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ilylovelyz · 10 months

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housewife! reader w traditional! manly! ushijima makes my knees weak omg. the thought of this man training all day to come home to his little housewife and a home cooked meal!! he doesn’t care that you aren’t done setting the table he’s gonna bend you over it anyways. he’s just so in love w you!

sjdjjwje

this is kinda dark but the thought of him hiding ur birth control pills or replacing them with the sugar pills so he can knock you up oh my daysss like what’s the point of letting him fill your womb if he can’t put a baby in there :(

⍣ ೋ Million Dollar Man

˚ · . dilf!ushijima x afab!reader

: ̗̀➛ dubious consent of impreg (?), birth control sabotage, traditional!husband ushijima, stay at home/housewife!reader, kitchen sex (yummy), misogyny (?), breeding, degradation + humiliation, size comparison, size kink, big dick toshi, dacryphilia, cervix fucking, just a whole lotta breeding <3, mentions of pregnancy dur

࣪𓏲ּ i was originally gonna work on an angsty fic for hinata but this was calling me </3 ushijima is so lana del rey

you're screwed up and brilliant you look like a million dollar man

"i'm home." he calmly says, careful to not close the door so noisy.

he takes off his shoes like normal, changing into his house slippers shortly after. he's inhaling eagerly, the scent of well-cooked rice filling his senses.

he walks to the kitchen, his slipper clad feet softly pattering against the natural wood that is his traditional house's flooring. he passes by the doorway that connects to the living room, glancing in and stealing a look that is his first born daughter napping on the floor next to his also sleeping second daughter.

he makes a mental note to not be so loud as they are napping, he knows better than to disturb them.

"welcome home, wakatoshi." you say with that warm smile of yours, eyes crinkling up at the sight of your husband. he softly smiles at you in return, grunting softly in response.

his eyes look over to the stove, a large pot with a cover surely boiling, and then to the rice cooker; which is what he assumes is full of already well-done rice.

he looks back at you curiously, he can only guess what you're making, he doesn't cook often, thats your job as a housewife.

"i'm makin' hayashi rice, you're favorite."

his cheeks can only tingle with shyness, to anyone he might just look ungrateful or monotonous, but it's far from that.

he adores you.

"thank you," he says, taking a few steps towards you until his chest is a few inches away from your face.

he towers over you, you have a tiny frame compared to his almost gigantic one. some have even questioned the two of you about it, stealing a couple of snide jokes here and there.

he can't lie and say that he doesn't find it "interesting." he brings a hand suddenly up to your head, patting your hair lightly. you blush lightly at his affection, leaning into his gentle touches.

he doesn't understand why you still get so shy around him, but he doesn't mind it. he likes that you're so humble and polite, even when it comes to your own husband that you've known since the young age of 17. you're 33 now.

"hm," he hums lightly, leaning down to press a kiss onto your forehead. he places a few kisses on your forehead, temple and nose before he's taking your chin in-between his fingers and tilting your head upwards so he can kiss you on your lips.

it still surprises you, how he can take your breath away from one kiss. as his hands wrap around your upper back to bring you closer to him, you can only think back to the time when the two of you were younger and less experienced, him having less experience than you, so you had to lead him with the expertise you had.

it was cute then, the way he was the one who trembled under your touch, looking at you curiously for the courtesy to touch you.

oh, how time flies. now the two of you own a home together, and have two children together, two beautiful girls, the youngest still a little less than a year old.

while ushijima has always been so stoic and known for it, he, over the many years that have passed, has become twice the man he was those years ago.

it almost flusters you, and you can't help but look back on those younger days with a bittersweet smile, remembering the little boy who would ask to hold your hand.

you fluster at the way his strong hands are tearing your clothes off boldly in the middle of the kitchen, his mouth breathing in your sweet gasps for air as he kisses you passionately.

he cups the side of your face, holding your face still as he all but explores your mouth with his own tongue. you tremble within his hold, your ankles almost giving in weakly just because of a simple kiss.

he notices, and with a squeal, he's lifting you up easily into his arms, walking over to the dinner table, using one of his arms to move aside the dishes you precariously chose for that night. dinner can wait, you guess.

he lays you over the cold wooden table, his hands caressing and rubbing your bare skin. you look beautiful underneath him, eyes already glazed over with tears, mouth red and plush. your neck has fading love bruises and bites, he takes note of it to make sure to go over them once more later.

his hand comes up to fondle your breast, his other running down your torso and down to your back thigh. you mindlessly softly moan at his touches, it always feels good to be touched by him.

but he shushes you, leaning downwards to rest his forehead against yours. "you'll have to be quiet, you don't wanna wake up the kids, don't you?" he whispers softly, in contrast, his fingers are already gliding themselves over your folds, dipping a finger into your already dripping cunt.

you gasp at his lewd actions, an eyebrow raising at his words. "d-don't you think i-it's a bit unfair to say that and then.." you meekly say, trailing off when he adds in another finger, curling them inside and pressing against your sensitive walls.

"..and then what?" he teases, punctuating his sentence by pressing his finger-pads against that sweet spot. your body jolts with pleasure, a hand of yours coming up to clamp over your mouth to muffle your pathetic moans.

"y-you're mean," you mumble out, eyes stinging with shy tears. it has your eyes widening when he's visibly smirking at your words, pupils dilated and dark with pure lust.

"you're so naughty, don't you feel ashamed, as a mother, to be so wet like this on the diner table of all places? isn't this where your kids eat?" he boldly says, adding in a third finger as to worsen his seeming punishment. bastard.

"t-this isn't—it's not–you're such a bastard..!" you stutter out, your free hand coming up to punch lightly against his chest. he lightly chuckles at your words before he returns to his menacing actions.

"why don't you cum on my fingers like this, mama? don't be so loud, you'll wake your dear kids." he says, standing up straight to watch the way your body trembles and jolts with pleasure at his words. like command, despite your own pleas and mewls of disapproval, you're cumming on his fingers like a whore, on his word.

thats how it should be.

you're panting on against the dinner table, hiding your face into the crook of your elbow. you're quickly setting your attention back on him when he calls out your name, opening your mouth submissively when he presses his the same fingers that are covered in your own cum against your lips, feverly sucking up your own juices from his fingers.

you blush once more when he's lightly scoffing at your actions, his free hand coming up to rush his pants and boxers off, freeing his cock and lining himself up to your cunt. "don't be loud, mama," you gasp at his words, his fat tip popping into the tight confines of your pussy walls.

his pace is already ruthless, almost taunting you as he lifts your leg over his shoulder, his cock snugly fitting against your cervix with every thrust. you try your best not to be so loud, but it's a hard task to do, especially when he's purposely abusing all of your weak spots.

his eyes narrow at your state underneath him, grunting against the skin of your calf when he sees a tear run down your cheek. "crying? does it feel good?" he asks menacingly, his free hand coming up to squish your cheeks together degradingly, forcing you to pout within his grip.

it only makes you cry harder at his mean gestures, he never fails to make you feel so little, so small. all count of restrain is lost as you shamelessly moan and cry out at his unrelentingly pounding, cheeks burning greatly as you give into his clear humiliation.

he's almost uncharacteristically grinning at your defeat, bending your leg inwards to your chest, almost bending you in half. you grip onto his forearm for purchase when you're unexpectedly cumming once more, vision going white when he doesn't even slow down.

his right hand comes down to squeeze at your doughy breast, noticing that it's lacking the milk you used to have a few months ago. no, that won't do.

"'gonna cum inside." he declares, his other hand coming down to lift the leg that is dangling off the table so as you get you into the perfect mating press. your eyes are widening bewilderedly at his words, a little shocked.

"b-but i'm not on birth control," you mutter out, but from the way he doesn't falter in his thrusts, it seems he already knows. yeah, of course he knows, he threw them away awhile ago. you don't need those silly pills anymore, you're his wife, your duty is to stay at home, raise his kids, and have as many kids as he pleases.

"t-toshi, utako is not even a year old–ah," you cry out, only to be silenced when ushijima is shoving his tongue back down your throat.

"you're my wife, don't you want my babies?" he asks, stilling his hips, his cock pulled out to the tip. he stares at you expectantly.

you're thinking for a few seconds, he doesn't assume anything in particular except of his cock. you're braindead like that, having nothing but a mommy brain after the last few times he's fucked you so well and good that he got you knocked up.

"..want toshi's babies.." you sob, throwing your head back when you're once again coming around his cock once he continued his thrusts at your words once more, your pussy sloshing lewdly with every movement.

yes, of course you want his babies. that's what you're made for. that's what your lovely existence is for, to cook him a good dinner and then spread your legs for him as dessert. whats a good woman if she doesn't submit to her husband?

he's grateful that you're a good woman, one that is so intelligent yet submissive to him. one that is letting him stuff you fill of his thick seed, letting her hard-working husband fill her yet again full with their third child.

it's just this that you're expected to give, you don't have to do much aside from look after the house and the children you produce, you can do whatever you want with the free time you have left, whether it's the beautiful paintings you create, or the horrendous amount of shopping you do with his credit card.

"i love you," he whispers softly against your ear, noting from the way your chest is rising slowly means that you passed out. dinner still hasn't been served, but thats okay. you've probably had a long day too.

౨ৎ please leave a like and repost with tags

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu!! smut #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyū!!#haikyu smut #haikyuu breeding #haikyuu pregnant #ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #haikyuu ushijima #ushijima smut #ushijima x reader smut #⨳ family dream #⨳ breeding #⨳ big dick

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digi-lov · 1 month

Text

Digimon Card Template->

Hey guys, I finally finished the templates! A few words to read before using, and more words under the cut if you will. I'd love to see any and all cards you create, so feel free to leave me an ask or DM! Also if you feel like supporting me a little, feel free to stop by my ko-fi->

First off, all fonts you need for the template are in the "Card Template Fonts" rar file. Remember to install them first before opening the files. Second, I recommend working with the PSD file in Photoshop, if you can. It has more and easier customization. If you use CSP, do use the CSP files. The PSD Text layers don't work in CSP, as well as certain other settings. I did my best to adapt the file to CSP, and it should work fine!

The Files have "HELP" layers in certain folders, I recommend reading them! Some of the Information I will repeat under the cut.

HAVE FUN! I wanna see lotta cards!

Okay, below the cut I'll leave some notes on how the Digimon cards are designed, as of the num <03> era at least.

Digimon cards have seven different colors. Red, Blue, Green, Yellow, Black, Purple, and White. White cards are rare and reserved for special Digimon/Tamers, and usually don't interact with other colors. For easier reading, Yellow and White cards have black text in their colors, instead of the usual white text. On multicolored cards, card including Yellow (or white in theory) have white text with a black outline. (before <03> if Yellow was the first color, the text was black with white outline instead, but they unified it with the update) The color on the left is considered the first color. Since the design update, the Card color is displayed in a color wheel around the Play cost. The digivolution cost bubble also recieved a color wheel, as well as the buble being split into the differen colors. Imagining it like a clock, the top color is the first, and then circling clockwise. Digi-Egg, or Lv.2 Digimon are always single color.

[tricolored cards have been introduced just recently and super rare. use sparingly]

Now to the Effects. The main effect is in white color with a black outline (also outlines on the keywords), while the Inherited Effect doesn't have outlines (unless it's a Yellow double color). If the Digimon has no Inherited Effect, there will be a small dash in the box.

Only white cards have black text in their main effect.

The effect text will start in the lower bottom of the image, not all the way at the bottom, and go down from there. If the Effect is too long it will move up.

Besides the regular evolution requirements, Digimon may have special "Digivolve" rules in their effect. This can make an evolution from a specific digimon cheaper, allow X Antibody Digimon to evolve from their normal counterparts, serve to overlook color requirements, or to allow evolution from certain traits, etc.

Some Digimon may also have an extra "Rule" in the bottom corner.

Ace Digimon will always have [Hand][Counter]<Blast Digivolve> effects. So far, they all had no inherited effects. They also have a significantly cheaper play cost than comparable Digimon, but in turn have the Overflow mechanic. EX6 introduced Blast DNA Digivolution, which specifies the required Digimon by name, and not just Level and color.

Lv.6 Digimon usually don't have inherited Effects, some might though, if they were made with Lv.7 evolution in mind. Furthermore Lv.6 Digimon pop out of their frame, even on the normal arts.

Now Tamers originally had neither traits, nor inheritence effects. But certain Tamers now do! Tamers with Mind Link effects, or the kids from Frontier for example, will have Inherited Effects.

Option cards have a grey backdrop for their effects, and the effect text is black. This black effect text carries over to full/alt arts, regardless of color. The have a (use) cost instead of a play cost. They can also have traits or rules, but it is rare.

#digimon #digimon tcg #digimon card game #digica #digisafe #デジカ #digimon card #digimon template #template #digi community #digi lov edits

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wintrwinchestr · 7 months

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lather (joel miller x f!reader oneshot) 18+

moodboard by @iamasaddie

summary: you decide to try shaving your pussy for the first time on your first night settling into jackson with joel. he accidentally nicks you while helping you shave, but he makes sure to kiss it all better <3

warnings: 18+, smut, early jackson joel, established d/s relationship, porn with some plot (probably too much), oral (f receiving), innocence kink/roleplay, daddy kink (bordering on ddlg), shaving, a bit of insecure reader, blood (tried to keep it short & not very graphic), sprinkle of humiliation, pet names (darlin’, baby, babygirl, lil’ girl, honey, sweet girl, etc), joel refers to reader’s pussy as she/her, spitting, reader can be lifted by joel and has hair that can be tucked behind her ear, implied *legal* age gap (reader went to school in the qz)

word count: 2.9k

a/n: this fic is based on an nsfw audio by u/organ_donor86 on reddit!! i went to reddit and found it again so i could properly credit them for the inspiration, but i haven’t heard the full audio in probably 2 years so this fic is only based on what i could remember of the premise <3 this is my first time writing smut, nice comments and reblogs are appreciated if you enjoyed!!

You were sat on the end of the first clean, comfortable bed you had encountered in twenty years, taking in the surroundings of the charming bedroom you now found yourself in: The deer antler lamp emanating a warm glow from the bedside table, the framed paintings of various Wyoming-native wildlife hung up on the walls, the earth-toned woven rug beneath your bare feet. You took a deep breath, savoring the smell of a house that had never known decay. For the first time since outbreak day, you felt safe. Truly safe. Of course, Joel did his best to protect you as you traveled together over the last year or so since you met him, but you were never really without a looming threat of danger nearby.

His familiar, comforting voice startled you out of your daze.

“Y’ alright, babygirl? Settlin’ in okay?”

You looked over to where Joel was standing in the doorway, freshly showered and changed into a clean flannel and jeans.

You smiled with a relaxed sigh, flitting your eyes around the room again. “Yeah, I like it here, it’s cozy… Can’t wait to finally get a good night’s sleep in this bed tonight.”

“I’m with ya, baby, Maria ‘n Tommy gave us a real nice place, huh? Speakin’ of which, it’s about dinnertime, I think they just started servin’ it up down at the dinin’ hall. Why don’t we all go get somethin’ to eat together, hm? I know you must be hungry, sweet girl.”

Your eyes widened and your smile dropped a bit at the prospect of socializing with strangers, especially after the exhausting day you’d had getting to Jackson. Joel clocked your expression immediately, approaching where you were sat on the bed with slow strides. He gently pinched your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“I know, my babygirl’s a shy one, huh? There’ll be a lotta people down there, I know…” He stroked a lock of hair behind your ear with his other hand. “Why don’t I go down there myself and see about bringin’ back some plates for us to eat together, just you and me? We’ll save the introductions for tomorrow, alright, darlin’?”

You nodded, your shoulders relaxing as your anxiety was soothed by his reassurances. He smiled down at you and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Alright, sit tight, honey, Daddy’ll be right back… We’ll have a nice lil’ night together.” Another soft kiss, to your lips this time, and he was gone from the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

You got up from the bed and padded over to the window. Peering out to the main road, you could see a crowd of people lined up outside the dining hall to get their evening meal. You figured you had at least fifteen minutes or so until Joel returned, deciding to take the opportunity to explore more of the house while you waited.

You wandered out of the bedroom and down the hallway, peeking your head around the doorframe of the first room you came upon. You reached out your arm and blindly felt around for the lightswitch, flicking it on once you found it. You were still standing in the doorway, knowing by now to wait a beat for the roaches to scatter before stepping fully inside. But to your surprise, there were none. The fluorescent ceiling light revealed the room to be a bathroom, a clean one at that.

You stepped over the threshold, immediately taking notice of the charming basket of homemade-looking toiletries perched on the sink’s granite countertop. It might as well have been Christmas morning, the overwhelming joy you felt at the idea of getting to take a bath in a clean tub with soap after all these years.

You picked up a white bar of soap from the basket and brought it to your nose, your eyelids fluttering closed as you inhaled its sweet vanilla scent. When you opened your eyes again, you noticed something even more enticing in the basket: a razor. The QZ school you attended had allowed the boys to have them in order to keep their facial hair under control, but deemed them a non-essential for the girls. Which, you supposed, was true, but you had still always fantasized about having a smooth, hairless body like the girls you had seen in wrinkled magazines and faded movie posters.

Your newly acquired shaving supplies planted an idea in your head: you were going to surprise Joel by shaving your pubic area for the first time. You imagined what it would be like to make a move on him after dinner, getting him hot and bothered, letting him carry you back up to the bedroom to have his way with you, and the wanton look on his face when he pulled down your cotton panties to find your pussy glistening and bare for him for the first time.

You practically tripped over your own feet in your rush to close the bathroom door. You quickly stripped off your worn jeans and underwear, tossing them into the corner of the bathroom to be dealt with later. You plugged up the sink and began to fill it with warm water, hoisting yourself up onto the countertop.

You swished the bar of soap around in the water, then rubbed it on a small patch of hair to create some suds. You placed the razor onto your soapy mound, then dragged it upward along your skin toward your belly button. Removing the hair proved to be more difficult than expected, and you were surprised to find that it hurt. It felt like you had just ripped out the hair instead of shaving it clean off. Just as you had touched the razor to the same thatch of hair to try again, you heard Joel’s heavy footsteps approaching, returning with your dinner much sooner than you had expected.

He was slowly turning the knob before you had a chance to get up and lock the door. “You in here, darlin? I was callin’ your name but you weren’t respondin’, and you weren't in the bedroom…”

“Sorry, Daddy… I’m just, um… doing something…” you responded, not very convincing in your flustered state.

“Can I come in, baby?”

You hummed your permission and he pushed the door open. The concerned look on his face dissolved when he saw you, worried at first that you might have been crying. His eyebrows raised and his lips parted in realization as he took in the sight of you before him.

“What’re you doin’ in here, darlin’, hm?”

“I… I wanted it to be a surprise. Wanted to shave it for you…” you admitted with a defeated pout.

“Oh babygirl… you know I’ve never cared about what you look like down there, don’t you?” You suddenly felt shy under his gaze, beginning to regret giving in to your girlish idea.

“I know, but… just wanted to look pretty for you, that’s all… like the girls in the magazines…”

“Oh, baby… you’re already the prettiest lil’ angel I ever laid eyes on… But if you really wanna shave her, Daddy’ll help you, sweet girl, don’t gotta keep struggling…”

He pulled up the worn little wooden stool from the corner of the bathroom and took a seat between your spread legs, gesturing for you to hand him the razor and bar of soap. You gave them up reluctantly, placing them delicately into his calloused hand. Your lips were still formed into a little pout, upset that your surprise had been ruined.

He dipped the vanilla-scented bar into the sink again, then rubbed it back and forth along the same vertical strip of skin above the hood of your clit that you had tried to start shaving first. He took note of the shoddily clipped hairs and how the skin beneath them was already looking a bit irritated from your misguided attempt.

“Gotta shave in the direction of the hair first, honey… like this…” He swished the razor in the water, then demonstrated the technique. The fingers of his left hand were splayed out across your lower tummy, his thumb pointed down, tugging the skin up towards your belly button as he shaved downward with his right. “See, baby? Just like this…” He did a few passes over the area, rinsing the razor in between each one.

You were mesmerized by his movements, watching his expert fingers work to remove coarse hair, revealing velvet smooth skin underneath. His hands looked so strong and competent as they moved from one patch of hair to the next, his brows furrowed and his tongue peeking out from between his plush lips in concentration.

You felt your core becoming wet as he exposed more bare skin to the bathroom’s cool air, his warm breath ghosting over your clit with each careful stroke of the razor. As he pulled away to admire how his work was coming along, the focused tension between his eyebrows released, noticing your hole beginning to drip.

“Oh…” he breathed, gathering some of your wetness on his thumb and bringing it closer to his face, inspecting it. “What’s all this honey, hm? This just from Daddy helpin’ you shave your lil’ pussy?” He sucked his thumb into his mouth, his eyelids fluttering as he savored the flavor. “Taste so sweet, babygirl… always so fuckin’ sweet f’ me…”

You nodded and whimpered at his words, heat rising to your cheeks at his slight mocking tone. “Can’t help it, Daddy…” Your hips started twitching of their own volition, rocking upward toward where his lips were now curled into a faux-sympathetic pout. You knew this was part of a little game he liked to play with you, the one where he made you feel a little embarrassed for being so easily turned on by him.

“I know, honey, I know… Lil’ girl can’t ever help herself, always gets wet f’ me so easily, doesn’t she? But you gotta hold still f’ me, let Daddy finish helpin’ you shave, okay?”

You gave another quick little nod and a hum of agreement that came out sounding more like a pathetic whine, and tried your best to control the movements of your pelvis as he got back to work.

But his big, warm hand was spread out over the delicate skin of your tummy again, and his lips were so close to being right where you wanted them, and what little self control you had been able to muster was quickly beginning to slip away. You were nearly able to contain yourself for the rest of his shaving, but your eager hips betrayed you on what would have been the final pass of the razor, giving a swift little buck toward Joel’s face despite your best efforts to keep still.

He wasn’t prepared for your sudden movement, and the sharp blades nicked the skin of one of your outer lips. You let out a startled cry as a little crimson pearl began to bloom on your sensitive skin. Joel gasped and was quick to apologize, even though your injury was really due to your own desperation. “Oh, Christ… I’m sorry, babygirl, I’m so sorry… here, gimme a tissue, baby.”

With a shaky hand, you reached over to the box of tissues sitting on the back of the toilet, plucking one out to hand to him. He dropped the razor in favor of the tissue, balling it up and gently pressing it to the little cut. His free hand quickly came up to the side of your face, smoothing his thumb across your cheekbone. “You okay, babygirl? I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean t’ hurt ya… told ya to keep still for me, baby…”

He wiped away a tear that had slipped from your lashes as you sniffled. “I’m okay, Daddy, jus’ scared me… stings a lil’ bit…”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it does… my poor girl. Daddy shoulda been more careful, knew you wouldn’t be able to control yourself, needy lil’ thing… But you know what, babygirl? Daddy knows somethin’ that’ll help, that’ll make it stop hurtin’...”

“What is it?” you asked, soft voice still wavering slightly.

“Well, I read somewhere a long time ago… that spit can help a lot with lil’ cuts and things…”

You could tell this was part of one of the other little games you liked to play together. The one where you pretended to be innocent and inexperienced, when in reality, Joel had made sure you were anything but. But you liked this game, it put butterflies in your tummy and made your weeping hole quiver when you played the part for him.

“It… it can?” you wondered with a naive-sounding lilt.

“Oh yeah, babygirl, you never heard o’ that before? Spit can help a whole lot, ‘specially Daddy’s spit, can make it feel all better, darlin’...” The stained tissue now discarded, his thumbs gently stroked the slick pink skin of your outer lips as he spoke, careful to avoid your little injury. “And your lil’ baby pussy is a real uncomfortable place to have a cut like this, too… Don’t want my girl hurtin’...”

Your eyebrows were knit together with need as you released a pathetic whimper, your breath hitching and heat rising from your fluttering tummy all the way up to your cheeks. He barely concealed a smirk as he noticed the change in your demeanor, knowing how this particular game had always affected you.

“Whaddya say, sweet girl, hm? You wanna give it a try? You want Daddy to kiss it all better?”

You nodded frantically, your mouth slightly agape as you began to pant out of desperation.

He was quick to deliver a small swat to your inner thigh at your unspoken answer.

“Words, baby, you know better…”

“Y-yes, Daddy, please, want you to kiss it better, make it stop hurting…”

“There you go, good girl. Spread your legs a lil’ more for me, honey, let me see her…”

You wiggled your thighs further apart on top of the counter, giving him full access to your now soaking cunt.

“There she is, baby, she’s cryin’ for me, ain’t she? Needs her Daddy to make her feel all better…”

He placed a few wet kisses to the afflicted area before looking up at you with apologetic eyes. “How’s that feel, babygirl? She still hurtin’?”

You nodded your head with a pathetic little cry, mindlessly chasing after his mouth with your hips. “Still hurts, Daddy…” you vocalized your answer this time.

“Yeah? Poor lil’ pussy… She need some more lovin’ from her Daddy? More of his spit to help make her feel good again?”

Another frantic nod, another eager mewl. “M-more… please, Daddy…”

“Alright, babygirl, don’t you worry, Daddy’ll give her some more…”

He latched his lips onto your swollen clit, alternating between sucking it into his mouth and giving it soft kitten licks. His large hands were firmly planted on the inside of each of your thighs, keeping you spread wide as he devoured you. You were already so sensitive from his teasing, it wasn’t going to take much more to push you over the edge. You were practically riding his face, your hips canting feverishly into his mouth with each expert drag of his tongue across your folds.

When he started fucking his tongue into your bitty hole, swirling it around and then licking back up to your clit to circle it, you knew you weren’t going to last much longer.

“Please, Daddy, please… feels so good, ‘s too much, gonna cum, Daddy…”

“Yeah? I dunno, babygirl, I don’t think she’s healed all the way just yet… might still need some more takin’ care of,” he murmured into your pussy before pulling his head away to spit directly onto your cunt. The lewd action was enough to launch you into your orgasm right then, his head still between your legs, slurping up the divine combination of his saliva and your sweet juices. As you rode it out, his tongue maintained a gentle, steady strum on your clit, eliciting breathy whines of please and yes and Daddy…

When you finally came down from your high, your breath catching up to you and your hips stilling, your pussy twitched one last time at the sight of Joel’s wrecked face. He was smirking up at you, his face soaked with your slick, thumbs rubbing soothing circles onto your thighs.

“Well, I reckon it worked, whaddya think, darlin’? She feelin’ better now?”

“Much better… thank you Daddy…” you sighed, still catching your breath.

“You’re welcome, babygirl, such pretty manners… Now, why don’t we get ourselves cleaned up and have some dinner, hm? I even brought back a slice o’ huckleberry pie for ya if you eat all your vegetables like a good girl…”

You lit up immediately at the promise, prompting Joel to reach into the basket and pull out a soft, cream-colored washcloth. He dunked it in the water, squeezing out the excess, and carefully cleaned up your now freshly bare pussy. When he was done, you took the washcloth from him, rinsing it in the sink before repeating his cleansing process on his own face. He helped you up off the counter before leaving the bathroom, returning promptly with a fresh set of clothes for you to change into. He helped you into a clean pair of panties, which you noted felt nice against your naked skin, then into a warm sweatshirt and comfortable leggings.

He carried you into the kitchen and sat you down at the little table set for two. You ate your dinners together by soft candlelight, relishing the feeling of having a sturdy roof over your heads and warm food in your stomachs.

You supposed tonight, and this little house in Jackson, represented a new beginning in more ways than one.

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @gracieispunk @iamasaddie @rebel-held

#my writing #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #daddy!joel miller #joel miller smut

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luxurychristmaspudding · 4 months

Text

you and your friends (tommy's party pt. i)

summary: your handsome new roommate spells trouble. but you've got a handle on it. haven't you?

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. roommate!frankie, stoner!frankie and stoner!reader. mentions of drinking and smoking weed - they're having a good time! no lady and no baby. idiots in love, split pov, lots of fluff tbh and a whole lotta sexual tension. reader and frankie are little creeps n freaks. reader pays a visit to benny, frankie hooks up with 1 (one) other person. f&m masturbation, voyeurism, lots of cuddling. use of pet names (good girl, baby etc. (platonic, of course))

song is tagged at end of fic - header does not represent reader, only the album!

wc: 9.6k

an: *mc voice* let's get this party started!

part ii - tommy's party

When Frankie catches a glimpse of you from across Will’s crowded living room, he’s not so sure Benny’s idea is a good one.

The room is lit with yellow lamplight, heavy with the scent of sweat and alcohol and cigarette smoke. There are people crammed in everywhere; slumped over chairs and sofas, leant against door frames, moving in and out of the kitchen with the click of the door beads. A sluggish bass thumps out over the party, the thrum of laughter and conversation cushioning any other sound.

He stands at the back of a sofa which has been turned inwards towards the centre of the room, leaning over Santi and Will as they howl over some story they’re retelling for a couple of girls squished between them. Frankie had been quite happy listening and laughing along, but he’s distracted when Benny taps his arm with his beer bottle and motions over to you.

‘That’s her,’ he says, ‘The girl I was telling you about.’

And yeah, he’s very quickly sure that this is a bad idea.

Because you’re beautiful. A gorgeous wrap dress clinging to your curves, each outline flowing like you’d been poured into it. Jewellery clinking and glittering around your wrists, neck, and ears, and your hair shining like each strand had been arranged by some ethereal hand. Your smile bands out around you, bathing your audience in a kind of glow, a reflection of your warmth. Frankie watches as you tip your head back slightly in a boundless laugh, the corners of your eyes crinkling, the soft clasp of your hand falling on the forearm of the man sat next to you. Fuck.

Frankie swallows drily, and Benny places a hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on, Fish,’ he says, ‘I’ll introduce you. I’ve told her about you already.’

Frankie doesn’t want to move. He’d much rather watch, much rather have Benny do the heavy lifting here. He doesn’t think he can talk to you, much less make a good first impression.

But his friend is guiding him forwards, and he can’t help but be shepherded. Panic rises like bile in his throat, and he thinks of turning around, excusing himself to go to the bathroom and just sitting in his truck for a while instead, but then -

Your bright eyes flick up to find Benny approaching you, and your face lights up. You stand from where you were perched on the arm of a chair and walk around the bundle of people whom you'd entranced. You place a gentle hand on a soft-haired woman’s shoulder, inclining your head to say you’ll be back in a minute, before you open an arm to Benny.

‘Benny!’ You call, squeezing his waist as the younger man presses you to his side, planting a kiss to your forehead. ‘How are you, man?’ You ask. Benny returns your greeting, answering your question, but Frankie can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying. You listen intently to his friend, smiling and asking a couple more questions, before looking properly at Frankie.

‘Sorry - hey,’ you say softly, ‘You must be -’

‘Oh god,’ Benny chuckles, ‘Sorry, yes. This is Frankie.’ Benny moves to press Frankie forwards, and he stumbles a little as he catches your outstretched hand. If you notice, you don’t say anything, just smile warmly at him and shake, giving him your name.

‘It’s good to meet you, man,’ you say, ‘Benny here has told me a lot about you.’ Benny laughs, clapping Frankie on the back.

‘Only good things, Fish,’ he grins, ‘I promise.’ Frankie rolls his eyes at him.

‘So, you’re interested in the room?’ You ask, and Frankie turns back to you. He nods, swallowing.

‘Yeah, really interested. It’d be great to come over and take a look if you’re around.’ He surprises himself at how easily the words roll off his tongue. You offer him another kind smile, nodding encouragingly, and he finds himself relaxing.

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘You’d be very welcome to. You have glowing recommendations from the boys, anyway.’ You lean in closer to him, lowering your tone conspiratorially. ‘I’d have you moved in tomorrow if I could. Sold on you already.’ Frankie beams bashfully down at the carpet and bites his lip, Benny’s idea straying dangerously back into good territory.

‘I wouldn’t believe everything they tell you.’ He says, eyes trailing over your neckline, the dip in your cleavage, the hollow of your throat, skin gleaming and a little damp with sweat. You reach out and tuck a stray curl peeking out from his cap behind his ear.

‘Not at all, sugar,’ you murmur, and your touch, the pet name, sends a shiver down his spine. ‘I think we’d get along just fine.’

Benny leaves you both soon after, in search of another beer. He asks if you want one and you politely decline. Frankie does the same. You lead him to a quieter corner by the back window and pull him into easy conversation. You laugh and tell him this is his ‘interview’, but confess that you really have no idea what that might involve. Frankie lets you ask him any question that comes to your mind, and in this pool of time, you discover everything you could need to know about each other. Where you grew up, what your parents were like, whether you enjoyed school, what you eat when you’ve had a bad day, how often you clean the bathroom, what you do now, and what your dreams are for the future. You ask tentatively, respectfully about Delta Force. Frankie appreciates the way you preface it with an out - you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to - but he finds that he does. He spares the details but tells you about training, about flying, about meeting the boys. He tells you about Tom, and as little about Colombia as possible. You nod, brow furrowing in sympathy, in feeling, and squeeze his knee in comfort.

Frankie’s heart shouldn’t skip the way it does, but then you’re asking him more about what Tom was like, how his family are. When his eyes mist over, you take his hand. He runs a thumb over your knuckles. He tells you, cringing, about the coke charge, about his licence. About how he’s getting it back in spring. You grin brightly at him, congratulating him, sucking air in through your teeth and doing a little dance in your chair. Frankie laughs at you, heart swelling. He doesn’t know how you’re getting him to do this - tell you all this stuff, make it feel okay, make him feel great. But he loves it. He could get used to it. You’re sat close to his side, shoulder to shoulder, and you are so warm, your skin so soft. Frankie leans in closer.

‘How did you meet Benny?’ He asks, breathing the words into the shell of your ear over the music. You squirm, dipping your head away from him, and Frankie wonders for an awful moment if he’s misjudged the closeness, if he’s already overstepped your boundaries.

You look at him sideways, your body angled away from him.

‘He didn’t tell you?’ You ask.

Frankie raises an eyebrow, mouth open, ready to apologise. His brow furrows and he shakes his head.

‘No.’ He says. You smile at him, sighing heavily through your nose.

‘It’s a little embarrassing,’ you say, avoiding his gaze. ‘We met at a bar. We got on really well, and -’ you huff out a breath, meet Frankie’s eye again. He’s still watching you, not having put together the pieces. You roll your head onto your shoulder, pick the label on your bottle. ‘We slept together, Frankie.’

Frankie’s heart drops.

‘Oh.’ He says.

‘Yeah,’ you laugh, ‘Oh.’ You’re quiet for a moment, Frankie scrambling for the right thing to say. He’s too slow. You clap your hands down on your knees and rise from your seat.

‘I’m gonna head outside for a bit,’ you say. He watches you disappear with a weak smile, an anxious feeling welling in his chest.

Frankie sits for a few minutes, taking pulls from his beer, looking out over the crowd assembled in the living room.

His spots Benny lent against a wall, held up by an arm outstretched beside a girl’s head. A tongue of fire licks up through Frankie’s belly, and he has to sit with it for a moment to work out what it is. Jealousy. He’s jealous that Benny has already touched you, has already heard you. Jealous that Benny has already crossed that threshold, and now he has to be the one to move in and keep his distance. Arbitrary rules, he knows, rules which have been disregarded before. Already, you’d be more than a quick fuck. It’s crass, but Frankie knows you should be more than someone you take home from a bar. Maybe you are - you’re here, after all, clearly invited. Frankie’s mind rocks with the notion that Benny is saving you, keeping you around. It would be cruel of him, but not impossible. Benny had a bad habit of getting what he wanted.

Frankie grinds his teeth, tears his eyes away from his friend. Stupid, stupid. You’re someone he’s only just met, someone he might be living with. Whatever weird thing this is going on in his brain, he needs to fix it quick. Thoughts like these are not suitable in situations like living together.

Frankie stands, but instead of speaking to Benny, instead of getting to the bottom of why you’re here, he follows you through the door beads into the kitchen and out the back door.

You’re sat on the porch swing just below the kitchen window, and the surprise of finding you so easily brings Frankie to a sharp halt. You look up from your bag, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in the glow of the porch light.

‘Hey,’ you say softly, ‘Are you okay?’

Frankie breathes out heavily.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘Sorry about that - in there,’ gesturing over his shoulder, back into the house.

‘Oh,’ you say, shaking your head and bringing out a small plastic baggy from your purse. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not a thing. There’s no -’ you wave a hand around your head, ‘Feelings there or anything. We’re just friends now.’

Frankie nods, leans against the doorframe. Hums a response.

‘You wanna sit?’ You ask, scooching over on the swing, patting the space next to you.

Frankie pushes off the frame and comes to sit next to you. He rocks the seat slightly with his feet, yours dangling a little too far off the ground to move it.

You grin at him, delighted with the movement. You shuffle to tuck your legs under you.

‘Amazing,’ you grin, ‘See? Already a dream team.’

Frankie grins back at you and watches you take more items out of your bag. A small, circular grinder, a tiny rolling tray, pink papers. You pop open the baggy, and the smell of the dried plant seeps through the air, rushing up his nostrils. Frankie breathes deeply, watching you sprinkle some of the bud into your open grinder. You close it, and look up at him.

‘You a narc?’ You ask, lips still quirked.

‘No.’ Frankie chuckles. You bite your cheek, shrug your shoulders.

‘Ya never know…’ you coo, and Frankie grins.

‘I got busted for coke, baby,’ he reminds you, ‘I’m not gonna rat you out for weed.’

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow.

‘Fair enough.’ You say. Frankie watches as you twist the grinder back and forth over the bud, entranced by the motion of your hands. His lips part, watching the strong flex of your wrists.

‘Do you smoke?’ You ask. His tongue dips out to lick the pillow of his lower lip, and you trace the movement with your eyes, fascinated. You swallow, clearing your throat softly. ‘Frankie?’

His eyes dart up to yours, embarrassed, flushed.

‘Yeah?’ He says.

‘Do you smoke?’ You repeat. He looks away from you, shy, shaking his head.

‘I used to,’ he says, ‘But not for a long time.’

You nod, looking out over the garden with him. The cool wind brushing through the trees, the luminescence of the town beyond their feathered tops.

‘You wanna share?’ You ask. He looks back at you, surprised, eyebrows high on his forehead. You shrug. ‘Don’t have to, of course. Especially if it’s not gonna be good for you. Just that - if you wanna move in, I’m afraid it’s a habit I won’t be quitting.’ You raise an eyebrow at him, half apologetic, half warning. He swallows visibly.

‘What if I get too high?’ He says, breathless. You snort, balancing the rolling tray on your knees as you separate the hash out onto the paper, on top of the lavender you’ve pulled from your purse.

‘It’s okay, sugar,’ you say, ‘I’ll look after you.’

Frankie stares at you, eyes wide.

You snicker at him, finish rolling, and lick the paper. Frankie watches the swipe of your tongue, its slow draw along the edge, and feels his cock twitch in his jeans. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea -

He watches as you perch the joint between your lips, put your shit back in your bag, and pull out a lighter. Your eyelashes flicker down to rest on your cheeks as the lighter clicks and you cup your hands around the flame. You take a deep breath in, hollowing your cheeks, lost to the sensation, the taste. Frankie’s jaw flexes, and he has to look away again. You exhale the thick smoke, blowing it away from him, taking another drag before knocking your hand against his arm.

‘Want some?’ You ask.

Frankie mutters a thanks and takes the joint clumsily in his fingers, rotating it until it’s comfortable in his grip. He brings it to his mouth, and you watch as he sucks in and immediately sputters out again. He bends over his knees in a hacking cough, and you gently take the spliff as you pat his back.

‘You okay?’ You ask, taking another draw for yourself. Frankie leans back against the seat, sucking in great breaths of air, eyes watery, his body still twitching. He gulps and nods, not looking at you. ‘Good.’ You say, softly.

Frankie tries again a few minutes later, and is a little more successful. You finish the rest of the joint together before you flick the roach off into the darkness. Your body hums with the crickets and the static of the night air, and you can’t wipe the grin off your face.

‘This is nice.’ You say dumbly, turning to face him.

His arms are crossed and his jaw is clenched again. He breathes deeply through his nose. You scrunch your face up at him, and he notices the movement out the corner of his eye. His gaze slips to you for just a second, and a large smile slips across his features. You giggle at him, heavy and giddy. The urge to take the hand folded closest to you strikes, and when you do, he turns to look at you properly.

‘You have really nice hair,’ you say softly. Frankie chuckles, unable to help himself. You grin at him. ‘What?’ You say. ‘You do.’

Frankie laughs harder, and you reach over to take the cap off his head. He makes a slow, unconvincing grab for it before you settle it on your own hair, kneeling up to swipe a hand through his curls. He watches you, unable to look away, and you gasp at the feeling of it carding through your fingers.

‘So soft,’ you breathe, delighted. You look into his eyes again, one hand cradling the back of his head. His eyes dart down to your mouth, and you lick your lips before starting to giggle. ‘Anyone ever told ya you got baby cow eyes?’ You say.

Frankie’s brow furrows slightly. His words are slow and slurred. ‘What?’

You giggle harder and move your hand round to cup his cheek, looking at him very seriously.

‘Your eyes,’ you say, ‘Are like a baby cow’s.’ A slow spread of joy glows across Frankie’s features. His eyes scrunch up with his smile. ‘Nooo,’ you cry softly, ‘Now they’re all happy. They’re not all big and brown anymore.’

Frankie laughs with unbridled amusement, his head dropping from your hand as he clutches at your knees.

‘A baby cow?’ He gasps. You nod quickly, enthusiastically.

‘Yeah, Frankie. You got real pretty eyes.’ Your own are wide and earnest, and that seems to convince him. He raises an eyebrow before grinning goofily at you, lifting a finger to tap your nose.

‘You think I’m cute.’ He says, and you snort, which only sends him off into a flood of more giggles.

‘I didn’t say that. Only said you got pretty eyes.’

It’s only a little, tiny lie. And you think it’s for the best.

You spend another hour out on the porch before returning to the party, and though you don’t stray far from each other, you make a point of finding Frankie before you leave. You hand him your phone, and he stares at it, confused, before you roll your eyes playfully and say -

‘I need your number, dummy. For the room.’

He taps his number into your phone, and you save it with a little cow emoji next to his name. Frankie bites away his smile.

When he’s lying on the sofa in the dark later, surrounded by bottles and cans and ashy cigarette ends, he can’t stop grinning to himself.

You text him early the next morning, giving him a time and a date to come and see the flat. Frankie replies with so much enthusiasm that he flushes when he reads the message back, dropping his phone onto the coffee table as he stretches out on Will’s floor. He sacrifices his spot on the sofa to Will and Benny, Santi beside him as they watch Face/Off over breakfast.

He doesn’t see your reply until the movie ends.

Can’t wait! So excited to see you!

He sets his phone back down with a happy sigh, so loud that Will and Santi, and then Benny, ask him what he’s so pleased about.

He only gets them to stop probing by smacking Will in the face with a cushion.

---

Frankie moves in a week later, while you’re at work.

You think it’ll be much easier for you both. If you were in the flat you’d only be in the way, and he probably needs the space and time to figure out where he wants to put his stuff. Plus, the idea of seeing him all hot and sweaty is one that, quite frankly, you’ve been trying to avoid.

Benny had told you all about his friends on that first date at the bar. You had been taken with the way he’d talked about them, so fond and positive. You’d enjoyed asking him so many questions, and were delighted when he asked you so many in return. And Benny was cute - he was hot. Enthusiastic and giving and good. But you knew, even laying next to him, both panting, turning your heads to grin at each other at the same time, that it wouldn’t go anywhere.

He had been your type on paper. He’d ticked so many boxes, and you had both fallen into that first date with such excitement - but there was just something missing. There was no burn. You had a good time, you wanted to see him again, but you didn’t yearn for him the way you wanted to. You didn’t miss him when he wasn’t around, you weren’t worried about him fucking other girls.

It hadn’t been a difficult conversation to have. Benny took it better than you’d hoped, and once it had been established, friendship came easily. You met Will, got on well, and the three of you would go for drinks. Benny would come over to watch a film and eat takeout, and you never touched each other. Sure, you thought about it. But you were on a mission to make life easier for yourself. To not fuck around and get attached to someone you shouldn’t get attached to.

So you should have known better when he introduced you to Frankie. Should have made up some excuse, even if he pretty much had the room after all the boys had told you. Should have backed out as soon as those beautiful brown eyes blinked at you, at that first curve of a shy smile, as soon as you’d tucked that curl behind his ear. Because Frankie was someone you could get attached to. Watching him cook, watching the steam trail out behind him after a shower, watching him stretch out on the sofa with a book, having him crinkle his crows feet at you from across the kitchen as he sips his coffee, the low timbre of his voice reaching you across the floorboards, none of these things are something you needed to know, to see. You should have known better.

Work has been busy, long.

So busy you had to stay behind for a couple of hours to make sure the late shift got set up properly, and then you could trudge home. The bus journey, the walk up the hill, the clamber up the stairs to your front door.

When you make it halfway up the stairs, you can smell it. A delicious, warm waft of heady spices, of richness flowing down through the stairwell. You breathe deeply, aching feet pausing on the concrete just so you can tip your head back and inhale. Your stomach growls loudly, and you wish whoever is cooking a good meal, because it sure fucking smells like it.

The smell is stronger on your floor, and you’re still taking deep breaths when you push open your front door. There’s the sound of sizzling coming from the kitchen, the low hum of the radio playing. You toe off your trainers, leaving them next to a couple of unpacked cardboard boxes, splashing your keys into the bowl on the sideboard.

‘Frankie?’ You call. There’s no answer.

You move towards the sound, and push open the door to the kitchen.

Frankie is stood with his broad back to you, stirring something in a pot. He bops his head and hums in time with the radio, unaware of you behind him.

‘Holy fuck, Frankie. That smells amazing.’

He turns with a wide smile, a spatula in his hand.

‘Welcome home. I made enough for us both.’

You grin at him, dropping your bag and shucking off your jacket, coming to stand beside him. You ask about what he’s cooking, and he talks you through each step, the ingredients he’s used, and finally, blessedly, tells you it’ll be ready in five minutes.

You eat across the table from each other in quiet, easy conversation. Even with it all so new, with so many of his unpacked boxes still dotted around the flat, it feels like Frankie has always been here.

You wash and dry the plates side by side, laughing and happy and full. You retreat to your respective bedrooms to change into your pyjamas, and then you prop your door open for Frankie to come join you if he’d like. You flick on an episode of Adventure Time and dig around in your bedside table for your rolling stuff, sitting cross-legged and giggling at the cartoon as you grind, arrange, and roll the joint.

Your roommate appears in the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.

‘Come in,’ you say, beckoning him closer, shuffling on the bed to make room for him. He eyes the spliff in your hand. ‘Wanna join?’ You ask. He hesitates.

‘Just a little.’

You nod, stretching off the bed towards the window, grabbing your lighter from the ledge. You flick it to life as Frankie watches from the bed, your legs bare below your sleep shorts, your nipples hard beneath your t-shirt in the cool night air. You jerk your head at him as you exhale, and he crawls over the bed towards you. You try not to think of the way he moves as you hand it to him.

Frankie puffs from the joint a couple times, and passes it back to you. You continue the routine until there’s nothing left, finishing the last couple of tokes before flicking the roach onto the street below.

‘What do ya wanna do?’ You ask him, closing the window. Frankie’s settled back on your bed amongst your pillows. He frowns at the ceiling.

‘Watch a movie.’ He says, and you giggle at the tacky sound of his speech.

‘Come on then, buddy,’ you say, taking his hand and pulling him from the mattress. ‘We’ll watch it on the sofa. You need some water,’ you sing, leading him towards the kitchen. ‘And we’re gonna need snacks.’

Frankie chuckles at the way you say it, a faux accent twanging at your words. He lets you push him down onto the sofa and watches you dopily as you busy yourself with refreshments. You dump everything on the coffee table before turning on the TV.

‘Help yourself,’ you say, gesturing to your stash, and Frankie leans forward in slow motion to grab a can of coke. You giggle at him. ‘What do you wanna watch?’

Frankie cracks the can open and shrugs.

‘Don’t mind.’

You think for a moment, roving through Netflix before slapping his arm.

‘Oh my god!’ You laugh. ‘Notting Hill. We’ll watch Notting Hill. Holy fuck, it’s so bad when you’re stoned, you have no idea.’

Frankie groans beside you, leaning forward again to grab a bag of chocolate pretzels. He rips them open and offers one to you.

‘Whatever you say, boss.’ He smiles.

Halfway through the film, Frankie’s eyes begin to seriously droop. You can’t blame him. It must have been a long day.

When his head drops to your shoulder, you let him cuddle in. He stays there for a while, but when he wakes with a start at the soreness, you manoeuvre him to turn and lay with his head on your lap. He’s pliant and soft in your hands, sighing with relief as he settles. You run a hand through his curls, scratching at his scalp, twisting strands gently around your finger. You stroke and scratch absentmindedly, watching Hugh Grant’s dramatic confession, only remembering what you’re doing when a deep snore resonates from below you.

You look down to find Frankie sound asleep, peaceful face turned up towards you. You admire his silky hair, the scruff of his beard, the heart shaped patch on the side of his face. His soft, full bottom lip, strong nose, the slope and sweep of his brow. You smile at him, something stirring in your belly.

‘Little baby cow.’ You murmur to yourself, and bite your lip to keep from smiling any wider.

---

The first weekend you have off together comes weeks after Frankie moves in.

You have a long, cosy lie in before running your respective errands in the morning, planning to reconvene in the afternoon with food and movies and your other favourite pastime.

By some miracle, you get home before Frankie, and unload your bag of snacks and oven food onto the kitchen table. You’re just organising it, putting away what needs to be in the fridge, when Frankie steps through the front door with a crate of soda and your favourite flowers in his other hand.

‘Hey,’ he grins at you, kicking the door shut before stepping into the room and holding out the blooms. ‘These are for you.’

You take the flowers carefully, admiring the colours, the form, the texture. You look back at him with shining eyes, and Frankie blushes.

‘How did you -’

He shrugs, moving to put the soda in the fridge. With his back to you, he says -

‘You mentioned them once, ‘bout a week after I moved in.’

Your heart melts a little, touched at the care, the thought.

‘Just thought, ya know - don’t need an occasion. Sometimes it’s just nice to pick something up and say I thought of you.’

You blush at his words, just as he turns back around and spots on the table -

‘Holy shit,’ he says, picking up the chocolate covered pretzels. ‘I was just thinking of these! I didn't get any while I was out and they’re my -’ He looks up at you, a knowing smile creeping across his lips.

‘Your favourite,’ you say. ‘I saw them and thought of you.’

Frankie laughs, stepping forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

‘Dream fuckin’ team.’ He says.

You’re both back in your pyjamas within ten minutes, sat on Frankie’s bed, a joint on the bedside table ready to go.

He flicks through the home screen of his Playstation, settling on Red Dead Redemption 2, starting up the game as you lean out his window to dispel the first stream of smoke. You pass it back and forth between you, and when it’s done Frankie chucks the roach in his bin. You climb underneath the duvet and watch Arthur Morgan’s adventures through hooded eyes, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. He’s warm and solid beneath you, and you wrap your hands around his arm, breathing him in. You watch in rapt fascination as he tracks down carvings in the mountains, giggle and scold him when he barrels down the wrong side of the roads, and swat at him when his horse gets hit by a train. He loads back up his previous save to get her back, and you visit a time traveller, hunt for vampires in Saint Denis, and squeal when a UFO appears over an abandoned hut filled with rotted bodies. He tells you the stories of the characters in a spaced out slur, and you immerse yourself in the sunshine, the rain, the snow, the mists. You close your eyes to the sounds of hooves, of birds, of nature, of Frankie’s strong heartbeat and his deep breathing.

At some point in the evening, you wake again, sitting and stretching. Frankie smiles sleepily down at you.

‘I’m gonna head to bed in a bit.’ He says, and you smile at him, kneading your neck.

‘No worries,’ you mumble. ‘I’ll head to mine, too. Catch you in the morning.’

Frankie fist bumps you as you stumble towards the door.

‘Thanks for hanging out.’ He says. You snort at him before opening the door.

‘No worries, Fish,’ you say, ‘I’m sure I was great company.’

He grins back, and you blow a kiss before snicking the door shut.

Your own sheets are blissfully cool, and you turn on a little quiet music to get yourself off to sleep. The soft, slow jangle of guitars and low voices do the trick, and if you turn your head just so, you can still smell Frankie on your pyjama top.

---

When you come through to the kitchen the next morning, Frankie is already cooking breakfast. He looks cosy in his old Lakers top and sweats that only just cling to his hips. It tightens something in your belly.

‘I’m making eggs and bacon,’ he says, before gesturing with a spatula to the percolator. ‘There’s coffee over there if you want some.’

‘You tryna seduce me or something?’ You ask, waggling your eyebrows. Frankie laughs at you, gorgeous little crows feet crinkling in the corners of his eyes. You have to look away quickly to hide your own gooey expression.

‘No,’ he says, voice grappling with something of an edge - laughter, a little teasing, ‘I’m not in the business of fucking my friends.’ You flash your eyes back to him, eyebrows raised in surprise, and he’s peering at you from below his eyelashes, biting his lip. A grin blows out across your cheeks, and you bite your lip back.

‘Unfortunately for you, I am,’ you sigh, sweeping your hand across the edge of the kitchen table before glancing at him, his attention turned back to breakfast. ‘Santi still single?’

Frankie freezes over the eggs he’s cooking. He looks up at you slowly. Your heart dips in your chest, legs flooding with the feeling that you’ve definitely said the wrong thing.

‘Are you - are you… interested?’

You feel your cheeks heat.

‘I -’ you rub your face, trying to organise your thoughts. Frankie feels something like a freight train headed towards him. ‘No,’ You say, turning fully towards him, smiling a little. ‘No, I’m not. He’s great - he’s a lovely guy, but no.’

Frankie nods, once, twice, before staring back down at the yellow in the pan. He can’t remember what he was doing. Frying or scrambling? They’re too far gone now. He’ll have to try and pass them off as an omelette.

‘It was a stupid joke.’ You mumble, and Frankie shakes his head at the pan.

‘No, no,’ he says, ‘I just, ya know, if you were -’

You smile at him.

‘You’d set me up?’

Frankie shrugs. You smirk.

‘Well then. If you’re patient, sugar, I might make my way through everyone. Finish with you, of course, make sure we last a little longer.’

Frankie’s head whips up, jaw dropped. He breathes your name, and you laugh.

‘My god, Fish. I’m kidding.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Frankie laughs, relieved, disappointed. You dance around the kitchen table towards him, reaching out your hands to squish his cheeks, chanting got ya, got ya, as Frankie curls the dish cloth from over his shoulder to whip you with it.

You shriek and leap out of his way, running from him.

Frankie makes no move to follow you, turning off the stove instead, plating up the eggs and bacon. You’re still giggling at him, now armed with a dish cloth of your own. He points at you with the spatula.

‘Sit.’ He says, and you laugh again, taking a seat as Frankie brings over the plates and cutlery. As he settles, you leap up. Frankie watches you.

‘Where are you going?’ He says, spearing some egg with his fork. You return to the table with two mugs of coffee.

‘Can’t forget the most important part of the meal.’ You say, sitting and slurping loudly, winking at him over the ceramic.

Frankie laughs at you through a mouthful of food.

‘You coming to Will’s tonight?’ He asks, swallowing.

You hum a little.

‘Yeah, guess so.’ You say.

‘Boys’ll be there,’ he says, ‘So you’ll know a few faces. Not sure who else.’

You nod, shovelling bacon into your mouth. Frankie smiles.

‘Sure,’ you say, ‘I’ll come.’

That night, you find yourselves round at Will’s again. What was supposed to be a relatively quiet poker night has inevitably turned into too many people drinking too much booze, but he never seems to mind.

Frankie is back leaning on the sofa, listening to Santi and Will talk. He’s laughing, thinking he should go and grab you in a minute - he doesn’t know how many of these stories you’ve heard, but he’s sure you’d enjoy them. He has a compulsion to watch you laugh, to see you enjoy the people around you, to feel the shine of your company, to see the way you look at him, eyes dancing with amusement, always as though there is some kind of joke you’re thinking of that only he will understand.

When he looks around the living room, he can’t find you. It’s not unusual. He knows by now that you’ll be off chatting to whoever is lucky enough to find you, and he finds himself moving in the direction of the kitchen, pushing through the door beads. When he doesn’t see you in there, he catches Benny at the sink, asking if he’s seen you.

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I was just with her. She’s out on the porch swing.’

A muscle flexes in Frankie’s jaw as he moves away from Benny, that familiar creep of possessiveness crawling up his throat. Stupid, stupid. He’s already asked him, knows that he wants nothing from you. So why does it irritate him so much?

You’re outside on the swing just like Benny said, gazing up at the stars as Frankie slumps down beside you. He bounces the chair, and you giggle at him.

‘Having a good time?’ You ask. He nods.

‘Yeah. You?’

You nod, tilting your face to look at him. Frankie doesn’t know when he decided it, but he’s sure your eyes are the prettiest he’s ever seen. He loves the way they shine out at him now in the glow of the porchlight, warm and kind and soft. That sunny feeling he gets as he watches you moves something silken and deep within him, something lonely.

I was just with her. Unfortunately for you, I am -

‘What?’ You say softly.

‘Nothin’,’ he shrugs. ‘Just glad I met you.’

You scoff lightly at him, knocking your head against his shoulder.

‘Glad I met you, too, sugar.’ You murmur, and when Frankie meets your eye, his breath seizes in his lungs.

You are so close.

Your eyes dart between his own and his mouth, lingering on the shape of his lips, the flecks of grey in his moustache. He can’t move as you lean closer to him, as you ghost two fingers over his wrist. Your eyes are burning, teasing, curious as he stares down at your lips, soft and inviting, curved around so many wonderful words, wrapped around the end of a joint or a beer bottle -

‘There you are,’ Will says, bursting through the back door. You startle away from Frankie, and he feels dizzy at the change, at the rush of what was about to happen. The warm press of your body against his. ‘C’mon,’ says Will, ‘We’ve got a poker game to win.’

You watch as Frankie hauls himself away from you, settling back in the swinging chair. When the door shuts behind the two men, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the rattle of your heartbeat.

---

You wake as though through fog, to a noise you can’t quite place.

It’s quiet, but almost right by your head. A slick, rhythmic sound, heavy breaths, quiet groans, curses. Through slipping sleep, you process them, too tired to be embarrassed, to be thinking straight. The sounds of Frankie jerking off go straight to your core, and you can feel yourself growing wetter and wetter as you listen, as you slip your hand beneath the elastic of your panties and join him, careful to muffle your own sounds to hear him better.

You become frantic as he grows louder, as he mutters to himself, as his bed moves just enough to squeak. You feel your eyes roll to the back of your head as he looses a particularly loud fuck, and then a strangely familiar word, followed by a long, low groan. You come hard on your fingers, panting as the heat subsides, as you hear Frankie leave his room and head to the bathroom.

Languid and liquid in the sunbeams on your blankets, it takes you longer than it should to decipher what you’d heard. Longer than it should to wonder if it really was your name he’d gasped as he came.

Frankie needs air.

He needs to get out of the apartment, so while he’s drinking his morning coffee, he drafts up a list of things to do. Parcels to return, small things to buy, a new coffee shop he’d like to try out. Anything to try and clear you out his head. The feel of your body pressed against his on the seat, the ghosting of your fingers on the inside of his wrist, the flame in your eyes. The way you’d jumped when Will found you, whether you meant it, whether he was imagining it, what he was going to do, what he was not going to do -

You shuffle into the kitchen still in your pyjamas, stifling a yawn behind a hand. You help yourself to coffee from the percolator, and Frankie tells you he’s heading out. You nod and give him a squeeze, saying you’re off to the gym, anyway. Frankie tries not to think of how your ass looks in your blue leggings, and sets off down the stairwell.

He stays out for as long as possible, breathing in the fresh, spring air, looking into shop windows and petting passing dogs. He only decides to call it a day when his stomach starts growling and his feet start aching.

He feels good, energised.

Maybe he should get out more often.

Frankie shuts the front door gently behind him, placing his keys in the bowl. He says your name, only half expecting a reply. You didn’t say when you were heading out, or when you’d be back.

He yanks his boots off by the shoe rack you set up last week, and tucks them away neatly. His feet carry him towards the kitchen, fingers itching to hold a cup of coffee and sandwich before a soft sound stops him. His heart leaps in his throat, and he freezes, not daring to take another step.

He registers the soft sound of the running shower, and anticipation lodges itself in his belly. He waits, heart hammering in his chest, and almost moves before he definitely, definitely hears it again.

You moan softly on the other side of the bathroom door, and Frankie’s eyes flutter shut.

He should go. He should absolutely go, but he can see from here in the hallway that the bathroom door is open just a crack. And he has always been a flawed person, which is why it doesn’t surprise him that when he goes to shut it, to knock, to move past, he can’t keep himself from looking. Can’t stop his eyes from finding you, back against the tile, hair dripping down your shoulders, water spattering across your skin as you stand with your legs apart, one hand spreading you open, fingers moving fast across your clit. Frankie grips onto the door handle as his eyes close again.

Because he knows what’s about to happen. Hot shame floods through him as his cock hardens embarrassingly fast, a thin ringing in his ears as he opens his eyes again, takes in the soft flesh of your thighs, the flow of water, the rivulets tracing your skin, your glistening core, the way your fingers move so desperately -

And Frankie can see it, can feel it, can taste it when he imagines opening the door and climbing there with you, not giving you a chance to be surprised before he sinks to his knees and replaces your hand with his mouth.

With shaking fingers, he unbuttons his jeans, unzips his fly, and begins to stroke his cock.

He has no idea how long you’ve been in there for, but he watches closely, ravenously for your tells. It’s not gonna take him long, but he wants to watch you fall apart first.

He watches you move your weight so you slump a little lower on the wall, a harsh gasp leaving your lips. He watches as your hips twitch and roll forwards as you slow your pace, rubbing harder instead of faster, and he barely contains his own moan as you whine, high-pitched and needy, echoing off the walls. He watches your tummy clench with each stroke of your fingers, stares with drooling amazement as you snake a hand up your body to grasp and play with your tits, squeezing them, rolling your nipples between your fingers, pinching them as hard as you can. Frankie grunts when you gasp out a fuck, and for a long, heart clenching second, he thinks you hear him. You slow your movements, trying to peer through the dark crack in the door.

Frankie can’t move, can’t stop fisting his cock as he watches you, precum dripping through his fingers, the dirty thrill of getting caught spurring him on.

You listen carefully, turning your head to the side to see if you can catch any more noises. Satisfied you’re still alone, you continue, this time quickly finding a pace which Frankie can tell will send you off the edge. Your wet skin, the slick sounds of your fingers even over the running water, and your moans, gasps, curses, getting even louder.

Frankie stares still, enraptured by the goddess in front of him unravelling herself, and he wants nothing more than to touch you, taste you, smell you. He tries not to think of what he’d give to be inside you, but a soft moan escapes him anyway. Imagining the clench of your warm, wet cunt, hearing you make those noises for him, the slip of your wet skin in his grasp, your tits in his hands, the bite of your teeth on his shoulder sends him rocketing to his orgasm. He barely has time to wrap the bottom of his t-shirt around his cock, biting his fist as he empties himself, opening his eyes just in time to watch your body spasm and clench, your back arch, your head knock against the tiles as you cry out oh fuck, oh fuck, oh god.

Once you finish riding it out, whimpering and twitching, you close your eyes and breathe heavily. Frankie feels feverish, head tipping forwards onto the door frame as he tucks himself gently back into his boxers and pulls his jeans back up. He takes one last breath before a short, shrill beep echoes throughout the apartment.

Your eyes snap to the door again as you jump, and Frankie flinches, slowly backing away as you cock your head at the gap. Beep. Frankie can feel his pulse in his ears as he reaches the front door with soft treads, managing to open it quietly through his blind panic just as you turn the shower off. He slams it shut, calling your name from the entryway, cringing at the breaking huskiness of his voice. He waits a few seconds as though he’s taking off his shoes before running to his room, hearing the snick of the bathroom door closing just as his shuts behind him.

Frankie leans against the wood, forcing short breaths in and out his nose. Beep.

The smoke detector again, on the other side of the door. It shocks him back to life as he rips his shirt off, stuffing it deep in his laundry hamper before scrambling for a new one, praying to whatever god is out there that you hadn’t just caught him in such an obvious lie. That you hadn’t just caught him jerking off to you masturbating in the shower.

Frankie leaves his room as quickly as possible, knowing that the longer he stays in there the more likely it is you’ll know something is wrong. He yanks the door open, stepping out into the hallway, stopping to listen on the hardwood floor. There’s not a peep from the rest of the flat, but the door to the bathroom is now wide open, small tendrils of steam slipping out into the hallway. Frankie takes a deep breath and steps lightly down the hallway to the kitchen, intent on coffee this time, on something to distract him, something to do with his hands. Beep.

He works on autopilot as he pours the grounds into the percolator, throwing up a mental wall every time a glimmer of your body passes through his mind. When he sets it over the stove top he grips the counter, shoulders hunched, chewing his cheek as he breathes heavily through his nose. This time, the beep of the smoke detector makes him jump, and he swipes a hand over his mouth.

‘We need to change the batteries in that.’ You say, and Frankie flinches as you breeze past him into the kitchen. He can’t look at you, shame and arousal colouring his neck, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He makes a noise in his throat, and you shoot him a look over your shoulder.

‘You okay?’ You ask. He swings his eyes to you, and you look back at him the same as always. Warm, kind. You can’t know. You must be oblivious, and somehow that makes it worse.

‘Yeah,’ he says, and tries to smile, ‘Just need a coffee.’

His eyes try not to linger on your body, try not to linger on your lips, your hands. He grips the countertop harder. Stop it. Stop thinking about it.

You smile back at him.

‘If you’re sure,’ you say, sidling closer, laying a hand on his shoulder. You squeeze and wink up at him. ‘Can you make me one? I’m exhausted.’

Frankie tries to muffle his sharp intake of air with a cough. I’m exhausted. How long had you been in there? Had you even been to the gym? Or had you just spent the morning grinding and moaning and coming -

‘Sure.’ He croaks, and you frown at him.

‘You’re really feeling okay?’ You ask, bringing the back of your hand to his forehead. ‘Might be coming down with something. Tired and coughing.’

He shakes his head a little too enthusiastically.

‘No, I’m fine.’ He says, interrupted only by the beep of the smoke alarm. You pull a face at it, and he moves to take the coffee off the stove.

‘Go get the ladder,’ he says, ‘And I’ll change the batteries.’

You swish out of the kitchen, and Frankie scrubs his face with his hands, groaning out a god before taking two mugs from the cupboard and filling them. He’s just finished pouring in the creamer when you struggle back through the doorway, huffing under the weight of the stepladder.

‘Coffee’s there.’ He says, jerking his head in the direction of the mugs as he takes it from you. Frankie sets it up under the detector, stepping up the first couple of rungs before you stand in front of him. He quirks an eyebrow at you, and you tighten your hands around the ladder’s sides, holding it steady.

‘Don’t want you doing any damage to yourself.’ You say softly.

Frankie nods and continues climbing, trying not to think of how close you are. He focuses as he reaches the ceiling, stretching up to unscrew the device.

You swallow as you’re exposed to the slither of skin the action reveals, golden in the afternoon light, and the dark hair which trails down, down, below the waistline of his jeans.

‘Take it for me.’ He says from above you, and you drag your eyes away to meet his, flushing as you reach up to grab the alarm, fingers brushing. You watch as Frankie’s gaze darkens, as he takes you in, flushed, lips bitten, standing at the perfect height. The greedy way you’d been looking at his stomach, water, thighs, fingers -

‘Thank you.’ He says, and you take the detector away to replace the batteries, your fingers shaking. Frankie watches you hungrily, the curve of your jeans, the slope of your neck when you flick your hair behind you. He’s still watching when you turn back to him and hand him the device.

‘Good girl.’ He says. Heat rushes through you at the words, your breath catching in your throat. Frankie’s movements falter only slightly before he’s reaching up again to screw the detector back in. You stare at his belly, the coarse hair, and try to think of anything but nuzzling your nose against the skin, breathing him in, unbuttoning his jeans, taking his cock in your mouth, thinking about what he’d look like, what he’d feel like, what he’d taste like, whether it would be as good as what you’d imagined in the shower -

Frankie steps down from the ladder, prizing your hands off the metal, folding it shut and carrying it back out the room.

‘All done.’ He says.

You run a hand through your hair, pinching the bridge of your nose. Jesus.

You take a seat at the dining room table, and when Frankie joins you, you drink your coffee in near silence.

At work, later that evening, you shut yourself in the bathroom during your break. You bite your lip so hard it bleeds when you make yourself come, embarrassingly quick, to thoughts of what might have happened if you’d kissed Frankie’s stomach on the ladder. The uncomfortable ache in your core barely sated, your panties soaked, you try to do anything to distract yourself for the rest of the shift. Anything to keep your hands busy.

And in his bed, later that night, when he’s sure you must be asleep, Frankie takes his cock in his hand again. It doesn’t take him long, guiltily indulging in what he’d seen from the crack in the bathroom door. He comes with a quiet groan and a whisper of your name, wishing that you were there to lick the salt off his chest.

He falls asleep to thoughts of you, like he has done from the night you met.

---

A week passes, and Frankie's pretty sure he's going insane.

He can’t shower without picturing the way you had stood there, moaning and gasping. He can’t stop thinking of the way you had looked at him on the ladder, the way you’d looked at him sat on Will’s porch. He has to jerk off at least twice a day, and aside from it being a fucking inconvenience, he’s beginning to feel like a creep.

He thinks he needs to get laid.

There’s a girl you work with - Tasha - who gave Frankie her number not long after you started living together. She was pretty, nice enough, but Frankie hadn’t been looking for anything, and he certainly didn’t want to shit where you ate. But he texts her anyway. It’s late and sleazy, but she says yes. They meet at a bar, and when they stumble through the front door, you’re already home.

You’re sprawled out on your bed, a joint already rolled, leftovers from work in the fridge, ready to hunker down and fill Frankie in on your day, ready to hear him tell you about his, watch some shit on the television. Tonight felt like a David Attenborough night.

You jump as the front door bangs open, as two sets of feet come tumbling in. Your heart beats loudly in your chest at the noise, at the intrusion, unsure whether you should leap up to defend your roommate or hide. Then you hear the wet sounds of kissing, the low mumble of Frankie’s words, a high-pitched laugh you recognise as the front door shuts and Frankie’s opens.

You wait with baited breath, somehow unable to believe what is happening. Your fingers flutter on your chest, anxiously pressing the skin there.

Frankie’s never brought anyone home before. You don’t quite know what to do with yourself.

You’ve also never quite thought about how thin the wall is between your bedroom and his.

The realisation makes your skin flush, heated even more when you hear the mumbles and groans from the other side of the wall. Frankie saying something in a language you don’t understand, and Tasha’s breathy reply.

You don’t know how long you listen for, frozen on your mattress as you listen to the creak of Frankie’s bed, the whines and moans falling from them. The low timber of Frankie’s speech sinks itself into the centre of your body, heating and melting. You close your eyes as you try to pick out what he’s saying, as you listen for his panting breaths, his low moans. You can feel your underwear growing wet with slick, your body tightening - hot - and then Tasha cries out.

The sound shocks you from your reverie, shame, annoyance imploring your body to move. You raise up on your knees and pound your fist against the wall. Everything falls silent.

You breathe deeply for a moment before Frankie says something quietly, answered only by Tasha’s low giggle. Your tongue feels like ash in your throat as they both say a couple more things, more laughs pouring through the wall before you’re up, pulling on a hoodie over your tank top, leaving your room.

There’s another shock of silence as Frankie and Tasha hear you moving, but you’re already pulling your trainers on. You can hear Frankie say something on the other side of his door, can hear it getting louder as he moves towards it, but you’re slamming the front door closed before he can intercept you.

Your Uber ride is quiet, seething. You chew your lip, clench and unclench your fists. Your phone buzzes in your grip several times, but you don’t check it.

When you reach the low, suburban house with the cacti out front, you waste no time worrying about whether you look pretty enough. Because he’s always said you are on the nights when he’s had too much to drink.

You should know better before you raise your hand to knock. But you don’t spare a second thought as your knuckles rap against the wood. You shut down all other thoughts as the door swings open, him knowing exactly when to expect you as soon as you’d called. Something about military training and timing.

‘Hey.’ Benny says, standing in the doorway, moving aside to let you pass.

‘Hey.’ You smile back at him as you step into his house, toeing off your trainers, stripping yourself of your hoodie.

Benny eyes you hungrily as you stand before him in your tank top. You feel the heat coil in your belly again as he steps towards you, the slick in your underwear pooling as he kisses you hard and hot and open mouthed, as you tangle your hands in his hair, as you scratch at the bare skin of his hip beneath his top. You moan against him when you feel him already hard at your stomach.

‘Bed.’ He growls.

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal x reader #peach pit #tommy's party #you and your friends #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #Spotify

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peanut-butter-parkerxx · 2 months

Text

Summary: A baking adventure which includes a hot make-out sesh, a food fight and a whole lotta fluff and banter Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!reader Prompt(s): Friends to lovers, "i can't believe you talked me into this.", "Stop moving and let me braid your hair." Warning: food fight, kissing, making out, sensual touching

REQUEST FORM II NAVIGATION

The kitchen is suffused with the delightful aroma of freshly baked cookies, and warmth from the oven as Y/n bustles about humming a tune whilst preparing batches of chocolate chip cookies.

Elijah grins mischievously as he spots Y/n carefully measuring out the ingredients for the cookies. With a playful twinkle in his eyes, he reaches for the bag of chocolate chips, skillfully snagging it from the counter.

Y/n's attire exudes a cozy charm, with a white long-sleeved cropped top complementing her figure. Paired with grey shorts, her outfit strikes the perfect balance between comfort and style. A cute bow adorns her cascading hair, which is styled in a playful half-up, half-down fashion, framing her face with effortless grace.

Elijah: "Need these, Y/n?" Y/n looks up, surprised, but a smile spreads across her face at Elijah's playful antics.

"Hey, those are for the cookies!"

Elijah chuckles, winking at her before handing over the bag of chocolate chips. He's clad in black pants and a cuffed white shirt, which he rolls up the sleeves to his elbows. Y/n can't help but feel a warm flutter in her chest as she watches him, appreciating the subtle gesture of charm.

"You look good with your sleeves rolled up like that, Elijah." Y/n remarks as Elijah grins, his eyes sparkling with amusement at her comment. He then adds with a playful smirk, stepping closer to her.

"Need me to carry you over there so you can reach the ingredients?"

Y/n rolls her eyes, laughing softly at his teasing. "Very funny, Elijah. I think I can manage on my own, thank you."

As Y/n reaches for the baking soda on the highest shelf, her fingertips barely brush against it, and she sighs in frustration.

Before she can react, Elijah scoops her up into his arms effortlessly, surprising her. Y/n's heart skips a beat as she finds herself being carried, her feet leaving the ground.

Y/n: "Elijah, I—"

But her words trail off as she realizes the close proximity, feeling the warmth of his touch against her bare skin. The cropped top she's wearing allows Elijah's to use the opportunity to touch and caress her in a way that makes the moment feel intimate and sensual. His hand grazing her stomach and sending shivers down her spine.

Elijah chuckles softly, his warm breath tickling her ear as he carries her closer to the shelf.

"Just helping you out, Y/n. Thought you could use a lift." He speaks as if carrying an entire person was child's play.

After retrieving the baking soda with Elijah's help, Y/n holds onto the item as he gently sets her down on the kitchen counter. She watches him with a mixture of surprise and affection as he positions himself between her legs, a playful glint in his eyes.

"What are you up to now?"

"I thought I'd surprise you," he whispers, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine. His fingers start to trace delicate patterns on her inner thighs, slowly inching closer to where she craves his touch the most.

Y/n's heart races as anticipation builds within her, her body instinctively arching towards him. His hands, both gentle and possessive, cradle her face as he leans in, his gaze ablaze with unwavering intensity, conveying both reverence and longing. With a delicate touch, he traces the contours of her jawline and collarbone, savoring the warmth of her skin against his fingertips. his expertise leaving her breathless. There's a softness to his expression, a tenderness that belies the intensity of his desire. As their breaths mingle in the intimate space between them, Elijah's voice, a low, husky murmur, whispers words of adoration and desire, punctuated by the confession,

"I crave the taste of your lips, the feel of your skin against mine, the sound of your breath mingling with mine." With a gentle yet purposeful motion, Elijah leans closer, time seems to slow to a standstill as he hovers just inches away, his lips tantalizingly close to hers, teasing and tempting with the promise of sweet surrender. In that moment, there's nothing else in the world but the pull of their connection, the longing that pulses between them, as Elijah leans closer still, closing the gap between them until their lips finally meet in a tender, passionate kiss.

Elijah holds Y/N tightly by the waist, pulling her closer to him with an unwavering determination. Y/N responds to his touch with a soft gasp of pleasure, her body instinctively leaning into his embrace, seeking warmth and security in his arms. his embrace is both protective and possessive, drawing her closer to him with a strength that leaves no room for doubt about the depth of his desire. Their chests rise and fall in unison, each breath mingling with the other's in a rhythm that echoes the pounding of their hearts.

Y/N's fingers thread through Elijah's hair, a low rumbling sound escapes his throat, a mixture of pleasure and desire, as he instinctively leans into her touch, savoring the sensation of her fingertips against his scalp. His own breath catches in his throat as he draws her closer, his senses overwhelmed by the heady scent of her skin and the taste of her lips lingering on his own.

The moment is suddenly interrupted as Kol and Rebekah enter the room, catching them in their intimate embrace. There's a fleeting moment of surprise before Elijah, ever the epitome of composure, swiftly composes himself, though the flicker of desire still lingers in his eyes.

As Kol saunters into the room, his eyes twinkling mischievously, he can't resist adding his signature flair, "Well, well, what do we have simmering here, lovebirds?" His teasing remark punctuates the moment, eliciting a chuckle from Elijah and a playful roll of the eyes from Y/n

Rebekah arches an amused eyebrow and offers a sly smile, her tone teasing yet affectionate, "Seems like we've interrupted quite the cozy scene here. Do I even want to know what you two have been up to?" She winks.

Elijah's lips quirk into a subtle smile, amusement dancing in his eyes as he adds, "Y/n was just indulging in her latest culinary experiment."

Y/n, feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks at being caught in such a moment with Elijah by her friends, chuckles nervously, "Yeah, I thought I'd give baking a try. Turns out, it's a bit more eventful than I anticipated." She shoots Elijah a playful look.

"Well, I must say, Y/n, your baking skills certainly have the power to surprise." Elijah gently gripped Y/N's waist as they stood together, his touch tender yet firm. With a subtle squeeze, he conveyed a sense of intimacy and affection, his fingers lightly embracing Y/N's form.

But out of nowhere, from the corner of Rebekah's eye, Rebekah spots the bowl of flour on the counter, calling her name.

"I call dibs on the flour!" With a grin, she grabs a handful and throws it at Kol, who retaliates with a handful of chocolate chips. In the chaos that ensues, flour fills the air like a soft snowfall, and chocolate smears decorate their faces and clothes.

Elijah steps in front of Y/n, shielding her from the impending mess. His stance protective as he creates a barrier between Y/N and the flurry of flour as Y/N continues with her baking, unfazed by the flour flying past them.

Y/N lets out a playful laugh, nudging Elijah's side with a grin. "Well, that was a close call, wasn't it? Almost got caught in the crossfire there," she jokes, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Elijah turns to her, his expression softening as he leans in closer, his hand finding its place gently on her waist. With a subtle smile, he murmurs, "Indeed, my dear, but I believe we have some unfinished business," his voice laced with a hint of playful mischief as he draws her into another tender kiss, their surroundings fading into the background as they savor the moment together.

Kol, in the midst of the flour fight frenzy, accidentally flings a dollop of food that lands squarely on the back of Elijah's shirt. The unexpected impact catches Elijah's attention, causing him to turn around with a bemused expression, only to find himself face to face with the mischievous grins of Kol and Rebekah.

With a chuckle, Elijah shakes his head in mock exasperation, but his gaze quickly returns to Y/N, a fond smile gracing his lips. "Seems you’re not the only one in need of protection," he teases, his hand still resting on her waist as he leans in closer.

Kol seizes the opportunity to launch a handful of flour in Y/N's direction. The powdery substance catches her by surprise, dusting her shoulders and hair with a fine white layer.

Y/N lets out a surprised laugh, brushing off the flour with a playful swat at Kol. "Oh, you're asking for it now, Kol!" she warns, her eyes dancing with mischief.

As the flour fight reaches its peak, Elijah can't help but chuckle as he watches Y/N fully immersed in the playful chaos, her laughter contagious.

"Alright, that's enough, children," Elijah calls out with mock sternness, his tone laced with amusement. "Let's save some flour for the actual baking, shall we?"

Rebekah and Kol exchange knowing glances, their laughter still bubbling just beneath the surface. Kol chuckles, wiping flour off his face. "Aw, come on, Elijah! Where's your sense of fun?"

"I thought you enjoyed a little messiness now and then." Rebekah quipped, eyeing him and y/n as if to mock the intimate moment they've had a few minutes prior.

Elijah rolls his eyes in mock exasperation, a fond smile playing on his lips. "There's fun, and then there's flour all over the kitchen," he retorts, unable to hide his amusement at his siblings antics.

"Look what you've done, you two!" Elijah add as he gestures toward Y/N, who is now adorned in a cloud of flour. "Y/N's covered in flour!"

"Well, it seems Elijah's gone all soft when it comes to you, Y/N. Watch out, he might try to put you in bubble wrap next!" Y/n blushes, feeling a warmth spreading through her cheeks at Kol's teasing.

Rolling his eyes at their teasing once again, Elijah adopts a mock stern expression. "Enough with the teasing, you two," he chides, "If you're quite finished turning my kitchen into a battleground, I suggest you clean up this mess."

Turning his attention back to Y/N, his expression softening as he gazes at her amidst the floury chaos. "Come, love," he says gently, offering her a hand. "Let's leave these two to clean up while we wash up upstairs. You can return to a clean kitchen to finish your culinary pursuits." Y/N's eyes light up with gratitude as she takes Elijah's hand, a smile playing on her lips.

#fluff #daniel gillies #elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson x female reader #elijah mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson #new orleans #rebekahmikaelson #vampires #kol mikaelson

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bahrtofane · 3 months

Text

i dont want to leave

-----

When Jude finds himself slipping from your life. He chooses to leave it completely, for your sake.

Jude x reader

Word count - 700+

Watch it - angst angst and angst

-----

Judes first appearance to your modest little apartment in months turns into him begging and pleading for you to find someone better.

Someone who doesn't make you wait all day for a reply, someone who isnt in 3 time zones in one day, someone who has time.

Jude has many things, many luxuries and commodities that fill his home and surround his daily life. Fame and fortune that follow him, recognition. Riches.

Time is not one of them. between games just about every other day, events and press appearances, media days and content recording. He is exhausting every second of his day.

He knows he's not making enough time for you. And now he's begging for you to move on

Sitting cross legged on your couch, in red and black plaid pj pants and a hoodie he grabbed from his hamper. He made his way to you as soon as he could. Even if it meant after doing a virtual interview from his room, he grabbed his wallet and keys, sprinting out the door.

“Please…” he tries again. His eyes droop and he can not pick them up to face you. Can not meet your gaze. His eye bags look horrid and his skin is taking on a sickly sheen you saw last when he came down with the flu.

You shake your head, “Jude. listen to what you're saying. You want me to leave because you're busy?”

“I'm saying I'm not good to or for you. I'm never around. I barely reply. I forget things. I never know what you're up to or what's going on. Im shit. And you don't deserve that.” he tries again, keeping his head down and picking at his nails.

“But I love you. Busy or not.” you sigh.

“And I love you. So much that you have to let me go.”

“I don't want to leave you,” you cross your arms.

He rubs his eyes. Its been back and forth like this for what feels like an hour now. This will get nowhere if he simply lets this continue.

He slides a leg from under him, swinging it against your couch, “then I will.”

Your face morphs into one of pain, but he knows you can't keep living like this. He can't keep making false promises and hurting you. No matter how many times you say it's okay. He was late to your birthday for fucks sake. He doesn't know your friends names, do you even still watch that show? He's losing who you are and it's no one's fault but his own.

He scoots to you, gently taking your hands in his, “I know you'll find someone who treats you the way you need. And I'm sorry I couldn't.”

Tears begin to swell in your eyes, lip trembling as you shake your head, “you can't,” you cry out weakly. But it's too late.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, getting up from his seat and gently closing the door behind him, with a little too much force than intended.

The little framed picture of the two of you that hangs on the wall next to the door shakes and wobbles. It only makes you cry harder.

You remember that day. He took you to the fair, buying you all the stupid food you could ever want. (the deep fried ice cream gave you a run for your money in the bathroom). He won every prize at those silly games. Even if it took him 50 tries and a whole lotta cash to do so.

There was a little man walking around with a polaroid camera. A sign reading “$2 for a picture” painted in bright green lettering hanging from an old withered string around his neck.

You took 4.

Your favorite, the one on the wall, stares back at you mockingly. Hands held together while your heads are thrown back, soft yellow and pink light from the ferris wheel behind you painting your faces. You'll need to take that down you suppose.

You want to scream, but instead only tears fall. Can he see he's the one that's meant for you? Busy or not, forgetful, tired, moody, cranky. You love him through it all. Can he see that?

You try to call him, blinking away the tears as you fish your phone from your pocket. Pressing on the screen harshly and putting it on speaker, but they all go to voicemail. You suppose that's that.

His first visit in months. And he's never coming back.

#jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham x reader #jude x reader #jude x you #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham angst #jude x y/n #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham fluff #footballer fic #jude bellingham #jude bellingham x y/n #bahr footy #god i love angst

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libraryofgage · 4 months

Text

A Place Like Steve in a Boy Like This

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually

Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two | Three | Four Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One | Two | Three (you’re here!) Harley Quinn One 10th Doctor and Rose One | Two (on the way!) Scooby Gang (there are plans for this one lmao, so plz be patient with me orz) Jedidiah and Octavius (from Night at the Museum) One Queen Clarisse (also on the way and also a modern royalty au cuz I got the urge to write one so bad lmao)

This AU was line-jumped on Ko-Fi, which means y'all got it sooner!

If you want to line jump your favorite series, you can learn more here

I hope y'all enjoy this part! It was a lotta fun to write, actually, since I got to talk about folklore I'm more familiar with lol

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

----

Steve huffs as he kicks a pebble down the street. It bounces a few times before settling on the sidewalk, doing nothing interesting enough to alleviate his boredom. He turns around, squinting against the sun shining in his eyes, and looks at his parents. His mother is speaking quietly to a woman with a shawl around her shoulders, both of them bent over some book that definitely should have been crumbling by now. His father idly taps at bricks on the building next to them, looking relaxed but alert.

Steve glances at the building his parents are avoiding, the one the woman with the shawl walked out of. It’s a pale, faded yellow, the kind that tells him the building is old, old enough to have seen wars and generations pass it by. Shingles line a low roof, but something that’s either incredibly durable wood or stone so old it’s turned brown makes up the vaguely mountain-shaped top that reaches to the sky. Steve studies the building, his eyes wandering until he sees the door cracked open on the side.

He takes a slow step towards it, checks that neither of his parents noticed, and takes another. This continues until he’s in the shadow of the building, his fingers brushing against the wood. It’s cool against his skin, and the door isn’t nearly as heavy as it looks. He pushes lightly against it, an eager feeling building in the pit of his stomach as he slips inside.

A dimly lit hall made of stone sprawls out in front of him, and Steve hums softly as he passes by the paintings and scraps of scroll that are framed along the wall. He recognizes Hebrew on all the scrolls, but he doesn’t linger long enough to read any of it. Instead, he continues to walk, glancing through an opening that leads into a sanctuary. The opening is to the left of the bema, and he’s momentarily caught by the ark that contains the Torah. He can’t even see the holy scrolls, but something in his spine jerks and he’s overwhelmed by the urge to open the doors so he can gaze upon them.

He’s already going to get in trouble for slipping inside, though. Maybe he shouldn’t make it worse. Steve grasps this thought tightly, holding it in his mind until he’s able to tear his gaze away and continue walking down the hall. Other than that opening, there’s only one door left at the very end. It, too, is made of wood and opens far easier than Steve expected.

Shafts of sunlight stream in through narrow windows, illuminating dust that floats in the still air of an undisturbed staircase. Steve looks down at the first steps, crouches, and drags his finger carefully over the stone. A layer of dust comes off, and Steve comes to the conclusion that nobody has been up these stairs in a long, long time.

With a grin, Steve begins to climb.

The stairs wind up and up, far higher than Steve thinks should be possible given the height of the building itself, but what does he know? He just focuses on climbing, on reaching the top as he passes narrow window after narrow window, breathing in stale air that stirs in his lungs and builds. Strangely enough, he’s not breathless from the climbing, but from something else entirely. He isn’t able to name that feeling until he finally (finally) reaches the top of the stairs.

As he stands on the top step and looks over the loft spread out before him, he realizes it was anticipation. Like the stairs, this attic-loft is covered in dust, untouched by people for a very long time. A large window is opposite the stairs, allowing sunlight to stream into the area. The space holds a desk, a bed, more books than Steve has ever seen before, and a statue.

Steve stares at the statue, licks his lips nervously, and steps into the room. He doesn’t spare the books or anything else a second glance, instead making a beeline for the statue. It’s huge, towering over the twelve-years-old Steve even though it’s sitting. Its legs are crossed, and its hands are held palm-up just above its navel. The statue is round and smooth, not a straight edge in sight. It doesn’t have a neck, and its head is like a little bump on its shoulders, just big enough to hold triangle-shaped divots for eyes. Carefully placed next to the statue is a small clay jar and a paintbrush.

Without thinking, Steve picks up the jar and looks inside. Golden-hued paint shimmers inside, and Steve wonders how it hasn’t caked over or disintegrated after all this time. He tilts the clay pot a few times, watching the paint slide against the edges, and then looks up at the statue again. At second glance, he sees that the statue’s head is big enough for more than just its eyes. He could probably write on it, too.

With that thought, Steve grabs the paintbrush and very carefully pokes his foot against the statue’s leg. It seems strong enough, so he climbs up, following the statue’s calf to its knee. From there, he carefully holds the paintbrush with his teeth so he can steady himself on the statue’s arm. Once he has, Steve pulls himself up onto the statue’s hands, finding himself at the perfect height to reach its forehead.

Steve holds the paintbrush and dips it into the jar. The brush comes out covered in the gold paint, and Steve pauses, looking at the statue’s forehead.

He remembers a story his mother once told him about this very city, this very building. It involved a statue like this one, a golem, that was brought to life to protect his mom’s ancestors. Steve hums softly and carefully paints aleph, mem, tav on the statue’s forehead. His mom will find it funny when he brings her up here to show her the “golem” he found.

As he finishes off the tav, giving it a pretty little flourish just for the fun of it, the ground beneath him jerks. No, not the ground. The hands he’s standing on. Steve yelps, losing his balance and about to fall only to be cradled and carefully set on the ground.

Steve blinks, looking up at the golem to see it leaning down and staring at him expectantly. “Uh. Hi,” he says, breathless as he receives a small nod and wave in return. “Holy shit.”

Before he can say more, he hears a familiar voice in the distance shouting, “Steve! Where are you?”

Keeping his eyes on the golem, Steve sets the jar and paint down, scooting back along the floor until he reaches the top of the stairs. “I’m up here!” he shouts, hearing a muffled curse and the slam of a door far below. He sighs and stands, slowly approaching the golem.

“You’re really real,” he mumbles, stopping in front of the golem as he hears someone running up the steps.

He turns just in time to see his father reach the attic, guns at the ready, and panting from adrenaline and the climb. “What the fuck is that?!” he shouts, aiming the guns at the golem without thinking.

“Don’t shoot it!” Steve yells, barely getting the words out before he’s scooped into the golem’s arms and completely covered by its hands. The world goes dark, and he’s pressed close enough to the golem’s chest that all he can smell is pomegranate and the old ink and paper of Talmud studies.

“It’s holding you captive, and you’re telling me not to shoot it?!” his father asks.

“It’s protecting him!” his mother shouts, her voice shrill and panicked enough about his father shooting a golem to make Steve almost laugh.

Steve wiggles around, tapping the golem’s chest. “Those are my parents,” he says, “Please let me down.”

After a few seconds of hesitation, the golem does, carefully and slowly placing Steve on his feet once more. Its hands stay on either side of him, looking ready to pull him back into its protective embrace. His father looks harried, but his mother looks awed as she steps forward. The golem allows her to approach, and she carefully runs her fingers over the golem’s arms. “This is amazing, Steve,” she says softly.

“Can we please step away from the dangerous statue now?” his father asks, taking a step forward only to stop when the golem suddenly stands and towers over him. “Uh, what’s it doing?”

“You’re not Jewish, Rick,” Steve’s mother says, looking over her shoulder. “The golem is a protective figure in Jewish folklore, among other things. It’s most famous stories are about keeping Jewish towns safe from pogroms. It’s wary of you.”

“I’m your husband!” Steve’s father protests, angrily shoving his guns back into their holsters, “And Steve’s father! We should be on the same team!”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, walking over to his father and taking his hand. “I just have to introduce you.” With that, Steve leads his father over to the golem, placing his father’s hand on its arm, and saying, “This is someone you should protect, too.”

----------

After explaining everything, with plenty of interruptions from the kids after they came running back into the living room to escape Uncle Jonathan’s gin, Steve’s parents demanded to see the lab where it all started.

And now they’re here, standing in one of the lower levels, surrounded by dead vines that still haunt Steve’s nightmares on particularly bad nights. If he’s lucky, he won’t have one of those while his parents are home, but Steve has never really called himself lucky in situations that don’t involve life or death.

The wall that once held a gate to the Upside Down is nothing more than charred cement, reduced to a jagged line of something Steve really hopes is soot and not, like, disintegrated demogorgon. He carefully makes his way through the vines, avoiding them when he can and holding his breath whenever he has to step on one.

“Did you know this was a lab?” Rick asks, his voice echoing in the hall ahead of them.

“Of course, not,” Evelyn replies, and Steve can picture the glare she’s aiming at him. “I wouldn’t have let our son live here if I’d known.”

“Well,” Eddie says, “I, for one, and very relieved Stevie lived here considering several of us would be dead without him.”

“Me, too,” Dustin says.

“Me three,” El says.

“I think Steve and I would’ve found each other even if he wasn’t in Hawkins,” Robin says, nudging Steve’s ribs with her elbow as she grins. “Platonic soulmates can’t he kept apart.”

Steve snorts and stops when he reaches the wall. He looks around and notices the corpse of a demodog a few feet away. Or, well, he thinks it’s a demodog corpse. “Stay here,” he says, tightening his grip on his bat as he takes a step closer to it.

“Hold it right there, young man,” his mother says, her tone bringing him to an immediate halt. “Your father will go towards the monster, and you will stay a safe distance away.”

“Gee, thanks for asking,” Rick mutters, rolling his shoulders as he makes his way over to the demodog corpse. He studies it for a second before just kicking the thing with his foot. Steve nearly jumps in to yank his father back, but stays frozen in place by Robin’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

His father kicks the corpse again, and Eddie suddenly asks, “Why do I feel like this is disrespectful?”

“Because it used to be alive,” El offers.

“It’s definitely not anymore,” Rick says, crouching down and using the barrel of his gun to push back one of the petals on its head. “Shit, what’s it need so many teeth for?”

“The better to eat you with,” Steve says, earning a snort from Robin and Eddie.

“And there were how many of these?” Evelyn asks.

“Dozens. Like, multiple packs, and they were all connected by this hive mind kinda thing,” Dustin explains, walking over to the corpse with no fear. “I mean, they weren’t all bad. Dart was okay.”

“He ate your cat,” Steve says.

“Yeah, and then he didn’t eat us in the tunnel.”

“I can’t believe you were facing these things and didn’t use your guns to spare some girl’s feelings,” Rick says, looking at Steve over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe you didn’t just use the golem,” his mother says, frowning as she turns to Steve. “I mean, you know where it is, dear. You know how to bring it to life.”

“A golem? Like…from Lord of the Rings?” Dustin asks.

“You had a golem? Why didn’t you tell me you had a golem?” Eddie asks.

“How did we not think of the golem? Holy shit, we’re dumb,” Robin says, smacking her forehead with her palm.

“I couldn’t trust that it wouldn’t hurt one of my friends,” Steve says, ignoring Dustin for now. “It would only protect me and Robin. If something happened to one of us, it would abandon the kids without question. What’s the point then?”

“Hello! Confused people over here!” Dustin shouts, getting their attention. “What golem?”

“You know,” Robin says, “like…of Prague.”

“No, still lost,” Dustin says.

Steve sighs, about to explain it when Eddie beats him to it. “The golem is from Jewish folklore,” he says, tilting his head as he looks at Steve, “It was created and brought to life by a rabbi in Prague to protect his congregation from pogroms and acts of antisemitism. There are debates on why he had to disintegrate the golem, though. Some stories say it started killing innocent people, others say it fell in love, and others say the congregation were using it to do chores instead of letting it focus on protecting them.”

“Yes, exactly,” Evelyn says, smiling at Eddie and nodding with approval, “The golem doesn’t speak much, but it can answer basic questions. According to it, Rabbi Loew removed its aleph because it requested to go to sleep.”

“Oh, so it just wanted a nap,” El says, nodding as though this makes perfect sense to her.

“You said you had the golem,” Eddie says. “Where?”

“At the house,” Steve replies, watching as his father stands from the corpse and drags Dustin away from it. “I keep it in the locked room downstairs.”

“You said that was your parents’ room,” Dustin says.

“No, you assumed it was, and I never corrected you.”

“Can I see it?” Eddie asks.

Steve looks up, meeting Eddie’s gaze. After a few seconds, he nods once and looks at his parents. “Did you see what you wanted?” he asks, “Can we head back?”

“Yeah,” Rick says, frowning as he nudges a vine with his foot. “I’ll come back later with Ardeth. See if he knows anything that might help.”

“What do we need help with?” Dustin asks. “The portal is closed for good. We closed it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with making sure,” Evelyn tells him, smiling reassuringly before turning back the way they came. “Now that Rick and I are here, we’ll do everything we can to make sure those gates never open again.”

“And if they do,” Rick says, bringing up the rear as the kids follow Evelyn, “we’ll take care of it. You kids don’t need to put yourselves in danger anymore.”

Something in Steve settles at hearing this, his next exhale taking all the stress that had made its home between his shoulders with it. For the first time in a long time, he thinks about something normal. He glances at Eddie and Robin and thinks about going to see a movie with them, drinking at the lake, and just being stupid teens that don’t have to worry about interdimensional monsters.

------

Tag List (there should be room still! So, if you’d like a tag, let me know!)

@trueghostqueen, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @thoughtfulbreadpolice, @mogami13, @blcksh33p1987, @beawritingbooks, @remus-is-trans, @your-confused-friend, @estrellami-1, @nburkhardt, @vacantwatchers, @yeahhhh-suga, @phantomcat94

@blackpanzy, @ape31, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @plantzzsandpencilzzs, @flustratedcas, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @just-a-tiny-void, @disrespectedgoatman, @fallingleavesinthewind, @nymime, @nectandra, @moomkin77, @nadenia, @resident-disappointment, @copper-arrows, @romanticdestruction, @rowanshadow26

@nadenia, @northernlight-witch, @steddie-as-they-go,

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #the mummy 1999 crossover #rick o'connell #evelyn o'connell #jewish steve harrington #jewish robin buckley #robin buckley #the party stranger things #the golem of prague #steve deserves good parents actually #anyway golem of prague my beloved you didn't deserve to be made into a monster by modern media

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clownsuu · 1 year

Note

i have so many curious questions about the designs for each of your characters. like, home having big floaty cloud hair?? how do you decide/design them?

I always wanted to talk a sec about my Home's design lmAO so I guess I'll take a sec to do a lil ramble about him

Cw me ramblin my ass off HDHDHJD

Every time I make a design for a character, I always gotta look at everything about em in some way and try my best to implement each iconic aspect of them in their design- from minor to major differences

So like his head, his blue flow-y hair was inspired by his roof and what's underneath his building (that little black void with the swirl- it somehow translated to whispy curly hair in my lil noggin). His colors of his facial hair is obviously colored according to his normal version (red facial hair/brick, a yellow line for the door). I also wanted a way to implement his windows, cause it's a very iconic look for Home, so boom, g l a s s e s (I was gunna put bumps underneath the frames but it looked weird so I just gave him long ass lashes)

His stitched up body/outfit is mostly inspired by the armchair wally sits on that has a very noticeable Barnaby print in the back. Although iv never really drawn it, Home's pants have patches of every single character's skin on it (yes the spots for Barnaby and Howdy would be fluffy LMAO). And his shirt, although it doesn't look like much, the two color patches on his shoulders are color inspired by the trees behind him, and his sleeves obviously of the greenary around him. (also his race, Iv debated what athnicity he'd be since there were two (or three for both) to choose from (wally being afro-latino), and iv ultimately decided Latino, since a large part of my family is such and I know a lot more on that culture being born in it)

As for age? Home himself to me just f e e l s warm and comforting, he has big soft eyes and is literally a Home, so what kinda person makes you f e e l (likespiderman) like home while also being one? A more elderly figure, specifically that one elderly person you feel so comforted being at home with as a kid, smothered in love and happiness and never wanting to leave smhhh. I just wanted him to make you feel like at home whenever ya get a hug by him.

Also his relationship at first wasn't actually gunna be Wally's father, moreso just a guardian, but after he was done being colored and such (and I got a lotta comments sayin he looks like wally) I just went "f it" and made him wally's dadpa (nobody can really choose if it's father or grandfather- I say father since wally is a grown ass man, but other says grandpa cause home is so old looking lmAO, so he gets to be both).

I didn't want his relationship with wally to be anything NEAR negative, but rather a huge comfort and support Wally has with a guardian (yeah adults can live with their parents it ain't that weird). One of my biggest drives for it was cause Wally is heavily neurodivergent coded, and the last thing I wanted was to have a large scary figure in Wally's life terrify and heavily dictate Wally's choices to a point Wally is completely suffocated and extremely uncomfortable. Not only that but lock Wally inside refusing him to do what he wants and getting upset over the smallest things? Complete nightmare! Specially someone who's neurodivergent! Sure I like the suspense and drama in a alternative universe, but in the main one I'd rather not. At least for me anyway (as a neurodivergent whos gone through similar things).

#Liddol ramble #Home is one of my favorite characters in the whole series and I wanna do him justice

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when-pigsfly · 21 days

Text

WITCHING HOUR, CH 3/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: high time for a baptism

tags: a whole lotta words, reader is so totally sexually repressed, angst if you squint really really hard, 18+ CONTENT, masturbation, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (wrap before you tap)

word count: 9k (jesus, wren. what the hell.)

a/n: SURPRISE! (sorry this took two months?? hot damn??)

<< previous chapter | read on ao3 here

The walls are blockades of tar when you wake.

Tangled in the liminal spider web of consciousness, your eyes crack open in hesitant increments. Movement isn’t an option—not yet. So you bide your time. Lethargic. Still tangled.

But distant bird chatter punctures your eardrums, and you’re jostled back into an awareness of the minutes sliding through your fingers with all the lenience of serrated glass. It’s with unfocused eyes and bleeding hands that you take in the reality of the dark, saturating the floorboards with promises of deep pinks and purples.

Dawn. You’d slept to the edge of dawn.

Your first voluntary gulp coats your lungs in sticky air, snags on the cotton lodged in your throat, and you fold over with a violent cough and a twinge of pain in your sides. One of Mrs. Campbell’s complaints about chairs screams when you go to uncurl your spine, and the left side of your neck is strained from where you’d been slumped sideways.

Familiar shapes and smells return to their rightful places only after the initial shock of your aches subside. And perhaps it was the framed pictures—faces unrelated yet well-learned, softened into ambiguity by youth and dust and a lack of light. Or exhaustion, more realistically. Either way, one of the two has you slouching down in your seat, blanketing your eyelids with the back of your hand despite the swampy darkness.

You find that it’s easier to focus on the little chirps this way. Easier to visualize the fattened droplets of morning dew rolling from the fogged windows to the porch, and eventually to the ground below. The acrid smell of dried sweat and rainwater is draped over your imagined backdrop as a thin screen—apparent, but not enough to disturb. Something close to serenity, you think, even with the fireplace burnt down to nothingness and still tickling your nostrils.

But when a memory suddenly flashes white-hot, you slam your hand back into the arm of your chair with an agonizing groan, the shooting pain that rattles up your forearm just barely managing to surpass the burgeoning mortification.

Stupid.

This is beyond stupid.

You’re many things. Many, many things, if you take the (societally imposed) negatives into account. You’re also perfectly capable of becoming many things. But a bitch in heat, to your knowledge, is not one of them.

Only, you’d spent the vacant space following Arthur Morgan’s departure waiting for that pang of true regret, for that honed blade of self-preservation to unsheathe itself and sever the grip of what had nearly drowned you. You’d slipped your shirt back over your shoulders and paced. And paced, and paced. Paced till you’d carved a new trench into your dirty rug and dropped, regrettably, into the very chair you awoke in.

Your gut squeezes, and you know that the grip still has yet to unwind. It makes you sick. Feverish. Confused. Like you’ve pulled a scorching pot from a frigid stove.

Discomfort spreads when you sit up to refasten the buttons of your shirt, fabric now stiff with rain and resisting the pull of your fingers, and your mind, lost to the beginnings of repetition, wanders further.

You were no prude, if only out of spite. The top button closes, and you’re brought back to your first spark of rebellion—some fresh-faced businessman looking to pawn his talents off on your father. Bright hair, stiff collar, fingernails clean but hands grubby. Not much “talent” about him, either.

Hardship was unmistakably foreign to him, old family money softening him like rotting fruit. He’d likely continue to be softened into a pulp, considering the funds your father had shelled out to keep his mouth shut after you’d stumbled your way into fucking him.

(The statement would only fall flat once his buggy had mysteriously turned over into a ditch, just outside of Saint Denis.

You never did find out what he’d planned to do with the money.)

Desperation found a way to manifest in other ways; you suppose it had worked out somewhat in your favor. You’d been granted deliverance from society. Your father.

Right into the arms of your stranger.

Your fingers are pinching air when the very thought of him surges through you. Suddenly aware of a tingly tightness in your throat, you hastily pop the first button back open before settling your hands back into your lap. The buzzing fades, and you can breathe again.

You let out a stuttering puff of air.

…Limits.

You’re aware of them. How short of a leash to hold yourself on. But you think, just before the sun is privy to your misdeeds, you can offer a little give. A simple test, just to see if the burning you feel might burn you back for once.

(You slip. Just enough.)

You’re almost surprised at the harsh sound of your hand sliding to the button of your trousers. But the metal of it isn’t hot. Not cold, either. Nothing to provoke or dissuade, it just is. And suddenly, remorse is far, far away.

It’s even further when you test the pressure of your fingers on the clothed warmth spreading over your cunt. Farther still, once the unpracticed pressure morphs into a steady roll.

Instinct rears its ugly head, and you relish in the fact that you’d only had words before—on pages, floating through hallways, locked behind a vault. Relegated to dreams, raging fires, cavernous hallways.

Now you have more. More. More. Fresh memories become markers in your search for that spark, that jolt of life you’d only seen hints of in passing.

A strangled gasp punches out of you when the pad of a finger catches on that bundle of nerves, and the inky black walls fall to pieces. But you’re still lost in the rhythm of hands, and hips, and dirt, mind glazing over at the thought of Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

More than a little flustered, but still curious, you begin to paint. The colors smush together the moment they hit the canvas: blue eyes, weathered hands, weathered soul. Pink tongue darting out to catch sweat, blood, life. From a thigh. A cheek. The inside of an elbow.

Alive. Yes, that’s what radiates when you finally work up the nerve to slip shaky fingers between fabric, searching for the dewy apex of your thighs. Alive in the friction from your clothes, the isolation of your whimpers and whines, Arthur running phantom fingers along your neck.

You’re delirious enough for that rasp to work its way into your ear again. Arthur is saying something, mumbling some unidentifiable remark into the thick silence made thicker by the obscene squelch of your pumping fingers, but still maintaining that tense distance, and it dawns on you that he isn’t quite real yet.

Heat begins to kick up debris underneath your navel. Bastard. Riling you up, leaving, just when you begin to know; even in your most debauched fantasies he does nothing but watch. Perspiration fixes your back to the chair, and you catch your bottom lip between your teeth. Crush your eyelids shut. Inhale and crook your fingers almost enough, but not quite.

You miss that spongy spot inside of you by what feels like a mile, and you feel it like a bullet to the chest. Fingers frantic, scraping at whatever buzz you can salvage, you press into creaking wood for leverage. Little twitches and gasps and it’s still not enough, but if you could just see him, feel him—

—and before you can stretch your work over the mold you’ve conjured up, natural warmth cascades over your cheeks. The train of your high whooshes past. You’re splitting your eyes open, ripping your hand from between your thighs, surging out of your chair and towards the lifeless fireplace before that damning sensation can slam into the base of your spine. Undecided weight and legs close to crumpling are only leveled out by the shame burning in the back of your throat.

Damn it.

The walls are back up, color crowding the suddenly cramped room. You force yourself to will the ache away, still your swimming vision, make space with steadying breaths. Try to, at least. The unresolved tremble in your thighs is still there, wetness still coating your fingers. You settle for wiping it on the side of your pants only after a stone settles in your chest.

There’s nothing to lean up against; it’s just you and the sparse furniture. But it’s cramped. Why is it still cramped?

(Something needs to move.)

Sun flush against your back, you blindly reach out behind you to pull the chair in the general direction of the table. By the angry clack, you’ve slid it a touch too far. Which was fine. It was perfectly fine, so long as it was out of the way.

(Something needs to move.)

—

You’re a little lost after that.

Muscle memory preserves you long enough to notice that Mrs. Campbell is looking at you with an abnormal amount of pity.

You pretend not to notice, crouched over the tiny green tendrils poking free of the earth, the beginnings of oats planted only a week ago fluttering under the gentle passing of your finger pads.

Mrs. Campbell’s voice whistles in from over your shoulder. “Growin’ mighty quick,” she says. Watchful over how far your fingers prod the fresh sprouts. There isn’t much experience for you to draw on, so you nod, and your knees give a muted pop when you push yourself to stand and try for a small smile.

It’s a little harder to pretend now that you're somewhat close to eye level. The unease you feel knotting just underneath your clavicle only comes to a stop when Mrs. Campbell’s face finally relaxes, and your ears catch the wet plod of work boots emerging from your left.

“Should be caught up on our planting real soon, mm?” Mr. Campbell loops an arm around his wife, Mrs. Campbell acknowledges her husband, and you’re fully convinced that the smug tilt of his mouth is an early morning test.

His tell is picked up almost immediately. She pulls back, takes his face in her hands: “You been sticking your hands in the sap again.”

“Francis.”

“Howard. Again?”

“The bucket was gooped up from the rain anyhow—”

His protests are smothered by hands wiping harshly at the corners of his lips, and you can only watch as the two of them chirp back and forth. It takes a while for Mrs. Campbell to feel that her grievances have been heard, and she steps back from him with a huff.

“Ought to ask that helper to start tailin’ you early. You make my head hurt, you know that?”

The confusion must show on your face, because Mrs. Campbell is retracing steps in her head before realizing she’s made a mistake. She says nothing, only regards you with that renewed sense of pity before removing her glasses to wipe them on a handkerchief she’s tucked into her apron.

“Got news,” she murmurs to no one in particular, and your head is spinning just enough to justify your slow descent to the ground. Legs crossed, you wait for her to find her footing.

Mr. Campbell looks almost pained, thumbs tucked into his belt loops and looking at you with that same chest-scraping pity. Pity, pity, pity. You find you’re quite sick of pity. But it seems he has enough of it to scrounge up what’s left of your death sentence.

“Your Pa rang in a couple nights ago.” Your Pa. “Says you’ve ‘repented enough.’ Tried to talk that coward out of it, but—” and he cuts off, that anger you’ve only seen a few times punching the rest of his words down.

Hit after insurmountable hit, you’re left to sink into the dirt until your grave is marked out plain as day. They look to you now. And you’re looking up at them. You’re not sure who says what. If it’s you, or the wind, or maybe one of the cows is stuck in the fence again. Maybe the barkeep has run out of tales to spin.

What now?

“We make do.”

—

The moon hangs precariously in the sky, swathing the quiet river in a soft, pale muslin. Swelling water is pushed apart—disturbed not by the breeze, or the pull of the current, but by something innately warm, foreign.

A delicate shimmer of damp skin peeks out from between the throng of maple trees. Night bathing is never ideal, never really a feasible option, but they shield your modesty as best as they can. Water slithers just under your collarbone as you wade silently, only stopping every so often to pluck a stray leaf from an arm, and the current carries away the fans of green with little protest.

The tepid undulation of the river pushes against the slight prune of your fingers when you sway your arm just below the surface. It was the shock of the chill that you’d sought out tonight, sating that need for something a little stronger than a pinch. It helps that you have an excuse: the grime you’d washed away, surrounding your naked body like a halo before floating downriver.

That was hours ago. Two, if you’re being precise. You can’t feel the cold, not anymore, but the gooseflesh spreading up and down your forearms hang onto every word of the open air.

You pass another hand over a hardened knot in your shoulder, press into it with a little more force than necessary. And for once, regrettably, your body listens. Untangles it in a matter of seconds, leaving you with nothing to do but stand loose-limbed against the steady brush of the water.

Some animals had the teeth to gnaw off their legs when caught in a trap. And yet, they didn’t. Rarely did, anyhow. But here you are, wondering if some miracle might strike your jaw and grant you something sharp enough to cut free of the numbness. To toss the dead weight into some unspecified corner where it would fizzle, crumble, or crack.

(Going home isn’t an option. Not with your father still yanking the reins. You could leave. But…alone?

No. Never alone.

Not anymore.)

Your feet skim just barely above the bottom of the river, weightless. The lapping of the water against the riverbank cradles the shells of your ears.

There’s not much left to contemplate. Nothing you have a say in, really. So it’s no surprise that you’re tipping backward, water finally laying claim to your cheeks, your breasts, the space between your outstretched arms and your sides.

You think you’ve floated once before—some distant dream pulled from childhood. But you don’t startle when the river begins to seal over the tip of your nose as you sink. Eyes closed. Breath sucked down so hard you think it burns.

True silence.

Until the drum beats.

The water is punctured by heavy footfall and you’re swaying, rocking back and forth in what was once still water before your shoulders are seized and you’re hauled upwards.

A name you think might be yours is bouncing in and out of clogged ears while your lungs make space for new air. Hacking, you look up, met with a bleary mess of a man and the moon. He’s breathing hard, so hard you can feel the cigarette smoke rattling his chest; it doesn’t occur to you that you’ve met him before, even after his heaving only slows once your eyes have begun to refocus.

Gingerly pulling you into the crook of his elbow, he dips his other hand back into the water before bringing it up to wipe at your forehead and the base of your skull. One, two, three times. His work is quiet. Fingers prodding at what might be a bruise or mud—neither of you are entirely sure. Rather than asking, you twist your head away and watch listlessly as decaying foliage floats off into the night.

More dirt. You knew there was more.

“That ugly, huh?”

Although your surroundings have solidified, your turn back is a slow, labored thing. Arthur is looking up at an owl circling just overhead. But the arm anchored under your back is a hot iron, molding itself to the curve of your spine just so. It’d be hard for a figment of your imagination to do such a thing.

“You can let go.” You choke.

Arthur’s arm stiffens around you just in time to brace the two of you against a sudden gust of wind.

“...You got somewhere to be?” You shake your head. “Then you’re fine right here. Till I know you won’t go and drown yourself in another puddle.”

Drown yourself?

But you hadn’t—

You would never—

“I think you should let go. Now.” You push weakly at his chest, but he only gathers you and your limbs closer.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

You’re going to kill him.

It’s then that he fixes his gaze on something just beyond your shoulder and hooks an arm under your knee, swallows the whole of you into his chest and begins to trudge toward the riverbank.

“Arthur.” Even through the dampness of his shirt, you can smell him. “Arthur I mean it, let go—”

“Behave.”

You yelp when he pinches the skin underneath your thigh, shock and sudden recognition of your bareness sizzling in your tear ducts. It’s enough to get you to pound a fist into his chest and kick out your legs.

“Arthur Morgan, I am naked!”

He stops. Solid ground is there, right there, but you wait for him to speak.

His voice is a tight rasp, and you think you feel his thumb twitch underneath your shoulder. “Was trying to ignore that.”

“I know it. You know it. Now put me down.”

He complies almost immediately, sliding you out of his arms and turning around the moment your feet hit the riverbank. The loss of warmth sends a shiver in full force, and you stumble over to where your clothes sit neatly folded atop a rock.

You check over your shoulder to make sure he isn’t looking before wiping yourself down with a dry rag.

“How often are you pullin’ women trying to bathe out of rivers?” You call out. The water continues to pulse. Arthur is silent. “That many, really?”

The sound of his hand raking through wet hair gives you pause.

“Didn’t look much like bathing to me,” he says, voice laced with a cool sort of dismissal. He’s a little right. Just a little, but the idea of you thinking you could convince him of anything otherwise stings more than his accuracy.

The rag is suddenly sandpaper in your hands, and you set it down, reach to pull a too loose shirt over your head. But just as the collar settles, you spy a separate pile of things just a few paces from your own.

You pad over silently. In the grass sits the same revolver you’d seen Arthur carrying during his last appearance, alongside his hat and a small satchel. All relatively familiar things you’ve come into contact with since you’d first met him, save for one thing. A small leather-bound journal pokes out from within the bag, the cover curiously well-kept despite the obvious wear and tear of the pages.

No. You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t. But you’re drying your hands on your shirt and picking it up anyway, leafing through the pages carefully. A journal. Arthur Morgan was keeping a journal.

A smile begins to build when you catch how easily Arthur’s disposition reveals itself in his penmanship. He’s well-practiced, that much is obvious. A selfish part of you wonders how different life might’ve been if he’d been educated as you were, been just as defiant toward the circles you’d fought so hard to keep yourself from.

The drawings are another world entirely; you keep your fingers at the edges of the pages just to avoid any chance of smudging them. Birds, trees, sunrises, sunsets, and people. So many people. They’re etched with so much care that each turning of paper finds you faced with a deeper shade of envy.

You can count on hand the number of people you’ve loved. Cared for. And yet, Arthur seemed to have enough in him to immortalize these people as best as he could, smudges and all.

“If you’re robbin’ me, I ain’t got much on my person.”

You jump, thumb through just a little quicker after casting a quick glance over your shoulder. His back is still turned. “Y-Yeah,” You reply. “Almost done, I mean. Not stealing.” Cool it. “Just uh…gimme a minute?”

The end of the journal comes sooner than expected, and you’re flipping back and forth between the used pages with renewed fervor. You tuck the one in your hands underneath your arm and squat down to stick your hand in the satchel, eyebrows knitting together when nothing even remotely resembling a book finds its way to your fingers.

You’re on your second pass through the book when the slight bend of an otherwise unused section catches your attention. You pull it.

Scraps of paper have been slipped into the very back of the journal, Arthur’s handwriting filling up every inch. The blurbs aren’t dated, but ascertaining the sequence of events is fairly straightforward.

Came across the strangest creature one evening. I say “creature” only because she looked more nymph than human. Was on my way out of some farmland after nabbing a couple things, but I felt like I had to stop. Caught her talking to the cattle out in the cold like they was kinfolk. Might’ve been laughing right along with her, if I wasn’t so flummoxed. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile that irked me this bad since Micah told me what he does with his dirty socks. I ain’t in the business of prying, so I left. Hope she gets that smile fixed real soon.

Stopped by to get more stuff. Watched her try and haggle out of a deal from some pushy hoax trying to sell papers. Pulled a knife on her and I nearly came out of hiding to snap his neck then and there, but she’d beat me to it. Flashed the same rifle she’s been trying to scare me off with, so polished it nearly blinded me, and told him something I don’t think I’ll repeat. She did good. Real good. But she looked spooked.

Don’t believe I’m fit to be an outlaw no more. Ran into her after I’d sniffed around a few more times on her property than I should have. Took care of some real nasty men. But she’s awful pretty up close. Pretty and angry. So much so that I’d fibbed and said I’d had a chicken I ain’t know what to do with after I turned up on her doorstep. I’m not good with women and I’m an awful liar, so I feel a little guilty that she believed me so easy. It helped that she seemed a little happier. She knows who I am, though. That’s no good.

Appears my intuition ain’t completely shot, after all. Even if my aim is. Nasty idiot I thought I’d gotten rid of caught me off guard near Valentine, told me his employer had a “deal” to help get the gang out of that whole Blackwater mess. I will say that the lady and her Pa look nothing alike, that’s for certain. Hard to believe they’re even related at all. He’s a real piece of work. Real slim too, like those snakes that used to nick my heels as a kid. Told me if I got rid of her he’d clear my name with the Cornwalls. Seemed like an unfair shake to me. I can see why she’d looked so hot in the face when she told me about him. Dutch and the others don’t know I’ve been sneaking off, so I’ll have to handle this alone.

Saw that lady again rushing past the saloon a few weeks after that. High noon, I reckon. Only remembered because of what color the sun was when it hit her eyelashes. Had her skirt hiked up all lopsided, so one end was dragging in the dirt while the other end was left unscathed. Uncle caught a flash of an ankle and said he’d like to take her out horse riding, and I told him I’d gut him like a fish if he tried anything untoward. I don’t think I want her to die. I just hope she don’t want that neither.

Ran into her again. Same night after an ugly tumble at the saloon. My head feels like a brick but I remember her a little too clearly. I don’t know how I ended up at her door again, but I think she might really be one of them fairies I’ve heard so much about. Even her yells sounded like beautiful music. I said some real dumb things. Dumbest I’ve been in a hot minute. Think the bashing and the rain did me in. But that spark in her eyes made me believe seeing her again might do her some good. Or do me some good. I don’t know. I’m to see her tomorrow, Dutch be damned.

And it’s a strange thing, seeing yourself reflected through the eyes of someone else. You flip the smallest scrap to find what you think is a scribbled mess. It’d obviously been done in a hurry, like he might’ve forgotten what he was drawing if he waited any longer. But the longer you look, the more the pieces begin to fit together.

The barrel of a rifle. Finger curled just under the trigger. Tense shoulders. Rickety porch. Billowing fabric at your sides and a smile so wicked your heartbeat quickens at the thought of being faced with it as anything other than a sketched memory.

It’s you.

It’s snatched from your hands the moment you’ve locked it into place. You spin, Arthur still drenched and engulfing your wrist with his hand before he’s pulling you up.

You don’t know what to say. Neither does he. So he holds you there, suspends the two of you in an easily escapable bind. The water trickles all the way down from his arm to your sleeve. Replaces the dampness that you’d rid yourself of only moments prior. But neither of you choose to move.

Until you speak first.

“You came back.”

You’re not sure which time you’re referring to. The first? The last? Perhaps all of them.

Arthur’s grip loosens. “You asked.”

“That was one time, if I remember correctly.”

It’s then that he lowers his arm, though his hand still circles your wrist. You think you know enough now to deduce that it’s more for him than for you. The thought warms your insides. But you can feel the silence coming, find that you’re a little sick of silence, and open your mouth to fill it. Arthur beats you to it.

“Just the one was…enough.”

He looks confused for a second. Then it’s washed away, leaving behind that calm certainty.

Good. This was going good.

—

You don’t know how the two of you end up back at your cabin. You don’t think you care, now that the silence is shut out. The two of you spend the next hour trading tales like schoolchildren after you’d changed into a proper nightgown. A botched heist here, a messy cow birth there, all as time slips farther and farther away.

Arthur is kind, you realize. Remember, actually.

All bark, a whole lot of bite, but kind. A little odd, freakishly crude, and a massive flirt to boot, but still kind. You won’t tell him though—not unless you want him to pop an eyeball out of his socket. For the time being you’re simply content with observing.

Arthur sits across from you in his chair (his chair), much like that first night, trying to parse through some knuckle-headed joke. You’ve migrated over to the kitchen—the pots and pans, you’ve decided, are in desperate need of organizing. You tell Arthur as much when you hastily slip the blankets off of your shoulders to stand. You don’t tell him about the embarrassment you’d felt, eying the hairs that covered his broad chest. Overheated from the fireplace, he’d said. So he’d popped a couple of extra buttons and gave his neck an exaggerated pat of a handkerchief.

The nerve.

But it was the seemingly innocuous flirting that had crumbled the last of your resistance; the cattle could pay you no compliments, and the catcalls thrown at the markets were a far cry from flattering. But this. This was exhilarating.

But Arthur’s gone strangely quiet when you reach up to hang a dingy pot onto a hook.

“…Arthur?” You hesitate. “You see somethin’?”

It’s then that you remember that odd habit of his. So you close the blinds to the small window over the sink, force a shaky breath, and return to your chair so that you’re facing him. He says it as soon as your bottom hits the seat.

“You.”

Oh.

It’s then that you notice just how quiet the inside of the cabin is, in comparison to what it’d been like outside. The sound of the howling wind is kept at bay with the help of the front door, leaving only the crackling of the fireplace and labored breathing from opposite ends of the room.

You cross your ankles. Then you uncross them, and cross them the other way.

Damn this gown.

The ignominy of your wandering eyes has produced nervous beads of sweat, and the fabric still on you anchors itself to your body with its help. Determined to give you away.

Arthur watches you fidget.

His face flashes with the same look you’d caught glimpses of when he’d first showed up on your porch. When he’d watched your lips as you spoke. Methodical. Analyzing. Eager. You thought you’d imagined it. Arthur must have been weighing something within himself, too. His words, eager to inspect yet all too happy to flee at the slightest hint of apprehension. The results of his investigation are presented to you with his bare hands.

“S’there someone I need to be frettin’ over if I touch you?”

You shake your head.

“Good.”

Then Arthur is standing. Christ, he’s standing, and he’s crossing the distance in three agonizingly slow strides—boots hitting the floor with a thunk, thunk, thunk. Till he looms right over you. He boxes you in; hands braced on the arms of your chair, hat tipped forward just so.

Maybe it wasn’t a mangy cat, or a crook, or a ghost that you’d allowed into your home.

This was a wolf.

The wolf curls his fingers under your chin and tips your face upwards, eyes half-lidded and hungry.

“Am I leaving?” The words scrape out of him. The thought of leaving pains him, but the words are a necessary evil.

You’re almost too afraid to speak—doing so means his thumb might stray from the path it’s begun to trace on your bottom lip, and you can’t possibly give that up. Instead, you consider Arthur carefully.

It’s a rather precarious situation you’ve found yourself in—lusting over the very thing that might bring you to ruin. You’d given up on misplaced hands in quiet corridors years ago, replaced them with hatred for the man who’d had the gall to call himself your father. The shame of letting your unruly desires steer you. There was doubt, too. Lingering at the far corners of your mind, wondering if maybe, just maybe, your affections might be dangerously misplaced. That you’d end up like the others.

Taking whatever it was he had to give would be the final nail in the coffin, and you knew it. You’d known from the moment you’d caught him (and him, you) that Arthur would be no good. No good for you, no good for him, no good for anyone.

But, that was then. This is now.

And how often was it that the light of a fire enveloped someone so earnestly, so wholeheartedly? You would be mad not to want him.

And oh, how you’d wanted.

But what to do, where to look?

You settle for his lips.

With a shuddering breath, you allow your mouth to fall open. His thumb goes stock-still, just before it presses past the rosy flesh and onto the top of your tongue. But just as quickly as it enters, it retreats. You chase after it with a humiliating whine, a trail of saliva marking the falter in your promise to stay away, away, away. Arthur smears the remainder of your shame on the corner of your mouth, his lips twitching up just enough to betray the beginnings of a smirk.

“I don’t play that,” he chides softly. “I need words, darlin’.”

Leave it to Arthur to make things difficult, the bastard.

You tilt your head till he’s catching your cheek in his palm. Let out a breathy whimper when he rubs his fingers at the sensitive base of your ear.

“S’not fair,” you whisper. It really isn’t, but it sounds pathetic after it bubbles up from your throat. But you can’t bring yourself to utter anything else. Arthur presses closer in place of an answer, eyes tracking every blink, every inhale, every eyelash that catches the puffs of air that leave him.

His eyes tell you that he’s hoping to pull your confessions from you like weeds—and it might feel good, perhaps. To let yourself put a name to the desire that curdled in your veins. Too big to be contained. But there was something delightfully emboldening about being “trapped” with Arthur.

He was stuck with you, just as much as you were stuck with him.

Breath intermingling, you ghost your mouth over the inside of his wrist. Teeth peek out just enough to graze him, and you keep your eyes locked with his when you go to bite weakly at the exposed skin. You mumble against the shiny spot left behind.

“I ain’t a beggin’ woman, Arthur Morgan. You know that.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles, slow and sure. “Do I, now?” He croons.

You nod, and you’re smiling dreamily right back at him.

You try your best to keep the thundering of your pulse contained when his mouth is a hair's breadth away from your own. But the steady thump of Arthur’s heartbeat is strong and stable, setting the tempo for your own to follow suit all too easily.

He speaks to you. “You feel like fixin’ that, doll?”

“Dunno. Can you fix it, Arthur?”

And like a thin branch caught underneath a heavy pelting of snow, the tension cracks—but it falls to the ground in complete silence. It’s gentle. Smothering. Freeing. All consuming. His lips are rough, and light, and a little dry, but he’s kissing you. You.

You realize a little belatedly that he’s wrapped his other arm around your middle, and he’s pulling you up from the chair to meet him. Maybe the whiskey on his lips that you’d offered earlier has gotten to you, because you stand up so quickly that the chair you’ve been sitting on crashes to the ground with an embarrassing thud. Ignoring the huff of laughter against your mouth, you snake your arms up from where they’ve gone limp at your sides to wrap them around Arthur’s neck.

The press of his body is warm—accommodating. A hand cradling the back of your head, the other a teasing warmth skimming the side of your ribcage. It’s…nice. Merciful, almost.

But you weren’t looking for mercy.

So, you do what you know best.

Piss him off.

With the precision of a skilled hunter, you nip his bottom lip with your teeth and bring him into you with the help of a hand between his shoulder blades. The reward for your efforts is a chain reaction: Arthur pitches forward, licking into your mouth with a groan. Hands clutch: hips, waist, neck, and back to your waist. You have to arch away to accommodate the sudden shift of weight, and he’s swaying the two of you backward till your hips collide with the rough edge of the kitchen countertop.

It’s forceful enough to knock the air out of you. At your exhale of surprise, the pressure against you lessens. Your pulse picks up when rough hands find your flank, offering what you believe to be an apologetic squeeze. But his hands don’t stop there: they iron past the fleshy mounds, friction intensifying the swelling heat before his hand cups you.

You break away with a gasp.

Apparently satisfied with his repentance, Arthur withdraws his hand and leaves you with a parting kiss before he noses downward to suck at the skin of your neck. The warmth of his mouth and the scrape of his beard invite an electric buzz underneath your skin.

“Been drivin’ me crazy, woman, Jesus.”

“Then quit bein’ nice,” you breathe. Your hands have grown impatient, they take the liberty of slipping between the two of you in search of the hardness straining against the confines of Arthur’s pants.

“I ain’t—ngh—nice,” Arthur clips. Score.

You swallow a moan when you feel him buck against your palm. “You lyin’ to me, Morgan?”

When your fingers go to find his belt loops, he bats them away and slams your hips back into the counter before leaving a quelling nip to your shoulder.

He’s got a hand in your hair now; it yanks your head back, and broadens the depth of Arthur’s tongue when he recaptures your lips in a scathing kiss. The parting of your thighs is almost instinctual, and you’re soon scrambling to grab at any article of clothing that might bring him closer once he slots himself between them.

Can he feel your arousal, you wonder? Painting the inside of your legs with a sloppy depiction of your poorly concealed lust, hoping that Arthur might notice, might see.

But Arthur is far from unaffected. With each mewl that escapes your lips, he rocks up into you. Swallowing your wretched noises whole and using them as fuel for the fire that would weld your bodies together. Each brush of his lips siphons the air from your lungs, though you don’t mind. It only stirs the warmth that’s begun to swirl in your abdomen. But through the heat and the haze, you can faintly register the wriggling of fingers at your hip and air hitting your bare thighs.

Spit slicks your lips when Arthur pulls away, and he peppers open-mouthed kisses down the center of your body; your neck, the dip of your collarbones, over the thin fabric of your nightgown—all while his other hand continues to ruck your hem up, and up, and up. There’s a new weight to your skull, too. It shades your tired eyes, dims your overexposed senses and forces you to focus on the mess he’s made of you.

The pads of his fingers skirt over where your nipples have pebbled underneath your chemise, but only just. It isn’t until Arthur’s fully sunken to his knees that you’re able to take in the sight of the top of his head.

The top of his head?

Wrenching your fingers from where you’re sure they’ve put indents into the wooden countertop, you tighten them into his hair and tug him away from where he’s made contact with your navel.

He’s pulled away with a dicey rumble reverberating from his chest. “What in the—”

“Arthur,” you say, still breathless, “Arthur w-wait. Your hat, where is it?”

Your knowledge of outlaws was limited, but you knew their hats weren’t to be trifled with. The very last thing you needed was to incite the wrath of the outlaw gods in the middle of…this.

And if you weren’t so blissed out, you might kick Arthur for the look he gives you: depraved and utterly devoid of remorse.

“Arthur, I’m being serio—ohh, f-fuck!”

He yanks your bloomers down in one fell swoop, pulling your hips flush against his mouth and dragging the flat of his tongue up through your slick folds with a groan. Arthur, idiot that he is, dares to laugh. Laugh in the face of the embarrassing slew of curses that follow after he just barely reaches your clit.

You’re being mapped, you realize with a shiver. Every twitch is cataloged, every gasp a lesson. If the building pressure in your gut is any indication, he’s a quick study. Firm hands rub soothingly at the backs of your thighs, though they’ve somehow managed to worsen the growing ache.

Each push of his muscle plucks at a string so deep, so tender, that your vision leaves you in bursts of white flashes. You pull the collar of your chemise up and into your mouth; the stars winking behind your closed eyelids aren’t enough to shield you from the utterly obscene noises coming from the both of you as he laps at your weeping cunt.

But a particularly electrifying flick of his tongue sends one of your hands flying to your hair, only to find that something rather hat-like sits atop it.

Ah. So that’s where it went.

You feel Arthur smile against you. “You alright up there?”

That devil.

Chest heaving, you risk a look down once you notice the absence of pressure against you.

(You’ve been doing a lot of risking, lately. But what was one more?)

If this was a test of resilience, you were failing miserably. You’re torn between wanting to hide and wanting to preen: Arthur’s stalled his ministrations, index finger now tracing lazily over the juncture where your thigh meets your sex. He’s eyeing you lecherously from his place on his haunches, hair mussed from violent fingers and jaw slick. You swallow. You’d done this to him.

But, he’d stopped. Why had he stopped?

Greed attempts to force Arthur’s hand with a buck of your hips, but you’re met with a palm pressing you back. It seems the warmth of the fireplace hasn’t yet reached this corner of the cabin. Arthur’s mouth has been what kept you warm, kept you sated, but he’s taken that away from you. You’ve been doing fine, and he’s taken it. Why?

“Arthur, what—”

The finger that’s been tracing you slides its way just above where your clit throbs. Works it underneath his finger in slow, slow circles. Your abdomen spasms, a guttural sob shooting out from your throat. The sensation makes your mind go fuzzy, and Arthur has to lean back to avoid the abrupt closing of your legs while you steady your breathing.

God, you really were going to kill this man.

Arthur, apparently, is none the wiser. Either that or he’s blatantly ignoring it—though you suspect it’s the latter. He’s knocking your legs back apart before you have a chance to shield yourself.

“Don’t go all shy on me now, darlin’,” he says, voice cut with an edge of warning. He’s pressing a finger at your entrance. It’s just enough to frustrate you, just enough to entice the moisture that begins to build in your tear ducts. See what you could have, it taunts. He begins another slow circle with the pad of his finger, pride swamping his features at your sharp intake of breath. “I came to see a show.”

You don’t know how long you stare at him, watching as he molds you at his will. But it’s Arthur who detaches the hand that you’ve clapped over your mouth, guides it dutifully back to where it’d been tangled in his hair only moments before. The gentle stretch of his finger slipping inside of you only prompts a pleased sigh as your head lolls back.

He slathers your cunt with praises. “Gorgeous,” he says, nudging his nose alongside it, “this all for me, pretty girl?” The warmth returns with his admiration. Interlacing with each stuttering breath, climbing higher and higher till it’s crawling out of your throat. You welcome it enthusiastically. By the time he’s slipped in a second finger, you’ve long forgotten any shame felt beforehand in favor of the prickling pressure in your belly.

“M’gonna—gonna kill you, Morgan.”

“S’alright,” Arthur drawls. “Keep talkin’, baby.” He keeps his opposite hand poised at your wrist, ready to strike should you choose to stifle any of the sounds he’s worked so hard to coax from you.

Too tired, you wanted to tell him. You were barely keeping yourself standing as it was. But the sounds being pulled from you are gentle, yearning. Easy.

This was easy, you think. Safe. Within your control. You’d bitten off more than you had room to chew, goading Arthur on like you had. But his fingers, ever so forgiving, weigh your eyes shut with every delicate pass over your walls. You could ride the high of this warm haze forever.

Pity that “forever” hinges on Arthur’s terms.

A chaste kiss to your inner thigh is the only warning you have before Arthur is surging forward, crooking his fingers and sealing his lips around your clit.

Your legs are the first to go, knees buckling and calves straining from exertion. Unfortunately, the only things capable of keeping you upright are the fingers and the tongue that got you into this mess.

Arthur wastes no time reveling in a slow pace—and why would he? Why the hell would he, when he could keep you dancing on this rocky cliff for as long as he damn pleased. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh again, fingers still plucking at that warm bundle of strings that made you weep. “Atta girl,” he rumbles, “Y’look real pretty like this, don’t you think?”

“Yes, fuck, yes!” You curl over him with a wanton moan, taking his head in your hands and pushing him as close as he can go. You’re only half listening, throbbing with the threat of your impending release.

“You gonna give me what I deserve, sweetheart?” He’s back to lavishing your cunt with devilish flicks. You meet him there, in time; aimlessly grinding your hips down and using his soft strands for leverage. Studious monster that he is, each pass of his thick fingers gives new life to your limbs, now roused into feverish jerks and quivers. “You don’t get to hide from me, you hear? Too pretty for all that crap.”

Arthur’s still waiting for you to respond. But the praises you sing have been wrung completely dry, leaving only high-pitched squeals and chants to ricochet off the cabin’s walls.

You think you imagine the hand he’s got shoved down his pants, working over his length in short tugs before your eyes flutter shut, and you’re twitching at the bites Arthur leaves on your legs in return—rough, possessive, claiming.

You can feel it. It’s there, it’s right there. It burns. It scrapes at your very being, keeping you drawn taut against the pump of Arthur’s fingers, soaked and hell-bent on pulling it out of you.

“C’mon, give it to me.” He’s commanding you now, voice desperate. He must feel it too. “Lemme see what I came here for.” You sob, and his name leaves you in bits and pieces. Whether you nod or shake your head is a mystery, but you do know that you wrest your eyes open. Brush aside the hair blocking Arthur’s face with trembling fingers, and through the hot tears you find pools of blue. Waiting.

You slip. You fall. And it’s his.

Your orgasm is ripped from you in a scream and a violent storm. Tremors shaking your body, stomach tightening, stars exploding—it’s everything but calm, and too loud. But Arthur’s fingers are there to guide you through it all, ensuring that every last inch of your body he covets is handed over in full. You’ll have to thank him, later.

He’s pulling you down into his lap once you’re nothing more than a puddle of warm flesh, still pulsating. Your temples are warm where his lips greet them. Eyes blown wide, throat raw, Arthur sweeps an appraising gaze over your crumpled shoulders and moves the hat from your head to his.

“That’s one,” he says.

…Were there more?

Your voice finds the two of you slumped chest to chest. You look up at him to poke a finger to his cheek, and wince at the feeling of how hoarse your throat is.

“You—you pull a stunt like that again, and I’m kicking your sorry ass out.” Arthur quirks a brow. Another bluff, and you both knew it. You let him litter your forehead with kisses while you wait for your mind to reinhabit your body.

But in the interim, your hand snakes its way down his burly chest. Slip it between the waistband of his pants before you’re pulling his cock out as he hisses.

“Don’t need to,” he says, only you do need to. Want to. Have to. And you think you tell him so because he’s nodding. Turning you to face him, guiding your legs apart and sliding himself up against your wet heat. He begins to rock with you, tipping your head up to mouth at your chin. Hums, a wretched thing you’ve decided is yours and yours alone.

“You got any idea—” Arthur begins, burying his face into the crook of your neck, “you got any idea what you do to me? Hm, pretty girl?” He grunts when the tip of his cock bumps up against your clit and you arch away. But he’s quick to reign you back in with one hand at the back of your neck.

“Arthur, c’mon. P-please. I wanna—”

He’s vibrating a no into your neck, tongue rolling out to lick a stripe upwards till he’s got your earlobe between his teeth.

“You can wait. Lemme hear you say it.”

“Say what.” You moan into the open air when he bites at the underside of your jaw, hard, and you have to fight a smile when you realize it’ll likely be there tomorrow.

A light gasp leaves you when you feel his hand reaching between the two of you to position his length at your slick entrance. Almost, almost—

“Arthur, say what.”

What little control he has left is contained in the fingers he’s using to hold himself steady. His hips begin that slow roll. “I need you to tell me what you were thinkin’ about this morning.”

This morning? What did he—

This morning.

Hand caught between your cunt and the chair, fingers working through a steady gush of arousal. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

He only catches you off guard because you’re distracted.

You’re split slowly. Greedily sucking him in while your forehead taps against his so you can try and sharpen your focus.

“Easy, baby. Easy. I got you.”

You whimper. He was there. He was there, watching, just like he was watching you now.

But you couldn’t care less.

There’s no hiding that fullness you feel, the fullness that is. The two of you go quiet as he sinks further and further in. Warmth is flooding your body, circulating between your joined bodies as an inescapable circle of fire and need, and you can’t help but feel that this was how things were supposed to be from the beginning.

Arthur doesn’t have to remind you not to stifle any noises. Not when he’s unsheathing himself for barely a second before he’s got his hands on your hips to guide you up and down his length. You clench and Arthur’s hips give a stutter.

He slides his hands up the back of your sweaty chemise and he eases you to the floor. Slides the fabric off of you, looms over you like an unwavering mountain. “Jesus, you’re perfect. Too good, you fuckin’ hear me? Christ.” Arthur’s control is wavering, you can feel it. So you take his face between your hands and kiss him hard enough to get him to move faster, damn it.

It’s a gradual start. But his rhythm begins to pick up just as that brightness begins to hurtle around your gut again. His mouth is tasting everything it can reach: the salty sweat beginning to collect on your brow, the poke of your nipples, each time finding himself eagerly gulping down the noises spilling from your mouth.

And too suddenly, his cock brushes up against that spiral of light and you arch with a cry. Arch so hard that you think you can see your climax right before it’s pulling at your abdomen with such heated vehemence that the tears spilling down your cheeks only make the sparks brighter.

Arthur isn’t far behind, and you sigh at the feeling of him sliding out of you before he takes himself in his hand while you’re still a jolting pile of bones on the floor. It takes one, two, three strokes in quick succession before he’s coming in thick spurts over your belly with a grunt.

He curls over you then, pulling you into his arms and pressing kisses back at your temple, atta girl, you did so well.

Your heartbeats are pressed together and you realize that he’s still clothed.

But—you’re giddy. That felt good. Feels good. You didn’t think you got to feel good anymore.

So you look at Arthur, really look at him this time. The rise and fall of his chest. The hair curled at the nape of his neck. The blacks of his pupils, still blown wide and dark as the night. You close your eyes, and he’s hung the moon.

When you open them, you’re in your bed. Tiny, creaky, but a welcome opposition to the floor. There’s light spilling in from a crack in the door, and the wind howls just outside. Arthur has already wiped you clean, tucked you under the blankets (just a little too tightly). He sits in the corner with an ankle crossed over his knee and arms folded. He smiles.

And you have a thought. An idea. A terrible one, actually. So acute you can feel it cutting your tongue.

“Take me with you?”

#witching hour #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you

81 notes · View notes

marshmellowzz · 9 months

Note

can I request reader who’s kidnapped by the hantengu clones, and she tries to escape? can be a oneshot/scenario thing >.< (btw! I think it’d be funny if reader was small and weak, so they just kinda manhandle her…)

in their grasp

a/n: hi anon! i'm so sorry to everyone for my continuous inactivity on this account, i feel soooo bad about it. im having a lotta issues in my life right now, as well as a killer writers block - so i'm very very sorry for everyones requests who's been sitting in my ask box, i'll try my best to work through them! anyway! i made this one a little long, ill post it in two parts because i haven't finished the second half yet ! :3

content warning: mentions of kidnapping ! suggestive language and actions! graphic (i guess?), they dont see u as an equal and just treat u as their pet….

word count: 3.3k

[part 1]

You awoke with a start, your eyes flashed open and your heart racing as you let a sharp noise between a gasp and a scream leave your lips; piercing the stillness of the dark room you found yourself in. Your body seized up in fright, and waves of goosebumps rushed across your skin. Taking deep breaths to calm yourself down, you slowly sank back into the bed searching for something – anything - that could calm your nerves.

The blanket lazily placed onto you during the night was tangled around your feet, you were practically drenched due to sweat. You didn't even register that it was pitch black outside.

Your eyes were wide open, but all was silent. As quickly as the sensation came upon you, it faded away to nothing but silence. Your eyes whipped around the room - seeking out any movement that had escaped your attention.

This...This wasn't the safety of your home.

Suddenly, reminders began flashing into your mind.

Yes, you remembered.

You had a run in with a demon—four demons, actually.

They were all similar. Almost identical actually—which raised the question—were they all clones?

Although, you had only vividly remembered one—He was a giant of a man, towering over you as his vermillion eyes burned with rage. His muscled frame commanded your attention and sent shivers down your spine. His nails were long and sharp like daggers, digging into your skin to draw fresh wounds that dripped scarlet onto the floor. The malevolence in his gaze held you captive - the prominent frown on his face told of a ruthless disregard for your mortality, as if to imply that with one quick motion he'd be able snap you in two like a twig between his fingers.

It seemed like you were about to be nothing more than another savory course.

Every hair on your body standing up as you looked around in paranoia—were you in their home?

Had they took you here when you passed out? It was too quiet, you were all alone with your overwhelmed mind, and pained body. A sense of unease settled in your stomach and upon further investigation - you found a crudely wound web of bandages, stained by the seepage of blood, wrapped around your torso. It was poorly placed, and it was now stringing around you like twisted ribbons.

It looked like the demon...or demons were trying to stop you from bleeding out.

At this point, you wish you did.

You buried your head in your hands, trying to calm your racing mind. It was like you could still feel their heavy presence lingering in the room, even when nobody was there.

You let out a shaky sigh—they weren't ordinary demons, you could grasp that—perhaps they were some...Super demons?

You vaguely recalled seeing the kanji 'uppermoon 4' engraved onto the pupils of their eyes—they were definitely higher-ranked demons, and your poor self had the misfortune of running into them.

You slid your feet down, cautiously straightening yourself, and planting your feet onto the cold, wooden floor. You had tried your best to be quiet, in order not to alert them if they were present in the house—and to not draw their attention to you.

You stepped timidly into the hollow corridors, your feet softly pattered against the cold, hard floorboards beneath you. The sound of each step echoed off of the barren walls, almost as if calling out to you with an unspoken invitation; daring you to explore further.

Nobody. It was a dead silent, empty house.

The house was orderly, if slightly disheveled. Clothing laid scattered about in careless piles among the furniture, while occasional specks of dried blood made a grim contrast against the otherwise pristine walls. An unsettling mixture of domestic tranquility and disturbing reminders of violence hung in the air.

Just then, you were met with the sight of the front door.

You eyed it, in deep thought.

Well. You had to take your chance and escape, right?

There was no way of telling how far from the house they were now; all that you knew was that they weren't here at the moment

It didn't stop you from trying your luck.

If you actually pulled this off, you'll live, and be scot-free once again.

The only thing that has driven you was your hope—you may have been a bit too ambitious with what you were about to do right now, but you were going to try it anyway.

You take a deep, steady breath; your hand reaching out to open the door. It wasn't locked.

You quietly thanked the gods, and you opened the door, then gently closed it.

Without a moment's hesitation, you leapt forward, the icy wind rushing around your body as you darted into the forest. Your feet landing on the leaf-strewn forest floor, propelling your body further into its depths.

You had not a clue where you were going, but you were hoping that you weren't too far from civilization.

However.

That night, you had the misfortune of learning just how fast a high-ranking demon like Hantengu could travel. It seems like only a few minutes have passed after you've left the house when you hear a voice calling out.

In an instant, you feel a strong, taut arm latch onto your wrist and pull you back—you were whipped around, and forced to acknowledge his presence.

Their presence.

You felt a chill run through you as you sensed the presence of two distinct figures standing right behind your shoulder. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up in alarm and before you had time to turn around, their eyes met yours with an intensity that made you feel like a deer caught in headlights. Their gaze was heavy and seemed to be speaking volumes even without words being uttered, sending a message that made it clear: Don't move.

They had been nearby all along, close enough to notice your absence, close enough to hear your frantic footfalls, close enough to catch you. The fact that they were even there shocked you.

"Tsk tsk, bad pet." The green-eyed one tutted, his eyes aligned with contempt, and his lips stretching into a twisted, sickening smirk.

How did they get to you so fast?

You then yelped out, clearly startled by their sudden presence beside you.

You were certain you haven't even blinked and they had materialized beside you within a milisecond - you had only just registered the thoughts in your mind and they were already there, as if through some magical transference.

The other one stared down at you with bright blue eyes full of sorrow and disappointment. His face was puckered in a frown, adding to his sombre expression. "What are you doing, human?" he asked softly, despair evident in his voice. Like any normal person, your instincts were screaming at you to turn on your heel - and book it out. You panicked, you feel your heartbeat in your throat as your entire body tensed in pure. unbridled fear - your lungs seized and your feet seemed to lose the ability to move before they found their strength again in an instinctive attempt at flight, you then ran.

Running seemed futile, considering their strength and speed. It was obvious that the demons had an infinite advantage over you. No matter how hard you ran, all three of you knew it would never be enough to escape their pursuit after you. Even with such a crucial piece of information, it did nothing to stop the adrenaline pumping in your legs. Your legs trembled with fear as your mind raced for an escape route, telling yourself that maybe — just maybe—you could find one. All rationality had left you and all there was was the unquenchable desire to run away from this impending doom before it engulfed you altogether

Your heart hammered in your chest and terror immobilized you. You had to keep running, but every step was a struggle against the trapping gravity of fear that weighed down on you like an iron casket.

"Cute! Little human thinks she can outrun us, eh?" Karaku let's out a bark of laughter, watching you scramble away.

So slow. So weak. He almost feels like this is unfair to you.

"Ah...She's so pitiful." Aizetsu frowns.

You were fighting a losing battle.

They watch you hasten for a while longer, you're out of breath and desperate. Karaku let's another bark of laughter leave his lips, the two of them taking in your panic.

Suddenly, Karaku was on you. His lightning-fast stride brought him through the air and he locked his arms around your waist in an instant, pushing your body against the nearest tree with a strength that almost felt like an embrace. His palms were warm on your skin as he held you against the bark firmly, pressing against you so closely that you could feel every breath.

Before you had time to react, he knocked the oxygen out of your lungs with his sheer weight and strength as he quickly took hold of both of your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head. Your stomach churned with nausea and apprehension, while a squeak resounded from deep within your throat before it was able to escape into the air around you. You felt completely disoriented, like you'd been spun around on a merry-go-round one too many times

But, he doesn't hurt you; even if he has all the power to do so, even if you were completely at his mercy - there wasn't any hint of aggression in him. Instead, he wore an amused smirk as if he was relishing some joke only he knew about. He held a firm grip on your wrists, caging your body against the tree with a playful grin on his face.

He looked down at you, his eyes filled with mirth - amused at the fact that you were trapped beneath him - amused that he could end your pathetic life with the flick of his wrist at any given moment - amused by your complete horror.

"So, thought you could outsmart us. Huh, little pet?" His relaxed expression irked you - the two of them found this all entertaining, or at least he did. His eyes twinkled with a strange delight at your distress. You could have screamed and begged for mercy but they both seemed so unphased by your presence it was like this entire situation was a game—and you were losing rapidly.

He had his hands wrapped vice-like around your wrists, pinning you where you stood. His grip was like iron and the more you tried to struggle against it the tighter it seemed to get.

Your legs shake due to overexertion, and to the overwhelming presence that the two of them shared. He really was the only thing keeping you up and stable as the strength left from your body and with each passing second.

Karaku leaned his frame down towards you. His eyes narrowed as they bore into yours; the mere inches of space between your faces felt like a chasm. He seemed to savor your weakened state, and as he closed in on you--his lips curling up into a crooked smile--he smelled it: fear. You could feel his finger pressing against your cheek, slowly, tracing its way down from there, and all too soon his voice resounded with the sickeningly smug musing of, "You smell afraid," he mumbles, almost... satisfied. "Is that my doing?" he snickers.

"How sad," Aizetsu mumbled apologetically, "She's feeding your ego..." His voice trailed off as his eyes focused on the floor shamefully, his words hung in the air like a cloud of despair as he spoke, hanging heavy with regret.

You screwed your eyes shut, feeling hot, stinging tears at the corner of your eyes. You cranked your head in another direction in a futile attempt to create distance between his face and yours. "No! Let me go!" You shrieked, a desperate glint in your eyes as you squirmed beneath him.

Karaku only laughed, a deep guttural sound that reverberated through the air. His amusement with your fear only grew as he slowly lifted his free-hand to your face once again, brushing his fingertips along your cheeks before squeezing. With gentle force, he guided you to look up at him, "I'm afraid I can't do that, pet." He purred; his voice carrying an ominous tone which revealed that something much more deadly was lying beneath the surface.

A raw, primal fear grappled its way to your throat and escaped in a bloodcurdling scream. Your body thrashed violently against his, desperate for an escape, but each futile attempt was met with heavy hands pinning your wrists down. "P-Please!" tears spilled from the corners of your eyes as you sobbed pitifully - pleading for help that never came, convinced by this point that you had been brought too far away from civilization for anyone to hear you. Helplessness filled every inch of you, there was no way you could fight back.

Karaku tightened his grip on your wrists and leaned in closer, seeming to take pleasure as you screamed. "I must say, you're much cuter when you're quiet." He purred into the crook of your neck while inhaling deeply, taking in your scent like a drug. His lips brushed against the sensitive flesh - his breath was hot on the skin of your collarbone, nuzzling his face further as a satisfied smirk crossed over his lips as he drawled "Smells good...Mmm".

Aizetsu however, seemed to grow more distressed at the sight of your tears, his eyes narrowed as he watched you squirm beneath Karaku. His lips pulled downward in a deep scowl, and his voice grew dark. "You try to escape us," he muttered, his words threatening as they left his mouth. "And then you scream and cry when we catch you." There was something almost petulant in the way he spoke; it seemed like he was a sulking child being denied of it's needs. "That hardly seems fair..." He pouted, his voice growing thick with disappointment and something else, a hint of bitterness barely contained.

"We can't trust that you won't run again. So, I guess...We'll have to lock you up." Aizetsu pouted; as if this was distressing for him.

Sweat came beading on your forehead as you felt the world begin to spin. Your breathing quickened and a heat began to fill your body, each thrash becoming more desperate and less considered than the last. The demons words echoed around you like an accusation, violence in his resonance - treating you like some rabid animal that needed restraint. Lock you up? What kind of sick joke was this? You didn't even know what these guys wanted from you - why the hell were you suddenly made their new fidget toy?! Karaku released your wrists with an enthusiastic chortle: "Lock her up? Now that sounds fun!" He expertly lifted you by your waist and threw you over his shoulder, your feeble kicks unable to slow the momentum of him whisking you up and carrying you away. The disorientation from the sudden manhandling made you feel dizzy as you tried in vain to twist free.

Despite your desperate thrashing, the demon seemed to take it all in stride as if this was a part of his everyday life. His steps continued even and unhurried, his grip on you tight yet seemingly effortless. The way he held you over his shoulder gave off an odd sense of familiarity, like he had done this thousands of times before - like he didn’t have to think twice about it. What the hell could you have done in your life to deserve getting kidnapped by demons? Upper-ranked, nutcase demons at that?

"...We'd better hurry, Karaku," Aizetsu said with a tense grimace. He glanced around the dense forest anxiously - as if expecting Sekido to appear at any moment in an explosion fit of rage. "Sekido’s got quite a temper on him these days and he'll be really mad if we're not back soon."

"Mm," He hummed softly in agreement before adding a sly comment; his voice barely above a whisper. "I think we should have the luxury of taking our time with her – Sekido this – Sekido that - He's not here now, is he?" His eyes danced playfully as they searched Aizetsu 's for signs of agreement.

Aizetsu shook his head, he couldn't help the frown that tugged at his lips, "No, he isn't here, but..." He trailed off. With a devilish spark in his eyes, he cut Aizestu off before he could finish his train of thought. "But nothing. Why don't we make the most of it?" He said as a smirk curled up on one side of his face. "Let's have a little fun."

Aizetsu didn't seem very convinced, his eyes quietly assessing the situation. Karaku leaned forward, you still over his shoulders. "Come on," he drawled, with a shrug of his shoulders. "If he really wanted to get his hands on her, he would have come along." His voice was smug as the words fell from between his lips; it made no difference how serious the circumstance was - Karaku would find any way to mess around.

"I-I suppose..." Aizetsu mumbled tentatively. A brief moment of silence passed, the idle chirping of the cicadas in the background. "Wanna play catch with her? I'll toss her to you and you-" Suddenly, you startlingly interjected with an exasperated "Hello?!", disrupting their idle chatter that seemed to be ignoring your existence. Your presence had gone neglected as they spoke about playing catch and tossing you around like a mere item - one possessed rather than personable. Both demons turned their attention to you - both having no intention of taking anything that'll leave your lips seriously.

"W-What the hell do you want from me...?" you stammered out. You had been dragged over his shoulder, your arms and legs dangling like a ragdoll for long enough. Continuing to thrash, each kick you delivered only made him grip you tighter, even as you vainly hit his back with closed fists, he didn't budge. "How pitiful." Aizetsu muttered underneath his breath.

Karaku let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. His eyes glinted mischievously in the moonlight as he spoke: "Isn't it clear? You're our plaything now." He seemed to relish his own words as if they were a special delicacy and he went on to mumble something about how having a human around made things more interesting for everyone. He laughed again happily, savoring every moment that your encounter lasted as he knew that eventually boredom will overcome them all. Right. It would just last until they got bored of you.

"And will you stop squirming? Seriously, it's like you're trying to tickle me."

It dawned on you. Truly, whatever you did, or said, nothing seemed to phase the demons steady pace, any resistance was futile. You had no choice but to give in and hang limply against his broad frame in silent defeat...

Karaku laughed darkly, his hand coming down hard onto your backside with a harsh smack. You gasped, mouth agape. "Good girl," he praised you before sending a pointed glance towards Aizetsu, "See? She gets it now." His words hung in the air as if challenging someone to disagree with him, you looked away in embarrassment and shame.

You felt as if you were slipping inexorably into a deep, dark abyss. A wave of humiliation and dread was washing over you; it threatened to swallow your meager remains whole. Your rights had been stripped from you in an instant and the title of 'plaything' was bestowed upon your weary shoulders by these demons - for what? Just for their temporary amusement? Were you really nothing but a docile creature now? Obediently awaiting to be forgotten when they decided that they'd had enough amusement at your expense? This couldn't be happening.

Why? Why was this happening? Your mind screamed, your thoughts frantic with terror as you were taken over his shoulder all the way back to where these sick monsters resided. The forest around you blurred past in a passing panorama and all you could do is wallow in helpless dread. Their voices were muted to mere murmurs, drowning into nothing beside the other sounds of nature - a backdrop to this nightmare that seemed never-ending; every step felt like an eternity as you treaded towards where they called home.

"So how about it? I think playing catch is a pretty good idea." 'K-Karaku...No." "Why not? I bet you, if Urogi was here he would've said yes in a heartbeat." You were doomed, thats for sure.

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lithiumfae · 1 year

Text

My boy

nsfw: sneaking into the gryffindor common room late at night.

tags: p in v (you already know), whole lotta tit sucking sorry not sorry, fingering.

Before she met him she had been a stranger to unplanned endeavors, always one to prefer the safety of rehearsed everyday activities. But that had obviously changed as she was now walking to meet up with Sirius way past curfew.

He was wearing the cloak he mentioned in the note he sent her. Only his head was visible, giving the illusion of a floating head missing the rest of the body. His usual cheeky smile was already on his face even before she reached his side.

“Get in woman,” he said while opening his arms so she could squeeze herself in.

It proved to be a hard task walking up to the Gryffindor common room when they had to take tiny steps given how little leg room they both had under the cloak. She could feel and hear him laugh behind her, his mouth breathing out hot hair right on her left ear.

As expected, Filch was patrolling the school grounds searching for his next victims so they stopped walking and hurried to lean against the wall in a corner when they saw him approaching. It seemed like all the stars above were in their plans for the night because right as Filch passed them, a different couple came face to face with him. Taking the opportunity to escape, they tried making no noise as they walked away from the scene.

Some more steps and they were in front of the entrance to the common room. Sirius peaked inside to check if any of the resident snitches were lounging on the couches before he hurried her in.

As they approached his shared room he leaned in and said, “I kicked them out.” She had known him long enough to know that meant an invitation for yet another night of fooling around.

And who was she to deny herself of the simple pleasures in life.

The first thing he did as soon as they reached his bed was help her get out of her sweater and her blouse.

He had never been skilled at unclasping bras so he left that to her.

From the start of their relationship Sirius had shown this honestly quite amusing fascination with her breasts, before they had sex for the first time he got off by sucking and licking her all over. It did not take much for him to come undone if breasts were involved in the equation. This time it was not different.

He made her lay down before straddling her hips. His weight on top of her should not have been as arousing as she felt it to be. She always forgot how deceiving his lean frame was, the few people that had had the privilege of feeling his weight on top of theirs could agree that a boy that slender had no reason for being so heavy. To her it was exhilarating. A reminder of how much of a man he truly was. Imposing and impossible to ignore.

Next he angled himself so his mouth connected to her right breast.

He started by kissing her sternum then quickly moved to the side, tongue sliding around the nipple. His eyelids covering his eyes as he let himself get lost in the moment. His saliva was smearing all over her supple flesh and she felt chills when the cold air got to her.

“Fuck,” her breathy voice disrupted the otherwise calmness of the night. At this he laughed.

“Yeah?”

Unlike most nights where he chose to pay special attention to her tits, he did not stay doing the same for too long. He repeated the same treatment on her other breast but this time he bit her. The sudden shot of shallow pain made her hand move involuntarily, she was now tangling her fingers in his silky strands of hair. This only served as encouragement as her hold on his head urged him to keep going.

He bit down again before feeling around the bed searching for her other hand, when they made contact he guided it to where her right hand was gripping his hair and hummed as to let her know he wanted both of her hands to pull, his mouth still preoccupied with marking her.

She shook her head in protest, eyebrows furrowed. “It’ll hurt,” she said.

“Yes, I want it to.”

So she did what he asked for. She pulled his hair with both her hands, promptly making his mouth detach itself from the nipple he was abusing. His moan echoed inside the room.

His lips were glossy with the excess saliva and they looked raw. The pain made his eyes close again.

“Heard Preston say he fucked a girl’s tits. Can you believe that’s possible?”

She laughed. “Anything is possible, really.”

“C-can we–?” He stuttered as his eyes opened wide, she laughed again before rolling her eyes.

“Not now Black. I believe you invited me for something else,” he did not reply immediately. His eyes were glossed over, his gaze was on her red bitten lips.

“Right,” he said before blinking fast to shake off the momentarily brain fog he was feeling. He made a move to get off her. “Yeah. I kicked everyone out so I could fuck you good.”

“Is that right?” She teased.

“It’s been so long since we last shagged. I feel like I could go for hours.” He was no longer straddling her, instead he was now positioning himself in between her open legs. He did not bother removing her skirt so he simply moved it up to get it out the way. “Keep the socks on,” he told her, as if he needed to beg. His voice a tad whinier than before.

He toyed with the elastic of her socks tickling her upper thighs.

He put all his weight on his knees so he was left hovering over her. His fingers made their way to his mouth before putting two of them inside it, effectively coating them in saliva. He did all this while looking at her without breaking eye contact.

“Your turn now,” he said as he hunched over her to bring his face closer to hers. When she parted her lips he wasted no time in shoving his fingers inside, urging her to suck on them. “Ah, fuck,” he whispered.

With his lips still wide open and his eyes unfocused, he shoved his fingers deeper inside her mouth.

“Don’t close your eyes, look at me.”

He did this for a few more seconds before her heated gaze was too much; it made him anxious for what was to come. He pulled his fingers out of her mouth watching the trail of saliva connecting them to her wet lips.

“Now?”

He only mumbled as a response. His knees moved back to allow him to position his face right on her cunt, he gave it a kiss before covering it with saliva as if to replicate what she had done to his fingers. Having done exactly this so many times in the past, he was already well acquainted with her body, he knew where everything was. His thumb located her clit as two of his fingers made his way inside her.

“Can I do this? Or are you gonna cum before I get to fuck you?” He said dangling the tantalising offer in front of her.

She nodded urgently, making her hair move around her sticking on the pillow in all directions.

“Are you sure?” He started moving his fingers back and forth before moving a bit so his face was hovering over hers once again. “Because we can skip this part and go for it now.”

“No!”

“Right… I wouldn’t want it to hurt…” even in her foggy state of mind she could see the way his teasing tone made him smile.

Not satisfied with the wetness he was working with at the moment, he went back to licking her to aid the lubrication. She heard him spit on his hand before the force of the now rapid movement of his fingers made her perk up.

He laughed softly when he heard her moan loudly. Lost in the sudden surge of pleasure she was feeling she had let her legs close, effectively squeezing his hand between them. Not satisfied with the limited space he had, with his free hand he palmed one of her knees, “Come on love, keep them open.” Seeing as she was taking a few seconds too long to do as he asked, he put his hand under one of her knees and pushed her leg up and out.

“Ah! Sirius, Sirius,” her hazy speech reached his ears letting him know he was making her feel good.

The change in position clearly did something for her as she was now even more wet than before, a squelch could be heard every time Sirius drilled his fingers back inside.

“Fuck, you’re making all this noise for me yeah?” His thumb had not stopped circling her clit. “Am I making your cunt feel good baby? Yeah? Because I can feel you dripping on my palm”

“Shut it Sirius, you’re embarrassing me,” she whined.

“Now why would it be embarrassing?” He furrowed his eyebrows pretending to be confused. “It’s only the truth.”

He was needing to put some strength in the hold he had of her leg as she kept twitching. He pulled his fingers out and took a good look at her semi naked body.

“Fuck man, I love your tits,” he sighed. “We really need to try that some time.”

He had not been lying when he said he could feel her dripping on the palm of his hand, now that his fingers were no longer inside of her he could feel the cold air hit his hand.

“You have to fuck me properly first before I think of letting you do that.”

“Right on it,” he said in a mock serious tone. He grabbed her other leg using his wet hand to mirror the way he was pushing her leg up while he had been fingering her. “As always, tell me if it hurts.”

“Alright.”

If he had not been spreading her legs open she would have closed them as soon as his cock started prodding her. It truly never got old, the way she felt that stinging feeling every single time he was inside her.

“Doing okay?”

“Mmm..” she hummed. Sirius noticed her lifting her head and looking down at where they were connected.

He smiled before saying, “Weren’t you embarrassed not even five minutes ago? Or were you just pretending?” He pushed a little further inside and she moaned, throwing her head back. “I know, I know.”

Her forearms trembled a little at the strain of holding herself up and having to withstand the burning sensation of his cock splitting her open.

“Aw darling, lay back. Come on.” He cooed letting one of her legs fall momentarily when he used one of his hands to push her shoulders towards the mattress.

“Why does it still hurt?” She whined, the slightest bit annoyed.

“The disadvantage of shagging with Sirius Black I suppose.”

“You’re a pest.”

He laughed. “Would you like to try it on your tummy?” He cocked his head to the side. “Come on, turn around.”

He helped her move into position. He went to grab one of her knees again, this time to lift her leg up on the bed leaving the other one how it was. “Sorry.”

“What for?” His hands grabbed her hips. “But lift your ass a bit, yes, like that my love.”

He went to try sliding inside her for a second time, this time it went remarkably easier. Nonetheless the rapid intrusion surprised her, making her lift her torso from the bed.

“Stay down.” He said before he started moving in and out. She went back down, pressing her face on the mattress to muffle some of the sounds that escaped her lips. Sirius’ hands stayed on her hips slightly squeezing them as if to ground himself. “Yeah,” he dragged the word out. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” she mirrored him.

His head felt like it was far too small to contain his brain and the way it tried so hard not to fall victim to the overwhelming feeling of having her wrapped around him. He thought the wait was making it worse so he started moving faster.

Her moans resonated given the volume of her voice, she was now hugging a pillow.

“Is it too much, baby?”

“It’s good, it’s good, don’t stop”

“Wasn’t thinking about doing that.”

Her body was no longer resisting him and the position they were in was annoying him a bit so he lightly spanked her to make her pay attention. She looked back at him and whined.

“What now?”

He laughed with his eyes closed. “Get on your knees I want to fuck you harder,” a second after he said that she was already moving again. “Is that alright?”

“Do whatever but stop telling me to move,” Sirius smiled at the annoyance that could be heard in her tone.

As a little punishment for the attitude, he grabbed her hair in a tight fist making her arch her back in a borderline painful slope. Before she had a chance to complain again he started moving once again.

“Well then.”

They went at it for some time. The force of his thrust was enough to make his headboard bang against the wall at a rapid pace. He was tempted to undo the silencing charm just so he could brag about his night of pleasure to everyone tomorrow morning. He was anything but humble. He loved seeing the bitter expressions covering their forgettable faces when they saw him talking to her in between classes. What could bring him more satisfaction than one-upping his peers that already envied him just because of his last name.

Probably cumming inside her, his brain supplied.

Coming back to the present he turned to the side so he could take a good look at her.

Her eyes were closed in bliss and her mouth was hanging open allowing mewls to slip from her parted lips. He loved the way she blushed all over, truthfully it was quite ironic how he found her the most adorable when she was lost in pleasure.

He smiled yet again before touching her cheek with his. “Such a lovely girl you are, always so pretty.” She did not acknowledge his praise, her brain way too foggy to say anything. “So nice of you to put up with me everyday…”

“Because I love you.”

At this he grabbed her hips to stop them from moving, he won’t ever be prepared to hear those three words coming from her.

“Shit,” he laughed. “I almost came.”

He went back to leaning his face on hers before starting a new rhythm, this time two times faster. His hips snapping into her as if he was trying to make her jump, her wetness was now coating part of his upper thighs.

“Sirius!”

“I know, I know,” he smiled again, it seemed that was the only expression he could muster when the two of them made love. “You’re making my legs all dirty, nasty girl. Gonna cum now? Mmm?”

“Not yet,” she gasped.

He groaned next to her ear. “So sorry love I think I’m gonna cum now. Sorry, sorry.” He panted as he lost control of his hips. “Can I? Inside?”

The sweaty and aggravated girl nodded, lifting her arm to wrap her hand around Sirius’ head so she could stroke his hair. Understanding her answer he let go of himself effectively pairing her white.

The sudden warm sensation made her flinch and he slipped out. They both whined at the loss of contact.

Sirius’ hand quickly moved and fisted his cock squeezing it before looking at her and saying, “Did you cum?”

“No, not yet.”

“Come here then I can still go a little longer.”

“What?” He watched him sit down on the bed resting his back against the headrest, he patted his naked lap and cocked his head. “Come ride me.”

It was her turn to laugh. “You’re filthy, you know that?” At the same time she crawled up towards him to straddle him.

They made quick work of it, both impatient.

She used her knees to make her body slide up and down his length. “Atta girl, jump on it. Yeah,” this last part he said while laughing, amused by the sheer desperation he saw on her beautiful face.

He was tempted to compare her dripping cunt to a broken faucet with the way she kept leaking on him with every drag of his cock. His arm cushioned his head to avoid bumping his head on the headrest.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

“Go on love, this cock is all yours to take.”

Hearing him say that made her knees touch each other because she tried to close her legs to stop herself from cumming, it did not work. Soon enough she was coming undone, squirting everywhere.

“Oh fuck, yes, yes.” Laughed Sirius.

Only a few seconds of it happening was enough to wet everything around them. She was left twitching, her legs incapable of staying put.

“Sorry.”

He ignored her apology instead opting to grab her face to drag her towards him. Their lips connecting and melting into a symphony of unholy love. Being so spent after what had just happened she was not fully reciprocating so Sirius started to kiss her entire face.

“How do you plan on getting me out of here before class?”

He hummed. “Who said I plan on getting you out of here.”

“I have to go to class, finish my education and whatnot…”

“Have you ever thought of being a housewife, I could provide.”

“You are 17 years old.”

“A man is so much more than his age.”

“I can’t be a housewife if you don’t have a house, silly.”

“We can stay here forever, in my room. You can be a… room… wife…”

“I can’t stand you.”

#marauders x reader #marauders #marauders era #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black smut

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