's just like yumeko jabami? that'd be so interesting! feel free to ignore this ask if that makes you uncomfortable and have a nice day!

🎲 LND Scenarios with Dark Gambler!MC

🎲 Synopsis: Love and Deepspace men dealing with their dark gambler partner's eccentrics.

🎲 Pairing: LND x GN!Reader

🎲 Content Warning: sexual undertones, mild humor, no pronouns/looks mentioned (Jabami is for the aesthetic), Zayne is the only one vibing, there's no mercy in kitty cards!

🎲 A/N: Thanks for letting me take a crack at your request. I never watched Kakeguri but I think I got the vibe! I did tone the behavior down a little to fit LND more but I think you'll be satisfied. Zayne's part turned into my favorite even though I had the hardest time thinking of a scene for him!

“Let me have a turn.”

Xavier shudders at the dark aura he senses behind him despite the sweet smile plastered on your face. It’s almost like seeing a demon reflecting in the glass of the claw machine but in the form of an angel. He knew it was a bad idea to come to the arcade. He was no good at the machine no matter how much he tried and the nearly empty bowl where his tokens once laid was the proof.

“It’s alright. I didn’t think I could get it anyway. I’m not really good at this game.”

You frown at him. “It’s not you, love. These games are designed to cheat people out their money. It's disgusting really.”

Xavier gulps at that word. Cheat. If there was one thing you hated in this world, it was unfairness. The crooked smile forming on your face forces him to return eye contact with the special edition bunny plush he’s failed to get time and time again. Somehow, he sees fear in its eyes.

“I’ll get it for you.” Your hand reaches into the coin bowl; each clink makes his throat tighten as you finally pull out one of the coins between your fingers. “That bunny will be coming home with us.”

Xavier knows there’s little he can do when you sound that determined. Luckily, you won the bunny in two attempts.

“Ta-da! A fluffy bunny for my fluffy bunny.”

A sense of relief washes over him when the round rabbit hits his hands. Maybe he was being overly paranoid. However, his relief is quickly buffed out by anxiety when he sees you place another coin in the machine. It’s only a few seconds before the chimes of the machine go off again. Then, you pass him another toy, a carrot this time.

“Every bunny needs a snack!” you coo, but your tone carries that familiar edge that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand. “Now, whom shall we capture next?”

To Xavier, it sounds less like a question and more like a decree of war. “I think these two are more than enough for today."

“Xavier, this game stole forty dollars from you. I’m not going to let it get away with that,” you declare, proving it was just as he feared as your voice lowers. “Now, which one do you want, dear? Oh, I know, I'll just win them all for you! How does that sound?" you ask, but Xavier is eerily aware that it won’t matter what he says when you’re like this.

“Here we go!” you mewl as the claw begins to whir up.

Ignoring the shiver that climbs up his spine when your voice drips with the venom of ecstasy, there’s little Xavier can do but take another step back, buy another bowl of coins, and hold them for you as the role of a supportive boyfriend.

It’s an hour later when he finds himself surrounded by plushies, much more than he can hold, and the fear that you’re going to get kicked out the arcade any second.

“Cleaned out again!” you announce with a shrill breathy gasp, the giggle you give reminding him of the maniacal laughter Lemonette chortles out whenever the wanderer sprays lemon juice in his eyes. “Tell the employees we need another refill.”

“We don't have enough hands to carry all the ones you already won.”

“What?” Your focus finally breaks from the game and to the many toys scattered on the floor around him, overtaking his feet, then to the worried look on his face. “I went overboard again, didn’t I?”

Xavier sighs. “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“How do you suggest I do that?” he asks with a shake of his head. “You’re impossible to stop.”

You flutter your eyelashes at him innocently. “I did get you your bunny though!”

“At the cost of the poor arcade owner’s precious sanity,” he reminds you but the smile on his face is less than scolding when he sees the guilty sulk you have and the lax of your shoulders. “Let’s find a donation center to drop these little guys off. We’ll count it as our good deed for the month.”

“Good idea! How about we surprise all the kids at the hospital?” you agree. Xavier chuckles. There’s the angel again.

“Pretty please, Rafayel!”

The painter rolls his eyes, scooting further away from you to find a different spot on the floor to sit as you crawl after him. Rafayel turns his head away and strokes his paintbrush down the center of his canvas.

“No. Now, go away. Shoo. Shoo, go paw at someone else,” he says, waving the wet paintbrush at you.

“But no one else will play with me,” you whine.

“I wonder why?”

You are terrifying when you play kitty cards. Unfortunately, he was once the only one foolish enough to play with you because he wasn’t aware of how you got when you gambled even when the winnings were only a few pieces of chocolate. He knows better now. Despite your cute precious face, you were evil incarnate when it came to games.

“Surely, you pity me my dear sweet, gorgeous boyfriend. Did I forget to mention talented?” You give him the puppy eyes to try to wear down his resolve; your hand glides over his bangs, lovingly pushing them from his face. As much as he loves trying to make you happy, this is one of the few things in the world that he refuses to listen to you about.

“As true as all of that may be, I prefer living thanks,” he says before switching brushes to another color. A splash of blue would be excellent.

“Is this about last time?” you ask him. “It was an accident.”

“You nearly broke my hand!”

“You were trying to swap the kitties!” you yell back. Rafayel was a no-good cheater when it came to playing games and not the least bit sorry about it. It’s not your fault that you grabbed his hand by reflex nor that he was so dramatic about it.

“So, the sentence is hand breaking? That's cruel and unusual punishment!” he says with a gasp.

"Is it wrong to take away your tool for cheating?"

“Have you forgotten what I do for a living? You might as well lay me out in the sun to dry.”

Sighing, you decide to agree with him. You suppose you could be a little competitive when it came to games. Besides, they say it’s easier to catch more flies with honey. “Look, I’m sorry, baby,” you apologize and smooth out a hand over his thigh. “How about I give you a super special prize if you win.”

Rafayel barely looks at you from the corner of his eyes that slowly drop to where your hand rests on his leg. You’re on your hands and knees next to him, perched up like a cat begging to be petted.

“I’m listening,” he says, continuing to mix his paints. Purring, you lean in and whisper in his ear the prizes you’re willing to trade for him to play one little round with you.

His heart races with each word. It’s suddenly becoming harder to keep the stroke of the brush straight when your hand starts to trail further and further up his thigh. “Well, when you put it that way—” and he almost gives in until he sees the corner of your lips curling up into a smirk. “Wait. No. I refuse.”

“Not even if—” and you whisper in his ear again. He swears the brush handle will splinter if he grips it any tighter. His face is glowing a light red by the time you pull away. He might be Lumerian but he’s still a man; it’s difficult to bury the memories of pleasure under the memories of his fingers squeezing in your hard grip the last time you caught him cheating. He manages, somehow.

“How easy do you think I am? I’m not open for business whenever you want, darling.” He manages to spat out, not exactly the best rejection but it’ll suffice.

You puff up your cheeks at him. “You’re the meanest boyfriend ever!”

“And you’re evil when a card gets in your hand,” he argues back. The last thing he sees is the red of your shirt as you pounce on him and blue paint spilling across the floor.

“You’re so nice, Zayne. You’re the only one who's brave enough to play against me.”

Zayne glances up from the stack of cards in his hands to catch your tongue glancing over your lips to wet them as you stare him down with dilated eyes. He expected you to get worked up but not quite this early into the game.

“I had the free time today.”

The real reason he schedules these regular games with you is to keep your strange habit under control, like providing a little bit of a drug to an addict; or in simpler terms, walking an overly energetic Husky so it won’t tear up the furniture. It beats the many times you ring him up at two in the morning, needing him to come rescue you out of a tough situation. He knows you’ll never learn your lesson with him always swooping in when needed, but he can’t stand the possibility of you getting hurt should he not come to your rescue every time you over bet your hand and need him to win back your money for you. The doctor never really expected to be a poker or kitty card expert at this age but alas.

“I’m guessing there’s at least one Kitty Plot in your hand, am I right?” you ask him; and he doesn’t understand how you sound more excited each time he obtains another assist card.

“And if I told you there was?”

The giggle you let out sounds much too vulgar for a simple game of kitty cards, but he’s used to this eccentricity of yours at this point. “Then that means I get to beat you even when you’re at your best!”

You slap down a Freeze card and Skip card. There’s not much he can do other than draw his assist card and ride out your next turn. In the next phase, you throw out another assist card, one that will allow you to restock your empty number stockpile and seal your victory.

“Any last words?” you ask him. He can see that you’re starting to twitch with the excitement that comes from besting him. It’s the most dramatic thing he’s seen, but he’d be a liar to say it wasn’t…satisfying…to watch your face fill with shock as he blocks your finishing move with a Meow This. Maybe you were rubbing off on him after all, he muses.

“You held on to that all this time?” you ask him, recalling the many chances he could’ve blocked your earlier plays. You were aware he was luring you into a trap by playing the slow game, but you thought you could get around it this time. With a dreamy sigh, you cup your cheek in your hand. “I should’ve known. Just careless.”

“Any last words?” he asks, mocking your earlier victory line.

“None I’m afraid. I’m completely at your mercy; helpless in the face of your onslaught,” you tell him, and he ignores the little tilt of seduction lacing your voice and the squirming of your thighs as he starts erasing every point you’ve earned.

Slowly, your points decrease one by one as he throws out assist after assist while you let out little whimpers and mutter compliments under your breath with each cup color change and point reducer he throws out.

You’re going to lose! Again! He’s incredible as always.

But you’re offered deliverance when instead of erasing the six points of your blue kitty the cup color changes to match it. You hear Zayne “tch” under his breath, and you can’t help but laugh when he finally has to give up and fill the last white kitty cup with a pathetic low-level kitten.

In the end, you only won by two points but that was all you needed.

“I won…I won!” you repeat, rocking back and forth as you hug yourself and toss your head back. “I finally beat you! You won’t believe how long I waited for this day! Now what should my prize be?” You fall back onto the floor, kicking your feet. “It’s so hard to decide. I honestly didn’t think this day would come! There are so many things I’ve dreamed of making you do for me!”

Zayne presses his lips into a thin line as he begins to collect the kittens from the cup. “Calm down. You’re drooling on the carpet,” he exaggerates, not that you're in the right mind to listen.

“I got it. I know just what I want,” you squeal, holding your finger in your mouth to muffle your laughs. Zayne tenses when you sit up, much like a vampire from a horror movie, and lock eyes with him; he doesn’t think he’s felt so targeted since his days in the military.

“Meow for me, Zayne,” you demand, and his face burns at the ridiculousness of your request.

“You—”

“Are you backing out? That’s poor sportsmanship especially considering I took every nasty medicine each time you won.”

Zayne shakes his head. “No. I was simply thinking that’s surprisingly tame for you.”

You lift your eyebrows curiously. “So, does that mean?”

Zayne leans in over the table. In this position, he can see how your face softens from that lust-filled haze that gambling always manages to place over you. He doesn’t know if you can actually get embarrassed, but you certainly look flustered as he locks eyes with you.

“Meow.”

“Oh,” you gasp, eyes wide. “T-That was absolutely wonderful,” you blurt out with a clasp of your hands. “Do it again.”

“It was a one-time deal,” Zayne rejects before straightening his back.

“I didn’t think you would do it. One more little meow for me?” you plead. “This was a special victory, and I didn’t get to enjoy my winnings properly.”

“If you want to hear it again, I’m afraid you’ll have to beat me a second time,” he answers bluntly.

“And if you win?”

“You do what I want.”

“Which is?”

Zayne smirks at you. “All I can tell you is that I’ll ask for much more than a meow.”

“You’re on! You’re on! You’re on! What better way to solidify my position as the best kitty card player than with a streak?”

“I take it we’re playing on Hell Mode then.”

“What do you mean? It’s always heaven playing against you, Zayne. You’re the only one who can give an actual challenge,” you sweetly coo, nearly a moan. “Unfortunately, your reign will officially be coming to an end. I’m going to beat you without luck; and when I do, I think I’ll make you meow and purr for my reward.”

“Hurry and restart the match then if you believe that.”

Zayne watches as you excitedly set the game back up. He supposes that this type of gambling is more fun than gambling with chocolates. At least until he sees your social media message the next morning.

Guess who finally toppled the old king and became the new Ruler of Kitty Cards? I won’t name them. No one asked. It’s not polite to be a sore loser, my adorable meowing subject.

#zayne x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lnd x reader #notsfw #adelssmut

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fantasyescapes17 · 2 years ago

Text

Candle (Part 1)

You have always received the best of everything life has to offer: be it education, family, fortune or happiness. Mr. Yoon Jeonghan- one of the ton's renowned villains- cannot possibly bring you happiness of any kind, never mind wedded bliss. But can you evade Jeonghan's charms? Or will you find yourself falling victim to this clever rogue?

Genre: Yoon Jeonghan x female!reader. Regency!AU (It's sort of Bridgerton-esque in the sense that I give zero attention to historical accuracy and prioritize aesthetics lmao) You are Wonwoo's sister so your last name is Jeon, but the reader has no other specific characteristics, physical or otherwise.

Word Count: 4.8k+

Part 2 Part 3

Series Masterlist [I would recommend reading the first story in this series, Patience, before this one but it's not strictly necessary.]

“It is not that I do not wish to marry,” you explained to the maid that was dealing with your hair. The fine silver comb tugged painfully on your scalp, but you had learned to ignore it through continued practice. “I do like the thought of being the lady of my own estate, and having children and a husband who loves me.”

The maid hummed as she dragged the comb through your hair. “Of course, miss.”

“But why must all the eligible bachelors of the ton be so dreadfully boring? Every conversation feels the same. If you’ve spoken to one of them, you may as well have spoken to them all,” you complained. “They constantly talk about the same subjects and offer the same compliments.”

“What would you like them to say instead, miss?” the maid asked lightly.

“Well, anything that I have not already heard a hundred times before!” you exclaimed as the maid fixed the last pin in your hair and released you. You turned to appraise yourself in the mirror carefully before pouting at your maid. “Daisy, I am not foolish enough to entertain expectations of true love. But is it too much to ask for a husband who will not drive me mad out of boredom? A husband for whom at least a small candle lights up in my heart- never mind a wild and burning flame?”

Daisy smiled. “You will be late, miss. Your family is waiting downstairs.”

“But you offer me no reassurances,” you noted with a frown.

“Do not worry yourself too much, miss. There are plenty of men in London this season that you are yet to meet. I am certain one of them will light your heart’s candle.”

You thanked her and then stood up to appraise yourself in the mirror. You had chosen one of your prettiest gowns for the first ball of the season and were pleased with the way the soft pastel colours accentuated your figure and skin. You were not the belle of the ball- you would leave titles like that to more perfect women than you- but you were certainly striking enough to never be left wanting for a dance partner or company.

God. All this effort to spend your evening listening to men offer you recycled compliments or boast about their fortunes.

"So her highness finally arrives. I thought perhaps you were waiting for the ball to end," your brother Wonwoo remarked as you walked down to the foyer of your large London home.

You paid him little mind. Wonwoo was not truly angry about the delay. He had no great love for social engagements or balls and suffered through them in the same way you did, albeit with fewer complaints.

"Beauty takes time," you replied simply.

"As does the journey to the Hessington's manor. Mother and Father are waiting for us outside."

"It would not be fashionable to arrive too early," you protested.

Wonwoo simply offered you his arm in silence and you joined your brother in stepping out of your large home and climbing into the lavish carriage that waited on the street outside. Your parents were already seated and your mother smiled when she saw you.

"Oh darling! You look quite lovely in that dress," she told you happily as the carriage slowly began to take your family to your destination. "I should not be surprised if your father has a queue of men outside his door to offer for your hand this season."

You smiled. "Thank you, mother. I am sure Father knows best."

Your father raised an eyebrow. He appeared bored. "I know nothing. You are perfectly capable of choosing your own husband. Unless you wish to marry a stable boy, you shall hear no sound from me."

Your mother swatted his arm. "Dearest! How can you say such a thing! It is of utmost importance that our dear daughter is married well and happy- and you must do everything you can to ensure this!"

Mr. Jeon chuckled. "I believe these matters require far more womanly expertise than I possess."

Your mother disregarded him and turned back to you. "Now darling, remember. We are in no hurry. This is only your first season and time and money are on our side. Unlike some of the other foolish mothers of the ton, I know that marrying well is far more important than marrying quickly."

You smiled. "Yes, mother."

"There is no need to accept any offers immediately. Do not court anyone straight away. Wait and watch and analyse. You deserve the very best."

You bit your lip and nodded. You had to admit that your mother's confidence in you made you feel better about your prospects. She was right. There was plenty of time. You were not in any rush and you would wait patiently until the right man for you appeared.

Hopefully he would.

"As for you, Wonwoo-" your mother continued, turning to your brother who had been staring out of the window absently. "Although your sister's marriage prospects occupy more of my time and attention than yours, it would be helpful if you at least indulged in a few dances and did not offend all the young ladies that crossed your path by ignoring them or pretending to be absorbed in a book."

Wonwoo flushed. He had been known to hide behind a book in order to avoid the attention of some of the more determined young ladies. Women frequently left your brother's company feeling snubbed.

"Yes, mother," he replied with a sigh.

"I want to see you up on the dance floor for at least two dances," she pressed.

"One," Wonwoo pushed back.

"Two, this is not a discussion."

Wonwoo decided against arguing with his mother and turned his attention back to the window of the carriage as it clattered noisily along the path to the ball. You chuckled- you could not wait to meet a woman who could put a genuine smile on Jeon Wonwoo's face. A difficult task indeed, but certainly not impossible.

The carriage stopped once your family arrived at the Hessington's ball. It was an incredibly grand affair. Being the first ball of the season, it would set the standard for all social events during the upcoming months. You could tell that this would be a glamorous season indeed.

You almost felt nervous.

"Isn't that your friend?" Wonwoo mumbled to you as your family entered the enormous bustling ballroom full of immaculately dressed men and women.

"Miss Jeon!"

You laughed in delight as a young woman in a bright purple dress came over to you and embraced you warmly. It had been many months since you had seen your dear friend Ella Williams. You wrote to her often but you were no great writer, and letters were not nearly enough to say all that you wished to share.

“Miss Williams! Oh, I am so delighted to see you here! How have you been?” you demanded of your friend.

Ella smiled. “I have been wonderful, as always. It is a pleasure to see you as well, Mr. Jeon!” Ella greeted your brother with a bright smile and a polite curtsey. Wonwoo acknowledged her with a small tilt of his head. Ella was no stranger to your brother’s quiet and unenthusiastic manner- so she merely giggled at him and did not take offence.

“He is upset because he is required to dance twice tonight,” you explained to Ella. “Wonwoo, you might as well ask Ella to dance with you so that half of your promise to mother is fulfilled. Then you need only find one more partner over the course of the evening.”

Ella batted her eyelashes at your brother. “I would not object to a dance with Mr. Jeon.”

You waited patiently while Wonwoo signed Ella’s dance card and then wordlessly disappeared further into the room in order to speak to some of his acquaintances. Ella beamed and turned back to you.

“Well. I shall be the target of much envy when I stand up for a dance with the elusive Mr. Jeon. Oh! But I have so much to tell you, my friend, come with me to the refreshments table and I will show you what I have prepared for us!”

You allowed Ella to take your arm and pull you towards the refreshments. You both found seats on a bench and she pulled a small black diary out of her pocket that she showed you cheerfully.

“Guess what this is?” she asked eagerly, but did not allow you time to formulate a response. “I spent the entire summer doing research and have prepared elaborate notes on every single marriage-minded bachelor that will be in attendance this season. I believe the usual clumsy method of turning up to as many social events as we can and simpering at random men only to be disappointed once we learn more about them cannot go on. We are clever women. We must employ the scientific method.”

You giggled at your friend. “The scientific method? To find a husband?”

“It is almost perfect! And it took me months to compile- I keep adding to it every time I learn more about any of them."

You looked at her book with a laugh. It really was packed full of notes. This was no small feat that Ella had achieved.

"How does this help us?" you asked, confused.

Ella sighed. "My dear friend. Every time a man introduces himself or asks you for a dance, you need only look him up in my little book to know everything about him! Well; perhaps not everything, it is still a work in progress but I am constantly adding to it!"

You looked down at her little book curiously.

"Ella… you may have created something very valuable," you admitted to her slowly. "I am sure many of the young women in the room would love to have a peek at that little book."

Ella beamed. "Yes, but I shall not share it with anyone but you."

"You really are a wonderful friend."

"Of course I am. Now- have you found any dance partners yet for the evening? I am lucky to have started the evening off strong by securing a dance with your brother- it is my turn to find you an equally excellent partner."

You smiled. "I would be very grateful."

But Ella's efforts were not necessary. As you stood, you were approached by your brother and another handsome young man with a very charming smile.

"I believe the dancing is about to begin," Wonwoo said simply as he offered his arm to Ella. He paused to look at you. "Sister, allow me to introduce you to my friend Mr. Kim Mingyu."

Mr. Kim Mingyu took your gloved hand into his own and pressed his lips to your knuckles in a suave manner.

"Miss Jeon. I have heard many wonderful things about you; would you do me the honour of joining me for the next dance?" Mingyu asked.

You smiled. "It would be my pleasure, Mr. Kim."

"Excellent. This way."

Mingyu was a very good dancer and an adequate conversationalist. He did offer you some textbook insincere compliments about your dancing skill and your dress, but since he was good friends with your brother, any lulls in the conversation were filled with stories from the time he and Wonwoo spent together at Oxford. There was something very lighthearted about his words and manner. It left you with the impression that Mr. Kim Mingyu did not take anything very seriously-including his own marriage prospects.

"Thank you very much for the dance, Mr. Kim,” you bowed to him politely as the music came to an end. Mingyu smiled and offered you his arm to lead you away from the dance floor.

“It was a pleasure, Miss Jeon. May I help you find your next partner?” he offered generously. "I know multiple young men who would be delighted to be introduced to you.”

"I would be very grateful, Mr. Kim. But I have already promised Miss Ella Williams that she may be the one to find my next partner and I could not bear to disappoint her."

Mingyu nodded. "Very well. Your brother is probably seeking a corner to hide himself in for the rest of the evening, so if you find yourself requiring a dance partner at any moment please do not hesitate to send for me."

You laughed. "Indeed. I shall summon you as soon as your services become necessary."

Mingyu left you just as Ella came over to join you on your bench.

"Well, well," your friend teased. "Mr. Kim is certainly very handsome. And he appears to be an excellent dancer."

"Will you tell me what you have written about him in your little book?" you asked.

Ella withdrew the book from the folds of her skirts and took a moment to flip the pages. "Let us see here…. K for Kim… Mingyu…. ah! Here he is!

"Goodness, the page is full!" you laughed as you saw the page crammed to the brim with notes. There was barely any space left. "Is that a list of women he is rumoured to be courting? Heavens. You shall need to prepare a summary for this man."

"I have one," she replied, her fingers pointing to two underlined words on the top right corner. Notorious rake.

You both exchanged looks and laughed.

"That sounds about right," you giggled before taking her arm. "Now hurry! You promised to find me another dance partner! If we sit on the bench for too long then we might be approached by someone particularly odious."

"Of course!"

Ella grabbed your arm and guided you across the room to a group of men who stood conversing near the balcony. One of them turned and smiled when he saw Ella.

"Ella! I did not know you would be here tonight," he greeted her fondly. He had gentle eyes and a soft smile that put you instantly at ease.

"How could I miss the first ball of the season?" Ella asked. "Joshua, you must allow me to introduce you to my dear friend Miss Jeon. I insist that you dance the next dance with her, for she is so much in demand that you may not have another chance all season! Miss Jeon, this is my cousin Viscount Joshua Hong."

Joshua greeted you warmly. Unlike Mingyu, he made no excessively charming moves to kiss your hand but his impeccable manners put you at ease.

"Of course. It would be an honour to dance with Miss Jeon," he promised you. "But first allow me to make introductions of my own. I am accompanied by my dear friends Mr. Choi Seungcheol and Mr. Yoon Jeonghan."

You curtsied politely to the two men. Mr. Choi was handsome, certainly, but you were struck immediately by how unnaturally perfect Mr. Yoon Jeonghan was. His features were sharp, angular, and he looked like a marble statue sculpted by a skilled artist. Jeonghan had an almost ethereal beauty to him.

And he turned immediately to your friend.

"Miss Williams, may I request your hand for the next dance, if you have not already promised it to another?" Jeonghan asked, as he offered her his hand.

Ella took it without hesitation. "Of course!"

It was no punishment to dance with Viscount Joshua Hong. The man was possibly the most eligible bachelor in the room considering his title, vast fortune and gentlemanly reputation so Ella had done you a great favour. Joshua made light and pleasant conversation as you danced. He was not entirely boring, but also failed to be particularly interesting. You found yourself casting glances across the room at Ella's dance partner.

When your dance with Joshua came to an end, you approached Ella and Jeonghan with the faint hope that you might be chosen as Mr. Yoon Jeonghan's next partner- only to find that the man in question had already left the area.

"What happened to Mr. Yoon?" you asked your friend casually.

"He apologised and had to leave early. Something about his sister- perhaps you know her? Miss Yoon? Fairly pretty woman who is rather well-known for strangely not receiving any offers of marriage since the last many seasons?"

It sounded familiar. "Was he a good dancer?"

"Excellent- but I was terribly nervous throughout the dance, after all, you know what everyone says about him!" Ella said with a shaky laugh.

You did not know. "What does everyone say about him-"

Your question was cut off by the appearance of your mother, who took your arm with a bright smile. “My dear! I can see that you have been quite successful with your dance partners tonight. Not only Mr Kim Mingyu but Viscount Hong as well! Everyone is quite taken with you.”

You smiled at your mother. “Thank you, mother-”

“Come along now. I have many others to introduce you to, we should take advantage of this momentum. You should come as well, Ella. A certain Mr. Lee has been asking about you and you will need someone to make the necessary introductions!”

Ella smiled and took your hand as the two of you followed your mother.

—--------------------------------------------------------------

The Hessington’s ball was, in your mother’s expert opinion, a grand success. You had danced almost every dance with an eligible young man and the general consensus among the ton was that you were a delightful young woman who would likely receive her fair share of attention and gentleman callers.

It was difficult to not want to bask in all the attention.

“Mother! May I go to the assembly rooms with Ella and Mrs. Williams this evening? I believe we have no other engagements,” you reminded her eagerly as she attended to her knitting in the drawing room. Your mother looked up at you.

“Will Mrs. Williams chaperone?”

“Of course.”

Upon receiving her permission you hurried upstairs to dress for an evening at the assembly rooms. You had heard from Ella that Viscount Hong would be in attendance. While you had no specific interest in Joshua himself, you could not deny that the Viscount was well-connected and always ready and able to make introductions with other eligible young men.

Daisy helped you into a pretty dress. Since an evening at the assembly rooms was not nearly as glamorous as a ball, you kept your attire simple but could not resist finishing off your look with a string of pearls around your neck.

“You look lovely, miss,” Daisy complimented you kindly. “The pearls suit you very well.”

You smiled. “Thank you, Daisy.”

The Williams’ carriage arrived promptly to pick you up, and you travelled to the assembly rooms with Ella and her mother. You were delighted when Mrs. Williams promptly sat down at one of the many card tables and announced her intention to play whist all evening. The older woman appeared to have no plans of following you or Ella about the room, or being an overbearing chaperone.

"I have decided to cast my net upon Mr. Xu Minghao tonight," Ella whispered to you, gesturing to a handsome young man in the corner of the room. "I shall ask Joshua to introduce me. Would you like to come?"

You tilted your head thoughtfully. "I might play some cards first. I have been looking forward to it for a while. Do you think it would be impolite for me to sit down at any of these tables?"

"I see Mrs. Patty there. She will surely welcome you at her card table; although I would be careful. I hear her gambling habit can be… excessive. And she gossips even more than she gambles."

You giggled. "I shall be fine with Mrs. Patty. She likes me. Go on and demonstrate your charms to Mr. Xu."

You were welcomed warmly at the card tables by Mrs. Patty and the other ladies, all of whom complimented your success at the Hessington's ball the previous evening while dealing you into their game. You were not a very experienced card player, but it did not signify. The bets were small at the ladies’ table. On the other hand, the table of gentlemen across from you were clearly playing for much higher stakes.

You had a clear view of the men's card table. A few familiar faces were seated there- including Mr. Kim Mingyu and Mr. Kwon Soonyoung. The occupant that was of particular interest to you, however, was Mr. Yoon Jeonghan. Jeonghan had leaned back in his seat in a relaxed and careless manner, a handsome smirk on his face as he observed his cards.

Really, he was unfairly attractive. How were you supposed to focus on your cards when a man as perfect as Yoon Jeonghan sat directly in your line of view? It was hardly surprising that you lost the first round of the game with the ladies.

Jeonghan looked up suddenly and his intense gaze met yours. You were a little flustered at having been caught staring, but the corner of his lips curved up in a hint of a smile. Jeonghan acknowledged you with a simple tilt of his head. You forced a polite smile back and quickly turned away.

When you dared to lift your eyes in his direction once more, he had already turned his attention away from you.

“Really Mr. Yoon? Will you continue to win until you bleed us all dry?” you heard Mr. Kim Mingyu demand from the other table. The other men nodded in agreement; it appeared that Mr. Yoon had won almost every hand this evening.

“You are bleeding yourself dry, Mr. Kim. Perhaps you may wish to study the rules of the game before you hand your money to me?” Jeonghan suggested lightly.

“If I play another round with you I shall be in danger of losing my estate.”

There appeared to be a general consensus among the men at table that they had lost enough money to Mr. Yoon for one evening. You watched with interest as they all left the table in search of refreshments and other entertainment. Mr. Yoon lingered at the table a few moments longer to collect his belongings.

It was a rare opening- you waited until your current round ended and took the chance to excuse yourself from the ladies table.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Patty but I think I have had my fill of cards. I will take your leave now,” you said to the older woman who dismissed you easily.

You took a deep breath. Perhaps it was an… audacious move (if not an entirely improper one) for you to approach Mr. Yoon while there was nobody else in your company. But you were quite determined to learn more about this man with the angelic features and confident gaze. You could not simply wait until Jeonghan decided to take note of you- you would bring the conversation to him.

“Mr. Yoon,” you greeted him politely.

Jeonghan turned to you with mild surprise. This was a crowded room, yes, but it was still bold of you to approach him without a female chaperone.

Although to be fair, Yoon Jeonghan had never been one to put too fine a point on the rules of propriety.

“Miss Jeon, if I am not mistaken,” he greeted calmly. He gave no indication that he found you approaching him to be improper. “We were introduced at the Hessington’s ball last evening. I heard from my stepmother that you had excellent success and danced every single dance.”

“I do not know if I was particularly successful at anything; to dance every dance at a ball is not unheard of. But to win almost every hand of cards while playing a game of chance… that is what I would consider success,” you teased him.

It was a bold attempt at flirtation- you could only wait and see what move Jeonghan would make.

Jeonghan folded his arms across his chest. You could tell that he was biting back a smile. “Perhaps my opponents were simply too drunk to remember the rules of the game,” he suggested.

“Or perhaps you have devised a way to eliminate the influence of chance on the game’s outcome entirely.”

Jeonghan could not resist a chuckle. “Miss Jeon. I must protest this line of questioning. It seems to be in danger of impinging upon my honour as a gentleman. I hope you don’t mean to accuse me of cheating at cards?”

“Res ipsa loquitor, as they say in Latin, or- the thing speaks for itself,” you continued to tease him. “Do you deny it?”

“I shall not deny it. Instead, I shall generously grant you the opportunity to withdraw this dangerous allegation you have chosen to make,” he continued, “for I am confident that you possess no evidence to support your claim. Please- have a seat. It would not do for you to remain standing while we debate my alleged crimes.”

You allowed Jeonghan to pull out a chair for you and he expertly moved behind you to push it back in before taking his own seat. You folded your hands in your lap and smiled at him. You were enjoying this conversation.

“Your words are clever Mr. Yoon, but they do not cry innocence,” you insisted.

“I am not claiming to be innocent.”

“Then you admit you are guilty?”

“I shall not answer your allegation either way,” Jeonghan replied with a chuckle. “But I am concerned for the impact your allegations shall have on your honour when you find yourself unable to justify them with sufficient evidence.”

You laughed. “So you are greatly concerned for my honour, are you, Mr. Yoon?”

“I would be concerned for the honour of any young lady in your position.”

“Then how do you suggest we resolve this? For I find it impossible to believe that you should have been able to win so many rounds of a game of chance without having found some manner of tilting the scales of luck in your favour,” you insisted.

Jeonghan leaned closer to you suddenly. His dark eyes boldly met yours and your senses were instantly overwhelmed by him. His clean scent, the sound of his soft breathing and his handsome face hovering a few inches from your own. Jeonghan’s voice (suddenly low) sent a pleasurable shiver down your spine.

“If you do not withdraw your allegation,” he whispered. “I shall have no choice but to demand satisfaction.”

Oh. This man was dangerous.

He pulled back and you felt a rush of adrenaline. Noone had ever flirted with you quite like this before- and it was, clearly and undoubtedly a delightfully dangerous flirtation, for what man would innocently lean so close and whisper such words in the presence of a lady unless he meant to be unequivocal about his nefarious intention?

It appeared you had walked into the lion’s den of your own free will.

“Satisfaction?” you asked him, trying not to reveal how flustered you were. “I hope you do not intend to challenge a lady to a duel, Mr. Yoon.”

“A duel? No, not at all. I can think of better ways for you to restore my honour.”

“I have no intention of restoring your honour,” you replied boldly.

“Perhaps I shall be able to persuade you otherwise. Tell me Miss Yoon- have you recently lost anything? Perhaps a valuable item that you carry upon your person?” Jeonghan asked in a knowing tone.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You had not carried much with you and you quickly checked that you still possessed your handkerchief and reticule. As you turned your head, however, you realised that there was a strange lightness around your neck.

Your hand flew up to your bare neck.

“My pearls!”

Jeonghan smirked. His arm moved subtly across the table and you caught a glimpse of something white and shiny clasped in his hand just before he tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. You stared at him in shock and disbelief.

“Mr. Yoon- have you just stolen my pearls?” you demanded in a hushed tone.

Jeonghan looked pleased with himself.

“Not to worry, my lady. I have every intention of returning them to you tomorrow, at the Hongs’ ball- where you shall do me the honour of dancing the final dance of the evening with me. An act which will, I believe, be adequate recompense for the baseless accusations you have brought upon my honour.”

You looked up at him with a smile.

So it was to be a game.

“You don’t play fair, Mr. Yoon,” you remarked.

“Remind me to further discuss the merits of fairness during our dance at tomorrow’s ball,” Jeonghan suggested as he stood from his seat and reached for your hand. He pressed his lips against your knuckles- softly, tantalisingly, and perhaps lingering for half a second longer than appropriate before giving you a roguish smile. “Have a pleasant evening, Miss Jeon.”

You watched as he walked away to join his companions at the refreshment tables. Your heartbeat thumped with excitement while the adrenaline from your unbelievably shocking encounter with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan slowly ebbed.

Well, you thought to yourself. Mr. Yoon Jeonghan had certainly lit your heart’s candle.

Indeed, he seemed quite in danger of tipping it over and setting the entire bloody place on fire.

-----------------------------------------

A/N: Thanks to everyone who showed so much love for my first fic Patience, and also thank you for reading Candle! Jeonghan was such a crucial character in Patience that it was always my intention to write a companion fic for him.

I should be able to upload the next part of Candle in a few days, if all goes well. I'm also in the process of plotting for Wonwoo, Mingyu and Hoshi, in no particular order.

Any feedback is welcome! I'm not sensitive lol.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen fanfiction #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan fluff #jeonghan angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen au #regency!au #yoon jeonghan scenarios #jeonghan scenarios

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slytherizz · 11 months ago

Text

Playing God - Auror!Sebastian x Dark!MC

Tags/Warnings: 18+ | Non-Con | explicit sexual content | Dark!MC | Polyjuice Sex

All tags can be found on Ao3

Word count: 6.4k

Summary: Decorated Auror, Sebastian Sallow had not anticipated how his life would diverge so sharply from the woman he once loved, the most wanted and notorious witch in Britain. Or how their paths would continue to cross - their fates still bound together.

A/N This fic has been living in my WIPs for about 6 months...I wanted to reverse the dynamic of my longer fic with Sebastian being the Auror this time and in doing such explore some darker themes. Short multi-chapter that will probably end up being three chapters at most.

She was pretty enough he supposed in a homely sort of way.

Petite, with neat shoulder-length hair that brushed against narrow shoulders and, a soft bow to her overly thin top lip. But her dress was old-fashioned, a severe high-neck buttoned almost to her chin, ruffled layers of her underskirts impractical and lumpy. Layers upon layers, of an unflattering shade of yellow washed out her otherwise pleasant features.

Compared to the other witches that would frequent such a seedy establishment with their low necklines and light skirts, she would be considered dowdy.

If it wasn't for her eyes. Keen and alert as if beneath the sheep-like exterior lurked something dangerous. He most likely would have overlooked her too.

To even the keenest observer it wouldn't look like Sebastian had any particular tastes when it came to women or men. Much to his displeasure, the qualities that drew him in were rarely mere aesthetic.

Barked laughter like an ill-tempered hound. The smell of mallowsweet. Aromatic and earthy. Teeth pressed lightly into a bottom lip like they held all the cards in a game no one else knew they were playing. Until they spread the winning hand. Smile so wide it unnerved, bore too many teeth.

Tonight, it was keen and dangerous eyes that reminded him of her.

They shared no other similarities and from what Sebastian could discern from her well-manicured nails, and unblemished skin, bar a pale line around her finger where he supposed an engagement ring would usually sit - this was no fighter.

This was a proper young lady - who had wandered onto the wrong side of town looking for a sensible amount of trouble as her wedding day, most likely to some equally wellbred suitor, loomed over her like a dark cloud.

As if Sebastian were screaming his thoughts at her across the crowded tavern, those sharp eyes flicked their attention to him. Raked over the thinning patches of his civilian cloak, the shadow across his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes he'd given up glamouring. After years they were as much a staple of his face as the freckles on his nose.

The marks of a man who hadn't enough time to shave let alone visit a tailor, a man who would scarcely have enough time to ask her too many intrusive questions.

She smiled. Jarring was the only way Sebastian could describe how her face seemed to split horizontally across its centre. Neither half quite belonged to the other. The demure and polite curl of her lips was offset by the razor-edged scrutiny of her darkened gaze. Predatory. Hungry. In a way that made his mouth go dry and cool sweat beads on the back of his neck.

Ice clinked against the side of his glass as Sebastian knocked back the remaining dregs of whiskey. Disguising the way his lip twitched at the corners under the weight of her eyes. Amber liquid burned his throat was nothing compared to the heat prickling across his skin.

Sebastian held up two fingers to indicate to the Barmaid over the raucous patrons of the pub. She placed a second glass on the bar filling them both with a more than generous pour.

"Cheers," Sebastian said, placing the coins into her hand, a little extra for her trouble as he always did. The barmaid smiled brightly, flushed and preening, over a few extra sickles as if he'd declared some great love for her. Though he supposed generosity was not a trait of many that frequented the Ogre's Arms. She leaned a little further over the bar than was strictly necessary, her fingers linger too long against his palm as he hands over his sickles.

Sebastian did not miss the way that the strangers' eyes tracked the interaction. As swift and deliberately as he had been trained to be with every motion, he slipped his hand from the barmaid's grasp deftly hooking his fingers into the rim of the grotesquely full tumblers as he spun on his heels.

Whatever the poor girl had been about to say faltered in her throat. Crackling out of life like a dying gramophone. He really should have felt some sympathy for the poor girl.

She'd made her fondness for him quite obvious over the years. Despite how Sebastian would sidle out the door with what must seem like any witch but her. Too worried about any kind of arrangement that would ask for more than he was willing, or able, to give. Nor did he wish to find a new hole to drown himself in.

And regretfully - her gentle honeyed voice and hopeful doe eyes that delivered longing glances had never stirred anything inside of Sebastian. As much as on some nights he wished they would.

Sebastian weaved through the sparse gathering around the bar of the more rambunctious patrons. Turning a blind eye, to the corner booth and the two witches poorly disguising their face under their dramatic hoods, exchanging money, a rather suspicious-looking sack at their feet which gave a periodic shudder and what looked like spines protruding from the burlap. It may be his job to investigate suspicious behaviour such as this but- he'd rather not have to explain to his sergeant exactly what he was doing in this pub in the first place.

Approaching her solitary table nestled in the corner, she inclined her chin up towards him. Smug. Sloped oak beams cast a thick shadow, and candlelight flickering against her cheekbones made her features waxy like an oil painting against a grimy canvas.

"May I?"

She tilted her head, as though she expected nothing else but was amused by his gesture nonetheless."Only because you brought a bribe."

Sebastian hooked the heel of his boot around the chair leg pulling out further. Placed the two glasses on the table as he sat, careful not to spill any against the oak surface. Not that it would be such a shame if it did. Cheap whiskey from a smudged glass was hardly a waste.

Sebastian tipped his glass to her in toast, she did not feign even the slightest interest in her glass or his hollow act of chivalry.

"I haven't seen you here before," Sebastian said.

Flexing her fingers, she admired those well-polished nails. "No. I don't suppose you would have."

West Country. Quaint. As out of place amongst the sea of London accents as her dress was from this decade. Confirming a very important fact for Sebastian she was certainly not from around here. For the best.

"This doesn't seem like the place for such a nice young lady such as yourself."

Chin resting on the back of her delicate hand. A feline grin spread across her face, as she lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Nor the place for well respected Ministry men."

Tension seized Sebastian's shoulders. Unnerved by her perception, his eyes darted across the sea of faces. He'd left the scarlet cloak with the gold badge adorning his lapels in his flat long before he'd made apparated to the bottom of Knockturn Alley. Places like these didn't take too kindly to rozzers scrambling their clientele. Nor would he want it to become common knowledge at the Ministry that he frequented grimy drinking holes on his off hours. He was certain she'd been alone but that prickle of unease had his hand reaching towards his wand.

She caught his arm swiftly, delicate fingers folded up the cuff of his cloak. Ministry insignia branded into the tan leather strap that secured his wand to his forearm.

Chuckling breathily to himself, Sebastian felt the tension ebb as, just as swiftly, she turned down the sleeve. "Half the people here carry their wand tucked up their sleeve. You have a keen eye, to have spotted that mark from halfway across the room, lass. Do you make it a habit of checking if every man who approaches you is an Auror?"

Sharp eyes glinted with mischief. "Only the ones that interest me."

"Must be my lucky day." He leaned in closer, bitter whiskey breath disturbed a loose curl around her ear as he whispered. "Unless there's a reason you have to be on such high alert for authority I should know about?"

"Do I look like the kind of woman who would have much trouble with the law?"

He cast his eyes down, at her unblemished hands. Free of callouses and scar tissue, the tight restrictiveness of her bodice ill-suited for battle, her polite disarming smile - even those eyes, so reminiscent but not quite right. Despising the remorseful pang in his chest. Nothing like her.

"Well if that's the case this," he gestured around the damp crooked hole masquerading as a tavern. "Certainly isn't the place for you."

"Nor you. Unless the requirements for holding such an esteemed post has gone severely downhill and they let swindlers and murderers into their ranks." He almost winced at the sting of the insult she unwittingly delivered.

"Perhaps lurking around in dingey bars with terrible whiskey isn't suited to either of us. Perhaps, upstanding members of society that we are, should go somewhere we can feel more…relaxed."

"And where exactly is there such a place for me?" Most women would have covered that glaring tan line on her finger, under gloved hands or glamour, but she seemed to flaunt it as she ghosted it across his knuckles; an invitation.

Sebastian's grin widened. "I have a few ideas."

"I don't have much time. So you better make every minute count."

***

Sebastian unlocked his front door with a snap of his fingers. Gestured her inside, his hand pressed into the small of her back. She inclined her head towards him, a smirk playing on her lips at the hollow politeness of his gesture. Knowing full well his intention of inviting her back to his flat was far from gentlemanly.

Exaggerated skirts shifted as she stepped inside. Soft lamp lights scattered around his living room sparked to life in welcome illuminating the small living area. Her formal attire looked out of place; more suited for high tea than the sparsely filled space Sebastian inhabited.

Files strewn across the long velvet settee, scattered teacups and candles burned down to the wick littered every available surface. He knew the larder would be just as barren save for some tea bags and a half-empty bottle of gin the department had cobbled together to purchase for his promotion. He didn't even like gin. The presence of female company always seemed to highlight just how every inch of his flat screamed bachelor.

Sebastian shrugged off his cloak, hooking it on the back of the door. Never once taking his eyes off her. Odd little creature that she was. Against the faint moonlight that trickled in from the arched window on the far wall, her face cloaked in darkness, she cast a dramatic silhouette.

Not quite her. No. But her dress despite its bulk could not disguise the dip of her waist, an alluring swell to her chest. With her face masked from view, he felt his drink-fogged mind teeter dangerously on an edge he would not let it wander past.

She'd bent down, and pinched the corner of a piece of parchment he'd discarded the previous night between her thumb and forefinger. Sebastian slipped his wand from the holster. With a flick, the paper pried itself free to rejoin the rest which were shuffling themselves back into their file before shooting across the room into the waiting drawer of his bureau. The gold lock clicked shut, locking them securely away with an audible snap.

Her head whipped around, her chin jutted out in irritation, and her eyes narrowed slightly into a glare. Sebastian shrugged, as he unbuckled the holster on his arm, placing it on the narrow kitchen island. "Classified information. I'm sure you understand."

Sebastian couldn't have nosy witches trawling through his case files. He'd seen plenty of Aurors sacked for lesser sins. And reporters from the Prophet certainly weren't above seduction tactics to get their stories. That knowledge did nothing however to stop the tingle that spread down his spine that the defiant look in her eye ignited in him.

"I suppose." She shrugged, a forced display of indifference. Before proceeding to further inspect his residence. Striding about like she owned the place and Sebastian was merely some troublesome tenant.

The cramped flat he'd started renting in London straight out of Hogwarts could hardly be considered a home. Sebastian never planned to make it one. Or stay for as long as he did. Merely a stepping stone, at the start of his career. Close to the Ministry, so he could collapse after a long day.

Eat. Sleep. Breath. Work.

That desperate desire to prove himself more than what he'd been. Never satisfied with his lot in life. By the grace of Merlin, he'd been given a second chance to make himself a man - his parents, his sister, that he could be proud of.

He had planned to settle down eventually. Fix the decaying bones of his parents' old house on the hill with her by his side. Both were now a faded, hopeless dream. Sebastian's life had rarely gone to plan.

Tracing a finger across the well-worn spines on his overstuffed bookshelf she pondered each title with interest. "Quite the collection you have. Some rather questionable titles you have here for a man of your profession."

"Special Ministry approval. They're charmed to be bound to my place of residence - before you get any ideas. Can never be too prepared in my line of work. Knowledge of magic of a more…delicate nature can be the difference between life and death."

Strictly speaking, this was not a lie. Any Auror worth his salt would have at least half the books in Sebastian's collection on curse-breaking, dark magic and deadly creatures. Admittedly, his robust library wasn't necessary for his career nor was all of it purely academic interest.

Eyewitness accounts of skinwalkers he'd picked up on a short trip to America, liaising with the MACUSA on their rising troll problem. Journals, written in the maddening scrawl of a witch who'd fancied herself a revolutionary scholar. Wanted to test the corruption dark magic had on the soul. Daft bugger used herself to test her theories. Now all that was left of her was crammed into a bachelor's bookcase.

Smallest in number and size, a thin collection of children's stories and a letter correspondence from crackpot conspiracists. He'd been too late to salvage anything that remained of Miriam Fig's research and this pitiful array was all that he'd discovered over the years with any reference to Ancient Magic. A small house fire could destroy what Sebastian could only assume was the largest collated materials on the subject.

It had been foolish to try to love her, but perhaps more still to hunt the vengeful wraith.

"Well read. Good career. Seems you are a rather eligible bachelor-"

Sebastian smiled moving closer towards her. "I'm not bad to look at either."

"Despite your proclivity for skulking around dingey bars. It's unusual to find a man such as yourself…unattached."

"What can I say - I'm married to my work. Not much time for anything else; not many witches would put up with the lifestyle long-term. Never been interested in marriage."

Liar.

She looked up at him through dark lashes, from how those sharp eyes stripped him back until he was raw and exposed - she scented his dishonesty. "Sounds like a lonely life."

"Depends on who you ask."

Sebastian leaned heavily on the shelf above her head, elbow brushing against well-loved spines. His calloused palm slipped around her waist, running up her side. Felt the curved bones of her corset under his thumb. Leaning in closer still, enough that his breath disturbed the loose curls around her temples. Her lips parted, tongue dancing along her bottom lip as she tilted her chin up towards him like a cat basking in a warm breeze.

She didn't waiver. Not a single flicker of hesitation in those sharp, piercing eyes. For a moment, Sebastian pitied the man who intended to marry her. But not enough to stop him from capturing her lips.

Tasting the tang of cheap whiskey in their mingled breath. Not a slither of remorse as her delicate hands found the nape of Sebastian's neck. Used chestnut curls to pull him closer to kiss him more deeply. Their breath was little more than stolen gasps for air and an opportunity for her tongue to seize and slip past parted lips.

Sebastian crowded her further against the bookshelf. Held tighter to the bunched fabric of her skirts, hands fumbling desperately to feel the shape it disguised. Frustrated by the garment, his lips left her mouth. Travelled down to her jaw, her breathing hitched, head tipped back to thunk against the shelf as Sebastian nipped and sucked at the column of her throat. A little too sharply. But she only pressed into him further. Blood and bruises bloomed wild across her skin as his teeth grazed along her heightened pulse.

He knew what it was like to try to ensnare creatures such as this. How they bit when cornered. Fool that he was, he desired to tame them, change their nature; almost as much as he craved to be bitten.

Maybe that was why he held her so firmly in his grasp. Petticoats balled in his fists, as he pressed himself awkwardly against her. Her dainty form didn't quite fit the stocky mould of his own.

Not that anyone witch or woman had since.

Not that she seemed to care. She pulled Sebastian in like he alone was hers to drink from. Like he belonged to her and she would bend and break him to fit her. Some part of him prayed she succeeded. He'd snap every bone in his body, boil down his sinew in the hope that when at last he healed - he would fit another.

Sebastian pressed his mouth into the crook of her shoulder and burrowed his face, inhaling deeply, as he mouthed at her skin. Soft and supple as an over-ripe peach. Desperately, pathetically trying and failing to make himself fit. But the bridge of his nose bumped harshly against her clavicle and his back ached from stooping.

He'd never melted into anyone since her. No matter how many times he tried with countless trysts with all the ways they reminded him of her in their laughs, smiles, and eyes - they were not her.

Pained groan against her shoulder. Cloth ripped as he tore past her outdated petticoats and the silk of her undergarments. Desperate hands kneaded at her bare flesh. Thigh. Hip. The curve of her arse. Every inch of her skin grew hot, flushed under his touch. If Sebastian had been in his right mind not addled, by drink and frustration he would have handed it to her; for such a wellbred lady, she did not startle easily or cringe from his working hands. With a strung-out whine, she simply displaced the torn fabric so Sebastian's knee pressed between her thighs could provide her with more friction.

Sebastian sank to his knees, hooking her thigh around his broad shoulder. Balanced precariously, her back pressed against the stacks and her leg suspended quivering. Heel dug between his shoulder blades as she sought stability. Her limbs were lean…soft. Delicate like a lamb. No coiled muscle battle worn and firm disguised under her skirts.

That did not stop Sebastian from groaning against the sparse hair as he nestled himself between her thighs. Her muscles clenched tighter. Not with apprehension. No. With blinding unhindered desire. Whining breathlessly, as she urged him to fulfil his role, drop any pretence to do what they came here for. This was no budding romance. And there was no time to pretend otherwise.

Sebastian's tongue darted out teasing the tip through her folds. Eagerly seeking out her bundle of nerves to curl his tongue under her hood. Satisfied, a mewl passed her lips to at last have Sebastian where she desired him most. Hips bucked and writhed with every broad stroke and teasing lick against her soaking entrance. Brown tresses tangled harshly in her grip, those neatly filed nails scratching encouragingly against his scalp.

Her taste was unfamiliar on Sebastian's tongue, but he only lapped at her more fervently. Desperate. As if he savoured enough of her desire for him - he could burn away the memories of sweeter nectars.

Bunching her skirt closer to her stomach, Sebastian's view of her was unobstructed. The collar pulled open where she'd made swift work of the buttons of her high neckline; they hung like loosely strung pearls cascading down her chest which heaved with every breath. Breasts dimpled against the restrictive tightly laced corset.

Sebastian's eyes flicked up to meet hers. Not the right shape or hue but that intensity to them. Storm raging across a riptide, Sebastian, vulnerable in their depth. He could drown in them and would do so gladly.

Blood rushed south, and Sebastian groaned low, pained. He sucked on her clit, coaxing more slick to coat his lips and chin. Hoping beyond hope that her eyes locked on his would flutter closed in pleasure. Her mouth was ajar, each drawn-out moan growing louder as she approached her peak. Clever calculating gaze fixed on Sebastian. He knew he was exactly where she wanted him. Prey to her predator. His cock strained and achingly hard because of it.

Her back arched against the stacks, toes curling against the centre of his back, legs shook with the strain to hold herself upright. Sebastian was relentless. He devoured the quivering nub, tongue teasing as he sucked. Her passionate cry was unrestrained, legs threatening to buckle bringing her down like a house of cards as she collapsed over the edge. Aftershock of pleasure rolled over her, he kept a firm grip on her hip as she rested more heavily against him. His desire for her is confusing and just as precarious.

Sebastian unhooked her leg from his shoulder, palms running along the backs of her calves. She was still propped up feebly holding herself against the bookcase. Pads of her fingers clutching pathetically at the shelves with the ball of her heel holding purchase on the floor.

Orgasm ebbing, softening her predatory edge. A smirk played at Sebastian's lips as he looked up at her once polished appearance now dishevelled. Rattling, with a lust-drunk gaze that defiant chin hanging slightly ajar as she greedily gulped down air.

She narrowed her eyes at his smug expression and gathered her composure before slipping her ruined dress from her shoulders letting it puddle at her feet. Nail digging under his chin as she beckoned Sebastian upwards, pulling him in.

It made Sebastian's heart beat wildly against his chest. A caged canary faced with a falcon.

Teeth grazed his bottom lip, tongue seeking his own. Sebastian's clothes fell away easily from his broad frame. His shirt was discarded, followed by breeches which tangled around his ankles as they fumbled towards the settee. Muffled grunts into her mouth every time her palm grazed his cock, hard and throbbing, through his undergarments. Sebastian moved to lie her swiftly across the settee. One hand pressed into the small of her back the other tangled in amongst the pins now falling loose from her hair.

Inexplicably, she moved faster than Sebastian thought she was capable of. Leg hooked around his ankle like a snake pulling him off balance. Backs of his knees connected with the settee as his legs buckled and Sebastian collapsed bodily onto cushions. Rarely with his extensive training did anyone get the jump on him.

Her lips curled as she observed the way his enlarged head twitched against his belly more eagerly. "Now, I think it's my turn." Laces from her corset pulled loose, she let the camisole shift to the floor with it. "-And you looked far too pretty beneath me."

As she straddled his lap, Sebastian spluttered on his groan and the intoxicating sensation of her wet centre against his shaft. Her palms were flat, braced against his chest, nails scratching at the coarse hairs that grew there. Every inch of her soft, naked flesh pressed against him. His hands settled on the curve of her hips, sliding along her flushed skin with hands that seemed too large.

She really was quite pretty. Sebastian just wished the parts that didn't remind him of her made his heart race as much as the ones that did.

She caught his lips, fingers cupped against his jaw, her mouth moving against his. Teeth and tongue. Hot breath came out in short dulcet pants as she greedily tasted the remnants of her arousal on his lips.

Her hand snaked down between them, taking Sebastian's throbbing length in her hand. He hissed, as her thumb smoothed over the leaking slit, aligning him with her entrance. Eyelashes fluttered a satisfied sigh, as she sank down, taking him inside of her. Dainty as she may appear, she appeared to relish the stretch to accommodate his size, almost as much as he did. So tight she gripped his cock, it almost sent him hurtling over the edge.

Barely giving herself time to adjust before she canted her hips. Weight shifting so she could slide up his shaft until only the head of his cock remained before sinking back down onto Sebastian's girth more demandingly. Needy grunts reverberated in Sebastian's chest as he matched her frantic desperate pace. Forehead braced on her chest as he bucked his hips into her tight core. Pebbled nipple caught between his lips, her head thrown back in a wanton moan as Sebastian ever so gently grazed the peak with his teeth.

Sebastian closed his eyes. Whiskey fog coupled with the godly feel of her clenched around him, he relaxed into her eager pace. Inhibitions lowered, his mind straying to the well-worn path he rarely let himself tread.

Face striking contorted in ecstasy; a savage beauty like lightning striking the ocean. Mallowsweet scent; that soothed like a botanist's herbal balm. How perfectly her body wrapped around his own as if by design. Sebastian's teeth pressed hard against his tongue as her name danced upon it. With his eyes closed, hands held back - that shameful part of him could pretend it was her.

"Sebastian," the witch moaned. He didn't remember giving her his name. Nor asking hers. The voice he heard was not that polite West Country lilt but one conjured from Hades - his divine pleasure and punishment.

Can't let it be her.

Sebastian forced his eyes open, to look at the woman from the bar. Her neat hair, narrow shoulders and thin top lip. Only to find the lines separating fantasy from reality blurred and contorted. His stomach lurched.

Maybe he'd had more to drink than he thought.

Whiskey had crowded and garbled his senses as well as his inhibitions. Sebastian's vision was merely blurred. She looked like her. Not just in her eyes but the sloping curve of her neck, the arch of her nose, her hair longer and tangling against the neat pins that had once held it back.

It's all the whiskey.

If he could bring himself to look away from her face for even one moment he would see the room spinning. But he couldn't look away.

Those keen eyes bore into him, locked with his own and he swore they changed colour. The fire that had been smouldering within sparked, roaring, melting her irises into that familiar hue.

He didn't just have to squeeze his eyes shut to see her and pretend it was her impossibly tight walls clenching around him with every thrust.

There she was.

"You," Sebastian spluttered, disbelief tight in his chest. "No. No- It can't be you. This can't be happening." Who cares if he sounded mad? His mind was spiralled and scrambled, desperate to bring back the visage of the woman from the bar and right himself. This face; her face didn't waver. She rolled her hips once more, bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she cast her gaze down. Over her breasts and the faded scar that curled under the left from the crucio, he'd administered. Firm muscles of her legs earned from years of battle. Calloused hands of someone who knew little of comfort. All were once again her own.

Sebastian's world was spiralling, tipping on its axis. Tension in every muscle in his body. Still as beautiful as she was in his nightmares, even the ones where she tore out his heart. She clicked her tongue, amused then smiled. So wide, it bore too many teeth.

Fucking exquisite. Sebastian despised the way his heart faltered in his chest.

"Pity. I guess the kneazle's out of the bag," she purred, teeth raking sharp across his earlobe. So sharp it shocked his spiral back into sickening clarity like ice in his veins.

Like a shot, Sebastian wrapped his hand hard around her throat forcing her face away from him. Thumb pressed harshly into the corner of her jaw with his iron grip on her windpipe. Any sane woman would tremble to have his large hand like a vice around her throat in anger. Cower, under the venom in his eyes.

But she was far from sane; perhaps never had been. She gasped involuntarily choking around where his fingers so deeply pressed into her flesh, but the smile on her lips never faltered despite how he could feel the hammer of her blood against his fingertips.

"You should know I don't share," she wheezed. It wasn't the polite West Country drawl she'd adopted at the bar - but that feminine purr he knew far too well. Velvety, like a caress that sent shivers down his spine; and if it were possible simultaneously made his blood run cold and his cock impossibly stiffer where it was sheathed deep within her. She whimpered approvingly, hot breath ghosting his freckled cheeks.

"Fuck- how did you-" Choking on his groan as she expertly rolled her hips, grinding on his cock. Evil, manipulative witch. She knew exactly how to turn practically every rational thought in Sebastian's brain to smoke.

"Polyjuice. She was pretty don't you think? You seemed to like fucking her while it lasted. Maybe not as much as that curvy redhead from a few months ago...I had bruises on my thighs for weeks."

Somewhere deep in his psyche, Sebastian knew he should push her off. Bind her. Gag her. Put as much distance between himself and her and the mixed-up way she made him feel. Preferably in a cell in the deepest part of Azkaban the Ministry had long ago allocated for her when they signed the warrant for her arrest. At that moment, over the cacophony screaming through his head the only coherent thought was how to keep her desperately bouncing on his cock.

"I thought it was my turn to have some unsanctioned fun."

No - rose, bubbled and died in his throat. Caught somewhere amongst the shameful rasping groan as she began to rhythmically rock her hips. Never quite releasing her entirely, but Sebastian's grip on her throat loosened as his muscles slackened in shameful pleasure.

Using every bit of her newfound leash, she leaned forward to kiss him. Sin, like ambrosia on his tongue. Lips slotted against him, they moved in perfect harmony to a melody he wished had never been composed on his bones.

She wrapped around him as if the wild thing that she had always been had sprouted from the earth, and curled her tendrils around him. Or rather, like a constant wave beating against him she'd worn his surface. It was a marvel he hadn't crumbled into her sooner.

"You're mine you know," she cooed, her breath hot against his ear.

"I am not," Sebastian spat. But try as he might to deny it, curse her until his final breath - his words rang hollow. And he loathes himself all the more for it. She was not his any longer, but something else. Twisted by cruelty and power that simply wore the face of the woman he once loved.

Shame stirred in his gut; desire coursed through his blood.

"Denying it doesn't make it any less true. You know me blind. When my face is not my own. Fate has bound us, Sebastian. Just as I would know you in any life."

Sebastian gritted his teeth, cheek pressed against her sternum. Fingers digging into her shoulder blades, as he pounded his cock up into her harder, faster. If he was stronger, he would not be prey to her illicit designs for him - but he was not. She keened, greedy to take all he could give her. Consume him entirely if she could. Sebastian closed his eyes and cursed himself for being weak.

Vision narrowing, Sebastian groaned, low and pitiful into the curve of her neck. Ashamed of what he knew was coming. "I hate you," he cursed. Repeated it like a mantra, his lips against her sweat-salted skin as if he could transcribe the words onto her flesh.

Deep plunges into her warmth growing erratic as Sebastian's coil tightens. Her body clenched, tightening around him, with every thrust teased against her sweet spot coaxing more slick onto his cock. His punishing words merely rolled off her curves like water off a duck's back.

"S-Sebastian," her hoarse cry pierced through his resolve. Sebastian bit into her neck trying and failing to hold back from the precipice of the inevitable. Unwilling to surrender any more of himself to her. It only served to send her hurtling over the cliff. His cock buried deep inside of her, her head thrown back, cunt quivering as her climax broke. Orgasm, wracked through her in waves. Engulfing Sebastian's every sense.

Fire and Brimstone. Gentle breezes and mallowsweet.

Beauty. Terror.

Rhythm faltering, Sebastian's hips spluttered as that mounting coil finally snapped. Her name on his lips, her scent on his skin. Everything that remained of Sebastian Sallow was consumed entirely by her. He came hard - with a broken pathetic whine that forced itself from his body as he spilt inside of her.

It was no little death - it was all-consuming. A part of him would never come back from. Another piece of his soul surrendered along with what was left of his dignity.

Sebastian fought for breath. Unforgiving waters filled his chest, ice seized his joints, heart thundered as dark edges clouded his vision, threatening to drown out the light and sound. Choking on his saliva he wheezed, shoulders heaved forward violently. Fresh tears pricked in his eyes.

She shushed his soothingly, thumb tracing idle patterns on his skin with a sickening gentleness that curdled his stomach. He whined pathetically against her chest but she only gripped him harder. Fingers carded through his hair as she hummed a sweet tune peppering kisses to the crown of his chestnut hair.

Perhaps, in another life, he had the strength to overcome the guilt and sickness now seizing his bones. In another, perhaps there was no deception to be ashamed of.

He wasn't sure how long they sat entwined, soft cock still inside her, his spend leaking onto his thighs matting in the hair. When at last Sebastian's violent sobbing eased he felt the enchantment stretch across his body, taunt ropes strapped his arms to his sides, and bound his ankles. A chaste kiss against his temple as she slid from his lap.

Sebastian watched her and tried to pretend for a second, that he was not bound, she was not mad and hips swaying hypnotically as she pranced naked around their flat as she did every Sunday evening. Not his. Theirs. Another life, unstained by dark magic where she was still his.

Fussing with her dress, eyebrows pinched together, frowning as she examined the shredded yellow gown. She sighed, holding the unlaced corset over her breasts, gathering up the remnants to haul them to the kitchen island. She found his wand, with its emerald and onyx handle, the one that had belonged to his paternal great-grandfather. Back and forth she toyed with it in her hands.

"Put that down." A feeble attempt at a threat from a man bound, naked, cheeks streaked with stale tears. Tight from salt they felt stretched like a drum.

"You ruined my dress," she pouted. "The least you can do is help me fix it."

Traitorously, Sebastian's wand didn't so much as shudder in retaliation. It obeyed her easily, stitching up the splintered seams, her corset tightened, cinching at her waist. Her hairpins reorganised themselves. She looked almost like her old self, the girl she'd been at school, with a spark of fire in her eyes that mirrored his own.

"Before you go running off to the next little witch who bats her eyelashes at you, Bash. Try to remember - I don't share." She placed his wand back on the counter and slipped a canteen from her purse. She drank deeply. Gagging, hand smacking into her chest to keep down whatever foul liquid it contained.

If Sebastian had still been drunk the way her face bubbled like stew on a boil would have turned his stomach. Her lips thinned, her hair shrunk back into her scalp, her scars paled and her muscles softened. The woman from the Pub returned, exactly as he'd met her. It did nothing to quell the sickness churning in his gut.

"Au revoir mon amour." She was gone as quickly as she came, but her presence lingered like a gaping, festering wound.

Sebastian sat in the dark. Hatred for her that he cultivated in public and the private yearning he tended to as it grew like persistent weeds in his garden he tended had given way to emptiness. A void that for a time he was content to let swallow him whole as he stared at the cracks in his floor. Mourning the woman he'd loved. But most he mourned for himself, for all she took from him.

Shadows inched across the floor as dawn eventually broke. Long after the bindings had dissolved. Sebastian hadn't slept or moved for hours and his joints stiff, groaned as he got to his feet. He trudged to his bathroom and ran the water until it was scalding. Intent on scrubbing his skin raw. As if she could un-touch him.

#Please mind the tags #dark fic #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x f!mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian x mc #sebastian sallow fanfic #non con

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suzdin · 1 year ago

Text

DATURA

Summary: Dave and his team have been sent to kill you, but the night pans out differently than you anticipate.

Warnings: ¡SEX POLLEN! Implied noncon due to sex pollen. Fictional drug use. Mentions of weapons/guns/murder (duh). Threeway sex. Gun play, unprotected p in v, creampies, masturbation (f), fingering, spit roasting, oral (m receiving), use of sex toy on reader, anal, spitting, light degradation, choking, spanking, rough sex, squirting, let me know if I missed anything. No use of y/n. Picture is for aesthetics only, as reader is not given a physical description.

This fic is extremely feral and not for everyone, and that’s okay. <3

Word Count: 4,800-ish

Taglist: @kellybelly1978 @ohheypedrito @darkheartgatita @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @sonderosa @missladym1981

And of course I dedicate this to @survivingandenduring and @kateispunk for holding a gun to my head until I wrote this inspiring me to write this 😘

——

Dave prods his index finger at the highlighted portions of the floor plans on the tablet, which he presents to his compatriots.

“There are entrances here, here…and here,” he points out, tapping the third for emphasis. “She’ll be expecting those. Watching them.”

Dave brushes his bottom lip with his thumb, brow creasing in contemplation.

“Ari and Resnik can head off the two main entrances. Joel, you take the side. And I’ll enter…here.” He places a finger where there’s a hastily drawn ‘X’ facing a private alley and courtyard.

“Don’t see a door or window,” the tall, tan man to his left drawls, placing a hand on his hip.

“Right. There’s a secret entrance there which leads to a crawl space left over from the city’s bootlegging days. None of the residents know. And guess where it exits?” Dave asks, eyes darting between the three men.

He places a finger where the bedroom closet would be.

A smirk twists Joel’s mustache. “Shit,” he says, scratching thick, weathered fingers through his scruff. “Gonna hit ‘er from all sides.”

“Exactly,” Dave responds, mirroring the way his companion places his hands on his hips. “We’ll strike at 10 PM sharp. That’s when the main festivities begin. No one will hear a thing.”

——

Dave crouches next to the hatch that leads to the secret door beneath the building, long since defunct due to the city’s proclivity for flooding.

A crackle resonates through his ear piece.

“Miller. Anything?” Dave asks.

“Nothin’,” Joel answers in a low southern lilt, positioned at the bottom of the narrow stairwell on the east side of the building, clicking the safety off on his Glock.

“Ari, Resnik? Station yourselves. Miller, I’m going in.”

“10-4,” Joel returns.

Dave yanks up on the metal hatch and it opens with a jarring creak, drowned out by the roar of the crowds on Bourbon Street and another jazz band playing their rendition of Oh When The Saints Go Marching In for probably the 1,000th time that evening.

He slips in easily and finds a peeling red door, which is shockingly ajar. A stray cat rushes out with a shriek, spitting feline obscenities at him.

“Fuck!” Dave snarls as the dark, furry void streaks past him and into the night.

“What’s goin’ on?” Joel’s voice.

“Nothing. Fucking cat. I’m inside.”

A low, throaty chortle sounds through Dave’s ear piece.

“Eat shit, Miller. Start heading up. I should reach her apartment in five.”

“Unless there’s more cats guarding the place.” This time it’s Ari’s voice. Dave pointedly ignores him.

The crawl space is narrow and damp, crushing in at him from all sides and choked with cobwebs and god knows what else, but it’s surprisingly not the worst place he’s ever been.

The space quickly dead ends into a ladder that looks like it’s seen far better days, rusting from the bolts outward. Dave can’t help but wonder if it will support his full body weight.

“‘M at her front door,” Joel remarks through the ear piece.

“Climbing the ladder now,” Dave responds as he begins his ascent, gripping the bottom rung and giving it a hard jostle to test its integrity.

The metal rungs protest and groan under his weight, but the structure holds true.

The boys had thought it absolutely ludicrous when Dave had come to them for their help with the hit. Four men for one single woman?

Bullshit. A waste of time and resources.

That is until they’d familiarized themselves with your rap sheet. Just shy of forty murders in less than a decade, and a weapons and ballistics specialist to boot.

But it would all end tonight, and that price on your pretty little head would be a nice cherry on top.

He reaches the hatch leading into your closet a moment later, twisting the mechanism that holds it flush to the wooden floor above.

He draws the Beretta from the holster on his hip, clicking off the safety as he strains his hearing to listen for something, anything, that would give him pause; that would make him abort the mission.

He hears nothing but the music seeping in from the streets through the century old brick.

“I’m in, Joel. I’m in,” Dave whispers, lifting the hatch as he silently crawls inside your closet, the scent of you overwhelming his senses, making his nostrils flair. Cock already half hard in his dark denim jeans at the prospect of another name scratched off his list.

Your name.

——

Joel makes short work of unlocking your door, pushing it open with his foot as he replaces the Glock with the heavier semi-automatic at his back, holstering the pistol on his hip.

His face pinches. You hadn’t even locked the deadbolt, despite having one, a feeling of dread slithering up the crease of his scrotum, perspiration pricking at his skin.

You’ve been waiting for them.

You register Joel first, his heavy footfalls impossible to conceal under the creak of the original wooden flooring. It’s almost laughable how loud they’re being, Joel making a ruckus behind you and the other rustling somewhere in your closet, probably smelling your panties for all you know.

Joel finds you at an open window, back facing him as some loud pop song he doesn’t recognize drifts up from the Quarter below. You’re naked aside from a short, black pleated skirt that barely ghosts the lower curve of your ass, a silver and white fox tail peeking out from beneath the hem of said skirt.

Though he can’t see it from his current vantage, a gun rests on the window sill in front of you. You’re starting to think you won’t be needing it. Not when the man at your back could have already taken a clear shot at you and didn’t.

You lean slightly forward, revealing more of your ass to Joel and cheering as you catch a handful of colorful Mardi Gras beads from one of hundreds of floats below, waving your arms triumphantly over your head before you slip the necklaces around the lovely column of your neck.

Joel spots Dave then, mocha brown eyes shifting to his comrade, his expression unreadable. The Beretta drawn to shoulder height, trained at your head, but he isn’t pulling the trigger. Not yet.

Lowering the rifle, Joel lifts a fist in the air to signal to Dave, take the shot, asshole.

But he doesn’t, and neither does Joel, staring at your bared skin, the exposed hills and valleys of your body. Two men reduced to little more than their base desires in mere seconds. Exactly what you were expecting.

You finally shut the window and turn to face them when they do nothing but stand there, transfixed by your beauty. You’re wearing a masquerade mask in royal purple that’s trimmed with gold lace, cinched tightly behind your head.

You won’t be needing a gun when you can use sexuality as a weapon. It wasn’t the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Took you long enough,” you admonish, eyes drifting back and forth between the two men.

The larger one is broad and older, unkempt curls swirling away from his head, dusted with silver. The beard tracing his jaw is dark and patchy, a thick mustache framing his upper lip.

A red and black flannel stretches across the expanse of his upper body, tucked into dark wash jeans, ending with heavy work boots. His eyes darken in their regard of you.

His companion is also broad, only just less so, and younger than his comrade by what you guess to be ten or fifteen years. His face is clean and smooth with the barest hint of shadow, plush lips pushed outward in bewilderment, a black beanie pulled down to conceal his dark hair, matching the rest of his attire.

“Love the outfit, but a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” you ask the younger of the two men. The edges of his lips twitch upward in amusement.

You sway your hips slightly, making the tail between your legs wag to and fro, enticing the two men to ease closer. And they do. Exactly where you want them.

Dave notices your fingers dancing across the lid of a small metal box in the nick of time.

A new party drug originating from Ibiza, its purpose intended to act as a powerful aphrodisiac amongst the most experimental, but as with most things, too much could be dangerous, in rare cases fatal. It usually came in tab form, but it had been sold to you as a fine powder, and your plan was to drug them senseless until they fucked each other to death or you killed them, depending on how bored you got.

You grasp the ornate metal box in your fingers and flick your wrist outward, hurling the contents in a direct trajectory at Dave’s face, which would have hit the intended target had he not been ready to deflect the strike with a hastily lobbed pillow from the nearby sofa.

The cloud the hit produces is magnificent, a shimmery white mist which coats your face and lips and everything else in its path, inhaled through your sinuses and entered through your bloodstream as traces of the powder land on your tastebuds.

You spit and claw at your face, but it’s too late, and you know it.

You’re fucked in more ways than one.

The affects are almost instantaneous, a fiery hot inferno that builds low in your core, a lance of pain sawing through you from the inside out. Your pupils dilate and everything is suddenly too bright, too painful, every source of illumination having a halo that almost resembles a mushroom cloud in its brilliance, its potency.

You feel the sticky slick coating the inside of your thighs and you double over, clutching your guts, tears pricking at your eyes.

“Whatsa matter, darlin’?” Joel asks, your show of pain bringing him immense joy. “Can’t handle what you dish out?”

His cock strains against his jeans as he watches you and you groan, spreading your legs as you slip a finger between your folds in a bid to quell some of the ache. “Fuck…” you grit.

“Jesus, York, the hell’s wrong with her?” Joel questions.

Dave can only stare, transfixed, palming himself over his jeans.

Both men can’t help but jump when Resnik’s voice comes through the ear piece, so lost in your body they almost forgot why they were there to begin with.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

“Good,” Dave responds. “We’re…negotiating.”

“Negoti— fucking seriously?”

“Yes,” Dave answers firmly, his voice a low and husky. “I’ll explain later. For now, stay in a holding pattern, and make sure no one enters the building.”

Resnik starts to say something else, but Dave flicks off the ear piece and tosses it to the floor before he can finish, already forgotten. Joel follows suit.

“Help, please,” you whimper, stepping toward Joel as you fumble in desperation at his jeans. “Need it bad. It hurts.”

Joel abandons his weapons, drunk at the sight of you. His massive hands circle your waist, squeezing, desirous, lifting your skirt to cup your ass, exposing the tail tucked between your cheeks to Dave. You keen and without thinking, Joel bends forward to press his lips to yours.

“Miller, stop —“ Dave spits sharply, but it’s too late. Joel kisses you, deep and wanton, tongue swiping hungrily at your lips, and within seconds he receives his own dose of the drug, though not nearly as much as you.

He spins you in his grasp and hikes your skirt even higher up your waist, revealing your pussy to Dave, dragging two thick, callused digits between your dripping folds, bumping your clit. You moan and press your ass against him, the hard line of his cock nudging at the plug, heightening your pleasure.

“Y’like that, darlin’?” Joel murmurs into the shell of your ear.

“Yes,” you answer too quickly. “But I need your cock.”

“That so?” he answers gruffly, making quick work of his jeans as he shucks them off like a second skin, the drug already firmly rooting itself in his brain.

He tugs his boxers down, fat cock springing free from its confines as he shoves you forward, folding you in half over the couch with a broad palm pressed between your shoulder blades, notching himself at your entrance and pushing himself inward with reckless abandon.

You grunt at the reprieve, the sting of how forcefully he invades you, how he fills you.

Dave watches the events unfold in stunned silence, lips parted and skewed, unbuckling his belt as his eyes fixate on your face, your lovely sparkling eyes. The way your mouth hangs open when Joel begins railing into you with everything he has to give.

He reaches forward and plucks the mask from your face, discarding it, so he can see you. See how well you take it.

He drags the pad of his thumb along your succulent bottom lip, pressing it against your tongue, to the back of your throat, teasing. Testing.

He exhales a groan when you don’t gag.

He quickly steps out of his jeans and boxers, climbing onto the couch in front of you, roughly gripping the sides of your face so that your lips pop open for him.

You take him into your mouth without question, mewling softly, your throat and jaw burning with effort as he sinks himself into you.

Dave presses the barrel of the gun against your temple, his voice a snarl as he says, “Try anything and I’ll spray your pretty little brains all over these walls, sweetheart. Understood?”

You nod around him in affirmation as he begins rutting into your mouth, his other hand fisted tightly in your hair.

It isn’t long before Joel drags your first orgasm out of you, every muscle in your body constricting, relieving the pain only temporarily before it flares up again, white hot and slithering through your veins like molten metal.

“Thassit, darlin’. Takin’ that dick like a champ,” Joel praises, giving your ass a sharp slap. Every thrust of his hips knocking against the plug secured firmly in your ring of muscle.

“Fucking whore, letting two men enter you,” Dave growls, the gun pressed so squarely against your skull, it’s sure to leave an indentation.

Joel finishes inside you expeditiously with a low growl, panting into the small of your back as he collapses forward, knees smarting.

“Quick on the draw as always, Miller,” Dave tuts, clicking his tongue.

Dave’s fingers twist at your roots as he pulls you further onto his length, bottoming out with a shudder at the back of your throat.

“Fuck off, York,” Joel retorts, still fully hard inside of you. He tugs at the end of the tail, smirking playfully, causing you to moan.

“What if I shoved my dick up your ass next, sweet girl?”

You whimper around Dave in reverence. For both of them.

“Not a chance. That ass is mine,” Dave snorts. “Soon as I’m done with this mouth.”

Joel doesn’t argue. Your pussy feels too good, the way you squeeze him, and it isn’t long before he’s railing you hard again, never having gone soft, even at his age.

You cum a second time, soaking Joel, your release splashing down his muscular thighs. Your moans reverberating through Dave’s cock.

“Fuck, I’m not going to last like this…” Dave grunts as he pulls himself free from you with a pop of your lips, jaw hanging slack as Joel’s unforgiving pace doesn’t falter behind you.

“Trade places, Joel,” Dave demands.

“Not a chance,” Joel growls, the sounds of his hips slamming against your ass lewd and depraved.

“Now, Miller,” Dave reiterates, eyes deepening a shade as he lifts the gun away from your head to aim it at Joel.

“Fuck,” Joel spits, extricating himself from you as he and Dave exchange places. “Fine.”

Joel’s wide palms cup your face and he doesn’t waste time stretching your jaw and throat beyond their limits because fuck, he’s girthy. You taste the cocktail of you and him on your tongue.

He circles the outside of your throat with his hand and squeezes, feeling himself moving in your esophagus, grunting deeply as he watches you take him.

You jolt when you feel something cold, rigid and foreign dashing through your folds a second later, realizing in abject horror what is happening just as Dave pushes it inside of you and begins fucking you with it.

You moan, eyelids fluttering closed and Joel grunts deep in his chest, hand tightening around the cradle of your throat.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, slut? You like being fucked with my gun?” Dave grits from behind you.

You make a sound of supplication that tells Dave yes, yes you do.

He grins in satisfaction and drives the gun deeper, angling it just right, making you keen. The resulting squelch is deafening and obscene.

He pulls another orgasm out of you almost immediately, once again temporarily relieving the bubbling pain, sobbing around Joel, who’s already filling your mouth with more of his seed, spilling down your throat with a snarl.

He slows only for a moment, still hard as iron, ready to go again. And again.

Dave drags his lips up the curve of your ass and sinks his teeth into the meat of one of your plump cheeks, clamping down. You writhe against him at the small dagger of pain that courses through you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Dave purrs, giving the smarting cheek a slap.

As he continues to fuck you with the barrel of the pistol, his other hand skirts your tight star of muscle, fingers dancing around it.

His hand curls into the synthetic material of the tail, reveling the softness against his fingertips, and begins to tug slowly, lightly, testing.

You initially clench out of instinct, but relax your muscles as understanding settles over you, allowing him to pull it free from your puckered hole, letting it drop to the couch.

“Such a good girl,” Dave croons, tilting his face forward to place a chaste kiss there, the tip of his tongue darting out to circle your rim. You whine and arch into his touch.

“You should have some of this drug, York. Y’won’t have to worry about lastin’ then.”

“No,” Dave says as he lifts his head above your ass to lock eyes with Joel. “One of us needs to keep a clear head.”

“C’mon,” Joel taunts, swiping a finger through the mix of powder and tears still on your face. “Have a taste. Live for once.”

Joel extends his offering to Dave, hovering just over your lower back, inches from Dave’s lips. The men stare each other down, each of their movements slowing, much to your displeasure.

Dave eventually resigns himself, taking Joel’s fingers into his mouth and giving them a good laving with his tongue, tasting the sweetness of the drug, the saltiness of your tears.

Without warning, Joel succumbs to another high, exhaling a sputtered groan as you swallow what he gives you — what little of it there is at this point.

The drug makes quick work of Dave, twisting him into some kind of untethered beast as he drags multiple orgasms out of you with the barrel of the gun, his tongue flicking hungrily against your ring of muscle.

There isn’t a part of you that isn’t on fire. With desire, pain, fear. Fear that this will never end, that these two men will rip you apart from the inside out before all is said and done, but in spite of yourself, in spite of everything, you don’t want it to end.

“Lie back, Joel,” Dave commands and Joel does so without hesitation, his age getting the better of him, welcoming the relief he’ll receive as he makes himself comfortable on your couch.

Likewise, you’re happy for your jaw to have a momentary reprieve, as well, rubbing your tired muscles with your fingers as you catch your breath.

“Get on top of him,” Dave barks at you.

You willingly climb atop Joel, panting, lining yourself up with the slick head of his shaft. Joel’s heavy arm comes up to bar across your hips, pushing you down onto him until you sink all the way to his curls. The new angle making you keen and arch.

Dave presses you forward until your chest is flush with Joel’s, flattening you out before him. Joel doesn’t miss the opportunity to wrap his lips around yours again, kissing you sloppily, roving the wet heat of your mouth with his tongue, making you whimper as you begin riding him.

Dave spreads your cheeks apart and spits a globule of saliva at your puckered entrance, pressing two digits inside easily.

“Good thing you already loosened up that ass for me. You can take both of us, can’t you, sweetheart?” Dave murmurs and you simply nod, not wanting to tear your mouth away from Joel.

He lines himself up, placing the weeping slit of his head against your muscle as he begins pushing inward, inch by agonizing inch. Though you’re properly loosened up, there’s still a slight sting as your muscles contract and pulsate around him, stretching to accommodate his size.

You pant in hitched breaths, never having felt so full, so sated, before. It’s like they’re everywhere inside of you, consuming every inch of you like rabid jackals. Joel’s arms lacing around both you and Dave as both men begin to move independently within you.

You soon discover why they work so well as a team. Within minutes their movements are synchronized, a coordinated dance with you placed right in the middle, every downward thrust from Dave immediately proceeded by an upward lance from Joel. And they somehow manage to maintain said synchronicity for quite some time, even as they’re filling you to the brim with their cum.

They pump you full of themselves and you continue to drench them with every orgasm they drag out of you, your shared fluids sluicing down your bodies, soaking the cushions of the couch below.

It’s okay, you can just burn it if you actually end up surviving this. But hey, if you don’t, what a way to go, right?

Everything begins to meld together after a while, lines and vision blurred, your bodies practically stitched together at the seams, a perilous dance between the three of you in the throes of passion when the drug reaches its peak.

Their hands paw at you, knead you, your flesh supple and malleable under their large palms. They dig their fingers in, branding you, bruising marks left in their wake. Your head twists to and fro, tongue snaking between your teeth as you alternate between locking lips with both of them. You aren’t certain, but you think you see Joel and Dave link lips a few times as well, but it’s difficult to ascertain for sure, each scene of debauchery bleeding right into the next.

It goes on like that for hours, Dave and Joel occasionally switching roles, manipulating your overwrought body into a host of varying positions.

You have to stop a few times. For water, or just to take a break and a quick breather before you’re at it again, both men claiming your body like the primitive animals they are.

Dave has to call off his two remaining men when they practically try to beat down your door, understandably mystified and concerned, drinking in the vision laid out before them when Dave answers the door naked as the day he was born.

He sends them away when their motives shift and they make a sudden plea to join, letting them know in no uncertain terms that you are for him and Joel only.

You pout as you watch them leave, ever eager for more, but you don’t allow yourself to dwell on it, the three of you getting right back into the swing of things the moment they’re gone.

——

You must have shifted to the bedroom at some point during the night, as you rouse from sleep between two massive furnaces of men, a thin sheen of perspiration coating your still naked bodies.

You extricate yourself from the tangle of limbs and climb out from beneath them. You could easily put an end to them right now, if you were so inclined. But there’s something oddly endearing about the way they’re passed out in your bed, practically cuddling one another, Joel snoring like a chainsaw, that gives you pause. You’re amazed you were able to get any sleep at all with them in your bed.

You give them a final glance before you hastily make your way to the bathroom to clean up.

——

After your shower, you slip into a set of loose and comfortable sweats — a stark contrast from last night — tucking your pistol into the band of your sweatpants. You know, just in case.

You sweep up the remaining powder, making sure to wear proper PPE this time, salvaging as much of it as you can, should you ever need it again. As a weapon next time, you tell yourself.

Once done, you wander into the kitchen, chewing on two naproxen tablets before chugging what seems like a gallon of water to alleviate your dehydration and the various aches and pains riddling your body.

You’re starving so you put on a pot of coffee and whip up a simple breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, enough to share. You plate the eggs and bacon on a platter and place them in the center of the table while you finish up the toast.

Your back is to Dave when he enters the kitchen. You feel the boards shift and you spin on the balls of your feet, drawing and raising your gun. You aren’t at all surprised when you find him doing the same — holding the same gun he fucked you with — dressed only in his boxers, your eyes locked, staring each other down in a deadly game of chicken.

“Easy now, kids. Thought ya worked out your differences last night,” Joel chides as he steps into the kitchen next to Dave, adjusting himself in his boxers.

You swallow, eyes blown wide, and you lower your gun first, even though you shouldn’t. After an uncomfortable beat, Dave does the same.

“We good?” you ask him.

“Yeah. Good.” Dave furrows his brow at you, unconvinced, but willing to play nice. For now.

“Smells great, sweetheart,” Joel says, seating himself at the table, helping himself to a plate.

You make a motion for Dave to sit.

“Could be poisoned,” he warns Joel, who flashes him and incredulous slant of his eyes.

“Fuck sake—“ you grit, scooping up a spoonful of eggs and shoving them into your mouth, canting your eyebrows at Dave as you inhale them. “Satisfied?”

Neither of them says a thing, but you catch a glimpse of Joel’s smirk below his mustache as he begins shoveling food into his mouth.

You finish preparing the toast and pour each of them a cup of coffee before serving yourself.

“Thanks,” Dave says, quietly, his eyes sliding down your body, tongue trailing his lips.

“You know, I don’t even know your names,” you say, glancing between the two men.

“Dave,” he replies. “And this is Joel.”

“Well, you already know my name. Nice to meet you, Dave and Joel,” you say.

Silence settles between the three of you while you eat, you seated between them, pouring more coffee when their cups inevitably empty.

You stay like that for a while, mulling over what to say next.

Dave is the first to break the silence.

“Thank you. For breakfast. And for��last night,” he says, averting his gaze.

You smirk.

“I’m not a bad person, you know.”

“Never said you were,” he responds.

“Just a name on a piece of paper.”

“That’s right. The infamous Datura.”

“I don’t kill indiscriminately like you do. I kill bad people. Corrupt politicians. Crooked cops. Genocidal maniacs.” You swallow down a swig of coffee. “But I guess I should have known better than to take out a senator’s son this time.”

“You know, we’re all putting our lives on the line, too, by not completing the contract,” Dave explains. “Should probably get the fuck out of dodge. Maybe you, too.”

His lips skew into a ghost of a smirk, eyes mapping the gentle slopes of your face.

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

“We might need an extra set of eyes, if that’s the case.”

You smile, leaning across the table, resting your chin in the bowl of your palm. Your eyes sparkle sweetly as they shift between Dave and Joel.

“Dave, are you offering me a job?”

His hand comes up to hook around the back of your neck, lips crashing into yours as his other hand grips and squeezes your hip, making you whine when his fingers graze one of many tender spots.

You hear a throaty chuckle rise from Joel next to you.

“Take it that’s a yes, darlin’.”

FIN.

#pedro pascal #writing #fanfic #romance #smut #author #pedro fanfic #dark romance #dave york #joel miller

193 notes · View notes

beanghostprincess · 10 months ago

Note

Trans fem buggy anon back at it again with the brainrot

Crocodile going Full Mafia Boss Husband is so near and dear to me, but like. That makes Buggy the Mafia Boss Wife.

And I dunno smth about the clichés about that is so wild to me bc I feel like she'd fit that bill so well and yet so very NOT at the same time.

There is One Woman Crocodile Listens To, and it's his wife. He sometimes listens to Mihawk as well, but for different reasons. Mihawk ALSO listens to Buggy for the same reasons as Croc. It's not that Buggy is conventionally powerful, it's a mix of Happy Wife, Happy Life, and Buggy somehow slotting so well into the fold and running the backdrop with both efficiency, flair, and endearing fuck ups.

Buggy absolutely endears herself to many of Croc's business associates, charming them out the ass, and they think this mouthy little clown is a bit of a ditz and doesn't Get It, so they talk more freely around her. None of them catch that little glint in her eye as she listens attentively, making notes to ferry back to Crocodile and Mihawk both. Oh? You have big plans in the future? A loan, you say? Oh well golly, yes, I've been there before, teehee, tell me more, mister~

She has more dirt on the underbelly organizations than most can fathom, all locked up nice and neat in a code written lovingly in her fluffy heart shaped neon blue and green notebook.

She plays the role of eye candy well, and she likens it to playing on stage.

Behind the scenes, she's mouthy, bold, sharp, and useful, learning the tells and systems, realigning her general management with this new information, much to her husbands' surprise. Crocodile absolutely spoils her and Mihawk both rotten, but it's a mutual affair.

Buggy just having these wildly powerful men wrapped around her finger.

((And her fans/underlingsbare just gobbling it up bc THAT'S THEIR CAPTAIN, yeah captain Buggy is a QUEEN and she is SO GOOD AT THIS WOOOOO-))

MEANWHILE

The world government: she's a clown. Wait she was Roger's? Okay. Alright. A threat. We can mitigate this. A warlord - shit. Fuck the warlord system is going down. Oh God. Okay. Uhhh. We'll just drop a bounty. Yeah. That's good - Oh. Oh my God. Holy fuck did she just recruit MIHAWK and CROCODILE?? Okay. Emperor, then. It's fine. This is fine - THEY'RE MARRIED?!?!? WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?

The whole mafia concept with Cross Guild just fits so well. I mean, you've seen Crocodile already, he was literally made for that scenery. Crocodile and Mihawk may handle the money and men, but Buggy as a "trophy wife who looks dumb but actually knows what's going on all the time and keeps pulling the strings" is just amazing. Crocodile listens to two people only and he trusts them with his life. Buggy might seem like only a sexy bimbo clown but she actually could murder somebody violently on the spot and both Crocodile and Mihawk would stare at her with pride and then buy her all the things she wants. She's actually extremely strategic and intelligent and she's pretty much the one who makes all the plans since she knows the most about everybody they need to take advantage of.

And it's not even the dynamic which, I mean, it's pretty obviously a mafia dynamic but-- The whole aesthetic too? These three are just constantly giving "mafia boss x femme fatale wife x mysterious murderous husband". Crocodile sitting at his desk, Mihawk by his side and Buggy sitting on his lap? The image won't leave my head. It's just so, so good for them.

Not to mention that the Marines are all extremely frightened of this trio and Buggy's history and won't even dare to come close to them because they don't even know how the hell this relationship happened. And it's concerning and scary and they might end up dead if they approach them.

But yeah, this whole thing lives in my mind rent-free all the time and this is exactly how I imagine them. Cross Guild is just a mafia and Buggy always gets what she wants because she gets the job done and both Crocodile and Mihawk genuinely love her to death. Like literally. Don't touch her. You'll die.

#fem buggy my beloved she's a failgirl but also femme fatale to me #she keeps murdering and manipulating people and then she has breakdowns and meltdowns in the comfort of their private room #girl is so mentally ill to me okay i adore her #also crocodile and mihawk genuinely falling in love with her and protecting her with their life despite saying they hated her is... amazing #one piece #buggy the clown #sir crocodile #dracule mihawk #fem buggy #transfem buggy #cross guild

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upon-a-starry-night · 2 years ago

Text

Number Neighbors Pt.6

Natasha Romanoff x Fem! Reader

Natasha Masterlist Series Masterlist

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: When you catch sight of the newest trend going around you know you’re all but bound to at least try it, it was harmless anyway. What could possibly stem from something so little

Y/n🍦:

SO basically-

I was in my office when we got attacked,

My whole department started freaking out and running around.

Some dumbasses were even taking the elevators-

*You remember the moment so clearly. There were no big sounds or warnings, one second you were working your boring low-end job, and the next the woman in the cubicle next to you is screaming and pointing outside. Hoards of god knows what the fuck those things were began flying out and it’s like the world froze for a moment. A single moment of paralyzed silence.

And then all hell broke loose.

Some coworkers began hurriedly grabbing their bags, others just booked it straight to the nearest exit. You were on the fourth floor of the building.

You were impressed with how fast this new group of enhanced individuals showed up but it was no match for the amount of fucking aliens spewing out of a goddamn space hole. One of your coworkers roughly grabbed your shoulder and began pulling you with them towards the stairs. You hadn’t even noticed you’d been stuck unmoving in front of the big glass windows until that moment.

Your body finally caught up with the terror of what was happening and you began running down the crowded stairs as fast as you could- faster than you felt you’d ever run before.

No- the fastest you’d ever run was when the cops crashed the one college party your roommates had convinced you to go to. The smell of beer and vomit was burning your nose the whole time and you were almost relieved when you heard the sirens- only you weren’t too keen on getting arrested. Your 21st birthday was still two months away.

You supposed you would be running faster now if the sea of bodies wasn’t in your way. Frantic business women and men prevented you from going down the stairs more than two at a time. You contemplated just hopping the railing and falling the last two flights but no- if you sprained your ankles you couldn’t run away from the monsters.

That was when the first blast hit.

The whole building rumbled and screams emitted from both inside and out of the building. You knew it wasn’t your building that was hit- but the building next to you was too close to not do some damage.

You almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the moment. This had to be some kind of crazy dream that was a result of those new melatonin gummies you were taking.

But when some random panicked escapee ran pasted you just a little too fast and you banged your head into the wall you knew it wasn’t a dream.

Shit, you probably had a concussion was the only thing you could think as you glared at the back of the fleeing man. If you ever got out of this apocalyptic ass shit you would get revenge on that random white guy in a black suit. Yeah fuck you were never gonna find out who that guy was. If you even made it out of here.

You shook the thought out of your head, a bad idea considering you were already dizzy and disoriented.

Finally, though, you made it outside, and fuck if it wasn’t worse than it was when you last saw it upstairs.

Fire smoke was sprouting from nearly every building, car alarms and building alarms were blaring so loud you had to cover your ears. God the apocalypse was so not as aesthetic as all the tv shows made it look.

You watched as people screamed and ran in all directions, watched explosions erupt in the sky and an iron man zip past alien ships, and shit was that fucking Thunder!?

Rubble from an explosion nearby flew down towards you and you covered your head. God was this how you were going to die? You stared down at your hands, clean- if not a little calloused from working. Your gaze drifted towards the ground- the granite completely split in most places, ash and concrete littering the streets.

Your eyes were unfocused, and a ringing sound had begun to form in your ears, only occasionally disturbed by someone trying and failing to get a call to go through. Of course, there would be no cell service, you hadn’t even thought of that. You heard the sounds of screams get almost impossibly louder and when you lifted your head you knew why. For whatever beautiful reason, the universe decided a giant ass space worm was exactly what needed to come out of that portal right now. Everybody say “Thank You Universe!”

Your feet were running before your brain could tell them to. Your car, your mind screamed. You’ve got to get to your car.

You made it to your car, luckily still intact, and thank fuck you had your keys in your back pocket because if you didn’t you might have started crying. You touched your hand to your face.

Oh.

You already were.

You didn’t have time to dwell on it. You hopped into your car and began fumbling with the keys. Who made it so impossible to put your keys in the ignition when you were panicked and concussed?

It didn’t matter though, because two seconds later a giant ass alien landed directly on your hood. The damage looked deep enough to have crushed your engine. You briefly wondered if your insurance covered alien attacks.

Ugly rat alien decided to stab a spear through your windshield directly into your passenger seat and wow was that a threat or did these aliens have the aim of stormtroopers?

You were already beginning to process your death when five rounds of shots rang out and the beast on top of your car fell flat. Frankly, it was disgusting, and now its weird slimy pigskin body was closer to you than ever.You opened your car door coughing and that’s when you saw her. She glanced at the alien to ensure its death and then began surveying the nearby area, a few people paying her no mind and running right past her.

Good choice, you thought. She looked deadly. Deadly in the most gorgeous way that a woman could look deadly. The kind of look that made you want to become a supervillain just so she could glare at you and point a gun at your head.

It was completely unfair how good she looked considering the circumstances, and not only was she running on the battlefield she seemed to be taking part in it as well.

Your moment of love at first save was quickly broken, however, as the woman presses a finger to her ear and mumbles a few words before running in the other direction.

Your thoughts of her are interrupted by chunks of debris falling onto your car, you quickly jumped out of the way but- yeah there was no way insurance was covering that damage.*

You tastefully left out a few of those last thoughts when texting this story to Nat, she didn’t need to think you were a complete weirdo. Only a little one.

Nat🔪:

Y/n🍦:

Yeah so I was close to death

on multiple accounts that night

#almostdiedthreetimes

You watched as the chat bubbles appeared and disappeared numerous times. You remember rendering your therapist speechless when you first told her as well. Although now they had an influx in patients and you were sure even the therapists were seeing therapists at this point. Therapist-seption.

Nat🔪:

So when you said you met an Avenger…

You rolled your eyes. Of course, someone who wears gray to bed would be analytical of your word choices.

Y/n🍦:

Hey I was one of the first people to ever see

The famous Black Widow in action!

#Ilikedherbeforeitwascool

Nat🔪:

Alright enough with the hashtags.

And they were called the Chitauri

By the way

Y/n🍦:

Chitauri- Rat alien

Battle of New York- Most traumatizing

night of my life, literal hell on earth oh my god

Tomato- TomAto

Call ‘em what you want Nat.

You think the specifics matter in that situation?

Cause I sure as hell wasn’t thinking about

Being speciesist while I was running for my life🤠

Nat🔪:

Solid point.

So did insurance ever cover your car?

Y/n🍦:

Fuck no Nat.

This is corporate America

I got a copy-pasted apology email and a very

small amount of compensation money from

The state.

We Love America😍 🦅🇱🇷

Nat🔪:

That’s not an American flag…

Y/n🍦:

Fuck.

Pt7

Just so ya know this- 🇺🇸 is the American flag and this- 🇱🇷 is the Liberian flag!

Anyway, did we enjoy the trauma I wrote? ~Starry

------

Taglist

@romanoffsgal @natsxwife @la-douleur-ne-finit-jamais @moistblobfish

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mad-maximoff · 3 months ago

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𝐈𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫

Kristin X Bianca (Mafia Mamma)

Sum: It all started with a bottle of wine...

Warning: Language, light-fingering, oral

Word Count: 2,543

This first batch isn't half bad. Kristin thought as she sipped slowly on the newly made red wine. The vineyard was blossoming after countless trials and errors bringing it to life after her late grandfather let go for so many years. He was the 'Don' of the Mafia after all, but he must have had spare time. Right? Guess not.

Kristin left the enormous Italian house her grandfather left her to escape everyone and her problems. Her dealing with the fact she has to 'run' the Mafia, a bunch of other Italian gangsters want her dead and Kristin's fling with Carlo ended after she got arrested. All she had was her family. Her new family. Aldo, Dante...and Bianca. She found a new friendship within her. After Kristin killed her cousin, Fabrizio, she was confused and bewildered with rushing thoughts of relief and fear.

"God...what a day..." Kristin tasted the last drop before rolling over in the outdoor bed she had moved into the garden. More aesthetic she thought. Better than a bunch of patio chairs you'd get at Lowes. She reached down to the miniature table to the unlabeled bottle of wine. Uncorked and half-drank. She poured another glass as she noticed the bottle was empty. "Damn..."

"What's the matter amore? You seem-...um..rovesciata." Bianca came from the villa into the garden. Kristin thought Bianca's hair was so luscious flowing behind her shoulders. The way she strutted in her black heels so effortlessly under the dirt. "Rovesciata Bianca?"

"I can't remember the word in English. You look sad. Why not I turn that frown upside down huh?" Bianca jumped into bed behind Kristin snatching the glass from her. "Why are drinking our wine when you are sad? We made good batch yes?" She gulped the newly poured wine.

"Hey, hey! Easy that's mine! And ours?" Kristin held out her hand to take the glass back. Bianca chuckled under her breath handing Kristin back her glass. "Well...just like we agreed upon, You and me having 50/50 handling the invisible family and the winery." Bianca leaped across Kristin landing on her lap. "You cannot back out Kris." Bianca giggled tracing her hands around Kristin's white blazer going under to her lace bodysuit. Kristin knew something was up with Bianca from the moment they met. It wasn't because she was a tad intimidating at first, but something strange. Like for example, there were no men in her life. No men would come over. Kristin told Bianca she's allowed to have guests since they live together now but all Bianca wants to do is crawl into bed with Kristin and watch Real Housewives. Whatever State. Bianca says it's to learn 'American' culture, but her commentary is hilarious.

"Haha! No, I can't can I," Kristin lent out her glass to Bianca who happily took it. "So, are you going to be sitting on my lap all day or are we going work on this garden?" She huffed feeling Bianca's weight shift.

"Hm...perhaps...I wanted to try something you keep saying with you." Bianca continued tracing her hands over Kristin's waist applying some pressure.

"What's that Bia?" Kristin giggled with the sensation of being tickled. "Stop it, I-I'm t-ticklish! Haha!"

"Awe bambina..haha, you're saying...what was it? Ah yes. Eat, Pray, Fuck."

"Oh, nice! So I'm guessing you'll have company later then?"

"Not exactly no. Since you know, we have been so close lately, and I am always waking up next to you.." Bianca planted the wine glass on the table with her hair falling around her face.

"Well, that's because we're watching Real Housewives! We're almost done on Beverly Hills."

"Yes, yes. I am aware. Watching overly self-indulging burnt women are amusing but I meant I thought we were so close, you'd partake in the eat, pray, fucking with me?" Bianca swished her hair over her shoulder as the silk robe she wore fell off her shoulder. Kristin was bewildered. She always saw Bianca as a friend. A best friend even. Nothing more, but maybe Bianca didn't.

"Bia, come on. I'm straight, I think...at least. We're friends right?"

"Of course tesoro! But, I was thinking, we are such good friends that it would not be awkward for us." Bianca began to pull the strings of her robe until Kristin stopped her. "Woah! Woah there! Maybe not awkward for you but I've never been with a woman." Kristin spoke in a hushed whisper knowing fully well they were alone. Bianca stopped to push Kristin's blazer off her shoulders. "Oh now, Kris, you are in Italy. Anything can happen. It is natural. I find you beautiful; I hope you find me the same." Bianca's hands crept up from Kristin's waist to her face. Lightly lifting her jaw with her soft fingers. "I-I do B, but this is just too quick. I got arrested, shot at and killed my own cousin. I served him as wine for god sake!" Bianca still held Kristin's jaw close to her face. Kristin's face turned pale with a mixture of anxiety and confusion.

"Great. All that hard work we've done, we need a good stress relief." Bianca pulled Kristin's face to press her bottom lip to Kristin's. Inhaling the smell of wine between them connecting their lips. "Well then," Kristin was the first to break their kiss. "That wasn't totally terrible." Bianca smirked as she rubbed Kristin's jawline. "Oh darling, it's going to get a lot better." Bianca's Italian accent layered on under her breath as she began to untie her robe again. With no more objection Kristin. Not sitting in confusion and bewilderment but in curiosity. Bianca's hooped earrings dangled effortlessly with the sun bouncing off them. Her silk robe slipped off her shoulders to reveal a dark purple lacy lingerie set underneath.

"Wow, purple looks good on you-..." Kristin was hushed by Bianca's finger traced softly against her lips. "Shh-...Rilassati, dolce ragazza..." Kristin's Italian was getting better but not good enough to understand. She stared in confusion as Bianca let her lips go, giving a sly smirk. "I'm telling you to um...shut up. Nicely."

"Ha, I think I enjoyed it more in Italian." Kris tried to shift her weight underneath Bianca's body only to have Bianca's hands stop her. Her hands crept to her jaw. Bianca's breath lightly pulled Kristin in. "Be quiet-..." Shivers crept down her spine with the fear of being discovered. Her body was warm by the humidity but in the moment all she could think about was Bianca's cold lips. Pleading with her in her mind to kiss her again. To stop toying with her. Kristin peeled off her blazer tossing it away from the bed near the garden's limits. Kris straightened her back crashing into Bianca's lips not waiting any longer. Bianca smirked against Kristin's lips leading into the kiss. At first, they were soft with each other, but once Kris finally got into it, Bianca became a force. She captured Kristin's hands in hers, rocking her body on top of Kris's. Bianca's weight finally took over pinning Kristin onto the bed. They both huffed continuing their lip-lock. Exploring each other's mouths in great detail. Bianca left Kristin's hands alone to cup her cheeks in each palm. Stroking Kris's cheekbones with her thumbs. Kristin's hands touched Bianca's knees tracing up to her hips. Her fingers swept under the lace of Bianca's panties. Pulling the purple lace away from her hip and then releasing it. The lace bounced against her plush skin. Bianca winced leaving Kristin's cheeks digging her nails into her shoulders. "Mhm...you're going to leave marks." Kris broke their kiss tensing with the feeling of Bianca's nails digging deeper. "You will too. But, isn't that the idea amore? To remind everyone you're all mine?" Bianca unclenched her nails into Kris's shoulders, she swiped Kristin's straps of her lace bodysuit off letting them fall down her arms. "Ha-...is that so?" Bianca’s hands dipped into Kris’s flamingo pants to unhook them apart.

"Esatto, bellissimo..." Bianca's nails dipped down under her pants unbuttoning the clasps of Kristin's bodysuit. Kristin didn't notice, she was more focused on Bianca. She was mesmerized by Bianca's dark chocolate eyes. Darting back and forth, peering up to Kris's face and down to where her hands presided. Kristin bit her lower lip, she was too stunned to utter a word. She kept thinking, 'I just killed someone and our rival crime family. And I can't ask this beautiful woman to kiss me!?'

Without thinking a moment longer, Kristin swallowed her pride coaxing her throat. She finally realized what Bianca's plans were and she pulled back. "Wait, please.." Kristin scooted higher on the bed which resulted in her pink pants rolling down past her knees. "What is it? What's wrong." An alarmed Bianca raised her hands away not sure what was going on. "Bianca, before you do," Kristin swallowed, pulling off her pants and tossing them into a hedge. "Kiss me again, please." Kristin met Bianca in the middle of the bed prompting herself on her knees. Their kneecaps touched one another, Kris let her hand graze Bia's jaw. Bianca giggled as her head met with Kristin's. "Come..." Kris lifted Bia's head nuzzling their lips together so perfectly. Both their lipsticks created a new shade. Bianca nudged her thigh between Kris's legs making her fall on her back. Kristin's body suit scrunched up past her belly button. At this moment Kristin could give a damn, she knew where Bia was heading. All she was thinking was that was happy she was having this moment with someone she cared about, and she knew Bia cared for her as well.

Bianca's fingers traced the inside of Kristin's thighs, reaching higher every stroke her nails made. Kristin felt all of her hair stand on her body, her body began to twitch under Bianca. Their lips were still locked as one.

It was almost cinematic; Kristin thought. This beautiful afternoon sun in the Italian villa, the gentle breeze that ever so slightly blew Bianca's espresso-curled hair on top of Kristin. It was perfect. Maybe this is what Kristin was searching for. Not only a close friend but something more with Bianca deep down. This was the eat, prey, fuck she wanted.

Bianca's hand, still traced along the inside of Kris's thigh as the other hand glided slowly to Kris's face. Brushing her blonde strands away from her cheek, softly caressing where the hair once lay.

"Mhm-.." Bianca broke their kiss as she caught her breath, Kristin inhaled the mixed scent of wine and Bia's perfume. Bianca arose on top of Kris's body pushing her hair behind her shoulders with one hand still placed between Kris's thighs. Kristin held out her hand tugging the underwire of Bia's bra. Bianca smirked bending her chest down to allow Kristin's hands to crawl around and unhook the clasps of her bra. Bianca sat up letting the sheer purple bra fall. Kristin threw the bra overhead, hopefully not landing in the man-made pond.

Bianca thought time after time of this moment, she thought it would have been much sooner but she didn't complain. Kristin needed a hand to hold but was not babied into it. Bianca's hand left Kris's thigh, not so gracefully as the first time. The anticipation alone made them edgy. Bianca stroked Kris's middle grazing her mound thinking about when did Kristin have the time in Italy to get a nice bikini wax. Her middle finger slipped into her slit fitting effortlessly. Kristin hummed out as her head tilted back, Bianca was excited by her action wanting to see how far she could take her American blonde.

Bianca rotated her hand as she inserted her middle finger delicately. Kristin bit her lip as her laugh turned into a low moan. Bia was quite pleased with herself to see her business partner melt into her hand. "Ah!...Bia-..." Kris's groaned as she rested her hands against Bianca's hips.

"Haha! See amore, I told you you'd enjoy yourself." Bianca continued to finger Kris's pussy increasing her pace. "Uh-huh! Yes-.." Kristin broke out clentching Bianca's soft hips. "Mm...please...don't stop." She relaxed her head locking her eyes with Bia.

"Oh no, no amore." Bianca thrusted bending her thumb over Kris's clit. Bianca bit her tongue allowing herself to focus. Kristin shifted her hands higher touching Bia's ribs. Kris's thumbs caressed her breasts. Bianca beamed tilting her head to the side, gradually sliding her finger out soaking Kristin's thigh with her wetness sticking together. "B-Bianca! Why did you stop?" Kristin whined while she cupped Bia's tits overfilling in Kris's hands. Bianca giggled biting her lower lip. "Aspettare...the day isn't over until I say love." Bianca swayed her hair as she shifted her weight down Kris's body and spread Kristin's legs open. Kristin's legs shook sending little twitches all through her chest. Bianca stretched her back out before cupping her hair behind her back. Bia wished at this moment she had an elastic.

Bianca crouched down as her hands squeezed either side of Kristin's thighs to keep them apart. Bia hummed readily saving no time to have the first taste of her partner. "Oh god!" Kristin cried out. Her hands clammed up as she gripped the bedsheets underneath. Bia dreamt of this moment, to make Kristin happy. She wasted no time delving her tongue in between her lips in a vertical motion. The tip of her tongue grazed her folds tenderly locking eyes with Kris immediately. "Shit...Bia!" Kristin purred as her hands touched Bianca's head tangling her fingers in her strands. She bucked against Bia's face, pressing herself against her tongue in a desperate search for more. Bianca continued to lap Kris's juices softly sucking her lips clean. The tip of Bianca's tongue began to swipe against Kris's clit, pressing on the little button and rolling it under her tongue. Kristin couldn't hold her composure any longer. Her choppy moans turned into loud pleas. Kris's back arched pulling her grip on Bia's hair. "Oh, B-Bia...Bianca..."

Bianca kept her pace as she switched from licking Kris’s clit to sticking her tongue into Kris’s pussy, as Bianca unclenched one of her hands away from Kris’s thigh she placed it solely on Kristin’s mound gently pulling her skin back. Bianca’s fingers crept down to spread Kris’s folds to expose her clit, rotating her hand so her thumb can stroke Kris’s clit.

“Oh god, Bia! I’m-I’m gonna…”Kristin gritted her teeth tilting her head back. Krist took a sharp breath in. “Mhm…cum Kristin. Cum amore.” Bianca resumed rubbing Kris’s clit. “O-oh god! Bianca!” Kristin’s body shot up as her thighs quivered with Bianca still between them. Bia sat up lunging towards Kristin making them both fall against the mattress.

“Haha! What are you doing?” Kris moved large strands of Bianca’s hair away from her face. “My prosthetic was killing me, Kris. If I go down on you again, I’m getting a pillow.” Bianca giggled nuzzling her chin into Kristin’s collarbone.

“Why not next time you take your prosthetic leg off?” Kristin regained her composure to catch her breath. “So you’re saying this won’t be the first time then?”

“Like what you said, Bianca. I’m in Italy now. Let’s eat, prey, fuck. Together.” Kristin grinned pulling Bianca in for another kiss. That wine wasn’t bad at all. Kristin thought.

#fanfiction #lesbian #lgbt #fanfic #wlw fanfic #wlw #mafia mamma #monica bellucci #toni collette #fanon #really wanted this in the movie #mommy? sorry. mommy? sorry. mommy?

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romanarose · 7 months ago

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About a Girl: Chapter 4

Beautiful header by my beloved @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog

Joel Miller x Trans!Fem!Reader (Nickname, Blue)

Series Masterlist : The Last of Us Masterlist : Full Masterlist

Summary: For week 2 of my pride event: Transitioning. Not a whole not of Blue and Joel but getting there. Lots of people involved in this story lol! We learn more about Blue's transition. Next chapter will get more with those two's relatioship.

Warnings for whole fic, not chapter by chapter: 18+ ONLY!! I cannot warn against everything, but these are major themes. Joel is a lil ignorant but not out of hate. He just doesn't know. He's trying his best. There will be smut. Penetrative sex, all of the anal play, oral. There will be transphobia from other people. Addiction and alcoholism. QUICK child neglect not by Joel but I promise, Sarah is fine and is having a great time in life. Fetishization of women attracted to women by a shitty guy. Will update as needed. Again, this is adult content. Expect adult content.

Immersivity: Reader is transgender, AMAB female, reader has had gotten bottom surgery, not top, and is on hormones. reader has visible hair and a blue streak in hair, but not described. Could be braids, could be natural hair, whatever. Header is for aesthetics only. Reader is about Joel and Tommy's height. Let me know if i miss anything!

TRANS LIVES MATTER! TRANS YOUTH MATTER! TRANS ELDERLY MATTER! TRANS WOMEN MATTER! TRANS MEN MATTER! NON BINARY TRANS MATTER!

Joel nervously hovered as Sarah sat in the kitchen on a stool, kicking her feet while Talia looked at her hair.

“And then Ellie kicked him!” She was recounting the thrilling story of how a boy was being mean to Sarah, said her hair was weird because she wore it natural today. Sarah was the only black kid in her kindergarten. Apparently her new friend Ellie was very defensive, aggressive where Sarah was gentle, and didn’t take kindly to the boy's words. Ellie ended up in time out again, and a call to her foster mom.

“I ain’t saying he deserved it.” Talia sang, feeling out Sarah curls. “But God’s timing is always right.”

Joel smiled at her. He wasn’t going to agree, he didn’t want to be the one condoning violence… but he always wasn’t going to lose sleep at night. “Well, don’t listen to a thing he says, baby girl.” Joel walked around to face his daughter. “You’re the prettiest girl on the planet, with the coolest hair I’ve ever seen, and Miss Talia here is going to teach me how to make it even cooler.”

Sarah turned to Talia. “Are you going to marry my daddy?”

Joel opened hi mouth to say no, but Talia’s bright laugh answered for him. He turned to Talia with a smile that let her know he was joking. “Hey know, I don’t think I’m that bad.”

“It ain’t you, Joel.” She patted his back, easing him. “It’s the equipment you’re working with.” She turned back to Ellie. “No baby, but if I play my cards right, I might marry your aunt.”

Sarah squealed a giggle and Talia took her off the stool.

“Good.” Sarah confirmed, walking off to the TV. “Mommy wouldn’t like that.”

Joel and Talia looked at each other, Joel questioning gently. “Did mommy say something, sweetheart?”

Flopping on the couch and sighing dramatically as if she’d just gotten home from a 12 hour shift, Sarah replies, “Yeah she asked if you were dating Aunt Tess. I said no, she’s dating Uncle Tommy.” Talia giggled at that. “She said to tell her if you were dating someone and I said okay.” Sarah’s head popped up over the couch, sensing her dads distress. “That’s okay, right daddy? Lying is bad.”

Closing his eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink, Joel considered his next words. Of course it was okay that Sarah said what she thought. Joel didn’t want her in the habit of lying, especially to her mom. However, he also didn’t want Sarah to feel like she had to be Kayla’s spy. That wasn't fair to her, and Joel was careful not to pry Sarah for information on Kayla’s living conditions or the people around her apartment. That wasn’t something a 5-year-old needed to worry about. He tried to make the most neutral sounding comment he could. “You should always tell me and mommy the truth, babygirl, you did good.”

Sarah smiled and went back to her TV. “Oh! I love this show.” The Soprano’s was on.

“No, absolutely not-”

“But Uncle Tommy-”

“Sarah.”

He’d have to talk to Tommy about watching violent TV with Sarah. Why couldn’t Tommy just be… not himself. He turned back to Talia, who was smiling.

“I see why Blue likes you so much.”

Joel waved her off with a blushing face. He was nothing special. “What's the verdict, doc?” Joel shuffles nervously, hands in his pockets. Did I ruin my sweet baby's hair forever?

This made Talia laugh again. Joel noticed she laughed a lot. Tess always did like joyful people, that’s why she always got on with Tommy so well, both as friends and friends with benefits. He wondered why she even liked him at all.

“No, Joel. It looks very healthy. You oil her hair?”

“Yeah, Argon oil.”

“Hair bonnet.”

Joel internally cringed. “I tried, she won’t keep it on.”

“That’s okay.” She eased his worries. “Try a scarf or a silk pillowcase. If she doesn’t like the feeling on her face, the world won’t end until she’s older and is ready to keep a bonnet on. Her mama wear bonnets or scarves?”

He shook his head. “Not unless it’s changed the last few years. She has hair not unlike mine.”

Talia nods. “Well, honestly I think everyone could benefit from wearing scarves, but that’s just me. I know y’all ain’t got the best relationship, but maybe mention it to her. Little girls love matching their moms. How often do you wash it?”

“Twice a week, unless she’s been running around a lot. Her and Tommy like playing soccer in the park.”

“Just once a week is fine, unless it’s one of those sweaty days. Natural oils are good for her hair. I know you’re a busy man, but if you get time, I’d suggest you get some coconut oil, sit her in front of a TV, section out her hair and really rub it into her scalp, like a massage. Helps stimulate hair growth and keeps from drying, but, Joel I mean this sincerely.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing a good job. I know this isn’t easy, especially as a single parent but you are doing everything for that baby, so go a little easy on yourself.”

He tried to brush it off. “I’m just doing what any parent would do.”

“You’re doing a lot more than many, hon.”

After going through more hair tips, Joel is about to call over Sarah so Talia can show her some new hairstyles, she stops him.

“Hey, Blue told me how things went… I really appreciate you being respectful. She’s my best friend, I knew her before she transitioned… It really hasn’t been easy, especially the early years of it all.” She smiled sadly. “She was in a bad place. At the time, she was living as a gay man in Austen’s gay community, but coming out hadn’t helped. Things got really bad.”

Joel’s heart hurt for you, wondering how many years you suffered. “What happened?” His eyes widened a bit. “Sorry, shit, you don’t gotta say anything.”

But Talia gave him the short version. “I’m sure she’ll tell you all of it. She’s pretty open about it with the people who know she’s trans. The Austen gay scene… well unfortunately, there’s not a lot of queer places that don’t involve drinking, and given that half of us are disowned by family and rejected from society, there's a big issue of drinking and drugs in the community. An issue she both fell into. After our friend who’d taken us in, Jeff, died of AIDS, she took it really hard.” She shook her head at the memory.

Joel didn’t know much about AIDs, it seemed no one really talked about it and people acted like it was a gay STD, or that one kid that got it from a blood transfusion. Reagan never even mentioned it, so was it really a big issue? All he knew is that dying of AIDS was a slow death, watching someone waste away like that couldn’t be easy.

“After he died, she spent months in his apartment, drinking away and being piss-drunk every time I came over. But I also noticed her going through Jeff’s books and his writings… he was a college professor for sociology, and talked a lot about gender. One day she just emerged, asked to be called a woman and help looking like that version of herself. We picked names, got clothes. I tried not to get too excited and overwhelm her,” She chuckled. “But as a stylist, it was right up my ally.”

It was obvious how much Talia cared about Blue. “Thank you.” He said earnestly, and she made a funny face.

“For what?”

Joel crossed his hands over his chest. “For being there for her when I couldn’t be.”

“She’s been there for me every step of my way making it in this world as a black lesbian, I’ll be with her through everything. Now!” Talia clapped her hands together. “Tess and I were talking, but if you’re comfortable with it, we’d love to take Miss Sarah to the salon I work at, give her a spa day, deep clean, deep conditioner, all that. Tess and I know how hard it is for you to get time away. We also know you feel guilty when you do anything for yourself, so this way you know your princess is getting spoiled.”

As much as he wanted to say no… she was right. Sarah would have a great day with some positive female influences, and Joel could spend some time with you. Win/Win.

“She wanted to wear her princess dress today, so if she gets it dirty or anything, I swear it ain’t no big deal. I can get another one at the Family Dollar, easy.” Joel spoke to Tess while he tried to fix the bailer. One of the belts broke and he caught it in time which made it easier without it getting bunched up. Tess was inside the bailer. It was a two man job.

“You’re awfully hard on him Joel.”

Joel set down the riviter, it was Tess’s job now. “I’ve actually been mean’n to talk to yuh ‘bout that…”

“Uh-oh, am I in trouble, dad?”

“No, no, not like that I just…” He sighs, putting down his tools. “I know Tommy’s been have’n a hard time and I tolerated the drink’n… It’s the coke I got an issue with.”

Tess nodded, understanding as she retreaded to the belt to the bailer’s teeth. “He told me you were pretty upset with him the other day.”

“And what did you say to him?”

“I told him it was your home, and if you don’t want him high there, you can make that rule.”

Sighing, Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Tess, that’s not- I don’t want him doing coke, doing MDMA, doing molly-”

“Hey! Molly’s a nice girl!” She joked, but then went straight faced when she saw Joel didn’t find it funny. “Sorry, but I don’t know what you want me to do-”

“Stop giving him the drugs!” Joel shouted, not too loud immediately regretting it.

There was a long pause as she focused on her work before speaking. “I don’t know who the hell you are speaking to like that, Miller, but it sure as hell better not be me.”

“”M Sorry.”

“I know you are but you-” A clank, and Tess grumbled some swears. “Hold on. I’m done down here just- fuck.” Tess climbed out of the bailer, making eye contact with Joel. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am not pushing drugs on Tommy. We both know the same guy, and when one of us is out, we share, but you know damn well my crazy days are starting to fly past me. I’ve even been dating the same person a whole ass month. You’re brother does what he wants to do and I am neither his baby sitter nor keeper. I’ve kept that kid alive the last 2 years when he’s having a bad trip so I really don’t appreciate you talk’n down to me like I’m some bad influence on a 16 year old. He’s a grown ass man and can make his own choices. Terrible choices sometimes, but his own choices.”

Joel looked down, ashamed of his outburst. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just… worried, but that ain’t your business.”

She stared at him with a hardened face, wanting to be angry… but it was Joel. Her posture softened. “It’s alright Joel. I know you worry about it.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t right to take it out of yuh, Tess.” He went back to work, but felt a hand on his back.

“No, but I forgive you, so forgive yourself. You’re really bad at that.” Tess kissed him cheek.

Joel cleared his throat. “Kayla was ask’n Sarah ‘bout you again.”

Brushing off the last few minutes, Tess laughed out loud. “Oh great, she gonna show up at my door at 2 am again?”

He groaned.

“You just have SO MUCH fun, princess, okay? Gonna look even prettier than ever!” Tommy hugs Sarah goodbye for her special day. Tess promises she’ll take care of dinner and bring her home around 7, in time for her bedtime. Bedtime will likely be delayed as Sarah will want to tell Joel every single detail, but it was a friday. No big deal.

“Bye uncle Tommy! Bye daddy!”

Joel waves her off, watching as Tess louds Sarah into the carseat and safely buckles her up, taking her off for a few hours. Joel was lucky to have Tess in his life, and was hoping she stuck with Talia… he liked her a lot too.

As they drive away, Blue pulls right up. She had been parked down the street, politely waiting for Sarah to leave. Joel hoped to properly introduce them one day, but right now it was still so new.

His phone rang, Kayla again. “Tommy, can you tell Blue I’ll be out in a min?” He clicked answer, and Tommy ran out to check out the bike.

“Hey Kayla, what’s up?”

“Is Sarah there?”

Hi. Hello. How are you, Joel. Thanks for taking care of my daughter, Joel. “No, sorry, she just left with Tess. I can call yuh back when they get home this evening.”

“What’s she doing with Tess.”

He wasn’t lying. He just didn’t need to tell her what he was doing while she was gone. “Tess’s girlfriend, Talia, she has a hair salon. Gonna give her some deep conditioner and stuff like that. Make a spa day off it. She even set up a little tea party fancy dinner after.”

“Tess has a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, been dating a few weeks now. Seem’s very nice, she was over helping me learn some styles for Sarah. Don’t worry, Tess will be with them the whole time and I trust her.”

Kayla sighed over the phone. “Joe, I really don’t want her in that environment.”

“What environment?” Joel was genuinely curious.

“I mean, it’s bad enough she says things like ‘Frank’s husband’, I don’t need her knowing about lesbians too.”

“Kayla-”

“She don’t need ideas in her head. For fucks sake Joel, she’s only five. It’s bad enough they wanna teach this shit in schools-”

“Kayla.” He spoke more firmly now. “I really thought you grew out of this.”

“You used to agree with me!”

“No, I didn’t!” But that wasn’t entirely true. Joel was raised very religious, thinking it was all a sin until he teens. When Joel and Kayla began having sex, it went against everything he’d been taught about sexual purity. He honestly just spoked caring what grown adults did in bed. He was surprised Kayla cared this much. “Bill and Frank have been good to me, they took a chance on me when no one else did-”

“Because no one wants to work for fag-”

“Kayla!” Joel shouts, and this time he doesn’t regret it. His blood is boiling, thinking of Bill and Frank, of Tess and Talia, of you. “They’ve treated me like their own, and I won’t have you disrespect them or Tess in front of me again. Tess has been around Sarah consistently the last few years, something you can’t say you’ve done. I trust her with my life and more importantly, my daughter. Tess has never abandoned her to get fucked.” He referenced Kayla’s abandonment change. “And just so you know, I’m seeing someone. It’s very early so Sarah hasn’t met her, so you can stop putting our child in the middle of your jealousy.”

Silence, and then she hung up. This would probably come back to bite him.

He had no idea where that all came from, how much had been building up inside him waiting to come out. His heart was still pumping with anger and anxiety. How could she think like that after everything Bill and Frank and Tess have done for Sarah? How could she not have grown up at all since high school?

Joel found Tommy outside, riding the motorcycle up and down the street, slowly and with a helmet. Seems Blue was protective too. Your back turned to him, Joel walked up and hugged you tightly, tucking his face in your neck. “I missed you, Blue.” It’d only been a week, but it was too long.

“Joel? You okay?” She reached up to hold where Joel’s arms have wrapped around her chest. “You’re shaking, baby?”

“Much better now, Blue.” Yeah, he was shaking. He was still angry, but your touch was calming him. He chastly pecked your cheek. “I got your back, okay?” You didn’t need to know Kayla’s remarks. You just needed to know Joel would take care of you.

Joel had never ridden on a motorcycle before, and he held your shoulders like a victorian dutchess. Still, it was so fun seeing him get off the bike with a gleeful smile, helmet hair going every which way with a wild look in his eyes. Joel had packed you a sweet dinner for outside, and you two both sat on the blanket.

“How come you rejected Tommy?” Joel asked, mouthful of food. They were on a picnic, enjoying the nice weather before it got cold.

You laughed at that. “What do you mean?”

Joel shrugged earnestly. “Tommy’s always been girls' first choice. He’s younger, cooler, more handsome, more fun.”

You lean over to kiss his forehead. “He’s not as handsome as you.”

Joel smiled at that, but still teased. “But he is cooler.”

“Well, Tommy can at least name a Nirvana album. You’re still listening to Alan Jackson.”

“Nevermind.”

“Oh no,” You giggle, reaching for a pickle. “You don’t get to just change the subject-”

“No.” Joel shakes his head. “Nevermind. The album. That’s that band you like, right?”

Your hands drop to your lap. “How did you know that.”

He wouldn’ meet your eye. “A very nice lady at the library when I took Sarah on tuesday who I could tell was trying not to laugh at me… She informed me of the song you got excited about at the bar and I checked out the CD.”

Chuckling, Joel responded. “Well, I can’t say I like the yell’n… but Something in the Way was good, and I liked Come as You Are.”

Your eyes sparkled, your cute little smile… “You listened to a whole album just for me…”

“Yeah I mean, I can tell you liked ‘em. Ain’t no big deal.”

But it was to you. No one did stuff like that for you, no one cared that much outside of Talia. Joel Miller, as always, made your heart sore to new heights.

“I appreciate that, Joel. You’re sweet, you know that?” You watched him blush. He was so cute like this, your nervous man.

After dinner, you laid down on his chest, basking with the sun on your back and a cool breeze on your arms, Joel holding you tightly. Jesus christ, his arms were huge. She traced a vein on his biceps.

“How did you get so…”

He kissed the top of your head. “So what?”

You giggle, burying your face into his pecks. “Big.” You’re laughing so hard you’re shaking.

“BIG?!?!?” He bawks, and you can feel his chest move as he laughs.

“You’re fucking HUGE!!!”

Joel wrapped you up in arms, turning you over until the two of you are rolling around in the field, grass in your hair as you both squeal and laugh. This was the life.

Litle more on Blue and how she found herself <3 Net weeks theme is sex/kissing so!!!!!!! v them focused!!!

We love Talia here, just an absolute sweetheart ride or die.

shout out to my IRL buddy who farms for helping m with farming info!!

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