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#i keep coming back to needle and thread
violetrainbow412-blog · 4 months
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A fair payment [W. W.]
Willy Wonka x fem!reader
word count: 1.5k
People who might be interested: @strugglingwriterwattpad @cattail5 [Timothée masterlist]
some minor Wonka spoilers I guess! If you like it, tell me in the comments, that will make me happy :)
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“Can you mend it?” Willy asked, carefully holding his emerald green jacket that had the sleeve seam torn.
The boy had arrived a couple of weeks ago to turn the world of everyone present in the laundry upside down and, honestly, you were already beginning to enjoy his presence. You looked in the background at the blackboard that Noodle used at night to give him lessons in the hope that he would learn to read because, according to the girl's words, because of that he was almost eaten by a tiger. But in the man's words, what was important was the almost part. 
However, tonight he had asked you especially to go to his room, because he had a problem that he thought only you could solve.
“I think so, I just have to pass the needle a couple of times” you smiled.
Since your arrival Mrs. Scrubbit had used your sewing skills for her own benefit, because after all you had ended up in that mess trying to save a little to be able to buy the necessary materials to make a pretty dress that would be worth enough to advance in the business. Although, obviously, that had not been possible.
"Thank you! I'm afraid that's my only jacket."
“It will be ready in no time. I’ll just go to my room and come back, okay?” you said kindly, placing the garment in the boy's lap and earning a sweet smile from the aforementioned.
Just as Willy had his little briefcase for his chocolates, you had your own, full of threads, needles, and buttons, which you just had to grab from the floor to get everything you needed. When you arrived back you settled at the little table and he remained attentive to your every movement, pulling out a chair so he could observe what you were about to do.
“There was a boy on the ship who helped me with these things,” he began to tell you, keeping his curious nose on your shoulder “But I never thought about learning. You know, for when I had to be alone”
“Well, it's lucky you ended up here. We are a curious collection of workers,” you murmured ironically, referring to all the people gathered there against their will by the work of fate "What did you do on the ship?"
"Cook. Mostly sweet things, but I also know a couple of useful non-chocolate-related recipes. I was the chef,” he said, and you laughed at the exaggerated way he pronounced the last bit.
Willy began to tell you about some of the adventures he had had on the high seas and you listened attentively as the tip of the needle went in and out to join the fabric. It only took a few minutes to get his clothes looking like new, taking the liberty of repairing other places that also needed it.
“Put it on,” you asked, trying not to look at him too much when he did so or pay attention to the way the jacket fit him perfectly.
"It is perfect! You can't even tell it was torn, huh?” he said with emotion, feeling with his hands as much as he could. “How much do I owe you?”
“Oh, it's nothing.”
“I insist,” the man murmured. His curly hair bounced across his cheeks as he sat next to you and he lifted his small briefcase off the floor, opening it to reveal all the little bottles of ingredients. “Your talent for mine. It's a fair exchange."
You had to admit that the chocolates you had eaten were a complete delicacy, but a part of you didn't want to get used to that luxury or you knew that when Willy was gone you would miss his sweetness. In the literal and figurative sense.
Locked in that laundry it was impossible to meet many people your age and Noodle was your greatest company, as if he were a little sister to you. But now that he was there, there was a certain happiness in chatting with him, much more now that his ingenious mind had devised a way to get you out of there even if it was just for a few hours to see the light of day and get coins from the sale of the chocolates to free you of the enormous debt to Mrs. Scrubbit.
“What flavor do you want to try today? Do you want me to add some unicorn skin glitter? Rays of sunlight from a twilight on the seashore? Tears of an African crocodile?”
“Just give me something you think I need,” you replied softly.
Willy thought about it for a moment, because it wasn't the kind of answer he would have expected. What was he supposed to give you that night? A little hope? Happiness? Nostalgia? It was difficult to decide.
Through his bright eyes you watched him reflect and just a second later his hands began to work. You noticed there was a hint of mischief in his smile as he poured milk, chocolate, and the contents of a couple of jars into the processor, glancing at you from the corner of his eye from time to time.
“What are you going to do when we get out of here?” he asked suddenly, not neglecting the tasks.
“Working in a sewing workshop, I guess.”
“Why don't you open your own fashion house?” Willy suggested carefreely, as if it were a very easy thing to do, “You are a great dressmaker.”
“And you are a great dreamer”
“It's my best quality,” he exclaimed, almost offended. You waited a moment before answering.
“I just don't think it's that simple. It requires effort, time, and a lot of money…”
“We will have everything,” he interrupted you, with that optimism that characterized him. Suddenly he stopped what he was doing and one of his hands traveled to take yours. “When I open my factory, we will all be able to fulfill our dreams. And you are going to have a fashion house, I promise you.”
“You make a lot of promises,” you responded, blushing.
“And he planned to fulfill them all. I always do it"
Maybe there was something about the softness of his grip on your hand or perhaps the sparkle in his eyes that made you look away out of sheer nervousness. He seemed to be good and innocent, to the point that he probably didn't even realize how close he was to you or how inappropriate the position would be if Noodle ever walked in.
A tap interrupted your moment and then he abruptly pulled away, excited to show you the product he had just made. It was a pretty circular candy that was bright pink and seemed to be emanating smoke from the inside.
"What's that?"
“You'll have to try it to find out,” he murmured, as he extended the treat in your direction.
You had to admit that you were somewhat curious to discover what the man was offering you, so you took it between your fingers carefully, and even under his watchful gaze you took a bite.
At first it tasted like ordinary chocolate, but then it took on a strange tone, which made you feel a certain warmth in your chest that spread to your cheeks. It was a most pleasant feeling, like bubbly joy combined with the embarrassment of a hug.
You thought for a moment about what flavor that could be, without any success, until after a few seconds you realized that it wasn’t a flavor in itself, but a feeling, an experience... Was it love that Willy had given you?
“How does it taste?”
“Yummy,” you responded, covering your mouth so he wouldn’t see the wet chocolate on your tongue, but also to hide your smile “Delicious, actually. What does it contain?”
“A special and secret ingredient”
"Oh, come on! Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“I just want to know if I got it right,” he murmured and you frowned slightly, not understanding him “About what you asked for. Did I give you something you needed?”
You had to bite your lip to keep from smiling again, your cheeks feeling hot from the simple fact that he was looking at you. You thought that this could even be a love potion that you had consumed without thinking about it, just because he was the one who was offering it to you.
“We could say yes”
“We're even, then,” he exclaimed as he waved the sleeve of his jacket and you nodded in amusement, eating the rest of the chocolate he had made for you.
A yawn leaving your lips made you aware of how exhausted you were and although you didn't love the idea, you knew it was time to leave.
“It's late, I should go to sleep before we wake anyone up.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Willy said quickly, getting up from his seat to accompany you to the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Rest,” you said kindly, and, gathering courage, you leaned forward a little to say goodbye with a hug that he gladly returned.
As you walked down the hall to your shabby, damp room, you thought that it probably wouldn't have even taken a love potion to fall for the charms of the pleasant chocolatier. You just needed one of his smiles.
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astroboots · 10 months
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Stitches and Claws
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Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader
Summary: You find yourself in a compromising position on your knees when you help stitch up Miguel's wounds.
Content: Blowjob, riding cock, overstimulation, fangs and claws. Miguel kind of likes his horniness with a little bit of pain? Just a smidge.
Word Count: 3.3k
Astroboot’s Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist
I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!
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"Miguel, can you please just relax?"
"I am relaxed," comes the sharp reply, as he glares down at you. Jaw so tense, you're surprised his molar teeth hasn't cracked under the pressure.
Your hand comes to his knee, as you spread them wider, and you can feel the plane of his thighs tense underneath your palm.
Yeah, the man is anything but relaxed.
Miguel is still in his suit. Skin covered in dark blue and red. The only part of him not covered in the fancy spandex (and if he heard you call it that he'd be livid, cause it's Unstable Molecule fabric, not spandex) is that scowling face of his and a small patch on the inside of his left thigh. An area the size of your hand that's bare, revealing his tanned skin underneath and a nasty looking injury.
You poise the needle in your hand against the gaping wound. You don't even get the chance to make skin contact with the tip before he's hissing at you like some damned feral cat.
"I haven't even touched you yet. This is going to hurt a hell of a lot more if you keep fighting me."
You probably sound more than a little bit irritated, because this position isn't exactly comfortable. The hardwood floor is digging into your knees, and with hindsight you should've taken the cushion he'd offered you before.
God, up close, that wound look really bad. Four inches in length, red and angry. You're not a doctor. You don't know why the hell you agreed to do this. For all you know you're going to get the wound infected or worse.
"Miggy, I don't know about this, don't you think it's better go to a hospital. What if it gets infected? You'll end up with gangrene and then we'll have to amputate it and then what?"
"That's not going to happen. It's a tiny cut."
"Fine, but I'm not a medical professional and I'm probably gonna make it scar to shit."
"So it'll scar. It'll be your permanent mark on me."
"I'm worried I'm going to mess this up".
"No", he says, shaking his head. "I trust you."
Your cheeks warm at the words, barely able to look him in the eyes after he's said it.
Fuck, he'd have to go and pull that card didn't he?
With a big sigh and bigger reluctance, you dip your head down as you pierce the needle through the skin, threading it across. There's a muffled pained noise from above. The leather of your armchair squeaks as he grips it tight.
A sympathetic ache tugs in your chest at his pain and your hand still against his thigh. "Do I need to stop?"
"No, keep going," he bites out through gritted teeth.
From the corner of your eyes, you catch a glimpse of the pointed edges of his corner teeth protruding against his bottom lip. It's hard to keep your hands still when your fingertips tingle at the sight of them.
Jesus, you need to get your head out of the gutter. This is hardly the time. You persevere, dipping back down for a better view, so you can sew up the gaping wound as best as you can, ignoring the warmth of his firm thighs that are caging you in at your sides.
You try to pretend you don't hear the strained noises he's making. (Noises that are much too similar to the ones he makes when he's the one between your thighs). Practically bury your head into his thigh so you can no longer see the way his broad chest heaves or how he bites down hard on his lip when you make another stitch.
"Stop, stop!" he demands.
His hand grips down hard on your shoulder, pressing you backwards, but you ignore it, because the needle is already halfway through his skin, and for a man who is constantly battling supervillains on skyscrapers with jetpacks and regularly crashes into skyscrapers, he can be such a baby sometimes.
"Miguel, stop, I need to--"
"Enough!" He growls, his hand pushes more insistently, determined to pry you off him until your ass lands on the hardwood floor behind you.
"Let me do it myself."
Let him? Let him?! As if you had forced him to make you do this? This asshole. Swear to god! He's the one who came home in this state, plonked his dumptruck ass in your chair and asked you to help him. He's the one who sweet-talked you with his: "I trust you," when you had soundly suggested he go to the hospital.
He's always like this. Running hot then cold. Asking you to help, then pushing you away in the next second. It's a miracle you don't have permanent neck injuries with the metaphorical whiplashes he keeps giving you.
You drag your eyes upwards, the way he's hunched on himself in your chair, covering his thigh. His face is turned to the side away from you.
You don't know why he's being so unhelpful about this.
Stitching up your superhero boyfriend with a $10 Amazon sewing kit isn't your idea of a perfect Saturday night. But now that you've started you need to finish up with the stitches, you can't just leave it as it is.
"I'm sorry that I went too rough. If I hurt you, I can go slower, okay?"
He doesn't answer you, just drags one large hand over his face. It's only then that you notice that his ears and bits of his cheeks are flushed a darker shade of red than the tanned tone of his hand.
"That's not the problem I'm having," he mutters.
"Well then, can you tell me what the problem is?"
No answer.
Leaning forward, you place your hand back on his knee. That finally seems to get his attention and he removes his hand.
"You said you trusted me right? So let me know what's wrong so I can take care of you. Please?"
For all his obstinate stubbornness, Miguel is just as susceptible as you are to that card. He groans dramatically, collapsing back into the chair with a defeated expression on his face.
His legs shift in the chair, spreading outwards. The arm draped across his lap falls away, and the tight fit of his supersuit does absolutely nothing to disguise the shape of his cock, hard and heavy under the clinging fabric.
Oh. oh.
Clearly you’re not the only one being affected by the forced proximity of this situation.
"See the problem?" he says.
You look up and his eyes flicker away sheepishly. If you didn't know better, and if it wasn't for the scowl still plastered on his face, you might've mistaken him for being embarrassed. If you didn't know better, you might've made the mistake of calling him cute.
You ache between your thighs at the sight of him. But even though there's nothing more you'd like than leap into his lap and fill that ache with every inch of him, there's other priorities right now.
Crawling forward, you shoulder your way back between his thighs and settle there.
"Let me finish," you insist. "If you let me finish, then I'll help you with your problem."
It's an uneven bargain to say the last. Because the reward you're offering him, is something you want more than your next breath, and you have to bite back the 'ohthankyousweetjesus' on the tip of your tongue, when he gives you a small nod to seal the deal.
Maybe it's your newfound incentive, but this time as you pinch the needle between your fingers to stitch him up, it's a swift and efficient ordeal. You refuse to allow yourself to get distracted, eyes focused on your goal, even as you hear him groan above or shift underneath you. Not until the last stitch is done.
When you finally let yourself tilt your head back up. His eyes are pinned on your face, and you can see now that the familiar brown shade replaced by a red tinge.
Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and you try to keep your eyes fixed on his, holding the contact as you lean forward. Anticipation rides heavy on your spine, as your mouth inches forward, until your lip press against the thin fabric of his crotch, and you nuzzle against the rigid shape of him.
The leather of your chair creaks, and there's a rip. From this angle your view is a bit obscured, but you catch sight of his hands, the firm unforgiving grip he has on your poor armchair. The extended sharp talons piercing through the soft leather in his excitement.
All you hear from above, is a breathy, "Fuck", then the thin fabric separating him from your mouth disintegrates, the dark blue fabric making way for his tanned skin underneath.
Then he's right there. Bare and naked for you to touch. His cock jutting upright between his thighs. He's ruddy and flushed, the fat tip of him glistening with precome that wells from the slit that you can practically already taste on the tip of your tongue.
Your mouth salivates as you part your lips to take him.
To call Miguel thick is an understatement. It's a struggle to fit him in your mouth, your jaw strain with the effort as you slide him further down. As deep as you can, until the blunt tip nudges against the back of your throat and you have to swallow around him in a panicked fit to suppress the reflexive gag pushing back in you.
It's always the hardest the first time. Your mind and throat instinctively fighting you, as you try to swallow down the intimidating girth of him.
"Take it slow nena," Miguel rasps from somewhere above. His voice is a slow and melted hum that drips sweet and honeyed in your veins, and that helps.
You take a deep inhale from your nose, taking in the familiar musky scent of him, and feel your throat relax around him, accommodating to his thickness.
Your thighs ache with arousal. Panties wet and slick as you clench down around nothing. Everything is tightly wound inside you. Your stomach heavy with the dizzying heat as the weight of him rests so fucking perfectly on your tongue.
It's all you can take. You shove your fumbling fingers between your thighs, tugging at the edge of your panties until the obscene wetness greets you and drag it up against your clit.
Relief and pleasure surges through your head, filling your veins with the sensation and you rock into the palm of your hand seeking for more of your own touch.
"Are you touching yourself?"
Your fingers still at the question. You're not exactly embarrassed, it's not like you're doing anything wrong, but you feel sheepish all the same at being caught.
You pull off his cock, letting it slide between your lips and when you finally look back up, he's staring down at you with a dark hunger in those otherworldly crimson eyes like he wants to eat you whole.
"Fuck, come up here," he directs, but you ignore him. Tongue lapping at the tip, savouring the heady taste of him as you run the flatness of your tongue down the length of him.
"Nena," he bites off impatiently. "Up!"
He doesn't wait for your reply this time. So fucking impatient this man.
He's already lunging forward, arms circling your torso as he pulls you up and into his lap with an impressive ease. His arm comes to your thighs, rearranging you to his liking in his lap, one large hand gripping his cock as he positions you above.
"Sit on my cock, nena. Ride me."
Your eyes flit to the poorly stitched up wound on his thigh that looks flimsy to say the least.
"Won't that hurt you?"
His head tilts, brow arching with that sardonic expression of his as if he doesn't see what the problem is. "And?"
This is such a bad idea. But you'd be lying to yourself if you said you wanted to stop now. Instead you settle on a compromise to ensure that you can at least limit the potential damage on him.
"You have to stay still for me, or you'll tear the stitches," you warn.
He nods perfunctorily in agreement and you don't think he's even listening to you. No surprise there, Miguel has never been the best at listening to yours (or anyone's) instructions. He'll do what he wants as he sees fit.
But you can't find it in you to stop. Not when you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and the velvety smoothness of it twitch in your grip. Not when you notch the tip of his cock to your slick entrance and can feel yourself dripping down his length.
The only thing you care about is to have him inside you.
You lower yourself onto him, sliding down, inch by maddening inch, as that thickness stretches you to your limits and white hot pleasure invades every one of your cells until you feel drunk on the sensation.
"That's it," he encourages, with a sharp inhale, hand gripping to the sides of your hips. The honed edge of his talons gripping into your flesh, but never breaking the skin.
Your thighs are shaking as you inch down on him until they are pressed flush to his hips, and his cock is kissing that perfect spot deep inside you that has your vision whiten. Thick and sweet.
As promised, he doesn't move. Even though you can tell from the muscle twitching in his jaw, that there's nothing more he wants than to flip you over and thrust into you hard and deep until you're screaming his name with a force that makes your lungs burn out.
You lift your hips, savoring the sweet drag of his cock against your cunt, slow and unhurried until only the blunt tip of him rests inside you and stay there.
"Nena," Miguel says, and the nickname on his tongue sounds like a warning.
He's not a fan of the slow pace you're giving him apparently.
But you've never been one to heed his warnings. Instead you slide down on him, just as slowly, letting his cock fill you at a leisurely pace and it is fucking heaven.
You still as he bottoms up inside you, before you do it all over again. And again. Then again. To each grumpy groan of his that's mixed with pleasure and impatience. Then you do it again.
It's only a matter of time before his short-spanned patience snap. You can practically see it in the furrowed line of his thick brows, as you raise yourself up on his knees. His sharp canines bites down on his bottom lip, breaking the skin and that is all the warning you get before his arms wraps tight around your ribs, knocking the very breath out of your lungs.
Miguel's arms pushes you down flush on his cock, it's strong and demanding. A stubborn grip until he makes sure you've taken all of him to the root. It's blinding you with the force of it, and all you can do as he buries his face, sharp teeth poised at your shoulders, is whine.
Good, it feels so fucking good. The sweet ache of his cock filling every inch of you. You can't think anymore.
You try to raise yourself again on his cock but you wobble, the muscles in your thighs screaming in protest and gives under, unable to lift yourself back up again.
Fuck, you don't know if you can move anymore.
In a split of a second, Miguel straightens up and pulls you into his chest. "So pretty, nena," he groans into your skin, while he ruts up and into you, fucking his cock deeper.
You should probably scold him. Try to stop him somehow, so that he doesn't rip the tenuous stitches on his wound. But you can't bring yourself to open your mouth. Not when it feels this good. Not when aching pleasure is pulling you down under and robbing you of your breath and every word in your vocabulary.
"You feel so fucking good. Stretched so tight around me. Just so fucking pretty when you take my cock."
The sharp edge of his fangs skirts gently across the soft flesh of your throat, and sets every nerve in you alight. Every part of you tingles. From the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes. That telltale warmth and heat coiling in your stomach and spreads outwards ratcheting up to a fever pitch.
Your orgasm breaks. It rushes over you, hard and punishing. Your body shakes, thighs tensing and your heart is beating hard and fast into a gallop in your chest. You shake and tremble in his lap as it courses through your veins. Lungs squeezed painfully tight as the sweet bliss of it invades your ribs and you struggle to catch your breath.
You still feel it, rushing and pulsing from your stomach down your thighs, it doesn't even have a moment to properly subside.
Miguel doesn't stop. His hands are already on your waist, lifting you up and almost off his still hard cock and you gasp at the shift in pressure inside you. You're clenching down around the fat tip of him reflexively, and there's no time to adjust, no time to think, next thing you know, he lifts his hips while pushing you down on the length of his cock. All in one swift, and harsh, unforgiving motion.
It's so much, too much. You whimper at the next thrust, the whole of your body wracked in shivers as the sensation overfloods your brain. As good as if it feels, you don't know if you can't take much more.
"Keep going, don't stop. I know it's hard nena. I know you're sensitive." he coos, his hands are gentle on your hips, guiding your movements, but for all his sweet cajoling words, and for all that you're struggling he's not easing up.
"Keep going. Keep squeezing my cock like that and I'll fill you up. I'll fill you up with every drop of me."
He keeps encouraging you, as if you have any other choice but to take his demanding thrusts. As if there is anywhere for you to go with how firmly he's holding you to him.
Fuck you can't, you can't-- oh fuck, you're--
Your arms scramble to grab onto something, anything, fingers digging deep into the firm muscles underneath.
It's chaos.
He thrusts up again. Deep and demanding and your brain shortcircuits.
Sharp electricity surges through your spine and it is blinding. All you can do is hold on to him, to claw on and hold for dear life, or you're pretty sure you're gonna fall off the edge of the earth into oblivion if you lose your grip.
Distantly, you hear him hiss in your ear, feel his hips stutter up against yours, cock pulsing inside of you, but you're too far gone to piece it all together.
All you know is that you're coming again or maybe you never stopped and this is that first orgasm still wreaking havoc on your body. Maybe it'll never stop. The sensation feels like a punch to your gut, consuming and all at once. Your eyes must cross behind your head, because your vision goes dark and blank, wiped clean of thoughts. The room seems to tilt, and crash then disappear. There's no weight to your limbs, and your thighs are so numb, you're not even sure they are there anymore. Your body is not your own.
When you come to, you're still perched on his lap. You feel like wrung out and boneless, body spent and broken. His arms wrapped around your torso the only thing that's keeping you upright.
The arms of your leather chair have been scratched up to hell. Long claw marks brandishing each side.
He looks like an absolute mess. Brown curl a deranged mop on the top of his head, sheen of sweat over his tanned skin. But he looks good, messy. Looks fucking beautiful in a way that has your chest squeeze tight when you gaze at him.
Miraculously, the stitches on his thigh has held up somehow and you feel more than a little ounce of pride of your own sewing skills at the feat.
Your hands slide off of him from where they're still gripping on tight onto him and Miguel's eyes follow the motion to his biceps where your nails have broken through skin. The tiny crescent marks looks red and raw and painful.
"Shit, Miggy I'm sorry."
He blinks up at you, eyes a little bit dazed before he breaks out into a smile. He raises his arm and looks at the mark with a pleased and admiring expression one filled with pride.
"I hope it leaves a scar," he says.
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Dedication & Credits:
For @thirstworldproblemss who had to listen to me figure this one out, I'm still trying to find my voice for Miguel so sorry if this is a bit clunky for you.
Also dedicated to @guruan whose artwork literally inspires me to write/think/breathe smut 24-7 like a 7-eleven store. It's always open for slut business here. This artpiece with the spread thighs definitely inspired this oneshot.
I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!
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yawnderu · 5 months
Text
K-9 — Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Reader | Chapter I
Sick as a dog, and just as vicious.
1 2 3 4 5
Simon Riley and his pathetic efforts to get close to the new medic will earn him a scar or two
or
Simon Riley is crushing on an uninterested, tired medic.
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''I don't mean to be rude, but I'm getting tired of seeing you here.'' Your blunt words are met with a quiet chuckle, the masked man looking up at you with pure amusement in his eyes.
'' 'M trying not to get injured, bird.'' Oh, but he isn't. He's actively getting injured just so he can drop by and get your help. It's stupid, really, how his obsession with you began. He thinks about the first time he saw you, standing right next to Price, an unamused expression as he went on and on about his team, telling you stories of their missions and time together and despite how bored you looked, your attention was solely on him.
He took that chance to look at you, to truly admire you, noticing the way you pull up your glasses every few minutes even when they're not sliding down your nose, the way your eyes were focused only on Price, paying attention to no one but him, legs crossed while sitting next to Price, your face resting on your hand.
''Clearly not trying hard enough.'' He can't help the way his cock twitches at your bored tone, the small frown on your lips just making him think how pretty you'd look with his cum all over your face— he shakes his head softly, trying to get his mind out of the gutter, focusing on the fast and professional work you're doing on his injured arm, pulling the skin back together with a beautifully done stitchwork.
''It's hard being out there.'' He tries to make conversation and all you can do is hum in acknowledgement, gaze focused on the way the needle digs into his skin, coming out of the other side just to be pulled back together with the thin, transparent thread.
''Y'know Gaz was hanging from a chopper by a bloody rope?'' He knows you're close to Gaz, he has seen you talk to him often, and so he tries to desperately make conversation again.
''Scared the shit out o' the old man.'' His efforts work as a small snicker escapes your lips, stopping working on his stitches as you collected yourself. You look up at him with an amused glint in your eyes, nodding your head. God, he has never seen something quite as beautiful.
''Cap told me about it. Poor guy had his whole waist bruised.'' You let out another small laugh before turning your attention back to the deep cut in his arm.
''If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're getting injured on purpose.'' His heart almost stops as your cold eyes look back up at his, an eyebrow raised, yet there's a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you notice his lack of response.
'' 'M not.'' Is all he can say, the knowing look you give him enough to make his blood boil, traveling all the way down to his throbbing cock, thankful for the black hoodie sprawled across his lap to prevent the blood from leaking into his jeans. You ignore all the... beige flags, knowing he's not stupid enough to actually get injured on purpose. You finish stitching him up, throwing away the tools used and the bloodied gloves.
''Keep the wound dry for 24 hours, if any of the stitches come off or the wound opens, come to me.'' You softly pat his shoulders, a small yawn escaping your lips as you look up at the clock on the wall; 0200.
''Tired?'' He asks sarcastically, earning him a way-too-hard pat on the shoulder. Simon woke you up at 2 in the morning, claiming his wound couldn't wait. It wasn't even as bad as he made it seem, though you appreciate your work with the TF141 more than you let on, so you decided to help him. It isn't the first time he wakes you up at outrageous hours, claiming to need help for things ranging from a pathetic paper cut to a gunshot wound. This time, his arm was the only thing affected, a cut big enough to need stitches.
''Very. Now get out.'' Your hand sneaks into the back of his uniform, tugging softly and he gets the message, standing up and allowing you to guide him out of your office like he's a child. He doesn't care if it's you.
''Goodnight, Simon.'' You can barely keep your eyes open and he feels a slight sense of guilt at keeping you up, knowing you'll have to be awake again in less than 3 hours.
''Night, Doc.''
[NEXT]
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fangswbenefits · 4 months
Text
The Arrangement (7) - Tension
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Chapter summary: Astarion needs to feed and things get out of hand... again.
Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav
Warnings: 18+. Dry humping. Masturbation, Precum, Innuendo. Astarion briefly talking you through it. Sexual tension. Sexual frustration.
Word count: 5.4k
Series Masterlist
Astarion needed to feed.
That undeniable fact had come to light in various forms.
You were quite sure that, to the others, it was a blessing in disguise, as Astarion's snarky remarks were now sparse.
But you knew better.
You knew him better.
He hadn't even made a single comment when Gale brought home some horrendous tapestry that he promptly hung on the wall.
That was when you knew he was due a proper feeding.
You glanced at him over your shoulder as you diced some fruit to start the day off.
Astarion was seemingly deep in thought as he masterfully threaded a needle along the edge of the collar of his shirt.
Your heart fluttered briefly as you recalled his enjoyment in embroidery. He had once revealed it helped him hone his dexterity while looking fabulous at it.
A faint smile tugged at your lips, and you returned your attention to the cutting board.
The morning had started off slow and quiet and, for the first time in a long time, you had gotten a proper night's rest.
You couldn't tell if your conversation with Astarion was the sole reason for that, considering you did try the lavender extract Shadowheart had given you. Regardless, there was this pleasant and warm feeling brewing within you.
The joys of communication laced with a touch of intimacy truly left you feeling at peace.
But then…
Your face tensed up as your thought drifted back to Ava.
All pleasant feelings morphed into dread at the conjured image of Astarion offering her his blood.
Whatever interest she had in it had to be rooted in something nefarious. You refused to believe otherwise. Besides, how could she even accept such an exchange when dealing with his vulnerability?
That wasn't right. 
You were so caught up in the haunting visual projection of her bleeding him dry, that you didn't realise someone was pressing against you from behind.
“I, for one, am glad we are not back in the wilderness, darling.”
Astarion.
You jolted in surprise as his chin came to rest on your shoulder, his hand drifting down your arm to grip the knife you were holding.
“Anyone with ill-intentions would have you gutted by now.” His voice was low with the faintest hint of a tease.
He was absolutely correct.
Your distraction could have landed you in a bit of a predicament not long ago.
But your gaze was now set on how his hand examined the blade.
“This knife needs polishing,” he said, shifting his lips closer to your neck. “And the edge needs sharpening.”
Oh, he really needed to feed. 
And he wasn't even being subtle about it at this point as his lips ghosted your skin.
“I'll get to it later.”
You were trying your hardest to keep your composure, feeling the palms of your hands sweat when he pressed further against you.
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest and your back. “Honestly, I'm surprised you can cut through anything but butter with this.”
He had to know.
He had to know how your pulse had quickened so easily because of him.
“Astarion.”
“Hmm?”
But your mind had blanked for a second, your body reacting instinctively to his.
His hand was closed around yours, thumb rubbing circles on your heated skin as he pressed his cold lips to the throbbing artery that ran along your neck.
Gods…
“You need to feed.”
He paused briefly. “It's quite adorable how you can tell whenever I'm craving your blood.”
You would have dropped the knife had he not been making sure you kept a firm grip on the handle.
“You aren't being particularly subtle.”
He let out a dramatic gasp. “I'm merely offering  help with this sad blunt knife, my darling.”
Well, his idea of ‘help’ now involved him pressing his thumb against yours to have it tracing circles along the handle. 
“I reckon your grip isn't adequate either,” he whispered in your ear this time. “You must grip it tighter .”
Oh.
Oh…
He was too good at courtship.
The innuendo wasn't lost on you, and you nearly rolled your eyes at his bluntness.
“I do know how to grip a knife, Astarion.”
He chuckled once again. “Yes, I remember your fierce grip whe–”
But before he could finish his sentence, a scoff was heard next to you and you immediately jolted back in panic, slamming into Astarion's lower half.
“Gods! ” he wailed in pain.
Chaos ensued as fruit went flying off the table and rolling along the floor, the knife landing at your feet and the jarring sound of metal clattering around.
“Is everything alright?” Gale's alarmed voice was heard.
Lae'zel merely stood with arms crossed and looking as unfazed as ever.
“Could you two keep your mating rituals out of the kitchen?”
Your eyes widened at her accusation, crouching to clean up the mess. “Oh! No – no! We were not – Astarion was just… just talking about polishing this knife.” You immediately held the blade in your hand for Lae'zel to see.
She raised a brow instead. “Yes. I am quite sure Astarion wouldn't mind you polishing his knife.”
Your jaw dropped.
Astarion was still hunched over the table, clutching his crotch and spilling profanities.
Shit.
You must have hit him really hard.
Lae'zel threw a final scoff heavy with disapproval at both of you before pacing away.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean it…” You started off, wincing as Astarion massaged the soreness away.
He waved a hand dismissively. “You're a menace even when you don't mean to.”
As he straightened up with a low growl, you noticed the colossal height difference.
Kneeling on the floor, you gathered the scattered fruit and utensils as you looked up at Astarion.
A playful smirk tugged at his lips when he met your gaze. “Not even going to kiss it better, darling?”
You were now at eye-level with his crotch and, for a moment, you thought he had rendered you speechless.
But two could play this game.
You placed a hand dramatically over your mouth. “Right here? In front of everyone? Astarion! ”
You hadn't bothered keeping your voice down and as you rose back to your feet again, you saw a couple of heads turn your way.
Gale looked utterly confused while Lae'zel rolled her eyes, returning her attention to the sword in her hands.
Astarion's smile only deepened. “Oh, you vicious little tease – that was good.”
You patted your clothes straight with a proud smirk before leaning in closer to his face.
“I learned from the best.”
And you quickly pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek.
He stirred briefly under your touch and you offered him a kind smile as you walked away, casually taking a bite off a pear.
“You should do that more often if it means we are greeted with his silence.” Lae'zel complimented as you sat by her side.
Astarion looked as though you had just slammed a frying pan on his head, but his eyes following your every move.
It wasn't every day that once could take pride in leaving Astarion speechless.
He could hand out the most intricate of innuendos laced with sexual tension, but show him small acts of affection, and he will be disarmed in an instant. 
You still remembered that first hug you ever gave him in Moonrise Towers and how he was stunned at first.
“Are you malfunctioning, Astarion?” Shadowheart suddenly quipped as she trailed down the flight of stairs.
You giggled softly at how adorable he looked, even when he finally came to his senses and shook his head, frowning slightly.
“They were engaging in some bizarre pre-mating ritual,” Lae'zel spoke up, inspecting her sword up close. “Seems like she won. Not that I'm surprised.”
Shadowheart winced, disgust splattered all over her face. 
Gale chose the wrong time to sip his camomile tea and nearly choked, and you rushed to his side to pat him on the back.
“You do have a way with words, no doubt,” he drawled out, clearing his throat.
Even as used to her bluntness as you were, you still felt heat rush to your cheeks. “We were not doing such a thing.”
She merely shrugged.
Having snapped out of his previous stunned state, Astarion cleared his throat. “You sound jealous, Lae'zel. Should we invite you over?”
You gave him a murderous look, which only served to fuel his boldness.
“Jealous of what, Astarion? Getting kicked in the balls?”
He scoffed.
A soft knock on the door was heard and Shadowheart swiftly moved to open it.
Your stomach flipped momentarily, hoping it wasn't an undesired visit yet again.
But your worries were laid to rest as Wyll strolled in, accompanied by a Fist.
You bolted from the sofa, pulling him into a hug, which he promptly returned.
“I would normally welcome your visit, but the look on your face tells me you don't come bearing good words.” Gale said, tension heavy in his voice.
Wyll parted from you and his silence was truly revealing.
You shuddered and felt panic rising inside you. “What is it? What happened?”
He forced a warm smile. “Shall we take a seat?”
“Or…” Astarion said with a deep scowl. “... you could simply spit out whatever ill-news you're about to drop on us without the unnecessary foreplay.”
Wyll sighed as you motioned for him to take a seat, as everyone else followed suit. The Fist stopped by his side, an unreadable face turned to Astarion.
“Can I get you something?” you asked.
He shook his head vehemently. “I am not staying long. Just offering an update on the murder case.”
You heaved a deep breath, eyeing him expectantly.
“Well? Get on with it,” Astarion goaded impatiently with a click of his tongue.
Shadowheart seemed quite tense all of a sudden and Lae'zel kept a hand on her sword handle.
“It seems that Astarion is no longer a suspect.”
You watched as he rose from his seat with a smile. “Finally. Glad this is all settled!”
“Not so fast,” Wyll said, his face heavy. “Have a seat.”
He sank back into the chair with a deep scowl and crossed arms as a child who had just been told to finish their vegetables. 
“After talking to some of the passers-by from that night, the general consensus is that you were the only one they spotted,” Wyll said, turning his head to you. “No one recalls a second person being there, let alone that person being Astarion.”
Your heart dropped before speeding up again.
“What… does that mean?” you said in a whisper.
There was a brief silence and you could feel the tension in the room becoming increasingly more palpable.
“For all intents and purposes, you are regarded as the only offender.”
A cold layer of sweat took over your body all at once.
“Nonsense,” Astarion scoffed in disbelief. “I was there with her. I got captured.”
This time, the Fist was the one to speak, “You offered to get captured, spawn .”
“I wasn't talking to you, Fist .”
You felt Gale's arm around your shoulder protectively. “Wyll, this is ludicrous. No one here murdered anyone.”
He nodded. “I agree. I do believe this to be a grave misunderstanding. However, upon closer inspection of the body, there were some interesting findings.”
You were too stunned to utter a single word, thankful that your companions were doing the talking instead.
Lae'zel's grip on the sword intensified, her stare glued to the plate-armoured Fist. “Such as?”
“Necrotic magic reminiscent of that found in the Szarr palace.”
You watched as Astarion stilled all of a sudden, lips pressed together.
“Which we cannot further compare since someone burned down the entire place,” the Fist said, eyes shifting to Astarion.
The grand manor had gone up in flames not long ago, and you did know Astarion had had a hand in it, but with no proof of his crime, there was no effective way to pin him to it.
But it had been enough to strain his relationship with The Flaming Fist with only Wyll being able to keep them at bay.
“Accusing me of arson now? My, my, add it to my tab, dear,” he said with a roll of his eyes. 
But Wyll's patience was wearing thin. “None of this makes any sense. If the two of you are not to be blamed for this – which I definitely stand by – then who could benefit from tangling you into this mess?”
Ava.
Your mind immediately jumped to her.
You had no idea what purpose that could serve, but your instinct seldom failed you.
Even so, you remained silent.
“We are to continue the investigations, naturally,” Wyll went on with a nod. “Necromancy is grounds for imprisonment. Whoever did this, needs to be found and brought to justice.”
Astarion tumbled his fingers on the table. “Well, if you are so sure we are innocent, then let us go.”
“Justice should be blind. I know it is not always the case, but as a former magistrate, I am sure you can agree on the principle.”
Astarion waved dismissively. “It's a sound principle on paper, but its application is tainted and unjust. No one expects the lordlings of Baldur's Gate to answer for any crime.”
Wyll's face twisted into a faint frown. “As true as that might be, I am not keen on upholding such practice. Friend or foe, everyone must face the consequences of their actions.”
A mysterious smile settled on Astarion's lips, but he didn't retort.
Shadowheart cleared her throat. “I could lend my expertise in the matter, Wyll. I could examine the body myself. I have some contacts in the city that could aid me, but I shall need a sample.”
He seemed to hesitate at first, but then slowly nodded. “Very well.”
“So what now?” you finally found your voice again, eager for any glimmer of hope.
Wyll gave you a kind smile. “My friend, do not fret. I am keeping you both here as safekeeping for now. The Council of Four remains sceptical, but if someone did try to frame you, then it is best to stay out of sight.”
You gave him a reluctant nod, realising that time was the only thing on your side for now.
“We've increased the security outside,” the Fist said flatly. “We've added detection spells and mage slayers on rotation.”
You looked up, startled. “ Mage slayers? ”
Gale shared your indignation, the arm around you tensing up. “That is quite extreme.”
“Is it?” Wyll asked. “You two are quite powerful at magic, my friends – but there is always a bigger fish.”
“No wonder my magic has been wavering this morning,” Gale said, rubbing at his chest before pacing towards the window and taking a peek behind the black curtains. “ Two? Wyll, this is–”
“Necessary. For now.”
You swallowed hard, burying your face in your hands in sheer frustration. 
“On a lighter note” Wyll began once again. “I was informed that you are to go to Waterdeep to meet with your contact.”
Gale returned to his seat, looking livid. “Yes. We are expecting some proper information on the Wish spell.”
“Good news, then, Astarion,” he said with a soft smile.
He threw a poisonous glare at him instead. “Seeing is believing, or so they say. I will not be celebrating until I am strolling down the sunlight streets of this city without having my ashes being swept off the pavement and into an ashtray..”
Wyll gave him a light-hearted laugh before rising to his feet, adjusting his cloak. “Fair enough. Though my offer still stands, should things go awry.”
That immediately piqued your interest. “What offer?”
Astarion shrugged. “Oh, dear Wyll made me an offer after becoming duke.”
“Which you refused.”
He nodded with a frown. “I am not a dog to order around.”
Your gaze kept switching between the two of them, feeling lost.
“That was never the implication of my offer, friend. You know the nightlife of Baldur's Gate better than anyone. Your intel would be of great value,” Wyll said in exasperation. 
“And you are an adequate rogue,” the Fist said.
Astarion immediately scoffed. “ Adequate? I could have you pinned to that wall at the tip of my dagger faster than you can say ‘Baldur's Gate’,” he said with a laugh, but his words held no humour.
“I'd like to see you try, spawn."
Astarion drew his dagger from its sheath, twirling it playfully between his fingers.
Wyll quickly intervened. “It's not one or the other, Astarion. You could have both. We would keep searching for a way to cure your vampirism, while you'd take to the streets to help us fight wrongdoers.”
Well.
It did sound like a solid proposal.
“I would still need to feed.”
“We would bring you fresh carcasses at your demand.” 
Astarion was now inspecting his nails. “What about thinking creatures?”
Wyll tensed up immediately. “No.”
Astarion smiled playfully. “Then I'm better off with my current arrangement. The blood of carrion can only do so much for my body and mind.”
He exchanged a look with you.
“I don't mind helping you out,” you said firmly.
Wyll sighed heavily. “Well, I do not like that arrangement one bit, but it's your blood, so it's your choice.”
As he paced towards the door after bidding his goodbyes, you hurried after him.
“I have a favour to ask.”
He arched an inquisitive brow. “What is it?”
You took a deep breath, glancing around to make sure no one could listen. 
“I need to go to The Blushing Mermaid.”
Wyll's eyes widened. “The Blushing Mermaid? Why?”
“I need to talk to someone there,” you said in a whisper. “And maybe you should come, too.”
He chuckled. “My days sneaking into that tavern are long gone, my friend. It would not be suitable for the Duke of Ravengard to visit such a place.”
You shook your head, grasping his hand in a plea. “ Please . There's this woman. Astarion's… acquaintance . Ava. She is – or used to be – a monster hunter and she has been taking blood from him.”
You blurted out the words in one breath, hoping he wouldn't ask you to repeat yourself.
If there was anyone who might be able to help you with this issue, it would be Wyll. After all, his experience as a monster slayer and as the Blade of Frontiers had to account for something. 
He looked positively flabbergasted. “A monster hunter… bedding a… vampire spawn?” he drawled out as if trying to make sense of your words. 
That effectively struck a nerve in you. “She is not bedding him… but there is something off about her.”
“Ava you say? That name doesn't ring a bell.”
You mustered all your courage. “Please let me go talk to her… I have a feeling she might be involved in this entire mess.”
That caught his attention. “You think she's behind this? No respectable monster hunter would resort to Necromancy.”
“She's meddling with Alchemy now.”
He seemed… alarmed.
“Very well. I cannot accompany you today, but tomorrow we shall go there.”
You expected more resistance from him, and his sudden availability made you feel very wary all of a sudden.
“How bad do you think this is?”
The Fist appeared from behind Wyll, startling you. “My Lord, we ought to go. We have a council meeting to attend.”
Wyll nodded and gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe it's nothing at all.”
Maybe it's nothing, but it could be anything…
As he moved out and the door closed behind him, Astarion hurried to join your side, clearing his throat.
“You two have gotten quite close.”
You scoffed at him, not in the mood for indulging in his banter.
“Well, being pleasant to others has its perks.”
Astarion smirked widely, his fangs peeking through. “I can be pleasant, darling.”
You rolled your eyes.
But it seemed that Astarion was bent on having your attention on him.
“So… sweet and righteous Wyll?”
You squinted, realising where this was headed. “Are you jealous, Astarion?”
As expected, he didn't bend easily to your taunt as he was a master at it and an equally skilled dodger.
So, he merely held his smirk, seeing through your intent. 
“Can I feed on you tonight?”
Your heart skipped a beat. 
Right.
He still needed to feed.
His bluntness caught you slightly off guard. “Uh… of course.”
You watched as his smile only grew wider before he leaned in to plant a quick kiss to your cheek.
Your eyes widened as the coldness of his lips parted from your skin and your mouth fell agape.
“Splendid.”
And he swiftly went back to his embroidery duties, humming some camp songs as if he hadn't just made your heart almost implode.
Across the room, you spotted Lae'zel rolling her eyes.
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Astarion came to you in the dead of night.
The door to your room clicked shut behind him and you immediately felt your body react to his presence.
With only candlelight and the muted glow from the moon spilling through the uncovered windows, you realised he looked more beautiful than ever.
Your heartbeat nearly doubled as you rose from your bed, waiting for him to close the distance.
And he did.
With sure and slow steps, he came to you.
His black shirt held a new embroidery near the collar.
Exquisite needlework.
He held a faint smile as you traced the flowery lining with one finger.
“This is beautiful.”
“My fingers can make or break,” he whispered softly, his crimson eyes set on you. “Depending on what the situation requires, that is.”
You swallowed hard as his words seeped through your mind, reminding you that the man before you had experience and knowledge in matters you could only dream of achieving.
He held your chin, gently tilting your head, and your eyes fluttered shut as you waited for a kiss.
And he did kiss you.
Just not where you expected.
Or wanted.
His lips lingered on the swell of your cheek, your body already accustomed to the difference in temperature.
“I was thinking…”
He hummed, tilting your head slightly to the left, so he could mirror the kiss on the other cheek.
“You can feed on me more often, if you'd like…”
Astarion pulled back slowly, an elegant eyebrow arched. “More often?”
“Yes. If you want to, of course.”
He eyed you in disbelief, the thumb on your chin rubbing gently circles. “If I want to? Darling, if I had it my way, I would feed on you every single day.”
His words hit hard and not because the prospect of that scenario scared you.
But because you wished he would do it.
The moments when he fed on you belonged to the two of you alone. 
No one could interfere in the intimacy of it.
He would not feed on anyone else but you.
And that sort of craving was easy to get addicted to.
You wanted him to want you.
To feel comfortable enough with you that he wouldn't seek anyone else.
“Maybe we can do it every other day, then?” you suggested, nearly gasping as his thumb moved up to trace your lower lip.
Astarion glared at you in silence for a moment, caressing your flesh and occasionally teasing further by pushing past your lips.
“Do you have enough scrolls of Lesser Restoration for that?”
You nodded, feeling his thumb being pushed inside.
“So, I can feed more often…” he said, eyes dropping to your mouth.
He sounded absolutely delighted and you closed your lips around him, earning a low growl of approval.
Then you let go and he moved to your lower lip once again.
“More often, but less quantity.”
He nodded with a smile. “Seems fair.”
The room was already heavy with sexual tension, and you needed to disperse it before things escalated too quickly.
“Are you still tender down there?” you asked sweetly.
“Well, there is only one way to test out if you haven't caused irreparable damage.”
Oh.
Of course.
You felt a wave of heat flush to your face at his words.
Because Astarion would get an erection eventually.
It was expected and, at this point, more than welcome.
“Go on. Make yourself comfortable,” he said, pointing to your bed. 
You stared at him in confusion. He usually fed on you while standing. It was more practical and less intimate.
But then it dawned on you that maybe that was what he was aiming for.
“This one might be a long feed.”
Your expectations shattered at once and you gave him a hesitant stare, remaining rooted in place.
“Honestly, after all the times I fed on you, you still worry I might take it too far?”
“Can you blame me?”
He chuckled, placing both hands on your shoulder before planting a kiss to the back of your head.
“I suppose not, but you are free to press a stake to my chest just in case,” he said teasingly.
You picked a scroll from inside the bedside table, placing it carefully atop as it waited for the inevitable moment.
Slowly, he let go of you so you could settle back on your back, feeling the soft mattress envelop your body.
Your legs were firmly pressed together and you laced your hands in each other and on your stomach, waiting for his move.
Astarion hunched over you before shifting until his face met yours.
You felt the mattress dip under you as he got on top.
At this point, your heart was drumming so loudly in your ears, that it drowned out any other noise.
Unexpectedly, you felt his lips on yours, but before you could react, he had lowered himself until you felt his tongue swiping along the skin of your neck.
Just like clockwork, you felt a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body and lingering between your legs. You tensed up and clutched your hands together more fiercely, bracing yourself for what was to come.
The initial sting made you jolt lightly as he pushed his fangs further into you, before his lips closed around the wound and he began to suck.
The first gasp didn't take long to spill from your lips from the sound of his faint moans.
The throb between your legs continued to intensity with each passing second, and you prayed to any god above to spare you from succumbing to the lurking lust.
You felt him untangle your hands and pinning both your wrists together and above your head as he lowered himself even further.
And much to your embarrassment, your legs instinctively parted to accommodate him as he pressed further into you.
Gods… no, no, no….
This was not good at all.
Even through the fabric of your trousers, you could feel his growing erection nudging against you.
Astarion's chest rumbled in a growl of approval and you couldn't keep your hips from rolling, seeking that delicious friction.
You balled your fists as your back arched when his hips began to match yours.
No… no…
The throb in your head was nearly blinding from the blood being drained whilst the one in between your legs only intensified.
“Astarion…” you moaned through gritted teeth.
He slowed down ever so slightly, but you quickly realise it was even more torturous as you could now feel the clothed underside of his thick cock teasing between your folds.
Oh, you were not going to last long like this…
You were too hungry for him to deny yourself from reaching your peak as he fed on you.
Even as your body became weaker, you could still feel yourself walking dangerously fast to the precipice, yearning that sweet release.
“I'm going… I'm going to…” you mumbled, feeling wetness drip from you as your body readied itself for him to be inside you.
Your breathing quickened and your gasps began to merge together as his cock dug harder against you with each roll.
And just as your eyes closed shut and your mouth parted to welcome the pinnacle of your pleasure, you felt him pull back with a guttural growl.
Blood trailed down his lips and chin and neck and you nearly cried tears of overwhelming frustration as you were denied your release.
He moved to grip the scroll and shoved it into your hand.
“Say it.”
Astarion knelt in between your legs, fumbling with the lacing of his trousers, his bulge strained against the fabric and you spotted the familiar stains of precum.
“Say it…” he urged you with a growl.
But you could only stare, mesmerised at the beautiful sight of relief he let out once he managed to ease pressure that had built up.
It made your mouth water and you suddenly felt the urge to touch yourself.
“Say. It .”
As if he had just snapped you from a dream, you quickly mumbled the incantation as the scroll vanished into thin air.
Your heart was hit with newfound vigour as warmth spread throughout your body on rhythmic waves.
Astarion slid off the bed, adjusting himself through his clothes with a whine. 
He looked so beautiful… ears flushed pink and a tint of a blush on his face as your blood coursed through him.
The swell and throb didn't fade and you allowed your fingers to dip slightly under the waistband, wanting nothing but release.
He eventually locked eyes with you, licking the remnants of your blood from his lips, pacing closer to you.
With a gasp, you felt him tug at the strings of your own trousers, eyes dark and pupils fully blown.
“Do what you must.”
He had loosened them just enough for your hand to slide inside, and you couldn't contain the moan that erupted from within you once the pads of your fingers brushed against the throbbing swell between your legs.
Instinctively, you began to roll your hips, feeling just how ridiculously soaked you were for him.
Your half-hooded eyes landed on his lower half, taking in the sight of the precum that had seeped through the fabric and wishing you could see his cock.
Astarion's cock always looked the prettiest after he had fed on you: all flushed pink, bulging veins snaking around his length, precum dribbling down…
But it seemed that he had no intention of granting you your wish, and you felt guilty for craving it in the first place, knowing he probably just wanted to take his time.
So you stopped your ministrations, which earned a disapproving growl from him.
“Keep going. I can hear how wet you are for me and it's music to my ears,” he whispered, before kneeling at your side. “Be a good girl… please .”
Your hips bucked at the caress from his words.
His face was so close, but his eyes were fixed on your hand that moved under your trousers, your own fingers teasing your entrance.
“You just slid one inside, didn't you?”
You bit down on your lip, nodding with a whimper as you clenched around yourself.
“Gods… you can take another one, can't you?”
Your back arched and your eyes fluttered shut. “Astarion…”
His lips ghosted yours. “Add another one…”
His voice was dripping with lust and it was all the incentive you needed to push a second one inside.
You tried to remember how his cock felt inside you. How full you always felt and how much cum he spilled inside you.
Your fingers were no match for him.
He felt so much better…
How you wished he would replace your fingers with his, going knuckle-deep and drawing out the most desperate moans and pleas from you.
He finally pressed his now warm lips against yours and you eagerly deepened the kiss, tasting your blood on his tongue.
You kept riding your own fingers and you nearly whimpered as his hand came to rest on your forearm, thumb caressing your heated skin.
He broke the kiss not long after and your eyes snapped open as you were about to voice a complaint.
Astarion was on his feet again, fingers expertly tying the front of his trousers once again, drawing a pained hiss as his hard cock was once again strained. 
You whimpered in response, rolling your hips desperately as your fingers edged you closer and closer.
“It's frustrating, isn't it?” he asked as he finished working on the lacing, crushing your hopes of seeing his cock leaking precum for you.
“Now you know how it feels..." he said, a devious smile crossing his face. "Besides, I still wonder if this is what friends do."
Your jaw slacked open as a gasp mixed with a whine escaped your lips from his taunting words.
No. No. No...
"See, you never gave me an answer, darling."
You removed your fingers from deep within you with a long and pained whine on the verge of tears.
"I'll leave you to figure it out, then."
Before you could voice a protest, he slipped out of the room quickly, and you vaguely wondered if he had been there at all if not more the ache between your legs and the fresh puncture wounds in your neck.
Fuck.
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TBC
series masterlist . ao3
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amysubmits · 5 months
Text
Owning Me Is Complicated
Occasionally I come across content that makes it seem like being a Dom is easy.
Order her around, make her do the things you don't want to do, do whatever you want, "win" all the disagreements because you're the dom - or even silence her from disagreeing with you to begin with. Get sex exactly how you want it, exactly when you want it. She's just a living, breathing object that can and will do whatever you want. She has no needs other than to make your life easier. She's your own personal robot, but with a body you want to fuck. Being a dom is like a regular relationship but without the emotional labor. I'm sure there are other gender versions out there too, but I see the M/f version most often. It's so funny to me how absurd that all is compared to real life.
Owning me is complicated. Owning me means doing way more emotional labor than a vanilla relationship would require, not less.
Yes, I do what he says - but he's responsible for making the best decisions he can. He's in charge, so keeping me physically and emotionally safe is his responsibility. It's a huge part of how he earns my submission. It's no small thing to make decisions when making them well is part of how he keeps me safe and keeps me open and trusting towards him. Yes, I'll try to push my sexual limits for him - but I have complex emotional needs that accompany physical intimacy. Use my body without having respect for my physical and mental health and it'll fall apart real quick. And once again, making a reckless decision here that would leave me damaged and could forever damage our dynamic. Sure, he can take his cock out anytime and instruct me to suck and I will, but that doesn't mean it's all fun and games. He has the burden of double and triple checking that he isn't pushing me too far, or taking too much as to leave me empty. Yes, he gets the final say in disagreements, but he earns that by hearing me out. He couldn't keep me submissive if he didn't respect my feelings. I can't feel respected if I'm not heard. So he has to hear me out and really listen. And then his job is to attempt to get the best outcome for both of us. He has to try to balance our needs, because if either of us gets neglected, we individually suffer and then the relationship suffers. So he sometimes deals with the weight of threading the needle between his needs and mine, his wants and mine. His shoulders carry the weight of those choices. Yes, he can deny my wishes - and even my needs for a time, if he chose. But I am human. How long can he deny me things that bring me pleasure before I start to feel unwanted, unloved, disrespected, thrown out? Resentment would set in eventually. Self-protection would kick in eventually...and it might be too late by then, the damage may be done by the time I would wake up to look around and decide I didn't want to live like this anymore. Why would he want to even find out, given that he loves me? He wouldn't. He has a sadistic streak, so he likes to deny me things I like so that I long for them even more for a while. He likes to see me eager, desperate to get it when he decides to give it. He likes to watch me tolerate discomfort for him. Playing with these ideas require a deep understanding of my needs and limits. He has to know where "desperate for you 🥺 " starts to fade and "That goblin in the back of my head is starting to worry I'm not valued" starts to enter my thoughts. Yes, I look to him to guide and lead, and he has a lot of power and control - but that comes with the ability to destroy and damage. There's nothing easy about ownership if you feel the weight of the responsibility you're carrying.
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whydon-twego · 9 months
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"You have Arthur's complete trust" Merlin laughs when Gwen tells him this and asks her what she is talking about.
Gwen looks at him strangely, as if she thinks Merlin is joking but then she sees Merlin's expression and can't hide her surprise.
"Merlin, you do realise that you're the person Arthur trusts most in the world, right?" Merlin chuckles again but this time it is with a sense of guilt and annoyance that won't let him alone.
"I don't think so."
Gwen, who until then had been mending one of Morgana's dresses, puts down her needle and thread and looks at him seriously, Merlin doesn't think he has ever seen her like that.
"You two fooling around and teasing each other is fine, Merlin, but you can't really think Arthur doesn't trust you. You can come and go from his rooms as you please, whether he's there or not, you have the keys to his room, and you're the only person who has them, and the whole castle knows perfectly well that Arthur has priceless things in there. I know you shave him every morning and believe me, that is not the job of a manservant,"
"But he is the one who-"


"That's right, Merlin. He's the one who."
Gwen seems genuinely annoyed that Merlin doesn't grasp how much Arthur trusts him, and Merlin finds himself having a chasm in his chest because he doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think about Arthur's trust in him, he doesn't want to think that Arthur thinks Merlin is a person worthy of his trust, because Arthur is the most noble and sincere person in the world and Merlin is hiding most of his life from him.
"I have to go, Gwen."
Merlin leaves everything where he is and does not even turn around when Gwen (probably guilt-ridden from that lecture) calls him back.
Merlin hides in the first crevice he finds and struggles to breathe.
He struggles to breathe because Arthur trusts him and he knows it, but he tries to think about it as little as possible. He tries to live life day by day and not think about tomorrow and how long it is that he is lying to him. He tries not to have a heart attack every time Arthur looks at him and smiles or pats him on the back saying "good job!" or when Arthur is the first to worry about him when they are attacked by bandits.
Merlin tries not to think about Arthur's scream when they were separated on a mission and Merlin had to drop rocks to protect him. He tries not to think about the time he had to steal the keys from Arthur's room and Arthur, finding him in the room early in the morning, didn't bat an eyelid at the excuse of the woodworms because Arthur trusts him and simply told him to leave.
Merlin is a horrible person who does not deserve this kind of trust, not when he is lying to the most important person in his life.
"Breathe."
Merlin, caught in the middle of a panic attack he didn't even realise was happening, jerks at the voice and Arthur's hand resting on his shoulder.
"Breathe, Merlin, come on, in and out, calmly, follow me" Arthur takes deep breaths and Merlin tries to keep up with him but Arthur's mere presence makes the situation worse and Merlin finds himself with tears in his eyes as Arthur looks at him more and more worried.
"Gwen!" shouts Arthur then and Gwen is at his side within moments "Go get Gaius, I can't move Merlin from here in this condition."
Gwen looks at Merlin and she's so worried and feeling so guilty that Merlin wants to say something to her but is already so much if he can breathe.
Gwen leaves and Arthur and Merlin are alone and Arthur strokes his back trying to calm him down and Merlin bursts into tears. 
Arthur lays a hand on his shoulder and settles him on top of him, not holding him too tightly for fear of Merlin's breathing getting worse.
"I was looking all over for you, you know? I thought you'd be at the tavern or having fun somewhere and instead, I find you here doing the doppol-head."
Merlin laughs between sighs and sobs and Arthur continues.
"You have a myriad of tasks to do. My armour is completely ruined, I have no idea where my sword is and you were supposed to revise my speech for this afternoon but apparently, you had better things to do."
Merlin's breathing calmed and he was finally able to concentrate better, noticing that the king was sitting on the dirt floor next to him and practically rocking him.
"Arthur…"
Arthur turns his head slightly but they still can't make eye contact.
"I have magic."
Arthur stiffens and Merlin already feels lost without his king by his side even though he is still physically there.
"Alright," Arthur murmurs and Merlin gets up to look at him because there is no way he is hearing correctly. Arthur turns to look at him and his expression isn't the happiest but Merlin can't blame him "we've been through a lot worse, haven't we?"
And etiquette be damned, what is right or not right to do at court, Merlin throws himself onto his king and holds him as if he never wants to let him go again, holds him trying to tell him everything he is unable to say right now in words.
Arthur holds him just as tightly and Merlin finally knows that everything will be all right.
And that is how Gwen and Gaius find them, embraced tightly in the middle of a corridor in Camelot.
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feyascorner · 2 months
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Sure, Astarion has his reasons for being the way he is, but he wasn't a good man before Cazador either.
He was a corrupt magistrate of high society, who had an insatiable thirst for power and immortality. He got it in the end, but at a cost he never expected to pay.
So imagine if he and Tav met centuries before the events of the game? Tav being one of the “commoners” he looks down upon, scrunching his nose in disgust at the library when your fingers brush against one another as you try to reach for the same book. He yanks his hand away so abruptly that it makes you blink.
“Ah, sorry, did you want it?” you hold out the book in his direction, but he’s already scowling. You’re by no means filthy, but he thinks you might as well be with how your clothes would fetch less than a few dozen gold pieces at the local market. And rather than having your hair neatly arranged like other ladies of high society, yours is messily tied back with a string, in a manner he'd consider disheveled.
“I did,” he mutters in return. “You can keep the damn thing, dear. I no longer have any need for it.”
You don’t know where this snarkiness is coming from, so all you can do is watch as he strides away, lips sealed in a confident yet mildly annoyed frown. He swears he won't return to this library again if those are the kinds of guests they allow in these days.
So imagine his surprise when he meets you at the nautiloid crash site. Well, he doesn't recognize you at first. You don't either. Who would? You've only said one sentence to one another. But when you see him reading at his tent, you mention favorite books of your own even though he never actually asked. Within them, is the very title of the book he let you have—which happens to be some obscure book basically nobody else reads.
He remembers you, because his encounter with you was just a day before he’d been ambushed and turned into what he is. And it’s an underestimate to say he's reimagined that very day at least a few hundred times in his head.
The same can't be said for you. You remain oblivious.
But he's different now. He stitches the rips on his own shirt at least a dozen times a month, making sure the seams blend flawlessly and the cloth makes him look as flattering as he possibly can. In the past, he would've made the expensive personal tailors do the work, but 200 years as a slave can enact more than a few lifestyle changes to an elf.
However, similar to then, he notices you're still struggling in your own ability to sew.
“Like this, darling,” he says again. “Through the loop, here.”
As you marvel innocently at his handiwork, he smiles. He's not sure how you can derive such joy from a simple needle with a thread, but he doesn't complain about the way you fawn over him rather than anyone else. He thinks about his first reaction to you, much to his avoidance. He misjudged you at the time. Terribly. And while he’ll come around to telling you eventually, he’d rather find little ways to make up for it for now.
And if he has to use a needle on the rips of your pants to do so, so be it. Besides, he thinks he likes sewing—especially when it’s for you.
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Miguel O’Hara x reader - Sew cute
Warnings/tags: Miguel getting lowkey horny over his girlfriend knowing how to sew. Also, mentions of marriage.
Part two
I have this head cannon of rich bf Miguel finding his girlfriend’s hobbies adorable and taking every possible opportunity to fule her passion- I might make this a loosely related series, where it’d be the same concept but different hobbies.
I’m so sorry for the pun as the title.
It all started when a line of stitching on your pants began to loosen. The top stitching under the fly, specifically.
You complained offhandedly about it to Miguel, leaning against his side and pouting slightly as you whined about your favorite pair of pants starting to give out. Miguel chuckled softly at your dramatics, scrolling through his phone with one hand and rubbing your shoulder sympathetically with his other, eventually pressing a kiss to your forehead and promising to buy you a new pair next time you two went shopping.
Except, he never gets a chance. Because the next night, he comes home to the sight of you hunched over on the couch, your tongue bitten in concentration as a movie you’re not paying attention too plays on the TV, your head turned to something in your lap instead.
Miguel can’t help his curiosity- coming up behind you and peaking over your shoulder.
Looking down, he sees what you’re focused so intensely on, and it catches him off guard.
You held a thread and needle in one hand and what he assumed to be your pants in the other, carefully sewing a line of stitching into the fabric. Except, you weren’t working on your pants- your pants were sitting to the side of you- the stitching already repaired. Now, you had one of Miguel’s shirts- one he recognized as one he had planned on getting rid of because of a seam coming undone.
“¿Qué haces?” Miguel asks, placing his hands on your shoulders and rubbing loving circles into the tense muscles as watched you work.
You can’t help but shudder as Miguel’s fingers dig into your back, easing the pain from sitting hunched over for so long. You try to keep the shakiness out of your voice as you look up at him to answer his question.
“I’m fixing my pants. The ones that were coming apart- I told you about that yesterday, remember?”
“Love, that’s my shirt. Not your pants.”
“O-oh yeah.” You felt yourself flush in embarrassment, looking back down at the shirt you had stolen from Miguel. “Well- yeah- I finished the pants earlier. Then I found this shirt in with the rest of the clothes while I was putting away laundry. I-I hope you don’t mind that I’m fixing it-”
Miguel smiled, leaning down to kiss the top of your head as he continued rubbing your shoulders. “Of course I don’t mind. But, I’m more than happy to buy us both new clothes. You don’t need to worry about pinching pennies.”
You turn to him, a grin spread across your still warm cheeks as you respond. “Miguel, there’s no reason to replace something so easy to repair! Plus, I’m enjoying myself!”
Miguel nodded, looking down to admire the stitching you had done on the shirt so far. “Hm… I didn’t know you could sew, mi amor.”
“It’s not exactly hard, just moving the needle through the fabric, you know? I haven’t done it in a good while, I forgot how much I liked doing this kinda stuff.”
Miguel was enamored by this new revelation. Before this, he had always seen sewing as more of an old person thing, but he couldn’t deny the warm, fuzzy feeling of domesticity he got from watching you lay in his lap as you delicately maneuvered the needle and thread through the torn fabric of his shirt. He couldn’t help but feel a hint of pride at the sight, it was like you were his little house wife.
Or…house girlfriend? Because he hasn’t married you yet…. But that’s really just a technicality. You’re his house wife, Miguel has decided it.
The next morning, when you handed him the repaired shirt with a proud grin, Miguel couldn’t help but feel treasured and loved from the simple gesture. Before this, Miguel would never have considered wearing something that had ripped them been repaired. He had the money to replace things, so why wouldn’t he? But from that day on, that shirt became his favorite, and he wore it every chance he had.
After that, Miguel started coming home with little handicraft and embroidery kits for you. Whenever he’d get see a kit he knew you’d like- maybe it had your favorite animal or something- he’d toss it in the cart and save it for a rainy day, whether that be a metaphorical or literal one.
And it all stayed like that for a while: Miguel bringing you small hand sewing and embroidery kits, you lighting up and getting started on them right away- usually spending the rest of the night on the couch next to Miguel with a movie or show on in the background.
Until one of your friends asked that you sign up for a sewing workshop with them. It was a relatively basic class, held at one of the local chain fabric/craft stores, but you had agreed to go, mostly for your friends sake.
The workshop was fun. You learned a bit about sewing machine tension and using patterns, and the sewing project given was simple and doable within the time period.
You didn’t realize that Miguel had come early, or that he was standing in the doorway of the classroom, watching you sew with a smile. He would deny it if you asked him, but he had arrived early on purpose to watch the last few minutes of the class. He had assumed the class was hand sewing, like everything else he had seen you do up till that point, and he was surprised to see you hunched over a sewing machine instead of your usual needle and thread.
It was like the first time he saw you sewing all over again: he was fucking smitten, and was going to make you his wife. That was all he could think about, because god help him, you already looked and acted the part.
Miguel was mesmerized by how focused you were as you moved the fabric through the machine. The way you bit your lip and furrowed your brow in concentration- it was precious, and Miguel wanted nothing more than to melt at how domestic you seemed while doing it.
And when you finished and came up to him? With a wide grin as you proudly presented the stuffed animal you had made during the workshop, insisting that you made it for him? His heart melted, right then and there. He squeezed that stuffed animal so tight and looked down at you with so much love, you were half worried he’d either pounce on you or make the poor stuffed animal’s head pop off (which Miguel might have cried about, at this point).
After the workshop, Miguel didn’t take you home. You and him stayed at the fabric store, him loading your arms up with fabric, patterns, and whatever else he decided you needed. “You like this one? No? You don’t? Well I think it’s just a good basic- like a black shirt, so we should just get it anyways.”
Oh god. And then he found the baby clothes patterns. You could’ve sworn you spent hours at that craft store.
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carolmunson · 7 months
Text
in the still of the night
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soft!gf!reader x depressed!eddie
became a woman posessed and decided i needed to write something about taking care of my baby cow eyes sad bf. tw: as always, minors dni. themes of depression/mess. mention of minor character death. reader wears eddie's clothes. some suggestive language. showering together.
Steve called for a check-in just to call you right after, said he'd offer to drive. You peek into the darkened trailer, hearing the scratch of the record player in the living room. Too tired and achey to make it to his bed last night and too defeated to leave the couch all day today -- not even to flip The Animals record to the B-side. Rain patters on the tin roof, curtains drawn but not thick enough to keep out the gray light from spilling in through the bare threads of years of use. He faces the back cushions, hugging a pillow, knees tucked under the bottom. A kid in his adult disguise, he always gets like this around the anniversary of his mom's passing. You ease in, lightly closing the storm door behind you. The soft gray glow in the kitchen leaves you a little sullen. Half done dishes on a rag on the counter -- two smashed glasses scattered across the tile. Evidence of his frustration part way through the task, you can practically hear his desperate 'I don't wanna do this,' while he threw them. You let out a breath through your nose silently, noting the piles of laundry on the table by the washing machine across from the living room. He hadn't let you come over in a couple weeks, it's clear why now. When you tip toe onto the brown shag carpeting by the record player you ease the needle off the disc. The steady rise and fall of his back and shoulders aids your next move. You clear off the McDonald's bags from nights of fast food off the coffee table like a mouse, making sure not to crinkle anything too much. You don't want to stir him. Once clear, you walk around it, taking a seat on the edge of the couch by his feet -- hand reaching out to run comfortingly over his back. "Hi baby," you say softly, "It's me." He stirs, looking down to see you there, confused. He looks down at himself, same pajamas he's had on for three days, unshowered, unshaven. He's embarrassed, he never let's you see him when he's like this. Eddie's face crumples when the realization sets in -- it's not a dream and you're there, seeing his filthy trailer, seeing what happens when he's not okay. You're not supposed to see this, even when you're so sweet on him every time you do.
"What's goin' on, bub?" you ask in just above a whisper, "What're you thinkin' about?" His brows pull in, jaw getting tight when his nose starts to tingle with the start of a cry. His eyes water, shining in the light of the overcast through the threadbare curtains. One hiccup turns to two, and then he starts. "S'just been hard," he sniffles, "I'm just havin' a h-hard time." "I know," you soothe, still rubbing his back, "It's that time of year." "You sh-shouldn't be here," he shakes his head, shoulders shaking while the sobs start to over take him, "You kn-know I'm not like th-this." "Shh, I know, I know," you coo, climbing into the space between him and the back of the couch, squishing over him slightly, "I can help. I wanna help." He welcomes your body along his, you manuever so he's partly atop you, replacing the pillow with your torso. His face finds home in the crook of your neck, while you scratch at the top of his scalp the way he likes it.
"You smell good," he says wetly into your skin. "Thank you," you whisper. You both lay there for a little bit, letting him cry, letting him listen to the rain while it picks up outside. The living room gets a darker while the storm rolls further through the park and evening sets in. He settles after some time, your neck and shouler damp with his tears.
"I'm sorry," he says when he sits up part way, "I'm sorry you're seeing me like this...again." "I will always rather see you like this than any worse alternative," you smile at him, "I get like this too, you never make me apologize." "I know but I -- " "No buts," you shake your head, sitting up right to lean down and kiss him on the forehead, "Why don't you put a movie on and I'll take care of that laundry?" "No, no, you're not -- you're not doing my laundry," he says with an annoyed huff, "I can do it -- it's fine." "I want to," you assure, wiping at his cheek with your thumb when frustrated desperate tears start to spill from the pool in his eyes again. "It's not -- fuck babe, it's not your job. You don't have to take care of me," he complains, "I'm okay. I'm fine." "I don't think you're fine," you shrug, tilting your head to looking at him. His cheeks redden, you can tell he's stressed -- embarrassed to be crying in front of you, embarrassed by the mess. The rise and fall of his shoulders quicken while he takes stock of what needs to be done around him. "Hey, hey, look at me," you encourage, your palm skating over his stubbled cheek, "How about I do some laundry and if it makes you feel better you can take out the trash. Does that work?" "Angel, I don't want you doin' my --" "Would you like it better if I did your laundry...naked?" you smirk. He huffs a soft breathy laugh, a smile pulling on his while he wipes his eyes. "There he is," you murmur, "There's that smile I like so much." He sniffles, collecting himself for a minute before looking back up at you with sleepy, puffy eyes, "You don't have to do my laundry naked." "I can if you want," you offer with a joking grin, "If it'll make you happy." "You being here makes me happy," he whispers, "But I know you're just as stubborn as me so I'll let you start the laundry, but you're not doing all of it." "Okay," you nod, "And after I start the laundry I'll get the kitchen together f--" "Don't push it," he warns, leaning forward to leave a loving kiss on your cheek. You ease up off the couch, offering your hand to help him up. He creaks the way old men do, men who have seen too much before they were supposed to. He's unsteady when he stands, stiff with dehydration and lack of movement beyond the shuffle to the bathroom from the couch. Eddie pulls you into him, your face nuzzling his uncle's army tee softened from so many years of washing. Your arms wrap tight around him, thinking if you squeeze him enough it'll remind him that he's here with you and not wherever his mind keeps taking him. "Let's take a shower," you mumble against him, "We'll go slow."
"Am I gross?" he asks with a frown, you can hear his heart beat quicken from under his ribcage.
"No, but you'll feel a little better. I think, at least," you arms fall, hands sliding down to his, "I'll wash your hair for you." He loves that. "Okay," he nods, big brown eyes rounding -- admitting defeat, letting you lead the way he prefers to. The heat soothes his skin, the sharp twang in his muscles, the tension in his neck. He breathes in the steam, taking handfuls of water and splashing his face with it despite the sting. It's a hurt that feels good. That feels earned. You let him get a head start, a few moments alone to let the water heal whatever you can't. In the mean time, while he's not looking, you sweep up the glass in the kitchen and start a load of laundry. He knows you, his face a poster of unsurprised annoyance when you finally make it into the shower with him. "I know you cleaned," he says softly. "You love me anyway," you shrug, stepping close to press yourself against him -- skin hot from the water. "I do love you anyway," he nods, voice gruff and sleep soaked, crying vocal chords begging for something more. You suds him up, letting the water hit you in a waterfall as you step ahead. His eyes shut, heavy breaths taking over from crying while he relaxes further into your touch. He hums when you wash his hair, letting you baby him in a way he never was as a kid. You comb out his curls when they're wet with conditioner, massaging his scalp when you let it set in. He's always a little disappointed when it's over -- he'd offer to pay you to keep going. His bedroom is not in dissaray the way other parts of the trailer are. He never leaves mess where his guitars stay, where the amps are, it's the only place there needs to be order. You both step in with towels on, it's chilly from the window being left open, goosebumps raising on both of you at the wind. He still has some clean pajamas in his dresser, enough for both of you to wrap yourselves up in. He loves you like this, hot skin and refreshed, water still clinging to your eyelashes. The washing machine buzzes and you both turn, his hand reaching out to your shoulder when you go to switch it out. "Hey," he pleads, "I said you could start it, that's it." "Then come switch it out with me," you say, "Let's do it together. That's what I'm here for." A heartfelt smile flickers over his features, eyes shining with tears again from the shake up in emotions from your arrival in general. "Okay," he nods. You both pad in socked feet to the main living space, dressed in PJs in the middle of the early evening. The glow of the overhead lamp catches his wet hair, the glint of his silver chain, the wet slick of his lips. You switch out the laundry while he puts in another load, shutting the top down door with a tinny thud. You hoist yourself on it, legs dangling above the tile, heels rumbling against the cream coated metal. It's not long before his hands reach your thighs, leaning forward to catch you in a gentle kiss. "Thank you," he mumbles against your lips, "Again." "Anytime," you whisper, kissing him back, "Always."
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rosepascal · 1 year
Text
Call My Name | Joel Miller x Reader
summary: Joel is bleeding out and he calls out for someone, but it's not you.
warnings: blood and gore. Fixing a wound with a needle and thread, angst, happy ending
a/n: I love angst and I love Joel so here is an angsty Joel piece. with a fluff ending bc he deserves to be happy. Also I'm using a gif from ep7 but it doesn't take place during ep7.
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There was so much blood. So much. Your hands are covered in it as you half drag Joel to safety. Ellie trails behind, terror in her eyes as she hugs Joel's riffle to her body.
"Come on, just a little further." You beg. You could almost cry the s a small abandoned house gets closer in view. Ellie runs forward, holding Joel's riffle the same way she's watched him hold it for the past few months.
"Ellie wait!" You call as she runs to the house, you know she's clearing it out. Making sure its well and truly safe but you were worried for her own safety.
"Ell-" Joel tries to say but he can't muster the energy.
"Shh, it's okay. We're almost there." He falters and falls to his knees, almost taking you down with him.
"Please Joel come on." You push hard against his stab wound making him groan loudly.
"I'm sorry." You whisper. It breaks your heart to hear him in so much pain but it wakes him up enough for him to keep move.
"It's clear!" Ellie shouts from the door. Dropping the gun to help you drag Joel the rest of the way. A shitty mattress sits in the corner of the room and you gently lay him on it. His eyes flutter shut and you gently slap his face to keep him awake.
"Ellie! Go look for something to stop the bleeding." Taking off your jacket you ball it up and press it firmly against his stomach. The shake in your hands make it hard to focus but you close your eyes and pray Ellie can find something.
"It's gonna be okay, it's gonna be okay." At this point you aren't sure if you're saying this for his or your benefit more.
Ellie comes rushing down the stairs with a needle and thread in her hands. You had some medical training, it was part of why Joel and Tess had let you into their little operation in the first place.
They promised protection and you promised to fix all their injuries. Joel got hurt more than Tess did and he was always grumpy about it. He never liked to admit when he was hurt. But it was that stubbornness that you loved about him. He's a protector. And now it's your turn to protect him.
"I have a towel in my bag, can you go get it wet." You instruct Ellie who doesn't hesitate to start moving.
The small river outside of the house might be your saving grace with some fresh water. Taking a deep breath you focus on making your hands stop shaking. Lifting up Joel's shirt you whimper at the sight of his wound. His hand weakly grabs for yours.
"I..." He coughs and groans in pain. Trying his best to hold on and be strong for the both of you.
"Save your energy." Ellie comes back with a wet rag and you start to clean up his stomach. Wiping away a few tears you tell Ellie to look away.
"This is going to hurt." You mumble as you take the needle and puncture his skin. His knuckles turn white as you weave the needle through his wound.
"Just a little more." You ignore his groans of pain and Ellies quiet sniffles and focus.
Focus on saving Joel. You have to do this right. You have to save him. It's rough and not the cleanest work but its enough to stop the bleeding. Tying off the thread you break it and clean up around it.
Your towel stained red. Tossing it off to the side you let out a sigh of relief. He mumbles something. His hand reaches out, searching for something. You immediately grab his hand and lock your fingers together.
"Need..." He closes his eyes and you squeeze his hand tightly.
"Tess..." He whispers, his hand going limp as his body finally stops fighting to let him rest. The relief of saving his life is quickly washed away. Replaced by a cold, ugly feeling. You drop his hand without thinking.
"I..." You can feel Ellie's eyes on you. It's stupid. Joel is lying there, half dead. You should be thankful that he's even alive. Who cares if he called out for Tess. You loved Tess too. She was like family.
"Stay with him, I'm going to hunt for food okay?" Your smile doesn't reach your eyes and Ellie wants to say something. But she was never good with feelings either.
"Come back, please." She says. Her voice shakes and she wants to stop you from going. Not wanting to risk losing someone else. Slinging Joel's rifle across your back you promise her you'll be back.
Stepping out of the house your eyes are drawn down to the ground. The trail of Joel's blood makes you nauseous. One step after the other. Once you're far enough away.
You break.
Falling to your knees as you sob into your hands. You were so, so scared. Joel could have died. He should have died. The house, the needle and thread, all dumb luck. Your hands are stained red and you don't think that it will ever come off.
If Joel died, you don't know what you would have done. He was the leader. He could handle a gun like no one else. He knew what to do. Without him, you'd still be stuck under FEDRA back at the QZ. He had saved you and whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not he gave you a reason to live.
Joel is everything to you. His stubborn, cold exterior scared you at first. He rarely smiled and he was numb on the inside. Being their medic meant you saw him at his lowest, most vulnerable state. It was hard to get him to accept your help. He always waved you off and told you he was fine. Nothing that some whiskey and pills couldn't fix. But you were persistent.
After a while he didn't scare you. He could scowl all he wanted but he would never hurt you. He trusted you. He cared for you.
And when he was dying, he called for Tess.
It's so embarrassing. Shame crawls through your veins as you fight the jealously that brews deep. There's no time to be jealous right now. Especially not of a woman who was dead and sacrificed her life for you. But god you thought that maybe he felt the same way you did.
You weren't stupid either. Just hopeful. You knew that her and Joel had a past based on the way they interacted with each other. The longing looks that Tess gave him. It was something that you never pried about. Not that you could blame Tess either. Falling for him was never the plan but it happened and now you had to deal with it. Joel knows how you feel. That man couldn't express how he felt to save his damn life but he kissed you. That had to mean something right?
A few months before this whole journey had started you were patching up his face. A bruised eye and a busted lip that some asshole gave him.
"You got to stop getting into fights Joel." You dab his lip and he winces.
"Not my fault that fucker swung first." He stretches out his hand. His knuckles cut up from the punch he landed square in that guys face.
"What am I going to do with you?" You tease lightly. He takes your hand away from his face, staring at you with those beautiful brown eyes of his.
"Joel.." He silences you with his lips. Their softer than you thought. A little sloppy like he's out of practice but you don't care. It was over too soon for your liking. He pulls away and lets go of your wrist.
"Thank you." He says, his eyes looking anywhere but yours.
After that you started, something. He looked out for you and cared for you. He'd come to you after a rough day and when you were alone. It felt like he loved you. But did it mean anything? He would wrap his arm around you while he slept but he never kissed you. Maybe that should have been a sign.
Were you just someone to keep his bed warm?
As the sun starts to set you make your way back to the house. It didn't take long to find some wild turkeys. They were loud as hell anyways.
Ellie perks up when she hears the door open. She had been lying next to Joel, watching his chest rise and fall. After dinner you pull up a few couch cushions you found and lay them next to Joel.
"Come on Ellie," You point to the cushions and she hesitates.
"What about you?" Smiling you shake your head.
"I'll be alright. Need to keep watch anyways." She reluctantly agrees. Holding onto Joel's arm as she drifts asleep.
Joel opens his eyes the next day. Giving him water and food he tries to get up and move but you stop him. It feels childish but you can't look him in the eye. Fearing that if you do he'll see right through you. It's another four days before he's ready to move. He doesn't listen to your protests as he packs up his things.
"We need to keep movin' west." He says and you sigh.
"You were bleeding out five days ago Joel." He shrugs and slings his bag over his shoulder.
"I'm not anymore." Sometimes you really wanted to slap some sense into him.
"Whatever." You grumble and head outside. Joel scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. He noticed something was off about you. You didn't have that light in you.
Before you and Ellie would fill the silence with jokes and stories that made him roll his eyes. He never thought that he'd miss that. Miss your laugh and your smile. You hadn't even looked him in the eyes.
"Can I talk to you?" He pulls you to the side. Telling Ellie to not wander too far.
"What?" He grabs your chin and forces you to look him in the eye.
"I'm sorry." That takes you by surprise.
"You should've never been put in that position. I fucked up and I'm sorry." You scoff in disbelief. He thinks you're upset at him for that?
"We take care of each other Joel. There's nothing to be sorry about."
"Then why are you so upset?" He questions and you squirm under his gaze.
"It's nothing."
"Don't tell me it's nothin' cause I know there is." He says firmly. There's no escaping this conversation and you know it.
"You called out for Tess. Before you passed out." You admit. He lets go of you and it hurts just a little.
"Look Joel, I. I love you and I thought that maybe you loved me too."
"Baby I-" He starts but you cut him off. Too wrapped up in your own head to even notice him calling you baby.
"Please Joel, I don't need your pity alright? We can forget all about this and never speak about it again." You hate the way he looks at you. You were not some lovesick puppy and he was staring at you like one.
"I was thinking 'bout Tess." He says. His face loses that scowl you're so used to seeing and it confuses you.
"And Tommy and Sarah and You." His eyes are filled with so much pain. It fills you with guilt as you look down at the ground.
"I'm supposed to look out for you, for her." He gestures towards Ellie. "I failed." he says simply. He hides the pain well but the memories of the ones he loved are raw in his heart. "
Just like I failed Tommy and Sarah and Tess."
"Joel..." Cupping his cheeks you finally see the broken man that's been hiding behind that face. He leans into your touch.
"You didn't fail them and you didn't fail us. You're still here and that's all that matters."
You press your forehead against his. Noses bumping together as you try and send him all your love. He doesn't believe you. You could tell him a thousand times and the doubt in his mind would still tell him otherwise.
"Hey, I'm serious Joel." You kiss his cheek and he closes his eyes.
"The suns going down. We better get a move on." He steps out of your grip and calls for Ellie to come back. You smile sadly as he walks ahead. His stomach twists and turns with every step. He stops suddenly causing you to bump into him.
"What are-" His hands wrap around your waist as he captures your lips in a kiss.
He's rough and slightly desperate but his lips are as good as you remember. He has a lot to say but he can't, he doesn't know how. You can't help but smile like an idiot when he pulls away. He sees the shine in your eyes, the happiness that he hopes never goes away. He's failed too many people in his life but he won't fail you.
He'll never fail you.
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hansensgirl · 4 months
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☕️ — 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲, 𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧
summary. — it’s the time of year to be with the one who loves you, even if you don’t know it yet.
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pairing. | dark!Steve Rogers x fem!reader.
warnings. | NON/DUBCON, dark themes, drugging, sleeping beauty au (but changed), kidnapping, manipulation, obsession, pet names (petal, baby), smut, kissing, choking, praise, dirty talk, rough sex, creampie kink, use of spit as lube, it’s winter, and more. 18+ MINORS DNI!
word count. | 4.4k
author's note. | this is a birthday fic for the amazing @xsapphirescrollsx. happy birthday sweetie! you have been my biggest inspiration since i joined tumblr. your fics are some of the best, and you are such a kind and talented person. i'm so sorry i took so long to post this! i hope you like it, darling. thank you @cuttlefjsh for beta-ing. please enjoy this fic! taglist: @hansensfics. MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY
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In the last three years, the winters have been more bleak than bitter. What once used to be frostbite and fluffy snow is now dry air and slush-filled shoes. But up here, on this mountain, it’s more like a snow globe than anything else. One where the white particles won’t stop swirling, and the wind around you makes everything spin.
“Heya, Stevie,” you hum from your spot behind the wooden table. The bell of the door rings when he enters, a full six feet and two inches that you don’t even have to see to know it’s him. You’re hunched over your latest project—hemming the raw edge of some lady’s red scarf. “Hiya, petal,” he sheepishly greets.
“Got something for me? It better be an ugly Christmas sweater,” you joke, pushing the sharp tip of the needle through the fabric, turning it, and then repeating the motion. “Ah, I wish. It’s just one of the handkerchiefs my mom bought me,” Steve starts, inching closer to your workstation.
He ignores the other people there, the ones waiting for their things and the others repairing or creating said things. 
“Why don’t you just bring them all, Stevie? I can repair them in one go, and you won’t have to come down here so much,” you question, knotting the end of the thread and biting the excess off with your tooth. Steve lives up in the mountains, and everyone is in awe of him for it. 
Long journeys that only he can handle—he’s a god in their eyes. But to you, he’s just shy Stevie, trying to keep an ever-fading memory intact. 
“I like coming down here as much as I can,” he sheepishly admits, ducking away from you. His gaze flits elsewhere, to the mannequin with no arms. “Ah, I see. You enjoy the exercise?” you question, not looking up at him still. You examine your work well done.
“Eh… No, not really. I mean—I do love exercise, but that’s not why I like coming by,” he stammers, hoping you don’t force him to spell it out. Steve is as red as the roses he spies in a vase. Where did those come from? “Really? Pray tell,” you smile, standing up and handing the scarf over to a much older woman.
You turn back around and settle into your cushioned chair, with Steve following your every step. It’s funny, though. His one step is about two strides from you. 
“You,” he simply says, as if it’s something obvious that you haven’t quite picked up yet. You snort, admiring his cuteness, and begin to sort out what to do with his mother’s handkerchief. A few moments of silence pass, and Steve says your name. “Mmm?” you hum.
“I like seeing you. I love seeing you,” he emphasizes, and you beam at him, amused. “I love seeing you, too, Stevie. You always put a smile on my face,” you tell him, and his grin falters. It picks up again. 
His teeth are nearly pearl-white, straight but not off-putting. Steve is a handsome man—no one can deny that. The gossipers wonder why his ex-girlfriend suddenly left the town, and the college-aged women bat their eyelashes at him. 
When Steve visits the market or decidedly takes a stroll, everyone behaves as if there are standards to be met and sweet, simpleton Stevie is a king that’s hard to please. But they don’t know the man who still misses his strong mother or the man who tries his hardest to hold onto the past as it attempts to slip through his fingers.
“Hey, Steve?” you call out, even though you know he’s still standing before you. “Yeah?” he eagerly, loudly replies. “This one’s gonna take me some to get done. You can get your other errands done in the meantime,” you tell him.
She isn’t rejecting you, sweetie. She’s just playing hard to get. It’s what your father and I did…
The reassuring voice of Steve’s mother is right in his ear, her hand smoothing over his golden hair. He can practically feel her there—right next to him, searching for the grocery list as she gives him some of life’s best advice. 
He smiles to himself, lips pressing together yet stretched out. Truth be told, Steve does not have anything he needs to do. He convinced James to deliver some groceries a week ago, as he was too busy sorting through Sarah’s belongings.
But he’ll do anything you ask of him. You’re so beautiful and intelligent, the woman he’s always yearned for without realizing. 
It’s daily easy to put up a farce—fake smile, ingenuine gleaming eyes. Every woman who passes by Steve swoons, unlike how it was years ago. When he was bullied for things out of his control. No woman wanted him then, but now they all do. In his mind, he sort of scoffs. They don’t hold a candle to you—his dream girl. 
“Hey, Steve!” a familiar voice calls out, capturing the blond’s attention. He quickly pinpoints where it’s coming from despite the burning of his ears. The temperature has dropped overnight, and Steve worries you aren’t dressed warm enough to withstand the frigidness. 
Natasha stands by a French-style door, cheeks almost as red as her hair. She waves to Steve before making a come-hither motion with her hand, beckoning her friend. He eagerly makes his way over to her before breaking out in a light jog to speed things up.
“How’s it been?” Natasha asks, enveloping Steve in a hug. “Great, actually,” he tells her, much to her surprise.
It’s unlike Steve to lie about how he feels, especially at such a vulnerable moment in his life. And it’s so odd that she cannot sense an ounce of fiction in his words. “Really?” she questions, rubbing his back as usual before pulling away. “Yeah… Well, it’s been a bit hard, but…” he trails off, cheeks flushing.
“But?” Natasha prompts, ushering him into her store. It’s a hidden gem in the county but constantly raved about throughout town. Whatever other shops don’t have, she does—even the most unlikely of things. 
“I… Well, there’s this girl,” Steve starts, breaking out in a breathy chuckle as Natasha gawks at him. “A girl, huh?” she laughs, mindlessly shifting bottles on a shelf that’s just been organized. “Yeah, a girl. Gosh, Nat, she’s the best. I can already see her in a wedding dress,” he expresses. 
“She must be a catch. She’s got you rhyming and wanting to get married,” Natasha jests, happy to see her once-wilted friend now bloom. The two friends giggle in tandem before sighing deeply. “Well, if I’m being completely honest, she’s also got me staying up way too late at night. I can barely get an hour these days.” Steve’s confession has Natasha cooing at him. “That’s no good. Have you gone to the doctor? Bruce may be busy, but he could connect you to Stephen,” she tries, swiping barely visible dust off a surface. “Nah, it’s not that bad,” he shrugs, picking up a eucalyptus candle. 
“Don’t pretend it’s nothing, Stevie. Especially not with me,” Natasha warns, reaching up to a shelf mounted on the wall. She gently grabs a small bottle of green liquid with vines decorating it. “Here, take this,” she urges, pressing it into his palm.
“Nat, I can’t–”  he starts, attempting to push it back towards his friend. The redhead shakes her head and takes his other hand, bringing the two together to cover the bottle entirely. “You will, okay? It’s just something that’ll help you. Put just a drop in some tea or coffee, and you’ll be out like a light.”
The blond nods his head, soaking in all the information. “But only one teeny, tiny drop, Steve. A little goes a long way. Too much will make you sleep for longer than you’d like.”
“As in death?” 
“No, no. Not death. It’ll be like a coma—knocked out for a few days. Only one small drop.”
The words echo in his mind as he steps out of Natasha’s store. They follow him as he returns to Snowy Stitches, and you wave him over to your station. They're barely present in his head as you speak and hand the handkerchief back to him. But they’re louder than ever when he makes a pot of hot chocolate to give you. 
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Steve, perhaps your most loyal customer, visits again the next day. It’s not very busy on Tuesdays, especially not towards the end of your shift. It’s dark outside, and the streetlights illuminate the sidewalks enough for you to recognize a few passersby.
You find yourself repairing your own clothes while your coworkers chat. You’re not startled when the blond says your name, two cups of something in his hands.
“Hi,” you hum, glancing up at him and pausing your movements. “How are you?” he asks you, seemingly giddy with how he can’t stop moving. “I’m good, really tired, though,” you admit. “How are you?”
“I’m great, actually,” Steve tells you. “Yeah?” He’s got a wide grin on his face, and you can’t help but mirror it. “Yeah… What’s that?” you question, pointing to the cups he holds. “Oh, I, uh, I brought them. I made them,” he starts, nervous.
You raise your eyebrows, urging him to continue. “Well, I didn’t make the cups, obviously. I made hot chocolate. This is for you,” he tells you, placing the one in his left hand on your desk. “Oh, Steve. Thank you so much! You’re the sweetest.” With a wide grin, you take a sip of the sweet beverage. It glides down your throat and leaves your taste buds begging for more. It’s got a peppermint aftertaste that mixes perfectly with the overall chocolate flavour. You’ve never had anything like it before.
“Wow… Steve, this is delicious. Did you make it yourself?” you ask before going back in for another sip. “Yep. It’s a special recipe of mine,” he tells you, smiling as he watches you grow fond of his gift. 
“Why’s it special?” you finally say, pulling the cup away from your face. You feel like a fool for not pacing yourself. But the amusement on Steve’s face quells your embarrassment. “S’a secret ingredient. I can’t say.” 
“Well, whatever it is must be magical. Really. You should sell some of this, Steve. I’ve never had anything this good,” you admit. 
“You flatter me. Well, enjoy the rest. I’ll make sure to give you another batch next time,” he oddly says. Steve has always found some way to stick around longer than necessary. You don’t think much of this, though. Maybe he has somewhere to be. 
“Yes, please. Have a good night, Steve,” you bid, and he nods at you as he walks out. 
A little over twenty minutes have passed, and it’s time for you to head home. You bundle up for the unforgiving cold you’ve been dreading and say goodbye to your last two coworkers there. 
They’re elderly women who have retired but can’t stand the boredom, so they decided to come up to your snowy hometown and open an alterations store. You’ve been working here longer than either of you can remember.
Steve watches as you do the last button on your coat and push the door open. 
He’s been across the street the entire time—hidden under the shelter of Natasha’s store. His view was as clear as day, and he was so worried you’d catch him smiling once he saw you finish every last drop of the hot chocolate. 
The streets cleared out as it grew darker and closer to the end of your workday. He was more than grateful for this. 
No one to catch him. No one to disturb his work.
Steve trails behind you silently, years of undercover work and dangerous missions coming into use after all. 
He notes the way you start to stagger, how you lean on the nearest wall or tree to steady yourself. He almost feels bad for smiling—but he just can’t help it. He’s wanted you for so long—and now you’re here, in his trap, waiting for him to catch you like the perfect prey. 
Your eyelids feel heavy as you try your hardest to get home. Your head swings, and your legs feel like they can’t work as they should. Panic sets deep into your bones as the cold nips at your skin, creating an unsavoury feeling you just want to disappear.
It’s hard to think straight as your thoughts turn into a blur of words and nonsense. You slide down on the brick wall to the old blacksmith store, where a man named Thor usually resides. But it’s winter, and he always escapes the cold weather by heading to some beautiful island. 
Everything feels surreal—like you’re half asleep and waiting for dreamland to pull you back in. You’re not sure why this is happening. Is it fatigue? Were you running a temperature without realizing it? Did you eat anything? Nothing comes to mind. 
“Oh, baby…” a familiar voice croons behind you as a large, warm body joins you on the wet ground. “St– Steve? Is that you?” you slur through your stupor, making out his blond hair and handsome face. “Shh, don’t worry about that,” he reassures, though his overly calm voice does little to quell your worries.
He smoothes a large hand over your hair continuously, holding your body up with his other arm. He rocks you like a baby—like he’s putting you to sleep. It’s terribly bizarre, but you can’t fight it. 
Not when you’re sound asleep, anyway. 
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Your limbs feel heavy—like they’re coated in molasses and held down by something too strong. Blankets keep you warm, but they’re too fluffy to be yours. Remnants of an inexplicable dream taunt you—one of an ordinary day at work with a grim ending. 
You try to piece each fragment together and force your eyes to open. You’re met with a bright view from a window—and you know immediately that this isn’t your home. 
In a frenzy, you whip your head around to take in your surroundings. The room is dark and grey, reminding you of some evil castle in a movie you watched as a child. None of the items are yours—so then why are you here? How did you end up in this place? Panic takes hold, and you push the blankets off your body, groaning at the immediate chill that takes over your body. You know better than to not dress warm for bed. But you’ve got a white nightgown on, something straight out of a time long before yours, yet with a modern, revealing flip to it.
“Good morning,” a familiar voice calls behind the wooden, bolted door. You rush to it and slam your hands on the material when your head starts to spin. You’re surprised you made it that far. “How did you sleep, petal?” Steve says, and the realization makes your stomach turn in dread.
“St– Steve?!” you incredulously ask, horror painting your features. “Yeah?” he answers, closer than you expected.
You don’t respond to him. Instead, you try your best to think positively. Maybe something happened to you, and Steve saved you. It’s the most plausible explanation and the one that regulates your breathing. You stick to it, turning it over in your mind and repeating this gentler idea.
“I’m coming in,” he warns, and you involuntarily take a step back. The door creaks loudly as Steve opens it, but the clanging of metal bolts and locks is even louder. “Morning!” he cheers, shutting it behind him.
His large frame blocks your view—you can’t even watch him seal your fate.
“Mo– Morning, Steve…” you start, looking at the tray he holds. It’s metal and quite fancy. On it are plates of breakfast foods that are your favourite, including two cups of coffee. “Uh…” you start, so many questions ready for him, but they all fizzle into nothing on the tip of your tongue.
“Hungry? I’m sure you are. I got you some coffee, too. But if you prefer tea, I’ll be happy to oblige,” he rambles, setting the tray on the bedside table. “No, coffee’s fine. What happened to me? How did I get here?” you question, getting straight to the point.
Steve stands up straight, and it’s only then that you realize just how large he is. He towers over you with ease.
“Ah, nothing you need to stress about, don’t worry. You’re home now, baby,” he smiles, sitting on the bed and patting the spot beside him. “Hah, good one. Was there a snowstorm?” you wonder, not sure why you can’t remember anything. “Nope.”
He hands you a plate, and you note how his body radiates plenty of warmth. No wonder there’s no heating here.
“Eat up, buttercup,” he playfully rhymes, but you don’t have an appetite. 
A red mug. An empty, dark street. A brick wall. Steve holding you against his body. The hot chocolate.
“Did you drug me, Steve? Did you drug and kidnap me?” you accuse, standing up. But before you can get far, he grabs you by your wrist and pulls you into his lap. “There we are. Of course, I did, baby.”
Steve’s bluntness is horrifying. But shock has you paralyzed, and you don’t think to fight him. “Ma always taught me to take what’s mine, especially when a girl’s playin’ hard to get. It was cute at first, but I grew sick of it,” he seethes, eyes darker than you’re used to.
“You should eat your food before it gets cold. I made your favourite pancakes, and I’d hate to see them go to waste,” he follows, his tone lightening as a small smile spreads across his face. “I’m not really hungry, St– Steve. But thank you for the food,” you choke out, letting his previous words sink in.
Playing hard to get.
An idea strikes you. You’ve always been a creative and quick thinker. It’s one of the qualities Steve admires most about you. “How about we save this for a date later tonight? Or maybe even tomorrow? We can go to my place instead,” you offer, feigning excitement. 
He doesn’t even take a moment to think about your offer. “Hmm… Well, why should I wait, petal? Hm? When you’re right here with me already?” he grins.
Steve’s large, smooth hands grab onto your waist, ruffling the fabric of the nightgown you realize he changed you into. His fingers dig into your skin, making you wince from the pain. He shushes you and lays back against the bed, groping at any amount of skin he can reach. 
Against your will, you can feel your skin getting warmer and your pussy getting wet. It shouldn’t be this easy to get you worked up—but it is, and you curse yourself for it. “You look gorgeous in white, baby,” he murmurs, pulling you down so your chest touches his. “But you look much better with nothing on,” he whispers.
Steve grabs onto the lace-embellished straps of your dress, and with ease, he pulls at them until they snap. The front of your gown falls, and your bare breasts are exposed, nipples pebbling in the cold air. 
“I’ve dreamed about this moment forever,” he breathlessly says, pulling the rest of the dress off your body until you’re completely naked. You can feel the hardness of his cock through his jeans, and his size frightens you. You’ve never slept with anyone that big. “I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me, baby.”
Steve’s hand comes up to the back of your head, and he forces you into a kiss. It’s heated and literally breathtaking. His soft lips align with yours, and there’s a mix of his tongue caressing your mouth, but he pulls away sooner than you expect. 
“Can’t get carried away—I’m usually more of a romantic, but you’re too gorgeous for me to resist,” Steve sheepishly admits, like some sort of lover. Like he didn’t drug and kidnap you. “Steve, I don’t want this. Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. We can still go out! Please, just let me leave.”
He hums as he ignores your words, reaching down to where your core rests on his groin, and he undoes his belt. He follows this action by pulling down his zipper and freeing his aching dick from its confines. Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t make any attempts to fight him, fearing his strength and what he might do if you push him too far. 
“I bet you feel like heaven, dontcha, honey? Enough to make a man crazy,” Steve grins, lifting you and dragging the fat tip of his cock through your folds. You’re wet, but it certainly isn’t enough to help with the incoming intrusion. The blond beneath you knows this, and so he spits into his palm and brings his damp fingers down to your cunt. 
The touch makes you flinch. Perhaps it’s the filth or the fact that you don’t want him near you at all, yet here you are. “There we go. I’ll make sure to make a mess of this pussy later, petal,” Steve promises, and you involuntarily clench at his words. 
Dirty thoughts run through your mind, and you can’t help but let out a whimper when he grinds his cock into your drooling hole. His width stretches your inner walls, the discomfort delicious despite the unfamiliar feeling of being full.
“There you go, good girl. Such a good girl for me,” Steve cooes, and your mind melts from the praise. You’ve always been a sucker for kind words. “Oh, fuck,” you mewl as he bottoms out inside your cunt. Your pussy grips him tightly from both the pain and pleasure.
“Shit—that’s it, petal. You got this,” he eggs on, watching as you scrunch your face from the adjustment. Steve keeps you there, still on his cock, for a few moments. He revels in every expression you make, the sharp exhale and the clenching of your fists. It’s a surreal experience for the blond—every bit of it feels like a fantasy that’s too vivid. 
“St– Steve,” you let out a breathy moan. The contrast between the two of you—one fully nude and the other still dressed—makes you feel shameful. “I got ya, honey,” he tells you. Suddenly, a hand wraps around your throat. You grab Steve’s wrist immediately, out of fear and arousal. Nobody’s ever done this to you; you’ve never thought of it before. He squeezes lightly, and you gasp from the pressure. “I won’t hurt you—I would never,” he reassures, though he’s careful not to tell you how much he loves the look of fear in your eyes.
“You know what to do, don’t you? Ride my cock, baby. C’mon, take what you need. Make yourself feel good,” Steve urges before guiding you himself. He uses his other hand to lift you up and drag you back down. You moan as he makes you fuck yourself on his dick. 
You eventually take charge—at least, that’s how you feel at first. Your wet walls slide up and down Steve’s length, coating him in your wetness. Every time he nudges your sweet spot, your knees buckle, and you lose momentum. 
“Yeah, that’s it. Such a good girl for me,” he grunts beneath you, though he struggles to appreciate your hard work. The pace is far too slow for him, so he starts to buck his hips upwards, meeting you halfway. His heavy balls slap against your ass each time, and the pleasure is so good that you fall forward onto his chest, with just the hand around your throat supporting you.
You still try to ride his cock, but at most, you simply gyrate your hips until your clit rubs against his pubic bone, adding to your euphoria. Your goal is to take what you want from Steve and put up with the disgusting act until you can escape his clutches. But you can feel your determination wearing away. 
Steve’s moans and groans rumble in his chest, along with the clamouring of his heart. “You feel so good, baby. So warm, an’ tight, an’ wet. All for me, right?” he hums in your ear, not caring that you don’t give him a proper response. He’ll fix that soon.
There’s a Brooklyn accent to his words, one that you only pick up on now. An orgasm builds up in you quickly, that familiar elastic band in your stomach tightening with every push and pull of the blond’s member.
You clench around his length, and Steve knows you’re about to come. “Go ahead, honey. Come all over this dick,” he grunts, and as if on command, you reach your climax. 
Stars decorate your vision as you squeeze him tightly. Euphoria pulses through your entire body, and your inner walls throb, holding onto the man under you. You stain his cock with your cream and let out a cry that is almost pornographic. “That’s it. Fuck, you were made for me,” Steve says, fucking into you with more fervour and vigour than before.
He makes you ride out your orgasm to the point where it’s almost too much to handle. You’ve never had a lover make you feel this good. 
“Shit, I’m sorry, petal, I can’t hold on any longer. Your pussy is just perfect. I’ll do better next time; I swear,” Steve promises, and you furrow your brows. He starts to use you like some sort of toy, bouncing you and chasing after his own pleasure. “I can’t wait to fill you up until you’re leaking with my cum. You want that, dontcha?” 
Initially, the idea fills you with disgust. But as his cock repeatedly hits your g-spot, you find yourself agreeing with him. It’s filthy, and you feel ashamed of yourself, but those feelings dissipate swiftly.
He pants like an animal, taking what’s his before shoving his dick deep into you. His balls clench as they empty themselves, white streaks painting your inner walls. Steve curses, and his eyes shut from the pleasure.
At the same time, you come undone for the blond once again. Your moans mirror each other as you’re filled up with his cum. “Fuck, yes,” he groans, running his hands up and down your body, almost as if to soothe you. 
You’re exhausted. Maybe it’s from the way Steve just fucked you, or maybe whatever he put in your drink last night is still in your system. 
Either way, you doze off right in his arms, just as he’s dreamed of for so long.
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bi-writes · 1 month
Text
bestfriend!roommate!simon leaves on an assignment, but he needs your help first. (18+)
more bff!roommate!simon (part 9/?)
cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, simon has thicc thighs, lap sitting, fem+m!receiving touching, thigh riding because i cant resist, soft!dom!simon, praise kink, size kink (reader described to be moved/handled easily by him), the mask doesn't come off, simon is a cocky bastard, a lotta angst
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"simon, if you keep moving, i won't be able to finish, quit squirming."
"sorry, luv--afraid you'll prick me with that bloody thing."
you stuck your tongue out at him for a moment before setting back against his thighs. you sat so nicely there, your ass perched on the thick muscle as you worked. you had your tongue between your teeth as you concentrated.
your fingers held a thick needle, weaving it through the fabric of simon's balaclava and the plastic skull plate. he had ruined another piece; he had come home after his last deployment with the skull plate in pieces. he did not explain what had happened to it; you only tried to ignore the streaks of red along the face of it when you watched him throw it away.
you saw him sitting on the couch, trying to sew it together, but his big fingers made it a little difficult; you sweetly asked if you could help. a big plus--you got to sit in simon's lap and bask in the heat of him.
you adjusted, moving around until you were straddling his wide hips. you had to spread your own to accommodate his size, sitting up high to be able to reach the top of his head, weaving the thread through to tie the plastic to the fabric.
"bloody tits are in m'face, luv."
"yeah? never heard a man complain about that before," you laughed lowly. he grunted in response, a gloved hand wrapping around your waist to hold you steady. "what? you don't like 'em?"
he clicked his tongue, shaking his head, and you laughed again, continuing to sew the plastic to the fabric.
"you're gonna look so scary," you smiled wide. "you like looking scary on the field?"
"keeps the little ones at bay."
"everyone's little to you, simon."
"aye."
you snorted, settling in his lap as you were almost finished sewing the mask. you tied off the thick thread when you were finished, using some scissors to cut the excess fabric. you met his eyes as you sat there, and you smiled at him; maybe he did look intimidating, but all you could think about was how those pretty eyes sparkled last night when he came into your hand and how much you were going to miss that look when he was gone.
"the paint, simon?"
he held up a small jar in one hand, and you took a brush from the coffee table and began to draw lines down the face of the mask. you passed over his dark eyes, winking at him playfully before doing the same line on the other half of the mask. you put the brush down, dipping the tip of your manicured finger in it and then starting to draw the lines down where the mouth of his face would be.
you could feel his warm breath against your finger, and you cupped his cheek with your other hand, holding him firm as you drew along the mask.
"i'm going to miss you, simon," you whispered, swallowing hard. you avoided his eyes, focusing on drawing along the cloth. you let out a shaky breath. "i-i mean...i always miss you, but now you're gonna be gone and...whenever you go, you go for a long time, and--"
simon squeezed your waist gently, quieting you. your bottom lip trembled a little, and you looked down, away from him.
"i-i'm sorry. i don't mean to get upset. it's stupid."
stupid. there was nothing stupid about being vulnerable. nothing stupid about baring yourself, being naked to someone in more ways than just the physical. the sex was easy together; it was everything else that simon fought with. feeling. being. loving. the mundane of that love, like coming home.
and coming home was not easy.
"'s not stupid, luv. i know i leave y'here. i know," he shook his head. "i don't do it on purpose, y'know that."
you nodded, "yes, yeah...i know. it's your job. and you're good at your job, and you made a commitment to your team, and they rely on you like you rely on them--i-i know the reasons." you smiled sadly. "i know. i just miss you...that's all."
there was an itch in the back of your head, a hoarseness lodged in your throat--sometimes you wanted to just keep talking, because forbid this be the last time i say it to you.
he hummed lowly, sliding his hands down low and cupping both sides of your ass, bringing you close. you wipe your hands off of the paint, sighing deeply, relaxing as simon leaned back against the couch and held you near. your hands circled around his neck, hugging him back as you breathed in each other--your scent, the sounds of your breath, the feel of each other's warmth.
you cleared your throat, smoothing your hands down simon's cheeks.
"let me get you geared up, yeah?"
you didn't wait for simon to answer. you picked yourself up off his lap, going to where he had his things laid out. you picked up his tactical vest, holsters, his skull-painted gloves, and you brought them back to the couch. simon sat up as you draped the vest over his head, fitting it over his shoulders. you untucked the hood of his jacket from under the vest, making sure it sat right before fastening the straps and making sure it was secure. you tugged on the straps just to make sure, your eyes skimming over the British flag on his chest and the prominent letters spelling SAS.
you busied yourself with switching out his gloves now, replacing the plain black ones with the painted-skull bone gloves. you didn't react to the calloused fingertips or the jagged scars along his hands. simon was so beautiful--every part of him was.
"i'm really proud of you, simon," you said softly. he hummed lowly but said nothing. you kissed his cheek gently, trying to meet his eyes and smile at him. "have i ever told you that?" simon shook his head, his eyes raising to stare intensely right into yours. you bit your lip. "well, i am. proud. you've come so far. they would be proud, too."
you didn't have to specify who they were. simon didn't flinch, but his eyes flickered.
you reached for one of the thigh holsters, sitting back and motioning for him to stand. when he did, you tried not to think about how much simon towered over you like this. he was taller than you, so much broader, taking up so much of your space. you reached up and started to fasten the holsters around his thigh, your fingers skimming the taut muscle there as you buckle it around him. you didn't comment on the fact that you nearly had to loosen the strap all the way just to fit around the thick of him.
you reached for the other holster, fastening it around his other thigh and looking up at him after you had finished. fuck, he looked good like this. he looked so much bigger--the width of him was greater, with you seated, you had to bend your neck back far, and having his back to the window cast low shadows over his face, darkening his gaze and giving him an eerie backlight. but you would never be afraid of simon--even all dressed up.
your lips part gently when his gloved hand cups just under your chin. you mewled lowly, looking up at him with those big eyes and a soft voice. simon knelt down suddenly, widening his thighs to cage you in on the couch and keeping a gentle hold of your chin.
"'m gonna be back before you know it, luv. sittin' right there--" he tilted his head to the spot to your left, "--y'know that, right?"
you broke out into a soft smile, bouncing a little as you nodded your head. simon clenched his jaw under the mask--fuck, you were so cute, so fucking sweet. there was nothing more comforting than knowing you were waiting for him when he came back--that you would be sitting here just like this, with this little smile on your face, your eyes so wide and pretty.
"i know," you whispered. you leaned over, smoothing your hands over the front of his vest before absentmindedly playing with the straps of it. "i know, simon. still going to miss you."
you don't meet his eyes. it was hard; simon was an important part of your life. any time you lived in his absence, it was lonely. now that you lived together, it felt that much lonelier--there was a room cold and unoccupied, an empty seat at the table, a spot on the couch without him in it. his voice soothed no nightmares and his warmth took away none of your shivering. you never told him that when you called; you only spoke of the meal you had cooked that you told him he would like and the annoying step at the entrance that the landlord still hadn't come to mend.
"c'mere."
simon smoothed his gloved hand down your chin, wrapping his fingers delicately around your throat. with a firm grip, he guided you into his lap as he sat back against the couch again, your body easily settling between his thighs again. your face relaxed, cheek smushed against his shoulder as you pressed your lips to the fabric over his neck. you sighed deeply, legs resting on either side of one of his thighs.
your head tilted back, your eyes peeking up to look at him. he moved his own head to the side, and beneath the skull, you could see those pretty dark eyes--beautiful, undeniable need in them. simon was terrible at hiding what he felt behind his eyes--they were warm, and his pupils were dilated, and you wondered if he saw the same pretty things in you that you saw in him.
your eyes fluttered when you felt one hand slide down the length of your spine. a warm, gentle hand, smoothing along the back of your shirt before cupping one side of your ass. you whined, a soft little sound escaping as you jumped slightly. your legs squeezed around his thigh, and you let out a gasp at the gentle grind. you reached up and cupped one side of his face at the first trace of pleasure, your lips pressing to the other side of it as he encouraged you to do it again.
you did. following his guiding hand, you dragged your hips up again, a strangled moan leaving you as you grind against his thigh. but it wasn't enough--as you moved, you whimpered against simon's face, letting out hot breaths of frustration. your jeans were too much of a barrier, not allowing for enough stimulation, and you felt pathetic when you heard simon's low chuckle.
"awww, sweetheart...look at ya..." he reached up with one paw of a hand and tangled a gloved hand into your hair, tugging on it firmly. he grunted as he watched your mouth fall open, slack jawed, drooling a little as you squeezed your thighs around his own. "look at tha'face. fuckin' beautiful, innit? that face you make when you want your cunny all nice and wet...when you want it pet..."
you cried out at that, nuzzling your face into his mask, kissing at the fabric and licking over the strong line of his jaw and hoping to god that he would have mercy on his pretty little roommate. that he would have mercy on her pretty face, on his name tumbling out of her mouth, on the way she grinded on his thigh like a lovesick bunny in heat.
"sound pathetic, luv..." he gripped the back of your neck, holding you at a distance now. he gripped the front of your jeans roughly, undoing the button and pulling the zipper down. "now be a good puppy and take 'em off."
you shimmied out of your jeans, slipping them down your legs and kicking out of them. you were about to slip your panties off, pretty pink lace that hugged your ass so cute, but simon stopped you, forcing you back down to straddle his thigh.
"i like these," he murmured. "want them on."
you smiled, putting both hands on his vest. you gripped it tight, as tight as you could handle kevlar and bulletproof material, and then you nuzzled your face into mouth of his mask and began to ride his thigh. you were shaking. the straps of his holster were catching on your clit, and your hands were growing clammy as you tried to hold onto him for stability. you wanted to be good. you wanted to show simon how good you could be, how if he just unzipped his cargo pants and dropped them low enough, you could ride his cock so good, he'd see the fucking stars.
you hitched yourself higher on his leg, your thighs squeezing around the meat of his thigh, and he grunted lowly when your knee met his crotch. as you bounced, you rubbed up against him, and you squeaked when his gloved hand gripped your hair roughly, forcing your lips against the front of his mask. your mouth dropped open into a silent scream, a choked moan leaving you, and you kept going. you needed to show him, he needed to know--he needed to know that you wanted him, that you wanted this.
you let one hand drop, fall from his vest, and he growled out a string of angry curses when that soft hand gripped his cock through his pants. it was rough, a little aggressive, and you met his eyes easily.
"i want it--i-i want it--!" you cried. "i w-want more--"
he chuckled, and you felt tears prickling the edges of your big eyes as he laughed. your heart ached because you knew he was laughing at you. you sounded broken. you sounded lost. you sounded pathetic, but you couldn't care, you just couldn't bring yourself to. you needed more with simon.
you were tired of the in-between. you were sick of what if, when, the maybes that surrounded the unspoken thing between you. every grind of your hips, every drop of your slick that dampened his pants, all of it was just something in you screaming what are we?
he called your name, and you wanted to care about what he thought, but you needed him to know. you slipped your arms around his neck, moving until you straddled his hips, pressing your cunt right over the hardness stuck in his zipper and continuing your desperate pace.
you were going to make him understand this feeling inside. the gnawing in your chest--the thing that wanted to be outside so bad, it would claw its way out, it would force its fingers through your throat until simon could see that this wasn't a mistake.
this wasn't forgotten moments that lingered after dark. this wasn't the inevitable of a man and a woman who lived together. this was the catalyst of a bond too strong. two things, unable to be taken apart, to be reduced to separate things. there was not a simon riley without you, and there was no you without simon riley, and if he couldn't understand that, you didn't think you would survive the homecoming.
so you were going to fuck simon riley until he understood the knot was tight, and it would never unravel.
"kitty, wait--"
but he couldn't stop you. you swallowed his words, moaning desperately against the mask, your hips chasing the warm buzz that was creeping up your chest and down your thighs, your toes clenching as you notched the tip of his cock right up against your clit and fucked yourself harder against the smooth fabric of his pants.
"kitty--fuckin' christ--"
you sobbed, squeezing the back of his neck as you soaked his pants. your hips stuttered, small little circles that you made as you tried to ride out the trickle of warmth that was covering you like a comforting, pleasurable wave. your body relaxed, and you sucked on his jaw through the mask, tasting the musk and cigarette smoke that lingered there.
"simon--p-please--"
he grunted, pressing on the back of your head to tuck your face into his neck. you sniffled, moody and emotional from coming so hard, and you shook your head.
"y'r not ready for it. not time yet."
"i am," you sounded like such a baby. a cock-drunk pretty little roommate that needed something so desperately, she was so scared of what she might do to have it. to have him. "i am, please--"
"luv--"
"it's not fair," you gasped, pulling back from him. you stared up at him, and he hummed lowly, reaching up to wipe the tears that gathered under your eyes. "it's not fair, why--why can't i--?"
he tsked, clicking his tongue as he got to his feet, and your eyes lowered as he cursed under his breath, adjusting his pants, and you felt a sliver of victory as you realize that you made simon cum in his pants like a teenager.
"i w-won't wait forever."
the air in the room changed immediately. it came out of your mouth faster than you could stop it, and you tensed against the couch as his head turned, snapping to look at you.
"wot? wot did y'just say?"
"nothing."
"look at me."
you grit your teeth as he leaned down and knocked you under the chin, forcing your head to tilt back.
"wot did you just say?"
"nothing," you repeated, firmer this time. his eyes narrowed, two black, dull eyes staring down at you. his gaze was intense, and it was meant to scare you, but simon could never scare you. deep down, you knew he would never hurt you, at least not physically.
emotionally, simon had your heart in his hands, and those hands were not made to nurture. they were made to make pretty roommates cum and to pull dirty triggers. but nowhere in that did it say they were made to love you. nowhere did it specify he would keep it safe. you had given it up, before you had even realized, and he was playing you like his favorite instrument.
but simon didn't know how to play music. and there was a part of you that knew nothing about this was in tune.
when he goes, he doesn't say goodbye. and when you cried, it echoed in an empty room.
you would not wait forever. i will not wait forever.
he will not wait forever.
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niallsgoldhoop · 2 months
Text
CHANNING
a harry styles one shot seven thousand words cw - sexual content, alcohol, harsh language, spitting, spanking, choking,
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“I can’t believe you almost missed this.” Looking over at me, the dark eyes of my closest friend shine under the overhead lights. “I mean, come on— It’s Harryween.”
Using my pinky to perfect the edge of the color as I look in the mirror, I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Okay well I couldn’t let this costume go to waste.”
“Honestly.” Adjusting the straps of her angel wings, she laughs. “It’s perfect.”
Tucking a lock of wavy copper hair behind my ear, the green foliage sewed to the leather top last minute contrasts against my porcelain skin in the best way.
As soon as the decision was made— the costume just happens to fall into place.
It took me less than a day to buy the ivy from a local craft store along with the needle and thread. Deep in the back of my closet there was a black leather corset, the kind that fastened in a line of delicate hooks up the front, one that pushed my breasts up even higher than normal. Pairing that with the black leather skirt that hit the middle of my thighs seemed like the only option that made sense.
Less than two hours sitting on my couch and watching Succession later and all of the ivy had been sewn into place. After a little maneuvering I even managed to turn the broad, verdant colored leaves to a makeshift garter for each of my thighs.
Standing here in this bathroom and looking at my reflection, the extra ivy twisting from the top of the high topped canvas sneakers on my feet, I can’t help but smile at how good it looks snaking over my toned calves and thick thighs.
Poison Ivy.
“We better get down to the pit before it gets too crazy.” With a wide smile on her face, I laugh along with her as her fingers tangle with mine, pulling me along. “If we’re lucky we can get close to the barricade.”
Staying close behind her, the two of us manage to squeeze through the sea of people, finding a spot in the pit good enough that we would be able to get a decent view.
I’d been to plenty of shows before but it felt like nothing compared to the pit at a Harry Styles show.
Even as the show eventually starts, it’s clear that everyone got the memo to dress up and seeing the man of the hour— I’m so glad this is where I ended up.
The way he looks tonight should be illegal.
The way he’s looking at me?
Criminal.
Up on the stage, I make eye contact with him again as he passes by, my body heating under his gaze for what feels like the millionth time.
“God, he keeps looking at you!” The girl with two boas and a pink cowboy hat next to me says, her eyes wide. “What the fuck?!”
I feel my lips as they turn into a smirk, raising my eyes back to the stage to see him in front of me again.
Being so close to the barricade was an accident. Somehow, someway we managed to make out way closer and closer as the night went on. Dancing with everyone around us all night has been the best part of the show.
Well… That and seeing Harry dressed in the most delicate and detailed costume.
A clown with the prettiest cream fabrics and lace along with the most perfect moon and stars offsetting the lighter colors with their darkness. Even his cheeks have the rosiest hue— complete with little pearl drops along his cheeks and above his brows.
Nothing too scary, but something just sexy enough.
As he plays the song everyone longs to hear, this time when lyrics roll off of his heart shaped lips in front of me, there’s no mistaking it.
‘And when I sleep, I'm gonna dream of how you —‘
Eyes set on mine, he brings the tip of each finger to his flattened tongue, a tease of how he would certainly be able to please between the sheets.
Rolling my eyes as my best friend grabs my arm, her fingers pressing into the bare skin of my bicep, I find his gaze lingering before he moves on — deciding to entertain the other side of his stage before making his exit.
It feels like the scene of a documentary as the end of the show finally unfolds and people make their way from the stadium, a mass of people all looking for something to get them as high as the feeling Harry Styles gives them.
Laughing on the way out, I give the longest hugs that I can manage before slipping out into the night to find the small bar that has always welcomed me on a night like tonight.
A night when I’m not ready to dream quite yet.
Between the way the city never sleeps and the people out for their own version of tricks and treats, it feels like hours before I find what I’m looking for even if it’s not terribly far away from where I started.
Still dressed in the costume I threw together at the last minute, I don’t even find myself caring much about that. People from all across the city are dressed in various Halloween get ups— making it that much easier to blend in.
Even if the majority of my skin feels like it’s on display.
Smiling as I grip the door handle, it’s the large hand that covers mine that makes my heart race.
The anchor tattoo.
The mermaid.
The cross.
Turning on my heel, the same eyes that looked into mine in front of thirty thousand people trace over my face — over my freckles, over my cheekbones… Over my lips.
“It’s you.” Low and raspy, the accent drips off his lips as they turn into a sinister grin.
Rolling my tongue along the inside of my cheek, I watch his eyes follow the movement as I press through the door and let him follow.
“It’s me.”
The bar is small and dimly lit, the best place to come if you don’t want to be found.
I’ve come here for years, a product of begging to be lost.
Turning my back on him, I make my way to the bar and sit on one of the stools, smiling as the bartender makes his way down to me. I can feel Harry’s presence as he slides onto the stool next to me, his thigh brushing against the skin of my thigh that my skirt doesn’t cover.
“Hey, babe.” Leaning over the bar and kissing my cheek, the familiar face behind the bar places a shot glass on the counter before filling it with tequila and placing a lime along the rim, sliding it to me. “How was your night?”
My face turns towards the man next to me, his features sharper in the low light as he studies me carefully before I look away from him with a shrug. “It was okay.”
A laugh falls from his lips as he leans into me, his lips brushing against my ear. “Okay? Is that all you have to say about me?”
“Maybe it is.” My shoulders lift in a shrug as I turn to face him, reaching for the shot and taking it, watching Harry as his eyes focus on my lips where I taste the lime. “Why? Are your feelings hurt?”
Catching the attention of the person behind the bar, those mossy eyes hold mine as he orders. “Can I please have four shots of tequila?”
“You alright with this guy, Chan?” Looking between the two of us, his eyes narrow in Harry’s direction.
I laugh. “We’re good. You can pull your best friend shit somewhere else.”
Rolling his eyes, he pours the shots out for the two of us. Leaving a small bowl of salt and limes before making his back to the other end of the bar.
“Chan?” Harry’s voice is rich and smooth, just like you always hear about. “Is that short for Chandler?”
I shake my head as I bring my hand up and flatten my tongue before running it across the back of my hand, eyes locked on his. “No, it’s not.”
“Are you going to tell me?” Watching my every move, his green eyes watch as I pinch salt between my fingers and let it fall to my skin.
“Should I?” Once again, I flatten my tongue across the same spot and taste the salt before picking up the small glass of liquor, tipping it back and letting it burn down my throat. “What’s in it for me if I do?”
Tension unlike I’ve ever known settled between us.
Somewhere my brain tells me to be careful, but the reckless part of me says that sometimes things are just meant to happen.
The odds of running into a man like him are practically zero. Yet here I am with flushed skin from the warmth of his proximity.
I reach for the lime but Harry beats me to it, holding it between his thumb and forefinger and pressing the acidic fruit to my bottom lip, eyes begging for me to open for him.
“Suck.”
Wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I flick my tongue across the broad side of the lime before wrapping my lips around it and following the simple instructions.
“So you do know how to listen.” Harry pulls his hand away from me before dropping the fruit back into the empty shot glass.
Tilting my head back, I laugh.
Pressing my hand on his thigh and leaning forward, this time my lips brush against his ear. “I only listen when I feel like it.”
“Hmm.” He hums as he leans back, eyes looking over my body. “Do you feel like listening tonight?”
I shake my head as he reaches for my hand and pulls me in close, his eyes burning through me as his tongue darts out and presses to my skin along my forearm. Holding me in place and using his other hand, he easily sprinkles the salt along my heated skin before flattening his tongue and tasting it.
My breath hitches in my throat as his fingers tip the glass back, taking the lime and holding it out for me. Taking the hint, I bite onto it and lean towards him letting him take it from me with a smug grin on his face. His lips brush against mine for only a moment before he leans away from me, sucking the juice out of the fruit to chase the bitter taste of the liquor. “Come on, tell me your name.”
“I’ll tell you on one condition.” Squeezing his thigh, I brush my lips against the base of his throat, smiling when I feel him swallow thickly.
“And what’s that?” Gripping my chin, Harry tilts my head backwards and grins at me, his notorious bunny teeth biting into his bottom lip.
I roll my tongue along my bottom lip, watching as his eyes drop to my mouth. “You keep staring at my lips like you want them to do something.”
“Yeah?” His grip on my chin tightens. “What if I want to put them to work?”
I lick my bottom lip as my breathing shallows, giving Harry the opportunity to press his thumb into the small bowl of salt and brush it along my bottom lip. “I’d say you talk a lot for someone who hasn’t made a move yet.”
Harry’s eyes darken as he leans in, flicking his tongue along my bottom lip and tasting the salt. Reaching for one of the last two shots that he ordered, I watch as he pours the liquid into his mouth before using his thumb to pull on my bottom lip in a silent request.
Running my tongue along my lower lip and opening my mouth for him, I can’t even be bothered to be surrounded by other people or the sound that comes from the back of my mouth when he spits the liquor onto my waiting tongue.
Grabbing the lime and holding it against the skin of my throat, I’m almost embarrassed by the whimper that falls from my lips when he squeezes the wedge and his warm tongue catches the juice as it rolls down the column of my throat as I swallow.
“That’s right… Swallow for me, pretty girl.”
I can barely register his words before his lips are on mine and I can taste the flavor on his tongue as it finds mine, one of his hands sliding back into the waves at the nape of my neck and the other slipping just under the hem of my skirt and past the dark leaves of my costume.
He kisses me hard and with no abandon, as if he wants nothing more than to devour me. Leaning closer to him and hooking my finger into the waistband of his pants, I moan lightly when his teeth drag across my bottom lip.
“I need to get you alone.” He mumbles, his hand sliding along the inside of my thigh as his fingertips dance across my skin. “Need you on your knees while I watch those lips wrap around me.
I gasp when he drops his lips to my neck, nipping and sucking my skin. “There’s a private bathroom in the office— fuck, down the hall.”
Leaving the last shot, Harry takes my hand and pulls me towards the hallway that leads us in the right direction. With his arms wrapping around my body from behind, once we stop just long enough for me to punch in the code for the keypad I can feel him hard and ready behind me.
“If you don’t hurry, I’m going to take you right fucking here.” Nipping my earlobe, Harry plays with the hem of my skirt as his hand grips my throat and turns my head to the side, giving him more access. “How many ways are you going to let me fuck you, pretty girl?”
“Fuck.” Punching the last number into the keypad, when it beeps twice and I turn the handle, it opens easily.
We barely make it into the room and slam the door before Harry turns on me, pressing my body into the door and pressing his thigh between my legs, pinning me in place.
His mouth is on mine in a messy and hungry kiss all while his hands take their time exploring my body. From my breasts to my ass, not one place goes unnoticed by his skilled hands.
“This fucking costume.” Bringing the skin at the base of my throat between his teeth only to soothe it with his tongue, I shiver when he drags his finger along the top of the ivy, digging behind it enough to trace my skin. “People think that it’s so bright on stage and that I can’t see, but I do — I fucking see everything.”
Kissing under my jaw, his hands work the hooks that line the front of the top, one by one. “Tell me what you saw, Harry.
“You want to know?” Dragging his tongue across the swell of my breasts, I reach up and run my nails across his scalp, making him moan. “I saw you, dressed in this—“ Releasing the last button and letting the top of the corset fall to the floor, Harry cups both of my breasts and squeezes them, pinching each nipple at the same time. “I watched you dance, seeing your perfect ass sway from side to side like you didn’t give a single fuck that I was on that stage.”
Dropping down, Harry runs his tongue across the sensitive peak a moment before taking it between his teeth, pulling back enough to make me gasp. “I didn’t— I was more of a Niall girl—”
“Beautiful and bratty, huh?” His fingers find my throat as I smile, pressing into my skin just enough that my lips part on an exhale from the rush. “The only name that's going to come off your lips tonight is mine.”
“You seem so—.” My thoughts all but disappear when I feel Harry reach down and slip his hand under the tight material of my skirt after tracing the edge of the garter along my thighs.
Taking my nipple back into his mouth and teasing, he pulls back to look at me as his knuckle presses into my clit over the fabric of my underwear. “I seem so what, Chan? You won’t even tell me your name yet here you are — dripping down the inside of your thighs for me.”
“So full of yourself.” I finally get out. “Maybe you really are an arrogant son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
Pushing the fabric aside, Harry doesn’t even pace himself, sliding two fingers deep inside of me and making me cry out as his thumb circles my clit with so much pressure it borders pain. “You have no fucking idea.”
“Harry—“ I moan.
Curling his fingers, I feel like my body is on overdrive as he works an orgasm out of my body quicker than even I’ve been able to do it. . “Come on my fingers for me, baby. Let me feel it.”
Reaching out and gripping his shoulders, I can see the dark evergreen of his eyes just on the rim of his blown out pupils under the lights as his breath comes out shallow, the muscles under his skin flexing as he works me even harder through my orgasm.
Once my body loses all of the tension I tip forward into Harry’s arms with a laugh. “Jesus.”
“Yeah? That good?” He smirks as he wraps my hair around his fist. Once, twice. “Chan, I need to ask you something.”
I nod, my eyes the only things he’s focused on. “Now you want to ask questions?”
“I’m serious.” His nose brushes mine before he places a soft kiss to my lips, a complete contrast to the way he just coaxed a release from my body. “I need to know that if you don’t like something or you want me to stop that you’ll tell me, okay?”
I nod, pressing another soft kiss to his lips, taking my time to enjoy the way his tongue feels moving with mine. “I promise.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes burn into my features looking for any sign of hesitance.
“I’m sure.” Getting impatient, I nip his bottom lip. “Now, are you going to fuck me or stand here and be a gentleman all night? Which one is it?”
“Such a fucking mouth on you.” Flexing his hand in my hair and pulling tighter, there’s no option but for me to sink to my knees as Harry guides me. “I hope you know how to use it for more than just your attitude.”
Sitting back on my heels, I lick my lips. “Only one way to find out.”
“Go on then.” Nodding towards his straining cock beneath the fabric of his pants, he waits for me to undo the button. “Let me watch you choke on my cock so that you can’t talk back to me.”
When my hands finally free him, I whimper at the same time Harry’s groan fills the small office. Leaking with precome, I flick the tip of my tongue to collect the pearly drops.
“Pinch my thigh if it gets to be too much, yeah?” Using his hand that doesn’t still have my hair wrapped around his fist, he cups my jaw and runs his thumb across my cheek as I nod. “Be a good girl and open your mouth for me.”
Taking Harry into my mouth, I wish I could take a picture of how he looks from this angle. His head tilts back as a moan curves around his lips, I swear to god I’ve never seen anything sexier in my entire life. Pushing his hips forward slowly, I hollow my cheeks as I use my tongue to feel every single ridge and vein he has to offer me. My hands rest on his thighs as he drops his head down and meets my gaze.
“I’m going to go harder, is that okay?” With his cock still in my mouth, I nod. “Good fucking girl, good girl.”
Harry pushes his thighs even deeper, groaning at the feeling of his cock sliding down the back of my throat and making the muscles constrict around him from the intrusion. It feels like so much pressure and not enough at the same time as he repeats the action. Tears form in my waterline as I choke over and over, the tears spilling out onto my cheeks.
“See how good you're taking my cock down your pretty little throat?” Sliding his hand from my cheek, I moan around him as his hand rests across my throat. “Fuck, are you going to swallow for me?”
I choke once more, nodding.
“Good.”
It’s one word that precedes his release, one that I make good on my promise and swallow every drop of.
Once Harry pulls back, I take a deep breath and look up to him for only a moment before he pulls me to my feet and spins us around. Lifting me up and sitting me onto the desk, stepping between my legs and tracing his fingers over the edges of the ivy still wrapped around me.
Instantly his lips are on mine, groaning at his own tastes as he reaches between my legs and pushes the material of the leather skirt up, his fingers finding the sensitive nerve at the apex of my thighs as my hips roll forward to meet the friction.
“Are you this wet for me?” Lips ghosting over mine, his fingers find my nipple, pinching. “Do you want a taste?”
“Yes, please.” I say, looking into his eyes as he brings his fingers up, smearing the arousal across my bottom lip before kissing me again.
It’s impossible not to feel crazed as his hands fall to my thighs and push up my skirt, watching as it bunches up around my hips. “Lay back for me.”
Placing his hand in the center of my chest, I fall back onto the desk and whimper when I feel his warm lips leaving lingering kisses along the inside of my thighs.
“Look at you, so willing to let me do whatever I want with you tonight. I don’t even want to unwrap this pretty package you’ve put on for me.” His breath ghost across my center, the anticipation making me feel like I could explode at any minute. “I guess I got lucky— finding you on a night where you want to listen. A night where you want to be told what to do. Am I right?”
Harry doesn’t give the time to formulate an answer, his tongue immediately pressing into my clit before sucking it into his mouth. The action takes me by surprise as my back arches off the desk and my hands search for anything to hold onto.
Dragging patterns across the nerve, I cry out his name as he devours me like he’s never done before. As he releases my clit, his tongue finds my entrance and makes a languid path through my arousal before reaching the place I want him the most.
Up and down.
Side to side.
The stimulation makes my thighs shake as he tugs my hips toward him until my ass hangs off the desk and he pulls my dripping cunt even further into his face.
“Harry, fuck.” My hands flip, nails digging into the wood of the desk no doubt leaving marks. “Right there, fuck. I’ve never— never been so close so fast—“
Pushing myself up to my elbows, I let my head roll back as Harry rolls my clit between his teeth before pulling back, delivering a harsh slap to my outer thigh.
“Do you want to come for me?” Pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee, he raises a brow in my direction and smirks when I nod. “If you want to come for me— if you’re going to scream my name— you’re going to watch me as you do it. You’re going to watch me devour you like my last meal, do you understand?”
I bite my bottom lip and nod, resisting the urge to roll my head back when he immediately finds my clit and brings two fingers to my entrance, pushing them in and finding my g-spot.
“Harry.” His name falls off my lips like a prayer as he keeps his eyes on mine. “Please, please let me come. I need it, I—
I feel it as my body gives into the pleasure Harry so willingly gives.
My back arches, my breast pushing up into the air and not even a sound is able to pour from my mouth. Reaching out to grasp something and knocking a cup of pens onto the floor behind me, I cry out.
“Let everyone know who makes you feel this good.” Standing up, Harry looks down at me as he fists his cock in his hand. “I need to be inside of you right fucking now.”
“Condom?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath.
Harry reaches behind him and grabs his wallet, pulling one out and ripping it open with his teeth before rolling it on his length. “Tell me what you want? Hard? Soft?”
“Give me what nobody else can, don’t fucking hold back.” I grit out, feeling him run his cock along my clit. “Prove to me that you can fuck as good as everyone thinks you can.”
Harry smiles down at me only a moment before thrusting his hips forward, burying himself as deep as possible, making me scream out for him. “How’s that for a start? You’re so fucking wet for me.”
“Harry!” I cry. “I need it just like that, so deep.”
Pulling his hips back, Harry leans over to kiss me as he thrusts again, the power behind it pushing the desk forward an inch. “Yeah? You like feeling like this? Feeling so fucking full that you can’t stand it. Fuck, you take my cock so fucking well, so fucking well.”
“You’re so big, shit.” I moan, my head lolling to the side as his hands spread across my waist and grip me before slamming into me. “God. It feels so— so fucking good.”
“You can take it.” Harry moans above me, his eyes going back and forth between my face to where he disappears inside of me, watching as I take every inch of him. “It feels like this was made for me. So tight, so warm.”
“Please, I need more—“
At my words alone, Harry pulls out and pulls me off the desk and turns me around. Pressing his hand between my shoulder blades, he bends me over the desk before pushing my skirt back up around my waist and grips the waistband to hold me in place.
“Is this what you wanted?” Peering at him over my shoulder, I open my mouth on a breathless moan when his hand cracks across the left side of my ass — quickly followed by the right. “Did you need me to fuck you from behind so I could spank you like this? Huh?”
I feel Harry as he slowly pushes his hips forward, filling me. Listening to his moans as they bounce off the walls, my own whimpers mix with the sound. Gripping my hips, he takes his time as he works so slow — each inch more agonizing than the last before his hips press against my ass.
“Are you going soft on me back there?” Looking at him over my shoulder, I smirk when fire flashes behind his eyes. “Is the guy from the bar all of a sudden gone?”
Harry rolls his tongue along the inside of his cheek, shaking his head before raising his hand and delivering a harsh slap, one that’s sure to leave his handprint behind.
“I know you fucking like that, don’t you? You’re squeezing my cock like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt.” Fingers digging into my hips, I moan when he pulls me back onto his cock and buries himself even deeper. “Tell me — tell me I'm the best you’ve ever had.”
Gripping the edge of the desk, I try to ground myself as Harry brushes against my g-spot with every single thrust, the pull in the base of my spine getting so strong that I don’t know how much longer I'll be able to hold out.
“I’ve neve been fucked like this.” I cry. “Nobody has ever, ever made me feel so fucking good.”
My eyes roll back as Harry presses his fingers against my clit and works them in time with his trusts, making me push up onto the tips of my toes in search of the release that isn’t far off.
“Like that, oh my god.” Panting, I meet him thrust for thrust as he fucks me harder and harder. “I'm so close.”
“Come on pretty poison girl, soak my cock for me.” Gripping the back of my neck, Harry presses me into the desk and gives me everything he has until my body gives up, releasing around him. “Fuck. you feel so good when you come around me like that. So damn good.”
Slowing his rhythm, Harry sweeps my hair off of my back and leans over me, pressing kisses up the curve of my spine. “Harry.”
“Yes?” His voice is soft as he presses a kiss to my shoulder. “You are incredible.”
“One more.” The words fall from my lips even though I know that I'm so fucked, that I know I won’t last much longer. “I want one more.”
Stopping his movements, I feel Harry chuckle. “You think you can handle me again?”
“I want to see you.” I say, my eyes darting toward the door of the bathroom. “Let me watch you come undone over me.”
Harry grins as he pulls out, the loss of him more than I expected. “I never would have guessed the woman in the crowd would be able to fuck me so well.”
“You shouldn’t underestimate people, Harry.” I walk in front of him, listening to the way he moans when he sees my own release dripping down the inside of my thighs. “Do you like what you see?”
“Fuck.” Running his hand through his curls. He looks freshly fucked and I can’t wait to finish him. “Let me see you.”
Stepping into the bathroom and turning on the light, the sleek and modern design is perfect. Turning, Harry steps close and finds my lips with his, taking his time to kiss me as his hands once again wander my body.
When he takes my nipple into his mouth, I let my head tilt back. “Come on. Give me what I want.”
“So fucking needy.” Harry responds, turning me around and pinning me against the counter. “Bend over, you pretty slut.” Pressing my ass out and shaking it from side to side, I cry out when Harry strikes his palm across each cheek. “How many?”
The tone in his voice makes me moan. “Fuck.”
“I said—“ Cracking down his palm again, he steps up behind me, pushing just his tip inside of my throbbing center. “How many.”
“Until you think I’ve had enough.”
I arch my back when he thrusts forward, his hand connecting with my ass even harder. “What if I never get enough. huh?”
“Harry—“
“What if I'm starting to think one night isn’t enough for me?” He thrusts so deep and I’m so sensitive that it feels so good, I clench around him. “Fuck, when you grip my cock like that I never want to leave — I could fuck you all damn night.”
I moan as I meet his gaze in the mirror, looking at the tattoos on his arms as he slides his hands up my back, gripping my shoulders and pulling me back onto his cock. “Don’t say that.”
“What? Don’t say that I want you?” Bringing his palm against my skin, his gaze locks on mine. “This— fuck, this isn’t normal.”
“What?” I ask, biting my bottom lip and letting my head fall forward. “What isn’t—”
“Feeling like this after one night.” Thrusting into me so hard that I scream, I feel tears in my eyes over the way my body feels ready to give into him again. “I’ve never had sex like this, never fucked anyone this good.”
I let my head fall to the side as my cheek presses against the cool counter, the sound of our bodies meeting echoing through the small room. “That’s because you've never been with someone like me before.”
“Fuck—“ Harry is relentless as he searches for his release. “I need you to come for me again, please.”
Begging me, his eyes are hazy as he looks at me, gaze looking with mine until with one thrust, my body shatters around his. “Harry!”
“Oh, shit—“
I watch as his head rolls back and his body stills for just a moment before his hips slowly guide in and out of me, riding us through the orgasms we’ve given each other.
“There you go, pretty girl.” Running his hands up and down my back. I take a deep breath. “You’re so fucking good. So good, Chan.”
I take a deep breath as I try to center myself. “Harry, that was—“
Resting his forehead between my shoulder blades, his warm breath skates across my skin. “I didn’t know it would be like that when I saw you tonight, the woman dressed with ivy across her body— that the vines would wrap around me and pull me in.”
“I don’t know why you’re the surprised one.” I say, wetting my lips. “You’re the one that showed up here. How?”
Harry pulls out, a whimper falling from my lips at the loss of him. “I don’t know… I wanted to get a drink somewhere where I wouldn’t feel like Harry Styles — I wanted to go somewhere small and local.”
“And you ended up here?” I ask, looking up at him from under my lashes.
Grabbing a hand towel, Harry presses a kiss to my temple before running it under warm water and hoisting me onto the counter, laughing as I wince.
“I ended up here.” He smiles as he reaches his hand between my legs, kissing me when I gasp as he runs the warm cloth over my sensitive clit.
We both look at each other and it’s almost like Harry can’t help it when he leans down to kiss me, taking his time as his hands come up to cup my cheeks.
“Let’s get you dressed, okay?” He speaks the words against my lips but makes no move to let me off the counter to grab my top. “Maybe in a few minutes.”
I laugh. “Come on, we have to get out of here before someone comes in.”
“I hope they do.” kissing down the side of my neck, Harry rests his forehead against my collarbone. “I need everyone to know I was with you — that you’ve been fucked you harder than you ever have in your life.”
Resting my hand in the middle of his chest, I push him backwards and hop off the counter on shaky legs, Harry laughing as he rests his hands on my hips to guide me back into the office.
“Here, let me help you.” It’s a sweet gesture to see a man like him help me back into my top, watching as he uses all of his concentration to make sure every hook gets fastened properly while he doesn’t disturb the leaves.
“Thank you… For tonight.” I say, looking over his features. “I really had a good time.”
Harry smiles and brushes a lock of hair from off my face. “I did too.”
I give him one last smile, reaching for the door handle.
Before I turn it, Harry reaches for my hand, turning me and pressing me into the door one last time, finding my lips with his own.
Unlike most of the kisses tonight, this one is so slow, so gentle.
“I know I'm asking a lot, but I need to be able to see you again — I don't know what my brain is doing to me, but I just know that I need it.” The look in his eyes is so full of hope, so soft. “I’ll understand if you say no.”
“Here.” I hold my hand out, hoping he gets the hint.
When he does, he takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. I easily put my name and number in before giving it back to him, watching his lips curl up with a grin.
“Channing?” Looking from his phone to me, I smile as my hand grips the doorknob and finally push it open.
I wink at him as I step out into the hall. “It’s me.”
He steps forward and grips my hip one last time. bringing his lips down to mine.
“It’s you.”
💖
490 notes · View notes
perlelune · 4 months
Text
Oxytocin | Coriolanus Snow | ii.
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One act of kindness from a peacekeeper may be your salvation or your doom. Possibly both.
Warnings: NON-CON, Blackmail, District 8 Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping
This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.
𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙
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You do your best to avoid him for as long as you can. 
You show up at the factory each day, diligent and focused on your work. You thread, dye and sew miles upon miles of fabric. It’s exhausting and repetitive but assists you well in burying the peculiar encounter. And if sometimes a particular shade of blue fabric stir memories of eyes you’d rather forget…you ignore that as well. It’s better that way. You narrowly escaped imprisonment, perhaps even death. No need to tempt fate once again. 
But it’s no matter. 
Because fate finds you anyway. 
It happens as the end of your shift at the factory comes near. Your cold-bitten digits are interweaving two different colors of thread on a gigantic wooden loom. Same as the girls and boys surrounding you. They’re all quick and efficient, threading and weaving with the ease of practice. A lifetime of it. Some of them are as young as five years old. There’s a saying floating around the districts.
If one can walk, they can work. 
You often wondered if that same logic applies to the Capitol’s children. Are they too expected to work until their fingers are numb with pain and their eyes red-rimmed with fatigue?
You somehow doubt it. 
Once again, the weight of someone’s attention blankets your shoulders. You tense, the needle nicking your fingertip when your attention falters. 
You curse and swipe away the blood beading on your finger.
Your head rises. 
Anger simmers inside you at the sight of the smug face smirking at you from across the room. 
Coriolanus. 
He showed up one hour ago, switching places with another guard, and proceeded to stare at you since.
Dread pools in your gut. His gaze hasn’t strayed from you once.
What could the peacekeeper possibly want from you?
You have nothing, and it’s obvious he’s some rich kid from the Capitol who somehow found his way here.
“Your yarn is coming loose.” 
Yara’s frenzied tone wrenches you away from your thoughts. 
You look down, your forehead scrunching as you do. She’s right. The threads have broken out of their pattern, forming disgraceful zigzags over the loom.
Besides, there’s a minuscule crimson stain on the fabric. The pristine beige cloth is now ruined. This will come out of your pay.
Your ire grows. Your gaze narrows as it finds Coriolanus’.  This is all his fault. He distracted you. Annoyance at the strange peacekeeper gleams inside you.
You bolt up from your stool.
“I have to go,” you announce, already gathering your satchel from the floor.
Yara’s eyes round.  “Our shift’s not over yet,” she whispers below her breath, tossing wary glances at the guards. Your frown deepens. Any slight sign of disobedience could be seen as a hint of rebellion these days. It’s how much the Capitol wants to avoid a return to the Dark Days.
You smile at her in reassurance.
Yara was kind enough to show you the ropes when you started working at the textile factory. She even stayed late at night with you to teach you the most complex needlepoints.
Fidgeting, you apologize, “I’m sorry, but it’s an emergency. I’ve ruined it anyway.”
You don’t stick around for her response, rushing towards the nearest corridor to slip away.
A deep, teasing lilt echoes behind you in the hallway.
“Still trying to fly away from me, huh?”
Your heart leaps. Not again. 
“You shouldn’t be here,” you chide as you keep hastening across the hallway. It doesn’t matter though. A stolen glimpse at your back reveals to you that Coriolanus’ long legs easily maintain pace with your frantic strides.
You unleash a weary sigh. 
“I shouldn’t but I am, pretty bird.”
You can hear the smile in his voice and it infuriates you more.
“Leave me alone, Coriolanus-”
A sharp breath ripples through your throat as warm fingers suddenly clasp around your arm.
“What are you…”
The large hand that drapes over your mouth quiets your budding protest.
Ignoring your muffled shouts, he pulls you flush against his frame and drags you into a dark room inside another hallway.
Your heart hammers in your chest as you grab at anything you can. He’s undeterred by your feistiness, only unhanding you once he’s slammed the door shut.
A chill dances on your spine  as every deadbolt is meticulously slid into place by him.
Leaning back against the locked door, Coriolanus’s eyes drag over you. He drinks you in for a while as you retreat, as far away from him as the small room allows.
Uncrossing his arms, the blonde starts inching towards you.
Your nerves flare up at his impending proximity. A heavy sigh drops from his chest.
“Why do you make that face when I’m only trying to help you?”
“I don’t want any help from you. I want nothing from you,” you shout. 
He tilts his head, closing the distance. He shoves his hand in his pocket, seeming to search for something. You freeze. 
Shock rocks through you when he conjures a familiar vial, shaking it in front of your face. 
“Hm, Are you sure?” he taunts. 
The urge to steal it from him has your fingertips tingling. But you tried that before, and it didn’t work in your favor. So you snuff out the impulse.
“How did you find out?”
“I have my ways.”
You search his stark cobalt orbs. They give nothing away.
“I just want to take care of you,” he adds.
“Why?”
You startle as his long fingers creep under your chin. You didn’t realize how close he’d gotten, now bending over you so you’re at eye-level.
“Because I can. I could make your life easier.”
His tender inflection, oddly intimate, makes discomfort pool in your stomach.
“I don’t need…”
“Take it.”
As you do nothing to take the bottle he holds up in his fist, Coriolanus exhales wearily.
You gasp when he shoves the vial between your trembling palms.
“Don’t be stupid,” he admonishes. “That cousin of yours won’t make it through winter without these. They’re antibiotics.”
You stare down at the amber bottle. Your shoulders slump. You hate to admit it but he’s probably right. Tilly’s coughing fits are progressively getting worse. She can hardly breathe properly most days. It hurts to see and you’ve been praying for a way to help her. 
And now you have that way. Is it even fair to Tilly to turn his help down because of your own personal hang ups with the peacekeeper? 
His motives elude you but you’re not sure it matters at that moment. 
Tilly’s life is on the line. 
Your fingers squeeze around the vial.
“I know what they are. It’s written on the bottle.”
Interest springs in his cobalt gaze.
“You can read? Interesting,” he hums. “Most people can’t in the districts.”
Your cheeks heat at his assumption. A respectable amount of people in the districts can in fact read. Not the majority, but a few at least. The knowledge just isn’t widespread enough and schools are a luxury most districts cannot afford.
“My grandmother taught me when I was young,” you defend.
He pauses, studying your defiant features. 
His hand wraps around your hand holding the bottle. You try not to shrink, afraid he’ll take it back.
His thumb sweeps over your knuckles.
“These are very rare and hard to get. Don’t let your pride get in the way, pretty bird.”
“I won’t,” you mumble. 
Another bag materializes before you. Coriolanus nudges it in your arms before you can think to protest. “Take that too.”
You glare at him suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Food, water, supplies.”
Grounded in disbelief, you peer inside the bag. Your jaw hangs slack. He wasn’t lying. The bag is brimming with rations. There’s even a few slices of bread and cheese on top. This has to be worth at least a hundred coins.
You purse your lips. “I can’t accept…I have nothing to repay you.”
Corolianus sighs, keeping the bag in your hands with his steely grip as you attempt to return it.
“Then just remember you live because of me,” he says. A lopsided smile blooms on his lips. “That’s the only payment I require.”
You snort. It can’t possibly be that simple, can it?
But Coriolanus’ features harbor no mirth. Skepticism heightens your pitch.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
You nod. “Okay, I will.”
Displeasure flickers in his gaze. His fingers sneak below your chin to angle it upward, forcing you to drown in his cobalt stare.
“No, I want to hear you say it, sweet bird.” His tone is laced with a solemnity that wasn’t there before. Your stomach knots. “That you live by the will of Coriolanus Snow.”
A shaky breath flows out of you. You’re suddenly reluctant under his keen scrutiny.
Still, your voice comes out a tremulous croak.
“I live because of you, Coriolanus Snow.”
His entire face lights up with your words, a strange glow appearing in his orbs.
For some reason, you feel as if you just tied a noose around your own neck.
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You take a sip of your beer, basking in the bitter, heady aftertaste. Usually, you’re not much of a drinker, but it’s the first true respite you’ve gotten from the blue-eyed peacekeeper in many weeks and you plan on enjoying it. 
A tavern wouldn’t be your first choice but Yara invited you and it occurred to you this isn’t the kind of place a boy smelling like old money and roses would visit. 
It’s rare for you to be anywhere these days without his disarming presence hovering in a corner of the room. 
You’ve even considered abandoning your job at the factory altogether. But it’s not like a girl like you can change careers on a whim. You have no connections, no skill, no talent whatsoever. Nothing but your hard-earned ability to weave threads of fabrics together. 
Maybe the mines at the northern end of the district. 
It’s far from a tempting prospect. The work is downright dangerous. But at least it would shield you from the peacekeeper’s relentless scrutiny. 
“Your shadow isn’t here today," Yara notes.
You drag your eyes away from the band playing on stage. 
“My shadow?”
“That pretty boy peacekeeper who follows you around," she elaborates, her lips curved in amusement. You grimace. If only she knew. There isn’t a shred of mirth in your current predicament. 
You roll your eyes. “He doesn’t follow me around.”
You refrain from saying he does a plethora of other things that puzzle you and stir your discomfort. 
You refuse to trust him, but thanks to him your cousin has been getting noticeably better, even able to walk on her own again now. It’s a relief. Tonight she’s at friend’s and gets to laugh, play and be a regular kid again. 
Besides, though it pains you to recognize it, your belly’s fuller than it’s been in a long time. 
It shames you to admit it, but it took you no time to cave in and gobble down the food he offered. Hunger does strange things to people. 
You loathe yourself for yielding but the feeling of an empty stomach is infinitely worse than that of your wounded pride. 
"He is pretty though," your friend says, glancing away dreamily. 
Your face warms.  "I really don’t care how he looks. I just wish he’d go pester someone else."
"Hm, fair." She drinks from her jug and shrugs. "He could just be bored. I’m sure he’ll stop at some point."
The conversation reaches a halt when a brown-haired guy around your age with a scar across his face stops at your table. 
“Can I ask you to dance?” he asks. His cheeks redden as he awaits your response. A quiet glance passes between you and Yara. You kick her under the table when she nearly lets out a chuckle.
Endeared by the boy’s bashful manner, you answer with a smile, “Sure, why not.”
You let the stranger drag you into a dance, your worries fading into the buoyant, lively  notes played by the band and the boy’s nonchalant grin.
It’s the kind of normalcy you’ve been longing for.
Engrossed in the moment, as the boy slips a hand around your waist, an audible gasp spills out of you when he pulls away from you out of the blue. 
Or rather is wrenched away from you. 
Your brows rise to your hairline.
You gape in horror, the sight of Coriolanus hauling the boy up by his lapels striking you mute. His features are taut with anger as the boy’s hands rise defensively. A mix of befuddlement and fear decorates his features.
Guilt needles your chest. You never expected the blond to show up here of all places. Paranoia seizes the chaotic train of your thoughts. Was he here all along, watching you like a hawk the entire time? Is he always here, never wandering too far from wherever you are?
Fear coils your insides.
"Hey," you call out, relief trickling inside you when your legs move again. You make a beeline to Coriolanus. 
“What is wrong with you?” you shout, trying to pry him off the poor boy. 
It’s not the useless hand scratching his bicep but rather your tone that appears to jerk him out of his trance. 
His grip on the boy loosens as he whirls to you. The stranger wastes no time in running away. You can’t even blame him. You can’t imagine there’d be many repercussions if the blond harmed him, but the opposite can’t be said. 
Coriolanus’ hands slowly lower before balling into fists. 
Irate blue eyes flare as they fall on you. 
You recoil.
“With me?” he growls, crowding your space. "His grubby paws were all over you."
You blink in disbelief, shocked by his accusing tone. You did nothing wrong. It’s not like he can tell you who to dance and not dance with. "G-Grubby…what? I’m not some damsel in need of rescuing, Coriolanus."
He squints at you, displeasure evident on his angular features. 
His hand latches onto your arm, yanking you towards the exit. You can barely keep up with his furious stomps.
“I think it’s time we had a talk. Come with me.”
“I’d rather stay here."
He ignores you, his grip on you turning deathly. Tears burn the back of your eyes. 
“No…”
You toss a desperate look above your shoulder to find your friend just as shocked as you are. She won’t help you. No one will. 
Your stomach sinks. 
The tears break past the confine of your lashes. 
He takes you outside. The chilly air skates across your skin, spreading gooseflesh over it. The silver glow of the moon lights the tortuous path he takes through dim, narrow alleyways. This is nowhere near your cabin and your panic swells. 
You dig your heels into the ground, resisting. 
Coriolanus heaves out a weary exhale. He hunkers down to pick you up. You squeal, flabbergasted by his nerve. He hoists you on his shoulders as if you were a sack of grain, taking firm, irate steps into the night. 
"You can’t do this," you weep, slamming as hard as you can into his back. 
Hardly flinching, he scoffs before stating, “I don’t remember asking for your permission, birdie."
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jesterspalace · 11 months
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fire up the night, make me feel alive
il capitano x medic!fem!reader
minors dni! not proofread well
word count? (10.7k) hefty boy.
tw? kinda slow to start, porn with plot, size kink if you squint, praise kink, creampie, fingering, penetrative (f recieving), he keeps the mask on, unprotected sex, belly bulge, suggestive marathoning
this is my first time writing smut, but i hope it came out well. i kinda rushed it
edit: part 2! part 3!
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transferring companies had been the best thing you’d ever done. moving from working under the second fatui harbinger, the doctor, to being a medic traveling under the command of the fourth fatui harbinger, the captain.
it was…admittedly intimidating at first. stories of the pure strength he possessed in battle and the frightening way he never took the helmet that covered his face off, how he held his duty to a righteous degree, but these rumors of his power were also mixed with smiles and happy members of his camp that praised him for being well-respected and magnificent. regardless of this, you were more than happy to serve as a medic while the company traversed the wintery environment towards the heated lands of natlan.
on this particular day, days after a tense meeting with mondstadt adventures, the company had met with stubborn treasure hoarders. it was funny at first, the band of thieves boasting that they could handle a few fatui and the company laughing, but they underestimated them. the skirmish was quickly ended, but not without several injured soldiers that were presented to the medical tent. which is where you come in.
the medical tent is bustling with other practitioners rushing around, digging through weatherproof crates for bandages and ointments. you were currently sitting at the bedside of a pyro slinger, carefully weaving a needle through the large gash across his back. pass, stitch, pull. pass, stitch, pull. a slow, methodical repetition as you concentrated on the work at hand.
“fuckin’ hoarders,” the pyro slinger grumbles, his head leaning on his arms. he stares at the tent opening watching the passing soldiers, carrying the spoils of their battle.
“stop moving,” you sigh. pass, stitch, pull… and finally tie. you grab for a pair of scissors and snip the thread before sitting back. archons, your hands ache. this must have been the fourth… no, fifth suture in the last three hours since the treasure hoarders.
“could you have worked any slower,” the pyro slingers says. he sits up and you pull a gauze from the table next to you, using tape to place it over the wound, anger rising the heat of your blood.
“make sure you keep that dry. if you pull any stitches, come back and i’ll fix you up again. Tomorrow wash around it and don’t…” the pyro slinger’s attention moves to behind you and he goes still. you watch his attention move elsewhere while you explained how to care for his wound. You snap your fingers in front of his face and scowl. “i was talking to—”
a shadow falls over you and the pyro slinger. you look at the impossibly long shadow, while the pyro slinger just looks up and up and up over your head. you pause and turn around to see what was so important and you suddenly feel cold.
for all the talk you’ve heard, you never realized just how large the fatui harbinger, il capitano, was. he must have been at least seven feet tall, bowing his head at how low the tent must have been for him. long black silky hair hung down over his coat, coming from the blacked out mask that shielded his face. he wore a thick white coat with the fatui symbol embroidered into the chest, black animal fur on the hood that laid on his shoulders and an expensive decorated shirt that’s collar rose up just under his chin. bits of armor were hidden beneath the coat, some shining in the bright white winter sun, it must have made him even broader than he already was.
the pyro slinger disregarded you and quickly rose to his feet, saluting the harbinger. il capitano lifted a gauntlet covered hand from his cloak and gestured for him to stop. he moved further into the tent and looked at each injured combatant, leaving you and the pyro slinger.
you narrowed your eyes on the slinger and pointed a sharp finger down for him to sit.
“as i was saying…” you re explain his aftercare and let him leave. you clean up your station quickly, wiping down blood and sanitizing tools when that very same shadow falls back over you. sitting the bloodied rag into a hot bucket, you turn around and look up, up, up at the harbinger, swallowing nervously.
archons, you think, where’d my fire go?
“il capitano, sir,” you give a slight bow. you’d salute but you’re hands are covered in blood and hot water, best to not get that in your eyes.
“have all the injured when taken care of?” his voice is deep, rumbling. it’s a thunderstorm in the distance, the deep resonating sound of a earthquake miles below the surface.
“Uh, yes. i mean, i believe so, sir,” you respond. archons! has your mouth always been this dry?
he hums and nods, crossing his arms under his cloak. “it would seem you and the rest of my medics have performed your duty, even in such extreme conditions. it's admirable and commendable. that shows good sense, fortitude, and dedication.”
“oh… thank you, sir, i’m sure everyone here has been doing their utmost,” you answer, appreciation sending a warmth through you. “is there anything the medical tent can do for you?”
“no. i’m just doing an inspection. i like to make sure all the soldiers are doing well and that the medics are taking care of them properly. if there is an issue, it is better that it is caught now and taken care of, rather than let things get bad when there aren't many options left to fix the mistakes,” il capitano says. your eyes go wide slowly and in the same breath, he continues. “it's the little things that can prevent larger problems later. that is why i make sure to check on everyone, to make sure everyone is operating at maximum efficiency. i need as many strong soldiers ready, just in case an emergency comes up. does that make sense to you?”
“uh, that’s rather considerate,” you say quietly. no fuckin’ wonder everyone respected him greatly, the man is a saint to his company. “i suppose i should give my thanks for giving the approval for my transfer. i didn’t get the chance to meet you before the mondstadt adventurers thing. so, thank you, sir!”
he regards you silently, your reflection shining back at you in his helm. it was a hefty reminder that your hands were still blooded and… were those dark circles, archons, you needed sleep. bad. after the moment passes, he speaks.
“you earned your position in my company. you may not have the combat experience of some of the others, but i am sure you have other valuable talents and skills that will prove valuable in your role as a medic. otherwise, you would not be here. you have earned the right to be here, and to prove yourself. so, in terms of thanking someone, thank yourself first.”
the hustle and bustle of the medic tent seems so far away as you look up, up, up at him. he’s right, you think, i spent years of my life studying and working under that doctor so that i could help to save the lives of my comrades instead of experimenting on them until they were monsters. had there ever been a moment when someone acknowledged that? no… you think. it was your job and everyone expected it, but would it ever kill someone to just thank you for saving their life? No!
“right…” you say mostly to yourself, but il capitano nods and pats you on the head with a large hand that seems to engulf your head. embarrassment spikes to your cheeks and you clear your throat stepping back. “i’ll leave you to it then, captain.”
you dismiss yourself and set off through the tent, body humming at the light praise of the captain’s words and embarrassed at the thoughts that cross your mind. he’s so big, everything about him is. presence, body, mind. what else was big about him?
-
you don’t talk to him after that encounter, but you do see him sometimes. coming into the medical tent to assess, walking through camp to spectate over training and ordering supplies to be moved here, here and here until he was satisfied. he didn’t eat in the mess tent with everyone, so you never gained the opportunity to see his face and while you had asked around, apparently no one else had seen it.
the gossip mill said he was half monster, that he was missing parts of his face, that he was so ugly he couldn’t stand look in the mirror, that he was insanely beautiful that people would throw themselves at his feet, that he was a renowned figure in a different country that was a spy for the tsaritsa. either way, the rumors you heard were of no help to your curiosity, only leading to more questions.
as the company travels to natlan, the weather warms and grass grows on the ground rather than hard packed ice and snow. the sun isn’t accompanied by snow so it doesn’t blind you as you travel, instead, the sun is warm and welcoming, but the weather is far too hot for the people of the company who had never ventured out of the icy wasteland of snezhnaya.
of course, il capitano’s company doesn’t travel with leisure, there are several bumps in the road, including fighting treasure hoarders and many of the local do-gooders that wanted to impede their advance. and while the fatui soldiers could handle treasure hoarders and some of the weaker enemies, there were a few times when the captain stepped in to make their advance even quicker. it worked, because who could stand straight up when the imposing giant that was a fatui harbinger, il capitano, stood in front of them with clawed gauntlets and a hidden face? no one.
and with the skirmishes came the injured once more, slow ebbing waves of broken bones and gashes that required tending, so you go back to working. for days, you work feverishly, making sure to be extra diligent in your tasks so that no one has to come back with torn stitches or re-sprained joints. but even as you push yourself harder, even as the work starts to tire you out and your body starts to need rest, your thoughts turn to the captain.
he’s a fierce and imposing man, and even at your height, you felt dwarfed next to him. it wasn’t… a bad feeling, but it did send a curl of something hot and strange down into your stomach each time you thought about it.
you shake your head as you walk back to your tent. while the morning had been busy, tonight was quiet, eerily so, but your fellow medical officers gave you the green light to leave early and rest. your body aches a bit from all of the work you've been doing hunched over backs and legs and arms and chest suturing them or resetting them back into place… but even with your body hurting a bit, you feel accomplished, like nothing can wipe off the satisfaction of a job well done. you know that you've done good work, and as you head into your tent, it gives you a little bit of pride to realize that all of that work has paid off.
as soon as you get into your tent, you can't help it. you can feel the pull to think about the captain. your body might be tired, but your mind is buzzing and as you lay in your tent, the memory of his gentleness still lives in your mind. you want to know more, and now you hope for his attention.
wait! he doesn’t even know my name, you think, but… maybe he could. will he even want to talk to you further? do you think you'll get another chance to speak with him? what would even lead to such a turn? how would it go?
you shake your head to clear the thoughts and sigh. he’s a harbinger and i’m just a no-name medic in his eyes, you think, why would he even care?
you need to get some rest. you snuff out the lamp in your tent and close your eyes, trying to get that much needed sleep, you know, the things you’ve been neglecting since the skirmishes and all the injured patients.
bugs buzz and chirp in the dark of the night and you sigh, rolling over onto your side to get comfortable.
chirp! il capitano…
chirp! il capitano…
chirp! il capitano…
your eyes are wide open and anger builds in your bones, steeping your blood in it. you grind your teeth and snatch a fresh pair of clothes up from your pack, throwing open the tent flap and stalking out. maybe a quick dip in the lake with soothe your nerves.
it’s rather lucky that the company settled where they did. through a small patch of trees is a glistening lake. the company fishes out of it for fresh meat, but they mostly use it to bathe and relax as the captain plots the next move through this unfamiliar territory.
it's a peaceful night, in contrast to the hustle and bustle of camp. if the peace is nice, and if your luck holds, you’ll are able to relax. you make your way through the trees slowly, taking in the night air. something about the air at night is always more soothing that during the day, maybe its because its cooler, but whatever it is, it makes the ball of stress that knots up and grows in your chest relax. the water of the lake is quiet and still through the trees, and the stars in the sky reflect off of the calm waters. as you make your way down the side of the camp, you hear some movement up ahead.
greeeeaaat. Someone beat me to a midnight dip.
there’s someone in the distance. from the tree, its hard to make out any details, but… could it be a spy? could it be some nosey ass treasure hoarders? fuck… if it’s a spy, maybe you can be stealthy and put a stop to them.
a little voice in the back of your head whispers mockingly, you’re a medic. what are you going to do, heal them to death?
as annoying as the voice is, it’s right. clubbing someone to death, isn’t exactly where your skills lie, but being quiet and calm is. you make your way carefully, hiding behind brush and tree trunks as the lake gets closer and closer.
as the lake comes into full view, it is clear that there is only one man, sitting by the water's edge on a boulder. he's alone, as far as you can see, and sits with his back turned to you. he's silent, not making a sound nor moving, except for every so often when he takes a deep breath. even from the hidden spot you watch from, you become increasingly more bored as he just… just stands there, doing nothing, saying nothing. after a few more brave steps forward, you get a better look at him. he has long hair that hangs down his shoulders and a blacked out helm covering his head. he’s shed the heavy cloak and instead wears a thin buttoned shirt that strains across his muscles as he breathes.
huh?
you step out of the shadows and announce your presence quietly. “capitano, sir?”
he stays still and silent as if he hasn't heard you, but after a few seconds, capitano’s head swivels around to the source of your voice. he rises to his feet and even from this distance, he's tall and imposing. just seeing him gives you a little shiver as his face turns to you, and your heart skips a beat at being seen by him.
“what is it?” there's a certain coldness to his tone, but as far as you can tell he's not angry… maybe. you did just interrupt his—well whatever he was doing. one thing you are sure of right now is that you have his full attention now. whether that’s a good thing or bad is still under debate, you think.
“sorry, sir.” better to start off with an apology, you’ve learned, especially when it comes to harbingers. “i didn’t mean to interrupt you, i wasn’t aware anyone else was here. i’ll take my leave.”
you turn and begin to pick your way back through the underbrush and even as you turn to leave, you still feel capitano’s presence at your back. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you like a hawk, even through the helm that obscures your view of them.
“... come back.” his words fill the stretch of distance between the two of you, strong and unmoving. his voice is deep and confidence and filled with a strange certainty that makes it clear this is not a choice.
the air is punched out of your lungs. you must obey the orders of a harbinger, this well-respected and gentle giant is not different, so you slowly turn back around, clutching your clothes in your hand. each step forward feels heavy and like they stretch miles and before you even realize it, he stands just a few feet away from you.
his arms are crossed over his broad chest, like he’s taking a moment to think. every second, makes your heart beat just a little faster and all you can think is that you should get your blood pressure checked soon. his helm bore down at you and in the dark, it’s much more terrifying. this must be what enemies see and feel when they face him.
archons, i think i’m gonna pass out. is this normal? are my hands sweating? i can’t fucking tell because everything is sweating.
the coldness from before is still in the air, but he seems patient, thinking, then finally he speaks. this tone is plain, as if he doesn’t have the time to embellish the word he says. it's clear that he likes things to be straight to the point and not to repeat himself.
“sit.”
the air is far too warm and with your heart beating like a drum in your ears, it’s hard to say if you heard him right. you stand there for a moment, staring at him from the respectful distance you’ve kept and blink in confusion. sit? where? does he…is he trying to make me sit at his fucking feet? what?
“i’m…i’m sorry?”
“sit,” he repeats, his tone soft. he gestures to the boulder he’d previously occupied and you go wide eyed and let out the breath you were holding. you want to laugh, because—archons!—what were you thinking!? i mean, shit, have i become a total pervert these days?
you cross the distance, your nervous shot to hell and back, and sit on the boulder, slowly looking up, up, up at his masked face. your heart still hasn’t slowed its panicked rhythm and, honestly, the darkness and the whole ‘sit’ things was kinda hot, if not completely stressful.
his words are soft and slow, like with each word he’s trying to carefully and purposefully choosing what he's going to say. his voice is deep and the words seem to come out easily with a quiet intensity that is hard to really understand unless one was him.
“you are very obedient…”
jaw dropping would not be an accurate way to describe the reaction you have, but it’s close enough. your eyes grow even wider and your clothes fall out of your hand, dropping into your lap and electricity shoots up your spine and heat pools in your belly and and and and…
“um,” you try to think of a way to respond, but nothing really comes to mind.
then, he begins to laugh and it's deep and hearty, but not in a mocking manner. he reaches a clawed gauntlet out in an offer of a hand. you can only stare at it, while confusion crosses your expression, but you take it and he helps you up to your feet. he withdraws his hand, but something about the way he does it seems…reluctant? maybe you were just projecting. yeah, that must be it.
“not very brave though!”
you blink at his hand that raises up and crosses over his chest, then to the lake water that laps just a few inches shy of his boots. clearly, this was just a test or just something, but more than anything you were embarrassed. who in their right mind just obeys so quickly? you, that’s who apparently. archons, you feel like an idiot as you blush deeply and refuse to look at capitano, speaking slowly, “i’m still working on it, sir.”
he hums and it sounds like it was done so with a smile, but its really hard to tell with that helm covering. “that's fine—bravery is not always about your physical strength. often, bravery is about having the will to do something even if you're afraid. Sometimes you must do things that scare you, and in those times, it's important to have a strong will, even if you're not very brave. so I suppose if you're not brave yet…” He pauses, thinking for a moment, then he tilts his head down, catching your attention again. you look up and he nods as if to himself. “...at least be strong-willed.”
the lake is so quiet except for the light sounds of waves hitting the sand and the bugs that watched from the trees, chirping and buzzing. the stars above twinkle down and if it weren’t for the rather strange and awkward circumstances, it might even be romantic in a sense and that thought alone makes your mind run wild.
he watches you think, watches you try to take in his words and in the silence between the two of you, he exudes a wisdom that's almost impossible to put your finger on. his cold presence is still there, you can feel it—he has not lost any of his intensity, but this time, he uses these traits for something different. this time, as he uses that intensity instead of putting you in your place as most other harbingers might have, he’s using it to build you up.
you're being praised, you're being supported and recognized... and it feels good. good enough to send a pleased shiver down your spine and bring a small smile to your face.
he tilts his head and his gaze feels intimidating, yet it doesn’t frighten you anymore. despite the terror you started this off with, you begin to feel comfortable in his presence and it's a strange, oddly comforting thing to realize.
“you had the willpower to do something you were afraid of, and you did a good job…”
the praise is one thing that makes your stomach flutter, but the fact that it’s from the well-respected capitano is another reaction altogether. your heart skips and your breathing hitches and your hands sweat and your mind goes staticy with euphoria from him praising you. a harbinger praising anyone below them is enough to be considered honorable, but this takes the cake, because it isn’t just any harbinger, it’s il capitano.
you nod and he just stands there, giving you that same sense of calmness and comfort that the stars give off before he sighs and speaks quietly again, “enjoy the lake, there might not be much time to relax in the coming days.” then he steps passed you and steps through the trees. for such a large man, there is not a single sound of snapping branches or rustling foliage, but you can see his silhouette growing smaller and smaller as he leaves fully.
you stand dazed for a while, watching the trees, before you smile to yourself and decide that you should take advantage of being alone, relaxing and floating in the cool waters of the lake, replaying the conversation and praise from capitano over and over in your head.
-
in the following days, in light of il capitano’s warning, there are plenty of fights that break out. hoarders and locals and wild animals that deter the advancement of the camp once more. despite all of this, you do see capitano around the camp more, still doing the work he did before, but now he seems to mill about with some unknown reason behind it. since most of your time is spent taking care of ungrateful assholes, you don’t receive much thanks or praise from anyone around you, but the thought, the very memory of il capitano acknowledging you, makes you strive for more.
the praise from capitano becomes a strong motivation for you; it's something you can't help but work hard towards achieving. every day that goes by, you push yourself more and more, all in the hopes that he'll notice and give you more praise. hope he gives you that little bit of satisfaction that comes from being told you're doing a good job, that its well worth staying around, well worth doing. the motivation and encouragement is something that you feel deep down in your bones, so you put in plenty of hours treating patients and keeping watch over everyone while the other medics take time to eat and get some sleep. you don’t want baseless praise, you want to earn it, so you work yourself to the bone, leaving just enough energy to drag yourself to your tent when you get off and sleep the rest of your extra time away.
you keep working hard, and as you do, you keep catching yourself looking up, hoping for a moment to catch a glimpse of the captain, hoping he'll come and give you more encouragement, give you what your crave. you pause each time, stunned with yourself and confused; you’ve come to a realization that you've never felt this way before. you've always been dedicated to your work of course, always dedicated to being a good medic and a good fatui, but this... this is something different. his praise was something that you can't help but want more of, can’t help but yearn for, can’t help but find yourself craving his approval, his praise.
ha! maybe i need to take a break, this can’t be healthy…
but you never do. work, work, work, like a good little fatui footsoldier. you heal, you work, you sleep, rinse repeat. every hour of every day.
the camp doesn’t move forward, stuck in the same place beside the lake, but it’s not all bad. the workload lessens after capitano descends on the skirmishers that prevent the company from moving on, clearing the way. the camp doesn’t pack up in the aftermath, but stay in place via the command il capitano issued stating his soldiers need rest and to heal. the reaction of the collective camp was more a cheer and sigh of relief. and finally with the issued order, you now have time to yourself. sure, it’s not a whole lot of time, but it’s enough to sleep more than three hours a night and enjoy the cool waters of the lake once more after all the stress of the last few days.
you choose a secluded corner of the lake to bathe, to enjoy the water and let the tension seep out into the lake to be washed away. the sun is hot overhead, beating down ruthlessly, but you can’t bring yourself to care much because, archons it’s so nice! not far from your little corner, you can hear the laughing and splashing of the rest of the company playing around and enjoying the day off from duties and it brings a smile to your face to hear them letting go of the stoic, hardened persona they usually portray to the rest of the world. after all, the fatui are human too, and you are all just children that grew up quickly in search of ways to help their families.
in the peace you relish in, something—someone— is there. you can feel eyes on you, watching with an intensity that makes the hair on your body rise and your skin crawl with warning. you open your eyes quickly, still and cautious. if you turn suddenly, the intruder might run and you’d never get to see who is peeping in on you, so you try your best to use your other senses. there’s no sounds of movement, no sounds of breathing, nothing. just utter silence, but you can feel the eyes. then, out of the corner of your eye, you see movement. before you can even think about turning to look at the person, a looming shadow falls over you and a deep voice speaks up right behind you.
“are you enjoying yourself?”
you tilt your head back, looking up and up and up. somehow, the fatui harbinger, il capitano, had snuck up behind you without so much as a sound. and he seemed keenly aware of this fact because despite the masked helm over his face, he was wearing a smug air around him, like this was a sort of game, a sort of payback for you sneaking up on him several nights before.
you flush with embarrassment at your predicament. fully naked in the water; water that was crystal clear, but luckily distorted with your movement. you sink further into the water until the only thing above water is your head and you quickly cover your chest with your arms and curl your legs up to at least save face in the presence of the captain.
“um, y—yes, sir,” you mutter. you turn your eyes away from his masked face, but can’t keep your gaze away for long. he’d managed to sneak up on you without you knowing, he could probably leave just the same.
capitano's mask stares at you unwaveringly. you can feel the intense energy he usually carries with him, like the presence of the cold winter wind. you might not be able to see his eyes, but it’s clear he’s focused on you, taking in your nakedness, your shame, your surprise and it makes you want to wither under the feeling of eyes. he's watching you, and you can feel his eyes moving across your body.
you flush darker at the realization and clear your throat, trying to be brave and strong-willed, because while this is definitely wet dream material, this is real, this is your waking life and it’s unnerving just a little. “sir. do…do you need a medic right now?”
he shakes his head and his clawed gauntlet hands that hang by his side flex into fists slowly before he notices you watching them and stops. “would it bother you if i watch?”
gone. you are gone. lights are on, but nobody's home. shock, bewilderment…curiosity maybe, just maybe, is clear across your expression. a terrible curling heat stirs in your belly; terrible in the sense that you might like that, but you can’t show that. this is your superior many times over and that would be disrespectful in ways that can’t even begin to cross your mind at the moment. perhaps this is his way of abusing his position, but if that was the case rumors of him doing this would be swarming with the women of the company, swarming through the women of the whole fatui.
and in the time all these thoughts have shot through your head, it’s only been moments of your silent shock. you try to manage your expression into something professional, but despite your efforts, the deep blush on your skin seems to counter you. the masked harbinger tilts his head like he’s waiting to hear your answer.
“s—sir, i do not, um, think that’s appropriate.”
“oh? do i make you uncomfortable?” his voice is quiet, but powerful. he expects honesty and he wants an answer no matter what it might be.
in general, you do not feel uncomfortable with him, but at the moment? just a little. it’s not a situation anyone would truly be okay with in terms of their superior watching, but the spike of something in your belly and feeling of heat curling in your pussy tells of something different.
you look down at the water ahead of you and swallow, trying not to stumble over your words as you explain, “that’s…that’s not it, sir. i just…don’t think it’s…professionally appropriate or acceptable. if i, uh, let you watch, the company might assume i’m trying to seduce you for my own gains and if they see you watching me, the company might think you're using your position to be…inappropriate with me. it’s not a good outcome for either of us, sir.”
he’s quiet for a pregnant pause, then he hums as if he’s come to the perfect answer. “so if it weren't for the company…would you think it was fine?” everything about him seems to be so calculating, so deliberate, you can't help but be transfixed by his presence. then adds something quickly. “assuming it was just you and me, of course.”
you can still hear the horseplaying from the other fatui just on the other side of the sandbank and it is nerve wracking. just feet from them, their superior is revealing himself to be a peeping tom and they are none the wiser, but…but…
but what if they see, whispers that tiny rational voice in the back of your mind.
“well?”
you look back up to his masked face and he clearly finds this amusing, especially with the smug way he holds himself now and if that isn’t killer already, then the fact that he’s looming over you roving his eyes over whatever body parts are still exposed is. a little part of you wants to rise out of the water and let him see the rest, but the more prominent part of you sinks her claws deep and screams, what if they see?! what about your position!
“i think the answer to that is clear, sir,” you say, meeting a happy medium between both sides of your hormonal brain.
he seems satisfied with the answer and lowers into a crouch which doesn’t make much of a difference in height because even with lowering himself down, he still seems to tower over you. he reaches a clawed, covered finger out and tilts your chin up, your reflection showing in his mask and holy shit, i look fucking desperate.
“i see. so if we were alone, you’d show me more?”
you can’t look away, forced to look into a face that you can’t see, but that can see yours. you slowly nod, and whisper out, “yes.”
his whole structure shudders, behind the helm, his breathing catches, and air feels charged, electric, volatile. it’s enough to make you regret saying no before. what could he do to you? would he be gentle? would he be rough? would he take his time stretching you out before sheathing his cock into you? archons, how big was he?
his finger slides down from your chin, tracing the column of your neck, the sharp point turning to run thin raised lines over your collarbone before abruptly pulling away. he rises and stands tall, looking down at you and it sends a sick rush through you.
“tonight. i’ll need medical care,” then the hulking man turns and leaves you breathless and in awe, like he didn’t just do the single hottest thing you’d ever experienced, like he didn’t just almost send you bursting into flames from his touch alone. you watch him leave and just like before he’s completely silent as he vanishes into the trees, back to the camp.
are you sunburned? yeah, that must be why you’re so red. no other reason.
you quickly finish up with your bath and climb up onto the beach to pull clothes onto your soaking body, uncaring if they stick to your skin. you stumble through the tree and set off to find something to distract you from your nasty thoughts. it doesn’t work, but hey, you tried. that has to count for something, right?
the day passes painfully for you, your mind replaying to feeling of his finger trailing your skin, the feeling of how your pussy fluttered thinking about where else those fingers could be. you feel a mix of excitement and anxiety, not knowing what to expect… but archons, isn’t that the best part? not knowing? the anticipation, the heart beating like a drum, the blood pumping through your body? but for now, at least, you have to wait for tonight to find out what kind of man lurks under the mask and armor.
you try and try to distract yourself, but it's no good all you can seem to think about it making time speed up so you can go to his tent. he’s like a brain leaching parasite, trapped in your skull wandering around and prodding at every thought, infecting it, changing it into something about him. you can't get him out of your head, and the conversation on the lake keeps running through your mind a thousand times over.
tonight tonight tonight tonight…
-
from the rosy orange hues of the setting sun and the night reaching its star covered fingers up to cage the land in darkness, the night falls slowly. your nerves are getting the better of you as you watch with rapt attention as patrols start their nightly rounds, passing with torches through the darkened routes of the camp, keeping an eye out for any intruders. but you aren’t an intruder, you are one of them, but the thought of getting caught leaving your tent for an unexpected visit to the harbingers tent is terrifying, thrilling. it’s gut wrenching.
you don’t really have much to worry about though. you know the patrolling route and when they move through each circle of tents, so braving yourself, you wait for the patrolling officer to pass then you dart out. each step closer makes your heart pound, makes slick collect in your underwear, makes your head rush. you weave through the tents until the largest of them all becomes visible.
the tent is made of heavy material, blocking light from entering and to keep the noise of whatever fatui harbinger information stays inside. it’s tall, made to accommodate the man it houses, but you don’t give it much more attention as you take notice that the usual two guards that stay stationed outside are…missing from their post. either you’re very lucky or capitano planned this before patrols went out.
you push the tent flaps open and slip inside, head still rushing, heart still beating like you ran a mile.
inside the tent, the lanterns are dim, but let out enough light that you're able to make out the presence of someone inside. they're standing perfectly still, and at first you're not sure, but as you move closer you can make out the figure of capitano: his tall, well-built body leaning back against the tent pole. he’s not wearing his full armor, instead he’s done to a dark shirt, his arms covered by his gauntlets and the pants he usually does, his arms crossed over his chest. he turns his masked helm towards your intrusion, like he was waiting, waiting for you.
he watches you, letting his silence linger in the air of the tent for a moment, as if he's waiting for you to make the first move. Finally he speaks, his tone soft, but there's a heat to his voice. this heated voice sends a shock down to your pussy and you swallow as you look over him one more time, taking in the stretch of his clothes, the sharp shine of his gauntlets, and how imposing and large he is. 
“come on, follow me.” with that, he turns and walks deeper into the tent.
you take a hesitant step forwards. if you didn’t want this, you wouldn’t have come here and he would know that you were wary. but you’re here and now is not the time to back down. besides, his commands are not easily disobeyed with the intensity and strength he holds in his voice.
he leads the way, moving through another thick, thick sheet separating his office area from the rest of his tent. he’s silent as he moves with slow and deliberate steps, disappearing behind the sheet and as you follow him, you take note that he doesn’t seem to be messy with his area, of course, it helps that his company is always on the move, but still. he's not the type of man to be sloppy.
you pass through the sheet and come to a stand still. his living quarters are meticulous and clean. his armor hangs on a mannequin, he has a table near you with a single chair for himself, and his bed… which is honestly the most shocking things so far because why didn’t you have a bed, why didn’t anyone else have a bed instead of a rollup sleeping bag, then the answer rings through your head, a reminder: he’s a harbinger, and as such, he can have a bed if he god damn well pleases. his bed is huge and contains a single large pillow and layers of blankets. it looks like heaven, looks like eight full hours of sleep and a pep in your step.
he stands a little ways from you, hands flexing slowly by his side and his masked helm turned towards you, silent, intense, calculating. capitano takes a step towards the bed and stops short of it when he notices you aren’t following. the darkness of the mask looks back at you and it makes you feel like he's seeing through you, makes you shimmer below the skin. what really sets you off are his next words.
“sit down.”
you don’t need to be told twice with the quiet, yet powerful command of his tone and with really wanting to lay down on that bed, you don’t hesitate this time. you cross the distance, sliding passed his hulking mass and sitting on the bed, scooching to sit while your hands hold onto the material of your pants. looking up at him would be too much for you right now, you don’t want to see yourself reflected back, so you focus on his broad chest and his moving hands.
capitano unbuckles the gauntlets and slides them off. the skin revealed below is scarred and rough, but otherwise normal. not the reptilian scales people gossip about, but they are big hands. thick, long fingers that you can’t help but think are perfect for splitting open your cunt. while in your thoughts, he tosses the gauntlets down where they clang together with a metallic pitch and it’s like the opening gunshot for a race. your eyes dart back to him as he approaches and reaches his hand out, tracing his fingers down your cheeks, down your throat, down to your covered collarbone and then he pauses as he hooks his finger on the collar of your shirt.
“you’re wearing too many clothes.”
no words can escape past your tongue so you only nod, turning your eyes up to his masked helm. capitano moves slow as his touch skims down your shirt and he lifts the hem, pulling it up and over your arms and head. his breathing shudders at the sight of your braless chest and pert nipples. his hands cup your tits and engulf them, kneading the flesh and rubbing his thumbs over the hardened buds. you push your chest into capitano’s hands and your breathing gets heavy as he squeezes them.
something about his presence is overwhelming now, an intensity that was previously unknown to you or anyone, but it doesn’t bring your fear, it just makes you rub your thighs together, letting out a light moan as he pinches your nipples. the heat in the air rises and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s so close or if it’s because his hands are kneadings your tits, but you do know one thing. your underwear is a mess already and you haven’t even started.
his touch recedes from your skin and it’s devastating, but it doesn’t take much for you to feel his hands pushing you to lay back on the bed. his chest is heaving like he’s feeling the heat of the room too, feeling the strain of his cock in his pants and it strikes a tinge of pride in your chest. you did this to him.
capitano seems to take in the view of you, taking in every part of you that he can see and slick dampens your thighs. he finally moves, his hands moving down your stomach, touching and squeezing your sides as he down until he reaches your pants.
“take it off. all of it,” capitano’s voice is labored, like the act of restraining himself is causing him great pain, and maybe it is, so you quickly struggle to unbutton your pants with shaky fingers, hooking your thumbs down and pulling both underwear and pants off in one fell swoop. your eyes fall to his own pants and archons, how the fuck is that supposed to fit if that’s just the outline?
“good,” he groans, standing at the foot of the bed. his black mask points straight at you, and the heat in the air has become almost unbearable now. is it the room or is it you? he gives you a slight nod, as if he's telling you that you're doing what he ordered you to do, performing it perfectly and the rush that hits your mind pushes out any embarrassment that might have tried to rise. he seems perfectly calm and unhurried, but the strain of his body, the coil of muscles in his arms and hands tells you a different story.
capitano takes a moment to look at you, and then slowly, deliberately, he leans toward you. every inch that he gets closer, every shake of his hands sends a shiver down your spine. his masked helm is mere inches away from yours as he leans over you and in the moment, you can smell his scent which smells of the wild, of the tang of sweat and of life. he reaches out and strokes your cheek again, down your neck, his finger tracing and teasing against your skin. his touch is cold and gentle yet it sends a wave of heat and electricity through you as he familiarizes his way around your body, your curves, the softness of your skin and the plushness of your tits, the jut of your hips, the thickness of your thighs. his hands pause as he leans forward, moving his head to your neck.
“...beautiful.”
you pant out and a soft moan rises out of your lips, escaping into the air. capitano’s hands pause for an infinitesimal second before a chuckle bleeds through the buzzing of your head. your skin burns as his path continues downward, slowly moving his hands even lower, below even your hips now. capitano’s touch lingers for a moment before sliding further down, his hands cup the backs of your thighs, spreading your legs open and smoothing his scarred hands down the sides. his fingers dig into the flesh, gripping and feeling every inch. capitano moves closer, positioning his body between your thighs to keep them open, pushing his rock hard bulge against your slicked cunt.
the whine that pierces the air only makes the room hotter, only makes capitano’s grip tighten, only makes him rock against you harder, a promise of what’s to come.
he seems to know what he's doing, that’s for sure. the way he touches, the way he goes to the most sensitive places makes you believe he’s completely aware of what you're thinking and what you want. his hands smooth over the tops of your thighs, his thumbs spreading the lips of your pussy and shuddering at the amount of slick that shines on your skin. the sudden cool air has you hissing as he runs a finger down your slit, smearing your juices up to your clits. just the brief feeling of his touch against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt through your body, tensing your muscles, hoping he  moves his knuckle just a little lower, hoping he puts just a little more pressure, hoping, hoping, hoping.
“fuck…” you whisper hoarsely, your eyes squeezing closed and your fingers digging into the sheets underneath. capitano’s finger slides back down over your slit, his touch light and teasing. his finger slows, hovering over your entrance.
you open your eyes and see capitano’s masked helm is turned up to you, waiting. when your eyes fully land on him, he pushes a finger in, slow and methodical, curving it up and immediately finding your g-spot. your eyes roll back and you drop your head back onto the bed, moaning. the wet squelch of his finger stretching you out is lewd, the sounds alone bring a blush deeper than before and you moan as he fingers you. in some attempt to stay quiet, you press your mouth into your hand to try and hide your whines and moans but it quickly becomes apparent you're losing the battle.
your body arches up as he begins to relentlessly attack the squishy spot inside you. it’s not that he’s being rough with you… yet, but in this moment, it’s like he realized he doesn't have to hold back. His movements are precise, hard, as if he's studied you in his mind and knows every little detail about you so well that he can push you exactly the way he wants. as if one wasn’t enough to make your head spine, the abrupt and quick addition of his middle finger into the mix takes you closer and closer to the shining white precipice of bliss.
capitano’s fingers squelch and his pace that started off slow, begins to pick up, just that much harder, that much deeper, that much faster. he's using his strength, he's using his power... and he's using it all on you. through the ringing bliss, through your pitched moans, through his quiet groans, it’s like he’s getting lost in you... he's losing himself in the moment, in your body, in your precious cunt that’s swallowing his fingers and sucking them deeper.
“so good f’me…” capitano groans, his thumb pressing down on your clit, the pressure a threat to fling you over the edge and he lets out a sigh before his thumb jerks in shaky, tight circles, watching through the masked helm. the pressure is earth shattering, the heat overwhelming, and it all builds and builds and builds and just when it can't get any more intense, it hits. your hips rise up and a muffled series of moans gets lost into the palm of your hand as you’re hurdle into your first orgasm of the night.
but he doesn’t stop pushing his fingers in and out, in and out, pushing them as deep as possible, crooking them up to rub your g-spot, he doesn’t stop, not for even a single moment, working you through your orgasm and then some. capitano keeps going, letting the squelching of your come become music to his ears as he moves onto a faster, more powerful pace, trying to build you up again.
“w—wait! i’m—!” your hand shoots down from your mouth and grabs at his wrist, but still, he doesn’t stop, in fact, it seems to spur him on as he looks from your creamy cunt to your dazed, panting face. he watches you grab at his wrist, watches as you can’t contain your moans anymore and tilts his head.
“w—what?” he mocks and then he pushes a third finger in without letting up the relentless pace and you feel the build of a second climax coming fast. your grip on his wrist tightens and your hips rise, trying to get away because, archons, it hurts! but it feels so good!
capitano uses his hand gripping your waist and holds you down as your eyes go wide and your head hits the bed, a stretched out loud moan ripping through you. Oh fuck! your second climax comes rushing to meet you, his fingers stretch your pussy open, making room where there was none. before you can warn him it hits. your eyes roll back and you gush all over his finger and hand.
he takes in the entire view, the sounds, the moment as you let out a scream. he seems to be enjoying himself immensely, the smugness of his posture, of the strain of his cock in his pants. only then does he slow down for a moment, to watch your second orgasm break you apart. you feel his pleasure in every move, in every touch. heat blankets the two of you, like he's burning with a passion as hot as the heat you feel through your climax, like he's burning with the desire to feel you, want you, lose himself in your cunt.
“Captain! Cap—! Captain! Captain! Captain! Sooooo good, sooo good! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
then he stops, going completely still. like he’s listening, like he’s relishing in the sound of his own title, like he’s drinking up every moan, every word, every gasp of pleasure and with each second that flits by, the heat of the room rises to a greater, smothering degree. the fire, the intensity of his presence reignites, burning through you. capitano’s fingers plunge into you with more vigor, with more urgency this time.
“that’s it, keep cumming f’me,” capitano grumbles. he pulls one of your legs up to rest of his shoulder and prods his fingers against the soft spot inside you, insistently. there’s definitely a smile on his face, one hidden from you, but it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t have the masked helm on, because the white spots in your eyes are looking like stars and the rolling waves of your orgasm are blinding. 
“please! please! please!” honestly, you don’t even know what you’re begging for but your tongue is loose and babbling. your chants are almost incomprehensible, but one thing is clear, capitano’s not done. “oh archons!”
he chuckles like he knows exactly what you're begging for and in a soft, low, hoarse whisper that's dripping with passion, he whispers, “beg for me, good girl.”
the request doesn't exactly make sense because you don’t know what to beg for, but he wants to hear you beg, he wants to know that you want this, that you need this, no matter what happens. he wants to hear you beg for him.
you roll your head to the side, trying to get the stars to go away so you can drink up the large form of him, so you can see him, so you can see what he does when you do beg. “need you! need you so bad! pl—hah!—please!”
he rolls his hip, pressing his clothed cock against your ass as a reminder and his body shudders like it’s taking everything in him not to rip his clothes of and fuck you with everything he has in him. his breathing is heavy, but he manages to speak through it, “tell me what you want. tell me what you need.”
and this time, this request absolutely makes sense.
“in! need you inside! have to have you in me, please, capitano, please!” you plead, hands tightening around his slowing wrist. his head tips back and a groan rumbles from his throat before he’s pulling his cum covered fingers from your wrecked pussy. it’s ungodly how his fingers shine in the dim lantern light of the room. he begins to unbuckle his belt slowly, masked helm watching you writhing in anticipation and the slowly calming waves of your pleasure. when he pulls his pants and underwear down to his thighs, your eyes go wide as his dick springs free from its confines and archons, is that going to fit?
the tip is a deep red, aching and leaking thick rivets of pre that smear over the slit. in his hand it looks like a normal size, but to you, it’s a weapon. a thick vein runs from tip to base and as he runs a hand up and down, using your cum as a lube, you see him twitching, his cock jumping at his touch. he squeezes his fist around the base, pulling upwards until he reaches the tip, pushing for pre through the slit.
he groans when he releases himself, stepping forward and grabbing your ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed until your ass is just barely hanging on. you push yourself onto your elbows, eyes glazed over and thighs wet, as you stare at him. he guides your legs around his waist and then holds himself, hot and heavy, putting the tip to your cunt.
capitano watches you through the masked helm as your breathing hitches and he slowly pushes himself into your pussy. your elbows aren’t enough to hold you up as you throw your head back and cover your face with your hands. it’s pain. it’s agony, it’s pleasure. it’s better than your previous imagination. and as your moans grow in pitch and turn into sobs, it’s all worth it. euphoria crawls up your spine, crawling into your skin and leaving no room for anything else.
every inch is torture, every inch is a delight. you can feel your very blood burning with every slow second, every slow inch, like capitano’s every touch is fire itself. his every move is like a flame consuming you, eating you up. every motion is building to a peak, every motion... every breath... every inch... a wave of pain and pleasure, consuming you, sweeping you away.
“c—capitano! too big! too big!”
he doesn’t stop until all of him is in all of you, until he’s bottomed out in your fluttering cunt, until he pauses to take a deep breath. his hands slid along your body, squeezing, pinching, pulling at your skin before he smooths them to your belly, hovering over your skin.
“you took all of me,” he says, amazement in his words. “fuck…” then he presses on the outline of him in your stomach and you arch, squeezing around his cock and gasping out. “so good f’me.”
his hand slides from your belly and both run down to grasp at your hips. his grip is strong and firm, his touch soft and blisteringly hot.
capitano’s first thrust is slow, but strong, meeting your hips with a bruising force and that’s the last time he’s slow. each squelch of your cunt stretching around him, taking him down to the base, sucking him back in drives him to do more, give more, take more. it hurts, he’s so big, too big, but the force of his every movement sends wave after wave after wave of the most incredible pleasure through you. it's all consuming, it's like a tide, a push and pull of heat and passion and pleasure so overwhelming you can barely speak a word, and the words you can are hardly coherent, just the babblings of an already fucked out cocksleeve.
there are no thoughts in your head, only the feelings of him stretching you out and filling you up and pleasure like nothing known before. between the sensual touches at the start and his fingers before, this leaves you brainless and dumb.
already there’s a building of pleasure in your belly, building up up up up with each hard, strong thrust of capitano’s cock into you, pummeling you, abusing you. your moans reverberate through the room, picking up as he bullies his cock into you, like he knows you're getting close again. his pace speeds up ever so slightly and his grip gets even stronger, fingers holding you in place with bruising strength.
“so tight, so perfect,” he groans, dropping his head a little, panting. “made f’me. this pussy was molded for me!”
“fuck, fuck! i’m…i’m—”
he gives a particularly hard thrust, choking you up and he chuckles darkly at the noises you make, his own personal orchestra. he shakes his head and pulls you more flush against him, his hands start to roam, plucking at your tight nipples, squeezing at the flesh of your tits. his touch moves up to your neck, soft, restrained like he wants to wrap his hands around your throat and feel you tighten around him, but his hands return to your hips as he looks down to see your pussy swallowing him up and your belly poking out with each slam of his hips against yours.
“such a good girl. ah… fuck,” he breathes, his body solid and heavy. His thumb moves down to press at your clit, rubbing quick circles on the nerves, trying to throw you into another orgasm, craving to feel you clench down around him and pulse.
“capitano! i’m gonna—i’m gonna…!”
“let go, my good girl. cum f’me,” capitano growls out putting more pressure behind his thrusts, behind his rubbing thumb.
every move he exacts is making the building pressure turn into something incredible, building to a height you didn’t know existed, building to a high. and for the third time this night, you hit the wall of pleasure and arch up into him, biting down on your hand and screaming as your climax sweeps through you.
“capitano! i’m cumming!”
he throws his head back as your cunt grips him, and stills your hips against his. you feel the heavy warm twitches of him reach his peak, letting his cum coat your walls in the same moment as you and it’s euphoric, devastating, mind blowing. you stay still, body flushed in sweat and eyes glazed over, heart jackrabbiting in your chest and voice still letting out light moans as he heaves.
when capitano finally moves, he pulls himself free from the suction of your body, his masked helm pointed to where you’re bodies connect. he watches as his still hard cock pops out and cum leaks down your legs, sliding down the curve of your ass, spoiling the sheets below. he hums and presses his hand down on your belly, pushing down and enjoying the way you tense and moan as more of his cum spills out in thick milky globs.
“you shouldn’t waste gifts, darling,” his voice is guttural and heavy with desire. a tone that lets you know he's not done. a tone that lets you know he's thinking of other ways to fill you up and make you feel pleasure.
you pause and rise shakily to your elbows looking at him and noting he’s still hard.. Is it shock? Is it horror in a good way? He wants… more?!
“i…i don’t… i can’t feel my legs, sir. and you want… to keep going?”
capitano leans his body towards you, his posture screaming that he’s dead serious and in fact the fire around him seems to grow hotter. he seems to radiate more heat now as he nods slowly. “Yes…” his voice is deep, calm, strong, and intense. he has a certain determination to him. this isn't an ask, isn’t a request. this is a declaration of want and he wants more from you and he's going to get it.
you swallow and look into the black helm visor. a fucked out expression greets you, sweat slicking your hair and theres a little bit of drool on the corner of your mouth. you feel a heat pool in your belly again and slowly nod. this is an opportunity you aren’t going to miss out on.
capitano’s body radiates something. is it prideful? is it amusement? is it something else? whatever it may be, it's clear that it's the feeling of a man who's going to get what he wants. he leans back and seems to be looking you over one last time, as if he's taking one last look at you, taking in your beauty and your body and the sweat and your bliss.
“turn over.”
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ophelian-darling · 5 months
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𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬.
𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto and Kento Nanami - gn reader.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : Their Obsession was too much to handle, and you find yourself growing impatient with their acts of dandling, till you had enough. 
TW : Implied Kidnapping, Physical and Verbal/psychological abuse, Blood & Injury.
enjoy ♡
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𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 :
Days passed like a vision through the glass, slow to come and quick to go, without even a faint image of them or a smallest fragment of memory, as if you were looking into someone else's life, not your own. The horizon blended now into Satoru's eyes- you were no longer able to see the real extension of a natural blue, instead looking through his irises, faux felt and fake friendly, non-stop and ad nauseam. a smile would paint itself across his features and a kind touch would cosset your hands, attempting to mimic a color of romance.
"Whatcha Thinkin' of, Babe?" He asked, a honeyed voice softening his words, already knowing what was in your head; wanting a sweet lie out of your tongue. You hated his voice- no, everything about him, from his stares, the contorts and shapes of his face and the many shades of his affection; one minute, sugar and honey drip off his tongue, in Hopes of aiming at the moon and winning your trust, the other all of his sweetness is poisoned and laced with venom, intentions of wounding your ego into submission. At times, to him, you were Valentine, Babe, Love and Dreamboat; just as you were the useless, pathetic, whiney and liar, depending on his mood.
The horror of him was his eyes, they were softly in a cruel way, no effort of smiling or laughter could coffin the rage and Mania you were too aware of. You were always on alert, counting your sins and thinking of ways to redeem yourself, mentioning Kissing back, twisting your lips with pink lies, thanking him for his gifts and wearing a gleeful expression on your face. 
"Aww Satoru! you spoil me, I don't know what would've happened to me if you weren't around!..." 
You felt maggots crawl under your skin, rushing forth to your brain while you struggled to keep your smile. The more the hours fly, the more your cover of ardor cracks. a thin string of bitterness lining from beneath your nail right into your heart, stitching more into a scornful crimson slowly. 
Just how dare he- take you against your will, fondle and caress you as if you were a mere housecat and call himself a saint for bothering to look after you, while you don't remember asking or consenting for any of his attention? During so many times, including the moment as of now, you'd imagine him bleeding, cascades of red contradicting his snow complexion, pieces of glass needling his eyes that you hated with all Satan's grudge to heaven. You are sure no single speck of a tear would warm your eyelid if he dies, it was what he deserved.
"You okay, Love? something is off with you" Concern painted his face, while his blues remained ever unsettling. 
Your mouth clinged into a straight tight line, no longer able to remember the supposed smile. a harsh retort died on the tip of your tongue, leaving the room to even a harsher, short-lived silence to stretch. 
His thumb traced on your cheek, before he stood up "I'm gonna make you a cup of coffee to lift you up a li'l, stay here while I'm in there" 
Of course you're staying here, where else would you go?! Moving an inch without seeing his face was less likely than seeing a green sky.
The string of your heart sewn itself thicker. As memories of him puppeteering you flashed unwelcomed, the scornful thread darned into a ferocious rag, veiling any sense of your heart, caging it with a hating aviary. You carried yourself up, heading to the kitchen absentmindedly, guided by the heavy feeling in your chest. He didn't tire himself to look around- not like you could do anything, wrapped around his digits to control. 
An unknown tune he hummed caroled the small kitchen, his hands moving around to prepare the mugs and the coffee, too immersed in his own realm of thought to discern your motives. 
If you ever got the chance to recount this exact moment, you would say that it happened so fast that your mind didn't settle on one image: did you shatter the mug on the top of his head or the back of his neck? You don't remember, yet the anamnesis of your muscles retained the surge of Adrenaline, a slow motion second of your hand grabbing the porcelain cup and breaking it on his skull. you do recall he said something- things. a series of slurs that were too filthy, every curse and insult in the scripture. 
The crimson rag was torn off from your heart, a delicious feeling of revenge drugging you in a lucid Catharsis. your fingers twitched, your body braced itself for whatever beating it was about to receive. Oddly enough, he continued groaning and grunting, holding his head in both his bloodied hands. 
Dark red seeped through his white locks, oozing down his neck, sullying his shirt and tinting his fingers and hands. For the first time, his strange blues held an emotion different from insanity, a glassy layer over them, just a tad bit up from his usually static stare. his eyelids wept with red as he stared at you for a moment, saying nothing, before heading -as it seems- to the bathroom, a trail of red spots on the floor marking your deed.
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𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 :
In your dreams, the sunrises and sunsets were sin crimson, dark as Abel's blood. You'd see Suguru and yourself, sitting on a shore, its sea so transparent, hued with the cinnabar rays casting from a cloudless sky. You often look forth into the puce red horizon and not to him, rarely ever locking eyes with his. One time, as you remember from a shattered vestige in your awakening, you rotate your head to the side to see him staring at you; a half erased smile contouring his lips, Black eyes mirroring the skyline that stretched to no end in sight. Twice or thrice, he'd say something, a trail of meaningless letters sliding down his composed voice. You don't retain on his words exactly, but your name was amongst them; during a glib talk of his, your name rolls down his tongue with his usual calmness, scripting your dreams as such almost always ever since you were tied to him.
"Something in your mind, Dear?" The calmness- you can hear the smile in his inquiry without looking at him, drumming through your skull in an image of him in your dreams. You looked up from your lap, noticing that he was stitching something up, the needle struggling to remain still in his fingers. Of course, he was anything short of a tailor as much as he was short of a lover, wanting to be something he can't be but insisting anyway like the stubborn cockroach he is. 
You rolled your tongue across your teeth, only to let out a muffled 'nothing' as a response. you were really trying hard to not hurl at him, he was getting on your nerves for just his existence.
He chuckled, digging the needle into a red fabric "Something is in your mind indeed. I don't know what it is and why you look so upset, but I promise I'll make you feel better" 
You'll only make me feel better by choking on a dagger, Suguru.  you wanted to say, yet being completely aware that it'll have consequences- ones you were needless for. The numbness on your face is constantly pricking its presence across your flesh, swells and mounds that remind you of his black eyes losing their serenity, metamorphosing into a brutal night dark. His hands slapped and punched as equally as they billed and cooed, and your skin has grown hateful of both.
He does not appear as a human at all. in a vast space of thinking, you would theorize that he was not much but a parasite that sucked life out of everything beautiful, including love. his version of amour was twisted, burying care under Control and killing fondness to revive fervor. Cords you couldn't see snaked around your heart and soul, burning as they got tighter, paralyzing you with apathy that was leisurely altered to a pale hue of resentment, until it fully discolored to a dim rage.
It creeped its way to your fingers. you could hear Satan's whisper, planting the vilest of ideas in your mind; at least you had the luxury of hiding your thoughts and making them behind an expression you can't feel now- you're becoming him, a hollow shell of one face and multiple voices, already sensing the stitches of a mask, a dull one that a death face left more lineaments to remember. you were blessed with emotions unlike him, there's no way you'll melt into Suguru. 
"Darling I have a surprise for you, look!" He announced cheerfully, bringing the piece of fabric he's been working on to your attention. 
He raised the Obi belt in his hands, proud of his handmade sewing. you scanned it carefully: the silk is red candy colored with few golden flowers orienting it, not much skill or talent radiating off of this mimicry of a cloth.
"I intended to offer you this as a birthday gift, but I preferred giving it to you now. maybe it'll cheer you up a little, you've been really quiet lately…" the damn calm smile decorated his face again, this time a drop of what sounded like concern is mixed with it.
You took the thing from his hand, acting like you're inspecting it but in fact holding a cackle. how in hell's seven circles he expected you to wear this?! If Suguru thought with that little sense he always prides himself of, he'd see that he wasted such a gorgeous material on such a failure of an accessory. 
"Do you like it? I hope so…" there's an octave in his voice translated as 'please tell me it's the best gift you ever received', too bad it's ugly to give him the pleasure of hearing a compliment. 
"I've been working on it for weeks. I had to choose between red or pink, deciding to pick the former because I thought it would look better on you… I'm nothing of a tailor, but I did my best" he rubbed his palms together, as if an imaginary balm coating them. he laughed a little "I gave myself a lot of needle pricks, but it was worth it-" 
"It's awful" 
You didn't have to look up to see his face.
"What?" He muttered, completely not seeing this coming. 
"It's terrible, I hate it" a joyful spark twinkled throughout your body as you said so. the smile that you tried so hard to repress curved itself on your lips. you felt you could add more fuel to the fire.
"The color is dull and this silk looks cheap, but that's not why it's ugly. I bet a child can sew an Obi belt better than you do. this thing should go back where it belongs, the trash." 
The silk wasn't cheap at all. you silently praised whoever produced it as the fabric resisted between your fingers. for a second, you considered just throwing the belt at his face, but you already teared it up a little, imagining that you were tearing Suguru apart between your fingers, the very same Suguru who was standing in front of you, ghostly pale and owl eyed, uttering not a word.
Red ribbons rippled through the small space between your hands and feet, forming a pile on the floor and resting in place. your heart clenched in excitement, a reaction that replaced the usual fear of him beating you senseless in such situations. you awaited for his hand to fly, for his voice to raise, but none came. 
His gaze froze. He apparently couldn't contain how his present ended up being nothing more than some piece of garbage that had to be disposed of. Suguru opened his mouth then closed it before turning his heels around and exiting the room. bringing back your eyes to the remains of the belt, it now jumped to you that there was something written on the back of it. 
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𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 :
It is agreed upon as a human truth, that Shackles do not necessarily form as chains- For it merely requires a key to be freed from. but in most absent minds, the understanding of captivity and freedom were abridged in crime and punishment or torture (always coming first as physical in most thoughts), yet there is a sort of abstract bindings; way more restraining than tangible ones and with no limit of their ability to fetter the prisoner regardless of how strong is their will to break free, or how far their access to the key goes. mind games have proven themselves to be more effective throughout history, even in the simplest circumstances. What is more, playing on the strings of sentiment: romanticization of bonds -no matter how abusive they were- such as parenthood, friendship or more formally formed ties; marriage. 
There is this magical thing about marriage : it is a golden cage, a caressing shackle perceived as a warm nest in a vision of a romance, colored as red and pink, planted as roses. a cuff that priests call matrimony, poets call union and goldsmiths call rings- you name it; it's still a menacle, whether spouses consented to it or not. 
Kento was the typical man with the ordinary ambitions of immersing in a job (best if it paid generously), owning what is enough and settling down. To him, marriage was the ultimate expression of love, more than a mere ring, a wedding or flowery vows.
"I do have for you a love so dear that I drink from what your lips touch, I breathe when your lungs exhale, I slumber on where your skin embraces the mattress; one of both life and death."
- Your adoring one.
Engraved in red, the words slided over your heart's veil, forgotten in a memory of a cold rib. Satan lured Adam with an apple, so how would sugary words find any trouble deceiving? 
"You're making me worried, Sweetheart…" sotto voce in the nature of a Dove's coo; disgustingly fondling. 
Of course, a silver tongue cuts sharp in the same way it pours coquetry. life with Kento was seeing a moon and its dark side. under the beam of light, his lips mulls everything on you; kisses on your lips, cheeks and forehead blossomed, full rainbow ray of flowers were gifted to you, mostly red, attached to them little cards and billets-doux that enveloped letters of dalliance, arranged together and too sweet to the point it sickens you. The irony of his dimness was that he's more tolerable when he gnashes his teeth; wounds at your skin and soul, scolds and punishes in a parental manner. even for days, you'd hear the beast howling in your ear, ringing through the corridors of your head and it hurts to think.
Your eyes reflected in his figure, kneeling in front of you, not meaning they were drinking in the sight of him.
His thumbs brushed across your palms "Can I see your smile again? you look beautiful when you smile, you already are no matter how your face appears" nothing stirred up in you, emptiness of a blind man's face swam through the void.
"Please… sweetheart.." your composure nearly broke; a laugh dwindled within your throat. Does he think that you were a sole toy?! there to be played with, clothed and stripped to the colors of his whims, put on a pedestal at dawn and degraded at dusk?! it gnaws now on the branches of your chest, melts in your heart and fills your brain with a spiteful flow. 
"I've got something nice, just for you, I'm sure it'll make you happy" with that, he left quickly and returned just as, something in the outlines of a large flower bouquet behind his back. no surprise, he had a proclivity for flowers; for how red are roses, for how fragrant was jasmine and for how innocent were lilies. 
"I love you Sweetheart, never forget that!" as expected, roses. a pink posy of them.
You took the bouquet from his hands, glaring at the flowers in a burning grudge. for a flash of a glint, Medusa's serpents coiled between your digits, circling wrists, their skin flaying with yours. a bottle of somber tears shattered, impuring your core with loathing never imagined to be stored in your soul. With the swiftness of a sword out of its sheath, your hand flew high, landing the thorny plants across his face, over and over again, no drop of fear in you. Kento succeeded in grabbing your hand- not the one attacking him, squeezing your wrist to make you yield, but to no avail. your blood rushed hot through your veins, carving your mind with screams of violence and to hurt him more, that is when your fists balled and your ankles rose up sharply.
"Stop!" 
You would never. your hands had their own mind, they scratched and punched and grabbed to your heart's content, avenging you after so long of a macabre suffering. your shackles started to unravel, each movement of yours freeing the hollowness outside you. short minutes stretched forth like long hours until you were done- or like you were over with him for now.
a blur on your vision subdued, the faint image clearing line by line. Kento was on the floor, leaning on a chair and balancing his weight on a knee, right hand shielding over his face. you couldn't see the damage well through his fingers till he got up, still holding his face in his hand, silently giving you his back and leaving you to your own devices. as he left, you noticed red across the sides of his hands and arms; few cuts and swells distorting the fabric of his pale skin. 
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