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melodiesz · 4 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ I wanna rock your body

Summary - What happens when you—a sorcerer with a technique involving vines—are hit with a mysterious aphrodisiac? You tie the great Sukuna down and ride him until he falls in love, of course!

TW - creampie, squirting, riding, overstimulation (on him), bondage (also on him), oral (f receiving), he’s lovesick, somno (just grinding for one line), degrading, true form Sukuna, inappropriate use of stomach mouth, sub then dom Sukuna, slight dacryphilia, p in v, soft!Sukuna at the end ᥫ᭡

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ When sukuna awoke with the feeling of weight on him he paid it no mind. He knew it was just you, always preferring to use him as your mattress.

No, what did catch his attention was a poorly muffled noise from that weight on top of him. His eyes flickered open to the unexpected sight of you desperately rubbing your bare pussy against his clothed bulge—mewling into the hand uselessly covering your mouth.

You couldn’t help it! He just looked so gorgeous with the sun streaming down onto his relaxed face and painting golden streaks of light onto his abs; highlighting his many intricate tattoos.

Oh and of course, the reason you’d come stumbling in here in the first place. That damned plant.

See, you had visited the gardens earlier that morning, set on getting some fresh air before starting your day. However, your stroll was cut short when you noticed a strange looking plant you didn’t remember planting in the midst of your flora.

Curious, you crouched down to examine the oddity, noticing the way it seemed to glow bright enough to be evident in broad daylight. Leaning forward, you moved to sniff the mysterious intruder only to have a puff of glowing dust shot at your face.

You fell back, choking and sneezing out the blue dust to no avail. It was quickly absorbed into your lungs, and the subtle tingling feeling you felt afterwards had you worried.

You quickly shot up to rush to Uraume in fear of the strange (and possibly poisonous) dust you’d just inhaled before you halted, the tingling feeling increasing into something deeper that had your heartbeat increasing rapidly.

In seconds your cunt was throbbing, head woozy when your body began to feel inflamed. Your legs twitched and you let out an embarrassing whine, leaning against the wall for stability as your mind was all of a sudden clouded in lust.

The swell of feelings was abrupt and confusing, but in possibly the fastest change of plans in your life you were turning on your heel to scurry to the master bedroom—his bedroom—instead.

So that’s how you got here, you attempted to explain to him but kept cutting yourself off with whiny moans and gasps so his barely conscious brain struggled to process even a word of it.

“Brat,” he spits in that deep voice, raspier now in the early morning in a way that had you getting impossibly wetter. “Too much of a desperate whore to wait until I’m awake? You’ll pay for that insolence.”

He moves to reach out for you—most likely about to edge you for hours to teach you a lesson about patience—but you move faster. Your technique makes a sudden appearance when coils spring up and tighten around his wrists. They curl up his arms and chest, successfully tying him down where he lay on the bed.

He raises an eyebrow, staring at the thick vines surrounding him with a look of amusement on his face. You couldn’t be seriously testing him with an attempt as weak as this.

With one flick of his wrist the vines are sliced to pieces; immediately ineffective, but you aren’t deterred. Just as quickly as the old ones are destroyed new ones take their place, tighter this time so you could see the way they dug into his sculpted biceps and ogle the bulging muscles.

That small victory is short lived when that familiar tingling reappears. You can’t even properly enjoy checking him out before tears are welling in your eyes. When had you gotten so overwhelmingly desperate?

“I’m sorry,” you’re sniveling out which only makes him scoff. He rolls his eyes and goes to call out your fake attempts at gaining his sympathy when his gaze meets your wrecked face.

Tears are streaming down your cheeks and your sniffling. This isn’t fake; you’re genuinely distraught over not getting dick. Wow.

“I’m sorry- I just need you so bad. It hurts kuna.”

He’s speechless for a moment, no longer trying to break free from your feeble bounds. “Good grief woman,” he grumbles, but lifts his hips to grind up against you.

You fall forward with a moan and his stomach mouth takes the opportunity to flick its tongue against your clit. You move closer to the maw, not even trying to conceal your need, and he hums in content. You’ve always tasted sweet, but even more so now under this strange new influence.

You’re already soaked, only getting progressively wetter and he’s barely even touched you. He noisily slurps up your precious slick then sucks on your clit in a way that has your legs trembling and your mouth hanging open in a drawn out ‘oh’

He attempts to push his large tongue inside you but it’s much too big, leaving him to grunt in annoyance. Suddenly his stomach mouth closes and you don’t even get the chance to protest before you’re cut off.

“Come here,” he beckons with a nod. You quickly realize his intentions and so you’re crawling forward to hover above his face with a questioning expression.

“Did I tell you to hesitate? Sit on my fucking face.” He growls, and fuck, if he has to have to tell you twice.

You lower yourself down until your seated directly on his mouth, and he doesn’t waste any time getting to work. His tongue immediately breaches your hole, slipping in and out in quick ministrations like he would do with his thick fingers if you didn’t insist on keeping him tied down.

I mean, who was he to stop you and your kinks? What was the saying.. .happy wife, happy life?

His nose bumps against your clit and you grind your hips onto it, gasping and hands scrambling to find purchase when the pleasure sparks up your spine like tiny fireworks.

"watch it." he growls when you tug harshly on his hair, but his cock twitches in his pants. Too clouded with lust, you don't show any acknowledgment for the threat and continue pulling at the pink strands.

He moans at the feeling, but it’s masked by the obscenely loud sounds coming from your soaked cunt when he sucks your clit, tongue rolling around it deliciously.

"Fuck meeeee" you beg and whine until he’s grumbling out something you don't hear and abruptly ripping straight out of your binds with effortless strength. Just as quickly is he pushing a thick finger into your needy hole to satisty that itch you feel deep in your stomach.

“ah! kuna-“ you go to protest but the feeling of a second finger plunging inside you and spreading you real nice and wide has you unable to form anything coherent—turning to putty for him in seconds.

His tongue is attacking your clit while his fingers prod inside you and curl to hit that spot that he knows like the back of his many hands.

You’re crying out a jumbled mess of “more!” and “close!” that only makes him grin wickedly, eating you out like the perfect breakfast. He rolls your clit with his tongue, moving back just to press a wet kiss against it. “so fuckin’ messy,” he laughs breathlessly with your juices coating his chin.

You’re tightening against his fingers in their restless assault on your sweet spot, and he’s quick to latch his mouth back onto your clit when he feels you release with a cry loud enough to wake the entire estate.

He just sucks harder, not bothered by your dramatic screams or your slick messily spilling down his chin.

You’re squirming on top of him, riding his face through your orgasm as he drinks up the blissed-out look on your face and the feeling of you tugging his tangled strands of hair.

You sit up and his mouth is rudely forced off of you, fingers slipping out while you struggled on shaky thighs to sit back on his chest—careful to not go to close to his stomach mouth that you knew he’d continue his feast with like the glutton he is.

He frowns at being cut off from your taste but licks around his mouth and sucks his fingers clean instead, making direct eye contact with you while doing so so you were blushing and wrapping vines around his arm once again to stop the obscene sight.

Your peace, however, is short lived when just as soon as you’re coming down from your previous orgasm you feel that need in your gut flaring like an open flame again.

He noticed the shift in your expression, watching you with a bewildered one of his own as you moved down, wasting no time in pulling his pants down, his duel cocks springing out and slapping against his stomach.

He says nothing, just observing you while you swing your leg back over him to hover your twitching cunt over his cock, hole already dripping onto his flushed head to mix in with his precum.

Preoccupied with watching the way the mixture dripped down his length teasingly slow, he was too caught off guard to stifle the pathetic moan he let out when you dropped onto him in one swift movement.

“H-ah- fuck! Oh shit, mhfh-“ he chokes out at the feeling of your gummy walls swallowing him so eagerly, warm and wet and so, so unbearably tight.

And he whimpers, the King of Curses whimpers when you don’t stop; don’t even give him a moment to breathe before you’re setting a ruthless pace, ass meeting his heavy balls with an echoing smack! over and over again as you force his cock to bottom out each time.

You angle your hips perfectly so that his head is abusing your g-spot every time you go down, and he finds himself twitching inside you and spurting out even more precum at the realization that you’re using him like a dildo.

Like your own personal toy; your eyes are shut in pleasure and you don’t even see him as anything other than yours to use. Shit, that made him throb inside you.

The disrespect of it is jaw-dropping and he should be ripping free of your pathetic bounds to punish you for that, but he can’t seem to care when he’s so impossibly hard at the notion of being used only for your pleasure.

You tilt your head back and moan as his second cock slides perfectly against your clit, rubbing it while the second one rubs your insides.

You're slamming yourself down onto him with a force he didn't think you had, eyes still squeezed shut and nails digging into his chest like you didn't even know he was there.

The wet slapping sounds coming from where you collide are so obscene, so loud he could almost hear it ringing in his ears.

"Fu.. .hck- slow- hgh! slow down woman," he almost whines but the protest is drowned out by the obscene sound of skin slapping skin and your incomprehensible cries and moans.

This aphrodisiac must also be granting you boldness, he thinks when you ignore his words and instead place yourself on your feet, knees bent and leaning on your arms behind you as you start bouncing again, now able to push yourself down harder and faster in a way that has him ready to spill inside you before he knows it.

And for the first time in…ever, sukuna cums first.

His vision goes white as he hits that blindingly hot peak, waves of pleasure filling his body while he filled yours with loads upon loads of sticky cum, his second cock spurting all over your stomach and decorating it in his very own white sheen.

He’s breathless, yet left to gasp for air when you simply don’t stop, continuing to pound yourself onto his oversensitive cock, now twitching violently as he was finally given a taste of his own medicine.

“shit- brat wait, waitwaitwait oh..FUCK!” he shouts, both sets of eyes rolling back in his skull as your incorrigible pussy forces him into overstimulation, a sensation he’s never quite felt before that takes him over completely and leaves nothing left but you.

He’s whimpering, drooling even, and quite literally flinches when you laugh. You’re laughing at his suffering and fuck, he’s never been more attracted to someone in his lifetime.

you, you, you. In his sight, in his mind, in his heart if he even had one, but he knew now that he had to because there’s something that’s not lust in his eyes when he looks up at you and thinks you might be an angel.

Your cunt flutters on his cock and he thrusts his hips up, earning a breathy moan from your pretty lips that has him doing it again and again; meeting the rhythm of you slamming down onto him.

His second cock stands hard and neglected and he eyes where it stands compared to your stomach, knowing that’s exactly how deep his other one is inside you. Knowing that bulge in your tummy is all him; him you’re using like a toy, him that’s making you feel so good.

The thing in question is currently hammering against your sweet spot every time you let your body slam back down, the thrusts of his hips now full on abusing it and sending shockwaves of pleasure that have you struggling to stabilize yourself with your hands on his chest.

His breath is stolen again when you squeeze around him with a death grip before your orgasm rips through you. It’s quick and leaves your skin buzzing with energy, but still doesn’t feel like enough.

Your legs are shaking when you pull yourself off of him slowly, hovering your pussy over him to watch his cum spill out of you and all over his cock like a taper candle melting onto itself.

You exhale a long breath and collapse onto him. You lay there for a moment with your head on his chest, panting. With your eyes shut you miss the way his stay locked on your face, gazing at you with a feeling not even he himself can figure out.

He feels crazed, because he knows you still need more when you start to shift on his chest. It’s not enough. He needs to fuck you harder, better, needs to feel you soak his cocks like he knows you want to.

And If there’s something more than just lust, something like yearning to be as close to you as two human beings possibly can, to hold your body in his hands and know that you’re unmistakably his..

Well, that’s his business.

So in a heartbeat he’s ripping himself free of the binds and lifting your body up like you weigh nothing. You’re manhandled into the perfect mating press in record time, falling back onto the bedsheets with a quiet grunt.

You blink in surprise when you see him lining up both his cocks against your hole, and he grins like a a madman. “One dick just isn’t enough for you, no? This greedy cunt needs to be filled by two before you quit cryin’?”

He laughs deliriously, rubbing against your clit with his leaky tip. “Yeahh, so fuckin needy.”

He’s staring at your cunt like it carries the secrets of the universe as he slides himself up and down, his already soaked cocks getting ever more drenched. You squirm impatiently in his hold and he looks up at you with a what you expect to be a lustful look in his eyes, but all you find is pure adoration.

It makes you blush and tears are welling up in your eyes again when the overwhelming need for him gets to be too much. He just chuckles and reaches a surprisingly gentle hand over to wipe the spilling tears away.

"kuna, need more," you beg, crying and sniffling over dramatically, though he doesn’t point it out.

No, he can’t find it in himself to tease you because you’re crying for him.

Fuck. He needs to hold you.

“I’ve got you. I’ll make you feel so much better,” he hums, gently placing your legs over his broad shoulders before pushing into you slowly; the twin lengths spreading you deliciously.

With the sunlight streaming in through the windows the two of you resemble an ancient painting—ethereal flashes of light gleaming over your bare forms in the mess of silk blankets.

It’s intimate, the way he’s looking into your eyes with pure love, then kissing you like he wants to intertwine souls.

It’s primal, the way his cocks are thrusting into you, stuffing you so full that you’re moaning like a symphony into his mouth. Nails raking down his back and leaving long red streaks that he’ll secretly admire in the mirror later.

The overwhelming effects of the aphrodisiac are still streaming through your veins, but it’s different now. More passionate rather than lustful. More gentle in the way that he holds you like he’s scared you’ll vanish, but also more desperate when he tilts his hips to reach deeper, hitting that spot he knows makes you see stars.

Another arm reaches down to rub your clit, your hazy brain not catching the heart-shaped ministrations he’s doing.

“Come on, squirt for me,” he pants, “please, show me how good I make you feel.”

There is so many different ministrations happening that you barely catch it, that small plea sending you closer and closer to the edge you so desperately need. It’s something you’ve never heard from him before; asking rather than telling. And in such a desperate voice too, like he’ll die if you don’t.

His hands are everywhere; squeezing at your tits, playing with your bundle of nerves, gripping your hips and feeling the soft flesh under his fingers.

This orgasms different, daunting almost in a way that has you repeatedly crying out his name.

“suku- kuna’ sukanasukuna m’close! kuna please-“

“Thats right, let go for me.” He smiles calmly like he knows what’s to come.

In a blink of an eye you’re tumbling over the edge, pleasure tingling up your spine when you’re squirting all over him with a high-pitched scream. Your squirming in his grasp like you want to run away from it but his hips don’t relent, gifting you rough thrusts right up against your g-spot that ride you through your blinding peak.

Your walls are gripping him so tight he thinks he might combust, whimpering when his climax hits him head on and he follows right after you. He kisses you messily while pressing hard against your cervix to dump hot load after load of his cum deep inside you with a satisfied groan.

It feels like it takes hours for his cum to finally stop spilling out in heavy heaps, and he has to resist the urge to press down on your tummy just to see it ooze out.

He makes sure to flip your bodies over just in time to collapse onto the bed in exhaustion with you on his chest rather than crushing you. You fit perfectly against him, like the other half of his heart he’s been searching all his life for.

With his cocks still nestled deep inside you, he stared at the ceiling in post-orgasm bliss, just contemplating all of the new feelings he’d discovered.

He knew before that he felt something special about you, but refused to accept it as it was.

But now, listening to the way your breath slowed as you let sleep overtake you like you had no fear of being so vulnerable around a beast like him—he could finally classify that feeling in his heart.

His fingers brushed through your hair and he placed a soft kiss on your head. It was morning, he should be starting his day, definitely getting rid of that plant you claimed started all of this.

Though with you laying your head over his heart like it was the most comfortable place to be—he had no desire to be anywhere else. He finally found the strength to say those three words he never could before.

“I love you.”

A/N - Who knew overstimulating him was the key to fixing his emotional reservation?? My first actual fic for jjk! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

₊˚⊹ °❀⋆₊*:･

#melo!writes #melo!jjk #aphrodisiac is kinda an overused trope but oh well #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #jjk smut #jjk x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna fluff #soft sukuna

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sunasbon · 6 months ago

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۶ৎ riding ceo! sylus who’s manspread out on the high fashioned black leather couch, the sagging springs creaked and scratching against the wood floors boards underneath — as the kaleidoscope of colors streamed through just off the skyline, tenth floor of the site. your thighs were starting to ache a bit, the sight of the exquisitely guiltiness of the angry flushed dick sawing in out of your pussy.

‘… sylus. . f- fuck!, your killing me..’

sylus brows knitted together, shimmering of sweat gathered at his forehead as you rolled your hips in figure eights for the tenth time or so it felt like, you were his secretary steaming a freshly brewed coffee, filling out his important paperwork for those executive meetings he goes off to for a few hours — with you at your desk always completing the stack of white paper in a pile to finish for the night was a fucking drag.

‘hah — sweetie.. you feel good.. on top of me of course.

pornographic moans and groans bouncing off the walls of the office corridors, where anyone could walk into those extravagant enormous heavy doors just a few feet away or perhaps here, your hand were clutching at his board shoulder to maintain your balance against his hips rutted upwards into yours

— the stretch was so deliciously so good . . . . pure heaven on cloud nine to its fullness, feeling his pelvis rutting againist your clit with a lewd thawk, grasping at the sides of your hips to meet his downwards thrusts sent zig zags through your spine. a low groan torn from his throat, at the sight of your the ways your eyes went back into your skull till you saw white, or was it the exquisite feeling of your pussy clutching down onto of as if it was your last.

sylus grasping the column of the back of your neck, his tongue licking a stripe upwards where beads of sweat had formed made you left a breathy moan underneath his hold, the snowy trenches of his hair sticking to his forehead like glue — as you’d clawed at his back, his beefy muscles clasping around your body as he starts rutting into your hips at a faster pace, rolling his hips in a circular fashion. it was way too good to be true.

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wroetolando · 4 months ago

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𝙾𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚈𝚘𝚞 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗮/𝗻: hey guys! so sorry I haven’t been posting recently. I’ve been super busy with school with finals and graduation coming up! will be a lot more stories being posted during my spring break! april 7-11!

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x chronically online! reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where the chronically online reader gets publicly exposed by lando, roasts him on stream, and swears they’d never fold

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: cloud 9 - beach bunny

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You had a reputation. Not in a bad way—at least, not to you. Some people called you “chronically online,” but that was just a fancy way of saying you were really, really good at the internet. You were the first to catch onto memes before they went mainstream, you knew every streamer’s latest drama, and your Twitter feed was a masterclass in unhinged yet somehow lovable posts.

Lando, however, did not fully understand the depths of your internet obsession. He was online, sure, but in a different way—his world was filled with F1 updates, Twitch streams, and the occasional chaotic group chat with his fellow drivers. Meanwhile, you lived in a universe where knowing whether a brand was about to get canceled was as essential as breathing.

And yet, somehow, he was absolutely in love with you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It started with a joke. Or, more accurately, it started with a tweet.

@yourhandle: “if lando norris ever called me babe i would simply evaporate”

He saw it. He saw it, and you knew he saw it because his little gremlin self had the audacity to like the tweet. He didn’t reply, didn’t quote it—just a simple like that sent your notifications into a frenzy.

Your friends went feral.

BESTIE, HELLO??

Did he just acknowledge your existence???

This is basically a marriage proposal.

You tried to act normal. Failed. DMed him something casual like, “did you just publicly expose me?”

To which he responded:

“Just testing a theory. Should I call you babe and see what happens?”

And that was the beginning of the end.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It wasn’t long before you found yourself in Lando’s world—whether that meant sitting on his stream, half-distracted while scrolling your phone, or joining his Discord calls just to roast his gaming skills. The internet loved your dynamic.

“Lando getting cyberbullied by his own girlfriend is my Roman Empire.”

“Y/N being a menace online and Lando just going along with it is peak relationship goals.”

“Her: ‘He’s so dumb but he’s my dumbass.’ Him: ‘I just work here, man.’”

You two were a content goldmine, even when you weren’t trying to be.

One particular night, you were both curled up on the couch, Lando setting up for a Twitch stream while you scrolled mindlessly through your phone. You weren’t paying attention until you heard your own voice.

“Guys, I have a very special guest today,” Lando said in his usual mischievous tone. “My girlfriend, who is currently ignoring me for Twitter.”

You didn’t even look up. “That’s crazy. What’s Twitter saying?”

Chat immediately erupted.

“SHE DIDN’T EVEN LOOK UP LMFAO.”

“Peak chronically online behavior.”

“Lando, blink twice if you need help.”

Lando fake pouted. “See? She doesn’t love me, chat. She loves her parasocial relationships more.”

You finally glanced at the screen. “Why would I need a parasocial relationship when I already have you to annoy in real life?”

The clip went viral within minutes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Despite all your time spent online, you did, in fact, exist in the real world. And the more time you spent with Lando, the more you realized how much you liked his world too.

There was something peaceful about watching him work on his racing sim, focused and determined, even when he was grumbling under his breath about understeer. There was something nice about walking into the McLaren garage and seeing how the team operated, how much they adored him.

And there was something absolutely dangerous about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Like right now.

You were at a race weekend, standing just outside his driver’s room, eyes glued to your phone. He was supposed to be reviewing data, but you could feel his eyes on you.

“Lando,” you said without looking up, “why are you staring at me like that?”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “I think I’ve figured out how to get you off your phone.”

That made you look up. “Oh? Do tell.”

A smirk curled at his lips. “No.”

You narrowed your eyes. “No?”

Instead of answering, he took two long strides forward, gently plucking your phone from your hands and placing it on the nearest table. Before you could protest, he had you backed up against the wall, his hands resting on either side of you.

Oh.

Oh, he was serious.

“Lando,” you said, a little breathless, “are you—”

“I like your little internet world, I do,” he murmured, voice warm and teasing. “But sometimes I think you should focus on this world. On me.”

You swallowed. “That so?”

He nodded. “Yeah. And right now, I want your undivided attention.”

Mission accomplished.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You weren’t going to lie—you had expected the internet to roast you once they realized that your whole brand was being chronically online, and yet Lando had somehow turned you into a simp.

And they did roast you.

“So you’re telling me Y/N was ‘if he calls me babe I’ll evaporate’ and then Lando hit her with a real-life slow burn fanfic moment???”

“POV: You thought she was a keyboard warrior but she’s actually a simp in disguise.”

“Lando pulled a ‘look at me, I’m the main character now.’”

Lando, of course, thrived off the reactions.

You were sitting next to him on the couch when he turned his phone toward you. “Look at this one—‘Y/N has spent her entire internet existence roasting men, and yet all it took was one good wall pin for her to fold.’”

You glared at him. “I hate you.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t.”

You groaned, shoving his face away playfully before burying your head in your hands. “I will never live this down.”

He pulled you into his side, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Nope. Never.”

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to check your phone.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

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edensrose · 2 months ago

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˖ 𑣲 The Dragon's Flower ✧ Sweet Sin

˚₊‧꒰ა dragon.ᐟ satoru gojo ﾉ sacrfice.ᐟ reader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ after deciding to stay with the supposed “heartless dragon” & learn his ways of magic, you find yourself growing fond of him. as you both grew closer, it's only natural that you'd notice him avoiding you one week. you venture to his room in concern one day, and find him in a peculiar position . . . ꒰ ᡣ𐭩 ꒱ monster romance ˖ dragon heat ˖ conflicted toru ˖ handjob ˖ ovipósition mention ˖ kinda angsty end ˖ 2.9k ˖ the dragon's flower masterlist

໒꒱ ‧₊˚ eden , ain't none of you prepped. link in the fic is to help visualise the dick ( shape not colour ) ⌇ art cred : myuchiisu

Cool tones painted the mountaintop. Azure streams and rivers, the pale, sometimes murky sky. White orchids and lotus flowers that waved in serene breezes to clouds kissing the the citadel. A world of blue and white, much like its master — mow, all washed into something warmer, fiery.

Red faced, bathed in the auburn glow of candles and cloaked in sandalwood incense. Even his eyes, while the same bright blue, peered like two coals from beneath heavy white lashes. Smouldering, crackling, were dragons not susceptible to fire?

"Satoru." All formality drained the second you spotted his shaky form on the futon. White haori nowhere in sight and his dark, unbuttoned kimono pooling around his waist. That scaly heap slumped over his lower half must be his tail. Had it grown larger or was that the dimness?

His strained pants would have anyone believing he flew around the mountain ten times and over. With the shaky limbs and beads of sweat caught in the candle flickers, you wouldn't be too surprised.

Something rumbled. His voice? Deep, grave and as murky as the waters that brought you here.

"You need to leave."

Shivers pricked your spine. You might have mistook it for the first time you saw him if fear bloomed with it. Fear, how could you? Even with his jaw tight, scales littering him like the white-jade and those slitted eyes cloudier than the mountain's midnight haze, he was still Satoru.

Your body still drew to him. "Are you alright?" Your knees met the futon and he grunted with a shift. You followed, but irritation caught on your legs halted you. Claw marks etched in cotton with glistening sharpness coiled beneath fists as the culprit. Are those longer too?

As a woman raised in a superstitious village who wailed when someone cut their nails at night or flinched when combs broke, you should have known better. But instead of alarm bells, all you heard were wind chimes.

Because this was Satoru. The man who tickled instead of clawed, laughed instead of bit, protected the valley when villagers claimed he had a taste for hearts. Not a monster.

"Sweet girl," he called in a quake. "I'm fine, promise." You've seen enough of his smiles to know when they're fake. "Please, just. . . you need to leave, sweet girl." The name repeated, it eased him more than the cold springs.

"Like hell . . . are you sick? Can dragons even get sick?" He'd fall off the futon if he tried to escape, so you advantageously shifted nearer. With closer inspection you spotted gills in lithe, blue patterns from below his ears to just before his jawbone. Scales shimmered on full display all over his lower neck, collarbone and down his chest. Another glimmer belonged to a pair of tiny, teardrop-shaped. . . pearls? engraved above his navel.

Realisation snapped your venturing gaze back up. Your hand flushed against his forehead to mask your embarrassment. His tensing became your distraction.

"You're burning up . . ."

"No shit, sweetheart."

Iridescent claws displayed as he raised to your hand with a groan. But he didn't dare touch. As if only a graze of your skin would burn him like dark magic. Dark . . .

You quirked, "did you get spelled by miasma?" With the same exuberance of a student that recalled the technique seconds from peril. A dragon's weakness to dark magic rushed to your mind, courtesy of all Satoru had taught you.

Alas, he shook his head with another groan. You slumped your shoulders and pouted. "Please, I'm too old for that. Said that was for younger dragons, remember?"

"Well excuse me, old man."

At least that earned a laugh but your face remained. too concerned with every heave of his chest and stuttered breath, not to mention that his gaze kept running from yours. What, were you fire now? "Tell me what's going on," you urged and carefully traced your fingers along the side of his neck. He flinched. Perhaps your touch was a flame.

"Satoru —"

"Fuck, I'm serious."

Her jerked back. You halted, but not because he denied your touch for once. Low and dreary, the rumbled growl belonged to the night and yet . . . you still drew closer.

Stubborn as always. Like the incense, his gaze wavered, to and fro. Peeking, hiding. From himself or something you couldn't decipher?

Your eyes followed the quick drop of his hand and beat him to it. Prodding up into the fabric of his kimono, a tent awaited. As a village girl spoonfed the importance of chastity, you should have flinched at the sight. But while you knew purity's name, she didn't know yours.

Whose face was brighter? Maybe his with that infuriatingly smooth pale skin and snowy hair that almost left him glowing even in the candlelight. In all your months staying here, not once had red paint his face more vibrant than his stupid grins ever did. Nor did he ever attempt to hide or stutter.

"Are you happy now? Go, I can't have you here."

Can't. Not won't. Not I don't want. You pressed your lips together.

"Could you tell me what's going on?"

"Stubborn girl," even his growl laced with affection. He snapped you a sharp look and huffed heavily. "I'm in heat. Rut. Whatever you humans call it. And right now, you cannot be here."

He always prided himself on teaching you about the mystics hidden in this world, but your curiosity would be the death of him. Only seconds after discovering he was erect, you still had questions. Is that why they sacrificed you? — no, that's mean. Why they sacrificed you and why he couldn't have you in his room right now were the same reason. Not with your image in his mind . . .

"Satoru." Not when you said his name like that. Not when every syllable whispered a sin he wasn't willing to commit.

"Let me help."

You were definitely sacrificed for more than just your pretty face.

You'd think you had stolen his tide jewels with the glare he shot you, but even that was pathetic. If you asked prettily enough he'd pluck them from his flesh and press them into your palm with a kiss to each knuckle.

Satoru realised something frightful in your near-year on the mountaintop. To pry his eyes from a lotus flower such as yourself, or deny her, were impossible feats — and right now? Only his mind rejected the offer. Barely.

"Absolutely not." He sat up, miscalculating how he'd flush up into you as a result. At last he touched you, his large palm knocked clumsily on your shoulder. "Are you crazy? Aren't you a village girl? Haven't they taught you better?"

"Thought me pulling a knife on you back then should have answered that question."

"You're not a human, you're a siren."

"Thought those didn't affect you?" Neither should your hand that brushed on his wrist and your body that swayed closer to him, like tides kissing the shores when his kimono caressed your yukata. Sirens didn't affect him, and yet your voice masked in the song of one did.

Your boldness knew no bounds. Instead of blades aimed for his eyes, your hands trace a tender path down to his chest. Your fiery palms flattened against heated skin, he gasped.

A divine being. One of wisdom, strength, restraint, but you weaved all that away with only your pretty fingers, effortlessly. Fate? Maybe you were destined for him, perhaps as a punishment. For no matter how much his palms itched to touch your smooth skin, you were a lotus flower he swore to view from afar.

"I can't."

"You won't?"

"I can't."

Satoru caught your hand in sync with a breath lodged in his throat. He couldn't stop the other — no, he wouldn't. Not when it caressed his thigh and made him mouth forgiveness prayers to the gods. Wasn't he a god? You touched him like a devotee.

He tried. Tried to will away. Tried to focus on anything but your fingers tracing circles on his inner thigh. Calming him as if he were the inexperienced —

"Aren't you a virgin?" He quivered.

"How polite." You smiled.

If he had manners to begin with he might have apologised. "I'm serious. Don't they send 'village girls of purity' or something like that?" Every second word caught with a heave. You hand weighed as an anchor than a petal. Guilt pooled in his gut, but desire clawed at it.

"You shouldn't - fuck." Restraint drained and his claws shot out for you when your palm stroked over his bulge. He grappled onto dignity last minute and caught the futon in the crossfire. Four more streaks torn into the cotton. Couldn't it be your yukata instead? No —

"This," he gulped. "This is wrong. Not like this."

"And what if it's my decision?"

"Then it's a stupid one." Your lips inched closer, his pressed to your knuckles instead. Your hand shook in his hold but he still held tight. His lifeline. His ruin. "I'm a mythical beast." Not with the way he whimpered. "A creature. . ."

"No." If dragons didn't need air, why did all leave his lungs when you slipped past his kimono? The belt pulled with the last bit of his dignity. Your hand ghosted flesh you knew not of. "You're just Satoru."

He avoided your lips so you kissed his jaw instead. When your soft words tensed all his muscles, you glanced down. Far from human. Divine. Never had you seen a man bare before, but you knew no mere man could compare to this.

Pale, like the rest of him, and tall too - his dick sprung from the confines. While fleshy, the ridges were pronounced. Two in particular, on either side, extended from his base and flowed with the double-curve of his length. Once at the middle and another before his tip. Girthy, with smaller ridges along the underside. The head's thickness matched the rest of him with several other ridges that had you biting on your lip. Slick, pearly beads circled his throbbing tip. One slowly tricked down the underside, emphasising the swell of his cockhead. Whether natural or erect-induced, you're uncertain, but you gulped.

To big. Especially for you. But, ever as ambitious, your fingers traced over the underside's ladder of ridges. Another gasp. His gaze fluctuated between your face overly curious hand.

He tried again, pitifully. "You shouldn't . . ."

You smiled, impishly. "Then stop me."

A challenge. A promise. You'd stop if he made you — but how could he when he felt that his fingers wrapped around his girth barely touched? How could he even dream of trying to keep your chastity when you so willingly proved you never had any of it to begin with?

Inexperienced nowhere in sight. Your stuttered pumping laced with a confidence for his pleasure drove him wild.

The rumble returned in heavy groans and his hold tightened. Every fibre of him failed to keep his cock from twitching in your delicate hand. You had long-since watered down his restraint. Even gentle tides wore-out rocky shores.

No twitches, he throbbed. Not only did he groan - he moaned, unabashed, ashamed, but still desperate for your gaze from beneath his feathery, fluttering lashes.

You broke the stare to admire him. Even when his cock trembled in your hand, it was dainty by comparison. The strokes aimed from the middle to his tip, until you grew fluid and lengthened your pumps. Induced by the sticky mess from his pronounced cockslit.

Satoru's head flicked back. Gods, were you really a virgin? Was he a centuries-old being? He melted into your silken hand like sea foam. Your name a prayer on his lips.

"Sweetheart," he breathed - whined, when you stuttered around his tip. "I'm . . . committing something long since forbidden."

An apology, but not to you. Something greater, sacred, and still — he fell into the sin of your thumb circling on his tip. Bringing pleasure and ruin in a devastating, blissful gift to his body. So pent-up, so untouched. Heats were spent with his own palm and sometimes a pillow, but never the touch of another.

Careful, you might make him addicted — your lips kissed along his slit. He gasped. Scratch that, he already was.

"So sensitive . . ." Susceptible to fire or not, one lit in his gut as you crooned. He pushed his palm behind your head and cupped your neck. Claws a threat, but never a promise. Reverently, they traced your skin in-tune with your tongue swirling sinful circles, smearing his slick.

Your first time be damned. What's with the audacity?

"Who knew you were such a brat." His grip tightened, you had the nerve to laugh. A challenge clung to your lashes when your pretty eyes flashed up. What could he do with the way he throbbed?

"This brat's making you feel soo good though, right Satoru?"

"You— fucckk."

His neck grip paled to your squeeze on his cock. His jaw slacked with every quickened, pressured pump. Every tantalising kiss spelling out his ruin in slick smooches. Pre-cum bubbled, hot, and you swiped it away with your hotter tongue. Burns flooded his veins, and you only fanned the flames. His groans outweighed your slurps, your scent outmatched the incense.

How he wished to shut you up with his tip kissing the back of your throat. See how much you have to say with your lips strained round his girth. No challenges in your eyes, only tears. You'd be the one ruined.

He bucked at the thought. The image danced across his vision but his self control together with his building orgasm cut the music. His base thrummed and you caught the rhythm. Your hand quickened, tongue lapping as if searching for liquid gold. Kitten licks turned to bold strokes, and then - oh devastating you - your mouth clung to his tip's underside in harsh sucks.

Not a groan, not a moan, but a quivered, depraved whimper. White hair tousled over his eyes fluttered to the ceiling. Hips chased in a sloppy cadence. His gut coils, as did his tail. Heavy and tight around your waist, but you ignored the warning.

"Damn - wait I —" Every muscle betrayed him. He should pull you off. Save your dignity. "Waaitt, sweet girl - ah - I'm gonna -" maybe he could manage.

"C'mon toru, please?"

Not with that whine. One last throb burst into heat. His swollen cockslit spilled with thick, creamy ropes streaming iridescence. You watched a swollen bulb rush up to his head, then disappearing as it slowly sank to the base. His body jerked together with his head. Laid open for you as the image of sin with his saviour between his legs. A young village girl, her hand stained in his pearly cum and her tongue so diligently lapping away at his endless mess.

"Shit - sweetheart," another whimper, deeper than his eyes turned into murky pools. Yet it was he who drowned. Flailing so helplessly with your sweet, slithery hand slowing pumps as the lifeline.

He grabbed it. Your wrist dwarfed as he yanked you into a topple over him. Any restraint melts with his orgasm as he braced large hands over the swell of your ass. Slot between your legs and grinding feral bucks, he caught your body in sensual sways.

You gasped and limped into him, fisting on his kimono. Why not his back? Oh the fantasy of you struggling to hold on while he fucked you into the futon. Thighs split, sweet cunt stretched — fuck, would you squeeze him tighter than your hand did? How would you feel struggling to take his cum? Straining around his eggs —

Dignity knocked the thought out the second his claws bit your yukata's hem. Only flimsy fabric kept him from your body he's been dreaming of for months, but now it felt like an iron cloak. Sacred to his filthy hands.

His touched jerked away as if scalded and your hazy eyes raised. Cock still throbbing between your legs. Your slick awaited, calling.

Yet he only stared. Frozen from the depths to which his mind crawled. Two seconds from throwing you into the futon. Teaching you why you should stay away from beasts, and now, he truly felt like a monster. Instead of cum on your palm, it's scarlet, instead of heated pants, it's nerves.

What had he done?

"Satoru?"

Not that voice. It broke him once. He won't fall for it again. Not those hands reaching for his face — not a fool, not this time.

In the blink of the eye, like the turn of the tides, his weight disappears beneath you. Your knees hit the futon and you gasped. Your gaze shot around the room in a frantic search but only blue smoke dissipating into the air caught your attention.

Distant, cold. Birthed from the heat of passion, came anything but in the following week. For the first and second day, Satoru had vanished. Around the third, thank heavens white and blue captured your heart before anxiety did.

You hoped he'd speak with you. Surprisingly, your attempts bore sweet fruit. He held conversation as he always did. Spoke like nothing happened.

But that was the issue. Because something did happen, and he refused to acknowledge it.

At first you took it as embarrassment, but as the days droned on, the distance between you both was as clear as the frost creeping onto citadel's wooden pavilions. Icy, lonesome. Your fate? Would the warmth of that blissful night be your last here at the mountain?

Until he called you into his office and you held hope in your hands like seeds ready to sow a new chapter. A new —

"Don't try to stab me again when I say this," Satoru turned from the wind chime, a familiar scroll in hand. Your eyes widened. His were lost. Even in his attempt to joke.

"But maybe . . . it'd be better if you were away from the mountaintop. Away from me."

#. ۫ ۶ৎ . 𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 '𝒏 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 ﹕ satoru gojo ꒱ . ˚◞✧#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo fluff #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #dragon!satoru #dragon!gojo #the dragon's flower

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spookysanta · 3 months ago

Text

Puffball. (MBJ)

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: none

from the drafts

written out of my disdain for spring, and my love for corny nicknames.

Spring didn’t just arrive that year. It ambushed the world.

Bright skies broke open overnight, buzzing bees filled the air, and thin clouds of yellow pollen floated thick enough to shimmer in the morning light. Michael’s house sat right in the middle of it all, surrounded by towering old trees that seemed hellbent on waging war against anyone with a fragile immune system. Every gust of wind stirred up another invisible storm, leaving a fine dust clinging to the porch railings, the windows, the cars parked outside.

It was beautiful.

It was hell.

And she walked right into it.

Michael spotted her from the front window, hunched against the breeze, sneakers scuffing the gravel, tissues clutched in one hand like a white flag of surrender. She sneezed once — head snapping forward hard enough that her bag nearly slipped from her shoulder. Then again, louder, more desperate, forcing her to stop and swipe at her leaking eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

Michael barked a laugh, shaking his head as he swung the door open. The breeze carried another wave of pollen straight into the house.

“Baby girl,” he drawled, half-pitying, half-amused, “you didn’t even stand a chance out there, huh?”

She stumbled inside, blinking up at him through red-rimmed, glassy eyes, voice wrecked as she groaned, “I hate spring. I hate it.”

Michael grinned, catching her around the waist before she could crash face-first onto the couch.

“Nah, you love it,” he teased, hauling her close. “You just forgot your damn meds.”

“Hh’CHHH!” The sneeze ripped through her without warning, muffled into the chest of his hoodie.

Michael rocked back from the force of it, laughing harder, arms cinching tighter around her. He kissed the top of her messy hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Goddamn, bunny,” he said, smoothing a hand down her back, “you sound like you’re gonna blow yourself off your feet.”

She glared up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes streaming, nose twitching — and somehow looked even less threatening than usual. Michael laughed again, leaning in to kiss her forehead before she could argue.

“Don’t call me that,” she rasped, sniffling miserably. “Bunny’s for when I look cute. I don’t look cute right now.”

Michael chuckled, dropping another kiss onto her hair without letting her go. “You’re always cute,” he murmured, pulling her in tighter like he didn’t even hear her protests.

She huffed a miserable little sound, trying to look indignant. Another sneeze barreled through her before she could even open her mouth.

“Hh’KTSHH!”

Michael caught it like it was nothing. Grinning, he grabbed the tissues from her limp hand and dabbed at her nose, quick and gentle, before sliding a hand up her damp cheek. “Shit,” he chuckled, “you’re my little Puffball now.”

She froze. Pulled back just far enough to stare at him, puffy-eyed and utterly betrayed. “Puffball?” she croaked, voice thick with congestion and outrage.

Michael smirked, thumb brushing slow across her cheekbone. “Yeah,” he said, tilting his head in mock thoughtfulness. “You’re all puffy and cute and miserable. Puffball fits.”

She groaned, dropping her forehead to his chest, muttering something that sounded like, “I hate you,” into the fabric. But she didn’t pull away. Not really.

Michael smiled against her hair, rocking her gently back and forth like a slow dance neither of them had agreed to.

He finally got her onto the couch, buried under a fortress of blankets. Tissues were stacked within reach, and he made sure she had a full glass of water before handing her two allergy pills. “Take ’em,” he ordered, crouching next to the couch until she swallowed them both down.

She did, pouting miserably. Michael tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, kissed her forehead, and murmured, “Good girl.”

Every time she sneezed — sharp, helpless, miserable — he was there. Pressing kisses to her temple. Whispering, “Bless you, Puffball,” soft and unrelenting.

Every time, she huffed and buried deeper into the blankets.

Every time, he smiled like he was the luckiest man alive.

Later, when the meds kicked in and she was feeling just a little bolder, she plotted her revenge.

She crept up behind him while he was flipping through channels on the TV, wide grin stretching across her face. Without warning, she leaned in and let out the loudest, most dramatic fake sneeze right against his neck.

“Hh’CHHH!!”

Michael flinched like he’d been shot, yelping in pure betrayal. “You little shit!” he roared, dropping the remote and lunging off the couch.

She shrieked, giggling hysterically as she darted down the hall, blanket trailing behind her like a cape. Michael caught her in two steps, scooping her clean off the ground and tackling her onto the bed in a pile of tangled limbs and laughter.

He pinned her wrists above her head, grinning down at her, chest heaving. “You think you’re funny, Puffball?”

She nodded furiously, breathless with laughter.

Michael leaned down, brushing his nose against her throat, then her jaw, then the flushed apple of her cheek. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, peppering obnoxious, wet kisses all over her face as she squealed and squirmed under him. “You’re so goddamn lucky, baby girl.”

Eventually, they calmed.

Tangled in the blankets, her face pressed against his bare chest, the slow thud of his heart in her ear.

The room smelled like laundry detergent, fading traces of tissue dust, and Michael — warm, musky, grounding.

She sighed, small and content. “Is Puffball… the thing now?” she mumbled into his skin.

Michael laughed low, threading his fingers through her hair, thumb tracing the curve of her scalp. “Yeah, baby,” he said, voice softer than anything. “It’s the thing.”

She groaned, but she was smiling, cheeks hot, heart thudding helplessly against his ribs.

Michael just kissed the top of her head again, breathing her in.

It was the thing.

It was their thing.

Always would be.

—

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#michael b jordan x black reader #michael b jordan x reader #michael b jordan #spookysanta #x black woman #x black girl #x black y/n #x black fem reader #x black reader #x reader

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hederasgarden · 6 months ago

Text

Eternal Devotion (2/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader Word Count: 4.4K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Heavy angst and grief, period typical sexism, creepy things, vampirism, and murder. A/N: The reader has always been Friedrich’s wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @caught-reading for their help with this fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Part 1 ♡ Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist

Speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life. - Mahmoud Darwish

Kerstin’s frantic voice drags you from sleep, the panic in her tone barely piercing the heavy fog that clouds your mind. Your head lolls as she pulls your body from the bed, and for a fleeting moment, you feel the lingering sensation of Friedrich's kiss on your skin. Your lips part to whisper his name, but only a raspy croak escapes your throat. When your eyes finally flutter open, she shrieks in fright.

It feels as though you're swimming through sand, every movement sluggish and weighted. With great effort you manage to look at her. She lets loose a great shuddery breath, helping you to sit on the edge of the bed as you come back to yourself. The light streaming through the windows is bright and you shield your eyes.

"Oh," Kerstin sobs, her trembling hands brushing your face and neck. "I thought death had stolen you too."

The sound of the floorboards creaking beneath hurried footsteps is the only warning before the door to your room is thrown open with a sharp crack.

“What is the meaning of this racket?” your father demands, his voice laden with irritation. "I asked for my daughter to be brought to me, not for you to bring the whole house down with your theatrics, woman."

Kerstin freezes at his harsh words, glancing between you and your father with wide, fearful eyes. You try to stand to ease her fear, but the motion makes the ground tilt beneath you, your body swaying dangerously before you manage to steady yourself.

“My God,” your father mutters under his breath, turning abruptly to face away from you. "Cover yourself. Have you no shame?"

You glance down in confusion, only to be shocked to find your nightgown hanging loosely, half-unbuttoned, and barely covering you.

“It is you who have come into Friedrich’s and my bedchamber,” you remind him hoarsely, accepting the heavy robe Kerstin drapes over your shoulders.

“Are you decent?” your father demands, waiting until you confirm before facing you again. “You must prepare yourself. Pieter is coming shortly to take you and the girls on a stroll through the glass gardens.”

“So early?” you ask.

Your father’s eyes narrow, a flash of irritation crossing his face. “It is nearly noon,” he snaps. “You are to make yourself presentable. Quickly now,” he adds at Kerstin who springs into action.

It is only through her tireless efforts that you are ushered down the stairs in time, looking every inch the proper lady your father demands. You feel brittle, your body stretched too thin, each step a strain. But Pieter is there in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over you with open interest.

“Such beauty,” he compliments, his voice smooth.

The kiss he presses to the back of your hand burns and you withdraw it, rubbing your thumb over the skin anxiously. You watch as he greets your children with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He bends stiffly at the waist to offer them both fragrant bundles of roses. Your oldest daughter examines the flowers with a little frown and places them gingerly on a side table. She eyes them and Pieter distrustfully. Your youngest, wide-eyed and eager, chatters excitedly at him before rushing to show you her prize, her hands holding the roses out with delight.

“They are lovely, sweetling,” you murmur, forcing a smile.

“I cannot wait to show Papa!” she beams joyfully.

A flicker of unease passes through you and you glance at your father but he is engaged in conversation with Pieter, his back turned to you. You pull your daughter close, her small body pressed into yours as you kneel down to her level. With trembling hands, you cup her face gently and press a kiss to her temple. You think of Ellen and fear rolls in your belly at the thought of how your father might respond to such innocent nonsense.

“We have talked about this,” you whisper. “Papa is gone. You cannot speak like this.”

Her bright eyes falter for a moment and she looks past you, to the grand staircase. Then she rocks back on her heels and her smile returns. You hear the floorboards creak under a step, and without thinking, you turn to see. But there’s nothing there, just the empty expanse of the hallway leading up to the second floor. A strange chill prickles your skin and you rise, ushering her into the parlor.

Pieter is quick to pull you into his side, his touch insistent and shameless, like it’s his right, even in the house that once belonged to your husband. You want to throw him off you but one look at your father has you shrinking down, complacent. You must think of your girls. The smile you share with Pieter is strained. He does not notice, patting your hand absently as he bids your parents goodbye.

Stepping into the street with him, the light of the day seems too bright, the sun pressing against your skin in a way that feels wrong. You squint, shielding your eyes, though it does little to stave off the overwhelming brightness. Behind you, your children’s governess walks a few paces back, dutifully playing her role as chaperone for the outing. The girls, blissfully ignorant, skip ahead, their laughter light and carefree while they run down the cobbled street. But Pieter’s hand remains heavy on your side, his fingers wrapped too tightly around you, guiding you, controlling your every step.

The longer you walk in the sunlight, the more the dream of Friedrich fades from your mind, until the memory of it is as faint and ghostly as him. Even though you try to cling to it, you know last night was nothing more than a fleeting illusion, a desperate fantasy born of grief. No more real than the hope you hold that your husband will miraculously return to you.

There is nothing to do but push forward into a future you never wanted.

–

That night, you lie in bed, waiting for sleep to claim you, and pray for Friedrich’s ghost to visit you once more. You long for a dream so vivid, so real, that you would swear he is with you in the flesh again. You long for his touch, for his kiss. For him.

But as the hours drag on, the silence remains unbroken. You close your eyes, hands clasped tight against your chest, silently begging the heavens for something. Even the strange, fevered dreams that twisted reality and fantasy into a blurred mess would be a comfort. Yet, your prayers go unanswered. The night stretches on without a sign, and when you finally slip into a dreamless slumber, it offers no solace. The morning light, cold and harsh, pulls you from your restless sleep. The disappointment is a sharp ache, a heavy pressure beneath your breastbone that lingers as you rise to dress and prepare for the day ahead.

Kerstin smiles brightly when she finds you nearly ready without needing her assistance.

“You look hearty,” she remarks, draping a heavy shawl over your shoulders. “The fresh air yesterday did you good.”

You acknowledge her comment with a soft hmm, listening while she informs you of your father’s presence in the drawing room. His unwelcomed visits have become more frequent, a constant reminder of what looms ahead. As you descend the steps you resign yourself to more ill news, perhaps another forced engagement with Pieter — likely for another outing he’s arranged without considering your wishes. He had suggested the opera yesterday, bold enough to claim you could use the box Friedrich owned.

Your husband had spared no expense to secure the central box for you despite his distaste for theater. Although he was bored senseless by it, that didn’t stop him from attending every performance by your side. He was content to watch you become so enraptured by the music and drama unfolding on stage and, perhaps, he found a secret pleasure in the way the privacy of the box allowed him to touch you more freely, hiding the way his bold fingers would slip under your dress. Or the way it allowed him to drag his lips over your throat while the crescendo of the music drowned out the sound of your breathy little moans as he worked you to rapture. The memory of it leaves you teetering on the bottom of the staircase, needing a moment to collect yourself. Beneath the current of desire grief follows and you blink away the tears that gather.

In the drawing room, a rich assortment of breakfast is laid out on the table. Your father sits at the head of the table, holding the newspaper aloft, his face hidden. It galls you that he sits so easily where Friedrich once did.

“Father,” you greet quietly, sitting down beside your children. Your youngest scurries into your lap and you tuck her close, tearing off a piece of toast to share with her.

"Pieter seemed pleased with your outing yesterday," your father remarks, the rustle of his newspaper loud in the otherwise quiet room. “I expect a proposal soon. Perhaps then we can put this business behind us.”

You bite your tongue, offering him no response. Instead, you focus on your daughters, allowing yourself to be swept away by their animated conversation about some new imagining they’ve created. You spread jam on a pastry for your eldest, so caught up in their tale that you nearly miss the servant who brings a small envelope to your father. He seems surprised by its presence, glancing at you before he sets his paper aside to accept it.

He reads it quickly, his eyes scanning the note, and then exhales sharply, a look of disbelief crossing his features. For several seconds he only stares at the letter in his hand, the silence stretching between you until you prod him quietly.

“Father? What has happened?”

He blinks as though pulled from a daze.

"Pieter. He is dead," he whispers. He stands abruptly, the paper crumpling in his hands, his gaze unfocused. “Thrown from his horse sometime last night. His groom discovered him this morning. A broken neck, it seems."

Shock renders you mute and you glance at your children but they are absorbed in some game between them, unaware of the weight of the conversation unfolding in front of them.

“We…we must send our condolences to Herr Gothrim.”

“Yes, yes,” your father replies absently, his fingers tapping against his lips. “There is much to do now with this news.”

You stare at him, waiting for him to say more, but he offers nothing further. His gaze is fixed on the letter in his hands, his mind already moving ahead to whatever next steps he deems necessary. He doesn’t even look at you as he summons a servant to bring him paper. The scratch of his pen fills the silence, while you struggle with conflicting emotions, relief that you will not have to wed Pieter, and the sharp, uncomfortable sting of shame because a man is dead. He was boorish and controlling but that did not mean he deserved to die.

Above you the old house creaks, its weight shifting. Your daughter glances up and claps her hands softly, sharing a whispered laugh with her sister who is quick to shush her.

“Mama?” your oldest questions, watching you with concern.

“All is well, liebling,” you lie. “Go, play. We will visit the bookseller later, would you like that?”

"Yes!" they cry in unison, their voices bright with excitement as they race toward the stairs.

In the weeks after Pieter’s funeral, time slips by in odd, disjointed fragments. Each night, you dream of Friedrich, grasping at the fleeting hours between dusk and dawn as if to hold back the morning. The dreams are never the same, sometimes you speak, and others you don’t. But his lips always seek yours, his mouth lingering on your body, drawing both pleasure and pain to the surface.

No matter how hard you try, drawing the curtains tight, desperate to keep the daylight at bay, his ghost always fades with the first light. And with each passing day, Kerstin’s worry grows, deepening with the weight of your silent unrest. She suggests, tentatively, that you see a doctor. You dismiss her concern. The memory of Ellen and the cruelty of the men Friedrich brought in his attempt to help, lingers at the edges of your mind, a quiet reminder of both her suffering and your own guilt.

You have not gone mad. You are simply holding on to what fragments of joy remain — your daughters, and the fleeting dreams of Friedrich that come and go. And if you are tired it is only because you are worn down by your father’s relentless demands to entertain potential suitors.

Herr Mueller and Herr Klein, both men pushed upon you in the wake of Pieter's death, are frequent visitors to your home, claiming your time nearly as much as your children do. The former, old enough to be your father, is a man whose gnarled hands always seem to drift too close to where they shouldn’t, even in the full view of others. Despite having sons your age, he is still greedy for more heirs, and his desires are a constant reminder of what little value you hold.

Yet, it is Herr Klein who causes you the greatest unease.

He is younger than you by several years, possessing the kind of beauty you’ve only seen in the angels Botticelli painted. His appearance should be comforting, but the way his gaze lingers on your eldest daughter fills you with a cold, creeping dread. He masks his interest in her as a desire to know those closest to your heart, yet each time he reaches toward her, your body instinctively tenses in revulsion. You watch him carefully, doing everything you can to ensure your daughters are otherwise occupied when he comes to call. You decline his invitations for them to join you on outings, feigning prior obligations, but it is inevitable they will spend time together if he is the one your father chooses.

The powerlessness and anger weigh heavily on you, a suffocating force that builds and builds until it becomes too much to bear. When Kerstin finds you weeping without restraint, the pain and frustration spilling from you in waves, you can’t even find it in yourself to feel shame.

“What am I to do?” you ask her tearfully, your voice quivering. "I care not what becomes of myself, but my sweet girls…what will become of them if we do not secure the right suitor? It cannot be Herr Klein. You see how he looks at them."

Kerstin helps you from the floor onto the bed. “Perhaps Herr Harding’s cousin that your father spoke of.”

You shake your head, a ragged hiccup stealing your breath. “No. He has a wife and child of his own. He only wants the business. He...he would cast us aside. I know it.”

“Oh, mistress,” Kerstin whispers, pulling you close, wrapping you in her arms as if trying to protect you from the weight of the world.

You’re not sure how long you weep in her arms, only that once you stop your whole body aches with the weight of it. In the end, Kerstin has no answers for you. There is only the quiet, resigned look in her eyes that tells you she, too, knows what needs to be done.

And you realize, with a sinking certainty, that there is only one choice left to you.

You must convince your father to choose Herr Mueller.

–

Over the coming weeks, Herr Mueller’s visits become less frequent as his health seems to decline sharply, his ghostly pallor growing almost daily before word comes that he has returned to Munich. News of his death arrives soon after and in his absence, your father pushes you towards Herr Klein until his visits stop abruptly without explanation. You only learn the truth from the hushed whispers among the servants. He has suffered some kind of horrific accident — one that no one dares to explain in detail. More often than not, you find yourself seeking out their gossip as your father grows increasingly distant and worried.

Tonight, on your way back from settling your daughters, you come across a cluster of servants huddled together in the hallway. You freeze, half-hidden behind the old grandfather clock, its steady ticks loud enough to mask your movements but not their murmurs.

“It is as though she is cursed,” the scullery maid whispers, her face drawn and pale. “Three suitors, all dead.”

“Perhaps God has struck them down, for surely it is an affront to him the way Frau Harding’s father behaves,” the cook adds. “Anyone can see she grieves still. ”

“The governess says the children speak of their father, God rest his soul, like he still lives,” another adds softly.

“‘Tis wrong the way her father persists. Kerstin was asked to ready the mistress for another party tonight.”

You close your eyes, trying to push away the unease their whispered words have stirred. You force yourself to retreat down the hall, the sound of their voices fading. In your room you find Kerstin has laid out a beautiful red gown across your bed. The fabric shimmers faintly in the dim light, and beside it rests a matching ruby necklace, its stones gleaming like drops of blood. You run your fingers along the dress, feeling its soft texture, its weight. It’s expensive — far more so than anything you would have expected your father to choose. An unsettling sensation creeps up your spine as your thumb brushes against the diamonds encircling the rubies.

What does he have planned for tonight that requires such rich adornment?

You know regardless of the answer you must accept it. For the sake of your girls.

You dress quickly, sparing a cursory glance at yourself in the mirror. Friedrich always loved you in red, the color made him bolder with his touches and stolen moments. It’s impossible for your father to know such a thing, and yet the sight of the gown twists the knife in your gut deeper. Tonight you wear it for a man who is not your husband.

As you finish adjusting the dress Kerstin enters, holding something in her hands. She freezes in the doorway, her eyes widening when they take in your appearance. The silence between you stretches. Her gaze flicks nervously to your closet and back to you, her expression twisting in confusion, as though she doesn’t know what to make of you.

“I...I shall fetch you a different cloak,” she stammers, hurrying away with a dark blue coat still clutched in her hands.

–

At the party you hold onto your father’s arm while he makes introductions to his guests, most of whom seem to linger in hushed conversations, casting sidelong glances at you. Your father’s smile, stiff and strained, mirrors your own, and your mother hovers nearby, her expression pinched with worry. A sense of wrongness clings to the room, a discomfort that you can't quite shake.

It does not escape you that the number of men in attendance is smaller than usual, and none of them seem eager to engage with you as they had before. Your mind drifts back to the servants’ hushed conversation and you nervously adjust the largest ruby resting at the hollow of your throat. Your father notices your fidgeting and glances at you, his frown deepening.

“I had expected you to wear the blue dress. The red is too bold for a widow,” he mutters, his voice tinged with annoyance. "No matter.”

He brings you to another gentleman whose severe expression doesn’t change as he takes you in with a cold kind of assessment. The two of them speak of you as if you are not there and you take a sip of your champagne. The sweet drink has long gone warm and flat. You force yourself to drain it before your gaze turns to the darkened window, catching the shadow of a man’s grey top hat when he passes by.

Though it is impolite, you allow your thoughts to drift away from the conversation at hand and to your daughters. You find yourself looking forward to the end of the evening when you can finally check on them. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll take them to the Marktplatz to buy new hair ribbons or visit the dollmaker. Though they seem just fine you can’t help but worry.

A sharp, startled scream from your mother, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass shattering pulls you from your thoughts. You turn to see the cause of such commotion but your view is partially blocked by your father, whose shocked inhalation sounds as though the breath has been stolen from his chest. When you try to shift around him, his grip on your arms tightens painfully and you wince.

“Mein Gott,” the woman beside you whispers, crossing herself.

“Father? What…” your words trail off when at last, you manage to edge past him and catch sight of the room beyond and the unexpected guest standing in the entryway.

It’s Friedrich.

For a moment, disbelief freezes you in place. You wonder if the grief has finally driven you to madness, if his ghost has returned, risen from the depths of the sea, to haunt you in full view of those gathered. He looks just as you saw him last on the bow of the ship beside Ellen, tall and broad, handsomely dressed.

The rest of your father’s guests seem equally as transfixed, whispering amongst themselves as Friedrich removes his grey top hat with a practiced, fluid motion. He passes it to a startled servant who stands frozen, manners forgotten. His eyes find yours immediately, and now that he is no longer hidden beneath the shadow of his hat you can see the golden warmth of his skin has all but faded, leaving him unnaturally pale and drawn. He looks as though the very life within him has dimmed.

But then he smiles, the one you know so well, filled with affection, and a tenderness that melts away all doubt. You know in that moment that he is no ghost but your beloved husband returned to you, as solid and real as the other men in the room.

You go to him, drawn by some invisible thread, heedless of those around you. Everything else feels distant now. It’s only Friedrich you see, his presence consuming your every sense. His lips find yours, and in that moment, it feels as though the very blood in your veins comes alive, singing with the sensation of his touch. He is here, alive in your arms. His lips do not leave yours until your lungs burn with the need for air.

“I do not understand,” you cry, touching his face. “I thought…”

“That I was lost to you?” He questions with a smile, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No, my love. We are bound together always.”

His choice of words stirs an errant, unsettling memory from your dreams, but before you can linger on the thought, his kiss silences your mind. You melt into his touch, desperate for more despite the crowd. He parts from you regretfully, rubbing his gloved hands up and down your arms as he looks beyond you to the gathered crowd.

“I must apologize for such a dramatic entrance,” he says, his tone shifting to something more composed. “I was lost for some time, first to the sea and then to an illness that prevented my travel. I regret I could not send word earlier.”

“Oh, you look like death,” your mother exclaims with concern, taking in his pale appearance.

“I am still recovering,” Friedrich replies calmly, though there’s a sharp edge to his tone that surprises you. “But what matters is that I have returned.” He speaks the last words with a quiet, simmering intensity, his eyes locking onto your father’s.

Friedrich’s words linger in the air as your father’s gaze flickers uncomfortably over your husband’s form, searchingly. There’s an unsettling pause before he finally responds, his smile forced. “And we thank God for it.”

Friedrich glances at your father one last time, the tension in his jaw fading as his face settles into a placid expression.

“We can speak on this tomorrow,” he says with a note of finality. “For now, I am eager to see my children and spend time with my wife.” His hand encircles your wrist, drawing you to his side.

“Of course,” your mother agrees, patting his shoulder comfortingly. “We shall join you for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Dinner,” Friedrich corrects, accepting your cloak from the servant.

With deliberate care, he drapes it over your shoulders and fastens the clasp at your throat. His fingers linger over your fluttery pulse, the rough fabric of his gloves creating a barrier between you and the warmth you so crave. When he stares at you, his bright blue eyes sweeping over your features, you find yourself unable to look away, as if ensnared by some strange spell. It doesn’t break until he finally steps back, his hand gently guiding you toward the waiting carriage. Even then, the lingering feeling of his eyes on you stays, a quiet pull that you can’t quite shake.

Inside the carriage, you sit beside him, your hands linked together. Your fingers move restlessly over his as if trying to convince yourself that this is real. That he is real. Because some part of you fears you’ll blink and find yourself back in your bed, waking from this dream.

“My love,” he soothes, kissing your brow. “I am here.”

“I know," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "How will we explain this to the girls? Or the servants?"

He squeezes your hand and urges you to rest your head on his shoulder. "I will take care of it all, just like I have always done. You needn’t worry."

“Of course,” you agree, relief flooding through you as you rest your cheek against the velvety fabric of his coat.

You inhale the familiar scent of him, the one that has always grounded you, comforting and light. But beneath it, there’s something else. A faint sweetness, like old wood surrendering to the earth, something unfamiliar and unsettling. You pull back just enough to glance up at him, your eyes searching for something you can’t quite place.

Then he smiles, his soft pink lips curling beneath his mustache, and the unease fades, swallowed by how sure and steady he is beneath your hands.

“All is well,” he promises you. “I am here and we will never be parted again.”

Part 3

#friedrich harding x reader #friedrich harding x you #friedrich harding #aaron taylor johnson #nosferatu #nosferatu 2024

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