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ravengards-rogue · 6 months

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WHAT SET YOU FREE, BROUGHT YOU TO ME BABY.

rdr2 men + short blurbs about their favorite sex positions.

ft. arthur morgan, john marston, javier escuella, and charles smith.

✧ tags : SPOILER HEAVY, fem + afab!reader, unprotected sex, light angst (in the horny post is crazy im sorry fdkjjkds), very gendered language, javier says one thing in spanish (thank u @nanamimizz), a little sprinkle of plot with each (and some canon divergency), john co-parents w abigail, otherwise just horny. 18+

✧ wc : about 1.4-8k each (6.3k total)

✧ a/n : sorry for making a multi character post for the cowboy game its cooking me to death. my john bias is showing rip. title is from rebel yell by billy idol but i listen to the bvb cover

sorry about charles and javiers but if i edit this anymore im going to level an entire city using hollow purple technique. please rb if you enjoyed i worked kind of hard on whatever this is.

sorry for . the THIRD repost of this i promise i wont after this. its just really bugging me. PLEASE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ ARTHUR MORGAN + PRONE BONE ;

It’s an odd feelin’ for Arthur.

Wanting something, he means. Wanting anything as much as he wants you. He’s lived a less than quiet life up until now. And he ain’t the brightest, certainly, but living this kind of life teaches you many lessons. One of them being, it’s better not to covet anything. Coveting something you’re not entitled to, well—it’ll lead you places you wouldn’t want to go with a gun.

Arthur has made the mistake of coveting love before, dreamed of a future so completely out of his reach he almost convinced himself it was possible. Dreamed of it so foolishly he’d even go visit a woman he very well ought to forget. It’s his problem, his burden to bear - always desiring outcomes unsuited to him.

He’s just that sort of man he reckons. But he learned his lesson. He tries (tried?) to stay away from it after that. Tried not to pine too much for normalcy when such hopes had failed him twice. The loss of his child completely on his account and the loss of his love at the same fate.

So, wanting you - well, he feels like the world's dullest fool. Really. How is it that Arthur had fallen in love with someone again? It had all just happened so quickly. You were another woman he’d saved from the O’Driscolls, though it wasn’t like you were no damsel. A lot of those men were dead by the time they arrived. That sort of perseverance would stick with you while you traveled together. Much like Sadie, you didn’t take well to housework - you liked to earn your keep. Though you’re not nearly so trigger happy.

You’re quiet, thoughtful, well-read. Plus you’re good at making money. That’s why Dutch don't complain about you joining them, he figures.

(Arthur tries not to pry into it too much at first, but he eventually learns that you’re gambling. Which is how you’re able to make such a fast turn around. A prim little lady like you makes for a fine poker player, and you love to play men out of their money. He thinks it’s one of the funniest and most interesting things about you. He can’t help but love you a little more for it. )

When the feelings in him start to stir, Arthur tries to overlook it. Arthur convinces himself, time and time again - that there’s no way he’ll grow more tender about you. Eventually, it’ll die down. You’re a decent woman is all, a kind one - who’s easy for him to love and even easier for him to confide in. In your time together, you often come to Arthur and you always seem to have some profound wisdom he is so sorely lacking. Someone easy to love, who does not expect much from Arthur at all. It’s only natural a lonely, covetous man like him would start to dream about you. He tells himself, it will pass eventually. Should he simply let it run by him, it will pass. But Arthurs a fool, you’ll remember.

Of course, by the time he understood all that - he already loved you enough that he couldn’t bear it. It was already too late and it wasn’t going to change any time soon. Especially not while everything changed around him.

So, Arthur is undoubtedly a fool, but he’s lucky. He felt divinely blessed when you’d returned his feelings for him so politely. A coy little smile on your face, a laugh like you thought he was silly for being doubtful. Arthur tried to explain himself but you wouldn’t hear a word of it. Maybe that’s another thing he loves so much about you. There’s nothing he ever needs to explain.

In any case, all Arthur seems to do lately is want you. Wants you when it’s inconvenient. Wants you before he wants liquor or a cigarette or some other vice. Any time anything goes wrong, you’re the first thing his mind can conjure up for relief. That pretty smile and that self-assured way of living. It’s hard to get time alone in camp. And Arthur is a man in love, so any touch could be enough to set him on fire. Last week you hugged his waist a little before giving him a kiss goodbye and he had to listen to you laugh yourself into a fit as he waited for…little Arthur to settle down.

He don’t get many chances to be with you. Lay with you in that way that grown folk in love do. Though, if the two of you book it somewhere for a few days - the camp knows better not to ask where you’ve been. But it’s not often you get to really be together, where it’s peaceful to do that. Someone’s always hounding one of you to do something.

Arthur is a lucky man though, like he said. Today he had time. Today he’s alone with you in a beat up little saloon and today he gets to do as he likes. He gets to be greedy. And it’s an odd feeling for him, really, to want something so bad he disregards everything else in the world for a little while.

Feeling you, though - absolves the guilt for wanting. He’d be stupid to want you any less desperately.

Arthur’s favorite way to have you is on your stomach. Laid flat, just barely pushed up against him as he fucks you deep. You’ll fuck like rabbits for a little while and Arthur will wear you out just like this, maneuvering you until you’re pinned all underneath his weight. You lose any fight you might have, too exhausted to worry yourself with pleasing him - and when you’re like that, you let Arthur take care of you.

(He really ain’t talented at much, but he’s good with his hands. Being dexterous is part of being a talented shot. When Arthur has the time to spread you sweet in his lap and make you cum all over his fingers, he does so for as long as he can. At least until you beg him so sweetly otherwise. The same hands, soiled with gunsmoke, look so good so deep in you. At least in his eyes.)

Wet and pliable and helpless. Arthur loves you like that. He knows, he knows you’re anything but - but he’d be damned to pretend this don’t feel best. Tight, wet cunt so welcoming from all the pleasure he’s ripped out of you. Your bodies pressed together, your heartbeat pulsing through your skin. All sticky, honeyed need and animal desire as Arthur lets all of him sink on top of you. His heavy, lumbering form crushing you in - trapping you somewhere you can’t run from him. The curve of your spine pushed against his chest, ticklish.

Every inch of his body that so wholly wants for you, Arthur aches to make you feel. Burn it in you lest anything happens that risks your forgetting.

He can feel his hips meet your ass, backside squished against him - desperate for deeper friction. Whining. You’re whining to him so pretty, a pillow pushed underneath you to give friction to needy clit.

Arthur can feel how much you want more. Maybe Arthur is greedy, but he likes that look much better on you. Your pussy is sucking him in so tight, silken walls pulsing with every shallow little measured thrust. Arthur lets his arm wrap around your neck, your face pressing into his bicep. You moan again and he laughs.

“Arthur,” Your words come out in a messy slur. He lets his scruffy face press against your neck, a kiss behind your ear. He wants to kiss you all over. There’s not enough hours in the day. “Oh, god, Arthur,”

“Still feels good, then, I’m guessin’,”

“Shut up,” You huff and press your cheek into his arm. He doesn’t bother stifling his laugh. “Still feels…big. Stretchin’ me out—hicc—so much,”

You really don’t try to rile him up - but you do a damn good job of it anyway. He groans, grunts as he pulls back and pistons himself in you. A gesture half-way between a kiss and the warning shot of a gun. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes, noisy and vulgar. Arthur don’t pay it much mind. He laughs against your shoulder.

“One of these days, that moutha’ yours is gonna get me in real trouble.”

You giggle back at him

“What kinda trouble is that now?”

Even from your side glance, you’ve got that lovely little smile on you. Fuckdrunk and ingratiating, like you know he’s wrapped so tight around your fingers. And he is, like nothing else in the world could have him. A wave of possession curls up over Arthur, makes him press more of himself into you. Onto you. Another deep push of his cock, sliding against the tenderest parts of you. Staking some silent desire in you. He wants and wants and wants, and hopes that whatevers above him can forgive him for making the same mistake thrice.

“Dunno,” Arthur comments, teeth grazing your shoulder and kissing the indentations “Got our whole lives together to find out, I reckon.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Mister.”

Arthur laughs. “Hope you do, Miss.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ JOHN MARSTON + COWGIRL ;

John doesn’t say that he loves you lightly.

Hardly a thing he says can be said that way. Could never afford too. In an alternate universe where nothing goes wrong in his life, maybe - but he has a hard time picturing what the hell that’d look like. A version of himself so untainted, without all of the violence and blood and gunsmoke? Foreign. John can’t picture it worth a damn.

Who John is without a deadbeat father and a dead Ma is somewhere far beyond his reach. Ain’t nothing about his life, at any point, lighthearted.

On top of all that mess, he’s got a boy at age four with a woman he ain’t married too. And that relationship is always on rocky waters, even though John’s decided to do right by his own flesh and blood sometime ago. Most things in the world he should feel good about he doesn’t, and most things he should understand render him clueless. He’s a mess on multiple accounts, and he still doesn’t know how exactly he’s meant to approach this life of his. He knows what he should do, but nothing about how to do it.

John doesn’t come to love you easily ‘cause he wouldn’t know easy love if it hit him in his face. Quickly and painfully, but not easily.

Your return to the gang was an odd one. You were an old presence and your disappearance was an even older story. John thought he’d never gonna see you again for sure. You’d been a part of the gang back long before all of the nonsense that took place in Blackwater and you left about the time Arthur’s boy died. John don’t remember why you left exactly. He thinks it was a fight with Hosea, of all things.

Dutch weren't too happy about it neither, but Dutch back then didn’t make a show.

So you left, and John buried every feeling he ever harbored. You found all them again up in Colter, where you’d been living out your days lately. According to you, in the middle of riding, you thought you’d heard Arthur. So, somewhat recklessly, you went chasing him. Didn’t matter if he was just something your mind conjured. According to you, if it was him, it was at least worth checking to make sure. You’d reunited with Arthur and after some tears, he rode with you back to camp.

Upon your return, the gang welcomed you with open arms.

You’d done a lot in your time alone.You spent most of that time just like that, a ghost wanderin’ the planes. You weren’t gonna stay with ‘em, but Arthur insisted and Hosea did too. That wasn’t enough to compel, so John was last to chip in. You should stay, at least until Valentine.

(Silently he thought, you should stay so John can trace memories of you. It was so long ago, he should’ve forgotten all of it. You were a year older than John and always on his ass but easy for him to talk to. Didn’t fuss over his failures. You just barely grew into your womanhood when you set your sights on running away. You wanted more than this life, and John never really forgave you for it. His first heartbreak, maybe - but it’s all too blurry for that.

You understood him though better than anyone, and one day you were gone. Nothing’s really the same.)

You changed tremendously and not at all. He missed you. God, did he ever. Missed you a long time. Didn’t realize how much until you came back and everything in him felt right again. Your return stirred up old feelings and everyone noticed. He wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, but he really wasn’t trying to fall back into anything with you. Not how he did.

Just like you did back then, you read John like an open book. And just like he did back then, he loved you all too helplessly for it. It was just all too easy again, to be with you.

You stayed out of the way at first, for the sake of his family.

But, John ain’t a half-decent man even when he’s trying to be. So he set himself on being with you. It wasn’t easy - most things with him aren’t as you’ll see. Having you around again straightened what was left of his common sense, at least. He told Abigail before telling you. He figured you wouldn’t even reply unless that was all out of the way. That turned out as well as you’d expect.

It was settled between the two of you thereafter. He’s lucky she didn’t toss him into the street.

Everything works out in a way. As best they can between broken people. You make peace with each other. His boy loves you like a third parent (you’re better with him than John is). Abigail commends you for straightening out such a worthless man though she’s a little melancholy. John just tries to stay out of the way. You’ll be together in the end. There’s a plan with the five of you.

But until it all falls apart, he doesn’t get all that much time with you.

There’s moments like tonight, though. Rare ones. Together out robbin’, cooped out some place in the woods where no one is around. A place so shaded by nightfall that John can absolve himself of every sin he’s ever committed in his life and pray at the altar between your hips. John is convinced he might find worship like he’s always hearing about there whenever he touches you, the marred skin of his hands and knuckles reading the scripture of your body with careful precision.

You might turn him into a literate man yet.

John glances up at you. Only the light of the fire and the moonlight there to accompany as he watches you over him. You’re beautiful. John couldn’t picture a single thing more perfect in his life.

Your hands against his bare chest, nails digging into the flesh as you lean forward. Your palm dug into the dirt, John finds his own hands rested at your hips. John looks at you awe-struck, cock twitching at the mere sight. His heart settles in his throat, but he’s calm all at the same time. With you, he forgets. All of it. The worst of himself.

Bare naked and so close, he watches your face as you strain. You feel soft. Every inch of you in comparison to him is. A bead of sweat slides down the valley of your breasts. John cranes his neck up to catch it with his tongue, licking a stripe up to your neck - letting his teeth sink into the space between your jaw and neck. You want to make it last and John doesn’t blame you. It’s so rare you get to have each other so unrestrained. John can feel all the ways you want him, can see it in your face - all pinched with need. You’re holding yourself back, trying to get it to last as long as the night will allow. It’s cute in a way.

It’s different than how he’s used to seein’ you, all cocky or otherwise. You’re needy like this. Just needy. His stomach turns with lust, jolting through him like a strike of lightning. His cock twitches against your folds, sliding against them. Pure admiration watching the sticky mess of his pre-cum and your own arousal mix together and smear on your mound. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, faint and tender as you fall forward just a little. John laughs against your neck.

“Darlin’,” He says with a huff. Not malice. Something akin to bliss, where he can rarely afford it “Have I done something to piss you off today?”

You pick yourself up and look down at him and frown. John kisses the corner of your mouth, resisting some crude desire to fuck up into you.

“Just,” You grunt as the tip of his cock passes over your throbbing clit, your whole body wracking to a shiver. John looks awed. “Pent up. Goddamn it,”

John figures it out quickly after that. It’s this part of it he likes. The proximity. The closeness. Feeling the tremble in your hands as they struggle to keep up right, muscles strained in your forearms. Being able to hold you, to keep the pace or let you take the lead. The clear view of your face as pleasure travels up through your spine and melts into you. He grabs your hips, the fat dimpling underneath his fingers as he moves you along. He can’t wait. You don’t bother to protest seeing John can’t seem to bear it anymore. You collapse into his chest, your tits pushed flat against his pecs.

His cock throbs near painfully, sliding against your soft cunt before finding himself lined with you. He thinks to himself that it’s this he was looking for, as he tucks your face against his neck and lets his tip stretch you out slowly. Such a vice like grip, stretching - resisting him like your whole body can’t anticipate the sensation of fullness. You gasp against his throat.

“John,”

What a sweet sound from your mouth, even sweeter as he bucks himself up. Keeps you steady and lets his cock stretch you full, feel you deep. “That’s right, my angel. Didn’t think you’d remember my name when you’re all worked up like this.”

“You’re,” You gasp and John thrusts, thrusts hard until he’s buried to the hilt. You shudder, walls pulsing around him as he bottoms out and John laughs like the terrible man he is. He fucks you again, over and over - a wicked little smile watching “Awful. Just awful, John Marston,”

“Ain’t that the truth,” He hums against your mouth as his hand snakes between your bodies, thumb rubbing against your clit. “Wonder what kinda woman that makes you,”

“A foolish one,”

John laughs.

“I sure do love you for it,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆JAVIER ESCUELLA + SIDEWAYS ;

Javier hasn’t thought about much other than surviving.

It’s been like that. Been like that for a while, probably much longer than he cares to admit. He’s sure any sane man would suffer the same plight if they lead the same life. Anything but survival is little more than a pipe-dream, so Javier tries not to go for anything too strongly. In that aspect he’s like many of the members of the gang he’s in, perhaps that’s why he sticks to them. There’s that phrase Hosea’s always saying - that misery loves company. Javier will take any decent company he can get. He’s desperate for it just like he’s desperate for most things - inwardly, silently.

Some of that desperation may be symptomatic of who he is. After he killed a man in a crime of passion for a woman he loved and ran from a government who would sooner exile him than change, Javier decided to not dream anymore. Every revolutionary who dreams too hopefully pays the price in blood.

(Javier thinks there’s probably nothing in the world as true as this. A form of gospel. He remembers the first dream he ever had after his uncle passed. Not a nightmare but a dream. He remembers the exact feeling of waking up, cold and confused. What is a dream, except a memento of survivor's guilt that loyal people cling onto fruitlessly. When hope starts to feel like a debt he’s going to waste his life paying back, Javier loses sight of everything. The beginning of the end in some way.)

His mind doesn’t occupy itself with anything bigger than that. Since Dutch found him starving, there was never a desire to try and live off aspirations. He pays his penance with loyalty and honor. Practices some form of humility and tries, not too desperately, to carve a place for him to fit. All without drawing too much attention or caring too much. If you ignore the bleeding in his fingers, his penchant for knives over guns, and his refusal to talk too long about the place he comes from - it’s nearly believable that none of it matters.

Except loyalty. All Javier honors is that. It’s the only thing he has some part in choosing, so he choses it every time. Living like that didn’t make any difference to him. He was surrounded by mostly decent people. He didn’t hate the life he was living.

It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. His directionless-ness, his floating. Hadn’t since he joined the gang. At least not to anyone but him. He didn’t know what he’s meant to do or if he was meant to proceed with this forever. He was (is) loyal to Dutch. To the gang.

He hadn’t thought much about what comes after.

And it didn’t matter until he met you

He’d sworn off love after seeing where it got him, at least until he could love more dispassionately. When the women bring you back from their outing from Valentine and beg Dutch to let you stay, Javier doesn’t think much of it all. He thinks you’re pretty, if it counts for anything. But he doesn’t let himself linger on you too long.

But that’s the sequence with you two, really. The whole time. He doesn’t linger until he does. It doesn't matter until it does. He doesn’t think about you until it’s all he can think about.

You go for him first. And it’s in little, unimportant ways that might not mean shit to you but mean a whole lot to him. You have some kind of tenderness about you that you wear deep, runs through your blood like love ran through his once long ago. Some softness he can’t really measure with his own. It’s not that that gets him. It’s that sometimes you look at Javier like he's … someone you want to see. He forgot what that was like all together. It felt foreign to him the first time it happened. Seeing how you light up when Javier is around.

You wanted to see him. You noticed that he’s gone. If he sang by the campfire - you’d sit by him and listen. If he was out in the trees keeping guard, he’d hear the soft call of your voice to Grimshaw ask Where’s Javier? And sometimes the girls will make fun of you - but you wouldn’t deny anything they said. It’s so small and ordinary. He would’ve never considered himself simple before meeting you. Nothing is simple. Nothing.

(But then, Javier thinks of the kinds of songs he sings and the way he takes care of himself and the clothes he wears and maybe Javier has some kind of affinity for preciousness that explains all of it.)

When Javier confesses his feelings for you - he finds the affair to be like most things between you. Ordinary love, not really between outlaws but people. It’s up against a tree while you share a drink and he’s looking at the curve of your mouth and the plum color Karen’s so kindly put on you. And his head fills with kissing you so he does. A breathless confession between alcohol stains and the feeling of your hands curled in the lapels of his suit.

From there, Javier is your lover. He’s not interested in the business of secrets, but he tries not to let it show too much. Not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to show you off more than anything - at least some part of him does. But the other part wants to keep you away from prying eyes, keep his love for you only where the both of you can see. If he could keep that pretty lovestruck face you make all to himself forever he would.

When he gets a chance to whisk you away from everything, Javier jumps at the chance. Not often, but Javier makes time for you. Makes time to indulge in love he thought he’d never find again.

That’s why he’s here with you in the middle of nowhere, a ghost town where no one knows you.. A reserved room with a bed and lowlights all to yourselves.

Javier can’t keep his hands to himself and he doubts you expect him too.

For Javier, this sense of proximity is what intoxicates him most. The warmth of your bare skin in the slivers of yourself exposed. Javier is fond of finding you like this after a long day of horse riding. Of sneaking touches to your waist as you push back against him to sleep, only to find his desire for you - laid clearly. He likes hearing you whimper feeling his length poke against your back, the embarrassment when it dawns on you that he wants you after all. Always surprised, even though Javier tells you it so often. Whispers it along your neck and shoulders whenever you’re at camp together.

You like the feeling of his hands so Javier always starts with them. He squeezes your hips. Planes his palms over your chest before squeezing your chest, pushing the fat between his fingers. You like the way they look when they grope you, his chin resting against your shoulder as you spoon. In the lowlights of a cheap hotel - Javier gets the perfect view of your silhouette. Your body is sensitive over the fabric of your gown, heat prickling through you.

Javier who is always so gentle with you, rouses so deep listening to your whining as he explores your body. The suffocating closeness of a single bed intoxicates him.

“Javier,” Your voice is sweet and thin. Plays in Javier’s head like music and makes his mouth curl up into a catlike grin as you push back on him. You look slightly over your shoulder, lips pushed into a pout. “Please,”

He tugs at the fabric of your nightgown. The top half pulls haphazard underneath your tits, nipples perky and sensitive to touch while the skirt pools at your waist. What gets Javier like this is the desperation. Wanting so much but not being able to look too long. A way for you to mirror him, it’s a matter of possession. In some stupid way. Bunching your clothes up, pushing the fabric of your panties to one side, letting his arm wrap around your waist to touch and tease. All of these are imprints of his longing, tucked faithful into your side as he whispers sweet nothings into your skin.

His cock twitches as it pushes past your folds with finality, your hands curling up at your sides. You whimper softly, let your cheek rest against the sheets as Javier takes you on your side. Terribly close, you fuss as you feel him slide every inch into you slow, your hands reaching back for purchase. It’s the fit of you against him so perfect, the silent strokes of intimacy, the hush-hush giggles between the sheets that Javier loves most about fucking you like this. Too enamored with you to look too closely, he lets his eyes flutter closed. He could get drunk just being in your space.

He carves out space for himself inside of you, feels your cunt accommodate for him like it loves him. A feverishness breaks out as his forehead rests on the space between your shoulders, an uncharacteristic whiny quality in his words.

“Ser mío,” Javier says - as a reflection of what he really wants, to belong only to you. “Belong to me.”

Darling as you always are, you nod softly.

“All yours, Javier,” You whimper, finding his hand. “Forever,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ CHARLES SMITH + MATING PRESS ;

Wandering.

He’s been doing it his whole life. Not something he’s proud of. Or ashamed of either, really. Just how things have gone for him until now. Charles doesn’t think his life has been any better or any worse than anyone else's. At least not when he weighs it with the same kind of pragmatism he does most things. It’s been a hard life, and a miserable one in so many ways. Still, it’s not something Charles is too keen to dwell on.

There’s just something thematic about loss in Charles' life in a way he finds completely unpleasant. It’s more constant than anything. Loss of his home, loss of his mother, loss of his father in an attempt to find what’s best for him. It’s some overarching message that hangs over his head like a shadow. Everywhere he goes, trying to rectify his own solitude seems to come back to him. It doesn’t help that it’s an unfair world to start with, and would’ve been if he had just been black or just been native. But Charles is both, and has lived a life that reflects that specific injustice thoroughly.

There’s not really anything Charles can do about it, at its baseline. When he left his father, the name of the game had simply been survival. He was well-equipped enough for that at least. But after survival comes trying to live and trying to live isn’t something so simple. Jumping in and out of gangs who thought they could get away with slighting him or generally being surrounded by unpleasant people. Trying to find something in pages of book and scripture, or in the way water ripples when it rains.

He’s never felt any one way towards the gang. Even when he joined them all the way back in the Grizzlies. Lost in the cold, they’d crossed paths as Charles was out hunting. A lot of it feels like a blur. Of all the folks he’s met in his travels though, Dutch treats him fair and the rest of them (or most of them) are decent, honest folk. Charles stays in the Van Der Linde gang for such simple reasons as trying to stay alive and be somewhere that isn’t actively hostile towards him. He’s a good gunman, and a better fighter. The inner workings of gang politics and forging connection isn’t at the forefront of his mind, with the exception of the kindest few.

The Van Der Linde gang is just a place where he can figure out what his purpose is meant to be, even if he doesn’t find it there. He’s never expecting anything to come out from his loyalties to it.

Of all the things Charles expects of his life in the Van Der Linde gang, love is at the very bottom of the list.

Maybe it’s about time he stops being surprised by these things happening to him one or way another.

You were a member of the gang far before him, and someone Charles took to quickly. You’d joined the gang not too long after John from what Arthur tells him. Though the brunette speaks about you more fondly than he does his brother. A problem child at the start, according to Arthur - always getting into all sorts of trouble. Something you seemingly feel embarrassed about now and refuse to bring up. Charles has a hard time picturing it having only known you as you are.

The woman you’ve grown into is someone else completely, and Charles sees that in you all the time. Compassionate like Hosea but charismatic like Dutch, and clever. And you’re beautiful, too, though Charles feels a little shallow admitting that’s part of what drew you into him.

It wasn’t Charles that approached you first. You were the one who spoke to him, as often as you thought necessary but never in a way he found invasive. He doesn’t know what it is exactly about you that charms him near instantly. You’re enigmatic to a fault. It’s like you always know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it. Even more than that, you’re a terribly pleasant person to be around. Subtly warm and free of assumptions. When Charles talks to you about anything, you listen without making him feel like it’s any sort of burden to you. You don’t pry, don’t make missteps. Treat him fair, and then some.

It’s unbearably simple, just how quickly and how easily he comes to adore you. And, in some ways, Charles knows better than to believe that his purpose is loving someone. There’s more to it than that, surely - after everything.

But then, he’ll watch you do something. Watch you do some kind of menial work that he could do for you instead. Thinks of skinning animals for new clothes and chopping wood and rubbing the soap off of you and all of a sudden it makes him feel anchored. Everything he could do for you. You anchor Charles easily, with a wispy smile. Make him want to find purpose in life with you. He never wants to be somewhere you’re not.

He confesses it to you just like that, and like you do with most things - you accept and reciprocate without making too much of a fuss.

For Charles, making love is an extension of wanting to ground himself in you. A distant siren song - the intersection of lust and bone deep adoration. Like most things, you’re the one to approach first every time. A soft hand on his forearm, a whisper that you want him. It’s with ease that he draws you away. Drags from you camp during nightfall with his horse and blankets and picks a spot with the perfect view of the stars.

Charles watches you under the glow of moonlight, his vision adjusting to you easily. Naked underneath him, laid on your back with your legs folded at your knees - heaving deep breaths. He can see the sweat beading down your skin, your chest rising and falling - and the perfect view of your pussy. His hands and mouth are wet as you breathe out. He finds himself smiling at you, his own erection pressed against your thigh, pre-cum leaking out in a mesmerized haze.

You lift your hands up and he leans down, surprised as you wrap them around his neck and pull him closer to you. Your mouths meet like that, and Charles laughs against your lips as you kiss him so eagerly. You blink at him, pretty. You’re always prettier than he remembers you being the last time he looks.

“Charles,” You frown at him. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Sorry, my love. I don’t want to hurt you,”

“Well, I’m fine with it,” You repeat, almost petulant. Charles frowns. “‘Sides, it ain’t my first time taking you, you know?”

“Well, I’m not fine with it.”

You pout, looking at him all endeared. Charles couldn’t help but love you even if he tried. “You ain’t gonna hurt me. C’mon. Please?”

“Please, what?”

You look at him aghast before breaking out into a faux-scandalized giggle. “Now you—please fuck me. Pretty, please.”

Charles feels something tickling against his spine hearing you say it. He couldn’t imagine getting sick of you in his whole life. “Yeah, that’s good to hear.”

You make an indignant noise but it’s silenced quickly as Charles positions himself against your entrance. He has plenty of discipline when it comes to matters like these, but right now - he feels like he’s going to lose his mind. Not nearly enough patience to wait. He lets his hands go up underneath your knees just to have something to hold onto.

You make a little gasp as the tip of his cock pushes into you. Your walls are so soft, likely after all the orgasms he’d given you prior. You stop him in a shocked gasp, and Charles immediately readies himself to pull out. As if sensing his hesitance, you shake your head.

“Charles,” You gasp, the words caught in your throat and hoarse “Deep. Want it deep,”

His abdomen tightens, cocking twitching hard at your words. He agrees silently to your desires.

When it comes to sex, there’s very little Charles dislikes.

But this is his favorite. He’s simple but no other position lets him see you so close. He likes the way your eyes widen as he pushes up underneath your knees and folds you underneath his weight. How you look pinned down under him, the perfect view of your eyes rolling back into your head and the proximity from your face to his. He lets his cock stretch you out slowly, throbbing each time your nails dig desperately into arms trying to keep your composure. Fuck you feel so tight like that. Soft pussy, dripping and sticky. You suck him in relentlessly, and Charles groans as he bottoms out. You take every inch of him so well. So perfect like the rest of you.

Your eyes flutter open as he stays there, buried in you in complete bliss. You’re dazed.

“Kiss?”

Surprise followed by adoration, he abides by your request easily. Overwhelmed with it as he presses a chaste peck to your mouth, he laughs. “As many as you want.”

Anything you want, Charles thinks, he would give to you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

#arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #javier escuella x reader #charles smith x reader #rdr2 x reader #rogues love letters #red dead redemption 2 x reader #THIS IS THE LAST TIME. THE LAST FUCKING TIME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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latin5mamii · 24 days

Text

Hate you - Jude Bellingham

WARNINGS: smut, +18 minors dni, cocky Jude alert!! Long chapter😚

SUMMARY: You hate him, right?Or at least you thought so…

GENRE: Enemies to lovers

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you all so much for the love on the first chapter! I’m so grateful for your support. I’ve been taking a short break to improve my writing, especially since English isn’t my first language, and i didn’t expect so much support! I’ll be back with being more active on writing soon, but I’m focusing on making each story better. Thanks for being patient and for all your love!🤍

You didn’t even know why you actually accepted this ‘date.’

Right now, in front of your bathroom mirror, you literally want to die. You agreed to the date to do what? Prove him wrong? Show him you’re unaffected by his charm? “Pride can get you killed” God, they were so right for this.

You pace back and forth, scowling at your reflection. You don’t want to give Jude the satisfaction of thinking he got under your skin. But here you are, taking extra time to look perfect, as if you’re about to meet someone who actually matters. You feel stupid for caring this much.

With a groan, you finally decide on an outfit. Casual enough to say “this means nothing,” but still flattering enough to make him choke on that smug smirk of his. You’re definitely not doing this for him… just a reminder to yourself that you’ve got it like that,right?

Now, as you stand in front of his door, you can’t shake the nerves. It’s just the usual banter, you tell yourself. It’s not a real date. Besides, the setting doesn’t matter,he’s still the same infuriating guy you can’t stand.

The door swings open, and there he is, leaning casually against the doorframe like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. He’s in a simple black tee and jeans, looking annoyingly relaxed and somehow even more attractive. You’re already regretting the butterflies in your stomach.

“Right on time,” he says with a smirk, stepping aside to let you in.

You roll your eyes, determined to stay in control. “I’m punctual. You should try it sometime.”

He chuckles, leading you into the living room. It’s a sleek, modern space, but still cozy. A bottle of red wine is already open on the table, two glasses waiting. You glance around, trying to keep your mind off the fact that this feels oddly intimate.

“Wine okay with you?” he asks, pouring the glasses.

“Depends. Are you planning on getting me drunk to make this bearable?” you shoot back, taking the glass he hands you.

Jude raises an eyebrow, amusement in his eyes. "Of course not," he says, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "Though, if I did, at least then you might admit you actually enjoy my company."

You scoff, taking a sip of the wine. It's smooth and surprisingly good. "Never."

“You never give up, huh?” He smiles at you and you feel your cheeks literally burn. And despite your best efforts, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“There it is,” Jude says, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“There what is?” you ask, taking another sip to hide the warmth creeping up your cheeks.

“That smile. You spend so much time pretending to hate everything, I was starting to think you forgot how to have fun.”

“I know how to have fun,” you retort, your tone defensive. “Just not with you.”

Jude chuckles, settling into the couch beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, but not so close that it feels like an invasion of space.

He swirls his glass of wine. “How long are we going to keep pretending that you hate me?”

You meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “I’m not pretending.”

“Prove it,” he challenges, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone.

Your heart skips a beat, but you refuse to show any sign of weakness. “I don’t need to prove anything to you,” you say, your voice steady despite the rapid pounding of your heart.

Jude’s smirk returns, and he leans in slightly, just enough that you can feel his breath on your lips. “Scared you might like it?” he taunts, his words laced with that same infuriating confidence.

It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, but for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to back down.

“Please,” you scoff, though your voice wavers just slightly. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me like you.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to your lips for just a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. “I think you might be surprised.”

You want to argue, to tell him he’s full of himself, but the words stick in your throat. Because, deep down, you know there’s a part of you that’s drawn to him, no matter how much you try to deny it.

He leans back slightly, giving you just enough space to breathe, but the intensity in his gaze doesn’t waver. “Why did you agree to this date?” he asks, his tone more serious now, the playful edge gone.

“I didn’t know this was a date,” you reply, lifting your chin defiantly, trying to regain the upper hand.

Jude chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Come on, you’re smarter than that. You knew exactly what this was.”

You meet his gaze, trying to keep your voice steady. “Maybe I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I’ve heard enough stories about you.”

“Oh, yeah? And what did you hear?” he asks, leaning in again, his eyes locking onto yours.

“That you’re an overconfident player who can’t even drive himself to his own games and training,” you quip, a smirk tugging at your lips as you throw the dig his way.

Jude laughs, clearly amused rather than offended. “Fair enough. I guess I’ve got other things I’m better at.” He gives you a slow, suggestive smile, and you roll your eyes, even as your heart skips a beat.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you mutter, taking another sip of wine to distract yourself from how close he’s sitting, how warm his presence is next to you.

“Maybe,” he admits with a shrug, “but I think you like it.”

“Think again,” you shoot back, but the words come out weaker than you intended.

Jude shifts even closer, his knee brushing against yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “I know you’re trying hard not to, but you can’t help it. I’m in your head, aren’t I?”

The tension between you is electric, the air so thick with it that it's almost hard to breathe. You try to find the words to throw back at him, to maintain your composure, but they catch in your throat as Jude moves even closer, his breath hot against your skin.

"Just as i thought" he murmurs, his voice so low it sends shivers down your spine.

Your heart pounds in your chest, every instinct telling you to push him away, to make some cutting remark and put him in his place. But you can't. Instead, your body betrays you, leaning in just slightly, drawn to him in a way you can’t quite control.

Jude notices, of course. He always does. His eyes darken, a slow smile spreading across his lips as he closes the gap between you. “See? I knew you wanted this.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but the words lack conviction.

"Make me," he challenges, his voice a rough growl as he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs.

His touch is fire, his hands roaming over your body with a hunger that mirrors your own, and you arch into him, unable to hold back the soft moan that escapes your lips as his mouth trails down your neck. It’s overwhelming, the intensity of it all, but you don’t want it to stop. You want more,more of him, more of this, whatever it is that’s driving you both to the edge.

Jude’s lips find yours again, and this time the kiss is slower, more deliberate, as if he’s savoring the taste of you, the feel of your body beneath his.

“Tell me you don’t want this and I'll stop” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and full of need.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper back, the admission slipping out before you can stop it.

Jude doesn’t hesitate. He kisses you deeply, his hands gripping your hips as he pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him as he deepens the kiss, his hands roaming over your back, your sides, as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. The sensation of his body against yours is overwhelming, the warmth of his skin searing through your clothes, and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips as his hands find their way under your shirt, fingers brushing against your bare skin.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he mutters against your lips, his voice rough with desire.

“And you’re so fucking annoying,” you shoot back, but the bite in your words is softened by the way you’re clinging to him, your body betraying the emotions you’ve tried so hard to keep in check.

His response is a low, satisfied growl as he flips you over onto the couch, his body hovering over yours. The weight of him pressing you into the cushions is intoxicating, and for a moment, all you can do is stare up at him, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to catch your breath.

"Say you hate me again," Jude dares, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers the challenge. "I want to hear it."

You know he’s playing with you, pushing you to admit the truth you’ve been denying for so long. But instead of pushing him away, you pull him closer, your hands gripping his shirt as you bring his lips back to yours in a fierce, hungry kiss.

"Fuck you," you murmur against his lips, but there's no venom in your words. It's almost affectionate, a twisted way of admitting that you've lost this battle, at least for now.

Jude grins against your mouth, his hands sliding under your shirt, fingers tracing over your heated skin. "I was hoping you'd say that," he whispers, his voice thick with desire.

His hands slipping under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head. He leans back just enough to take you in, his eyes dark and hungry as they roam over your body. “You don’t hate me. You’ve never hated me.”

“Shut up,” you repeat, but the words are weaker now, barely a whisper as he kisses a trail down your neck, his hands making quick work of the rest of your clothes.His teeth grazing your skin as he makes his way lower, and you can’t hold back the moan that escapes your lips when he finally reaches your chest. His hands are everywhere, caressing, teasing, driving you wild with need.

“You’re going to beg,” Jude whispers against your skin, his voice a low growl. “And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”

You bite back a retort, determined to stay in control, but it’s getting harder with every touch, every kiss. When his mouth finally closes over your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple, you arch into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you try to pull him closer.

He’s relentless, his hands and mouth driving you to the edge, but you’re not ready to give in. Not yet. You pull him up, capturing his lips in another searing kiss, your hands fumbling with his belt as you try to get it undone.

Jude grins against your lips, helping you get rid of his jeans, and when he’s finally free, you can feel just how hard he is, how much he wants you. It sends a thrill through you, knowing that you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him down against you, and he groans, his hips grinding against yours. The friction is almost too much, and you’re both breathing hard, your bodies pressed together.

But Jude doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. He moves down again, this time sliding his hand between your thighs, finding the wetness there with a satisfied growl.

“Already so wet for me,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding against your slick folds, teasing you, driving you crazy with need.

“Jude…” you moan, trying to keep control, but it’s slipping fast.

He chuckles darkly, his fingers dipping inside you, curling just right, and you can’t stop the way your hips move, seeking more of his touch.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice low and commanding. “Say you want me.”

“In your dreams,” you pant, even as your body betrays you, moving against his hand, desperate for more.

“Every fucking night ” Jude growls, his thumb finding your clit, pressing down just right, and you gasp, your back arching as pleasure courses through you.

He doesn’t give you a chance to recover, his mouth replacing his hand as he moves lower, his tongue sliding against your sensitive flesh, tasting you, driving you wild with every stroke.

“Jude, please” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Jude looks up at you, his eyes dark and full of desire. “There it is” he says, his voice rough with satisfaction. “I knew you’d beg.”

But he doesn’t stop. He continues his relentless assault on your senses, his tongue flicking over your clit, his fingers sliding inside you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge until you’re right there, teetering on the brink.

“Come for me,” he murmurs against your skin, and that’s all it takes. You cry out, your body convulsing as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Jude’s lips curl into a wicked smile as he hovers above you, his body pressing against yours, the heat between you almost unbearable. He slides into you with a slow, deliberate thrust, making you feel every inch of him as he sinks deeper. The sensation sends a shiver through you, and you can’t hold back the moan that escapes your lips.

“Fuck,” Jude groans, his voice low and rough, “You feel so good. So fucking tight.”

You bite your lip, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out, but it’s useless. He knows exactly what he’s doing, each thrust driving you wild, his words only adding fuel to the fire.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “You like this, don’t you? Being fucked by the guy you ‘hate’ so much?”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, clinging to him as he picks up the pace . “Shut up,” you gasp, but the way your body responds to him betrays your words. Every roll of his hips, every deep stroke has you melting beneath him.

“Oh, I don’t think you really want that,” Jude taunts, his voice dripping with confidence. He pulls back slightly, just enough to leave you wanting, teasing you.

“Tell me how much you want it. How much you want me.”

“Jude…” you moan, the sound more of a plea than you intended.

His eyes darken with desire, and he pushes back in, harder this time, his pace relentless as he drives into you. “Say it,” he demands, his voice rough with need. “Tell me you need me.”

You’re on the edge, teetering between holding on to your pride and giving in to the overwhelming pleasure he’s giving you. His hand slides down your body, fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, skilled circles that have you seeing stars.

“Fuck, Jude,” you cry out, your body arching into him, your resistance crumbling. “I need you. I need you so fucking bad.”

“I knew this from the beginning” he growls, his lips crashing down on yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. He pounds into you, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge, the combination of his cock inside you and his fingers working your clit driving you insane.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body trembling beneath him as the tension coils tighter and tighter, ready to snap. Jude’s name falls from your lips,you can’t think about anything else.

“Come for me,” Jude orders, his voice a low, commanding growl. “I want to feel you come all over my cock.”

It’s too much. You cry out his name as you come, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm, every muscle tensing at the feeling.

Jude follows you over the edge, his hips snapping against yours in a final, powerful thrust as he spills inside you, his groan of release vibrating through your entire body. He collapses onto you, his weight a comforting pressure as you both struggle to catch your breath.

Jude’s hand strokes your hair gently, a completely different gesture from what happened just moments before.

“Still hate me?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, but there’s an edge of vulnerability there too.

You manage a breathless laugh, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. “You’re still annoying as hell,” you reply, but there’s no real bite to your words.

Jude chuckles, his lips brushing against your forehead. “Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “Too late for that”

#x reader #fanfic #jude bellingham #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham one shot #bellingham x reader #jude bellingham blurb #jb5 #real madrid #x reader fanfiction #female reader #smut #x reader smut #enemies to lovers

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tortillamastersblog · 3 months

Text

ᗢ Take My Hand | Wanda Maximoff ᗢ

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Warnings: steamy scene, violence, major injuries, and angst

Summary: A collection of the three times you comfort Wanda when she is scared of her own powers. . .

Continuation: Enough

________________________________________________

The first time

“Okay, you’re good to go.” Dr. Cho finishes stitching up my shoulder and gestures for me to get off the table.

I thank her and put my shirt back on, leaving with a smile and a small wave.

The flight back from Lagos was exhausting and I can’t wait to just crawl under the covers of my bed and fall asleep.

I showered earlier and I thought I could go to bed right then and there, but Nat noticed the cut on my shoulder wasn’t healing the way it usually does, so she sent me to see Dr. Cho to get it stitched up.

I make my way through the dark compound and toward my room, expecting to find a familiar redhead under the covers of my bed, but she isn’t there.

I frown and look around, noticing the door to the bathroom is standing slightly ajar, a sliver of light from inside escaping onto the hardwood floor of the bedroom.

I close the door behind me and walk toward the bathroom, carefully pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The sight that greets me makes my heart ache.

The room is illuminated by the flashlight on Wanda’s phone which is sitting on the sink with the screen faced down.

It’s not much, and any other person would have probably missed the dark figure sitting curled up against the shower wall but I don’t because of the connection the mind stone has created between Wanda and me.

We were both experimented on by Hydra, the only two differences being that I was dead when they used the stone on me and they did it when they first got their hands on it back in the 1940’s. I was in the army back then and was killed in action before Schmidt recovered my body, somehow giving me powers and bringing me back to life.

They thought it didn’t work though, which is why they put me on the bomber plane that Steve ultimately crashed into the Arctic. They were planning on throwing my body off out over the sea to get rid of the evidence of their experiments, but because of the turn of events, I was stuck in the ice with Steve for sixty years before S.H.I.E.L.D. found and recruited us.

Wanda’s soft sobs fill the silence, each one making my chest hurt, and I’m quick to rush to her side, kneeling down in front of her after turning off the running water.

The tiles are wet and when I carefully place a hand on her knee, I notice that her clothes are soaked as well.

She freezes and buries her face in her knees even more, the hold she has around her own legs tightening.

“You know you’re supposed to take your clothes off before showering, right?” I whisper softly, not bothering to ask why she’s crying because I already know the reason.

The whole flight back from Lagos she was shaking and staring at nothing with a far off look in her eyes.

She blames herself for what happened and even though people did die because of her losing control, she also saved countless of lives on the ground.

Wanda doesn’t react to my attempt at a joke and I sigh, moving forward and unwrapping her arms from around her legs.

She whimpers in protest but I keep going, slipping my arms under hers and getting up, pulling her to her feet with me.

She sobs and tightens her hold on me, her face landing in the crook of my neck.

“It will be okay, darling,” I whisper, not caring that my clothes are getting wet. “It’s not your fault.”

Wanda shakes her head and another sob escapes her lips.

Then, as if realizing something, she pushes me back and stares at the bandage that pokes out from underneath my shirt.

“You’re hurt,” she croaks. “I hurt you.”

I frown and go to grab her hand, but she pulls away “What are you talking about? You didn’t hurt me.”

Wanda nods frantically and stares at her hands with watery eyes. “You got caught in the blast.”

“Wanda, I did, but—“

“No,” she whimpers. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

Her bottom lip begins to tremble as a tear rolls down her cheek and her knees start to buckle.

Ignoring her hands which are trying to keep me away, I step into her space and wrap my arms around her waist, holding her up.

She fights me for a few seconds, whimpering, “No, no. Get away from me. I don’t want to hurt you again,” before she stops and melts into the embrace.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head.

Wanda sobs and curls her fingers around the fabric of my shirt. “I’m a monster. . .”

“No you’re not.” I state firmly, squeezing her in my arms.

“You should be afraid of me,” she argues weakly.

I blink a couple of times to get rid of my own tears and shake my head. The fact that she’s thinking of herself like this, makes my heart ache and my throat burn with unshed tears.

“Wanda,” I whisper pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. Her eyes are filled with hurt and despair and I take a deep breath, moving my hands from her waist to cup her cheeks. “I will say this as many times as I have to. . . I will never— you hear me— never be afraid of you and your powers. I love you and you couldn’t hurt me even if you tried.”

A new wave of tears streams down her cheeks and I use the pads of my thumbs to wipe them away. She lifts a hand and places it over my injured shoulder.

“But today—“

I shake my head again and press a kiss to her forehead. “It’s nothing, darling. Please, trust me on that. It’s just taking a little longer to heal because I’m exhausted and drained.”

“Y/N. . .” she protests weakly and I step back and take her shaking hands.

She watches with wide eyes, trying to pull away but I tighten my grip and hold her gaze as I lift her hands and press a kiss to each palm.

“I love you, Wanda,” I say firmly, bringing her hands to cup my cheeks. “And I love your powers. You’re beautiful inside and out and I don’t want to spend a single moment of my life without you. So please, stop. I’m not scared of you.”

Wanda’s red-rimmed eyes dance over my face, obviously looking for any doubt on my part, and when she doesn’t find any, she surges forward and kisses me.

Her lips are chapped and I can taste her tears, but I don’t care, letting go of her hands and pulling her closer.

“I love you, too,” she whispers against my lips before leaning back in, trying to deepen the kiss.

I stop her before she gets a chance though, not wanting to take advantage of her in such a vulnerable moment, and squeeze her hips. “We should get some sleep, darling.”

Wanda sighs and nods, resting her forehead on my sternum. “Okay. . .”

I help her out of her shirt and jeans, giving her one last peck on the lips before leaving her to take a proper shower.

While she showers I change into a new, dry set of clothes and slip under the covers of the bed.

It’s not even five minutes later that the door to the bathroom reopens and Wanda emerges in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt.

I lift the covers with one arm, extending my other in invitation, and let it drop back down once she has slipped into bed, pressed against my side with one of her legs thrown over my hips.

“I love you,” she says when I start running my fingers through her damp hair.

“I love you, too, darling,” I whisper. “Now get some rest.”

Wanda sighs and noses forward, pressing a kiss to the underside of my jaw before settling back down and closing her eyes.

Within a couple of minutes she’s asleep and I continue to scratch at her scalp until I drift off myself.

The second time

I’m as relaxed as ever listening to Wanda playing her guitar quietly.

We’re on our bed with the lights turned down low and a storm raging on outside, the rain and wind whipping against the windows.

Wanda is sitting with her back against the headboard and I’m lying on my side, watching her with adoration.

Her nimble fingers are picking a calming melody and if it weren’t for my inability to take my eyes off her, I would have fallen asleep a long time ago.

It’s been a little over three weeks since the Lagos incident and even though Wanda still feels guilty about it she’s doing better. I’ve done my best to be by her side whenever she has a bad day and keep her from watching the news.

“You’re staring, moya lyubov,” Wanda says, glancing at me before returning her attention to the guitar.

I smile, not at all fazed that I’ve been caught “I can’t help it. You’re just so beautiful.”

She chuckles shyly and continues playing, her eyes meeting mine every now and then before she stops abruptly, catching me off guard.

She sets the guitar down next to the bed and moves to straddle my hips, forcing me to lie on my back.

I blink at her in surprise and raise a questioning eyebrow, my hands automatically moving to rest on her thighs.

“What are you doing?” I whisper breathlessly when her she place her hands on my lower stomach.

Her eyebrows are furrowed and it looks like she’s conflicted about something, but when her eyes meet mine her face softens.

“I love the way you look at me,” she admits quietly, shifting her weight on my hips and I have to bite my tongue to stop a gasp from escaping my lips. “No one’s ever looked at me like you do and I. . . I just love you so much.”

I smile and give her thighs a squeeze to show my appreciation. “I love you, too,” I say, reciprocating the kiss Wanda gives me when she bends down.

I love wholesome moments like this and I kiss back with the intention of keeping things short and sweet, but Wanda seems to have other plans.

She bites my lower lip, slipping her tongue into my mouth and slips her hands beneath my sweater. Her nails scraped against my skin and I groan, feeling a shiver run down my spine.

We’ve kissed and made out before, but this feels different than anything we’ve ever done.

Wanda is kissing me with an unprecedented sense of purpose and urgency and I have to pull back to make sure I’m not reading too much into this.

Despite being together for almost a year now, we’ve never been intimate before. It’s something we’ve spoken about a couple months ago when Wanda stopped a particularly heated make out session, saying she wasn’t ready to cross that line yet. I reassured her and told her I’d wait for her no matter how long it takes and that was that, but now things seem different.

Following our conversation I always stopped things before they could escalate, but now, when I try to pull away, Wanda whines and reattaches her lips to mine in a desperate kiss.

It takes my breath away and we continue kissing for a few seconds before I regain my bearings and place a hand on her shoulder, pushing gently.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Wanda asks breathlessly, her fingers tracing over my ribs beneath my sweater.

I shiver at the feeling and close my eyes for a moment to escape her intense gaze. “Yeah, I-I’m okay. Are you? I mean, is this going where I think it’s going or do you want to stop?”

It’s silent for a second and I open my eyes to find Wanda staring at me with dilated pupils.

“I think I’m ready,” she whispers against my lips, making my heart skip a beat.

“A-Are you sure?” I stutter and instead of answering verbally she resumes our kiss.

It’s hot and open mouthed, and when I squeeze her thighs, a squeaky moan leaves her lips. It sends a spark of arousal through me and I do it again just to hear it again.

“Y/N,” Wanda gasps, sitting up abruptly to take off her shirt before leaning back down to resume the kiss.

My mind is reeling at the sight of her exposed skin and I can’t stop myself from bringing my hands up to her waist.

Her skin is soft and warm and I can’t wait to feel it against my own.

We continue to kiss feverishly until Wanda runs out of air. She disconnects our lips, panting, and I take it as a chance to connect my lips to her neck.

I kiss and suck harshly, not caring about leaving any marks and taking delight in the gasps whimpers it’s eliciting from the redhead.

When I move to the sensitive spot just below Wanda’s ear, she shudders and digs her fingers into my ribs, making me groan.

We’re so caught up in the moment that it takes a second for the sound of breaking glass to register in both our heads. We freeze and pull apart, looking around the room for the source of the sound.

My eyes land on the lamp on the bedside table where wisps of red magic surround the now broken bulb of it.

I chuckle, realizing what’s happened but Wanda remains frozen on top of me. She’s blankly staring at the broken glass and retracts her hands from below my sweater.

“Hey,” I say softly, my voice filling with concern. “Are you okay? It was just an accident. I can replace the bulb in the morning.“

“I—“ Wanda stops herself and stares at her hands in disbelief. “I don’t think I can do this, Y/N.”

I frown and sit up, wrapping my arms around her waist to keep her on my lap. “What are you talking about?”

I hate how quickly the mood has shifted and I hate seeing the familiar look of reproach and regret in Wanda’s eyes.

“I just— I can’t do this,” she elaborates gesturing between us with a shaking hand. “I want to, but I can’t let my guard down. I’ll lose control and I’ll hurt you. My powers—“

I cut her off before she can go on, grabbing her hands and kissing her knuckles. “Hey, no. Don’t do this. We’ve talked about this. You won’t hurt me. I trust you.”

Wanda chuckles sadly and shakes her head. “But I don’t trust myself.”

I sigh. Not because I’m disappointed we were interrupted, but because it hurts to know Wanda still thinks of herself like this.

I rack my brain for new ways to convince her she’s not the monster she thinks she is when I suddenly have an idea.

I scoot back until my back is against the headboard and turn Wanda’s hands around so her palms are facing up.

“Darling, look at this,” I say quietly, letting go of one of her hands.

I flex my fingers and focus on my own powers, feeling a familiar warmth rush into my fingertips until wisps of yellow surround my hand.

They slowly dance around and illuminate Wanda’s face as she watches what I’m doing.

I move my hand toward hers and as soon as our fingertips brush it’s as if my powers coax Wanda’s out of hiding.

Soft red tendrils begin to appear at the tips of her fingers and Wanda watches in amazement as they connect with my own powers.

They dance around each other, mixing and merging around our palms until they’re an orange web of liquid energy.

“Do you feel that?” I ask, referring to the warmth that spreads through my hand and up my arm.

Wanda nods, her eyes glued to our hands and the ever flowing stream of energy between us.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, knowing that it doesn’t but wanting Wanda to actually say it, to admit it, and acknowledge that her powers could never harm me.

“I— No,” she whispers, her eyes meeting mine. “It feels good. I— I feel you.”

I nod encouragingly and interlace our fingers, “Exactly. . . Now you know you won’t ever be able to hurt me, but we don’t have to continue. You can put your shirt back on and we can cuddle and watch a movie and forget any of this ever happened.”

Wanda’s eyes drop back down to our hands, her eyebrows furrowed in though for a couple of moments before she whispers, “No.”

“No?” I question gently, not knowing what exactly she means. I disconnect our hands and will my powers to disappear before placing my hands on her thighs.

Wanda’s eyes meet mine and I gasp when I notice a faint red glow in them. “No. I don’t want to stop,” she admits, her voice raspy. “I want you.”

My eyes widen and my fingers twitch in excitement. “Are you sure?”

She nods and whispers a Yes before cupping my cheeks and pulling me in for a passionate kiss.

In the end, a couple more light bulbs explode and the whole room shakes when Wanda comes for the first time with a broken cry, but no one gets hurt.

Well, that is if you don’t count the countless bruises in the form of love bites on our bodies and the angry red scratches down my back.

The third time

“Wanda,” Vision says, “It’s time.”

Wanda turns and stares at the synthezoid with watery eyes. He’s her best friend and beside me he’s the only one who truly understands her.

“No,” she says sternly, turning back around to watch Thanos taking apart the team one by one.

Vision and I share a meaningful look and I nod in acknowledgment.

“They can’t stop him Wanda,” I say, cringing when Steve gets socked in the face. “But you can. You have the power to destroy the stone.”

Vision nods in agreement and takes Wanda’s hand, placing it against his cheek.

She shakes her head with a trembling chin as her eyes fill with tears.

“Wanda please,” Vision says, his kind blue eyes focused on nothing else but the redhead in front of him. “We are out of time.”

“I can’t,” she whispers, looking at me pleadingly even though there’s nothing I can do. I may have gotten my powers from the stone as well, but I’m not as powerful as she is.

Vision takes Wanda’s hand off his cheek and raises it in front of his face. “If he gets the stone half of the universe dies.”

Wanda’s face contorts with agony and she takes a step back, acknowledging that there’s no other way.

I bow my head, trying to hide my own tears at the imminent demise of one of my friends and turn around to make sure Thanos doesn’t get to Wanda or Vision.

“It’s alright,” I hear Vision say, “You could never hurt me.”

I swallow the growing lump in my throat, remembering how I taught him that phrase before everything went to shit because of the Sokovia Accords.

He called me one evening when I was gone on a solo mission, asking how to calm Wanda down after she accidentally lost control of her powers during a training session.

Thanos catches T’Challa mid-air and slams him into the ground before striking Nat with a powerful fist.

He’s getting too close, I think, getting into a fighting stance.

I raise my hands, letting my powers flow through me until my hands are surrounded by yellow wisps.

I can’t let him get to Wanda. . .

I take a deep breath, getting ready to get my ass handed to me like the rest of the team, when the breath suddenly gets knocked out of me by some invisible force.

I gasp and look around to see what might have caused it when a blinding pain shoots up my spine and through my head.

It feels like I’m being split apart from the inside out and I drop to my hands and knees, blinking rapidly to get rid of the growing black spots in my vision.

I whimper and press a hand to my temple, only for the pain to disappear the next second as though it was never there.

“My love,” Wanda’s voice and her hands on my cheeks make me flinch and when I look up I see she’s kneeling in front of me with concern written all over her face. “What is it?”

I shake my head, confused as to what just happened and take her hands off my face. “I don’t know, darling. Just keep going, I’ll be fine. Thanos can’t get his hands on the stone.”

She watches me with uncertainty, only reluctantly getting back to her feet when I shout, “Go!”

We’re running out of time.

I take a shaky breath and stand up on shaking legs before leaning against a nearby tree.

My eyes land on Wanda as she’s getting back into position to destroy the stone.

I want to get back to shielding her from the incoming Titan, but as soon as her power connect with the stone, the pain returns, and I yelp in surprise, doubling over in pain.

Just like last time, it stops almost immediately and it’s then that I realize what’s happening.

The mind stone brought me back to life, so if it’s destroyed, I loss my powers and I go back to being dead.

When I look up I see the same realization in both Vision and Wanda’s face.

Vision just smiles sadly, knowing this won’t change our shared understanding that the stone has to be destroyed, but Wanda’s paralyzed with horror.

“No.” She shakes her head, tears of despair dripping down her face. “Not you, too. I can’t do this.”

She shakes her head like a kid throwing a tantrum and I have to bite my cheek to stifle a whimper when I drag myself to her side.

“Wanda, there’s no other way,” I croak, wiping the tears off her cheeks.

She sobs and holds onto my wrists with an ironclad grip. “No. No. No. I can’t lose you. You’re all I have left. You’re my everything.”

I force a small smile and try to ignore the agony that washes over me.

Whenever one of us is feeling overwhelmed by an emotion, the other person feels it as well. It’s a side effect of the connection the mind stone has created between us and it usually doesn’t bother me, but right now it’s chipping away at my resolve to save half the universe.

“It’s going to be okay,” I lie even though my heart is begging me not to go through with this.

I’m scared of dying, yes, because I don’t remember what it was like the first time, but what I’m even more scared of is what’s going to happen to Wanda once all this is over.

She has lost so much already and I don’t know how much more she can take before she breaks completely.

“Please, no. Don’t make me do this,” Wanda cries softly, making my own tears run down my cheeks.

I struggle to breath and, not being able to bear the look of complete and utter despair in her eyes, I Iet go of her face and move so I’m standing behind her, her back flush against my front.

I press a lingering kiss to the side of her head, right above her ear, and take her hands in mine, raising them so her palms are aimed at the stone in Vision’s forehead.

“We’ll do it together, darling. I’m right here, okay?” I whisper.

Wanda sobs and whimpers, but a moment later her fingers are once again surrounded by her magic.

“Y/N. . .” she weeps, seeming unable to go through with it, but when I press another kiss to the side of her head, she lets her magic go, directing it toward the stone.

The moment it makes contact, I groan and my grip on the back of her hands tightens.

Her engagement ring glints in the sunlight and even though my body is overwhelmed by all the pain coursing through it, I managed to smile as I remember how I slipped it onto her finger a couple of days ago.

Oh, what a beautiful bride she would have made.

There aren’t many things I regret in life, but not asking her to marry me sooner is definitely on of them.

I would have loved to call her my wife. I would have loved to raise kids with her and I would have loved to grow old with her by my side.

Now, all we have left is this moment and I’m sure as hell not going to waste it.

When the pain turns blinding, I grit my teeth and close my eyes, pressing my nose against Wanda’s neck to breathe her in.

Her body is shaking with sobs and the effort it takes to destroy the stone and there’s nothing I can do to help except comfort her in this defining moment.

“I love you.” I gasp, letting go of her hands to instead wrap my arms around her waist.

I keep saying it with my eyes squeezed shut until the pain suddenly stops.

I don’t feel anything for a heartbeat, but then my blood runs cold and I feel my knees buckle.

My grip around Wanda loosens involuntarily and my body hits the ground hard.

The last thing I’m aware of before slipping into darkness is a pair of warm hands on my face.

________________________________________________

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. . . *insert evil laugh*

Not proofread yet.

#x reader #marvel #mcu #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #angst

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sandwhitches · 2 months

Note

Hello! For you summer writing event, may I request a cherry popsicle with sakusa, osamu and kuroo and falling asleep on their shoulder on a bus/train?

a/n: one of my favorite tropes hehehe. thanks for requesting and enjoy!!

genre: fluff

content: gn. reader, all of them are pining messes

wc: 676

this is a part of my summer writing event!!! please feel free to send some requests my way :3

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐒𝐀 𝐊𝐈𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐈

Sakusa wonders how he’s managed to amass such a crush on you, impossible to ignore, it slowly eats away at his sanity with each time he sees your face but can’t kiss it. But this? This takes the cake. How long can a person go without needing to breathe? Kiyoomi asks himself that as he tenses under an unexpected weight on his shoulder, his lungs have suddenly forgotten what they were made for it seems.

Cautiously, his eyes dart down to affirm what he already knows. Your face has never looked easier to kiss all over than it does now, peaceful with the slumber he’s been watching you trying to stave off since getting on the train.

Now you’ve done it, you’re killing him without even needing to be conscious to do so, nothing less of what he’d expect given how he’s been head over heels in silence for too long.

Swallowing thickly, Kiyoomi makes an effort to lower his shoulders a bit, hoping you won’t wake with a sore neck. This can be okay, he thinks, he may very well die like this if he can’t figure out how to breathe, and maybe he won’t be so upset about whatever happens as long as you stay close to him like you are now.

𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔

“Isn’t yer stop comin’-” Osamu’s breath catches in his throat as he’s interrupted by the foreign feeling of your warm body pressed up against his. You can’t possibly be asleep, can you? He can practically hear his own heartbeat as his eyes are met with the most beautiful sight he’s sure he’ll ever get the privilege to see.

Your upcoming stop is now long lost on Osamu, who has since leaned his head gently atop yours, trying to time his breaths with the rise and fall of your own chest. If he could choose one moment to stay in forever, this might be the one, he thinks.

A nervous hand drapes over the one you’d planted on his knee in a half-asleep haze, roughened fingers brush over the soft back of your palm, and Osamu is asking himself what good deed he’s done in his life to deserve this.

There's a taste of something new on his tongue, the sugary weight of words he wishes to shower you in: confessions, secrets, desires. It’s funny, and his opinion, a bit pathetic, that this is all it takes for him to start dreaming so ardently over the rest of your lives.

In that moment, Osamu feels as if the only reason he was put on this earth was for you to lean on like you are now, for him to do anything in his power to spark even the smallest of joys in your heart.

𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐎 𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐎

It’s an absolute mystery to Kuroo how you can manage to doze off like this on such a crowded train. Squeezed into a tight corner at the end, he’s beginning to lose his mind over the fact that he can hear the airy breaths you let out so slowly.

While he’s still grappling with the fact that you’ve fallen asleep, he’s also trying to ignore that it feels like he’s going to pass out when your head lolls onto his shoulder.

How can he be cool about this? Kuroo can just barely bolster the wave of nerves he gets when being with you as it is, but this is impossible for him. He cringes at the warmth that spreads across his cheeks, undeniably tinting the apples a blushy red, and he knows it’s obvious to just about anyone on the train who looks his way that he’s suffocating on the dizzying sensation of love.

The worst part about this? It’s going to be impossible for him to keep his feelings stifled under the guise of camaraderie for any much longer. Now that he knows what it is like to have you so close to him, it’s clear that he wants that as much as he possibly can. Kuroo was doomed from the very start, wasn’t he?

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clockwayswrites · 5 months

Text

*writes 800+ words of Another Red but not the part I'm supposed to*

Jason breathed in the heavy clove scented smoke, taking comfort in it. He didn’t smoke often anymore, but if Bruce and Alfred hadn’t gotten him to stop, he didn’t think he ever would. Somethings were just too much part of a person. The smoke swirled up into the night air, caught in the constant breeze a harbor city like Gotham had.

“You don’t have to do this kid, put yourself in danger like this.”

“No, I do,” Rabbit bit out. Jason was pretty sure if he could see the kid’s teeth, they would be bared in a feral smile. “What I can’t do is let people get hurt when I can go and help them.”

“Yeah, and what about your safety? You could die.”

Rabbit laughed like that was some sort of big joke and Jason felt himself bristling at the reaction. Jason knew how dangerous this was— more than anyone else in his family. He’d felt that fear and pain and—

“Yeah, well, Hood, sorta too late for that.”

Jason’s anger left him so suddenly that he felt cold in it’s absence. No—

“Do you know, it’s not the death itself that’s bad,” Rabbit drawled, almost lazily. He finally lit his gifted cigarette. He didn’t take his mask off, like Jason had hoped he would, but ducked his head down and pushed the mask up just enough to take a slow drag. He looked so small like that, hunched over on himself with the bright ember dangling from his fingertips. “The body stopping everything… it’s sorta of quiet. All those functions we don’t think about going on all the time— breath’n and blink’n and beat’n… it’s quite without all that going on. Nah, it’s not the actually dy’n that’s so bad, it’s the fear that comes with it.”

“Yeah.” The admission almost hurt Jason to choke out.

“Yeah,” Rabbit agreed. He took another drag from the cigarette. His free hand was curled over his head, likely to keep his face hidden from Jason, but it just made Rabbit look all the more like a scared kit. “And that fucking fear? That worst part? I live with that all the fucking time, Hood, so nah, I’m not so ‘fraid of dy’n‘gain.”

“At least let me help you avoid it,” Jason said. He didn’t mean to plead but fuck if he wasn’t.

Rabbit snorted and took one more drag before he snuffed out his cig and stood. “Yeah? And how do you plan to do that?”

All traces of the drawling accent was gone and that hint of Gotham was back in Rabbit’s voice.

Jason wondered which was more real.

He reached into his belt instead of pressing the matter— instead of pressing the accent or take on death or talking Rabbit out of this life. Jason knew in every shattered bone of his that it wouldn’t do any good. This life already had the kid by the neck and there was nothing to do about it. It would choke Rabbit out one way or another, just like the rest of them.

The red fob was innocuous against his glove, could hardly even see it in the dim, yellow light of th Narrows. Red on red on red—

“Take it.”

Rabbit didn’t.

“What is it?” he asked instead, leaning forward just a little.

“A panic button.”

Rabbit snorted and flicked the remains of the cigarette at Jason. “I’m not taking a fucking tracker.”

“It’s not a tracker until you activate it. You press and hold the button on each side for two seconds and only if you do that is it a tracker. I can’t activate it remotely on my end or anything,” Jason said. “It’s the same one I give some street kids and sex workers. There’s nothing special about it, it’s just a tracker.”

Rabbit watched Jason with an eerie stillness. “Swear it.”

“I swear, it’s just a panic button. It’s only a track if you turn it on.”

Rabbit still didn’t move. Jason sighed and started to pull his hand back before Rabbit darted forward and grabbed the panic button. The little fucker was quick.

“I won’t press it just for anything,” Rabbit said with a defiant jut of his chin.

“Wouldn’t expect you too,” Jason said with an honest, easy shrug.

Rabbit watched a moment longer before he pulled out a keyring without any keys and put the button in. It hung between a battered food shelter tag and a library barcode that Jason was sure was counterfeit.

“Yeah, whatever. Now go on and get, Hood. Don’t you have a whole city to look after?”

“Fucker,” Jason said fondly and stamped his own cigarette out before he tucked the butt away in a pouch slot. The small part of him that was still very much a Bat wanted to do the same with Rabbit’s so he could try and pull some DNA. Instead he flicked Rabbit off and leapt off the roof to the kid’s laughter.

#another red #dp x dc #batpham

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im-poe-dameron · 9 months

Text

THE HEART OF A SHIP

a/n: this fic is a result of wine and rewatching the force awakens. honestly my brain always short circuits whenever oscar isaac comes on screen. so i had to do something. it was meant to be small, but i literally couldn't stop writing so it became this. it's an idea that has been lingering in my head for awhile, i just had to let it simmer for a bit. and now it's fully cooked.

summary: you and poe were inevitable. two asteroids set on a course to crash into one another. a celestial event that would happen whether you wanted it or not. you just never expected it to happen so soon.

word count: 3.4k+

pairing: poe dameron x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, alcohol consumption, love confessions sort of??, poe being romantic as fuck, p in v sex, guided masturbation, biting, sex in an x-wing, sex in a public place, unedited but we live and die by the fucking pen.

Intoxicating.

That was the only way you’d describe him. The only word that ever did him justice. He was the human embodiment of an Antakarian Fire Dancer. You got hammered on it one year after two glasses of the amber liquid, proceeding to forget half the night yet eager for more. Nothing could describe the man before you better. It simply wouldn’t do him justice. He was the itch beneath your skin that you could never satisfy, the reason you stood there now.

A glass of that amber liquid in both hands.

He’d disappeared from the celebration. An hour in from congratulations and happy faces, you watched him leave when no one was looking. And you did nothing to stop it. You knew he wasn’t one to relish in the joys of battle well done. Always intent on focusing towards the next thing—the next fight. It’s how you knew Leia would make him General, why he was so good at leading, at keeping the people he loved safe.

“Leaving without saying goodbye is rude, you know.”

He jumped slightly where he stood, his back to you, a holopad in one hand and a tool in the other. Of course he’d be here, fixing his X-Wing in silence. His own little ritual. You couldn’t count how many times you found him here after a fight, finalizing the last few checks before he caught some sleep. If he slept at all. Poe always seemed to be on the move no matter the time of day—a constant in the Resistance even when everyone else seemed to have lost faith.

“I said goodbye,” he joked, head turning slightly to see you come around, the holopad getting traded for a glass. “Just couldn’t see you in the crowd.”

You smiled. “You’re a shit liar Dameron.”

“I know.” He took a sip, winced, and laughed—the sound practically lighting you up inside. Igniting you like a fucking lightsaber.

“What’s the damage report?”

“Nothing I can’t fix.” He glanced back at the scraped up hunk of metal he loved more than anything. The amount of care he put into keeping her going was admirable—if a little insane at times.

But he was right. The damage was nothing he couldn’t fix.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” The smile still played on your lips, eyes alight and aiming to start something you wanted him to finish.

Poe caught onto it quicker than you expected. He could see it before you followed him out of the celebration. A promise that lingered in the air from months of longing looks and timid words. Something inevitable and real. So much so that you were willing to bet everything that he felt exactly the same way you did.

You wanted each other. That was clear from day one. But doing something about it became difficult when war was a constant and lives were put in peril on the daily. Poe didn’t want to leave you broken beyond repair if he never made it back. Just as you didn’t want to do the same to him.

The fucked up thing about it though was Poe would mourn you either way. He’d live his life half a man if you never graced him with your presence again. If you weren’t around to smile at him from across rooms and laugh at his shitty jokes. He was pretty sure he’d already started. Being away from you was like a poison he constantly had to take, a pain he didn’t want to endure. And if it were up to him…he’d choose you every time.

No matter the consequences.

“You ever been in an X-Wing before?” he asked, trying to see past the bits and pieces of the ache that hurt you both.

You rolled your eyes and Poe felt his chest tighten. “You know I haven’t. I’m not pilot material.”

“Sounds like bantha shit to me starlight.”

The name you’d heard so many times before echoed differently to you now. You wanted to break through its meaning and find the promise within. The antidote to this fucking ache that stuck to your chest. You wanted to rip it out and grind it up. You wanted to finally take what you desired, relish in the feel of calling him yours without the pain of knowing what came next. The both of you were trying to save your emotions—protect yourselves—but there was no use.

Poe had found a home in your heart and he was there to stay.

“Come with me.”

When it came to him you had no choice but to listen, following dutifully behind in a haze of want. He climbed up the ladder on the side of his ship, plopping down into the seat with the grace of a pilot who’d done it a million times before. The movement now muscle memory at this point. Whereas you clambered up—buzzed on one drink—nearly falling into the cockpit. He grabbed your arm at the last minute, helping you slowly maneuver your way in, until you were perched on this lap.

The seat was barely big enough to fit him let alone you as well. And yet…you’d never felt more comfortable. He pulled you back slightly, hands pressed to your hips, chest snugly placed against your back. With every intake and exhale of breath, you felt him move. Felt his body shift. If you focused, you knew you would be able to feel his heartbeat. The rhythmic thump you’d grown accustomed to.

“Now—“ He precariously balanced his glass on the dash. “Your hands go here.” Covering your hands with his, he showed you how he’d position himself if he were flying. The cold touch of the buttons and knobs beneath your fingers sent electricity up your spine. “These are to shoot.” Another shift. “And this is to aim.”

You sucked in a breath. “Seems complicated.”

“Not at all.” His fingers slid up your arm, chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You tried to remember how to take a single breath. “You just have to understand how the ship works. How she moves, what she likes.”

Your breath hitched, body leaning into him more, and finally you felt it. The wall holding both of you back crumbled to the ground. All that remained now was the will to finally do something about it. So you let his hands guide you, watching in anticipation as they moved to your own body, pressing your palms into your stomach.

“There’s always a heart of a ship,” he murmured, moving your hand down. “A pilot guiding the way.”

“Poe…”

"After all, we've got to guide the ship back home." A soft whimper left your lips, your nails digging into the meat of your thighs to contain yourself. If the cockpit of his ship wasn't so fucking small, you had no doubt you'd be spread on his lap, lips connected to his already.

He grinned, his lips brushing across the back of your neck. “For me…” He stopped right above the hem of your pants, your fingers aching to finally delve down further. “That’s always been you.”

The alcohol had all but burned out of your system from how warm you were. His touch guiding yours seemed to have lit something in the base of your stomach, causing it to spread outwards. And you needed more. Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed your hand beneath the coarse fabric of your pants. The feeling of him cupping your mound—using you all the while—sent a jolt across your body; a soft moan falling free past your lips.

“Maker starlight,” he said, his voice hoarse with desire. “You’re so fucking wet.”

He wasn't wrong. You could feel yourself dripping the longer he spoke, his words affecting you more than you anticipated. Ever since you first met, Poe always held a power over you. A reminder that no matter how many times you tried to rid yourself of him, no matter what you did...he would remain burned into your soul. He'd be part of you until you drew your final breath in this galaxy.

"It's cause of you," you gasped, your fingers and his sliding through your slick. Running along the lips of your cunt, skimming past your clit entirely. "Oh—"

The scrape of his teeth along your neck nearly did you in entirely, the plea hanging off the tip of your tongue in anticipation. He was toying with you. Playing you like a fucking instrument and listening to your melody. Drowning in the sounds you made—the ones he dreamed of. If there was a life after this, a fated place he could go to rest, he'd want it to be here. Crammed into this cockpit with you on his lap, the feel of you sliding through his fingers and the echo of your voice breathing his name sweeter than the alcohol you had handed him earlier.

Poe would do whatever he could to make this moment last just a minute longer.

"Need you."

He kissed the junction where your neck and shoulder met, fingers still guiding yours through your own heat. "I know you do starlight. But you're gonna cum for me like this first." Your sweet little gasp ripped him a part. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to stave off nearly coming in his pants. "Let me guide you."

You nodded and spread your legs as wide as they could go in the cramped space. It wasn't very far, nor did it give him space to do what he really wanted to do to you, but it would have to do for now. The noise of the celebration in the distance only grew louder as people consumed more alcohol, the joy bleeding into the air. But you couldn't give a shit at that moment about why they were happy, or even what occurred before today.

You were lost to the depths that Poe pulled you into.

Heat spilled between your fingertips, a sticky mess starting between the two of you, but that seemed to only drive him forward. He pressed down, sliding your fingers into you with ease, his delving in right beside you—stretching you in a way that had your back arching. Wrapped his arm around your waist, he kept you still, his chin set on your shoulder and chest heaving with controlled breaths. A way for him to keep the last bits of his sanity as he felt your walls clamp around his fingers.

"Fuck baby," he grit between clenched teeth. "You really did need me huh?"

Nodding, you felt him press even further, fingers searching for something.

"You're gonna make a mess on me." Pumping his hand, he felt your body shudder—your mouth falling open as a ragged moan echoed in the ship. "Gonna take me so easily. I'll slip right in."

You burned from the inside out. A searing heat pulling tight across your body until you could nothing but fall into it. There was no fighting against that aching bliss, no running from what you wanted, what you dreamed of. Poe was intent on breaking you apart right there on his lap, and he'd watch with a smile on his face as you spilled yourself between the rough pads of his fingers. As you made a fucking mess on his lap.

"C'mon baby," he muttered, curling his fingers forward and nudging against something blinding. You cried out, hand grasping at his wrist to either pull him away or keep him right there. You couldn't tell at this point. And he smiled. "Is that it?" Rubbing against the spongy patch along your walls, he felt your entire body lock up, a whimpered sob breaking from your chest. "Yeah. That's fucking it."

You tried to warn him, his name a garbled echo of nonsensical letters on your tongue. But he already knew. His hand sped up, practically pushing your fingers out of the way as he gave you everything you wanted. Poe was certain that he wanted this more than you, that deep down he needed to know that you came because of him. That he was capable of turning you into a sobbing mess.

The echo of his pained grunt was loud in your ears, his hips pressing up into you to relieve the pressure of need he felt, and that's what did it. The knowledge that he was as gone as you were. That he had always wanted you.

Your walls fluttered around his fingers, a splintered moan falling past your parted lips as the pleasure spilled over. And he buried his face into your neck, a broken sound of his own muffled by your warm skin. He fought against finishing, biting into your shoulder as he worked you through your release. Adamant to make this last for you—to drag you to the Maker and back with a sated smile on your face.

Eventually you couldn't take it anymore, pleasure bleeding into pain, and you dragged his hand away. A breathless sigh of his name shooting right to his cock.

Without knowing it you had broken him for anyone else. Obliterated his ability to ever see someone the way he saw you.

You and your beauty. Your ability to render him speechless, breathless, and at your fucking mercy. For so long he was the ship lost in space with no sense of direction to lead him back to something real, a purpose. But then you settled into his heart. You became his pilot, guiding him through the never-ending void of space. You kept him afloat even as the weight of the galaxy threatened to drag him down, happy to watch him crash and burn in as so many others had done before.

"That was new," you giggled, hand reaching back to run through his hair.

He smiled, his heart twisting in his chest and fingers still covered in your slick coming to grip at your hips. "To think..." Pressing your ass down against his hard cock, he felt the breath hitch in your chest. "We could have been doing this the whole time."

"W-What a loss," you breathed, that now familiar all encompassing need filling your veins once more.

As if he knew your body so well already, he began to pull at your pants, helping you strip yourself to the best of your ability. The soft clinking of his belt echoed loudly in the cockpit and for a moment you were sure that people in the distance could hear it. But that thought quickly left your mind the second you felt the hot skin of his cock pressing against your lower back—his precum wet and sticky now smeared against your skin. Saliva filled your mouth, the ache pulling at your chest, clawing its way to the surface.

You didn't simply want him. That was too small of a word to explain the feeling in your body. You breathed for him. You lived for him. Poe was the blood that streamed in your veins, the reason your heart beat the way it did. Because it beat for him.

"Say you want this," he grunted, grinding against your skin, his fingers digging in harder than before. Until blood nearly pricked at the surface.

"Yes." The word was out of your mouth before he could even finish speaking. "Maker, I've wanted this for so long."

A growl hit your ears, his nose pressed into your back as he lifted you slightly, and you felt like you would rip to shreds if he didn't hurry. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, sliding into you with slippery ease. And you pressed back against him, desperate to feel him sink into you fully. To be stretched out around his cock. Poe choked on his breath when your warm heat encompassed his throbbing length so suddenly, nearly throwing him off the edge entirely.

"Fuck starlight. You're gonna have to give me a second."

Your lips curled up into a grin. "Yes, General."

For a moment Poe could only process the breaths he took, the word entering his already blank mind. It wasn't until a searing heat shot up his spine at the sound of his title leaving your lips, did he fully understand. His hips pushed up into you, forcing him to sink just a bit deeper. You clutched at the side of the ship, your eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. The position had him pressing right along your walls, the underside of his cock grinding blissfully against you.

"I used to think you had no idea." He pushed you up slightly until his cock was halfway out and he glanced down, moaning at the sight of him covered in your slick. Only to pull you back down hard. Your choked cry was like music to his ears. "Didn't know what you do to me. How my whole fucking body belonged to you."

"Poe—"

He repeated the movement, smiling at the noises that came free. "But I was wrong."

A pressure quickly built in the base of your stomach, threatening to destroy you. And you chased it. Meeting his thrusts, you fucked yourself on his cock, hands pressed to the dash in front of you and back arched to find the perfect angle that made your toes curl in your boots. Ragged breaths filled the space, accompanied by broken moans and stunted grunts. Each one louder than the last as you both took and took and took, until the very edge of bliss mounted in your bodies.

He gripped the back of your neck, hand fisting at your hair as he pulled you back roughly against his chest. And you fell into it. Whining his name when he grinded up slowly, your walls clamped down around his cock. You could barely see straight through the burn of tears that glazed your eyes, a fucked out expression painted perfectly on your face. And Poe wished he could see you from where he was, catch a glimpse of the way your eyes rolled back, neck on display for him to bite.

"You know exactly what you do to me, starlight." His mouth fell open in a silent moan when his balls drew up painfully, cock throbbing along your walls. He quickly shoved his hand into your slick, fingers locating your clit with ease.

"Maker—" You heard him bite out your name like a prayer he couldn't get out fast enough. A plea for you to give him everything you had, everything that made you who you were. "I'm— Fuck I-I'm—"

"Yes," he groaned, using his other hand to cup your chin and pull your lips to his. Finally kissing you after years of dreaming it would happen. "Fucking give it to me baby."

His tongue licked into your mouth, swallowing every sound you made with ease. The feel of his lips against yours shoved you towards your release. A muffled cry of his name echoing in his mouth as your body went taut, thighs quaking as you gushed on his cock. He choked, mouth open and panting against yours, following you instantly and spilling into your cunt—filling you until you were sure it was dripping out of you and gathering at the base of him.

"Yours," he sighed against your lips, thumb running along the top of your cheek. "'M yours."

The twist of your heart brought you down from your high, your eyes fluttering open as he stared at your kiss swollen lips, the way his spit smeared along your bottom one. You expected him to take it back once he slipped out of you. Surely this was nothing but a dream, a moment in time that may never happen again. But in his eyes you saw devotion. You saw the inevitable future that was always bound to happen.

"Me too."

He smiled, nose brushing against yours. "Guess we're stuck with each other starlight."

"That doesn't sound too bad to me, General."

He tsked under his breath, fingers coming to grip your chin—brown eyes flashing up to meet your gaze. "You're causing trouble."

You grinned, grinding on his softened cock that was still buried deep in you. "And if I am?"

The feeling of his cock twitching inside you, slowly growing hard with interest. "Hands on the controls baby." He nipped at your bottom lip. "You know what to do."

A soft flutter filled your stomach as you followed his direction. Taking the lead in a dance that you were now familiar with. With Poe everything came with ease, as if you'd gone through it with him hundreds of times over. And guiding him home was just the beginning.

#poe dameron x f!reader #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron x y/n #poe dameron smut #poe dameron #my writing

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t4tsnowstormjrwi · 23 days

Text

Honey, do you need a hot meal?

Troy is hungry. Lint is the meal.

trigger warnings for cannibalism and gore

hey guys..... i wrote this little thing in one day..... btw.... llintroller save meee... title is from Your body, My Temple by Will Wood

Troy and Lint are standing in In the middle of the living room. Lint has just told her that he wanted him to eat them. Not even that he could, but that he wanted her to.

And Troy can't deny, the idea is appealing. She thought maybe this was just some sick joke, Lint can be a little strange at times, but no. Lint is entirely serious. And Troy wants to eat.

Lint must be a genius, Troy thinks to herself. She doesn’t know what he wants to say in this moment, but she knows more than anything what he wants to do. What he needs to do.

“Dude, are you sure? Cause like, you could die, man…” Troy’s desire doesn’t mean he won’t hesitate. This is his best friend, after all.

“Your dad turns people into clocks, doesn’t he?”

She lunges towards them, straight for his cheek. He bites down and tears a bit of flesh away, and it’s even better than she could have imagined. She can’t even describe it. It’s just the kind of taste that you savor for as long as you can, especially when it’s someone as important to you as Lint is to Troy.

Troy sees Lint’s face before going in for another bite, this time the flesh of their neck. He looks shocked, maybe he expected her to say something before going in for a taste, but that doesn’t stop a small grin from appearing on their face.

And Troy just continues to tear away from Lint, bit by bit, piece by piece. He feels like an animal, but can she really help it? This is Lint. This is her best friend and he tastes so good.

This might just be the best thing he’s ever tasted. Lint isn’t just good, he’s perfect. The blood in Troy’s mouth is warm and the metallic taste makes him want more. He can’t stop, and surely Lint won’t survive much more of this. Troy knows that.

And yet, his tongue begs for more of that wonderful flavor. He can’t stop.

She loves Lint. In this moment, right now, she loves Lint more than ever before. Maybe it’s because Lint is all there is right now, or maybe he just likes the way they taste as she rips chunks of flesh away from their body. Either way, he loves Lint so very much. And they say actions speak louder than words, don’t they?

She barely even gives herself time to chew, he just keeps on taking more and more, relishing in it. The texture, the flavor, it’s all perfect to Troy. There isn’t a world where Lint isn’t perfect. Not in Troy’s eyes.

Tears fall down Lint’s face, he feels his life fading away from them, but this is Troy and this is all they’d ever dreamed of. They can’t think of a better way to go out. He wonders if Troy even notices that they’re dying, or if she’s too busy tearing him apart.

Eventually, Troy finishes his meal, but Lint is long gone by then. She doesn’t know when it happened. It’s hard for her to think about anything else, part of him wants more, but he knows it’s time to put them away. Maybe next time she’ll try a bit of cooking.

Should Troy feel bad? He just ate her best friend, after all. But no, Troy doesn’t feel anything but love for them. The consequences of her actions haven’t hit him yet, so why should it matter?

Lint, what’s left of them, barely fits in the freezer. Troy needs to go out and buy a bigger one. And some ice. She figures she should clean up first, though. He washes the blood from her hair and skin, gets a different outfit, wonders if the stains will ever leave that shirt, and he’d be on his way if he didn’t hear a quiet voice behind her. It has that bug-like quality to it, like someone Troy knows; knew. Lint.

“Did I taste good?”

ERM!!! END NOTES I GUESS??????

i have never ever written anything like this and MAN it was fun.

lint is a freaking ghost now by the way because i have so many Thoughts about ghost lint and clockwork lint......... may write more in the future too. just like about ghost lint/clockwork lint sometimes and troy shenanigans

i hope you had fun reading this. hope it was a hit for the lintroller nation

#I HOPE THIS IS A HIT WITH THE LINTROLLER NATION. WE ALL AGREE THAT LINT IS A FREAK RIGHT.#TROY CAN BE A LITTLE FREAK TOO. FOR ENRICHMENT #I MEAN HE FUCKING BARKS DUDE. HE BARKS. HE IS A DOG. LET HIM EAT PEOPLE #also he/hers troy and he/they lint real. to me.#ratmouse writing #tw cannibalism #cw cannibalism #jrwi lintroller #lint jrwi #jrwi lint #troy jrwi #jrwi troy #troy lougferd #tramilton lougferd #jrwi fanfiction

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discordantwritings · 7 months

Text

Taken Back (Crocodile x Reader)

Warnings: NSFW 18+ MDNI, fem afab! Reader (reader is referred to as girl), degradation, oral sex, facefucking, clothed sex/ dry humping, idk what the nice tag for getting off on a shoe is

WC: 1.9k

Summary: Your old boss is out of prison and back in action. You know he doesn’t like loose ends so you make a play to kill him before he can kill you. Things turn out differently than you plan.

Notes: I am not sure if this is what the requester wanted but my mind went to places that I couldn’t stop and I hope they like it!

Tagging: @keiva1000

Sword griped tight you wait for the lackey pirates to pass as you sneak further into Karai Bari island. Sir Crocodile’s wanted poster weighs heavy in your pocket as you mentally run through your plan once again.

Get into his office. Kill him or die in the process. Finally be free one way or the other.

Shitty plan, but it’s the best you’ve got.

Ever since you heard the news that Crocodile had escaped from Impel Down you knew you had to do this. You knew he didn’t like loose ends. You knew him well, he was your old boss after all.

For years you had worked for Baroque Works, a special agent directly under Sir Crocodile’s rule. You would go so far to say you had a decent relationship with him, as decent a relationship as Crocodile could have. You appreciated his efficiency and ruthlessness and he appreciated your obedience and skill.

You were a spy, often away from Alabasta for months at a time, and you had been away when the Straw Hat Pirates had turned the country upside down. When you got back there was nothing left for you, so you had to rebuild your life. It wasn’t easy- but your skills were more than enough to keep you above water.

But then Crocodile broke out.

It was like a knife was hanging over your head held by only a fraying thread. In every dark alley you expect to see him or one of your old coworkers, every night you shove a chair underneath the doorknob so no one can sneak in. Living in fear wasn’t much of a life. So when you caught wind of your old boss’ new hideout you stole yourself a ship and started sailing.

Now you’re here, sneaking through carnival surplus and dodging the gaze of pirate clowns. You’re not sure how exactly Sir Crocodile got in business with Buggy the Clown but you can’t really spare that much thought to that right now. It’s just a fitting backdrop for your quickly declining mental state.

You navigate carefully according to the (thankfully sound) information you bartered for and avoid being spotted as you come up on the door to Sir Crocodile’s office. Instinctually you know it’s his- painted in that signature dark green he loves so much. Sword in one hand, short dagger in the other you seep your haki into the blades. Pitch black weapons ready, you shove open the door and prepare to attack.

Sir Crocodile looks exactly the same. You figured maybe prison would have done some damage to him, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. He was still the same broad, imposing, terrifying man.

A man who was standing in front of his desk facing the door. A man who knew you were coming.

You falter in the door way as he smirks at you. All the adrenaline you were running off of evaporates in an instant as you’re faced with the cruel fact you’d be outsmarted.

You really should have known better.

“It’s been a while.” Sir Crocodile says, absentmindedly polishing his golden hook with a cloth.

“It has.” Is the best response you can come up with.

“You were really thinking of killing me? I really thought you were smarter than that.” The slight disappointment in his voice hurts more than the fact he’s going to kill you.

“I didn’t want to wait around to be killed.” You turn the dagger over in your hand, fighting to keep your willpower strong enough to empower the blade.

“Fair enough.” You feel his eyes slide over your form and you fight not to shrink away. “But what makes you think I want you dead?”

“What?” That wasn’t a question you were ready for.

“I don’t think I stuttered.”

“No- I-“ Your stance shifted, letting your guard down slightly. “I’m a loose end. You don’t like loose ends.”

Silence hangs in the air as he seems to contemplate that answer. “That is true. But why did you never think I’d want you working for me again?”

…

Admittedly, that thought never crossed your mind. You were caught up in the countless ruthless slaughters you had seen at his hand and hook. Never did you think that you could come back, that there was room for you to come back.

And now you’ve probably destroyed that chance.

“I clearly had a lapse in judgement.”

“Clearly.” Sir Crocodile pushes himself off his desk and walks over to you and you drop your now useless blades to your side, willpower having run out long ago. “If it wasn’t me this whole gambit probably would have worked. It was good to know you still had all your connections and skills. And no one noticed you sneaking around.”

“You did teach me well.” You admit as he stalks over to you.

“That’s why I’m not going to kill you.” Crocodile is standing only a foot from you now, grey eyes bearing down on you. “I’m going to take you back.”

A confusing rush of emotions swirl in your head as you process the fact that you’re not actually going to die and actually just got your job back. “Thank you sir.”

“You will have to work very, very hard to make up for this though. You did think about killing me.” He saunters back over to his desk, taking a seat behind it.

“Of course.” Of course you would never expect things to just go back to the way they were.

“Double shifts, and of course every bit of information you gained while I was away.”

“I will compile all that information for you.”

“And I expect you to come up with some other ways to get back on my good side. You’ve always been creative.”

He wasn’t implying anything. But the crazy cocktail of emotions, adrenaline, and honestly the way your mind was always a bit in the gutter had you thinking about less conventional ways to get back on his good side. There had never been anything between you two but you can’t deny that you’ve thought about it- I mean who could blame you? He was strong, commanding, and incredibly handsome. And, while you didn’t want to get overly full of yourself, you swear you’d occasionally feel his gaze on you when you weren’t looking.

If you were wrong your head might go back on the chopping block but if you were right then you’d get back in his good graces pretty damn fast.

Worth a shot.

You walked over to his desk, one hand trailing on the dark wood as you walk behind it. “I was wondering, sir, if there was anything I could do for you right now?”

He looks up at you with a raised eyebrow, studying you before answering. “Depends. What are you thinking?”

Of course he was going to make you say it. You can see in his eyes that he knows what you’re implying. He’s playing with you.

You choose not to say anything else, simply letting your knees hit the ground in front of his slightly parted legs. You don’t move after that, choosing to fold your hands in your lap while you wait for him to give you an order.

“Oh well look at this. Seems you are smart.” He shifts in his seat, legs spreading wider. “C’mere.”

You shuffle closer to him, hands quickly finding his belt. You swear you hear him chuckle but you’re too preoccupied with the large bulge growing in his pants as you unzip them. Reaching under his boxers you pull out his half hard length and your mouth waters.

He’s thick- so much so that you know it’ll be a challenge to wrap your mouth around him. But that fact only spurs you on further as you nuzzle up to his base and press sloppy kisses against it. You feel him harden under you and you flatten your tongue and lick a long stripe up from his base to the tip.

“Stop teasing.” His fingers thread through your hair, gripping hard as he pushes your head closer in warning.

You don’t need to be told twice. Taking his tip into your mouth you swirl your tongue around it a few times before slowly taking him further into your mouth. Crocodile groans in appreciation as you sink down, his cock slipping down into your throat until your nose brushes against his pelvis.

“If I’d of known you were so good on your knees I would have hunted you down the second I got out.” His grip pulls you back ever so slightly just so he can shove you back down again. “We’ll just have to make up for lost time.”

It’s thrilling to let yourself be used like this, the drag of his cock in your throat foreign yet intoxicating. You’re already soaked, shifting unconsciously to try and get some friction to relieve the quickly growing ache. Of course Crocodile notices.

“Are you such a whore that you’re getting off on this?” Your eyes flick up and you see him grinning down at you. “Spread your legs.”

You’re confused but you do as he asks, knees going wide and holding onto his thighs for support. It isn’t until you feel the tip of his expensive shoe between your thighs that it all clicks. You grind down on the hard surface and moan around Crocodile’s cock.

“That’s it.” Crocodile mumbles appreciatively above you.

You let him continue to use you, filthy wet noises filling the room as spit drips down your chin and onto his lap. When he’s controlling your head it’s easy to focus your effort on grinding yourself against his shoe. It’s humiliating, degrading, disgusting, and you love it. Your head swims with lust, captured in the feeling of his cock throbbing in your throat.

You know he’s close when his grip tightens on your hair and his hips buck up every time he shoves your face down. If that wasn’t enough signs, his mouth gets looser, filthy words spilling out.

“Fuck you’re too good at this- tight little throat was made for my cock, huh? It’s like you were meant to take me-“ The pulling of your hair brings tears to your eyes, just on the verge of spilling over. “You’re going to swallow what I give you- take my fucking load-“

You feel his cum hit the back of your throat and you do your best to swallow as you’re still held down. You can only swallow so much before you feel him dripping out the side of your mouth and down your chin. Finally he pulls you off and you gasp for air, face still held up for Crocodile to see. His hook comes up to your face and collects the spit and cum on your chin. He presses the cold metal up to your mouth and you lick it up without a thought, earning a groan from Crocodile.

“Such a good girl.” You’re rewarded with him pressing his shoe up to your clit. “Be a good little whore and get off on my shoe.”

It doesn’t take long now that he’s helping, forced to look in his eyes as you moan and shudder, coming undone in a way you never thought you could. As you come down he lets you go and your head falls down to his lap, head light from your orgasm.

“You have certainly proven yourself.” You feel the hook lightly brush through your hair. “And now I’ll never let you go.”

#one piece x reader #one piece x you #x reader #crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x reader #discordantwritings

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superprincesspea · 2 months

Text

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 18 - Vhagar

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

Aemond pulls you deeper into the garden, and the sound of the party fades away. If you were a sensible girl, you would insist on knowing where he was taking you. But you’re not thinking of rules or decorum, you’ve already given yourself to adventure, and its anticipation which tingles in your veins. That is, until you're standing in front of the dragon pits.

Then there’s only fear. Dragons . Perhaps you should have guessed this would be your destination, and perhaps deep down, you had. But now it was real, and the tall doors loomed like the jaws of a monster.

In all your weeks living in Kings Landing, and all your exploring of the keep, you’d never dared to come close to here. The dragon screams alone, had been enough to keep you away, their sound sometimes rippling up through layers of dirt and rock, muted, yet warning enough to all who would listen.

Prying your hand from Aemond’s, you step away from him, just as the two guards, who’d been relaxing in their duties, stand to attention, panic momentarily filling their faces before they move to open both sides of the door.

You don’t suppose they were expecting visitors at this time of night, and you can feel the way they’re trying not to stare, as you inch closer, peering into the depths of the candle lit staircase.

From here, you cannot see where the stairs end and the pit truly begins, only darkness, and just looking feels like a dangerous thing. As though something might rush right up and snatch you into its deadly possession.

“I’m not going down there,” you decide, feeling quite happy to remain terrified of the dragons dwelling in the dark underbelly of the keep. And even if you weren’t, the scream which suddenly runs up the stairs, so much louder, and so much closer, than any you’d heard before, sends a fresh shudder of nerves along your spine.

“Why ?” Aemond asks, and when you turn to give him a pointed look, his brow is raised above his good eye. He's surprised, he’s actually surprised.

You almost laugh, before remembering the two guards standing by the door. Both of them still pretending not to watch or listen while simultaneously seeing and hearing everything.

What were you thinking? Even standing here was akin to a scandal. Disappearing into the pits would certainly seal your fate as a ruined woman.

Straightening your spine, you feel foolish for allowing things to get this far. “I should not even be here without a chaperone and-” you glance back through the doors, the lure of the staircase somehow calling to the hammering in your heart.

“You’re afraid ?” Aemond suggests, as though he still can’t quite believe it.

“Of course I’m afraid,” you reply tartly, thinking it no stain on your character to be afraid of monstrous beasts who could kill you with a single breath.

“First of all,” Aemond stands in front of you, blocking your view of the stairs, “there are only two guards who see you here. So, I will know exactly who to kill if word of this night ever leaves this door. Second of all, I would not have brought you to the dragon pits if I thought, for one moment, that you would not enjoy every second of it.”

You shake your head in disbelief, “first of all, you cannot kill everyone who threatens you.”

He smirks, “then I shall cut off their hand, if that suits my lady?”

“I’m not entirely sure losing a hand suits anyone .”

But Aemond only shrugs, his words laced with promise, “then they will do well to keep their mouths shut.”

With a threat like that, you were fairly certain this night would remain a secret, but that didn’t make the prospect of dragons any less terrifying. You were the third daughter of Borros Baratheon, not Visenya Targaryen.

“And as for my second reason?” Aemond presses, as you take a step back, good sense telling you it's not too late to return to the party, no matter how boring you might find it.

“Perhaps his grace does not know me as well as he thought.”

“Really ?” his head tilts, his eye daring to slip down the deep cut of your dress, “because when I saw you that day on the beach-”

“Must you always refer to that moment?” you interrupt, your gaze quickly sliding to the guards.

“I have yet to find a day it has not crossed my mind,” he says, a wicked smile filling his cheeks, “my lady looked so wonderfully reckless as she cast herself into the bay, that I knew it would be a pleasure to show her how to touch the sky.”

For a moment, your breath catches, before you force yourself to huff as though you’re annoyed instead of intrigued, “it’s hardly the same thing.”

“You’re right, flying is far more exhilarating. Now ,” he gestures towards the door, “will you care to join me or not?”

No. Yes. No... Yes.

You should definitely turn back. But you don’t, and hate him for making you culpable to your own decisions. Because he isn’t forcing you, or dragging you by the hand. He’s asking, waiting, and it's you , who takes the first step, and the second, and all the others until you’re standing at the bottom of a very long staircase, and the door clangs shut behind you.

Foolish girl . It turns out, the only thing more terrifying than a dragon, is your willingness to walk right into its den.

You step forward, leaving the stairs behind, and the room is cavernous, torches flickering for as far as the eye can see, their flames creating pockets of light which barely scrape the centre of the chamber. Then there’s the smell, hot and ripe. Charcoal and manure. You wrinkle your nose, trying not to breathe it in, but its strong enough to make your eyes water.

Somehow, you’d never really imagined the stench, and you're suddenly reconsidering your decision to come down here, to a place where there is no natural light and no fresh air.

You suppose they don’t call it a pit for nothing, and if you’re thinking of running back up the stairs, the thought is stolen when Aemond’s hand brushes along your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” you say, nerves a little fraught.

“If you smell like me,” he begins, wrapping you in the heavy fabric of his cloak, before carefully fastening the clasp in the front. “Vhagar will think you are mine and she will not harm you.”

You swallow, hard , the warmth and scent of his skin curling around you, “and if she doesn’t?”

Aemond laughs, far more unconcerned than you think he ought to be, “she will. You can trust me.”

"Forgive me for taking little consolation in your words, but you do not tell someone they can trust you. You show them.”

“Then allow me to show you,” he agrees, taking your hand in his, so he can lead you deeper into the monstrous room.

Twenty paces in, the dark has closed around you like a thick blanket, and you’re starting to think the room will never end, when a Dragonkeeper slowly emerges from the shadows.

He's holding a torch, firelight flickering over his face, and you can see that his skin is sallow, almost the same colour as the washed-out grey of his robe, as though it's been a long time since he’s really seen the sun.

“She’s readied for you, my Prince, but if you are wanting her saddled for two?” he pries, bowing his head before taking a sidelong glance in your direction, his curious eyes far less discreet than that of the guards.

“No need,” Aemond replies, and you’re relieved, meeting Vhagar seemed enough excitement for one evening. Riding her, could certainly wait. In fact, you’d be pleased enough if that time never came at all.

Bowing again, the Dragonkeeper slinks away, the light from his torch disappearing before the room is shook by the thunderous clinking of a large chain.

It must be the sound of the door, you think, just as a crack of light appears in front of you, the protesting creak of old timber adding to the cacophony now echoing around the room.

Aemond doesn’t move, and you have pride enough to stop yourself from clinging to him, as the door pulls all the way open, moon light flooding into the pit, so you can just make out the shape of the arches built into the walls.

Then you see her. Vhagar .

Looking like the shadowy mound of a distant hill, but very much alive, as two yellow eyes appear in the dark.

Fear grips tightly to your chest, your movements frozen as you watch the way she stretches out her long limbs like a sleepy cat, a soft huff of breath blowing from her nose.

It seemed insanity, to wake a sleeping dragon, but when you dare to step back, Aemond catches you, his arm slipping around your waist.

“Remain calm,” he commands, urging you forward, slowly , and you want to trust him. So, you do. It's easier that way. To let go of all thought, and allow him to take control. Because this is his world, more so than the soft chaises in the library or the hall filled with courtiers and elegant conversations. In those places, anyone could belong, but this place was built only for dragons.

So, you make no sudden movements, no movements at all unless they’re under the guide of his hand.

Then, when you’re standing close enough to see the line of every scale on Vhagar’s body, and smell the ash pouring out of every breath, you stop, and Aemond say’s something in High Valyrian. His words eliciting a low moan which rumbles from the pit of her giant belly, before she cranes her long neck to look at you more closely.

Staring into her eyes, you don’t want to think of fire and death, or how she seems to suck the air from your lungs each time she inhales. But how can you think of anything else? She's formidable, powerful, a dragon who's known Aegon the Conqueror himself.

What stories she could tell, and perhaps she did, in every scar which marred her armoured body.

Inching back, thinking this meeting was quite enough, you collide with the solid wall of Aemond’s chest, his fingers threading with yours. No glove, just the rough touch of his hand, drawing your arm up, your scents mingling for Vhagar's inspection.

“Do you trust me now?” he whispers, as she breathes in the smell.

“Ask me again in the morning,” you barely dare to answer, and he laughs softly, his other hand splaying across your ribs, like it belongs there. Like he has permission to hold you in such a manner. So close, his body melting into yours, and your heart racing anew, as he leans down, his nose brushing through your hair, to find a place where he can press a slow, sultry, kiss to the back of your neck.

Startled , you twist your head to look at him, your cheeks as hot as the tingles coursing all the way to the tips of your toes.

“Perhaps she’s not the only dragon who thinks you are mine,” he says, his blue eye dark with longing, while his thumb grazes the curve of your breast. So slightly , you’d be forgiven for thinking it was a mistake, but Aemond doesn’t make mistakes, and your breath hitches, just as his eye strokes across your lips.

Then he speaks, but it's not to you. It's to Vhagar, more High Valyrian, his tone filled with love and respect for an ancient friend.

You should probably stop staring at him now, should definitely return your attention to the dragon crouching beside you, still and patient, but your heart is pounding harder and harder under the press of his hand. And the worst part is, you know he must feel it, must realise, with some certainty, that its him , and not a dragon who makes you react with such intensity.

Perhaps that’s why a ghost of a smile lives on his lips as he nudges you towards her, close enough to guide your joined fingers along her scaly body. Then you do pry your gaze away.

You’re touching a dragon. A real dragon, and perhaps you should be afraid, but your mind is still elsewhere. Lost somewhere between the hand still splayed across your chest and the kiss still sizzling on your neck.

Standing this close to a dragon, any normal person would be thinking of death and terror. But the slow shudder of breath blowing from your lips is anything but terrified, and Aemond seems to take great pleasure in it, as you tell yourself to concentrate on one dragon at a time.

Vhagar. Only Vhagar.

She’s warm, much warmer than you or Aemond, which you suppose is to be expected from a creature who embodies fire, but she's also surprisingly soft and smooth. Not like silk or steel, something pliable yet strong, and so dry to the touch though her scales seem to glisten.

Still, even with the most powerful creature in the world at your fingertips, its Aemond who keeps stealing your thoughts, and when he finally releases you from his hold, it's a relief. Allowing you to gather your wits; and putting a stop to the thrum of desire which has crept into your belly.

But your relief is only momentary because freedom is for one purpose alone, so he can lead you towards her saddle, which he mounts without any consideration for your reluctance to follow.

But... your mind stutters, she’s only saddle for one . You want to say it, to remind him. Yet, Aemond knows this well enough as he beckons you onto his lap with a devilish smile. The action only cementing his position as the worst man in the entire world.

You glare at him, wanting desperately to give him some form of hell, and perhaps he knows this well enough. Knows you have no real choice but to follow. Since you cannot shout or argue when you’re standing next to the largest dragon in the world, nor do you wish to venture all the way through the depths of the pit on your own.

You hate him, yet he’s never looked more pleased with himself.

With a huff, you grip your hands to the tattered ropes which trail down her long neck, and fight the instinct to flee. Because fleeing from a dragon made so much more sense than scaling one. In fact, fleeing seemed bound to the very fibre of your bones.

Yet here you were, and you can’t help but wonder what Septa Orella would think of this. What your father would think... you push that thought away, annoyed that Aemond had seemed to mount her so effortlessly.

Meanwhile, you were forced to say a silent prayer every time your foot dared to find fresh purchase, the sway of her breathing making you tremble, the shifting of her muscles making you freeze.

You clung to the ropes so tightly, that your hands were red and sore by the time you made it to a place where Aemond could haul you up, and relief felt like a balm.

You were almost glad to be securely wedged between his thighs and the pommel. The space infinitely small for proprietary. But already so high up, that your thoughts quickly turned to the ground, and the somewhat flimsy chains he begins to tighten around your legs.

“This doesn’t feel very safe,” you shudder, testing them and thinking it would be no hard feat to fall.

But Aemond doesn’t reassure you, he gives the chains a final tug, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “it's definitely not.”

Then he reaches one hand to pick up the reins, his other, closing your fingers around the pommel.

“Are you ready, dragon rider? ” he breathes dangerously in your ear, and you shake your head, sick with fright.

“Absolutely not!” You’ve changed your mind, no , that wasn’t true. You didn't want to ride her in the first place. Why were you even here? Was Tyland Lannister really so boring?

Aemond laughs, as though he can hear the thoughts whirring around your mind, his body tensing as he pulls at her reins, and without another word, Vhagar is under way. Her moves big and bold, as she stands to full height just before she hurtles you into the air at the most startling speed imaginable.

This is hell.

You're not sure if the sound coming from your mouth is a laugh or a scream. Maybe both. But you don’t like it.

All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut, wanting your mind to drift to a place where you’re in no danger of falling. Yet closing your eyes only stops you from seeing .

You can feel everything . The stomach-churning rush, the whip of the breeze, then the mist on your face as though you’re soaring through a cloud. And in the next moment, it's gone, and the air is dry, and so cold. Cold enough to turn the water droplets on your hair into tiny crystals.

Yet Vhagar doesn’t stop, she climbs higher and higher, the sheer force curving your body into Aemond’s like you're the glove on his hand.

Then, all at once, she finally slows, and for just a moment, it feels as though you lift up and float on the wind, your limbs lighter, your back free to move from Aemond’s chest, though you only burrow yourself in tighter.

Even when she’s steadied out, and you can feel the drift, slow and easy, like a ship on still waters. Your eyes remain closed, your body still clinging to Aemond’s as tightly as you hold the pommel.

“Look,” he tells you, his fingers catching under your chin, so he can see your face, “open your eyes and look at the world.”

“I can’t,” you admit, your breath shaky, your eyes feeling as though they are sealed shut, and Aemond doesn’t force you. His hand strokes across your cheek, gentle , reassuring, and you’re frustrated by your own reluctance.

Seeing the world from that back of a dragon is an opportunity so rare, and so precious, that you would be a fool to deny it, and you’re no fool, not with this.

Steeling your nerves, you force one eye open, then the other, both of them landing safely on Aemond’s face.

You hadn’t realised you could find such comfort in the blue of his eye or such encouragement in the quirk of his smile. But there it is, and allowing yourself to linger in the way he’s looking at you, seems more dangerous than simply looking down. So, you do it.

You look.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but perhaps not this. The world is almost entirely black, barely a trace of people or trees or roads. Just solitude.

“Now look up,” he whispers, and you do as you’re told, your eyes scraping from the ground to where the horizon meets the sky and it's like looking into the realm of the gods.

“Oh ,” you say, knowing such a sight should elicit more eloquence, but there are no words for such beauty. You’ve never seen the stars like this before, so close, so bright. You can’t help but reach towards them, releasing your deathly tight grip on the pommel, so your fingers can rake through the air, as though you might catch a star in the palm of your hand.

“Can you fly to them?” you say, seeming to forget that flying was a terrifying thing, and Aemond’s breath is a happy caress of laughter on the back of your neck.

“I’m afraid the air gets too cold and too thin to fly much higher than this.”

“But you have tried?” you say, looking back at him.

“When I was a boy,” he admits, and it makes you strangely delighted to imagine him feeling the same wonder you’re feeling right now.

You smile, and perhaps this wasn’t hell at all, perhaps it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” you say, forgetting to hate him, just for now.

Aemond leans closer, seeming to want full advantage of your good mood, “and will you share something with me, Lady Baratheon?”

Maybe you’d spoken too soon, “share what?”

“A truth.”

You narrow your eyes, “what truth?”

“That perhaps ,” he pauses, his smile slowly filling his face no matter how much he tries to hold it at bay, “it is the third daughter of Borros Baratheon who thinks I am the most wonderful dancer?”

You snort with both laughter and surprise, turning away and fearing he can see you far too well in the dark. "If I think anything, it is that we should head back before anyone notices I’m missing.”

“Admit it,” he says, his chin resting far too comfortably on your shoulder.

You attempt to shake him off, but it only forces his nose to brush against your cheek, and Aemond’s certainly not complaining, he's breathing you in, one arm wrapping around your middle to hold you safe and snug, and it feels so safe and snug you cannot dare to fight it.

“We’ve got all night,” he adds, Vhagar’s reigns loose in his other hand as she glides on the breeze, and you tiptoe around the truth.

“I think his grace already knows he can dance or he would not have agreed to do it in the first place.”

“But I’m your favourite?” he presses.

You could fight him at every turn, but you haven’t got all night, so you just say, “ yes .”

A satisfied laugh rolls across his body, the vibration of it sinking into your skin and you half expect him to mock you, but he doesn’t.

He sits up straighter in the saddle, and holds the reins a little tighter, before saying something in High Valyrian.

Then Vhagar drifts into an easy turn, and she doesn’t dart down in the same way she shot to the stars. She glides slowly, gradually , lower and lower until you’ve almost reached the ground.

But where you expect to see the Red Keep or even the sprawling streets of Kings Landing, there are only waves, cresting on the shore of an empty beach. No lights, or signs of people, for as far as the eye can see.

Just you, Aemond, and Vhagar. Alone.

~~~

Thank you for reading!

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #romance #female reader #enemies to lovers #aemond targaryen x oc #prince aemond #slow burn

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daistea · 2 months

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Hello dais! I’ve been binge reading all of your content recently and first of all I have to say I’m obsessed with all of your writing, it has changed how I look at character from Dungeon Meshi entirely. and second of all, I’ve been thinking about Mithrun with a tall-man reader, or just any short-lived race really and how he would react after they had passed away? I don’t know how you feel about angst really but I’m a sucker for pain and can’t stop thinking about this. Sorry if this seems messy, I’m just thinking too many thoughts about Mithrun right now.

Thank you so much friend!!! Sorry for the late response! This was a good prompt, something close to my heart.

Mithrun x gn, short-lived Reader

tw death, loss, angst

»»-------¤-------««

Mithrun would not do well.

When he loves, he loves deeply. He wasn’t always so loyal, but after the demon and after working so hard to cultivate desires, Mithrun would attach himself to those he cares about. He isn’t clingy in a traditional sense, but he’s intense. To you, even more so.

He’d always known it would happen; you started moving slower. You started aging. He didn’t care how you looked. He was aging as well, though at a different rate. Mithrun had never cared for the sentiment of ‘growing old’ with someone. He didn’t understand it, mainly because he truly believed he’d die once the demon was gone.

Yet, there he was, in his mid-200s. He had you. He couldn’t let you go. When you slowed down, complained of joint pain and laughed at your gray hairs, he’d always brush you off. There was time. There was always time.

Awareness did not equal acceptance. Simply because something was a fact of life did not mean it deserved to exist in peace. Most facts of life had negative contexts, but people spoke of them as if they expected Mithrun to be content, to lower his fists, to stop fighting.

He knew the day would come. No amount of preparation made it easier.

“You’re 252 years old, Captain,” Lycion murmured.

Mithrun wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. He glanced up at the ex-Canary, though the look in Lycion’s eyes immediately made his blood run hot. He forced himself to look away simply to keep from breaking something.

“And?”

“You still have around half your life left,” Lycion continued with that tone that had become all too familiar— insistent, worried, pitying. He should’ve known better than to use it on Mithrun.

“And?” “And you still have time to move on.”

Unacceptable. There was anger, of course, there was always anger swirling within him. But lately, Mithrun had become more sensitive to dread. His stomach churned and sickness crawled up his throat. Move on? As if that was an option.

The sight of your body haunts him.

Your skin was cold. Everything was wrong. He couldn’t stop feeling, so much more than he’d felt in ages. All he wanted was for it to stop. When he closed his eyes, he saw you. When he tried to sleep, he heard you. He recalled the lilt of your voice and it refused to leave his brain. Despite how desperately he craved peace, he didn’t want to forget you. He held onto the memories for as long as his imperfect brain would allow.

Mithrun doesn’t leave his house.

He only eats because he knows you’d be mad at him if he didn’t.

He changes nothing about the decor. If you left a sweater on the floor before you died, it will stay there for years.

Things start changing. If you caught bugs and released them, he’d start doing that as well, despite how he just squished them in the past. If you seasoned food a certain way, he’d do it too, no matter how salty or spicy it is.

Truly, Mithrun hangs onto every tiny detail of you. He’s never been a detail oriented person, but he knows you. Perhaps now, he knows you better than ever.

At first, he’ll be doing a chore and, without a second thought, call out for you. He needs your opinion on how to separate this laundry. There’s a sale on veggies he knows you’d be interested in. But right as he says your name, he realizes the truth. You’re not there. He won’t hear your footsteps cross the house, or see your smile as you ask him to repeat himself, or see you roll your eyes at the dumb laundry question.

It’s a huge change. Mithrun can’t sleep for a bit. His body eventually forces him to sleep.

He’s lost people before. He’s lost friends, people who helped build Melini. It’s different with you. He isn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

Mithrun returns to what he did when first regaining his desires— he busies himself with hobbies and work. His universe is falling apart, but he’s getting very good at making noodles. (He’d like you to try them.)

“I’m not moving on,” Mithrun says.

“They were just a—”

“And you’re just an idiot,” he retorts.

Cithis’s jaw sets, tense. She looks at the wall over Mithrun’s shoulder instead, as if looking him in the eye was too tempting, as if she was ready to strangle him. “You know what I mean.”

He didn’t. He didn’t know much of anything these days.

“You’re not usually this concerned,” Mithrun mused as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Bored of your own problems?”

It was cruel, he had enough wherewithal to know that. Cithis may have lacked general empathy, though she cared about her friends to a certain extent. If only she was better at comfort. If only Mithrun wanted comfort.

Her gaze finally shifted to land on him, “You’ll have to start living again at some point.”

It takes Mithrun around 50 years to realize that life continues. Your death felt like the end of a world— in a way, it was the end of a world. He can’t forget you. He won’t ever stop grieving. He’s so angry sometimes because you dared to leave him, even though it wasn’t your fault.

Yet, Mithrun is an expert at restarting.

“I know,” Marcille murmured. Her voice was thick with emotions Mithrun didn’t bother to identify. He simply glanced at her, his good eye wide.

“What?” He asked.

“I know how it is,” she explained. She had her hands behind her back as she rocked on her heels in an almost childish manner, despite her age. He supposed that for her, the early 100’s was still shockingly young. He’d never understand how a half-elf’s mindset worked. But he knew she’d lost someone. Everyone.

“You couldn’t possibly,” Mithrun told her despite how much of a blatant lie his words were.

Marcille rolled her eyes. She looked nearly done with him, and he wouldn’t blame her for that. Still, she managed to send him a half-glare, “It gets slightly easier. You’ll still do stuff and think ‘wow, I wish they were here to see this.’ You’ll still crave their company and attention and touch. You’ll still dream of them.”

He knew that. “What part of this is supposed to be comforting?”

Marcille scoffed, “I’m not trying to be comforting. I’m just telling you the truth, as someone who's gone through it too. They’re still there, with you. But life gets easier.”

What a simple phrase. It wasn’t as if everyone in Melini hadn’t already told him that a hundred times over.

Mithrun looked away. Marcille grumbled to herself about useless attempts and arrogant Canaries.

Perhaps he was arrogant. Perhaps he was angry. Perhaps he wanted to sink his fingers into the fabric of the universe and tear it to shreds for daring to take you.

But there was no time for that. He had laundry to do.

#asks #mithrun #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #mithrun x reader #dunmeshi #mithrun of the house of kerensil #x reader #reader insert #my writing #dungeon meshi imagines #dunmeshi x reader

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