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holybibly · 4 months

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IT'S YOU |Woosan x reader| Part I Part 2

Genre: smut, from friends to lovers!au, college!au

Word Count: 6,6k

Summary: Sometimes drunken decisions lead to the most unexpected results and the most shocking confessions. Or, after your boyfriend cheats on you, you propose a threesome to your best friends and it might just be what they have always wanted.

WARNING: only!18+ pet names, explicit sexual content, explicit language, unprotected sex, pussy eating, size kink, oral giving and receiving, double penetration, threesomes, dirty talk and more.

A/N: Here they are, our winners. I'm a little overjoyed because I'm about to try out a new style for myself (BTW, which of my styles of my work do you love most? Answer in the comments, it will help me much). One of the things I have to learn is the writing of shorter chapters. This one was so long that I had to split it into two parts. The second part won't take too long either.I'm still trying my best to write smut. So please be gentle with me.

There will be an update in a separate post about the rest of the work. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.

One year ago.

It was a feeling of sweet euphoria coursing through your veins. Pure, scalding ecstasy that frothed your blood and clouded your mind. Multicolored neon lights licked greedily at your wet, naked skin, leaving acid green and poisonous pink burns on it. All your senses were overloaded, and every touch felt like a liquid flame. The throbbing bass of the deafening music echoed through your body like the beating of your own heart and completely consumed all of your other senses, except for absolute pleasure.

You lost track of the amount of alcohol you had consumed that day, shot after shot, until a pleasant fog began to form in your head, blocking out all other thoughts. The tequila flowed down your throat like water, and you were sure you'd remember how it tasted in the morning, but you didn't care what you'd done tonight or how you knew you'd feel tomorrow. You didn't care about that. Your aim was to forget yourself, to disappear into the crowd, to merge with the music until any connection to the outside world was nothing more than the beginning of the next day.

Dance, baby, dance!

The atmosphere in the club grew fuzzier and fainter, sweaty, hot bodies pressed closer together merging, the hot touches of forbidden pleasures caressing the skin with the fingertips of strangers, wet lips touching the bare, sticky skin on you shoulders, pressing rough impatient kisses into it. Too many people and too many strangers are here for nothing but fuck.

You weren't a stupid little girl who believed in virginal marriage and pink ponies; to be honest, you were far from that gentle picture. God, Wooyoung, and San had been your best friends since high school, and now you were at university, and if after all that time you couldn't repeat every position in the Kama Sutra by heart, it really surprised you. Innocence and modesty were the last words in your vocabulary, and with Wooyoung's big mouth, you were well aware of the whole of theirs sex life. And when you say everything, you mean every fucking detail, and to Wooyoung's credit, he has a great memory and meticulous storytelling.

How long has it been since you started dancing? 20 minutes—or was it two hours? You could swear that Sang and Ueyoung were at your side a minute ago. Or did they leave you alone on the dance floor hours ago?

You can't remember at all.

Your mind is buzzing, your fingertips are tingling, and your heart is pounding against your ribs from the adrenaline rush of matching the beat of some new-fangled track and creating a world of your own inside your body. This sound will vibrate more and more strongly under your skin until your brain ceases to function, allowing you to let go of all the worries in the world and give yourself over completely to the music. Alcohol really does work wonders.

Man, you felt so good.

In the back of your drunken mind, you can't help but wonder if tonight could have gone differently. Probably, but here you are, drunk as hell, huddled with a stranger on a neon dance floor instead of a soft bed in your favorite man's arms. Where the hell did you take the wrong turn? It would seem that something in the universe hasn't gone quite according to plan. Did you have any idea this morning that your sweet, perfect boyfriend would be cheating on you? Correction: he's been cheating on you for a long time. You probably never would have found out if you hadn't come home from couples earlier than usual and continued to be his "convenient girlfriend." Hell, it wasn't nice, and maybe not as hurtful, if he'd been fucking someone else instead of your best friend. Were you that bad? Weren't you good enough? Either way, you've still got time to destroy yourself—maybe tomorrow, maybe never.

Maybe you'll even think about it when you visit the bastard in the hospital. He should have known better than to even think about cheating, and the clotted blood on San's knuckles proved that. Everyone at the university knew that you were Ateez's golden girl, and to mess with you was to mess with them. And since you, Wooyoung, and San were literally glued to each other, it was tantamount to suicide.

At the moment, the only thing that was more upsetting than the image of your ex-boyfriend driving his dick all the way up to his balls into your ex-friend's skinny body was the fact that your beautiful vintage sofa would have to be thrown away. Semen doesn't wash off. You checked.

Hongjoong is going to be absolutely devastated. That sofa was the absolute love of his life.

It's all nothing more than a vague memory of the day gone by, mixed into an indecipherable cacophony of shrill screams and blurred images. To be honest, you don't remember much of the chaos, as Wooyoung pressed your face against his chest with such force that you wouldn't be surprised to see your make-up imprinted on the light fabric of his shirt. All you could hear was loud cursing and the sound of a punch in the face. You hoped that San's punch was strong enough to break the asshole's jaw. And after that, there were a few hours of tears and emotional crisis until they'd had enough and pulled you into this club with a gentle and accepting hand: "Come on, baby, you could use a break and a change of scenery" from San, and "Fuck that scumbag, go show him what he's lost, baby" from Wooyoung. It was an absolute mystery how the two of them synchronized perfectly.

You have no idea what you would do without these two.

A few more minutes go by in this way, until you feel hot hands on your hips, pulling you closer to the hard body on your back. You don't have to turn around to see that it's San; the scent of his perfume, mixed with the sweat and the smoke of a freshly smoked cigarette, makes you dizzy, and you rest your head on his shoulder, taking a deep breath of the intoxicating mixture. Suddenly you want to get as close to him as possible, turn around and press your face against his hard, structured chest, breathing in deeply and sinking into him completely. Your arms reach out behind you and wrap around San's neck, tangling your fingers in the scarlet strands of hair at the nape of his neck. You feel it on your back as the action makes him purr like a cat. You wonder what other sounds you might be able to catch him making.

You shake yourself. The thought of it sends shivers down your arms and makes all the muscles in your lower abdomen tingle.

You should stop. These are bad thoughts. Very bad thoughts.

"Damn, baby girl, how much did you drink while we were away?" Wooyoung's voice is rough and husky, but his touch is gentle and careful as his fingers intertwine with yours. He has always touched you in a way that no other man in the world, with the exception of him and San, has ever been able to touch you. There was no comparison with your ex's touch. Wooyoung's touch is a promise. A promise to protect, to care, and perhaps to love? You could swear you saved the planet in your past life because you have such great friends in this one, or maybe a little more than friends, but you're not sure what to call this feeling.

You had been friends for so long that it wasn't weird not have a crush on Wooyoung or to dream of being married to San. The guy was literally a walking husband; he was second only to Songhwa in that respect, but please, Hwa was the epitome of husband material. You might even have wanted to be in the middle of it, sandwiched between hot bodies while they literally fucked the life out of you. But it was all just thoughts. Fleeting dreams that clung to the edges of your consciousness. You were the type to date, and they were the type to fuck. You were different when it came to loving. In any case, it was all a long time ago. You had a boyfriend, and Wooyoung and San collected girls like Pokémon. Somehow, you were sure that if you slept together, your friendship would end.

You weren't ready for that. With a strength that only Jongho could match, you ignored any romantic feelings for them

"Mmm… Woo, I have no recollection, but I had fun." You licked your lips as if you were trying to taste the lingering taste of the tequila and opened your eyes to stare straight into Wooyoung's face, full of worry. He could have been the biggest bitch if he wanted to be. But for you, that 'maternal' instinct of overprotection has kicked in. You stare at him unblinkingly in that moody light, he looks beautiful, to the point of being stupidly handsome, so damn handsome that you want to pull him to you and kiss him without explanation or reason. And you can do that because you know he's never, ever going to say no to you but kiss you? Wooyoung's tongue will be the first to enter your mouth. He will suck on it like a drunk, and he will hold on to you until there is almost no air left in your lungs.

"We leave you alone, gongjunim, for five minutes, and you're already in trouble. Shall I give you a lesson in obedience?" San is speaking into your ear, loud enough for you to hear him clearly, each word coming through the loud electric bass. His voice is too sultry to be sober enough. Woo probably talked him into a few shots, although he always got drunk pretty easily. The two were threatening each other. And to you as well.

The evil voice inside your head grinned: You know you want it. He's going to punish you for being such a bad, naughty girl. He will teach you to be the best little girl for him and for them and to follow all his rules. He'll make you beg and make you cry…

Fuck, girl, come to your senses. Since when did you start to think with your pussy instead of using your brain? Or do you automatically turn into a horny, over-excited idiot after a break-up? Turn on your brains; they are your best friends.

Completely ignoring San's words, you whimpered:

"I'm thirsty." Your tongue is dry in your mouth, and your lips feel unpleasantly rough as you say the words. It looks like the fun's over for today.

San can't help but laugh at your capricious behavior, and you wriggle restlessly in his arms, trying to free yourself from his firm grip, but he only manages to hold you even tighter. You sigh in annoyance and decide to try your luck with Wooyoung.

"Woo, help me." You whine again, reaching out and pulling Wooyoung closer so that your forehead rests against his collarbone.

He smells good, like sandalwood and vanilla, like home.

Wooyoung lifts your face with his fingertips. The touch is soft and comforting, despite the roar of the music and the crowd of strangers around you. He stares intently into your eyes, almost too serious for your drunken haze. He hopes to find something more than alcohol-induced excitement.

"Come on, baby. It's time to go home." He releases your hand and carefully wipes the sweat from your forehead and cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt, his fingers lingering on your lips for a moment, and you playfully stick out your tongue and lick the pads of his fingers. God, may you not remember this tomorrow.

"But I don't want to…" You purse your lips again. You turn your head towards San, looking for his support. "Sanni, let's stay a bit more." Your big, shining eyes are not making it easy for him, but you were already quite drunk, and judging by the way your body was leaning against him, you could hardly stand properly.

"Wooyoung's right, gongjunim, it's over for you today."

Something wild in you just wants to be a brat and start arguing, but the rational part of your brain wins out. You sigh tiredly and try to wriggle out of his grip, and of course you stumble, grabbing Wooyoung's biceps with your hands in an attempt to stay on your feet and not break your high-heeled leg, which would be a great way to end the night.

A strong arm immediately wraps around your waist. It digs lightly into the exposed skin between your top and your jeans. You can feel the coldness of the thin band of his ring. It actually burns from how sensitive you were now.

"I got you, chagi." San whispers softly and hoarsely into your ear, and you cling even more tightly to Wooyoung's arm as your legs begins to shake, but no longer from the alcohol you've drunk and the tiredness, but from his sultry tone. Damn, was that a saturi, or was it just your imagination?

"We'll be on our way now, for sure." Wooyoung takes your hand once more, pulling it away from his bicep, and quickly leads you through the crowd of sweaty bodies, completely ignoring your feeble protests until you see the flashing exit sign. The red neon sign brings you ominously close to the point where you are left alone with them. And you feel San's heavy presence at your back like never before.

The sounds of the city swallow you up and make you dizzy as Wooyoung opens the heavy metal door. Couples are kissing all over the place. Noisy groups of people are huddled together waiting for a taxi or sharing a single joint, leaving a faint smell of weed in the air. You can still hear the vibrating bass of the music that is pouring out of the club; it echoes in your head in an unpleasant way, with a slight throbbing pain. All of a sudden, all you want to do is find yourself in a warm bed, snuggled up against San or Wooyoung, or even better, against both of them.

San's hand on your waist tenses as you bend over to hail a taxi. Wooyoung's hands come down on your hips, hot and strong, and just like that, you find yourself sandwiched between them, their bodies shielding you safely from the searing cold and dirty stares. You could swear that you can hear Wooyoung swears to himself while a drunk guy is moving his tongue between two spread fingers and looking in your direction. San's body tenses instinctively. What's with all this protection? We're not in some kind of alpha-character romance; you can take care of yourself.

But in spite of that, your body still relaxes, your head leans back against Wooyoung's shoulder, and you rub your face against his like a cat.

"You're so drunk, baby." Woo chuckles and gives you a light kiss on the top of your head. "That's my girl."

My girl, just the sound of that one sentence makes a little fire start in your belly. What the hell is wrong with you today? A week ago, you were rinsing his mouth after Woo drank too much, and now you're ready to lick his mouth from the inside.

Fuck.

All these thoughts make you lose track of what's happening until you feel the smooth leather of the car seat beneath you and the soft touch of San's lips on your bare shoulder. You moan, either from annoyance or excitement. San just smiles and presses his lips harder against you. Finally, you are going home.

You faintly hear Wooyoung giving the Uber driver the coordinates of your apartment complex, your hands intertwining again, relaxing further as Wooyoung's head rests on your shoulder. His long hair tickles the back of your neck.

Sobriety slowly begins to clear your head as the ride continues. You're still drunk, but you're much more aware than before.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" Your voice is low, barely above a whisper, but in the confined space of the car's backseat, they can hear it well. It sets them in motion again, hands clasped around you with renewed confidence. You play mindlessly with the silver rings that adorn Wooyoung's long fingers, and you don't go unnoticed by San's light strokes on the outside of your thigh.

"All for you, chagiya." San whispers back and gives Wooyoung a meaningful look. There's something special between the two of them—a dialogue that is spoken without words but in which they both know exactly what is meant. If only you knew what was going on inside their heads…

You let your hand drop to Wooyoung's muscular thigh and ran the palm of your hand over it a couple of times, feeling the tight muscles under the skin of his trousers. He covers the palm of your hand with his own and squeezes it in a silent, gentle gesture of affection.

"I love you guys…" You whisper, sticking out your tongue to lick your suddenly dry lips. You hear them giggling together before you feel San press his nose against the soft skin of your collarbone, rubbing against it like a cat. He's the ultimate cinnamon bun; how he can be someone who's had sex with half the university is still a mystery to you.

"I love you too, gongjunim." And he means it, like he really loves you—much more than a friend should.

"Mmm, I love you more. You know that, baby." Wooyoung bites the skin on the back of your neck in a playful way, and you feel his wet tongue pressing against the site of the bite for a few seconds.

"You're not sleeping in my bed. Woo, stop it; that tactic won't work on me anymore."

He whimpers back with a puff of his swollen lips, turning his face away from you with an irritated roll of his eyes as you and San laugh, his arms naturally wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to his body so that you're practically sitting on his lap. A faint melody, from some kind of soft track, pours out of the speakers and lulls you into a state of serenity. You find it harder and harder to keep your eyes open. Your body relaxes even more in San's arms.

The next twenty minutes fly by, and you only begin to wake up when the cab door slams behind you and Wooyoung drags you into her flat. The fobs on your keys jingle loudly in the silence of the corridor as San fiddles with them to unlock the door. You sway in Woo's arms as you wait for the door to your apartment to open. The soothing scent of neroli and orchids greets you as you enter, your body automatically relaxing into the safety of your personal space, and you fall wearily into the armchair opposite sofa.

As the door closes, you hear the sound of the boys hurrying down the corridor, taking off their shoes and jackets. You can imagine San carefully placing his shoes next to yours and Wooyoung's one shoe being kicked further down the corridor. So damn different.

Woo sprints into the kitchen, slams the door of the fridge shut, and there is a bottle of cold water in front of your face.

"Here you go, starlight." He sinks to the floor at your feet and leans back against them, resting his head in your lap as he does so. You run your fingers through his long black hair, brushing it away from his face, and meet his gaze with your own. It's familiar; away from the deafening music and the sweaty crowd, you feel much better now, despite the fact that a few hours ago your ex was fucking your friend on the couch across the hall. This is still your home, and you're sure that in a few days your entire apartment will be taken apart and put back together by the caring hands of Seonghwa and Yeosang, when there won't be a trace of your failed past relationships left. "Are you okay?" San asks, leaning against the doorjamb.

"I'm… fine, yeah. Probably not as good as I'd like to be, but I'll be fine; it'll just take some time. At the moment, I'm just tired of it all."

"Go take a shower, sweetie; San and I will take care of the rest." Wooyoung says as he gets up from the floor and pulls the leather jacket off of his shoulders. The wide collar of his black t-shirt shows the tattoo on his back. You always found that part of him extremely sexy.

You rise from your chair, grimacing at the pain in your legs after so many hours in high heels. Your top falls to the floor as you take it off, the lace of your black lingerie clinging to your body like a second skin. They've seen you naked more than once or twice, and in any case, you're not one of those cute girls who blushes at every opportunity. You have to struggle to pull your jeans down your legs because they are so tight around your arse. The next thing to come off is your underwear, which you leaves halfway to the toilet somewhere. You let them take care of that too.

The level of intimacy that you have with San and Wooyoung is so high that it virtually erases any barrier to acceptable standards of friendship. Years of shared memories, from when you started high school to when you practically star graduates of Seoul National University. God, the things you've done and the situations you've been in—it's been a hectic time. The three of you literally know each other to your bones—sharing habits, feelings, clothes, and even some sexual practices under the influence of alcohol and chance. You've seen them fuck; they've held your hair when you've puked, helped with periods, you've seen them jerking off in the morning or heard them moaning loudly in the bathroom, you all watched porn together—it's all been part of your friendship. In a way, the three of you have been completely and utterly shameless.

You close the bathroom door and stare wearily at your reflection in the large mirror. Your hair is disheveled from those beautiful waves there's not a trace, your skin is glistening with sweat, your make-up looks messy—a bit of smudged eyeliner, smeared lipstick—and in general, you look like you've been beaten up. The pupils of your eyes are dilated, even though you're still feeling sleepy, and there's a bit of puffiness under your eyes from previous tantrum.

Wow, you look like a real mess. You turn away from the mirror, turn on the tap of water, and sink back into your usual daily routine. The water cleanses not only your body but also your mind, spectacularly washing away all the memories and regrets of the day.

It seems to be at least a minute before you hear the sound of a heavy knock on the door. San's voice is muffled over the sound of water and steam, rough, husky, and incredibly sexy, sending electric shocks through your body and unexpected heat building between your thighs. Your fingers turn the handle, stopping the water from flowing, and you take a few long breaths, trying to get rid of this strange feeling. What's wrong with you today?

"Chagi, are you okay?"

You mooed in response, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped the towel around your body before opening the door to face him. He's standing across the bathtub, slumped against the wall, so soft and fluffy, when you open the door. San has changed into a pair of loose pajamas, which are very cute, according to your taste. He has washed off his make-up and generally looks more like an adorable bun than the voluptuous demon he is supposed to be at the university.

"What the hell took you so long? Wooyoung's already starting to climb the wall from here." He whimpers with a pucker on his lips.

"I needed some time to myself, Sanni."

He bites his bottom lip before nodding. His burning gaze travels over you from head to toe, lingering a little longer than usual on your thighs and breasts, and your body heats up at the sensation. When your eyes meet, there is an emotion that you are unfamiliar with that hovers just above the surface of his gleaming dark irises. Something predatory flashes across his face, just for a second, but it's enough to make your skin tingle with an unknown sense of anticipation.

"Just a few more minutes, and then I'll be on my way, all right? Tell Wooyoung to be a little more patient."

"Alright."

You step back into the tub, close the door behind you, and press your back against the wall. You bite your lips, trying to hold back a groan of disappointment. It's not that after all these years of friendship you've never felt sexually aroused in their presence; after all, Wooyoung and San were so damn attractive and even flirtatious to the point of insanity, they fit the cliché of lusty, popular boys at university so well.

Perhaps you had once or twice wondered what it would be like to be close to one of them, or even better, both of them—what their bodies would feel like and what their tastes would be like. Yet, consciously ignoring any romantic urges in their direction, you buried those thoughts deep in the back of your mind. You didn't want to think about how beautiful San's smile was, with those sweet dimples, or how your skin burned under Woo's playful, incessant kisses. But those were only fragmentary thoughts, a dangerous feeling creeping into your heart.

For a while your hunger for them was satisfied by a succession of boy toys until you found yourself a steady boyfriend, well until you caught him with one of your girlfriends tonight. Either way, the sex was hardly satisfying enough to get too upset about, but still, the ache in your heart and your bottom-punched self-esteem stung like a bitch.

But today there was something different between the three of you; on a day like any other, there was a different feeling. It wasn't anything special; San's tearful face had been tucked between your breasts more than once or twice after another romantic fiasco, and Wooyoung had been a complete fool in love, getting burned so many times because he wore his heart on his sleeve. You have been friends long enough to know how to comfort each other after breaking up. You have never experienced such a tension between the three of you before.

There was a barely perceptible change in the air; there was an electric tension in the chemistry between you; a crackle in the air like a thunderstorm was about to break. The storm was coming at a furious pace, and you weren't sure if you were going to be able to handle it. To end up between them was like voluntarily stepping into a hurricane rated at twelve. Was that what you wanted? You probably did. Did they want it? There was no way of knowing. Would things have changed if you'd fucked, yes, of course, but would you have had a 'happily ever after', you weren't so sure.

You brush your hair with your fingertips, hissing in pain when you can't untangle the tangled locks, and continue this compulsive action as you step out of the suddenly claustrophobic space of the bathroom. The corridor is cold, and the change in temperature causes goose bumps to run down the length of your skin. Cold air climbs under the towel's edges, clinging uncomfortably to your tender inner thighs.

"I left some fresh clothes for you on the dresser next to the bathtub. Didn't you notice?" San asks. His pronunciation is as simple as if he hadn't been the one who just a few minutes ago ate you alive with his eyes. He is sitting on the arm of the chair Wooyoung is comfortably ensconced in, mindlessly scrolling through social media.

The couch, which was once your favorite place to be, is clearly in disuse. You're already anticipating Hongjoong's endless complaints about it. That couch was the love of his life.

Wooyoung has changed his clothes too; there's no trace of the seductive college hottie left; the stretchy top of the oversized shirt slipping off his shoulders to expose his collarbones made him look so tiny and cuddly; and the soft disheveled hair falling over his face gave his features something adorably puppyish. They both looked homely and terribly comfortable, as if this was legitimately their home and not yours, as if their place had always been here, the space they belonged to.

"It's stuffy. I don't want to get dressed." You reply, pulling the towel tighter around your chest. You actually contradict yourself by wrapping your arms around yourself, but you don't want to explain anything to them either.

"Personally, I like it all; you can keep going, baby."

"Of course you like it, Woo; we all know about your love for exhibitionism." You say this nonchalantly and let your body fall into Wooyoung's lap, not caring that you're actually naked under the towel or that his shirt is getting wet as the water from your wet hair drips onto it. You're trapped between their bodies again, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't like the feeling. You savor his scent and the feel of his smooth skin as your face sinks into the curve of Woo's neck.

You all sink into a nice, relaxing silence as the boys scroll through endless social media feeds, your eyes grow heavier, and the need for sleep becomes more palpable. But you love it so much—just being around them, not thinking about anything else, feeling the way San's fingers play with your hair while you twirl the rings on Woo's fingers—that you probably have a fetish for his hands. Anyway, you don't mind.

Minutes go by like this, slowly approaching an hour. You feel content and warm as you sit on Wooyoung's gorgeous muscular thighs. He is humming something to himself, drawing scattered patterns with his fingertips on your bare thigh. Your lips press against Woo's neck, leaving a sweet kiss on his skin. He squirms beneath you, his fingers clenching tighter and tighter on your thigh. God, he's so hot.

"You're so needy, kitten," San says with laughter before you feel his lips on your shoulder. It's not a chaste, friendly kiss; no, his lips are wet with saliva, open so you can feel the scorching breath and his tongue tip gliding across your skin in slow motion. San is licking you like a cat, damn it.

"Is this a side effect of the break-up or something like that? Look at you, Peach. You're a horny mess." Wooyoung raises an eyebrow in curiosity and pulls you closer to his chest. You slide down his thighs, and the towel scratches a little higher, a little more, and they can easily see your pussy. At that thought, the familiar throbbing between your legs reminds you just how wet you are, the viscous, clear liquid threatening to run down the inside of your thighs and stain Woo's clothes.

Praying that neither of them will notice how flushed and horny you feel at this moment, you squeeze your legs together and slide your hand down to pull the towel further down your legs, as far down as possible in this position.

You're so thirsty; the lust is bubbling just beneath the surface of your skin, and the heady mix of their scent and the residual alcohol in your blood is making you feel like such a needy slut.

The rational part of your brain tells you that you should be in a completely different state right now—a mess of tears and snot, probably on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. Somewhere between the self-destruction of your own self-esteem and a crisis of identity, But here you are, practically naked in Woo's arms, with an obscenely wet pussy and no shame whatsoever.

In contrast to the'real' half of you, something small and evil urged you to go further, to spread your legs, to expose yourself shamelessly, to ride Wu's thigh and have a hot rodeo until you couldn't cum any more, and then let San use you however he wanted; you don't mind at all being a chew toy for him. Hell, boy, all you want to do is let him fuck your brains out.

You sink your teeth into your lower lip with force; the taste of blood is almost in your mouth.

"Fuck me. I want to sleep, baby. You can use me. Let's go to bed."You whine, puffing up your cheeks.

"Okay, okay, baby, let's put the princess to bed." San lifts you from your place on Woo's lap and pulls you tightly against his chest, and you can clearly feel every ripple of muscle on that perfect body. When did he have time to get that big?

He carries you into the bedroom like a princess. Wooyoung's shuffling footsteps can be heard behind you, and you throw your head back to meet his gaze.

"We had a change of sheets. Personally, I'm in favor of burning all his stuff."

"Have I told you I love you?"

"Mmm, let me think. Maybe just a few thousand times." He gives you a cheeky smile, and you laugh.

"Love, love, love, love, I love you so much. You're the best boys in the world. You sing with a big smile on your face, and the sound of their laughter fills the bedroom.

"We love you too; we love you so much."

If you weren't so drunk and tired, your brain might have been able to process Wooyoung's changed intonation, but you completely ignored any possible hint of how they felt about you.

San gently laid you down on the bed, and Woo's lithe body crawled beside you, snuggling against your side, hugging you like his personal teddy bear.

"Woo, let her go; she has to put on some clothes." He pulls off his T-shirt and holds the soft fabric out in front of you. Your hands lazily crumple it up in an attempt to decide whether or not to put it on, but the boys decide for you.

Wooyoung sits you down and holds you tightly by the waist while San pulls the T-shirt over your head and pulls off the towel at the same time. You are still naked, but you are a bit more decent now.

"You're such good friends. I wish I could date someone like you." You lie back down, and Woo's hands paddle you again, as if it's his natural reflex. You're not aware of the exchange of glances between the two of them. The silent conversation that goes on between them is completely ignored.

"Hmm, someone like us?" San sits down on the bed in front of you, and in an instant, your fingers cling to his naked chest. You want so badly to sink your teeth into the smooth, bulging muscles of his chest. "Baby, aren't you afraid we're going to be jealous?"

"You and jealousy, come on. I went out with Suho, and none of you minded."

"It's because the idiot has a tiny dick." With an evil giggle, Woo whispers in your ear.

"Wooyoung!"

"He's right, chagia. When was the last time you had an orgasm?"

"San, not you too." You whine and give him a light tap on the shoulder.

"Well, if you were with someone like us, you'd know what it means to have a good fuck. We'd fuck your brains out, baby."

"Jung Wooyoung, wash your filthy mouth. San, tell him." You call out to your more rational friend in a resentful tone to calm Woo down.

"Well, I can't say that he's wrong. You won't be on foot for days after we are." The grin on San's face is so predatory that you can't tell that it's your sweet himbo friend. It's making the muscles at the bottom of your stomach clench in anticipation of this promise.

"You do know that I used to sleep with Yunho before I started dating Suho, right? You can hardly come as a surprise to me; he's very good."

"We know." Woo hissed in annoyance, and his arms tightened around you, planting his foot on your thigh and completely cutting off any attempt you might have made to pull away from him, even if you wanted to.

"But we're so much better." A hot palm slides just over your waist near to Wooyoung's hand, practically covering your breasts. You feel the full weight of it on your body.

"In your dreams."

For a few moments, you close your eyes and fall silent. The comforting silence lulls you to sleep, but there is one thought that keeps you from falling completely into a deep slumber. With a groan, you come back to reality, blinking slowly as your brain forms the words that seem to be too heavy on the tip of your tongue—heavy, but so damned sweet.

"I wanna… I mean, let's have threesome."

"Sorry, what!" Wooyoung almost yells, sitting up in bed in an instant and staring at you with his eyes wide open. If the situation wasn't so serious, you could laugh at his shocked expression. "Is it an offer for sex? Right now?"

"Jesus, Wooyoung, just let me finish." You sit down as well and take each one of them by the hand. "We graduate next year, and if… if we are all free and you don't mind, maybe we can have threesomes."

"I'm ready. Why wait?" Woo clings to you like a leech. He presses every inch of his body against you so tightly that you practically melt into each other. His skin is hot, and you can feel his breath brushing against your ear and his lips touching it as he speaks. "Come, Y/N, we can do this now. I'm going to take you to heaven."

"Wooyoung, I'm serious."

You have to look at San, who's been silent the whole time. The look in his eyes is so dark, full of lust and hunger. It doesn't leave you for a second.

"San…"

"I'll do anything for you, Y/N."

"I'll be ready for you in a year if you're still willing. Now get out of the room, the both of you. Tonight I'll be alone in bed."

You push them off the bed, San rolls over on the floor with a clatter, and Wooyoung jumps up like a man who has been scalded.

"But chagi…" He whines, loud and nasty, as San drags him out of the room.

"Sweet dreams, gongjunim." That's the last thing you hear before the door slams shut behind them and you're left alone in the bedroom.

You can hear their muffled voices coming from the hallway, trying so hard to keep quiet. Wooyoung's incessant complaining, mixed with San's low muttering, effectively lulls you to sleep. You probably won't even remember tonight, let alone this stupid proposal, but little do you know that neither San nor Wooyoung have any intention of letting you forget.

You are going to have a very funny year in front of you.

2K notes · View notes

yeyinde · 3 months

Text

LEASH CALLED YOU

PUPPY (RUINER) x F!Reader | 18+ Good dogs get rewards, and Puppy thinks you are the best prize to be found in this hovel. So, he takes you.

WARNINGS: smut | P-in-V, rough sex; D/s undertones; VERY HEAVY DUBCON!!; slight breathplay. female gendered anatomy. implied/referenced human trafficking, sex work. canon typical violence. implied threat of violence. loss of agency. obsessive behaviour. this is basically playing house with a psychopath who decides you're his. and he pretty much killed half the city and the guy who was kinda a god. or a king. or something. so like, what are you gonna do? say no? Pff. WORD COUNT: 7,4k imagine writing like, 7k for Some Guy after seeing one (1) gifset of him.

He finds you in South Rengkok.

Nestled amongst a conglomerate of seedy, black market shops in the red light district, you gaze out at the sea of people from a vaulted window in a seamy bordello. A voyeuristic view into the coquettish bedroom they placed you in—red satin sheets and pink, heart-shaped pillows. All dolled up and pretty.

The harsh light cuts shadows under your eyes and frames you in a heavy, oversaturated glow. You look like you're bathing in red. In blood.

The sight makes something curdle in his stomach. He isn't sure why. There's not much of a difference between you and the other workers—all locked up tight; enticing passersby to join in on the garish body auction set to take place soon—but where they see the dollar signs in this, dancing and swaying their hips, pressing their palms flat against the window plane and fluttering their lashes, all lovely and coy, at the men who press back, you sit. Motionless. A little doll.

You don't belong here, he thinks. You're something much too soft and fine, like silk in his hands, and much too delicate to be in this part of town that stinks like wet, oxidising metal and saltpetre.

The slip of your black, lacy kimono barely covers your skin. He tracks it. The shadows, the dips. The curves. His eyes fix on the protrusion of your collarbones beneath the moody fabric, pushed to the side, and hanging off your shoulder in what, he guesses, is meant to be enticing. Kittenish.

They dolled you up to skirt this line between sultry vixen and twee innocence. The sight of it does something to his guts. Has them rolling over each other in tandem with each heavy thud of his heart. It's the way you look that catches his attention, sure, but more than that, it's the look in your eyes.

They glow under the neon smear, hazy and drifting far away, turned inward. Lost.

And then you look up. Catch his gaze through the glass.

There's a moment when everything inside of him dims, quiets. Thoughts, missions. Reason, purpose. It falls under a thick blanket of whisper-soft snow. It's just him—something, nothing—and you. This little cosm of his own making.

You make a motion, then, as if to entice him inside but you hesitate, staring back at him instead. He knows the LED screen on his mask is doing something funny, voicing the thoughts he can't say, because your lips quirk slightly at the corners—bemusement, maybe; he's never been good at reading people—but then HER is husking out orders in his head, all biting witticism, and acerbic humour.

Later, Puppy, comes the clandestine whisper—hot oil down his nape—and he catches the warbled curiosity as it trickles through. Good Puppy’s get rewards. But there's work to do.

Work. Yes, work.

His helmet flashes. He catches the red flicker on the smeared reflection of the window. Garish red. Kill, kill, kill.

You see it, and you flinch.

Good, is the sudden thought. Good.

Puppy isn't sure about much—not anymore, and maybe not ever—but he knows this: he likes the way your eyes widen. Fear, undoubtedly. Round and doe-eyed as you take in the horrible words scribbled in neon.

Fright, dread. It looks good on you.

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

His hands shake. He thinks about how you'd feel under him. How he'd feel inside of you. And—

Purpose, he thinks. Purpose.

There's an emptiness inside of his heart. A hole left over from the remains of LITTLE BROTHER. The dream, the reason, turned into a ghost. Shrapnel in his chest.

He doesn't blame HER for his absence. For the machinations, the schemes. It all led somewhere in the end, even if that place was here. Alone. Stuck, now, with a gaping wound in his chest.

But—

Not for long, maybe.

It'll be an awkward fit—BROTHER was this unknowable, untouchable shadow that lingered in his peripheral vision; a driving force keeping him moving. The space carved inside Puppy for him feels like a cavernous chasm. You're so slight, so small, in comparison to that gaping void, that he wonders if you'll be enough to quench the hunger that brims up from those depths. Rapacious. Wanting.

It's different, of course. You are real. BROTHER was—

Not.

He satiated himself on artificial dreams and empty memories. Those spectral, hallucinatory feelings of desperation to save his younger brother carried him to the very end.

But BROTHER was always chimerical.

You are something he can touch. Have. Keep.

He sees the flash of uncertainty etched into the painted lines of your face as you look around the cesspit you've fallen into, and he knows that you, too, could be that for him. Purpose. Purpose. Purpose.

(His, his, HIS.)

The people wandering around, perusing the shops, stop and stare at you. At this little wisp, all shaken and terrified, and in need of saving. Needing him—

His hand clenches around the pipe.

You're too good for their eyes. For this place.

He'll kill them all, and come for you.

The room that houses his new target is in a penthouse on the better side of the city. Vaulted ceilings. Golden chandeliers. Crystalline glass in a mosaic of iridescent pastel. It looks blemishless, clean, in comparison to the hovel that is South Rengkok. It scrapes against the chalky insides of his skull as he slinks forward, and emerges from the shadows.

He makes his way through the levels, one by one, until all that remains behind him is a river of blood and a breadcrumb trail of dead bodies. Boss’ finest. It's all mostly just—

Cleanup.

A necessary evil, HER calls it, and so, he sees it through.

When he gets to the top, he hears noises. High-pitched, elongated. A sharp grunt.

He finds his target sitting down on a sprawling chaise, knees notched apart. A woman sits in his lap, hands pressed against his chest.

Both of them are naked. Their clothes are in a messy pile by the door.

Puppy watches for a moment. Enthralled, almost, by the sharp juxtaposition their bodies make, and then—

Confusion.

She looks just like you.

His meaty hands are tight around her waist, jerking her down with each sloppy cant of his wide hips. Dwarfing her frame in his bearish paws. She mewls into the room, the reecho of her synthetic moans daggers into his temple.

The pipe in his hand jerks with the rough spasm of his fingers.

Puppy doesn't care much for killing. Doesn't care much for anything at all, really, except for HER, BROTHER. The mission. His objectives.

Cold, they call him. Unfeeling.��

He thinks, suddenly, of Wizard. About something he'd said back when Puppy didn't have a name.

You're—heh, you're a killing machine! It must feel so good, you know? To kill.

It doesn't. He feels nothing at all. Neither pity, nor guilt. Regret is an abstract concept in his mind; intangible. Unreachable.

He's—

Ambivalent, HER once supplied. You feel nothing, Puppy, because you are nothing.

Yes. Yes, he thinks. And yet—

There's a strange heat in his veins. A caustic feeling welling deep inside of his guts at the sight of them coupling. His hands on her body is an affront. An insult.

It makes him angry. Furious.

He'll kill him, he'll—

(Go, Puppy!)

In the man's hands, she looks soft. Delicate. Breakable.

Yes, so breakable. So—

She moans, then, and he jerks his chin up, catching her reflection in the marble pillar.

Ah, he thinks. Ah.

She isn't you.

He gets to work.

The success of his mission has HER offering a bleak congratulations in the back of his head. Job well done. He takes it all in, feeling a distinct thrum in his bones that is usually absent following his massacres. Its place, in the hollow gaps of his ribs, is strange. Foreign.

Excitement, he finds. How peculiar.

It offsets the adrenaline rush, the lingering anger coursing through his veins. Killing the Target, his companion who was entirely too similar to you, leaves him feeling satiated and starved at the same time. A paradoxical sensation that shouldn't exist together, but somehow found a way, a home, within the slurry of his chest.

He wants to find you. Has this pulsing need in the back of his head to make sure that the woman he killed wasn't really you. But you are contralateral to his current mission. His objective.

Almost pityingly, the route HER generates takes him right past you: a tantalising tease.

Puppy isn't sure what to call this. Madness, perhaps. Don't be stupid, Puppy, comes the choppy, mechanical whir in the back of his head. You are—human, after all.

The way it's said by HER has his hackles rising, but he doesn't have enough insight on the topic to pursue the strange cadence any further.

Indulge. You earned it.

Your face flashes before him—different, this time. Gone is the thick gold on the crease of your eyelids, the heavy red on your lips. You're barefaced. Gaunt. Your complexion reminds him of the bruised blue of the sky above. Midnight. Iridescent rainbows in an oil spill.

He wants to touch you. His hands shake.

A series of numbers flicker at the bottom. The price, he surmises, for you.

An auction. Right.

Tonight, HER supplies. He feels the clinical amusement in the back of his head. Oh, but Puppy—

To offset the generosity, HER pulls up the amount he carries on him. Cruel. Mocking. It's compared and contrasted. The difference is staggering. He can't afford you. Doesn't even come close to the asking price.

(Couldn't even afford the entrance fee.)

Sorry, Puppy—

The mechanised warble is pushed down before it can start.

That's fine, he reasons, dismissing it all. Dismissing HER.

He has no intention of paying for what's rightfully his, anyway.

The bordello—boasting some strange mix between classic geisha-sensualism and modern sex appeal (and somehow missing the mark for both)—appears closed for the night.

A fallacy, of course, as everyone is just inside. Squirrelled away with cheap vodka, cigars. Waiting their turn to cash in their victory tokens.

He looks at your window, shutters closed with a looping scrawl on neon pink that says be back soon~!, and makes his approach.

There's no plan for this. Not that he's ever really had any to begin with—most of what he does is driven by an endless need to fulfil someone else's objective through the brutal physicality he wields—but he makes an effort to go stealthier than usual.

He doesn't want to risk triggering a failsafe that will keep him away from you any longer than he needs to be.

Not that it matters—

These lowlives—some assemblage of Creeps, local gangsters, and general nobodies—are mere nuisances in the face of his ice-cold ire. His rage. Tearing through them is nothing. The fight they put up is flimsy. Tissue paper defences. He supposes they never really anticipated him showing up to reap his dues at an event that has been advertised for several weeks now (how he missed your face on those gaudy billboards hanging above the taverns in the red light district, he'll never know). A high-class event, they snicker from behind the thin doorways.

Politicians gambling away public funds to buy pretty prizes. Gangsters, pimps, all looking to pocket more flesh for their own abattoirs.

Killing them is insubstantial to this cleanup mission, he knows, but there's a thrum of vindictiveness that roars through his chest when they squeal, begging for forgiveness that they must know won't come.

(He's barely merciful on a good day.)

HER is a cheerleader in his ear, egging him on. Go, Puppy! Get your prize, Puppy! and he lets it fuel himself forward until he's covered in viscera and gore—a jaw bone breaks off, tacks on to the lip of his boot; blood drenches the sleeves of his leather jacket, stains his collar—and surrounded by pulpy, broken bodies. Alone.

It's quiet, now. The only sound is his heavy, ragged breath muffled by the mask covering his head. The harsh thud of his pulse cottons his ears, blotting out everything except the heady rush of blood raging in his veins.

HER watches with an alien sense of amusement that prickles in the back of his head. Wrongness permeates from their mirth as they take in the carnage spread out amongst the halls.

It all means nothing to him. A means to an end.

Nothing to them, either. To HER. This is a game.

The wet end of the pipe drags against the herringbone floor in a metallic squeal done to announce his presence from anyone unlucky enough to survive the brutal apathy of his initial assault. He hears nothing. Just the grind of rusting metal on wood. Porous. Hollow.

It all ends in a muted bloodbath. A bloodied trail of bodies leads right to your door.

Untouched, despite the garish horror painting the walls in rotting red. Congealed blood blackened under the thin oxygen in the room.

There's no movement from within, but he knows you're here. Can feel you through the wood. Catch the rabbiting of your heart. Your gasping breath.

With the hand not clutching the pipe, he reaches for the handle, turns. Locked. He expected it. You must have propped something up against the knob during the first onslaught of his fury. Smart.

But it's not enough to keep him out.

He pries open the door to your room with one hand, shattering the flimsy back of the vanity stool you jimmied beneath the handle. Cute. Resourceful. His heart pounds in his chest. He can't wait to have you.

Go, Puppy!

He takes a moment to shut the door behind him—no escape—before he slowly swivels his head toward you. Taking you in.

(Finally.)

You stare at him with that same look on your face as before. Terror, he reasons, and tries to piece it together on the men who looked at him as he cracked skulls open with the blunt end of his pipe, tore jugulars out with his bare hand. Fear, he thinks. They look at him with fear. Loathing.

But you're missing that one. There's no hatred on your face, no curses spat out even when he stalks forward with the same steady gait as always, the bloody end of his pipe leaving a macabre breadcrumb trail for anyone to follow.

There's a sea of dead bodies behind him. Businessmen. Lowlives. Commonfolk. The other girls. It didn't matter.

They were in the way.

All of them.

(The man, too, who came to collect you like a prize winner at a seedy casino. His head, in particular, is rendered into nothing but a pulpy mess of grey matter, tissue, blood, and bone.)

He thinks you might cry, but you don't. You stare. Owlish. Wary. Between the thick, brick wall—your cage—and him, there's nowhere for you to run. He slows at that, coming to a stop several paces away. Watching you back. Assessing. Calculating.

You're nervous. Shaken. He's under no disillusionment that you hadn’t heard the screams just outside of your door. Heard the thuds. The cracking of skulls. The breaking of bones. A bloodbath only several paces away. A massacre. Scary enough to you that it made you try to save yourself, to lock whatever it was that stalked the halls from getting to you.

How terrified you must have been.

Puppy doesn't feel much for anyone. Maybe the odd moment of sympathy for the inhabitants of his city, the ones who beg and plead for his help with the things they can't control, can't fight back against. He extends small mercies where he sees fit.

But for some odd, unfathomable reason, he has the sudden inkling to reach out. Pity. You're so pitiful to him. Poor thing. You poor, poor—

In a moment of pure absurdity, the words: are you good? flash across the curved plain of his mask, and you make a noise somewhere between a yelp and snort. Mangled in the back of your throat.

“Does it matter?”

And, oh—

Your voice does something to him. Turns his insides liquid. He's melting, he thinks. Burning up and turning to a heap of molten ore by your feet.

He tries to reign himself back in, forcing himself to focus. Focus. Puppy ponders your question for a moment before ultimately deciding that it doesn't.

(Or, rather, it does; but maybe not in the way you'd want it to.)

In the end, he gives you a shrug. Banal. Dismissive. It makes your brows furrow. A valley forms between them. Irritation bleeds through the flat apathy you forged.

There's a scoff. He thinks you look prettier like this—a feral, hissing cat. He wants you beneath him, clawing at his chest. Spitting curses in his name.

(Wants to try to tame you. Wants to fail.)

“Of course,” you hiss, hands fisting in the sheer fabric of your kimono. “You're no different from anyone else, are you?”

Puppy shakes his head in response. He isn't a good man. He's made of spare parts stitched together to create an amalgamation of likeness to some king he barely even knows. A megalomaniac. A madman.

In all honesty, there probably isn't much that separates him and the men who vied for your affection, paid for your attention. Threw coins toward an auction just for the possibility of taking you home.

But there is a difference.

Puppy will have you. This he is certain of.

There's nowhere for you to go. This city doesn't want you. Doesn't deserve you. He'll take you with him, chained at the wrist if he has to. Shackled. Caged.

You are so funny, Puppy, HER intones, amused. A puppy with a puppy.

Yes, he decides. His puppy. All his.

He found you first.

Puppy lets the pipe—drenched in blood, bone; in viscera that makes you recoil sharply with a flinch—fall to the floor with a metallic clang. With his hands free, soaked, he lifts them up, offering his palms to you.

It's not a peace offering, but he's seen what untamed cats can do when cornered. And while you're no match for his unfathomable physicality, he'd rather you didn't hurt yourself trying to maim him.

Still—

Mine, mine, mine flashes, lightspeed, across his visor. He gives you a moment to let the words, the meaning sink in.

—you’re his. With that ironclad notion comes the freedom to do whatever he wants.

Whenever he wants.

And then he moves.

The difference in your size is almost hideous. Grotesque. He towers above you—a looming mountain—and knows that it would take at least three of you side by side to even hope to match the width of him.

His hands, too, dwarf you.

It curls something noxious inside of his guts. A poison-soaked miasma that subsumes in his bloodstream, pulses in the base of his spine. A hunger. A heat. You're so small in comparison to him. So delicate. He could break you in two, shatter every bone in your body.

And there's not much you could ever hope to do to stop it.

He shudders at the thought, and knows he likes it more than he should.

Later, though. Soon. He wants your hands on his skin. Wants to see you come to terms with the vastitude of him, and watch as the realisation that you are well and truly his sinks in.

He reaches out, palms upward, and waits.

It doesn't take long.

(Well-trained, is the hiss. He ignores it, lest he claw his own skin off.)

You flick a scathing glare in his direction first, caustic and hateful, but you bend to his whims without a word. You touch him hesitantly, running the soft pads of your fingers over the metal of his hand, feeling the bumps. The groves in his circuitry.

Everyone so far has tried to chisel in his head. Galvanise him down into a mindless toy (HER makes a noise, he ignores it), but you seem to avoid his head. Touching the places on his arms not smeared with blood or gun oil, running down the thick wires in his artificial arm. The veins on his real one. The hair dusting his knuckles.

Then you spot the blood caked, dried and blackened, under his nails, and you recoil slightly. Pulling back. Dropping to his chest.

His breath whirs out in a deep tremble when you shiver at the muscles—hard iron, brass—that hums under your palms. It's tentative. Soft, almost. Exploratory as you navigate the newness of his body and this strange situation you've found yourself in.

There's a fractured look on your face that he can't quite place when you slide the cup of your hand over his beating heart.

(Surprise, maybe. You must have thought him a machine.)

You stay there for a moment, quiet. Pensive. Gaze inward as you mull something over, something he can't fathom, can't ascertain.

“You…” your voice comes out on a stilted breath after a brief silence. “You killed them all.”

It's not really a question. He grunts his affirmative, anyway, and reaches out to settle his hands on your hips. You jump when he touches you. Tense and angry in his arms, but you let him pull you in close. Are almost docile when he tucks his chin against your crown, lets his hands slide to the small of your back.

You make no move to pull away. He lets that notion marinate in the back of his head, bending reality to suit his whims when he decides that you must not want to. He hugs you tighter, nuzzling the top of your head when you shudder.

He's not sure where you're going with this particular line of thought. Doesn't, entirely, see why it matters much. Everyone is dead except him, you. The only two breathing in this disgusting bordello that reeks of thick, spicy incense and myrrh to hide the scent of sweat, stale cigarettes, and sex. Something plastic. Synthetic. Lubricant, he imagines. Latex.

Knowing that you spent an insurmountable time in this cesspool has anger spiking inside of him once more, but it's quelled, immediately, when remembers what the other men who lurked in these dilapidated corners look like now. Viscera, tissue, and bones are now all painting the cheap panelled walls in a deep maroon splatter.

(He'll burn it all down before he leaves tomorrow.)

He keeps you close, shackled. A parody of a lover's embrace.

Your hand drifts up, a slow crawl to the base of his neck. Puppy lifts his chin. The bright red question mark shading the room in an ethereal neon glow.

“You killed them,” you repeat, knuckles grazing the over-sensitive skin where his mask melds to flesh. “But you didn't kill me. Why?”

He feels the press against his jugular. A soft ache in his throat. It doesn't hurt, but he knows you want it to.

Puppy's puppy has fangs.

Puppy reaches up, snatching your wrist in his mechanical hand. Feels, instantly, the grind of delicate bone under harsh, unyielding metal.

You don't flinch.

“Why?”

Under the harsh edges of your anger, your feigned indifference, he catches sight of the look that drew him to you in the first place. Absolute despondency. A vacancy in the hollow of your eyes. Misery, maybe.

If he were someone else, he might have felt pity for you. Ripped from the arms of whatever birthed you into existence, thrown into this disgusting hovel, and now—

A pet for a pet.

Kept. Chained.

Puppy will keep you forever. He knows this just as sure as he knows his heart pulses in his chest. The sun rises. Falls. He'll take you with him, wherever he goes.

You're his.

A fine consolation prize you've found for yourself, HER quips, and he's content to ignore it for now. Their amusement is clinical, a kittenish scratch in the back of his head.

But he does agree. You're a fine prize, aren't you? His little treasure found in a trash heap.

His, his, his

all his, all his, all his—

(You look at the promises, the answers, flickering across the surface of his visor, and shudder—)

Puppy doesn't say anything when you lead him by the wrist to sit on your bed, simply opting to follow along with your demands for now. It's cute, he finds, the way you try to bully him around even when your hands shake, knees tremble.

He rests his forearms on his thighs, letting his hands dangle in the space between his spread knees—the picture of ease; the manufactured torpor of predator—and he waits. Watching, rapturously, as you flit in front of him. All soft and pensive as you look him over. Taking stock of the blood on his leather jacket. The stains on his pants. The flat surface of his mask, broken only by the protrusion of his nose.

Boss was a megalomaniac. A narcissist. Knowing that he's made in his image, his likeness (spare parts; a fractured failsafe), he can only assume you like what you see when you look at these scraps that make him whole.

Whatever you find, it shades the appraising glance in a hue of calculative decision—suddenly firm, now: wily.

“Okay,” you say, and bring your hands to the sash holding the sheer kimono in place. “I'll be yours—” his hands twitch; reaching for you already. You dance out of the way from his grasping knuckles with a scoff. “Only if you're mine, too.”

If he had a mouth, he might have grinned.

You seem content to take the lead after a noncommittal response to your demand of shared ownership (the idea alone of which has him thickening in his slacks), placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself before swinging your thigh over his lap, taking (what he hopes becomes) your rightful seat.

It places your barely covered centre right against his prominent bulge, sending an electric buzz down the base of his spine. The look when you feel him throb against you is equally as scathing as it is feverish, and nearly comes undone at your glare alone, panting harshly against your collarbones.

“Down boy,” you murmur silkily before dropping your cunt right over him.

Whiteout. Static. He sees nothing but blurry slashes of red, red, red—

His hands are bruising on your waist, and he's not sure if he's pulling you closer to him or pushing him away. Maybe both. Tugging, tugging, until he can feel the red-hot heat of you burning through the fabric of his trousers.

You can't kiss him so you pepper sweet, soft kisses against the column of his throat, teeth nipping the seam where metal meets flesh. Marking the column of his pale throat up with the brand of your claim. Your ownership.

A collar in red, black, yellow, and blue—

He doesn't have a mouth to claim you back, but his hands punch your flesh until it's pressed harshly against bone. Bursting blood vessels under your skin. It puddles there. He runs his fingers against the pool of blood that softens your skin, and understands, then, why the sting in his neck feels so fucking good.

He feels consumed. In a tailspin. You grind against him, and he sees stars.

Puppy can't think when you do that, and you seem to know this because you don't stop rolling your hips over his straining cock, pinched tight in his slacks. It's too much.

He wants you. Wants you. Wants you.

You pull back, and huff at the projection on his face.

“You're impatient,” you say, but you're slipping your hand inside the waistband of his pants in spite of your exasperation, fingers dancing over the soft skin of his groin.

It feels molten when you touch the base of his cock with your knuckle. Just a nudge. Just a press. He thinks he could come undone like this. Just like this. With your hands on him. Soft, dewy skin.

But he wants you pinned under him, taking him. Has thought about nothing except your knees spread, thighs open. Pussy bare to him. Full of him. Nothing but him. Him, him. It made him ache. Burn. A low grade fever in his guts at the enticing image of you beneath him. Pretty lips open, moaning. Eyes wide, doeish.

“You’re too—”

You start to say something, but he can't take this anymore. It's too soft. Too gentle. He wants you bent over. Wants to be inside of you already.

And so, he follows through.

You make a noise in the back of your throat when he gets his hands on the underside of your knees, and unceremoniously tips you back onto the velveteen sheets. The flimsy silk of your kimono spreads, unveiling the softness of your body. Your bare breasts, nipples pebbling under his stare.

With it haloed around you in an inky black spill over your arms, leaking from beneath your body, he thinks you look ethereal. Unreal. Otherworldly.

The slip covering your pussy is barely in the way. He can see dewy lips peeking out from the sliver of black nestled across your slit, wet and red. Red. Red—

“P–Puppy—!” You yelp when he tugs his trousers down with one hand, the other keeping your leg up, pinched tight on the underside of your knee. Spread open. Nearly bare.

He presses the heel of your foot where his neck meets shoulder, keeping it in place with a soft pat to your calf, before dropping his hand down to join the other in ripping the thin scrap of fabric keeping you from him. He's graced with another yelp, but it isn't in pain or distress, and he ignores it outright.

Mindless, it seems, in this pursuit to be inside of you as quickly as possible.

Your panties—if they could even be considered such a thing—are pushed deep into his back pocket. Saved for later.

And then he turns back to you. Spread open. Waiting and willing under him. The sight of you like this steals his breath from his lungs. Sparks embers in his guts that smoulder, billowing smoke through the hollow of his chest.

He tastes ash in the back of his throat. Wishes, suddenly, that he could quench it on the slick, hot taste of you—

Gripping himself in one hand, he presses the blunt head of his cock against your slit, glistening from your wetness in the jaundiced glow of the moody light above your head. He's glad he didn't cut the power to this shithole because the way you quiver beneath him as he rubs between your folds is nothing short of mesmerising.

You're wet. Soaked. All for him, even if you keep hissing out that this is just a bodily reaction to stimulus, don't be so full of yourself, you psychopath—

His hand drops. The flat side of his thumb pressed against your clit. You arch so prettily when he touches you like this, knees shaking, eyes fluttering. He presses harder, makes small circles against your sensitive flesh that have you whimpering. Whining.

“No more, no more, no more—”

He can feel the molten centre of you flutter around his weeping tip. Silken, inviting. He wants more. Knows that you want it just as bad, too.

Impatient now, he lifts his fingers from your clit, and wraps it tight around your thigh, gaining leverage before he slowly, agonizingly, begins to presses inside—just the tip, the first inch—but the way you wrap around him (all tight, wet silk) makes his mind grow fuzzy around the edges. Electricity rockets down his spine.

He thinks he blacks out for a second, short-circuiting at the white-hot pleasure of being inside of you, because when his eyes focus, he's pushed all the way inside, trembling above you.

You're whining his name with tears dripping down your temples, legs quivering around him, and he wonders if this is that version of heaven, the real one, he'd read about once.

It's too much. Not enough. He rolls back on his hunches to see the way you swallow him down to the base. Pulled taut, and far too pretty for what he's doing to you. Poor, pitiful thing. He'll ruin you, he's sure. Mess you up so badly, no one else would ever be able to touch you without thinking of him. Only him.

It's a thought that sends a thrill down his spine, and he rolls his hips just to watch you squirm. Builds up a sickeningly sweet momentum as he forces your body to acclimate to his girth, to the unyielding stretch of his cock. You're too tight around him, and he worries that the taut stretch might be too much for you, but it's passing. Temporal. He knows he doesn't really care. You'll take it all. All of him.

Nothing will tear him away from this pretty cunt of yours.

It flicks against a long dormant part inside of his hindbrain, and he pants for it. Chasing this feeling, this high.

The slow crawl within you isn't enough to satiate himself. His belly rumbles. His throat burns.

Puppy gives you no warning before he snaps his hips into you as hard as he can.

Your wet cries start the beginning notes of his new ascension, and he pounds into you harder. Faster. He fucks you like he's starved for it. Aching. Desperate. Belatedly, he thinks about your pleasure, about bringing you to the same highs the tight clutch of your pussy is bringing him, but he can't focus. Can't think. It's mindless, this lust. Turns him inside out and makes him greedy. Selfish.

He wants, wants—

Never, in all of his insignificant life, has he ever wanted something as much as this. As you. Pressed beneath him, mewling out his name as he forces himself inside of you, as deep as he can reach—

(and then deeper still because Puppy wants to crawl inside of you; want to nestle against your heart, tucked under the bracket of your ribs and with the way he fucks into you like this, bed whining in protest with each furious, sloppy snap of his hips, he just might make that dream a reality—)

—and fuck. Fuck.

Somewhere in the tangled web of his thoughts, all white-noise, static pleasure, he can hear HER utter things in secret under the heavy pants of his ragged breath (things like, you deserve this, Puppy; good boy, Puppy; treat your toy—kindly—Puppy), and it spurns him on. Makes him ache to drive those mechanised whispers out of his head, filling the space they leave behind with the sweet echo of your voice in ear.

Scream. For. Me flashes across the visor in bloody red, and he sees when it registers in your glossy, wet-eyed stare. Cuts through the haze of sex, the lashings of fear that still curl in the shaded valleys when you look at him, and digs its talons into tissue, bisecting the chemical slurry turning your thoughts to mush. There's a moment of clarity. Brief, ephemeral, because he's pressing in as deep as he can once more, grinding against some spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, and your head drop.

Name

It flashes again, and finally—

Your pretty mouth drops open, spittle running down the corners as you struggle to keep up with his frantic, feverish pace, but nothing comes out—nothing he wants to hear, at least. Please, you beg, and he feels the plea like a punch to his gut.

You're so pretty when you beg.

But that's not what he wants.

Bad girl

It comes as a warbling flicker. Distorted in his anger.

You shudder under him, eyes widening when he drops his hands down to your throat, palm swallowing you whole from chin to sternum. For him, it's as gentle as he could be, but you gasp for breath, tears pebbling in the corner of your eyes. Hazy, murky, with fear and pleasure; the warring sensations separated only a hairline fracture, a thin sliver.

He shifts forward and has you take on more of his weight, stifling more air from your lungs, and making you feel the power flex of his massive body cocooning you entirely. No escape.

Your hands unfurl from the white-knuckled grip on the sheets, slamming against his shoulders as you try, futilely, to push him away. You're frenzied. Desperate.

Puppy finds it endlessly charming.

His hand lifts, offering a slight respite that you seize eagerly, greedily, gulping down wet, feverish lungfuls of air.

“Y–you bastard—”

He likes it when you cuss at him. A feral, hissing cat. He falls over you once more, shadowing you under his bulk, and pistons his hips into the apex of your thighs, feeling the slickness of your cunt drench his groin.

Angry, spitting thing. And yet—

You're so fucking wet for him.

You like this. The way he bends you mercilessly to his whims. Folds you in half.

His hand stays around your throat, feeling each breath and moan that reverberates up his arm. The other drops from your knee, falling to the black, iron headboard that grinds into the wall with each thrust. Centering himself. Gaining more leverage.

Puppy fucks you like this. Trapped beneath him—a tumulus over you—and unable to do much except take his cock however he decides to give it to you. And give it to you, he does—

(Mercilessly. Pounding you so hard, your breasts jerk, and your eyes flash vividly as you struggle to stay afloat in that equinox of pleasure-pain that rages over you.)

HER says he doesn't have a face, and maybe that's true. It might just be a flat mess of wires sutured to flesh. But

Puppy wants to devour you. Swallow you whole. Wants to taste the sweetness of your cunt on his tongue. Feel your lips on his. He wants to pry apart your chest and suckle from the marrow in your ribs.

He wants you.

Wants you. Wants you—

He's not entirely sure if he's human, but he breathes like you. Heaves. Gasps. Can feel the wet, molten clench of your pussy around the thickness of his cock as he spears you open. Pleasure blooms at the base of his spine. Punches through his groin. Bludgeons him. It makes his head feel heavy, fuzzy. Somnolent with the mindless drive ticking in the back that pushes him forward. Makes him want to imbue himself in whatever it was that made you. A pithy god of old. Stardust.

He wants to remake himself in your image. Spare parts just for you—

How romantic, Puppy.

“Fuck—!”

Your voice is saccharine in his ear. A velvet gust of smoke curls in the back of his head.

With his hand around your throat, he feels the words before he hears them. It sends a thrill down his spine—dancing fingers pressing tight to each vertebra as it splits open the ventricles housing his spinal fluid, letting it all leak out into his bloodstream.

It's ecstasy, maybe. Or the closest thing to it he could ever reach.

“What are you doing to me?” You slur the words out against his metal cheek, hushed and fractured. Raw. “It feels so—good—oh, Puppy—!”

He shifts his pelvis into the bracket of your thighs. The head of his cock rubbing over that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back, and your cunt squeeze him tight. A pretty box wrapped, velveteen, around him.

There's friction in the pit of his stomach. Tension in his groin. It pulls taut, feels heavy.

He's close. So, so close—

You seem to realise this, too, your eyes growing wide once more as he twitches inside of you, pressed deep. Cockhead nudging into your seal.

“No, no—”

Despite your protests, your body is tightening up, quivering under him.

He takes it as an invitation.

Puppy's hips stutter to a slow grind as he hits the apex of his pleasure, cock throbbing, spitting his release, deep inside of you.

Around him, beneath him, you tremble. Shake. He can feel the tremors of your own hastily reached climax when you squeeze his cock tight in a vice, undulating pulses that seem to rocket from the sensitive nerve endings around him all the way to his brainstem.

It's good. Too good.

He doesn't have any other ambition right now outside of burying himself inside of you over and over again.

He wonders how deep his spare parts go for a belated second, how much of himself was forged in Boss’ likeness, but dismisses it immediately. It's unimportant to him.

“You're awful,” you gasp sweetly in his ear. “Terrible. A terrible man—” And fuck. He wants to ruin you again.

Puppy pulls you close, pawing at you until you're situated in his arms. Manoeuvred around like a little doll. He finds you precious, really. So malleable. So soft. He presses you flat to the lumpy mattress and folds himself over you. Thick thigh strewn over your hip, pinning you down. An arm tucked under your nape, bent at the elbow to curl over your shoulder, fingers brushing your collarbones. Shackled.

This is new. Foreign. He's never felt this before—all soft edges; sickeningly sweet. Unable to help himself, he bears his weight down, arching above you. Staring, openly and unabashedly. Drinking you in.

He wants to crawl inside of you. Worm his way to the place where you burn.

You're stiff in his arms. Silent.

But that's fine. That's okay. He'll melt you eventually. Make you understand that Puppy is yours now, silly. All yours. And you're—

All his.

Just like you wanted.

He owns you. And in turn, is owned by you.

It's fitting, he finds, considering all his miserable existence was spent handing his leash off to whoever grabbed it quick enough. Their hands were rough. Indelicate. He takes your hand in his, knuckles bleached white from the quivering fist you've rolled them into, and pries your fingers loose. Threads his between the gaps before you can swat him away.

He can feel your pulse like this, pressed palm to palm. A precious little thing. So fleeting. A hummingbird in an ivory cage.

Poor thing.

“What—what are you going to do?” You rasp, voice hoarse from the grip he had on your neck. The sound of it—gritty sand, smoke—makes him shiver. He likes it, he finds. Wonders if you'll sound the same if he scraped your throat raw with the tips of his fingers.

His cock.

You huff when you feel him twitch against your hipbone—cock tacky from his cum, your wet cunt—but make no move to pull away.

He purrs.

Keep you, is projected and you suck in a sharp breath like you'd expected that. Then, he adds a heart. A red one. Mine.

“I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's—” he doesn't bother correcting you. You'll learn soon enough. “And you don't even know me. Why do you even want this? I could be a liability. I could kill you in your sleep—”

Could, not should, he notes, fondly.

Hahahaha passes by and you let out an aggrieved snarl at the sight. “You're so fucking horrible—!”

He nods in response, and presses the jut of his nose to your sweat-slicked hairline. Breathes you in. Amber. Humus. Loam. You smell like ozone. The streets after a heavy rainstorm.

You smell good. Like home.

“Do you even like me? Or am I just something to fuck?” is whispered so softly into the air that he might have missed it if he hadn't been trying to suffuse atoms.

He hears the fragility in your voice. The paper-thin foundation holding you aloft.

In all honesty, he doesn't know what he feels for you. It's all—

Abstract, perhaps. Grainy smears of feelings, sensation, all roiled around inside of him. Intangible.

He just knows he wants you. Has wanted you since he first saw you, sitting all pretty in a glass cage. Untouchable to anyone except the highest bidder in your upcoming auction.

(Spare parts. A pretty bird in a cage.)

What a pair you make.

He likes that, though. The way you fill this barren hole in his chest. Pilliating the listlessness that rolls like a marble inside of him. In turn, he wants to do the same. To stuff you full of him. So full, there's room for nothing else. No one else.

There are flickers of life buried deep within you that he longs to dredge up. He thinks you'd be beautiful with your hands wrapped around his pipe (disgusting, Puppy), and that, for him, is enough.

He's sure one day you'll feel the same.

Until then—

His fingers tighten around yours and you wince at the pressure before gasping when the metal gears in his joints begin locking in place. Stiffening. Shackled to him, now, until he decides to release you.

Goodnight flashes. He sees the words reflected in the glossy canyons of your eyes. Smeared red bleeding into the dawning realisation that you are his.

And no one else's.

There's no escape.

#Puppy (Ruiner) x Reader #Puppy x Reader #ruiner #huuuuu #imagine staying up all night writing unhinged smut for puppy from ruiner after seeing one gifset lmao #and doing it while the wips i've promised to finish weep from neglect in the background #am so tired and this is so so niche but i need to flex my smut skills for some upcoming fics and this was the best time to do it me thinks

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roosterbruiser · 1 year

Text

𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐞

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐀𝐊𝐀 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"Wait, don't--!"

His hips stutter as he throbs inside of you, anchoring you against his slick body with a painfully muscular arm. He hears you over the sound of the rushing water, over the blood rushing through his ears, over his ragged breathing.

And really, Jake isn't an asshole. Not in the ways that count, at least--especially with the women he has sex with.

So he does try to pull out as soon as he realizes that's what you mean by your unfinished sentence, the one that was strangled through your grit teeth. But the thing about that is you didn't give him much notice--granted, he shouldn't have assumed you were on birth control--and he was genuinely already partway through spilling inside you when he registered your words.

"Shit," he sighs, reeling at your sudden loss of contact.

You're pressed up against the wall still, breasts against the steamy tiles, and you're panting too.

"Shit, I'm really sorry," he apologizes, shaking his head. "I just didn't even realize what you said and by the time it registered, I--!"

You shake your head, sighing.

"Hey, it's fine," you tell him, really meaning it. "This is why God made morning-after pills."

It makes him laugh--it's a dry thing, one that is riddled with exhaustion. He's spent honestly--going from pulling 7G's to fucking you so furiously in the shower had proven to be a lot on his body.

You want to make a joke about child support or something, something dumb and inappropriate to say to a man that just accidentally came inside you the first time you had sex. But you don't say anything--you just catch your breath and so does he. It's quiet aside from the running shower and your heaving chests.

Jake leans forward and lets his body rest over yours, forehead resting against your shoulder. He's very warm--which you know is not just because of the lukewarm water raining down over the two of you. He's always warm--hot-blooded. And Jake thinks you feel very soft beneath him; he thinks that he might even like the way your skin feels pressed against his. And you both are just being still, resting in each other's arms. It's probably one of the only times the two of you have ever been in another's presence without arguing.

Before Jake even really knows what he's doing, still in that post-orgasm haze and enthralled in the absolute strangeness of just having fucked you, he presses his lips against your shoulder. At first he just kisses very softly, little things he peppers all along your naked shoulders and neck. And you don't tense at the feeling--for some reason, with your cheek agains the tile and your hair slung over your other shoulder, you're totally okay with him kissing your skin. And then he just lets his lips rest, stilling right there on the back of your neck.

And in almost total tandem, the both of you think it: this is kind of nice.

"You okay?" He asks suddenly, shooting up when he realizes that he's been kissing your skin.

You nod, eyes slipping shut.

"I think so," you whisper.

Things are different after that.

At first it's small things.

Like when Jake meets you at the pharmacy after the two of you leave base (at separate times, of course), he not only buys you Plan B but a protein bar and Gatorade, too.

"Post-coitus protein," he tells you when you look up at him with raised eyebrows.

He sits in your car as you take the pill, fiddling with your radio, looking at the interior you keep so clean. You have a strawberry air freshener in there that smells like his sisters childhood bedroom--he likes it. It's a nice evening so the windows are rolled down and the sun is setting in a blaze of orange and pink in the distance as the blinking, neon PHARMACY sign casts a red light over your face.

"Easy-peasy," you whisper, stuffing the box back in the grocery bag.

He nods, smiling softly, leaning back in your passenger seat. You're leaning back, too, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel. Your hair is still wet and the warm wind feels good when it filters through it.

"Wanna talk about it?" Jake asks.

It very nearly startles you when he says it. But when you look over at him, he's still fiddling endlessly with the radio and fixing his gaze everywhere but you.

"The sex? Or the...Plan B?"

He pulls his brows together, finally glancing up at you as a Joni Mitchell song floats through the radio. You look very soft right now--your face is naked and your damp hair is pulled back. You don't look angry at him for once and your face is open.

"Your dad," he says after a moment, swallowing hard.

It's vulnerable, really, for both of you. Jake is sitting in your car after fucking you, after buying you a protein bar and a Plan B, after splitting a lemon-lime gatorade with you, and A Case Of You is playing as he looks into your glassy eyes. And you had a breakdown--finally cracked and told someone about your father and the little time you have left with him. Then he made you cum and fucked you against the shower wall and now you're here--basking quietly in the glow of the pharmacy sign.

It's confusing, too, because up until about two hours ago, Jake Seresin was just about your least favorite person on earth. But now you think that he looks downright pretty when he's being earnest the way he is right now. And he thinks that you look beautiful, too, even with that drop of Gatorade on your bottom lip.

"Not right now," you say quietly, shaking your head.

Three hours ago, if he'd have asked, you'd have snarled at him. You probably would've hissed, "Not to you, dickhead." But things are different now. You both know it.

He's not hurt that you don't want to talk about it. He gets it--really, he does.

"Yeah, I get that," Jake says softly, trying to remain casual even though there's a strange sense of affection for your capturing every vital organs in his body. "I'm here if you...want to."

You nod, biting your thumbnail.

"Thanks," you whisper.

"And I guess, um, like for the record..." Jake says softly, scratching the back of his neck just to have something to do with his hands, "I don't think you're a bitch."

Something jolts inside of you, climbs up your chest and sits thickly in your throat. It feels strangely close to affection.

"Thank you," you whisper, biting your lip. "I don't think you're that big of a dick."

And then you're both laughing--it's the first time you two have ever really shared a laugh together. He's always heard your laugh from the other side of the room, in some conversation that he isn't a part of. Being so close to it now makes his fingers feel warm.

"I am a dick, huh?" He sighs, still smiling.

You shrug.

"You can be," you say, sighing. "But at least now I know you let ladies finish first."

He snorts softly.

"I'm a dick, not a monster."

Then you two are sharing your second laugh together. It fills your little car and nestles in snugly against your strawberry air freshener and Plan-B trash.

"Well, I've known plenty of monsters," you sigh, rolling your eyes at the mere thought of ex-boyfriend's and their ineffective fingers and short strokes.

"You're giving me a big head," Jake teases.

You smile--it's a real, genuine smile. The stretch of it on your lips feels unfamiliar. It's been a great while since you've smiled, you realize.

"I can deflate that ego anytime," you tell him, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Just give me the go-ahead when you're ready."

He takes a swig of your Gatorade. You watch him, watch his pink lips wrap around the rim, watch his throat swell as he swallows. He looks beautiful right now--partly in the afterglow and partly just because he is beautiful. That is undeniable now.

Then he offers the bottle to you--you take a drink, too.

"You like lemon-lime, right?" He asks.

He's asking fruitlessly--he knows you do. He's seen you buy it at the base vending machine more than once.

You nod. Of course you do. But he already knows that.

Another thing that changes is that he saves a seat for you. It starts the very next morning the two of you are on base together.

To the untrained eye, it would seem like nothing. But your eye isn't untrained. When you walk into the training room on Monday morning, Jake is sitting at the desk with his feet firmly planted on the floor, not in the seat beside him like they usually are. And when you slip in beside him silently, the way he was hoping you would, he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

"Mornin'," he greets quietly, chewing on a tooth pick.

You smile softly as you unpack your bag, nodding at him in greeting.

"Good morning."

He taps his knuckles on the table, trying to keep his voice steady.

"How was your weekend?" He asks.

You shrug.

"Fine. Lots of family coming in and out so...loud, I guess," you breathe. "How was yours?"

Something in his throat feels tight that you're just mentioning this fact in passing. He knows that your family is filtering in and out of your home because your father is dying--that this time must be very precious for you and yours and you're still coming into work every single day like nothing is wrong. But you're telling him this now, the only person on this base that knows about your ailing father, and it feels like you trust him. And you suppose that you accidentally kind of do trust him now--a little bit more than you did on Friday at 1 o'clock.

"Just great," he sighs.

Truth be told, he had thought of you all weekend. He was confused about the whole thing, since the two of you were sworn enemies but have now found yourselves in the no-man's-land between enemies and friends and lovers.

The next morning, the seat beside him is open again. And this time, there's a lemon-lime Gatorade waiting for you there like it's marking your spot.

And after that, it just keeps happening. Each morning, Jake somehow gets on base before you, buys a Gatorade, and leaves it at your seat. You wonder if he's spending a fortune in quarters and for about a month, he is--until he thinks better of it and just buys a pack of lemon-lime in bulk and starts bringing them from home.

Other members of the squadron notice that the two of you have seemingly formed some sort of truce, but no one is brave enough to outright ask what's happened between the two of you. Payback and Rooster sniff around wherever they can, trying to snuff out who the winner of their bet is, but you and Jake remain mum.

The next time you have sex, it's less of a surprise.

It's almost two months later--two months full of everyone dancing around the fact that your father is dying, two months of your family's door being a revolving one, two months of the stress of your recent detachment--when it all reaches a head.

You need a release and despite your better judgment a few weeks ago, you'd given Jake your phone number. Your text messages started our sporadic and random--sometimes just sending each other gossip you heard in the hangar or memes that made you think of the other. But then they'd evolved into something more constant than that recently--the two of you even catching a movie or a late dinner here or there.

So when you showed up at his door past midnight on a Saturday, almost two months since your shower encounter, he wasn't all that surprised to see you. It wasn't very odd to see each other off base now.

But what surprised him is how quickly you kissed him, walking over the threshold of his front door hastily. And he's kissing you back right away, blinking away his chock and his previous fatigue. You're ferocious in your kisses, all tongue and teeth and spit, and he's trying to keep up with you.

"Hi," he mumbles into your mouth, his voice deliciously gravelly.

"Hey," you whisper back, pulling back for a moment to behold him.

He looks good right now--scruffy and comfortable with his beard and his sweatpants low on his hips and his old band t-shirt. He's had a couple of beers and his lips taste like Stella Artois and peanuts. Before you came over, he was sitting on his couch, watching some highlight reel of a football game and putting off getting ready for bed.

And he's looking right back at you, at your pupils that are blown and your cheeks that are flushed. You are desperate for him like you were the first time the two of you touched, but it's different now. It's different because the two of you don't loathe each other--there's actually something between the two of you that resembles a friendship.

"Everything okay?" He asks quietly, his hands firmly planted on your hips as you press yourself into him and lace your fingers in his hair.

"No," you tell him honestly, biting your lip.

He wants to press you more--wants you to tell him what's wrong. He wants you to let it all out and he actually wants to listen to it because the two of you are suddenly people that care about each other. He cares about your Aunt Lisa and her bitchy comments that she makes to your mom and the way it hurts your feelings, too. He cares about your dad starting hospice last week. He cares about you skipping lunch most days--which has prompted him to start packing you bags of apples and walnuts and cheese--and he cares that you don't like red wine at all.

And you can feel that care--really, you can. Whoever the Jake was before you had sex is not the Jake that's looking into your eyes now with his brows blanched in sympathy. This Jake that's holding you genuinely wants you to be okay--this Jake hasn't tried anything sexual with you since your first encounter but is kissing you back right away.

Despite yourself and your efforts, you care about him, too. You care that he was grounded for two weeks--enough for you to have your dad talk to Cyclone and get the penalty dropped. You care that he doesn't usually get invited to group hangouts outside of The Hard Deck and have deemed yourself the official Hangman-inviter. You care that he likes rom-coms but doesn't like to admit it--so you pretend to suggest them all on your own.

"What can I do?" Jake asks, tenderly reaching up to swipe his knuckles across your cheek.

You lean into his touch, lean into his calloused fingers, and let your eyes fall shut softly.

"Fuck me," you whisper.

He nods, brows furrowed.

"I can do that," he whispers to you.

And all at once, things are happening. He's bracing his forearms beneath your ass and you're wrapping your legs around his hips. You're kissing and panting, tugging at the hems of each others shirts and leaving a trail of discarded clothing on the stairs as he carries you to his bedroom. And then he's laying you down on the bed, tugging your pants off without breaking your kiss, swallowing every precious noise that your mouth makes. He loves those sounds, loves the way they feel on his lips.

Then, after a few more minutes of kissing and petting and shedding, you're both naked.

You're lying flat on your back in his dark bedroom against his cold sheets, your eyes bleary with pleasure as he stands over you. He's naked except for the silver chain on his neck, his cock pressing thickly against his thigh. You're both flushed all over, both silently letting your eyes graze over each other's bodies.

Without another word, he reaches for you. He's careful with you as he first sinks his fingers down on your cunt--very carefully grazing your lips and gathering the wetness that has grown there. And he's just gazing down at you, treasuring that little crinkle between your brows and that twitch in the meat of your thighs. And when his fingers slip over your clit, he keens at the way your chest rises off the bed, at the way you inhale your breaths so sharply.

It feels good--like overwhelmingly good. He knows how to touch you, he knows where to touch you. All of his movements are seemingly perfectly calculated, one finger rubbing lazy circles on your clit while the other pushes into you. He's gentle, pumping at the pace you desire, bringing his other hand to his own cock to relinquish some of the tension that has risen there.

There's no haste. You two still very obviously want each other, you two are still very obviously desperate for each other, but you're not in the locker-room on base anymore. You're here in Jake's dark bedroom and he's savoring every moment that his fingers are buried in you.

"Jake," you whisper, clenching his sheets.

"I know, baby," he coos softly, squaring his jaw as he picks up his pace just slightly, "I know. I'll get you there."

His words alone are making you quake, making your toes curl. But everything he's doing just feels so good, so perfect. You know you must be absolutely slick with anticipation, that his fingers are more than enough to push you over the edge. He knows this, too--which is why he stops suddenly.

"What--?" You pant, sitting up on your elbows.

But Jake is just pressing his fingers against your mouth, the ones that had just been inside of you. And you're taking them without hesitation, a mutual sense of trust aiding in your malleability.

His eyes are dark as he watches you suck his fingers clean of your arousal, as you swirl your tongue along his fingertips. But they're not dark in a way that frightens you--they're lustful and adoring.

So when he lowers to his knees, when he hooks your knees over his shoulders and scoots you to the end of the bed, you don't shy away from him. You lay back on the bed, kiss each of his fingers and let them settle against your right nipple, and blink up at his ceiling.

When his tongue first circles your clit, you cry out, back arching off the bed. And because his hand is already there, he lets his palm lie flat in the middle of your chest, and pushes you back down against the mattress.

You taste just like he thought you would, very sweet and earthy on his tongue, and he can't think of any other place that he would rather be than hear between your quivering legs. He lets his tongue run across your slick folds and settle comfortably on your silky clit, lapping at it languidly as you writhe above him.

"Jake, that's so good," you manage to whimper, gasping as he hums against you.

"Want you to cum," he mumbles against you. "Cum for me, Wisty."

You're mewling, grasping for anything to hold you down to the bed as an impossibly tight coil springs in your belly. You can hardly catch your breath, can hardly keep your hips from bucking, when he reaches out to take your hands. It's a simple gesture, one that anyone in the world could do, but you are grateful for it. You dig your nails in his skin and he just holds you right back.

Maybe it's the sheer intimacy of it all that pushes you over the edge finally--or maybe it's because Jake is just that damn good with his tongue--but you nearly black out when you cum.

And because he cares about you, because he really does want you to feel good and be good, he coaxes you through it all. He holds your hands tight, keeps a flat palm to your chest so you don't come completely off the bed, laps up every bit of your nectar without overstimulating you.

And then he kisses his way up your legs, over your precious thighs and hips, all up your belly and between your breasts. Then he kisses up the column of your throat, nipping very lightly, bringing his hands to softly knead your breasts.

When his face finally hovers yours, when you're blinking up at him with bleary and glassy eyes and wet eyelashes and bitten lips, he feels like he's going to blurt something out that he might regret any other time.

"That was...nice," you whisper, voice trembling.

Truthfully, that was the best orgasm you've ever had.

"Nice, huh?" He laughs that pretty laugh, carefully pressing your hair behind your ears and letting his hand linger against your cheek.

"Didn't want you to get a big head," you meekly answer, smiling weakly.

The smile that tugs on his lips is one of utter fondness--one that usually prefaces sweet nothings. So you lean up and press your mouth on his, your lashes fluttering shut in tandem. The kiss is slow and sweet, very different than the clashing of tongue and teeth downstairs.

He slowly lowers his bare body on top of yours, pressing every surface of his skin against you, letting his cock rest against your hip. It feels good just to be this close to each other, just to be kissing each other with such sweetness.

"I really like you," Jake murmurs against your mouth.

And even if he's had a couple of beers, he knows that's not why he says it. He says it because he means it, because his cock is pressing against you, because he can still taste you on his tongue.

You thought your head would be spinning in this post-orgasm euphoria, but it's not. You feel everything is crystal clear as you rest your forehead against Jake's, as you swipe your thumbs cross his cheek softly. Affection is sitting very heavy on your body now, similar in weight to Jake.

"I really like you, too," you whisper.

You two have the good sense to use a condom this time, which hardly interrupts the flow of things, not when your blood is running so hot for each other.

He hovers you, relishing in the feeling of your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, relishing in your skin beneath his palms and your half-lidded eyes looking up into his. He's lined himself up perfectly, desperate to feel your warm walls around him, but then he pauses and stills--just like last time.

He reaches down, less hesitant than he was before, and lets his hand rest on your cheek. If you were another girl, one he didn't know very well, maybe he'd press his thumb into your mouth and have you suckle as he fucked you. But he merely strokes the soft skin of your cheek. And then you turn just slightly, just enough to press your lips against the pad of his thumb in the most tender kiss he's ever been given.

"You want this?" He asks, his voice strained.

You nod, leaning into his touch. Jake feels like no one has ever trusted him enough to lean into the palm of his hand like this--it feels good. It feels really, really good.

"Yes," you whisper quietly. "I want you."

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦

that gif is my entire note. that's all. I'm deceased. goodbye now, world.

here is my tag list!!

also would the world want another part of this?? maybe when iceman...dies...or something angsty like that?

1K notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months

Text

Napoleonville [Chapter 9: Clarence House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, Adventures with Aegon (ft. Sunfyre the Ferret), Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, and no more hints for you, start reading!!!

Word Count: 8.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥰🧁

He returns in an afternoon of inescapable golden sunlight, hot and muggy, bumble bees and ladybugs wheeling lazily above tall grass, cumulus clouds like tufts of cotton in a sky the color of Aemond’s eye. You hear him talking to Cadi—she’s out in the front yard making mud pies, earth for sugar and sprinkles of stray pelican feathers—and then the weight of his footsteps on the sinking, sloping porch. He opens the door, never locked, and walks through the living room into the kitchen. From behind, his arms circle around your waist; and you’ve missed him so much—dreaming of waves and storms, chains and blood—that you have nothing for him but softness, gentle smiles and a voice hushed with relief.

“How was Norway?” you ask as you roll out dough on the counter. You’re making a buttermilk pie.

“Fine,” Aemond says, resting his chin on your shoulder. But he sounds tired, low.

You turn around to look at him, raising your fingertips to his unscarred right cheek; he won’t tolerate you touching the left. You leave a dusting of flour across his skin like snow, which you have never seen in person and likely never will. The air conditioner is humming. The little pink Panasonic boombox is playing Africa by Toto. “Did something happen?”

“I just missed you.” Then he brightens. “But I was greeted by some very welcome news when I got back to the house this morning.” He’s wearing his neon teal duffle bag. He drops it to the floor and unzips it; inside you glimpse several Nintendo game cartridges, presumably for Cadi. And you think: I’m always here making things, he’s always bringing them from far away. Aemond takes two small dark blue booklets out of a pocket in the inner lining of the duffle bag and gives them to you. On the front of each is embossed in gold lettering, along with an emblem of a bald eagle: Passport, United States of America.

“…Aemond?!”

“There’s one for you and one for Cadi. I submitted the forms a month ago, but even with expedited processing it took this long. Ridiculous. What does the government do all day besides hunt down social programs to defund?”

“But…but…” You open one of the booklets. A photograph of your own face gazes back at you, serious and serene, taken against the white wall of your bedroom before you knew about Aemond being a Targaryen, or Christabel, or Amir’s exodus to San Franscisco, or the profound futility of everything, it seems. “How…?”

“I took the pictures, obviously. The rest was easy enough to find. You store birth certificates and social security cards the same place where you keep the business records that Amir showed me. Typically people have to go to a passport agency in person, but Criston and I have ways around that. Your signature might have been forged on the applications…but I suspect you won’t be filing any police reports.” Aemond grins, pleased with himself. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It’s definitely surprising.” You stare down at the passports, amazed. “Aemond…this is a lot. But you already know that.”

“The whole time I was gone, I was wishing you could be there too. And now I can take you anywhere.”

Your heart is pounding, helpless childlike exhilaration. “Where are we going?”

“Clarence House in London.”

London: it’s another world, a distant planet, a constellation whose name you don’t know, the lost city of Atlantis.“Clarence House? Is that a hotel?”

“It’s a royal residence,” Aemond says, amused. “It’s officially the home of the Queen Mother, but the whole family goes to Balmoral in Scotland every summer, and while they’re gone they often rent out one wing to guests, not just anyone, trusted people like distant cousins or longtime, aristocratic friends. And the Targaryens…”

“You’re marrying Christabel, and she’s nobility. So you’re basically nobility now too.”

“Yes,” Aemond admits, a little guiltily, perhaps. “But you’re the person I’m inviting.”

“And Cadi.”

Now he’s genuinely puzzled. “Of course. We couldn’t leave her behind.”

Maybe I can handle this. Maybe I can make this work.

And you climb onto your tiptoes to circle your arms around the back of his neck, embracing him, thanking him, thinking: Christabel will have his ring, his last name, his family’s mansion, his acquiescent kiss at the altar of the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens…but I have what he’s made of, dreams, soul, bones in the abyss of an ocean of blood. Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe.

~~~~~~~~~~

First class, cheerful stewardesses, an array of magazines purchased from a gift shop in New Orleans International Airport: the National Enquirer and Food & Wine for you, The Face and Smithsonian for Aemond, and National Geographic Kids and Zoobooks for Cadi. The Zoobooks animal this month is the eagle, how quintessentially American. You are served antipasto Italiano, shrimp cocktail, Perrier, and champagne (Cadi gets a Shirley Temple) over the Atlantic Ocean. Aemond shows you and Cadi how to chew gum to pop your ears as the pressure builds to pain. When there is turbulence and he leans in close to tell you everything is fine, Aemond smells like Wrigley’s Doublemint, cologne, Marlboro cigarettes like the logo on his red and white jacket. You press your palm to the cool window, and clouds float by through the gaps between your fingers. The world is older than anything you could fathom; the world is brand new.

There is a black limousine waiting outside Terminal 3 of Heathrow Airport. The driver gets out to load the sparse luggage: Aemond’s teal duffle bag, a frayed and battered rolling suitcase that you borrowed from your mother, a Super Mario Bros. backpack that you found for Cadi at Kmart. Aemond doesn’t have much time to spare, only 4 days, practically a long weekend; but it feels like an eternity stretches out in front of you as the limousine zooms through the narrow, winding streets of downtown London, Starship’s We Built This City piping from the radio. You have never had more than a few uninterrupted hours with Aemond before. Now you will have a hundred.

The London air is cool, grey, misty; fresh rainwater bleeds into puddles, dark pools of mirrorlike reflections. With the windows rolled down and clean slate-colored air unfurling in your lungs, Aemond points to the landmarks you pass: Gunnersbury Park, Chiswick House and its gardens, cathedrals, museums, shopping districts, centuries-old cemeteries, stations of the London Underground, the River Thames, Hyde Park, the Ritz Hotel, Buckingham Palace, Saint James’ Palace, and at last Clarence House. It is a boxy white four-story townhouse with columns at the entranceway that remind you of the Targaryens’ estate on the shore of Lake Verret, the beautiful yet temporary home they call The Last Desire.

Aemond says that the entire first floor will be yours for the duration of your stay. There is the Lancaster Room, red and gold, and the Morning Room of creams and weak watery blue. There is the Library, the Dining Room, and the vibrantly pink Horse Corridor named for its ample equine paintings and sculptures; Cadi immediately proclaims this to be the best part of the house. She lingers in the hallway examining the art pieces as you and Aemond proceed to the Garden Room, which looks out upon a sea of lavender and shrubs meticulously shaped into a maze no higher than your waist. It has a golden harp and a grand piano, and a vast bed large enough for at least five people, in your estimation. I wonder if Aemond has ever tried that, you think distractedly. I wonder if there are temptations I can’t satisfy for him.

“You and Cadi can have this room,” Aemond says. He keeps wincing and bringing his hand up to the left side of his face; you doubt he’s even aware of it. “I’ll sleep on one of the couches.” Of course he will; Cadi thinks you’re just friends, and she’s aware he’s getting married to someone else. He knew exactly what it would mean when he bought a passport for her. “Queen Elizabeth and her husband Philip lived here before she ascended to the throne. They loved it so much that at first they refused to move to Buckingham Palace, which is the traditional residence of the reigning monarch. But their insolence was worn down. No one gets to break the rules.”

I shouldn’t be in this place, you keep thinking as you gaze around at the portraits on the wall, the stiff unnatural photographs of royals, the vases, the chandeliers, the fireplaces, the plush intricate rugs, the garden on the other side of the windows. People like me don’t belong here. “Aemond, are you alright?”

“It’s my eye,” he confesses with an uneasy, apologetic smirk. “Sometimes flights…the altitude changes…it aggravates the nerve damage. It’s like needles in my skull. But I’ll be okay.”

“You fly a lot for work, don’t you?” You hurt yourself for Viserys, in body and soul.

“I do,” he agrees. He unzips his duffle bag and produces a bottle of Percocet. “Why do you think I carry these around?”

“Take one,” you say. “Lie down, rest. Cadi and I can entertain ourselves for a few hours.”

He’s relieved, he’s grateful. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You can even borrow the bed.”

“Back between your sheets, huh?” Aemond says, in pain but smiling through it. He draws a semicircle from the part in your hair down to your chin, a weightless sweep of his fingertips like a kind breeze. “You are incurable. You can’t resist me.”

“I have my own scheme in mind.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” You grab the front of his Marlboro jacket, appropriate for the overcast London weather. He belongs here, this house, this city, this way of life. He wasn’t made for the primordial heat of the swamplands. You fold into him, close enough to tease, to quicken his heartbeat and momentarily clear the wounded furrows from his brow. “I want my pillows to smell like you. I want to breathe you in all night. It’s how I sleep best.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint,” Aemond says, a little stunned; but he’s elated too. For a moment, you’ve distracted him from his suffering entirely. “I’ll roll around all over them. I will mar the bedding irrevocably, the Queen Mother will never invite me back.” And he watches as you leave, his gaze transfixed and meditative and—more than anything else—hopeful.

“Hey, honey,” you say when you find Cadi in the Horse Corridor, poking a 100-year-old oil painting that she is definitely not supposed to be touching. “Let’s go explore and grab some dinner. Aemond isn’t feeling great, but we’ll hang out with him later.”

“Is it his face?”

You are startled. She knows so much. “Yeah, actually, it is.”

“He showed me,” Cadi says casually, still peering up at the horse; and you remember the day when he took her out to the front yard after she said she wished you were more like her friends’ mothers. “He even let me touch it. Radical, right? It’s so gross, but super cool too.”

Aemond couldn’t stand for me to see how he was maimed, but he forced himself to endure it for Cadi. “What did he tell you?”

“That I should appreciate having a good mom, because not all parents treat their kids right. He said his dad let his eye get crushed. And he told me he’d bet $1 million that you’d snap someone’s neck if they hurt me like that.”

You reach out to skim your fingers through her dark disheveled hair, smiling faintly, fondly. Cadi doesn’t seem to mind. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“Can we get fish and chips?”

“Totally. I have 50 British pounds in my wallet, I assume that’s enough for dinner.”

“Wow! How much is 50 pounds in dollars?”

“I have no idea,” you say. “Let’s go spend them.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the evenings, you, Cadi, and Aemond gather around the television in the Lancaster Room and help yourself to the extensive VHS collection stocked for guests. You let Cadi pick: Raiders Of The Lost Ark, The Terminator, Firestarter, the Karate Kid, Aliens. You make popcorn in the extravagant kitchen in the basement of Clarence House and the three of you devour bowlfuls of it as you giggle on the couch, engulfed with throw pillows and playfully kicking at each other beneath the blankets. One night at Cadi’s request you bake Betty Crocker’s Party Rainbow Chip cupcakes with mix purchased at a Tesco down the street; on another you make hot chocolate to sip from antique tea cups. Each day, Aemond has new destinations picked out to tour. You ride the Underground like true Londoners to the Hampton Court Palace, the British Museum, Westminster Abbey, the Natural History Museum, Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, Tower Bridge, the National Gallery, the Kew Gardens, Imperial College where Aemond received the petroleum engineering degree he never wanted.

As he shows you the classrooms where he attended lectures and seminars—you aren’t sure what the difference is, though you can sense that there is one—Aemond doesn’t talk about math or oil drilling. Instead, he tells you and Cadi about the people he learned about in the history classes he managed to slip into his exacting schedule like splinters into flesh: Sir Harold Gillies who pioneered plastic surgery in his treatment of World War I veterans, Phillis Wheatley who was enslaved as a child and became a renowned poet and abolitionist, Boudicca who led a rebellion against the Roman invaders and upon her defeat succumbed to some tragic, enigmatic doom. Aemond loves stories like this, you can see the light that sparks into the crystalline blue of his right eye. There is nothing he deems more heroic than people who took circumstances beyond their control and made something worthwhile out of them.

The night before the flight back to New Orleans, you’re staring at the crown molding of the Garden Room as Cadi snores softly from the other end of the massive bed and silvery moonlight covers the world. You can’t stop your thoughts from roiling like the North Sea; you can’t stop thinking about desks and chairs and books and clever blue-blooded girls jotting down in their notebooks not cake orders but mathematical equations or dates of conquest. When you breathe in the smoke and cologne Aemond left on your pillows, it tastes dark and forbidden. You climb out of the bed, roomy Bob Dylan t-shirt, pink cotton shorts, hair loose and wild, bare feet.

He is outside pacing around the sundial in the center of the garden, puffing on a Marlboro cigarette and pondering the full moon. “Can’t sleep?” Aemond asks, exhaling smoke as he glances over at you.

“You must think I’m stupid.”

“What?” He stops pacing. “Why?”

“Imperial College,” you say. “And the sorts of people who go to places like that. You must have known a lot of women who could recite Shakespear and name all the kings of England, all of Jupiter’s moons. Things I never learned. Things that I have no use for. I don’t write books or design machines or study the secrets of the universe. I bake cupcakes.”

“And they’re brilliant,” Aemond says, smiling. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“No?”

“No,” Aemond insists. “I think that if you’d been born where I was, you would have done far more with it.”

“Aemond…” You walk across the wet cobblestones to meet him by the sundial. It’s been raining again. The night air is chilly, foggy, painting you with goosebumps. “You still have time to become who you want to be.”

“No. I don’t.”

It’s coming from somewhere, distant but still audible, a parked car or a nearby building: Kyrie by Mr. Mister. Aemond chuckles, flicks the end of his cigarette into the lavender bushes—surely against the rules—and takes your hands in his.

“I remember this,” he says as he dances with you slowly, clumsily; you don’t know the steps. Still, you don’t want him to stop. “In your kitchen.”

He remembers everything. “Right before we went to Olive Garden for the first time.”

He sighs, pretending to be exasperated. “Of course that’s the part you committed to memory.”

“I’ve held onto a few other details too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like how small the back seat of your Audi Quattro is.”

“A limousine would be far more comfortable. I should invest in one.”

You laugh as he twirls you and you trip over your own feet; he pulls you upright before you can fall to the slick cobblestones. And you think: This is real. No matter what happens between him and anyone else, what we have is safe and extraordinary and real.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cupcake,” Aemond murmurs through your hair, holding you without seeking more. “You and Cadi.”

You want him again, or you’re so close to wanting him that the line is less of a boundary than a quagmire, indistinct edges and quicksand that can drag you down to drown in it. “I never knew that this was possible. Thank you, Aemond.”

“It can be like this all the time.”

Not all the time, you think, knowing that there will always be Jade Dragon, the Targaryens, the stock market, the world, the past and the future, Christabel. But some of it.

Is that enough?

~~~~~~~~~~

Willis agreed to you and Aemond taking Cadi out of the country on one condition: that you return her to him the second you arrive back in Napoleonville. It’s late Tuesday afternoon when the plane’s wheels hit the runway and squeal to a halt. Aemond has left his red Audi in the Park-and-Ride lot. You collect the car and soar west on Route 10 into the red-gold horizon, chasing the setting sun.

“Daddy!” Cadi bellows when she throws open the front door of the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office, waving his gift bag excitedly. Inside is a refrigerator magnet, several packages of McVitie’s Digestives in different flavors, and a miniature red-coated Queen’s Guard to keep on his desk, perpetually covered with disorganized papers and crumbs from innumerable desserts. From her poster on the wall, Heather Locklear simpers at you. At the center of the dartboard, poor Tommy Lee is impaled in four different places.

“Comment ca va, cherie?!” Willis opens his arms to hug Cadi when she barrels into him. He guffaws, his eyes are shiny; he has missed her. “Ya had a real good time, I reckon?”

“It was totally tubular. But I’m glad I’m home now. Can I get a horse? His name is Patches and I love him.”

“Huh? What the hell ya need a horse for?” He peeks around Cadi to look at you, a curious blue gaze beneath the thick dark bangs of his mullet. “What’s she talkin’ ‘bout, sugar?”

Beside you, Aemond groans irritably. Then you hear a voice from one of the holding cells, almost always empty: “Hey, cake lady.”

“Aegon?!” you and Aemond say at once, and sure enough, when you check the last holding cell there he is: unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, blue shorts, rainbow flip flops, hair like he’s been in a hurricane, a new eyebrow piercing.

Aemond asks Willis: “What did he do?”

Willis picks up a clipboard from his cluttered desk and begins reading. “Possession with intent to distribute cocaine—”

“I told you, I wasn’t distributing anything! It was for me!”

“Aegon, shut up,” Aemond pleads.

“Possession with intent to distribute marijuana, possession of drug paraphernalia, possession of methamphetamine less than 28 grams, operatin’ a vehicle while intoxicated, possession of MDMA, possession of alcoholic beverages in a motor vehicle, operatin’ a vehicle with a suspended license, resistin’ an officer…” Willis flips the page. “Speedin’, reckless drivin’, disturbin’ the peace while in an intoxicated condition, possession with intent to distribute Xanax, theft—”

“What the hell did you steal?!” Aemond demands.

“Burritos. I forgot my wallet at home.” Now Aegon is indignant. “But I saidI’d get them back! They didn’t need to call anybody about it!”

“Aegon, Taco Bell does not offer payment plans!”

“I can release him to ya, I guess,” Willis tells Aemond in a slow drawl.

“I really appreciate that. I’m so sorry about him, I’m absolutely mortified, I’ll pay whatever fines you want—”

“Wait, no,” Aegon says, panicked. His hands are gripped around the iron bars. “I don’t want to leave.”

Aemond stares at him. “You’re asking to stay in jail…?”

“I can’t go home. Stephanie’s there.”

“Of course she’s there. You knew she was flying in for the wedding.”

“Please let me stay here until she goes back to Monaco.”

“Definitely not. How’s everything else?”

“There’s something wrong with one of the Lake Verret rigs. Viserys mentioned a…a…I don’t remember, a dirt dump or something.”

“A mud pump?!”

“Yeah! That’s it. That’s what he said. It exploded.”

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses, then remembers that Cadi’s still there. She gives him a sly grin. You messed up, she means. Aemond looks to you, apologetic, disappointed. “I’m going to have to drop you off and then head straight home. There are messes to be mopped up.”

“No,” Aegon moans as Willis unlocks the holding cell and then wrestles him out of it when Aegon resists. “No, I’m a felon! I’m a danger to the public!”

“Don’t,” Aemond snaps, and this time his brother listens.

You say goodbye to Cadi—she barely notices—but as you go to follow Aemond and Aegon out of the Sheriff’s Office, she has a question. “Aemond?”

He stops. “Yeah, Cadi?”

“Can I go to the wedding?”

“Weddin’?!” Willis exclaims. “Already?!”

“Not mine,” you say.

“You really want to go?” Aemond asks Cadi with some reticence. But he seems to be considering it.

“Well, yeah. Mom said she and Amir are going. You’ll be there. Lots of cake will be there. And I’ve never been to a wedding before. I want to see what it’s like.”

Aemond turns to you, then to Willis, searching for permission. “It’s alright with me,” Willis says. “As long as someone there is keepin’ an eye on her.”

“It’s your choice,” you tell Cadi. “If you’re interested, I have no objections. But you have to be nice to Christabel.”

“Christabel?!” Willis says.

“That’s Aemond’s fiancée.” And there is a collective uncomfortable silence: Willis nodding slowly as he squints at you, Cadi chewing on her thumbnail, Aemond looking down at his Adidas sneakers, Aegon staring vacuously at the Heather Locklear poster on the wall.

With Aegon squeezed into the back seat, Aemond drops you off at the home Cadi calls the Fall-Down House. The new house hasn’t closed yet, but probably will in the next week. The adolescent gator is sunbathing in the last of the daylight in one corner of the yard; you can hear the pink Panasonic boombox inside playing Another One Bites The Dust.

“Ho, you’re back!” Amir cries, jubilant. He hugs you energetically, staining you with the flour on his hands; he’s been watching the bakery while you’ve been gone and keeping every cent of the profits in recognition of his labor, as agreed upon. “How was London?”

You give him his souvenir: a purple t-shirt with Princess Diana’s face on it. “Rainy. Wonderful.”

“Did you have any kinky sex in the royal grandma’s bed?”

“No,” you say, laughing. “But it was…I don’t know how to describe it. Calm. Normal. Easy. Like we could live that way forever.”

“So you’ve decided to be his Camilla.”

“Some moments I have. Other times I haven’t. But more and more, I just…” You try to decide what you mean. “The thought of giving him up feels impossible. And Christabel…they’re so distant with each other, so disconnected, so platonic. Their relationship doesn’t feel real. Maybe I can ignore it. Maybe this is the best I can hope for.”

Amir pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose and raises an eyebrow. “It might feel more real in three days.”

The rehearsal dinner is on Friday; the wedding is only 24 hours later.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You really should consider writing a cookbook, dear,” Alicent says from where she sits across from you. The dining room table is covered with flickering pink candles, bouquets of wildflowers, drinks garnished with cotton candy and Pop Rocks. Balloons bump against the ceilings, their long ribbons streaming down like the tentacles of a jellyfish. The stereo is thumping out Caught Up In You by 38 Special. Everything is pink and red: the colors of love. Yet just like at the engagement party, no one is talking about the couple getting married tomorrow. You could almost forget that there’s going to be a wedding. That makes it easier; and if denial is the terrain you live on now, so be it. That is far less agonizing than the alternative.

“Oh, no,” you demur, taking a sip of a cotton candy cocktail. You exchange a glance with Aemond, sitting several seats down from his mother. He is in a suit—black and white, fitted, faultless—and smiling, proud of you. “A book?! I couldn’t. Not in a million years.” I never even finished high school English.

“But all of my friends from home are captivated by your recipes, darling, and it would be so much easier if I could simply send them a copy of a cookbook rather than trying to describe every dish to them! Please consider it. Do you promise?”

“That I’ll think about it? Not too taxing a commitment. I suppose so.”

“Good,” Alicent chirps, then turns to whisper something to Criston, who drapes an arm briefly across her shoulders and gives her a reassuring little embrace. Amir is chatting with Aemond about San Franscisco. Christabel is talking to Helaena, who has been forced into a voluminous, magenta taffeta dress that she clearly despises; her chameleon Dreamfyre lurches around the table, occasionally stealing tastes of people’s food. Daeron, with Tessarion perched on the back of his chair, is trying to discuss something called seismic testing results with Viserys but getting ignored. Viserys is deep in conversation with Christabel’s father, the marquess, a large loud man whose booming voice drowns out everyone else. The two of them seem delighted, celebratory, very much in their own world. Their schemes have come at last to fruition. Christabel has several younger sisters in attendance—her bridesmaids—but no mother. You gather from pieces of dialogue you’ve overheard that her mother died when she was a child, a terrible and irreparable loss. Otto is so bored he’s flipping through a picture book about Kiribati. Aegon’s wife, Princess Stephanie of Monaco, is a headstrong, charismatic, and rather critical woman with short dark hair. She notifies Aegon each and every time he fails her, which happens frequently: You’re using the wrong fork. You missed a button on your shirt. You haven’t fucked me properly in over two years. You didn’t send flowers to my grandma’s funeral. This is evidently Aegon’s worst nightmare; he has disappeared upstairs in an effort to escape her.

Dinner is finished, and dessert has been brought by the servants. It turned out more like a crepe cake than a Napoleon cake—the layers of puff pastry didn’t want to fluff up as much as they should have—but no one seems to notice. This time, you and Amir knew the dress code expectations. You are both wearing black to fade into the backdrop like shadows, like distant memories. You are invited guests, but you are also locals, inferiors, recipients of charity.

“Where’s Aegon?” Helaena says. “He has to try this cake, it’s delicious! The cherry jam cuts the heaviness of the cream and pastry dough and makes it a perfect dessert for summer! And the color is delightful! It looks just like blood!”

“Where the hell is he?” Viserys demands, looking around, twisting in his chair. “It’s his brother’s rehearsal dinner, for Christ’s sake. One night of this importance and he can’t handle it? I swear to God, if he’s snorting or smoking anything up there I’ll have him committed to an institution—”

“I’ll find him,” you offer as you stand from the table. You have to visit the bathroom anyway, too many glitzy pink cocktails; two birds, one stone. You depart from the table and Aemond’s gaze follows you, a low heat that is building towards incineration, a baiting promise of dark euphoria that you can no longer pretend you don’t want desperately, defenselessly. Christabel gives you a sweet little wave. She is dripping in gold—dress, heels, jewelry—and seems happier tonight, more self-assured. Perhaps with the wedding so close, her trepidation concerning Aemond’s commitment has evaporated. Surely it is too late to call off the ceremony now. Tonight they feast, tomorrow they recite their vows, and then…

But no, you don’t think about the honeymoon. You will not allow yourself to. It can’t exist to you, and that is how you’ll survive this. Christabel will be in one universe, you in another, two timelines that never cross like something out of Star Trek. And the way she and Aemond interact is so impersonal, so untactile, that it is not so difficult to treat anything beyond chaste pecks on cheeks as an impossibility.

At the top of the staircase, Vhagar is lurking. She wags her long twiglike tail when she sees you and licks the knuckles of your left hand. You give her a pat on the head—and then several more when she whines as you try to leave—then at last she lopes off down the hallway.

Aegon is exactly where you’d assumed he’d be. He’s in his bedroom hunched over his computer and hammering furiously at the keyboard. There’s white powder on his fingers and in his thin mustache. On the screen, bizarrely, is what appears to be neon green grass and an ox-drawn wagon like the ones from the pioneer days. Sunfyre the ferret is stretched out across the bed napping, his angular face resting on his paws.

Aegon whirls around to face you. He is wearing a lime green satin suit but has forgotten to put on a shirt under it. “What? What? What do you want? I’m playing Oregon Trail. I have dysentery.”

“You have what…? Never mind, it’s not important. You need to come downstairs and eat some dessert. People are wondering where you are.”

“I’m busy.”

“If you don’t make an appearance on your own, Viserys will come looking for you. Also there are some Cap’n Crunch treats I left on the kitchen counter that you might be interested in.”

“Consider me tempted. I’ll be down momentarily.”

“You better be,” you tell Aegon, then retrace your steps back to the kitchen. Amir and Christabel are both there getting cans of Pepsi from the fridge and making very cumbersome small talk…or perhaps only Amir thinks it is that much of a burden. Christabel is chattering blithely away about different types of wildflowers. He gives you a look like Oh thank God, an excuse to escape and wastes no time heading back to the dining room.

“Did you notice what’s playing now?” he asks you just before he vanishes, then points towards the stereo in the grand foyer. You listen; it’s Money For Nothing by Dire Straits. “You think they know this song is about class warfare?”

“You should tell them,” you joke.

“Yeah, if I want to end up on Unsolved Mysteries.” Then Amir is gone.

“How are you doing?” you ask Christabel to be polite. You open the refrigerator and start hunting for your own can of Pepsi. “Excited? Nervous? You seem a little more relaxed than the last time I saw you. Are the wedding jitters finally dissipating?”

“They are,” she says, and when you glance back at her she is wearing a bashful sort of smile. It’s not an expression you can read. You resume digging through the refrigerator for a can of Pepsi; Amir and Christabel might have taken the last ones.

“That’s good,” you say noncommittally, hoping she’ll leave. But Christabel doesn’t leave. She seems to have something she needs to say. Just as you spy a lone can of Pepsi at the very back of the refrigerator and lean in to grab it, she proceeds to unburden herself.

“Well, you know, I was so concerned about me and Aemond before. I had no conviction that he especially liked me, and we never had anything to talk about, and he was so dreadfully undemonstrative…I was just beside myself, truly. I didn’t know what to do. But I feel much better about everything now. Norway was so good for us.”

Norway?

You close the refrigerator, your ice-cold Pepsi can clutched in your hand. You’re going cold all over. Slowly, you turn towards Christabel, glittering in her gold dress.

Norway???

“He took you on the North Sea trip.” You hear the words, but it doesn’t feel like you’ve said them. They sound flat and dazed.

“It’s a bit of a secret,” Christabel says; and again, her smile has no cruelty or sharp awareness in it, but her cheeks are pink. She’s blushing. What does she have to be embarrassed about? “My father doesn’t know. He wouldn’t approve. But I just felt…I felt ready, you know? I’m sure you understand what I mean. You aren’t so clinical and aloof about everything. I had to know if Aemond and I really had something between us before we got married.”

“You felt…ready?” Ready for what? Ready for WHAT, Christabel?

“I asked Aemond to take me with him. I begged, actually.” She giggles. “I won’t try to be proud about it! And finally he said yes. We stayed at a lovely hotel in Bergen, and during the day he would have to fly by helicopter out to the rigs, but at night…”

You’re staring blankly at her. You can’t believe what you think she’s going to say. Surely it must be something else, anything else—

“It wasn’t my plan to ever be intimate with a man before marriage, but sometimes…things change. Minds change, circumstances change. And I knew I wanted it. And it went so well! Now what do I have to be nervous about? All the uncertainties are resolved. Now we just sign the paperwork and start our lives together.”

He took her to Norway.

He slept with her in Norway.

“I hope it was just as good for him,” Christabel muses, a compulsive sort of oversharing. But she has had a few cocktails and she thinks you’re nonjudgemental and there’s probably not a single other soul she feels she can be truthful with…so why not the girl who got knocked up at prom and had a baby at seventeen? Surely she’s in no position to judge. “It’ll be even better once we can…you know. When we’re officially trying for a baby and there’s no need to worry about any precautions. I want Aemond to enjoy himself as much as possible. I want to be a good wife to him.”

You feel dizzy; you feel violently ill. And now you see everything: Aemond kissing her with his mouth open and ravenous, his hands between her legs, his hips pressed to hers, peeling off her clothes and learning how to make her moan, make her wet, make her come, and you think of how careful he must have been with her, a girl with no past, no ex-husband, no childbirth that nearly killed her, no stretchmarks and no baggage, just a smooth pristine rivulet of flesh that was so pure and uncontaminated it was weightless, and you can hear—though you don’t want to, though it feels like it will kill you—how tender he was, how encouraging, not a dominant who drinks down fantasies like a vampire sustained by blood but just a man, and a man who has at last found a woman he doesn’t need to grab, bite, bruise, handcuff to a bedpost to feel satisfied with.

He took her to Norway and he never told me.

You are saying something, and Christabel is nodding appreciatively, accepting the sage wisdom of a tarnished life. Your words don’t matter. They are folktales and charms, the croaks of bullfrogs, the whispers of the wind through Spanish moss, the Morse code of ripples in the water of the bayou. You are a novelty and your counsel is a souvenir; one day when she is living in California or Argentina or Australia or Alaska or her ancestral castle back in the U.K., Christabel will tell Aemond’s children: Once I met a nice single mom from Napoleonville Louisiana, and she told me to follow my heart and not let anyone shame me for wanting to be close with my soon-to-be husband.

Vhagar trots into the kitchen and begins nudging her massive head against Christabel’s bare knees. “Hi, big girl!” Christabel coos as she pets the blue merle Great Dane, clearly accustomed to this. “Who’s a giant gorgeous girl? You are!”

What did I expect? I knew they were getting married. I knew they were going to sleep together.

Yes, you knew it, but you hadn’t felt it, and now you have.

I can’t do this, you realize. I thought I could but I can’t.

“Christabel?” Alicent is calling like a windchime. “Darling, there are just a few more things we have to discuss before tomorrow, will you come back to the table please?”

“On my way!” Christabel replies obediently, and she gives you a quick, impulsive hug before vanishing.

I’m going to be sick. I’m going to have a heart attack. I’m going to drop dead right in the middle of this fucking kitchen.

Leaving your can of Pepsi forgotten on the countertop, you escape to the living room and then out the French doors into the garden. You run past the pool all the way to the pond full of multicolored fish you once hadn’t known were koi. You drop to your knees, then lie down on the cold cobblestones, and when it hits you again—Aemond touching her, Aemond loving her—you rupture into sobs that are breathless and shuddering. You try to stifle the noise with your palms; you clasp them over your mouth and smother your wails. It feels like you’re being ripped apart; it feels like you’re in labor, but there is no end, no consolation of a new life, no point at which your body chooses whether you live or die. It is only a razored wheel that turns in you again and again and again, shredding muscle and splitting bones.

There is a hand on your shoulder; someone is patting it awkwardly. You look up to see Aegon standing there. “Sorry,” he says. “You look…not good.”

“I’m really not good. I’m fucking terrible.” Your face is soaked and stinging with tears, your voice is strangled.

“Do you want some coke?”

“No, Aegon.”

“Do you want a ride home?”

“From you? Yeah, for sure, getting impaled by a stop sign would be a great next move for me.”

“I’m totally fine to drive.”

“Can you just pull Amir aside without anyone else noticing and tell him to say his goodbyes and then meet me in the driveway, please? He drove me here. I need him to take me home.”

“Okay,” Aegon says, and then: “Thanks for the Cap’n Crunch Treats. Thanks for remembering something I like and caring enough to bring more. No one really does that around here.” And he’s gone before you can think of a reply.

To get to the driveway without going though the house, you climb over a 5-foot wrought iron fence swarmed with rosebushes and ivy, no easy feat in a black Kmart dress and matching ballet flats. You acquire a dozen shallow gashes on your hands and forearms, but make it to the Ford Escort just in time for Amir to meet you under the full, cloudless moon, tossing his car keys from one hand to the other.

“What did—?” Then he sees your face. He gasps, knowing how bad it is. He’s never seen you like this. He didn’t know it was possible for you to look like this. He unlocks the Ford Escort and joins you inside, turning the key in the ignition. “What the fuck did Aemond do to you?!”

“I have to go home. It’s over, it’s over, I can’t do this.”

Amir is spinning out of the driveway. “Did he hurt you, did he—?!”

“He fucked Christabel in Norway,” you say, sobbing uncontrollably. “And I know I have no right to be jealous, I know we don’t have a conventional relationship, I thought I could handle this but I can’t. I can’t stop picturing him with her, and hearing it, and I…I…I don’t understand why this hurts so goddamn bad.”

“Babe,” Amir says gently, a palm on your trembling thigh. “You’re in love with him. That’s why.”

“This is killing me,” you whisper. You’re shaking all over. You feel like you’re battling for every breath.

Your best friend—your only friend—is quiet for a long time. “Don’t go tomorrow,” Amir finally says. “You don’t need to see the wedding. You shouldn’t put yourself through that. I’ll go, I can handle the cake alone, especially if Cadi’s with me to help with carrying plates and stuff.”

You don’t say anything. You stare out the nightscape window and mop tears from your face with McDonald’s napkins you find in Amir’s glovebox.

“Did you hear me? I don’t think you should go to the wedding tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” you agree hoarsely. “I can’t watch them have my wedding.”

“Willis is dropping Cadi off in the morning, right? I’ll pick her and the cake up from your house and bring her back when it’s over. You can tell her whatever you want…you have another cake order to work on, you’re sick, you’re injured, your mom needs a ride to the doctor, whatever.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

“Hey, look at me.”

You do, sniffling, shivering, in agony.

“You don’t deserve this. You deserve better than this.”

I don’t think I do. I think if I did, it would have happened by now. But you know Amir will not accept this answer. “Okay,” you say again, trying to make yourself believe it.

In the gravel driveway of your sinking house, Amir asks if you want him to say. You tell him no, you want to be alone, you have to think, you have to plan. Really, you just don’t want anyone to see you this shattered. It’s humiliating, it’s like you’re an animal, like something less than human needing to licks its wounds in a dark place. You walk into the Fall-Down House and flip on the kitchen light, artificial yellow luminance. You don’t start the air conditioner. You don’t touch the Panasonic boombox. You stand there mindlessly in the sounds of the bayou: cicada screams, owl hoots, the far-away hissing of gators. The wedding cake is in the refrigerator, banana bread, cream cheese frosting, a kaleidoscope of wildflowers painted by Amir’s expert hand. He’s leaving. Aemond’s leaving. Everyone is leaving.

There are tires crunching on gravel in the driveway, there are footsteps on the sloping porch. He is able to yank the door open because you never lock it. He blows in like a storm that kills.

“What the hell happened?!” Aemond shouts. “Why did you leave?! You didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye to me—”

“You took her to Norway.”

Aemond’s face goes from furious to lost. “Why would she tell you that?”

Not That’s not true, not Let me explain, not It didn’t mean anything. Your stomach sinks, a basket full of stones. “Because she thinks I’m her friend.”

“It wasn’t…” Aemond sighs. “It was a last-minute thing, and it was her idea. She really, really wanted to go to Norway, and I figured…you know…what’s the difference between the wedding night and a few weeks before it? So yeah, it happened—”

“Oh God,” you whisper, starting to sob again.

“And then I came home to your house, to your doorstep, because I missed you the entire time. The entire time, every hour, every minute, and there are no exceptions, okay, are you listening to me? I took her to Norway because I had to. I took you and Cadi to Clarence House because I wanted to. What I do with her is a reflex, an obligation, I’m on autopilot, I’m thinking of you to get myself hard, I don’t know how else to express to you how completely different these situation are in every single goddamn way.”

“She said it was good,” you say huskily, tears snaking down your cheeks that are raw from trying to dab them dry.

“Of course it was good for her!” Aemond flings back. “I’ve had a lot of casual sex, I know how to make women come, it’s a math equation, it doesn’t mean we’re soulmates!”

“I know I have no claim to you, but I…” You gaze out the kitchen window, dark and still, nothing to see but stars and lighting bugs. “I can’t do this.”

Aemond asks, kindly now: “What do you want?”

I want to not have to beg you to choose me. “I want this to be over.”

“No,” he says, panicking. “No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You’re going to give this up as soon as it gets painful? I’m not worth fighting for, what I can do for you and Cadi isn’t worth a little pain? Because I’m no stranger to it either. You think I’m not hurting, you think nothing ever keeps me awake at night?”

“You could leave your prison any time you want to. But instead you built a brand new one around me.”

“You don’t understand what the kind of responsibility I’m beholden to feels like.”

“Yeah, a town named after Napoleon is the right place for you,” you seethe, enraged. “You’ve felt so fucking small your whole life that now you’re starving for what it tastes like to be in control. But I can’t let you destroy me. I can’t let my daughter grow up watching me settle for less than I need from a man. She’ll learn to live the same way.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Aemond,” you say, and you wait until he looks at you. “Do you really want children?”

When he answers, his voice frayed and his right eye misty. “I love Cadi.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you want children of your own with Christabel?”

“I have to,” he says, miserable.

“No,” you plead. “You cannot have a baby with that girl. You can’t, Aemond. You are going to ruin so many lives, not just your own.”

“I have to,” he says again.

“Then get out. Viserys owns you, and Viserys wouldn’t want you here. He would want you back at the mansion impregnating your child bride.”

“She’s a legal adult, she’s 19, and she wants me, she begs for me, I’m not twisting her arm—”

“Then go!” you roar, striking him hard, both palms to his chest. Aemond doesn’t budge. “Get out, go home, go have kids you won’t give a fuck about just like Viserys never cared about you. Go repeat the cycle all over again. I’m done. I can’t be a part of it.”

“I won’t be like him,” Aemond swears.

“You will be. You already are.” You shove him again, but still, Aemond doesn’t move. You know what he’s waiting for, you know the right word to say. But you can’t get it to launch from your lips; it catches in your throat like a blade through the windpipe. “Get out!”

Your fingers hook into the lapels of his black suit jacket and stay there; you can’t let go. You’re both breathing heavily; you can hear it, you can feel the heat in the air. You keep his jacket gripped in your hands, he can move no closer, no farther away. When he leans into you, you breathe in his smoke and cologne; when his hands cradle your face, you feel the benevolent power that once gave you peace.

I want him. I need him. Not forever, no, I understand that’s not possible. But just for right now.

You look up at him and Aemond kisses you, his lips and tongue claiming you like untouched land; he puts down roots, he slits the jugulars of trespassers.

Here. Now.

You drag him down with you. When you drop to the floor, you strike the back of your skull against the scuffed, sloping wood and bite back a yelp.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aemond says, though it isn’t his fault; he reaches for your head and cushions it with his right hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” You’re tearing open his white shirt; tiny translucent buttons go flying in every direction. Your palms glide over his chest, up to his throat, to his jaw, to knot in his hair. He reaches beneath your dress to slide off your panties, then buries his fingers between your legs. You moan helplessly, needfully, spreading your thighs wider for him. No man has ever been able to do this to you before: to make you forget everything, to make you feel—if only for a moment—beloved, worthy, chosen. He’s kissing you like he knows this is the last time. You’re touching the left side of his face and he doesn’t even notice, he won’t realize until later that there was a time when he was cured.

Aemond pulls his wallet out of the pocket of his suit pants, flips it open, and roots through it until he finds a condom. He starts to rip it open, moving with desperate speed, dire impatience.

“No, don’t,” you say. “Please don’t. I want all of you.” And I won’t get another chance.

He exhales in deep, ecstatic relief; he wants it too. You’re soaked, you’re ready, you’re aching for him like mending bones. He eases himself into you, gasping, and you are stunned by how good it feels already, how close you are, every rope of nerves and muscle glimmering with an opening heat that builds higher and higher, the reverse of a tornado finally touching down on earth. His hands are linked with yours and pinned to the floor above your head; he’s kissing you, he’s moaning into you, he thrusts deeper and harder when you beg him to do it.

Aemond untangles one hand from yours and reaches low to stroke you. Your fingers find his again and catch him, capture him, bring his hand back to the floor where it can be entwined with yours and his weight can hold it to the scraped wood. “I don’t need it, I’m close. Stay here. Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” he whispers, panting; and the friction of his body against yours overtakes you, and when you come it is blinding, bone-breaking, a whirlpool that traps you for what feels like over a minute, soaring highs punctuated by the illusion of fading over and over again until you think you can’t stand it, and only then does it end, Aemond collapsing on the floor beside you covered in your sweat and your wetness, you feeling the remnants of him bleeding down your bare thighs.

You drag yourself upright—muscles sore in your belly and back and thighs—and roll onto your knees so you can stagger to your feet. You tug on your panties so he doesn’t drip out of you onto the floor. Then you straighten the skirt of your black dress, turn on the little pink Panasonic boombox—it’s a U2 song, Where The Streets Have No Name—and begin washing a muffin tin that was left in the sink.

Aemond stands up and runs a hand through his hair, getting his bearings. He looks down at his pants and fixes his zipper and belt. He tries to close his shirt and then remembers you tore off the buttons. They lie scattered across the floor, useless.

As you scrub the muffin tin, you hear Aemond’s footsteps behind you. His palms begin at the small of your back and then skate around your waist to encircle you.

“Stop,” you tell him; and immediately his hands fall away. Aemond waits for you to say more, but you don’t. You don’t even look at him.

He walks to where the kitchen becomes the living room—you can tell by the creaks in the floor—and again, he waits. After a while he says: “I’ll call you when the new house is ready.”

“No. Have Criston handle it. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”

“You get that I’m in love with you, right?” Aemond forces out, and when at last you turn to him there is the metallic glistening of tears on his right cheek. “I never feel this way about anyone. I don’t know how to handle it, I didn’t even know it was possible. But it’s true.”

“It’s not enough,�� you say simply, and resume scrubbing the muffin tin.

He waits in silence, thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes. Then the door opens and shuts—like the jaws of a beast—and he’s gone.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond

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sparrowrye · 2 months

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Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader, part 17

Synopsis: soulmate AU where you have the same mark on your body as your soulmate, and if your soulmate dies, you die too. Alastor needs to make sure that his soulmate is safe so he can continue his reign - whatever that takes. Though it looks like we have a couple secrets of our own.

Previous part

Part 17: meeting the overlords

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"I'm sure you can all imagine why I called you here," Lucifer began. "Humans are starting to put together that Full mages are not from their world. As I've stated in previous meetings, we should be revealing ourselves, not waiting to be discovered."

I scanned the face of every Overlord at the table. They were all in their Demon form, some more terrifying than others. There were eighteen Overlords in total but each one had a second hand, putting the overall count at 36 individuals. 37 if you counted the King of Hell.

"A decade ago we had decided to wait some time before revealing ourselves," one of the Overlords said. She had long white horns and huge, white clawed hands. Her eyes were blood shot red. "Why the change of heart?"

My shoulders stiffened when I realized who sat two seats down from her. The man was wearing his pink hat and jacket. It was the owner of the fighting ring who drugged me. I couldn't tell where he was looking with his glasses covering most of his face.

"We were, but then someone went crazy on the surface." The man who spoke wore a navy blue suit and had a flatscreen TV for a face. His voice sounded familiar. "Tricking them with the whole illusion magic doesn't work when you massacre them with the 'illusion'."

"I do believe you were the one who broadcasted the whole thing, old friend," Alastor didn't hesitate. "What was it you said? You're all in for a real treat, tonight?"

"It was your choice to come out the way you did. I was just doing what I do best."

"I fail to see the problem when your broadcast barely had sight of me. We all know how unreliable it can be."

"How about all the people who escaped to tell the--"

"Regardless of how or why it happened, it did," Lucifer interrupted, "and we need to decide what the next steps will be. I'd like to hear from the surface Overlords about announcing ourselves to the surface."

"Now?!" someone yelled from the other end of the table.

"Yes, now," he answered firmly. "Thanks to Alastor's incident--" radio static caught in the Radio Demon's throat "--we'll need to reveal ourselves soon. We need to set our historic record straight and keep it that way."

A moment of silence fell over everyone's head. They looked between each other with various expressions, no one quite sure what to say next. I looked at the Demons standing behind them but most of them had blank stares, revealing nothing about their own thoughts.

"Why do we need to do anything if they're going to figure it out anyways?" someone finally asked.

A woman with large pigtails sitting beside the ring owner laughed. "Do you want to stay an Overlord on the surface? Humans are notorious for killing anything that poses a threat to them."

"We have to show that Demons are more than just humans with more-than-average magic," the TV added. "If we don't, they'll hunt us down for sport. There's more of them than there are of us by a large margin."

"Why are we worrying about being hunted? Humans with Slight magic are no match for Demons." The Overlord was a huge humanoid wolf with neon colors all over.

"Humans together under a common cause are a match for Demons," the woman in white said. "It's important to set a precedent before they realize they can outman us."

"How does thy propose to accomplish such a feat?" This Demon had two sets of bright green eyes and his cloak wrapped tightly around his body.

Demons started looking between Alastor and the TV.

"A television broadcast wouldn't be a bad idea," the TV man smiled.

"Aren't we expecting to reach the entire surface? You barely cover a continent as is," Alastor challenged.

"I advance more with every passing day. It would take less than a month to have a reach all over the surface. Something that can be accomplished if your highness provides proper resources." He nodded his head to Lucifer.

"Yet I've been broadcasting to the entire surface for centuries," Alastor said. "Since the Great Collapse, radio has been the only reliable source of communication."

"Who would believe the word of a Demon who's been tormenting them for hundreds of years?" he snapped back. "People can see a Demon for themselves instead of taking your word."

"Television can be fabricated."

"A radio host can lie."

"They're both important," Lucifer interjected, "and having both can solidify what we're trying to do. Vox, I can provide the resources you need to expand. Alastor, you'll wait for my word before you broadcast." The Radio Demon's eyes narrowed in response.

"What exactly are we broadcasting?" Vox asked, seemingly bored now. He scratched at his bright blue claws. "Humans know Demons as Full mages. Are we merely changing our name?"

"Humans," Lucifer explained, "use the term Full mages to mean anyone who can control more than just the basic elements. But Full mage Humans and Demons are two different species."

"What is the difference?" the neon wolf asked. I was surprised to notice a collection of nods from the rest of the Overlords. How much of their own history did they not know?

"The main difference is that we have control over Existence magic. So dark, chrono, and cosmo magic. Humans have no control over such magic. Demons can control various advance magic, even bending and expanding it, such as technology magic." He gestured to Vox, who casted a smirk in Alastor's direction. "Humans can control very few advance magic. The most I've seen a Human control is four. Demons have access to all, though many of you know it's best to pick a few to master."

"You don't expect to share this information with Humans, do you?" the woman in white questioned. "Giving up such crucial information could lead to our ultimate downfall."

"You're right," Lucifer agreed, "That would give them too much information about us. But we need them to be aware of the difference between Human Full mages and Demons. Aside from appearances of course." He looked down the eighteen frightening faces.

"I say we tell them we can control everything," Pigtails suggested. Well, more like declared. "They'll never know. If we scare them into thinking we can master any and all elements of life, they couldn't imagine fighting against something so powerful. And appearances would just confirm it."

"What happens if they develop the technology to rival our power?" the woman in white asked.

"I don't think you'd be around to see that day," Pigtails shot at her, "And besides, we'll just keep them from getting to that point. They're all about advertising their new inventions. Riding of it and its inventor is easy."

"Thou would be foolish to not prepare for thy future." The man dressed in black with neon eyes spoke before the woman could.

Lucifer nodded. "It's something to be concerned about, but it's something to discuss only after we've revealed ourselves."

"Sooo." Vox ran his long claw across the table so it made a screeching noise. I clenched my jaw and dampened the noise. "We're telling the Humans that we can control any and every element. What happens if they get angry?"

"Surface Overlords have been up there for quite some time." Lucifer crossed his arms. "How would you handle an uprising?"

"Same way as down here," the ring owner beside Vox answered, "Fear, manipulation, and manpower."

"I would advise surface Overlords to maintain and increase this manpower." Lucifer stood from his chair. "I will contact all of you when we are ready to reveal ourselves. As for you two," he looked to Alastor and Vox, "we will speak privately about what exactly you will be broadcasting. This meeting is over."

Everyone filed out of the room within minutes. Rosie casted a smile and a small wave in my direction as she left. As she did, another woman walked in. She wore an all red suite and had long, gorgeous blonde hair. She was followed by a shorter woman who had a lot of silver hair and large red X over her eye.

The pair quickly made their way over to me, the blonde energetically introducing herself as Charlie Morningstar, daughter of Lucifer. I was speaking to Princess of Hell.

"Are you really Alastor's soulmate?" She got really close to my face. Alastor casted a glance over his shoulder at me.

"Uh, yeah."

"I can't believe it! I never thought he would have one."

"Doesn't everyone get a soulmate?"

"Demons never had soulmates until they could go to the surface. Once the portal opened they started to get them, so a lot of the old Overlords don't have one." She spoke so fast it was taking an extra effort to comprehend it all.

"Oh, I didn't know that."

"It's pretty cool if you think about it. But you have to tell me what it's like being his soulmate. Ever since I met him he's always bragged about not being chained down to a soulmate."

"Oh uh..." How do you answer a question like that? I noticed Alastor had cocked his head a little to hear better. How was he paying attention to both his conversation and this one at the same time? "He's uh...how long have you known him?"

"Well I've personally known him for only about a century, now."

"Oh. Uh...and how long have you known of him?"

"He's been a nuisance for everyone for centuries," the other girl mused.

"Interesting." I played off my sudden realization.

"So what's he like?" Charlie pressed. "He's always going on about everything just being entertainment and not getting attached to anyone."

"Oh, well, he hasn't really changed then. I didn't think I had one either, quite honestly."

"Were you really a ring fighter?" the other girl abruptly asked.

"Vaggie—"

"What?"

"I was," I answered. "Why do you ask?"

"It was just really cool to watch you fight. I saw the whole thing online. You were amazing!"

"Oh." My face grew warm. "Uh, I really didn't do well."

"Sure you did. Were you taught how to fight or did you learn it from the rings?"

"I learnt it."

"How many rings did you take down?" Charlie asked.

"I think seven? But I didn't really take them down. They started back up a week later." I folded my arms together, drawing in on myself.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Charlie put a hand on my shoulder. I looked between it and her, surprised at how friendly she was being toward me. "I know a thing or two about failure."

"Charlie..."

"It's okay Vaggie."

"What do you mean?" I gently pushed.

"I tried saving my people awhile back and it didn't really work out. I tried to redeem sinners and Demons so they could go to Heaven but...it kinda fell through."

"How come?" I turned to face her completely.

"Well, it was going alright but then the portal to the surface opened. And what was the point of being redeemed when they could relive life on the surface?"

"Oh, that's really bad timing." I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that there was a Heaven and Hell in the first place, and that the Princess of Hell was telling me she was centuries old. She seemed more like my age.

"Yeah. But I figured I would wait and try again in a different way. Reimagine it!" Her eyes widened and she looked like a little kid with a gloriously bad idea.

"I think you totally should," I agreed. "What's the harm in trying again?"

"Exxxactly!" Her smile widened even more. "And you shouldn't give up taking down those fighting rings. Who knows what kind of Demon children are stuck in them? You're the only one giving any of them hope."

My mind started to wander. "Yeah...I guess so."

"We've got to keep in touch." Charlie pulled out her phone.

"Oh, I don't have one," I said nervously.

"Pfft, of course not," Vaggie sent a glare into Alastor's back, "Someone's still in the dark age."

"Yeah, well, Husker is the only one who's got a phone. And it's a pretty old one too."

"We'll connect through him then. I already have his number in my contacts."

"You already know him?"

The two of them laughed. "He and Alastor were a part of my hotel before it went under."

I nodded slowly. Alastor was in a heated discussion with Vox and Lucifer. They were all sending shots back and forth at each other, only Alastor remained in his seat while the other two were on their feet and pointing fingers.

"Maybe give it a break and meet another time?" Charlie quickly walked over. She put a hand on her father's shoulder.

"Charlie is right, per usual." Alastor half bowed his head to her.

"Of course she is," Lucifer crossed his arms. I didn't realize how short he was until Charlie stood next to him. She was my height and yet he was shorter than her shoulders.

"Come dear," Alastor said to me as he stood, "let us go home. This has been quite a productive meeting." It sounded more sarcastic than anything. Vox tried to say something but he was glitching all over. I was shocked I didn't see any smoke coming from his television head.

Charlie and Vaggie both waved as we left. I was close on Alastor's heels until we left the palace. I took the opportunity to look around at Hell. Everything was red but it looked like a normal city. The only give away was its inhuman inhabitants.

Alastor wrapped a hand around my shoulders as we teleported back to the house. I was shocked at the temperature difference. The night had been warm when we left but now the wind was like an icy chill that went right through my bones. Alastor walked ahead but I didn't follow.

"Alastor," I called. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. "I um...I'd like...I'd like you to teach me magic, again."

"Why's that?"

I wasn't expecting him to ask why. He's been pushing my training so much, why wouldn't he want me to accept it? I struggled for a response and he let the air hang silent for several moments.

"Because that's how I want the next hundred years to go," I finally said. It was true, to an extent, but I had other reasons for wanting it. Reasons I didn't want him to know.

His eyes narrowed, as if trying to detect the lie. He smiled wide so his yellow teeth showed. "A wise choice, my dear."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

Lots of dialogue and information but much needed! Looks like things are going to start turning around for us. Feel free to ask questions or leave any comments. I love interacting with you all!

#alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin husk #soulmate au #soulmates #reqs open #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin lucifer #lucifer morningstar #hazbin vox #charlie morningstar #hazbin charlie #hazbin vaggie

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josephquinnswhore · 1 year

Note

could you do a little fluff of pedro (or any of his characters) x plus!size reader where reader buys new lingerie for his birthday and he's like lemme take a picture and he takes a polaroid pic and sticks it in his wallet and then they go out with friends and one of his friends for shits and giggles takes his wallet and sees the picture and they're like "👁️🫦👁️ wow she's hot" and he gets jelly

ilysm kisses 🫶🏾

Polaroid

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x female-plus size reader.

Summary: an image meant for Pedro’s eyes only, ends up being seen by curious eyes who make inappropriate comments.

Word Count: 2.2k

Content Warning: lewd language, Pedro being horny as fuck, taking nudes, Pedro swearing/getting jealous. Slight smut but not really, unprotected p in v but no actual sex.

Note: THANK YOU FOR THIS REQUEST. I’m a plus size person myself so I’ll divulge into this so hard. 🫶🏼

Through the years you’d always put a lot of thought into Pedro’s gifts, whether it be a sentimental gift, such as the hand painted family portrait of him and his sisters you’d gifted last year for his 47th birthday. Or something he needed but would never tell you he needed. He didn’t need to tell you, because you always listened and figured out simply by listening; such as a new laptop during covid lockdown so he could do interviews via Skype and Zoom call.

This year, you were stumped. You figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask Oscar to help you with what to gift Pedro. You FaceTimed him, his warm smile is the first thing you’re met with, his messy mop of dark curls fell onto his forehead, some grey hairs visible through the bad lighting. “Hey Osc, I’ve got a favour to ask.” His eyebrows shot up In curiosity. “Go on.” He encourages.

“I don’t know what to gift Pedro for his birthday, he’s made it entirely impossible this year. No hints, no nothing.” Oscar raises an eyebrow, “you, the best gift giver doesn’t know what to give her boyfriend for his birthday?” You bit your lip, embarrassed as you walk around throwing some pieces of rubbish in the bin, trying to keep your mind busy as you stress about this present, with only 7 days until his 48th birthday, you felt your blood pressure rising as the days came closer and you still hadn’t gotten him anything.

“I know, I know. Can you help me or not?” A mischievous smirk crawls onto his lips, something that had your suspicion spiking. “What are you smirking at Oscar? Tell me what you’re thinking.” He shrugs casually, “get some lingerie for him, do a sexy photoshoot or something.” You bite your lip in uncertainty, “are you sure it’ll be good enough?” The older man huffs, “you’re joking right? Have you seen the way he looks at you?”

You hum, deep in thought as you realise Oscar’s right, Pedro does love your body, your curves and perfectly natural breasts, the cellulite on your rounded ass cheeks. The way he can grab handfuls of your thighs and how they feel wrapped around the back of his head as he dives face first into your cunt, he even loves the way your soft tummy slightly hangs over your pubic bone.

“Hey, you still with me?” Oscars voice snaps you out of your trance, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to try something new, if Pedro didn’t like it, which was unlikely, you’d know for next year, and bonus, you’d have a new set of lingerie. “Uh yeah, thanks Oscar I gotta go, bye!” You quickly hang up before he has the chance to say his farewells. Lingerie, it’s gotta be sexy, accentuate your curves and be the best gift he’s ever received. You pull your hair up into a messy bun before making a beeline straight for your car, keys in hand, jingling as you speed walk, eager to get to the shops.

The lingerie shops ambiance is unmatched, the pink neon sign drew you in, once you were in you didn’t want to leave, the golden hue of the light was soft on your eyes, the faint scent of rose water had been spritzed into the air with the fan circulating air around the small store, the quiet hum of a SZA song played from the small portable radio that sat on the wall shelf behind the counter.

There were so many options, too many colours and plus sized inclusive sizes. The shop attendant approaches you with a smile, “can I help you at all?” You smile nervously, “yes please! I’m wanting a new set, for my boyfriends birthday. Has to be super sexy. It also has to be purple, that’s his favourite colour.” You explain meekly, your cheeks reddening at the fact you’re telling all of this to a stranger, she leads you to a section of purple garments, all stunning in their own right. “He’s one lucky man. Do you need help with the sizing?” You tell her your size, she flicks through and finds all purple items in your size, stacking them on the front desk. “You can flick through them or feel free to try them on.”

You pick up the first set and hum uncertainly, feeling like it was not what you wanted, the material certainly wouldn’t cover much at all, you wanted something with more coverage. The second set was nicer, but still not something that wowed you, the small silver studs were definitely too much in your opinion. The third set you picked up you gasped, the colour was beautiful, rich and thick in the back of the bra, it had 5 clasps which would offer more support, it had harnesses that would look sexy with some stockings clipped to the harness. It had a stunning chest piece that would expose your cleavage and make it look sexy, the lacey material would would look beautiful on your skin.

“Can I try this on?” The lady smiles, “please! Go for it. Our dressing rooms are just to the left here.”

You underestimated how good you would look in this piece of lingerie, it made your hips look bigger, your curves softened and your breasts looked incredible, not to mention how nice your assed looked. The purple on your skin tone was like it was made for you, you felt sexy and knew this was the one.

“I’ll take this one, thank you.” As you return to the counter and set the lingerie down as she scans it, you pay the $120 on card and smile as she puts it into a paper bag with the store name on it. “I know he’s going to love it. Good luck!” The lady farewells and you thank her for her help before sitting in the car, all these scenarios running through your head about how Pedro will react.

“Happy birthday baby!” You cheer as Pedro steps into your apartment, the house smelt delicious, you’d cooked his favourite meal, the food simmering and getting to be plated. The room was littered with purple and silver balloons, red rose petals led down the hall to the bedroom, the scent of just blown out bubblegum candles lingers as the wick starts to smoke. “Thank you baby. Look at this, it’s incredible.” You pull him into a hug, squeezing your arms around him as his scent swirls up your nose and makes you inhale. “This isn’t the gift baby, it’s in the bedroom. I’ll get it for you.” You offer, rushing to the bedroom and know you need to move quickly, you’d practised a few times over the past couple days knowing you had a time frame of a few minutes before Pedro got impatient.

You pull your nice dress off and throw it into the hamper, setting up the balloons nicely and the love heart shaped rose petals on the bed, setting the candles alight, you slip your heels on and open the cupboard draw to set up the Polaroid camera so it was facing you. “Baby, you okay?” Your heart races, you need to finish up, now. You take your hair out and let it fall down, sitting up as you lean your weight on one hand behind you, setting one knee up on the bed, you let the other fall flat. “Actually baby I could use some help if you don’t mind.”

Your heart is in your mouth as you hear his footsteps near the bedroom, the squeak of the bedroom door is deafening as he opens it. His mouth drops when he sees you, the purple lingerie that covers your body is looking incredible on your body and you know it. Pedro’s dark orbs are scanning your body, groaning as he sees the Polaroid camera, shuffling in the spot as his cock grows hard and awfully uncomfortable in the confines of his jeans. “Fuck baby you’re gunna kill me.” You hum and look at him through your lashes, something you know drives him crazy. “Looking so fucking perfect for me, this is all for me hm baby?” You nod, “all for you Pedro.”

He picks up the white Polaroid camera and steps back, snapping the image of you posing, capturing the decorum of the room, “I love you so much.” He moans, his fingers gripping the image as it prints out, he was quick to snap an up close photo of you smiling, eyes closed teeth baring, he knew this would be his favourite.

“Let me see those perfect tits baby.” You lie down on the bed, your back being itched by the rose petals. He snaps a few pictures. “On your knees, honey.” You obey him and stretch your arms out toward the pillows, arching your back and raising your ass in the air, a grunt leaves Pedro’s lips as he smacks your ass, your gasp turns into a moan as he smacks your other asscheek, pushing yourself further back towards him. The camera snaps a few pictures, the redness of his handprint visible on your asscheeks. “So fucking perfect.” His thick fingers play with the small amount of fabric, getting a good look at your weeping cunt that’s soaked for him. “Fuck baby you’re dripping, roll back over.” You roll into your back, your hair sprawled onto the bed underneath you. Pedro, with one hand unbuckles his belt with a groan, undoing his jeans to relieve the tightness that caged his hardness.

He pulls your lingerie covering your cunt to the side, getting a perfect look at you. He palms himself roughly before pulling his underwear off entirely. Pulling his shirt underneath his chin. He slides his thick cock into you, your body squirming at the feeling, “fuck-so fucking big Pedro.” He groans, only pushing himself half way into you, before wrapping one large hand around your neck and takes a photo with the other hand, of his cock inside your cunt, hand wrapped around your neck and your perfect body clad in this purple lingerie.

“What about dinner?” You whimper, hearing the whir of the camera printing the obscene image. Pedro tosses the image along with the others onto the bed beside you, along with the camera. “Dinner can wait baby, I gotta have you. So fucking perfect. This is the best birthday gift ever.”

You would have to thank Oscar for the advise.

Two days later on the weekend was when everyone was out at a bar celebrating Pedro’s birthday, they had all insisted on spending time with him, Oscar had rallied some old and new friends of his, the bar jam packed and booked to yourselves thanks to Oscar.

The music was loud and you were having a great time, catching up with some old friends. “Hey honey, can I get you another drink?” You finish your beverage, the alcohol making you a little lightheaded, your bladder begging for release. “Sure baby. Just gotta duck to the toilet. I’ll be back.” You kiss him on the lips, missing his warmth and taste as soon as you pull away, shimmying through the crowd of drunk friends.

“Hey man, I’ll just get another beer and a cocktail.” Pedro leans against the bar, knee bent as he pulls his card from his wallet, paying for the drinks. “Hey man. Whoa, I gotta see this.” Oscar snatches Pedro’s wallet, Charlie Hunnam steps behind him, “dude no way.” Pedro leaves the drinks on the bar, “Oscar, give it back man.” Charlie huffs, “you get to have that all to yourself, so unfair, she’s so sexy.” They pull the Polaroid of you out half way trying to get a better look, Pedro’s hand is wrapped around your throat and thankfully they don’t pull it out entirely, the thought of his friends seeing him inside of you was too much. He didn’t need them seeing you like that, exposed and taking him perfectly, he didn’t want them thinking of you like that, or getting any ideas.

Pedro snatches the wallet back, pushing the Polaroid back into his wallet and shoving it into his Jean pocket. “Don’t ever touch that again, you hear me?” Pedro growls, his jealous getting the best of him as he turns around to pick up the drinks, they throw their hands up in surrender, “we’re cool man, alright.” You walk up to the bar and press a tipsy kiss to Pedro’s lips, he hands you the drink and you sip, groaning at how perfect it was made. Pedro’s free hand grips your ass and gives it a tight squeeze.

“Oh, hey guys!” You didn’t notice the two men standing there at first, they were watching Pedro claim you, his possessiveness shining through even though he knew you’d never do anything to make him worry. You were just incredibly sexy and that image wasn’t for their eyes, you were his and only his.

You turn back to Pedro and a drunk smile sits crookedly on your lips. “Happy birthday baby.” You whisper. Pedro pulls you into him and he kisses you, he moans into the kiss as if it were just you two, as if the bar wasn’t full of his family and friends. You hook your finger into the belt loop of his jeans. Throwing the glass back before licking your lips seductively, “what do you say we go home handsome?”

Pedro only nods, giving his friends a lazy smirk and a wink as his hand rests on your ass on the way out of the bar.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #pedro pascal x fem reader #pedro pascal plus size reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal rpf #pedro pascal birthday fic #Oscar Isaac #charlie hunnam

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demonichikikomori · 6 months

Text

Pink Bath Water

Paimon x GN!Reader Word Count: 1.6k+ Tags: Taking a Shower Together/I Love Paimon So Much/Suggestive

I don't care that you like (insert demon) more. I love Paimon. Paimon is the best. My Paimon is the strongest and most perfect. You will adore Paimon. Hail King Paimon. I wrote Paimon so many times it doesn't even look like a real word anymore. Happy 13 Lovely Hauntings.

SUMMARY:

After a battle, you and Paimon ended up soaked in angel blood. He said the two of you should take a shower. Together of course.

When you had first arrived in hell, you assumed angels would die in a much more elegant way. An explosion of gold color confetti. Maybe even a white cloud of smoke. But here you were walking stiffly behind Paimon, both of you drenched in blood.

The substance was drying against your skin, making it disgustingly sticky. The demon asked if you would like to wash off together, since he felt bad getting you covered in holy remains. You usually would turn down the request but the scent of gore was giving you a headache. “I know there’s a hotel nearby. I usually crash there when I stay out too late!” He chirped happily with a slight sway to his hips, and turned so he could walk backwards facing you. The rainbow pattern in his eye appeared to swirl and sparkle like a precious stone as he looked you up and down. “A blood soaked descendant of Solomon… It’s really exciting too.” He giggled gently with a wide smile splitting across his face. “Is it? It feels a little sticky.” You laughed nervously with a small shake of your head.

You didn’t know much about Paimon other than his love for cute things, bubblegum, and a rumor that he has an interest in blood. “Suuuuuuper exciting! Like I could eat you up right now!” He beamed with another soft giggle. The red coating his face made the sight much more intimidating than intended. As though his declaration to devour you was nothing to be taken lightly. “But I won’t! Because I love you oh-so-much!” The demon cooed with another spin, taking you through an evacuated district of… Love hotels.

You didn’t mention your surroundings to the blood-soaked blond as the two of you entered one of the desolate buildings. Thankfully this one went untouched by the angels' earlier attacks. There were heart streamers hanging from the ceiling and neon lights wrapped around the trimming of the walls, and behind the counter was an assortment of keys adorned with heart shaped charms. “We’ll just borrow a room. I’ll leave some money for the owner when we’re all done!” He promised as he rushed behind the counter to collect one of the keys. Although you were just here for a shower, it felt much more intimate knowing you were in a place like this. But the demon said he only slept here, and demons can’t lie.

Maybe you were just overthinking it.

“The soap here smells super-duper amazing. Like bubble gum, and strawberries, and like, so many other really good smelling things.” He led you to an elevator and pressed the floor the two of you would be borrowing. “I know His Majesty must miss you already, so I won’t take too long! I’m surprised he’s allowing it!” The demon cheered with his hands laced together behind him, swaying happily as the elevator began to rise. To be honest, you aren’t even sure if Satan was aware of what Paimon was asking. He waved a blood covered hand at the two of you to shoo you away as he fought to get pieces of angel halo out of his eyes. Courtesy of Paimon who left the battlefield far worse than when you all arrived.

You looked down at your stained hands with a small pout as the music played softly around you. “Well, he’s not exactly my boyfriend.” You used a stern tone as the pout began melting into a frown. Just because you agreed to help out in hell does not make that man your boss! “Don’t think about it too much. I’m doing this because I want to.” You assured the blond, who was now smiling even wider. “You’re such a cutie…” He whispered and reached out towards you with a blood stained hand. “Can we? I wanna be closer.” You agreed silently and allowed your hand to be taken into Paimon’s.

Your fingers were now laced together. Tightly. Intimately. He rubbed his thumb against your skin as he pulled you out of the elevator and down the hall. Of course, just for the purpose of showering.

The room was dim, the bed was a large heart shaped mattress and there were shades of pink and red everywhere. It was like Valentine’s Day had barfed all over the room. You were snapped out of your thoughts from the sound of the demons displeasure. “Uwehh… I have chunks in my hair.” He scoffed and pulled the blood soaked scrunchie from his ponytail using his other hand. With a light click of his tongue, he pulled a small piece of meat from his gold colored locks and a scowl. “Even covered in blood, I think you’re still cute.” You offered a kind comment in hopes of cheering him up. And it did. He smiled as he proudly undressed, revealing the faint scars along his toned body as he ushered you out of your own clothes.

He didn’t seem to care that the two of you were naked in an intimate setting, getting ready to shower together. You began wondering if there was even a point to salvaging your now ruined clothes as you folded up your top to place on the edge of the bed. Maybe Paimon could magically restore them? It’s not like you had anything to change into. If you had to, maybe the love hotel would have a costume you could borrow for the time being? Again, there was no time for thinking as the demon grabbed your hands gingerly and dragged you towards the bathroom.

Everything was a blur as he turned on the faucet and searched through a small cabinet for soaps. You stood there with your arms wrapped around yourself. You that hiding was pointless, but Paimon was still a man. A cute one. “Let me know if the water is too warm! I don’t want you to get burned.” He sang sweetly with a collection of colorful bottles and tubes in his arms as you stuck your hand under the rushing shower head.

The water was hot, but not scalding. It bounced off of your bloodstained skin and into the ceramic tub below where a pool of pinkish water began to form. “Too hot?” The demon asked and you quickly straightened up. Paimon was staring at you with a light tilt of his head. “It’s fine! Sorry.” You chuckled with a sheepish smile before lowering your gaze. You didn’t have to feel nervous. It’s just Paimon. Satan was someone you would have to be afraid of getting into a shower with. Paimon just… Wanted to get in with you. Together. At the same time. You stepped into the water, flinching at the sudden warmth as the demon giggled and got in behind you. The curtain was closed and the two of you began to rinse off. “Is it okay if I wash your hair? I promise I’ll be suuuuuuper gentle.” The blond assured you that the fate of your scalp would be safe in his hands. “I don’t mind. Do you want me to wash yours?” You asked as you watched the pink water start to grow redder and redder as the blood washed off of your bodies.

“You will?! Ahhhhh you’re so sweet! Let’s clean you up first okaaaay?” He sang from behind you with the sound of a plastic cap being opened. A thick substance was drizzled into your hair, and then the feeling of careful and skilled fingers. Paimon’s glittery pink nails massaged the strawberry scented shampoo into your scalp with tender motions. His slender fingers were so gentle, so comforting… You allowed your eyes to fall shut as you relaxed against the demon. You hadn’t noticed his wet body against yours as he continued to massage the soap into your scalp. You could feel the water and suds trickling down your skin as Paimon hummed behind you. “You’re letting your guard down. Does that mean we can shower together more often?” The blond had hope lacing his tone as you bashfully turned your head away. You could feel the heat flushing the tips of your ears as you pictured showing with Paimon a second time. Seeing him strip proudly before you, showing off his toned body, despite his feminine appearance. “Is that a yes?” He asked softly as you perked up and looked back at him with shock. You weren’t exactly saying no.

“Well…” You trailed off as Paimon began to pout. “I’ll consider it.” You answered sheepishly as his eye began to sparkle, There was a cheeky hum from behind as the demon slipped his arms around you and groped your chest. “Yaaay! You’re such a cutie!~!” He cooed sweetly with your nipples now pinched between his thin fingers. “We can get closer and closer in the shower. It’s not like His Majesty is here… Or anyone else.” He purred with his body now pressed flush against yours. His wet, golden hair clinging to your skin as your heart began to pound beneath his palm. “I’ll bite you aaaall over, and kiss you too!~! And then, I wanna taste your blood. I bet it’s as sweet as you are.” Paimon whispered, his voice was soft, nearly hidden under the sound of the shower water rushing from the faucet and the thrum of your heart. “Hey,” He called out to you, his tongue rubbing against the pulse point on your throat. You had to nervously angle your head away with the fear of his horns poking a hole through the underside of your jaw. Before you could respond to Paimon, his hands began to wander over your wet body. “promise we’ll do this again?”

Tagged Accounts: @ruggiethethuggie @ellobosh @candlewitch-cryptic

#13 Lovely Hauntings #whb paimon x reader #whb paimon #suggestive content

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zh0nggucc1 · 4 months

Text

Ridin and Rollin

Paring: Lee Jeno x Fem!reader

Word count: 2k

Content: Jeno and Y/N have a severe dislike for each other and a strong sexual tension. While trying to irritate Y/N, riding on his bike, Jeno gets injured and Y/N hesitantly helps him, taking him back to his apartment to bandage him up.

Warning‼️: NSFW, injury, bike accident, description of blood, cunnilingus, sex, explicit language, mentioning of female genitalia, mentioning of male genitalia, switch(leaning sub)!reader, switch(leaning dom)!Jeno, praise(receiving), riding.

She arched her back, fastening her pace as ecstasy and adrenaline washed over her. She suddenly bucked her hips up, the front wheels of her bike coming up with her, to do a wheelie.

She revved her engine, flaunting the beauty of the lump of navy blue metal below her.

The night was young, so young hints of yellow, red and orange still remained scattered, mesmerisingly, throughout the sky.

The cotton candy clouds stood proudly, knowing there was an audience of humans that envied its beauty.

The sound of revving echoed behind her. Instantly knowing who it was, she rolled her eyes in annoyance and sped up holding a stern expression.

She felt the vibrations of the revving from behind her getting closer. She cursed under her breath, clenching her teeth.

Soon enough the neon green bike caught up, a little too close for comfort to the side of her precious bike.

a sharp corner was coming up and the neon bike was nearing closer and closer, dangerously closer.

“FUCK OFF LEE JENO!” She yelled, her blood boiling from just having to mention his name.

He smirked through his helmet, deliberately getting closer to anger her even more.

Being too focused on her temper, he didn’t even notice the sharp turn. Her bike swerved, quickly, scratching it by knocking him off of his.

The sound of metal scratching caused her to come to a halt. She hopped off of her bike, observing the damage. “For fucks sake..” she muttered, approaching the injured man, whose bike looked worse than him.

She straddled him lifting his helmet off with force. His face was untouched, for now.

“You little bitch! You scratched my bike!” She slapped him across the cheek. He winced at the stinging sensation.

“Is that all you got? a silly little bitch sla-“ Before he could finish, her knuckles met his nose, resulting in a familiar crimson liquid gushing out.

“Shit!” He cursed, holding his nose trying to prevent the blood from oozing out. She smirked, satisfied with her work. “Not so much of a silly little bitch slap anymore is it?”

She got up, hopping back onto her bike. “So you’re just going to leave me after doing that?!” He raised his voice. She scoffed “Well duh, What does it look like?”

“Come on, pretty please? just let me ride on the back of your bike, my bike is clearly fucked and so am I by the looks of things, i’m asking you as a friend, not as an oppone-“ She cut him off.

“Gosh you talk way too much, if I let you get on will you shut the fuck up.” He nodded, vigorously. She sighed. “Fine.”

He limped over to her bike, His leg clearly injured. He hopped on, wrapping his arms securely around her waist.

She gulped, feeling how close he was to her. His crotch was touching her bottom. This wasn’t supposed to feel inappropriate at all but to her it felt like it. There was too much sexual tension.

“Are you going to start riding or not?” He spoke, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. She began to move the bike, at last, snapping out of her, not so appropriate daydream.

She sped through the streets, passing the limit, using the speed to distract herself from the inappropriate thoughts, but nothing could erase them completely.

Little did she know the same thing was on his mind and had been for a very long time. He tried so hard not to think such unholy thoughts while her ass was forced against his almost erect cock.

He was trying so hard to hide it but how could he when her ass was pressed against it.

“Can we stop at my apartment? it’s just over there, I need to get my first aid kit.”

“Sure whatever.” She said focusing on the road.

Soon enough, she had reached the apartment complex. She stopped outside.

“You going or what?” She asked, with attitude. “Can you help me? I hurt my leg.” She sighed and got off her bike.

He put his arm over her shoulder resting on her as she struggled to help him walk into the apartment complex.

“You’re so heavy what the fuck?” She said, helping him into the elevator. “It’s muscle.” She rolled her eyes. “yeah yeah whatever.”

They reached his apartment and he put the key into his door, twisting it open. She helped him walk through the door, noticing how clean and luxurious his apartment was. He must’ve robbed a bank for that. There was even a beautiful view of the city. That must’ve been expensive.

She brought him to the sink so he could wash the dried blood from his nose.

After that, sat himself on the counter. “Can you grab the first aid kid from that drawer?” He pointed at the correct drawer and she opened it taking out the kit.

He lifted up the great cargos he was wearing, revealing an extremely bruised knee. “Be a dear and bandage it up for me?” He smiled, innocently.

She sighed. “For fucks sake fine but you owe me, got it?” He nodded.

she took out a long white bandage, kneeling in front of him. In a different context this would sound very unholy. She was almost face to face with his crotch, causing her cheeks to redden. She tried to ignore it, delicately wrapping the bandage around his knee. It looked like she knew what she was doing.

He was flustered, seeing her kneel down in front of him. All he could think of was how beautiful her lips would look wrapped around his dick. A bulge was growing in his pants.

She noticed it but she acted like she didn’t. she gulped, the sexual tension quickly building up.

She finished wrapping the bandage around his knee and got back up. “There, all done, we can go now.” She said, making her way to the door.

Before she could go any further, she felt a tight grasp around her wrist, halting her movement.

He pulled her back, grabbing her hips so she could stand in between his legs.

He grabbed her by the top of her shirt, smashing his lips against hers. In shock, she stood frozen. Eventually she began to move her lips in sync with his, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He slid himself off of the counter, his erection poking her lower stomach through his cargos.

He led her to the bedroom, not breaking away from the kiss. she pushed him down onto the bed, straddling him. She was just as needy as he was.

She rolled her hips against his clothed erection, letting out heavy breaths into the kiss as he let out small groans.

He switched their places, him now on top. He left gentle yet sloppy kisses down from her lips to her collar bones. “Let me know if you want me to stop.” He said. She nodded in reply. He then pulled her shirt off, her bra, hiding her breasts. He swiftly in clipped her bra, kissing down to her breast. He gently sucked her nipples, causing her to squirm and whimper under him. He went back to kissing her neck, sucking onto the skin, determined to leave a trail of purple mark.

Happy with his work of art, he moved down to her stomach, leaving delicate pecks. He took her sweatpants off, revealing a lacy thong. His eyes darkened in hunger as his mouth watered, anticipating his meal.

He pulled off her panties with his teeth. He then spat on her wet womanhood, making it easier for him to slide his long tongue through her folds. She wrapped her thighs around his head, keeping him in place.

He rapidly licked her clitoris, causing her to let out heavy breaths. She arched her back, her face contorting in pleasure. He stuck his tongue through her entrance, using his fingers to rub her clit.

“Fuck~” She moaned out, tightly gripping her bottom lip with her teeth.

He smirked against her, happy with the reaction he was getting. He moved his tongue in and out of her at a faster pace, his fingers rubbing her sensitive spot also moving faster.

He was good at what he was doing, too good. In fact, good would be an understatement.

Beads of sweat began to drip from her forehead and this was just the start.

He gave her womanhood one last gentle kiss before bringing himself back up to meet her other lips. He began to unbutton his cargos, pulling them down to his ankles.

He also threw his shirt over his head, revealing his perfectly toned abs with scars all over them, he was a criminal of course so it was expected.

She stared in awe at his body, wanting to devour it immediately.

She hastily switched them around, sitting on his clothed erection, it felt huge. She pulled his boxers down, his hard cock immediately bouncing out onto his stomach. As expected, it was huge with veins pulsing all the way up to the tip, where precum oozed out. It was not only long, but it was girthy too. It would definitely take some getting used to. She couldn’t even fully wrap her hand around it, it was that girthy.

She felt fearful yet anticipated at the same time. She knew she would be left bedridden the second he pulled out but she was so desperate to have him inside of her already.

“Like what you see, babe?” He said, snapping her out of her thoughts. She looked away, her cheeks reddening.

“If you like the way it looks now, then u would love the way it would look inside of you.” He smirked and with with she smashed her lips against his, tracing her fingers over his scars.

While kissing her, he grabbed an XL condom from his dresser, breaking away from the kiss, he used his teeth to rip open the packet, sliding the condom onto his length. He threw the packet in the bin, beside his bed, reconnecting their lips.

He bit her bottom lip, sliding his tongue into her mouth, hungrily. Their tongues clashed together at war.

Soon enough, she began to lower herself onto his length, sliding the tip in. She felt a breathy moan leave her lips, into the kiss, as she did so. She slid herself further and further onto him until he was fully inside of her. He let out a deep groan, feeling her tightness around his cock.

When she finally adjusted, she began to slowly move up and down, letting out ungodly sounds. The sounds leaving his mouth weren’t any better. He sounded like an angel but the reasons for those sounds weren’t holy.

She began to speed up, bouncing up and down on his length, loud moans passing through her lips.

“Fuck, you look so good bouncing on my dick like that~” He groaned, gripping her ass so hard it would probably leave marks.

He moved his hands to her hips, guiding her as she continued to roll her hips.

He switched them over, now it was him on top. He threw her legs over his head, ramming into her like she was the last human on Earth. He let out growls, hunger and lust consuming him.

The sound of skin clapping, moans and groans filled the room. The neighbours could probably hear it.

“You take me so well, baby~” He moaned out, his eyes rolling back. He felt her clench around him, knowing she was close.

“Cum for me, baby~” He spoke, thrusting a few more times until she creamed. The clenching causing him to release shortly after.

He pulled out, sliding the condom off, tying it and throwing it in the trash.

He plopped himself beside her, breathing heavily.

“I can’t believe we just did that.” She said, processing it.

“We should do it again sometime.” He flirted, looking her in the eyes, laying on his side.

“I don’t think so, pretty boy.”

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed my first post, please give me your opinions! criticism is okay!! and if you have any requests I would love to take them, thank you for reading!!

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revenantlore · 3 months

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Find the Word tag

tagged by @oh-no-another-idea to find the words sight, sweet, tickets, and tape

sight — from neon bloodlust

Streaks of neon drip down the graffiti-coated alley wall, the four lifeless bodies propped against it like mannequins. Same as the previous … however many kills it’s been now; Vex has lost count, if he was even keeping track to begin with.

The victims’ eyes are wide open but sightless, their irises aglow in unsettling shades of green, orange, and yellow. Unnatural, but everything about this case is.

sweet — from neon bloodlust

Vex does nothing to fight it. Winds his arms up and around Grim to reel him in closer, gasps at the sudden release of Grim’s mouth, at the warm swell of blood on his neck.

Dark and dripping from Grim’s painted lips.

He lifts an arm up to curve around the back of Grim’s neck and smiles into the way Grim melts into his kiss. He tastes like blood tinged with something sweet.

tickets — from lost cause

Sirens blare in the distance as Nirvana and Oliver hurry across the parking lot, rain plummeting over them in thick, cold drops. Oliver’s been silent since leaving the apartment, fidgeting in the passenger seat while Nirvana sped them over. Speeding tickets be damned.

Rem’s motel door is unlocked, doorknob slippery in the rain as Oliver tries and tries to twist it open just to fail each time. He curses, loud and frustrated, until Nirvana nudges him out of the way, as calm and gentle as he can be, and jerks the door open.

tape — from neon bloodlust

Frowning, he turns to face her. Spritely, with a shock of bubblegum pink hair falling in messy chunks over her forehead, interwoven with shades of cotton candy blue. A row of short silver barbs pierce through the bridge of her nose, a rough brown jacket slung over sharp shoulders.

But it’s the whirling cassette tape spinning soundlessly where it’s embedded in her chest cavity that has his attention.

“There’s a cassette player in your chest,” he sputters.

“Oh. I get that a lot, yeah, it’s my favorite add-on.” Her teeth are a little crooked, a little large for her mouth, when she grins. “It’s a little unreliable sometimes, but,” she gives it a soft whack and music funnels out of … somewhere, “there we go.”

tagging @winterandwords , @andyswritings , @indecentpause , and @avrablake to find the words tilt, open, squint, and drain

#find the word tag #find the word #manuscript search #tag game #writeblr

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sebsxphia · 2 years

Text

wildflower, wildfire. | chapter one.

rhett abbott x reader.

￫ description: rhett finds his wildflower, wildfire and he wants everything with them.

￫ c/w: sexual tension, p in v, rough sex, rhett calls you pathetic, rhett uses derogatory language towards reader, fingers in your mouth, harassment, smoking, swearing, blood, mentions of scars, slight fluff.

￫ word count: 1.4K.

￫ a/n: holy moly ravioli! this is the first long and smut piece i have written in years! thank you @shakira-sasha for the one line that made me fold and gave inspiration to this. check out @weakling-grace’s incredible mood board created for this series here! the series masterlist and be found here! my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

next chapter

Rhett leaned against the top of the bar trying and failing to get the attention from the bar man for another beer, his second beer coming to a disappointing end. He turned his head right and at a glance it was as if a star exploded when he saw you. The very first thing he noticed were the purple, yellow and blue wildflowers tied neatly into your hair.

Rhett trailed his eyes across your face and he noticed the rosy pink creeping onto your cheeks as you sipped delicately at your drink, the heat of the summer getting to your skin. His third beer now on the way and with two swigs down his throat, he bit the bullet.

“Why the wildflowers?” Rhett questioned brazenly over the distance of you both.

When you looked up through your lashes, he was grateful the bar was holding him up otherwise he would have faltered there and then. He thought you looked like a fucking fallen angel. You had this graceful and angelic look in your eyes, but Rhett didn’t fail to notice how you bit down on your bottom lip. You were forbidden fruit.

Under the neon glow of the bar lights you saw how attractive he was. His features were gentle but his eyes were looking at you with gluttony. It was as if you were the only person in the bar right now and you were about to be his last meal. You swallowed the last of your drink slowly to wet your mouth.

You set the glass on the bar top with a gentle clink and your curiosity pinched at your skin.

“I grow them.”

“Where?”

He was quick and a blissful smile teetered on his lips. He didn’t loose the hold of his eyes on you.

You sat up straighter in your bar stool, pushing your breasts firmly against the bar. You wanted to enlightened him. Rhett could notice the swell of your breasts and how your sundress hugged your figure perfectly. He could only see the top half but swallowed thickly. He could only think about the rest of your body that was hidden under the bar. It only provoked him to converse further with you.

Rhett came outside and reached into his back pocket to light up another cigarette but stumbled upon you pushing a man off your arm, your cigarette ash sparking up into the night sky. The man followed with a string of curse words aimed at you, slightly slurred at best.

You cocked your head to the side, “oh, you don’t like being treated the way you treat me? That must fucking suck.” The man let up and went to find his way home, tripping over his feet one too many times.

Rhett saw how your face contorted to a scowl, but still behind the softness of your eyes he saw the sweet girl who wore wildflowers in her hair.

“You tell me if anyone does that to you again. I’ll put them in the fuckin’ ground for y-”

“Fuck off,” you quick whipped.

Rhett had only been left speechless a couple of times in his life and he made a mental note in milliseconds that this was one of them. However, the way your lips twitched upwards at the corners and the way your eyes focused in on him, he couldn’t really tell from your look if you meant what you said, or if you were about to take him round the back of the bar right now, unbuckle his belt and drop to your knees.

You stubbed out your cigarette and Rhett felt his cock twitch in his pants. He thought without hesitation for the second time that night. He grabbed your forearm as you reached for the door handle to the bar and pulled you back into him.

You were closer to him now, too close. You could smell the alcohol dancing on his lips and his old aftershave, it only enticed you further. Your breathing started to get quicker and if you pushed out your chest any further, you’d be touching his. Your eyes flickered to his and you saw a sight that made your heart jump in your chest and your breath catch in your lungs.

His black pupils were full blown with lust or love, and neither you nor Rhett could tell. Your eyes followed downwards as he ran his tongue along his bottom lip, over a cut that was nearly healed. He could feel your pulse quicken as his index and middle fingers slid down to hold your wrist. Like a noose around a bulls neck, you were captured by the cowboy.

He tightened the grip of his thumb and pressed down harder on your pulse point. It felt like your heart was going to burst through your rib cage and land on his shirt, staining him with a sickly amount of blood. It made you sharply intake your breath. You were trying to hold back the whine that was desperate to escape your throat. You could feel your arousal pool and slick between your thighs.

Just like delicate wildflowers, he knew they could be set ablaze quickly in the heat and by how hot your skin felt under his touch, he thought of you as his wildfire too. Both of you ready to combust if there was one more scorching touch.

“I want to love you forever.” He called out as if he had been searching for you all his life.

Your lips parted slightly in a sudden reaction. You tried not to gawk but you would be lying to yourself if it didn’t take you back at first.

Rhett knew how to treat a woman and be a gentleman, but right now in the back of his mind and just tipping over the precipice was the wanton desire to have you pressed up against his truck with one hand holding your hips so tight it would bruise and his other hand running along your lips, sliding two fingers into your mouth to stop you gawking at him. His pants felt strained now, scalding him.

“Could you handle me forever, cowboy?” You questioned and took the final step so your breasts were firm against his chest. He could feel how your nipples were stiffening below the thin fabric of your sundress. He wondered if it was the cool night air or his effect.

He hoped it was the latter.

Your question had his mind go damn near delirious with salacious desire. He wanted to make you so dumb. So dumb that you’d be a blabbering mess sat on his cock and not able to answer him. His mind wondered to that thought and dreamed for a split second of the filth that would fall off his tongue so easily.

“You wan’ me to keep your cunt full wi’ my cum? Fuckin’ answer me. Fuck, you’re pathetic.”

Bringing his mind back to the present, he leaned into you and you could feel his breath hot on your lips.

“Sweetheart please, I can feel your tits through your pathetic dress, almost fuckin’ smell you.”

Your brain short circuited quicker than it ever had. You rubbed your thighs together desperately and tried to ease some of the frustration you felt so deeply.

“So, I’d love to give that a try darlin’.” He continued with a cocky grin threatening to plaster over his face with pride.

He slid his hand round and onto the swell of your ass, squeezing it so tightly that you yelped. He quickly shut you up by pressing his lips onto yours. Your breath was fervent and heavy on his cut lip. He slid his tongue along yours and dipped into your mouth. His hands reached up to cup your face, thumb pushing under your jawline. You thought he might shatter your jawbone with how hard he was kissing you.

He pushed you back into the wall of the bar and he pulled away. His cock was straining in his pants as he saw how he made your lips swell. With one hand still cupping your face, he landed his other hand against the wall and trapped you there. He searched your face, and there it was. His wildflower, wildfire.

“I want to give you everything, forever.” He tipped his hat upwards with his index finger before placing both of his hands on your face again and leaning back in to kiss you. However this time you noticed it was softer, as if he wanted to remember every inch of your lips.

And oh, how he did.

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x female reader #rhett abbott x reader #outer range #lewis pullman #rhett abbott x you

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kitkatd7 · 2 years

Text

Tempt Me, Pet

Summary: You’re at a Halloween party and Loki gets a little hot and bothered by your costume ;)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ ONLY) Oral sex (M receiving) slight fingering (m & f receiving?) slight daddy kink, smut, name-calling, light choking, cursing. Please if any of these things bother you do not read this story.

Word Count: 2412

A/N: I wrote this last year but never finished it until today :/ Sorry if it's terrible.

The Costume I Imagine: OIP.H-n09dgLCbVlzPbmEdV7vQHaN- (236×445) (bing.com)

Masterlist of Masterlists

Marvel Masterlist

-----------

Waltzing into Tony’s Halloween party, your arm linked with Loki’s, you can’t help but smile. Who doesn’t love Halloween? Well, besides Loki, (who refuses to dress up despite your prompting) but he doesn’t count. He seems to think it’s a ridiculous mortal holiday, and he finds the entire idea of ghosts and zombies completely unrealistic- which seems a little ironic considering the worlds’ you live in are full of witches and magic- but all of that just means more candy for you so you don’t push the issue.

Tony went all out, as usual. The chandeliers are covered in skeletons and spiderwebs that stray from one to another and travel down the back of the stage at the far end of the room. The bar is topped with glasses: shots, wine, margaritas, hurricanes, and every other mixed drink that exists all have witches, wizards, and monsters of the night painted on them eerily. Behind the bar, all of Tony’s extravagant bottles of liquor are aglow with neon pinks, greens, blues, and every other color that can have a neon version of it. He must have lights under the bottles to make the drinks glow, you think. More neon pink and yellow lights bathe the room in spooky waves that swish from side to side and cast strange shadows.

Giant tables line the walls, complete with cauldrons of spiked punch, candy apples dipped in red caramel that looks like blood, mini coffins filled with every sort of candy, and all other sorts of scary foods.

You’re dressed to the T in a pirate costume Wanda helped you design and put together, complete with the makeup you did yourself. You’re really quite proud of this costume, it might be your best one yet. Loki hadn’t dressed up at all and still looked twice as good as you, in your opinion, but by the glint in his eye as his gaze raked your body you could tell he wasn’t of the same opinion. “Love you really shouldn’t wear such provocative costumes,” he whispered close to your ear, making you shiver, “I don’t like everyone in here staring at what belongs to me.”

“I think you just don’t like how I tease you with my ‘provocative costumes’ when we’re in public,” you mimic, a smirk lighting your lips as you tilt your chin to look at him fully, your breasts on full display for him. He pulls his eyes from the show your putting on, looking for Thor in Tony’s crowded party room. “Don’t test me, pet,” he growls, his hand resting on your lower back as he guides both of you towards Thor, Sam, Steve, and Natasha.

As you near them you smile playfully, you lean up on your toes (still slightly shorter than him despite your high heels) to whisper in his ear. “Yes daddy,” you breathe, shooting him a doe-eyed look which he responds to with a warning glare. You leave his side momentarily to hug each of them in turn, stopping when you get to Sam to admire his childish Winnie The Pooh costume. “Oh my god, Sam,” you laugh, “Your costume is amazing! If only you had Tigger with you,” you joke, giggling as you return to Loki’s side as his arm wraps possessively around you, his warm hand landing on your hip.

You shoot him a small smile before turning back to Sam as he laughs excitedly. “Oh but I do!” Sam smiles his signature dazzling flash of teeth that’s so contagious you can’t help but smile back. He gestures to someone you can’t see at the bar, yelling over the music, “Bucky! Come over here!”

“No wayy!” you exclaim, laughing as you scan the crowd for Bucky’s large frame, which appears moments later, dressed in a slightly askew Tigger costume complete with a hood that he’s scowling under as you all double over in laughter, the scene even prompting a chuckle out of Loki.

“Shut up, punk,” Bucky grouches, slugging Steve in the shoulder. “I hate you so much,” Bucky grumbles at no one in particular, you can only assume it was directed at Sam or Steve.

“You look great, Buck,” you laugh, humor dancing in your eyes.

“Your lucky I like you, doll. Otherwise, I’d treat you like I do Steve.”

“Awe but how could you do that to me, Buck? You wouldn’t treat a lady like that would you?” You feign offense, doing your best to look smaller and batting your eyelashes innocently.

Something about that look on your face right there gets to Loki. Something he can’t place. Whether it’s your plump lower lip sticking out slightly or your gorgeously enrapturing eyes, your low-cut blouse or your delicately furrowed brow, or all of the above- something about you in this moment sends a wave of love and a tsunami of want through him that he does his best to hide.

Bucky chuckles and everyone continues mingling and laughing, but when you look up at Loki his features are unreadable. With a quizzical expression and a soft, “is everything okay, baby?” your hand lights on his chest as you lean into him. He can’t help but wonder how you can make it feel like you’re totally alone together, even in a room of several hundred people. Regardless of how you do it, it makes him love you all the more. Because while you're standing there in your deliciously scandalous, tempting outfit that shows your desirable and dangerous edge both so well, you have the nerve to be worried about his emotions. And to him that is everything; that you could be everything a man, or god, could ever ask for, and still try to be better, even if you don’t realize you're doing it. This feeling he isn’t used to sweeps through his icy veins and sends a blush to his cheeks, and before you can say a word he’s pulled you behind a pillar and kissed you breathlessly. A kiss that’s desperate but acts as if it has all the time in the world. The sort that’s fiery in the moment and lingers warmly on your lips for days.

“I love you,” he murmurs, peppering kisses down your neck, “so much.”

“I love you too,” you giggle, pulling him back up to your lips. “But what’s gotten into you?” you laugh, amused by his sudden display of affection.

“I don’t know darling,” he confesses, his body lean and strong against your soft, pliant skin, your back pressed into the cool granite pillar. “But whatever it is I’d quite like to explore it away from prying eyes.”

“But we just got here,” you giggle, glancing up at him through mascara-coated lashes. “We can’t ditch Tony’s party before it’s even really begun.”

“I assure you, my love, his party is nothing compared to the night I’ll give you,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your pulse point as your eyes flutter shut.

You nod, fingers tangling in his raven locks as he continues his sweet assault on your quickly warming skin. “Okay,” you breathe, your voice nearly inaudible in your want.

You feel the smirk form against your throat as he rises, a knowing look glinting in his eyes as you grab his hand and begin winding towards the elevator.

You both stand inside, inches apart as the elevator doors begin to slide closed, neither of you touching but feeling the heat of the other's skin. As soon as the doors’ closed mostly he’s on you, backing you against the wall hungrily, his hands exploring your hips and sides as if for the first time. He’s gentle, his fingers caressing your skin through the thin material of your shirt in a way that makes you gasp; drowning in the most delicious way possible.

Where his fingers are soft, his lips are fierce as you both fight for control, until you give in and he starts leaving battle scars down your throat and chest that you’ll remember tomorrow. You whine his name- a sound that would have embarrassed you if you could have heard it over the blood pounding in your ears.

The resounding ding as you reach your floor pulls you both from each other as you make your way down the hallway and into his room, nearly dignified in action until the door closes behind you and you find yourself against another wall.

“Say my name again, pet,” he orders, a gruff tone edging his voice as his fingers dip lower, beginning to work your belt and corset off.

“Loki,” you sing, tugging your fingers through his hair roughly before attaching your lips to his throat, leaving a love map down to his collar bone, your hands beginning to undo his outer garments.

He grunts in pleasure, his corded thigh landing between your legs and applying pressure to your thoroughly wet core. “Again,” he orders as you grind pathetically against him.

Your head bangs against the wall but the ache between your legs blocks the pain out as your eyes shut tightly. “Fuck… daddy,” you moan, eyes wide with shock as the words slipped from your lips. You had only ever called him that playfully, never like this. He smirks down at you knowingly. “That’s new, kitten. Don’t be shy, my love. I quite like it.” He growls, teeth nipping at the hollow of your throat gently.

You let out a whimper, bucking your hips against him as your blouse disappears, revealing you to his hungry lips. He fondles one breast in his hand while he assaults your other nipple with his hot tongue, lathing over it slowly before grazing it with his teeth, only to repeat the process to the other and drive you slowly insane with the cold burn that goes straight to your core.

“Fuck, I need you,” you hum, hand traveling lower to palm his hard length through his trousers. You delight in the sinful moan that leaves his devilish lips and he magics away the rest of your clothes. His eyes rake over you, not neglecting to worship any part of you with his searing gaze. You take advantage of his slightly star-struck daze, switching your positions quickly and forcing him against the wall. He moves as if to correct you but you wrap your fingers around his wrists delicately, your soft stare stopping his movements as he relaxes against you, giving you control for the moment. You guide his hands to your lower back, caging yourself against his body before resting your hands on his shoulders, leaning in to connect your lips in a slow, open-mouthed kiss. His hands travel further, fondling your ass gently and pulling you flush against his chest. You lean away ever so slightly, beginning to unbutton his black shirt slowly; your fingertips brushing his burning skin teasingly. You untuck his shirt, reconnecting your lips as your fingers dip under the hem, grazing the skin just above his trousers sweetly. He’s getting impatient but you can’t resist making him wait a little longer, dancing along the seam and top of the button before stilling as he lets out a frustrated hum.

“Don’t stop,” he growls, one hand coming up to wrap around your throat gently, squeezing just enough to slow your air supply. You whimper in pleasure, eyes shutting but not making any effort to move. Expecting some form of retaliation, you gasp slightly when suddenly his naked form is pressed against you, his skin overheated and overwhelming, but not unwelcome.

Your hand lowers to wrap around his girth tantalizingly, earning a shiver and a groan from his devilish lips. His head falls to your shoulder as you begin to stroke him slowly. He nips harshly at your collarbone, breaking the skin before soothing it with his tongue, much as he did to your nipples which are still tingling from overstimulation. You brush your thumb over his tip slowly, smearing the pre-cum over his entire length, receiving another moan in reward.

Kissing your way down his beautifully crafted body you drop to your knees, your free hand resting on his well-corded thigh as he stares down at you, pupils blown wide. “I know you promised me a good time,” you hum, planting sloppy kisses down his shaft slowly as he watches, muscles flexing beneath your fingertips. “But first I want to make you feel good,” you whisper, making your way back up to his tip before kitten licking his slit several times as his hands find purchase in your hair.

You lock your gaze with his, lapping some of his pre-cum into your mouth before spitting it back onto his aching cock filthily, your fingers fondling his balls gently in contrast.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls as you take him into your mouth, bobbing your head slowly. “Such a dirty little whore wrapped around my cock.”

You moan around his length, drawing a string of curses from his lips as his hips buck.

“Bet your cunts soaking wet and I haven’t even touched you yet, pet…” He muses, fingers tightening around strands of your hair as you attempt to nod your head.

“Touch yourself- that’s it, good girl,” he praises as you dip your fingers past your entrance easily, grinding down, desperate, the heel of your hand pressing against your throbbing clit. You let out a pathetic whimper as he forces himself further down your throat, tears stinging the back of your eyes as pain and pleasure blur together.

He loosens his hold on you and you pull back, a quiet pop sounding as your lips leave him.

“Show me. Show me how wet you are,” he murmurs, a rumble forming in his throat as you pull your fingers out from between your legs and hold them up for him to see. “Fuck. Such a good little slut,” he muses as he observes the mess you made. “Such a whore for daddy,” he continues as you suck your fingers clean, his eyes glinting in the nearly dark room. You start to return your hand to your pussy but find it stuck to his thigh against your will. You glare at him pleadingly, eyes wanting. He tuts knowingly, guiding your face back towards his member until you’re centimeters away. He thrusts back into your mouth harshly, setting a deep, slow rhythm that has you trying not to gag around his enormous cock.

“You haven’t earned your pleasure yet, pet. You have to keep your promise first.”

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