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shotmrmiller · 7 months

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Mistress.

Pairings: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x AFAB!Reader

TW: femdom! reader, slight degradation?, complete and utter submission, masturbation

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley, a hulking giant of a man, a solid figure of authority on base and the reaper itself on the field, passing through the enemy like smoke, taking their lives with him— had a big secret. To find out, even by chance, is a death sentence.

Simon on leave always went home to an empty flat. He just doesn't have the time to meet anyone, and he figures no one would want to have a relationship with someone who leaves for months on end and with little to no communication. But that didn't mean he did not want someone to spoil. Shower them with gifts and the money he accumulated over years of serving because he never had any time to spend it on anything other than basic necessities.

So once he was home, he indulged in his secret. His Mistress. You.

Sending £800 to your bank account, he sent a text.

'I'm home, Mistress.'

A reply, minutes later.

'You paid your tribute. I'll indulge you just this once, but you ought to remember we work on my schedule, not yours.'

'Of course, my Mistress. I humbly apologize.'

'I will be there in 30. You will not make me wait at the door.'

'Yes, Mistress.'

The Lieutenant was always overlooking something or someone on base, so you were perfect for him. You demanded complete control, and if not given, you took it regardless— and nothing was sweeter than having such a large man submit to you and only you.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

You arrived outside his door, and without knocking just said, 'Simon.'

The front door was opened almost immediately, and you were greeted with Simon on his knees — you'll never get over how delicious he looks submitting to you even though he's so tall his head reaches your hipbones and you're in heels — with a collar already on his neck and the leash's handle on his raised palm. You step inside and watch him close the door.

'Good boy,' you murmur as you take the handle, 'Look at me.'

He lifts his head as you look down at him and you see his blue eyes soften at your outfit— which you'll never admit you purposefully put on, knowing it's his favorite based on past meetings.

You're wearing a pink latex corset dress with the laces tied tight on the entire back of the dress and the length of the dress reaches your upper thigh. For stockings, you have petal pink, sheer stay-ups, and your shoes are 'So Kate' 120mm in the same rosy color— and to finish the look, you've got on a long, black a-line wool coat that you're currently taking off and putting on the coat hanger by the front door.

Leash in hand, you walk towards the leather couch, hearing Simon's jeans dragging on his carpet as he crawls behind you before you turn and sit, crossing your legs.

"Permission to take your heels off, Goddess."

"Permission granted. You know what to do."

He takes your dainty foot in both his hands and presses his lips on your ankle, before moving on to the bridge of your foot. Squeezing the counter of your heel, he pulls it, and your toes slip from the shoebox— he gives a pathetic moan at the sight of your stocking-covered, white nail-polished toes.

Removing your other heel, he grabs both of your feet and places them flat on the floor before, still kneeling, he lowers his head to worship you, peppering kisses anywhere he can put his lips on.

You extend your toes and press them to his forehead, pushing him back up and away from you.

"That's enough."

He immediately kneels back on his haunches, and you look at his face to take in his body language. Pupils so large his iris is a thin blue ring, cheeks red and blotchy, mouth slightly agape as he let out shuddering wispy breaths.

Yanking on his collar, you open your legs and pull him to slot in between them. How his torso blankets your entire body makes your toes curl— and that he's still in a submissive pose and still massive makes your walls clench.

Simon, biting his lower lip, lets out a loud groan— gripping the side of the sofa cushions by your knees as his eyes gaze directly to the apex of your thighs. Right to your unclothed quim. Simon is the only sub that's ever seen you in any state of undress. He's the only one you'd fuck straight into his mattress if he begged, and he never looked so good than when he's begging you for attention.

You entangle your fingers into his ash-brown hair and pull, hard, to make eye contact and say, 'The next time you stare at anything other than my eyes without my explicit permission and I walk. I'll drain your bank account of every single pound and you'll thank me for it before I cut off all contact. This is your first and last warning."

Simon whimpers a pitiful little noise before jerking his head in an aggressive nod.

"Yes, my mistress."

You yank on his hair hard enough to wiggle his head a little and loudly say,

"Yes, my mistress what???"

He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing, and proclaims, " Yes, my mistress. I am wholly unworthy of your beautiful gift. I deserve absolutely nothing from you."

Biting your lip, you let go of his hair and drag it down towards his jaw to softly cup his cheek.

In a faint, caressing voice you say, "Good boy. Staying in your place is easy once you're reminded of it."

You recline back, shift your eyes down to the monstrous bulge in Simon's pants before pressing your whole foot against his erection— noticing how there's still about 3 inches that your foot doesn't cover, jesus christ—

"What's this, then?", and you push your foot harder into him, and Simon gives a low moan, from deep in his chest— and he lowers his head, eyes screwed shut and mouth hanging open.

"Well? I asked a question and I did say it in english."

Simon raises his head and his eyes are glossy, scar across the corner of his upper lip whitening with how he thins them before answering.

"Oh, my Mistress, my Queen. I'm just so happy you're here, giving me your complete attention," and in a quieter, vulnerable tone says, "I missed this. Missed you."

That has your heart pounding against your rib cage. You clench your jaw— you cannot show Simon how exhilarated those words make you. You've been harboring the tiniest crush on Simon, and how could you not? Look at him. 6 foot 4, 320 pounds and he submits so beautifully. You'd ruin him. And with the small feel you've gotten from his cock, he'd definitely ruin you. But not now. Simon deserves a reward for being so good and obedient.

"Go on, pet. Show me how much you've really missed me. For you, I'll permit your release." Only for you.

Hands flying to his zipper, he takes his thick, long length out— what a fucking cock it was too, you can't wait to get your hands on it— he starts stroking it, skin bunching up at the flared head on the upstroke and Simon presses his thumb down on his slit. He lets out a hiss as he starts smearing the pre-come around the head and then smooths out the skin on the way down.

Your arm is stretched out holding your weight as you lean to the side, head tilted and you flick your eyes to Simon's face and you startle— Simon's holding direct eye contact, tongue wetting his bottom lip and you can feel heat radiating from your cheeks at the intensity of his stare.

You don't look away though. You stare right into his eyes as the room starts to fill with faster paced, wet, skin slapping noises— and Simon's eyes roll to the back of his head as his eyes close and you look back down to his cock, so hard, swollen red and slippery with his pre-come.

You can hear his teeth grinding together, shoulders stiffening and tattooed forearm vascular with how tight he's squeezing his cock and he chokes out, "Please, Mistress. Let me come, let me come, I'm so close—god"

" Come for your Mistress, Simon. Be a good boy and come for me."

Simon moans loud as his back bows forward and he encircles your ankle with his hand to stabilize himself as his length spurts rope after rope of thick cum inches from your toes— continuously stroking himself through the aftershocks and into oversensitivity.

He puts both palms flat on the floor as he gulps in big shaky breaths, arms trembling slightly. You stand up, carefully stepping around his come, and slip into your heels. Simon raises his head to look at you and— look at that simple, empty expression. You want to sit on that face 'til he repeatedly taps your thick thigh, begging for air— and tell him to clean up his mess. You put on your jacket, close it with the belt and leave.

Your pocket vibrates with a text, and tap the screen to read the text.

Simon: I beg you, my Angel. Let me look at your beautiful pussy as I come, next time.

You: You know what to do.

And then a notification from your bank.

Simon Riley has deposited £4000.

Pressing your phone screen to your chin as hold in a squeal, you cannot wait to get your hands on him.

'Only ever for you.'

A/N: i'd give all the cod boys the gawk gawk without question. at the same time. and valeria can sit on my face til i stop breathing.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod smut #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost simon riley #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley smut

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genshindsau · 4 months

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Summary: Scaramouche struggles to accommodate to his place in the harem. It isn't easier when some of the other members of the harem constantly try to talk to him or make him spend time with you. He tells himself he doesn't want to, that he is fine blending into the background and being easily forgotten (is he truly?). Concubine!Scaramouche. Empress!reader

CW: Reverse Harem, cursing, sexual implications, nsfw mentioned but not actually described, mentions of Scaramouche's past (as well as other characters), Scaramouche is rather rude in this and can be degrading to the other members, sexualization, literally just Scaramouche struggling with his feelings, non-sexual nudity.

AN: This wasn't exactly what I originally planned, I ended up including a lot about other characters rather than focusing just on Scaramouche and the readers... oh well. There are also a bit of time skips. Dialogue may be choppy as well, especially towards the end. If its to hard to follow please feel free to let me know.

"I'm just saying, when she does the thing with her fingers…" Childe, as he likes to be called, curled two of his fingers in front of Scaramouche's face. He was wearing a cheeky smile, his eyes glittering as he stared at Scaramouche.

Scaramouche clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together as his eyes narrowed at Childe.

Go away. Please. Go away. He kept repeating these words in his head.

"Oh," Childe leaned forward, his chin resting on his palm. "I suppose you wouldn't know."

His words held no malicious intent. There wasn't any pity either. Scaramouche knew that but he still wanted to scream. He also wanted to punch Childe right in his bright, smiling face. He was getting too much enjoyment out of bothering and annoying Scaramouche.

"There is nothing wrong with not defiling myself."

Childe snorted. "Is it really defiling? I mean," Childe shrugged his shoulders. "She is our wife."

"No, she isn't. Neither of us are legally married to her."

"Exactly," Childe snapped his fingers. "We're concubines; Her concubines. We get all the fun."

Fun? What part about being a concubine is fun? Childe is a mindless puppy who will go wherever you ask, do whatever you ask. Even kill whoever you want. He has had the unfortunate experience of seeing Childe covered in blood and a body at his feet. When you appeared, he expected the worse. Expected Childe to be whipped or scarred. Instead, you ruffled his blood-coated hair and said you deal with the clean up.

Why is he even listening to him?

"Look if you really don't want to spread your legs for her," Scaramouche cringed at Childe's words. He had a feeling Childe was making his words as crude as possible to get a reaction from Scaramouche.

He was succeeding.

"Then that’s fine. But you do a really shitty job at hiding the way your eyes linger on her."

"I - I do not!" Scaramouche balked at him, his cheeks heating up.

"Really?" Childe deadpanned.

"I would not consider it! She already has more than enough people who would let her use them. I will not be one of them."

Scaramouche felt like he needed to defend himself. Needed to make himself stand above the others and not be one of the men who succumbs to his position as a glorified body to use. He lasted this long - lasted through multiple masters without ever having to give them his body. He can't allow that to change.

You've never even touched him, his mind whispered to him. Aside from the time you disintegrated his previous collar, you've never laid a hand on him.

Childe quieted for a moment. It unnerved Scaramouche as Childe stared at him. He felt like he was looking into his soul and he almost wanted Childe to keep teasing him. He'd prefer that to how he was now looking at him.

"She's not like that." Childe voiced out. His voice almost stern.

"If you're really not interested, then whatever. That's fine. But don't assume things about her when you haven't even try to understand her. She may be cruel to her enemies but they deserve it. She would never force anyone - never force her concubines or consorts to do anything they didn't want. Whether that is in her bed or in their personal life."

Scaramouche's eyes wavered at the shift in Childe's tone. Childe sounded dangerous right now.

"Why," Scaramouche's voice cracked. "Why would I even want to know her - or understand her?"

"Our lives are dedicated to her. They belong to her, wouldn't you - "

Scaramouche cut him off " - And you're okay with that? Belonging to someone like her. Someone who is part of the Imperial Family?"

Childe cannot be that daft. Everyone knows about the Imperial Family. Knows that no one should trust them. Knows that they are cruel, tyrannical, and would do anything to be the empress. He doubts that you are any different. No, he knows that you are no different.

"Sure." Childe leaned back against his chair, his tone softening now. "She gives me whatever I want. Lets me have some control over my life. Lets me fight. But she also protects those who belong to her. She's stern and callous and can be this terrifying larger than life figure but that does not mean she is going to go down the same path as her family."

"… you can't be so sure of that."

"Just like you can't be so sure that she will turn out like her family. I believe in what I see. Maybe she puts on a certain façade in front of us but so what if she does? She still treats us better than anyone else would."

Scaramouche cant find it in himself to refute anything Childe says. He pointedly ignores the underlying truth in Childe's words. It doesn't matter if you've never laid a finger on him or even so much as spend time alone with him. You're royalty. You're part of the imperial family. That automatically makes you a terrible person in scaramouche's eyes.

Scaramouche was dragged out of his thoughts by the scraping of a chair against the floor as Childe stood up. He stretched his arm above his head before resting a palm on Scaramouche's shoulder, ignoring the flinch that came from Scaramouche.

"If you want to ask anything? Or If you want to try something? Anything? I'm sure she will listen if you ask. You just got to be brave enough to do it." Childe winked at him as walked out of the room, humming happily.

Scaramouche ignored the subtle blow to his character from Childe. He was fine the way he was now. He was fine staying in his room and being an easily forgettable presence (no, he wasn't). He was fine not getting close to you or the others in the harem. Keeping to himself is how he has survived everything he has been through, so he will do what he has always done.

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Scaramouche kept his eye trained on the plate, ignoring the simmering of anger and something else in his gut that he can't name. It was dinner. He dreaded dinner because he was forced to sit with everyone - with you, even though he is about seven seats away. You barely said a word. If it wasn't for the heaviness in the air he might have been able to ignore you and pretend but your presence always left an uncomfortable weight settling around his body - like your engulfing him; all around him no matter how far away he stands.

He wonders if the others feel it. If they do they don't care; or rather revel in the feeling. It just makes him overly conscious.

His hand clenches around the fork in his one hand, turning pale due to the strength as he has to listen to the incessant chattering of the others. It grates on his nerve, rubbing him raw as he has to listen to the happiness that flits from every voice he hears - yet he doesn't hear yours.

He startles as a hand clasps on his shoulders, a good portion of eyes also landing on him. He blinks a few times barely realize someone was calling him. His eyes land on Childe first because of course it does. He then looks to see Venti (fuck), Heizou (double fuck), and finally Itto (well now the world is just being cruel) sitting across from him.

Childe is leaning back in his chair, two of the legs lifting off the ground. "You really have no filter."

It took Scaramouche a moment to realize Childe wasn't talking to him but rather Itto who had an annoying innocent smile on his face. Venti looked somewhere between interested but closed off. His body curls into itself, his shoulders hunching in such a small move that Scaramouche is sure he is the only one who noticed. In the back of his mind, he wonders if these kind of talks drag up old memories for the other concubine - not that he cared enough to learn anything about the others, he just happened to hear about it in passing. Heizou on the other hand has a shit-eating grin on his lips, teeth bared in laughter.

"I - " Itto gawked for a moment. "It's a perfectly normal question."

Scaramouche tried to refocus, to remember what was said but he couldn't.

"Maybe so but asking at dinner, really?"

"Where else am I going to ask? He scurries off like a little mouse whenever he's spots anyone. It's natural to want to know more about each other." Itto is wonderfully dense at times it seems like both a blessing and curse. Scaramouche wants to curse him out but there is no malice in Itto's tone, just genuine curiosity and his words curl uncomfortably in his throat.

"And asking about the time he spent with y/n? That's getting to know him?" Though it may sound like Childe is admonishing Itto, the smile on his lips says the exact opposite. Childe could careless, he was just enjoying the way this would egg on Itto and annoy Scaramouche.

"Besides everyone know he hasn't spent the night with her - or even an evening with her." Heizou was the one who spoke this time.

"That is none of your business!" Scaramouche sputtered out, his ears turning red.

"Seriously?" Itto turned to Scaramouche with wide-eyes. "Why not?" It was an innocent enough question but Scaramouche wouldn't answer - much less at the dinner table where everyone is basically in love with you and not to mention the fact that you are only seven or so seats separated from him.

"It's no use," Childe shrugged. "I've already asked him about it."

"You didn't ask, you interrogated me." Scaramouche gritted back.

Childe just waved a dismissive hand.

"Why complain. As far as I see it, that means more time for us." Heizou spoke up.

"Well yeah," Itto agreed. "But still… you should be able to experience things with her. I mean, you haven't even spent any time with her? At all?" Itto seemed genuinely curious but all Scaramouche could do was grind his teeth as his eyes narrowed at the plate in front of him. He focus on ignoring the embarrassment that caused him to want to curl up in his seat and well just die. He thinks that would be preferable over what he is currently going through.

He's thankful that he is sat at the other end of the table. Maybe, just maybe there is a chance you didn't hear any of the conversations, the teasing aimed towards him. Yet he knows you did - that is if you decided it was important enough to listen to, you would.

Without meaning to his eyes flickered down to your end of the table. Your head was angled and he followed where he thinks your eyeline would be and landed on Aether and Tigh-nari who appear to be laughing together about something. You're face doesn't even twitch, your lips don't curve upwards but they don't frown either. It's completely neutral, just like it was when he first met you - when he still belonged to Ei - but it didn't feel nearly as oppressive.

He didn't understand why. Nothing's changed. Not for him.

"I don't want to." He kept his voice low. "And I do not see how it is any of your business or why you keep bringing it up," He glared specifically at Childe who stared back at him.

Itto gaped at him for a second before he shook his head. "We're not trying to make you uncomfortable or anything. I didn't mean to imply anything lewd. But… you don’t want to be involved in anything - whether it is with the harem or y/n. You're going to spend the rest of your life here, with her, with us - with all of us, even the people who seem to be the hardest to get to know want you to be comfortable and happy here. Closing yourself off, distancing yourself… maybe you had to do it in the past but the people here,” Itto shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. “What I am trying to say is that no one here wants to hurt you or see you suffer."

The last thing Scaramouche needed is to be told this by Itto of all people. He wanted to scream. Wanted to rip his hair out. Most of all he wanted to rip out the longing that wracked through him at Itto's word. It felt like he was peering down into Scaramouche's soul and voicing out everything Scaramouche had pushed down. Tucked so deep inside of him that even he forgot.

When he was younger, that was all he wanted to hear. After he was taken the first time, he imagined faceless people who accepted him and loved him but as months passed, then years and then he was sold to Ei, he forced himself to get rid of that pathetic yearning. People just weren't like that. People were selfish and cruel.

Yet, he saw it around the harem building and in the palace countless times. Thoma baking treats for the rest of the harem members just because. Venti who stayed up playing the flute for the others who couldn't sleep. Even Ayato - who Scaramouche deemed the most selfish - would cover the other harem members up in a blanket if they feel asleep anywhere. Aether, who knitted blankets in the winter, not only for the harem members but also for servants and staff.

You… you who never raised your voice at your harem members. You who took in a unconventional men - Itto, Venti - and never made them feel less than because of their background. You who carried them to their beds when they fell asleep. You who…

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

"You're sheltered. Naïve." Scaramouche forced out between his teeth. "We're not family. We're not brothers. We're all stuck under the whims of a women who could kill us with a thought." His voice increased in tone as he spoke. He wasn't shouting, but he was loud enough to draw attention to himself. "I will never think of myself as lowly as the rest of you do." He squeezed his eyes shut.

He was telling himself to shut up. Screaming at himself inside of his mind but he couldn't stop.

"I won't settle for debasing myself like the rest of you do. Especially for someone who doesn't even love you back."

There was a small cough and Scaramouche froze. It was silent - no one else at the table spoke and he could feel numerous eyes on him. The color drained from his skin as he hastily stood up, throwing the napkin on the table before quickly leaving the table. He didn't even care for protocol or for your dismissal.

As he fled down the halls, tears of anger and embarrassment burned behind his eyes but he didn't let them fall, even as they blurred his vision. The door slammed shut behind him and he collapsed against it, his head thumping against it as he cursed at himself. Cursed at the others for being so kind to him. Cursed at you for not being as horrible towards your harem as he wanted to believe you were.

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No one spoke to him the next day. Not that he made it easy. He hid in his room, ate his breakfast in his room, stared at the window in his room. He only ever saw the two servants assigned specifically for him. They even brought up dinner for him - telling him that you told them to do that. You probably didn't even want to see his face. He lashed out at the others concubines; concubines you cared about much more than you did him.

It still left an uncomfortable burning in his chest. He made himself vulnerable. He showed too much emotion, not just in front of one or two people but everyone in the harem and yourself. He might as well as starting weeping in front of all them as well.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He blinked, lifting his head from the pillow. He wondered who it was. Servants only knock out of politeness once before entering the room, other harem members just barge in at times. For a minutes he felt a tinge of fear thinking that it was you, but you wouldn't knock either - you had no reason to.

Scaramouche moved to open the door so only a sliver of light creeped through. The first thing he saw was the long red hair, pinned back and the red robe - It was Diluc.

"Can I come in?" He asked softly - like he was coaxing a wild animal. Scaramouche nodded and opened the door further to let him in.

Scaramouche bowed his head, his eyes lingering on the embroidered robe Diluc was wearing. His eyes trailed over the golden patchwork. There wasn't a single stand of hair out of place, everything was perfect. He was perfect.

Diluc's eyes glanced around the room but he said nothing. Scaramouche was expecting an admonishment, something about his bed being dirty or the left over plates on the bed but Diluc's eye's just skimmed right over them.

"I wasn't expecting company." It came out harsher than Scaramouche intended. He had never been alone with Diluc before; barely said a few words to him besides the first few days he was introduced into the harem. Diluc was either busy, bustling about the harem building or he was by your side.

"I suppose I should have sent a servant or someone to tell you beforehand. I'm sorry if this seems abrupt, I just wanted to… see how you are doing."

"You mean after my outburst." Scaramouche forced out, his voice tight.

Diluc let out a soft, sympathetic sigh. "Yes, I suppose so. Though, I wasn't thinking about it as an outburst."

Scaramouche didn't care. If Diluc was here - all he could assume was one thing.

"So you're here to deal a punishment?"

"A punishment?" Diluc tilted his head, confusion in his voice.

"I insulted the other concubines. I left before I was dismissed. It's your job isn't it? As the head consort - you deal out the punishments."

"You misunderstand." Diluc shook his head. "Can I sit?" He motioned towards a small couch that was placed in the room. Scaramouche nodded and Diluc sat down, his hands smoothing down his clothes.

"I am not here to give out a punishment. You are not the first to resort to insults or get angry at the others. It is natural that it happens when there are so many of us, and with such different personalities." Even as Diluc spoke, there was a small smile forming on his lips. He almost seems like he is reminiscing as he speaks of the harem members.

Scaramouche takes small steps until he is able to sit across from Diluc, keeping a good amount of distance between the two of them.

"So you decided to what? Come here out of the goodness of your heart." There was distain in his voice as he tried to figure out Diluc's true intentions. "Or are you here to defend the others? Defend y/n? If you are, you can leave. I don't want to hear it."

Diluc just gazed at him, no malice or annoyance in his eyes.

"I am not here to defend anyone. I am here because I wanted to check up on you. I know we haven't had a lot of chances to talk or even get to know each other - that's no ones fault - but, I would still like for you to be comfortable in the harem. Find some sort of enjoyment in the life you are now living."

Scaramouche stared at Diluc, scrutinizing him.

"Why are you all saying that?" He shook his head. "You, Itto, even Childe for fucks sake. All of you go around, stating that I should be happy and appreciate the life I am given." Scaramouche raised from his seat as he spoke. "But all of you - you guys have no idea about how awful this world truly is. How awful it can be. How things can change in a split second. How can you come in here and - and lecture me about life when you and all of the others are sheltered behind the whims of a cruel woman."

There was silence. Scaramouche words continued to float through both of their minds. If he wasn't getting punished, he definitely would now.

"You don't think we're not aware?" Diluc question is so simple and it sends a shiver down Scaramouche's body. There's no heat to his tone and Diluc doesn't appear to be angry. But the way he says it, the small almost pained smile that graces his face, it leaves Scaramouche stumbling over his words.

"I - I didn't mean - I mean…"

"It's okay." Diluc lifted a hand as if to placate him. Diluc's eyes shifted away, as if in thought, before looking back at Scaramouche. "I grew up in a family with three sisters. They were…. terrible. Terrible people. Terrible wives. I would see my brother in laws hiding bruising, hiding their pain. I would hear the comments my sisters directed towards their own husband - comments so degrading and humiliating that even as a young boy, I wanted to curl up and cry just from hearing their words. They would even let others say whatever they wanted. They never defended them. Never did nothing. In fact, sometimes my sisters would egg others on to say even worse."

Diluc remained poised as he talked but there was a shakiness in his tone that betrayed his feelings. Scaramouche's heart clenched in his chest - though, he is not sure why.

"For the first 18 years of my life I grew up around them. Grew up in a family that basically trained me to be a perfect husband, seeing me more as an investment to getting rich than an actual person." A sigh slipped past Diluc's lips. "What I am trying to say is: I know we have different experiences. Everyone in this harem has different experiences when it comes to our time before we entered the harem but try not to let it define how you are going to live the rest of your life. I can't tell you to trust me, or trust the others, or even trust Y/n, that’s a choice you have to decide whether you want to make or not."

Diluc stood up, his movements effortlessly beautiful. He stepped closer to Scaramouche but didn't touch him. "If you do decide to try, you can start with something small. I promise you that, as long it doesn't pose a threat to you or anyone in this palace, it will be fulfilled."

With a small bow of his head, Diluc moved passed him and towards the door. "I hope to see you at dinner tomorrow."

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Start small. Start small. Scaramouche repeated those words inside of his head before letting out an annoyed, disgruntled sound.

His hands gripped at the strands of his hair, longer than he has ever been allowed to grow it out, as he paced around the room. The only light shining through is the moon and the stars - they are the only one's baring witness to his meltdown.

He doesn't want to. Actually, he does. He just doesn't want to admit it. Admitting it would mean allowing everything he pushed down into the small crevices inside of him would come spilling out. One at a time, slowly, over time until he can't stop it and he is overflowing with all the pain and loneliness that he thought he had moved on from.

He wants friends. He wants to be loved. He wants to be cared for. He wants to do things; explore, paint, learn to ride a horse. He wants it so bad that it makes him sick. He wants to be involved. He wants to believe that he is worth more than the shiny collar that used to be fastened around his neck - signifying that he is nothing more than a prize without a voice, without a say.

Not is, he tells himself. Was. He was nothing more than a prize. But, he doesn't have to be. Not if he decides to at least try what everyone else has been telling him.

But what if it goes wrong?

He can handle being dismissed and looked down on right now. He just stuffs the anger and despair down alongside everything else. But if he opens himself up; allows himself to possibly believe that maybe he can fit in and be accepted for himself, and it all turns to nothing… he isn't sure if he will be able to pick himself up again.

It is either do this one thing or don't do it. It's simple. The choice is simple. Pick one, ignore the other, that is all he has to do. It doesn't even have to be a lot of words, just go up, say what he needed to say then leave. If worse comes to worse, he could say the others encouraged him - that Diluc encouraged him. That would at least get you to think before you decided to lash out and punish him for interrupting you with nonsense.

"fuck, fuck, fuck," Scaramouche groaned as if he was in a lot of pain, a string of profanities leaving him, something he would never do in the presence of others.

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

He stared at the bronze door in front of him, his eyes narrowed. He pointedly ignored the guards who stood at each end of the halls. He also ignored the looks sent his way when he entered the hall that led to your room. He wonders what is going through their mind when they look at him.

That he is desperate. Pitiful.

Maybe that he finally degraded himself enough to be used.

He raised a hand, his hands forming a fist as he prepared to knock on the door. He stilled right before he brought his fist down. What is he doing? What if you're not even in there? What if you just send him away without allowing him to say anything?

Nope. He's not going to allow that. He is not going to allow you to not listen to him when he had worked up the courage to come all the way up to your room - a place he spend his entire time in the harem ignoring.

Instead of rapping his knuckles against the door, his hand grabbed the two handles and pushed the door open.

It wasn't what he was expecting.

Well, he wasn't sure what he was expecting but not this.

You're room looked every part like it belonged to royalty but there was something else that left it looking almost cozy. In between all the furnished gold, there was tea placed on the table (two cups) and a half-eaten cake. There was a pale-blue silk robe thrown over the couch which he knew belonged to Ayato. There was cushions thrown on the floor along with a blanket. Leaning on the floor against one of the walls he saw numerous painting - some finished, some not - but none of them look like the ones seen hanging up in the halls of the palace.

He couldn't continue to look around the room before one of your personal servant's drew his attention. The servant startled at Scaramouche's unplanned and borderline inappropriate entrance into the room - a resort building on their lips but they quickly clamp their mouth shut as a voice - your voice - echoes from another room.

"Its fine. Leave us."

For a moment he thought you were talking to him but just as quickly the servant bowed to him, though their face screwed up. Their lips pursed like they were looking at some annoying pest. Since you were still in the adjacent room, Scaramouche felt brave enough to send a glare at the servant.

Concubine beats servant - even servants who work directly under you.

He can't lie, it felt nice to do that.

He was left alone in the room now. His feet were frozen to the floor as his eyes lingered on the open doorway, fluorescent light spilling out and into your bedroom. You were in there. You knew he had entered your room and you haven't told him to get out. Not yet at least.

"Are you just going to stand there? Or did you barge into my room without a reason? Unless you finally decided to give up the whole 'Don't talk to me. Don't touch me.' facade. I thought you'd hold out longer."

He flushed as you spoke. Both from anger and embarrassment at being called out. His feet carried him towards the entrance of the doorway, a resort building on his lips.

"I have in no way come here to spend time with you or be... touched."

"But you do want to talk." It wasn't a question. You seemed to already know why he had stormed into your room and now...

His eyes widened.

He had walked right into your bathroom and there you were. You were in a huge tub, naked but the water and suds covered you from the neck down. You still had your eye's covered as well.

His brain failed him. He couldn't form any words and a redness blossomed on the tip of his ears.

"You're leering."

"I am - I am not." He sputtered.

"Wanna join me?"

"Absolutely not."

You shrugged. "Then you're going to just stand there?"

"I - no I am not. I just came to -"

"To what?"

Scaramouche pursed his lips. His eyes flicker around the room, looking everywhere but at you.

"Diluc," he figured this would be the safest way to start. "Diluc said I should come and talk to you. The others did as well."

He trailed off awkwardly, expecting you to say something to him but you didn't. Instead you just leaned back against the tub.

"I wasn't going to."

You just hum.

"I thought it was a ridiculous idea but I just want to make things clear. I - I am not here to be one of your bodies to use. Or for you to assume that I am going to do whatever you ask me just because you're... you. I've spent enough of my life being surrounded by women who try to dictate everything about my life from what I eat to what I wear.

"I have no desire to understand you or get close to you. But I will apologize for the way I acted towards the others - your concubines and consorts, I mean. They - they are not you and just because I don't like you doesn't mean I should have been so... callous with the others and lashed out during dinner."

He let out a shuddering breath, a weight lifting from his chest as he said everything he wanted to say. He didn't realize just how nervous he actually was before coming into your room. His body feels limp.

You, however, didn't say anything for a short while.

In the back of his mind, he bet you enjoyed seeing him shift uncomfortably, a small sheen of sweat forming on his skin.

"Very well then."

He blinked at you.

"So that's it then." He stared at you, his eyebrows furrowing.

"That's it. Why? Where you expecting something else."

"Well no. I just - you're not angry. I mean at me insulting you earlier and then coming in here and basically saying I'll never," He trailed off, not sure why he was trying to explain anything to you - not when you don't seem to care.

You laugh softly. The sound ringing in his ears. "I was angry but not at what you said about me. You think you're words were insulting? They were the truth. Besides I've been called much worse." You shrug. "What I was angry at was your blatant disregard and disrespect for the others. But it appears that you've changed your mind and realize that you shouldn't blame them just because of your hate for me so no reason to linger in the past."

"You almost sound like you actually care about them." This slipped out before he even realized what he said. Perhaps after what he said earlier, after confronting you, he finds it harder to hold his tongue.

Your lips tighten but other than that you don't say anything. You don't agree or disagree with his statement.

"So you don't love them? Even though all of them seem like they are deeply in love with you."

You don't answer and Scaramouche thinks he screwed up.

"Does love have to be the only reason I take care of those under me? Can't there be any other reason?"

"Selfishness? Control? Pride?" Scaramouche spoke without thinking.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Scaramouche swears he see's your lips twitch. "I may not love them but they're mine. I protect what's mine."

So, he was right about some things.

"So it is pride and ego."

"…"

You shift in the tub, your head falling back against the marble. His eyes flicker down to your throat, watching as a bead of water travels down your skin before snapping his eyes back to your face.

"Most of them are innocent to the truth of the world." You broke the silence after a minute.

"They know men are deemed lesser in this society but they haven't experiences the harshness that the world can offer. Not like you have or Venti or Diluc."

He doesn't see how this answers his previous questions.

"Do I love them? No. I don't believe I am capable of loving anything. But, I care about them. About what they can do - both for me and for themselves. I don't want them to whither away in a society that takes everything from them and become a shell of who they are and what they want to be in the future."

Your fingers drum against the marble of the tub, a small sound echoing in the bathroom.

"You see me as a horrible, cruel person and in some ways, I would say its true. I don't care about the lives of people outside of this palace - not even the people I am meant to. I don't feel anything when I take the lives of others - whether they are enemies or just people fighting because they have to. Sometimes, I even enjoy it. That alone would have everyone labeling me as cruel and even sadistic and I would agree. However, I protect them, ensure they have a good life because I need to. I need their support. But… the people in this palace - they are my people. I want to keep them happy, keep them sheltered, keep them protected; and I'll do whatever that takes in order to guarantee that."

Your head lifts from where it was resting against the tub. He can't see your eyes, the cloth still covering them, but he can feel your gaze penetrating him. The sudden pressure around him is becoming a constant whenever you decide to gaze at him.

"Now, that includes you too. You were a war prize originally, that much is true. You were a means to insult Ei but now you are one of my people. You may just be a concubine but I don't want you clinging to your old life and your old ways of thinking that you need to isolate yourself to survive."

He hated the way you see through him. This is the most you've talked to him - ever; and yet you read him without a problem. It leaves him feeling naked and bared in front of you, even with all of his clothes still on.

"Think what you want about me. I don't care. But the others, they are good and pure and kind. At least open yourself up to them. Each of them will take you in with open arms and love and care about you in ways you may have forgotten."

Scaramouche wasn't sure how to reply to all that. You weren't being vulnerable or even truly opening up to him but there was something in your words that left him shifting on his feet.

"And if I don't want to?" His voice came out shakier than he wanted. His eyes glued to his feet rather than looking at you.

"Then don't. Spend the rest of your time in the harem alone and miserable." You waved a hand like it meant nothing to you.

"I can make sure your fed and healthy but other than that everything else is you're choice."

#genshin au #consort au #empress au #genshin impact #genshin x reader #c:empress #genshin impact x reader #c:scaramouche #scaramouche x reader

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onsunnyside · 1 year

Note

Ok but like I could see JJ absolutely humiliating the reader while fucking her

are you in my head bc i've been thinking the same thing: i know jj is a softie but what if 🫣 we take a drive down the heartbreaker road ??

mean!JJ: He's the kook's number one enemy, the local troublemaker, and always up to something with his pogue friends. You know all about his mischief-streak, and truthfully, you're scared of him since he pulled that gun on Topper. He's the kind of guy your friends warn you about, but you don't have any friends apart from Rafe, Topper and Kelce. They're the same group you've clung to since childhood, and now you proudly wear the kook princess crown.

You're so happy in your carefree bubble, following them around like a little pet. Everyone knows you're strictly off limits because the kook prince has a thing for you. No one would dare to test him or even think about you in a certain way... well, everyone but JJ.

"Oh, look at that, your boyfriend is calling you." He snorts, glaring at Rafe's contact photo glowing on the screen, "he's gonna have to wait."

You pull off with a lewd pop, saliva coating your lips and smeared down your chin, "he's not—he's not my boyfriend."

"That's not what everyone else thinks, and that's not what he's going around and saying either."

That catches you off guard, and your heart swells with hope as if you weren't on your knees blowing his enemy, "Rafe likes me?"

Oh, you were dumber than he thought.

"He's not gonna want you after this." JJ slips his ringed-fingers into your open mouth, prying your lips apart and spitting. The heavy dollop lands on your tongue and slides to the back of your throat. "You think he'll kiss you after sucking my cock? You think he'll even look at you knowing you fucked a dirty pogue?"

He sees the glee on your face transform to regret, your features melting into a sorrowful mess. If the music weren't so loud downstairs, he would surely hear your heart breaking.

With one hand, he jerks his length inches away from your face. His fist slides up the slick skin and he steps closer, effectively trapping you against the bathroom door.

"What's with the waterworks, baby?" He'd be lying if he said your tears didn't make him rock hard. It was your fault for being so pretty when you cry, how could he resist you when you look that good?

"I-I've liked Rafe for so long... I didn't know he liked me back." And now look at you. JJ was right, Rafe wouldn't speak to you ever again if he found out.

"What do you know, hm?" The blond chuckles, meanly slapping your cheeks with the tip of his cock. The messy trails of pre cum are only a mockery of your tears.

"JJ, wait—" You try to turn away, but his foot slides between your thighs, the worn leather of his boot pressing up against your wet panties.

"Do you think they keep you around for your brains? Oh, sweetheart, I hate to break it to you but you've got none."

There it is again, the delicate pout on your lips and that expression of pure despair. He wishes he could take a picture, and forever memorialize your misery. Maybe even send it to Rafe for his own sick entertainment.

JJ shifts his foot, grinding along your clothed core and rubbing your swollen clit. The cry you let out is not only from sadness but also pleasure.

Your mouth falls open in a moan and he takes the opportunity to slip back in, the bulbous head hits the back of your throat and slides deep. Your eyes shoot open and you quickly brace your hands on his hips, but it's no use. He pushes forward until his full sack hits your chin and groans loudly when your throat tightens.

"Atta girl, who knew the kook princess was a cockslut?" His tone drops and his hips build a pace, it's slow but thorough.

He's so thick, your lips burn at the corners as you struggle to take him from tip to base, again and again. Sloppy noises fill the bathroom, your choked moans silenced by the fat head of his cock hitting the back of your mouth with every thrust.

"You wanna know—fuck, something else, baby?" JJ grunts through clenched teeth with his palms on either side of your head, his thumbs digging into the tear-and-spit-covered flesh of your cheeks, "he likes you, but that ain't gonna stop him from fucking someone else tonight. So you should stop the weeping and do the same."

#mean jj #sonny drabbles #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank drabble #mean!jj maybank #mean jj maybank #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x you #outer banks #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks fanfic #jj loving hours

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joshsjipple · 4 months

Text

Baby, It's Cold Outside pt 1

JAKE KISZKA X FEMALE READER

Word Count: 4.1k

WARNINGS: 18+ graphic sexual content, angst (kinda an enemies to lovers), talk of blood, injury, pain from said injury, unprotected sex (cmon guys), praise kink, oral sex (f/m/rec), rough fingering, language, slaps like once, p in v, dom and sub (can go both ways), fluff etc etc.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

Spending Christmas in the freezing cold was not ideal, but then again, neither was being involved in a skiing accident. Could you even call it that? It was a pathetic story, really. You’ve never been one for sports or anything that required you to move at top speed while having to maintain balance, so when your mom asked you to ski with everyone today, you were dumbfounded. It was fun for a while–watching your parents attempt to take on the slopes. That feeling didn’t last long because sooner or later, you were reminded you didn’t come alone on this trip.

Your mother and Karen were best friends throughout high school and stayed in touch through adulthood. At least twice a year, both of your families would leave town together and embark on an adventure. You’d hoped they’d stop inviting you, or atleast stop inviting Karen’s kids, after you all graduated. That didn’t happen. In fact, it only made them extend the trip so they would have more time to spend more time with their grown kids.

Josh zooms by you, a high pitched inaudible scream leaving his mouth as he does so. You giggle and playfully roll your eyes. You never had a problem with Josh, besides the fact he could get a bit talkative. He was kind, patient, and fun; the exact opposite of his twin brother, Jake. He, on the other hand, was snarky, rude, and dead silent. You’d tried to give him a chance for a few years, but he’d just end up ignoring your friendly gestures. Eventually, you stopped trying. You thought that was the end of it, but boy were you wrong.

From that point on, Jake made it his lifelong goal to poke and prod at you. He knew what ticked you off by now and he put that to use the whole week you spent together. No one else heard it, but they all noticed the mean stares you’d give each other at the dinner table. Everyone seemed to stay out of it for the most part, sweeping it under the rug for the time being. Josh knew, but only because he was the one person you could stand on your trips.

Now, perched on the top of a snow-covered hill, you stare down it. Josh’s long gone, joining the rest of the crew down at the bottom and of course, leaving you and Jake at the top. He slides in next to you, his sticks jabbing into the ground to help hold him in place. He’s wearing a giant coat with fur lining the hood, his face barely visible. Giant goggles sit on his nose, making his eyes unnoticeable. You look over at him, trying to figure out if he’s going or if you are.

“Are you just going to stand up here with your jaw dropped?” he asks cooly, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Yes, actually. I was thinking about grabbing a flag and claiming it.” you reply plainly.

Jake doesn’t respond, but he moves a step closer to you. “See that treeline?” he points to your right. “There’s a gap right there. Take it as a shortcut and surprise them from behind.”

You roll your eyes, shifting from side to side. “Yeah right.”

“Too scared?” he says in a baby voice, close enough to your ear that you could feel his breath if it weren’t for your ten layers of clothes.

“What? No!” you growl defensively, pushing him away from you.

“Prove it.” he bites.

Rolling your eyes, you push off the hill. Feeding off of Jake’s words, you lean left and you gradually slip through the path he was talking about. You hear him shout from behind you, but figuring it’s just him cheering, you continue. Over time, you pick up speed. You’re steadily moving down the path that seems to be getting narrower with every tree you pass. You hear another frantic shout and when you look to your left, you see Jake on the main path. He’s leaning to the left, desperately crawling to you. He shouts something, his fingers pointing to you. When you turn to see what has his attention, you’re too late.

A giant tree had grown right down the middle of the path. You scream as you cascade through the thick branches. Losing your footing, you begin to tumble, your body banging against the wood. From the force, your coat is ripped open, allowing a sharp branch to tear into the side of your torso. You scream, feeling the hot blood already trickling down your stomach. Once you’re past the tree, you roll a few more times before abruptly coming to a stop. Luckily, it snowed the night before so your landing is awfully comfortable.

You lay there for a moment, trying to wrap your mind around what just happened. Lifting your head, you note that if you hadn’t been exactly where you were, you’d probably never be able to walk again. You hear a muffled voice, and when you see Jake moving towards you, your stomach begins to sting. Your hand immediately addresses the wound and you hiss through gritted teeth. Jake falls to your side, his hands frantically moving in the air as he tries to decide what to do.

“Are you okay?” he asks, a bit of concern in his voice.

“Jesus, do I look okay?” you growl.

He opens his mouth to speak but gets distracted by the voices of your families approaching. In record timing, your mother is by your side, cradling your head. Everyone’s talking around you and when your eyes find Josh, his eyebrows are drawn together.

“Does anything else hurt?” your mother asks, her eyes wide.

“No, I’m fine.” you say. “It’s just a scratch.”

You’re right. It’s not like there’s a gaping hole in your abdomen, just a large scrape. Your face has some as well, and it stings when your mother cups your cheeks. As your parents discuss, you notice Josh and Jake talking just loud enough for you to hear.

“I literally just said to tell her to stay away from that path.” Josh scolds his brother.

“I know.” Jake replies through pursed lips.

“Someone needs to take her back up to the cabin.” Karen says from a few feet away.

“Jake will.” Josh says with a wide grin. “Isn’t that right?” Jake responds by shooting daggers at him, but reluctantly shakes his head in agreement.

“No. I will.” your mom says.

“Mom, you were having fun…” your voice trails off. “I’m sure Jake can make sure I get back okay.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. You nod and squeeze her hand. “Alright.”

She backs away from you and helps you to your feet. Your legs are sore and your body undeniably needs a reset, but you’re not paralyzed. You rest on your mother until Jake’s prepared enough to drag you up the hill. When she hands you over like a prized possession, you’re sure to put all of your weight on Jake. He curses under his breath and then waves your mother off.

“This may be a bad time to mention it, but I love your perfume.” Jake says with a friendly smile.

“I heard you and Josh talking. And I’m not wearing any perfume.” you breathe loudly.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it. Since when do you ever listen to me?” he defends himself as he begins to haul you up the hill.

“Doesn’t matter! Why would you tell me to do it?”

“Well at least you didn’t die.” he chirps.

“Shut up.”

———————

By the time the two of you reach the cabin, you’re both sweating. Jake collapses as soon as he steps up the stairs. You roll your eyes and step over him, your hand holding your clothes to stop the bleeding from your wound. Seen as your coats almost ripped to shreds, it takes you only a few minutes to strip into a single layer. Your shirt is torn at the seams, so you toss it in the trash can as you pad down the hallway to your room.

Removing all your clothes, you examine the wound. It’s still fresh and blood oozes from out of it. Your head spins as you stare, your stomach queasy. Deciding you can’t take anymore, you resort to the last wanted option.

“Jake!” you shout loud enough he can hear it from outside. After a few moments you hear the door open and shut. “Grab the first aid kit and come here.”

In a few minutes, the handle on your door turns and Jake stumbles in. Your hand is pressed against the wound, your jaw clenched tightly. Jake’s steps falter as his eyes scan over you. His eyes smolder with intensity and widen slightly. Swallowing loudly, he runs his hand over the back of his head. You stare at him in confusion until you realize you’re in nothing but a bra and underwear.

“Are you just going to stand there and watch?” you snap.

“Y-you want me to help you with that?” he over enunciates the last word, making your eyes roll.

“You did this Jake, not me.” you sneer and narrow your eyes. He blinks rapidly for a second, his eyes glued to the ground. “Jake. I’m gonna bleed out.”

“Sorry.” he mumbles, taking a seat next to you and opening the kit. “What do I need?”

“I think I should rinse the blood off first.” you say, hissing as you touch the scrape. “Wanna start the bath?”

Jake groans, but disappears to start the water. A few minutes later he returns and helps you to your feet. You take tentative steps, your head spinning. Once you reach the bathroom, you toy with the clasp of your bra. Jake shoots away from you, turning so he’s facing the wall.

“Oh grow up Jake.” you complain, cheeks as red as a tomato.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he remarks.

You remove your clothes and dip your leg into the water. As you slide the rest of the way in, your foot slips and you begin to fall. Jake’s hands grab your under arms and he gently lures you into the warm water. As soon as you’re submerged he steps away and once again, faces the wall.

“That was a quick save, are you sure you weren’t watching?” you joke, enjoying how nervous he is.

“Nothing worth looking at.” he lets out a deep breath and turns to face the door.

“Really? Because Jake junior seems to disagree.”

“Call me when you’re done.” he yells from the hallway, making you laugh to yourself.

You spend the next eight minutes carefully scrubbing your wound. You pay a bit of attention to the ones on your arms and face, cleaning them so they won’t get infected. When you’re clean enough, you yell for Jake to return. When he doesn’t return in a few minutes, you curse and grab a towel. On your feet again, your legs tremble and you’re nauseous again. Stepping out of the tub, your knee gives out just enough to have you clinging onto the edge of the railing.

“Jacob Kiszka!” you yell again, eyes watering from the pressure on your wound.

“Jesus.” he says, grabbing your waist and helping you up straight. “I was coming.”

You smack his chest and push him off of you. When you’re all wrapped up in your towel, Jake helps you back to the room. He waits outside as you find underwear and a bra, and you smile to yourself when he peaks in every once in a while to ‘make sure you’re okay.’ You directed him to soak a gauze pad in saline solution, and when he returns, you’re waiting for him on your bed. His arm extends to you in an attempt to hand you the cloth.

“No. I can’t look at it, I’ll be sick.” you tell him. “Just dab the area.”

He does as he’s told, his weight sinking the edge of the bed. His fingers carefully apply the cloth to your wound and you shudder under his touch. With a sheen of sweat on your face and tight muscles, you focus on Jake. His hands are skilled and callused from the many years he’s been playing guitar. His tongue sticks out from between his two lips, just enough for you to see. The hand that isn’t on your wound, sits on the mattress, brushing against your waist. You’re glad you have the excuse of an injury to hide your unsteady breathing.

“That should be fine, thanks.” you push his hand away. “Grab the gauze and tape.”

Standing to your feet again, you move in front of him. His legs spread open as you slip between them, your cheeks burn intensely. Placing gauze on your wound, you have Jake tape you up. His hands are gentle as they apply the tape across your body. His hands press it down, careful not to apply too much pressure that it will hurt any other scratches. He’s still seated as he works, and you spin so he can apply more on the front for support. Your hands are above your head holding your hair out of his face. He’s almost eye level with your bra, and you watch him do his best not to look. When he’s finished, he clears his throat and pats his legs.

Neither of you move.

His chocolate brown eyes stare up at you, raking over your collarbone and shoulders. He licks his lips as you remove your hands from your hair, allowing it to fan out over your shoulders. His eyes engulf your body, absorbing your skin like he wants to drown in you.

“Gonna apologize yet, Jakey?” you ask, running a finger along his jawline.

“In your dreams.” he scoffs, eyes still bleeding into yours.

“Not exactly what I imagine you doing in my dreams but it’ll suffice.”

You watch his lips part as he stands to his feet, grabbing your shoulders to move you so you’re in front of the bed. Hands gripping your shoulders, he lowers you to the ground. He’s firm, but still wary of your wound.

“Undo my belt.” he directs, thumbs stroking your chin.

“W-what?” you shudder. “My stomach-”

“You don’t suck dick with your stomach, do you?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he smirks and taps your shoulder. “Come on now.”

Without another word, you hastily undo his belt, tossing it to the side. Once his pants are unbuttoned, you pull them to his knees. You stare at him hard in his boxers, your mouth watering. In one swift tug, he’s free and bouncing in front of you. Your hand reaches for him, but he smacks it away and grabs a fistful of hair.

“Tongue.” he demands. You stick it out, flattening it so the tip of him can slide in. He hits the muscle a few times before sliding himself down your throat. You watch his eyes squeeze shut, chest heaving. He pulls out and removes his shirt, leaving the top of him bare. “Tap twice if you want to stop.”

Without giving you time to respond, he shoves himself down your throat. You gag immediately, your chest heaving. He snaps in and out of you, hands tucked into your hair. You concentrate on breathing as he fucks your face. Drool falls from the corner of your mouth and onto the floor, coating your knees. You watch Jake through teary eyes, his head thrown back and mouth wide open.

“That’s my good girl. Your mouth is so much better at this than comebacks.” he groans, his cock twitching in your mouth. Your throat burns as tears stream down your face. “Fuck, gonna cum.”

A few seconds later, he released himself, coating the back of your throat. You gag viciously as you swallow him, his dick still stuffed down your throat. After he’s done, but pulls himself out of your mouth, leaving you gasping for air. Surprisingly, you’ve forgotten all about your injury.

After a minute of you collecting yourself, Jake grabs your arms and helps you to your feet. Your legs are wobbly from the uncomfortable kneeling position so you lean into his body. He holds you, hands working at the clasp of your bra. You help him, pulling the clothing off your chest entirely. He hums at the sight of you before cupping your cheeks in his hands.

His thumb traces your lips and then wipes tears away from your eyes. You breathe loudly, still gathering yourself. His hands caress your jaw and then move to the back of your neck before trailing down the skin of your back. He’s mindful of where it hurts, and maps it out in his head to remember.

A minute later, your eyes are finally able to find his. He smirks at you and the corner of your mouth twitches upwards. Hands wrapped around your head, thumb resting by your ear, he tugs you into a kiss. It’s soft at first as he tastes himself on your tongue, but slowly gets more heated. Your tongues dance, small whimpers exchanging between the two of you. You pull back to gasp for air, but Jake leans farther in, eyes closed with wet lips parted. You swallow his lips again, sinking into his touch. He trails warm, wet kisses across your chin and nibbles on your neck hard enough to leave a mark. You smile as he kisses across your collar bones and in the space between your aching breasts.

His hand settles on the small of your back while the other begins to push you onto the bed. He watches your facial expressions for any signs of pain, but the only pain you’re paying attention to is the throbbing between your legs. Once you’re fully flattened, he takes one of your breasts into his mouth, the other being occupied by one of his rough hands. He toys with your hardened nipples, swirling his tongue skillfully over the peak of it. He switches, repeating the same actions a few times before capturing your lips in another desperate kiss.

“Jake, I can’t have sex like this.” you admit through heated kisses.

“We won’t. Just let me make this whole thing up to you, okay?” he breathes against your cheek, his fingers messing with the hem of your panties.

“Okay.” you give him permission and he slides down your body.

He kisses your stomach, hands fluttering over your skin. You shiver under his touch, your arousal pooling between your legs. When he reaches your heat, he plants a firm kiss on your clothed pussy, eyes never breaking away from yours. You moan, jaw hanging open. He slips the fabric off of your legs before spreading your thighs with his hand. Hovering above you, he stares into your core.

“Oh she’s pretty.” he licks his lips before laying flat on his stomach. Your heart thumps as you watch his finger drag through your folds. When your hips thrust up, he slips his hands under you and pulls you closer to his mouth. “Watch me.”

You position yourself on your elbows, watching his tongue dig into you. You pull back, a moan falling from your lips. He keeps his grip tight, pulling you back into his mouth. He absorbs you, sucking and twirling his tongue across your bundle of nerves. You’re sweating, breathing heavy as you snake your hands through his chestnut brown locks.

“Fuck, yes.” you whimper. “Feels so good, Jake.”

He pulls back, removing his hands from your ass. You begin to throw a fit, but he pauses that thought when he slides a digit into your entrance. Your eyes immediately roll in the back of your head.

“Keep talking.” he directs. “And don’t move. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” he flashes you a smile that you ignore.

His single finger moves in and out of you at a steady pace, but you’re aching for more. “Add another.” you tell him. He obliges quickly, adding a second finger into the mix.

You arch your back at the feeling, his eyes laser focused on your reaction. Placing the palm of his hand on your lower abdomen, he holds you down against the sheets to keep you from moving. Then, his fingers pick up their pace, curling ferociously inside of you. A bunch of lude, pornographic sounds leave your mouth as you tremble around him.

“Fuck yes, Jake! Feels so good, baby. Don’t stop.” you beg.

The sound of his fingers working into you creates a wet sound through the whole cabin. Desperate to see his face right now, your eyes shoot open and find it. He’s sweating, tongue protruding from his lips like they were when he dabbed your wound earlier. He’s watching his fingers fuck you, encouraging himself quietly.

“Gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he asks. “Come on, pretty girl. Let it go.”

Your legs shake violently as your whole body explodes. Stars flash through your black eyelids, as your body releases. You’re withered underneath him, his name sounding like a prayer from your lips. It takes you a few moments to come out of it, but when you do, Jake’s fingers are in his mouth, sucking your arousal off of his digits. Crawling over you, he places each arm on either side of his head.

“Want a taste? You taste like honey.” he says, grabbing your lips. Your tongue swirls in his mouth, tasting your cum along with his saliva. Your fingers tug at his long hair, body arching against him. He pulls away quickly. “Woah there.”

“Jake it doesn’t hurt.” you tell him. He just stares at you with a raised eyebrow. “Jake! I need you to fuck me right now. I can’t feel it, please.”

“You’re gonna hate me tomorrow.” he groans, parting your legs and lining himself up.

“I hate you right now.” you hiss as he slips into you. Your hands claw at his back as he swiftly moves in and out of you. You curse his name, begging for more.

“What an odd thing to say when my cock is buried in your tight cunt.” he kisses the crown of your head. “God, like fucking velvet baby.”

“Fuck it, Jake. Fuck me like you hate me.” you plead.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

He begins to pound into you, his strokes deep and rough. You cry his name as your skin slaps together, filling the room. One of your hands pulls at the roots of his hair, making him moan into your shoulder. Your other once, digs into his back. Your fingernails dig into his skin, hard enough to draw blood, but he doesn’t complain. His thrusts grow sloppy and his breaths are loud and aggressive.

“You gonna cum for me, Jake?” you ask in a sweet voice.

“You’re the one squeezing me. God, feels so fucking good.” he cries, reaching a hand between your two bodies.

You gasp as his fingers make contact with your clit and begin to rub tight circles into it. You buck from under him, legs trembling as your orgasm rips through you. Jake keeps fucking you until you’re coming down from your high. Quickly, he removes himself from you and positions himself on your stomach.

“You look so pretty when you cum. Even prettier when you moan my name like that.” he grunts, fisting himself.

“Cum for me, be a good boy.” you urge him on. His eyebrows draw together as he shoots his ropes of cum across your stomach. You watch his mouth fall open, eyes clamped shut. “Yeah, baby.” you say as he finishes.

He sits back on his heels, eyes on the ceiling as he breathes. You watch him, taking the time to admire the sheen of sweat across his body. He reaches a hand down and you take it. Carefully, you sit up and he pulls you into his arms. You both sit there in each other’s grasp, your breathing lulling the both of you. His cheek is resting on your head, yours glued to his chest. His hands rub your back, massaging it gently with his callused hands. After a few more moments, you pull away and lay on your back. He joins you, wrapping his arm under your neck for you to use as a pillow.

“Are you okay?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah. Doesn’t even hurt.” you tell him, lying a bit.

“At least when you walk funny tomorrow they won’t think anything of it.” you both share a laugh. “I’m really sorry, by the way. What I did was shitty and inexcusable.”

“Oh well.” you pat his chest. “At least now I know to never trust you again.”

“Hey.” he says, offendedly.

“You’re gonna have to make it up to me.” you say, a finger tracing his jaw.

“How?” he questions.

“I have a few ideas in mind.”

#greta van fleet #jake kiszka smut #josh kiszka smut #greta van fleet smut #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #sam kiszka #josh gvf #josh kiszka fic #sam kiszka gvf #jake kiszka fic #jake gvf #gvf smut #gvf

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moondirti · 10 months

Text

11. SUCK IT UP

CHAPTER ELEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter ten / chapter twelve ⇀

summary: you aren't feeling too good. miguel helps you get over it, in more ways than one.

explicit (18+) | 6.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, smut, cunnilingus, face-sitting, fingering, squirting, power imbalance (everything is consensual), miguel is... sweet (?), mild fluff, angst, very little plot, mentions of death/gore notes: inspired by this hysterical ask. twas supposed to be a bit of short fun but i am a chronic over-writer. thus, i present to you – a week late tangent about miguel's magical tongue! enjoy

The night ends with you riding Miguel’s face, panties ripped and cartons of food waiting idly on your desk. If you could shatter the pleasure that seizes your brain with a vice-like grip, you would take a moment to admit one thing.

You don’t know how you got here.

It’s not the fact of it that’s got you fazed; no, you’ve long since come to terms with the new perimeters of your relationship. Really, it’s been the only active component in your life as of late, serving itself in all your food for thought. You’ve contemplated it before going to bed, upon waking up, during your lunches with Hobie – where the spider critiques your mentor so often that you’ve learnt not to mention your less-than-professional relationship out loud.

And, well– For every moment in between, you’re caught up in this exact transgression.

If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, it’s fruitless to attempt to rationalise it. The day’s happenings couldn’t have hinted towards this at all. In fact, your morning had started miles off from where you are now. Laying on the ground, ambition fried save for one goal:

To take a break.

Your dreams still burn on your eyelids when you blink them open. They’re feverish, ochre and plum and sickly green, a little too blurry to make out the details that would’ve otherwise helped you decipher their meaning. It was something about blood, something about patchouli, and a conclusive explosion that fizzled with bright light.

Though the latter might merely be ideation. You forgot to close your blinds before falling asleep – the only reason you’re awake being the sun bathing your room in white.

A migraine strikes at your temple, rhythmic and reinforced with stainless steel. It’s vengeful. Your entire body is, actually. Sour aches run up your muscles, swelling around your joints, digging into your bones. When you attempt to readjust, your spine screams in protest. So does your stomach, gurgling for either food or relief. It’s hard to tell really; the pain is so profound that blaming a particular area would be dismissing the others.

You do know who to blame, though.

That asshole.

He’s ruthless. An absolute implacable force that grills you almost every hour of the day. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his concern with your training is due to a growing fondness for you. But you’ve seen enough evidence of his method to prove otherwise – he’s merely approaching it with as much dedication as he prescribes anything else. Like the fate of the multiverse relies on your betterment, like his seeing to it is some sort of commandment by God.

(Perhaps it is.

But not even you take gospel this seriously.)

It’s been a couple weeks and you’re still not used to it. Over the year since gaining your powers, you’ve never exerted yourself this much. You’re so weak, you find, that your strength can be likened to that of a civilian. The constant wear and tear hasn’t pushed that front, either – the first few sessions, you’d come dangerously close to throwing up from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Your gut turned into itself, gags coated with bile as you ushered Miguel away from your perimeter. The only thing that held you back was a lack of energy to actually commit to the issue.

That, and the promise of his fingers buried deep in your cunt.

You’ve begun to understand him, though. The scientist part of you can’t help but pick up on his patterns, storing them in one place for further analysis. Eventually, having enough data allowed you to draw up a trend.

It tends to go something like this:

He compiles an exercise to help you learn a lesson. It’s devised to push you both mentally and physically – a killing of two birds with one stone. To phrase it like that, plain cut and simple, makes it sound almost juvenile, like a look into a kindergarten teacher’s book of discipline. The punishment should fit the crime, or however it goes. But it isn’t easy, not by a long shot. He seems to see what you have trouble harrowing from yourself; those meaty flaws, fattened from neglect, maggot-strewn and pulsing with a verve of their own. They’re pinpointed, slated, and then he gives you the knife all expectantly, like you can kill it by yourself.

The beasts’ name has been resilience lately. According to him, planking for two minutes wasn’t a sufficient enough appeasement to it.

Because the next day, he always expounds upon the lesson from the last. The training is a developed form of the one that nearly just killed you, and he tests how you respond. Your enthusiasm or lack thereof doesn’t matter, it’s your perseverance despite it that he rewards. You can smile every time you fall, if you don’t get up, then he doesn’t grant you an orgasm.

If you do, however–

Then, fuck. It’s so good that you often forget the struggle it took to earn it in the first place.

A strict system. One with little room for loopholes or faults. You can tell he’s thought it through – every exertion is met with an upside, a failsafe tailored to the type of pupil you’re proving to be. It means that he’s done this before; is accustomed to the patience and regimen it takes to guide someone as wayward as you.

You add it to your tally of proof that he’s a father.

(He’s able to come up with detailed plans surrounding your weaknesses.

You, on the other hand, have to resort to contrived assumptions to get a glimpse into who he is.

The imbalance is present, glaring. Enough to irk you but not enough to implode just yet. You stuff it away for later.)

Solid system aside, it certainly doesn’t account for how much of it you can tolerate. You’re paralyzed, hollowed out by the endless workouts. And while, yes, you could go to the cafeteria to fill up with fuel that alleviates the effects, you physically can’t move out from under your sheets – limp as the mattress that cushions you.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you like this. It’s become harder to guess now that you’re unsure of his true feelings towards you. A Spanish taunt, likely; something along the lines of have I worn you out already? And you’d huff but secretly squirm under the prospect of disappointing him, a scolded schoolgirl caught with a lame excuse between index and thumb.

Hell, he’s not even around and you’re still plump with shame. Your room doesn’t feel nearly as comforting with the knowledge of what waits outside. Down the hall, up the staircase. Through the common room and across the lobby. In that little gym, hidden in a corner near the med-bay, where no one frequents when the more advanced training facilities are in another sector entirely. You check the alarm on your desk – 09:00. He’s probably there already, waiting on you with arms crossed.

In your mind's eye, he’s wearing that black compression top he seems to resort to on laundry days. Grey sweatpants too. You don’t know what to call the passing reflection – fantasy is all too mortifying a word. Wish? Absolutely not. You wish for nothing when it comes to him. Except maybe–

Thighs squeezing, you brush the objection away. You could get it easily if you’re able to muster the energy. Take it one step at a time. Change into your athletic gear. Eat a light breakfast. Show up, if not a little late. Miguel would make a passing comment about it but nod at the fact that you came at all. And it would be enough, that little assurement, to motivate you through whatever gruelling exercise he has planned today.

If you let him know, though – how hard it was for you to go – would he add to your reward? So far it’s only been his fingers on you, rubbing you while you run slick onto him. Deliciously thick as they fuck into you, long and perfect at pinpointing that one spot that makes you just burst. Certainly better than your own, but…

His touch is beginning to lose its novelty. Increasingly, you’re left wanting more. You come down from your highs gaping, clenching around the memory of a length that’s only ever been in your mouth. And if he’s able to make you see stars with just his hand–

Then you’d abandon the cosmos just to get him to fuck you.

(A proclamation you’d never say out loud. Even your conscious cringes at just how depraved it sounds.)

So, you try.

Really, you do. With the fear of failing him and the lust that’s taken root in your core, you kick your legs off the edge of your bed. The air is frigid, biting at your heels as they press to tile, which is just as cold itself. You let it diffuse into your feet, getting used to it while bracing yourself for the pain bound to reemerge. Black broaches your vision, blotting its edges. You opt to ignore the blatant warning, sucking in a hurried breath – resilience – before rising to a stand.

Two seconds pass. You go blind. Like a marionette with its strings cut, you tip over and collapse to the floor.

Whether a headrush or your muscles finally giving up on you, you can’t help but attribute the display to none other than your ‘mentor’ himself. Cocky bastard with his stupid fucking philosophies. Resilience my ass. Look where that’s gotten you now; capsized like a turtle with a shell too big for its own good.

Groaning, you flip over to your side. Your elbow had taken the brunt of the impact, yet your head rings with alarm nonetheless. You’ll just… You’ll just stay right here. Yeah.

He’ll understand.

(And, if not, then you’ve dealt with him in poorer moods.)

18:00.

You’re pathetic.

So much more than that, actually. Pathetic is a description reserved for the pitiable. A person has to actually sympathise with you in order for it to be true, and you’re sure that if anyone saw you in this state – God forbid – then they’d convulse in disgust instead.

You cycle through a list of viable synonyms. Miserable. Lame. An absolute tragic case of wasted potential. None quite fit like you want them to. They all feel wrong – mirrors so distorted you can’t make out your reflection in them if you tried.

It’s just… becoming of you.

If there were a word that specifically meant befitting to Wraith, then you’d clutch it close to your chest for how validating it would read. It feels like all the work you’ve put in thus far was for nothing. Despite how it may seem, you didn’t just do it for Miguel. If it had been, then you would’ve given in half a year ago upon realising just how attractive your pursuer was.

(You remember it, clear as a waxy moon on an ink-blot night.

He’d thrown you into dry-wall and you’d called him a coward for not looking you in the eye. It must’ve hit him where it hurt, because his mask drew back and before you knew it, you were phasing in and out to the beat of your fluttering heart.

It was the first time you saw him. Once you managed to escape, your fist suffered through its duty in muffling your moans, cut by biting incisors as you rubbed one out in a hostel bed.)

No. It was for you. To put distance between the inconsiderate menace you were before Earth-15 and the woman you desperately want to be. You’d started to notice the difference too. Mentally, sure – where your self-hatred was tamped to the background, and every action you took was opened with weighty contemplation. But even physically – your eyebags had faded and you looked much cleaner than you have in a long, long time.

Where’s that progress now?

Because you’re crumpled on the spot where you fell almost eleven hours ago, with the addition of a pillow to support your head. You’re much like a wad of chewed gum, spit out by some being greater than this dimension. Gross and regressive and littering this world with your very existence.

It’s a close parallel to how downtrodden you’d felt in that convenience store bathroom, bandaging your forearm where Miguel’s claws had dug deep into the flesh. Your throat had been tight with suppressed sobs, both pain and primal fear replacing the pus that surged from your wound. The wash area was filthy. Dirt-packed grout and grey tap water. Paper towels balled in wet wads. But it felt right for you at the time, like you deserved no better.

Of course, you didn’t. Don’t. You went out and got an innocent woman killed not much later.

You still think about her sometimes. Her blood had been piping hot, almost bubbling from the yawning hole in her throat. The rescue was half-assed – you could’ve incapacitated the robber after knocking him out – but you’d been so filled with false bravado at actually having done something that it never occurred to you. The instinct lacking. Your spider-sense, absent. If you’d ever considered grasping the reins to your powers, you could’ve prevented the bullet from phasing through you and meeting her instead. You’ve always been short-sighted like that; prioritising the now over the what if.

And that’s what you stayed here to remedy. But if the same thing happened tomorrow, what’s stopping you from repeating your mistakes? You’d been too broken this morning to process that.

You should’ve just sucked it up and went.

From your place on the floor, out the window, only the top of Nueva York’s cityscape is visible. The sky has darkened to the colour of a bruised peach – an oxidised sort of orange that reminds you of last night’s dream – and the nightlights of some buildings flicker on cue when the sun dips below the horizon. You can see the ninety-degree highway up to Second Base from here. It’s been your entertainment for today, with its little commuting cars and the train that zips back and forth.

If you focus hard enough, then you can trick yourself into believing that the space station is visible, floating just above the stratosphere – where gravity is weak enough to let it hold its place. But you’re a woman of science and you know that it's impossible, that the silhouette you’re picturing is a figment of your wild reverie and you’re still anchored to earth where dreams are just that. Dreams. Your eyes burn from attempting it, anyway, those damn dust motes cropping up again.

Christ.

Given that life’s slowed, you’re spotting them more often. Back in that empty storelot, right after being bit, you’d fixated on them for a brief instant. They fit in with the setting back then, lazy in a stream of sunlight. Colourful – pink, green, orange, gold – flipping through the shades in a way that made sense. But their appearances have lost that sense of cohesion. Now, they emerge when you least expect them. In shadows. Hovering in corners not too far away. Places where it’s unnatural for them to be.

You reach a hand out. There’s no purpose behind it. Just… an exploratory action. To test the unknown. Your shoulder aches when you do, and so you don’t notice how odd it feels at first. Like electricity, buzzing at your fingertips. The motes start to drift towards your skin, magnetised to something you can’t explain.

When you sit up to investigate it further, there’s a knock at your door.

Hobie?

Couldn’t be. He mentioned he’d be away for a while last you talked.

There are few others who know of your assignment. Reilly, but he hasn’t paid mind to you since introducing your room. Jess Drew, maybe, though that’s far-fetched.

So–

You look down at your dishevelled state. In just a plain shirt and your pair of oldest underwear, you’re hardly dressed for entertainment. Especially when it’s him.

Is he checking up on you?

It’s so stupid that even in a depressive slump you’re able to laugh at yourself. Check up is the only way you can put it without making things worse. If he’s passing by, then it would be in suspicion. You’re no idiot, after all, in spite of your dejection. He wouldn’t let you roam free without having measures in place to ensure you don’t leave. That may just mean looking in from time to time.

Though it’s practically guaranteed that it isn’t out of concern.

(You have to remind yourself; you wish for nothing when it comes to Miguel O’Hara.)

Another knock. It’s hastier this time. Three raps with sharp knuckles. Impatient.

Panic overtakes all motor functions as you scramble to a stand. Yesterday’s joggers are thrown over your desk chair, in need of a wash with all the fluids secreted in them. They’re the closest in your vicinity, though, and will have to do for now. You briefly fuss over how your hair looks, whether your unwashed face is visibly oily – all fixable things that you dismiss while tripping to the doorway. The waistband is barely over your ass before you swing it open, greeting Miguel with a grimace.

Idiot. You shouldn’t have opened it that wide. Now he can see your mess of a r–

“Bad time, I’m guessing.” Is all he says, voice lilting into a question. You can’t help but register it with a tone of condescension; the raised eyebrows certainly don’t convince you otherwise.

All you really want to do is tell him off for the impromptu visit. The chagrin is there, latched onto your throat. But before you can, and against your better judgement, you give him an extensive once-over, taking heed of his state. What’s ironic – a tranquillising point that promptly shuts you up – is that it’s worse than yours.

In the complete opposite way.

Three big rips run along his torso, interfering with the technology of his spider-suit. It glitches between static and a transparent condition, baring the bronzed skin of his chest. There’s blood there too, reiterating the crimson that peeks from beneath his floppy hair, which is sweat-drenched. Tousled. He’s tousled, like he waltzed directly from a fight. A particularly bad one at that.

(And of course he still looks better.)

“One can say the same about you.” You bite.

“Don’t be smart.” He says. It isn't the snap you take it to be, more a mumble with consequence to his fangs. His mouth doesn't sit right when they’re withdrawn. You run your tongue along your gums upon remembering how they’d felt, pierced in your neck. “I couldn’t make our session this morning. An urgent issue came up.”

Immediately, something fresh smooths over you, like a balm to the anxiety that’d been plaguing you all day. He wasn’t even there. You’re tempted to laugh, but your humour dims on its way out. And when all is said and done, you find the disquietude is still there, nestled between your ribs.

You just blink in acknowledgement.

His jaw tenses. “We can reschedule.”

“You don’t have to sound so guilty about it.” The joke contains perhaps more sarcasm than you intend for it. It echoes, spiteful, and you at least have the sense to be ashamed, for you follow it up with a small reassurance. “It’s fine. I never showed.”

“Sick?”

“Something like that.”

(Lie.

Look at you, just embodying ignobility today.)

He nods, scanning your dishevelled clothing and chapped lips. Your only drink of water all day had been from the bathroom tap in an especially lamentable episode. It smacks, as though it were filled with cotton, the inside of your cheeks dry paper.

You wait for him to say something, unease broiling in your core. He does the same, gaze shifting from the scars on your arm to your bedroom and everything in between. It lingers on the external hallway, scanning for passersby. You recognise the indecision. Deliberation. Still – the long stretch of silence that hangs between you is awkward, broadening with every passing second, a gluttonous sort of tension whose favourite meal is the undefined mess that is your relationship to one another.

Finally, Miguel speaks up. “I’ll be back.”

And then he leaves.

He just… fucking–

Walks away, off to whatever takes precedence over your less-than-invigorating conversation. Which, admittedly, could be counted as anything in the world. But seriously, where is the decorum? Showing up unannounced only to leave you waiting? You run through the various reasons he couldn’t stand to be in your presence any longer, and what he expects you to do before his return.

The most plausible is that his injuries needed tending to. If they were that severe though, then why he saw stopping by first a greater priority is beyond you. In any case, he’ll probably return refreshed. But for what? Your response couldn’t have been misinterpreted to mean that you wanted to reschedule the missed session for tonight. You’re still sore, thank you very much, and in a much shoddier mood than you had been previous.

(This is what you wanted though; a second chance.

‘Just suck it up.’)

Steeling yourself, you shut the door and hobble down to the back of your room, stripping on your way. You’ll tidy up after your shower – it's bound to wash at least half of your self-loathing.

You just hope your leggings are clean.

As it turns out, you were the one who misinterpreted things.

Dressed in your athletic gear with damp skin and your sneakers primed to go, the dread had started to ebb away into a begrudging acceptance. Yes, your body still tenses with lactic-mutiny, raging where you’ve exerted it in the past, and your head still sings in migraine tones. But they all came second to the split-second fluster that had risen when he’d knocked on your door. That fear of disappointment returned with a vengeance, your worry for regression packing the final punch.

And, really. What were you supposed to think?

He left without so much as an excuse. It was up to you to decide what he’d see upon coming back. Just based on the nature of your prior meetings, the answer heavily leaned towards your own durability. Ready to face whatever exercise he has to throw your way, supposed sickness aside. You were actually quite proud of yourself for it, directing a heavy-handed pat on the back for the nail you ‘hit on its head.’

Never in your blurry dreams could you have predicted this.

Your face burns hot with puerile embarrassment.

“Um–”

“I figured you haven’t eaten.” Miguel explains, curling the plastic bags up in a gesture akin to surrender. They’re solid white, those thin types that bend under the weight of the cartons packed inside. You’re unable to process it before your stomach does, growling in suppressed hunger.

“No.” You shuffle to the side to allow him in. He takes the invitation, carefully, traipsing within your quarters to place the food on your desk. “I haven’t.”

The air resumes its resting level of edginess, however you’re far too wrapped up in your own head to buckle underneath it this time. It’s cold, you ascertain, your skin puckering in a gradient from foot to toe. His survey follows the same line, regarding your changed appearance in intrigue, cheeks sinking with a downward smile. It looks positively smug.

“Sorry, I thought… You’re not here to dole out another one of your lessons?”

“You’re sick aren’t you.” He isn’t interrogative in the slightest. You can’t bring yourself to lie again, so you stay silent. “I see you got dressed regardless.”

“Well, that’s me. Just a sucker for appearances.” You scoff, shutting the door behind you. The room appears infinitesimal in his presence, collapsing into those broad shoulders. “Tidied the space too and everything.”

Tall, packed with undiluted muscle. No longer in his spider-suit, but clothes more casual. A bandage stretched across his forehead. It’s stark against his skin, white on bronze and you can’t help but follow the way he gleams under the warm lighting. Fresh – he must’ve showered too, further evidence found in the way his hair curls, dips, drops of water rolling down his nape. You dig your teeth into your lip. Any closer and you’re bound to hit a wall of patchouli, that aphrodisiacal scent that triggers you like an animal in heat.

“Is that so?” He prods, unconvinced. It’s dark outside and you feel confined to this box. “You weren’t just anticipating it?”

“Anticipation is a forgiving word. No one would look forward to torment.”

His brows knit together, the creases between them playful, like the very implication is offensive on the same magnitude as a low-life’s taunt.

“But…” There’s nowhere to back into when he takes a step closer, your bed hitting the back of your knees. “You got dressed regardless.” He reinstates, emphasising each word, syllables punctuated to make his point. If you weren’t cornered, snared in the clutches of a cat celebrating its next meal, you’d have been able to see where this is going.

As it stands, you’re blind.

“You know what I think?” He adds upon your reticence. You shake your head. “I think, it’s finally starting to hit you.”

“Hit… Wh–”

“The point. These past few weeks have been tough, I won’t pretend otherwise.” Miguel clarifies. “But it was only the first part of it. Withstanding struggle, that torment you speak so… fondly of.”

“Like you said,” You catch on, recalling the reality check he’d given you that day with the plank. “Y’know. Resilience.”

“Remind me of the other half of it again.”

“There’s… Withstanding struggle,” You repeat stupidly, working overtime to try and fetch his exact words. It’s an almost impossible feat, the gears in your mind turning on empty fuel. The initial lecture wasn’t that long ago, but it’s been intercepted by a million other philosophies. And he’s right there, ducked close to your level, keen eyes patiently waiting for you to continue. His breath fans across your cheek. The pressure worsens. You feel dumb. “And–”

You resort to context, then – grasping for the crux of his little tangent. What did you do to inspire it, anyway?

It hits you so suddenly your neck twinges with phantom whiplash.

“Recovering when you fall.” You complete.

“That’s it.” The whispered praise tickles you, like sand filling an hourglass. Your tummy sinks, heavy with it. It’s warm and dry and feels much like how his bare hand did, supporting your neck under rubble. Behind your back, your own wind together as you shoot him a vampish look.

“Who would’ve thought.”

He shrugs. “Was your faith that lacking?”

“There were a few times, yeah. You should’ve seen me this morning,”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

“Fell right to the floor. Almost died, I’m telling you. I stayed right here,” You tap the ground with your heel. “All day.”

“It was not that bad,” He insists, speaking with a levity you don’t often hear from him. It’s nice when he reciprocates like this. You’ve always reckoned that he took himself seriously one-hundred percent of the time. You find that you get along better when he doesn’t.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, using the excuse to wet your lips. The guard you keep constantly raised bends to the contours of his face, curved elegantly around those high cheekbones and the jaw he must physically sharpen to get looking so pronounced. He’s studying you – you sense it, teasing your lashes, noting the way your eyes pointedly avoid his. They’re planted firmly to his neck, where corded muscles stretch under skin, so strong you can practically hear them creak.

Your heartbeat skips from between your thighs. When you rub them together, they glide easily, lubricated by the slick pooling into your panties.

“No logical reason you should continue putting up with it, then.”

It could turn out that Miguel’s voice is modulated and you wouldn’t be surprised given how pleasing it is to listen to. Deep, controlled from a low point in his chest where smouldering coal chars it until it’s rugged. You always pay closer attention to the letters through which his accent comes through; short O’s and throaty D’s. His mouth hardly moves when he speaks. You wonder when he chooses to properly utilise it. Whether he does at all.

Your kiss had been entirely one-sided. His rewards are so detached. There’s a lot you haven’t explored yet; with every passing second, the greater the urge is to push and find out.

“Except we can both appreciate why I do,” You breathe, throwing caution to the wind and catching his stare. An irrepressible smile blooms at the spirited expression he gives you. Eyebrows raised in a thick arch, forming an amused look that only bolsters you further.

“For your redemption?” He baits, only to interrupt your response. “Or…” Your nerves spark. “For this–”

And then he cups you over your leggings, pawing where you’re brim with molten arousal. Hips bucking, your jaw hinges to expel a high-pitched keen, pinched from the back of your gullet. You latch onto his wrist, eager to either neg him on or push him away – but with the torrid fuzz that gains control of your systems, you can’t work it out.

“Do you deserve it?” His ask caresses the shell of your ear, a whisper, fingers slowing until you land on an answer.

Distrusting yourself to verbalise it, you give a frantic nod, mortifyingly desperate. It’s as much of a revelation for you as it is for him, manifested with every needy rut you give his hand. Miguel lets you seek the pleasure, pinning harder to provide the pressure you need, before withdrawing just as assuredly.

You could almost sob. Your nose is stuffy and your lips bitten and you so badly wish to be filled with anything to help you forget your miserable day. When he taps your ass, you assign every ounce of remaining intellect to decipher the vague gesture – eventually falling back on your bed in a close measure of what you assume he means. It’s a sterling guess. Your shoes are shucked off in the process and he leans over you, one knee anchored to the surface as he tucks into the waistband of your pants. They slide off with his help, separating from heated flesh like velcro.

It occurs to you that this is the first time he’ll see you. So far, your body is familiar to him in touch alone – hurried, stolen and shoved under your panties in semi-public spaces while you fight to endure the conflicting sensations. There’s mind to currently faux humility – a game you liked to play with your college conquests. Batted eyelashes and babydoll modesty; a secret thrill present in watching them come undone at your relinquished control.

But Miguel is no lover, and you’re far too gone to play nice now.

You scoot back to your pile of pillows when he joins you. It’s unreal seeing him in such a domestic setting. Civilian attire, combed hair. In high nature. If it weren’t for the bandage on his temple and the shadows making allusions to the brawn he keeps at bay, then you could’ve fooled yourself into trusting his normality. That he isn’t larger than life – solely here because he’s like you, a person trying to make well for themselves.

As it is, though, he’s still impenetrable. Fully clothed while you lay bottomless.

(Again, you’re reminded that you don’t know him. The man sacking you of your underwear could have a spouse, for all you’re privy to.

It just adds another layer of distance you should be thankful for.)

Manic with lust, you’re barely enlightened to what’s coming when your mentor captures each leg in a separate grip. Big hands cradle their bends, under your knees where your skin is unconventionally soft. It poses a contrast to the calluses on his palm, worn by years of crime-fighting and swinging on reinforced webs. They’re warm and rough and scratch you, sending a nervous buzz down to your core.

He guides your limbs up. Your ankles sway. Definitely strong; he almost syphons the breath right out through your stomach. If you close your eyes, you can imagine that this is just another exercise, a preliminary stretch.

But you don’t. Folded with your thighs pinned to your chest, you can only fluster with real self-consciousness. Your cunt is exposed to the filtered air, biting the heated centre with its opposite degree. Perhaps more wickedly, however, is the way you’re spread to Miguel’s hawk-like gaze. He inspects the way you glow, humiliated, the sticky confirmation of your desire smeared across your puffy lips. Is he turned off by the sight – your eagerness a violation of the pseudo-professional boundaries marked around your deal?

No, you decide. He’s all too content when he ducks to face it, laying a heavy mouth to your throbbing clit. It’s intoxicating, the cool slice of oxygenated air after months of smoke inhalation. You forget your insecure tangent entirely, tipping your chin back to moan your encouragement.

Fuck, he’s good.

More than good. You scramble for a better description, hands clawing for purchase on your sheets. It’s indescribable in its obscenity – lewd and dirty and slow, mapping every fold and crevice with his tongue. The sweltering muscle, like velvet, swirls across your sensitive bud, taking in its high reactivity, before lapping at the hood above it. You hone in to every miniscule movement, raptured by its dexterity and unwilling to fully let yourself go.

Miguel hums, low, tasting the agony that pours from his skill. His fingertips paint bruises where they dig, holding your thrashing hips still. You find there’s nothing else you can do to bear it, your arms flailing pathetically, toes curling. You pant and it doesn’t help dissuade the indulgence building up within you, crashing against a dam that’s starting to crack. It’s almost as though you’re doing too much to seek it out, afraid he’ll turn to ash at any second and leave you wanting.

“Oh– O’h… Shit, shit!” You whine, pounding your heel on his broad back. He barely notices, peering up at you through dark lashes. “If I had… Don’t stop! Please, p–” His crimson eyes gleam dark and bloody, obscured in shadow. Sobbing, you suck in large gulps of heady air. “If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.”

“Mmm-” He ignores your plea, breaking away to bring two digits to his mouth. Your right leg flops uselessly to his side. “Good idea.” One lick and they’re covered in spit. You can’t help but notice the discolouration on his knuckles, deep red and purple, as he uses his index and middle to fan out your lower lips.

And then he’s back to eating you out. This time, though, he’s drinking from your weeping slit. Breaching it, exploring the perimeter that stretches to accommodate his pistoning tongue. Despite pursed lips, your scream still manages to sound through the way it vibrates your lungs. Rattling you, much like he does now, from inside out. His nose is pressed to your mound. You don’t doubt he can smell you, potent sex and clean sweat, contracting every joint until you’re an immovable board.

“Don’t do that,” Miguel groans, scorching the space he creates to reprimand you. Crying, you obey what he says, melting into a puddle of nectar. He strikes a fair point; things feel exponentially better when you aren’t tense, nerve pathways unobstructed in sending pleasure signals to your blank brain. Discerning the shift, he huffs. “Good.”

Stars and heaven above, your consequent wail is unhinged. Your hands fly to his hair, seizing the wavy tresses in a smarting hold. The praise serves as an amplifier to every sense. Hips bucking, free calf curling around his neck. His fingers plunge into you, scissoring your tight walls as he spits onto your pussy, gathering the pearlescent fluid with his thumb and using it as aid. Like you need the extra help.

Because you’re soaked. The dam is broken. Everything gushes out of you in an ugly mess, glossing his palm and the duvet below. He nips your clit, grazing his teeth along the swollen sprout, teasing, then places his mouth back onto you. Brown locks curl to his brow. You brush them back, shoving him harder, closer. Sort of power-drunk at the sight of him succumbing to your command.

It’s short lived. You’re about to cum when he chooses the inopportune moment to speak.

Growls, actually. “Hold on.”

Capturing you to his face, he makes sure you’re steady before relinquishing his fingers from your hole and upending you both.

Suddenly, you’re on top and he’s the one framed by your pillows. Your back bends and you almost crumble on top of him – an old building met with a wrecking ball of celestial proportions. You can’t hold your weight on your haunches. They’re practically useless like this, quivering with suspense. Where guilt would be the appropriate response at such a prospect, you’re bound by awe instead. He’s no doubt suffocated by your squeezed thighs and seated pussy – the force of which aided by gravity – but something tells you that’s what he wants. For the first time, his eyes flutter shut.

A sting – concentrated on the globe of your ass – registers only seconds later where he had slapped you. Go, it demands silently. You force yourself to muster the energy to do so.

You can’t last very long, anyway.

Pelvis waving, you ride his face, back arched away from his hand. It irons over your covered waist, wet and soaking the breathable material of your shirt. The position proves to be a workout in of itself, your core strength tested in the motions. For the first time, you find yourself thanking his training. You wouldn’t have persisted otherwise.

Your orgasm rises again, faster now that you’re properly edged. It floods up from your feet like a high tide, sweeping all the seaweed and shells and stability from your abdomen. Lost at shore, a stranded sailor waking up from a tempests’ shipwreck; dazed, sun-blanched on splintered wood. There’s sand on your skin – it clears that too. You’re renewed in briny water. Freshened, addicted to the feeling of the sea pulling you back into its gentle but firm embrace.

You take back what you said. About his mouth and how he chooses to use it. It’s none of your business so long as he keeps it on you, sucking and drinking the cum he milks for all its worth. It just keeps coming, no start or end in sight. It’s all you can do to withstand your weakened centre constantly clenching and still breathe, tears budding hot and heavy. Your nails scratch his scalp. Miguel gives a minute mmmm.

And in the wake of it, while he lays there and laps you clean, the echoes of your moans still rings from the walls.

Forget what you said. Technically, the night didn’t end there.

Much later, you’re both washed and warm. It took you a while to wipe the slick from your folds. He used your bathroom to cleanse his hands and face.

The same cartons of food now sit open between you, on the desk he’d manoeuvred off the wall to divide its chair from your bed. He’s much too big for the seat, but when you’d offered him the mattress, he brushed you off. You currently sit cross legged, cushions bare – sheets in the wash.

And it’s quiet. The empty type, strangely enough. Devoid of any of your usual sarcasm or awkwardness. Sort of… suspended between both, in the foreign land of amity.

Perhaps that’s what convinces you to ask. The inherent safety of the moment. There’s not much you can say to offend in the post-smut glow. Slurping the tail end of a noodle, you look away from your rapture with the illuminated highway outside to take him in. The train had just passed.

“Are you married?”

Miguel doesn’t reply immediately, chewing a mouthful of seasoned vegetables. Instead, he looks at you with mild amusement. Eventually, his adam's apple bobs in a thick swallow.

“No.” He says.

chapter twelve

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littyhoney · 1 year

Note

If your comfortable with it could you write 42!miles and black widow!reader 'enemies to lover's ' type of thing but what if in another dimension they are older and have kids and those kids getting in dimension 42. They are twins and 15 but just them being confused couse "why were our parents so mean to each other when they were our age"

-⚡

Unexpected. (Part 1)

(part 1) (part 2)

Earth 42 Miles x Fem!Reader

(Enemies to lovers trope)

Summary: Can two vigilante ever work together? No,But the future proves otherwise.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, weapons, curse words, slight violence.

This is a request that are challenging for me to work on but you know what, we dont run from challenges. I want to make this into a long one part story but the pacing of this makes me divide it into 2 parts. Enjoy spiders! <3

The alarm goes off loudly at the jewelry store as the robber is smashing the glass case displaying the gold,diamonds and variety of gems. Each one shoving as many jewelry they can into the bag,not noticing a figure is stalking them from the dark. You slowly creep behind the slim one before hold him in a chokehold with your palm againts his mouth 2 fingers pressing lose both of his nosetril. The robber franticly try to pry your arms as he losing his concious and slump to the ground with a thud.

The other 2 robber turns around looking at the body of his unconcious raising their guns ready to shot at anything that moves, the two of them heard a few crunches of glass beside them and they blast one round of a magazine towards the sound. They stop,silent fill the room again before the figure came from behind the robber at the back hitting their skull with a baton and sweep his feet to the ground. The 3rd robber turn around firing towards the figure but the figure moves fast and agile as they jump locking their legs around the robber’s neck and pulling them down resulting to the robber smack his skull on to the floor that have glasses from the display.

You crouch standing up focusing back to the 2nd robber struggling to stand up, you take a sprint and swing your feet hitting the boot right across his face making him fall unconcious. You look down at the body not noticing the robber behind you slowly and shakingly lifting his fun to you and pull the trigger,one bulet escape the chamber, a flash of purple came from the ceiling claws piercing againts the back of the robber,ending his life.

You turn around to see non other than the Prowler, your rival. “I don’t need any help” you huff stepping over the body walking towards the button where it can alert the police incase of emergency (this is available in almost all jewelry store)

“Clearly you need help mami” The prowler pull his claw out of the body,coating it red at the tip “Your work is sloppy,it almost got you killed” he stands up, his purple mask follow your movement.

“Wow what a hero, I got saved by a clown in a neon mask” You said rolling your eyes,sarcasticly. “Unlike you,I always keep my job clean while yours is an amateur mess” You said mentioning how he always leave a bloody scenes everytime he ‘take care’ of criminals. You reach your hand under the cashier desk and pressing the button, making the alarm blare through the room.

The prowler look at you before looking down at your abdomen,annoyed by his gaze on you “It’s rude to stare dumbass” you snap towards him.

“You’re hurt” he simply says as he walk towards you. “W-what? No I didn’t-” you look down to see a red starting to seep out staining your outfit. The adrenaline starts to wear off as you now feeling the warm pain coming from the bullet wound, you put your palm over it hissing as the bullet doesn’t go all the way through “Shit..shit”. You are panicking in your head,you cant go home like this,what will your mother say? Or your siblings?

The Prowler have already on your side picling you up and over his shoulder,the police will come any minute,with your injuries you can only run so far with blood trailing behind you. “You’re coming with me” he said before running through the back and up the fire scape, using his claw to pull himself up.

“W-wait! Put me down you ass! I did not agree to this!” you hiss as your body jolt up and down by his movements as he jump from rooftop to rooftop. “You really don’t have any choice Mami,either the police follow your trail or you limp out of the store and got caught” He speak as he keeps running towards his lair. You hung your head over his shoulder,knowing he is right besides you cant go home to your mom with a bullet in your stomach.

Finally arrive at his lair the Prowler put you down on the rusty couch before goes around searching for needed equipments to pull the bullet out, this is not the first time he did this as he and uncle Aaron have been patching one another,but mostly Aaron patch him up. He turn on a light above you and take a stool to sit beside you ready himself, he reach to pull your top off.

“Woah hey what you doing!?” your face flush slightly seeing his hand reaching for your black top,pushing yourself away from him further to the couch. You hear him sigh annoyed by your action slightly “Your wound Idiota” oh. “right..right” you slump back on the couch before reaching your hand to the end of your top and pull it back up exposing your stomach,you exhaled looking at the wound.

Miles open up his mask,letting his braids fall over his shoulder so he can look properly at your wound,with a black plastic gloves on he put his palm againts your stomach using the other hand to hold the scalpel digging around your stomach carefully to reach the bullet. He is so careful and focus on your wound not noticing that you are watching him in awe.

The light from the ceiling shine from above highlight his cheekbone and jawline as he tilt his head in concentration. You have never saw someone so….beautiful but deadly, his brown eyes look like a pool of honey, kissable lips pursing brows frown slightly as he seem to find it dificult to reach the bullet. He seems to be same age as you are, a teen, but he looks much more mature…handsome even. You admit it to yourself,the braids really compliment his looks.

“Its rude to stare mami” he glance his eyes towards you before smirking slightly,finding it amusing to see you drooling over his face.

You snap shaking your head slightly “Don’t flatter yourself prick” before leaning your head back on the couch looking at the ceiling. You hear him chuckle lightly “just admit it mami,I won’t bite” you clench your hand fighting the urge to just punch him right then and there but the though vanished as you hiss out a pain bitting your hand.

He drop the blood covered bullet in a tray and start to take the needle to stitch you up, he reach behind him for some clean towel folding it and hand it out to you. “Here,just incase if its too much just bite on it”.

Right,unlike hospital they have something to numb the pain,here is just you pray for the pain to pass. You take the clothes and put it between your teeth,bracing your hand on the couch. You gave him a nod closing your eyes bracing for the pain.

Miles take this as a sign and start stitch you up,careful in every step not wanting to mess up the stitches. You squeeze your eyes tightly,body tense as you feel the pain. You bite hard againts the cloth clenching your palm againts the sofa.

“Almost there, just a few more” he says to you after he notice your body tensing at the pain,a slight guilt runs through him as he though maybe if he were quicker you would’nt be in so much pain. Somehow you find a slight comfort in his voice. You huff when he finally finish with the stiching, you turn your head to look at him finding out he is staring at you. His eyes are soft,but still held the hardness in them before he speaks to you surprisngly gentle “You okay mami?”

You gulp down a saliva resting your head back on the sofa nodding “Yeah..yeah just need a minute” You feel him stand up taking the tray “Rest up,you’re in no condition to go move” walking away to the table that have a sink to wash the blood away. You chuckle “What are you,my daddy?”

He continue to keep washing the blood away replying “I could be mami” he teases you back.

You scrunch your face “God,such a pervert little shit” you hear him chuckle.

Suddenly the place shook as a bright portal looking thing just appear at the ceiling, it caught both of you off guard but Miles quickly reach for his claw on top of the table before standing infront of you trying to protect you from whatever the hell is happening. “What the fuck is that!?” you standing up clutching your side help your arms up from the blinding light. “Shit I don’t know!” Miles ready he claw as he saw two figure drop from the portal thing before it dissapear.

The two figure groans as the bottom one push the one that falls on top of it off with a “get off!” before it stands up looking around confuse as to how they got there “The hell are we?”

Miles waste no time but to run and leap towards the figure slaming it to the concrete with his claw raise while the other is holding down the person’s throat. “Who and what the fuck do you want” Miles hiss the words through his teeth as he glare towards the figure.

The other figure screamed out “Wait stop! We don’t want anything man get off of him!” the figure try to reason with a very pissed off Prowler,well trying it’s best. You on the other hand reach for the wall to turn on all the lights In the room when you finally feel the switch you flip it and the whole room lights up showing the two mystery figure while the two strangers see clearly who are they encountering.

The one that is pinned down by Miles face changes from anger into a shock mouth open slightly as he take a very close look at the Prowler,he blinks “D-dad?”

The one that tries to reason with Miles then turn his head to you,a same reaction happens as he blinks as he yelled out “Ma!?”

You look at the two figures,before the word sinks in to you at what did they just called you “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!?”

To be continued...

(This is my first time writing this trope it's kinda weird im sorry. But chapter 4 for Right Person,Wrong Time will be out soon stay tune for future updates spiders <;3)

#miles morales x reader #prowler miles #miles morales #miles morales fanfiction #miles morales x y/n

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sushiwriterhere · 1 year

Text

right where i want you

summary: "Standing there, staring at the cotton balls in the trash, some part deep inside of you decides that it’s now or never with Rhett." rating: explicit (18+ mdni) pairing: rhett abbott x f!reader word count: 6.1k warnings: sub!rhett, pseudo enemies-to-lovers!, mentions of violence, choking, dry humping, overstimulation, aftercare, potentially ooc, no use of y/n. notes: uhhh walk him like a dog bitch walk him like a dog🗣😼 i'm not even gonna lie to y'all i've never seen outer range but lewis pullman is in my brain. pls let me know what u think! thank you to @sebsxphia for encouraging my rhett brainworms and to @rhettabbotts for reading a snippet ! my other works are here tagging: @lewmagoo @wkndwlff @bobfloyds @sometimesanalice @bradshawsbitch @roosterbruiser @withahappyrefrain @theharddeck - pls let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!

You work a comb in steady, circular motions over your horse’s coat, watching as the dust and pollen raises into the soft afternoon light. Just under the background noise of the stable, you hear boots crunching and you immediately know who it is. All your time away hasn’t changed a thing, it seems.

“Rhett Abbott you leave me alone or I’ll yell at the top of my lungs, I swear.” You don’t even turn around to look at him, as if not making eye contact would mean he’ll leave. He won’t. And he never does.

“How’d ‘ya know it was me?” You hear the way he kicks at the dirt of the barn floor with his boots absentmindedly, and you try to not let his presence rile you up too much since you know that’s what he wants.

You still don’t turn around to face him. “Because y’never leave me alone.”

“I’m jus’ sweet on ‘ya. Couldn’t help it if I tried. Besides, missed ‘ya while ‘ya were away at that fancy east coast school o’ yours.”

“Well, have you tried?” You ignore the second part of what he said–you’re back for the summer, and you really haven’t been gone all that long even if your parents act like you’ve come back from the dead.

That pulls a laugh from him.

For as long as you can remember, Rhett Abbott has been a pain in your ass. You were slightly younger than him but that somehow never stopped him from always finding a way to be in your presence. Your dad being Wabang’s sheriff didn’t seem to deter him either, especially when your dad started getting real prickly about having boys around.

“Nope,” He lets his lips pop dramatically on the ‘p’ sound, then pauses as if to consider his next words, “Plus, you’re real cute when you’re mad.”

All you want is to turn around and throw the rubber brush you’ve got clenched in your fingers at his stupid, smug, face. You know the exact expression he’s wearing in that moment because it’s the same one he’s had every other time he’s taunted you.

“Decide if you love me or hate me, Rhett Abbott. Quit wastin’ my time.” You hiss, and this time you do turn around. You refrain from throwing anything at him, though.

“Aw, don’t get too upset now,” He pushes himself off the stall door he’d been leaning against and makes his way into your personal space.

You level him with a scathing glare before going back to grooming. Even the way he breathes around you seems to raise your hackles and you wonder if all this tension is ever going to resolve itself. If he’s ever going to leave you alone.

“I didn’t come by to bother ‘ya, honest.” He murmurs.

You don’t grant him a response, but he stays where he is, undeterred.

“I wanted to see if you’d come out tonight, everyone’s been missin’ ‘ya. Whole town’s in uproar that you’re back.”

“I’ll think about it.”

That seems to satisfy him as a grin spreads across his face and he spins on his heel, whistling jauntily as he strolls out of the stable.

You’re loathe to admit it, but it makes something twist in your stomach at the thought that Rhett came by to invite you out, to tell you he missed you. That everyone missed you. You shove that feeling down, though. Rhett’s always just been a nuisance and the fact that he seems to have gotten far handsomer while you’d been away is not part of your calculus.

For all his insistence that he actually likes you, has been thinking about you this whole time, Rhett sure is more than happy to let some buckle bunny cuddle up to him. You swallow something down, not jealousy, but what feels like a lump in your throat. He’s a liar and you’re a fool. Rhett Abbott will never be anything but a good for nothing, sonofa—

You storm out of the bar in a huff, not noticing the way Rhett’s eyes follow you over the head of the bleach blonde who’s grasping the collar of his flannel.

In missing Rhett’s gaze, you also miss the way James Earl follows you out. By the time you’re in the parking lot, it’s too late to turn around. James is between you and the door.

He calls your name and it makes all the hair on the back of your neck stand up, “Wait up!”

“Leave me alone, James.” You really don’t want to deal with him right now, you don’t want to deal with any men, for that matter.

“I said wait.” His voice turns acidic and you pause before turning around slowly. There’s nowhere else for you to go but back into the bar, and you’re certain he won’t just let you walk off while you try to call your dad.

“Now that you’re back, I’m going to take you out to dinner.” James looks almost like he has good intentions, but you haven’t lost touch with the way news travels in Wabang just because you were separated by a few states.

You know what the girls who stayed behind say about him. You heard the stories in high school about how he treated his girlfriends–always holding their arms too tight, a little too possessive. There’s nothing about him that you like, or even want to tolerate, at all.

“No, thank you, James. I really should get going.” You try to sound sweet, try to turn on the charm in hopes that he’ll change his mind.

You turn your phone over in your hands, unlock it, and try to act nonchalant. You remember the Swiss army knife tucked in your bra if things get rough.

His demeanor switches in an instant.

“You think just ‘cause you’re the sheriff's daughter you can just walk around like you own this place, huh? Too good for us with your fancy college? All of Wabang swoonin’ over a stuck up, prissy, little bitch.” The words are like poison, but you try to stand your ground, “Why I ought’a teach you a lesson.”

When James stalks your way, one hand starting to reach for you as you reel back in fear, you realize just what he intends. The world slows to a molasses, you’re outside your body as you freeze, unable to do much but witness what you know is about to happen to you.

Instead of James’ hand around your wrist or in your hair, Rhett’s voice breaks the moment, “Earl, I’ll make ‘ya sorry ‘ya ever look’d at ‘er if ‘ya don’t step away right now.”

There he is, illuminated by the bar deck lights, one hand on his belt as he stalks into the parking lot. You’d call him your savior if you don’t blame him somehow; if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in whatever girl was giving him attention in that moment maybe you wouldn’t be here.

“Like hell you will, Abbott. Leave us alone, this is none of your business.” James whirls around, his attention momentarily off you.

You think you can make your escape, make it back inside the bar where there are more eyes and call your dad to get him to pick you up. Instead, you watch as Rhett and James come face to face, both acting like macho idiots.

They soil your plan for a hasty escape. It’s Rhett who makes the first move and shoves James, hard. In a split second they’re yelling obscenities at each other as Rhett grabs him by the collar to shake him and clock him across the face. His knuckles split open on James’ face and you aren’t sure if his nose is broken from the blow or not.

“Stop it!” You try to at least get Rhett’s attention, maybe use his feelings for you for good, but it does little as James tries to gain the upper hand. “Rhett Abbott you fool, get off’a him!”

All at once, a few other patrons spill out of the bar doors at the commotion. You’re standing a few feet back from the pair as they tussle; there’s blood strewn in the dirt and you hope not too much of it is Rhett’s. Suddenly they’re being pulled apart.

You march up to James and stick a finger in his face as he struggles against the men holding his arms, “You ever try that shit with me again I’ll make sure my daddy gives you exactly what you deserve.”

His face is twisted up in a snarl, and he looks like he’s considering spitting in your face, “Still hiding behind your daddy? Figures.”

He’s hauled off in a moment before you can respond, no doubt to get cleaned up and have someone take a look at his nose. Maybe even to face your dad. You whirl around to start shouting at Rhett next, but he’s simply standing there, hands hanging loosely by his sides. No one’s restraining him anymore, they’re all dealing with James you guess, and you realize that it’s just the two of you in the parking lot at that point.

You make your decision in an instant, “Give me your keys.”

You don’t get closer to him, you just hold a hand out and look at him expectantly. Rhett doesn’t move.

“Rhett Abbott, you damned fool, give me your keys so I can take your stupid ass home.”

He has the audacity to smile wolfishly at you, cheek bruising, and say lowly as he walks to you, “Tryin’ to take me home, sugar?”

Snatching his keys from his fist, you turn around without responding. You don’t check if he’s following you, some part of you knows you don’t need to.

You climb into the drivers side of his truck and start it, only barely waiting for him to get in and buckle up. Switching it into gear, you start driving. It’s deathly silent in the cab as you drive, ignoring far too many traffic laws along the way for someone who was raised by the sheriff. Rhett fidgets in his seat next to you.

As you weave down the back country roads to his place, you distantly recall the time during high school when he’d bought the truck. All week, girls had flocked to him, begging him to teach them to drive stick (they all already knew) or even just sit in the back. Trucks were a dime a dozen, but Rhett Abbott’s was special in the eyes of all the future buckle bunnies.

You’d watched the chaos from afar until he’d lifted his gaze from the girl tugging at his flannel to look at you. You’d looked away quickly, too embarrassed to be caught staring at him despite your continued insistence you didn’t like him in the slightest and that he never crossed your mind.

He never did end up giving any of the girls a chance. He wouldn’t even let them touch the keys.

Now here you are, driving his truck like it’s your own without a single complaint from him.

When you pull up to his house, you get out the same way you’d gotten in–without a word and barely waiting for him to catch up to you. It’s almost instinctual, the way you grab the house key from next to the truck one, unlock the door and shove inside, only knowing that he’s inside too because of the way the door slides shut softly instead of slamming.

Once inside, you flick on the kitchen light and round on him, “Now why’d ‘ya have to go and start shit with James Earl, huh?”

Rhett looks like he’s just been scolded by his mother for leaving his socks on the floor at his ripe age, and he scoffs harshly. You don’t miss the way his knuckles are split and crusted in blood. There’s a bruise blooming high on one of his cheeks.

“I’m the one startin’ shit? He was tryin’ somethin’ with you!” He takes a step toward you but you don’t move, “Earl’s a piece of shit and he got what was comin’ to him. I don’t regret a goddamn thing.”

“I had it handled.” Your defense is instinctual–knee jerk, even—everyone wants you to be fragile, to be something that needs protecting, and you’re sick of it.

“Did ‘ya?” You’re toe to toe now, and his shoulders are heaving. “‘Cause what I saw said somethin’ else.”

For a moment, you think he might kiss you. It takes all of your mental effort not to shove him and start shouting at him for how stupid he is, so instead you raise a single eyebrow and plaster on your most disapproving expression possible.

“I’m not arguin’ with you, Rhett Abbott. Get your damn first-aid kit and lemme clean ‘ya up.”

For once in his life, he listens to you. Eventually you find yourself kneeling in front of him as he sinks into the couch. You’ve turned on one of the living room lights, but there’s still just barely enough light to make out the details of his face and the way he tore up his knuckles on James Earl’s nose and cheeks.

“Now keep bein’ all tough, I better not hear ‘ya bitchin’ about the antiseptic hurtin’.” You don’t have it in you to actually hurt him though, so you keep the press of the rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton balls gentle.

He draws his shoulders up by his ears regardless, hissing lightly when it stings. Thankfully, only his pinky knuckle is actually split open on his right hand, so he won’t be entirely useless at work. His left hand is in worse shape, with three of his knuckles bubbling blood where he managed to cut them open. Both hands are bruised.

He doesn’t comment on your position at his knees.

“Earl’s nose better be fuckin’ broken.” Rhett finally breaks the silence as you finish cleaning his hands.

You don’t grant him with a response. Instead you stand to your full height and make your way to the kitchen to throw away the cotton balls now soaked with his blood. Standing there, staring at the cotton balls in the trash, some part deep inside of you decides that it’s now or never with Rhett.

When you return to him, he hasn’t moved a muscle. He simply tips his head back to look at you. Slowly, you put one knee up on the couch next to his thighs, then the other, and all of a sudden you’re kneeling over his lap. The hem of your dress just barely brushes his jeans. He looks like he’s holding his breath and he barely exhales when you let your full weight rest on him.

“I need to make sure he didn’t break yours.” It’s a lame excuse and you both know it, but you know he won’t call you on it, not when your bare thighs are warm against his denim-clad ones.

He smells like outside, like the evening sun, and something that tickles your nose; it’s uniquely Rhett. Privately, you wonder if all his clothes smell like him, and if they carry that scent even when he hasn’t worn them in a long while.

Shifting in his lap, you cradle his face and turn it toward the light. As if he’s trying not to spook a wild horse, he very delicately places his hands on your thighs. He doesn’t grip them, doesn’t let his fingertips twitch, just rests his calloused palms against your bare skin.

“Looks fine to me.” You breathe out, realizing how close your faces are.

“I’ll pretend that was a compliment.” He’s trying to sound flirtatious, trying to sound like the casanova his reputation makes him out to be, only he’s breathless and his face is flushed and you can feel his pulse racing.

You hate when men think they can just take control of you in bed because they’re a man and you’re not. But with Rhett, you can tell you’ve got him right where you want him by the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat and the way his hands rest on your thighs, fingertips just barely brushing the hem of your dress.

Letting go of his face, you brush imaginary dust off his shoulders before letting one hand rest flat on his chest, and threading the other up into his hair. It’s silkier than you ever imagined despite the way you know you can safely assume he does jack all to take care of it. He’s so damn pretty it makes your chest ache.

Both of you are silent, only the sounds of your breathing barely audible. Ever so gently, you slide your hand from his hair to the base of his neck. He’s like a foal in the way you’re unsure of how he’ll react to your hand placement, a new sort of touch. His heart hammers in his chest beneath your palm.

He doesn’t bolt or react strongly. Instead, he swallows thickly against your hand, blinking slowly at the sensation of your fingers tucked neatly around his throat. You’re not squeezing in the slightest, just letting your fingers rest around the warm, tanned, skin of his neck.

“Are you going to behave, Rhett?” Your voice is low over the sounds of the night outside.

He nods as you flex your fingers gently, testing the waters, and his eyes flutter shut. Rocking your hips experimentally, you feel the way his grip tightens on your thighs and the way he’s hard against you.

He likes it. He likes the way you’ve got a hand around his throat, the other resting gently on his chest. He isn’t fighting you, he isn’t arguing–for once in his life, he’s quiet in your presence.

The realization of how obedient he’s being sends a skittering sort of arousal through you. You see yourself pulling on jeans tomorrow and finding his fingerprints on you. You see him staring at himself in the mirror in the morning, lost at how to cover up the evidence of what you’d done to him the night before.

“You’ve spent all this time pullin’ my pigtails, and now that I’m here you can’t even form words.” He keeps his eyes closed and nods ever so slightly.

You want to hate him.

Oh how you want to hate Rhett Abbott. You want to hate the way he’s spent the last however many years following you around like a stray dog, poking fun at you and riling you up, just to have your attention. You want to hate the way he probably spent more time chasing boys off than your dad did. More than anything else you want to find it in you to feel something other than the way he’s burrowed himself under your skin.

“Whatever,” His voice is strained and he clears his throat before opening his eyes again, “Whatever you want, sugar. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“And if I want to get up right now, and never see you again?” You aren’t going to make this easy on him.

Yelling at James Earl is one thing, almost beating him to a pulp is another. You can protect yourself, you’re not a damsel in distress, and above all Rhett needs to learn his place. You’re grateful he was there, you are. But you didn’t need him to go and get in trouble on your behalf.

“Now, sugar, I find it hard to believe—”

You move as if to stand up, going to remove the hand from his neck to use one of his shoulders as leverage. Before you can get far, really even one inch away from him, one of his hands is flying from your thighs to clutch at the wrist of the hand that’s leaving his throat. He holds you there, and you can feel the way his pulse is racing. He maintains the way he stares into your eyes, but this time his are wide, almost as if in fear that you’d actually get up and leave.

“Try again.” You don’t change the way half your weight is off him, but you let him hold your wrist.

“Whatever you want, goes.” He swallows slowly before speaking again, “Will you just–Will you please sit back down?”

He doesn’t let go of your wrist.

You ease yourself back into his lap and run your free hand in between you till you reach his erection. It sends a thrill through you to feel just how excited he is by all of this. You want to hear him say please again, you want to see how far you can push your luck with him in the palm of your hand. You want him to beg.

You laugh lightly, if not a bit cruelly, as you squeeze his cock over his jeans, “Does this turn you on, Rhett?” You pause to watch how his pupils dilate at your tone before pressing on, “Not much of a big, bad, man now, are ‘ya?”

To your surprise, that doesn’t set him off. Most men wouldn’t let you put your hand around their throat, much less question just how much of a man they are. But he barely reacts beyond his chest rising and falling, his hands moving back to fully settle on your thighs and this time, gripping tightly.

“Like I said, whatever you want, sugar–I just want ‘ya to use me. Be good for something,” He licks his lips and exhales shakily, “Be good for you.”

Jesus. His sincerity bleeds through in the way his face is flushed and he maintains steady eye contact. He doesn’t waver for a single moment.

Something sick twists in your chest. Never before has a man been so willing, so pliant, for you. They’ve always tried to take what they want from you, always tried to make you submit. But what you actually wanted was this, Rhett’s eyes gazing pleadingly up at you while you sit in his lap.

“So this is what you wanted all along, huh? Always following me around, playing pranks on me, just wanted me to get my hand around your throat and use you?” You’re goading him on, trying to discern exactly what he wants you to say, what he’ll let you get away with.

With that, you lean close as if to kiss him and he closes his eyes lightly in anticipation, but at the last second turn your head so you can drag the tip of your nose across his cheek. The shudder that runs through him at the feather-light sensation is delicious; it makes you laugh lightly at how affected he is. His breaths are starting to come heavier, already betraying him if he tried to hide how badly he wants this. But he isn’t hiding, not in the slightest.

Now that you’re this close to him, the scent of him is overwhelming. It floods your mind and makes you almost lightheaded as you realize just how badly you want him. Part of it is that he’s so pliant, so willing, but the other part is the truth of the matter that you finally have to admit to yourself: you don’t hate Rhett Abbott.

In fact, his whole years-long performance has only meant that his constant presence is lingering somewhere at the forefront of your mind regardless of whether he’s around or not. When you’d gone off to college, those nine months had been odd without him around. You’d half expected him to show up to walk you between lecture halls or push some frat boy off you at a party.

(What you don’t know is that Rhett did almost go out to visit you. He’d looked at plane tickets, at how long it might take him to drive. He decided against it when he remembered every time you’d rejected him or told him to, very unkindly, “fuck off”.)

“Can I kiss ‘ya?” His voice is rough and he licks his lips again, like it’s a nervous habit.

You press a gentle kiss to his cheek and giggle softly to yourself when he whines and says, “That’s not what I meant and y’know it.”

Finally, you press your lips to his. They’re soft and warm and he’s so much better of a kisser than everyone else you’ve been with that it almost knocks the wind out of you. But he keeps you grounded, especially when his hand moves up to your jaw so he can coax it open. The way he licks into your mouth makes you let out a startled gasp.

You don’t expect it to feel so good. It’s one thing to sit in his lap and flirt, it’s a whole other to taste him and understand why girls chase him endlessly. You can’t stop the way your hips move against his and he keeps one hand on your thigh while the other goes to your tits. His hand dwarfs your chest and he gropes you haphazardly.

“Fuck, you’re even better than I imagined,” He sighs, pushing up against the hand that’s still around his throat.

“I haven’t even taken my clothes off, Rhett.” You tease, wanting to see how far you can push him, see if you can still get a rise out of him.

But it seems he’s given up the fight now that you’re right where he wants you. He smiles gently as he pulls back to look you in the eyes, “I could finish in my pants like a damned teenager with you like this, sugar, doesn’t matter.”

Rhett Abbott, womanizer, absolute menace in your life, admitting that he’s got it so bad for you that he could come in his pants just from having you near him? You could’ve guessed that he wanted to fuck you, but you always thought it would be more of him getting his rocks off and letting you fend for yourself. It never would’ve occurred to you that this is how he’d be in the moment. Him admitting how weak he is for you makes your head spin.

You press yourself ever closer to him, licking into his mouth and trapping his hand between the two of you where it had been stroking your nipples through the thin fabric of your sundress. He manages to free it, though, and slides it down your side to where your thigh creases. He wraps it around you there and the the sheer size difference between his hand and your hip makes a twisted sort of want course in your veins.

The first press of his thumb against your clit through your panties sends a jolt through you. He keeps your hips moving in a steady rhythm against his as he works steady circles over your clit. His other hand won’t stay still as it runs up and down your back, rubs your nipples, yanks on the tips of your hair ever so slightly. It’s mind-numbingly filthy, the quiet of his house filled with both of your gasps and moans, your hand still on his neck.

“Cum for me, sugar,” Then, as if he’s anticipating your chastisement, he adds, “Please.”

Your orgasm rips through you like white hot lighting as you gasp into his open mouth and he moans right along with you. You realize you’re chanting his name over and over like a prayer, completely unwittingly. He doesn’t let up with any of his movements, prolonging your pleasure til it folds into something more biting, just on the edge of overstimulating.

“Fuck, Jesus,” He gasps, and after a moment, “I’ll be thinking ‘bout that til I die,” He rasps out, settling both of his hands on your hips and leaning his forehead against yours.

You want to tease him about taking the Lord’s name in vain but you hold back. For a moment, it’s quiet. Your hips are still against his as you take in what just happened. It begins to dawn on you that he’s still hard under you, but he isn’t making any moves to change that.

He starts to shift under you like he’s considering standing up but you stop him by leaning into him.

“Ah ah, I’m not finished with you yet,” His eyes snap to yours in surprise.

“Rhett Abbott. Tellin’ me I could make you cum in your pants like a teen boy?” You lean back ever so slightly with a light snarl on your face, finally tightening your fingers to a tight grip in a way that makes his eyes glaze over, “Prove it.”

Pressing the heel of your palm into his crotch, you watch as he eyes scrunch shut and he grinds up once, twice, three times before a he releases a shaky exhale. You watch as he comes, as he pants and whines through his orgasm, the denim under your hand growing warm and wet. He doesn’t stop grinding and thrusting up against your hand til it draws a pained moan from him.

“Can I–Can I keep going?” He tries to make eye contact but his eyes are too unfocused from pleasure, “Like it when it, ah, when it hurts.”

God, this is what you’ve been missing out on the whole time? You let yourself rock steadily in his lap as he grinds up against your hand and leans forward to kiss you messily. You wonder if he let the other girls he’s been with do this to him. But something tells you that isn’t the case–you really don’t want it to be.

The whines and gasps he’s letting out as he’s writhing below you are something from your most far-fetched fantasies. You’re only slightly stunned as you feel him get hard again below you, though it seems to draw out the pain more than the pleasure given the way his face twists up and the hiss he lets out. All at once he settles; and then he goes to lift your wrist away from his crotch.

It’s terribly tender, the way he pulls away from you to press a kiss to the palm of your hand and smile widely at you. You almost get whiplash.

“What are you playin’ at?” You can’t help but settle back into your old ways–the Rhett Abbott you’ve known for so long has only really been around to aggravate you, the heartfelt way he��s looking at you sets you off kilter.

When he laughs at the way you’re starting to get irritated, you try to pull your hand from his to no avail and it makes the heat rise in your face, “Knock it off, Rhett. You’re bein’ an asshole.”

But he just keeps smiling at you as he pulls your other hand off his neck so that he can place both on his shoulders and cradle your face, “You’re so beautiful.”

As if anticipating the way you’re going to react to his words, he pulls your face to his so that he can press your lips together once again. It’s nothing like before. Before it was all tongue and your lips barely meeting through the gasps and moans being pulled out of you. This time it’s something so warm, so delicate, it makes your chest hurt in a different way.

“I hate you, Rhett Abbott,” You manage to gasp out once he pulls away fully, a sparkle in his eyes. It doesn’t have any heat to it, lacks all the rage it used to–this time, it just sounds like you might be trying to tell him you love him.

He ignores you in favor of standing with you still in his arms and declaring, “Come on, let’s go get cleaned up and go to bed.”

Somewhere between your orgasm and when he kissed you that final time, you think he might’ve figured it out too–that you don’t hate him and maybe you never have. Because you let him carry you through his dark home without protest. You let him undress you wordlessly, without fanfare and without ogling your naked form. He simply drops your soiled clothing into a laundry hamper and starts undressing himself.

You watch him strip as he turns on the shower and gestures for you to follow him in when he steps in. For just a second you stare at him, halfway in and halfway out from under the stream of water, the way he’s staring at you expectantly.

He still has that bruise on his cheek from where James Earl hit him what feels like a lifetime ago. His knuckles are still split in some places, just turning that particular shade of red in others. He’s a goddamn vision under the yellow and white fluorescent lights of his bathroom. It makes you want to hold your breath for fear that you’ll disturb the moment somehow.

The shower proceeds without a hitch. It’s oddly lacking sexual tension, though you notice that he’s still half hard. You have half a mind to sink to your knees and suck him off, just to prove your point, just to show him you mean business. But the way he gently washes you as if he’d done it a million times before stops you. You let him clean you up between your legs without a protest.

When he opens the bathroom cabinet to reveal various creams and lotions after you’ve both stepped out and wrapped yourselves in towels, you feel yourself start to get angry. Is he seriously showing you all the products he buys for all the other girls he brings home?

Instead, he smiles sheepishly at you and rubs the back of his neck, “You always smell so good, I spent ages tryin’ to figure out which one you were usin’. Just bought all of ‘em at some point.”

You feel floored as the fight leaves your body. You don’t have a way to be upset about that. Wordlessly, you pick up one of the bottles tucked in the second row and hand it to him.

“It’s this one.”

The grin that spreads over his face is one of such genuine happiness it makes you want to squeal and run for the hills at the same time. You wonder distantly if he’ll ever stop making you feel like that–simultaneously like a trapped animal and like you’re the only girl he’s ever seen. You wonder if this (there’s a ‘this’?) will last long enough for you to find out.

He lends you one of his shirts and you’re pleased to find out that it does hold his smell. It sits long on you, settling around your knees, making you feel just a bit like a sexy ghost with the way it hugs your chest. He pulls on a pair of briefs before flicking off the overhead light and then throwing back the covers and patting the space next to him.

“You’re a vision for a blind man, sugar,” His voice carries through the otherwise silent room, “Now come to bed.”

It’s something out of a daydream, climbing into bed with Rhett Abbott. You’re immediately enveloped in his scent, the way his arm lays heavy around your waist and pulls you close to him. For once, you don’t fight him.

“You okay there, sugar? Been awfully quiet.” His voice is low right next to your ear before he turns away momentarily to turn off the bedside table light. His arm is back around you in an instant.

Wiggling yourself around in his arms, you turn so that the two of you are nose to nose. He smiles that smile again, the one that fills you with warmth and makes your stomach twist. There’s barely enough light from outside to really see him as your eyes adjust to the dark, but you know his face.

“I don’t think I hate you.”

He starts laughing. It shakes his shoulders and makes the bed creak. His eyes screw up and you can feel the way his stomach moves against yours. You feel your shoulders go up by your ears and you try to pull away, embarrassed that he’s laughing.

“I’m sorry, sugar, c’mere,” He tugs you even closer to him than before, if possible, “I’m not laughin’ at you, I’m laughin’ only ‘cause I never hated you. I don’t really think you hated me either.”

“Hey!” You’re indignant, “Rhett Abbott, who’re you to tell me how I feel?”

“Alright, alright, sugar, I’ll take ‘yer word for it. My heroics do it for ‘ya?” You barely catch the way he winks at you in the dark, but it makes you want to bite him in retaliation.

“The way you almost got the snot beat outta ‘ya? Sure.” Scoffing, you turn yourself over so you’re facing away from him again, only you don’t move out of his arms.

He huffs lightly in protest, but lets it go in favor of nuzzling into your hair and pressing his lips to the crown of your head. It sends a warm sort of heat through you. You’re not ready to fully give in to him yet, but you think he might be growing on you. You’ll just have to see.

#walk him like a dog bitch walk him like a dog #rhett abbott #outer range #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbot smut #rhett abbott x you #outer range fic #outer range fanfic #outer range fanfiction #no use of y/n

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its-not-a-pen · 1 year

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1460th day as the prime minister of han and you are the enemy general at my mercy. since your absolute loser of a liege lord is MIA you agree to work for me until he returns and in exchange i agree not to raze your city to the ground and put every rebel to the sword. i hope this magnanimous gesture will convince you of my good intentions.

1461st day as the prime minister of han in order to knock you down a few pegs i try to sabotage your integrity by making you share a room with your loser liege lord's two wives but you just stand outside the door all night with a candle and aren't tempted at all. (i am honestly baffled, as far as i'm concerned other people's wives are utterly irresistible.)

1462nd day as the prime minister of han, my advisor tells me it's easier to catch flies with honey so i begin plying you gifts and pretty serving girls but you keep sending them to your loser liege lord's wives. instead of passing the evening with me engaged in gentlemanly conversation, you spend long hours drying their tears and reassuring them their loser husband is safe. i can't say i'm not annoyed by the snub but your filial piety is commendable

1463rd day as the prime minister of han and even with my considerable intellect, i cannot understand why a man of your skills would chose to serve such an unworthy master. that sanctimonious sandal-weaver has lost nearly every battle he's fought (most of them against me), yet heroes still flock to his cause and peasants aid him at every turn. how does he inspire such loyalty?

1464th day as the prime minister of han, i definitely will not be throwing you an extravagant banquet every day because that's just desperate! i'm only throwing them every fifth day and small ones every third day. do you not like the silk-and-gold robes i've been sending you? you can speak plainly, general, i wont be offended. do they not fit? i must see for myself, please disrobe--

1465th day as the prime minister of han and you finally join me for a drink. i've forgotten how nice this is, in between fighting bandits, quashing rebellions and running 1/3 of a country i've not had much time to myself. the wine loosens your tongue and you talk about brotherhood, sacrifise and sacred oaths in a peach garden, things i've heard about but never seen, like the qilin and other such fantastical beasts but you're so sincere i can't even bring myself to scoff at you. i've lived my entire life looking over my shoulder; better to betray than be betrayed, that's my motto. i've never known anything else.

1466th day as the prime minister of han and i give you a silk bag to protect your long, handsome beard after you made an offhand comment about the whiskers getting brittle in winter. the emperor himself remarked upon it and even though you were humble and self-effacing as always, i preened. it pleases me that you look so well under my patronage, yet your eyes are so troubled. i must not be doing enough, time to consult my advisor again...

1467th day as the prime minister of han i noticed your green battle-coat was threadbare so I fashioned a replacement made of the rarest brocade but you only ever wear it under the old coat loser liege lord gave you because having a piece of him around eases your heart. i don't even have a clever quip for that. although in hindsight i should have expected this turn of events given your utter indifference to that loser's wives and my pretty serving girls.

1468th day as the prime minister of han, i give you the fastest horse in the world and to my surprise you're elated, bowing and thanking me profusely. then you go and ruin the moment by telling me how grateful you are because it means you will be able to travel quickly to your loser liege lord when you discover his location and now i wish i'd turned that damn beast into glue. this is the first time i've ever seen you smile.

1469th day as the prime minister of han, a verse came to me during our walk through the woods; "the magpie flies south and circles the tree three times. where shall he rest?" i want you to stay. i want you to be mine. lead my armies and help me bring order to the realm, i'll raise you monuments and immortalise your name. alas, the bitter irony is not lost on me, i want you for your loyalty but your loyalty is the reason you cannot stay. if you could have been persuaded i would have lost my respect for you.

1470th day as the prime minister of han and news arrives that your loser liege lord is alive. my advisor tells me that you won't leave until you've repaid my kindness. i guess i better keep you away from the action and hope the next few months are boring and uneventful. in the meantime why don't you try on this new robe! no, i don't mind you undressing here--

1471th day as the prime minister of han and my city is under attack. you single-handedly break the siege and bring me the enemy leader's head. hospitality repaid, you ride off without a backwards glance and i watched the horizon long after you have disappeared.

4391th day as the prime minister of han. I trust you've been well, general, since we last met. I often dreamed that you would return to me, we'd sit under the trees and drink a toast for old times sake. As far as reunions go, the middle of an ambush is not very auspicious. Our roles are reversed, I am the bleeding hart and you are the faithful hound. by rights you should have delivered me straight to your master but instead you let me limp away. why did you do it my beautiful, foolish, loyal general? you know i will only cause you grief. this war will not end as long as i draw breath. this country cannot have three kingdoms any more than a single mountain can have three tigers.

-epilogue-

last year as the king of wei and i trust you've been well, general, since we last met...

notes under the cut:

It's a truth universally acknowledged that any funny joke on tumblr.com will be run into the ground.

this is a spoof of the 2nd Century Warlord by @romanceyourdemons

1/ Events are based on the historical novel Romance of the Three Kingdoms, supplemented by historical events.

2/ In 196 AD, Warlord Cao Cao moves the capital of China to his territory of Xu City with the Emperor as his puppet. His offical title is the General-in-Chief (大將軍) although I've gone with the more recognisable "Prime Minister". In 200 AD, Cao Cao captured General Guan Yu, who was serving under Liu Bei.

3/Book!Cao Cao is portrayed as a villain and his name is literally synonymous with the devil in Chinese culture. IRL Cao Cao was considered to be a wise and capable ruler. I've decided to bridge the gap a little.

4/ Cao Cao (and sons) were very influential poets, the line "the magpie flies south" is a passage from the Unnamed Magpie Poem, after consolidating power, Cao Cao encourages all the best and brightest in his kingdom to flock to his court.

5/ "I dreamt of you, general" monologue taken verbatim from the 2010 tv show. People in the han dynasty were battling demons and that demon is bisexuality.

6/ Book!Cao Cao does not actually think Liu Bei is a loser, he considers him to be "one of the only two heroes in the world". but my god, you can pry that alliteration out of my cold, dead hands.

#chinese history #ancient china #romance of the three kingdoms #san guo yan yi #history meme #cao cao #liu bei #guan yu #second century warlord adjacent i guess #i realise it's an incredibly bold move to spoof a popular post when the op is literally ur mutual #do you like stories that are 7/10 history and 3/10 conjecture and 10/10 batshit crazy? read romance of the three kingdoms!#the moss translation none of the other ones

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misti-chan · 4 months

Note

Hello! I saw your requests were open so I have to ask >:) Can you do headcannons for Doflamingo and Kid taking there s/o shopping? Do they care for shopping? Do they try to pick out outfits? 👀👀 I can’t wait to find out 😋😋

Doflamingo takes care of his own appearance and does care about your own. So yes shopping is a must with him. He would take everything that suits you and everything that you want after all you are his king/queen.

However since Doflamingo is quite a dominator and manipulator he would like to dress you like he wants not how you want even though he lets you have your own way when he is in a good mood. Otherwise he’ll sometimes go shopping all alone to choose your clothes.

Something else that he takes great pride in is putting his coat on you, to show the whole world that you are his and that no one can take you away from him. So naturally he’ll buy you your own pink fluffy coat to be sure that everyone knows better than trying to mess with you since he cannot always let you wear his.

Doflamingo is a control freak and will always try to make his way into choosing your clothes and will not be pleased if you said no. After all, you are HIS. So he can do whatever he wants with you right? Dressing you up like a little doll seems completely normal to his eyes and he won’t let anyone change his mind, even you.

So know that you cannot go around wearing whatever you want without having Doflamingo on your back. He NEEDS to choose what you wear. For his own ego and appearance. You need to be perfect and if he says so well you’ll be. Nothing that looks like a nun, but nothing too revealing too, something sophisticated and bold, something to his image.

He won’t let you have your own image, no. You have to look exactly like he wants and how he is. Everyone needs to know who you are and who you belong to from the first sight. So overall, yes shopping is very important to Doflamingo, maybe even too important for your own good.

Just like Doflamingo Kidd cares about shopping, but he is no control freak. He lets you have your way and dress like you want even though sometimes he likes to pick one punk outfit so you would match the two of you.

In terms of matching he loves it if you do. It’s important in his eyes, and makes him very happy to see that you match outfits. For him you look like the most powerful couple in the world. But saying there’s no need for appearance it would be lying. Kidd wants just like Doflamingo, people to know who you belong to.

But unlike Doflamingo, Kidd respects you and puts you on the same stage as him. You’re his equal, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t jealous at all. Kidd is the most jealous man in the world, more than anyone.So to see you wearing clothing he chose or that match with his own style, makes his ego stronger and his trust in you would actually go stronger too.

Matching outfits with him means that you trust him and that you are willing to do some compromise to make your relationship work. And that touches Kidd’s heart to know that you support him and love him that much. Kidd is ready to blow everything up and to destroy your enemies just for you and you only.

However if you’re more on the sweet side and love lolita and pink outfits it wouldn’t bother Kidd at all, even though he wouldn’t like the idea that you wouldn’t match. Because the man won’t wear pink I'm sorry. But he likes you for your personality and not your outfit or your aesthetic so he doesn’t really care as long as you are with him.

He would just willingly go into a shopping spree with you even if that means going into girlie shops. The man is a sucker for you and will do whatever you want to keep you happy. (But not wearing pink, he won’t, he loves red and black too much for that).

BONUS

Misti loves taking you out shopping and seeing you all happy about trying on outfits and choosing what to wear. Normally she doesn’t like getting out a lot but for you she’ll do whatever you want and seeing you swirling around in the shops makes her heart go soft. You’re her little sunshine and she wouldn’t let you hide your shine.

Misti is usually someone very straightforward and hates lying so don’t worry if something doesn’t fit you she’ll tell you nicely and try to find with you something that fits you well. However if she feels like you love the outfit she wouldn’t say anything and lets you have your fun.

She also loves matching outfits and since she loves every style and aesthetic nothing would be a problem. You want goth? Okay. Cottage Core? Fine. Lolita? You got it. Everything you need is tell her you want to match and she’ll be on her way to find something cute to wear with you.

Unlike Kidd and Doflamingo, Misti isn’t really the jealous type, so go off and show everything you want; she won’t care if it’s too revealing. The girl loves when you slay and you always do.

#one piece x reader #one piece imagine #one piece #kidd x reader #eustass kid #doflamingo headcanons #one piece doflamingo #donquixote doflamingo #doflamingo x you #doflamingo x reader

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theonewithbrooklyn99 · 1 year

Text

Summer Child

Based on Conan Grey’s song

Everyone thinks your carefree, but Kaz knows different

Kaz x reader

Tw: abuse, self harm

Summer Child

You joined the Dregs when you were 13, right after Kaz. You charmed everyone you met, including Kaz. He wanted to protect you, keep that carefree spirit you had. As you two went on small jobs for Per Haskell, he would watch you dance around, and pick flowers from the cracks in the pavement.

“Why are you so cheerful?” He asked one day.

You shrugged. “Makes life brighter.”

He rolls his eyes and laughed at the way you would stop to talk to everyone, making their day brighter. As the years went by, you and Kaz grew closer and closer.

Now, Kaz is 17, and your 16. He made you his second in command when he made it to the top of the ranks, making you untouchable to all of Kaz’s enemies. As you grew older, your relationship grew as well. Kaz started being able to withstand your touches, and occasionally would give you a kiss or two.

You were sitting in his office reading, trying to keep your eyes open.

“Go to bed.” Kaz says.

You shake your head. “I want to stay up with you.”

Kaz sighs. “fine, let’s both go to to bed then.” He holds his hand out and you grab it. You expect him to bring you to your room, instead he leads you to his bed.

“You sure?” You ask. He nods. You take off your outer layer of your dress, leaving you in your undergarments. Kaz changes into his nightclothes and goes to blow out the candle.

“Wait. Can you keep it lit?” You whisper.

Kaz turns to look at you, questions etched on his face.

“I-I don’t like the dark.” You say. Kaz nods then limps over to the bed, sliding in beside you. You are both on the far ends of the bed, so you don’t touch.

It’s the middle of the summer in Ketterdam and its humid. Everyone is wearing as little layers as possible. Jesper gave up on wearing a shirt most of the time, opting to just wear a vest. Kaz gave up his coat and hat.

You however, still wear long sleeves, ashamed of all the scares on your arms from your father and yourself.

Your sitting outside the Crow Club with Inej and Nina, trying to find a breeze, but it was useless.

“Are you not hot in long sleeves Y/n?” Nina asked.

You smile. “Nina dear, if I was hot don’t you think I would wear something different? I just run colder then most people.” Nina laughs and continues on with her conversation with Inej. You smile along, laugh when appropriate and chime in here and there, but it’s all fake, the sadness of your childhood taking over.

Kaz was watching this whole exchange and saw the darkness behind your smiles and laughs.

Kaz walks outside and calls for you. You follow him inside and he leads you to his office. You both sit on his couch and he starts tracing patterns into your skin.

“What’s the real answer?” He asks.

You turn to him confused. “To what?”

“Nina’s question.” He says.

“Kaz Brekker, we’re you eaves dropping? Rude.”

He chuckles, but looks at you waiting for an answer.

“Give me a sec.” You say. You go to the bathroom, take off the long sleeves blouse you have underneath your corset dress. You walk out rubbing your hands up and down your arms. You look up at Kaz as he walks to you. He traces the scares that litter your arms.

“Who the hell did this? Im going to kill them.” He looks at your with rage.

You shake your head. “My father is responsible for some.” You whisper.

Kaz squeezes your hands.

“But, I escaped so it’s all ok now!” You say smiling up at him. You give him a light kiss then leave him to go start getting the club ready for the night. He notices though that you grab one of his shirts to put on. It hurts him that your father was so mean, but you act like everything is fine.

Later that night, Kaz watches you work the bar. A smile never leaves your face. You laugh and make small talk with patrons, joke around with the rest of the crows. At the end of the night, he watches as you bring out a plate of waffles to the crows, making sure everyone is feed.

“Y/n, have you eaten?” Inej asks.

You wave her off, “I’ll eat later, I have the whole bar to clean.” Everyone protests, insisting you sit down and eat. You grab a waffle and shove it in your mouth. “See? I ate. Happy?” You ask with a mouthful. Everyone laughs as you walk back to the bar.

He watches you walk behind the bar, and clean the bar with a skip in your step. He notes though, that your face doesn’t hold the same emotion that your voice does, that there is a sadness behind your eyes that he wants to wipe away. He shakes his head and walks up to his office, having no idea how to make you happy again.

As you make your way up to your room later that night, your thoughts drift too how your father would make you clean the whole house, then lock you in your room with barely any food. How you got so used to the feeling of hunger you never notice it. And how he would hit you, push you and whip you even though you did nothing wrong.

You go to open the door, when you realize you went to Kaz’s room instead of yours. You turn to leave when Kaz opens the door. He takes in the tears in your eyes and opens his arms for you. You look at him then crash into him letting a few tears escape. He guides you into his room and onto his bed.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” He says, wiping away the tears.

“I’m fine, just a long day.” You smile.

“That’s a lie.” He looks at you seriously. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

“Nothing really! Just tired. Can we go to bed?” You shift so that you can lie down. Kaz sighs, but doesn’t say more. He blows out all the candles, except for one, then lies beside you.

After a couple minutes of silence, Kaz speaks in the dark. “ you don’t have to act like your feelings are mild. Not around me.”

You shift to look at him. He looks over at you. You take a shaky breath; “um, cleaning the bar tonight just reminded me of my father. He would force me to clean the whole house, then lock me in the attic without food for days. He would also beat me a lot.” You shrug at the last part. Kaz pulls you into a hug. You know he is pushing past his comfort zone hugging you in bed, knowing that you can’t help it if limbs brush against each other. Yet you are so grateful for this hug.

You lean into the hug and sob for the first time in years. Kaz holds you and comforts you until you fall asleep in his arms.

The next morning you wake to a cup of coffee and a plate of waffles beside you. You turn and see Kaz at his desk. “Thank you.”

He turns around. “You’re to busy taking care of others, you forget to take care of yourself. Enjoy the day off.”

You slip out of bed and walk over to him. You look at him for consent to kiss him, and he nods. You kiss him slowly, the pull away to have the breakfast. The rest of the day, Kaz sees your free spirit return as you jump and dance around the club with Nina.

#grishaverse #kaz x y/n #kaz brekker x fem!reader #kaz x you #kaz brekker #kaz brekker imagine #kaz x reader

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rrxnjun · 2 years

Text

annoying (derogatory). ldh

pairing: lee donghyuck x fem! reader genre: college au, halloween au | crack(?), fluff wc: 3k (2.920) warnings: too much alcohol, kind of rushed and very stupid a/n: i know its technically not halloween anymore but this idea came to me this morning and i just had to write it. haven't posted anything in a while and i missed writing a lot <3 also thank you @decembermoonskz and @yaesnovels for the help with this fic!

you arrive at a halloween party only to find out your biggest nightmare came true in real life: you accidentally wear matching couple outfits with your biggest enemy. or where annoying (derogatory) turns into annoying (affectionate).

Black skinny jeans, blue jean button-up, black shoes and a tacky black coat. Your eyes meet with none other than your main enemy, a shit-eating grin slowly creeping at his face making you freeze in your spot and arch your back like an angry cat when you realise a fact that is immediately confirmed by the snicker coming from behind your ear.

“Your couple costume is so good guys, didn’t know you were dating-”

“Jeno, shut the fuck up. You know damn well this is not a couple costume,” you mutter, not liking the fact that your friend is feeding into this situation.

“Oh,” Jeno blinks, faking a surprise, “but he’s Edward. And… you’re Bella… isn’t it a couple costume, then?” he asks, pouting, acting lost in thought.

“No, it’s not-”

“Just admit that you planned this all along, Y/N,” Donghyuck grins, “you wanted to match with me, obviously.”

“I did not! I didn’t even know you’re going as Edward. If I knew, I wouldn’t have gone as Bella, for fuck’s sake,” you mourn in agony, hating the Halloween party you were invited to already, solely for the fact that you’re accidentally wearing couple costumes with the guy you hate the most on this earth.

Lee Donghyuck has been on your death wishlist for as long as you’ve known him. His annoying (derogatory) attitude and the confidence he radiates was already a hint for you that you wouldn’t like him when you first met him at university, but it was only solidified on one sunny day when he made fun of your haircut. Yeah, it might have been a bad, terrible haircut– you can even admit that– but he really didn’t have to call you Dora the explorer every time he saw you at campus until your hair didn’t grow back. Yes, this was the exact situation that made you hate the guy more than you hate anything in this world. Some would say you’re petty. You just think you’re being reasonable.

“I talked about it in the groupchat!” Hyuck exclaims, referencing the Whatsapp group chat you’re both in because of mutual friends.

“Well, I have your number blocked so I don’t have to read your annoying messages every morning,” you snap, seeing Donghyuck only smile at your frustrated figure, making you more annoyed.

“I’ll have you know, Ryujin enjoys my good morning texts,” he smugly proclaims, shrugging.

“Yeah,” you nod, “because she lacks common sense,” you add, seeing the man in front of you snicker at your nasty remark, loving the sight of you all worked up and frustrated.

“Don’t be mean,” he says, “I thought that was my job. Or, at least, that’s what you told me when I called you Dora-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, not this again,” you roll your eyes at him, not wanting to see the look on his face he always has when he teases you. “See? He’s being annoying again-” you turn around, wanting to find comfort in Jeno, only to realise he’s no longer watching over your little quarrel, but is standing in the corner of the room with his friends from class instead, drinking out of a small red cup.

Turning back around to see Donghyuck leaning on the kitchen counter, hands resting at the very top, you try hard to ignore the grin on his face. Catching him eyeing you from head to toe, you furrow your brows and shake your head in disapproval. “Stop staring at me, weirdo.”

“Just wanting to see if you’ve done a better job than me, that’s all.”

“Yeah, sure,” you sigh, walking over to the kitchen counter, looking for a cup that would contain something you’d enjoy drinking– because you can’t even smell vodka without wanting to physically carve your stomach out of your body (you’d call this reflex your bad flashbacks from war)– Donghyuck’s voice lands into your ear once again, possibly the effect of his figure standing so close to yours.

“Chill out already, would you? Let’s dance,” he says, pointing his chin towards the living room, resonating with roaring music and filled with various other people from your university, all dressed in costumes. A rumor has it that Johnny-- the host-- was kicking out everyone that came without one, and with how much this guy loves Halloween, you don't even try to doubt the information.

You huff, laughing at Hyuck's proposal. “I would rather die than to dance with you, Lee Donghyuck.”

Silence– well, to a certain extent, with the loud EDM music playing in the background– overtakes the two of you after your response, your eyes still searching through the sea of alcohol poured in various red cups over on the kitchen counter, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Do these people really not drink anything other than vodka and cheap beer? Sighing in disappointment, almost reaching for the beer– because everything’s better than vodka– a hand holding a single red cup comes into your rear point of vision, making you look up at your silent companion in confusion.

Taking the cup into your hand and sniffing, your eyes meet your supposed enemy, to which he expressionlessly says: “Rum and coke. I know vodka makes you puke.”

“Thanks,” you say, hesitantly taking a sip and averting your gaze from the male, taken aback by his sudden act of service.

“Will you dance with me now?”

Sighing, you shoot him a glance, seeing the shit-eating grin appearing on his face again, making your blood boil at unreachable heights. “I will kill you tonight, Hyuck.”

“We’ll see about that, spider monkey.”

“Oh, you two look amazing together-”

“We’re not a couple,” you cut off the stranger passing you by on your walk down the street, sighing to yourself.

A few drinks, screams at the top of your lungs on the dance floor and selfies in your Halloween costumes later, you two and another few friends– the most sober ones of the group– were sent on a McDonald’s run. You argued that you could just order pizza, or that you could just get Postmates, but Jisung got too drunk to remember how it works and insisted on you getting it personally, because, quote, the stranger could eat his chicken wings, and, well, Jeno can never say no to Jisung, so… here you are.

“Not gonna lie, dudes,” Mark says, laughing to himself, “the disgusted look on Y/N’s face every time she has to explain this to someone is the only thing keeping me going right now.”

“I’m glad that at least someone is having fun,” you mutter under your breath.

“Who said he was the only one? I am enjoying this,” Donghyuck snickers, walking by your side as if to annoy you even further. Every time his hand accidentally brushes against yours as you walk– because even though you’re the most sober of the group, the amount of rum and cokes you’ve drank tonight is still enough to make you walk a little to the side– makes you want to turn around on your heel and scream into an endless void full of your misery.

Every time you see the man next to you grin with his perfect pearly whites, the hairs on your arms stand up in nerves, your stomach feels funny and the pit on the very bottom of it only deepens. You’ve never felt this much frustration, annoyance and anger towards someone. Normally, you’re a pretty chill person– it’s just that Lee Donghyuck is a menace to society and to yourself twice as much.

Walking into the McDonald’s that’s luckily only a few streets away from Johnny’s house, you stand in line and wait for your turn to finally order the endless list of meals the group waiting back at the party managed to stick together. Looking around, seeing a long line of teenagers dressed in various costumes, you find a new sense of appreciation for humanity. Isn’t it funny how once a year, we dress as someone else for one day just because we feel like it? Humans are actually pretty cute, if you think about it.

Lost in your thoughts, you almost don’t notice Donghyuck talking to someone that’s standing behind him. His words blur in your tipsy mind, allowing yourself to relax for just a bit and calm down before you have to carry the bags with food down the street again, back to the party, when the words girlfriend and Bella startle you awake.

“Yeah, it took me so long to convince her to come as Bella, ‘cause she always refuses to watch the movies with me, but she loves me too much, so she finally agreed-”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Donghyuck?” you ask, not even having enough energy to scream at him anymore, just furrowing your brows in resignance.

“Don’t mind her, she gets a little grumpy when she’s drunk, right, sweetie?” Hyuck grins at you as he puts an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. The smell of his showergel mixed with the cologne he uses– strawberries and coconut with just a hint of pinewood– hits your nose, making you swim in a weird sense of comfort and jumpiness. You once told him he uses too much cologne. He joked that it was so you would notice him, but ever since, the smell of his cologne has become less prominent, the sweet mix of strawberries and coconut making itself more known to your nose every time he was close to you in any way.

“We’re not even dating…” you lock eyes with the stranger dressed like Batman as you sigh, seeing the confusion in his hooded eyes when they jump from your figure to Donghyuck’s close to each other in a comfortable embrace.

Standing in the line at McDonald’s, various grinning teenagers pointing towards you two and telling you what a cute couple you are, you grow tired of explaining to them that your matching costumes are a mere coincidence. And with Lee Donghyuck sabotaging your every attempt at getting it straight and telling everyone that you actually hate your supposed other half, it becomes impossible to spread your truth, and so you just eventually stop trying.

Drinking so much the world is spinning and you feel hot in your cheeks, talking in the kitchen with Jaemin, Jeno and (ignoring) Donghyuck, you feel like this evening couldn’t get any better. You see, you may sound like an alcoholic right now, but the more rum and coke you drink, the less you mind Hyuck’s annoying teasing and the bad music choices from the resident DJ Jungwoo. You asked him to play Pitbull twice. He refused both times, and if that’s not a sign of a bad DJ, you don’t know what is.

Laughing at a joke Jaemin made, you momentarily lock eyes with Hyuck before you jump up in surprise at a loud scream coming from behind your back.

“Bella! Where the hell have you been, loca?!”

Turning around, you see a tall man with a wig on, wearing the most ratchet outfit cut out of a 2009 movie– there was no doubt, this was none other than Xiao Dejun dressed as Jacob from Twilight. Laughing at the whole situation– because there’s nothing else you’re able to do now, after realising that the three of you accidentally wore the costumes of a love triangle without knowing the other’s intentions, you watch as the man replicates the scene from the movie and runs towards you to pick you up into a spinning hug.

“This is getting ridiculous,” you giggle when he puts you on the ground.

“Why? You didn’t plan this?” he asks, seemingly not knowing about the rivalry between you and Hyuck as his eyes dance from him to you, seeing you shake your head in disapproval.

“Don’t listen to him if he tries to tell you otherwise, but no, we did not plan this,” you laugh, seeing Dejun join you in the little moment of you slowly going crazy.

“Well, that’s just great, because that means I can drag you to the dancefloor without Edward here getting mad at me!” Dejun yelps as he physically drags you to the living room by your right hand, body swaying to the beat of the never-stopping EDM music playing through the speakers. You don’t really remember you and Dejun being this close, you only had a few classes with him last semester, but it seems that the alcohol level in your blood is no longer letting you have any barriers tonight. Eyes shortly switching to the kitchen– completely subconsciously, really– you notice Donghyuck staring at the two of you with a cold look, jaw clenched. It only adds to the costume of Edward, you’d say, since you don’t remember the man having any other expressions in the movie, but the sight of Hyuck looking like that makes you a little taken aback, since you’ve never seen him with this face before.

“Are you sure you two didn’t come together? ‘Cause Edward Cullen over there looks a little jealous, if I may say so myself,” Dejun screams into your ear, making you roll your eyes at the comment.

“Don’t mind him,” you shake your head, “we hate each other.”

Dejun’s eyes widen at your last sentence, surprise overtaking his features. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you snicker, “he called me Dora the explorer for two months after I got a really bad haircut, I can’t stand that guy,” you laugh, seeing Dejun only snicker as he takes your right hand and rises it towards the ceiling, urging you to twirl for him like a ballerina.

“Well, that’s understandable,” he laughs, “even I’d hate him for that, if I was in your place.”

When the song ends and Dejun finds another familiar face in the corner of the living room, you find yourself sitting on the abandoned sofa in the middle of the room, finally letting yourself take deep breaths and try to force your head to stop spinning. Fanning your face before you take off your statement Bella zip-up hoodie, you let your eyes rest for a moment as you notice the sharp pain in your left temple– the first sign that you’ve had enough alcohol for tonight. Telling yourself you’re only gonna stay until you don’t feel a bit better, you try to force your brain to not shut off, before a painful slap to your thigh startles you awake as the sofa dips next to you with the weight of another figure.

“You okay?” you hear the all too familiar voice of none other than tonight’s Edward Cullen. After so many hours of being around him, you don’t even hate it as much anymore– in the loud screaming of the evening, you’d even consider it a safe haven.

Humming in agreement as you nod, you notice his hand on your thigh lightly massaging the spot he slapped before, the touch of his hand burns your clothed skin, sending shivers down your spine. “You want some water?” he asks, but as you shake your head to say no, there’s not a single thought in your head as you focus on the motion of his fingers on your leg, thinking of how you’ve never seen him so caring before, making you believe that maybe if he wasn’t so annoying towards you, you wouldn’t hate him as much.

“Do you want to go home?” he asks again, making you want to curse at him for breaking the silence (well, not really, since the havoc is still happening and the music is still playing), but instead, you only hum and cover his hand on your thigh with your palm, not even thinking about your actions. The danger of drinking is that you never know when the drink you have is the last one that takes you over the edge of having fun to being absolutely fucking miserable, and you think that the one you had right before Dejun dragged you to the dance floor was exactly the one doing just that.

“In a bit. Want my head to stop spinning so much first,” you say, letting your head drop onto his shoulder, enjoying the calmness of the situation after the stress and loudness of the whole night.

The smell of strawberries and coconut overtakes the smell of alcohol lingering in the room, calming your senses and making you wonder why you never gave Hyuck a chance before. It’s not like he was wrong about the haircut, after all…

“I’m team Edward, just by the way,” Donghyuck mumbles into your ear, making you snicker. To think you were considering that he wasn’t so bad just a few seconds ago…

“You know, Hyuck, I’m starting to think you’re an actual vampire, with how you’re sucking out my energy the whole evening,” you mutter, hearing the boy laugh at your comment before his tone turns suggestive as he leans even closer to your ear.

“Maybe I can suck your neck instead, like an actual vampire, you know-”

Feeling hot in your cheeks from the comment that just escaped from between his lips, hating the way it made you feel all funny in your stomach, you sigh and move away from him, standing up from the sofa in urgency. “I’m actually going to kill you, you know-”

“Oh, come on,” he giggles, taking you by your hand and dragging you back down to the sofa, “sit for a bit and then I’ll walk you home, okay? I was only joking…” he says, seeing you roll your eyes, but your body slides deeper into the sofa cushions, getting comfortable. “Unless…?”

Yeah, never mind. Lee Donghyuck is still the most annoying (affectionate) human being you’ve ever met in your whole, entire life.

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sarahowritesostucky · 5 months

Text

📖"Who'd You Have to Blow to Get That Part?"

Rated: Teen

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x reader

Tags: mild D/s elements, mild degradation, reference to past sexual encounters, slight daddy kink, lovers to enemies

Summary: Ransom won't let you leave the room until you agree to go out with him again.

You’ve been ignoring Ransom’s calls for a week when he finally corners you in your dressing room

“Well well well,” he simpers. “The Lyceum. You’re really making your way up from the chorus line, little girl.” You glare at him and he chuckles, doing a slow walk around your body, appraising you in a way that manages to feel both admiring and ridiculing at the same time. He plucks at the ribboned hoop of one of your panniers as he passes. “Well, la-dee-da,” he mocks. “What on earth is this? I think I like it.”

You swat at his retreating hand with a huff. “Who let you back here, Ransom?”

“Oh didn’t you know I know everybody? The director’s an old friend. He knows I have an interest in … the theater. Said I could poke around backstage if I wanted.”

“Great. I’m sure he didn’t mean in my dressing room.”

“Your very own dressing room, by the way: how fancy.” He doesn’t look at you as he says it, instead sauntering along past the couch and then over to the dressing table, feeling free to snoop around. You cringe when his fingers drag across the vanity top and land on the script you’ve left lying there. He picks it up and starts flipping through its pages. “Hmm …”

You fluster at the idea of him seeing all the notes you’ve scribbled in the margins. “Do you mind not touching my stuff?” you gripe. “Ugh.” Looking around for your robe, you spot it draped over the back of the dressing chair but realize that it won’t stretch around when you’re wearing the panniers. You huff and try to plant your hands on your hips assertively—a motion that is likewise hindered. You settle for gripping the sides of your whalebone-stiffened waist. “I don’t have time for this. Why are you here?”

“You’re one of the leads,” Ransom says, feigning impressed as he waves the packet of papers in the air. “So Daddy finally bought you a speaking part, huh?”

You feel your cheeks heat, hating him with every fiber of your being. “No,” you grit, hurrying over to snatch the script from his hands and set it back on the table. “I got this part myself, you insufferable piece of shit.”

“Been practicing those blowjob skills, then?”

Your jaw works as you fight not to react. “Why are you here?”

“I tried calling,” he says. “But you’re surprisingly hard to get a hold of these days.”

“Ever consider that I lost your number?”

“Mmm, I don’t think that’s it.” He smirks and leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne, can see every detail of that stupid-pretty face, the hair that’s gelled and combed to perfection. He looks good, just like he always does, which only makes you hate him more. “I haven’t seen you twirling in your usual circles, bunny,” purrs. "Not since we parted ways. What’s it been now, three months?”

“Five,” you say tightly. “Though who’s counting?”

“Clearly not you,” he teases, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’ll admit I’ve hardly thought of you at all, since then, but …” He’s wearing a camel-colored coat and cashmere scarf, and he reaches past said coat’s lapel to produce a single, long-stemmed rose, presenting it to you with an earnest pout. “I heard about the role. Thought I’d stop by and congratulate you, see how you’re doing.” He lets his gaze drag over your half-dressed form again, eyeing you up appreciatively. “I still think about you, you know.”

“I thought you’d hardly thought about me at all."

He looks surprised for a second, before he’s chuckling at you again with that trademark blend of affection and condescension that you wish you hated more than you do. “Oh, bunny,” he coos, nudging your chin with the rose’s fragrant bloom. “You pay attention to what I say. I always liked that about you. That’s just how you are, isn’t it? So attentive, such a good girl.” You color mightily at that, too flustered to think of a waspish response like you want to. He sees this and smirks, dragging the rose’s velvet petals over your lips and humming in satisfaction when you hastily snatch it from his hand. “There we go,” he praises softly. “Pretty flower for a pretty girl. Though I worry how you’re doing when you don’t turn up in public for months on end.”

You force a prim smile. “That’s sweet, but I don’t need you to worry about me, or bring me gifts.” You turn around and stick the rose into a nearby vase, which already has a number of similar blossoms in it. Ransom’s is the biggest and freshest, but you rearrange it into the middle of the pack so that it doesn’t stand out as much. “And I’m doing just fine, if you really want to know.”

“Are you, though?” he presses. He steps closer, close enough that the frame of the panniers presses against his pants, and it’s easy for him to reach up and finger the strap of your stays. “I seem to remember you being quite the social butterfly.”

“Yep. That’s me.”

“You’ve missed the last several big events of the season, and I know you well enough to know that it’s not like you to play the shut-in.” He traces the strap from your shoulder, down to the top of the busk. You see his blond eyelashes lower onto his smug fucking cheeks as he shamelessly leers at the swell of your breasts, his fingers hovering just over the skin. “Who’re you supposed to be?” he asks. “Marie Antoinette?”

You scoff and push past him. “Unlike you, I get busy. I actually work for a living. And yes, that sometimes means that frivolous parties aren’t my number one engagement. So if you’ll excuse me.” You’re supposed to be over in wardrobe, getting fitted for your costumes. Danielle is probably already waiting for you. But Ransom blocks the door when you try to leave, and he does nothing to disguise the way he looks at your body when you stand back to regard him with another huff. “Ransom, move.”

“You should wear corsets more often,” he drawls, ignoring your protests entirely. “It actually makes your waist look tiny.”

You glare at him and try to move around him to grab the door handle, but he leans back against it so that you can’t pull it open. He grins, eyes raking over you from head to toe. You fight not to squirm, feeling more ridiculous than anything else, decked out as you are in your eighteenth century reproduction undergarments. You sigh and stand back, frustrated at how goddamn entitled he is. “What do you want?” you ask, knowing that he wouldn’t be here bugging you right now if he didn’t want something.

“I want to give us another try,” he says.

You wait for the punchline, or for him to crack a mean smile and laugh at how gullible you are, but neither happens and you’re left standing there blinking at him like a dummy, heart in your throat. “What?”

“You heard me.” He pushes off from the door and stares you down as he steps up close. He cups your face in a palm that’s soft from never having seen a day of work in its life. You have to fight not to press your cheek into it, and of course he notices, the overconfident prick. “I think we called things off too soon,” he murmurs. “Don’t you?”

“‘We’? You’re the one who ended it.”

He frowns thoughtfully. “Hhhm, did I though?”

“Yes.”

“Ehh, I don’t know if I remember it that way.”

You purse your lips. “I said I wanted to be exclusive, and you called me clingy.”

“Well that’s hardly ‘ending’ things …”

You scoff. “You said my pussy wasn’t ‘anything to write home about’ and left me at the restaurant.”

“Hmm. Well … maybe I was too hasty.”

“Yeah, right. ‘Hasty’.” More like genetically predisposed to assholery, you think.

“Hey, I mean it.” He grabs you when you try to move around him, holding you still by your upper arms.

“Let me go.”

“Maybe I never gave things between us a real chance, bunny” he says, trying to ply you with his words and sheer proximity. “That’s what I’ve been thinking these past months. That I let you go too soon, didn’t think things through. That I let my emotions get the better of me.”

“More like your dick,” you mutter, but he ignores you.

“After all, we had good times together, didn’t we? And you always look amazing on my arm, and the sex was soo …” he trails off, letting his fingers trace your skin. His mouth twitches when he notices your breathing picking up, your chest heaving visibly against the front of the stays. “Come on, princess. Just think about it,” he coaxes, leaning in to whisper against your ear. “You and I fit so well together. Don’t you remember how it was?”

You shiver instinctively, body reacting to the words he’s murmuring so intimately against you, to the way he’s touching you like he owns you. “Ransom,” you breathe. “I don’t—”

“I miss you, you know. I do. In my life, in my bed. I don’t like waking up alone.”

You ignore the flutter in your belly at hearing him admit that, and force yourself to shrug his hands away. “Well that would be your problem, not mine,” you say. He’s not good for you, and letting him bust in like this and insinuate himself back into your life will only lead to disappointment at best, heartbreak at worst. “Excuse me,” you grit when he walks backwards to block the door again. So fucking entitled. “Seriously, Ransom. I have somewhere to be!”

“I don’t really care. We’re not finished here,” he growls, eyes losing their charming sheen. “You can leave when I’m done talking to you.”

Your core clenches at those domineering words, and you have to square your jaw before you can bring yourself to insist, “Ransom, get out of the way. I’m warning you …”

“No, I’m warning you,” he says darkly, grabbing your arm and yanking you in hard against him. You gasp and catch yourself with a hand against his chest, but he keeps you off balance as his other arm scoops in behind you and holds you tight to him by your lower back. “Mmm, I like this,” he purrs, fingers finding the laces of your stays and grabbing onto them. He grabs you by the back of your neck with one hand while he tugs at the laces with the other. “Makes a nice handle. Good for moving you where I want you.”

“Get your hands off me.”

He tugs the laces again, jostling you forcefully. “Thought you liked it when I handle you.”

“What I’d like is for you to let me go,” you grit.

But he only narrows his eyes and sticks his face closer in yours. When he speaks, his breath fans out warm against your lips. “You’re confused, bunny. I should bend you over that vanity and remind you just how much you like it.”

To your shame, his manhandling and his domineering words turn you on, and you know he can tell—he can always tell what he does to you. That’s part of what makes him so infuriating, and so dangerous. “Let go of me,” you say lowly, surprised (and disappointed) when he actually listens, his hands releasing you so suddenly that you stumble back a step in your heels. His eyes bore into you slyly as you huff and right yourself. “What is your problem?!” you fume at him.

“Come with me to the Governor’s Ball,” he demands, confident and cocky as always, as if the past few minutes and your numerous refusals haven’t even happened. “You have an invitation, I presume?”

You glower at him. “Of course I do, you twat.” Given that your father is the Governor, it’d be odd indeed if you didn’t have an invite. “Awful presumptuous of you that I don’t have plans to go with somebody else,” you snap. “After the way you treated me? I wouldn’t take you as my date to a dive bar.”

He chuckles, and it’s in that low, self-assured way that drives you absolutely bonkers and makes you feel like a “pick me” girl all at the same time. “Oh, bunny. You think I don’t know you better than that?”

You shoulder your way around him to yank open the door. “You don’t know me at all, jerk.”

You inhale sharply when his hand clamps around your wrist and he shoves into you from behind suddenly, pressing you up against the door and slamming it shut with your combined bodyweight. “I know you better than any man alive, princess,” he hisses, grinding his hips against your ass and kissing your cheekbone in gentle counterpoint when you gasp at his audacity. “Shhh shsh,” he hushes. “Don’t worry, now. You’ll have an excellent time, I promise. Now, you go get fitted for your little costume, and I’ll send a car to pick you up Saturday evening. Say nine o’clock?”

You huff, flustered by what an utterly presumptuous asshole he is (and by the way your cunt is clenching on nothing, being pressed up against a surface full-body by him like this). “You know what your problem is, Ransom?”

He drags his nose across your cheek with a chuckle. “What’s that, bunny?”

You can’t get as much leverage as you’d like, pressed up against the door the way you are, but you do your best and jab back into his solar plexus. And his shocked, breathless grunt is a satisfying indicator that your elbow has met its mark. You turn around and take his face between your hands to peck a kiss of your own to his cheek. “It’s that people’ve been paid to make you think you’re better than you are your whole life,” you whisper sweetly. You kiss his cheek and then let him go, leaving the room before he can regain his breath.

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arteastica · 2 months

Text

early in the morning, especially when it rains, and a little before noon. (26)

erwin x fem!reader

chapters: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) | (5) | (6) | (7) | (8) | (9) | (10) | (11) | (12) | (13) | (14) | (15) | (16) | (17) | (18) | (19) | (20) | (21) | (22) | (23) | (24) | (25) | (27)

summary: I basically took Isayama’s work, forced it into a romance story, and made Erwin the love interest. Commander meets cadet and they fall in love (not instantly though)

notes: very berry canonverse (but some events were modified to fit my narrative), wasn’t intended to be this long, but it all is in the details right?

content warnings: smut where it fits (or where I make it fit. Also, reader is NOT underage, so likewise, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, please.) slow burn (I really mean it. I’m not olympic diving into any form of smut for the first chapters.) no angst. I dislike angst. I would never. I could never. (Although angst can be somewhat subjective so take it with a grain of salt?)

wc: 3k

Perfumed breeze tickled your bare shoulders and sweet wine swayed inside clinking glasses, soft music lured twosomes to the dance floor, and the golden midday sun shone brighter than ever, as if making some sort of grand entrance, stepping into the courtyard like a guest of honor, blinding your eyes until they could no longer see anything around. Only the shadows and the shapes, and the bluest sky painted behind him.

And speaking about the sky, it had evidently dressed to match him that morning, from the cobalt pocket square peeking out of his morning coat to the corresponding silk tie obediently waiting on his chest; without forgetting, of course, about the crystalline sapphires embedded in his face, because in all honesty, who could forget? How could anyone overlook that heavenly blue of his eyes, iridescent at times, dreamily reflecting back all your favorite colors whenever they stared into yours. Just like they were right now, opportunely reminding you of secret moments spent inside some mountain castle down south; and the pleasant warmth that radiated from your chest at the thought made your lips curve into the same kind of smile his were wearing: knowing and conspiratorial. And you wondered if he found it overpowering too, the need to melt into each other’s arms.

His fleshy lips, appetizing as ever, parted slightly at the sight before him, his eyes methodically exploring first your features and then the colorful flowers on your dress, as if counting them, as if you were a coveted treasure seized from an enemy beyond the walls; his chest expanding as he took the type of deep, steadying breath that usually precedes life-altering statements. And then, when a labored ‘wow’ was all that left his lips, an amused chuckle escaped yours. You found it funny, to think those were the same lips that always knew what to say, the authors of the compelling speeches he used to motivate his men out there on the field or secure funds from closefisted aristocrats. And now, those same lips that not too many seasons back, had convinced a bunch of frightened kids to dedicate their hearts to a suicidal cause, had stopped working with nothing but a smile frozen on them. But that wasn’t a problem, given how eloquently his eyes were, instead, delivering the biggest compliments a lady could ever receive.

“Commander Smith.” You smiled teasingly, sending a courteous nod his way as you extended a hand for him to take.

“My lady.” He greeted back, his unusual wording eliciting another chuckle from you, because suddenly, it felt as if you were meeting for the first time again, as if you were the center characters in one of those romance novels your mother kept hidden under her mattress, as if some sort of magical encounter was taking place in the middle of Lord Koch’s garden.

He took the hand you were offering and brought it to his lips, where it remained for what, some would say, way longer than tradition stipulated. And all the while, you could feel him smiling against your fingers, his soothing breath keeping them warm, and the gentle stroke of his thumb against your skin sending a playful shiver straight to your core.

Some would say, probably the same people whose eyes were currently glued to the two of you, that ten thirty in the morning was too early for one’s mind to drift to the kind of inappropriate places yours was; but the thing is, they didn’t know about the wonderful things those lips could do nor the incredible delight those thighs could provide: muscular, well-developed, gift-wrapped in grey silk…or was it wool? If you could touch them, you’d be able to tell. But then again, that would be highly inappropriate for a garden party, wouldn’t it?

When his lips reluctantly let go of your hand, his fingers decided not to, choosing to stay wrapped around yours instead, gentlemanly accompanying them as if to see their safe arrival to your lap.

“Forgive my lips.” He smiled dazedly, eyes still lost in yours. “But it’s in familiar tastes where they find the greatest pleasure.”

That kind of apology suggested that he’d also noticed the inquisitive stares emerging all around you, stares that, at the moment, you didn’t have the mental disposition to concern yourself with, not when his words, as well as the evocative tone used to deliver them, were making your insides bubble in a dangerous cocktail of excitement and pleasure; a pleasure that quickly began to drip from deep within, like champagne spilling from the glass, drowning any other thought until all you could think about was how bad you wanted to pull him to a secret corner, sit on his lap and glide your fingers through that perfectly smooth hair of his, slicked back and neatly combed, desperately asking to be messed up.

“My lady?” He smirked playfully, a gesture that suggested he was probably very aware of the mess he was causing between your legs, a mess you hoped he would be so kind as to take care of later.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Commander Smith.” You replied calmly, your lips curving up in mischief. “At the moment, I feel like overindulging in familiar tastes myself.” You held his gaze boldly, unashamed to acknowledge all the things he could do to your body with his words only.

“Is that so?” He asked enticingly, taking a step closer and then another, his eyes locked so intently on their target as his face came just mere inches away from yours. “My princess shall never have to wait.” His lips whispered softly, only for the two of you to hear. “To indulge in whatever pleasure she craves.” He concluded, his husky voice more animalistic than human, the tantalizing woods and musks of his cologne intoxicating your senses, numbing them, clouding your mind until you could no longer think about anything, at least not anything that wasn’t his lips or the forbidden nights you spent together with them in his office, under the covers of secrecy. Was he about to pull those covers down with a kiss?

The logical part of you was certain he wouldn’t, but logic and rationality were not enough to stop the rest of your body from wishing he would. Especially your lips, they didn’t care that your parents were around somewhere, they didn’t care if they fainted the moment they saw their darling daughter kissing a man she had not been promised to; they didn’t care if, for the following weeks, you became the topic of the conversations all those fine ladies, who were now attentively staring at the two of you, would be enjoying with their afternoon tea. You and your lips cared about none of that.

But you knew he did.

And you knew him too well.

That’s why you weren’t really surprised when his fingers ignored the blushing cheeks he liked to hold when he kissed you, and reached for the back of your head instead, gently hooking the butterfly pin like a crown on a princess’ head. What surprised you, however, was that he knew the exact same spot where your mother had placed it that morning. Almost as if this wasn’t the first time he’d seen you today. And you wondered if that could be the case.

But before your mind could start speculating, he took a step back, a disarming smile painted on his handsome features as he offered you his arm to hold.

“May I?”

You smiled with delight, not hesitating a second to wrap both hands around the hard, unyielding muscles of his arm, letting them guide you to the other end of the courtyard. As you made it past grey-haired gentlemen who nodded back at him and blue-blooded ladies who were trying to exchange discreet glances with each other, you stroked his biceps subtly, eager for everyone to know that you were with him today, and that no, he wasn’t available for discussing work-related matters at the moment, much less dancing with anybody else. The gentlemen would have to wait until he was back at the office on Monday; and the ladies, well…their business would have to wait even longer. Because today, you looked up and smiled back at the man beside you, today he was with you.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite contrarian!” Lord Koch’s exclaimed overjoyed once you reached the north pavilion, his tall frame approaching his friend with open arms. “Erwin! Glad you could make it.”

“Hansel.” The Commander patted his back congratulatory. “Wouldn’t miss an opportunity to celebrate a good friend.”

“My lady.” Lord Koch nodded politely at you once he was done greeting his friend.

“I came to greet you earlier, but Lord Angert told me that you and Madam Augusta were yet to arrive.” The Commander turned to the plush, jovial-looking lady beside his friend, who you assumed to be Mrs. Koch. “Madam Augusta.”

“Erwin! I’m so glad you could join us!” She exclaimed, also overjoyed and using the exact same tone Lord Koch had, albeit a few scales higher. According to your mother, the Kochs had been married since their academy days, and engaged since even before that. No wonder they sounded exactly like each other. “I asked Hansel if you’d be joining us this morning.” She smiled beamingly, taking the Commander’s hand in hers. “I warned him that if he didn’t go deliver the invitation in person, you wouldn’t come. He didn’t want to go at first, but I ma-”

“Augusta.” Lord Koch cleared his throat, flashing an uncomfortable smile at the Commander, who looked at you amusedly, gifting you with one of those light-hearted chuckles that always sounded like honey in your ears, and you giggled back.

“You’re never too busy to visit a friend.” Mrs. Koch said, smiling beamingly and naively, her expressive eyes making you realize she looked exactly like the fairy godmothers they drew on picture books. “Your father knows that very well, dear.” You blinked in confusion, thinking about the Commander’s late father before noticing she was looking at you instead. “He never misses a Wednesday, that conspiracy theory club is going to cause the demise of so many I know.” She squinted her eyes at her husband.

“Augusta.” Lord Koch cleared his throat again.

So the club was still a thing, only they moved it to Wednesdays instead.

“Oh Hansel, please. You don’t believe there is someone, even a single soul, at this party who doesn’t know about that little society of yours. Do you?” She chortled giddily when she saw you nodding in agreement. “Anyhow, it both pleases me and surprises me that someone has at long last managed to conquer this man’s heroically large yet forebodingly rebellious heart.” She said contentedly, smiling at the Commander and then at you.

“Augusta, the lady is his assistant.”

“Oh, my bad!” She feigned embarrassment, her eyes darting from the Commander to you, and then back to him, a knowing smile blossoming on her lips as soon as she caught glance of the comfortable way in which your hands were wrapped around his arm, almost as if they were more than fairly acquainted with his body. “What a shame, her angelic smile and Erwin’s dreamy blues would make for beautiful offspring.” She said with mirth, giggling enthusiastically as her expressive eyes awaited a reaction from you.

But you had nothing for her, at least not anything you could show her without incriminating yourself, so you just lowered your head, looking down at the glossy marble tiles in an attempt to hide both your burning cheeks as well as the little smile that started to take over your lips at the thought of their chubby fingers tugging at your skirt; their angelic blue eyes gleaming with happiness whenever their cute button noses caught a whiff of the little somethings you loved baking for them; their excited little feet making the cabin’s floorboards creak on their way to the front door, your way of knowing that he was back.

No, Mrs. Koch wasn’t the only one. You had thought about it too. Goodness, your pen knew just how much; she remembered about every single time you had forced her to stop right before she could tell your journal about it, because your mother always said that telling your dreams to someone else was the most effective way to curse them into never happening.

“The infamous Nile Dok in the flesh!” Lord Koch’s jovial greeting startled you out of your thoughts, making you raise your head just in time to see Hitch’s boss striding towards you. “Today is really one for the books, isn’t it? It’s not every day you get to see both your favorite commanders together in one place.” He said delightedly, giving the lean, black-whiskered man a welcoming hug, a gesture that showed you just how close they were.

“I just hope Commander Pixis doesn’t find this statement too aggravating.” The Military Police commander said in a monotone voice before turning to Mrs. Koch. “Madam Augusta.”

The feeble smile he had managed to put on for her quickly expired on his lips as soon as he was done shaking her hand, and you couldn’t help but smile when you remembered Hitch’s words: ‘he permanently has the face of someone who hasn’t been able to poop in years.’

“Good to see you, Nile.” Mrs. Koch smiled heartily, her eyes turning into the same crescent moons Leon’s did whenever he smiled, confirming your suspicions that it was indeed a family thing. “Hansel still resents Dot for outsmarting him at the regionals last summer.” She explained amusedly. “A sore ego and a thin skin make it difficult for anyone to forget, never mind forgive.”

“Oh I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Saw him near the brandy earlier.” Lord Koch motioned with a lazy flick of his hand, the indifference in his otherwise enthused demeanor proving that the hurt ego his wife had mentioned was pretty much there. “Dot did win but I wouldn’t say I was outsmarted. Calling his performance ‘brilliant’, like the press did, would be a stretch.”

“Oh I’m sure this year’s regionals will grant you the rematch that you and your ego so desperately crave. I believe in you, darling.” Madam Augusta rolled her eyes, silently contradicting her words. “Hansel will only accept defeat to this man right here.” She explained, pointing at the Commander, who was now shaking Commander Nile’s hand. “Erwin is truly in a league of his own. Hansel is lucky he doesn’t have the time to compete at the regionals.”

“It is my desire to keep a solid friendship with Hansel what keeps me from playing at the regionals, and not lack of time, Madam.” The Commander said, eliciting joyous laughter from everyone, including Lord Koch himself. “How are Marie and the kids?”

Marie and the-

‘I don’t understand how someone like her ended up marrying my boss.’

Hitch’s voice started ringing somewhere deep inside your head, reminding you of the one thing you’d hoped you could forget.

‘She could have married anyone she wanted.’

She said, the warm spring breeze turning unpleasantly bitter all of a sudden, bringing back memories of that snowy winter afternoon spent with your best friend, not too long ago.

‘Eyes bluer than the summer sky, porcelain skin. A goddess.’

She continued, as if listing the participation requirements for a very prestigious competition, one you really wanted to win, but felt you’d already lost.

‘Gorgeous doesn’t even begin to describe her-’

‘…beautiful falls short-’

‘…stunning doesn’t do her justice.”

Her words grew louder the more she spoke, eventually turning into a sharp hissing that threatened to break your skull into a million pieces.

‘Apparently, they used to be close friends back in the day, all three of them…’

No.

‘Both, your boss and mine..’

No. You didn’t want to remember.

‘…were completely smitten with her.’

The last sentence painfully reverberated in your ears, each word feeling like shards piercing through your eardrums, like an unpleasantly loud and very discordant crowd of cicadas making your ears bleed, as they announced the end of the most beautiful sunset you would ever get to see.

‘Did you know…’

No. You were just fine living in ignorance.

‘…she was this close to…’

No. Please don’t say it.

‘…marrying your boss?’

You held his arm tighter, something similar to a heartbeat violently jolting your entire body, the aftershock sending painful shivers throughout your skin, all the way to the deepest, darkest part of you, where your chest stung and ached in a type of pain you were already growing quite familiar with.

And you wondered if Commander Nile was acquainted with it himself because, although his inexpressive eyes were difficult to read, you could have sworn that you saw them narrow, the mild bags beneath them darkening even more at the mention of his wife’s name.

His wife’s name…

You looked to his right abruptly, your heart racing as if to match the crazed speed of your thoughts.

If Commander Nile was here, then probably his wife…

You looked to his left, and then around; your eyes embarking on a journey of anticipation and uncertainty as they navigated the sea of faces surrounding you, each little glance holding the potential of familiarity for any wistful eyes wishing to spot her, or the dread of recognition, in your very particular case. The dread to discover, among the countless expressions, the telltale features Hitch had so poetically described, the golden hair, the porcelain skin, and the blue eyes that had stolen his heart all those years back.

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robsterskellington · 1 month

Text

Shin Soukoku again being the more popular vote, huh? This snippet has Vanitas being more of a side character, but he's still involved.

Context: "In six months time, I'm going to kill you." Akutagawa never breaks his promises, right?

*It's time.*

That text had frozen Atsushi's heart, and made him feel sick. After getting the date confirmed, he realised that it had been exactly six months since the end of the Cannibalism Incident, and thus it was time for Akutagawa to fight Atsushi to the death.

*Why? Why did this have to happen? I thought we were getting along, I thought we finally understood each other!* His thoughts weren't helping matters in the slightest- he felt betrayed, but how could he not? Akutagawa had been hanging out with him a lot; sometimes they sparred and fought, sometimes they simply met for tea, and sometimes Akutagawa would simply be there whenever Byakko needed to run around in that beautiful forest.

But clearly it was all for nothing. Akutagawa would never break a promise, especially not for an *enemy*. That's all Atsushi was, in the end. And it hurt, oh God it hurt. He had to excuse himself and run to the bathroom, crying his eyes out. This was always going to happen, Atsushi knew that, but... knowing that the time had come, knowing that Akutagawa was ready to kill him, it made him throw up.

Eventually he emerged, and simply texted back to ask where to meet. Maybe Atsushi would beat Akutagawa? But then would Akutagawa stop if Atsushi defeated him, or would the fight only stop when one of them died? Atsushi had to come to terms with the fact that it was likely Akutagawa had only been so kind, so good to him, to soften him until he refused to fight him, which would just give Akutagawa an easy win.

His sour mood didn't go unnoticed, but nobody spoke to him. Vanitas seemed keen on keeping everyone away from him, and Ranpo was helping. Dazai wasn't in the office, he was likely bothering Chuuya. Atsushi suddenly growled and faced them, "What's the deal with you all?!"

"Atsushi, just calm down." Vanitas spoke softly and looked at him, "Just go meet Akutagawa, and we'll talk later, okay?" Vanitas had been informed of the promise, but he didn't look nervous. If anything, there was a slight smile hidden on his face, and Atsushi noticed a twinkle in Yosano's eyes. They were up to something, obviously.

Atsushi was texted a bunch of coordinates- he still struggled to read them, so he showed Kyouka, who instructed him to go to the Port, and to an abandoned warehouse that had red paint, crumbling off on the outside. She then gave Atsushi a big hug, since she clearly wasn't in the same know-how as Ranpo, Yosano and Vanitas, and whispered softly, "Even if he begs you, don't kill him. And please don't die, I can't lose you."

He held her tightly, then kissed her forehead. She truly was the little sister he wished he had. After taking a breath, he left, his tears dry and his heart hardened.

****

After a walk that took entirely too long as a result of Atsushi dragging his feet, he arrived at the designated location. The whole area was barren, save some dilapidated buildings. The warehouse he was sent to was empty, just the main structures and some railings remained.

Akutagawa was stood leaning against a pillar, scrolling on his phone, not even dressed in his usual gear- his iconic coat was nowhere to be seen, he was wearing black jeans, black converse and a sky blue hoodie. Only a select few people, (meaning Dazai, Gin and Atsushi), knew that Akutagawa's favourite colour was actually lighter shades of blue.

The outfit was... inappropriate. Not because of the clothes having anything wrong with them, but because Rashōmon wouldn't have a good reach with them, though Akutagawa obviously didn't care. He looked completely relaxed, as if he hadn't just summoned Atsushi for a death match. That sight completely enraged him and he clenched his fists.

"*AKUTAGAWA!!*"

Atsushi jumped down, shaking with fury, but Akutagawa looked calm. In fact, after seeing Atsushi, he grew a warm smile, one that made Atsushi's heart skip a beat, "Greetings, Weretiger."

"...*greetings*?! That's all you can say right now? Fucking *greetings*?!" What was Akutagawa's play? This was insulting and ridiculous, and Akutagawa had the audacity to downplay his feelings?!

Akutagawa stood up properly, and walked calmly towards Atsushi, keeping his hands in his pockets, "You're upset, but you shouldn't be." Before the younger man could shout again, Akutagawa gently continued, "Jinko. I've spent my entire life making and keeping promises. I've never broken a promise. Only now do I realise just how idiotic that is."

That wasn't what Atsushi expected. It wasn't stupid to keep promises, was it? That was when a horrible image flashed in Atsushi's mind- Fukuchi and that cursed sword, slashing Akutagawa's throat. If Atsushi hadn't made Akutagawa promise not to kill, they might not have even gotten to that point. They could have killed the bastard before he could summon the sword. He couldn't speak, and he couldn't look at the man in front of him.

Akutagawa saw Atsushi's expression, and took that as a sign to continue, "These past six months have taught me so much. Finding ways to resolve situations without killing is certainly a good alternative, and it's less paperwork." He was only half-joking, but saw that Atsushi didn't even crack a smile. Taking another breath, he got to his point: "I can't kill you. I don't want to, so I refuse. This will be the first promise I *break*."

"...what?" This wasn't real. It couldn't be. But he hoped it was, that he wouldn't wake up and find out that this was just a dream.

Akutagawa took a step closer and smiled at Atsushi, "I... wanted to know what my actual feelings were. So during the time limit I set for us, I decided to spend time with you. I've been alive for nearly 21 years, and I swear that I've never laughed, cried, or enjoyed myself as much as I have when we're together. Being around you simply feels right. If I kill you, then that's all gone, and I cannot allow that."

He couldn't ignore his emotions anymore, and he didn't even really understand his jealousy in the first place! Sure, Atsushi got all of Dazai's attention and praise, but one, he'd earned every word of encouragement and kindness, and two, Akutagawa was dealing with a version of Dazai that was toxic and cruel. The facts of the matter was that they were a great team, the New Double Black, and knew that they could trust each other in any life or death situation. Akutagawa was done being cold to Atsushi, the man he willingly gave up his life for.

Atsushi was shaking, he felt more emotional than he'd done in a long time. Without thinking, he hugged Akutagawa tightly, sobbing into his chest. The tears fell more when he felt the other wrapping his arms securely around him, the two of them just embracing. After a little longer, Atsushi sniffed, "...Ryū? Is this really what you want?"

"I want a lot more, but that'll come later." He chuckled weakly, stroking the back of Atsushi's head, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the Weretiger's warmth, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I wanted to, but I was so scared you wouldn't believe me. I didn't want you to hate me again, we've come so far from when we first met."

"Still, I'll get you for scaring me like that, you lunatic." They both laughed a little, and Atsushi finally calmed down, pulling away and wiping his eyes. They needed to talk things through properly, but while his emotions and mind were a bit fried, Atsushi looked up at Akutagawa, "I was scared. I didn't wanna die, I didn't wanna hurt you. Seeing you die on the ship..." he frowned then tilted his head, "You never answered my question. Why did you save me that day? Was it because of Dazai's orders, or because you wanted to kill me yourself back then?"

"Actually, when he ordered me to protect you, I initially refused at the time, like a fool." Akutagawa reached out and stroked Atsushi's cheek, "I saved you, simply because I wanted you to live. I wanted you to see that even if you thought you had no right to live, other people like myself disagree. You have every right to live, and I'm so grateful every day I see you, alive and well. No more suffering or pain."

He'd never heard those words before. Atsushi had never been told that others wanted him to live. Sometimes implications weren't enough. Sure, Kyouka had asked him not to die, but it wasn't quite the same. Someone being grateful that Atsushi was alive felt so foreign to him, so alien. Coming from Akutagawa, it felt sincere. Leaning into Akutagawa's touch, he felt tears well up again, but he didn't fight to keep them, just letting them fall.

Once he regained his composure, Atsushi assumed that maybe they could go out for tea or something, but Akutagawa looked nervous suddenly, "Actually, would you mind taking me to the Agency? I believe your head detective will have figured out that I'm not keeping this particular promise, so there's no need for hostility."

"I mean, sure. I can bring you." He knew now that after six months of not killing, Akutagawa had changed. There was no way he'd flip like a switch now, especially when Akutagawa had since acknowledged that Dazai belonged at the Agency. Akutagawa was in the Port Mafia, so killing was unavoidable, but Akutagawa would *try* not to, so that gave Atsushi some peace. But still, "May I ask why, first?"

"You may, and I shall tell." Akutagawa looked uncomfortable for a moment, then looked at Atsushi with a soft expression, "As you're aware, I have a lung disease that's slowly but surely killing me. However, five months ago, Vanitas had given me a medicine to soothe the pain, and allow me to breathe properly. Because of it, I have grown physically stronger, and I feel healthier."

Atsushi knew all this, of course. Vanitas had given Akutagawa the herbal remedy he'd concocted while the Port Mafia were still Vampires, and he'd been taking it for so long that his coughing was a rare occurrence now. The problem was that lungs, once damaged, tend to remain that way. The medication helped with the breathing difficulties, and helped Akutagawa do more with his body and life, but the lung disease would kill him in the end.

He felt his heart fill with light when Akutagawa continued: "Before, I was so weak that if your Doctor Yosano tried to use her Ability on me, I would have died before Thou Shalt Not Die could activate, which is one Hell of a feat, considering it can cure death in certain circumstances." He cleared his throat, "Now... I'm not that weak anymore. I can survive. So, please take me to her... so I can get rid of this cursed illness once and for all, and live for as long as I can."

Atsushi was having a day of emotional whiplash. What started off with pure fear, was now a situation that filled him with so much joy that he couldn't see straight. Acting without thinking, Atsushi threw his arms around Akutagawa, who held him securely and swung him around using the momentum created, laughing! It was so ridiculous, but they were both happy and clearly doing things in the heat of the moment. This was completely verified by Atsushi, slamming his lips onto Akutagawa's.

The Black Caped Beast, the Rabid Dog of the Port Mafia, was stunned silent and completely red in the face as the infamous Weretiger of the Armed Detective Agency kissed him like he needed Akutagawa's lips in order to breathe. In that moment, Akutagawa felt the same way, his arms holding Atsushi close, both of them aware of Byakko and Rashōmon purring within them, also happy.

Once they pulled apart, Atsushi grabbed Akutagawa's hand and practically dragged him to the Agency; it was a good thing that Akutagawa's lungs were already on the mend, at least now he could keep up without losing breath too fast and feeling like trash! He didn't want anything to ruin the moment they just had...

****

Vanitas and Ranpo had smug looks on their faces when they saw the boys return, and Akutagawa glared, "...you both really did call it."

"Yep!" Ranpo grinned as Vanitas explained, "However, we didn't want to risk anything going wrong, so we kept it to ourselves. The only other people who figured this out was the President, and Doctor Yosano."

As if summoned, Yosano came from the infirmary, looking surprised when Akutagawa bowed to her, "Doctor Yosano, after everything I've done, I understand if you refuse, but... I'm in desperate need of healing. Even with Vanitas' medicines, I'm not going to live too long with my lungs in this state. I'm willing to pay any price-"

Yosano cut him off by raising her hand, and looked at him, "You're a patient in need of help, and I'm aware that Vanitas' medicines can only do so much, while Mr. Mori is useless when it comes to diseases. You don't need to pay me anything, I'm just proud of you for finally admitting that you need help." She looked towards Atsushi and smiled, "You can trust me with Akutagawa's health."

It wouldn't take long, but Atsushi was still nervous at seeing Yosano drag Akutagawa into the infirmary. Kyouka had to hold him back when he heard the chainsaw whirring and Akutagawa's scream- he'd never heard Akutagawa scream with utter fear before, and he silently vowed that he would never let Akutagawa scream like that ever again. Kyouka hugged Atsushi, and he leaned into her. Obviously he knew that Yosano would cure Akutagawa completely, but it was still nerve-wracking to wait.

It was only a couple of minutes before Yosano came out, with a satisfied look, "Okay, that lung disease is all gone! And *yes* Atsushi, you can-" He zipped right past her before she could finish her sentence, but she found herself still doing so, "...see him now."

Vanitas laughed and went to make Yosano some tea to help her recover, "How bad?"

"If you hadn't given him that stuff, Akutagawa's lungs would have gotten worse. That boy hasn't smoked in his life, but his lungs were in a similar state to a chain smoker." She looked tired, but it was obvious that she thought it was worth it. "He probably would have died before meeting the six month deadline he'd set for Atsushi."

That was depressing, but unfortunately that was how unlucky life could be for some people. Akutagawa was already sickly, prone to infections and illnesses of all kinds. It was good that now he had support, and was able to trust people enough to help him. After giving Yosano the tea, Vanitas and Kyouka peaked inside the infirmary to see that Akutagawa was sound asleep in the bed, with Atsushi holding his hand and resting his head on the edge of aforementioned bed.

Vanitas smiled and grabbed an extra blanket, covering Atsushi's sleeping form before taking Kyouka's hand and leading her to the café to relax for a while. He'd already taken note of the fact that Akutagawa's breathing sounded steady, and he didn't look uncomfortable anymore. His chest no longer rattled, and he didn't cough himself awake.

*****

Akutagawa woke up an hour later, and he could immediately feel that he was *better*. It didn't feel like smoke was filling his lungs, and he couldn't taste blood in the back of his throat anymore. He felt someone squeeze his hand, and turned to smile at Atsushi taking a nap close to him. His heart hammered at the memory of that kiss, and he blushed to himself.

Maybe this partnership had more similarities to Chuuya and Dazai's than he thought. Working together, capable of destruction, and at the end of the day, they completed each other. Akutagawa and Atsushi weren't a single soul in two bodies, but their Abilities in the form of Kokko Zessō absolutely was.

Akutagawa smiled to himself as he watched Atsushi slowly awaken from his nap, and he couldn't help but stroke Atsushi's face when he saw that sleepy smile, "Ryū... how you feeling?"

"Healthy." That was honestly the best way to describe how he felt at this moment. Akutagawa leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Atsushi's, the pair of them holding each other like that for a moment.

It felt like now or never, so Atsushi spoke softly, "I... Ryū, I think I've made my thoughts clear, but I'm still gonna say it. I don't want us to be enemies anymore, or rivals. You may be in the Port Mafia, but that doesn't matter to me. I just... I just want to spend my life with you..."

That was something exceedingly dangerous to ask of a Mafia member, however Akutagawa completely returned that sentiment. He'd known Atsushi for months now, and they'd been through so much together. All Akutagawa wanted was to watch Atsushi live his life, while standing beside him the entire time. He'd never attack Atsushi, and he didn't particularly have any beef with the Agency, so a feud was pointless in his opinion.

All Akutagawa could do in response was pull Atsushi onto the bed with him, hold him close, and kiss him again. Atsushi squeaked, but wrapped his arms around Akutagawa and let them both sink into the bed, staying there for what felt like hours.

This was trust. This was loyalty. This was *love*.

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