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formulaforza · 5 months

Text

—if walls could talk

some things are meant to be secret (we'd fall from grace) pairing: charles leclerc x female reader warnings: 18+ minors dni. loadsss of google translated french. language, friends talking about sex, nsfw warnings under the cut :) love, mackie... 6.3k words! sometimes the only person who can help you out is a good friend. happy almost thanksgiving to all my american followers :) thankful for each and every one of you. mwah mwah mwah.

18+ because: fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, aftercare, mentions of hookups/faking it

You’re the last one to walk through the door of Charles’ apartment. Everyone else has been long comfortable, leaving imprints on the comfortable couch, footprints in the freshly-vacuumed rug, empty wine bottles and half-empty glasses on the coffee table.

There’s always something so cold about his apartment—always empty, always dusty, filled with the remnants of his boyhood and the promise of his adult life. It has all the makings of a home, but it still feels like a house—like a museum instead of a secondhand shop. Always, except on days like tonight, when it’s filled with warm laughter and the smell of half a dozen different meals and the quiet hum of his favorite playlist. On days like today, it feels like a home.

Nobody in the living room hears you open the door or slip off your shoes—they’re too preoccupied in their busy, lively conversation about a road closure on the way to the airport in Nice that adds twenty minutes on to the drive. You move in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, to set your crowd offering—blue cheese stuffed shrimp—on the counter and get a wine glass from the cabinet to fill. He’s in the kitchen when you turn the corner, carefully examining the platter of Italian meatballs he’s got cooking in the oven.

Charles looks up as soon as you set the heavy plate down on the counter. “Hé!” Hey, he greets, closing the oven door and pulling off his blue mittens to properly kiss both of your cheeks, a single arm wrapping around your middle to pull you into a quick hug. “Quand es-tu arrivé?” When did you get here?

“Tout à l'heure,” Just now, you reply, roll up the sleeves of your shirt because his kitchen is so small, and heats up so quickly when the oven is on. “Désolé, je suis en tard,” Sorry I’m late.

“T'es pas en tard,” You’re not late, he interjects, dragging a tortilla chip through someone’s dip and popping it into his mouth. With his other hand, he’s reaching into the cabinet above his head, pulling down a wine glass and handing it to you.

“Je suis très en tard,” I am so late, you smile, take the empty wine glass with a thank you and follow suit with your own chip in the fame dip. “Je reviens directement du travail. Les crevettes sont restées dans le réfrigérateur du bureau tout l'après-midi,” I came straight from work. The shrimp sat in the office fridge all afternoon, you explain, and he scowls, raises his brows at you and at the shrimp. You chuckle, nod. “N'en mangez pas,” Don’t eat it.

His eyes are stuck on your cheek, which forces your hand to investigate what he might be staring at. “Quoi?” What? You ask, fingers coming up with nothing but an embarrassed heat.

“Rien, juste... tu as un cil,” Nothing, just… you have an eyelash, he lets a sharp exhale leave through his nose, “je l'enlèverai,” I’ll get it, and then he does. Carefully, with the pad of his middle finger, he picks the eyelash from your cheek. You don’t look at him while he does it, but you are watching when he transfers it to his thumb and drops it onto the platter of shrimp with a quick flick. “Oh, non,” he feigns concern, grabs the platter from the counter, “Allons juste…” Let’s just… he laughs and holds the plate over the trash can and drops the shrimp into the plastic bag with a thump.

“Bon appel,” good call, you laugh.

He drags you into the living room, towards the rest of the evening festivities, with his arm tossed over your shoulder. Between that, and the whole let me get your eyelash thing minutes earlier, you’re as close to certain a person can get that he and his girlfriend are still broken up.

They go through phases, the two of them. She doesn’t like your friend group very much, and Charles doesn’t seem like he likes her all that much, but they come and go like seasons. Together one month, broken up the next week. He usually tells you, but even when he doesn’t, you usually know. He’s always touchier with you when she’s out of the picture. Not that you mind it, but. He is.

It’s all a little more comfortable, like you’re both a little less aware of the fact that you’re the only girl in the group who isn’t spoken for, or that you’re both atrociously the other’s type.

“Regarde qui j'ai trouvé,” Look who I found, Charles announces, and you’re met with a spattering of greetings, plopping down onto the couch, slotting between Marta and an empty space that is quickly occupied by Charles.

You both fight over the corner seat, who gets to take up more of it. He loves to sprawl out and you love to curl up. When it’s all settled, he’s spread out like he likes, and you’re curled up into the space he leaves, half leant against him with your knees pulled to your chest, sleeves pulled over your hands because it’s hot in the kitchen, but only in the kitchen.

“J'ai entendu dire que vous avez tous les deux eu un week-end assez mouvementé,” I heard you both had quite the eventful weekend, Marta teases. She’s the only other person besides the man next to you—as far as you know—that knows about what went down last Friday night. It takes even you a moment to remember, having already relegated the mortifying details to the bottom of your soul. When you do recall, your cheeks burn with the sudden blow flow and you giggle, curl into Charles a little further than you probably should.

“Quoi?” What, Joris asks, “ce qui s'est passé?” What happened?

“Rien ne s'est passé,” Nothing happened, Charles tries to protect you from re-living the evening, but it’s no use. Now that your friends have a sniff of a story, they won’t stop until it’s told in complete, painstaking detail. So, you begin:

“J'étais en train de garder un chat le week-end dernier pour mon collègue, n'est-ce pas?” I was cat sitting for my coworker last weekend, right?

— —

You were indeed cat-sitting for a coworker last weekend. It was an orange cat whose name you never really learned, much less remembered, and you were on day three of five of cat-sitting. It’s important for the rest of the story, for later. It is.

Anyway, you were cat-sitting on a Friday night, but that wasn’t going to stop you from going out. Your sister had invited you, something about a club and her boyfriend’s friends visiting from London. Only if I can claim a brit, you’d joked. You’d joked, right up until coming face-to-face with the twenty-something, five-foot something-but-still-taller-than-you, perfect brown hair and perfect green eyed British man that had come along for the visit. You weren’t joking after meeting him.

Once the two of you were finally drunk enough to lose any sense of what’s good for you, you were squeezing into the back of a taxi and stumbling up the stairs of your apartment complex, the cute boy and his little kisses and touchy hands slowing the whole process down.

We all know what a drunken Friday night hookup looks like, so. There’s no need to explore the logistics of it with someone who’s name you’ve since forgotten, who you hope is back home in London never to return. Because where the story really gets good, is after the uneventful hookup, when Mr. Brit really needed to get back to his fiends and had you walking him to your apartment door in just a towel because he didn’t have the patience to wait for you to put on some fucking clothes.

— —

“Bon sang,” damn, Hugo laughs from the other end of the sofa, “tu es vraiment si mauvais en sexe?” Are you really that bad at sex?

“Va te faire foutre!” Fuck you, you scoff. “Je suis incroyable en matière de sexe,” I’m amazing at sex.

“Je peux trouver quelqu'un pour vous donner des cours, si besoin,” I can find someone to give you lessons, if you need.

You pause, blink twice, and then continue your story. “De toute façon,” Anyways.

— —

As you open the door to let him out, the cat you’ve been cat-sitting—see. It did come back to be important—darts out of the door.

“Grab him!” You’d yelled, and the guy actually looked back at you before replying.

“I’m allergic.”

You scoffed, hurrying past him and down the stairs after the cat. You manage to corral it in the corner of the stairwell, pick it up and return to your apartment, just in time to watch the door shut behind you. You look at the door, at the guy you’d just fucked, at the cat in your hands, and then back at the door. “That is not good,” you say.

The guy laughs. “Just open it.”

Oh, brilliant. Why hadn’t you thought of that? “It’s locked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

By the grace of God and all things good in this world, the guy had a fully-charged phone. Unfortunately for you, of the three people with a spare key to your apartment, there was only one number you had memorized: Charles.

You text him before you call him. It’s me, please don’t send me to voicemail, and then he did send you to voicemail twice before calling the number back.

“Bonjour?”

“‘Bonjour?’ Mon cul!” ‘Hello?’ My ass! You greeted, the cat snarling and wiggling against your grip. You were so far beyond being in the mood for pleasantries. You just really, really wanted some fucking pants. “J'ai besoin que tu viennes ouvrir ma porte. Genre, il y a dix minutes,” I need you to come unlock my door. Like, ten minutes ago.

“Et avec qui ai-je le plaisir de discuter?” And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with? You swear if you could, you’d punch him through the phone. You can’t, so you settle for hanging up.

It’s at this time that Mr. Brit properly excuses himself from the evening of fun, because now that he knows you won’t stand outside your apartment in nothing but a towel for the rest of time, his conscience is clean.

You and Charles live a sixteen minute walk from each other, and he definitely chose to walk rather than literally any other form of faster transportation. Maybe you should have disclosed your current state over the phone, but that probably would have made him walk slower.

When he finally does trudge up the stairs, he stops three steps short of your landing at the sight of you, towel and cat and literally nothing more. “Qu'est-ce qui t'est arrivé, putain?” What the fuck happened to you? He laughs, and then finishes his walk up the stairs, holding your key out to you tauntingly.

“Connard,” Asshole, you mutter, snatching the key away from him with your free hand and forcing it into the lock. “J'avais un gars chez moi,” I had a guy over, you add, forcing the door open with your hip.

“Où à?” Where? He asks, following you into the apartment.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire, où?” What do you mean, where? You laugh, gesture around the apartment. “Ici,” here.

Charles frowns, scowls even. “Et il t'a laissé dehors?” And he left you out there?

You nod, gather up your clothes from the floor before they can exist there long enough to be perceived. “Tu n'es pas obligé de rester, je vais bien,” You don’t have to stay, I’m fine, you tell him, half-usher him back out the door he came through. “Je sais que ta copine va probablement me tuer,” I know your girlfriend is probably going to kill me next time she sees me.

— —

“Je ne peux pas croire qu'elle ne t'a pas tué,” I can’t believe she didn’t kill you, Ricky chuckles, looking to Charles.

You find solace in the bottom of your wine glass, an excuse to fill the silence that follows Ricky’s comment. “En fait, nous avons rompu,” we actually broke up, Charles says, and the room falls into the same silence it always does everytime they break up. It’s not that you guys don’t like her, so much as… well. Yeah, it is that you don’t like her. But she didn’t like you guys first, so it really shouldn’t matter much that none of you like her.

“Je suis désolé, mec,” I’m sorry, mate, Joris offers, and then everyone follows suit with half-hearted apologies they don’t mean.

“C'est bien, vraiment,” It’s fine, really, he offers to the group. “Elle était gentille, mais elle ne l'était tout simplement pas…” she was nice, but she wasn’t… he hesitates. You take another sip of your wine. Your friends listen to him intently. “Je ne veux pas être méchante,” I don’t want to be mean.

“Soyez méchant,” Be mean, Marta giggles.

He laughs nervously, fidgets with his fingers, watches his rings spin. “Elle n'était pas très bonne. Elle ne pouvait pas... Je ne l'ai jamais fait, tu sais,” She wasn’t very good. She couldn’t… I didn’t ever, you know, he trails off, gesturing wildly into the space around him, anything to avoid having to say the words the entire room has picked up on.

You roll up your sleeves, hot again. Burning.

The teasing that follows from the guys is relentless, gets to a point where you and Marta step in, begging them to stop kicking a dead horse while Charles is in the bathroom. They do ease up, and the night continues far, far away from horrible hookup stories and mortifying relationship admissions.

You were the last to arrive, which means you’ll be the last to leave, make sure that the whole place has been cleaned up, returned to its stiff and dusty places in the apartment before you head home for the night.

“Juste pour que tu le saches,” just so you know, you comment, scraping the last of the left behind chip-dip into a tupperware container while he gathers up the now-stale crackers from the charcuterie board. “Je ne te crois absolument pas,” I totally don’t believe you.

He meets your eyes, confused. “Tu ne me crois pas à propos de quoi?” Don’t believe me about what?

“A propos de ne pas…” about not… you look away, direct your attention to the lid of the container. Anything but looking him in the eyes while talking about each other’s sex lives. “Tu sais. Il est impossible que vous n’ayez pas joui depuis cinq mois.” You know. There’s no way you haven’t gotten off in five months.

You see him shake his head in your peripheral, distract himself with the task at hand the same way you had. This isn’t something the two of you talk about, and you talk about pretty much everything. Sex, though. It’s always been off-limits, especially in a situation like this, just the two of you together. “Non,” nope, he mutters. “Je souhaite,” I wish.

You roll your eyes. “Charles, regarde tes mains,” look at your hands, you say, and he does, all full of crumbs and salt and grease. “Voilà, voici la solution à ton problème. Tu peux le résoudre dès que je partirai,” there’s the solution to your problem. You can fix the issue as soon as I leave tonight.

He rolls his eyes right back, “idiote,” idiot, he says, shoves your shoulder with one of his hands and you laugh. “Je ne peux pas. C’est… je ne sais pas, c’est irrespectueux,” I can’t. It feels… I don’t know, it feels disrespectful.

You laugh, curl in on yourself at his comment because it feels so completely ridiculous. He’s a good guy, you know. You know, or you wouldn't be such good friends in the first place. You know, but that's a crazy concept even for a good guy. “Manque de respect envers ton ex-petite-amie si tu te branles après un séparer?” Disrespectful to your EX-girlfriend if you jerk off after you’ve broken up?

“Bien. Quand tu le dis comme ça,” well. When you say it like that.

“Ouis,” yeah, you chuckle, hoisting yourself up onto the counter you’d just cleared. The granite is cool even through the denim of your jeans. “Quand je dis ça comme ça, tu es un imbécile,” when I say it like that, you dumbass.

“Pourtant,” Still though, he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He always looks particularly boyish when he gets even the tiniest bit frustrated with you. “Tu ne comprendrais pas. Ça n'est pas pareil.” You wouldn’t get it. It’s not the same.

Wouldn’t I? You pick at your cuticles, don’t know how to skate around the admission that you’re finishing about as often as he is—that Mr. Brit, who he’d missed by no more than ten minutes last weekend, was not exactly giving you a very eventful evening when he decided he was done for the night.

"Je ne vois pas comment tu pourrais,” I don’t see how you could.

You nod, wish you lived in his little naive world where you always finish. “La moitié des gars de ce putain de pays ne savent pas comment faire jouir une fille. Et apparemment, les gars de Londres non plus.” Half the guys in this fucking country don’t know how to get a girl off. And apparently, neither do the guys in London.

“Vraiment?” Really?

You nod. “Je ne peux pas te dire combien de fois j'ai simulé parce que j'en avais marre que quelqu'un attaque ma lèvre gauche avec sa langue,” I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve faked it because I was tired of someone assaulting my left lip with their tongue.

“Fuck,” He laughs. “Ce n'est tout simplement pas bien,” that’s just not right.

“Non, ça ne l'est pas,” no it is not.

“Tu devrais vraiment obtenir de l'aide pour ça,” you should really get some help with that.

“Et toi aussie. Je mourrais avant de laisser tes conneries arriver.” So should you, you offer. I’d die before I let that shit happen. And you would, you really would. You can’t think of something worse than dating someone for months and knowing you’ve never gotten them off once. And she knows, she has to know, because there’s no way for him to fake it. She has to know.

There’s a pause, and you realize that somewhere on the other side of the apartment the music has stopped playing. The speaker must have died—or the phone playing through it. You realize that Charles is close, now. Really close. Has he been this close the entire time you’ve been cleaning up, close. “Le feriez?” you would?

“Cent pour cent. Une bonne petite amie le ferait—en fait,” a hundred percent. A good girlfriend would—actually, you stop yourself, scowl a bit at the idea of it all. “Une bonne petite amie n’aurait jamais ce problème en premier lieu, mais ce n’est pas la question,” a good girlfriend would never have that problem in the first place but, that’s besides the point. He smiles, the threat of a laugh, and takes a step closer, firmly between your legs, now. You put your hands on either of his shoulders, give them a firm, friendly squeeze. “Une bonne petite amie t'aurait aidé,” a good girlfriend would have helped you, you assure him, but it doesn’t sound as friendly as your gesture was.

His hand falls to your knee, thumb moving over the fabric of your jeans there ever so softly. It sends a chill up your spine, makes you shiver. “Un bon ami pourrait m'aider,” a good friend could help me, he says, hardly above a whisper—like he thinks saying it quieter is going to make it have any less suggestion.

You nod, gulp, your fingers intertwining behind his neck. “Un bon ami pourrait vous aider,” a good friend could help you.

“Ouis,” yeah. You’re so close now that you can feel his breath on your face, that your noses might as well slot against each other. That you might as well be kissing, even if you aren’t. You’re sure your eyes cross when they meet his.

“Dommage que tu n'en ai pas,” shame you don’t have any of those, you tease, smile pulling on your lips, hands falling from over his shoulders to move down his chest, to feel every reaction of his muscles as you trail over his abs softly, toy with the hem of his t-shirt.

“C'est vrai, n'est-ce pas?” It is, isn’t it? His hand moves up your leg, and you instinctively move towards the touch, move yourself closer to the edge of the counter. He moves up, up your thigh, to your hip, threatening to go further. He doesn’t, though. He stalls there, searching your eyes for the permission to be there in the first place.

And then, just like that, he kisses you.

It starts soft, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you don’t. It’s a gentle collision, tender and hesitant and exploring whatever new waters you’d just sat yourselves in. His lips are so soft against yours, so careful, so sweet, and then his tongue is slipping through your lips, settling into the kiss now that he knows you’re going to kiss back. And you do, you kiss back, until it’s all hurried and messy, noses bumping against each other, teeth scraping each other’s lips. Until you’re hazy and dizzy and have to pull apart for air.

“Peut être,” maybe, you chuckle into his mouth, kiss him again quickly. “Peut-être que tu devrais accepter l'offre de Hugo de trouver un tuteur,” maybe you should take Hugo up on his offer to find a tutor, you joke, and his smile is sweet against your lips.

“Peut être,” maybe… he says, fiddles with the buttons of your jeans hurriedly, like they’re going to seal shut if he doesn’t undo the button that very moment, and then he unzips the zipper, “ou peut-être,” or maybe…

You kiss him again. Your core aches, the knot in the pit of your stomach pulling itself tighter and tiger with each millimeter further he moves. “Tu pourrais juste,” you could just.

“Je pourrais juste,” I could just, and he dips a hand into your pants.

You sigh, react instantly to his touch and his lips are on your again. Your hips move against his hand like it’s the first time you’ve ever been touched—which, this whole thing feels so charged that it might as well be. Charles’ hand moves in flat circles over your clit, pushing farther, deeper, slipping a single finger inside of you.

You hiss at the movement, kiss him harder when your breath is back, pull him hard against your lips by the back of his neck. “Putain, tu es tellement mouillé,” Fuck, you’re so wet, he says.

You nod, talk into his mouth, “Je sais, je sais,” I know, I know.

You reach between your bodies to palm him, find him already hard in his jeans, taking in a sharp breath when you touch him there. His other hand grabs at your tits, pushing and pulling and squeezing over your shirt before finally slipping under, haphazardly pushing your bra out of the way and palming them, kissing mumbled profanities into the skin on your neck.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine—he ruts against the counter when you do, smirks against your lips and hums whatever noise he’s attempting to swallow.

You sigh when he pulls his hand out from your jeans, but he’s quick to get them off of you, pulling them and your underwear off as soon as you raise yourself up off the counter. It’s cold, so cold, but his hands are equally warm, burn against your body as he explores every inch of available skin.

You work away at his jeans, pushing down his pants and underwear as far as the angle allows you to. His cock springs out of the elastic waistband and the only thing you can think is how pretty it looks, all swollen and twitching and wet with precum. It looks painful, almost, how hard he is. But so, so pretty. “C'est tellement chaud,” this is so hot, you say.

“Tu es tellement belle,” you’re so hot, he replies.

You’re expecting for it to all boil over, then, for him to sink into you, fill you up with his perfect pretty dick, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself to your cunt and looks at you with nauseating eye contact. “Dis moi quoi faire,” tell me what to do, he says.

“Quoi que ce soit. Faire n'importe quoi,” Anything. Do anything, you beg.

He does, he does—licks a long stripe through your folds, forces your head to the sky and a sweet moan from your lips. He holds your legs apart with a hand on the inside of each thigh—strong, warm, big—and fucks you with his tongue. It’s messy and natural, but every move is intentional, working towards the goal of getting you off before he even fucks you. And he will, he will, because he listens so well.

Every direction, even the jumbled, incoherent moans that leave your mouth, even the little twitches of your legs or the way your hips move against his mouth—it's all an instruction for him. What to do. What to continue doing exactly like he’s doing. “Juste comme ça. N'arrêtez pas,” just like that. Don’t stop, you chant, and he doesn’t stop. He holds his pace, and then you’re coming in his mouth, fingers slipping on the countertop in search of some kind of grip, some kind of stability as you writhe against him.

When you’ve come down, come back to reality and the cold countertop and his warm hands, he’s kissing you again, cock hard and twitching between your bodies. You take him in your hand and he winces, groans when you start to stroke him, to spread the precum around his tip with your thumb. “Ça fait du bien,” feels good, he mutters.

“Laisse-moi t'aider,” Let me help you, you insist. He doesn’t need much convincing. None at all, really.

“Est-tu toujours... sur le?” Are you still… on the, he asks, tapping your arm.

“Mon implant? Ouais, ouais,”My implant? Yeah. yeah.

He kisses you again, licks into your mouth in a way that feels half-illegal, like all the rules of the universe have been broken. “Tu veux que j'utilise un préservatif?” Do you want me to use a condom?

You shake your head against his lips, shrug somewhere in the distance, far away from where your mouth is on his. “Je m'en fiche, je suis propre,” I don’t care, I’m clean.

“Moi aussi,” Me too.

"D'accord, d'accord. Putain," Okay, okay. Fuck, and then he's slapping the head of his cock against your pussy, making you quiver with every touch. He drags it over your clit, through your folds, and then he’s sinking into you. His fingers bruise into your hips as he ruts into you, you reaching down to circle you clit while he fucks you full of him. "Putain, Dieu," Fuck, God, he moans.

“Oui c'est bien?” Yeah, it's good? You ask.

“C'est tellement bon, putain, c'est tellement bon, tu es si sexy,” It’s so good, fuck—it’s so good, you’re so hot. You don’t know if its his words, or that the seal’s properly broken now, but right as his dick slips out of a particularly measured thrust, you’re coming around the air, shoving a finger back inside to ease the ache of emptiness, pulling it back out and guiding his cock back in. He fucks you so good. So hard. So deep, just the sounds of each others groans, of heavy sighs and skin slapping filling the room, bouncing off the walls. “Je suis près,” I’m close, he tells you. “Je suis si proche, putain. Je vais,” I’m so close, fuck. I’m gonna, he repeats, fucking into you hard. Hard, burying himself in your cunt longer and longer each time.

“Fais-le,” Do it, you say, “laisse-moi l'avoir, je le veux,” let me have it, I want it. And then he’s coming. Hard. Bottomed out in you, groaning against your neck, and filling you up with him. Fuck, he breathes. You can’t make a distinction between a sigh versus a laugh. “Ça va?”Are you okay? He asks.

Your breath is heavy, heart thumping in your chest, in your ears, in your toes. “Je suis,” I’m, you laugh. “Ouais, je suis plus que… je vais bien,” Yeah, I’m more than… I’m okay, you finally sputter out into his patient eyes. You think that’s the reason you stutter—the eye contact. “Es-tu?” Are you?

“Ouais,” Yeah, he says, running a hand through his hair, nodding. “Oui. Très bien.” Yes. Very okay.

“Bien,” Good, you nod, and then, with all the vulnerability in the world: “Étais-je bien?” Was I alright?

He smiles, moves his hand to brush your flyaways from your forehead, to stop them before they can get in your face. “Tu étais…” You were… he laughs, and there’s no mistaking it now. When he does it, you’re reminded just how full of him you still are, of the ache you’ll feel when he finally pulls out. “Je ne pense pas que quiconque puisse avoir un problème avec toi,” I don’t think anyone could have any issue with you.

“Oh,”, you chuckle, eyes locking onto the clock hung on the kitchen wall. You can hear the second hand clicking around the same way you can hear your own pulse. “Bon alors,” Good then.

“Et moi?” And me? He asks, and pulls out slowly before you can begin to answer. There’s a silence in the room, just the clock and your heart and your breathing, his eyes glued to your cunt like he’s admiring his handy work. “C'étaient…” Those were…

“Tous deux très réels,” Both very real, you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, catching his eyes when he leans over the sink, wetting a paper towel and ringing it out. “Je ne suis pas doué pour faire semblant,” I’m not that good at faking it.

“Bon,” Nice.

“Je ne pense pas que nous soyons le problème, alors,” I don’t think we’re the problem, then, you chuckle, eyes snapping back to the clock, mind to the feel of the counter under your fingertips. You can’t think about anything more, of any other feeling or sense of taste or smell you’re experiencing or it will be too much.

“Non je ne pense pas,” No, I don’t think so, he continues, and starts to clean you up, warm hands on your legs again while he runs the cool paper towel through your folds. You recoil at the cold, a shiver running up your entire body and his eyes jump to yours—”Désolé,” Sorry, he mumbles.

“C'est bon,” It’s okay, you squeak, and it sounds like you’re about an inch tall. Utter mortification will do that to you, something this fucking awkward making you incredibly aware of everything happening in the room around you, of every touch of his warm hands on your skin. A lot of things are different now. Everything is different.

“Je, euh. Putain,” I, uh. Fuck, you resort back to what you know best, to the only thing you can think about that doesn’t spiral back to the feeling of him finishing inside you. “Je n'arrive pas à croire que je doive nettoyer à nouveau ce comptoir,” I can't believe I have to clean this counter off again.

He laughs again, tossing the paper towel into the trash can. It sits on top of everything else like a billboard, screaming about what it had been used for. The lid on the trash can doesn’t close like it’s supposed to. “C'est à ça que tu penses en ce moment?” That’s what you’re thinking about right now?

“Ouais,” Yeah.

“Tu es tellement bizarre, putain,” You’re so fucking weird, he says, adjusting himself, tucking back into his boxers, pulling them and his jeans up to make himself proper again. You have to hop off the counter to do the same, collecting and correcting your things as fast as you can because you can feel his eyes on your figure while you dress, and it feels too intimate.

“Je ne suis pas bizarre,” I am not weird, you quip, buttoning your jeans and pulling up the zipper, carefully fixing your shirt, your bra, smoothing all of your clothes out over your skin.

“Tu es. Tu es tellement bizarre.” You are. You’re so weird.

“Peu importe,” Whatever, you mumble, quickly closing the lid to the trash can.

The night has run its course by now, and then some. You spend fifteen minutes silently moving around each other in the kitchen, the whole room quiet enough to hear a pin drop in the downstairs lobby. You spend at least ten of them cleaning off the counter, which doesn’t feel so cold anymore, at least not where you were sitting.

“Tu peux rester, tu sais…” You can stay, y’know… he finally breaks the silence. “Si tu veux.” If you want.

“D’accord,” Okay, you nod. “Je ne… je ne sais pas si c’est une bonne idée.” I don’t… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

“C'est vrai, ouais,” Right, yeah, he says, and the place threatens to fall back into negative decibel levels. “Je t'entends, tout ce que tu veux.” I hear you, whatever you want.

“Désolée,” Sorry, you choke.

“Ne le soit pas, vraiment,” Don’t be, really, he assures, but you still are, still feel like you're stepping on a little baby bug that’s on its way home to its family. It’s not that you don’t want to stay, it’s more that you… you don’t trust yourself to stay, and you don’t trust him not to turn this into a messy rebound thing. If you slept in his bed tonight and got a text next weekend that he’d gotten back together with his girlfriend, you’d feel like a piece of shit. It’s bad enough that when they do inevitably reconnect, you’re already never going to be able to look her in the eyes again.

“Tu m'enverras un texto quand tu rentreras à la maison?” You’ll text me when you get home? He asks, standing opposite you in his doorway.

“Bien sûr,” Of course, you nod, fidgeting with the keys on your lanyard. “Nous n’avons pas simplement ruiné notre amitié, n’est-ce pas?” We didn’t just ruin our friendship, did we?

“Non,” he answers, without leaving space for a hesitation, to really wonder about your question.

You smile at your keys, bite back a chuckle at just how quick he’d responded to you, about how sure he seemed. “Parce que tu es une de mes personnes préférées, tu sais,” Because you’re one of my favorite people, y’know.

“Tu es ma personne préférée,” You’re my favorite person.

You swallow, and when you look up from your keys, he’s staring right back at you. The comfort in the silence is palpable, and it makes you shy, pushes a nervous laugh from your lips. Charles just nods, certain in his choice of words. It makes you even more sheepish.

You’re completely aware that he doesn’t look at everyone like this, that he never looked at her like this. “Que s'est-il passé entre toi et elle cette fois, d'ailleurs?” What happened with you and her this time, anyway?

He sighs. “Tu veux vraiment savoir?” You really want to know?

“Ouais,” Yeah, you nod. “Je fais,” I do.

“Je euh,” I uh, his fingers fidget with each other, pulling on the joints and twisting his rings. He doesn’t look at you when he tells you, watches the metal spin around his finger. “Je suis rentré de chez toi le week-end dernier et elle attendait dehors que je la laisse entrer. J'ai complètement oublié qu'elle venait après le travail.” I came home from your place last weekend and she was waiting outside for me to let her in. I totally forgot she was coming over after work. You regret asking as soon as he starts explaining. It’s not your business, and you could have gone your whole life without knowing that you were the catalyst for it. “On s'est disputé, elle m'a dit de choisir qui était le plus important,” We got into a fight, she told me to choose who was more important, he shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he was being asked to flip a coin, asked what color the sky was. “Je te choisi,” I chose you.

“Charles,” your head falls to the side defeatedly. You wish he never told you this, even though you asked. You wish he knew better, that you knew better.

“Je sais,” I know, he nods, and it sounds like he feels genuinely bad about the truth. “Je suis désolé,” I’m sorry.

“Je devrais y aller,” I should go.

“Ouais…” Yeah… he hesitates, his hand lingering around his front door, refusing to close it on you. “Ouais,” yeah.

“Juste... ne le fais pas,” Just… don’t. You stop yourself—or you try to stop yourself—from speaking. It’s unsuccessful, how could it not be when he’s staring at you intently with those big green eyes, clinging to every word that leaves your lips. “Ne te remets pas avec elle S'il te plaît,” Don’t get back with her. Please.

“Je ne vais pas,” I won’t.

You nod, even though you know he will. He always does. They always get back together. It’s nice to pretend, though, for a few days. To pretend that anything is ever going to come of what’s happened this evening.

“Bonne nuit, Charles,” Goodnight..

“Bonne nuit.” Goodnight.

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disneyprincemuke · 4 months

Text

american burgers * ls2

it's never fun feeling like an outsider, so you'd sworn that nobody would ever feel the way you did all those years ago

pairings: logan sargeant x platonic fem!driver

notes: hi guys i had to change the title of this like three times sorry

“okay, this is for you,” you mutter, walking into toto’s office nonchalantly with a burger in your hand. “happy race weekend!”

the austrian behind the table tilts his head, watching you rudely barge into his office with very minimal explanation. “what?”

“i got you a burger. for lunch,” you grin. you reach back into the paper bag and pull out a drink and a cup of fries.

toto looks at the food on the table then looks back up at you. you follow his stare and snap your eyes up to meet his. you huff and turn on your heel. “‘kay, bye.”

“what, where are you going?” he calls out after you. “i- i mean thank you for the food. but why?”

“george and i dropped by a drive thru earlier before heading here to the track,” you grin before disappearing behind the wall. you fix whatever is left inside your paper bag and jog down the stairs.

“distracted him?” george asks, watching as you run down the stairs to meet him. “can we go to williams now?”

“yep. you got their food?” you ask, tilting your head when you see george’s arms decorated with more paper bags. “i didn’t know we got so much food.”

“we’ve got very big teams. it took us five rounds to distribute the food here alone, imagine williams,” george mutters, shaking his head as you open the door for him. “all this to be friends with logan seems kinda much, don’t you think?”

“oh, i’m winning over the entire williams home. not just logan,” you beam. “they’re gonna love me.”

and you’re right. because faces lit up and chatter died down when you walked in with george into the dark blue building. you laid the food down on a random table with george and declared lunch to be eaten, before grabbing the paper bag filled with your food and approaching james.

“this is a very unexpected visit. thanks for the food,” he smiles as you approach. “looking for logan?”

“yeah, i got him a burger and everything,” you slump your shoulders, lifting up the paper bag to show him evidence. “has he arrived?”

“might be upstairs with alex. something about being nervous for his home race,” james shrugs. “alex didn’t tell me much before he ran up and closed the door like a ten year old.”

you sigh. “can we come up? respectfully?”

“just don’t sneak into my office? i have important documents in there.”

“no worries,” you mutter, already halfway towards the steps. you walk by george and lift your arm up, dragging him by his back collar up the stairs. “let’s go, they’re upstairs.”

“you could have asked me nicely and i would have followed you up,” george mutters, smacking your hand to remove your grasp from his shirt. “you really could be nicer or else logan wouldn’t be your friend.”

“oy, logan definitely wants to be my friend,” you frown. you stop at a door, one with logan’s name on it. you knock on the door. “let me in, i brought lunch!”

you hear the chatter inside the room stop. “can’t bribe us with food,” you hear alex call out. “go away.”

“yeah, shut up,” you mutter, reaching for the doorknob. you push the door open. "logan, i got the burgers you told me were really good."

the boy sitting in the corner of the room tilts his head at you. you can see a glimmer in his eyes and a smile slowly appearing on his face. "really? you went and tried the burgers i talked about last week?"

"tried? i bought you some so we can all try it together!" you lift the paper bag and walk in. "so, home race today. you feeling okay?"

alex furrows his eyebrows. "that's not a question you just ask. you need to build up to that."

"i get the right because i bought your team lunch. the questioned included," you giggle. you reach over and hand logan his meal. "so, miami gp. how are you feeling?"

"nervous. there's a lot of people out there," logan whispers, sinking into his seat. he unwraps his burger. "how are you feeling?"

"alex isn't very helpful with the nerves, is he?" you roll your eyes. "you should have come to me. i know a thing or two about nerves."

"and by that, she means she puked in the toilet on the night of her first home race," alex points out with a small smile. "you don't know anything about nerves."

"shut up," you scowl, kicking alex as you clench your jaw. "i'm a professional and handling nerves. you wouldn't know anything about that."

"i-"

"you guys are scaring the poor kid," george sighs, shaking his head. he gestures at logan in the corner of the room, innocently taking a bite out of his burger as he looks between you and alex bickering. "can you play nice?"

logan raises his eyebrows at the three pairs of eyes on him, swallowing his burger. he shakes his head. "no, please. continue your conversation - don't mind me."

"exactly. hold on, logan," you mutter before turning to alex once more. "shut your trap, alex, i'm trying to help your rookie."

george turns to logan. "give them a couple more minutes."

"no problem, man," logan smiles. "i'm just glad she brought me lunch. i'm starving."

#logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant x you #female driver #fem!driver #f1 female driver #f1 x you #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1 #logan sargeant platonic #disneyprincemuke 3k celly

399 notes · View notes

sycamorelibrary754 · 5 months

Text

Happy Thanksgiving

Summary: You invite Natasha’s family to join you for Thanksgiving. Holiday cheer and a surprise awaits!

Genre: Fluff

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader, Yelena Belova x reader (platonic), Alexei Alanovich Shostakov x reader (platonic) Melina Vostokoff x reader (platonic)

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: None

A/N: This was a fun one. Happy Thanksgiving!

When you first broached the subject with Natasha of inviting Yelena, Melina, and Alexi to your home for Thanksgiving, you weren’t sure how your wife would respond. True, things were better. Their relationship had gone through something of a healing process since they took down Dreykov and the Red Room together, but her family was still a lot for anyone to handle. Most of the team was going to Iowa to spend Thanksgiving with the Barton’s. Clint had gotten it into his head to deep fry the turkey this year. It was going to be can’t-miss-entertainment according to Sam. However, you and Natasha were looking forward to a more intimate holiday.

“You really want my family to join us for Thanksgiving?” Her eyes met yours as you snuggled up on the couch together.

“I think it could be really fun. Plus, you deserve to get to spend some quality time with them that doesn’t involve death, destruction, or pigs,” you joked.

“You don’t like mom’s pigs?” She smirked.

No, love. I do. They’re adorable. Especially once Yelena made them those personalized piggy vests,” you giggled.

“Oh, yeah… Pests!” Natasha laughed recalling the image.

“So what do you think? A Romanoff family Thanksgiving?”

She thought for a moment before a smile reached her lips. “Okay, let’s do it. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it could be fun,” caressing your cheek softly.

Upon receiving Nat’s approval and confirmation that all three were available and would be there with bells on, you went into planning mode. Determined to make it a special holiday for everyone.

*^~^*

You left bright and early to hit up the grocery store the Monday before Thanksgiving. It was crucial to avoiding the out-of-stock items and the rush of, “fucking annoying slowpokes who don’t know a shallot from an onion,” you eloquently informed your wife after wiggling out of her warm hold.

Nat mumbled something akin to, “See you later, detka,” her head buried in her pillow, as you hurriedly put on your coat, scarf, and beanie and rushed out of the house. Your car keys and shopping list clenched purposefully in your fist.

*^~^*

The front door slammed shut a couple of hours later, alerting Natasha to your arrival.

“I’m home, love!”

“The conquering shopper has returned! How was the store?” Looking around at the mountain of groceries cluttered around you like presents under the Christmas tree.

“It was good! I managed to get everything on the list,” removing your warm attire and running your hand smoothly through your hair.

“I can see that, y/n. Did you leave anything for the other shoppers?” Nat smirked.

“This is all necessary for the traditional Thanksgiving feast I have planned for us,” you explained. “Your family has never had an American Thanksgiving, so I thought why not go all out?”

Your wife stepped carefully around your grocery maze and wrapped her arms lovingly around your neck. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Not in the last twenty minutes,” jokingly glancing at the imaginary watch on your wrist before planting a tender kiss on her lips.

Natasha offered to unpack the groceries for you. Meanwhile, you set about creating a cooking timeline for the meal preparation. You were so in your element, your wife couldn’t help but smile. Your adorable expression as you typed away on your laptop reminded her of your demeanor out in the field. Focused, engaged, confident.

*^~^*

A creature of habit, Natasha awoke the following morning for her daily run. She groggily reached over to turn off her alarm, until she realized the alarm hadn’t gone off. No, it was the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen that tore her from her blissful sleep. Nat rolled over to your side of the bed, only to find it empty. She groaned softly and sat up; cracking her neck and stretching her arms over her head as a yawn escaped her lips.

Natasha padded down the hall toward the kitchen; still clad in her pajamas and the fuzzy socks you bought her. She turned the corner to find you floating around the kitchen in a whirlwind. Dishes in the oven and on the stove.

“Moya lyubov? You’re already in the kitchen?” Rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“No rest for the wary, sweetheart. I’ve got to get the pumpkin pie out of the way so I can get started on the sides by this afternoon,” you explained, fervently whisking your pumpkin puree into your custard mixture. You glanced around the counter like you were looking for something. “Oh, can you hand me those spice jars behind you?”

She picked up the cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger stacking them precariously on top of one another like blocks before appearing at your side.

“Nicely, done. You clearly missed your calling as a professional Jenga player.”

“Take your damned spices,” she snarked.

You sprinkled the spice mixture into the filling and let it sit. “Okay,” you said wiping your brow. “I just need to grab the pie crust out of the oven, it should be par-baked by now.”

“I got it, detka,” pulling on the oven mitts and removing the pan from the oven.

Perfect, now we’re just going to fill the crust,” carefully pouring the custard filling. “Then this is going back in the oven at 325 for 45-60 minutes.”

Nat carefully placed the pie back in the oven. “Shall I close, doctor?”

“Please,” in your most professional voice before lapsing into giggles.

“Now, that’s in. We can get started on the sides. Mashed, potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry feta salad,” you listed.

Two types of potatoes?”

“Oh, it’s a must, love! You get both the salty and the sweet. It’s potato perfection.”

“Hmm, just like you,” she said suggestively.

“Smooth,” you replied.

“I try.”

*^~^*

You were still in the kitchen when Natasha returned from her run.

“Have you taken a break at all since I left?” Removing her running shoes and placing them by the front door.

“No time for breaks. Your sister just texted me and asked if Mac and Cheese was part of the American Thanksgiving tradition, so I’m whipping up one for her.”

Your wife rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, that’s not necessary, malyshka. Yelena will survive one meal without her precious Mac and Cheese.”

“It’s no problem. I want your family to feel comfortable! That’s why I also have a sparkling Vodka cocktail planned,” you winked.

“That is so sweet, but there is no need to stress over it, y/n. They are going to love it no matter what you make. Plus, you know if you feed them this well they’ll never leave, right?”

“And wouldn’t that be wonderful?” You joked.

“No, it wouldn’t,” she deadpanned.

The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing the stuffing, cranberry sauce, garlic green beanies, and gravy. By the time you finally laid down on the couch Tuesday evening still in your apron, you were pleased with the progress you had made. Your legs lay across Natasha’s lap while she massaged your aching feet. She wasn’t surprised to look over and find you sound asleep five minutes later as the television glow illuminated your features. Your wife could only smile at your sleepy form before gently picking you up and carrying you off to bed.

*^~^*

Wednesday morning Natasha decided to let you sleep in, so she made the executive decision to turn your alarm off. Truthfully, she felt guilty for how hard you had been pushing yourself this week for the sake of her family. Nat was nursing a cup of tea and reading a book in the family room when she heard you down the hall.

“Oh, crap!”

“3,2,1…..”

“Nat, why didn’t you wake me up!” Throwing on your favorite cardigan as you entered the room. “I’ve still got to make the pretzel bread and raspberry jello today.”

“You needed the sleep. I can’t tell you’re exhausted, and you were sleeping so soundly when I got up.”

You had a look of panic in your eyes.

“It’s okay, y/n. I found the recipes for the jello and bread on the table and got the jump on it for you. The jello is done and in the fridge, and the bread dough is under the towel rising.”

You blinked a couple of times as if she was speaking Latin. “You cooked?”

“Are you questioning my abilities?” Raising an eyebrow.

“Well.… yeah? I love you sweetheart, but the only thing I’ve ever seen you make is a peanut butter sandwich.”

“See for yourself,” smiling proudly and removing her reading glasses.

Opening the fridge, you were pleasantly surprised to find a gelatinous raspberry jello staring back at you. You then peeked under the towel on the counter to find the bread dough had just about doubled in size.

“Well, turn me upside down and paint me blue!”

“Hmmm tempting, but let’s save that for after my family leaves,” Natasha smirked as she placed a kiss on the side of your temple from behind.

“This is awesome, my love. Thank you so much,” turning around in her hold. “I have to say, the thought of the Black Widow cooking is incredibly sexy.”

“Is it now?”

“Very, I may have to get you your own apron,” you teased, as Natasha gently grasped your ear lobe between her teeth before placing soft kisses down the side of your neck. A few moments later, her phone dinged with a text notification on the counter beside you. You glanced down at the screen out of the corner of your eye.

“It’s Yelena, sweetheart...”

“Is she on fire? Otherwise, I’m not stopping.” Moving the tender kisses to your lips.

“No, she wants to know if she should bring anything,” you replied between kisses.

She feels bad we’re doing all the work,”

“She’s bringing our parents, that’s a shit ton of work.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

*^~^*

The next day you and Natasha got started on the crown jewel of your Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey. After letting it thaw in the fridge all week, your twenty-pound bird had been marinating in a salt brine for the past twelve hours. You placed the turkey in the oven at 425 degrees for 35 minutes, which gave you two just enough time to get ready before it needed to be basted.

After showering and putting on your best fall colors, you heard the doorbell.

“Baby, they’re here!” you called, opening the door to welcome your guests.

Alexi was sporting a plush turkey hat, while Melina held a freshly made appetizer. Yelena, standing in front of both of them, had Fanny at her feet. She quickly stepped inside first with a warm hug and a peck on your cheek.

“Happy Thanksgiving, y/n! Thank you so much for inviting us. “Now,” placing both hands on your shoulders. “Where is the booze? I just had to spend the last 20 minutes in the car alone with them listening to Alexi ramble on about his stupid hat.”

You point toward the coffee table holding the sparkling Vodka cocktails as your sister-in-law gives you a cheeky smile. “I love you.”

“Haha!” Alexi exclaimed. Greetings, my wonderful daughter-in-law. I am ready for turkey!” Wrapping you in a giant bear hug.

“Could’ve fooled me, Alexi,” you joked. “Ooh Melina, what do we have here? It looks delicious.”

“A traditional Russian appetizer, Mushroom Julienne. Mushrooms and onions cooked in cream sauce, cheese, and sour cream.”

“Ugh! My mouth is already watering. Here, let me take your coats, you can place that on the coffee table,” you offered.

After tending to the coats, you rejoined the group as everyone settled in the family room for appetizers and cocktails. Holiday music played softly in the background, setting the scene perfectly. You sat on the sofa beside your wife while your in-laws treated you to numerous stories of Natasha and Yelena’s all-to-brief childhood in Ohio. Some of which you had yet to hear.

“Y/N, has Natalia told you how she and Yelena used to stay up late on Christmas Eve to try and catch Santa Claus?” Melina asked.

“Now that was fun. You know, he comes down the chimney, girls. Look out! Where is he? You wait for him, and then when the cookies are gone, you see he’s there.” Alexi recalled.

Yelena smiled fondly at the memory while Natasha turned as red as Santa’s suit and hid her face in her hands.

“Aww, honey,” rubbing circles on her back. It’s precious! I’m sure you were adorable.”

“As adorable as you can be with bright blue hair. You looked like cotton candy,” Yelena laughed.

Nat threw a pillow across the room that barely missed her sister’s head.

“Ha!! Missed!”

“Girls, behave,” Melina ordered.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sisterly teasing and family banter. This was exactly what you were hoping for, and the evening was just getting started.

“Oh, detka, you don’t have a drink yet. Let me get you one,” Natasha offered starting to stand up, but your hand on her arm stopped her.

“Oh, no thanks, love. I actually need to go check on the turkey.”

“I’ll join you,” Yelena announced. “I want to see this bird you Americans are so crazy about.”

You opened the oven to reveal your delectable 20-pound turkey. “Do you want to brush it with the honey glaze for me, Lena? I’m going to check on the side dishes.”

“Just call me DaVinci!”

You turned back around to find your sister-in-law had finished off the glazing by painting a smiley face on the turkey.

“Wow, I didn’t know our turkey had such a charming smile,” you joked. Reducing the heat to 325 and setting the timer for another 75 minutes.

“Thank you again for including us today, y/n. While it would’ve been fun to watch Barton sear his eyebrows off trying to deep-fry a turkey, it's been nice to see Natasha so happy. We didn’t have any family holidays growing up. Not real ones, anyway.”

“Well, you always will now,” placing an arm around her shoulder. “I will spend the rest of my life trying to make your sister happy. That’s a promise.”

While the turkey finished cooking, you decided to share as many of your own Thanksgiving traditions as you could. You watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, took in some Turkey Day football, and even played a rousing game of Pictionary.

“What the hell is that?” Yelena shouted as Nat was heavily engaged in her drawing.

“Oooh! Ooh! A ladybug doing the Macarena!”You screamed, just before the timer ran out.

“Yes!”

“Unbelievable, what is that five in a row,” Melina remarked. No wonder you two are such a good team.”

“Well, it's no surprise you're a pro at Pictionary. I mean, who needs talent when you can just doodle like a 5-year-old?” Yelena retorted.

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game, Lena,” dropping the marker like a microphone.

“Trust me, I do. It will be perfect for when I want to torture Kate Bishop.”

“With that, I think it’s time for dinner,” you announced happily.

*^~^*

It only took a few minutes before your Thanksgiving feast was lovingly displayed on the dining room table. The sight and aroma of the food was a gentle massage to the soul.

“Before we dig in,” holding up your glass for a toast, “I just wanted to say how happy Nat and I are that you could join us today. We love you, and I’m so thankful to be a part of your family.”

Natasha grasped your hand and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“We feel the same way,” Melina concurred.

“Yes, we’re so happy that you and our little Natalia found each other,” Alexi added.

“Yes, y/n is a saint. It’s all very touching, can I carve the turkey now,” Yelena groaned, holding up a sharpened carving knife.

“You may proceed,” you declared with a Queen’s wave of your hand.

Dishes were passed around the table like musical chairs. Wine filled everyone’s glasses, while you opted for your favorite - Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider. You pretended not to notice Yelena sneaking a few scraps to Fanny under the table. The chatter rose and fell, every few moments dispersed with laughter. It was the kind of occasion most aren't aware that they're truly enjoying, yet look back at in warm nostalgia.

After hibernating for a bit in your Thanksgiving food comas, you moved back into the family room for dessert. You were excited to finally bring out the homemade Pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.

“Ah, now this is a beautiful pie.” Look at this, girls. I love America, you cannot get this back in St. Petersburg.” Alexi gushed.

“Y/N made it from scratch,” your wife bragged, causing you to blush at the compliment.

“Did y/n also split the atom?” Yelena teased. She earned an eye roll from her older sister. “Could you BE more whipped?”

“No, I honestly don’t think I could,” Natasha looked at you like you had hung the moon and the stars.

*^~^*

As the evening wound down, the hustle and bustle of the past week was starting to catch up to you. Your wife didn’t miss your heavy eyelids or the tiny yawn that escaped your lips as Fanny hopped up on the couch to lay down beside you.

“Well, we should probably get going, traffic will be annoying crossing back over the bridge,” your sister-in-law said.

“Before you go, I have gifts for all of you!” Jumping up off the couch.

“You do?”A bewildered expression on Nat’s face.

“I do!” You’re voice trailed away as you padded down the hall toward your bedroom.

Natasha turned around to her family with a shrug of her shoulders, no clue what you were talking about. You returned a moment later with small autumn-gold gift bags.

“This is just a little something for each of you,” clasping your hands together in front of your smiling face. Natasha was even more confused when you handed her one as well. “Go on, sweetheart,” you encouraged.

Natasha removed the delicate tissue paper. Her strong and calloused hands met the soft cotton hiding inside. She pulled the gift out and held it up in front of her. A tiny onesie was staring back at her that read, “Mommy’s Little Turkey.”

Natasha stared at it speechlessly wide-eyed. A first for your relationship. Finally, her brain caught up with the moment. “Moya lyubov—what? we—you…you’re pregnant?”

You nodded vigorously, starting to cry. Natasha’s hands cupped your cheeks. Her lips met yours in a heartfelt kiss, not caring in the slightest that her family was watching. You gently combed your fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, returning the kiss.

Melina, Alexi, and Yelena held up their onesies to find variations of Natasha’s: Grandma’s Little Turkey, Grandpa’s Little Turkey, and Auntie’s Little Turkey.”

“I knew it!”Yelena shouted.

She turned to Natasha and whispered, “You see what can happen when you keep your heart,” holding her lovingly in her arms.

Vashe zdorov'ye! (Cheers) Alexi exclaimed. If it is a boy you will name him Alexi. It is a strong and honorable name!” Kissing you on both cheeks.

“Oh God,” Yelena muttered under her breath. “For the love of Fanny, please don’t do that,” wrapping her arms around you. “I would love to babysit. There is much I’m looking forward to passing on to my niece or nephew.”

“Yeah, that’s not terrifying at all,” your wife mumbled in your ear.

The shock wearing off, Natasha reached down and gently placed her palm on your stomach. You weren’t showing yet, but just knowing that your child was growing inside you awakened a dream that she had put away in the Red Room long ago.

*^~^*

Once her family left, Natasha insisted that she would handle the post-holiday clean-up, confining you to the couch with a plethora of pillows and a fluffy blanket. Foreshadowing what was to come for the duration of your pregnancy.

“Sweetheart, those dishes go in the top right cupboard,” directing her from the couch.

“No worries, malyshka. I got it! You just take it easy. The baby needs rest after all of this Thanksgiving cheer,” her protective instincts make an appearance.

“The baby is the size of a plum, my love,”

“A very tired plum!”

*^~^*

Thirty minutes later the kitchen was clean and you both were ready for a good night’s sleep. You would never admit it to your wife, but boy, were you tired. You donned your coziest pajamas and joined Natasha in bed. Snuggled into the covers, you found comfort and peace in your safe space. Nat rolled over to face you, your foreheads touching in a beautifully intimate gesture of love and affection.

“This has been the best day of my life. Not only did you give my family an amazing Thanksgiving, you gave me a gift I’ll never forget. Though I have to admit now that I know you’re pregnant, I’m replaying the last week in my head in a loop of horrifying anxiety.”

You giggled at her confession, “It’s alright, Nat. I’m ready for a nice long rest, and I just had a check-up with Helen last week.”

“Wait, does the team know?”

“Dear God, no. You think that group can keep a secret?”

“We can tell them at Stark’s Christmas party in a couple of weeks if you’re comfortable with the idea.”

“Perfect. I need a couple of weeks to prepare for the onslaught of attention from our little one’s aunts and uncles.”

Natasha reached over and grabbed your hand. “I love you, y/n. I can’t wait to welcome our little plum into the world,” she smiled.

“I love you too. You are going to be an amazing mother, sweetheart.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, y/n”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Natasha.”

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff and you #black widow #fluff #comfort #yelena boleva #red guardian #melina #the avengers #mcu #white widow #natalia romanova

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reareaotaku · 5 months

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I Want 2 Watch You Bleed

Prompt: I wonder what your dead corpse would look like... We'll find out if you try and leave me~ Pairings: Yandere! Miles Fairchild x Nanny! Reader Word Count: 3.2k TW: Obsession, Gaslighting, Slight NSFW, Porno Magazine Mentioned [Happy Thanksgiving, my fellow Americans :) Enjoy this treat]

You could feel his eyes on you. He was always watching. You didn't know why he had this fixation on you, but he was overbearing. You always felt his presence, because it was like a fog that made it hard for you to breath. At first, you thought he was making sure you were doing your job correctly, but that couldn't have been further from the truth.

---

You woke up late at night, feeling as if you were being watched in your dream and when you awoke, he was there. You were taken aback; Your eyes widened as he hung his arm off the footboard.

"You drool in your sleep."

"What?"

"And snore. It's annoying."

Your mouth was practically on the floor, "What are you doing?"

"You're so fucking stupid."

You frowned, your nose scrunching up, and you debated kicking him. Ultimately, you sigh and turn away from the young boy.

"I don't snore." You mumble under your breath, before going back to sleep. If he wanted to stay, you would let him, because you couldn't fight him. You were too tired and the energy just wasn't there.

You felt a dip in the bed, causing a spike of adrenaline to shoot up your spine. Why wouldn't he leave? Why were YOU scared of some stupid teenage boy. You were going to yell at him to get out, but you couldn't move. You felt like you were being held down and feeling his hand snake up your leg didn't help the paranoia that was resting in your head. What was wrong with him?

---

The morning after was awkward and strange. You knew he had been in your room, but the way he was acting was as if you were delusional.

"You can't go into my room at night."

Miles look at you, before tilting his head, "I didn't go into your room last night. It was probably a dream. I think it's weird that you dreamed about me though."

"I would never dream about you. Just- Don't do it."

"Well, I never did, so there's nothing for you to worry about."

You knew he was lying- Well, you did, but you were slowly doubting yourself.

---

You groaned, the music was blaring. It was loud and you were wondering how he hadn't gone deaf yet. Your head was banging and you had half a mind to yell at him. You frowned, before standing up and placing down the book you had been trying to read to Flora.

You could practically feel the floor shake as you stomped up to his room. You banged on the door, seeing as that was the only way he'd hear you. There was no answer, so you decided to just open the door.

He was going to town on his drums, before he looked up to you. He puts down his sticks and gives you his attention.

"What do you want?"

"I'm trying to help Flora read, but we can't even think with that loud music."

"Go outside."

"How about you play a different instrument? You have multiple different instruments. Or maybe you can just wait an hour to play-"

"Why are you being such a bitch?"

"Don't call me that. That is rude and very disrespectful."

He laughs, "Oohh, I'm so scared of the big, mean nanny."

"I'm not playing with you, Miles. I'm serious."

He tilts his head, before looking away from you and at his drums, "I'm sure you think you are. You do realize that unlike me, you're replaceable, right? You don't hold any real power. It's all just a figment of your imagination. Though, it seems your mind likes to run wild, doesn't it?"

"You will not make a joke out of me little boy," You stomp to him, grabbing his sticks causing him to yell out 'HEY!'. "You want to be a rude smartass? Okay, let's see how you like the consequences of your actions."

He follows behind you quickly as you run down the stairs. You rush to the living room where the fire place is. Thankfully, someone had already started a little fire, so your plan was half complete. You stood in front of it, before looking back at him.

His eyes were blown and he was frozen, "Don't. You. Fucking. Dare."

"Oooh, I'm so scared of the big, mean teenage boy." You then do something that you would regret later and throw the drumsticks into the fire.

"You fucking bitch! I'll kill you!" He rushes towards you and you're quick to grab his hands and hold them close together so that he doesn't choke you. After a few minutes, he calms down, but he gives you a dead look, "You better sleep with your door locked and one eye open." He then turns around and walks back to his room.

You hear of the crackle of the wood from the sticks and look back at the fire, causing realization of what you had done to hit you. You had gone to far. Your eyes widen as you frown, before trying to reach for the sticks, but you end up burning your hands. You could only watch as they burned to ash.

---

For the next few days you couldn't sleep. You knew you shouldn't be scared of Miles, seeing as he was younger than you, but there was just something off about him. The guilt had also been eating you alive. While you didn't like the way he treated you and others, you should have been the bigger person and handled the situation with more maturity.

You had tended to avoid him, until you finally decided to go buy him some new drumsticks. Was he an asshole? Yes. Was he inconsiderate of everyone? Yes. But he didn't seem to have many joys in life; And music was one of them and you destroy a part of it. You didn't know how you'd feel if someone destroy parts of your hobby, especially if you didn't have any family or friends besides a younger sibling. God, when you thought about it, it really bummed you out.

You waited until late at night, while everyone was asleep [supposedly], when you decided to leave. It would take you a while to get to town, because the house was far into the country side. You felt like you were doing something you weren't supposed to as you slowly walked across the wooden board floor. You heart dropped when you heard a loud creak! but thankfully there was no other movements.

You groaned when the loud engine blared in the near silence. You were thankful when you finally got out of the driveway and headed into town.

---

You hold the brand new sticks in your hands. You fingers glazed against the engravings on them. You didn't know if this would be good enough for him, but you were hoping he'd at least pretend to accept your apology.

Walking up to his room was agonizing. It felt like time slowed down and the hallways shrunk on you. When you finally got to his door, you thought about leaving, but sucked in a breath and knocked.

"Um, Miles?"

There was no answer, which caused you to sigh. You knew he was in there. You put your ear to the door, trying to listen for anything, but nothing. You knocked again.

"I'm coming in." You slowly opened the door and Miles was sitting on his bed- Well, it wasn't really a bed, more of a mattress- looking through a magazine. He flipped through the pages, not paying attention to you and it kind of looked like a porno magazine, but you weren't about to harp on how he got his hands on such a thing, because that was not a conversation you wanted to have. "Miles?"

He finally looks at you, throwing the magazine to the side of the bed and sat up, looking at you, "What?"

"I got you something," You hold the wrapped box out to him, but he doesn't take it. He just glares up at you as if his looks could kill you. You click your tongue, before rubbing the back of your neck. "I-uh, wanted to apologize... for you know... what I did, the other day... I shouldn't have done that. Nothing warrants a response like that and I'm sorry. I never should have thrown your drumsticks into the fire." You start messing with the box, taking them out when realizing he wasn't taking the gift, "I know that these aren't made out of the expensive wood your old ones were, but- umm... I got them engraved, you know, with uh, your name." You show him the light dug 'Property of Miles Fairchild'. "I hope we can start over and put that behind us."

He looks at the sticks, before grabbing them and looking them over in his hands. You watched him closely, hoping he'd take them. Thankfully, he did, but not before rolling his eyes. He puts them on his night stand, before looking back at you, "Leave me alone."

"Alright.." You finger gun him, before clicking your tongue, "I'll see you around." You left his room, before facepalming. " 'I'll see you around'? God, what a fucking stupid thing to say. Ugh, I'm such an idiot."

---

Miles holds the sticks between his fingers, examining them. They were nothing special, but they'd do the job. The engravements were a nice touch and it spurred something in Miles. It was a sweet gesture, probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done for him, especially without an ulterior motive. And to think, he had been planning to suffocate you in your sleep.

He was still kind of mad about losing his favorite pair of drum sticks, but these meant more to him, because they were bought with him in mind. You bought them while thinking about him and Miles thought that was kind of hot. Was he on your mind? How often did you think about him? What did you think about? Was it appropriate?

You had really just wormed your way into Miles' heart and now you would never be allowed to leave.

---

You parked the car, looking over the books you had gotten Flora. They weren't anything special, but you wanted to get Flora something new to read, because you were sure she was getting bored of the same old stuff in the house.

"Where the hell have you been?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin when turning around and seeing Miles behind you. "God, you should wear a bell around your neck or something. You can't sneak up on people like that. Could give someone a heart attack."

He ignores you, repeating himself. "Where the fuck have you been? Flora was asking about you and we saw that the car was gone. She thought you abandoned her." He looks down at the books in your hand, before looking back at you.

Flora had been worried about you, but he had been pissed. How dare you leave? You can't be like everyone else and abandon him after you got through to him. He'd rather kill you with his bare hands than for you to leave him. He didn't care if he had to force you to stay and were unhappy; He loved you to much to let you leave him.

"I would never do that to Flora," You take a step back, your back against the car, as he walks closer to you.

"You can't just leave without telling anyone."

You laugh, shaking your head, "Okay dad. Didn't realize I had to ask you for permission to leave. Besides, I was just... Getting some new books for Flora, not like I have to explain myself to you. She's always stuck in this house and there's nothing new for her to read or do."

"Well, you can't leave without telling anyone, and now you know. I can get you fired, you know. Just don't do it again."

You roll your eyes shaking your head, before mumbling under your breath, "Yeah. I'm not doing that."

---

You were focused on dinner plans, trying to organize and figure out what you needed. Thankfully you knew it would be a short trip. You hated having to go all the way to town, especially on a busy day. Errands were never your favorite thing, but they were part of life. You tsked, clicking your pen, while tapping your fingers on the table.

You went out to the car, thankfully Mrs. Grose taking over for you, so you can leave. It was so strange how everyone was stuck in the house, like they couldn't leave. Did they want to leave? Sure didn't seem like it.

"Where are you going?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin when hearing Miles from behind you. You turn to him, frowning, "God, you have to stop doing this. You can't sneak up on people like that."

"I told you you can't leave without telling anyone."

You smirk, not taking him serious, "And yet under the eyes of the law, you're still a child. So, I don't have to tell you anything."

He smirks evily, "You're right. Yet I'm kind of like your boss, so you do have to listen to me."

"Power trip much?" You roll your eyes, gesturing to the car, "Do you want to come with me, Miles?"

You groaned as he happily got into the passenger seat. You pull open the door, ignoring his stare as you got in. You started the car, the hum taking over the silence of the car.

---

It was just a guy, but it had obviously bugged Miles. You didn't know why Miles decided to be such a passive-aggressive asshole to the deli guy, but he did.

"God what is your issue?"

"He was obviously hitting on you." Miles remarks, tossing some stuff into the basket.

"So?"

He looks at you, his brows down turned, "So? You just let him do it. Just out in the open for everyone to see."

"What is up with you and this little," You gesture to him, "controlling nature? You can't control people, no matter how much you try or how much money you have. You have a little control issue."

"And you're a fucking whore." He was jealous and it was showing. Thankfully you were to obvious to his crush and thought he was just an asshole. He wanted to crack that dude's neck like a fucking baby back rib. He wanted to keep you locked away from the rest of the world so that only he could love you. You are a stupid woman, yet somehow you had Miles wrapped around your little finger and his heart on a leash.

"You are...." You pause, a devestated look on your face, "a monster."

"Let's just get going." He ignores you, walking ahead of you, but you weren't done with this conversation.

When getting back to the car, you glared at Miles, who was leaning on his hand and tapping his fingers against his thigh.

"You are such a brat, you know that?"

He clicks his tongue, ignoring you. "Kinda whorish to let him look at you like that," He finally turns to you, before eyeing you up and down, "But you probably like the attention, huh?"

"God, what is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem-"

"You're acting like a jealous, possessive child. Flora acts better than you."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything. You groan, getting into the car and finally starting it.

---

You had to get out. You didn't know where to go, but you had to get away from the house. Weird shit kept happening. You felt eyes on you constantly and Miles had become obsessively clingy. You couldn't be alone for more than a few seconds without him appearing. You felt bad for Flora and you wanted to get her out of the house, but you were worried it was to late for her.

Flora was acting weird and saying things that didn't make sense. It was like she was possessed or something. She would talk about her old nanny and her dying. It scared you.

You had waited until it was dark out and you put Flora to sleep. You felt bad, but you couldn't stay, you had to leave, it was for your best interest.

You fiddled with the keys in your hands, before accidentally dropping them when trying to put them in the handle. You curse under your breath, before hearing creakk and your eyes scanned around you. The last thing you needed was to get caught now.

"What are you doing?"

You froze, recognizing the voice, before turning around and facing him. He was so close to you, making you wonder where the hell he came from. He looked like a monster with the way his eyes were blown out and his face was obviously furious. "What?"

He frowned, tilting his head, "Do you think I'm fucking stupid?"

"No. No, I don't."

"Well, you sure seem to think so." He gestures towards the keys and the car, "Trying to leave in the middle of the night. Where are you going to go? You don't have any family."

"I'll figure something out."

"With what money? I mean, you can't possible have enough saved to last very long. Maybe a few weeks in a motel, if you're lucky."

"I'd rather live in an alley then spend another second here."

Something flashed in his eyes, something unrecognizable. You knew you had pissed him off. It didn't help that he obviously had serious abandonment/attachment issues and you were trying to leave. He felt as if you were trying to make a fool out of him. How dare you.

"Well, you don't really have a choice."

"What?"

"You don't have," He steps closer to you, before whispering, "a choice."

"Yes I do. Everyone has a choice."

"You know what- You're right. Your choices are that you stay here and we pretend this," He gestures to you and the car, "didn't happen. Or..." He chuckles, looking away from you, as if he was remembering something fondly, "Well, I wonder what your dead corpse would look like... We'll find out if you try and leave me."

"You don't scare me."

He smiles, his eyes filled with an almost love, if not for the situation you found yourself in, you'd be flattered.

"You sure? You seem pretty scared."

He was so close that he could see all the emotions swirling in your eyes. You couldn't lie to him, because he could see the truth. You were terrified.

"Come on. Give me the keys and let's go back inside."

You looked down at the keys, before looking at the car and then at him. You had lost and now you were going to be stuck in this stupid house forever.

#the turning #horror x reader #yandere slasher #yandere horror #miles fairchild #yandere miles #yandere miles x reader #yandere miles fairchild #yandere miles fairchild x reader #miles fairchild x reader #yandere x reader #yandere #miles fairchild imagines #yandere slasher x reader #horror imagines

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vanessavixenx2 · 5 months

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Happy Thanksgiving to my American followers! Now, go grab yourself some thick thighs…and maybe some breast meat! 🦃🍽🦃 Vv xo

#thickaf #thicc thursday #thick thicc #thick legs #thicc af #soft tummy #soft curves #curves for days #legendary legs #legs for days #curvy mature #curvalicious #sweet and sexy #mature sexy #curvy af #curvy girls #curvy blonde #nudity #canada

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huramuna · 3 months

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beware the sapphire peak - chapter 1.

aemond targaryen x wife reader x alys rivers a period piece, set in 1902.

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wordcount: 2.6k

you're a young, american lady who is an aspiring author. you are wooed by a mysterious and charming savant from england. swept off your feet, you're whisked away to his family's ancient estate, Dragonstone Hall. but with all stories, secrets are hiding around every corner, and your suitor is no different. a crimson peak inspired mini series. (this will likely be about 3 parts)

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings!

content: smut, angst, gaslighting, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, alys in her girlboss gatekeep gaslight era, no use of y/n, afab reader, pre-established alysmond, this isn't going where you think it is (it might be), infidelity-ish, polyamory

to death we dance - salem's heir • the flower duet - sabine devieilhe & marianne crebassa

“You were nearly late, miss,” one of the butlers murmured in your ear. “The music’s just started.”

“There is a quote about being fashionably late, isn’t there?” you mused, taking his gloved hand as he helped you up the steps.

It was a banquet for your father’s business, a celebration of having struck gold (oil) and turning a huge profit. Or, in your words, an excuse for the high and mighty to get plastered and dance the night away. Your fist clenched upon the train of your dress– a lovely evening gown in eggshell white, with hand embroidered lilacs and lavender petals on it, spindling up your bodice like a trellis. Your usually somewhat unruly hair was tamed into a braided and pinned up-do, with an expensive broach poked into the bun of hair in the shape of a falling wisteria branch.

Your father was the first to greet you, peeling away from the gaggle of portly oil barons. He kissed your cheek. “You look lovely tonight, my dear. A vision in purple, I must say.”

You smiled back at him. “Yes, well, you all but wringed my arm to get me to attend– and you shall hold up your end of the bargain… right?” you hummed softly, batting your eyelashes.

He let out a small sigh, nodding. “I will send your manuscript to the publisher– the editor in chief is here tonight, if you’d care to mingle. Amongst… many other eligible bachelors, I might add.”

Your father had spent the better part of the last three years gently trying to pair you up with a suitor for marriage. He was a patient man, as he had droned on about so many times before, but his patience was waning. You were twenty-one years old, and apparently, that was a ghastly sight– to be twenty-one and unmarried with no promising prospects.

Of course, you couldn’t care less. You were more focused on finishing your manuscript in that time– you had a knack for writing and reveled in works of fiction that tended to lean to the darker sides of things. It had finally reached a point you were somewhat happy with, and had convinced your father to chat up his well connected colleagues so you may be able to send the first draft to a publisher.

The price for that, however, was to entertain suitors. At a gala. Dressed and primped like a Thanksgiving turkey. It was all so dreary to you– the ladies stared at you and whispered, citing you as the dreary one.

Breaking away from your father with a tiny smile, you began to mingle– as well as you could, anyhow. You were awkward and a bit sheltered and it showed. However, once you said who your father was, dollar signs would flash in the eyes of the men you were speaking with, and they would push forward in the conversation. You weren’t ugly by any means and could become a good wife to some young entrepreneur– but you didn’t want that.

You were about fed up with it all three hours later, your nails clinking against the glass of champagne you were nursing for the better part of thirty minutes. Your look of slight annoyance managed to stave off any other wanton suitors– until another man approached you. You had exchanged some glances with him during the night, but you didn’t recognize him. He was tall, exceedingly taller than any of the other men there. His blonde hair, so pale it was almost white in hue, was cinched at the nape of his neck in a clean ponytail, falling between his shoulder blades. He was in a custom-fitted three piece black and green suit– you could tell from how perfectly it was hugging him, in all the right places.

A familiar heat came to your cheeks as you watched him saunter over to you with an intent in his pale blue eyes– eye? One of them, you noted as he came closer, was slightly off-color from the other and moved a bit slower. Likely fake, you thought. The light casted over the planes of his face, chiseled as it was, illuminating the slightly raised, puckered skin near the fake eye in a distinctual scar. He looked just like the perfect inspiration for a protagonist in one of your novels– or mayhaps an antagonist. He seemed to skim the line between the two in appearance alone.

Curious.

“My lady,” he greeted as he finally broke the air of silence between you, his arms placed behind him in a very calculated manner. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” he asked then, a brow perked. His accent wasn’t American– that you knew for certain– likely something European.

“As much as I can, sir,” you responded coolly, despite being caught slightly off guard by his sudden and overwhelming presence– a dark cloud in a perfectly tailored suit. “I hope that the…” you cleared your throat, trying to sound a little more confident than you likely were. “The… event is to your liking.” you mustered a smile, diverting your gaze to your champagne, hoping there may be the secrets to being a good conversationalist somewhere within the bubbles.

He chuckled, the sound low and husky. It caused a shiver to go up your spine. “The event is well and fine, my lady. Are you… the proprietor of the gala tonight? I wouldn’t expect a beautiful thing such as yourself to plan something like this.”

You glanced up at him beneath fettered lashes. He was complimenting you and insulting the party at the same time. “No– I am not. I’d never choose such… dreary musicians for an event like this. They’re playing for a wake rather than a party– that would be my father’s doing.” you slipped it into the conversation, that this was your father’s party, trying to gauge if this handsome stranger was after what all of the others were.

Surprisingly, his expression, smooth and cool with the barest hint of a smile perking at his naturally upturned lips, didn’t change. “Dreary,” he repeated, “Melancholic, gloomy, monotonous, vapid– all good words to describe the state of affairs.”

“You have quite the expansive vocabulary, Mister…” your voice trailed off, an inadvertent way to ask for his name.

“Targaryen– Aemond Targaryen. And you?” he reached his hand out to shake yours – how incredibly formal– as you returned your own name with a wide-eyed stare.

“Targaryen. As in… the ancient bloodline? Descended from dragons, close to royalty, Dragonstone estate Targaryen?” you asked, mouth slightly agape. From what you knew of them, they were as close to the height of English royalty, real royalty, as there was in the current year, 1902. Their wealth alone, minus all of the titles, made your father’s look like a pissant trust fund.

“The very same. You’re familiar with my family?”

“Ehm– familiar, more so I’ve heard of you all. Your family’s name comes up quite often in my father’s social circles. And I am quite nosy.”

“And what do you think?”

“About… your family? Mr. Targaryen–”

“Call me Aemond.”

“Aemond– I don’t really know much besides the height of your prestige– and your family’s estate, Dragonstone. My father brought me back some photographs of it from his trips over the pond. It’s quite beautiful.”

“Your father brought you pictures of our home?”

“N-not just yours! I collect photographs of old estates, mostly ones from Europe. I like to use them for inspiration for my… stories. I’m a writer– a novice, mostly.”

“A writer? Have you published anything I might know?”

“Oh, God no–” you laughed, covering your face slightly with your hand. “I’ve not yet been published. I actually sent my manuscript to… or will be sending one to a publisher soon. Hopefully.”

“What do you like to write?” he asked then, leaning a bit closer to you as if he was actually enjoying conversing with you. “Romance? Children’s fables?” he teased softly, his one eye gleaming. He was quite handsome, you thought.

“I like horror– mysteries, gothic fiction. I’m quite enamored with the… macabre and weird,” you admit. “I hope that doesn’t frighten you.”

Aemond grinned, his teeth shining, canines pronounced against his thin lips. “Oh, yes, it does frighten me. But, all good horror stories should frighten their readers, yes? I expect you’re a fan of Vampyre? Perhaps Dracula?”

“Both are good. My favorite, however, is Frankenstein. Mary Shelley is a genius. The Castle of Otranto is also wonderful and the pioneer of the genre. I remember trying to read it when I was younger and being scared of the dark hallways at night. Later on in life, those dark hallways enthused me enough to write about them– hence my… fascination with old houses.”

“Old homes certainly do have their fair share of secrets, don’t they?” he paused, straightening his lapel slightly before leaning back in towards you. “And do you believe what they say? That Mary’s husband wrote it and published it under her name?”

Your brows knit together in slight irritation. “Of course not. Why would he need to do such a thing? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but men already have enough advantages as is– publishing under a woman’s name instead might be considered a disadvantage.”

“Will you be publishing under your own name?”

You blinked, taking a sip from your champagne. It was something you considered and went back and forth upon. “I haven’t decided. I have a pseudonym ready just in case.”

“Do tell– so I know what name to look for on the shelves within a year.”

God, was he ever charming– and without even trying, really. He was well-spoken with a voice that was soft and almost whispery. It made butterflies bubble in the pit of your stomach– now that was a feeling you weren’t familiar with. “Dorian Gray.”

“Cheeky woman.” he mused. “Fancy a dance, Miss Gray?”

“... I suppose I could be swayed.”

–

Your dance together, to say the least, was a success– it started month’s worth of courting after. Aemond took you on the most splendid nights out, wining and dining you like you were a gorgeous, interesting debutante. It was exhilarating to say the least and made you feel… truly wanted– especially since his family was exceedingly wealthy, your father’s wealth couldn’t have attracted him.

He took you to the theater, out to wondrous restaurants, and bought you various gifts like jewelry, writing supplies and outfits to wear when you went out.

It all felt very much like a dream to you– something beyond your usual, weary routine that had hardly ever changed since your mother died when you were eight years old. You’d recused into yourself then, the dark hallways that scared you so fiercely just before her death now seemed welcoming. You thrived in the dark, like a moth.

But now, you felt something more akin to a butterfly, bathing in the sun’s light.

It wasn’t a great surprise when Aemond asked your father for his blessing to marry you. Your father, who had harped you for years to get married, was suddenly apprehensive.

He pulled you aside, arm around you. “Do you like this boy, dear?”

“Y-yes, father– very much so.”

“I’ll be honest, sweetheart. I’m not exactly keen on letting my only daughter go off with… some man–”

“He isn’t just some man, father! He’s a Targ–”

“Don’t interrupt,” he chastised firmly. “I’ve had my people look into his family further– it’s a whole mess, issues with succession, backstabbing, incest, the whole nine yards,” he took a measured breath. “But I’ve heard nothing but good things about… Aemond. But… you’d be so far away. You’d be off living in the annals of England, a whole boat’s ride away.”

“This is what you wanted, father! For me to marry, for me to be happy! This is the happiest I’ve been in… so long. You must see that?”

The creases in your father’s forehead relaxed as he regarded you for a long moment, before turning to Aemond, who was waiting patiently off to the side. He let go of your shoulder and walked to your beau, staring at him sternly. “Will you treat her right? Give her everything she deserves and more?”

Aemond perked up slightly, rubbing the side of his forefinger with his thumb in a seemingly nervous gesture. “Of course, sir. I’ll give her everything I have and more. She will be regarded as a Lady– the Lady Targaryen of Dragonstone Hall, and she wouldn’t be treated with any less respect than a Lady deserves.”

Your father’s gaze narrowed, taking it all into careful thought. “... very well. You have my blessing, son. But, one whiff of even a tear from her eye on your account, and your nads are forfeit. I may not be as well-off as your family, but I’ve got a lot of friends in a lot of places.”

–

The marriage was a quick affair, as your father, and now Aemond, knew you had no patience for pomp and frills. Aemond gave you a beautiful ring with an absolutely gigantic sapphire inlaid in the center, citing it as a family heirloom from centuries past. Your father saw you off onto the boat, bawling his eyes out. You’d never seen your father cry– not once.

As husband and wife, you both agreed to wait to celebrate your wedding night until you arrived in England at his family’s estate to your marital bed.

The trip overall was a little under a week’s time upon a luxurious liner, where you both enjoyed champagne and each other’s company. You craved your husband, and he craved you in the same, but you each wished to keep your agreement intact. But it was increasingly hard, as you held one another close each night and his need for you was clearly pressed to your lower back.

Dragonstone Hall was a few hours' carriage ride north of the port and was nestled upon a high-ridged cliff. It was as gorgeous as the pictures had depicted, even moreso. It was ancient, imposing against the skyline and mingling to the clouds, where sea birds and ravens alike swirled above the towering watch towers that were supported by stone walls with vines grasping to them like lifelines.

It was gorgeous, gothic and most definitely haunted– a perfect place for a woman of horror such as yourself.

Aemond helped you out of the carriage, a hand placed upon your waist as he guided you beyond the gates. Your eyes were wide with wonder, taking in the scenery like a breath of fresh air. Tears threatened to spill over suddenly, as you were just overwhelmed with everything going on. You were married to someone you loved, who loved you– and were the Lady Targaryen of Dragonstone Hall.

“Something wrong, my love?” Aemond whispered into your ear, his lips tickling your lobe.

“N-no– I’m just… very happy.”

He wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb, clearing your vision. You glanced up at one of the windows on the third story of the castle. Someone was staring back at you.

A lady. Her hair was red, her skin almost translucent.

You must’ve been imagining it, surely. Looking to another window, another visage appeared.

Another– this time with dirty blonde hair, her blue eyes ghastly and bloodshot. She was practically see through.

You pressed closer to Aemond, blinking profusely– it must’ve been the exhaustion from the nights on the boat catching up to you. Once you rubbed your eyes, you looked back; the figures were gone.

As you approached the main door of the estate, another face caught your eye.

Another woman– with dark hair and sullen, emerald eyes. They pierced through you like two heavy jewels, making goosebumps prickle atop your arms. She wasn’t ghastly or undeathly like the other two, and when you rubbed your eyes, she was still there.

She was still there, very much a living person in the flesh, with flowing blood and a beating heart. And she was beautiful.

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #beware the sapphire peak #alysmond #alys rivers #alys rivers x aemond #alys rivers x reader #alys rivers x reader x aemond targaryen

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bingoboingobongo · 1 year

Text

something to be grateful for

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley (Call of Duty) x Reader

Type: Smut (minors dni), fluff

Summary: Ghost’s never celebrated Thanksgiving before. For one, he’s not even American, and two, he never had anything to be thankful for. But this year? This year he’s thankful for you.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: use of feminine body parts, explicit language, fingering, choking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), guided masturbation (?)

A/N: welp. idek what to say. this started out as a fluffy thanksgiving drabble and now it’s this. is it good? idk. is it bad? idk. is it accurate? idk. my experience is in the negatives so this is just an amalgamation of all the knowledge i have gained from reading/reddit threads. happy thanksgiving to all who celebrate, and as always, likes/reblogs and constructive criticism as always appreciated, enjoy :)

Masterlist

Before the 141, Ghost had never celebrated Thanksgiving. He had heard of it, of course, but he would never partake in it. For most of his life, it was just an odd American holiday, a way for them to show their gratitude by gorging themselves on turkey and pies and mashed potatoes. He always thought it was a dumb tradition. If you were really thankful for something, you should show it everyday, not just once a year. But maybe that was just him being bitter, he knew, after all, life had dealt him a shitty set of cards, and he never had much to be thankful for.

Until he joined the 141; until he met you. Ghost had served in the military before, he had liked people before, but there was nothing quite like the 141, nothing quite like you. For one, the 141 was a multinational special operations task force, unlike his last battalion, which was full of Brits. The 141 was filled with operators from all sorts of places, Britain, Scotland, Australia, the Czech Republic, and of course, America. Even though he rarely engaged with the other soldiers, except for Price, Soap, Gaz, and you, he had heard them whispering to each other about Thanksgiving a few weeks back.

And you. There was something different about you. Maybe it was the fact that you were in the 141 with him, that he saw you almost constantly, that he didn’t have to leave you for months at a time. Or maybe it was something else, maybe it was the way you never took yourself too seriously, even when you were in the field; maybe it was the way you hummed to yourself whenever you reloaded your gun; or the way your laughter tugged at his heartstrings whenever he heard it over comms. Whatever it was, it set you apart from everyone else he had ever liked.

He was still thinking about you — not that that was uncommon, he was always thinking of you — when he heard an awkward knock at his door, followed by a muffled call of his name. He looked up from the book he was supposed to be reading, his hand instinctively reaching for his mask on his bedside table. Tugging it over his face, he made his way to the door.

Usually, he could tell who was coming to his room just based on their steps in the hallway. Price’s were solid and firm, like him. Soap’s were heavy and brushed against the floor a lot, as if he was trying to make as much noise as possible. Gaz’s were usually light and quick, like he was rushing somewhere but didn’t want to run. And you, your’s were short and cheery, and almost always accompanied by the sound of you humming. But he didn’t hear any steps recently, not that that was surprising. The rest of the task force had spent the last few hours celebrating and the noise made it hard to hear anything. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t care. It was probably someone’s birthday.

Someone called his name again and carefully, he opened the door a few inches, just enough for him to see out of. He looked down to see you, wearing sweatpants and a tank and carrying two large plates of food. “Do you need something?” he asked.

You hummed, “Can I come in first?” you asked, lifting the two plates up for him to see.

He looked back into his room, checking to make sure it was fit for you to come in. He turned back to you, widening his door and stepping to the side to let you in. He watched as you set the food down on his desk and looked around his room. For some reason, he didn’t know why, he felt slightly nervous as he watched you take in his room. He hadn’t done much to it, the walls were light gray and completely barren; his desk was empty except for a few books, a laptop, a cup of pencils and pens, and an old journal he barely used; his blankets were folded and placed neatly at the end of the bed, which was pushed against the wall, and the only thing that signified that anyone had used it was his slightly crumpled pillow and the book he had left behind.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “what do you need?”

You hummed absentmindedly, tilting your head to read the books on his desk. “We missed you at dinner,” you said finally, turning around to look at him.

“Who’s we?” he asked.

“Everyone. Me, Soap, Gaz, even Price asked if you were coming.”

“I never come to dinner,” he said, “why’d everyone start caring now?”

You rolled your eyes in disbelief, “Because those were all normal dinners. This was a special dinner, we thought you’d come join us.”

“What’s special about this dinner?”

“What's special?” you asked, your jaw dropping, “what do you mean ‘what’s special?’ It's Thanksgiving, Ghost.”

Oh. He never knew the exact date of Thanksgiving. He knew it was near the end of November and that was pretty much it. If he was being honest, he had assumed it had already passed. “I don’t celebrate,” he told you, “and what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with the others, celebrating? And what’s with the food?”

“I know you don’t celebrate, '' you said, “but neither do Soap or Gaz or Price or like, half the people here, and they’re still hanging out with us. And since I knew you wouldn’t come to the party, I figured I’d bring the party to you.”

“I’m not really a party kind of guy,” he said, watching you scrunch your nose in annoyance.

“Fine,” you said, rolling your eyes, “then we can just have a lame Thanksgiving in here. What plate do you want?”

He sighed, if there was one thing about you it was that you were stubborn as hell. If you had set your mind on celebrating with him, it was going to take a lot to get you to leave, not that he minded. To be honest, having dinner with you wasn’t the worst way his night could’ve gone. He walked over to the desk, examining the two plates. “They’re the same thing,” you said, “just one has apple pie and the other has pumpkin.”

He turned to you, “Which one do you want?”

You shrugged, “I’m fine with either. You pick.”

He reached for the plate with pumpkin pie, offering the apple one to you. “Sit,” he said, nodding to his bed as he sat down on his desk chair a few feet from you. He watched you take the plate and sit on the bed, scooting carefully until your back rested against the wall.

“Dostoyevsky?” you asked, looking at the book he had left behind.

“Crime and Punishment. You read it?”

You nodded, “Back in high school. I actually really enjoyed it.”

“Me too, figured I’d reread it though. It’s been a while.”

“Oh wait,” you said suddenly, scrambling to put your food back on the desk, “don’t eat, we gotta say what we’re thankful for.”

He leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes as he put his plate down. “Do we really have to?” he asked, “I don’t see the point.”

You scoffed, “The point is expressing your gratitude, Ghost. That’s why it’s called Thanksgiving.”

“But if you were really thankful for something, you would show it everyday. Not once a year.”

This time it was your turn to roll your eyes. “Wow, great philosophy, Ghost,” you said sarcastically. “But for the rest of us who aren’t as noble as you, Thanksgiving is a time for us to remember to be grateful. Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually follow your little philosophy,” you said, shooting him a pointed look. “Alright I’ll go first. I am thankful for,” you paused, biting your lip as you thought of an answer. You looked good when you did that, he thought. He wished he could be the one biting it though. “I’m thankful for the fact that I’m alive right now,” you said, “I’m thankful that we don’t have to be in the field today, and I’m thankful for you.”

“You’re thankful for me?” he asked.

“Of course I am, you’ve saved my ass like twenty times in the field and you’re a nice guy anyways. I like hanging out with you.” God, he wished you liked him in other ways too. He knew you would, if you would just give him a chance, he could show you. Show you how good he could be to you, how good he would make you feel, how hard he would make you orgasm. He would make you scream so loud the entire base heard, even with all the noise they were making. “Your turn,” you said, blissfully unaware of his thoughts.

“Do I have to do three?” he asked.

“Mmm, yeah. Why not?”

He sighed, “Alright, I’m thankful for… I’m also thankful for the fact that I’m alive and we don’t have to be in the field today, and,” he paused, trying to think of a third option. “I guess I’m thankful for you too,” he said.

You scrunched your nose at him, “You literally just copied everything I said, Ghost. And also, you suck at showing your gratitude for me every single day.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you give me a chance to make that up to you then?” he asked, his voice lowering.

You stiffened, clenching your thighs together. Was he going where you thought he was going with this? He couldn’t be right? He was your boss, he wasn’t supposed to think of you that way. You weren’t supposed to think of him that way. With his head buried in between your thighs or his hand wrapped around your neck as he slammed into you. “What do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice a lot smaller than you intended.

Shit, Ghost thought. What was he doing? Why did he say that? Why did you clench your legs together like that? Was he turning you on? Was he making you wet? God, he hoped so. He hoped you were thinking the same filthy thoughts as he was. You pinned underneath him with your legs wrapped around him as he thrust into you, or you on your hands and knees with your ass pressed out for him. Fuck, he could feel his cock twitching in his pants already. “What do you want me to mean?” he asked slowly, leaving you to decide how the night would go.

He watched as your eyes flickered down to his cock. He looked down too, he could see it pressing against his sweatpants. He looked back at you as you licked your lips, shifting your weight on your thighs. You slowly brought your gaze up to his, “I want you to mean,” you whispered, so quiet you didn’t even know if he could hear it. “I want you to mean that you want to fuck me.”

It was quiet for a moment, and you held your breath for what felt like forever until he spoke again. “Take off your pants,” he whispered. You didn’t move at first, just stared at him with those big doe eyes of yours. “Don’t make me tell you twice,” he said, his voice laced with lust and menace. You sprang into action, scrambling to kick off your pants as your mind raced with ideas of what he would do to you.

You sat on your knees in front of him, your hands toying with the hem of your tank. You watched him lean forward in his seat, his head nodding at your legs. “Open your legs,” he said, “I wanna see how wet you are.” Fuck, his voice was doing things to you, you could feel yourself get wetter everytime he spoke. Slowly, you opened up your legs, memorizing the way his pupils dilated at the sight of you.

“Touch yourself,” he whispered.

“What?”

He looked back up at you. “I said touch yourself. Rub your clit for me.”

You watched him tilt his eyebrows at you as if to encourage you and you bit your lip. You snaked one of your hands down between your legs, sucking in a breath as you began to rub small circles on your clit. The friction of your underwear was working wonders on you, sending jolts of pleasure up your body whenever the cloth rubbed it the right way. You threw your head back, letting the feeling wash over you as you clenched around nothing.

“Look at me,” you heard him say. You picked your head off the wall, focusing your eyes on his. He wasn’t staring back at you though, he was staring at your cunt, at the way your fingers circled the bundle of nerves at the top, the way your underwear was starting to darken with how wet you were.

You wanted to touch him, or for him to touch you. You stifled a whine as you thought about what it would feel like to have his fingers inside of you. You started to rub your clit faster, biting down on your lip as you tried rocking your hips against the bed.

Meanwhile, Ghost was watching you like you were the most captivating thing in the world, and you were. He could feel his cock getting harder in his pants as it strained against the fabric of his boxers. He had to swallow down a groan when he heard you start to whine. He could see you fighting the urge to close your eyes as the pleasure washed over you, your hand working on your clit furiously.

He grabbed your wrist, effectively stopping your wrist. You looked at him confused, your chest heaving. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you slowly before lowering his gaze to your core. You watched with bated breath as he stood up from his chair, his hands still on your wrist as he moved to the bed. Slowly, his hand lifted yours away from your clit, laying it next to you. He moved his hand to your cunt, his fingers sliding over your folds, admiring how wet he could tell you were even through the underwear.

“Ghost,” you whimpered, looking up at him.

His eyes snapped to yours, “Tell me what you want darling,” he whispered, his voice sultry sweet.

“Touch me. Please,” you mewled.

“I am,” he said, and you could see his mask shift as he grinned.

“Ghost,” you whined, “you know what I mean.”

“Actually,” he said, pulling his hand away from you, “I don’t.”

You huffed at the lack of contact. “I want… I want you to finger me,” you said, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Perfect,” he said slowly. His hand slid down your panties and he let out a groan as his fingers came into contact with your wetness. “Shit, all this for me?” he asked, causing you to look away. “Not so fast,” he said, clicking his tongue, “eyes on me, remember?”

You nodded, training your eyes on his as he continued running his fingers through your wetness. You whined as you felt his finger brush over your clit, your breaths shallow as you tried to focus on his eyes. “Ghost,” you whimpered, gripping onto his wrist when you felt him stick a finger inside of you.

He looked up at you lazily, his finger pumping in and out of you. “You like that?” he asked in that gravelly voice of his, causing you to clench around his finger. You nodded, a moan slipping out of your mouth when his palm brushed against your clit. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me, think you can take another?” he drawled, one of his hands snaking up to grab at your tit.

You whined, nodding your head fervently. “That’s my girl,” he said, adding another finger. You let out a gasp as he started using his thumb to rub steady circles on your clit, your thighs trembling as you tried to keep them open for him. Your mouth fell open as he continued fucking you with his fingers, the sound of his fingers fucking your wet cunt filling the room. You moaned as you felt his fingers curl up inside of you, hitting your sweet spot. He added a third finger, drawing another moan from you as you threw your head back, too consumed by the pleasure he was giving you to remember what he said.

He growled, the hand on your tits snaking up to wrap around your neck as he forced you to look at him. You whined, your hands wrapping around the hand on your throat as his fingers continued thrusting into you. You rocked your hips against his hand desperately, crying out his name as you felt him scissor his fingers inside you.

“Ghost,” you cried, your voice breathy as he kept fingering you. You could feel your orgasm growing, your entire body growing warmer and the knot in your stomach getting tighter as you approached the edge. You didn’t even need to tell him you were close, he could feel it in the way your body began to stiffen and your cunt squeezed him tighter. He kept working you, his fingers sliding and scissoring inside of you until you were at the very edge of the peak, ready to fall over. And then he pulled out.

You whined, your chest heaving from your lost orgasm. You stared up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “What was that for?” you gasped.

He chuckled, admiring your lust-blown pupils. “I want your first orgasm to be with my cock inside of you,” he explained, pulling you up from your knees.

He laid you on your back, letting out a whistle as he peeled your underwear off of your legs. You pushed yourself onto your elbows, watching him with wide eyes as he pulled off his sweatpants. You could see his cock straining against the thin fabric of his boxers, and you licked your lips as you watched him pull it out.

“You like that?” he asked, and you nodded. “You wanna suck it?” Another nod. He let out a low chuckle at that. “Maybe another time. Right now, I just want to be inside you.” You felt your heart flutter at his words, so this wasn’t a one time thing. There would be more times. What did he want out of this, did he just want a fuck buddy? Or did he want something more? You swallowed, silencing your thoughts as you watched his hand pump his cock as beads of precum pooled at the tip.

You sucked in a breath as he leaned over you, one of his hands caging you in as another lined up his cock with your entrance. You gasped as you felt him stretch you out, your eyes squeezing shut. It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling, you just didn’t realize how big he was. “Shit,” he groaned, dropping his head to your chest as he continued pushing into you, “you feel so fucking good.” You whined, your hands sliding under his shirt to feel his back.

You mewled as he bottomed out inside of you, your chest heaving as you clenched around him. It felt so good to have him inside of you, it was like he was made for you. He stretched you out so perfectly, leaving you teetering between the edge of pain and pleasure. Slowly, he started moving his hips, dragging his cock in and out of you. “Ghost,” you whined, “give me more.”

You heard him curse to himself, “Are you sure?” he asked.

You nodded, letting out a moan as he began thrusting into you faster. Ghost groaned as he fucked you. You felt so good squeezing around him. How long had he wanted this? He couldn’t remember. He could barely think, if he was honest, his whole world was consumed by the way you took him in so easily. He snaked a finger down to your clit, reveling in the way you moaned so loudly for him, reveling in the sounds of his cock slamming into your tight cunt. He slammed his hips into you harder, savoring the way your mouth dropped open and your eyes squeezed shut whenever he hit your sweet spot. He could practically feel his chest swell with pride as moan after moan fell from your lips, your voice raw from crying out his name.

You could feel your orgasm coming again as he continued fucking you, the coil deep in the pit of your stomach tightening and threatening to burst. You could barely even register the sounds coming out of you, they sounded foreign and distant, unnaturally high pitched and whiny to be your own. “Ghost,” you cried out, wrapping your legs around his waist, trying to push him deeper inside of you. “I’m—”

“You about to cum?” he asked, recognizing the way you stiffened and clenched around him. You nodded furiously, your eyebrows knit together. “Fuck, the way you’re squeezing me I’m about to cum too,” he said, with a low chuckle, “go ahead and cum for me darling. Let everyone know how good I make you feel.”

You cried out his name, squeezing your eyes shut and throwing your head back as the coil in your stomach finally snapped and your orgasm washed through you, racking your body with delicious waves of pleasure. You could feel him continue to thrust into you as you rode out your orgasm, your mind hazy and lust-drunk. Through lidded eyes, you watched his hips begin to stutter inside of you. You watched him dip his head in his shoulders, moaning your name as he came inside of you.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, with him on top of you, slightly heavy but not suffocating, both of your chests heaving as you thought about what happened.

With a grunt, Ghost pushed himself off of you, stopping to admire your lust-blown pupils, messy hair, and unfocused eyes. He watched you blink slowly, your eyes turning to his as a smile came over your face. “What?” he asked, standing up.

“Since your whole thankfulness philosophy says that if you’re grateful for something you should show it every day, does that mean we’re gonna be doing this every single day?”

He rolled his eyes, “You still on about that?” he asked, making his way over to his bathroom and wetting a towel. “I thought we already established that my philosophy needs some work.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to have sex with me every day?” you asked, sucking in a breath as he wiped you down.

“That’s not what I meant, don’t put words in my mouth,” he said, pulling on his sweatpants before tossing you yours. “Put your pants on, the food you brought’s cold now, let’s get another plate,” he said, glad that the mask hid the childish smile. You rolled your eyes, tugging on your pants but leaving your ruined underwear on his bed. He could keep it, you had plenty more.

Ghost chuckled as he watched your legs buckle when you tried to stand, letting you struggle for a moment before he went over to help you. In a way, he could sort of see why people celebrated Thanksgiving. Before, he never had a reason to. He wasn’t American, he didn’t have any friends or family to celebrate with, and he didn’t have anything to be thankful for. But now? Now it was different. Now he had you.

#bingoboingobongo.com #ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost modern warfare 2 #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost smut #ghost fluff #ghost imagine #ghost angst #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #simon riley mw2 #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley x reader

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darling-i-read-it · 9 months

Text

System

Dalton Lambert x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: set after insidious the red door so spoilers for that, the readers scared daltons wandered off again

Author’s Note: Sorry this took so long love! I’ve been a bit everywhere lately but I was finally happy with this. Also my spell check is being hella weird so if there’s some misspelled things just ignore it lol. I hope you enjoy!

Requested: by anon, hi i literally just got home from the insidious movie with my friend, but i was wondering if you are taking requests, if not feel free to ignore! but i was wondering if you’d be able to do a dalton x reader where they maybe meet his family? and he has an episode during it and gets stuck in the further and reader has to try and coax him out of it? or he has an episode and comes out of it in a panic attack like state and reader helps him through it and his family is in shock that dalton lets her see him like that. they think its really sweet that she can help him through it and everything.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

Thanksgiving break. You could fear the cold in the air as people talked lightly going down to their cars, happy to leave school behind for a couple days of rest. Dalton threw his bag over his shoulder, watching you watch the window. The leaves were falling onto the street, whisked away by the gentle wind. You could see people’s silent laughter through the glass.

“You ready?” Dalton’s voice broke you out of your trance. You nodded once, pulling your bag up over your head as well. It just had some clothes and your laptop, plus chargers. You hadn’t been expecting to go back for Thanksgiving with your heavy workload.

“Your dads here?”

“Yeah, pulling up outside.” You turned back to the window like you could locate him. Dalton grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the door. You followed him outside of his dorm room. He shut and locked it behind him before leading you down the stairs among the stragglers of people leaving for break.

You had never seen the parking lot so crowded.

Dalton put his phone to his ear, keeping a firm grip on your hand. You followed him blindly.

“Near the flag poles isn’t an instruction dad,” Dalton said, voice annoyed. You looked around, trying to place the car. You didn’t actually know what he was driving but you knew Mr.Lambert’s face. “There are a ton of flag polls.” Your eyes scanned the area. “Are you talking about the one with the school flag?” You sat Josh Lambert, standing outside of his car with the door opened. You hit Dalton and pointed. He followed your gaze. Dalton hung up the phone and guided your way through the parking lot.

Mr. Lambert smiled when he saw you both. He pointed beside him, where an American flag was posted between some trees.

“It was the only thing near me,” he explained.

“Don’t worry about it.” You offered your hand to shake.

“You must be Y/N. I’ve heard a lot.” Josh shook your head.

“Thank you for letting me stay over the break. My family is so far away and getting a plane ticket in this weather has never been good odds.” Josh’s smile was genuine and kind. You had only met him over the phone but Dalton had mostly assured you of his normalcy. After the whole flying away possessed by demon thing, you understood that Josh also had issues with staying in his head. You felt for him.

“Oh of course. Any friend of Dalton’s is a friend of ours.” Josh winced, trying to find the right words. “It’s a pleasure.”

“That’s good dad.” Dalton took your backpack. You smiled gently, trying to let him know you understood what he was trying to give off. “This is gonna be a long drive.”

Josh asked you plenty of questions, happy that someone in his car actually answered him. You didn’t mind chatting. It was a couple hours after all. Before you were there, Dalton couldn’t exactly shut out and put his headphones in. Still, he sat behind you, sketch book out, half listening.

Eventually you came to his and his moms home. It was nice and large, almost secluded but not quite. You didn’t peg Dalton for a large house kind of guy but the second his mom opened the door, it all clicked into place.

Josh had started recently living with Renai again, much to Dalton’s surprise. He didn’t talk about it often, only in passing. You were able to pick up bits and pieces from everyone’s body language but that was about it.

Renai had Josh take your bags.

“Thank you so much Mrs. Lambert for letting me stay,” you said hurridly as she ushered you inside. She smiled, so brightly it hurt. She looked just like Dalton’s pictures of her. Goregous and kind.

“Renai, please. Dalton go take those upstairs.”

“Are we allowed to sleep in the same room?” Dalton asked, teasingly.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” she said, ushering him away. She turned to you. Dalton walked up the stairs, followed closely by his father and your bags. “It’s nice to formally meet you Y/N.”

“And you! I’ve heard so much, seen your face on a lot of different sketches,” you joked. Her smile remained, dripping in generosity but not so much it made you uncomfortable. You felt instantly comfortable in the house.

“I’m sure you’ve become the new muse,” she joked.

“He’s extremely talented. He could make a tree look interesting.”

“Don’t say it to him, it’ll go straight to his head.” Renai would sometimes call you when she was worried about Dalton. After the demon event she grew more worried about having him out of the house. You became her eyes and ears, which she was eternally grateful for.

There was a childlike commotion upstairs. You both turned to see a little girl barreling down, her hand loosely holding the railing. Once she hit the bottom she halted. Dalton was following close behind her and behind him was another teen boy, though younger than Dalton. It was easy to guess the names.

“Oh shit D,” Foster mumbled. Dalton hit him.

“Are you Y/N?” Kali asked. You nodded.

“And you must be Kali! It’s very nice to meet you.” She smiled, ogling. You grew self conscious under everyone's gaze. Dalton pushed through his siblings to get to you.

“Hey, go get your own person to stare at.” He grabbed your hand. “C’mon, I wanna show you my room.”

“No funny business,” Josh said as he came down the stairs. “Keep that door open.”

“He doesn’t bring girls home often,” Renai explained.

“Mom,” Dalton seethed. You laughed as he tugged at your arm. You followed him up the stairs.

“It was nice to meet all of you!” you called, your arm half way out of it’s socket. You observed the place as you walked, glancing at the family photos on the wall. At some point they started to lack Josh completely. “You’re were so cute,” you cooed at one of the photos. “What happened?”

“Woah there.” You laughed as you finally landed upon his room. It was a normal teenage boys bedroom but cleaner. You wondered if Renai had cleaned when Dalton left. There was art supplies still scattered on the desks and some laying on his made bed. Your bags were put off to the side, next to his.

“I see you have no intention of posting up in the guest bedroom?”

“Oh no,” he said. “My mom’s a lightweight and will be in bed by nine.” There was countless pictures on the wall. Some were painted, some where with ink, some with just pencil. It was like a whole other gallery. “I have a couple new ones to add up there.”

“Oh yeah?” You turned back to him. He was grabbing his sketchbook out of his bag. He turned it open to the one he was working on in the car. It was a back view of his dad and you talking. Josh was mid word but you were smiling, watching intently. “Is that why you weren’t talking with us?”

“I don’t like my dads taste in music.” You grinned warmly.

“I love it. Like I love all your stuff.” He carefully went to tear it out and you moved to get some things out of your bag.

You had dinner, courtesy of Renai, and quickly turned in. Dalton made a big show of going to bed in the guest bedroom, rolling his eyes and pretending to pout. You cuddled into his bed, scrolling through your phone as you waited for him to come back. Your eyes drooped. It had been a long day, filled with new things. Dalton’s bed was way more comfortable then the dorm room bed and far bigger too.

At 10 you heard the door open slowly. You turned on your side and smiled sleepily at Dalton walking in. He ran his hands through his hair, shutting the door quietly behind him. He climbed under the sheets beside you. You moved over to make room but the bed was big enough where it almost didn’t matter.

“Bigger than the dorm room bed huh?” he questioned. You usually had to squeeze together. You got very used to being on top of each other.

“Just a lil.”

He dipped his head over you, kissing you gently. Your body eased into his touch. His lips were lazy and sleepy, also fueled by the long day. He moved away after a moment and layed his head down next to you.

“Tease,” you joked.

“My mother is in the next room.”

“No more kisses then.”

He scoffed and the two of you got comfortable, his arm under your head, your cheek against his chest. The window was creaked open, the sound of the suburbs floating into your ears as you drifted off.

You woke up with a start. There was an echo of a noise but you were still half asleep and couldn’t pinpoint it. You sat up, glancing down at Dalton. He laid on his back, eyes shut. You looked around the dark room. You didn’t know it’s curves well enough to know what had changed. You rubbed your eyes, trying to decide if you were still asleep or not.

Through your shadowy perception, you saw the door creak open. It was slow but the movement struck home. You turned to Dalton and nudged him. He didn’t move. You nudged him again, harder this time. He stayed completely still, the only indication he was alive from his breathing.

“Dalton,” you muttered. You shoved him again, almost knocking him off the bed.

Nothing.

Fear shone in the lights of your eyes. You sat up completely and turned on the lamp beside your bed. You took a deep breath. You had done this before. You could do it agian. Dalton and you had talked about what you could do when this happened. He assured you that, while he likely couldn’t get possessed by that same demon, there was no guarentee he couldn’t drift off.

You cleared your throat and set your shoulders back.

“Dalton can you hear me?” Your voice was loud and clear. It needed to project if he was gonna hear you. You took clear breaths in, counting and then releasing. “Dalton, baby, you’ve gone to far.”

You glanced back at the door. Had he left? Was that him coming back in? How long had be been out?

“Dalton, listen to me. Follow my voice.”

With each passing tick of the clock you got more anxious. You wondered if you were too late. Your breathing became more labored as you sat there, starring at his face, begging it to move. “Dalton.”

You knew shaking him did no good but you did it anyway.

Renai could hear your speaking in the other room. Despite what Dalton said, she was also easy to rise. She had gotten into the habit when Kali was a baby, always able to easily identify her childrens voices. She knew it was yours immediately. She nudged Josh, who woke up after a couple pushes.

They listened for a moment, making sure they weren’t going to enter some sort of scene they would never be able to unsee. But then your voice came again.

“Dalton, follow my voice. I’m right here.” Renai knew the script well. It sent shivers down her spine to hear someone else say it. She quickly moved the covers aside and padded down the hallway to Dalton’s open door. She stood in the frame, Josh behind her. You were turned away, looking down, sitting practically on top of Dalton. Your voice, though stressed, was soothing.

“Dalton I’m right here. Come back to me.” Renai was about to jump forward and start helping when Dalton sat up straight. He hit your head with his because he was moving so fast. You both groaned in pain.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, grabbing your cheeks. “Are you okay? Did I bruise you?”

“No, no I’m okay,” you breathed. You let out a hefty sigh of relief. “Are you okay? You scared me!”

“I’m fine, I’m okay,” he promised. “Followed your voice.”

“Everything okay?” Josh asked. You both turned on a dime. You almost fell off the bed with the speed you were trying to get off Dalton. He still had his hand on your cheek and it fell just as quickly as he had put it there.

“Yeah we’re fine.”

“Totally okay!”

Your voices overlapped into a scrambled mess.

“You’re still floating away?” Renai asked. She hadn’t heard anything about that. Josh was still grounded, as far as she knew. Dalton shook his head.

“Not often,” he promised. “I think being back home triggered something.” He rubbed his eyes. “But I’m fine. We have a system.”

“Yeah, just in case. I can usually tell because he starts to move things around when I’m sleeping,” you explained. “The door usually opens.” Renai nodded. She parted her lips, the fear dissipating. You had it handled.

She was impressed.

“Is that why you’re in the same bed then?” she questioned, eyebrow raised. Dalton rolled his eyes but you had the heart to laugh.

“Sure mom.” Her gaze lingered.

“You sure you’re alright? Do I need to quiz you on something?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Dalton promised. “No demons here.”

“None over here either,” Josh promised. Renai scoffed.

“Good to know.” She turned back towards the two of you. “It’s late. Get some sleep and stay in your shoes okay?” Dalton nodded quickly. She left the door wide open as she turned to leave but not after giving you one last look.

“We could’ve used a system,” Josh mumbled.

“Maybe we should get one,” Renai concluded.

You turned back towards Dalton.

“She let you stay.”

“Yeah well, I think that was the astral projecting.” You laughed a bit. You were still reeling from the fear, even though you were trying not to show it.

“Wanna grab a midnight snake or something? Just to shake off the demons?” He smiled, thinking of kissing you in his kitchen, the privacy something he wasn’t used to.

“I would love to.”

#dalton lambert x reader #dalton lambert x fem!reader #insidious the red door imagines #dalton lambert imagines

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lepitorus · 5 months

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happy thanksgiving to my american followers! i spent today making another springtrap

#my art #fnaf #william afton #springtrap #five nights at freddy's #glitchtrap #yellow rabbit #fnaf plushies #he's 20cm (plus ears) glitchtrap is 15cm (plus ears)... i feel like my embroidery's improved a lot!#cotton doll #dare i tag him as #kpop doll

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juneknight · 5 months

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Giving Thanks

Cute little Thanksgiving themed blurb featuring DRM for the girlies in the roleplay discord and A most of all.

About this: Marc spending Thanksgiving alone in the dorms? Not on your watch.

Immersivity: Reader is AFAB though physically undescribed and unnamed. She does attend college and does have a family which celebrates Thanksgiving in typical American fashion.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Using your badge to get into the dorms is easy. Catching Marc when he is in the dorm room is harder. He was prone to melancholy, and his melancholy made him prone to wandering: the university pathways between buildings, the library, the baseball field. Before he had moved into your dorm room, he was almost never at his own.

Though you had invited (begged) him to come home with you for Thanksgiving, he had insisted on staying behind at the dorms. You knew his home life was complicated, his emotional connection to the word ‘family’ just as complex, so you hadn’t pushed him, even if leaving him alone during a holiday was painful.

Staring at the mountains of leftovers your family always left behind after Thanksgiving lunch, you had decided on the spur of the moment that there was no way you were going to let Marc spend this day alone. Taking two disposable muffin tins, you had piled them both full of different foods, creating a classic American Thanksgiving smorgasbord: turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie, fresh whipped cream and more.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be in the dorms—not after you had signed your waiver stating you would be away for the holidays–but fuck, it would be worth it to see Marc’s face. It would be worth it to see him, to wrap your arms around him in a hug, to see him light up the way he always seemed to when you were around—

“What are you doing here?”

You whirl around, nearly upending the muffin tins when Marc’s voice calls out from behind you just outside your dorm room door. He’s wearing his winter coat, the thick boots that keep his feet warm while he stomps his way across the cold pavement. A beanie is tugged low over his head, curls peeking out against his forehead and ears. His cheeks are flushed a little beneath his typical tan skin.

“Have you been following me?” you ask.

“Ever since you got out of your car. I was just coming back from the library and I saw you, you little sneak.”

“Happy Thanksgiving!” you blurt out, holding out the muffin tins. His eyes fall to them, and something in his gaze goes warm.

“You…brought me lunch,” he says.

You end up as lunch.

The muffin tins and their contents are growing cool while Marc spreads you out on the table with the mismatched chairs (half yours and half his own, like a little blended family that you had joint custody of). He peels off your boots and socks and pulls down your leggings, spreading your thighs out as wide as your body allows, til your pussy is exposed to the cool air of the dorm.

Then he eats you—and Marc is a messy eater. He eats your pussy without any sense of shame, no embarrassment at the sounds his mouth makes (nor any cruel amusement in the sounds your own body makes) as he works you over with lips, tongue, and teeth. Sweet Marc always starts with his lips: pecks against your thighs and vulva that turn into wet, sucking kisses, his tongue slipping between your folds and pressing in deep against your entrance like you’re leaking honey and not just slick. His smooth jaw works against you, stimulating your sensitive sex while he latches his lips over your clit and sucks, soft and sweet. It is all remarkably rushed for the likes of Marc (who usually drags sex out into a marathon-performance instead of a sprint), but you hardly mind when your muscles tense, thighs shaking from how far apart they are spread as you soak his face and the table with your orgasm.

“Oh my god,” you slur, trembling like a leaf. You can’t stop shaking as he stands, his hands falling to his belt. The soft clink as he undoes it instills a Pavlovian response in you, and even though you have just cum, you ache with emptiness.

“Want to fuck you,” he mutters, jaw still wet with your slick. “Can I?”

“God, yes.”

“Hold yourself open.”

You reach down and spread the lips of your pussy open, watching with a watering mouth as he works his pants and underwear down just beneath his cock. Fuck, his boots are still on. Why is that so sexy?

With his hands on your thighs, he drags you to the edge of the table. Marc leans over you, cock nudging at your entrance when he plants his palms on the oak. He watches your expression as the fat head of him splits you open. He likes to see the way your mouth goes slack, your eyes roll back, your nails scramble for purchase against the smooth wood.

“So good to me, bringing me food,” he mutters, curls brushing your forehead when he leans down to kiss you. “Bringing me this pretty pussy. How’d you know I was hungry? How’d you know how bad I missed you?”

“It’s–It’s–Th-Th-Thanksgiv—oh my fucking god, don’t stop, don’t stop.” You dissolve, the subtle height the table provides you pressing him against all your most sensitive spots. At the apex of each thrust, his pubic bone grinds against your clit, still buzzing from his tongue.

“This is me giving thanks,” Marc says, laughing breathily at his own joke, each word punctuated by a thrust that you feel all the way in your guts.

#marc spector x reader

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sammysmaddy · 5 months

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Normal (Winchesters x Reader) - Part Two

Summary: Growing up as the baby of the Winchester family led you to be constantly guarded. Soon enough, you start to learn what's normal between families and what's not.

Pairing(s): John x Daughter!Innocent!Reader, Sam x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Incest, naive!reader, manipulation, graphic descriptions of porn, fluff, virgin!reader, oral (female receiving), daddy kink *I guess*, praise kink, soft n fluffy, angst (?), light thigh riding, smut implied

W/C: 5.7k+

A/N: I forgot I was supposed to be posting this story! Happy almost Thanksgiving to my American followers!

Normal Masterlist

Masterlist

Some time ago...

Things started off innocently. Sam and Dean were at school and you were at the motel doing what you usually did- you read, and read, and read, and read until John walked through the doors.

You were ecstatic to see him. John had been away for a few weeks too wrapped up in the case to even call home. The look of relief in your father's eyes when he saw you was like no other, he loved you more than anything in the world.

John took you to lunch, saying it was to make up for all the time he missed with you- not bothering to pull Sam and Dean out of school like he usually did. Things seemed normal all throughout lunch, you chose of course, but things changed drastically when he asked you a certain question during the car ride home.

"Do you know what sex is?" John asked, looking over to you as he kept a firm grip on the steering wheel.

Your brows furrowed at the question. It sounded familiar, it really did, but you had no idea what it actually meant.

"I don't think so," You told him calmly and he let out a low chuckle.

Judging his reaction, it definitely seemed like something you should know about, so you began to feel a little embarrassed at your lack of knowledge.

"You mean, your brothers never taught you what it was?" He asked, raising an eyebrow and keeping a small smile on his face.

You shook your head and he didn't seem particularly pleased or displeased.

"Normally, by your age, you know what it is. You're already legally an adult." John mentioned.

"So then... does Sammy know about this?" You asked, tilting your head, and wondering why your twin had never said anything about sex.

"I'm sure he does, sweetheart. Caught him with one of Dean's not-so-private skin mags," John chuckled and you scrunched your nose.

"What's a skin mag?" You asked him and he continued to chuckle at your question.

"It's pictures of sex. We call it porn," John answered and you frowned, still not knowing what the hell he was talking about.

"Daddy, I don't know what that is," You reminded him and instead of the instant explanation you wanted, he looked over smiling and shaking his head.

"God, I wish you could stay little forever," He sighed and you continued to frown, wishing that you knew why this conversation was occurring or why it was so important for you to know about. "When you and Sammy shower together, does he ever touch you?" He asked and his face shifted to concern.

"Yeah, he helps me wash my hair sometimes, but mostly he just uses all of the hot water," You huffed out, crossing your arms, and John shook his head.

"I meant, does he put his hands on your body?" He reiterated and you shrugged your shoulders, not knowing what he was gaining with these questions.

"Sometimes he helps me wash my back," You answered and John nodded his head.

"Do you ever wonder why you have different body parts than him?" He asked and you slumped your face, of course, you wondered why, but you knew that it was just because you were of different sexes.

"I guess, but Sammy says it's just because I'm a girl and he's a boy," You told him all the information you knew and he nodded his head.

"So, you know that boys can't get pregnant right?" He asked and you nodded your head. "And you know that boys don't get periods?" He asked again.

"Yeah, because Sam doesn't get them and neither does Dean. Only I do," You crossed your arms, thinking about how unfair it was that they didn't bleed once a month.

"Okay, well at least you know the basics," John sighed, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips.

"Is this the part where you tell me what and why we're talking about this? You said you didn't want to talk about when I get my periods," You turned your head to look for his reaction, and he just shrugged his shoulders in return.

"I don't. It's just- It's just important if we're going to talk about sex," He muttered and you rolled your eyes.

"I don't know what that is," You reiterated, growing more and more impatient by the second.

"I, uh, I never had this conversation with your brothers. They kinda figured it out on their own," He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't holding on tightly to the steering wheel.

It wasn't even worth responding to, so you decided to stay silent until he said something else. You could tell that he was feeling awkward, but you weren't- you were just impatiently waiting.

John looked over and gave you a small smile to which you just raised your eyebrow, then his face straightened and he knew you were waiting for something more.

"You know what, sweetheart? I think it just be better if I showed you."

•••

He dragged himself in and out of her at an excruciatingly slow pace. His eyes were locked into hers as his forehead began to form sweat beads, panting like he was running a marathon.

Their lips connected and their tongues ran against each other as he continued to move above her. When he pulled his lips back, she had her mouth parted slightly, close to tears falling out as she cried out profanities.

But she wasn't actually upset and he wasn't actually hurting her, they were enjoying it- John made sure you knew that.

You stared at Sam's computer in awe, they were so in love with one another- so happy to be together like this. You didn't understand what was so awkward about it, you were confused as to why you had never seen anything like this before- confused as to why you had never done it.

They both looked so pretty like this, so close together and in complete and utter bliss. She was gorgeous, her breasts were perfectly symmetrical- almost like she was handcrafted. Her lips were stained with red and her body was glistening in the bright lighting that infected the room.

He had the perfect body too, big strong arms that held onto her like she was a breath of fresh air. His chest was chiseled flawlessly and he reminded you of John and your brothers, they were all just as handsome as he was.

"Remember: You only do this with people you love," John reminded from behind you, watching you closely as you reluctantly peeled your eyes away.

"I can do this with Sam?" You asked as your eyes reached his.

John frowned at your question and you grew impatient as your excitement only grew.

"I love him. How come we don't have sex?" You questioned again and John's face fell into the palm of his hand, his fingertips rubbing harshly against his temples.

"Sweetheart, you don't do that kind of stuff with your brothers," John answered with a sigh, picking his head up to look back at your confused stare.

"Oh, right. That's her Daddy. I almost forgot." You said and his eyes widened.

"I think you've had enough for today," John cleared his throat and his hand reached over you to stop the video playing in the background, but your hand reached his first.

"Daddy, don't turn it off. I like it," You told him with a small smile, his wide eyes staring at you as you watched his Adam's apple move up and down as he gulped.

John nodded his head slowly, bringing his hand back to rest at his side, and you turned your head to watch the screen again.

You stared intently as you began to focus on all of the sex happening right in front of your eyes. She sounded so pretty every time he shoved himself fully inside of her. He was grunting and telling her how much of a slut she was and at first it confused you- it was a bad word and Dean used it negatively when he didn't like someone. So why did she seem so happy to hear the mean name?

After watching the first few minutes, you discovered she actually liked being called slut. She kept saying yes yes yes, and it only made him go faster, which in return made her cries louder. Her begging was like music to your ears, and for a second you began to imagine yourself in her position.

What if someone made you feel that good? What if they made you so happy that you were screaming in pleasure?

Thinking about being her brought out a feeling that you had never felt before. First it gave you the chills and you had goosebumps prickling on your skin. Then you started to feel it in your stomach- almost like period cramps, but in a good way.

After that, having pants on almost seemed uncomfortable, especially after feeling a new type of wetness in your panties. You watched as he dipped his head down to kiss her again, so passionate and raw, and it made you jealous.

"Why don't you kiss me like that?" You snapped your head around to look at John.

His face became flushed and it took a few seconds for him to respond back- which were mostly incoherent mumbles.

"Don't you love me, Daddy?" You asked and he instantaneously jerked his arm away as you absentmindedly placed a hand on it.

"I do love you, baby, I do. I just- they're not real. I didn't mean to- uh, they're not related." John managed to muster out, obviously flustered by your comments.

"She kept calling him Daddy," You frowned, once again thinking about how much you wanted to be in her position.

"I know, sweetheart. It was just the first video I clicked on. I wanted to get this over with." He sighed and it hurt your heart that he didn't want to do it with you.

What if he didn't love you enough to do those things? What if Sam or Dean didn't love you enough?

"Don't be sad, Y/N. It's just a video." John said, picking up on the sudden mood change, and reaching over to cup your cheek.

Usually, it would make you feel better- it's something that he always did when you were upset- but it was different this time.

"You don't love me enough for sex," You said, pushing his hand away and looking down.

John had put you through all of this trouble of telling you about it- even showing it to you, and now he was going to deny the pit you felt in your stomach?

"Y/N, you didn't even know what it was thirty minutes ago. You're not ready to have sex," John said in a quiet tone and you continued to frown.

Why was he being like this? Why would he show it to you if that's not what he wanted?

"I'm ready. I want to be like her, Daddy. The video made me feel things." You told him honestly, gaining the courage to look back up at him.

Just as your courage regained, you could tell that his was suddenly gone. He looked as pale as a ghost as he swallowed down whatever liquid was in his throat.

"What kinds of things, princess?" John asked nervously, almost sounding like he was guilty of something.

His eyes were locked on yours and you couldn't help but feel like you might be able to break him. A perk of being Daddy's little girl was getting whatever you wanted.

"I don't know how to explain it," You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to explain the way your core was aching for something.

"It's called being horny. It's natural," He chuckled nervously, a light sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Do you feel it too?" You asked, seeing the way that his pants were tightening around his lower region like a tent.

"Fuck, sweetheart," He sighed aloud, and your eyes watched as his hand pressed against the crotch of his pants.

"I want to be like her, Daddy," You confessed as your eyes began flickering up and down between his face and his legs, not sure which was a prettier sight.

The sweat and the bulge were both good indicators that he was ready to do things that were in the video, you just knew it. With a sudden whiff of confidence, your hand reached back and landed on his thigh, rubbing circles with your fingers.

John didn't say anything. He didn't move either. You watched closely as his pants became more restrictive and it was evident that your hand on his thigh was doing something for him. Smiling at the reaction, you looked back up to him and saw an unusual darkness in his eyes.

It came as a surprise when his hand came to meet yours and you expected him to move it away, but instead, he trailed it higher. Your fingers traced the rough denim material until they landed in between his legs. A small groan left his lips and you grinned at the sound because of how much it resonated with the guy in the video.

After your hand sat there for a few seconds and you admired how hard he felt underneath you, he stood up without warning. You frowned, wishing that he never moved.

Sighing aloud, John looked down at you as you looked up at him through your lashes. His hand came up to rest on your cheek as his thumb lightly brushed your bottom lip.

You held onto his hand, relishing any touch that came to your body, and just as soon as it began, it ended. He pulled his hand back and you watched as he walked towards the opposite side of the room.

"Come here," John commanded in a low and gruff voice, sitting on the edge of the unmade motel bed.

You weren't sure whether to be eager or concerned as you stood up from your chair and made your way to him. His arms opened up as an invitation and you straddled his hips, lazily hanging your arms on his shoulders as you began to realize how intimately close the two of you were.

You looked down, feeling instant relief as you pushed the weight of your core on him. It wasn't much, but even through your jeans and his, you could feel how good he felt pressed against you. His fingers came to the bottom of your chin and motioned your head up so that he could look at you.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" John asked, his eyes begging for you to say yes as his arms wrapped around your waist.

"Yes, Daddy. I love you," You confirmed, breathlessly waiting for him to do something to relieve the rapidly burning coil in your stomach.

John's lips connected with yours as soon as he got his answer and you tried your best to copy his movements. It was effortless when your mouth began to move in sync with his. Each time his tongue reached into your mouth you felt like you knew exactly what to do.

His lips felt like soft pillows every time they ran against yours- he was so perfect, you wanted to make him happy just like the guy was in the video. You chased his mouth as it pulled away, but didn't complain when you felt the wet kisses on your neck.

John was sure to be careful as he took his time, giving you soft and warm kisses all along the crook of your neck, occasionally stopping to nip at your ear.

Your fingers raked their way through John's hair and you heard him groan when you shifted your hips in an effort to get more comfortable. His fingers reached down, pulling the fabric on your torso over your head.

You felt the goosebumps on your skin in reaction to the colder air and you traveled his gaze to your breasts. John brought his hands up, cupping through your bra and marveling at the sight in front of him. You took the initiative to reach around and unclasp your simple cloth covering, letting it slide down your arms and shoulders as your nipples hardened.

"You are so beautiful, sweetheart," John said breathlessly, his eyes completely focused on the stiff peaks in front of him.

Your cheeks swelled with his approval and you moaned when he brought his mouth to one of your breasts, tweaking the nipple with his tongue and running small circles around its entirety. Something about the way he was sucking made your core itch for attention, so your hips pressed up as close to him as possible.

John moaned against your breast, his lips ghosting the skin on your chest and latching around the other nipple, treating it just as well as its predecessor.

His hands trailed down the sides of your body, reaching the middle, and undoing the button on your jeans before encouraging you to stand up. As you raised, he slowly pulled your jeans down and let his fingertips touch your skin as they moved south.

When the denim was pooled around your ankles, you held onto his shoulder for support as you kicked them off lightly.

"Sit back down, Y/N," John told you and you followed directions.

Straddling his hips once again, feeling much less constricted, he gripped tightly onto your sides. He shifted you slightly so that you rested completely on his thigh, instead of in between, and began to move your body back and forth.

Small whimpers fled your mouth as you felt the friction rubbing against your aching core, it felt so unfamiliar and foreign to your body- but it felt so good.

"Feel good, princess?" You heard John chuckle lightly, as his hands continued to move you.

The wetness from your panties was sure to have made its way out, but you didn't care. Being like this with him like this felt so good.

"Daddy, I want to make you feel good too," You told him, looking back into his eyes.

John's hand reached up and brushed a stray hair away from your face, smiling at you.

"Let Daddy make you feel good first," He answered in return and you nodded your head.

His lips collided with yours as his grip on your hips tightened, picking you up and laying you flat on your back. He continued to kiss you passionately as he hovered above you, his hand reaching down and dipping into your soaked panties.

You felt him smile into the kiss as his fingers easily glided through your slick and you moaned every time they would ghost against your clit.

"You're so wet for me, baby."

"Is that a good thing?" You asked him and he chuckled at the question.

"A very good thing," He told you and you smiled with the praise.

Placing a quick peck on your lips, he adjusted himself so that his knees were on the ground. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your soft cotton underwear, pulling them down, and encouraged your thighs to open more.

John brought his calloused thumb up to work small circles on your bundle of nerves and you moaned at the feeling. Everything that he did made you feel more and more relieved, you could practically feel how much he loved you. When you situated yourself on your elbows so you could see what he was doing, he looked up at you.

"Can Daddy taste you?" He asked, licking his lips, as he looked directly into your eyes.

"Please," You squeaked out, feeling hot and bothered and needing as much of him as you could get.

Watching as his head disappeared in between your legs, you bit your lip as his tongue trailed once up your slit and collected as much wetness in his mouth as possible. You could hear his groaning in approval just before he began to delve into your core again.

Not bothering to suppress your satisfaction, you moaned as his tongue flicked itself over and over on your clit, bringing out a type of burn that you'd never felt before.

You could feel your core heat up as he relentlessly attacked you with his tongue, alternating between circling and flicking, perfectly timing when one or the other became too much or dull. He began to suck down lightly, pulling more moans out of your throat, and you felt the uneasiness in your stomach waiting to spill itself.

Your fingers locked themselves in his short hair, gaining a grunt from him as he began to go faster with his motions. His tongue was hammering your sensitive bud at a furious pace, leaving you a moaning mess as something suddenly snapped inside of you.

"Daddy," You whined when he didn't stop.

Your hips buckled and your thighs tried to shut themselves as John's hands wrapped around and held you down. He kept the pace as he helped you get through whatever it was that just happened. Once he was satisfied, he came to the surface, leaving your legs shaking.

"What was that?" You asked him, panting as you tried to stop your legs from moving on their own. He continued to hover above you.

"That was an orgasm, sweetheart," John told you before placing a tender kiss on your lips. You could taste yourself when his tongue reached into your mouth, moaning at how satisfied and happy he seemed to be.

•••

Things were never the same after that day. John insisted on not taking your virginity until he was sure it was going to be special. He wanted the whole candle-lit dinner and the rose petals on the bed, but mostly- he wanted it not to occur in a shitty motel.

John wanted the whole nine yards just for you and as much as you wanted that too, you didn't really care about the fine details. You wanted him as soon as you could get him and you didn't care what the circumstances were, even if that meant losing your virginity in a crappy motel where the beds creaked.

Plans were whisked away from the two of you, a hunt would come up or Sam and Dean would stick around for too long. It almost seemed impossible to find the 'right' time.

In between, John helped you learn different things that surrounded sex. You could only assume that those acts were just as satisfying as the real thing, but it only made you crave him more.

You were so eager to please John and he seemed to feel the same way about you, making you feel more special than Sam or Dean ever felt. Everything just made so much sense, everything seemed so perfect.

It was hard to contain yourself around your brothers, but John wanted to keep your relationship a secret. You didn't understand why. Why wouldn't he want to show Sam and Dean how happy he made you? Was he embarrassed? Were you not good enough to boast about?

Those questions didn't matter in the middle of the night when he would steal you away to his truck. Every bliss-filled night brought a euphoric feeling that lingered for the following days... but then he would leave. Again.

It became a routine. Things would seem so hopeful that maybe in a few days, he would be able to steal you away for the night- make it special, but those plans seemed almost hopeless as the weeks went on.

The hunts became more frequent, especially after Sam came home from school, and John wanted both of his boys as strong as possible- so he chose to hunt by himself most of the time.

John also became a bit hunt-hungry, losing days of sleep and trying his best to find the monster that killed your mother. It was consuming him and John only really ever seemed to be at peace when he was with you- when you helped suck out every ounce of worry from his soul.

But a strange guilt was burning slowly in your core. Sam was the one person you trusted in your entire life. The one person you could trust with your secrets, the one person you could trust to be on time, the one person you could trust to be there for you.

When Sam would come home from school and tell you about his day, or come back from a small day hunt with Dean, you would have nothing to say to him.

You weren't reading like usual, you were too busy with John or learning new things from porn. You weren't supposed to tell Sam and it ate at you every day.

It hurt to keep something so special and important away from him. You've told him everything since the moment you could talk- the only saving grace was that he was keeping things from you too.

First, it started off with him not telling you about sex or what it was. Then, it turned into getting girlfriends that he wouldn't tell anybody about. He was hiding things from you for the first time in your life and you didn't understand why.

Was he upset with you? Did John say anything to him? Or was he just growing apart from you?

Showers seemed to be less fun for the past three months. Sam barely talked to you. He barely cracked a joke, he didn't even turn the water cold on purpose to make you squeal. It was just a shower now. You got in, you washed your hair, he washed his hair, you washed your body, he washed his body, and then you both got out.

Sam wasn't the same Sam that you knew and loved, but you tried your best not to notice.

It was another day. Another boring and quiet shower. Sam hogged all of the water while you focused on trying your best to be normal.

To be honest, you were upset. All of these months, waiting for him to say something. You were waiting for Sam to explain why he was acting so strangely, but he didn't.

Sam closed himself off from everybody and every shower that remained silent, other than the casual 'pass the shampoo' that seared into your heart. Maybe Sam didn't love you as much as he used to. Maybe he found someone else.

You couldn't hold it in anymore- you couldn't live without knowing what was going on in Sam's head.

"Are you okay?" You asked Sam quietly. He just shrugged his shoulders in return.

Sam muttered 'I'm fine' and nodded his head, turning back to finish washing his hair. You frowned, knowing that he was probably not fine, and continued to pry.

"Sammy, please. Just talk to me." You frowned, watching the soapy water fall down his back.

"Talk to you about what?" Sam asked in return, bitterness in his voice that shocked you to your core.

His tone definitely showed you that he was upset about something, and it hurt to know that he was bottling it in himself. You trembled when he snapped, shivers running down your spine that brought you to cross your arms, and you watched the way he glared at you when he turned around.

It hurt especially because it was the same glare he often gave your father. It was the same hatred in his eyes and you didn't know what you did to deserve it.

"Y/N, I'm not angry. I promise. I'm sorry for scaring you." Sam must have picked up on your hurt as his face slumped into concern, placing his hand on your arm.

You immediately pulled away as Sam continued to look at you sympathetically.

"I just wished you talked to me, that's all," You replied quietly.

"Yeah, well, I wished you talked to me too," Sam muttered in a voice so close to a whisper you almost couldn't hear. You decided to look back up at him.

"That's what I'm trying to do, Sam," You told him just as softly as before, looking into his soft eyes.

Sam gave you a small smile out of courtesy, and you could tell it was hurting him just as much as it was hurting you.

"I just feel like you are avoiding me. Like you don't want to tell me what's going on in your life anymore." You admitted.

"What about you?" Sam scoffed and you raised an eyebrow at him. "I mean, you don't talk to me about your life. Why should I?" He asked, crossing his arms.

"I don't go to school anymore and I barely leave the motel. There's not much to say," You sighed, frowning at how his aggressive switch was flipping on and off with each comment.

Sam didn't get upset with you often, but most of the time he was irrational and tended to say things that he didn't mean.

"Just- just tell me about a book you've read recently," Sam struggled to get out and you shrugged your shoulders.

"Um, okay. I read The Little Prince recently. The guy in the story crashed in the Sahara desert and-" You were quick to explain.

"You told me about that book months ago, Y/N," Sam cut you off with hints of a low growl. You furrowed your eyebrows and tried to reach his eyes as they ran away from yours.

You hadn't read it in a while, but, it was the most recent book you had read- that part was true. The truth about what had been preoccupying your past few months was a secret, a secret that John didn't want anybody to know about.

For a second, you thought about telling the truth- maybe Sam would be happy to hear about it. Happy that John loved you so much. Happy that you weren't sitting at home miserable every day.

Ultimately, you decided that you didn't want to upset your father. What if he stopped whatever it was that was going on between the two of you? That, in addition to Sam and Dean, was the only thing that ever made you truly happy around here, and you didn't want to take it for granted.

"I, uh, I reread it. It's a great book," You lied, this time trying to look away without being too conspicuous.

It hurt every part of you to lie to Sam like this, especially because you were lying about one of the most important things in your life.

You never lied to Sam, ever. When he didn't say anything back, it ate you completely. The guilt you felt was pounding in the back of your throat. It only took you a few moments of silence to realize that you couldn't take it anymore.

"Sammy, I'm- I'm lying to you." You told him, feeling a rush of relief flood your body as you looked down to the ground.

"I know, Y/N," Sam told you quietly and you nodded your head, the guilt vacuuming back into your body.

This is why you shouldn't have lied to him in the first place. He knew you so well, too well to let anything slip by.

"Do you want to tell me the truth?" He asked softly, bringing his fingertips to your chin so that you could look back up at him.

You nodded your head, tears threatening to spill out of your eyes as he looked at you with so much care- something you missed dearly from him.

"I- I can't." You told him, jerking your head to look anywhere but at him.

You loved Sam more than any person in the world, but this was something that you needed to keep from him.

"Because Dad said you can't?" Sam asked you and your eyes shot up to look at him, widened at full capacity.

He knew. That's why he was so upset. That's why he didn't talk to you, why he closed himself off from everybody. But, why? Why did he seem so upset about it? If Sam knew, why hadn't he brought it up sooner?

"It's okay, Y/N, really. It's okay, you can tell me the truth." Sam told you, pulling you close as you frowned into his chest and began to let your mind run.

What if John found out you told him? Would he not want anything to do with you anymore? Even though the shower was still running against the both of you, the only wetness you could feel were your tears.

"He's going to hate me, Sammy," You told him, sniffling as you pulled back to look at him. His arms were lazily hung around your torso as he stared down at you with soft eyes.

"Y/N, did he hurt you?" Sam asked softly, gripping your waist tightly and gently forcing you to keep focused on him.

"What?" You asked, furrowing your brows as you noticed that Sam seemed to look sad. "No- no, he didn't hurt me. Why would he hurt me?" You questioned again and his grip loosened around you, looking just as confused as you did. "Are you upset?"

Sam took a few seconds to answer, head shaking a confused expression formed on his face.

"I, uh, no- I'm not upset. I just thought-" He trailed, seeming to be at a loss for words. "I just thought he was hurting you."

"Daddy would never hurt me," You gave him a small grin, shaking your head at the silly comment. "Sammy, he's made me very happy." You purred, feeling his body tense as your fingers glided up and down his sides.

It was a small chance that you took- if he wasn't upset... then maybe he was happy. Maybe he was just jealous this entire time.

•••

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