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heartyluv · 1 month ago

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Note: Just wanted to make sure you guys understood something about Blythe, your daughter. I have her speaking “incorrectly” on purpose because she’s just a little baby. I didn’t want anyone to be confused. And please, please, I strongly advise listening to the song (only if you’re able to, of course) because it’s SO you and Caleb in the end and it makes it even more immersive when you think about the feelings. As you read, it’ll be there to play during the part I felt it fit best.

Creds to @/roseraris for the dividers!

Part One • Part Three • Part Four

Warnings: None. A little angsty toward the end. Not proofread, but I’ll get around to it.

Word Count: 4,241 (I’M SORRY)

Summary: Part two of Ex-Husband!Caleb

Ex-Husband!Caleb/Reader ~ Part 2

You have a big day ahead of you. Between all the chores you have lined up and your son’s basketball game after school, you don’t anticipate having a second to sit down and relax. But when it comes to your kids, doing things for them and being there for their achievements is what keeps you going.

After that night with Caleb, the dynamic between you two had already begun shifting. Instead of only contacting you when he’s on his way to get the kids, when he’s dropping them off, and when he’s added money to your account, he now messages you every morning to tell you to have a good day and sometimes including how glad he is that you’re giving him a second chance.

It was shortly after New Year’s when you called him to give him your answer—that you were willing to try again when he expressed how much he wanted you back. He nearly left his job to come see you in person, but when you told him that it was good to try and take things slow, he reluctantly accepted that. He didn’t want slow, but he wouldn’t scare you off. If baby steps is what you want, then that’s what he’ll do.

The first thing on your to-do list is grocery shopping. Jonah and Blythe are already at school—courtesy to Caleb—and that gave you time to actually get more sleep and have some grace to doll yourself up today. As you applied some lip gloss, your phone dinged.

Caleb: Hey. You free today?

Your eyes widened. Yet, you couldn’t help but smile like an idiot, but it didn’t last long when the reality set in of what you had to do.

You: I’m not, actually. I’m sorry. I have to get some shopping done, I have a nail appointment, and Jonah’s game later.

Caleb: Don’t apologize. I would like to join you, for everything. If that’s okay.

You: Oh.

You: Well, if you’re up for it, I don’t mind.

Caleb: Perfect :) What time did you plan on leaving?

You: In about ten minutes.

Caleb: I’ll be there in five. See you soon.

You officially felt like a lovesick school girl. It’s because the emotions and feelings for Caleb never left that you’re experiencing this already, but it still feels so surreal.

You make haste to perfect your hair and your clothing, opting for something comfortable. White long sleeve top and some dark blue jeans with sneakers—classic and simple, yet cute and admittedly, one of Caleb’s favorite outfits on you.

He was a minute early in his arrival and you were ready in shorter time too, but you didn’t want to look desperate, so you waited an extra few minutes. He’d never know that you were waiting by the door so that you could leave when the short timer on your phone went off.

When you stepped outside, Caleb was leaning on the passenger side of his sleek black car, scrolling on his phone. Once he heard the door shut, he looked up with a beaming smile. The man was so happy to be with you right now.

You softly reciprocate, offering him a shy one and a wave the closer you got. “Hey, good to see you,” you greet.

“It’s good to see you, too. You look great.” His eyes scan over you swiftly and you couldn’t help but wish he did it for much longer. You also notice that you two were basically twinning. He’s sporting an almost carbon copy of your outfit, only he’s wearing his jean jacket and yours is slung over your arm.

“Why, thank you,” you playfully curtsey. He chuckles, getting off the car to step a little closer, but making sure to keep what he believes you would see as appropriate distance. He tucks his hands into his pockets.

“I’m taking you everywhere you need to go. Just tell me and we’ll be on our way.”

You nod, sliding into the car after he held the door open for you. As you watch him round the front to get into the drivers seat, you inhale deeply. There’s that mix of his signature cologne and the pine car freshener that has always made your skin prickle with goosebumps, and you’re not surprised that it has the same effect on you now.

As you make your way to the supermarket, you’re thankful for the radio playing music to ease the unintentional silence between you and Caleb. You wondered, should I start some conversation? Should I say thank you for the millionth time? Should I—

“I’m excited for Jonah’s game,” he interrupts—thankfully—your frantic thoughts, turning the volume down so you can hear him. “Been a while.”

You look over, entranced by his strong hand and its veins as he maneuvers the vehicle with ease. Shaking yourself out of it, you finally speak.

“I am, too. He’s been waiting for you to come to another one. He’ll be so happy to see you there.”

The last time Caleb was able to attend one of your son’s games was over six months ago. Even if he didn’t tell you, you knew why—work. But he always made it up to Jonah, taking him out to buy new things and or food to celebrate. Although you wished he would’ve just been there, you’ve experienced enough to know that life doesn’t always allow you to have the things you want. You’ve learned that things don’t always work out how you anticipated.

“I bet he’s gotten really good.”

“For an eight year old, he’s a beast,” you laugh, thinking about all the times your little boy would fly across the court like he owned it. Jonah has always showed a great love for the sport of basketball, so when his school offered a team for the younger kids, you didn’t hesitate to sign him up. While he’s only been playing for a little over a year, he’s made such good friends and memories, showing such great talent that you were so proud him for.

His determination to improve, to become the best, it all reminded you of Caleb.

Once you’re in the store, Caleb offers to push the cart while you fill it to your heart’s content. Of course, he’s paying for it—no if, ands, or buts about it. The domesticity of the experience and the causal conversation flows naturally between you both.

It makes him think of how you used to do things like this together before he screwed up. But it’s showing him what he’ll gain it back if he gets it right this time.

“Remember how much you used to love the roast I made?” You point to the one in the freezer as you walk by. After the divorce, you couldn’t bring yourself to cook the dish again. Too many memories, good and bad. All the times he kissed you so hard when he came home because he was so excited. And all the times you had to eat it alone because he didn’t come home in time.

“Used to? I still love it. If you ever cook for me again, that’s the first thing on the wishlist.” He groans dramatically, but with your back to him, you smile sadly at that. You used to love his reactions to your cooking, to your attempts at dishes he’s created and made for you himself. You haven’t been able to have that in a long time. You miss it.

“We’ll see,” you tease, knowing that not if—when you cook for him again because another failure between you is not an option, you’re going to make it the best damn roast he’s ever had.

After you checkout, he drives you to the house to drop everything off. Then, when he told you he didn’t mind helping you put everything away if you felt comfortable with him coming in, you didn’t know why it almost made your knees buckle. But what made your heart sting?

It was when you gave him the okay and he was putting everything away in all the places he remembers where you stored certain items, even down to the order in which you did it. Seeing him move with such familiarity nearly brought you to tears. It reminds you that there was a time where this was his home, that this is what life looked like for you before you lost the man standing in the kitchen of the home he bought for your family.

“Alright, your nail appointment is next, right?” he huffs out a breath after putting all the bags into one.

“You don’t have to come with me for that. You already know how long that can take.”

The corner of his mouth tilts up and your body shudders when his hand comes up, his finger gliding against your skin to brush some hair away from your cheek. “I intend to get as much time with you as you’ll let me until I get our first date together. Is that alright with you?”

“First date..?” you question breathlessly as you stare up and into his eyes.

“Earning you back isn’t just about putting another ring on your finger or telling you I do again. I have to make sure you know your worth and how much I’m willing to do for you because you deserve to know how special you are. I’m doing what I should’ve continued to instead of letting the rift form between us because of my faults.”

“Caleb…I don’t know what to say,” you admit.

“You don’t have to. Just let me do all the work.” Your eyes dance across his face and the urge to kiss him again is so strong. He feels it too, it’s why his thumb brushes across your bottom lip.

Self control, you remind yourself.

You lower your head and his hand falls back down, taking the hint. You think back on his words. “You intend to marry me again?”

“There’s a lot I intend to do with you. Some old, some new. All of it—us.”

“You’re so corny,” you blush and shove his arm. “Let’s go, we’ve got 20 minutes.”

Caleb loved being in the nail salon. Correction, he loved being with you at the nail salon.

Seeing you do the things that make you feel pretty, how you pick out what you like, and pridefully being able to swipe his card to pay for it all? He was more than willing to make sure it was a privilege you always had.

Everyone was shocked to see Caleb with you when you came in. You’re fairly close to the women who work in and run the salon, so you did tell them about the divorce when it happened. The look on your favorite technician’s face when she saw Caleb walk up to you with the book that had all the colors made you have to suppress a laugh. All she wanted to do was step on your toe because she couldn’t ask you questions when he was here.

Caleb had waited patiently, even coming up to you and showing some designs he figured you might like. He’s always been involved about things that revolve around you, no matter what it is and no matter who he is to you.

And because he was paying for it—not because you wanted to make him smile or anything—you went with one of his favorites picks. He already knew before this, but it was that moment when he saw your nails that he knew there will never be an ending for either of you because forever is your only option.

About an hour and a half later, fortunately time had been on your side when you were done because it was only ten minutes until your daughter Blythe, needed to be picked up from school. Passing all the other parents waiting for their children, you stood next to Caleb as all the kids filed out of the building with their teachers.

Blythe saw you first, her apple cheeks round and raised to show her happiness. But she became the epitome of joy when her eyes landed on her dad.

“Daddy?” Her little eyes grew like large orbs. Once her teacher noticed you, she nodded and let Blythe go. Her hair bounced with each grand step she took on her run into his arms. The excited six year old girl nearly knocked him to the ground when she wrapped her little arms around his neck.

“Hey, baby girl,” he cooed, kissing her head. “You ready to go see Jonah?”

She quickly separated from her father to hug your legs while Caleb peeled her bright pink backpack to sling over his shoulder. She nodded enthusiastically, having you and Caleb hold her hands as you made your way to the gymnasium in the back of the school for your son’s game.

Your kids go to the same school and since Jonah’s on the team, his coach picks the kids up from their classes at the end of the day to get them ready to play on game nights.

“Mommy, can daddy spend night againnnnn?” she begs. Caleb looks at you and you shake your head at his goofy smile. But like a saint, he answers for you to break the news a little easier.

“I can’t, princess. But I promise to make sure you have something yummy before I leave. Sounds like a plan?”

She frowns, but ultimately accepts defeat and nods her head twice. You see all the parents coming for the game flock into the gym and you follow suit, holding the door for whoever is behind you as the familiar smell welcomes you. Caleb holds Blythe in his arms to keep her close and safe, warming your heart when she rests her head on his shoulder.

As you enter and get ready to follow them, a hand is on your shoulder. You turn to see Carson.

“Oh, hi!” you smile at him. Carson is a single dad and his son is new to the school. He moved into town a few months ago and gravitated toward your kindness when he sought help after being confused about how he should handle the game schedule. You made him feel at ease with your support and understanding and so at every game, he sat with you. Caleb hasn’t been to one in so long that he didn’t even know this was happening.

“Hey.” His dark green eyes crinkle in the corners. “Where’s Blythe?”

You always brought your daughter with you, so you’re not surprised about his question. “She’s with her father,” you confirm. “Up on the bleachers.”

Carson’s eyebrows furrow and his head tilts, looking up to find little Blythe in who he assumes to be her dad’s lap. And Caleb’s eyes were already on you before he even found him. Caleb, to say the least, was irritated. Today was about you and him, about you and his family. He didn’t know what was being said because of all the boisterous chatting, but he knew he didn’t like the familiarity. The way you laughed, the way the man looks at you.

Caleb knows that look, he’s had that look in his eyes since he first laid eyes on you. Infatuation. And that was a look only reserved for him.

“I didn’t know you guys were…together,” Carson says with a confusion. “I’ve never seen him at a game.”

“We’re…not.” You don’t need to explain your situation to him or Caleb’s absence, but you felt like you needed to for some reason. Still, you kept it to yourself.

Before you can say anything else, a hand is on your waist and a kiss is pressed to your temple. You feel Caleb’s thumb rub against your shirt, the gesture tender and beyond what two people who are supposed to be separated, should be doing. Carson looks down at the same time you do, but his jaw clenches when he looks back up and behind your head.

“Blythe is calling for you,” Caleb whispers in your ear.

Now, your ex-husband doing something like this used to always make your body hot. The way he’d stake his ownership and claim over you. But because of your circumstances at the moment, he didn’t have the right to do any of it. Especially not in front of Carson.

“I’m sorry, Carson. I’ll see you around, okay? We’ll talk soon.”

He’s quick to leave, and you snap your head to Caleb. “What the hell is your problem?”

He just looks at you as if he’s done nothing. “I don’t have a problem. Not anymore, at least.” His eyes narrow. “You and him got something going on that I should know about?”

You’re ready to cuss him out. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“I’m not trying to start anything. Just wanted to know since we’re supposed to be working things out.”

You take a deep breath, refusing to cause a scene because of his fucking audacity. Caleb’s jealousy had its pros and cons and right now, the cons were outweighing all of it. That’s what you try convincing yourself.

You push past him and your mood is soured for most of the game. And so was Caleb’s. The day was going so good, everything felt like maybe trying again really isn’t a bad idea, only for him to do something that made you believe you should rethink. This incident wasn’t isolated, he’s done things like this before. Sometimes worse. But you stuck with him because you loved him, because you know he just loved you so much that it consumed him. He just hated when anyone had the nerve to show any signs of the same thing.

And now that you aren’t together, despite “trying to work things out” as he put it, you wondered if you should tell him you need more time.

You tried to engross yourself into Jonah’s plays, watching your son with pride. Seeing all the little ones take this so seriously was always fun to watch. It seemed that Caleb got into the groove as well, standing with Blythe and cheering loudly for Jonah’s victories.

When Jonah’s game was finished, he didn’t hug his team after they won. He didn’t jump for joy as he made the final basket. Instead, he ran with tears in his eyes, up the bleachers and to his dad. He jumped into his arms, silently weeping as everyone clapped at the sentimental scene.

“Hey, little man,” Caleb soothed, his voice nearly breaking. “I’m so sorry it took me so long to see you play again. But I promise, I’m gonna be around more.”

Jonah just nodded as his father squeezed him. Blythe couldn’t help but join the hug and you were brought to tears witnessing the moment. After Jonah finally separated from him, he hugged you and his little sister before running back down for his team to be formally announced victorious.

He and Caleb, along with several comments from Blythe, conversed all the way to the car about everything their little hearts could think about. And Caleb refused to let you dwindle behind, so he made sure Jonah held your hand while he carried Blythe. You couldn’t help but admit to yourself how completed you felt, despite the uneasiness in your chest.

“Dad, did you see when I passed the ball?!” Jonah said in the backseat once you were all buckled in the car and on your way. Caleb got the kids some pizza slices, but you told him you didn’t want anything for yourself. He got you something anyways, but noticed how you distanced yourself from him. And he fucking hated it.

“I did,” Caleb encourages. “Mommy told me you were getting good. I can’t wait to see more.”

“I can pass ball, too!” Blythe yelled, just wanting to be included. But you were so in your thoughts, you couldn’t bring yourself to chime in.

After he got you all home, you told the kids to head inside and to wait for you in the living room since Caleb said he wanted to talk when he parked. He gave them big hugs, wishing them a goodnight before they scurried inside, ready to eat.

“You’re mad at me,” he says simply when you leave the door cracked to keep an eye on them.

“You can’t just do things like that because you’re jealous, Caleb. That used to work when I had your ring on my finger, it doesn’t now. He was just being friendly and you had to touch me? Kiss me?”

“What, I can’t touch you now? You didn’t say anything when we kissed on Christmas Eve,” he scoffs.

“That was different and you know it,” you retort. “You can’t touch me like that. Not when I just said that we weren’t together only moments before and then suddenly you’re all up on me, making me look like a liar.”

He lowers his head, pressing his lips together. “How was I supposed to know that? Besides, you should know me well enough to get that I wouldn’t even have cared had I did. I don’t care what anyone may perceive and I don’t regret it. He wants you, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“As of right now, that’s not your problem. And I know you don’t.”

“Like hell it isn’t my problem—”

“Watch your mouth when you talk to me,” you check him and he shuts up because he knows you’re right. He’d beat his own ass about it, if he could.

“Look, I don’t want to leave with you being upset. I promised to do better, I know. But I’m losing my mind,” he voiced your name like it pained him to say it without his last name attached to it. “Seeing him talk to you so freely, making you laugh like I used to be able to, it bothered me.”

“All I want to do is kiss you. I want to skip all this, if I’m being honest with you. There’s no one else for me, I already told you. Because I know that, trying to act like I’d be okay with you telling me you need more time or more space, it’s something I’m incapable of. So when I saw how you tried to cower from me, I couldn’t leave unless we spoke.”

“You promised that we’d take it slow,” you shake your head.

“Because it’s what you want!” He closes his eyes, reminding himself to calm down. “I don’t even deserve the opportunity to stand in front of you right now, but you’ve given it to me, you’ve given me the chance to make this right, to make us one again. What was it? The kiss, My hand on your waist? I’d do it again, that’s how much I don’t play about you, baby.”

“I want to get the kids ready for the night,” you dismiss. But he’s not allowing it.

“No,” he braces his hands on the door beside your head. “Tell me you’re not going to pull some shit on me to create distance. Tell me…I can’t go to sleep not knowing.”

“I’m not going to run, Caleb,” you say gently. He looks into your eyes with hope. For a moment, there’s an internal battle in your head. Should I tell him the truth? What I really felt?

“Let me know what you’re thinking,” he pleads. He’s always been able to read you effortlessly. “Please don’t shut me out. Work with me.”

“I wasn’t mad at you…” you push out, your heart thumping erratically in your chest. “I was mad at myself.”

“I don’t want slow either, but we shouldn’t rush it if we want it to be right… I was mad that when you touched me, when you kissed me, I felt like yours again. I felt like everything that happened, never did. And it scared me because I felt weak. I felt like I’m not able to stand on my own.” He listens without interruption. “But I don’t want to do it on my own.”

“I’m supposed to be upset, I’m supposed to have boundaries, I’m supposed to not want you so easily after what you put me through! All the times I was lonely in my pregnancies, all the times I went without seeing you, I should be so livid with you. And yet, even when I signed those papers…All I wanted was you. I love you so much that I hate myself for it.”

“Oh, baby…” he says breathlessly, sadness, love, hurt, and wanting taking over his face all at once. “Let me come in,” he kisses your neck, making you press into him. “Let me make you feel better. I don’t want to leave you alone.”

You shake your head, pressing your hands to his chest. “I can’t. I said I wouldn’t run, but I can’t cave so easily. Not yet..”

He respects that and you enough to pull back. “Okay. I won’t push. We’ll get through this. We’re gonna get it right. I’m gonna get it right. You won’t have to do anything by yourself, I promise you that.”

You smile sadly. “Goodnight, Caleb.”

“Goodnight, pretty,” he kisses your nose. “And…I love you, too.”

With a heavy heart, you don’t look back and walk inside. For your babies, you bear a faux grin but you know when you get into bed tonight, all you’ll think about is him All your body will think about is him. But you can’t deny the fact that this is the most you’ve felt in a long time. And it scares you beyond belief.

A/N: Okay, WHAT ARE WE THINKING?!?! IS IT GIVING SLOW BURN!!?! LOLLL IDKY I AM SO NERVOUS ABOUT THIS!!

@mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer

Part One • Part Three • Part Four

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #lads x you #lads caleb #lads #caleb fluff #caleb angst #Spotify

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buckybarnesslutshop · 2 months ago

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Saturday Morning

Bucky Barnes x Reader

NSFW: Minors DNI- Blocking is on sight

CWs: Smut, NSFW, sex, crawling, rules, sub/dom and BDSM dynamics, Dom!Bucky, Sub!Reader, power dynamics; Daddy and Sir titles for Bucky; Good Girl, Slut, Whore, Doll, Princess, pretty girl, baby for Reader; reader is AFAB and she/her is used for reader; slight marking, oral f!receiving, fingering, squirting, praise and degradation, begging, slight edging, overstimulstion, squirting, themes of dumbification and humiliation, slight aftercare (bc round 2 baby), Bucky switching from rough to sweet, needy reader, loud reader, alluded round 2, Bucky being a bit of a little shit (in a good way), but so is reader

A/N: so this is the ✨ first ✨ fic lol. i wrote this when i had no connection in the countryside in notes app with no idea what I was writing ahead of time, so please excuse that. Somewhat proofread, I’ve got bad eyes don’t yell at me. Anyways welcome to the page lol. As you can tell, I was horny when writing this. Have a good week/weekend!

-S 🌻

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On the weekends, well, when Bucky wasn’t away on a mission and there were no set plans, sometimes the two of you would do what you called a “detox from life.” Sort of like a digital detox, where the goal is to avoid using social media, the goal of these special weekends was to separate from the outside world for a short time. A way to disengage with worries, to find solace in just each other. Sometimes, they lasted one day. Others started on Friday when you came home from work and ended Sunday evening. Either way, the dynamic was always set. Bucky was in charge, with full decision making power, and you behaved for him. Mostly, anyways.

This weekend was one of those instances. Recently, work had become rather overbearing. Bucky felt similarly: last week’s mission left him with piles of paperwork and a migraine that got bigger every time Sam commented on everything that had gone wrong.

So Bucky sent a message to Sam and let him know you both would be “away” for the weekend. Whether Sam had any idea of what that actually meant, he didn’t know nor care.

See, on these days, there were a few rules:

1. Always listen to what you’re told

2. You have to ask for what you want

3. Brats get punished

4. Bucky is no longer Bucky, he is Sir or Daddy unless a safe word is called or if aftercare is happening

5. A safe word must always be called if either you or him become uncomfortable

Oh, and rule 6: good girls don’t wear clothing, of course, unless Bucky says so.

That last rule often meant that Bucky would tell you to bend over the sofa, the counter, the bed, or anything else, just so he could get a view of your ass and pussy. Occasionally, he’d sit and just lightly toy with your cunt, seeing how wet you already were and were becoming. “Such a wet slut, doll. All for me, huh?” And you’d whimper back, “All for you, Daddy.”

Often times too, he made you crawl, like today. As they say across the kink community, a sub who can only think about behaving is a sub not worrying about anything else. And yeah, your knees would hurt eventually, and the embarrassment permanently tinted your cheeks red, and the look in your eyes when you looked up at Bucky was just oh so deliciously pathetic, but the submission was what you both wanted needed.

As you crawled from the bedroom to the living room: stark naked and dripping, mind you, you could see Bucky sitting on the couch. When he saw you, his eyes darkened, but he stayed silent. Upon crawling to him, and nudging his legs open, he complied. Sitting between them, arms on his calves, you nuzzle into his left thigh, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

“What do you want, pretty girl?”

But you’ve never been good at asking, so instead you whine frustratedly and pout slightly, eyebrows furrowing.

“You have to ask, you know the rules.”

You shift uncomfortably, asking has always made you nervous, and it’s taken you a long time with Buck to even get this far.

“I… Just. I just. I need… you. Want you.”

Bucky coos, taking his hand to your hair, gently playing with it and petting on you. “Try one more time for me baby, gotta ask real good and proper. What do you want? A hug? A kiss? Or is it something else?”

You whine loudly, laying your head down for a minute against his thigh. You huff, well aware he can feel it. You look up again, adopting your prettiest begging eyes. And oh Bucky loved to hear you beg. “Please Daddy? Need you to make me feel good, want your cock and your fingers and everything.”

Bucky only smirks, and grabs your chin with his metal arm. His thumb tugs your lip down, and he presses it into your mouth. Your mind goes hazy in an instant, sucking with no real hesitance. “Of course I can, baby. Daddy will take care of you, fuck you real good. You just wanna be taken care of, to not have to think, hm?” You nod, your mind a bit off into another land but still understanding.

“Let’s go to the bedroom then baby. Come on.” He pulls his thumb out, standing up. You’re reminded then that you can’t stand, not unless he says so, so you have to crawl along with him. He walks slowly with you, relishing in the silence that he knows is driving your humiliation further. You’re aware of his attention on you. Once there, he opens the door, letting you both in, and shutting it behind you. You wait for instruction.

“Stand up princess.” You do, legs a bit wobbly and achey. He catches you when you stumble, letting you steady as he kisses your forehead. “Let me make you feel good, ok?” He kisses you gently, starting off softly. He always does when your legs are sore and achey. Almost like he’s kissing the pain out of your body.

Soon enough though, he pushes you until your back is against the bedroom door, and begins devouring you through kisses. His tongue dances in, rendering you absolutely breathless and submitting to him. He pulls back, peppering kisses along your jaw in the spots he has come to know are OH so sensitive. He bites softly at the base of your neck in one of those spots, eliciting a moan from you, sucking hard to mark that spot on your skin for the hundredth time.

Once satisfied, he runs his tongue over it, gives it a kiss, and moves down to your breasts, taking your left nipple in his mouth to just tease you some. Your whimpers grow, and the steadiness you found in your legs begins to be lost again. By the time he is done with both nipples, you’re barely holding up, clutching on to him as much as you can. He stands, puts his hands on your hips, and pulls you slightly from the door. “Jump.” And you do, jumping so that your legs straddle his hips as Bucky lifts you to help. Your bare cunt is almost too close to his clothed, hard, cock, and kisses you again, seemingly more feverish than before.

Suddenly, your back hits the bed, and you realize he’s taken you over. He just stares for a moment, raking his eyes down your body, across your breasts, looking in your eyes. You squirm, feeling pent up and a bit embarrassed at his gaze. The clear difference in you being naked and him still in his sweats and t-shirt marks it even clearer who is in charge here: and it’s not you. He crawls on top, kissing down your neck again, before grabbing you by the hips to push you further up the bed, aligning your cunt with his face.

He dramatically inhales, groaning lowly at your scent. He never wants to be away from the smell of you, so always relishes in any moment he gets to smell your freshly soaked cunt. Besides, it always earns a small squeak of embarrassment from you, and releases another gush of arousal. He starts, then, with light licks at your clit, before growing more sloppy and obsessed with eating you out like he never will again. The wet sounds of his mouth almost fade into the background over your whimpers and moans.

“Fuck, daddy please-“ the begging already beginning, for who knows what.

“What princess? What do you want?” he says, in the low gravely voice you love.

“Please- Please please please” and you’re already drunk on him. “Please I wanna cum!” He pulls away, gaining another whine from you. Luckily, he thrusts a finger in suddenly, before quickly adding a second. You’re already soaked, and the sound it makes as he thrusts his thick fingers in is borderline heinous. “Just listen to that pretty pussy baby, listen to how much she loves stretching out for me.”

You cry out, his thick fingers always managing to make you feel full. He quickly finds the same spot that has your legs shaking, and a choked moan escapes you. You whine and moan, all words becoming some variation of “please daddy!” and “can I cum?”

“Go ahead doll, cum all over my fingers, soak me nice and good baby,” he says, and your legs begin to shake as Bucky has to place his other hand on your hip to keep you still enough. His thrusts continue as you ride out your orgasm, trying to catch your breath, and he stills.

Fingers still in you, he leans up, gently kissing you. “Feelin ok love?” He asks. You nod, and tell him you’re ok. His look of care turns into a bit of a smirk, but you barely notice. He stays somewhat straddled over you, adjusting so he can start thrusting again.

The immediate reaction he gets out of you is delicious. You’re almost yelling your moans. “Fuck fuck- Buck, sensitive! Sensitive oh my god-“ and he cuts you of with a slap to your thigh. “That’s not my name, slut. Or have you already forgotten? Daddy decides when you’re done, and you and I both know you have multiple more in you.”

“‘M sorry Daddy! I’m sorry” you sob out, feeling the rush of stimulation go to your head along with the degradation. The squelching becomes louder, almost deafening to you both. Bucky slows before adding a third finger. You cry out again, though the stretching feeling is all too welcome to you. A long string of curses come out, though somewhat incoherent.

“Please Sir! More. Need more, another finger please! Please Daddy!” Bucky slows slightly at this, as though he knows you enjoy feeling as full as can be, he knows you must be feeling particularly desperate to not even hesitate asking. He laughs, a sound almost jarring to you. Your eyes open to meet his blown-out dark ones.

“Oh doll, you’re such a good girl for me.” He pulls his fingers out. “SUCH a good-“ and four go in “-slut for me, askin for what you want. Askin to be full and stretched and fucked by my fingers.” You can barely think anymore, beginning to babble “please Daddy” and “thank you” and strings of cursed.

It’s then the feeling in your belly grows and you know all too well what is coming. Your cunt flutters and clenches down on Bucky’s fingers in a way he knows all too well, and thrusts just a bit harder to get you to your orgasm. “Cum for me baby, as soon as you’re there cum for me. You have permission.”

You nod, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes, but you still feel that slightly different feeling in your belly grow. You try to warn him of what’s coming, barely getting out “Daddy wait- wait gonna- it’s-“ Before a choked sob, or maybe a moan? Comes out and you cum, soaking Bucky’s hand in several spurts of squirt.

Upon seeing this, Bucky just grows more feral, a low growl being heard from him. He doesn’t stop, even when he’s sure you’ve rode out your orgasm.

Your eyes go wide as you realize he has no intent of stopping. “Daddy daddy wait- wait fuck! it’s! Daddy! Sensitive oh fuck-“

And Bucky shuts you up with another growl, “you’ll take what Daddy gives you. You’re cumming on my fingers again, and you’ll keep cumming until you squirt on my hand like a little whore again.” Your cunt clenches, and you whine.

“Aw, does someone like that? Does princess want me to fuck her stupid? Does my pretty girl want me to make her squirt like a slut?” And he keeps thrusting into that spot, all four fingers stretching you. The first tear falls, your mind completely gone. You can barely get the words out, mostly moaning and crying out, until there’s only the small warning of “fuck Daddy I-“ before you cum screaming. A large gush soaks Bucky’s hand as well as the sheets. Some even lands on his sweatpants and up his arm. He barely can contain himself enough to gently help you finish riding out your orgasm, a few sobs and tears coming out throughout the long high. His fingers come out of you with the characteristic squelch, and he grabs a wipe from the pack that sits on the nightstand during weekends like this.

“Doll? Are you ok?” He asks. You mumble something along the lines of a yes, legs still twitching and breathing slowing still. “Baby, I need words.” You whine, a quiet “Daddyyyyy” followed by a sigh and then “‘m ok. Feel good. Feel fuzzy.” You open your eyes slightly with a lopsided grin. He breaths out a sigh, kissing your forehead. He turns you a bit and lays next to you, spooning you and holding you close.

“That a bit intense doll?” He asks. “Nah, can handle it.” You say, the smile growing a bit wider.

“Oh, so you don’t want a break? Because I was going to be nice and let your pretty pussy rest baby, but maybe not. Maybe Daddy will just shove his big fat cock in” he says, voice low and growlish. The grip he has on your hip grows tight.

You grind down on him, well aware of his hard cock that you can almost feel throbbing. Bucky lets out a guttural moan, before you turn your head to look at him and say “is that a promise?”

#bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #buckybarnes #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #buckybarnesisaslut #godhelpmeimhorny #wrotethisinthemiddleofnowhere

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eowynstwin · 8 months ago

Text

Lilies

Price x f!Reader. - Dom/sub dynamics. whipping. vivisection as a metaphor for love. boot riding. throat-fucking. angst. aftercare. 18+ MDNI. Ao3

The bedroom is dim when you enter, lights turned low. Price watches you stop in your tracks at the unexpected darkness; watches you look around and catch sight of him.

He’s in the chair in the corner of the room. Hasn’t been waiting long—expected you to arrive, in fact, around this very moment. Your schedule and all of its minute quirks, tiny variations you might insert out of hunger, or boredom, or fixation on some new hobby, play out like clockwork in the back of his mind, no matter when or where he is.

A mnemonic. More accurately, a memorare. Entreaty to some higher power, as if to remind Death that he has someone far more important to get home to.

You take him in. His ankle is propped up on the opposite knee, glass of scotch hanging carelessly from his fingers, crystalline bottom brushing the carpeted floor. Your eyes focus on the orange-red cherry of his cigar—

—you startle a little when you meet his gaze.

He doesn’t blame you. His pulse beats heavy through his veins. Every breath he takes is slow and controlled, miasmic as it leaves his lungs. He feels less a man and more a vessel for something seething and wrathful, smog rolling in and in again on itself, eddying when it hits the boundaries keeping it contained.

Noxious. Fetid.

The glow of his cigar probably reflects in his eyes.

Borderline pyrolic.

You look at the coiled whip resting ophidian and black over his thigh. His free hand rests along it, thumbnail toying with the braided leather.

“Not a word,” he says evenly. His voice leaves him like it’s coated in sandpaper, debriding the column of his esophagus.

Your gaze snaps back up to his. Holds it.

Searching, maybe.

Your lips do not part. Instead, you wait.

The next breath he takes comes and goes a little easier—but only just.

“Strip,” he says, “and cuff yourself to your post.”

On a better night—a kinder one—he would’ve asked if you needed more directions. Checked in first, even, or warned you ahead of time of his intentions. This thing that exists between the two of you was cultivated in the open, fertilized with his own candor as he told you what he wanted, needed, like turning over a rock to see what squirmed beneath it. It grew as you trellised it together and discovered, through trial and error, what you needed to survive it.

Reward incentives. Good reason to give a damn about what he tells you to do.

But tonight is not a kind one. Venom pumps through his veins—caustic. Acrid. Hissing and spitting in his chest, already drawn back and ready to strike.

Maybe you can tell, as you stand there, watching him. Maybe you don’t feel like protesting. Or, just maybe, you need this, too, need it in the way you’ve begged him for in the past when the present moment felt ephemeral and unreal—because you obey.

You toe out of your heels. Pull your shirt over your head, your skirt down your legs. It’s an outfit he’s expressed appreciation for in the past; the wide drape of the collar exposing your clavicles, the long seams down your hips that buckle as your thighs hold the fabric taut.

You fold everything like a good girl and set them aside on the bed, and then remove your bra and panties—nude silk, no lace, sensible and comfortable and paid for with his card—to place them atop the pile.

Price isn’t in a mood to care why you acquiesce. All that matters to him is that you walk to your nightstand and remove the padded cuffs from the drawer, then to the bedpost on your side of the bed. You remove the endcap hiding the loop of steed embedded into the wood, fasten yourself with a padlock only he has the key to—

And then you kneel, naked, on the carpeted floor.

Giving him your bare back, the dim light sinking shadows into the notches of your spine.

Price says nothing. He doesn’t have a kind word anywhere in his alveoli. There usually aren’t any, when he first comes home, nor could a single one get past the bars of his vocal cords if it tried. This has grown too nacreous, too hypergranulated in his mantle, and it demands excision. He taps the ash from his cigar and sips at his scotch, the dregs burning a line hot and corrosive down his throat.

He sets the glass aside. Rises.

Brandishes the whip once with a sharp snap.

You flinch; your skin is filmy and thin in the gloaming. Horripilation lifts the follicles along your bare arms; the scant light of the bedroom catches your hair standing on end.

He watches a slow tremble work its way to your suspended fingers. Your back expands as you take a deep breath in, and contracts as you exhale, shadows the width of his fingers pooling into and draining away from the valleys between your extruded ribs.

You pull in another deep breath, one, two, three, four, five, and let it go at the same meter. Calming the anticipation the way he taught you.

He draws his arm back, lunges, and the whip cracks against your bare back.

You gasp sharply and go rigid in shock. Price watches the pain spread outward from the lash into your limbs. Bleeding down into the fibers of your muscles; sinking through osseous matter into your marrow like dye takes to cloth. You shift on your knees, a shiver snaking its way up your back.

It’s always cataclysmic, that first bite of pain. Every nerve ending suddenly alive and on high alert. Charged up. Inadvertently destining the next strike to fall even harder by sensory comparison.

Then, the welt appears, rising in reply to the scourge. A clean, sharp return stroke, an echo of the braided leather just beginning its reverberation.

Something cleaves in Price’s chest. Some tight membrane splits open, seeping felsic, hot and black, dripping steadily into his bloodstream. Effusive. Not a dam breaking, but a fissure in the stone.

Your breathing quickens—

And then he whips you again, harder, laying the stroke right next to the first. You cry out when it lands, but he leaves no time for you to prepare for the third, drawing, lunging, and lashing again at unspoiled skin.

You shake in your bonds. He whips you again, laying another diagonally from shoulder to hip as fog blooms across his vision. You wail like breaking glass, china falling from the cabinet, cut crystal flowering in pieces on hardwood floor.

The same tenor he hears when he has you on your back, cock burrowed in your cunt and bullying the plug of your cervix.

Too much, too hard, but your nails dig into his arse and you cry even harder when he lets up.

He whips you again. Welts lift across the known topography of your back—intersecting every angle of your shoulder blades, orogenies shifting and transforming the landscape into something new.

Only passing familiar with the dips and curves he often walks the tips of his fingers across.

Again. The planes of your back tighten, as if solidity will lessen the impact of the lash. Again, right across the tight line of your shoulders—you shriek, thrashing, hands fisting as you pull and swing futilely in the cuffs.

Geography added to. New land raised like it was beckoned by the hand of God. Hot and magamatic on the inside, too delicate to touch without collapsing in on itself.

Again. He snaps the whip, shaping the parabola with the jerk of his arm, shaping the line of a hill like a child’s drawing, then brings it down, sharply, cutting the fall across the meat of your hip. A hillside he often dwarfs with the ugly size of his hands.

Price envies the whip sometimes for its privilege. He’s never been able to lay hands on you directly for its purpose; not easily, at least. The flat of his palms have known the meat of your arse, have made ample flesh ripple like tossing stones across water, but he can’t employ them for much else without turning his own stomach.

He can pull your hair, wrap your throat in his grasp, shackle your wrists or the slopes of your hips in an iron grip, dig his fingers into your thighs and stomach like trying to tunnel through wedges of clay. Often afterwards he’s transfixed by the marks he leaves behind—dotted bruises aligned with the arc and spread of his fingers, or blotchy oblongs fitted to the heel of his hand.

Indelible evidence that Price Was Here.

He’ll try to match the grip that left them, his touch as light and gentle as a dove’s wing; a paintbrush without pigment, remembering the strokes it left behind. Synapses in his brain firing colors to match, claiming them for himself.

He put them there. That makes them his. That makes you his.

But striking you barehanded is beyond even his limits. No matter that you’d allow it. Have allowed it—

He whips you again. Draw. Lunge. Crack. You jolt against the bedpost, throw your head back, buck your entire body to work the pain through it.

One scene, similar to this, tephra building up in his craw and threatening to catalyze if he didn’t find some hurried way to exorcise it.

Some mission gone bad; some idiot disobeying his orders. People dying who didn’t need to.

He’d slapped you across the face, after forcing you to your knees with his fist in your hair—sent you tumbling to the floor. The next thing that had occurred to him had been to swing his foot back—

And the bile had risen so quickly up his throat that he’d frozen. He’d stared at you, on the floor. Lying there, sprawled and waiting. Fear in your eyes—but you weren’t moving.

His collapse after had been swift. He’d fallen to his knees and crawled to you, gathered you up like a stuffed toy and buried his mouth in your hair and hadn’t let you go for nearly three hours. Price can count on one hand how many times he’s cried in his adult life, and this had added one more to the tally.

It’s one thing to send his fury along through leather or wood or crop, and quite another to deliver it to you like you actually deserve it.

So, the whip.

You moan as the next stroke hits. Something long and stretched-out. Caramelized—molasses subducting the bite of the fall, sucrose splitting in the phreatic churn of draw, lunge, lash.

He pauses briefly to look you over. Claw-mark weals, like he’s been dragging his blunt nails down your back, hatch the skin paralleling your spine. Your heels press divots into the bare cheeks of your arse; you squirm in his gaze, drawing them together as you tighten your thighs.

There’s a moment when pain transforms. When heat fills the empty spaces between moving, frantic particles and melds in around them. Capturing them in place.

The calcaneus of one foot finds its way between your folds as you shift; your whole body twitches from it, and you lift your hips a little. There’s an obscene squelch as you settle down again, slick dribbling down your heel into the arch.

Price lunges. The whip cracks. You low like a trapped animal, grinding, and the pitch of your voice swoops upward when he lays another lash right on top of the previous.

Dangerous. Taunting something welling up to the surface, testing what it can take before it breaks. Price knows better.

Knows better, but the roil and hiss in his gut yawns wider with every lash, trembling as a fed appetite is only whetted. Horrible feedback loop—the cry of your voice, he often thinks, is the only thing that could possibly satisfy him, but when he gets it, Price can’t be satisfied.

A taste demands mouthful. A meal demands a banquet. When he hears you wail, he wonders how many different ways he can make you do it, how many octaves are there, hidden away, for him to tease out of you.

He knows everything about you. Everything. He knows every dip and curve of your body, every jutting bone, every creaky joint, every fold and roll and wrinkle. Sometimes he thinks he's got individual hair follicles memorized.

With the whip, or the scourge, or any other tool, the reward for his greed is ephemeral. The known plains present themselves as blank canvas, and for a while, after his work is wrought, there’s something new for him to fixate on. New patterns to trace his fingers along.

Sometimes he thinks he wants to cut you open, just to see what more of you he’s been missing.

Stomach. Lungs. Intestines. Arterial pathways leading to your soft, beating heart. All he wants, he thinks, is to see them. Say hello to them. Run his tongue along their membranes, caress each tiny capillary webbing them together with the lightest brush of his teeth, if only just to organize his experience of them into the archives of you that he keeps locked behind his ribs.

More of you. He always wants more of you.

He lunges again. The whip sings in the air, and the cracker bites again into your flesh. You undulate like rippling water, breath coming out in erratic stops and starts, and then you give a full body yank against your cuffs—

This time, he’s broken skin.

You curl in on yourself, suddenly going still. Your thighs tighten; your scapulae rise, shoulders touching the lobes of your ears.

As you’re if holding onto something that will escape; balancing, on an unsteady surface, something fragile. Delicate as spun glass.

It isn’t deep. A pearl of crimson wells up in the trough, collapsing when the mass betrays the surface tension. It trails a thin, straight line down your back as it slips between stark weals still yet to split open.

You haven’t moved; your body is a trembling fist.

Price takes a long, ragged breath. He asks the question, although he already knows the answer.

“Did you come?”

You shake your head.

Of course not. His good fucking girl—you’re waiting for permission.

Price extracts the little key from his trouser pocket and goes to where your wrists hang limp from the bedpost. The lock turns with a small click, and your arms drop like heavy stones. A breath of relief, involuntary, leaves you.

Price wraps your hair around his fist and yanks you back a little like pulling a dog on a leash. He rounds you, looming above your kneeling form, and wedges the tip of his boot between your knees.

It’s not a new pair. He’s had them for years, and the leather shows it, even despite regular maintenance. They’re brutish things, squarish and unkindly shaped, rough at the edges. Meant to trample underbrush and kick through teeth. A scratched-up battering ram between the soft skin of your thighs.

You lift your hips immediately to open the way for him. Automatic. Pavlovian.

He lifts the toe against your clit in reward, circles it, dragging your folds around. Your lips fall open; glittering, rheumy eyes stare up at him as your cuffed hands circle his knee.

Something soft in Price’s chest touches the inside of his sternum.

His hand goes to the zipper at his groin, and he draws his cock out. In the furor of the lash, he hadn’t even realized how hard he was, but he feels blistering in his own palm, the head ruddy and ugly with it, the veins thick and pulsing. Equally as inappropriate to subject you to.

He drags your head to his cock with his firm grasp in your hair. You don’t need to be told—your mouth drops, and he pushes in without preamble, grunting short and hard when the flat of your tongue melts along the broad artery on the underside of his shaft.

“Rut,” he husks, shifting his boot beneath you, “until you come.”

You moan around him. The vibration of your vocal cords travels up his cock, reverberating with an intensity that has him shoving into your throat with a snarl. You choke at the intrusion, saliva bubbling at the corners of your mouth, but your hips bear down on his boot, thighs clenching it at the sides.

Your whole body rolls and humps against his leg, cuffed wrists coming up so your hands can wrap around the meat of his thigh. You scrabble at the canvas, dig your nails into the weave of his trousers like you want to tear through it to get at his skin underneath.

The whole time, your eyes never leave his, glistening with tears that shiver on your lashes as they threaten to fall. He grits his teeth as your lips pull out around him as he withdraws, and then thrusts short and hard into your mouth in time with the frantic cant of your pussy up and down his boot.

He can feel the heat of your sex even through the leather, could swear that he can count the contractions as you clench around nothing, the tiny bud of your neglected clitoris rasping against the unkind fibers of his boot laces.

Obedient to perfection.

You’re past the threshold as you lean back a little, levering your body to change the angle at which your pussy engulfs his foot, and he half-steps forward to follow you so his cock doesn’t escape your mouth. You roll against him, a full-body wave that lifts chest, then stomach, then hips—

And then he sees it take you as you freeze in place, muscles tensing all at once.

Your eyes roll back, throat convulsing around him as quick, reedy mewls travel up his shaft in quick succession. Your whole body shakes with it, frenetic as you hump his boot to prolong it, loosening the knot he’d tied with your vigor.

He pulls out a little to let you breathe through the end of it, but when you realize what he’s doing you dig your nails into his thigh, following him back. You catch his gaze with yours, eyes pleading, brows knitting together in entreaty. The claws become cupped hands, stroking up and down, and you bob your head a little, hollowing your cheeks.

Price huffs a breath. He hadn’t planned for an orgasm for himself for this. Rewards are for people who earn them.

This—this isn’t that.

But your eyelids lower in pleasure as you take him deeper, saliva slicking the way to his base, and Price has never been able to deny you anything.

His grip around your hair becomes a soft palm on the back of your head, guiding you steady, and he props his shin up along your stomach, knee between your breasts to give you balance.

It’s an orison; tossed into the caldera, something precious given to gravity and the incandescent fate at the other side of it. Your lips melt around him softly, tongue skimming his length like the reaching strand of a candle flame twirling around the tip of his finger.

He loves you so frightfully much.

“That’s it,” he huffs. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You moan in your throat, eyes closed, lashes against your damp cheeks.

“Yeah,” he continues, digging his fingers into your hair. “Too good for the likes of me—mmm—”

You suckle around him, pulling all the way back to mouth at the head of his cock before engulfing him again, cuffed hands rising higher to nestle one into the crevice of his groin and thigh and to spread the other over his hip. His breath quickens, and he brings his other hand to the back of your head, digging the fingers of both into your scalp.

You accept the roll of his hips with a little laugh that escapes through your nose, opening your jaw wide; making room for him to take what he pleases, again, how he pleases, as he thrusts faster, harder, taking what you give freely and delving harder for even more—

The head of his cock bullies your soft palette as his pubic hair tickles your lips, and then it shoots through him, up and down his spine, and he rams into your throat, forcing your nose to his mons as his cock pulsates, erupting hot and viscous, heartbeat forcing his cum out in deep, rhythmic pulses he feels across his whole body.

When you swallow around him his whole body heats up, balls clenching as they empty themselves into you, and he punches his hips in again short and hard as the last vestiges of his climax play out.

You hold him in your throat until he pulls you away, and then you take a long, wet gasp, hot breath fanning across his softening cock as it falls down, drained out. Tear tracks are silvery down your face, lashes stuck together with lipids and salt.

He brings one hand to your cheek, caressing beneath your eye gently with one callused thumb. Sweat beads along your hairline, and your skin is sticky and humid, glistening with perspiration that pools in your collarbones.

He feels his own sweat running down his chest, along and around the follicles of his chest hair and down toward his navel. Your eyes follow each drop; he thinks you’d lean forward and lick them up, if he told you to, even though he can see the exhaustion pulling at you.

“You good?” he finally asks, his voice coated in grit, but steady as it leaves him.

It’s what he always says, after.

You open your eyes to meet his, and this, too, is a moment repeated. He searches. Waits for doubt or fear or dismay to flicker in your gaze, some omen that he’s gone too far, that this, finally, has been too much for you to take from him.

You grace him with a little smile. The lines of your face are slack and loose. Your expression is smooth—languid, floating on satisfaction.

“I’m good,” you say, calm and tranquil—

And the smoke clears from his eyes.

He rubs the indent around your finger, branded by your wedding ring in your clenching fist, and brings the knuckle to his mouth to kiss his apology into your skin.

“What happened?” you ask.

You’re boneless, splayed on the mattress with your belly to the duvet. Your head rests against the pillow, face turned toward him.

Even in the haze of afterglow, filaments of oxytocin and dopamine unspooling, your eyes are sharp. Insightful.

You know him too well.

John kisses your ring finger again and returns to the oblations he owes for his violence. The lines on your back are ugly, dotted with broken capillaries and set to linger for weeks. He applies aloe gel, cooled in the fridge, in a thick, generous layer with a soft brush. The kind your aesthetician uses on the rare occasion you treat yourself to some time at the spa, dragging the bristles lightly across your face, around the apples of your cheeks and the corners of your lips.

Softer than he can possibly touch you right now with his callused fingers. A consequence of his vice; flayed skin, lifted weals, cannot tolerate the weight or heat of his hand, no matter how curative or contrite. He destines his own gentle touch to futility.

The one place he broke skin will probably take a month to heal.

A puff of air zips by his ear again. So close as to be your gasp. The rock behind him explodes around a .50 caliber round. Fragments of dry stone, osseous and pale, shower his neck and back.

“The usual,” Price says.

With a q-tip, John dabs bacitracin along the open gash down one side of your back. It isn’t very long or very deep. It might not even scar.

When John is gone—deployed or dead, the difference is negligible, really—there will be no evidence of his presence in your life that you can’t get rid of. It kept occurring to him throughout his deployment, after the near miss.

Everything of his in the house you share, you can box up and donate. Deep clean the place to eradicate whatever traces of his scent are left behind. You can cut your hair in some new style he’ll never see, wear all new clothes, choose a new perfume.

You can take off your wedding band. Shove it in a box in some forgotten drawer, or just pawn it.

It’s childish. Downright adolescent. Snapping your bra like a pimply cunt in secondary school, because the only way he knows how to etch himself into the bedrock of your memory is with pain.

“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching out with one lolling hand.

He leaves the q-tip on your back and clasps it between both of his own, bringing the curl of your fingers to his mouth. He kisses down the side of your palm, trails his lips down the soft skin of your forearm. Squeezes so hard he feels the bones in your hands shift.

You’re sorry. He took a whip to your back, made you hump his boot like an animal, and fucked your face like a whore, all because he couldn’t stand the thought that you would someday be without him. And you’re sorry.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs, scratching at the soft part of your wrist with his beard.

It seems even the softest version of his affection must somehow be abrasive.

There’s a little smile playing across your lips as you close your eyes. A deep, serene breath leaves you.

He places your hand back on the bed and dips the brush back into the aloe, loading it generously up to the ferrule. The brush make little furrows in the gel as he lays it down, the layer already thick; he floats the flat of the bristles overtop, smoothing over his contrition, and then, idly, he wedges them in again, carving runnels down through the clear to your skin.

You must fall asleep as he does, or at least you enjoy it enough to indulge him. John follows the lines of each lash from beginning to end, tracing their length, mapping the way they’ve changed your skin.

In a few weeks, as he cares for them, they’ll fade away completely. Left only to memory—both his and yours. But for now, you’ll feel them every day. Feel him every day, even when he’s not there, brushing along the inside of your shirt, stinging with every light touch.

Remembering the hand that held the lash.

He smooths the painted lines over and begins again.

a/n: this started as a casual one-off and became a loose masterstudy of @yeyinde's writing style. Lev, affectionately, you are insane. I know this because in writing this I also went insane.

Also dedicated to @391780. Please never stop being kinky online. I live for it.

Also that one part was inspired by this piece of art.

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price smut #john price cod #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain john price smut #captain john price x female reader #cod smut #madi writes #mwritesprice #i'm not exactly satisfied with this one but if i spend any more time on it i'll never want to write again

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heaven4lostgirls · 11 months ago

Note

hi!! i was curious if you would write something that starts out with barty x reader and evan is just friends with both of them before feeling like he’s impeding on their relationship (a little bit angsty if you’re comfortable with that) but barty and reader tell him that he’s not impeding at all and they’re actually very interested in him joining their relationship (totes no worries if not!!)

pairing: poly!rosekiller x reader

summary: request above!

word count: 1.8k

a/n: thank you for your your request, this somehow came much easier to me than i thought it would? (i’m blaming the fact that they have been consuming my every thought since last week) not proofread btw

evan’s not sure when it started, when it started feeling less like evan hanging out with two of his close friends and more like evan third wheeling two of his closest friends.

he dislikes it, the change. it makes him feel silly, why does he want to spend this much time with two people who obviously have no obligation to him outside of friendship? (and why does he wish that would change?)

he watches you and barty stroll ahead of him in the streets of hogsmeade, inhibiting himself from increasing his walking speed to catch up to the two of you, to join in the boisterous laughter that you two share.

instead, he lets himself watch longingly of what he so wishes was his future. his eyes travel along the landscape of the small town, always finding his eyes making their way back to your shared figures ahead of him.

your hair catching the orange glare of the setting sun, comparable in brightness to the smile on barty’s face as he listens to you babble nonsensically about a novel you had been reading.

evan allows himself only a single moment to mourn, mourn a love he had never really had in the first place, but nonetheless mourn the loss.

he knew he could never tell either of you of his feelings, he had watched the both of you fall in love, the shared glances, lingering touches and lovesick gazes.

all of which he longed to experience yet knew that neither of you would ever reciprocate his feelings. so he tortured himself in spending his free time with you both, to limit suspicion, but ever so slightly, pulling away, tending to walk behind the both of you, instead of with, sitting behind the two of you in class but always paired with another classmate for projects. studying with the two of you in the library, but always leaving early with one or more excuses.

barty and you had noticed, of course you had, but chalked it up to evan only adjusting to the shift in dynamic between your trio. you both missed him dearly but never asked for him to stay in fear of pushing him further away.

and thus, in a viscious cycle, the three of you drifted further apart than ever before, each party too afraid of admitting that they missed the other and impeaching on unconscious boundaries.

however, as you and barty walk down hogsmeade, evan trailing behind the two of you like a glorified guard dog rather than your best friend, you murmur to your lover, “we need to talk to him” with a sad look.

barty turns to you with furrowed eyebrows, “what if he doesn’t want to talk?” he says and you can’t help but turn and pitifully look back at evan’s bored yet slightly sad expression.

“we have to try, i-we can’t lose him” you emphasize and barty nods in understanding before placing a hand on your cheek.

“we’ll talk with him when we reach the castle, okay angel?” he says with a soft murmur, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead. you hum in acknowledgement before closing your eyes.

evan’s heart clenches at the sight of the two of you, so perfectly fit together, how could he ever compete? not that he wanted to, but he knew deep down that he would never be what either of you wanted nor needed and it was better to cut his losses than to have his heart broken unexpectedly.

as you reach the castle, you all make your way to the slytherin common room and up to barty and evan’s shared dorm. evan is about to make an excuse about studying in the library to avoid being alone with you two but before he can make his escape, your voice breaks the silence in the empty dorm.

“evan.” your tone is soft and calming, yet evan’s heart drops to his stomach, clenching painfully as he closes his eyes in an “oh fuck” moment.

he turns to you with a fake smile, beckoning you to continue, hoping whatever you’re going to say, it isn’t what he thinks it is.

“what’s going on?” so it’s exactly what he thinks it is, he doesn’t have to play into this, he doesn’t have to give you the answers you seek- “what’s what?” he asks as he shrugs, faking nonchalance at the situation.

you and barty share a look that has evan clenching his jaw, “you’re pulling away from us!” you accuse him. the silence that follows is defeaning, the only sound is evan’s sharp intake of breath.

“we don’t have to talk about this-“ evan says quickly as he looks alarmed at the both of you before barty scoffs.

“yes we fucking do” and there’s a ‘don’t argue with me’ tone in his voice. evan only avoids his gaze as he looks at his shoes and shrugs once again.

“it doesn’t matter-“ he says again with an avoidant tone, barty only growls in annoyance. “yes it fucking does evan! we miss you!” barty states loudly and evan can’t help but flinch as he meekly looks up and meets barty’s gaze.

you clench your jaw in hope that it stops the tears from welling in your eyes. “did we do something? to-make you uncomfortable?” your voice breaks midway and evan’s wide eyed gaze jumps to yours in alarm and worry at the tears in your eyes.

“no!-no.” he shakes his head with wide eyes, “fuck.” he says as he looks down again and blows out a breath as he rakes a hand through his messy blonde hair.

“it’s just-“ he blows out a frustrated breath. “i can’t do this” he shakes his head as his voice wobbles, you look at barty whose gaze is swimming in worry.

“evan” barty starts softly, in the same tone he uses just for you, evan flinches as he hears it and shakes his head again, this time more frantically as he pulls at his roots.

he looks at barty in an almost manic movement, looking comparably to a rabid animal backed into a corner. “don’t-“ he starts as he chokes up, “don’t use that fucking tone” he says as he wraps his arms around himself. “not-not when you use it with her, not when i know it doesn’t mean the same as thing” he stammers out as he backs himself more into the wall.

“evan” barty’s eyes soften and you look at him again before deciding to walk closer to evan, “is that what this is about?” you ask softly, your heart clenching as he withdraws from you further, not letting you come any further towards him.

“what else could it possibly be about!” he cries out and looks at the two of you, gaze jumping from both of your figures as tears fall steadily past his pale cheeks.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did-”

“evan..”

“-and i tried to pull away but it just kept getting worse and you guys started noticing but didn’t say anything-”

“evan.”

“-i was trying to get over it, it was only a small crush! i would have never broken that boundary between the two of you-”

“EVAN!” the yell breaks evan out of his rambling as he looks at barty in shock.

“why didn’t you tell us?” you ask softly as your lip wobbles, your arms finding their way around your midsection in an attempt to self soothe your anxiety.

“tell you?!” evan cries incredulously as if the idea was implausible. “yes” barty says stiffly. “because you two are together?! and you don’t feel the same! which is understandable because i’m not really anything you should want but!-”

“who said we didn’t like you?” barty asks sternly and evan’s almost ramble is cut short as he looks at barty dumbfounded before turning his gaze to look at you as if to ask ‘did you just hear what your boyfriend just said or am i going insane?’ to which you look pointedly at him.

“well?” you prompt with a quirked brow, still somewhat shaking from the fear bubbling under your skin.

“well- i mean- nobody? but it’s implied when two people are in a committed relationship that they’re not really on the market anymore-“ evan starts before you butt in,“we’re not.”

you say helpfully before evan nods in acquiescence, “see!-so you would never-!”

“that doesn’t include you love” barty says with a huff, but you can tell by his voice there’s a small smile on his face as he watches evan struggle to come to terms with what your boyfriend is saying.

“you-? you two- want me?!” he asks, eyes widening and posture tensing. barty and you turn to each other with shared smiles before you turn to evan with a small shrug with a grin blooming over your face, “always have” you admit shyly and watch as evan blanches.

“uh-“ evan looks between the two of you, speechless.

“i’m going to walk up to you now love, i’d appreciate it if you’d let me hug you love, because if you don’t it might just break my heart” barty jokes with smirk before taking slow and cautious steps towards evan’s figure in the corner of the dorm.

evan allows himself to be comforted by the familiarity of barty’s arms around him, he melts into the hug as he exhales a breath of relief. he opens his eyes to meet your gaze behind barty’s back as you watch the two of them with a gentle smile on your face.

evan taps barty’s shoulder in a gentle touch to ask if he can let him go, barty pulls away slowly before looking into evan’s gaze, “i’m not good with communicating what i want, for that i’m sorry, but as far as i’ve been concerned, you’ve been mine since fourth year.” barty admits with heat in his gaze and evan’s mouth drops open as the other boy pulls away nonchalantly and walks back over to his bed on the other side of the dorm.

“you like me” evan states dumbly as he looks at you and you can’t help but have a small laugh at his expense before walking over to him in less cautious steps in comparison to barty, “seems so” you murmur as you stand in front of him with a small smile, letting him have the freedom to make the first move, should he choose to.

he blows out a breath before nodding and placing a hand on your cheek as he gazes into your eyes with adoration, leaning down and pressing his forehead to yours. he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before you’re pulled into a comforting embrace. you slowly wrap your arms around his waist.

you both stand in a comfortable silence before barty’s voice breaks the silence, “can you two come and do that on the bed before i go and complain to regulus about being neglected?” he complains from the middle of his bed.

you two pull away and share a humorous glance before you walk hand in hand to his bed.

#juliwrites #marauders #poly!rosekiller #poly!rosekiller x reader #evan rosier x reader #barty crouch jr x reader #evan rosier x barty crouch jr #evan rosier angst #evan rosier fluff #evan rosier hurt/comfort #barty crouch fluff #barty crouch jr angst #barty crouch jr hurt/comfort #rosekiller blurb #rosekiller x reader #my sweet rosekiller

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honeyryewhiskey · 3 months ago

Text

audition files . . .

manuscript ୨ৎ next act

synopsis ୨ৎ jensen's search for his girl comes to an end when you enter the audition room warnings ୨ৎ director!jensen x startlet!reader, jensen testing reader, power dynamic, all consuming attention, foundation of our slow burn obsessed jensen, stage name used instead of y/n

3.8k words

You’ve been through more auditions than you can count, each one ending in the same hollow silence. The nerves used to paralyze you—the stomach-churning, full-body panic that hit right before you stepped in front of faceless Hollywood executives. But over time, they dulled, fading into the background, becoming just another part of the routine.

Until today.

You sit in a sterile green room, surrounded by a dozen other girls who could all be your mirror image—each one sizing up the competition in quiet calculation. No one speaks. No one dares. The only sound breaking the silence is the low hum of the air conditioner, rattling somewhere in the corner, barely doing anything to cool the nervous energy thick in the room.

Your knee bounces. Your fingers twist in your lap. Because today, the nerves aren’t just there—they’re clawing their way up your throat, relentless and sharp.

This isn’t just another audition.

No. It’s the audition.

Jensen fucking Ackles’ directorial debut. The passion project he’s been obsessing over for half a decade, shaping it into something the industry is already calling a masterpiece in the making. The one every actress in Hollywood has been buzzing about for months. The one that—if you land it—could change everything.

But it isn’t just the role itself that has people talking. It’s him.

Jensen has been impossibly, infuriatingly picky about choosing his leading lady. Rumors swirl about how many actresses he’s passed on, how no one has been right for the part. He’s reportedly scrapped entire shortlists overnight, sent agents into a frenzy, turned down names that should have been guaranteed casting choices.

And yet—here you are. Still in the running.

The door to the audition room swings open with a mechanical whir, and another girl steps out, expression unreadable, her shoulders drawn tight with tension. No one asks her how it went. No one dares.

Behind her, a young woman follows, her hair slightly frizzed from the long day, skimming the clipboard in her hands as she steps further into the green room.

She barely looks up as she calls, "Uh, Peach?"

Your heart skips.

Your stage name. Your identity in this industry.

You push up from your chair on legs that feel a little too shaky, a little too unsteady. A few girls glance up as you pass, but no one says anything. They’re all waiting, just like you were.

You follow the assistant down a narrow hallway, your stomach tightening with each step. The further you go, the quieter it gets, the set noise fading into the distance until it’s just the sound of your own breathing and the soft scuff of your shoes against the polished floor.

Then, she stops. A door stands ahead of you, slightly ajar.

She gives you a quick, polite smile—one that doesn’t quite reach her tired eyes—before she steps aside and gestures toward the room.

"You can go in."

You swallow hard. Take a slow, deep breath.

And then—you step inside.

The room is small, almost disappointingly so. No grand stage, no expansive space to shake out your nerves—just four walls, dim overhead lighting, and three people sitting behind a long table, watching as you step inside.

Your breath hitches the second your eyes land on him.

Jensen’s seated in the center, posture relaxed but his presence commanding, like he owns the very air in the room. His age shows, all sharp angles and experience, his once-boyish charm settled into something more defined, more deliberate. Scruff lines his jaw, the faintest creases etched around his green eyes, but it only makes him look more distinguished—like time has only refined him instead of worn him down.

He offers you a polite half-smile, but it does little to ease the tight coil in your stomach. Because while his expression is neutral, his eyes are not. They scan you in a way that’s both calculated and assessing, sizing you up like he’s already trying to fit you into the mold of the woman he’s been searching for.

You suddenly understand why every actress who’s walked through this door before you has left looking exhausted.

To Jensen’s right sits Olive Blackwell, the casting director. A woman with a sharp bob and sharper eyes, known for cutting auditions short if she isn’t immediately impressed. To his left is Rory Dawson, the confirmed male lead. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a casual sort of confidence written across his face. Unlike Jensen, he offers you a full smile, his expression open, easy.

"Peach, correct?" Olive asks, glancing at the clipboard in front of her.

You nod, shifting your weight. "Yes, ma’am."

Olive wastes no time. She gestures toward Rory, who straightens in his chair, already picking up his copy of the script. "You’ll be reading with Rory. Scene twenty-six. Whenever you’re ready."

You exhale, steadying yourself.

Rory gives you a small nod—reassuring, like he’s done this a hundred times before. He has an easy energy about him, and the softness of his features make his smile all the more sweet. You force yourself to match his energy, grounding yourself in the moment, in the scene.

Then, as soon as you open your mouth—you forget about Jensen.

At least, you try to.

But even as you focus on Rory, on the rhythm of the dialogue, you can feel him. Watching. Listening. Studying.

You have no idea what he’s thinking, and somehow, that’s worse than outright rejection.

Jensen leans back in his chair, his elbow resting lazily on the table, but his eyes—those sharp, all-seeing green eyes—never leave you. He watches as the final words of the scene settle between you and Rory, the energy still lingering in the space.

Silence stretches, thick and expectant.

Then, Jensen nods, slow and considering. "Can you try scene thirty for me?"

Your fingers tighten around the edges of the script.

"Of course."

You flip through the booklet, scanning the familiar text, but your focus splinters when you catch the small, almost imperceptible exchange of looks between Rory and Olive. It’s subtle—Rory’s brows lift just a fraction, Olive leans in slightly, her grip tightening around her pen. They’ve shifted, their casual attention sharpening like they’ve just stumbled onto something new.

You don’t dwell on it.

Instead, you let your gaze drop to the monologue. Scene Thirty.

Talia Smart, raw and unfiltered, grieving, unraveling, grasping at the only thing keeping her upright—the desperate pursuit of the truth behind her mother’s death.

Your pulse quickens. This is the turning point in the script, the moment where her conviction becomes unshakable, where she sheds every lingering hesitation and dives headfirst into the mystery that will consume her.

And now, it’s on you to bring it to life.

You inhale, steadying yourself.

"Whenever you’re ready," Jensen murmurs.

When you look up, he’s leaning forward now, elbows on the table, fingers steepled near his mouth. Watching. Waiting.

He’s no longer just a director evaluating an actress.

He’s testing you.

You take a slow breath, pressing your fingers against the thin pages of the script as if grounding yourself in the paper will steady the rush of nerves creeping up your spine. The room feels even smaller now, the air tighter, weighted with something unspoken.

Jensen watches you, expression unreadable, posture now more engaged, like he’s settled in for something worth paying attention to. He leans onto his elbow, his face half-hidden by his hand, but those eyes—sharp, dissecting, expecting—never leave you.

It’s worse than any other audition you’ve ever done. Worse than standing before panels of disinterested casting directors, worse than reading in front of executives who barely looked up from their laptops. Because Jensen Ackles himself is paying attention. All of it. Every breath you take, every flicker of emotion across your face.

You want to impress him. You want him to want more of you.

You swallow hard, straighten your shoulders, and exhale. Then, you begin.

The words slip from your lips like second nature, steady, filled with the kind of controlled emotion that doesn’t just tell a story but pulls people into it. Talia Smart is unraveling, her grief morphing into determination, her desperation simmering beneath the surface.

It’s not just a monologue—it’s a moment.

A shift.

Rory stops his subtle fidgeting. Olive leans forward just a little. But it’s Jensen’s reaction that you notice the most—his jaw ticks, the fingers over his mouth tightening just slightly, his head tilting ever so subtly, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You push through to the final line, the climax of the scene, voice thick with something raw, something real. And then—silence.

No one speaks.

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you lower the script, your breathing controlled but shallow. You don’t dare look at Jensen first. Instead, you glance at Rory, who’s watching you with genuine intrigue, then at Olive, who doesn’t look unimpressed—a rare feat.

Then—finally—you meet his eyes.

Jensen doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

And then—"Huh."

It’s quiet, almost imperceptible, but it shoots through you sharp.

A good huh? A bad huh? It’s impossible to tell.

He just sits there, fingers steepled in front of his mouth, his eyes locked onto you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Then, without a word, he pushes back from the table and stands.

Your breath hitches as he moves, slow and deliberate, rounding the table until he’s closer now, leaning against the edge, arms crossing over his broad chest. He’s studying you from a new angle, the weight of his focus even heavier now that there’s no barrier between you.

"Again," he says. Calm. Controlled. Like he already knows what he’s looking for, and he’s waiting to see if you’ll give it to him.

You swallow hard, gripping the script for a half-second before tossing it onto a nearby chair. You don’t need it. Not anymore.

You inhale, plant your feet, and begin.

This time, you move.

You push off from where you’re standing, pacing the room, letting the words settle not just in your voice but in your body. Your hands move as you speak, fingers trembling with frustration, your steps measured but full of purpose. You let yourself feel the space, let yourself own it—and when your eyes finally land back on Jensen, you don’t look away.

You deliver the lines to him.

Like he’s the only person in the room.

Like he’s the only one who matters.

Jensen doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact. He just watches, his expression unreadable, his gaze following every step, every shift of your body, every flicker of emotion that crosses your face.

The final words leave your lips in a breathless, aching whisper, and then—silence.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the faint hum of the air conditioning. You can feel the adrenaline still rushing through you, your pulse hammering in your throat. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until—

Jensen nods.

Slow. Approving.

And this time, there’s a smile. Not the polite, distant half-smile he gave you when you first walked in—but something sharper, more knowing. Like he’s found something he wasn’t sure he’d find.

Like he’s found you.

He shifts his weight against the table, tilting his head slightly. “You’ve got good instincts,” he says, voice smooth but edged with thoughtfulness. “I could see it in the first take, but this—” He exhales, glancing down for half a second before looking back up at you. “This is something different.”

You press your lips together, still trying to steady your breathing. “Good different?”

Jensen huffs out a quiet chuckle, then gestures to the chair in front of him. “Sit.”

It’s not really a request.

You hesitate, then step forward, lowering yourself into the chair. The energy in the room has shifted, changed entirely. You’re not just another actress standing in front of a panel—you’re sitting face to face with the man who’s spent five years crafting this film, shaping it into something deeply personal.

And now, he’s picking you apart.

He remains close, leaning against the edge of the table, just in front of you, his arms crossing loosely over his broad chest. The overhead light casts sharp angles along his jawline, his forearms, the stretch of his shoulders beneath the fitted fabric of his shirt. He’s close enough that you catch the faintest hint of his cologne—something warm, deep, edged with spice.

Your throat goes dry.

Seated directly in front of him, you suddenly feel small, almost delicate in comparison. Your hands grip the edges of your chair, grounding yourself as you look up at him, wide-eyed, your breath barely measured.

His presence is commanding—not in a forceful way, but in the way that demands attention without asking for it. There’s a weight to it, a quiet power that makes the air between you feel charged, something undeniably magnetic pulling at your edges.

Jensen tilts his head slightly, watching you, his expression unreadable but intensely focused. His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t flicker away like he’s giving you space to breathe. Instead, he holds you there—keeps you in place with nothing more than the way he looks at you.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says, voice smoother now, more relaxed. “Where’d you train?”

His voice is softer now, but there’s a roughness beneath it, like he’s settling deeper into the moment, into the way you’re watching him, into the way you haven’t blinked since he moved.

You wet your lips, shifting slightly, but the movement only makes his lips twitch—like he notices everything.

Your pulse is a slow, deliberate thud against your ribs.

You swallow, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Honestly? Just small high school plays before I moved to California. I’ve landed a few roles here and there, nothing of this magnitude, but…” You meet his gaze, sitting a little straighter. “I know I can do it.”

Jensen’s lips twitch, and then, for the first time since you walked into this room, his smile widens. His eyes crinkle at the edges, and for a fleeting second, the sharp, assessing edge to his expression softens. “I like your spirit, sweetheart.” His voice is warm, but there’s something else layered beneath it—something deliberate. “I’ll need that.”

The praise washes over you, unexpected yet intoxicating.

Before you can overthink it, he leans back slightly, running a hand through his hair before tilting his head. “What do you think about the script?” he asks next. “About her—Talia?”

There’s a weight to the way he says her name. Like she’s not just a character to him. Like she’s something real.

You sit up straighter, your confidence returning. “She’s… layered,” you say carefully. “She feels everything, but she hides it well. She’s constantly balancing between grief and determination, but she refuses to let it consume her. She’s…” You pause, searching for the right words. “She’s hungry for the truth. And for closure. I think—” You glance at him, gauging his reaction. “I think that’s what makes her compelling.”

Jensen watches you for a beat, then smirks—like he’s pleased by that answer.

“She is,” he agrees, his hands grounding onto his knees as he leans closer. “And if you take this role, you’ll have to be just as hungry as she is. You’ll have to live in her skin, in her thoughts. That’s the difference between a performance and a character—and I need someone who understands that.”

He’s testing you again. Pushing. Seeing how far you’re willing to go.

You meet his gaze, heart hammering. “I can do that,” you assure.

Jensen studies you for a long moment, like he’s letting your words settle. Then, with a small nod, he leans back.

“We’ll see.”

And something tells you—this audition isn’t over yet.

Jensen holds your gaze for a beat longer before he shifts, rolling his shoulders back like he’s made a decision. Then, with a nod, he turns to Rory and Olive.

“Give us a minute.”

Olive barely reacts, just hums as she gathers her notes, standing smoothly. Rory, on the other hand, hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you like he’s suddenly aware of something he hadn’t noticed before. But he doesn’t argue. He just offers you a small, knowing smile before following Olive out the door.

The soft click of it closing sends a ripple of awareness down your spine.

And then—it’s just the two of you.

The air in the room feels different now, thicker, like something shifting into place.

Jensen exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his scruff before leveling you with that same steady, dissecting gaze. Except now, there’s nothing formal about it. No audience, no panel, no casting process to hide behind.

It’s just him.

And you.

“So,” he says, voice quieter now, more deliberate. “You really think you can do this?”

It’s a simple question, but it does something to you—the way he says it, like he’s asking about more than just your acting. Like he’s asking if you can handle him.

You lift your chin, keeping your voice steady. “Yes.”

Something flickers across his face—approval, amusement, something else you can’t quite name. He pushes off the table, standing fully now, and slowly starts to move.

Pacing.

Circling you, just slightly, like he’s getting a better look, like he’s peeling back layers with every quiet second that ticks by.

"You’ve got a rawness to you," Jensen murmurs, his voice soft but intense, as though he’s speaking to himself as much as to you. His gaze sharpens, and you feel the weight of it, a quiet pressure settling over your skin. “That’s good. But raw only works if you know how to control it.”

He pauses behind you, the air thick with his words, and then the room seems to shift. You can feel him move, a subtle presence, but the moment he steps in front of you, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Standing just inches away, towering over you, Jensen is a force you can't look away from. You can feel the heat of his body, the way the air around you seems to tighten as he looms above you, his sharp gaze unwavering. For the first time, the small, sterile room feels incredibly intimate.

“Talia isn’t just emotional," he continues, his voice dropping an octave, like he’s letting you in on some unspoken truth. "She’s calculated. She keeps people at arm’s length.” His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. It’s not just a description of the character—it’s an invitation. A challenge. A promise.

“I can help you bring that to life for me,” Jensen adds, his eyes never leaving yours, narrowing with a sharpness that is almost predatory. “But you’ll have to trust my guidance.”

You can’t move. It’s like there’s something magnetic about him, something that locks you in place, makes you listen to every word he says. You feel exposed, raw, but there’s a quiet thrill building inside you. You nod, not just because he’s asked you to, but because you want to.

His gaze softens just slightly as he tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that sends a chill through your body. There’s a pause, a beat where the room is filled only by the sound of your breath, before he steps even closer. His presence is so overwhelming, it feels like he’s consuming the very space between you.

His body is so near now that you can feel the faintest heat radiating off him. You tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes, and his stare never falters, never wavers. He’s completely still, but the tension between you is palpable.

“I think you’re capable of more than you realize,” he murmurs, his voice low and deliberate. His eyes move briefly from yours to your lips, a flicker of something unreadable in them before returning to your gaze.

The proximity is dizzying. You can feel your pulse quickening, the space between you shrinking until it feels like you’re two pieces of a puzzle, just about to snap together. There’s a question in his eyes, unspoken but clear: will you let him shape you into what he needs?

And as you sit there, so close to him, you realize that somehow—without even fully knowing why—you’re already letting him.

His voice drops just slightly, the change in tone making your heart race. “Why do you want this role, Peach?”

The way he says your name—drawn out, smooth—sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. It’s almost like he’s testing the weight of it on his tongue, savoring it, seeing how it feels. His gaze never falters, holding you captive as though he’s waiting for something more.

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling exposed under his intense stare. “Because I know her,” you say, your voice steady, though the air around you feels impossibly thin.

Jensen lifts a brow, his expression unreadable. “You know her.”

“I know what it’s like to want something so badly it hurts,” you admit, the words spilling out before you can stop them. There’s a rawness to the confession, an unspoken truth that has been simmering beneath the surface for so long. “To push through doubt, through rejection, through people telling you you’re not good enough. I know what it’s like to have to prove yourself.”

As soon as you say it, you realize how much of your own story is wrapped up in those words. But when you look back at him, you see something shift in his eyes—just a flicker, something so small you’d have missed it if you hadn’t been paying attention. But you are. And you see it.

He understands.

The brief exchange between you feels like a silent acknowledgment of the same kind of hunger, the same kind of fire. You know what it’s like to claw your way up, to fight for everything you’ve ever wanted. And maybe, just maybe, so does he.

Jensen holds your gaze for a moment longer, his face unreadable but somehow softening, before he nods. “Alright.” He exhales, his fingers running through his hair in a slow, deliberate motion as he takes a step back. There’s a shift in the air, like the space between you has suddenly thickened with something unspoken.

Then, he says it.

“You’re my girl.”

The words land like a match to gasoline. They ignite something in you, something deep and sudden, and you’re not sure whether it’s a rush of excitement or fear, or a mixture of both. But it hits you, hard and fast.

Not you’ve got the part, not we’ll be in touch.

And in that moment, you realize—really realize—you were never just auditioning for the role. You were auditioning for him.

His gaze softens, but there’s something else behind it now, a hint of something more than professional distance. A promise, maybe. A claim. And you can feel it in your bones, the quiet shift in power, the unspoken deal that’s just been made between the two of you.

tags ୨ৎ @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @littlesoulshine @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @snowluvvie @flow33didontsmoke @figthoughts comment to be added / removed !

#jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #director!jensen #jensen ackles au #jensen ackles age gap

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toodelusionalforreality · 1 year ago

Text

Azriel x OC | Chapter 1

Rare

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The closer he gets to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Word count: ~5.6k Warning: None [PLOT]

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. I have newfound respect for writers who have mastered group dynamics in their writing.

‘Two weeks,’ Mor whispered, trudging forward with her eyes set ahead in a daze. Her heels hit the cobbled path with soft clicks. ‘They’re closed for two weeks. What am I going to do?’

Feyre looped her arm through hers and guided her away from the closed doors of Rita’s. No one took the disappointment as hard as Mor. Still, they each expressed varying degrees of frustration with their grunts and groans.

Cassian cursed aloud for it was his idea to enjoy a night like good old times . And he enjoyed a night like good old times every two months. However that night, the rest of the Inner Circle agreed to celebrate the few peaceful months they'd had in a while.

Except for one.

Azriel was grateful for his family’s reunion and their safety. Only he wanted to celebrate it in the quiet of their home. His family didn’t spare him the courtesy of protesting though. Knowing him well, they sent the middle Archeron sister to plead their case. One look at her hesitant eyes and he couldn’t deny the soft-hearted woman. He had one regret for the night—to have not flown off when he sensed Elaine’s presence on the other side of his door.

When Rita disclosed their misfortune, Nesta pinned him with an accusatory glare as if his ill will had manifested into the burning down of their beloved retreat. She would have calmed if Azriel had stood there with his usual blank stare. Instead, he lifted a brow as a smirk tugged at his lips.

‘At least pretend not to enjoy this so much, you ass,’ grumbled Cass without even looking at his brother.

‘Two weeks!’ Mor shrieked, throwing her arms in the air as she reeled out of the initial shock. Her blonde hair swayed behind her with every shake of her head. ‘How could she do this to me?’

Rhys walked on her other side. Besides Azriel, he was the only one unbothered by the ruin of their plans and his taunting tone was the only sign of his apathy for his cousin’s plight. ‘I’m sure the fire in her kitchen had barely anything to do with punishing you.’

Elaine’s voice perked up as Mor opened her mouth again. ‘We could go somewhere else,’ she inched away with each word as if she expected another outburst. ‘It’s not too late.’

And that’s how Azriel came to hate the woman for the night.

He wasn’t cruel. He loved his family, and he agreed they deserved a break, but it wasn’t something he would sacrifice his peace for. He was ready with his own proposition—go back home, get drunk on faerie wine, and maybe some mirthroot if they resisted too much. His family would have their merriment, and he’d have his serenity.

As they stumbled and meandered through the streets, stopping at one place and the next, vetting out each other’s suggestions, Azriel found himself enjoying the moment—listening to his family’s usual banter, the comfort of familiarity built over centuries, and fussing over triviality instead of wars and courts. If his family chose to spend the entire night on the streets, he would gladly trade his peace for that.

But then, his family arrived at their destination. The last on their list. Another bar. Or at least what it said on the polished plaque that hung above the rusty door frame.

‘This is it?’ Cass spoke first, his words echoing the thought they all had in their minds.

Beyond the worn-out door held in place by a brick wedged between it and the doorframe was a harshly lit long room. Even the open door and cool breeze of the summer night failed to mask the stench of stuffiness from the dingy hole in the wall. Light flickered warning anyone dared contemplate entering the horrid place. Too narrow to hold waiting tables, there stood a sole desk opposite the entrance. Two shelves nailed behind it sloped, the bottles stacked atop them slowly making their way to the edge. Such a place at the centre of Velaris was nothing more than a swamp surrounded by beauty and life.

A woman rotten with age sat behind the table. Her hands jittered with each click of the needles held between her sharp, black claws. Her crooked nose curving past her thin lips and her non-existent ears were the only indications of her faerie blood other than her savage nails. Azriel couldn’t remember the last time he saw a creature that looked so old and fragile, yet with malice in her being, a kind of cruelty that lurked in one’s bones.

Despite what he witnessed, none of it deterred him that night. His body shook with silent laughter. All that wasted trip, endless stops to pick at the tiniest flaws only for his family to end up there .

Mother loved him. The complete disbelief on their faces was worth everything Azriel suffered since he opened his door to Elaine that night. Even his shadows seemed to enjoy the irony of their situation, skittering around his shoulders.

Mor turned to him sharply, her eyes alight with fire. ‘As long as there’s wine, this will do,’ she gritted her teeth.

Pushing his friend, whose only purpose in life was proving a point, was the last thing Azriel wanted to do. Yet it was an opportunity he couldn’t pass. How far would his family go? What would it take to break them? Would they give in and chuck down whatever wretched brew the suspicious creature offered? He merely bowed his head and waved at the door.

Mor swallowed her squeak of disgust as she crossed the threshold. Her eyes ran over the assortment of bottles on the shelves—three filled to the brim with pale green liquid, two half-filled with something that looked awfully like rotten blood, of what Azriel didn’t care to find out.

‘Do you suppose,’ she brought her eyes back to the woman, ‘you have any wine?’

The needles went silent for a beat, ‘Take your pick,’ and resumed. Not once did the creature glance at them as she jerked her chin to the shelf above her head.

With the seven of them now inside, the air turned hot and suffocating. Nesta pushed past to the front, standing next to Mor. ‘This is Pharus, isn’t it? The bar?’

Finally, the faerie looked up. Her eyes roved over their faces, their bodies, the detailing of threads on their clothes finer than the ones she held in her hands.

‘Of course,’ she snarled, ‘why else would you be here?’ Her lazy eyes rolled creepily in their sockets to stop at the door beside the shelf. ‘Over there,’ she said and went back to her hideous patchwork of browns and blues and pinks.

In the silence, a steady thrum of beats crept along the floor. A soft murmur lured them to trust the creature’s words and enter the unknown awaiting them behind the burnished wood, a portal out of the creature’s lair.

Mor stepped up to the door, her eyes on the glass doorknob—hypnotised, curious, so bright. As her fingers brushed against it, the faerie cleared her throat.

‘There’s a price for it,’ she added with a sly smile on her lips, a little thing that didn’t belong in her sagging face.

Azriel fished into his pockets while his family stared between the door and its guardian. His curiosity ebbed and grew to a point of no return. He had to find whatever called to him, whatever called to them . He dropped a gold on the table. It clattered on the wood, its ring echoing for a breath too long.

The faerie stared at it and then at him, and then his family, studying each of their faces. Her claws left scratches on the wood as she grasped the coin in her palm. She sniffed it once and her eyes widened.

The door didn’t make a sound under Mor’s hand. One by one they entered, and Azriel let the door close behind him. Their heels clicked on the polished wooden floor that gleamed under golden lights.

Soothing warmth enveloped them even on the summer night in a comforting embrace. Fragrance of spices cut through the musk of the wooden furniture. Golden orbs hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow across the space enough to enable their fae sight, but none too harsh like Rita’s. Every plush leather chair, strategically arranged table, and carefully curated decorations contributed to the elegance of the room.

A band sat on a raised podium at the far end, playing music that complimented their ambience. In the middle stood the majestic bar, a stretch of counter that ran along almost the entire length of the room. Bottles filled with various shades of liquor sat on the shelves behind—each of them, artistically planned and placed. Lights reflected off decanters and glasses set on trays adding a bit of colour to the brown and gold theme of the room.

Faerie, high and lesser, took the seats without sparing each other a glance of discrimination. There was no stench of tension in the air, only a fragile calmness. Two servers shifted around the room speaking softly with polite smiles on their lips. A female tended to the bar, her hands worked with mesmerising precision. Despite the overflowing liquor, there wasn’t a loud cry, laughter, or chatter.

Luxury and safety—the words came to Azriel’s mind. His shadows shaded his shoulders, falling quiet as they studied their new territory.

One of the servers led them to the only table large enough to fit them and their wings—close to the band. A bench ran along the wall on one side, and chairs occupied the other.

Once they settled, he spoke with a rehearsed tone, ‘I’m guessing you’re new here.’ The hitch in his breath told them he knew exactly who they were, and yet his smile remained. ‘We have two rules. One, we ensure the night’s peaceful as much as possible. So, we don’t appreciate misconduct of any kind, and I’d advise you to stay out of trouble. Two, if our barkeep cuts you off for whatever reason, you leave.’

The server breathed through his teeth. His shoulders relaxed as though the most exhausting part of his job was done, and his smile turned more genuine. ‘Other than that, you do whatever you want. What would you like to drink?’

‘I’ll have faerie wine,’ Mor waited for no one, ‘Any wine. Don’t care how many.’ Her thigh pushed against Azriel’s as she shifted to her comfort on the velvet bench, her warmth seeping past his leathers. A swift nod from everyone else had the server scrambling back to the bar.

Nesta inspected the ones at the neighbouring tables. ‘What kind of moron expects drunks to follow rules?’

‘The one who doesn’t want to be held responsible for whatever happens when they are broken.’ Nesta’s eyes snapped to Azriel’s, and he merely shrugged.

Elaine looked between their faces, expecting the inevitable discussion. But the Inner Circle indulged in spying on their night’s getaway. ‘Are we really ignoring what we saw outside?’

‘Oh,’ the server peered down at them as he set a tray with two wine bottles and glasses with a grace unexpected of his thick, manly fingers. ‘That hag is harmless. She just wastes her day knitting. If she bothered you, it’s because you’re new. Easy prey, you know? The regulars are used to her by now.’

Feyre reached for the glass offered to her. ‘Who is she?’

The server didn’t care to meet their eyes, but his words were eager. ‘She came with the building. This used to be her home. The old owner, her son, wanted to sell this bar. He found a better place for his family. But she didn’t want to move. Night and day they fought so much that people were afraid to even walk the street. Anyway, the son couldn’t resist our offer and sold it, and she—,’ he clicked his tongue, ‘she refused to leave with him. And Ayla didn’t want to leave her homeless.’

Azriel didn’t particularly enjoy the conversation as much as his family did. It mattered very little to the server, whose words tumbled out in a single breath. Clearly, it wasn’t the first time he was telling the story to his customers. He would make a terrible spy, Azriel thought. Maybe a decent source.

'Ayla?’

'She owns the place now. She gave the hag that hall. That’s where she and her husband lived before her son built a bar here.’ He sighed. His eyes swept over the rest of the room once he placed a filled glass in front of each of them. ‘It’s not good for business with a front like that. She scares everyone away. But Ayla insisted, and we renovated around it. Most customers don’t set foot inside after the first time. Some take pity and give her a few coppers. Not that she needs them though. Ayla takes care of all her needs.’

Another heavy breath, and he turned to them with a wide smile, with a server’s politeness. ‘Anyway, enjoy!’ He turned to leave. Then he paused, ‘You didn’t give her anything, did you?’

Every pair of eyes at the table fixated on Azriel. He blinked, ‘A gold.’

‘You better stay away from her the next time.’ The server walked away laughing.

In his long life, and also as a spy, Azriel had met enough faeries ranging from the vilest to the kindest. Nothing fazed him anymore. Though it would have made quite a story on any other day, his focus remained on his family. He would rather figure out a way to coax his friends to leave early than uncover more about a hag and her benefactor. After a long night of searching for a bar which offered wine sweeter than Rita’s, he knew it to be almost impossible.

At her sister’s request, Feyre led Elaine closer to the band, both nursing their drinks in their hands. Loose chairs littered the open space in front of the dais, where they took a seat among other patrons. The musicians nodded at them with a smile.

Cass slammed his glass on the table. ‘I don’t like this place,’ he grumbled, looking at the well-behaved mob, ‘Where’s the fun here? This is not how a bar is supposed to be.’

‘Why? Is this place too classy for a brute like you?’ Nesta smirked, sipping her drink as she surveyed the place. With her usual elegance and simple gown, she fitted in better than the rest of them.

Years of sneaking and spying had ingrained the instincts in Azriel’s very bones, impossible to separate who he was and what he did for his family, for his court. His hazel eyes didn’t miss a thing. His shadows stayed close and whispered in his ears. Careful, calculating. Between the bar and the band stood two doors—one the servers often drifted in and out of with trays in their hands, a kitchen; and the other too pristine to be a back door or entrance to a storage room. An office, maybe. No one entered or exited it since his family took their seats across it.

His brother was wrong. The patrons enjoyed their time, but not the way people did in Rita’s. Like his family, they bundled together and shared a drink and a laugh with their loved ones. Their glazed eyes and flushed faces proved they indulged in the drinks as much as Cass did. A few cleared the space in front of the band, shifting the chairs around and waltzing to the music. A sense of belonging lingered in the air, unlike the mindless chaos that stained Rita’s.

As warned, the bartender declined drinks to a few. Even the ones who posed the most threat to start a fight walked away without resistance. Not one sound of protest or trouble followed.

Elaine and Feyre returned when the band paused to start their next song. As Elaine settled into the seat across from him, she gave the widest smile to Azriel. He smiled back. Rhys filled Feyre’s glass and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. Cass and Mor still disagreed with Nesta on the essence of true bar experience. Rhys took Nesta’s side only to watch his brother seethe with anger. With the remaining sisters returned to the table, it became clear Cass and Mor were losing the battle.

To add salt to their burn, Azriel trailed a finger along the rim of his glass and smirked. ‘I like this place too.’

‘You weren’t on board all night and now you have an opinion?’ Cass waved a hand of dismissal but his eyes burned with betrayal, ‘Go back to your brooding.’

Azriel grinned.

Laughing and stumbling, Mor headed to the bar. The bartender blushed so red that it wasn’t a mystery what she was up to. Minutes later, she returned with a bottle of amber liquor and a glass of a blue-green drink. Bottles were emptied, banter was shared, and laughs grew contagious.

Even though it was harmless, raucous laughter, they attracted the wary eyes of the server. Azriel knew where they were headed. He slid Rhys’s glass of whiskey out of his grasp. His brother turned to him with an arched brow. He mumbled, ‘We’d need more than one ride tonight.’

Rhys didn’t argue. He limited his drinks as much as Azriel that night for the sake of his mate. Ever since Feyre, his brother’s usual recklessness waned. He became more attentive and considerate in ways he had never shown before.

Both his brothers were equally troublesome. Cass with his wildness and brutality, and Rhys with his cunning and sly. And yet, after finding their mates, they were still all that and a bit more, someone better in every sense.

Azriel looked at Mor pressed to his side, drunk and smiling. The woman he once loved. And then, Elaine, the one he wondered to be his mate.

Even with the passage of time and endless disappointments, his heart refused to let go of hope—such a fickle thing for an immortal life. An everlasting pain that turned the kindest of souls into a force of cruelty—worse than love, worse than torture, worse than death.

To have heard of and believed in a spiritual bond with another was one thing, but to see it with his own eyes and long for it was not something even a damned soul like him could resist.

Who wouldn’t want something so precious divined by Mother herself, to be blessed by her, to be born fortunate to have a mate in their lifetime and find them?

Azriel knew love, he’d felt it. But how was it any different from a mating bond? Would a love be enough to save his wretched heart from himself? Could a love be as profound and sacred as a mating?

He looked at the happy faces of his family. Four of the seven—mated and in love. One with her supposed mate.

Rare of the rarest.

And there he was. An ordinary rock amongst gems. One Mother didn’t deem worthy enough. Maybe she was right. What was he, after all, but an unlucky bastard? What would it take for Azriel to be one of them? Shadowsinger. Warrior. Servant. Brother. Friend. Survivor. Tortured. Abused. Broken. What more did he need to be to appease Mother to bless him with one miracle?

What would make him one of the deserving?

He took the glass he snatched from his brother and downed the drink in one gulp. The liquor burned his throat, a good burn, almost as good as the one his hands endured a long, long time ago.

Rhys turned to him with a blank stare. Azriel checked his mental wards and averted his eyes. It was pathetic enough to long for something he couldn’t have. He refused to warrant pity from his brothers as well.

His family was together and happy. He breathed in the sweet aroma of the blue-green liquor Mor swirled in her glass.

It was a good night.

As he drank a little more, his shadows ventured out weaving through tables and shuffling feet. Azriel allowed it for a while before he reined them back. But they never answered when they returned, only dancing around his shoulders.

Moments later, they tried again, crawling down his back. The tug and pull of control slipped out of his hands as an invisible force stripped them off him. A gentle caress over his shoulders, coaxing him, easing him to let go. And his shadows followed this force, glad and willing, betraying their loyalty to him. Azriel didn’t touch his drink after that.

As expected, the server approached their table and looked at him, the only one sober enough to be reasonable.

‘We won’t cause any trouble,’ said Azriel before he could speak.

His shadows swayed around the back of his neck and leaned to peer beyond the man in their path. They stood still, unmoving and observing, and then crashed into his shoulder, turning into a dark mist.

The server watched them wide-eyed. He shook his head and peeked behind him at the once-closed door now open. ‘Maybe they could get something mild. Don't let Ayla see them like this.’

With those words, he stalked back to the bartender.

The room in front of him lacked the soft ambience outside with its golden lights and cosy furniture. A desk with a chair occupied the small space, giving a partial view of the bar. A woman bounded down the stairs that ran up from behind the door. She headed to the bar, exchanged a few words with the bartender, and went back inside. The servers paused by the door to greet her before they moved on.

Ayla.

To own a bar for high fae and lesser faeries alike, to have her workers and customers fear her, Ayla was laughably docile. Azriel had spent long enough around women of strength and courage to never judge one by looks, but he couldn’t help it.

In her simple dark pants that flared at the hem and grey-white shirt, Ayla was underdressed than her workers. She was as tall as Feyre, maybe a few inches taller. Her face held a hint of innocence, not close to Elaine’s, but something about her convinced she was harmless. Unless she had a sharp tongue like Nesta or had someone like Mor or Amren to do her bidding, it was unlikely she managed to keep her patrons in line by herself.

‘Azriel,’ called Mor from beside him. Her eyes were unexpectedly fierce after all the wine she had. ‘You’re drinking, right?’ She waved the empty glass in her hand.

He knew he should have said no. He glanced at the server across the room, but Nesta and Mor had already left for the bar. His attention drifted to the three drunk men who stood too close to a young fae trying to get away from them. She inched closer and closer to Mor who whispered into Nesta’s ear making her laugh.

The shadows on his shoulders grew restless, creeping up and down his arms. He should have offered to get the drinks himself.

Cass was in the middle of narrating an elaborate plot of his fights in Illyrian war camps from their childhood days to Elaine as she leaned over the table with enthralled horror in her eyes. Rhys smiled smugly at his exaggerations while Feyre looked over at the bar, thinking the same as Azriel.

The crude comments of the three men circling the fae made the bartender stare between them with nervous eyes. The air silenced around them, nothing but their obnoxious laughter echoed. The smile on Nesta’s lips vanished, and Mor noticed. His friends at the table paused their conversation.

‘Come now,’ one of the men carried on, ‘don’t be like that.’

Ayla looked up from the paper in her hand. She stared ahead where the man would have stood if not for the wall in her path. Dropping the papers onto the table, she reached inside a drawer. As she stepped out of the room, she cradled a leather bracelet to her right wrist, pulling its straps taut against her skin.

The bartender breathed in relief as she eased next to her and took a step back. Ayla gathered her hair, securing it at the nape of her neck as the bartender whispered in her ear. Locks of hair slipped free and framed her face. She swept a glance across the bar, took in the faces seated before her, deliberately shifting over the three men. She stood in front of them, mixing drinks with precision and expertise on par with the bartender. She didn't lift her eyes up again.

The man moved close to the fae who immediately backed away. He spoke into her ear but his words rang across the room. ‘Come on, love. It’s free drink. You should be grateful.’

A minute longer, and Nesta would have ripped that fool’s tongue with a shard of her broken glass. Azriel had seen enough bar fights—started a few and ended too many—to know when one loomed around the corner.

Ayla's eyes darted to the man’s hand reaching for the fae and then his face for a second while her body gave no sign of her attention on anything but the tumbler in her hand.

A smirk tugged at Azriel's lips.

Maybe it was a bad idea to let Mor and Nesta murder a few in a bar they had never visited before. Maybe it was a bad idea not to interfere with their authority which usually saved time with vermin like the man. Or maybe it was a bad idea to let the situation escalate, putting the fae in danger only to see the bar owner’s reaction.

But Azriel was not above making bad decisions to quell his curiosity. He leaned back and brought his glass to his lips.

‘She’s not interested,’ said Ayla in a voice so soft and smooth. With her eyes on the pink liquor she poured into a tall glass, she added, ‘And she has a drink.’

Her eyes met the fae's, gentle yet firm. She pushed the glass with her index finger. The fae heaved a sigh of relief and reached for it.

The man turned his attention to Ayla with a wicked smile. He ran his vile eyes over her and winked. ‘The coins are to shut your mouth, pretty. I’ll come back for you later.’ With a bone-grating chuckle, he returned to the fae who charted for a way to her table. He extended a hand in front of her, ‘So what do you say?’

Oh, how Azriel wanted to tear every tooth from his jaws.

Ayla finally looked at him. Her eyes were calm and intense, a reassured stillness in them. She straightened and placed her hands on the counter. And it was enough to shift the air around them. The woman who commanded respect from her patrons was in the room instead of the quiet, lingering spirit that drifted in and out moments earlier. The band slowed their music, and the ones who refused to look at the ruckus dared to glance their way.

‘I’m going to ask you to leave.’

The man let out a grunt, mean and vulgar. ‘Shut up, you bitch.’ Gone was his smile as he hissed at the fae, ‘You’re starting to make me angry.’

His eyes widened as a hand grabbed the back of his hand and shoved it face-first onto the wood of the counter. His arms flailed miserably to stop the impact, only to fail. The following crunch made the fae flinch away.

Ayla let go and walked around the bar, her steps calculated and leisured. She slipped her dainty fingers through two gold rings attached to the inside of the bracelet.

‘You okay?’ she asked the fae softly as she pulled the fingers away, two cords of metal unwinding between the rings and the leather. Once she got a frantic nod from the fae, she diverted her focus to the crying man who swiped at his face and stared at his bloodied hands.

Cass snorted. His drink sprayed through his nose, drenching himself and poor Elaine. Rhys’s eyes gleamed with amusement. Feyre looked between the three women at the counter.

The man screeched, ‘She hit me! That bitch hit me.’ His nose flared and spurts of blood leaked soaking his shirt. His eyes flashed with anger as he lunged forward, ‘You’ll pay for this.’

Ayla sauntered ahead with lazy steps and swerved when his fist came close. Her left hand went around his head once. The man stumbled forward by the wasted force of his body and his neck caught in the cords.

She pulled her hands back to her sides, the cords went taut, and the man fell to his knees. His bloodied fingers pried at the noose around his neck. His breaths grew shallow and raspy. Blood sprinkled from his nose with each strain of his chest. His pained cries echoed in the quiet. Not even his friends attempted to help him.

‘Whining on the floor,’ Ayla curved her wrist around his head again, watching his eyes grow wider. ‘Leash on your neck. You sure you aren’t the bitch?’

Looking down at him, she clawed his jaw open. Her other hand reached for a bottle on the counter, her void eyes never leaving his. She tipped it close to his mouth and his breath left his chest in a painful heave.

‘It’s free drink, love,’ she said, her voice a lover’s purr. Low and soft. As the liquor filled his mouth and streamed down his shirt mixed with the red of his blood, she gritted her teeth. ‘Be grateful.’

The first emotion she showed.

It was inappropriate.

Utterly inappropriate.

A deep chuckle ripped from Azriel’s throat, loud enough to warrant the glances from his family and the ones beside their table.

When the man choked and his eyes blurred, Ayla stopped. Her fingers released him and slipped out of the rings with a simple flick. The rings whipped spraying drops of amber-red in the air before it latched onto the bracelet again, the cords disappearing between the black of the leather.

She turned to his friends, ‘Don’t come back.’

They nodded and began to back away. The cries of their friend brought them out of their stupor and they carried him out with his blood staining the once perfect floor.

Ayla blinked.

Once they were out the door, she went back behind the counter, and time resumed. The band began their music again. Servers shuffled to clean the floors and check on the fae. The bartender wiped at the splotches of blood off the counter.

Ayla cleaned her hands and continued with her other orders. As she offered drinks to the ones still waiting at the bar, she smiled. Azriel set his glass down.

When she reached Mor and Nesta, she studied their faces and uttered a few words. Mor pointed at their table with a grin, her eyes sparkling under the light swaying over her head.

Ayla spared each of them a glance. Her eyes paused at Cass and his wings, Azriel and his wings, and finally Rhys and behind him where his wings should have been. The shadows didn’t appreciate the scrutiny. They went erratic around his shoulders and for a moment her eyes returned to the shadowsinger again.

‘She’s judging us,’ Rhys muttered through his grin. The amusement in his eyes flickered and she held his gaze. ‘Rather harshly,’ he chuckled.

Feyre frowned at him. ‘Stop it!’

Rhys’s smile fell from his lips. He hummed, staring at Ayla for a beat too long before he turned to his mate. ‘It’s not my fault. Her mind called to me,’ he kissed her cheek.

Azriel wanted to ask what his brother meant, but knew better. His shadows quietened around him, still as midnight air, draping over his shoulders with their ghostly weight. They didn’t sing to him much that night.

Mor and Nesta returned with a tray of drinks. Ayla wrapped an arm around the bartender and whispered in her ear, a smile still on her lips. Azriel wondered if there was more between the two. Ayla rushed out of her room at the first sign of trouble and took charge of every responsibility while the other stayed safe and recovered.

‘I like this place!’ Mor exclaimed as she slumped next to him and handed him a glass after taking one for herself.

Cass only cursed under his breath. ‘Because she gave you free booze?’ He stole a drink for himself, ‘But that show was fun.’

‘So was yours,’ Nesta laughed and pointed at his soaked front.

Ayla accepted a sealed plate from the server, with that smile of hers, and headed to her office. Her hand stilled over the doorknob. Crimson spotted her shirt along her torso below her ribs. She ran her fingers over them once, slowly. She blinked and wiped again at the dried stain. And again. Then she closed the door.

Once the glasses were emptied, Mor hated the place again. The drinks Ayla offered sobered them completely. Grumbling and muttering their disapproval at the trickery and betrayal, Mor and Cass walked out of the bar with the others trailing behind them.

Azriel sneaked a glance at the locked door smiling before he joined his family.

It was indeed a good night.

Next chapter: Sanctuary

#god's game #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel x oc #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel acotar #acotar #acotar x oc #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar series #a court of thorns and roses

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cy-lindric · 9 months ago

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bonjour cy-lindric, j'ai une petite question. when I was a young person, I read The Three Musketeers and then eagerly started to read Twenty Years After and was so upset at what had happened to my beloved young heroes that I put the book down and never picked it up. what do you think, should I try again?

Bonjour !

After reading The Three Musketeers, I also wasn't sure I wanted to read Twenty Years After, and I took a break inbetween both to read something entirely different (The Locked Tomb, iirc). I think my reason for that was kind of the opposite of yours ; I enjoyed T3M a lot and loved the characters, flaws and all, but by the end they had somewhat crossed over the line into being Too Awful and the lack of retribution left me a bit frustrated. I didn't see it as a failing of the story - on the contrary, their strong character flaws and downfall in the conflict with Milady is one of the most emotionally intense and compelling parts imo - but I wasn't sure I felt like hanging out with these guys for a few hundred more pages at that point.

If your vision of the characters as a young reader was a very positive and perhaps idealized one, I can imagine why you might not have enjoyed entering into Twenty Years after. The illusion of glory has worn off ; the characters have separated, they live unremarkable lives, and their personalities have evolved drastically with the passing of time. It's almost a brutal return to reality.

For me though, it added layers of characterization to the point where now it's clear to me that this version of the Inseparables is by far the one I prefer.

I hope it's ok if I take the opportunity to talk at length about what I like about TYA below the cut. TL;DR : I love that Twenty Years After is a more realistic look at the big four's personalities and how they evolved while still keeping them thematically coherent, and that TYA makes them confront the reckless and cruel shit they did in their youth.

Spoilers ahead obviously.

We've often talked about how T3M is at its core a story about the end of knighthood. It's a tongue-in-cheek approach at chivalrous initiation, set at edge of the modern world, inbetween the time of ballads about knights in armor and that of adventures about journeying gunmen and soldiers. I think TYA embodies that particularly ; the story of people who have carried the last of these intense, dangerous chivalric ideals in their youths, and who have now grown into middle aged adults who need to find their place in the world.

For a good chunk of the book, the big four are separated into two teams ; that in of itself might discourage some, but imo it's genius. Instead of the natural two-by-pairings, Dumas goes for a d'Artagnan+ Porthos and Athos + Aramis split on opposite sides, which makes for good drama and develops lesser explored dynamics. D'Artagnan and Porthos form a scrappy team of opportunists with money on their minds, and Athos and Aramis a more idealistic duo fighting for a noble lost cause. I think it's a bold choice but also premium sequel writing.

I also love the way the young and wild characters we knew evolve into middle aged men ; at their core, they're still the same, but they've all changed and struggled against the sunset of the golden age in their own ways.

D'Artagnan, after knowing such adventures and subsequent rapid social ascension in his teenage years, has been met in his adult life with the harsh reality that he is, in fact, not a noble knight but a soldier on payroll. His modest origins give him little hope for any further career advancement, and he takes on a new mission in his early 40s for a man he has no devotion for and a cause he doesn't care about, simply because he is bored and broke. D'Artagnan still has his quick wits, his strategic talent, his fencing skills, but he has grown out of the excesses of pride of his teenage years. I loved meeting him again in TYA, and it made so much sense to me that his bouts of anger and aggressivity would be a youthful trait that he'd ended up taming. He also realizes now a lot of what seemed like funny adventures and necessary violence was actually kind of fucked up ; that was a shock to me, as their shenanigans are treated so lightly in T3M, and tbh it healed me a little. Grown up d'Artagnan is cunning, calculating, down to earth and realistic. My foxy little man. I love him.

Porthos, likewise, has been struck by the weight of reality. He has made the sensible choice and got married to the rich widow who sugar mommied him in the first book. Now she's passed, he is rich, but he still fails to earn the respect of the high society he evolves in because he's not high born enough. Like d'Artagnan, he's stagnating and bored and now that he goes back adventuring it has nothing to do with the queen or the kingdom or honour ; it's about getting his damn nobility title.

Athos, on the other hand, is the eternal knight : the only truly high born of the four, and still hopelessly holding on to a time gone by. It's no surprise imo that his storyline brings him into the english civil war, doomed to fail at saving a king who'll end up executed right in front of him. TYA acknowledges more clearly than ever that at 28 yo, Athos was a depressed alcoholic, and an embodiment of what an excess of aristocratic righteousness can do. In TYA, he is sober and moisturized and a DILF, and now he's running around frantically looking for absolution for his numerous crimes. It's delicious.

Aramis is maybe the hardest pill to swallow. TYA confirms the T3M hints that he isn't really the prim and proper romantic boy he acts like he is, and that he's possibly the most hypocritical and ruthless of the four. It might be a harsh one for Aramis fans who like him better as a cute bean, but I love the early onset of remorseless conniving bloodthirsty ambitious Aramis. Another harsh bit might be the evolution of Aramis and d'Artagnan not really liking each other ; they were always the least close combination, and imo it makes sense that their personalities would clash. I think it's clever and compelling conflict.

Now, obviously, if you've cared enough to read all this and if you know me a little, you know that a huge highlight of the book for me was its late-appearing antagonist, Mordaunt. Mordaunt is the son Milady had with her english husband. Because of the Musketeers' intervention, he's grown up in poverty and has been denied his father's inheritance. He's now a Roundhead working for Cromwell, and set on avenging his mother at all costs. Mordaunt, unlike his mother who was this beautiful and dangerous force of nature, is very uncool and pathetic. She was the primordial snake, he's the gutter rat. Obviously, I love that in and of itself, but it's also kind of striking image of the wretchedness of what they've done to her, a fucked up little goblin ghost come back to haunt them as they're trying to make their life worth living again. This time, their enemy is not a cunning political rival with a flamboyance of body and mind akin to their own ; it's a shitty little guy with bad skin who wants to kill the king and punish the murderers. Watch out babes, it's the modern world coming for you.

Of course, they're the Four Musketeers, and they did what they had to do, so they get together again and swear friendship and keep going their way. But they're also old guys with difficult personalities in a world that's never going to be the same. I think it's a cool book.

#twenty years after #vingt ans après #invizigothx #replies

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ccswife · 2 months ago

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The hearts a muscle too

| Timeskip!Miya Atsumu x strengthcoach!reader |

smau hybrid, slowburn, enemies to lovers

synopsis: where one of Osamus best friends becomes the strength and conditioning coach for MSBY, and falls for his mischievous twin.

masterlist. | prev | next

Ch. 2 - Mr. Know it All

WRITTEN PORTION AHEAD!

Monday, 9:23AM

Music bumps through the speakers of your car as you drive to the local coffee shop. A light hum was heard every now and then. Your usual belt was absent, as your stomach was slightly twisting at the thought of your first day.

Sure- you had planned everything out accordingly- the specific tests, how you would gauge what their flexibility and mobility is; but you couldn't help but worry. Doing things like this were mindless to you, since you had spent so much time perfecting the craft in college. You had yearned for a job like this since you were playing basketball in high school. Helping athletes get to their full potential was your greatest wish, but now that you actually had to do it? the responsibility was daunting.

Grabbing the coffee from the pickup counter, you make your way back to the car and shoot askaashi a text that you had retrieved it. Quickly pulling out of the parking lot, you made your way to the facility.

9:45AM

The very well equipped and shiny weight room glared back at you as you stood infont of the mirrors. You had just finished writing the workouts on the whiteboard wall, and were now admiring everything. You would die for a gym like this to workout in. It had everything. From NordBoards to V02 Masters, this place was loaded- and it only helped you visualize the strength you could put onto these mens bodies.

The guys piled into the weight room, exchanging looks and quietly saying a "good morning" to you here and there. Once they all arrived, you began to speak and reintroduce yourself.

" Hey boys! good morning! I know you all know who I am but im going to reiterate. My names l/n y/n and im your new strength and conditioning coach. Please be patient with me as I learn all of your names. We are going to start with some dynamic stretching......"

Sakusa stood tall next to atsumu, slightly leaning over to whisper into his ear.

"we got lucky because wow.. is she a gem" came out in a hushed tone.

atsumu fought to keep the smirk off his face, nodding his head slightly while trying to listen.

10:21AM

The room was filled with grunts and loud music, as you studied each player taking their turn doing power-cleans. Jotting down notes and making comments about form and power, they slowly adjusted themselves and thanked you after their rep for the corrections.

Going next was the "one and only", Miya Atsumu. He proudly strode over, and added more weight to the bar (which already held 315 from bokutos previous reps). Cockily, he shinned the bar and set his hands up, doing the same routine he has always done when power-cleaning. This would be no-biggy for him! He practiced this movement time and time again. How could he need any corrections when he was perfect in everything he does?

And up goes the weight. He glides it up his shins and thrusts with all his power, pushing the bar forward + out, launching the weight upwards towards his chest. He gets under the weight, bending his legs, and catches it on his collarbones. A slight "ooo" and some encouraging yells come from his teammates.

You notice when he goes to jerk it, he bends his arms too much. So naturally, you do your job and correct him.

" I want you to take some of the weight off and try to keep your arms straighter before you jerk the weight up, and instead of pulling it to your collarbones, try and jump to get under the weight. It should make it significantly easier for you."

he shoots you a confused look, and grimaces before speaking- loudly speaking

"what? take some weight off? you do realize I have the highest bench out of all of us and the highest power and finesse ranking in the league right?" he says it with an amount of cockiness and certainty that makes your blood boil. The look on his face made it worse- you just wanted to get him a hard slap.

"excuse me?" your voice raising a bit, and you sure as hell do not look happy.

The rest of the weight room goes back and forth between you and atsumu, watching your hand drop to your side and the other go up onto your waist, popping your hip and pointing a foot out. Worried looks were exchanged and some shook their heads at atsumu, who wasn't usually this temperamental in the weight room- but it seems his pride was hurt. Sakusa contemplated pulling out his phone in a suna-esk manor, but stopped himself. Bokuto and Hinata stood there in shock, not used to this behavior from him. A sense of loathing came from both of you.

"Do you want me to repeat that or are you hard of hearing? Im not taking weight off, so you can write this down." he stared daggers into you, looking like he almost wants to kill you , just because of some slight critiques.

Astonished, you straightened your posture and deadpanned.

"Get out of this weight room." disbelief washed across his face, and gasps were heard from the rest of the team.

"wha-"

You interrupted before he could finish his sentence. " are you hard of hearing ? I said get out of this weight room. you can come back next time we have lift. For now your testing is done."

Giving you one more glance, he stepped away from the bar, and walked out. Shoulder checking you as he left, you turned to the rest and stated " Next!"

A/N: I am super SUPER rusty with my actual written stuff so pls forgive me. Also OOOOOHHHHH THE BEEF IS STARTINGGGGGGGG THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINGGGGGGGG!!!!!! I hope ug like this chapter and keep reading! tyyyyy

LEAVE A COMMENT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!!!!!!

taglist:

@amterasuu

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intimidating-fettuccine · 2 months ago

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I hope I made it! im new to your blog :). Can we have Helen x reader (s/o) where they have that “Pinterest” soft love relationship? I think it’s adorable and I want to see Helen with that dynamic </3

I saw you wanted Helen requests

I hope I did justice on this for you, because I absolutely love writing soft Helen content

I don't know if you all know this meme, but there's a meme that's like "Born to shoujo, forced to shounen", and that's Helen. This man was born for soft, affectionate domesticity and forced into violence and murder. Of course, Helen doesn't like admitting to people that he loves and craves domesticity, so he instead just decides to keep those desires buried deep, deep down inside of him, never to surface ever again. Well, at least, until he starts dating you, and suddenly he has every single thing he's ever wished for just resting in the palm of his hands. Helen never thought he'd have a chance for a soft, loving relationship, but you just went ahead and barged into his life and gave it to him anyway, and now he's thriving.

Helen loves and craves softness with you, in any way that he can have it. Waking up late in the morning, the sun shining through the blinds, both of you curled up in bed in each other's arms, taking the morning nice and slow. Sitting on the porch, basking in the sun with a coffee in his hands, you right beside him, just quietly talking about your plans for the day, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the moment. Helping each other get dressed, picking out each other's outfits, joking around the whole time, laughing, and ending up a bit late to wherever you were going because you were just enjoying each other's time. It's a side to Helen that nobody else knows exists, because you're the only person in the whole world that he allows to see this side of himself. To everyone else, he's quiet and unexpressive, if not a bit cold-hearted, and to you, he's bright and soft and loving, and it's something both of you cherish dearly, the ability to be so close, so loving and unrestrained with each other. Sometimes it honestly gets a bit overwhelming to Helen, how easy it is for him to let down all of his guards around you, how appealing it is to just slip into normalcy, as if he's not leading the kind of life he actually is.

Late nights spent curled up in bed reading, cuddling, talking about your days and what your plans for the rest of the week are. Long, slow showers where you wash each other and just relax under the warmth of the water. Evenings spent cooking dinner together, feeding each other taste tests, and listening to quiet jazz in the background. It's all so normal, so casual, so absolutely domestic, and it makes Helen feel the happiest he has ever felt in his whole, entire life. He truly doesn't know what he would do without you now that he has you, because he doesn't think he can go back to the cold, harsh life he was living before he met you now that he has this incredible, soft warmth that you give him. Helen used to dread waking up in the mornings, and now he can hardly go to sleep because he doesn't want his days with you to end. Everyone around the two of you can tell that something has changed in Helen, that he himself is softer now, less harsh and biting, less resistant and grouchy around them, but nobody knows the true extent of how far you have him really wrapped around your finger. This man would literally set the entire world on fire if it was necessary to keep you warm and happy, and that thought both terrifies and excites him. Maybe he never saw himself wearing matching pajama onesies with anyone, but now that he's doing it with you it's become irreplaceable, and something that he cannot and will not bring himself to let go of. You are everything he ever desired and more, and he is so unexplainably thankful to have you in his life, he would die a happy man if he could make sure you love him even a fraction of how much he loves you (which, spoiler alert, you love him just as much, something he can barely make himself believe).

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta x reader #bloody painter #bloody painter headcanons #bloody painter headcanon #bloody painter x reader

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bunny-jpeg · 11 months ago

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Hi, may I have a beery trifle with champagne, delivered by Phillip Graves please? Thanks!

the bakery menu!

the bakery is still open with lots of delicious treats still available on the menu!

berry trifle ("wrong. try again.") + champagne (sugar daddy situation) and your server today will be phillip graves (call of duty!)

cw: smut/pwp, sugar daddy au, punishments (spanking) & rules, implied age gap, brat taming, naked woman/clothed man, couch sex, power dynamic

graves liked pretty things. he liked them young, dumb and full of cum. to toss some bills at their pretty faces and be on his way to the next pretty things.

but he liked you, he liked you a lot. normally he got tired of his toys and went in search of another one, but you stayed. you had even moved some of your things into his nice house in houston. mascara on the counter, body cream on the nightstand, you even had some of your favourite snacks in the cupboard.

you were almost wife material.

but he didn't want to get ahead of himself. you were still a fair bit younger than him. before he married you, he had to train the brat out of you. that was what he liked about you.

to an extent.

that was how you ended up in the position you were in.

it was sunny in july when you acted out, you and graves had gone into the city to do a little shopping. halfway through the trip you had gotten all pout-y because you didn't want to carry the shopping bags.

"if you buy them, darlin', you have to carry them." graves said as he pulled you towards him and kissed your cheek, "now stop poutin' or daddy is gonna be mad."

the pout never ceased, and soon after the whining started. now graves hated whiners, he didn't accept it with the shadows, he sure as hell wasn't going to accept it from a little girl who tasted like bubblegum.

he sighed and slung an arm around you. he tipped his sunglasses down, those beautiful eyes gazed at you. but his expression was stern, "behave."

you leaned up against him and said, "can you carry the bags?"

he shook his head, "i think i've been spoilin' you and little too much there, darlin'. i think it's time for a little bit of reform."

he thought that the idea of punishment would be enough to settle you down into the passive little kitten he knew you could be. but that wasn't the case, so something had to be done about it.

after you two got home, graves left the bags in the car and took you out of the car by your arm. you struggled to meet his stride. he was mumbling to himself about something as you felt a familiar twist in your gut. you reap what you sow, he once told you.

he didn't even get you into the bedroom, instead having you thrown onto the couch. as a result your pretty pink skirt got hiked up as you sat there like a girl about to be scolded.

graves could see your pretty striped panties under the skirt, but had to keep himself composed. he couldn't just crumble at the sight of your clothed pussy.

"do you know what you did?" he asked, giving you a chance to redeem yourself. he knew he couldn't stay mad at you forever, but he had to set you on a proper course. women your age had a habit of being bratty.

you shook your head, "i did nothing wrong, phillip."

he made a face, "wrong. try again. and if you call me phillip one more time, i'll be makin' you shine my boots with your tongue. now get naked before i cut it all off of you."

you pouted, "well, maybe if you helped me carry all those bags then maybe i wouldn't have been so pissy!" you crossed your arms.

graves raised his eyebrows at the sudden behaviour issues you having. he was a little impressed by the outburst, but it was a behaviour he had to correct. he grabbed you by the face and said, "strip. now. slut."

you slowly took off the t-shirt you wore, followed by the provocative pink skirt. you felt heat in your cheeks as you were left only in a pair of panties and bra. you looked up at graves' once more.

graves eyed you, "still the prettiest thing on the lot." he patted your cheek a little harder than most out, "now, get fully naked. i want to see those pretty tits and that soaked pussy."

you slipped off your undergarments and sat on the leather of the couch, the coolness of it felt odd against your bare pussy as you gazed up at graves like an innocent little deer. but graves couldn't be deceived by your innocent looks.

you were a girl who needed to be put on the right path.

graves grabbed you by the arm and got you over the back of the couch with your bottom half fully exposed to him. this is how graves liked you, bent over a surface and ready for him.

your naked body was for him to enjoy. you were his little slut. he took off his belt and got behind you. his cock was at a perfect level to sink in and properly fuck you.

you anticipated his cock, but instead you got his hand slamming down onto your bare ass cheek. you jolted, your heat in your stomach grew. graves dug his palm into where he slapped which only made the pain more intense. "daddy!"

"i know, darlin'. but i can't have you thinkin' you can misbehave. actions have consequences and you have rules. one of them is to not be a whiny little bitch when you don't get your way." he laid down another hard smack, then another and then another.

you gripped onto the back of the couch and flinched when his smacks came raining down. but graves used his other hand to pin you down onto the surface.

"stay still, or it's gonna hurt me." he groped your ass for a moment, letting you feel the pain before he went back to slapping. you were a mess by the time he was finished and his cock was painfully erect. it was drooling pre-cum all over the bottom of his white t-shirt.

your ass felt hot and a bit of a bruise was forming, hopefully that'll be a stark reminder of the rules of your agreement. you barely had time to think before graves sank his cock into you.

you gripped onto the couch tighter and whimpered, "daddy!"

he chuckled, "that's better. see, isn't like better when you're like this? when you're a pretty little thing for daddy to fuck? you can be a good girl, that's why daddy spoils you. you just needed a little guidance."

his pace was brutal, you could feel your insides being rearranged by the man's heavy cock inside of you. you panted heavily and held on tightly as graves' moved up into you.

"pretty girl."

"daddy."

"i know, just lay there all pretty for me." his voice was a low growl as he bucked up into you. he did adore you, even if you did misbehave at times.

you felt like a toy under his control, your heart fluttered at the feeling of his heavy cock inside of you. the sex was hot and left heat in your cheeks. the slapping sounds of you two fucking made you gasp.

his words were slurred and hot. he was so domineering that it made you flushed all over. your core throbbed and you felt closer to orgasm. you panted heavily between moans and felt a rush through you.

"please, daddy!" you panted, your cunt tightened around his cock. sweat down your back as you felt so close to orgasm. with a few more heavy thrusts, you came around his cock.

the tightness around his length took the breath out of him and his pace became more aggressive. his heart hammered in his chest as with a few more thrusts he finished inside of you. he painted your pretty pussy white with his cum as he slowed down his heavy thrusts.

he panted heavily. his polo shirt clung to his back as he felt the wind get taken out of him. he held onto you for a moment before he slid his softened cock out of your soaked pussy. he wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, "that's it, that's a good girl." then gave you a half-hearted slap across both ass cheeks, "now you be good, or daddy won't go so easy on your next time."

as if your ass cheeks were bruised, but instead you arched your back and whimpered, "yes, daddy. thank you, daddy."

graves loved the sound of that. his sweet girl.

#bunny writes #the bakery #phillip graves smut #commander phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty smut #call of duty x reader #call of duty #reader insert #cod smut #graves smut #graves x reader #graves x you

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