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pucksandpower · 1 month

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Best Laid Plans

Carlos Sainz x Vasseur!Reader

Summary: you were just supposed to be a means to an end — a way for Carlos to get back at your father for dropping him — but the best laid plans often go awry and you quickly become so much more than that

Warnings: 18+ content and manipulation

Note: did I spend the whole day writing this to celebrate Carlos’ win? Maybe …

So much love to @struggling-with-drivers for always giving me the best ideas

The warm Portuguese sun beats down on Carlos as he strolls through the luxurious resort grounds, trying and failing to shake the anger simmering inside him.

How could Ferrari do this to him? After all he has given to the team over the past few seasons? To be so unceremoniously dumped for Lewis fucking Hamilton is a slap in the face he can barely comprehend.

He kicks at the pebbled path, hands jammed in his pockets, catching the eye of a young woman lounging by the pool up ahead. She gives him a warm smile that does strange things to his insides for a moment before he recognizes her — Y/N Vasseur.

The reality of who she is hits Carlos like a truck. The daughter of the team principal who betrayed him.

An idea begins to form in Carlos’ mind, a cruel little seed taking root. If Ferrari wants to play hardball, he can play harder. And what better way to get back at Fred than through his precious daughter?

Putting on his most charming grin, Carlos changes course to approach you. “Y/N, fancy running into you here,” he lies easily. “I didn’t realize you were vacationing at this resort too.”

You sit up, shielding your eyes against the sun’s glare. “Carlos! What a pleasant surprise.” Your smile is bright and genuine, setting off warning bells in the back of Carlos’ mind. He quickly silences them — this is just collateral damage.

“I was just getting ready for a dip. Care to join me?” You gesture towards the welcoming blue waters.

Carlos pretends to consider it for a moment. “You know what, I would love to.”

Stripping off his shirt, he can’t help but sneak glances at your swimsuit-clad figure as you slide into the pool, telling himself it’s just for show. You really are stunning though, he has to admit. This might not be so difficult after all.

“So what’s a beautiful young woman like yourself doing all alone at a place like this?” Carlos asks once he’s waded in beside you.

You let out a tinkling laugh, sweeping wet hair away from your face. “Taking a much needed break from real life, I suppose. My job can be … demanding at times.”

That piques Carlos’ interest — to be quite honest, he had just assumed you did nothing all day. “Oh? Do tell, I’m fascinated.”

With a bashful look, you launch into an explanation of your high-powered career that genuinely impresses Carlos despite himself. You’re whip-smart, articulate, and passionate about your work in a way he can relate to.

“Wow,” he finds himself saying once you’ve finished. “I don’t know why, but I wasn’t expecting that from you. Not that I’m judging a book by its cover or anything!” He adds quickly at your arched eyebrow.

You let out another of those bright laughs. “Don’t worry, I get that a lot. People see a privileged girl and make all sorts of assumptions.”

There’s a hint of bitterness underlying the lightness of your tone that Carlos picks up on all too well. He knows what it’s like to be looked down on and underestimated.

“For what it’s worth, I think what you do is really impressive,” he finds himself saying honestly. “And anyone who thinks less of you for it is a fool.”

The words seem to catch you off guard for a moment before your expression melts into a warm smile. “Why Carlos Sainz, I do believe you’re flirting with me.”

He grins back unrepentantly. “Is it working?”

You pretend to consider it for a moment before laughing again. “Maybe a little.”

The flirtatious back-and-forth continues as you both float lazily in the pool, Carlos quickly getting caught up in the effortless fun of it. You match him quip for quip, parry for parry, in a way he’s not used to from women. It’s exhilarating and unexpected.

In fact, he’s so caught up in your company that he nearly forgets his original intention entirely. Until a stray thought brings the memory crashing back down … you’re Fred Vasseur’s daughter.

The realization is like a bucket of cold water being upended over Carlos’ head. What is he doing? This woman hasn’t done anything to wrong him. Going after you just to get petty revenge on your father is ugly and uncalled for. He should just be the bigger man, swallow the insult Ferrari dealt him, and move on.

But then he thinks about the disrespect, the callousness of dumping him like dead weight after all he bled for the team. Perhaps a little payback is in order after all.

With a wicked grin, Carlos begins swimming slowly towards you, an unmistakable glint in his eye. You seem to pick up on it, cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “What’s that look for?”

“Just thinking,” he murmurs once he’s close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath. “About how I could make this vacation even more … memorable.”

His heavy-lidded gaze drops to your lips for just a moment, but you catch it. You bite your lower lip unconsciously as heat blazes between you. “Is that so?”

“Mhmm,” Carlos all but purrs, reaching out to gently cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. You shiver despite the warmth of the day, eyelids fluttering. “If you’ll allow me?”

For a long stretch, you seem to be rendered speechless, pupils blown wide as you study his face intently. Then, so softly, “Yes.”

That’s all the permission Carlos needs before he’s crashing his lips against yours in a searing kiss.

The moment your lips meet his, it’s like a jolt of electricity courses through Carlos. He kisses you deeply, urgently, all thoughts of revenge or ill-intent evaporating from his mind. This is pure want, unbridled desire singing through his veins.

You return the kiss with equal fervor, tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling him closer. Your mouth is warm, soft, pillowy — everything Carlos didn’t know he was craving until this very moment. He skims his hands over the slick curves of your body beneath the pool’s surface, marveling at the gasps and sighs he pulls from you with each exploratory touch.

When you finally break apart, you’re both panting heavily, faces flushed. Carlos drinks in the sight of you — hair tousled, lips swollen, and eyes dark with wanting. He’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Carlos ...” You breathe his name like a prayer and something primal uncurls in his lower belly.

Instead of responding, he simply crushes his mouth to yours once more, walking you backward until your back gently hits the pool’s tiled edge. You let out a muffled moan as he settles between your parted thighs, the heated line of his body flush against yours.

One of his hands slides up over the soft skin of your ribs to cup your breast as you arch shamelessly into his touch. He drags his lips in hot, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your jaw and down the graceful column of your neck, relishing the way you keen beneath his attention.

“You feel so good, cariño,” he rumbles against the feverish skin just below your ear, punctuating the words with a deliberately slow roll of his hips that has you releasing a broken whimper. “So fucking perfect ...”

In this moment, with you writhing and mewling in his arms, Carlos has never been more grateful for his commitment to physical fitness. He knows he can keep this up all day if need be, ravishing you over and over until you’re a limp, sated puddle.

He runs his tongue in a scorching path up the side of your neck before returning to that sinful mouth, swallowing your desperate little moans hungrily. You cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered, nails raking deliciously over his back and shoulders in a way that will surely leave marks. Carlos loves it, loves the proof of your passion painted on his skin in thin red lines.

Trailing his lips across the hinge of your jaw, he murmurs “Should we take this somewhere more private, princesa?”

You let out a shuddering breath, hips canting up instinctively to meet each roll of his. “God, yes ... please ...”

The sound of your needy whine sends a molten thrill straight to Carlos’ cock. He’s fully hard and aching for you, straining against his swim trunks with every second that passes. If possible, he wants you even more.

With a grunt of effort, he hooks his hands beneath your thighs and hikes your legs up around his waist in one swift motion. You let out a startled squeak that quickly dissolves into a moan as he shifts against you just right, creating delicious friction. Your arms wind around his neck as you bury your face in the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

“You feel that, cariño?” Carlos rumbles darkly. “I can’t wait to be inside you. Stretching you so perfectly full of me. Will you be a good girl and take it? Every. Last. Inch?”

He emphasizes each of the final three words with a firm grind of his hips, rutting his rigid length against your clothed heat. Your back bows in response, mouth dropping open on a silent wail of pleasure. Carlos can feel your sticky wetness soaking through the thin material of your swimsuit bottoms and groans harshly.

“P-please ...” You keen, worrying his earlobe between your teeth. “I need you, Carlos. I need it so bad ...”

And just like that, the trance is broken. Carlos blinks, suddenly acutely aware that you’re grinding shamelessly against each other in the very public pool area of this high-end resort. A few pointed looks from other guests are enough to have a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

Clearing his throat, he reluctantly pulls himself back and sets you on your feet. You let out a disappointed whimper that goes straight to his groin.

“P-perhaps we got a bit carried away, princesa,” Carlos huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his damp curls. “Why don’t we go somewhere a bit more … private to continue this?”

You bite your plump lower lip and Carlos has to resist the urge to lean forward and free it with his teeth. Nodding eagerly, you cast a look around before tugging his hand and heading for the exit, leaving a trail of water droplets in your wake.

Carlos follows eagerly, openly ogling the way your soaked swimsuit hugs every tantalizing curve. He’s never been so grateful for his decision to book one of the private beachfront villas at this resort — just a stone’s throw from where you’re leading him, he’ll finally be able to have you all to himself.

The thought has him semi-frantically fumbling for the keycard as you press urgent, open-mouthed kisses to any patch of bare skin you can find — his shoulder, his neck, the line of his jaw. By the time he gets the door open you’re both panting like you’ve run a marathon, desire thrumming white-hot through your veins.

The second you’re inside, Carlos has you pressed back against the door, forearms braced on either side of your head as he towers over you. For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crosses your features and he’s abruptly reminded of who you are.

“Are you sure about this?” He murmurs lowly, searching your eyes. “Because if we do this, I can promise you there’s no going back for me, cariño.”

You visibly swallow hard but then give a small, determined nod. “I want this, Carlos. I want you.”

That’s all the confirmation he needs before he’s capturing your lips in another searing, desperate kiss that has you melting against him. He walks you backward, never breaking contact until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the plush bed. With a growl, he hooks his hands beneath your thighs and hitches your legs around his hips once more.

You let out a breathless giggle as he tumbles you both down onto the soft cotton sheets, immediately rolling until he’s blanketed by the gorgeous expanse of your body. God, you’re even more stunning like this — hair fanned out in a tousled riot, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, eyes glazed with naked wanting.

Carlos takes a moment just to appreciate the view, raking his eyes over every inch he can see. A tremor goes through you beneath his weighty gaze and he smirks, leaning down to trail open-mouthed kisses along the column of your slender throat.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, princesa,” he rumbles against your overheated skin. “How many times I’ve thought about having you just like this, spread out beneath me and begging for it ...”

The truth is, he hasn’t thought about it at all until this very day. But something about the way your breath hitches and your hips cant up instinctively at his words makes Carlos want to keep going.

“I’ve watched you, you know,” he lies smoothly, relishing the full-body shiver that wracks your frame. He nips along the graceful line of your collarbone and you whine softly in the back of your throat. “Couldn’t tear my eyes away whenever you were around. Imagining what delicious little sounds you might make with my cock buried inside you ...”

You moan then, loud and unabashed as you tug needily at his hair to bring his mouth back up to yours. Carlos chuckles darkly into the kiss, reveling in how utterly desperate he’s managed to make you for him so quickly.

“Is this what you want, princesa? You want me to fuck you?” He keeps his tone a low, filthy rasp against the plush of your lips. “Hard and deep and ruthless until you can’t remember anything but my name on your tongue?”

“Yes!” The word rushes out in an urgent whine and Carlos lets out a feral growl, slamming his hips firmly against yours in one rough grind that has your mouth dropping open on a broken cry of ecstasy.

Moving with purposeful efficiency, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your swimsuit bottoms and tugs them down over the swell of your hips and off completely. He shoves his own trunks down just far enough to free his throbbing length, giving it a few firm strokes to spread the pearling bead of precome over the swollen head.

With a low, heated look, Carlos hitches your legs over his shoulders and lines the blunt head of his cock up with your entrance. Just from this angle, he can see how slick and swollen you already are for him, glistening with arousal.

“Last chance, cariño,” he rumbles, rubbing himself in one deliciously torturous swipe through your folds and back again. You moan loudly, back bowing off the bed. “After this, I won’t be able to stop until you’re utterly ruined for anyone else’s touch ...”

The sound you make is practically inhuman, hand shooting out to grasp at his hip almost painfully hard. “Carlos … Carlos, please!”

Never one to deny such a desperate plea, Carlos braces one hand beside your head and slowly, inexorably begins to sink into your welcoming heat.

The tight, slick heat of your core enveloping Carlos inch by agonizing inch is utterly sublime. He has to grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut to keep from embarrassing himself right then and there. You’re impossibly tight, so perfectly molded to his shape — he’s never felt anything quite like it.

Beneath him, you keen softly as he stretches and fills you in one steady glide. Your fingernails bite crescent moons into the firm planes of his back as if you’ll fall apart if not anchored to him. Carlos rumbles his approval low in his chest at the sweet sting.

Once he’s fully sheathed, hips flush with yours, he pauses to simply bask in the feeling for a long moment. You feel so indescribably good wrapped around his throbbing length — hot and snug and fluttering subtly like your body can’t decide whether to grip him tighter or ease his way.

“Fuck, cariño ...” The words tear from Carlos’ throat in a ragged groan. “You feel incredible. So perfect for me.”

You whimper wordlessly in response, flexing and releasing your inner muscles in a way that has him seeing stars behind his eyelids. He captures your mouth in a filthy, demanding kiss to swallow your desperate little noises. It’s all he can do not to start pounding away with reckless abandon.

Pulling back slowly until just the thick head of his cock remains inside your clutching heat, Carlos locks eyes with you. Your pupils are blown wide, lips parted enticingly with each panting breath, the picture of wanton desire. He’s never seen anything so erotic in his life.

You must read the promise in his expression because suddenly you’re nodding frantically and chasing his retreating hips with a needy whine.

“Please, Carlos!” You keen desperately, nails scoring lines of fiery pleasure-pain down the rigid plane of his back. “I need it, I need you to-”

He doesn’t let you finish, snapping his hips forward in one hard thrust that buries him to the hilt. The broken cry that tears from your perfect lips goes straight to his dick.

Carlos repeats the harsh, punishing rhythm over and over, relishing the snug drag of your velvet walls against his aching cock. He soon has you a mewling, mindless mess beneath him, whining his name like a holy mantra with each powerful stroke.

“That’s it, princesa,” he rasps against the flushed curve of your neck, lips brushing saltily over your overheated skin. “Take it all for me. Every. Last. Fucking. Inch.”

As punctuation, he slams home with a sharp roll of his hips that has you keening shrilly and throwing your head back. You clutch at him desperately, meeting each heavy thrust in perfect counterpoint as he picks up the pace. The air is thick with the obscene sounds of skin sliding relentlessly together and your punched-out whimpers and moans.

Carlos has never felt so deliriously consumed by physicality before. It’s like his whole world has narrowed down to this moment, this connection of your joined bodies moving as one. He wants to burn the memory of how you feel, how you sound, how you taste, into his mind forever.

“Look at me,” he growls against the sweat-slick curve of your jaw when your eyes start to drift shut in ecstasy. “I wanna see those pretty eyes when you fall apart on my cock, princesa.”

You force your lids open with obvious effort, irises wild and hazy with lust. Carlos feels a molten surge of possessive desire lash through his veins at the sight. He slams into you with renewed fervor, savoring the high, desperate whine it punches from your parted lips.

“That’s it, cariño ... fuck, you’re exquisite like this.” His praise comes out in a ruined rasp but it seems to spur you on. Your nails dig bruising furrows into his lower back as you meet him thrust for bruising thrust.

Carlos can feel the telltale tightening and fluttering in your inner walls that signals your impending release like a vise grip around his cock. He wants nothing more than for you to shatter apart on his length. Slipping one hand between your sweat-slicked bodies, he finds the swollen bundle of nerves and rolls it firmly between calloused fingertips.

You release a strangled scream, back bowing off the mattress as white-hot pleasure spikes through you. “Carlos! Oh my god, Carlos, I’m … I can’t ...”

“Come for me, princesa,” Carlos encourages hoarsely against the side of your neck. He continues to work you over with nimble fingers in time with the punishing snap of his hips. “Let me feel you come apart all over my cock. Fucking soak it ...”

The guttural river of carnal filth coming from his lips seems to be the final straw, sending you crashing violently over the edge. You seize up around him with a shrill, sobbing wail, inner muscles clamping down in hot, pulsing waves. Carlos curses roughly, eyes squeezing shut against the unbelievable sensation of being massaged and milked for every drop.

If he thought the vice grip of your orgasm was intense, the aftermath is even more sublime. You lie utterly limp and boneless beneath him, still aflutter and fluttering in sweet, rhythmic clenches around his cock. He grits his jaw and fights to keep control, knowing he won’t last much longer buried in your intoxicating heat like this.

When you finally regain some coherency, eyes fluttering open with a dazed murmur of his name, Carlos pulls back slowly until just the throbbing crown remains inside. He intends to give you a brief respite before chasing his own thunderous release, but the moment he starts to withdraw your legs lock high around his hips.

“No ...” You keen, nails raking pleadingly down his back. The desperate craving in your tone very nearly undoes him. “Carlos, please. Don’t stop ...”

Growling low in his chest, Carlos immediately buries himself home once more — this time with a single, powerful thrust that has your brows shooting up as the air rushes from your lungs in a strangled cry. Clearly, you still need it as much as he does.

He fists one hand in the tousled hair at the nape of your neck, using the grip to tilt your head to one side as he lays a searing path of nips and sucking kisses along the exposed column. You shudder and whimper beneath him, utterly pliant and receptive to his claiming touches.

“Tell me what you want, cariño,” he rasps between rough drags of teeth over your thundering pulse point. He remains buried to the hilt, muscles bunched and quivering with the effort of holding himself rigid and still inside you. “Use your words and tell me.”

For a long moment, you seem too dazed and overwhelmed to reply. Then, in a small, wrecked voice, “I want … I want you to fuck me, Carlos. Please ...” Your eyes are glazed yet earnest, boring into his from beneath sooty lashes. “Don’t hold back. I need to feel you come too.”

A harsh groan is punched from Carlos’ lungs at your plea. Letting himself go and really taking you the way his body screams at him to would be heaven and hell all at once.

There’s likely no coming back from it — he’ll ruin you for anyone else’s touch, just as he warned. Once all is said and done, you’ll be irrevocably his in a way that frightens and exhilarates him to his core.

For a heart-stopping moment, he hesitates. And then you moan again — a thin, keening sound of utter desperation — and it’s like the last thread of Carlos’ control snaps completely.

“Hold on tight then, cariño ... because I won’t be able to stop.”

That’s the only warning he gives before pulling almost fully out and slamming back home in one brutal thrust that drives the air from your lungs on a high, shocked cry. He doesn’t let up from there — turning you over onto your belly and dragging your hips up onto his thighs so he can take you from behind in a series of ruthless, punishing strokes.

You quickly become an incoherent, sobbing mess beneath his onslaught, hands clawing uselessly at the sheets as he pounds into you again and again like he’s trying to split you apart. Carlos relishes the sharp smack of sweat-slick flesh on flesh, the strained crescendo of your hoarse wails, the drug-like delirium of being utterly surrounded and consumed by your scorching velvet grip.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. He clutches you flush against him, one big hand spread over your lower stomach like he could somehow force his cock impossibly deeper. The other winds around to toy and tug almost cruelly at your taut, reddened nipples — drawing out a stream of broken, overwhelmed whimpers.

Carlos has never felt more powerful. Body and mind, he owns you utterly in this moment. The thought is nearly enough to send him skating right over the edge into oblivion.

Instead, he jerks you up onto your knees fully so he can plunge into your straining, overworked sex at a different angle — this one hitting something deep inside that has you screaming hoarsely. He captures the wild thrash of your head in the curve of one sweat-slick bicep to bare the elegant line of your throat to his hungry mouth.

“Could you possibly have taken any more of me, princesa?” Carlos husks against the side of your neck, relishing the way it makes you tremble and clench even harder around his pistoning length. “You were made just to be split open on my cock ...”

You let out a garbled sound halfway between agreement and overwhelmed protest. Carlos snarls against your racing pulse, sucking a blatant mark of possession just below your jaw where everyone will be able to see before abruptly rolling you both back over.

He looms above you once more, grinding steadily into your core with deep, purposeful strokes that leave you writhing and wailing with over-stimulation. But Carlos isn’t finished yet — isn’t anywhere close to getting his fill.

“Look at me, cariño,” he commands in a guttural rasp, waiting with molten, heavy-lidded eyes until your lust-drunk stare meets his. “I need to see that pretty face when I come inside you ...”

His words seem to energize you somewhat, your eyes snapping sharper with renewed awareness.

And then, incredibly, you cunt flutters and grips down around him again in the unmistakable clutch of another orgasm ripping through you like a livewire. Carlos has to use every ounce of stamina and control not to follow you right over that blinding edge as you thrash and shriek beautifully beneath him.

By the time you come back down, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, Carlos is practically vibrating with the force of his impending release. His movements have taken on a desperate edge, hips snapping in erratic, forceful jabs as he chases that final blissful oblivion.

When your sated, velvety heat squeezes rhythmically one final time, Carlos throws his head back with his own roar of release. White-hot rapture spikes through every nerve ending as his balls tighten in excruciating bliss. His world narrows down to the exquisite pulsing of your sheathed depths rippling and drawing every last drop from him in endless, blistering waves.

It seems to stretch on forever, Carlos unable and unwilling to move from his impaled position even once the final shudders have wrung him dry. He simply remains blanketed over you, lungs heaving and muscles quaking with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

When he finally regains enough presence of mind to open his eyes and look down at you, the devotion burning in your spent, glowing expression makes his breath catch. For a long, fragile moment, it’s like you’re the only two people in the world.

Eventually, your eyes drift shut on a contented sigh and your body goes lax and pliant against the sheets once more. Carefully, Carlos eases out of your swollen, used entrance and rolls to collapse in a sweaty heap beside you. He immediately tugs you into his embrace, savoring the feeling of your damp, feverish skin pressed to his.

As you drift off to slumber coiled against his chest, Carlos presses a lingering, tender kiss to your crown and tightens his arms around you. He can feel the words pressing at his lips, straining to be released into the silence of this moment.

For now, he keeps them locked behind his teeth. But already he knows this isn’t simply lust or passion or a primal need for revenge that will fade with time. This was always meant to be more — something deeper …. everything Carlos never even realized he was missing until you stormed into his life in a whirlwind of smiles and secrets and blinding desire.

He’s in trouble now. Trouble of the very best kind.

***

Pale morning light filters in through the sheer curtains as Carlos blinks awake slowly. For a disoriented moment, he’s unsure of his surroundings — the rumpled white linens tangled around his naked body are certainly not what he’s used to waking up in.

Then the previous night’s events come rushing back in a heated wave. The pool … the frantic, desperate passion as he took you again and again until you were both hollowed out and sated … finally collapsing into a sweaty pile together. Carlos feels his chest tighten with a complicated swirl of emotions.

He turns his head on the pillow to find the source of the delicious warmth pressed along his side. And just like that, everything else falls away.

You’re tangled up with him still, one shapely leg hooked over his and an arm flung possessively across his torso. Loose riotous locks tickle Carlos’ skin where your face is half-buried in the curve of his neck.

He has to tamp down the overwhelming urge to pull you even closer, to wrap you in his arms and inhale the sweet, clean scent of your hair.

Like this — sleep-rumpled and soft in the morning’s buttery rays — you look almost unbearably lovely. An ache blossoms behind Carlos’ ribs as he studies the delicate fan of your lashes brushing flushed cheekbones and the gentle part of those full lips. Disheveled and without a stitch of make-up, you’re somehow even more breathtakingly beautiful.

Unconsciously, Carlos’ fingers find their way into your tangled tresses, lightly stroking and playing with the silken strands. You make a small, snuffling sound of contentment and burrow infinitesimally closer. He freezes, worried he’s disturbed your slumber, but your features remain smooth and serene.

He should get up. He should definitely get up and extract himself from this warm, addictive little bubble you’ve created before things go any further. This was only ever supposed to be a fling — a deliciously vindictive way to get back at your father for how he so callously cast Carlos aside.

Yet even as Carlos turns the thought over in his head, it rings hollow. What happened between you last night transcended anything so petty and cruel as revenge.

When he was sheathed so deeply inside you, your bodies moving in perfect sync like they were made for each other, Carlos felt something far more profound than just physical gratification. It was spiritual … cosmic, even, like every star in the universe had finally clicked into perfect alignment.

He should be disgusted with himself for having such saccharine notions. Carlos has always considered himself a realist — someone grounded in facts and figures, not given to romantic flights of fancy whatsoever. Yet here he is, helplessly mooning over a woman he barely knows all because of one night of incredible sex.

Except … Carlos is self-aware enough to recognize there was more to it than that, even if he can’t put words to the feeling yet. Some invisible cord has been lashed between you in a knot that feels unbreakable. Some intangible shift has occurred in his perspective that he can’t seem to walk back from.

Perhaps you sensed it too in the way you gazed at him afterwards — not just satiated, but glowing with a sort of wondering, naked adoration far too profound for a mere fuck. Carlos knows he should have been unnerved by the depth of emotion in your spent, happy features. And yet, he only felt it mirrored and compounded tenfold within himself.

With a frustrated huff, he tugs you closer and burrows his face into your hair, allowing your warm, comforting scent to soothe his wildly spiraling thoughts. You make another soft sound and your fingers twitch where they’re splayed over his ribs — reflexively trying to pull him in even tighter.

“What are you doing to me, princesa?” Carlos murmurs, low and graveled, against the crown of your head. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go at all ...”

Because the truth is, this was never meant to be anything more than a fleeting dalliance — an explosive joining of bodies and nothing more. But now that he’s had you, had this bone-deep connection to you, Carlos doesn’t think he can let it go so easily. The prospect of never again feeling you wrapped so perfectly around him in every sense of the word is abruptly gut-wrenchingly awful.

Which leaves him at an impasse. Because you … you are the daughter of the very man who unceremoniously discarded Carlos like an old rag after he gave everything to Ferrari. The offspring of the person who threw him away in a way that cut all the way to his core.

How could he possibly pursue anything real with you after that? It would be a horrific conflict of interests and constantly make things unbearably awkward, to say the very least. Not to mention Carlos has no idea if you even want more than just this one night of passion between you anyway. Perhaps to you he really was just an itch to scratch, a bout of impulsive lust to take the edge off before moving on.

The thought makes his stomach churn with jealousy so potent he has to physically swallow it back. Which … is not great, all things considered.

Tilting your head back with the lightest touch beneath your chin, Carlos studies your soft features searchingly. Perhaps if he stares hard enough, he’ll find some hint of deception or shallowness there. Some glaring evidence that this insane sense of yearning he feels is all one-sided — a misguided obsession brought on by the sort of euphoric sex one can never quite recapture once the high fades. He could use that as his cue to bow out now while you’re still tangled up together so prettily.

But even as he looks, really looks, all Carlos sees is the serene picture of a thoroughly satisfied, openly contented woman. There’s no shuttered gaze or pinched expression betraying any darker thoughts and feelings. Just blissed-out joy written in every relaxed line of those lovely features.

Something in Carlos’ chest cracks wide open at the realization that this is real for you too. You’re not just some meaningless one-off fling, but a woman who seems to have had her entire world upended in the same way his has been over the span of one incredible night.

“Carlos?” You murmur then, voice husky and slurred with the remnants of sleep as your lashes flutter open. “What’s wrong, mon beau?”

Your endearment sends a shockwave of tenderness and want pulsing through him straight to the roots. Carlos shakes his head minutely, winding one hand into your hair to hold you steady so he can simply … bask in your presence for a while.

“Nothing’s wrong, princesa,” he assures you lowly, thumb stroking gently over the arch of your cheekbone. “I just woke up early and got a little lost in my head for a bit there, that’s all.”

That small, secret smile he’s rapidly becoming addicted to tugs at your lips as your eyes rove languidly over his face. Your hand comes up to rest over his thundering heartbeat with surprising tenderness.

“Well then allow me to bring you back to the present. Right here with me.”

Your tone has taken on that rich sultriness from last night that shoots straight to his groin. Before Carlos can so much as draw breath to respond, you’re rising up to seal your mouth over his in a searingly passionate kiss.

He groans instantly, every atom of his being tuned to your frequency in a way that’s swiftly becoming terrifyingly natural. Carlos’ hands roam hungrily over your naked curves of their own volition, relearning each dip and swell through the silken glide of skin on skin.

When you break apart at last, you’re both thoroughly breathless and aroused. Carlos splays one big hand over the small of your back and simply holds you flush against him, savoring the feeling of your racing heart thundering in tandem with his own. He brushes kiss-swollen lips along the line of your jaw, prompting a delicious shiver.

“Don’t think for one second that I’ve had even a fraction of my fill of you yet, cariño,” he rasps against the feverish skin just below your ear, using his free hand to tug your head back so he can access the soft column of your throat. “You’ve addicted me beyond any chance of recovery now.”

Your breath hitches as he latches his mouth just above your thundering pulse point and sucks a blatant mark. Carlos revels in the needy whimpers spilling from your lips with each pass of his tongue over the tender patch of skin. He needs to mark you, claim you, render you unmistakable as his in every possible way.

“Carlos ...” You keen, back arching like a drawn bow as he continues trailing open-mouthed kisses down the slope of your neck and over your collarbones. “What are you saying?”

He pulls back to meet your heavy-lidded gaze, searching intently for permission to continue with what he suspects you’re asking. And there it is — desire and hope and invitation burning brightly in your soulful eyes, practically begging him to put words to this singular thing blazing between you.

Cupping your face in both hands, Carlos holds your rapt stare as he slowly, reverently presses a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly parted lips. You melt into him, one hand coming up to clutch desperately at his bicep.

“I’m saying,” he murmurs against the plush give of your pretty mouth. “That I can’t simply let this be the end, princesa. Not anymore. Not after experiencing what it feels like to be so exquisitely connected with someone in every possible way.”

The smile you give him in answer is as incandescent and warm as a living flame. You don’t attempt to contain the rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. Instead, you simply wind your arms around Carlos’ neck and pull him down into a molten kiss that somehow manages to convey every single infinite feeling ricocheting between your bodies.

He suddenly feels so overwhelmingly lucky in that moment. Lucky to have crossed paths with you by happenstance. Lucky that, by some miracle, he didn’t allow bitterness or pain or preconceived notions to blind him to your kindness and warmth and inherent goodness despite how this whole crazy thing started in his mind.

Because yes, you are the daughter of the man who turned his life and career upside down. But here, pressed against you, Carlos can feel the truth resonating through his bones — you are so much more than any of that.

And for the first time in his life, Carlos cannot fathom the idea of anything frightening him away.

***

The frantic Melbourne nightlife whirls and pulsates around Carlos in a dizzying kaleidoscope of neon lights and pounding basslines. Normally he would revel in the thrum of energy and excess — drinking in the atmosphere and feeding off the infectious exhilaration. But tonight, seated alone in the VIP lounge of one of the city’s most exclusive clubs, he finds his attention utterly undivided.

You stand out like a siren among the raucous crowd, every tilt of your hips and toss of your hair captivating Carlos completely.

He tracks the line of your body shamelessly as you sway and twist to the driving beat, that tantalizing little red dress riding up to reveal glimpses of toned, silky thighs that make his mouth water. A fine sheen of sweat glistens enticingly along your collarbones and in the hollow of your throat, no doubt making your overheated skin taste like salted caramel.

The urge to slide up behind you and drag his tongue along that slender, tempting slope is damn near overwhelming. He can vividly picture himself molding his larger frame against your softly undulating form, one hand spanning possessively across your lower belly to grind the rapidly stiffening ridge of his arousal against the lush swell of your rear.

He imagines precisely how you would react — arching back against him with a shuddering gasp, fingers threading into his hair to tug his mouth down upon yours in a frantic, needy kiss. How you would whimper and writhe against him, uncaring of the very public surroundings as desire rapidly whited everything else out ...

Almost as if sensing the scorching path of Carlos’ thoughts, you glance over your shoulder and catch his eye from beneath the veil of your lashes. That sly, inviting little smile immediately kicks his pulse into overdrive and lights a slow bloom of liquid heat unfurling in his lower belly.

With a crooked finger and a subtle uptilt of your chin you summon him to your side. And like the hopeless fool he is, Carlos rises instantly and crosses the small distance to enfold you in his arms from behind.

“Having fun out here without me, cariño?” He murmurs in your ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell so he feels the full-body shiver that wracks through you.

You lean back into his embrace, all soft curves and intoxicating jasmine scent. “I’m always having fun when I’m with you, Mr. Race Winner,” you sigh as your fingers trail delicately down the solid line of his biceps. “Even if we’re just sitting around doing nothing.”

The words are simple — honest and unguarded in a way that makes Carlos’ heart seize in his chest. For two people who came together in a wild collision of lust and passion, it’s moments like these that continually remind him of how much deeper your connection truly runs. Far beyond mere physicality into some soul-binding and unbreakable place.

You must sense the shift in his energy because you turn in his arms, expression questioning but so openly caring it nearly steals Carlos’ breath away. Tenderly, you cup his jaw and search his eyes.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, hmm?”

He shakes his head minutely, leaning down to brush his lips across your forehead before pulling you snug against his chest. You settle easily into the circle of his arms like that’s the most natural place in the world, cheek pillowed over his steadily thrumming heart.

“Nothing to worry about, princesa,” Carlos assures you gruffly, stroking soothing circles over the warm bare skin of your back. “Just feeling … lucky, I suppose. To have found someone like you.”

The words seem to catch you off guard and you pull back slightly to study his face, mouth curved in that secretive little smile that always makes Carlos’ stomach swoop.

“Well, I certainly feel the luckiest woman on Earth,” you tease lightly, booping his nose in a playful gesture that somehow serves to implant roots deep in Carlos’ soul rather than make him roll his eyes.

Instead, he just gazes at you for a long, weighted moment, allowing himself to simply bask in your presence. In the soft beauties that first drew him in — that delicate blush that finds its way across your nose and cheekbones, the little crinkles that bloom when your smile widens to that mega-watt, face-splitting beam, and those soulful eyes that never fail to pin Carlos helplessly in place.

Then there are the quieter, more intimate details he’s gradually uncovered the deeper he delves into your connection. The barely-there laugh lines at the corners of your eyes when you’re feeling particularly pleased about something. The trick of tugging on your lower lip with your teeth when you’re aroused and trying not to show it. The subtle furrow that appears between your brows when you’re concentrating intently on something.

Carlos knows them all now like geography he was born to navigate.

Without conscious thought, he smooths his thumbs over your jaw and guides you up into a slow, thorough kiss that has both your pulses kicking into overdrive. You whine quietly into his mouth, winding your arms around his neck and arching against him in ways that instantaneously have him hard and aching. But Carlos doesn’t give in to the heated urgency coursing through his bloodstream.

Instead, he keeps the languid glide of his lips over yours unhurried and leisurely — savoring the sensation of you pliant and receptive beneath his seduction. You seem to shake off your initial fervor as well, melting further into the molten drag of his mouth claiming yours over and over.

This too is a geography Carlos has long since mastered. The precise angle he needs to tilt his head to slot your bodies effortlessly flush together. The soft, mewling noises he can coax out of you with carefully applied suction to your plush lower lip. The tiny shudders when he swipes his tongue in long, slick caresses over the roof of your mouth.

You’re practically vibrating with restraint by the time he finally releases your mouth with an obscene, wet pop. Your lips are swollen and glistening, glistening with shared wanting. Carlos hums deep in his chest and brushes the pad of his thumb over the slick fullness reverently.

“So impatient, cariño,” he chides with a wolfish grin that has your nipples visibly peaking beneath the thin lace bodice. “You know that’s not what I had in mind for tonight.”

With an adorable little pout, you wind your arms around his neck once more. “And what, pray tell, did you have in mind?”

A dozen filthy scenarios immediately clamor for attention in Carlos’ head. Having you right here, up against the wall of this secluded VIP area. Bending you over the sleek lines of one of the low leather couches. Finding a shadowed alcove and sinking to his knees before you, nosing aside those delicate strips of lace to ...

He banishes each carnal thought before it can take root and produce visible effect. Tangling his fingers through the soft tresses at the nape of your neck, Carlos brings your foreheads together with a soft smile.

“I thought we might enjoy a moonlight stroll along the beach actually,” he murmurs, relishing the way your disappointed huff ruffles against his skin. “Just you and me under the stars, far away from the noise and crowds for a while.”

You regard him dubiously for a moment before seeming to melt at whatever expression Carlos doesn’t realize he’s allowed to show through. As always, you give in far too easily to his indulgent whims.

With a soft, fond roll of your eyes, you press up on your toes to drop a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Of course, mon amour. Just you and me under the stars.”

Twenty minutes later finds you ambling hand in hand down a pristine stretch of beach in the Middle Park suburb. The warm, salty breeze gusts gently over your skin, carrying traces of coconut sunscreen and the briny musk of the sea. Foamy waves lap invitingly against the silvered sands as Carlos steers you towards a small, isolated cove.

He procures a large woven blanket from his bag and unfurls it in a clear spot before tugging you down into the plush nest of fabric. You immediately gravitate into his space — curling against his side and tucking yourself beneath his arm like that’s where you were always meant to fit. For Carlos’ part, he cherishes the easy affection and careless intimacy of the simple gesture more than you’ll ever know.

You spend what could be minutes or hours like that — exchanging lazy kisses and sipping from a shared bottle of wine as the moon rises ever higher overhead. After a while, Carlos sprawls onto his back and you quickly drape yourself half-atop him so he can leisurely card his fingers through your windswept tresses.

The soft, steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear combined with the soothing sounds of the lapping tide soon have your eyelids drooping. Carlos has never felt so at peace — this sublime bubble with you the single point around which the rest of the universe spins, perfectly in balance.

“Hey,” you mumble against the warm, sleep-rumpled fabric of his shirt. “Aren’t you the one always saying we should be living in the present?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, stroking one hand down the dip of your spine to rest possessively at the base. “What brings that up all of a sudden?”

You shift enough to look up at him through your lashes, eyes molten with a familiar heat that shivers down Carlos’ spine.

“I’m just wondering what’s got you stuck in your head so often these days,” you counter smoothly, punctuating the observation by swinging one leg over his hips so you can settle atop him fully, careful not to disturb his still-tender stitches. “We’ve barely been able to share … intimate moments at all the last month or so.”

Carlos sucks in a sharp breath as your weight settles over the rapidly stiffening ridge of his arousal. His hands find your hips of their own volition, squeezing reflexively as you begin moving atop him in a slow, undulating rhythm.

“Perhaps I’ve been overtly romantic,” he allows through gritted teeth, letting his head thunk back against the blanket as desire rapidly thrums through his veins. “Missing out on more … physical expressions of passion just because I wanted to remind both of us that this is built on so much more than lust.”

You hum thoughtfully, sitting up fully and swaying atop him in a way that has Carlos rapidly losing his tenuous grasp on reality beyond this blissful patch of the world containing just the two of you. He’s fully hard and straining against the loose linen of his slacks within moments.

“Then maybe we should do something about that right now,” you breathe huskily, arching your back in an inhumanly graceful roll that leaves Carlos’ mouth dry as the Sahara. His hands track helplessly up the delicious curves of your waist, bunching the delicate material of your dress around your hips.

He sits up to meet you so suddenly your foreheads nearly crack together. You release a breathless giggle that Carlos hungrily swallows with his lips, trapping you in a searing kiss filled with all the smoldering hunger he’s been studiously keeping banked for weeks now.

Mindlessly, he chases the taste of you over and over — salty and sweet and everything he’s been desperately starving himself for. His fingers fumble at the tie closures along your ribs until the bodice finally falls away, baring your breasts to his gaze and seeking hands.

You gasp softly into the heated seal of his mouth when Carlos’ calloused palms close over your soft, pliant flesh. He cups and kneads with reverent, possessive strokes that have you quickly arching your chest further into his touch and throwing your head back on a wanton moan.

“Carlos ...” You breathe his name like a prayer, riding his lap with increasing urgency and bringing your mouths back together in a clash of teeth and tongues. Your fingers slide up beneath the hem of his shirt to map the shifting planes of his abdomen, nails raking over the taut, quivering muscles. “Don’t hold back with me any longer. Not tonight … need to feel all of you.”

A shudder wracks Carlos’ entire frame at your breathy plea. He knows you’re right, can feel that same desperate yearning driving you magnified inside himself. Every cell of his body is vibrating with the need to take you fully — heart, mind, and body aligning in euphoric harmony after so many weeks of well meaning denial.

Seizing your hips in a bruising grip, Carlos surges to his feet and simply holds you against him with easy strength. Your legs immediately wind around his waist as you giggle deliriously against his lips.

“Is this what you want, princesa?” He murmurs lowly, swaying subtly to grind his straining need over the lush juncture of your thighs in counterpoint. “For me to finally have my way with you the way we’ve both been craving?”

“Yes,” you hiss out through clenched teeth, back arching as Carlos nips and sucks a path down the slender column of your neck. “God, yes, Carlos. Will you just fuck me already? Here on the sand and beneath the open sky like something out of one of those romance novels you pretend not to love.”

The easy teasing breaks through whatever lingering threads of Carlos’ control were still intact and he growls low in his chest. In one deft motion, he divests you both of the rest of your clothes and spreads you out on the blanket before him in all your unabashed glory. His gaze tracks over your form hungrily, drinking in every dip and swell as you watch him with dark, wanting eyes.

“Princesa ...” Carlos breathes, gratified to see his own desire and reverent longing reflected back at him tenfold in your heated stare. “No more waiting, no more teasing.”

His meaning is clear even without the punctuation of sinking down to settle fully over your smaller form, blanketing you with his weight and forcing your thighs apart to cradle his hips. You immediately writhe beneath him, winding limber arms and legs around him in a vice grip that sears every point of contact between you.

“Carlos, mon cœur ...” You keen breathily into the scant space separating your lips, every word punched from you in counterpoint to the sensual roll of his hips grinding his arousal through your slick folds. “Please. I need you. Need to feel you all around me again after so long.”

He crushes his mouth to yours in answer, tongue instantly delving deep to taste the exquisite velvet heat of you. You clutch him closer even as Carlos shifts his weight to one forearm so his other hand can roam freely over every inch of bare, pebbled skin he can reach. When his calloused palm finally finds your breast and gives a rough squeeze, you shudder and cry out into his waiting lips.

There’s no more waiting after that. Carlos sheaths himself in one powerful, purposeful thrust that buries him to the hilt and your gasp dissolves into a broken moan. He stills for the briefest of moments, just reveling in the unbearably tight clutch of your molten sheath, every nerve ending alight and thrumming. Then he slowly withdraws until just the swollen head remains inside before immediately surging forward once more.

Your nails score lines of liquid fire down his back at the first deep, dragging stroke. But Carlos barely notices the delicious sting. He’s utterly consumed by the feeling of finally being surrounded by you again — hot, snug, and so utterly perfect. Every sound and shudder and arch of your form against his own is like the sweetest plea washing over him.

He sets a demanding pace, relentlessly pounding into you from that first jarring thrust onward. The only sounds are your mingled cries and the wet, obscene smack of flesh on flesh echoing out over the lapping ocean waves. Carlos wants to make sure there’s no doubt in your mind how much he’s craved every inch of you.

“There’s my good girl,” he rasps hotly against the bullet-hard peak of your nipple before laving it soothingly with his tongue. You release a strangled cry, back bowing sharply off the blanket as you clench down on him in rippling, vice-like pulses. “Fuck … taking me just how you were made to. So damn perfect, cariño.”

Your garbled whimpers and keens of his name drive Carlos to new levels of feverish intensity with each hitching breath. He snakes an arm beneath your sweat-slick lower back to position your hips at a slightly higher angle, seating himself even more deeply inside.

Every purposeful thrust now grinds against that tender cluster of nerves in a way that quickly has your eyes rolling back. You go boneless and whimpering, allowing Carlos to manhandle and use your plaint and plush form in whatever way he craves.

Pressure rapidly mounts within Carlos like an incoming tidal wave as your inner walls begin fluttering around him in telltale pulses. He can feel his own imminent release building in tandem at the base of his spine, that familiar molten curl of pleasure threatening to crest.

“That’s it, princesa,” he grits out raggedly against the sweat-slick arch of your throat. He slides the hand not anchoring your hips down to toy with the engorged pearl at your apex — drawing out a stream of sobbing wails. “Take what’s yours. Fucking milk me with that greedy little cunt. You were made for this cock, made to be split open and ruined on it over and over until you’ve got no idea where you end and I begin.”

The filthy words seems to be your undoing. With a sobbing cry of Carlos’ name, you seize up — inner walls rippling and convulsing like they’re taking him for everything he’s worth. Carlos hardens his jaw and summons the last threads of his control to keep himself from shattering apart at the very first fluttering pulse.

As the shattering waves of your release gradually crest and ebb, Carlos chases them down with powerful thrusts designed to prolong and intensify every aftershock. You writhe and whimper beneath him in overstimulated pleasure, rapidly going boneless and sated.

That’s when he finally surrenders to the smoldering inferno in his belly, hips snapping forward in a few final, erratic strokes before Carlos throws back his head and allows his own orgasm to rip through him. White-hot euphoria explodes across every nerve ending as he empties himself in heavy, throbbing pulses deep inside your spasming core.

“Ah fuck … just like that, cariño,” he rasps out hoarsely, grinding himself as deeply inside you as physically possible and simply shuddering through each exquisite contraction. “Taking every last fucking drop of me right where you were made for it ...”

Utterly spent, Carlos collapses forward with the last dregs of his stamina — just barely managing to catch himself on shaking forearms so he doesn’t crush you beneath his weight. You immediately latch onto him, peppering his flushed face with sweet kisses.

For several long moments, you simply hold each other through the aftershocks, chests heaving and bodies trembling. Carlos has never felt more peaceful or completely at ease in his entire life. His every sense is utterly surrounded and suffused by you in the most blissful of ways.

When his lashes finally flutter open, the first thing he sees is your adoring smile glowing up at him in the moonlight. It nearly steals what little breath remains in his lungs.

“Hi,” you murmur shyly. Carlos huffs out a breathless chuckle and tugs you even closer until your overwarm bodies are aligned from navel to sternum.

“Hi yourself, princesa,” he replies, just as softly against your lips before sinking into another deep, leisurely kiss that tastes equal parts salt and sex and forever.

When you part again, your eyes are sparkling with so much uncomplicated happiness that Carlos nearly melts into a useless puddle on the spot. He’s drowning and he’s never felt more gloriously unmoored.

“I love you, y’know? Like … down to the depths of my soul,” your fingers trail over the sharp jaw and cheekbones you now know better than your own.

The words should terrify Carlos with their intensity and implication. Instead, they simply roll through him in a cresting wave of overwhelming tenderness and clarity.

Of course he loves you. How could he not, when his existence now seems to revolve around your presence as the only fixed point in a dizzying orbit?

So rather than balk or deflect or shove those emotions back down, Carlos allows every infinite but of love and adoration and soul-deep need to shine through unfettered. He cradles your face between his palms and simply stares, committing every minuscule detail of this moment to memory before leaning down to brush his lips over yours in the sweetest, most loaded caress.

“I love you too, princesa,” he murmurs the words directly into your mouth like a sacrament. “With every fiber of my being. You are my everything.”

You tug him down into a heated, clinging embrace, holding him like you never intend to let go.

And at last, Carlos knows without a shadow of doubt that he never will either

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babyjakes · 4 months

Text

you all over me.

〈 disclaimer: this blog posts content not suitable for individuals under the age of 18. minors are strictly prohibited from viewing, sharing, or interacting with this blog. for more information on this blog's commitment to protecting minors, read our full statement here. 〉

event | kinkmas 2023

prompt | double penetration

pairing | soft!dark!daddies!steve rogers and ari levinson x little!reader

warnings | dark ddlg dynamic (soft!dark!daddies of captive!little!reader.) dub/non-con. size kink. reader is held down and fucked. stretching. loss of anal virginity. unprotected double penetration (vaginal and anal.) mentions of anal training/stretching/fingering. clit rubbing. crying kink. praise and encouragement. mocking/humiliation. forced orgasm (with implied previous forced orgasms.) overstimulation. they come in her. little bit of aftercare.

word count | 1,386

an | this is written in the same au as clear blue water, with captive!reader and her soft!dark!daddies.

Tears poured down your damp cheeks as your face was tucked into the warm crook of Steve's neck. Arms reaching up weakly, you almost wanted to cling to the safety of his broad form as he lay beneath you, heavy breaths harmonizing with your own.

But that wouldn't do for your daddies- not for either of them. "Come on, babydoll. Where's that pretty face," the blonde crooned as his hips thrust upward over and over, rocking your own. His hands were on your waist, Ari's just above them as both the men worked to keep you upright and in place, their massive lengths pounding into you with steady rhythm.

They had been fucking you like this for what felt like hours, but the sensations of fullness and overstimulation you were experiencing were still just as overwhelming and horrible as when they had first pushed into you. Steve had gone first, both of the men knowing you would tolerate his part better. They were a bit concerned when you were in tears from the vaginal penetration alone, but as usual, they wouldn't be discouraged. As difficult as it was, and as pitiful as you were to watch as you were held down and split open, Ari was eventually able to work himself into you as well.

As they kept their four strong hands on you, working you up and down over their throbbing cocks like nothing more than a fleshlight with a pulse, you honestly couldn't tell which forceful insertion felt worse. It was all blurring together, the world nothing more than a streaky haze through your steady tears. The men shared a sympathetic glance with each other before Steve refocused his attention back on you. "Poor girl," he murmured lowly, bringing a hand up to brush away your tears with his thumb. "Know it's so hard, little one. So hard to take both your daddies' cocks at the same time, isn't it?"

"So full, aren't you, baby?" Ari nodded in agreement, his oversized member stretching your poor little bottom to its absolute limit. Despite the generous amount of lube they'd used and the time they'd spent patiently coaxing your tiny hole open with their greedy fingers, nothing could ease the horrible burning feeling that bloomed through your lower half as you were taken in the ass for the very first time.

"Look so pretty like this, all stretched out stuffed full of us," Steve groaned, his cock twitching so hard within your aching walls that you could feel it, your poor tummy spasming in response. To the man lying comfortably on his back, there had never been a sight quite as beautiful as this: watching from the front as your tiny holes were so helplessly violated, large hands holding you in place and giving you no choice but to sit there and take it, your perky tits bobbing perfectly as your figure was worked at a steady, punishing pace.

And though he couldn't see your chest as well, or the pretty little faces you were making as your body was used and abused so sinfully, Ari's view from behind you wasn't anything to turn his nose up at, either. He loved the way your back arched up as their dicks kept you angled forward towards Steve, your adorable ass bouncing in rhythm as his cock tore into your throbbing, achy hole. He could easily keep you going with just his hands alone; with both him and Steve being so much larger and stronger than you, it wasn't difficult for either one of them to overpower you and allow the other to make better use of a second pair of hands.

Which is just what Steve did as his partner held you up and in place, giving him the signal of a nod. "Go ahead, Stevie. Let's give some attention to that pretty little clit of hers," Ari suggested. Steve spit on his thumb, bringing the other hand down to pull back its protective hood as he smeared the clear wetness all over your poor little bundle of nerves. Your body jerked harshly at the stimulation, but you couldn't do anything to stop them or squirm away; you were completely helpless, having no choice but to let the blonde rub your exposed little nub in quick, harsh circles.

"Please, p-please... n-no!" you choked through your tears as your whole body began to shake with sobs.

"C'mon doll, doesn't that feel good? Know you like it when we pull back the hood and rub you right there, right on your cute little button," Steve frowned and faked worry at your cries, though he and Ari both knew perfectly well the way their actions and words were tormenting you.

"That's right," Ari mused from behind you as he kept your trembling body moving across their stiff lengths, "our pretty girl loves having her sweet little clit rubbed. Makes her come so hard, doesn't it Stevie? Poor baby can't help it when her daddies play with her clit, but it sure is cute to watch her try and fight it."

"So cute," Steve hummed in agreement, watching intently as your breaths began staggering, your little feet kicking weakly as your knees shook and struggled on either side of him. "Oh? Looks like she's getting close here," the blonde sang as he continued his skillful work over your slick, sticky nub. "Can feel her little pussy fluttering- what do you think, babydoll? You gonna be a good girl and come for your daddies?"

Watching as your buildup continued, Ari and Steve shared a knowing nod, both increasing the speed of their respective roles as their cocks pumped more vigorously inside you. This is the moment they had been waiting for; of course they were hoping to come as you did. A few orgasms had been forced from your trembling form earlier as you were held down by one and stretched out on the other's fingers, but this was meant to be the grand finale, the climax you would all share, whether you were willing or not.

"Can feel her squeezing us- she's getting close," Ari grunted as their dicks clapped lewdly into your dripping holes. "That's it, sweetheart. Come on, almost there..."

Your resistance was a losing game. As much as you fought and defied them each time, a sense of helplessness was never absent from within you; you knew you'd be forced to come. And with both of them thrusting into you at an almost immeasurable speed, and Steve's torturous hands working your clit the way he knew best, there was nothing for you to do but let them have their way with you. Eyes squeezing shut as your tummy tightened, your little toes curled as your orgasm was ripped from your faltering grasp. You came long and hard, Steve and Ari's triumphant words of praise merely echoes as heat and shocks of ecstasy overcame your exhausted body.

Warmth burst in your core as you were pumped full of both the men's come, Ari's fingers digging in almost painfully around your waist as their cocks swelled and sputtered within you. When you were finally coming down from your impressively long high, you let out a soft, broken cry as Steve finally eased your body down to rest limply against his front. "Shhh," you could hear him humming soothingly, someone's hand rubbing your back as you sniffled and sobbed into your captor's chest. "Easy pulling out of her," he was murmuring to Ari as the world seemed to slow around you.

"You're okay, baby. You were so good for us," the brunette was praising you softly from behind as he shifted a bit inside you, trying to measure how careful he needed to be as he and his partner now shifted their focus towards damage control.

"Don't cry, little one. Daddy's here, Daddy's got you," Steve kissed the top of your head as he cooed at you, his broad arms cradling you lovingly as you clung to him. You were desperate for any comfort and tenderness you could get at this point, even if it was straight from the hands of your abusers. This is usually how you wound up at the end of the day, a weeping mess in your daddies' arms, and they wouldn't have it any other way.

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mywritingonlyfans · 7 months

Text

Teacher's pet. // Prof!Alex Turner X Stud!Reader (Smut) Part 1 of 3.

prompt: (Age Gap/Smut) Alex, an undergraduate professor, wasn't known for his friendliness until he found himself gradually warming up to you. Your remarkable writing skills, particularly directed at his class, heightened his interest even further. He's determined to show you firsthand just how talented you are, even if the journey is challenging. Eventually, both of you realize that resisting this connection is futile, and you must let go of your inhibitions to explore what lies ahead.

words: 9.3K

a/n: Be aware that it's a smut but it has a whole context, so it's long. There are changes of the next parts being more smuts, this part was assembled around how they feel in front of each other and what they make the other feel. It is important to point out that I'm not native of the language, it is likely that there are some errors, but hopefully few because I try to be careful. In addition, I hope you enjoy!

You were nervous; it was difficult to digest what he was explaining when all you seemed to notice in class was the timbre of his voice. As hours passed, his accent seemed to grow stronger and huskier, not to mention how he had taken off his blazer within the first few minutes and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. You couldn't quite tell whether you were enjoying the subject matter due to its inherent interest or whether it was him who had become your focus of interest.

You found the buttons on his white shirt alluring, the warmth adhering to his skin, and the occasionally tousled hair being lazily brushed away from his eyes exuded a charm. Watching him was intriguing; at some point, you had tried to avoid such distractions, but realizing your failure, you allowed yourself to be swept away completely.

"Did you hear me?" He asked a bit louder, trying to get your attention. He hadn't shouted; he never did. You were immersed in him, yet couldn't grasp the meaning of the disjointed words he had gestured. However, the movements of his restless hands and the prominent veins when he placed them on his waist had etched themselves into your memory. If someone requested, you could depict his fingers in oil on canvas.

"I'm sorry," you shook your head, waiting for him to repeat, as he often did with everyone else. He studied you more closely, even from a distance, his hands tucked in his pockets and your breath catching slightly. He didn't often make direct eye contact with students, maybe with no one. He was somewhat reserved, and it was evident that lecturing for hours wasn't quite his natural disposition. You found the stumbling over words and how he would look out the window or shift his gaze when someone met his eyes rather appealing. You feared that you had been thinking about him for so long that you had built up an image of him beyond what he could actually be.

However, he held his dark eyes on you, offering a gentle smile, a touch relaxed as if he had expected that from you, and playfully continued, "Well, I didn't expect that from you. I must have been mistaken in thinking you're a great one." He carried on with the lecture as your cheeks began to burn. Perhaps his not-liking for you was part of his nature too.

…

You couldn't bear for him not to like you. Not until the end of the semester; you considered his subject crucial for your repertoire. He just couldn't dislike you. Some nights were spent awake, but you were certain your paper was well-written, and your readings for his class were up to date; any question he might ask, you'd know the answer to. Your seat in the classroom was always the same, out of habit. Honestly, if you had known the distraction and nervousness that Mr. Turner would cause you, you would have opted for seats further back for your own good. But now it was too late, and besides, you needed a good grade in his class.

He was wearing a light blue blazer, a shirt with a few buttons open, and high-waisted slacks, the usual attire, but it never failed to soften your senses. He looked well-rested, his expression serene, no signs of dark circles, and his hair was even silkier than usual as his fingers brushed it back. You found yourself fidgeting, imagining what it would be like to run your fingers through his hair, touch his skin, and feel the texture of the beard that was just beginning to grow.

Realizing your mental drift, you closed your eyes tightly and buried your head in a notebook, trying to avoid looking at him. The rest of the class proceeded as usual, his voice pleasant and utterly hypnotic, and occasionally, he cracked a light joke to lighten the mood. Almost no one laughed, but you found it funny. There were only a few students, so he had no choice but to notice you.

You weren't foolish enough not to notice his eyes briefly passing over you, but you chalked it up to his duty to see if anyone needed help. So you avoided letting your brain jump to impossible conclusions.

And then there was the age difference; he was older, you couldn't say for sure how much, but the more pronounced lines on his face and his authoritative demeanor made that evident. Still, he was charming and, dare you say, a bit sexy. He had a well-sculpted physique, leaving enough room for you to describe him for hours.

"Could you continue for us?" he said, his voice distinct, making you look at him reluctantly. You didn't know it, but avoiding his gaze throughout the class had bothered him, but who was he to say anything about it unless you couldn't answer him?

You nodded, your hands sweaty; you knew what to say, just not where to find the courage. Your cheeks were already burning with anxiety. "I'm sorry," your voice was soft, and you stumbled over the first syllable. He seemed to understand. "It's okay," Mr. Turner leaned down to your level at your desk, his hands on his knees, and a somewhat encouraging smile. "I know you wrote an excellent paper on this; I know you know what to say," he said softly, turning toward you, his calm eyes and a nod of the head giving you confidence. His words made you look away for a moment, and your shy smile spread awkwardly.

Once you finished, he thanked you and added that you had done very well. He seemed genuinely pleased to see you speak, but perhaps it was just a product of your imagination. You even received a light applause from him, which didn't seem ironic. This made you feel more at ease and attentive during his classes; he was a great teacher.

At the end of class, he passed by the desks, handing out the respective papers we had discussed. Your face fell into a worried expression as you touched yours. Alex knew you deserved more, but he wouldn't make it easy for you. It wasn't his style as an educator to give out high grades easily.

Your smile disappeared in confusion; he felt a pang in his chest when he saw your reaction. He didn't say anything, just returned to his desk and said he was open to discussions. He hoped you would come to him and fight for the grade you deserved, but it was clear how upset you were about it.

Others left, content with their grades, and you still had the paper in your hands, looking between the notes. He avoided looking at you directly, yet couldn't help but glance at you from time to time.

"Mr. Turner," you sounded angelic as you approached him, your steps light as you handed him the paper. Your shirt was short, and when you handed him the paper, he couldn't help but notice the exposed skin of your stomach, which was briefly visible. "I thought I had done well; that's what you just said," your voice trembled, and as you got closer, he noticed your sweet scent. On the other hand, you couldn't focus on anything; minutes ago, you were sure you had done well, and things with him had been sorted out; he didn't hate you.

"It's not a bad grade," he said firmly, then immediately regretted it. It was brief, but for a moment, your eyes filled, and he could see how much it had frustrated you. He didn't blame you; in fact, he knew you were talented, and by the way you had written, he knew you had put in the effort. The problem wasn't you; any other teacher would have given you the highest grade. However, your grade wasn't bad; it just wasn't what you deserved and wanted.

"Do you think I can redo it? I can do better," he looked at your trembling hands and continued, "This grade is final; I can't allow you to do that." His words didn't match his tone, but you didn't notice; you wanted to rip up the paper in front of him and say you didn't need it.

You stood in front of him, disoriented, while he couldn't help but let his attention wander over you. He felt wrong, both because you were his student and because he was aware that you were over a decade younger. Still, without being able to explain it well, he found himself lost in thoughts of you from time to time, especially after having read what you wrote.

"Please," you pleaded softly as a last attempt, your eyebrow arched and your nose wrinkled in emphasis of your plea, and you looked so beautiful. "I can allow you to submit another," he confirmed, his face serious, the little furrow between his brows. Up close, you felt your breath catch as you noticed the exposed hairs on his chest. The scent of cigarettes and his cologne became more pronounced, and you liked it. Creating a new one would take so much time, but if it was your only option, there was nothing to be done.

Alex had only asked that in the hope of being able to explore more of your writing; by the end of the semester, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from letting you know that you were his number one fan if you allowed it. You had a beautiful way with writing; feelings seemed worth experiencing in your words. You nodded in agreement. "Okay, I need you to submit it by the end of the week." You didn't object; you seemed grateful, and Alex took mental note of how caring so much about that grade was something youthful; in the future, it wouldn't matter, but you didn't know that yet. Your smile, now smaller but still present, returned to your kind face, and he felt more comfortable, even dressed in his serious university professor attire. With that, he guided you to the door, his palm resting lightly on your back, not inappropriately, but gently, which caused him to blush a bit. You felt shivers run down your spine, but he didn't seem to notice, and both of you made your way to the exit. You thanked him once more, telling him that you wouldn't make him regret his decision, to which he assured you it wouldn't happen.

Your path to the next class was accompanied by a light and relaxed smile after his final words were simply, "I know you won't disappoint me; you didn't the first time," in his pleasant accent, followed by a pat on your shoulders. You felt like a fool, but you couldn't even think of trying to avoid it anymore.

…

"He's good, knows what he's doing. He follows my lead during, when I'm tired and breathless; he tilts his face and lets his nose graze my clit," your friend said casually, as if it were an everyday part of her life. Well, you couldn't relate. She was lounging on your bed, while you were on the floor with your laptop open to one of Professor Turner's published stories. As well as a valuable audiobook that was read by him between the navigation tabs, waiting for her to leave so you can have your moment of peace. You wanted to learn more about him, and your friend kept failing to get you to go out and meet new people. You were unfamiliar with the sensation of being touched, and she wanted to change that.

"I don't want to have to force someone to like me," you said, reconsidering what you had just breathed out, not wanting to sound offensive. You two were just different. She didn't mind; she just laughed. "I'll keep trying for you," and you appreciated that about her. You wanted someone in your life like that, but you didn't want it to be as insignificant as she described. She had already set you up with someone to talk to before, and the kiss was good, at least until you refused to have sex right away, which resulted in his friends laughing at you and whispering as you passed them in the hallway. You learned that sometimes it's better to wait and avoid certain situations.

"I'm okay like this, it's alright," you said, even though you weren't, but you wouldn't go through that again. She respected your decision. Your smile brightened as you saw a notification that you had received an email from Alex on the screen. You bit your lip, trying to contain your eagerness to click on it, making it something important that needed to be read slowly and appreciated. His notes on what he thought of your paper would be there, and he always made a point to highlight the positives and areas for improvement. It warmed your heart.

For a brief moment, his smile for you flashed in your mind, the wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, and his pointed nose following in harmony. You had to grip the fabric of your skirt between your fingers, soon having your friend's words echoing in your head. Professor Turner seemed like a good man in every sense of the word. You did believe he would treat his partners well in every way. Your friend pointed out that the boy she went out with listened to her, and you felt that he would too; both in listening and in other ways. You were sure, with what little you had learned about him, that he was observant. There would be no need to tell him what to do, Mr Turner would understand your body and then he would not disappoint. He could tell when a woman was tired or overwhelmed. An important one was that you also thought he was provocative, too impatient at times not to be. You wanted to be able to know what it was like with him, even if it was through other people's experiences with him, just to get a little of that taste. You didn't exactly feel good about the inconsistency of such thoughts. Still, you let yourself be carried away by them.

He made you wet with just his voice. If he were to touch you in that way, you were certain you would give yourself over completely. You sat up straighter, envisioning how good it would be to have his tongue on you, gentle and with relaxed moans because he wouldn't think going down on you was a bad thing or something to second-guess. You remembered how easily you could make your small vibrator slide when you were really excited, and you felt it would be the same with his fingers. They were longer and thicker than yours, but wet with his saliva and your body melting from his voice, they would be skillful.

The tip of his nose would surely brush deliciously against your clit as he savored your taste, following your cues. The beard that was beginning to grow would graze your sensitive skin, causing a slight burn that would remind you of his presence. Professor Turner would also shake his face into you, wanting to make sure he enjoyed pleasuring you as much as he did receiving. Oh, and you would love to be able to provide that to him. Unconsciously, you found yourself breathing heavily. Your friend laughed, "Are you this worked up over a notification?" She had gotten up to leave but returned when she noticed you were flustered. "Spill it, who's the lucky one?" You recoiled, shaking your head in denial, not wanting to admit that there was someone (or not exactly), but your smile was hard to hide.

"It's not really anyone," you still felt uncomfortable in your own skin, fearing you had done something wrong. She waited for you to continue. "Just an email about a paper I submitted, I got feedback on it now." She rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "What a nerd." Then you felt like exploring the situation further, considering that she also had a class with him but in a different subject. "Was it positive feedback at least? What subject is this for?" You mentally thanked her for asking, giving you an opening to continue.

"It's for Professor Turner's class. He let me redo one of the papers to try for a higher grade," you answered, and she raised an eyebrow. "He gave you a low grade?" The girl seemed surprised but not entirely. "This guy is impossible, what a..." She used a strong word. You didn't quite understand. While you still thought there was a chance he might dislike you, he didn't seem so harsh. He wasn't the friendliest at first, but as you thought back, you realized you had never seen him smile at any student in your class except you.

"Do people think he's bad?" You asked, furrowing your brow. Deep down, you wanted her to reassure you by saying positive things about him and making you feel normal about having this confusing crush on him. She then talked about his strict grading style, how he acted like a difficult person to talk to, and always had a stern expression. She wasn't wrong; you couldn't deny that. But he wasn't like that with you; it was different, and you couldn't explain it.

"I talked to him about my grade, and even though he was reluctant, he allowed me to redo it and submit it by email. He talks to me during class as well, asking me to explain something or asking for my opinion on what he's explaining. I think he's talented, but I can understand your point," you defended, without taking a breath, as if it were already a formulated and concrete idea in your head. You did spend a lot of time thinking about him since the first day of his class. She quickly caught on to where this was headed. "You like him, he's your type. Charming, grumpy, and writes well." Your cheeks burned. "He likes you; in my class, he doesn't chitchat with anyone, just does what's necessary. He enjoys teaching, I can see that in him, he's just not so sociable and too strict for a subject that should be straightforward. I've never even seen the guy smile." You pondered for a moment, deciding to pay closer attention to see if he treated you differently from the others or if it was just your head playing tricks on you.

You shrugged and concluded before she left, "I like him, and he frustrates me sometimes for being so strict, but I don't think he does it out of malice. He seems like a good man." She got up, laughing at how you talked about him. "Then go for it, suck his dick, choose him as your thesis advisor; I'm sure he'd love to have you under his wing." Her tone indicated it was a joke, but it sparked your imagination. He would be a good advisor, and you liked the idea of him praising your work with that pleased, bright look on his face. Alone, you opened the email. Your joy went from extreme to controlled; he could be quite harsh when pointing out the negatives, and sometimes you wondered if he did it just to be difficult. But this time, he found more positives in your writing. He had marked the parts he liked the most and written next to them why he liked them. Your heart warmed, and your stomach filled with happy butterflies. The last comment read, "You give me pleasure in reading something," and you heard it in his voice, deep and drawn-out. You felt yourself grow warm and realized how messed up you were for feeling like this. Your mouth was dry, and in the end, you saw that your grade was the highest, even with the not-so-great notes he had made.

Maybe he didn't dislike you after all. You lingered on the blurry, not much clear photo in his email signature for a while, with a stupid smile of accomplishment on your face. Then you decided to write him a thank-you, and you weren't as brief as you would have liked. The sensation of comfort taking over your body, along with your pleasant but not entirely appropriate thoughts about him causing things in your breathing, made you contemplate what could be done.

You rested your head comfortably, your laptop placed beside you. In a new tab, after opening the audiobook website, you found yourself browsing through the selection that appeared when you searched his name. If his voice was enticing in an inappropriate context, it would be even better alone, wouldn't it? Your chest tightened, knowing that it was wrong, but you weren't going to stop.

You put on your headphones, clicked on the longest one you could find, and relaxed your tense shoulders as the first whispered words filled your head. It was even better; here, you had him all to yourself, complete silence, and his voice echoing, well-recorded and clear as it guided you. He sounded precise, with deep and marked pauses, his typical breathing between phrases, and, with your eyes closed, you could imagine him gesturing and occasionally touching his nose or mouth as he spoke. Just like the gentle adjustment of the necklace and shirt that made his chest more visible and room for more of your thoughts to be explored. In fact, that necklace coming off his soft skin on top of you in sweat would be something so pleasant.

You felt weak but in a relaxed way; it was good, pushing the voice that haunted your thoughts about him into the background. Delicately, as if any abrupt movement might break the spell, you reached for your box under the bed. The small, pink object came to life in your hand, your throat already dry and his narration causing your head to tilt slightly to the side, as if he were caressing your face. You let yourself be completely carried away as you pressed it against yourself.

You swallowed hard, leaving it there for a while, immersed in how Mr. Turner seemed to be speaking to you. Everything was slow, every syllable that came from his rosy lips was cherished. You wanted so much for it to be him there, touching you and whispering while guiding you. You were sure he would say things like, "That's it, you're taking me so well, doll," or "Look at how good you are, you're such a good girl for me." And as cliché as it might sound, you had no doubt that he would make it sound like something the gods themselves would envy.

You pulled the thin fabric aside, pushing the vibrator inside you. Your legs trembled a bit, but as expected, the small object slid in just right. Your lips parted in a satisfied sigh, whispering his last name as you closed your legs slowly and felt the tingling sensation intensify. His name never felt so delicious and engaging as your tongue rolled out to the sound and went through your lips so vividly. Your head throbbed, and you could already see him sitting at his desk in front of yours, guiding you, telling you what to do and say, teaching you tricks to make it even better (you knew you weren't very skilled).

You got louder, whimpering because you wanted your thoughts to become real so badly, and then you saw nothing but white spots in your vision. Your chest heaved, your breathing completely out of sync, and the area beneath you grew wet as you felt too sensitive to continue with the vibrator.

This time, you didn't feel bad; you felt really good, actually. Your body relaxed, his voice still being absorbed by you in a therapeutic way. Then, you imagined lying on his chest, pulling your pillow to your arms, and how he would kiss you solemnly and have his hands in your hair, giving you comforting words until you fell asleep after he had made you feel so wonderful.

Although you were feeling good now, the following morning would be a bitter testament to how you were digging yourself into a hole with no bottom, and the light wouldn't be there to save you.

…

Alex received your email, and a pleasant blush crept onto his face along with a warm smile. He could picture you reading what he had written, your hands between your thighs, a happy expression on your face, and all giddy, unable to contain yourself in your chair. He appreciated how much you valued his feedback, but he knew how hardworking and intelligent you were. He wanted to help you realize that you were good on your own, not just because he believed it.

He ran his hand through his hair, feeling hot from the heat. Your notification had arrived on his phone, and being a seasoned university professor, he preferred to wait to access his laptop to read and respond to you properly if needed. He tried to get into the thing that he was used to teaching, but that wasn't entirely the case. While he found it tiresome to teach subjects he liked and found interesting when no one seemed interested, he enjoyed it when you were there for him, you were the exception (the teacher’s pet). The thought made him chuckle and bite his lip. It was tiring, but he liked it, except for all the social interaction that weighed on him.

He had just returned from the market after giving two lectures, and he had exceeded his limit for social interaction. Yet, seeing your email notification on the screen gave him the extra energy he needed for the rest of the day. Just the thought of your quick exchange earlier when he passed by you on the first floor during lunch, even if brief, brought a warmth to his chest. You smiled at him, waved, and whispered a "good day" or "have a good rest of your day, Professor." He always smiled back with a hand in the air, trying to keep his face relaxed, and he actually showed his teeth. He wasn't used to all this sweetness from his students and had never found himself making an effort for it, but with you, it was worth it.

Indeed, no one but you spoke directly to him out of pure, spontaneous will. If others did, he would remain serious, with a furrowed brow, and nod in agreement. He honestly preferred it that way, with no one besides you trying to have a small talk with him. He didn't dislike his students, but he didn't like flattery and dumb questions that could be avoided if they paid attention in class.

His head began to ache, and he noticed the sweat on his body, prickling and making him feel irritated. Stress was about to come back, but he remembered that he needed to read your email. He removed his belt, sliding it off his waist slowly and soon feeling relieved. He felt even better after unbuttoning all the buttons on his shirt and peeling it off. He quickly decided between taking a shower or reading your sweet words first, considering which order would leave him relaxed for longer so he could sleep. He knew that whatever he did, thoughts related to you would still linger in his mind until he fell asleep.

He sat on the bed, pulling the laptop toward him, and although he wasn't in a hurry, he found himself restless until the screen lit up, and he could access his account. Once he did, your simple message didn't fail to soften him. The excessive exclamation points reminded him of how young you were. It was like a letter, with your polite and correct punctuation. He could almost hear your voice as he read your words.

The way you called him "Mr. Turner" never failed to affect him. Others had addressed him this way, but it was different with you. Your eyes sparkled, your smile widened, your pupils got alive, and your pleasant face eagerly awaited for him to look at you and speak to you. He thought he was too old for this, and he certainly was, but he couldn't avoid how you had invaded his soul.

You had no knowledge of what was going on in his head, but he felt like he was corrupting you. He felt dirty for getting so energized by giving you compliments he knew you liked to hear and then patting your back while seeing you happy about it. What the hell was he doing? And he couldn't deny that he found comfort in how beautiful you looked when you were frustrated, your eyes seemed more tired, and your breathing uneven when you were upset about one of his negative comments (sometimes he did it on purpose).

Feeling his own chest grow heavier and his mind getting increasingly lost, he opted for a shower, even though he was aware that idealizing you wouldn't end there. Now without clothes, under the shower, with you like a curse surrounding him, he realized just how messed up he was. He couldn't avoid it anymore, even though he didn't want to. He knew there was no turning back.

The words from your email clung to him as water flowed over his hair and down his shoulders. You had shown how much you appreciated him and knew his work, the care in choosing your words to praise him, and saying that you wanted to get to him in person soon to reinforce how much you had liked his feedback, the way would like to work through them and see you unravel in front of him because he noticed that your courage in emails wasn't the same as in person. He found that so adorable.

His overactive imagination was leading him to cute places related to you, but it was sparking other curiosities in him too, even though it was about how delicate and somewhat innocent he found you (although he would never admit it that way). Soon, he felt heavy, needing relief as the water splashed over him, and he sighed in exasperation at himself. He was being as pathetic as a teenager. Why couldn't he stop?

His breathing grew rigid, catching in his dry throat, and he allowed himself to be carried away by the flow of his fantasies. His hand ran over his abdomen, eyes tightly closed, hoping that this would make him feel less guilty about it. His thumb glided over the sensitive skin, and a soft sigh escaped his lips; he felt sore and swollen despite doing so little. He continued slowly but with precision. He believed that giving you pleasure wasn't such a difficult task; you would appreciate the touch no matter what. Not that it made him want to go easy on you. He felt like he could have his hands around your waist, squeezing your soft flesh with delight while admiring your breasts, giving them gentle bites and generous suckling that would make you gasp for air for extended periods. Your hands would be cradling the nape of his neck, fingers entwined in his tousled hair. He found comfort in this, feeling that he could make you feel the same way.

He also thought that your body would respond well to his. He was convinced that you were addicted to being a good girl, and that was not up for discussion. The way you melted under his compliments, listened to his harsh criticisms, and sought to improve upon them, you would deny any chance of being labeled a bad girl. As more moans escaped his lips, with the strength of his fingers unaltered, he thought about going a little harder on you, not to hurt, but to make you think about begging him to stop. The tears that would stream down the corners of your eyes as you tried to be good for him and take him in you just right. "You're doing so well, babygirl. You’re so good to me." You would open your bright eyes to him, feeling encouraged to continue being what he needed. He would clearly notice and slow down, accommodating his fingers on your clit and making you adjust to him with soft whimpers that made you endure and enjoy it until the end.

He also liked how you would react when he stimulated you to the extreme, your sensitivity and his desire to taste your essence on his tongue. He could say that you were as sweet as his last name sounded when you talked to him in class. He would tease you with his tongue, kissing you as if it were the only time and chance he had to touch you. And you would fight not to close your thighs around him, but as you were a good girl, you would succeed in keeping yourself spread open while he exhausted you a few more times. The thought of you reaching your peak, your eyes closed, and the tears he knew would be there because you did that when you got frustrated with his opinions on your writing, and your mouth slightly open with his name escaping, made him reach his climax. A deep, raspy groan echoed through the bathroom, his head heavy, and his shoulders feeling lighter and more satisfied. He worked his hand until the last drops came out and marked his stomach just before the water could wash it away down the drain.

He felt good, guilty, but his body wasn't saying that. "Fuck," he sighed, not knowing if it was relief or the headache that would come later due to this; it was getting worse to a dimension he hadn't imagined. He would surely ruin you if he continued; it wasn't as enjoyable as he wished.

Still, he got out of the shower and found himself picturing how you would snuggle up to him, your tired body and calm eyes enveloped by his, and how he would love to tell you stories until he saw you fall asleep safe in his arms or listen to you talk about your day. He liked your voice; it made him feel good. At this point, he desired you in all these ways, from the most profane to the most adorable, for your physical and emotional well-being.

You still haunted his dreams, so vividly that he reached out for you in bed. In his imagination, he had lifted you by the waist and placed you sitting on his desk. The remaining students had left, and he could revel in how your hands were trembling and your face was so delicate as you gazed at him. You used to wear knee-high socks with longer boots, and he found it sexy yet cute. He felt like you made things your own, that you gave life to them. And then he found himself pulling at that piece of clothing, your legs spreading apart, and he had to instruct you to stay quiet before someone noticed as his fingers touched between your thighs. He caressed over the damp fabric, nodding his head and waiting for you to do the same, indicating that you understood to stay calm and quiet. The door would be closed, but the glass window could still give you away. You were facing away from it, and if you behaved, everything would go smoothly.

Alex could feel you soaking through his fingers, making them slippery. You sucked on his finger skillfully, being such a great girl, and stayed still without him having to coax you into relaxing as he went deeper. Your sighs were adorable, and he felt himself getting hard. He woke up before he could make you reach your peak and realized that the dream had an effect on him. There, he knew that if given the opportunity, maybe he wouldn't be able to fight against what he wanted to do, purely out of morality.

…

The following week, there was no class with Turner due to some unforeseen circumstances of his. However, he was still around for the week. Being as observant as you were, you passed by the same spot at 12:45 on Friday, gave him a slight wave, and although you had planned to approach him and ask how he was, you didn't. That is, until he called out to you, causing your body to freeze and your heart to race, forcing you to get closer.

He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, his cheeks flushed and intense. You noticed his restlessness as you got to him; it was cute, not awkward. He held a coffee and had a cigarette between his fingers. He exhaled the smoke in the opposite direction to yours and got rid of it as soon as you arrived by his side.

"Are you good, Professor?" It didn't fail to make him nervous, but he still looked at you without understanding. "I'm sorry, I guess it's not my business; I just thought to ask out of politeness since I haven't seen you this week."

He laughed at how you stumbled over your words, and he didn't blame you; he felt the same way. The fact that he made you feel like your question was inappropriate even made his chest tighten a bit.

"It's okay, I had a routine check-up, but I'm fine," he replied briefly but nodded with a comfortable smile. He could see you swallowing nervously and how your fingers wouldn't stop moving while he had his eyes on you.

"I thought of a book for you, if you don't mind." Your eyes met his, and you seemed excited. "I really like it, and I thought you might like it too."

The idea that he had thought of you made your body tingle, and the rush of blood to your face drowned out the noise around you. You took the coffee from his hands, noticing how he fumbled with opening his bag, and the light touch of your skins made you wish for more—it was warm and soft.

He took out the book, handing it to you, and you nodded with a faint smile. You hugged the cover to yourself, avoiding his gaze for a moment. It felt insane being around him after all the things you did with him in mind. You weren't exactly proud of that. The collar of his striped T-shirt was carelessly folded, and the buttons you loved so much were unbuttoned, revealing his chest briefly. You wished you could fix it for him.

This time, he wore a dark blazer and flare jeans, and he was pleasant to look at. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed, "I left notes in some parts so that I can know what you think later, if you'll allow me." Then you realized that he was doing this because he knew you needed to do well in his course to get into the master's program; still, you found it cute.

"Oh, yes, I can write to you when I finish, right?" He agreed, knowing that he would be waiting for your email in the coming weeks.

"I'm glad to know you're okay, Mr. Turner," you said awkwardly, your face fervently hot, and thanked him for the book. As you turned around, you felt his hand on your wrist; it wasn't as soft as before, but it was comforting, with the fingertips firmer as he squeezed your skin. Then, your eyes met his with a raised eyebrow.

"I need you to give me back my coffee, pet," he said playfully, and your knees weakened a bit. He felt pleased to be able to contemplate you in his mind.

…

The heat had taken its toll on Alex. He had left his blazer in the car and decided to visit one of the open bars near the campus. His hands rested inside his pockets as he patiently waited for his juice and water, yearning for the moment when he could finally get home and enjoy a cold beer. It was his final class of the afternoon, which meant it was getting quite late, and the students were scattered around. While the bar wasn't overly crowded, he could still recognize a few faces.

As soon as the chilled cup was placed in his hands, he caught sight of you with your back turned. You were wearing your signature knee-high socks and boots, but this time, you had opted for a skirt and a tank top, giving you a more relaxed and comfortable appearance. You looked stunning. With you engaged in conversation with a friend he had glimpsed from a distance, you were all smiles and animated hand gestures, bringing life to the scene.

Realizing he was staring, Alex chided himself and tried to divert his attention back to his juice. Yet, within a few minutes, his gaze involuntarily returned to you. Now, you were alone, engrossed in his book that sat next to you, its pages marked to indicate that you had already begun reading. A smile of satisfaction graced his lips; he had strategically placed notes between the pages for you to discover, hoping you would notice.

You sipped from an orange beverage, and Alex decided not to speculate whether it contained alcohol. However, he knew you weren't intoxicated when you suddenly turned towards him and greeted him with a friendly wave. He felt momentarily caught off guard but managed to offer a warm wave in return, nodding to acknowledge you. Your smile was radiant, and he couldn't help but notice how different you appeared outside the confines of the classroom. He longed for the opportunity to engage with you in a context that wasn't purely academic, but he was well aware that pursuing such a connection might be detrimental to both of you.

You turned back to your previous position, sipping your drink through a straw, while still sneakily stealing glances at him. Alex deliberated whether to linger a bit longer for your sake. The table you occupied was well-lit, offering a refreshing ambiance that was perfect for a summer day. The atmosphere was delightful, and he could easily imagine you enjoying such a setting regularly.

He held his bottle of water, pondering the ethical implications of sitting with you while you were alone. His initial plan was to finish his drink and then leave. But he couldn't bring himself to do that—not for his sake, but for yours. It wouldn't be fair to you. He feared the potential consequences would fall squarely on your shoulders rather than his own.

He shook his head and eventually decided to leave. As you lowered your head into his hands, he waited for a few more minutes, half-expecting you to look his way. But it didn't happen.

Then everything seemed to happen very quickly. He returned to his car, leaving behind the water and even starting the engine before realizing he had left his wallet inside. He hesitated but ultimately turned back, despite his frustration over forgetting his documents.

His wallet was still where he had left it. He retrieved it and then shifted his attention to you, curious and attentive. Your hands were fidgeting with your socks, as if attempting to wipe away sweat. A boy was seated in front of you, but your attention was elsewhere. The guy sported a smile that made Alex uncomfortable on your behalf.

Your discomfort was palpable, yet you seemed powerless to do anything about it. You turned to the side, your head moving away from the boy, and as you gasped for air, the guy's grin widened. Your elbows dropped onto your knees, and your hands moved to pull your hair away from your face. You appeared more sweaty than usual, and you felt increasingly weak.

As you realized your strength was waning, the boy signaled for someone else to assist you. You resisted, but they gently pushed you back into your chair to prevent you from collapsing. They weren't being nice about it.

For Alex, that was the tipping point. He strode over to them and forcefully removed the boy's hand from your arm. "Get away from her," his stern voice reverberated, and you didn't understand what was happening, but you knew you didn't feel well.

The guys attempted to speak over Alex, trying to explain themselves, even though there was no justification for their actions. Their chatter only served to irritate him further. He held onto you, his hand caressing your face, and your eyes were half-closed; you were clearly not in a good state.

After another remark from the boys, Alex glared at the boy with an even more intense hatred. His brow furrowed, and his tone grew sharper. "Just stay away from her; I won't let her be alone with you," he warned, making it clear that they should not attempt such behavior with anyone else either.

The boys exchanged nervous glances and silently agreed to leave, though Alex couldn't have cared less about them at that moment.

"What’re you feeling, pet?" He placed his hands on his knees, lowering himself to your level. You were dazed, your skin tingling, and you weren't sure what to say, or if you could say anything at all. Alex considered asking where you lived and offering to take you home, but he suspected you lived in the vicinity of the campus, and it wouldn't be appropriate for him to be seen with you in this state. Taking you to his own home didn't seem like a good idea either, but he did live nearby, and it appeared to be the most reasonable option.

He cupped your face in his hands, close enough to smell your scent once again. You smiled faintly, your eyes still distant but focusing on him. You were conscious, just not in the best condition. "I don't want to stay here; my head is spinning," you mumbled, not entirely sure what was wrong. It could have been due to poor nutrition or dehydration, you thought.

"Look, I'll stay with you ‘til you feel better, alright?" he spoke gently, as if soothing a baby. You nodded, his touch on your cheek making you lean into his warmth. As he thought about reaching out to your forehead with his lips, he realized where he was and quickly pulled back, rising to his feet with you leaning on him for support.

…

Alex gently sat you in the passenger seat, and you huddled in front of him, noticeably self-conscious about your attire. He chuckled warmly, pulling his blazer from the back seat. You felt cradled by his presence as he slipped the fabric over your arms and fastened the buttons around your midsection. It resembled a short dress, making you feel more comfortable, and it carried a pleasant scent. Your stomach still tingled, and you were aware that it was because of him and not whatever had happened earlier.

He rested your head against the headrest, his serene eyes guiding you, and he didn't seem regretful about helping you, despite the crease between his brows. Then he fastened your seatbelt and handed you his water bottle. Your vision was blurry, and sudden movements hurt, but he wasn't a saint, and he had a rough view of how you must be feeling. He'd been your age before, although thankfully, in his case, it had been a result of a spontaneous choice.

"I'll wait a bit before starting the car, alright?" he suggested, and you nodded. He gently led the bottle to your lips, encouraging you to drink a substantial portion of it. He wiped your chin and face with the hem of his T-shirt, and you followed his every move, your attention fixated on him. Without the blazer, he looked even better, and you lightly held his wrist. He seemed concerned, but you did it because you wanted to and felt that you could, even though you'd never been this close before. "Thank you, Mr. Turner," you said casually, as if it didn't affect him profoundly.

As he sat down on the driver's side of the car, he closed the tinted windows, feeling safer with that precaution. He still worried about putting you in danger. He waited, knowing that feeling dizzy along with drinking water wouldn't be a good combination, even though he had insisted on it to help your body recover more quickly. He could hear your calm breathing, which put him at ease. You had closed your eyes, your mouth slightly ajar, and he looked at you, allowing himself to be captivated by every detail. He carefully adjusted your hair to prevent it from catching on the seat and strands from being pulled, whispering, "You can sleep; everything’ll be alright, I promise, little one." You found yourself charmed by the pet name, involuntarily smiling, and he made a mental note that you like it. Your arms lightly touched, and with the comforting scent of him surrounding you, you drifted into a light sleep. It was strange to be in such a bad situation with an outcome that neither of you regretted. He kept the radio off until reaching your destination. He’d never drive without music.

…

Your eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light as you realized you were leaning on him for support. Your forehead was resting on his shoulder, his soft T-shirt against your skin. He was more comforting to touch than your mind had led you to trust. He was kneeling in front of you while you sat on the bed. You no longer felt dizzy, but you were weak, with not all your senses fully present. Alex's hands delicately removed your earrings and necklaces, and it was nice to have him so close, a bit surreal. You almost believed you could be a doll with how he was treating you. He moved back, laying you down on his bed, and he smiled at you as a way to reassure you that everything was okay. You grabbed his arm, afraid he would leave. Alex quickly shook his head. "Hey, little one, I'm not going anywhere. I just need to get some water for you and something to dry your face." He sounded caring, making you want to cry because you knew this was wrong. But why did it feel so right?

"Promise?" You asked, not into the idea of falling into a deep sleep and when you wake up he wouldn't be there to call you little one anymore. He nodded, extending his pinky finger to seal the promise. The silence without him wasn't comforting; you felt like there were monsters under the bed. Still out of mind about time and space, you realized you were in his room, which made you feel even more fragile. The room had a light blue color, seemed well-lit during the day, had books scattered in an organized manner, and two guitars hanging on the wall. That made you put your hand over your mouth as you imagined how his fingers would behave playing those strings. You wanted to hug him, to let the scent and the soft chest lull you to sleep again. Your head was noisy, and you didn't like it.

When he returned, he moved in slow motion to you. He wiped your face and neck with a damp cloth, and you wondered why he was alone. He was a good man; you had thought about that before. Alex wouldn't sleep next to you, but he would stay with you as long as you needed him. He sat with his back against the headboard, looking at you for a moment. It was too late; this was no longer just a casual situation. You'd have to talk about it; you had formed a bond. Although you were scared, Alex liked it.

You asked him to lie down, and he complied. You were side by side, facing each other. Your eyelids struggled to close, but first they followed your fingers as they roamed his face. You traced the gentle lines at the corner of his eye, then the bridge of his nose. He was handsome. Sometimes you wanted to forget that he was older than you, even though you liked him that way. Your hand then touched his rough stubble, and he smiled when he saw you smiling at him. It was like a dream, like you had imagined and even better.

In an abrupt and unquestionably unplanned proceed, your hand hooked onto the collar of his T-shirt, pulling yourself closer. It was a light pull, and in the blink of an eye, your lips were on his, tender and airless. They lingered there, just touching, feeling each other's warmth and the mixing of breaths. Your hand pressed against his chest and held him to yourself, like he could heal you. You moved your lips with his slowly, warmly, and precisely, enjoying in a comfortable sigh every second of it, until he broke into a sigh of reality. He couldn't be doing this, not with you like this. Not wanting to startle you, he sealed your cheeks and nose a few countless times before planting small forehead kisses when he needed to refuse your touch. He felt guilty, but he wouldn't deny that it had been good, way better than he had fantasized. There were no words, and none were needed; both of you were aware of it. Although he thought you might not be as much, he feared you might not even remember this when you woke up.

Alex held your palm against his chest until you fell asleep. Then he got up, covered your body with a warm sheet, and left you there. Unable to restrain himself from touching your face before and stroking your hair. The next day, you would wake up, wondering if it had been a vivid dream or not. But his room would leave no doubts, with the guitars, the well-lit atmosphere, and his blazer still carrying his scent on you. You didn't know how you were going to talk to him after that, you thought about how he must think of you as a kid who doesn't know how to be in the real world. This time, however, you noticed a photo on the bedside table. He was hugging a woman while kissing her forehead. She had a neatly cut fringe and an angelic face; she was very pretty, and it made you feel insecure. She was around his age. You were wrong to be there, and then you got that the bed you were on was a double bed. You wanted to run away even though your head was pounding. Professor Turner might act like a good man, but he was still a man. Above all, you tried to think well of him; perhaps it was a divorce, right? You would have noticed the ring on his finger if he were married. He wouldn't take off the ring, would he? But why was that photo still there? You quickly got up, failing to remain composed when you saw that he had left a note and some money in case you needed to call an Uber. You couldn't just read it right away. You wanted to believe he was good, but it hurt. You felt used even though you hadn't done anything. Yet, you still felt like you wanted him around more often because you felt good with him. In the middle of class, Alex struggled with impatience, hoping you wouldn't leave without taking the note and the snack he had left for you, so you would have his number and be safe. But it didn't happen, at least not when he expected it to.

...

taglist: @ohladymoon @indierockgirrl @bloo-wisteria @bellaturner @cosmoschaotic @nikisfwn @andrews-lovr @nela-cutie @artimonkii @alexturnersbbg3 @blackberryblossom @lilmisssweetdreams

(lmk if you want to be in or out of the taglist!)

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner smut #alex turner x y/n #arctic monkeys #alex turner fanfic #alex turner x you #alex turner imagine #fanfic

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iamasimperyk · 3 months

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Adoption -Rafe Cameron

Warning: Ovulation disorder (Not being able to get pregnant), Fluff, English isn’t my first language

Summary: Since you weren’t able to get pregnant, Rafe came up with an idea and now you couldn’t be happier

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Wife!Reader

You had always loved children. Ever since you started babysitting at the age of 14, you looked forward to the day were you give birth to your own children.

You wanted to provide your child with all the love and opportunities you could. You had a loving husband, a beautiful home, and a good job, so it seemed like the perfect time to have children. However, things didn't go as planned.

One year ago, you and Rafe began trying for a baby. After some time of unsuccessful attempts, you decided to visit your gynecologist for an evaluation. Although you knew that getting pregnant may take some time, you had a sense that something might be wrong.

“I am sorry Mrs. Cameron,” The doctor said, looking at the test results, “But it seems like you have an ovulation disorder.”

“W-what does that mean?” You gulped, already feeling the tears in your eyes.

“I am sorry, but you will not be able to get pregnant anytime soon.” He explained, his face filled with sorrow.

You felt your world crumble around you. Your greatest desire was to become a mother, but it seemed as though fate had other plans.

“Will I ever be able to?” You asked him, tears now streaming down your face.

“There are different treatment options, but the chances are not high for you.” He told you honestly.

The last year you tried everything your doctor had recommend. Medications, lifestyle changes and a hormone replacement therapy. Still, you weren’t pregnant and the feeling of emptiness ate you alive.

Rafe supported you through everything, but it made you feel even more upset that you couldn't give him a child he wanted just as much as you did.

"How did your treatment go today?" your husband asked as he kissed your forehead.

“Unsuccessful. Rafe, I can’t do this anymore,” You mumbled and he nodded in an understanding way.

“It’s alright, my love. I know the past year has been difficult for you, and I noticed how much you suffered.” He kissed you tenderly.

"I really wanted to have a baby and make you a dad, Rafe. I'm sorry I couldn't." You whispered, staring at the white wall in front of you.

“No, no, don’t do this. It’s not your fault. And maybe I have a solution to our problem,” he said with a smile.

You frowned at him, “You find yourself another wife?”

He shook his head “Course not, you are the only woman I could ever love.”

You smiled a little and kissed him.

"I was thinking about adoption. We could provide a loving home for a child who needs it," he suggested, waiting for your response.

Adoption? You never thought about it before. The child may not be biologically yours, but you could still be its mother and Rafe could be its father. You could provide all the love and care that a baby needs. You would support the child in every decision, attend all their school events, and throw the most amazing birthday parties anyone has ever seen.

A big smile appeared on your face and Rafe immediately knew that adoption would be the solution to all your problems.

————

"Come on, Lily. Let's get you changed," you say with a smile, looking at the two-year-old girl in front of you.

She clapped her hands as giggles filled the room.

You and Rafe adopted Lily almost a year ago. Somehow she resembled both Rafe and you, having blue eyes like him and your hair color. Nevertheless, even if she didn't resemble either of you, it wouldn't change how much you loved her.

Lily was an angle, quite a shy child but after she saw people a few times she warmed up to them.

Today the three of you decided to go to the beach. You held two bathing suits in front of her, “What do you say, sweetie, pink or blue?”

“Bwu,” She smiled, her growing teeth showing.

She was adorable and you couldn’t be happier to be her mother.

You helped her into her bathing suit before picking her up and walking downstairs, where Rafe was already waiting.

“Dada!” She shouted, making grabby hands towards him.

“Well, look at you. Such a cute bathing suit.” He smiled, taking her out of your arms.

You couldn't believe how happy you finally were. Maybe you didn't carry Lily for nine months, but you and Rafe were certainly made to be her parents.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe #rafe outer banks #fluff #angst #obx #outer banks x reader #outer banks #outer banks x you #outer banks x y/n

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dmitriene · 4 months

Text

𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗦 𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗟𝗘𝗢𝗡 𝗖𝗨𝗗𝗗𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗬𝗢𝗨.

❝𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧❞ 𝘣𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘹 𝘨𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ❝𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗦❞ 𝘛𝘖𝘖𝘛𝘏 𝘙𝘖𝘛𝘛𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘍𝘓𝘜𝘍𝘍, 𝘊𝘖𝘔𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘛, 𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞, 𝘚𝘔𝘜𝘛 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘯𝘩𝘪𝘱, 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘷, 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘺, 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦, 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦, 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘪 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴

no matter how strange it may be, the place where you most often spent time with leon was the sofa in your living room of the apartment, the point was probably that it was very close to the entrance, and this was comfort — all that was required of you was take off your shoes and outerwear before collapsing in a heap of limp limbs onto the soft poufs.

unfortunate, in its concept, furniture survived everything — you slept on it in an warm embrace after a hard day, kissed and hugged while watching a movie, fucked when you didn’t have enough strength to get to the bedroom and your body burned with an ardent desire to cling to, lick, touch here and now, and once you even pulled him away from another bottle of tart alcohol, begging, asking him to stop.

your relationship has survived more than one raging wave, but the walls of the apartment and some furniture store and remember everything — with their unevenness, scratches, stains that stuck into the surface, absolutely all the ups and downs, but the only thing she has never seen is you and leon separately, you always together.

today was kind of hard, you had to go grocery shopping with a fairly large list and stop at a couple more places along the way, naturally, be that as it may — but being away from home almost the whole day was quite exhausting, as was carrying bags, even if they spent most of their time in the trunk of the car, waiting for you to finally return home only to be dismantled.

and you finally get there, home, your shoes quickly fly off your feet and past the shelves before you both move on and start putting away your purchases, groceries in the kitchen, little things like hygiene in the bathroom and in the closet there, you no longer have the strength to cook food or to go to the shower — you both wearily collapse on the familiar sofa and laugh in unison when your bodies become tangled and leon wearily hits his forehead against your chest, purring something about — «just.. five minutes, sweetheart, and i'll move»

and, naturally, he didn’t move, on the contrary, he only pressed harder, making you giggle quietly and slightly change your position so that both of you were comfortable, running through the tangled dark strands with your fingers and to the back of his neck, where nails begin to scratch his flesh and send a pleasant shiver down his vertebrae, and he responds in the same tactile manner, running his palms along the curve of your waist, pressing his nose into the chest and to the open area of the collarbone and neck, kissing wetly.

— «leon.. not, don't even try, we didn't even took a shower» you are in a hurry to pronounce on the distillation, frowning your eyebrows and provoking wrinkles on your skin, when leon raises his head in response and looks with that same look that is completely difficult and even impossible to refuse, baby blue eyes rush into yours with puppy tenderness, and you already know that you will fall under his ministrations, as he saying, practically whining — «uhh, come on darling, a quick one?.. please»

is it possible from this point to call leon a lover of quick sex?

definitely yes, and with him it can happen absolutely anywhere, at any time and incredibly slowly, viscous sweet kisses and sticky touches on the body following his movements of his hips, and you never denied him his desire, you didn’t even think, because what can be better than being pressed by his body into some surface while hoarse moans blow hot breath on your ears, following endless chants — «thankyouthankyou sweetheart, thank y — ffuckghm»

so you find yourself pressed with your back to the soft sofa and its pillows, which are carefully placed under your head, your legs are spread and raised to the width of his shoulders, fluttering somewhere above your head when he presses his whole body into you, holding them and pushing into your sopping, spasming cunt rapidly, his balls hit the curve of your ass, and his pubic rubs perfectly against your throbbing clit, allowing him not only to drive into all your spongy spots, but also stimulate your clit, and that's all you need to cause fireworks and a pleasant tremors in your body, covering his long cock with your slick essence.

leon was in seventh heaven from the feeling of you next to him, under his body and how tight and pleasant your pussy clenched around him, slick walls sucking his long cock so deliciously, letting him pump in and out on different paces just for him to slide back in your tight heat that envelope him so good, his rentheless thrusts making you just mewl and tilt your head till your neck is hurting, while leon’s warm and slightly moist lips leave a scattering of burning kisses on your skin, nuzzling with his nose under the area of your chin only from the pleasure of being close and listening to the hail of your moans and euphoric sobs, cooing in a warm baritone — «taking it like a good girl, my pretty baby, jus' like that, suck me in your beautiful pussy»

leon's tongue always unties once he finds himself buried deep inside you, the words are still just as tender, but more lustful and burn stronger, causing the coil in the lower abdomen to tingle tightly following the wave of his purring, praising words, he expresses his adoration for you, for your cunt, to your body — kissing each area and marking it with scarlet buds of hickeys at the same time, thrusting into you at the same unrelenting pace, letting his short dark pubic hair become wet from the amount of your slick as you began to squeeze him tighter, no longer ucnlenching, spasming around his shaft rapidly and mewling out almost in a broken sob — «i'm close, lee.. mmn! leon, so close, please, go on!»

your word is his law, and his movements do not slow down for a second, he continues to cover your body with viscous kisses while your head rolls back like your eyes, your bodies simultaneously begin to sweat and you no longer feel your legs, suspended in the air while his precise thrusts continue to make his hips meet your ass, and his throbbing cock with your tight but warm and trembling walls, luring him deeper, mushy head that dribbles endlessly scratch and bump against your cervix, making you trash suddenly as he coo at your soft sobs and moans, seeing that you can't move at all — «shh, i got you, gonna feel so good, sweetheart, almost there, yeah? be good for me»

all you can do is nod, choking on your own desperate moans and clinging to his bicep with your nails, leaving a scarlet painting behind you and pressing into his shoulder while he picks up the pace, non stop slaps echo throughout the living room as he hits your spongy spots, rubbing along your gummy walls and letting your pussy slobber all over his cock and pubic hair, he teases your throbbing clit with each thrust and pump, fucking into you with numbing force and making you spasm and clamp, mewling out deeply as he grunts — «cummm, cumming, leon, i'm cummiing, mmmh!»

a deep growl slips from the shiny lips when he feels your walls clinging and tightening around his cock with an attempt to milk him, and the feeling itself triggers his own orgasm, which hits him after yours, allowing the tight coil in the very bottom of your belly to snap, clear fluids of yours cum and slick coating his shaft as he pumps more slowly, his hips moving smoothly with each movement that buries his cum in your quivering cunt, ropes of hot sticky seed coating your insides and making you go limp, accepting all he can let you have, while he growls and his abdominal muscles clench, his nose nuzzles into your sweaty, covered with saliva and scarlet buds neck, releasing a trembling sigh, either swearing or praise, but his hot breath caresses your skin and gives you goosebumps when he purrs — «shit.. fuck, it was good, darling»

you stay in this position for some time, enough for your body to completely cease to be felt, and your eyelids become heavy with fluttering eyelashes, but then leon finally rises for a fraction of minutes with a slight sigh, carefully moving away from you on his knees and slowly lowering your legs from his broad shoulders, carefully, knowing that they could go numb, so he strokes them all those couple of seconds that he lowers them, pressing his lips to the soft skin and tickling it with his light stubble, before finally allowing his cock to ease out of your warm, loose cunt, all the length of his cock shines in the mix of your shared fluids, coating him all the way to his balls as some remnants of his cum leaking out of you, and no matter how tired you and fucked out, you feel it.

stickiness and the feeling that something is leaving you causes a short snort from your lips, when you barely raise your body on your elbows, and leon immediately hold you up behind your back, sitting you flat on the sofa and pressing you to him for greater comfort, the floor is littered with your scattered clothes, the air contains the tart aroma of sweat and sex, and when your eyes meet and his blue ones look into yours extremely tenderly, definitely contentedly, you can’t help but smile, but still mutter a little sternly, earning a chesty chuckle in response — «now we'll have to take a shower, lee»

his chuckle is followed by a nod, and strong arms immediately wrap around your legs to lift you without unnecessary discomfort, without even sighing as he lifts both his and your weight, holding you to his chest with honed care and such passionate affection in his eyes that sometimes you don’t understand how it could arise in him, but then his nose nuzzles the top of your head and leaves a tiny kiss on it, and his steps slowly lead the two of you towards the bathroom while he purrs gently — «of course, anything you want and crave, my darling»

these are enough words for you to be mildly embarrassed, as if you had just recently started dating him, but all his daily tender words always cause a slight play of butterflies in your stomach, just like the first time, so you relax and nuzzle him into his chest, while he nuzzles in your temple with his nose and another tender kiss in response, seems that it's you who are responsible for the ariseness of this tenderness in him.

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lunarmoves · 3 months

Text

mentions: mer au, near death experience kind of yea im making this a full fic i think

the mer was judging you.

you could just tell, no translation necessary. call it intuition, but you were certain the way it was circling you slowly in the water was its way of mocking you for your predicament. high-pitched chirps and clicks echoed murkily through the water. poking fun at you for sure, you thought miserably to yourself. you couldn’t really muster up the strength to do anything more than turn your head to track it around you. but that wouldn’t matter for much longer if you didn’t figure something out soon.

your foolishness was what had led to your entrapment—thinking you could help free a flailing turtle from a fisher’s net when you had no sharp tools on hand to cut through the firm material. foolish. your reasoning had been to carefully unwrap it, but in your focus you hadn’t realized that whilst you were indeed untangling the turtle, you were also simultaneously trapping yourself. and then it had been too late.

an instinct to panic had to be heavily squashed down. you were calm at first and tried to methodically untangle yourself. one loose end here, another loose end there. but, to your mounting frustration, you were making things worse. that calmness gave way to some kind of innate desperation and you idiotically writhed about (a moment of weakness, you grumbled to yourself later) until your leg was wrapped unforgivingly in metal and rope.

and thus, here you were, hours after the turtle had left with not even a thank you. floating vertically in the water like you were anchored to davy jones locker itself as your leg grew steadily number and number the longer time went on.

you had resigned yourself to your fate not too long ago. there was nothing around you on the sea floor that you could use to cut yourself free. and no matter how many times you yanked and clawed at the netting, nothing but a raw tenderness to your skin was your agonizing reward. you couldn’t even hold out hope that someone would notice you were gone since, well, you hadn’t really told anyone you were going scuba diving. foolish, foolish, foolish. hope had never seemed so fragile.

but then the mer showed up. and you were so utterly done with everything.

it was, quite honestly, difficult not to notice it at first. it had swam out from some large rock in the distance, aglow like it was trying to set the ocean itself on fire. you had just enough time to catch a glimpse of vibrant, white eyes before it had turned tail and darted right back behind the rock formation. you blinked and wondered if you’d started hallucinating for some time before the glow peeked around the deep blue-gray rock. it was staring right at you. so, naturally, the only thing you did was stare back.

awkward. after a time, you looked away to rake your gaze over the netting in a vain attempt to figure out a way to free yourself once more. maybe if you ignored it, it would go away. mers were rare and unpredictable creatures—your best bet regarding an encounter with one was to just avoid it altogether. tough luck doing that with your leg trapped, idiot, you told yourself with a huff that made bubbles burst from your nose.

the water got brighter just then, and a quick jerk of your head upwards revealed that the mer had drifted closer. startlingly closer. enough that you realized one pertinent detail that you hadn’t processed before when it had been hiding a distance away behind the rock.

it was fucking massive.

not ‘leviathan-class’ massive, but definitely one or two below that. its tail length alone was thrice your height with a skinny torso and unnaturally long arms. it was colored a warm gold with fluid, swirling patterns of white along its tail that reminded you of the crests of waves. bright flukes of orange tipped in white that seemed to burn through the water lined its circular head in a way that reminded you of a flower—wispy and nearly iridescent despite the sunlight from above being so far away. frills reminiscent of the burn of the setting sun decorated the side of its neck and arms. you would have been utterly captivated by the sight of it had you not noticed the mouthful of teeth it bared at you in a treacherous smile. you looked away immediately.

whatever reason the mer had decided to venture closer for was definitely not a good one, you decided. it started to slowly circle you in a way that reminded you of a shark—not a good thing by far, though you knew sharks circled things to see them better. this mer didn’t have eyes positioned at the sides of its head like a fish, though, so there was no way the intention was the same.

you grouched internally to yourself as you eyed the pressure gauge attached to your arm. you were running out of gas—on fumes, really. there was just enough left that your brain was starting to kick into a rapid overdrive in a vain last minute attempt to figure out what to do. but you couldn’t stop eyeing the mer, gaze latched onto its teeth that gleamed like the curve of a blade, or its white claws that cut swiftly through the water like it was mere air.

was this thing going to eat you or what? you shuddered at the thought, then pondered if you preferred that over suffocating. you weren’t sure. you were starting to feel lightheaded.

you watched as the mer seemed to look at the netting wrapped around your leg, then at your hands, and finally at its own. its claws flexed purposely. it was close enough that it reached out with two sharp fingers to pluck tauntingly at a piece of rope. it made a series of clicking sounds—almost amused in a way? or perhaps not amused… and then you realized—as the mer swam around you again with an all-telling curve to its grin—that it was judging you. for getting trapped in something manmade. you know, as a human.

it was humiliating. but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. your thoughts—that had been so rapid previously as you flitted through possible actions you could take to save yourself—had stuttered to a slow crawl. you were tired. you were tired and your leg hurt too damn much for you to care about some stupid mer. whatever. maybe you were hallucinating this entire thing. you closed your eyes and let yourself drift there, breaths shallow to try to milk out your remaining oxygen for as long as possible.

…

the netting was getting looser.

your eyes blinked sluggishly open just in time to see rope and wire drift away from your aching limb. you—you were free. the loss of feeling to your leg was imminent, but you were finally free. before you could process it completely, however, something grabbed you under the arms. tightly. you couldn’t even scream. all you could do was brace yourself against the rush of water as you were hauled up and up and up—a flash of gold and white accompanying you all the way until you broke through the surface with a large splash.

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numinousmysteries · 2 months

Text

Handfesta

He wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God.

MSR/S7ish/Explicit

@today-in-fic [on Ao3]

Although they’d been involved, entwined, inseparable, cosmically linked (take your pick, really) for years, he feared actually being with her would mean making promises he couldn’t keep. He’d want to give her the world: A husband who didn’t feel the urge to drive across the country at the mere suggestion of strange lights in the sky. A home to fill with as many blue-eyed babies as she wanted. Or, at the very least, a dog.

But he can’t marry her. They can’t live together. The babies are a moot point—an especially painful one after their failed IVF attempt. And look what happened to poor Queequeg.

In the end, though, pretending he didn’t love her proved more painful than admitting that he did.

***

If the world didn’t end in the early hours of the new millennium, it certainly shifted on its axis. The sun had yet to rise on the first day of the year and Dana Scully had already let him kiss her, insisted on staying the night at his apartment on the flimsiest of pretenses (to look over his barely fractured radius), and is now—assuming he isn’t hallucinating—naked, astride him, and riding his cock.

He isn’t ready to rule out a drug-fueled hallucination quite yet, although this feels pretty fucking real. Underneath the fingers of his one useful hand, the delicate skin on her hip feels soft and warm. Her scent envelopes him like a halo. Moving his thumb to the wet bud of her clit elicits more of the breathy moans that he could listen to for the rest of his life.

She throws her head back, exposing her pearlescent neck. Earlier on his couch, he lavished the skin there with hungry kisses as he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She pulled away briefly to put him out of his misery by freeing herself from her clothing. Then she dragged him by his good arm into the bedroom. She helped him out of his jeans but they didn’t bother getting his t-shirt off with his sling in the way so he kept it on as she got on top of him. The thin gray fabric covering his chest makes him feel oddly chaste like an actress who kept her bra on during sex scenes.

There’s nothing chaste about the way Scully is writhing above him, though. She’s so wet that he’d be nervous she'd slip off of him on each upstroke if she wasn’t also clinging to him so tightly. They shouldn’t fit together this well—fuck, they shouldn’t even get along—but they’ve seen phenomena far more difficult to explain than this, so why not?

She folds forward to kiss him and he sucks greedily at her mouth. Her lips are plump, swollen from the barrage of kisses he assailed her with the moment the apartment door shut behind them. Their New Year’s kiss at the hospital had been restrained, but it was enough to crack open the floodgates between them. They barely spoke on the drive back to his place, both sharply attuned to the new dimension of their partnership. He’d become an expert at reading her moods from across a car’s center console. He knew when she was angry or tired or hungry. Now he knew how it felt to sit beside her and feel raw need emanating off of her. And he knew she sensed it from him as well.

He wants this to last forever, to live in an endless time loop of watching her perfect breasts bounce in sync with the rhythm of her hips and her face contorting in pleasure. He wants to take up permanent residence here and have all his mail forwarded in care of Dana Scully’s glistening, velvety vise of a vagina (although she’d certainly shoot him again if she heard him say anything of the sort out loud). But they’re both so close now and when she arches her pale belly toward him and reaches back to stroke the seam between his rigid balls, he lets go. Seven years of pent up desire rush out of him in desperate hot spurts. She comes in stride, squeezing him dry as her inner walls frantically contract in pleasure.

Once he feels all of her muscles surrounding him relax, he half-expects she’ll disappear like a phantom in the night, the delirium of a love-starved man. She lifts up her hips and rolls over next to him. With her chest flush against his side he can feel the hammering of her heart. Alive, alive, alive is all he hears with each beat. He’s come too close to losing her too many times. The simple mechanism of blood pumping through her body is a holy sound to him. A prayer, an incantation, a vow.

“Let’s get married,” he says, testing his luck.

He suspects she’ll blame it on the painkillers, the orgasm-induced euphoria, the sudden rush of blood away from his brain, but instead she says, “Okay.” Her voice is quiet yet resolute and he questions if he’s been propelled into an alternate reality.

“Okay?” he asks, turning to her and squinting in disbelief.

“That surprises you?”

“Scully, I’ve seen you take more time deciding what you want from a vending machine.”

She shrugs. “You’re my best friend. The only person I’d want to spend every day of my life with. We’ve already made it through the sickness and health part more times than I’d like to count. And we love each other.”

She ticks off the reasons with the same confidence she’d use to explain why a pair of tracks in the woods couldn’t possibly belong to a sasquatch. She loves him. In the first two hours of the new millennium Dana Scully has kissed him, fucked him, and said she loved him. Now he’s even less sure he isn’t hallucinating.

“You know we can’t…really…” he trails off, feeling the heft of reality settle back over him like a dark cloud heavy with rain.

“I know,” she says. She bites her lips and glances down. “But we can be married in all the ways that count.”

“You don’t want a big church wedding? A cake with fondant flowers? A taffeta gown?”

“Taffeta, Mulder? Really?” she smirks.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I haven’t been to a wedding in at least a decade. I suppose bridal fashion has evolved.”

“Clearly.” She smiles. “But I’m serious. Marriage is a union based on love, companionship, and trust. We have all of that. I don’t care about the window dressings.”

“We’ve even consummated that union,” he says, trailing his fingertips along her upper arm.

“Yes, we have,” she responds. She rests her palm on the flat of his abdomen just below his t-shirt hem. “For what, I hope, will be the first of many, many times.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I can do with two hands.”

“You were married before,” she says, somewhere on an empty stretch of highway. Of course she brings it up when he’s stuck behind the wheel and can’t escape.

“How did you—”

“The Gunmen told me.” She’s staring shyly at her hands. It’s the first time they’re speaking about Diana since her death.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Scully. I should’ve told you. But it only lasted a few months. I was young and stupid. I convinced her to go down to the courthouse mostly because I was terrified she would leave me. Not that it made a difference. I only told my parents after she fled to Berlin and I needed help from their lawyers to get an annulment. They were scared she’d try to get a big settlement, but I just wanted to forget about it.”

“It’s okay,” she says, still examining her lap and not looking at him. “We met as adults. We’ve been in serious relationships before. There’s no reason to be ashamed.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Honestly,” she turns to face him now. “Not as much as I thought it would.”

“Scully, what we have is so much more—” he pauses to find the words but comes up short.

“I know,” she says, bringing her hand to rest on his thigh. “I know.”

After a few miles of silence she asks slyly, the corners of her mouth arcing into a smile, “Did she wear taffeta?”

“I don’t remember,” he says, and it’s true. An eidetic memory and you’d think he’d remember what his bride wore on what was supposed to be the most important day of his life, but he draws a blank. All he can picture is staring at the gold band she slipped on his finger and trying to convince himself it meant he’d never be alone again.

She has to know he’s up to something when he starts applying his Socratic style to global wedding traditions instead of astral projection or lizard-eyed cryptids.

“Did you know the bouquet toss originated in medieval times and was meant to serve as a distraction so the bride and groom could slip off to their private chambers unnoticed after the ceremony?” He asks her on an airplane on the way back from Chicago.

“I know my cousin Nora once elbowed Missy in the gut to push her out of the way so she could catch one.”

“Ouch,” he winces. “How’d that work out for Nora?”

“She actually did get married the following year to some guy she met on a singles’ cruise. Last I heard, though, he ran away with his secretary and left her with reams of credit card debt,” she says. “And he went bald.”

“You win some, you lose some,” he says. “Did you know wedding rings are traditionally worn on the fourth finger because of the belief that a vein in that finger ran directly to the heart?”

“Well, that’s just inaccurate,” she asserts with a smug smile.

“Did you know that Congolese newlyweds aren’t allowed to smile for the entirety of their wedding day? Or that brides in ancient Rome used to paint their faces red?”

“I did not,” she says, scooting closer to him.

“In the Chinese Yugur culture, the groom shoots his bride with three headless arrows before the ceremony then breaks the arrows in half to symbolize unbroken love.”

“I already shot you once, I don’t think you need to return the favor.”

He playfully reaches for his shoulder and winks at her. “Jews, of course, break a glass for the same reason, while the Greeks smash plates. Did your parents do the whole full Catholic mass hoopla?”

She shakes her head. “My father’s commanding officer married them on base in Norfolk. We pretend not to do the math, but it was only six months before Bill was born.”

Mulder whistles. “Oh, Maggie. Remind me to thank her again the next time I see her.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For you.”

“What about your parents?” She asks.

“Oh, the Kuipers-Mulder wedding was the social event of the summer of ‘59. I think some distant Kennedy cousin even showed up. My mother’s parents didn’t like that he was nearly two decades older than her, and my father’s parents didn’t like that she was Jewish but they had enough money to throw a nice party so it all evened out. Not that any of that pomp and circumstance did them any good when the shit hit the fan.”

“And yet you still believe in marriage,” she ponders.

“I believe in marrying you.”

Even though they have a row to themselves on the plane and everyone around them seems to be asleep or absorbed in a book, he’s still surprised when she leans over to kiss him on the lips. It’s a quick, close-mouthed peck but still more than she’d typically allow in public. They interlock their fingers under the arm rest and he wonders what he ever did to deserve her.

They’re curled toward each other on the motel bed like a pair of parentheses, too wired to sleep. He tells her about seeing the spirit of his sister in a field of dead children. She kisses his brow and pulls his head into her chest. She thankfully doesn’t suggest his vision is the result of a mind warped by grief and stress. The silk collar of her pajama top darkens with his tears and she holds him closer. He’s been cold for so long and her touch is thawing him.

He first told her about his sister in a motel room not unlike this one. Even then, Samantha had already been dead. She’d already been dead when Scully embraced his quest as her own. She’d already been dead when Scully was abducted, when Scully lost her chance at motherhood, when Scully nearly died in a hospital bed from a cancer that had been given to her. He finds it’s this that stings the most—that he made her suffer for nothing.

“She’s been gone this whole time,” he whispers into the hollow of her throat.

“I’m so sorry, Mulder.” She presses her warm lips to the crown of his head, her words muffled in his hair.

It’s been a long day and he can smell her skin and sweat through faded layers of powdery deodorant and woodsy perfume. He likes that she chooses to smell like a forest and not a flower. He likes her natural scent even more.

He’s an orphan now. The last of his kind. And yet, cradled in her arms, this moment feels like a beginning and not an ending. The ties that held him to this earth have been severed and it’s only her firm grasp that’s keeping him from floating away.

“Be my family, Scully,” he says, raising his head up to the pillow so he can meet her gaze.

“Always,” she swears. Her lower lip is quivering and her eyelids are heavy. New tendrils extend, stretching between them, twisting around and around each other, serpentine. They’re interwoven and he never wants to break away. He can stand to lose anything except her.

He kisses her lips softly and feels her starting to cry. Tears stream down their cheeks and it’s impossible to tell which are hers and which are his. She is his home and everything about her feels right. Deepening the kiss, he rolls on top of her.

She brings one small hand to his chest to stop him. “Are you sure, Mulder?”

She asked him the same question in his apartment after autopsying his mother. That night he was seeking numbness and she, rightfully so, wouldn’t give it to him. She bore witness to his pain, holding him as he wept and slipped into a fitful sleep. Tonight, though, he is sure. He’s coming to her purely out of love, to rededicate himself to her.

He nods solemnly and she brings her hands to either side of his face, pulling him in so she can probe his mouth with her tongue. The taste of diner coffee lingers under the artificial mint of her toothpaste.

He takes his time unbuttoning her pajama shirt, revealing the milky skin of her chest. Tracing a trail down the valley between her breasts with his tongue, he pauses at the scar on her abdomen. It’s a reminder of her fragility and her strength. He kisses it to pay tribute to the duality of her nature.

She gasps when he reaches the hem of her pajama bottoms. Lifting her hips up, she lets him ease the silk down her legs and slim ankles. Her presence feels so powerful and all-encompassing that he sometimes forgets how small her actual physical form is. Her feet are so delicate he can’t believe they have the endurance to carry her to crime scenes and autopsy bays and wherever he asks her to follow him. He kisses the arch of each one in gratitude and then lets her pajama pants drop to the floor.

As he works his way back up, she starts spreading her thighs apart in anticipation. He can feel the heat of her sex radiating on his face like the sun before he even reaches the space between her legs. He inhales deeply and takes in her intoxicating essence before dragging his tongue up from the folds of her labia to the nub of her clit. Her thighs tighten around him and she rakes her nails through his hair.

“Mulder,” she begs of him quietly, his name an invitation on her lips.

He answers by latching onto her sex with his mouth, sucking and releasing her clit with increasing speed and intensity. Breathing feels unnecessary when he’s devouring her like this. He can’t be sure if the swirl of dizziness in his head stems from a lack of oxygen or a surge of adrenaline. Either way, he doesn’t come up for air until he sees her clenching the sheets between her fists in his peripheral vision and hears the high-pitched whimper from the back of her throat that lets him know she’s close. He loves making her come this way, knowing he’s able to give her this much-needed release, but now she’s tugging on the sleeves of his t-shirt, pulling him up to meet her.

Rising to his knees, he sheds his shirt and peels off his boxers, freeing the erection that’s been throbbing to the beat of her moans. He pulls a pillow from the other side of the bed and slides it under her hips.

She reaches down between them, taking his length in her hand and confidently guiding him inside her. They’ve done this 12 times in his bed, nine times in hers, thrice on his couch, and now in their sixth motel room (the eidetic memory works when it counts) and yet each time feels like a new discovery.

Tonight feels endowed with a singular significance. He has finally laid his sister, and therefore his quest for her, to rest, and can give himself to Scully fully. The rules feel like loose suggestions now. Why not quit the bureau and run away with her? Why not stake his claim to her in the light of day and marry her in front of everyone they know?

But he’s getting ahead of himself. Right now, there is only this moment—only their bodies gliding together in this timeless dance. They are prehistoric cave dwellers mating on a pelt of wolf fur. They are medieval peasants copulating under the thatched roof of their cottage. They are federal agents making love on the polyester duvet of a budget motel room in Sacramento, California. Plunging into her, he knows he has loved her in every lifetime.

Their bodies find a rhythm that feels as natural as their age-old verbal tête-à-tête. Perhaps after all this time it shouldn’t be such a surprise that they’re so good at this.

“What?” she asks, breathily, and it tears him from his stream of consciousness.

“Hmm?”

“What are you smiling about?”

He must’ve had a shit-eating grin on his face by the way she’s staring at him. It makes him laugh and he collapses on top of her and chuckles into the side of her neck.

“I just can’t believe how lucky I am,” he whispers into her ear.

“We finally found something you don’t believe in,” she says.

He doesn’t know if he wants to smile or cry or keep thrusting into her. Somehow, he manages to do all three and soon they’re both coming hard and likely earning a noise complaint in the process. Fuck it, he thinks, let everyone hear.

After he slides out of her, they’re too mentally and physically exhausted to move so they stay lying atop the covers side by side. The window air conditioning unit kicks on, cooling the damp sweat that coats their skin. Feeling the goose pimples rise on her skin, he maneuvers them onto their sides so he can hold her from behind.

“I officiated a wedding for two of Sam’s Barbie dolls once,” he tells her. The scene surfaces from the hazy sea of his memory. It was months before her disappearance. They’d heard their parents fighting nearly every night that summer and he imagined Sam’s precocious mind grappling with the knowledge that marital bonds could be so brittle.

“Yeah?” she asks hesitantly.

He wants her to know that it’s alright, that talking about his sister feels lighter now.

“Well, I started anyway but I wasn’t taking it seriously so she made me stop and kicked me out of her room.”

“She couldn’t have asked for a better big brother,” she says. He wraps his arms around her and chooses to believe.

His lungs are mostly healed, although he isn’t cleared for active duty yet, when he insists they head back to North Carolina for a “personal mission” over the weekend. She doesn’t want him to risk flying so she agrees to let him pick her up early on Saturday morning for the long drive. They’re on the road before the sun rises.

“I know you’re feeling better, Mulder, but you’re really not up for anything too vigorous,” she says as he steers the car south.

“Well, it’s up to you how vigorous you plan on being on our wedding night.”

He looks over to find her eyebrows predictably raised.

“Open the glove compartment, Scully.”

He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to watch her remove the pamphlet for the Irish-themed bed and breakfast in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the braided ivory rope he’d sent away for.

“What is this, Mulder?” Her skeptical tone is replaced by a light, hopeful voice as she examines the rope.

“It’s for our handfasting ceremony.”

Looking over at her again, he sees even more questions in her eyes.

He doesn’t tell her he’s chosen this because their bond is so pure and elemental that he wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God; that he wants to tie his soul to hers like the stars are tethered to the sky; that he needs to know that even when their bodies have long decayed and reverted back to base matter, even when the sun has burned out and the universe has collapsed back within itself, that their essences will still be bound together.

He only shrugs and says, “It’s Celtic. Like your ancestors.”

Her smile breaks his heart wide open and he knows she understands.

“We missed May Day—you know, the feast of Beltane, the lusty month, and all of that—but Ewan says the old Neolithic hunter gatherers weren’t too picky about auspicious dates.”

“Ewan?”

“Byers’ cousin. He owns the B&B and does these things from time to time” he says. “But don’t worry, the other two Stooges don’t know anything. I didn’t want to hear Langly’s spiel about the evil capitalist roots of marriage—nor did I have the heart to let Frohike know you’re officially off the market.”

“I appreciate that,” she says with a toothy grin.

“I hope you’re not upset I sprung it on you like this,” he says.

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs. “A pagan ceremony preceded by a mysterious seven-hour road trip with a 5 a.m. wakeup call is the only way I would ever expect to marry you. Truly, if you got down on one knee with a diamond ring after a candlelit dinner I’d probably immediately order a CT scan to check you for a cerebral hemorrhage.”

The old stone home that houses the B&B looks straight out of a fairy tale. It’s drizzling when they pull up and he starts humming a few bars of Alanis Morisette. She catches his eye and he winks at her.

“Rain is considered good luck in Italy and India,” he says.

He fetches their luggage from the trunk of the car and follows her inside. There’s no check-in desk, just a cozy living room with overstuffed floral furniture, a wood-burning fireplace, and Ewan waiting for them.

He’s only a little disappointed when Byers’ cousin turns out to be a gentle-looking older man dressed in a flannel shirt and hiking boots and not a bearded druid priest clad in white robes and a crown of antlers.

“Agents Mulder and Scully,” he says, shaking their hands. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. John has told me so much about you. I’m honored to be a part of your sacred day. Why don’t I show you to your room and give you some time to freshen up before the ceremony?”

He leads them up a creaky flight of stairs to their room. It isn’t much larger than their standard roadside motel room but has far more character. A linen bedspread with Celtic knots woven in emerald thread covers the four-poster bed and there’s a wooden rocking chair in the corner that looks like it’d made the journey from the old country.

“Take your time,” Ewan says as he heads out. “You can meet me downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

After he closes the door behind him, Scully crosses the room to envelope Mulder in an embrace, resting her head under his chin.

“This is perfect,” she mumbles against the fabric of his sweater. “Thank you.”

They take turns using the bathroom and then head back downstairs. Ewan leads them through the B&B’s tidy eat-in kitchen and out the back door.

“Did any ancient mystics speak of the significance of a bride wearing jeans?” Scully whispers to Mulder as they follow Ewan to a clearing in the woods.

“I’m sure if any of them ever got a chance to see what your ass looked like in that pair, white dresses never would’ve made the cut.”

They’re walking hand-in-hand and she gently nudges his upper arm with her shoulder. After months of playing platonic in public, getting to touch her out in the open like this—even with the woods and John Byers’ cousin as their only witnesses—feels like taking a deep breath after being submerged underwater for too long.

“We’ve made it,” Ewan says, leading them to the center of a circle made from small stones. He guides them to stand face to face and take each other’s right hand.

Mulder recalls the first time they touched—shaking her hand on the morning she entered his office. He remembers her fresh-faced energy and how she met all his theories and hunches with fully formed counterarguments; how they improvised the steps of a dance that would become second nature over the years. Locking eyes over their hands, she smiles at him and he knows she’s reliving the same moment.

Despite whatever attempts she made to tame her hair into submission back in DC, the humidity and light drizzle in the woods bring out the soft frizz he loves to run his fingers through. He thinks of a downpour in an Oregon graveyard, the first time the peal of her laugh struck a chord in his soul.

He hands the rope over to Ewan who starts wrapping it around their linked hands and explaining the meaning of the ceremony. The words—commitment, love, intention—wash over him. He knows he could spend years studying the OED, the works of Byron or Neruda, and still never find a combination of letters that describe how much he loves the woman standing in front of him. For two people who rely on words to explain, argue, dispute, and affirm, they’re shockingly bad at expressing what they mean to one another using language. Or perhaps they’d reached as far as words could take them and only stumbled when they had to take the next step without any.

Ewan has looped the cord around their wrists and tied it in a string of nautical-looking knots that make Mulder wonder if Scully is reminded of her father. Ewan has them repeat a series of vows to each other. The words echo through their lips but Mulder knows they can only begin to encapsulate the commitment they’ve already made to each other. There’s no point in the ceremony where they’re instructed to kiss, but he does it anyway when Ewan stops speaking, leaning in to open her lips with his and feel the slick warmth of her mouth. Does it feel different now that they’re married (at least in some spiritual sense)? He isn’t sure, but he plans on conducting more experiments once they’re back in their room alone.

They break apart and Ewan looks up from the ground where he’d been staring in respectful silence.

“A first handfasting represents an engagement or a trial marriage. The ceremony is repeated in a year and a day to formalize the union,” Ewan says. “It’s tradition, I promise. Not just a way to stir up repeat business.”

“Well, same time next year, I suppose. Put us in the books,” Mulder says, looking down at their bound hands and then up at Scully’s wet eyes. She gives him the softest smile and a gentle laugh. A year, a day, and a millennium from now and, he knows, they will still be tied together.

They wear no rings. They sign no papers. Their union isn’t documented in any official records. By the time they get back inside and warm up with cups of coffee, the faint lines left on their wrists by the cord have faded. The interstitial fluid under the skin has redistributed itself, restoring equilibrium, but their internal balance has been forever recalibrated.

***

A year and a day passes. He dies and she brings him back to life. She gives birth to their son and then begs him to leave.

Their anniversary does not find him reunited with her in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains but alone in the desert of New Mexico. Of the few personal belongings he took when he fled, the one he holds most dear is the braided ivory rope she pressed into his hands on their last day together. I’ll bring it back, he vowed.

The cord is yellowed from the oils of his fingertips constantly worrying over it and the dust of the desert, but he holds it tighter on this day. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to safely return to her and to William, but he intends to keep this promise.

#xfiles #txf #the x files #msr #xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #x files

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

Text

Unsolicited 33

Warnings: bad self-thought/talk, bullying, insults, low self-esteem, money problems, oral/noncon, coercion, cum, some untagged sexual and dark elements.

Wouldn’t mind some feedback! Lloyd was driving me nuts so I had to do it. Thank you in advance 💜

Masterlist

The surrealness of your situation remains. Lloyd is almost pleasant, the world is glowing and warm, and you feel…alright. A dull pain lurks behind your brow and your stomach is tenuous at best. But nothing is immediately wrong.

Your sea legs come with time but the queasiness doesn't quite relent. It's manageable. You get up as Lloyd stand gazing out over the water, thoughts unsaid and better so.

You leave the cabin through the open doorway and go to the side. An impending doom nips at the nape of your neck. May as well enjoy the brief respite before it's gone. As all good things, if you can call it that, must.

You think of how Colin would say your pessimism was unnecessary. That not everything was destined to fail. That not everyone was selfish. Look at you now.

If you could thank Lloyd for anything its that he proved all your doubts to be true. There is no goodwill, no generosity, only whatever gets him ahead. He is the essence of humanity. The flaws everyone fights so hard to conceal. His honesty may be brutal but not as painful as Colin's lies.

You give a start as you notice Lloyd in your peripheral. He says nothing as his hands rest on the metal rail. He slides closer until your arms meet. He bends forward, leaning on his forearm as he looks to the horizon.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" He asks.

You stare down into the endless blue. The depths plummet below with fading daylight. You pinch your cheek between your teeth before you find an answer.

"Yeah, but I don't miss him, okay?"

He nods and adjusts his round sunglasses, looking over at you, "so why bother?"

"Ugh, I wish you'd stop."

“I’m just asking.”

“No, you’re trying to egg me on. I’m not stupid. You don’t care. There’s no reason to just ask.”

“You think you know me so well, don’t you, peaches?”

“I do,” you turn to face him, “you’re not that complicated.”

“Neither are you. Not that much different from me, huh? You just don’t let it out.”

“Sure,” you scoff, “I already told you, I’m sorry. About hitting you and everything else–”

“Something about sober thoughts and drunken acts… I don’t know,” he waves his hand at the water, “I’m asking because you’re with me now. I’m wondering– thinking divorce.”

“With you?” You shake your head, “is that what you think? I work for you.”

His mouth slants and he brings his hand up to rub his jaw, “you don’t have to.”

“No. No. I don’t believe you. And you know what, you’re right. I don’t understand. I don’t. I don’t get you, Lloyd. I don’t get this,” you gesture around you, “I don’t get the hotel, the game, the boat, this stupid dress. None of it makes sense. You are not a nice guy.”

He tilts his head back and blows out through his lips. He pushes himself straight and slides off his sunglasses, folding them over his pocket and letting them hang. He faces you with a hand on his belt.

“I’m trying. Never said I was a nice guy. But fuck it if I’m not fucking doing my best.”

You blink in confusion, “why?”

He shows his palm and shrugs, “no fucking idea.”

“Jesus,” you touch your forehead, “I can’t…I can’t think anymore–”

He startles you as he charges at you, grabbing you by the neck as he forces you against the rail. He bends you back over it as you grasp the bar and your toes barely stay on the floor. Your eyes round as he brings his face close to yours, his thumb squeezing just behind your jaw.

“You’re making this difficult.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“I could dump you in. Toss you down there and sail away. No one would ever know. You think that idiot would care? Your fuckstick husband? No, he’d be free. That’s what he’d think,” he pushes you back further, balancing you painfully across the railing, “and who’s going to come looking for you? Daddy left years ago, mommy doesn’t talk to you–”

“Lloyd,” you touch his wrist, “please…”

“I know everything. Everything about you. It’s my job. I don’t miss the details.”

“I get that,” you snap, “if you’re going to do it, do it.”

He glares at you. He dips you over further, further, your hands slipping along the metal. Your feet fly up and your fingers release as the strain throbs in your knuckles. You yelp as he lets you go and you fall towards the water. You lurch suddenly as he catches you by the ankles and dangles you over the side.

“Jesus!” You scream.

“You don’t think I will.”

“I’m wishing you would,” you hit the boat as you try to see past the billowing skirt as it flutters up your torso. You don’t know if the shiver that rolls over you is from the water or fear.

“You talk a big game but I can feel you shaking.”

“Nothing I say is going to change your mind,” you retort, “so why should I try?”

“All you have to do is play along, Mrs. Hansen.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“You could do worse… you have.”

“Drop me or pull me up,” you growl as your head floods with blood, “make up your mind.”

He huffs and for a moment, you think it’s over. You’re convinced he’s going to let you go and the water will swallow you up. He grunts and hauls you up, a little at a time, heaving you over the rail to bring you back to your feet. You sway and steady yourself against him.

Your hand rests on his chest and you feel the fabric of his polo. Your eyes meet his and anger sparks in your throat. You grab his collar and bunch it in your fists, “are you fucking crazy? What the fuck was that?”

“There she is,” he grins, “nice to see you again, honey.”

“God,” you let him go, stretching your fingers wide as you look at your hands in horror, tamping down your rage, “you really are the worst.”

“Don’t you know it,” he reaches for you and you back away, “aw, baby, did I hurt your feelings?”

“Leave me alone,” you fix your skirt as you spin around, “you fucking jackass. I can’t– You really are a coward, you know that!” You storm past him to the cabin, “you keep saying your big shit. Acting like you’re gonna do something then the next minute, you’re all over me. I’ve figured out and it’s not working on me anymore.”

“Trust me, I got a few more tricks up my sleeve,” he trails you into the cabin, “Mrs. Hansen, please, forgive me. I was having fun with you–”

“No, you’re being— you!”

“You know,” he catches your arm and pulls you back to him. Your ankles almost tangle as you’re twirled around to face him, “I could have a skinny Mrs. Hansen. A bleach blond Mrs. Hansen. An international supermodel Mrs. Hansen,” he draws out the last few words, “but I only want this one.” He slaps his hand against your hip and slides it back to grope your ass, “the tasty, thick, fiesty Mrs. Hansen.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you sneer, “I won’t fall for it.”

He chuckles and pulls you against him, his other hand crawling up the back of your neck, “you don’t have to fall for me. In fact, you don’t got a fucking choice. I own you.” He leans in and you push your head back as he spreads his hand across your hair, “you fucking bite me and I actually will throw you in this time.”

He closes the gap and smashes his lips into yours. You hum in surprise, arms trapped between your bodies as he holds you tight. His tongue flicks over your lips and pokes between them, invading your mouth. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his polo and you murmur.

He kisses you, long and deep, trapping you in his embrace until you can’t breathe. He parts at last, his breath glossing over you as he nuzzles your nose with his.

“I’m not a nice guy, Mrs. Hansen,” he whispers, “but I can still be nice.”

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #unsolicited #series #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #the gray man

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poke-me-with-a-stick · 1 year

Text

Chapter 3! A lot of people were wanting this one! If you haven't read the first chapter, check it out!-

https://at.tumblr.com/poke-me-with-a-stick/well-i-did-it-it-took-me-four-hours-but-here-it/zuvamxpyxtj0

And you can find chapter 2 here!-

https://at.tumblr.com/poke-me-with-a-stick/chapter-two-for-the-story-started-by-this/r29nboa6jg2w

Enjoy!

---

Damian wasn't sure what to think. This isn't how he expected his day to go, and that's coming from someone who was quite adept at 'rolling with the punches', as Drake would put it. Days, or nights, tended to vary when it came to the life of a vigilante. And one was not a Robin, let alone the son of Batman, if they weren't able to be flexible. In some cases, quite literally (looking at you, Grayson).

So he started his day as usual, not making any big plans ahead of time incase he was needed, eating breakfast that Alfred provided, keeping his suit with him when he went out to walk Titus. And, lo and behold, he was needed.

Releasing Titus with an order to return home that he knew the dog would follow, he ducked into the nearest store bathroom and changed before rushing to aid his father.

The fight wasn't hard, for a fight against Killer Croc that is. Damian can admit that he was getting a bit cocky. Which was his downfall, as the moment he began to let down his guard, assuming the fight was over, Killer Croc grabbed him by the leg and threw him. Hard.

He thought of many things as he flew through the air. How irresponsible he was to let his guard down, how it went against all of his training with the League, about what he was going to do to get back at that-

It was around this thought when he began to drop. His training kicked in, causing him to flip and angle his feet. He had been to this park before, and knew that there was nothing blocking his way. He would be able to do a perfect roll, then he would be back on his feet and ready to head back to the fight.

Or, at least, there shouldn't have been anything there. But there was. And Damian found himself crashing into a pink- why was the water pink?- birdbath. He was drenched almost immediately, the fountain spraying him as he landed on it, soaking his face and head as he rolled onto the grass.

The liquid seemed to soak into his skin, a sensation that was frighteningly similar to a Lazerus pit, but missing the sense of dread and rage that usually came with the toxic green goo. In its place was a new feeling, one that left him warm, tingly, and light-headed. He groaned as he lay there, struggling to sit up. Why was moving so difficult?

"Are you okay?" A voice called from somewhere above him. He opened his mouth to retort that 'he was perfectly fine, thank you very much, but found his voice gone the moment he looked up. Standing over him, hand outstretched, was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

Fluffy raven black hair and inhumanly bright blue eyes, which stared down at him with genuine concern. There were squirrels clinging to his pants, one poking its head out of his hoodie pocket, and birds perched on the boy's shoulders and head. Sunlight was rare in Gotham, and yet Damian swore that it peeked through the clouds just to give this gorgeous stranger a bright halo.

'He's and angel', Damian couldn't help but think. He continued to stare at the boy, not bothering to answer or get up. He wasn't completely sure his legs would support him if he tried to stand, a fact that should have made him more wary than he was.

His attention was brought back to the boy in front of him when he saw those amazing eyes widen, an expression that was a mix of horrified and mortified crossing his face. "Oh, Ancients," the boy groaned, "it can be applied topically." The teen grabbed his hand and hoisted him to his feet with surprising strength. Straightening, Damian was slightly pleased to find that he was taller. The shorter teen huffed, seemingly looking for something to say. Not giving him much of a chance to answer, Damian brought the teen's hand to his face, gently kissing the bony, pale knuckles. The resulting deep red blush, and squeak the boy made had Damian preening slightly.

As the boy seemed to try and orient himself, a dark figure decended into the clearing just a little ways away from them. He felt a twinge of annoyance as he recognized his father's suit, not wanting the moment he was having to be interrupted just yet.

Luckily, it seemed the teen had the same thought as he did. Well, probably not the same thought, but a solution to the problem he was facing that suited both of them. Damian felt the grip on his hand tightening slightly before they were moving, the boy ducking into the trees, dragging him along, before Batman had the chance to spot them.

Damian happily followed the teen, marveling at the feel of the cold, calloused fingers that occasionally twitched in his hand as they walked. He was content to let this handsome stranger lead him, stride quick and purposeful as he wove through the trees and around bushes.

When they did come to a stop, it was almost half-way across the park from where he originally landed. The boy dropped his hand, much to his disappointment, and began to remove the various wildlife from his person. Damian found himself watching in amusement as he tried- and failed- to remove the birds from his hair, words thst Alfred would never tolerate muttered under his breath as he did his best to avoid their sharp beaks. He did eventually manage to weasel them off, setting them gently on the ground near his feet.

Brushing nonexistent dirt off of himself, the teen glanced at him and the assembled animals before heaving a sigh and pulling not a… gun? At least, Damian thought it was a gun. It looked a bit more high-tech than an average gun, and Damian wondered how the teen had managed to hide something that bulky in his canvas bag. As he began to fiddle with it, he spoke again.

"Okay. As fun as this has been, I should really be going…" He trailed off as he turned away, little beating noises coming from the gun in his hands.

Damian frowned at his words. He was leaving already? "Will you return?" He asked hopefully. He wasn't sure what he would do if the answer was no.

The boy startled at his words, but turned towards him as he answered. Part of Damian was a bit annoyed he didn't look up from his gun. "Ah, no. I don't think I'll ever return to this universe." The boy's words were a bit off-handed, as if he wasn't truly paying much attention to what he was saying. All the while he still refused to look up.

Damian froze at the words. That was not what he had wanted to hear. Not at all. His mind glossed over the 'this universe' part, and instead focused on the part where he said that he didn't think he'd ever return.

While he wasn't the most calm and reasonable person in his family, Damian did have a reputation of being rational most of the time. This was not one of those moments. His body acted before his mind could, pulling his katana free of it's sheath and cutting down in one, smooth arch. The device in the boy's hands fell to the ground in two pieces, leaving the teen to stare at it in shock.

"No." Damian stated afterwards, grabbing the boy's arm and tossing him over his shoulder. "I won't let you." He began sprinting, no real idea of where to go in mind, just the fact that he needed himself and the teen away. Quite quickly the Robin found himself outside of the park and tearing down the streets. The very crowded streets.

People of Gotham were generally used to the weird shit that happened on an almost daily basis, but seeing Robin carrying a teen on his shoulder, away from the park, on the ground, in broad daylight? That definitely garnered him more attention than he wanted at the moment.

"Tt." He sneered at the people who had begun to rummage around their pockets for their phones, pulling his grappling hook out from his belt and swinging up to the rooftops for better stealth. The boy still hadn't reacted to his sudden kidnapping, the only action telling Damian that he was still conscious was when he felt hands grip his cloak tightly, right at his lower back. Despite the highly- effective insulation his suit and cape had, he could still feel those icy fingers through the bunched cloth. It made Damian wonder if he was a meta with some sort of ice power. It was something that could wait, though. Right now, he needed to focus on where he was, and where he could go.

His first thought was to take the boy back to the Batcave, but he quickly dismissed it. While that would be the perfect place to keep him from leaving, and to get some answers, his family was there. And they would have even more questions than he did. No, the Batcave wouldn't do. Maybe one of the safehouses?

He looked around, taking note of where he was and trying to remember if there were any safe houses in this direction. A vague memory of Red Hood showing him a map on his phone surfaced. He nodded to himself and jumped, aiming for the alleyway below. Landing lightly, he peered around the corner, making sure that no one was here, before turning and unlocking the door hidden by a dumpster.

It was only once he was inside that he set the boy down, placing him gently onto the bland brown couch. Seeing his face for the first time since picking him up, Damian expected to see anger or fear. Instead he saw a vague look of shock and confusion. But he wasn't freaking out, not that he could tell at least. Something in him warmed at the fact that he was so calm. A level head was quite admirable.

Turning away from the teen, he headed into the kitchen. Opening the first cabinet, he was meet with dishes. Cheep plates, bowls, cups, and mugs. The next cabinet over had an array of different dry boxed foods, but he was looking for something specific. A pleased hum escaped him as he found a small tin of tea behind a box of crackers.

The motions of making tea soothed away the remaining tension in his body, heating water and steeping the bags, and pouring into mugs. He let out a sigh the scent wafted from the mugs. This wasn't his favorite blend, but it was good for calming nerves, or so Alfred said. Something sweet and slightly tangy. Picking up the two mugs, he made his way back to the teen.

The boy hadn't moved from where he was sat down, resting his head in his hands. He looked up as Damian approached, carefully taking the mug that was offered to him. He glanced at it, but made no move to drink it. Instead the teen seemed to observe him, taking in his vigilante suit, along with any physical features that were visible. Usually such scrutiny would have Damian bristling, moving to take such close attention off of himself, but with him, he found that he didn't mind one bit.

Still… Damian frowned at the boy. "You should drink that." He said, bringing his own mug to his lips and taking a long drink. The boy copied his actions, taking a sip from the mug. He watched the boy blink in surprise at the taste before setting it down on the table. Damian took another long sip from his drink, observing the teen much like he was just observed.

The birds from the park had followed them here, which was very odd. They nibbled and pulled at the boy's hair, pulling out small bits of leaf litter and debri he had picked up on their trek. His clothes consisted of a Nasa hoodie, obviously loved jeans, and a pair of ratty red and white running shoes. Under the dim lamplight of the living room, his skin looked exceedingly pale, almost sickly. And his bright blue eyes seemed to glow, as he purposefully kept his eyes fixed on the tabel.

His eyes weren't the only thing that gave away his nerves, though. His hands bounced along his knees, the only thing making noise in the quiet of the safehouse. It wasn't hard at all to hear the little sigh he let out as he stood. Clearing his throat, he turned towards Damian, but had his body angled towards the door. "Well, as much fun as this has been, I really do need to get going."

Damian stood up as well. "No." He said simply. The boy froze as Damian took his hand.

"N-no?" He repeated. Damian sat him back down, putting himself between the door and the boy.

"No." He repeated firmly. "I don't want you to go."

The boy looked up at him, confused again. "Why not?" He asked. Damian had to stop himself from scoffing.

Instead he turned away taking a moment to reign in these new, strong emotions. When he turned back, his expression was cold. "You said you weren't going to back."

The teen's face stalled, before he groaned. "Of course, the potion." He mumbled quietly. His palm met his forehead with a strong, painful sounding slap. Scowling, Damian grabbed the boy's wrist, pulling it away from his face and into his lap, huffing slightly. A light blush spread across the boy's pale face, turning his cheeks a very attractive shade of pink. He waited for the boy to explain himself, admiring the 'view' he had as he waited.

"Of course!" He suddenly exclaimed, startling Damian as he dove for his bag. He watched carefully as the boy rummaged through his bag. "What are you looking for?" Damian asked warily.

The teen didn't answer him, continuing to dig until he found what he was looking for. With a quiet 'aha!' he pulled a book from the bag, and for a moment Damian could have sworn the boy had fangs. Instead of fear or suspicion though, all Damian felt was intrigue.

But he turned his focus back to the boy's find. He eyed the book with a healthy amount of suspicion. It radiated the same feel as the artifacts that Zatana and Constantine handled. A tingling feeling in the air, something significantly other about it. He didn't trust it, not without knowing what it was. The birds, that were also startled by the teen's sudden movement, settled back on the boy's shoulders and head, one of the Bluejays pulling harshly on a lock of raven hair. The boy didn't seem to register it, but Damian shot a glare at it anyways.

Setting his mug down on the tabel, Damian moved closer to the boy, peering over the teen's shoulder as he began to flip through the pages. None of the writing made since to him, the script shifting constantly in a Latin-like dialect.

He stopped on a page, his finger following along as he, presumably, read the strange shifting script. "Aha! Here it is!" He stated excitedly.

"What is it?" Damian asked. He was beginning to get impatient. He hated being left in the dark. The boy glanced over at him, letting out a small squeak at how close their faces were. Looking back down at the book with a slightly deeper blush than before, the boy cleared his throat and began to explain.

"Back at the park, you landed in a bird fountain filled with pink liquid, remember?" Damian nodded. That was what had happened. "Well, that was a love potion. And I got the potion recipe from this book." He lifted the book as imphasis. "So, I figured that if this was a potions book, then there had to be a potion that would cancel the effects of the potion that's influencing you right now!"

Damian sat back slightly, brows furroing as he thought over this new information. 'It makes sense,' he thought. 'Usually I wouldn't be this…out of control.' He glanced over at the boy, who was looking over what he could only assume was a potions recipe. Just to be sure, he asks what he thinks he already knows. "So you're saying that my actions aren't my own at the moment?"

The boy hummed in acknowledgement, setting the book on the table and turning to look at him. "Ueah. You're under the influence of a love potion right now. You aren't actually in love with me." Damian scowled at that, a protest welling up in his throat, but he remained quiet, letting the boy continue. "And the dose you got dunked in always a pretty big one. So any emotions you feel towards me, your actual emotions or not, are going to feel… amplified for as long as the potion remains in effect."

Damian huffed at the boy's words, but thought them over. While it was true that his emotions were a bit much, from what he usually experienced, he also didn't feel wildly out of control. He found it hard to believe that the emotions he felt were all fake. He wouldn't be so infatuated with someone without it having some sort of founding, potion or not. Yes, maybe some of this interest was artificial, but the thought of all of it being fake didn't seem possible. He was an Ah Ghul. He was taught for most of his life how to handle his emotions, as well as his mental and physical states. An assassin must be in control of themselves all the time, after all.

The silence between the two stretched on, only broken by those birds that had followed them, until Damian spoke again. "I don't believe you." He said, c quite confident in his evaluation of himself. The boy's face dropped, a look of exasperation crossing his lovely features. "While I do believe what you say about the 'love potion', I don't believe that all my feelings are false."

The boy looked at him, confused once again. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"I mean, that I know myself." Damian stated. "While you may be telling me the truth about being 'under the influence', as you put it, I believe that I would know if something was tampering with my emotions."

The boy sighed. "Alright," his expression was carefully blank as he spoke. "Then what now?"

Damian rubbed his hand along his lower jaw. "Now, I will help you." He stated plainly. There was nothing else he could do, aside from keeping the teen locked in a safe house for the foreseeable future. While he wasn't opposed to that idea, it wouldn't be the best. His family would get curious eventually, and it was obvious what the boy thought about the situation as it was now.

"Help me? With what?" The teen asked stupidly.

"With the antidote." Damian responded resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Not that the boy would have been able to see it anyways. "I will help you get whatever you need." The boy's expression lightened. "But," Damian added, "I won't stop trying to convince you that my feelings are real." He counted it as a win when all the teen did was shrug in response.

"Well, if we're going to be working together," the teen looked at him. "What do I call you?." Damian stood up, being careful to keep his body between the teen and the door. He didn't seem to be trying to leave at the moment, but one could never be too sure.

"In costume you can call me Robin," Damian said, his hands lifting towards his face. "But my real name is-" the teen moved suddenly, leaping forwards at a speed that would be impossible for most, and slapped one hand across his mouth, the other batting his hands away from his mask.

"No, don't just reveal you identity to me." The kid spoke, his voice firmer than it had been a few moments prior. "No big reveals until after I get you the antidote. I would rather you be in your right mind if you do that."

Damian huffed, but lowered his hands. He had no doubt that he wanted the teen to know, but…

"Tt." He responded with a scowl. "Fine, if it makes you feel better, my identity will stay secret. For now."

The boy sighed in relief before offering his hand. "It's nice to meet you Robin. I'm Danny." Damian took the boy's -Danny's- hand, giving it a firm shake. Danny smiled at him slightly. When he felt Danny's hand loosen around his, Damian held it tighter, bringing it up to his mouth and planting a kiss on the boy's cold knuckles. He couldn't help but smirk when Danny let out a small, startled noise and yanked his hand back. With a sigh, the boy returned to his book. Damian left him to it, walking back into the kitchen.

If there was one thing he knew, it's that his family wouldn't let him go off and help this stranger without a word. And if he knew his brothers, they would be seeking him out regardless. The best thing he could do was call in. 'Hopefully father will keep them from doing anything rash.'

Turning on his comm piece, Damian winced as his ear filled with static. Hurriedly he pulled the comm out, rubbing his ear as he glared at the small black bud. 'Odd, our equipment almost never breaks.' Puzzled, and a bit annoyed, Damian slipped the bud into one of his utility belt pouches. It didn't matter if the comm was fried, they always kept spares hidden around. Especially in safe houses.

It wasn't hard to find one, pulling out the fake bottom of one of the kitchen drawers. Comm in hand, he went further into the apartment for a bit more privacy.

Turning it on, he tuned it onto the public channel and was immediately greeted with a worried-sounding Oracle. "Robin! Oh, thank God! Are you alright? Where are you?"

"Tt." Damian scoffed. "I can assure you, I am fine." Better than fine, actually. But she didn't need to know the specifics. "I was only checking in. Let the others know that I will be busy for a while." With that, he shut the comm off again, ignoring Oracle's protests. With that done, he returned to the living room.

Danny was sitting on the couch again, mug drained of tea and scribbling on a sheet of paper. He looked up as Damian entered, stretching a bit as he set the pencil down. Damian glanced over the paper. "Is this everything?" He asked.

Danny nodded. "Yeah. That's all the ingredients." He grabbed the book and shoved it back into his bag and stood up. Grabbing their mugs, Damian took them to the kitchen before returning, looking the teen over.

"Are you ready?" He asked, holding out his hand. Danny nodded, takingnhis hand and following Damian out the door. Damian surveyed the alleyway before crouching down. "We'll have to travel by roof, if we want to avoid attracting too much attention." He told the boy. The teen grimaced, but didn't protest as he was lifted onto Damian's back. He weighed very little, a fact that he would have registered before, had he not been in such a panic about Danny leaving forever. It was worrying, how little effort it took to carry him. Sure, he was a Robin, and could lift a lot more than one person if need be, but he could barely feel the teen on his back.

Ignoring that for now (he was definitely going to bring that up later-) he aimed his grapple towards the nearest roof, and they were off.

—

"Nothing?" Dick asked Tim, hovering beside the man as he typed away at the Batcomputer. They had, after an hour of persuasion, convinced Bruce to go upstairs for a bit. In his absence, the two, along with occasional input from Oracle, had been working hard to find their missing brother.

"Not even the body cameras!" Tim groaned, his head hitting the desk in front of him with a light thump. "They aren't turned off, but the feed is so messed up that I can't get anything useful!" He pulled up a tab that showed nothing but static and the occasional random shape, the entire thing covered in a blue-green haze. "And his comm is still offline. I can't even track its last location, it just pings off everything!" His head remained on the table, and a small part of Dick was glad about that. He already had one brother missing, he didn't need a second with a head injury.

He opened his mouth to responded, but was cut off suddenly by a frantic Oracle. "Guys! Damian just called me on a backup comm!"

Both batboys straightened and stared at the screen, full business mode. "What did he say?" Dick asked.

"He said that he was okay, and that he was going to be busy for a while." Oracle's frantic typing could be heard over the comm, a testimate to how much she didn't believe the words.

Dick and Tim shared a look. "Did he say anything else?" Tim asked.

"No," the answer was quick but a bit hesitant. Like she wasn't focused fully on the conversation. Knowing her, she probably wasn't. "Dammit!" She cursed suddenly, making both men jump. "I can't even track the backup comm. Unless he has a signal scrambler on him, he shouldn't be able to do that." They shared another glanced this one worried. It usually took quite a bit to make Barbra this frustrated.

Something beeped on the Batcomputer, making both Tim and Barbra snap to attention. "What is that?" Dick asked.

Tim answered him this time. "We set an algorithm to scan through CCTV footage and alert us if it found Damian." He pulled up said footage, showing Damian room hopping with a slightly blurred figure on his back. He dipped in and out of frame for a solid minute before the camera lost track of him.

"Where was that?" Dick asked.

"I'll send you the coordinates." Oracle responded. He nodded, even though she couldn't see it, and made his way to the changing room. Re-emerging a few minutes later, Nightwing headed towards the last place his little brother was seen.

–

It was an hour later when Nightwing finally found his missing brother. Crouched on a rooftop, looking at a piece of… paper? He didn't get a good look, because the moment he landed Robin was on his feet, tossing his cape over his back and shoving the paper into one of his belt pouches.

"Baby Bat! We've been so worried!" Dick ignored how his brother was acting, slinging an arm over his shoulders. Or, he tried to. Robin ducked before his arm made contact. Nightwing frowned, but didn't say anything as he eyed his youngest brother with concern.

"Tt." Robin practically snarled at him. Straightening with his signature scowl, he eyed Nightwing with disdain. "What are you doing here, Nightwing?" He demanded, pulling one of his knives free and brandishing it threateningly at the man.

Nightwing raised his hands in a plactating manner. "Easy Robin!" He cautioned the teen. He watched the boy put a bit more distance between them, one hand reaching up to his shoulder. Before he could get a good look at what the teen was reaching for, one of Damian's knives flew past him. Strangely, he didn't see Robin move, but there was no one else here, from what he could see anyways. He ignored it, focusing solely on his brother.

"You gave us all quite a scare, Robin." He sat down on the edge of the roof, letting Robin maintain his distance for now.

Despite the mask, Dick could see Damian's confusion and agitation. "I told Oracle I was fine." He growled, sheathing his knife but not coming any closer.

"You disappear after a fight, no word and no way to track you. Why wouldn't we worry?" Dick raised an eyebrow at the teen.

"Well, you've seen me now. As you can tell, I am fine. Now, I have something I need to do." The teen walked over to the other side of the roof, peering down into the alley below.

"Hold it, Baby Bat." Nightwing jumped to his feet, closing the distance in a few long, paced steps. "You have to come home! You can't just run off without letting anyone know where you are!" He grabbed Robin's shoulder, briefly pausing at how cold and bony it felt, before Damian whipped around, grabbing his arm and twisting.

Releasing Robin's shoulder with a pained noise, he had no chance to block as Damian released his arm and gripped a bit higher. Before he could really register what was happening, Robin had flipped him over the edge of the roof. Acting on instinct, Nightwing reached out and caught the railing of the nearest fire escape.

Quickly, he made his way back up to the roof. But Robin was gone, no trace of him left on the roof. Sighing, Nightwing crouched back down, rubbing his sore shoulder. This wasn't going to be easy, was it?

Standing, he made his way back to the Batcave. Maybe if he got there quickly enough, he could keep the footage of this moment from reaching the group chat.

The buzzing from his pocket told him he was already too late.

---

(I know there might be spelling and grammar errors, but I tried my best. That's all that matters!)

I'm thinking of naming this story 'Articficial Wingman', what do you guys think?

To all the people who wanted to be tagged in the next update, as well as the lovely person who wrote the prompt for this story:

@halfblackwolfdemon @manapeer @xxwintrynightzxx @im-totally-not-an-alien-2 @blu-lilac @academicpurposes @secretdestinywerewolf @passivedecept @naluforever3 @postit-nope @spiteismymiddlename @2t-productions @plague-daisy @feet-achy @bubblecookies16 @thesapphiredragon13 @justwannabecat @magicalcollecter @adeniumdream @amuseofminds @lupagrim @readerkayden @dr-syko-pharm-4 @ladythugs @angelheartgamer @markthespot68 @kyrianclawraith @michikoy-yuki @servasvictoria02 @your-emo-nightmare @vala-dreams @scarlett-green-rose @t1dwarrior-of-earth @charlie-the-frogie @akikoyuii @mysticalcomputerdetective @roseuniverse999 @im-totally-not-an-alien

#danny phantom #dc x dp #batman #batman x danny phantom #danny phantom x dc #dead serious #danny phantom x damian wayne #danny phantom x batfam #love potion #miscommunication

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r0-boat · 1 month

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Heyy, may I request just a grusha x female (or gender neutral if you’d like) reader smut fic? You can do whatever you want with it, creative freedom’s all yours!

🥺🥺 bestie

Creative freedom?! For me??

Don't mind if do!

Warm me please

Cw: cock warming, temperature play ish, Yandere behavior, toxic behavior, stalking, horror

Yuki-onna!Grusha x Gn!reader

Blankets of snow cover the ground, trees covered in frost, twinkling spears of ice dangle from its delicate branches. Beautiful yet harsh; a silent killer for those who do not know the dangers among the seeming pure white.

The wind carries the snowflakes pelting you in the face. You raise your arm in hopes it would stop the onslaught to no avail. Your body screams for warmth but you will yourself to keep going. With each breath you take, the snowfall laced with deadly cold air chokes you. But you had to keep going.

For the thing that lurks in the snow and the blizzard is coming.

Having just escaped your icy prison, you’re on the run. And your captor is chasing you.

And this winterland is his hunting ground. He knows the snowy mountains like the back of his hand.

Your heart stops as the snow fall begins to pick up into a blizzard. The wind whips the snow so hard it’s very difficult to keep moving.

In the howling wind, you hear a crunch, the sound of snow falling onto the ground.

Don't look behind you.

Don't look behind you!

Your curiosity gets the better of you as you slowly turn your head, taking just a glance behind you.

A figure, a silhouette coming for you.

Your heart jumps in your stomach turning fast. The snow is thick and you’re freezing but you force your legs to move hoping that the adrenaline of being caught is enough strength.

However the silhouette is far faster. At first glance it appears so far away but in no time you feel a hand grabbing the back of your throat. Enough strength stopping you dead in your tracks. His voice, his breath, his hand snakes around the front of your throat, you feel as hot breath against your neck. Well it's called fingers dig into your flesh.

"You didn't think I'd catch you did you?"

You try to stifle your crying but it only makes the hand around you tighten.

"Answer me." He whispers in a threatening tone. All you could do is shake your head.

Your answer satisfies him.

"Do you know how dangerous it is out here? You aren't wearing anything you would have froze to death if I hadn't found you." His grip tightens once again. It’s getting harder to breathe. But he doesn't care, lifting you up in his arms. You see his warm smile, his icy blue eyes and his blue hair.

"Let's go home," with no more oxygen you black out.

Only to wake up wrapped in a black blanket on a rug warm fire in the same cabin you tried to escape from. Your head is killing you and your body feels numb as you try to sit up, gazing ideally into the fire. Your body shakes, not because you are cold, but because you notice the metal chain attached to your leg, bolted against a metal plate screwed into the floor. A pair of arms wrap around you.

"I had to. You disobeyed me and escaped, I did this for your own safety."

His fingertips, ice cold, move underneath the yard blanket, caressing your naked skin. You haven't even realize you were naked.

"Stealing my coat and scarf too? I have to admit it looked cute on you, but not when you are 10 ft away from me. You won't be needing them anymore or any clothes for that matter…" The ice demon purrs before grabbing your blanket and ripping it off you. Grusha lifts you with ease, placing you in his lap. It's cold body against your warm one.

"Mmh. Your warm body feels so good. You gave me quite a scare. You felt so cold, as though you were going to die." His breath quickens.

"Don't. Ever do that to me again."

"I'm sorry.” You could only murmur. His eyes widen until he busts out into laughter, a crazed laugh.

"Your pathetic apology isn't enough, my dear. As priceless as it was, I have to punish you." Grusha pulls you closer to him; your back pressing against his bare chest

You feel his cock press against you, naked, it’s the only realization that you aren’t the only one without clothes.

His fingers play with your heated core, cold clashing with warmth, making you squirm, but he holds you in place firmly. He won't let you escape not this time. Not ever.

Besides his inflamed hot cock, his entire body chilling you.

"So warm" Grusha mumbles. Your warm body is intoxicating but it wasn't enough; Grusha needed more. Obsessed with how warm and soft humans are. He craves the heat between your legs. To be inside you and envelop himself in your hot body. To burn himself up in your wet warm walls and fill you with his own warmth.

The ice spirit rocks himself against you, his fingers digging into your thighs. He wraps an arm around your legs, lifting you up, his other hand stroking is cock, maneuvering it underneath you, his tip now prodding you open.

"Fuck…" He mutters, his breath tickling your ear, as his cock finally pushes inside you.

Grusha's breath hitches, his cock is twitching inside you, feeling you squirm in his lap.

"Stop, don’t move…this is supposed to be a punishment. Sit here and keep me warm."

You obey, staying still, his rigid cold body against your soft skin, aching cock deep inside you. Pressing so tightly against you. You could feel every ripple of his muscles.

Your eyes try not to focus on his dick stretching you out and instead focus on the huge scar on his pale skin. Trying not to focus on how close he is to you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his hands all over your chest rubbing your sides, cold fingers tracing over your nipples. His teeth and tongue occasionally nipping and tasting the shell of your ear.

"Your heartbeat… I can feel it; I can hear it.

So alive, so warm. Been so long since I've had one so comforting. Never leave me again."

"Never leave me cold again."

#smut #pokemon x reader #pokemon grusha #grusha x reader #gym leader grusha #pokemon fanfiction #pokemon imagines #pokemen

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reds-skull · 5 months

Text

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PREV PART] [AO3]

This one was really difficult for me, had to cut out a whole page and restart at one point, still not 100% happy with it. Gonna go start the next one to see what needs to be fixed.

Ghost was in Limbo, the vast emptiness feeling… off. He couldn’t see a single unfortunate soul, the void a vacuum, taking away his breath. It was… quiet.

He takes a step forward, and the splashing at his feet attracts his attention.

Despite how Limbo is quite literally nothing, Ghost always compared it in his mind to an ocean, vast and unrelenting, hiding horrors underneath its surface.

Limbo’s ocean is made of blood now.

He continues walking, with no end and no beginning. The air warms slowly, a low light emanating in the distance.

“Ghost?” a voice whispers to him. Something bright ignites in his chest, and he quickens his pace.

A silhouette covers the light, a man, several holes shining through his torso.

“Ghost?” it calls to him again, Ghost now recognizing the words are coming from the man.

Blue eyes, candle-light fingers, soft smile. A fire to warm his freezing being.

Ghost looks down.

Broken body, missing limbs, oozing wounds, blood, blood, blood-

“Ghost!”

He shoots up, breathing heavily. Ghost looks around, his hands wrapped around another’s. Flames lick his fingers. Johnny.

He lets go of the Sergeant’s hands, and shifts backwards until his back hits the wall.

Soap takes a step back, “sorry, thought ye had a nightmare…”

Ghost takes a deep breath, the first since he woke up, “I was.”

He blinks rapidly to try and focus on the digital clock in the room. They slept for barely 2 hours before Ghost’s mind decided to torment him.

“Did I wake you up?”

Johnny exhales and runs a hand through his messy hair, “no uh… thought something grabbed my- never mind that” He looks back at Ghost, with more concern than he knows what to do with, “ye wanna… talk about it?”

“No.”

“Aye, I figured…”

Soap lifts the blanket Ghost didn’t realize he kicked off in his sleep and places it back on the bed, slowly smoothing the creases. Johnny’s warmth is still present after he returns to his own bed. Ghost gathers the fabric close to his heart.

He holds tight onto it until the blanket cools completely.

The next day brings with it a mountain of work, preparations for the capture of El Sin Nombre. Laswell and the Vaqueros are working on finding an opening to catch him alone.

Sin Nombre’s gang is home to many revenants, including himself. They rather not face them all at the same time.

As it were, they need to be prepared for anything. It’s all hands on deck for this one, the entire 141, which is composed of the strongest revenants in the British army, the Los Vaqueros, with immense experience fighting against El Sin Nombre, and Shadow Company, bringing in tech Ghost have never even heard of.

After a few days, they find a lead - one of Sin Nombre’s Lugarteniente has a son, whose hosting a birthday party in 10 days. The party will be a meeting place for El Sin Nombre and one of his clients. The soldiers will split into two teams: Bravo will create a distraction at the party, making El Sin Nombre flee, and Romeo will catch the man before he reaches transport.

It’s far from perfect, about a million things could go wrong, and it hinges on the fact that none of El Sin Nombre’s gang members have abilities that surpass theirs. But it’s the best they got.

Just gotta live with the shit hand they were dealt.

Alejandro is especially fiery today, shouting commands for his soldiers to clear one of the training grounds for them.

Both him and the Captain agreed it would be best for the teams to train together using their powers in preparation for the mission. Ghost couldn’t agree more - last thing they need is confusion on field.

He watches the soldiers clear the grounds, waiting rigidly at the sidelines. He notices Garrick staring at him from above.

The Sergeant was extremely surprised when informed of the newest revelation on Limbo. Ghost could see how hard it was for him to hold his tongue and not ask questions.

He himself has many, the majority of them boil down to ‘how will visiting Limbo affect Soap?’. For now, it appears as though nothing changed, Ghost keeping a close eye on the Scot.

He used to be worried when the Sergeant was sleeping underneath him, far from his sight, where inky hands could drag him away and he’ll be oblivious.

He worries less every morning Johnny greets him with a grin.

They’re watching Rodolfo freeze the entire field in a blink of an eye, creating ice sheets from sheer air, when Soap jumps next to him shrieking, “fuckin’ hell LT! The fuck’s that?!”.

Ghost looks at what his Sergeant is pointing at, and watches the inky hands grasp at his shoes. He automatically stomps them before stopping.

“You can see them?” his eyes widen.

Soap huffs, “clearly, sir. Gave me a hell of a scare.”

Price looks over to them, “what’s the matter between you two?”

Ghost takes a step back, “no… that’s not fuckin’ possible.”

“Simon.” Price frowns, talking to him privately using his powers.

Ghost locks eyes with him, “Limbo changed him.”

“... Ghost?” Johnny looks at him concernedly.

Price calms him, “he’s not hurt. Even if he’s… different now. Don’t panic.”

Ghost sighs, filing his concern for a later point. “Eyes up, Sergeant, learn from the others.”

Soap obviously catches his attempt to deflect, but obeys regardless, “aye sir.”

Alejandro certainly knows how to put on a good show. When a firing squad stepped up and lined their guns at him, Soap and Gaz quietly stiffened. Price was calm, bastard already knew what will happen. And as for himself, well, he had a sort of morbid curiosity.

Alejandro commands them, “FIRE!”

A hail of bullets slices through the air, their destination Alejandro’s body. They miss their mark, however, and pass through him as if he’s made of air.

Alejandro rushed ahead and swiftly disarms his soldiers. Rodolfo chuckles next to Gaz, “show off.” he smiles fondly.

Garrick turns to ask him, “how did he die to get that power?”

The Vaquero dims, “got captured and locked in a cell.” Rodolfo clears his throat, “won’t happen a second time, that’s for certain.”

None of them will die again from what killed them once, their Reapers made sure of it.

“Alright Kyle”, Price pats Gaz’s shoulder, “showtime”.

Garrick groans, “how on earth am I supposed to top that…”

When it comes to Soap’s turn, Graves and a couple of his Shadows join the spectators. Ghost mentally sighs, and hopes the American will keep his mouth shut for once.

“Who’s about to go now?” Graves asks Price. There goes his hope.

“Sergeant MacTavish.”

Graves laughs, “heard he was just on defusal teams for years. What’s he gonna do, show how immune he is to black powder?”

Ghost glares at the tosser, but doesn’t say a word. Johnny has enough power to surpass the American’s biggest guns, he’s sure of it.

Soap has asked Alejandro for a defunct tank from their training grounds. The sight of Gaz literally carrying it on one hand was quite amusing.

His Sergeant searches the crowd, until their eyes meet, and he gives him a small smile.

The explosion following not a minute later is so powerful it shakes the earth, making a few soldiers stumble. Ghost turns to examine Graves’ reaction, smug and proud of Johnny.

Graves looks impressed, but there’s a shred of something that unsettles Ghost.

The American’s eyes are wide with hunger.

The Vaqueros around him cheer and laugh, but he’s far too occupied with the emotions passing over Graves’ features.

They left him for last, and now he stands alone in the field, the wind teasing his clothes.

Price gives him the go ahead, and he blinks.

Limbo bursts out of him in a wave, slowly taking over the rest of the world.

The residents of Limbo walk towards him, lift their arms to the light wisps that circle him. They’re calm today, Ghost muses.

His victims always chase his light, trying to steal it for themselves, as if that will bring them any solace.

He’s about to return to earth, when they all snap their head to one direction.

The dark, inky figures stare at whatever attracted their attention before howling and running at it, away from Ghost.

He rapidly severs Limbo from the real world.

He wonders what the fuck they were after as he blinks away the inky realm. The ground under his feet is painted black, and several footprint trails go away from him…

Straight at Soap, who backed away and barely avoided the dark earth.

“No one ever went into Limbo and left alive…” He thinks of what he told Soap yesterday.

It appears that Limbo isn’t happy that one fated victim escaped it…

Johnny won’t survive a second visit, Ghost realizes then. What happened that day cannot repeat itself.

They got lucky once. It won’t happen again.

He hurriedly walks back to base, ignoring the others attempts at calling him back.

Show’s over.

He wonders about for a while, after Price orders him to clear his head.

Easy to fucking say, for a telepath. He thinks of what his Reaper said, not for the first time today. If Soap is supposed to bring his demise… why does it seem like Ghost is destroying him?

Ghost’s heart sours. Could his Reaper been wrong?

He almost runs into a man while lost in grim thoughts. The soldier tells him, “easy, hermano. All good?” and Ghost recognizes him as Rodolfo.

He stops and nods slowly. “You seem to have a lot on your mind, Fantasma” Rodolfo looks him over, “care to share?”

No, Ghost thinks. But the genuine look in Rodolfo’s eyes makes him consider. With the amount of revenants in Las Almas, perhaps the man knows of a case like his.

Ghost inhales, “you’ve seen what happened in training today.”

The Vaquero nods. “Something changed… in Soap.” Ghost crosses his arms. “My powers affected him somehow. Do you know if that happened to anyone else before?”

Rodolfo lets out a breath, “can’t say I do…”

Of course, why would he have something useful-

“But I could ask my Reaper.”

Ghost raises his eyebrows, before realizing the motion is hidden, “you can summon it?”

Rodolfo chuckles, “mine is a little more… chatty? Than most.”

“I’d… appreciate it.” He murmurs.

The Sergeant Major smiles, “was wanting to make it up to you, since what I’ve said in the car. I truly didn’t mean to offend you, hermano.”

Ghost tilts his head. Why would he care? “Water under the bridge, Rodolfo.”

“Call me Rudy”.

They both walk to mess when they pass by some Shadows training, running in almost unnerving synchronization.

“Something’s off about the gringos…” Rudy glances at them.

Now that he’s been thinking about it, Ghost hasn’t talked to a single one of them, beside their commander. They act more like robots than humans.

The group continues running, kicking up dust.

The two of them continue on their path.

Rudy excuses himself after they finish eating, telling Ghost he’s going to talk to his Reaper.

Soap takes the sit next to him and stares at him for a moment before talking, “something’s wrong, isn’t it? With Limbo.”

Ghost looks around to check no one is paying attention to their conversation and leans in, “it’s not Limbo, Johnny. It’s you.”

He continues, “I don’t know what yet, but I swear to you, Soap, I will fix it.”

Guilt weighs heavy on him and his Sergeant’s gaze heavier. The Scot lifts a hand, and hesitates before patting Ghost’s bicep. The contact burns through his clothes.

“I trust you.” He smiles beautifully.

Why, Ghost wants to ask. But he’s too enchanted by those blue eyes to voice his confusion.

The burn moves across his chest, as Soap gets up and sprints into Gaz, making him stumble and hover precariously mere inches above the floor.

Sometimes he worries his heart might be malfunctioning near Johnny.

Soap is changing >_> for the better or for worse?

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ecoamerica · 24 days

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youtube

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tanith-rhea · 1 year

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Only Pretending #5

Ok, here we go, @anti-bright-places, @the-bagel24, @regalbootie, @tundra1029, @thoroughly-confused, @lilsmeaux, @poorwritingandstalecoffee, @alder-saan, @jelly-frogss, @enchantressb, @imean-its-just-me, @lvinhs, @iloveyall-18, @kimiinou, @jeweleegrey, thank you, people, so much, I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 3.6k Authors note: this one took me so long because I was debating causing trouble or playing safe. You can decide which one I chose.

You could kill Morticia then and there, but you didn’t, because it would be much nicer to see her choke on her own tongue at just how intimate you could be with Larissa… from a faking point of view.

She came out of the shower not much longer and you didn’t mention your brief encounter with her former roommate. You knew it would be better to warn her about Morticia’s possible suspicion, but it seemed to be nothing more than her trying to push your buttons instead of thinking you weren’t together.

“Are you almost done?” you asked when it was close to nine and she was still applying makeup.

She only looked at you with a mildly annoyed expression and you realized this was very important to her. Maybe you should have told her about the time restriction.

“I don’t mind you taking your time, it’s just that dinner will be served at nine.” You shrugged, trying to make it sound less important.

“What? Why didn’t you tell me!” she changed from annoyed to bewildered in an instant and you cringed from causing her to feel that way, “I still have to apply eyeliner and it takes me a century to get it right!” She put down her lipstick and leant her forehead on the tip of her fingers.

“I can do it! I used to do the girl’s makeup at uni all the time and I got quite good at it.” It was true, and while your heart was still slightly racing from her previous exasperation, you felt a little calmer knowing you could fix at least a bit of the situation.

Larissa eyed you sideways, her face sulky and quite adorable with her lips pressed firmly together before giving up.

“Okay, fine. Do it. But you should have told me sooner, you absolute-“ she cut herself suddenly.

You arched one eyebrow at her, picking up on the spot of colour rising on her neck, and approached to pick her eyeliner from her makeup organizer. “You absolute what?” you teased as she turned to face you. You sat at the vanity, diagonally to her.

“Forget it, I wasn’t going anywhere with it.” She only mumbled, lifting her chin for your hand to secure it.

You held her face firmly, but gently, with your thumb underneath her chin and index along her jaw. She smelt sweetly of roses, as she always did, and you leaned forward to look at her closely while painting the line close to her lashes.

It was so very difficult to concentrate, but your desire to please her and make her feel beautiful won over. You loved her deep blue irises, their outer lines darker as the border of a watercolour, and having the power to draw attention to them felt intoxicating. You were given the most beautiful canvas and told to make people see it.

“All done.” You whispered when it was over, absentmindedly caressing her cheek.

You smiled softly, contemplating your handiwork with pride. Larissa’s eyes were fixed on yours; she looked deep in thought for a moment, then snapped right back with several blinks and a deep breath.

“Thank you,” she sounded a bit hoarse, and you wondered if she would catch a cold from coming from the steamy bathroom into your colder bedroom. You made a note of lighting the fireplace once you got back from dinner so she would be warm at night.

“It was nothing.” You smiled, getting up from the vanity and offering her a hand to get up as well.

She accepted, and soon you were leaving for the dinner, arm in arm through the high-ceiling corridor.

“Wednesday!” you greeted the girl excitedly as soon as you entered the foyer where she and her parents were, as well as her younger brother and an elderly woman you assumed was her grandmother.

The girl turned around to see you and Larissa descending the last steps of the stairs. She approached with her usual perfectly erect posture and rigid steps.

“Professor,” she greeted, nodding, “It is truly mitigating seeing you here.” She eyed from you to Larissa, stopping midway to arch a brow at your linked arms. “Principal Weems,” her look lingered more on your companion as if they were having their own private conversation, “Your presence is also appreciated.”

Larissa half-smiled at that, a hint of fondness in her eyes.

“I’m happy to be here, miss Addams.”

At that, Wednesday nodded curtly and went back to her parent’s company, as did you and Larissa.

“Oh, don’t you look precious together!” Morticia’s bassy voice welcomed you to the group and you tried to unclench your jaw and smile; you wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Anything looks precious when Larissa is involved.” You gave her a sweet smile, finding it not so necessary to pretend when you looked at her.

“Oh, shush.” Her cheeks were colouring, and you felt immensely pleased with yourself.

“Larissa is quite the formidable woman,” Gomez agreed, smiling kindly at you, “You must be quite accomplished as well to catch her eye.”

You felt you could very easily like Gomez. Strangely, the fact that Larissa was infatuated with him in her youth didn’t feel threatening to you, not nearly as much as the intellectual tug-of-war she had with Morticia.

“I can’t begin to guess what she saw in me. But I’m tremendously lucky she did.” You squeezed her upper arm, seeking comfort from the nervousness you felt all of a sudden.

The woman you guessed was Wednesday’s grandmother then got up with a roll of her eyes. “If this is what you interrupted me for, I would much prefer to resume wrestling with the alligator in the cellar.”

“Mamma!” Morticia intercepted her, rounding her shoulders with an arm. “Don’t leave us so soon, we will dine now,” she reassured the woman, who only grumbled and went through an archway to what you saw was a dining room with a long mahogany table.

You followed Morticia and Gomez to the same room, Wednesday right behind you with her brother. The table was already set, and all family members took their usual spots with ease. The hosting couple were at the ends and Wednesday and her brother sat in front of each other closest to Gomez’s side while Mother Addams sat beside her grandson. You took a seat near Wednesday and Larissa took hers right beside you.

For the first half hour, everything was fine. Morticia was a gracious host and the hors d'oeuvre and appetizer were delicious if morbid-looking; their presentation resembled eyes, fingers and the like. The chef was skilful, you had to give them that, but taking a forkful of mushroom and walnut pate was somewhat unnerving when it looked like ears stuffed into a human brain.

When you started to feel confident in your skin, the conversation shifted from professional chit-chat to the prodding you were waiting, if not too excited, for.

“So, Larissa, I must admit I was very surprised when you arrived accompanied.” Morticia set her fork down, a smirk slowly forming on her mouth. “How come such miraculous news didn’t get to me?”

Miraculous? The nerve!

“Excuse me. Miraculous?” you smiled largely, unable to keep your eyes from squinting and your voice from dripping with ill-concealed venom.

Her fake stunned expression was award-worthy. “Oh, I just meant that Larissa can be very intense at times, and it takes a very rare, special kind of person to be able to… manage it.”

“We decided to keep our relationship private for these first few months,” Larissa stated, cutting you from responding to Morticia’s last comment. Clever woman.

“So you’re your boss’ little secret?” an amused voice joined in, Wednesday’s grandmother.

You were shocked beyond speech. Were they together to make your life hell? Was all this a plot? At your slack jaw, the old woman started again.

“Oh, sweetie, I don’t mean it in a bad way. You just became much less boring than I thought you were.” She winked at you and took a bite of her salad. “You’re right in doing whatever you want and if forbidden love gets your juices flowing, go for it.”

You coughed at that. You weren’t eating anymore but suddenly the air seemed enough matter to choke on.

“Mamma!” Morticia chastised, sounding more amused than reprimanding.

“Forgive Grandma Addams,” Gomez asked you with kind worry, “She’s just very supportive and can come across differently than she wishes.”

“It’s fine… thank you…”

“You can call me grandmama, darling,” the curious woman said.

“Thank you, grandmama.” You smiled; a sense of incredulity and almost child-like happiness bubbled in your stomach at finally being taken seriously. She was an odd one, and her forwardness reminded you of Wednesday, if not her disposition for good humour when Wednesday’s leaned more on crudeness.

Was she joking when she mentioned the cellar? She must have been.

“Right, I believe we can call out the third course,” Morticia announced, and promptly it was brought.

As the evening went on, conversation flowed rather tamely. More dishes were brought, and you were amazed at the chef’s capability. By the end of it, the kids and their grandma had retired, and only you and Larissa remained with Gomez and Morticia.

“Maybe we could bring this to the study.” Morticia said, getting up and grabbing the bottle of whisky she’d produced half an hour earlier. “I think y/n would love to see the remnants of Wednesday’s childhood experiments. She seemed very interested when we mentioned it.”

You were interested, in fact. At one point in the evening, grandmama mentioned how Wednesday would plot increasingly creative ways to endanger family members. It was a family game, almost, but the girl was said to be very ingenious with her plans.

Following the couple, Gomez showed the collection of plant-based poisons and potions the girl used through the years with a weirdly proud countenance. You supposed it was fitting of such a family and found it quite endearing to witness.

“I’ll never forget the time she almost got my ear with that falling spear,” he said dreamily, “I really didn’t see that one coming. My brilliant storm cloud.”

“Didn’t it pierce your shoulder?” you asked, flabbergasted.

“Oh, no! I was in bed. We had to change the mattress though.”

Suddenly you were impressed by Wednesday’s tame behaviour at school; if this was her childhood, you admired her restraint.

“Enough about our child’s exploits, amore mio, you’ll bore the guests.” Morticia gestured for him to seat in the chair she leant on.

Larissa had sat in a loveseat, and you joined her as Gomez went for Morticia, who sat in his lap.

“I’m dying to know how you two ended up together.” She scrunched her nose at Larissa, a smirk playing on her mouth, and your annoyance was back in half a second.

“The usual…” Larissa looked at you and you linked your fingers on her lap, “Office romance.” Seemingly more confident, she looked back to Morticia with a squeeze on your hand.

“Oh, don’t be so boring, Rissa! I know there must have been more than just that to catch our eye. You always had a type.” She arched a brow, and you didn’t understand a thing in their conversation. While it seemed straightforward, Morticia’s tone and body language suggested things you didn’t comprehend. Did Larissa prefer a different type of aesthetic? Personality? Gender?

“People change,” Larissa said simply, almost icily, without breaking eye contact.

“You see, I don’t think they do to such a radical extent.” She only smiled.

“We can’t know what happens behind closed doors, cara mia.” Gomez laughed softly, trying to lighten things a bit, and you could hug him for it. He leant close to her a kissed her cheek in a gesture you found heart-warmingly sweet, and even disliking Morticia you felt happy for her to have someone who showed his appreciation and love so openly (that when it wasn’t too uncomfortably intimate, of course).

“You’re right, carino.” Her eyes went from his to pierce right into yours, “But I think I’ve seen enough.” She stood up and held her hand to him. “Come, my love, I miss having you on our bed,” ok you could have gone without that.

“Feel free to stay if you’d like,” Gomez said hurriedly, not taking his eyes off Morticia’s blazing gaze, “You can help yourselves to more whiskey or enjoy one of our reds back in the saloon, be our guest.” And with that, the pair scurried away hand in hand like excited teenagers.

Morticia was much more tolerable when occupied lusting for her husband, you decided.

Letting a breath out, you allowed yourself another glass and got up to pour it. Larissa was strangely still beside you and when you had your back to her while serving the drink, you heard her say:

“What did she see?”

You stopped pouring; your grip on the bottle suddenly white-knuckled. Her voice was low and dangerous, not towards you particularly, just sharp in a way you heard her use when trying to conceal her feelings. It was a good strategy because you had no idea what was going through her mind.

“She visited our bedroom earlier when you were in the shower.” You clarified, turning to look at her slowly, taking in her features. She had a very good poker face. Damn her mediator abilities.

“And what did she see?”

You sat beside her, offering her your glass. She took it and sipped it twice before you thought of some less uncomfortable way of recounting the exchange. You couldn’t; so the crude truth would have to do.

“She came to tell us dinner would be in a few moments-“ Larissa passed you the glass, taking pity on you, “Then she realized you were showering and that I had already, so I…” You took a big gulp; the liquid went down burning. “…I wouldn’t be- joining you.”

Larissa only nodded at that.

“And she used that to cause you discomfort?” Larissa said in a less unaffected tone that somewhat soothed the pain forming in the back of your neck, “Do you think she doesn’t believe in us?”

You took a moment to choose your words, then said, “At first I didn’t think she was suspicious, but she looked at me just now like she knew every bit of the entire story.”

You wanted to make it work, you wanted to help Larissa and you knew you looked entirely smitten with her because that was simply your new natural state. But Morticia was anything but not stupid and you had the feeling she could tell how this all went: you were foolishly in love with your boss who didn’t want a thing from you if not a favour and in the best of cases a friendship. You thought you were living the best possible case. Too bad what you truly wanted wasn’t possible.

Unexpectedly, Larissa got up in a swift and gracious move, went to the globe bar and took an expensive swig. She didn’t say anything, her shoulders were tight even with the amount of alcohol the four of you had consumed and the healthy quantity she just downed. Without looking at you or gesturing, she just left, walking back to your room.

You followed not too closely behind her. You wanted to give her space. Maybe she was mad at you, maybe she was disappointed, maybe she was just tired of your constant insufficiency (in being all in on the plan, in being completely honest with her, in acting rather than indulging your wants and needs – even if she wasn’t aware of the latter).

When you arrived, Larissa was changing into her nightgown, a cream-coloured long, sleeveless, silky dress that accentuated her hips and exposed her clavicles, shoulders and neck. If you weren’t so anxious you might have fainted.

You started a fire, sure that she would be cold if that was all she would sleep in. You heard her settling underneath the covers and when the fire was good enough to grow on its own you left for the bathroom to change into your much warmer, comfortable pyjamas.

You got into bed as well, feeling tense and strange and so different than you thought you would while pacing around in your quarters at Nevermore. You didn’t have time to fret and feel insecure and weird like you thought you would, you were too busy worried about Larissa for that. Why was she so silent? Did she officially hate you? Were you going home tomorrow never to talk about this again and barely look into each other’s faces forever? You spent the better part of an hour pondering the scenarios.

You were so engrossed in imagining all the terrible things that could result from this that you almost didn’t notice the soft shaking beside you. Was that a little whimper?

You quickly sat on your side of the bed, safely away by almost a foot and a half, and examined her silhouette outlined but the firelight. She was quietly sobbing once every twenty or thirty seconds, shoulders tight together. Whether it was from the cold or the exertion of being silent you thought you could manage to decipher.

“Larissa… I’m awake.” You whispered, giving one uncovered shoulder the lightest touch you could. She stilled. “Do you want to talk about it?” After a moment, she shook her head no.

Not knowing what to do, you found her hand tucked close to her neck and nudged her to sit as well. She did, silently looking at the mattress between you. In this angle, you were both facing the fire. You could see bright trails under her eyes going to the left, one small pool of brightness at the side of her nose where the few tears gathered. She still had her updo, so you moved closer and started taking away her clips and letting her soft locks fall beside her face, onto the spotless skin of her shoulders, hiding her milk-white back.

“I’m sorry if tomorrow it’s all ended.” You whispered finally, after watching her not speak for almost a minute.

She looked at you slowly, for the first time in what felt like aeons but were only two hours at best. She gave you the smallest smile and said, “Why is it so unbelievable?”

It took you two seconds too many to understand what she meant, and in the next, you were shaking your head and controlling your mouth not to say too much while you just hugged her chanting “No, no, no, it’s not unbelievable at all,” in a low voice you prayed soothed her in any way.

You pressed your lips to her temple for so long that you ended up just leaning against her, your nose on her hairline catching the faint smell of orange flowers.

“I swear to you, you are one of the most deserving people I know. You are greatly respected and admired by everyone who works with you and studies at your school. You are kind, loving, intelligent, relentless and every single bit of you is deserving of love and of finding someone that will appreciate the entirety of you unconditionally.”

You knew you shouldn’t, but you could not keep from muttering it all against her skin, couldn’t keep from caressing her cheek and running a hand up and down her arm. You loved her too much to let her believe there was no one out there who would commit themselves to her and love her as deeply and madly as she deserved. Maybe it wasn’t you, but there was someone, and you needed to make sure she knew that.

While you talked, Larissa let herself melt into you. You hugged her close and let her rest her head on your shoulder. She was sobbing a bit more than before, small sounds muffled against your fuzzy jumper. She felt so warm and soft and real that you almost let yourself believe you could have this. Have her; be hers. It was the alcohol, most likely. You were the worst handsy drunk, even if you didn’t feel drunk at all anymore.

You parted slightly, not sure if she would like to go back to sleep, and when Larissa noticed your movement, she lifted her head from you and suddenly her face was so much closer than you expected.

She had such beautiful eyes; you could never tire of looking at them. They were a bit red and puffy but also glowing, you could see the dance of shadows the fire created behind you in her eyes, her pupils blown from the dark. Your gaze drifted to her mouth for a split second, however quickly you couldn’t mask it, she saw, you were face to face. When she did the same to yours but lingered there, it was too easy to lean in.

Her lips were soft. Softer than you’d imagined, but then she was always more than you could ever muster in your naïve and foolish brain. Her hand came to your face and carefully held you in place. You opened your lips but didn’t dare ask her for anything more. Whatever she wanted from you was hers to take. She pressed more firmly against you, so tenderly you could not understand how she managed to be both at the same time. How could she make you feel so much with just a press of her lips? Your chest hurt and all your bones felt cold, and you wanted the pain so much, but you didn’t know if this was what she wanted or if you just happened to be there when she needed human connection.

With a pang in your heart, you separated the smallest fraction. She made a small sound at your absence, and you forbade your brain from reading too much into it.

“I’m sorry… are you sure this is-“ and she was onto you in an instant, fervently, fingers slipping through your hair and desperately asking permission to deepen your kiss. You were only human and gave in too easily.

Tomorrow you would deal with the consequences.

Chapter Six

#larissa weems x reader #principal weems x reader #larissa weems #principal weems #female reader #teacher!reader #normie!reader #hurt/comfort #fluff #wlw kiss #fake/pretend relationship #angst #mistakes are made #or not

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Text

Imagine being the one who releases Morpheus. - ENDING

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [ALT. ENDING] || Sandman-inspired playlist

[...] Among those lights, I saw eternity Hidden somewhere in unknown chasms Although gods hid it so well It was here, sitting in front of me In that eternity I saw myself Among family photographs Preserved in every whispered word Or a poem left in the drawer When a black cortege follows me I will live on in their stories Still generous in my words: There is no end

Never once did you consider that living would be so physically difficult so early. You weren't even halfway through your life and breathing was becoming a hardship as well as walking or carrying things. All of that came as a consequence of your choice - a choice which morality you never disputed, although on odd occasions you did fantasize about the could-haves. At the time, the unfair exchange, your life instead of his, seemed so obvious as though it was unacceptable for you to even consider a different course of action. But now, when your days were counted, a certain melancholic reflection haunted your thoughts: what must happen to a person to be willing to give their life up so easily? Maybe there was a hidden truth in your sacrifice, something you never quite realized or admitted to yourself. Those thoughts, however, were in vain now just like a prisoner is better off not dreaming about the cotton-like clouds lazily drifting across the blue sky, pushed in their direction by a soft blow of the first warm wind sometime in June.

"Our time is coming to an end, dear Morpheus," you said quietly as you inspected the black web sprawling across your skin. In some macabre way, it looked fascinating and beautiful the same way fresh blood wonderfully glistens on marble floors. "The curse is eating my body away."

"Such knowledge is not yours to possess," his tone sounded as if he was warning you. "Only Death knows that."

It wasn't true, not necessarily. A sudden change in your behaviour did not escape Morpheus's attention such as the fact that you had to take a break every few steps and lean against something. Despite that, having irrefutable proof of your words right before his eyes, Morpheus opted to remain oblivious. He voluntarily chose this blindness.

"True, I do not know my fate for sure. Call it a gut feeling, if you will. Mine is calling unto eternity."

In some bitter way, it was all very funny: a mortal was approaching unending aeons and one of the Endless was running out of time.

For a while, he stood silently watching you. His lips were slightly pursed but you couldn't quite decipher what emotions stood behind such an expression. Morpheus's unreadable face was complemented with those steel blue eyes that seemed to stare intensely through you as if by looking in your direction he could see something else, something only irises as arcane as his could perceive.

"May I ask one more thing of you, dear Morpheus?"

"Of course."

"Wait with me, down by the sea. I'd hate to go in loneliness."

What a magnificent creature you must be! To effortlessly make an immortal god patiently wait for death.

The sky in the east was already bright. Above the distant horizon, where endless waters crashed on the shores of fantasy and wonder, a bright hue appeared. Slowly, it became a mirage of beautifully warm colours. The Sun, as glorious as it was awaited, slowly crawled out of the cold sea to once again begin its tireless journey across the firmament. Not even cotton-like clouds had the courage to hide this mundane miracle.

The thick material of his coat was slightly coarse against your cold cheek but it was pleasantly warm all the same. His shoulders slightly raised and fell with each of his breaths. Morpheus's head was hesitantly resting against yours and this anxious intimacy made you fearful to move even the smallest of muscles; his longing was always silent but never invisible. Perhaps, as befits a dream, his heartache was fleeting, disappearing in the very moment someone dares to entertain a different thought.

A content sigh left your mouth. "Look at her, the Sun!" you exclaimed happily. "She rises each morning to warm Earth and never asks for anything in return. She lets us live in such a beautiful world and yet, never says 'you owe me.'"

The white sand quietly rustled as someone slowly walked behind the two of you. Over the loud crashing of the waves, the stroll was hardly audible. After a few steps, the stranger stopped like they were waiting for one of you to finally acknowledge them. Dream decided to be the first to break the tense silence:

"Must you always be on time, sister?" he asked without looking over his shoulder. Maybe, just maybe, Morpheus was wrong and it wasn't your hour yet. Unfortunately, the stranger didn't deny the name he gave them. "Couldn't you be late this one day?"

"I am only fulfilling my duty," she answered.

"People spend their entire lives wondering where Death will lead them, you know?" Although your words were directed at Morpheus, your stare remained focused on the faraway horizon. "Hell, Heaven, Sheol... I never did," you said with a slight shrug of shoulders. "Perhaps, I like surprises a little too much."

"Wherever my sister leads you, it is somewhere I can not follow." Perhaps, in one of his deeply hidden and never admitted fantasies, it was enough to stop you from embarking on your last voyage.

"You are a king, dear Morpheus. You do not follow," you reminded him. His cold, blue eyes were bloodshot. With all the strength he could muster, Morpheus prevented those sinful, bitter tears from falling - yet. Feeling your heart break for him, your hands gently cradled his face. "Love, don’t cry. We were always headed this way. What story doesn't have a super fin?"

Dream took in a sharp inhale naively thinking it was enough to stop his heart from being torn in half at hearing you call him by the most beautiful of names. "Yours is much too early," he quietly said in a shaky voice. Perhaps if he spoke even slightly louder, calloused evil that hid beyond this realm would also hear it. But instead of raising its monstrous hand against him, it would surely weep too.

"I could live a thousand years in this world and it still wouldn't be enough, there is still so much to see, so much to love. But I shan't grieve the years I wasn't given. Instead, I'll always cherish those few I did have."

Morpheus clenched his jaw in a futile attempt to prevent his lips from trembling. His eyebrows suddenly furrowed and cheeks raised. "What am I to do with the emptiness you're leaving me with?" he asked angrily.

"Emptiness?" you repeated. A dry, sad chuckle left your lips as you stared into his red eyes. "One day, flowers shall grow out of my rotting corpse and those flowers will end up in an ornate vase on someone's windowsill to be cherished and admired. My dear Morpheus, there is no end."

His lips parted slightly as if he was about to say something, defy your poetic wisdom with his pragmatism but he didn't. He simply couldn't. Instead of words, Morpheus shared a tear that you tirelessly wiped away from his face.

"There's still so much I've yet to tell you," you quietly confessed.

"Then tell me now," he demanded. One of his hands gently grabbed your wrist as if he feared your touch might leave his face at any moment and he wasn't yet ready for such a loss. After all, only recently did he realize how his heart bloomed whenever he felt you. "I'm here, I'm listening."

"Oh, my lovely Morpheus..." you whispered with laughter in your voice. A tear dropped from your eye as you brushed your thumb against his cold cheek. Your swollen, trembling lips were still curved into a smile as if there was anything happy about your premature parting. "Among all the centuries and billions of lives, we met each other. I'd like to think it wasn't accidental, that maybe, for a moment, we were divine."

"There is nothing holy about our parting."

Morpheus recalled Yasmin's words: 'God looks after his angels and so should you.' But he never was a god - sacredness did not weave his bones like it did with yours. Whatever divinity might have resided in him was never once his. No, it came from your cup, a chalice out of which he drank a little too greedily for a creature of his kind. That halo around his head was once your crown.

"It's time for us to go," Death stated. Her tone was firm but never cold.

You slipped out of his longing touch and made your way towards the woman standing not too far behind you and Dream. As if frozen in time, Morpheus remained completely still. He did not have the courage to look at his sister who, surely, graced him with a sympathetic gaze. Whatever he could tell her, whatever pathetic and completely pointless begging he could commit, it wasn't anything she hadn't already seen or heard.

Suddenly, a meowing resounded over the pleasantly rhythmic crashing of waves - the very same meowing you heard from the living room of your house. Turning around to look at the unexpected guest, you were met with a sight most strange and welcome: an orange cat that was missing one of its front paws. Its greenish-yellow eyes reminded you of sun-dried long grass growing on a meadow hidden among a pine forest.

"Hugo!" you exclaimed. Unable to stop yourself from reaching for the missed pet, you crouched the moment you saw his red fur. "I never thought I'd see you again, you little fiery menace! I was barely six when we bid our farewells."

The feline only meowed again and bumped its small head against your leg. Curiously, he didn't leave paw prints on the white, cold sand. Too busy at the exciting reunion, you never noticed Death's slightly furrowed eyebrows as she stared at the cat. What was it doing there?

Scratching Hugo's chin and head, you noticed something strange about his pendant: it didn't read 'Hugo' anymore, although you knew it did the day he passed away. Instead of his name gracing the small metal plate, there were tally marks - seven, to be exact. You could only wonder what kind of trouble that fearless, silly friend had gotten into since the last time you saw him.

Not pondering the question of the appearing cat any longer, Death lead you in the direction of a destination only she knew of. Hugo, however, did not follow you right away. He sat on the cold concrete of the nearby boulevard, watching Dream's back. After a while, the feline let out a questioning purring-like sound, perhaps in confusion at the man's unwillingness to move from his spot. Hugo meowed again but never managed to catch the Dream King's attention. In a somewhat defeated manner, the cat got up and trotted in the direction of wherever Death was walking you.

Morpheus listened to you walk away with Death, never daring to look at you this one last time. Then, when silence fell on the world, it was unbearably loud. It was in the rustling of sand, in the crashing of waves and calling of seagulls: Mother Nature was mocking his yearning, a temporary whim that could not measure to her timeless might. In the distance, he saw a raft of mallards that seemed to quack at him.

"You, too, have been abandoned," he said to them, although never really expected the birds to understand such devastating words. Lucky them.

The blue sky grew black and Sun drowned in the endless seas before Morpheus got up from the sand. In a truly miserable fashion, he promised himself to never discard his grief. As long as he held onto that misery of your passing, placed you like a thorny crown on his head, you couldn't be gone, not entirely. In all of his selfishness, he wanted to curse you to never rest in peace but forever haunt him instead. Aren't rubble and ruin happier with a ghost that wanders their has-been halls, a companion to sweeten their decay? As a wraith of all the passion he never got to reveal, Morpheus would be able to love you as long he wished as though you were a wilted flower whose owner doesn't have the heart to throw out just yet. Perhaps you were akin to a dried sunflower that loomed over the window of his soul, always reminding all of creation that a life that is missed is a life that was loved and a heart that breaks is a heart that was once whole.

Morpheus had gone somewhere without a word and so Lucienne began her day in a frantic search for the lord of the realm. On top of his not-so-recent captivity, he'd been acting strange ever since he returned with the ruby and the pouch. The King of Dreaming would walk around the palace in a somewhat moping, round-shouldered manner, wandering like a phantom that couldn't find a place to haunt. Refusing to say more than a handful of words at the time, Lucienne and Jessamy could only suspect that a true calamity had fallen on their lord and friend. Morpheus, however, had a strange and entirely frustrating inclination for keeping his cards to himself.

At last, they did find him. Jessamy's black wings scoured lands near and far from the palace, only to find Dream King at work - contemplating his solitude as he busied himself with building new Dreams or Nightmares. Such news elicited a heavy sigh of relief from Lucienne, who dreaded seeing Dreaming fall into ruin once more. Still, her annoyance prevailed as she pondered how difficult it was for the King to speak about his plans and prevent the recent tensions from coming back to their original severity. Aside from that, there were still many matters the Lord of Dreaming should tend to, although probably none of them was as important as his current occupation.

Wasting no time, Lucienne and Jessamy paid a visit to working Morpheus. Despite several humanoid forms rising from the sands underneath their feet, Dream seemed to be focused on only one of them: one that appeared suspiciously not strange. The longer Lucienne stared at the oddly familiar face, the more she grew convinced that she did, in fact, know its owner - even if her entire knowledge was taken from Dream's account of his escape. "Isn't that...?"

"Yes, Lucienne," he interjected. Some part of Morpheus feared that she might just say your name out loud and he couldn't be sure what madness would take hold of him then. It was a beast best left unpoked. "They deserved to live many more years. The world deserved it. In fact, I think the world desperately needed it. Now they can live out the years stolen from them as something too human for me to understand yet: the dream of loving and being loved. Greek agape, if you will."

"Forgive me, my lord, but if you never quite understood it, how can you recreate it?"

Morpheus's blank stare was focused on your face. Like all the great painters and sculptors of humanity, he, too, chiselled his love into a masterpiece of artistry. How deranged such action truly was: to recreate his heart's greatest desire and claim for it to be something every person wished to have. "The sun never says," he whispered to himself but taking into account the hardly existing distance between him and his artwork, he could have been whispering those words to the monument of you.

"My lord?"

He turned towards Lucienne again. "The sun warms the earth and yet it never says 'you owe me'. Tenderness, they used to call it."

How tragic his affection truly was: he was but a moon in love with the sun. They were destined to live apart and yet he would be dim without the light she had so freely given him, never asking for anything in return. And just like with those beautiful celestial bodies, all the stars in the sky - each light of past, present and future - sighed in relief at your meeting.

Morpheus stared at his work in silence. It wasn't finished yet. In fact, it was far from being finished but he had already spent so much time perfecting the smallest of details, he had to remind himself of other duties he still had to tend to. Unlike the real you, his newly made Dream will wait for him until the edges of eternity. Although Lucienne did not gain any more understanding from his vague answer to his question, Morpheus's response was more than exhausting for someone who had experienced your gentle soul.

To his displeasure, there were other matters he had to take care of as the king of this wonderful realm. Seeing your nearly finished effigy, a new vigour entered his tired bones as if the sole sight of your features could remake him into a different creature. Suddenly, in the golden stardust you put into his veins, there was something holy about your parting: the moon, after all, shines not with his own light but the sun's. "Come, Lucienne, there is much we are yet to do. The world is spinning and we mustn't only stand on it."

But neither Lucienne nor Jessamy followed him immediately. Instead, they exchanged equally suspicious and confused looks. Their lord's behaviour was only becoming stranger and neither of them could point out exactly why, although they did have their, mostly correct, theories.

"Is he... being optimistic?" Jessamy asked. Putting 'Morpheus' and 'optimism' in one sentence seemed impossible unless someone wanted to accentuate his moping.

"I'm afraid so," Lucienne slowly answered as she watched Morpheus walk away into the distance.

After another moment of silence, Lucienne let out a light sigh and marched after Morpheus. Jessamy wanted to follow, take flight to reach the king in no time, but an unforeseen event prohibited her from doing so; the raven shrieked as an orange cat playfully tugged at her tail with its sharp teeth.

I'd like to thank everyone who supported this little series - your love was a monumental motivation! I'm really content with how this chapter/part turned out (I bawled my eyes out writing this bye). Perhaps, the ending was not what you expected but perhaps I can write an alternative one...?

Tagging people who were interested in a follow-up: @rosaren2498 @jessiboobdbdb @chantzmar @lexi-anastasia @bisexualunicronrunningloose @farintonorth @oo0lady-mad0oo@all-bi-myselfs-blog @piperstofu101 @magic-magnoliaa @kotonei-molyneux @wheresmyboo @supermegapauselouca @sloanexx @rockergirl57 @aizawa-emma @ruyi-years @commanderfreethatdust @sapphireonline @izzicle@mxxny-lupin @shadowluna25

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