#and considering his studiousness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hephaestiions · 1 month

Text

For what it’s worth, Draco tries not to be in love with him.

Once the war ends, the world is dim and hazy and wild. For two months, it rains incessantly in Wiltshire. Draco watches his mother’s rose garden flag and flutter, run amok with weeds and ivy from his bedroom window. He spends May and June not doing much of anything but staring— out the window, at his ceiling, at his parents when they try to coax him to dinner. House arrest is not a death sentence, but Draco is empty and vacant and a little dead anyway.

He thinks of Harry sometimes. Harry, limned in fire on a broom, reaching for him, Harry, dead, not dead, clambering to his feet, wand raised, calling the Dark Lord Tom, Harry, who had met his eyes over the Aurors’ shoulders as they handcuffed him to accompany him to the Manor until the Wizengamot had the time to figure out what to do with the Malfoys. Harry, and the world winces into sharper focus, bleak and dull and unbearable. Draco tries, for all he’s worth, not that it’s much, to stop thinking of Harry when that happens.

There’s the trial. Harry Potter is in a suit, his hair damp and brushed and unfamiliar. He speaks for Draco and his mother. Draco recognises the image of Narcissa emerging in Harry’s testimony— haughty and determined and fearful and loving, a mass of contradictions worthy of exoneration after the payment of some hefty fines. His own image he recognises in snapshots and flashes— scared, yes, Merlin, yes, indoctrinated from a young age, that too, in the grip of something bigger than himself, yes, he’s never felt so small. There are other things Harry says, new, like an ill-fitted outfit hanging off him— brave when it mattered, really? and never killed anyone, technically true but the intent was there all through sixth year, doesn’t he deserve to be punished for that? and helped in bringing down the fall of Tom Riddle at great personal risk, a tall order at best, an embellished lie at worst.

Harry believes in a man Draco isn’t sure he ever was. The Wizengamot seems to believe him, and he’s exonerated too, with a magic-monitoring charm on his wand for eighteen months.

No one testifies for Lucius. He goes to Azkaban. Draco watches, dispassionate, as the Aurors handcuff his father again. Lucius watches him back, equally dispassionate. “Take care of your mother,” he says before he’s pulled away, and Draco manages a short, tight nod. That’s that.

Love, or the situation about Harry Potter as Draco takes to calling it, begins two more months after the trials.

“Malfoy,” says Harry, the picture of wide-eyed surprise. They’re in a bar on Knockturn. Pansy, Blaise and Theo finally dragged him here, Draco you need to leave that stuffy old Manor for your own good.

“Harry Potter,” Draco says, because he can’t bring himself to call him Potter anymore, and Harry sounds awkward outside his head.

“It’s good to see you,” says Harry, a sudden grin stretching across his face. Draco has to blink the light of it out of his eyes. “You’re looking better.”

It starts then, in the bar. The stirrings of life in a dead man. It’s annoying and brutal and the kind of thing that keeps Draco waking up and getting himself out of bed every morning and the nightmares occasionally at bay.

They run into each other at the bar, over and over, and each time, Harry begins conversation. Each time, it lasts a few minutes longer, until they’re spending half an hour or more chatting over drinks at the counter. Or, rather— Harry chats, Draco listens and tries not to let his heart spring out of his chest. Each time, Pansy looks considering, Blaise rolls his eyes and Theo peers studiously into his drink when he comes back. Draco wonders if Harry’s friends have their own set of patented reactions and if they’re half as lenient as his friends’.

Draco starts sleeping with Theo about it, eventually. Which is to say Draco starts sleeping with Theo hoping the sex will take his mind off dark hair and green eyes and that rapid, quicksilver smile. It doesn’t help that Theo has dark hair and blue eyes, and smiles at Draco like the sun. It makes him ache with want and loss, and the sex is great, but Draco has to end it within a few weeks.

“It’s Potter, isn’t it,” Theo says when Draco tells him.

There’s no point denying it, so Draco doesn’t. “It’s not you,” he says, and Theo’s lightly amused baleful glare is enough for their friendship to remain stable, if a little stilted.

Blaise takes him shopping and Pansy brings him alcohol and when Greg starts stepping out of his house again, he tells Draco awkwardly, “Well, Potter’s missing out, isn’t he?” Millicent, who starts coming to pub nights gives Draco a once-over and tells him he needs to get a job. Daphne tries to set him up with her sister, and takes it astonishingly terribly when Draco tells her he’s sure Astoria’s lovely, but has an entirely wrong set of bits.

“You should be more open minded,” she tells him, sniffing. “Astoria‘s open minded!”

Draco can only think to blink at her.

Harry’s in the papers almost every day. Sometimes because he gives speeches, but mostly because The Prophet’s society section can’t think to write anything better than “Harry Potter spotted in Diagon’s Sunday Market, with turnips! Turn to page 6 for seven delicious recipes that make fresh and inventive use of the Chosen One’s Chosen Veg!”

It’s all well and good except for the part where the accompanying photos of Harry, scowling or blank or frustrated or very occasionally, smiling at children, sends Draco’s body into overdrive. He finds himself tracing the line of Harry’s mouth, the tops of his cheekbones, his hairline. He thinks his mother notices, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Would you like to get a drink sometime?” Harry asks.

They’re not at the bar. They’re in a cafe and Draco is reading a horrible romance novel at the window.

“We get drinks all the time,” Draco says. He wants to step on his own toes.

“Yeah,” Harry says, laughing. He runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, course, just— I was wondering if you maybe wanted to. You know. Just us.”

“Just us?”

“Forget it,” Harry says, and sighs. He turns away and turns back. “It was good seeing you, Malfoy.” He turns away again.

“Harry,” Draco says. The look on Harry’s face when he turns back again is wide-eyed surprise again, like that first time in the bar. “I— a drink sounds lovely.”

Harry looks uncertainly pleased.

“Just not on Knockturn,” Draco says.

“We could go to Hogsmeade,” Harry says. He’s— the ridiculous man— bouncing on the balls of his feet, fidgety and buoyant and beautiful. “Or London. The Muggle bit. Or Diagon, really, but the reporters—” He grimaces.

I’ll go anywhere with you, Draco wants to say. “Anywhere,” he says instead, hacked short and inadequate.

But Harry smiles at him like he’s the sun. The persistent ache throbbing through Draco abates for a moment.

So this is peace, Draco thinks. Meets Harry’s smile with his own, wonders how Harry thinks it looks. There you are.

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, “cranes in the sky”. this is a little all over the place and i’m not particularly happy with it, but here’s a decidedly-not-microfic about failing at not being in love with harry james potter. oh draco, you’re exactly like me.

#drarry #drarry fic rec #drarry fic #drarry recs #draco x harry #hpdm fanfic #hpdm #draco malfoy #harry james potter #drarry microfic #geets microfics

590 notes · View notes

osaemu · 3 months

Text

SHARING IS (NOT) CARING: PROFESSOR!DAZAI

✩ ‧ ˚. synopsis: he has to teach your class for the day, but there's no way either of you will be able to focus with you sitting in the front row.

contents: fem!reader. college AU. professor x student. not proofread and written in under five minutes. i forgot how to write dazai, whoops. i'll probably write more in this AU later on bc i think it has potential. -1K words.

professor!dazai is well aware that he shouldn't be romantically involved with a student, but justifies it to himself by reasoning that you're not in his class, so it should be okay. even though your university's policy allows teacher-student relationships if they aren't in the same field, he still tries to keep it mostly a secret—after all, he wouldn't want to risk anything on your part.

but one day, your professor's absent, and luckily (or not), dazai's the only one available to step in for the day. imagine his surprise when he realizes that the class he hesitantly agreed to sub for today was your class, and as luck would have it, you sit in the front row.

"alright, class, i don't really know what you're supposed to be doing, but—"

"there should be an outline on the desk, sir," the girl next to you pipes up, smiling bashfully at dazai. he pauses and nods at her gratefully, doing his best to not make eye contact with you as he skims over the outline. you're equally as unsure as he is, because you never expected to be in this situation: with your boyfriend as your actual professor, even if it was just for a day.

"oh, great, i have to give a lecture," dazai grumbles, holding the papers in the same hand that's also holding a cup of steaming hot coffee. he sighs, eyes professionally surveying the room before finally settling on you. "would you mind giving me a quick summary of whatever you're supposed to be learning today?" he asks, hiding his little smile behind the cup of coffee he presses to his lips.

you nod, but right before you open your mouth, the girl next to you speaks up again. "i can do it, professor," she offers, beaming at dazai as if she's the personification of joy and happiness. and it's almost comical, the way dazai barely spares her a glance before returning his attention to you.

so you give him a brief summary of what your actual professor had said your class would be covering today, and dazai nods along, eyes focused intently on the outline in his hand. when you finish speaking, he stays quiet for another second before shrugging and sitting down at the teacher's desk. "i'll just find a video on it, 'cause i don't know enough to teach the subject. and honestly, i don't want to, either."

as expected.

twenty minutes go by with some youtuber's monotone voice droning on in the background, but instead of studiously taking notes (like you should be doing), you find yourself staring at dazai instead. his eyes are fixed on his phone, and it's a mystery to everyone in the room as to what he's doing. it's only when you pick up your own phone to check the time do you see a bunch of missed messages from him:

osamu: this class is so boring

osamu: how do u sit through this every. day.

osamu: i'm already falling asleep wtf

osamu: babe answer me :(

osamu: do you hate me :( if not answer me :(

you bite your lip in a futile effort to hide the smile that's threatening to grow on your lips, which would be suspicious, considering that there's practically nothing to smile about in this dull lecture hall.

you: shut up i'm trying to focus

dazai shoots you a subtle grin from his spot up front and replies quickly enough to make you wonder if all this time, he's just been staring at your name on his phone.

osamu: ik you're not paying attention

osamu: play me in 8 ball

you: no

"you in the front," dazai calls from his desk, clearly directing his voice towards you. he raises an eyebrow coyly, and continues, "shouldn't you be taking notes?"

the girl next to you snickers, not seeming to catch the look you give her. dazai clears his throat and looks at you pointedly, obviously trying not to show his amusement.

"okay," you mutter, shooting dazai a vicious death glare. he winks back at you, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"what was that?" he asks in response, pretending not to have heard you. it's embarrassingly obvious that he's just messing with you, and you wonder why you ever agreed to date this man in the first place—of course he'd pull something like this the one day he gets to have authority over you.

"yes, professor," you say with a witheringly forced smile. dazai's smile turns uncertain as he dips his head in reply and instantly picks up his phone.

osamu: i'm sorry pls don't make me sleep on the couch

you: i won't :)

you: you'll be out on the porch tonight :)

osamu: wait no

osamu: i love u

osamu: pls don't do this to me ilysm

"hey," the girl next to you whispers, drawing your attention away from your phone and to her uncomfortably close voice. "isn't professor dazai hot?"

she's not a quiet whisperer, and something about dazai's forcibly calm expression makes you certain that he can hear every word. "i guess," you answer noncommittally. hopefully, your tone doesn't betray how close you are to clawing out your eyes.

"do you think he's single?"

"no. and even if he was, i doubt you'd be his type," you reply with a sickeningly sweet smile. dazai coughs into his arm, obviously trying to hide the laugh he had just choked out. the girl's eye twitches, and you hold your smile until she rolls her eyes and looks away.

osamu: ur so funny i'll kms

you: ur still sleeping on the porch.

osamu: babe :(

#osaemu #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd x y/n #dazai osamu x reader #osamu dazai x reader #dazai osamu x you #osamu dazai x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs x y/n #dazai fluff #bsd fluff #dazai drabbles #bsd drabbles

536 notes · View notes

valdomarx · 9 months

Text

"It's easy!" Crowley waves a nonchalant hand. "Humans are simple creatures. All it takes for the blossoming of romantic love is a bit of rain and an awning."

"And that..." Aziraphale looks at him sceptically, "works, does it?"

Crowley puffs up, a little offended on behalf of his thorough understanding of human psychology. "Of course it does. I'm the expert in temptation, aren't I? Here, watch."

He grabs Aziraphale's wrist (warm. and soft.) and tugs him out of the bookshop and into the street.

"Ordinary day, right? Sunshine, blue skies, blah blah blah. All very nice, yes, but no atmosphere. No," he pauses meaningfully, "va voom."

Aziraphale merely raises an eyebrow.

"But with a little work," Crowley snaps his fingers decisively, and thunder booms. Deep grey clouds pile high in the sky, rushing in towards them and gaining momentum as they do. He turns to Aziraphale with a grin as lightning forks overhead, illuminating the sky in bright flashes. Aziraphale returns an indulgent smile, and the air is thick and heavy between them.

It starts as a soft pat. pat pat. and then builds to a pat pat pat patpatpatpatpat as the heavens open and rain cascades down on their little street, fat drops bouncing off tables and cars and the pavement. Within seconds the rain crescendos into a torrential downpour, soaking them both. Aziraphale's fluffy hair is flattened, sticking to his forehead as the humans around them squeal and duck for cover.

"And now," Crowley holds out one hand with an ostentatious curtsy, "we shelter."

Aziraphale takes his hand with a roll of his eyes, and Crowley steps neatly under a shop awning which is miraculously free of any members of the public. He doesn't let go of Aziraphale's hand, the incoming rain forcing them to stand just a few inches apart. The storm rages above, the smell of rain on concrete surrounding them like a bubble.

"And what do we do next?" Aziraphale asks. Crowley is close enough to catch the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

"We. Umm." Crowley is having some difficulty in focusing. He's very warm, despite the chill and the wet, something blazing hot and ashy pulsating in his chest. "Traditionally, we look into each other's eyes."

He considers whether he should facilitate that by taking off his sunglasses, but Aziraphale has never had any trouble reading him with them on. And anyway, his hand won't stop shaking.

He takes a step closer instead, squeezing Aziraphale's hand and dropping some of the practised hardness from his face. He feels, abruptly, extremely exposed as Aziraphale regards him studiously.

Time seems to freeze in place, though whether that's a miraculous phenomenon or merely an effect of proximity, Crowley couldn't say.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley ought to say something. Something clever and irreverent. There had been some point he had been trying to prove, hadn't there? It's quite flown his mind.

Instead, he finds himself leaning in to brush a lock of soggy hair off Azirpahale's forehead.

"Well." There are spots of blush on Aziraphale's cheeks. "I can certainly see this seems to be. Erm. Surprisingly effective."

Every idea and plan and argument has deserted Crowley's mind, replaced by an enormous blooming sensation he doesn't want to examine too closely. Aziraphale's face is soft and sweet and very close.

"And now?" Aziraphale asks, voice quiet and barely audible over the crashing of rain and thunder.

"I. Uhh." There's something he's supposed to do. There's something he's supposed to do. It's important, it's pressing, it's urgent.

But not one single thought remains in Crowley's head as he gestures vaguely and tries, "Va voom?"

#s2 has me fed soooooo good i'm living #ineffable husbands #good omens #my writing #good omens spoilers

981 notes · View notes

auteurdelabre · 6 months

Text

Please, Mister Miller? (Part 2) bfd!Joel x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni

summary: after a filthy interlude with your married best friend’s dad, you decide that movie night is the perfect time to tease Mr. Miller into a repeat performance.

warnings/tags: Infidelity, Unprotected p in v, oral sex [m receiving], Mean Joel, Dirty Talk, almost caught, hold the moan, spitting, fingering, exhibitionism, nicknames (good girl, slut)

word count: 4.5 k

a/n: Y'all, I did a filthy one-shot and I got comments requesting it be a series and because I can’t deny ya’ll anything, here’s an equally filthy part 2. Comments and the like really make my day. xx

part one here

=========================================

You and Sarah are in her bedroom, flipping through fashion magazines when there's a gentle knock at the door. You immediately go to cover up, wearing only your holiday themed nightdress.

What if it's Joel?

You haven't spoken a word to him since yesterday's little adventure. Part of you is exhilarated at how naughty it all was. The other part deeply ashamed. You’ve never done anything like that before. You’ve always been a good girl, a loyal girlfriend. Not someone who seduces your friend’s married father.

Tess pops her head in, looking merrily at you both. You try to keep the flush from your cheeks. She has no idea how you fucked her husband in their bed yesterday. How he painted you with his come.

"Hey girls we're gonna watch a Christmas movie. You wanna join?"

Sarah glances up from her magazine, brow raised. "Is there popcorn?"

Tess smiles, nodding. "Of course."

Sarah leaps to feet with a laugh, looking to you expectantly. "You comin’?"

You consider not. After everything that happened with Joel yesterday you feel weird. It had been fun, exciting and wrong. You start to shake your head, wrinkling your nose.

"Um..."

Tess opens the door for Sarah to walk through and at that moment Joel strides by in sweatpants and a white t-shirt holding a large bowl of popcorn.

He looks so fucking good your pussy begins to throb just at the sight of him. He glances over at you lying on the bed, ankles crossed behind you and you see his cheeks flush. He moves quickly to the other room where the TV blasts.

You smile up at your friend.

"Okay."

///

"Sarah you're gonna ruin your eyesight sitting that close."

"I am not," Sarah tosses over her shoulder at her dad.

She's brought an armchair close to the television, munching away on a handful of popcorn. Sarah does this in the dorm as well, sitting so close to the television that you're convinced she's gonna go blind.

Tess and Joel are snuggled under a blanket on the sofa.

"Join us," Tess says warmly. She pats the empty cushion next to her.

Joel is studiously ignoring you, his attention on the saccharine film playing. He’s been ignoring you since the incident, going so far as to remove himself from any room you enter. He gives flimsy excuses like working on his truck or needing to go for an errand. But you know, it’s the shame and the arousal that propels you.

You nod, sitting next to her. Joel is on the other side of Tess, pressing as far into the arm of the sofa as possible. Tess offers you popcorn from the large bowl she holds on her lap which you politely decline.

"Oh I like this one," you say relaxing into the sofa as you realize what movie they're playing. You hope that you can pass the next little bit of time without being obvious. You consider this a sort of test.

You try not to glance at Joel and do pretty well. Tess acts as a wall between the two of you, chatting quietly with Joel through the movie. You and Sarah toss back sarcastic comments about the film’s bad soundtrack.

A short while later your hand goes to the popcorn bowl, not paying attention. It collides with Joel's, both of you distracted by the movie. You can feel the cool metal of his wedding ring rasp against your wrist as he jerks his hand out the second it brushes yours.

"Careful," Tess grouses as popcorn spills over the sides. Joel murmurs an apology and you don't have the guts to chance a glance at him. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your entire body tingling.

You watch out the corner of your eyes as Tess leans her head against Joel's shoulder. They seem like a perfectly happy couple. You feel guilty about all of this. But a larger part of you feels electric at knowing your seduced this woman's husband. That you have that power.

"Can I have more popcorn?" Sarah calls. Tess gives a good natured groan, pulling herself to a stand and walking over with the bowl.

Then it's just you and Joel they're on the sofa. You can see him tensed up, pressed as far away from you as possible. It irritates as well as amuses you. A surge of new arousal floods you, and you can feel the tops of your inner thighs are sticky with slick.

Tess' back is still to you both and you don't know what possesses you, but you reach across the sofa, gripping Joel's left hand tightly. His wide fingers dwarf yours.

He stares at you in shock, his mouth dropping to protest as you bring your lips to his hand and wrap your mouth around his ring finger. You suck gently, tongue swirling around his digit. He watches in stunned silence as your teeth wrap around the glinting gold band there, smiling up at him. You can see his pupil blowing wide in his dark eyes.

Your mouth sucks hard on the digit causing Joel to tug back. As he does the wedding band slides off his finger, left tightly between your bared teeth. He looks furiously at you when he realizes, but can't say anything without drawing attention.

Joel swallows, immediately forcing his attention back to the movie. But you don't miss how he squirms. He puts his hands under the blanket just in time for Tess to return from scooping popcorn into Sarah's bowl.

"You cold baby?"

"Mhmmm," Joel says with a wan smile, crossing his legs away from her.

You sit there, the metal ring heavy on your tongue as Tess climbs under the blanket with Joel. You wonder if he’s already hard under there and you wonder how he’ll explain that to his wife.

"You want any?" Tess offers the popcorn to you. You shake your head smiling, trying not to laugh.

A short while passes and you're pretty sure that Sarah has fallen asleep in front of the TV. Tess yawns, pulling herself up from the blanket.

"Gotta pee. Don't worry about pausing."

She pushes herself off the sofa, leaving you and Joel next to one another once again. You can see him tensing, unsure of what you're going to do next.

I should stop.

But even as you're telling yourself this, you lean back, twisting, eyes low and watching Joel. When you see he's scrutinizing you, you glance over to make sure Sarah is still facing the TV before turning to look down the hall. From where you sit you can see the door to the bathroom. The light is on and Tess is inside.

You reach your foot out, nudging Joel's thigh. He refuses to look at you. Irritated you nudge again, this time the arch of your foot sliding over his front and he holds in a hiss.

He's hard. Hard as a fucking rock.

He twists away from you, shoving your foot from his lap as you grin wickedly. Joel pretends he doesn't want you but his cock can't lie.

Emboldened you drop your thighs open, so thankful you've foregone panties this evening. You're already soaked, your pussy glistening in the low light of the TV. You bring your finger to your mouth, slipping the ring onto your middle finger, your tongue pushing it onto the digit.

Of course it's too large for you, but you still crook your finger to keep it secure around your knuckle.

You reach a hand between your legs and arch. Joel's eyes are immediately drawn to your sopping cunt and you see his breathing hitch when he realizes you're wearing the wedding band on your middle finger.

You gently curl it inside and smile from under half lidded eyes as Joel's mouth parts.

You can see it now, his hand palming his hard cock through his sweatpants. You feel a thrill go through you. Your thighs part further and you watch Joel's brows saddle, his stroking increasing. The metal has been warmed by your mouth and glides effortlessly against your cunt.

You add a second finger, smirking when Joel's hand moves from overtop his sweatpants to desperately fumbling under the waistband.

His lower half is hidden by the large blanket he and Tess were sharing. But you can see the jerking motions underneath; can see the flush on Joel's cheeks and neck. He can’t stop staring as you fuck yourself with your fingers on the sofa next to him. You’re bared so vulgar, your thighs spread wide so he can see everything. The gentle squelch of your sopping cunt reaches him and he grits his teeth.

You can't make noise, so you make sure that your face tells him how much you like this. Brows saddling as you rut against your fingers, biting your lower lip as you play with yourself. He whispers something to himself, you think it might have been ‘faster’ but you never find out.

There's the sound of the sink running from the bathroom and you immediately twist back to how you were sitting before. Joel is panting, his cheeks stained red when Tess comes back. He focuses intently on the TV, jaw clenched.

Tess grabs the empty popcorn bowl and some of the leftover mugs and pads to the kitchen. You hear the sink running as she does the dishes. Joel glances over his shoulder, ensuring Tess is out of sight before he jerks his face to you, eyes dark and narrowed. He looks furious, dragging his tongue over his dry lower lip as he glares at you.

"Gimme my fucking ring," he mumbles, his voice rasping.

You smirk, shaking your head slowly in denial of his request. You bring your fingers to your mouth, ring still crooked on your middle finger. Never breaking eye contact you drag your tongue over the digit, dragging it down your throat, over your clothed breasts, the nipples jutting under the thin fabric of your nightdress.

"Here," you say, relenting and holding the ring out to him. Joel visibly relaxes and removes a hand from under the blanket, reaching towards the ring. You pull it back just in time for his hand to close around nothing. You bring it back to your side, trying not to giggle.

"Quit it," Joel snarls.

"What was that, honey?" Tess calls from the kitchen, causing you and Joel to both blanch, stiffening.

"Nothing baby," Joel calls. "Just sayin' the movies better than I remember."

Tess enters back into the living room, stretching and shooting you and Joel a sleepy smile.

"Gosh I'm tired," Tess yawns. "Don't think I'm gonna make it the whole movie."

"We can go to bed, baby," Joel murmurs. You can hear the thread of desperation in it as he looks up at her from the sofa.

"No, you like this movie. You stay out here with the girls," Tess insists. She presses a kiss to Joel's temple, standing and padding to bed. You both remain still until you hear the bedroom door click closed.

Sarah is officially passed out in front of the TV. You can hear her gentle snores from here. Joel shoots the back of her head an anxious look before glaring again at you. You're almost beside yourself in amusement. Joel is so angry and there's nothing he can do about it.

You don't even think about it. You're pushing your nightdress up your chest, bundling it under your chin. Your tits hang out, tips aching for him.

Joel's anger ebbs slowly, his eyes roving over your body, the want clear in his eyes. Your thighs press together, denying him the sight you know he aches for.

"Filthy little slut," Joel murmurs so quietly you almost don't catch it. His hands are back under the blanket, rustling there and you know he's jacking off right there in front of you. Denying you what you want to see the most.

Still the illicitness of this all is so enticing that you begin to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples. You like how responsive they are to your touch and the night air. They strain for attention, and you pluck at them, pinching until your hips jerk upwards and you hold in a hiss.

Joel’s breathing is sharper, his movements more erratic. He’s going to spill himself all over his knuckles.

All of a sudden there's movement by the television and you yank your clothing back down. Joel pulls his hands out from his sweatpants before he throws the blanket over your bare lower half.

"Going to bed," Sarah mumbles pushing herself from the chair and rubbing at her eyes. If she notices you and her father under the same blanket she doesn't say anything.

"Night, I'll be in after the movie," you say breathlessly. "Just wanna see how it ends."

She makes a sleepy noise before padding to her room half asleep. You and Joel remain perfectly still as she leaves as if she's an animal that hunts by movement, relaxing only when the door closes behind her.

You glance over to see joel's eyes are closed, and you can see his teeth clenched tightly. You shift, wanting to stop yourself but unable to stop the gravitational pull you feel.

You crawl towards Joel on your hands and knees, slowly slinking towards him. You can't help it, he's so fucking delicious like this; torn half way between desire and shame.

By the time he realizes that you're at his side, it's too late for him to jerk back. His eyes open, dark and sultry.

"Stop fighting it," you murmur against his ear, relishing in the way he shivers as your lower lip grazes his lobe. Your hand slips under the waistband of his sweatpants, hand curling around his warm and pulsing cock. You whimper into his ear, so turned on. "You're so fucking hard. You want this just as much as I do."

"I don't."

He says this with no conviction, his head tilted back on the sofa. His jaw is slack, his eyes closed tightly as you jerk him off. You watch his mouth purse slightly; the only sound the TV and the gentle rasp of your hands rubbing against his sweatpants as you stroke him.

His cock is twitching like mad in your hand. Precome coats your hand after a few tugs and you feel his abdomen tensing. Your hand glides over his cock as you snuggle up against him, staring at him as his hips start to thrust into your hand.

But soon your hand isn't enough. You're so desperate to have him in your mouth again. To feel the weight of his thick cock on your tongue.

You release his cock against his belly and Joel glances up in a daze, just in time to see you pull the blanket on his lap over your head, hiding yourself from him as your mouth hovers above his twitching cock.

It's so pretty. Big and thick and weeping. You know he'll deny again and again it but here it is, cock hard and pulsing because he fucking wants this.

You press a sloppy kiss the head of his cock before giving soft kitten licks to the head as Joel's hand fumbles under the blanket to grip the back of your neck. He thrusts up, fucking into your mouth without hesitation. He hits the back of your throat, making you gag.

Oh fuck yeah, Joel.

After a moment his other hand is pulling the blanket off of you. He wants to watch. You glance up as your tongue drags from his base up to swirl around the head of his cock. His face is unreadable. He's looking down at you, curled over his lap as you suck him off. His eyes are heavy lidded and his mouth parted ever so slightly.

Without breaking eye contact your lips slip to cover his head again and you slowly attempt to take all of him into your mouth. He's holding still now, not moving his hips. You can see the way his hand moves from the blanket to ball into a fist, watching you swallow his cock.

"So big," you whisper from his lap, smiling drowsily at him as he gives you a breathy groan.

Your mouth goes back to bobbing in his lap, your nose touching the wiry hair at the base of his cock. Joel's hand is loose on the back of your neck, tangling in your hair as you take him deeper into your throat. His cock is coated in your saliva, smoothly filling your mouth.

Just as you're losing yourself in the sensation you feel a strong hand fisting into your hair and tugging painfully.

"No, no," Joel insists, yanking your mouth off of him. He shakes his head, panting so heavily you're convinced he's going to faint. "This ain't happening again."

You pout, pulling your hair from his grasp and leaning back on the other end of the sofa. He watches you, his broad chest heaving.

"Gimme my fucking ring back," Joel hisses. "Now."

You lean back on the sofa, your thighs dropping open as they had before. You're tired of waiting for him. You're so fucking wet.

Joel closes his eyes, refusing to look at your glossy, puffy cunt bared for him.

Your hand, still donning his wedding ring comes back to your slick cunt. Without hesitation you remove it from your finger, sliding the ring to circle your clit, framing it and holding it there with a forefinger.

"Come and get it," you tell him, smirking.

Joel cracks an eye open to see you spread for him, naked and slick. He sees his wedding ring glinting around the pearl of your clit. You see his tongue dart out to drag along his drying lower lip, his lean neck bobbing as he swallows.

"I ain't playin'," Joel threatens his voice a low growl that hits you between your thighs.

He tilts his head to face down the hallway. All the bedroom doors are closed.

For now.

But you both know it would only take seconds for one of them to open the door. Seconds for them to find Joel hard and alone with his daughter's friend. Seconds to see you spread lasciviously for him on the sofa, your tits out and your fingers parting your lips. Then Joel’s eyes are on you, blazing infernos.

"Neither am I." Your mouth curves into a sinful smile and you keep your voice low, not wanting it to carry. "You know you want to taste my pussy, Joel. It's so sweet."

There's the switch, you see it as clearly as if he'd been physically shaken. You can see it in the tense of his jaw as he decides what to do.

You watch now as his broad shoulders ripple under his t-shirt, his body twisting on the sofa. You hold your breath as Joel crawls towards you. He's like a predator hunting prey, his eyes so dark they reflect none of the low light in the darkness. The only light is coming from the tv, the sound quiet.

"I told you to call me Mister Miller."

And suddenly you're not the one in control anymore. You're at Joel's mercy and this turns you on so much your mouth goes dry.

He tugs you towards him until you're flat on your back. He pushes your thighs further apart, holding you open for him.

You watch in silence as Joel tilts his head forward, full lips pursed before he spits directly into your sopping cunt.

It feels degrading and it feels so fucking hot all at once. You catch his eyes and you feel your breath catch as you wait for his mouth, devastated when his fingers fly between your thighs. Without hesitation his fingers curl in you, mingling your slick with his saliva.

"Greedy fucking thing," Joel murmurs quietly as you bite your lower lip, thrusting against his fingers. It feels so good being there on the sofa, Joel knuckle deep in you as you edge closer to orgasm.

You don't even care that his finger comes to grip the ring around your clit, sliding it back onto his ring finger, dragging it through your folds as he does so.

You hold in a moan, thighs shifting as he drags his ring finger along your clit, the metal smooth. Your eyes crack open to see Joel watching you, face impassive.

He pulls his fingers from you once he sees you looking at him and you feel yourself whimpering softly at the absence of his touch.

You realize this interlude is over, watching as Joel rights himself, bracketing your waist with his knees. Joel has his ring back and now your fun is over. But he's looking at his ring, still damp with your slick and his eyes burn.

His hands have begun pulling his cock from his sweatpants. And without ceremony he's plunged himself into your cunt, not caring about your pleasure. When you let out a surprised gasp he covers your mouth with his broad hand.

"Shut the fuck up."

You nod, back arching into him. He leans over you, bracing himself on his arms. But he's not doing it to be intimate or kind. He's doing it so he can spill filth into your ear without his voice carrying.

"You don't get my mouth," Joel tells you between quiet grunts. "Little fucking slut. Getting me hard in front of my wife."

You shiver.

"This cock is what you get. That's all you fucking get and t-this is the last fucking time."

Sure Joel. Sure.

You have no intention of this being the last time. You plan on fucking Joel Miller every day you have left of this vacation. There is no way that you won't be trying again. Not when being wrong feels so fucking good.

He glances down the length of your bodies, pulling himself slowly from your cunt to see him covered in your slick. You see his eyes shutter, his breath catching before his gaze devours yours.

"So fucking wet. You actually enjoy how wrong it is."

You nod, body at his mercy entirely. Your clit is buried in the wiry hairs at the base of his cock as he bottoms out completely in you, making your eyes roll in the back of your head. He doesn't touch your clit, only chases his own pleasure.

"Little tease," Joel growls in your ear, hand flying to the sofas edge for purchase so he can fuck you deeper. "Fucking sick what you're doing. Making a married man fuck you."

Your pussy is wrapped obscenely around his thickness, your swollen clit desperate for relief. You go to slide your hand between your bodies, needing to touch it when Joel presses you harder into the sofa cushion, trapping your hand between your bellies.

"Nuh uh," Joel rasps in your ear. "You don't get that tonight. Only good girls get to come on my cock."

Your eyes jolt open, questioning. Joel holds back a smirk, his cock still sawing in and out of you. He watches your breasts bounce with every thrust, swallowing thickly.

"Good girls don't do what you did tonight. They don't-"

All of a sudden there's the sound of footsteps over carpet and the door to Joel's bedroom opens softly with a creak.

Joel's chest dips, chest pressing into yours. You go still and wait for Joel to leap from you but his cock remains inside you despite his body tensing. Tess calls out from the bedroom.

"Joel you still out there?"

"Yeah baby," Joel calls out, shockingly composed considering he's still inside you. "Movies almost done."

From where you both lay on the sofa, you can't be seen from the hallway. Only the back on the sofa. Tess doesn't see you naked under her husband who is fully dressed aside from his twitching cock buried deeply in your cunt.

"Be a good girl and keep quiet," Joel orders you in an almost silent whisper at your ear.

You nod up at him, eyes clear. As a reward his hips snap up, hitting you in a spot you cannot reach yourself and if not for his wide hand you're sure Tess would have heard your whimper.

"Did Sarah and her friend go to bed?"

"Uh huh," Joel says, mouth curved into a dark smile as he stares down at you, body jolting under his added thrusts. "Just me out here."

"Okay, night baby."

The door is closed once more and Joel doesn't hold back. His hips drive into yours, his mouth slack. His hand has loosened from around your mouth and you tilt your head, your voice quiet.

"I kept quiet."

"You did," Joel agrees, head falling forward. His hips circle, extending the pleasure for you. "Good fucking girl."

"You said good girls get to come Mister Miller," you remind him in a whisper, your voice breathy. Joel's eyes darken if possible, sliding down to your mouth.

"That's right I did," he rasps, his breathing staccato-ed.

He moves his hand to your mouth, forcing his thumb between your lips and pressing onto your tongue.

"Suck me like a good girl."

You do, coating his thumb without hesitation. He watches you from behind impassive eyes, seeing how eager you are to please him. He removes his thumb, smiling at how desperate you look for him.

He slides his cock further into you, his thumb now coming to circle your slick clit. "You were such a good girl taking my cock so quietly. Letting me fill you, pussy stretched so tight around me."

"I can be quiet so many places Mister Miller," you promise him in a whisper. "I can be quiet wherever you wanna fuck me."

You arch against him, your own hand coming to cover your mouth to stop the sounds building in your throat from escaping before being dragged to your side. Joel’s hips slam into yours and he pins your arms to the sofa cushions, almost daring you to make noise so he can deny you the pleasure slowly building within you.

"You were gettin' so wet knowing she was right there," he groans softly, his hips moving between your legs. "Knowing I was talking to my wife while I fucked your sweet little cunt. Weren't you?"

You nod again. Joel attempts a smirk, but it looks pained. You make a soft exhaling sound as his hands come to grip your thighs, curling around your ass and yanking you brutally against him. And just hearing those husky, whispered words from Joel is enough to have you jerking against him as you come, eyes shut and arms pinned to the sofa.

He makes a strange noise and you smile as he begins to fuck you harder, his body so heavy on yours.Joel's mouth is wet with spit and you wish you could lean up and feel those plush lips on yours.

"You on the pill?"

"Uh huh," you nod. Your heart fluttering in your chest.

"Go on and ask, then."

"Can I have your come, Mister Miller?" You coo softly up at him, eyes wide and shining. "Please?"

"You want me to fill this pretty pussy up?"

"Uh huh."

The sofa creaks and Joel pauses just long enough to empty himself in you, ropes of come that decorate your womb as you arch against him, bouncing against his stuttering hips. He pants into the crook of your neck, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

He pulls himself slowly from you, his cock glistening with your combined release. It turns you on to see it, and still panting and naked you smile at him. He's not smiling though. He looks unreadable. His cock is softening but he lets it hang there outside his pants.

Despite everything he looks intimidating, leaning back to rest against the arm of the sofa behind him. His legs adjust, opening so you have better access to him. He’s breathing heavily, nodding at his cock and then looking to you.

"Clean me up," Joel orders flatly. "I can't go to bed with my wife like this."

But you want him to. You want him covered in your juices when he goes to bed next to his wife. You want him aching, wanting you, your scent clinging to him.

But you nod, crawling slowly on your hands and knees to him. You lean forward, hands on his thighs and without hesitation you lick him clean, base to tip with eyes closed as you savor the taste. Combined you're both so sweet on your tongue.

When you're finished you sit back on your heels, allowing him to help you back into your nightdress.

"Now you stay the fuck away from me," Joel warns, tucking himself back into his sweatpants. "I'm serious."

You nod, trying to keep the smirk from your face.

"Yes, Mister Miller."

264 notes · View notes

brf-rumortrackinganon · 3 months

Note

I was wondering at what point do you think the Sussex’s reached the point of no return, and when the actually penny dropped for H and M (actually do you think he realises that somethings are literally unforgivable even now.) Obviously we probably know a small fraction of what was happening behind the scenes, and the beloved son making a new life is studiously polite, even if many think KC3 would have his son back in an instant.

So it's a few things for me. I think the Oprah interview and Philip's funeral got the ball rolling; the Platinum Jubilee was the "make or break" moment; and The Queen's funeral was when the penny dropped.

Here's the long version...

First, the Oprah interview and Philip's passing/funeral. Here's a super quick timeline of what happened:

2/16/21: Philip enters hospital to receive treatment for an infection.

2/20/21: Charles is papped leaving Philip's hospital looking upset and very emotional.

2/28/21: First promotions of the Sussexes' interview with Oprah debut in the US.

3/1/21: Philip is transferred to a different hospital to receive treatment for his heart condition. Paparazzi photos of him being transferred via ambulance are published, immediate criticism.

3/3/21: Philip has a heart operation. Palace says it went well.

3/5/21: Philip goes back to the first hospital. Meghan tells people she thinks the palace is making up or using Philip's health to silence them and keep them from releasing the Oprah interview.

3/7/21: Oprah interview broadcasts in the US.

3/8/21: Commonwealth Day Service; Oprah releases new clips cut from the final edit of the broadcast; the interview is broadcast in the UK.

(This is just a small piece of what was happening in those days. There was a ton of other stuff going on too.)

I think Meghan leaking to her friends, who talked to reporters, that they don't think Philip is as ill as the Palace reports was the beginning of the end for them. Okay, so maybe the palace wasn't keeping Harry fully updated on everything that was happening as it happened, but the signs were all there that it was a serious hospitalization.

(And I do believe that that leak about Philip's health is why Harry flew immediately to Charles after the King's cancer diagnosis. Karma served him hard with their public on-the-record denials of how ill Philip and The Queen were so now Harry wanted to do the right thing and go see for himself what was really happen.)

Then there's the whole Oprah interview altogether, which many in the firm - family members and courtiers alike - didn't receive well. Using today's measure of "Piers is what Camilla thinks," then if he was hopping mad over it, then she and the family were hopping mad.

Then Philip died and the way the Sussexes behaved - among them: Harry preempting much of the family with his statement about Philip, Harry's demand to wear his uniform, Harry dicking up the procession, Meghan telling everyone the flowers on Philip's casket were from her, Harry allegedly confronting William and Kate about the Oprah interview, the Sussexes using the family walk for olive branch PR, and (if Harry is to be believed) the Harry-Charles-William peace summit in the Frogmore gardens after the funeral - was the final nail in the coffin about what privileges or support the Sussexes would get from the BRF.

Especially when you consider that on February 19, 2021, the Palace announced that the Sussexes had declined to return and the one-year trial/review was terminated as of March 31st. So on April 9th when Philip passed away and the Sussexes began asserting precedence and privilege, they had no right to any of it. They were non-working royals, bottom of the totem pole.

(Then seven weeks later was the whole Lilibet fiasco and we all know how that went.)

I think the Sussexes' behavior and attitude around Philip's funeral, plus the Lilibet debacle (which we didn't fully learn about until after The Queen passed) directly led to certain decisions for the Platinum Jubilee, which became the "make or break" moment for everyone, not just the Sussexes.

The Sussexes saw the Platinum Jubilee as their chance to relaunch and rebrand as royals because they needed the royal glow to make their soon-to-be-released projects successful and well-received. The firm saw the Platinum Jubilee as a chance to rein the Sussexes in to their new status as "family members" vs "royals."

And, well, we know what happened at the Platinum Jubilee:

The Sussexes were kept away from the Cambridge family.

They weren't allowed in the Trooping carriages and the Trooping balcony.

They weren't invited to the Trooping rooftop party with the rest of the family or to the cousins' lunch afterwards.

They were scheduled to take the "Minor Royals Motorcoach" to the service of thanksgiving.

They were booed on arrival (and departure) at the service of thanksgiving.

They weren't included in the official procession with Charles and the Cambridges.

They were seated on the other side away from the working royals and demoted to the inside of the second or third row "after" Beatrice and Eugenie, instead of being on the aisle.

They were not invited to the post-service of thanksgiving guildhall reception/luncheon and had to do the walk of shame to the car by themselves. (Hence the boos.)

No one went to Lili's birthday party.

Meghan didn't get her "Lili meets Lili" picture with The Queen and Lili.

The Sussexes knew it was game over for them from there. The Platinum Jubilee wasn't the "make it" moment they needed and they didn't get anything they wanted. We know they got nothing they wanted because they threw a hissy fit and left early than planned, suggesting they felt very snubbed.

So I think that was the point of no return as far as the firm was concerned - if the Sussexes could behave themselves at the jubilee and the public was accepting of their presence, then the firm could've worked with them. But the Sussexes didn't behave (Meghan's photo stunt with Peter and Zara's girls, missing their pick-up for the service of thanksgiving, and Meghan's stunt rolling down the car window after a whole fuss about security) and the public made their feelings very, very clear.

I think the Sussexes were probably in denial with how badly the jubilee went, and that's why the interviews Meghan did later that summer were bitter and venomous towards the royal family. I also think the way they were treated at the jubilee weekend also informed some of the things they did and said in the Netflix docuseries as well.

So while the Sussexes were fully aware that they were out after the jubilee (I don't remember now who said it, but there's the famous quote "You never really know if you're in with the royal family, but if you're out, you definitely know") I don't think they understood the impact of what being "out" meant, though. I think they thought they could continue using the BRF for PR as they always did and that The Queen/Charles would always welcome them back with open arms because that's what they always did.

Which is what led to the penny dropping with The Queen's passing and funeral. It's clear that Harry thought he'd be given precedence and priority as The King's Son. which didn't happen. He made demands for it, still didn't happen. He tried to take it by force with the Netflix walkabout, still didn't happen. He caused a PR ruckus to get the public to demand it, it still didn't happen.

I do fully believe Harry was grieving at The Queen's funeral and her committal service. But I believe he was grieving the loss of his royal status a bit more than the loss of his grandmother that day, judging by his body language throughout the day. He knew it was all over then and there, and that bitterness came through in his interviews for Spare, when he demanded that the BRF needed to apologize first and his "they know what they did" comments.

I kind of feel like Harry saw the coronation as a test, where he felt "If I go and they treat me well, it'll all be fine but if I go and they treat me horribly, I'm never coming back again." And, well, the latter happened and he went straight from Westminster Abbey to the airport to go home, which was as big a tantrum as the one they pitched at the jubilee to leave early. And if Charles hadn't announced his cancer diagnosis, or if he didn't have cancer at all, I feel pretty confident saying we wouldn't have seen Harry in London until the May service of thanksgiving for Invictus Games.

#ask #brf #sussexes #in this essay i will

116 notes · View notes

tayrcse · 4 months

Text

It’s Not Love, but It’s Pretty Close

✎ series summary: Rafe never intended to fall in love with you. I mean, you were just his client/fuck-buddy, right? What happens when he realizes you’re more than that?

✎ chapter summary: Rafe made you a promise, and he intends to keep it.

✎ warnings: vomiting, mention of drugs and drinking

✎ characters: Rafe Cameron

✎ word count: 807

✎ author’s note: I decided to split this into two parts because it would’ve been too long, but the next part will be out, hopefully, soon.

series masterlist

The pounding in your head begins as soon as you regain consciousness. The churning in your stomach quickly follows. You jump out of bed and bolt to the bathroom, emptying the contents of your stomach into the toilet. You’re too busy heaving into the toilet that you barely register the sound of footsteps on the cold, tile floor. You feel someone’s hand gather your hair out of your face and pull it back into a makeshift ponytail.

“Easy,” the person says, gently rubbing your back with their other hand.

It feels like hours before you feel well enough to lean away from the toilet to take in your surroundings. You blink slowly, willing the blurry room to come into focus. You hear the sound of the toilet flushing and turn toward a familiar figure.

“Rafe?” You whisper, unsure. ‘It can’t be,’ you think.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he sighs, confirming your suspicions. No one else ever called you “sweetheart.”

You rub your blurry eyes, trying to get a better look at him.

“What happened last night?” You ask, your memories from the night before disappearing.

“I found you at a party. You were high out of your mind, so I took you home.” Rafe explained briefly.

‘Home?’ You thought. You may be hungover and coming down from the cocaine high, but you were conscious enough to know this wasn’t your house. ‘Did Rafe consider his home yours too?’ The thought came into your mind before you could push it away. ‘No, he just made a mistake, that’s all.’

“Hey, you still with me?” Rafe asks, noticing how you zoned out.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

“Good. Let’s get you off the floor, yeah?” Rafe stands up, holding a hand out for you to take. You take his hand, a shiver running down your spine at the contact. He lets go of your hand once you’re standing, and you immediately miss his touch.

You watch as he bends down again, rummaging in the drawers beneath his sink until he finds what he was looking for. He hands you a brand new toothbrush and some toothpaste, saying, “I know you feel like shit right now, so go ahead and clean yourself up, and come downstairs when you’re done.” Then, he’s gone as quickly as he had come.

You quickly brush your teeth and shower, finding that he left a shirt and a pair of shorts for you on his bed. When you’re done, you find your way downstairs.

The smell of waffles hits your nose as soon as you enter the kitchen. Rafe is sitting at the kitchen table, doing something on his phone, a plate of waffles in front of him and another plate to his right. He looks up as you enter, setting his phone down.

“Feeling any better?” He asks as you sit down next to him.

“Nope,” you answer, studiously avoiding his gaze.

Rafe sighs, pushing the plate of waffles closer to you. “You need to eat,” he says sternly.

When you don’t make any moves to start eating, he says, “It’ll make you feel better.”

Reluctantly, you pick up the bottle of syrup, pouring a decent amount on the pile of waffles. After your first hesitant bite, it doesn’t take you long to devour the waffles on your plate along with Rafe’s portion that he offered you. You hate to admit it, but he was right about eating making you feel better.

“Thank you,” you mumble once you finished eating and the table is cleared off.

“Don’t mention it,” Rafe replies.

“Anyway, I should, um, probably be heading out,” you say awkwardly, fiddling with the hem of your his shorts.

“Actually, you’re gonna be staying here for awhile,” Rafe says, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

“What?” You ask, finally looking up at him.

Rafe sighs, pushing himself off the counter and walking towards you. “I thought cutting you off would work, but it seems you’re more resourceful than I thought,” he begins. He’s reached you now, and you’ve backed up far enough to hit the wall. “So, you’re staying with me until we get you clean,” he explains matter-of-factly.

“What are you talking about? I don’t need to get clean,” you defend, tilting your face up to meet his eyes.

“Look at you, (Y/N). You’re destroying yourself.”

“I’m fine,” you say adamantly, albeit unconvincingly.

“That’s a lie, and you know it,” Rafe says, a crease emerging between his eyebrows. “Admit it, (Y/N). This isn’t the life you want.”

You try to turn your head, trying to avoid his piercing eyes again, but he doesn’t let you this time. He gently grasps your chin, bringing your eyes to meet his.

“Let me help you.”

You hesitate for a moment. ‘Is he right? Is this the life I want?’ And then, you nod.

“Okay.”

#outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #tayrcse

73 notes · View notes

housewifebuck · 6 months

Text

wip game catchup time

I know I have been so so bad about posting/reblogging all the tag games u guys have been tagging me in and im sorry for that!!! consider this a mashup of all the various games ive been tagged in in the last couple days🤪 here's a lil bit of the new firehose wip

tagged by @shitouttabuck @devirnis @theotherbuckley @sibylsleaves @disasterbuckdiaz @loserdiaz @wikiangela @eddiebabygirldiaz @jeeyuns @wildlife4life @watchyourbuck @lover-of-mine @athenagranted <3

“Fuck you.” Buck points an accusatory finger in Hen’s direction. “We swore never to talk about that again.” “Uh, you swore. I distinctly remember not swearing, specifically so I could make sure you never forgot your roots.” She looks all too thrilled by the rise she’s getting out of Buck, her smile growing as he theatrically shrinks in on himself. “And what long, thick roots they are.” Unable to contain his nosiness any longer, Eddie clears his throat and asks, “What are you guys talking about?” Buck whips around immediately, startling like he had forgotten anyone else was present. The superficial scowl he’s wearing morphs into wide-eyed panic, and Hen lets out an honest-to-god cackle as she swivels to face Eddie. “Oh, you didn’t know?” she asks, faux-innocent in a way that implies absolute awareness of his ignorance. “Buck here used to have another nickname.” Across from them, Buck buries his face in his hands with a childishly loud groan. “You’re ruining my life,” he mumbles. Hen ignores him. “They used to call him firehose,” she continues. This is punctuated by a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows, like it’s some sort of reference Eddie is supposed to understand. Lost, he chances a look at Buck, but his gaze is studiously fixed on the floor, arms crossed and lips pursed tightly. “Why?” Eddie asks slowly. “Wait, who’s ‘they’?”

#this is crack. like its really truly just crack.#I started this fic...one hour ago...and its at 1k words already #but then I had to take a break bc I remembered that post where Andrew said they called him firehose bc he cries so much during sex #and I lost my shit #and had to go find it to rb it again #wip tag #firehose fic #tag games

114 notes · View notes

danibee33 · 5 months

Text

hostage

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (goes by “Saint”)

based on a post by @call-me-doll-face! your vision for this song (“hostage” by Billie Eilish) was just too perfect😭 I couldn’t get it out of my head. I hope you love it as much as I do.

tags: angst & smut, ok it’s very angsty, did I cry? yes

word count: 5.7k (sry I got carried away)

+++

The files strewn across your desk only come back into focus at the sound of three crisp, concise knocks on your door. You blink away the dryness, eyes darting toward the open window to see its pitch dark outside now- shit.

Two more knocks resound through the room, they're a little more forceful this time, urging you to push away from the organized chaos, crossing the short span on tingling feet. You hadn’t meant to lose track of time like that, but after the debrief you needed something to distract you, get your mind off the bitter taste the meeting had left in your mouth-

“Target’s in the wind after the attack in Yemen-”

You change the map, zooming in on a tiny Bedouin village- the settlement no more than a speck in the vast desert, “But we’ve intercepted and translated some chatter from local law enforcement that are on Abaza’s payroll.” – the room goes dark for half a second before the next slide flashes on the screen- “Seems he’s following his pattern of hiding behind civilians.”

The room is silent, save for the rapid clicking of Soap’s pen against the desk- one of the restless man’s many tics, and Price’s furious scribbling. Gaz is eyeing the map studiously, his lips twitching as he muses through the routes and planning- no doubt trying to predict what the Captain will do.

Ghost is just.. Looming. Perched in his usual corner, arms crossed over his chest as he contemplates the information and intel given, eyes lazy and half-lidded even when Price stands, coming to stand at your side.

“Bloody good work, Saint.”

He pats your shoulder, taking over your spot as you settle in a seat at the table, and you try to listen intently- short-handing a few notes you might have missed as the Captain dives into the plan. The others pitch in ideas along the way, logistics and safety for the civilian population; but, it was extraction that gave you pause.

“There will be no cover- that encampment is too exposed.” You only realize you had spoken the thought out loud when you hear a soft huff from behind you,

“Very perceptive, Sec.” Ghost grumbles, his usual sarcasm somehow thicker, more exasperated.

Could you have held back your overly dramatic eye roll? Of course. But it’s fucking Ghost, and all you can hope is that he sees it- just like you know he sees your middle finger held up over your shoulder.

He knows you hated the way he ignored your call sign in favor of using the belittling, diminutive of your rank instead. It’s always been ‘Sec’ for him, short for Second Lieutenant, never one to let you, or anyone else, forget that he outranks you-

But, you’re used to it. That’s just the relationship you and him have had from the start, always this brutally competitive tension between you- which never made sense to anyone else. Especially considering your specialities are on opposite ends of the spectrum, each of you serving your own unique role to make the team function and perform like the well-oiled machine it’s been honed into.

And, to be honest, you’re not sure why you ever let him get under your skin either. You’ve worked with plenty of egotistical superiors and subordinates alike, and it’s never stopped you from reaching and surpassing every single goal you set for yourself. If anything, it’s only pushed you to work that much harder- usually at the cost of any sort of personal life, which is actually how you got your callsign-

“Saint” - ‘the only officer in the SAS who might make it to heaven’

You thought it was silly, but over the years it grew on you. And now, it just feels like what your name has always been, even if everyone knows you rarely make it far in the military by being an actual saint-

“Yes, extraction will be the most difficult part-”

Price’s voice brings you back to the present moment, head snapping up when you sense the giant presence standing next to your chair, “It’s a two-person job, then?”

Ghost’s voice has lost all its amusement and sarcasm, and his gaze feels heavier somehow as he looks over the screen. You watch him for a moment, catching all the nuances in his outward body language that are so imperceptible to others- though, you sometimes wish you weren’t so in tune with him. Wish you didn’t know exactly why you could pick up on these things when no one else could..

“That’s what I was thinkin’-” Price nods, looking between his two sergeants, “Soap, you’ll be second, running interference with some well place distractions?”

You watch Johnny practically vibrate with excitement, shooting you and Ghost a wink,

“Ka-freakin’-boom, baby. You an’ me, LT. The dream team!”

But again, you notice Ghost’s lack of snarky response, verbally and non-verbally, it unnerves you-

“Saint, you’ll be with them-”

“No.”

It takes you a second to react, not sure if you had heard it correctly- maybe you had missed something and he had barked the word over another matter entirely. But then, you hear Gaz and Soap be dismissed, and suddenly you’re standing beside Ghost, you and Price speaking the same question at the same time,

“No?”

Ghost shrugs, refusing to look down at you, “Don’t need ‘er there, Boss. Nothin’ she can’t feed us over radio.”

“First, I’m right here- and second, you don’t get to decide what I can or can’t do-”

Price looks at you, his expression only hinting at confusion as he watches you cross your arms now, mirroring your lieutenant's posture, “Captain-”

Something flashes through the stormy blue of his eyes then, something you can’t even begin to place. But it doesn’t really matter, because you don’t get to finish your protests- cut off instead by an apologetic hum,

“He’s right, Saint-”

“What!?”

You’re not in the business of challenging authority, at least not the authority of a man you genuinely respect like John, but you can’t help it- this wasn’t the first time you’ve been benched, and you know it’s not the first time it’s been Ghost the one ordering it.

Price glances at his watch before scrubbing a hand over his face, “Bloody hell-”, he rounds up the files and tucks them under one arm, holding his mug with the other, “We’ll finish this later, clear?”

Just like that- he’s gone. And you’re left with the suffocating shadow still staring at the image on the wall,

“Don’t take it personally, Sec.”

Your hands clench and unclench, nails leaving stinging little crescents in your palm before turning on your heel, “Fuck you, Ghost.”

You know who’s on the other side of your door. You always do. It’s been your routine for the last year and half- You do have to give it to the insufferable fucking prick for coming to you so soon after what he had done, though.

But, sure enough, the door swings open and there he is. Simon Riley, towering in your doorway, covered head to toe in a black hoodie and dark jeans, his face even further obscured under the hood- all you can see clearly are his eyes. And they’re intensely focused on you.

“Don’t worry, Price called.” You say, leaning against the frame-

He gives you nothing, seconds ticking by as he stands there like a statue, slowly scanning your face like he’s done a thousand times before. It used to make you uncomfortable, how he would look at you that way, like he was peeling you open, layer by layer- and it still does, like now. But, you’ve gotten used to his idiosyncrasies, at times even find them oddly endearing, if he weren’t such a dick.

“Can I come in?”

A sigh fills the air between you, followed by you glaring up at him- you want to say ‘no’, give him another big ‘fuck you’ middle finger and slam the door in his face; maybe even say fuck your arrangement all together, because now it’s becoming a pattern, him sidelining you.. But, you do none of those things. Because it’s him. Always fucking him.

So, you roll your eyes and turn back into the room, not bothering to invite him in because he knows the open door is your way of allowing it.

Instantly, your cozy abode feels ten times smaller and a hundred times warmer with him in it- it causes your skin to flush and your fingers to twitch, that restlessness you tend to feel when you were alone with him, crawling over you, burrowing itself in your chest.

“You’re mad.”

“Very perceptive, Ghost.” You throw his words from earlier back at him, crossing your arms because you honestly never knew what to do with your hands when you talked to him.

They always wanted to reach out for him- you were no better than Pavlov’s salivating dog when it comes to Simon fucking Riley. He had trained you so well without ever even having to try.

God, you hate him. And you hate yourself even more for know that’s not true in the slightest- “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doin’ what?” He shifts on his feet, fists still shoved in the front pocket of his hoodie.

You throw your hands up, “Benching me like this! There’s no reason I shouldn’t be on the ground with you and Soap, just like I usually am.”

“There’s no reason you should be, either.”

That awful itch creeps down your spine, tickling your legs and feet. The need to move, to exert some kind of energy before you implode forcing you to pace. You’ll never understand him, no matter how much time you spend together, or how many nights you waste sweaty and clinging to each other, words never meant for the waking world spoken between you- you will never understand him.

Never understand why he can’t just be hot or cold, why he can’t just be mean to you all the time, because at least that way it would be easier to separate what is, and what isn’t.

“You said this wouldn’t change things- I’ve held up my end of the deal. But you.. We can’t do this if you’re going to jeopardize my career.” Simon watches you just as intently as before, eyes tracking your war path back and forth, “I mean, I know we’re competitive and petty, but I didn’t think you would start fucking blacklisting me-”

That seems to catch his attention, head perking up, “That’s not what I’m doin’, Sec-”

“Well then enlighten me, lieutenant.” You spit back, eyebrows furrowing when you see him reach for you.

He gently tugs you closer, gloved hand wrapped around your forearm- closer and closer until you can feel that unbearable heat he exudes, smell the spice of his cologne, the one he only ever seems to wear when he comes to your room. Like he wants to lay claim to you somehow-

“Don’t..” The command comes out without even a hint of conviction, his finger tilting your chin back,

“I don’t want to talk, Saint. Please, not right now.”

It must be comical, how wide your eyes grow at the sound of your callsign in his gruff voice, the way he breathes the small plea- something you’ve never once heard him say. You just barely catch the way his eyes crinkle at the very corners in your stupor. The audacious bastard is smiling like he knows you would melt for it.

He knows you so well.

But the smile isn’t mean, it isn’t to spite you like he does sometimes- no, this feels warmer, like you could reach out and wrap yourself in it.

“Simon.. This isn’t good for us.”

“For us?”, he leans down then, the arm around your waist pulling you close enough to feel his covered lips on your neck, “Or for you?”

Your exhale feels labored and too heavy in your lungs, cursing yourself over and over for how effortless it is for him to unravel you. How just the feeling of his big hands splayed out over your ribs, slowly traveling up and down your body, makes your legs weak- and the heat of his breath condensating on your skin has the familiar pressure steadily growing low in your belly- begging for more.

When he pulls the mask off this time, you can’t help but notice the gentility in his expression. A certain relaxed nature about it that seems so out of place for him. Most of the time, when you would find each other at the end of the day, he would be frustrated or annoyed, or he would be carrying that familiar brand of apathy written all over his face.

Not that it never cracked, you’ve gotten the privilege of seeing him show softness, even if it’s in his own way. A playful wink here and there, a genuine smirk that would reach his eyes for a fleeting moment, or when you got to see the deep dimples on either cheek- the ones that give his features an almost boyishly handsome quality.

But right now, you swear he looks.. content.

And when he kisses you, it’s languid and sweet- the softer skin of his lips contrasting to the way his five o’ clock shadow scratches your chin and mouth. He kisses you like you have all the time in the world, like there’s no place he would rather be than right here, tangling his fingers in your hair- tasting your tongue as it dances around his.

It confuses you, because this is not how it’s supposed to go. There’s rarely ever time for such thoroughness, not that Simon wasn’t incredibly adept when it comes to giving pleasure- it just tended to be like a flashfire, like throwing a lit match into gasoline, volatile and explosive. That’s what you agreed on though, agreed to use each other- use your attraction merely as a means to an end. Blowing off steam. There’s no need to be soft and languid when you could just take the emotion out of it all together.

And that’s just how you’ve always assumed it is for him. You’ve never minded, not really- you were a smart woman, reasonable and logical, but.. You were still only human. Of course you craved that connection, the physical touch; you would never admit that you wanted him to hold you until you fell asleep afterwards, that you wanted to run your fingers through his hair, or memorize every delicious curve and vein and scar on his body-

No, that would mean you thought of him beyond sex, and that was very strictly forbidden.

He walks you backward, lips and hands never straying far as you take turns undressing the other- his shirt is on the ground first, giving you not nearly long enough to revel in the sight before yours is being lazily pulled over your head.

The backs of your knees hit the bed frame, which feels like a reprieve at this point with how utterly weak you feel in his arms; so, you let yourself sink into the foamy cushion, casting your eyes upward for only a second as you quickly work at his belt.

You’re forced to stop though, leaning back when he moves, crowding your space by bending over you on the bed and propping himself up with a massive arm on either side, his face close enough to graze his nose over yours, “You in a rush tonight, baby?”

Petulantly, you lift your chin- capturing his bottom lip between your teeth, you give it just enough of a bite to hear him hiss before laving the tender spot with your tongue. But before you can kiss him again, before you can pull him down on top of you, or your hands can make their way back to his buckle- he easily lifts you up, placing you further back on the bed.

“Simon, what are you doing?”

The question comes out more harsh than you were going for, but he’s not making any fucking sense, and you feel like a top wound too tight, overly conscious of the slick staining your underwear, and the ache in your core that only he can fix-

And maybe for a second, you see a flash of anger in his eyes, standing at his full height while you stare up at him,

“What does it look like we’re doin’, Sec?”

You huff out a incredulous laugh, scooting off the mattress- eyes searching the floor for your shirt, hell, anything to cover up with,

“Oh. Back to Sec, huh?”

Scrubbing a palm over his face, he watches you purposely not look his way, “Fuckin’ hell, do you always have to have it out with me? Can never just let it be-”

“Let it be?”, shirt be damned, you turn back to face him- “Let what be, exactly, Ghost? This is how it’s been for over a year. I mean, fuck, longer than that! You hated me, I hated you- it was perfect. We could fuck each other, and it meant nothing-”

“Past tense.”

He cuts you off, and you feel like you might actually throw something until your brain finally registers what he said,

“What?”

“You’re usin’ the past tense.. ‘Hated’, ’meant’.”

You shake you head, hands coming up before plopping limp at your side, “What the fuck are you on about?”

When he takes a step forward, you take one back, “Words are important, love..” – another step closer, another step away, “‘Hated’ implies that you did, but you don’t anymore.”

“What is this? A language arts lesson?” You try to bring back that anger, that bitterness, but the way he’s looking at you, the way his voice is lower, brassy and rich- it’s hard to feel anything other than him.

A wall halts you, your bare skin protesting against the cold, smooth surface. You wish it would swallow you whole. But, he gets closer, and you’re still there, once again looking up at him,

“I don’t hate you, Saint. I’ve never hated you..” The back of his finger carves a slow path over your cheek, his head tilting to the side, “You were right though, about this not bein’ good.. But not for us- for you.”

“Ghost- I..”

“I’m not good for you. Never have been- I came into this selfishly, thinkin’ that it would be easy, that you would be like all the rest, get tired of me when I wasn’t able to give.. enough. And then it would be over.”

You’re held rapt by his admission, hanging on to every syllable- because you don’t think you’ve ever heard him say so much at once. And certainly never imagined it would have to do with the way he feels about you, bad or otherwise.

“Why did you stay?”

It’s because you’re so lost in the novelty of him in this moment, that it takes an awkwardly long few seconds to realize that you need to actually answer the question-

“I stayed..” — you blink, fighting to make your racing thoughts make sense, “Because you never tried to trick me- or be anything other than what you are, Simon. It was- is, enough. You’re enough.”

His eyelids flutter, a deep, soothing sigh blowing through his nose as he turns away- almost composing himself, in a way, if you know him as well as you think you do,

“You never wanted anythin’ more?”

“No.” You say, and it’s not a lie, you could leave it there- but there’s just something in his eyes that’s begging for more- “Not at first.”

“But now?”

“What do you want me to say, Simon? Of course, I want more. It’s kind of hard not to when you’ve had what we have, had sex with a person, and only that person, for over a year-”

His eyes widen, pupils consuming the honeyed amber that surrounds them right before his lips catch yours in that bruising sort of kiss you know so, so well. It’s full of every single thing he can’t put words to. And for a moment, he nearly gets lost in it, that finely threaded tether on his control slipping further and further- control he’s never been good at reining in when it comes to you.

***

I whisper your name, letting the taste of it linger over my tongue as I try to pull away, try to prolong every second I can get- quietly pleading with you to just slow down. Because I know what comes after-

But the way you chase after my lips, your nails clawing at me, my skin burning under your touch- fucking hell.

You shouldn’t be here, should’ve never agreed to this, with me. You’re too good for someone so broken. You have so much life to live, and I hate that you’ve wasted even a moment of it caring for me- wanting me.

Hm.. Saint. How fucking perfect- because only a saint could bring a devil to his knees.

And that you did. With every lingering touch, and every sweet smile you gave me, everytime you moaned my name, I let you in deeper and deeper. Until I started to hate when you left, hated that I only felt whole when I had you in my arms-

No, I’m no good for you.

Because if I had it my way, I would want to hold you hostage here, right where you belong. Where the world couldn’t touch you, couldn’t hurt you.

I would want you to crawl inside my veins, live in my bones- like you don’t already own the terrible void that’s been in my chest for longer than I can remember.

Might as well take it all. It’s as good as yours anyway.

I love you. I can’t say it- that wouldn’t be fair to you. My love is tainted and ruined, a blasphemous and dangerous thing- it’s only ever killed those I’ve given it to. So, I won’t curse you with those words.

But I hope you can feel it.

“Simon.. Please-” You frame my face in your hands, tugging at my hair, “I want you.”

***

Hearing his name, or maybe it’s the traitorous desperation in your voice, urges him to act. A small squeak escapes when he lifts you up, your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms looped over his neck,

“I’m yours.”

It stuns you, how fluid and thoughtless he says it, like it’s nothing, like he’s said it a hundred times before. Like he didn’t just tell you exactly what you had mindlessly dreamed of hearing from him for months now.

He doesn’t pause though, kissing you again, swallowing your thoughts in his lips- and time slows as your back sinks into the covers. The comfort of his weight settling over you, his hips nestled between your thighs. It’s all so much, too much and not enough at the same time; but you think you could stay here forever, pinned under him, be the object of his desire for as long as he wanted, have him tell you that he’s yours over and over-

The bed dips as he breaks away, working your button and zipper open with practiced movements-

“Lift up, baby.”

You lift your hips, helping him gently tug your cargo pants down before standing and stripping out of his own. And like so many times before, you can’t help but to very disrespectfully let your eyes rake over his bulky frame- your bottom lip trapped between your teeth,

“Jesus, Simon.. That’s not fair.”

“Not fair for who?” He coos, crawling over you again, pressing chaste kisses over your torso as he goes.

A sharp gasp echoes when he latches onto your nipple, his teeth grazing across the sensitive bud, the thrill of blissful pain simmering through you-

“It’s just not fair..” You whine, back arching as he does the same thing to your other, the wet skin cooling too quickly when you feel him chuckle.

“‘M sorry, lovie.”

He teases you for what feels like an eternity, having learned your body better than you know it yourself anymore- only Simon knows how to turn you into putty in his hands, make you soft and pliable, keening and whimpering, a teary eyed mess. And usually he never takes it so far, never ruins you so thoroughly before you’ve even had his cock- but tonight he does.

Tonight, he seems determined to map out every inch of you, even allowing you to do the same in small doses. He lets your fingertips trace over his scars, lets your lips kiss all the broken parts of him-

“Will you tell me about them one day?” You ask, the question muffled against his neck.

It’s an innocent inquiry, honest and genuine, but you don’t miss how he tenses above you before pulling away just enough to see your face. Maybe if you knew him better, had more time with him like this, you would be able to discern the anguish in his eyes- but you don’t see it. Even though you’ll remember it.. this particular moment, it will stick with you far beyond just tonight.

“One day.”

You aren’t sure why you don’t believe him.

All too quickly the thought is lost when you feel him readjust, leaning up on his knees- and your mouth waters at the view, how his chest heaves, already covered in a satiny sheen of sweat; how he strokes his length before looking down to watch how he sinks into you, how you take him so fucking perfectly-

Just like in everything else tonight, he moves at an achingly languid pace- thrusting forward inch by inch, and pulling out just as slow- reveling in the way your slick glistens, all for him.

“Simon..”, you reach for him, needing him close, needing more, “Mh.. Simon- please..”

He comes to you, lets you pull his face down to yours, “Please what, baby?”

When he pushes into you again, it takes your breath away, your muscles clenching as he drives right up against the fleshy wall of your cervix, “You want more?”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut until you feel him cradle your face, “Mm-mm, I want you to look at me, Saint.. Keep your eyes on me, yeah?”

Without another thought, you open them, your brows knitting together as you search his face. You expect to see something close to his usual bravado, maybe even a devious smirk, or a wolfish gleam; but it’s none of those things. His expression is one of longing and adoration- his demand wasn’t being made out of a desire to control you, he simply wants to see you.

He wants to be seen.

“Ok, Simon..”, you place your hand over his, turning into his palm to plant a kiss to the rough skin there, “On you.”

His next thrust is harder, causing your legs to tighten around him- and even when he finally gives in, driving into you faster and deeper, each time hitting that spot that has you clenching and whimpering, he still holds your face, still keeps his eyes steady on you- entranced at the way you fight to keep your own open for him.

“That’s it.. fuck-” He grunts, crushing his lips to yours, “My good girl.”

The praises he whispers next are far sweeter than anything he’s ever said before, punctuated and interrupted by his own breathless moans. His words and each building noise he gives only drives you toward your end- dragging him right along with it until you’re both falling over the edge.

And it’s your name he says as he spills deep inside you, your name said again like an answered prayer when you hug him closer- both of you holding onto the other like if you let go for even a second, you might drift away.

“I’ve got you..” You say it without really knowing why, but knowing that it feels right. Knowing that he has you, too. At least in this moment- and that’s enough. He’s enough.

How long you stay that way, you can’t be sure- long enough for your bodies to grow limp and the sweat on your skin to dry before he finally peels himself away. And you could cry from the abrupt absence of his warmth, his weight, him.

Thankfully, he’s back just as quick, a warm cloth in hand and a tender touch to clean you up- which isn’t new, Simon’s always taken the time for aftercare, but it’s never felt so.. intimate. He goes about it just as tenderly and thoroughly as he had causing the mess in the first place, his eyes never leaving your skin, lips pressing sweet kisses nearly every place he wipes.

It pulls at you, the pesky prickling of tears stinging your eyes again. Because you know there must be a reason for his stark change tonight- but, you just can’t bring yourself to break the moment by asking why.

He stays with you. It’s not an entirely spoken agreement, he doesn’t ask and you don’t suggest, but when he slips back into the covers with you, you certainly don’t complain. You let him pull you under his arm, smiling into his chest when he kisses the top of your head,

“Good night, Simon.”

You hear him take a deep breath, the muscles under your cheek relaxing as he exhales just as deep and long, “G’ night, Saint.”

***

Watery rays of sunlight wake you, the glow behind your eyelids rousing your mind enough to realize the spot beside you is vacant, the sheets long since cooled. It doesn’t bother you, not really, it’s just Simon. The only clues he left to prove last night wasn’t just some fucked up dream being his scent, still lingering so heavily on his pillow, and the blissful ache between your legs.

And you wish you could stay here, covered in the blankets, wrapped in his smell, reliving the vivid memories as they flash through your head- his words replaying on a loop in your ears.

I’m yours.

But your alarm has other plans, your chosen vocation entirely undeterred by your relationships woes and break-throughs. Just another day, right? You would see him at the morning debrief, and again for range training- nothing changes externally. But everything had changed on the inside, for you anyway.

Is it wrong to hope it had for him, too?

You go about your morning routine, joyfully unaware of the decisions made without your knowledge, of the actions taken and the consequences that would follow- you hum along to your music, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

What a lovesick fucking fool you are.

It’s only when you’re reaching for your phone and keys from the desk that you see the piece of paper, carefully ripped from your own notepad and the silver metallic glint sticking out just beyond the corner.

You don’t recall the next seconds, or minutes- not really even the next hour. It all feels like that soft whooshing of TV static, endless and without form. And you find yourself begging for it to have been a dream, silently hoping that none of it really happened, that he hadn’t knocked on your door, that you hadn’t let him in.

That you hadn’t given him everything, and you hadn’t let him convince you he was yours.

Still stuck in that awful whooshing, you grip the piece of metal so hard you think the impression of his name might just brand itself into your palm, your boots stomping against the tile as you pass by all those familiar doors-

“What is this?”

Price looks up at you, and that dreadful nausea settles in the pit of your stomach when you see the resignation in his eyes.

“Saint-”

“When did they leave?”

“0400.”

They could already be there- Price wouldn’t let him do this.. Right?

“Recall them then, there’s still time. We’ll-”

He gives a long sigh, lips set into a thin line, “This might be our only shot, Saint. It’s not perfect, but there’s still a chance.”

***

There was never a chance.

Two weeks later, you stood on the tarmac- hair whipping violently in the wind as you watch the plane land. You stay there ,silently partaking in your own morbid, self-loathing vigil, still somehow hoping it isn’t true.

But there he is.

Simon Riley. His pine coffin draped with the flag he had fought for.

You watch Soap do his best, limping alongside it, his arms shaking and his eyes stained with tears. He gives you a hug afterward, whispering that he tried, he tried to bring everyone home.

You don’t blame him. Not for a second. You knew when you found Simon’s dog tag on your desk that he never intended on coming back. You knew when you read his neatly written note that you would never see him again. You would never hear his voice or feel his lips against yours. You would never get the chance to tell him that you were his, and that you always had been.

You didn’t know then, that a part of you always would be, didn’t know that he had left more behind than either of you could have imagined.

***

When the doorbell rings, you tear your eyes away from the now framed note. Flitting through the cozy flat with a smile growing on your face,

“Saint!” Gaz sweeps you into a bruising hug, your feet coming off the floor and a giggle erupting from your chest.

“I’m glad you all could make it.” You say a bit breathlessly once you're back on solid ground.

Price gives you a hug next, his beard tickling your cheek, “Wouldn’t miss it, sweetheart.”

“Aye, are ye kiddin’?” Johnny’s kiss lands just at the corner of your lips, his hold tighter, more familiar than the rest- “Miss our big lad’s first birthday? Never, bonnie.”

On cue, you turn at the sound of excited babbling to see the birthday boy in question, looking between the four of you. His copper brown eyes wide with curiosity, and a mess of honey blonde curls on his head.

I was so lucky to have had you..

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

Your Simon.

+++

well, I’m ruined. and I hope you enjoyed it. I’m really not good at leaving angst too angsty, I’m too much of a hoe for silver linings and happy endings and all that fluffy sh*t.

forever just a lover girl at heart 🥲

#bee writes #this was too good how could I not #simon x reader #I’m so bad at angst #I’m just a soft girlie #call of duty #cod fandom #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish

77 notes · View notes

lorei-writes · 3 months

Text

Arsenic Green

Gilbert von Obsidian x Reader Yandere (?) ~1.3k words

In which a certain lord dares think about courting you...

Content Warnings: blood, poisoning, food, biting, side character death

“To our friendship,” Gilbert toasts, his smile unwavering, beaming brightly in cold light. The man seated opposite of him shifts in his chair before too raising his drink to his lips. Absent-mindedly, Lord Bassewitz takes a sip, to then promptly set his cup aside. Slice of lemon sinks under the weight of the turbulent alcohol, yet that is overlooked. He steals another glance at you, so very faithful in his adoration of your every gesture. His mellowed eyes take in your smile with barely concealed elation, a thin veil of dreamy mist setting over his features whenever you as much as concisely reply to any of his questions. An Icarus enchanted by the allure of a sun, he dares to bring your attention to himself.

Tendons give under the knife’s edge, roasted skin willingly parting for meat to be cut. Gilbert rips the pheasant thigh from the roast, claims it for himself. He plates it over silver, eye as red as the finest of Benitoitian wines studiously searching for any signs of change to the metal. Gloved fingers grip the cutlery with cautious elegance. The process repeats, steamed vegetables, smoked fish, minced mint roulades, salads, cheeses and other dishes gradually gathering around his place by the oaken table. He lifts his glass, the alcohol contained within it eagerly dyeing the dining hall walls in splashing crimson. Black leather caresses the fragile stem as delicately as if it was you, not a fraction of him, of his being, betraying his desire to snap it in half.

Again.

Yet again.

Gilbert could never forget about any of his dear friends and likewise, he does not forget about any of yours or any who dare consider themselves as such. He cannot. You are his. His alone. Tigers are territorial beasts and since you’ve chosen one, you havenot meant to be shared. Not that you truly had much choice; regardless, the dinner must go on, so go on it does, silver shrieking against silver as Gilbert cuts into the fish to then oh so slowly chew the slice, savouring the acidic marinate with obstinate thoroughness. He lets out a hum of approval and you turn your face towards him, candle light casting shadows into any concerned creases that mark the space between your brows.

“Hm? What is it?” he asks, so innocent despite being anything but.

“Is… everything well?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Gilbert brings another bite of fish to his lips. He consumes it slowly, intently, never once dropping your gaze. It is as if he wanted to reinvent the sacrum, to turn the act into a binding vow between you two, an enchantment or a curse that would always return you to him. It slows the time, has the breath solidify in your lungs, passing seconds turning to dust and drying out your throat… And then Gilbert swallows, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple shaking your world. “Are you upset, little rabbit?”

“What? No, no, of course not,” you assure, shaking your head vehemently, long hair bouncing over your shoulders. “I’m enjoying this meeting. Really.”

“Give me your hand.”

The world greys again to then completely fade away. It is just the scarlet, that of his smouldering stare and the one buzzing in your veins, each thud of your heart thundering through your ribs. You are as if hypnotised, phantom hands combing through your waves, pushing them aside to descend over your neck. Frigid breath envelops your skin in white frost, lips that are not there just barely kissing the marks you’ve so diligently covered with make up. You have to obey him, the choice a mere illusion dreamt by your trembling arms. So you do as he says and give him your hand, the pads of his fingers brimming with electricity as they brush against your palm. Gilbert brings it to his face, his very real cool replacing the invisible ghost from before, leather caressing your skin to then grip it tightly, coil around you wrist like a snake.

You are his.

You are his when he kisses the back of your hand, when he turns it around and sucks at your wrist until it bruises, and you are his when he punishes you for being so willing to entertain another man. Your nerves sizzle as Gilbert takes your ring finger into his mouth, hot tongue wetting your skin for his teeth to immediately sink into it. Hard. He drinks from you like from a chalice, relishing in your pain and fright alike. You are his, his to do with as he pleases, his to crave loyalty into and his … His… For all eternity. Only. His.

***

Lord Bassewitz is undeterred.

***

Lord Bassewitz is insistent.

***

Lord Bassewitz… still is. But why? Why is it not Lord Bassewitz ‘was’?

***

A tap at a time, Gilbert walks down the corridor. His step has gained a certain spring, a kind of lightness it has not possessed in years. He’s pleased or relieved, or perhaps both – or maybe it is just the sun, so warmly inviting in its bright affection streaming through the tall windows. Regardless, he is satisfied and in this satisfaction he magnanimously overlooks the shivering doors he passes by. All until one.

The cane strikes the granite floor, just short of producing sparks. Gilbert readjusts his cloak, an impeccable smile on his face, and knocks on the wood. His hand moves towards the knob by itself, his fingers turning it without waiting for any reply. They – he – cannot possibly postpone the moment any further. He’s grown tired of that.

Hinges move soundlessly as Gilbert steps inside the room, a speck of obsidian against the carmine wallpaper. He lifts his cane, the walnut floor squelching under his boots. He wipes the soles on the carpet. Gilbert strides forward nonchalantly, almost as if unaware of Lord Bassewitz knelt over a puddle of bloody vomit. Pale-faced, the man has become a mere shadow of himself, shrunken and sunken to the point of being less the phantom that haunted you during that dinner. Not that he haven’t strived for that. After all, he has hoped, craved, to be even as much. Ruthlessly wayward in his foolishness, Lord Bassewitz raises his head. Ignorant, he sins with arrogance.

You, he mouths silently, bloody red staining his yellowish purple lips and soft sheen of sweat covering his brow. Short of breath, Lord Bassewitz can only claw at the ground with his brittle nails, memories escaping his mind with each garlicky huff of air.

“A-Anti —”

“There is none. It’s already too late.” Gilbert sits down in the chair by the window, sinks into the shade provided by the backrest. He relaxes into the plush cushions, one leg crossed over the other and a hand resting on his knee. As if taxidermied, his face is twisted in eternally joyous smile, unreadable save for the scalding cold coagulated in his eye. Gilbert taps away a lively, joyous melody.

And he remembers.

He relishes his memories.

Gilbert recalls Lord Bassewitz’s hand brushing against yours as he brazenly appeared in your path. He remembers his longing gazes, the lovesick sighs, all the questions and greetings that should have never been thought nor spoken out loud, let alone exchanged. He remembers your lovely visage, infidelicly presented to somebody that was not him. He recalls the many days he’s waited and the many meals you’ve shared and the orders he’s issued and that sweetly acidic taste so prevalent on his table ever since you’ve considered straying – and he relishes, he relishes the scene displayed in the room now not only wallpapered in red, almost wishing to too experience the heavenly coppery taste that brought him to this end. Gilbert’s jealousy is the colour of arsenic green, equal parts venomous and poisonous.

And it could have been only him or Lord Bassewitz.

So Gilbert watches.

Until the very end.

You've seen a typo? Let me know!

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather @tele86 @rinaririr @keithsandwich @cheese-ception @bis-enti @claviscollections @queengiuliettafirstlady @sh0jun @lucyw260

Tell me if you'd like to be added to my tag list :)

#gilbert von obsidian #ikepri gilbert #ikemen prince gilbert #ikepri #ikemen prince #ikemen series

75 notes · View notes

hearthown · 2 months

Text

The Middle Names

In this post, I explore why TTH gave the brothers their specific middle names. (Yes, I know it was for the game but there were 4 to choose from and as we know, there's a reason behind everything he does)

[These are my own interpretations!]

Davenport

Davenport was given to Grayson. In the game, the Davenport was a desk. Desks are all about seriousness because we use them to study and work. Everyone knows that seriousness is one of the prominent traits that Gray has and not only that, the Davenport desk has a secret larger compartment. Maybe TTH thought that Gray should have Davenport as his middle name bc he associated it with studiousness, seriousness, and bc he knew that Gray would always have to keep his deepest emotions, thoughts and weaknesses to himself (thus circling back to the secret compartment).

Winchester

Winchester was given to Jameson. In the game, the clue was found on a Winchester rifle. I personally associate rifles (and anything involving gunfire) with risks, adrenaline, spontaneity and thrill (sound familiar?). Jameson is all about taking risks and going out there and being adventurous. Also, TTH was a weapons collector (rifles, guns) and that can be considered as a favourite activity. It was mentioned several times that Jamie was his favourite grandson as he reminded him of Toby. Also, the whole family grew up shooting and something tells me that Jamie was one hell of a shot just like TTH.

Westbrook

Westbrook was Nash's. In the game, his middle name literally means west of a brook. Eventually, brooks flow out into oceans and oceans are vast and open. Nash is a free spirit with his nomadic lifestyle and his "don't care" attitude. I think TTH chose this one for him to represent the fact that you can never hold Nash back if he wants to be free. If Nash wants to go, nothing can stop him, but at the end of the day, he'll always return. (Like how seawater eventually becomes drinking water iygwim)

Blackwood

And finally, Xander's. In the game, his middle name represents The Black Wood which is the forest on the north side of the estate. Forests are filled with trees and where there are trees, there is knowledge. Xander is arguably the most intelligent Hawthorne (what with his ability to just CREATE contraptions, the number of patents he has and just XANDER in general). So as a summary, TTH chose Blackwood for Xander bc he might've heavily related it to knowledge and even growth. As a kid, Xan never really showed interest in the games but maybe TTH knew he would grow to love a good game and to love winning just like his brothers.

#the inheritance games #the hawthorne legacy #the final gambit #the brothers hawthorne #grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #xander hawthorne #the hawthorne brothers #grayson davenport hawthorne #jameson winchester hawthorne #xander blackwood hawthorne #nash westbrook hawthorne #tobias hawthorne

48 notes · View notes

shady-tavern · 11 months

Text

Healing Hearts

Warning for implied Animal and Child Abuse, though nothing graphic, please take care of yourselves.

***

Cloud was a very small and very hopeful cat. Her fur was as gray as the storm clouds she had been born beneath and her family had expected great things of her. She had been very energetic as a kitten, looking forward to finally being big enough that she could help out and be of use.

To finally be as proud as her big brother, as strong as her mother and as crafty and swift as her father. There was plenty to do with climbing trees to look for birds, tracking mice and keeping lookout for the pack of wild dogs.

But as it turned out, Cloud wasn't very good at many, many things. She fell out of trees when she tried to climb them, she rarely landed on her feet and couldn't stealth through tall grass if her life depended on it. She got distracted watching out for the wild dogs and failed to warn her family in time.

"Maybe it's better if you leave," her brother told her one day, annoyed and tired. His heart was clearly troubled and grim with unpleasant determination. "You are ruining the hunt for all of us and it's unfair that we work hard just to keep you fed when you can't do anything for us."

"I'm doing my best," Cloud protested, upset and hurt and panicked at the idea of being all alone. Of being cast out. "Where would I even go?"

He flicked his tail dismissively. "Anywhere that's not here. Mom and Dad already expect a new litter of kittens and it will be hard enough for us to get them through winter without you there, mooching off of us."

When Cloud looked beseechingly at her parents, her father was studiously looking to the side, tail flicking restlessly. His heart was dark and heavy with what they had decided to do and yet he was too scared to meet her eyes, too scared of seeing the pain he was causing.

Her mother was tired and half asleep, her eyes were apologetic but she didn't speak up. Her heart was worn and exhausted and busy guarding the growing lives beneath it in her belly.

"Go," her brother said quietly, brushing past her. "I'm sure you'll find your place somewhere out there."

Cloud didn't leave right away, even as her heart felt cleaved in two. She lingered and skulked along the edges of her home, until at last the silence of her family drove her fully away.

She felt so desolate, it was nothing but pure luck that she didn't run into the pack of dogs or any other trouble. She walked until it started to rain and then she curled up within a hollowed tree along one of the dirt paths humans had made to travel along.

It took her a long moment to notice the whimper over the gentle, steady rain. Her ears flicked and for a second, she considered not getting up. She was grieving and tired and felt as though her heart had turned to paste, but at last she dragged herself to her feet.

Following the noise, she soon came upon a big, black dog, scars across its muzzle and it was tied down to the ground with a fraying, rough rope. Cloud stilled, startled, but the dog didn't react. He just remained curled up, shivering a little.

"Are you alright?" Cloud asked after a moment and the dog blinked one eye open. He looked very sad and very small, even though he was big. His heart was the darkest and heaviest Cloud had ever seen, filled with pain and grief and worthlessness.

"I was a bad dog," the dog said at last, quiet and so mournful it broke her heart a little. "I always mess up everything."

Despite herself and all her family's warnings, she felt a pang of understanding sympathy. She hesitated, then approached the desolate dog, noticing that he was lashed down so tightly he couldn't get up even if he wanted to.

"What happened to you?" she asked, aghast and the dog closed his eyes again, curling up tighter.

"My master didn't want me," the dog said in the tiniest voice and Cloud was horrified, before anger overtook her. She marched up to the dog and started to chew and claw at the rope until the frayed part snapped.

"Get up," she said and nudged at the startled dog until he clambered to his feet. He was too thin to her liking. "You can't stay here."

"Then where do I go?" the dog asked, fur matted and ears drooping. "I'm not gentle enough with children, too stupid for tricks, too dumb for guarding and too cowardly for fighting. I'm good for nothing."

The words hit home harder than Cloud had thought. She, too, was good for nothing. Too clumsy for climbing, too loud for sneaking and too easy to distract for keeping watch.

"I don't know," she answered at last. "I don't know where to go either." At least he was free now.

When she turned around to leave, the dog hesitantly crept after her. When she didn't protest, he followed her all the way to the hollowed and now they were both curled up within. The space was just barely big enough for them to fit.

After a moment of staring outside Cloud got up again and he looked visibly startled when she curled up against his side. He was warm, even if he smelled of stale air and dust.

They remained there as they waited out the rain and night fell. Some owls hooted and a fox screeched and the dog flinched a little, but stayed calm when she didn't react.

At the first hint of dawn, hunger drove Cloud to her feet. The dog followed her again as they walked down the road in the direction most of the humans traveled.

"Where is your family?" the dog asked quietly after a moment.

Cloud had to wait until her throat stopped aching with grief until she could respond, "They don't want me." She glanced up at her big companion. "I'm not good at anything either."

The dog looked upset on her behalf and hesitated, then offered, "Maybe we can be good at something together?"

That made Cloud thoughtful. Maybe the dog was right, she decided as they walked. Maybe if they worked together, they could make it. "Alright," she said at last and the dog perked up hopefully. "Come on, I think I know where to get food."

The dog looked relieved and eager. As they crested the hill, a settlement came into view. Cloud's family had always warned her away from those places, but she had overheard birds chatting with each other, as they watched her try and fail to climb. They found her clumsiness greatly entertaining.

"People leave food they don't eat outside," she told the dog when he hesitated to set foot into the small town. "We'll be careful. And look, it's still early, so barely anyone is awake."

Hesitantly, the dog followed her at last, almost crawling with how small he tried to make himself. Now came the tricky part. Cloud had heard the birds talk about food, but she had no idea where exactly she was supposed to find it.

She made sure no one spotted them, winding around corners and ducking into hiding spots until the dog suddenly lifted his head.

"I smell something. This way." They followed his nose and soon Cloud smelled what he had caught on the wind. The scent of blood and meat.

There was a building where humans clearly did their killing, which was strange but she wasn't going to question it. Not when bits and pieces got tossed outside. The downside was, they weren't the only ones. Other dogs milled nearby, while wary cats watched from the shadows, ready to swoop in and grab what they could.

"We can find food elsewhere," the dog whispered, looking scared of confrontation. Cloud was about to agree, when their stomachs growled. It hurt and the sound his stomach made was so much worse than hers. He needed food. They both did.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward, her new friend whispering in warning, but to her surprise, he followed still. The dogs paused in their excited staring at the big window and four heads swiveled to look at them.

"Fuck off, kitty," the meanest looking one growled at her, heart sparking in warning like a fire about to blaze bright. "Or you're part of our breakfast."

Her heart was pounding, but even if she was good at nothing, at least she could be brave. She had to be, or they'd go hungry. So when the dog lunged forward with a snarl, she lashed out. It was nothing but pure luck that she had moved when she had.

Her claws dug deep into the dog's nose and with a pained yowl they flinched back, dripping blood and now they looked scared, the fire in their heart doused swiftly. The rest of the pack lunged to attack and it became a frenzy of clawing and biting and her new friend joined the fray, determined but just as bad at fighting as he had said he was.

"Enough!" someone shouted above and they all flinched apart, staring up at a disgruntled human. "There is enough for all of you, so stop or you'll get nothing at all."

Cloud backed up a step and the pack reluctantly did the same. The human sighed and reached inside to start emptying two buckets, making sure to spread it out as much as possible so everyone got something.

"Hungry lot," he muttered as they all started to snap up pieces. Even the other cats hurriedly grabbed whatever had fallen closest to them. The man's heart was kind despite his rough voice and sharp words and Cloud found herself relaxing a little.

Cloud's big friend managed to snag a piece the size of his head, along with something smaller that dangled from one tooth. Cloud herself grabbed the biggest piece she could and they hurriedly retreated until they felt safe enough to eat.

They laid in the sun together afterwards, sated at last and they enjoyed the sun after a rainy day, keeping an eye out for trouble. They soon explored the town and started to map out the alleys and streets. Cloud made a note of which people were nice and which weren't.

There were so many hearts, good and nasty, bright and dark. Many shifted throughout the day, reflecting the emotions people went through. It helped Cloud in figuring out which humans would be willing to share their food, making her seek out the ones who had happy or soft hearts.

The dog managed to sniff out more places that tossed food outside and Cloud managed to be fast enough to swipe a small fish and later a sausage from someone handing it out to other humans in exchange for something shiny.

"We're doing good so far," Cloud said and the dog hummed in agreement, looking tentatively happy.

They found a place for the night and as the days passed, they settled into a new routine. In the mornings they waited by the butcher, as the man and his employees were called, who threw them all the bits and pieces humans didn't want to eat. Sometimes he tossed them things that smelled a little old, as though they were about to rot, but those were still edible enough for the alley animals.

In the afternoons, Cloud and her friend lingered by the market or other places that had nice people and they ate whatever else they were given or tossed. They sometimes got into fights over food or territory, but managed to establish themselves well enough to get by.

She was vicious and her companion was big and even if he wasn't good at fighting, he learned to pin down whoever recoiled after getting hit by Cloud's claws. It wasn't pretty, but they made it work.

One afternoon, while Cloud was looking up at a woman with a kind heart with big, pleading eyes, she noticed a struggling crow overhead. The bird looked to be young and one wing was clearly injured. It flew from the roof to the next, barely making the journey. When it tried to get further away, it tumbled and disappeared in a nearby alley.

Accepting the piece of ham Cloud was given, making a quick, sweet noise in thanks, she hurried to where the bird had fallen. She found it crouched between a half broken crate and a trashcan, looking like it was panicking.

Upon looking closer, the wing wasn't just hurt but tangled up in some kind of see-through, tough string or wire of some kind. The crow's heart was so heavy with grief and fear it might as well have been made of a large stone.

"Do you want some help?" Cloud asked politely around her piece of ham and the struggling bird froze in place, staring at her with wide eyes. "I promise I won't hurt you. Where is your family?"

"Gone," the little bird croaked faintly at last, heart growing even heavier. "I'm alone."

Cloud winced a little. Losing one's family was awful. She set the ham down and carefully approached. The small crow was clearly too terrified to move, but when Cloud started to carefully pull off the string tangled around the wing, the crow inhaled sharply.

When the string was removed entirely, the little crow stared at her in astonishment. A small gurgle of hunger came from the bird's stomach. Cloud thought for a moment, then offered her the piece of ham.

"Can you eat that?" she asked and the bird bobbled a quick nod. "Don't stay here too long, or someone will find you."

With those words, Cloud departed, only to hear struggling hops behind her. Glancing back, she saw that the crow was following, only to stop, ham pinched in her beak.

"Come on then," Cloud decided after a moment and the crow hop-walked to her side hurriedly, glancing around nervously.

Cloud lead the crow back to where the dog was dozing in their hideout and introduced them to each other. It quickly became clear to the bird that she had nothing to fear and the dog was more worried about getting pecked than she was about getting bitten.

And thus, Cloud gained another friend.

They became known as an unlikely trio around town. The little crow, once her wing healed, flew overhead to scout around. They managed to swindle and steal enough food for themselves and kept each other safe from those who did not like having them around.

The hearts of her companions slowly lightened, losing some of the unhappy dimness. They were still burdened, but they had perked up a bit, had regained some of the spirit the world had stolen from them.

Cloud thought they scraped by just fine and she thought about her family in the forest less and less. Her life was going well, most days.

Sometimes they had to fight harder than usual to have something to eat or to avoid mean people and sure, sometimes she was envious of the pets that had cozy, warm homes where they were always well fed, but those feelings always faded away soon.

She could have found a human for herself, but that would have meant abandoning her friends. She wasn't going to do that. Not when she wouldn't have come as far without them.

It was a gray day, as gray as her fur, with a storm rumbling in the distance, shaping up to be as wild as the one she had been born beneath, when she heard crying. It was human-crying as well, not animal-crying.

Humans usually took care of themselves just fine, but something about the sound didn't sit right with her. Peeking around the corner, Cloud saw a young girl sitting crouched beneath an awning, clothes torn at one shoulder. She was pressing herself against a firmly closed door.

"Please, let me in," the girl begged in a keening voice and her heart was an open, bleeding wound in her chest, oozing despair and panic. "I promise I won't do it again!"

"Go away," someone shouted from beyond the door. "Be lucky we don't just burn you at the stake!"

"I promise I'll never do magic again!" the girl begged around a sob. "I promise I'll be good!"

"Don't lie, we both know you're good at nothing and good for nothing," the voice answered harshly. "Go, this is the only chance I give you, for your late mother's sake. She should have never let you live when you were born with the witch mark."

The girl cried harder and begged again, but no voice answered this time. She slumped down the door at last, curling up tight and cried. Cloud hesitated, then slunk forward. The girl looked up at her meow and when Cloud nudged her leg, she found herself scooped up by trembling hands.

The girl was warm and cried until she was too exhausted to continue. The door didn't open and no one came for the girl. Cloud stayed with the girl for so long, waiting, that the dog and crow came looking for her.

"Come on," she said at last and nudged at the girl until she got up and followed them.

The hideout was a little small for a human girl, but they made do, curling around her to keep her warm. Her heart was still open and bleeding, still oozing despair, but the panic had softened and was nearly gone, instead replaced by exhaustion.

They were going to take care of her, Cloud decided and when she looked at her friends, their hearts and gazes reflected that same decision.

It was more difficult to keep a human fed, that was for sure. Cloud and her friends worked hard to get enough food and the girl never complained and helped as much as she could, begging for the shiny coins that the crow started to look for.

She once came back with a piece that made the girl gasp and they didn't go hungry for an entire week. They ate the best food they had ever gotten that week.

The girl was smart, Cloud realized. She knew exactly where they could go to get food and as time passed, Cloud observed her doing strange things. Things no other human did. She stood beneath the full moon and her skin seemed to glow the faintest bit, sometimes she held things in her hands she couldn't have gotten on her own and sometimes she got little glimpses of the future.

Other people started to notice as well sooner or later. They got no more food from the butcher or the other shops and previously nice people avoided them in the streets.

"We don't feed witch-cats," one man who had always given her a piece of fish hissed at Cloud when she meowed sweetly at him. "Leave!"

"My uncle says I'm a witch," the girl murmured when she lit a fire with the snap of her fingers. They had no food tonight, hadn't had much to eat that wasn't stolen out of trash cans in days. "It won't be long now before they decide to burn me. And...I fear what they will do to you."

There was only really one solution then. Cloud exchanged a glance with the dog and crow and that night, while the town slept, they left. On the way out, they stole everything they could.

The crow stood guard outside and sat on windows, watching people sleep as the girl whispered at doors so the locks clicked open. They left with sacks of shinies the girl had used in the past to get food and old skins to stay warm. Next they grabbed food and better, good skins to wrap up in and then they disappeared into the night.

They managed to find their way through the dark, with the crow's eyes in the sky, the dog's nose and Cloud's ears. They fought off whatever dangers came their way as they traveled with cunning and sheer viciousness and a healthy dose of desperate determination.

But as the air grew colder with the passing days, Cloud realized they needed some place to settle. The girl wasn't strong or old enough to make it through winter out in the open and it was slowly growing colder. Luck was on their side at last, when they stumbled across an old cabin, surrounded by a crumbling stone wall.

"A witch's hut," the girl whispered. "I heard rumors that those places draw witches to them when they stand empty for too long, but I didn't think that was true."

It was dusty and smelled old and stale inside, but all the walls were intact, the roof didn't leak and the windows didn't creak. A fire was lit swiftly in the chimney and they curled up, their hearts glad for a dry, warm place to sleep in.

Soon the downright dreary, slightly creepy place transformed. It was as though it came alive the more they made it their home. The floorboards gleamed like they had been recently polished when they were dusted and washed, the walls looked freshly made when the cobwebs were all swiftly removed.

The garden grew and transformed and with each day, the crumbling garden wall seemed to repair itself. Weeds disappeared and vegetables and herbs grew strong and vibrant instead, offering a last, big bounty before winter came.

The brighter and warmer the place became, the more it turned into their home and Cloud watched the hearts of those around her to grow lighter in turn. Relief at having finally found a safe place softened everyone and allowed hope to shine brighter and brighter the more time passed.

They had found a true, proper home at last and after some exploring once winter had passed, they discovered a village nearby. They cautiously ventured into it to trade shinies for things. Soon it was a normal sight for the residents to see the girl with her animal companions.

The local herbalist was willing to take the girl under her wing and as they were accepted by the village, they settled into a better, warmer and well-fed life. The girl grew older and as the years passed, Cloud noticed that she didn't really age anymore and neither did the dog and crow.

"Well, you're my familiars now," the witch said, carefully cleaning off small crystals she had found in a river. She smiled wide and happy. "That means we're family for as long as you want to be."

Oh, that was very sweet. Cloud cuddled up to the witch and got the best scratches in return.

"You know," the dog said that evening as they dozed on the thick, soft carpet in front of the warm fire. Snow was slowly falling outside, but they felt none of the cold bite inside. "I'm so glad you found me that day. Even if I'm good at nothing, I still have a life I could have never dreamed of."

Cloud frowned at that. "But you are good at many things," she said and when the dog looked ready to protest, she hurriedly tacked on, "Your nose saved us many times and you always found food for us no matter what. You kept us from going hungry."

The dog ducked his head, bashful but hopeful so she kept talking, "Even if you say you can't fight because you're too cowardly, you always helped me no matter how scared you were. That's real bravery, you know?"

"Oh." The dog was quiet for a long moment, then whispered, "You really think so?"

"Yes, there is no doubt," Cloud said firmly.

The crow flapped down from her perch in the rafters and nodded. "You're strong and big and warm and you always take care of us," she said. "Whoever told you you're good for nothing lied to you. You guys..." She hopped a little closer, voice going warm. "You're my family. When I had nothing, you came and gave me everything."

The dog gently nudged their heads together with a little rumble. "And you're mine." He was quiet for a long moment. "I...never thought about it that way. Do you really think I'm pulling my weight?"

"A hundred times over," Cloud said with certainty, then nudged the crow as well. "And you're our family too."

The crow chirp-cawed happily and they laid snuggled together on the carpet. The crow was asleep and Cloud was about to doze off when the dog murmured, "You're no good-for-nothing either."

Cloud opened one eye and he shifted his head to look at her. "You saved me when no one else would have and you have done the same for our crow friend and our witch." The dog tipped his head a little to the side. "And then you helped us figure out how to survive. We wouldn't have made it if we hadn't all stuck together, if you hadn't found us. So, you know, you're definitely good at something."

Cloud was wide awake now while the dog fell asleep, snoring ridiculously loud within moments. She watched the dog and crow a moment longer, then looked up to where their witch was making a protective charm for a worried villager.

When the witch noticed her staring, she looked up and smiled. "Sleep," the witch whispered. "We're safe here. Safe and happy and we're going to stick together, won't we?"

Cloud chirped a little noise in agreement and settled down. Her heart felt full and as warm as the fire they laid near.

Without realizing, without even meaning to, she had ended up getting everything she had ever wanted. A family that loved her and a purpose, as strange as it may look to others. And sure, she wasn't good at any of the things other cats were good at, but now she didn't have to be. Now it was a good thing that she was strange and different.

She fell asleep with a smile and in the morning the world outside was snowy and cold, but her heart still glowed bright and warm. And when the witch looked knowingly at all of them, when Cloud noticed that they all walked unburdened, she realized they had done it.

They had healed the wounds on their hearts.

#my writing #short story #finding love and family in the most unexpected places #just a little thing I found myself writing #hopefully someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it #a bit of a different thing to my usual stories I think #hopefully I didn't overlook too many mistakes #implied child abuse #implied animal abuse #just so you know in case that is a no-go for you #be sure to take care of yourself #i have no idea how tagging works #magic #witch #familiars #and families

178 notes · View notes

the-force-awakens · 1 year

Text

Two Birds, One Stone

Pairing: poe dameron/f!reader (no pronouns) Rating: explicit Word Count: 4.3k Warnings: smut (18+ only): fingering, oral (m receiving) unprotected piv, alcohol consumption (both parties are sober tho), friends to lovers, one night stand (or is it?) A/N: I have no idea why this concept burrowed into my head the way it did or how I ended up almost writing 5k of it but??? here we are.

You glance around the rec room - Snap and Karé making eyes at each other in the corner, Tallie and Paige already making out at another table - then back at Poe who is staring studiously ahead following his unintentional slip up that he's frustrated in a very particular kind of way, and wraps his lips around the bottle of coruscant cooler he bribed Yolo for.

And it's gotta be the sip you've taken of your drink that makes you blurt, out of the blue, "There's me.”

His entire frame goes carefully rigid, enough so that you almost want to take the words back — almost but not quite. Poe lowers his drink slowly, casting you a skeptical look. "What?”

You shift slightly, giving him a casual shrug. "I said there's me. I'm not under your command, no reason for you to feel guilty. And -” despite the brazen nature of your suggestion, you feel warmth climb up your neck to your face - "it's been a while for me too. Two birds, one stone. Well - one dick, I guess.”

His eyebrows had nearly shot up to his hairline, but they lower now, something shifting in his expression as he studies yours. "You're serious?”

At this, you can't help but feel a little offended and you don't bother disguising that as you reply, "No, I just decided to screw with you about screwing you - yes, I'm being serious.”

He snorts at that, pushes away his bottle and turns in his seat, looking around the room before his gaze lands back on yours, a gentle heat building in his eyes that makes you falter and wonder if you've made a terrible mistake in suggesting this. "You know how many people we're going to hear an 'I told you so' from if they find out?”

You grin, leaning forward and daring to place your hand high on his thigh, enough that Poe's breath audibly hitches. “Do you really care what they have to say if it means getting off tonight?”

"I - uh - nope," he lands on empathically, popping the 'p' as he slides off his bar stool, offering you his hand to help you down off yours. It's sweet and he's done it a million times - but now it makes your heart trip over itself. "You sure about this?”

You are, in the sense that you know you want this. But what you're not so sure about is if it's a good idea, when his sheepish smile and crinkled eyes alone give you butterflies. Knowing his body intimately like you've suggested seems like playing with fire.

"Yeah. You?” Because he hasn't actually said yet, though you know he wouldn't have budged if he hadn't made his mind up already - if it wasn't a yes, he'd still be at the bar.

"Surer than I've ever been," Poe replies with a crooked grin, squeezing your hand slightly and - yeah. This was a really fucking bad idea.

But you also really don't care.

You wonder if Poe can feel you watching him the entire walk back to his quarters. Nothing about the trek back seems significant yet at the same time incredibly surreal: you know where he keeps his flimsiplast blueprints of classic starfighter models hidden away for safe keeping, the name of that really naughty erotic romance novel he secretly loves even though the ending made him cry, you've curled up in his bed watching horror movies while he used you as a human shield and peering at the screen from behind your shoulder (which you found particularly endearing, considering how daring he is in every other facet of life, and also because it warms you from the inside out that he trusts you to protect him).

And now you're going to know what it's like to have him spread out against his mattress, flushed and panting underneath you. The thought sends desire zipping down your back so intense that for the first time since leaving the rec room, you drop your eyes away from Poe - something like guilt surfacing over the thick wave of arousal at the fantasy you've conjured. Is it really wrong to think about it when it's about to be a reality?

You're yanked out of your thoughts by the soft beeps of Poe punching in the code to his room - Leia's birthday - and the pneumatic hiss of the door sliding open. His smile is genuine and earnest as he motions you to go in first.

It's surprisingly clean, cleaner than it'd been the night before last when you'd unceremoniously dropped onto his bed complaining about Laszlo being a dick during your shift (though there was never a time when he wasn't a dick) — so you assume Poe must've found the time and energy to tidy this morning before his patrol, or BB-8 did. Speaking of which -

“Where's Bee?” You ask as Poe steps in after you, the door sliding close behind him. Though you don't turn around, you sense him moving closer - slowly, like he's either trying to work out his next move or if he's not sure when you're supposed to begin.

"He wanted to spend some time with the astromech pool,” Poe answers, giving in and lightly dragging his knuckles down the length of your bare arm, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. "Probably won't be back until later.”

"Lucky,” you breathe, heart rate picking up already because he's never touched you like this before. You were used to being touched by him because Poe was incredibly tactile and affectionate, but those had all been fleeting because despite his touchy nature, Poe didn't linger.

He's lingering now, though, stepping close enough you can nearly feel his chest against your back. He flexes his hand out, lets his palm slide back up as he replies, "Yeah, luck seems to be going around tonight.”

Ordinarily you'd have rolled your eyes - hell, the temptation to do it is so instinct you nearly do, but it's overpowered by how the sincerity of his voice makes you melt.

And melting is really not ideal. Neither is the way your traitorous knees already want to buckle just from this, from his close proximity that's still nowhere near close enough to sate you — either of you, really.

You turn slowly around, breath catching low in your chest as you finally get a glimpse of Poe's face, of the unmasked want darkening his features and his eyes, which unabashedly rake over your frame like he's been waiting for permission to do so for a while.

The thought that maybe he wants you almost as bad as you want him makes you clench your thighs together, and soothes some of the sting of the thought simmering in the back of your head which is that you want more than one night of this.

No, that's not quite it either.

You want this, you want - need - to know what it's like to have him inside you, to hear him moan your name, watch him unravel; you wouldn't take back your offer now and you're sure as hell not going to regret it later, not when Poe is looking down promisingly at you like that.

You want him in every single way you can have a person and it terrifies you because you've never felt like that for anyone — because sex has always just been a bit of fun for you, a way to stop thinking, to feel good.

But it already feels like so much more than that right now. You feel like by inviting yourself into his bed, you've cracked open your ribcage so that all the love you've been hiding can spill out.

"Can I kiss you?” Poe asks, deadly serious as he zeroes in on your mouth, before flicking up to meet your eyes - searching for any sign of hesitance.

"Please.” It comes out breathier and a little more desperate than you meant for, but you don't think you can wait any longer. And it seems like Poe's patience has run out as well, because he surges forward, pulling you flush against him as he cups your face, kisses you hard.

You open your mouth to him, groan when he slides his tongue in, when his blazing hot hand meets bare skin as your shirt lifts up when you go to wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, your other hand sliding up his stubbled jaw — it prickles against your palm and you moan again, thinking of what it'd feel like against your thighs.

Poe nudges you forward, keeping you steady as he walks you backwards to his bunk - like you don't already have the layout to his room memorized, you're in it more than your own - and you're struck with three simultaneous realizations at once:

Poe Dameron was as good at kissing as he was flying

You probably could have done this without kissing him at all, kept this impersonal, kept some line in the sand of your relationship with him

You were about to have sex with your best friend.

And some-fucking-how the least terrifying on the list was the third one.

You break apart from each other slowly, exchanging a weighted look that's filled to the brim of unsaid things and emotions clawing their way to the surface like a drowning man desperate for air; Poe's cheeks are already flushed and when he shifts closer, you feel his hard length pressing against the seam of his trousers.

Taking a step back from him, you toe off your boots, immediately knocking them aside and out of the way with your ankle as Poe kicks his off. As he shucks his jacket off, you peel your shirt up and over your head — and are immediately rewarded with the sound of Poe inhaling sharply because you didn't wear a bra tonight.

You don't normally, the weight of the straps often giving you migraines, so you usually opt for tank tops underneath: you hadn't worn one tonight, hadn't made an effort to be remotely put together because your plans had involved having a drink with Poe and then crashing for the night after such a long day - which, technically speaking, nothing about that has changed.

You sit down on the edge of the mattress, which is a bad idea because it puts you at eye-level where his trousers are tented. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you're reaching for him, undoing his belt with nimble fingers.

"What are you - oh fuck -” Poe sucks in a sharp breath as you yank down his trousers and underwear in one quick motion, revealing his thick cock. It's curved up, towards his tummy, and already leaking precum.

You pull him closer, fingernails digging probably too harshly into his thighs. You glance up at him under your eyelashes, find him staring at you with dark, frantic eyes as his chest heaves. He's already unraveling and you've barely begun. The thought does very little to help the gathering dampness in your underwear, but it sure motivates you into returning your focus to the task at hand.

You don't immediately go for his dick though - instead you lean in, pressing your nose against the soft skin of his thigh, ghosting your lips across it and you're struck with the exigent need to mark him. Which shouldn't be on the table, it shouldn't. But the thought of leaving behind evidence of tonight on his body, one that he won't be able to ignore, that will remain for a day or two and that he'll have to look at in the shower or when he dresses or (hopefully) when he gets himself off — makes something thrash in self-satisfaction behind your ribcage.

Something that's immediately replaced with a wave of disappointment: you don't have any claim on him, even if you know him better than anyone else in the galaxy. Even if you're a little bit hopelessly in love with him.

So instead of pinching his skin between your teeth, you move further up to his neglected cock and lick a long, slow swipe up the underside of his shaft, which makes Poe gasp roughly, his head tipping back and exposing his throat.

Scratch that. You're completely and utterly gone for your best friend, no ‘little bit’ about it. Which, again, is not ideal so you shove the thought away angrily and take it out on Poe by swallowing him down.

What you can't take in your mouth, you wrap your fist around, jerking him off at the same time that you savor the weight and taste of him on your tongue, every groan and whimper that falls from his lips.

It doesn't feel like it's been long at all when his hips buck harshly into your mouth and you hear him swear, bitten off. He grabs your hair, pulling you off abruptly, his breathing erratic as he releases his grip on you, rubbing your skull apologetically with his thumb. "Not gonna last if you keep that up, maker fuck, you're good at that.”

"Oh, did you underestimate how good I'd be?” You retort, scooting backwards on the bed when Poe gestures for you to, giving him room to crawl in after you.

"No.” It's a surprisingly clipped answer, and there's a weight to it that gives you pause, trying to search his shadowed face for a deeper meaning because for once in his life, Poe isn't saying something.

But before you can ask another question, he's ducking in to kiss you again, slowly as he settles over you, gently pushing until you're supine on your back, his body covering yours as he braces himself on his elbow so as to keep his full weight off you (not that you'd really mind), while letting his hand slide down to your neck, his thumb settling in at the dip of your throat and maker fuck that shouldn't feel so good.

He wedges one thigh between your legs, grinding up and you nearly choke, whining his name against his lips - which has the delightful side effect of making Poe groan, bucking against you before having the audacity to pull his thigh back away from your core.

He tears his mouth away from yours, the hand that was around your throat sliding down your bare torso, stopping to thumb the underside of your nipple which has you arching up into his touch carelessly, eyelids fluttering shut so you miss his brief, pleased smile before he works his hand between your bodies.

Poe pushes aside your underwear, dipping one finger inside you to the knuckle, making you both moan. "Gods, you're wet,” he sounds like he can't believe it, even though you can both hear the slickness as he drags his finger slowly around. "All this just from getting me off, baby?”

The endearment falls off his lips easily and without thought but it makes you clench down around him subconsciously as your mind grapples with the fact that this is actually happening, that his calloused finger is pressing up against your slick walls.

The realization thuds around your brain like an echoing drum, intensifying when he slides another finger in. The stretch is slow, stings a little because it's been a while since anyone's fingers but yours were down there, and Poe's are decidedly thicker.

Longer too, evidently, because he's reaching a place that has sparks appearing behind your eyes, something sharp, full and hot building low in your stomach. You rock into his hand, nodding wordlessly as you try to chase your own high. "All for you," you hear yourself say, high-pitched and barely familiar to your own ears.

“All for - gods,” his voice breaks down into something nonsensical as his fingers slide deeper inside, grinding against your walls and crooking back towards himself in a way that leaves the entire world muffled around you, your mouth dropping when he leans back on his knees, using his other hand to give attention to your neglected clit. "All for me," he murmurs again, incredulous while you whine and squirm, openly admiring your wrecked expression. "You gonna come for me, too?”

The combination of being stuffed full of his fingers, his clever ministrations against your clit and his makerdamned voice is enough to — you're not even sure what happens. You cum but it's nothing like anything that's happened before: instead of crashing over the edge and losing temporary awareness of your body, it's like you've surfaced from the deepest part of the ocean and are sucking in greedy lung-fulls of air, no longer crushed down by the unforgiving current pressure.

Your whole body is trembling when Poe slowly removes his fingers, transfixed at the sight between your legs — before his eyes trail back to his fingers, which gleam in the low light with the thick evidence of your climax. He brings them up to his mouth, sucking away the residue: his eyes roll back like they do when his taste buds go alight with something you've baked together in the kitchens, an appreciative noise rumbling up his chest and going straight to your core as he drops his hand.

He seems wrought with indecision for a moment - you can tell by the way his brow furrows, his tongue darting out to swipe along his bottom lip that he's thinking, considering his options while situated between your thighs.

You're too impatient for that: you breathe out his name, reaching for him and it breaks his reverie. He's back over you in an instant, kissing you again, parts long enough to murmur, "You taste so good.”

His praise makes you groan, and you drag him down to kiss him again, fingernails scraping his scalp - which he seems to like by the way he jerks into you with a gasp, reminding you of just how badly want him inside you.

"Poe, come on -”

"Anyone ever tell you you're impatient?” Poe asks around a grin, but he obeys anyway (which makes your brain light up with interest), and strokes himself roughly, going to line up with your entrance.

You snarf at that. “Yeah, you have - repeatedly. Last I checked you weren't any better.”

He notches the head of his cock against you and your breath stalls, grip tightening in his hair as Poe slowly sinks in another few inches.

"I'm patient about - hnngh - some things,” he says, face pinched as he unexpectedly stops. He's not even halfway in yet and already you feel unbearably full. You can't imagine what it'll be like when he's in all the way. "The important things - those I'm - fuck you're soft and -”

He makes another wordless noise of appreciation, hands gripping your thighs so tightly that you know there will be bruises there later - and, oh, how that makes your stomach corkscrew with desire.

You exhale shakily, slacken your hold on his curls, try to summon the energy to speak, to help him breathe through it — he said it's been awhile since the last time he was with anyone, after all. “What are you patient about? Not the first cup of caf, I can tell you that.”

He huffs a noise that might be a laugh, moving just that much deeper inside of you. Poe's eyes are squinched shut, eyelashes long and dark against the tips of cheekbones. “I - this - been waitin' for this - been -” his sentence fades in a shared synchronized moan between the two of you as he sinks in fully, his cock disappearing inside of you.

If it's possible to be cock drunk instantly, you wonder if you aren't now, because everything feels heady and light as you adjust to the feel of him, his words bouncing around in your head but not quite sticking. You clench around him unintentionally and Poe swears, dropping his head to your shoulder.

Belatedly, you realize he's still rambling — you open your mouth to start to interrupt, tell him he can move now, when he says, "This is so better than I imagined it'd be, you feel so good, you -”

He stops abruptly, going as carefully still as he had in the rec room, this time because he can feel you tense beneath him. Slowly, Poe lifts his head up from your shoulder, dark brown eyes flicking between yours panickedly, "It - I just - I meant -”

You press your finger to his lips, stopping him from going on another spiel and - for good measure - you let your other hand slide around the curve of his back to keep him in place, in case he gets the idea of pulling out of you following his unintentional bombshell.

"It's better than I thought it'd be too,” you tell him softly, trailing your fingertip down his kiss-swollen lips as your heart pounds. You know Poe better than anyone, better than yourself, yet there's still a seed of anxiety sprouting in the back of your mind that you're misunderstanding him, that he did just mean it's better than he thought it would be back at the bar.

You ignore it, forging ahead to confess, "I just wish it was for more than one night.”

Poe pushes up on his elbow in surprise. The sudden movement tips the angle of your hips, so that he pushes in even deeper, the tip of him hitting some sweet spot that has your stomach flipping.

It also means that his face is caught between pleasure and revelation, which is a funny mix but it just softens his countenance to the point that affection swells up your throat: you love him so much that it isn't fair.

"Doesn't have to be if you don't want it to,” Poe says, shyness creeping into his voice. It's rare, hearing that from him - you're so used to his confidence that the absence of it is so stark and surreal you nearly forget how you ended up in this conversation.

"I want every night with you, every morning. I want you. Not just like this - though, this is -” experimentally, you lift yourself up, grinding into him and making you both groan - "good, this is really fucking good. I want…want you. All of you.”

You don't realize you've closed your eyes until Poe taps you lightly on your sternum: when you blink them back open, he's smiling softer than you've ever seen him. “You have me, you've had me for a long time. Maker, I've wanted you so bad -” he laughs, rakes his free hand through his hair - "didn't expect to tell you like this though.”

And you can't help but laugh too, because everything is backwards and completely perfect too. You hitch your leg up around his hip, pressing the heel off your foot against the small of his back, opening yourself up to him. “Somehow I can't imagine it happening any other way…but do you think we could reconvene on laughing at how ridiculous we are later and get back to the fucking now?”

"Yeah, I can do that.” Poe leans back down, grinning broadly as his lips find yours, kissing you long and slow as he finally pulls out, thrusting back in with a lazy grind, letting you feel every vein and ridge of his cock drag against your walls.

"Oh - just like that - more -” you break off as Poe tilts his head, licking into your mouth, tongue slick against yours as he snakes one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit while he continues his devastating slow pace.

Slow but hard, snapping up into you just like you want, adding just enough force at the apex of each thrust that you see stars, electricity zipping up your spine as the throbbing between your legs crests —

Your thighs tense around Poe as you come, his name a jagged noise on your tongue as you cling to him through the haze, trying to catch your breath even as Poe continues to rut into you, desperate for his own release.

He's well beyond words now, reduced to grunts and the occasional whimper, clutching your knee - rubbing the bump of bone absently with his thumb, even as he chases his own high.

Eager to help him get there, you slide your hands back into his hair like he seemed to like earlier, tugging on his curls as you lean in and knock your mouths together in a messy kiss, trying to meet his thrusts with your own, clenching weakly around him.

It's when you tug on his bottom lip that Poe finally comes, spilling inside of you for what feels simultaneously like lightyears and mere seconds, dropping his head against the curve of your neck as he lets go of your leg so you can straighten it out finally.

He doesn't pull out immediately and you're glad, gladder still when Poe wedges his arms around your back, drawing you closer - kisses your sweaty skin at your collarbone. The kind of sleepy, thoughtless affection you've been dreaming of for years.

Eventually after a while of luxuriating in the honey-like bliss that's enveloped you both as you come down from your respective highs, Poe perches his chin in the valley of your breasts, which makes the juxtaposition of his serious face all the stranger as he studies you. "I love you - is that okay?”

There's a million and one ways you've imagined him saying those three words to you, and a million and one ways you've imagined responding to them.

In this one, you knock your knee against his ribs, grinning crookedly when you reply, “Only if it's okay that I love you too,” before tugging him up to kiss his smiling mouth again - because you can.

And not just tonight. You'll get to kiss him in the morning when you wake up together, still entwined together, and again before his next patrol; you get to have him not for just one night, but for every night, as long as you both want.

You wrap your arms around him, hugging his warm body to your own as sleep begins to pull you both under, his weight a comfortable pressure against you, leaving you utterly content.

This, you decide sleepily, was single handedly the best idea you've ever had.

#poe dameron x f!reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron smut #myfic

441 notes · View notes

lovelykhaleesiii · 1 year

Text

Have You Missed Me?

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,475.

Summary: Aemond leaves you for a few weeks, and the time apart leaves you both starving for one another.

Warnings: SMUT, aemond’s trench coat!!!, swearing.

A/N - I just got this bright idea of Y/N wearing Aemond’s trench coat... Nothing BUT the coat, and I'm going FERAL !

You had longingly been awaiting this very night for quite some time now, and it finally arrived. It had only been a fair few weeks since Aemond had departed with his father, King Viserys, his older brother, Aegon, and younger nephews, Jace, Luke alongside his grandsire and Hand of the King Otto Hightower and a few good men of the Kingsguard and a maester on a seasonal hunt, Viserys had been planning for his sons and nephews.

“This ought to teach you boys of the significance between life and death, how to tread life carefully.” The words of his father, Aemond would mimic as he informed you of the news of his departure. Aemond was dreading moments like this, he never quite felt the sense of belonging with his immediate family, nor could he say with confidence that he had a grounded relationship with his father. Although Viserys being your only remaining, living Uncle, and having always treated you so warmly since as early as you could remember, you'd managed to convince Aemond to attend, for your sake.

Up until the moment he had left you in the privacy of your chambers, Aemond was desperate to stay behind with you. Not a single soul knew of your relationship with Aemond, as you both mutually agreed, it was best to remain secret until the moment was right, considering the rocky relationship between your side of the family against his. Especially considering your father, known for his temper, was none other than Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince. You could imagine the vivid look on his face if word ever escape of you two together. If anything, Aemond in his own discreet way, enjoyed the sneaking around late at night, the way he could tempt you at feasts from across the table, luring you into his touch and just admiring you from afar. Having grown up “by the book” he relished in this unruly side you brought out of him.

Throughout the weeks passing by, you’d come to realise this was the first ever time you’d both been separated since uniting together as a pair. You found yourself often in fleeting moments, worrying about Aemond’s current whereabouts, your mind pondering over the daunting thoughts that he might have struck an injury, illness or worse. Although as Rhaenyra often exchanged letters by ravens with her second-born son, Luke, no ill news was exchanged.

Now, as you studiously watched the carriages pulling each party to the main courtyard of the castle, standing beside the remaining royal women, you grew tense with the excitement building up from within.

First, Luke and Jace had retired from the confines of the carriage, racing their way upto their mother, before each one had greeted you, Luke remained by your side, his arm enwrapped in yours, as Aemond stepped out last following Aegon, who seemed tipsy.

As your eyes met, you noticed a faint smile appearing on his face, as you felt your own beaming, before returning your gaze onto your younger step-brother.

“Come now, you boys should settle and eat before you rest.” Alicent had welcomingly proclaimed, as she ushered the boys into the great entrance.

After having grown impatient of you Luke and Jace’s accounts of their hunt, retelling and confusing one another of which account was true, you’d finally managed to excuse yourself from the table. Aemond had been sitting on the far end, listening to his father and Otto ramble away about the beast they’d managed to contrive with the help of the party. As usual, he seemed out of place although noticed you leaving.

Hastily, you sneakily manage to subtly confine yourself in Aemond’s quarters, knowing it wouldn’t be too long for him to find you, you were famished for his touch and voice. Throughout the quite, lonesome weeks, you had been meaning to plan for a little surprise for him upon his return, as a thank you for him having made the effort for you.

You had only ever nearly shared, one intimate moment with one another, and it had unfortunately been abruptly interrupted by some guard requesting for Aemond’s presence. Tonight you were definitely going to reclaim that lost moment.

You slipped out of your pale pink, silk gown effortlessly, flicking your hair back behind your shoulders as nakedly walked over towards Aemond’s wardrobe. As you expected, the servants had already returned his clothes into their rightful place, reaching up as you unhooked his large, leather trench coat.

When you’d first began feeling the way you did for Aemond, you found yourself flustered over the smallest of details when it came to him. This was one of them, you could recount the night so vividly, his platinum hair neatly tied back in a half up half-down style, flowing down against the coarse leather of his trench coat. He looked so incredibly rugged in it, a part of you even intimidate by how effortlessly he wore it. Not something you’d expect a Prince to be clothed in, although Aemond was not fond of the materialism of his world.

You attentively fixed yourself in the mirror, his trench coat hugging over your naked, exposed body before you felt just right in it. Making your way hastily over to his king-size bed, you laid yourself comfortably down, in a graceful yet subtly exposed position, eagerly waiting for him to join.

And cue the perfect moment, the door had hastily opened without even a knock, Aemond entered his chambers, before coming to a complete halt as he forced the door shut, keeping his eye fixated on you.

“Oh how I've missed you, my Prince-” You softly utter, feeling your hand run slowly through the cold, soft linen of his bed that had remained unoccupied for too long now, your other hand resting against your head. He crept closer, closing the small distance between you two, his eye constantly remained on you, a look you’d never truly witnessed before on Aemond...He looked hungry.

“Now, how much have you missed me?” You playfully whisper, as your free hand instinctively reaches down to your cunt, grazing over the moist skin, sensing your wetness beginning to pool just by the sight of Aemond. You were starving for the man, and he knew it… The subtle smirk on his face, proved otherwise.

Before reaching the edge of the bed, as he slowly walked over towards you, shedding each layer of clothing he had on, now completely off except for his pants. From where you had been sprawled, his height looked domineering, before he bent down over towards you, his knees now up on the mattress. His hand felt rough now, as his thumb began to caress your cheek gently whilst his palm held your chin. One of your free hands ran through the straight strands of his long, silver hair, whilst the other traced over the outline of his eye-patch. Aemond was comfortable enough with you regarding his eye: he was surprise to find that it did not grotesque you.

As though instinct, you removed it, throwing the garment across the room.

Now seeing him in all his glory, the moment was perfect.

He remained silent throughout, although this wasn’t unusual of Aemond, particularly in these intimate moments. He preferred to express himself through physical actions when he could, and you grew acquainted to that.

After having studied you since the moment he arrived, his eyes lingered now to your lips, and without hesitation, you felt his lips plunging down against yours, his tongue slipping its way smoothly into your mouth, as his hands snaked their way around your waist, lifting you into his sturdy embrace.

His lips moved away from yours, leaving a trail of wet kisses coursing down your jaw, to your neck as he suckled on your sweet, tender skin.

“Hmm, fuck.” A low, deep growl escaping his mouth, as he inhaled your floral scent in. You were now sitting atop of his thighs, your cunt spread out against the fabric of his rough pants, your wetness seeping through, even leaving a slight trace against the cloth. You could feel his member growing, a slow throbbing sensation extended between you two, as you pressed down against him deeper. His one arm held your neck, as it made its way along your back providing you with some support, as his other tightly gripped a buttock cheek, squeezing your flesh in his hand.

“Perhaps I should go hunting more often, if this is what I am to come home to.” He slyly utters, breaking a moment away as he licks his lips, almost as though tasting you.

All the worries of the past few weeks had melted away in this very moment, all that you two were to face would be faced in due time... This present moment with Aemond was all that existed now.

#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagines #house of the dragon #hotd

413 notes · View notes

youvebeenlivingfictional · 7 months

Text

Kinktober Day 27

Day Twenty-Six | 🌹Kinktober Masterlist🌹 | Day Twenty-Eight

Pairing: Christopher Pike x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting with ANY of these Kinktober prompts will be blocked

Warnings: Fluff; yearning; kitchen sex; vaginal sex; improper use of buttercream

GIF by elen-aranel

“I’m not going to lie, I’m a little surprised you asked for my help,” You admitted. You kept your gaze studiously focused on the dishes as you felt the Captain turn to look at you.

“Why’s that?”

You shrugged a little. “Guess I just…I don’t know, I figured you were a baking guy, too.”

“I don’t bake nearly as much as I cook.”

“Yeah, I got that when you put the liquid and dry ingredients in the same bowl two steps too early.”

“Alright, alright,” Christopher grumbled good-naturedly. He took up the remaining mixing bowls, joining you at the sink.

“I’m just teasing,” You nudged his shoulder with yours. “I know you’ve had a hell of a couple of days.”

“Is that why you offered to make Ortegas’ birthday cake yourself?”

“Well,” You passed him a bowl to dry before shutting off the sink and turning to lean back against the counter. “I just…I don’t know, I figured you’d wanna rest a bit.”

Christopher shrugged a little, his focus set on the bowl.

“I like being in the kitchen,” He admitted. “It’s good for me. Lets me clear my head.”

You were quiet as you considered that. You couldn’t even imagine the stress that he faced on a day to day basis—and for him to retreat to the kitchen and continue to provide for his crew in his quiet moments made you ache for him. The crush that you had on your Captain was already so strong, and the last thing you needed was for you to fall even deeper for the guy. Your gaze swept his profile before you hurriedly lowered your head, averting your gaze as you saw him turn to look at you.

“We should, um—” You cleared your throat, pushing off of the counter. “We can get going on the frosting, put it in the fridge as we wait for the cake to bake and cool.”

“Alright.”

The two of you gathered the ingredients, and Christopher followed your lead in getting a mixer and measuring spoons. He leaned against the counter beside you, measuring out the milk and vanilla as you added powdered sugar and room-temperature butter to the mixer. You reached in after a few moments, dipping your pinkie in and swiping some of the frosting off of the side of the bowl. You raised your pinkie, sucking the buttercream off and humming softly.

“Is it good?” He asked.

“Mhm!” You smiled brightly at him. “You can try some if you want.” Your brow furrowed as a smile slowly grew on Christopher’s lips. “What is it?”

“You’ve got, uh…”

Your heart leapt into your throat as he raised his hand and cupped your chin. His thumb gently swept across your lower lip, and you felt the coolness of a missed bit of buttercream. You watched as he raised his thumb to his gaze, then licked the bit of cream. Your mouth went dry as he let out a soft hum, the sound nearing a moan.

“...Do you, um…” You managed. “Do you like it?”

“It’s delicious,” He murmured, eyes set intently on yours.

“Oh?”

“Mm,” He nodded, stepping closer. “Perfectly sweet.”

Your heart pounded as he cupped your cheek again. Your eyes flitted between his lips and his eyes, tipping your chin up as his nose gently nudged against yours. You could feel the heat of his breath brushing against your lips—

“It smells good in here!”

The insistence made the two of you spring apart, and you whirled around to find Chapel and Spock rounding into the kitchen. You forced a bright smile, unwilling to look at Christopher.

“Hi!” You chirped. Chapel’s brow raised at your countenance.

“Hey,” She greeted, glancing between you and the Captain. “Are we too early to decorate?”

“No! No, you’re right on time!” You couldn't stop your voice from raising in pitch, your hands fumbling with the ties on your apron. “We were just finishing up the frosting!”

“O…kay.” The slow draw of the word told you that Christine knew that something was up, and you were certain that she would hound you for details later. You looked down as you tugged the apron off, just managing to catch Spock and Christine’s shared glance, and the sharp, speculative leap of Spock’s brow. But that didn’t matter at the moment. Right now, you had streamers to hang up, and a Captain’s eye to avoid.

“I’ll take care of those.”

The sound of the Captain so close again made your stomach twist.

The party had allowed you to shake off the feeling of Christopher so close, so warm, and so nearly what you’d been wanting for so long. You had sunk yourself into your friends and fellow crew, happily sung Happy Birthday to Erica, and indulged in some damn good cake, if you did say so yourself. You’d avoided the Captain’s eye, carefully skirted around him and eluded him as best you could—without being too conspicuous. Chapel had been keeping a close eye on the two of you; you were certain that she was suspicious of something, and that she and Una would have questions for you tomorrow.

“No, it’s alright,” You shook your head, gaze set fastidiously on the dishes again. “I’m nearly through, anyway.”

“...Alright.” His soft, resigned tone made your eyes slide closed for a moment. You sighed silently through your nose as you saw Christopher lift away the scant remainder of the cake, turning to the fridge to put it away. It was...Whatever. The moment between the two of you would surely be forgotten. You’d hold it dear, but whatever it was, it was over. What had the two of you even been thinking?

It was a moment before you heard Christopher say, “There’s frosting left over?”

“A little,” You nodded. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to make it, I kinda overshot how much we would need.”

Christopher hummed thoughtfully. You glance back to see him taking the small container of leftover frosting. “What?” You frowned.

“Just wondering what we ought to do with it.”

You blinked at him dumbly, hands going still as you stared at him.

“...We?”

You shivered at the swipe of the buttercream swept across your skin, chased by the heat of Christopher’s tongue lapping it up. You whimpered, curling your hand in his hair and pressing up against him as he panted softly against your skin. His hips rolled against yours, your legs dangling off of the counter as his arm hooked around your waist to keep you close, tenderly sucking and lapping the spot with his tongue. Your eyes caught on your discarded shirts further down the counter from where you were sitting, hoping that your pants may soon join them.

You reached back in a moment of boldness, undoing your bra and tossing it aside. Christopher groaned appreciatively, trailing his kisses down to the newly exposed skin. You heard the shift of the icing container beside you on the counter, chased by the chilling smear of buttercream on your hardening nipple. You gasped, arching your back and pressing against his tongue as he drew the sensitive bud into his mouth.

You grasped his icing-covered fingers, drawing them up and sucking them between your lips. Christopher’s hips jolted against yours, his head raising with a slick pop to watch you. You held his gaze, slipping your tongue between his fingers and bobbing your head slightly. You thrilled as Christopher’s eyelids fluttered, his kiss-blushed lips parting in shock. You pulled your fingers from his mouth, sweeping your tongue across his lips before slipping it into his mouth. You moaned into one another at the feeling, trading sugary kisses. You wrapped your legs around Christopher’s, giving him a light squeeze. You felt his hands slide down over your sides, fingers lingering at the band of your leggings. You broke the kiss, nose nudging against his as you nod.

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

You grinned as you heard his smile seeping through his tone.

“Please.”

The heat of Christopher's body nearly negated the cold press of the counter beneath your back. His hands grasped your hips, using the hold to draw you onto his cock. Your breath was pushed out in rough pants, moaning and sighing with each thrust. You took in the flush that had risen in Christopher’s cheeks, his darkened, amorous eyes as he watched you. Strands of hair had sprung free from his neat coif, bowing over his forehead. You raised your hand, gently cupping his cheek as you held his eye. Your eyes wandered his chest, his arms braced and muscles bulging as he guided your hips.

He let go of your hip, reaching down and swiping his fingers through your juices. You watched as he raised his fingers to his tongue, lapping at the wetness and grinning.

“Like I said,” He murmured, lowering his lips to yours again. “Perfectly sweet.”

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @phoenixhalliwell ; @wild-rose-35 ; @daisyslibrary ; @informally-liz ; @andrastesflamingtitties ; @muchacha-encabronada ; @nerdygirl0414 ; @elen-aranel ; @ohbee-whatcanyoube ; @kmc1989 ; @quietpainter ; @thedreadandthefugitivemind ; @kaletastrophes ; @nyx2021 ; @thatesqcrush ; @adarasforest ; @s-u-t ; @silversprings-mp3 ; @senawashere ;

#Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Christopher Pike/Reader #Christopher Pike/You #Christopher Pike fic #Christopher Pike imagine #Kinktober #Kinktober 2023

81 notes · View notes