#drawing teeth brushing is surprisingly difficult | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writefasttalkevenfaster · 3 years

Text

Aleksander Kirigan / Mine

Prompt: “You don’t know what you do to me do you?”

Word Count: 4,031

Warnings: 18+, Smut, literally just smut, semi-exhibitionism, oral (m + f receiving), desk sex, under the desk oral, religious imagery/references (saints/heretics), set before the winter fete, probably my best smut ngl,

Summary: aleksander takes what’s rightfully his -- you. and he doesn’t care who hears, and surprisingly -- neither do you.

You find him where you always do — in his office, maps and reports spread out in front of him. You had slipped away from your room, peeking through the crack in the door, and you spotted him immediately — not that he was difficult to miss. The inscrutable General Kirigan — everyone’s eyes were always on him when he made his presence known. His hands rested on the brim of the desk in front of him, his shoulders hunched with the weight of his country’s future. Power brimmed in every step he took, every move he made, every glance he took, and every word he spoke — and your eyes, like everyone else’s, couldn’t help but find his figure in a crowd.

But his eyes were always looking back at you.

And you remembered the first time you saw those eyes, brought before him in his tent, his eyes flickering up and down the length of you — and you only saw scrutiny — and not the pain underneath, the gentleness. And you wondered if that was a side he only showed you — you hoped it was a side he only showed you.

Your cheeks burned as you watched him carefully, a small sigh leaving his lips, and you bite your own — you knew a meeting would be starting soon enough, you knew you probably shouldn’t be watching him, you shouldn’t try to distract him from his work — but there were a lot of things you should have been doing.

And a lot of things you wanted him to do to you.

Be careful of powerful men, Genya had warned you, and you knew you would do well to heed that warning — but how could you?

And you wondered how she saw so easily through you — and if she had, then did others as well? Did they see the way you looked at him? Could they sense the way you longed for him to touch you, to draw closer and closer, until your lips touched? And did they see the way he looked at you? The way he smiled softly at you, a way he never did with anyone else. The way he drew you in — closer and closer to him? It was a force beyond you or him — and it pulled you to him just as it pulled him to you.

So how could you be careful? When your heart was already in his hands — he held it tighter than even a heartrender could and it was his to rend — even if you didn't wish to admit it.

"Are you going to watch me all day?" His voice rings out, pulling you from your thought, as he turns to glance at you.

And you bite your lip, caught in the act, as you slip into his office, closing the door behind you, to which his brow raises for only a half-second, "I didn't mean to disturb you— I—”

"You are never a disturbance," he shakes his head, "I welcome the company, especially if it is yours," and his lips curl softly as they do — only for you, as his full attention settles upon you, "is there something you need?"

You hesitated — you needed him, far too many restless nights spent thinking of his touch, of his skillful hands sliding up and beneath your kefta, his teeth grazing your skin to mark you as his own, of his face pressed between your thighs — the delicious burn of his beard as he kissed—

But you couldn't say that, and you toyed with the buttons of your kefta, so you said, "Do I need a reason to see you?"

And there's a ghost of a smile on his lips as he steps closer, "Most do, but I'm glad to see you're the exception," with his height, he looms over you, and you close the gap, but brush past him, arms brushing as you stand beside him.

"What are you working on?"

"Intel reports," and you spot a sketch of someone with a raven handled cane, before he tucks it away — "I'm briefing for a strategy meeting in a few minutes that I cannot miss."

And you mock pout, "Even for me?"

And he tilts his head, "Is there something so crucial that you must have me attend to it?"

"No," you shake your head, lips pressed shut as if the truth would escape otherwise, "but I too enjoy your company, more than most,"

And his eyes gleam in the dim light of his office, even the shadows seem to grow on the walls, as his lips curl, "How much more?"

And you can't breathe under his steady gaze, stealing the air from your very lungs with his gaze and replacing your blood with lava when his fingers finally brush your cheek — the very same way he did when he had saved you. Those very same hands that could wreak such havoc and wrought such fear touch you gently now, his smooth fingers running over the length of your cheek.

“More than I care to admit,” you breathe, leaning into his touch, and you see him smile, “more than I even can comprehend,”

And it’s true — words slipping from your lips, as they part for him now, longing to feel more than his breath warm your lips — and he's leaning closer, "more than we can," he murmurs, fingers slipping through your hair, but he pauses an inch from your lips, "do you--'

And you kiss him — and you knew once would never be enough — the taste of him, the feel of his lips. You steal his breath, and his fingertips brush your cheeks before you're parting.

Your heart rattles against your ribs, gaze shying away, until his fingers tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.

He smiles, again, the same that sends butterflies blooming in your stomach, as his arms only pull you closer now, "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

And you shiver under his gaze as he steps around you, slowly pressing you against the edge of his desk, "Gener—"

"Aleksander," he breathes before he kisses you. And his hands are exactly as you imagine, as they slide down your sides, squeezing as he presses himself to you.

He swallows your gasp with a grin, as his tongue slips into your mouth, just as easily as he entered your heart. Your fingers wind their way into his hair, soft under your touch, as you tug lightly on his hair when his teeth graze your lip.

"Did anyone tell you it was impolite to leave marks, General?" You swallow a moan, as his lips light a path down your jaw, lingering at your pulse, before he sucks harshly, "Gen—"

"Aleksander," he says sharply, as he lifts you onto the desk, scattering papers onto the floor, pushing himself between your legs, "and you won't like to see what kinds of marks I'll leave if you disobey me again," and his fingers begin to undo your kefta now as you shiver as he kisses you, "but you'd like that, wouldn't you?" He murmurs darkly, and you shudder under his touch, as he begins to slip the kefta from your shoulders, goosebumps raising where his lips brushed your bare shoulder, “for everyone to know that I’ve touched you in places no one else would dare—” he pulls you off the desk and spins you — your palms are pressed against the wood of the desk, his fingers squeezing your ass, at your hips, anywhere he could touch — and you knew he would leave bruises, “to know that you’re untouchable—” and his hand found your throat, your pulse jumping under his touch, as he punctuated his words with kisses to your jaw, pressing his bulge between your spread thighs, “to know you’re mine.”

And there’s a knock at the door, the doorknob turning. Your heads snap to the noise, freezing in place a moment. The room grows pitch black, as he tugs you while he calls the shadows forward to dim the light, as you grab for your kefta. The doorknob is turning, and you do the only thing you can — you slip under his desk.

And he’s standing near his chair, adjusting his kefta as he clears his throat, and you hear voices speak, but you barely can hear what they say, blood roaring in your ears.

Saints, what had you gotten yourself into?

You hear Aleksander speak, “We can meet here at my desk, please sit,” chairs screech as the pair take their seats, and he pulls out his own chair, swiftly taking his seat. You were between his legs now, and you realize he’s speaking to Ivan and Fedyor, their voices are muffled under the thick wood. And you sit, shifting, your underwear uncomfortably soaked, the sun summoner trapped under a desk almost naked.

Perfect.

You try to pull on your kefta, but you bump your head against the desk, a small groan escaping your lips, and Aleksander raises his voice to cover your mistake. Fingers find your head, and force you down, his grip tight, but he continues to speak, as if you weren’t fucking half naked under his desk at this moment. And the thought sends heat straight to your core.

And if he could touch — you smile as you slip forward — why couldn't you?

As the conversation proceeds, his grip slackens, and you make your move.

"Venturing into Fjerdan territory is a risk we will have to take," He tenses ever so slightly when he feels your finger tracing the outline of his bulge, "some risks are worth the reward," and he was warning you, even as you undid his kefta pants, "others are asking for punishment."

You smile — you were.

“General, where shall we start?” Fedyor asks jovially, “we are ready to help with the search — we know you wish this to be made a priority.”

Your hands graze his thighs, tracing the muscles of his leg, before your lips follow the trail your fingers take, until you reach the soft skin of his inner thigh. You suck a bruise on his skin, and you notice how he twitches in his pants.

As much as he protested, he was enjoying this — the sun summoner brought to their knees for General Kirigan, servicing under his desk, where anyone could catch them. They could hear you, they could see you — and it surprises you how the thought turns you on. They could find you, or more than that, he could show them. He could show them what he does to you — and what you do to him.

You slip his cock out of his pants, and it’s his turn to shift, but your palms spread his legs wider, but he continues to speak evenly.

“Have we heard anything from the trackers?” His hand reaches for you again, but you catch his thumb with your mouth, sucking it into your mouth, “I—” your fingers graze the head of his cock, and he swallows, “I may have another job for the two of you, and I want to keep you close — especially as the Winter Fete draws near."

Ivan begins to speak, but you don't bother to listen to what he says, instead your thumb smears pre-cum, before your tongue traces the slit of his cock. And you know he's not listening anymore either — as your tongue licks what can't fit in your hand. You feel his muscles twitch under you, his resolve buckling under your ministrations.

"What do you think, General?" And then you slide him into your mouth fully, sucking as you do. His back hits his chair, and you can see the outline of his hands, gripping the armrests, "General?"

You slow your pace, even as he inches closer on his seat, you're pulling away, "I believe you should do whatever you think is best," his fingers find you again, threading themselves in your hair as he pushes you further on his cock.

There is a pause, and you can almost imagine the two exchanging glances, "It may not be our place to ask, sir, but are you okay?" Feydor asks, hesitant, "you seem a bit flushed."

The tip of his cock brushes your throat, your moan muffled against him, as he nearly groans himself, "I appreciate your concern, the both of you, but I just need to be left alone — for a while. Please leave me for now."

His nails dig into you scalp as you begin to fuck yourself on his cock, and you know he's getting close, "are you—"

"It's an order," he growls, and the pair scurries off, the door shutting behind them, leaving only the two of you, "Ivan was right about one thing — you are trouble,"

You pull away a moment, a trail of saliva connecting his cock to your mouth, as you glance up at him — his eyes dark as the shadows that only grew on the wall. only for him to tug you back onto his cock.

"Did you have your fun, my sun summoner?" His fingers rake across your cheeks, before he pulls your kefta off of you again, exposing you. And his eyes take their time to traverse the lines of your body — his for the taking, "I hope you did," he says softly, as he threads his fingers tighter, nails digging into your scalp, "because I can't promise this will be all fun for you." And he glances at you, waiting for your affirmation before he continues — and you do, nodding.

He fucks your mouth, the tip hits the back of your throat over and over, as he groans freely now, gutturally from his chest. Words slipping past his lips that were nearly ripped from your imagination "imagine if they saw you — the santka brought to their knees for me, choking on my cock," and you moan around him, twitching in your mouth, "you'd like that wouldn't you? For everyone to see you belong to me—" And you look up at him, tears in your eyes, and he cums right there, searing down your throat as you swallow it.

He pulls out slowly, panting, dragging his cock across your lips to mark you, and he watches you as you let him.

He smiles a moment, softly, before he's grasping for you, wrenching you from below his desk and lifting you, his steady hands below your thighs. He's scattering papers onto the floor, books tumble over the edge, but that doesn't stop him, as he meets your lips. He tastes himself on your lips with a moan, his fingers wasting no time to reach your clothed slit.

Your fingers reach for his kefta, pulling it off his shoulders, and he’s shrugging it off, only for a moment until his fingers are against you again.

He swallows your gasp with his tongue, as his fingertips tease you through your soaked underwear, raising an eyebrow, "All this for me?"

“Aleksander,” and he snaps the waistband of your underwear against your skin.

And you whimper, as he pulls it aside, "it's blasphemy isn't it?" His fingers trace your outer lips, "for a saint to be corrupted by a heretic," and a finger deftly slips in, "what would someone say if they were to see you like this?" Another finger slips in with ease, "swallowing me so eagerly — and someone could, you know," his lips curl, "the door is unlocked," and you moan, walls fluttering around his fingers, as he begins to fuck you, "see you spread out on my desk for me — my precious sun summoner, cumming only around my fingers, begging for my cock.”

“Aleksander,” you’re so close, so close, there’s tears in your eyes again, your hips raising to meet his fingers, until he’s pulling his fingers out, “please—”

He shushes you quietly, cupping your cheek, with his other hand, lifting your gaze to his, as he licks you from his fingers, “So sweet,” he drags his thumb down your lips, “I have to get a better taste,”

And he’s the one on his knees now, between your thighs, tugging your underwear down, and you groan as his breath warms your cunt. You can’t speak as his lips press teasing kisses to your inner thighs, just as you did, before his teeth graze the soft flesh, sucking. His beard burns deliciously against your too hot skin, and he’s too close and not close enough — would he ever be close enough?

And you’re boneless, arching into his touch, “Aleksander—” and he only soothes it with his tongue and a smile.

“Now we match,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your thigh, “don’t we, my santka?” And then he presses a kiss to your dripping lips, a groan leaving his lips — a noise of sheer reverence, because as much as you were his saint, he was your sinner.

His nose bumps against your warmth, his tongue licking a short stripe up your clit, and your hands reach for his head, fingers tangling themselves in the soft strands of his hair. And you’re moaning his name, as he teases you with his tongue and mouth — not giving you what you want, “Aleksan—” you whine, as he gives another sloppy kiss to your clit, and you nearly cry, “please—”

“Look at me,” and you follow his order like his soldiers, your eyes raising to meet his, half hooded and hungry, “tell what do you want,” Another whine parts your lips, and a grin splits his lips apart, “I’m not a mind reader,"

"I want to come," and he parts your thighs wider, his lips wrapping around your clit, and sucking. And you're nearly screaming as you arch into his touch, his tongue parting your folds. And he's fucking you in earnest — and you had never felt such devotion like this — known such pleasure, known such sin. And you didn't think you could live without it again — without him again.

His name keeps leaving your lips, over and over — and you were probably the first to ever pray to a heretic. But you would throw yourself at his atler, his sins, your penance; his touch, your redemption; and his words, your gospel.

You're close, so close, a coil in you growing tighter, until it snaps as he sucks hard on your clit. And he lets you cum against his lips, curled in a smile, as you ride out your orgasm with his face between your legs, his beard dragging against your skin, as his fingers press you to him still.

You are coming down from your orgasm, but still, he’s murmuring against you, “I can’t get enough of you,” he presses a kiss to you, eyes half lidded, as you lift your head to glance at him, his chin shiny with you.

And you barely can speak, but the words slip out anyway, “Lucky that you’ll have me all your life, isn’t it?”

His eyes snap up, his gaze growing softer with emotion, an emotion you could see so clearly — a loneliness that engulfed him, much like the darkness that he summoned, “Is that a promise?”

And you pull him to your face, “If you’ll have me,”

His smile could have blinded you, as he cupped your cheek gently, “I’ll never refuse you, my sankta,” and he kisses you sweetly, “you deserve to be worshipped," he whispers against your lips, “revered,” another kiss, “loved.”

Your voice catches in your throat, “As long as you’re the one doing it,” And your fingers brush against his face, “Aleksander,” and he’s kissing you again, pressing his member against you, dragging against your pussy, “I love you,”

And he’s positioning himself against you, groaning as the tip bumps against you, and his name parts your lips as he parts your folds, as he sinks into you, “You’re dripping for me,” he murmurs, unmoving, cock twitching as he stares at where the two of you meet — now one. And your walls flutter around him, as his hand reaches for you, his fingers around your throat, as he forces your gaze downward, “Look at how well you take me, how you’re swallowing me,”

“Aleksander,” and he’s squeezing lightly, as his hands lift your legs around his waist, making him sink deeper into you, “Please—”

“There’s a meeting next door,” and you freeze, “and the door’s unlocked — someone could walk in,” but he’s unfazed, as his hips begin to snap against you, and you whimper, “they could catch us, but you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

And you can’t do anything but bite your lip, but your body betrays you — your walls squeezing around him, and he chuckles, a huff into your ear, “You can’t lie to me, sankta,” And then he’s fucking you into the desk, his hips snapping against you, as the wood of the desk groans under you, “you want to be claimed — just like you were under the desk, hoping you’d get caught,” and his mouth drags against the hollow of your throat, sucking harshly, “you want everyone to see you’re mine,”

“Aleksander,” his name is ripped from your throat, a quiet moan, and his hips meet yours — skin to skin, the wood grain of the desk digging into your back, as he rocks against you.

“Louder,” he orders, “let them know who you belong to,”

And his fingers find your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he fucks you. And you’re coming apart below him, and you do as he says, moaning his name — and he’s right, you hope they hear it, hope they know that you’re his —

He’s growling your name, as you cum around him, pleasure blooming throughout your body, his name leaving your lips as you do. And all you can think of is him — his touch, his lips, his body, his kiss — as he finds your lips again to swallow your moans. To think you were no one to him only weeks ago — and now he was everything to you. And he’s fucks you through your orgasm, until he’s cumming too with a groan of your name, face pressed to the nape of your neck — his cock buried deep inside you —

And that he’s yours.

He slows, panting into your ear, as he mutters your name under his breath, as his hips slow, and he stays there a moment, your foreheads brushing. You savor the stillness between you. And then his lips brush against your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, and your eyes flutter open, finding him smiling softly at you.

You shift under him, but he stops you, “Just a moment longer,” and you pause, smiling up at him, reaching for him, fingers resting at the back of his head.

“I didn’t take you for the sentimental type, General,” and your fingers twist the dark strands of his hair around your fingers, and he shifts, enough for you to gasp, “Al—”

And he doesn’t try to hide his own smile, “I just don’t want us to become two — not just yet,”

“We will never be two, Aleksander,” you murmur softly, as you pull his face to yours, “never again.”

And his eyes gleam with something you don’t quite understand, but he tucks it away before you can, shuttered behind a smile, “Never.”

But you didn’t know that he truly meant never — as he pulls away from you, helping you dress yourselves, stealing kisses while you do. And he’s watching you as you adjust your clothes, his eyes drifting to the sketch of the stag and then back to you, because he’d never let you leave him. And you turn back to him, smiling, as he steals your hand to press a kiss to your palm, his gaze never leaving yours —

“I love you,” you whisper, and he smiles.

Because you were his —

“I love you too.”

Forever.

#general kirigan #aleksander kirigan #aleksander kirigan x reader #general kirigan x reader #shadow and bone fanficiton #aleksander morozova #aleksander morovoza x reader #general kirigan smut

530 notes · View notes

rotshop · 3 years

Text

GONNA B HONEST W/ YOU ,,,,,, i rlly dont like how this is written lmao ,,,, but also im sleepy tired so i get a pass dhmu /j

[ TW ; gore, some violence, death ]

notes ; based offa DIS ,,, u might wanna read it for some context n shit ,,, lawl ,,,

Between the two of you, it's hard to tell who's suffocating more. It's hard to tell if its you, with the little pants that pass by your teeth in shaky steps, hitching whenever they're cut down when you have to stop to cough up blood. It should be you, you who has your guts spilled out onto the floor and your blood staining all the concrete underneath the both of you. It has to be you, who's leaning heavy against 2b's chest and drawing unfocused circles onto his shoulder. It had to be you, you just had to go inside by yourself, you just had to be slow on the draw and nearly be ripped clean in two. It just had to go wrong with just you.

Even with all that in mind, he feels like there's nothing in him. There's no lungs to draw in breaths, no mind with clear thoughts on what to do and how to stop this once more, and certainly no heart beating steadily. In those places was instead viscera, a mangled, nameless mess of pink and red weighing him. There was some clump of pink that drew in some shaky puffs, barely reaching him as he choked on his own pride. There was nothing but tangled strings and weights in his head, making his skull pound as something in the back of his mind screamed to do something. There was a heavy weight behind his ribs that stayed put, a finality hanging over his shoulder as it always would.

He doesn't want to cry. He shouldn't be, you're the one with your innards exposed to the eyes of any and all and your face buried in the crook of his neck, it should be you who's crying in pain. He shouldn't be crying, he shouldn't be shedding tears when there's not a single bleeding wound on his skin. He shouldn't be and yet they're tight in his throat, threatening to tumble past his lips and create an embarrassment of himself. A shift brings him back from his thoughts, turning his attention back to you.

There's a little stutter in your movements, a quick pause as your vision momentarily fails you and your breath is wheezed past your lips. A quick, aimless grasp at your innards to have them follow your movements, rather than stay partially stuck to the floor, tugged further from your soon-to-be-cadaver as you readjust. You're just pulling yourself ever closer to him, little to no space left between the two of you as you support yourself on his figure. He can't help the way his own movements choke and pause as he moves his arms to wrap around you. He can't help the way he takes a sharp, shaking inhale as the skin of his arm ghosts over the start of your gash.

He remembers the first time he'd been with you in your 'final' moments. He remembers how the line had fallen dead on your side and the others all fell into a silence. They'd only told him later on why, they 'didn't want to scare him off.' He was still a little upset about it, even now. He had always been stubborn like that, it was a fact of him that you regarded with warm laughter and endearing teases.

He remembers the pure terror that'd gripped him as he came across you, choked squeaks and hisses leaving your lips as you writhed. The debris around you and the tangle of pipes and bars you'd been impaled on told the story he never bothered to ask, the one he'd never truly questioned you on even to this day. Something about the way you'd glanced at him in that moment never left him. Maybe it was how the pure agony you'd been in moments before shifted to confusion on his being there, shifted into something gentler yet still as forlorn and miserable, either way it haunted him endlessly. He remembers how you were such polar opposites after he'd managed to tear himself from his place.

The clatter of his goggles against the ground fell on deaf ears when he'd rushed for you. He barely even noticed how quick his breath was speeding up, he was far too focused on helping you, on getting you back to base so he could fix this. It'd taken your weak swipes at him and breathless pleads to just stop to snap him back, he didn't want to listen to you. He wanted to tear you from that metal and drag you back to base, he wanted to set you down and get to work, and then he wanted to grab you by the collar and ask just what was going through your head. He wanted to be mad, he wanted to argue and to let go of all the tension wracking him and making his hands shake. It was tearing him limb from limb in the worst way possible, in the one way he never wanted to feel.

He was afraid. Honest to god terrified from the moment his gaze fell on your bleeding-out form. It shook him to his core in a way he hadn't felt in forever, breaking past the facade he'd worked so hard to build in an utterly humiliating manner. He hated the way he had to clench his hands and bite his tongue as he stared down at you, his weak attempt at keeping his tears back that hung by a thin string. He hated how he fell to his knees, coming face to face with you as you looked back at him.

Your eyes were still soft with accepting misery in the moment, a weak smile finding it's way onto your lips as you reached for him. You'd struggled, finding it difficult to meet his face when the world was spinning so dizzyingly. He'd hesitated, hand shaking as it found your wrist, him leaning into your touch with an unsteady breath. If the tears weren't already hanging behind his eyes, they would've burst up with a vengeance when you started brushing your thumb over the bandages on his face.

He couldn't remember how exactly you'd spoken, how you'd been able to between the gurgle of blood in your throat and the copper piercing you, but you had. It was a request ; a final wish of sorts he didn't want to deny you. You could've asked for anything in the moment and he would've done it for you, he would tear through whoever and whatever he had to for you. He would rend flesh and ruin relationships and scar the world if he had to in that very moment. He'd never been an especially generous type, he could extend a certain amount of kindness to others but there was a limit to his softness. Yet, you managed to turn him so, managed to make him give an excuse of 'it wouldn't hurt,' or 'it's just a one time thing,' when it came to you.

Even so, you'd made such a simple request. One he would've asked you himself in other circumstances if he weren't so stubborn with what little ego he clung to. One he would've been happy to hear from you in the comfort of home and privacy. Even so, he'd nodded when you asked. Even so, he'd ignored how his own hands shook as he held his over yours gently.

It was an odd feeling, your blood seeping into his mouth, iron heavy on his tongue as his lips met yours. The taste would've been revolting under any other circumstances, making him recoil and pull away with a note to never repeat the cause. Yet, he didn't. He kept his lips against yours gently, experience slipping him in the thick anxiety of the moment. Even then, reluctance followed when he pulled away.

Content lost its footing when you'd given him once last smile, then it fell with a crash when your gaze grew glassy and unfocused. He'd never forget the panic that gripped him so tightly, enough of a disturbance to slip past his guard and make the tears start to fall. He didn't even notice them in the moment, all he saw was your corpse and the end of the compassion and emotion you'd helped him regain over time. He never asked the others if they heard him then, if they heard him plead with you, if they heard the sobs and begs he never would've given if it weren't you. He's glad they never brought it up, it was just a touch easier to forget how he'd completely broken down for the first time in a long time when you'd fallen still.

He was glad you weren't able to hear them. He's sure you would've made some dumb comment about it as you stood before him, alive and well as though nothing happened. He's sure you would've smiled and hummed a question he wouldn't answer, he's sure he would've reacted all the same. He's sure he still would have grabbed you by the collar and shoved you back against the wall, he's sure he would've still hissed at you to explain yourself, ignoring the desperation laced in his voice as his eyes began to burn again. You had an effect on him, one he wouldn't ever admit to even if you poked and prodded at it time and time again by simple virtue of you being yourself.

You were a surprisingly good kisser for someone on the brink of death once more, but you were better at it when you could count how many of him there were.

He's not sure what pulls him back as he looks down at you again, noting your still form blankly. He's not sure why he pauses for a few long moments, simply keeping his arms around you as your body grows colder and colder. He's not sure why he tucks hair behind your ear and lets his hand linger, warm by contrast against you. He's not sure when he pulls himself up off the floor, careful of your innards as he pulls you up with him.

He is however sure he feels a hell of a lot better when you sit up from your previous place on the table, hand trailing over the stitches that line your stomach and chest as you give a little hum of approval. He's sure he's smiling a little at that simple bit of praise. He's sure you'd make a comment about it if you noticed.

"Happy to see me, huh?"

He's happy to be right.

#2b x reader #2bdamned x reader #madcom x reader #madcom imagines #madness combat imagines #madness combat x reader #rot writes #oughhhh imf uckgin tired but its only 1am (head in hands)

96 notes · View notes

sweetberrysmooch · 3 years

Text

HC: And There Was Only One Bed (Affectionate) [pt. 2]

(Zzzzzzz…..)

(Alright, second part done :V Not much to say here for now, but I hope you’re excited for the upcoming part to come out next ^^ And my ask box is always open, so feel free to drop in and chat any time! I’ll be seeing you :D)

Basic sleeping hcs with ya boys, and for a part two, outside home life? You’ll see what I mean lol

Characters: Quackity, George, Badboyhalo.

Warnings: Nightmares in Quackity’s part, but besides that we’re clean <3

Song Recommendation: Metamodernity- Vansire

Up Next- Sapnap, Philza, Fundy, Schlatt.

Enjoy your day guys! I do hope it be rockin :]

Quackity:

Quackity is one floppy motherfucker. You fall asleep with him spooning you, head nestled between your shoulder blades, hands holding yours in front of your middle, legs entangled, the whole shi-bang, but wake up with him starfishing half on the mattress at a weird angle that makes his neck sore for the rest of the day.

Each day is a new position for you to add to your ammunition of teasing against him, but he takes it in stride. He totally doesn’t wake you up halfway through the night by flinging himself over your middle, ‘asleep’ and snoring like a freight train. When you give up halfway through trying to stop him breathing and just fall asleep lying on his chest, he turns to mush and gets distracted playing with your hair. You don’t know why he seems so exhausted the next morning, and he only giggles dreamily at you when you ask.

While he’ll be the big spoon for as long as you want him to, there’s a special soft place in his heart for being the little spoon. Hold him, please. Pull him to your chest and gently run your fingers through his hair, rub his back and kiss every inch of his face until he’s down for the count. The easiest way to make him feel better after a bad day or an argument is to let him know you want him and love him. Just holding him at night guarantees that he’ll bring you a present the next day (like the inner stardew valley house husband he sometimes longs to be lmao).

It’s a 50/50 chance of waking up with Quackity or after him, seeing as he prefers to get up early to enjoy the quiet mornings before the rest of the smp wakes up. He gets ready, makes the both of you coffee (or tea, something to help wake you up), and watches the sky change color while he waits for you to come sit with him in the kitchen. The two of you try your best to assure a moment together before you go about your separate ways, sitting together and talking about what you have planned or what you might have for dinner later. It’s his favorite part of the day, aside from coming back home to your awaiting arms.

Another citrus-y smelling fellow. More orange than lemon, he bathes in the morning after he wakes up. You typically wake up right after he gets finished washing up, walking into the bathroom to hear him quietly humming while drying off his hair and wings. He’ll give you a small guilty grin and a good smooch on your forehead as an apology.

Another poor fellow with nightmares;; They’re a lot less frequent than they used to be now that you’ve gotten together (having someone to talk to and work through each others issues does WONDERS apparently) but when they hit, they hit him hard. You wake up from him twisting and turning right before he wakes up in tears. He doesn’t like to be touched afterwards, drawn in on himself and facing away from you, hiding his crying. When you leave to get him a glass of water and come back, he’s more grounded, crawling into your arms and accepting the drink gratefully. With his forehead pressed to your throat, taking small sips from his cup, he’ll tell you what his dream was about. Sometimes it’s Technoblade, sometimes Dream, mostly Schlatt though. His ex lingers on his mind more than he likes to admit, a deep sense of abandonment showing through his nightmares. Quackity struggles with sleeping for a few days after, afraid of what he might see when he closes his eyes again.

(You’ve fallen back asleep by now, hand paused in its ministrations and resting snugly in his hair. Things are warm and quiet and soft, and he feels safe again.

The nightmare still hovers fuzzily in the back of his mind, but for now he can ignore it, focusing on your slow breathing as it lulls him back to sleep.

His last thought before finally letting himself rest is how much he loves you, giving you one last squeeze in his tight embrace before relaxing into a much more stable slumber. ‘Gracias por todo mi amor.’)

George:

Impeccable skill of just falling asleep wherever and whenever. Before the two of you got close and started sharing a bed together, he really left his sleep schedule up to fate. He’d find a comfy spot and crash there for a few hours till he was awoken and would just repeat that a few hours later. Now that he has you, he makes more of an effort to stay awake during the day so he can sleep through the night next to your side. It more or less works, but occasionally he’ll have slept during the day and he wakes up in the middle of the night. As “punishment”, he sentences himself to waiting it out instead of getting up to do something because he truly wants to keep going to bed with you.

Not big on contact, likes having his space when he’s sleeping. Cuddling is nice every once in a while, but he prefers being able to breathe a little bit when falling asleep. He does, however, actively make the choice to hold your hand while he slips into slumberville. His grip isn’t too strong, nor is it very light, but a gentle mix between the two to try and remind you how much he loves you. You’ll wake up before him and his hand will still be holding yours, pulled to his chin as he sleeps. His breath fans your knuckles slowly, face eased of any stress, absolutely content.

George bathes…… probably. I’m just kidding, he fluctuates between bathing at night or in the morning because he just goes through phases of forgetting to when the time comes. His little mushroom home doesn’t come with a bathroom, seeing as its wholly empty (please if anyone has housing information on George or like. Any character at all please inform me please i beg-), so he’s limited to getting clean at a friend’s or your house. Typically yours. He keeps all of his valuables at your place once you start letting him sleep over there, tucking his clothes into your closet or in your dresser when he thinks you aren’t looking, leaving a toothbrush and his soap in your bathroom, hanging his armor up on an empty armor stand you have tucked away, all due to his inability to straight out ask if he can live with you.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to live with you, he practically does anyways, but there’s something in him that worries that you won’t like him if you’re forced to live with him permanently. He knows it can become… a bit much when you have to be around someone 24/7, but doesn’t realize that you pretty much already are around each other 24/7 lmao.

It takes a while but eventually he settles down and over dinner suggest that maybe you two should take it to the next level. His face is flushed pink and he keeps switching which leg he has crossed, but he takes your hand and quietly asks if he could start living with you. It’s a surprisingly sweet moment, even with your confusion (thinking you already DID live together), and of course you say yes.

He looks so relieved when you accept, and is kinda like, “I know this will be a difficult process but I’m very excited to become closer with you.” and then nothing changes ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(It’s on the walk home when George finally processes that he now lives with you. It feels heavy on his heart, a mix of nervousness and excitement that makes him swallow hard and tighten his fingers around yours.

This isn’t the first time he’s spent the night at your place, nor is it the first time he’s crawled into bed with you and slept next to just because you let him, but it is his first night actually living with you. The moment feels brand new, as if it’s his first time visiting your house all over again.

He begins to wonder if maybe this was a mistake, maybe he’s moved too fast and maybe your regretting letting him live with you already and- He takes a hurried look at your face. You look… unbothered. Happy, even.

There’s this half hidden smile on your face that soothes his anxieties, drawing out his own fragile smile. He can’t wait to live with you.)

Bad:

Mmmmm, big man warm. A natural heat machine, no need for lots of blankets or heavier pajamas, Bad will take care of all your cold problems. Every night after you finish your shared nightly routine, you curl up in his arms, immediately becoming over come with his toasty embrace. It like when you get clothes out of the drier and just hug them to your chest, the warm, clean, smell good experience that Bad also delivers.

He’s got a pretty ingrained nightly schedule that he sticks to, and he always invites you to join him after you finish up dinner. It starts by cleaning up the house a little, washing the dishes, setting aside clothes for the next day, taking a quick bath, brushing his teeth, reading a few chapters from a new book he’s picked up, and then settling down to go to bed. He won’t push you to do it with him, but he does try to incorporate you into his routine when he can. Usually it’s just by doing something small, like reading together or massaging your shoulders, but sometimes he’ll ask you to join him when he bathes.

Bad bathes pretty often, always at night, and using a nice smelling soap that he makes himself. Like what was said above, he’ll sometimes ask you to join him when bathing. It’s not ever for any naughty means, but because he sees bathing as a very intimate and vulnerable activity for you to share. He won’t push it, understanding that it can be overwhelming to be so open, but if you do choose to join him, he’s so gentle with you. His hands are worked and calloused, but they’re soft when they run soap through your hair, his nails lightly scratching your scalp and running down the back of your neck. He practically purrs when you return the favor, giggling as your hands brush sensitive spots around his sides. Afterwards he becomes so cuddly and attached to your side, you fall asleep with him curled up on YOUR chest, trapped under him.

That being said, most nights he takes to being the big spoon. It’s more for convenience sake, seeing as he’s a good few feet taller than you are, but he also can appreciate being held and loved on after harsher days. He’s a lot like a weighted blanket, a nice heavy weight that keeps you warm and makes you feel loved <3 love this guy.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), you sometimes have.... Visitors. Bad is a hub for the homeless, bored, and nutty members of the smp. They flock to him like birds to the elderly, which means you have “children” to take care of for a day or two at a time :/. Dream and George aren’t regulars, per say, but Bad has a room set aside for either of them when they come over. To their credit, they do try to be polite when they come over, and will help in cooking dinner or cleaning up. Skeppy, however, is unlike Dream or George, in that he’s more of a third partner in your and Bad’s relationship.

Skeppy up and appears at random, no announcement, and makes himself comfortable any place where Bad is. Be it at your home or his, Skeppy eats your food, lounges on your furniture, hell, he even sleeps with you and Bad at night. You two share Bad’s chest whenever Skeppy is over. It’s so jarring at first, having to deal with having another boyfriend (because Skeppy will consider you to be apart of the thrupple after introductions), but he usually only stays for like 3 days before leaving to do whatever else he has planned. You don’t know if you should be worried or upset or what, but after a while it becomes kinda nice to have him around.

All in all Bad is great to sleep with <3

(Bad blows the lantern out on his bedside counter, shuffling under the cover beside you once the room was fully dark. You slung an arm over his chest instinctively, cuddling up into his side when his arm pulled up around your back and held you even closer.

You shivered pleasantly when he gently pressed a kiss into your hair, becoming sleepier and sleepier with each rise and fall of his wide chest. He sighs quietly and squeezes you, murmuring softly to you as you both fell asleep. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep well.”)

Have a good evening! Do something nice for yourself tonight. You deserve it.

#mcyt x reader #dsmp x reader #c: george #c: quackity #c: badboyhalo #georgenotfound x reader #quackity x reader #badboyhalo x reader #hc: and there was only one bed (affectionate)#woof #sorry this took so long to get out guys ^^;#lets hope pt.3 won't take as long!

248 notes · View notes

novelconcepts · 3 years

Note

Prompt: Jamie is the one who finds Dani locked in the closet. Dani is still having a panic attack and Jamie helps her.

Time slips away when you're out of your head, Dani has found. It moves so much faster--so much slower--so much less correctly with blood pumping at a dizzying rate. With black spots marring her vision. With her breath caught, tangled in a fisherman's net of sharp inhale, hold, hold, bare exhale, she can't think. There are tears dewed on her eyelashes, and fingers folded into shaking fists, and she is little more than the repetition of her own weight meeting the door--again--again--again--

It's open, she realizes, and wonders how long it has been open. Not long, certainly. Not with how forcefully she's been hurling herself against unyielding lumber. Certainly, she would have--

Well. Tumbled out as she is now, a horrible muddling of limbs and purple sweater and mascara scraped down her cheeks. The breath she has been clawing for still won't quite come, not even with the door hanging open and the soft light of Flora's bedroom pouring inside.

Not even with strong hands catching her by the shoulders, a voice speaking low and smooth into the silence left in the wake of her screams.

"Hey. Hey, now. Hey, you're out, you're all good."

She blinks once. Twice. The world as painted by hysteria is neatly bisected, right down the middle. On one side: the mirror, his solemn face, the horror of being locked in with him. On the other: butterflies on the walls, a dollhouse in the corner, cool air rushing against her flushed skin.

Dark curls. Bright eyes. The gardener from lunch, the one with whom Dani still hasn't held a real conversation.

Jamie.

"What," she tries to say--what are you doing here, you left hours ago, you shouldn't be here--and can't get any further. What, echoing between them, strangled on the end of a sharp inhalation that refuses to fill her up. Her throat is closing. There is a boulder lodged against her windpipe, another sinking down against her chest. She is, she realizes, folding her hands together so hard, her knuckles stand stark against the front of Jamie's overalls.

"Kids," Jamie says--a one-word question. The panic swells higher as Dani realizes she does not know. They were there, turning the key. They were shouting through the door. And then...then...

"Don't know," she wheezes. "Don't know--I--"

Jamie grits her teeth. Her eyes dart back toward the door, her body still tilted entirely toward Dani. "You all right if I...?"

Dani nods, a rapid bird-flutter of a gesture that sends her sour stomach heaving. She gropes backward for Flora's bed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. Jamie watches her with an expression she can't quite read, her jaw lifted, her shoulders set.

"Back in a sec. Promise."

Dani shuts her eyes, scrounging for breath, listening to the steady thud of boots striding out of the room. Her fingers sink into Flora’s bedspread, her elbows pressed to her knees as she struggles to keep from folding completely in half. Who will that help? She's out. She’s out, and there’s plenty of air out here, and she’s--

Hands, gently brushing her arms. She peels her eyes open, hating how swollen they already feel, hating that faint whistle at the back of her throat that says her lungs still aren’t quite doing their job. Jamie is kneeling on the floor, looking at her with absolutely none of the tight unease from lunch. Her expression is surprisingly warm, though creased with concern, and her hands do not fall away from Dani’s arms.

“Found ‘em,” she says. “They’re fine. What happened?”

Dani draws as deep a breath as she can manage, unseeing eyes rooted to the front of Jamie’s shirt beneath her scuffed overalls. The neat rectangle of navy cotton swells out--in--out with Jamie’s entirely-stable breaths. She finds herself blankly trying to mimic the beats, relieved and embarrassed in equal measure when Jamie seems to realize what’s happening and begins breathing with intent. In. Hold. Out. Hold. Again, again, until Dani’s heart finally catches up with her brain.

“Better?” Jamie asks. Dani, uncertain how much time has slipped away with this woman holding her by the elbows, setting a pace for slow, even breaths, nods. “Right. Good. Now: what happened?”

A flash of movement tugs at her attention, pulling her eyes to a point over Jamie’s shoulder. Miles and Flora, leaning against the doorframe, their faces ashen. She swallows hard.

“We’re sorry,” Flora says quickly.

“It got stuck,” Miles adds. There is a furtive look to his eyes that says even he does not expect her to believe this. Dani swallows again.

“Bed.”

There are more words in her--big, angry, panic-throttled words--but she wouldn’t let them fly even if Jamie weren’t here. That isn’t how you deal with kids. That isn't how you deal with traumatized orphans.

Not even when they pull stunts like this.

“Honest,” Miles starts to say. She closes her eyes, scrubs her hands over her face. Her palms are hot, her newly-caught breath stuffy. She wants to stay in the cupped enclosure of her own hands forever.

Flora makes a tiny hiccuping noise, the precursor to tears. Jamie’s hand flexes around her arm. Dani bites her tongue until the throb of pain cuts through the memory of his glasses, his glasses in the mirror, I was in there with him alone.

“We,” she says in as level a voice she can muster, “will talk about this in the morning.”

Jamie is looking at her, she realizes. Jamie, leaning back into a crouch, is watching her with the wary concern of one waiting to see if a rabbit will escape a snare unscathed. Dani gives her a very small nod--I’m okay--and she pushes to her feet, claps her hands, turns on her heel.

“Right. You heard her. Bed.”

Dani removes herself from Flora’s bed, still shaking even as she tucks the tiny girl under the covers. Jamie stands back, almost to the door, watching the proceedings as if half-believing she’ll have to take over at some point.

No, thinks Dani with hot embarrassment. This is her job, not Jamie’s. Jamie even being here is more than her job description. Even still floundering at the end of a panic attack, Dani can do this much.

“I really am sorry,” Miles mumbles, blankets pulled up to his chin. Dani searches his face. Not a single beat of a lie there now; he looks perfectly miserable, his cheeks bright with shame. She exhales, hoping her voice will hold.

It does. Barely. “Get some sleep. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

He rolls over, face mashed against the pillow. Dani drags in an unsteady breath, holds it as she closes in on the door, the light switch, the hallway.

“All right?” Jamie asks again when the doors have been closed and the children tucked away. Dani presses her face to her hands, groaning.

“Yeah. Yes. I’m sorry, that was--”

“Sorry?” Jamie repeats blankly. “What’ve you got to be sorry about? Didn’t lock yourself in there, I’d wager.”

No. No, she hadn’t. And tomorrow, she’ll have to pull herself together better than this--locate the mask of the Polished Au Pair, who is good with even the most difficult of children, who doesn’t scream herself hoarse and bruise up her shoulder trying to get away from memories held behind glass--

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Her voice is brittle, the words edged. Jamie only looks at her steadily, hands in her pockets, not taking so much as a step back.

“Left my flat key. Ring broke this afternoon--must’ve skidded under something out in the greenhouse. I was going to check when I heard the, ah. The...” She trails off, looking almost embarrassed for the first time--embarrassed not for herself, but for Dani, who had indeed been scraping her throat raw with shrieks. Dani grits her teeth.

“I have a--”

She’s not sure what she’s going to say next; a condition? A phobia? The absolutely horrific poor fortune to be haunted by her ex-fiance in every reflective surface? Jamie holds up a hand.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “Not unless you want to talk it over. Do you?”

Dani shakes her head. Truth be told, she’s wrung out--her head is pounding, her hands numb from being squeezed into such uncompromising fists. Jamie looks unsurprised.

“Then it’s your own,” she says easily. “You share it on your time. Christ, Poppins, think it’s the first time kids have reduced a grown woman to tears?”

There’s plenty to unpack here--Jamie’s kindness, in letting it slide; Jamie’s careless phrasing, as though she expects minor doses of aggression from perfectly well-mannered children every day; Jamie’s expression, even, holding firm on Dani as though she’s the only real thing in this house. Dani finds herself landing on something else entirely.

“Is that...mud?”

There are, she sees now, footprints. Wrapping down the hall, leading down the staircase, all the way to the front door. She frowns, following them at a slow clip, her legs still trembling. Jamie follows.

“Wasn’t me,” she says, as if Dani holds accusations on her tongue. “Hannah says this happens sometimes. Maybe one of the beasts taking the piss?”

“Maybe.” The prints are larger than either child could make on their own, Dani thinks with a plummeting sense of alarm. Large, and staggered, and odd. Still. Kids. Jamie’s probably right--it’s likely just a prank. A silly trick to test the new au pair’s mettle.

She turns her head, surprised to find Jamie still looking at her. “I’m sorry. Did you need help finding your key?”

Jamie shrugs. “Nah. I know the way. And if it’s not where I figure, I’ll just post up on the couch for the night. Hannah won’t mind.”

Dani smiles faintly. “There are so many bedrooms, I’m sure you could--”

Jamie flaps a hand. “Don’t like sleeping in beds that don’t belong to me. Couch’ll suit me fine. Anyway, maybe I won’t need it. Night might have a little good luck left in it yet.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to...” God, she’s so tired. What is this impulse to play hostess, even with her bones twisted to exhaustion and a thunderstorm ringing in her head? “I mean, you could...stay. I could get you a drink?”

Jamie smiles. It’s the first true smile Dani’s seen on her lips since flicking water on the kids at lunch, and it doesn’t just light up her face--it revolutionizes her entire body. All at once, Dani remembers how she’d felt watching this woman stroll into the kitchen this afternoon: like a song she’s been humming under her breath for a lifetime.

Heat twists up her neck. She clears her throat.

“I think,” Jamie says gently, “I should let you get to bed. Tomorrow, maybe. If you’re up to it.”

She leaves the rest of the offer unspoken--tomorrow, maybe you can tell me what really happened--and Dani understands, somehow, that if it never comes up again, Jamie won’t mind. Jamie doesn’t seem the sort of woman who is rocked by much.

“Thank you,” she says, walking to the front door, leaning awkwardly against the enormous slab of wood as Jamie steps outside. “For--anyway. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Jamie says, and though this woman had frowned at her this afternoon, wariness cutting grooves through her dirt-smudged face, she is nothing but warm now. Warm and more than a little bit beautiful, with moonlight scudding off her hair.

It’s been too long a night for that, Dani warns herself. Too long a life for that, probably. Certainly nothing she’s prepared to deal with right now.

“One more thing,” she adds, unable to help herself, even as Jamie crunches over gravel with hands swinging loosely at her sides. Jamie doesn’t quite stop, only turns at the waist with an inquisitive eyebrow raised. Dani smiles weakly.

“Poppins?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, and Dani is so tired. So tired, she must be imagining the light tinge of pink around the woman’s cheeks. “You know. Julie Andrews.”

“Sure,” says Dani, who can’t think of a single actress she less embodies in this moment. “Right. Of course.”

She can’t help grinning a little, falling into bed a few minutes later--still in sweat-damp clothes, her boots barely kicked to the floor--with the scorching awareness that the surly gardener has just given her a nickname. Possibly because she doesn’t actually know Dani’s real name, sure--but a nickname, all the same. A nickname, and a warm smile, and the impression of long fingers wrapped gently around her arm.

Tomorrow, she’ll handle the kids. Put her foot down. They need to know, right off the bat, that she won’t stand for this sort of thing. She needs to know it, to prove to herself she can still do this, just as she’d insisted to Henry Wingrave. Tomorrow, she’ll talk to them the right way--steady, calm, no accusation in her tone--and give them a suitable punishment.

Tomorrow.

Tonight, Jamie’s shining eyes, slouched shoulders, accent curled around Poppins almost let her forget the horror of being locked in with a ghost.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #dani x jamie #damie #little ones. little ones I can do #glad this one saved when my laptop flipped out in the middle and shut down #also hope my laptop isn't dead that would be terribly inconvenient

123 notes · View notes

mummybear · 3 years

Text

Daddy’s Dirty Little Secret

Words: 4,002

Warnings: Daddy Kink, Swearing, Cheating, Smut, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Lots Of Dirty Talk, Secret Sex, Slight Choking, Possessive Jensen, Size Kink. (Think that’s it!)

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Nanny(Babysitter)Reader

Summary: One night it’s extremely and unseasonably cold and you’re trying to fight it off, when you get a surprise visitor.

A/N: So I know it’s been a while since my last post guys, sorry! Hope this one is worth the wait though! It went from a drabble to a one shot, and almost to a mini series but I stopped myself haha :P Enjoy!

Today had also been an unusually difficult day, with two of the three kids being ill, even then though they were still completely adorable. You love your job, being a live in nanny is like nothing else, there was just something so rewarding about it. It of course helps that the children that you look after are so good, at least most of the time. Spending all day with them and most of the evening for well over three years now, you had grown extremely close to them, in fact you’d grown close to the entire family.

Even if you did have some kind of an intense crush on their father, you’d managed to keep it hidden surprisingly well considering. That man was just goddamn ridiculous in your own defence, he was damn near perfect, and you wanted more than anything to find something wrong with him that you could focus on, but nope, not a thing, not one thing in three freaking years.

You pull your duvet up higher around your shoulders, yet again distracted by the cold. It was unseasonably cold for this time of year, and it didn’t seem to matter how hard you tried, you were still freezing cold. Your oversized t-shirt barely reaches your mid thighs, and you really wish that the rest of your pyjamas weren’t still in the wash. You want to get out of bed and wrap your fluffy robe around yourself beneath the duvet, but you can’t bring yourself to get out of bed to get it.

You’re so tired that you eventually feel yourself starting to drift off, but before you manage it completely you hear your door clicking closed and being locked as someone stumbles inside. You rationalise that it must be one of the kids out of bed, you feel the covers lift and you shiver at the cold breeze which sneaks beneath the duvet with the body. But before you can turn and tell the little one you’ll take them back to bed, you stiffen in surprise. Feeling a strong pair of warm arms wrap around your waist before you're pulled back into a solid warm chest.

There’s only one person it could possibly be, but that doesn't make any sense, he’d never done anything like this before, maybe he’d gotten into the wrong bed by accident? He had been out drinking.

You have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip when his warm calloused hands slip beneath your long t-shirt, one hand moves under your body, pulling you back impossibly closer, before the same hand curls around your hip. His free hand continues up your body, moving slowly over the dip in your waist and over your ribs.

You’re breathing hard, your heart thudding in your chest. You know you need to say something, but he feels so damn good, and the arousal is already pooling in your panties.

“Mmm, fuck you feel so good, baby girl. So soft,” he groans under his breath as he nuzzles against your neck, breath warm against your skin. You can smell the alcohol now, which confirms your suspicions.

“J-Jensen? I...uh, oh, fuck…” you whimper, feeling his big warm hand cup and squeeze your breast.

“I think you might be in the wrong bed.”

Jensen chuckles against your skin as he drags his teeth over your earlobe.

“But you’re so cold, don’t you want daddy to warm you up?” he purrs, pressing kisses against your neck and along your shoulders.

Your head is spinning, and you would swear you were dreaming if his skin wasn’t so warm against yours. God you know it’s wrong, and it’s fucked up, but you don’t want him to go.

“B-But, Jensen, you’re drunk… what about if you wake up in the morning and regret being in here with me?”

“Aww, isn’t that sweet. You worried about takin’ advantage of me, princess?” he asks, and you can hear the humour lacing his tone as he moves his hand slightly, and gently pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You arch into his touch and press your ass back into the impressive bulge in his pants.

Jensen’s fingers flex around your hip and tighten slightly, drawing you back against him tighter.

“I think that all depends on just how drunk you are,” you breathe out shakily, as his stubble grazes your neck and he chuckles quietly.

“Don’t you worry, baby girl. I know exactly what I’m doing, I was just too chicken shit to do it before. The drink was already arranged, so I had to go, but I couldn’t stop thinking about last night, those pretty little noises I heard you makin’,” he groans deeply, dragging his teeth over the patch of skin just below your ear, and it makes your belly flip in anticipation, but at the same time you’re worried about just how much he’d heard.

You swallow thickly, before pulling out of his hold and turning over to face him with wide eyes.

“Exactly how much did you hear?” you ask nervously, but coming face to him is harder than you’d first realised. God he looks so good, and you find yourself getting distracted, even by the little that you can see that isn’t hidden.

His hair is a complete sexy mess on top of his head, his eyes are a much darker green than you’ve ever seen them, and his lips look just a little more swollen and plump, just begging you to bite them. He’s shirtless, that much you could tell as soon as he’d climbed into your bed, but his boxers are still on. You are extremely aware of the fact that you're staring, and becoming more distracted by the second, when Jensen’s deep chuckle pulls you out of your thoughts.

Jensen bites his lip, clearly trying and failing to bite back a smirk.

“Like what you see I take it?” he chuckles, looking like a deadly combination between sexy and cocky, and then you feel his hand smoothing up your leg slowly, his thumb pressing in harder against your inner thigh as he moves, and your breath hitches in your throat.

“S-Shut up… A-And answer the question,” you stutter, regretting what you had said instantly and sounding way more nervous that you’d planned to. His eyes narrow, as he looks at you and you swallow thickly, rolling onto your back to try and create a little distance between the two of you, but he only gets closer and you notice the tick in his jaw.

“You wanna repeat that?” he all but growls, and you quickly shake your head.

“N-No, Daddy. I’m sorry,” you whisper as innocently as you can manage. Trying to go along with what he had said earlier, and going by the deep groan that it pulls from his lips, you’d judged the situation correctly.

“Mmm, such a good girl, you do learn fast, I’m impressed. But since you wanna know so bad, I heard everything, sweetheart. Every perfect little moan, and every single time you begged for my cock. I especially loved hearing you say that you wanted to be my perfect little slut. That still true, baby girl? You still want that?” he asks rasps, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, just as his hand stops between your legs and his fingers brush over the damp patch in your panties.

“F-Fuck… Jensen. We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whimper loudly, feeling his fingers press against your clothed pussy with a little more pressure.

“You let me worry about that, baby girl. Answer the question, say it, come on,” he demands softly, moving his fingers up and down your clothed slit slowly, pausing as he eyes lock with yours, and he starts circling your throbbing clit.

You take a deep breath before nodding, but he cocks his eyebrow questioningly at you, as if he needs to hear you say it. So decide to risk your voice barely coming out.

“Fuck… Yes, I still want it. I uh, I still wanna be your dirty little slut,” you whisper hotly against his lips, swallowing thickly when Jensen smirks at you in that way that only he can, and you swear all the air has been stolen from your lungs.

You shuffle up the bed, and he follows as you rest your back against the pillows. His plump parted lips are only a breath away, and you can’t take it anymore. You close the distance between the two of you, wrapping your arms around his neck and your lips crash against his, in a needy and heated kiss. Jensen growls against your lips and wraps a fist in the back of your hair in an attempt to pull you closer as he eagerly responds, your scalp stings slightly at the tug, but you welcome the pain.

It feels like he’s everywhere, his big strong hands all over you. You only break apart so he can roughly tug your t-shirt over your head, then his hands and lips are back on you. The cold in the room is no longer a concern, you’re too hot to even notice it now, you push your fingers into the back of his hair and gently pull his head back.

He nibbles your bottom lip between his teeth, and groans deeply in his chest when he finally lets you pull back so you can both breathe.

“I’ve wanted to do this for ages, the amount of times I’ve jacked it in the shower thinkin’ about you in those tight little shorts and jeans, baby girl. And don’t even get me started on that perfect little mouth of yours, thinking about how fast I could have you down on your knees is fucking torture.” You whimper at his words, and your fingers tighten on him as he keeps talking.

“Wanna feel every fucking part of you… take you wherever you stand, and make you scream. And fuck... it’s so hot hearing you say it again. Except now, I can feel how wet your tight little cunt is, not just hear it through the wall.”

You’re in no doubt that you’re blushing hard,it’s an effect he’d had on you from the day he’d hired you. And hearing those words on his perfect lips paired with the tone of his voice, is enough to have your stomach doing backflips. Not to mention he had just kissed every ounce of resolve about this being a bad idea from your mind, now all you can think about is him, consequences be damned.

“I… shit… could you really hear it?” you ask a little nervously, as he tugs your panties down your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. You watch him closely as he crawls between your legs and lays on his stomach, and you swear a new wave of arousal hits you as he looks up at you with those darkened green eyes.

He’s wearing that shit eating grin again when his eyes lock with yours, and he hums quietly, nibbling on his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“Every single sexy sound, you got yourself so fuckin’ wet thinking about it didn’t you?” he purrs, pushing your legs up the bed, so that they bend at the knees, and then you let them fall open before his eyes. Enjoying the way his gaze immediately drops to your slick heat, but you’re unable to speak, seeing the look that crosses his face.

“Almost came in here, just to shut you up… didn’t want you waking up the entire house, and believe me, you were close. But I guess Daddy needs to pay the nanny a little attention too, huh?”

Jensen ducks his head, but his eyes remain on yours as his lips press against your inner thigh, and his stubble prickles deliciously at your skin, when he slowly kisses and bites his way up to where you need him the most.

“Always get wet when I think about you, Jensen. I wish you had come in. I'm sure there are plenty of ways you could've shut me up, or made me louder,” you reveal quietly, feeling your heart jump in your chest when he sucks at your skin and drags his teeth over the mark you're sure he’s left behind.

"Oh baby girl, you have no idea just how many ways I’ve thought about doing it," he all but growls, his lips a mere breath away from your slick pussy. When the tip of his nose nudges against your clit and you can't hold back the whimper of pleasure.

He’s hardly touched you, and you could swear your body is about to catch fire. You have to stop the urge you have to clamp your thighs around his head, when he suddenly flattens his tongue and licks you from your entrance to your throbbing clit with a deep rumbling moan. Your hands fist in the sheets beside your hips when he starts fucking you with his tongue, his big calloused hands move to grip under the backs of your knees and he presses them back against your chest.

“Sonofa…” you gasp, feeling the heat pooling in your stomach, the words get stuck on the tip of your tongue, and the look in his eyes is about to be the death of you.

“Hold your legs back baby,” he instructs you huskily, pulling away just long enough to speak, before he’s back between your thighs, and his tongue is back inside you, sending you closer to the edge as he hits every spot perfectly.

You do as you’re told, wrapping your arms around your legs and holding them back, just as you toss your head back into the pillows and bite your lip. Desperately trying not to cry out like you need to. But then his fingers start to circle your clit, applying just the right amount of pleasure, moving in time with his tongue and you’re so fucking close to the edge that you feel delirious.

“Daddy, please. I’m so close,” you whine needily, you feel Jensen smirk against you and he withdraws his tongue, only to replace it with two thick fingers.

He eases the thick digits in teasingly, watching your body arch into his touch.

“So fuckin’ sexy baby girl, so tight around my fingers. Can’t wait to feel this tight little cunt wrapped around my cock.”

You drop your legs and grip at the top of his hair harshly as he ducks his head again, and his lips wrap around your clit, everything is steadily becoming too much, and you have to slap your free hand over your mouth to stop your screams.

Jensen growls against your clit when your fingers tighten in his perfect mess of hair, sending vibrations shooting through every nerve and your hips arch closer, until they’re pressed down into the mattress by his strong arm. His fingers are moving fast and hard, scissoring and then curling at just the right times, you can feel his biceps bulging against your leg and stomach with the effort he’s putting in.

“Gonna… oh God! Please!” you cry out behind your hand, as his tongue starts flicking at your clit in time with his fingers moving inside you.

Your entire body goes stiff, attempting to arch as your orgasm smashes into you hard. You’re vaguely aware of his tongue lapping at everything you give, with a humming approval, as your body shakes violently beneath him, you’re not sure you’ve ever come that hard in your entire life.

Before you know it he’s pulling away, and your eyes flutter open just in time to find Jensen flinging his boxers over his shoulder, with a cocky as hell smirk on those plump lips. Your eyes instinctively drop lower, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. Your words accidentally tumble from your lips without there being any way to stop them.

“Is that gonna fit,” you swallow thickly, practically choking on the words, quickly catching yourself before you say any more you clamp your mouth closed, but you don’t miss Jensen’s smirk curling at the corners of his lips.

He moves over you, so that his body is covering yours, leaning on an elbow so his free hand can reach for your face. You feel like you can hardly breathe. The look he’s giving you is so intense, he lets his fingers slowly trail along your jaw, and then his thumb rests against your chin and your lips instinctively part.

“Oh, it’ll fit baby girl. Don’t you worry about that, we’re gonna make it,” he purrs, kissing the corner of your lips.

Before you can kiss him like you really want to, he backs off again, onto his knees between your parted thighs. He shuffles forward and drags your ass up onto his thighs, and takes his cock in his hand, his eyes roaming freely over your body as he starts to work his hand over himself. He taps his cock against your clit several times, and you bite your lip as you squirm beneath him, desperate for more, but you freeze when you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your dripping entrance.

“Make it fit, Daddy,” you whimper, cupping your tits in your hands, and rolling your hardened nipples between your thumbs and forefingers.

“Oh, you just watch me, sweetheart.” He grabs your legs and pulls them against his solid chest, and his hands drop to your hips and you feel his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly.

His jaw is clenched tightly as he eases the tip of his cock inside you. It’s extremely clear he isn’t used to going slowly, and if you’re honest you don’t want him to.

“Do it, fill me up. Just fuck me, I can take it Daddy, please. I don’t wanna wait any more.”

Jensen’s eyes lock with yours and he bites into his bottom lip, and the thick veins in his neck become more visible.

“No baby, you’re gonna take what I give you. So fuckin’ wet for me, I bet I could just slide right inside you if I wanted to, stuff you full in one thrust,” he grits out, like that’s exactly what he wants to do, but he’s clearly intent on torturing the both of you. You can feel your blood rushing in your ears as you look down your body at him and pout at him.

You’re trying to push down onto him further, but Jensen’s grip on your hips is unyielding and bruising.

“Jensen, please,” you beg pathetically, watching the way his eyes flick up from your pussy and lock on yours.

“No, Y/N. I want you to feel every fucking inch of my thick cock stretching out this tight little cunt,” his voice is practically a growl at this point, and you don’t remember ever being this turned on in your life.

Your hands drop from your breasts to fist at the bedsheets beside your bodies, as Jensen starts to gently rock his hips, you notice the way his eyes are locked on his cock as he fucks into you teasingly slow.

“Fuck, Jensen. Feels so good, your voice…” you gasp loudly, cutting yourself off as his hips snap against yours and he fills you completely.

“So fuckin’ tight and wet Y/N… shit. You like my dirty mouth, baby girl? You like hearing about how I’m gonna destroy this pussy, use your body for all it’s worth?”

“Oh God, yes! Always did love your voice,” you pant out harshly between whimpers, feeling your heart hammering in your chest.

Jensen starts to thrust his hips, pulling out almost all of the way, before effortlessly sliding back inside you with a rumbling groan, picking up a steady rhythm that has you gasping for breath all over again. You can tell he’s holding back, but you can’t stop looking at him, or the sweat clings to his tanned skin. Noticing the way his arms bulge with his tight grip on your hips, his plump bottom lip caught between his teeth, and the look of complete pleasure which has overtaken his gorgeous features.

He looks back up to meet your eyes, “Yeah? You like being Daddy’s dirty little secret too?” he groans, his pace increasing, until you can hear the slapping of your skin against his echoing around the room.

You can’t help the loud moan that leaves your lips, because fuck, you really do. Every precise thrust has him repeatedly hitting your G-spot.

“Yes, oh God yes, I love being your dirty secret,” you cry out, louder than you mean to, feeling your orgasm beginning to burn hard in your stomach. Jensen shifts suddenly, until his body is over yours, keeping your legs pressed against his chest.

Before you can let out a pleasured scream at the new angle, Jensen’s big hand covers your mouth. You can hardly think let alone breathe, he’s so deep inside you that every hard thrust has you sure you’ll feel his cock for a week.

Jensen’s head drops into the crook of your neck and shoulder, his breath hot against your skin, he turns slightly, until his plump lips are angled towards your ear.

“Good. Because I ain’t letting this pussy go now, princess. You’re. All. Fucking. Mine,” he grunts out, punctuating each word with a particularly hard and deep thrust. You nod several times, loving how possessive he’s being. He pulls back suddenly and his hand drops from your mouth to wrap around your throat.

“Say it,” he demands, eyes dark and dangerous.

Your pussy clenches hard around his cock and you moan his name, “all yours, Daddy. Only yours,” you manage to rasp out, squeezing your eyes closed as your climax threatens to explode.

“Good girl. Now, fucking look at me when you come all over my cock.”

Your eyes snap open at his command, only to see the intense gaze in his eyes as he looks down at you. His cock is filling you perfectly, and he’s so deep, stretching you more than you’d ever been before, and you don’t ever want it to end, but you’re so close.

White hot pleasure clouds your vision when Jensen tilts his hips a little more, and those final thrusts throw you over the edge and into the oblivion of your orgasm. You faintly feel his grip tighten on your throat as you silently scream his name, only vaguely aware of him growling your name against your skin as he thrusts deep inside you and his body stills.

When you finally start to come down, you can feel your climax mixed with his leaking out around his cock. He’s still panting hard, and when you open your eyes he’s gently lowering your legs before he pulls out, with a soft moan of his own, and flops down on the mattress beside you.

“Jesus Christ,” you half laugh, turning on your side to face him.

“Fuck, princess, you can say that again,” Jensen sighs contentedly, throwing a strong arm over your waist and pulling you against him as he rolls onto his back.

You smile against his skin, pressing soft kisses above his wildly beating heart, enjoying how his fingers start combing through your hair, which was something that you definitely hadn’t expected from him. You bite your lip as you look up at him and you can’t help feel a little nervous, “you should probably get going, Jay, I don’t want you getting caught in here,” you all but whisper, as you start to remember he’s actually your married boss.

“Oh, so it’s Jay now, huh? No more Daddy, please?” Jensen smirks, brushing the tips of his fingers over the dip in your hip.

“Jensen, don’t tease me like that,” you tell him, barely above a whisper trying to hide the waver in your voice.

“I told you. I’m not letting you go now, sweetheart. Sleep for now, we’ll talk in the mornin’. Besides, like I said you’re all mine.”

Bolded wouldn’t tag guys sorry!

All Tags: @chewie-redbird @julzdec @lettersofwrittencollective @stiles-o-dylan24 @mogaruke @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @dylanholyhellobrien @desireepow-1986 @lilulo-12 @22sarah08 @negans-lucille-tblr @cockslut-padalecki @deanwanddamons @simsadventures @charmed-asylum @nicole-lynne @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @defenderrosetyler @emilyshurley @foxyjwls007 @mylovelydame21 @sunshineandwings86 @akshi8278 @peaches007 @stylesismyhubs @peachyyybabyy @fantasy-myth1 @death-unbecomes-you @coffeebooksandfandom @magssteenkamp

Jensen/Dean Tags: @fandom-princess-forevermore @hobby27 @littlelonewolfgirl @ladywinchester1967 @screechingartisancashbailiff @maddiepants @spnfanfic-reblogs @holylulusworld @mrswhozeewhatsis @sonofabringmesomepie @deans-baby-momma @mrsjenniferwinchester @hhiggs @pisces-cutie @trina44sb @heartsaved @matsumama @adoptdontshoppets @beth-winchester21 @doctor-hp-mcu @mrspeacem1nusone @fanddoms4love @deanmonandnegansbitch @nihilismworld @bxbyizzy @noobwuvsj2 @lyarr24 @hearteyes-j2

Pond Tags: @aprofoundbondwithdean @manawhaat @nichelle-my-belle @notnaturalanahi @deanscarlett @roxy-davenport @impala-dreamer @samsgoddess @frenchybell @scorpiongirl1 @deandoesthingstome @deansleather @curliesallovertheplace @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @waywardjoy @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious @kayteonline @supernatural-jackles @wevegotworktodo @quiddy-writes @babypieandwhiskey @supermoonpanda @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog @memariana91 @teamfreewill-imagine @chelsea-winchester @becs-bunker @castieltrash1 @supernaturalyobessed @ruined-by-destiel @winchester-writes @maraisabellegrey-blog @faith-in-dean @winchestersmolder @bennyyh @clueless-gold @deanwinchesterxreader @winchester-family-business @there-must-be-a-lock @just-another-winchester @cas-backwards-tie @winecatsandpizza @firefly-in-darkness

#Jensen Ackles #Jensen #jensen ackles supernatural #jensen ackles x y/n #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x nanny #jensen ackles x nanny reader #jensen ackles x babysitter #jensen ackles x baby sitter reader #jensen ackles x babysitter reader #supernatural #jensen ackles smut #jensen ackles one shot #jensen ackles daddy kink #dean winchester #jensen ackles x you

823 notes · View notes

whentommymetalfie · 3 years

Text

Home to you -chapter 5

-Closer-

Prologue//1//2//3/4

Pairing: Tommy/Alfie

Summary: Tommy and Alfie both want to take things further. But it turns out, things might be more complicated than simply wanting.

Warnings: mental instability, hallucinations, self harm, self-hatred, ptsd, panic attacks, disordered eating

Content note: sexual content

Wordcount: 3,7

Tommy wakes up with led in his veins, head too heavy to lift from the pillow and confused about his whereabouts. The warmth of a hand on top of his head tells him he’s not alone, at least. It prompts him to squeeze his eyes open just a fraction to observe the world through his lashes. Alfie’s sat next to him, paper in his lap and with his glasses balancing low on his nose as he thumbs the pages with one hand, combing gently through Tommy’s hair with the other. Tommy stays completely still. Wants to stay in this moment, sink back into sleep and hide from the memories of the past night before they fully catch up with him. His right palm throbs dully and he clutches it against his chest, willing away the feeling of glass digging into fragile skin. He squeezes his eyes shut. Wants to stay in the warm safety of here and now, with Alfie, in bed, with Alfie’s fingers in his hair. Far away from the coppery smell of blood and the voices echoing between the tiles.

“It’s so easy, Tom, so easy, and then you’ll get to rest.”

“It’ll never be anything more than this. What do you have to offer him? Look at you.”

and he looks and looks until he can’t bear it anymore until it’s all too much and-

“Tommy?” Alfie scratches lightly at the nape of his neck. “You awake?”

He nods, because he needs Alfie to talk, bring him out of the darkness. Like last night.

Alfie keeps stroking his hair.

“You gonna open those pretty eyes and greet the day and your companion any time soon, eh? Nearly lunchtime innit.”

He can hear in his voice that he’s smiling. And he wants to see that, so he opens one eye to peer up at Alfie. Who is indeed smiling down at him. Tommy curls up impossibly closer, as if he could fully melt into him, face pressed into his soft side. Alfie flinches when his nose digs into a ticklish spot and lets out an indignant snort, but then continues petting him with a fond chuckle.

“Just a little kitten, aren’t you, petal? Yeah. Bet you’ll start purring one of these days.”

Tommy ignores the comment and drags in Alfie’s familiar scent into his nose.

“How’re your hands feeling?” Alfie asks. “You in much pain”

“It’s not too bad,” he mutters into his shirt.

With an unconvinced hum, Alfie takes his hand gently and presses his lips against the back, just softly, continuing over his knuckles, up his fingers and down the inside of them, featherlight over his bandaged palm, until he can kiss the inside of his wrist. Which sends a thrill of pleasure up Tommy’s spine.

Then, Alfie leans down and kisses him. It brings out different memories altogether from last night. Alfie kissed him then too. Lifted him up onto a counter and kissed him until his head was swimming. He sinks into that feeling now, happily following where Alfie leads.

The steps approaching outside makes Tommy pull away, but Esther just passes. He looks towards the door, unable to relax. Esther has certainly seen him in more compromising positions. But still---

Taking his chin lightly in hand, Alfie turns him away from the door and smiles again before pressing another kiss against his lips.

When the steps approach a second time, this time accompanied by low humming, Alfie relents.

“How about we pick this up later tonight,” he whispers into the hot air between them. “When we know we won’t be disturbed. And I can take care of you good and proper.”

The words light a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, his chest, and fluttering and fragile as it may be, it’s definitely real. So much so that Tommy finds his lips twitching into a smile as he whispers, “Is that a promise?”

Alfie chuckles, low and dark and the way his eyes light up makes Tommy wish he could find more enticing things to say, anything to keep that expression on his face always.

“Indeed it is, love.”

…

The day passes impossibly slowly. Alfie helps him stick to the usual routine, the firm schedule of eating, walking, resting, doing a crossword or two, followed by the usual afternoon nap. The one Tommy swears he doesn’t need but still always ends up taking sometime in the afternoon, cuddled up against Alfie’s chest in front of the fire as he reads, when the ever present weariness overcomes him.

It’s easy enough to fall into the familiar pattern, even if he can’t stop counting the hours until sundown, for once feeling something other than dread at the thought of going to bed. Everything makes him think of it: Alfie’s hands lingering after he’s helped him with his coat. The soft brushing of lips against his forehead as he dozes off in the afternoon. The firm warmth of an arm around his waist during the walk. Little things that remind him. He clings to those, to keep his head quiet. Tell the voices that no, Alfie doesn’t find him repulsive, Alfie likes touching him, Alfie doesn’t look at him and see something ugly and broken. It helps a little. Even if they’re not silent for long.

…

Despite what happened last night, Alfie lets Tommy take a bath on his own, that evening. Not without fussing first, and not with the door locked. And as Tommy reclines against the cool porcelain, all the anticipation that’s been building throughout the day seems to vibrate through him. Despite the heat of the water he trembles, and he tries to force himself to relax without much success. He glances towards the mirror. Where it used to hang, at least, the empty space above the sink. The bones inside of him seem to poke through his skin, bruising his insides and he can’t find a comfortable position. He wishes he could lay down completely, sink underneath the surface until the water makes him weightless and takes the pressure from his bones, but the mere thought of being under the surface makes his throat constrict in panic. Instead he sits up. Draws his legs towards his chest and stares at his bruised knees. Scratches hard over the place where the bone sits too close to the skin.

Alfie asked, last night, if he’d been trying to hurt himself. More than you already had, that’s what he said. Tommy doesn’t know. If Alfie hadn’t showed up when he did, to shield him from the ghosts and pry away the sharp piece of glass from his hand… he doesn’t know what would’ve happened.

The thought scares him enough to stop scratching at his knee and put his legs back down, hiding the thin trail of blood left by his nail.

Eventually he climbs out of the cooling bathwater. It’s a small mercy, not seeing his reflection. But it’s not enough. And they still remind him, even when he can’t see himself, they tell him, won’t let him forget-

He dries himself off and puts on the large flannel shirt, burying himself in the safe scent and the soft warm fabric. Pulls his underwear on and makes sure the long sleeves on the shirt cover his hands, cover as much of him as possible.

When he emerges from the bathroom on legs that still feel unsteady, Alfie is sat on the bed, glasses in place and with a book on his lap. The scene exudes safety and familiarity. He looks up when the door swings shut. Something dark and hungry seeps into his gaze, and it makes Tommy stop in his tracks, a shiver running down his spine under the intensity. He must be looking like a deer in headlights. Feels like one, at least, frozen and helpless.

“Come here, love,” Alfie says, beckoning him over with an outstretched hand. The hand is unnecessary because the command in his voice is enough to physically pull Tommy towards him. The book lies forgotten on the bed and when he’s close enough, Alfie grabs him by the waist and pulls him down onto his lap and into a kiss. It’s surprisingly gentle at first, but Tommy eagerly parts his lips and soon it becomes deeper, hungrier. Alfie kisses him like no one’s ever kissed him before. So self-assured and firm, taking the lead and making him follow. And he gives into it completely, desperate for more.

In a swift movement, Alfie spins them around, leaving Tommy laid out under him on the mattress, legs around his waist. A surge of heat rushes into the pit of his stomach, making his hips buck up against Alfie’s solid frame. Already gasping and aching for it.

“If you want me to stop or slow down, you just let me know, alright, pet?” Alfie says, pulling away just enough to look him in the eye. “Yeah? Just say the word. Or give me a poke in the shoulder if that’s too difficult. But other than that all you need to do is relax. I’ll take care of you.”

Tommy nods and sinks into the feeling of relief. Alfie’s got this. Alfie knows what he’s doing, even if Tommy himself suddenly feels like a blushing virgin all over again. Alfie flashes him a grin and plants a quick kiss on his nose. “Alright then.”

And take care of him, he does. Begins by kissing him on every inch of bare skin he can reach, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, his temple, trailing his lips down his jaw, stopping right at where his pulse throbs to scratch his teeth gently against the skin. It sends a pleasant shiver down his spine and Alfie must be able to tell because he lingers on the spot, sucking a mark onto the skin before moving further, down to where his collarbones peak above the shirt. His hands meanwhile are stroking down his sides, his hips and thighs, leaving burning trails behind. Lighting a dizzying arousal that collects in the pit of his stomach, burning hot and all consuming.

Tommy’s own hands are buried in the back of Alfie’s shirt. Eventually he works up the courage to tug it up towards his shoulders. Alfie sits back between his legs. Pulls the shirt off and smiles down at Tommy when he reaches out to touch, running his hands down his hairy chest, solid muscle and the swell of his stomach. If he could, he would’ve told him, how beautiful he is, how much he wants him, how much he wants this. Instead he pulls him closer, tries to show him. Needs to have that powerful body fully pressed against him, needs all of him at once-

Alfie is so warm and heavy on top of him when he kisses him again, cock hard and straining against his boxers, pressing against Tommy’s hip. Tommy wraps his arms tight, tight around his chest and just clings to him while Alfie’s tongue laps against the roof of his mouth, entwining with his own, setting the pace. He drinks in the kisses eagerly, desperately wanting more, more- His hips buck, searching for friction any way they can.

When Alfie’s hand finally trails up the inside of his shirt, tension ripples through his muscles like icy water. The hand stops and Alfie raises both eyebrows in a silent question. One Tommy knew would come but still doesn’t know how to respond to.

Alfie’s seen him in less clothes before. But so many of those times he was too far gone to even reflect on it. Now he’s painfully aware of his own body again. And Alfie is right, he doesn’t believe him when he says he’s beautiful. Only thinks of that scrawny figure in the reflection. He hides his face against Alfie’s chest. Alfie strokes his side gently. Each time a finger dips into the hollow spots between the ribs he feels his stomach turns into knots.

How can he let Alfie see, when he knows what he’s become?

“How could anyone want you? Look at you-“

Look at you

Alfie wouldn’t

Look at you

“There must be something you can do?” Lizzie’s voice is sharp and demanding as she speaks to the shadows looming over his bed. “Look at him, he’s wasting away.”

Wasting away locked away forgotten in this room

“The only option is to feed him more often, but-“

They keep talking over him and he wonders if he’s really here at all

“-considering his aversion to it that might have a negative effect on his wellbeing overall, I’m afraid.”

In this room

Where the door is always closed

And no one touches him except the men in the white shirts with their tubes and their cold hands and all the dark figures who try to keep him still and he’s wasting away nothing but a black hole

Cold mud

Pushing the air from his chest filling all the empty crevices-

No one can stand touching him.

“Shh, treacle, ‘s okay.” Alfie’s voice emerges from the chorus of others, whispered against his ear. “You’re beautiful. Let me show you. Let me take care of you”

He desperately tries to ignore the snide remarks that follow Alfie’s softly spoken words, things that echo in his own head, that’s all, not real. This is real, Alfie’s voice, Alfie’s body against his-

Alfie kisses him but he can’t feel it, the scratch of his beard or the soft press of lips against his.

He tears himself away, presses his face into his chest again as he struggles to breathe. Coughs to get the mud out, has to get it out, out pushes harder into the firm surface to find an anchor, it’s cold against his forehead, cold wet dirt and the smell of earth and

blood splitting pain and wetness trickling slowly down his face

splutters and coughs and chokes as bits of mud hack up his throat.

“God, there’s nothing there Tommy! Will you just fucking listen to me?” Lizzie’s fingers can reach all the way around his wrists. “Frances, get in here!”

“Fuck-“ the weight on top of him shifts but he still can’t breathe- “Tommy?”

he struggles uselessly against the hands.

Until they disappear and footsteps echo across the floor, doors slamming, new hands, shushing, dark figures and faces he doesn’t recognize.

The room floods with warm light and Alfie’s face swims into view. He cradles his face, holds it still, but he can’t feel it, can’t feel the heat against his skin-

“It’s alright, sweetheart, breathe with me, in and out- I’ve got you.”

He’s moved, pulled closer, ear pressed against Alfie’s chest, he listens to his breaths, the steady beating of his heart. In and out. In and out, the familiar mantra.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Alfie’s got him, he’s safe. Alfie’s got him, and he’s safe, Alfie- he clings to the words with every stuttering in and exhale, until feeling slowly seeps back into his limbs again, he can feel the warmth of Alfie’s skin, the firm hold of his arms encircling his waist and cradling his head against his chest. He winces when he comes back to himself enough to remember why they’re in bed together.

“I’m s-sorry,” he chokes out. His teeth clatter together so hard that getting any words out at all is a struggle. “I don’t know why- why this is happening,”

“Shh, fuckin’ nonsense that is. Apologizing. Nothing but a bad habit. If you’re not ready, we’ll take it slower. Simple as that, eh?

He grasps desperately at Alfie, shaking fingers against firm muscle.

“No, no, I want to- I-“

“Shh, love, just you focus on breathing and leave the talking to me. Sometimes your head knows it’s wants something but the rest can’t quite keep up,” Alfie says and rocks him slowly in his arms. “The opposite ‘s true too, I reckon. But I’m nothing if not persistent, so I promise we’ll figure it out. Don’t you worry your pretty little head ‘bout it.”

He presses his nose into the crook of Alfie’s neck and sinks into his embrace.

Alfie begins rubbing his back slowly. The hand moves up along his waist, outside of the shirt this time. He stays in one place. Rubbing warm circles into the skin. Tommy forgets to breathe.

“Relax, pet. ‘s nothing dangerous, this. I’m keeping it right here, see? Does that feel okay?”

The thin barrier the shirt provides helps somewhat. He nods. And as he gets used to the sensation the worst of the terror it caused before fades, at least enough for him to relax.

“There you go. Doing wonderfully, aren’t you?” Alfie moves his hand further down to his waist, caresses all the way to his hipbone and up again. Over and over. “Yeah, you’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just relax. It’s all fine.”

And as the adrenaline seeps out of his veins, his eyelids become heavy. Alfie keeps stroking him, lingering in each spot for a long time. And before he can even feel himself slipping, he’s asleep.

…

For once it’s not a nightmare that wakes him, but Alfie tossing and turning in bed next to him. By now Tommy’s instincts have him reaching for Alfie already in his sleep, so once he drags himself out of it he’s already firmly pressed against him, face buried in the crook of his neck and one arm wrapped around his bare chest. He drags his scent into his nose. Reassures himself that he’s safe. Not alone. Never alone again. And he’s already sinking back into sleep when Alfie lets out a grunt into his hair and presses closer. He’s hard, the outline of his cock pressing into Tommy’s thigh, thick and straining against his boxers. The feeling sends a sharp spike of arousal to the pit of his stomach. He lies frozen, barely daring to breathe. Alfie’s arm is tight around his waist, keeping him firmly pressed against him. His hips roll forward, making Tommy’s heart jump. Heat floods through him, pooling in his groin, and he presses his thigh harder against Alfie, can’t resist. Fuck, he’s so big. It’s a thing he never knew he’d find so arousing: the feeling of a big, hard cock pressing into him. Now, the reaction is so strong it almost frightens him.

Alfie’s arm tightens around his waist and another moan escapes him, hot and raspy against Tommy’s ear. His own cock quickly becomes achingly hard and he swallows down the urge to shove a hand down his shorts and touch himself. Or turn around. Rub himself against Alfie until- oh fuck-

Alfie suddenly jolts awake, unsuccessfully attempting to untangle himself from both the blankets and his own grip around Tommy all at once. He looks blearily around the room before setting his eyes on him, half closed and with a confused crease between his eyebrows.

“Fuck, sorry ‘bout that, love” he slurs. Gestures awkwardly downwards as he relaxes back against the pillows. “Don’t pay any attention to it-“

He clears his throat and once again shifts to pull away. Tommy kisses him. Surges forward and crashes his lips against Alfie’s, clumsy with need, tongues and teeth clashing as Alfie kisses him back with equal fervor. He tugs at the thick arm around his waist and Alfie rolls them over, settling his entire weight on top of him. Tommy spreads his legs, grinds up against him and whimpering at the feeling.

Alfie stills for only a second, but he squeezes his thighs tighter around his hips.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers against his lips and with a growl, Alfie thrusts forward, rubbing his stiff cock against Tommy’s. He moans, open mouthed and desperate against Alfie’s lips.

Then they’re moving frantically together, Alfie’s hands digging into his arse to push him closer, grinding down against him, hard and unforgiving. Pinning him against the mattress with his entire weight. Tommy rolls his hips, heels digging into the backs of Alfie’s thighs, desperately chasing friction and fuck, fuck, he’s so close already- it’s all too much, and not enough, Alfie’s cock, hard and thick under the thin fabric of his boxers, the soft ,heavy press of his stomach, he writhes against the heat and the firm pressure of muscle and flesh, close- so fucking close now-

“Oh, oh Alfie-“ he keens and the release washes over him in sharp waves of pleasure, quick and relentless and absolutely brutal, he’s crying out, voice cracking into sobs and Alfie doesn’t stop moving, chasing his own pleasure against his over sensitized cock.

“Fuck, Tommy-“ he groans into an open mouthed kiss. “Fuck, that’s so good, love. Fucking hell-“ his hips push harder and faster until they stutter. He pushes his face into the crock of Tommy’s neck, hands painfully tight around his arse as he comes, shuddering through his release. Then he collapses on top of him, breath hot against his neck.

A warm stillness settles in the room, where only their breaths are heard. Tommy’s head is full of cotton, muffling all the noise, softening it. Eventually Alfie raises himself up on his elbows and lets out a chuckle.

“Fucking hell, love. Not exactly how I’d pictured it, bedding you for the first time. Thought’ I’d be more of a gentleman about it.” He brushes away a sweaty lock of hair from Tommy’s brow and smiles. “But I’ve always believed in doing what comes naturally. I promise to take better care of you in the future. Do it properly.”

Tommy knows he’s blushing and the cotton makes it impossible to come up with any words. Alfie rolls over onto his side to tuck him against his chest. He’s shivering for some reason.

“But perhaps some drowsy, half-asleep rutting was just what we needed, eh? Just to blow off some steam. And can I just say that you make for quite a sight when you- Fuck, sweetheart, you’re shaking.”

Alfie rubs his back and pulls the blankets up higher around him, tucking them around his face and wherever he can reach.

“You alright, love?”

Tommy hums, even if his teeth clatter together and every breath hacks its way up his throat. Because Alfie is here and Alfie holds him and keeps him safe.

And he’s alright. At least in that moment.

#tommy x alfie #breathe again verse #home to you #peaky blinders fanfiction #disordered eating tw #panic attacks tw #hallucinations tw #ptsd tw #self harm tw #I don't even know what to say it's here it's posted #it is what it is

47 notes · View notes

prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

Text

Don’t Look! [Part 4]

<- Part 3 | Part 5 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

@we-are-all-just-a-bit-crazy’s lovecraftian horror AU, with a bit of my own twist on the origin story. Emotional hurt/comfort. Body horror. Hugging your body-horror monster boyfriend.

3,386 words

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had everything: great wealth (built on the backs of exploited workers), a grand estate, a beautiful wife, and many mistresses waiting in the wings. Yet after years of trying, he failed to produce an heir. Determined that his money could buy anything, the man scoured the world, searching for a solution. One day, his extensive resources brought him to an ancient castle in Lithuania, where the last descendants of a noble bloodline offered him a devil’s bargain—a book, a summoning ritual. He did not ask questions. His wife was finally with child.

The Chilton legacy was secure.

The moment Frederick was born, the life was sucked from his mother—a human sacrifice for his soul crossing into this world. That was what his father told him, at least. Frederick had no memory of clawing his way through the veil between worlds, of being anything other than an ordinary child with a distant father, a young, blonde stepmother, and nannies instead of friends. Until the changes began. Allison (or was it Kayla at the time?) fainted in the living room when he staggered in, screaming as smoke boiled from his skin, begging for help. His father only wrinkled his nose with disgust and calmly explained what he was.

“You must learn to hide this, Frederick. Never let anyone see you this way, or it will destroy the family name.”

And so, he learned the transformation’s schedule. Prepared for it. Knew how to hide it away and never let anyone get close enough to see the real him. But it wasn’t good enough. Try as he might, nothing Frederick ever did met his father’s expectations for the perfect son he had gone through so much trouble to produce.

Frederick grew into a bitter and lonely man with no one to care about, or who cared about him. He kept the world at a distance, hiding his shame behind expensive suits and lavish decoration.

Never once did he consider that he was not alone in this world at all.

***

I see him as one of those pitiful things sometimes born in hospitals. They feed it, keep it warm, but they don’t put it on the machines. They let it die. But he doesn’t die. He looks normal. Nobody can tell what he is.

This is how Will Graham describes the Chesapeake Ripper.

Every therapy session with Graham, every conversation overhead, the puzzle became clearer. At first, Chilton merely believed that Dr. Lecter was guilty of unethical practices—manipulating Mr. Graham in the same way he had manipulated Gideon. He felt such kinship with Hannibal. Learning a bit of dirt on him brought the ever-so-superior doctor down to his level, gave him something to lord over him—a little implied blackmail to strengthen their friendship.

They both had secrets to hide.

Dr. Chilton never would have guessed the final puzzle piece to convince him fully that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper would be the one everyone else laughed at.

“I brought you here to bear witness,” Graham said to Gideon through their adjoining cells.

“To tell Jack Crawford that I sat in Hannibal Lecter’s cobalt blue dining room? An ostentatious herb garden, Leda and the Swan over the fireplace. And you, having a fit in the corner.”

Chilton perked up and quickly shared the audio feed to one of the junior therapists assisting him. You were reliable at editing his audio files, clipping and exporting segments he wanted to keep, but he was avoiding you at the moment. This was proof—irrefutable proof that Gideon had met Hannibal Lecter the night he went searching for the Ripper.

After his conversation with Graham concluded, an assistant was sent down to coax more information from him while Chilton’s research team listened in, keenly taking notes.

Gideon was not finished dropping bombshells.

With a casual lilt to his voice as if talking to a friend over dinner, he began to describe the Chesapeake Ripper. Skin like volcanic ash, reflecting no light. A red glow to his eyes. Black claws as long as steak knives. Antlers breaking through the inside of his skull, punching through the skin. All black as night—a form that shifted in the shadows, ever tricking the eye, unwilling to be known.

He’s the Devil, Mr. Graham. He’s smoke.

“Great. Gideon is delusional,” one therapist snorted. “On the bright side, this completely undercuts his malpractice case against you.” She patted Chilton’s shoulder. Chilton flinched.

“We should start him on antipsychotics. What do you think? Doctor?”

Chilton’s face turned ashen white. “Y-yes, certainly,” he muttered, staggering to his feet.

He moved for the door, but crumbled halfway there, pain ripping through his leg as sharp thorns grew beneath the skin. It was daylight. No. No! The transformation should not be starting for hours—he had plenty of time! He gasped out as another shock tore through him, barely containing a cry. His body convulsed.

“Doctor!” A therapist and a guard rushed in to help him to his feet. “Where does it hurt? If this is a complication from your surgery, we need to get you into intensive care right away.”

“No,” he brushed them off. “Only… psychosomatic. I need to— ah!” He gritted his teeth, mind racing to the one person he did not want to turn to, but the only one he could, and barked, “Get my secretary!”

***

Smoke was rising off of his burning skin by the time you rushed into Chilton’s vacated office. His eyes were wide with panic, but greeted you when you entered with—not relief, perhaps, because he was every bit as terrified as before, but with the anticipation of being rescued. His eyes pleaded.

“H-help. I cannot make it stop.”

You managed to get him into your car. The sun’s orange rays seemed to chase the beast away, clearing his skin and stopping his wracking convulsions long enough to cross the employee parking lot without drawing stares. He insisted on taking the back seat so he could hide—and to put more distance between you in case he lost control.

His chest rose and fell like a rabbit in a cat’s mouth.

“The way he described Dr. Lecter—anyone would think it was a metaphor! That he was crazy!” Chilton’s breath was raspy as you drove, glancing back at him through the rearview mirror. He kept trembling, small patches of scaly skin appearing at random then swirling back inside. One pupil was a pinprick. His tongue occasionally became serpentine and got in the way as he frantically spoke. “But it was too specific, the details. Familiar. I always knew there was a connection between Dr. Lecter and me—a reason we were friends. It all makes sense now!”

“Hey, it’s OK,” you said, trying to sound soothing, though you had no idea what he was talking about.

“Don’t you understand? Lecter is like me!”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That means you’re not alone.”

“Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper!” he shouted, and a spine tore through a seat cushion. “A cannibal, if Will Graham is to be believed, and loathe as I am to admit it, Graham is an excellent profiler. If the Ripper and I are the same… then that means I—”

“You are nothing like that!” Forgetting the damage his demonic tantrum was doing to your faux-leather interior, you had faith in him. He was a little withdrawn and more than a little vain, and it had garnered him an icy reputation around the hospital, but now you understood why. He wasn’t evil or malicious. He was frightened.

“God help me,” he murmured.

***

As soon as the garage door closed behind you, he scrambled from the car (scratching the handle), and retreated inside. He didn’t invite you to follow him home. But he didn’t forbid it, either, and you wanted to be there. All you had were panic-scrambled memories from the first time that made his transformation worse in hindsight than it was. Or maybe better. You didn’t know, and you wouldn’t know until you saw it again with clear eyes.

The electric kettle rumbled on its stand, hissing steam as you searched through Frederick Chilton’s surprisingly extensive tea collection for something herbal and soothing. Chamomile, you thought. With honey. Surely that must be good for demon-monster-werewolf things?

The sun was about to set and he was still reeling over Hannibal, and just as much from the premature transformation the revelation had triggered. And every time he cried, “This is not possible. How can this be possible?” the next convulsion was more intense.

He would probably just burn himself on tea.

A painful whimper came from somewhere in the house, and you followed it to a tiny panic room that opened behind a bookshelf. It was only about seven by nine feet with concrete walls and floors, bare except for deep scratches of varying age, like an animal trying to escape. The few chairs inside were metal. Difficult to break. Frederick faced away from you, staring at a hand that was too large for the rest of his body, capped with long black claws.

“Oh no, this will not do at all,” you tutted, shaking your head at the barren space. “How about I bring in some blankets? Let’s get you comfortable.”

His whole body shook. “You should go.”

“No. No way, not after seeing this prison cell. I am not leaving you like this.”

“I do not want to hurt you.” His shoulder jerked. A spike tore through his shirt.

“You won’t.”

“Seeing it again… will not be therapeutic for you,” he hissed, another spike breaking through. “Go before it is too late.”

“No!”

“Damn it! I am a monster—there is proof of that now! The FBI has no idea what it is dealing with!” Chilton began to pace the small cell, thoughts racing, features morphing into something grotesque and alien. “Does Hannibal know about me? Can he sense it? Is that why he confided in me? I always thought it was professional respect—hah! God, what if he…” A painful convulsion halted his pacing and brought him to one knee, gripping his side. His attention snapped back to you. “This is… dangerous,” he warned, then hacked violently. Fleshy, snake-like projections spewed from his mouth, and he quickly turned away again, hiding his face. “You should… you should be nowhere near all of this! You should not be here! Why did I let you inside?!”

A roar of anguish ripped through the air with enough force to push you back through the panic room door, just in time to avoid being impaled on half a dozen spines as they shot from Chilton’s body like lances. Chips of concrete clattered to the ground as they penetrated the walls. He screamed again, writhing to get free, but found himself trapped by his own violent transformation. Like an animal, he struggled and clawed at himself as if his rational mind had been overtaken by raw, volatile emotion.

“Take it easy. You’re going to hurt yourself,” you tried to calm him, but you couldn’t stop your voice from shaking.

This was worse than last time. You were sure his spines weren’t half as long when you saw him in his office—even Chilton seemed surprised to be pinned.

You lifted your hands, palms toward him in a steadying gesture, and took a step back into the concrete room.

“Stay back!” he howled, thrashing. “Get away!”

It was tempting. Every muscle in your body wanted to follow his advice and run far away from the indescribable horror before you. But his eyes were still green. Were still terrified. And you had an inkling of why it was worse this time. Maybe he would hate you later for imposing, but it seemed more important right now not to leave him feeling… like a monster.

“It’s OK.” You took another step closer.

“No!”

“You’re not going to hurt me. I trust you. Shh, shh… I’m not afraid, see?”

Rigid spines sprayed from his back and shoulders in a 180-degree arc, leaving only his front accessible. You ducked under one and followed its trajectory to where it met the wall. It wasn’t just pinned by pressure—it had struck the wall with enough force to dig into it like an iron rod. Sawing through might be the only option for getting him unstuck. You wondered if that would hurt. Were there nerves in his spines? You stepped over the next one as you drew nearer.

“You should be afraid! I am just like him!” Chilton tried to turn his head away as you traversed his network of thorns and stood in front of him.

His face was almost entirely inhuman. Tentacles cascaded down from where a nose should have been, and when he opened his mouth in a snarl, they parted like wriggling eels—each with a life of its own—to reveal a jaw that split his face open vertically, crowded with rows of sharp white teeth. The more agitated Chilton became, the more dramatic the effect. Each time he spoke, you caught a flash of teeth that sent shivers racing down your spine. But you continued to move closer anyway, within snapping range.

“Hannibal and I… we are the same. Please—I do not want to become him. Do not let me hurt you!”

“You are not the same. You’re not a killer.”

Chilton let out a choking cry that was all too human. “I killed that nurse,” he said. Concrete groaned as his spines grew longer. A crooked horn sprouted from his head. “I killed Elizabeth Shell.”

“You… you didn’t kill her.”

His breath quickened again. Tentacles sprouted and died and resprouted from his face in a constant fevered motion. “I knew Gideon would kill! I lowered security! I knew what would happen—what I needed to happen to prove that he was the Ripper! I may as well have plucked her eyes out with my own hands and… and feasted on her organs. God… I am the Ripper,” he wailed.

“No…” It never occurred to you that Dr. Chilton would have done such a thing knowingly. Maybe there was something dark inside him that this creature was reflecting. It hurt to acknowledge, and yet maybe you both needed to. “You made a mistake. You did a bad thing, but… Gideon was already a killer. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I drove him to it, manipulated him… I am just as responsible as he is. I am a monster.”

“A monster wouldn’t feel this guilty! You made a mistake, but you won’t make it again, will you?”

Tentacles and spines stopped sprouting. His form stabilized as his wet eyes looked off thoughtfully. He seemed so pathetic… so innocent, almost. Despite the intimating spines and claws that added danger and height to his appearance, his body had the same mass—leaving his frame gaunt and frail, with ribs sticking out prominently. Hollow.

You wanted to protect him.

You knew that was your job at BSHCI. You knew that was why Dr. Chilton suddenly needed a personal secretary when he never had before. Someone to sit outside his door, take his calls, and warn him when visitors wanted to see him. You’d never met the doctor before he was attacked by one of his patients, but you recognized the signs of trauma—the way he flinched easily, avoided contact at first, then the way he clung to you when you earned his trust. The awkward little smiles. The way his cheeks turned bright red when his fingers brushed yours as you delivered his coffee. You couldn’t help feeling protective. Falling in love, even.

Though it was closed for the moment, his mouth was a dangerous black hole with alien arms ready to pull prey inside. It seemed impossible to get close without being dragged into its teeth by instinct. You couldn’t imagine putting your face anywhere near it.

Another step, and your forehead touched his.

“I... I do not want to hurt you,” he pleaded.

“You won’t.”

You leaned into his arms, a hand reaching up to stroke the side of his face. It was covered in fine scales that glistened as if they should be slimy, but were smooth to the touch, like a snake. Sharper thorns sprouting from his skin seemed to retreat before your caress.

He trembled with inner turmoil, hot breath puffing against your chin. Your eyes darted toward the motion of one of his claws rising behind you, and all you could focus on were the way each sharp talon caught the light. You couldn’t be sure what he was thinking—if he was going to return your embrace, or prove to you that he was a monster. Would he slash you just to drive you away?

“I smell your fear,” his voice hissed accusingly.

For some reason, of all the reactions you could have had, you started to laugh. It was nervous and tight at first, but then building in confidence at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“You’ve got giant claws! Of course I’m afraid! But I’m not running, am I?”

You slid your hand from his cheek and trailed it over his bony neck and the ridges and spines of his shoulders, finding a path for your arms to twine around him. Cuddling closer, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, hardly bothered by the writhing tentacles that draped down over you.

“I know you would never hurt me. You’re just going to have to keep showing me there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Shuddering, he breathed in your scent. All his senses were heightened by this form, and he was surrounded by you—your pheromones, your electric field, the radiant heat of your skin. It was like sinking into a warm bath with a glass of fine wine in his hand. He opened his palm and let his predator’s hand sweep harmlessly down your back, holding you close. He could sense the fluttering of your heart in his embrace. It was slower than a creature in terror—slowing the longer he held you. You were not afraid. And he could not imagine hurting you. Whatever he had been worried might happen, whatever awful things he might be capable of, he could never imagine hurting you. You were right. You didn’t have anything to fear.

He exhaled a long, steady breath of surrender. The long spines retracted, pulling out of the walls as they returned to their usual size. He could move again, but didn’t. Not for a long time.

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” you sighed. The scent of your hair was intoxicating.

Eventually, you had to part. Chilton’s eyes darted away as you did—the inky scales on his face emitted a soft bluish starlight, which you were certain was blushing. You could not coax him to leave his concrete prison cell, but he told you where to find some blankets he could live with damaging—linen closet, second floor, third door on the right—and let you make a cozy nest on the bare floors. You made tea, and only cringed a little at his attempts to drink it. It was late, then. You were sleepy, and he was exhausted. Emotionally drained. His mind still raced over everything, still not certain of your presence and inexplicable kindness. You sat in the pile of blankets and had him rest his head in your lap.

“Give me your hand,” you asked, extending yours.

A clawed, scaly hand slid tentatively along the floor. You took it. Held it gently, first observing the long talons protruding like daggers from each finger before slotting yours between them—nothing sharp there. You let out a long sigh and leaned back against the concrete wall. His breath hitched.

He’d never had his hand held in this form, you assumed.

He’d never had his hand held at all, in fact. Not in many years.

It had to be a trap, he thought. No one had ever loved him before. No one could—not like this. Yet, as he fell asleep to your fingers massaging his temple and the soft murmuring of your voice, he let himself believe it. You were always there, protecting him. Smiling at him in the morning.

When you woke up, Frederick was human again, still fast asleep in your arms.

#Frederick Chilton x reader #my writing

67 notes · View notes

inkformyblood · 3 years

Text

stay interested (in what comes back)

Day 01 Clan of Three for @dincobbweek Summary: Cobb never expected to hear from the Mandalorian after he leaves, but then the first letter arrives... The first letter arrives a few days after Mando and the kid leaves, and it sits unopened on Cobb’s shelf for several days before he can bring himself to open it.

The courier — a young woman named Tai with a constellation of freckles across her cheeks and forehead and close-cropped black hair — presses it into his hands with a knowing grin. Her clothes are worn from the speeder ride around Tatooine, sand clinging to them so that she appears to be part of the desert made flesh.

“If you want to send anything back,” she says, pausing in her swaying walk back to her bike, turning to look over her shoulder towards him. “Just leave it in the usual box. I’ll be back round in two weeks.”

She grins and Cobb catches sight of a new banner tied around her waist: a striped cloth in browns and golds and undeniably Tusken, but it tears the breath from his lungs before he can respond. She hops back onto her bike and is gone.

Everywhere he turns, he is reminded of Mando and the kid, and just when he had pushed the other man from his mind with practised unnerving ease, the letter arrived.

The material is well-made, smooth to the touch except for the small crumpled swell in the centre, and the seal is neat but plain. Cobb brushes his fingers over the markings — a smaller line that flares out into a small peak with a notched end next to a hooked line — and places the letter down, willing his thoughts to turn away from it.

But it remains like a stone digging into the soft skin in the arch of his foot or a shard caught in his teeth.

So Cobb opens it, after one trip too many past it, his gaze locking onto it and the burning curiosity courses through him again.

A crumpled picture on pale brown paper spills out, the edges ragged and torn, and Cobb recognises it as the unmarked side of a help wanted notice. They are common enough in Tatooine that Cobb flips it to the other side to inspect the details before allowing himself to take in the hand-drawn picture.

It was one of theirs, he realises, smoothing out the creases that distort Mos Pelgo’s desperate plea for help. Why had he chosen this? Cobb was well versed in backhanded insults and thinly veiled threats. He had learned to be. The scars that span his back and thighs still ache with the memory of the burning whip and each one is a testament to what he survived.

Mando didn’t strike him as that sort of man. Cobb had seen the way he had curved towards the kid, always half stretched out to brush fingertips across his skull as if he was caught in orbit. Cobb liked to think he was a good judge of character and even when Mando had bared his metaphorical teeth at him, Cobb knew he was a good man.

So, he reasons that the paper was likely convenient rather than a reminder of a debt owed, and flips it back over. A huge white shape dominates the right-hand side of the page broken up by the jagged edges of what Cobb realises are teeth. Next to it are two crudely drawn stick figures, one broader and grey but clearly wearing a helmet with a T shaped visor and the other taller and shakily drawn, featureless except for a red triangle at its throat. Next to the two is a smaller circle in green with two triangles for ears inside a floating grey circle.

It’s the three of them, and a Kraft dragon.

Cobb smooths it out as best he can, his heart twisting and constricting in his chest, threatening to choke him. The other item in the letter is smaller. It rolls when Cobb fumbles while drawing it from the envelope, slipping through his fingers and clattering onto the floor. He drops to his knees, cursing his own uncooperative hands and the protest of his knees, the sharp flare of pain dulling to an ache that would haunt him for a few days.

The ring is cool to the touch and is perfectly sized for his thumb. Cobb doesn’t let his thoughts linger on that, focusing on the careful engraving of segmented bone upon bone instead of the remembered press of Mando’s hand in his, surprisingly warm given the chill of the night air, the slight hesitancy as if expecting Cobb to pull away from him.

He slips it onto his thumb, tacks the picture up on the main wall in his section of the house, and returns to work. A letter detailing their efforts and professing his thanks, along with all the unmarked scrap paper he can find and pencils scavenged from the passing traders that the school doesn't need anymore finds its way into the courier dropbox and is away before Cobb can talk himself out of it.

He just hopes he has made the right choice.

The arrival of a second picture — the same lopsided circle-shaped child drawn in greens and browns and two stick figures, one grey and one brown with red at its throat beneath a sky that burst with all the colours of a fistfight — confirms he was right. The note that comes with it is brief but Cobb traces his fingers over the hesitant letters. Thank you.

⁂

The shadow at the end of Cobb’s hallway shifts as he steps closer, his blaster held ready by his side. “Wasn’t sure you’d be coming here, Mando. Glad to see I was wrong.”

Mando’s laugh sounds wrong, too sharp at the edges and echoing slightly. Cobb takes another step closer, his gaze dropping to search the lighter shadows by the other man’s feet, looking for the huddle of fabric and large eyes of the kid.

“He had to go back to his people.” Mando sounds broken, his voice flat, and Cobb knows that feeling only too well. It draws you down, down into its depths, until you can’t remember what it felt like to believe in something or to care about another person. He steps closer despite himself, one hand stretching out to try and offer what comfort he could when he stops.

Dark curls, close cropped and unevenly cut, greet Cobb’s gaze, brushing against the edge of Mando’s beskar, his helmet held loosely in one hand. His heart lodges in his throat, remembering the way Mando had recoiled when Cobb had taken off the helmet of the borrowed armour, his hope dying in an instant.

“I’m guessing a lot has happened since your last letter.” Cobb doesn’t look at Mando further, navigating with the edges of his vision, sliding his feet across the floor as he hooks his arm around Mando’s waist. The man freezes before curling into him with a wounded noise ripping from his throat. “Come on and sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“Didn’t know where else to go.” Mando sighs, his feet leaden, but he goes where Cobb leads. His skin was as cold as his beskar, gritty with sand that rasped against Cobb’s palm. “Knew it would be safe here.”

“Ain’t that a good endorsement,” Cobb murmurs, trying to ignore the swell of emotion the words created in his chest. The gap in letters had troubled him more than he wanted to admit and Tai had taken to stopping by his house first on her rounds so he wouldn’t waste more time waiting for her, only to be disappointed once again.

“It’s true.” Mando turns to watch him, and Cobb keeps his gaze fixed forward. The other man is shorter than him, folding into the curve of his chest as if he had been made to fit there, and he catches a glimpse of dark eyes before they move into his bedroom and Mando’s gaze snaps to the wall. “Oh.”

He sways, no longer leaning on Cobb for support, but clinging to him like a lifeline, and Cobb chances smoothing a hand along the curve of his hip, leaning down to blindly knock his temple to the other man’s. “You will see your kid again, Mando. He loves you.”

“He talked about you too.” Mando’s words rumble through him, his voice cracking and breaking. “Always drawing you. We were going to come back before— before—”

“He’s a sweet kid. Takes after his daddy, I reckon.”

Mando laughs at that, a helpless exhalation, and Cobb chuckles along with him.

“Now, go to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning,” Cobb continues, nudging Mando towards the bed. It is unmade, the blankets twisted too high, exposing the pale sheet beneath, but he doesn’t have time to reconsider it as Mando falls onto it as if his strings were cut.

“Skywalker took my child,” Mando mutters into the sheets and Cobb freezes, old familiarity washing over him, his thoughts turning towards an old datapad stored in a small chest in the corner and the contact details hidden within.

“Sleep, Mando. It’ll do you some good.” Cobb waits until the man’s breath levels out, falling into the deep easy rhythm of sleep before turning to inspect the wall. The most recent picture from the child catches his eye — the figure of Cobb and Mando on either side of the kid, their hands overlapping, beneath Tatooine's twin suns — and his hands curl into fitsts. He knows what he has to do.

The datapad hums as it turns on, the screen cracked and blurred, but Cobb navigates through it easily, old memories coming back to him.

‘Skywalker? Been a while, but did you just pick up a Mandalorian’s kid and not leave any contact details?’

The reply is quick, and Cobb squints at the screen, his mouth moving soundlessly as he reads through the misspellings and laughs to himself when he finishes. Three days travel away, and Mando would see his son again. Three days of Cobb living with the man he was hopelessly in love with as he helped him restore the balance to his family. This was going to be difficult, but, hopefully, easier than killing the dragon.

#dinncobb #cobbdin #cobb vanth #din djarin #the mandalorian #star wars #my writing

26 notes · View notes

buddyfromearth · 3 years

Text

Object of Affection

For @gothamsworst because your entire penguin tag has put into me a great fire to write a sheepish significant other for him. Mind you, I haven’t written fanfiction since high school so forgive me if I get something wrong (I’m still getting into DC and my parents think it’s embarrassing because I had a lobo phase out of high school.)

Notes: confessions of love; sfw (some slight implications at the end but it cuts off because that’s not going on this blog here); aw, gee, he brought a bouquet of flowers; hey who ordered flirting because here’s some; several headcanons in one go let’s go people; I can write pretty words I just mostly refuse to in favor of making it all comics instead; idea of flirting is just walking up with a bouquet and going “marry me”; I don’t know what I’m doing I’ve never written this guy before.

EDIT: fixed some things.

Stuck between yearning for love and the fear of rejection was a difficult place to be. It was at least easier to know rejection than it was to have yearning for love going totally unanswered. Oh, what pain it was.

Oswald Cobblepot, that troublesome Penguin known about Gotham as one hell of a man to cross, was madly in love. Yes, an unfortunate feeling to have. But he couldn’t help it. Not this time, at least.

It was someone he’d seen around the lounge, lurking nearby where he’d watch the penguins. When he saw them around and was able to not make it awkward, he couldn’t help but stare at those eyes all green and deep like some dark thicket. And those venomous eyes did plenty of staring back: he could feel their gaze fixated on him whenever he was working at the lounge.

Really, though, what did he know about this crush that had taken his entire heart by a single blow? Well, he knew enough. His eyes about Gotham told him that they weren’t much of anything besides a total hermit: mostly stayed home at a ground-floor apartment in a low-rent yet slightly decent part of town (as decent as the city could be, anyway), and had everything that was needed for living delivered to their door. No car: only ever ventured out on a trike with a headlight on the front and a trunk on the back. He wasn’t even sure what they did for a living.

At the very least Oswald knew he could find them lurking around the lounge. So, that’s exactly where he went.

Of course, such an event was not something to go into completely unprepared. He pulled out a nice suit, as usual, with all the fine accoutrements he was well-known for. An umbrella in one hand and a large bouquet of bloody red roses in the other. Even went out of the way to pick out cologne, albeit he preferred not to. He wanted to make the best impression he could.

It was just that odd hour before the post-work rush. Oswald hoped he’d not come in on a wrong night. Trying not to draw too much attention, he made a long sort of awkward path over to where they usually were.

There they were, right at that surprisingly bare table he got used to passing by. There was a pencil case pushed to one side, and it sat next to a tall glass of what he thought might be soda (of course, he wasn’t about to just try it: that would be a bit too much). They were hunched over something in front of them, and their hands moved quickly with a pencil and a brush.

“Excuse me, my dear,” started Oswald, with a soft tone so as to not scare this beloved mystery away, “but is this table taking guests?”

They jumped. Oswald feared he’d gone too fast. Oh, wonderful, now he’d scared them off!

They looked up and met his eyes. What was once a terrified look behind thick glasses quickly melted into something tender and rather curious. “Oh.” Their voice had an astoundingly flat affect, hinting at an origin out in midland farming country with the slight tint to it. They cleared their throat, and moved their bag to the other side. “S-sure thing, sir, sure. Wasn’t expecting anyone to be over here tonight. Normally people only ever come over to ask for free work from me.” Their voice was soft and quiet as they spoke: an absolutely adorable sound that hit just right in his ears. He could listen to it talk forever.

“Excellent.” Oswald sat down directly next to them, putting the umbrella to rest on the seat beside him.

Their face quickly changed colors. It went from a sickly pale in the lowlight to being absolutely taken over with blush. “R-right, s-sure. Please, forgive me for asking, but haven’t I seen you around here before?”

“Of course you would have seen me here before,” said Oswald, rolling his eyes slightly. “I own this lounge, after all.”

“Oh, I…” They stopped for a moment, and their mouth was slightly agape as they appeared to slowly mentally register the weight of the situation. Then their eyes shot wide open and they gave up a nervous smile with chattering teeth. “M-Mr. Cobblepot, sir. I-I-I didn’t think I was something you’d… well, y’know, actually come over to see?”

“Quite the contrary,” said Oswald, moving in closer and putting an arm around their shoulder. “You’ve captured my attention with how much you care about my darlings. I see you in here and I can’t help but wonder if you’re some kindred soul.” He gestured just slightly over at the centerpiece of the lounge, the namesake iceberg with a whole group of penguins he often spent hours watching on his days off.

They looked over to where he gestured, and then they nodded quickly. The nervousness quickly got itself out of that smile, and their entire posture melted into one of repose. “Your penguins, right. Right, the penguins! Of course! They’re so cute: little communal flipper birds that just waddle around and honk and preen all day.” They sighed and smiled, leaning forward and putting their head to rest in their hand. “What I wouldn’t give for a life so carefree.”

Oswald immediately had a few ideas come to mind. Oh, he could take care of that: he could just bring them into his life and get them out of that awful apartment, pamper them with anything and everything they could ever want. Ask them to move in with you. Ask them for a date. Ask them to share a drink. No, no, no, that’s all too fast! Play it slowly: perhaps they’ll melt into your arms if you go ahead just right.

“How often are you around here, hm?” Oswald looked over from behind his monocle at this mystery figure that had caught his attention and proceeded to hold it in a vice-like grip, taking a moment to look at what he was dealing with. Their figure was mostly obscured by big, bulky articles of clothing, but what could be made out was all thick and rolled together like some haphazard cake stacked up far too high for its own good. It was very easy to look at. “You seem to know enough about my precious little birds.” “Perhaps a bit too much” was a phrase he wanted to add, but he wasn’t about to murder this feeling.

“I don’t really drink alcohol. I only really come here to draw the iceberg and all the penguins,” said the mystery crush. “They’re so fun to smush together with their little shapes. Their little flippers are so cute. And their little feet are surprisingly complex once you get past all the flub and feathers.”

Oh, one of those artist types. Wait, artist type. Artist. Oh, this could be good: this could actually be really good for several different reasons! Not just the romantic pursuit reason, either: perhaps their passion for the arts would include, somewhere in there, a passion for him.

“I see.” Oswald reached for the pad of paper they were so vigilantly guarding and said, “I can’t help but have a look at someone’s work regarding my darlings.”

A sickly pale hand with chewed-down nails shot over and clamped in on Oswald’s wrist. “Just a second there, Mr. Cobblepot. You have to promise me something first.”

“Anything, my sweet, anything.”

“Don’t tell anyone what you see in this book. It’s a lot of… well, it’s… bad.”

“Oh, I will most certainly be the judge of that.” Oswald picked up the book, and then handed them the bouquet in return. “Here, something for you to hold in the meantime.”

Noting their shocked expression as they carefully took the bouquet in their arms, Oswald began to slowly browse through the contents of the book.

What they had said was indeed true: there were a lot of penguins in there. They were doing all sorts of things: preening their coats, honking, spread out on their stomachs staring at each other, ambling across the ice. They were all partway realistic, but there was some sort of fantastical flair to them. It was cute: just like them.

While flipping through the pages, though, he couldn’t help but notice other pieces. Things like the name of the lounge written out in poster type pieces with his penguins and their little iceberg on it. There was, undeniably, a unique work of a penguin in a suit like his. Curious, he turned the page.

And what he saw there surprised him greatly.

It was not only drawings of patrons with little notes about time scrawled around them that occupied the pages, but there were drawings of him as well. Little notes here and there about the things he’d wear, the way he’d talk, and the way he moved. Around one particular piece underlaid with purple markings was a portrait of him smiling: the note around this piece said “Handsome guy but who?” It was surrounded by little scribbled hearts.

Oswald, in his stroke of peacock vanity that got to him every now and again, turned his head slightly as he was gently urged by these things. “I see that you draw more than birds.”

The mystery crush looked over. They caught a look of what pages he’d come to and they grimaced before sighing and hiding their face in their hands. “Sorry about that. I-I draw people a lot, just to stay aware of how to do it.”

“It seems you’ve become quite taken with me in these intimate studies,” said Oswald, casting a rather tempered gaze and a matching grin over at the object of his affections as he handed back the book. “I must admit, I came here tonight thinking you wouldn’t reciprocate the feelings that brought me to you in the first place.”

“Oh, wow, feelings?” The mystery crush smiled and chuckled ever so softly, rubbing their hand along the back of their neck as they took the book and put it back on the table. “Goodness gracious, Mr. Cobblepot, I didn’t expect a gentlemanly type like yourself to be the romantic type.”

“Oh, but isn’t a gentleman always the romantic type?” Oswald, emboldened by such a soft response, couldn’t help but to pull them in closer. When they began to blush again, he grinned and pressed a gloved finger to their nose. “I can’t exactly help it. And please, just call me Oswald.” He then picked up one of their hands and pressed a single, fervent kiss to it.

“Ah, uh, I guess so,” said the mystery crush, “mister… oh, right, Oswald. Right, first name basis now.” Their face was getting hotter by the minute, and they began to stammer over all their words as they put the bouquet on the table. “I, uh… would, would you be offended if I asked you something kinda personal?”

Oswald could already picture several personal questions and perfect little answers to go along with them. He nodded and held their hands in his. “Oh, but of course, my dear: anything you ask for, you’ll get it from me.”

“Oh.” The mystery crush nodded, their glasses falling down their face in the meantime. When Oswald reached up and pushed them back to their previous position, they cleared their throat and quickly stammered out, “If you feel so strongly about me, would you mind if I moved in? I, uh… they hiked the rent on my place again and I have to find a new one before the end of the month. Don’t make enough.”

“Would I mind? Of course not, dearest bird, of course not. I have far too many places that need a colorful touch like yours. You can come with me tonight, if it pleases you, my dear.”

“You don’t have to be so heavy-handed with all the compliments.”

“Oh, but I believe you deserve every last one of them.”

“You’re far too kind.” The mystery crush sighed. “I hate to tell you this now, after all those compliments and affectionate talk, but I’m kind of a handful, I’m… look, I’m trans and if you’re not into a guy like me, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m- I’m sorry. We can just go away from this table and never speak about this again. It… it’ll be fine if we do that.”

“Oh, now you just listen to me.” Oswald put his hands to the mystery crush’s face and leaned it over so they were looking at him. “I don’t rightly care about whether you’re trans or not, and I’ll fund that for you so you can be happy. You’re just far too pretty of a kindred spirit to be left so alone in such a big city.”

“I…” The mystery crush looked baffled. They froze for a moment or two, and Oswald wondered if he had said too much. After a long silence, they sighed and smiled so big and soft that it couldn’t help but bring him to smile as well. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Oh, you’re ever so welcome, my dear.” Oswald pressed his face up to theirs and quickly asked, “May I?”

“May you… oh, right. Right! Yes, you may, Oswald. You most certainly may!”

With that, Oswald couldn’t help but press a kiss to their lips. Their lips were slightly chapped, and he couldn’t help but nuzzle his face just slightly against theirs in some affectionate attempt to bring intimacy to such a moment. This move, while unexpected at first, was quickly reciprocated as their hands took hold of his shoulders.

Oswald pulled away with a troublesome little grin spread across his lips, and the object of all those affections smiled like this sort of intimacy was brand new to them. “I can’t help but wonder what your name is.”

“Look, my name is…” They stopped for a moment, but then they smiled and just said, “Call me Lou for now. I can’t think of a name that belongs to me.”

“Then let’s find that out together.” Oswald took his umbrella up and moved to stand, offering his hand to Lou. “Come, I can have a crew bring your things to our home tomorrow. Tonight, we shall simply be enamored little lovebirds.”

Lou laughed. Their laugh sounded like the call of a bird, with its dragged-out syllables and its pitch. They snorted just slightly as they packed up their things. “You’re very honest, Oswald. I like that. I like that a lot.”

“What’s a little honesty between significant others?” Oswald smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

Lou put their bag back on their shoulders and put their hand in Oswald’s as they stood up. They weren’t much taller than him, and those assumptions he had made about their figure were correct. “It’s a lot. Let’s go.”

Oswald only put his arm around them as the two gently went hand-in-hand to where his driver waited.

“What are the plans for this evening, Oswald?”

“Oh, I do believe I have a few ideas beginning to come to be. Just you be patient, my sweet, I’ll tell you when we’re alone.”

#writing #gothamsworst #not going into the tags #too embarrassing and self-inserty for the tags #gave the guy a different name too #just so it's not too self-inserty #I don't like getting rude comments about self-inserting #my writing

21 notes · View notes

wooyunhwa · 4 years

Text

kingdom of welcome addiction | two

view pinned post for masterlist for links to the rest of the parts!

Genre: smut

Pairing: demon!san x fem!reader

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: blood drinking, choking (like some serious choking you’ve been warned), crying kink, corruption kink, praise kink? idk, mentions of alcohol, virgin mc

Synopsis: When you accidentally summon a bloodthirsty demon boy to your bedroom, you form an unexpected contract with him.

A/N: Thank you for reading and comments are super appreciated as always!

It had been a few weeks since you’d last summoned San. The last time you’d seen him, he’d gone kind of crazy after tasting your blood. You couldn’t forget the darkness in his voice, his all-black eyes shining demonically as he lost it. He had left without even giving himself a chance to explain himself, he just disappeared to, well… wherever it was that demons went, you supposed.

Every so often, your hand would find its way up to check the scar where he’d punctured your neck. Honestly, you just wanted to make sure you hadn’t dreamt it all. As the days went on, you really couldn’t be sure. Eventually the scar dwindled to a faint red mark, and then to nothing at all.

The sticky note was still pinned to the wall above your desk, taunting you every time you saw it. Each time you’d think today was the day you’d call him back, and yet, you hadn’t been able to do it.

Until you were drunk, that is.

You had a particularly rough day of classes. Your professor had called you out in front of the whole class for a mistake you made on an assignment, and it ripped you apart. When you got home, you had poured out a few pathetic drinks to drown the pain of the day, wanting nothing more than to curl up in your bed and disappear. But you forgot one vital thing. When you drank alone, you got sad. Like, really sad. The tears seemed to flow endlessly, and there was a point at which you even forgot why you were crying—or drinking—in the first place.

There was a part of you that needed in that moment to not be alone, even for just a second. Embarrassed to call any of your friends over, you turned to the only companion who couldn’t turn you down.

Your demon boy.

You ripped the post-it off the wall, finally ready to use it, drunkenly singing out the Latin a few times until it was comprehensible enough to work.

He was perched on your desk when he appeared. You stumbled back drunkenly, startled by his sudden appearance despite knowing you were summoning him. You just forgot how jarring it was.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” San grumbled. You weren’t sure if he was responding to your sudden summoning, or the fact that you were leaking tears all over the place pathetically, but you couldn’t even manage to choke out a response through your blubbering.

“This is way out of my pay grade.” He hopped off the desk, sauntering slowly in your direction. “Have you been drinking, hmm? I can smell that cheap liquor from a mile away. It’s fogging up your pretty little scent.”

You wiped the tears from your eyes pitifully. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have summoned you. You can leave.”

“I did miss your cute little human face, I suppose,” he said softly. He was standing close now, towering over you. You pulled your gaze up to meet his eyes, and he gave a gentle pet to your head. In any other situation, it would be sweet, but the look in his eyes was chilling. He looked at you like prey, a piece of meat—and yet his words dripped off his tongue like the sweetest honey. “Don’t cry, okay?”

His thumb drew across your cheek, passing faintly over your lips, collecting tears. He brought his hand up to his tongue, licking it clean of the saltwater, not breaking eye-contact for even a second. “Virgin tears. Almost as good as the blood,” he sang, eyes rolling back in his head in a quick moment of bliss for just a moment before fixing back on your face. “Almost.”

You forgot how alluring he was, his sharp-featured face in particular. There was something magnetic about it, you couldn’t pull your gaze away no matter how intense he was.

“So why’d you call me, hmm, darling?” He flashed his teeth villainously. “Missed my bite that much? Have something new to offer, perhaps?”

You dropped your gaze, but he tipped your chin up to meet his again almost immediately. “Look me in the eyes, darling. You’re the one that summoned me, the least you could do is give me that.”

“I shouldn’t have called you here. I shouldn’t have even thought—I should have known you wouldn’t care beyond your own interests,” you said, voice hoarse and shaky through your tears.

He shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

“Asshole.”

His brows furrowed. “Okay, a little uncalled for. But not entirely untrue.” He placed his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to the bed. It took only a small nudge to plop you down. You felt the effects of the alcohol wash over you. “We can make a contract. If it makes you feel better.”

“What, you’re gonna ask for my blood again?” you scoffed.

“No.”

“Then?”

“Your tears.”

You paused, considering the stakes. “Fine, take them. What do I get?”

He took a seat next to you on the plush blanket, placing a surprisingly comforting hand on your back. “I’ll listen to you. Like, uh… a demon therapist,” he smiled at you from your side, flashing his fangs cheekily. “I promise I’ll do my best to stay serious. I’m contractually obligated.”

“Fine,” you agreed, slightly annoyed at how difficult you found it to resist him. His devilish charm was too much for you—even sober, but especially drunk.

“Tears first,” he said decidedly, and you caught a glimpse of desire spark in his eyes.

You nodded, shuffling your butt on the bed to face him. You expected him to run his fingers over your face, like he had earlier. Instead, he brushed his thumb over the side of your face slowly, dancing along the cut of your jaw, then leaned in to brush his lips over your cheek. You flinched as his lips connected with your skin softly, and you felt the distinct wetness of his tongue brushing over the surface. He lapped at your tears through deliberate, drawn-out kisses, and the cold metal of his lip ring felt unexpectedly nice drawing over your cheek.

His hand came around to the back of your head, lacing his fingers in your hair to steady you. It was incredibly sensual, whether he meant it to be or not. He moaned pleasurably at the taste of your tears, though he didn’t have the same animalistic hunger he seemed to have when he’d tasted your blood. Probably for the best.

“You’re so cute when you’re crying. Like a helpless little lamb. If I weren’t supposed to be nice to you right now, I’d have a half a mind to make you cry again,” he purred against your ear.

His other hand threaded around the small of your waist, like he’d done when he drank your blood before. And you couldn’t lie, you kind of loved it. His position was unexpectedly romantic: one hand cupped around your waist, the other laced in your hair, delivering soft kisses and licks across your cheeks. You closed your eyes to get a better idea of the sensation, fisting your hands needily in the silky fabric of his button down.

You felt him pull away suddenly, an amused smirk dancing up on his lips. “Someone’s getting spicy. This wasn’t in our contract.”

Fuck. Something in your mind was telling you to kiss him. Not just telling, but more like screaming at you. Fucking kiss him. His lips looked so soft and alluring, so dangerously off-limits. You leaned in slightly, magnetized by his aura, only to feel him pull away entirely.

“Okay. I’ve had my fun,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair, roughing it up messily, giving you a perfect view at the cut of his jaw. “Now I hold up my end of the deal. You talk, I listen.”

Do we have to talk? you thought, annoyed. I’d rather just make out.

You gritted your teeth together as you tried desperately to shift your thoughts away from kissing him. But you couldn’t help but think about how his lips would taste against your lips, how his tongue would dance sinfully against yours, his fingers laced in your hair—god, what was wrong with you? It was probably all the drinks you had, making you unnecessarily sad and even more unnecessarily horny for your hot demon errand boy. You needed to get it the fuck together.

You pushed away your fantasies for the night, as hard as that was. For the next hour or so, you lamented to him about your rough day, even going into a few things that had happened in the past week. He listened thoughtfully, carefully, though in the back of your mind you knew he was only being so attentive because he was ‘contractually obligated.’

You poured your heart to him, feeling incredibly vulnerable under his concentrated gaze. Though this time it wasn’t entirely predatory, but more like interested. Caring, even. You doubted that even was possible. Even so, as you talked, you felt more and more connected with him.

For a moment, he seemed almost human.

Summoning San became an almost nightly routine for you.

You’d summon him, have him help you with mundane activities like homework, cleaning, cooking—whatever task you could think of to keep him around as long as possible. Of course, he couldn’t turn you down unless you didn’t have a reasonable counter to give him.

Each time you summoned him, it seemed as though he cared less and less about the contract and seemed to enjoy your company a bit more. Not that he’d ever unveil that information to you—he always gave into your mundane proposals begrudgingly, but there was a glint in his eye that said he wanted to be there, even if he wouldn’t admit it yet.

“You know I have other clients, right?” he’d joke. “You can’t summon me every night.”

“Oh, so you’re cheating on me?” you’d tease back.

“Don’t worry,” he’d say with a charming wink. “You’re my favorite human.”

“Not that there’s any competition, but you’re my favorite demon.”

You loved the playful banter between you. He felt somehow easier to talk to than any human you’d met, perhaps because there was little to no social pressure involved. Something about your dynamic felt almost boyfriend-ish, in a way—if you could consider being a glorified errand boy a boyfriend-ish thing to do. He rarely divulged any personal information about himself, but you got to know him through the littlest things. His small habits, the things that made him laugh.

You couldn’t believe it, but you were falling for him slowly, like some sort of pathetic schoolgirl crush. The highlight of your day was the minute you could conjure him, even just to see his face smiling in front of you, that familiar devilish grin as he appeared in your room.

There was still something that felt entirely off-limits, though. Sure, you’d let him drink from your neck a few more times—each time he’d get better at controlling himself—but you weren’t sure how to cross the line from there. He’d been so forward on the very first night you met him. He even asked to take your virginity, which of course you outright denied. But even if it was a joke, if he was just messing with you, the idea swirled in your mind every now and again. You even dreamt of him a few times. But he hadn’t mentioned it since.

It was late in the night. You had summoned San to do some menial house chores, as you usually did, in exchange for dinner and a back massage—something you weren’t even aware demons needed. San had explained it to you, but you still couldn’t quite wrap your head around the inhuman-soul in a human-vessel dynamic, so you chose not to question it too hard.

Today, something felt different about him. He was flirtier, sexier, more outlandishly charming than usual, if that was even possible. You watched him scrubbing your countertops like your hot demon maid—you even went so far as to dress him in an apron you spent a little too long picking out at the store—marveling at the small of his waist cinched in with the fabric tie.

“Enjoying the view?” he teased with a playful glance over his shoulder, wiggling his hips.

“Ugh, I was until you did that,” you joked back. “C’mon, that countertop isn’t gonna scrub itself.”

He gave his hips another shake, chuckling as you trained your gaze on his ass. “You’re so cute when you’re drooling over me. Get it together, darling. You’ve still got a massage to give.”

He was just joking around with you, you knew that. He was probably just as charming with his other summoners, or his ‘clients’ as he called them. But he was right, you couldn’t help but drool over him. It was moments like this where you fell for him, hard, pretty much flat on your face. You wished so desperately for him to be human right now, just for a second. You wanted him to give you a sweet, squeezing hug, kissing your forehead. You wanted to feel his arms around your waist, pulling you in close. You wanted to ask him on a date. You wanted him.

But you’d have to settle for watching him clean your house. God, what was wrong with you? You couldn’t have caught feelings for a human boy?

And now you had to give him a massage, which wasn’t going to make it any better.

He laid himself face down on your bed, face resting gingerly against your pillow. You straddled him, setting yourself down gently on the back of his thighs. You had admittedly never given a massage before, but you weren’t going to let that stop you. Your hands explored below the hem of his shirt, lifting up slowly to reveal the soft, perfectly tanned skin underneath. You were able to get a better view of his proportions, the way his waist curved in so delicately and then up into his beautifully broad shoulders. He was fit, but not too muscular, slender, but not too thin. He was absolutely immaculate.

You rubbed circles in his back, drawing out the sweetest moans from his lips as you massaged down on his muscles. “I may be cursed with this human body—ah—but this does feel kind of amazing,” he admitted in a voice slightly muffled by the pillows.

You worked at his muscles until he seemed satisfied, even rolling your palms around his neck and shoulders to hear his sweet groans of pleasure. It was unbelievably enticing, and you felt dampness pooling between your legs.

When you were done he rolled on to his stomach. You watched in awe at the rise and fall of his chest, the tip of his chin accentuating his sharp jawline. You didn’t want him to leave.

He stood himself up from the bed, shaking his muscles out a bit before smiling cheekily, flashing his fangs as he always did. “Looks like our contract today is complete. See you tomorrow, hmm?” he winked.

“San wait—”

“Yes?”

“I want another contract.”

He paused to contemplate, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip in thought. He cocked his pierced eyebrow up, stepping forward to close the distance between you. “What’s that, little lamb? Are you finally gonna let me take that pretty little soul?”

You swallowed, mustering up the courage to make your move. “I want you to kiss me.”

“You—what?” he sputtered, clearly caught off guard by your proposition.

“I’m asking you to kiss me,” you repeated.

You watched his eyes go dark, slightly hooded as he trained his gaze back on you. In contrast from his lighthearted mood earlier in the day, he looked particularly lustful as his eyes found your lips.

“So, if you want to make a contra—”

He was on you before you could finish your sentence. His hands found your hips, squeezing tightly to pull you against him.

His lips lingered over yours, the warmth of his breath washing over you like soft waves. He didn’t stay there for long, pulling your lips against his fully. He tasted like heaven, hell, and everything in between. You craved for him as thirstily, barely coming up for air as your lips rocked slowly against each other’s. One of his hands was laced in your hair, the other steadying against your neck. For a moment, you forgot he was even a demon at all, except for the inhumanly exquisite taste of his lips.

He pulled away for only enough time to choke out his next words in a low growl. “I guess I’ll make an exception on the contract this once. Once.”

He bit playfully at your bottom lip, lightly twirling his tongue around the surface. Then harder. You yelped as his fang sunk in, tearing off a small piece of flesh. He smirked against your lips, drawing his tongue across the blood with sensual breaths. His hands came to your shoulders to swivel your hips around, backing you into the wall next to your door frame, caging you in with his body.

“I always forget how good you taste,” he purred in your ear. He grasped at your body hungrily through your clothes, like he was ready to rip through them at any moment.

You could have stayed there forever, his body trapping you against the wall, lips on you like he would never have another chance to taste you. But he pushed away suddenly, his eyes flashing a demonic black for a moment angrily.

“Fuck. I have to go. I’m getting another call,” he hissed through his teeth.

“San wait I—”

But he was gone.

Your knees gave out under you weakly, sliding your back down the wall, staring at the empty space he had occupied. He wasn’t yours. He wasn’t your boyfriend, or even your friend. He was a demon. You couldn’t afford to forget that for even a moment.

It was just too good to be true.

You didn’t discuss the kiss further, not for a while at least. He’d made a few passing comments on his nightly house calls, but you hadn’t dared bring it up again in conversation. However, on one night in particular, you had summoned him without purpose. You were admittedly lonely, and frankly, a bit horny. You wanted company, and he was always on call.

“Yes, my liege?” he teased with a bow as he appeared in your room. And there was that intoxicating smile again.

“Will you just talk to me tonight?”

“Okay, darling. And what do I get, hmm?”

“No contract.”

“You know that isn’t how this wo—”

“I want to know you’re not just here because you have to be tonight. But if you really don’t want to be here, you can leave. You know the way out.”

He sighed heavily. “Y/N, you know this isn’t—”

“Please.”

You saw the look on his face soften, and he gave in with a nod that said ‘fine, but just this once’.

You talked across from each other on the bed for a while, talking about anything that came to your mind, though not much about him. He mostly listened, cut in a few times with a quip or a cheeky comment, but kept his eyes trained on you with complete concentration otherwise. You actually hadn’t expected him to be such a good listener. Better than most humans you knew, anyway. You loved the moments where you caught a glimmer of humanity, although you knew that wasn’t possible. The only human thing about him was his body, after all.

As you made conversation, your mind wandered elsewhere. You couldn’t help but admire the curve of his lips, the sharp cut of his jaw, his crimson eyes shining like rubies. You felt completely intoxicated by him, as you always did. He was entirely tempting and yet felt completely off limits, even though you had entertained many times the thought of him fucking you. The thought flickered through your head even now. You imagined every rise of the muscles in his chest, sweat glistening on his skin as he towered over you. You imagined what his dick might look like, sliding in and out of you. You imagined his lips all over your body, every curve of your skin, every inch of you from head to toe.

The tension in the room grew thick as you watched his mouth, concentrated on every movement, every flick of his tongue, the faint glimmer of his metal lip ring, the fangs glistening under his slightly parted lips. There wasn’t an ounce of subtlety in the way you watched him, and he slowly stopped moving entirely, focusing all his energy on to you again. You craved the intense heat of his gaze now—you were no longer uncomfortable with his severity, only further entranced by how it pulled you in. You were entirely in his trap. You leaned forward, initiating the kiss, and he leaned in to meet you. His tongue slid against yours, and you reciprocated fervently. He tasted incredible, and the way he moaned against your lips indicated he felt the same about you. “You’re intoxicating,” he purred, his heavy breaths sounding like music in your ears. You wanted him, entirely. Since the moment he’d first appeared you’d wanted him.

Your hands explored his chest, his arms, the small of his waist—everywhere you could touch, you did. His chest was rock-solid, a beautiful display of muscle sculpted beautifully on his core. You felt every desire you’d ever had compounding at once within you, it rocked through you like a wave: the need to be touched, held, fucked right this moment. Although you’d never done it before, at least with another person, you had plenty of experience with the vibrator in your room, and recently, with picturing San as you pleasured yourself. Either way, if you had done it with another human or not, it probably wouldn’t have even mattered—he wasn’t human at all, in fact. What he was was danger wrapped up in an alluringly human-like package.

“I want you to fuck me, San,” you said confidently, letting the words the drip off your tongue, slowly and deliberately.

Your bodies were nearly flush, and you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His finger traced along your jaw, a low grumble rolling up through his throat, coming up through his teeth in a hiss. “You can’t tempt me with that kind of offer,” he growled, and the way his fingers trembled as they met your skin indicated his ultimate self-control. “I don’t think you understand how I can get...”

“I saw it, San, before. Remember? I’m not scared of you,” you countered. But that last part was kind of a lie.

“I can’t,” He took a final step closer, closing any remaining gap between you. “Fuck… you don’t understand how… delicious you look to me right now,” he hissed through his teeth, his voice getting rougher and deeper as he held himself together. “I can’t help myself. It’s like some sort of animal instinct.”

“San, please. I can handle it. You even admitted you wanted my virginity the day we met.”

“I was joking back then… sort of. I might be soulless, but I’m not heartless. I couldn’t hurt you.” He gritted his teeth, restraining his heavy, lusted breaths.

“So you don’t want to?”

“Fuck, I do… I do more than anything. Every time I look at you I picture myself destroying you—”

“Then do it.”

“Gah, you—fuck.” He planted a few restrained kisses down the sensitive skin of your neck. He dragged his fangs along the taut flesh, threatening to sink them in. “I can try to hold myself back. No promises.”

“Please, San,” you whined. Your hands fisted the silky fabric of his shirt, drawing his chest as close to yours as possible.

“Mmf,” he grunted against your neck, digging his nails into your waist hungrily. “Fuck, you taste like a drug.” He pulled back, his eyes darker now. His usually crimson irises looked nearly black in his state of temptation, so much so that you could barely make out the whites of his eyes. He looked more like a demon than ever before, the wicked aura almost possessing him. He shook his head, as if trying to purify himself. “I can’t—I’m gonna hurt you. Don’t do this to me, I’m not going to be able to—”

You pulled down the collar of your shirt, revealing your shoulders and a hint of your chest. His eyes went hungry, trained on the soft curve of your collarbone lustfully, wickedly. “I’m giving my body to you, please... Take it.”

His voice was a low growl, and he seemed to be restraining himself with everything he had left. Thick, enraged veins bulged from his forearms as he grasped at your waist. “I’m telling you, I’m going to lose control… you’re not gonna recognize me.”

“I know. San, please. I’m asking you to take my virginity.”

He finally snapped under your words, his eyes almost fully consumed with black now. His lips attached to your collarbone, sucking gently at the soft skin around it. His desperate clawing nearly tore the fabric of your shirt from your skin as his kisses feasted on you hungrily. You tipped your head back, his lips and tongue eliciting soft moans from you as they danced along the top half of your chest.

His voice was so deep now it nearly rumbled, barely sounding like the San you knew. “You’re delicious—fuck—even better than I remember.”

His hands pushed you back against the pillows with more strength than he probably meant to use, nearly knocking the wind out of you with his force. He sunk his teeth into your shoulder, and you yelped in surprise at the sting of his teeth in your flesh. You felt the distinctly wet and all-too-familiar sensation of blood as the canines pierced your skin. He licked it clean, his whole body shaking with desire as your blood washed over his tongue. He sang the most beautiful moans you’d ever heard into your skin, lapping up every last drop clean from where he’d punctured you.

You had grown addicted to the sensation of his teeth on your skin and his tongue licking up the blood, like some sort of weird demon-vampire fetish you had never considered before. You laced your fingers in his hair as he worked his way down your chest, tearing away the fabric of your shirt apart with his hands like it was a wet piece of paper, and he didn’t stop until the mess of torn fabric that used to be your shirt slipped off of you easily. His lips kissed and marked your breasts as he worked his way down, then ripped off your pants with the same distinct sound of fabric being torn through like it was nothing.

His dark eyes gleamed hungrily as he met your gaze. He used his tongue sinfully between your thighs, teasing you mercilessly as he kissed and licked around the seam of your panties. You were soaking wet now, the fabric of your underwear entirely drenched from the anticipation. Not just from today, but from the past few weeks of fantasizing about him completely wrecking you. His fangs gripped into the wet fabric, nearly taking your skin with it as he pulled your panties out from between your legs—the only piece of clothing he hadn’t entirely torn off.

“What a cute little human pet,” he purred seductively in your ear, dragging his fingernails across the cut of your jaw. You winced as he drew his hand over your freshly bitten wound. “It’s too bad your blood won’t be so sweet after I’m done with you, hmm, darling? Maybe just one more time, hmm?”

You felt his teeth sink down into your shoulder, and he pulled you entirely flush against him as he bit down with more ferocity than before. You cried out against him as he slipped his tongue delicately over the wound. His hungry grip around your waist grew tighter with every lick.

“San—ah—” you cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure as he soothed your wound with his tongue, hands coming up to squeeze your breasts.

“I could drain you right here,” he growled harshly, but there was still lust coating his words. You felt his dick harden in his pants as he pulled his teeth from your skin, leaving the aching sting of the fresh wound on your collarbone. You felt a bit dizzy now, not only with lust but also from losing quite a bit of blood to his tongue. He stood up suddenly, stripping like clothes meant nothing to him, ripping them off and tossing them to the floor. His breathing was less like breaths and more like throaty grunts. You were able to marvel at his naked body for only a second before he climbed on top of you, forcing you to lie completely flat under him, his broad shoulders closing you in completely.

“Such a cute human,” he praised, marveling at your smallness, your complete powerlessness beneath him. You couldn’t move if you wanted to, his body caged you in from all sides—it’s a good thing you didn’t want to. His eyes were intense, predatory, but not entirely possessed like he had been before just at the mere taste of your blood. You were surprised by his restraint he seemed to be holding on to. “Tiny, powerless… I want to hear you beg for me,” he purred into your ear. As he awaited your response, he lapped gently at the wounds he’d made earlier, collecting the remaining blood on his tongue with a needy moan.

“Please, San—” you started apprehensively, unsure of exactly what he wanted from you. Your voice cracked slightly as you spoke, and heat rose in your cheeks.

He clicked his tongue twice. “Tsk, tsk. I forgot, she’s too pure for this.”

“Fuck me. Please—”

“That’s better darling.”

“I want your cock, please, San.”

“I don’t want to hurt you baby, but you’re too fucking tempting. So cute and helpless beneath me.” He drew one of his hands lightly across your chest, dragging his fingers along every curve. “Begging. Embarrassed. It’s adorable.”

His hand drew over your stomach. Hips. Thighs. Then, finally, between your legs, delivering a small, fleeting taste of the pleasure you’d been searching for all night. You bucked your hips up involuntarily under his touch, and he drew his hand back teasingly. His eyes, hooded with desire, were fixed on your face, reveling in every reaction, every small noise that crept up through your throat. Darkness crept through them, nearly entirely black now. He looked like a real demon.

“What a naughty girl. Practically dripping for me. I thought you were pure, hmm? What happened?” he sang condescendingly, a smirk twitching up on his lips. “Be a sweet little pet for me now.”

He pushed his hips flush with yours, his cock aligning up against you. A low growl ripped through his throat, digging his fingernails into the sheets with a terrifying display of force. “This is probably gonna hurt, darling,” he purred. “Look me in the eyes. I want to see your cute little face as I ruin you.” He tipped your chin up to meet his eyes just as he rutted his hips in for the first time.

The tip slipped in easily, but you couldn’t help but wince at the sensation. You’d tried toys before, but nothing could compare to the size—or feeling—of the real thing. “Ah—ah San, it—it kind of hurts,” you whined, your face twisting a bit as he pumped a few times, slowly and shallowly. He watched your face with blackened eyes.

“You have no idea—” Thrust. “How hard—” Thrust. “It is to—” Thrust. “Keep myself from destroying you.”

Your broken cries echoed loudly as his mouth came down on your wounds once again, delivering wet, desperate licks at the bloody remnants of the punctures he created. It stung harshly, and a single tear escaped your eyes. He pulled away from your chest, positioning himself completely upright, dick still halfway inside of you. You got a good look at his hard chest, an immaculate display of muscle. An unidentifiable tattoo snaked down his right side. He looked almost statuesque poised above you.

“Such pretty tears. My little lamb,” he praised with a low growl, sinking his fingernails into the flesh of your thighs. “Fuck—tell me I can ruin you—” his fingernails dug deeper.

You nodded, urging him on. You initiated it, you wanted it, even if he scared you a bit with his harsh gaze and his tightening grip threatening to mark up your skin. “Yes. Please.” With a single thrust he bottomed out inside you entirely, eliciting a sharp cry from your lips. You tossed your head back, but you could still feel the heat of his stare following your every moment, taking in every curve and scar of your body. “Good little human,” he praised, stroking your thighs as he thrust in again. Every movement he made overwhelmed your senses entirely—a lethal mix of the sting of your wounds, the sensitivity of his hands exploring your thighs, the feeling of his dick stretching out inside you, and finally, how much you craved him.

His hand came up to your throat, latching on to it with a steady viced grip. His eyes went hooded, hungry as he squeezed the air from your lungs. Harder. Tighter. His fingers viced around your neck with dizzying force. You squirmed beneath him, clawing at his hand desperately. TV static buzzed in your brain, and the world went blurry. You just barely caught a glimpse of his black eyes fading back to red before your vision slipped away into darkness.

Your eyes shuttered open to the familiar image of your ceiling. You recognized you were in your own bed, fully clothed, tucked under the covers neatly. Before you could survey your surroundings, San’s face was above you, eyebrows slightly furrowed, tilting his head as he looked down at you. You’d never seen his eyes so soft.

“Look, she’s awake.” His voice was calmer than usual, warmer. “How do you feel?”

“Like hell,” you croaked, voice hoarse as you choked out your words.

“I don’t say this often...” he started, placing a hand on your head. “But I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have even done that in the first place. I went too far.”

“I—what happened—”

“You blacked out. I, uh, well... I choked you until you passed out. I told you, it’s hard for me to control myself like that.”

“Did you—”

“Of course not,” he interjected, not even letting you finish. He knew what you were implying. “As soon as you stopped moving it snapped me out of it.”

You dropped your gaze, recalling how you saw his black eyes turn to normal right before you lost consciousness. “Right. Uh… thanks.”

“I like my prey fresh, anyways. It’s not fun when I can’t watch them squirm.” And there it was. His devilish smile again. His tongue twitched across his lower lip, playing with his lip ring absentmindedly. He quickly cleared his throat when he saw the unamused expression on your face. “I hope… uh, I hope at least you were having fun before—you know.”

You nodded in response as you tried to sit upright in the bed. Bad idea. Your vision went dizzy, and a rush of pain pounded through your skull. “Ah—ow, fuck.”

“Should I get you some water or something? Whatever it is that humans want when they hurt.”

You rolled your eyes at his pointedly un-human response. “Sure, water sounds fine.”

He retrieved you a glass from the kitchen, setting it on the nightstand. “I hate to do this, but I’ve been here for way too long,” he started hesitantly. You could see the regret in his eyes. “Without a contract too. I could get in trouble for this.”

“It’s fine, you can go,” you muttered. “I could use some sleep right now anyway.”

He nodded quietly, administering a small, strangely awkward pat to your head. “Right. Well, uh… get some sleep.”

You barely blinked before he was gone, but it didn’t matter anyway. You were asleep before you could even take a sip of the water he’d gotten you.

#san smut #choi san smut #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #choi san fic #ateez fic #yunho smut #mingi smut #hongjoong smut #wooyoung smut

259 notes · View notes

random-mha-thoughts · 4 years

Text

Kirishima and Shinsou realizing how much you love them

Anon requested: "Take you time!! I couldn't help squeal at this but could you do a scenario with Kirishima and Shinsou (separately) realize how much their reader loves them!! Gender is up to you!!"

Characters: Kirishima Eijrou/Shinsou Hitoshi

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 1,166

Tags: @yuki-osaki @liviitehe @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog @bunnythepipsqueak

a/n: Mini scenario time! I haven’t done either of these boys in a while, so I’m excited about writing these. Thanks for requesting this anon dear, and sorry this is a few weeks later!

Shinsou’s scenario is inspired by a line from @ichor-and-symbiosis‘s Shinsou Fluff Alphabet under Love, I had this mini moment in the back of my head for a LONG time but now I can finally use it!

Kirishima Eijirou

Everyone knows Kirishima is secretly a huge natural flirt. He always has something flattering to say, finding positives in almost every person he meets. He takes pride in his uncanny ability to flash his shark-toothed smile and encourage someone with his words and suddenly make someone's day all the better. In all honesty, it's an amazing skill to have to be able to schmooze the pants off anyone.

Never did he expect to get something served back to him, until you came around.

"Thanks. Your teeth are cool, you'd make a pretty hot vampire I'd say."

Kirishima may be a flirt, but he falls in love fairly quickly. And at that moment, you'd stolen his rock-hard heart.

He'd play it cool as your classmate relationship grew into a showdown of who can make the other blush first, casually slipping honeyed words and praises to each other at random parts of the day. To him, even if you two flirted as your primary mode of communication, he was cautious because he didn't know what your true feelings of him are. If he got his hopes up only to realize he'd read between the lines wrong, it would embarrass and disappoint him.

But one flirty remark crossed the fine line they've been walking between friendly and suggestive. At the way your head jerked towards his speedily, he knew he'd gone and done it, ruining your friendship and making things awkward between you two. As the truly manly man he aspires to be, he decides to own up to it.

"(Y/n), I really do mean that. You're the one person I'd get stranded with on an island, not because you're resourceful or anything like that. I'd just really want to be with you."

As he scratches the back of his head and waits with a tightened jaw for your answer, you place a kiss on his cheek, you face hot as it brushes his. "I've been waiting to see if you would crack."

Months after you two started dating, it was Kirishima's birthday and he had no idea what you were getting for him. After getting to know you, he came to know that you love drawing in your spare time, though you never allowed him to see your work because of how self-conscious you are.

You surprise him by blindfolding him and walking him into the art club room where you'd set up his surprise under a tarp. He removes the blindfold as you instruct him and you shakily remove it from the canvas.

Kirishima's mouth drops open. Not only does he now see that you're as great an artist as he'd insisted, but the image is of the two of you. The largest smile cracks his face in two. "We're stranded on a desert island here aren't we? And I'm dressed as a vampire in a cape! Look how manly and cool I look!"

The moment his eyes land on your again, his heart almost falls at your state. "Aw, babe, come here." He gathers you in his arms as you continue crumpling the tarp in your hands. You don't have to say how anxious you are about him finally seeing your art, he understands immediately how difficult it was to do this for him. "I love it, babe. You've done such an amazing job." Placing a kiss on your forehead as you lean into him, he then realizes just how much trust and love you hold. You showed him your most secretive talent and most vulnerable side to him at your own expense to do something special for him.

"You wanna help me put it up in my room later today?" he beams, trying to get you to smile.

You stare back at him for a moment before he sees all your confidence rushing back at his genuine appreciation of the painting. "Of course!"

Kirishima got two gifts that day: The painting and confirmation of your love for him too.

Shinsou Hitoshi

Shinsou was, is, and will always be the sleep-deprived type. This poor boy has gotten so used to getting such little amount of sleep that even if he goes to bed on time, he wakes up four hours later, wide awake and unable to fall back into his slumber. It's led the poor boy to work out at odd hours of the night into the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes he would even just do homework, play video games, or just make himself a snack.

That is, until he met you. When you two got closer, the first time you offered for him to spend the night, he declined. He was scared that he'd wake you up with his insomnia episodes. And the first night, he did, and apologized profusely into the darkness because he knew you had classes early. You just smiled sleepily at him, wrapped an arm around his torso, snuggled yourself into his chest, and whispered that it was okay before falling right back into a deep sleep.

Shinsou could laugh at how heavy of a sleeper you turned out to be, and surprisingly, your warmth and deep, rhythmic breathing somehow managed to put him to sleep too. That night was his most restful sleep he's had in ages. Even every night after that, he would wake up as usual, turn around to see if he'd woken you, admired your slumbered face - that sometimes drooled - and drift back to sleep. He'd easily fell smitten by you.

One night in his room, you were being playful about it with him. "Your eyebags were the most alluring part of you, now they're fading because you're sleeping."

"Do you want me to stop sleeping next to you?" Shinsou teases right back at you.

"Absolutely not." You hug the covers up to your ear and shimmy closer to his warmth. "I'm already plenty comfortable, I'm not going anywhere even if you try to push me off this bed."

He chuckles and accepts your hug, already knowing this as a sign that you're about to drift off. "Sweet dreams, kitty." He plants a kiss on your nearby forehead.

Your eyes droop closed. "Good night, Toshi. I love you."

"I love you too." It takes him a moment, but his eyes shoot open as soon as he registers what he's just said only to meet your own suddenly-awake and shocked face. "W-What did you say?"

"I know what I said, but you said it back so casually."

Shinsou's happy it's dark so you can't see how furiously he's blushing. "It was reflex, just go to sleep," he orders quickly and shuts his eyes again.

You follow his orders and can't help the smile on your face. Shinsou feels you smuggle up closer to him, the warmth of your words repeating in his head and making him giddy. It took him a while longer to fall asleep because of his racing heartbeat, but that night, he actually slept continuously through without waking up once.

774 notes · View notes

songbirdstyles · 4 years

Text

golden hour

summary: it’s the last night of your honeymoon with harry - therefore, your last opportunity for golden hour beach sex.

warnings: smut! 18+ please. and some fluff.

harrThe world, for the past two weeks, has felt like it’s been just a tad more beautiful than usual. The sky, lit up in hues of bright blues, reds, and oranges, clouds seldom dotting the sky above the crystal clear ocean, invites you in when you stare at it, watching the sun begin to slowly sink down towards the horizon. With its descent, it pulls down the light colors and you can see the beginnings of darkness starting to peek through the sky.

The afternoon is quiet and peaceful, lying out on the Build-A-Bear beach towel you’d gotten at your niece’s third birthday party, digging your feet in the sand and occasionally looking down towards the water, where Harry soaks in the last night of your honeymoon. You’d been bugging him about sunscreen as the pair of you had decided this last day should be spent purely on the beach but, now, you figure it doesn’t matter if he isn’t coated in SPF; it’s not like the sun will do him much damage now.

Yes, everything has been much more gorgeous recently. Perhaps it was the glow of the ring on your finger that made life seem better - knowing that you and Harry were bound together, that you’d found the love of your life and made him yours. Every time you looked at him, you couldn’t believe he was yours. And it made everything better to see him so happy.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, squinting towards the sun as to make out Harry’s figure in the water. The tide is calm and the water is near silent, and you know that he’ll be making his way back up to you soon. You’d gone in with him earlier, when the waves were rougher and you had to dive under them to not be thrown ashore. The crystal clear water lapping at your skin was a much needed escape from the sun, burning your skin, though it was certainly better than the dreary downpour you’d surely be facing in London. After lunch, you’d napped for a while and gone back in - when the waves began to calm down Harry wrapped his arms around you, pulling your legs around his waist, and you knew he was trying to be sweet and romantic but it was difficult when a particularly hard ripple would overtake the both of you and you’d fall backwards into the ocean. Eventually you’d pulled away, giggling when he smacked your ass as you ran back up to your towel, and here, you’ve resided since then. Reading your book, drawing the scenery and your love in the water, and just watching him.

Mainly watching him.

Slowly you sit up, adjusting your bikini top - Harry had helped you put it on earlier, taking extra time to kiss your shoulder blades as he helped you with the complex ties - and you raise your hand above your eyes, blocking out the glare of the lowering sun. Harry’s figure slowly gets bigger and bigger as he walks towards you, water dripping off of his body, ends of his hair wet.

“Hey, m’love.” When he’s close enough, he bends down to give you a salty, sea licked kiss, and you smile against his mouth. “Been doing much reading up here?”

You shrug, casting a sideways glance to your book on the sand beside you. “Not really. Mostly been watching you.”

A smile spreads over his face, then, as he reaches down into the bag you two had packed earlier and pulls out his towel, wrapping it around his shoulders before dropping to his knees on your towel. You adjust your legs so he can sit, criss crossed, in front of you, and you lean in to give him another kiss when you’ve both settled.

He brings one hand up to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. When you pull away you drop your head to his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his neck. It’s your last day here, soaking up the beautiful beaches and the sun, where the only thing you can think about is him, and you don’t want to waste a single moment.

“I don’t wanna leave,” you tell him, voice soft, and his fingers curl into the hair at the back of your head. “I mean, it’s been so perfect. We wake up, we have sex, we have breakfast, we have sex, we go to the beach -”

“A near perfect schedule to me.”

Your hand drops down to his back, dragging your nails along his skin and feeling him shiver at the sensation. His hands move from the innocence of your cheeks down to your waist, squeezing your hips before dropping down to your ass, which you should’ve expected - his fingers dip beneath your bottoms, squeezing the bare skin of your bum as you squeal.

“This is a public beach, Harry,” you tell him, but your arms tighten around him as he pulls up the damp material of your bikini bottoms and lets them snap back against your ass.

“No one’s been here all day,” he says, as way of reassuring you, but you cast your eyes left to right anyway, watching the empty expanse of beach on either side of you. “How can you pass up beachy, golden hour sex with your husband?”

Your heart swells at that, shifting your hips so his hands slide down, cupping both globes of your ass in his palms. “I guess I can’t.”

Harry grins, leaning in to tug at your bottom lip - his favorite precursor to kissing you - and then he dives in, using his hands on your ass to force you into his lap, and through his swimsuit you can feel his hardening cock, warm against you even through the material. You tug at his wet ends, feeling the water coating his body trickle down onto you as you press closer to him - a droplet drips between your breasts, making you shiver as it trickles down your stomach. He’s wet and your hands are covered in sand, making the small grains stick to his skin whenever you touch him, but that’s an issue that’ll be solved in the shower later. All you can do is moan when his lips attach themselves to the base of your neck, sucking at your throat until there’s a small, dark purple mark.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice low and raspy. He brings his hand up to your throat, brushing his thumb along the hickey. “You make me crazy, y’know that?”

Yes, you did know that. But you don’t have time to respond before he wraps his hand around your throat, pushing you down onto the towel and hovering above you. His other hand, slightly shaky - it always happens when he’s this worked up - moves to the bottom of your bikini top, pulling the cups up over your breasts and leaning down, attaching his lips to your nipple and sucking lightly. His tongue flicks over the hardened bud, his other hand pressing down on your throat harder until your breaths are shorter and raspy and you’re a moaning mess beneath him.

You want everything from him - you want to sit on his face and lean down, taking his cock in your mouth and sucking until’s he crying out against your clit, sending vibrations through your body - you want to wrap your fist around his dick, pumping until he cries out that he’s almost there fuck - you want him to press kisses and suck hickeys into your inner thighs, making it so you can’t wear bikinis again until they fade. But you don’t have time for any of that, so you reach down and untie his swim trunks, tugging them down, and immediately you wrap your hand around his length - he’s aching hard, by now, and his teeth graze against your nipple with a high pitched moan at the feeling of your touch.

You cry out, hips bucking up into his as Harry pulls his hand from your throat - it trails down your abdomen, tracing a soft line on your stomach before reaching the hem of your bottoms. He tugs them halfway down your thighs before moving his hand back up, plunging two fingers inside your cunt without warning - you throw your head back, sand surely getting caught up in your hair by now, but you find that you don’t really care.

“Oh my - fuck - “ your grip around his cock tightens, thumb grazing over his tip and he jerks, bracing one arm against your towel to hold himself above you as he pulls his fingers out of you, resting both of them atop your clit. You raise both hands to the back of his head, tugging at his curls. “Wish I had time to do everything I want to you. But we have to go fast. Can you handle that, baby? Want me to fuck you so fast you can barely think straight?”

His voice is sweet, as if he’s talking to a child and not his half naked wife beneath him, and it only serves to make another gush of arousal spring between your thighs.

“Please, please, Harry, fuck me -” and you barely have time to finish your plea before he pushes inside of you, and before you have time to shriek at the burning stretch, his hand flies over your mouth. The sun beats down on your body as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, darkening the world around you, but it all looks so beautiful. “I love you so much.”

He pauses, hips pressed flush against yours, and then he leans down fervently - lips crash against yours and your teeth bang against his, a desperate, messy kiss if you’ve ever seen one. Then he’s pulling back, muttering, “I love you so fucking much,” and pulls out before pushing back in.

It starts out, surprisingly, slow and gentle, despite what he’d said before. He rolls his hips and bottoms out, pressing two fingers against your clit, one hand gripping your hip to keep you from moving too much. But you don’t want it to be soft - not now. Tonight, when you’re clean and showered and in between the sheets of your rented home, you can go slow.

But not now.

“Harry - please, faster, I need it -” which is all he needed to hear.

Almost immediately, it’s fast and desperate, the time between each thrust of his hips so short you don’t have time to breathe. You reach for his wrist and place his hand back around your throat, feeling him squeeze your neck. Just enough to make your breath catch, and you trust him not to go too hard. His fingers rub circles into your clit and already you can feel pressure building inside your belly. Slowly at first, rising with every thrust, and you push your head up to meet his lips with yours.

Your voice catches in your throat whenever you try to speak, but finally you whine, “Please, harder, baby.”

He groans loudly, chest rising and falling drastically with each breath, and he moves his hand from your throat down to your chest - grasping one of your breasts before moving his mouth down again, biting at the sensitive mound of flesh and sucking dark hickeys into your skin. Hips piston furiously in and out of your heat, the noise loud enough to be heard but soft enough to be overtaken by the noises you’re both making. You moan and cry out and he grunts desperately, voice muffled against your chest. If there was anyone on the beach at this moment, you’d surely both be found out. You’ve never been one for being quiet during sex.

Your fingers fly to your towel, pushing yourself up so you can meet his thrusts, which are beginning to slow - rocking in and out of you at a pace that’s practically killing you - and your fingers bury themselves in the sand, feeling the softness beneath your fingers. The grains leak out from between your fingers and some stick to your palms, the sweat on your clammy palms acting as glue to the sand. Skin smacks against skin and you look up at him, eyes beginning to water with knowing you’re being completely wrecked by him right now and his face is red, veins popping and sweat dripping down his skin.

“Come for me,” he tells you, voice a hiss between clenched teeth. “Wanna feel you come around my cock.”

You don’t need to be told twice - you clench around him, cunt fluttering as you finally let go, the sensation that had been building inside of you finally overflowing. A loud sob breaks out of your throat, leaning up to wrap your arms around his neck and tug his body close to yours. You need him to be with you, chests pressed to each other, fingers pressing down on your clit. With every now-lazy thrust of his hips into yours, your release prolongs itself just a bit, and you slam your mouth to his to muffle your violently loud noises.

Your muscles clench around him, involuntarily at first, but you know how it makes him fall apart - and fall apart, he does. His hips stutter to a pause and he bottoms out completely, grunting into your mouth and grasping both sides of your neck. You feel him spilling inside of you, his seed warm, hips resuming a lazy, rolling pace into yours before he finally stops and collapses on top of you, body fucked out by now.

For a moment you two sit in silence. There isn’t much to say, besides acknowledging that it’s now past sunset and getting darker every second. Which means you should leave soon - the prospect of someone coming, tomorrow, and seeing the pair of you half naked is less than desirable - but you’d do anything to stay in this moment forever.

There’ll be many more like this, you know. An infinite number of opportunities to wrap yourself in him, feel him inside of you, loving you through and through. To feel his heartbeat, fast and desperate, thumping at a pace quicker than she’s ever felt it.

“I think we should go back, now,” Harry mutters, pressing his cheek to your shoulder. Back to your rental home, you can shower and fall back into bed. It sounds more than ideal. “I think I’m already ready for round 2, frankly.”

You roll your eyes, pushing him off of you gently. “I’m sure you are.” Slowly you look down at yourself - bikini bottoms halfway down your thighs, top pushed up to expose your breasts, cum dripping down your thighs. There’s sand in every crevice of your body and wrapped in your hair, hickeys over your neck and jaw and tear tracks on your cheeks. “Jesus. I look like a mess.”

Harry - digging through your back to find his shirt from early in the day - looks over at you and tilts his head to the side, eyes trailing up your body. “I think you look beautiful,” he tells you, as if it’s a statement of fact, and then reaches into your bag, pulling out his shirt and tossing it to you. “But we can’t have anyone else seeing you like that, can we? Just for me.”

“Just for you,” you confirm, fighting the small smile creeping on your face as you pull his Fleetwood Mac shirt over your frame. You’re only his - forever, you reckon.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #idk how to end fics #can u tell?

1K notes · View notes