#whats it like having unmarred hair

[ddollipop]

CURB THIS SICKNESS. . . ! — ( SOFT YANDERE!PLAGUE DOCTOR OC X READER. )

#. synopsis! — there's a virus outside that's snuffed out the lights of many. . . and lucian refuses to let you meet such a miserable fate .

#. contains! — f!reader , explicitly nsfw content , multiple orgasms , vaginal fingering , implications of paranoia , cum swallowing , oral sex , cunnilingus , blowjob , vaginal sex , obsessive behavior , frequent usage of endearment terms (love, darling, angel) , missionary position , bathing , established relationship , slight choking , slight hair pulling , creampie , biting .

#. word count! — 5.1k .

#. oc carrd! — click here to find more information on lucian + other original characters of mine that i might write for in the future! xx .

When the virus began to spread in all directions from its alleged location of origin, —you were certain you’d be dead before winter. If not from sickness, then certainly from another disease, or at the hands of some twisted maniac just searching for someone to slaughter that nobody would care enough to miss. You thought it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to hunger or thirst or the changing chill of autumn, or maybe something completely different: but something was bound to happen, and you were sure of it.

And it did. . . But it was nothing like what you had in mind.

Lucian may have seemed like something out of a horror story passed down through generations, still clad in his working attire the night he scooped you up in his arms from a shabby alleyway like a stray kitten, but he was surprisingly gentle (and perhaps unusually quiet.) He wasn’t very talkative, but he cared for you in a way you were completely unaccustomed to, —prepared you a warm meal, brewed you chamomile tea, ran you a hot bath, and gave you a place to sleep for the night. He said you were slightly fevered and a bit malnourished, but all things considered, it could have been worlds worse.

“You’re lucky,” he hummed, a gloved hand smoothing over your jaw, “the pestilence hasn’t taken hold of you.”

Even back then, that wasn’t why you felt lucky. . . No, much to the contrary, you felt lucky because this man had taken you in without expecting anything of you in return, and he sought to keep you safe from the rot of the outside world. Thus, little by little, you stopped caring much about going out there. 

His place is a bit quaint for two, but it’s homey, and it smells perpetually of lavender. Over time, he’s shifted the sleeping arrangements, and now you rest in his arms each night; about as close as one can get to being a lover without having the label.

A part of you is sure you could get it if you asked, but to you, it doesn’t matter much. At the end of each day, he comes home to you, and that’s what counts. You take care of the housework while he’s away (not that there’s ever much to do.) For as odd as he is, his living space is free of most things, —no trinkets unrelated to his work (which you are not keen on touching), and he’s meticulous about picking up after himself and keeping all his items in order, so your unofficial duties are few and far between. Otherwise, the rest boils down to cooking meals, washing clothes, and keeping yourself entertained while he’s away. . . Like some kind of glorified trophy wife.

And sure, this will probably get old eventually, but for now, this is what you’re working with. He likes to have you close and to know where you are, —to know that you’re safe and not out getting infected by anyone or anything. If you’re at his home, you’re safe from all the filth of the outside world, and heaven knows it’s so nice to come home and lie next to a body so utterly unmarred by the grime of society.

You’re sure once the virus has stilled, he’ll ease up.

But tonight is not that night. Lucian all but stumbles through the door, and you can hear his rapid breathing through the long, beak-like shape of his mask. He seems startled and frantic, and you rush over, a concerned expression crossing your features.

“Lucian? Are you alright?” You ask, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

In an instant, he snatches your wrist and grabs for the other, holding one in either hand. His grip is fervent, but far from painful, and you become more confused the longer he goes without explaining the state he’s found himself in.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he cuts you off, “you mustn’t get near the door.”

“Okay,” you nod in compliance, “but why?”

“The pestilence has taken hold of this city,” he replies. “The air out there, you wouldn’t believe the thickness of that putrid aroma. It’s suffocating.”

Before you can ask if there’s something you can do to quench his worries, he tugs you away from the entrance and into the bathroom. He removes his gloves and sets them aside, reaching down to begin running a warm bath. Then he looks to you, almost expectantly.

“Strip, please,” he encourages, —saying it like he’s desperate for the act, albeit not necessarily under the context you’d prefer of him.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he hisses, “please, do as I ask of you.”

His bare hands cup your cheeks.

“Please,” he repeats.

It’s hard to deny him when he asks like that and has been so good to you, and it’s not as if he’s asking for a lot. He’s just having a bad night, and if scrubbing yourself down will help ease his mind a bit, you’re willing to put in that sliver of extra effort for his sake.

Lucian sighs in relief as you begin to disrobe.

“Thank you,” he comments. “I really don’t have a clue what I’d do if you fell ill. . . I don’t think my heart could handle such a thing.”

You slip the last of your clothing off and step gingerly into the filling tub. It’s not long enough to stretch out in, so you bunch yourself up neatly to fit the space and look up at him once more.

“I feel fine,” you assure.

“I’m glad,” he replies. “Even so, it’s much better to air on the side of caution. The human body is a dangerously fickle thing, and it can be incredibly fragile. I’ve seen as much firsthand more times than I can count. In its infancy, this virus is little more than a common cold, but progresses into something fatal at a rapid pace.”

You simply nod as he kneels next to the tub, rolling his sleeves up.

“Your breathing is ragged, Lucian,” you state, “you should take that mask off and get some fresh air.”

“After,” he answers quickly.

He reaches for the half-used lavender soap bar and lathers it on his palms, then reaches out to smooth the suds over your arms and neck. His motions are a little rough and all too urgent. This is far from the first time he’s accompanied you for a bath, but it is the first time he’s ever done so and been this aggressive in his approach (if only as a result of his own anxiety.)

For the time being, he seems to avoid your breasts, instead reaching for one of your legs to hike it up out of the water. He repeats this process with the other, cleaning you until he seems satisfied. When he makes no move to revisit your chest, you take the soap from his hand and lather it yourself, placing it in its previous spot before leaning back slightly and allowing your hands to travel where you’d have liked for his to go.

Lucian watches but doesn’t touch. Your fingertips nudge at your nipples, feeling them harden under the minstrations, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth. If nothing else, he should be getting the hint by now.

Surprisingly, you’ve never had sex with him in all the months you’ve spent curled up in his arms, sleeping in his bed. He’s watched you take care of yourself on a number of occasions, has helped with his fingers another few times, —and allowed you to wrap your hand around him once a few weeks prior; but anything beyond that has seemed to be off limits. You’ve chalked it up to his shyness, or perhaps his distaste for human contact as a result of the pestilence; but tonight feels distinctly different.

Even in his previous state of frazzlement, Lucian seems all too content to sit back and watch you fondle your own breasts, soapy fingers clutching and releasing in tandem. You’ve always liked for him to watch you do things like this. Though his mask obscures the view of his face, you just know his eyes are trained on you, soaking up every movement, and you like to think he’s drooling at the way you grope yourself for his enjoyment (and for your own.)

“Lucian?” You prompt, half-lidded eyes glancing over to him.

His shoulders straighten as you say his name.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says, words almost too muffled by the mask to be made out.

“You think so?” You smirk a bit.

“I do.”

Ah, but that’s nothing new, and it’s nothing he hasn’t shared with you before. On the very night he took you in and washed your hair, he smoothed his gloved hands against your scalp and mumbled about how pretty you looked, even with dirt still caked on your skin. Even covered in filth from the alleyways you’d been sleeping in, he thought you were nothing less than stunning, —a real vision to behold, and he’s never skimped on such compliments.

You pause for a moment, reaching out to grasp for his hands. He allows the gesture, though he seems a bit confused, leaning in closer to the rim of the tub as you position him to your liking.

“Do you think I feel feverish?” You inquire, placing one of his hands on your neck and another on one of your breasts.

He makes no move to pull away, firming his grip up almost instantaneously, as if he’s been itching to feel you this way.

“Perhaps a bit warm,” he mumbles, taking a moment to roll your nipple between two nimble fingers, “but body temperature is known to rise during times of. . .” he trails off, clears his throat, then utters: “arousal.”

You trail your nails down his arm, letting your head tip back again. His hands are a bit calloused, but they feel so good against your skin, and you let a few moans slip past your lips. It’s not often he touches you like this without his gloves on, but the flesh-on-flesh contact is electrifying.

“Not to worry you, but I do feel a bit strange,” you huff slightly.

Through the slightly tinted bath water, Lucian can still watch your hand as it travels between your thighs.

“I’m just a throbbing mess,” you hum, giving him a pointed stare; “but you’ll take care of me. . . Right, Doctor?”

It may just be your imagination, but you could swear you heard his breathing shudder at that request. You’ve never been this forward with him, but something apart from the facial expression that’s still hidden away tells you that he likes where this is going. His fingers clamp down on the column of your throat, squeezing just enough to make taking in air a bit more of a struggle, but not anywhere near hard enough to be fatal.

The bit about being a throbbing mess was by no means an exaggeration on your part, so you take matters into your own fingers for the time being, drawing circles on your clit beneath the water.

“Of course,” he finally finds the voice to agree, “—I’d do anything to keep you from feeling unwell.”

That is what you like to hear.

“Anything?”

“Anything.” 

His grip tightens on your throat again, for emphasis, and with that, he seems to come slightly undone.

“Darling, that’s why I’ve demanded you stay here in my home, —our home. It’s safe here, free of contaminants and filth and anything that could cause you harm,” he says, the words spilling out like he’s been holding them back since he first set his sights on you.

“The world outside is ill, not just this rotten city. I’m working tirelessly to combat this pestilence, but as things stand now, the safest place you can be is here. With me. You understand that, my love. . . Don’t you?”

You’re only half listening, but you nod in agreement anyway. Whatever he’s saying, you trust his opinion on the matter.

“Of course,” you gasp, almost slipping a finger inside yourself to the tune of his melodic voice.

“I knew you would,” he continues, loosening the grip on your neck again. “You know I only want what’s best for you, that everything I do is to ensure your safety, —to eliminate the possibility of you ever falling sick.”

“Of course,” you repeat, head growing cloudier by the minute. “You’ve always taken such good care of me, right from the very beginning.”

God, he’s so elated that you’re seeing things his way. The way this makes him feel is almost too much to handle.

“I try so hard, darling, I truly do,” he says, both hands coming up to cup your cheeks.

“Please, Lucian,” you mumble desperately, “I need you tonight.”

He complies, shedding his long coat and draping it over your shoulders once you’ve stepped out of the tub. The chill of the air against your wet skin leaves your nipples hard and sensitive, and as he leads you to the bedroom, you hope he realizes just what it is you’re asking for. His fingers are a plentiful start, and you just know they’ll feel so good stuffed inside you, curling to hit all the right places, —but they’re nothing compared to the cock he’s stingily hidden away for all this time.

Tonight, you want him in all his glory in the glow of the lanterns on the walls. You want to strip him bare and gag on the length between his thighs, feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth, tease every vein that runs up his shaft. It’s not enough to grind against him while you’re half asleep or hump his clothed thigh until you’ve left his pants damp and your pussy sopping, just begging to be fucked by this man who might just love you more than he could ever fear any virus that lurks outside these walls.

“Don’t fret,” he tells you, though it sounds more like a command than a gesture to soothe any worries, “just lie back. I’ll be sure to give you. . . A proper examination.”

You could cum just hearing that.

With half your body pressed against the headboard and his coat nearly slipping off your body completely, he sets to work in his underclothes and mask. It’s by no means an uncommon sight, but there’s something distinct about him this late evening; the way his black attire contrasts so beautifully with the stark paleness of his skin and the mystery it shrouds him in that you’re just dying to sink your teeth into. Everything hidden beneath that cautious wardrobe and that long mask. . . You’ve gotta have it. It’s a necessity.

His fingers, ungloved, begin softly with your calves, tracing senseless lines.

“I’m not so fragile,” you remind him.

For as oblivious as he can be, Lucian takes the hint, and by the time he’s reached your thighs, he’s content to give them the same treatment as your throat.

The way he splits you apart is almost painfully clinical, a thumb on either side of your lips, peering through the eye holes of his mask to admire the way your folds glisten in the orange lantern light. A few prodding strokes leave you biting your lip again, body waning in anticipation for the moment he finally turns his hand over and sinks the longest of his fingers inside you, —slowly, but deliberately. It’s impossible to see his expression, but you hope his mouth hangs open a little at the way your cunt suckles on his finger, encouraging him to prod more and maybe stuff another few inside for you to grind against.

There’s something about the warmth of his fingers that gets you off almost in equal amounts to the way he moves. Another finger inside, and you whine, halfway to an orgasm from this alone.

He’s not particulary rough in his execution, but there’s a clean meticulousness in every movement that leaves every cell in your body craving more, begging for anything he can offer. Months upon months of wanting, of dropping hints, of hoping he’d catch on and finally see things your way, —and at last, you’ve made it. And now that you’re here, you’re content to simply lie still and let him have his way with you.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, nearly choking on the words when the tips of his fingers brush just the right spot.

“Before you’re satisfied?” He sits forward a bit, resting his free hand on your stomach to press you down onto the bed. “Darling, I couldn’t fathom it.”

You will your upper body forward, grabbing for the hand on your stomach to move it up to your throat. He squeezes, scissoring the fingers inside you, watching closely as your body shakes and your eyes roll back a bit in ecstasy.

“I’ve tried,” he says to you suddenly. “I’ve tried so desperately to be gentle with you.”

You smile.

“I appreciate that,” you answer. “But I don’t want you to be gentle at the moment.”

“That’s a dangerous request, my love,” he warns.

God, you hope so.

You reach forward and grab at the beak of his mask, pulling it upward gently until it begins to slip off and reveal the handsome face underneath. Dark hair, dark eyes, but skin almost pale enough to be sickly, you meet his gaze just long enough to ask for permission, then lean in to kiss him on the mouth. It’s the first time, and it’s electric. He’s avoided this for months, —avoided your mouth, your unspoken pleas, all the passes you made for the sake of keeping himself at bay. But here you are now with two of his fingers stuffed inside you, his hand on your throat, and your lips slotted against his own.

“Please,” you murmur, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

And you can feel the restraints of his mind come unwound.

He’s no longer gentle in the way he fucks you silly with his fingers, hammering them over and over and over again into that delicious spot buried deep inside you, squeezing your throat hard enough to cut your breathing off. The way your pussy spasms as you cum is blissful, and he loves the way your arousal soaks his digits, loves the way your back arches, soundless moans spilling forth as he makes you orgasm.

“I fucking tried,” he says again.

It’s almost manic, so desperate and sort of pathetic in the kind of way that turns you on. This is the first time you’ve ever heard him curse, and it dawns on you that even the filthiest of words sound so unendingly elegant when they’re spoken by Lucian.

“I tried to be gentle. I tried to keep you safe here, —to shelter you from whatever forsaken wasteland remains out there,” he insists, his fingers still buried in your twitching cunt. “I just wanted to protect you.”

He lightens the grip on your throat as you lean in to kiss him again, cupping his face in your hands.

“You have,” you assure him.

“You take such good care of me, Lucian,” you mumble into his ear. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”

The fingers stuffed inside you slowly slip out, and reach for his hand, guiding them to your lips, taking his digits into your mouth to taste yourself on them. He watches with hunger and interest as you clean him with your tongue. He leans in to kiss you to get a taste of it himself, grasping your hair near the scalp and taking a fistful hard enough to make you gasp.

“I can’t let you leave,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe out there. When this pestilence has been subdued, I’ll do this all correctly. We can start from the beginning, and I’ll be a gentleman.”

“I look forward to it,” you answer softly.

“You’ll stay until then?” He inquires.

He’s clearly overreacting, but it’s hard to care when you just want him inside you. Lucian has seen death day in and day out, —so it’s no wonder it feels like it permeates everything around him. He just doesn’t want you to suffer such a fate, and you’re confident that you won’t, as long as he’s yours.

“Of course I will,” you answer.

It’s like something primal takes over. Suddenly his lips are on yours in a bruising kiss, and his hands are grasping roughly at your breasts, pushing you down onto the bed as he crawls between your legs. He pauses, hovering just above your dripping cunt, turning his head to sink his teeth into the meat of your thigh. It makes you squeal a bit, and he kisses the teethmarks he left behind as if in apology.

You can’t help but wonder how long he’s been yearning for this. It’s like every part of him is thrumming from the thrill of it all, and this man who has previously refused to even kiss you on the mouth is now stationed exactly where you want him, tongue lolling out to lick a solid stripe up your folds. He laps like a man starved, then spreads you apart with his thumbs to suck your clit mercilessly.

It’s good enough to make your vision go blurry, and you can’t seem to form proper words through the haze. Desperately, your fingers claw at the sheets of this mattress, and he moans against your hot cunt, sending a vibration rippling through your core that makes your back arch on instinct. You mumble something that comes out like gibberish, pussy convulsing against the flat of his tongue.

His arm comes round to press your hips down, forcing you to be still. It’s the kind of toruture you’re sure you’ll learn to live for. There’s only so much you can wriggle under his arm, which has a surprising amount of force despite his rather lanky stature.

From what little friction you manage as you attempt to grind against his tongue, you tip yourself over the edge and as the knot in your stomach unties for the second time tonight, he continues licking, lapping at the juices that spill forth.

He stands and reaches for the top button of his shirt, not bothering to wipe his face, chin and lips glistening with your aftermath. You watch him undress with lustful eyes, propping yourself up on your elbow, then slinking back against the headboard once again, resting your weary body against it. The quiver of your thighs doesn’t stop you from nudging at your swollen clit.

“I wanted to be a gentleman,” he comments, untucking the shirt from his pants and pulling the front open.

It’s not skin you haven’t seen before. In fact, you’ve seen every inch of him at one point or another; just never all at once, and now, you’re waiting with bated breath to see him completely exposed for your eyes only.

“I truly did. I wanted to give you comfort and security, —to love you as you deserve. And I knew from the moment I saw you that only I could give you exactly what you’ve always needed.”

You hum in acknowledgement as he continues to strip himself bare.

“But it’s so clear to me now that I’ve neglected you,” he continues. “This beautifully desperate display is all a result of my negligence. . . I failed to realize just how much you needed me like this. How much you needed the touch of a man. . .”

He sounds apologetic, but your eyes are fixated on his half-hard cock. The last time you saw it, he asked that you keep your mouth away; insisting it wasn’t sanitary to use it for such purposes, terrified that you might contract some sort of illness if you sucked his dick for the sheer enjoyment of doing so. This time, however, you have a feeling you’re well past that.

To test the waters, you let your hand fall away from your cunt, slipping off the side of the bed to kneel before him. He gazes down at you as you open your lips and let your tongue fall out, encouraging him to make what he will of it.

“My love,” he says, placing four fingers under your chin to rest his thumb against your tongue for a moment, “—I’ll make everything up to you. . .”

His free hand pumps his cock once, twice, thrice, —then he places it gently on the flat of your tongue, letting you feel the weight and the warmth of it. He sighs.

“Darling,” he groans, “ah. . .”

It takes very little for him to come close to cumming in your mouth, just a few minutes of sucking him off, listening to him moan, feeling him quiver at your touch. You hum with his member stuffed down your throat, and he cants his hips reflexively, an orgasm bubbling up beneath his skin.

Your non-dominant hand holds his cock steady while the other is stuck between your thighs, rubbing furiously at your clit, making you whimper along his shaft. When he notices, Lucian finds that wholly unacceptable and snatches you up to position you on the edge of the bed, relieving the pressure on your aching knees. You weren’t down there for long, but kneeling was hardly comfortable on the hard floor.

He spreads your thighs apart and smacks the pads of his fingers against your slit.

Whatever he’s doing, you’re sure you’ll enjoy it to the fullest, so you occupy yourself with his cock again from this new angle, bending awkwardly to mouth at the reddened tip. His fingers find their way inside you once more, working their delicate magic, brushing against all the right places. At this point, you’re more desperate for his dick to slip inside you like this, but you take what he offers in stride (and more of him into your mouth in the process.)

He’s vocal, and that’s utterly divine. His gravely moans and the pump of his fingers leave you cumming for a third time before his first orgasm arises, depositing a sizable amount of his seed into your mouth.

“I love you,” he huffs, —and if he were anyone else, you’d be certain it was just the oral sex talking, but no. . . Lucian wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it.

Of course, he’s made similar confessions over the months, and has certainly treated you like it long before he ever expressed it so directly, but still. . . It feels nice to hear it, if nothing else.

“I love you too,” you answer honestly, urging him closer with your arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m yours tonight, completely. . . If you’ll have me. . .”

“Oh, darling, don’t be foolish,” he remarks, kissing you deeply. “You’ve been mine since the moment we met.”

Your back to the cool sheets, he lingers over you now, his shadow looming over you so monstrously. There’s a stark flush of red on his face that has begun to spread down the length of his neck, and one of his hands finds its way to your breasts as the other smoothes across your thigh. The head of his cock kisses your sopping entrance, sending a series of chills from the top of your spine to the bottom.

His breath on your neck makes your chest tighten, and he finds your lips with his own again as he sinks inside you, filling you up.

“Lucian,” you whimper, helpless to his touch as he pauses, buried down to the hilt inside your cunt.

He presses a few gentle kisses to your throat, murmuring something about how nice it feels to be stuffed inside you. He feels your nails dig into his shoulders as you adjust to his intrusion.

“You must understand by now,” he says, mumbling the words right next to your bitten earlobe. “Everything I do is for you.”

“I do,” you gasp slightly. 

As he begins to move, your walls clench around him, and he exhales deeply against the junction of your neck and shoulder. You roll your hips to match his pace, but as he goes faster, that becomes fruitless. Eventually, you resign yourself to the fate of lying there against the pillows, speared on his cock, him making a mess of you as you moan uncontrollably.

This was everything you’d been hoping for and then some, like some erotic dream come to life. Lucian’s lips travel where they please, —stopping to peck at your jaw, then to suck on your throat. Your breathing is haggard, and he smooths a hand down your side, resting it against your hip for a moment.

“Just a little more,” he whispers, as if to be reassuring.

“Just look how stunning you are, angel,” he murmurs, “how pretty you look like this.”

He kisses you once more.

“You take this so well, like your body was made for me.”

You’re delirious enough to believe that might be the case.

His cock pounds a little harder, and he hits the perfect spot, tearing a desperate yelp from your throat. You’re overstimulated and weak, but your high is itching just under your skin, and you couldn’t bear to see it disappear.

“Please,” you whimper to him, completely at his mercy, “—please, I’m so close.”

He loves the desperation that clings to your voice. The hand on your hip travels to your clit, pressing roughly against the abused little button, making you jerk slightly. He rubs a few heavy circles against it, and you come undone, cunt spasming around his cock as he chases his own release inside you.

Lucian is sloppy near the end, which may just be the only time you’ve ever known him to not be perfectly calculated and precise. His breath hits your neck again, over and over as he huffs through the hunt, finally sinking his teeth in when he comes to a finish. His cum sits hot inside your cunt, and he catches his breath for a moment, head resting against your throat.

“I apologize,” he utters. “I hope that wasn’t too much for you.”

You exhale slowly, his cock still buried in your heat.

“Don’t apologize,” you murmur, “I enjoyed myself.”

You feel him smile against your neck.

“I’m glad, darling.”

For the first time, he sleeps next to you without clothing, letting you touch every part of him, tangling your limbs together. Your face buried in the crook of his neck, breath fanning softly against him, as close to sleep as you can manage without tumbling over the precipice, Lucian reaches for his long coat and drapes it over your body, holding you closer.

[sp0o0kylights]

Indie horror filmmaker Eddie Munson, high off his first big (underground but notable) success, knows the movers and shakers of the film world have their eyes on him. 

They're just waiting to see if he was a one hit wonder before they open all the doors he's been trying to kick down. 

His next upcoming film is his chance, his shot at finally making it. Of being like Rob Zombie and the other creators he looks up to that masterfully blended metal and horror. 

This is his golden ticket. 

The project starts off smooth. His last success has greased the wheels, and things fall into place faster than ever before. 

He's got the best idea for this insane haunted house story, a true "mazes in mazes" type of deal with a queer twist. A real look at how a place can haunt a person just as easily as a ghost can.

 Everything's going swimmingly--until one of his leads drops out the day they're due to start shooting.

No call no show's, and later, Eddie will find out the guy got a last second call back to be a contestant on one of those Love Island bullshit romance gigs (and laugh his ass off when the main love interest takes one look at Billy Hargrove and goes on a five minute rant about ugly mullets on national television) but right now? 

He's fucked. 

He's called in every favor he has for this film. Maxed out every credit card he owns, tapped every contact, got on his hands and knees and begged his rising star journalist best bud to help him market it. (Which Nancy agreed too, for way less cash than she should have.) 

 Eddie can't get anyone on the phone, much less find a replacement actor and the amazing place they rented, that is so dark and wonderfully eerie, is booked out the rest of the year as an AirBnB. 

If he doesn't film now, he loses it all.

Cue the other lead, unknown theater actor Steve Harrington, watching his hair pulling, tire kicking, 'cursing and hopping while holding a toe' mental breakdown and asks why Eddie himself doesn't act in it. 

"Just go full Kevin Smith man. Act and direct." He says, with an easy grin. 

Jeff, Eddie's tried and true videographer, trades glances with Gareth and Grant (Eddie's long used special effects and makeup team, who double for about twelve other jobs because they're also his best friends and they're all in this together, make or break.)

"We don't really have a lot of other options." Gareth hedges. "You're already using me and Grant as background characters." 

Eddie, hands fluttering around his face as though trying to wave away this entire situation, squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a pained hiss. 

"Fine, fine!" He announces with the air of a man running towards a fire. "Fuck it, this is our one shot and so help me I will be shooting it!" 

Steve politely hides a laugh with a cough. 

"Chuckle all you want big boy, I'm going to tragically romance you so hard people will forget both of our characters actually live." Eddie snarls.

Steve, the handsome bastard, just winks.  "Looking forward to it." 

Eddie blushes, but hides it with a surge of frantic energy, conveyed by lots of yelling and moving and getting the ball rolling. 

Two days later, Steve would give the performance of a lifetime down on his knees, covered in a literal pound of fake gore, booty shorts and nothing else as he sobbed about how a lover could become a home. His hands clawed at Eddie's jeans before resting a tear stained face on a slim leg as he bent his body towards Eddie like it hurt to be away from him. 

Eddie would later receive equal praise in his own acting during the scene, with the world and every reporter in it asking how he conveyed an otherworldly panic so beautifully throughout Steve's performance. What was he thinking, to evoke those expressions on his face? 

The way his own pale hand, unmarred by blood and acting as a metaphor for the plot, would come to stroke Steve's cheeks.

Eventually he'd come up with a smooth polished answer that cheekily pleased his audience, but nothing would ever come close to the truth. 

("Eddie I've known you since grade school." Jeff said that night, a scant few hours after they'd wrapped. "You can act man, but not like that." 

Eddie made a wild "shut up" gesture, looking frantically over his shoulder before admitting; "You saw how close his face was to the prince of darkness!? I was seconds away from popping a boner next to his lips, in front of the 4K camera!” 

Eddie bounced into Jeff’s face so he could hiss: “He fucking had his chin on my thigh, Jeff, and I am only a man. A mere mortal!" 

"So we're gonna unpack all of that later." Jeff said finally, when he'd managed to get his mouth working and Eddie back out of his personal space. "But dude, we've talked about you calling your dick the prince of darkness." 

Eddie flipped him off.) 

One year later and critics named Corroded the best horror film of the year, praising the camera work, practical effects, and how there wasn't a soul alive who was surprised to hear Eddie and Steve were dating after their explosive on screen chemistry.

No one ever quite understood the prince of darkness jokes or why Steve mentioning it made Eddie blush, but that was a secret to find out later. 

Today on WIP’s I have no intention of writing, indie horror movie AU!

[futureman]

his favorite girl, part ii

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: keeping things professional only works if both parties are in agreement. after a heated first lesson, it's clear you and joel aren't.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, no outbreak, guitar teacher!joel, age gap (30 years), slow-burn, smut, angst, m&f masturbation, mentions of regret and shame

word count: 3.6k

series masterlist | part i

Adrenaline hasn't stopped pumping through your veins since you left your guitar teacher's house. Joel's house.

It's hard to even think his name now that you know what it's like to moan it for him, to feel his body tense and tighten like nylon strings as you tune him to your pitch. The things that man could teach you with all of his experience and endless patience...wait, no. No.

How to play guitar—that's the only thing you need from Joel Miller. Nothing else. God, what the hell is wrong with you? That stupid daydream has been running through your head on a loop ever since you got home and it really shouldn’t be. It was a mistake, one that almost cost you your entire future, and yet you’re still so hung up on it.

On everything you learned during your short, disastrous guitar lesson, the intimate knowledge you’ll never be able to forget. Like the fingering for the chord he showed you, or that he makes the neediest sounds when his body's pressed up against yours and his fingers are so close to where you need him, inches away from—

Stop.

The freezing cold shower you just took is about to be rendered useless at the rate you're going, and tomorrow’s lesson won’t be far behind if you can’t get your shit together.

But you can’t stop yourself from wondering—how much of it was real? You toss your hair over your shoulder, ignoring the icy droplets trickling down your back, and the bruise you’d imagined he left isn’t there. Instead, the mirror taunts you, reflecting smooth, unmarred skin that only serves as a harsh reminder of your fuck-up.

You’re more disappointed than you should be. It would've been the only piece of physical evidence you had proving what happened earlier wasn't all in your head. That maybe he reciprocates even a fraction of what you feel. But it's for the best. Now you can move on and focus all of your mental energy on staying present tomorrow so he won't rescind his offer to continue your lessons.

You'll have to keep things totally professional. The diligent college student, eager to learn and dedicated to her studies—that’s you, all right. It shouldn’t be that hard to stay focused for one measly hour, not when those thick, talented fingers of his are so captivating and capable of so many useful things. Guiding you through the next few bars of that song, slipping beneath the waistband of your—

Fuck it, you're doomed.

There's no way you can handle this. He's just too distracting, and you're way too easily distracted. Judging by the way he reacted to your inappropriate behavior earlier, you're starting to wonder if he can handle it himself. He was a little too quick to touch you, to sit so close that you could feel every instruction he gave you rumbling in his chest.

That familiar heat’s starting to build in your belly, and you know it’ll boil over the second he’s within reach again. You have to get this in check before you see him tomorrow or you’ll be royally screwed, and not even remotely in the way you’d like to be.

But it’s getting harder by the minute. It’s all too fresh in your mind, and you can practically still feel the drag of calluses across your skin and the weight of his arm slung over your shoulder. His fingers twitching in your desperate grasp like he was just itching to trace a knuckle down the soaked fabric between your legs.

You don’t remember how or when you got into bed, but you suddenly find yourself lying on top of your damp, unfastened towel, your bare breasts exposed to the cool air of your bedroom, and your fingers grazing your hardening nipples as you snake them down your body.

The second your fingers slide through your embarrassingly wet folds, you're a lost cause. God, that's good. You're so wet for him, and he's not even here to see you, to feel what he does to you.

You press down on your clit and pretend it's his solid chest tucked against you instead of your shitty dorm mattress, and his rough fingertips swirling masterful circles around your slick nub before dipping achingly slowly inside you.

Shit, you're going to cum soon, so much quicker than you normally do. But maybe this is exactly what you need to get him out of your system. Maybe cumming as many times as you can to the thought of your hot, middle-aged guitar teacher is all it'll take for you to finally get over this stupid, dangerous schoolgirl crush. To get on with your life and earn your fucking college degree.

Joel Miller. You erupt around your fingers with his name hot and heavy on your lips, but it’s…not enough. It's fine, that's totally fine. You'll just go again. As many times as it takes.

But by your third orgasm in as many hours, you realize you’re only making it worse. The aching emptiness you feel every time you cum is almost unbearable. Even as you fuck yourself on three of your fingers, desperately trying to fill yourself up the way he would, it's still not enough.

It’s not him.

God, what are you supposed to do now? Can you really face him tomorrow knowing that you spent the entire night gushing around your fingers, pretending they were his?

And what if he tries to touch them again? Shit. Shit. You just keep making dumber and dumber decisions when it comes to him.

So...maybe you can forgive yourself for making one more. You know that you couldn't have imagined everything earlier. That dark, hungry look in his eyes when he told you flat out that he didn't pull away from you on purpose—he has to want you as much as you want him. Right?

He just needs a nudge in the right direction. A green light so he can push aside those polite, southern manners just long enough for you to both get what you need. Then, you can continue your lessons distraction-free.

After all, you did your finger exercises tonight just like he told you to, and teaching is always more effective with a little positive reinforcement.

Yeah, this will totally work.

Joel’s been rock hard ever since you left his house.

He’s still sitting on the couch in the same spot you occupied just a few hours earlier, his mind running a mile a minute, hands clenched painfully at his sides so he doesn't touch himself.

Christ, you're young. Much too young to be this desperate over or to consume his every thought the way you have since you shoved his hand between your thighs, moaning his name like his fingers were already buried in your tight cunt.

He can't do this. His own fantasies are starting to concern him. He's never this vulgar. Not since he was a stupid kid in high school, picking up girls and bragging about it to his buddies. But that's how you make him feel. Like a stupid, horny kid.

C'mon, dirty old man. Get your shit together.

This is why he never should've agreed to start taking on students. The second you walked through his front door, he should've known he was in for it. Those bright eyes, ever-observant and eager to learn, and delicate hands, clutching the handle of a guitar case much smaller than his own. He wanted to help you with your class, he really did.

Wants. He wants to help you, but he feels like he can't trust himself around you anymore, if he ever did in the first place. Still, he made his old bandmate—your professor, now, he guesses—a promise that he didn't intend to break. Not until he actually met the student in question and discovered, to his horror, that you were his every wet dream come to life.

When you picked up your tiny guitar, a baby version of his own Taylor six-string, and began to strum clumsily with your beginner's touch, he couldn't help himself.

All he could think about were those dainty fingers wrapped around his cock. Teaching you how to stroke him just right, his hand guiding yours up and down his length the way yours were shifting up and down the neck of your guitar as you hopped from fret to fret.

Shit, he's fucking hard.

It's not going away anytime soon, either. Maybe if he just...takes care of it. Jerks off, quick and dirty, thinking about the smooth pad of your thumb circling the head of his cock while he leaks precum onto your fingers. He'd cum so quickly imagining himself splattering his release across your plush lips, his name on the tip of your tongue.

His jeans are halfway down his thighs before he can think twice about it, and he hisses in a sharp breath when he finally begins to pump himself, tight and focused toward the tip just like he'd tell you to.

He was right. He's not going to last long. That's probably a good thing. The faster he can get you out of his system, the better, and then he can forget all of the things he did to you. He's more than ashamed at how quickly his balls start to tighten when he remembers how intimately you let him touch you. How fucking crazy you drove him.

The living room fills with the echoes of his stuttered groans and skin slapping against skin as he frantically fucks his fist, lost in the memory of his lips dragging across your bare shoulder and the heel of his hand grinding into your soaked, clothed pussy.

Then, he hears it so clearly through the haze of his pleasure—your voice whimpering his name, begging him to take care of you. He barely has enough time to tug up his shirt before he's cumming hard across his stomach and dribbling down his knuckles. Christ, you'd look so fucking good on your knees right now, sucking the release off his fingers.

Not good.

What the hell is happening to him? This desire, this need, it isn't who he is. And all of it over a beautiful girl. A very, very beautiful girl. He sighs, running his clean hand frustratedly down his face, fighting to ignore the cum drying uncomfortably on his skin.

It's not just that, and he knows it. It isn't your youth, either. It's...your passion. Your kindness and determination, even in the face of adversity.

It's you.

But he can't have you, no matter how much he aches to. You deserve better than an old, washed-up musician with bad knees and high blood pressure. You need someone who can really take care of you, and he's already decided that isn't him.

Come tomorrow, he'll keep things professional like he said he would. He'll keep his distance and teach you everything he has to offer. Be the guitar teacher he should've been from the beginning.

You're both adults, perfectly capable of controlling yourselves long enough to get through an hour-long lesson.

Yeah, this'll work.

You're late.

Not a great start to your second lesson, but then again, that seems to be your M.O. these days. Not this day, though. Today, all of that changes.

You take a deep, steadying breath before your fist connects with sun-bleached oak, and do your best to focus on the warm, mid-September breeze instead of the impatience and anticipation threatening to swallow you whole.

Now that you're back here, standing on his porch, you're beginning to realize you're actually excited to see him. The anxiety you felt last night has given way to a strange sense of relief and a fresh wave of want. It's like your body can sense him and all of the things you're about to learn and experience.

His broad figure comes into view through the foggy glass paneling of his front door, and then after a strenuous 24 hours, your guitar teacher is within reach again—Joel. His name is Joel. You’re going to have to get used to saying it without your breath catching in your throat or he’ll know. He'll see your intentions clear as day and you'll never get to moan it for him again.

“Hey, you, uh...ya made it," he says breathily, frowning down at his watch. He's panting, and there's a gentle flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck, disappearing under the collar of his navy blue T-shirt. “I was startin' to get a little worried there."

You smile apologetically, turning to nod back at the piece of shit Chevy parked in his driveway. It's old as dirt and somehow always manages to act up when the weather gets too hot.

"I had some car trouble," you tell him sheepishly, throwing a disdainful look over your shoulder before facing him again. "I should've called. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, offering you a small, if not subtly strained, smile in return. You can tell he's relieved you didn't call, even if he's too polite to say it.

"S'alright, m'just glad you're here now," he says tightly, shifting from one foot to the other as he continues to stand awkwardly in the doorway.

Well, this isn't good. You can take a pretty decent guess as to why he's acting so strange, but you're not sure how to even begin diffusing the situation. Inviting yourself in wouldn't be a terrible first step, but he already seems nervous as hell, and you're afraid he'll spook.

He's still thinking about yesterday. It's evident in his stance and the tension visibly building in his biceps and shoulders. What you wouldn't give to relieve some of that stress—but you can't do much of anything while you're still stuck at an impasse, sizing each other up for two very conflicting reasons.

Hiking your guitar case higher up on your shoulder, you gesture as delicately as you can to the door he's still hiding behind.

"Is it okay, um—should I...come inside?" you stumble over your suggestion, your words conveying none of the confidence and allure you'd hoped for.

Come on, buck up. Be the girl who made him question his self-control; the girl who made his eyes turn so dark, you thought you'd lose yourself in them and never find your way out. You meet those same eyes again with a playful darkness of your own.

"Or did you wanna continue what we started yesterday out here on your porch?"

He does startle at that, but luckily it's the push he needs to finally let you into his home.

"Y-yeah, yes. M'sorry, 'course ya can," he mutters, shaking his head as if he'd been in a trance the entire time. "Didn't mean to keep ya standin' there. Come, uh...Christ, come on in."

Good. Entranced is good.

He holds the door open for you like a perfect gentleman, and your chest drags across his as you squeeze past his large frame and into the entryway. It’s an unsubtle and potentially cheap move, but neither of you pretends it wasn’t on purpose. He sucks in a harsh breath, seizing up until you're past him and taking in the quiet comfort of his living room.

Last time, you'd been too distracted to notice all of the little details and odds and ends that make the space so distinctly Joel, but now that you're really paying attention, it's...charming. The stacks of CDs next to his guitar stand, some in cases and some not, and the varying brown tones of his shag rug and leather couch feel warm and inviting. Just like the man who spends his days and nights here.

Being here suddenly feels intimate in a different capacity than before. Heat begins to bloom in your chest instead of between your legs at the idea of creating music together, a variation all your own, heavily influenced by the history all around you. The abrupt shift takes you by surprise, but it's not unwelcome. If anything, it increases your sense of urgency.

So you let it draw you in, back to where your next lesson and, hopefully, everything you have in store for Joel will take place. That same cushy spot you dreamt about all night while you fucked yourself with your fingers, and that he, unbeknownst to you, lingered while he fucked his fist to thoughts of you.

Looking back over your shoulder, you catch him watching you. There's a curiosity there and an undercurrent of something darker that makes your stomach swoop. He's still flushed, even more so than before, despite his AC kicking to cut the heat and oppressive humidity you brought in with you.

But then he blinks and it's gone again. Left in its place are the kind, if not extremely guarded, eyes of your patient guitar teacher. He's so good at that. Maybe a little too good.

You twist around, heaving the soft case off your shoulder so you can plop down on the couch. He winces out of the corner of your eye when you land on his spot, and his fingers twitch restlessly at his sides as you pull out your guitar and set it across your lap. Lifting an eyebrow, you wait for him to make a move, but he seems stuck in place. Conflicted, almost, like he's fighting himself.

You need him closer. You need him to loosen up. Most of all, you need those thick, insistent fingers inside you before you lose your damn mind.

"Joel? You coming?" you ask expectantly, moving your hands into place over the frets and strings.

At that, he downright grimaces but nods nonetheless. He mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like self-admonishment as he putters across the room to pluck his guitar from its stand.

Instead of sitting beside you, he pulls up a chair in front of you, putting enough distance between himself and the couch so you can heed his instructions, but not be tempted to touch. Whether that's for his benefit or yours, you're not entirely sure, but you shiver at the thought. He notices.

"Y'need me to turn down the AC? 'Cus I can handle that real quick before we get started," he sounds a little too eager to get away from you again, so you hurriedly reach out to grab his hand before he can make his escape.

"Woah, hold your horses. It's totally okay. I'm not cold, I promise," you try to reassure him with a chuckle, attempting to soothe the palpable tension in the air. Those rough, time-hardened fingertips brush against the delicate skin of your inner wrist, and you instinctively tug him closer.

But he resists. He carefully pulls out of your grasp and sits back down, returning to a safe distance and refusing to make eye contact.

That's not a good sign. At all. You can't help but feel a little ashamed at his reaction. It was never your intention to push him, but you also hadn't expected him to be repelled by just the sight of you.

Maybe you misunderstood your last conversation? Or maybe it really was all in your head, even after you stopped daydreaming. It's entirely possible you only saw what you wanted because you wanted him. You bite your lip anxiously, shifting away to offer him more space.

"Hey, is everything okay? You seem kind of...off today," you press him hesitantly. "Look, if this is about yesterday—"

"S'nothin' like that. We agreed it was water under the bridge, right? Two adults keepin' things professional," he cuts you off, kindly yet firmly dismissing your concerns.

He meets your eyes again, and they're clearer, now. His voice, too—unwavering and more sure than it's been since you got here.

Oh. This is a reminder. A gently worded warning for both of you.

Okay, that's totally okay. It has to be. He's right, anyway. You keep forgetting how important these lessons are, and he's just being the reasonable, responsible adult who wants to keep you on track, no matter how nervous you make him.

Shit, you wish that didn't turn you on so much. You tell yourself to ignore it. Your mission's a bust, anyway, and he's clearly not interested. You ignore how badly that hurts, too, while you're at it.

"Yeah, of course. Totally professional," you repeat back dejectedly, and you will yourself to mean it. But he never makes it easy, does he?

"That's my girl," he smiles so, so handsomely, and you're forced to bite back a frustrated groan.

How he manages to look so genuine and innocent while he says things like that, you'll never understand. What's worse, you have no doubt he actually is.

Joel Miller. 56 years old. Your generous guitar teacher whose only goal is to share his craft in that syrupy sweet twang that sounds like the sweetest music to your ears.

Just your luck.

thanks for reading & stay tuned for part iii <3

(dividers by @saradika & @inklore)

[yuutaok]

₊˚⊹♡ Puppy! Yuuta has been rotting the brain for sometime ♡

Yuuta is so sweet and excitable. He’s such a good boy, always listening to your commands and rarely ever misbehaves. Yuuta’s is your best boy. He’s always there to keep you company when you’re in a mood. Yuuta is kind and comforting, you never know what you’d do without him. He’s your world.

₊˚⊹♡ Content Warning: 18+, MDNI (minors do not interact), afab! reader (genitalia described), Yuuta is your dog boy, possessiveness, knotting, creampies, slightly dubcon, idk man this is incredibly self-indulgent

Yuuta is a reliable pup, the protective type. He’s the kind to be wary about strangers and is always ready to step in between you and others he doesn’t know. He keeps you safe, always making sure to keep a keen eye on your surroundings when you’re out. Yuuta bares his teeth only when he needs to.

Of course, Yuuta’s a very good boy, but god, is he a mess once his hormones kick in. He can’t bear to have any one else’s scent even around you. It drives him nuts. If he even notices the slightest bit of someone else’s scent he can’t help but latch onto you, like a dog starved.

You knew it would be difficult when his rut began, you did your homework on how to take care of him properly, you swear! But you didn’t think it would be this treacherous.

You didn’t think to expect Yuuta to drag you into his lap, holding you close as he rubs against your face and neck. He nuzzles close to you, arms wrapping around you tightly as he marks you, laying his claim. His tongue slips out to lick all the areas that don’t smell like him, fangs scraping along your neck as he breathes in.

Your heart skips a beat with all of his affections.

“Yuu— Yuuta, cut it out,” You gasp, “Let me run a cold bath for you and get you cleaned up.” You gently try to push your puppy off of you, slowly making your way out of his lap.

“No,” Yuuta growls as he pushes himself further into you, digging his nails into the skin of your shoulders. He holds you tight, making sure to lock his arms to keep you from escaping. It hurt, you didn’t know what to do.

You flush underneath him, heart fluttering and beating right out of your chest.

“You’re mine. You’ve always been mine,” he snarls.

You’ve never had him snap at you like this. You feel goosebumps form on your skin and your hair stand up on the back of your neck.

His canines brush against your skin as he grinds his hips into yours. His clothed erection rutting into your soaked panties as he bites at your jaw, sucking hickeys and love marks into your soft, unmarred skin.

“I’m not going to let you go,” he insists.

Your cheeks feel hot as you sigh at the contact, hips involuntarily grinding back down onto his dick. It’s been a minute since you’ve had this kind of touch and affection, with life being so unexpectedly complicated.

You revel in it, savor it, even.

Yuuta wraps his strong arms around you, holding you close and pulling you down deeper and further into him. You gasp when he moves to give you a kiss, his lips moving against yours as you feel his canines scrape and bite at your bottom lip. You taste iron as he laps at your mouth, panting hot breaths as you feel yourself melt into him.

It’s hard to deny him what he so desperately wants. He’s your boy, isn’t he?

Yuuta’s hands slide down your body, groping and allowing himself to savor every touch he can manage. His grasp is urgent, rough, and desperate. He slides his hands up to your breasts as he starts to rub against your pussy, panting hot breaths against your neck as he tries to relieve the heat in his pants. You feel yourself become wetter as you two rut against each other.

“Please… Please, c-can I have you? Can you take care of me?” He whines hoarsely, desperately seeking any sort of friction to fill the ache in his gut. His blue eyes become dewy and wet with what you think are tears.

You bite your lip, feeling so sorry for your pup.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take care of you, Yuu. I’ll make it better.”

Yuuta breathes out a sigh of relief as you move to pull him off the couch back to your bedroom. You sit him down on the bed and he urgently grasps at you to paw at your clothes. You help him strip you bare as he kicks off his sweats and shirt. Your hand reaches behind his neck, pulling him by his dog collar as you move to give him a kiss. You feel Yuuta melt into you.

The two of you become an entangled mess of wandering hands and sloppy kisses. Yuuta felt so familiar in your arms, though new in this particular experience.

You found yourself situated between his bare legs as he laid back on your bed. You snuck a hand down in between the two of you to stroke at his weeping cock, his tip leaking beads precum down to the hilt. You thumb at the head of his member as you watch him cry out and hump himself into your hand.

You hum gently, “Are you my good boy? Are you gonna be good for me?”

“Yes! Yes I’ll be so good for you. I’ll do anything,” Yuuta says through flushed cheeks and teary eyes, sensitive and overwhelmed from your teasing. You continue as he snaps his hips forward into your hand, desperate for relief of any kind.

“There he is. That’s my puppy. My Yuuta,” you smile, “Yuu… Can you tell me what you need?

He cries out, “I want it… inside..! I need to put it inside… It hurts.” Yuuta looks up at you, pleading. You glance down at his cock, it was flushed red and looked almost painful. Sitting at the hilt was his thick knot that you weren’t so sure would go down so easily. But, you’d do anything, if it was for Yuuta.

“Okay,” you breathe out.

You move to settle yourself onto him, hand balancing on his chest. Your other hand snaking down to spread yourself. Your fingers slick feeling how wet you were between your folds. Your breath hitches as you slowly try to move yourself onto his tip, gently sinking down his length.

Yuuta settles his hands on your sides, digging his nails into your thighs as he feels your walls begin to hug his dick. He growls, deep in his chest, at how slowly you’re making your way down. You watch as he bites his lower lip.

Yuuta can’t help but buck further into your messy cunt, hands and nails pulling you down so you’d sink further onto him. You think he breaks skin.

“A-ah… Yuu… Not so much…” you breathed out, “I need a moment—“ but oh, now you were being flipped over.

Yuuta bares his canines as he towers over you, pushing himself deeper into you, thick cock splitting your tight core open. Your eyes widen as you look up at your pup.

Yuuta’s eyes look deeply apologetic into yours as he pushes into you, “‘m sorry, ah, sorry sorry, you just feel so good. I need more, I want more,” he chokes as he fits himself snuggly between your legs.

You moan out weakly, air leaving your lungs and seeing stars behind your eyes as he opened and filled you up. Your hands grasp and claw at his shoulders as you take him in, gritting your teeth as he pushes himself to the very hilt.

Yuuta looks down and marvels at your cunt filled to the brim with him. His ears perk up and you feel his tail wag as your walls settle to his length. Your puppy can’t help but lean down to kiss and lick at your lips, grinding his dick into your pussy and beginning to slowly slide in and out of you.

You moan, overwhelmed with all the stimulation. You feel so stretched, open, and full of Yuuta. Your nails dig into his broad of his shoulders as he begins a more vigorous pace, Yuuta panting out, “Mm— feels good— your pussy feels so good, can’t wait—“.

You whine and throw your head back, bringing an arm to shyly cover your face as Yuuta continues to pound into you. Your puppy grabs your arm and pins it back down onto the bed, “No! Want to see your face… Wanna see you cum,” he growls. He uses his other arm to pin your leg up over his shoulder, forcing himself even deeper into your cunt, hitting that special spot that makes sparks fly behind your eyes.

“Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta,” you chant as you feel yourself getting closer and closer while Yuuta fucks into your dripping pussy. He whispers your name, moaning as he watches you writhe underneath him. Everything felt so lewd, from the way he had you open, to the wet noises that were coming from your intimacy, it was all so obscene.

You feel the heat build up in your core, your walls clenching and clenching as you get closer to cumming. You whimper out, bouncing yourself back onto Yuuta to try and get more friction, “ ‘m close puppy, so close, gonna cum..!” You cry out, toes curling into the soaked sheets.

Yuuta takes your cries as the sign to rut deeper and faster into you, coaxing your orgasm. You sob as you feel your insides tighten around his cock, vision blurring as you soak his length.

Yuuta bites his lip at the sight of you, looking down at you lovingly as you tighten around him. You look at him with dewy eyes and the most fucked out expression. You see him smile.

“So cute…! You’re so cute, wanna cum in you, wanna fill you up, wanna give you my knot..!” Your puppy pants as he grinds into your messy hole, tightening his grip on your plush skin.

You feel your muscles relax, overstimulated, as Yuuta uses your pussy to relieve himself. You weakly whimper, “Cum in me puppy, I can take it. Please…”

He nods as his pace becomes more erratic, his claws digging further and further into your thighs as he reaches his climax. “‘M cumming! ‘M cumming—“ Yuuta moans and you feel him push himself deeper and deeper into you, until ‘pop!’, you feel the round hilt of his knot settle into your cunt and his dick twitch, letting out hot ropes of his seed. You moan softly as you feel his cum gush out of your hole, too fucked out to really care.

Your puppy sighs and lays down protectively on top of you, knot still connected as he snuggles into your neck, and peppering you with licks and kisses as you move your hand to pet his the soft black locks on his head.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Yuuta dreamily mutters as he inhales your scent mixed in with his, finally content.

“Good boy,” you whisper softly, “I told you I was gonna take care of you.”

[jackactuallywrites]

Purely Professional

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female Medic Reader

Rating: Mature (nothing too explicit but dick is hinted at)

Warnings: Ghost has a boo boo 😔 (blood, facial injury - split cheek and bruising)

Summary: You are the only medic Ghost trusts to treat him. Also you guys are friends with benefits!

Notes: Yes I do always headcanon Ghost with a broken nose. It’s HOT. Also I’m cleaning out the drafts

Word Count: 1,712

ao3 link

“He’s here.”

You didn’t need to ask to know who the other medic was talking about, nodding thanks to the medic as she left, and you quickly finished up with the young woman you were patching up, “You can take ibuprofen as needed, no more than two pills at a time, and space out the dosage to every four hours.” You wrinkle your nose, “I mean, you know how to take ibuprofen, just basic over-the-counter stuff. But come back if there’s any problems.” She nods, “Thanks, Doc.” You weren’t sure how many times you’d specified the difference between a combat medic and a military doctor, but at this point, it wasn’t worth the air, so you just nodded, gesturing for her to take her leave, “Anytime.” She grabbed the pillbox and made her way out of the room, leaving you to clean up the empty wrappings, tossing them into the nearby bin. You tore off the paper that was covering the bed, binning it as well and then rolling out another cover, making sure everything was fresh and clean. When you were satisfied, you walked out of the room into the waiting room, your eyes immediately landing on the one man who didn’t need to be named.

Ghost.

The intensity of his gaze was intimidating, his dark eyes glowering from underneath the skull mask as though he wanted nothing more than to take down every single person who dared to breathe the same air as him. At this point, the other medics had learned that he wouldn’t accept their help, refusing to utter even a single word until you were free. You leaned against the frame of the door that led into the hallway, beckoning him with a jerk of your head. He rose from his seat, seeming to dwarf everyone else around him as he walked through the room toward you, brushing past you without a word and striding straight into the open examination room, the cold silence seeming to emanate off him like a tangible aura, visibly affecting those around him, the other medics shrinking away from him as he passed.

You followed him into the room, closing the door behind you, “So, what can I help you with today, Lieutenant?” He sat down on the bed in the room, resting one forearm on his thigh, gesturing with the other hand to his face, consistently a man of few words. You stepped closer to him, “You’re going to have to give me a little more than that.” He grunted, reaching up to take off his helmet, setting it on the bed beside him, and then unclipping the skull mask, revealing the balaclava underneath. Finally, he pulled off the balaclava, revealing his clipped blond hair, and then his face, bruised and bloody, his cheek split open, blood already dried to his skin. His eyes, thankfully untouched, the black paint surrounding them unmarred, were on you, boring into your face as he watched you.

You didn’t waste time, reaching out to probe his face, your fingers gently holding onto his chin as you turned his head from side to side, inspecting the damage. It looked worse than it was; facial injuries always bled more, and though he tensed when you gently pressed his cheek, there was no sign of anything broken. After taking a moment just to be sure, you drew back from him, walking to the medical cupboard and taking out an antiseptic wipe, talking as you did, “You won’t need stitches.” He grunted, and you took this as permission to begin wiping the blood away from his face.

“So,” you began, always one to make idle chitchat as you worked, “who did you piss off this time?” Ghost watched you, his face solemn, searching your eyes before he responded, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Couple guys.” You smiled as you brushed the wipe over his split skin, “You know if you want to see me, you only have to ask.”

All the tension in his face seemed to ease then, his eyes softening as he looked up at you, “I know.” You took this as permission, gently nudging his legs open so you could stand in between them, closing the distance between you, allowing him to reach out in his own time, and after a brief moment, he did, his hands reaching out to gently rest on your hips, his fingers hesitant, still unused to the intimacy you shared. You cleaned up the rest of the blood on his cheek, giving him time to get used to your close proximity as you brought out a small plaster to cover his wound. In a moment of impulsivity, you pressed a gentle kiss to his damaged cheek, your reward his sharp intake of breath and the tightening of his fingers on your hips, pulling you closer toward him.

“You know,” you began, letting your hands rest on his shoulders, “the other medics are going to think you’re sweet on me.” Ghost let his face rest in the crook of your neck, his voice low, muffled by your shoulder, “I’m not sweet.” You smiled, letting your fingers trace over from his shoulders to the back of his neck, “No? What would you call this?” “Desperate.”

There was no mistaking the longing in his voice, the yearning, the way his fingers pulled you closer to him until your body was pressed against his. Already, his fingers were pulling at your shirt, just like he’d done so many times before, secretive fumbles in whatever vehicle or armoury was nearest, all beginning with some injury he only allowed you to treat, all ending with you wrapped up in his arms. You smiled, shifting one hand to stop his fingers on their insistent path underneath your shirt, “I think they’ll notice if I spend forty minutes in here with you.” Ghost didn’t seem entirely put off by the idea, his face tilting up as his lips began to move over your neck, gently nipping at the skin, his voice husky, “You love this being our dirty little secret, don’t you?”

It was impossible for you to lie to him; after all, he was special forces; no doubt he could sniff out every last secret of yours if he truly wanted to. His hand was already moving from your hip up to your cheek, forcing you to look at him as he pulled away from your neck, his pale eyes searching yours, “Admit it.” Every part of you seemed desperate to touch and be touched by him, and you held back a groan, “Yes. Which is why we can’t do anything in here.” His lips quirked in a smirk, “We wouldn’t want them to think you give this treatment to everyone.” You smiled, “I am supposed to be a professional, after all.” His thumb reached out to brush your cheek, “Couldn’t we both use a little unprofessionalism right now?”

The idea was tempting. Too tempting. You could feel those eyes of his melting away your resolve, and you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, biting the inside of your cheek, “What exactly did you have in mind?” There was a wicked look in his eyes, luring you into sin, to submit yourself to his will entirely, “What I have in mind would make too much of a mess and needs more time than we have.” You tilted your head to the side, curious, “So what do we do?” He was quiet for a moment, his eyes flicking over every single facet of your face, your eyes, your cheeks, your lips. He leaned into you, his nose bumping against yours, letting you feel that little ridge where it had been broken. His words were a murmur against your skin, softer than he ever seemed capable of, “I’ll be content with a kiss for now.”

It never seemed to make sense that a devil could be so sweet; you knew what he was capable of, you’d patched him up, you’d seen his medical records detailing what he’d been through, yet here he was, asking you for that simplest of intimacies. You obliged his simple request, leaning forward to press your lips against his, feeling the slight stubble on his skin prickle yours, his hand shifting from your cheek to the back of your neck, the one on your hip moving to the small of your back to pull you closer to him, encircling your body, his lips soft against yours, yet insistent, needy. He pulled away before you, leaning his forehead against yours, letting out a strained sigh, his hand moving from your back to his crotch, adjusting his trousers to disguise the growing bulge there. “The things you do to me.” His voice held some frustration, his fingers tightening on the back of your neck but loosening just as quickly, always in complete control of himself.

You could see the Lieutenant return, the way his back straightened, the grim determination returning to his lips. His hands fell away from your body, reaching for the balaclava and mask he’d put to the side, and you knew your time with him was coming to a close. You stepped back from him, tucking in your shirt, allowing him to resume that persona, covering his bruised face with the black balaclava and then finishing with clipping his skull mask back into place, his helmet finishing the transformation. All that remained of him were those soft eyes, out of place, surrounded by blackness. He reached up with one hand to tuck a loose hair back under your beret, his gloved fingers gently stroking against your cheek. “I’ll be seeing you.”

There was no doubt that he would find you to finish what you’d started here, but for now, he was back to business, standing up off the table and straightening out his uniform. You crossed the room to open the door for him, allowing the outside world view into your privacy, not that there was anything for them to see. He stalked past you without a word, yet as he passed, his hand reached out to gently squeeze your arse, sending tingles up your spine as he left you wanting, trying hard not to look like a lovesick dog as you watched him go.

[vilhelios]

— IF YOU'RE THE SACRED SCRIPT, I AM THE HIEROPHANT.

( if you're the holy church, i'm gonna worship . ) ; the old, dusty tomes that amund gives you state that the lemurian gods are perfect, flawless beings. not a single scar or freckle adorns their skin, no emotion creases their hallowed faces.

cw: fluff !!! ; established relationship ! ; abysswalker!rafayel <3 + brief mentions of god of the sea rafayel; slight spoilers for rafayel's sea of golden sand and forgotten sea (?) myths + siren's song anecdote; i am the self-proclaimed ceo of lemuria world building (lemuria lore headcanons!) 💪 ; not beta-read !!!

" THE GODS ART PERFECT BEINGS — FLAWLESS IN FORM AND IN ESSENCE ; THEIR SKIN IS UNMARRED, NAY SCAR OR FRECKLE ADORNS THOSE DIVINE. NAY LINE OF EMOTION MARKS THEIR HALLOWED, PRISTINE VISAGE. "

"RAFAYEL?" you ask, your voice so loud in the quiet dark of night. a hum, a shift in the arms that hold you. "i heard that the gods are perfect."

“they are supposed to be, yes.” rafayel murmurs, hands gently carding through the strands of your hair. the desert is quiet tonight, not a single howl of wind, or a curious fennec fox or gerbil, race across the expanse of sand. the only sounds in your ears are the mingled breaths and synchronised heartbeats of you and your dear abysswalker, tangled beneath the sheets in your shared tent.

his blue-pink eyes stare, searching your gaze. the dark circles beneath them are prominent in the shadows cast by the silvery moonlight. you watch as he takes in a deep breath, and then exhales: "... what books did amund give you today, my love?"

"you know very well that all amund gives me are books and scrolls about lemuria," you huff, thinking of the stack of dusty old books the old man had shoved into your hands at noon, "which would not bother me, if he did not sneer so condescendingly while he gave them to me."

"alright, alright." he sighs, there will be things to discuss with amund in the morning, if the slight exasperation in his tone is anything to go off of. and then, he asks, voice gentle: "what did you learn about the gods, my heart?"

" OUR GOD OF THE TIDES HATH BEEN TAINTED. HIS SKIN HATH BECOMETH SPECKLED. HIS HEART HATH BEEN SURRENDERED. NAY LONGER PERFECT IS HE, WHO IS'T HATH, IN LOVESICK FOLLY, GIVEN BOTH LIFE & DOMAIN. "

"they say you are no longer perfect." you murmur, brushing your lips against his jawline, "using their definition, perhaps they are right. you have scars, and little beauty marks."

"the scars are inevitable. you should know it yourself, my heart." he sighs, solemn, "but they dissolve with us during each seamoon ceremony — i am not reborn with the scars of my past."

"and the beauty marks?"

he hesitates, a bit. there's a far-away look in his eyes that you've grown used to seeing. "they persist and accumulate." rafayel states eventually, as if it's fact, "new ones appear, but i never lose them."

"you never lose them?" you echo, and he nods.

leaning into him, you inspect his face as best as you can in the moonlight. your lips graze his cheek, right above where one lies below his eye. another lies at the tip of his nose, and you repeat the action, rafayel's breath hitching beneath your touch. another sits at the bridge of his nose, and you feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin as you continue.

"there is something about them, in the books." you start, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. rafayel leans into the warmth of your touch (after all, you think, grimly, a stray dog will take all the food it is offered, afraid to go hungry again), and you continue with a smile against his skin, "they say that they represent where your lover loved to kiss you, in your past lives."

rafayel hums, holds you ever closer in his arms, considers the thought. when he falls silent, you know he is aeons away; somewhere below the waves, somewhere thirty thousand years away—you patiently wait for his return, like the shore that welcomes a weary sailor home. a gentle kiss is pressed to right above where his heart should be, and another in the middle of his collarbone. it's instinct, second nature, as natural as the way waves lap at the shoreline and leave seafoam in their wake.

"perhaps there is some truth in that." he finally says, returned to your side from his reverie. he presses a kiss to your temple, a gentle smile against your skin, "after all, it seems you still do as you used to, even now. determined to uphold tradition, are you?"

( & aeons ago, beneath the waves, lies the first mark; the first bearer of sin in eden. a young god of the sea laughs, a rumble in his chest, as his beloved kisses right above where his heart should be. every touch is reverent, like tending to an altar. it is no wonder, then, that he entrusted his heart to such a devout worshipper — after all, it will be in loving hands. )

a/n : hi hi hi i think lnd needs to CALM DOWN with all the rafayel banners or i'm gonna intervene. quite rushed and not as deep symbolism woooo as the last one because i was in a haze.... abysswalker my beloved is as odd to write as usual but i think it's not too ooc... also this is just a little manifesting/tribute thing for my god of the sea rafa myth pulls today i want him to come home !!! i'm so so excited for the myth story !!!! good luck to anyone pulling! may the god of the sea give us his heart without us needing to open our wallets 🫧💕 if you sent in a request recently for the follower event, thank you! it'll still be a bit until i can answer them, but it shall be done !!! <3 will be crossposted to my ao3 if you prefer the fic being in actual capitalisation and in normal text!

update: i had to drag him home with 130 pulls ,,,, i also spedran the myth,,, guh buh,,, whadahell,,, someone please talk to me about them,,,,

[wiltedreamofbaldursgate]

You, Blinding Like the Sun

characters: Astarion x gender neutral Elf!Tav/reader word count: +1.5k Rating: teen and up. sfw. trigger warning: very loosely implied trauma on both sides. read on ao3

Astarion despises you so very much because you’re everything he isn’t, everything he has never been. Not even alive could he have held a candle to you, because you’re perfect and he is falling, and he hates that he is falling for you.

He despises you.

From the moment Astarion first laid eyes upon you—confident, selfless little elf, blinding like the sun—he has despised you. You with your dazzling golden eyes, the sweet flush on the tip of your pointy ears. Your artfully arranged hair, kissed by the sun to make it shine like fine silk. The cute little freckles sprinkled all over your unmarred skin—skin that has never been touched by undesired hands. You who lived long enough to choose a name for yourself—to make a name for yourself.

How he despises all of it.

The way you win anyone over with nothing but an honest smile; the sheer purpose in your every step. That nasty confidence of yours that isn't some skill you ever needed to acquire because, to you, it comes all-natural, of course—you were born with it. Astarion can tell it's true because he’s spent two centuries mimicking the behaviour of people just like you.

And he despises you for it.

Before you were even born, the gods have bestowed their gifts on you, and here you are, not even knowing what power you hold, how very blessed you are. You wouldn’t even care if you knew, because the fact of the matter is that you have no need for gods nor gifts nor skills. Not when people gravitate towards you as if you have hung the stars. And how dreadfully inviting you always are, so very accommodating.

Come sit by the fire, Astarion; isn’t it cold and lonely over there?

Come feed from me, Astarion; you look so terribly starved.

Come enjoy yourself, Astarion, have all of me, Astarion, I don’t ask for anything in return, Astarion.

Astarion, are you alright? 

Everything you say or do, everything you are—he fucking despises it.

He despises how laughably easy it was to fool you, to fuck you, to make you fall for him; honestly, don’t you know any better, darling? Probably not, because it’s evident that you aren’t all there in the head sometimes.

After all, who in their right mind would let a starved beast feast at the most divinely set table, have it indulge in the sweetest of wines as if it were nothing, as if it weren’t everything to him? And it’s only by luck that you’re still breathing now, that he hasn’t ripped out your throat to drink up every obscenely delicious drop of you.

But of course, you come with an excessive amount of luck—so much of it that it makes up for your lack of brains. Hells, the worst thing that has ever happened to you is the little fiend lingering behind your eye, the very same thing that has set him free after centuries of endless suffering, and he despises you. Astarion despises you so very much because you’re everything he isn’t, everything he has never been. Not even alive could he have held a candle to you, because you’re perfect and he is falling, and he hates that he is falling for you.

You with the soft lilt in your voice, a reminder of a language that weighs like lead on Astarion’s tongue. You with your easy smile that he can’t help but return with an unfamiliar one of his own. You with your blood that tastes like the very sun. Astarion hates that he never even stood a chance against you because you care. Because you either love sincerely or not at all. Because you somehow love him.

And he hates that his gaze keeps following the alluring sway of your hips; that he finds himself instinctively reaching for your hand whenever you hold it out to him, and that he hates it even more when you don’t.

He hates the way you say his name—not because you mock him for that childish name of his, no, but because it makes him want to hear it from your lips over and over and over again.

And most of all, he hates the way you speak of victory. How dare you make it sound so believable—probable, even? He hates how he trusts your words to come true, that real freedom is at his fingertips. If you think it’s possible, it has to be, doesn’t it…?

Yes, Astarion well and truly hates how much he wants you, trusts you, craves you. Your blood. Your smile. Your love. All of you. It makes him feel like an idiot because all you had to do to mess up his perfectly fine plan was to exist next to him. You are the stake hovering right above his heart, and he is so fucking scared of the inevitable impact. Because sooner or later, his love for you will bite him in the ass—it always does. It hasn’t happened yet, but here he is, already hurting.

It hurts Astarion to watch you get injured in battle, and it hurts even more to see your eyes frantically dart over him to make sure he’s alright after. It hurts that he wants to make love to you so badly but doesn’t quite know how. It hurts him to guard over your trances, to watch you struggle through each night, haunted by your very own ghosts—and that he can’t do anything to ease your suffering. It makes him feel weak, and he is tired of feeling this way, tired of being so fucking useless to you. You haven’t realised that he is nothing yet, but you will soon enough, and Astarion is afraid—always afraid that that will be the end of it. The end of him. Around you, he can feel his mask slip all too often, all too easily, and he is afraid of your blindingly loving gaze upon him. What do your golden eyes see?, he wonders, too afraid to ask. Why don’t you look away when you see him laid bare? He’s afraid that there’s something wrong with you, because how could it be any different?

In fact, Astarion is mostly afraid for you, because every day he learns that you’re not perfect at all. There are more knots in your hair than he can count, and you always seem to have a nasty sunburn spread across your shoulders. You sometimes cackle like a goose around the fire, and you’re too gullible, too good for your own good. And you can die so very easily…

Deep inside, Astarion is terrified that one day you will glide through his fingers like sunlight at dusk.

He’s terrified that there won’t be anything he can do to save you.

He’s terrified of what he might be willing to do to try anyway.

You wake from your restless trance with a choked cry. It seems like you always startle into consciousness, unsure of where you are even moments later. It’s not the first time that Astarion wonders what could possibly be haunting your memories, but the way you tremble and make yourself look smaller keeps reinforcing his sickening suspicions.

Forcing down the anger soaring through him, he leans over to where you’re lying next to him. Cooing softly, he brushes a strand of hair from your forehead, cautious to barely touch your sweat-drenched skin. His eyes lock with yours, and together you wait for the tightness in your chest to ease, your hurried breath to slow down. 

You grab his hand to hold it against your racing heart, and Astarion wants to tell you that you’re safe; lying is what he does best, after all. He can’t bring himself to say those false words, though, not to you—never again to you. He has already tainted so much of what you have together and although you’re not perfect, you’re special. This is special and he will do anything to make it last.

When your breath has calmed into a gentle rhythm again, Astarion wraps his arms around your waist, gently pulling your back against his chest. His lips are still warm from your blood circulating underneath his skin as he presses them against your temple.

“Rest,” he whispers. “I got your back, sunshine.” Astarion’s words are hesitant and shaky, even in his own pointy ears. Long years of disuse have perverted the inflection, and he doesn’t trust himself to say any more—not for now, at least.

It takes you a moment to realise that Astarion has spoken in your common mother tongue, but when you do, you tilt your head to find his almost timid gaze again.

“I know you do,” you answer, a lazy smile tugging at your lips, making your perfectly melodic words sound so much lovelier. “Thank you, Astarion.”  

The pale elf brushes his lips against yours. It’s a quick, sloppy kiss, and he doesn’t recall ever kissing someone like this before—rushed and imperfect; real. He takes in your smile one last time before he buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking in your warmth, your scent. Everything that is you. 

Astarion loves to be blinded by the sun.

[luveline]

hi sweetie !!! I know you get a billion requests but if u have time maybe an eddie fluff with the reader trying to get out of a postpartum depression slump and hes taking care of her :3 as always no pressure ily!

hi lovely ily, ty for requesting ♡ 1.2k

cw reader has postpartum depression

"Aw, sweetheart," Eddie mumbles. 

You hear it through your tired haze, rubbing sleep from your eyes as your turn toward him and his shuffling. He's unexpectedly on the bedroom floor, the baby laid out on a changing matt. Your lips quirk into a smile as you watch him button a fresh baby grow closed around your son's tiny tummy. 

"You're so well behaved," Eddie continues, still mumbling, hand careful as it slides behind the baby's head. "There we go. Fresh as a daisy." 

You clear your throat and stretch against a cruel knot hiding between shoulder blades. "You okay?" you ask. 

Eddie looks at you like you've just asked him to marry you, love lining every feature. "I'm okay, are you okay? You were frowning in your sleep. Bad dreams?" 

"I can't remember." You try not to lose your small smile as you hold out your hands for the baby. 

You love your baby. That's not up for debate. But whenever you hold him, you feel like you should be happier. That turns to guilt, self-loathing —this has all been so hard. You knew it would be, but it doesn't matter how prepared you are. This is brain chemistry you can't fight. 

Eddie sits on the side of the bed and passes the baby to you carefully. You're relieved to find you missed him, tucking him with love against your chest. "Hi, beautiful. Hi." 

He's still so small, shiny with newness, his lips parted to show the pink of his tongue. You laugh under your breath, brushing the side of your hand along his cheek. 

"Did you, um… did you put the ointment on his rash?" you ask, leaning down to kiss the baby's forehead. "On his tummy?" 

"Yeah, I did." 

You nod and kiss the baby's head again quickly. "Okay, perfect. Will you take him back? Just so I can get up?" 

You have to start the day to avoid falling hard into the slump. Eddie takes him with no qualms. You worry he's held more by his father than you, and there's nothing wrong with that, but he's your baby, you just spent nine months baking him, nine whole months waiting for these moments. 

Eddie hugs the baby to his chest and pulls the sheets over both of them. He looks better kept than you even though he's been picking up your slack without complaint, hair clean and out of his face, fresh clothes to match the baby, a black Iron Maiden t-shirt unmarred by spit up and a pair of pyjamas pants you're pretty sure were yours once upon a time. They don't fit him right and he clearly doesn't care. He's good like that; he's obsessed with being close to you. 

Your depression postpartum has wedged him away. Not his fault, not yours, and not fair. You're gonna have to try as hard as you can to beat it, and hope against hope that it's enough. 

"I set some clothes out for you," Eddie says gently, stroking the baby's hair. "And a towel if you want to shower, but you don't need to. You should be okay until tonight." 

"You didn't have to," you say. Your throat feels peculiarly tight. 

"Yeah, I did. I know it's overwhelming in the morning for you. I thought the clothes would be one less thing." 

You nod hurriedly and turn away from him to change. You can feel his gaze as you step out of your pyjamas and into new sweatpants, the weight of his concern palpable. It's easier to talk about things when you aren't looking at them both, so you say, "I'm sorry you're doing all of this." 

"That's okay, it's not something you need to be sorry for." 

"No, because it's not fair. You're looking after two people." 

"That's what I signed up for. It's literally my job." You seize at the sound of the baby gurgling and whimpering, but Eddie pats his back, and the grizzling fades. "Sweetheart… would you come over here? Let me tell you to your face." 

That doesn't exactly inspire confidence, but you pull on the clean shirt Eddie's left on the dresser for you and sit with him as he asked. Only when he smiles at your chest do you realise it's the stupid gimmick shirt he got for you on your first anniversary. My boyfriend loves me more than yours does, it reads, big black font with a red heart behind boyfriend. 

Eddie holds out his hand, squeezing your fingers together slowly, as though he's collected them in his palm. His thumb rubs a dedicated line over your knuckles; you're surprised your skin doesn't show evidence of his touch, he strokes this path so often. 

"I'm not sorry that I've been taking care of you since he was born, and you shouldn't be either." He says it straight and fast, no hesitation, and no room for argument. "Understand? This isn't about me. This is about how you feel." 

"Don't be all serious with me," you plead in a murmur, eyes at his collar. 

"If you don't want me to be serious then I won't be. Regular viewing henceforth. But don't forget what I just said. Promise?" 

"Yeah, promise." You reach out to twist the baby's hair around your fingertip, smiling when he shivers, tickled by your touch. He's a beautiful kid. Your partner stamped him well. All your awful feelings aren't anything to do with him, though his birth was undoubtedly the tipping point. He hasn't done anything wrong, this fog of melancholy hangs around no matter how beautiful he is, and you can't help hating yourself for the way you feel. "He's perfect," you whisper, eyes aching with the want to cry. 

"You did a great job," Eddie says agreeably, pushing his fingers between yours to intertwine your hands. 

"Do you think he knows I really do love him?" You can barely hear yourself. It's a miracle that Eddie can respond. 

"Undeniably. Sweetheart, I know there have been days where you didn't hold him, and that's not good for either of you, I can't lie to you and tell you it doesn't affect him, but it's not your fault. It just isn't. You're gonna keep trying and I'm gonna keep making sure you can, and things will get better. I swear to you." 

You feel as though you'd happily fall into a pit, but with Eddie sworn to take care of you, and the world's prettiest baby in his arms, you force yourself to sit beside him in bed. It's easy to soak in the heat of him as he wraps and arm around you, and easier to take the baby from his arms when the crying begins. 

"Don't feel guilty, but he misses you," Eddie says, covering your hand where it holds the baby's back. "He's happy to see you, look." 

The baby looks like a baby. It's hard to say that he's smiling, but there is something there. Love in his little eyes. You manage to smile for real this time, toying with his tiny hand, swiftly on your way to joyous as he wraps his fingers around your index. 

"You're doing so well," Eddie praises, his hair brushing your ear as he ducks in to kiss your cheek. 

"I think I'm feeling a bit better." 

"Good. One step closer to taking over the world." 

Eddie climbs out of bed with a mission to gather your meds and a quick breakfast. You stay in bed with the baby, holding him. Eddie's made it so that it's the only thing you have to do. 

[newtabfics]

No title for this cuz brain go brr. Have some Astarion being a bottom and getting the kisses he deserves from Tav.

My Tav is a wood-elf ranger that is just too sweet and caring for her own good and gets in trouble a lot. (Working up the balls to comm art for her lmao)

She smiled as she played with his hair. Astarion was snuggled deeply into the blankets of his tent. The night air soothed those around them. At Tav's request, they kept quiet and managed to not wake the others, somehow, with their lovemaking.

Astarion smiled at the notion: Lovemaking. 

She had said it so innocently that his heart melted.

In this tent, they had the privacy to love each other as they saw fit, as long as they were quiet.

As her fingers danced around his ears, he found his lips curling up into a smile as he looked to her. "Are you looking for another round?" He teased. "You're insatiable."

"Quit," She chuckled, pinching his ear gently. He winced, smiling still. She hummed, studying the scars on his back. "You trust me, don't you?"

"With my life," He sighed helplessly then blinked when she moved to straddle his back. "Darling, what are you plotting?"

Astarion's breath hitched as he gripped the sheets when a soft kiss pressed against the back of his neck. "Darling–Oh."

Her tongue met the flesh of his scar, her lips following. Her mouth mapped out the surface of his scars, sending a jolt through his body that had him squirming. Her hands rubbed tenderly at his sides as she hummed.

"You know, could take a potion sometime to…change my body a bit," She muttered, kissing lovingly over his flesh.

Astarion bit his lip as he tried to repress the moans that escaped with each kiss. It was like his nerves were lit alive as her tongue and lips carefully worked over each scar.

"Oh shit," He whimpered.

Tav hummed as his body writhed, sliding her hands around to his front. She smiled when he adjusted his hands, giving her the ability to caress his chest as she continued to kiss and lick each scar slowly. 

It was as though she were memorizing each scar. She hummed as she found a spot of unmarred skin and bit gently.

Astarion shuddered as his skin twitched, pressing himself into her hands. "Darling," He groaned, shuddering as her hands moved. 

One hand on his chest, almost cradling his thudding heart. The other trailing down, down…down until she gripped him. 

"Tav!" He gasped as she began to stroke him slowly.

"Shh," She cooed gently, kissing the scars lovingly. "Doing so good for me, My Star. You're so cute when you're like this."

He whimpered out a pathetic, "Not cute," before a whine escaped. Her thumb rubbed over the swollen head of his cock as she continued to pump him slowly.

Astarion whimpered and bit his lip, trying to hold in the moans as her lips moved up to his neck. His hips thrust into her hand, desperate for that release as she picked up the pace.

"My Star," She hummed. Her lips trailed up to his ear as he felt her breasts against his back. "Come for me."

The vampire had to bite into the pillow to muffle his grunting moan as his cock twitched. His load shot out onto the blankets. His body twitched and shuddered before finally collapsing into the bedding. His eyes fluttered as he panted, twitching as her hands carefully pulled away.

She smiled when those dark red eyes slowly looked to her, his teeth finally releasing the pillow.

Astarion blinked when she covered her mouth to suppress her laugh. "What?" He asked softly, still dazed from the quick orgasm. She pointed to the pillow.

Two puncture holes where he'd bitten.

His cheeks tinged as she giggled before he smirked. "Oh, now don't be coy. That's your fault you know."

"What? What'd I do?" She chuckled innocently.

His arms snapped around her, playfully nipping at her neck and making her squeak as he did. He couldn't help his giddy smile as he pulled her close.

[peachdues]

IN THE NETHERWOOD — PART IV TEASER

Werewolf!Sanemi x Red Riding Hood!Reader

A/N: hehehe. After the cliffhanger of Part III, have a taste of the pain to come in Part IV as our Huntsman and his Lamb try and navigate the fallout of Douma’s tricks

He stood before the crackling hearth, his back turned toward you and stiff.

It hit you that he’d only called you by name since you first regained full consciousness.

Not Lamb.

Not Sweetling.

Not even my love.

Just your name; only your name.

Your breath came hard and fast through your nose. The Wolf standing before the fireplace must have heard the sudden increase in your heart rate, for he turned quickly toward you, face grave with concern.

“What is it?” He crossed the room in two strides, kneeling beside the bed. His hands hovered awkwardly over your body beneath the covers, uncertain whether he should touch you.

“Sanemi,” you croaked, panic bubbling in your gut the longer he refused to meet your eye. “Kiss me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing hard before he opened them again, still fixed hard on the bed. “You’re still recovering, Lamb.”

Lamb. That affectionate nickname should have brought you comfort, but it only left something cold and bitter sitting in your gut. The knuckles of your fingers whitened with the ferocity of your grip on the quilt.

You were losing him.

“Please,” you whispered, brokenly. “Please, Sanemi — I’m —,” You’d almost begged him for it — for something he’d never withheld from you before unless it was to tease.

You did not know what stung more: that you’d almost begged for a simple act of affection that he seemed damn near unwilling to give, or that your dignity was preserved only because words died in your throat before you could choke them out.

Pathetic. You felt utterly pathetic.

With a quiet sigh, Sanemi brought a hand to rest softly against your smooth cheek, his thumb stroking along its curve. He finally lifted his eyes to meet your pleading stare before he leaned in, closing the distance between you.

His lips against yours were so soft, so familiar, and yet so hesitant.

You drank him in, bandaged hands rising to rest on either side of his jaw as you moved your lips feverishly against his. Sanemi indulged you for only a moment, but as soon as your teeth grazed his bottom lip, it was over.

He broke away, moving to brush his lips over your eye, your cheek, and then your forehead, his thumb stroking softly along the unmarred skin of your jaw.

“Rest now, Y/N. You’ve had a long day.”

“Do you love me?” You couldn’t help but blurt. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, loud and suffocating all at once. Each tick of the nearby clock felt like a stake to the chest, one that slowly chiseled away at your heart piece by piece. “Still?”

Something tortured flitted across the Huntsman’s face. His hand reached to brush a lock of your hair behind your ear, but it faltered midair, Sanemi pulling his arm back tight to his side.

“More than anything.” He whispered, but his voice sounded hollow.

Just like his answer.

—-

Two weeks after your return home, you awoke in the middle of the night with a start.

At first you were confused; you had not been having a nightmare, so there was no reason for you to jolt awake as violently as you had, heart thumping and throat tight.

Curiously, you felt something warm and wet trickle down your cheek. With a frown, your fingers rose hesitantly to brush away the wetness, and to your bemusement you realized it was a tear.

Another slipped out of your eye, followed by another, until you were fighting choking, mournful sobs though you could not identify the source of your melancholy.

You shifted slightly in bed, noting that, once again, Sanemi was not laying beside you. You rolled your head to the side, your eye squinting as it combed the room for your mate.

You spied him on his makeshift bed upon the cabin floor, where he spent most nights. To your surprise, his eyes were open and fixed hard on the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head.

The Huntsman, it appeared, had not noticed you stirring, apparently too lost in whatever thoughts plagued his mind. As your eye adjusted in the dark, you noticed the way a small sliver of moonlight that shone through the foggy glass on the window reflected off something crusted along his cheeks, making his skin glisten.

You quietly rolled your head back and away from Sanemi, the pieces of your heart sinking into your gut as you struggled to reclaim sleep.

A similar pattern emerged during the nights that followed; you would startle awake, alone in your bed, seemingly without reason, your mate in the same position upon the floor.

And with a tired hand, you would wipe away Sanemi’s woeful tears as they trailed down your cheek.

The next part is full of angst/pain/hurt/comfort and of course, more plot. See you soon!

[the-californicationist]

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 05)

MDNI/18+ no exceptions

Link to AO3

THE NEXT MORNING

You were alone. The sun’s thin shafts danced across the empty side of the bed, the sheets crinkled and folded like unfinished origami, bent and twisted by the body you were missing. He was gone. You yawned, stretching, and then you froze in place, suddenly remembering more and more detail from the night before. 

Johnny’s touch lingered on your skin like a bruise. You were unmarred, but you could have sworn he had left a tattoo behind with his fingertips so acutely did you feel the memory. 

You padded out into the kitchen. It was still closer to dawn than it was to day, but on the counter sat two large coffees; a latte and a chai, for Pidge and for you. There was a note tucked underneath your cup:

Gone for a run. - J. 

Chai in hand, you quietly retreated to his room and sat in bed watching the sun wake up. The feel of the smooth sheets on your fingers bring back brief, blurred flashes of Johnny’s affection from the night before, and the guilt hit your stomach like an anvil. You should have stopped him, shouldn’t you? You had plenty of time to. But, said the dark thing inside of you, you didn’t want him to stop, did you?

You wanted him to keep going. 

Setting your drink down, you snuggled back into the covers to wallow in your regret. But instead, your body forced you back into the darkness where you and Johnny had been tangled as you slept in that very position. If you shut your eyes, you could almost feel his soft breaths and his hungry jaw as he scented your neck and hair. The heat of his chest radiated through your back, and the prodding…

It was your fingers that dipped into your waistband this time, thinner than his, but warm from the coffee cup, until they found your pink, wet shame. You drew quick circles around your clit, not far from the high you were chasing. 

You thought about what would have happened if you hadn’t said his name. Would he have continued? He was caught somewhere between a dream and reality; you were still working on convincing yourself of that. 

But, what if he wasn’t?

You moaned softly into the pillow. It smelled of him and you breathed it in. You touched yourself with renewed intensity, your fingers sliding across your slippery skin, sinking into your hole for more of your warm honeyed heat. 

Maybe he would have begged you, softly, in that deep voice of his. 

Just let me feel it, thief, just for a moment. Just the tip. I’ll pull it right out, lass, I swear it. I just need to feel you. 

And all those other saccharine lies that boys like him were good at crafting. But, gods, would you fall for it. You’d nod your head, dumb and cowed, and spread yourself wide for him to find, to fit, to fill. The sound of him wetting his cock in you would have been so loud in his quiet room.

You moaned again, louder this time, unable to hold it back.

“Are you alright, lass?”

Shit!

You pulled yourself together. Two soft knocks on the door and your hand involuntarily jerked back, the snap of the elastic waistband stinging your skin. You fixed yourself and dragged the sheets over you again, panting quietly to hide the deeper gasps trying to crawl out of your lungs.

“Yeah, fine. How was your run?”

Taking the question as an invitation, the door cracked open and his hulking form emerged from behind it. His hair and shirt damp with sweat, smile widening as his eyes wandered across your body in his bed.

“It was good. You ready for your fitting? I’m your ride.”

You ignored that double entendre. 

“Sure, just let me get changed,” you smiled, pulling your legs around to stand beside the bed.

“Aye, I’ll shower,” he shut the door behind him. 

You let go of a huge sigh of relief and put your head in your hands. If he had walked in…

You shook it off and got changed as quick as you could. You threw your hair into a quick braid and knotted the end with a hair tie. You were still in one of his tee shirts, but you had put some leggings on with a pair of white sneakers. You reminded yourself - over and over and over - that you weren’t there to impress anyone. Especially not Johnny MacTavish. 

He was in the kitchen with Hamish and Pidge when you came out, drinking coffee with them over the counter and chatting about their plans. Pidge greeted you, hugging you around the neck,

“Okay, dovie. Remember, I don’t care how the top looks. But, it’s floor length, and it’s glitz and it’s glam and it’s sparkles…”

“I remember! Silver sparkles. Red carpet. Don’t worry, I can handle it,” you tried to sound convincing. 

Hamish laughed, trying to make Pidge seem like she was over-reacting, “I’m not worried, lass. I know you’ll pick a brilliant one.”

Pidge cut her eyes at him and said, “I’m not worried . But, she’s like me - we love our comfy clothes. She’s not Cherise who has to be in the latest whatever.”

Hamish pinched Pidge in some unseen place below the kitchen counter and out of your view, teasing her,

“Bet you’d look good in the latest whatever .”

Pidge squealed and smacked him for his insubordination. She turned to you, blushing and trying not to laugh,

“Okay, back here at two, yeah? We’ve got 259 invites to stamp. Fuckin’ postage is gonna break the bank.”

“Back at two. Invites. I am on it. Maid of honor mode is activated, babe. I promise,” you hugged her and turned to Johnny, “Are you ready?”

“For glitz and glam? Always,” his grin was sharp and inviting, as if dress shopping was his one true purpose and pleasure in life, even if it couldn’t have been further from the truth. 

The dress shop was close, and you noted that Johnny didn’t try to hold your hand in the car as he had yesterday. You didn’t dwell on it. Okay, maybe you did. 

“D’ya sleep alright, thief?” He asked over the radio during a lull where he wasn’t signing shamelessly.

His face didn’t give away much. You couldn’t tell whether he was recalling his lurid affections or just making small talk. You decided not to take the bait,

“Just fine. How about you?”

“Slept hard,” he grinned, searching for a parking spot, “Like a rock, aye?”

When he made his last comment, the obvious innuendo, he looked at you through his sunglasses, staring long enough to watch you flush. You avoided his gaze, looking at anything but him, feeling his eyes roaming over you. Your heart beat in your throat. 

Johnny killed the engine and walked around to help you down from the Jeep, giving you his hand to steady you. It was warm and sure, none of his rakish commentary or teasing was left in his touch, just comforting sincerity. It was scary how quick your mind was to trust his earnestness and dismiss his roguishness. 

The dress shop door knocked a small bell that tinkled as you walked through, announcing your arrival. No one was at the counter, so you looked around for a moment, waiting for someone to appear. 

“Hello?” You called out into the store. 

“Aye! Coming!” A tower of white lace ruffled and danced as someone moved behind it. Then, a short red woman emerged from the pile, pink-faced and out of breath,

“Och! Thought I’d drown in there.”

She laughed and you smiled with her, explaining your presence,

“I’m here for - ”

“The Hamilton wedding, aye? I’d recognize this rascal anywhere. You can always tell a MacTavish by the eyes. Bluer than the sky, they are.”

“Mrs. Dulvaney! Gonna make me get all sweet on ye, more than I already do,” Johnny pushed his sunglasses up over his mohawk and bent to kiss the woman on her big cheeks, kissing her hand as if she was Guinevere. 

Based on her reaction, that was exactly how she felt. She turned to you,

“Better watch out for this one, lovie. Nothin’ but trouble.”

“Don’t I know it,” you commented wryly, earning a look from Johnny. 

The shopkeeper led you past rows of cream and ivory wedding gowns to the bridesmaid section in the back of the store. One of the dressing rooms’ curtains was open, and several gowns were hanging, sparkly and orderly on their rack. The old woman smiled, explaining, 

“Bridgette put all of her hens in silver sparkles, right? I pulled a few, but you’re welcome to look around. Don’t fret about the sizes, dearie. We’ll just pin you in.”

Mrs. Dulvaney was gone again, leaving you with Mr. Nothin-But-Trouble. He flipped through the pulled offerings with a discerning eye, looking like he knew exactly what he was doing, giving Michael Kors a run for his money. 

You left Johnny behind, wandering through the rows of dresses, pulling one or two more pieces, opting for more conservative necklines. 

“No, no, lass,” he furrowed his brow as he inspected your haul, “Sure these are for wee grannies! Shoulder pads, honestly?”

“Okay, fashion police,” you scoffed, “You find a good one, and I promise I’ll try it on.”

“You’re on, thief.”

He dug deep into the stacks, choosing two or three to drape over his thick forearm while you watched, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth at his serious expression.

Turning at the end of the aisle, he came to a sudden stop.

"Och, sin an tè," he said with a sigh.

It was hanging on a mannequin, but he didn’t care. He looked at the mannequin and then back at your body, sizing you up. Then, he put his hands around the plastic girl’s waist, and eyed you up once more before smirking knowingly and reaching for the zipper.. 

“Johnny, you can’t have the display,” You chastised him, imagining his hands on your ribs as they had been in the small pool in the mountains, imagining him digging into your clothes as they had last night.  

“Says who?” He began to undress her, pulling the shining fabric up over her headless form. Smug and satisfied, he handed you the gown. 

It fit all the criteria; glittery and slinky, floor-length with a high neckline. But, there was no back. From neck to hip, you’d be bare. 

“Johnny,” you protested, holding it up by the shoulders and letting it cascade heavily to the floor, “This might be…distracting.”

“Aye,” he said, giving no further explanation, his eyes glued to the gown in your hands. 

You sighed, but you kept your word. Johnny was sat in a plush chair like a king after much doting and prodding from the shopkeeper. He was facing the fitting room, which was little more than a closet with a curtain. You shimmied into the room and tried on the first dress that Mrs. Dulvaney had suggested. 

When you emerged, they were both sitting there, appraising you like judges on a game show, their faces reflecting boredom and disappointment.

“So…” you shrugged, looking at yourself in the mirror. You looked like an Elvis impersonator. 

Johnny and Mrs. Dulvaney shook their heads in the mirror. 

You retreated and tried on the next one. This version had poofy sleeves.

“Oh!” Mrs. Dulvaney couldn’t contain her amusement as you came out of the dressing room. 

Johnny did not endeavor to control his disgusted expression,

“Creepin’ Jesus! You look like if 1982 was a person, lass. Back in the room with you, mhèirleach! Christ Almighty.”

You shucked off the offending gown and went through the stack. You decided to try on Johnny’s choice, just to shut him up. 

It fit like a glove. You didn’t really have the body for slinky gowns like this, but it was as if someone had cut it just for you. The glittery overlay gleamed across a sheer slip, the same color as your skin, making it seem as if all you were wearing were the sparkles themselves. The high collar sat proudly at the base of your neck, and when you turned to see your back in the mirror, you were stunned by how you looked. Pretty. 

You swallowed your nervousness and heard Johnny protest,

“You stuck in there, lass? C’mon. Can’t be that bad. Nothing’s as bad as the last one.”

He was laughing as you came out of the room, but when he saw you, he stopped. It was as if you were controlling time itself, and he was frozen in it. Johnny rose to his feet as if to greet you, and the shopkeeper’s eyebrows raised, looking at him and you with a coy smile on her face.

When she realized he wasn’t going to say anything, Mrs. Dulvaney commented,

“My word, lovie. Suits you perfectly, it does.”

“Aye…” Johnny agreed, his voice barely a whisper as his eyes swept down your body and back up again, studying every inch. 

You smiled, turning in the larger mirror to view the back again,

“Should probably choose one that doesn’t show quite so much skin, perhaps.”

“The front is modest enough, and you could wear your hair down,” the shopkeeper suggested. 

Johnny moved toward you as if compelled. He reached over your shoulder for your braid and, ever so gently, pulled your hair tie from it, letting the locks loosen and tumble across your back. 

You thought he might step back to get a better view, but he stayed close, right over your shoulder, even going so far as to put a hand on your hip, standing behind you in the mirror, just like two portraits in a frame, his enormous form shielding you from the room. It was just you and him in the mirror, as if you were the only two people in the world. 

He stared into your eyes through the looking glass, and you met him there, waiting for his approval. He smiled, a bit shy and out of character,

“Look at you, mo mhèirleach. Stunning.”

You sighed, relieved,

“Well, if it’s not a thousand pounds, I’ll take it.”

Mrs. Dulvaney looked at Johnny before looking back at you,

“Oh, I’m sorry. He already paid for it. I thought… my mistake.”

“Johnny! How much do I owe you?”

He grinned hard enough to make the skin on his nose wrinkle together,

“Don’t listen to her, Mrs. Dulvaney. She likes to carry on sometimes.”

“Hey! I can’t - I don’t want to owe you,” you protested.

“Why?” He spun you around, still holding your hip, “Think I’ll cash it in? Enough of that, thief. You’re starting to sound like my sister.”

“How much did it cost?” You pressed, staring up into those famed blues as bravely as you dared. 

His eyes softened, unwilling to war with you,

“You’ve been takin’ care of Pigeon while I’ve been away, and don’t say you haven’t. I know Hamish didn’t fix that leak in the sink. The man’s keen, but he’s no handyman. I dinnae ken just how much you’ve been doing for her until I was here this summer, but I ken it now. So, pull your fangs out of me, thief. Let me pay my own debt, aye?”

Confidently, his hand came up to cradle your cheek, resting against your jaw, smoothing over your skin like wet clay, molding you just so. You leaned into it, forgetting yourself, forgetting the shop, forgetting your promise. 

Mrs. Dulvaney reminded you,

“Ahem, shall I get you a wee box?”

“Aye, thank you, love,” Johnny told her, releasing you to get changed. He followed the older woman to the front desk, tactical black in a sea of white lace.

You couldn’t form a coherent thought; it was only Johnny in all of your senses, but you saw your hair tie wrapped around his wrist, and you didn’t have the heart to ask for it back. 

He carried the box for you and put it in the boot, securing it under some of his gear. 

“Right,” he slammed the back door and leaned over the edge of his huge tire to stare at you, “That’s sorted. Lunch?”

You smiled,

“Alright, as long as we’re back before two.”

He let out an exasperated sigh,

“Don’t worry, lass. I remember the rules.”

You hopped back in the Jeep for a short drive. Winding roads and arching hills followed you just outside of town. He pulled over into what looked like an empty gravel patch and helped you down again. 

He didn’t let go of your hand this time. Able to sense your hesitation through the rigidity of your grip, he grinned down at you, squeezing your palm tighter,

“I said I remembered them, not that I agreed. C’mon, this way.”

There was a small dirt path that led into a small clearing, and just through the tree cover you could see the beginnings of an ancient ruin. Broken stone walls and reinforced edges gave way to a sprawling castle. 

You gasped,

“What? Where has this been hiding?”

His wide smile couldn’t be contained,

“Land of Kings, lass. Cannae go twenty paces without trippin’ over a wee castle or two. This place does the best kebabs, I swear.”

“Kebabs?” You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. 

Off to the side of the ancient ruins, a small food cart sat steaming with its owner, waiting (it seemed) just for you and Johnny to arrive. 

Johnny ordered for you,

“Two lamb and two Iron Brus, please.”

While he waited for the food, you explored a bit, marveling at the old walls, the hints at life, the old fireplace that had half of its chimney still standing. You dared to touch the stones, wondering how many hands had touched the same one before you, wondering if lovers had read sonnets to each other under the eaves of the windows, wondering how many families were born and lived and died among the masonry under your fingertips. 

After a while, Johnny found you and jerked his head for you to follow him, his hands full with your lunch.

He led you to a short wall and sat against it. You sat with him, the grass and clover soft beneath your legs. The view was spectacular. You could see most of the grounds, but you could also see down into the town itself. You watched everyone bustle and hurry along with their lives, driving little cars, carrying little bags, all oblivious to your stolen hour with a man who knew the rules and sought to break them. 

The man passed your food to you and cracked open your soda. You commented on his choices, teasing him,

“Bit presumptuous of you. What if I didn’t like lamb?”

He glared playfully,

“But you do.”

You laughed,

“Okay, you got me. But, how’d you know?”

“They pay me to be observant, lass. And of all the observant bastards, I’m the best at it,” his tone has turned a bit sour, and you wondered why. You pried, gently,

“Do you like it? The…army?” You lacked the vocabulary to have this conversation. 

He took pity on you, smiling softly as he unwrapped his kebab,

“Yeah, I’m good at it. Really good.”

“But do you like it?”

Silence, then a cutting laugh,

“Mm, that’s a hard question, thief.”

You felt like you should apologize, like you shouldn’t have pressed into a bruise that you had no business knowing about. He ate his kebab unbothered, though, and you took another chance,

“Why don’t you want me to call you Soap? Isn’t that your army name?”

Army name? You were kicking yourself for not coming up with something cooler like alias or even call sign. What was wrong with you? 

You thought he might laugh, that he might tease you for calling it something so lame. But, he didn’t. He stopped eating, taking a moment to look out over the vista, the wind blowing through the ends of his hair. He didn’t look at you at first, but he replied,

“I don’t want you to call me that because… well. We were pinned down outside of a warehouse one night. Low on ammo, fuckin’ air strike got held back, out of options, ye ken? We could either hold tight and pray the fuckers didn’t find us, or we could make our way through the building. My mate had taken a goddamn bullet to the thigh, so I knew he wasnae waitin’. Cleaned out the whole warehouse on my own. Called me Soap. Not a speck of dirt left alive.”

It was your turn to be silent. The grass wasn’t as soft. The wind, once a gentle breeze, now overwhelmed you. There was an aimlessness to the quaint movements of the townsfolk down below you, a desperation. 

You reached out your hand and found his. Perhaps he would pull away, shying from the salve of your touch, but he didn’t. He clutched at you, and you kissed the top of his shoulder experimentally, suddenly full of pluck in your imaginary little kingdom,

“Johnny it is, then.”

“Thank you,” he nuzzled the crown of your head and planted a kiss of his own. 

The guilt was still there, haunting you in the shadows, but Johnny’s abject disregard for it had made it small and dulled its teeth. Selfishly, you ignored it while you were in this dreamscape, these ruins, where you were hidden. 

You finished lunch and made it back to the car, holding hands through the castle walls as you walked, a thousand years too late to be its lord and lady. Johnny asked about your writing and your poems, and you told him the simple version. You sang with him on the drive. You made it back before two, untangled your fingers from his, and walked into… a catastrophe.

“Babes! There you are!” Pidge’s face was streaked with tears, “Roger’s got class tomorrow, so we have to finish these bloody invites quickly. We’ve got to get him back to Peggy’s before dark. Och, Christ, if it wasn’t two hours away!”

“Hey,” you grabbed her gently by the arms and glanced up at Johnny, “It’s gonna be okay, Pidge. We’ll take care of it, Johnny and me.”

You hated to see her so distraught. There were only 259 invitations. How hard could it be?

“What?” She looked stunned, “You will? Babes, there’s…”

“Two… hundred… fifty-nine…” Johnny laughed, supporting your decision to swoop in and help, “We know, Pigeon. Take the lad home. Give Peg my love, will ya?”

Hamish came around the corner with two duffel bags,

“What’s going on, love?”

Pidge fought back tears of relief as she filled him in,

“They’re going to do the invites, Hammie.”

“All of them?”

“All of them!” You laughed, interrupting her, “If you need to go, just go. Are you staying the night?”

“Yeah,” Pidge sighed, releasing all of her balled up stress, “We’re going to get her fitted in her dress, pick out jewelry, that sort of thing. Oh, gods! Why do you always save the day?”

She hugged you so tight around your neck that you lost your breath, but you hugged her back and whispered into her hair,

“Because I love you, Pidge.”

“And you know where to drop them off?”

You nodded,

“Yes, go on! We’re fine. Roger,” you shook the boy’s hand, “Nice to see you!” 

Roger smiled and Johnny hugged him and Pidge and swept them out the door. All of the bustle and chaos subsided, turning into quiet silence once again. He turned to you with a strange look on his face,

“What have you done, thief?”

“I think I just said we’d address 259 invitations.”

“Aye,” he pulled his hands down his face and shook his head, “Red or white?”

You furrowed your brow,

“What?”

“Wine, love. ‘Cause fuck doin’ this shite sober.”

SIX HOURS LATER

“249! This calls for a celebration, mhèirleach,” Johnny cried out, reaching for the second half-drunk wine bottle, refilling both of your cups.

You raised your glass and smiled, watching the pink of his cheeks reach his eyes as he laughed with buzzed joy. 

“Ten left,” you sighed, glancing at the clock, “and it only took us… six hours?”

“Christ,” he chuckled, “You and your charity.”

“Forgive me,” you begged, joking with him.

“Always,” his answer was a little more serious than teasing. There was a muted darkness to it that leaned towards suggestiveness. 

You stamped 250 and 251, both shipping all the way to Dublin, apparently. Carefully spelling the names across the top, you stole stray glances at your partner, watching as he licked and sealed the edges of 252 and 253. 

You’d talked about everything under the sun with him while your fingers bled from paper cut after paper cut. You had two bandaids already, and he had fawned over you, making sure they weren’t applied too tight. 

You’d found out a lot about Johnny MacTavish. You learned about his friends, and their funny names. Ghost was a huge Manc with a penchant for masked theatrics on the battlefield. Gaz was a snarky daredevil, and Price was their fearless leader. Hearing about Gaz shooting terrorists upside down from a helicopter was the highlight of your night, and you couldn’t wait to meet them all. 

You’d heard about his father who lost his life in Bosnia doing almost the same job as Johnny, and about how Pidge had taken it very hard. You’d known a little about him, since it was usually difficult conversations about their mom’s lost battle with cancer that was the pressure point. You’d met Pidge two years after her death, so you knew a lot about what the family had been through. But, it was rare for Pidge to bring up her father, and now you knew why. 

Now, it was just Brigette and Johnny, still living together in their childhood home, frozen in time and yet moving at light speed toward their own separate lives. 

You picked up the conversation where it had dropped off, stamping his sealed 253,

“So, Pidge doesn’t want you in your uniform at the ceremony?”

He shook his head dismissively,

“No, she’d come un-fuckin’-glued, she would. I’ve got my kilt, so I’ll be fit, don’t you worry your wee head, thief.”

“I bet you make the kilt look damn good,” you smiled, making a loopy letter L on the next envelope. 

You missed his reaction, focused on your letters, but he had paused and you looked up to watch him. His eyes were wild and bright, staring right at you, caught mid-lick on 255.

He didn’t say anything, but his tight grin was reward enough. 

256, 257, and 258 went by in a quiet blur, and then he held up 259, triumphant. 

He licked it and passed it over to you. You stamped it and tossed it in the box. 

“Holy shit,” you laughed. 

“Aye,” he sighed, getting up and stretching a bit from sitting so long. Your eyes caught the hem of his shirt as it rose above his navel, showing off abs and a dusting of dark fur. 

“You heading out tonight?” You asked, having heard buzz after buzz of notifications on his phone all night long. It was only around eight o’clock; plenty of time for a pub run. 

His eyes narrowed down at you, mid-yawn, 

“No, why would I?”

“Oh,” you shrugged, trying to brush it off as casually as you could, “I just saw Cherise had texted you and -”

“Love,” he waited for you to look up at him, his huge arms bulging as he leaned back against the countertop, staring you down with a white-hot intensity, “If I wanted to be out with Cherise, I’d be out with Cherise.”

He left the counter and walked over to you slowly, sitting in the chair closest to you, pulling both of your bandaged hands into his, staring down into them like he was trying to divine some sort of truth,

“I know Pigeon thinks she knows best, and for a while, she did. Maybe she still does, on some things. But, on this,” he squeezed your hands, “She has no right to decide what I want for myself. And look - I know I’m not…” he scoffed, “ boyfriend material, or whatever the shite, but when I saw you in the kitchen, stealin’ my shirt, drinkin’ out of my mug, sleepin’ in my bed… I couldnae say no. I’ve been sayin’ no to myself a lot, lass. Lettin’ my whole life rush by me. You hit me like a punch, so you did. Woke me up.”

You held onto every word like it owed you money, watching his face for any signs of the playboy you’d been warned about, but finding only Johnny. It was hard to protest, but your heart was tearing in two thinking about your friend and her brother. You sighed,

“Johnny, I can’t…”

“I know you cannae betray her. I know that. I know you won’t. But, you’ll let me, won’t you? Let me pretend that I can have you, just for tonight. I’m back in Sakhra tomorrow morning, but tonight I’m here with you. Just once, I’d like to know what that feels like.” 

“And what happens to me?” You were whispering for some reason, matching his low voice, telling a secret you didn’t know how to keep, “What happens when you’re in Sakhra and I’m still here? Alone.”

He sighed, rucking his hands through his hair and standing up, pacing in the kitchen like he was waiting on bad news. Johnny shook his head, staring at the floor as he admitted,

“I dinnae ken what to do…”

You stood and joined him in the dimly lit kitchen, following some old recipe without a name, kneading dough that shouldn’t rise, baking bread you shouldn’t be breaking. Your hands found his broad, warm chest and you let him curl his arms around you. 

“Just tonight, then,” you whispered again, as low as you could so that the angels might not make it out. 

His whole body responded to your concession, lighting up like a fire in a hearth, 

“Aye, mo mhèirleach, just tonight. And tomorrow, I’ll be gone, and you can call it a dream.” 

He bent to kiss you and you dissolved into him like sugar into hot water, syrupy and sticky, cloying and saccharine. You were engulfed in his scent and his heat; he folded in and out of each of your senses, buttery smooth and suffocating. His hands were everywhere all at once, furious in their grasping, and eager to put skin on skin. 

You were lifted, like you weighed nothing, frothy and light, spinning against his body until your legs wrapped around his hips. He walked you to his room, shouldering open the door with a cruel shove, suffering no obstacle. You fell, having been released from him, feeling like you would tumble forever downward before bounding on the soft mattress, the same sheets that held your secret sins holding your brazenness now. 

You reached for his shirt and his buttons, and you were stopped. He held you, panting and breathless, shaking his head,

“No, thief, not you. Let me.” 

Lost and pliant, you let him take you apart, peeling your clothes away, piece by piece, kissing the skin as he revealed it. Your blood rushed through your body, chasing his mouth, pooling in your lower belly, exciting your flesh, swelling your folds. You felt it tingle, and you reached for him again, trying to pull him on top of you. 

That was what he wanted, right? What all men wanted. A sheath for their blade? But, oddly enough, he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he shed his shirt and pants, joining you on the bed, his face lingering by your belly, kissing you softly, licking your thighs and leaving little bruises on your hips with his mouth. Johnny finally found his way to your core, much to your aching relief, planting slick, languid kisses against your mons and lips, sucking at their softness. 

He moaned like he was the one feeling the pleasure, looping your legs over his arms and moving your body up the bed with a purposeful shove, still suckling from you like a bee from a flower; as if his life depended on his work. You couldn’t help but run your hands through his hair, the silky smoothness of his mohawk too tempting to tug and scratch at his scalp.  

If you did, he rewarded you for it. Every tug of his hair earned you a whining groan, and long gentle scratches on his head meant that he would gaze up at you through those long eyelashes with a heady, feral hunger. He lapped at your slick heat, fucking you with his mouth, eating you in a way you hadn’t imagined possible. 

You were sobbing out long, growling cries of pleasure, begging him for more and more. He was all too happy to obey. When you came, he would edge you through it, pulling you along the crest of each wave of your pleasure like a buoy through the tide, keeping you afloat so that you might feel each and every salacious ebb of it. 

“That’s it, lass. Come for me. Such a sweet cunt, like honey…”

You lost track of time, of everything. The only thing that existed was Johnny’s mouth on your pussy, and you were his prisoner. He could have told you to light yourself on fire and you would have hurried to do it. You were burning anyway. Your body was aching from the tension of coming over and over, sweating into the sheets from your exertion. Typically, he would have been begging for his turn by now, but Johnny was not a typical man. 

You tried to stop him. You pulled his mouth away with some difficulty, making him face you, motioning for him to come and take the position his cock had generously earned between your thighs, but his mouth would hear none of it, shaking his head and returning to his post, dutiful and insatiable. 

“Johnny, please…I’m - I can’t…” You couldn’t form words. 

He smiled at your plight, 

“Want another, mo mhèirleach? I’m so close. Give me another, lass. Please.”

He sucked at your clit with a dedicated fury, his hands pulling you in to his mouth, lapping right at your coiled nerves, fraying them, sparking them like kindling. You cried his name, hoarse from doing so, and you watched as his face contorted with pleasure as he thrust his hips into the bed, shamelessly humping the mattress, coming from your ecstasy and the little friction he could find. 

Johnny called out for you and you held his hand, looping your fingers in his as you had in the castle, in his car, helping him come down from his high. He panted, recovering bit by bit, slowing his movements, kissing you chastely in all of the spots he’d been torturing. 

He crawled up your body, finally, covering you with his hulking mass, sweating and heavy. You were trapped in his arms, your hands feeling his chest hair for the first time, cradling his face, watching him smile from utter bliss. 

“Thank you, love,” he kissed you on your mouth, meaning it.

You chuckled, breathless,

“Me? Goddamn. I should be thanking you. Are you sure you don’t need me to…” 

You reached your hand down to peel his ruined boxer briefs away from his softening cock, wet and messy from his orgasm on the bed. He caught your hand in his, stopping you,

“No, you cannae break your promise. You haven’t, thief. Dinnae worry. It was me. Just me. I just…needed to know.”

He curled you close to himself, folding you into him completely, and you slept there with him, naked atop the sheets, not caring who might see you. 

DAWN OF THE NEXT DAY

You woke before he did, still curled inside of him, cocooned in his warmth like a reluctant butterfly, your wet wings still remembering his sweet work. Your breathing must have changed, because he woke too, looking down at you pleased yet hungry. He kissed you, soft as could be, and his fingers found your pussy just as they had when he’d been half-dreaming of you. Johnny touched you with confident purpose now, whispering in your ear so that you could feel his warm breath inside of it,

“Morning, mhèirleach.”

You gave him Shakespeare, teasing him for his love of poems. It was too fitting not to,

“Morning? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear…”

He was extremely pleased with your offering, raising his eyebrows, wanting you to continue. You did,

“Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree: believe me, love, it was the nightingale.”

He put on his best face for remorse, trying to remember his part, 

“It was the lark, the herald of the morn. No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks do lace the…uh…  

“Severing…” You helped him, smiling like a fool. 

“...severing - um… clouds in yonder east…”

“That was good!” You kissed his cheek, rewarding his attempt, and then, sobering, you asked him, “Do you really have to go?”

He became serious with you, sighing into your skin,

“I do. But, I’ll text you all my mornings until we have another, aye?”

“Another? I thought you said we wouldn't…”

“I know what I said, thief.”

You kissed him until the last moment, and the click of his door as he closed it behind him made your heart ache. You lay there wondering about consequences and lovers and families and their houses until the sun sliced through the glass and into your eyes, glossy and full of uncertainty.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Chapter 06

[strawberrystepmom]

prev chap | YOU ARE A FEVER | gojo x f!reader | series masterlist | next chap

cw: mentions of witchcraft and witch hunting. reader has defined physical characteristics (red hair, long length, wavy texture), two sisters, and a complexion that visibly reddens. word count 1.9k.

It has been a week since your death sentence and rescue. 

Your savior has insisted upon keeping you hidden until he feels it’s safe enough for the two of you to surface and head toward the city of Amavel which he calls home, nearly a quarter of a day away from your home. The signs he’s looking for to indicate that you are safe aren’t clear to you and there has been no attempt made to clarify them at all, the unknowns of it all keeping you up into this late hour.

Two weeks ago you went to bed two hours past sundown each evening, preparing yourself with sleep for the busy days that would be ahead. Harvest season is always busiest toward the end thanks to the amount of packaging and processing required and while your mind wanders about how much grain is going to be in the airtight containers in every home in the village this winter, the realization that it doesn’t matter hits you like a fist to the gut. Your mouth runs dry. The blanket wrapped around you feels comforting so you pull it against you tighter. 

You will never return home even if some part of you left unmarred by the events of seven short days ago desires it. There is no place for you in a community that turned on you cruelly over coincidence. You will never get to pick up your favorite book again, the one you found abandoned in the hydrangea bushes last summer. The sketches and drawings of the things your imagination has conjured for you were likely tossed upon the pile of garbage used to light the fire that was meant to kill you. 

The small cave you rest in feels even smaller and the swirling pattern of your thoughts begins to overtake you until you realize that you aren’t alone. A distraction sits mere feet away from you.

Shifting slightly, you clear your dry throat and speak up.

“Hey Satoru?”

He looks over his shoulder at the little fur blanket wrapped lump in the small bed the two of you have been sharing. He planned on slipping into it after your steady breaths became the only sound in the small space if there appeared to be no danger coming from outside the safe haven but you have other plans. The peek of your head poking out of the blankets draws a smile to his face and his attention is grabbed from the mouth of the cave that has been glamoured in an effort to disguise it lest a search party come looking for the witches. 

“I thought you were sleeping.” He clasps his hands together and leans forward on the stool he sits in with his legs spread wide. The candlelight keeping him visible to you flickers and glows over his face and you settle back into the blankets, holding your arms against your body. 

“Too much on my mind right now,” you offer with a tight smile. “I wanted to talk to you for a little while instead if that’s alright.”

A half shrug is your permission to proceed.

“What was your life like growing up?”

The witch chuckles, spinning on the stool so that he is facing you instead of looking over his shoulder. His body remains in the same posture, leaning forward and legs spread which would be rude for a person with less personality to pull it off yet he does it effortlessly. 

“Well, I guess it was easy. My parents are nobles so I never had to work very hard for anything and being you know,” he unclasps his hands and runs one of them down his body in a way that makes you laugh and roll your eyes playfully. “It was just, I dunno…normal?”

All you respond with is an uncertain hum and he raises a brow. There’s a curious tension in the air, emanating from you. This is not the first time he has noticed that you are bad at asking for what you want to know. You love to talk, as a pair you go back and forth for hours all day, but when it comes to the personal details you become a bit withdrawn. You do not love sharing your own story, making you feel unreasonable when demanding others do the same. 

Fortunately for you, he wants you to know it all and in due time you will. His patience with your apprehension is surprising. You never would have considered him a man who is used to waiting on anything or anyone. 

“I’m an open book, my little sacrifice. Ask if you want to know more.”

The tongue in cheek nickname earns him an icy glance and you a mischievous snicker from the man whose hair flops so charmingly over his forehead. The strands are the same color as the moon, the last thing you saw looking up before flames engulfed the area around you. 

“You are ridiculous,” you tut and he laughs in response with a half smile.

A mere week ago he clutched your chin and gently maneuvered your face downward to meet his. The horrible memory of the violence inflicted against you seems significantly less painful when you recall that not even smoke, fire, and the threat of an end could keep the two of you apart. You still wish you understood why but have accepted some answers you may have to wait to receive. 

Shifting in the bed, you settle on prompting him to tell you about his life instead of considering the events that led you to this moment. It’s less stressful when you consider the immediate path in front of you instead of the thousand unknown ones lingering around every corner. Lighting your own mood, you giggle and idly kick your feet beneath the blanket.

“Normal seems like such a strange way to describe your life to a person you hardly know. My normal is probably far different from yours and I think most would say the same.”

Gojo frowns and rises from the stool, joining your side on the bed. The bottom of the blanket touches the outside of his linen pant clad thigh and heat rises in your face, close proximity something you are more used to after seven days in this place although his desire to be close surprises you. You have woken up with him wrapped around you more than once, eyes fluttering open to see his already pointed down at your face just as they are now. That searing gaze is glued to your features while he makes himself comfortable. 

“Try rephrasing that as a question and I’ll answer it.” 

Sighing, you lift the blanket away from your face. Another smile crosses his face and he claps his hand down across your covered calves, squeezing down. You attempt and fail to kick him off of you, his grip firm enough to be felt but not to harm you. “Fine, fine. I’ll come up with one.” 

For a fleeting moment you remain quiet and he worries if he offended you by refusing to indulge you. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what normal is as he has never been it and has been reminded of such his whole life. Relief washes over him when your mouth opens and you stick your finger up with a smile, finding what you were searching for.

“Did you have a lot of friends when you were younger?”

A snorting laugh fills the room and you feel silly for asking something so naive. This man clearly has a life that is rich and exciting, so unlike yours that a question like this would be laughable to ask. Of course he has friends and lovers and fans and everything in between. Suddenly feeling insecure, you slide your knees toward your chest and wrap your arms around them beneath the blanket. He picks up on the shift in your mood, looking away from you and down at where his hand rests on the bedding instead of your figure as it did moments ago. 

He feels cold when he isn’t touching you but he plays it off by drumming his fingers against the bed. Honesty comes with a price, a lesson Satoru learned back in those days of youth you’re questioning him about. He could tell you the truth - he’s always felt unmoored, alone, misunderstood. The glittering parties and the bustling streets are fun but they never have fulfilled him in the way he’s been searching for.

Being here, alone and secluded with you, after watching you from afar for so long is the closest he has ever felt to being whole. As humiliating as it is to acknowledge it, even by flickering candlelight in a tight space, you had him wrapped around your finger the first time he saw you and you are so unaware. Whatever modicum of shame that remains within Satoru climbs up his spine and he splays his hand over the bed, spreading his fingers to resist the urge to reach out for you again.

“No, not really. I have a few friends from back then who are still around but I’ve been told before people find me off putting, whatever that means.” A playful eye roll punctuates his statement. Tension seeps out of you and the tight ball you curled yourself into relaxes slightly, enough to make him relax beside you. He reaches across the bed and puts his cold hand under the blanket, wrapping it around your ankle which causes you to yelp. “Maybe that’s why people think you're off putting,” you joke while he slides your leg toward him.

Your heel rests on his thigh and the cool air doesn’t bother you as much as you assumed it would, the warmth of his touch thawing out whatever insecurity was left within you. The comfort you feel around him strikes you as odd although it’s a side effect of him spending years studying you from afar, something he hasn’t quite decided if he is going to be honest about at this point in time.

That’s a concern for another evening, he thinks while squeezing your ankle gently. There are many ways he can dress the truth of all he knows if he thinks hard enough about it. Until then, there are more pressing matters at hand.

“Do you think I’m off putting?”

Giggling, you twist your ankle. He glances up at your face to see your nose scrunched, a fond little smile on your lips.

“I think you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met before.” Another squeeze of his fingers around your ankle, your heart strangely mirroring the touch in your chest. “In a good way or bad way?”

You pretend to ponder his question seriously, eyes darting around the room and searching for an answer. Leaning forward, he inches closer and closer to you but stops himself before coming as close as he wants to, exhibiting the smallest bit of self control.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

It’s true but you play it off with a laugh, laying back against the covers beneath you. He follows suit, dropping your foot gently and crawling up the small bed to wiggle in by your side. There is so little room you don’t bother to try and wiggle away, instead opening the blanket and draping it over him.

“Let’s go to sleep, maybe you’ll know by tomorrow and can tell me.”

You purse your lips to hide a smile and furrow your brow.

“I thought you were going to stay up to keep watch? What if someone comes and takes me?”

That signature flippant shrug comes out to play and you laugh, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder and pull you closer. It is wintertime and brisk in the little space you’re calling home, the two of you benefitting from one another’s warmth.

“They won’t. I won’t let them.”

He never had any intention of letting them to start with.

[tteokdoroki]

sucking and marking kiri’s neck for your own pleasure not his and leaving purply marks all over him.

૮ ͈>◡< ͈ა warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, established relationship, suggestive, dry humping, jealousy, possession, excessive marking, hickies, hair pulling, pro hero!kirishima, gn!reader - not beta read !

walk with me nonnie, can you imagine like marking the shit out of kiri’s chest and neck after watching one of his post-rescue interviews— the damsel in distress having thrown themselves all over him on national TV.

he’ll come home tired after his patrol and the agency work— flopping down on the couch to curl into you and while you flick through channels, giving eijirou the unknown silent treatment. the news will flash with the report of his brave work, the girl clinging to him for dear life and looking up at your boyfriend with bright, twinkling eyes as she purposefully drags her words so kiri will pay extra attention to her.

you thought that by the time eijirou came home you’d be completely calm, over it but then just the sight of him getting all flustered rewatching the clip — asking if his arms look to big or if he should have been a little more humble. you can’t even fault kirishima because he’s just too nice to realise when other people are crossing an invisible line. even sitting next to him, you feel like you can smell her all over him and see exactly where she put her hands on him.

so after a few more moments of ignoring the big guy, you haul yourself into his lap — not kissing the way surprise spreads over eijirou’s handsome features before his large hands settle on the dips in your waist. his red eyes darkening with amusement.

“well, hello there, gorgeous.”

“shut up.” the way you latch onto his thick neck could be compared to that of a vampire — sinking your teeth into the golden hue of his skin, nibbling on the flesh until a purple-like bruise rises to the surface. “‘m mad at you,” you whisper, voice basking in a huskiness that empties eijirou’s brain. he’s too slow, too sweet to catch onto what’s happening.

instead he twitches and rumbles and whines underneath you as you use his chest and neck like a canvas. you aggressively paint shades of blue, burgundy and purple across eijirou’s skin, slowly but surely turning him into a needy mess. he chases a friction that you don’t give to him even while perched pretty in his lap. he whines like an angel’s song as you tongue the marks you’ve given him, lapping at the sensitive areas on your boyfriend’s collar bones while you debate on covering them up with more.

having this amount of control and possession over such a big and strong pro hero sends loved up and hormones shooting across your brain and right around your body. it makes you feel good knowing that red riot lets you have him like this, let’s you do these things to him. even though you both know he could very well turn this situation around.

“please, honey. i just wanna…god let me feel you. please?” kirishima pleads and begs as you litter him with enough love bites to last a life time. you know it feels good for him, but for you it’s better. like taking a shot of whatever alcohol you desire — it gives you a buzz. makes you hyperaware that everyone will see your claim in eijirou peeking out of his hero costume.

“baby,” he tries again, breathless and bucking his hips up into yours, anything to soothe the aching, leaking hard-on he sports. “god, i know i’ve got some teeth on me…but you’re really tearin’ a guy up here. please give me more… s’frustrating.” kirishima mewls weakly but lets you grab the black roots of his hair, tugging his head back so you can expose more of his unmarred flesh to your ravenous mouth.

you have an appetite for ruining him, blessing every inch of his sensitive skin with your bite marks. “you know what’s really frustrating, eijirou?” you mumble after sucking on a spot just under his ear — one of those spots that makes his huge body convulse under a simple touch. “watching your boyfriend let some girl put her hands all over him. watching him do nothing about it too.” he groans low and sexy at what you say, hiccuping between the open mouthed kisses you trail down to his plush chest. “it’s like you wanted to make me mad on purpose, red.”

“maybe…fuck… maybe i did.” kirishima sighs, back arching from the couch when you wrap your wet mouth around his juicy peck — biting down on his pebbled nipples before you move to leave teeth marks all across them. “if it gets you like this.”

you lick, you suck, you bite and teeth and bring red riot crumbling down to the ground. by the time you’re done, his chest, neck and tits are sore with midnight purple marks you’ve left all over them and kirishima lets you kiss every single one to soothe him.

it’s safe to say that the headlines reporting in red riot change over the next few days — most of them highly focused on the aftermath of your jealousy he wears proudly on his exposed chest.

[two-white-butterflies]

you taste like wine | daemon targaryen x reader

Description: Daemon Targaryen was as unpredictable as the wind — his love built cities and his wrath destroyed them. Y/N just learnt to accept the fact that there was both good and bad in him. After all, he’d never harm her — he’d never harm his love, his fantasy and his truth.

Everyone always said that the women in House Tyrell were the thorns — and the men were the roses. Daemon agreed with them — for Y/N Tyrell was all thorn and no rose, she was sharp, manipulative and twice as ambitious. In all truths, Daemon was afraid of Y/N, that’s why he agreed to marry her. 

He’s heard whispers of her, how people said that she was a great beauty — a charming little dove. But Daemon knows exactly what kind of person she was. A snake like all of those in Kingslanding that seek to manipulate his brother. 

He sees the way her eyes glimmer — how her face glows when she gets what she wants. She was cunning, he had to give that to her. But even she was no match to the Rogue Prince. 

“Why is it that you’re always frowning?” she enters his chambers to see him sitting motionlessly in one of the leather chairs. Daemon smirks and stares at her, she was truly beautiful and unmarred by the years. 

He stands up, reaching the same height as her. “Frowning? I beg to disagree” he replies while she rolls her eyes. Y/N couldn’t stand him, but only because he was the only one immune to her charms. “Don’t act innocent now, you’re always frowning when I’m around” she chuckles while sitting down on the chair he was previously sitting on. 

He turns to look at her, following her with his sharp gaze. “Why would I frown in front of such a beautiful woman?” he jokes while she scoffs. “If I’m such a beauty, why is it that we haven’t had any children yet? Surely, a man like you wouldn’t be able to keep his hands away from me” she states the obvious while he smirks again. 

“Maybe that’s the reason I’m frowning all the time, I can’t seem to get my hands on you” he flirts and she rolls her eyes. He was talking shite again. She hardly doubts that he lusts after her — when all he does every day is complain about her existence. 

But it was alright, she supposes. After all their children would be nobodies — just Targaryens who had the title “Prince” or “Princess” none of them would ever sit on the throne. It was all useless really — and being his wife was just sad. She should’ve just married one of The Starks or The Harrenhals. 

He senses her silence and he scoffs, “What? Don’t believe me?” he interrogates while taking a step towards her. She chuckles loudly — as if she was mocking him. “Please, Daemon — it’s too early for jests” she mocks while he rolls his eyes. He places both his hands on her shoulders, staring ferociously at her (E/C) doe eyes. 

“Fucking you would be easy — loving you however?” he spat and she was able to smell his breath — it stunk of ale and wine, he was most definitely drunk. She shoves his hands away from her and he chuckles bitterly, “This behavior is for your whores in Silk Street, not your wife” she scolds while he presses his lips on her. 

She melts into his kiss as he slowly pulls away. “And if you were asking me, I’d say that you fancied me too, wife” he smirks. 

----

Daemon was always called for war, his brother King Viserys left him for himself to fight the Crab War. The tensions at court have only soared higher, with the birth of Aegon (Alicent’s son) and the birth of Aemon (Daemon and Y/N’s son.) 

Everyone seeked to replace Rhaenyra, they favored her younger brother most. Y/N knew that Rhaenyra was more than capable to be queen, but she wasn’t born a man — and to others, it may mean that she would never be enough. 

She finishes braiding the Princess’ hair as Aemon coos from the princess’ grasp. “He always know its you” Rhaenyra states while Y/N chuckles. Aemon always loved being at his mother’s side, but she knew that he’d love his father much more. 

“I bet he misses his father” she whispers while taking him from his cousin’s hands. “My father should end that war for the better, I fear that the Hightowers have something to do with it” Rhaenyra hushes while Y/N glares at her. 

The Hightowers had spies everywhere, “Lower your voice, my princess” she warns while Rhaenyra sighs. She adored Lady Y/N, though sometimes she wishes that her father married her instead. Lady Y/N was made for court — even when she sounds mean, it always comes across as polite. 

Rhaenyra knew one thing for sure; she liked Y/N more than Alicent. “I don’t want to be here at court anymore, my lady. You should come with me to Dragonstone — it is much safer there” she offers while Y/N declines her. 

“Rhaenyra, I’ve told you about this. Leaving your position at court will only give our enemies more leverage” she explains while Rhaenyra frowns. “Our?” she asks and Y/N nods. “We are the Blacks are we not — but most of all, we are women. Our strength is not given, it is forged” she places a hand on the princess’ shoulders. 

----

“You mean to tell me that you won a war purely out of hate?” she exasperates as he nods his head and removes his armor. His ego felt bruised after his brother’s letter, thus he decided to end the war once and for all. Her frown deepens, “And where was all of this hate, two years ago?” she questions and he freezes. 

He was scared of her anger — but he was afraid of her love. Her love that could kill him after she realizes he could’ve been home sooner. “I wish to rephrase my previous statement” he pauses and she chuckles. “Ah, you wish to get out of trouble!” she hits him lightly. 

“You rascal — do you have any idea how much I worried about you” she hits him again and this time a chuckle escapes from his lips. Her frown goes deeper, “What are you laughing at?” she hits him for the third time as he wraps his arms around her, trapping her in his warm embrace. 

“My thorn — I did not win this war out of hate” he explains and she rolls your eyes. “Uhuh, you better explain” she crosses her arms while he presses a kiss on the top of her head. “I won the war out of love — and also because I haven’t made love in two years” he finishes his statement with a joke as she tries her best to not laugh — she was still mad at him. 

“And maybe I can make it up to you? If you know what I mean” he winks at her while she rolls her eyes and walks away. “Idiot” she mutters. 

pt. 2

[arabellasleopardcoat]

The Devil (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: The corpse in your bathroom is not a corpse, but rather a pure blood fanatic with a penchant for child brides. You are not impressed.

Warnings: Violence, sexual thoughts, mature language.

A/N: Part of my Halloween celebration! Part 1 here.

There is a girl screaming, somewhere. It forces Daemon out of his slumber, groaning. Gods, what in the Seven Hells had he done to deserve such a rough awakening?

“Ugh. Stop that, girl.” He says, getting up from the wet stone floor he lays on. It's oddly smooth under his palms. Daemon braces himself for the wave of nausea that will surely follow, expecting the horrible hangover he has gotten every time he drinks ever since he turned thirty.

One would think it gets easier, with age. It does not. And surely, if he had drank enough to not remember where he is or how he got here, this was going to be the mother of all hangovers.

Much to his astonishment, it's not. There is no pounding headache, nor is there a wave of nausea that follows his movement. Daemon is unable to marvel at it, though. The vague sound of a girl whimpering and cowering forces him to stop his pondering and instead focus on the problem at hand.

“Stop that, you little fool. I am not going to hurt you.” Getting up was much harder than he thought. His body feels heavier than it should. It's only as he looks down that he realizes that he is still in his armor, covered in blood.

Daemon understands it, then. He remembers the battle at the Stepstones, and his triumph over that damn crab. He looks you over and smiles.

You are a pretty thing. Younger than him, and terribly shy, you cower in a corner of what appears to be a bathing room. Someone has made sure that you bathe, as you stand before him in only a flimsy towel.

His men have always been a loyal bunch. Daemon had chosen them well. They didn't disappoint, anticipating his needs and sending someone to serve him. And not just anyone, but a woman who is exactly to his liking.

The bath is already drawn. He cannot wait to get inside it.

“Come here.” He orders you, and your face scrunches up in displeasure. “Help me get out of my armor.”

You take a hesitant step towards him before halting.

“I… I… You… There is blood.” And it's quite a dumb comment, but what else can he expect? He doesn't blame his men for not having found the epitome of wisdom here. There are barely any women at all. It's commendable enough that they have managed to find someone as sweet looking as you are.

You cower more. Your eyes shift to the door of the bathing room. That, he cannot have. Daemon wonders if you have been instructed already on what is expected of you, or if they had just shoved you into this room and ordered you to obey.

He steps closer to you, crowding you. The warm light compliments your skin, making you glow under the candlelight. You have an innocent air about you, all big eyes and pouty lips. The skin of your shoulders and arms is soft and unmarred. A perfect maiden, just in the bloom of youth.

“My men chose you well. You are a pretty one.” His dirty, bloodied hands come to grasp your pristine towel, pulling it away. You are naked as the day you were born, all displayed for his hungry eyes.

Gorgeous breasts. Lush hips. All smooth, perfect skin. If Daemon were a lesser man, he would be slobbering at the way your bosom bounces with your struggles, how your skin flushes and shines with the exertion.

“What are you doing? Leave me alone, leave me alone!” You are a feisty little thing, trying to wrestle your towel out of his hands. You are also slapping at him, everywhere you can reach.

Seven Hells. You are perfect for him, aren't you?

Daemon pulls you closer, hugging you to him. This close, he can smell the herbs and oils in your hair and skin, and it is heavenly. You smell clean and pure. Good enough to eat.

“You are so soft.” He trails kisses along your neck, keeping your wrists pinned down to your sides. You squirm, making faces and aborted noises. “And for how you struggle, you are pure too. Oh, I haven't seen a woman in months.”

“You are disgusting.” You finally manage to push him away, and you move towards a corner of the room. There is a bunch of fabric there that you quickly snatch. It's not a color he has ever seen before. You pull it over your head, and it's only then Daemon realizes it is a shirt. “Get out!”

“Don't be like that, little girl. You will be rewarded handsomely.” He says, half-heartedly. While play fighting might be fun, Daemon is too tired to truly fight you. Besides, he finds it distasteful. He might coerce, but rape is another matter altogether.

“I am not a sex worker!” You complain, from your corner in the room.

"Not for sale, huh?” Daemon smiles. He is amused at your refusal. Most serving girls would trip all over themselves for a night with him, especially if he was offering money for it. Not you, though. You were awfully proud for a commoner. It would only make seducing you more sweet.

“Who the hell are you?” Your voice is snappish. It seems like you finally lost your patience. It's not the tone that makes him pause, though. Daemon has realized from early on that you are quite spirited. No, instead, it's the fact that you don't know him.

“Daemon Targaryen.” He offers, after a pause. The idea of not being recognized in sight is one that is deeply confusing to him. Even here, so far from his home, he is known by the men and women that serve his army. For the Seven's sake, even the Crab King's men shudder at the mere mention of his name.

Something must be wrong. Daemon is somewhere he shouldn't be. There is no other explanation for this, and it makes his skin crawl.

You stare at him, in silence. Your lips purse. There appears to be a storm raging behind your eyes. Whatever confusing thoughts you are having, you do not share them with him. Instead, you point towards the door.

“No. Nope. Out!”

And Daemon, after realizing something is very wrong, does not have the heart to argue. He walks out of the bathing room, head hanging low. He is not ashamed, but he's not sure of what he feels, either.

When he crosses the threshold, the feeling of wrongness intensifies. There is a bright, white light illuminating the space he finds himself in. It doesn't look natural, it is much too harsh for it.

The furniture in the room is all wrong, too. There is nothing made of wood in sight, the love seat is shaped wrong and there is some strange artifact resting on it. Everything he touches seems to be made of a lighter material than wood and rock, that feels off against his skin.

Daemon grabs a small rectangle, covered in raised numbers. He presses down on them, curious about their texture.

Something on the wall lights up. People appear on the walls. Daemon screams, startled by their sudden appearance.

“Who are you? Identify yourselves!”

The people on the wall ignore him. He takes out Dark Sister. Now that he looks at them, Daemon realizes they are not people. They are too small for it. They must be something different. He thinks of the beasts of Old Valyria and comes up blank.

“Are you trying to stab my TV?” Your voice makes him turn, swinging his sword. You are gaping at him. Somewhere along his journey through this strange room, you seem to have found some men's underclothes that loosely cover your legs. You still wear the same shirt, which does nothing to support your bosom. It should make you look deeply unattractive, yet somehow, it does not. Perhaps, because Daemon knows exactly what hides under those clothes.

“Seven Hells, girl.” Daemon rubs a hand over his face. He is starting to get a headache. “Why are there tiny people on the wall?”

“It's…” You grab the rectangle from his hand and press something. The people on the wall disappear. “It's not real. It's like a picture.”

“A painting, you mean?” Daemon frowns. He had never heard something like it. You seem about to explain, so he shakes his head. “It's no matter. I see you traded your clothing for something that hides your charms. Good thinking. It will make it easier to focus around you. ”

“Excuse me?” You cross your arms over your chest. Daemon can't help but leer. You are just too damn easy to rile up.

"Rather unfashionable, though.” He adds. “And it doesn't hide your chest fully.”

“This is nonsensical.” You say, sitting down on your strange love seat and pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Fucking witch.”

“Witch?” Daemon sits next to you. The love seat is made of dark leather. He guesses his armor won't stain it too much. It's awkward regardless, the joints in the metal not meant to bend that way. He starts taking off the chest plate, only paying you half a mind. He figures the venting that will surely come will bore him to tears.

Listening without hearing it's an art Daemon perfected a long time ago. Entertaining young maidens is no hard task at all. Mostly, they are pleased with hearing a few awed sounds here and there and some insightful questions.

Most men, they don't bother pretending to listen to women at all. It is what makes him so successful when it comes to courtship. You don't actually have to listen, it's enough just pretending to do so. Girls like you, they are just like flowers. Pay them a little attention, make them feel seen, and they will open up their petals. Then, it's not hard at all to pick one.

“Oh, forget it.” You mutter, and it's so bitter it takes him aback. It occurs to him, you were probably not about to air your grievances about someone, but perhaps alluding to a true witch.

“You consort with witches? Is that the reason for these strange artifacts?” Daemon raises his eyebrows. If any, it would make some sense.

"I do not.” You answer, nose scrunching up cutely. You look rather young, but he has met whores who look like girls barely out of childhood and are old maids already. There is a certain innocence to your demeanor, though, that indicates either a sheltered life or youth. “I am about to sound insane.”

“Go on.” He stops trying to remove his chest plate and turns towards you. This time, he gives you his full attention. Your eyes are wide and earnest, not a hint of dishonesty in sight. It's very refreshing. As a Prince, he is used to people lying to him to try to gain his favor. You don't look capable of it.

“A woman, she gifted me a love spell. Unblock my path, give me my other half and all.” You give a small groan, rubbing your eyes again. Embarrassment makes you sweet, it appears.

His other half. Hm. Daemon gently cradles your jaw in one of his hands, ignoring your squeals of protest. Pretty, for a commoner, and obedient, too. Your struggling stops as soon as his grip turns harsher. You look up at him, making a face.

“You are getting blood on me.” Your voice is shaky. Daemon has always enjoyed intimidating others. There is something so delectable about seeing fear overtake someone's face and knowing he is the one in control. It's even better with women.

But with you? It's not good. It's positively delicious. Your eyes lower in submission just the barest hint, before snapping up to meet his, angered. You bite your lips, as if unsure if you should be excited or scared of the display.

It's not like it's the first time a woman shows excitement and admiration over Daemon's prowess. But it's not a common reaction. Most women, they recoil at the barest hint of a threat or complain about his brutality. Those who mix excitement with fear, in his experience, are a special type of women. One that is very fun to play with.

“A bit late for that.” Daemon gestures at the love seat, carelessly. He is not very interested in discussing this, really. He is more interested in the fact that there might be some magic at hand. And not only that, but that you might be his fated half. “I have smeared it all over your chambers already.”

“Home. Not chamber.” You correct, haughtily. It's a sad thought, that these little rooms are all you have. Yet, what else could he expect from a commoner? No matter how pitiful, though, there are more important matters.

Focus. He needs to focus and get the answer he needs. But your body is tensing up, eyes darting towards the door. You look about to try to slip out of his grip, perhaps put some distance between the two of you. Daemon can damn near taste it. So to make sure you do not move, he gets bolder.

His hand goes lower. From your jaw, to the side of your neck. Not yet at the base of it, as not to choke you, but pressing hard enough you could imagine the threat. Think about how his hand could slip a little lower, or he could press a little harder.

Your pulse jumps rabbit fast under his fingers. Your lips part. They, they close. He wonders if that is the face you would make, were him to silence you with a kiss.

“Let's not get sidetracked. You? My other half?” Daemon frowns. You are pretty enough, with an edge of wordly innocence that would lead even the most pious man to sin. But you are not Valyrian. Your hair is too dark, your eyes are not purple. Why would you be his?

When Daemon thought of settling down, he always thought it would be with a Valyrian woman. While you were a far cry from his current wife, the Bronze Bitch, you were not exactly what he had in mind.

Daemon has always wanted a Valyrian bride. It is the way things should be. The only way to honor his heritage, keep his bloodline alive, ensure his children are special. How could a Targaryen claim a dragon if their blood was so diluted they barely looked like a Targaryen anymore?

Yet, Daemon is not blind. You seem to fit him in ways he could have never expected, as if you had been made for him. If your witch, or the gods, had brought him here, there had to be a reason.

“I think the same, trust me.” You roll your eyes, a bit too cheekily for someone whose windpipe he could crush at any second. It reminds him of a puppy or kitten, trying to seem ferocious. Daemon allows it only because it is endearing.

“What's so bad about me? I am a Targaryen prince, I own a dragon, and not to mention, I am extremely handsome.” He is half joking, half serious. Daemon is a tad offended, in truth. If any, he should be the one having all sorts of qualms about you being destined for him. You are a commoner, with nothing to your name, and from an absolutely unimportant family.

“The fact that you are fictional, for starters.” You jerk your pretty little head away, scoffing. That has to be the oddest thing he has heard you say all evening. And you have said plenty.

“Fictional?”

“In books only. And a TV adaptation.” You mutter, getting up from the love seat. You grab a blanket, thrown over one of the other seats, and wrap yourself in it.

“Huh.” Daemon's mind is working faster than ever, trying to decipher what you mean. This is not Westeros. That's clear. But what is it? Is this another world where he is only a story to you? Or is this some distant future, where tales of his name and deeds have spread?

“Huh, what?” You turn towards him, all wrapped up in your blanket. You look like an empress of old, blanket over your shoulders trailing after you like a cape.

Daemon takes a step towards you. Then another. You do not move, pinned to the spot by his gaze. Your lips apart again, as if to say something. This time, he does shut you up with a kiss.

Your lips are soft against his. Your mouth is pliant, and you open up for him beautifully. One of your hands tangles in his hair, pulling to keep him close. Daemon doesn't care that your grip is bordering on the painful. If any, it makes him more excited.

His hands go to grasp at your hips, greedily. Your flesh yields like soft butter under his touch, and you give just the smallest sigh against his mouth.

He crowds you, walking you backwards towards a table. Your mouths are still locked together, your breath coming in hot little puffs of air against his. It's a perfect fit, and as the back of your knees hit the table, and you let yourself be lifted onto it, Daemon wonders how he could ever question you being destined to be his.

“Does that feel fictional to you?” He asks you, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your lips twitch upwards.

“I am not certain.” You grin. “You would have to kiss me again, to be sure.”

“Just to be certain.” Daemon repeats, grinning back. “We can't have you having doubts.”

“Of course.” You answer, leaning closer. Your hand goes to cup his jaw. Your palms are tinted with blood. He has gotten you all dirty. The idea of you being bathed in blood, just as he is, from just being close to him is intoxicating in a way Daemon can't yet name.

He gives you a passionate, harsh kiss. Your head sags softly, until it hits his collarbone. Daemon decides it then. He is not going back alone, not to the Bronze Bitch, not to that damn war. He will have you, one way or the other.

Daemon gathers you up in his arms, walking back to the bathing room.

“Come. We need to get cleaned up.”

You nuzzle into him, soft as a kitten. You let him take your clothes off, then his. The water in the tub is lukewarm. One of your hands comes to rub at his shoulder blades, holding a rag.

Daemon grabs your wrist and presses a soft kiss to your palm. You look at him, eyes filled with lust. You are perfect for him.

You have always been.

[neverchecking]

Yoo, can I request sub!wild w/ reader? i was thinking like reader could just be teasing him by sucking on his neck, marking him up, ykyk and he's below them desperately trying to grind up against them. bonus points if he comes untouched >:)

have a good day!! or night!! or evening!!!!

You have a good day as well, anon! You absolutely can request that. I mean my favorite boy, being a big ol' sub? Sign me the F U C K up. This is also kind of an apology since my last Wild bit kind of, admittedly, wasn't up to my own standards. It was rushed and not as polished as I normally like. It was deleted twice and I was just over it at that point but that's no excuse. Anyway, I hope this makes up for it, Darling!

And you know I'm going for those bonus points.

Smut, so 18+, MDNI.

Smut CW: Wild is a subby baby boy, you edge him a little, he busts a little prematurely with no touching (BONUS POINTS), and you know me. He cries just a little.

His Home

The difference in the way people treated him varied. It varied a lot. It ranged from people taking one look at his scars and treating him like some form of monster that had escaped from it's cage to people automatically bowing to his every whim-- deeming him some form of warrior who had faced battles far past their comprehension. Some people tried to hide their whispers behind cupped hands and side glances while others outwardly made their disgust known.

It was just the way it was.

At least in his Hyrule, however, he had a safe haven. A home. A place he could go to, to hide and recollect himself enough that dealing with the public was palatable once more. The civilians of his Hyrule knew he was the Hero, yes, but that didn't stop them. They still talked about how he had failed. How he was a century too late. How it didn't matter what he did, because they had grown accustomed to the Calamity. That he had done it for his own pride when that wasn't the case at all. Of course, he knew why he did it. He did it to avenge the fallen champions. He did it to free Flora, who had been fighting non-stop for a hundred years. He did it to ensure his home remained safe and sound.

Because you were his home. You were his sanctuary. You were the one to collect him into your arms and hold him close, gently whispering soft comforts into his ear, the one who was humming a half-remembered lullaby to sooth his nightmares. You remained a stone pillar of patience and comfort for him to follow. Like a beacon calling him to his Goddess.

Then he was dragged away from his home. He went kicking and screaming, make no doubt about it, but it didn't stop that Fraud from pulling him away. He was dropped with his sword brothers, which was...fine (Fine was a good word for it). But they weren't you. They had nothing on you. They could dream of being half of the comfort you were.

That wasn't even the worst of it, however. No, the worst was the face that he had now lost his safety blanket. His one hold over his own crumbling sanity was eons away and the only way he could even hope to reach them was through luck alone and Hylia's filthy grace.

Neither of which he would bet any amount of rupees on. If he were a betting man, that was. But he wasn't.

He wouldn't bet anything on making it back to you in a timely manner.

But life had a way of surprising him, he supposed, as he blinked bleary eyes open only to find familiar surroundings. The stale smell of the forest, the cool feeling of dew and dirt under his palms, even the drifty breeze flowing through his hair. It was all enough to remind him that while he wasn't quite home just yet he was close. Closer than he had been in so long.

He could practically taste you on his tongue already, the salty tang of your sweat; hear the lustrous harmony of all the sounds he could pluck from you. Just thinking about the heat of your skin under his palms, smooth and unmarred unlike his own, had him buzzing with epinephrine. He was sure even the others could pin something was different with him as the minute they entered Hateno they had wandered off to the inn and allowed him to wander off. Which was perfectly fine with him.

He had it all planned out as well. He'd get home, scoop you into his arms tight enough you would never doubt his love for you. His absolute devotion to your being. How nothing, not even time itself, could separate the two of you. Nothing could keep him from you.

Then he'd pepper an absolute flurry of kisses all over your face, neck, anywhere he could reach, just to hear your giggles ring out in pure glee. Feel your arms wrap around his own neck, fighting to return the affection only for him to make the action nearly impossible. How could he break apart from you long enough?

Of course, he would, only to press your lips together in a heart stopping kiss. Just so you could steal his very breath from his lungs. And he'd let it happen. Just to make you happy.

It didn't happen. The reason you and him paired so well together was because you surprised him at every turn. At any given point you could turn him onto his head and throw him for a loop. And he lived for it. The excitement and the rush of following you into unknown waters. It was so addicting.

This was all proven when instead of him trapping you in his arms, you pounced first-- as if waiting for him by the door. You didn't even give him the chance to act before wrapping your arms around his neck, crashing your lips together in a flurry of desire and fondness. Distance does make the heart grown fonder or something, he didn't know. His brain had began the shut-down process, too overwhelmed on emotions and a lack of blood.

When you dragged him to the stairs leading to the loft, positively filthy promises leaving your lips making him stutter. His heart was in his throat, pumping wildly in an effort to make up for all of his blood rushing to his cock-- which stirred to life in his pants.

He hadn't even known he was so pent up until you were pinning him to the bed, hips a familiar weight against his as you dragged your clothed core over his own. It was like being hurdled into the deep end within seconds as something hot and fiery and untampered roared to life in his veins.

His hips bucked wildly, aching for some sort of friction that he desperately needed. He would take anything you gave him, of course, but couldn't you take mercy on his poor, tattered soul? He would slaughter Ganon a million times over should you just lower yourself a bit more. Just give him a little more, please.

The feelings of your lips on his neck had him jolting as his own hands latched onto your hips in a positively bruising grip. Teeth gently nipping at skin before your molten tongue was lapping at the indents, soothing the slight sting. It was all so erotic, positively prurient, and he could barely contain himself. He knew he was whining. High keens full of begging and pleading pleas. He knew he was whimpering. Bordering on too overstimulated to actually do anything, but not stimulated enough to actually burst. It all felt tight and frustrating, with salty tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

"Wildflower, please-" He cried out, nails clawing up your back as you moved from the hickey you had previously been working on to an unmarked patch of skin. You hummed against him before gently snapping your teeth on the skin again.

It was too much, but not enough. Just enough to keep him right there, but not enough to teeter over, not yet. At least you seemed to take into account his plea, humming in consideration against his skin before pulling off with a positively lewd pop. You weight settled onto his lap, at long last, before you were returning to your previous endeavor.

It only too one roll.

One roll of your hips, plump and perfect, with just enough weight to stoke his cock in just the right way. One salacious rock of your lower body, pushing against his own in a rush of lust and heat. One roll to have him absolutely shattering underneath of you.

Just the push he needed to have him jutting up into you, in an embarrassingly juvenile move, crying out in pure ecstasy with fat tears finally rolling his cheeks. It was an uncomfortable feeling to be reminded of how tightly wound up he was, but to be reminded of how tightly around your finger he was wound? It was pure bliss. To know that he was yours in such a way that you didn't even have to touch him to have him coming undone was salacious enough to have him remaining hard.

To know that you were such a comfort to him, his home, to have him this `devout to you was enough to have him restarting his entire being as fast as he possibly could if only to pin your stunned form beneath him.

He had to show his faith somehow, didn't he?