#hi @ii ao3 what the fuck is this

[officerhomo]

trophy ao3 MAP fic

#homohollers #ii #inanimate insanity #ii trophy #trophy ii #hi @ii ao3 what the fuck is this #tw map mention

[netherfeildren]

Pink : Part II: I See Your Father as My Father

Series Masterlist : Part I

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Inappropriate relationships; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms; Ass play lite; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Praise kink; Aftercare; Size kink; Spitting; Come eating; Thigh fucking; Oral sex

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 12.3K

Rating: Explicit 18+

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

2. I See Your Father as My Father

When he swings the door open, he’s still half pulling a t-shirt over his curl messed head, faded gray, rust orange longhorn across the front, a flash of hair sprinkled belly. All man, man, man. It stretches over his broad shoulders so the holes strewn there stretch and gape wide making your face heat unbearably. And he’s struck silent for a second, realizing it’s you taking up space on his front porch, trying to hide against the shadow of the wooden beam at your back, ringing his bell in the middle of the night like the Devil’s on your heels. Brow pulled low, he steps out onto the porch, into the shadows with you, his gaze flashing back and forth between your eyes. He says your name, and you hate it. “Did somethin’ happen? Are you alright?” And you want to say no, that nothing is alright. That you know you shouldn’t be here, but you’re here anyways now, and so he needs to tell you what’s going to happen next because this is as far as you’d planned. The sound of his voice, the sight of him, that’s as far as you’d planned. The rest is up to him now, even if he doesn’t know it. Your eyes fall down the long, broad length of him. Rumpled jeans, hastily pulled on, and his bare feet, oddly erotic. They’re paler than the rest of him, sun deprived, and briefly, ridiculously, you wonder if he has that funny sock tan men get around their ankles. The skin stretched over strong tendon and bone, beautifully arched. You give a tiny shake of your head, something like a whimper slipping up your throat. And you think he must realize or understand because he sighs, long and drawn out, dragging his palm over his mouth as he watches you struggle. You think that’s his tell, that dragging hand; he does it when he’s thinking, confused, worried, upset which leads you to worry that maybe he’s upset you’re here now, but it’s done, you’ve come. There’s nothing either of you can do to undo it now. Your eyes move back up to his face, and he’s taking stock of you now also. The soft, loose jersey shorts, too big pullover almost covering them entirely, the sleeves twisted around your clenched fingers. “You gotta tell me what you’re doin’ here, sweetheart. You gotta say it out loud.” You let out a rough, frustrated sound through your clenched teeth, looking away from him for a second. 

“We never talked about it,” you say instead because you want to hear him acknowledge it, you want that to be said out loud. 

He understands immediately, “You never gave me a chance to.”

You look back at him, he’s taken a step closer, and you wrap your arms back behind the beam, trying to meld yourself to the wood, keep yourself away from him.

“What else was I supposed to do? If we talked about it, it would’ve happened again.”

“Well, then that’s why – that’s why we never talked about it.”

“But did you want to?” And your voice breaks a little at the end, “Did you want to talk about it?”

He sighs again, a muttered curse under his breath. He isn’t going to give you the easy way out. “Tell me why he left you,” and you flinch. He, his son. It’s the truth, no reason to cower. You were left. You have to look away again, unable to confess this when looking into the kinder version of eyes that never loved you. 

“I think you know. I think you could tell from the very first moment you saw us together.” He hums his agreement, and the sound fucking hurts. “He never loved me. He never even really liked me, I don’t think. But that became okay after a while.” A tear falls, and you listen to the sound of him suck in a sharp breath; it makes you smile just a little, that small sound. You look back at his face, “I don’t want you to think I’m not okay with that now because I really am. It made me realize that he’d never been what I wanted or needed either. That he couldn’t ever give me what I wanted either.”

“And what’s that?” His voice sounds gentle, but you know that it’s put on. You know there isn’t going to be anything gentle about this. 

You choose to ignore that, “You know he said once, that I’d lied to him about who I was. But I didn’t– I really didn’t, Joel,” and you say it with such panic, or fervor, or something that’s desperate to ensure that he doesn’t think the same of you. That he doesn’t take you for a liar also. “He just couldn’t understand that this is the only way I know how to be. Being scared all the time makes you a liar. It makes you what the moment needs you to be no matter what that is. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “I know what you mean,” but he looks nervous, the truth of him too close to the surface, and it soothes you. The two of you are the same, you knew it. 

You peek down at your twisted fingers, nails gnawed raw and bloody and disgusting. “I don’t think he ever loved me and that made me sad. But now, I don't think I ever loved him either, and that makes me sadder. It was all for nothing, I let him turn me into that thing for nothing, and I was always waiting for him to treat me better, different. But a person who can treat you badly once usually finds it quite easy to do it again.” You look back up at him, shocked for a moment at your sharp honesty. “I’m sorry. He’s your son. I shouldn’t say these things to you,” even thought it sounds like hypocrisy, for look at where you’re standing in the middle of the night.

“And you’re you.”

And the sober way he says it sobers you, recenters you. “Yes. I’ve always been only myself.” And it’s the truth, the most difficult one. That despite Sam’s claims that you’d made him believe you to be someone you weren’t, despite the sick desire for complacency, to please all those around you, you have always been only you. Even when they’d tried to force you to be something you weren’t, you were still always only yourself. You say it again, just to hear the sound of the words. 

“You gotta tell me what you’re doing here then. You want to talk about that? About what happened that night? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

He sighs, that telling gesture over his stern mouth again. “If we do this, there’s no goin’ back, and I–”

“There already is no going back for me. I can’t forget. I can’t stop remembering.”

“It would be different– if we– if I take you, it’ll be different. You get me? I won’t be able to stop. I know myself well enough to know that. I won’t be able to stay away from you after.”

“I don’t care.”

“So that’s what you want?” But you can’t say the words out loud, you can’t, you can’t. You’re ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated by your own desire, small and slanted. Despite all your progress, and as much as you want it, you still know you shouldn’t. “I gotta fuckin’ hear it, sweetheart. Is that what you want?” You shake your head a little, another tear, wrapping your arms around yourself. You can see the fight in his eyes, trying to hold you off from the inside out. I don’t know, another tear. He makes a frustrated noise, turning to pace to the opposite end of the porch, hand fisted in his hair. When he turns back he seems to deflate, eyes going cool and steady and then, suddenly, like a ricochet, bright and light, a flash fire. Once more: “What do you want?” To be wanted. To be good. “You want me to kiss you? You want me to fuck you?”

And your eyes flutter closed in relief, there it is, finally, the hard part’s over. It’s been said out loud. “Yes, that’s what I want.” He’s on you in three ground eating strides, big hand wrapping around the contours of your jaw, the other fisting in the hair at the back of your head, pulling you up so that you’re balanced on the tips of your toes. Your eyes fall shut, mouth parting embarrassingly ready for him to kiss you, but he gives your head a little shake between his palms. “You’re supposed to belong to my son, goddamnit. I’m not supposed to want you like this. This is wrong.”

“I never belonged to him,” and then bitter truth, honesty laminated in humiliation, “And I don’t care if it’s wrong.” Followed by a thought, a wash of shyness, held in his hands as you are, large strong hands: there is a part of me that feels very innocent still, naive, experienced hands that will finally teach you how to be good. You watch the bob of his Adam's apple beneath the sun roughened skin of his throat, and when you look back up at his eyes, there is nothing like innocence, nothing like naivety in them, only the reflection of something complex, something more. He goes very still, almost vibrational with restraint, his fingers clench around you once, and then, with unbearable control, his hands flex open, releasing you. 

“Get in the house,” he says very, very quietly. You cup your own palm around the space of your chin where he’d gripped you and turn on your toes, scampering inside, into the home of the man who would have remained your father-in-law for the rest of your life had his son ever decided to love you. The door slams shut behind him. 

-

He steps into the dark restroom with a staying hand out and ready, as if approaching a wounded, rabid animal. 

His son, his son is a cruel and small man. Joel is coming to realize this with something like horror running in currents beneath his skin. Quick to anger, quick to aggression. And you, his daughter-in-law, no one knows this better than you do. He’d naively thought, when his fully grown son had appeared at his door steps all those months ago, that the question Joel had carried on the tip of his tongue for half of his adult life had finally been answered. Alone but never necessarily lonely, something like a film of boredom and monotony over his life. He was content with the place he’d made for himself; he had his business and his brother and friends, and Joel was fine. But a child of his own, he’d never expected it, never even considered it a possibility. And what he’d come to discover: his son, who shouldn’t still be a child, but in many ways, was. 

He licks at the groove of his molar as he watches the tremble of your back, trying to hide your weeping face in the shadows of the bathroom wall. A small, anxious thing that had been, out of everything, perhaps the biggest shock of all. To learn that he had a son, an entire life lost to time, and that there was someone in the world that his son should have loved enough to tie himself to – it was shocking. To discover that his son was married when Joel was not, disorienting. 

He says your name softly and watches the jerk of your frame, that vein of anxiety he’d sensed in you from the get go that he was fairly certain Sam had a large part in sowing. You’d shown up with your hair picked up today, only the second time you’ve ever worn it so. Piled messy at the top of your head, a few strands laying against the nape of your neck, the vulnerable slope of your shoulder. He feels strangely afraid of you, afraid for you. Unsure of what to say, heart beating out of his chest, rebounding against his ribcage so hard he’s sure you can hear it. “I’m sorry. He didn’t mean it. He–”

“Please, don’t apologize for him.” A tiny sniffle. “Don’t apologize for him,” you say again, and there’s a hum of exhaustion in your voice, brokenness, it makes Joel go from afraid to entirely terrified, but then angry too… angry too. He takes a step forward, another, he’s an arms length away from you now. He could touch you if he was brave enough. If the intent behind it wasn’t as wrong as it is. Angry because he’s looking at that vulnerable nape, imagining the fit of his palm molded over the delicate column, and you’re something to be taken care of. Something like a gift. Even though he doesn’t know you well enough to say such a thing yet, even though he shouldn’t be thinking such a thing about his daughter-in-law. Even though you hold yourself with a hard rigidness most of the time, quiet dignity and cold vulnerability that seem almost impossible to get through. And yet he suspects that with enough care and patience you could become immediately soft, easily penetrated. He should see his son as a gift, and he does, he does, he does, he swears he does. If Joel repeats it enough times in his mind surely he’ll come to believe it with his whole heart, but what he sees more than the gift of a child that was kept from him, is nothing but a boy beating down a creature that was not taught to defend itself. And that makes him angry beyond belief. 

Joel can be a hard man. He is a hard man. Perhaps, a large part of the reason why he’s still alone, why nothing more than a quick fuck ever seems to work out for him. Women like him, they enjoy his company, they come to bed with him easily. But Joel is hard and cold, and he’s never much minded his aloneness, a difficult thing to sell to a woman, the reality that he doesn’t really care to need anyone else. And so perhaps, this is his son’s inherited vice, that coldness, but despite Joel’s preference for solitude, for the fact that he doesn’t care about making a person stick around, he tries to never be cruel, and he is sure to never hurt those that are more easily hurt than himself. He doesn’t think there’s any worse sort of sin, and so he knows that this cruelty he’s witnessing didn’t come from him. But then he thinks that if it didn’t come from him, then it surely came as a consequence of him, of his absence, and so he is just as responsible for it. So he can’t help himself when, instead of more platitudes in favor of his gift of a son, he says: “You should leave him.” You let out a bitter sound of a laugh, something that pokes at that wound of fear of his. 

“Should I? I don’t think that’s what you’re supposed to say.”

“Isn’t it? It’s the truth. It’s what you need to hear right now,” The sweetheart he adds at the end has a tiny shiver moving down the length of your spine that his own vertebrae can’t help but imitate. You hang your head, bearing more of that lovely nape, head seemingly bowed in supplication for something gentler than what his son can offer you, and he can’t help himself again. He wants to sink his teeth into that soft expanse of skin. You’re too pretty, pretty in all the ways a perfect thing can be, and Joel is a hard man, not a weak one, but he feels weak now. He feels brought to his knees, heavy stone of guilt weighing in his gut as he lays his palm on the back of your bared neck. Don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch, this doesn’t belong to you. He tightens his hand, grips the column, presses the calluses of his palm to the soft skin. “Look at me–” he gruffs, turns you by the pressure of his hand, a kitten gripped by the scruff and made to listen. “You deserve more than that shit.” That shit being his son, his blood. Joel is two feet tall and so ashamed he’s nauseous. But your eyes, they look up at him, tear filled and so lost, and he wants to show you how it should be. “You deserve more,” he says again. Later, he’ll tell himself he surely must have said the words out loud, asked for it with teeth and tongue. The blame can only be his, he provoked it, he soothed the wound, incited it, because you’re surging up and against him, fingers clawing at his shoulders and throat and pressing your mouth to his, clumsy and tear stained and open so that the first thing he tastes is your breath on his tongue, then your tongue on his tongue, and then absolution tinged with shame, gross desire like desperation. He groans like a dying man, clutching at you immediately, unthinking, pulling you into himself, soft, full tits against hard chest so that he feels like he’s burning and dying and coming back to life all with the taste of your spit and tears in his mouth. He holds you steady, hand still clamped to the back of your neck and thinks that if he’s going to commit a sin he might as well take his fill. He eats at you. Head held in place, knees bent and arm banded around your waist to bring you level with each other, he pulls your head back, mouth open and tries to swallow you whole. And Joel doesn’t think of his son, not for a single second, while he kisses his daughter-in-law.

His lips slide to your throat, hunting for your pulse, tasting the tiny flutter, going weak at the knees at the whimpered sound you make, cock harder than it’s been in years, a noise like begging, like more. He sucks hard at that thrum, but your noises shift to frightened, protesting, fingers digging into his shoulders to warn him. He can’t leave marks, he can’t leave marks on something that belongs to another. His erection is an iron band down the leg of his jeans, and he has to force himself not to thrust the aching cock into the soft apex of your thighs, feel your warmth there. He has to stop, he has to– to what? To let you go back to a boy that mistreats you? Even if that boy is his son, it’s wrong, it goes against everything Joel is as a man. He presses his face into the blistering heat of your throat, a muttered fuck under the ledge of your little chin. A rattling shiver has started up in you, teeth chattering with the force of it, and he bands his arms around you tightly, pressing the air out of your lungs, hand smoothing up to twist in the back of your hair and force you entirely still. “Don’t,” his voice is so deep he almost doesn’t recognize it coming out of his own mouth, “Don’t be afraid.” The sound of his popping knees as he unbends to his full height, your weight still in his arms. He lets you go in increments, slowly so as not to jar you further, hands holding tight until the last moment when he forces them to unclench, let you go. “Don’t be afraid,” he says again. “You did nothing wrong. This was all me.” Your eyes are huge, but you’re not crying anymore, and that feels like victory to Joel, despite the rest, the only thing that matters.

You run from him after that, because of course you do. What’s the other option? That he’d keep you there in that dark restroom, from his son and your marriage and the world, forever? He clutches at his chest and is swallowed whole by his shame and his guilt, the terrible fear that he isn’t the sort of parent that can blindly see past their child’s faults, love them despite everything else, not the type of man who can keep himself from wanting something he shouldn’t, he hadn’t felt so when he’d kissed you with that sick desperation on his tongue. And once he hears the sound of a slamming car door, and Sam’s truck peeling out of the drive and speeding away, he takes out his hard cock and fucks his fist until the heat of his semen is sliding over his skin, a handful of pathetic strokes and the sound of your name almost like a sob in the dark.

-

You listen to the sound of his bare feet padding across the wooden floor, and your head feels like it’s breaking water, seeing clearly for the first time in years. It’s a rich parquet, gleaming in the dim light of the street lamp glow. You wonder if he installed it himself, like the wallpaper, proof of the care and attention to detail in his home. You think you would like to be cared for as such also. There’s a soft green throw draped over the back of the chocolate leather couch, and you dig your fingers into it, twisting amidst the knitted weave as you turn to face him, and he has that look in his eyes again, the one from before. The one like too much, too much, the one like fear and want. Stopping just in front of you, the tips of his bare toes meet the front of your shoes, and he reaches to drag the pad of his thumb over the high slope of your cheekbone, the fine skin catching beneath his calluses. “You’re too beautiful,” he says, and you wish it sounded like an accusation, but it doesn't, and you want to tell him you don’t believe him, just to be difficult, just to be contrary, but you know he’s not the sort of man that lies. It only sounds like praise. His eyes are so dark in the shadow of the house, the green and brown and caramel striations gone away in the night, and he’s shifting his jaw, chewing on a thought before he spits it out. His other hand comes up to gently, so gently cup the other side of your face, and he holds you there, just so, angling you this way and that, appraising you, chewing, chewing slowly. “Too beautiful – I never even stood a chance,” he says more to himself than to you. This is a man that does things with intention. This is a man that sees you as a complexity, as something more. This is a man. “He told me something – last time we saw each other.” Your heart beats painfully in your chest, you can feel it in your eyes and ears and the backs of your knees.

“What’s that?”

“That the two of you were havin’ problems. In– in the bedroom. That–”

You try and jerk away, but he holds you trapped. “Stop. Please. Don’t–”

“Is that all this is? Older man – want me to teach you somethin’?”

Cradled as you are, you close your eyes, brow folding in a frown, unable to refute him with a shake for the way he’s captured you. You bring your own hand up to circle his thick wrist, fingers not meeting around it. He has hair here, your palm slides further down, hair here too. All man, man, man. No longer in the hands of a boy, and you’re touching him. Now you’re touching him too. “That very first time I met you– I wondered what you’d taste like. How heavy you’d be inside of me. If you’d be rough, leave marks, or gentle. You know I– I wanted– If he hadn’t been there, if–” Now he’s the one that begs you to stop. 

His hands on you are tighter now, almost strangling, squeezing a moan out of you. “Are you going to tell him?” His grip goes loose again, caressing. “ If we do this– are you going to use this against him? It’s yours to do with as you will, I just want to know beforehand. It won't change the way I have you tonight.”

“Only tonight?” Your voice sounding strange, hungry. 

His eyes move entirely around your face, taking you in, held as you are. His gaze is manic, fevered, but his words are slow, stacked one on top of the other for you. “No. No, I don’t think it’ll only be tonight.”

“I’m not going to use this against him.” For the first time in two years, what you’re doing, the decisions you’re making, have nothing to do with your ex-husband. This is only for you. Joel is only for you. 

“Tell me what you want,” he asks for the last time. 

“To be good,” you finally say, and the rough sound he makes, the flush you can faintly see crawling up the column of his throat, it has a painful knot of want tightening your cunt, the wet drip of slick pooling in your panties, all hot and bruised feeling on the inside. 

He lets his hands slide slowly from your face to hang loosely by his sides, and you take it as your invitation to touch him as you like now. He’s so much taller than you, your neck craning back to look up at his face. You start there, the crest of his cheek, the strong, curved nose, plush mouth that looks specifically made for kissing a cunt until it cries. He makes your thoughts feel savage, he makes you feel like something you’ve never been before. “You’re just a little girl, aren’t you?” He says softly. Your hands move down to his thick neck, and you try and cage him there, hands too small to circle him entirely, the insinuation of a strangling. Too small, too small, too small. You shake your head, mesmerized by the contradiction of your small fragility trying to capture all that strength held inside of him. You look up at his eyes, holding him around the throat as you are, and shake your head. You’re not. “Then what are you?”

“I don’t know. I want you to show me.” And that does something to him. You see the change come over him in that very moment, something chimeral in the change your words provoke. He’s made of nothing but vibrational restraint, giving you your moment of peace to explore him as you need to before he takes you for himself. You’re almost certain you can hear the sound of him grinding his molars to dust inside his mouth. And you want him to show you, it’s the truth. As wrong or whatever it is that it may be, it’s your truth. You’d always felt like you’d done being a woman the wrong way, a grating way, an unappealing way, but you didn’t want to be unappealing or wrong. You only wanted to be yourself. And worst of all, you’d been made to feel like that, over and over again, by the man who should have done nothing but the opposite. And you know it might be bad now, to want to be shown or that there was no right way, but still, but still, you want it. You would still like for someone, for Joel, to teach you how to be better, how to be good. Was that really so bad?

Your hands slide down to the thick muscles of his chest, thumbs dipping into the dents of his collarbones, lower to the soft of his belly, the edge of his jeans. The both of you are trembling now, you in lust, desperation, him in restraint maybe. There are beads of sweat dampening the curls at his temples. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“Do you think so?”

He nods, but he’s cupping your elbows in his big hands anyway, pulling you towards him so that your breasts graze the top of his belly. “But we’re doin’ it anyway.” You go up on your tiptoes, hand cupping the sharp edge of his jaw to pull him down towards you, and he’s like a leashed wolf; heavy, hot breaths fanning across your face, and he slowly does as you bid, mint, mixed with something sharp like whiskey. He’s watching you so intently, watching to see what you’ll do with him, but your eyes are only on that soft wet mouth. You want his tongue inside of you, and that first press is so, so soft, barely there. A sound like dying, you can’t tell who it comes from, another soft brush, and you’re taking his top lip between both of yours, sucking on it lightly, hands snaking over his thick shoulders to bring yourself up closer so that he’s finally wrapping his arms around you, pressing you tightly to himself, belly to belly. He still hasn’t closed his eyes, he’s still watching you, and your heart is beating so fast and so hard and you want this so much that you’re sure he can feel it reverberating into his own chest cavity, spurring his own beating muscle on. You press another tiny kiss to his full, open mouth. “I’m scared,” you whisper onto his tongue, and he smoothes a staying hand down your spine, settling over the curve of your ass and squeezing there, holding you in his snare. He’s barely even touched you, and yet, you already know that no one else has ever been like this. 

“That’s alright. Got nothin’ to be scared of – I’m gonna be so gentle with you, baby.”

“I’m not your baby,” hint of an obstinate, provoking whine in your voice.

“But that’s what you are.” He changes the angle of his descent, and now he’s the one moving in for another tiny kiss. “Just a little baby.”

“And I don’t want it gentle.”

“You’ll take it how I say. How ‘bout that?” Another kiss, and now the taste of his tongue. You’d never forgotten it, the slick, hot slide of it, from that other time. He licks into you, takes away your ability to talk. In a single blink of an eye, less than a second’s thought, he’s taken all control from you, made the game his own, and now you’ve finally gotten what you’d come here for. Now you can finally say it out loud. He wraps a massive fist around the length of your hair and eats at your mouth, makes it his more than it’s ever been yours. All tongue and teeth and wet spit, the sound of his pleasure for you vibrating in your ears, and there is it, the pressure of his hard cock as he slides his hand lower, between your legs to feel the heat and damp of the pussy that’s wet only for him, pulls you further into himself. The heft of the bulge has you whining and squirming in his hold, clawing at his shoulders and the skin of his neck to climb up the length of him, get closer, get more. You want that cock, you want it inside of you, filling you with its weight and its come. You’ve wanted it from the first time you’d met him as his daughter-in-law, standing beside his son in the place of his wife. You’d wanted his cock more than you’d ever wanted his sons, and you’re only ashamed that you’re not ashamed at all. And he tastes that desperation on you, nips at your lip with a gruff settle, a little yank of your hair to tug your head back and unlatch his mouth from yours, sliding in a wet trail to your neck, settle, settle. He bites at the line of your throat, hard. Sucks even harder, leaves a mark, leaves a claim he wasn’t able to last time. The deeply rumbled sound that comes from him attests to his intention and your answering, whimpered mewl is nothing but a cry for more; I know, baby, I know, he whispers into your ear. His mouth moves down your chest, pulling the already stretched neck of your pullover wider to nuzzle at the deep groove of your cleavage. You want to ask him if he’s worried, guilty, if he’s wanted you for as long as you wanted him, if he was hard when you kissed him that night in his little wallpapered restroom, but then the heat of his mouth is clamping around your nipple and sucking, wetting the fabric of your top with his tongue, biting down at your breast, the sharp of his teeth clamping down around your sensitive flesh, nothing but your soft sleep bra beneath to protect you. You yank hard at his messy curls, trying to pull his punishing teeth away and pull yourself closer, all at the same time. His eyes flash up to yours, mouth latched at your breast, cheeks hollowing as he takes a hard, wet pull and there’s laughter in his gaze, hot and bright and infectious. “I’ll be gentle, but I’m not gonna be nice, baby.” He nuzzles into the wet spot left behind, presses another kiss, soft and conciliatory now over your throbbing nipple. “You want me to be nice? Want me to be nice to this little pussy?” He rubs the flat of his fingers over that desperate place between your legs as he turns to walk the two of you back towards the front of the sofa. There’s no response to be given, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. He turns to sit, pulling you to remain standing between his spread thighs, hands wrapped around your hips. “Gotta use your words, pretty baby. I wanna hear what you want.”

“I want whatever you want. I want it however you want it,” you say through your flush and your shyness. You want to be honest, not a liar here in this moment with him. 

He lets his head fall forward to rest against your lower belly, nuzzles there, and you hear his whispered, Jesus, fuck, before he pulls back to look up at you, drags his palms down the back of your legs all the way to your ankles, nudging your shoes and socks off, and then sliding all the way back up, scratchy calluses making you shiver until he reaches the edge of your shorts and tucks the tips of his fingers there. “Take your shirt off,” he says gently, and you only pause for a second of timidity before you’re pulling it over your head, left only in your soft pink sleep bra not intended for the eyes of ex-father-in-law’s you’ve come to seduce. Your shyness flushes higher, burning your face, sprouting beads of embarrassed sweat at the nape of your neck. He untucks his fingers from the waistband of your shorts, smoothing his palms up the slopes of your curves, thumbs dragging up the plane of your belly, dipping into the dent of your navel to reach up and squeeze your breasts tight in his big hands, then pulls the straps down over your shoulders, the bra down over the curves of your breasts to leave them bare and heavy. And his eyes never leave yours as he gets you naked for himself, fingers sliding down your sides now to pull your shorts and panties and the scrunched bra down, the flush in his face deepening, heightening even though he’s yet to look at you. Don’t be scared, he whispers again, shaking his head a little when you wrap your arms around your breasts, trying to hide yourself away from him. When he’s taken your shorts from you, gripping each ankle to help you step out of their circle, he finally looks at you, takes in the entire bare expanse of your naked body, gently prying your arms from your breasts. “Lemme see, lemme see, you’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby.” He runs his hands all over you, the slope of your belly, lifts the weights of your tits in his palms to let them fall and sway heavily, down the outsides of your thighs and back up and around to squeeze the lush of your ass. He pulls you further towards him with that clutch on you and presses his nose into the apex of your thighs, nuzzles at the soft thatch of curls there, brings his thumb up to pet at it and breathes deep. “I like this – so pretty,” he tells you again. If it was possible for a person to die of shyness you surely would in this moment, but this was what you’d come here for, this was what you hadn’t been able to say out loud. He presses his nose there again, takes another deep breath, and then starts to mouth wetly, pressing soft kisses and then the wet of his tongue, licking and parting at your slick seam. He groans so deep it sends you to shivering, hands coming up to cover your face, to hide away from that sound of lust, the feral look in his eyes when he looks up at you with the taste of your cunt in his mouth. He starts to lap at you in earnest, closing his eyes in sheer enjoyment as he pets at your clit with his tongue, shifting his angle this way and that to get at you more deeply. He pulls one of your feet up onto the edge of the sofa to open you, and you’re jostled forward, catching yourself on his broad shoulder as he spreads and eats you. His hand on your ass shifts lower, searching for your opening from behind and starts to pet at you there too so that he’s coming at you from the front and the back, and it’s too much, his sucking mouth and probing fingers. Your standing leg buckles, and he’s forced to pull his mouth from you, steady you. You let your knees give out slowly, coming to a folded kneel between his legs. He leans forward, mouth glossy with your slick and pulls your face to his, chin pinched between his fingers to kiss you, and the taste of you on his tongue sets something off within you.

Suddenly, your shy insecurity doesn't really matter as much with the flavor of your pussy on his tongue. You surge up on your knees, pressing closer to him, pulling him to you with your arms twisted around his neck, moaning into his mouth as you taste the sweet muskiness on his tongue. Like kindling catching fire in your veins you start to claw at him, pulling at his clothes, his hair, scratching at his skin. He half pulls you up and on top of him, your steaming hot form, entirely bare and naked on top of his clothed one. You can feel the heft of his cock against your belly, grinding there, trying to find whatever friction possible, and he makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat, pushing you back down onto the floor and pulling back to open his jeans. He’s panting and sweating, chest heaving and cheeks flushed a bright red. He wants you just as much as you want him. And it’s bad, it’s bad and wrong to compare, God knows, but when he finally pulls his cock out, he’s not wearing anything beneath his jeans, you know that this is a man unlike your husband ever was; long and thick, fucking big, swollen, flushed tip peaking out from soft surrounding skin, leaking a clear slick of drool. He takes it out and sits back, pushing his hips forward to settle into his seat and stretches his long legs on either side of you. You listen to the sound of the scooting coffee table as he shoves it back with his foot. His cock arches obscenely from his open jeans, and you reach up slowly, a little intimidated, to circle it with your fingers delicately. “You’re so hard,” you whisper. 

He drags a gentle hand over the crown of your head, pulling the hair tie from your ponytail as he goes. “This is how much I want you. This is all you.” He circles his big hand around your much smaller one, squeezes his big cock tighter with both of your hands, and you flush with a pleasure so intense it’s almost painful. You can make a man hard, the proof is right here in front of you. 

He’s uncut, and that’s doubly intimidating. “I’ve never seen one like that,” he pulls your hand up slowly with his, squeezes and twists hard at the sticky wet tip. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he croons, looking down at you with a maniacal sort of glint in his eyes. “Just open your mouth,” he wraps his other hand around your jaw, “You don’t need to see it if it’s inside you,” wedges his fingers between your molars over the skin of your cheeks, prying your mouth open. You bend your head forward, tongue hanging out, and he taps the heavy weight of his cock there, jostles the wet tip slightly from side to side, the wet sticky sound of it has your pussy clenching around terrible emptiness. He slides his hand up your cheek, twists his fingers through your hair and directs you how he wants you, slides his cock further back on your tongue, and you wrap your lips around him, give him your first real suck, tongue swirling gently around the fat head. Pulling back with a sharp hollowing of your cheeks, he squeezes his fist around yours almost painfully, and you press an open mouthed kiss at the spongey tip, gently tonguing the slit, lapping at it with the flat of your tongue like a little kitten. The sight of you licking his dick has him groaning, bearing the white line of his teeth at you. 

“You taste so good,” you say up at him with big wet eyes, “Like I always imagined you would.”

“Fuck–” he snarls, “Killin’ me,” and he’s jerking you up off the floor roughly, pulling your knees apart to settle you in a straddle on his lap, pressing you close with a hand on your ass so that the wet heat of your cunt is meeting the heat of his cock. The both of you groan like it hurts, like you’ve been waiting for this for longer than is right, and he pulls your mouth back to his, wet and messy, sucking on your tongue, gripping your hair so tightly, your eyes smart and water. You claw at his shirt, pulling it up, trying to get at his skin, and he pulls back suddenly, frustratedly ripping it over his head, and then coming back to your mouth, single minded in his dedication to having the taste of you on his tongue. You try and grind down on him, but he hitches you up higher so your breasts are level with his face. “This’ll be over ‘fore it’s even begun if we’re not careful,” he laughs as he settles you, cunt leaking against his stomach and turning the hair there sticky sweet with your slick, and slots his hand between your thighs, gives you something to rub yourself against while he kisses you. “Oh, baby, you’ve got the wettest little cunt,” he says between kisses, lips sliding down to suck at your neck, lifting your breast to his mouth to lick and bite at your swollen nipple. 

And past sense, past restraint, you beg: “I want your cock, please, I want it so badly.” 

“Nuh uh,” he grunts, “Not yet. You’re not ready.”

You whine and beg that you are, you promise you are, but he only sucks at your tits harder, presses his hand harder between your thighs, and you can literally hear the wet squelch of your pussy as you ride his palm, your clit grinding against his belly on the forward slide as you work yourself up into a frenzy, wet whimpers and a pathetic little tear or two slipping out in your frustration to come. Need you nice and soft to take me, sweetheart, he murmurs into the tender skin beneath your chin, but he decides to be kind, crooking his finger just so that it brushes up against your clit, setting off a shivery little orgasm fluttering through your belly. He laughs softly, humoring the silly little thing wiggling around in his lap that’s so desperate to come, decides to be kinder halfway through your orgasm and starts to slowly press a single thick finger into your hungry, clenching hole. Shit, you hear his curse, while you moan and cry into his shoulder, mouthing and biting at the sun freckled golden skin there, gnawing on him like some rabid thing. And then he says, a little teasing: “Just from this, huh? Just from a little wiggling around on daddy’s lap?” sending a wash of agonized relief through you as he wedges a second one of those thick, thick fingers inside to stretch you further. It’s what you’d wanted to call him from the first moment. Just one more thing said out loud. You nod your head against his shoulder, a whine and a breath and daddy, daddy, daddy, as he stretches you; make that sound again, he begs and pets and coos at you, yes, yes, I could come from that sound alone, gives you all the patience you’d always needed. “Look at all this slick you’ve made to take my big cock in your little cunt, baby. What a good girl you are.” He twists his wrist, fucks space into you with his fingers, “You’re so fuckin’ tiny – how’re you gonna take me in this little thing, huh?” He bites down on your soft breast, encourages the sway of your hips with his fingers hooked inside of you. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it fit,” presses a kiss to your forehead, scratchy beard against the sensitive skin there, gently stroking you into another orgasm around his fingers, petting at something raw and bruised feeling inside of you, sending you to tears. 

He pulls his fingers from you slowly once you’re done, leaving your body to tighten and gape around terrible emptiness, and you feel the wet smear of your come on your asscheek where he grips you, searches and pets your asshole to slick it with your wet. “You want daddy to fix you?” He says then, “Want me to make you all better? S’what you want, right?”

You nod slowly, sniffle, “Make me good,” you mumble into his neck. 

“But you’re already good,” and he takes away all your choices, the ability to argue or refute, “You’re already so good. A perfect, gorgeous girl.” Kindling in your veins, madness, something more desperate than anything else you’ve ever felt in your entire life, true hunger. Worse than your desire for your father to understand you, to love you, to not be angry, your fight to keep a husband that would have never stayed. You reach for his cock, trying to impale yourself on it blindly, shifting to press the hot, blunt head at your wet opening. He moans like a dying man, “Wait– wait, lemme get a condom.” He sounds like he’s begging. 

“No, please, now.”

“Fuck– fuck, you’re so eager to jump on my bare cock without a rubber or anything.” But it’s only because no one has ever touched you like this, and when he grips the thick root of his cock and notches it as your cunt, pushes inside slowly, you realize he’s doing it in a way that makes you understand the difference between the man and the boy. 

“I need to feel your skin,” you sound like you’re begging now too. Sighing in relief when he starts to stretch you, when it starts to hurt. It’s slow going, fitting the largeness of his body into your much smaller one. But his hands are steady and soothing as he works you down another inch, another, let’s you fuck yourself on his cock. Murmured praises and all of his desire for you and yeah, just like that, take daddy’s cock, until he’s fully seated inside of you, holds you down, presses and grinds there, thick tip made fatter by his foreskin kissing your cervix. Finally, he pulls you back by the hair, and your father-in-law’s cock is inside of you. “Want you to look at me while I teach you how to fuck– how to take a cock,” because he knows, because he’s always known, had the gross ability to read you exactly as you are. He shifts his hips back, presses up, up, up, inside of you, and his eyes are so beautiful, and he teaches you how to take a cock, not a little girl now, only a woman. You wrap your arms around his neck, kiss his face, lick his tongue, nibble on his ears, feel him all over, he’s all over and everywhere, and it should maybe be humiliating, riding the cock that made the man that was your husband, it should feel wrong or something like a sin, but it only feels, instead, like it was made for you. Like this is where you should have been all along. Once you’ve adjusted, he grips your hips tight and harsh, makes your skin smart enough you know you’ll have bruises in the shapes of his fingers and pounds up into you, the slick slide of your cunt sucking him deeper, taking him as hard as he wants to give it to you, swollen and sensitive, squeezes your ass and grunts and moans and says, yeah, baby, bounce on this fat cock, like it’s the only thing you’d ever have to do for the rest of your life. You wish it was. And the sounds he makes, that’s what really makes you come again, what sets off your orgasm while you’re riding him – the desperate, rough sounds of a man fucking up into a tight, hot cunt that’s wet only for him. It coils in you so tight it hurts, it hurts, and then goes loose and fluttery, pussy flooding around his thrusting length. You can’t even moan, mouth hanging open, proably drooling a little, probably crying a little, nothing but hot air and wet and not a little girl anymore, only a woman, and he doesn’t gentle, fucks you harder, rougher, squeezes your ass and chases his own orgasm. His thrusts going sloppy and uneven, his moans turning to cracked whimpers. 

“I’m not on birth control… but– but my period’s soon,” you whisper into his ear, and he makes a noise not wholly human, going still for a moment, throbbing inside you, thinking, thinking of the risk, decides he doesn’t give a fuck by the murmured,  fuck it, I have to, and starts to move again, harder, hurting on every punch up against the mouth of your womb. I have to, is what he says, and that settles something inside of you. “Gonna come in this pretty, tight cunt. Gonna make it all mine.” You decide you don’t really give a fuck either. “Make daddy come. Squeeze down on daddy’s cock – yeah, just like that. You wanted to play at being the big girl? Now m’gonna treat you like one – gonna fuck you full, baby.” And you’re nothing but want and yes and please and thank you, daddy. And that first spurt, that hurts too, burns you, changes something inside of you that you know will never go back to the way it was before. You’ll want that hurt for the rest of your life, and you won’t ever be able to forget it, and it might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, but the heat of it spurs on another small orgasm of your own, jars you with the swell and throb of his cock, fills you till the come from your cunt is leaking down onto his slick balls and the leather beneath. And he holds you through the whole thing, stroking and squeezing and tasting, taking sips of your mouth, pressing his breath back into you, breathing life into you. No longer a ghoul in the night either. You feel him go soft and yet still heavy inside, a muted bruise against your womb, sighing frequently as you settle, little kittenish sounds that have his spent cock stirring lazily inside of you while you leak and leak and leak and go drowsy and then just on this side of fully asleep. 

“Are you okay?” You remember to ask in a small voice while his fingers play gently in the wet where you’re connected. 

He makes a soft sound, like he’s humoring you, like you’ve surprised him. “Course I’m okay,” presses a kiss to your forehead. 

When he shifts you off of him to stand, a protesting whine at the back of your throat, he shucks his jeans off with a soft grunt, finally as naked as you’ve been the whole time, and his cock hangs heavy between his legs, shiny with your cunt as you stare up at him while he looks down at you. Afraid for a brief uncertain second before he’s lifting you in his arms, and when he carries you to his bed after, you feel terribly like a child. Again that naivety, that hope, but it isn't a bad thing, here and now with him. Not something to be used against you, not a bruise or a wound or a lost limb, and you haven’t failed at being good because he’s already made you so. 

-

You’re pressed right up beneath his chin when he wakes up. Your soft, warm form all along his side, lush tits and the vulnerable slope of your belly against his skin, and it feels so intimate, entirely twined around him as you are. He brings his palm up to cup the small bowl of your skull, and in the hushed morning light, your mistake breathes life into the world. Joel has always been a hard man. Joel has always been a hard man, but never weak, and certainly, not good, per se, but never cruel. But there’s something like weakness, there’s something that should be like cruelty here, waking up with you bare, still leaking his spend in his bed, and Joel can’t tell if that weakness, that cruelty is his, born of him or of his own making, he only knows that it should be here, probably is here. It’s difficult to gauge the moral acumen of what he should or should not be feeling when he has you like this beside him. And most confusing of all, that it actually feels nothing like a mistake. Only like it was always meant to happen, and now it finally has. 

He’d come inside of you, worst of all, sense gone away in the night, couldn’t claim exemption from weakness now, filled you until you’d leaked down his balls, the woman who’d been the wife of his son, and he should feel guilty, he should feel disgusted with himself. A betrayer of his own child. But all he feels is that he needs it again. That he needs you again. That if he could, he’d keep you. 

Joel had never wanted children. The thought or desire had never really crossed his mind… and yet– You make a sweet little keening sound in your throat right before you open your eyes, and he feels the stretch and wiggle of your little toes against his shins, the flutter of your long lashes against the tip of his chin. “Good morning.” Soft hand coming up to cover his mouth, hold him in place while you wiggle and slither all over him. 

“How do you feel?” He’d expected you to be shy, regretful, nervous waking up, and to find you entirely not, to get to wake up to you like this, soft and warm and lovely in his bed smelling of his come and his sweat, smiling that pretty little smile; it’s the mightiest sort of victory. You drape yourself on top of him, all soft limbs and softer tits, and the heat of your cunt pressed against his belly as you nuzzle into his chest hair. You’re different now, compared to before, that exhaustion he’d sensed is closer to the surface now, more easily visible, as if your body’s been collecting it, pulling it from the depths of you, getting ready to finally expel it. But there’s a clarity about you now too, you’re tired, but you’re also more yourself. Or on your way there. So lovely it hurts, vulnerable and fragile but entirely yourself. Afraid too, he can tell, because it’s your right to be afraid, because it’s normal, because we’re all afraid sometimes. “Sore?” Another nuzzle, and then, settling on your cheek to look up at him with those gorgeous eyes that’d damned him from the very first moment. 

“Just a little.”

“You did so well last night,” he pets your hair slowly. “You took me so well. I’m so proud of you.” And oh, you like that. Blooming, the temperature in your body seeming to spike suddenly, suffusing all your limbs, radiating from your belly. Shifting and squirming on top of him. His half hard erection, trapped between the two of you, aching already, and you try and rub yourself all along its length, hitching a knee up by his hip to open yourself. He gives you a rough sound to settle, but you want something from him now, trying to rub your wet pussy all over him. If he was younger, a man of less control, he’d be fucking into you already and without thought. “It’s time for listening now, little girl.” He grips your hair tightly, tilting your face up to look at him, uncurls his fingers to cup the small bowl of your skull and hold you in place. “Sometimes people need time, sometimes they need us to be patient with them, wait for them. That’s what you needed, and there ain’t anything wrong with that. And you’re not gonna feel bad or less for getting there a little more slowly than others. Everything comes in its due time, and that’s okay.” You’re staring up at him, wide eyed, something like fear or panic, but you’re going to listen to him if it’s the last thing he does. He fists your hair again, gently forces your head into a nod. “Agree with me now. Say yes.”

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper very softly, pressing up to peck him lightly on the mouth. He catches you by the nape, a kitten picked up by the scruff, and holds you there, immediately turns the kiss wet and savage. You feel, so much, like you’re his, and this terrifies Joel. You aren’t his to keep, he knows this. He is not unaware of what’s happening here, of the consequences. He is not delusional about how this will end. But still, but still, you feel like his. 

You’re back to you’re squirming now, whines and pleading moans as you try and rub yourself against his cock, and he reaches down to cup you, gently fingering at your folds, feeling the havoc he’d wrought on your pussy last night. “You’re so swollen, baby. Can’t fuck you again so soon.”

“Please, daddy, please, please. I can take it, I promise.”

“Not gonna hurt my soft little cunt.” The start of another whine, but he cuts you off, gives you a staying look, cranes his neck to lick into your mouth. “I’m not.”

“I want you so badly. I want you to make me come.” Tiny kisses and kitten licks to his jaw and throat. There’s fire in his belly, cock throbbing something fierce. He grips beneath your knee, opens your leg and pulls back to slot his cock between your thighs, up against your slick, swollen cunt, then presses your thighs closed back together tightly. 

“Just like this – how ‘bout that?” He says as he starts to thrust up slowly against your pussy, trying to keep his movements gentle, careful not to hurt you. He runs his palms along the length of you, squeezes your tits and pinches and plucks at your swollen, sucked dark nipples. The signs of him are all over your body, and it makes him something like wild, infuses him with something like madness. Joel has never felt like this about any woman, ever. And to have it be you – to have this happen to him with you, there is something like weakness and like cruelty here. He needs to keep his head on straight. Remember what can and cannot be. He squeezes your ass tightly, digs his short-shorn fingernails into your soft cheeks, brings one hand up to get his fingertips spit slick, and then pulls your cheeks apart again to pet at your asshole. His gut goes tight and fire hot, he wants to fuck you here too. He wants all of you to be only his, his, fucking his. You hitch your hips in a desperate little arc as he presses gently on the tight ring of muscle, teasing you. “You like that?” He gruffs. “Want me to fill your little ass too, sweet girl?”

Yes, daddy, and he’s sure those must be the greatest words ever uttered to any man in all history. 

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he says while you sing and moan for him. “When I touch you like this,” he moves down to the wet mouth of your cunt, taps on it gently, “And like this,” further, a flutter at your clit while he fucks between your thighs, “And the way you cry when you come for me,” back up to press at your asshole again. “Will you do it for me again?” Christ, he’s going to end up taking you if he doesn’t stop, and he will not hurt you. With a rough sound of frustration, he flips the two of you over suddenly, laying you flat, kneeing your thighs open wide and spread for him. He shakes his head down at you, squeezes his eyes shut because the sight of your bare tits and messy hair and swollen lips, cock hungry blurry eyes, isn’t helping his restraint. “Gotta stop provokin’ me.”

“But it’s so fun, daddy,” you whine, arching to brush your breasts up against his chest. He lets his head fall, opens his mouth wide and takes the whole, heavy weight of your tit into his mouth, sucks hard, bites soft, switches to the other one, gives it the opposite. He pulls back then, going to his knees between your spread thighs and holds you open for inspection. Cunt all red and swollen and shiny with slick just for him. He’s sure if he pressed his fingers inside he’d be able to feel the slippery slide of his semen still. Another shake of his head, and he runs his palms down the soft of your thighs, cups the round of your knees in his palms. You jerk the right one back when he squeezes you there, and he fingers the sore spot, “What’s this from?” bends forward to press a soft kiss to the small hurt. 

“I was in a rush last night,” you say shyly. 

“Rush for what, silly girl? I was right here waitin’ for ya.” Your face does a little spasm at that, confused and vulnerable and then maybe even a little hurt, brow crumpling, and you squeeze your eyes shut. When they spring open again, they’re feverish, “Please, please, fuck me, Joel. Please, I don’t care if it hurts. I don’t–”

“Quit.” He pinches the inner slope of your thigh. “Not gonna convince me to hurt you.” You moan, frustrated and wanton, on the verge of tears, petulant and trying to twist away from him, but he traps you in place, stretches himself over you, propped up by one thick arm, and you drag your palms all down the length of his chest and belly. He squeezes your jaw with his other hand, pries you wide, “Open, lemme see.” He tilts your face this way and that, inspecting the wet gleam of your mouth, your little tongue and shiny, white teeth. 

“Wha’re y’lookin’ for?” You mumble with your jaw wedged open, eyes comically large. 

“Hmm, wonderin’ what it’d look like filled with my come,” he says with a laugh. He feels like a teenage boy, all the excitement of discovering sex with a woman for the first time. And it makes his stomach hurt a little bit, his heart pinch in fear. He sticks his fingers in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, widening the angle, “You think my cock’ll fit in that little throat?” And you moan, eyes fluttering shut, writhing beneath him, begging for it, a garbled groan that sounds something like please, let’s find out. “Dunno… should we?” He let’s go of your face, goes back to his kneeling position between your legs, and finally gives his aching cock the relief of his fist squeezing tightly around it. He could come just from the sight of you, he’s sure, is just there on the edge already. He squeezes hard, almost painful at the root, sliding up dry, scratchy calluses catching at the soft skin around his head to make it hurt and sting, strangling the heat he feels pooling at the base of his spine and in his balls. He smiles at the memory of your wide, comically shocked eyes when you’d realized he was uncircumcised. I’ve never seen one like that before, and all he’d stupidly wanted to say was that you’d never see any other ever again. Ridiculous. 

He drags his thumb over the head of his cock, through the sticky drool of precum there, then reaches to pet through your slick soaked folds, parting you down the middle. You watch him with wide, wet eyes, as he pops his thumb into his mouth, humming around your combined tastes. “You wanna taste how good we are?” All you’re able to manage is an open mouthed nod. He leans forward and over you again, “Open,” he orders, and spits onto your waiting tongue, hand clamped around her jaw. “Close now – swallow. How’s that taste?” He asks when you obey so nicely. Your eyes flutter shut, jaw shifting from side to side as you savor the taste of your shared want for each other. 

“S’good. Want more.” You look back up at him, mouth open, and nothing in his whole life has been scarier than this. Not even a twenty something year old son, who should have been a man, but was still nothing but a child in such desperate need of his father, showing up on his doorstep one day out of the blue. There should be guilt in that Sam-shaped spot inside his chest, he’s sure of it, and maybe there is, maybe there’s a bitter ribbon of guilt threaded all the way through him, but it’s also entirely overpowered, overshadowed by the desire he feels for the little girl splayed out beneath him. He pulls back again, tries to temper the rising heat in his core, takes hold of his cock again and starts to slowly jack himself. “Finger that little pussy, lemme see. Be gentle with her.” But he grips your hand right as your fingertips are about to make contact with your glossy folds and brings them to his mouth, spit slicking them, there you go, before giving them back. You play in your wet, watching mesmerized as he slowly jerks himself off to the sight of you, circling your swollen clit, thrumming at it gentle, gentle, be soft with her, petting at the leaking mouth, winking at him, begging to be filled. He shifts closer, squeezing and twisting at his tip, pulling the skin back to make the bulbous dark head bulge. He wants it to hurt, he deserves for it to hurt. You watch the rough handling of himself like you’ve never seen anything like it before, head tilted on your neck so your cheek is squished against your shoulder to get a clear view of what he’s doing to himself. “You want it so bad,” he teases, and you nod, looking back up at his eyes. He shifts forward a little closer so that the backs of his knuckles are brushing up against your sex now, wet and sticky, and you let your fingers trail up his wrist, his forearm, while he quickens his pace, moves against you, over himself. You spread yourself a little wider, bringing your knees up higher to your chest, opening yourself for him, and he pulls his hips back a little, you want to come, he can see it in your eyes, you’re almost there, presses the tip to your wet clit, slides down the to the hungry mouth, circles, circles there, presses just a tiny bit. You’re nodding your head up at him, goading him on, please, please, just do it, please. “Not gonna,” he gruffs. “Not gonna convince me.”

“You’re so mean,” you cry, arching your hips, writhing, trying to find firmer pressure. 

“Didn’t I tell ya last night I wasn’t gonna be nice?” But he takes pity on you, presses the fat head just a little harder, gives you just the tip, grinding breathlessly against it, popping it in and out of your hot little cunt. “Better?” His whole body feels like one boiling vat of hot blood, sweaty and desperate, grunting, more animal than a man. “Gotta come just like this.” He quickens the jerk of his fist, bumping it into your clit on the slide forward, watches the stretch of your cunt taking just the first inch of him. He feels unhinged, thinks for one second of just fucking all the way in, hearing the sound of your cry as you take the hurt. He has to be able to do this all again, entirely, have you again the whole way “God, baby,” he groans, “You’re gonna let me fuck this tiny little pussy again, right? Tell me you’re going to let me fill it with my cock again?”

Please, please, daddy. Please. “Just do it now.” Joel doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything like the sound of you begging for his cock, anything as pretty, ever. “I– I need to–”

“I know what you need, baby. Just let daddy put his come in you, and then I’ll take care of you.” He’s just there, one last harsh squeeze and twist, and there’s warmth flooding his cock and balls as he starts to come for you, covering the entirety of your sex with his white milky spend, groaning like he’s dying. He pulls his hand from his spent cock, smearing his semen into your skin, little begging whimpers of his name and daddy, please from your mouth, and he spreads your legs and lowers his mouth to your swollen sex, eats his own come out of your cunt, pressing two fingers inside, slow and gentle as he can, to give you something to bear down on. He laps softly at your clit, soothing the ache, eats you until you’re going tight as a fist, cunt sucking his fingers as deep as it can and gushing all over his face, slick pooling in his palm where he laps and slurps at it when he’s unlatched his mouth from your pulsing clit. 

“I don’t think I can stay away from you,” he tells you later, while he dresses you slowly, sits you on the bathroom counter and brushes your teeth for you with his own toothbrush and combs the knots and gnarls out of your hair. Holds your cheek cupped in the palm of his hand as he drags a warm washcloth over your sweaty face. 

“Don’t want you to stay away,” you say in a small voice as you paw at his chest, twisting his t-shirt in little grabby fingers, pulling him into the cradle of your hips with sharp heels at the small of his back; needy, needy, needy thing. And worst of all, a sick part of him, something bitter sitting heavily on his tongue, wants to be the thing you need, the thing you’re desperate for, the thing you cry those pretty tears for. He’s weak now, he is. Joel finds in himself that he does have the capacity to be a weak man when the moment demands it of him. He shucks the washcloth into the sink, cups your face in his hands like something precious. He’d said once you were a gift, he’s sure of this now more than ever. 

And he tells you, because he knows he must: “We can fuck, but we’re not allowed to fall in love,” and tells himself that he only imagines the glint of defiance in your eyes when he says it. 

- That meeting in the dark had stayed with you, the sound of his voice telling you to leave his son, that you deserved better. The sound of his kindness, you’d stretched toward it like a flower seeking the light, the singular attention of a man like that. You’d gone over the memory of it over and over again in your mind, worn the edges of it until it was faded and worn. And when Sam had served you the divorce papers, and you’d all but gotten on your knees and begged him to please, please, stay, please, don’t leave me alone, that sound of kindness had been what you’d clung to through all the rest. That terrible clamor of failure and abandonment and not good enough, his kindness had remained, and you’re sure now, that it had brought you here too, to his home, to his bed, into his arms. This was where you’d always been meant to end up, perhaps, even from that first moment you’d met Sam all those years ago on the college green, in the arms of his father. Nothing could feel wrong after kismet like that, even if you weren’t allowed to fall in love.

Part III

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#pink fic #Joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #the last of us au #joel miller imagine

[ghostsvacuumcleaner]

You came — you called. II (+18) | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

✦ PART I ✦ Word count: 2.2k ✦ Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader ✦ Summary: After having a little non-friendly chat with your abuser, Simon comes back home to find you asleep in his bed. ✦ TW and general warnings: +18 NSFW, SMUT, lots of porn, p in v unprotected, some dirty talk, size difference implications, he's got a big cock, fluff, open ending sorta ✦ AO3 | Masterlist

A/N: well, since you guys liked part I and I was so fucking inspired I decided to write part 2; honestly thinking of writing a part III I seriously need to stop 😭 I hope you guys enjoy it! x

taglist: @abbiesxox

2am - world was on fire and no one could save me but you

“Y’know,” Simon starts, his legs spread across the armchair. His chin rests on his hand, nothing on his face but an indifference fashion, almost like the blood dripping from that guy’s mouth was another Tuesday to him. “You’re quite lucky, mate.” He stretches and leans his body forward. His elbows rest on his knees and he bends low enough to stare eye to eye into the face of the man who dared laying hands on you. “Know why?”

Your abuser flinches, and doesn’t answer; he couldn’t even if he wanted to. 

His body doesn't move more than inches without feeling pain. He had lost count of how many kicks it took Simon to take him to that state - when you said your ex boyfriend was in the military, he didn't imagine that kind of military. There wasn't even a report he could possibly make. It didn't have a face, it didn't have a name - all he knew was that this man, your punisher in the skull mask, coded himself as Ghost.

And he knew that this man - this living ghost, this new alive fear of his, had made him spit blood for every slap, every squeeze, every bruise he left on your body. It would be too much for your tired, melancholic head to notice that whenever he contoured one in your back as he gave you a bath, he was counting. To each one, he’d punch him twice. Face, legs, stomach. He wanted to see blood.

“No?” He asked, licking his lips. “You fuckin’ pussy…” He scoffs, his voice ever so low, almost a whisper - almost like he could wake you up in his house, from this distance, by talking loud. “Because if it wasn’t for my girl, you’d be dead now.”

To your abuser’s silence, Ghost stands up and steps off avoiding the bleeding fucker in front of him. “And let it be known, I am not one to make noise. If you come after her again, you won’t know where the shot came from.” He states over his shoulder, before opening the door and leaving it open for the ambulance that’s yet to come - because, especially after you, he’s not a monster. Just a ghost.

4am - strange what desire will make foolish people do

The shower is on. You don’t hear it, blame it on your tough sleep; can barely hear your own alarms when it’s morning. 

It is almost morning. In a few hours, the sun will rise in the horizon of the simple window by Simon’s bed side and invade the room - equally humble - annoying you. Right now, although the sky is still dark blue, the only light source poorly illuminating the room is the dim, yellow light that comes from the bathroom while Simon finishes his much deserved bath. 

The bloodstained hoodie and his mask are thrown aside in the laundry basket and now quietly replaced for a pair of sweatpants - his pajamas. He walks towards you in mute steps, the mattress sinking from the pressure of his two hands against it, on either side of your waist. You feel the warmth of his freshly bathed body against your skin as he shelters you from the night cold breeze with his own body. It covers you entirely, and you mumble in your sleep, “Mmm, Simon.”. 

“Hm…” His raspy voice asks, against your ear; your body, still drunk in sleep, shivers at the contact. You move slightly, while his nose brushes against your cheek, and continues down to your neck. Simon takes your smell in like a drug, shit, how painfully hard he misses you.

“You’re back…? Hm- what time is it?” You ask in a drunken voice.

His hand caresses your bare thigh under your shirt, his thick palm scraping up your skin till he reaches your belly; it covers, almost entirely. You mewl, “Simon…”

“Late.” He replies simply, warmly, against your ear. His dog tag swings in the short space between the two of you, and brushes against your chest. You turn a little, now awake enough to be able to speak at least, and your eyes meet his staring at you, drinking in the details as if all that time away from you has made him forget how beautiful you look when you just woke up.

“You smell good.” You admit in a mutter, feeling his hand sliding up from your belly to your waist in explicit desire. Though the two of you reluctantly tried to withdraw from each other, you couldn't deny it - it was mutual. “Are you calm now?” You ask, your hand takes hold of his dog tag and your index finger wraps around the chain; slowly, you wrap yourself around his neck, and before he can answer you, your lips take his in a quick kiss.

“No…” He replies against your mouth, in a breath. The sound of fabric moving fills the room as he repositions himself over you, and his hand moves up, tracing your curves to the top of your breast and cupping it; “Needin’ you right now.” He whispers in between slow, passionate kisses you both share. 

Your leg curls around his waist as you kiss him desperately, like he could vanish from

your hands any second. “Ask me.” you whisper against his lips and your hand grasps his dirty blond strands as his hand tightens around your breast. “I like it when you ask…”

He closes his eyes feeling a chill rise in his belly hearing you moan, and smirks in both pleasure and pride knowing he was the one to cause it. 

“Can I fuck you?” He complies, pushing his hips against you almost unconsciously, and you feel your body burn, feeling the big bulge in his pants press into your core through the fabrics that separate the two of you.

In one deft movement, Simon lifts your shirt up to your face level and you obediently offer to hold it between your teeth as his mouth proceeds to feast on one of your breasts while his hand massages the other.

“Simon- ah…” You groan, as your body uncontrollably squirms a bit and your lower half pushes up against him, begging him for some more.

Your body relaxes as your soft spots tighten, and after minutes of satisfying your needy breasts, sharing his tongue's attention between the two of them, Simon finally starts to run his wet kisses down your belly - calm as a sea breeze, hot as hellfire, different than it usually is when the two of you meet on an empty night, still enraged by the last time you left each other, fueled by hate, no - this time it's something different. 

“I still think about you everytime, y’know, kitten?” He admits with a faint smirk as his hands pull your panties down your legs and quickly get rid of them, exposing now your needy and soggy core to his own view. “Nobody tastes sweet like you.” 

His hand cups your ankle and he spreads your legs; his other hand cups your pussy, his fingers parting your folds as his middle finger rubs you slowly, torturously in that sweet spot of pleasure. 

“S-Shut up…” You try to say, but your voice is caught in your throat by a sudden moan as his tongue takes place between your legs. In circular, slow and skillful movements, he sucks on your swollen clit - whatever you wanted to say is now replaced by heavy gasps and low, muffled moans as you bite down on your hand trying to hold it back. He disapproves, almost instantly, with a tight squeeze on your thigh and you can’t hold back a loud groan in response.

When he feels you're getting too close to your climax, Simon swaps the intense, slow strokes for even slower ones, his tongue barely touching your clit yet - that tiny tip of contact causing all you get is the intense desire and the twitching of your legs in a near-orgasm that's thwarted so many times, it gets you insane. 

“Simon, p-please for fuck sakes…” You cry, your eyebrows furrowed in lust. His cock almost pierces the sweatshirt at this point, his veins visible on every possible part of his body - his arms, his temples, his crotch that shows when he straightens up over you as his pants lower to his waist, with that small clump of hair showing. “Don’t fucking make me beg…” You curse once again.

His tattooed arm grabs your waist and moves you over him; his hand grips your ass and moves you against his lap, your hands look for support around his shoulders and your hips instinctively continue the movements he started.

“Take it, c’mon.” He teases you. “It’s fuckin’ ripping my pants already, baby.” He grunts in your ear, his breath gets heavier when he pulls down his pants only enough so he can pull off his rock-hard large twitching cock; he stares into your face as his hips press forward, running his length against your slit, slowly. 

“Ah, fuck.” You curse under your breath as you lift your hips until his tip is against your entrance, and slowly start lowering yourself. Simon holds back a growl as your tight walls begin to swallow his cock, inch by inch, slowly. It's almost too much for you, like you lost practice by fucking guys that were smaller than him; it’s not a hard deal - he’s really too big. His fingers dig onto the skin of your waist trying to restrain himself as he holds you steady and gives you some time to get used to his length filling your whole cunt. 

His low groans flood your ears as after a few painful seconds, you begin to move up and down, slowly at first but quickly getting faster, deeper - the excruciating pain of feeling him stretching you up entirely as if it was your first time again, gives in to the deep pleasure of having him hitting your spot each time you thrust against him.

Simon is a groaning, gasping mess beneath you; his hips move uncontrollably against yours, he grabs a handful of your hair and pulls it back exposing your cleavage to him, so he can suckle onto your soft skin - leaving marks all over you.

“Mine, aren’t you.” He groans while fucking you hard, kissing all over you like a dog who crawls back to its owner. “You feel so fuckin’ good- ah-” he takes you in a sloppy kiss, your hands digging his back in raw flesh; 

“Y-Yours.” You reply in a gasping voice, almost out of air yourself. 

Without much time to tell beforehand, your eyes roll up and his movements grow faster. You grab his shoulders, feeling your own climax start to flood through your body intensely, your legs tighten and your walls tighten against him; your clit throbs, and you grunt.

“Simon- I love you-” You moan, and your inability to keep moving now, with all your muscles suddenly relaxed and your cunt painfully overstimulated by his continuing thrusts, causes him to grab your waist from both sides and lift you without further difficulty - like you’re lightweight. He fucks you through your orgasm with his thrusts getting stronger - feral, animalistic, as his stomach tightens and his muscles jump even more defined than they already are, a few beads of sweat trickle down his chest as he grunts in pleasure. 

Simon pulls out the instant he feels that crossing of lines where his consciousness loses itself to pleasure and surrenders completely to you - fast enough to spend himself on your thighs, partially, in a mess of grunts and gasps. 

Your body collapses onto his and he holds you, both of you still trying to recover from so much intensity in so little time. Little by little, he regains consciousness as he smells your hair against his nostrils; vanilla ice cream. And then, the feeling of your body against his, your thin arms seeking support around his neck - your voice, saying you love him.

Minutes later, after taking care of your needs - water, a hot shower, another clean pair of clothes, you finally find yourself snuggled in his arms. Simon’s eyes are fixed on your face, and he looks tired, but not willing to fall asleep anytime soon.

The tip of his finger caresses your arm, and the morning sun starts to come through the window.

“Do you think we’ll ever work together?” You break silence, gazing through his eyes with uncontrollable love. He sighs tired, and after a couple seconds, replies.

“I’ll break your heart once or twice; you’ll break mine. Isn't that how every relationship is supposed to work?” 

“Yes, but if so, why didn’t it work before then?” You close your eyes. He caresses your scalp, your beautiful hair, and closes his eyes as well.

“You look beautiful in the morning.” He mutters. “Not only in the morning, of course.”

“Simon…”

“Come back to me.” He asks, and it sounds like begging. Like crawling. 

You open your eyes, but his are still closed. You smile.

#ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #cod fic #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod ghost #cod mw2 #ghost smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost x reader

[notjustjavierpena]

Sucía: Part II - Hungover

A/N: Finally, a follow-up to Birthday Girl. So sorry about the wait. ALSO BE NICE TO ME SINCE I HAVEN’T WRITTEN ASSPLAY BEFORE! Can be read alone

Summary: You meet Javier again but this time, you are  hungover in a corner store and with sunglasses on inside.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, mention of f masturbation, javi is a flirt, reader is hungover and later tipsy, use of papi/daddy, alcohol consumption, classic booty call, flirty banter, dirty talk, kissing, dom/sub dynamics, blowjob, verbal humiliation, face-fucking, deepthroating, clit stim, doggy style but add a police grip, unprotected p in v sex, rough sex, spanking, assplay, anal fingering, creampie, overstim, pussy eating, come eating, bit of subdrop, aftercare cuddles

Word count: 4.8k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48859147/chapters/123256180

Hungover

The hangover is worse than you thought it would be. It makes noises seem overwhelming to your ears, which had been fine listening to booming club music the night before, and fluorescent lights prickle at your eyes, so much so that you decide to wear sunglasses as you walk down to the corner store near your apartment building. You have the shakes, the fatigue, the savory cravings. 

But you also have the dull ache of getting harshly fucked between your legs. The memory is hardly foggy because you can’t stop thinking about it, the underlying roughness beneath Javier’s surface, and how you have spent the day in bed with your hand in your panties to try to reach even a shred of the same excitement you felt when he had you.

You reach the cooler with Arizona iced teas and rest the bottle that you pick out against your forehead. It soothes slightly. With your other hand, you find a bag of chips that you normally find disgusting. 

As you contemplate making a dip, you suddenly get the feeling of someone watching you. At first, you try to shake it but when it gets more intense, you whirl around and nearly bump into—

“Javier?” With the chips bag between your fingers, you use your index finger and thumb to peel your sunglasses off. 

“Oh, so it is you,” he gives you a once over with his eyes, raising a brow at, but not commenting on, your appearance; messy bun and gray sweatpants with an unflattering word in rhinestones across your ass. Instead, he smirks, “Bad hangover?”

“You could say that,” you say, a little embarrassed. After all, who you are in the nightlife is hardly who you are in real life, “I think I overdid it a little last night.”

“But you remember?” Javier takes a step towards you, seems unaware of doing it, and your pulse immediately spikes. 

“How could I forget?” You are not in the right attire for flirting but Javier looks pleased and relieved, even slightly amused, eyes traveling down your body as if he is trying to imagine what the baggy pants are hiding. 

“I wouldn’t want you to,” he states and suddenly starts walking towards the counter. You find yourself following him without any question. 

You swallow, trying to change the subject in case it gets too heated for public ears to hear, “What are you getting?” 

“I was just getting some cigarettes but now I’m getting a number too, aren’t I?” He gestures to the countertop and you place your chips and iced tea on it. 

“Perhaps.”

“And a pack of cigarettes,” Javier says to the cashier, a young teenager with curious eyes as he observes your interaction. Javier points to the brand that he likes and it’s added to the mix. 

“I—“ you protest. 

Javier holds up a hand and pays without a word. He rests a hand on the counter as he speaks to the teenager who is in awe by now, “You have a pen, kid?”

The cashier quickly retrieves one from underneath the counter. He hands it to Javier who turns to you, reaches out for your wrist, which burns with excitement as he touches it, and scribbles his number on your arm, “There.”

“How do you know I’ll call you?” You challenge as you pick up your things. 

“I’m pretty confident,” he shrugs, “I make an impression, I’ve been told.”

His smugness is hot and nauseating at the same time. You hit him with a line that you know only he knows the true meaning of, shoving the pack of cigarettes into your pockets too without giving him time to protest.

“Thanks, Papi,” you start heading for the door. 

Javier chuckles in disbelief. 

“Wow,” the cashier says as you leave, and despite having your back turned, you can picture him gaping at Javier who is watching you leave, “Dude, teach me your ways.”

—

You call Javier a week later. It’s in the middle of the night, you’ve been out once again, Hannah’s orders, and you don’t want to go home to your empty apartment. You aren’t drunk except for that your voice is a little louder than usual as you speak into the pay phone outside the club. 

“Are you home?” You ask.

“Are you drunk?” He interrogates.

“Just tipsy,” you reassure, confident, “Give me your address. I’ll come by… unless you’re busy.”

“I’m not.”

“Then give me your address,” you push. If you don’t get him out of your system soon, you think you might lose your mind, and what better way than to fuck it out? You sigh animatedly, try to make it sound so he can practically hear the way you are batting your lashes, “Please, Daddy.” 

“Jesus, you’re filthy,” he breathes on the other end of the line, and then gives in, “Fine, I’ll tell you my address.”

You tell it to a cab driver a moment later and soon, you are knocking on Javier’s door at three in the morning for a so-called booty call. 

He opens the door in nothing but his jeans. 

“Still dressed?” You question, “Thought I had woken you up.”

“Working,” he explains, throwing his head in the direction of his dining table. It is filled with paperwork, case files, and other documents.

“Ah,” you step through to the living room, having left your heels by the door that Javier closes behind you. 

“Whiskey?” He asks when he joins you, grabbing your elbow to get your attention and causing electricity to course through your body. You smile at him and nod, engaging in unnecessary formalities; you know that he knows you’re just here to fuck.

“If you don’t have anything else,” you tease.

When Javier serves you a glass a minute later, you knock the shot back a little too expertly but still grimace at the burn from the liquor. Javier snorts at the sight, shaking the bottle gently, “More?”

You shake your head, “You actually like that stuff?” 

“Smart mouth,” he sighs.

“Last time, you had music to drown me out,” you smirk, leaning back into your seat and feeling the warmth of the whiskey starting to spread through your body. You run a hand through your hair, “Look, you wanna fuck or drink your whiskey?”

It is nowhere near normal for you to be this bold but the warm buzz of the whiskey has made you brave like you were on the dance floor. You blink prettily at him, and he responds by placing the bottle on the glass table without making too much noise. 

“Oh, you’re a dirty one, aren’t you?” Javier’s voice has dropped to a lower pitch, and your whole core is aching for him to touch you like you know he can, “Thought you were just putting on a show for me at the club but you’re really dirty.”

“I can show you if you let me,” you say confidently but still try to compose yourself as he inches closer to you. You can see that he wants to kiss you like he did a week before, and you decide to be the one who initiates it. 

It feels different this time because his body is more exposed, showing the faint hairs scattered across his chest and the shape of his shoulders that had only been left to imagination last time and thus become a fantasy as you lay in your bed at home with two fingers inside of yourself. You grab onto them, digging your fingers into the golden skin, and moan into the kiss. His mouth is open against yours, broad hands on your waist and lower back, and he moves you a step backward every other second. 

Soon, your lips are swollen from kisses but they are not being kissed anymore. Instead, Javier has moved down to your jaw and throat, both parts stinging slightly from his mustache having scratched you. However, he soothes you with the warmth of his tongue and all is forgiven because you are so wet that you cannot think straight.  It has been a while since you have met a man who has kept you quite on your toes like he does. 

You eventually reach the bedroom, dimly lit like he knows how to make it inviting for sex. The nightstand sports several stacks of books but as curious as you are about your suitor, you focus on the bed instead. It looks like the sheets will envelop you in his scent. It is too much of an opportunity to pass up and makes you break free from his arms. The alcohol in your blood persuades you to crawl into his bed without hesitation, feeling the cotton bedding underneath your skin. 

You were right. The bed smells like him; like a mix between sleep and cologne, and it is so masculine that you turn onto your back to stare up at him with the best impression of a siren’s hazy gaze. You slide the straps of your dress off your shoulders, revealing no bra underneath it when your tits spill out as soon as you pull the front of the dress down. Javier stares without any hesitation or shame. 

“C’mere, crawl to me,” he stands by the foot of the bed, making no indication that he is going to join you. You follow his command, getting up on all fours and making your way towards the edge. The dress sits around your waist. He grins down at you, “Oh, you’re a special girl, aren’t you? Look at you doing what you’re told.”

You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering as you reach out for his belt. He hardens underneath the denim whilst you work the buckle, and the clink of the metal causes a rush of arousal to your lower body. 

When you undo his zipper, his stomach jumps underneath no touch. He breathes deeply in through his nose, “Can’t control myself. I haven’t stopped thinking about your mouth taking my dick last weekend.” 

You tug his jeans down, realizing that he has gone commando underneath. It doesn’t surprise you though, just makes you stare up at him completely wide-eyed but mostly for show. He chuckles when you gape down at his cock which has now sprung free. He seems to notice it is an act and decides to play along, “Took it so well too. Think you can repeat the success, bebita (baby)?”

You nod and then lower your head whilst still looking up at him through your lashes. He waits politely above you, arms along his sides, but shows his impatience with the way his hand twitches slightly when you breathe onto his length. 

You waste no time teasing him, wanting to show him that your talent for sucking cock is not just a skill he had imagined last time, not just a result of having been drunk on being edged by fucking your pussy open. 

You wrap your lips around the girthy head and suck as you pull off until you earn a guttural growl from him. His mouth goes slack when you engulf him in your warmth again, bobbing your head and pulling your soft lips along the shaft over and over again. A hand rests on your head.

“That’s it,” he praises and tries to keep his hips still, his hand tensing up on top of your head in a way that tells you that he is holding back from pushing forward just yet, “Recuerdo que eres sucía (I remember that you’re filthy). Suck that cock, Princesa (princess), like a whore.”

You let saliva gather in your mouth until it sounds obscene when you take more of his cock into your mouth, fitting your hand around what you cannot fit past your kiss-swollen lips. The head bumps against the back of your mouth and causes a wet gag. Javier lets out a sharp sigh of pleasure. You repeat the move until your throat squeezes around him and his fingers tangle into your hair. 

“Fuck, that’s a good girl,” he murmurs above you. Your eyes travel up his body to stare at his face, just to get a glimpse before another choke on his dick will blur your vision with tears. His eyes are closed, a crease between his brows telling you that he is concentrating on the pleasure you are giving him. 

You hum as you suck him harder, cheeks hollowed and lips stretched. There’s a determination to hear him growl like he did before since it made your pussy clench around nothing. He’ll find out the state of your panties soon enough, and you hope he’ll know that it’s the result of greedily sucking him off. 

Javier’s eyes open carefully and his fingers tighten their grip hard enough to hurt your sensitive follicles when you make eye contact. He pulses in your mouth when you smirk around him, spit dribbling down your chin from how much effort you are putting into drooling on his dick.

Whenever his breathing pattern changes, you squeeze around the base of his cock to calm his excitement down again. He gets impatient and thrusts his hips forward, the tip of his dick sliding into the tightest space of your throat. It makes you bury your nose in the hair at the base of his cock, your hand falling down into your lap when it has no more to hold. 

Tears spring from your eyes but you don’t falter. Instead, you moan pornographically to tell him it is okay, and Javier takes the opportunity to fuck your mouth until his cock is wet from both your spit and your tears. 

To steady yourself, you reach up and place a hand on his lower belly. You scratch with your nails, meeting the snaps of his lower body with a tell of experience. 

“You’re a little slut,” he groans, “I can tell you suck dick on the regular. How many have had you like this? Because I know I’m not the first.” 

You gag on him instead of giving any indication of an answer. He chuckles breathlessly and stills his hips to guide you with the hand in your hair instead, creating a makeshift ponytail to force you onto his dick. You take whatever he wants to give you, pussy so touch-starved that it makes your head spin. 

“S-stop,” he eventually moans and loosens his grip but still cannot make himself pull out of your tight wet throat, “Pull off, I— shit, baby, you almost made me come.”

You do as you are told. An obscene string of saliva connects between your mouth and the tip of his dick, and he uses a thumb to sever it by trailing the digit across your swollen bottom lip. He smiles affectionately when you suck the finger into your mouth, “Want this messy thumb on your clit, huh?” 

You nod with his finger still in your mouth. Slick arousal has started to spill through your underwear, smearing your inner thighs with how much giving him a blowjob has made you gush. You pull away, his thumb slipping from your mouth making a popping sound. 

“Legs up, come on now,” he guides after you have completely rid yourself of your dress. You lay back and scoot to the very edge of the bed. Then you try to hook your legs over his hips, but he grabs your ankles one by one to rest your feet against his front, stretching your limbs high into the air.

He makes a self-satisfied face when he guides his wet thumb underneath the fabric of your underwear to find that he had never even needed your spit; you are drenched and waiting. He scoops some of your wetness onto his thumb and then presses down on your clit, seeming to remember just where it is from last time. He swirls the digit on the swollen nub, “Right there?”

You whimper and nod. Your toes curl, “Sí (yes), Papí. Don’t stop.”

“You can still talk after getting throat-fucked like that?” He taunts but doesn’t make any indication that he’ll tease or edge you. No, he seems determined to have you remember how good he is in bed and he reminds you of it by giving your clit the attention it needs. He swirls his thumb, goes from side to side, and up and down until your voice starts growing in pitch. 

He listens, really listens, and observes your reactions to what he does and with each beat of your heart, you gush a little more slick onto the sheets. Only a minute later, you have an earth-shattering clit-orgasm that has your brows furrowed and your eyes screwed shut. 

“Fuck me,” you beg during your high but he shakes his head, and you nearly decide to lose it. Though the eyes he gives you make you unable to protest. That gaze makes it seem like you’ll take anything he says as gospel, even when your walls are spasming around nothing. He knows better, there’s no doubt about it. You await his next move, head falling back on the mattress and with big eyes fixated on the way he towers over your smaller frame. 

“Turn around,” he eventually decides, “Crawl back on the bed.”

You follow orders in your post-orgasmic state, blood rushing in your ears so you cannot be sure if you actually hear him chuckle at your shaking legs when you try crawling to the middle of the bed. You pose on your hands and knees in the sexiest manner you can manage, awaiting his cock with an obedient and desperate cunt in the air. 

Whatever your brain cannot process in your pleasurable haze, you must feel instead, and behind you, Javier’s weight makes the mattress dip beneath the both of you. He has knelt behind you and you whimper as his strong, broad palms settle on your hips to pull them into the height that he needs them to be.

“Gimme your hands,” he commands but you cannot register it fast enough when you feel so empty and weak from not being fucked, so he yanks your arms behind your back one at a time without warning. You plant your face right into the sheets with a whine that’s muffled by the fabric until you think to turn your head to the side. This time, you are sure about the fact that he is laughing darkly at you. 

You realize he has you in a police grip, able to do whatever he wants and you realize that he wants to fuck you raw, no piece of rubber between you. This doesn’t bother you one bit tonight.

He only lets go of your wrists to guide his cock inside of your quivering body with one hand, then holds onto your arms again with both when your warm and soft heat engulfs him. 

“Listen, bebita (baby). It’s like three in the morning and the neighbors are asleep,” he tells you and you don’t think you could ever stay quiet when he is so big inside of you. You are just about to say something but then he surprises you by finishing his sentence, “Do you understand? I’m gonna need you to scream for me.”

Oh. 

“Sí (yes), Papi,” you groan as you still try to adjust to his girth, not quite remembering that his dick had felt this huge inside of you the last time you were together. He settles deep inside of you, fills you out until you cannot take any more of him, and then pounds you.  

“Bet they’re all over you when you’re out playing a little tease in the club. I was,” he muses as he fucks you hard enough to make the bed rattle underneath you, fingers denting the delicate skin of your wrists. The headboard has already started to repeatedly bang against the wall and the sudden halts to each movement of the furniture make his thrusts painful, “Bet they wanna touch and fuck you like I get to. You know how much you make men think about sex, don’t you?”

“Javi,” you pant as he continues, not able to do much more than take it and feel the heat pool between your thighs. You are soaking wet around him, lewd noises of your stretched-out cunt sucking him in filling the room each time he goes deep enough to have you see God. 

“Can’t say anything else, can you? Fucked stupid, is that it?” He moans when you shake and nod your head, mind too foggy to figure out which move is the right one when you have gotten two questions in a row. You can only think of his huge cock driving brutally into you, “You weren’t like this last time but we weren’t— ah, fuck. We weren’t in private last time, were we?”

This time you know to shake your head. You want to come, God, you are going to soon. 

“But now I have you all to myself and I get to show this gorgeous pussy who’s boss, fuck the brat out of her,” he lets go with one hand to smack your ass harshly and groans when you squeeze around his length in surprise, a yelp tearing itself from your throat, “You like that? Make it hurt, wasn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, please,” you finally manage a coherent word that isn’t his name. The knot in your belly is starting to tighten and his rapid movements are starting to make your body respond by building up a high, “Yes, I do, don’t stop! You— you’re gonna make me come, Papi.”

He growls and seeks his own satisfaction and pleasure, knowing that he won’t need to do anything else to make you come again other than fucking against your g-spot whilst his heavy balls slap against your clit. In response, all you can do is drool and lie in it, his harsh rhythm forcing the air out of your lungs in high cries with every crash of his hips into you. 

“What more do you like?” He smacks your ass again, faltering for less than a second as he gets an idea, “Eres una chica sucía, ¿te gusta un dedo en el culo (You’re a dirty girl, you like a finger in your ass)?”

You rub your forehead against the sheets when you nod frantically. Behind you, Javier stops talking but only to obscenely spit down the cleft of your ass and use his thumb to smear it over the ring of muscle there. 

You gasp and whimper, pushing back into the touch. 

“Whore,” he pants and adds pressure to your hole. 

“Want it, Daddy,” you beg softly. 

He eases the digit inside of you and your eyes roll back into your skull when he adds a whole new sensation to getting fucked by him. He can’t contain himself at the sight of his finger disappearing into your ass over and over, “I know you do. So fucking take it.”

The pressure inside of you from two places becomes too much. You get one more breath in before pleasure erupts from your sensitive pussy and you come hard with a cry loud enough to make your voice crack. Javier swears loudly behind you when your walls choke his cock and your untouched clit pulses in interest too at feeling something so powerful. 

“Come in me, Javi,” you cry as he fucks you through your overstimulation. Your skin is slick with sweat, glistening as it beads along your spine and settles into the dip in your arched back. 

“Say please, Princesa (princess),” he breathes rapidly, trying to hold back until you have done what he says. 

“Please,” you sob, “Pleasepleaseplease.”

“Good girl,” he praises and gives you only a few thrusts more. He comes inside of you with a grunt, stilling his hips whilst his cock twitches as it shoots and pulses inside of you. It is enough to make it drip out of you already, creating a ring around his dick that lazily starts sliding in and out of your abused hole to milk the very last drops from the tip. 

You fall flat on your front the second he pulls out. Nothing else exists except your fucked-out body, nerves tingling with electricity at how hard you have felt ecstatic pleasure tonight. You want to giggle or sob or giggle and sob but your eyelids feel so heavy. 

“You okay?” Javier asks from behind you. He has crawled forward to hover over you, placing a kiss on your shoulder, “Pussy took a pounding.”

“‘M fine,” you mutter with a little sigh as Javier’s lips leave kisses in their wake as he moves down your used, trembling body. He rubs your aching thighs.

“Should apologize to her,” he mumbles and places a kiss on the small of your back. You whimper in reply, pulling your arms forward to bury your spinning head in them and relish in the softness that he gives you. 

However, that softness has ulterior motives because soon, he is tilting your hips a little. He is still trailing his tongue over your lower back, through the sweat that has pooled there and then further down over your puckered hole. He ends with his mouth between your folds, hands that had been soothing your legs now curling around your thighs to pull them slightly apart so he can eat the dribble of come right from your freshly-fucked pussy. 

“I can’t,” you groan even if it’s soothing to feel his soft tongue inside of you. 

“Yes,” he slurps loudly and scoops more out of you, going down to lap on your clit. Between tortuous sucks that are strong enough to hollow his cheeks, he talks softly, “Just take it, bebita (baby). Let me make you feel better. You took it so well.”

A third high burns deep below your belly button but he builds it slower than when he had had his thumb on your clit by switching between eating from your seam and teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

“Javi,” you feel stupid for having said his name so many times tonight without following it up with anything else but he seems to understand what each enunciation of his name means. 

“I know,” he coos and bobs his head a little, “I’m almost done, just a little more.”

When you are clean of any remnants of his spill, he works towards your orgasm whilst you cry feebly. He sucks at your clit with gentle enthusiasm, coaxing your exhausted body to reach its climax once again not long after. Tears spring from your eyes as pleasure is forced to flow through your cunt again, rapid clenching around nothing making your hips stutter as you think you might gush enough to ruin the mattress. 

Javier pulls away as soon as you come down, moving to lie down beside you and give you the space that you need. You cry in your overwhelmed state but it’s only silent tears that slide down over your nose and cheek. 

He tuts and coos, “Nena (Babygirl).”

That nickname makes you cry louder. 

“Do you need help getting onto your back?” He asks carefully. You nod and without hesitation, he helps you move your body around until you are on your back, staring up at the ceiling. 

“I’m sorry,” you feel embarrassed but unable to control your emotions.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. You nod again. 

He reaches to turn your head towards himself, cupping your cheek carefully and using his thumb to brush a tear away. You hold onto his wrist as he kisses you. 

“No more tears,” he tells you with a soft smile and strokes your cheek in such a gentle manner that you cannot help but give him a little smile of your own in return, “You were so good.” 

“Thank you,” you say with a fluttering heart, mascara burning underneath your eyes. 

“Let me get you a glass of water,” he pecks your lips a few times more but when he tries to pull away, you whine like a child not getting their way. He says your time but then lets you crawl to him. He hugs you close, draping your leg over his hip, and coos soft praises until you fall asleep. 

“I have work in the morning,” he mumbles into your hair, but then why does he still let you sleep in his arms all through the night? 

You wake up to aspirin and water. You take it and gulp down the whole glass, only briefly waking up again when he crawls into bed with you late in the evening to hold you close once more.

“I’ll order some food,” he tells you while repeatedly kissing your still bare body.

“Okay,” you say and fall asleep again. 

.

.

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[lorelune]

O4O: part i

|| jing yuan x reader || E/18+ || omega for omega, soft smut || wc: 10.3k  || ao3 ||

Jing Yuan has been content riding out his heats alone for centuries. You, despite being another omega, are happy to lend a hand if Jing Yuan will have you.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

💦🎀 this piece is apart of SPRING FEVER: an omegaverse collab! 🎀💦

part i (here) — part ii (coming soon!)

notes: hello omega jing yuan omega jing yuan save me... the way omega jy has haunted me for months. MONTHS. this fic is incredibly indulgent soft, needy smut with non-traditional a/b/o dynamics. THANK YOU to the lovely @owlespresso for beta reading!! please read the tags and enjoy!! <3

CW: a/b/o dynamics, omega jing yuan (with afab and amab anatomy), omega reader (afab anatomy), past yingxing/jing yuan/dan feng, bottom jing yuan flavors (though reader does not do any penetration), use of toys, worldbuilding around omegaverse, lots of biting, milfy jing yuan, mommy kink without the word mommy (at least not in this part 👀💗!!),

Jing Yuan has not shared his heat with anyone in a very, very long time. Centuries, most certainly. Jing Yuan doesn’t find it very useful to keep track of that length of time— he finds it cumbersome if anything. There’s no use holding onto a past that only forces him to redigest pain. 

Jing Yuan rarely has heats. He keeps a diligent schedule of medication and only has to go through them once every decade or so. Occasionally less, if the Luofu is passing a particular star system or comet field. His heats are always cumbersome. He can conceal his omegan sensibilities often, but it is more difficult prior to a heat.

Preheat is a different beast.

When Jing Yuan sequesters himself in his estate for the better part of a week, anyone who knows he’s even there assumes it is to go through a rut. A week is a standard amount of time to take off for a rut and is expected. However, a heat has a standard time off of about two and a half weeks. Much longer to accommodate preheat and nesting needs. 

Jing Yuan rarely indulges his own. 

The Luofu, at large, assumes he is an alpha. This is manufactured, however only partially. Generally, the citizens of the Luofu assume, given that he is the General and he has a larger, broad-shouldered stature, that he is an Alpha through and through. He always wears scent patches in public, which is normal for both omegas and alphas. Betas, too, occasionally. Depending on the subtype. The Charioteers know that he is an omega, but they are committed to some amount of discretion and guard the information as a secret. Lady Fu, an alpha, will occasionally scold him for being so secretive. Like he harbors some sort of self-hatred that he is an omega. 

It is simply more convenient for him to be seen as an alpha. Jing Yuan doesn’t wish to disturb this perception.

And therefore, it is much easier to wait as long as possible between heats and bear them alone. Whatever instincts he has can be satiated with toys and a half-decent nest. Jing Yuan has always considered this enough. ‘Enough’. 

(It’s not sating. Jing Yuan cannot lie to himself about this. He remembers laying with Yingxing, and how the alpha made him feel more full and content than Jing Yuan had ever thought possible during a heat. Or ever, truthfully. He remembers how calming Dan Feng’s presence had been— grounding and reassuring, too. Jing Yuan was fucked, filled and protected. An omega’s dream.)

Jing Yuan... copes with what he has. A large, plush bed with a downy mattress, a few donated, alpha-scented garments, and a collection of inflatable, knotting toys. He always leaves his heat with lingering cramps, a brutalized hole, and a yearning that takes a few weeks to quiet itself. 

It is natural that he craves his mates. Even if they are long dead (not dead. Not really. Not the same as they once were, anyway.)

And certainly, never to be his again. The mating mark on his neck has long faded.

Jing Yuan tracks his heat so such yearning can be anticipated and planned for. He knows when his heat is approaching, down to the specific day it will occur. He titrates off his suppressants carefully, and maps out a portion of time off for himself a year or so in advance. 

Which is why it is very odd that he starts exhibiting preheat symptoms in the middle of the day, a random day, during a tactical meeting.

Even if he had been titrating down his dose in anticipation for a planned heat in a few months time, it is far, far too early to begin feeling symptoms. The familiar itchiness prickling under his skin is entirely unexpected. Jing Yuan has to put a particularly large amount of effort to get through this unnecessary meeting without letting a single symptom slip. He can only adjust in his seat so many times before it is improper, or juggle the cradle of his jaw from one hand to the other before it is clear something is wrong. 

If any of the Charioteers and their advisers notice anything amiss with him, they say nothing. The only one who looks off-put is Fu Xuan. She’s a spitfire alpha herself, and perhaps she’s keen enough to notice that Jing Yuan is beginning to feel... unwell. Though he is masking his scent as he always does, he imagines that the flush in his cheeks is becoming increasingly obvious.

Fu Xuan gives Jing Yuan a wary look as the meeting is dismissed.

“General,” She says curtly. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” He gives her a rich laugh as he stands, muffling a groan as his stiff back and knees ache. He’d sat for too long. He feels light-headed as he rights himself and Fu Xuan glares at him.

“I doubt that,” Fu Xuan huffs. “I will not interrogate you in public, nor do I think you would give me an honest answer even if I did—”

“So little trust in me, Master Diviner—”

“ However, I will urge you to go home. ” She takes a step closer and sniffs the air. It’s just the two of them in the meeting room now, the rest of the parties in attendance having filtered out. Subtly and without fanfare, she takes his hand in her own, and presses her wrist to his. Jing Yuan keeps an easy grin on his face but can’t help the way he tenses his fingers, flexing them at the contact. “Do you need an escort?”

“Is Lady Fu worrying for me? How kind.”

“I’m— not, ” Fu Xuan huffs now and more roughly smears their wrists together. The scent gland she is almost abusing is swollen and hot to the touch. It takes all of his composure not to squirm with her treatment. “I’m no fool. If you have a heat starting, you should be comfortable at home, not in a war room.”

“Master Diviner, you think I’m an omega?” Jing Yuan says with a smile. He knows she is already privy to this, but he can’t resist teasing her a bit.

“You are insufferable. Even in this state. Go home. I will take you there myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t return home just yet,” He hums. He imagines he has a few hours before proper pre-heat sets in. “I have a lunch date that I cannot miss.”

“You— a lunch date?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a scheduled event, dear Diviner.”

“Do not patronize me.”

Jing Yuan laughs as she fumes. He has the urge to ruffle her hair, but thinks better of it. The complicated updo would surely be ruffled, and Jing Yuan is already getting an earful as it is. 

“I would never.”

Fu Xuan yanks her arm away with a growl. She wears some type of masking perfume, she always has, but with her frustration swirling, a bit of her actual scent peaks through. It’s light on the back of his tongue, floral almost. Nearly inedible, but the kind of scent Jing Yuan that makes him nostalgic—

(For a master with a scent like frost-covered roses, and a packmate with a scent filled with springtime lilac blossoms in fat clusters.)

“If this lunch is really so necessary, may I escort you there at least? Or will your alpha be meeting you here?”

“They’re not an alpha.” Jing Yuan hums. His stomach feels warm regardless. “And I’ll be just fine getting there myself.”

Fu Xuan looks at him, questioningly. Her lips open, then close once more. There are questions she clearly has. And for all her brashness and hot-blooded fervor, she understands decorum better than most. She pries out of care and her good intentions, and Jing Yuan can respect that if nothing else.

“I’ll concede,” Fu Xuan sighs. “ However, please let me know if there’s anything else you need. You have my number.”

“Noted.” Jing Yuan rises, and feels the heat clouding his head sink lower in his body. He’s being engulfed. 

Fu Xuan deadpans, “General—”

“Have a good rest of your day, Master Diviner,” He calls with a light laugh, slipping away before Fu Xuan can give him any further grief.

...

As the Arbiter General of the Luofu, Jing Yuan knows its streets and secrets very well. There’s more than one way to arrive at his favored terrace garden without being seen or smelt by the public. It is helpful that this path is lined near an aqueduct stream, surrounded by lush greenery and clumps of fragrant azure asters. This path is tucked away, straddling an external tunnel of the Luofu’s inner tunnels. Really, only the Calibrators aboard the ship use it, and as there are only a few and they tend to keep to their delve, Jing Yuan has very little fear walking this way at his own leisure.

He is glad you tend to take your lunch dates in the privacy of this particular garden, under the gazebo and nestled atop its many silken blankets and pillows. A conventional restaurant in this state would be doable, but unideal. 

Jing Yuan can smell you as he approaches. It makes him pause, just outside the gate. His hands hovers over his jade abacus as he opens his mouth to taste you in the back of his mouth.

(Warm, a familiar scent that he associates with the rare indulgence of relaxation. It’s not overly sweet or ripe, but balanced and full-bodied. Not quite floral or fruity, and not deep enough to be akin to an aged black tea. Perhaps like the roll of a hearth or the beeswax of a lit candle.)

He’s sighs. It calms him instantly. 

Even if you aren’t an alpha, you are familiar, as is the current setting.

You’re sitting at a low table in the shade of the gazebo. There are several plates of cheeses, cut fruits, salted meats, and nuts laid out. You’re ladling sticky honey into a small dish as he enters, and look up at the sound of the gate closing.

You smile when you see him.

“General,” You smile. “I apologize, I started setting up lunch without you. Everything should still be chilled.”

“No need to be sorry,” he laughs gently, brushing a hand against your shoulder before rounding the table, and taking a seat across from you. “I could never complain about your diligence. You have chosen quite the spread today, haven’t you?”

You flush with a nod, and gesture down to the table, “The markets were lovely today, I had to splurge. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

“Only if you do the same.”

“I-I can do that,” You smile at him softly.

Despite your familiarity, you still regard him with some amount of anxiety. Jing Yuan has long since placed this has less to do with his status as General, and more than likely due to a deepened amount of affection that Jing Yuan... entertains. Enjoys. Thrives off of, even. He perhaps returns it, though he hasn’t told you that explicitly.

Besides, you believe him to be an alpha. He’s sure that, if you did know his secondary gender, such affections would fade quickly. The allure of what he could provide as an alpha is quite different from what he can provide as an omega.

Jing Yuan takes a sip of sparkling juice, and as he lowers the thin-necked glass, you look at him strangely. A crease knits itself between your brows.

“Did I get some on my face?” Jing Yuan chuckles and wipes at the corners of his mouth with his thumb.

“No... you just,” You stumble with your words, hands flexing in your lap. “Are... are you alright? Your cheeks look quite warm, and you’re sweating around your hairline.” 

You always have been keen to bodies other than your own. It’s not the most common trait. 

“... Am I?” Jing Yuan could choose to lie at this moment. It would be easy to say he was using a new brand of suppressants, or blame it on a stressful day. However, he doesn't like lying to you, only twisting the truth when entirely necessary. “I do suppose I’m at that point in my cycle.”

“Oh!” You startle and sit up more straight. You push a plate at him. “Pre-rut? You should eat, then. You’ll need your strength. Do— do you have someone I can call? I don’t mind.”

Your worry is cute. 

Jing Yuan can’t help thinking about it. You are an omega full of so much care and urge to help. Jing Yuan has seen it and experienced it many times, and has also seen how it has gotten you into unfortunate situations. You have a trusting mind and spirit, and more than once, it has been used against you. 

Jing Yuan likes keeping you close, so he can look after you, even if it’s from a distance.

He stares down at the plate. There’s a pile of glistening orange grapes, a few roses of sliced, cured meats, a chunk of honeycomb, and buttery looking crackers. It does look delicious, however Jing Yuan has always struggled to eat in his pre-heat. When he looks up at you to decline, your expression looks even more worried, almost sour.

Before he can speak, you are. Petal-soft lips lips downturned. “Are you... not in pre-rut, General?”

He deflates, slightly. He is old— and. He does not wish to steer you away from what is a correct assumption. You are his most trusted companion.

“I am not,” He says softly, and picks up one of the grapes. He squeezes. The skin is taut and tight. “And, please call me Jing Yuan. Formalities can be dropped, yes?”

“I— yes, of course.” You look from his plate to him. “So, you’re... pre-heat?”

“I am, yes.”

“Oh!” You immediately heap his plate with several other kinds of fruit, and grab a clean glass and pour ice water from a pitcher into it. “I apologize— for. Making such an assumption.”

“No need to apologize.” He soothes and lays a hand over yours. “I’m aware of what the vast majority of the Luofu assumes my secondary gender to be. It does not bother me. If it did, I would have corrected the greater public long ago. I apologize for not telling you directly until now.”

“It’s— okay,” you reply. Perhaps a bit hurt. “I never asked. I just— I just thought. Wrong.”

(Please be kinder to yourself, he thinks. It hurts to see you saddened on my account.)

“Nonsense,” he laughs and gracefully takes the water you offer. He downs the glass down his parched throat. He— hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “No harm done. If anything, I’m grateful that you now know.”

(Regardless of how it could change your feelings toward him.)

Jing Yuan has tempered heartbreak for millenia. Another one— is not nothing, but it is manageable. Perhaps not during preheat, but he still has time to mourn. 

“I’m glad too,” you tell him, and squeeze back his hand. You only scent him sometimes, always so shy about it, but now you firmly rub the scent gland in your wrist against his. His aches, and the sensation and exchange of pheromones nearly makes him wheeze. He straightens his spine. 

“Was that—?” You almost pull away.

“No, it’s very welcome.”

You stare at him, intent and soft, before settling. Tentatively, you rub at the gland in gentle circles.

“You should eat,” you say after a moment. “Do you have an alpha I can call? Or— um, anything you need me to pick up for you?”

“I am fine.” Jing Yuan will text Qingzu for the essentials, rather than troubling you. “I’ll finish lunch with you, and then see myself home.”

“... No alpha to pick you up?”

“None to speak of, no.” Jing Yuan manages a smile.

(It has been— centuries since Jing Yuan had an alpha to care for and stake a claim on him. The notion of finding another has been put out of his mind since he himself had to confine Dan Feng to the Shackling Prison and exile the man Yingxing became. Even after meeting them as they are today, Jing Yuan knows they are no longer his mates.)

“Oh.” 

Every one of your emotions is so clearly on your face. You look so sad for him and you squeeze his hand. He has half a mind to pull away, and remind you that he does not need your worry. However, he is in pre-heat, and by Lan, he is craving worry.  

“And... heatmates?” You ask. “I don’t want to pry, but it’s hard to spend a heat alone.”

“Once again, none.” Jing Yuan replies without hesitating. The silence that follows is poignant as you study him. 

“I see.” You frown again, clearly thinking. Jing Yuan can see the thoughts turning around just behind your eyes. You pile on even more fruits to his plate. “Eat, eat. You need it.”

“This much fruit will give me a stomach ache, I fear.”

“Some of it, at least!” You huff at him. “For me, please?”

Jing Yuan meets your gaze, easy and soft. There’s no threat, only the heat that matches your scent and the feel that radiates in his chest.

(You are not his alpha. You are something entirely different— something that he wants so badly to hold.)

“For you.”

...

By the end of lunch (in which, Jing Yuan does manage to eat a decent amount of the fruit you’d put on his plate), Jing Yuan’s pre-heat has begun to simmer into a more uncomfortable territory. He desperately wants to shed his uniform and armor, and slip into a robe and no bottoms. He hasn’t begun to slick yet, but he will surely start to by sundown.

Jing Yuan stands after the meal, stretching. It’s proper afternoon now, and the birds of the garden chirp eveningsong. 

“Jing Yuan?” You ask as he stretches his arms above his head. His name sounds lovely in your mouth.

He hums, “Yes?”

“Do you want a heatmate?” You ask quietly. 

He looks at you. 

You’re fiercely meeting his gaze, even though you’re clearly struggling to. Your bottom lip is tucked between your teeth, and you’re fighting a frown from the crinkles on your forehead. Regardless, you stand your ground and ask a question that is surely difficult to broach, especially so directly.

“I—I am offering.” You stammer. “To clarify.”

“To be my heatmate?”

“Yes— I hate to think of you suffering alone, Jing Yuan. If I can be by your side to ease it, if only a little, I would like to be.”

“That is very brave of you to ask.” He smiles with a tilt of his head. “And bold.”

“I— I’m being honest.” You almost whine. It’s so cute. “Is that a no?”

“No, not at all.” Jing Yuan replies. “However, I wouldn’t want you to help solely for my benefit. If you wish to enter my nest exclusively to be an aid, and not out of... personal wants, I would feel guilty.”

“It’s— it’s personal wants too.”

“... Is it now?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Even though I’m not an alpha, as you thought?”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain.”

“ Yes, Jing Yuan.” 

“I cannot give you a knot—”

“I do not need one!” You break, much to Jing Yuan’s amusement. “I am happy to be by your side, regardless of that! If anything, I’m more than happy to share a nest with you without the assurance of a limp and a potential pup.”

Jing Yuan smiles, almost unrestrained, and your cheeks heat deliciously. 

You stammer, and poke at his chest, “You’re teasing me—!”

“I apologize, you must forgive me—”

“ Rude—!”

Your bury your face in his chest and nuzzle there. It’s— clearly a self soothing action, one you realize a moment too late isn’t quite proper. You stiffen, beginning to draw away, before Jing Yuan catches you by your scruff and holds you there. 

“You’re alright,” He holds a wide palm there. “I apologize for teasing you. I mean so warmly.”

“... Scoundrel.” The sound muffles into his chest.

“Am I?”

You peer up at him, so warm in the cheeks and eyes... almost watery. Something in his chest feels sticky and molten. 

“ Yes—” You dare to meet his eyes again. “But, one I’m very fond of.”

Jing Yuan steels himself.

You are an omega. It is not your pheromones addling his mind. There is clarity in the attraction and affection he has for you, one not influenced by the urge to be knotted and bred. Though, Jing Yuan wants that, maybe part of him needs it. There is a trunk full of toys and implements he has tucked away that will sate the urge. The feelings that he carries for you will not so easily be placated.

“I would like it very much if you were to share my heat with me,” He speaks softly, just for the two of you to hear. Not even the garden birds will know his words. “If you are still offering.”

“Yes,” You say quickly, tentatively wrapping your arms around his waist. “Yes.”

He chuckles, easy and low, and presses his nose into your hair. Perhaps it’s pre-heat, making him sentimental and mushy. He usually hides out and bears it alone in his comfiest nest so these feelings typically do not get expressed in any other way other than delirious, anguished cries while a knotting toy takes the edge off. 

Jing Yuan finds these are nice to indulge, as your scent envelopes him.

...

“I lied earlier,” Jing Yuan says as you enter the threshold of his estate. “I apologize sincerely.”

“Oh?” You ask with a tilt of your head, accepting a pair of house slippers eagerly. “... What about?”

“I am in pre-heat unexpectedly. Though I have been tapering suppressants for an anticipated heat, it has come far earlier than planned . Things are... not as I would like them. You’ll need to excuse me for a few moments.”

Jing Yuan, like any omega, is particular about his home and nest, especially around his heat. He knows his home and inner chambers are not to his liking and he’ll need to prepare them. Even if you aren’t an alpha entering his nest, you are a guest and companion he is very fond of. You deserve only the best.

“Of course, whatever you need,” you assure him. “Do you need me to grab anything while you do so? I don’t mind running to the market—”

Jing Yuan turns on his heel, grabbing your arm firmly, “You’re not leaving.”

“O-Oh.”

Your eyes widen, and heat rises in your cheeks. Your throat bobs as you swallow and nod. Jing Yuan— were he not in pre-heat, would perhaps be a bit embarrassed by his brazeness. However, now? The idea of you leaving his home sends him reeling. You cannot leave— not until you smell like him and his nest. Not until— not until this is over.

“I sent a request to Qingzu to fetch us a few things during the walk over. She’ll be here shortly. I do, however, have a bowl of fruit that could be cut up while I get myself sorted. How does that sound?” 

You nod eagerly, happy to follow instruction. Jing Yuan knows this about you and enjoys it thoroughly.

He sets you up in the kitchen with a bowl of sunsiettas, a box of meldberries, and a few bunches of perfectly ripe, round kaishen grapes. Jing Yuan leaves you to the task, which he can already tell you will do dutifully. You thrive off of praise and direction. It’s a dangerous trait of an omega to carry, even more terrifying to hold openly as you do. Jing Yuan knows it has burned you before.

However, he intends to indulge you well and kindly, as it pleases him very much.

His mind, far-too warm and itchy, yearns to spin fantasies as he locks himself in his room with a shake of his head. 

He must keep it together. Just for awhile longer. His bed is— not a nest. Not the nest he wants (needs) it to be. His duvet, thick and luxurious as it is, needs a fluffing and a fresh scenting. His pillows are not arranged to his liking, and he needs to poke through his linen closet and add some extra layers as well. He needs to make sure there’s lube nearby with clean toys. Water out. His phone charged and volume on— (though, he already sent a message to Qingzu stating his heat has hit and he’ll be out for at least a week. ‘Defer to Diviner Fu :3’ , which is Jing Yuan’s payment to Lady Fu for the list of errands he had sent her.)

Jing Yuan shakes his head with a laugh. The little alpha will certainly be pleased when she hear she’ll get to play General for a while. 

Pre-heat drives him forward. He sheds his many layers (without aid, which is objectively a headache and he regrets not asking you for assistance initially. However, Jing Yuan is fairly certain that if he were to be fully bare around you, regardless of his pre- heat or not, he may jump you and drag you into his nest—)

Pre-heat is also making him somewhat irrational.  

He throws on his favored robe, a silken, cream-colored garment with delicate gold and red embroidery around the hems. The sleeves drape at his wrists and a sash ties it snugly around his waist. The itch that’s been rolling around just under his skin feels duller, with the less restrictive garment. The fabric crosses over his chest in a way that is... revealing. Probably too revealing, under any other circumstance, especially given that you have never seen him in anything less than his daily regalia. 

The thought of looking so indecent around you has its allure to it. One that Jing Yuan lets himself entertain with a smitten smile as he works.

He is attracted to you, surely. This he knows and has known. 

Jing Yuan acknowledges that this is both emotional and physical. You are dear to him, truly. In a way that is unique to any of the connections, he holds in the present. Your presence is one he thoroughly enjoys, and, more than once, (many times), has craved during his late-evening ruminations in his courtyard. He— has thought about inviting you over, if for nothing else than a chat in the moonlight and tea or wine to your preference, however—

He has always stopped himself.

Yearning, he will allow in the ways he has learned to manage it over the centuries. Small doses of longing that can be enjoyed and swallowed down, without festering. Being brazen with his wants and feelings is... slipperier. Especially concerning you, as you are dear to him, and Jing Yuan, for better or for worse, would like to share space with you for as long as he can manage. 

This attraction is regardless of secondary gender. 

Jing Yuan has not cared about secondary gender for a great while (since he shared a bed with a short-lived alpha and one of Long’s Scions, who, like all Vidyadhara, did not have a secondary gender at all.) 

Your presentation as an omega was never a deterrent to him. If anything, it was something of a comfort. Jing Yuan was claimed long ago, and he knows that no alpha’s claim will feel the same as Yingxing’s and he wouldn’t want anyone, especially you, to attempt to emulate it. The ownership of a claim was not something he sought. Jing Yuan has had his heart broken enough for this lifetime. He is sure you could rend his heart asunder, however it would not be in the way of losing a mate that he is biologically tied to. 

Statistically, Jing Yuan is lucky that such a loss did not cause him to become Mara struck five hundred years ago.

He is very content with whatever your relationship could become. If nothing else, the prospect of it allures him. Especially now that you know his presentation and clearly seem undeterred yourself. If— if anything. Your scent calmed and cooled when he’d told you on the terraces. 

Another thing that Jing Yuan will have to parse when he isn’t so wet that he’s leaving puddles in his wake. 

For now, Jing Yuan’s nest is satisfactory aside from a few personal items. 

Now, all it’s missing is you. 

...

Jing Yuan does not find you in the kitchen, but rather the foyer, wishing Qingzu a goodbye with a wave and shout. 

Jing Yuan must—

(Temper his instincts because you are far too close to the door and you need to be in his nest and his teeth need to be in you and his scent on you—)

“Jing Yuan,” you say to him warmly, with a smile. There are a few canvas bags on your arms. “How are you feeling—?”

Jing Yuan can’t stop himself from dragging you away from the tall set of doors and back to the kitchen. You squawk at his firmness, but don’t reject his touch. He helps you heft the bags onto a low table. His own arms shake, with both the strain and his own heat-induced weakness.

“It’s really progressing, huh?” You tentatively raise a hand, and place it on his forearm to stroke there.

Jing Yuan practically purrs when you rub over the silken fabric, “It is. Quickly. However, my nest and appropriate supplies are ready. Did Qingzu deliver all that I asked?”

“It seems so.”

There are— three more bottles of lube. A few pearly-looking medicine pills, a specialty item from the Alchemy Commission. Several stacks of ready-made meals and electrolyte powder. There are several vials of milky-looking oils he had her grab for more scandalous purposes as Jing Yuan would like to avoid any type of friction abrasion. Lastly, there are few unmarked boxes with new toys.

“You’re so well-prepared.” Your eyes are wide as you take stock of the haul. Jing Yuan bundles things into a basket and ushers you to his nest.

“I have gone through many heats,” he chuckles. “I have learned the best tricks.”

“I-I can see.”

As you enter his bedroom, you stare at his nest with wide eyes. You jump when Jing Yuan locks the door.

“... Is that alright?” Jing Yuan asks.

“Yes, yes, of course. I just—” You swallow. “I haven’t ever helped another omega through a heat. If you have any pointers or preferences, let me know while you’re still in your full mind, please? I’d like to make this as comfortable for you as possible.”

Jing Yuan thinks for a moment. With a tilt of his head, he rests his hands on your shoulders. Your scent is spiced, a bit nervous, but also undeniably aroused. Your gaze darts down to his exposed collarbones and chest, then quickly back up to his eyes. Heat rises fiercely in your cheeks. 

“Your presence will be helpful in and of itself,” he assures you with a squeeze. Carefully, he hooks his thumbs on your outer garment and pulls it down, undoing buttons and ties along the way. Your lips part, breath hot. “I’ll guide you as I need. My heats tend to be mild, though they do last a full week. There will be lulls, which I tend to be quite worn out during. I’ll need your assistance more than anything.”

You nod, taking in his response. 

Jing Yuan— he’s holding it together. Slick is beginning to drip down his inner thighs and there’s an ache in his core that feels heavier and hotter by the minute. However, he does want to do this part slowly. He prides himself on his patience. Piece by piece, he takes off your day clothes and tosses them into his nest. Without them, your scent is stronger. Your neck is bare from any topical or adhesive blockers.

“During the rest of it though?” You ask, softly. “When you’re in the throes of it.”

Jing Yuan hums, letting a shaking hand rest on the curve of your waist, “I’m not certain. It’s been quite some time since I’ve shared a heat with anyone.”

“... Really?”

“Yes.” Jing Yuan presses his lips to your forehead without thinking. The heat of it, of you, sinks into his own. He feels like he’s going to burn up. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes.” You answer, and push yourself closer to his neck. Your lips part to taste his scent on the back of your tongue. “You are a catch. I know you have quite the lineup of suitors... I just assumed.“

“You also assumed I was an alpha.”

“The General is a skillful liar.”

Jing Yuan clicks his tongue, sliding a hand below your last garments. Satin, lacey things that are almost sheer. Thin. He could tear them easily, but doesn’t. His touch lingers.

“ Jing Yuan,” he reminds you. You stammer before pitching into him. He carefully walks the two of you backwards. His legs are close to giving out. “And I’d like to think of it as a skillful withholding of unnecessary information.”

“ Jing Yuan is very good with his words,” You murmur into the soft skin of his neck, lingering around one of the scent glands there. They ache, sore and unstimulated.

So carefully, you stretch up on your tiptoes to nose at one of them. Your scents bloom together and his eyes almost roll back into his head at the meld of it, the relief and rush of connection. 

It’s the last push Jing Yuan needs before dragging you into his nest with a stifled moan. Coherency is shattered and all he can do is crave, crave, crave.

...

You are a good heatmate.

Astoundingly good. Attentive, kind, and so soft. It’s a relief to Jing Yuan, who’s heat-addled mind is so used to loneliness and cold. You do not have the scent or knot of an alpha, but you’re more than enough. It’s presence and comfort in a way Jing Yuan so, so missed. It’s enough in a different way— and that difference is good. 

(You are not Yingxing or Dan Feng, and Jing Yuan is grateful that you aren’t.)

Jing Yuan finds himself on his back, with you wrapped around him. You let him pillow his cheek against your collarbone. His nose presses against your scent gland, and he pants against it with an open mouth and spit slicked lips. Your hand lays over his chest, cupping his breast while gently thumbing over his nipple. He’s so swollen there, aching.

He cries out as you pinch, as if it could relieve any of the pressure roiling around under his skin.

You curl closer into him with your lips against his temple. “Does that feel good?”

He can only keen and hope you understand that it’s a plea for more. 

You must because a moment later you’re squeezing with your entire hand. It’s— too big of a handful for you. Your fingers are soft and your touch gentle. The visual of the plump flesh of his chest bulging out from between your fingers rewires Jing Yuan’s brain for a craving he never knew possible. A rush of slick gushes from his cunt and— it’s so much. He lurches into your neck, licking blindly at your scent gland. Vaguely, he notices you stiffen and your scent grows a little sharper. 

It’s worry. Jing Yuan can’t have that.

With every ounce of his strength, Jing Yuan rolls you below him, and sits on your hips. You let him, so pliant and agreeable, and lay below him. Jing Yuan’s breath catches and drool slips to the corners of his mouth.

You are beautiful. You look debauched, and you’re not the one in heat. You’re flushed and damp with sweat, just as he is. The robe he’d draped you in is mostly open, revealing supple skin and your last bastion of modesty in the form of a cute pair of panties that Jing Yuan will fantasize about later. 

You look up at him in awe, lust-hazed just like him. There’s little composure to be had as your fists ball up in the sheets around his thighs. Your gaze goes glassy as you look from his face down to where he’s seated atop you and back again.

“No teeth,” he assures you. It is the last coherent thought he has, if only to provide your some comfort.

You look up at him sweetly and nod, grabbing the plump flesh above his hips. “No teeth.”

(A claim wouldn’t take, anyway. Not really. Omega-to-omega pairings lack the necessary pheromones to stake a claim on each other. The most it would do would indicate that whoever has been bitten is a submissive-leaning packmate. Which— Jing Yuan actually would not mind biting you. He would like his teeth in your neck if you would ever allow him.)

He groans at the thought, lowering his head as a silver mane of hair spills around his face.

Jing Yuan is drenched and hard, leaking from the tip of his cock and seam of his cunt. It’s— filthy. You’re soaked too, with a mix of him and undoubtedly yourself too, though Jing Yuan can’t scent it over the smell of his own heat. It’s regrettable as he is sure the mix of you must be divine. Heavenly. 

He wants it in his mouth.

Jing Yuan slinks down your body, licking and sucking at patches of your skin. You try to bat him off, haul him up and away from your own leaking sex, but he resists. He needs a taste or he’ll die, probably. His heat can be quelled in a number of ways, he presumes.

With his face buried in your cunt, surrounded by your scent, the ache for a knot is dulled. When you cry out on his tongue, it is almost deafened.

Jing Yuan drinks you up— he should pay more mind to your clit, probably, if he wants to get you off properly. However, he is so immensely distracted by your entrance and the essence of you that’s leaking out. There’s a rapidly widening damp spot beneath your ass. A steady flow that Jing Yuan needs in him. 

He seals his mouth over your cunt, and prods his tongue inside of you. He presses so close, suffocating with his nose tight to your clit, to lap at your insides. 

You— you wail above him. Your hands bury in his increasingly tangled mess of hair for any sort of leverage. Jing Yuan doesn’t let up; he doesn’t think he can. Your tone crashes into one that’s softer, more airy, begging for more. For less. Jing Yuan can’t entirely tell. He isn’t sure he cares, truthfully. All he knows is that your thighs tighten around his head with each suck and slurp.

The sound of it is heavenly.

Your thighs press around his face. Flush to his cheeks are the scent glands in the apex of your inner thighs. Not everyone has them, as they’re something of a recessive trait among all secondary genders. The scent that comes off them is your own, however muskier and deeper. It sticks to the inside of his nose and pours down his throat like a nectar. You mewl when he breaks away to lap at one, coaxing out more of the scent. He gluts himself on it.

He needs, he needs, he needs.

“Jing Yuan,” you pant above him, propping yourself up with one arm while the other blindly reaches among his nest. “Do you need it? Knot?”

He— 

(He needs to be filled. He isn’t picky if that feeling is quenched with his cunt, ass, throat, or nose. The scent of you is almost enough, even if he clenches down on nothing and feels hollow in his belly. The sensations are so dull with you nearby. He feels heat incensed, but in a way that craves closeness with you and not the manic pursuit of a knot.)

It’s refreshing. Jing Yuan regrets not propositioning you for this treatment sooner.

“Are you offering?” Jing Yuan purrs. He places his thumbs over the scent glands of your inner thighs and presses down on the swell of them, just under your skin.

Your back bends off the bed and you throw your hand over your mouth. Teary eyes meet him and you nod. From the folds of the nest, you pull forth a knotting toy with a shaking grip. 

It’s beautiful for a toy. It’s a model that Jing Yuan had seen in a few high-end adverts on the few social medias he moonlighted on. It’s a flesh-like plastic cock, with an inflatable knot at the base. A little, wired remote drags along the blankets of his nest as you hold the phallus out to him. The plastic of the toy is a light gold, cut with veins of blue. It looks otherworldly and unreal. Jing Yuan has never cared for much realism with his toys, though this one is human enough. 

He makes a mental note to get Qingzu a bouquet for purchasing it for him on such short notice. 

The head of it feels cool against his cunt. It’s a welcome sensation as it feels like his body is burning up from the insight. He lays over you, wrestling you a bit to be flat below him, with his thighs caging yours. He growls when you try to grab the toy from his hands to assist.

It makes you pause.

Your soft palms cup his cheeks, “Do you not want me to help?”

“The angle—” The angle won’t be right, Jing Yuan wants to say. His words feel lost in his throat as he slowly begins to push inside himself. He gasps and tries to duck into your neck, to like and suck at the gland there and feast on your scent.

“I can try—?”

“ No.” 

Jing Yuan wants you just like this. In his nest, smelling like him and arousal and safety. The toy that’s sliding into his cunt is mostly irrelevant, as is the twitch of his cock as he slowly and methodically fucks the toy into himself. Little by little, he bullies it into his underused hole. The stretch is— is not bad. It would be far more uncomfortable if he weren’t in heat and pouring slick. 

You ask more quietly, just as he bottoms out. You still haven’t let go of his face. “Are you sure?” 

He is, but he can’t find the words to say so. Instead, he nods and tucks himself closer to you. You pet down the back of his neck and push on his scent glands. They ache with his heat. The pressure and direct contact makes him grunt as he adjusts to the toy in his cunt.

You hush him and nuzzle in his cheeks, “You’re doing so well. So good, Jing Yuan.”

He keens and pulls back the toy cock, only to shove it back into himself a moment later. Praise from you is a drug. He’s sure. You’re unbearably earnest and sweet and you are too kind to him. You whisper more of them into his ear as he fucks himself, deep and slow. He feels the sentiment of your words more than he hears it. Deeply affectionate and caring. If he were more lucid, he would be disarmed by you, speechless even. Perhaps he is already speechless, but he blames that on the heat haze and how the head of the toy is pressing deliciously into his sweet spot.

He narrows his focus on the spot and fucks him on the toy in earnest.

Jing Yuan will have an arm ache after this. Many aches, actually. It will be worth it. It is easiest to bear with you underneath him, tilting your hips up to grind against his dripping cock. It’s not the friction his body craves, but it’s welcome. It sends sparks down his spine and he whines into your neck. 

You nip at his neck, high on the side of it, and Jing Yuan lets loose a cracking moan. It’s almost embarrassingly loud. Were Jing Yuan able to feel shame in that moment, he’d be red-faced.

Instead, he tips his head to the side, allows you room to mouth and suck marks as you desire. You catch on quickly, and hum, licking broad stripes and soaking him in your scent. Your marks. It surrounds him.

He fucks himself on the toy faster.

(It’s nothing like the heats he had while he was mated with Yingxing and Dan Feng. Not at all. They were shorter, back then. Perhaps it was his youth or the relentless pace and haze Yingxing kept that burned Jing Yuan out faster. Or, maybe it was that Dan Feng always made sure he was wrung out, despite not craving him in the same way Yingxing had. It was carnal then. It still is now, but it does not feel as manic. You are gentle without qualifiers, sweet without expectation, and happy to let him rut into you and back onto the toy as much as he pleases. Your kisses are bruising, but not bloody like Dan Feng’s. There’s a different pace, a different scent, and a different intent.)

Jing Yuan once enjoyed the desperation that Yingxing put into everything he did (including him). He had fallen in love with Dan Feng for his poetics and distanced care. You have neither of these. It is unfair, ultimately, for Jing Yuan to draw comparison. 

Perhaps, he’ll feel guilty over it later. For now, his arm gives out and he falls into your chest with a keen. His back arches, hips raised, and the new angle is so, so good. You run your hands through his hair, and move your thigh, just right, so he can grind on it to his heart’s content.

He’s close; he can feel it in his belly.

What sends him over the edge is the feel of your lips against his hairline, the way your lips have curled into a soft, easy smile as you kiss him there. You stroke down his back, like how a good lover would.

You are a good lover. 

He shudders as orgasm grips him. The sound that rips from his throat is shattering, as overwhelming as the heat that boils over in his guts. And you are such a good lover, that the little remote must have already been in your hand, as in the moment he comes, the knotted base of the toy begins to swell. Jing Yuan can’t— can’t chase his orgasm. He can feel his eyes growing wet while his body feels out of his control (he hates that, he really does). You, however, are a good lover and reach and stretch, matching his angle with the toy and fuck him through it yourself. The knot catches once inside him, then a second time, and with the third, it locks him and the toy together.

And with what can only be called a sob, Jing Yuan fully collapses on top of you.

He can’t keep himself upright, he realizes. His thighs tremble terribly, and his arms are the same. His eyes are filled with tears he didn’t expect and doesn’t know what to do with. It feels vulnerable. Too vulnerable, in a way that Jing Yuan has avoided for centuries now. 

Before the feeling can consume him, you’re coaxing him onto his side and wrapping yourself around him. A sheet gets pulled atop the both of you and you’re nosing into him wherever you can.

“It’s okay,” You tell him. “You’re okay, I promise.”

A muffled sound that comes from your throat, followed by the low roll of a purr. 

Oh. 

All for him?

He shoves himself closer, skin to skin in all the spots he can reach. His tongue laves at your scent glands as his cunt flutters around the toy. He claws at your back before locking his arms around your waist. 

You’re purring for him.

He can help but do the same, even chirping without meaning to as he nips at your jaw. Jing Yuan trails his lips to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. You curl and laugh at his touch, and Jing Yuan steals the lovely sounds from you with a kiss. It’s something deep and consuming, and Jing Yuan needs more of the taste of you. You squirm into it, gasping and opening your mouth for him to explore as he needs. Your openness continues to undo him. 

It’s all the reassurance he needs. Any poisonous feelings fall away, and Jing Yuan, for the first time in far too long, finds himself content and knotted. 

...

Jing Yuan has never had a heat quite like this one.

It is certainly more mild, and certainly a bit shorter than what he was expecting. The worst of it lasts five days, followed by three days that he can’t quite call post-heat. Though the desire in him is less feverish, he still craves your presence so much it hurts, and the idea of you being out of his nests sends him into a toothy panic those days. The ‘no teeth’ rule is modified to allow some biting, as long as it doesn’t involve any scent glands.

(However, Jing Yuan still would not mind putting a claiming bite on you. He makes a note to bring this up when he’s feeling some clarity of mind and can... attempt to court you properly.)

The most intense days of his heat are spent with a knotting toy in his cunt, rutting against your soft thighs, or with your hands wrapped around his cock. He eats you out whenever he can muster up the energy to shimmy between your legs and luxuriate there. Any down time is spent dozing in the warm sun rays that his bedroom is perfectly placed to receive. 

The latter days of his heat, Jing Yuan is more lucid. 

It’s in those days he truly enjoys his heat. Though the burn of arousal still lays within him, it is easily tempered with your presence in his nest and your many shared bite marks. Your time awake is spent lazily kissing, speaking in low voices, and sharing laughter and cups of cool water, one after the other. 

Jing Yuan, partially, did not think he would ever get to experience this type of connection again. with you or any other partner. The intimacy of the act is so deeply vulnerable, and after the spiritual loss of both Yingxing and Dan Feng, he never endeavored, or wanted to endeavor to, open himself up in that way again.

He, perhaps, convinced himself he did not need to.

(Nevermind the many nights, both heat-addled and otherwise, Jing Yuan spent craving nesting companions. Nevermind how many nights Jing Yuan lay alone, accepting his losses and mourning mates he’d never hold again. Jing Yuan could never choose to be selfish.)

It helped when Yanqing was little. He was just a small pup with golden eyes like Jing Yuan’s and a fiery spirit, even when he was so small. Jing Yuan had never considered himself maternal, however having a pup to take care of brought out latent instincts he’d spent the better part of his life pretending didn’t exist. As Yanqing aged, however, he was less receptive to such affections and connections. After presenting (far too young, poor thing, traumatized body), Yanqing wouldn’t share a nest with Jing Yuan unless he fell ill. Even then, Jing Yuan would have to coax him into it.

It quenched something in him. It allowed Jing Yuan to let himself care in the direct way he craved. With his position as General, how often does get to show care with his hands, and not with his words or stratagems? Not with sacrifice or poetry, but with his body and scent. 

Jing Yuan realizes now that there truly have been so many urges and behaviors Jing Yuan simply did not indulge.

And as his heat breaks, Jing Yuan thinks he’d like to start indulging them more.

...

On the last day of his heat, you stir around nightfall. You are exhausted, Jing Yuan knows this. Though his heat has provided him with a surprising amount of stamina, you are in standard condition, and looked wrung out halfway through day two of his heat. Jing Yuan’s grateful you’re as fond of midday naps as he is. 

You are cradled against his chest, your cheek pillows on his breast. He’d thrown a robe on while washing up, and hadn’t elected to remove it. The silky texture of it feels lovely against his flushed, sensitive skin. You seem to enjoy it too as you grip at the fabric of it in your sleep, nuzzling into his chest.

Your brow scrunches and a little sound pops from your throat as you try to burrow closer. It’s a hopelessly sweet gesture, desperate and honest. Jing Yuan can’t help but chuckle and smooth a hand over your mussed-up hair.

When your eyes crack open, your voice is raw, “‘S morning?”

“No, nighttime.” Jing Yuan nods to the darkened window.

You raise yourself up just enough to look, hum, and then fall back on top of him, “Feels like it should be morning.”

“We haven’t been keeping a very consistent sleeping schedule,” Jing Yuan rarely does, but he imagines that you and your position with the Sky Faring Commission have quite a regular routine. “You can keep resting.”

“I don’t wanna’,” Though, you shove your nuzzle into his chest, smearing him with your scent. “I wanna stay up and talk to you.”

“Me?” Jing Yuan smiles, smitten. He pinches your cheek. “About anything in particular?”

“... Not yet.” Your eyes slip closed. “Maybe later. I want to say things to you, but I feel... mushy. Inside my head.”

“Pheromone drunk?”

“‘Something like that,” Your words slur. “Not that I’m complaining. You smell so good, Jing Yuan.”

When you say his name, he shudders. The hand that’s been playing with your hand slips to your nape and squeezes. You keen at the contact and tangle your legs with his. It’s an impossible amount of closeness you are seeking, but Jing Yuan must attempt to give it to you. It’s abashed and honest, and in the stillness of night, how can he not indulge?

“Do I?”

“ Mhm.”

“Like what?” 

You’re falling asleep, clearly. You’re struggling to keep your eyes open even as you inhale deeply. Your lips part and you take his scent into your mouth. 

“Earth after rain,” You hum. “Sunbeam and linen. Warm milk.”

He squeezes you.

(A long time ago, Yingxing had complained about his scent. ‘Complained’. His face had been flushed crimson, telling him how distracting his sweet, rich scent had been. Dan Feng thought it was the funniest thing, considering Yingxing so clearly enjoyed Jing Yuan’s scent, as did he. They’d described it similarly— “petrichor” Dan Feng had told Jing Yuan while sweeping his mane back from his neck— “the smell of sunshine” Yingxing had told Jing Yuan after berating him.)

“How complementary.” Jing Yuan purrs and pulls you closer by the waist. Your face is smushed against his chest, but you don’t complain. You keep your lips parted to enjoy his scent. “And you like it?”

“So much,” You assure him, droopy-eyed. 

So good for him, so so good.

Jing Yuan presses the tip of his finger to your lips, a bit chapped from the dehydration and exertion. You chirp with it, a bit more awake.

He hushes you, and pushes his finger further into his mouth, “Sleep now, dear. You need to rest.”

“‘So do ya’,” You try to say, though it comes out garbled as Jing Yuan lays his finger on the flat of your tongue. Your eyes widen and go a bit crossed to look at his wrist, then up to his eyes. 

Jing Yuan isn’t entirely sure what compels him, but something does. Gently, he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. He idles there, and pets down your side.

“I’ll sleep soon, I’m sure you know.” Jing Yuan says softly. “Will you indulge me?”

(He asks to be selfish.)

Without hesitating, you nod.

(And you let him.)

Jing Yuan doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s the specific sweetness his scent must take on, or the night air in contrast to the warmth and comfort of his nest, but you understand what he wants and give it to him without so much as a word.

Your lips open a little wider and Jing Yuan slips another finger inside. You stroke your tongue on his fingers as you close your mouth, eyes going dazed and heavy-lidded. You take a deep breath, inhaling his scent into the deepest parts of your lungs. You suck on his fingers gently. 

Jing Yuan watches with still, even breaths.

Later, he will analyze why this scratches so many itches in his brain. Why his post-heat mind feels more calm and sated than he thought possible. Why he wants more of this, always, even if he doesn’t have a name for it yet.

For now, he is so, so content to have you this way. You are lulled back to sleep so easily, sucking on his fingers with your cheek still smushed against his breast. Even as you sleep, Jing Yuan doesn’t remove his fingers. He explores the inside of your mouth with gentle, easy pressure, so as to not wake you. It’s exploratory, more than anything. 

He plays with you in such a way until he’s too drowsy to continue. Satisfied and warm, he drags you under the covers and holds you close, scenting you one last time before letting himself fall into a contented, new kind of sleep.

...

You depart suddenly, while Jing Yuan is in the kitchen deftly chopping fruits and assembling little parfaits. 

You had been in his bathroom, freshening up with whatever products you’d like from his stash. Jing Yuan had left you your own robe for when you exited, quietly beaming that he’d have yet another article with your scent on it.

However, when you do leave the bathroom, you are fully dressed in the day clothes you arrived in a week ago. You stand at the doorway of his kitchen, pausing, wide-eyed.

“I n-need to go,” Your voice wavers, like you’re going to be ill.

Something squeezes in between Jing Yuan’s ribs. There are thin, transparent patches on your neck on either side. Scent blockers. Your eyes look watery. Jing Yuan immediately sets down the knife he had been working with.

“Is everything alright?” asks Jing Yuan. He knows something is wrong, even if he can’t smell you, you’re clearly distressed and disheveled.

“It’s— it’s nothing. It’ll be okay.” You tell him. Your voice trembles and you shake your head. 

“Are you sure? I can help.”

“It’s— it’s really nothing. I need to leave. I-I’m really sorry.”

You look from him to the foyer that leads to his front door and back again. There’s a desperate look in your eye that Jing Yuan has never seen with such an intensity before. It makes his heart ache and his hands feel clammy. He sighs.

(And a quiet, ever-present voice in his mind says, “they all leave, eventually.”)

“Alright.” Jing Yuan gives you a smile, the best he can muster. He knows it must be sadder than intended, as your expression falls and you look like you’ve been punched. 

“I’m so s-sorry.”

“It’s alright,” It isn’t. Not fully. “Handle whatever it is that you must. I’m only a call away. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

“Okay.” You take a shaking breath and shudder out the exhale. You’re trying not to cry and it takes everything in Jing Yuan’s being not to rush to you and attempt to mend whatever is causing you distress but—

(He can’t. He can’t do that. You have asked him to leave you be and Jing Yuan has spent his entire life honing his ability not to chase, even when he so, so badly wishes to.)

You give him one final, fleeting look, “Thank you. I— I’ll see you at our next lunch, okay? I’m sorry.”

It looks like there’s more you want to say, but you’re already out the door before you can. Jing Yuan hears it open and shut with a soft thud that vibrates throughout his home. It leaves Jing Yuan standing alone in his kitchen, frozen, while the robe he wears slips down his shoulders. He bears your marks, and reeks of your scent. His nest grows colder each minute. And though his heat has ended, the yearning for you has not.

If anything, the feeling is far stronger than it was before.

He latches onto the fact you will have your lunches. That— he will find some clarity then. That he can inspect you for damage during the next sunshine-filled meal you share, and prod to see if the last week and half did not carry the same type of... meaning for you, as it did Jing Yuan. He will need to make sure you’re well. He’ll fret until then, he knows this.

(A more dormant, possessive part of him wishes he snatched you back from his foyer and threw you back into his nest. If something was wrong, he could. If something needed fixing, he could help. If it were anything official for your work, Jing Yuan would pull any and all strings to get you out of the obligation. If you were hurt, Jing Yuan would do anything to see you better.)

Instead, Jing Yuan idles in his kitchen, feeling struck and helpless. Something in him aches, deep and low, and Jing Yuan lays a hand over his chest and squeezes it into a fist. He had thought he had become used to this type of loneliness, but it aches all the same.

#lore writes #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #hsr x reader #cw omegaverse #ITS HERE... ENJOY!! #part one hehe <33

[pictureinme]

kinktober day ii. HATE FUCK – jackson rippner

word count: ~700 tags: jealous/rough sex, fingering, degradation, semi-public masterlist | ao3

Slinking away from the group of guys you were halfheartedly flirting with, you head to the bathroom. Who cares that much about the stock market? Before you can even think about closing the door, Jackson’s hand snakes around your waist, pulling you harshly towards his chest.

“Did you really think you could pull that shit and get away with it?”

You bite back a subconscious moan, “Pull what? I’m just giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

“That’s what that was, huh?” his grip tightens, and you hear his breath quicken, “It wasn’t you just being a slut, begging to be fucked by strangers?”

Jackson lets go of you, only to slam the door and push you against it.

“This is my goddamn job, (Y/N),” the smell of his cologne permeates your senses, increasing your arousal. “You don’t get to have the same excuse. I own you.”

Your lust-filled eyes look up at him, and he begins to realize your true intentions.

“Oh, I see how it is. You wanted me to get all pissed, so you could get put in your place, yeah?”

His hand roughly pulls down your dress– revealing your chest to him and causing you to whimper.

“I hate seeing you with other women… I know it’s your job, but I fucking hate– ah!”

Jackson roughly fondles your breasts, enough to hurt, “Don’t try and explain yourself, you know what you got yourself into.”

Keeping one hand on your chest, he reaches the other to pull down your panties– quickly realizing you’re not wearing any. He rolls his eyes, tutting as he spreads your lips open.

You let him explore your body, taking what you both know is rightfully his.

“So wet, did those guys do this to you? Did they talk about passing you around?”

Shaking your head vehemently, you cry out, “No, no! You did this… it’s for you.”

“Hard to believe you when I saw the way you flirted with them,” his index finger enters your warmth, and you whine.

As quickly as he entered the first finger, he added two more, causing your whines to grow exponentially.

“You’re gonna take it, (Y/N), I know you need it,” his breath is hot against your ear. The constant stimulation was making you feel weak in the knees, but his hand kept you up.

“Please, please, Jackson!” You don’t even know what you’re pleading for, but he does.

He moves his hand from your breast to grab your jaw, “You’re gonna be good and quiet for me, unless you want those guys to hear?”

Jackson’s hand forces your head to nod, even if you tried your best to shake it the other way.

“You really are a whore, aren’t you?”

Trying to deny it, you open your mouth, but he shoves his fingers inside. Groaning around them, you obediently suck, despite his not asking. His fingers filling you up in two ways was making you tremble in delight, and you felt close.

He notices you clenching, and he chuckles, “Close already, (Y/N)? So desperate… I don’t think you deserve it.”

Jackson’s fingers muffle your cry of protest, but his fingering speeds up, making it that much harder for you. You begin to feel his hard-on through his slacks rubbing against you.

“Gonna make you come in this random fucking bathroom, like a real slut would, yeah?”

You moan, his fingers were unrelenting in both your mouth and your warmth. His dark eyes watched your expression, he wanted to see you fall apart, unable to resist your release.

“Dumb whore can’t even talk, can she?” You shudder violently, and he smiles.

“That’s right, come all over my fingers, you can’t even fight it…”

He groans as he feels you tighten around his fingers, spasming all the while. You subconsciously bite down on his other fingers, causing him to groan even louder.  As you calm down, he pulls away, watching your heavily breathing body still against the door.

“Meet me at the car,” Jackson exits the bathroom, pushing you aside. You exhale shakily, smiling. You were really in for it.

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #jackson rippner x reader #jackson rippner smut #kinktober 2023

[lululandd]

rabid; (i.)

pairing: platonic simon ‘ghost’ riley x gn!reader

word count: 956

warnings: comedy, aftermath of torture, mild gore

note: heheh >:3 (also on ao3)

summary:

ghost has a love-hate relationship with his neighbour of six years. on one hand they’re quiet enough, nice enough, considerate enough and never once had bothered him in any way, but on the other hand he is a highly trained soldier with highly trained senses and the things he hears travelling through his walls are batshit insane.

part i. | part ii. | part iii. | part iv.

He guesses they are an entertainer or a comedian or some sort because on rare occasions, they—whether he wanted to or not—made him laugh. The absurdity of the questions and things that came out of their mouth really makes him feel like he has a glimpse of what a worry free civilian life could be.

On one particularly rowdy night he heard the one sided conversation about anal, which rapidly escalated to how peoples arseholes can stretch up to seven inches in diameter and therefore, theoretically could fit two smaller raccoons.

He listened in fascinated horror how that thought came into their mind, how they associated arseholes with raccoons, and why in christ fuck did they sound so cheerful about it. Maybe he’s just a battle hardened, workaholic soldier that has only seen carnage and suffering, but even if such a thought came to his mind, it would not be classified as a happy thought and he would not laugh about it.

Until eight months later where he’s interrogating an American that he really wants to just straight up murder and remembers his neighbour.

He opens the door that leads to the rest of the warehouse and calls out to his men, “I need two raccoons. Small but not pups.”

He was met with silence and a confused looks, but he saw Gaz and Soap get on it and round up several soldiers.

“Alive!” He barked at them.

—

Soap looked worriedly at Gaz, “What do you think he’s gonna do with live raccoons?”

The other man shrugged, “You think he’s gonna threaten him with rabies?” Gaz gnashed his teeth together, “Let them bite him or something?”

One of the Lance Corporals behind them chimed, “I kinda wanna see.”

In came a chime of ‘yeah’s from the other men.

—

Ghost had made sure the American in question heard his request of the live raccoons before taking a seat on the table holding all his tools and lighting up a cigarette.

He looked at the man’s surroundings, the litter of teeth and nails on the floor, three parts of his severed ring finger, and the blood splatters on the makeshift plastic floor. The cleanup crew’s gonna at least be a little happy about that.

“You like raccoons, mate?” He offers, lighting what seemed to be his third cigarette.

The question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Raccoons. Trash pandas. Those chubby lil wankers with grubby hands.” He curled his palms and did mock scratching motions.

“You’re crazy.” He spat.

“I am.” For even thinking of trying this over his neighbour’s demented jokes.

Fourty five minutes later Gaz came knocking on his door.

“Got your furry friends, boss.” He gestures at a cage sitting by the door. The animals seemed calm, they couldn’t have just nicked it from some random bins and throw them in there.

“Cheers, Gaz.” He saw the man linger. “Anything else?”

“Can we observe, Sir?”

“No.” came his quick answer. If he really has to do what he thinks he’s gonna do, he’d rather his men not see it. They’ve seen so much in their line of work already, he doesn’t want to add to their nightmares.

Imagining one of them having PTSD from seeing a harmless animal makes him feel guilty.

He took the cage from Gaz’s hands and placed it nicely on the floor, a little way away from the American’s feet.

“You know that saying?” He puts on his best southern accent, mimicking Graves. “What crawled up your butt and died?”

The man’s eyes widened and he tried so hard to shift further into his seat, trying to create as much distance between them as possible. Ghost lets the moment go on for a little longer. It makes all the difference, really; whether you rush into the torture or letting them sit and wonder about the choices they think they have.

“I heard somewhere that your arse can stretch up to seven inches in diameter.” He pointed at the raccoons, “The normal sized bastards can fit into a four inch hole. But I’m being nice today and gonna give these smaller ones some wiggle room.”

He can’t help but crouch closer to the cage and coo at them as the man starts yelling for help.

“So.” He said in a calm voice, listing his head slowly when the man had stopped screaming his throat dry. “Since I’m a very nice man today I’m gonna give you two options.”

Fat rolls of tears had started to run down the man’s cheeks, his chest heaving as he begged for mercy.

“Do you want me to sedate these raccoons so they don’t claw your insides or do you wanna..” He remembers a word that floated into his flat one night, “..rawdog it?”

—

Soap had never seen a cleaner interrogation room before. Not from Ghost, the man’s usually so brutal about it. He remembers seeing parts of a live brain one time because Ghost had bashed their skull so badly and remembered having to shoot the person dead out of pity. But today? The intel was good, the man was still alive with almost all of his body parts; save for some of his teeth and nails and the chopped up finger,

and the raccoons.

They were alive and Ghost seemed to never have opened the cage at all.

—

When Ghost came home that month he heard his neighbour say something about a ‘little birthday celebration’ for tomorrow. He checked his watch and decided to walk to the bakery and get them some cake. That last operation went smoothly, and he has them to thank.

He can’t wait to hear what other mental things that will come out of their mouth in the future and apply them to his work.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #call of duty imagines #call of duty #scuffed writing

[katiexpunk]

Master List

Hi, I'm Katie! I'm just a lil fic writer trying to make her way on this hell site and write things that make people turned on happy. I write for Pedro Pascal characters, and will forever be a Joel Miller apologist. You'll catch me dead before I use Y/N. My requests are open. I love to make new friends, so feel free to slide into my DMs and ask me anything, send in a request, or just say hi.

I do not consent to my fics being fed to AI or used to make AI chat bots.

For fic updates, please follow my notifs blog: katiexpunkupdates

Also the fact that I have a masterlist blows my fucking mind. To all of my lovely followers and moots who have been with me on this journey, thank you for encouraging me, and for reading. Ilysm. Enjoy!x Most Recent Fics:

+ Fuck Me, Fill Me | Thoroughly Fucked, Thoroughly Filled (4/27) + Dream of Me (updated) | Dream of Me Part II (new)

🔥 smut | 🖤 fluff | 🕶️ dark/noncon/dubcon/DDDNE

Series

Sex On Fire - Complete 🔥🖤 Read on AO3 Pairing Firefighter!Joel Miller and Fem!reader | AU Series Summary: You're a country girl in the big city, thanks to your generous aunt. You expected to have adventures your first year in New York, but what you didn't expect was for your hot, firefighter neighbor, Joel, to be part of them.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

++++ To Protect & Serve - On Hiatus 🖤🔥

Pairing officer!Joel Miller and Fem!Reader | AU

Part 1

Parts 2-4: On hiatus from this WIP; I'll get there!

Series Summary: You're a small-town reporter, living a life dedicated solely to your work and the relentless pursuit of truth. It's all pretty routine, almost too easy, albeit exhausting. Little did you know that the one thing you could never have predicted was the arrival of Officer Joel Miller. Suddenly, your story takes an unexpected turn, writing itself in ways you could have only dreamt of as he shows you what it really means to protect and serve.

++++

28 Floors - Complete 🔥🖤 Read on AO3 Pairing Joel Miller and fem!Reader | AU Series Summary: You're a good girl. A senator's daughter who is always there to show your support to your father. What he doesn't know is that his best friend, Joel Miller, is practically the only real reason you show up to events to support him. After one night of schmoozing, you and Joel end up in an elevator alone together. Joel Miller has 28 floors with you, and you bet he's gonna use them.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

One Shots:

Desert Dust | Read on AO3 🔥🖤

Summary: You're a small-town waitress in a highway town in Arizona with a standard, safe life. You never really thought you needed more -- until you met Joel Miller.

++++ Fuck Me, Fill Me | Read on AO3 🔥🖤 Part 2, Thoroughly Fucked, Thoroughly Filled

Summary: Accidents happen all the time — people fall, knives slip, condoms break. You spent years successfully avoiding one. Except things are different now, you're ready for more. Your husband Joel is more than happy to oblige. ++++

Crying Over Spilt Detergent | Read on AO3 Pairing Joel Miller and fem!Reader | AU | 🔥🖤 Summary: You've had a no-good, really shitty, bad day. You decide to catch up on your growing laundry pile, only for your day to get worse as you make a giant mess of the detergent. Joel Miller helps you clean it up, and he cheers you up in the process. ++++

Daddy's Girl | Read on AO3 Pairing Joel Miller and fem!Reader | AU | 🔥🕶️ Summary: You and Joel end up at home in bed after a long night. You want to orgasm, so you decide to take matters into your own hands while Joel watches. Joel has other thoughts about the matter. ++++

Dream of Me | Dream of Me Part II | Read on AO3 Pairing Joel Miller and fem!Reader | AU | 🔥🕶️ Summary: In the dark of the night, temptation beckons. You make a silent vow to share your secret with Joel when he wakes tomorrow, but for now, you find yourself unable to resist this opportunity, much like the pulse between your thighs. ++++

The Art of Noticing - 🔥🖤🕶️ | Read on AO3 Pairing Joel Miller and fem!Reader | TLOU Universe Summary: In the hushed corners of this desolate world, where whispers of yesteryears linger among crumbling ruins, you find a peculiar kind of peace; just like you did when you fell asleep in the darkroom for the first time. Still armed with your camera, even in this new world, you try to keep your heart attuned to the silent narratives of a forsaken universe. You used to think this was your strong suit; to be able to immortalize the unnoticed, to preserve the beauty around you, even in a world of darkness. That was until it almost got you killed. And Joel Miller hates you for it. 

++++

Diner Girl - 🖤🔥🕶️ | Read on AO3 Pairing Joel Miller and female!Reader | AU Summary: You frequent your local dinner pretty often, not just because you love their pancakes with extra syrup, but because your best friend Sydney is a waitress there. You've heard her talk about her hot boss, Joel, every now and then but you've never had the pleasure of meeting him; that was until one morning, after getting unexpectedly laid off, you decided to drown your feels in syrup and love from your bestie. Joel offers you a job, and he shows you the ropes in more ways than one.

++++

Nightmare Before Christmas 🕶️🔥 | Read on AO3 Pairing dark!Joel Miller and Fem!Reader | AU

Summary: As an escort, you’ve found yourself in some pretty fucked up situations before. Years of experience have taught you to navigate such situations with a combination of tact and assertiveness. Most of the time the men who exude an air of sleaze shrivel back into the corner, embarrassed and limp dicked.  Most of the time.  Tonight is not one of those times. This one is dead dove do not eat. Mind the warnings.

++++

Asks:

Run the Table | Read on AO3 Pairing Joel & Tommy Miller and fem!Reader | AU 🔥

Summary: You're home for Christmas, only to find yourself there for the New Year. You decide to blow off some steam, only to end up at Joel's Place, your old local watering hole. Bits of your past get dredged up, and before you know it, Joel and Tommy have you bent over a pool table.

++++

Tell Me A Secret | Pairing Joel Miller and fem!Reader | TLOU Universe🔥

Summary: You're an artist. You aren't quick to share that fact, but Ellie is fast to figure it out. It’s not long before all of Jackson knows. Your favorite muse, though, is Joel Miller. He has no idea. Until he does. A morning horse ride turns into so much more.

Collaborations:

Little Mouse | Read on AO3 Pairing biker!Joel Miller and fem!Reader | AU 🔥🕶️ In collaboration with the amazing @josephquinnswhore

Summary: Date night. Your favorite. You were dressed up and ready for a good time, only to find out that your sleazeball boyfriend was really just a jerk. Stood up and now alone in a bar on the bad side of town, you quickly come to realize you shouldn’t be there for more reasons than one. An unexpected savior to your shit night, a masked motorcycle rider quite literally saves your life, not caring whose blood was on his hands as a result. His only ask as a token of your appreciation? That you go for a ride with him. What could ever possibly happen?

++++

Sugar, Spice and Please Fuck Me Nice | Pairing Neighbor!Joel Miller and fem!Reader 🔥🖤

In collaboration with my Slutty Smutty Sister @sydneyinacoma

Read on A03 | Part 1 & Part 2

Summary:  Part 3 of @sydneyinacoma's Sugar, Spice & Please Fuck Me Nice series. Joel is your new hot neighbor and after a sexy night alone with him on Halloween (where he literally makes you squirt (!!) on his couch, you run into him after a long week at work and you two finally go on a proper date. You two eat burgers; go to a fair, and then he fucks you like it's his last day on earth. Yep :) Leftovers | Read on AO3 Pairing Joel Miller and fem!Reader | AU 🔥🖤 In collaboration with my Slutty Smutty Sister @sydneyinacoma

Summary: You’ve waited for what feels like forever to hear Joel say he’ll give you what you want, and what better day to be grateful you’re both now on the same page than Thanksgiving. Joel shows you just how thankful he is for you by giving you loads of his cum. Yep, that’s the fic. **mind the warnings on this one

Drabbles:

The Kind of Love We Make

One Shots:

Caller Number Nine | Read on AO3 Pairing Javier Pena and fem!Reader | Narcos AU 🔥🖤

Summary: You're a radio host of a popular late-night segment on relationships, advice and more. After a particularly bad night of calls, your final call of the night takes you by surprise.

++++

Heat Wave | Read on AO3 Pairing Pairing Javier Pena and fem!Reader | Narcos 🔥🖤

Summary: In the sweltering haze of a Colombian heatwave, everyone's on edge, including you, your nerves fried crispier than plantains in a hot skillet. Even Javi is not immune - his nights spent tossing and turning, the relentless heat driving him mad. Imagine his surprise - and yours - when he knocks on your door late one night, a little buzzed and sweaty, craving a distraction. What's a generous soul to do but let him in and share some cool, sweet cholado? As the night unfurls, the heat outside might be unbearable, but inside, things are just starting to warm up. ++++

Reporting For Duty | Read on AO3 Pairing Javier Pena and fem!Reader | Narcos AU 🔥

Summary: You're a flight attendant. You need to be fucked, and that much becomes all the more obvious when a hot, flirty Air Marshal named Javier shows up to fly your leg with you. That's it. That's the fic.

Drabbles:

Edging

Hands, Hands, Hands

Gas, Grass or ASS 🔥 Pairing mechanic!Frankie Morales and Fem!Reader | AU

Read on AO3

Summary: You muster the courage to leave your small town and shitty past behind. Fate, it seems, has other plans. Your beater of a truck breaks down in the middle of the highway, and you get it towed to Catfish Auto & Repair. After finding out you don't have the money to pay, you and Frankie find another way to work it out.

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Last Updated April 27, 2024 18+ banners are from @cafekitsune

#masterlist

[glacierclear]

ISN'T BITE ALSO TOUCH? part ii.

fuckboy!leon x gn!reader

content: hurt/some comfort, angst, apologies, reader is sad, brief intrusive thoughts, mentions of alcohol

The seasons change. You can only hope he will, too.

[ao3 link]

…and you didn’t see him for three months.

The shifting grace of Autumn gave way to ice. A once verdant campus green now muddled under gray snow, crunched with grit and soot. Passerbys did not linger. Bundled under layered coats and coiled up scarves, students hastily searched for warmth, leaving the sidewalks barren and lonely.

You relied on consistent distraction. School work that numbed your fingers. A fleeting, creative hobby that lasted all of a week. Outings with peers who’d never consider you a friend. None of it seemed to fix you.

And God, you missed him. More than anything in the world.

But the words looped in your head. The stinging from that night boiled into agony.

I don’t fucking need you.

He didn’t mean it. You knew better than to take his venom at face value. But it nurtured the foulest parts of yourself. Self-loathing feasted like a gluttonous beast, growing fat on the careless anger of his beer-fueled tantrum. Because if there was even the slightest chance of it being true…what had it all been for?

Were you truly just a warm body he used for shallow company? Is it possible you were just as disposable as all the rest?

But those thoughts were never allowed to mature. You snipped the buds and opened another lecture video, paralyzing any hint of an emotional response.

Sometimes you’d see him. In the distance, hovering at the edge of his usual crowd, smiling. Once or twice you even made eye contact, but he’d break it within the first moment, as if he had seen nothing but a fly among trash. It’s on those days that you cried. Cried and cried, until all that remained was bitter apathy.

Angrily, you wished he felt the same. You wanted him to break. You wanted him to regret every moment of that night from the instant his eyes opened that morning. You wanted him lost and abandoned and miserable, just like you.

And, truly, it only confirmed your worst fear. If you were always this hateful beneath it all, he never really needed you.

December bit frost under the brittle edges of your fingernails, and you conquered every day with the determination of an undying plague. Christmas was only a week away, and if you could just make it to the holidays, maybe you’d finally start to heal. There’s catharsis in the new year, meaningless or not. It might’ve been what you needed to forget everything. To forget him.

You trudged back home, your evening class wrapped up and concluded for the day. Friday used to mean something. It meant a weekend with Leon. Drunk, covered in gummy worms, squealing at some god-awful horror movie he rented just to get you to hold him. He used to wrap an arm around you, hugging you tight, promising to the moon and the stars he’d keep you safe from anything.

It was hard to take him seriously with popcorn in his teeth, but now you found yourself fantasizing the memory with teary eyes, although it’s probably just the cold weather.

With rosy cheeks and a dripping nose, you turned your key into the lock, kicking open your door with a disgruntled shove. It was dark. Your roommate left for the holiday early, leaving your dorm hollow and unwelcoming. You hovered in the common area, letting the mask you wore crumble off piece by piece.

Friday used to mean something. Now all you did was rot. You stepped over towards your half of the flat, reaching forward on instinct before a reactionary tug gave you pause. Your door was closed. It wasn’t when you left for class.

You listened, straining to hear beyond the chipped oak, but you received nothing. With a dry mouth, you closed your fingers around the knob, twisting, pushing your way in.

What awaited you inside nearly sent you to the floor.

He sat cross-legged by the bed, curled up on your little, brown rug. All you could see was his back, and the gaudy, expensive headphones clamped shut over his head. His head nodded gently to a beat you could barely make out, and he thumbed slowly through a book yanked off your shelf. It wasn’t the careless flipping of empty words, but the patient turning of pages of someone actually reading.

He never read around anyone but you.

You crept closer, letting your backpack drop to the ground like a lead weight, crashing and jolting Leon out of whatever paragraph he was enjoying. He batted the headphones off his ears, swirling to gape at you with wide, fearful eyes. His eyes.

Your favorite shade of blue.

“Jesus! Scared the fucking shit out of me–” He pressed a palm to his temple, panic easily bleeding away, but in its place you saw him tense, awaiting your anger.

“I scared you? You…how’d you even…did you break into my room?” You met him with accusation, though all you wanted was to hold him.

“...I mean, yeah. Duh. Not like you’d ever let me in willingly.” The dismissive tone of his voice riled you up more than you’d care to admit, and you stepped closer.

“Of course you’d stoop to this instead of just asking. What the hell is wrong with you?” The seasonal chill you felt walking home has all but melted completely. You were a live wire. “How’d you even get in here?”

“Come on. You know I bribe the janitor. We’re bros, me and Jeff.” He donned a cocky smirk.

“Oh, well, that’s great. I’m so happy for you, Leon. Now get the fuck out.” You vaguely gestured towards the exit, glowering down at him with an impatient scowl.

Leon’s smirk dropped. He set down the book, standing to his full height. You forgot how much taller than you he was.

“...no. I’m not leaving. Not this time.” His face hardened into a devastating intensity, prying out your seams one by one. “We need to talk. I need to…fix this.” You watched him flail his hands a bit, attempting to sculpt form to whatever this was.

You knew it would never be enough. No apology or heartfelt confession would repair the damage carved from three months of absence after the worst night of your life.

But you’ve always had shitty taste in guys, and he was the shittiest. You missed him more than anything in the world.

“Fine. Speak.” You settled on an impartial response, arms folded across your midsection. “But I’m really not in the mood for bullshit, Leon. I’m not.”

“I know,” he hung his head. “I know. I…” You were kind enough to grant him patience. The time you knew he’d need. Emotionally stunted didn’t even come close to describing Leon, and any effort on his part to offer honesty is effort you needed to encourage, in your own quiet way.

“I fucked up, okay? I really fucked up. Just like I always do and–” You noticed him halt, sucking at his teeth and wincing as if cinched with pain. “No. I’m not…fuck, listen. I’m not trying to like, make you feel bad for me I just…I always do this. I do, and you didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

The words came out stuttered and unsure, as if the mere concept of an apology churned the acid in his gut. And maybe it did. What little you knew of his childhood easily explained his behavior. A blood-red thread woven into his heart like stripes on a cobra.

You nodded, coaxing him to continue. You would not shelter him with yielding platitudes.

“...all that shit I said…I was…god, I was scared. Do you realize what the hell you are? What, fuck, what you mean to me? The most fucking important person in my life and I thought I was gonna lose you over a shitty party.” He was too frustrated to look you in the eyes anymore. You felt cold again. “And you’re right. About all of it. I made you go and I ditched you and then I blamed you for – fuck, and then I didn’t have the balls to do anything for two months–”

“Three months.” You interjected, your lips a thin line, the ice he walked on.

“Three…three months? Jesus, I didn’t…” Leon ran a trembling palm through his hair, wrestling his own relationship with time. “Has it really been that long?”

You nodded.

“...I’ve been a mess. I…my grades are tanking, man, and I can’t even eat.”

Against your will, you deflated with a sad sigh. He did seem skinnier. His face sunken in. His body looked frail under his sweatshirt. You wondered if any of his other friends had noticed.

“You shouldn’t forgive me. I’m not really like, expecting you to. But I…I’m…” The word dangled off his tongue, the teetering step into territory unknown. “I’m sorry.”

For the past three months, you dreamed of this moment. Twisted visions of him crawling back to you on his hands and knees, begging for mercy when he deserved nothing of the sort. Over and over again, you extracted pleasure from the possibility of denying him, turning your back and thriving in spite of him.

You were sure the words would feel great. Amazing, even. But hearing them in person, hearing the shriveled warble of a man reduced to his own imitation, you felt nothing.

The silence stretched for miles. Both of you were too hurt to say anything. From the floor, his headphones faded into quiet before transitioning into another song, lyrics incomprehensible from where you stood, mirroring the noise of your own thoughts.

He broke the emptiness with a cough, and scratched his neck.

“...damn, well, I should…I’ll let you enjoy your Friday, I guess. I’m sorry. I really am, I–”

“You said you weren’t leaving.” The words came out without thinking. Leon blinked.

“...what? I–”

“You said. You weren’t leaving. Not this time. Are you really going to break another promise, Leon?” You’re not stupid. You understood your challenge was nothing more than a thinly-veiled plea to get him to stay. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your dignity died with the autumn leaves.

“...oh, I was…I didn’t think you’d – yeah. Okay. Yeah, I’m not leaving. Not going anywhere. Swear on it.” Leon puffed his chest a little, the hopeful beginnings of a smile creasing his cheeks. A real smile.

You shuffled closer, breathing in, filling your lungs with mercy.

“Did you really mean what you said, Leon?” It was spoken so softly, and he leaned closer to hear, just as you hoped he would.

He smelled like cedar.

“...what I said?” There’s confusion in his stare, yet he tilted his head, an eagerness to understand.

“When you said you…when you said you didn’t need me. That I was–” Whatever else you were going to say didn’t matter. In an instant, you’re strangled with warmth. Arms latched tight around your chest, your face smashed into the flesh above his heart.

“I need you.” It’s said so easily. And you knew he didn’t need to think twice. “I needed you every day and I will need you every day after today and…every year and…just, so much, man.” Ruefully, you couldn’t help but laugh. Such an indelicate way of speaking. So thoroughly Leon.

Your arms wrapped around his stomach, squeezing with a reluctant pressure. You still couldn’t believe he was real. But here he was.

“Okay. That’s all I needed to hear.” You went slack in his hold, forgoing oxygen in favor of him. He filled your mind and soul, and you never knew you could miss the scent of Irish Spring so much.

“...okay. Is…Is that it? I mean, not that I– shit, are we good? We chill?” He pried you off, cupping your cheeks with burning palms, searching your eyes for safety. Reassurance.

You wanted to give him that. But pretty words and a warm hug were only enough to quiet your demons. They did nothing to heal.

“No, we’re still not friends.” You said finally, staring away, unable to face his reaction.

“Wait, seriously? What…but I–”

“I don’t forgive you, Leon. Not…not yet.” Cautiously, you gripped his wrists, lowering his hands back to his sides. “I missed you. A lot. But it took you three months to tell me all of this. Three. Months.”

“Yeah, but…you’re actually just…gonna leave me forever? For three months?” It’s not anger in his voice, simply the aching desperation of a heart longing for closure. An answer to every question he had.

“Listen, I…we can be friends again, maybe soon, maybe later. I still wanna see you and hang out and stuff, but…it’s gonna take time, okay?” His shoulders sagged. “You have a lot of things you need to work on, and I can’t be the one to fix them. It has to be you, Leon. It has to be different.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him clench his fists. A vein pulsed on his neck, and you braced yourself for the backlash. The brewing storm he hid behind when he was afraid.

But whatever happened the past three months has drained the fight from his body, and he went soft again, his posture slouching.

“I’ll get better. I will. But…can I ask you something? Can I ask you to promise me one thing? Just one?”

You stared at him again. His ocean stirred, but you stayed afloat.

“Sure, Leon.” you whispered.

“...wait for me. Promise me you’ll still be here when I come back. When I’m…when I’m fixed.” He was so close, you could study each twitch and crinkle of his face. All the voiceless ways he loved you. “Will you let me come back to you?”

It wasn’t even a question.

“I promise, Leon.”

And you loved him, too.

#my writing #resident evil #leon kennedy #fuckboy!leon

[somnambulic-thing]

Watershed Moments || part I

Masterlist Part II || ao3

Eddie Munson x Reader || E 18+ [demi!Eddie x 'tomboy'/gender-nonconforming!bi!reader]

childhood best friends to lovers, no Upside Down, canon divergent

Words: 3.8k

Series Summary: Watershed Moment is a term most people use for big events. Such events that mark historical turning points of great significance and shape the course of humanity; events that cause the printing presses of the world to run hot and make it from the front pages of newspapers into history books for the following generations to study. Opening the passenger door of Eddie’s van on a rainy Friday evening is exactly that. You're in love with your best friend. How many of those pivotal moments have there been in the past decade that have led you to this point? And what happens now?

Themes/Warnings for this chapter | pls check Masterlist for general tags: ||fluff, pining, angst, hurt/comfort, implied/non-graphic domestic abuse, child abuse: physical and mental, child neglect, dysfunctional family dynamics||

large parts of the fic will take place in the characters teenage years

A/N: I wrote this almost a year ago then got very precious about it and stopped in fear of fucking it up. I've decided to release it into the world before the layer of dust gets so thick that I can't find my way back to it anymore. Around half of it is already written in various states. This is a queer story at heart, even though you might not find it in explicit terms we'd use today to label and describe things.

Friday the 8th of May 1987

The music announces his arrival.

It always does.

It’s the reason you leave your window ajar whenever you’re expecting him; no matter the time of day, no matter the weather.

The faint notes of shrieking guitars slowly turn into recognizable music as you slip on your shoes and look for your keys. Going by his choice of song, he must be in a good mood and so you descend down the stairs in a hurry to meet him.

He’s picking you up to go see a movie like he had done countless times before.

You hook your fingers under the door handle, the metal smooth from years of doing so, and pull, rousing the familiar creeeeek of the hinges, expecting to get into the car with the boy who had been your best friend for over a decade, and suddenly find yourself staring into the face of the man you love.

Just like that.

There is a dip in the cushion of the passenger seat, perfectly molded to your ass and right there, he had placed a gift for you.

“Surprise,” he says with a smile that melts the sidewalk under your feet, gesturing at the book that’s waiting for you but there is nothing on this planet, or any other, that could bring you to pull your eyes away from his at this very moment.

You see him almost every day, had seen him not quite twenty-four hours ago, had talked to him on the phone this morning and it had been the same as always; he was Eddie.

 Your Eddie.

And as you hold on to the door, waiting for the world to stop spinning so violently that you fear it could launch you into outa space, you realize that nothing about that had changed and still nothing was the same.

Just like that.

Eddie tilts his head, one hand still gripping the steering wheel, the other waving.

“Squash calling pumpkin, do you copy?” Eddie says in a deep, silly voice and the sweet sound of your childhood nicknames brings your realization full circle.

You are in love with your best friend.

“A-affirmative…”

“Ah, there you are. Will you get in here now? You’re getting wet.”

Oh, if you only knew.

Heat rises to your cheeks as you climb into your seat, carefully taking the book into your hands like it held the secrets to the universe between its covers. You yank the passenger door close absentmindedly, the slam echoing as loud in your ears as your own heartbeat and you wait for Eddie to complain about it but he doesn’t. Instead, you can sense him looking at you while you stare at the book in your lap.

And that really had been it, right?

What had made the truth about your feelings for Eddie hit you like a load of bricks; it was in the way he looked at you. In his giddy excitement to make you happy, his confidence that he absolutely would because he knew you so well and in the fact that you would look at him the same way if your roles were reversed.

That you do it all the time.

And just like that, it scares the shit out of you.

“H-how…” you start, but fail to find the right question. Your voice sounds brittle to your ears.

But Eddie chuckles, moves in closer and puts his chin on your shoulder, just like he always does. As if his silly little gesture hadn’t just changed both of your lives fundamentally and irrevocably.

“You mean,” he clears his throat and puts on an impersonation of your voice that’s infuriatingly remarkable. “Oh, Eddie, my precious Eddie, how did you get your brilliant and highly skilled hands on the new Stephen King novel that came out just two days ago?” His breath against your neck is warm and you just know that he’s pursing his lips in a silly grin.

“Yeah, that,” you swallow and then you give him what he’s after. A smile. Because no matter how flustered you are, you just can’t help it. “And I don’t sound like that.”

“Oohhh yes, you do,” he croons and the bass in his words vibrates through your bones where it’s already part of your marrow. You want to turn your head and kiss him. “It’s adorable,” he says and sits up, leaning back into his seat.

You huff out a laugh. “Do you compliment yourself in my voice a lot when I’m not around?”

“Something has to get me through the dreadful hours of the day where I have no access to your praise.”

It’s casual when he says things like that, and while Eddie starts the car and pulls into the street, you try to remember if it ever made you feel like combusting before.

Of course it had. All the time.

“Rick had some business in Indianapolis and I asked him to get me a copy,” Eddie explains into the silence, glancing over at you. “Seatbelt, pumpkin.”

“You… you didn’t have to do this…” you say instead of Thank you, Squashboy! instead of You’re the fucking best, Munson! instead of any of those soft things you would have thrown at him without hesitation just ten minutes ago and put on your seatbelt as he ordered, hoping he wouldn’t smell your confusion like the emotional bloodhound he was around you.

But Eddie laughs. “And listen to you whine about it until Hawkins’ dusty ol’ bookstore catches up with the modern world? Yeah, fat chance.”

“It would just have been a few weeks… tops…”

“A few weeks too many of seeing you mope. I’m not strong enough for that shit.”

You open the book on the first page to occupy your hands, which are begging to be buried in Eddie's hair, with something safe but, oh, the endeavor fails horribly because, of course, he left you a note inside and you should have expected it. Your fingertips trace over the familiar flow of Eddie’s handwriting with an infinite tenderness that’s meant for his cheeks.

for my little monster, can't wait for you to read this to me.      - your doctor               E.

“If you want to,” he adds softly.

I want to whisper every word of it into your mouth.

“This is the second book of the series, remember?… You wouldn’t understand a thing.”

“Incorrect,” he says solemnly, stops the car at a red light and almost jumps into your face with an open, all-teeth smile. “Surprise!”

“You… you read the first book?”

“Correct!” he bites his lip, excitement tugging at his cheeks. He’s so close. You could just lean in to taste him and for a moment you think that maybe he’s waiting for you to do so as he hovers there, big brown eyes roaming your face until a cacophony of horns pulls him away from you. “Fuckers,” he mumbles as he starts the car again and picks up the conversation where he’d left it: “And lo and behold: I liked it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I know, I know… I’ve given you speeches about why King doesn’t do it for me and all but you kept gushing about this Gunslinger book and how different it is and…” Eddie shrugged, “I thought I should give it a chance aaand it turned out you were right about it.”

You’re everything.

How did I miss this?

And what does it mean that I did?

“Hey, uh, are you alright?” he throws several quick glances at you, brows drawn together; all the joy, all the mirth gone.

Just like that.

Don’t you fucking hurt him!

“Why?”

“Why?” Now it’s a full-on frown. “Well, you’re… quiet. Which, you know, is totally fine with me generally, but I just told you, uh, that I read your favorite book and liked it after being a grump about it for months and—”

“Eddie?” A sigh.

“Y-yeah?”

“Wanna skip the movie, go to your place and start this?” you say softly, holding up the book. “Maybe get some snacks on our way?”

No hesitation.

“Hold on!” he cheered and you know that voice and that frantic look over his shoulder and—

“Oh no!” you huff as you scramble to clutch at something. “No nono no…”

 —then the U-Turn thumps you against the door while Eddie laughs like he’s fueled on pure adrenaline.

“Fucking hell, Munson, slow down,” you shout over the wild cackling and he does. “If you kill us before I finished that series I’ll whip your ass!”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart,” he says with a grin and your pulse speeds up; eight little words and your rabbit heart races faster than from the prospect of possible death caused by Eddie’s poor impulse control. You watch him in awe as he forces himself to calm down, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, head bopping to their rhythm. “That was fun.”

“Yeah,” you try to sound distraught. “Such fun that you’re taking years off my life every time you do shit like that, you maniac!”

“But I’m giving them back to you by making you laugh. So it doesn’t count.”

***

1976

It was the October of your eleventh Halloween when the Munsons moved into the ground-floor apartment.

You just bought the first pumpkin of the season and couldn’t wait to spend the rest of the day drafting out a spooky design to carve into the tough orange flesh.

Impatient to start, you burst through the door and were halfway up the first landing when you saw the skinny lanky boy fumble with a box that looked way too heavy for his frame if the strain of the muscles in his arms was anything to go by.

Spinning around, his eyes were wide and alert, maybe even afraid, before he saw you on the stairs, relaxed a little and turned away to get on with opening the door.

“Here, I’ll help you,” you said, placed your pumpkin on the floor and rushed to his side.

“N-no, t’s alright, I'm… I got it—“ His words were swallowed by a loud thump as the boy swayed, barely saving the box from tumbling to the ground by wedging it between the door and his skinny chest.

“Don’t looks like it,” you quipped, ready to snatch his key to assist when—

“What the fuck are you banging against that door?“

— the door disappeared in a blur and a big angry man appeared in its place. The boy barely caught his balance before the box could slip again.

“Sorry Dad, sorry I didn’t—“

“Inside, Eddie!”

Eddie’s head whipped around to you, face scrunched in worry, his skin had turned a pale grey and you were sure to see the faint yellow remnants of a bruise high up on his cheek.

“Eddie!” he snarled and without another word Eddie pushed past his father, his backlit silhouette vanishing through a door on the left in a small hallway.

“Who are you?” the man almost barked at you.

Refusing to sound afraid, you introduced yourself. “My family lives on the second floor - welcome to the neighborhood, Mister…?”

“Munson,” he said briskly, but less angry and held out a large sweaty hand for you to shake. You did with reluctance. “Polite of you to swing by and say hello but we’re busy here, so if you don’t mind.” And with that, he closed the door.

You didn’t mind. You didn’t mind one bit.

Well…

“Oh,” your mother said when you told her everything, still heaving from running up the stairs like you were on fire. “But the boy probably just fell off his bike. You know how boys are, honey, don’t you?”

Suddenly, there was an itch in your own scraped knees; somewhat of a guilty sensation that added confusion to the upset.

„I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,“ she added with a thin smile.

And you wanted to believe her, wanted to believe her so badly but your mother hadn’t seen the look in the boy’s - Eddie’s - eyes when you startled him.

--

Those same eyes were faintly red and a little puffy when you answered the knock at the door half an hour later.

“Hi,” Eddie said in a jolly tone that only increased your confusion. “You forgot your pumpkin.”

“Oh shit!” You hugged the pumpkin to your chest like you were reunited with a friend and glimpsed a first faint preview of that blinding smile you would eventually come to love so much on Eddie’s face. “Thank you, Eddie.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your, uhm, father called you that.”

“Right,” he swallowed, smile snuffing out like a candle. “Right.”

There was a silence filled with a thousand questions your mother would deem inappropriate to ask a stranger so you settled for an apology.

“Sorry, if I got you in trouble.”

“What?” Eddie drew his head back, frowning. “No, no. You didn’t, no trouble at all. Dad ’s just— you know, stressed with the moving.”

“Oka—“

“Have to get going now,” he laughed hollowly and backed away, “so much left to do.”

“See you around, Eddie,” you could only call after him as he hurried down the stairs, his reply echoing back up to you.

“See you around, pumpkin.”

But you didn’t see Eddie around much. Not at home and not at school either. He was a year above your grade - you figured that out soon enough - but it almost seemed like he was skipping about half the week on a regular basis. The few times you met him sneaking through the house like a shy cat, he was covered in grease or paint, carrying himself like a man who came home at the end of a fifty-hour workweek. He never talked much, never asked for your name, always called you Pumpkin.

You, however, saw a lot of Mr Munson; going in and out the building several times a day, often in the company of equally grim-looking men, sometimes with a woman with big brown eyes which gave her away as Eddie’s mother even before she introduced herself to you. She had wonderful long brown hair and you asked yourself if Eddie’s buzzed scalp would sprout in this deep wavy brown or his father’s dirty blond if he was to let it grow out.

You also heard Mr Munson. A lot. Especially at night, and a few weeks in, your parents started to doubt that Eddie and his mother were simply on the clumsy side.

--

Halloween finally arrived and you proudly placed your final piece of fine pumpkin craftsmanship out the front door, waiting for your father to come down to light the candles like you did every year.

“Hey, Wednesday.”

You turned towards the open door and Eddie slowly peeled out of the shadows of the hallway, hands behind his back and a careful smile on his face. His voice was soft and timid. The next time you would hear him talk, it had already started to break.

“Eddie,” you smiled and tilted your head. “You watch the Addams Family?”

“Duh,” he said and fully stepped into the beam of light falling into the hallway. “Looks, uh, nice… the costume, I mean… self-made?”

“Yeah, my mother helped me make it. What are you going as?”

One hand left his back as he bowed his head and scratched his scalp. “M’ not… allowed to. Dad thinks it’s… a waste of time… and silly.”

“Shit,” you mumbled, an awkward silence fell between you. “Uhm, what would you choose? If you were allowed?”

“Huh?” his face lit up slightly as he entertained the thought. “Frodo, I think.”

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s… who’s Frodo?” The disbelieve in his eyes was comical, almost theatric. “That part of your Wednesday act? Making cruel jokes and shit?”

“What are you talking about?” you chuckled and raised your hands to the sky in an equal amount of theatrics.

“The Lord of The Rings? Never heard of that?”

“Oh, yeah, but never read it or anything... my mom thinks it’s not appropriate… for a girl.”

“Shit,” he huffed. “And I thought my life was sad…” And what was meant as a joke, darkened his face like an eclipse, pulled his gaze away from you and into the distance before he shook his head to chase it away. “I, uhm, was wondering… I made a thing? For, uh… you know?” he pointed his chin at the decorations lined up beside the doorstep.

“Oh!” you called out in excitement. “That’s what you‘re keeping behind your back?”

“Uh, yeah…” he pinched his eyes shut. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“No,” you said and Eddie cracked open one terrified eye. “If it’s funny, I’ll laugh! You’ll just have to join me…”

“Uhm, uuh…”

“Let’s seeeee!”

“Okay, okay, Jesus…” Eddie took a deep breath and revealed his work with slightly trembling hands you chose to ignore for his sake. It was a butternut squash and Eddie had carved a swarm of bats into the surface.

“Oh!” you said again but this time in awe.

“I know it’s not… good or anything, not like yours and I think I got the wrong kind of, uh, pumpkin because, like… you can’t get a candle in there— stupid thing ‘s like solid fucking concrete and I get it when you don’t want it out here—“

“Are you insane? This is so good!” you stopped him and snatched the squash from his hands.

“Wait, really?”

“Uh-hn,” you turned it around to take in every little last bat. “Must have taken you forever… butternut squash really is tough!”

“That’s what it’s called?” he said, rubbing the back of his head, a deep blush tinting his whole face bright red. “Had no idea…”

You stepped to the side, already busy figuring out how to rearrange the display to integrate the squash. “We just pick one out together next year… if you want. I can show you the right ones.”

“Nah, don’t want to bother you… it’s fine.”

Hunkering on the ground, your white thighs forgotten, you paused and looked up at Eddie in genuine confusion. “Why would you bother me?”

“I… don’t… dunno…”

The squash was in the perfect place and you stood up, dusted off your hands on the back of your black skirt and put a careful hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “It’s cool, Squashboy, really.”

“I…” Eddie’s face went through a plethora of emotions in seconds but he settled on a silly grin. “Did you just call me, Squashboy?”

“Would you prefer your Squashness? Or… uhmm… Lord of the Squash?— t’s a bit of a mouth full but if you insist…”

“Shut up,” Eddie threw his head back and laughed; it was loud and wild and echoed through the staircase. “That’s sooo stupid.”

There were footsteps coming from inside as someone was descending the stairs and next to you, Eddie turned into cold hard stone.

“T’s probably just my dad,” you tried to comfort him, sure you knew what this meant by now. “He’s coming to light the candles.”

The steps grew louder and Eddie’s skin was this awful shade of grey again.

“Eddie? Are you o—“

“I have to go,” he gritted out through his teeth, turned and hurried down the street in jerky steps.

“Hey honey,” your father said, appearing in the doorframe but you were still looking after the skinny boy in the too-big clothes rushing down the street, a thick knot in your chest. “Is that the Munson boy?” your father’s voice was casual, but not casual enough.

You looked up into a frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm?… Oh, nothing. Just got lost in thought for a second.” He finally looked down at you again, clapping his hands together. “I’m here to light some candles.”

What usually was one of your favorite rituals on Halloween was clouded by that awful shadow that kept creeping over Eddie’s face again and again. You decided to share your loot of candy with him when you came back; it wasn’t much but it was something. You’d just have to wait until Mr M was out of the house or whatever, but you could think about that later.

But when you came back home, Eddie was gone.

Nobody was telling you anything but after one week of lurking around adults when they didn’t pay attention gave you enough to piece it together.

There had been a fight. A bad fight and your father finally called the police. It took two deputies to get Mr Munson out of the house and into the back of a police car. Deputy Hopper gave him a good kick in the back of his knee to help him the rest of the way. Nobody on the block had seen that occur though, should anybody come around to ask. When the dust had settled down a little, Mrs Munson was nowhere to be found, so Deputy Hopper came back to collect Eddie.

The Munson’s rent had been paid for all through the next week and in the middle of that week, you saw a tall man whose features reminded you of Mr Munson carrying a big box out of the front door of your building. He crammed it into the back of a car already filled with other stuff and drove away before you could take a look at the front to see if Eddie was on board.

A few days later, men in blue overalls came to clear the rest of the ground-floor apartment. You lingered on the first-floor landing, observing a family’s life getting ripped out of this house like a rotten tooth from a jaw. When the blue men went outside for a smoke, you slipped inside. There wasn’t much left of what made a home a home; a potted plant, some kitchenware and— a breeze moved the curtains in the main room ever so slightly but enough for you to spot a little figurine hidden in the far corner of the windowsill. A small man with a knobbly nose and dirty feet.

You took it home with you.

And when one day you saw the tall man who looked a little like Mr. Munson from your window, you almost jumped in front of his car to make sure Frodo finally made it back to Eddie. That was what the other Mr. Munson called the little guy.

“I can’t believe it,” Eddie’s uncle rasped, “been lookin’ for this guy all over town… thought the clean-up crew dropped it off at some thrift store or church with the other stuff or somethin’. Thought he was gone for good.”

“Tell Eddie I said hi,” you beamed. “And that I saved him some candy.”

general taglist:

@bettyfrommars @dr-aculaaa @deathbecomesthem @songforeddiemunson @raccoonboywrites @jo-harrington @lunatictardis @skrzydlak @moonbeamsandmayhem @slutforstabbings @eddieslooneymoonie @chaoticgood-munson @storiesbyrhi @mrsjellymunson @the-unforgivenn @thecapricunt1616 @allthingsjoeq

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #my writing #watershed moments #Eddie Munson Angst #Eddie Munson Fluff

[perfinn]

you're out of touch, i'm out of time

aegon ii targaryen x reader

wc: 3.3k

summary: you have a tendency to pick up strays, but when you pick up the king of westeros (who was supposed to have died hundreds of years ago), things begin to get a little complicated

cw: NSFW, f!reader, aegon being a creep (shocker), aegon being deeply pathetic (also shocker), aegon is drunk or possibly hung over, attempted sex (aegon begs for a handjob but doesn't get one)

read on ao3, divider by saradika

You’ve always been too nice. You’re aware of this unfortunate fact, though you staunchly refuse to admit it’s a weakness. Has this trait left you without necessities from time to time because you gave them to someone who needed them more? Yes, but you sleep better at night knowing that that homeless girl had sturdy new shoes, even if you had to walk home barefoot. You can always handle a bit of discomfort if it means improving someone’s day marginally. It’s not as though you’re without any sense of self preservation– you know when to say no, or when to walk away. When someone is out for their own self interest, or just plain dangerous. 

You’re smart about it. Mostly. Sometimes, though, your sympathy gene takes over, and you approach the danger because you feel there’s more beneath the surface. So far, it hasn’t put you in any troubling positions. Still, first time for everything. And as you stand on the edge of the pavement, toes of your shoes swinging down into the gutter as you sway back and forth, you wonder if you’re about to break your successful streak.

There’s a man in the busy city street, raving and desperately trying to get someone’s attention. Usually, he’s the type you’d regretfully ignore for your own safety, but he seems different. He doesn’t seem like the usual King’s Landing crackheads. He’s dressed too nice, for starters. Strange, yes, but still nice. In fact, it looks to be better quality than anything you own. And he’s young– which isn't uncommon in this situation, but it always makes your heart ache when they’re young. 

He looks desperate, terrified, and as another person ducks their head and walks past him, you feel yourself moving toward him. You don't know why. Maybe because you know if you leave now, you’ll not sleep tonight for the sheer guilt of passing him by. He spots you making your way over and turns to you, seeming to hope against hope that you’re going to acknowledge him. 

“Hi,” you say in a calm, even voice. It's a tone you’ve gotten quite good at. You’re not professionally trained by any means, but these things generally come with the territory. “Let's get you out of the road, okay? You could get hurt.”

“What the fuck are those things?” He demands of you as a car stops to let you take him across. You wave your thanks to the driver, who looks mildly disgruntled, and take the young man gently by the arms to get him onto the pavement. “Where are the horses?”

You know he must be confused, so you’re gentle with him. “There's no horses,” you say, still holding his arms as he finally looks away from the disappearing car and into your eyes. He looks so deeply afraid, but you notice he does take a moment to look you over. You let him, trying to see the best in him and hoping it's just curiosity. It doesn't matter right now anyway, you tell yourself. “Are you okay?”

“No!” He snaps. “Course I’m not bloody okay! Where am I?!”

“You’re in King’s Landing,” you say. “Let's get you somewhere quiet, okay? Are you hungry?”

“This,” he laughs in disbelief, looking around. “Is not King’s Landing, I know what King’s Landing looks like!”

“Okay,” you nod. “I believe you. Let's go sit down, I’ll buy you something to eat.”

The man looks at you with what you think is an offended scowl, but the offer of food does seem to intrigue him. “And wine?”

“No,” you say, and he deflates. 

He scratches at his chin, but nods in agreement. “Yes, fine.”

You smile, a bit of relief easing the worry in your ribs. Sometimes people won't cooperate, or they’ll turn you away when you say you won't buy them booze or give them money outright. This young man seems to be content enough without wine, so you wave your hand and lead him down the road toward the nearest fast food joint. 

He follows behind you, panicked eyes still looking around as though he's never seen the world before. It's not wonder, but something close to anger, indignation maybe. You make it to a diner you like, opening the door for him. He's clearly astounded by the ugly cacophony of colours inside, but you can't blame him. You don't come here for the aesthetics. 

“Go sit down?” You tell him gently, framing it like a suggestion as you point to your favourite booth. He scowls, but does as bid. 

The teen behind the counter takes little notice of your strange company. It's King’s Landing, he's probably seen something ten times as strange already today. Once you’ve paid, you join your new stray, sitting down across from him and folding your hands on the table. 

“So, what's your name?” You ask him, and he looks away from the bustling street outside the window to stare at you in what you assume is disbelief. 

“What’s my name?” He echoes, leaning slightly over the table. “Are you serious?”

You blink. That’s… not a question anyone’s ever been mad at you for. You learned quickly which questions to steer clear of to avoid pissing people off.

He scoffs, leaning back in his seat and tapping a dirtied fingernail against the peeling surface of the table. “Aegon,” he says, almost experimentally. Like he's testing the waters. 

You nod politely, and tell him yours.

He stares at you. “Nothing? Aegon? You’ve not heard the name Aegon?”

“Well, of course I have,” you say, confused smile pulling at your lips. “It's a common enough name. I think I knew a guy in school named Aegon–”

“You have been to school?” Aegon asks, eyebrows shooting up and a laugh spilling from his mouth. He leans back, dragging his hands over his clammy face. “Have I been drugged?!”

You’d put serious money on that being a resounding yes. 

“This is crazy,” he says, leaning forward again. He says your name slowly, glancing around before his eyes land on you. “Can you tell me what's going on?”

You bite your lip, thankful when the cashier calls out your order number. You rush to get up and get it, fearing you may be way out of your depth this time. He talks like he’s never seen the world before, and his comment about you having gone to school… none of it makes any sense. You’ve never even had the thought of dropping someone off with someone who’s better equipped to handle problems of this magnitude, but Aegon has you really considering it. When you return with the tray of food and set it down, Aegon has the specials menu in hand and is squinting at it. 

“I got you what I usually get,” you say, setting the tray down and placing his wrapped burger in front of him, leaving the fries on the tray. “Aegon, I want to help you, but I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“That certainly makes two of us,” Aegon says, unwrapping the burger curiously. “What meat is this?”

“It’s beef,” you tell him, unwrapping your own. He watches as you take a bite of yours, and he nods as though in satisfaction before taking a hefty bite of his. “Aegon, I want to understand what’s going on in your head. Can you just…”

You’re not sure how to say it, really. It’s invasive, and you don’t want him to feel like you believe he’s crazy, or lying.

“What’s your deal?”

He chews slowly on his burger, eyeing you suspiciously. “My deal,” he echoes, lips turned down in a scowl. “Is that I’m the King of Westeros.”

You nod slowly, biting into your burger so you don’t have to answer right away. You hope if you stay silent long enough, he’ll feel compelled to keep talking. 

“King Aegon,” he says slowly, like you’re the deluded one. “Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, Protector of the Realm, all the rest. Are you serious?”

You swallow your mouthful and nod. You’re not particularly well versed in history, but the titles ring a bell. It’s some sort of messiah complex, you’d wager. Trying your best not to seem dismissive, you pull out your phone. “Let me see,” you say. 

“What’s that?” He asks, leaning forward and trying to snatch it from you. You move it out of his way, yelping softly in contrition. 

“My phone!” You say. “I’m just looking you up, Aegon.”

“You’re what?” He says, looking horrified. “Give me that!”

“Dude, no! Let me just–” You stand up from your seat to be out of his reach, hurriedly typing the name he’d told you into the search bar. “Look, I know the name Targaryen, that’s the Conqueror's name!”

“Yes! Aegon the Conqueror!” He cries. “You’re finally making sense!”

“What? No, I mean Daenerys!”

“Who!?”

“Aegon, sit back down!” You snap, and he pauses in his pursuit of your phone, stunned into silence by your firm tone. Slowly, he returns to his seat, picking up a fry to eat it. 

“Only because I want to,” he says childishly. 

You frown at him, shaking your head before looking back at your phone as it pulls up the results for your search. 

‘Aegon II Targaryen, also known as Aegon the Elder, was the sixth Targaryen king to sit the Iron Throne, succeeding his father, Viserys I Targaryen, as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.’

The search pulls up a picture as well, one of those terribly done paintings from the dark ages. It’s hard to say whether the Aegon in front of you looks much like the one in the painting, but he does have the same pale blonde hair and violet eyes. He’s a lot more pathetic than the portrait, too. He has the qualities of a wet cat, and you hate that it’s somewhat endearing. When you keep scrolling, you find a painting that can’t have been contemporary. This is a more detailed portrait, likely from half a century ago, where Aegon is covered in burns and lies dead in a carriage. 

You look up, meeting the wary eyes of the confused but un-burned man before you, and slowly sit back down. You know that he isn’t actually the king from nearly a millennium ago, but there’s an uncanny quality about him that makes you want to doubt the logical truth. His clothes, for one. You don’t know many homeless guys with such fine embroidery on their clothes. And there’s his features… you know them to be Valyrian, but rarely does anyone still pop up with the stark blond and violet irises. You remember well enough from your high school history classes that the Targaryen dynasty had those features.

“What does your little brick do?”

You blink, looking down at it and pulling up the contemporary portrait – part of you tells you not to show him the other. He scowls at it, but nods. “Seven hells, that’s not flattering. Where did you get this miniature? You have this and yet claim not to know me? What game do you play?”

You sigh. He truly doesn’t understand, does he? 

“Aegon, what year do you think it is?”

He rears back and regards you with more suspicion. “129 AC,” he says.

“And what were you doing before this?” 

“I will not tell you that,” he says. “You’re one of Rhaenyra’s spies, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know who Rhaenyra is,” you say softly. “I’m sorry, Aegon, I’m not a history buff.”

“History–” He stops, and goes deathly silent for a long moment, as though the whole situation is finally processing for him. You wonder if it’s the stench of wine that hangs off him explains his slow processing. “What year do you think it is?”

You tell him the year, even tack today’s date on for him. He stares are you, and you can see his brain buffering yet again. 

“Seven hells,” he murmurs. You find you share a similar sentiment. 

He picks up his burger and begins to eat it slowly. He’s silent for a long while, eyes seeming far away as he contemplates. You try not to stare at him, but it's no easy task. 

“This is going to sound crazy,” he says after a long while. “But I believe I may have travelled… through time.”

“I’d say so, yeah,” you respond. At this point, it's the only explanation. You’d usually say something about eliminating all the impossible options, but that just doesn't work here. Time travel is impossible, or it should be. And it's possible Aegon is just suffering from a deeply intense messiah complex. But that doesn't seem right. Your instincts haven't led you wrong before, you’re not about to ignore them now. 

“What am I going to do?” asks Aegon.

You want to tell him you’re going to try to find a way to get him back to his own time, but you’re struck once more with the image of him burned and twisted, dead in a carriage. How can you send him back to his fate knowing his grisly end?

You take in the man in front of you, this historical figure you’d never heard of until five minutes ago, and bite your lip. “We’ll figure it out,” you promise him. “You… can stay with me until we do.”

That’s probably dumb, and you’ll probably regret it. But not more than you would regret leaving him out on the streets.

“I suppose,” sighs Aegon like he’s spoiled for choice. You get up to ask for a bag for your food, glancing back as Aegon chews sadly on his burger. 

You get Aegon back to your place, and he wanders into the flat ahead of you. You watch him go with a soft huff, rolling your eyes. If everything else hadn’t convinced you, his attitude is proof positive that he’s from the past. He has all the entitlement of a prince and none of the consideration of those around him that modern men have (sometimes) gained. 

Your flat isn't much, two bedrooms and mostly paid for by your university. You had a flatmate for a time, but their sudden withdrawal left you without anyone and the school doesn’t seem to have noticed. Aegon can stay in the empty room until you figure him out. 

Aegon’s standing in your living room, staring in wonder at the decor you’ve collected over the course of your degree, at your television, maybe he’s just looking at all of it. He’s turning in a slow circle, eyes narrowed. 

“This is very nice for a commoner. Very strange, but it is not… disgusting.” He pauses in his assessing, looking between you and the ridiculous tapestry you purchased one night after far too many drinks. “Who is this man?”

“Oh, he’s this guy from a movie,” you say, not really processing that he won’t understand what a movie is. He stands there, dumbstruck, while you go to put your leftover food in the fridge. 

“A what?”

“Just… don’t worry about it. There’s going to be a lot for you to take in, but with any luck you won’t be here too long.” You come back over to him, taking him in. He looks out of place standing here in his king’s threads. “Let me get you something to wear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” he says, shifting and taking in your clothes. “Where is your father? Your husband?”

“My father is in my hometown, and I don’t have a husband.”

“You live without a man?” He eyes you suspiciously. “A whore?”

“Okay,” you say, gently grabbing him by the shoulders and walking him over to the sofa. “Sit here, I have some men’s clothes lying around. Do not move.”

Aegon huffs, rolling his eyes and sitting back with folded arms. You wonder, as you go into your room to find something for him, if he’s heard the word ‘no’ very much in his life. It wouldn’t seem that way, but sometimes the way he reacts to you telling him off leaves you thinking otherwise. He’s a bigger mystery than you’ve ever faced, but something tells you he’s worth it.

You emerge after a while to see him flicking through the book you’d left on your coffee table, frowning. He looks up when you enter, setting the book down. “Your home is peculiar,” he informs you. 

“I know,” you say, handing him the soft clothes you’d found. “Student housing is kind of a lottery. You can get changed in the spare room, if you want. I’m going to go shower. If you get hungry, your leftovers are in that big white box there, okay?”

“Yes, yes, whatever.” 

You watch him enter the near-empty bedroom and shut the door, heaving a heavy sigh before you go off to your own room. You don't shower. Instead, you pull out your computer and set out to learn all that you possibly can about Aegon. 

What you learn twists your stomach into knots so tight you feel that they would trap the nausea that grips your throat from escaping. Aegon was no saint, no, but what you find is that his life is steeped in tragedy. If he believes himself to be king now but remains unburned by his cousin’s dragon, he must be near the end of his life; but the worst of his troubles have yet to begin. 

It is strange to think of the pathetic and bratty man in your flat as growing into the role of a king, if one could say he ever did. He seems nothing but a lost young man, unloved but for the power he afforded his Hightower family. 

The reports on him are so extensive and exhaustive that an hour has passed before you realise you haven’t been disturbed. You get up from your desk, wondering if Aegon has somehow wandered out of your flat and back onto the street.

When you open the door, you’re greeted by the sight of your kitchen cabinets strewn open, and your cheap bottle of vodka now empty on the counter. Aegon is sprawled on your sofa, cradling a novelty ceramic beer mug you won in a pub quiz in your first year. 

“Seven hells,” you mumble, going over to him and snatching the cup from him to be met with his whining protests. You sniff the cup, nose scrunching in disgust at the acetone-y smell. “Not even a mixer…”

Aegon looks up at you, trying to reach for the cup and whining your name. At least he changed into the sweats. The King’s Landing University jumper rather suits him, actually. 

“Please,” he says, looking even more closely akin to a wet cat. He seems on the verge of tears. “You’re pretty, do you know?”

“I’ve heard,” you say, setting the cup down on the coffee table and turning to him.

He grabs your wrist, tugging you closer with surprising strength considering how sloshed he is. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers. He almost sings your name. “Will you get me off?”

“Wh- Aegon!” You snap, tearing your wrist away. “No!”

“Please! Just your hand, you’ve got such soft hands!”

“Aegon,” you hiss. “No. You’re drunk. Even if I wanted to, that wouldn't be okay. You don't know what you're saying.”

Aegon pouts at you, falling back against the sofa and letting out a soft hiccup. “That doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe not in your time,” you say, grabbing him a blanket and laying it over him. “Gods- just- just try to get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning when you're fully sober.”

“I’ll die before that,” he says, snuggling up to the soft blanket with a ridiculous cartoon of a wolf on it. Another of your decor purchases you thought would be hilarious in the moment. You grab his cup and pour what’s left of the vodka into the sink before gathering up your remaining bottles and vowing to take them to the cabinet in your room with a lock. 

“Maybe. But if you vomit on my carpet, you’ll be paying the cleaning bill, your grace.”

#don't love this but i need to get it out of my system in the hopes that someone else will #my work #aegon #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #i cant be fucked adding more tags #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #excet thst one #yootioot

[lihhelsing]

Stay for as long as you have time

PART I | Find me on Ao3

Part II

CW: Self-hatred and mentions of homophobia

Steve Harrington was fucked. 

Like utterly and completely fucked. 

He had one moment of weakness and of course, that would come back to bite him in the ass in the form of a gorgeous man standing at Nancy’s door on Christmas. His whole life, Steve knew he was different. Tried his hardest to fit in when it always seemed so easy for other people to just be. Could never lower his guard, could never let the intrusive thoughts arise.

He spent his entire life pretending. All he needed to do was keep going.

It took him years and a friendship with a lesbian trainwreck for him to realize what was always painfully clear to him. Steve Harrington was not straight. 

And, as he did with everything in his life, Steve acknowledged it and moved on from it. Just kept pretending.

It’s not like he had any other choice. 

But then he just had to go to that bar.

He had gotten into a big fight with Nancy and he didn’t want to go home, so he drove to the bar instead. Chose one he knew he wouldn’t get recognized.

And then he saw him. So gorgeous, with long hair, bangs falling in his eyes, and a smile that would haunt Steve forever. It made Steve’s skin itch with pure need. 

He didn’t really think before sending him the drink.

Didn’t really think when the man approached his booth and asked if he could join him. 

Didn’t think at all when the way he said ‘sweetheart’ sent his heart into overdrive. 

Steve didn’t think. And now he was fucked.

Because the stranger from the bar, the guy Steve had shamelessly fallen for, was here. Standing in Nancy’s doorway, walking into Steve’s fiancé’s living room. 

He was here and his name was Eddie Munson and he would be Steve’s ruin.

Steve tried to keep his cool, shook Eddie’s hands like he didn’t know what those fingers felt like wrapped around his hips. Looked away when Eddie’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as if he didn’t know what his mouth tasted like. 

Steve did what he was best at: Pretend.

But his resolve was shattered the minute those round brown eyes met his at the door because Steve kept messing it up. Kept stealing glances at him like no one would notice. 

But Eddie did notice it. In fact, he seemed to always know when Steve was looking at him.

“Steve, would you come help me in the kitchen with dessert?” Nancy said, and it was clearly not a question. Steve nodded and followed her, Eddie’s eyes on him the whole time. 

Nancy opened the oven and picked up the pie, placed her two hands on the counter, and looked him dead in the eye.

“Alright, spill,” she said. No time for preambles.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he shrugged. Knew it wouldn't work with her. She would see right past his bullshit.

“Don’t play dumb, Steve. What’s up with you?”

Steve sighed. There was no way he could keep anything from Nancy, so he just told her everything. 

“And the night you met him was…?”

“The night we fought. I’m sorry I walked out. I was so angry. But at me, not at you.”

Nancy nodded. She rounded the counter and stood next to Steve, putting her hand softly on his face. 

“You need to stop hating yourself, babe. I'm pretty sure I told you that at least a million times,” her voice was stern, but not mean. Steve could feel the love behind every word.

“I know, Nance,” he said, not daring to meet her eyes. Knew what he would see in them and he wasn't really ready for that.

“There’s nothing wrong with who you are. Fuck your dad," Nancy said, tugging at his hand until he turned his head, and only when their eyes locked did she keep going. "You can stop pretending now.”

The words sunk in and Steve sighed. Nancy was right, as usual. Steve learned from a young age how to hate himself and he’d never stopped. Kept thinking he needed to please his father.

Even when his father hated who Steve was. Even when his father found Steve’s magazines, hidden in his room. Even when his father screamed at him that he would marry a good girl otherwise he could say goodbye to his money and his name. Steve hated himself then, even more.

So when Steve showed up at Nancy’s door, crying in the middle of the night, she took him in. She soothed him. Calmed him. And when Steve begged her to marry him, she didn’t even blink. She said, “If that’s what will make you happy, Steve, I’ll marry you.”

Nancy, who was willing to put her own happiness aside just so Steve would hate himself a little less. Nancy, who had been in love with Robin ever since Steve had introduced them both.

Nancy, who had fought Steve, begged him to see that cutting ties with his family wouldn’t be the worst thing. He wouldn’t ever be alone. 

“You should go talk to him,” Nancy said and Steve grimaced at her.

“He probably hates me,”

“The way he looks at you? I would hardly call it hate, Steve. Just go.”

Steve brought the pie to the table and softly tapped on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Can we talk?”

For a minute, Steve thought Eddie would say no. Would tell him to go fuck himself. But then, Eddie nodded and got up. 

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #Ali's stuff #stranger things

[pursuitseternal]

“The Fourth Day” of Bats, Blood, and Mirror Smut in “Antics of the Newly Ascended”

Ascended Astarion x Reader |E| 2.3K of Batstarion and Self-indulgent mirror sex

Summary: He’s late to arrive back, and then you hear… scratching at your window. Bat nibbles and head scritches quickly shift into other sensual indulgences. Ones that allow him to experience other benefits to his ascension… and to your own pleasure.

CW: “Right Hand” puns, Batstarion bites, cunilingus, mirror sex, Extra Emphatic performance from the Ascendant cause he likes the way he looks, “oh yes, I see what all the fuss is about”

Previous Ch | Ao3 Link | Masterlist

A gift for @icybluepenguin

🪞🦇🪞🦇🪞🦇🪞🦇🪞🦇🪞🦇🪞🦇🪞🦇🪞

You lay in your bed, tossing and turning. Waiting for Astarion to return. The camp needed supplies—potions and scrolls and armor. And it was Astarion’s turn to go fetch, even as he had grumbled how beneath him it was as the Ascendant.

Of course, Wyll had only laughed all the harder, shoving the purse of coin in his pale hands and slamming the door on his ass. The goods had been sent ahead by a maid from the Elfsong’s tavern, the Ascendant adding in the message delivered along with the bundle that he would return anon, once he deemed his presence sufficiently missed.

That was hours ago… Now even sleep sounded good. Long, lonely sleep. With him somewhere out there in the dark of night.

Your stomach swirls, knowing he is powerful, knowing he is experienced in how to care for himself, but… you have so many enemies now. So many assassins and monsters and soldiers. The list of beings that wanted you dead seems to grow ever bigger.

He shouldn’t have gone alone.

Stupid, arrogant, exalted idiot.

Every sound in the tavern, every creak on every floor reaches your ears. And it’s not your heightened vampiric senses.

You’re worried. For as much as he preens and postures and bites and drinks, you can see it plainly with your eyes and your heart. You see what others can’t since his Ascension.

He’s still just the same, poor at planning, smooth brained rogue. Good with his hands, silken with his words, bad at anything to do with plots or logic or calculations or…

A soft scritch scratch at the window made you sit up from your good- humored, condescending musings.

Something… big… rests against the panes of glass. You look closer. Something largish and fluffy and… white.

“My dear consort, let me in…” he speaks in that way that caresses your mind with his own.

“You have got to be kidding, Astarion. Are you stuck again…”

“No, not stuck. I am positively famished. I need to rest, to feed, before I can use my magic to return to the handsome body you know and crave and worship….”

“Pfft,” you roll your eyes. “So you need help, is that it… mighty Vampire Ascendant?”

“You wound me, my darling…. My treasure…” he flaps against the glass again. His little claws scratch so hard as he grows clearly more and more agitated. “My right hand…” he purrs so silkenly.

You cross from the bed, your body naked as you stroll so slowly towards his blurred shadow on the other side of that pane. “It’s funny, my love, that night you offered me this…” you pause to flourish your hand the same way he had, “gift of immortality… I didn’t realize by your Right Hand, you meant things so literally.”

That made him flutter harder and bang his little bat feet against the window. “I swear when I do get in there… when I do finally feed and shift back… I’ll make that right hand do so much more for me than opening this fucking window….”

You laugh…. So adorable. So dramatic and ridiculous. So… him. “You should see yourself, my love. I suppose II would miss you if I should leave you so… indisposed.”

You cackle, reaching for that handle. The instant a gap was big enough, he flapped his way inside. Circling on his beautiful, membranous wings, you feel the wind brush your hair away before he lands on the back of your shoulder. His itty, bitty fingers hook onto the crest of your back, the only warning you get before you feel his small razor fangs bite into your neck.

So much smaller than normal, you gasp in surprise more at the sensation of warm fur on your skin. His little claws hook tightly, and his quiet breath snuffles beneath your ear as he drinks. You reach your hand around, his little ears twitching as you blindly brush them, scratching one finger in that small space at the top of his head. His mouth still contentedly suckles on your blood.

Tingles of magic wash down your back, and suddenly your hand raises with the top of his head, that silken mess of curls wrapped around your finger. Lips replace bat teeth, the wide span of his warm tongue swirls lazily over the teeny marks he’s left.

“Now… about that defiant, rebellious right hand of yours,” he rasps against the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“Oh…. This little thing?” you taunt, wickedly, childishly, gripping that bulge between his legs from behind you. The “oof” that comes from his smirking mouth is music to your ears. You spin smoothly, pivoting your grip on his cock, and you give it just a few hard strokes to make it harden under your touch.

It doesn’t take much. It never has. He bucks against your palm. One of his elegant, long-fingered hands clutches underneath your chin, dragging your lips for him to consume. You taste the blood on his tongue, feel his hunger mixed with yearning. The way his tongue dances with yours hides nothing of the want you were so quick to incite in him.

You lose your breath as he shoves you against the wall. Moonlight floods from behind him, his sharpened face barely lit in the shadow. But those curls, ravaged by the winds of flying, mussed from his shifting, those silver-white curls sit like a halo in the pale light. Left hand closing around your right, he presses it against the wall, a silent command to hold still. Very still.

A single kiss on your lips, a rakish arch to his brow, and he drops to his knees. His hands force your leg over his shoulder so quickly, you have to grip that wall behind you, caught only by the way he shoves his shoulder under your thigh. His face already presses hard into your mound, fingers already prying your folds wide for his tongue to lap. Careful, you use your left hand to comb through his curls, riding the circling of his head as he licks through your seam.

The same sort of little noises come from between your thighs, little low hums of feeding, muffled grunts amidst the wet suck of his tongue on your clit. Your hips buck, catching on his nose, his hands keeping that new angle for him to push deeper into that wet.

You pound your right hand into the wall, a closed fist, and your legs shake. He drives you closer and closer, pools of heat and lightning racing to your belly and down your nerves. He laughs into your cunt, fingers slipping into your channel from somewhere below your ass. You can’t see, can only feel that rhythmic lap and suck of his perfect tongue and thick smirking lips. But those fingers crook hard to catch your spot, that itch he knows how to scratch and make you shatter.

You pant, riding the brush of his nose on your clit and the suck of his tongue as he devours you even in climax.

“Fuck me…” you groan, head smacking against the wall as you raise your hips even higher. His hands hold you firm, even as your legs twitch and threaten to go boneless in your orgasm.

“Oh yes, darling, I am about to do just that,” he stands to rasp into your ear. “You did say… if only I could see myself… a delightful suggestion, my pet. Come now,” he purrs, “but you will only use those defiant hands of yours as I see fit. And…”

He flips you around, drags you across the room to the corner, until you’re staring at your own reflection. The simple wooden-framed mirror shows every pale line of your bodies as one. You can barely tell where your soft curves melt into the edges of every hardened rise of him behind you in the moonlight. “…you’re going to watch ever little way I fuck you…”

“You mean you’re going to watch every little way you fuck…”

His hand reaches from behind you, clawing around your mouth and twisting to bring your ear against his smirking lips. His crimson eyes lock into yours in that reflection, a matching color. “Well, it was your suggestion, my love, since we both have been given such a gift. And I haven’t yet seen how ruinous I am in this process…”

“Tch,” you suck your teeth, a humored and condescending shake of your head. “Fine… it is a sight to behold. And after all, these days are about you discovering yourself, indulging in your powers.”

“And I’m so grateful it’s you who enables my indulgences, my darling,” his silken voice croons. His tongue visibly sticks out to run that warm, wet pad up the curve of your ear.

His gaze watches yours flutter, your body shivering involuntarily as you want more. “Bend,” he growls into those little circles and folds of your ear. His grip fastens on your wrist, making you reach for the wall beside you, turning you sideways to that shimmering mirror glass. You look through the messy curtain of your hair, watching in that reflection as his hand smooths down the vertebrae of your spine, his other grips and pumps his cock. That hard, veined length dripping onto the floor, twitching relentlessly as he catches your eye with a wicked grin.

“You keep those insolent hands where I can see them, darling, and you… will… watch me.” His voice drops into a deep-throated growl, his head cocked back, hips bucking into his fist. Even as he clutches the cheek of your ass, his sharp nails finding purchase, drawing blood to the surface as he marks you.

His. Forever.

Fingers leave your skin, pulling back that long, tousled mess of your hair so you can obey him.

So you can watch.

Watch as he lines himself up with your entrance, watch as he drags that blunted tip, forcefully and slowly back and forth through your slick. Watch as his hand beats his shaft against your folds, smearing your arousal up and down his velvety smooth skin as he does so.

It’s… burning in your belly, the way he’s licking his lips, stare alternating between watching his body in the mirror and your eyes drinking in his every sensual stroke.

You can’t look away, watching him shut his eyes, head thrown back in pleasure, arching as he sheathes himself until you feel that brush of his balls against you. You want to shudder and hang your head, instantly filled and throbbing and so… very… full.

“Don’t you disobey me, pet,” he hisses. “Best keep watching, or else…” Eyes still shut, he groans in deep delight as he pulls out once more only to grip your hips and shove inside again.

Deeper. Harder. More punishing. Fangs bared, he smirks down to watch his perfect shaft entering you, a slow beating rhythm to the snaps of his hips. Every little ripple of muscles in his body, you get drunk on the sight of him. Even that slight gleaming slick on his cock that you see, that base of his shaft as it glistens before it disappears to ram you full again. It makes your mouth water.

He picks up the pace now, your body so warm and wet from how he pleasured you. He smiles at himself, tilting his head back towards the mirror. You can feel it, the extra undulations of his body, a little extra shove, a little harder buck of his hips to make your ass slap hard on his body.

A performance of pleasure just for him.

Deep, subtle pants leave his gaping mouth with each thrust, his eyes watching the way his own flawless, ruinous body clenches as he fucks. Every tweak of his abs, every clench of his ass, you can see his eyes dart in the mirror to savor the sight.

You laugh, well, barely laugh. As breathless as you are, riding every pummel into your cunt, you manage to speak. “Careful, or I’ll have to get a blindfold if you can’t stop watching yourself…”

“Oh darling, I finally see what all the fuss is about,” he pants between his words. And you hear it, that edge to his voice, reckless and uncontrolled. His words catch in his throat just as stilted as his thrusts become.

Hard and random and rough.

Your cervix grows numb, your channel walls so swollen, so hot. Pounded over and over again until he finally groans and folds over you. Arms yank you back against him by your hips, slamming your body against his wild bucks. You watch that magnificent reflection as he unravels, how his knees buckle as he comes.

How his seed spills so hard from his cock deep inside you, it’s already dripping to the floor at your feet. The sight of sweating pale skin and undulating muscles bent over for you… you shatter too. And it makes another groan, a whimper come from where he’s laid his head on your back, just below your shoulder blades. Your walls milk him of every last drop, your own arousal joining the mess on the floor beneath your feet.

Breathless, your arms shake, still extended towards the wall. A naughty grin on your mouth as he looks at your lust-hazed eyes and tousled hair. His face is a matching set of post-coital mess and beauty.

You reach that right hand of yours between your legs, slowly, delicately teasing over your own slick clit, drenched in both your cum. Stroking further to brush the soaked base of his cock that is still buried inside you, he nips into the skin of your back, not hard enough to break the skin.

Just enough to make you look again in that mirror.

“Your right hand is forgiven… I’ll allow it…” he purrs one more time.

His crimson gaze still looks hazy and dunk on that sight of you coupled. And you wonder if he will ever let you stand.

#astarion #ascended astarion #mirror sex #comedy and smut #oh he does see what all the fuss is about #batstarion #astarion smut #astarion x reader #reader x astarion #astarion x female reader #astarion x f!reader #astarion x female tav #astarion x tav #Astarion being self-absorbed #astarion baldurs gate #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 smut #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #baldur’s gate iii #baldur gate 3 #baldurs gate smut #baldur’s gate 3 #baldur's gate #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate 3

[deetz-ghuleh]

No Lies

─ Papa Emeritus II Secondo x F! Reader ─

rating: 18+ Explicit | MDNI

word count: 2.4k

summary: You're too shy to tell Papa about your recent guilty pleasure. He has a plan to make you see there's nothing to be ashamed of.

warnings/tags: feminine reader, vaginal fingering, nudity, sexual penetration, rough sex, spanking, submission, slight choking, praise kink, erotic literature.

a/n: Just an idea that was rattling around in my head. Passages from the book mentioned are not mine. They are from The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty by Anne Rice.

ao3 link

tag list: @ghu-leh

You finally had a day off.

It had been a mentally taxing week of helping Sister Imperator with clergy paperwork, so you wanted to enjoy your spare time as much as possible. Starting your morning off with a good book in a peaceful setting was perfect.

As you walk towards the entrance of Primo's gardens, Secondo's familiar voice stops you.

"What a delight to see you rise so early, sorella."

"Papa!" You turn and greet him with a warm smile.

His mismatched eyes peer into yours, traveling from the top of your veil to your toes. He was wearing his usual skull makeup coupled with a casual long-sleeve shirt and pristine black trousers.

A strong friendship blossomed between the two of you when you joined the abbey a year ago. Feeling alienated, he made you feel comfortable and welcomed in the strange, new place. Sharing a genuine love of literature, he began to show you around the Ministry's old library and even read with you during his breaks. Being Papa and leader of the flock, he was extremely busy, and as you got accustomed to the rules of the Unholy church, you noticed he was particularly selective of whom he spent time with. Most siblings kept their distance out of fear or respect, but the more you talked, the more drawn to him you became, seeing past his grim exterior. As a result, he became almost like an older brother, except for the arousing effect he had on you. Lascivious fantasies had invaded your mind on numerous occasions, but keeping them hidden away in the safety of your room at night was better than disgracing yourself in front of Papa. How could you? After he'd shown you so much kindness? You had a hunch that he knew, how could he not? But it was customary for him to make the first move if he so desired, and since he hadn't, your lust-filled dreams had to stay, well, exactly that … just dreams.

"What are you doing so early, bella?" He asks, his body close enough that you can smell the wonderful scent of his cologne.

"Oh, um, I was just heading over to the garden to read." You answer, gesturing in the direction of the intricate, decorated archway.

"The garden, hm, and reading what?" He pries, his eyes catching a glimpse of the book tucked in the crook of your arm.

You hesitate and stay silent for a moment, unsure if you should reveal the intimate details of your recent literary indulgence. It wasn't that you couldn't tell him, you knew he wouldn't judge you. But that fearful, self-conscious voice in the back of your mind kept you silent.

"Why so shy, sorella?"

You wish your eyes didn't give you away so easily. If you had known he would be asking about it, you would have picked a different genre. Erotica out of all things? You want to smack yourself silly.

"It's a mystery novel, Papa." You lie, instantly regretting it.

He notices your blatant deception. Secondo always notices.

A sly grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as his piercing gaze intensifies, making you squirm under its scrutiny. You knew that look. The one he gave you when he wanted to teach you a lesson or reprimand you somehow. He was planning something.

"I see. Bring the book to my quarters when you're done today, sorella. I've been looking for something new to read."

"Yes, Papa." You whisper silently as he turns and walks away.

Fuck.

—

You weren't keeping track, but you guessed it probably took you almost ten minutes to read one unholy paragraph. You could hardly concentrate, thinking of the awkward conversation that awaited you. Yes, Papa, I love getting wet from reading these stories. I love picturing you doing all sorts of filthy things to me. Oh yes, can you drag me around like a slave and punish me like a little slut? Your mortification would reach the stratosphere. You might as well never show your face around the abbey again.

Rather than put yourself through the torture of waiting, you decide to make your way over to his chambers and get it over with.

—

It felt like you flew to his room. You couldn't explain how you got there so quickly, as if some unseen force propelled you forward with a supernatural speed. The thumping of your heartbeat crushes against your chest as you enter his room.

"Sit. Make yourself comfortable, ____. I'll return shortly."

You do as you're told, sitting in one of the plush leather chairs next to his bed. The room looked somewhat familiar. You had only been to his suite once before. Months ago, Sister Imperator had required some assistance with a few antique paintings he was restoring, and she had quickly gathered them from his room with your help.

You remember the gorgeously adorned four-poster bed. You stand and run a finger along its thick mahogany frame. A thrill snakes up your spine as you imagine yourself pinned underneath him while he fucks you senseless.

You notice the glass windows that look out onto Primo's gardens, and you get lost in the marvelous view for a few minutes.

"Admiring the flowers, bella?" He asks behind you. "Once I became Papa, I had my choice of suites. This one was perfetto (perfect)."

Before you could say "I totally would've chosen this one too" he speaks.

"Did you bring the book?"

"Yes." You smile sheepishly and hand it over.

He looks at the cover and flips through the pages, inspecting it for what feels like hours in your anxious state. The tension in the air makes your stomach do somersaults.

To fill the silence, you decide to apologize for earlier. "Papa, um, I'm sorry for–"

"This is far more stimulating than a simple mystery novel, sorella," he interrupts with amusement, "I like it."

A tinge of relief. Not as dreadful as you imagined.

"Now, come. Read me some of your favorite parts." He requests, beckoning you to sit on his lap.

What?! Satanas, please drag me to hell.

"Papa, I-I don't remember--" you stammer out weakly.

"Don't lie to me again, bella," he warns. "That's beneath you. Now come on." He taps his thigh.

Nervously, you walk over and sit, rigidly, on his lap. It makes your insides melt to be so close like this. You had pictured being on his lap many times before – bent over, with your rear on display and fingers exploring your most sensitive parts.

"You're stiff as a board, cara mia. Relax. Just like the other books we've read together, si?"

"So-sorry, Papa. I know. It's just-I'm nervous. This book is diff--"

"I'm aware. Open it and start reading." From his tone of voice, you know it isn't a suggestion, more so a command.

You pick up the book, wishing you wouldn't have dog-eared your preferred pages, but you also feel your pent-up desire unraveling. You love his curiosity for your guilty pleasure. Was reading it aloud the lesson? To make you realize there is no reason to feel embarrassed? No need to hide?

Clearing your throat, you begin.

"But she wanted him so badly. And when she saw him rise up over her, she felt not the hot throbbing pain in her body," you pause briefly, already feeling a hot red warmth upon your cheeks, "but a flood of juices between her legs and a new moan coming out of her as she opened herself to him."

“Bene. Continue."

You breathe in, pressing your lips together, trying your hardest to calm your rising pulse. "He knelt over her, removing his--"

You stop again, fidgeting just the slightest bit on his leg.

"Continue, sorella. Per favore (Please)."

"— his erect cock from his breeches, and then he brought her up on her knees and impaled her upon it."

Then you feel it- his hardness poking your ass through the fabric of your habit. The sensation awakens your desire even further, the tension inside your core slowly building.

"— She cried out. Her head fell back. It was a great hard thing inside her sore and quivering orifice. But she felt it bathed with her juices, and as the Prince forced it in deeper and brought her down upon it, it seemed a spit that rubbed against some mysterious core in her–”

His leather-clad fingers toy with the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Was he just teasing you? You shift your hips, pressing your ass firmly on his growing bulge, and resume your reading.

"-- sending ecstasy washing through her so she was giving great guttural moans in spite of herself. The Prince's thrusts--"

A nibble on your neck makes you gasp in surprise, sending a chill through your body. His hand lifts your habit and you feel it slither inside your slick-covered panties, slightly pushing them down. So quickly your body melts against his, and you spread your legs wider for him. His warm breath tickles your ear as he gently slides a finger inside your aching sex.

"Papa…" you close your eyes and moan softly, pushing back against his chest, enjoying the feel of the leather inside you. The book is quickly forgotten as you lower your arm.

"So wet for me already, principessa." He coos in your ear, his voice thick with lust as his finger starts pushing into you with perfect pressure. "Continua. No shame, si?"

You lift the book back up, the written letters become increasingly blurred as your mind tries to focus on the fire igniting down below. But you obey, wanting to please him desperately.

"The Prince's thrusts came faster and faster and then he too gave a soft cry and held her close to him…her breasts aching and pressed to his chest…his lips on the back of her neck, his body…softening slowly."

You give him soft, little whimpers as his fingers delve into you hungrily, your desire flooding your senses so beautifully. "Mia principessa atormentatta (My tormented princess)." You are so good for your Papa. So eager to please." He praises you, and your hand finally lets the book drop to the floor.

Two fingers slide in and out of you easily, lulling you into a pleasure-filled dream. His breath gets more ragged, and with a quick movement, he lifts your hips and flips you around to hover your pussy over his cock, teasing your entrance.

"Do you think of me when you read these books, sorellina?" He asks urgently, as if he had been wishing for this even more than you. The tip of his cock glides up and down your folds so delicately, his strong fingers keeping your hips in place.

"Ye-yes, yes, Papa!" You answer, looking down at his erection, thick and standing at attention. Just for you.

"Look at your Papa when he talks to you, bella." His heated gaze calls to you, his pupils dark with longing.

"Do you orgasm while you read these books? Dimmi (Tell me)." His questioning has your mind reeling, the little movements with the head of his cock driving you mad with lust.

"Yes, Papa…I-I need you, please--"

"How long have you longed for this, cara mía? How long have you been pleasuring yourself without me?!" Was he mad? No. Disappointed. You knew.

"For so long… months, Papa. Please, I--" You whine, your eager hole desperate to be filled by him.

"Are you going to lie to me again?!" A gentle threat.

"No, Papa! Please!"

"Please what, bella?"

"Please-please fuck me!!"

"Brava ragazza (Good girl) ."

You feel your lungs cry for oxygen as he slams himself into you. A loud moan leaves your lips, and you hold on tightly to his shoulders.

He hums, savoring the feeling of your wetness wrapped around his hardened length. His fingers dig into your hips with immovable force, and a surge of heat radiates through your whole body.

"Cazzo (Fuck)!! You feel so fucking good on my cock. Prendilo tutto (Take it all)." He purrs against your ear, kneading at the flesh on your back, pushing into you mercilessly.

His thrusts grow more intense, and he lands a sharp slap against your bare ass, making you tighten around his cock. You yelp, feeling like some sort of rag doll being taken over and over, your body defiled only for his pleasure.

"Do you like your Papa's cock inside you, mía puttanella (my little slut)?" He asks, the heaviness of his voice and filthy words making you grind on him even faster. It's intoxicating.

"Yes!! Fuck ye-yes, Papa!"

"You kept your delicious little cunt away from me bella, why, oh cazzo (fuck), volgio adorarti! (I want to ravish you!)" He snarls, kissing and biting your neck passionately. Another slap lands on your ass, the sting even more intense. The mix of pain and pleasure is all-consuming, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"M-More, please, Papa!!" You plead, wanting more friction, the feel of his cock overwhelming your mind like a drug. He pulls out slowly and then slams his entire length back inside you so quickly that you lose balance and fall forward, taking him deeper into you. His hands are quick to grab your arms, pinning them behind your back and holding you up. He controls your body, grabbing your throat, and thrusting into you fiercely. "My perfect little whore." His mouth is on yours, savagely kissing you as you moan obscenely into him, tears falling down your rosy cheeks.

You feel you're about to explode from every sound, movement, and sensation. Your walls tighten around his swollen cock, your heart thrashes violently, a symphonic fury inside your ribcage.

"Papa! I'm-I'm going to cum-!" You cry out, your breath coming in short gasps.

"Yes, bella," he roars, "come all over my fucking cock. I'm going to fill your tight little hole." You feel him spurt his cum deeply into you, the feeling of his hot seed sending you over the edge. The sound of his orgasm fills your ears as you clench around him, every nerve in your core pulsing with ecstasy. You fall apart on his cock, trembling wildly over him, keen moans erupting from your lips. A thousand times better than anything you could've imagined.

Gasping for breath, you collapse against his chest. You feel his body relax with the slowing of his heartbeat.

After a while, you hear him hum contentedly. "Ti amo, principessa (I love you, princess). Bene miso (My happiness)." You lay on his shoulder, basking in the truth of his confession and feeling like you might just faint.

"What should we read next, piccolina (little one)?" He asks tenderly, lifting your face and pushing loose strands away from your eyes.

"Biochemistry?" You reply with a weary smile and tired eyes.

"Fucking boring." He says with a smirk, pulling your exhausted body against him and kissing your forehead as you both burst into laughter.

♡

✦ 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 and want to support me, please consider leaving comments, kudos, or reblogging my posts. :) ✦

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[vulpisnocturna]

Bloodstained Rubies - Chapter II - Captivity

Chapter I

Read on AO3

Warnings: captivity, coercion, violence (not against reader), psychological manipulation, Yandere Chrollo

Word count: 6k

Your mouth felt pasty and dry, and your temples were throbbing, head spinning and arms and legs weak, as though numbed by keeping them in one position too long. You didn’t remember going to sleep the night before.

Shit, had you forgotten to set an alarm? Were you late for work?

You opened your eyes, blinking in the dim sunlight. Sunlight...?

Fuck. If there was sunlight, it meant you were definitely late. You stood up, still groggy from sleep, your head spinning, but when you went to pull the duvet up, the bed in front of you looked different. Nothing like yours. You looked around: it was a large bedroom, with a stone fireplace and a rust-coloured loveseat in front of it, a walk-in closet with the sliding door left ajar, a large bay window covered by sage green curtains-

You did a double take. Sitting on an armchair next to the window, a book on his lap, sat a man staring at you.

No, not any man. Chrollo.

You stumbled back, shards of the night before rising to the surface of your mind. He had- broken in, and drugged you, and God, where were you? What had he done to you? You took a step back, your heartbeat deafening in your ears, fingertips trembling, gut-twisting panic taking a hold of you as you looked around, glancing at the door.

You had to get out, had to leave, had to escape-

‘Calm down, darling’ came his unruffled, soft voice, and you stared at him, continuing to walk backwards, keeping your eyes on him. Anything- Anything to hit him with-

‘W-where am I? What did you do to me?’ you stammered, voice shaking as you glanced around you. Lamp. You could hit him with the lamp. Or maybe the vase on the dresser?

‘This is our apartment for the time being, my love’ he said, calmly closing the book he was holding and setting it down on the coffee table next to him, ‘you will notice you are wearing the clothes you were wearing yesterday night, all except your shoes. I did not undress you, nor did I act in any untoward way. Now, please, take a seat’

Darling? My love? Our?

You shuddered. He was completely insane. He had kidnapped you. Kidnapped you and locked you God knew where.

Your chest felt tight, and air was not reaching your lungs. Your legs were weak, and you couldn’t help but flinch when he stood up, calmly walking towards you. He had a weird cross tattoo on his forehead, which you assumed had been covered by the cloth when you had met him. Was he a Satanist?

Your brain was swarmed with visions of him using you for some kind of twisted ritual, strapping you an altar and using a butcher’s knife to carve you open in some gory sacrifice.

‘Stay right there! Don’t take another step!’ you yelled, voice deranged with terror, and Chrollo tilted his head at you as you picked up the cylindrical glass vase and held it like a bat.

‘I understand you must have your misgivings about me, darling-‘ he started, but you didn’t want to hear anything he had to say, any of his perverse pet names and delusions.

‘Shut the fuck up! Not another word’ you shouted, retreating towards the door. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his eyes darkened, his fingers flexing at his side as he took another few steps towards you.

You bolted to the door, slamming it behind you and running down the corridor, catching sight of what you thought might be the front door next to the living room. You couldn’t hear his footsteps, and you didn’t turn around, pulling on the doorknob. Locked. The keys. Keys. There, in the bowl on the accent table next to you. You grabbed them, fingers shaking as you tried one of the two and frantically turned it, pulling on the handle again. It didn’t open. You tried the other one. Nothing.

You turned around, screaming when you found him staring at you a few feet away. You threw the vase at him, and his hand moved so quickly you barely even saw it, shattering the vase mid-air, making the glass rain next to him. You screamed, flattening yourself against the door, eyes wide and sawed breaths tearing through you.

Glass crunched under his boots, and you went to punch him when he got too close, but he was much faster. Before you knew it, he had picked you up and flung you over his shoulder. You hit his back and flailed around, uncaring if he dropped you, but it was like hitting a wall.

‘If you are set on continuing with this futile behaviour, I will have to restrain you, dearest’ he said calmly, coldly, as he carried you to the bedroom again. You screamed your lungs out, yelping when he tossed you on the bed and climbed over you. You swung blindly, thrashing around, throwing yourself away from him. He dragged you back by your leg, catching your arms and pinning them down above your head with one hand, his other one pinning your leg with such strength that you could not move a muscle. He put his leg over your other one, effectively cutting out all movement.

‘Are you finished?’ he asked, and you started screaming, calling for help, and you saw his lips tighten as he grabbed something from his pocket. His forehead cloth. He stuffed it in your mouth, leaning over to open the drawer of the nightstand. Rope. It was rope. You let out muffled grunts, writhing underneath him, but he tied your wrists to the headboard anyway. He pinned your legs down, taking another rope and tying your ankles to the foot of the bed.

Chrollo let out a sigh, impassively staring at you before he got up and lifted the armchair, setting it down next to the bed and sitting on it.

‘This would not have been necessary if you behaved. I advised you this would be the case, but I can see you want to be a brat. Very well then. One way or another, you will listen to me’ he said, and you stared at him with a mixture of hatred and terror, which he did not seem perturbed by.

‘My full name is Chrollo Lucilfer’ he said, looking at you, resting his elbows on his knees. You stared back, though your eyes were much harsher than his.

Chrollo Lucilfer. Assuming it was his family name was ludicrous. You wouldn’t be surprised if he actually did not even have parents and had just spawned from Satan himself.

‘I am not looking to kill or harm you in any way. In fact, it is quite the opposite. You see, I have nothing but the deepest devotion for you. I first caught a glimpse of you at that library you always used to visit on Saturdays a month ago, and came to realise you were the most captivating woman I had ever met. Your life was truly heart-rending, my love. Stuck in a miserable job undeserving of your talents and intellect, living in a dingy, unsafe neighbourhood, with mindless, mediocre acquaintances and no one to care for you or protect you... I had to intervene. You see, you are so oblivious, darling. This world is a very dangerous one for someone like you; you cannot hope to defend yourself. I had to take you with me, so that I could protect you. I would never be able to live with myself if something happened to you’ he said, his voice sickeningly soft, his big grey eyes making a mockery of fondness.

Something had happened to you. He had happened to you. And what were you going to do? What was there to do? He seemed... too strong. Maybe he wasn’t human, and he actually was Lucifer himself.

‘Now, I understand you may think me unfair for taking you from your life, but let me reassure you: your life with me will far exceed the quality of your previous one. Anything you want- except, of course, to run from me or see past acquaintances, I will give you. Whether it be food, books, paintings, jewellery... ask, and providing it will be my pleasure. You won’t have to live month to month, money will never be an issue for you ever again. Of course, I will also offer you any and all kind of affection and companionship your heart desires. I will take interest in your interests, and it would please me immensely if you did the same with mine. I can appreciate that this is a sudden change and we skipped some steps in our relationship, therefore, I will not force myself on you- unless, of course, you want me to. I can be patient, darling, because when we finally make love, I want it to be unforgettable’ he said, his voice slightly breathy as he uttered the last sentences.

You squirmed, biting hard around the cloth that smelled just like him, hoping your eyes would do the talking for you. Insane. He was crazy if he thought you would ever want him- anywhere near you. You would find a way out. If he thought he could make you into his meek little prisoner, he was sorely mistaken.

‘Do not glare at me like that, my love. It only makes you look more ravishing. Especially in such a compromising position- relax; I will not attempt to take you now. You are far too shaken as of now. Alas, there are also some rules to this new life, because I cannot trust you yet. First of all, do not attempt to run from me. I will find you, and when I do, the results will not be pretty. I will not physically harm you, but your acquaintances... well, I do not have any issues with paying them a visit. Secondly, I will be sleeping in this bed, and so will you. It’s an obvious step in our relationship, and I want to be able to hold you at night. My third rule is that were you to ask anyone for help, they would have to be disposed of. I would not be pleased’ he sighed, and you gulped, looking at him. Was he... a murderer? Would he kill your friends, your family?

‘My occupation will require us to move often, but I will make it as comfortable as possible for you. You don’t have to do anything. And I want to reiterate that I don’t expect you to be my maid. You are my woman, and you don’t have to clean or cook unless you feel like you want to. Of course, I would love it if you cooked a meal for us, but I can care after myself and you. Oh, and one last thing. I think it is quite clear now, but do not attempt to attack me. You won’t be able to injure me, and you will end up in this unfortunate position again. The time I will leave you like this will depend on how displeased I am with your attempt’ he said, running a hand through his hair and getting up.

Your eyes followed him, and you tried to process the delusional rant he’d gone on, but you struggled to think anyone could be so fucked up. He was... obsessed with you? Wanted you to be his girlfriend?

‘Now. It’s been more than twenty-two hours since I visited you at your house. You need to eat. I’m going to make you something quickly’ he said, walking out of the room, leaving you gagged and tied up on the bed.

Crazy. He was completely crazy. What if you had to go to the bathroom? And did he really think you were going to eat anything he gave you?

You were actually surprised to see him come back only ten minutes later holding a plate with a ham and cheese toastie. You eyed it suspiciously as he sat on the armchair and placed it on the nightstand, undoing the bindings on your hands. He removed your gag, and you coughed, wiping your lips and glowering at him.

‘Don’t do anything foolish, darling’ he said, taking the plate and putting it on your lap, staring at you intently as you gingerly took one half in your hands. You glanced at him. Like hell you trusted that.

You put it down, slamming it on the nightstand even though you were starving, not having eaten since lunch on Sunday.

‘It’s a normal sandwich. Eat it’ he said, smiling passively at you. A fake smile. You bristled.

‘Fuck you’ you hissed, but his smile did not waver.

‘Alright. You are suspicious of me, that is fair enough. Mhm. Wait here, darling’ he said, getting up and leaving the room once more.

Yeah, as if.

You went to undo the rope binding your feet, but found that from the neck down, you were completely paralysed. Nothing you did made you move. What had he done? You hadn’t eaten nor drank anything he’d given you. You could move just fine a second ago.

You were starting to panic when he came back and your body started working again, though you still felt weird.

He sat down, holding a knife and a pomegranate. Your brow furrowed, and you stared at him as he placed a bowl on his thigh and started cutting the pomegranate into sections.

‘If you cannot trust me to prepare a meal for you, at least have some fruit. Here, I am showing you the entire process. The knife doesn’t touch the fruit, it cuts into the surface of it. You can eat it with your hands, so you can be sure that you wouldn’t run into any issues. Is that enough for you?’ he asked, cutting the pomegranate into quarters like it was made of butter and splitting it apart with his hands, tapping the knife on the back to make the seeds fall into the bowl. You watched the whole process like a hawk, and he did not put anything on the seeds, nor did he touch them with his knife.

That should mean it was safe, right?

He discarded the shell of the pomegranate on the plate where the sandwich lay untouched, handing you the bowl. You stared at it, and then back at him, but he had already pulled out a book and opened it, flicking through the pages.

You narrowed your eyes, taking up a few seeds and eating them. They tasted so sweet. You wouldn’t tell him that, but pomegranates were one of your favourite fruits. It was one of those things where you liked them a lot, and yet, the hassle of peeling them always persuaded you not to have them.

‘Let me tell you a story, darling. It’s about Nen; I imagine you are not familiar with the term. Every human being possesses aura, but only a few of them can actually use it. I won’t make it complicated, but when aura is released and utilised, it can enhance physical attributes such as strength, speed, endurance, resistance and so on. When one masters Nen, they can develop abilities. There’s all kinds of fascinating abilities, but one must stay within the grounds of one’s own Nen category. Those are Enhancement, Transmutation, Conjuration, Emission, Manipulation and Specialisation. All of those grant different powers, such as Enhancers being able, for example, to make their blows much stronger and Conjurers being able to use objects they craft in their own mind. All of those, except for Specialists’ he said, going on a long-winded explanation that you wanted to not care about, but it was so odd and outlandish that you just had to listen.

Was he talking about superpowers? And that was real? Though it would explain the inhuman speed and strength he had...

You were almost finished with the pomegranate, and you were ashamed to say you wanted more, even though you would not ask.

‘I am a Specialist. That means I do not fit into any of the other categories, and my power is simply not clear-cut. Specialists have wildly diverging abilities, and mine is called Bandit’s Secret. Can you see this book I’m holding?’ he said, holding up the weird handprint book he had in his hands. Now that you thought about it, there was a sort of light around his hand, like a hazy shroud covering it.

‘You can, can’t you? That’s because I just forced you to release your aura, darling. When I went to get that pomegranate, I used one of my Nen abilities to paralyse your body. That triggered the release of your Nen. With Bandit’s Secret, I can steal other people’s Nen abilities and make them mine’ he said, flicking through the book. You stared at him, nonplussed.

So he had asshole superpowers. What a shock.

You couldn’t see what he could possibly mean to achieve by releasing your aura or whatever. You finished your pomegranate and put the bowl down on the nightstand.

‘’I happen to have an ability called Apple of the Gods. I stole it just for you, my dear. Are you familiar with the myth of Hades and Persephone? Legend goes that Hades happened to fall in love with Persephone, Demeter’s daughter and the goddess of spring, and he abducted her, taking her to the Underworld with him. There, Persephone happened to eat one of the pomegranates that grew there, and was thus trapped in Hades’ kingdom because she had eaten the food of the Underworld. She was subsequently allowed to spend six months with her mother, which is when spring and summer would return to the world of the living, and though she had been taken by Hades, with time, she came to love him and find joy in his companionship’ he said, smiling softly at you with those eerie grey eyes. Your terrified gaze lowered to your red stained fingers, to the shell of the pomegranate you had just eaten.

No, he was just being delusional. This was another tale of obsession to justify his actions to himself. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t possible.

‘This ability allows me to form a bond with any individual who willingly eats food I have offered them. With this bond, I can instantly tell where they are, at all times. So long as the target eats the food, and I reveal to them the workings of my ability, the bond will snap in place. Truly, darling, you are my Persephone. We cannot be separated’ he said, giving you that placid smile that made your head spin.

No, no, no.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t- you would just throw up. Yes, you would vomit it. You jammed two fingers in your throat, pushing.

‘Oh, no you don’t’ you heard, and you were pinned down to the bed again, your hand pried from your mouth and slammed against the mattress. You yelped in pain, and the grip eased ever so slightly, still way too steely for you to even move.

‘Darling, darling... you are such a brat’ he crooned, dipping his head to press his lips on your cheek. You let out a strangled scream, turning your head, squirming underneath him as he kissed your jaw.

‘There. I’ll have to tie you up again, sweetheart. Just for a few hours, hm? And if you keep screaming, I’ll have to make you sleep again. You don’t want that, do you?’ he said softly, tying your wrists to the headboard again and lifting his head. Your eyes filled with tears, and you let out a strangled sob as teardrops trickled down your temples, dampening your hair.

‘Shh, shh, my love. It pains me to have to do this too, but with the way you’re behaving, how can I expect you to stay by my side? You’ll see it’s all worth it soon. I’ll make you so happy’ he shushed you, his thumb wiping your temples, his soft lips pressing again on your cheek, on your forehead.

Two days earlier, you would’ve felt butterflies in your stomach if he did that. Now, all you felt was revulsion, fear and hatred.

He gracefully got up, smiling down at you.

‘I have business to attend to. Be a good girl and wait for me to come back. If you don’t try to get out of those knots, I will untie you when I return’ he said, walking over to the wardrobe and getting another cloth, this time a white one, and wrapping it around his forehead.

He walked away, closing the bedroom door behind him and leaving you to let out your anguish.

Chrollo let out a soft sigh, smiling to himself as he parked the car in front of the house he had visited a mere week earlier. It had taken him an hour and a half to drive there, which meant it was almost midnight now. You didn’t need to know what he was doing. But he had held on to his resentment for long enough, and it need be dealt with.

A dull, mediocre detached house in a suburban neighbourhood equally average greeted him. He made quick work of picking the lock, slipping inside and smiling slightly as he eyed the landing in front of the door. Ahh. How should he do it? Quickly, as to not waste time and go back to his darling straightaway? Or slowly and painfully, as punishment for coveting you?

He walked up the stairs, following the sound of quiet snoring to a small, messy bedroom that smelled stuffy. He grabbed the man’s arm, throwing him into the corridor, where he landed against the wall, the sound of crunching like a symphony to his ears.

Too much strength, Chrollo thought, astounded by how weak civilians were. If he didn’t control his strength, he would die straightaway. After all, judging by his wailing and writhing, he must have broken a few vertebrae.

‘Stop screaming or I will take your tongue’ he said calmly, and the man looked at him, convulsing on the floor, sweat beading his reddened face. He was pleased to see he was cognisant and his legs were in a cast, and even more to see him tremble. He conjured his book, flicking through the pages. Indoor Fish, perhaps? No, not enough pain. Maybe he should have called Feitan.

‘Who... are you?’ the man gurgled, and Chrollo turned to him, still flicking through his book in search of the perfect ability.

‘A week ago, you had lunch with a woman and revealed to her you had wanted her for yourself in the past. You and I both know you still desire her. How could you not? She is truly delightful. However, that woman happens to belong to me. I saw the messages you sent her after that. Telling her you couldn’t help but wish you’d told her sooner. And just this morning, you wrote to her that you missed her, and asked her to go on a date with you. That is unacceptable. Thinking of you coveting her, imagining touching her with your filthy hands... it truly is unbearable. Therefore, I’m afraid I will have to kill you’ he said, going back to his Indoor Fish. After all, it was perfect to truly punish his mind for its filthy thoughts.

‘You’re insane! What- what have you done with her?’ the man stammered, and Chrollo sighed, his fish appearing around him.

‘That is none of your concern. All you need to know is that I can offer her what her heart desires. You, with your weakness and meagre intellect, your lack of insight into her and paltry excuse of affection... you could never be enough for her. I can protect her, cherish her, give her anything. And she is already mine’ he said, and watched as his fish ate part of his hand with impassive interest.

‘What’s happening?’ he screeched, looking at his hand, and Chrollo glanced at him, the corners of his lips tugging upward slightly.

‘Oh, my apologies. You cannot see Nen. There are two fish swarming you now. They are carnivorous creatures who enjoy the taste of human flesh. Whilst they feast on your body, you will not bleed nor will you feel any pain. Though your sanity may not survive the experience, your body will, until they disappear’ he explained, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, ‘see? Right about now, I believe one of them is about to take a bite of your calf. Fascinating, is it not?’

‘Please, let me live... I won’t think about her anymore- I won’t, you can have her!’ he started to cry, crawling on the ground. Chrollo lifted his chin, looking down at the maggot in front of him. How you could stand being around such a pitiful creature was beyond him. Perhaps, you had never had better. But you and Chrollo were perfect pieces of a puzzle, completing each other. You had made his heart beat again, given him long-forgotten emotions and breathed life into his soul. Now, he must also devote himself to you and repay the debt whilst keeping you with him. He knew you would help him find himself.

‘So this is the extent of your devotion to her. Pathetic. Is this what you call love?’ he asked, turning him on his stomach with his foot. One of the fish devoured his legs, and he looked at him, sobbing.

‘I don’t- love her... please, spare me... why can’t I feel anything? Where are... my legs?’ he asked dumbly. Chrollo clucked his tongue, already growing bored. He missed you. Perhaps he should cut this short.

‘Are you not listening to me, Hans? I think I have explained in detail what’s happening to you. Tell me, if I told you that the price for your life would be my beloved’s, the woman you claimed to love, would you allow me to kill her for you to live?’ he asked, turning the light on in the bedroom and going over to the nightstand, where a photo of you and Hans smiling was the centrepiece. Chrollo took it out of the frame, ripping Hans out of it and smiling at your smiling face.  One day, he knew you’d smile like that for him.

‘Yes! Yes, anything! Kill her, let me live- I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die’ sobbed Hans, and Chrollo sneered, mildly disgusted. He had seen humans curse their own kin under torture, but to think that it would take so little, and without any pain as well...

How could you have ever enjoyed his company? When he had no loyalty whatsoever? He took his phone out, texting Feitan. He should be close by, as he had asked him to be that morning.

‘How distasteful. Truly, Hans, you are making me feel glad I took her from people such as you. Apologies, I am just going to answer a quick call’ he said, answering the phone call.

‘What’s the job, Danchō?’ Feitan’s voice rang in his ear, and Chrollo smiled, twirling the picture of you in his fingers.

‘Hello, Feitan. I have a present for you. How long do you think you can keep someone alive after they have lost their legs and a hand? Oh, and their tongue, though I cauterised that one’ he asked, changing his power to his fire conjuring ability, carefully heating up his Ben’s Knife just as the fish disappeared and Hans started screaming and convulsing, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. Chrollo pried his jaw open, cutting his tongue with the hot knife and cleaning the blood on his shirt before he ripped the sheets into bandages.  

‘If you stop the bleeding, they can last a few hours’ said Feitan on the line, and Chrollo tied the tourniquet around Hans’ thighs and wrist, gagging him for good measure. He’d heard enough out of him anyway.

‘Alright. I’ll send you the address. Be quick’ he said, ending the call and stepping over the puddle of blood on the linoleum to walk into the bathroom and wash his hands.

‘Don’t worry, Hans. My friend should be here in a few minutes. In the meantime, try to stay alive, won’t you?’ he said, closing Bandit’s Secret and letting it disappear.

‘Personally, I am particularly fond of her smile. That she would smile at you, laugh at any tawdry joke that you may come up with... it is quite irritating. I’m sure you don’t understand. Your love for her is a mere façade, is it not? Does it make you feel better about yourself to associate with someone far superior than you are? Though even she must have found you lacking. I’m now quite certain it was only her kindness that allowed her to nurture a friendship with you’ he mused, thinking you must truly be cantankerous by now. Poor girl, he’d left you tied up for hours now. He would be home soon, though. He could not wait to fall asleep next to you.

It took Feitan only ten minutes to arrive, and when he did, Chrollo called to him to come upstairs, where he lifted an eyebrow, looking down at Hans.

‘Who is he?’ he asked, and Chrollo smiled at him, straightening up and starting to descend the stairs.

‘Someone who was in my way. Do what you want with him. Text me when he dies. That’s all’ he said, closing the front door behind him and getting in his car.

When he got home, he was pleased to see you had made no attempts to free yourself, and your eyes were overflowing with rage and only a hint of fear when he walked in, though they were raw and puffy. Ahh, you were filled with so much more fire than your friend was. He was truly undeserving of you.

‘Let me undo these, darling. You must be so sore’ he said, undoing the bindings and cradling you in his arms, kissing the top of your hair, inhaling the sweet, floral scent of it as you thrashed in his hold.

‘There. You’ll behave now, won’t you? Let me make you some food. You must be starving. Please, feel free to use the bathroom whilst I’m in the kitchen. But don’t try to lock yourself in there to hide from me. If you do, I’ll have to take away the lock’ he said, smiling at you. You pressed your pretty lips together, saying nothing as you pushed him away and walked over to the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

Chrollo sighed, getting up and walking over to the kitchen, opening the fridge and cutting up some vegetables. He was happy to hear the bathroom door open a mere ten minutes after he left you in the bedroom, and you appeared in front of him not long after.

‘Hello, darling. I am making stir fry noodles, I know you like that. Don’t worry, I have no reason to poison them. I’ll even eat some from your plate to prove it. And as far as it concerns the pomegranate earlier, it’s been digested already, so throwing up is useless, and so is refusing this food. If you do refuse it, I will have no choice but to force feed you. Your choice’ he said, watching you seethe with a placid smile. Now that he had taken care of your pathetic friend and was back with you, he was feeling much better.

‘I hate you’ you said hoarsely, and Chrollo pushed the vegetables in the pan, washing the knife and putting it back in the drawer that he locked with Nen.

‘For now’ he replied smoothly, starting to heat up the vegetables and grabbing a packet of egg noodles from the fridge.

‘I’ll always hate you’ you continued, balling up your small, delicate hands into fists as you stood in front of the breakfast bar. Chrollo gave you a sly smirk.

‘We’ll see, dearest’ he said simply, grabbing chopsticks and plates and setting them at the table. He poured you a glass of water from the tap, putting it on the table.

‘Please, sit. It will be ready in a few minutes’ he said, watching as you swallowed and eyed the water greedily, deciding to choose your battles wisely and sit down, avidly gulping down the tall glass of water he had poured you.

Chrollo smiled, filling up a jug with more water and setting it in front of you. You drank again, and he went back to put the noodles in the pan, grabbing some chopsticks and stirring them.

When it was ready, he put a generous amount in your plate, and the rest in his, setting down the pan and sitting down.

‘So, what will it be, darling?’ he asked, watching with great interest as your shoulders hunched and quivered just before you glowered at him.

‘Stop calling me that. I’m not your darling, or any of the sick pet names you’re throwing at me’ you snarled, and Chrollo tilted his head, starting to eat.

‘Well, actually, you are my darling. You are the dearest person to me, my beloved, and my love. Therefore, whether you agree with my usage of them or not, they are true, accurate representations of my feelings. Besides, watching your reaction to them is quite endearing. Your anger is quite sweet, darling’ he drawled, relishing in teasing you, seeing that cute expression on your face when your eyebrows lowered and your mouth twisted into an angry pout.

Getting a reaction out of you was all he wanted, whatever it was. He was a patient man, he could wait for your smiles and soft eyes. For now, he was amused by how much they burnt with rage. It was fascinating to see someone so emotional, so affected by anything he might say or do.

‘Will you eat, or will I have to make you?’ he pressed after a few seconds, and he thought you might break the chopsticks from the tight hold you had on them, but you did start to eat. Satisfied, Chrollo went back to his meal.

‘I’m going to get you some clothes and books tomorrow. For now, you can wear one of the outfits I got from your house. Unless, of course, you don’t want to. I’m not opposed to you wearing nothing. Quite the opposite, actually’ he continued, riling you up, watching you take the bait so, so easily.

‘Fuck you’ you snarled again. It was impressive how quickly you had discarded your fear of him in favour of boldness. It was thrilling to have someone outside of the Spider who wasn’t afraid of him.

‘If you insist, darling’ he taunted with a smirk, letting out a soft laugh at your sneer.

Despite your misgivings, you finished all your food, and Chrollo got up, putting the plates in the dishwasher and going over to you. You immediately got up, putting the table between your bodies.

‘I have left toiletries for you in the bathroom. Let me get you a change of clothes, my love’ he said, walking over to the bedroom and stepping into the closet, retrieving a clean change of clothes from the things he’d taken from your house. Sadly, he had only found one set of pyjamas he liked: it was a black T-shirt and matching black shorts, which would no doubt make your legs look amazing. He could hardly wait.

He handed them to you as you stood near the bedroom door, possibly wanting to avoid losing sight of him. How sweet, he thought.

‘I’m not wearing that’ you hissed, grimacing at the shorts he’d handed you.

‘You prefer just wearing the shirt? Let me take these back, then’ he said, taking the shorts from you, but your eyes widened and you pulled on them, snatching them from his hand, making him chuckle.

‘Just as I thought. Don’t worry, I won’t walk in the bathroom as you change. Your privacy in there is yours, so long as you do not decide to hide there’ he said, and you chewed on your bottom lip, cautiously closing the bathroom door behind you.

He took the opportunity to change and brush his teeth in the main bathroom, going back to the bedroom to see you standing in front of the window. He sighed, his eyes raking down your lovely figure, taking in the length of your legs and thighs. He wanted to run his hands on your soft skin, kiss them, grip them until you whimpered...

Chrollo closed the bedroom door with Nen once again, not wanting you to avoid him any longer. He’d missed you, wanted you for too long to lose any more precious moments. He walked over to you, catching you when you tried dodging him and stepping away.

‘Darling, it’s time for bed now. Remember, I said we’d sleep together. You don’t have to worry, I won’t touch you inappropriately’ he said, lifting you up when you started to try to wrench yourself from him and carrying you over to the bed. He flung the covers away, lying down with you, holding you to him. Your little punches and kicks felt like nothing against him, and he smiled, wrapping his arms around you more tightly, revelling in the warmth and feel of your body even as you yelled and cursed at him.

‘Darling, if you don’t stop yelling, I’ll kiss you’ he said, and you shut up immediately, making him chuckle. Though you continued hitting him.

Chrollo patiently waited until you were done with your futile attempt, and after about fifteen minutes, you were panting, your blows nothing more than taps now.

‘There. I hope it’s out of your system now’ he said, turning you to spoon you. You squirmed weakly, but it did not last long. Soon, exhaustion caught up with you, and you fell asleep.

Chrollo left your side to pull the blanket over the both of you, draping an arm around your waist and kissing your shoulder, stroking your hair gently.

‘Tomorrow will be easier for you, my love. And you will seek out my embrace in no time, I can assure you’ he said softly, closing his eyes and letting himself feel at peace with you. As it was meant to be.

Chapter III

#hunter x hunter #chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo #hxh chrollo #chrollo hunter x hunter #chrollo x y/n #chrollo x you #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere hxh #hxh x reader

[lululandd]

antics;

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader

wordcount: 1.4k+

warnings: fluff, reader owns a cat, the cat has a name

note: happy holidays :3 (also on AO3)

summary: reader unknowingly pranks simon.

part i. | part ii. | part iii.

Your pet cat had been restless the whole day; pacing around the front door with his tail swishing about, meowing your way and then stared at the door to let you know he wanted to go outside, batting things away from your hands, before camping in front of the door to nap in front of it.

He’s back.

And by ‘he’ you mean the really tall burly man that lives at the other end of the hall that your cat loves. He is an indoor cat that gets to sniff the hallway and the lift on extremely rare occasions, so how he figures out the man is back home when he’s inside your flat you will never know.

He met him one time. One time. If it wasn’t for his obsession with the man you’d have forgotten about the whole thing. Your naughty pet had escaped and ran towards the open lift that day, and unluckily the doors were open, but luckily there was a man with quick reflexes right by the door that caught him in between his legs. He pinched the little bastard by the neck with his ankles and just stood there while you two looked at each other in surprise.

He recovered far quicker than you did. “You gonna get ‘em or what?” His tone is clipped, hands holding onto the elevator door so it doesn’t close on him.

It snapped you out of your stupor. “Sorry!” You walked towards him and kneeled as you tried to grab your chubby pet.

This incident stayed on his little kitty brain over and over or something because he never got over the man til this day. There would be weeks, even months of ‘normal’ behaviour until he behaves, well… like this.

Only this time you decided to indulge him to see what he would do. You cautiously watched his excited little pitter patter and raised tail a couple of steps behind, ready to haul him back home if it gets too overwhelming or if the man reacts negatively. He stood up on both his hind legs at his door and started meowing, ears perked up intently towards it. His eyes practically shining black orbs when he turned his head to look at you. He puts his paws back down on the ground and meows one last time towards the oncoming footsteps from the other side of the door.

He bolted around the man’s legs as soon as it opened, running straight into his flat. He had learnt from his previous mistake of going in between them.

“What the fuck.” He muttered under his breath as he turned his head back inside, before closing the door. You had worried he would do something drastic but he came back out a few seconds later, with your cat held by the chest as the rest of his body sits on his forearm. He seems to be content being slung around by a stranger. “Li’l cheeky bastard tried to get my salmon.”

“Oh no…” You placed both hands on your mouth, “I hope he didn't get any?”

“He allergic?” He asks, eyebrows knitting close together in what you hope to be concern. It was a little hard to discern his expression when he had his lower half of his face covered with a mask.

You shook your head as you stepped forwards, offering to take your cat back. “No, he’s not. Just didn’t want him to ruin your meal, that’s all.”

“He didn’t get any.” He bounced your fat cat on his arm like he weighs nothing. “What’s his name?”

“Meese.” You answered as seriously as you could, “Like the plural form of moose.” adding the explanation when he looks confused.

He nodded solemnly before swishing the arm with your cat on it around, “So where does Meese live?”

It took all your will power and strength to not giggle at his question, trying your best to look neutral as you pointed at the other end of the hallway.

He raised his arm so he could stare into Meese’s face, “How in bloody hell didja smell my salmon from way over there, boy?”

“I’m so sorry for the trouble.”

“Not at all.” He waved it off as if nothing that just happened was out of the ordinary, like a stranger’s cat purring up a storm on his forearm is a common occurrence, and his Salmon dinner wasn’t almost ruined by said cat.

“I should probably get back.” You took another step forwards, again offering to take him off his hands. “I can come back later after you finish dinner if you want to play with him?”

—

Harsh winds whipped at his fur collar, making it flap annoyingly against his helmet as he kept his sights on the building through his binoculars. The mission brought him and Laswell to Norway, with him lying prone out here on the twenty centimeter snow while Laswell is sitting on a chair in a heated fucking tent, probably has hot chocolate with her. With marshmallows.

His radio garbled to life, the sound half drowned by the blizzard. “Sitrep, Brav—.”

He cuts her off immediately. “Nothin’ yet. Cold as fuck, over.”

“Snippy are we?” He can hear the smile and playfulness in her tone.“Are you out of heat packs, Ghost?”

“Savin’ a couple.” He regrets not creating a snow wall and now the weather’s getting to him. Soap would’ve laughed at his stupidity if he was here with them.

The thought punched him in the gut, a shiver washed over him as the thought of his best friend loomed heavy over his psyche.

“See anything interesting, Ghost?”

What the actual fuck is Laswell on about.

He’s never been close with Laswell, as she’s usually paired up with Price and Gaz. On the past few missions she’s in his ear, he’s never been on the direct receiving end of her casual jabber and Ghost felt a little awkward joking around with someone as high rank as Laswell. He wishes he has Gaz’s easy personality and openness right now, that man even cut through his defences like a lightsaber on butter.

He adjusted his binoculars and zoomed out a little bit to get a better look around the compound to find something to humour his superior. There’s a wooded area on the right, and a frozen over body of water on the left, a derelict civilian jeep sitting all by its lonesome in the middle of said lake. It made him smile the first time he saw it, because it’s the kind of thing he would’ve started or participated in if he worked in this god-forsaken place.

A harmless betting pool. Guess what date—and maybe time—would the jeep sink into the water, and win a couple rations, or chocolate bars maybe. Perhaps cash if they trust each other enough. Whatever prick tied up inside the jeep would just be an added bonus. The perfect pastime that could initiate an investigation.

Just as he thought about people he would love to stuff in a sinking car, a movement at the far edge of the clearing caught his eye. There were two of them, a slow-moving large animal with a smaller version of it by its side.

“Didn’t know meese exist out here.” He spoke up.

“Can you repeat that, bravo?”

“Meese. Thought they were native to Canada or North America.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

The cold plummeted his patience for Laswell. He’s trying his damnedest to sound neutral. “Moose, the animal. Like elks but ugly. Saw two of ‘em.”

Laswell had seemingly ignored his observation, the two animals he spotted had long walked away when Laswell’s voice came through his ear piece again, “Ghost?”

“Copy.”

“The plural of moose is still moose. It’s not like one goose and a couple of geese. For them it’s one moose and two or more of them would still be moose.”

“What?”

“Don’t know how else to tell you, Bravo.” He heard the start of a garbled laughter before Laswell cuts herself off out of respect. She started a moment later, “Who told you it was meese?”

The cat. The girl with the cat messed with him.

“Nobody. Thought they work the same way.”

This time Laswell laughed in his ear, purposefully turning on the radio so he could hear it.

Oh, you’re definitely getting pranked back for making him look stupid in front of his handler.

#call of duty #call of duty imagines #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #scuffed writing #when in christ fuck will ghost leave my mind so i can write about someone else #meese universe