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bayjaruchel · 5 months

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Strawberry Blond

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Pairing: Peeta Mellark/AFAB Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Late one night, you get a call. (4.7k | originally posted on ao3 | Masterlist )

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You know that your relationship can never be normal.

Even now, when you technically should have peace of mind— and you're out of the arena, out of the Games— there's still the ugly truth that lies beneath it all. The Victor's Village is beautiful in comparison to the rest of District Twelve, but because of the reason why you earned a residence here, you're not sure if you'll ever truly enjoy it. Brick houses with plenty of room, and yet yours is still far too empty, even if you have your family to keep you company.

Peeta lives alone in his.

There's always smoke coming from the chimney, and he keeps most, if not all of the lights on. The only room that occasionally has its lights off is his, which is on the second floor. You've woken up in the middle of the night many times and glimpsed the shining evidence that he's still awake. It's not like you get perfect sleep yourself— but you worry, sometimes.

You do visit him, sometimes. But you've never knocked on his door when it's nighttime. You're not entirely sure why that is; maybe it's because you're afraid of what the cool silence will bring. Maybe it's too intimate. Neither of you are strangers to intimacy, and you've definitely maintained a little of that, but … There's still a certain distance. Away from the cameras, you still struggle to discern what's real and what's not.

The way he looks at you is certainly real.

You don't know if you'll ever feel exactly the same way towards him.

Sure, you do like him. A lot. He makes it easy. He's the type of guy that you could bring home to your parents. He's the type of guy that one would want to come home to every day. Of course, he's a little more reserved, and his eyes are duller, but— he's still Peeta. He's still the baker's boy. Deep down, he'll never lose what made you— and all of the Capitol— fall in love with him.

Is it really love, though? Or is it just admiration?

It's something that you think about a lot. You've never said those three words to him when not in front of an audience. And he knows that on those specific occasions, it wasn't real. It was just an act. Maybe when he kissed you, he wasn't acting. Maybe when he looked at you and said those lovely things to you, he wasn't acting.

You can dream. You can hope.

However, most of your actual dreams nowadays are just nightmares.

No golden boy is holding you, shielding you from the awful weather. There's no bright, happy future in which everything turned out right. And there's none of those strange, albeit interesting dreams where your house is upside down and your teacher at school is telling you that somehow, you've suddenly graduated and you're being sent off to the Capitol to become one of them.

Instead, there's just fire.

Tonight, you dream of fire.

Burning bodies that fall from the highest trees. You can vaguely make out who they are— there's a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, a primal guilt. Everything around you is blazing, and you know you should try and get out, but your feet are frozen, rooted to the spot. You can't move, even as the flames begin to lick around your ankles. Even if you did run, you wouldn't be able to escape. This has been a long time coming, hasn't it?

Despite the almost blinding brightness emanating from the fire, everything else is foggy and dark. The only thing you can focus on is the corpses, the trees, and everything coming down around you. Someone shouts your name, but it's muffled like you're underwater. You fail to register it fast enough.

A scream, crystal-clear.

You whip around, and there it is. The evidence of your failure. You're helpless to do anything— you can only watch— more screaming, more yelling, more pleads for help—

There is so, so much blood—

You're awake, and the blistering heat is gone.

Gasping, you sit up, struggling for breath. It keeps catching in your throat. Your heart's pounding at a pace that makes your head spin. Dizzy, disorienting. But it used to be worse than this.

At least you don't wake up sobbing anymore.

This is still awful, though. Trembling, you wrap your arms around yourself, attempting to regain control. In, out. In, out. Your lungs shudder with the effort, but you keep going. Despite the comfortable warmth of the house, there's still goosebumps prickling up and down your bare skin. Your arms. Your neck. The sheets are tangled around your waist and legs; you almost feel trapped.

There's no point in closing the curtains, since virtually nobody is in the streets, and the other inhabitants of the Village couldn't possibly look through your windows. When you glance out of the one nearest to your bed, it's almost pitch-black outside. There are no street lamps, after all. You try to focus on the cold, empty houses to distract yourself.

Finally, your breath slows. Your pulse calms.

You're still shaking, faintly, but your knees don't give out when you detangle yourself from your blankets and slip out of bed. You consider that a minor victory.

Taking care not to make too much noise, you head downstairs. The polished stone is cold underneath your feet, but it's grounding, in a way. It settles you back down to earth. For a short while, you frequently lost your way due to the sheer size of the house, but now you know the quickest route to the kitchen by heart. Even when half-asleep, you know exactly where to go.

The light flicks on with a quiet buzz when you gently press the switch.

Quietly, you wonder if the ultimate prize for winning the Games was running water. It's cold, as it splashes over your fingers and into the basin. There are plenty of pristine, artisan glasses and whatnot in the overhead cabinets— probably made in District One— but you always reach for the mugs you had before. The ones with a couple of cracks and dents littering their bodies— evidence of their long lifespans.

You lean against the counter as you take a long gulp of water. It's pleasant, the feeling pooling low in your chest.

The silence used to be unnerving, but now, you welcome it with open arms.

You take another, smaller sip from your mug. Maybe you'll be able to sleep for another few hours. Until the sun rises, at least. Then, you can take a walk. You can wander around all you like here, provided that you don't stray too far. Regardless, you're sure nobody will be too concerned about that. Haymitch is the sole man responsible for the lax rules concerning the victors.

You're still not sure if you like him or not.

Slowly, you finish your drink. But, just as you're ready to set it into the sink and head back upstairs—

—the phone's ringing.

You can hear it pretty clearly, even if it's muffled.

Who could be calling at this hour? Furrowing your brow, you put down the mug and start heading down the hallway, towards the study. You're well aware that Haymitch tore his phone out of the wall ages ago, so it couldn't be him. Nobody from your District calls you, either. And if you get any calls from outside the District, they're usually during the daytime. Not at two-ish in the morning. The Capitol may be invasive, but they're not that invasive. They need their beauty rest, you figure.

So, taking all of that into consideration, that only leaves—

"Peeta?" You mutter, upon picking up the phone.

There's a beat of silence.

"Hello," he replies.

It's a bit hard to tell over the line, but he sounds nearly as groggy as you. Delicately, you shut the door of the study behind you with a quiet click. Just in case.

"Is something wrong?" You allow yourself to be a little louder, now that there's a barrier between you and the rest of the house. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Something like that." There's a slight rustling. "I mean— nothing new, right?" Even though you know he meant it as a joke, the grim truth makes it fall flat.

Still, you breathe out a quiet laugh. "Nothing's changed." Affixing your gaze on one of the chairs sitting around the mahogany table, you fiddle with the telephone cord. "Did you, uh— did you need something, though?"

Peeta hesitates again.

"I just—" He cuts himself off. "I'm sorry for calling you so late." He's entirely earnest in a way that makes you ache. "Did I wake you up?"

He's also dodging the question, even if he is genuinely worried about your sleep schedule.

"No, you didn't," you assert, "don't worry about that. It's fine."

"Okay," he responds, relief palpable despite the crackly quality.

The telephone cord is somewhat cold where it rests on your knuckles. You continue to twist it around your idle hand.

"You still haven't answered my question, by the way."

Peeta audibly exhales.

"Oh." More rustling. "Yeah. I, um—" he clears his throat, "—yeah, I do need something, actually."

That could mean a lot of things. Does he just need to talk? You know he does, sometimes. Or maybe he just needs some more flour, and is too embarrassed to admit it. He does seem like the type of guy to stress-bake in the wee hours of the morning. However, you seriously doubt that he wants anything related to that.

"What is it?" You ask, finally.

His next words are rushed, as if he's afraid that if he says them slowly, he'll never get them out.

"Could you come over? I just—" it's only a momentary gap, "—don't wanna be alone right now."

Ah.

The thing is, you understand. You know what it's like. And there's only one possible response that you can give right now. Vividly, you can see him— the cave— his face, shining with a cold sweat, his eyes scrunched tightly in pain—

"Okay." You're already mentally mapping out where to go. "I'll be there in a few."

When he opens the door, Peeta looks exhausted.

But when he smiles at you, there's still that light in his eyes. That look he gets whenever you're around. It used to make you feel sick to your stomach, but now— now, you're not quite sure how to feel. You've been told that in comparison to him, you're rather good at keeping your feelings hidden underneath the surface. It's been necessary, after all.

"You're here," he says after a beat, as if he expected anything else.

"I'm here," you echo.

Wordlessly, he steps aside to let you pass by. Somehow, although the layout of his house is exactly the same as yours, his still feels different. Warmer. A little cozier. The remnants of something sweet are still floating through the air, and you glance back at him. Maybe you were right about the possibility of him making cookies— or apple turnovers. Or those little cakes.

"Been baking?" You ask.

"Earlier," he clarifies, shutting the door behind you.

"Smells nice."

Peeta lingers by your side. "Want some?"

"If that's okay."

"It's always been okay." He raises his eyebrows. "How many times have I told you that you don't even need to ask?"

You shoot him a look. "Doesn't hurt to ask."

Flawlessly, he copies your expression. "How do you know that?"

"It's called being polite, Peeta."

"Polite," he repeats. "Polite…"

You let out a short sigh.

"Just show me where they are."

He gives you a shit-eating grin. "And there it is."

You don't even bother trying to respond; he's already padding past you, anyway. It's a short trip to the kitchen. His is more cluttered than yours— recently-used, more lived-in. There are more dishes in the sink, more stuff on the counter. But your eyes are drawn to the two wire baking racks on the stovetop. On top of them sit around two dozen pastries. They're prettily decorated with pink, blue, and white icing, and you take some time to admire them as you join him in front of the stove.

"You've outdone yourself," you can't help but murmur. "Wow."

At your compliment, Peeta instantly turns bashful.

"Oh, thanks." Of course, he can't let those words sit. "It's— it's not my best work, but I—"

His volume drops, and he pauses.

"Well— my hands were shaking, so…"

Abruptly, you turn your attention away from the pastries.

He notices, interrupting you before you can even open your mouth to speak.

"I know what you're gonna ask," he says, softly. "And, yeah, I do want to talk about it. Just—" Peeta sucks in a breath. "Just not now, okay? Give it a little while." The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he gestures towards the racks.

"Eat."

You consider pressing the question. You consider urging him— did it happen again? Was it worse this time? It had to have been worse, considering that he wanted you over in the first place. Just thinking about it makes your stomach perform an uneasy flip. You can read Peeta. And right now, you can read the bags under his eyes. The tiredness he's trying to fight away.

However, you don't want to push him. You don't want to break him down. Not again.

So, you take a pastry.

It's really, very good.

Peeta takes one for himself, too, and you eat in silence. You know that despite your frequent approval of his various baked goods, he's still carefully watching your reaction; you make sure to look pleased, and it isn't hard at all. He seems satisfied. You're also satisfied. Once you've finished your pastry, you lick the remnants of the icing off your fingers.

You pretend not to notice the way he stares— briefly, before forcing his gaze away.

You pretend to ignore the way your heart skips.

Mercifully, he breaks the awkward tension.

"Do you— would you want to take some home?" He asks, after swallowing. "We both know that I'm not gonna eat 'em all."

"Oh, yeah, I'll take some," you answer. Thinking for a second, you add, "Were you going to risk bringing some to Haymitch, or—"

He snorts. "Not this time."

"More for me, then."

"And your family, you mean?"

You smile. There's no way that you're going to give up those pastries without a fight.

"Sure. And my family."

Peeta doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he returns your smile all the same.

He always keeps his bedroom windows open at night.

You're not exactly sure why, but you suppose it's because he runs warm. Always.

The duvet's soft on your bare skin, and his hands are gentle. With the way your head is positioned, if you move your ear just so, you can hear his heartbeat thumping through his chest. A steady rhythm. He's calm, and so are you. You're certain that you could fall asleep like this— if it weren't for the fact that you have other, more important priorities right now.

When you look up at him, shifting an increment closer, he talks.

"I thought things were getting better." His Adam's apple bobs as you watch. "I thought that— that things were gonna start improving. That I'd— " He trails off, for a second.

"That I'd start going back to normal, I guess. But I should've known that it's… It's impossible." His gaze is focused on the ceiling. "It was hopeless to try and believe that I could just keep on going like nothing happened at all."

You find your voice.

"But you still tried?"

The chuckle he lets out is completely humorless.

"Yeah, I tried."

He's always been optimistic— he's always trying to see the best in people. And seeing him like this makes you feel hopeless. You know what he's going through. It's essentially the same thing that you're going through. However, it's not like you can read minds. He knows the right words to say, but you don't. Even though you wish you could. Words— even though actions can speak louder than them— still mean a lot. You turn that word over in your head a couple of times. Actions.

"What happened?" You ask, quietly.

A beat.

"I let down my guard," he starts, volume barely a whisper. "I was confident in my stability. I thought that I wouldn't— break down, or anything. Because it had been a few weeks, and—"

His eyes shut. Tightly. "God, I'm stupid."

"You're not," you rush to interject, "don't say that."

Peeta lets out another huff. "But it was stupid. To assume that I'd be okay, I mean. I should've— I should've expected it, at least." He quickly carries on. "Even after everything, I still let myself fall into a routine."

I still let myself fall back into a routine, you know what he means. The bad dreams pale in comparison to the real monsters that loom over the both of you. Haymitch is a living example of what can happen; what will happen, if you don't hold on to tight control of the hypothetical reins. You ache.

"Don't blame yourself for any of this," you murmur, "please. It's not your fault. Not in the slightest." You have to speak slowly, pace yourself. Keep yourself from everything you want to say. "Even if you tried to— I don't know, stay hyper-aware of everything— it would still come crashing down eventually." A breath. "It's inevitable, Peeta. It's always going to be here."

"But I don't want it to be here," he chokes out, "I really, really don't!"

You push yourself up from your previous position. His eyes are open now, wide and looking up at you.

When you move backward and open your arms, he's on you in an instant.

You rock back and forth, gently. You're not sure which one of you is holding onto the other tighter. Clinging would be a better word. His face is pressed firmly into your shoulder. You can feel him shaking.

Despite everything, he won't let himself make any noise when he cries.

You don't know how long you stay like this. It could be minutes. Hours, even. All you can feel and register is him. Peeta. He's trembling. The barely-there sensation, combined with the undeniable tightness of his arms. His hands. It's almost like he thinks that if he loosens his hold, even by just the slightest fraction, you'll suddenly disappear.

That you'll cease to exist.

That you'll become not real.

When you finally draw back— slowly, tentatively, and only because he does it first—

He sniffs, eyes red. They're not brimming with unshed tears, but they're still wet. You can't help but thumb away what little remains on his lower lids, even though you know that you probably look about the same.

Peeta returns the gesture.

Unlike you, though, he lingers, hand dropping to cup your cheek.

There's a moment.

You've done this before, of course. You've held each other. Comforted each other, brought each other back down. But since the end of the Games— since you've gotten away from the clamoring audiences desperate for a romance despite the sick circumstances— you haven't done anything more than that.

You haven't kissed him since the end of the Games.

But right now, you realize that you want to. More than anything. Anyone could see that Peeta wants it, too. Maybe even more than you do.

So, when he leans in— just barely— closing the distance—

It's practiced, at first. Familiar. Almost nostalgic.

But then he melts, and it's suddenly something completely different.

Peeta lets you softly maneuver him down onto the mattress, up against the pillows that are still too soft for your liking. He kisses you in the way those terrible poets describe— it's all excessively large bouquets, a clear starry night, longing looks across a crowded room, and—

It's real.

He gives. You take, and exchange it for everything you have in return. His hand stays on your cheek, the other behind your head, pulling you down. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. You lose yourself in the feeling. Whenever you part, it's only out of necessity, and you're soon leaning back in. You're making up for lost time— you're making up for every action you didn't mean, every word that was too sugary-sweet.

Soon, your kisses grow deeper. And neither of you wants to stop.

It's only when his hands are trailing down your body, down to the hem of your shirt, that you bother addressing it. Even if you want this— so, so desperately— you don't want to force anything in a situation that doesn't require it. Just kissing is nice. It's very nice. Nice enough that it takes a little while for you to regain control of your mouth.

"Is this—"

—and he's already speaking. Hushed, like you.

"Please."

It's almost embarrassing, what that single word does to you. But you barrel on.

"It's okay?" You ask, "Just say if it's not, and I'll stop—"

"—I just," Peeta visibly struggles with what to say for a moment, before settling on:

"Need you," he says. "Please."

It's more than enough, and you're in no place to deny him for much longer. You recapture his lips, welcoming his touch. His hands on your back, then your waist, then your hips again. His grip is firm, but not overly so. He would never hurt you, after all. Especially not here. Especially after what he's witnessed.

His hands are warm and calloused on your bare skin. Strong, with all the work he's done since he was old enough to knead dough. You have to sit up in order to take off your nightshirt, and he takes the opportunity to do the same with his. You've already seen him shirtless, and at close proximity, too— but it wasn't like this. You couldn't trail over every little detail with your lips, back then.

Peeta shivers, letting out a short giggle when you press a kiss to his stomach. He's sturdy, that's for sure. Impressive biceps, a toned chest. He's beautiful, and you tell him so. You think he blushes, but it's difficult to say for certain from your position. You're too focused on finding all the little freckles you can.

He likes it when you kiss his neck, breath audibly hitching when you do so.

But even though he lets you entertain yourself for a decent while, he makes sure to return the favor. He's never liked being in the spotlight for long, after all. And he wants.

He finds all of your scars, from the arena. From before the arena, too. He maps them out, painstakingly, mimicking the way you'd kissed him all over earlier. Sensitive, he notes, when you make a small noise when his thumbs find your nipples. Soft, he observes, as his fingers slip underneath your waistband, moving lower.

Soon, you're completely exposed, and he is too.

Peeta pays more attention to certain parts of you— your thighs, your chest— but he doesn't skip over anything in particular. He wants to know everything; he wants to learn everything. And he's eager to learn. By the time he reaches the spot between your legs, you're already wanting for him. You've grown needy from his kisses, his caresses. You can feel him against your thigh— he's just as needy as you.

His fingers are clumsy, at first. But they're strong, and you guide him. One, then two. Then another. His breath is loud, and he hums, biting his lower lip at your quiet moan after you tell him how to crook his fingers. You jolt when he finds your clit, paying careful attention to it while he works you open.

At your whispered insistence, he grips himself by the base— already having put on protection— you don't care enough to ask exactly how he obtained it— and he pushes in. The groan he lets out sounds like it's been punched from his gut.

He sets a slow, measured pace. Almost awkward at first, but he's a fast learner. He learns what angle makes you spread your legs wider for him. You wouldn't even use fucking to describe what you're doing— somehow, that word's too rough. He kisses you, nose bumping against yours. Most of your noises are muffled against his lips, but he takes them all the same. He absorbs them, and drinks them in. Drinks you in.

"Peeta," you sigh, and he breathes your name in return, before ducking to kiss your shoulder. Your collarbone. Your neck.

He comes first, twitching, pulsing deep within you. He stifles his whimper by tucking his face into the divot between your shoulder and your neck— but you can still feel it. You help him ride it out, until his thrusts falter, and his hips still.

It's a few moments of limbo, in which he catches his breath. He meets your eyes. His are hazy, half-lidded. He kisses you.

Then, he pulls out— disposes of the garbage, of course— and wastes no time in making his way down your body, to where you need him most.

You're certain that he's never eaten anybody out before, but he's a natural. He's enthusiastic— much more so than when he was inside you. This is just for your pleasure, now. When you thread a hand through his tousled hair, he moans into you, increasing his efforts tenfold. He doesn't care for the mess— or the noise, as he laps at you. He doesn't even care for his own need to breathe. Peeta just wants to give.

His brow is furrowed in concentration as he rapidly pulls you closer to orgasm. You can do little but take. And when you finally topple over your peak—

"—that's so good, ah— Peeta, I'm gonna— ohh—"

You cry out, heat rolling low in your abdomen— gathering, passing through your entire body.

You float on blissful waves, and he licks at you through it all. For a single, brief moment, your mind is perfectly calm.

When you relax, the warmth steadying to a hum, he notices and stops working at you. He wriggles a little, and leans forward to rest his chin on your stomach while you catch your breath. You can feel his, too, and it's hot on your skin. Peeta seems reluctant to take his eyes off you just yet.

It's quiet, you register. You're reluctant to ruin it, but he looks pretty messy.

"I should get you a towel or something," you say.

He cracks a smile, his eyes softening. "Should you?"

"Yeah." You're powerless not to return it. "But, you know, for me to get the towel, you have to get off me."

"So demanding."

You let out a short, offended sound. "Hey, that's just—"

"I'm getting up." And he does.

It doesn't take long to clean up, and the obnoxious white fluorescent lights of the bathroom don't blind you for long. Again, Peeta looks on while you wipe off his face— this close, you notice how brilliantly blue his eyes are. You notice the precise angles of his jaw. His cheek. He's probably doing the same to you— tracing the contours of your face.

To your relief, you're back in his bed a few minutes later. He completely shuts off the lights, flicking off his bedside lamp, and then crawls under the duvet with you. You're not sure if it's creepy or weird to enjoy it, but everything here smells like him. A sort of earthy, warm scent. Even though you're both well aware of the multiple floral shampoos that the Capitol has to offer— he still retains that one thing.

You're comfortable. You're safe.

Peeta wraps his arms around you from behind.

You're not sure if you should say something or not, but he does it first.

"You'll stay?" Whispered, into the stillness.

"Of course." Without hesitation.

His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly.

"Thank you," he breathes.

The words are stuck in your throat.

You can't bring yourself to say them, even though you know you'd mean them. Every single syllable.

But you have time. You can tell him tomorrow, even. Or the day after that. Tonight, you didn't say it aloud, but you still told him all the same.

You understand exactly how you feel, just before you drift off.

You love him.

#peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark x you #peeta mellark smut #peeta mellark imagine #josh hutcherson x reader

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lydiimae · 1 month

Text

Infatuation

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

MDI!! 18+

Part 2 <3

Warnings: Heavy drinking, mentions of opium use, mentions of prostitution, rough sex, fingering, oral sex, semi-public sex, squirting, marking, thigh riding, vaginal sex, dom benedict and sub reader, brief spanking, possessive benedict, LOTS of dirty talk

A.N: hi again, i'm back on my bullshit <3 first of all, thank you so very much for the love on my first Benny fic AND my first fic ever. liiiiike seriously, that was so sweet <3 T-T. anyway, this fic is another Benny fic- a smutty one at that. it is vaguely based off of the infamous party where Ben has his threesome, however, i changed it up quite a bit so take it at face value hehe. i am planning on making an Anthony one next, probably some more filth so I can practice getting my wording to a place i am proud of. also, i think i will maybe make this into a series??? so do let me know if you like it so i can get an idea >.< enjoy, ily, and THANK YOU AGAIN <3 ^-^

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You were never one to go to parties, especially the ones your dear friend Genevieve Delacroix invited you to. She had a knack for finding the most raunchy, wanton, artists who would throw parties full of courtesans, sex, opium, alcohol... the whole of it.

Being a maid for such a wealthy and well-known family, the Featherington's to be exact, meant you knew the secret lives that many lords and ladies lead outside of the stuffy confines of the ballrooms.

You were lucky to be the lady's maid of the sweetest Featherington, Penelope, and therefore you were even luckier to hear about the Bridgerton family. From what she told you, they were all kind and polite, just like anyone else. She had also hinted, quite shyly, to the men of the family being gorgeous. The third born being her favorite.

You had seen glimpses of pearly white teeth, dark blue tailcoats, and their chestnut brown hair but were never lucky enough to see a full image of any of them but Eloise and her sister, Daphne.

When Genevieve insisted on you tagging along with her and a friend from a higher-up place, you begrudgingly accepted. It was lucky that the young debutante you worked for insisted on having something important to do, so you snuck out and walked through the streets of London to the modiest's shop.

Genevieve dressed you in a tight but, incredibly beautiful, dark blue corset and a pair of black pants, to which you raised an eyebrow. "I look as if I am soliciting, not as if I am curious about this party you have been nagging me to go to." You comment, looking in the mirror.

"What if you solicit, hm? Where is the harm in spending a night with a lord or even another servant?" She returns, tightening up the laces on the corset before stepping back and looking over her work. "Besides, look at yourself. You have a body that would make any one of those silly debutantes jealous, why not show it?" She grins.

You sigh and turn to her, a small cheeky smile on your face as a result of her teasing. "You owe me for this, Viv." You tease and she laughs, putting on her cloak as she hands you your own. "There she is. The Y/N I know. We will have fun, I swear it." She says. Once your cloak is tugged over your shoulders, the both of you make your way out of the shop and towards the house where the party is being held.

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Benedict never snuck out, not before he got invited to Lord Granville's house. The man was nice enough about him completely insulting his art to his face, nice enough to recognize an artistic eye and even the hint of talent that Benedict possessed through merely speaking about art. He thought the gathering was going to be one where he would meet artists and practice his craft. He was wrong.

Of course, he was experienced in the world of sex, drugs, and drinking. He attended the gentleman's club with his brothers after almost every ball he attended, much like every other lord in the ton. He has shared his number of passion-filled nights with nameless women, some of which he cannot remember. The only remenice being the ache of a hangover, and the taste of expensive whiskey still lingering on his tongue.

He would have never thought that the artist had such a scene hiding behind such an unassuming townhouse.

He followed the artist in and was met with quite the scene. The room was hazy with the smoke of expensive cigars, the candlelight casting a low gold hue on the entire house. He followed the artist deeper and was met with courtesans soliciting men at every turn, to which he grinned.

Even further and he was led into a room where women were posed naked, in quite compromising positions, for eager artists who were trying to master the anatomy of a naked woman. Or so that is what Granville claimed.

He grins crookedly at the sight. "Quite the room, is it not?" Lord Granville piques up from behind him. He turns to face the man and nods. "Quite. Might I stay here? I have found myself needing practice of anatomy as of late and this is the perfect place to do so." He says, a playful glint in his eye.

Granville, of course, picks up on it and nods. "Of course, Lord Bridgerton. Do enjoy yourself." He returns with a knowing smile and a wink before exiting the room. Benedict sits at one of the free easles, one of the other men lighting a cigar and offering it to him. He accepts, and puffs on it as he begins to work.

He could get used to this.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Genevieve leads you through the party, grabbing two glasses of what looks like scotch off of a passing servant's tray. She settles for meeting her friend, who you quickly learn is the wife of said artist who is throwing the party, on the stairs.

After a while of chatting you learn that the young woman's name is Lucy and her husband is Henry Granville, an artist whose work you always found interesting. You also are clued into the fact that their marriage is one of convenience, rather than love, as Lord Granville has no romantic nor sexual interest towards the opposite sex. You find no issue in what the young couple has, after all, you have seen much worse when it comes to marriages in the ton.

"Viv, might I go explore, or am I to only solicit?" You tease as you push off the wall. She laughs and shakes her head. "I am not your keeper, Y/N. Go and do as you wish, just be careful." She says, a hint of genuine protectiveness seeping through her tone of voice. "I promise. I will find my way back to your shop if anything goes awry." You assure before walking down the steps with a quick wave to both of the women.

You duck into a small room with a door that leads to a balcony after grabbing another glass of scotch from a passing servant. However fun it is coming to these things with Viv, you find them quite overwhelming. You are more attuned to the quietness of your servant's quarters, spending countless hours curled up with a good book that your young mistress so generously gifts you from time to time.

You walk out on the balcony, leaning heavily on the metal railing as you look up at the stars. The scotch, and the fact that you get much drunker much quicker than most, is making a delightfully warm feeling bloom in your chest. You take a deep breath of the fresh air to calm your senses before ducking back into the party.

You make it all of two steps before colliding into a broad chest, which sends your alcohol down the front of your torso.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He was in that hazy, alcohol-filled room, long enough to get just drunk enough to where he was clumsy. He catches the woman he so foolishly clambered into on his way out of the room he was painting in by the waist, which sends her drink out of her hand and down her front.

"My God, I am so incredibly sorry my lady." He rushes, gazing down at the mess he made. His eyes widen at the sight that lies in front of him.

She's a young woman, young enough that she can not be past the age of two and twenty, in a very revealing corset top and black pants. Her hair is tucked up elegantly, yet a few unruly waves have fallen as a result of the night's activities. Her cheeks are pink, probably from the embarrassment or perhaps even the anger, of getting drenched in scotch.

The liquid drips down her neck, and he follows a drop from her neck to where it travels right between her breasts. The tops are peaking out from being hugged so tight. They are full, so very full. He wonders what it would feel like to run his tongue over the smooth skin, what it would feel like to roll her nipple between his teeth and suck.

He shakes himself out of it and meets her eyes once more before he gets any more aroused than he already is.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You recognize him immediately as a Bridgerton, though you have no idea which one. He has a silly crooked smile on his face that you cannot seem to draw your eyes from, he also sports the undoubtedly Bridgerton chestnut brown hair.

He has longer hair than the one Penelope speaks of, but only just. Your eyes roam from his face to his chest, where he is wearing only a loose undershirt, his waistcoat long forgotten in drunken activities you're sure. His suspenders hang loose on his shoulders, just barely hanging onto his black trousers.

"You're a Bridgerton." It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, the effects of three glasses of scotch. He grins wider, chuckling a bit. The noise makes your entire body heat up. "I am. Benedict Bridgerton in fact." He says, his eyes never straying from yours.

"And you are?" He ponders after a moment of silence from you. You jump at the question, having been too distracted by the look of his lips to even notice he was speaking. You clear your throat and adjust your posture. "Y/N L/N." You answer shyly.

"Well, Y/N L/N, can I take you to a room and clean up the mess I made of your top, or is that entirely too forward for a gentleman to ask within mere moments of meeting?" He grins, the alcohol he consumed only ebbing on his already large confidence when it comes to women. You only nod shyly, afraid that if you speak you will make a stuttering fool of yourself.

He offers an arm, which you take happily, and begins to lead you through the party.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He pulls you into a room and, almost immediately, his hands encompass your waist. "You... are the most stunning woman I have ever had the pleasure of looking at." He murmurs, sending your heart soaring. You rest your hand on his chest, newly emboldened by the liquid courage you have been sipping on the entire night, returning his cheeky smile. "Is it too forward for a lady to say the same within mere moments of meeting?" You return.

He lets out a chuckle when you parrot his past words and he leans down. "A witty woman as well as a beautiful one, what else do you have up your sleeve Miss L/N?" He purrs, running a flattened hand up your back until it meets your hair. He tugs it down from its pins, sending it tumbling over your shoulders.

"Perhaps, if you are lucky Mister Bridgerton, I shall show you." You whisper, leaning in so your lips are but a hair's width away from his. Something dangerous and incredibly intoxicating passes over his features as he lets out a noise, a growl, that causes your core to dampen.

"You are a very forward woman, Y/N. I find it quite... infatuating to say the very least." He whispers before capturing your lips. You close your eyes and tangle one of your hands in his thick hair, the other finding his collar and giving it a slight tug.

He groans into your mouth, his hands enveloping your bum cheeks and pulling you even closer. He wants to feel the rise and fall of your breasts as he makes you pant. And by god does he.

You moan into his mouth as his hands squeeze the soft skin of your ass through your trousers, which gives him the perfect chance to slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes smoky, like cigars and whiskey. It makes your clit throb painfully.

As if reading your mind, and body, he spreads your legs with his knee and slides his leg between them. His thigh presses against your closed cunt and you gasp, breaking the kiss to throw your head back. He smirks and holds you right where you are by moving his hands to your hips.

"So sensitive." He whispers and groans as you begin to move your hips back and forth against his thigh, chasing the feeling it gives you. "Fuck, you are just full of surprises aren't you darling? I did not even have to tell you what to do, you just did it," He praises, his eyes locked on the place where your clothed core meets his leg.

"Riding my thigh like a bitch in heat. I might have to keep you." He gusts over your shoulder as he begins to kiss the exposed skin there. Oh God, how you would love that. To be able to fuck him whenever you saw fit, yes please Mister Bridgerton. "Please." Is all you manage to strangle out as you begin to grind down on him harder.

He bites down on your shoulder, leaving a bright red mark there, which he smirks at before he slowly guides you to the dark red chaise that lies in the corner of the room. He lays you back, slowly unlacing your corset with his slender fingers. He throws it across the room when it is off, his mouth immediately taking in one of your hardened nipples.

You cry out when he sucks, watching him look up at you with a shit-eating grin that makes your cunt even more soaked than it already is. He sucks and bites your bud before turning his attention to the other, giving it just as much attention. "The least I can do is clean up the mess I made." He whispers over your nipple, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure straight down to your core. Cocky bastard, you think to yourself as you grip his hair.

You are a whimpering, moaning mess by the time his face returns over yours. He presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to your lips before sitting up and stripping himself of his suspenders and his shirt before returning his attention to you. He takes off your shoes and then unbuttons your trousers, slowly sliding them down your legs.

He groans lewdly at the sight. Genevieve had insisted quite heavily when she was dressing you up that you forgo panties. She said it made trousers more comfortable, less tight, so of course you agreed. You decide tonight, that if wearing no underwear will illicit that pretty noise from his lips, you will never wear them again.

"God you are soaked. Drenched from riding my thigh and a quick suck to your nipples." He whispers as he kisses the insides of your thighs. You whine and buck your hips up toward his face, which results in him quickly grabbing your hips with one of his hands and pressing you down into the cushion so you are unable to buck and writhe. "Perhaps I was right in my assessment of you, Miss Y/N. You really are just a bitch in heat. So desperate to be full of my cock, painted with my seed." He murmurs before licking a stripe up your slit.

You cry out and grip his hair with both hands, needing something to ground yourself as his tongue swirls around your clit. He lets out a growl at the taste of your dripping cunt, so sweet and yet so tart. Utter perfection. The noise you make in return has him wishing he could drink from your body for the rest of his days, die with you sat atop his face. Riding his mouth to oblivion.

He moves his hand down to his trousers, fumbling with the buttons to free his aching cock. He slides two fingers into your body without warning and you keen, your eyes rolling back as he collects your juices. He pulls his fingers out just as quick as they went in, and spreads your wetness on his length, stroking himself hard as he drinks from you.

"Ben... oh fuck.... so close." You babble as his tongue presses inside your hole, drawing the most heavenly noises from your body. He pulls away just as you start to see stars and you grasp at his hands, tears forming in your eyes from your denied release. "Please... Please..." You sob, desperate for the feeling to come back.

He chuckles deeply, hooking your knees over his shoulders. "I've got you, love." He assures, kissing away your tears before pulling back with a cocky grin that sends your heart fluttering. "You look like a masterpiece, crying for my cock. All flushed and swollen." He murmurs. You do not know if he is talking about you or your pussy, but you never wish for him to stop.

"Please, my lord. Please, please... I need you. I need..." You babble, completely free of any thought other than his pretty dick plunging inside of you. He curses and bends down, claiming your lips with his before thrusting into you without warning. He bottoms out, and both of you moan, the kiss becoming a mess of tongue and tooth alike.

He begins at a brutal pace, slamming into you so hard that the chaise creeks against the hardwood floor. You scream at the heavenly feeling of pain and pleasure, the sound muffled over his lips. Sweat splashes from his collarbone to yours as the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, the sickly sweet smell of sex enveloping your senses.

He grunts and breaks the kiss, holding one of your legs by the calf, his other hand cupping your jaw. Your mouth falls open as soon as his lips are gone, a loud moan coming from somewhere deep within slipping out before you can try and stop it. He grunts and sticks his thumb past your lips, afraid that someone will hear from outside the thin walls.

You happily oblige and close your lips around his digit, swirling your tongue around him to the rhythm of his thrusts. He moans at the sight of you sucking on his thumb like it's a cock, as his cock slams into your pretty pussy. "Fuck. I am keeping you. You are mine," He accentuates the word with a slap to your ass cheek, causing you to cry out over his finger and clench down on his cock. "Forever. No one else will ever-fuck.-be able to fill this sweet hole of yours. It is all mine. You are all mine." He grunts as his thrusts become sloppy.

He yanks his thumb from your mouth and attacks your swollen, throbbing, clit. He rubs it hard and fast, to match the rhythm of his thrusts and you cry out. He quickly intuits that you are as close to climax as he is and bends down, covering your lips with his own so that you can scream freely.

You do as he expected, letting out a long scream into his mouth as stars rush over your vision and your body burns hot. Your juices soak both his pant-covered leg and the velvety fabric of the chaise below. The feeling of your fluttering cunt tightening even further sends him over and he releases deep inside you before he goes limp over your body.

He pushes himself up after a moment, relishing in the sight below him. Your cheeks are flushed, lips swollen and bruised. You have a bite mark on your shoulder, your hair surrounding your head like a messy halo. Perfection. A ruined, beautiful, masterpiece made solely by him.

He brushes the hair out of your face and presses a sweet kiss to your brow. "Might I be privy to those many secrets you were so keen on hiding, Miss L/N?" He teases softly, grabbing a handkerchief from his pocket and beginning to clean the mess of mixed juices on your thighs.

You giggle. "The next time we meet, I promise to tell at least one." You return, your heart fluttering at the way he so delicately slides your trousers back over your legs after cleaning you up. He grins as he buttons them up, his hands encompassing your waist to pull you up to a sitting position.

You use the opportunity to wrap your arms around his neck, and it is his turn to laugh. "Next time, then. I will wait with held breath until then, I assure you." He whispers, helping you into your corset. "But for now, I owe you a lovely night, hm?" He murmurs as he pulls the laces of your corset tight. You sigh and nod. "I would like that very much." You whisper back, resting your head on his shoulder.

He smiles cheekily, "Is it entirely too forward for a gentleman to say he would like to do this every night from now on, mere hours after meeting?" He whispers in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

No, Mister Bridgerton, it is not.

943 notes · View notes

adore-laur · 6 months

Text

HOME IS A FEELING

— former high school sweethearts reunite for a conversation about what went wrong 🌃

——

"Don't turn around."

The vague statement thrown your way sends speculations trickling through your brain. Those three words usually never mean anything good. What is it? Or who is it? Whatever the mystery, it makes you anxious based on your friend's wary expression.

"Just tell me," you say timidly, becoming tense in the diner booth with a forkful of red velvet cake halfway to your mouth. "Tell me so I don't have the urge to actually turn around."

"Your ex," she mutters, never one to beat around the bush, much to your appreciation. "He just walked in. Don't kill me for saying this, but he looks really good."

You kick her foot under the table and sink further into the leather seat. "Why is he here? He's supposed to be in another country."

It's not an exaggeration or falsity. Harry is supposed to be in not only another country but also another continent entirely—the Netherlands, to be exact.

Your friend risks another glance at the front door. "Well, he's back, and it's like he never left. Look at them..." She shakes her head slowly. "Hyping him up like he's a goddamn hero."

You assume she means the people you went to high school with. A hometown get-together with a small crowd of classmates from nearby colleges is being held at everyone's favorite local retro-style diner to celebrate the last week of summer break. It was going swell until Mr. Marine Biologist, who probably makes studying abroad his whole personality, waltzed through the door.

You cradle your left cheek with your hand to create a shield for your face in case he happens to look over. "I'm almost done with my cake, and then we can leave."

"Good luck," she sings. "The only booth open is the one right behind us."

Of course. Sighing, you silently pray that Harry won't come near you. You doubt he'll try to talk to you anyway since it's been complete radio silence on both ends for over two years. You're really hoping the breakup doesn't get brought up.

A sudden and forceful compulsion tells you to catch a quick glimpse to see how he looks, what he wears nowadays, and how he acts when you're not around. It's hard to resist.

"He's coming this way," alerts your friend through a spoonful of vanilla ice cream.

The universe must be listening, and you can't combat the urge anymore. Someone as beautiful as him begs to be looked at. You sure as hell didn't break up with him because he was unattractive.

Subtly peeking to your left, you see Harry in person for the first time in what seems like forever. It's only a short window of time where you can take in his presence as he walks closer to sit with a group of people in the booth behind you.

Black skinny jeans. Nothing has changed there.

Chelsea boots. Since when does he wear those?

A gray, tattered sweater, and a blue beanie. It's summer, for crying out loud.

Most surprising, however, is his hair, which now falls just a tad below his jaw. The same soft curls you would run your fingers through until he fell asleep.

You continue picking at your dessert, your mind running a mile a minute at the sight of him. The fact that he's behind you—thankfully facing the other way—but still inches away nonetheless is nerve-wracking. If you move your head back even the tiniest bit, it'll touch his own.

Did he notice you? Does he know his ex-girlfriend is in the same room and thinking about everything he could be thinking? Like how you never forgot about him as much as you tried to?

He's speaking, but you can't piece together what he's saying because you're too distracted by how his voice has deepened over the years. The rasp and British drawl are still there, and the warmth and comfort of it still make your heart race.

Your friend keeps stealing glances and looking at you with apprehensive eyes that cause prickles of anxiety on your skin. "What?" you whisper.

Before she can reply, you feel something nudge the back of your neck. You strain your peripheral vision and see Harry's elbow resting on the top of your booth.

"Oops, sorry," he says, twisting around in his seat.

You automatically turn and look at him. It's impossible not to since he's like a human magnet for the eyes. His face is so close to you now. Have his eyes gotten greener? Why does he have such beautiful lashes? Does he have more freckles on his nose since you saw him last?

Snap out of it!

"It's fine," you mumble, shaking your head and quickly turning around. Your heart feels like it's in your throat.

Finishing the rest of your dessert, you lean forward so he doesn't accidentally bump you again. Your friend raises her eyebrows at you and taps her foot against yours.

"So, your brother is coming to visit soon?" you ask, ignoring her questioning look and attempting to make any sort of conversation to distract from Harry.

"Yeah, tomorrow. My mom is going to weep happy tears."

"Aw. Remind me to visit her before the semester starts."

The leather seat suddenly squeaks behind you, and your breathing goes uneven for the third time tonight.

"You guys want anything to drink?" Harry asks his group of friends.

They all tell him their desired orders, and shortly after, you see him walk past your booth. He heads toward the counter with long strides and hands he doesn't know what to do with. His back is turned, so you use your chance to shamelessly observe him. He looks different but familiar all the same. He has the same body, although he looks buff. Same friendly personality, although you've missed out on it lately. Same gentle presence, although it wasn't that way the night you separated.

"Didn't you once tell me that he always ordered ginger ale at restaurants?"

You look at your friend, processing her question. "Yes. He never mixed it with anything, either. Just drank it straight up like a freak."

"Gross," she says with a wince. "I think he just ordered one."

Once again, the counter is your focal point; this time, you notice the glass of creamy yellow liquid on it. You internally gag at how Harry could still drink that. Harry then walks back to his booth, skillfully carrying two glasses in each of his hands like he worked as a waiter in his past life. You don't even try to hide the fact that you're staring.

Eventually, he catches your eye and abruptly stops in his tracks. You watch him blink a couple times before he continues to the table and sets down the drinks for everyone.

"I'll grab some napkins," he murmurs, leaving again.

You slide your empty plate toward the center of the table and watch him fumble while taking out napkins from the dispenser. Why is he so nervous all of a sudden?

When he walks by for the second time, he jerks his chin up to the ceiling. You furrow your eyebrows in response.

He nonchalantly repeats the gesture as he starts passing napkins around. You shake your head, nonverbally telling him that you have no clue what he's conveying.

His jaw clenches before he mouths, "Come with me."

"Absolutely not," you mouth back as you fiddle with the sugar packets.

Harry huffs and sits in his seat.

Everything used to be so easy with him.

——

Two Years Ago

It was graduation day, and you were inserting a silver hoop earring in the pierced hole of your earlobe when three thumps gently rattled your bedroom door.

"Knock knock."

In the reflection of your vanity mirror, you grinned giddily. "Come in! It's unlocked."

Harry opened the door with a pout on his lips. "You're supposed to say who's there."

"Wha—" you stammered confusedly, turning around in your chair. "I hate you."

He shuffled inside and immediately bellyflopped onto your bed. "Wow. I missed you too."

"Just kidding," you said, flashing him a winning smile. "You left your laptop charger here, by the way. I set it on the kitchen table."

"Thank you, baby," he mumbled into your pillow.

"Don't fall asleep."

"Mm, c'mere." He lazily patted the space next to him. "Let's cuddle before we have to sit far away from each other for the rest of the night."

"It'll only be for a couple of hours at most," you replied, putting in your other earring. "Don't be so dramatic."

After tidying your vanity area, you stood and slinked into bed with Harry. The lavender-colored sunset filtered through your sheer curtains and created a serene ambiance. Harry's body rolled over on top of yours, his weight providing the perfect amount of warmth and comfort. The scent of his almond oil shampoo reduced your nerves. You reached for your phone and set an alarm for fifteen minutes from now so he would have enough time to get ready, then pulled the blanket over both of your heads, not caring if the hair you spent precious time on became tousled. It would mostly be hidden under the immensely unflattering graduation cap anyway.

Harry's clean-shaven cheek rested on your chest, and he planted a chaste kiss on your collarbone. He had always been the affectionate type. Touch was his love language, and he never failed to fulfill it with you.

Every touch strengthened your love for him. Every touch left you longing for more. Every touch felt purposeful.

——

You swear he's doing it on purpose. You know he is.

Harry keeps leaning his head back until it faintly touches yours. Nuzzling it, if you will. That, or he'll clasp his hands behind his head and loosely twirl a strand of your hair.

This time, he pretends to yawn and stretch his arms before tickling behind your ear. He knows goddamn well it's the place where you're the most ticklish. You pretend to have an itch and bring your hands back to slap his burning touch away, but of course, he takes the opportunity to be a pest and capture your fingers.

You yank them away and clear your throat. "I need to go to the bathroom," you tell your friend before getting up and making a beeline straight to the back of the diner.

When you open the door, you sigh relievedly when you find all the stalls open, and no one is lingering. You pace toward the farthest wall and rub your hands down your face. Two years without Harry, and not a single call or text, only the occasional picture you'd see of him when you caved and scrolled through his social media during particularly lonely nights. Yet tonight, he acts like you're best buds who can tease each other and initiate playful touches like you didn't end on a terrible note that made both of your hearts shatter into smithereens. Maybe this is some bizarre dream you'll wake up from and laugh about later.

You blow out a sharp breath and wash your hands before splashing cold water onto your heated cheeks.

"Were my hands dirty or something?"

Your whole body flinches. Now, he's just plain annoying. How long has he been standing there?

"Why are you in here?" you ask monotonously.

Footsteps come closer. You keep your back turned.

He laughs softly and says, "How've you been?"

Such a master at avoiding questions. "That wasn't what I asked."

"That wasn't an answer," he replies smugly. You can practically hear the satisfied smile in his voice.

"I've been fantastic, Harry," you say, your words laced with petty sarcasm. "What about you?"

"You sound stressed." He's right next to you now. "Is it because of your job? I heard you're an assistant teacher at the middle school."

Your hands grip the edge of the marble sink. "Who told you that?"

"I knew you'd be here," he says, as if it were obvious. "I had to ask people what you've been up to since you clearly weren't going to tell me yourself."

He asked about you? No, that can't be right. Turning to face him, you let your guard down just a little. "I'm helping with the summer school program."

Harry smiles. If you analyze it enough, it almost looks like a proud one. "That's amazing. What grade do you want to teach in the future?"

A conversation with your ex-boyfriend about career aspirations is entirely too casual for your liking. Doesn't he have friends to catch up with? Some ginger ale to drink?

You shrug and truthfully say, "I haven't decided yet. It's a big decision."

He nods, crossing his arms. "You've got time."

Silence hangs except for the drip of the faucet.

"So... I assume you're still studying marine biology?" you ask, already knowing the answer.

He hums an affirmation. "I'm almost done with my bachelor's degree, and then I'll be on my way to becoming one with the ocean."

You almost let a laugh slip out. "Well, I'm sure it's beautiful in Europe. I can't imagine the view every day."

He nonchalantly plucks a stray strand of hair off your sleeve, making your blood rush. "It is, yeah. It gets a little lonely sometimes, but it's been nice to live somewhere so different from what I was used to."

"You don't have a roommate?"

"Nope, just me. I don't really like sharing my space."

Only if it was with you. He's told you that before. Not that it matters now.

"I know. Don't know why I even asked."

It's a bold statement but a tenuous breakthrough in the barrier of the inevitable and awkward breakup conversation you're dreading.

Harry inhales and takes a step closer. "Come up to the rooftop with me. I don't want our first conversation in two years to be in the women's restroom."

You give him an apologetic look and say, "I'm sorry, but I can't. I have to head home soon and get up early for work tomorrow."

He toys with the bottom of your shirt. "Please."

It's a soft whisper that echos in the empty space, a begging tone chipping away at the walls built around your heart, paired with pleading eyes so clear and tender. Harmless.

"Okay." You'll kick yourself later for giving in so easily. "Okay, fine. Let's go." You pull out your phone and send a quick text message to your friend about where you'll be. She'll understand the weight of the situation.

Harry walks out of the bathroom, with you following behind. He takes a sharp right toward the concealed metal stairs leading to the diner's roof. He leaves some room so the two of you can walk side by side, your clothes rustling against each other in the narrow space. The rusty door opens, and you step out onto the flat concrete.

Little squares of light shine from the city buildings far away. They cause a strange feeling to wash over you. It can only be described as a powerful wave of hometown nostalgia, even though you never left. You wonder if it's hitting Harry as well.

He stands by the edge and leans his forearms on the railing, glancing at you with an unreadable expression. Is it reminiscence? Yearning? Regret? All could be the reason for the melancholy shift in energy.

"What did we do wrong?"

——

Three Months After Graduation

The party turned sour out of the blue. Harry's friend hadn't just said what you think he said. It was loud, so you must have heard him wrong. Why didn't he tell you? Why did you have to find out from his drunk friend who's not even close to him?

Harry definitely saw your face drop because he instantly pulled you into an unoccupied bedroom upstairs. You'd been arguing for the past half hour, neither one of you inebriated funny enough, but still throwing words that were more like weapons at each other—launching arrows at the heart, shooting daggers at the eyes, and slashing swords in the Achilles heel.

Your weak spot was him, and you were his.

You stood your ground as you spoke your closing statement with frustrated tears. "I'm never going to see you if you're abroad, so what's the difference if I just leave now and never see you again?"

"Will that make you happy?" He was being stubborn; you were, too. "Because obviously, I don't make you happy enough for this to continue. For us to at least try."

He did make you happy, but anger blindly leads people to say what they don't mean, especially in cases of love.

"Obviously not." Lies, lies, lies. "It's useless when we know it'll end badly."

Harry released a bitter laugh. "Fine. Have it your way."

"Fine," you repeated.

You should have fought for him, but what would have been the use if you had known it would only hurt you in the long run?

He roughly swung the door open and then turned around one last time. "You can come pick up your stuff at my house this weekend. I won't be home."

The door slammed shut, and reality sunk in.

——

The open sign of the diner flickers below.

"We did a lot wrong," you declare defeatedly, standing beside him.

"True, but we were eighteen and didn't know anything about communication or how to balance adult shit."

The conversation is heading toward a place you don't want it to go. "I really don't want to talk about our breakup, Harry. It's in the past. We've moved on."

He shakes his head. "Why? There was no closure whatsoever. I think it'd be good to get some now that we're face-to-face."

In the distance, you watch birds flock on the wire of a telephone pole. "Why didn't you just ignore me tonight? We've been doing fine without each other."

He scoffs quietly and leans his body against the railing. "Really? I was homesick for months because of you. You felt like home to me, you know that. The feeling never disappeared no matter how much I pushed it down."

You throw your arms out. "Then why didn't you call or text me? I would've replied, Harry. I'm not that cruel."

"I thought you hated me," he says. "I wouldn't have blamed you. I just couldn't stand having you hate me, so I thought it'd be easier not to talk to you."

It's the classic tale of a high school mindset. You think you're doing the right thing until it slaps you across the face with the hand of cluelessness. You wonder what would've happened if Harry had reached out. Maybe you could've figured it out.

"I didn't hate you," you admit. How could anyone hate him? "I mean, I might've thought that I hated you, but if anything, I still loved you for way too many months after."

Harry looks like he wants to say something, but you continue. "Like you said, we were young and didn't know how to balance a relationship and our lives outside of it. Two years can really mature a person, and we both needed to do that without each other."

He nods while stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Yeah."

The conversation stops at a dead end. There's nothing else to say since it's a mutual understanding of what went wrong.

The breeze picks up, and you shiver before asking, "How long are you here for?"

He clears his throat. "I'm staying with my mum, then I have a flight back to the Netherlands in a few days. I have to go back for an ecology camp."

"That's nice," you say. A couple of days. That knowledge causes an unwanted sinking feeling to take place in your stomach.

"Do you…" He raises his thumb to his mouth, nervously biting his fingernail. "Can we maybe talk more before I leave?"

It's an open opportunity, but what would it lead to? What would come of it? Would it be worth the pain?

"What's there to talk about? You're leaving soon, and then we'll never speak again."

You've taken logical truth more seriously over the years. You've learned that holding on to false hope is dangerous for the heart and mind.

"That won't happen," he replies with a pensive gaze. "We've grown and know how to communicate now. There's so much we've missed in each other's lives that we can talk about. I don't know where you live or the places you like to go anymore, who your friends are, or what new songs you like to listen to. It kills me."

A shaky breath escapes you. "It doesn't matter. We're not right for each other. Call me selfish, but I don't want a relationship where we barely see each other. I'm sure that's not what you want either."

"So, that's it?" he asks, staring at the sky. "Do you not want to give this another chance?"

You can't imagine a more complicated question to answer, but it seems you've known the answer for a while. Gently grabbing Harry's chin and tilting his face down, you say, "Right person, wrong time. It would never work with the distance, and you know that. Deep down, we both know, as much as it hurts to admit."

"What now? We're back to being strangers?"

"Harry, I don't think we'll ever be strangers. I know too much about you."

You're trying to lighten the mood, but Harry's sad eyes aren't helping at all. Instead, you focus on the stars twinkling brightly across the black sky and the single car driving by on the otherwise empty street. Every second that ticks by, he seems to move closer to you.

"If this is the last time I see you," Harry says apprehensively, "can I hold you for a little while? Give me that, and I won't ask you for anything else."

It'd be foolish to say no, wouldn't it? You need to feel him just as much. He's too significant of a person to let go of without a proper goodbye.

"You can hold me."

And so he does for the last time.

Harry closes the distance and embraces you like he always used to — his cheek resting on your head and his arms completely winded around you, squeezing the sides of your body. Breathing you in like he's scared of losing you. It's just you and him standing on a rooftop and holding on to any last bit you can get of each other.

You're tucked so far into his chest that the only thing you can hear is his heart pounding. He's warm and sentimental, and the nighttime chill makes you melt into him even more. He eases you — every laugh, every tear, every moment you share with him was brought about by the ease of being around him.

"You still feel the same." A pang ripples in your heart because of your own words, and a sob desperately tries to crawl up your throat.

Harry nuzzles his nose into your hair. "Yeah? You still smell the same."

You laugh, but it's choked with sadness. "What, like shitty teen store perfume?"

"No, you smell like home. Like when I used to go to your house for sleepovers, and you'd always light those vanilla candles."

Another pang, this time from his vulnerable confession. "I should go," you say, deterring the conversation from any more agony.

He doesn't argue. "Yeah, me too. I never really liked those people in there anyway."

You smile, stepping away from his arms. "I'll walk you to your car."

He nods, and the both of you retreat down the stairs, exiting the building through the back way to avoid any distractions. After reaching the front of the diner, you find his black Jeep sitting alone in a parking space. It's nice to know he still has it, considering it's a car with good memories, like Harry driving you to school every morning and picking up coffee. Or eating fast food outside the high school after a football game. Or nights of endless kissing and professions of love before he walked you to your doorstep.

Facing him under the moonlight tonight, it's time to officially move on.

"Bye. It was really nice to see you." A tear unexpectedly falls from your eye. Maybe it's due to the chilly temperature, but you know better.

Harry's face crumbles. Your composure shatters.

"Please don't cry," he pleads, biting his lip to stop it from wobbling. However, it's too late, and both of you give in to the misery and drama of it all.

"Now we're both crying."

He rubs his eyes and leans against his car door. "God, this fuckin' sucks."

"We'll be okay," you say weakly. "It's fine. We went two years without each other. You'll forget about me soon enough, and it'll be like this never happened."

You're only trying to convince yourself at this point.

"I never forgot about you. You were the first person I fell in love with. How do I move on from that?"

His choice of words isn't something you gloss over. Is he insinuating that he hasn't moved on yet? Should you tell him you haven't either?

Logical thinking, you mentally tell yourself. Don't say something that will make it harder to leave.

"I have to go home now." But isn't home standing right in front of you?

"Okay," Harry says. "I guess… good luck with everything. I hope teaching goes well for you."

You kick away a pebble on the pavement. "Thanks. I hope you become one with the ocean."

He laughs breathily, his dimples popping out for the first time tonight. He then inhales and gazes somewhere far away as his smile dies. When he looks back at you, he nods once before getting in his car.

"Wait."

He freezes. "Yeah?"

Don't make it harder.

Leave.

Don't hurt yourself.

Yet the way he looks at you is enough to ignore those logical thoughts. You lean forward and kiss his cold cheek, and it's like his entire body deflates under your hesitant touch. "Thank you for making me happy during the time we had together," you say against his tear-stained skin. "I never got to tell you that."

Harry sniffles and nods, then kisses your cheek a little longer and softer.

A lasting pang. A lingering sting. A sharp twinge.

Why?

Because the words he whispers to you cause silent tears to fall down your face when he finally closes the door and drives away.

You still mean so much to me.

——

Opening the door to your bedroom, the silence echoes louder than usual. The small space is where memories with Harry can still be found. There's the blanket he used to lie on, the desk he would sit on to help you study, and the dresser you used to keep his shirts in to wear when you missed him. The most tragic thing is an empty photo book on the top shelf of your closet that was meant to be filled with future road trips that never got planned. Next to it are unused polaroids for dates that stopped happening.

Piled at the bottom are a few that actually got used. A picture of Harry when the both of you went to a homecoming afterparty, and you didn't want to drink alcohol, so Harry drank orange Hi-C cartons with you to make you feel better. A picture of Harry on a floating water bouncer at the lake by your uncle's cabin when you went on summer vacation together after junior year. Your favorite picture of him is when he's turned around in the seat of the school auditorium, smiling widely. It was back in high school when nothing could separate you from him.

The pictures remind you of a time when you were in love—not only with him but with life. They feel like home to you.

That feeling of home seems impossible to catch now. It's like chasing a butterfly that keeps escaping from the loose grasp of your hands because you don't want to hurt it.

Are you the hands, or are you the butterfly?

——

The journal on top of Harry's suitcase mocks him. He shouldn't open it, but logical thinking has never been his strong suit.

The first page has pressed and dried lavender taped onto it from the first date he took you on. The next has your drawings in the margin from when you would steal his journal while he studied. Yet most of the pages are filled with lovesick entries about you.

- January 29th -

Last night, I told her I was falling in love with her. She said no one had ever told her that before, and I couldn't believe it. How could someone not instantly fall in love from the moment she walks into a room?

Then she told me that she loved me too. I swear I almost cried with happiness. She's the one for me. I see us being together for the long haul.

I hope she sees the same thing.

- June 6th -

We graduated! We're finally done with high school!

When they called my name, my eyes went to hers first. She looked so proud of me. I wonder if I could convince her to rent an apartment with me instead of staying in different dorms.

College will be strange, but we'll get through it together. I have no doubt we'll adapt and find time for each other.

I always have time for her.

- August 2nd -

I think I'm going to tell her about the college I chose. She's not going to take it well. It's abroad, but it's the best school for marine biology.

She wants to stay close to home, but I want to get out and travel. There's nothing hard about talking through some of our differences, right? Long-distance relationships can work if you put in the effort. We can do it.

If this ends up biting me in the ass, you'll never hear from me again.

Harry stopped writing in his journal after the breakup. It's almost funny, he supposes. He jinxed it in the last entry. He thought of the worst-case scenario, and it came to fruition right before him only days later.

Blissful ignorance is what he'll call it. Two high school sweethearts who didn't know what would hit them. Foolishly in love and blinded by reality. But the thing is, it's not easy to just move on from it. Especially when he brought those damn vanilla candles from his dorm room to his mum's house so he could sleep better at night.

So he can be reminded of home.

It was never a place when he was with you. Home became a feeling that bloomed without warning. It took him by surprise when he found himself wanting to be around you all the time. His home was entirely, ultimately, and unconditionally you.

Harry closes his journal and brings it with him as he heads out the door to search for a drop of that feeling in the places you used to go.

The places he will write about until his hand aches as much as his heart.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles au #harry styles one shot #harry styles #adore-laur #home is a feeling

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shuttershocky · 9 months

Text

When I say "when it comes to Type-Moon lore you should think about the whys and not the hows" I mean things like it's absolutely pointless to ask "How did Merlin get Saber and Fate route Shirou to meet again in Fate/Stay Night's epilogue? That should be impossible." and I'm sorry but you're never going to have a real answer to that beyond Merlin vaguely saying "You must be able to wait forever and he must chase you forever"

Nasu never bothered thinking about the how at all. The reason it can happen is because Fate loves the idea that the connection between two souls can exist as a fundamental force of the universe that rivals space and time, and Merlin is a fuckin wizard. To love even as time has stripped their name and face from you, to have forgotten everything but the knowledge that there was love once, wouldn't it be beautiful to witness it outlast eternity? Wouldn't it be beautiful if for your whole life and afterlife you become a nameless, wandering hero, only for the star you've been chasing forever to finally call you home by name?

There is no real answer for How. All there is, is symbolism of the story's themes and a participating wizard.

How did Mash come back after being incinerated by the fire that burnt all of time? Her heart never wavered which meant her shield never did, proving that she too could be every bit a hero as all the souls saved in the Throne despite having never lived a normal human life, and this act moved the heart of a creature every bit a Beast as the demon that destroyed all of time. Why and wizard.

How does Hakuno even manage to summon a servant and participate in the Moon Cell Holy Grail War despite actually being an NPC and thus not even being alive and human? Well Fate/Extra wants you to question what being "real", being human, really means. If you wish to live, enough to cry for help and for a hero to come to your rescue and to feel gratitude to them, does that make you human? When you fight for your life in a death game even when you realize there's no existence for you outside of the machine, are you human? Why, and a conceptual, really big wizard in the Moon Cell.

How did Mikiya meet the manifestation of the Root and be offered a single omnipotent wish? Well you see everybody in this entire literary world kills each other and all passersby for a chance at glimpsing the source of all existence so it would be incredibly ironic if a normal ass man who's sole thing is being a wifeguy and getting beaten up a lot is offered the entire universe by doing nothing, thanks to his wife turning out to BE the Root itself, thus being the wizard behind wizards.

#Fate #Kara No Kyoukai

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comfortless · 2 months

Note

God könig and his only worshipper who doesn't try to get him more followers cause she wants all of his attention on her

another strange vaguely Greek/Roman au?! ^^ (also to your other message: no worries!! being too nice would make me lazy!) this prompt is like a reversal of this and i am here for it!

content/warnings: suggestive, König may or may not have killed some guy no big deal..!

It isn’t as if he bestows great blessings upon you or grants your deepest, most guarded wishes…

It’s just that he’s lovely in all forms: the very apex of some marbelesque, masculine statue made flesh. Warm to the touch and so very real and alive that it was difficult to focus on worshiping him proper when your very being sang for him.

He’s probably only some great god of war, Ares, but without the long list of lovers and offspring - only you. There was nothing that he could do to benefit you much, just a humble citizen that had no need of taking up a weapon…

Yet he was so heart achingly beautiful with the docile look in his eyes, the contrast to his stature that bore the look of a proper hunter, you could not keep yourself from returning to him.

All of the other men in the city pale in comparison to the god you pray to, nestled up in the foothills where you make your trek day by day to speak… knowing that nightly he comes to you in dreams with little glimpses of futures or pasts: the things you can not comprehend yet those in Olympus could parse together with such ease.

As his only worshiper, you are never apart for long.

He descends that mountain each time to meet with you in green meadows with the gentlest look in his eyes.

He has no temple in which to pray to… but, you’ve made a temple of your own within yourself all for him. He knows it, knows well when you pray at your feet and he sheepishly orders you to stop that, stand, face him, and he would lend you his mighty weapon any day if you would just ask for him to use it.

Your god deserves and army of men to fight and scramble for his favor, a harem of women to tend to his needs… but the thought alone is enough to leave bitterness on your tongue.

You don’t want to share him, only savor the honeyed words and touches between the two of you, never muddy what is sacred with another’s prayers or offerings.

… Are yours not already enough?

You only find out that they most certainly are the day a suitor begins his arrogant courtship and… within that very hour he is no longer. A stray spear from the pit pierced right through him…? What a strange way to go out. You don’t even think to question it until you find yourself meandering through soft grass for your meeting with König.

He’s a warrior, too, he should know the intricacies of how a weapon that heavy might rise up on the wind just to strike some poor, silly man down before he could even take your hand and lie with you.

You tell him of this odd occurrence whilst you whittle away at a tiny carving of him with a paring knife, König sat just adjacent to you.

First, he tells you that a blade meant for herbs and vegetables is no good for wood. The dull blade is pried from your hands with ease and tossed aside into the foliage surrounding you both. No need for little idols when your god willingly comes down to grace you, anyhow…

Then, he tells you that… it isn’t fair for you to have eyes for any other. Is his presence not enough? Is he not stronger and more capable than any of your puny, mortal men? He could protect you, haul you up to Olympus and make you his bride, give you as many children as you want… Wouldn’t you like that more?

Your stare is so telling, hands shaking as you set the unfinished figure aside, and the words do not come, not when the look he gives you goes from adoring and sweet to near deadly in an instant. It’s the first time he’s offered to bless you with anything but bloodshed in your favor… a peculiar promise of love in return for your selfishness and gifts of milk and honey…

“I do not think I am worthy of that…” The words come tumbling, clumsy and weighty on your tongue. Could he detect the yearning there..? Surely he knew with the way he invaded your dreaming, and even now as his hand finds your shoulder to push you back down into the soft bed of the earth.

“You wish to make yourself worthy, little one..?”

You only nod, once, as your heart finds its way into your throat and your robe is torn away to flutter out with the wind.

#this is so short… apologies!#putting König in these scenarios is so fun but my well is running dry someone spare me a bucket…#^^’#they fuck or whatever do i need to type it this time.. (shaking like milk)

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leonslutkennedeeznuts · 7 months

Text

Afternoon Delight | Leon x Fem!Reader

Leon wanted to say something smooth, a pickup line to really seal in the deal but instead he said “I think I’m too old for you actually. I’m sorry about all this.”

You didn’t seem fazed, almost amused by him even. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable at all, Leon,” you admitted. You leaned down, your breasts almost exposed to him now in your teeny tiny bikini top.

“Actually,” you continued, taking in the sight of him, his blond locks, that gorgeous half smirk on his face, “I really like older men.” (AO3)

Leon was resting in the hammock, eyes closed behind his shades, drink in hand as he idly swayed. His first vacation in almost two years and Leon couldn’t believe his luck. The room not only had its own private pool but a hot tub as well with views of the ocean. If only he had someone to share it all with, he thought to himself almost bitterly. No, he refused to let his mind go there. He was 100% officially done with all the games and the chase. This was his first vacation as a single man. Leon was going to make the most of it.

When the idea of having amazing sex on vacation first crossed his mind, he shook it off. He was a relationship guy, he reasoned to himself, despite all the very attractive scantily clad women eyeing him at his every turn. It was only his first night. If the opportunity presented itself, Leon wouldn’t say no but the odds of a woman making the first move was slim to none, he reasoned.

That’s when you came along. He was walking past the swim up pool bar when it happened. Like a lion watching its prey, Leon couldn’t take his eyes off of your wet taunt body splashing around as you waited for whatever fruity drink the bartender offered to create just for you. Hey, he couldn’t blame you- endless drinks was the main reason he gave in when Hunnigan offered him this getaway.

Your bikini should’ve been illegal. It was downright sinful. Leon had vaguely heard of a g-string bikini but had never seen one in action. Nothing was covered back there it seemed. If someone had told him that your bikini bottoms were made with colored floss, he’d have believed it. You were gorgeous, full of laughter and soon to be full of the rainbow colored liquor you were sipping on.

Almost frozen in place, Leon felt like a coward. He’d done this song and dance before, for years actually, so he knew how to approach a woman (one very specific woman). The only problem was that he’d only been with one woman. Picking up a stranger at a bar, at a resort and fucking like rabbits- he wasn’t that type of guy but damn you made him want to be.

He was kind of hungry actually, but now Leon had a newfound hunger for something else- you. He felt like a pervert. You couldn’t be more than 23 years old. Young, beautiful, at the prime of your life with no idea he was going to be stroking himself later to this visual. Leon could be a gentleman and ask you to accompany him to dinner. Sure, the food was free too but it was the thought that counted.

The resort had an upscale steakhouse- he could wine and dine you the way he was raised to treat a woman but his cock was starting to get hard the more you jumped around in the pool, your breasts almost threatening to spill out in front of everyone. Leon had to get out of there before he came in his pants.

Yeah, it had been a while since he’d gotten some and apparently he was too much of a coward to just approach you. What if you thought he was a dirty old man?

Leon sipped his watered down whiskey on the rocks and started to walk away before he caught a glimpse of you getting out of the water. You locked eyes with him and the world stood still. From the look on your face you didn’t seem disgusted at his obvious gawking. He even saw you lick your lips and wink at him before grabbing a beach towel and lightly dabbing at your skin, making no real effort to dry off.

“Hey,” he heard your voice call out. Leon looked around to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Yeah, you over there!” You sauntered over to him seated at his lounge chair. Your smile made it very clear that you were on to him.

His cheeks couldn’t get more red. “Look, I was just staring off into space. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” She’s probably going to call security and complain about the gross old man lusting after her, he thought. “I’m Leon, by the way.”

You reached out to shake his hand as you introduced yourself to him. “I’m Y/N. What are you up to later, Leon? I’m here all week.”

All week. He had the chance to see you and possibly be with you and inside you all week.

Leon wanted to say something smooth, a pickup line to really seal in the deal but instead he said “I think I’m too old for you actually. I’m sorry about all this.”

“Actually,” you continued, taking in the sight of him, his blond locks, that gorgeous half smirk on his face, “I really like older men.”

—-----------

After your bold statement, Leon had awkwardly laughed before blurting out “I’d feel less awkward if you’d let me take you to dinner,” fully intending to be a gentleman and make a reservation at the steakhouse. You had agreed and made plans to meetup at his hotel suite. Leon was sitting on the edge of his bed wrapped in a towel not believing his luck. Day 1 of vacation and he was almost guaranteed to get laid.

He’d never been with a younger woman before, never really dated anyone in the true, honest sense.

“Just make it through dinner,” he whispered to himself. “What if she thinks I’m some sugar daddy type,” he thought to himself out loud. He totally would be for you.

The knocking on the door brought Leon out of his thoughts. You were here. You were going to go to dinner together, talk, potentially get along great and let nature take its course so he could feel like less of a cradle robber.

“Y/N, you’re here early,” he remarked, gesturing to the towel wrapped around his waist. “I haven’t gotten dressed yet, is something the matter?”

At first he’d been confused as to why you’d shown up in just the robe included in your room, convinced that you’d changed your mind and was here to tell him off. It was only after you removed your robe that he realized what was happening.

If he thought your bikini was sinful, this dress was the actual sin. It was a sexy red mesh that left nothing to the imagination. And he had imagined you naked and crying his name in the shower just a few minutes before.

“I was thinking we’d skip right to dessert.”

He had you naked and on your back within seconds.

—- “Oh, fuck Leon, fuck me,” you moaned as you put both hands on the back of his head, refusing to let him come up for air as he devoured your pussy.

Leon felt like a virgin all over again. He was amazed at how your body moved, the way you moaned and called out his name without abandon, grinding your pussy into his eager mouth, hands going from gripping the sheets to gripping his hair.

It was almost like his first time- his first one night stand or summer fling. He didn’t know what the future held but right now in this moment, you grinding into his mouth, he swore he could die happy.

You were bossy, demanding and bratty. Your mouth was filthy. He loved it. He couldn’t wait to see you unravel as you came on his tongue. Leon made that his mission, his eyes fixated on your face (what he could see of it from this angle), to make you cum hard screaming and thrashing in his bed.

“Uh huh, eat my fucking pussy, yes just like tha-” Your back arched and instead of licking at your clit, Leon started sucking it as your cum covered his mouth, his chin and jaw. “I’m cumming, Leon,” you brokenly screamed.

He felt you pulling at his hair then trying to push him away but he grabbed your thighs and kept them apart as they quivered near his ears. “Mhmm, that’s right, eat my cum, daddy.

Leon almost came right then and there. He’d never been called ‘Daddy’ before, never thought he’d be into it but he felt powerful hearing it roll off your tongue in your blissed out haze. He couldn’t wait to feel you hot, wet and pulsating around his cock calling him ‘Daddy’ as he made you squirt.

“Daddy, hmm,” he teasingly inquired, finally coming up for air. His cock was achingly hard. Thank God he’d jacked off earlier or he’d have cum the second you started stroking him.

The moment he had the back of your knees on his shoulders, sliding into you inch by inch, memorizing the look on your face as your eyes rolled back into your head- he’d never see anything else in his wet dreams for as long as he lived.

“Harder,” you ordered him, already feeling fucked out and close to cumming. “Fuck me harder, Daddy.”

Your neon pink painted nails dug into Leon’s ass, trying to force him even deeper. You couldn’t get enough of his thick cock stretching you so deliciously. You made a mental note to attempt deep throating him later.

Leon kept pounding into you like his life depended on it. He wanted, no, he needed to make you cum on his dick. To prove to himself mostly that as he was getting up in age that he still had it, that he could move on, still have amazing sex and be attractive to other women after all the bullshit he'd dealt with before.

Okay so maybe he was getting insecure about being in his late 30s, 36 to be exact, but the way you were milking his dick with your tight pussy more than eased his doubts.

“Yes, yes, Leon, make me cum please.”

Your voice brought him back to the reality that he had a very willing, horny and attractive young woman about to squirt in his bed, begging him to fuck her.

“Cum for me, baby, be a good girl for Daddy,” he grunted out before your squeals turned into heavy breathing and panting as your nails scratched up and down his back, his ass and shoulders. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re gorgeous.”

You had brought out the animal in him, satiated his sexual appetite like never before. Now he was back to kissing you all over, your soft lips, your neck and your amazing breasts that he definitely wanted to do a titty fuck with.

“God, I don’t think I can walk after that,” you quipped after he’d cleaned you both up after his cum had started to ooze out of your swollen pussy, a view Leon clearly enjoyed. “I feel like I’m about to pass out,” you said before yawning, snuggling into his embrace.

He was hot, older (a huge plus for you), had a nice cock and made you cum harder than you ever had as evidenced by the wet spot you left behind. You felt beyond lucky.

Leon gave you another kiss, this time slipping his tongue into your mouth letting you taste yourself.

“Mmm, me too,” he admitted. Leon found himself idly stroking your arms as you cuddled into him. It had been too long since he’d had a moment like this and he wanted to savor it. “We can take a shower together afterwards and still make it to dinner later, if you want to, Y/N.”

You gave him a quick peck and pulled the comforter up, the A/C kicking on at just the right time.

“I’d love that, Leon.”

This was going to be a very good vacation, the both of you thought before drifting off to sleep.

#leon kennedy smut #leon x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #resident evil #older leon kennedy #older leon kennedy x reader #resident evil smut #daddy kink leon #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon x female reader #leon kennedy x fem!reader #leon kennedy x female reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy fic #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x fem reader

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bradshawssugarbaby · 25 days

Text

Batting Practice - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: Bradley's attempts to teach you how to play baseball take an unexpected turn when you ask him about that nickname you hear everyone call him once again.

pairing: baseball!Bradley Bradshaw x reader

warnings/content: smut, p in v, dirty talk, praise, vague mentions of reader's body type.

word count: 1.9k

taglist: @avengersfan25, @jessicab1991, @atarmychick007, @b-bradshaw, @nouis-bum, @mamachasesmayhem, @floydsmuse, @kmc1989, @dckweed, @katfanfic, @nerdgirljen, @whatislovevavy, @mrsevans90, @averyhotchner, @yuckosworld, @tgmreader, @allepaula, @lourd-ita, @mariaenchanted @sorchathered, @sarahsmi13s, @hangmansgbaby, @djs8891 @primroseluna @silversprings-mp3 @drxgxnslxyer @gardenavenue @seitmai @unhinged-bitch @mattyskies

“Bradley are you sure about this?”

The nervousness in your voice was unable to be masked now as you stood at home plate, hands wrapped tightly around the baseball bat. You gripped it tightly, your knuckles turning white as you tried to hold it. The wooden bat felt heavy in your hands, your arms felt clumsy as they tried to raise it over your shoulder, taking an awkward swing in the air. Bradley stood behind you, hands on his hips as he observed your batting stance. He let out a hearty chuckle as he shook his head.

“I’m sure, angel, you’re doing alright for a first-timer. You’re just a little too nervous. Don’t be afraid of the ball. It’s not a fastball, it’s an underhandpitch, and not a good one at that - I haven’t pitched underhand since I was 10.”

“Easy for you to say, Bradshaw! You’re a professional. I’ve swung a bat a handful of times in gym class but I used to fake sick whenever we had to play slo-pitch. I don’t do baseball Bradley.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? Teachin’ you how to do it. It’s not rocket science. You just gotta work at it.” Bradley shrugged.

You tried swinging again, the metal bat feeling heavy in your hands once again. You frowned at Bradley as you struggled again. You looked at him with pleading eyes, your lips pursing into a pout. Bradley laughed softly, shaking his head once again.

“Let’s try again, your form’s just a little off,” He nodded as he approached you, his calloused palms gliding down your arm as he guided you into the correct stance.

You caught a glimpse of Bradley nodding his head from behind you, giving his approval over your new batting stance. His baseball cap sat backwards on his mess of dark curls, a couple of stray swoops of hair peeking out of the opening of the cap. His forehead was dampened with sweat from standing out in the hot summer heat, beads of liquid forming on his brow. His dark brown eyes fixed on you, he watched as you took another practice swing. Frowning, he shook his head again as he came up behind you. He stopped short of placing his hands on you again, this time, a wicked grin began creeping up on his lips.

“You gotta drop that beautiful, perfect little ass of yours, hun. Squat just a little,” He hummed, nodding his head.

You rolled your eyes at Bradley’s instructions, shaking your head and letting out a feigned, frustrated sigh. Raising an eyebrow, you bent your knees slightly, sticking your ass out just enough to tease him, your short, pale, celery coloured athletic shorts teasing just a hint of extra skin from your upper thigh, your ass teasing out from the cuff of the fabric. Bradley let out a deep grunt, and from the moment the sound left his lips, you could tell he didn’t realize he did it out loud.

“You never did tell me, you know,” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you took another practice swing, this time earning a whistle of approval from Bradley.

“Tell you what, pretty girl?”

“Why they call you Rooster. I mean, you sort of did. But you never elaborated.”

Bradley huffed a heavy sigh, shaking his head. Deep amber coloured eyes looked at you, eyebrows raising as his hands rested on his hips once again.

“You really wanna know? Is it that important to you?”

“I wouldn’t say important,” you shrugged, grinning as you let your batting stance fall, letting the bat down gently, resting it against the ground as you leaned on it. “Just curious.”

Bradley closed the gap between the two of you. He’d just shaved this morning, the scents of sandalwood and bourbon mixing with the smell of freshly cut grass from the baseball diamond. The field at the back of the high school near Bradley’s house was a far cry from Petco Park, but he’d deemed it the perfect space to teach you how to play the game. The heat of the summer washed over the two of you, golden rays radiating down on your skin as the sun began to set, making you thankful for the sunblock you’d hurriedly put on before meeting Bradley at the field.

“I think it’s pretty easy for you to figure out. You read magazines, don’t you? You’ve probably heard all about it.” He shrugged, trying to deflect from the topic.

“Bradley,” you whined, your finger tracing circles along the exposed skin just above the collar of his shirt. “Show me?”

Bradley’s hand rested firmly on the small of your back as he drew you in for a kiss. His lips pressed to yours in a passionate frenzy, devouring you. His top teeth dragged ever so gently across your plump bottom lip, giving it a gentle tug before his lips began descending down your jaw to your neck. Bradley buried his face against the crook of your neck, breathing in the soft, tropical scent of your sunscreen, hints of coconut and hibiscus encircling his senses.

As his mouth made its way to your earlobe, teeth grazing sensitive skin as he nipped at you, he let out a deep grunt, groaning softly into your ear as he felt his cock begin to harden in the confines of his athletic shorts.

“Car, angel. Let’s go.” He husked, struggling to hide his growing desire for you.

You nodded your head obligingly, trying hard to hide the smirk that threatened to form on your face. Bradley hoisted you up over his shoulder, eliciting a squeal from you as he carried you fireman style over to where his Bronco was parked. The parking lot was deserted, abandoned except for where his car sat. Bradley stood you on your feet before climbing into the backseat with a mischievous grin. His deep brown eyes watched you intently as you followed in behind him.

You settled in on Bradley’s lap, the curves of your ass nestling onto his hardening erection as you began to grind your hips into him. Bradley grunted again as his hands reached for your hips. You pushed your hips into his harder, grinding against him with more pressure as his hands curled around your hips, cupping your ass in a firm grip.

“God, this ass is so fucking smooth, angel. So fucking beautiful,” Bradley panted as you continued your relentless attack on his hips.

“Glad you think so,” you smirked, cocking your head to the side as Bradley began kissing at your neck once again. “Yours isn’t too bad yourself, Bradshaw.”

“Fuck,” he panted, his hands pushing their way between you as he reached to tug the waistband of his shorts down, urging to free himself from the tightening confines of his navy blue spandex shorts. “You’re killing me here, angel. Killing me.”

You sat back on his thighs for a moment, watching as Bradley stroked his length in his hand, the reddening tip beginning to leak white droplets of precum. You swiped them away with your fingers, drawing your hand up to your mouth to lick them clean. Bradley’s eyes widened in surprise at your gesture, a new hunger in his eyes as he watched you.

“You want me to show ya, angel? Show ya exactly why they call me Rooster? You sure you can handle it?” He teased as his hand slipped down the front of your athletic shorts, the thick pad of his fingertip dragging over your clit as he spoke.

“Fuck, yes,” you breathed, nodding your head quickly. “Show me, Bradley. Please?”

“Ah, that’s my angel, asking me so nicely.” His lips curled upwards into a wicked grin as he tilted his head to the side, watching your face intently to see how you reacted to his touch, fingertips still swirling and encircling your swollen bud.

Reaching into your purse in the backseat, you fished out a condom, the shiny, foil wrapper catching in the sunlight. Bradley eagerly ripped the packet open with his teeth, spitting the plastic top out towards the front seat.

He rolled the latex circle down over his length, giving himself another satisfied stroke before lining himself up with your entrance as you hovered over his hips. You settled yourself down onto his length, hands gripping his shoulders tightly, gathering the fabric of his well-worn collegiate t-shirt in your hands. Bradley buried his face into your neck, moaning against your skin, the feeling of his mouth against you sending a chill up your spine.

“That’s my girl,” Bradley purred as his finger traced your jawline, tilting your head upwards to make eye contact with you, “I wanna see that pretty little face of yours while you ride me, got it, angel?”

You swiftly nodded your head as Bradley thrusted his hips upwards into you, causing a whine to fall from your lips. He dug his fingertips into your flesh, dull fingernails making slight impressions into your skin as he guided you up and down on his cock. Starting off slowly, you glided up and down as you found your rhythm, your walls stretching to accommodate Bradley’s size. Bradley grunted as you sunk down on him again, his lips pressing into your neck.

“You sure you want this?” He purred, murmuring against your soft skin. “Can stop now if you want.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding your head as you let out a desperate whimper. “Bradley, I need you,” you said as you tried grinding your hips against his, urging him to move.

Your words flipped a switch in Bradley, causing him to snap his hips forwards into yours. Your bodies began to move in sync, hips rocking back and forth, your body bouncing up and down on his length.

Bradley let out a deep, throaty growl as he watched your breasts move with each thrust, every movement jostling them more. He pressed his lips to the open neckline of your shirt, hot, breathy kisses dampening your skin as he fucked himself into you.

“God, you look like an absolute fucking dream, right now, angel.” He growled again against the top of your cleavage, his hands cupping your breasts, squeezing them roughly over the top of your tank top. “I fucking love these tits, watchin’ ‘em bounce when you ride me. So fuckin’ hot.”

Another moan fell from your lips as Bradley picked up the pace, continuing to thrust his hips into you, his movements becoming sloppier as he felt himself begin to come undone inside of you. Bradley let out a deep breath as he babbled your name, saying it over and over again as if it was the only word he knew while he climaxed.

Panting heavily, sweat slicking your bodies, Bradley’s hand made its way to the back of your neck, pulling you in gently. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes shutting as he savoured the moment, catching his breath as he held you close. He leaned in to kiss your lips before pulling away with a smirk.

“How was that for showing you?”

“Hmm,” you laughed, still trying to catch your breath. You pretended to think for a moment, tapping your chin with your finger. “I might need another demonstration or two.”

“Fuck,” Bradley laughed, shaking his head, “You’re gonna give me more of a workout than Coach ever will, you know that?”

“That’s the plan, Bradshaw. That’s the plan.”

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hades-in-bloom · 10 months

Text

Silver Fox | Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

content: just fluff and kisses, assumed older Leon, gn!reader, assumed age gap, vague mentions of PTSD, potential sexual tension, no mentions of y/n

author’s note: dunno why but I just had to. proceed at your own risk. what is proofreading?

word count: drabble (also known as brain fart), like really short.

xoxo

***

You notice his silver hair in one of the earlier mornings when he packs for his next assignment, and you cannot take your eyes off him. Leon is too busy to notice your stagger for a while, but when he does, he frowns in puzzlement. It takes you some effort to hide your unbidden smile caused by his sweet frustration. He eyes his clothes and even takes a glimpse into the medium sized mirror on the wall while trying to understand what he did to attract that level of your attention. You see no reason for him to be that cautious with the way he looks in general, but you stay silent up until he orders, doing his best in taking you seriously.

“Stop staring,” he hides his own smirk while buttoning a shirt on a hanger. He is travelling through Washington, D.C., where White House is not the most appropriate place for wearing some cargo pants.

You move forward without saying a word, fixated on that beautiful colourless strand amongst the dirty blonde hair. That mildly triggers him, when you stretch your hand towards the top of his head and touch the crown, his long-ish hair thick and soft. Leon forgets about his expensive suit he wears to meet the President and patiently suffers through the torture.

“I’ll miss you,” he admits in the meantime, a moment before you pull the grey hair out of his crown, soliciting a half serious “ouch” out of agent’s mouth. He looks confused for a second, up until he sees a colourless string in between your fingers, then confused face expression now turning almost immediately terrified.

“Oh no, you didn’t!..”

Leon can’t finish the sentence when you pull him closer, cupping his face and leaving a soft kiss on his lips. He whines for a second more but shuts up right then, gently kissing you back. You know that he’ll be rough and on the edge when he gets back from the mission, so you don’t mind letting his soft side shine while it lasts. For what he has suffered through, he deserves it all.

“I’ll miss you,” you admit easily when the kiss is broken, and the sheepish grin finally touches your lips before you allow yourself to finish the casual confession. “My silver fox.”

He gives you a dirty look, and drops a loving “I hate you,” before eagerly engaging you in another, a lot more passionate kiss.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #older leon kennedy #infinite darkness #vendetta leon kennedy #resident evil #resident evil x you #leon s. kennedy #leon s kennedy #resident evil x reader #leon drabble

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sprout-fics · 8 months

Note

Gaz and fem!reader on their wedding day? At a garden or forest of sorts in the English countryside?

Oh I adored this

------

“Stop fidgeting.”

Gaz straightens, swallowing thickly on years of posture from his military training. Soap is at his side, voice low so as to not draw attention from the guests sitting in their chairs before them. It’s a perfect spring day in the English countryside, in the manor they’ve chosen for the ceremony with its lush rose garden, carefully manicured with unfurling pastel blossoms.

It should be something out of a fairytale, but Gaz is nervous.

What if he slips up? What if he stutters on his vows? Bloody hell, what if he cries?

His agitation is clear, and he again tells himself it’s only nerves, that there’s no way he wouldn’t go through with this, it’s just all this pomp and circumstance is starting to make him jittery. He feels like he’s under a microscope of the idling guests, his mom with her absurdly green garden hat she insisted on wearing, his two older sisters chatting conspiratorially in the front row.

“Ghost says he’s got a jeep with half a tank of petrol in the car park if you need an escape route.” Soap mutters as he leans over, noticing Gaz’s bouncing foot.

Gaz frowns severely at his friend, and there’s only a mild sense of guilt in the Scot’s eyes, hidden by mirth.

“That’s not funny.” Gaz forces himself to say sternly, but his best friend can tell how his smile is infectious, and even as he mumbles a ‘Aye, sorry, sorry’ he’s containing a grin all the while.

“Mind your manners, Soap.” Price says from Johnny’s other side, and the reprimand has the Scot straightening on instinct, hands held behind his back with a small clearing of his throat. Then Price slides his eyes over to his protégé, a brief smile of amusement tugging his lips as Gaz’s vaguely worried expression, but saying nothing.

There’s music then, and it takes a moment for the crowd to rise. The throng of people briefly blocks Gaz’s sight, and he feels Soap likewise stretch beside him to catch a glimpse of the bride walking down the path towards the altar. There’s a flash of white for a moment, and Gaz’s heart leaps up into his throat before at last his eyes land on you.

You’re beautiful.

Gaz has seen many things in his lifetime, both violent and radiant, but nothing compares to the sight of you in your dress, holding a bouquet of English roses, eyes welling with emotion as you meet his gaze.

It summons such a sudden severe wash of desperate affection and tenderness that Gaz has to force himself to just breathe. His chest feels suddenly tight, the words he can’t wait to say to you threatening to bubble up prematurely at the vision of his fiancé walking towards him, one step at a time, ready to spend the rest of your life with him.

Fuck it, he’s going to cry after all.

Soap seems to notice, and there’s a little nudge in his side as the Scot tries to steady him from his wobbling lip. “Steady, mate.”

Gaz pays him not attention, because as you finally reach the altar and hand off your flowers, Gaz reaches his hands for you and feels emotion roll warmly down his cheeks. It seems to surprise you, and in turn your own gaze grows watery. You smile as you reach a hand up to cup his face, and Gaz can’t tell if it’s a sob or a laugh that forces its way up your throat.

“You’re crying.” You mutter, soft so only he can hear.

“You’re crying.” Gaz chokes back with a grin, seeing tears bead in the corner of your eyes. He doesn’t wipe his tears, doesn’t want to draw attention to it, so it’s your thumb that smears it away in a gentle touch.

“Fuck.” Gaz gasps softly for a moment, forgetting himself, and he can hear Price make a sound of disapproval at his language in front of the altar. Gaz pays him no attention. There’s no one else in the world right now other than the two of you, and as he turns to press a kiss into your palm, his voice is filled to the brim with overwhelming emotion.

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

#Gaz x reader #gaz x female reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x you #gaz fest #gaz fest drabbles #This is so tooth rottingly fluffy my god

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ghost-bxrd · 1 month

Note

Does Fae Dick or at least Baby Fae Dick get self conscious? With his 'otherness' or when his creature features are showing? Like is there hurt/comfort hcs you have of Fae!Dick and feeling different? <3 love all your aus!

Totally!

Alright so Dick grew up rather proud of his heritage and there aren’t many instances where he feels self conscious about it. Mostly also because it’s not often that people he doesn’t want catch a true glimpse of him.

But there are some things he’s shy about.

Teeth. Dick’s got a LOT of them. Not all his own, but all of them lodged in his gums (somehow). Sometimes he takes to… reorganizing them, and that takes a lot of time. That also means that he sometimes stashes them… outside his mouth for a little while. Just until he figures out the new order that feels just right. And it’s not often, but sometimes people… see him, when he does that. See teeth where there absolutely shouldn’t BE any. And they’re horrified. And Dick gets embarrassed (and sad). Especially when his human family sees. Because his feathers at least tend to look pretty to their eyes. His disorganized teeth… do not.

Sometimes, when he’s really excited or agitated, his human disguise… slips. And it’s like looking through a kaleidoscope for a minute before everything rearranges itself into a bit of a horror show that’s a good cross between “Annihilation” (books and movies for reference) and “Lovecraftian eldritch terror”. He grows a bit too tall, a little too willowy. There are eyes… everywhere. Teeth. Feathers. Flowers and roots that grow from his skin…. It’s hard for regular humans to comprehend, and the first instinct upon being exposed to it… is fear. Something even those closest to him can’t quite help but react to. There’s always that half second of a a flinch, of wide eyes, of human hearts skipping a beat because there’s a PREDATOR wrapping too many limbs around them in a hug…. Dick tries very hard to keep a vaguely human disguise at all times.

Sometimes he shows his family whatever new feature he’s currently sporting (New eyes, new teeth, a pretty sort of flower) and knows instantly when he’s strayed a bit TOO far from human when they blanch a little before complimenting him. He knows they try, knows they love him and even MEAN it when they say it suits him. But sometimes… sometimes he just wishes their beauty standards weren’t quite so different.

But it’s okay, because Dick loves them. And they love him. He knows it as surely as he knows the system of roots running below the manor, below Gotham. They may not understand completely, may have that half instance of FEAR when they catch a glimpse, but they always swallow it down. Always take a step CLOSER instead of away. They make an EFFORT. They hug him and compliment him and support him despite being different. And that’s what family is about. 💚

#fae dick grayson #the other things in the woods #the things with no eyes and too many eyes #the deer with wolf teeth #the things that run besides speeding cars at night #jason todd #batfamily #dick grayson #batfam #robin #bruce wayne #tim drake #batman

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theweightofyesterday-if · 1 year

Text

The Weight of Yesterday [DEMO TBA] [CW LIST]

TWOY is an upcoming IF intended for 18+ players and older.

[...] and so, let the weight of yesterday be a reminder to cherish every moment and to hold onto the beauty of today, for tomorrow is but a fleeting dream that may never come to pass. And so, attempt to hold onto the beauty of the memories you've lost, cherish them like precious gems in the recesses of your heart.

You are confined to a cell, and you've been there for centuries. The walls of this prison are the only constant you know, a steady reminder of everything you don't. What you do know is that you were -are-considered a monster, a terror of unimaginable power, and the world trembled in fear at your very name: Belva. But why? What heinous deeds did you commit to warrant such a punishment? And why can't you remember them?

No one will tell you, and most of your memories are lost to the mists of time. But amidst the complexity and confusion of your past, glimpses of fond memories flicker in your mind, filling you with hope and yearning for what might have been. Some nights you're haunted, or blessed, by vague recollections that you can't trust, wondering if they're memories or nothing more than fever dreams.

The past is a shadow that never fades, a constant companion on the journey of life. It clings to you like a heavy cloak, reminding you of the choices you've made and the things you've lost.

As you strive to shape your future, the burden of your past will always be present, weighing you down like an anchor, even as you try to chart a new course for your future. Can you find the strength to confront the ghosts of yesterday and set yourself free?

Features

Customise your appearance in all your forms: demon, human, and demi; and customise your gender

Choose your opinion and attitude towards your past, do you stand by it? Miss it? Or perhaps regret it?

Pick what goddess your mother was, changing your appearance, the nature of your powers and abilities, and the reason people might request your assistance.

Form an opinion on humanity and have it impact the story: do you feel hate, love, indifference, maybe even envy?

Romance one of five gender-customisable ROs, and have your genders impact your romance.

Choose what kind of (maybe romantic?) past you might’ve had with 2 ROs.

Play as a character who’s had a great impact on the world, see yourself and your actions from other’s perspectives and in folk tales.

How will you cope with your amnesia?

Embrace the power of choice - whether to change or remain the same

Synopsis

In TWOY, you take on the role of Belva, a powerful demon god who has been trapped for centuries, with no memory of why. As you'll get released from prison and confined in exile to the celestial city of Divumia, you'll meet a wide cast of characters -including potential love interests and acquaintances from your past- and make decisions that will determine your future and your journey within the city. Will you be driven by the desire for redemption, the longing to return to what once was, or even the thirst for truth and the memories that come with it? Regardless, it won't be easy, not when the Celestial Council is determined to hinder you. Do you think you can overcome the odds and reach your goals? Find out in The Weight of Yesterday !!!

Belva, you: As Belva, you are a mystery even to yourself. Your past is shrouded in secrecy, locked away in a part of your mind that refuses to yield its secrets. You have glimpses of memories that flicker in and out of your consciousness like fireflies in the night, but they are disjointed, incomplete.

[RO] The Loyal Hand, Nita (M/F): Nita has been with you since you were little. You’ve seen each other in your worst and most embarrassing moments, but you’re still only acquaintances.

[RO] The Stranger From Your Past, Dorian/Delilah (M/F): Some of your memories/dreams include them. You know you have some kind of past together, but you’ve no idea who this person really is.

[RO] The Human, Kiello/Keta (M/F): A human who lives in the city of Divumia and surprisingly controls a big part of the city. You may need their help, but can you really trust them? Could your past actions, or your current attitude towards humanity hinder your relationship, or will one of you manage to change the other?

[RO] The Watcher, Samu/Selena (M/F): You’ve heard whispers from fellow prisoners about watchers. You don't know this yet, but you'll have your own after your release from prison and consequent exile in Divumia. Will you be able to get behind their stoic barrier and discover the warm and caring person within? Or will their enigmatic nature keep you at bay, forever wondering what lies beneath their watchful gaze? [intro post here]

[RO] ?

The Bessa (M): Your father, and the current Lord of your home domain. He was the one who sent you on Earth in the first place, why? Did he ask you to commit those awful acts? Or is that just what you hope?

[More info and char descriptions to be added, everything here could change]

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rinixo · 1 year

Text

wisdom tells me to turn away

Din Djarin/Reader | 4.8k | Rated E | afab reader, no y/n, angst, angst and emotional comfort, sexual content, piv sex, ‘outercourse’, alluded to breeding kink, vague age difference

Being a non-Mandalorian makes navigating your relationship with Din difficult. Being the only non-Mandalorian on Mandalore makes navigating your relationship with Din even more difficult. Non-linear oneshots featuring you, a university scholar from Naboo who is helping The Mandalorian seek out the Jedi. read on ao3

Despite being in ruins, Mandalore was still beautiful. Nature curled around the rubble everywhere you looked, moss and roots slowly reclaiming the ruined city. You strolled through what used to be busy streets, trying to pass as much time as you could before you had no choice but to return to the Mandalorian headquarters.

You had been on the planet for three days, and you had spent most of your time wandering around. From the moment you had landed you had felt uncomfortable. You were watched constantly by the helmeted forces, and the feeling of being distrusted permeated every brief interaction you had with every person you had met. Part of you understood why – Mandalore had been destroyed by outsiders, but it was still not easy to navigate.

Din had wanted to return here. His loyalty to his people was still a core tenant of who he was, and now that the child had chosen to stay with him, he was able to focus on helping his people rebuild. The weapon he had won from Moff Gideon had also thrust him into a position of authority that most of the other Mando’s deferred to. Having him and the Darksaber here helped bolster the recovery efforts, and every day new Mandalorian refugees arrived on planet from every corner of the galaxy.

You had agreed to join him on this journey, partly out of affection for him and partly out of curiosity. Your academic interest had quickly faded once you were on the planet, as what little historical information that remained was heavily guarded and off-limits to non-Mandalorians. Din had advocated on your behalf, and you had been allowed access to some records, but it was mostly agricultural-based, like crop yields and trading figures. You had quickly grown bored of it. Now the main reason you stayed was because Din was here and, well – it’s not like you had your own ship to leave on.

Pausing in your walk, you looked up to the sky and sighed. Dusk was approaching, and you knew you should head back before it got too dark out, but the thought of spending another long, lonely night wasn’t particularly exciting. Din’s days had been spent with the leaders of the Mandalorian forces, planning and building and talking about who knows what. Your room was small and not near Din’s, and while it hadn’t been explicitly said, spending the nights with him did not seem like an option. Just like your presence on the planet, your attachment to the man wasn’t particularly welcome.

Your partnership had bloomed into a sort of relationship, one you weren’t sure how to classify. In the moments you two were entangled in the dark, you felt like more than just lovers. There was a reverence in how Din made love to you, making you feel like the center of his universe. However, in the light of the day, to the eyes of outsiders, the two of you were little more than traveling companions – partly for safety, and partly because neither of you knew how to make it go further.

Now here, on Mandalore, that distance felt like it was widening by the second. You had seen only glimpses of the man over the past couple of days – he was up before the sun rose and was still out by the time you found yourself wandering back to your own sleeping space. Grogu was also spending most of his time with Din, leaving you to fend for yourself.

The rational part of you knew he wasn’t ignoring you on purpose. You had been in his life for such a short time, and you knew that if you were in his position you would also want to spend time with the people who shared your culture.

However, you also found yourself simmering with a mixture of emotions you were afraid to give names to. Earlier you had seen Din standing around a table with a group of other armored and armed Mandalorians. The lilt in your heart at seeing him was quickly overtaken by a pang of jealousy at the way a female Mandalorian gestured at something on the table to Din, leaning in close enough that her arm brushed his.

Part of you wanted desperately to make your way to his side, stake a personal claim and be claimed by him in return. You had gotten used to being the center of his attention while traveling together, and while you told yourself he still cared for you, you wanted him to show it.

You didn’t know the ins and outs of Mandalorian culture, and what information existed that was accessible to you was not very enlightening. Based on your interactions with Din, you surmised that family and clan were very important. His devotion to Grogu was evidence enough of that, as well as the way the three of you often found yourselves helping others no matter where you went. Yet there were still questions that lingered about your specific relationship with Din.

You still had never seen his face. When you slept together, it was always in the dark, and most of the time he remained more clothed than you. He was not shy when it came to touching you when the two of you were alone in the dark, but there was a kind of unspoken agreement that personal affection ended once the lights were on. You didn’t know if this would eventually change, or even if it could. There was an undercurrent of forbidden-ness that permeated your relationship, stemming from his isolationist cultural values and your careful tiptoeing around not making him feel like he needed to betray what he stood for in order to satisfy you.

You wondered if there were texts you could access in the limited library here at the compound that would give you answers to your questions. I should just ask him, you had told yourself more than once, but it never happened. Having that conversation would answer your questions, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to hear those answers. Perhaps finding that information in texts would be easier for you to bear, or at least prepare you for a true conversation about whatever future Din saw between the two of you.

Making your way back towards the makeshift repository, you felt the eyes of the armed guards follow you the entire way. You weren’t entirely sure what they thought you might get up to – it wasn’t like you had any weapons – but they treated you like a threat. If it wasn’t so intimidating, it would make you laugh.

The repository – a side room filled with locked cabinets and server towers – was gloriously empty when you arrived. There were usually one or two miscellaneous Mando’s in here, carefully sorting through information or stacking whatever was recovered for future sorting by someone else. The day was slowly ending, and you knew most of the forces here would be settling in for a meal. You being here meant you’d have to settle for whatever was left over tonight, but you were willing to pay that price for the chance of a few uninterrupted minutes of data hunting.

You started with the servers, knowing you it would take less time to search a digital collection that through physical ones and the longer you stayed, the higher the chance of someone coming in and yelling at you. Connecting your data pad, you ran a search for all ‘culture’ related queries you could think of. Surprisingly, you got several hits that seemed to be relevant. Feeling nervous, you quickly downloaded copies to your personal device and disconnected, taking extra care to wipe what evidence you could of your access to the server. Years of hacking into secure systems searching for data your institution deemed out of your pay grade had given you more than enough skills to erase your trail from most casual observers.

Pleased with your finds, you hurried back to your rooms for a quick shower and some intense studying time.

After showering quickly, you returned to your room. It was little more than a side closet, big enough for a low cot and a small chest of your belongings. You settled in, a warm cup of caf at your side, and began looking over the information you found.

The more you read, the more questions you had. A lot of the information was secondhand, histories and tales taken from oral sources and documented digitally for preservation. It wasn’t the goldmine of direct answers you were looking for, but you did find a few key points, some of which both confused and concerned you. The little information you found mentioned something called the ‘Six Actions’, as well as basic expectations about family and relationships. It wasn’t anything groundbreaking in any particular direction, but you were left with more curiosity about where you stood in Din’s life. It was looking like you’d have to be brave and ask him yourself.

Not willing to spend another night with your anxious thoughts, you decided to go to him as soon as you could. You waited a few hours, until all but those on watch duty would be asleep. Wrapping your linen shawl over your head and shoulders, you slipped quietly out of your room, hurrying as quietly as you could towards Din’s room. Thankfully you did not see anyone in the ten or so minutes it took you to make your way across the small compound. You found the door you were looking for, and lightly knocked.

Half a second pause, and then the door slid up, revealing Din. He was still armored head to toe. He said your name softly, almost as if a question. Wringing your hands, you suddenly felt shy.

“Can I come in?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper. Din immediately stepped to the side to let you in. You pulled your shawl down over your head, and shook out your hair. You looked around the room, immediately noticing it was both larger and more kitted out than the closet you had been shoved into.

“Are you alright?” Din asked, breaking the silence. You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Yeah,” you replied. You wanted to talk, to spill every thought that had been in your mind for the past few days, but the words died in your throat as emotion built. Something about being here in the same room as him made you feel more upset than not being around him. Seeing him, being in the same room as him made facing the reality of getting answers to the questions you had about your relationship seem harder every moment.

Din stepped towards a small table in the middle of the room, and pulled out a chair. You managed to step the short distance towards him, and took the seat he offered. He backed up towards a small ledge, leaning against it and crossing his arms in a familiar shielding gesture. Out of the corner of your eye, you spied Grogu’s cradle, the lid shut. You were glad he wasn’t awake for this conversation, as you suspected it would have made it that much harder.

“How have you been?” You asked quietly, taking your turn to break the silence. Din shrugged casually with one shoulder.

“Busy,” he replied. “There’s so much going on. I knew it would be a lot, but every day there’s something new.”

“Oh,” was all you could think to say. You didn’t want to ask him specifics on what he was doing. You didn’t want to hear about all the time he was spending away from you, from whatever was so engrossing he hadn’t even thought to check in on you for days. All you had done over the past few days was think about him. You bounced your leg, partly out of nervousness, partly for something to channel your energy in to so that you wouldn’t burst into angry tears.

Clearing his throat, Din adjusted his stance slightly. He was obviously uncomfortable with your silence. “Ah…and you?” He finally asked. “How have you been?”

You let out a choked laugh. “Oh, fine,” you answered, trying and failing to keep the bitter tone out of your voice. “I spend the first half of the day wandering around the rubble while armed guards stare at me through blaster sights, and the second half I spend staring up at the ceiling of the closet I sleep in.”

A modulated sigh. “I-I’m sorry,” he placated. “I told them you were with me, that you didn’t need to be watched, but they’re…” he trailed off. You nodded, eyes trained on his boots and bit your lip as you chewed on a million different responses.

“I know,” you finally replied. “I get it. I’m an outsider. I’m not a warrior or a bounty hunter. There’s not a lot I can do to be useful to you all.”

“That’s not true,” Din countered. “You’ve been a big help to me, and to Grogu.” That got a slight smile from you, and you looked up at him.

“Thanks…but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Do you need a reason to be?” Din asked, and your heart twinged.

You wondered how best to approach this topic. Being here made you want to pretend all of your worries were gone and fall in to his arms, but you knew that once the night was over you’d go back to being alone again, with all of the same questions still stuck in your throat.

“Where do we go from here?” You looked up at him. The ‘we’ was whatever your entanglement was, beyond being traveling companions and occasional bedfellows. Would you land in the same place, your roots entwined with one another’s? Or was this the beginning of a slow end, with you parting ways towards separate futures?

“What do you mean?” Din answered.

“Us,” you expanded. “Do you…how do you feel about us? Where does this lead?”

A quick note of silence. “I’m not sure what you’re asking. Where is this coming from?” Din shifted in posture, arms still crossed in front of him.

“I was reading,” you went on, “About Mandalorian culture. I know how I feel, but I wanted to understand how you feel. About us.

“I care for you,” Din said softly yet firmly, but that wasn’t what you wanted, and the hurt in your expression told him so.

“You can’t say it-“

“Why does it need naming?” Din challenged after a moment. “Isn’t it enough, just to have it?”

“No, it’s not!” You raised your voice for the first time, anger and hurt flashing from your eyes. “You can’t – you can’t just kiss me, and fuck me, and whisper sweet things to me in the dark and –“

“That’s-“

“Is it so shameful?” You interrupted, vision blurry from emotion. “That I can’t even spend the night on the same side of the building as you?”

Din sighed, hands going to his hips in flustered frustration. “No, it’s-“

“I’m not a Mandalorian,” you finished for him.

A pause. “No,” Din agreed slowly. “You’re not.”

He pulled out the companion to the chair you were in, and sat in front of you. Even in the low light, the brilliance of his armor was enough for you to see your own trembling form reflected back at you.

“And I’m…not sure I want to be one,” you added hoarsely.

I don’t know if I can live this life.

The silence was painful. You wished for the millionth time that the stupid helmet wasn’t on his face so that you could get a glimpse of his reactions. There you were, laying your heart out bare in front of him, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, and he sat like a statue.

“I have been selfish,” Din finally answered. “The creed does not approve of relationships between a Mandalorian and one who is not, or one who is not planning to be part of the culture.”

You let out a pained laugh as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand. “You are ashamed of us.”

“No, no,” Din corrected. He leaned forward and reached for one of your hands. You allowed him to grasp it, the warmth of his skin coming through the worn leather gloves. His thumb brushed over your chilled skin, and you sniffled as you watched the motion, unable to stare at your reflection in his helmet.

“I care for you. Deeply. You make me want things I’d never thought I’d have.” His grip on your hand tightened slightly. “I’ve been selfish, I-I knew that this wasn’t fair to you. That I couldn’t ask you make that kind of choice.”

“But you did,” you choked out. “Isn’t that what this is?”

Din squeezed your hand. “The creed is important to me,” he continued. “I can’t just let it go.”

You closed your eyes tightly, feeling tears squeeze through and trail down your cheeks. “So you’re letting me go.”

“No, mesh’la. I can’t.” A short exhale of a modulated laugh. “Stars, I can’t. I told myself that every time would be the last time, but I just can’t let you go.” Din’s hands went up to cradle the side of your face, and he gently thumbed away your tears.

“I won’t make you stay,” he continued. “If you want to leave. You are young, and your life is more open than mine ever was.” You looked up at him, vision blurred by emotion.

“But I want to make this work,” Din confessed. “I want to make us work.” Your lower lip trembled, and he brushed a thumb over it softly.

“Wh-what would that look like?” You asked, voice wavering slightly.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “There’s more to being a Mandalorian than I could have known. Learning – and unlearning – will not be easy. And I can’t promise that it will be quick. But if it’s the difference between having you, and not…” Din trailed off.

“Do you want to leave?” He asked quietly.

“No,” you relented at last. “I don’t.”

Din let out the breath he was holding, and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m glad.”

“I can’t really fight, or repair buildings,” you went on. “I don’t know if being a Mandalorian is what I want…but I don’t think I can stand one more night of sleeping by myself in that closet.”

Another short bark of a laugh. “No, sweet girl. I’ve missed you in my bed these past few nights.”

You ducked your head shyly again, a smile across your lips. “Oh?”

His response was to stand, and reach for your hand. You let him pull you to your feet, and shuffle you towards his sleeping area. He had a real bed. A big one.

A few button pushes on his wrist, and the lights in the room dimmed. You allowed him to help you undress to your base layers, and fell against the bed as he turned off the lights and began to take his armor off.

You curled up on your side, one hand under your cheek, and the other on the pillow. You heard him finish disrobing and pad his way to the other side of the bed to crawl in next to you. One of his hands, warm and calloused, reached over to cup your cheek gently.

“I did miss you,” he confessed. “Over these past few days. Grogu did too.”

You felt his fingers trace the smile on your lips. “Did you miss me, or did you miss me distracting him while you worked?” Your own hands went to the side of his neck as you scooted closer to him. Your played with the soft curls at the base of his neck, the stubble on his face scratching your wrist.

“That too,” he concedes, and you chuckled. You can feel his pulse in his throat, a steady beat as his arms move to pull you in closer. Sometimes, when he holds you, it feels like he won’t be satisfied until you’re pulled completely inside of him.

“You’re a father now,” you tease, and his hand grips your side a little harder. “You’ll need to learn to discipline him better.”

“And what do you know about discipline?” He breathes against your mouth. Angling your face to press a kiss to the side of his lips, you nuzzle your nose against his, just barely out of reach.

Your mouth meeting his is your answer. The scruff of his facial hair is a welcome feeling against your cheek and your chin, and you place once hand on his chest while the other scratches at the base of his neck. One of your legs is hoisted up over his hip, and his hands go to your ass to pull you against him. You let out a muffled gasp at the feeling of his erection against your clothed cunt.

The two of you rock back and forth, devouring each other in an attempt to fill the longing within. Breaking away from his mouth for half a second, you roll yourself onto his lap, thighs spread over his lower abdomen, hands splayed on his broad chest.

“Down,” you command breathlessly as you feel Din tense under you. You tug on the loose linen shirt he wears, and he obliges and helps you pull it off over his head. You trace his pulse from his neck down to his chest, nails scratching him lightly. That pulls a small groan from him, and you shuffle your hips so that your core bumps against where his cock strains against his linen pants.

“Girl,” he warns you lowly, but you ignore him as you reach behind you to free him from his clothing before slipping off your own shorts. His cock thuds heavy against his abdomen, and you place the seat of your pussy over his pulsing length,

You slowly slide up and down the length of him, enjoying the way the thick head of his cock parts your lips and bumps against your sensitive clit.

“Fucking hell,” Din spits, and you feel him throw his head back against the pillow. His hands come up to grab your waist, but you refuse his attempt to direct your movements and remove them. Your pace remains steady as you continue to slide him through your slick center, enjoying the tortured groans your work elicits from the man.

You circle your hips so that the head of his cock – twitching and leaking – bumps rhythmically against your clit. Your hands steady yourself on his chest, mouth opening in a breathy whimper. There’s a knot of frisson building, centered where your bodies meet.

“Gonna cum on my cock?” Din groans, voice thick with desperation. You scratch your nails on his chest, hyper focused on the way he throbs against you. “Fucking hell, I can feel you dripping on me, you wicked girl-“

“Mmm!” You can’t speak, afraid to break the high prematurely. You grind yourself down on him, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his collarbone.

“Yes, good girl, use me,” he growls again. “Be a good girl, cum on my cock, and I’ll fill you up-“

You fall over the edge, mouth opening into a silent ‘oh’ pressed against his thrumming heartbeat. Your lower body shakes with your release, hips stuttering to break their rhythmic pattern.

Din doesn’t let you come down from it before he’s taking himself in his fist and aligning himself up to the entrance of your cunt. Your voice returns in a wail as he shifts his hips up at the same time he pulls your waist down so that he’s filling you up completely.

“This is why I can’t let you go,” he groans, tilting his hips up so that the head of him kisses your cervix. “You’re too fucking perfect, you take my cock like you’re made for it-“

A cry of pleasure is caught in your throat and turns into half a sob as he maneuvers your waist. His legs come up for leverage so he can piston up into you. Despite the possessive way he words it, you can hear the awe in the timbre of his voice, feel the desperation in how he fucks you. The first couple of times the two of you slept together you could tell he was holding back. He only took you from behind, and you had to gently coax him to touch you in places other than your hips. You weren’t sure if it was due to shyness or inexperience, or just the result of being a man who didn’t allow himself any kind of pleasure beyond that which what would serve his clan.

Here though, in the dark, he let go. Fucking from behind turned into him tangling himself into you, holding your shoulder so you didn’t hit your head against the metal wall of his cot as he pounded your poor cunt relentlessly. Restrained moans turned into him whispering filthy, adoring praise into your ears. Turned in to him almost giving name to the desires you pulled out of the depths of his being.

“You make me want things I shouldn’t,” he grunts, taking the chance to flip your bodies so that he was above you. You arch your back with a moan, and Din mouths wetly up from your breasts to your exposed neck, not once stopping the slap of his pelvis against you.

You grasp lamely at his shoulders as he hoists one of your legs up to his side. He grinds himself inside of you. You know what he is alluding to when he says things like that. You can tell by the way he used you. Sex itself was more than just pleasure for him. It was also the base purpose of binding the two of you together, the ache of wanting to flood your womb, and to bask in the consequences. You wonder if he does it consciously, or if it’s just the heat of the moment, but something about how it leaves him it makes it feel like more than just dirty talk.

“You’re perfect,” he puffs against your mouth. You’re on the edge of another orgasm, relishing in the way he fills you. You’re more reluctant to voice what he asks of your body, and instead urge him on by the way you angle your hips so he can hit as deep as possible, all but begging him to fill you up. You don’t know what it would mean, if it took. For the two of you, or the creed, but the way it drove his passion made you want to find out.

Din groans, and you feel him twitch up inside of you. “Cum on my cock,” he demands. One of his thumbs comes down to press against your clit, and you shriek, still sensitive from your first orgasm. You hear him curse as your core pulses around him, and he holds your hips still as his own orgasm approaches and he ruts deeper.

“That’s it,“ he pants, and pulls you closer, cock creating a seal against your cervix. “Fucking stars. Take my seed, sweet girl, good girl-“

You choke out his name as he buries his face into the side of your neck, holding your hips to his own as he pulses his release inside of you. Your legs shake from exertion, trembling in his grasp as he holds himself inside you, cock still pulsing thick streams of white. You close your eyes, lost in a fog of ectasy.

The two of you stay like that for a while, the tight seal of your pussy reluctant to let go of him. When he finally raises himself off of you, you whimper at the loss of his warmth. He leaves the bed with a groan, and padded somewhere off in the dark. You pant, trying to calm your breathing and settle down.

Din returns, and sits next to you on the bed. He murmurs something lowly that you don’t quite catch, and you feel something warm and damp against your skin. Gently, he wipes a cloth against your thighs and your sensitive core, and then up and over your breast and collar. He follows the cloth with his mouth. He leaves lingering kisses up the center of your breastbone, to the side of your jaw, to your mouth, and to your forehead.

“I’m ok,” you let out a hoarse whisper, and feel him smile.

“Just ok?”

You snort, and smack his shoulder lightly. “You know what I meant.”

He sighs contently, laying so that your heads were sharing the same pillow. He holds your legs with one hand, thumb brushing over the skin there.

The two of you lay there in comfortable silence, on the edge of sleep. You think about the things both said and unsaid.

“Is it going to be a problem if I sleep here?” You ask quietly. Din lets out a breath.

“No,” he responded. “And even if it was, I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to make things more complicated for you.”

Din laughs, but there is only affection in it.

“Sweet girl, you already have.”

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian smut #mando x reader #mandalorian smut #din djarin

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kabuki-draws · 5 months

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I watched Ridley Scott's NAPOLEON yesterday and it was a complete Waterloo.

Yes, I am a big history nerd with a giant heart for movie adaptation of historical topics. But when I watched NAPOLEON I sat there... and tried not to laugh. It was not only so historical inaccurate, that I wanted to cry, at the same time it was filled with cringe dialogues, red flags and terrible color grading. This whole movie made me so sad yet so angry, that I HAVE to write this review:

(Disclaimer: This review is based on my own opinion. If you enjoyed the movie, it's completely fine. Btw. in that case or if you agree with me, feel free to tell me your opinion. I would love to know!)

First of all: Don't get me wrong, the medium film has its own rules and you can't put as much historical accuracy into a big scale movie as you would into a documentary - sometimes the story needs to be altered to be a good movie. And that is fine. Even if Gladiator is a complete fictional story set in the Roman Empire, I can still enjoy this movie for what it is: A good-written story with great characters, a beautiful score and iconic scenes. With Kingdom of Heaven it's kind of the same - and while the movie cut was very inconsistent, I still kind of liked it. But then the Directors Cut made it a a masterpiece for me.

Funny enough, both of these movies are made by the same person: Ridley Scott. So naturally I thought: Well, Napoleon won't be a historical accurate film, but I surely will enjoy it anyways. Well, ...no. It is not only historical incorrect, it's also a bad movie overall.

To start it short: NAPOLEON clearly lost itself in all the various topics it wanted to tell within a runtime of two and a half hours. It made the whole storytelling very weird and inconsistent, causing the problem, that the audience even loses itself in the questions of when and where. Where is that scene located? When did that happen? And then comes the question: Why is this even happening?

Ridley Scott wants to depict Napoleon as a lover, a military genius, a big political figure, a revolutionary and more. But in the end he tells all of this in the most shallow way possible, which waters down Napoleons personality traits and achievements to a series of small scenes. You never get a glimpse of the "true" Napoleon, who was described as a highly intelligent and charismatic man. In fact, you never really feel ANYTHING about him except that he was a cringe red flag in front of his wife. He just stands there, stares and has very limited dialogue scenes to get a picture of that man. What are his overall motivations? Only Josephine? If so, why is this motivation only vaguely explored?

The whole love story between him and Josephine feels so unnatural and got to the brink of being disgusting. This is particularly sad because I deeply respect Vanessa Kirby and Joaquin Phoenix, they're both stunning actors. I don't know if they just couldn't fit the role or if it was rather a problem of the script (the last one is my guess). Yet whenever I saw Josephine and Napoleon on screen, I felt like acted very stiff and forced. Napoleon seemed more obsessed with her than actual love and that can be a character trait, but there wasn't a chance to explore that deeper. Before the movie entered the cinema, the lovestory between these two was marketed as intense, obsessive, deeper than you could imagine. What the audience got was a few scenes without real conversation, much staring and a bunch of cringeworthy s-scenes. And seriously, these "sexy" scene were the worst. I was so disgusted by them because they were SO DAMN WEIRD. There are no scenes that undermine ANY deep love between Josephine and Napoleon. It felt therefore so off, when they still longed for each other after their divorce.

And let's not start to ramble about the fact that they depicted Josephine ONLY in a somehow sexual way. Yeah, there is that scene where she says to Napoleon, that he is nothing without her. BUT SHOW, DON´T TELL! You never see her doing something instead of sitting there, talking with others or when the plot needs her to have sexy time with someone (not only Napoleon). As a woman myself this makes me so freaking furious, you have no idea. I don't need a marvel-coded super-strong woman with unlimited talents - I just need a female character that is written GOOD and plausible! Make me CARE for her plot and for the plot of Napoleon! Both of them don't even feel like normal human beings because they're like blank pieces of paper with their names written on it!

And don´t make me start to talk about the historical inaccuracies. At first I didn't want to draw that card. Actually, I don't need a historical movie to present 100% facts. If the movie is still enjoyable, it's okey. But even if many people say that the war scenes were awesome, I can only partly agree. Yeah, we have that cool ice-lake Austerlitz battle, but it took me a couple of minutes and a better look on the uniforms to know that Napoleon is now at war with Austria! You get nearly ZERO context to Napoleons battles. Yeah, nice, the scenes look cool - but there is nothing more to it? Is that all you need to show for the audience to care? For me at least, I just didn't care at all and I was very happy when I got out of the cinema. Overall this movie is full of messy non-sense choices that don't contribute to the story. Many moments just confused me and it left me with the question why Scott couldn't simply hire some historians to put together a consistent story. Everyone who read about Napoleons life knows that there are so much cinema worthy moments in his career that would've been so much better than what we now got.

I could ramble about that movie for hours if I´m honest, but I hope this little TED talk was enough to make my statement clear.

In the end, it just makes me sad. I wanted to like this movie, I wanted it to be good. For months I hyped myself up to this, read books about Napoleon, watched the trailer all over and over and talked with friends about how great this movie will be. Now I am just disappointed and frustrated. Oppenheimer was such a great biopic of a historical person that became a great success at the box office - even without great battle scenes. I hoped that Napoleon would push a cinema revolution, that shows people want big scaled films about historical personalities and history topics. But now I just want to forget this Napoleon movie to be honest.

#napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #napoleon movie #ridley scott #joaquin phoenix #vanessa kirby

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year

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Monsters in the Garden (Ettore x Reader) 18+

No one comes to your garden but you, not even Dr. Dibs. So what is the most dangerous man on the ship doing leaning against your doorway and watching you work?

Pairing: Ettore x fem!reader (second person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT SMUT; hand job; kissing; blood; mentions of rape, murder, and violence; female genital mutilation; vague mentions of corpse mutilation

Author's note: This was inspired by a session I had with the Ettore AI made by @harrenhalhottie (RIP). It was just so good I had to write it out for y'all. This Ettore is a little different from normal, but I can't help but look at a one-dimensional character and want more. Hope you enjoy, and let me know if you want a Part 2, because I have ideas...

This song also heavily influenced the vibe:

Taglist: @thelittleswanao3

Monsters in the Garden

You were on your knees, leaning over one of your raised garden beds when you noticed him leaning against the open doorway. He wasn’t quiet on his approach – he wanted you to know he was there.

Ettore was always there, in some dark corner, watching you.

By this point, you were almost used to the burning feeling that crawled beneath your skin whenever his eyes were on you.

In the right light, those eyes were a mesmerizing blue. The color reminded you of the sky back on Earth. If he hadn’t been so goddamn creepy, you might have been happy to stare into his eyes just to remember home, even briefly.

But he was easily the most unsettling person you’d ever met. Always leering at the other women on board – though in the past weeks, you had apparently become his one and only target– and using the Box proudly, far more than anyone else did.

It was no wonder why. You knew what he was.

Everyone on board was a killer, including you. But Ettore was the worst. The most dangerous of you all. For he was the only one who had… done worse than just kill his victims.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

Well, some would say what you had done was worse. But that was different. Your victim was already dead by the time you started your work on his corpse, and it had been more than deserved.

You did not let yourself linger on that. You never did these days. The further away from Earth you got, the more distant it seemed. The rage, the guilt, all of it.

Ettore wasn’t distant. He was mere feet away from you, intruding on your garden.

Not yours, not really. Because of your past – specifically, the degree in horticulture you were only one semester away from completing when you were arrested – you were assigned to look after the gardens instead of something more related to the actual mission of the ship like the rest of the crew.

Or more basic, in Ettore’s case. Dr. Dib’s called his assignment “ship maintenance,” but you all knew what he really was: the janitor.

But he never came in here. You made sure of it, keeping everything meticulously clean and fixing all your equipment yourself so no one – least of all Ettore – would ever have a reason to intrude on your space.

You didn’t even allow Tcherny, the other gardener, in here. He was fine with it. He preferred the vegetable and grains and left the medicinal plants – kept in their own room – to you. The only person beside you who ever came in here was Dr. Dibs, and she hadn’t been here in months. She didn’t like the dirt.

Yet there was Ettore, just staring at you.

His eyes weren’t that beautiful, bright blue you so rarely glimpsed. His chin was slightly tucked into his chest, his strong brow casting his eyes into darkness. His face was blank, unfeeling, and unmoving, save for those eyes.

They almost didn’t look human, but animal. Yes, that was the look of a predator. And it was directed at you.

You turned away from him to face the garden bed again, hoping he would lose interest if you didn’t engage. But if he didn’t, and he did try something…

Well, you had your spade next to you. It was probably sharp enough to dissuade him from doing anything you didn’t approve of.

So, you resumed your work, carefully tending to your poppies.

Once the lovely purple-pink petals that were just unfurling fell in a few days, you would harvest the sap from the seedpods so Dr. Dibs could synthesize more of the sedative the crew was forced to take each night. Only a handful, carefully selected by you, would be spared and allowed to produce the seeds that would become the next crop.

Though you hated playing a part in producing the drugs, the poppies were still your favorite plant. They were the only flowers you had left.

The garden was always your happy place, even on Earth, and you quickly found yourself concentrating not on Ettore or the sounds of the ship or even the ship itself. There was only you, the dirt, and your beloved plants.

So, when you finally stood and looked away from your work, you had entirely forgotten that Ettore stood there.

Still, he remained leaning against the doorframe, watching you. He hadn’t moved a fucking inch.

You jumped slightly at the unexpected sight, your hand flying to your racing heart.

While he did not flinch at the motion, Ettore’s brow raised slightly, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

At least the hunger in his eyes had abated. Somewhat.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, love,” he crooned as he uncrossed his arms and took two steps forward.

God, you had never heard him speak before.

His voice wasn’t particularly deep, but it was low and smooth. His accent was like something out of those British action movies a boyfriend in high school loved to make you watch. Perhaps it was those memories – of either the boyfriend or the handsome actors, that made his voice sound almost alluring.

It had to be. It couldn’t be him.

You instinctively stepped back, raising your hands to try and communicate that you didn’t want him near you. Unfortunately, you forgot your spade on the ground, leaving your hands empty. Fortunately, your gloves were loose enough that he could not see the slight trembling in your fingers.

“I just…” you stammered. “I forgot you were there.”

He just stared at you impassively, those predatory eyes taking in every detail of your face, then traveling lower and lower.

Some of the hunger returned when his gaze landed on your breasts.

You had to shut that shit down.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, pouring all your contempt into your voice to mask the fear that still crept within your blood.

Ettore looked back at your eyes, the corner of his lip flicking up as though he was holding back a sneer. “Just passing through.”

You risked looking away from him to glance at your watch. It confirmed what you already knew. “You’ve been standing there for over an hour,” you informed him. One hour and eighteen minutes, to be exact. “Hardly what I’d call ‘passing through.’”

He raised his brows slightly, apparently surprised it had been that long. “Guess I lost track of time. Watching you is…” he turned his eyes, not to your body, but to the flower bed you had just been working in. When he looked back, he gave a sly smile. “Relaxing.”

Bullshit, you thought. But then you bit back the sharp tang of your own cynicism. Gardening was relaxing to you; it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that he honestly found watching you relaxing as well. If it had been anyone but Ettore, you probably would have believed them without a moment of doubt.

But it was Ettore.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

You glared at him for a long moment, trying to communicate that you wouldn’t be fucked with – you wouldn’t be a victim. Then, when he still didn’t drop his gaze from yours, you took it as an acknowledgment of the threat and turned away from him.

You were at least half-expecting him to pounce on you then and there, but he didn’t. You didn’t hear a single sound as you walked to your workbench, situated on the opposite wall from the door, and took off your gloves.

“There’s nothing more to watch,” you said over your shoulder. Then, grabbing a clean rag from one of the drawers, you began wiping the dirt from your forearms – rinsing it off in the sink would risk a clog, which would mean a visit from maintenance and Ettore. “I’m done for the day.”

He didn’t reply, only grunted his acknowledgment. He never moved as you continued to wrap up your work – cleaning your tools, sweeping the dirt that had made its way out of the beds, and washing your hands. Still just watching you.

At least it confirmed that it wasn’t the gardening he found ‘relaxing.’

Finally, you discarded your rags in the laundry bin. It would need to be taken out soon – it was ready today, but you were already running later than you wanted. In just ten minutes, you had an ‘appointment’ with Dr. Dibs, and you didn’t want to make her angry. Again. Doing so has become kind of a bad habit of yours.

So, you turned to face Ettore, who continued to stare at you as you stepped within a few feet of him. He stood a little taller at your approach, puffing his chest out as that near-rabid hunger took over his eyes once more.

Your stomach fluttered, and you told yourself it was only because you were nervous about whatever Dibs planned to do to you tonight.

But then the corner of his mouth quirked up, and your heart sank at the realization that it was because you – or rather, your traitorous, repressed body – found Ettore attractive.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

He would be just your type if you didn’t know why he was here. You had never been able to resist a good jawline, and his could cut fucking glass. And as you took another step closer, his height became just as enticing. You always told people you only liked tall men so they could reach things for you. But really, you just loved the feeling of having a big, strong man to protect you.

No one had looked at you like you needed protection in years. No, you were now what people needed protection from.

“Though she be but little she is fierce,” the lawyer had said when convincing the jury to not be put off by your size. A fitting quote, since Shakespeare himself had inspired some of the more gruesome details of your crime.

And now, you couldn’t help but take another step forward, then another. All along, savoring how far back you had to tilt your head to look into those beautiful blue eyes.

God, as he tilted his chin back as well, the bright lights of the garden set them blazingly bright and the bluest you’d ever seen them. They were even better than the sky back home…

You forced yourself to look away when you felt heat begin to pool between your thighs. Instead, you stared over his shoulder to the hall, trying not to snap when you heard him laugh slightly at your movement. Was the blush you felt visible?

“You’re in my way,” you said, your voice more of a whisper than you intended.

When his smirk faded, and his lips – very pretty lips, you realized – fell slightly open, you thought he would have some cutting remark. But he only stepped to the side to allow you through.

As you passed him, you were close enough to catch his scent. Everyone on the ship used the same soap, so how did he smell so different? Beneath the clinical smell you all carried, there was something deeper, more masculine.

You really needed to calm down before your appointment with Dibs. She knew you didn’t use the Box – not after that first time had failed to get you off, despite the engineering genius of the contraption – so seeing you this riled would lead to questions you didn’t want to answer.

Touching other inmates was against the rules. And even if this wasn’t touching… even thinking this way about another prisoner may incur her wrath.

So, you walked a more than respectable distance away from him before turning back. He was still half-in, half-out of the garden. But he wasn’t staring at you anymore, but rather at the poppies...

When was the last time he had seen a beautiful flower?

You glanced at your watch again. You barely had enough time to make it to the infirmary.

“I need to lock the door,” you said, drawing his gaze back to you.

His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced from you back to the door, then back to you again. He sucked his teeth as he looked at you in condescending disbelief. “You need to lock up flowers?”

“It’s protocol,” you answered. Perhaps your tone was a bit harsher than it needed to be, but you were both criminals - murderers. He could handle a little bitchiness. “And there’s more than just flowers in there.”

Ettore let out a laugh that was little more than a hard exhale, but the twinkle in those eyes told you that he was indeed amused. Then, crossing his arms, showing off the odd, triangular tattoo on his forearm, he stepped away from the door.

You would have to walk by him again to get to the door. Perhaps he was cleverer than you gave him credit for – if you had previously given him any credit at all.

If you weren’t so pressed for time, you might have stayed to tease him some more. This was surprisingly fun, even when you knew what he wanted from you and what he had done to get it from other women. You were just that bored.

And horny. You were very, very horny.

That would be what got you in trouble.

You scoffed, pushing past him to lock the door. It took all your effort to slip the key in as your fingers trembled at the feeling of him hovering over you, his breath hot on your neck as he stepped closer to you.

This shouldn’t make you horny. On the contrary, it should make you afraid. But still…

When the door finally locked, you spun around quickly, tucking the key between your fingers like a claw – something one of the college policemen once told you about.

But Ettore stepped back – once, twice. And then the was pressed against the wall opposite you. His stare was still hungry, and you could easily see how heavy his breathing had become, but he didn’t advance.

“I have to go,” you told him, unsure why you were doing it. It wasn’t like you needed his permission or even wanted it. “I have an appointment with Dibs.”

His eyes darkened then. Not with lust or animalistic hunger, but rage. It was almost… possessive?

It was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by his usual empty stare. Still, you did not dare move, not after whatever it was you just saw.

“Can I…?” Ettore gritted his jaw and looked away, his hands balling into fists at his sides. You didn’t know if he was about to cry or kill you – and you didn’t know which would be worse. He still looked away from you as he continued, “Can I come here again tomorrow? Just to watch.”

You should immediately forbid it. It was wrong, it was a bad idea, and it was just fucking weird. But as the hour chimed on your watches, you realized you couldn’t leave when he looked so desperate, almost sad. And you definitely couldn’t say anything to make that horrible expression worse.

“Yeah,” you whispered. You turned as he looked back at you to shut off the alarm on your watch. Dr. Dibs would be pissed at you, of that, you were sure. At the moment, though, it didn’t seem to matter. Not when his eyes lit up again, not from any light, but with excitement. “If you have nothing better to do, I guess that’s fine.”

The corners of Ettore’s lips quirked up like he would smile, but he quickly corrected it and set his mouth in a straight line. He didn’t want you to know just how excited he was, but you did anyways – he wasn’t a great liar. Tipping his head in an attempt at indifference, he sniffed before speaking. “Yeah, wicked.”

You winced a little at his pathetic attempt to seem cool, but it faded quickly when your watch beeped again. This wasn’t an alarm or the chiming of the hour but a summons. If you didn’t obey it, you knew Dibs would happily use the stupid watch to deliver a steady stream of low-level electric shocks until you did.

She was just as much of a killer as the rest of you – worse than some, if the rumors were right. Why should she have such authority over the rest of you?

It was pointless to question it, and even the beginnings of the line of thought had ruined your mood. So much so that you didn’t say anything else to Ettore before turning away from him and stalking down the hall toward the infirmary.

After you had disappeared around the corner, Ettore took a deep breath, silently congratulating himself on handling that almost like a real person would. Then, he turned in the opposite direction as you. He was due to clean the canteen before dinner. But fuck that. He needed the Box – now.

Dibs had been pissed. Not only that you were late to your appointment, but that you were so obviously turned on when you got there. It wasn’t like you could hide it, not when she immediately ordered you into the stirrups and got a front-row seat to your weeping and flushed cunt.

“Have you been using the Box?” she asked, that sickeningly sweet smile plastered across her face.

You pursed your lips, looking away. “No.”

Her smile faded, and her eye twitched. “And yet here you are, practically dripping.” She reached for something on her tray, but you couldn’t see what. You had a pretty good guess, anyway. “Well, at least it makes my job easier.”

It had been anything but fucking ‘easy,’ you thought as you cradled your aching abdomen. Under the pretense that you were already wet enough, she had shoved her speculum into you hard and fast – and without lube.

If you thought her tests and procedures had been uncomfortable before… they were downright torturous yesterday. Especially since she conveniently ‘forgot’ to give you any numbing agents or sedatives. And definitely no painkillers.

Not even the sedative you were served with dinner had helped. For the first time since you boarded this godforsaken ship, you hadn’t slept.

Thankfully, you had little work to do in the garden besides waiting for the poppies to drop their petals. But you didn’t want to just wallow in your pain, so you decided to sit at the edge of the bed where your little willow tree resided.

It wasn’t growing very fast, likely because it didn’t have the room it needed or deserved. Still, you were happy with the progress it had made. When the ship first took off, it was little more than a bonsai. Now, it stood a good eight feet tall – the only plant you needed your step stool to tend.

In truth, it didn’t need much tending. Trees never do unless they are very young or something is wrong. But sitting next to it, examining the patterns in its long leaves and tracing lines up its trunk, was spectacularly soothing.

You had never considered harvesting anything from it. Not yet. It was too little still, and you didn’t want to risk damaging it permanently since you couldn’t simply order a new start. But as another pulse of pain surged through your stomach, you found yourself reaching for a lower branch.

All you needed was a small twig to chew on. It was an ancient Egyptian remedy, one that eventually led to the invention of Aspirin. And even if the sedative didn’t help, perhaps something more natural, something you had grown yourself, would.

You had just wrapped a hand around the branch when you felt a large hand close around your shoulder.

Instinct kicked in, and you whirled around, freeing yourself from your attacker’s grasp. Without processing who it was, you threw your arms out, shoving with all your might. “Get the fuck away from me!”

You only recognized Ettore after you had backed into the wall. He had also fallen on his ass and crawled backward on the floor – apparently, you were stronger than you thought. Any amusement at the fact died when you saw the anger burning in those eyes.

It was entirely possible that you just really fucked up.

But your adrenaline, from the pain and the scare he had just given you, was racing too hot and fast to let you consider that possibility.

“What are you doing?” you spat. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ettore’s face grew even more furious, if that was even possible. His eyes burned as bright as any fire you had ever seen. It was beautiful and deadly. “You fucking… you said I could come watch you!”

Damn it, you did say that.

But it was before Dr. Dibs had been such a cunt.

And she had only done it because he got you horned up like you were a pathetic high schooler.

“Well, now I changed my fucking mind!” you shouted. If you could stand, you would have. Towering over him and just screaming your heart out would feel so good. But you hurt too much to even entertain the thought. “I don’t want you here – I don’t want you!”

Ettore shattered.

You watched it happen as your venomous words left your lips.

His face fell, his eyes began to water, and even his tattoos seemed to go dull.

At that moment, he was not Ettore, the murderer, rapist, and monster.

He was just a boy – the both of you were barely more than teenagers when you left Earth – and he was broken.

You broke him.

You looked on in horror as his trembling lips set into a hard line that echoed in his harsh brow, and the tears in his beautiful eyes faded to reveal a primal rage that chilled your blood.

There he was.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

Ettore stood slowly, like a tiger rising from its crouch upon realizing its prey has no escape – that it could play.

But then he looked away from you, sniffed, and moved for the door.

His leaving without doing anything to you should have made you feel overwhelming relief, but it did not. Instead, a great yawning pit of guilt and regret opened in your chest, hurting nearly as much as your wounded core.

You tried to call out to him, take your words back, and apologize, but all that came out was a short yelp of pain. This time, it was accompanied by wetness between your legs – and not the pleasant kind.

As you folded over, burying your face in your knees as you pulled them into your chest, Ettore paused halfway out the door.

He’d heard noises like that before. From other women in pain – pain that he caused. His lip twitched, and his head tilted out of his control, the movement more animal than human.

You were helpless and apparently wounded. This was his chance.

But as he turned to face you, he caught sight of the poppies you so lovingly tended to the day before. With the memory of your soft smile as you cupped a particularly pretty bloom, one that was a deeper pink than the others, he was able to pull back on the reins of that instinct.

Just slightly, but just enough.

“You hurt?” he asked, his voice strained.

You nodded into your legs and lifted your head without meeting his eyes. “I think… I think I’m bleeding.”

Ettore was frozen, his hands flexing, relaxing, and balling into fists as he tried to keep hold of those inner reins. If he was smart, he would leave. Go straight to the Box and fuck himself until this hateful urge was gone. If he was a good person, he would offer his help.

He was not smart. And he was most definitely not a good person.

But something about you and those goddamned poppies woke what little was left of his humanity and made him want to try.

So, he just stood there, staring at your helpless form as he fought a vicious war inside himself.

You watched him. Watched as his eyes flicked over every inch of your body with dizzying speed, as various parts of his body twitched and flexed. You’d never seen anything like it before, except…

The vague memory of a play you went to on a middle school field trip reemerges. Your whole grade was reading Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and it just happened to coincide with the local community theater’s production of the play.

It wasn’t a good play. Even at twelve, you could tell it was objectively bad. But the man who played Jekyll and Hyde was decent (one of your classmates told you he was their pediatrician), mainly when he performed the ‘transformation.’ You hadn’t been able to look away as he contorted; every movement was desperate, halting, and frantic.

Not unlike how Ettore moved as he watched you.

When he came out of the fog that had settled over his eyes, which Ettore would you get? Did he even have a Jekyll to his Hyde?

You knew you should take the opportunity of his distraction to run. The infirmary would be best, but it would mean seeing Dr. Dibs again. You had no desire to admit that you needed her help. The showers were also an option, but it would allow others to see you in a weakened state. You didn’t want to admit weakness. Besides, Dibs would hear about that as well.

So, even though you knew it was stupid, you decided to take the biggest risk of them all.

“Ettore…?” You called his name softly, unsure of the pronunciation. Whether it was right or wrong, he didn’t seem to mind. He locked eyes with you, and his nostril flared as though he really was a predator and could smell the blood you were now confident was leaking from you. “I need your help.”

His eyes widened slightly, and he looked like he would run from you. But beyond another twitch of his head, he did not move.

“Please?” you begged. You felt pathetic, but you kind of were, so you tried not to let it bother you too much. “I don’t think I can stand on my own.”

Ettore’s brows furrowed at that, and his lips went from a near-sneer to a determined frown. Then, with a lumbering gait, he approached you in only a few steps, holding a hand out in front of him for you to take.

You stared at his hand for a moment, admiring the elegant length of his fingers. And then you realized: he was shaking.

It was subtle, but it was there.

Tilting your head, you looked up at his face. Apart from the slight widening of his eyes, it was again set in passivity. But what was more peculiar than his trembling or his expression was the fact that he was steadfastly refusing to look at you.

Indeed, those blue eyes were set on the softly swaying leaves of your willow, tracking their movement like the tree would attack him if he looked away.

You were so used to his eyes on you. Was it wrong that you wanted it back?

Before you could ponder the answer, you raised an arm to take his hand. He squeezed your fingers painfully as he helped you onto your feet.

The pain surged again as you stood, causing your knees to buckle the second Ettore let go of your hand. You stumbled, falling against his chest.

It was no more than instinct that had him wrapping his long arms around your shoulders and waist to catch you. An instinct that his brain was yelling at him to abandon you and let you fall.

It was too dangerous to touch you, to feel your soft skin as his hand accidentally slipped into the side of your overalls – why the fuck were the sides so low when your shirt was so short?

At the sensation of your hot breath against the sensitive skin of his neck, he let out an involuntary groan as he tightened his grip on you.

He had to get away. Now. As fast as possible. He didn’t want to hurt you. He really didn’t. But his blood was singing with desire, more intoxicating than any liquor or drug. Keeping his fingers from digging into your flesh possessively was almost painful, and he was so, so hard.

The reins were slipping…

You felt it, his hard length pressed into your stomach as you brought your hands to his chest to steady yourself.

You should push him away again. Slap him. Yell at him. Kick him as hard as you could right on that hard, impressively long length.

But you did none of it.

“I need to get to my worktable,” you whispered, “there’s a medkit there. And…”

You looked into his eyes, watching them dilate even further as you finished your request. “I’ll need help getting out of my overalls.”

That blue you were so entranced by was all but gone. Ettore looked like a man possessed, his breathing heavy and heaving as he lowered his chin to look into your eyes.

There was no way he heard you correctly. You knew what he was, what he had done. And you were smart, so much smarter than him. Far too smart to ever ask someone like him to take off your clothes. Even if it were to help you with an injury – an injury he still couldn’t see.

But then your eyes squeezed shut, and you fell forward to bury your face in his shoulder as you moaned in pain.

And then…

Then your right hand moved up his chest to wrap around his neck. Not to choke or hurt, but just to hold.

He expected your hands to be rough from working in the garden all day, but they weren’t. No, your fingers were unfairly, unbearably soft as they swept across his bare skin, coming to rest against the tattoo on the side of his neck.

When was the last time anyone touched him like this – tenderly and without fear? It had been years, even before he was put on this doomed ship.

Ettore almost came just from that simple touch.

More intense than even the extraordinary pleasure was the feeling of near calm that washed over him. It soothed the pain he felt in every muscle and quieted the violent, primal urges roaring within his chest. They weren’t gone, but they were further away.

It made it easier to take the reins.

“The worktable…” he breathed as his grip on you relaxed slightly. He still held you firm enough to keep you standing, but you no longer worried you would bruise.

You pulled away slightly, noting the way he whimpered and winced like a scolded puppy as you slowly removed your hand from around his neck. “Yes.”

He nodded frantically, sniffing and taking a few deep breaths. As if he needed to prepare himself for the short walk to the table. Then, moving with a slowness that suggested the motion took all his concentration, he lowered his arm from your shoulders.

When Ettore turned to the worktable, even with his other arm still around your waist, you felt a rush of unwelcome cold. Even when you were still clothed and the garden was kept at a balmy temperature.

He walked slowly. Perhaps you would have thought it was out of concern for you and your pain, but you knew by now that this was hard for him.

Indeed, when he pulled away after you were leaned against the table, a faint sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow. His breathing was still rapid, and his eyes were glassy, as if he were several shots in.

“Ettore?” When he met your eyes again, you looked down at the buttons on your shoulders holding your overalls up. He followed your gaze and made a choking sound when he realized what you meant. “If I let go of the table, I think I’ll fall.”

It wasn’t just his hands shaking now, but all of him. So much so that you couldn’t tell whether he was nodding or just shaking that badly.

Either way, he reached for the first button on your left shoulder. It took him a few tries, but he got it done. The strap fell, and one side of the overalls slumped, revealing the tight white shirt beneath that left very little to the imagination.

Ettore growled.

What the fuck? Humans don’t growl. At least, you had never heard it.

And yet he did.

A flicker of fear started in your chest, and you chose to focus on that rather than the bloom of something else lower within you.

He began to reach a hand, tense and shaking, towards your breast. But inches away, you caught his wrist. You had to lean further against the table not to fall, but you weren’t letting go.

“The other button, please.” Though you spoke quietly, the command was clear.

You only released his arm when he looked into your eyes and confirmed with a twitch of his lip that he heard you. He clenched and unclenched his fist several times before finally going for the other button.

It took him even longer to get this one undone. But at least he didn’t growl again when the other half of the overall’s torso fell limp around your waist. His eyes did linger on your breasts, but you let it happen.

You had great tits. And he deserved a little reward for helping you, didn’t he?

So, you let him have a few seconds to just stare. As long as he didn’t try to touch again. Because you didn’t want that, right?

Ettore’s gaze fell further, to where the overalls were just barely hanging onto your waist. You said you were bleeding, but he still hadn’t seen it. So just where was your injury?

His cock twitched, and he was sure you could see it through the thin scrub pants he was forced to wear as he realized what would happen next. “You need ‘em all the way off, eh?” He hated how weak and shaky his voice sounded, but he supposed it was better than growling. You hadn’t reacted well to that. “Do you need me to…?”

“Yeah,” you affirmed. Of course, you knew you should say something about burying your spade in his chest if he tried anything. But the fact that he was asking, rather than just ripping the garment off, made you feel almost safe in having him do this. Almost.

You would feel even better about it if you couldn’t see his dick straining against his pants and twitching almost as much as he was.

C'est la vie, you supposed. Though that probably applied more to something trivial, like your school’s football team losing a game they should have won, than you being forced to ask a serial rapist and murderer to take off your pants. But close enough.

You shivered when he lowered his hands to your waist, causing him to pull back slightly. “It’s fine,” you assured him. “Keep going. I’m fine.”

Ettore nodded and fixed his eyes on the bottom drawer of the table as he took the thin fabric of the overalls between his fingers and started pulling them down. Really, he could have just nudged them, and they would have fallen to the floor. But he kept them in his grip as he lowered himself into a kneeling position.

He never once looked at you. Not at your ankles, or your legs, or the apex of your thighs – which were covered with more blood than you expected.

Damn it.

You considered what to do next as Ettore remained on the floor, carefully slipping the overalls over your feet. A difficult task when he refused to look at what he was doing.

By the time he finished, and you felt very much like Donald Duck – shirt, shoes, but no pants – you knew what you had to ask.

It was the stupidest thing you’d ever done.

“As long as you’re down there,” you said, your joking tone flatter than you intended, “the medkit’s in the drawer just to your left. Can you grab it and… and help me onto the table?”

Ettore didn’t reply but yanked the drawer open and grabbed the medkit. After tossing it on the table, he rose. Then, still not looking at you, he wrapped his arms around you again – one around your waist, the other around your upper thighs – and lifted you onto the table.

God, you felt so good in his arms. You were the perfect size, like you were made for him to hold. Warm and soft and… wet?

His eyes shot to the arm that had been wrapped around your legs. And both of you looked on in horror as you realized it was now covered in blood – your blood.

For the first time, you saw a look of disgust come over Ettore’s face.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, voice breaking as tears of embarrassment began to fall. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, Ettore simply stalked over to the utility sink a few feet from the worktable and slammed the faucet on. He didn’t wait for the water to heat before shoving his arm under it.

You watched in humiliation, fumbling to lower your panties as he grabbed the soap and began to scrub. “I’m so sorry,” you said again, ripping open the medkit to find a packet of gauze you could press between your legs. “Ettore, I’m so sorry!”

He shook his head as he scrubbed harder and harder, until his skin burned from more than the searingly hot water. You were bleeding, you were hurt, and all he had been thinking about was how much he’d like to fuck you.

It had never stopped him before, not with any of the other girls. He had never minded having their blood on him. He savored it, actually. But it had been him who made them bleed. You…

“Who?” he growled, stilling his scrubbing but keeping the arm under the water. The burning distracted him from the desire to find someone to hurt. Because he needed to hurt someone. Badly. Preferably whoever did this to you, but he wasn’t picky.

You didn’t want to tell him, not when you recognized that look in his eyes. It meant violence – retribution. You had seen that same look in your eyes when you watched the recap of your trial from your cell, and your lawyer was telling the jury, in excruciating detail, why you had killed your victim.

For a moment, you thought about trying to pass it off as you just being on your period. But he wouldn’t buy it. Not after what you’d already told him. Besides, all the women on the ship were synced, and your periods were still two weeks away.

Finally fed up with your silence, Ettore shut off the water and turned back to you, not bothering to dry his arms. He just prowled back to you, standing between your spread legs as he stared deep into your eyes without a glance at your mostly exposed cunt. You turned away, not wanting to face the darkness in his eyes, but he grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him.

“Who?”

You bit your lip and fought to get free of his grip, but to no avail. Knowing then that it was hopeless, you locked eyes with him again as you said simply, “Dibs.”

He growled again, not with hunger, but with rage.

And then he turned away.

He would hurt her, you realized. He would kill her.

You weren’t opposed to the idea, but you were opposed to what would come next. What the other prisoners would do to Ettore afterward. And perhaps you as well, since he would do it for you.

Before you knew it, your hand had shot out to grab his shirt, and he froze.

“Don’t,” you pled. When you tugged on his shirt to draw him back to you, he only resisted for a moment before coming back toward you. “It was just her punishment. I’ll be fine. She wouldn’t… damage me permanently. She needs me intact for her experiments. I promise, she was just being a cunt.”

Ettore cocked his head and pursed his lips like he would argue, but you couldn’t have that. So, you lifted the gauze from between your legs to show him how the blood flow had already stemmed somewhat.

“See? It’s already getting better.” But your weak, reassuring smile fell when you realized what you had just done.

He realized at the same time, and he could not stop his eyes from dropping to what you just made visible to him.

His erection had begun to flag while he cleaned your blood from his arm, but there was no stopping it now. Not when he had a full view of what he had been dreaming of for weeks.

Just like the rest of you, your pussy was so pretty. He wanted to kiss it, stroke it, fuck it. His blood hummed with the desire, and he barely stopped himself from diving forward. He closed his fingers around yours where they bunched the front of his shirt. The feeling of your skin against his was his salvation, an anchor to his humanity.

Not you, he told himself.

Not you, who didn’t look at him in fear or disgust. At least, not entirely.

Not you, the only person since his mother died to touch him with anything other than aggression.

Not you, who had trusted him, even knowing what he was.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

“Please.” His plea was hardly more than a breath. Pathetic. “Please, let me go.”

For even with your touch, he was losing his grip on the reins. If he stayed here one second longer, he would do something he really didn’t want to do. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

You could see how much danger you were in, but you did not let go. No, you tightened your grip on his shirt, pulling him closer and closer until your forehead rested against his.

Finally, you could look into those eyes and remember the sky back home as you had wanted to for so long.

But the sky wasn’t enough.

You wanted him.

You knew you couldn’t have him fully, couldn’t do what you really wanted. Not when you were injured like this.

Still, you brought your other hand to his chest, feeling him shiver as your fingers traveled lower and lower. Finally, you rest your palm against his length through his scrubs, feeling a sense of satisfaction when his hips cant slightly forward into your grip.

He didn’t have to say anything for you to know he wanted this as much as you do. But, of course, he did. When was the last time a woman touched him there, let alone willingly? The thought should have disgusted you, but it didn’t.

Perhaps you were just as much of a monster as he was,

“Dibs will punish us if she finds out we did this,” you whispered, your lips mere inches away from his. “But I don’t really care, do you?”

Ettore shook his head, his eyes burning like the fires of hell, where you both belonged. He was so close to breaking, losing himself, losing control. He was little more than an animal following the primal instinct to mate.

But letting you take control – and you were undoubtedly in control now – made it easier. For once, it wasn’t him who had to pull back on the reins. Not when he gave them to you.

He nodded vigorously. He wanted you. He didn’t care that he didn’t deserve it. And he didn’t care that you were probably just as monstrous as he was. He just wanted you.

You smiled, pressing a single kiss to the corner of his lips before sliding your hand past the waistbands of his scrubs and boxers and taking hold of him.

He immediately let out a pitiful cry as his stomach tightened, and he had to concentrate so hard not to come before you had even begun to move your hand. It was only made worse when you giggled at his struggle. The sound was sweet and light and utterly infuriating.

Needing to shut you up, Ettore brought his hands back around your waist as he tugged you to the table’s edge. He leaned forward to kiss you, but you pushed against him, holding him back. Then, tensing, he grunted, a low, throaty sound and a begging.

“I know,” you whispered, mock sympathy barely disguising your amusement. “I know what you want. Believe me, I want it to.” You laughed again as you began to pump him slowly, collecting the precum on his tip with every stroke to ease your movements. “You can kiss me another time. Right now, I just want to look at you. Is that okay?”

His hands tensed around your waist, and for a few seconds, he looked like he would let that animal loose and lunge at you. Like he would kiss you with all the pent-up frustrations of an entire life spent unwanted.

But he stopped, looking from where your hand disappeared below his pants to your eyes. And he nodded. Not a small, weak movement, but a firm, final motion.

He would allow it.

He would allow you to do whatever you wanted.

You smiled broadly, and again, he had to hold back his release. He wanted this to last forever.

At last, you released Ettore’s shirt from where you had bunched it with your offhand, raising it to his neck. You traced each line of his maze-like tattoo as you sped your movements, savoring each wince and whine he let out. Cataloging each reaction to figure out, without him having to say a word, exactly what he liked best.

And what you liked best. You were particularly fond of how his eyes would squeeze shut, and his mouth would fall open each time you grazed your thumb over his leaking head, following a short trail up and down his slit.

It was such a mesmerizing sight that you brought your hand up from his neck to touch his face. Every movement of one hand was echoed by the other as you explored each feature.

The severe line of his jaw. His large chin. The sharp cheekbones and flat brow. His long, elegant nose. The pink plush of his lips, from which he let out such tantalizing moans and whimpers.

Once you had taken in every inch of his face, you cupped his jaw in your left hand to feel it work as you sped the ministrations of your right hand. His eyes squeezed even further shut, and he grunted like an animal. But you didn’t stop. You only went faster and faster.

“Are you nearly finished?” you asked teasingly.

Ettore cracked open his eyes, looking from your taunting smile to your hand, working him so skillfully, then back to you. He moaned almost inaudibly, and that animalistic hunger returned to his eyes. He had been locked in a cage for too long, and now you had set him free.

“Yes,” he moaned, almost too quiet to hear.

You brought your thumb to rest against his lower lip, smiling at the feeling of his increasingly frantic breath against her.

For so long, you had feared this man. And now he was reduced to putty in your hands.

With a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, you pressed your thumb further into his lip and let your other hand slow, ignoring his protestations. “Before I let you finish,” you said, your voice tauntingly innocent, “I need you to answer a question for me. Can you do that?”

Ettore’s body jerked wildly as he desperately tried to regain some of the friction you had just deprived him of, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

He knew he would do anything you asked him to then.

If you asked him to jump? He’d ask how high.

If you demanded he get down on his knees and beg? He’d do so happily.

If you told him to throw himself out of the airlock? He wouldn’t hesitate.

Compared to what he would do, what you actually asked of him seemed so simple.

“Fine…” he gasps, tightening his grip on your waist as though you would pull away. “What is it?”

You smirked, savoring that dark look in his eyes. How could you ever have been scared of it?

Then you squeezed his pulsing cock, just past the point of pleasure, to emphasize the power you held over him.

And, of course, he loved it. Groaning as his head toppled over into your shoulder. You carded your hand through his short hair as you whispered in his ear, “What feels better, my hand or the Box?”

Any pain, any embarrassment at being so pathetically at your beck and call, or any emotion other than his desire for you faded at the question. All that mattered was you and your perfect touch.

It felt wonderful even when you tugged on his hair quite hard to make him face you again. The answer was written on his face, in every piece of the complete, utter joy he felt in every inch of him, but especially where your skin met his.

“You,” he said, the word like a prayer. “You.”

Your responding smile was wicked, and you almost went back on your promise not to kiss him. But you resisted and began pumping his cock at a breakneck pace, brushing each sweet spot with every stroke and letting your pinky graze against his balls each time you came to his base.

It takes every ounce of what little restraint Ettore had to not scream at the overwhelming bliss. It was so much, too much. It was everything.

But what finally pushed him over the edge was you leaning in again to whisper against his cheek, “Just wait until you feel my cunt, Ettore.”

There was a sharp gasp, a guttural cry, a whimper, and a grunt, and then he was spent. Thank God his boxers were thick, or there would have been a very obvious stain at the front of his scrubs.

Ettore whimpered again as he looked into your eyes again, unsure what this meant or what would happen next. He was so drunk on his release that words failed him, or else he no doubt would have said something stupid and ruined his chances of actually getting to experience what you had promised just before he came.

You removed your right hand from his pants, wrapping it around his neck like the left, soothingly stroking the peach fuzz at the base of his skull as he came down from his high.

There was a new look in those blue eyes. Not hungry, not animalistic. Not angry or predatory. No, it was almost reverent.

Who would have ever thought that Ettore, the murderer, rapist, and monster, was capable of a look like that?

You parted your lips and leaned ever so slightly into him. “Thank you,” you whispered against his lips. “For letting me just watch. I think… after giving me that, you deserve a treat, don’t you?”

Ettore didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He could only stare at you as pleading vulnerability crept over his face. The look of a puppy begging for a treat.

Then, he nodded, his only pleading answer.

You ran a hand through his hair again, making him wait just a moment more. “Kiss me, Ettore.” His eyes went wide at the command. “Kiss me the way you really want to.”

His throat bobbed, and he nodded again, still holding your gaze. Then, before you could even take a breath, he pounced.

Ettore’s lips were hot on yours as he kissed you deeper and more passionately than you’d ever been kissed before. It took only a moment before it felt like your souls were melding together for how close he held you. He did not relent until you were both struggling for breath.

Even then, he kept his lips pressed against yours as though he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

“Thank you,” he said softly, the sound sending tingles up your spine.

You just sat there, smiling against him for a moment, wishing you could have taken him inside you. Perhaps you were fine now, and if he could get hard again, you could…

But then your watches both beeped the hour. He’d been there an hour. Someone was bound to notice he wasn’t scrubbing the halls soon.

So, you reluctantly pushed him away, heart clenching as he weakly fought to hang on to you. “I want to come back,” he whined.

You didn’t reply as you dressed again, your pain mostly gone, and pulled a clean rag out of another worktable drawer for him to clean himself. As you went to shut the drawer, an idea sparked in your mind. You grabbed another rag and ran to the sink, bunching the cloth as you moved.

Ettore looked on in confusion as you shoved the rag down and down into the drain until you couldn’t reach it anymore. But then realization set in, and he grinned wickedly.

You turned to him and returned the smile. “I think I may need to call maintenance tomorrow.”

#monsters in the garden #ettore #ettore x reader #ettore x you #ettore imagine #ettore smut #ettore fanfic #ettore fanfiction #ettore fic #high life #high life fanfic #high life ettore #ewan mitchell #Spotify

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to-thelakes · 27 days

Text

banged up (3)

pairing; frank castle x fem!reader

summary; frank unexpectedly meets your roommate willow and you begin to realise your feelings for frank.

warnings; fluff, hurt/comfort, soft frank, awkward frank, descriptions of injuries and memories of torture (not too explicit/graphic tho), suggestive themes, realisation of feelings

notes; part 3 is here my lovelies! we've got more soft frank, an introduction to willow (who uses she/they pronouns) and some realisation of feelings. this chapter is such super sweet and i am getting carried away with this fic. i love these two together so much and i just want them to kiss and get married and have babies. that's all.

masterlist

part one part two

When you heard your roommate - Willow - come back at 9am, you didn’t get out of bed. You hadn’t had a chance to look at yourself in the mirror and you really didn’t need her worrying anymore than necessary. So you let Frank deal with it. But you could still hear their conversation through the slightly ajar bedroom door and it made you smile (which made your face hurt even more than it already did).

“Hi,” Willow sounded unsure as she closed the front door and discarded her shoes onto the shoe rack.

“Mornin’.” Frank was cooking breakfast and you could sense the hesitance in his tone - trying to work out whether Willow was a threat. But he knew you had a roommate and considering they’d come in with a key, he didn’t immediately go on the offense.

“So you a friend of my roommate’s or…?” Willow asked. You tried not to chuckle, knowing it would hurt, as you listened to Frank’s boots shift on the floor. He was uncomfortable, you just knew it. He had never been over at your place when Willow had come back off the night shift. There was one close call a few weeks back but you had mostly kept those two parts of your life separate.

“Yeah, stayed over last night,” He responded. Willow let out a soft ‘uh-huh’ before she ran her hands over her face. They were exhausted.

“She in her room?” Willow asked. Frank was caught off-guard by the question and he quickly realized that he didn’t know if she knew about the company you kept during the nights. How would they react to seeing you bloody and bruised? Frank was surprised that your roommate hadn’t said anything about him considering his face had been plastered on the news more than once over the past few years. But they hadn’t shown any indication that they knew who he was.

“Mhm, gettin’ her beauty sleep,” He responded, gesturing vaguely towards the room. Willow nodded and ran her hands through their hair before letting out a soft huff.

“Cool, okay. Well, I’m gonna go to sleep. Would you two make sure to keep the noise down? It’s been a uh- long night,” Willow finally said. She sounded exasperated and you couldn’t blame her. You bit your lip, feeling a little guilty for not saying anything to them beforehand but you didn’t exactly expect this to happen.

Plus, you had spent most of last night in so much pain that you could barely think straight let alone have the foresight to message her about Frank being in your apartment, “You the guy she went on a date with?” Willow asked after a beat of awkward silence between the two. She was halfway to her bedroom door when she turned to look back.

“Nah, just a friend,” Frank dismissed. Willow nodded and then disappeared into her bedroom while Frank continued to cook. As you lay curled up on the bed, your phone dinged and you grabbed it to catch a glimpse of the screen; it was a text from Willow.

‘What the fuck is The Punisher doing in our kitchen?’ There was a brief moment before another text dinged through, ‘Are you fucking Frank Castle? I swear to everything that is holy…’ A giggle bubbled from your lips despite yourself and pain shot through your body in an instant. The brief moment of joy was replaced with burning pain as you twisted your face into the pillow, crying out.

Tears pricked at your eyes and you gripped your pillow underneath your hands. It made it worse but also gave your mind something to focus on. The ache in your fingers was much less painful than your stomach.

Another message dinged through and you tentatively reached a hand out to glance over it. ‘Good on you for getting that vigilante dick, better tell me about it later’ ‘Hook me up with Jessica Jones? Lord knows I need that woman to rail me’. You couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of your chest but your laughs were interspersed with cries of pain and coughing that only seemed to make every part of your body feel worse.

‘Must have been a good night… heading to sleep now, talk to me later xx’ The last message dinged through and you whimpered softly as you curled back up on the bed. Frank appeared a moment later with painkillers and a plate of food. His eyebrows furrowed.

“Somethin’ happen?” He asked. You shook your head and slowly pushed yourself to rest back against the headboard, “You need some painkillers?” You nodded. You had probably had the last lot around 3 hours ago when you had woken up to find Matt in the apartment so you were more than happy to take more. You needed it.

“You know how to get in contact with Jessica Jones?” You asked as your head fell back against the headboard. You adjusted your legs a little before taking the plate of food from Frank. His head tilted slightly, a questioning look on his face.

“Wanting to add her to your roster of vigilantes to take care of?” He asked. You shook your head and stabbed your fork into a piece of bacon.

“Nah, Willow needs a good railing. Thought you might have contacts,” You shrugged, a wry smile spreading across your face. Frank stared at you for a moment, painkiller bottle cap off and in his other hand. His face made you chuckle but that just made your stomach hurt and so you quickly wrapped your arm around it, squeezing your eyes shut as your fork clattered to the plate.

“You’re real funny, sweetheart,” Frank muttered. You nodded your head, completely serious as you forced yourself to recover from the pain.

“I’m hilarious. God knew I would be too powerful if I became a comedian so he gave me no social skills and vigilantes for friends,” You responded, the corners of your lips turning up into a smile. Frank shook his head in disbelief as you let your stomach go, the pain subsiding a little.

“Whatever you say,” He then poured some painkillers onto a spoon before he gestured for you to open your mouth. You took the spoon into your mouth and swallowed it down.

“Y’know if Willow needs a railing, I think I need to be in an orgy or something. Nobody’s given me an orgasm in fucking years,” You grumbled. Frank didn’t know what to say as he poured another spoon of painkillers, “I just want God to give me a man that won’t cum in two seconds flat and leave me high and dry.” You were just bitching at this point but after your failed date and your torture, you were really beginning to wonder what the fuck you had done to get God - or whatever being was out there - to hate you so much, A soft sigh escaped your lips.

“This really bothers you, huh?” Frank asked after a moment of silence. You huffed out (though that made your chest hurt) and shrugged.

“I just got tortured and they got every fluid out of me except one. I’m not saying I wanted one of them to fuck me but the least I could have gotten was fucked in that fancy fucking restauraunt bathroom before I got kidnapped. Y’know,” You explained. You were half-joking but also, not joking in the slightest. He tilted his head as he looked at you and you reached out for his wrist, guiding the spoon of painkillers into your mouth since he seemed to have forgotten what he was doing.

You swallowed the painkillers down before Frank pulled the spoon away and put it and the bottle down on the side.

His jaw clenched in thought as he tried to decide what to say. You could tell his head was spinning and it made your stomach turn (in a good way). Maybe it was because Frank had been taking care of you all night and he had been more attentive than any boyfriend you had ever had but you were sure that he would take of you if he fucked you. You found yourself almost wanting it.

“I need to piss,” You stated after a moment, distracting yourself from your unsavory swirling thoughts and giving the speechless Frank a reprieve. You had been fighting off going to the toilet for an hour or so, not wanting to face the thought of walking again. How you had walked last night was beyond you but you were desperate for the toilet so pain be damned, you needed to go.

“Come on,” He urged as he put the plate of breakfast to one side and got up from the bed. You shuffled around and wrapped your arm around his shoulder. He hauled you to your feet and with his help, you hobbled to the bathroom. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as Frank guided you closer to the toilet and you looked atrocious.

You were pretty sure you would have looked worse last night since you’d got the swelling to come down since but you still looked awful. Your face was covered in bruises, they were in various stages of healing but there wasn’t much of your skin that wasn’t discolored. Your left eye was bloodshot and there was a slash across your left eyebrow which made the skin swell. You definitely were going to have a black-eye when the swelling went down.

Thankfully, you didn’t see how damaged the rest of your body was but you knew that it wasn’t pretty. You could feel the sutures that kept your skin together on your arms. Without them, you would have bled out.

“Need me to stay?” Frank asked as he moved one of your hands to rest against the sink. You shook your head and he let your other hand move from around his neck. He stepped back, “Keep the door unlocked, yeah?” You nodded and he then disappeared out of the bathroom. A long breath escaped your lips, trying to work up the courage to step over to the toilet.

Despite the ice pack and the rest, your ankle still felt awful. You didn’t think it was broken but it was definitely sprained. You could vaguely recall a boot being stamped over it and you rolled it in your heels before you had been kidnapped. It was painful and putting even a little bit of pressure made you want to cry.

But you had to do it so you did. You limped to the toilet and pulled your underwear and pants down before you sat down. Your arms hurt and as you peed, you looked over them, taking in every suture and stitched up cut. You could remember how it felt when they sliced you the first time. After that, it became just a blur of pain.

Your wrists also looked awful. At first, they hadn’t bothered to tie you up. Instead, they put you in a dark room with lights that flashed intermittently to disorient you. Then, someone appeared, sliced your skin open wherever they could and disappeared. You hadn’t been able to fight back even if you wanted to. It all became far too much, far too quickly and when you had eventually collapsed, they tied you up.

Your wrists were still red raw, layers of skin stripped away. The rope had been the only thing keeping you upright for most of the time, you could still remember the burn in your calves. You sighed, pressing your hands over your face. It took everything in you not to start crying. You sucked in deep breaths, stabilizing your breathing before you wiped and clambered off the toilet. You dropped the seat, flushing and then going to wash your hands.

But the soap against your cuts made you whimper and hiss in pain, tears pricking your eyes. When you were done, you just rested your hands against the edge of the sink. The thought of moving made you want to cry and you were staring back at yourself in the mirror. Your eye really needed an ice pack.

There was a knock at the bathroom door and you said that Frank could come in. He nudged the door open as he looked at you. The tears were threatening to spill down your face at any moment and he frowned, stepping towards you.

“Hey, hey,” He murmured softly as he gently pulled you into a hug. His arms were tight enough to know you were safe without being so tight that it hurt your already battered and bruised body, “You’re safe now, you got that? Nobody’s gonna touch you.” You sniffled against his chest, tentatively moving your arms to wrap around him. You were trying so hard to be careful of the stitches, not wanting another one to pop.

“Don’t know how I didn’t tell them,” You admitted softly, “It hurts so much.” He nodded and pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Don’t understand how you can do this,” You added after a beat. Frank ran his hands down your hair.

“I know, sweetheart.” He murmured. You sighed, your bottom lip quivering as you held Frank a little tighter, “Need to eat some breakfast, come on,” He said after a moment, supporting half your body weight to head back to your room where your breakfast plate was.

Once you were back on the bed, Frank adjusted the pillows so you could sit up comfortably. Then he grabbed the other plate of breakfast food and the two of you sat together, eating in silence.

Frank’s presence was enough to make you feel safe and you didn’t want him to leave.

Despite your complaints, Frank left the house at around 6pm to get some takeout for the both of you. He had been with you all day, talking to you, lying down with you, feeding you painkillers and snacks and getting anything that you needed. You appreciated it immensely but the thought of him leaving the house sent your anxiety off the charts.

But he promised that he would be back soon and that he was a call away if you needed anything. So, you reluctantly let him leave with that in mind. But of course, the second that Frank leaves the house, Willow made her appearance. You were curled up in bed when there was a knock at the bedroom door.

Every single possible scenario ran through your head before Willow called your name, “I know you’re not asleep and Frank’s gone.” You sighed and told them that she could come in. Willow pushed the door open and for a moment, she was smirking. That was until she saw you and her entire teasing, smug demeanor dropped.

“What the fuck?” It was an involuntary response and you sent her your best attempt at a smile, “Was this him?” She snapped. You scoffed and that made your chest hurt.

“No,” You stated bluntly. Willow’s eyebrows furrowed, not believing you for a goddamn second. You probably wouldn’t have believed you either, “He’s the one that saved me. Got grabbed during my date,” You explained. Willow didn’t know what to say and so she simply pushed your bedroom door to and moved to sit by your side.

“What did they want?” She asked softly. You shrugged and they scoffed. You let your eyes fall closed, you were exhausted. It had been an incredibly long day.

“Just know that Frank found me, got me the fuck out,” You murmured. Suddenly everything made a lot more sense to Willow and they let out a sigh, pushing her braids behind her ear.

“Is that why he didn’t want me to see you even though I knew you were awake?” Willow asked. You nodded which made you wince, “Jesus, girl. Was it him that stitched you up?”

“Yeah, used most of the kit, sorry,” You murmured. Willow scoffed.

“It kept you alive, I don’t give a fuck,” Willow responded. You gave her a grateful smile before your head fell back down against the pillows. Just keeping your head up made you exhausted and you let your eyes close, “I’ve still got some of my prescription painkillers from my shoulder injury. You want them?” You bit your lip, debating whether that was a good idea, “I wouldn’t offer them to you if they would make it worse.”

“You’re not a Nurse,” You murmured. Willow chuckled and nodded their head, “But please,” You added after a moment. You were so grateful for even the chance at stronger painkillers, it hopefully would make it easier to function. Willow surveyed you battered and bruised form for a moment before she stood up.

“And I’m gonna wrap your ankle, it looks awful,” Willow stated. You let out a grumble of acceptance before letting your eyes fall closed. You just wanted to relax but you also felt so bad. Willow had enough on her plate without worrying about you. You knew that she had plenty of her own issues to deal with between family, friends, her ex. Her roommate being tortured really wasn’t something you wanted to put on them.

It was a few moments before Willow returned and she had a fresh glass of water in their hand. They placed it down on the side before perching on the edge of the bed.

“Before you bitch, I know you hate pills but you either take it like a big girl or be in pain,” Willow stated. There was no arguing with that tone and you groaned softly in annoyance before slowly pushing yourself up to rest against the headboard. Willow then placed the pill in your hand before you grabbed the glass of water. You put it on your tongue and instantly chugged the water.

The pill washed away with the tsunami water and it was gone. Willow smiled before she shuffled down to bed, “Gimme a pillow,” She ordered. You grumbled in annoyance before grabbing one from beside you and throwing it their way. She grabbed it, put it under your ankle and then began to wrap your ankle, “I have a question,” Willow said after a beat. You groaned, tilting your head back. Willow asking questions never meant anything good, they were a menace at their worst and nosy at their best. You grunted in annoyance.

“What?”

“The Punisher wouldn’t just stay around anyone’s house all day and night. I mean, he should have taken you to the hospital but he didn’t. Gonna explain why?” Willow asked as she continued to wrap your ankle.

“It’s complicated.” It was literally the only way to explain. You and Frank had always been complicated. You knew Frank because of Karen. She had asked for help with something Frank needed probably a year or two ago. Karen had been madly in love with Frank then. You had a feeling she still was but she wasn’t as obvious with it anymore.

But when Frank had found out you had helped (and knew he was alive), he freaked. You couldn’t blame him but he had found you and threatened you. It made you terrified to even go near him and when it was released to the news that he was alive, that terror turned to worry. Even if Frank was terrifying and vengeful, you knew he had a code. He hadn’t hurt you despite the fact that he had no reason to trust you wouldn’t tell people he was alive.

Karen had been worried about him too and she had somehow managed to rope you into a scheme to make sure he was okay when he had gone to the hospital. That then led to you helping break him out of the hospital with Dinah Madani, a literal Homeland Agent. It had been a weird time in your life but somehow Frank saw you as someone to trust.

So, one night, he found his way to your apartment as he bled out and you saved his life. Ever since then, he checked in on you every week and often came to you to get patched up - as did Matt. You didn’t exactly have any medical training but you had a steady hand and the best leftovers to feed the injured so they had both found you to be someone to trust.

It boggled your mind that you had grown a friendship with Frank especially after your rocky start but it felt good to have someone who you knew protected you. You also had called him more than once while completely trashed and he always came to pick you up and take you home like the gentleman he was.

But it was complicated. That was the only way you’d ever be able to explain your friendship with Frank because you didn’t think he would ever actually let you in and trust you. It didn’t really bother you but you sometimes just wanted to be there for him like he was for you.

“You want to fuck him, don’t you?” Willow asked bluntly. Your eyes widened and you used your good foot to kick her in the side.

“I want anyone to fuck me at this rate, as long as they do it right,” You snapped. Willow chuckled at your comment, shaking her head as they continued to wrap your ankle.

“I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to fuck him. He’s the only man who's ever taken care of you while you’ve been sick,” She pointed out. You scoffed, opening your mouth to rebuke that claim. The past few boyfriends you had hadn’t been all that bad but then you remembered every time you had been sick, none of them had come over. You groaned.

“Jesus Christ,” You mumbled. Willow nodded, glancing over at your down-trodden expression. It all seemed to make so much more sense now, “That’s probably why I wanna fuck him so bad, he actually pays attention to me.” There was a pause before you added, “Not gonna happen though.” Willow cocked an eyebrow before they returned back to your ankle, doing one more pass of wrap before she was done, “Willow, he lost his wife. Don’t think fucking anyone is his priority anymore.” Willow hummed in agreement before she pulled away from your ankle. It was wrapped up nice and tight but not so tight it’d block your circulation. It would just hopefully keep the swelling down for the next few days.

“He’s missing out,” Willow stated as you began to shuffle to lie back down. They moved the pillow with your ankle, keeping it elevated, “I’ve heard you give head, pretty sure those men go to a different universe.” Your eyes widened and you kicked Willow with your good foot.

“You perv!” You accused, pouting at her. Willow chuckled.

“Don’t suck your boyfriends off in the bathroom then I won’t hear it,” Willow shrugged nonchalantly.

You pouted, sinking into the bed, “Noted. I’ll keep giving head strictly to the bedroom.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Willow mumbled. You rolled your eyes and moved your arms to rest over your face. You were so tired but the prescription painkillers were at least helping. The numbing pain had been replaced with relief that was also making you drowsy as hell.

“I’m gonna go get ready for work. Will you be alright?” Willow asked. You nodded.

“Yeah, Frank’s gonna be back soon. I’ll be fine,” You dismissed. Willow nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead just as the apartment door closed which meant that Frank was back. You eyed her for a moment before she smiled and disappeared. Her and Frank shared a curt conversation before she headed into the bathroom.

You stayed where you were, eyes closed. Your stomach was turning in anxiety after that conversation. You did like Frank and it was ridiculous and terrifying and suddenly it felt like you didn’t know how to act around him.

“You and Willow close?” Frank’s voice startled you and you opened your eyes. He still had his coat on, wrapped snugly around his torso. A takeaway bag was in his left hand and there was a smile on his face.

“Yeah, they’re a fuckin’ menace though,” You muttered before slowly pushing yourself to sit up. Frank went to come over and help but when he realized you weren’t grunting or hissing in pain, his eyebrows furrowed, “She gave me some painkillers, strong ones,” You answered the question before he even asked it. Frank nodded and he placed the bag on the bed. He then unzipped his coat and pulled the beanie off.

You opened the bag and it was from your favorite Italian takeout. The familiar smell hit your nostrils and you groaned in excitement before unloading the bag onto the bed. Your muscles still ached and there was an acute sense of pain but the painkillers that Willow had given you were making it so much easier to ignore. You felt almost normal.

“Careful, sweetheart. You still got stitches,” Frank reminded you as he placed his beanie and coat on your dresser. He then came over to the bed and sat down across from you. He had ordered you pizzas from the Italian place down the street and you could have kissed him. You would have kissed him if you had the courage.

“Shouldn’t have got me my favorite then,” You responded, a wry smile on your lips. You flicked the box open and of course it was your exact pizza order. The grin spread wider and it hurt your bruised cheeks but you didn’t care. You grabbed the pizza slice and shoved it into your mouth, taking a bite. You let out a groan of appreciation, “Fuck, forgot how good this was,” You muttered, mouth full of pizza.

“Feelin’ better?” He asked. You nodded your head, a smile spreading across your face.

“Are you going out tonight? With Matt?” You asked curiously. Recently, the two men (despite their differences) patrolled together and then if they got injured, invaded your apartment for the night. That hadn’t been the case last night since from what you could remember, it was early when Frank had saved your ass.

“Nah, stayin’ here to make sure your sorry ass doesn’t get grabbed again,” Frank responded. A smile began to spread across your face despite yourself and you quickly shoveled pizza in your mouth to ignore the bubbling feeling of happiness, “That gonna be a problem?” He asked, noting how you seemed to have tensed up.

“No, no, I don’t mind. It’ll make me feel safer. I’m glad,” You rambled, “The painkillers are making me drowsy so… probably need the protection.” You added. Frank nodded and he continued to eat his own slice of pizza. The two of you fell into comfortable silence and for the first time since you had woken up to Frank taking care of you, you didn’t feel any pain. It was a mercy.

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #the punisher #frank castle x you #frank castle fluff #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x female reader #the punisher fluff #the punisher x reader #reader-insert #banged up

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