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missydior · 10 days

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PRINCE OF MONACO ୨୧

♡: following his victory at the monaco grand prix, charles comes home late, back to you, drunk on moët champagne & love.

notes: charles leclerc/reader, established relationship, suggestive content & touches, alcohol, humour, use of french phrases, domesticity & fluff, baths, nudity but no explicit details or sexual activity, charles is a lovedrunk fool in this.

word count: 1.9k

a/n: more cha content out of my own indulgence <3 i wrote this at 11pm & it's a little ridiculous but this is also me projecting my manifestations for him to win his home grand prix this weekend. love you all mwah ᥫ᭡

♡ ✧ 。*・.

The sweet aroma of your Miss Dior: Eau de Parfum in damask rose and incense against pink peonies, clean linen sheets mussed about the inviting embrace of the bed, café au lait from a drained mug on the nightstand beside sweet-smelling lilies, and white, lace stockings abandoned and draped over the velvet loveseat.

Charles' claim of 1st at the Monaco Grand Prix was most blessing, and the perfect excuse for a long night of a plentiful of Moët & Chandon champagne, honorary chants, and celebratory reverie: announcing him the 'prince' of his beloved home, a victory he has been yearning for, since forever.

You had remained with him through the week, watching and admiring through every practice session from your usual seat, enjoying luncheon together and laughing over the usual lovey-dovey or noncommittal subjects as a means to distract him from his nerves before qualifying – the kind of thing he doesn't admit to but you know is only human – and your never-leaving gaze throughout the Grand Prix itself.

Until you got to watch from below with love hearts in your eyes when he stood on that podium, in his true and most divine stature whilst the crowds called for him and the Monégasque anthem resonated like the music of the heavens.

Now, it is quiet in the apartment you both call home, all minimalist but comfortable interior in a palette of white, créme, beige and hints of colour against the décor that define it as yours: the polished trophies before the white-varnished piano, heavy and velvet curtains stirring lazily about closed balconies of their rocaille-esque motifs, the abandoned sweater forgotten on the sofa, your rose crocheting yarn on the coffee table beside a copy of last month's Vogue.

Peaceful and content, stood before the ornate mirror in the en-suite of polished marble and quiet luxury, humming some gentle and absent tune to yourself as you comb your hair – dressed down to the comfortable, white gossamer silk of your négligée – whilst the only tune that resounds being the hushed television down the hall.

It is only a minute later that you are interrupted from your daydreaming by the sound of the mahogany front door as it draws open and closed. The familiar clink of keys set down on the oak furniture in the foyer, shuffled footfalls a little less balanced than usual, quickly silenced against the sound of a familiar voice like melting caramel on the subtle, slurring song of inebriation.

"Chérie?"

Hair comb set down on the neat counter beside the porcelain embellished basin, you absently gnaw at your lower-lip whilst silent feet wander the parquestry of the flooring through the flat in your approach to the source of your boyfriend's return, tucking a hair behind your ear, "Charles, I'm–"

The words are lost on the edge of your tongue the second you emerge from the bedroom's suite, down past the plush sitting area to be met by the sight of him where the corridor joins the rest of the homely setting.

"Bonsoir, bébé."

Even when he is slightly hair-tousled with damp, brunet strays falling about his forehead and the linen of his shirt slightly wrinkled, Charles is a handsome man, devastatingly so; the kind of beautiful that renders the air from your lungs a little even when you hold back light laughter at him now.

From his posture, an effort of an elegant curve to his physique like he is trying to be some suave, pretty flirt from those old, romance comedies you watch, where one elbow is propped against the wood arch of the threshold – the only thing evidently holding him upright – whilst his flushed cheeks strain a little on a dimpled, lazy and contagious smile.

"Hello, Charles."

"Ma belle, I missed you, I'm home," With something close to a brief pout and an attempt at a wink, the man lets his lovely eyes dance down and along your own figure in a lingering admiration and a slow, drawn-out smirk that looks both laughable and far-too-endearing, lithe fingers absently adjusting his loosened shirt collar as you come closer.

"I can see that," In response, you try not to appear amused though it is perceptible on the curve by the corner of your sweet mouth when his eyes follow the subtle shift of your hips as you draw forward until your arms fold around his midriff, breathing him in: champagne and cologne, hints of warm amber and rosewood. "You're drunk."

His arm falls around your shoulder comfortably as he sways against you, kissing the crown of your head like a useless reassurance when he murmurs a lieu of words in the thickened curl of his accent, "Non, ça va, je–"

"Charles." Your face shifts with a look, the both of you stumbling a little backwards where his weight almost has you falling on the edge of a floral rug, a hushed, noncommittal sound close to a chuckle falling from the man as he buries his face into the side of your neck with the punctuation of an open-mouth kiss.

"D'accord, d'accord."

"Stupid," You mutter affectionately, rolling your eyes fondly despite knowing all too well what has him so distracted, the warmth of his mouth and the gentle rasp of his five o'clock shadow tickling the underside of your jaw and the sensitivity there, a purr reverberating from the back of his throat as a response.

"Are you hungry– would you like anything?"

"Just you, chérie, I want to..." The Monégasque trails off momentarily like he is disputing internally with his own dialogue, lightly calloused palms feeling the curve of your waist through pale silk before pausing at your derrière absently – tracing his tongue against the edge of pearlescent teeth – as the two of you move further through the sitting room, his voice a whisper, "Je veux te baiser, mon ange."

With a blush dusting the edges of your cheekbones at the obscène words, you offer a half-apologetic smile whilst stroking back his tousled hair, "How about we get dressed down and settled first, at least?"

Initially, he seems reluctant to offer any hint of acquiescence but he eventually nods a little with a vague sound of acknowledgement, fingertips still feeling over your figure as you walk the path together before reaching the bathroom, the door falling shut gently.

Even when the reality of the presence has you accepting tonight shall be long, the man is undoubtedly his most entertaining and equally sweet as romanticised prophecies when he is intoxicated.

"Mm," It is the only indication you are given when Charles' touch falls upon the lace edges of your négligée, drawing it down the curve of your shoulder slowly as he traces the shell of your ear with his mouth, "You're wearing my favourite."

A soft laugh leaves the depth of your chest – a hushed affirmative sound in reply – before his hands come to cradle either side of your jaw tenderly whilst his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, the kiss that follows his gentle persuasion more loving, his lips parted softly.

Just as quickly as the almost peaceful, drawn-out intimacy begins, it ends when he gives some hushed, breathless sound of sheer enjoyment whilst his hips absently meets yours until you feel the edge of the basin behind, a palm splaying over his chest just enough to encourage him from pausing.

"We can have a nice bath first and then I might consider your suggestion, monsieur," You offer gently in hushed humour, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt whilst sealing your sentence with a chaste kiss near his chin.

"I'd much rather have you."

"So romantic," Muttering the words quietly, your nose brushes the bridge of his own fractionally where you see the slight glaze of liquor in his eyes, like gentle moss and warm oak, his mouth shifting almost proudly with momentarily met gazes.

"Only for you, mon cœur, I could write you sonnets of love, la mélodie de tes yeux–"

"Okay, Romeo Montague, how about you wash first?"

The initial hope had only been to coax him into the warmth of the bath waters amongst a touch lavender oil that threatens to lull him further into quiet and peace, wash his hair from your seat and prevent the possibility of any difficulty, though clothes are mutually forgotten on the marble floors and small, white-cotton rug when he guilts you into joining him.

"Charles," A whisper of his name though the cadence of your voice lacks the intent of reproach, bodies close together as he guides you into a comfortable situation about his lap whilst you work nimble fingers through his dampened hair slowly, hoping to distract him from anything but washing and settling down from the dizziness of too much alcohol.

"You smell nice," He mumbles indulgently against your shoulder, tracing a kiss on the jut of your collarbone in the dreamy lull of his voice as though lost in the figments of his own thoughts, "Like les fleurs..."

"And you smell like a bottle of Moët."

The man offers a lowered tune of disagreement, a palm idly stroking the curve of your thigh and down the inside of your knee beneath the warm water as you lather the product through his tresses, holding back a smile when he responds drunkenly like some smitten, hopeless lover of the poets:

"Non, c'est seulement le parfum des nuages."

It is the kind of sweet words that would usually have your cheeks warming or laughing like some conjured image of him in your mind, rifling through books of poetry because you cannot fathom him thinking of such phrases alone, though the moment his lips find the curve of your throat and the sensitive area beneath your jaw, it is harder not to succumb to the gentle temptation and let him have his way, a sigh falling from you.

"What are you doing?"

"Loving you." He says the words so easily, like it is the simplest, most natural truth he could ever admit, the warmth and wetness of his mouth trailing the lines of your throat and across the arch of your shoulders.

"You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," He sounds proud of himself. Then, he is guiding the two of you, bodies pressed flush against one another as you are moved back, the weight of him familiar and the pressure of his mouth meeting yours slowly, "Let me love you, s'il vous plaît, ma chérie."

There are the smallest fragments of his soul and the secrets of his heart within the way his body moves, the gentle touch and the softness, the vulnerability and the passion even in the humour of his intoxicated mannerisms; how he makes love and the manner he holds you after, and there is an undeniable and irrefutable trust you hold for him alone.

a/n: i apologise. this came straight from the recesses of my tired & dreamy mind but i wanted to share, sending love ᡣ𐭩

#୨୧ my works #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fluff #f1 x you

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macfrog · 10 months

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la petite mort sex on fire chapter four

bonsoir my children. it's your cool slutty daddy, ceo!joel, back for round two of paris trip. please enjoy, i hope this one causes less confusion but just as much heart failure as last chapter. love u guys long time. literally SO much. 💘✨💓

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: you spend your second day in paris being spoiled by joel, who buys you anything you set eyes on. you’ve a treat of your own in mind as a thank-you, later on

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) another fucking confusing flashback, age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), cursing, workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), orgasm denial, more obscene spending, sexy french speaking, sugardaddy!joel, BIG flirting, alcohol consumption, sexy lingerie, lapdance, daddy kink, praise kink, unprotected piv sex, titty appreciation, assplay, double penetration, dom!joel, softdom!joel, ripping of expensive lingerie (rip), overstimulation, creampie, aftercare!joel, angst, themes of abandonment, fluff in the end i'm a romantic at heart

word count: 6.2k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“All mine?” he asks, pushing inside. He’s going slow. He’s making you answer him first. “Y-yeah,” you whine, head falling forward into the bedsheets. “All – yours.” “Spoiled, ain’t I? Such a pretty little pussy all to myself. You sure you don’t wanna share with anyone?” “No, daddy. Just – want – you.”

The late afternoon sun has dipped behind the clouds. The wind’s picked up, too. You’re standing on the terrace of your suite, elbows propped on the metal railing, watching the light slowly drain from the sky, and melt into tiny twinkling headlights on the roads below.

Paris stares straight back at you. Melancholy, in this light. A little faded, worn, a washed gray as she loses her fight with the slow-setting sun. Your eyes trace the skyline, jumping from buildings to streetlights, following birds in the distance as they loop and soar over the city. Free. Held down to nothing, and no one.

When you close your eyes, he’s on the couch beside you. Blue-eyed stare cloudy, eyes puffy and red with tears he’s doing everything to hold back. Calling you sweetheart, telling you we can work through this. He’s got your bare fingers in his, thumbs running across your knuckles, rubbing circles around the empty space on your third finger. You have an impulse to stand up and walk out. You think you might follow through with it.

You don’t even hear him come in, don’t hear him call your name. Only feel when his arm snakes around your waist and he turns you to face him. Your eyes flutter back open.

“Hey,” Joel says, leaning back to look you up and down. “Nice robe.”

His fingers toy with the belt, thumb running across the soft terrycloth.

“You smell like whiskey,” you mutter, hands resting on his chest. You take a deep breath, pushing the relief you feel now that he’s back, down to the pit of your stomach. And then you finally look him in the eye. “How was Jean-Marc?”

Joel shrugs. “Same as usual. Wants to meet you.”

“You mentioned me?”

He bypasses your question. “Said I’d check with you, but he wants to have us for breakfast tomorrow.”

You nod. “Sounds like a nice guy.”

Joel grumbles, his lips tighten, and he looks out over the view behind you. You tilt your head and his hands take yours, dropping them to your side. His eyes fall low, past the tie he was just messing with.

“You gettin’ ready to go?”

“I was about to, yeah,” you reply, breathing a laugh when he starts to kneel in front of you. “Joel.”

“Mhm?” he asks, but he’s not listening, is he? His hands run up your legs, starting at your knees, and push the edges of your robe apart the higher they go.

“We – gotta – Joel,” you sigh, head rolling back, hands gripping the railing.

Joel’s lips part on your inner thigh, his tongue runs along your skin, trailing northward. His hands precede, pushing under your robe now to cup your naked ass, when he lifts his chin and glances up.

“Nothin’ on under it, baby,” he whispers, tsking. “’m I gonna do with you?”

“We have–” you shudder when his fingers move between your legs, “–to go get ready.”

“So go.”

Fucker.

You lean back against the glass, eyes quickly scanning the hotel in front of you, searching the neighboring windows for any prying eyes, but in the slow-moving blanket of dusk, mixed with your will to care quickly depleting, you find none.

Your attention draws back to Joel, whose lips run dangerously close to your center.

“Open, baby,” he says, and you don’t think about it. Your body just does what he tells it to.

Your legs fall open, head lulls to one side, fingers move through his hair. His jaw lowers, breath gently tickling your soft skin, and then his lips cup around your mound.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Which quickly morphs into a moan, open-mouthed and broken, when Joel’s tongue sweeps over your clit.

“There,” you whisper, a little more serious than you intended, “do that – again.”

He obeys, wet tongue licking you again while his hands pull your thighs over his shoulders. Your weight shifts onto his body, back arching as he sucks on the sensitive bud.

Your hips roll, needing him a little more and a little further south. And he hears you, again. He takes a hand off of your leg, middle and ring fingers joining together to push up between your folds and inside you, dragging a whine from your lips.

“Yeah,” you moan, feeling yourself driving into his mouth and fucking yourself on his hand at the same time.

“Taste so sweet, pretty girl,” he mumbles, mouth preoccupied.

Your head falls back, body slung over the balcony, thighs spreading ever so slightly to have more of him on more of you. And then your head starts to dizzy, your body hums in pleasure, your cunt starts to throb.

But before it goes any further, he’s pulling away.

His lips leave first. Then he draws his hand from between you, sucks his fingers clean and stands. Is he fucking –

“– serious?” you ask, jolting back to life.

He smirks, tongue pushing around his cheeks. “Hurry up ‘n get ready. I wanna go down to the bar for a drink before the car comes.”

And then he’s turning on his heel, striding back inside.

“And what about me?”

“What about you?” he calls over his shoulder.

Your hands hit your thighs with a slap. “Fucking…sadist,” you hiss after him, following him into the warmly lit living room of your suite and down the hallway to the bedroom. Trying to ignore the ache between your legs which only grows worse the more you move.

“I’ll take good care of you later, angel.”

He sits back against the dresser at the foot of the bed, nods toward the black dress you’d laid out on the mattress an hour ago.

“Go on.”

“Go on what?”

“Show me the dress I paid three grand for on you, instead of it laying on the fuckin’ bed.”

You roll your eyes and storm by him, grabbing the black fabric, and lock yourself in the bathroom.

“’n don’t you think about finishin’ yourself!” Joel calls through the door.

“Fuck you!” you throw back, hearing his cocky laugh echo around the room.

You untie your robe in front of the mirror, letting it drop off of your shoulders into a pool of white cloth at your feet. Your eyes flit down your naked body – scanning from your shoulders over your breasts, around your tummy and down your thighs. You slip the black material over your head – a little stretch in it, just enough to mold around your body – and tug it down until it sits comfortably on your thighs.

The smooth skirt sits perfectly on your hips, curving around your ass and pulling in at your waist. You adjust the thin straps, fixing your breasts into place above a cut-out, just revealing enough. Backless, of course, straps crisscrossing over your skin.

It's skimpy, and it’s sexy, and it’s enough to make you look expensive as fuck and also make Joel want to rip it off of you the second you two make it back to the suite.

Enough to make him want to rip it off you before you’ve even left the suite, going by his reaction when you step out of the bathroom. He catches you in the mirror whilst he buttons his shirt, and turns, mouth falling open, eyes dancing all across your body.

You wordlessly sit, slip your feet into the heels you’d chosen, and fish the diamond-encrusted jewelry Joel had bought you from its box – pull the necklace around your neck, clip the earrings into place, and push the bracelets over your wrist. Then, you sling your jacket over your arm, and stand.

“I’m ready.”

“You…” His eyes scan down you again, settling on your chest for a couple seconds. “Yeah, baby. Give me five minutes.”

----------

The hotel bar reflects perfectly the intimidating grandeur of your suite, despite being a small room. It’s intimate, and pleasant, lit in a warm glow, and as you stroll in on Joel’s arm beneath a huge, ornate chandelier, you feel a smile pull across your lips. You’re not fucking sure why.

He leads you over to two heavy leather stools, pulling one out and waiting for you to hop up on it before he sits beside you. He orders two glasses of red wine, and the waiter craftily pours a small drop into one glass, setting it down in front of you and waiting for you to take a sip and approve before he pours the rest.

“Pétrus,” the waiter says, focusing intently on filling Joel’s glass. “Most expensive wine in France.”

You shoot Joel a look, but he’s already lifting his glass, glint in his eye. You hesitantly pick yours up and bump it into his, taking another sip.

“Good?” Joel asks, licking his lips.

You nod. “A little too good.”

He laughs. Then he nods at the waiter, who smiles, turns to you, and winks.

You smile back, a little embarrassed. “Merci beaucoup.”

As the waiter leaves you both, Joel turns, a look on his face you’ve never seen before. “Nice accent,” he says.

You scoff. “I hope it’s a nice accent, I studied it for six years.”

“Studied French?”

You nod.

“When?”

“High school, and then all through college.”

“How did I not know that about you?”

“It’s on my resume,” you say into your wine glass, “which I now know you didn’t read when you hired me.”

“Didn’t have to,” Joel replies. “I took one look at your pretty face ‘n decided you had the job.”

Him and his quick fucking wit. He almost catches you blushing, but you save it by shaking your head, and looking at the striped-wall room around you. There’s a framed picture of a horse on the wall behind Joel. Two men sit in animated conversation on the velvet couch below it, one of them clutching a wine that’s about to spill over.

When your eyes drift back to Joel, his are fixated elsewhere.

“Oh, be less obvious, Joel,” you mutter, corners of your mouth twitching.

“Can’t help it,” he finally draws his gaze from your chest, “they look so good. That dress is…” He shakes his head.

“You chose well.”

“Say somethin’ French to me.”

“Uh, no.”

“Uh, yeah. Tell me I chose well in French.”

“Tell me how the meeting went.”

Joel sits back, pushing air out of his cheeks. “Can’t do that.”

“Then no French.”

“Baby, c’mon. Just for me.”

You shake your head, pouting your lip. “Nope.”

Joel pleads a few more times, promises he’ll buy you more things, promises he’ll order more wine, even promises he’ll fuck you in the bathroom right now if you’ll just say one sentence in French to him.

You don’t relent.

Not until you’re a couple more wines deep, leaning into one another, your knees between his, pointing out other guests in the room and conjuring make-believe backstories for them.

“That one,” you say, hushed, shoulder brushing off of Joel’s, “in the corner, by the lamp. He’s waitin’ for a date, a Tinder date, who–”

Joel snorts. “A Tinder date?”

“–a Tinder date, who used photos of Cindy Crawford on her profile.”

Joel’s head tips back with laughter, his hand steadies himself on the bar. “If Cindy Crawford ends up walkin’ in here, you’re gonna be real sorry.”

You lean into his shirt, giggling into the cotton. When you lift your head, the two of you quietening again, you look into his eyes.

Blurry around the edges, a little too much wine in your system, you whisper: “Kiss me.”

Joel’s head cocks. He leans in, and you lift your jaw. His lips part, breath hot over your red lips, and he says, “You’re gonna get us into trouble, darlin’.”

“Je m’en fous,” you reply.

“Monsieur,” a voice from your right breaks between you, “your car is outside.”

Joel straightens up, clears his throat, and thanks the waiter with another nod. His palm runs along the bar toward your arm, which he takes, rubbing his thumb gently over your skin, and he nods again toward the doors.

----------

Dinner was as fucking extreme as all of this has been. Food you’d never seen before, a menu you could barely translate even with language experience. Waiters who arrived at your table if you so much as looked up at them.

And more wine. A lot more wine.

You both stumble back into the suite, arms linked, laughter chorusing against the beige walls. Joel keeps a vice grip on your hand as you spin around him, wrapping you up in his arms when you’re close enough, and runs a thumb across your cheek when you’ve stopped giggling.

“That was fun,” he says, and you nod.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For all of it. I don’t even know what to say.”

He shakes his head in response. “You’re my guest.”

“Didn’t have to be,” you say, “could’ve brought Martha.”

“Oh, yeah, Martha. She’d be a fuckin’ hoot.”

He lets go of you, your laughter picking back up, and you split off. Joel wanders over to the minibar, and you…you wander off down the hall.

You’ve something in mind.

Safely in the bedroom, you slink over to your case and lift the bag you’d hidden in there earlier. You sneak into the bathroom, closing the door as softly as possible, and whip your little black dress over your head. You turn back to the mirror.

Same reflection as before. Same naked body. A little faded, a little unfocused, jewelry catching the light like stars in the night sky, but the same.

You reach into the white bag, like it’s a lucky draw, and lift out the soft black lace. One by one, you add each little piece – the bra cups your breasts, lifting them just the right amount. The panties sit on your hips, garter belt just above, hooked onto thigh-high, lace top stockings. And finally, the robe.

You tie it loosely at your waist, leaving it just open enough to reveal the balconette bra underneath. One last hazy look in the mirror, and you tumble back out into the bedroom and over to the door.

Your fingers clutch the gold handle, shaking a little. The cold metal bites against your skin, hot with adrenaline and determination. You twist, pulling gently on the door, and wander back to the living room.

The lights are still out, the room dark against the sparkling cityscape. There’s soft music playing, some seventies soul stuff. He’s on the balcony. The sliding doors open wide, sheer curtains swaying gently in the night breeze. His silhouette stands black against the glittering Eiffel Tower in front of him. He’s holding a whiskey.

You slip out from behind the door and let it close over gently, walking slowly across the soft carpet toward him. He can’t have heard you, you’re being too quiet, but he turns anyway, and spots you in the middle of the room.

His eyes rake down your figure, mouth falling agape. Whiskey almost spilling over from how limp his arms fall.

“Baby…” he whispers.

You take another step forward. So does Joel. Your hand reaches for the back of one of the chairs, tucked neatly under the dining table. You drag it along the carpet, setting it just in front of you, facing him, and stand back.

“Want you to sit.”

Joel nods, a voiceless Okay sneaks past his lips, and he sits back in the chair, placing the whiskey at his feet.

The song fades into a steady love song, string orchestra echoing in the background, slow, sultry. The smooth vocals fill the room, quiet and relaxing, and push you nearer him, rounding the back of the chair.

Your hands run over Joel’s shoulders as you curve around to face him, and slot in between his parted thighs. Watching as his eyes shift up and down your figure. Watching as his breath hitches, his chest shuddering anytime you move.

You’re ignoring the rise and fall of your own chest; nerves and desire and complete fucking disbelief at what you’re doing all fighting to break through. Your stomach is flipping, pulse jerking every time your eyes cross paths with Joel’s.

You nudge his legs open wider, lift his wrists, and place his hands on your waist. His fingers pull on the silk belt, loosening your robe until he’s slipping it over your shoulders, revealing every inch of lace and strap of satin to his lust-blown eyes.

“This all for me?” he asks, fucking…wonderstruck. His fingers dance along the garter belt, dipping where it clips onto your stockings.

You cock your head in a shrug. “You paid for it.”

He smiles. As if it’s Christmas and you just gave him the gift at the top of his wish list. And then you bend your knees, lowering between his thighs and dragging your hands down his front, stopping by his stiffening crotch as you go.

Joel hisses through clenched teeth, spurring you on. You palm him through his trousers, never touching his zipper, only letting him go so far as grinding his hips into your hands, before your palms slip down to his knees and you push yourself up.

Joel meets you halfway, leans forward to let your lips ghost across his. Your back arched, knees digging into the plush carpet, you trail your tongue from his chin down his bearded jawline, stopping when you reach the collar of his shirt.

And then you stand again, taking his hands and replacing them on your body. Anywhere on your fucking body. Feeling him on you is like feeling the soothing flicker of the fire after a walk in the freezing cold, and when his palms aren’t pressing against your ribcage, his fingers aren’t running between your thighs, that bitter cold bites back.

Joel hums, still taking you in through glassy eyes. “So…fuckin’ beautiful, babygirl.”

In response, you lift your knees, placing them one by one on either side of his hips. You settle against his body and push him back in the chair.

Your clothed heat lowers onto his waist, lace running across the rough fabric of his trousers, forcing a choked moan from your lips at the contact. Your skin alight, nerves burning with excitement and arousal, the slightest touch only fuels the fire more.

You grind down on him, hips rocking in time with the music. Letting his hands hold you around your back, letting him feel any part of you he fucking wants. His fingers knead roughly into your round ass, and he bucks up against your core.

You hover over him, running a hand from your stomach over your chest, stopping to squeeze your tits through your bra. And then back down again, to slip over the lace of your panties and relieve the tension there even if only for a second before you’re feeling down your thighs.

You link your arms back around Joel’s shoulders. “You gonna pay me back?” you whisper, head lowering to bury into his neck.

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about,” he slurs back.

You suck a mark into the hot skin, breathing against his pulse, “Think you do, daddy. You owe me one.”

His head rolls, bass of his laughter vibrating against your lips. “So fuckin’ slutty, darlin’. You want it that bad?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, lips still tight against his neck, fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt lower and lower.

Joel told Martha he needed you here only to keep him right. Make sure he got everywhere on time, make sure things ran smoothly. Drop off drycleaning, pick it up before he had appearances. Get him pastries from that patisserie he loves around the corner for breakfast. There’s an empty suite downstairs that he made her book for you – an almost three grand per night suite that you both knew the entire fucking time you’d never set foot in. All to keep up with the story.

The story that you’re here strictly on PA duty. Seeing him off in cars, making sure he gets back to the hotel at night. And that’s it. Not buying lingerie with his card, and putting it on for him, and mounting him in the living room of his suite. Not letting him slip your panties to the side and run his cock through your folds, balcony doors wide open, moans escaping out into the late Parisian night.

But now his hands are on you, really on you; strong, wide hands, slipping around your waist, pressing down on the lace of your lingerie, massaging the softest parts of your body and scooping under your ass to align you to his length.

And you’re letting him.

Your hands are sifting through his hair as he breathes you in, his nose buried between your breasts. Your back arches when he finally enters you, giving you what you need most in the form of his thick cock pushing up into your warm cunt.

Like there’s nothing new, or weird, or different. Like this is all you know how to do; all you’ve ever known about him. You’re not in the office; he’s not your boss. He doesn’t tell you to shred files or organize his schedule.

This is what he does. This. He asks things of you with his hands and you fold every time. He runs his lips along the curve of your breasts and peels the delicate fabric of your bra down to wrap his mouth around your nipple, flick his tongue across it until your head rolls back and you’re moaning his name to the ceiling.

“Make yourself cum, baby,” Joel breathes against your hot skin.

His tongue is swirling around your nipple. Teeth grazing the pointed bud. He’s grinning to himself as he does it. He’s fucking lapping this up.

“So pretty when you’re wrapped around me.”

And then his fingers are toying with the clasp of your bra, and as you sink down over and over on his cock, he lets the cupped lace fall to the floor, lips instantly returning to their place on your tits.

You hold his head there, looking down and watching while you slowly bounce on his cock as he kisses, caresses, sucks.

The pleasure boiling between your legs starts to spill over, your body unable to take much more without releasing. And when Joel mumbles against your skin, “Can feel you, darlin’, squeezing me so tight,” you let go.

Your orgasm, nearly four hours in the making, rocks through your body in tidal waves, throwing your head back. Joel’s arms keep you safe on his lap as you writhe, gasping and moaning his name until you can think straight again.

When you come back to, he lifts you up. Carries you like you’re made of diamonds through to the bedroom and lays you down on the soft mattress, calling you angel, telling you you’re the prettiest fuckin’ girl he’s ever seen.

He dips his fingers and traces them along your panties, feeling the mess you just made, humming in amusement. He asks again if this is all for him and when you moan out a desperate Yeah, daddy, he tells you he’s gonna make you cum again.

He takes your waist and flips you over, propping you up on your knees in front of him. He peels the white shirt from his shoulders, tossing it somewhere in the dark room, and asks if that’s what you want – to cum again. Yeah, daddy.

And when he asks who this tight little pussy belongs to, leaning forward to align with your wet mess of a cunt, your thighs spreading to accommodate the size of him, every fucking nerve in your body on fire: You, daddy.

“All mine?” he asks, pushing inside. He’s going slow. He’s making you answer him first.

“Y-yeah,” you whine, head falling forward into the bedsheets. “All – yours.”

“Spoiled, ain’t I? Such a pretty little pussy all to myself. You sure you don’t wanna share with anyone?”

“No, daddy. Just – want – you.”

Every fucking time. Every mindless, depraved time, you do it for him. Only for him.

You cum again on his cock before he’s even five thrusts in. His words send you hurtling over the edge by themselves; the massive dick burying itself between your legs is just a bonus – and something to let your walls clamp around when your back arches, chest pushes into the mattress, and your orgasm floods over you.

Joel rocks his hips slowly as you come down, cunt swollen and almost agony. His hands run from your thighs up around the globe of your ass, massaging gently. You push back, wanting more pressure from his hands, and his fingers slip against your tight hole.

You jut forward with a moan. A moan Joel knows all too well.

“Easy, easy.” He holds you steady, replacing his fingers against your asshole, pressing delicately. “You like that?”

“Fuck,” you breathe, “mhm.”

“Yeah?”

You’re nodding, though you know he can’t see you in the dark.

“Baby?”

“Yeah,” you choke out. Desperate. Depraved.

He lifts his hand and spits; you feel a bead of saliva dribble down your ass, only to be collected by the pads of his fingertips and dragged back up. Smeared over the ring of your ass, massaged into the sensitive skin around it.

“Daddy…” you moan, hips gyrating.

“’s a good girl,” Joel replies, “just relax, darlin’, you do that for me?”

You can hear in his voice he’s focusing. Eyes glued on your ass, watching as you open up around his first finger, pushing slowly inside.

Your whole body freezes as he enters you. Breath cuts short in your throat. Your mouth falls open, throat constricted around a moan.

“Breathe, babygirl.”

And you do. Well, it’s more of a gasp, a broken whine, and then a long, needy sigh, curled up at the end like it’s a request – a plea for Joel to keep going.

It’s tight. It feels…tender, and overwhelming, and good. More than good. Your hips move backward, pushing onto Joel; a swelling feeling overcoming you, the more of him you take.

“Good girl…” he whispers again.

You’re as fucking shocked as he is that you’re letting him do it – letting him slip inside both holes at once, exploring one while keeping the other content with lazy thrusts.

“Think you can take it, baby?”

“Yeah, daddy,” you tell him, body urging him to fuck you again.

So, he does. His cock picks up speed, finger knuckle-deep, curling around inside your ass. You’re gripping the bedsheets, whimpering softly into them, feeling your stomach tighten as your third orgasm begins to rise.

“Keep – doing – that,” you utter as his hips collide with yours, his thick finger picking up pace ever so slightly.

“Such a dirty girl. So fuckin’ dirty for me. You do this for all of ‘em, baby?”

The laugh you breathe answers his question. No, you don’t fucking do this – for anyone. You didn’t know until five minutes ago this was something you were into. It’s Joel. He’s the only one who could convince you – whether through his words, his expressions, or just his fucking body – to –

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine.

“Know you are, pretty girl,” Joel says, “let me feel you. Cum all over me.”

Your body collapses when your high takes over. Electricity thrumming through you, contracting around Joel’s cock and his finger. He coos you through it, whispers words of praise and filth in your ear until you’re no longer screaming, no longer able to hold yourself up.

He slowly removes his finger, soaked with his spit. You whine as it leaves you, missing the feeling, but it’s not long before his hands are on you again, flipping you back over.

He drags the clothes from his legs and pushes you up the mattress, slotting between your hips, one hand coming down to grip the lace front of your panties. He rips it, tearing the material off of your body in one motion.

You gasp, equal parts aroused as you are fucking outraged. You liked those panties. You wanted to keep ‘em.

“Fuck, Joel!”

He pushes back against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to dot kisses along your skin.

“Buy you more, baby.”

“This whole getup,” you moan, “it cost you a grand.”

He lifts his head. “Well, in that case,” he kisses your collarbone, “buy you ten more.”

Your eyes roll back and your head follows, sinking deep into the sheets under your body. You’re sure you know where this is going, what he’s about to ask of you. You’re not sure you can give it to him. Three orgasms deep, you can barely feel when he’s massaging your sex, never mind lining his cock to it and pushing the tip inside.

“One more, angel,” he utters, looking down to guide himself through your glistening folds. “Just one more.”

“Can’t, daddy,” you whimper, but he pushes your thighs up, bending your knees. It’s borderline painful, the stretch you feel when he’s barely an inch inside.

“Yes, you can. Know you can.”

He could fuck you and cum himself without asking you to – and you’d be okay with it. You know it. He knows it. Just a few tight, wet thrusts and he’d be coming undone inside you. But he wants to do it together. Loves the way you feel when you tighten around him, squeeze him, draw his release out of him. Loves the way your voices sound together, the way you grip onto him and pull him flush against your body.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it, too. The way he looks when he’s deep inside you, eyes shut, focused on nothing except the pretty noises you make and the sweet way you wrap around him, warm and snug. So you let him take you to the edge again, throw your arms around him, and fall.

Hard.

The shock of it surges through you, stars burst across your vision. You drive your nails into his shoulders, scream out into the night, moans mixed with curses and gasps and – fuck it – cries of daddy loud enough that the thought of a noise complaint at your door floats through your mind.

Joel lets out a deep groan when he cums, filling your tight cunt with his seed, face still buried in your neck. Your legs untense, thighs slip down his waist and onto the bed, your arms unlink from around his neck.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into your skin.

You’re panting, chest lifting against Joel’s. He pushes into the mattress and rolls off of you, dropping in a heap to the bed at your side. You lay like that for a while, waiting for the fluttering feeling to subside, waiting for any feeling to come back to your body.

Joel pushes off of the bed and dips into the bathroom, still groaning anytime he moves. Water runs for a couple minutes, a gentle whirring as he cools his face and washes up, and then he’s back in the bedroom, sinking into the bed beside you.

He props himself up on his elbow and runs a hand across your damp forehead, unsticking your hair from your face. Intimate, vulnerable. You’ve slept together four times now, and this is the closest you’ve felt to him.

You push down an ache, different to the one he just satisfied – four times over. No, this is deeper. Somewhere more hidden. An ache for him to hold you, run his hands down your back until your body feels like yours again. An ache for him to take you in his strong arms and keep you still, keep you steady.

An ache that feels…dangerous. An ache you want to disappear. Now.

“You okay?” Joel asks, and you nod.

He studies you for a while, looking up and down your body, smiling to himself. This isn’t something either of you are going to forget for a while.

“What’s this?”

Joel takes gentle hold of the gold chain around your sweat-glistening neck, running it between his fingers until he’s holding one half of a broken heart.

“Notice you wearin’ it all the time.”

You take a deep breath before replying, watching as he looks at it intently in his hand. “My mom has the other half. It makes up a heart. We got ‘em when I was sixteen, right after…”

Joel’s eyes drift up to yours when your sentence crumbles. His soft gaze encourages you to continue.

“…right after my dad left.”

He almost winces.

You’d always hated Wednesdays. Wednesdays meant Math, and Math meant two hours of sitting in total confusion, dodging your teacher’s requests for answers and counting down the minutes until class ended.

But your dad told you that you should do well in it, so you were trying. For him.

One Wednesday, Miss Pepperman handed out the results of the previous week’s test. You’d scored well, maybe not as good as some of the others, but decent by your own standards. You snuck the test paper into your bag to take back home, show your dad. Make him…proud.

When you rounded the corner to your street, his car was in the drive, trunk wide open. Suitcases inside. You caught him leaving as you wandered by the beat-up Toyota.

Your mom wants you in the house, he’d said, a cardboard box of files in his clutches.

You tried to ask what the fuck was going on, but he’d yelled at you and thrown the box into his back seat. And then you brought up the test paper, twisted around to fish it out of your bag, like some stupid C would convince him to stay. He yelled louder, and you disappeared inside like a spooked cat.

Your mom was on the couch, face in her hands. She lifted her head, cheeks stained with mascara and tears. As you sat down beside her, you heard the engine of his car roll away. You never saw him again.

You don’t tell Joel all of this. He doesn’t need to know, and he doesn’t ask. Telling him about the C in Math risks telling him about the way your dad looked at you when you held up the crumpled paper, and that risks telling him about everything you’ve ever held back from saying to anyone, for fear of seeing that same bored, disappointed expression.

It feels like a hand you’re not quite ready to play just yet. An ace or two missing, only a couple of cards off of feeling confident enough to show him.

Instead, you shrug, and say, “That was…thirteen years ago now. And we just never take ‘em off. It’s like our little promise to, like…stay together, or whatever.”

He nods, letting the necklace rest back on your naked chest.

There’s something in the air between you. Quiet, unassuming. An understanding, though you’re not sure what of. But it feels comfortable, which you weren’t expecting when he asked the question. Nobody knows much about you and your dad – not even your closest friends. And here you are, naked and exhausted, letting the words tumble out to none other than your boss.

But he’s so blasé about it, so unperturbed by it that, if he hadn’t been the one to ask himself, you could mistake it for disinterest. He just listens, nods, and lets it pass over. Lets you drop it, when you’re done talking about it.

For the second time tonight, this time a little more sober but a little less guarded, you say, “Kiss me.”

And this time, he doesn’t ask you to speak French. Doesn’t make any witty quip, doesn’t warn you you’re walking dangerous territory. Doesn’t even hesitate, not for a beat. Just leans in, cups your cheek with one hand, and presses his lips to yours.

Warm, sweaty, almost quivering lips. Soft, and kind, and safe. You melt into him, wrapping both hands around his wrist, shutting your eyes and pretending just for a moment that you’re not teetering along a knife edge right now.

You pull back, losing your balance on the tightrope you’re walking, and Joel’s hand slowly drops from your face. His eyes ask if you’re okay, and you nod. I’m fine. This is fine.

“Alright,” he says, sitting up with a sigh. “You want a drink?”

You nod again. “Water, please.”

He strokes your thigh once and walks out of the room, leaving you in the quiet dark by yourself.

You bring your fingertips up to your eyes. Exhale deeply into the palms of your hands. Think about what just happened, and then tell yourself not to think much about it. Think about that fucking twinge in the bottom of your stomach, the one that felt like…yearning. And then tell yourself, fucking – order yourself not to read too much into it, or you’ll drive yourself up the wall.

Because the truth of it is: you’ve one more full day in Paris, and you highly suspect that what happened here tonight, is gonna happen all over again tomorrow. And that leaves room for that yearning feeling to come back. Resurface, like a silent predator in murky waters.

That won’t happen tomorrow. It can’t happen tomorrow.

You stand and throw that white terrycloth robe over yourself, heading for the living room.

----------

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desmond69miles · 1 month

Text

An Artists Eye

I don't know why but every time I try to update a post it doesn't work until I do it three times?? Boo. This isn't exactly how I wanted it to turn out but I'm semi-happy with the finished work, soooooo have fun.

I'm working on a 'part-two' (it's more of a part one, it takes place before this). Not sure when it will be posted, but it'll be out sometime. (Read it here!)

Arno finds your sexual drawings and offers to live them out with you.

AO3 LINK

Warnings: Fluff and smut, Google translated French, oral (r receiving) fem!reader, vaginal sex/fingering, unprotected sex, creampie (I hate that word), grinding/dry humping.

Word count: 3,491. It's been awhile since I wrote something this long.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Three years ago, you had the pleasure of Arno knocking you over. The streets of Paris had been bustling one fall morning, and you were late to a client meeting, scuttling down the street with your sketches haphazardly secured in your arms. You weren't looking - or maybe you were but didn't process it in time - when a man walked straight into you. It was somewhat theatrical--your papers flew up as you fell down. The man immediately bent down to help collect your sketches while muttering apologies, but it was too late; a good majority of your work had fluttered straight into a muddy puddle you narrowly missed.

As the brunette picked up what papers were still preserved, you worked on dusting yourself off. Once the two of you stood, you finally looked at the man's face, one of his gloved hands moving to push his hood back. "Je suis vraiment désolé, madame," he said, "I'll buy you a new stack of sketching papers." You blinked at his offer - somewhat distracted by his handsome face - and politely rejected it. "Non, c'est bon. I wasn't looking where I was going." The man nodded and handed you back your work, dismissing himself with a slight nod and smile before disappearing back into the crowd. You stood there for a few seconds while people passed you, their shoulders occasionally bumping yours, and you moved to put the papers in your messenger bag.

A few days later, the man randomly arrived at your door around eleven at night. When you opened the door, you were no less than shocked - he actually brought you a new stack of sketch paper! Then you asked yourself, how did he find my house? "Bonsoir Madame," he said. His brown eyes danced over your face, the same you had done when he knocked you over, and he extended his hand with the cartridge paper that was wrapped in a thin cloth to keep from dirtying. You take it from him, and your mouth flubbed open in search of some words. Finally, you decided on nothing more than an awkward "Merci... May I get your name?" The man chuckled, "Arno Dorian, and yours, madame?" Arno repeated your name once you said it, nodding along in confirmation. He left after denying your offer for coffee with a goodnight, and after you returned to your sofa, you undid the covers to the paper.

A small card with a fancy gold trim sat on the stock. You turned it around and looked at the fancy swirls of writing--If you wish for more paper, run into me at Café Théâtre. You couldn't help the wide smile that formed on your face.

Now, it will be your and Arno's second anniversary in a day.

You sat in front of your easel that held up your latest work, and one of your hands mixed up a beautiful blue on the wooden pallet held by your other hand. It was seven-ish, the sun hazily setting in the dimming sky, and the warm air of summer blew through the open windows of Arno's chambers. The ambient buzz of crickets and the fuel of early nightlife gave way to your soft humming of a lullaby. Occasionally, you'd hear the claps from the Cafe down below, a recitation of Hamlet playing tonight, and you've seen the show so much that you found yourself rehearsing the lines to yourself every so often. Your fingers plucked through your paintbrush jar until you found a suitable one and began to paint the shading colors of Arno's coat. Shading was the last thing that needed to be done, an easy task that could be completed quickly.

Arno was indeed your favorite subject to draw. Often, when you found yourself unable to sleep, you sketched him while he was resting--or when you found yourself with free time, you drew his body's familiar lines and curves in practice. Sometimes, these anatomical figures found themselves in... precarious positions, such as in nude drawings. Those were your personal favorites, your sexual admiration for him going past just intercourse, but that sketchpad had been stowed away in the very back of your closet in a box. Hiding your drawings wasn't something you liked; you were proud of your work, and you didn't shy away from drawing nude bodies. In fact, Élise's favorite work of yours was of a sexually deviant nun she had nicknamed 'The Sin.' But, you always hesitated to show Arno the drawings and paintings you have done of him. Neither of you was sure why; you argued they weren't perfect, and Arno argued you were worried that he'd judge (in truth, you were a little more than embarrassed to show the numerous sexual positions you had put your lover and yourself in through pencil).

However, you decided to face that embarrassment with your second anniversary, hence your eagerness to finish this portrait of your lover. Hours had ticked by reasonably quickly, and soon enough, you heard the grandfather clock chime twelve times, indicating the strike of midnight. You pause to look over your final work and give a more than satisfied smile, grabbing the canvas sheet you had and covering the painting so Arno didn't see it (you also had to make sure he didn't peek; he seemed fond of doing that). Your hands had been stained with colors, and your apron had a few new splotches--you didn't mind, but you still hung up your apron carefully for washing and quickly scrubbed your hands clean.

With your hands a tad bit achy from the repeated holding of brushes, you stripped yourself of the painter's gown. You didn't even bother with a chemise or undergarments and instead grabbed one of Arno's button-up shirts that had a smear of purple paint. The mark was seemingly impossible to get out of the cotton, so he had unofficially gifted it to you, telling you that he'd wear it if you ever wanted to fling paint at him again. You grabbed one of the two pillows Arno claimed and tucked one between your thighs for comfort--the pillow usually replaced by his thigh. That, sadly, was the reality of being with an assassin; most nights, he wasn't around to fall asleep with. Thankfully, it seemed like you always woke up in his arms, your lover either sleeping soundly or admiring you.

You heard the chime of 12:30 on the grandfather clock before you shut your eyes for the night and fell asleep.

Awaking in the morning was a chore. The bed was so warm, cradling you like your mother did when you were a babe, and when you shuffled to get comfortable, an arm tightened around your waist. A knowing smirk cast onto your lips - Arno was back and pressed tightly to you. "Arno," you whisper, quiet enough so he could hear if he were awake. No response. Good, you hoped he was asleep - allowing you to get up and prepare your present for him.

So, carefully, to not wake him up, you moved Arno's arm from off of you and gingerly rolled out of bed, slowly standing up so as not to make the wood creak. Once your feet were planted on the cool floor, you stretched fully before walking away from the bed. Your easel still sat in the same position with the canvas sheet covering it; the oak stook pushed out to the side with a dirty jar of brushes resting on top of it. You noted that Arno had closed the windows and drawn the curtains, only slivers of sun peeking through. You first moved to open them just a tad so the chambers would be more illuminated--mainly so you wouldn't topple over something. Then, you moved over to your easel.

You took a deep breath and hoped that it looked okay after drying. Your hands gently took the cover off, and for the second time, you smiled proudly, hands clasped together. It wasn't alright; it was... almost perfect. Something was missing, and you couldn't put your finger on it. Then, it dinged in your brain. The drawing of us! You made your way back to the bed, but instead of getting in, you opened the dresser beside it and rummaged around until you found your trusted sketchbook. You flipped through it until you found the page already torn out and signed with a small love note. You paused, though, and your tummy did a flutter.

You forgot about this drawing. It was one of the first sexual ones you drew, a rather raunchy drawing of none other than Arno laid on his stomach, arms wrapped around a faceless woman's thighs and his face pressed to her cunt. This was still when you were too ashamed to draw yourself in these drawings - hence the faceless woman - but it made you fuzzy.

It wasn't like you and your boyfriend never had sex; quite the opposite. Many nights you had been spent on the bed, Arno deep inside you while some serious French kissing went on (not to mention the time when Arno's mentor had walked in on you deepthroating the brunette's cock in none other than the Assassin's base under Cafe Theatre, but you're too embarrassed to talk about it. You still get hot when you hear Bellec calling Arno 'pisspot'). While you've had amazing sex, you've never got the confidence to ask for oral. Arno offered it, but you said no; what if you taste bad or do something Arno doesn't like? The thought of a mouth down there always intimidated you, but that doesn't mean you haven't fantasized about it.

You were so caught up in staring at the drawing that you jumped when a loud crash came from outside, dropping the sketchbook onto the floor. "Merde," you almost immediately cussed, recoiling your foot from the damage of your toes being hit by the journal. It was enough to wake Arno up, and while you bent down to retrieve the book, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. "Everything alright, cherie?" He said, and you were startled like you were caught doing something bad. "Oui, sorry to wake you." Arno gave you an understanding smile, sliding to the edge of the bed and leaning forward to find your waist. You tucked the sketchpad to your chest as he pulled you in for an embrace, his face resting between your shoulder blades.

"What were you drawing?" Arno muttered, and you tensed for a moment. "Sketches, love, it's nothing too important." You replied, and he hummed. "Everything is important when made by you." You didn't protest when his hand snaked from your hip up to your hands, his fingers grasping the edge of the book and pulling it free. His head moved back but still rested against you, and you heard him chuckle. Your face warmed, and for a moment, you willed the floor to open up and swallow you or for you to turn into a gnat and fly away.

"Is this woman you?" He asked, and you quietly said no. "Then you envision me eating another woman out?" You let out a defeated breath, shoulders slumping. "Non, it is me."

"But you did not draw your face?"

"It was awkward."

"Ah, then we should make it less awkward. Experiencing it may give you confidence."

Your head turns to peer at him from behind your shoulder. He has a cheeky grin that he knew he was doing - and you chewed your lips. "It's our anniversary, too. How will I marry you if I've never tasted you?" You blinked and chose to ignore the marriage comment, but as he pulled you into his lap, you knew you weren't getting out of this one too quickly. "I've heard from other women that it's relaxing if that quells your worry." One of his hands slides up your thigh and rests near the apex of your legs, thumb rubbing small circles into your flesh, and he kisses your cheek. You turn your body, legs swinging to rest on the bed and lean into Arno. He gives you a sweet look, brown eyes filled with what could only be described as love, and kisses your lips. He didn't get far once he pulled away; your hand brought him back in.

Your fingers undo the red ribbon, keeping Arno's hair tied while he bites your bottom lip teasingly. Once his hair was free and you could run your fingers through it, you allowed his tongue to slip past your lips and tangle with his. He tasted faintly of expensive red wine, and you drank the groan he let when your nails scratched his scalp. The hand resting on your thigh slid under the shirt you wore, warm fingertips running over your curves. Your noses bumped accidentally when you moved to tug on the buttons of his nightshirt, and neither of you went too far from the other. Your breaths still mingled as his hands aided yours in tugging his shirt off, the fabric falling onto the floor. Arno then moved both of you, so now you were lying against the pillows with your lover hovering above you. You exchange soft, loving smiles, eyes studying each other. Your hands ran down Arno's arms and rested against his wrists.

"Do you want to try oral?" He asked, genuinely curious, and you pondered. "Will you go slow?" You query, and you get your answer with the gentle, warming kiss Arno places against your forehead and then lips. His hands grab a pillow you are not resting on, and he says to lift your hips. You comply without question, and Arno slides the pillow under your butt, then moves your thighs apart so he can adequately slot himself in between them. The pillow gave a perfect angle for his hips to slot against yours, his semi-hard cock pressed into your inner thigh, and you could feel the wettening of your folds.

His lips find yours for a small kiss before he moves to your neck, sucking in a few light marks that can be hidden, and one of his hands trails down your body to your stomach, resting there patiently until you give the go-ahead. The attention placed on your pulse point made you let out a quiet whimper, and you circled your arms around Arno's shoulders so you could tug his body closer to yours. His bodily warmth was nothing short of what you called home, the south trail of his hand at your happy whisper of 'more,' the press of his thumb against your clit--it gave an almost sentimental feel.

There was loving, and then there was loving.

And he loved you like you loved him.

The way Arno loved you was nothing short of amazing? Spectacular? supercalifragilisticexpialidocious? There was no word for the way he treated you.

After slicking his fingers in your cunt, he pressed a final kiss to your lips before descending your body, leaving kisses every place he could reach. You shifted awkwardly once you two were positioned like the drawing--Arno on his stomach, his cheek pressed into your thigh, hands holding your legs apart. You did have to admit that it was an ego boost to see your lover between your legs with such a hungry look in his eyes. Arno pressed a kiss to where your thigh meets your leg, impossibly close to your cunt, and you felt his breath over your puffy clit. It caused you to shift your hips, a hand coming to rest on his, and Arno peeked up at you from his position.

Your insides became mush--there was absolutely no right for him to look heavenly, and you moaned as his index finger teased against your slit. "Do you want me to?" Arno asked, dipping his finger inside, teasingly curling in a way that he knew wouldn't feel terribly pleasurable. You debated--a new experience and most likely an intense orgasm, or you'll have to listen to your girlfriends rave about cunnilingus without knowing what to say next time you all met up. Most, if not all, your nerves of appearance had vanished and instead replaced by the anxious want of indulgence. Arno pushed his finger deeper, pulling back and repeating those actions slowly, awaiting your response.

"Mhm, oui. I'd like you to."

Arno smiled, and when he exhaled, you wiggled at the cool air against your warm cunt. "Merci," he hummed and leaned in, pressing his lips to your clit. Arno was gentle at first, careful not to overwhelm you. The rough pad of Arno's tongue pressed flat against your clit, and he let you move your hips, allowing you to draw your pleasure in what felt good. Once he thought that you had enough of a taste, his hands moved to your hips and pushed them down into the pillow. Your hands moved between Arno's resting ones or his head, moaning loudly when he sucked your clit with fervor. "Dieu," you exasperatedly said. Your thighs closed around Arno's head, not tight enough to hurt him but snug enough to keep him there, eyes closing when the tip of the pink muscle drew figure eights on your cunt. His finger slipped back in, this time pumping with a little more vigor, and when he curled them just right, that beautiful edge came into feel.

"S'il te plaît, oh mon Dieu, s'il te plaît," you whined and swore you could feel Arno smile into you. Your hips rocking against his face as well as your thighs clamped tight around his head, caused a slight burn from his stubble, but, shit, you couldn't care as long as he kept going. Arno's lips move up once again and slurp your clit, and "There, fuck! There, Arno, don't stop!" pours out from you. Another finger adds to your wet hole, and he gives a rough suckle just before you send hurdling over the crescendo of an orgasm. Arno lets you ride it out by grinding on his face, his nose bumping your clit in delicious aftershocks, and you eventually come down enough to release Arno's head from your thighs.

His head popped up from between your thighs, and he crawled up, bouncing down onto the bed beside you. One of Arno's hands rested on your stomach, and he asked, "How was it?" You gave a weak chuckle, "Le meilleur, fuck, the best."

"Another round?" He suggested.

"Always another round." You enforce.

Before Arno could move, you crawled on top of him and gently pushed your hips down so your saliva-and-slick-ridden cunt pressed perfectly against his hard cock. He gave that devilish smirk, hands finding your waist to push the nightshirt over your head, and you moaned as his hips met yours with equal enthusiasm. In more-or-less semi-clothed dance, you rocked against each other until Arno's hands slowed you, one going to slightly push you back just so he could free himself from his now wet undergarments. The fabric didn't get farther than his knees before you scooted back up and took him in your hand, running the head of his cock through your folds. After a few teasing passes, his tip catches your hole, and you slowly - yet easily - sink onto him. Once your lower half was pressed against his pelvis once more, Arno gave a few shallow thrusts and cupped one of your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh and playing with your nipple.

A few more seconds passed, and with a quick kiss to Arno's forehead, you tensed your thighs, hands pressing against his chest, and you began to set a steady rhythm of riding him. Your lover met your thrusts halfway with quick motions that effectively created a shlick shlick when either of you moved. The friction inside you felt good but just not enough to reach climax again, and Arno knowing this, moved his fingers to rub small circles against your clit. Arno cursed and rolled his head back onto the pillows. You watched his Adam’s apple bob with each thick swallow, and his thrusts became unsynced--a tale tail sign of impending orgasm.

With a few more messy thrusts, Arno pulled your hips flush to his and spilled deep inside of you. The warmth of his cum had made you unexpectedly orgasm, toes curling as you moaned. You stayed still and savored the moment, your spine failing to keep you upright, so you lay down on Arno's chest instead. Arno rolled over onto his side and took you with him, grabbing the closest blanket and covering you both up to keep from getting cold.

"Je t'aime," Arno whispers against your hair, and you softly hummed. "Je t'aime plus," you countered, but he won the battle with an "I love you the most."

"I peeked at the painting," he said after a peaceful silence, "I love it. You'll have to paint me nude next time."

#arno dorian x reader #Arno Dorian #Arno Dorian smut #assassins creed x reader #assassins creed smut #lynns posts

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snakegorl212006 · 11 months

Text

The “little things” they do (Pomefiore)

--------------Epel--------------------------------------------- “Uug i can’t stand him” epel groans as he aggressively carves another apple “always nagging like he’s my mom or something.” he huffs as he finishes the final details “why do you stay with a man like that” epel mumbles. He and vil got into a heated argument again. Only god knows what they’re on about this time but it was way too early for any of that. “Well..maybe he’s just looking after us” i stated “sure sure, ‘taking care of us’. Do you truly believe that” he asked “well he has made sure i’ve eaten and have a healthy-ish sleep schedule” i replied “i wouldn't blame you for you thinking such things though” i mumbled as i leaned back on the apple tree. “Why do you always defend him… have you forgotten what has happened here” epel asked. His expression saddened “I’m not defending him entirely-. How about this? How about i ask him to lay off” i suggested “by yourself” epel asked “no it’s fine. You shouldn't” epel said as he picks up another apple “why. Don’t you want him to get off your back” I asked “yes but i don’t want you to go by yourself with him” epel replied “why not. Vil hasen’t-” “i don’t want you to die again ok gosh” he huffs angrily “epel.. Did you have a nightmare or something” i asked with a slight sigh “you don’t….I guess you can say it’s a nightmare” epel mumbled “do you want to tell me about it” i asked “.....you were hurt really bad.blood was everywhere and-” epel paused “I don’t want to talk about it anymore” he said. “Just don’t trust vil with anything. Don’t even dare.not even rook alright. Trust me. It’s for the best” epel said as he looked at me dead in my eyes “ok.. I won’t…. How about we made some dessert over with trey. I think he can make some apple pie.” i offered, which made him smile “gosh you’r the best. Always know how to make lil ole me happy” epel said as he grabs my hand “lets go then” epel adds as he drags me up and away to heartslabyul. Must be one nasty nightmare for him to act like that.

----------Rook--------------------------------------------------- “Bonsoir, mon cher” a voice spoke behind me, shocking me out of my skin “oop. Sorry i never meant to scare you” rook said “it’s fine just don’t do that again. Anyways what brings you here” i asked “I enjoy visiting the gardens in,the now, Savanaclaw wing. It brings me much nostalgic memories” he smiles “say may I be of aid. I also do enjoy a little garden work” Rook asked “well leona isn't going to do it so might as well. “Parfait! Je vous remercie, mon cher” he replied, kissing my hand before warding off somewhere else. I can never get used to his eccentricness. While planting some new plants that came in i came across something hard.I digged deeper to see something white…my stomach turns praying to anyone that this isen’t what i think it is “i suppose i made that one too shallow” Rook spoke which made me jump, tripping on the water hose making me fall. Rook grabbed that white thing and to my horror. It was a human femur “you know this place was the original garden Vil and i use to bury our victims to sustain the plants. We kinda stolen this from Roi de Fort and his crime schemes” rook said as he examines the bone “Don’t worry. You weren’t buried here. But if you desire it mon cher-” Rook stated as he look down at me “nonononononono. I'm fine. Just put that back i i need to go-” i replied then he laughs “you have that same reaction too~ ma parole, is this what you call daja vu. Not to worry. I’ll finish this from here” Rook reasured as he picks up the shovel and buries back the bone. I left for him to continue hiding that….”how many bodies are even on this property”

------------Vil------------------------------------------ “Vil, are you here” I asked as I entered the wing. Apparently he hasn't been himself lately even got epel concerned. Rook asked me to go have a chat with him. Make him feel better I suppose. “vil.Are you alright” I asked, waiting for some signs. When there was no answer I pulled out the necklace from my shirt and followed the vibrations. This leads me to his room. I knocked “vil. Is something wrong” i asked. The door opened to see vil looking less than himself. His hair all shriveled, eyeliner running down from his eyes overall he looks pitiful. “Is there anything i could do” i asked and he sighed “just….sit down” he said sounding more irritated. Did epel and him get into another argument? I entered his room to see a mess. But I ignored it and sat on the bed. Vil walks to the vanity and starts his nightly routine in silence. “You know. You look like someone i knew” Vil said as he brushed out his hair “you know i feel like this’ll be a common occurrence” i replied which made him smile a little “what were they like” i asked “Schön…” he smiled as he finished up. “What happened to them” I asked “oh, it was an accident…” he replied rather quickly “that’s all you need to know.” he said as he turns off the lights “if you wouldn't mind. Can you stay here tonight? I’ve been having trouble sleeping as of late. Perhaps you can keep me company.afterall you did come here to make me feel better” he asked. I thought about it and nod “nothing funny ok” I replied. He grabs my hand and lays down next to me. I took off my shoes and slept next to him. I was awakened by a shift on the bed. I couldn't open my eyes or even move but all i heard was soft sobs as tears on my chest “i'm sorry... I’m so sorry…” I heard vil say “this won’t happen. Not again” he adds as he holds me tight “I promise.I will obtain that happily ever after you so desire. Things will return to normal….I promise” Vil mumbles more as I feel his grip tighten “I’m not letting you relive that nightmare...Not again…”

#twisted wonderland haunted au #twisted wonderland ghost au #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere vil x reader #yandere vil schoenheit x reader #yandere rook hunt x reader #yandere rook x reader #yandere epel felmier x reader #yandere epel x reader

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fishermanshook · 7 months

Note

Bonjour Bonsoir

May I request headcanons for Andrew Kreiss where he has to protect the person he has feelings for in a match ? Like all fluffy and stuff !

Thanks !

Of course I can do that for you!

You first, Your Body Second. (grave keeper x gn!reader)

Roxman_ on Pinterest

I've been writing for idek how long now and I still f up grammar and spelling. Warning as always.

What is love? And what lengths would you go to protect the ones you do?

But you don't have to worry about that. Not when you've got the Gravekeeper to protect you from the dangers that present themselves in every match you play in.

He'll keep you safe, always and forever.

The Grave Keeper has only felt so much love in his life, which really only amounts to a couple specs of sand. He can't wrap his head around the concept of it all-let alone the feeling of it.

Out of all places to fall head over heels in, he had to in this hell hole? Nobody expects it, and it's surely a surprise to all who welcome the feeling.

Which is something that Andrew doesn't do at first. The poor boy doesn't think he is anywhere near deserving of all the love and attention you give him.

Andrew hasn't differentiated the difference between being generally kind to going out of your way to do something for someone who's developed a crush. He knows what he feels, but can't figure out if your trying to tell him you reciprocate these undying feelings.

He's new to love, having been void of it for almost all his life he's forced to take baby steps. But for you? It'll be worth it.

Your one and only game today is a regular match, thank gosh.

None the less, you find yourself chatting it up with the Grave Keeper. The others cannot fathom the fact that you seem to be the only one in the manor who could keep up a regular conversation with the man. But to the two of you, this is just another chat.

It was weird y'know, how quickly the two of you seemed to click. Out of all the Survivors, you find him the easiest to talk to. It's so easy to find tranquility in each other's presence that you lose track of time. (You and Andrew may or may not have accidentally been late to a couple matches because of this.)

The Grave Keeper has told you more about his life than he's told anyone else. You've excepted him for who he is, scars and all.

It's more than enough for the man to catch feelings.

He isn't entirely sure how to show it though, but maybe this match will be the perfect time to demonstrate it.

"Two ciphers left!" The Priestess shouts into her radio which allows the rest of the team to know to keep up the pace. She's stuck having to take over the kiting while she bides time for the Doctor to self heal herself, which shouldn't take long.

You're halfway through decoding your cipher before you hear the sound of teleporting, you're soon greeted with the sly smile that belongs to no one but "Fool's Gold". Seems the hunters changed targets.

"Shit," you mutter into the radio as you quickly throw down a pallet, almost risking a hit. "Hunter's here, continue decoding at all costs!"

For the rest of the decoding period, you weave your way through pallets and windows. Unfortunately, you take a hit which leaves blood pouring from your back and you in excruciatingly pain.

In the distance, you see a blurry figure with hair white as snow running towards you.

"Fuck, Andrew? Andre you've got to get out of here-"

Your voice is cut off by Andrew picking you up and slinging you over his shoulder.

"Wait are you seriously going to kite with me on your shoulder?"

"Of course not, I'd never risk you getting more hurt than you already are now. Just hold in there, I won't let you get hurt again, I promise." Andrew says as he makes a mad dash across the map. You soon see a glowing blue and black portal.

"Go now, I'll take over the kiting."

"Andrew no I can't let you do tha-" Your voice is silenced (again...) from Andrews lips on yours.

Does it catch you off guard? Yes. But you soon lean into the quick peck, rapping your arms around his neck.

"Mh, Darling I'd love to continue but I'd rather you be safe okay?" With another quick peck on the lips, the Grave Keeper helps you through the portal, which is quickly destroyed by "Fool's Gold's" pickaxe.

"I'll see you soon, my love."

The whole match seemed to have been an entire blur. Even while you got bandaged up and the entire team was able to get out you still can't comprehend what just happened moments earlier.

I guess that confirms my suspensions then... You say to yourself as you make your way back to your dorm room. Only to be stopped when you feel a strong hand grip your shoulder, turning you around.

"H-hey, um, how are you?" Andrew stutters and stumbles over his words, obviously worried about the move he pulled on you earlier.

"Hi Andrew. I'm doing more than okay, how are you feeling?" You ask him with a smile tugging on your lips as you rock back and forth on your heels.

"I'm d-doing okay, uh, so-" You cut off Andrew with a kiss to the lips. Honestly you've been waiting too long to do this.

He leans into the kiss, putting his hands on your hips and you rest your arms around his neck. The kiss is slow but passionate and secretly sends him over the edge with happiness.

He promised to protect you, and for the first time in your life, you know you can count on it.

note: No, I am not an Andrew fan. No, I do not know why I made this fic so long. Yes this does suck ass but you still read it so (THIS IS SO OOC IM SORRY) (This is so ass what the heck)

©️2023 fishermanshook — do not steal, translate, plagiarize, or repost my work on any other platform

#⋆˚ 💗˖° HEAD OVER HEELS!#identity 5 #idv #idv andrew #idv grave keeper #identityv #fanfiction #fic #idv x reader #idv x you #identity v #begginer writer #2nd person pov #fanfic #grave keeper #grave keeper idv #andrew kreiss #identity v grave keeper

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xhanisai · 1 year

Text

tfw your future son-in-law is also a cat

AO3

Pairing - Marichat

Prompt - ‘Son-in-law’

Summary -

"I'm guessing that Marinette must have fallen asleep by accident on her desk again and is late for patrol?" Sabine's guess was met with an affirmative nod, his little bell jingling with every movement and it was taking her everything not to squeeze him tight in a hug. "Why didn't you visit her room through the window and wake her up?"

"She banned me from her room for a whole week because I accidentally got into her yarn the other day. Again." Chat Noir pouted and played with his pointer fingers, oblivious to the endeared grin that Sabine wore. "It really wasn't my fault...the yarn looked so soft...so delicious...surely you can understand why I couldn't resist, Madame?" Oooh. Marinette was absolutely going to throw a bit of a fit if she saw the way Sabine and Tom spoiled him again but they just couldn't help it. He was so adorable and just so loveable!

"Maybe the temptation would be a lot easier if you came over detransformed instead, hmm? Adrien?"

~(x)~

The sight of the blur of black and yellow flying through their window and somersaulting across the floor of their living room only to stand up and reveal itself to be a dramatically bowing Chat Noir gained a huge, amused round of applause from Tom Dupain. The larger man couldn't resist ruffling the boy's soft, fluffy hair with one hand, turning it into a comically puffy mess and earning a delighted giggle from the feline hero whilst Sabine watched them both with amusement and fondness from her seat on the sofa.

"Bonsoir, Madame. Cheng, Monsieur. Dupain! I hope you both had a very good day!" Chat Noir couldn't help but grow a little shy and polite, taking a seat next to Sabine when she beckoned for him to come closer and Tom rushed to the kitchen to fetch the boy something to eat and drink. The loving mother couldn't help but pat his head, her heart growing by ten folds from this adorable hero. She was determined to make him her son-in-law one way or another and it definitely helped that she had a huge suspicion about his civilian identity (not that he really hid it from them but Marinette was very stubborn that she doesn't learn of it just yet, wanting to fully grasp the gist of her newly found heroic responsibilities). "I'm guessing that Marinette must have fallen asleep by accident on her desk again and is late for patrol?" Sabine's guess was met with an affirmative nod, his little bell jingling with every movement and it was taking her everything not to squeeze him tight in a hug. "Why didn't you visit her room through the window and wake her up?" "She banned me from her room for a whole week because I accidentally got into her yarn the other day. Again." Chat Noir pouted and played with his pointer fingers, oblivious to the endeared grin that Sabine wore. "It really wasn't my fault...the yarn looked so soft...so delicious...surely you can understand why I couldn't resist, Madame?" Oooh. Marinette was absolutely going to throw a bit of a fit if she saw the way Sabine and Tom spoiled him again but they just couldn't help it. He was so adorable and just so loveable! "Maybe the temptation would be a lot easier if you came over detransformed instead, hmm? Adrien?" He let out a happy gape when she said his name, a pleased purr rumbling through his chest from the acknowledgement and his emerald greens practically sparkling. He didn't get a chance to answer however as Marinette came rushing down the trapdoor steps babbling about how late she was for their patrol and suddenly their eyes met. "My Lady! Hello!" Like a flash, he pounced on his partner in one huge embrace, knocking them both down and cuddling her tiny frame despite her annoyed groans and mumbles. He paid no mind to the way Tom and Sabine held in their squeals of delight, the former already planning wedding cakes for the pair and birthday cakes for the potential grandchildren that are sure to come. "Ugh...Chaton...again?" "Missed you~" Yes, he absolutely, definitely needs to be their son-in-law. And judging from the not-so-secretive way her daughter was lovingly observing the masked hero as she belatedly held him back tenderly, Sabine was one-hundred-percent sure that wedding bells are sure to ring in the near future. She sure hoped that her son-in-law to be will take their last names. After all... ...Adrien Dupain-Cheng has such a nice ring to it, non?

~(x)~

#my writing #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug and chat noir #marichat #ml fanfiction #ml fanfics

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logogreffe · 1 year

Text

Afternoon in French

Afternoon in French is après-midi (after-noon). Is it une après-midi or un après-midi ? Well, we don't know ... Here are some articles in French discussing the topic X , X. I use un and une interchangeably with "après-midi", so I did a little poll to ask the French speakers of Tumblr and here are the results :

Note : "L'heure est grave" is an equivalent of "the situation is critical"/ "this is a crucial moment". You're supposed to use it when people have to make a really important decision (life saving) but I use it ironically to ask the dumbest things ever : L'heure est grave : tu veux manger du riz ou des pâtes ? // The situation is critical : do you want to eat rice or pasta ? The result : As you can see "un après-midi" won. But I have to admit that I've messed up this poll by not adding the third option "I use both", since some people, like me, use both un and une. Here are some funny tags :

Translation : " both, I'm bi " Note : "chuis" is how some people pronounce "j'suis" = je suis = I am

Translation : " The word après-midi is non binary and it's its right. Since everybody around me uses it in the masculine form, I take (malicious) pleasure in using it in the feminine form to restore the balance " Note : "prendre un malin plaisir" = to take pleasure in doing a "bad" activity Je prends un malin plaisir à l'ignorer chaque fois qu'elle me dit bonjour // I take great pleasure in ignoring her every time she says hello to me. Some people explained when they use "un" and "une" :

Both those tags are saying that une après-midi should be used when you're refering to a duration. -> Ça a duré toute l'après-midi // It lasted the whole afternoon. But we should use un après-midi when talking about a date/part of the day. -> On se voit cet après-midi ? // Will we see each other this afternoon ? Finally, some other examples using un and une après-midi : Reminder : Après-midi is often shortened as "aprèm" orally and in text messages (informal) Vous êtes libre cet après-midi ? // Are you (formal) free this afternoon ? Note : You can tell that the "vous" here refers to the formal "you" because "libre" is in the singular. T'es libre cet aprèm ? // Are you free this afternoon ? J'ai passé l'aprèm à lire au soleil. // I spent the afternoon reading in the sun. Bon après-midi ! // Have a nice afternoon ! Note 1 : Because "après-midi " starts with a vowel and "bon" ends with a consonant, you have to faire la liaison. In the end "bon après-midi " will be pronounced the same way as "bonne après-midi ". (Same thing with "cet après-midi", it's pronounced the same as "cette après-midi" ) Note 2 : "Bon après-midi ! " can ONLY be used when you or the person you're talking to is leaving ! You can NOT say " Bon après-midi ! " to say " Good afternoon ! ". There is no equivalent of "Good afternoon" in French (In Mainland France at least), you'll have to say "Bonjour" or "Bonsoir" and pray that the person you're talking to will say the same thing. (This is a really awkward moment that the French have to go through on an almost daily basis. So even if it's really late and someone says "Bonjour" please just repeat after them and don't say "Bonsoir". This is this equivalent of saying "akshually according to French etiquette paragraph 48 since it's past 6pm you should say bonsoir ".) Conclusion : You can use both un or une with après-midi ! And as we've seen, orally, people will not be able to tell the difference between cet / cette après-midi or bon / bonne après-midi. PS : Merci à tous les gens qui ont voté, commenté, tagué et reblogué mon sondage !

#frenchblr #learning french #apprendre le français #upthebaguette

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howhow326 · 1 year

Text

Harlequin AU: villain Maribug

This idea just popped into my head: what if Miraculous was a villain origin story? What if all the times where Marinette got treated like dog doo doo by her friends, society, and the narrative actually mattered?? What if all the times Marinette got needlessly traumatized were actually a prelude to a more dramatic mental break, a la Scarlet Witch??? What if Marinette went ape shit???? Here's my idea:

Marinette's descent into villainy starts the same way every other day of her life starts: Chloe and Sabrina bully her; Lila bullies her and none of her friends stand up for her; Chat Noir borderline sexually harasses her OR he acts like all the times he proclaimed his undying love to her never happened so he can avoid going on a date with her; the usual.

As Marinette goes into her room, she gets ready to cry herself to sleep like she does every night. And then, an idea pops into her head...

"Tiki, red spots on." "Marinette, no! You can't use the miraculous for evil! You know it always ends in disaster!" "Disaster for ME!!! I'm the one that always sufferers the most for mine and every else mistakes! No more... NO MORE!!! TIKI, RED SPOTS ON!!!"

Marinette transforms, but not into Ladybug. Her trauma and her 'selfish' desire to do what's good for her mixes into a new persona: Harlequin. Her outfit is a color flipped version of Ladybug's enhanced outfit from season 4, a black body suit with red spots.

Harlequin jumps out of her house and announces herself, "Bonsoir, citizens of Paris. You used to know me as the weak Ladybug, the failure superhero." Gasps can be heard from the late night citizens, wondering why their darling would call herself that. "But from now on my name is Harlequin, the strongest superhero in Earth! And I'll prove my strength by finding Hawkmoth and arresting him! CREATION CHARM!!!"

Harlequin digs deep with her power over creation, forcing her power to work for her the same way Hawkmoth forces his power to make akumas. She creates a magic compass that points in the direction of the Butterfly miraculous, and as soon as she arrives at the Agreste mansion, she knows exactly who has been making her life hell.

Gabriel is asleep when Harlequin crashes through his window and assults him. " Oh, you BETTER wake up!" Harlequin snatches his miraculous away and beats him into submission.

When Adrien walks in, he feels like he's in a nightmare. "Ladybug, what are you doing!" The boy screams as she continues to beat a corpse. "Happy Valentine's day, Adrien! Your abusive father, Hawkmoth, won't be bothering us anytime soon." As she walks out of the room to retrieve her kwamis, she turns back to face Adrien. "And by the way, it's Harlequin now."

Gabriel Agreste, AKA Hawkmoth, is dead. Suicide by cop, of course. It's not like anyone cares. Nathile is sent to a UN jail for life after her connection to Gabriel is found out. Adrien inherents his father's company and is to be allowed to live in the guardianship of the Gorilla until he becomes 18. Harlequin recreates the miraculous and brings them back home. But it's not a happy ending. It's just the beginning.

The next day, Lila is up to her old tricks. Afterschool, Harlequin drags her into the street in font of a local news station. "Bonjour citizens of Paris, Harlequin speaking! This girl, Lila Rossi, has been bullying an innocent girl in her class room for the last year. Lila has claimed an innocent girl cheated on a test, she claimed an innocent girl pushed her down the stairs, all sorts of lies really! She even claimed to be my best friend, although there's one hole in that story... Tiki, red spots off!" As Marinette reveals her identity to everyone in Paris, Lila's heart sinks. "The whole time I have been saving the people of Paris, the whole time I've been helping my friends, this wench has been bullying me! NO MORE! Tiki, red spots on!" Harlequin swings away into the distance...

The next day, Lila Rossi disappears. The people of Paris don't care, she bullyed their savior after all. Meanwhile, the akuma class' reputation is destroyed, each one becoming a social outcast.

The day after, Harlequin finds out that the Mayor of Paris has been breaking one two many laws. She decides that he, his wife, and Chloe are all going to go to a "nice family prison".

That's what she told the public. Harlequin used the bunny miraculous to send them back in time into the French Revolution. Chloe will never bully Marinette again.

The day Harlequin becomes the new Empress of France is met with cheers. She saved the world from Hawkmoth. She erased all crime in the country. She seperated France from the UN, so that they may be their own superpower again. Longue vie la Harlequin!

"Marinette, you need to stop! Don't you see that this is crazy?" Alya pleeds to her best friend. "Tell me Alya, where were you when I was being bullied by Lila? NEVER TELL ME WHAT I NEED!!!" Alya is sent away to the camps, where everyone who dare disagrees with Harlequin is sent.

Adrien is at a crossroads. If he chooses to love Harlequin, then his life will be full of joy and madness. Harlequin forgives him for all the wrong he did to her, and accepts him with open arms. Togather, they become the rulers of France... but their relationship is one of imbalance. Just as the Ladybug miraculous is so much more powerful that the Cat, Marinette is so much more powerful than Adrien. Everyday, Adrien thinks Marinette looks more and more like his father. He never says it out loud tho... He dosen't want to be punished again.

If Adrien rejects Harlequin, Kill Bill by Sza plays. Then Harlequin actually kills him.

As Marinette lays in her bed, she still cries herself to sleep. She has everything she could ever want... and she still has nothing...

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug au #ml au #ml au idea #ml harlequin au #harlequin au #ml class salt #class salt #miraculous ladybug salt #tw facism #tw: facism #tw abuse #tw: abuse #ml villain au #adrien salt #villain marinette #villain ladybug

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knownangels · 1 month

Text

maslow's hierarchy

wc: 6.8k

Benji drags himself out of bed a moment before the alarm kicks off.

By now, he’s developed somewhat of a sixth sense for certain happenings around base. It’s a sense that might, were the more superstitious recruits given a crack at describing it, be called preternatural.

Lately those murmurs have picked up both in popularity and frequency; Benji likes that. It could be any number of things to thank for the increasing number of terrified soldiers bumbling out of his path, avoiding trips to medical. It could be Benson has resumed his charming habit of fabricated ghost stories about the resident medic. It could be Benji’s own doing, really: his recent predilection for hanging around the terrifyingly unpredictable corporal hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Whatever it is, Benji’s thankful. Any time another set of eyes pops wide and snaps away from his face, it’s like a needle has split his vein and shot something straight to his heart. Something that makes his head swim, something that blows his pupils wide, something that makes his mouth twist with pleased adrenaline.

Something wicked nice, as the corporal might put it.

He takes his time meandering down to the clinic, where his on-call alarm had been directing him. Benji hadn’t been fortunate enough to be on the mission from which all the trembling, blood-soaked soldiers return. But his luck is good enough that there are a fat number of them, wet with fear’s sweat and stinking of that post-fight metallic tinge.

He likes being there when it happens. Not just because a body will open in any number of interesting and memorable ways. Not just because they cry and scream out of fear and pain alike. Nah. Benji likes being there when it happens because inevitably, once the fog of sleepy shock passes, once they realize the predicament they’ve gotten themselves into with whatever nasty, painful misfortunate —

They look at Benji. They know he’s there. Know why. Know that he holds, in eager glove-clad hands, the tools to fix them. To make it stop hurting.

(Whether he will or not is another story entirely.)

Benji likes watching the injured take that journey. It always plays out so obviously on their face as the path winds, tugs them along. This hurts, turns into someone help me, turns into oh fuck, not him, not him. Benji might not have their friendship. He might not have their trust. He certainly doesn’t have their loyalty.

But he does have their reliance. Their need. To stop the bleeding, to close the wound, to make the pain stop. They fear him, but they need him — and Benji likes looking at a face and seeing need swiped across it like splatter. He likes it almost more than the fear.

The first injured mercenary he attends to is green. New enough that he doesn’t know any better. As Benji approaches the door, light gleaming through the cracks of the frame, he hears the soldier’s dismay.

“Not him,” the mercenary is chanting, over and over. Pleading, really. He must have seen Benji’s name on his chart. New enough that he dodesn’t know better, but been here long enough to be warned. Maybe to hear a story or two.

“Please, please. Not him. You can do it— right, Dr. Toussa—doctor? You can, can’t you? Please, man.”

“Mais no,” Nick responds, his familiar and even tone carrying through the crack in the door. He sounds amused. It’s nearly a laugh. “What a preposterous assumption, private. I will be retiring for the evening. Perhaps — oui. A nice glass of chardonnay awaits, I think. Une récompense, you see, pour mon travail acharné.“

Benji waits beyond the door, listening to the near-tearful begging of the injured soldier. The quiet shuffle of fabric as Nick undoubtedly removes his stark white coat, lays it carefully on the coat rack he keeps by the door.

Which swings open. The arc throws just shy of the tip of Benji’s nose — only a few centimeters.

He doesn’t move.

“Ah.” Nick says, as congenially as he seems capable. “Bonsoir, Benji.”

“Evenin’, Nick.” Benji tilts an imaginary hat. He feels his mouth already pulling into a grin. “Leave some for me?”

“And otherwise?” Nick chuckles. “Do labor of myself when you are so happy to help? Non.”

Despite the congeniality, despite Nick’s seemingly high spirits, despite Benji’s grin — the hallway is tense. Benji stands in front of him, short but broad. Unmoving. Arms tucked behind his back.

Nick doesn’t move an inch, despite leaving medical with hastened steps. He doesn’t look to be in a hurry home any longer. He looks frozen. He looks careful.

Benji’s smile widens. After a beat, he moves to the left with a single sidestep. The hall now open to him, Nick moves as well. But like always, he rotates the parallel to Benji’s shoulders. Keeping them facing each other, eyes locked to his, grey-dotted jaw soft but shut.

“Well, y’know how it is.” Benji tilts his head, showing teeth now. “You have to be real passionate in the healthcare industry, yeah.”

“Thankless work.” Nick agrees. He has begun to walk backwards, towards the exit at its far end. The stark red letters of the sign blink in a halo around his pale hair.

Benji clicks his tongue sorrowfully. He folds both hands over his heart. “Well, gosh. Thanks an awful much, doctor.”

The moment hangs just one long, delightful silence longer. Then Nick tilts his chin (head tipping only enough to dip his nose, his eyes staying locked to Benji) and tips an invisible brim of his own.

“Certainement. And, merci à toi, of course.” Nick takes another step. “Goodnight.”

Benji smiles wider. For a split second, Nick begins to turn as if he intends on giving Benji his back. His steps stutter only that second, though. Benji has the pleasure of watching him twitch and still. Briefly. Almost impercitbly; Nick is more than that. Better than.

But Benji notices.

So Benji waits until Nick is halfway down the hall, halfway to putting Benji and the base in his rear view, to call out.

“Nicky.” He says, lifting his voice only slightly over the distance. “Is that what Margot used to call you?”

Nick stops walking abruptly.

He can’t tell if Nick swallows. If he has any sort of response to what is, as they both well understand, a cruel jeer despite Benji’s friendly tone. He doesn’t know if Nick fears him. He sort of doubts it. But what he does get, what he sees plain as day:

Need.

I need you to stop talking. Nick’s eyes say, boring into his like drills. I need to be away from you. I need a glass of wine.

Benji’s wide smile twitches, as if it wants to pull wider. He likes the need.

“Oui.” Nick admits evenly. Barely three breathes have passed between them. “Sometimes.”

“Well. Not anymore, anyway.”

Benji waits a few breaths, too. Then he nods, smile tilting into an intrigued upside-down frown, and happily ducks into medical for his emergency shift.

The blubbering private nearly pisses himself when Benji steps into his “room”. In reality, the curtain-separated cubbies are barely more than a gurney and what little equipment can be crammed into the space. For this unlucky bastard, it’s just Benji and his kit and his eager hands.

Benji snaps gloves onto them as the new merc watches. His tan hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the gurney, fingers tight between the rungs as if he’s holding on to avoid being washed out to sea.

“I heard you talking to Dr. Toussaint about me.” Benji says, retrieving his suture kit and gauze. He holds the paper wrapped square up to the light, pretending to assess it for unsterile tears or rips.

The soldier before him says nothing, but his breathing picks up. Any quicker, and the monitor’ll start going off. If he’s expecting Benji to lash out, or to hurt him, or do something worse like any number of the vile acts he’s committed in stories…he’s probably surprised by Benji’s careful, expert treatment.

The wound on his leg is thoroughly cleaned, sterilized, and adequately closed up. Benji isn’t cruel for a second of it, although the desire to touch two centimeters deep in the split of red-weeping tissue sits fresh at the front of his brain.

“I heard rumors.” The private brushes fingers against his thigh. He doesn’t sound terrified anymore. Maybe just a bit wary.

“Most of you have.” Benji says. He turns with a shrug to pluck the gloves off and wash his hands. He closes the lid on the empty numbing syringe, tucks it dutifully into the sharps container, and does everything quick, correct, and by the book.

If not…uncharacteristically kind.

“Guess they’re wrong?”

Benji turns and props himself against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. When the private’s eyes stray down, Benji corrects the expression on his face by making it softer.

“Are you asking, or telling.”

His nearly-silent words make the other soldier smile slightly. He leans forward, wound in his leg forgotten, fear put out back.

“I guess I’m telling.”

Benji ducks his head, as if shy. “I’m not like that.” He asserts. He sounds how he ought to — kindly assertive, but not defensive; humbled, but hurt. He sounds like it bothers him, what people think. That it wounds him.

“At least not that I’ve seen.”

Benji takes a step closer. The private doesn’t seem concerned by the fact that the door — his one escape — is now on the other side of the medic.

“I just,” Benji says, dragging from the end of the gurney to close his palm lightly around the soldier’s gauzed thigh. “Really am fulfilled making people feel better again. Like…making them feel good.”

The private smiles at him, eyelashes fluttering.

Benji smiles back. Then he squeezes.

Hard.

But he goes back to his quarters alone. Worse, he goes back to his quarters unsatisfied. There was no nice throb in his gut, no half-hard tightness to his trousers, no telling flush or sweaty neck or arousal of any fucking sort. Usually, he wouldn’t be alone. The private was exactly the sort who accompanied him — scared but intrigued, confused about the source of their need.

And yet Benji had sent him off practically with a lollipop. Sure, the reopening of the gash in his legs had hurt — if his soulful shriek of pain was anything to go by — but that’s where the evening had found its end. Not in more pain, or a kiss to along with it, or more on top.

He could have added threats. Another welt to go with the seatbelt criss-crossing his chest. The wounds: blade to the thigh, stripe of red along his sternum; Benji’s teeth printing his neck.

Except.

Benji goes back to his quarters alone. Nothing lingers with him about that night, about the treatments. Not even that sad little sound that he’d rung out as if from a rag. Benji’s usually all about those sounds. Pain or pleasure, they meant a job well done, that he’d accomplished either. It was do no harm, after all, not do no pain.

As for pleasure?

Midnight creeps by. Then one, then two. He lays still, for the most part, the length of those hours before his patience (thin, already, the mood he’s in) snaps entirely.

Benji sits up with a snarl, legs hanging over the side of the bed. He scrubs at his eyes. He’s getting —he’s remembering — and there aren’t any lovely sounds or flashy colors or sticky, wet insides to dance in front of those memories. He’s stuck with them for the moment, faint and blurry but there nonetheless, fuck.

And then—

He hears a laugh resound the length of the hall. It’s peppy but full, a winding sort of off-key at the end. For each second that it echoes on, that sort from the sort of humor that shocked, Benji’s foot taps quicker.

What’s so funny, corporal? He thinks. Benji is no stranger to venomous thoughts, but the bitterness layered in that surprises him. Who’s making you laugh? Tell them they’re late on their physical, hey? Send them down. I wanna hear the joke, too.

Benji tosses himself back on the bed. His thoughts bump around together: collide, bounce away, overlap, muddy up. One of the only consistents is a mess of red hair. That laugh lingering. He imagines it as a creature attached inside his ear.

Benji slips his hand down his chest. Rests it there, finger pressed into the divot of an old bullet graze across his pectoral. It presses slightly. On that particular spot of tough scar tissue, the touch causes a strange sensation he’s never found a similar feeling. It’s almost like an ache. Almost like a nerve was reattached wrong in the healing process. Pressing down there makes something tug slightly beneath the skin, an almost hurt.

Benji swallows and huffs out his air. Then he keeps the touch moving down. The slope of his stomach; hipbone; thigh.

He’s quick about it. Or…it’s quick. He has a laugh stuck to the interior of his skull. The more he loses himself in the easy rhythm of his hand, eyes pinched shut so he can better connect to memory, the fainter that laugh gets. It turns instead to certain noises he’s heard before. Recently, in fact. The yelp from the soldier, he imagines as Xavier’s own higher whine. A little cry of pain, a swear or snarl with that messy accent.

Benji imagines the heave of these noises in a warm chest. Skin under his palm. He imagines pressing down with his weight. Holding down. The stutter of the chest, a noise turned into a pitiful gasp for air.

In his mind, he lets up. The cruel — potentially lethal — fantasy lingers in the pricks of tears to green eyes, pinched-angry red nipples, a plummy bruise of incisors to his shoulder. But Benji feels the body beneath his pulls in a breath from that brief imagined mercy —

Then he imagines it laughing.

Holy shit, Xavier says in his head. That one kind of hurt.

Benji’s — well. It’s quick, after that.

The following week, Benji lingers after a briefing. The remainder of the company flow around him, trickling from the room like shadowy fish on a current. The number of soldiers at the base dwindles by day; they’re all aware of the ones who don’t come back from missions, who disappear after a meltdown by the commando, or leave in the middle of the night. Benji’d caught Tanaka at the far side just that Friday evening, shuffling some big-eyed redhead out a breach in the perimeter. He’d nudged her slightly behind him in some last-ditch show of heroics, but Benji had only shrugged and tapped his nose.

His silence was another favor to collect on. Tanaka was smart enough to know it.

Tanaka is also smart enough to pay little attention to Benji’s behavior. Their eyes briefly amongst the crowd, two pairs of dark pools magnetizing together before one bounces away. Always observing, that one. Benji was glad to have a pair of eyes when he’d need them, and even happier to know that Tanaka respected threats when they were given in earnest. Or implied.

Benji gives him a cheeky little nod anyway. The other man disappears around the corner, a tail-end of the crowd of black uniformed bodies. And once everyone has gone, Benji goes back into the room.

He knows Tanaka’s probably still waiting around that corner, protective but wary.

I’m not gonna kick your dog, mate. Benji thinks as he strides across the room. Don’t you worry.

His footfalls are quiet, but not silent. It doesn’t shock him to discover that the corporal is otherwise occupied, when he wrenches open the door to the meeting room’s supply attaché, as Nick calls them. Fucking supply closet, the rest.

In the blurry darkness, Benji can make out the corporal’s tall form tucked into a corner. His back is to the door (sloppy), shoulders curled and head hung between them. Benji opens the door further; light spills in near his boot. It does a wonderful job of illuminating, like a work of shadow art, the frantic movements of his wrist. But it also alerts Xavier to the fact that someone has discovered him in an incredibly compromising position.

Wouldn’t be the first time, Benji knows from rumor. It’ll have to be memorable.

“Oh God,” Xavier whimpers, dropping his chin. He sees the yellow sliver of outside light and lets out a shocked yelp. “Don’t—“

Benji shuts the door behind him, casting them in pitch-black. Xavier stumbles, whirls around, shoots an arm out that nearly catches Benji in the face. He dodges it and then makes a guess whereabouts —

“Jesus!” Xavier squeaks, making something fuzzy and predatory pound between Benji’s eyes. “I’m — I thought—“

“Relax.” Benji says, pulling himself towards Xavier with the grip he’s caught on his sleeve. His fingers trace up a slim wrist, find Xavier’s own palm. It’s slick and warm from arousal, the heat of his own body.

“Just me.”

Xavier goes quiet and then makes a similar sort of noise to just a moment prior. Except — hungrier. Weak. His big body sways towards Benji, an arm slinging around his shoulders. Xavier tucks his face almost immediately down, knocking their foreheads together.

“In that case, I think it’s please don’t charge me with public indecency and more w-ooow you have such good timing.”

Benji holds onto his forearm while Xavier leans back into the corner, his feet bracketing Benji’s boots and barely keeping himself upright. They knock together, one of the only indicators Benji has of their proximity.

“You know people keep talking about the closet masturbator?”

Xavier freezes. His arm halts the lazy tug he’d taken back up. “They have?”

“No.” Benji huffs after a beat. “But you fuckin’ believed me, huh. Nah, Xavier. Just saw you duck in here last week.” He leans in until he finds the coarse material of Xavier’s shirt. He tugs at the fabric with his teeth, then readjusts and catches skin with the next bite. Xavier squeaks again, then moans.

“Oh. I—“

“Was doing this, huh?” Benji reaches between them to cover Xavier’s hand with his own. He squeezes.

Hard.

“Fuck.”

“Not quite. That what this is about, huh? You thinkin’ about it?”

“Yes.” Xavier admits. “I mean, no — it’s not what—“

“The sitrep, then?” Benji’s laugh is incredulously mean. “You get off going to boring ass meetings, Xavier — that’s fuckin’ pitiful.”

He can’t see Xavier’s angry blush, his pinched expression of contrite, prissy annoyance. He wishes he could. But he can only feel the little throb in his hands, the way Xavier shuffles and tries to get closer even as he sounds angry.

“No, I am not fucking jacking it to the meeting, you asshole. God. You’ve done a lot of shit to me, but that insult might be..like, it.”

Benji squeezes him again, drags the touch along with Xavier’s hand upwards, trying to get his rhythm back. “You not feeling fulfilled, Xavier? Gotta come look for it among this lot? Two weeks in a row you come take care of it alone. That’s what you were doing last week, yeah? Not snortin’ blow or fucking around. You were alone.”

Xavier swallows audibly. His weak thrashes, his attempts at getting away — they halt. He makes a soft noise, and then those attempts redouble. Benji holds him still throughout the squirming. Benji allows it for a moment longer before switching both hands to Xavier’s biceps and firmly pinning him to the wall.

He steps close enough that he knows the front of his shirt brushes up against very vulnerable skin. On cue, Xavier gasps and throws his head back with a resounding clang to the metal shelf behind him.

“Ah, fuck. You’re — you are awful close.” Xavier says nervously. He tries to move again. “I’m freaking out a little, here. I don’t like — it’s dark, this is a small —“

“Are you alone right now?”

He imagines Xavier’s big, sweet eyes plink-plink together.

“No.” The corporal breathes. He arches closer to Benji; his eyes haven’t adjusted to the light fully, but now he can make out Xavier’s towering silhouette before him.With his free hand, he reaches up to touch where Xavier’s mouth ought to be. Instead, they brush against a chin.

Benji adjusts and slips them inside, pressing and pulling down on Xavier’s tongue.

“Were you last week?”

It sounds vitriolic. Angry. But Xavier doesn’t seem to mind the rough interrogation.

“Yeah,” he admits. His own voice is shot through and rough with arousal. He sounds as though he’d been breathing hard right before Benji discovered him. He wonders how close the poor bastard is. How close he can get him, before he starts making more noises.

“You gonna be alone tonight?”

Here, Xavier hesitates. Benji can tell there are eyes searching for his, even in the dark.

“I don’t need to be.” Xavier finally settles on, the words hot around Benji’s fingers. He pulls them from Xavier’s mouth and curls a fist in his shirt.

“Then you won’t.” He says. With a hard yank, Benji pulls their faces together. Expectedly, they collide off-course. He feels his gums split in his mouth, the taste of copper as his lip connects with Xavier’s jaw.

From there, though, it’s not a difficult adjustment. Their mouths fit together, Xavier’s breathy noises intoxicating him from the inside out as he swallows them down with each kiss.

When Benji thrusts a hand into his hair, Xavier’s chest heaves out of sync.

“I’m going to —“

“No.”

Xavier’s mouth drops open against his cheek. He wails a little, clearly trying to keep his voice down. Benji dares anyone to come investigate those noises; he assumes that is what Xavier’s scared of, but he’d sooner kill than share those noises with another soul.

“Not until you come see me tonight.” Benji purrs against his throat. He bites down, front teeth digging in to a sharp collarbone, and Xavier hiccups a telling sob. “No pun intended.”

He makes it quick for Xavier. Or — it’s quick.

He’s barely got his hand around that pale cock before Xavier’s breath hitches. The noises he lets loose are uncharacteristically quiet, few and far between. Benji gets a strange, crushing disappointment in his chest before he realizes why.

When the orgasm passes, Xavier’s eyes flutter back from his skull and settle wetly on Benji. His hand strokes up and down Benji’s forearm, where a tendon is still taut from the firm grip he maintains. His breathing returns to normal, the heave of his chest all that remains of the particularly strong orgasm.

“Your hand felt too good,” Xavier whines this explanation, his tone sweet and sleepy and shy. Benji thinks back to the prior month, where he’d watch Xavier pummel a man to death. Until his teeth were stuck with blood, until the creature that lived in him shone out through his eyes. His stomach flips, but it’s an alien sensation he can’t compare to anything else — like the press of his thumb into that divoted scar.

Xavier is eager. He likes to play games when they’re fun and when they’re dangerous. It’s barely any work at all to get him to agree to the little wager Benji sets out, once they’ve both cum another time and have melded together sticky. Xavier agrees to his dare with an adorable, competitive snicker.

“That’ll be easy,” he says, crossing an X over the left side of his chest with a finger. “With that reward? Pft. Not even a challenge.”

But he doesn’t sound sure; Benji has been a first-hand witness to the ways that the corporal approaches sex: ready, willing, happy to be there and find attention lavished upon him. Even if however brief. Even despite Benji’s teasing of his appetite, his proclivities, his lack of will power when it came to getting himself off…Xavier simply smiles at him, head cocked and eyes glinting.

Can touch yourself ‘til we see each other again, but not finish. I’ll handle it for you, if you can —but I bet not.

“How long will you be gone” is only a question Xavier thinks to ask after he’s agreed to the terms of the dare. And when he sees the smug, victorious look on Benji’s face — well. He seems a little fearful, a little needy.

It’s a week Benji’s away. A mission he gets assigned to, rather than waiting duty back on base. He knows it’s only because their numbers have dropped so low. He knows he’s a liability out here, as likely to hurt an ally as a foe if the mood struck. He knows that’s why every soul up to the commander avoid him, try to keep him off rosters.

“Spooky fucker,” one of the bomb-unit boys mutters as he passes by. Benji is in a good mood. Instead of whirling with the knife tucked in his belt, opening up the other soldier’s throat, Benji simply smiles.

“Boo,” he says, widening his eyes. He has, as Nick would say, une récompense waiting. All he’s gotta do is behave.

Lately, Benji’s been real good at behaving.

Except when he returns to base, he’s faced with a bit of a problem. Tanaka finds him in the equipment space, storing his dusty pack for the next time they need a butcher on-field.

He knows immediately something is wrong.

“While you were all gone, there was a breach — not my spot, don’t fucking look at me like that. Someone tried to get to the commander, and Xavier—he’s asking for you.”

“Aw.” Benji pouts. “He needs a little home visit?”

As he goes to leave, Tanaka’s hand closes around his wrist. Benji could turn that touch immediately, break his fingers, break his wrist — maybe keep going up the arm. He coldly turns back to the other soldier, instead.

“Whatever the fuck you’re doing to him, it’s gotta stop.” Tanaka hisses. “I had to convince him to let somebody look at him. Got fucked up in that fight, protecting everybody. And he just kept saying you’d take care of him. That you’d do it.”

Benji allows himself to be shaken. His face remains neutral.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Tanaka growls. “It’s gotta end soon. Do you hear me, man? I will kill you.”

Benji smiles at him instead of responding. The big ones are all bark. The little ones go for a bite — then return for seconds. He

Benji finds him exactly where Tanaka told him he could be found; sat atop one of the exam stations in medical, close to Benji’s usual haunt. Xavier has an arm in a wrapped bandage, tattoos peeking out from the top of the blood-pinked gauze. There’s a knot developing on his temple, his lip has managed to split again, and a bruise develops like a blossom on his jaw.

Benji whistles as he enters the clinic. The corporal’s smiling before his eyes even rise fully from the ground.

Then it drops into a glare.

“You fucker. You didn’t say a week.”

“Had it handed to you, huh Wolffe?” Benji sing-songs, ignoring him. “Look more roughed up than usual. Problems focusing will do that.”

“I’m not having trouble focusing—“

Benji fits his tongue to the side of his cheek, gesturing lewdly in the air between them. He tops it off by frowning and miming flaccidity with his finger.

“Fuck you.” Xavier grumbles, cheeks heating.

“Ooh,” Benji cooes. “Proper grumpy, huh?”

After a perfunctory wash of his hands, he turns to the supply cabinet and retrieves a new roll of gauze and some other tools. The box of gloves he debates on — then tucks surreptitiously under his arm. “You know, you didn’t have to wait.”

Xavier’s cool, intelligent eyes follow him as he moves; its not the same wariness as Nick, or the hateful fear-touched ice of Tanaka. Specific to Xavier, specific to Xavier’s eyes on him.

“You asked.”

Benji drops his armful of goodies on the rolling tray beside the gurney and pulls it closer. He steps between Xavier’s knees. They widen slightly to offer space — Benji feels saliva pool in his mouth at how quick and habitual it seems.

You asked. The implication: I obeyed.

“I said.” Benji corrects evenly. “Seems like you just interpreted it as a request, hey?” His head tilts coyly so he can peer up at Xavier while still unwrapping everything. Surprise, surprise: ruddy splotches of color have flooded the corporal’s cheeks. “Or— or a command? Xavier. Nasty. You wanted that?”

Xavier scoots forward. His long legs tuck around the back of Benji’s thighs, ankles locked. He glares at Benji, regardless of the warm contact of their bodies or sneaky climb of a broad hand up Benji’s side.

“I wanted you,” Xavier says. The clarification drops a hot weight of arousal into Benji’s stomach, even if he knows that snide half-grin and fluttering lashes are purposeful.

Benji takes his jaw roughly, without warning. His fingers dig in to softly stubbled skin. This touch earns a gasp — and then the other hand Benji fits over his thigh earns another.

“Bullshit,” Benji purrs, bringing their faces together as if he’s going to grant a benevolent kiss. “You just wanted to cum. Sick fuckin’ dog. Couldn’t even wait a week, huh?” He shakes Xavier’s head, squeezing those adorable freckled cheeks before letting go. “Oughta be ashamed.”

Xavier’s face floods with more color, but those big excited eyes don’t stray from Benji. He’s too earnest when he speaks: “I’m not.”

Another flip of his stomach, alien in sensation only because of the context — intimate, truthful, soft. Benji already lets Xavier hold him, when he’s given the opportunity to linger after one of the explosive times they slip away together. Benji already lets him do so many things he shouldn’t; make enough allowances and something will go soft. Spoil. Not in the good sort of rotting way.

Benji ignores that gentle admission, the hand tucked beseechingly into his waistband to touch skin. He wipes sterile his supplies and is meticulous about setting them out, ready and available for whatever wounds Xavier’s been hiding. Maimed creature under the porch sort.

“Fuckin’ stupid for not letting anybody look at you.” Benji notes, gesturing to the half-hearted gauze wrapped around his arm. “You do that?”

Xavier glances down at it. “Yeah. Learned watching you.”

Benji snorts. “That so? Well you’ll be ready for the big leagues soon, right?” He starts a slow unwind of the wrapping, fingers electrified whenever they brush skin. “Nick’s the surgery guy. Bet he’ll let you sit in, watch ‘em fish some shrapnel out of guts— if that’s so interesting.”

His wrist is suddenly enclosed in a tight grip. When he peeks up at Xavier’s face, its stony and disgusted. “Stop fucking with me.”

“Stop showin’ up and making yourself a target,” Benji sing-songs back. When he gets at the wound along Xavier’s forearm, he pouts; it’s nearly all healed. The edges of the laceration — from a serrated blade, just a light enough swipe not to tear — aren’t even pink with inflammation.

“Boring.”

Xavier laughs at his yawn. “Man, can you be normal even for a second? You can just get me some Tylenol, an ice pack for my head maybe. Call it a day.”

Benji leans forward and spreads his hands on either side of Xavier’s hips. The taller man sits upright a little more, eyes widening. Every possible point of contact between them drifts closer, but Benji is careful about keeping them separate. Just close enough. Just almost there. Hasn’t that been the whole point?

“Would that make you feel better, corporal? Gettin’ taken care of?” He asks, voice dropped low enough Xavier needs to sway forward to hear each word. “Wanna bandaid for your booboos? Want me to kiss it better?”

Xavier lets out a shaky breath. “I want—”

The snap of a glove fills the room. It’s loud and unexpected enough a noise that Xavier jumps. His whole form twitches between Benji’s arms, shoulders pulling up to his ears before relaxing.

“Jumpy bastard.” Benji notes, a fond note unfolding alongside the mean tease. “How’d you even manage it, a fight? All scared and…” he glances down to Xavier’s lap. “On edge.”

“I’m very good at what I do.” Xavier mumbles defensively.

“Hm.” Benji tsks. That hiss between his teeth nearly covering the soft snap! the button on Xavier’s black trousers offers. “Me too.”

Before he’s even snuck a hand down that split fabric, knuckles grazing the zipper, Xavier falls back on his elbows. He nearly careens over the opposite side of the gurney, and Benji has to swallow a laugh at the shocked yelp that escapes him. The legs stuck around his waist tighten as Xavier adjusts for balance, shuffling closer. Benji shoves his shirt up his stomach to watch how it ripples with breath, abdomen taut with the long stretch of his body.

“Oh. Thought I was gettin’ medical attention.” Xavier finds his voice to snark. “Guess this isn’t as professional an establishment as I thought.”

Benji leans forward to drag teeth over his hipbone, tugging the fabric down until it bunches at the thighs. He’s unwilling to move further away to take them off entirely, but Xavier doesn’t seem to mind either; he kicks his long legs, finds them mostly trapped, and then whimpers pathetically.

“How often?”

This doesn’t receive a response right away: Benji’s pulling on the nitrile exam gloves. Each careful movement as his hands are covered is carefully monitored by Xavier. Green eyes darkened, lids heavy, lips parted.

“Are you going to jack me off with those.” He says intelligently.

Benji can’t help the amused snort. “I’m unprofessional?”

“It’s been a week.”

Even without prior knowledge, even if that had been an admission — Benji can tell. He can tell because when he wraps his hand around the half-hard cock between Xavier’s legs, they kick.

“Oh fuck—“ Xavier goes, in that tell-tale way. Benji snorts again, mean and judgmental, and tightens his fist around the base.

“Naw, mate. Really. That’s just embarrassing, isn’t it?” Despite this, Benji strokes once. Just once. But firmly enough Xavier throws his head back.

“Seven days!” He squeaks. His hand shoots up to wrap around Benji’s wrist, tugging at him pathetically. Trying to get more — trying to get enough.

“Benji —come on, man.”

“Dunno,” Benji hesitates. His free hand lifts to Xavier’s thigh. He digs fingernails in to the muscle. Hard, hard — until Xavier whines and tries to twist away from that grip. “How’d I know you kept your word?”

“I did,” the corporal promises weakly. He’s already close to begging; his head’s tossed back again. Pretty auburn hair frames in a loose sweaty curl around the shell of his ear. Benji fixates there for a moment, at the bruise near his temple. His fingernails dig into Xavier’s thigh more, other fist squeezing around Xavier’s rapidly filling erection.

“I promise. Not a — I didn’t — the whole time—”

“Hm.” Benji murmurs. He goes for thoughtful. He goes for benevolent. “You sayin’ you deserve it, Wolffe? You deserve one real good one? You been good, s’what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Xavier whines. He’s barely been touched, but when his chin drops to his chest Benji can see tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re not sayin’ it.”

The poor bastard’s face goes so red Benji imagines him exploding in a shower of viscera. He nods desperately, then swallows to find his voice.

“I’m —I’ve been good.”

“Again.” Benji starts a slow rhythm. “You’re what?”

“I’ve — I’m good.” Xavier whisper-whines, his eyes fluttering quickly as Benji’s wrist picks up speed. “Oh, fuck. M’good.”

One, two, three— at four pumps, Benji slows. At five, he stops entirely.

Xavier reacts. His whole body shudders, shoulderspulling back as he drops forward. He makes an angry, mournful sort of noise, heels tapping incessantly and mad behind Benji’s back.

The corporal is not know to be a patient man. Benji has heard stories — and witnessed, on more than one occasion — how he gets when that thread has gone thin. When it snaps. Properly frustrated, Xavier is lethal. Properly mad? Another story entirely. Lethal would be a blessing.

Benji nudges their foreheads together to find his eyes; they’re seething, burning. And yet he doesn’t move. He doesn’t shove Benji away. He takes a big breath, rubs his nose along Benji’s, lets out a hitching sound from his chest.

The tears start up properly.

“Please?” Xavier whines. When Benji doesn’t offer a response, simply observes, the meltdown begins. “Please — please. I was good. I did what you said. You can’t just — that’s cruel, you can’t. I waited. I didn’t — I just need—“

Need. Yeah. That’s what it is, the illumination behind the tears and bright green irises under the clinic’s harsh light. It’s need, behind the frustration and genuine anger and (humiliatingly, to Xavier) desperation.

Benji is, by some force too brutal and big and grotesque to name, dropped to his knees. He pulls Xavier to the end of the gurney, letting go of his thigh for only a moment to find the lever that lowers it. Xavier’s boots thump the ground. Now his lap is a decent height for Benji to press his cheek to skin he’d bruised with fingernails. He rubs his face there, breathing hard as he swipes his tongue over the purpling crescents. He keeps it out, saliva pooling once more, as he tugs Xavier with more purpose and finesse.

“I’ll blow you next time,” Benji says matter-of-factly. It’s not an offer. Not a promise. He’s going to. He will. No question, no command. “You can cum on me.”

Xavier’s mouth drops open. His eyes pop wide and then squeeze shut and then Benji can’t make out the rest of the expression that follows because his head goes slack on his neck, totally weightless. His bottom half lifts off the gurney entirely, hips punching up just a few times before he lets go — not just of the long-delayed uncoiling of an orgasm, but of a noise. Unlike the random private, it sinks into him; as if his chest is porous, permeable, waiting to be filled.

It’s not the only sound — Xavier’s slick in his hand, gets messier and downright filthy as he chases more of the touch. He’s not even fully hard when he comes. Benji wonders if it hurts like that. Hopes so. Xavier likes a little of the hurt.

Benji pulls away; he waits until Xavier glances back down at him to drag his tongue between his fingers, along the black material.

“Jesus?” Xavier pants. His hand lifts — but its the elbow keeping him propped and upright, so he starts to fall backwards. Benji gets an arm around his waist as he rises, stepping between Xavier’s knees again. He pulls the gloves off while Xavier recovers his breath. Those green eyes follow them in the arc towards the trash.

“All better?”

Xavier snaps to him. He looks — Benji doesn’t want to break him open, in that moment. He just wants to watch. His torso is slick with sweat, a decently messy splatter of cum across a pale stomach. Benji reaches out to touch it, spread his hand through it…and stops.

Always observant, the corporal notices this hesitation. His doped smile slips off to be replaced by a pinched brow.

“Was that too quick?” He asks, gathering himself up. He yanks his shirt down, shoulders rounding.

“Certainly wasn’t a long while, was it?” Benji teases. He jerks at the air again, wide motions of his elbow. “Weren’t long enough to gimme a cramp, so. Thanks for that, s’pose.”

Xavier’s expression doesn’t soften. Or change at all. Benji feels that thread thin; an awareness of the corporal’s mood has engrained in him, embedded like shrapnel beneath the skin. He might ask Nick to dig around, just in case it’s really there. Fuck.

“Do you even—“ Xavier croaks. He sounds pathetic. “I mean. I know…I know this isn’t normal. It’s…” he takes a shuddering breath. “It’s not good. I know that. I’m not fucking stupid. But do you even —”

Benji’s hands snap up to frame his face. The touch is anything but gentle; his palms fit there, anyway. They’re eye-level with the gurney lowered, with Xavier sat. He seems shy about the sudden intimacy. Or maybe the fact that his pants are still undone, that he’s still vulnerable and exposed in another fashion than this desperate request for clarity.

“I take care of you,” Benji asserts. “Me, alright.”

He drops one side of Xavier’s burning face to reach for the gauze, some antiseptic. One handed, wrapping a fresh protective layer around the healing gash on Xavier’s arm is a bit of a challenge, even for him. He’s not looking, either. He maintains that prickling eye contact, focus drooping to Xavier’s mouth for only a moment: when he draws in a sharp gasp as the gauze is pulled tight.

Benji is gentle about it otherwise, even if the fingers of the hand cupping Xavier’s cheek pinch in, dig crescents to match the ones on his thigh.

“You.” Xavier breathes when he’s done.

“Come see me tonight?”

The corporal nods dreamily. He looks fuzzier in the eyes than a moment before, when pleasure had spaced him out entirely. Because it’s a question, not a command. Come see me— do you even —

What, Benji wonders. Care? Dunno. But I’m satisfied.

#writing #bp #xw #bp x xw #evil au #ok. i have no explanation for this it has just been awhile since i touched this au and its disgusting im SORRY

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