#possible religion cw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cursingtoji · 8 months

Text

𓆩𖥟𓆪 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐑 — Geto is a thoughtful leader who uses visual resources to help his followers learn, and tonight you get to play a part. #Cult-tober.

< Part 1 - Contradiction

— cw: religious imagery but no specific religion, exhibitionism, emotional manipulation, god complex, public nudity, fingering, unprotected, oral (f -> m), sex cult behaviour. 3k words.

— note: did my research on cults for this one, also based on this request.

“Come here” you hear his voice after calling your name, the tone gives you chills.

You know better than to fear him, this is not the first time he calls you to the main room of the temple — a place that has become the closest thing you can call a home now. This room in particular is already very known to you, so why the fear? Can’t you remember the familiar feeling of the tatami under your knees? What about against your cheek? Wasn’t worth the pain of having your face rubbing on it while your master roughly thrusted into your behind? You do recall his pitiful smile when he realized what the mat had done to the soft skin of your face, right? He kissed it so tenderly while holding you like you were made of glass, a glass he didn’t mind breaking a few minutes prior to that, but now, glass.

So what’s wrong now?

Except for the dozens of followers sitting on their knees in that same room right now. How come you never saw that many people before? And more importantly, why are you seeing them now?

A few hours ago, he left you two things along with a note with the time and place you had to be. Those things are: a sheer black lace mask, very delicate fabric meant for your eyes, the type of thing you could picture a woman using in a ball in the 1800s, and a yukata, a simple one. You thought it was weird he didn’t leave an obi — the belt to tie up the yukata, so you took one from your own drawer to complete the traditional piece.

The mask is clearly not part of it, but you know better than to question him. Besides, the note is clear, you must wear nothing but those things. Nothing.

The room you thought you knew now seems strange and gloomy, it’s nighttime so there’s only a few candles lightening it up, there’s an essence burning somewhere the smell is weak but it’s there.

Geto in all his glory sits in his altar, his feet are up in the mat, unlike everyone else sitting on their legs. He has the pose of a deity and clearly that is what everyone thinks too.

Your bare feet touch the tatami, slowly approaching the altar and feeling the dozen pairs of eyes upon you, the offsetting lighting doesn't allow you to see their faces, which is probably for the best, yet Geto’s was lit up as if the sun itself rose for him and him only.

“Look at her, when I met her she was sick, this beautiful lady had a disease. I tried to look away, she was too far gone, but what did I do instead, sweet child?”

“You saved my life” you respond without batting an eye, your mind feels cloudy.

“Kneel” you obey taking place beside him.

Maybe he is a deity after all.

Just that day you were having a conversation with the twins. They had so many questions, especially after seeing you hurt by some curse, so many why’s leaving their little mouths.

“It doesn’t matter!” your voice rose for the first time since taking them in your embrace “If Geto-sama says it’s day and the sky is dark, it’s day. If he says it’s night when you can see the sun, you go to bed because you sleep when it’s night, understood?”

Sometimes you barely recognize the voice that leaves your lips. Scolding is something you never saw yourself doing, not to the girls you loved more than anything.

In your situation one would assume this behavior is driven by fear, what would Geto do if he found out your girls were questioning his actions? They cannot possibly care more about this non-sorcerer in front of them. Never.

But those people would be wrong. Fear does make you do what you do. Love does.

Only love makes you stay put in front of him when he unties your yukata, love has you looking him in the eye even while the disapproval for the presence of the obi is evident.

Geto makes you sit facing him, his stunning image much more welcoming than the unlighted audience, he’s big enough for you to understand can still see the quiet crowd behind you. His calloused hands touch your shoulders under the yukata, the soft touch is enough to warm up your entire body as he slowly revells a skin decorated by some few bruises, some caused by curses, some caused by gods, well… one god.

“She’s still not cured, I don’t know if she’ll ever be” he doesn’t have to project his voice too much in the quiet room, the hot breathing fans over your face, “But I’ll keep trying nevertheless” he says more quietly.

Geto’s hand goes between your legs and you have trouble keeping your sounds to yourself. His hand is big, and the space between your closed legs — while you’re still sitting on them — and your core is narrow, Geto has to be a little rough to get where he wants to.

And he always gets what he wants.

Your face is warm, breathing erratically but still… you’re not panicking even given the disturbing setting. It’s all due to him, if it was anyone else you would be screaming right now, fighting your way out of this.

Geto starts to stroke your folds with his fingers while talking about sins, the best thing you can do is shut your little brain from overthinking everything he says and taking it as personal.

However, what is left to do when he keeps going on and on about undeserving ones while teasing your fluttering hole? You can’t even look him in the eye, just keep staring his throat as he speaks. Your gasp interrupts him when he inserts a finger, both your hands to your mouth, you were distracted enough to forget this was obviously the next step.

Geto snaps his eyes back to you, not glad about the interruption, yet he resumes his speech so he can go on with his plans.

Your hands remain on your closed mouth, not wanting to make the same mistake again. Geto adds another finger and starts scissoring you, which worries you slightly, you thought this was merely a play for the followers, an exhibition of power, but the stretching he’s doing indicates he plans to go all the way. That and the erection under his haori, which you should’ve led you to suspect his intentions from the beginning since he’s never presented himself to his followers without all the layers of his traditional clothing.

Geto removes his fingers, straightening his posture as he finishes his sentence, he pats his lap and you find his eyes, they are predatory, from then on you’re dealing with Geto-sama, not Suguru.

You’re already undoing the ropes that tie his haori just like he did to you a few minutes ago. He’s bare under the fabric, dick is tall and hard, the leaking tip shines under the orange glow of the candlelight as you align it with your entrance.

“If you can’t control your urges, they’ll control you” he claims, hands behind your knees, his voice is steady but the grip he has on you tells it’s hard to control himself too.

“No person or thing should control you… except for me” the last part is whispered for your ears only. You bottom out on him, needing a moment to recover, not just from the stretch on your lower half but from his words and by how willing you are to let him control you.

Especially when he puts his hand on your head, pressuring slightly guiding you to his neck. He keeps his hand there, caressing your hair as you relax on his hold, like he’s comforting someone who's just lost a dear relative, not a simple villager he spared and is now balls deep inside dozens of followers.

With a sharp pinch on your thigh Geto signs you to start moving, you arch your back and raise your hips to slide out of his cock till only the tip is left then sitting back. Since the yukata was not fully removed, it stays on you, sleeves pooling on the middle of your arms, the rest serves as a curtain, keeping the audience from viewing the junction of you and your savior.

You busy your mouth by kissing and sucking his neck, he gives your hair a discreet pull, a warning to not mark him, guess it would be bad for his reputation if his beloved sorcerers find out he’s whipped by a good-for-nothing human.

All they know — as far as Geto is concerned —, is that you’re his little pet, kind of a 3 for the price of 2 after he took in the twins, a package deal he simply had to accept.

Whatever, you don’t care about them anyways. As long as they’re treating your girls as one of their own, it doesn’t matter how they treat you. Geto, Mimiko and Nanako are all you need to be content with your life.

Geto should limit himself from touching you, his fingers shouldn’t be tracing the little marks and scratches on your back.

“You are not perfect, mistakes will happen, that’s why you need someone to guide you” he talks to the audience, his chin resting on your shoulders as the tip of his fingers run over each trauma and imperfections on your back. At this point — with his dick reaching such a sweet spot inside your walls —, you are not sure if he’s still indirectly talking to you, but something makes you think he’s talking to himself, about you.

Is it such a delusional thought? That you are the one guiding him and not the other way around? You thighs clench around him, the awkward feeling in your chest start to bring clarity to your pleasure blurred mind and you start to look around reflecting on your situation.

Geto relizes something switched in your dumb little head, you do that sometimes, look around with wide eyes and heavy breathing. Suguru remembers the days in jujutsu tech, when he was confused, consumed by the trauma and unsure about his future. Why did you make him remember that? Your chest is rising rapidly, he doesn’t want you to panic, that’s not supposed to happen under his watch.

You’re taken from his lap.

“You love me, don’t you?” Suguru holds your chin bringing your focus to him, only him. You nod slowly, admiring his sculpted face by the candlelight, “Then what are you afraid of?”

You search your mind for all the reasons to be afraid right now, shouldn’t be hard, all you need is to look around and remember why you’re here.

Yet his hazel eyes don’t allow you to find any of those reasons, somehow your heart doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

“Don’t you trust me?” he rubs your chin and you nod again, “Show me” you blink confusingly, “Show me how much you love me.”

You’re sitting on your knees as your eyes trail down where his member is still hard, it glistens with your juices and throbs slightly, the sight is too irresistible.

So you bow to your savior, taking him fully into your mouth, the position giving the closest thing to a privacy moment, where you could pretend it’s just you and Suguru like in the late nights in his chamber.

“There you go” he sighs happily patting your head, not putting any pressure, like what you’re doing is not sexual at all.

It’s merely a form of adoration. And Geto deserves being adored.

Naturally, you take him as deep as you possibly can, focusing your best in worshiping every inch of his skin, putting as much love into it as you can, not even minding the emptiness on your lower half or how you’re dripping on the mat.

There’s a buzz in your ear, you know Geto is talking, finishing his speech probably, but you can’t actually hear him, feels like hearing someone talking from a distance.

The last thing you remember is the hot shot on the back of your throat and the member twitching in your mouth. You think you heard Geto moan, which brings a weird feeling in your stomach since, as far as you know, you’re supposed to be the only one to hear that. His thumb goes to your chin, whipping the saliva and cum, pushing you to release him, you do, but you keep kissing his soft length until the smell of him mixed with the candles and something only this room had made you black out.

Phenomenal.

A word that resumes what Geto thinks about your performance tonight. If he gave you a script it wouldn’t have played out so perfectly.

Sometimes Geto underestimates how willing you are to be controlled by him.

When everything is done, he takes you into his arms, after wrapping the Yukata back around your body, he raises to his feet and steps down from his small stage carrying you.

There’s a door behind the stage, passing the curtains, which he usually uses as entrance and exit. Yet that night he feels like walking through the audience, with a pretty little thing unconscious on his mighty arms and a bunch of loyal followers bowing on his feet he experiences being, truly, a god.

#— cult-tober #geto x reader #geto x female reader #geto suguru #suguru x y/n #cult leader!geto #geto smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #geto x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut

1K notes · View notes

diejager · 10 months

Text

Bittersweet Devotion pt.2

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Cw: angst, heartbreak, mention of cheating, mention of death, no happy ending, apology, tell me if I missed any. wc: 9.3k

Your universe, Earth-XXX, was a parallel one to Earth-616 in some sense. You had a Peter Parker, a Gwen Stacy and a Mary Jane Watson, it had everything down to the death of Ben Parker and the devastation it brought to your friend. It was the same year as Spider-Man 616’s world, it had the same political standing and same history. Your world, like many others, was a near carbon copy of 616, down to the smallest things; but like others in the spiderverse, you had differences. Some were minor changes in the course of its canon story, others were major changes in the characters and the era.

You - like Miguel, Miles, Jess, Hobart (he liked going by Hobie), Patrick and Patriv - were one of those major deviations in the original canon. You didn’t exist - or so you thought - in Peter B. or Peter’s universe even though you lived in the same year. The reason might be that in the reality, the sum of all potential universes that paralleled each other, created the multiverse - the Spiderverse.

The concept of it seemed strangely unlimited, the infinite possibilities to a different ending or a different start for its world. The multiverse was, in some sense, as old as time, a culmination of everything made imaginable by man. Found in ancient texts - the Puranas, ancient Hindu mythology - that expressed the infinite number of universes with their gods and principles. Whereas Persian literature - tales - touched the idea of learning about alternate universes that were similar, yet distinctly different from theirs.

Misconstrued by many, the strangeness of it was deemed a danger, the unknown possibilities were feared by people of older age, but venerated in the past as it was in the present for the unfathomable possibilities. It exists in fiction, where they borrowed the idea of many worlds within a reality from myths, legends and religion. Heaven, Hell, Olympus and Valhalla were all reflections of a familiar world, a material realm for the blessed, the sinful, the gods, and the worthy. The similarities sometimes frightened you, how close the people were to knowing of the reality you all lived in. The tangibility of crossing worlds and bringing about chaos to every string, every realm, every material form of the multiverse.

They, after all, were real, Hell as much as Heaven in your universe. Gods from every religion, either monotheistic or polytheistic, some you’d personally seen are Thor and Loki, brother and sons of Odin the Allfather, and the God of Thunder and Mischief respectively. Another was a big crocodile lady, Ammit, from what you’d heard from the all-knowing Dr. Strange. From God to Norse and Egyptian gods, from angels and demons, and from humans to mutants, your plane of existence was as wide as it could go without drifting off the edge and causing a mass domino effect within the multiverse.

You were curious, naturally so for a scientist, exploring the worlds that felt familiar to you but you hadn’t truly grasped - different, yet similar. You hadn’t given a second thought to exploring yours. After all, why explore yours when your horizon was as broad as you imagined it, unperturbed by any limits when it came to the multiverse? The eternal and unlimited growing number of realms in your expanding reality.

Perhaps that was the reason why you hadn’t known your universe had its own Miguel O’Hara. You rarely came back for anything, you had everything you’ve ever wanted in Nueva York, Earth-928. You have friends who could truly understand you, people who stood beside you when you fought, youngsters who looked up to you for mentoring and a dream- or it was a dream. Dreams, not dissimilar to wishes, were hopeful, naive in a way, they came and went. Some dreams would come true, while others fell, like the fallen stars that crossed the night sky.

Yours simply happened to be a fallen one, one not meant to happen and become greater. You let it go after he dropped you, after he turned his back and let his mouth run unperturbed. He brought her up, someone he swore he would remember but left in the past. A new chance to become something, to become whole again, and Miguel took it. He wanted to start anew, fresh with someone he never met, you wanted the same; you both had what you wished for, until he put his foot down, cutting the thin web that connected both your lives.

It broke your heart. Months of patience and anxiously stepping around each other, nervous about breaking the trust freshly built between you both, lost in a few weeks. You were brittle, heart fractured and threatening to fall further apart if someone was any crueller to you. The smallest glare, the tiniest scoff or the weakest remark would send you reeling into the abyss of heartbreak and the throes of anguish. Yet somehow, you found yourself being led away by a copy of the Miguel you loved.

He mumbled apologies as he held you tightly, his arm over your shoulder as he cradled you under his umbrella, hastily urging you to follow his guidance. If it were any other person, you would’ve been wary, cautious of any strangers that touched you so closely and chaperoned you so quickly; but this was Miguel, a man you trusted and that you still trusted wherever he came from. Earth-XXX’s Miguel O’Hara was still similar to the one you knew, someone you could trust. You did.

He led you to his flat, someplace near Alchemax’s building in Manhattan, a safe neighbourhood for the richer citizens of Manhattan. A cozy place of neutral tones and muted colours, yet warm as he welcomed you - a stranger as of yet - into his home. He had machinery strewn around, reports stacked on his coffee table and smaller things he had been tinkering about decorating his home. As a geneticist, he liked to play with machinery, having drawn his designs and models, built his creations from scratch and worked from the base programming to make something better. At least Miguel from Earth-928 did, and it seemed this one did as well.

You stood in his shower, where he left you in a frenzy to bring you dry clothes, drying out your hair with the towel he motioned you to use. You doubted that he had anything your size, his broad shoulders and his towering height, nothing he had in his draws - and the boxes he stowed away in his closet - would fit you. They would drag down your ankle and sit low on your collar. Granted, you were soaked down to your socks and had no temporary clothes to cover yourself with during your stay.

You had stripped from your soaked clothes and patted down your wet skin, shivering from the cold that clung to your bones even after Miguel had increased the heater in the small confines of the bathroom. It was small but big enough to move around and stretch your arms comfortably. You hadn’t felt the cold until he brought you to his bathroom, the numbness of the past months weighing heavily on your shoulders and the bleeding of your heart made everything seem so meaningless. The colours draining from the world around you, a once bright New York turned grey, the monochrome tones of black and white mixing and interlacing to form even more boring shades.

The vibrancy and life you once saw around you dulled and died suddenly, like the winters brought by Demeter’s devastation and sadness when her daughter was taken from her, stolen from the berth of flowers she liked frolicking about. How Demeter doomed the world to see her pain, to feel how she felt in the moments her daughter had to return to her husband than stay with Demeter. You felt laden by your faults and his actions. Doubtful of your relationship, of what led you both to such an ending. Had you been clearer or more forthcoming about your emotions, or had you confronted him for his behaviour, would you still be in his arms?

Were you at fault for missing something you had relied on as comfort and safety? Could you be blamed for his reaction to your meddling in his affairs in the Society? Could you blame him for dropping those words on you? After all, being reminded or compared to a past lover was anything but gentle, the gut-wrenching envy and betrayal you felt flash through you was nearly drowning. It made you feel lacking, to be reminded of his old flame, the one he was about to marry and the person he seemed to love before all. Could you even compare to what she was; what she did? (Dina had cheated on him, you knew that, but he was truly happy in their moments of pleasure and domesticity. They were a family until she died.)

You were drowning in your self-made sorrow when his voice called you, grounding you to the room. Standing before a door, naked and shivering, arms wrapping the damp towel around your shoulders. He called again, cracking the door open to pass you the - his - clothes he thought would fit you. He coughed as you took your temporary wear, your cool fingers brushing his warm ones. It was a sudden and jerking contact, you pulled back jerkingly, a shamble of an apology and a thank you flew from your tongue. His chuckle was a reassurance in the complete quietness of the flat, his low voice reminding you of better times.

The sweater hung loosely around you, dipping down your collar to expose your shoulder. It was warm, the cotton used to make it still soft after being stored away and the soothing scent of spice and pine deeply integrated into the fibres. The pants were stretched around your hips, the tight fabric thin and flexible under stress, hidden under the long shirt. The legs, however, swayed loosely around your limbs, too big for your calves, but tight enough to hug your thighs. He had certainly made sure to bring you clothes that would fit your frame. You hadn’t attempted to smell his pants, you thought it would’ve been too intrusive and disgusting to do so if only to smell a remnant of Miguel on his as you did on the sweater.

Miguel was waiting for you in the kitchen, his back turned to you as you ambled towards him. His shoulders loose and back relaxed in the presence of a stranger made you appreciate how good-natured he was in most universes you’d been to. He turned his head, gesturing you to sit on the chair facing him on the island as he returned to something he was making while you changed.

“I hope you don’t mind hot chocolate,” he started, voice light and hopeful as he turned to you, cup in each hand as he moved to stare at you. “I’m not one for tea.” He slid the warm mug into your hand, eyes watching your expression as he slowly sipped on the hot beverage.

His eyes squinted slightly when your lips curled upwards, a smile hidden by the steaming mug. You cupped the mug, feeling the warmth of the freshly brewed drink, the steam rising in soft curls and melting in the cooler atmosphere. Tentatively, you brought the rim to your lips, slowly tilting the cup. The powerful taste of chocolate hit you strongly, the sweet and dark liquid melting the tension in your muscles until you could curl over the table with an appreciative sigh.

“Thank you…” you knew his name, wanting to call him, but his reaction would be unwanted, the shock, fear and suspicion that would fill his beautiful, brown eyes. So you slurred your words, dragging out your voice until he could tell you his name himself.

“Miguel. Miguel O’Hara, ” he nodded, cocking his head upwards, pointing at you with his chin. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Hey every time I want to call you.” His lips broke into a cheeky smile, teasing you when he saw that you’d comfortably melted into the drink and his island chair. He wanted to ease the tense atmosphere from before into something much calmer, to help the accumulated tension in your shoulders to fall like the rain that clouded the streets of New York.

You let out a hoarse chuckle, your throat still fresh from crying, and told him your name, trying to stabilise your shaking tone. His cheeky smirk tugged at your heartstrings, you hadn’t seen Miguel laugh or smile this freely in months. You missed it. The casual banter you shared and the on-and-off insults you’d hurl at one another, all good-natured insults meant to rile him.

“Thank you, Miguel,” you nearly choked when you uttered his name, the wound still so fresh and bleeding it slip from your tongue easily. It brought up so many memories, both painful and joyful. Your eyes glazed over, tears threatening to fall once again, to paint your cheeks with agony that you - him, or perhaps both of you - had brought on yourself. “Thank you…”

Miguel hummed sympathetically, eyes staring down at his drink, deep in thought. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to invite you to share your problems, to tell him why you broke down on the street in stormy weather. Or maybe he was thinking of the fastest way to kick you out, to get rid of the mess you became. The silence, however, was reassuring, calming the nerves that followed the eerie calmness of Miguel’s den or the loud, hectic atmosphere of the Society. His warm, worrying gaze grounded you, the softness behind his concerned stare was heartwarmingly nostalgic.

“Difficult breakup?” His words seemed hesitant, unsure of his conclusion to the cause of your appearance. Unknowingly, he had struck gold, pinning down the right problem in your life with a few observations. Of course, he was observant and aware of his surroundings, why else was he so willing to bring you into his home?

“How’d ya know?”

His sigh was telling, the deep, concerned and tired breath was only used when he knew that you wouldn’t tell him what ailed you, like the groan of a disappointed, yet worried father.

“Because I know how it feels,” he says slowly, pensive over his words, picking them carefully to not damage you further than your ex had. He knew the pain of a harsh breakup, the pain and sorrow that followed, like a dark cloud that hovered over you whenever you were awake.

“Why?” You croaked.

“Why?” he parroted, frowning at your question.

“Why did you invite me in? I’m a- a stranger to you, you don’t even know me. What if I’d been acting to mug you or potentially kill and steal from you? What’d you do then, Miguel?”

“I know the risks, but you didn’t, didn’t you? And wouldn’t, you don’t look like the person to harm another.”

You scoffed at his words. Didn’t and wouldn’t didn’t mean you would not do it later after gaining his trust, to stab him in the back after he helped you and nursed you. The simple, naïve idea that you didn’t look like a violent person was mind-blowing, it was stupid. How could he know if you didn’t mean harm later on? Like how Miguel never meant to harm you - he loved you - and yet in the end, he had.

“That’s naïve,” you muttered, eyes closed as you drank the cooling beverage, the sugary drink trickling down your throat.

“I’m confident in my ability to read people.”

He did seem confident in his ability, the straight back and the strong gaze in his eyes showed; and, maybe because you knew from experience that Miguel was observant and careful, he hadn’t gotten where he was by simply trusting people and following the herd. He tested and made mistakes, he learned from them each time and found a way to use it to his advantage. The Miguel you saw in every universe was similar in some ways, their good nature, their cunningness, their bravery and their intelligence. All aspects known to characterize Miguel O’Hara in all universes he existed in.

You conceded to his will, head bowed and shoulders slack. You breathed shallowly, swallowing the lump in your throat:

“Yeah, what gave it away?”

You thought it would be the last of him you’d see in your life, you wished it wouldn’t, that you’d see him over and over, to feel what the Miguel from your universe had to give, but you knew it was wishful thinking, a wish thrown to the stars. Logically, he had no reason to call or text you after exchanging numbers days prior. He promised to call you, and he made you promise to call him if anything ever resurfaced, be it pain, anger, heartbreak or hate. You, instinctively, believed his word.

You hated yourself for falling so easily to another Miguel, how you bent to his words and the sweet promises he uttered that night. There was no sign that he would keep his word, that he would see you again after your breakdown, except for his words and your belief in him. Then it wasn’t misplaced, all the trust and belief you had, since he called you, asking to meet up at a cafe. Miguel had set up a place and time for you when you replied with a croak, still feeling down. He had whispered reassuring words to you, urging you to meet him - he explicitly told you he’d feel offended to be stood up - and spend some time outside. The air was fresh and cool for an autumnal month, it wasn’t too cold that you were forced to wear a thick jacket, but it wasn’t warm enough for you to go out in a simple shirt.

You were hesitant to take him up on his offer, knowing how easily you could rebound. You’d crash into Miguel’s open arms, searching for the love and affection he fed you like a lovesick puppy, but, then again, Earth-XXX’s Miguel was similar, yet different from his variant. It would be a lie if you told yourself you didn’t miss him, the soft smiles, the gentle touches and the affectionate words. You had spent so much time as his right-hand Spider that it felt odd not seeing him the following morning. It was a routine you’d formed: waking up in his bed, kissing him good morning, getting to work together and eating together. Everything you’d done in the past years was with Miguel from Earth-928 the routine, the rigidity, it was grounding, it was the only semblance of normalcy in the world you lived in.

Now, you had to face the possibility that you were too broken to see another Miguel, to hold a casual conversation and form coherent and normal sentences. The purposefully slow steps you took to the cafe picked after having a moment outside the glass front were telling in itself. You swallowed the little amount of saliva in your throat to soothe its dryness and walked through the doors of the quaint establishment. It was painted in calm, brown tones, rustic in design with a warmth that rivalled the comfort of your bed. It lifted a bit of the tension you had, shoulders slumping slightly as your eyes searched for a familiar mop of brown hair.

Laying against the brown sofa, he stared out of the wide window from his booth. The warm, morning lights caressed his cheeks, lighting up the sharp edges of his jaw and nose. He was sculpted in perfection, like the youthful beauty of Adonis, crafted with the meticulous and attention-catching hands of an artist that created what was thought to be a god’s beauty. You could spend your days watching him, catching every little detail of Miguel’s face under the changing lighting, but you were standing near the entrance and he was waiting for you. His words echoed in your mind: “Don’t forget about next week, I miss seeing you.”

His eyes flickered to you, blinking as he turned to you, flashing a smile. You returned the sentiment, a shaky smile lifting the corners of your lips. You sat across from him, eyes wandering the cafe to stare at anything but him, lest you wouldn’t be able to stop the rush of emotions that would light your face in a flush. He uttered your name, greeting you in a friendly manner. You nodded back, muttering his name, pushing down the wince whenever you said it.

“Chocolate.”

The still-warm cup stared at you, light steam wafting over the reflective liquid. It was full, unlike Miguel’s cup, and drank down to the middle of the container.

“Thank you.”

He probably wouldn’t let you repay him for the hot chocolate he bought you, the smile he gave you told you as much when your eyes flickered between his and your cup. The hot chocolate was a reminder of your night in his flat, where he lent you his shoulder to cry and his ears to listen. Embarrassment seemed to flash whenever you recalled the memory, how vulnerable you were to him, your walls broken down and your heart open. Though, Miguel didn’t seem to mind your fragility, giving you as much time as you needed.

“How are you? I wanted to give you a few days to think before meeting again, I thought you might’ve needed the time alone.”

You nodded lamely, fingers curling around the warm porcelain, back slumped into the booth to hide from his knowing eyes. He was right, you had needed the time alone to clean yourself up, scour through your memories and tend to whatever mess you made of yourself. You were thankful. The last few days had brought revelations, how - both of - you had ignored the signs of a rupture in the relationship and continued to push on, like crossing a crumbling bridge.

“‘M doing better. How- and how are you?”

He smiled at your attempt, you were trying on your own after a few - forced - encouraging words from Miguel. Maybe you’d learn to live with the pain, coexisting with the numbness that filled you until it dulled to a point where it would be barely acknowledged by you or anyone in your vicinity - where it wasn’t painted on your face with bright colours. Or the pursuit to forget it, pushing it into the farthest corner of your mind and heart, painting over the crack with glue. As long as you wouldn’t drown in your sorrows, ending up playing with dangerous substances to stay afloat while your mind sunk deeper into addiction and denial.

He wouldn’t let you get that far, Miguel understood you and he lived through it as you did. Although his was a more violent breakup - she had cheated on him, his explosive reaction was natural - than yours, he hadn’t relied on anything but self-meditation and a lot of thinking. Like a friend - you were one by his standards, he’d invited you to his flat, you’d seen his organized chaos and ranted about your life while he comforted you with his shoulder and a cup of hot chocolate - he would stay by your side, hoping his support would be enough to help you.

“Great so far.”

His grin - somehow - grew even larger, enthusiasm gleaming in his eyes.

Oftentimes, Miguel would be the one to call you, your phone ringing in the afternoon of the day prior with his soothing voice on the other end of the line. He spoke easily, finding the time to invite you out for the simplest reason, to talk, to make a drink, to have fun, and - your favourite by far - to see you. His initiative had you trying to double your efforts to heal, reaching outside of your boundaries and texting Miguel whenever you had a moment to yourself. You felt guilty that he was always the one to plan these outings, so you promised yourself that you’d become a better friend than you currently were. You even remembered his teasing tone when you called him for the first time:

”Aye, finally. I thought you’d never call me, chica. I felt neglected, thought you had forgotten about me for a second there.”

It started with the first coffee date, bickering about who would pay, pushing your card before the other while still seated at your table, frowning stubbornly and throwing promises about letting the other pay next time. Either way, Miguel rarely let you pay, coming atop as the winner of your little fight with his strength and height (you couldn’t exactly put all your force into your push, it could break bone and bruise the skin.).

Then it would be random meetings on the streets that would lead you to a random bench at the park, basking in the other’s presence, retelling your day and him nitpicking anything he could with a ridiculously criticising frown. He was playing, you knew he was. You did the same after you’d gotten more comfortable talking to him, it became easier to see him as a different - as his own - person. A few hits on the shoulder left and right, but it was mostly laughter at ridiculous expressions made to emphasize your disdain for a certain event.

The months that followed were a blur to you. Rather than going to a cafe or the park, you went to restaurants and crashed at one of your flats, yours if he wanted to play games and lounge about with food and drinks, and his if you wanted to watch movies (he had the best television you’d ever seen, such high definition and speed.) and tinker away at his inventions and theories. He was certainly happy that his new friend was another scholar in the field of genes and engineering (you were mostly into engineering than genes, but you knew a few things that you’d found interesting.). You could both gush - scientifically - about the possibility of gene splicing and lab-generated mutations in humans, like the mutant superheroes.

You’d taken some liberties and went drinking, meeting at the same bar biweekly to relax after a few hard days at work. It served to loosen your nerves until either of you felt comfortable to chat up a storm about the most random subject. It’d been about the odd dent on the rim of his glass; then it’d be about how the sky was grey this week, there weren’t any warm, yellow rays blaring down on you when you went out; or it’d be about the distasteful cut of a man’s moustache. Drinking loosened your tongues, some words were said and some sentiments were shared, but none were truly taken seriously knowing you were tipsy - nearing drunk - those nights.

Every time you saw Miguel, you felt like you were rediscovering a part of yourself as well as him, the thing that made him so distinct and loveable. Miguel was expressive and honest, he slowly and gently let you down from whatever high you were, the pillar you needed to stand again after falling. He was so much different. It used to pain you how much they looked alike, but character-wise, they were like the two sides of a coin. It made you appreciate the delicate intricacies that made the multiverse.

You won’t - can’t - deny that you’ve grown fond of this Miguel as you did with the other one, but you couldn’t let yourself love him. He didn’t deserve someone broken and hashed into many lives: the masks you wore, the things you did, the secrets you hid, and the things you could do. He didn’t deserve someone who could bring him to his death; dying simply because he was connected to Spider-Woman; beaten simply because he knew Spider-Woman; kidnapped simply because they deemed him useful as leverage. All things that could go wrong haunt you. Miguel was human, he wasn’t a Spider, he wasn’t a superhero, and he wasn’t a vigilante. He was Miguel O’Hara, the geneticist working at Alchemax, with a brilliant mind and a kind heart.

You cherished every part of him. That’s why you can’t let your heart lead, dedicate how you’d react to Miguel after the months you spent together. He was so close, yet so far; he was touchable, you could hold him, kiss him and hug him, but he was unattainable, you couldn’t tell him how much you loved him. You watched him with hidden love, showing your affection as platonic, a friend watching another. You had hardened yourself to your heart’s cries, for loving Miguel was a dangerous game-

“I- what?” you gawked at Miguel, wide eyes and mouth agape. You were shocked at the words that left his mouth, his soft, wet lips moving as he repeated the words.

“I love you.”

His cheeks were flushed, burning a soft red, it trailed to his ears and nape. His open collar - his jacket hung on the back of his chair and his shirt clung below his collar, a skin-tight shirt that hugged his sculpted chest sinfully, it hid little to the seeing eyes of the crowd and your drunk self. His sudden words had all but sobered you, shaking you into clear lucidity of his confession.

“You… love me?”

He blinked dumbly at you for a second, as if taking the time to absorb what he told you and what you repeated. Miguel was tipsy, not drunk. He smiled and nodded, a bashfully affectionate grin on his beautiful lips.

“Yes, is it so hard to believe, chica?”

He often called you chica, you thought it was a friendly term of endearment between friends (truthfully and regretfully, you knew little of Spanish, even with being in a committed relationship with an Irish-Mexican.). You just realised it was his pet name for you. All this time, he had given you his heart, and yet, you had denied him of yours. He was more playful and less burdened by life, it made him more teasing and smiling. The term chica somewhat made sense, a cuter and more playful way of calling someone you loved than the deep-meaning ones like mi cielo and mi vida, a play of words like a small secret between you. This secret hid behind names given between friends, a well-kept one, close to his chest but gifted to you.

It might’ve once been - started - as friends, but it grew and festered in his heart until he found the time to express himself, to tell you how he truly felt for you - how he grew to care for you. He deemed this moment fine, bordering tipsy and nearing drunk, he’d be open, brutally honest but still aware of the words that left him. He wasn’t a lightweight anyway.

You wanted to tell him you also loved him, but you couldn’t do it, mouth slightly open and eyes glazed with heartbreak, you simply stared at him in hesitancy. You opened your mouth once to reply and closed it, open and close, again and again until all you could do was stare at him. How were you supposed to answer him after the bomb he dropped?

”Yes! I love you too!”

”Oh, Miguel, I love you too.”

”I- I love you as well.”

There were so many ways to express your feelings to the man who confessed, but none seemed to convey the true emotions that lay in your heart. You wanted to tell him you learned to love again thanks to him, that the time spent with him had made you open your eyes to the beauty that you were blinded by the pain and you slowly grew to care for - love - him as much as you did with Spider-Man 2099. He had the same smile, the same mind, the same heart, but he was more innocent, less burdened by disaster and happier.

So you simply nodded. It made his smirk grow.

“Aye- would it be better if I called you ‘mi tesoro’ instead? It’s more straightforward, no?”

Even now, his words were light and playful, his tone affectionate as he leaned closer to you. You could see the mischievous glint in his warm, chocolate eyes (you thought that was why he liked serving you hot chocolate, it reminded you of his eyes.) and the curve of his lips as they moved to form words. You were transfixed by his beauty, mesmerised by the comforting hues and the sharpness of his cheeks, missing how close he was to you.

“Or maybe-”

Softness caressed your lips, a plush, warm feeling that made you flush. He was kissing you, those pretty lips on yours. Your breath stuttered and you froze, but it didn’t stop Miguel’s initiative, a hand cradled your nape, holding you in place as he pushed himself closer to you. He moved against you, tongue slipping from his mouth and tentatively laving over your bottom lip, asking for something.

He was so warm, so caring. You could just close your eyes and follow his lead - you did. He pushed harder, yet the kiss stayed soft and passionate, he lightly nipped your lip and soothed the stinging with his warm tongue, beckoning you to open your mouth for him. Your lips parted, opening up for Miguel to dive in, muscle meeting yours halfway and curling over yours. He still cradled your head, fingers running through your loose hair and tilting your head backwards, giving him more space to show you how much he loved you. Your arms, somehow, found themselves wrapped around his neck, pulling him as close to you as he was pushing himself against you.

His kiss was loving, his hold was careful and his touch heartwarming. You almost regretted having to pull away, but you had to breathe, your lungs starving for air after having been devoured by Miguel’s adoring kiss. The moment you opened your eyes (you didn’t know you had closed them while you kissed), his smile greeted you, a lovesick one bubbling with unending joy. You almost choked from how it fit so well on him.

“That’s- that’s one way…” you spoke between breaths, chest swelling with every erratic pant, matching his similarly worn-out breathing.

That was all he needed from you. Your kiss was enough for him to know you loved him the same, a patient and gentle love he was willing to give you. Your heart pulsed strongly, lips curving and eyes squinting, you pushed yourself closer to his heat, his all-encompassing warmth that wrapped around you when you wanted to feel safe and loved. Your world couldn’t be any brighter, like the vibrant colours of blooming flowers when Persephone was given to her mother, where the snow melted and colours washed over the lands once more, painting the blank white and dead grey in joyous tones. It glowed brightly and warmed you like the summers that followed the melting ice, the clear, blue skies of Olympus and as freeing as the soaring hawks and skipping elks.

Letting go was far harder than loving. To let the person who you let in leave felt emptying, it left a gaping hole in his heart. Where it was once calm, struck a raging storm of rejection and regret, crashing waves the size of Poseidon’s rage and violent storms the strength of Zeus’ retribution. It hurt watching you walk beside a variant of himself, a happier and lighter version of him without his mutations or duty. You were the Spider-Woman of your universe so there wouldn’t be a second one unless there was a catastrophic canon divergence.

He hadn’t followed you at first, respecting your wishes of being left alone. He had to give you that much, at least, after those months spent beside his ignorant ass. He hadn’t seen it until it was too late, lost under the weight of his duty and fears that he’d forgotten he had people who cared, who felt, who loved. It was too late, it was always too late with him. If he couldn’t fix his first mistake, who’s to say he could fix this? He couldn’t save his first daughter or his second’s universe because it was falling apart. He couldn’t save anyone because he hadn’t realised his mistake in interfering in canon events, and he lost you because he couldn’t stop his vitriol, his violent temperament that had pushed you away. He always took things for granted until they were lost to him.

Was it two or three weeks before he decided to check up on you? He didn’t know anymore, the weeks blurred until he finally amassed the courage to go against everyone’s words. Through the flat hologram of his orange screen, he watched you lament on your own, body curled into itself and shoulders shaking. Your sobs were heart-wrenching to watch while he had no means of contacting you; you would’ve reacted more strongly and aggressively if he’d contacted you after leaving.

So he watched.

You stared vacantly from your window and left only for the bare necessities or to act as Spider-Woman. Crime never slept so you couldn’t stop even in your time of need. You swung from building to building so gracefully that Miguel was hypnotised by your grace. He watched these moments as a reminder of the missions he took by your side, webbing and catching anomalies all across the multiverse with fearsome speed and accuracy. You both had made a fearsome team, but that time was over, it was a memory long forgotten.

So he watched.

Your flat was cold and empty, the space filled with spectres of memories, the cool rooms vacant of life that used to fill them with warmth and happiness. It was saddening from his perspective - the observer, the watcher and the reader of your story - of your time spent alone. He wanted to tell you that you weren’t alone, that he was watching you from afar, a silent protector that would only act if you were in imminent danger - as long as it wasn’t part of the canon.

So he watched-

Besides you was Miguel - not him, another one - and he looked much too comfortable by your side for his liking. His variant seemed much too close for a friend, moving from sitting before you to beside you, arm slung over your shoulders and leaning back and, sometimes, towards you at a breath’s distance. He turned green with envy, a vicious monster brewing inside his body with the threat of bursting out, clawing at his chest. The other was too close to you for his liking.

He watched as his variant bought you drinks - always, however long and loud you’d complained and fought, he never let you pay in the end - and paid for your dates. He abhorred it. How happy you looked with the other him. How calm and satisfied your smile was. How close his variant was to you. He wished he was at the other’s place, taking his rightful place beside you. He would kiss you, smother you in love and give you whatever you wanted, whether it be a hug, a kiss or his time, he would’ve given them to you. He wouldn’t dance around the edge of your affection and his love like he was doing, like a man unsure of his feelings and anxious to act on it.

He thought the other Miguel was a coward - though he knew he wasn’t. He wanted to blame his variant and find fault for anything he did, but they were still the same person. He was Miguel O’Hara as much as he was. He wanted, but couldn’t, especially after seeing how both loved you the same, having a similar type. They were so much alike that he could’ve replaced his variant, yet so vastly different in other manners that he would’ve stood out. His history, his trauma, his curse, the other had none of them. He was normal while he was Spider-Man, a stronger, more brutal version of Spider-Man.

Granted, he loved you with every fibre of his being, but he had never showered you with as much love and affection as the other, having his character muddled through long hours of work and long-lasting tragedy. You were another of his tragedies, where he found love again and lost it by his own making. He would have left too if the Society didn’t depend on him, leaning towards him for support and help in protecting the multiverse. It was something he couldn’t sacrifice for his whims.

So he kept watching and let his heart crack and envy fester.

He watched you grow even closer to him, shoulders and hands occasionally touching, making you jump and blush. He watched you move from simple coffee dates to full-blown restaurants and bar dates, drinking and eating at your leisure - something he could’ve never provided you. He watched you wobble around when you were drunk, your arm over his shoulder and his around your waist, supporting your drunk weight. He watched you kiss, the other pressing your bodies together and you reciprocating the loving embrace you had once given to him.

He felt like crying. He was crying, silent tears rolling down his sharp cheeks in slow, thundering waves of his heartbreak. He clung to the desk, claws unintentionally popping out and bending the metal under his fist. The sound ripped through the silent room like the image that ripped through his heart. He was alone in his grief, shoulders slumping and arms shaking with the intensity of his emotions. He had locked the door, barricading it with a busy, do not disturb sign, warning the others that he was occupied and wouldn’t be reached unless there was an emergency.

“Miguel…”

He’d forgotten Lyla was here - she was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, with your help he had given Lyla an upgrade in her system that gave her access to every Spider that had the watch. She had access to every file in the database and his secrets. Lyla was loyal to him as much as she was to you, respecting your words with a promise of her own to leave you alone. That, however, didn’t mean that she wasn’t privy to his pains, watching him while his eyes were stuck to your universe’s screen, giving him some comforting words that were meant to lift his spirit. It never worked but the intention was there.

He couldn’t look at her, still facing the hologram of you kissing. He felt the surge of too many emotions to be able to think clearly, his self-control tethering on a thin line of fragile web. If he turned, he would explode on Lyla, giving her the brunt of his suffering even though she didn’t deserve it, she felt and laughed as much as any other human. He remembered programming in emotion with you, laughing about how much she would be as teasing and annoying as you. Lyla was another gift to him by you, so it would hurt him more.

“Miguel-”

“Don’t- Do not say another word.”

For a man in tears and pain, his voice was curt and stoic, playing the leading figure he’d taken for so long. It betrayed his shaky figure, fingers crushing the metal loudly and shoulders jerking with ever-wrenching choked sob. His world was crumbling around him, rippling and cracking from the seams and folding into itself. The control of his state was failing miserably as he kept staring at your mirthful smile after the kiss. It tore him apart knowing he pushed you further away and into the arms of another. It hurt him deeply.

Through everything, he heard Lyla whisper a small sorry before she popped out of existence, her small holographic body vanishing along with her orange light. Gone was her familiar light, gone was the nostalgic memory of programming her, and along her, was the support of another person. He was truly alone in this moment, to fall on his knees and let himself drown under the weight of everything.

If your love was a tangible thing, he would’ve cradled it between his warm palms, holding it tightly to his chest to feel the soothing effects you had on him. Like a balm to burns, you cooled the searing pains that the world inflicted upon him, the warm blanket that covered him when he needed rest and the pillar that held him when he fell. He’d lost something he couldn’t gain a second time, clutching his head in his misery, drowning and howling.

It felt surreal until it wasn’t until it all sunk in. He truly couldn’t grasp the utter loss and betrayal he felt. The realisation that he truly lost you to none other than himself. The irony of it all slashed deeper, how he drove you closer to another him by his own doing, making you love a Miguel with more gentleness, more kindness and time than him, Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man from Nueva York, Earth-928. Everything he had was lost in time, his spiralling thoughts of loss and misery clouded his vision, bringing tears forward in bigger waves.

Was he doomed to lose everything he cared about? Was he bound to love and lose? Why couldn’t he have a happy ending like everyone else? Was it because he was different? Perhaps it was, there were other O’Hara Spider-Man, but none were mutated like him, a product of self-infliction and sabotage - none had their DNA spliced and mixed with a spider’s. He was simply too different from the others, they were lean but still had a strong musculature, muscles tightened to create more strength and defence; none were big and broad as he was, with rough edges and mean streaks. They were nice and happy, faced losses of their own, but always came out on top (there were some minor - sometimes major - variants of Spider-Man here and there, but they all had some similarities in their stories of becoming.). He saw the devastation and grasped onto the thinnest silver lining he could find, holding onto it to stay afloat while others thrived where they were.

Maybe it was truly because of him. He was realistic - near cynic - he couldn’t see things optimistically, life had made him that way. The silver lining he saw in things was small, nearly extinguished by his near-pessimistic way of life. Did that have an impact as well? It most likely did, at least partly. Fate had given him a bad hand in things, he couldn’t be completely blamed for how things turned - or so he thought, hoped. A man wasn’t only the result of what he’d done, but also of what he was given. When push comes to shove, Miguel acted in a way he thought meant well for him and the others even if it didn’t seem like the right decision at first. He rarely doubted his actions while he did them, only after, could he let himself face the consequences of what he’d done. Miguel simply didn’t have the pleasure of waiting. He needed to act when it was called.

If he had waited, if he had been patient and sought out others for support, if he had spent time thinking before acting, would he still have his little girl beside him? Would he still have you in his arms? If he had shown you more affection, would you have still loved him?

Did you still love him?

Miguel didn’t know what he was doing. Standing before your apartment door in civilian clothing and a bouquet of twelve, beautiful white tulips - the meaning not lost to him. It was an attempt at apologizing for his mistakes, a desperate one led by heartache. He brushed his hair back, trying to look as kept as he could in his situation: dark bags and sickly skin, tense muscles and sore back. This was a daring move from him, it would end up catastrophic if the Miguel from your universe saw him at your front door; but he checked, making sure his variant was elsewhere before opening a portal to your place.

He hadn’t moved in a while, listening to you move around your flat, the sound of your soft steps shuffling from behind the door, a wall between you and him, reminding him that he wouldn’t be able to cross it unless you welcomed him. He held the bouquet in one hand and knocked with the other, his knuckles hitting the wood softly and hesitantly. There was a pause between every knock, drawn by his nerves and the anxiety that gripped him.

You moved and closed in on the sound at the door. He saw your shadow dance under the small gap on the floor and pause. You knew. You knew it was him even without peeking through the peephole, your spider-sense aiding you in recognizing the unknown. Although your hand rested reluctantly at the knob - perhaps still too raw from your break as he was - you opened the door for him, figure small and apprehensive.

“Miguel,” you muttered his name, greeting him with a slow nod. You stepped back and opened the door wider for him, he took it as a good sign that you let him in rather than shut the door in his face.

He nodded back, saying your name. He took a step forward, foot breaking the barrier to your flat. The second one ensured he was fully invited, both feet strongly rooted on your side of the door. He wanted to make himself smaller, to appease you, but he knew you wouldn’t have liked that. He squirmed under your stare, a mix of curiosity and concern.

He nearly sighed audibly when you gestured at him to sit and he moved to the sofa he remembered sleeping on with you, cuddling under a warm blanket while you watched a movie. He knew your home by heart like you knew his, the memory washed over him with melancholy. You sat on the armchair to his left, your back to the kitchen. He swallowed thickly and handed you the bouquet, freshly cut tulips glistening with pearly drops under your lights.

Your shoulders shook as you leaned in to take the bouquet, jolting back when your fingers grazed him. Feeling your skin felt invigorating, it breathed back life into him, even slightly. You thanked him with a slow nod, seemingly unsure of what to make of it. Was it a gift? Was it an apology? Was it a farewell sign? He figured your mind was running in circles trying to understand the meaning of the pretty bouquet he handed you. You were always an overthinker, but your mind worked brutally well. That’s something he always appreciated about you.

“I-” Miguel started, seemingly stopped by something that he couldn’t get out of his throat. Maybe a ball of dread or needles of anxiety, but it held him from giving you the words he spent nights thinking over, to give you the message he built from the deepest crevice of his heart. “I’m sorry, (Name).”

You stared at him, understanding that he needed a moment of silence to truly convey his feelings. You hadn’t uttered a word since he first started, expression neutral, not betraying whatever brewing storm you locked inside of you. He was grateful, truly.

“I know- I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really, really sorry, mi vida.”

He sensed you tense, the muscles of your back contracting and rippling under your shirt. Every unseen fibre moving was bare to him, he could see and feel better than most, if not, everyone else.

“I acted out of anger and lack of sleep, but that doesn’t mean you deserved that- never. I just, my mutation makes me more animalistic, more… aggressive than the other, and I hurt you. You didn’t deserve any of that and I can’t always blame it on my mutations. I should’ve been able to control myself. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you in those ways.”

He lowered his gaze to his hands, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing his palm, trying to coax himself into relaxation. Although your breathing softened, a calm breeze in an atmosphere thick with tension, he didn’t dare look up and see the face you were making.

“I was a bad boyfriend and a horrible friend. I’m- I’m not asking you to forgive me, I don’t want you to forgive me, but- I just needed to tell you how much I regret hurting you. I want to apologise, I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how to fix this.” He breathed deeply, collecting every ounce of confidence and honesty to brave your reaction. “I’m sorry, mi cielo.”

He shuddered, body rippling with his pained breath. He hadn’t realised how painful it would be to face you with his fears and confession, with the threat of abandonment and rejection fresh in his mind. He was a man of pride and strength, rarely facing anything with trepidation and hesitance.

“I’m really sorry, mi cielo. I’m so, so sorry.”

He sat in silence, letting it hang over him like the blade of a guillotine, silent and brunt. Perceiving the flash of the sharp blade before it fell on his neck, sentencing him to a quick downfall with a long, lasting agony that would sting his neck as long as it would hurt his heart. The French used it for executions, the thing that spelled people’s end. At its height, it was used as an apparatus to behead traitors or people who were deemed dangerous to the people of the new republic. Down the blame went and off the head popped, like it would happen to Miguel if he wasn’t prepared for it. He truly didn’t know whether he had prepared for his rejection, for the death of his heart, to watch the flickering sparks of his flame wither out.

“I’m sorry too, Miguel-”

The rope strained, knots twisting and rippling in the tightness of the pull. It shook, whipping in the air as it straightened completely, held closely by the hand of the executioner. The wind blew but it was sturdy, withstanding the violent gales that slammed against the body of it.

“-it means a lot that you came here to apologise- ”

The crowd was filled with silence, the emptiness of the area a mock of a ghost town. Abandoned to be sentenced to death without anyone to witness. They deemed him not fit for their acknowledgment before his death, before the sparks of his life extinguished. His fate wasn’t worth their time, unlike the poorest criminals who stole for money, unlike the richest pigs who fed from the poor with their silver spoons and golden crowns, unlike the cruellest killers who gutted and left men, women and children to bleed out, and unlike the guiltless innocents cursed for something they hadn’t committed.

“-but, I can’t.”

The rope was let loose, its tail flying and whipping in the air as the blade descended with its weight. The wood chafed against its support beams, yet it flew gracefully and rapidly, singing the doom of its prisoner. The blade gleamed under the moon’s bright light, the silver whispers of peace and sleep deaf to his ears.

“I can’t love you anymore.”

It cracked down on him, his life flashing before him as it cut into him. Severing his control over his body, putting out the dying embers of hope. He clung to desperation in his last moments, wishing to relive the moments of happiness, bright oblivion and cherished love.

He wished that he could’ve seen your shadowed figure hidden in the darkness, tears lining your cheeks as you watched him take his last breath. The only person who came to see him leave, the one who he would’ve burned the world for. In the end, after everything he’d done, you still gave him a small moment of your time to witness his fall, you deemed him worthy of such an act. You offered him your kindness.

My extensive tag list of extremely patient people pt1.:

@iseizeyourmom @raynerainyday @etherealton @sciencethot @coffee-obsessed-freak @thesecretwriter @beepboopcowboy@bontensh0e @aikoiya @allysunny @fandoms-run-my-life @brittney69 @aranachan @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @konniebon @starlightaura @redwolfxx @aniya7 @alicefallsintotherabbithole @bvbdudette @wwwelilovesyou @wwwellacom @akiras-key @bobafettbutifhewasgay @opiplover @rinieloliver @uniquecroissant @yas-v @xrusitax @blkmystery @darherwings @ariparri @notivie @vr00m-vr00m @battinsonwhore05 @irishbl0ss0mz @mivanda @saint-chlorine @livelaughluvmen @battinsonwhore05 @notivie @lililouvre @giasjourneyblog @ykyouluvme @skullywullypully

1K notes · View notes

bunnyreaper · 5 months

Note

Demon Gaz, who's looking for a pretty little plaything to corrupt. Maybe a priests daughter, or someone who (somehow) has never sinned before.

hopefully you enjoy this crime against christianity <3 cw dubcon, religion.

looking like such an angel, kyle finds his job incredibly easy. his beautiful brown eyes look like they're incapable of hiding a single sinful thought, never mind an entirely devilish being.

his smile is so bright the local god-fearing women think it could ward off any ill fate that could befall the town--if only they knew the reason for their downfall was their darling local charmer.

you and kyle had been friends for a while now, he was new in town and took a shine to you immediately when you sat next to him in church one day.

from that moment on, he knew that he would make you his.

it was easy to get you alone, under the guise of bible study, of reinforcing your father's teachings. the sessions started with quiet, companionable reading. kyle would keep you company, answer simple questions you had, and ask you about your life.

no boys, no parties, no sin.

he couldn't ask for a prettier, more innocent little thing to corrupt.

your descent started slowly, in a way he couldn't have even planned. he didn't have to seek you out, as you followed him around like a lost lamb, unknowingly leading itself to slaughter. you tried to spend as much time with him as possible, obsessed with the way he looked at you like no one had before.

you could sense his desire, even if you thought it to be something simple and innocent--the kind of love and admiration your parents' marriage was built from, the kind of devotion you had for your god.

you had no idea of the lust that lay within--the corrupting, all-consuming need. kyle garrick was a selfish man, used to turning girls like you on their heads and feeding off their sins before moving on to the next.

something about you was different.

perhaps it was because he'd never met one so pure and untainted, or maybe it was because, unlike the others, you had no sense of self-preservation. it could be that you always had this look in your eyes like you wouldn't really mind if kyle led you astray, you'd follow him anyway. that was something he quickly became addicted to.

the poking and questioning followed soon after, kyle subtly guiding you to question the gospel, your father, and everything you've ever known, all for him. he pretended to struggle with his faith too, though he supposed it wasn't a lie, as once upon a time he had.

you were quick to follow, enamored by your guardian angel in every way, believing he could never steer you wrong.

after all, questioning is normal, natural, why we were given free will--that's what kyle always says. and with the sweet way he says it, so earnest and everything... there's no way the two of you are doing anything wrong.

so when he pulls you into his lap one day, bible in hand, you don't question it. when he asks your interpretation on a particular verse, and leads you to a certain conclusion, you don't question it.

when he takes you on a walk through the churchyard flowers and kisses you under the flower-filled pergola, lips against yours like he's devouring you, you don't question it.

from there, the rest is easy. coaxing you into sneaking out late at night, straight into his arms, getting you to give up your vow of chastity, your commitments to the church, your devotion to god.

instead, you worship him. his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he drives inside you, taking you for him forever. spoiling you for other men, breaking all your oaths.

he stretches you out, shapes you to him, claims you with his cock, his cum, his fingers, the way his nails scraping down your body carves his name into your soul.

you cry out for him when your pretty mouth is on the end of his cock, you cry out for him when he's gone--tears beading in your eyes either way.

and when they try to take you away from kyle, to make you 'see the light',

all the lessons you've been taught about vengeance and grace fall away, and you search for a new beginning--disavowing your church, your family, your upbringing.

and with your fall complete, when it's time for kyle to skip town? there's no way in hell he could leave you behind.

#bunny mail #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #kyle garrick fanfic

235 notes · View notes

bungalowbear · 4 months

Text

celebrated

geto suguru x reader, wc: 2k

cw: nudity, fingering, reader described having breasts and a vagina, reader described brushing her hair, virgin!reader, slight power dynamic, brief talk of religion, MDNI

a/n: this is a continuation of pleased. i might write one more part if anyone’s interested. happy birthday, sugu-chan!

Today is a blessed day. Today the temple celebrates the birth of Geto Suguru.

He sits at the head of the row of connected low dining tables, surrounded on both sides by his family of shamans. Each of them laughs and smiles as they recount memorable moments they’ve had with their benevolent patriarch. But none appear as content as the man himself.

Geto sits with one arm propped up on his knee, cheek resting on his fist as he watches on with a fond expression. You admire the gentle curve of his smile when Mimiko quietly offers him the last piece of tempura. He accepts it with thanks and continues to watch over the others.

You and the other temple maidens make sure food and drink flows freely as the celebration continues long after the sun goes down. You light the lanterns at the edge of the room while the others collect the dinner plates from the tables. At the serving cart, you gather a bottle of sake and wait for the appropriate time to approach the gathering again. A large cake is brought into the room and placed in front of the guest of honor.

The candles are lit and then then room is filled with the voices of his family as they sing. The warm glow of the room softens some of Geto’s sharper edges, but his eyes still cut like glass when they glance up at you. Leaning forward, he maintains eye contact from across the room until his eyes slowly shut and he blows out the candles.

You wonder what he wished for.

Excited chatter resumes and you step forward when the cake is cut to reveal the vibrant green interior of the matcha flavored cake. You are already at his side when Geto is served the first slice. You bend at the waist to refill his drink when you feel a slight tug on the sleeve of your kosode. Your eyes cut down to where two lithe fingers play with the edge of the fabric.

Geto looks up at you, thanks you in a voice you’ve come to know quite intimately, then smirks when a soft gasp leaves your parted lips.

You bow your head, regaining yourself as you move back to stand against the wall, and tremble with anticipation at his unspoken promise.

—

The celebration continues late into the night. After you help the other maidens clear out the dining hall you retire to your room and prepare for bed. You share the room with one other maiden who is already fast asleep. But you’re wide awake and sitting at the window as you guide your brush along your hair, staring up at the moon and wondering if perhaps you misunderstood Geto’s intentions. Is this where your night will end?

Your answer comes when there’s a knock at the door. You set down your hairbrush and quietly approach the door. You slide it open a few inches to reveal Manami waiting in the hallway. The presence of Geto’s personal assistant is all you need to know.

“He’s waiting for you.”

It’s the only thing she says before she turns and leaves. Your stomach flutters as you step out of your room, careful to close the door as silently as possible.

Your bare feet pad along the wooden floors, carrying you through familiar halls until you arrive outside a familiar room. You lift your knuckles to knock on the door, a light tap that prompts the sound of approaching footsteps on the other side. The fluttering in your stomach turns to a wild buzz when the door slides open.

Geto is dressed in a yukata, just as you are. The dark blue fabric nearly obscures the long black tresses that fall freely from his head and frame his face beautifully. His fox like eyes take you in. No matter how many times he’s looked at you this way, with unabashed desire, you have to fight the urge your arms have to shield your body. You know there is nothing to be afraid of. Not when all he’s ever done is take good care of you.

“Hello there,” he says, a sly smile gracing his lips.

“Hello, Geto-sama.” You bow your head respectfully. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

He steps aside and you feel his eyes on you as you enter. The door shuts behind you, encasing the two of you together in the room. The hum of the space heater in the corner is a faint distraction in the sudden silence. Your body is slow to adjust to the warmer temperature of the room, but a rush of heat overcomes you when Geto suddenly takes your hand and leads you toward the bed.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You simply lay on your sides facing each other, chest to chest as the heat of your bodies mingles together. Geto’s large hand rests on your hip while your smaller one is on his cheek, thumb gently stroking lines beneath his eye. He leans into your touch and you grow bolder. Your hand drifts down his neck and slips beneath the panel of his yukata. The hard plane of his chest is softened by smooth, warm flesh that burns beneath your fingertips.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” Your voice is low, not wanting to disturb the quiet of the room.

Geto moves his hand lower to caress your thigh. “I did.”

“I’m glad.” Your brows pinch together as you recall a thought you had earlier. “May I ask you something?”

He nods.

“When you blew out your candles…what did you wish for?”

Geto arches a brow. “How do you know I made a wish?”

“You had this look on your face,” you explain. “Like you really wanted something.”

Geto chuckles and you feel heat rise to your cheeks. Were you mistaken? Is he mocking you? He has been known to be a bit cruel with his teasing.

“Do you really want to know?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Geto brings his mouth to the side of your head, and whispers into your ear, “I wished for you.”

“M-me?” Your voice cracks and you pull back slightly.

“I wished for you to give yourself, all of yourself, to me.”

Your ears are ringing. You couldn’t have heard him correctly. You were a temple maiden, a descendant of a miko who lived many centuries ago, brought here into this Buddhist temple for the sole reason that your talents would be cultivated to their fullest potential. And one of the requirements was that you remain abstinent. The rules were never clear on whether you had to practice true abstinence or if you could take certain liberties with satisfying the pleasure you sometimes felt. The activities you participate in with Geto at night were only done with your hands or your mouth. You’ve rubbed yourself on him before and he’s touched you over your clothing, but you never let him touch your most intimate parts with his bare hands.

“Give…myself?”

“I want every part of you,” Geto purrs, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer. You feel something hard press against your thigh. “I have for a while now.”

“But you know I can’t. Not until the ritual, and even then—”

“I’ll take care of you.” His promise is a whisper. It’s a gentle sound that makes you place all of your trust in him. “Give yourself to me and you’ll have me in return.”

You’re both so close. There’s no escaping the intensity of his gaze as he waits patiently for your answer.

“I can’t.”

Dropping his forehead onto yours, Geto shuts his eyes.

“Such a strong will.” He sighs. Deep and long. “I’d loathe it if it weren’t the thing I admire most about you.”

Your hand clutches at the front of his yukata. “I’m sorry, Geto-sama.”

“Don’t be. It’s not fair for me to ask this of you just to satisfy my own desire.” He opens his eyes, and instead of the disappointment you expect to see, there’s only fondness. “We’ve made our plans. It’s best if we stick to them.”

“It’s not quite what you were hoping for,” you pause, voice becoming timid, “but I’d like to try something new.”

“What would that be?”

“I want you to touch me,” you confess. “Touch me like how I touch you.”

His pupil grow large at your words. “You mean…”

“I want you to use your fingers. Until the time is right, this is the only way you can have me. Is that alright?”

Geto’s answer is a swift pressing of his lips to yours. When he pulls back his eyes shine with glee, relief, and a little bit of hunger. You gasp as his fingers work quickly to undo the knot at your waist, then slowly pull away the panels of your yukata to expose yourself to him.

He plants his palm over the bare flesh of your stomach. You hear him swallow as his touch travels upward to take hold of your breast. Geto kneads the soft flesh, pulling breathy moans from you when he takes your nipple between two fingers. The nub pebbles under his touch.

You lean in to hide your face in his neck when his hand smoothes down your torso. His touch leaves a trail of electricity within you that set you alight. You think it can’t get anymore powerful until he’s between your legs, fingers gliding along your wet folds. Your body jolts when a single finger teases at your entrance.

“Geto-sama.” You wrap your arm around his neck, pressing your face harder against him. “Please, be gentle.”

“There’s no need to worry, pet.” Geto’s other arm snake beneath you and splays his arm across your back, keeping you trapped within his hold. “Don’t I always take good care of you?”

He doesn’t wait for your response before pushing two fingers inside you. You whimper at the intrusion. The stretch is a foreign sensation and you squirm at the discomfort. But the more he moves his fingers in and out, the better it feels. Soon your whimpers turn to whines and your fingers clutch at the back of his head, tangling themselves in his dark mane. Your breathing is labored as you feel a knot in your stomach tightening.

“You’re doing so well,” Geto coos. He curls his fingers, striking at a spot you find strangely satisfying, and you can’t suppress a moan. “That’s it.”

His voice coaxes you to ride the sweltering wave of heat that builds higher and higher. He carries you to the very top and doesn’t stop until you cum around his fingers with a cry of his name on lips.

You come down from the feeling a little light headed, noticing this feels much more intense compared to what you’ve done before. You think you like that. Especially because you feel so much closer to Geto than you ever have.

You loosen your grip on his hair and he nudges his nose against your cheek. You whimper when he removes his fingers from within you. You turn your head when Geto brings them in front of your face. Your eyes examine the glossy residue that covers his index and middle fingers. You squeak in surprise when he takes them into his mouth. He must enjoy the taste of you because he hums in satisfaction as he licks away the last traces of your essence.

“You taste just as sweet as I imagined,” he muses.

Geto brings the same hand down to cup your face. You can smell the lingering scent of your arousal and it makes your lower half throb. He moves in close and you can feel his clothed member press against you, stiff and unattended.

“It isn’t what I wished for,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, “but it surely is a wonderful present.”

It’s past midnight, and technically no longer the third, but you let the words flow out of you regardless.

“Happy birthday, Geto-sama.”

i do not have a taglist. please follow @bungalowbear-archive and turn on notifications.

#catalog #celebrated #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto x reader #suguru smut #geto smut #jjk #jjk smut

139 notes · View notes

aereasrage · 3 days

Text

The Favorite pt. 3

summary: Most curiously, princess reader’s children seem to bear a striking resemblance to a certain prince who is not her husband…

cw: codependent mother-daughter relationship yk the drill, pregnancy, childbirth, religion, gaslighting, incest, masturbation, blasphemy, unprotected sex (i feel like that might be redundant because is there any other way to fuck in medieval times?), jace and reader being westerosi romeo and juliet

notes: honestly, the ages in hotd are so confusing that most of the charts/breakdowns i’ve seen make very little sense so for the purpose of this fic, i’ve just decided to age everyone up a lil so jace is intended to be around 19-20 years old as is reader. also for jace x reader purposes, rhaenyra never left for dragonstone, though her and daemon still married and had their children.

part 1 | part 2

word count: 4.1k

Each time you were pregnant, Alicent found herself so filled with worry that she went to the sept daily to pray. She spent much of her time at your side, sharply commanding the servants to care for you in a way which would meet her meticulous qualifications. She wore her hair braided up simply, her clothing free of embellishment save for her golden seven pointed star; appealing to the Mother in humility, not to take her daughter away from her.

You were with child again, your third. Your marriage to Aegon had indeed been fruitful, for you were blessed with two sons, Aemon and Baelon. Both born healthy and squalling with...dark brown hair. But though Alicent had been briefly taken aback by how your sons looked, she quickly regained her composure. She would not dare suspect you of being anything but loyal to Aegon. She rationalized any unsavory possibilities away, for there was no reality she could fathom in which you would be unfaithful to Aegon, no reality in which you would stray from your mother's guidance so much. She had even watched you complete your duty with resignation and obedience, how could she ever see her sweet daughter as being a whore?

Alicent had been at your side throughout your labors, too anxious to be anywhere else. When she had seen you hold your firstborn son in your arms, teary eyed and thanking the Mother, she knew could never think so poorly of you. Your face, she was certain, was the very image of the Mother.

Rhaenyra, however, was not convinced. The way her eldest son looked at you, seemingly gripped in a trance when you were near, the way his hands twitched slightly whenever you were within grasp coupled with your children being born looking exactly as her three brown haired boys did...it was quite funny to her, honestly. So much grief over her sons and now with you having what were obviously her grandchildren, not a single word. She liked you well enough and obviously she had no intentions of putting her own grandsons in danger but she simply wasn't going to let the situation rest without pointing out the hypocrisy.

At the end of a small council meeting, the lords filed out of the room but Rhaenyra stayed behind, her gaze fixed on Alicent. As the room emptied, Alicent begrudgingly stayed behind as well, having a vague sense of what would come next.

"I wished to congratulate you on becoming a grandmother once more," Rhaenyra started. "Though I do wonder if this will be the time my sweet sister bears a child who resembles her husband."

Alicent drew a sharp breath, steeling herself. Immediate anger would only draw further insult. "What you insinuate is filth."

Rhaenyra could only laugh at how deeply Alicent's delusion went. "Come now, Alicent. Even a lackwit could answer the question of your grandsons' parentage. I seem to remember your mind being sharp enough to make suppositions on the father of my sons. Have you not opened yourself up to this?"

"My daughter is a good wife. She is not so slattern to find herself in bed with your...son while being married to mine." Alicent restrained herself from saying what she truly wished. She would not stoop so low and open herself and her daughter to attack.

"Really, Alicent, how long do you think you can keep this up? Who do you believe you're fooling?"

"Their grandsire's hair was dark brown in his youth, my daughter's hair is an auburn, a reddish brown just as mine is," Alicent stated indignantly and all Rhaenyra could do was stare blankly back at her. This couldn't possibly be the woman so fixated on the truth of her sons’ paternity, couldn't possibly be the great devout of the seven, the woman devoted to the virtues of duty and honor and sacrifice. She wasn't sure why it surprised her so much, it wasn't as if she didn't know those spiteful fanatics were all hypocrites. But somehow, given the way Alicent was with her children, she believed that she'd at least have shame enough to try and cover it up, have the children fostered away from King's Landing, stripped of their names, forgotten. Instead, Alicent was standing more firmly on her daughter's virtue and the parentage of her grandchildren than even Rhaenyra had for her boys. Even Rhaenyra did not fool herself as Alicent did.

She had originally planned to offer a marriage again, thinking that Alicent would be tempted to concede this time but seeing that look in her eyes made her second guess. Alicent was truly too madly in love with her youngest daughter to acknowledge what was right before her. She would never agree to annul the marriage between her and Aegon, she'd never sacrifice her daughter's virtue in the eyes of others even if it would spare all of them the grief of perpetually silencing the tongues that would wag at the sight of Aegon's brown haired sons. She believed in her daughter’s absolute perfection and she’d hear nothing that contradicted it, even if it was meant to help her. Rhaenyra left the room, there was clearly nothing more to say if this was how Alicent insisted on handling things.

Your mother believed you to be immaculate. Your siblings followed suit. If Aegon himself had any doubts as to your loyalty, he did not feel them worth speaking. You got the feeling all that mattered to him was keeping your affection. When he entered your chambers for the first time since you had gone into labor, as you held Aemon, rocking him gently to sleep; Aegon envied the child who, after taking over your body for so many moons, was taking his place in your arms until you commented on how like him the babe was. You had been thinking of him as you looked down at your son, it occurred to Aegon that you’d always think of him when you saw your son. Although the head of dark brown hair sent a wave of confusion through him, he believed in your love of him more than he believed his eyes. How could you be untrue to him? You spent most of your time outside of him in the sept or with your mother or sister, helping mind her children. Aemon and Baelon were his sons, two little creatures who served as symbols of your lasting love of him. How could they not be his with the affection you gave to them? With how lovingly you stroked their heads and dubbed them “as willful as their father”?

To everyone, you were the image of an exemplary wife, daughter and princess. You went to the sept at night before you went to bed, to pray to the mother, to thank her for the health of your children. You cared for your children until the late hours of the night. Unlike your parents and siblings, you slept in the same chambers as your sullen, drunkard husband most of the time and brought him cheer as well as incentive to behave himself at least somewhat. You obeyed your mother, brought comfort to your sister and served the realm with a stiff upper lip.

But while there was truth to your reputation, there was also truth to Rhaenyra’s interpretation of you. Your mother may have thought you to be “not so slattern as Rhaenyra,” but the truth was that you were exactly as slattern as her. When you visited the sept at night, with your ladies waiting outside the door, as you “wished to feel the presence of the Mother unfettered,” you were actually meeting Jace who compelled you there each night.

That night, Jace parted himself from the shadows of the sept as he watched you trail in. “How lovely you look, you almost seem pure in the light of the sept,” he grinned. “Don’t tease, my prince,” you huff. Jace watched you cross the room to meet him, his eyes fixed on you steadfastly. He’d said it in jest, but it was true, you looked the very image of innocence, it was not a wonder you were able to have his children without consequence. His hands went your small bump as you closed the distance between the two of you. Another of his children.

A surge of jealousy went through him each time he remembered his children were being called sons of Aegon. It filled him with the urge to stake a claim to you. He would have you for his wife someday, he would have his children at hand, his heirs. But not tonight. Tonight, all that he could have was your body and in reparation, he fully intended to take his fill.

He brought you to your knees before the altar, lighting a candle before hiking up your dress behind you. “You must have told your mother you’ve come here to pray. We mustn’t disappoint her,” he murmured as his hand reached into your smallclothes. “I shall lead you in your prayers, aunt. We both have much to repent for.”

He was unsurprised to find you wet but it still brought about a low groan of satisfaction. Evidence between his fingers of his hold on you. You could feel him stiff against your back. “Start with the Mother, she’s blessed you most, hasn’t she?” His voice, slightly breathy with ill concealed arousal, sent a thrill straight down to your cunt which squeezed around nothing as Jace continued to gently stroke your clit. “Gentle mother…comfort of all our ills…” you began, taking a shuddering breath as you tried to concentrate on humoring Jace.

He tsked. “You’ve become so slack in your orisons, what would your mother say?” his touch becoming slightly firmer, only just barely quicker, more desperate. “Gentle mother, comfort of all our ills, thank you for our children. Protect them in your arms, despite our hubris and forgive us our lusts. Grant us your mercy.”

You swallowed a desperate cry and continued. “Father above, may you…” your thighs quivered, you were fighting the urge to simply lean back into Jace. “May you judge us justly, give our family the strength to find justice for those who would harm us.”

Jace kissed your temple, a soft gesture that felt almost befitting of such a place. “That is a lovely wish, it becomes you, aunt. Now what shall you beg of the Warrior?” His hips had started to brush against your back gently in rhythm, seeking to quell his already drooling cock straining against the confines of his breeches.

“Brave Warrior, should ever our realm come to war again, may our men be loyal and brave enough to protect us…” you slurred out quickly, the entirety of your focus narrowed down to Jace’s fingers which pulled back every time you pushed your hips forward seeking relief. The worst part was that he was so tightly pressed to you that any movement you made drew a pleasured sound from him, even as you struggled for more of his touch. “Bring our realm to victory…Jace, please.”

He laughed behind you, seeming to have genuine fun teasing you. “We’re not done.” He slid two fingers inside easily, taking a painfully long time to work up to a speed that made you squirm. An unintended moan broke free and Jace paused his ministrations, tugging your hair gently so that you'd turn to meet his gaze. "If you cannot even be quiet in a place of worship, I'll stop." There was a flicker of humor in his eyes but his face was a mask of seriousness.

You nodded obediently, silently cursing him for not being too horny to keep up this strict septon act. You leaned forward for a kiss but Jace evaded you, cupping your cheek in his free hand. "You have more prayers to recite, sweet aunt."

You groaned softly. "I pray for the protection of the maid, should my child be a princess...I pray that you would protect her innocence, keep her safe. I beg forgiveness for my own sins against your domain...for....for I have allowed myself to be seduced."

"And the Crone?" Jace intoned, softly amused at the state he was working you into.

"From the Crone...I beg for guidance, I plead her wisdom to help me overcome temptation." That one made Jace grin, you could hear it in his voice.

"You may beg for her wisdom but I believe you've already made up your mind." This time he let you roll your hips forward into his hand, matching the pace of his fingers as you sought attention for your neglected clit. He even brought your face back to his for a long kiss.

Suddenly, he pulled your small clothes off entirely, shredding them to rags. You braced yourself on the altar, your fingers sticking in the warm, dripping wax of the melting candles. Jace spread your legs with his knees. When he saw the way you were wet down to the inside of your thighs, he could only moan. "Gods," he murmured, it was a shame he didn't have the time to eat your cunt out properly and fuck you. His cock jolted slightly in his pants as he spread you out to admire you fully.

"Don't...." you whimpered, hurting for his cock inside you at last.

"Don't what? Don't admire what a mess you've made, aunt? Don't tell you that your cunt is begging me to use it again?" Jace laughed.

You screwed your eyes shut, bowing your head as you knelt, waiting for him, utterly defeated. In a place where the gods paid thrice as much attention, you were to bear witness to your own moral turpitude. Jace always loved that moment, when your frantic desire and guilt for the values your mother instilled converged; when your heart ached at the depravity of your own actions but you still knew that desire would win, as it always did and always would. You would almost try to hide from your own wanting, surely your mother had also taught you it was unseemly for a woman to have such hungers but that, obviously, did not draw them back from whence they came. In your heart of hearts, you knew you were born hungry and wanting, Jace was the only one who would allow you all that you could devour.

Such a beautiful sight. It was only then that he slid his cock inside, a surprised cry leaving your pretty mouth when he was only half inside. He paused just as you clapped a hand over your mouth, head still bowed in silent prayer that he should not decide to stop. Mercifully, he didn't. Couldn't, rather. He was sure it would have killed him to stop. He began to push deep into you, meeting slight resistance from the tight space despite how many times you'd taken it. A pleasant sting came about as he stretched you out slowly. As he entered you fully, it came to mind to rub your clit as it throbbed for attention but you simply couldn't. You were stalled, miring in the overwhelming sensitivity of that moment.

Every detail, every curve, vein and divot of his cock was gliding right over the tender spot inside that made you want to weep. You were too sensitive and pent up for so long, it happened every time, you got too close to the edge too quickly. Your breaths came quick and shallow, your brain going to madness. It took so few strokes for you to come undone that Jace himself was not even at the edge yet. You muffled your cries in your hand, your cunt all but fluttering around Jace's cock. A few stray tears ran down your face as Jace gently forced your head up again so that he could admire your expression. "Too fucking easy," he said but so softly it did not even sound mean.

You tentatively removed your trembling hand from your mouth, putting more faith in your voice than you ought have. "Please, more," you begged, your voice a cracked whisper. You were no longer pretending, here of all places with him of all people, there was no longer any need to be the vision of purity in flesh.

"Utterly consumed and still begging for me...that is how I like you, aunt." Jace's hands found your hips, his own snapping forward to thrust into you deeper, quicker. Thankfully, the silk of your gown prevented your skin from rubbing raw on the stone altar but you'd had to abandon your grip on the slick stone, instead relying on the floor to hold you up. Jace let out quiet, restrained moans at the feel of you. He would surely not be able to keep his pace and last much longer, but it did not seem to matter for your body was so alight with stimulation that you were a hair's breadth from cumming anyway. When you'd tried to touch your own clit again, even your own gentle touch, you'd flinched and trembled from overstimulation.

Jace kept a brutal pace, panting like a beast in heat. You came, a painful orgasm racking your body. The warm, wet squeeze of your pleasure, of your cunt trying to draw him deeper was eliciting the most deliciously ill concealed moans from him. He pumped in and out of your hole, his breaths stuttering. Your hand was still over your mouth to contain the whorish moans that would serenade the entire keep if allowed. Just as you thought you'd collaspe in a heap onto the ground, Jace finally came, pumping cum deeply into you in slow pulses. You could feel his body twitch where your bare skin met. Cum continued to flow for several more seconds, your dazed mind was both exhausted and impressed.

When he finally finished, he lingered for a moment inside you. He wished to have you for the whole night, to have you for every night. To steal you away from standing at the side of green cloth and sullen faces; to put you in the true colors of your house as his queen. He knew, like Rhaenyra knew that your mother would never agree to an annulment and it was her who ruled you. It was only when Aegon was sent to the seven hells that he could steal you away and wed you. It was only then he could speak the truth of his children without fear.

That wasn't tonight. Perhaps it would not even be after the birth of your third child but Jace was something your brothers and your mother were not. Patient. He would play the game, he would bide his time, he would plot and plot and plot. He could be as his mother and pretend.

When you parted from him, you returned to your chambers, finding a drunken and weepy Aegon. You had so wanted to have a bath and a nice sleep but it seemed you'd have to soothe your elder brother instead. You sat on the bed, not bothering to even ask what was wrong with him this time, it was always something or another and none of it really mattered by morning. You brought his head into your lap, though you smelled distinctly of sex, your brother must have believed it came from him for he accepted your comfort without question. You stroked his hair and let him drone about Aemond’s jabs as Jace’s cum seeped out of you, wetting the inner lining of your dress.

You and Aegon had only slept together a handful of times, not that he knew as much. After the first couple of times, you came to know how to prepare yourself for the gods only knew that he wouldn’t. Aegon’s desire for you was sporadic in your first years of marriage, you didn’t know when he’d appear in your chambers seeking your body. So, you’d lay back in your bed, touching yourself to the thought of your pretty nephew. Making yourself wet, relaxed and ready so that things would go along without irritation should he appear. Would that your mother had wed you to Jacaerys, you would have done your duty with gladness and ease but you knew how your mother was and what she expected. You couldn’t fault her so much for it, her intentions were only to keep you with her and within her protection. Thankfully, though as Aegon grew, he became more and more of a drunkard, only occasionally being able to even make it to your chambers at night and being satiated into sleep with only a bit of appeasement. He was never the wiser about whether he had or had not bedded you.

It hardly mattered. He only wished for reassurance that you still loved him and thought best of him and in your arms, he believed he’d found it. His limp, weepy affection was suffocating but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave your brother without comfort when he was upset, unfortunately. In the morning, you were glad to untangle yourself from his sweaty body to bathe and dress for the day. Your maids eyed the light bruises at your hips sympathetically, believing they came from your husband, still snoring in bed. You paid them no mind, though it made you feel a bit guilty, it was all the better for everyone to see you as a suffering and dutiful bride. Better for them to think Aegon bedded you, demanded much of you even as you were with child. A princess quietly suffering was as saint-like as a woman could be in the eyes of lords. Let it be told that you did your duty. Such was the only way you’d ever have anyone fight for you and your children.

Months later — months of secret meetings and muttered prayers later, you went to your birthing bed with your mother at your side. She was trying to soothe you but the sheer terror in her eyes didn’t match her calm words. Still, you were glad to have her. Even if you told Jace you belonged to him and even though the lords of the realm said you belonged to Aegon, you truly belonged to your mother who cared for you in all things. Whose love of you would drive her to madness should you perish in childbirth. It was a comfort that preceded your capacity for romantic love, it was something formed in the womb, when hers was the only voice in the world.

This birth was your longest yet, stretching from starless morning sky to the middle of the next day when the sun hung high in the sky. Alicent’s fervent prayers as she held your hand were only broken by the birth of your child, who was smaller than your others but dubbed a healthy girl by the maesters. It didn’t seem as though Alicent truly cared much about that, she was simply relieved you had survived the undertaking. The instant the maester took the babe to examine for any imperfections, she leaned down at your bedside and held you tightly. “Oh, my sweet girl. You’ve done so well.”

When the maester handed the softly fussing child back to you, you noticed a thick tuft of silver hair in her head of otherwise dark hairs. You noticed it captured Alicent’s eyes too. She smiled, silently pleased, believing that this would end all allusions to bastardy. If there had been any doubt in her heart that she was able to acknowledge, it was all soothed at the sight of her hair. The babe cooed softly, lying at your breast, stealing your heart away completely. You loved your boys but with a mother like yours, how could you be anything but enamored with a daughter of your own?

“What will you name her?” Alicent asked, watching you hold her granddaughter proudly, pushing your sweaty hair out of your face.

“I shall name her Viserra, I think.”

“That’s lovely.” Alicent smiled, coasting on the sheer relief of your survival. You could have told her you wish to name the child Lickspittle and she would only nod blissfully. “You’ve done so very well.” She seemed near tears.

“Oh, mother, don’t cry.”

She wiped at the tears steadily falling from her big brown eyes. “I cannot help it. I wish to protect you from all things and bearing your child is solely in the hands of the gods but my girl is so strong. I am truly proud, truly grateful.” She knew what it was to marry and to stand alone even in marriage. You wore it well, better than even she had. She never cursed Viserys for it only made him harder to live with if she did but in your birth and his neglect of you, she bore a resentment deep as the sea and long as the red waste. If he was to favor one of his daughters, should it not be you who was never once a thorn in his side? Who honored him even as he slowly forgot your name? If a daughter could be a worthy heir in her eyes, it was you who should have been chosen. That thought became another bitter seed of resentment piled onto the many she’d already buried. She could only hold you.

There was truth to the notion that she feared for all of her children but truly, it was mainly you she feared for. The only loss she could not recover from. She could never have tolerated your marriage to one of Rhaenyra’s bastard boys, the anxiety alone would send her to her death. Still, there were other dangers that awaited young girls in the keep, even princesses…even queens. She wished to shield you from all of them but to that end, she would need to continue building allegiance. Never again should she be delicate, never again supplicating to the wrong person. Her daughter would be queen with hundreds at her side, in service of her honor when the time came, even if it came to bloodshed.

#alicent hightower x reader #alicent x reader #hotd x reader #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #jace x reader #jacaerys x reader

76 notes · View notes

izvmimi · 7 months

Text

cw: angel!gojo. hopefully not too sacrilegious. first thing that came to mind after @k-atsukibakugou's post earlier today!! minors dni.

Your hands thread through feathers, soft as the finest silk, shrouding you in a warmth that can only be described as divine. In this very moment, you wonder if the heavens above are watching, taking in every disgusting, depraved sight, every nip, suck, swallow, squelch, and cry drawn out of you by its messenger, night after night. It’s clear that salvation is no longer in the cards for you, but as angel Satoru, eyes as brilliant as sapphires as he devours you in every single way possible, continues to hold you, you consider that being ground permanently to the very earth - or rather the eternal flames under it - is worth it.

Satoru lets you play with his wings longer, pressing kisses to your forehead, to your cheeks, and as you lay together, places his hand right on your warm heat.

“You’re damned,” he whispers, a fingertip circling your clit. He says it so matter of fact-ly that you’re not sure if he’s pleased, amused even, or regretful. His divinity makes the rules different for him, and you do not know what will become of him, who partakes of the same acts. Yet you don’t care once he slips a finger into your center, and curls it, making your toes curl as well as you cry out his name.

“Satoru!”

“You should be calling for the Almighty,” he whispers, as he leans in, filling your nostrils with his scent, your senses, as he bites at your earlobe.

“Do they compare to you?” you huff out. Satoru’s gaze runs over you, and a smile curls on his lips.

“God is watching. Best to not repeat that.” His chuckle is angelic, hushed with the sweet sound of his voice like bells and songbirds.

And yet his tongue swirls around your nipples, cupping your breasts in his hand with every action. He dips even lower, sipping the nectar dripping from between your legs. Mortal and so ephemeral, your time on earth fleeting, and yet you are so delicious to him, so easy to sink his teeth into and tear to pieces.

Your hands twist into his hair, and you wonder why an angel would curse you so with their beauty. He wonders the same, loathes the separation of the heaven and earth, spitting on the barrier in between when he consorts with you, pressing himself deep into your body, seating himself in your much more divine cunt, and holding you close, arms and wings, and floating sash. His halo is shaky; he wishes it would simply fade away. He’d much rather sink into you, he’d much rather his religion were you.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #daydreams: jjk #mimi's notes #cw sacrilege

364 notes · View notes

angelkissiies · 1 year

Note

SUB ABBY PLS PLS PLS IT'S MY RELIGION

angel eyes

abby anderson x reader

cw : sub!abby, dom!reader, praise kink (if you squint), slight overstim, abby in slight subspace, overall nsfw!

wc : 2.7k

a/n : doing abby’s makeup and topping her ?! done and done. also not proofread!!!

“I cannot believe I'm letting you do this.” Abby huffed, laying down on your shared bed as you hovered over her with a giddy smile. She’d reluctantly agreed to let you do her makeup with some bag of extremely expired products you found in an old school. She’d been unwilling at first, not wanting to destroy her image but as you pleaded with her she found it within herself to put a backseat to her pride.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re gonna like it,” You began, digging through the bag as you found a tube of mascara. “Probably.” Since you weren’t very acquainted with makeup, you’d taken it upon yourself to scavenge a couple magazines from a nearby mall that helped give you at least a little bit of an idea of what to do. Plus, every product usually had its intended place of usage in the name. How hard could it really be?

She rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile drawing at her lips as she stilled beneath you- taking an interest in the tube you’d begun to toy with. “What’s that?” She asked lightly, watching as you rubbed the wand onto your fingers, testing the texture of the liquid.

“Mascara, It goes on your eyelashes.” You hummed, mapping out what you planned to do. You definitely weren’t going to be the best, but you had faith in your abilities as you wiped your fingers off on your jeans. “Look up for me, honey.”

You dipped the wand back into the black tube, getting it completely covered in the black substance that you were no longer sure could be considered a liquid, before scraping off some excess on the edge of the opening. For being over twenty years old, it was weirdly preserved- which was odd, but not unseen. You leaned down closer to her, carefully bringing the wand up to her light blonde lashes before giving them a soft stroke with the brush- coating them in the tar-colored makeup.

Abby sat patiently, trying not to blink as she watched the wand come closer to her eye. Though she knew you wouldn’t hurt her on purpose, she still battled with her instinct to blink as she felt the substance come into contact with her lashes, making them feel a tad heavier. She let her gaze drift from the makeup to you, watching as you focused solely on her- lip tucked gently between your teeth as you tried to get it as clean as possible. It made her heart skip a beat, you and the sudden feeling of your knee shifting between her legs as you leaned over to rewet the wand.

“You okay?” You asked, giving her bottom lashes a quick swipe before moving to the other eye. Her face was now flushed, eyes set in on you as you worked. Usually, she didn’t think you noticed how she let her gaze linger on you- but that was indeed far from the truth. In reality, you could feel her gaze from the moment it landed on you, the intensity too much to ignore.

She nodded quickly, looking back up as you took your time coating her lashes all over again. This was the way it usually went. When Abby Anderson started to stare, it usually meant one of two things. Either she wanted your attention or she wanted your attention. The difference? One had her in your arms, and the other had her on her hands and knees. You’d become awfully good at spotting the difference, seeing as she sucked at hiding her intentions with you. “Yeah, all good.” She responded, feeling her heart start to hammer as you finished up your assault on her lashes.

You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek gently before moving to rifle through the bag yet again. Since you were still pretty new to makeup, you wanted to keep it simple. Testing the waters in a way that wouldn’t scare your test subject away just yet. That and you wanted a reason to keep her here, trapped beneath you as you “unintentionally” shifted your knee in a way that you knew got her attention. “Okay, now can you pick between these colors?” You asked her, holding up two tinted lip balms that you’d been saving for a special occasion.

Abby tensed her stomach, feeling your knee press into her heat roughly- watching as you were completely unfazed showing off the balms to her. One was pink and the other was leaning towards red, though she couldn’t say she minded much about what she looked like anymore. “Uh, that one,” She whispered, motioning towards the red one with a little nod of her head.

You nodded, a devious plan coming to mind as you uncapped the tube- letting the top fall to the floor. You brought the color up to your own lips, coating them in the soft red tint before letting the uncapped tube fall from your hand back into the open bag.

“What are you-,”

You cut her off by dipping down to capture her lips, hand coming up to rest on her jaw as you kept her still. You could feel the change in her body, her hands coming up to rest on your waist from where they had sat previously at her sides, chest rising and falling faster. You swiped your tongue against her bottom lip, feeling as they almost instantly parted to grant you access, a soft whine pulling from her lips as they did so.

She shifted beneath you, attempting in some ways to pull you closer to her, though only resulting in you grinding your knee down onto her cunt- eliciting a sharp gasp from her lips as you pulled away to give her a moment to breathe. “Fuck, uh-,” She began, trying to blink away the lustful thoughts that had gathered in her mind. “Sorry.”

“For what, sweetheart?” You panted, tongue darting out to wet your lips before you trailed your eyes down her face, watching as her bottom lip practically trembled. You didn’t even wait for her to answer, using your hand to tilt her head up to allow more access to her neck, dipping down to press soft open-mouthed kisses to the flesh. She was so easy to read, in all your months together you’d become a god at reading her little signals. Trembling when she got turned on, tapping her foot when she got mad, and so on and so forth.

Abby let out a soft sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt your teeth catch a sensitive spot on her neck- making her words come out in a rush. “I-i don't know.” She managed, feeling a familiar wetness begin to pool in her boxers. It was embarrassing, how fast she got aroused by you. It was as if her body craved you in such a way that she couldn’t live without the electricity of your touch. She needed it, she needed you.

You left a dark mark at the base of her neck, chuckling slightly as you pressed a soft kiss over it. “Then don’t apologize, hm?” Your knee came to grind down on her cunt, making her hips jolt slightly in response. It was brain-melting, how much you enjoyed having the muscular women beneath you. Most from a glance would assume the roles in your relationship were cookie cutter- big strong woman and her smaller average bodied girlfriend. Abby gave off the vibes of being totally dominant, mostly to uphold her incredibly important position in the WLF- much to your dismay. Though, you came to not mind it- seeing how fast her facade melted for you once you got her alone.

Your hand wandered down her torso, stopping at the hem of her t-shirt. “This okay?” You asked first, not moving an inch until you heard her sweet lips give you the okay. Her voice was barely audible through her ragged breaths, yet you heard her loud and clear- just as you always managed to. You slowly dipped one hand under the fabric, snaking up towards her breasts as you continued your assault on her neck.

Abby had begun to sweat, the subtle yet overwhelming pleasure going straight to her cunt as she allowed you to take over completely. It was getting ridiculous at this point, how soaked her boxers had become- part of her worried about you feeling the result of your advances through the fabric of her jeans. Though, the idea faded as you took her nipple between your fingers, rolling it gently as you sucked another dark mark onto her neck. “Shit..” She hissed, mouth falling open at the sensation.

Her noises had become music to your ears, urging you to venture further as your other hand came to the button of her jeans- unhooking it with ease as you spared her a quick look. “Hm?” You murmured, in a way you knew she’d understand.

“Fuck, please.” She whined, borderline about to take them off for you as she felt your hand disappear from her chest and reappear at her hips, pulling the jean material from her in a swift movement. Part of her wanted to be impressed with how fast you tended to be, but the other part was itching for you to hurry up not moving fast enough for the ache that had begun in her core.

You tossed the pants onto the floor haphazardly, ignoring whatever else clattered to the floor with it. Your fingers were quick to break her waistband, navigating down to her core with a need to be wrapped up inside her walls. She was genuinely like a drug to you, the simple scent of her arousal enough to cloud your mind with a million ways to have her underneath you, crying from pleasure. Her pleasure was all that mattered to you in these moments, seeing the vulnerability seep from her every pore, something so precious that belonged to you. “M’fuck.” You breathed, feeling the wetness gather on your fingers as you gently caressed her puffy lips. “So wet, angel. Y’know that?”

A borderline pornographic moan fell from the girl's lips as you let your fingers brush her sensitive clit, using her slick to begin rubbing soft circles. “God-,” She groaned, eyebrows knitting together as her hips tried to chase your touch, aching for more.

You used your other hand to push her shirt, exposing her breasts to the chilly air- her nipples hardening under your sudden touch. “Tell me what you want.” You murmured, letting your fingers deep further down to skim across her slit- feeling her instantly clench around nothing. “Can you do that for me?”

Abby stifled a moan, bringing her hand to cover her bright red cheeks as she felt embarrassment creep into her chest at your vulgar request. She wasn’t usually so shy, remembering moments she’d come to match your vulgarity. “I want... y-you.” She whimpered, hips attempting to buck up towards your hand- in search of some friction. “Please..”

“Want me to what, angel?”

The blonde was losing patience, self-control going out the window as she let out a pitiful groan. “Fuck me, please, will you fuck me?” She couldn’t take it anymore, all respect she had for herself mushing into something closer to desperation as she tried to reach for your hand. Abby was a girl who knew what she wanted, you both knew that. “I need... I need your fingers.”

You smiled, pushing a single finger into her sinfully drenched cunt, watching as her body visibly jolted from the newfound sensation. “Good girl, I knew you could do it.” You praised, moving to angle your body more towards her. You’d begun thrusting your finger, curling it to press into the spongy spot that made her brain melt, feeling as she instinctively clenched around the single digit. It wasn’t enough for her yet, and you knew that- using this to sustain her as you leaned up to take her nipple into your mouth, rolling it on your tongue roughly- drawing a high-pitched moan from her mouth.

“Oh, goddamn.” She groaned, feeling as you sunk a second finger into her cunt- the pressure pushing at her walls as you upped your pace, a devious wet noise beginning to get louder as your fingers came knuckle deep in her cunt over and over again. She felt borderline delirious, head falling back onto the pillows as she struggled to keep her mind clear, thoughts completely clouded in pleasure. It was her fatal flaw, in her eyes, the space in which she slipped during sex. An empty, babbling, pleasure-filled space.

You dragged your tongue over her erect nipple, moving to suck a dark mark onto the soft skin of her breast. Your hand was practically drenched in her slick now, thumb bumping her clit as you continued a ruthless thrusting into her cunt. You took a second to raise your head, seeing the red tint that was smudged all over her lips.. and her neck.. and maybe also her chest now, but mainly wanting to see the flushed fucked outlook that you loved on her so much. God, she never disappointed. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, mouth agape spilling strings of moans, with her hands dug roughly into the sheets beneath her.

She could feel the pressure building in her stomach, the walls of her cunt pulsating around your fingers as she began to tremble under your touch. She wanted to cum, if she’d been in a clearer headspace she’d probably have even said that- begged you to make it happen, but with the cloudy euphoria in her brain she couldn't even manage a sensible string of words.

“Gonna cum on m’fingers, angel?” You teased, curling them inside of her roughly, watching as her crystalline eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

Abby felt like screaming, her legs threatening to close as the pleasure pushed her farther and farther towards the edge, breaths quickening as the tears escaped from her eyes. “(y/n), oh god.” She whined, feeling more arise as the intensity overwhelmed her in the most delicious way. “M’gonna cum, don’t stop.”

You kept your pace, leaning up to capture her lips in a rough kiss as you dug your fingers into the spot in her cunt that sent her over the edge- the curl of your fingers hitting all of the spots they needed to as you devoured her scream like moans. It was dizzying, the feeling of her walls contracting on your fingers mixed with the wet squelching sound coming from her boxers as you pushed her through her orgasm. “Just like that, c’mon. Just like that.” You hummed, slowing your fingers to a stop as you felt her body come back down to restfully on the bed.

“Oh, shit.” She sighed, words broken as she tried to catch her breath. Her legs shook slightly still as you gently pulled your fingers out of her, catching a small whine from her lips before you shushed her lightly- pressing a kiss to the edge of her lips as you wiped your fingers clean on your jeans.

You smiled at the girl, using a free hand to push the stray hairs from her face as she peered up at you with blown eyes. “You okay?” You asked, taking in the sight of her. Black streaks down her face, red tinge to her lips (and everywhere else..), it made your heart clench. She was so pretty, almost too pretty. “Had you crying and everything.” You poked fun at her, rubbing some of the mascara from her cheek onto your finger before showing her- eliciting a gasp from her lips.

“There is no way, right?” Abby asked, looking around briefly for any reflective surface before plopping back down onto the pillow. She felt the clouding ease up, letting her finally see you. Not just look at you, but really see you. Hair sticking up wildly, sweating a tad, smelling like nothing but sex and strawberries as you hovered above her. That was something she’d never trade, not for anything. As much as she was your girl, you were hers. In every meaning of the word. “Take a shower with me?”

“I thought you’d never ask, my girl.”

#abby anderson #abby tlou #abby the last of us #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #bottom abby truther #abby anderson ff #abby anderson brainrot #abby anderson smut ff #tlou #tlou2 #x reader #abby x reader x ellie #the last of us part 2 #smut fic #smut writer

485 notes · View notes