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madschiavelique · 1 year

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𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 (𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

summary : miguel didn't like very much the way you left him all horny for you in the toilets during the unexpected mission, so once the anomalies have all been maintained, he decides to teach you proper manners

content warnings : SMUT (18+) minors dni, lots of tension, soft!dom miguel, quick boob job, cunnilingus, "it's too big", pnv sex, miguel teaches reader magic words, so much kissing i swear, no use of Y/N, biting, mention of scars (from fights, miguel's) - let me know if i forgot any !! word count : 7,7k

note : i'm sorry i took SO LONG writing this baby, but here it is (and not yet proofread but i couldn't wait hehehe). the end is corny i AM SORRY but it was already long and this is to keep a pretty open. thank u all so much for ur support !! we passed the 400 subscribers today and i'm literally jumping to the ceiling of happiness. this is the last part of the 4shot, i hope you liked it <33 i was super inspired by Shameless by The Weeknd (one of my favourite songs hehehe). enough of me talking, love u guys !!

the previous parts : 1 - love bite 2 - late night training 3 - unexpected mission

tag list : @marit332 @coralineyouareinterribledanger @sunnyx07 @mamamiriamxo @l3laze @amy180801 @gojos-goth-gf @readingfan @cheezit-luv3rr @scaleniusrm @cowboyharrryy

Miguel hadn't followed you, so you decided to lure the creature back by calling out to it:

"You're really terrible at hide-and-seek, you know that?”

Suddenly, it turned towards you and charged at you as you leapt into the air to keep it at bay, at least long enough for Miguel to finish... what he had to do. The sound of his breathless voice replayed in your head, the heat in your cheeks rising. You propelled yourself silently up to a floor above, observing the behaviour of the dough.

The feel of his fangs on the skin of your neck, his tender kisses on your cheeks, the hard feel of his erection against your thigh as his claws pressed into the skin of it...

"Oh my god you're going to be the end of him!" exclaimed a small voice beside you.

The anomaly turned towards it at the same time as you: Lyla.

"Lyla?" you choked out, swivelling your head just in time to avoid the anomaly that had climbed extraordinarily nimbly to your floor.

"His pulse quickened, his body heat increased and his muscles contracted amazingly hard!" she chirped as you mimed shutting up or lowering her voice, but she wasn't listening and you started darting from floor to floor as she continued "You've got him completely wrapped around your finger! No pun intended."

"Please Lyla, keep it down!" you begged her, feeling like a huge red tomato as you blushed and above all hoping not to be chased away by this abomination.

"Oopsie," she smiled, placing a hand over her mouth.

The anomaly swung a ball of paste at you, and you narrowly avoided it as it crashed and exploded with power, splattering you as it went, a large drop smearing across your suit.

"I didn't know you had access to... all this," you muttered breathlessly as you ran down a corridor to get away from the unspeakable thing. "It doesn't matter... Yes, it does matter actually, how come?"

"Don't be angry, you've just given me what little fun I'm allowed to have," she said with a pout, "you know, programme life isn't always fun."

Out of breath, you let out a sigh that relaxed your shoulders with its depth. You shook your head for a moment.

"Well, we'll talk about it later, can you identify this for me?" you asked breathlessly, silently, as you spooned some of the substance and held it up to a small metal support on your watch, which lit up when you dropped a little on it.

"My pleasure, sugar," she said with a quick clap. "Hmm, that looks like a basic bread dough mixture to me. Flour, water, salt, yeast, not forgetting the anomaly gene, otherwise it wouldn't be any fun."

"It's true that I'm bursting with laughter," you say, putting both hands on your hips, still trying to catch your breath. You looked at her for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek, hesitating before asking, "Is Miguel... Done?"

"Yep, he's on his way," she said, giving you an amused wink, and you couldn't help but let a little laugh slip from your nose.

"Right," you said, clearing your throat so the anomaly could hear, "I'm going to lure this thing towards the exit!" You could hear the oily, slimy sounds coming in your direction, turning to Lyla one last time to ask: "Make sure you send Miguel my location, okay?" you said as you started to trot off.

"Already done!" she replied, blowing you a kiss which she pressed onto her hand before disappearing in a cloud of pixels.

You ran on, stammering aloud to keep the beast at your heels: " Come this way! You know, I think you'd really like rock, I've got two friends who play really well, I think you'd love to meet them!"

The pile rumbled behind you. You leapt into the air, grabbing the glass dome and hanging upside down, standing with your arms crossed over your chest.

"No, really, I think you'd like it. Oh well! You've got a head that could listen to metal, plus you've got exactly the right mouth shape to sing it, you know."

It was rumbling from the ground, right underneath you.

Then, just above you, you felt a tap on the thin glass roof, and when you looked up, you saw Miguel. It was a funny sight, the way you were standing made it look like you were reflecting yourselves in a mirror.

"Oh, hi there," you smiled behind your mask, taking on a slight intonation as if you hadn't been the cause of his delay. "Did everything go well?"

He let out a desperate sigh, the red glasses on his suit narrowing, before simply saying:

"Something unexpected came up, it was very... frustrating. But I'll wait."

I'll wait. The very word made you gulp.

"Observations?" he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the anomaly just below you.

"It's dough, we'd just have to find something to bake it with," you suggested.

Outside there was a loud bang: the lorry Gwen and Hobie had been chasing had started to roll over, and the anomaly, just as alert as you and Miguel, leapt towards the first bay window to get out.

Gwen and Hobie seemed to have managed to deal with their anomaly, the truck was completely dented, sideways, and luckily for you, the oil from the truck was starting to spread on the ground. You got out, Miguel following to examine the situation. All it needed was a spark...

"I'll try to coat it with a bit of oil, find a lighter, a box of matches, whatever," he warned, before dashing off towards the pile of dough.

You looked around, and there, as luck would have it, was a convenience store. You leapt towards it. Managing to light a lighter with your costume on would be complicated, so you managed to find a box of matches, rushing towards the street again.

Miguel kept jumping up and down to coat the anomaly, and when he finally saw you coming, he shouted: "Light it up.

So you grabbed a match, struck it against the side of the box and threw it into the oil. You stepped aside and ran further to avoid taking any damage from the fire. It immediately licked at the anomaly, which let out horrible, high-pitched screams as the paste on its body cooked and smoked, turning golden and thinning little by little.

And so, you launched the multidimensional cell that had been given to you, and finally imprisoned the anomaly.

"I think 'the more the merrier' is a phrase I like less and less," said Gwen as you catalogued the anomalies.

"Are you kidding me? This was so much fun," said Peter. "It was like doing MMA!"

"Speak for yourself, we took care of the Magic Bus driver," Hobie huffed.

"I think Gordon Ramsey would be proud of our muffin," you agreed.

"You have to admit it smelled good," confirmed Pavitr.

Everything had gone well, Gwen had finished her exam period and you were all filling in your reports. Everything was going well, and everyone was pretty relaxed, except maybe you.

It was a pretty nasty trick you played on Miguel, leaving him like that, so close to the climax, and then leaving. And somewhere in there, you feared and waited impatiently for what was to come.

You couldn't help glancing at him from time to time. He seemed to be concentrating, but sometimes you could feel his gaze on you, insistent. You found him incredibly calm, and maybe it was just because he hid it well, but just to see him lose a little of that control, you managed to brush past him for a moment when no one was looking, your knuckles deliberately brushing his thigh before joining the others. Pretending to be interested in their conversation, you couldn't help but glance over at Miguel.

Death stare was probably the closest you could come to defining the look he was giving you at that moment, and a shiver of dread ran down your spine as you swallowed. He seemed to chew the inside of his cheek for a moment, trying to act as if nothing had happened.

You weren't going to get out of this alive, or entirely.

"Well, I don't know about you, but the lack of sleep knocked me out, so I'm going to bed, see you later!" said Gwen before leaving.

"Same here, see ya," said Hobie.

And successively, the only ones left were Peter, Miguel and you.

He waited patiently, with you beside him, until Peter had finished his report and, like all the others before him, had gone to sleep. The seconds seemed to stretch out painfully, every movement and possibility accentuated by the wait. Miguel seemed tense, and you had no idea whether Peter could feel it from his side too, but you could feel your skin tingling with anticipation.

Every moment, every second tickled your mind and body like tiny needles, Miguel's gaze resting insistently on yours.

"Well, that's not all, but I think we've all got better things to do than hang around making a report," Peter yawned. "Good night, sleep well."

Oh, it won't be sleep.

He then waved goodbye one last time, turning his back to you as he headed for the exit. Miguel turned to look at you, taking a deep breath as he tilted his head back to look at you from an even higher angle.

The footsteps echoed around the room, fading away little by little as Miguel's eyes turned red, yours watching them and stifling a gasp. He took a single step closer, no more, but it was enough to intimidate you and for you to take a step backwards.

It was when the door finally closed behind Peter that he grabbed you powerfully around the waist and pinned you down on one of the desks, causing you to squeal in surprise as you widened your eyes for a moment, blinking frantically. In less time than it took to say 'empanada' Miguel had you completely under control, immobilising you faster than poison and more powerfully than a pair of handcuffs.

His nose wrinkled slightly.

"Did you enjoy your little act?" he asked, his tone extraordinarily calm, which made him all the more menacing. "Leaving me like that without finishing what you'd started?"

Your heart was racing, and suddenly just meeting his gaze seemed too powerful to maintain eye contact, so you turned your head to the side. Was it simply because you were embarrassed by your own little prank, or was it just that the intensity of his eyes on yours was too much? But Miguel wasn't going to have it any other way, so with one of his hands he grabbed your jaw and redirected it so that you were facing him.

"It's very rude not to look into someone's eyes when they're talking to you, you know that," he whispered, moving a little closer. "We're going to have to correct that, and teach you polite forms of address."

And you couldn't argue with that, because right now it wasn't a choice you had to make.

"Speaking of politeness, I realise that you haven't used any magic words so far for our little encounters," he said, his thumb pressing and digging into the skin of your cheek.

He moved a little closer, tilting his head to one side as you felt his nose brush against yours, moving a little closer still to feel his lips brush against yours, the simple touch of them sending little electric currents of excitement through you...

But nothing, he just grazed his lips against yours, not moving any further, but not backing away either. Your breaths collided softly, his eyes still fixed on yours with insistence.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice composed and contained, as you tried to free yourself a little from the hold his hand had on your jaw, to no avail.

His lips, so close to yours and yet so far away, gave you electrifying sensations, but you wanted more. You wanted the two of you to kiss, for your lips to become one again, for you to be able to offer him the body's 'I love you'.

So you tried to move a little closer, meeting his lips to satisfy your desire, no, your need. But he pulled back slightly, causing you to sigh in disappointment. No, you'd have to tell him.

"Kiss me," you whispered, your voice small but audible, as if you were pouring your desire into his plump lips.

A smile, the stretch of his lips pulling them a little further away from yours.

"Where," the question sounding more like a command.

His thumb eased a little in its pressure and caressed the skin of your cheek for a moment before sliding across your chin, settling just below your bottom lip.

"There," you replied, your desperation for more contact growing stronger by the second as the only thought on your mind was his kisses.

You wanted to taste that rainy, woody flavour on his lips again, and feel them assault your body with kisses.

"Only there?" he questioned, provoking your cravings even more as your impatience was felt almost painfully.

It didn't seem fair, he seemed to possess incredible composure and cold-blood as your veins pulsed through your body like lava flowing from the volcano of your heart.

The little game Miguel was playing with you almost felt like a little revenge. Could you blame him? He wanted all this as much as you did, but he liked balance, he liked things to be even, and he was making you pay for the advance you'd dared to take from him.

His thumb pressed against your plump lip, his skin barely brushing against it, and it felt like a thread sticking out with no way of pulling on it.

"Yes- No!" you moaned, feeling like a child who was denied a sweet treat, unable to hide your longing for more as his touch confused you, "everywhere."

His lips were parted, as close as ever, his warm breath spilling over yours. His thumb had moved up the curve of your lips to press against the volume of her, his eyes fixed on it.

"I didn't hear that properly," he said, his eyes returning to yours.

Their carmine colour reflected your face: eyebrows slanted back, eyes almost watery, his thumb resting on your lips as he continued to caress it mathematically to elicit a reaction from you.

You tried to squirm away for a moment, but Miguel's hand on your waist held you in place with incredible ease.

He raised an eyebrow, obviously your attempt was in vain, he hadn't started hand-to-hand training the day before like you had, he'd been an ace at physical power and combat for much longer, so of course he could immobilise you in less than no time and much less delicately if the mood took him.

His lips brushed yours a little closer, and you could almost feel them completely. But this tiny glimpse of heaven wasn't granted to you, and you whimpered for a moment before finally just saying:

"Kiss me," you whined, "please."

His eyes crinkled with his smile.

"Mira que buena."

He finally kissed you, and it was like you had taken cotton candy in your mouth and as it melted you could feel all the little crystals of sugar that were hidden by the fluffiness of the sweet, a moan of relief vibrating from your lips against his lips.

Millions of tiny sparkles crackled under your skin, rising to the surface like champagne bubbles as Miguel cupped your face and kissed you. He took your lips as if you were holding the air that allowed him to breathe, his hand going round your side to slip under your back, pressing against your pelvis to bring it close to his.

He bit your lower lip lightly before pulling away, his half-closed eyes looking into yours again. His hand came to caress your cheekbone gently, with a tenderness that was almost unlike anything he had ever offered you before.

"Tell me more about these desires you mentioned.”

Your breath caught slightly, and you suddenly felt your face heat up fiercely, as if you were leaning over the hearth of a fireplace, its fire licking your face and your being from afar. You swallowed, formulating out loud your desires, all those thoughts you'd had about him even after your meeting at the Conditioning Centre and what had happened in the cabin, seemed difficult.

"Come on, don't be scared," he murmured before leaning over to kiss your forehead gently, offering you soft, sweet words to help you get the burning out of your soul.

All those thoughts you'd had, those warm nights during that week when you'd imagined the feel of his fingers, his lips, the sweet words that interested you as he searched inside you to expose you to him emotionally, all of them could be said, especially the one that was vibrating immensely inside you at the moment.

"I want... I want you to..."

You had the impression that the words you were about to say would be like throwing a tiny stone into still water, like stepping on ice and feeling it crack, like throwing alcohol into the fireplace that was warming you up.

The hand that was resting on your cheek ran down your neck, brushing your chest as it slid to your hip and slid all the way down to your thigh, stopping in its descent at that very spot, his hand gripping it.

"Hmm?" he asked, his humming vibrating against the skin of your cheek and tickling you.

You bit the inside of your lip, your teeth pressing into your flesh and trapping some of the wet skin against your bottom teeth. You released this clutch with a gasp as your voice dropped to a whisper when you whispered :

"I want you to fuck me."

His eyes crinkled as he smiled, an eyebrow raised, his proud grin stretching across his cheek as his lip parted wide enough to reveal his fangs. He came to kiss your cheek, his soft lips caressing it as his lashes offered you butterfly kisses.

His grip on your thigh softened, his thumb making circular movements against your covered skin as a warm cloud began to form in your lower belly.

"Say that again," he said, his breath landing on your neck as his thumb began to move slightly up your inner thigh.

You tilted your head back, closing your eyes as the simple sensation of his fingers on your body caressed you sublimely, a sigh of ease slipping from your lips. Miguel then took the opportunity to kiss the corner of your jaw, laying a trail of kisses that mixed sweetness and hunger, kissing and biting your skin. He lowered his lips a little further down your neck and kissed you lazily, the coolness of his lips meeting the fire burning at the back of your head. His lips reached a sensitive corner, causing you to let out a moan.

You moistened your lips, your cheeks burning as Miguel's fingers traced the sensitive skin of your thigh and his other hand rested on the small of your back, close to the cloud of heat.

And he expected you, with all these delicious distractions, to be able to string a sentence together properly and clearly. So you tried to speak louder, swallowing before saying:

"I want you to fuck me."

His lips came away from your neck, just brushing your ear before coming back to face you. The red of his eyes was deep, hungry, but above all attentive to your every move, which made him even more intimidating. His lips were so close to yours that you could feel them moving close to your skin as he spoke.

"There must be something with my hear because I can't hear properly what you said," he said, his tone a little less contained than he had managed to convey before, less composed, "say it louder."

His fingers continued their trajectory, very close to you, to where your desires came from, the knot in your lower abdomen tightening even though he never reached the spot. So this was the intense despair he'd felt earlier? The pain of his desire overcoming his thought and logic in the simple hope that he would be touched to turn the pain into sweetness?

You tried to move your hips a little, in the simple hope that he might go further, touch you, but he steadied you in an instant with his hand on your back, making you let out a little cry of longing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, your gaze meeting his for a moment, and you saw it in the reflection of his eyes: the breadth of your desire spreading through your whole body.

You breathed in, gathering your strength and thoughts to say, "I want you to-"

His hand went up your back to the nape of your neck and traced up and down your spine, your body undulating uncontrollably as you concluded with a strangled sigh:

"Fuck me, please."

His carmine eyes watched you through his long black lashes, a proud sneer stretching his lips, your request seemed to have pleased him greatly.

If you had something to ask him, you might as well ask him politely. He tilted his head to one side, the light illuminating his jaw over his massive shoulder, it was so sharp it could have cut glass. Did he have any idea of the hold he had over you?

"Muy bien, bien hecho, muñeca," he murmured before kissing you again, gently.

His kiss was demanding, hungry, eager for your lips to be captured by his. Your hands, until now too afraid to touch anything or attempt any gesture, were tempted by the need to touch him in turn. They came to rest on his face, cupping it as he devoured your mouth relentlessly, his kiss a mixture of thirst, craving and the occasional sensation of his canines scratching your skin.

His thumb had moved up to your groin, deliberately avoiding and brushing very close to the part you'd been dreaming of him touching. Both his hands were now on your hips, gripping them to draw them to his.

And the electrifying sensation of his erection meeting in a single touch the excitement of your cunt that had grown inside you caused you both to moan together.

Your hand snaked through his hair, his sighs of comfort rushing into the depths of your body, blowing on the already burning fire inside you making it blaze and shine. His pelvis had begun to undulate against yours, the friction he was exerting against your covered flesh, against your throbbing clit, sending sparks throughout your body.

"Coño," he let out between kisses, one of his hands gripping your hip a little tighter to pull you closer to him and hold you in place while the other moved up your body like ivy on a statue, pressing against the back of your neck so that you were even closer. He wanted to eliminate any space between you, and you wanted it just as much, arching your body to his touch.

The kiss went from gentle to passionate, from passionate to hungry, and from hungry to needing more. Your tongues exchanged a waltz, and the next moment Miguel was back at your neck as your hand rested on his hip.

You needed more closeness, more of everything, but less clothing. He pulled you in again, straightening you up so that you ended up sitting on the desk, both your mouths still dancing.

He placed both hands firmly under your thighs, ready to lift you up.

"Hang on," he whispered between two kisses.

Without missing a beat you wrapped your legs around his waist, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck as he lifted you with incredible ease, heading for a door at the back of the room: Miguel's quarters.

To avoid being bothered by anything during his precious, absent sleep, Miguel didn't belong to any of the dormitories, sleeping in secluded quarters. One of his hands came up to grip one of your buttocks, grasping it with his full hand and kneading it, a little hum of pleasure vibrating from your lips against his as you nibbled on it. You kissed his cheek, tracing his jaw with your wet skin.

As he depixelised his hand from his suit and placed it on the digital recognition pad, you gently kissed his neck, a rumble rising in his throat, a mixture of threat and plea for patience. But how could you still be patient? It was impossible, you were each other's tinder box and lighter.

As soon as the airlock opened, he came to kiss you dangerously, not tiring for a moment of the sensation of your lips caught between his. He walked quickly and eagerly, his erratic breathing colliding with your warm skin.

You rounded a corner, and the familiar sensation of a mattress under your back met you almost brutally. You were out of breath, lying back, looking at Miguel.

He stood there, looking down at you. His hair was dishevelled from the passage of your hands, his eyes shining like two rubies in the half-light, watching you hungrily. He towered over you, dominating you with his size and power. You shuddered, because at the moment he looked like a predator facing the prey he was about to devour.

He chuckled, moving closer as he put one knee on the mattress, one of his hands coming to rest beside your head, leaning gently over you, crawling up to spread your thighs as his face came level with yours.

And it was with the sensitivity that only lips possess that he whispered to you:

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this," his mouth hungrily came to reclaim yours, his other hand sliding up your waist to reach your hip and hold it in place as he consumed you.

You were in his grip, entranced, trapped in the web of desire he had woven in your mind, every thread of which you touched bringing the spider back to its prey.

His hand came up to your head and nestled under the nape of your neck, looking for the zip to take off your suit. You helped him, pressing a little harder against his lips in your kisses as you raised your head to help him pull it off.

He found it, and you could feel with what composure he was pulling it. You knew perfectly well that if it had only been up to him, your suit would have been ripped to shreds and it would have been impossible to reassemble it properly and put it back together in one piece. But he was holding back, with difficulty.

The sensation of all those little metal teeth coming loose against your back and letting your abundantly heated skin breathe sent tingles through each of your ribs and down your spine, your back arching all the more at the sensation. Maybe having absolutely nothing under your costume could be complicated in certain situations, but it had never been as practical or as pleasant as it was right now. And Miguel seemed to agree.

His hand came to pull at the fabric, exposing your shoulder, and feeling his fingers run over it made you shiver. He continued to pull gently, your chest meeting the cool air until your breasts were bare.

He broke away from your lips for a moment, watching your skin like a flame and its enchanted dance. And you were burning, your whole body aflame with his touch, his kisses, his eyes. You couldn't undress him on your side, his costume knew no beginning or end other than pixels, and you found that profoundly unfair.

Then, very gently, his hand came to hover over your skin. It barely grazed, not even touching it, passing over the roundness of your shoulder, following your collarbone up to your cheek. He placed his hand on it, and it was as if your body was a diamond, every facet of which was illuminated by the light from his hand.

"Tan linda," he whispered, nestling back into the crook of your neck, kissing the warm, tender skin there. His kisses trailed down to your collarbone, sucking on your skin from time to time to reveal violet and pink flowers.

You hummed with delight under his touch, your body lighting up and glowing a little more with every touch of his lips against your skin. They came to rest between the valley of your breasts, his red eyes meeting yours as, while one of his hands pulled a little harder on the part of your suit that was still in place, his own suit began to depixel as he straightened up to face you.

Lips parted, you watched his body reveal itself, his tanned torso sculpted like a god. But above all, you couldn't help letting your eyes wander along the countless scars that marked his body.

Various shapes were mixed in, cuts, burns, strange, sinuous lines, all marking the traces of past dangers. And he had survived them all.

Gently, your hand came to rest on his cheek, pressing against your touch and kissing your palm as you let your fingers move down his torso. You let your fingertips trace a scar, caressing it gently, Miguel's breath shuddering against your skin for a moment.

Your breath caught in your throat as his bare hand grazed the skin of one of your tits, his thumb gently tracing the bouncing skin. His lips moved down the ridge of your breasts, kissing the soft, tender skin of it.

He looked into your eyes as he stuck out his tongue and ran it over your nipple slowly, the warmth of his saliva and the roughness of his muscle sending all sorts of little stars into your body.

It was as if your flesh was bare soil, and with his hands he brought forth flowers of many colours and intoxicating scents that enchanted you, making you drunk with his touch and the colours he painted under your skin.

His tongue traced the separation between your skin and your nipple, his hand resting on the other, pressing it gently between his large fingers. Then he kissed it gently, sucking lightly as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin. And as the moans multiplied between your lips, he stopped, a smile stretching his lips as his hand dripped down your waist and clutched the rest of your costume.

As he pulled it off, in a slow motion, he kissed his way down your belly, letting buds of caress blossom on your body. Reaching below your navel, he exchanged a glance with you, seeking approval.

As a simple response, you raised your hips, and he gently pulled the rest of the costume down, his bare fingers brushing your buttocks and thighs as he pulled until you were covered by nothing but your panties.

One of his hands grabbed your thigh, the other settled on your waist, lazily tracing your skin until it reached your groin, stopping there, drawing indescribable patterns as the fire in your lower belly heated up.

He stayed there, eyes riveted on yours, his other hand moving slightly up your inner thighs but not reaching your core either. The tingles it sent through your being were delicious, but you were getting impatient. Your pussy was almost starting to ache from the lack of touch and contact.

"Lower..." you murmured, your desires taking possession of your body, your reason silenced.

He tilted his head to one side, and the same words you'd said to him earlier in the bathroom came back to you:

"Say that again."

A grunt of frustration rattled against your teeth. Your own cards had just been used against you in your own game, and you had no say in the matter. His fingers continued to draw as if nothing had happened, sometimes reaching for half a second a little lower than where they were staying. You needed more.

"Touch me lower," you said, looking into his red eyes, which raised an eyebrow as if to say 'aren't you forgetting something?', so you punctuated your sentence with a little "please."

He smiled, dark, his tongue passing over his canine and his lip as he ran his fingers between your skin and the elastic of your panties, pulling the latter so that only the air, his hands and his warm breath covered you.

His fingers returned to your now naked groin, and he gently traced your skin, finally coming to touch your cunt, a sigh of respite taking hold of your chest as he gently passed a single finger between your lips.

"Hmm?" he hummed, raising his fingers to the height of his head, observing the sticky substance that glued to his skin, "would you look at that." Evidence of your arousal was placed before your eyes, "Am I the reason you're so wet ?"

Your head tucked into your shoulders, your cheeks heating intensely as he smiled wider.

"Tengo suerte," he murmured as his finger returned to your entrance, coating itself in more of your wetness as his thumb settled on your clit, making slow, hypnotic circular movements that tightened the knot in your lower abdomen.

Your hands clutched the sheets as you drew in a shaky breath, but he reached down and guided one of them to his hair, which you grabbed without hesitation.

"Like it when I touch you there?" he asked, echoing the words you had said to him in the cabin.

"Mhm," you agreed, unable to formulate a coherent sentence, inhaling more air as he pushed in his first finger.

His hands were big, his fingers thick, and he manipulated them all to perfection. His finger was streching you out, undulating to awaken exceptional sensations in you.

"How does that feel?" he asked, his tone composed and almost teasing in the way he asked you things.

"Good," you assented as he inserted a second finger, causing you to gasp out a moan, your eyelids closing of their own accord.

His fingers worked you out, curving up to touch the spot that made you see stars.

"Keeps your eyes on me," he whispered as his head lowered against your cunt, his hot breath falling against your damp skin, "I want you to see me."

With difficulty you complied, and he brought his tongue against your pussy, a moan of pleasure rising from your throat. The sensation of his hot, wet tongue licking your clit made your whole body burn.

Your hand gripped his hair more firmly, needing something to anchor it so that you didn't succumb entirely to all your vices. Miguel groaned at this gesture, and the sensation of his vibrant voice on your sensitive skin almost made you come in an instant.

Your pelvis moved of its own accord, and Miguel immediately grabbed it to immobilise you, his fingers and tongue working together to make you moan even more.

The sight reminded you immensely of the bullet incident: his eyes reddened, his tongue and lips resting on you while your fingers were knotted in his hair.

You were beginning to feel as if you were flying away, but it was at that precise moment that Miguel stopped, pulling his fingers out and his mouth away. You whimpered, a whiney complaint filling your mouth as you laid your head back in disappointment on the pillow, Miguel moving up to your face.

"I just wanted to make sure you'd know what it feels like."

The torment was unbearable, and you bit your lips for fear that, on the instant, you might send an insult into his face.

"Oh," he said, raising an eyebrow, "did I make you mad?"

His tone seemed almost condescending, addressing you as if you were a child. He brought his face close to yours, his eyes falling on your lips.

"Want me to fuck you, querida?" he questioned, his lips brushing yours "want me to fill you up with my cock?"

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, simply nodding in response as his simple words managed to make your hair stand on end.

"Use your words," he said simply.

"Yes," you said, beginning to learn from his lessons, trying to find more strength in your voice, "fuck me, please."

He nodded, proud.

"Good," he said, bringing his two fingers, still covered with yourself, close to your lips, "open up."

Timidly, you parted your lips.

"Wider," he ordered in a calm voice.

You obeyed, and soon felt his moist fingers on your tongue. You licked them, his eyes watching with great interest. They were thick and having them both in your mouth wasn't easy, but by relaxing your jaw you eventually managed to suck them off properly, your eyes returning to his, feverish with desire.

Without further ado, he removed his fingers from your mouth and came to kiss your lips, hungry. The entre-met you had offered him wasn't enough, and he was fasting from it to be able to taste all the other parts of you that were still untouched by his lips.

His naked erection pressed against your cunt, and your hips undulated against the sensation as you let out an excited moan against his lips, your walls closing in on nothing.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he splayed his hand across your lower back, undoing the kiss to press his forehead against yours. He adjusted his cock in front of your entrance, coating himself in your juices, and just by that gesture and the memory of your hands, you knew it would be too much.

"Miguel it's," you breathed softly against him, "it's too big. I'll never-" but he cut you off.

"I'm sure you can take it, muñeca," he murmured softly, kissing your cheek.

He returned to kiss your lips, then asked before doing anything else:

"Ready?"

You inhaled softly, your eyes plunging into the red of his, before murmuring against his lips:

"Ready."

He nodded, coming to kiss you chastely before lining up his cock and thrusting in. A moan slipped from your lips, he was big, way too big.

"Shh," he soothed, kissing your temple, "you're tense cariño, breathe through your nose."

So you followed his instructions, trying to relax as much as possible as your nails on his back began to dig into his flesh. Your breath was coming in shaky gasps, your teeth sinking into your lip as Miguel whispered:

"You're doing so well," his hands gently caressing your arched back and thigh.

His voice relaxed you, your breathing a little more settled as he thrust deeper, stretching you out. He kissed your forehead tenderly, brushing the tiny tear from the corner of your eye with his lips.

"Just like that," he groaned, finally managing to fill you completely, "look at you taking me so well.

He kissed your lips gently, caressing the skin of your side. He kissed your cheek, then the side of your neck, sucking in one more mark.

Full, that's how you felt. He stretched you out fully, filling every inch of your being, meeting the warm cloud as he kissed you to contrast the sensation. And soon enough, you relaxed a little more.

"Are you ready for me to move?" he murmured, his thumb resting on your cheek.

As a simple response, breathing softly, you moved your hips on him. He smiled, kissing your lips softly as he pulled back slightly to push into you again, a shaky breath mingling with a moan that he swallowed from your lips.

His tongue came to meet yours, curling around it, sucking it between his lips tenderly as he took a slow rhythm to get you used to him.

He sprinkled kisses across your face, sloppy ones running over your warm naked skin, inevitably coming back to your neck, nibbling lightly. He traced your collarbone with his lips, running along it until he reached your shoulder, where the rounded skin was bitten and a moan was torn from your lips.

His hand came to take your arm, kissing the skin gently as he raised it, straightening slightly to manipulate and kiss it better.

His lips came to linger on the inner skin of your arms, depositing his lips gently as he traced that softened area, his pelvis taking on a slightly faster rhythm.

After the little treatment he'd given you, you weren't going to last long, so you let yourself be carried and touched by his adoring lips.

His tongue traced the skin on the inside of your wrist, his teeth grazing the separation between your hand and it. He came to kiss your palm, then delicately placed his lips on each of your knuckles before pressing it against his cheek.

Your thumb caressed it, and he surrendered to your touch. He then guided it to the side of your head, his fingers nestling in the crack of yours until your hands were intertwined.

"Qué guapa," he breathed.

His rhythm quickened, and you could feel the knot in your belly gradually tightening as Miguel's thrusting in and out of you became sublime, and the sounds you were making multiplied as he hit all the right spots.

Your fingers tightened on Miguel's hand as your other reached down his back to grip his arm, squeezing hard as you felt you were going to come.

"Miguel," you sobbed as he returned to kiss your lips, "I'm close."

It was a miracle you managed to get those few words right. The hand that wasn't intertwined with yours came to cup your face before moving down your body to grab your hip, a deep sigh escaping from his throat.

And you felt his canine gently bite your lip as the knot burst in your lower belly and a moan echoed in your throat. It was like a bolt of lightning striking against metal, spreading out in a powerful electric shock in your entire body as the pleasure beat like a second heart. Miguel's voice growled against your skin as you closed around him spasmodically, your nails clawing at his arm.

You twitched, Miguel kissing your forehead, your eyelids, your nose, your lips. You were slowly coming down from your clouds, the sensations you had gradually fading.

"Tan buena..." he whispered, close to your lips, "but I'm not done with you yet.”

His fingers loosened from yours as he grabbed your arms with both hands to pull you against him and straighten you up. He was sitting, still inside you, making you sit on top of him, facing him.

One of his hands grabbed one of your buttocks, guiding you to move back and forth on him, while his other was on your back, caressing it.

He came to attack your lips again, the sound of your two bodies meeting clapping in the air as you felt completely disorientated by the pleasure. The speed with which he entered you was exceptional, and the sensations he triggered were even more so.

His lips moved over the back of your neck, then settled on your shoulder, his breathing becoming more and more jerky.

You tilted your head back, your voice interspersed with the feeling of him pounding you, the heat in your belly not entirely gone and tightening again.

Then the hand that had been resting on your back slipped between your two bodies and caressed your clit, your breath catching as you felt the cloud spread once more to the small of your back.

Miguel's voice grew less hushed as his rhythm quickened, his fingers working your clit with speed as you felt the climax building up again.

And all at once, you felt his fangs penetrate your beloved as he gave a powerful thrust, and you both came. The earth stopped spinning as you felt like you'd been sent miles above the clouds, both your bodies warm against each other, both of you breathless.

Everything seemed soft, floating, an inner peace had taken hold of both of you as you came down from this peak of pleasure.

He held you against him gently, running his tongue over the two slits he'd made in your skin. He pulled out of you, placing you so gently and carefully on the mattress that it was as if he had a spider's web in his hands.

You snuggled up to him, and he pulled the blanket over you as he kissed you again.

You felt safe here, cuddled in his huge arms that wrapped around you, his hands caressing your body with pure adoration and softness.

You kissed his chest, on one of his scars, and he breathed a profound sigh.

"How did you know?" he whispered.

The end of his question never came, but it was simple: how did you know I wanted to be kissed here? Probably no one had ever touched him this way, here, like that.

"There's nothing like tenderness to soothe the scars." you smiled.

He breathed out, his eyes had returned to their natural brown. He pressed you a little closer to him, his eyes locked in yours. Blue words are the ones you say with your eyes, when your lips are too tired.

"Maybe we'll have to find a name for this pseudo-friendship?" he smiled, the little chat you'd had on the first mission coming back to you as you smiled and kissed him sweetly.

"Why when we already have two letters?" you replied, placing your hand on his cheek, kissing your palm as his hand caressed your waist.

"Two letters?" he asked, curious.

"Yeah," you confirmed, your voice becoming a whisper, "us."

He gave you a candid, sincere smile before kissing your lips softly.

"Yes," he nodded, "we could make a great us, muñeca."

Us, two letters, a whole world.

#madschiavelique ⟢ ݁ ˖‧˚₊ ☁︎#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel x reader #astv x reader #miguel ohara #miguel x you #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x y/n #miguel spiderman #miguel astv #smut #Spotify

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campingwiththecharmings · 2 months

Text

Some Like it Hot (2)

AN: HIIIII. Right. So. Part one is here. This...diverted quite a bit from what I had originally intended but, I can't say that I'm too mad about it. 🤭 This has very little to no plot, negl.

(Un-beta’d)

Poe is your muse and you can't help but see the beauty in everything he does.

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?) Words: 1,481 Pairing: Firefighter!Poe Dameron x Photographer!F!Reader Warnings: PWP, smuffy af, p in v, idiots in love, morning sex, please let me know if i missed anything. AO3

——————

You wake gently, the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains, filling the room with its glow. You smile, eyes fluttering as you stretch, allowing yourself to sink into the mattress a little. The sheets rustle beside you as Poe shifts, drawing your gaze. You take a moment to study him, splayed on his belly, your eyes tracing the soft curve of his lips, the sharp cut of his jaw, smooth brow, and stubbled cheeks. He’s a work of art, really. Just…stunning. Every inch of him is perfect, as if he’d been chiseled from a block of marble by the gods themselves. And if that wasn’t enough, he also had a heart of gold. Never in your life have you met someone so kind and caring, so ready and willing to help others.

You’d started dating almost immediately after your encounter at your studio (quite literally that same evening), and now here you are, months later waking up with him in your bed. Maybe it’s strange but you love watching him sleep, love to watch the light from the windows play over his bare skin, love to study the way his short curls fall across his forehead. The artist in you longs to capture this moment, and you can’t help but give in. Silently, you reach over to the bedside table and grab your phone, quickly swiping the camera app open and pointing it at him. You take a few moments to get the angle just right, then click the shutter button.

He knows, of course, knows your gallery is full of photos of him (and occasionally, him and you). That’s not to say that he really gets it though, how inspired you are by him. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just a regular guy. He’s supportive though, indulging your fascination.

Unable to help yourself, you roll toward him, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his lips. He stirs almost immediately, his full lashes fluttering as he opens his warm, brown eyes. You smile at him, pushing your fingers through his mussed curls.

“Morning,” you greet, your voice soft as you rouse him from sleep.

He returns your smile, eyelids heavy as he shifts and rolls onto his side to face you.

“Morning,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.

His eyes drop to the phone still in your hand and his lips quirk in amusement. “Taking creeper shots of me again?”

You chuckle at his teasing, your cheeks warming. “Guilty.”

He grunts, reaching over and plucking the device from your grasp. “My turn.”

“No, stop,” you laugh, covering your face with your hands. “I haven’t even washed my face yet, come on.”

He tsks, grabbing your hands and playfully pushing them away. “You got me, only fair that I get you.”

You groan theatrically, pouting at him as he sits up and quickly your phone into position. “Yeah but, I’m not you.”

He snorts, the click of your shutter reaching your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Suddenly, you lunge, kicking the blankets away to free your legs and arms. He chuckles, moving the phone out of your reach.

“Not all of us are as photogenic as you, Poe, just—give it back.”

He rolls onto his back laughing, your phone still clutched in his hand. “A photographer who doesn’t like getting their picture taken. Aren’t you a cliche?”

You growl, crawling over and up his torso, arm outstretched as you reach again for your phone. “Shut up.”

His laughter becomes muffled as your chest presses against his face, the vibration sending a tiny shiver down your spine. You rise up slightly on your knees, the hand not reaching for your phone braced on his muscled shoulder. His free hand comes to rest on your lower back, steadying you as you reach.

When you finally manage to take your phone back, he doesn't put up much of a fight, instead taking the opportunity to pull you even closer with his other hand. He nuzzles your breasts through your t-shirt, your breath hitching when his nose bumps against your nipple.

“You had ulterior motives, I see,” you breathe, the fingers of your free hand tangling in his hair as his hands slip down and underneath your shirt.

He chuckles, moving his face back from your chest as he pulls your shirt up and over your head. His hands slide up to your shoulders once you’re bared to him, his eyes meeting yours as he leans in to take your nipple in his mouth. Your lips part in a gasp, your fingers tightening in his curls, and he groans at the slight sting of his scalp. The vibration makes your hips jolt against him, your body instinctively seeking friction as desire quickly wells inside you.

You sigh his name as he releases your nipple, mouthing his way over to your other breast to lavish the same attention.

“So beautiful,” he mumbles, flicking the tip of his tongue against the pebbled flesh before sucking it into the molten heat of his mouth.

Your head falls back with a moan, your phone slipping from between your fingers and landing on the plush comforter of your bed. Poe’s hands slide down to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he encourages you to keep grinding against him. You can feel the hardness of his cock even through the thick fabric of his pajama pants, your need for him growing. He groans as you move, pulling back from your chest, the absence of his mouth dragging your gaze back to his. You swallow hard, the combination of lust and awe in his eyes making goosebumps rise on your skin.

He pulls your mouth back to his then, licking into it languidly, as if he has all the time in the world. You melt into him, your bare chests pressing together as you wind your arms around his neck. You let yourself get lost in his kiss, in the soft, wet slide of his lips as they brush against yours. It feels like you’re drowning, drowning in a sea of bliss, a sea where Poe is your only lifeline.

Poe slips his fingers beneath the edge of your panties, his thumb briefly circling your clit as he slips the others lower. He works you open gently, your cries of pleasure muffled by his lips and tongue. He brings you to your peak quickly, drawing out your pleasure with each pump and flick of his fingers.

You share a moan when you finally sink down onto his length, your slick heat welcoming him, engulfing him. He pulls your mouth back to his as you begin to ride him, your body rising and falling shallowly at first. His hand on your hip helps to steady you as you gradually increase your pace, your hands braced on his shoulders.

“Poe,” you whine, throwing your head back as you chase the pleasure racing through you. “Feels so good—fuck, so good.”

He groans as he watches you, his eyes almost black with desire. “You feel like a dream, sweetheart. So beautiful like this.”

A shiver races through you at his words, at his attention. He’s always like this, so present, making you feel so desired, like there’s no one else he’s ever wanted so badly as you. He pulls you close, pressing his forehead against yours as you race toward your release, groaning as you move and clench around him. You moan when his thumb finds your clit, his touch bringing you even closer to the edge.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes, pushing his hips up from the bed every time you sink down onto him again. “Take what you need.”

A few more thrusts and you’re there, body going taught, mouth slack, as you sail over the edge. His moan is broken as you fall apart around him, your body squeezing him, trying to take him with you. He spills himself deep inside you with a groan moments later, his hips stuttering with the force of his release.

You stay like that for a while, just wrapped around each other, his softening cock still sheathed inside you. It’s comforting, having him this close, feeling this connected to him. Poe strokes your back soothingly, leaning in to press a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth. You smile, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your skin as he melts into you.

“You working today?” you ask, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair.

He makes a noise, then shakes his head. “Nope. I’m all yours today, baby.”

You chuckle, eyelashes fluttering as he presses a hot kiss against the side of your neck. “Mmm, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

i am no longer doing a taglist. please follow @charmingupdates for updates and turn on notification

#poe dameron x you #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fic #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron reader insert #poe dameron smut #my fic #i'm not 100% happy with this but #what can you do

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genericpuff · 8 months

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ok listen right

please don't take the implication of what i'm about to say the completely wrong way, there's a point i have to make here

there's this gross thing that happens in LO that's been definitely talked about numerous times (by many people) where fashion is used to label a character's like, "alignment" between "good" "bad" "pure" "tainted" etc. this is something that comes up a lot when discussing Minthe and Persephone because there are a LOAD of double standards in how Minthe was treated and viewed for dressing like a "slut" but then Persephone wears the exact same fit and suddenly she's a queen-

(image courtesy of @anoldplace on Instagram, I'll be showing a couple of their posts in this because they show off a lot of the great - and frankly disturbing - parallels in LO, whether intended by Rachel or not)

-but can we talk about how the "bad ending" version of Persephone where she ends up with Apollo slaps WAY FUCKING HARDER than anything we've seen her dressed in since she got with Hades ??

fucking hello?? where's THAT fit ??

you're telling me this girl is queen of the underworld and the best she can do in the fashion department is looking like a color-swapped version of Hera ???

and I WANNA MAKE THIS PERFECTLY CLEAR, this isn't me trying to say "Persephone would have been way cooler if she got with Apollo", that is FAR from the point, more so just pointing out the pattern of Rachel aligning "bad" with "dresses with more flavor than an extremely out-of-touch conservative boomer". Even when she tries to draw Persephone in more "out there" clothing it just comes across as ... tacky? And only at her own detriment?

Like, how the fuck is this supposed to be Persephone being drawn through a literal male gaze (Apollo):

And THIS is supposed to be Persephone being drawn from a female gaze (her own because she dressed herself):

Like literally how? How does this happen? Especially when the latter is STILL being framed from a male perspective (the green guy behind her, "Jeffrey") but we're supposed to believe it's some "boss babe" moment for Persephone to just be walking down the street while getting oggled inappropriately by a male onlooker? How could these scenes be any more different and yet more alike? She's still being objectified for the characters around her and the audience, but we're supposed to believe the second is better than the first one because... she chose to wear that?

Sure, one could argue that at least she dressed herself and that definitely gives her agency, but it's really Rachel telling on herself where her priorities are in trying to write a "feminist comic" that she had Persephone dress herself and then STILL have its only purpose be for men on the sidelines to stare at and objectify her. When you just know this same outfit would have undoubtedly been used to slut shame characters like Minthe or Thetis or Leuce.

I don't even know, man. The intentions in LO's writing are so confused, contradictory, and ultimately pointless. It's trying so hard to be "feminist" and a "deconstruction of purity culture" but then it turns around and reinforces all that same shit it's claiming to be fighting against anyways. Persephone would be an evil slut if she was with Apollo, look at her outfit! But not here, not the banana purse dress being oggled by strangers on the sidewalk, not now that she settled down with her old rich husband who she only knew for a couple weeks before being separated for 10 years but their love was just so strong and the thirst for dick so real that she and him loyally waited for one another until she was old enough to make it "not be creepy" anymore for them to hook up, but only after marriage. She's definitely not a gold digger like Minthe or a vapid slut like Thetis or a homewrecker like Leuce, nah.

I just wish she'd dress herself, for the love of god. Let her dress herself with her own input and not the influence of the people around her or the tone of the comic's own internalized misogyny that demands "woman must always be objectified for better or for worse, that is The Rule!"

Of course she can't "dress herself" though. She's an extension of Rachel and Rachel herself writes like an out-of-touch boomer who will and has gladly gone about how men are just clamoring at the bit to stare at her and get to her... but then claims she "didn't realize sexism was all that bad" until she started working on LO.

Sorry, this post got very long and very mean, I initially just wanted to make the comparison in a very silly haha "wild how bad ending Persephone has way more visual personality than good ending Persephone" way, but then I thought about it too long and pissed myself off LMAO

And no, I don't want to go back to beating the dead horse of "banana dress bad" because honestly, I think in any other context or comic, sure, it would be very cute to see her walking around in an outfit she chose herself even if it's "objectively" not a great outfit, it shows agency and not caring what other people think which is VERY freeing. But we're not reading that comic, we're reading LO, where a woman's worth and value is only determined by how the men around her react to her and only Persephone is allowed to be empowered by wearing outfits that would otherwise be treated as "slutty" if worn by anyone else.

I don't want the message to be "Persephone looks like a dumbass bimbo" or, on the flipside, "Persephone looks boring and out-of-touch", I want the message to be "Persephone is valid for dressing how she wants, just like how the women around her are valid for dressing how they want regardless of whether or not they're protagonists or antagonists."

Quit using women's fashion as an alignment chart, quit using these "not so sly for a misogynist guy" dogwhistles as a way to "other" the women around the power fantasy main character. Women deserve to dress how they want without shame or objectification - all women, not just the women you like.

#lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #lo critical

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wasjustred · 2 years

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ahhh iloveyourworkssomuch!! 💖 i'd like to request something along the lines of sugar mommy!larissa (maybe with smut, who knows *wink*) 'cause she's all i can think about these days... anyways, happy early new years!!!

Easy Does It - NSFW Larissa Weems x f!Reader

Summary: Larissa spoils you beyond comprehension. Pairing(s): Larissa Weems x f!Reader Warnings: Smut. A lot of it. (Cunnilingus, fingering, strap-on — all Reader receiving) Word Count: ~4.7k

Author’s Note: I hope this meets your expectations, anon! I originally intended to make Larissa way more domineering, but once I began writing it just didn’t feel like her——I tried to stay true to her character where I could. As always, feedback is welcome ﹠. appreciated! ♡ (un-beta-ed as per usual!) ╱ AO3

The arrangement you and Larissa have has been smoothly gliding along for about six months now: you meet for dinner every weekend, in a town about half an hour outside of Jericho. You wear an outfit she’s picked out for you, she pulls your seat out, you share conversation and good - expensive - food and drinks, and you end on the stoop of your apartment, leaning into the kiss she places on your cheek, with a weekly allowance in cash in your purse. It’s the perfect set-up, nothing you’d dare protest, but sometimes you honest to god wish she’d just break her own rules and rail you ‘till the bed breaks.

Tonight you meet her at The Aviary, draped in a black satin dress with a deep slit up the leg––one of her favorites. Larissa helps you into your seat as she usually does, but before she takes her own, she places a long velvet box on your empty appetizer plate.

“Ooh, what’s this?”

“Open it and see.” A small, proud smirk turns her lips, eyes sparkling. You run your fingers over the velvet and lift at the seam, features going slack with surprise when you realize what’s hidden inside: a collar necklace, glittering diamond-cut, softening into a single falling arc of gems which ebbs, finally, into a small, shining teardrop. Light from the restaurant’s fixtures seem drawn to it, gleaming to and fro in a scattered stream of reflection. Your gaze snaps back to hers almost immediately, heart pounding.

“Larissa, I–”

“Do you like it?”

“I– Of course I do, it’s– it’s so beautiful..” Your voice softens and tapers off as you return your attention to the box before you. It’s probably the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given to you, but you stop short of admitting this. “Help me put it on?”

Larissa’s smile grows as she gathers the box in her hands, lifting the necklace from its cushion. She moves to stand behind you and tenderly brushes your hair aside; her hands are as soft as anything, so gentle in the way they handle you, securing the piece around your neck. Your own hand raises to rest atop the new weight at your clavicle, and when she sets her palms along your shoulders and squeezes, you shift your hand up to capture hers.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Do I need one?” Larissa presses her lips to your cheek from behind before she retakes her seat, arching a brow in challenge. The answer is no, of course; this is how you work, special occasion or not. She always manages to keep you on your toes, though, far more thoughtful and intimate than any other ‘financeur’ you’ve ever humored in the past: Tennis bracelets set with gemstones which perfectly match your eyes, a new coffee bar set-up when you mentioned off-hand that Starbucks had discontinued your favorite drink, a signed first edition copy of your favorite book she ‘just so happened to come across’ while out of state. Much more than the simple, routine bank deposits and luxury brand pieces that were never quite you which you received from others. Larissa’s gifts have always been astoundingly personal.

You’ve never told her this, but you stopped dating altogether once your little dynamic began. How could anyone else compare? She makes you feel important without ever having to work for it ––– like you’re lovable, worthy, because you exist, and nothing more. You’re breaking your own rules, being so enamored with her, but you refuse to dwell on it.

“No, you don’t…” You trail off as your food arrives, ducking your head in thanks as the waiter sets everything out before you. Any discussion of her gift to you ends there on Larissa’s own accord, swiftly and advantageously moving on to a new topic as soon as the waiter has left you. The rest of the night is spent sipping expensive wine and musing instead on all of the high-culture goings-on you never get to discuss with anyone else: Art, ballet, classical music. Larissa’s a delicious trove of knowledge and opinions and she impresses you with each turn of a new topic. You often find yourself wondering - not just tonight, but many nights whilst basking in her presence - why she’s chosen you. You can hold good conversation, of course, and have an appreciation for the finer things in life usually reserved for those older and/or wealthier than you, but what’s always been curious, what’s always given you pause, is that she never asks for anything else in return. You have no choice but to ask yourself what it is you possibly have to offer to a woman like her––but you almost always fall short of a satisfying answer.

She’s talking you both through an analysis of the most recent play she brought you to when you take one of her hands in your own, tracing the lines of her palm as you listen. Larissa stumbles over her words at first contact, a rare occurrence for her, and blushes pink at the sensation. When you glance up at her in question she quickly averts her gaze and carries on, moving to smooth her thumb over yours as you continue. You love her fingers: they’re long, delicate, awfully reminiscent of the Greek statues she enjoys waxing poetic about. It’s an instance in which you’re reminded art, very often, echoes us in a continuous cycle of give and take.

You don’t say a word when you notice her face darken another shade as you press a kiss to the inside of her wrist before moving on to dote upon her other hand.

She’s not once explicitly told you, but Larissa’s never expected you to take a physical liking to her. She set the rules she did early on for a reason, knowing she could live with looking and not touching, taking care of you and watching your face turn alight with each gift or special night out without ever ending the evening by your side. No sex necessary, no physical affection expected. But here you are, fawning over her, and she’s never been more conflicted.

To assuage the feeling, she convinces herself it’s the wine that’s made you this way––a good bottle will go a long way, thus your touch must be the product of inebriation, not genuine affection. You’ve both long since finished off your meals when Larissa pays the bill and drives you home as she normally does, to an apartment she partly finances (not fully, at your own insistence that there are some things you should take care of yourself) and walks you to your door, stooping to kiss your cheek. Routine.

She is right about one thing, however, and that’s the potency of the house wine tonight. Not on your reasoning, but your self-control. You spent the car ride home admiring her profile in the passing streetlamps and traffic lights, studying the way each red light cast itself across her, how the passing headlights of opposing traffic bathed her in a cinematic glow you associated only, appropriately, with Vivien Leigh in A Streetcar Named Desire. Ghostlike, almost. Ethereal. And at that same wine’s behest, you lean further now into her goodnight kiss than you’d normally allow yourself.

It’s as she prepares to leave that you decide - anchored by the weight of the diamonds around your neck - that this is the night you’ll throw caution to the wind, fervently hoping it won’t backfire and end with her rejection and a ruined arrangement that you’d both worked to preserve over the past six months.

“Do you want to join me for a nightcap? I know we don’t usually, but.. I’d like you to. If you’d like to, of course. If you don’t that’s–––”

“Y/N,” she interrupts. You can hardly tell but her heart’s just about burst out of her chest. There’s an inner battle waging right on the precipice of her ribcage and your bright, hopeful eyes staring up at her aren’t making it any easier to parse out. Do you feel obligated somehow to pay her back for the necklace? She knows you know she’d never ask that of you, that your arrangement is not a traditional one, but has she unknowingly pushed the bounds all the same? Did you simply imbibe too much and don’t really have a clue what it is you’re saying?

Or, perhaps.. Most dangerously: Do you mean it?

“I don’t want you to feel as though you have to… ‘pay me back’ for tonight. That was never my intention.”

She volleys her own inner turmoil dead straight in your direction and stares down at you with what might be, if you squint hard enough, a nervous expression.

You lean sideways against the door and cross your arms over yourself, appraising her. Does she really not want you? What the hell does she get out of this if she doesn’t? You just can’t wrap your head around it, and while you insisted to yourself you’d never outwardly question the bounds of your relationship and why they’ve settled where they are, you’ve put yourself at a crossroads.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

She balks.

“What? Of course I do. What does that have to do with anything?” Larissa’s expression is a mixture of incredulity and apprehension. You decide to bite the bullet then as she lingers uncertainly beneath the moonlight.

“I don’t understand what you get out of this. Am I not–– you think I’m pretty but you don’t want to touch me? You pay for my livelihood but you don’t want anything tangible in return?” You both purse your lips simultaneously and you’d laugh if the situation weren’t so dire all of a sudden. “You confuse me, Larissa.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a small cloud bursting forth as she sighs.

You fucked it, didn’t you? Fucked it right to hell, and now she’s never going to speak to you again.

“You’re an idiot, do you know that?” The air goes still.

…

It’s news to you.

Larissa suddenly pushes forward and traps you against the front of your door, hands leveled at your waist. “I’ve always wanted you,” she grits out, her arms tensing at your sides. “I just didn’t want you to feel as though you had to. Return the sentiment, that is. You’re too precious for that.” Her voice is low and rough in your ear, strangled. You grab hold of her forearms to keep yourself upright when her tone shoots right through you, breathing heavily. You gradually lift your gaze, poring over every curve of hers as you do, and meet her eyes. They’ve nearly gone black with lust, and a subtle quiver in her lip tells you everything you need to know.

“Kiss me.”

Larissa groans, which is admittedly not the reaction you’d expected, and presses further into you, her nose brushing against your cheek. You can feel the heat of her grow, ensnaring you in perfect contrast to the cool night air.

“You have to tell me you want it, darling. I need you to say it.” … Oh. A new wave of arousal surges through you as you turn your head ever so slightly, her lips hovering just out of reach. The shared breath between you has become fraught with possibility, with the overwhelming, unspent energy that’s been collecting over the last six months without either of you quite noticing. Of course this is what she needs: confirmation, not that you’re hers but that she’s yours, by choice and choice alone.

“I want you, Larissa. Please,” you whisper, squeezing her arms in an attempt to ground yourself. She says nothing in return, instead immediately closing the distance and engulfing you in a desperate, searing kiss. Your cheeks burn and it’s all you can do not to melt into her fully, sucking in a sharp breath as her tongue slides against your bottom lip. This, this, you realize, is exactly what you’d imagined: Feeling her against you, wrapped up tightly in her arms, being drawn in and freed all at once, struggling to contain the desire you feel pulsing within yourself. It’s like Larissa’s split open your mind and picked through every thought there, coming away with only the most indecent imaginings and putting them to use as her hips pitch forward and her hands grasp achingly at the roundness of your thighs.

“Open the door,” she husks, suddenly ripping herself away and turning you at the waist to face the door. You fumble for your keys as she scores your neck and shoulders with hot, open-mouth kisses, running the tip of her tongue along the muscle that pulls taut there.

“F-fuck.” The chuckle she gives in response to your whimpering, shaking when you can’t fit the key into its slot, only weakens you further. Larissa must know her effect well as she wraps an arm around you to hold you upright, the other grabbing the key from you and swiftly unlocking the door in one go.

“Trust me, I’m trying.”

Laughter follows you both as you take the stairs one at a time, pausing every few to take her tongue in your mouth and run your hands along her front. You bypass the living room once you reach the landing - a feat in itself - and lead Larissa straight to your bedroom, kicking one heel off in the hall and the other at the threshold of your room.

She stops you just before you reach the bed and holds you steady for a moment: “Hold on, I want to look at you..” You hair is mussed, curls losing their hold in the heat of your entanglement, chest heaving and red. Larissa steps forward to brush her thumb over your lips, searching your face for any sign of hesitation or doubt.

She doesn’t find any.

“Christ, you’re a pretty thing,” she hums. The pad of her thumb pulls at your bottom lip and you acquiesce, tilting your chin up before taking her finger into your mouth, rolling your tongue against its tip, watching her with wide eyes that imply an innocence you don’t possess. A hiss escapes her when your teeth come down around her knuckle and she scowls, gripping your jaw with an intensity that rivets the surrounding atmosphere as she rips her hand away, smashing your lips together once more.

In the next second the backs of your knees are buckling against the edge of the mattress and you squeak; Larissa had slipped a hand over your sternum and shoved, launching you down hard into the bed. Wet heat urges your hips forward as she crawls over you, but her hands swiftly come down to force them back into the mattress, trapping you there.

“Patience, darling.” You scoff as she begins the journey down your body, placing lazy kisses to your lips, cheek, jaw, chest while her fingers deftly work to pull your dress from you. You lift your back so she can snake a hand around and drag the zipper down to its end at the top of your hips, wriggling free and moving to pull at her own dress–––but she grabs your wrists, pinning them above you with a devious smirk.

“Ah, ah. Let me spoil you,” she murmurs into the crook of your neck, one hand traveling to cup the dampness between your legs. Electricity cracks against your spine at her touch; you’re sweltering and freezing all at once, watching her eyes rake over you with a hunger you’ve never seen on her before. Her fingers draw idle circles around your clit as she works her way down your body, leaving a trail of wetness in her wake where tongue meets flesh, nipping at the precipice of your hip bones, glancing up at you before she licks you through your panties. There’s no helping the whine you turn free when she all but purrs at the taste she gets of you from the soaked fabric.

“Larissa, please,” you huff, lifting your hips up to meet her mouth. She takes three steps then in quick succession: chuckles into the skin of your inner thigh; pulls your panties down and off of you; and presses a series of messy, teasing kisses to your bare sex. Your fingers clutch at the top of your duvet as she finally begins to devour you, breath hitching as her tongue circles your entrance and delves into you. In a moment of white hot desperation, you hook your legs around her, calves flexing against her back as you shudder into her touch. She’s ravenous, consuming you with long, uninterrupted strokes that ride on the flat of her tongue, lapping your slickness up and winding into you all at once. The coil is tight within you already, pulsing with every movement of her mouth. You’re almost worried it’ll be over before it scarcely has had the chance to start, but a quiet, bemused voice in the back of your mind ridicules you: Larissa is nothing if not generous.

“You taste divine,” she breathes, before returning her ministrations to your clit, sucking and popping with the filthiest fucking moan you’ve ever heard. The feeling of her tongue against that tight bundle of nerves prompts your eyes to roll back, eyelids fluttering, and imbues your hands with a mind of their own, working them swiftly into her hair and pulling her as close to your cunt as you can get her, hips lurching in an unsteady rhythm. You can feel her amusement at your desperation as distinctly as you feel her mouth, but it’s quickly forgotten when she slides two fingers into you with an ease that makes you lightheaded. The sound of your wetness is sinful, and you have to admit it only spurs you on.

“Fuck me, fuck me, pleasefuckme––” Larissa’s grinning against you as she pumps her fingers, curling into you with a startling accuracy that leaves you breathless and aching. You press your cheek to your shoulder in a feeble attempt to keep yourself above the threshold dividing pleasure and bliss, useless as she slips another finger into you and flicks her tongue against you, quickening her pace as she follows the mounting tone of your pleas. Every touch spreads a warmth through you impossible to ignore, stirring a frantic need beneath the surface of your skin.

“Cum for me, darling, cum for me, that’s right.” Larissa presses the heel of her hand into the space just below the swell of your stomach and the coil snaps suddenly, sharply, sucking all of the air out of you at the same time that you yelp and tense with equal force, clamping around her face as your orgasm tears through you. She continues to lap at you even as your hands push at her, holding fast to your thighs to keep her place. Your legs shake as she builds you up in the same breath that you’re coming down, a second orgasm already rearing its head.

“I can’t,” you keen, but Larissa shakes her head and unlatches briefly to disagree.

“Yes you can, Y/N––be a good girl for me.” It washes over you when she lowers her face again and wraps her lips around your clit, sucking with an unfazed firmness that shocks you to your center. You’re tingling over every limb, pacing your breaths to ride you through this second crest. “That’s it..” Larissa coos, running her hand over your leg comfortingly. You can hardly breathe as the shockwaves roll through you one after the other, and the darkness of the ceiling above you seems to double in size as you stare in a daze.

Your muscles melt into the mattress one by one, sinking deep as Larissa finally pulls her head away and crawls forward to kiss you; you can taste your slickness on her tongue, familiar and tangy. When you part, gasping for air, you wrap a hand around the back of her neck and press your foreheads together, gazing up into her eyes with the softest look you can muster after so thoroughly falling apart in her hands.

“My turn?” She laughs loud and heartily at your doe-eyed demeanor. You’re itching to touch her, to taste her, and she knows it.

“Mmm, maybe.” Larissa shrugs and rises up from her position over you, sliding off to the side of the bed where you can’t reach her––and not for lack of trying. A whine catches in your throat when she shoots a withering look over her shoulder, patting the space beside her. “Help me with my dress, darling.”

You waste no time in flipping over onto your knees, shuffling over to her and grappling with the zipper of her dress. You flush when she laughs both at your inability to get it down in one swift motion and the frustrated little growl that bubbles up from your chest.

“Not funny,” you complain, gritting your teeth as she shifts and the zipper gives, revealing the smooth, snowy expanse of her back. Instilled with a renewed sense of hunger, you push the fabric away from both of her shoulders and continue the journey down and around to her breasts, thrilled she’s forgone a bra tonight as you palm the supple flesh there and roll her nipples between your fingers. The sigh she expels is a ragged one, her hands dwarfing yours whilst her head falls back against your shoulder. You revel in the sight of her lip caught between her teeth.

“I want to fuck you.” You just barely catch it in between her labored breaths and your own thunderous heartbeat, but you do, and you turn to glance at her curiously before her meaning hits you square in the face.

“But––”

She cuts you off. “I want to destroy you, Y/N. You can taste me later,” Larissa mutters, pivoting without another warning and capturing your lips again. You wouldn’t complain if it weren’t for the utter distress you felt to get your hands on her. She doesn’t give you a chance to rebut, however, as she slips out of her dress and climbs over you, guiding your hands to grip her ass. “Later, I promise.” She pulls back to appraise you, taking a rigorous inventory that she’ll commit to memory if it’s the last thing she does: Your flushed skin, the way you can’t keep still under her touch, the unmistakable shine of desire in your eyes.

“In th-the nightstand,” you stammer. Suddenly the realization that Larissa is here, in your bed, and you, at her mercy, is too much at once. You’re trembling with need and anticipation. She tilts her head at you, one second, two passing before she follows your guidance and pulls the drawer open, grinning wickedly at what she finds there.

“Harness?”

You nod vigorously, propping yourself up on your elbows and directing her through another drawer of your dresser. The slow, methodical way in which she fastens the leather around herself surely burns itself into your brain, and you can’t help the shameless moan that seeps out when she smooths an indulgent layer of lubricant along the silicone from base to tip, a delicious sight between her legs.

Larissa approaches with an emphasized swing to her hips, bending at the waist to press a chaste kiss to your lips before she nudges you to scoot back into the middle of the bed, positioning herself above you with a hand on either side of your head. She dips her face down into the hollow of your throat.

Her voice vibrates against you despite her hushed tone. “Are you ready for me, darling?”

Your brain short-circuits at her words, imperfect timing. God, she’s fucking hot.

She lifts her head again to catch your gaze and smirks, nibbling on the tip of your chin. “Use your words.”

“Yes, yes, I’m ready,” you rasp, drawing your nails down the broad expanse of her back in anticipation.

The moment she slides into you is pure ecstasy: your toes curl and you haphazardly clamber for purchase upon her skin as she buries herself deep within you, stalling for a few moments to give you time to adjust. The way Larissa groans into the motion draws out an amusing - filthy - rumination about her being able to feel every stroke as with her own body, delighting in your wetness. She fills you seamlessly, snapping her hips against you before slowly drawing herself back, only to repeat the pattern and plunge into you as deeply as she’s able. It’s bruising and pleasurable all at once, how she brushes up against your walls and the ridges of the toy hit what your mind insists is every nerve-ending within you.

You rock together desperately, bodies moving as one as if you’d been doing this for centuries, mapping each other out and bringing each other to your peak. You savor the novel, tangled scent of sweat and arousal, a newly formed association with the sound of Larissa’s broken whimpers now frozen in your psyche.

A startled breath leaves you as Larissa abruptly anchors her weight to one side and pulls you on top of her, flipping your positions. Her arms wrap tight around you, looped at your back and around your shoulder as she fucks up into you at a crushing pace. You whine into the crook of her neck and realize you’re on the verge of tears, an overwhelming wave of pleasure and desperation wracking your body. Quiet grunts accompany her each thrust, slowing just so until it’s a steady pattern you can count to like clockwork, brutal and sharp at every buck of her hips. Your knees are aching, folded as they are, but the tight, coiling sensation within you overrides any and all discomfort, merely a quiet nagging in your brain; your focus is settled precisely on the angle of her cock and how her nails dig into your skin as you grind against each other. She’s close, too. You can feel it. It’s there in the shallowness of her breaths, in the urgency of her pelvis against yours, in the subtle arch of her back. You try to meet her where she’s at in your muddled state, pitching your hips backwards and down when she thrusts upwards––and you know it’s worked when she gasps and her hands scramble to lock together at the small of your back.

“Yes, that’s it darling. Just like that,” Larissa pants, using the leverage of her hold on you to help you fuck yourself. The only sounds permeating the room are that of your mingled breaths and her cock driving into you with a consistent, almost unforgiving rhythm.

“Pleasepleaseplease, ohfuck––”

“Y/N–––”

She tenses with you and cries out as your orgasms hit you both at once, ravaging you beyond reason. You’re hyper-aware of the way her breasts feel pressed against you, the way one of her hands flies up to bury itself in your hair as you ride her through your climax. Larissa’s hips stutter as she whines into your shoulder, sinking her teeth into you, and you marvel at the feeling of her muscles clenching around you, from the sinewy stretch of her arms to her thighs rested between your own.

Everything you’d hoped for. Fantasized about. Greedily deliberated again and again whilst watching her across the table in another fancy restaurant in another unfamiliar town.

Larissa is careful as she pulls out of you, slow and deliberate so as not to disturb the tenderness there. You remain curled on top of her but she doesn’t complain, rather rubbing your back in long, languid movements and whispering affirmations in you ear, a sweet mixture of ‘breathe darling, I’ve got you’ and more headily, ‘you did so well for me, you’re so good, you took me so well’. When you allow yourself to fall to the side of her, she shimmies out of the harness and tosses it somewhere off the edge of the bed, ignoring its clatter as she wraps you up in her arms. You burrow yourself further into her warmth and sigh at the feeling, content.

“Now is it my turn?” you ask, voice low and raked over with exhaustion. The belly laugh she gives is worth all the weariness in the world. “You’re incorrigible!”

#i also tried not to dive too deep into any specific kinks since there was no request for any #i think what i’m gonna do is add to my masterlist what kinks i will and won’t write and go from there!#that way ppl can request as they please :)#if anyone has any constructive/technique-specific comments on the smut pls send them my way!!#i have a tendency to be super explanatory/forward in a way that i don’t think always works for smth so intimate #so i’d love any help i can get!#ANYWAYSSSSS enjoy #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems x f!reader #principal weems x reader #larissa weems imagine #larissa weems x female reader #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems x you #principal weems imagine #larissa weems reader insert #larissa weems smut #answered (request)#wasjustred

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newtonsheffield · 5 months

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Someone's about to get lifted onto a desk 👀👀👀

I do not doubt that for a single second tbh.

Also: this is Kate’s study! It’s too femininely decorated for it to be Anthony’s, even in his new wife guy era. And I love that for her.

I love that she has space for herself, and space to write her letters and run the household. I can also imagine her lips parting in surprise the very first time she saw the ledgers and she saw exactly how much money the Bridgertons have.

“Everything alright, Love?”

Kate let her eyes flick to Anthony, lounging in the chair across on the other side of the viscountess’s, of her desk. “Fine.”

“You look shocked.” Anthony sighed, “Let me guess you’re about to admonish me for letting my books fall into such disrepair but I would remind you why I haven’t had much time for bookmaking recently.”

Kate rolled her eyes, “It’s not… that. I suppose I just… knew you were wealthy but seeing it in person is another thing.”

“We are wealthy.” Anthony corrected lightly, “I hardly expect you to ask me for every little thing you want. That’s an awful way some men make their wives live.”

Kate rolled her eyes, “And here I thought I heard a rumour about you quizzing young ladies on a penchant for over spending.”

“People exaggerate. Or perhaps I don’t mind making you happy,”

It had seemed odd to Kate at first, the frequency with which Anthony seemed present in her study, especially as one of the other ladies had laughed when she’d mention that she and Anthony had been in there together.

“God, Herbert wouldn’t even know where to find it.”

But it seems normal now, having Anthony poke his head in. So much so that she doesn’t even need to look up to know who’s just slipped in and closed the door behind him.

“Viscountess, you work far too hard.”

Kate but back her smile at his use of her title. “Oh no, no, no. You’re supposed to be working. And I know what you calling me that means.”

Anthony looked at her innocently while he flopped down into the chair opposite her, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I only thought Gee, I hope my beautiful wife’s not getting bored all alone like I am.”

Kate leaned back in her chair, “So you’ve come to save me have you?”

He gestured to himself, grinning cheekily. “I’m your knight in shining armor, yes.”

“And here I thought you intended to rarely see your wife, I can’t seem to get rid of you.” Kate teased, leaning back in her chair. “Though I suppose that has its merits.”

“It does,” Anthony said eagerly, “I’d be more than happy, Viscountess, to show you just how willing I am to make your afternoon just a little bit more pleasurable.”

Kate’s breath caught, “Lock the door then.”

Anthony practically scrambled back over the chair. “Yes Ma’am.”

#kathony #anthony x kate #kate sharma #kate sheffield #anthony bridgerton #molly’s asks and answers

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argisthebulwark · 1 month

Text

TES Summer Fest Day Seven: Companion/Fallen

summary: Tired of being held to unattainable expectations, the Dragonborn turns their back on everyone to be with Miraak. gn reader/Miraak, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. warnings: none! a/n: bit of a continuation from day one :) @tes-summer-fest TES Summerfest Masterlist

"Humanity's greatest warrior has abandoned us!" A sharp voice tinged with fear rings through the marketplace, much to the dismay of its shoppers and merchants. "Mankind will fall to the threat of dragons once more if we do not turn our eyes to the true power of Tamriel - the gods!"

"Mankind should turn their eyes to us, not those useless old men on their mountain." Miraak snorts in your ear, earning a sharp elbow in the ribs. He huffs out a laugh at the rushed way you tug the cowl tighter around your face.

"Don't draw attention." You hiss, shoving likely too many coins into the woman's outstretched hand. Too many alarms are sounding in your mind - there isn't time to worry about counting change. Your singular focus remains on escaping the large city without encountering any trouble.

"The Last Dragonborn has turned against humanity - fallen from grace!" The man's shrieks grate against your last nerve.

Miraak's cavalier attitude does little to help. Adventurous fingers clamber under your cloak and hook into your trousers, dragging you closer until his lips find your ear.

"What worries you, my dragon?" He murmurs, the silky voice doing little to calm your nerves. "I will level this city if anyone upsets you - we could do it together. You shouldn't concern yourself with mankind's useless opinions."

"We've discussed this." You grumble and grasp his wrist, intent on dragging him out of the city's claustrophobic walls. Miraak hurries after you, apparently content to let you boss him around.

"I know, I know - humanity is worth saving, you've said that." He recounts with an especially dramatic sigh. "I'm not allowed to destroy cities or you'll leave me."

"Correct." Even as you voice it, you doubt your conviction; you've already turned your back on the Greybeards, the Blades, and every Jarl across the continent to be with him - is there anything he could do to sever your connection?

"What exactly is your plan, my love? I have no doubt in you, of course - but you must know that I will not be welcomed into Sovngarde."

"If those spirits want Alduin to fall they will make an exception." You grumble, praying that your words will convince the countless heroes waiting in the afterlife - brute force isn't a viable option against the legions that surely await you there.

They must. There is no other option. Regardless of the waves of useless propaganda spreading across Skyrim you refuse to let Alduin lay waste to your home. While the Jarls bicker among themselves and the Greybeards waste time fretting over your lack of mindless obedience you intend to solve the problem, even if they disagree with your methods.

"You will be there with me." You assure Miraak, breath coming a bit easier with each step you take away from the crowded city. His hand slips into yours, calloused fingers a comfort when they squeeze yours.

"That is not what the prophecies have foretold, Mal Dov." He reminds you, voice shakier than expected. When you whip toward him you find those harsh eyes staring straight back at you. "Perhaps I do not deserve the redemption you offer me."

Afternoon slips into an uneasy night, your brain clouded with worry about what the next morning will hold. Your stomach churns as shaky fingers comb over the perfectly arranged weapons and stash of potions - will it be enough? Would an entire calvary be enough to take down the World Eater?

"It is not redemption." You finally utter the words that have rattled around your mind all day. Miraak pauses at your side without speaking but you feel the unmistakable weight of his eyes on you. "I do not intend to bring you to Sovngarde and back to redeem your soul."

"Oh, is it a punishment you seek?" He chuckles but you catch the uneasiness in his voice.

"It is selfish." You whirl to him, suddenly so desperate for him to see how utterly awful you are. Tears claw at your throat when Miraak pauses his actions.

"My love, what do you mean?"

"I cannot do this without you." You swallow back the fucking lump in your throat but tears still sting. "I - I'm not who they wanted me to be, none of them. I'm evil, fallen from grace as that fucking preacher said."

"You are not evil." Leather gloves are cool when Miraak cups your cheeks. "I am evil, yet you chose to let me live - you've let me into your heart, given me a reason to keep breathing." His honeyed words soothe the erratic beating of your heart, face warming when his nose brushes yours. "If you have fallen from grace, I cannot imagine the things they would say of me."

#tesfest24 #skyrim #skyrim x reader #x reader fanfic #miraak/ldb #writing

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brabblesblog · 8 months

Text

Louder.

Centuries before the circumstances of his ascension, Astarion watches the sunrise. Inspired by this artwork by pickled0ctopus For @glorious-void

TW: Torture, implied SA, Non-con elements, Suicidal Ideation Read on AO3.

Louder.

He tries, gods, he really tries. But he doesn’t have much voice left; today’s session with Godey had all but scratched his larynx raw.

He feels the chafe of the manacles on his wrists. He knows better than to fight against them, knows there’s no winning that, but Cazador liked having him do it anyway - for the theatrics of it, he had said.

That voice in his head, incontestable.

So he had fought, tugging and pulling and yanking with a desperation that was not his, no, if it were up to him he’d just hold his hands slack but he has to fight, has to pull until his wrists are broken bloody weeping everywhere -

A loud crack behind him, and he screams as the whip lands, as requested. However the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a broken, hoarse groan. He despairs, knowing he’s failed his master yet again.

“The master said louder.” Godey cracks the whip again, and Astarion manages a louder sound this time, halfway between a shout and a moan.

Please, he thinks, let that be enough.

He knows it is anything but.

He’s on a bed, the sheets white and clean in one of the guestrooms; a small comfort, one that he knows won’t last.

He eyes the window warily. The curtains are peeled back just far enough for a sliver of moonlight to land across him; Astarion arches his neck. The moonlight falls across his Adam’s apple, his hair falling back in silvery waves.

Whatever new thing Cazador has thought up, Astarion thinks, might be preferable to the horrors Godey does. He had run out of sounds to make, of screams to titillate his master’s ears.

And so Cazador had instructed him to clean up, boy, and lay down on the guest bed.

Open the windows a fraction. Let the moonlight touch you.

Do not move a muscle and watch the dawn arrive.

Astarion had done just so. He wonders if the master intended to kill him this way, hopes for that to be the case. Likelier than not, however, he knows that this is yet another sort of cruel punishment that he just can’t see yet.

The question of being able to die… well, he supposes not die die, as he’s dead -

Of not existing, then, is something that has been plaguing him ever since he dug his way out of his grave.

His master’s rules have so far prevented it. Not that Astarion hasn’t tried to find a loophole; years of his training as a magistrate have been put into exhausting, terrible use, trying to find some way he could circumvent Cazador’s words, twist them, and allow himself peace.

No matter what type of logic he’d use in his head it never worked; he’d always find his own body betraying him, seeking safety when push came to shove. He’d scream at himself, to just please, please, stay put and die, but his body acted of its own accord, in accordance with his master’s will.

His body. Not his anymore.

Astarion’s eyes, the only thing he feels allowed to move, keeps staring at the window. He watches the moonlight slowly wane. The hope is still there: perhaps this time with Cazador asking him to stay put he can last long enough to end; he could twist his interpretation enough to finally free himself.

Highly unlikely, he knows, but the embers of hope in his heart cannot be so easily tamped down.

All too soon the sun begins to rise. Astarion has not seen it in what seems like forever; his eyes widen to take it all in. Beautiful, the way those gentle rays illuminate everything; the small glimpse of color in a world so full of darkness makes his breath catch.

There are worse ways to end, he figures. This is positively divine.

The thought is unfortunately cut short by the sound of footsteps approaching him. His footsteps.

Cazador stares down at him, hidden in the safety of the shadows.

“Not exactly how I imagined you would execute this, but satisfactory,” he says. “A rare accomplishment, boy.” Despite himself, despite the gnawing hatred for his master, Astarion feels the swelling of pride at these words and immediately curses himself. Was he so wretched now that he craved even praise from him?

“Thank you, master,” he croaks out automatically.

Fuck.

Cazador smiles, as if hearing the thought. “One more thing.”

Astarion sees that gleam in Cazador’s eyes; in an instant what little hope he has dissolves and his undead heart begins to speed up.

Of course there was to be no freedom. His master knew better, wanted him by his side forever, of course he did, who else brought the most beautiful victims, who else had the most exquisite screams -

“You want… to live,” Cazador says, eyes glowing a faint crimson as he taps into his power over him. “You’ll want to beg me to spare you from the sun.” Long, thin fingers, fingers that have touched him in so many ways and in so many places, all of them horrible, rest against his thigh.

He feels the magic slowly take, the calm resignation and expectation of finally being allowed repose slowly morphing into panic that wasn’t his own, an alien feeling taking over him, ruling his heart and his mind.

His heart races, breathing quickens, whimpers, even as he tries to tell himself this isn’t what he wants. Betrayed yet again by his body and mind, trapped within the confines of Cazador’s will. He should be used to this by now; it’s been years of this, of endless waking nightmares of neverending bodies of dead-end hallways and pure shit -

The stream of sunlight begins to creep towards him, and Astarion struggles. He needs to keep still as commanded, but cannot stop his mouth.

“Master, please, I - I don’t want to die here,” he begins to say, his voice a wreck still. Cazador, still above him, watches with wry amusement, the hand on his thigh moving higher.

Astarion cannot help the whine that escapes him. “Please. Please.”

I’ll do anything say anything be anything just please don’t let me die here.

Never mind that those words, those thoughts, are not his; that he will never mean them in his deepest heart. He says them anyway, feels them anyway.

“I think I’d rather you be quiet, child,” Cazador replies.

Immediately his mouth snaps shut. His eyes shift over to look at Cazador, the defiance in them slowly ebbing away as the sunlight finally touches him.

Blistering, sizzling pain erupts from that line on his throat. He can hear his skin begin to burn, the crackling sound loud in the near-silent room. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t speak. Instead he watches his master, gaze conveying those traitorous feelings Cazador forces him to possess.

The pain increases, incrementally at first, and then worse as time passes. However it isn’t worse than any other pain he’s felt before, especially in Godey’s sessions.

He stares at Cazador and then at the sunlight, feeling freedom slip away from his fingers. So close to escape, to peace, and he is reminded that he can never have that. That this is it for eternity, to be Cazador’s, to spend day after day reliving the same waking nightmare without end.

A single tear falls. A different kind of pain.

If he could scream, he thinks, he could have been louder now.

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#astarion #astarion baldurs gate #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 #astarion fic #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fic #bg3 fanart #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion whump

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cellarspider · 6 months

Text

30/30 One last thing.

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We have come to the end of Prometheus. But depending on how you’re feeling about death of the author right now, it’s not. Not quite yet.

Because Ridley Scott had some things to say after Prometheus came out.

Two months after the movie's release, Ridley Scott gave an interview. Its original home has succumbed to link rot, but it’s still available in a couple places, in the Internet Archive and within the corporate acquisition mass that is Fandango, featuring a weird note of brand revisionism in the relabeling of the interviewer’s affiliation.

Now. Let’s begin by saying this: A movie is a movie. The things around a movie are not the movie. This seems obvious, but it’s to say that a single creative work can be viewed entirely free of outside context, and in most cases it’s best to assume that it will. If a director comes out later and tells people what their intent was, then that’s not part of the movie.

…But it can still sit in your brain for years, leaping out to ambush unsuspecting passers-by.

So! This interview. Ohhh, this interview. I’d forgotten most of it, because the final lines of it just knocked the top of my head clean off, so we’ll be discovering bits of this together.

We start from the end of the movie, with the interviewer asking about the openness of the ending to a sequel. Scott, among other things, said:

“I’d love to explore where the hell [Dr. Shaw] goes next and what does she do when she gets there, because if it is paradise, paradise can not be what you think it is. Paradise has a connotation of being extremely sinister and ominous.”

This came across well in the movie, though it was festooned with the random bit of organic bigotry from Shaw toward David. A short answer won’t capture everything, so I still have no idea if Scott intended for that to be so brayingly insensitive, this is the guy who was fine with Joel Edgerton as Ramses II. In any case, Paradise might be ominous, but Shaw’s not bringing along ideas that will improve it by any means.

This isn’t really the film we eventually got from Alien: Covenant. Is that bad? Honestly, I don’t know that either. Shaw as a character did not have a lot of depth in this movie. Noomi Rapace ended up playing her hurt very well by the end of it, but if that’s your standard of quality in horror acting, then Josh Stewart’s leading role in the grungy Saw-adjacent movie The Collector (2009) will serve you well.

I think they could have built something out of her character, but they didn’t. David is definitely the stand-out character from Prometheus, and they do at least focus on him quite a lot. But I’ve yet to watch Covenant, partly because the structure of it does not interest me. Also, because I’ve heard about what David does when he shows up on the new planet, and bad things happening to crowds are one thing that can make my brain wig out something awful.

Speaking of the Engineers, Scott speaks about their character:

“they’re such aggressive f**kers … and who wouldn’t describe them that way, considering their brilliance in making dreadful devices and weapons that would make our chemical warfare look ridiculous? So I always had it in there that the God-like creature that you will see actually is not so nice, and is certainly not God.”

Again, we find ourselves at the casual gnosticism of the movie, in which the Engineers are kind of the demiurge in this context. Some christian-influenced people assume that if there is a true god, it must be omnibenevolent, and find the violent and threatening behavior depicted in the Old Testament to be at odds with their understanding of divinity. A lack of benevolence is seen as a sign that the figure depicted must be something else, something that may think that it is a god, but it is not truly, regardless of its role as a creator. Hence, the gnostic idea of the demiurge.

But Scott also seems to confirm my suspicion that he’s not aware he’s recreating gnostic cosmogony through Prometheus, because he doesn’t reach for any of the older sources or the language around him. He instead invokes a rather surface reading of Paradise Lost:

“ In a funny kind of way, if you look at the Engineers, they’re tall and elegant … they are dark angels. If you look at [John Milton’s] Paradise Lost, the guys who have the best time in the story are the dark angels, not God. He goes to all the best nightclubs, he’s better looking, and he gets all of the birds. [Laughs]”

Setting aside the fact that Paradise Lost ends with all the fallen angels having a bad time because God’s turned them into snakes, I will give Scott the tiniest bit of credit, there’s a bit of my brain that saw this and thought “this is a strong start”:

Scott eventually continues on the Engineers, and the sacrifice scene at the start:

“That could be anywhere. That could be a planet anywhere. All he’s doing is acting as a gardener in space. And the plant life, in fact, is the disintegration of himself. If you parallel that idea with other sacrificial elements in history – which are clearly illustrated with the Mayans and the Incas – he would live for one year as a prince, and at the end of that year, he would be taken and donated to the gods in hopes of improving what might happen next year, be it with crops or weather, etcetera.”

Scott is misremembering some things here, which is understandable given the off-the-cuff nature of the remark, but it’s still worth correcting. This is a misattribution of Aztec rituals that would involve the sacrifice of a “teixiptla” representative of a god (such as Xipe Totec, Tezcatlipoca, etc). The Inca didn’t carry out this ritual–they did engage in a human sacrifice ritual called qhapaq hucha, but its form and function was not the same. The Classical Maya also engaged in different human sacrifice rituals, but there was also an emphasis on non-fatal self-administered bloodletting–Maya nobility in particular were often depicted shedding their own blood for this purpose.

This also, to my memory, conflates stories of european human sacrifice rituals, where crop failures are sometimes linked to the sacrifice of kings, such as Dómaldr in the Ynglinga saga, and noted in the placement and treatment of certain bog bodies. The Aztecs did sacrifice to the god Tláloc for crop for good harvests, but the rituals involved were quite different.

It should be noted, of course, that Tláloc was later syncretized with the Christian god during the Spanish conquest, likely as a result of conceptually linking Tláloc’s sacrifices to the demand that Abraham sacrifice Isaac. And, y’know, that conquest was concurrent with the Spanish Inquisition, and the wider religious belief that a heretical witch army was being organized by Satan to stand against God to forestall the Second Coming of Christ, with crop failures being the most feared result of their rituals.

I’ve added all these details not because I want to say Scott is bad for misattributing this stuff, people make mistakes. I have several hours’ access to the internet, Scott did not. However, it is worth noting: How we frame an idea can say a lot about how we conceive of it. Variations on these behaviors are found throughout history, and across cultures. Sacrifices and martyrs are powerful symbols still invoked in western culture today. There’s a potential wandering back and forth between appreciation and exoticization that Scott’s engaging in.

Then Scott says something that made me get up from my chair to find a book to shake at my computer.

“I always think about how often we attribute what has happened to either our invention or memory. A lot of ideas evolve from past histories, but when you look so far back, you wonder, Really? Is there really a connection there?”

Yes.

Yes there is. Ancient peoples weren’t stupid. Ancient peoples didn’t even necessarily have less information to work with than any one modern human, they just had different information that kept them alive and finding solutions to their problems, be it “I need to find food” or “how do I meaningfully participate in my culture’s artistic and governmental traditions, and should they even be followed at all?”

If you want a great and thorough examination of that, check out the book I gesticulated with.

Highly recommended. Graeber was an anthropologist and Wengrow is an archaeologist, and the two of them together are a force to be reckoned with. There are definitely subjects covered in this book that I’ve seen from different angles before, and I feel like their interpretation pulls in more context than I’d gotten previously. Especially pertinent to this, the first part of The Dawn of Everything is spent examining the origins of modern western thought on “primitive” cultures and their character and capacity, and then digging into what evidence we actually have on the subject.

But the movie does not, fundamentally, engage with cultures outside of westernized, christian thinking. Not to any serious extent, anyway. It has a certain worldview, and that’s fine. That can be explored intelligently, although we’ve seen that I think it squanders that chance. It’s fundamentally a christian-centric movie.

And despite Scott’s protestations in the interview that they toned it down, quite a few readers have already guessed how far Scott originally intended to go on that.

“But if you look at it as an “our children are misbehaving down there” scenario, there are moments where it looks like we’ve gone out of control, running around with armor and skirts, which of course would be the Roman Empire. And they were given a long run. A thousand years before their disintegration actually started to happen. And you can say, “Lets’ send down one more of our emissaries to see if he can stop it.” Guess what? They crucified him.”

Yes. Jesus of Nazareth was actually Jesus of Space.

This is why the movie says the Engineer corpse died about 2000 years ago. This is why they decided to destroy humanity.

Presumably the original quote on the cross was “Father, forgive them, for they know not that we’ve got deadly black goo.” Engineer 23:34, I guess.

Now that the screams in the audience have hopefully settled down, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH.

Alright. So, this is bad. Let’s break down why, beyond the obvious questions about “why does nobody ever draw Jesus as bald, huge, and ripped.”

There’s a fake script circulating that actually has a decent interpretation of this: a human kid got zwooped up to be taught the ways of the Engineers, and sent back as an emissary. Why? Dunno. Also apparently the gospels that mention Mary and Joseph fleeing to Egypt with the baby Jesus were off the mark by a few lightyears.

This is laughable to christians, because “what if Jesus was an alien” is the sort of thing that twelve year olds come up with. It’s offensive if it’s taken seriously, because it says their literal god was actually a mortal critter from outer space. Ha! Your god is not all-powerful, or all-good. He’s not even All-Might.

But you know what’s almost worse? It implies that, sure, Christianity isn’t the inspired word of a deity. It also implies some level of exclusive factual accuracy to Jesus’ teachings, not shared with other religions. Jesus was a celestial emissary, endowed with the teachings that could save humanity, and his death doomed the Earth to the Last Judgment.

The Torah is insufficient, and all Rabbinic literature was produced following the rejection of the true way to salvation. The enlightenment of the Buddha counted for nothing, the Dao is not the way, Vishnu cannot defend or restore dharma, the Prophet Muhammad is only so valid as his acknowledgment of the Prophet Īsā ibn Maryam.

All other faiths are superfluous under this premise. If people had just listened to Jesus and accepted him as their savior, everything would’ve been fine!

This is the one point of alien contact with western canon in the entire setting, after the deep prehistory of Skye. Every other literate culture that was contacted got the Engineers’ message wrong. Or they didn’t listen. Only christians got it right.

That’s incalculably bad. That’s not even counting the fact that the wall o’ artifacts that Shaw and Holloway presented included a notable oversight: the only two artifacts further from Europe than the Middle East are chronologically impossible, based on the movie’s own timeline. It implies the rest of the world was thrown in as an afterthought.

This whole Jesus thing is a piece, a big, jagged piece of why this movie drives me so far up the wall that I’m now residing on the ceiling. It’s not, as far as I can tell, actively malicious. It’s just dumb. It wasn’t thought through the way it should’ve been. If they wanted to do a movie like this, they should’ve gone all-in. Really dig into the implications of what they’ve done.

And the movie seems wholly ignorant of it. There are basic questions presented to the audience, but there’s no deeper consideration that could make this respectful to anybody.

So, what are we left with?

A mess. A beautiful, stunted, confused mess that was poorly served by its script and lack of conviction.

The movie turned away from asking big questions, and focused instead on traditional horror. A genre that works best with good characterization to drive audience investment, but then it cut out most of the characterization, and what it left was scattershot. It gave us a flashback of Shaw’s childhood before we’d even really met her to understand why it was meaningful for her. The movie then failed to add any emotional weight to her.

The movie failed to give us characters with emotional weight or intelligence. It gave us a single, compelling character in David, driven largely by Michael Fassbender’s delivery and physical performance. It gave us a tactile, carefully constructed setting that was beautiful and often an accomplishment in filmmaking craft, but these spaces remained emotionally empty without a story that gave them meaning. It gave us the potential of something new, and then retreated to imitate the old.

I went into the theater in 2012 looking forward to a good film. I suppose this one has stuck with me more than a good film would have, but its primary value is as a flawed thing to critique, to learn from, and to put tooth marks on when the frustration gets to be too much.

Prometheus got one sort-of sequel in Alien: Covenant (2017), and it seems to have been abandoned. The first trailer for Alien: Romulus just came out the day I’m writing this, and it looks like it’s going to be just a monster movie.

If you want a good, modern Alien, play or watch Alien: Isolation (2014). Apparently its content was recut into a web series in 2019, though I can’t speak to the quality of that. For now, I’m done with the series. I’m not going to be rushing out to see anything new, because I don’t think it’s doing anything new. Prometheus could’ve been a chance to do that, but it failed.

Still. Writing this was fun, I will admit. My weird little obsession with this movie turned into a month and a half of writing and prepping this thing, totaling–Jesus E. Christ, over 82,000 words. I wish it could’ve been about something that hid more intellectual heft or careful thought than Prometheus did, but hey! There’s always next time.

And there will in all likelihood be a next time, as I’ve already started on another document. It won’t be for quite a while, though. This was a lot of fun, but a lot of work as well. I’ll be taking a break, and only releasing more stuff once I have it fully written ahead of time, as opposed to how I handled this one.

Thank you, brave readers, for making it this far.

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Citations for alt-text rambles:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023%E2%80%932024_Sundhn%C3%BAkur_eruptions#Eruptions

https://tubitv.com/movies/314320/the-collector

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dettifoss

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Codex_Magliabechiano

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tollund_Man

https://youtu.be/nT2ueyFrVgk

https://www.deviantart.com/pretty--kittie/art/Prometheus-Engineer-407316113

https://nebula.tv/videos/hellofutureme-is-netflixs-avatar-any-good

Overflow Ramble 1

Hey, does anyone else remember Stephen Speilberg’s War of the Worlds (2005)? I saw that in the theater, and I cannot watch that thing again. Yes, I was younger, but the overall content of that movie absolutely shredded my nerves to pieces. Even though I’d grown up knowing the full H G Wells story and reading things like The Tripods book series as a kid, Spielberg managed to make a movie that felt so viscerally unpleasant to me that it gave me nightmares for years.

My main theory is this: You know in movies that the protagonist is almost certainly going to survive what happens, doubly so in War of the Worlds because it was goddamn Tom Cruise. But my brain did not treat Tom Cruise as my viewpoint character. Something in me says “well, I’m not Tom Cruise, I’m one of those other people around him, and they’re all gonna die horribly.”

This tends to happen with me in disaster films and similar stuff like that. I have to be real certain I want to be there if I watch a kaiju movie, for example. I can do Godzilla (2014), but I’m not so sure about Godzilla Minus One (2023). Shin Godzilla (2016) is off the table.

Horror movies have to hit a balance of giving people a rickety feeling of potential safety they want to preserve, rather than letting them feel too safe or too screwed. Too far either way and you lose people, either to apathy or just pure bad vibes. The paradox of enjoyable horror is that it can’t scare you too much.

Overflow Ramble 2

I personally don’t think the tone of Fede Álvarez’s horror fits with what I’m looking for in an Alien movie. The xenomorph life cycle worked best and most subversively when it was deliberately targeted, to take the sexual/reproductive menace usually placed on female characters in horror and forced it onto a male character instead. Álvarez has historically played that trope straight instead. From a horror perspective, that’s boring to me. The xenomorphs also appear to be aggressive monsters here rather than animals, more like Aliens than Alien. Not my favorite interpretation.

And to be honest, when I saw the trailer, my first thought was “Oh, it’s Sevastopol Station.” The setting looks exactly like Alien: Isolation, and there’s not a chance the movie’s going to outshine Isolation. That game’s only narrative sin was a bit of slow pacing toward the ending. Romulus’ trailer makes me think it’s going to go too far in the other direction.

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#Prometheus 2012 #Prometheus (2012)#IT IS DONE #I AM FREE

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ghcstao3 · 1 year

Note

By God, would it be possible for us to get more of soap and his tinder adventure with ghost.

I beg you from the bottom of my heart to grace the world with more because this is simply the best thing on earth.

Please please please.

(hope it’s still okay i’m using your ask for this haha)

not sure why it took me so long but finally! more of the tinder adventure :) this may go on ao3 later but i haven’t decided yet

tinder roulette

2.9k words

Tinder, in Soap’s opinion, is more of a fun pastime than anything else.

Of course, that isn’t to say he hasn’t used it for its intended purposes—hookups, if anyone is to be honest, it really isn’t a dating app—but it’s long since lost its novelty and has instead become something solely built for Soap’s entertainment.

And Gaz’s, too, apparently.

“I can’t believe how many men on here actually use those stupid fishing pictures on their profiles.”

Gaz has been hoarding Soap’s phone for the better part of an hour, now, liberally swiping left and right on others’ accounts as per routine when neither of them have anything to do. Only this time he’s essentially just been swiping left for a variety of reasons that are mostly beyond Soap.

“I don’t like how he’s holding his phone.”

“Then swipe left,” is usually Soap’s unhelpful and unheeded input.

“Already did,” is what Gaz will say.

Soap sighs as Gaz continues browsing. Normally it’s more fun for Soap than what it’s been that day, but something about the current selection feels… lacklustre. There hasn’t been much of anything funny or fascinating to pique his interest, so Gaz’s say has remained precedent.

It usually does. Just more so today, which Soap is completely fine with—at most he might chat with someone that matches with him (or, again, Gaz might chat with someone under the guise of being John, 28), and otherwise he’ll do absolutely nothing.

Until he hears Gaz suck in a sharp breath beside him. Which could be either a very good or very bad sign.

But by the way Gaz tenses, finger hovering over the screen like he’s afraid he’ll be electrocuted if he does anything, Soap takes it as a very bad thing.

Soap finally looks back at the screen after having been off in his own head for the past fifteen minutes.

At first glance, there isn’t anything that Soap sees that makes him think Gaz’s reaction was warranted. Then, and unfortunately, he starts connecting the different things he’s seeing across the profile—the glaring Simon, 32, the cheesy bio classified underneath it.

And the photos. God, the photos. Soap would hate himself for his immediate recognition coming from a set of bare, scarred and broad shoulders if he didn’t have the excuse of being familiar with the identifiable tattoo that stretches up Simon, 32’s forearm.

Gaz turns to Soap. “You don’t think…?”

“If I’m being honest, Gaz,” Soap says slowly, “I dinnae want to think about this at all.”

Gaz’s thumb inches closer to the screen, and Soap’s heart stops when he sees the hint of a mischievous grin begin to form on his fellow sergeant’s face.

“So then you wouldn’t mind if I…?”

“Gaz,” Soap warns.

“What? It’s probably just an old profile like yours. And besides,” Gaz huffs, and Soap really does not like where this is going, “aren’t you at least a little curious to see what happens? Given your…”

Soap scoffs. “No, because nothing will happen. So hand over my—“

He makes to grab for his phone but is unsuccessful when Gaz, with stupidly lightning reflexes, stretches his arm out of Soap’s reach, and, very much to Soap’s dismay, presses down his thumb and swipes right on their lieutenant’s profile.

“See? What’s the worst that could—oh.”

It’s glaring, that horrible, awful, eyesore of a pop-up that reads It’s a match!

Soap thinks he might die. This is when and where he lays to rest permanently. Because what the fuck?

Gaz winces, sheepishly handing the phone back to Soap. “That is… this is a good thing, innit? Means he likes you back, right? Right?”

Soap doesn’t take it right away, instead shrinking in on himself, desperately scrubbing at his face with the heels of his palms as if it’d erase the last minute of his life. As if it’d erase his entire existence. Because even if they matched—a fact in and of itself that Soap is still having a tough time processing—Soap will eventually have to face Ghost knowing that they had, whether or not the man has checked his own notifications, and that idea alone is mortifying.

Soap is going to kill Gaz.

“This is what I get for not listening to my Mam about goin’ to mass,” Soap groans, plucking the phone from Gaz’s hold. The first picture on Ghost’s profile stares back at him—a goddamn mirror selfie angled in a way that hides his face, but definitely not the definition of his arms thanks to lighting and a muscle tee Soap would have never thought his lieutenant to own—and he doesn’t so much as hesitate to exit out of the notification so he can forget this all happened as soon as possible.

Which would be never, in all honesty, but Soap’s an optimist.

Most days.

“You think I could get a transfer before I have to see him again?”

Gaz quirks an eyebrow. “A transfer by this afternoon? Ain’t gonna happen, mate. Not even the higher-ups could manage that.”

Soap frowns. “This after—what are you talking about?”

Gaz makes an affronted sound. “What am I…? Training, you idiot,” he snaps, smacking Soap upside the head. “You’re on duty with him later. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“‘Course not.” Soap pauses. He tries to smile but all that forms is a grimace. “If I asked you to fill in for me…“

“Absolutely not,” Gaz says. “You’re facing this yourself, mate. Today. And then maybe after you and Ghost can snog, or something.”

Soap jabs his elbow into Gaz’s side. “You act like this isn’t your fault.”

“But it’s a yes to the snogging?”

As much as Soap might like to entertain the thought any other time, he just groans as he stands from the ratty couch kept in the common room with nothing more than the intention to hide away until facing his inevitable doom.

It’s great, the things he’s feeling at the moment. So great.

And of course that feeling stays all throughout what seems like no time at all before Soap is procrastinating his way to training, an extra weight on his shoulders and far too many thoughts swirling around his head that all cease the second he makes eye contact with Ghost.

A pissy Ghost.

“You’re late,” the lieutenant says.

“Sorry, sir,” Soap mutters. He keeps his gaze anywhere but on Ghost. “Got… caught up.”

Ghost grunts. “Right.”

The silence that follows is characteristic on Ghost’s end. Soap, however, can’t bring himself to say anything without the fear of it somehow leading to asking Ghost if he’s been on his phone at all since that morning without reason to justify the question.

But obviously Ghost picks up on his nerves, and given the man’s irritatingly blunt nature, it’s no surprise he’s confronting Soap about it the moment the recruits are busy and out of earshot.

“You tense, sergeant?” Ghost says. Never a question with him; always an accusation.

“No,” Soap lies. He can’t look over to his colleague without that stupid picture appearing in his mind. “Just…”

“Tense?” Ghost repeats.

Soap sighs. Concedes, “Aye. Tense.”

When Ghost says nothing, Soap finally risks a glance at his lieutenant only to be met with Ghost’s own gaze—too intense, too piercing. Soap hadn’t known brown eyes could look so cold until Ghost.

Soap can’t help but feel as if Ghost already knows. Because in all honesty, he probably does, and there had never been any use in trying to maintain what little remains of Soap’s own dignity.

If he had had any to begin with.

Ghost tilts his head. Scrutinizes Soap further with those eternally analytic pupils of his. “And for what reason, sergeant?”

Soap is going to throttle his superior officer. He’s going to wring the man’s neck, get discharged, and never have to worry about this ever again. Because Ghost is taunting him, clearly, and how unfair is that?

“I think you know, sir,” Soap grumbles through grit teeth, because he supposes he may as well face this head-on now as much as he fears the moment it’s said aloud.

But to his surprise, Ghost actually falls back just a bit, shifting his weight between feet in that awkward, stilted way he rarely does.

Like a kid caught with their hand shoved in the cookie jar.

“Well, don’t dwell on it too much, Johnny,” Ghost finally says—the words are quieter, softer this time. “Was an accident.”

Soap curses the crumbling feeling of hope in his chest that maybe, best case scenario, this whole incident would lead to a confession. But of course not—Ghost swiping right on Soap was an accident.

“Ah. Well.” Soap clears his throat, shying away from what’s become a much kinder gaze, “So was—for me too. Gaz had my phone.”

Ghost hums. Some look glasses over his eyes before he turns from Soap and marches away to continue barking orders at the rookies. Soap doesn’t know if it’s any better than having them both linger in a suffocating awkwardness.

An accident. Right. Why did Soap think it could ever be anything else?

The remainder of training is torturous, with the way Ghost doesn’t utter a word to Soap beyond anything work-related, or some professional-opinion bullshit—all the while was an accident rattles around Soap’s head as the day progresses at a snail’s pace.

He can’t decide if it all being an accident makes the situation any better. He can’t decide on a lot of things today.

And clearly, for Ghost, it doesn’t matter either way.

Soap is going to kill someone. He just hasn’t figured out who yet.

“He said it was an accident.”

Gaz hardly looks up from his tray as Soap slumps into a seat across from him. The mess hall is filled with the hushed buzz of chatter, sporadic and spaced out about the room. The open, public environment is the only reason he feels safe enough talking about it—it’s the only place he isn’t concerned about having Ghost suddenly appear in that eerie, ghostlike way of his.

“Told me not to worry about it,” Soap continues, “as if he hadn’t been making me more worried with his weird interrogation.”

“Remind me why you like him like him again,” Gaz mutters before shoving another forkful of food in his mouth. He chews and swallows unreasonably quickly. “Starting to seem like you don’t actually have feelings for him, mate.”

Soap huffs. “Only because it’s obvious the bastard doesnae feel the same. What’s the point, Gaz?”

Gaz stares at him. Blinks once, twice. “I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”

Soap groans loudly, sinking low in his seat. He wishes just one person could give him a straight answer to resolve this entire thing. A be-all-end-all solution to put him out of his misery—because even if Ghost says it was an accident, it still happened, and it still means Ghost is active on his own Tinder to some horrifying-to-think-about extent.

And Soap is horrified to think about it. Not to mention terribly conscious of the fact.

“That’s not even the worst part,” Soap grouses. Admits, “I just told him it was a mistake for me too.”

Soap has endured many looks from many people, and he doesn’t think anything compares to the incredulity on Gaz’s face at that moment.

“You know, I felt bad for getting you into this up until you said that,” Gaz tells him. “But hearing that shit is just unbelievable. You hear yourself, right?”

“Every fucking day,” Soap sighs. He buries his face in his hands, shoulders bunched as he grumbles nonsense into his palms. “What do I even do now?”

“Nothing,” Gaz says, then pauses, shrugs his shoulders. “Or tell him the truth. Maybe he also lied.”

Soap frowns, brows furrowing deeply behind the cover of his hands. The idea never occurred to him, because what would be the likelihood of Ghost ever lying about something as trivial as this? Near zero, Soap would think.

But the idea gives him just a piece of that crumbling hope back. And so does the tone of Gaz’s voice that hints he may know more about something than he lets on.

He always seems to. Soap doesn’t know whether or not he should be thankful.

Before he can decide, however, Gaz is continuing with his ever-so-sage counselling, “If you’re going with the latter, you’d better start looking for him now. ‘Cause if he was lying, he will be avoiding you at all costs.”

Soap huffs, finally letting his arms drop back to his sides as he begins to get up. Once standing, he says to Gaz, “I hate that you’re right.”

Gaz snorts. “Usually am.”

Despite his eye roll, Soap does plan on heeding his advice instead of arguing that no, Gaz is definitely not usually right. Because he isn’t. So what if he’s just on the nose today?

Soap sets off on his search.

It takes well over an hour to locate Ghost, after checking all of his usual spots and hiding places several times over, and asking just about everyone he saw if they knew about the lieutenant’s whereabouts.

The answer, of course, is always no idea, but it was worth a shot anyway—only considering he still manages to find Ghost on his own in the end.

Elusive bastard. Soap thinks if the disappearing act is kept up, he might start to be inclined to agree that Gaz was onto something about Ghost’s own dishonesty.

Maybe it’s a little unethical to be confronting him right out of the showers, though.

It’s a surprise Ghost doesn’t appear to be immediately alerted of Soap’s presence with the loud thud of the door swinging shut, his back remaining turned to Soap all the while the sergeant works up the courage to clear his throat.

And maybe admire the planes of his lieutenant’s back just a moment. He’s pulled on everything but a shirt already—even one of his gaiters has made it on before the hoodie that lies in a heap on a bench beside him as he dries his hair.

Again, though, Soap is more focused on the muscles that had him recognizing Ghost in those photos earlier that day.

“Can I help you, Soap?” Ghost grunts. He drops the towel he’d been using for his hair next to the hoodie he shortly pulls over his head—Soap is only allowed a brief glimpse at damp, tousled, blond hair before a hood is obscuring it.

Soap isn’t sure why he thought Ghost hadn’t noticed him enter.

“You lied to me before,” Soap says. He may as well bite the bullet now—to drag this out any longer than a day seems childish, really. He’s old enough to know that, but stupid enough to have let Gaz have access to his phone, and to still have a Tinder account in the first place.

Ghost tenses. His back stays to Soap as he freezes, and just barely Soap is able to make out the sharp intake of breath.

“Thought I told you not to dwell.”

Soap shrugs, though Ghost can’t see it. “You tell me a lot of things, sir.”

Ghost seems to consider this in the minute rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes, in the echo of a distant, residual dripping and an overhead fan.

He finally ducks his head, the sound of fabric shifting as he shoves his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. “Maybe I did lie. Maybe I didn’t. S’pose it doesn’t matter either way, does it, Johnny?”

“Why not?” Soap cocks his head. “I mean, Gaz did have my phone, but he had a point about getting my head out of my arse.”

Ghost turns, then, eyes narrowed at Soap with something akin to skepticism. “And what point is that?”

And for what reason, sergeant?

“That I needed to grow a pair and tell you how I feel,” Soap confesses. “To just use this whole thing as an excuse to do that.”

Ghost blinks, those stupidly brown doe eyes of his widening. “Is that what this is?”

Soap chews the inside of his cheek. “If you were lying.” He attempts something playful, but it falls flat. Meek.

There’s still so much distance between them. Too much. And with the way Soap’s heart currently swells with hope, he’s praying that changes soon.

He just has to wait on Ghost.

“I didn’t think anything would happen,” Ghost says.

“Neither did Gaz,” Soap replies. “But I could forgive him.”

“Only if I was lying?”

Soap nods.

“Then you’re a better friend than I’d be, Johnny.”

It’s enough of a confession for Soap. It’s likely the closest thing he’d ever get to one from Ghost.

And that’s alright. Because it’s the best thing to be getting out of what (admittedly) mild fiasco he’d gotten into.

“I’m only so willing because it ended me here,” Soap says. He stalls a moment, almost unashamed in the way he properly looks Ghost over. “And I’d really like to compare those pictures to real life, if I’m honest.”

Ghost huffs. He grabs his towel and slings it over his shoulder before he’s moving toward the exit just behind Soap. Soap’s heart jumps as he gets closer, closing that distance, until Ghost is leaning down to Soap’s ear and murmuring, “I can make that happen.”

The lieutenant teases Soap’s hand, pretending to grab at it but stopping at a mere brush of fingers before he disappears out the door and leaves Soap to stand alone, dumbfounded.

But only for a moment. Because goddamnit if he isn’t immediately trailing Ghost to his quarters after that.

(taglist!! i didn’t forget i swear: @sketchscientist @crazy-phan-girl13 @crazies-unanimous @hanniballecterkinnie @lunainlove @lucibell-writes )

#ask #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #writing #fanfic #ghost mw2 #soap mw2

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 2 years

Text

The Shielded Heart - Part Three

Part two Warnings: Smut, angst. Word count: 2.8k

Summary: Aemond is yours and you are his, but what happens when you're both forced to choose between duty and true love?

“I’m only of any value as a bargaining tool as long as I still have my virtue. I intend to give it away.”

Aemond felt as though he’d been plunged into icy water. His eye went wide at your revelation. For a moment he forgot how to breathe.

When he didn’t move to say anything, you scoffed, turned on your heel and continued down the hill.

Spurred into action by your retreating form, Aemond’s faculties were restored and he rushed after you, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest – not from exertion, but from sheer panic. He grabbed for your arm, harder than he meant to, making you wince and hiss in pain as you turned in his grasp.

“Get off of me!” you spat, attempting to wrench yourself free, “You’re hurting me!”

“Not as much as you are hurting me”, thought Aemond, though he loosened his grip nevertheless, guiding you back towards the wall once more.

“Don’t do this”, he said, trying and failing to keep the desperation of his plea at bay.

“Why does it matter so much to you?!” you scowled up at him, “Worried your precious mother will be upset that I’ve squandered her attempt to meddle with my life?!”

Aemond rolled his eye, tensing his jaw at the slight against Alicent, before leaning in close to speak to you. “It matters because you should not give yourself to some wine soaked peasant in a flea infested slum.”

“It matters because you were supposed to give yourself to me” was what he desperately wanted to say instead. The thought of another man caressing you, kissing you, getting to have you in the same way he’d imagined every time he’d spilled inside his breeches while rutting against you, as you’d both kissed passionately. It made him sick to his stomach. The cruel irony that he’d held back all this time in hopes to wed you, only for you to be betrothed to someone else and then give it up to a total stranger would have made him laugh were it not for the fact it made his heart twist so painfully.

“Oh, I see”, you said loudly, mock realisation dripping from every word, “So the wares of the Silk Streets are for Targaryen use only? Fine for you to fuck every whore in King’s Landing, but gods forbid I do the same. Is that why you always refused to lay with me? Does my cunt not measure up to the one you paid two silvers for?!”

You saw the look of hurt flash like a beacon across Aemond’s face and you relished it, an evil smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. After all the pain he’d caused you, he deserved taste of his own medicine.

Aemond was stunned. You hadn’t spoken of his brothel experience since the night it had happened. He’d assumed it was water under the bridge. He was in utter disbelief that you were throwing it in his face. How fucking dare you. His initial hurt and shock shifted to anger, his eye darkening as he placed a hand on the wall beside your head, gripping your jaw with the other. “Bitch!” he breathed as he glared down at you.

Your smirk faltered upon hearing his insult. Aemond had never spoken to you with such disrespect before. About to open your mouth to respond, you were cut off by the impact of his lips colliding against yours, your words coming out in an “mmmph!” instead.

He kissed you fiercely, unable to hold back from you any longer. Anger was not an emotion he was used to you evoking from him and he longed to put things right, and so he did. The only way he knew how.

You quickly melted at his touch, the familiarity and warmth making it all too easy to relent as his tongue brushed against yours. You clung to his cloak, sighing as the tension you’d been harbouring in your shoulders slowly started to lift.

He pressed his forehead to yours as you broke apart, fingers softly stroking your cheek. For the first time in 24 hours he felt stilled and at peace. “Vēzos qēlossās ñuho” he murmured. My sun and stars.

The moment the kiss was over, reality hit. It all felt overwhelming. You were kissing the man you loved, but he didn’t love you back. You were still betrothed to a man you were repulsed by. Nothing had changed. The dam broke and you had no way of stopping it, as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. “I hate you” you whimpered, sullen, childlike and not at all true.

Aemond’s eye closed as he pulled you close, stroking your hair and allowing you to cry into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon, I’m sorry.” My love.

As your cries subsided and you began to pull away, Aemond eyed you carefully. “Do you still intend to…?” he asked, unable to complete the sentence.

You sniffled, nodding. “I can’t marry him, Aemond, I can’t!”

“I understand”, he said, “Come with me then.”

“Where are we going?” you enquired, as he took your hand and guided you along beside him.

“If you are to give your virtue away in this shithole, then I shall be the one to take it.”

Too stunned to say anything else, you simply followed as the one eyed prince led you through the winding streets of King’s Landing.

“What is this place?” you asked.

Aemond had brought you to a dank, unassuming hovel and began lighting candles once he’d ushered you inside.

“Aegon’s favourite hiding place”, Aemond responded, continuing his work to illuminate the small space, “I’ve dragged him out of here enough times now to know exactly where it is. We’ll be undisturbed here.”

You weren’t deaf to the implication; we won’t get caught.

Once you had sufficient light to see by, he moved to stand in front of you. Slowly, he pushed the cloak from your shoulders before removing his own. “Iksā sīr gevie” he whispered, before kissing you softly, manoeuvring you back towards the bed. You are so beautiful.

Aemond longed to take his time with you, to worship you as you deserved, however, he did not wish to prolong the time you had to spend within this foul smelling shack. He owed you that much.

As you were pushed back onto the bed, you squirmed at the lumpiness of the scratchy hay stuffed mattress. So far removed from the soft down bedding of the Red Keep. You were brought back into the moment with a breathy sigh as Aemond’s fingertips grazed the insides of your legs, pushing them apart while simultaneously lifting your skirts to make space for himself.

As he hovered above you, you were suddenly struck by a wave of uncertainty. You needed for this to mean something, anything.

“Please”, you whispered, voice cracking as tears pricked your eyes once more, “Please, Aemond, tell me you love me. You don’t have to mean it. Just, please…” The force of the sob that forced its way out of you rendered you incapable of finishing your sentence.

In that moment Aemond had never felt such intense hatred for himself. He couldn’t believe he’d ever made you doubt his feelings for you. Never bothered to make sure you were certain that you were the one thing his entire universe centred around. You owned his heart. All of it.

“I can’t do this”, he muttered, moving away to sit on the edge of the small, single bed.

You cried harder, curling in on yourself to face away from him. It was happening all over again. He was breaking your heart.

“Look at me. Please.” Aemond’s voice was unsteady against the lump in his throat, as his fingers ghosted across your temple.

You turned your head slightly to face him, the candlelight reflected in the wetness that rimmed your lash lines.

“I do love you. And that’s why I can’t do this. I don’t want a quick fumble in the place that my brother brings every street rat he happens across. Your maidenhead should be reserved for your wedding night.”

You sat up, not daring to breathe in case the sound halted his confession. Noticing the wetness that dripped slowly down his right cheek, you longed to reach out and wipe it away, but resisted.

“I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you. And I suppose I was afraid to tell you because things never seem to work out in my favour. I couldn’t bear to lose you too. But then I did. I have always put duty, honour and family before everything, but I can’t this time. Where is the honour in letting the person I love most in the world go to satisfy inconsequential politicking? It would be craven of me. I want you to be my wife. The mother of my children. I long to make sure you feel every bit as desired as you deserved. If you’ll have me?”

The uncertainty of the question at the end of his confession made your heart ache. You crawled into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck and held him close. “Oh, Aemond, I’ve longed to hear you say you love me. Of course I’ll have you!”

He smiled up at you, arms encircling your waist. “I have told you I love you many a time. It’s not my fault you couldn’t understand me.”

You snorted a laugh, burying your face in his neck. “None of this solves anything though”, you sighed, “I am still betrothed to a Lannister.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it”, Aemond muttered darkly.

“What do you mean?”

“Trust me. I have a plan.”

The courtyard of the Red Keep darkened suddenly, black as night as Vhagar made her descent. Impossibly long and sharp talons boring into the earth as she landed heavily, sending people scattering as she let out a throaty rumble of displeasure at the tight confines of her landing.

Your knuckles were white with the tightness of your grip on her reigns. Aemond’s arms held you snugly against him. This would feel like any other ride were it not for the potentially dire consequences of what Aemond was about to do. Hence your iron clad grip on the only available surface capable of grounding you.

A handful of dragonkeepers and servants had elected not to flee upon seeing the behemoth lowering to the ground. They knew it would be the prince atop her and there would be orders to follow once he dismounted.

Aemond made no move to climb down from Vhagar, instead shouting down to the servants who looked up imploringly, fear evident in their widened eyes and pallid complexions.

“Bring my mother to me”, he ordered, “And that Lannister cunt!”

Aemond wasn’t foolish. He knew a demand such as this, alongside the entrance he’d chosen to make, would secure the attention of more than just Alicent and Jason.

He was right, of course. Alicent made her way out to the courtyard flagged by your father, Otto and Jason. Aegon and Helaena followed at a distance, their curiosity obviously piqued.

“Aemond, what is the meaning of this?” Alicent demanded, while attempting to sound stern, the worry etched across her features was more than apparent.

“We come with a proposal”, he said, giving your shaking frame a reassuring squeeze before nuzzling your neck to reassure you.

Your saw your father balk at the sight, muttering under his breath.

“We wish to marry”, you called down to your wide eyed spectators, “Break off my betrothal to Jason Lannister. Aemond and I are to be wed.”

Alicent faltered, looking back to Otto for guidance. He wasted no time in rushing forward to offer his input.

“This is a disgrace on all of our houses!” he said angrily, “A match has been made that will strengthen Aegon’s claim to the throne. Come down at once and we will forget this treason.”

“I’m not giving her up”, Aemond said simply, “The Lannisters will still get their match. A better one.”

“Who?” Alicent asked, gripping her father’s arm when he made to protest.

“Jaehaera.”

“She is but a babe!” Otto scoffed.

“Precisely”, Aemond said smugly, “We will betroth them until she comes of age and then they will wed. This will give Jason more time for his whoring.”

Aemond smirked, noticing Jason’s obvious discomfort. “Tell me, Lord Lannister, how was the serving girl? I believe Aegon had her first, but I do hope she was to your satisfaction.”

When Jason made no move to respond, Aemond continued. “The betrothal is still an alliance between our houses. The Targaryen name carries more prestige. With it comes our protection, our dragons. All we ask is their full support for Aegon’s claim to the throne.”

He then turned his attention to your father. “Would you not rather wed your only daughter to a Targaryen than a Lannister? I can assure you my feelings for her are true. She would be treated better by me than any match you could possibly hope to make for her.”

Your father nodded. “I will accept it.”

“And what if I don’t?” Jason finally spoke up, finally finding his voice.

Aemond shrugged offhandedly, his lip quirking slightly. “I’ll just have to see what sort of mood Vhagar finds herself in the next time we happen to fly over Casterly Rock.”

The Lannister visibly paled before nodding. “Very well.”

“What of you, sister?” Aemond addressed Helaena, “Do you agree to this match?”

She looked uneasy for a moment, before speaking. “I just want for Jaehaera to be happy. And of age. You will wait until she is of age?”

“We will” Aemond reassured.

“With any luck the stupid prick will be dead by then” Aegon muttered.

“Well, then, it is settled.” Aemond decided, “Mother, Grandsire, are you happy to make the necessary arrangements?”

Otto appeared to be about to object again, until Alicent spoke over him. “There are certainly more appropriate ways you could have gone about this, Aemond, but as this proposal is agreeable to everyone, we shall proceed.”

Despite Aemond’s act of rebellion against his family, he was still eager to respect his mother’s wishes. With this in mind, the pair of you were married under the Seven, in the sept, despite the fact that Aemond would have preferred a traditional Valyrian rite.

The incense made it difficult to breathe, the Septon droned on for far too long and there were too many people that neither of you cared for gathered to watch. In spite of all of this, you couldn’t have been happier and the twinkle in Aemond’s eye as he looked down at you reassured you that he felt the same.

“I am yours and you are mine” you chanted in unison, before sharing a short but sweet kiss, and with it the fulfilment of a lifelong dream for both of you. You were finally husband and wife.

The ceremony may have been traditional, however, what followed was decidedly much more in keeping with yours and Aemond’s relationship. He helped you dismount from Vhagar, lifting the skirts of your wedding gown to prevent you from tripping.

The tickle of the grassy hillside on your back felt like a welcome home as Aemond laid you down, stripping you bare with the care of a maester unravelling a priceless artifact.

You clung to him, doe eyes shining bright with adoration for your husband and, as he finally entered you, the stretch and sting was negligible compared to the feeling of completeness at finally having him inside of you.

“I love you, vēzos qēlossās ñuho” he whispered once fully sheathed within you. My sun and stars.

“And I love you, valzȳrys” you uttered back. Husband.

His eye widened in surprise, the utterance of High Valyrian from your lips unexpected. The sound sent a jolt straight to his cock.

You giggled, bumping your nose against his. “I’ve been learning.”

He kissed you deeply, slowly beginning to thrust until he felt you relax, then picked up the pace.

You gasped, arching against him as you felt him repeatedly nudge a spot inside of you that made you see stars.

On the grassy hillside where you’d spent so many days together in secret, you both reached your peak together. Aemond spilled deeply insight of you, groaning, as you cried out his name. A sense of peace settled over you both. Finally allowed to lower your shields and love each other openly as husband and wife, you felt unguarded and invincible for the first time in your lives.

Fin.

Tag list (this is a side blog, so I cannot reply to requests for tags, I will simply edit the fic to add you, so that I remember to tag you in the next part): @munsonswrld @100layersofdaddyissues @bellameshipper @crazylokonugget @mddieeunson @crispmarshmallow @afro-hispwriter @padfooteyes @kiribrima @letmeloveyouuuu @malfoytargaryen @zephyg-06 @julczimozart @helloitsshitzulover @schniiipsel @1800-fight-me @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @blazzlynch

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starshine-wagner · 2 years

Text

A Welcome Interruption

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x F!Reader

Summary: You accidentally interrupt Jake's party ~plans~.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI. Smutty stuff. Language.

Author's Note: This is my first smut so please don't look at me I'm embarrassed and this is all scary ok. if its bad pls just ignore it. and if u know me irl pls ignore it im begging. u know who u are.

Jake hadn't felt this desperate in a while.

He didn't intend to leave the after-party this early. But the growing concern in his trousers forced his hand... literally.

He let his brothers know he'd be stepping out to get some air before retreating back to the bus, parked not-so-sneakily behind the venue. He managed to fumble the bus code twice before finally getting it right and hearing the door unlock for him. He practically threw himself inside, shut the door, and made his way to his bunk to find some relief.

--*--

You really weren't sure if it was the end-of-tour-blues or what, but something had you down that night. It was the last night of tour, meaning that your 6 months spent on the road with Greta Van Fleet was coming to a close. You'd gotten close with a couple of the girls on the tour. One who did photos, another who assisted in wardrobe. One of the managers even became like a second dad to you. You'd miss spending nearly ever day with them. But, the one relationship you were most sad to see off was the one you had with Jake.

You'd become friendly after the first few weeks as you got to know each other a bit over long van rides, delayed flights, and late night dinners in the back of the bus. Almost always, though, he was surrounded by his brothers. You loved them all, but Jake had a special place in your heart.

The way he spoke to you made you feel like you were the only person that mattered. He never failed to offer a hand when walking down the stairs. He always made sure to save you a plate from catering when you were running late for lunch. They were small things, but they felt big in such a touch-and-go lifestyle.

You never dared to try anything with him. You couldn't risk making any sort of move and ending your career for it. So, you were content to admire him from afar. Well, further away than you'd like.

Sometimes, you wondered if maybe, possibly, somehow, Jake felt similarly. You'd catch him peeking into your office every time he passed by backstage just to smile and wave. A few times you could've sworn you overheard him talking about you to Sammy. And, God, you couldn't get his touch out of your mind. The way that his hand sometimes came to rest on your knee when you were sitting near him. How his fingers swept away strands of your fallen hair at the end of the night. The way he seemed to nuzzle his face into your neck on the few occasions you'd hugged. You figured it was just the way he was. The way all the Kiszkas were. Touchy. But something felt a little electric about it that made you wonder...

So, you found yourself in a bit of mourning. You'd miss the thrill of the crush. The anticipation of does-he or does-he-not.

Most of your night was spent with your girlfriends, drinks in hand. You'd been going around trying to get pictures with everyone, of everyone, and making sure to say your congratulations on a well-done tour all around. After the ringer these boys put you all through, it was well deserved.

Naturally, you couldn't help but steal glances at Jake from across the room. The way his latest stage suit hugged his thighs had you in a mouth-watering daze. You had to remember to give Jake's seamstress a gift basket...

When your gaze came back up to his face, his eyes were already on you. You tried to play it off as having been zoned out, giving him a polite smile. He excused himself from the conversation he was having with some tour representative and made his way over to you. You shifted, a little nervously. It was just Jake. You'd be fine.

"Congratulations, Y/N!" he cheered, bringing you in for a hug. God, he smelled good. Pine and alcohol and Old Spice deodorant. Once again, his face found its way right into the crook of your neck. Just for a moment, you could feel his hot breath on your skin.

"I should be the one congratulating you!" you pulled back. "I was just talking to the girls about it. We're all really proud of you guys," you explained.

"Well without people like you," he took a step closer and moved his hand to rest on your hip for emphasis, "we'd still just be sitting in the garage in Michigan. So thanks." He raised his glass and threw back the rest of his drink. He swallowed and you watched as his Adam's apple bobbed. It's almost like he knew what he was doing to you.

The clanging of a glass across the room snapped both of you to attention. You turned to see the Label Rep thanking everyone for coming to the event and launching into some speech about how great the tour did. Jake reached over and squeezed your hand as a signal of departure before joining his brothers towards the front.

You didn't even attempt to focus as the guy droned on and on. You still felt the sting of Jake's breath on your neck, and the strain of his hand on yours, and the weight of his palm on your waist and... oh. You were down bad.

--*--

"So, did you ask her yet?" Sam prodded.

"Ask who what?" Jake looked over his shoulder, having a good idea about where this conversation was going.

"Stop playing dumb, brother. Y/N. It's your last real shot." Though he usually was one to tease, Sammy seemed oddly sincere. It was disconcerting, really. "I've watched you steal glances and sneak off to bathrooms all fucking tour."

Jake let out a deep breath and fiddled with the elastic on his middle finger. He knew Sam was right. He knew that if he ever had a real chance at understanding whatever it was that passed between the two of you, tonight would have to be it. And he knew you wouldn't make a move. That you couldn't.

"I don't know Sammy. I just, I don't think it's like that-"

"You never know until you try."

--*--

By the end of the night, Jake had worked himself into a corner. The nerves of wanting to pull you aside and kiss you senseless, combined with the fear that you'd reject him and the aching in his pants... he had to get out of there. So, to the bus he went. Perhaps he'd come back when he had... taken care of business.

Of course, though, you noticed his absence almost immediately. You knew that sometimes he'd step outside for a smoke break, so it shouldn't have concerned you that much. As you passed Sammy at the bar, he, too, congratulated you and made small talk.

"Anyway, have you seen Jake?" he questioned.

"Actually I was just wondering where he went. I wanted to-" you paused. What did you want? "I, um, wanted to say bye."

"Hmm. Well I needed to introduce him to this fancy-schmancy business guy. Could you do me one last favor? Please?"

"Fancy-schmancy? Sounds important..." you raised your eyebrows.

"It is. Could you please go see if he's on the bus? His phone is dead, I'm sure, and I want to make sure he talks to this guy about- uh. Well, he's got some, like, cool ideas that Jake should hear."

You were reluctant to head out into the cold to find him, but you agreed. You made your way around the maze of the backstage club and eventually found the fire door. It said it was just for emergencies, but you truly couldn't have cared. It was closer to the bus dock, so it would do just fine.

Locating the band bus, you saw that one of the lights was on. It was dim, but it was on. You ran up to it, quickly inputting the code, hopping onto the steps, and shutting it behind you.

"Jake?" you called softly from the front of the bus. No answer. Maybe he had gone for a smoke around the corner? Then, you heard a stirring further down the galley.

"Mmm. Fuck."

You froze dead in place. Jake?

"Fuck Y/N please. Please..."

Did you... was he...? Shit. As soon as he uttered your name, you felt your stomach flip and your insides turn white hot. Did he know you were there? How could he?

He muttered some incoherent nonsense between his heavy breaths and shifted in place. The sound of the sheets moving forced you out of your head and into reality.

Jake was touching himself while thinking of you. At least, that's what it sounded like.

But what to do?

God forbid you somehow read the situation wrong. That would be just your luck. What if he was... sick? Some kind of sick that was making him moan and squirm...? Was he thinking of someone else who happened to have your name? Your mind ran through endless possibilities of what could be happening, each more implausible than the next. Your thoughts were interrupted when Jake spoke again.

"Shit, Y/N pleasepleaseplease. Yes. I- fuck," he was practically whining. Whatever scenario was playing out in his head, it sounded like he was enjoying it thoroughly.

You would be lying if you said that this didn't fuel your ego. You absolutely recognized how attractive Jake was, and had definitely thought about him a time or two or twenty when you were alone in your bed. Your thoughts often wandered to the way his fingers moved so adeptly on stage, or the way his chest glistened with sweat in the stage light. Who could blame you? But you'd always found a way to bring yourself back to earth. To remind yourself that he was out of reach. That he wouldn't, couldn't be yours.

So, your brain was split in half. Part of you felt like you needed to run as far away as possible from this situation. To run back to Sam, say he was shit out of luck, and get on with the goodbyes. The other half was deliciously turned on and yearning to join him. Eager to indulge him in whatever fantasy he'd concocted in his head.

Your feet were moving before your mind could catch up. You inched your way down the galley and stopped just beside Jake's bunk. Taking a deep breath, you summoned up the courage to make your presence known before you could change your mind.

"... Jake?" you whispered, shyly toying with the hem of the curtain by his bed.

Behind it, Jake paused for a moment. Either his mind was playing tricks on him, or you were really calling out to him in the throes of his pleasure. He managed to calm his breathing and dared to peek out to see. Upon taking in your dazed expression, his stomach dropped and he tried to cover himself with the sheets. He panicked, embarrassed.

"Y/N I can ex-"

"No, keep going," you ushered him on. You even surprised yourself with the sudden confidence.

'Shock' wasn't even close to describing the look on Jake's face. He considered protesting. But, with the state of him, you both knew he had no choice - no desire - but to surrender.

"Don't be embarrassed. I, um... I like it." His head fell back a little bit more at that... the idea that you liked walking in on him getting off to the thought of you. So, he continued.

Despite your diffidence, your hand slowly found its way under your shirt and on to your stomach. The light brushes of your fingertips against your raised skin made the sight before you even more dangerous. Your eyes shut just for a moment, relishing the feeling. It was innocent, but felt so far from it.

Jake pulled you out of it.

"No. Look at me. You were doing it all fucking night, so don't you dare stop now."

If you two were going to do this, you were going to do it.

Obeying his command, your eyes reluctantly opened to find his again. You needed more, already. You reached out to grab Jake's hand that was resting just next to his head. The contact alone set his nerves on fire. You led his palm under your shirt and up to the swell of your breast, encouraging him to touch you there.

"Oh my god," he groaned, his head falling away from you in disbelief. Of all things to be self-conscious of in the moment, he was concerned about the way your soft chest in his hands made him blush. He'd dreamt of this moment for ages, though he was scared to admit it. His other hand continued its patterns, hidden by the far half of the curtain and the sheet he'd tried to hide behind.

As he began kneading into your breast, you allowed your own hand to sneak further down. You hadn't realized just how wet you were, and all from watching his face contort in pleasure. When your middle finger brushed your swollen clit, your mouth hung wide open.

"Fuck, Jake," you uttered, allowing your head to rest on the wall beside his bunk.

He somehow forced his hand to come to a standstill and looked over at you with his half-lidded eyes.

"Y/N you have no fucking idea how hot that is." You whimpered at his confession. "You touching yourself," he huffed, "Saying my name..."

Suddenly, the hand he had on you withdrew from under your shirt and you sighed at the loss of his warmth. He beckoned for you to climb into the bunk with him.

"Do you want, can you get i-" he began.

"Please." You cut him off.

You clambered into the bunk, but not before ridding yourself of your top completely, much to Jake's enjoyment. It was only going to be in the way, you figured. You bumped your head on the roof and Jake shuffled to the side a bit to make room for you. He'd pulled his boxers up for the time being, though he was still hard as ever beneath them. It was desperate and ungraceful and needy, but neither of you seemed to care.

Once you were settled next to him, his fingers danced across your lips, entranced. You each took a few breaths before continuing on.

"Can I touch you?" he whispered, staring at where your mouth met him.

You only nodded in response, fearing what might come out of your mouth if you dared to open it.

"Use your words, baby, please. I need to hear you."

God. This was...

"Yes, please touch me," you grasped his forearm, longing for him to move it elsewhere. His skin was hot and soft and perfect.

"That'a girl," he praised. His fingers wandered from your lips to the back of your neck, playing ever so lightly with the baby hairs there. He took his sweet time dragging his fingertips down the back of your neck to the side of your breast, stopping there to press his lips to it.

He tapped your shoulder, wordlessly asking you to lay on your back so he could have greater access to your chest. His hand trailed down your sides to your hips, though his mouth still stayed connected to your nipple. He grazed it with his teeth before moving on to the other. As he took it into his mouth, his thumb dug into the flesh of your hip.

"Jake I need you- oh." He dragged his tongue up and pressed a hot kiss into your neck. "I need more." You pulled his head closer to you, hands tangled in his hair. He was already sticky and sweaty, but it only made you feel needier.

"And you'll get it, if you're patient, sweet girl," he smirked into your neck. You let out a soft gasp at that and willed yourself to keep your hands occupied with his hair rather than yourself. "Mmm. Did you like that? Sweet girl?" He bit down into your skin. "Sweet Y/N?"

You could only whimper in response as he soothed the spot with his tongue. He pulled back completely, using his free hand to cup the side of your face.

"Ah ah, what did I say about using your words, baby?"

"Fuck, okay, yes Jake. Yes, I love it-" He smiled to himself again and finally connected his lips to yours.

You had always wondered what his lips would feel like. They looked so soft and inviting, even from across rooms. Across arenas. And you were right. Despite the situation you were in, his kisses seemed innocent. They were tentative and gentle.

Your hand danced along the hem of his boxers, pinky finger slipping under. You held him there for a minute before inching down further, just as you went to deepen his kiss.

His head fell, almost into your chest.

"I can't take-" he grabbed your wrist, and cleared his throat. "Not yet." Immediately you felt a pang of rejection. Had you accidentally taken it too far? He brought his head back up to yours, pressing your foreheads together in reassurance.

The confusion must have been written all over your face. Reading it, he pressed your hand firmly against the lower part of his stomach and traced little circles on top of your veins with his calloused thumb.

"Let me take care of you first. Is that okay?" he smirked.

"Yeah. Yeah that's okay." For the second time that night, Jake's breath on your skin was the only thing consuming your mind.

He placed a kiss between your eyebrows, forcing all the tension out of them. He made his way down your nose, your jaw, and sloppily down your body until he reached your hips. Space was tight in the bunk, but he made it work.

When he reached the band of your pants, he looked up at you again through his eyelashes, pieces of hair sticking to his forehead. That sight alone could've had your head spinning for days.

"M'gonna take these off, okay?"

"Yes, Jake." You tried to keep your composure, but your impatience was still showing through in every strangled breath. He hooked his fingers around both layers at once and helped you shimmy them down to the bottom of the bed. He kicked them into the corner and turned his attention back to you.

"Good girl. Using her words," he kissed the prominent bone of your left hip, "being so sweet," and then the other.

His mouth left hot stripes down the crease of your thigh, inching closer and closer to where you wanted him most. When he arrived there, he let himself hover over you for a moment. You once again allowed your hands to take hold of his chestnut hair and begged him to get on with it.

"Enough, babe-"

You ate your words when his tongue began tracing a slow path up your center. It felt like all the air in your lungs disappeared and you were only breathing in Jake. His arms snuck up to wrap around your thighs and push you even closer to his face. As he did, his nose bumped right where you needed him most.

"Oh my god, Jake," you purred. He only chuckled into you. As he continued licking up the mess you'd already made for him, his thumb outlined circles at the widest part of your thigh.

"I can't believe- mmm," he moaned against you, "I can't believe this is all for me." He brought his hand back around to place a thumb on your clit.

"Always has been." With that, his ministrations paused.

"How long?" He looked up at you, his face glistening in the dim light.

"Months." You rolled your hips up towards him, needing him back where he was. His finger once again found you and continued making slow circles.

"Fuck. If I- months? I could've had months..." he spoke, muffled between your legs.

"We're here- oh my god," his thumb swiped over you just right. "We're here now." You gave one more tug on his hair before his tongue was at your entrance, begging to be let in. As his mouth began to work away at you, you realized you wouldn't last long. "Make me cum, Jake, please. With- right there..."

He kept at his patterns, gliding over you just right. It was a matter of seconds before your back was lifting off the shitty bunk mattress and up into his chest. "Jake, I'm-"

"I know, I know, baby," he soothed. "That's it."

His words, hot and breathy in your ear, were the final domino that sent you tumbling over the edge. You felt your release hit you and there was no stopping the sounds that slipped from your throat.

In awe, Jake was mesmerized. "Like an angel..." He worked you through the wave, slowing down and using less pressure as you neared the end of it.

When the feeling eventually dissipated, you came to and found Jake's forehead up by yours again.

"That was-" you started. "You have no idea how beautiful-" he began.

You pulled him down into you and pushed him off to the side until he was laying next to you. Kissing your way from his shoulder to his breastbone and up his neck, you swung your leg over his body and looked down at him.

A lovesick smile spread across his face and he licked his lips. You sat back on your thighs to catch your breath and allowed his hands to roam your sides once again.

"I can't believe you've been hiding yourself from me," he mused.

"Like I said. We're here now," you countered. You brushed the unruly hairs of his eyebrow with your thumb and brought him into a deep kiss while your other hand reached down to work on getting his boxers off. Even the brush of your palm over him had him sputtering groans into your mouth.

"Relax, baby."

He helped you slide them down his thighs and you kissed down his torso, stopping to give extra attention to his freckled shoulder. You could feel him much before you could see him, and when you did dare to look, your breath hitched. He noticed right away.

"God, don't do that," he groaned.

"Do what?" you asked, feigning a sick sort of innocence. Your hand brushed just along the side of his cock.

"Look at, fuck-" his hips instinctively jerked up towards you, "don't look at me all fucked out like that." To this, you giggled. As you went to take him fully into your hand, he reached down for your wrist.

"No, no, not tonight. I need to be inside you." Suddenly, he was flipping you over and had you pinned beneath him, right up against the wall of the bunk. "I'm gonna fucking, oh," he uttered as he ground down against you, "I'm gonna make you mine. Can I do that? Can I make you mine?" he pleaded.

"Already yours, Jake."

With that, he pushed himself gently inside of you, disappearing inch by inch. You both stuttered, your breath failing you, in awe of the way he was filling you up.

"Oh my- fuck," he looked back up into your eyes as soon as he was totally swallowed by your warmth. "Can I...?" he prompted, stalled out in you.

"Just, one second," you asked, allowing yourself to adapt to the pressure. "Oh. Okay." Once you had adjusted to his size, you instructed him, "Yes, Jakey, please move."

His hips began their slow rhythm, grinding up and into you with expertise. You were totally trapped in him, and you loved it. His hair fell down around you both and his arms created a cage around you. There was nothing but Jake.

Having already been worked up before you arrived, Jake was focusing intently on making the moment last as long as he could. "God- fucking... oh my god." He slowed his pace down, much to your dismay.

"No, please, I need you, faster please-"

"Mmm. Poor thing," he mused, taking in your desperation before him.

"I'm so close, please Jake," you begged, breathless, pulling him down by the neck.

"Fuck, sweet girl. " He skimmed the apple of your cheek with the lightest of touches and he continued his slow draw in and out of you. "I can't say no to you." You let out a sigh of relief, pushing up into him.

"Tell me how bad you want it," he begged. You whined in complaint. "Tell me, angel, and I'll give you heaven." He moved his lips right onto your ear. "Promise."

"So bad Jake. So, so bad," you gasped as he rutted into you mercilessly. "Fuck, you fill me up so good. I'm all fucking yours, please, I need it-" You could barely speak with how heavy your breathing became. His breath was heavy on your shoulder and all you could hear was the lewd sounds of your bodies connecting at their core.

"You don't have any fucking idea-" he groaned, rolling into you just right, "how pretty you are."

"So. fucking. pretty." Each part of his compliment pointed with a thrust of his hips.

"Jake it's, I'm-"

"Please, angel. I know, me too. I wanna feel you around me, please."

You dug your nails into his back as you let your second orgasm overtake you completely. Only, this time, you felt Jake right there alongside you. He throbbed inside of you, making your pleasure all the more drawn out. Jake's moans were being choked out of him as you rode through the end of your wave, emerging from a vision of white hot pleasure. You could feel his release threatening to drip out of you as he slowly pulled out and landed by your side.

The brief silence wasn't very silent at all, filled with mutterings and catching your breath. It wasn't until he turned over to you that he finally spoke.

"I'm, Y/N, that was..."

"Yeah."

You felt his hand slide up from your ass to your neck, where he gripped you gently. Using his hold, he drew you in for one more kiss. Languid and dripping in desire.

"I've been wanting to do that for God knows how long, sweetheart," he smirked. His pointer finger danced along the skin of your neck, tickling you ever so lightly. You brought your hand up to it and pressed a kiss to the pad of his finger.

"Me too, Jakey," you admitted.

His somehow even warmer eyes looked at you from the periphery.

"Mmm. 'Jakey,' huh?" he teased.

"Hey..." you felt a little bit of embarrassment creep back up and you turned to hide your face.

"No, no. I'm just teasing." He grabbed your chin so you'd face him again. "That's cute."

Once the two of you had calmed down, you suddenly remembered the whole reason you'd come out here in the first place.

"Fuck," you shot up, almost wacking your head on the ceiling of his bunk again.

"What, angel? Is everything-"

"Sam sent me to get you because some fancy business guy or something wanted to talk to you. It seemed important. Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Fancy business guy, huh? I'm sure the other three can handle him." He grabbed your arm to pull you back down to him.

"No, Jake. Dammit." You searched the bottom of the mattress for your pants and slid them back on, not caring about the mess you'd have to clean up later. When you went to climb over Jake to get out of the bunk, he realized that you weren't going to be stopped.

You both managed to clean back up in record speed, stopping to glance in the galley mirror.

"Is this... okay?" you straightened out your collar.

"Babe." Jake rubbed the back of his neck. "We look fucked."

The both of you burst out laughing, nearly to tears, before he brought you into his arms.

--*--

When the two of you popped back into the party, it was nearly venue curfew. Josh was saying his goodbyes to some of the audio team, and Danny was still engrossed in conversation with one of the openers. Half-finished glasses were littered across all the high-tops and the music was getting softer. You could feel the night coming to a close.

As Jake drifted off to find his twin, Sam pulled you aside.

"I'll take it you found Jake, then?" he asked with a shit-eating grin.

Immediately your face turned hot and you tried making yourself as small as possible. "I- Yeah I found him, um..."

Sam lifted his hand. "Don't worry, Y/N. I took care of it."

"The fancy- but I thought... Jake-"

Sam gave himself away with a devious twitch of his mouth.

"You can thank me later, love."

--*--

Here is Not-Jake for a little visual. Woof.

Author's Note, Again: Congratulations. You made it through my first smutty writing. If it was terrible, it actually wasn't me who wrote it. It was Mackenzi. But if you liked it, awww. Thanks! It was all me! <333

#jake kiszka #jake gvf #jake kiszka smut #jake kiszka fanfic #gvf #gvf fic #gvf fanfic #gvf fanfiction

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